summary: you're not used to people making an effort, so you think rafe is joking when he asks you to go out on an actual date.
warnings: none.
"wanna go and see that new chick movie this weekend? you know i fuckin' hate em', but we can still go" rafe asked out of nowhere.
the two of you had been "talking" for a couple of weeks now, and you hadn't actually been on a proper date yet ─ but that had always been the case for you.
you were nervously waiting for that day where rafe stopped responding and stopped giving you his time, but it strangely hasn't happened yet.
huffing out a sigh of amusement, you softly shook your head and made yourself busy with throwing away the empty cups on the table.
feeling rafe's heated stare on your back, you turned back around to see his confused, and slightly annoyed expression.
"well damn woman, that didn't exactly boost my ego. do you not wanna go out or somethin'? is that it?"
your eyes widened at that, "oh you were being serious? you really wanna go out and actually do something?"
he stared at you, growing even more confused as the topic of conversation went on, "no shit, that's why i asked you to go, weirdo"
you felt awful. you'd been here one too many times before, and the guys had never once followed through.
"fuck, i'm really sorry. i'm just not used to someone making plans and actually keeping them" you sighed, putting your head in your hands, embarrassment flooding your body.
the room was silent for just a minute while rafe seemed to process this tidbit of information.
a minute was all it was for though, because he slowly made his way over to you, gently wrapping his arms around your shoulders.
"i may be a dick, but i'm at least a dick who tries to keep his promises" he murmured in your ear, his hands rubbing your back slowly.
pulling away, you smiled at him warmly. you were trying not to get your hopes up, but you really did feel like it was going to be different with rafe.
he drummed his fingers on the table as he stared at you expectantly, and you realised he was waiting for an actual answer.
you pursed your lips and slowly nodded your head, unable to comprehend that rafe cameron was going to see a chick flick just for you.
nerdy rafe invites you over for dinner at his house, but you had other plans. 18+ mdni
you knock nervously, as you smooth your hand over your skirt like it matters more than it really does. the door opens almost immediately, like he’s been standing there waiting, and rafe looks way more casual than you’re ever used to. no slick back hair, or button up shirts. his hair is slightly messy, glasses low on his nose, white tshirt hugging his arms, and exposing his biceps in a way you definitely didn’t expect. loose blue jeans that are slightly exposing his very sluttly waist.
“hey,” he says, a little breathless, like he rushed to get there. you smile, tilting your head just slightly. “hi. you look nervous.” he huffs out a quiet laugh, stepping aside to let you in. “i am, a little. i didn’t want to mess this up.”
you step into his place, glancing around, taking in how clean and put together everything is. “you? mess something up? i doubt it” you tease lightly, slipping your shoes off. “that doesn’t sound right.” he shrugs, shutting the door behind you. “you’d be surprised.”
there’s a small pause before he says, “i already started cooking, i hope that’s okay.” you glance back at him, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “you started without me? i’m offended.” his eyes widen immediately. “no, i mean, i just didn’t want you waiting, i thought-” you laugh lightly, cutting him off. “rafe, i’m kidding.”
in the kitchen, he relaxes just a little, turning back to the stove, though you can tell he’s still aware of you watching him. you lean against the counter, arms loosely crossed, eyes following every movement. “so what are you making?” you ask, curious. he flips something in the pan, carefully. “uh steak, mashed potatoes, bell peppers and onions.” you raise an eyebrow. “wait, that’s…” he glances at you briefly, then back at the stove. “you said you liked it once.”
you kinda get taken back a bit, “you remember stuff like that?” you ask. he shrugs, but it’s shy, almost embarrassed. “yeah. i mean, if it’s important.” you push off the counter slightly, stepping closer towards him. “and i’m important..to you?” you ask in shock. he freezes for a second, then nods quickly. “yeah. yeah, you are.” you look away, a blush permanent on your warm cheeks.
you stay there while he cooks, asking little questions, watching the way he moves in his methodical manner. when he reaches to grab something, his sleeve shifts just enough for you to truly notice the shape of his arm, and you blink hard, caught off guard. “you’ve been hiding that,” you say before you can stop yourself. he looks over, confused. “what?” you gesture vaguely to his arm, trying to play it off. “nothing. just didn’t think you were-” you pause, a small smirk forming, “a gym rat..”
he goes pink instantly, looking down like that somehow helps. “i don’t, work out that much,” he mutters. you hum, unconvinced. “sure. well, you look good.” that one really gets him, he fumbles slightly with the pan, clearing his throat. “thanks,” he says, barely above a mumble. you pretend not to notice how flustered he is, but your smile gives you away just a little, loving how you can make him squirm in the best way.
once he finishes cooking, he insists on plating everything nicely, setting it in front of you like you’re at a michelin star restaurant. as you take your first bite, he’s watches you, trying not to be obvious about it, but clearly failing. “okay,” you say after a second, nodding to yourself. “this is insanely good.” he exhales immediately, shoulders dropping. “yeah?” you glance up at him, a small, sincere smile on your lips. “yeah. you’re impressive.”
he lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “i don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before.” you tilt your head, studying him again. “that’s a shame.” you say honestly, noting how rafe doesn’t get the praise he deserves.
“you do a lot of thoughtful things, rafe. people should notice that, more often” he looks down at his plate, a little shy again. “you notice,” he says with a shrug, like it’s enough, and you don’t deny it. “i do.”
-
after dinner, he cleans up quickly, like he needs something to do with himself, and when he comes back, he lingers awkwardly near the couch, placing your class of moscato down for you. “um, do you wanna watch something?” he asks, glancing at you briefly. you lean back slightly, watching him. “what did you have in mind?” he hesitates, then, “interstellar. it’s my favorite.” your lips curve faintly. “of course it is.” he frowns slightly. “is that bad?” you shake your head. “not at all.”
he sits down first, leaving a bit of space between you, because he’s trying to be respectful, and you follow a second later. for a few minutes, you let it stay like that, both of you watching the screen. then you decided to shift closer towards him. enough for your knee to brush his. he goes still immediately. you glance at him, pretending not to notice. “so what’s it about again?” you ask.
“uh, space,” he says ironically, then winces slightly like he just caught himself. “and time. and uh, a lot of other stuff.” you smile softly, inching just a little closer until your shoulder presses lightly against his. “you’re really selling it,” you say. he lets out a quiet breath, trying to focus. “it’s actually really good, i just-” he cuts himself off when your hand settles gently on his thigh.
you do it absentmindedly, like you didn’t think too much about it. but he definitely thinks too much of it.
“oh,” he breathes, barely audible, his whole body tensing for a second before he forces himself to relax. you keep your eyes on the screen, voice soft and curious. “wait, why does he have to leave again?” your fingers shift just slightly where they rest, and rafe swallows hard.
“it’s, um, because of the mission,” he starts, already losing his train of thought. “they have to find another planet, so he um, he goes, and time works differently so when he comes back it’s-”
you glance over at him, your head so much closer to his face than you intended. “that sounds kind of sad,” you say softly. he nods, but he’s clearly distracted now. “it is. it’s really-” he stops again, exhaling softly. “sorry, i’m not explaining it well.” you smile faintly, a little amused. “you’re doing fine.” your thumb moves just slightly, barely there. “i think you’re just distracted.”
he lets out a quiet, nervous laugh, shaking his head a little. “yeah. a little.” there’s a pause, then he glances at you. “you’re, kinda distracting.” you look back at him, your expression filled with warmth and playfulness. “am i?” you ask, cocking your head to the side.
he nods once, and before he can second guess it, his hand comes down to rest over yours. it’s hesitant at first like he’s testing the waters but when you don’t pull away, his fingers press a little more firmly. the contact sends something warm straight to your chest, and suddenly you’re very aware of how close you are, of how he smells. a clean and expensive woodsy scent.
you let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, shaking your head a little. “you smell really good,” you mumble, and immediately cringe. “sorry that sounded so weird.” you say now it being your turn to be shy and awkward.
rafe glances at you, a little startled, then shyly amused. “no, it didn’t,” he says, his thumb brushing slightly against your hand without him even realizing. “you just, said it out loud.” you huff a quiet laugh, cheeks warming as you look away for a second. “yeah, well, filter’s gone i guess.” when you look back at him, he’s already looking at you, and the moment lingers, longer than it should.
you lean in and press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek, not thinking too hard about it. and he freezes. “what was that for?” he asks, quiet and dazed, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself. you just shrug lightly, settling back like it was nothing. then you tilt your head slightly, eyes flicking to his lips before meeting his gaze again. “kiss me, rafe.”
he doesn’t hesitate, as he leans into you, pressing his lips to yours. the kiss is so soft it almost catches you off guard. he’s so afraid of doing it wrong, holding himself back without even realizing it. his hand tightens just slightly over yours, and you can feel how nervous he is, how much he’s thinking instead of just feeling.
so you fix it for him, your hand slides from under his, moving up to his jaw, guiding him just a little closer as you kiss him again deeper this time. he makes a quiet sound, surprised, but he follows your lead almost immediately, melting into it. and that makes your chest tighten. the shyness doesn’t go away, but you don’t mind it.
you move without really thinking about it, turning toward him fully, your knee sliding over his thigh until you’re halfway in his lap. he lets out a quiet breath, hands hovering for a second like he’s not sure where to put them. you take them gently, guiding them to your hips, and he swallows hard but doesn’t pull away.
“is this okay?” he asks, barely above a whisper. you nod, just as soft. “yeah. you’re okay.” he relaxes into you, just a little, hands settling more confidently, thumbs brushing lightly against your sides like he’s still figuring it out but wants to get it right. the kisses get warmer, less hesitant, and there’s something so sweet about the way he’s trying, like all of his attention is on you, on making sure you’re comfortable, that you want this.
rafe pulls back just enough to look at you, a little breathless, and wide eyed. “wait,” he says, like something just clicked. your eyebrows furrow, still close enough to feel his breath. “did i do something wrong?” you ask, confused.
“no, no ,no ,no. i uh,” he runs a hand through his hair, clearly flustered now. “i don’t, i don’t have anything. like um condoms. or anything. not that i think we’ll, i just…” he looks genuinely stressed about it, like this is the worst possible timing and word choice. “i should-i should go get some. just to be, safe.”
you stare at him for a second, then you start laughing, because he’s so, attentive. “rafe,” you say, shaking your head slightly, “you’re unbelievable.” he frowns a little, worried now. “is that bad?” you reach for him, brushing your fingers lightly against his arm. “no,” you say gently. “it’s actually really sweet.”
he still looks unsure, already halfway standing. “i’ll be quick,” he says, like he’s made up his mind. “there’s a store like five minutes away, i can just go and come back, it’s fine.” you can’t even stop him before he’s grabbing his keys, cheeks still flushed. “don’t go crazy,” you call after him, amused.
-
he’s gone for maybe fifteen minutes. when he comes back, slightly out of breath, hair even messier than before, he’s holding a small bag like it’s the most serious mission he’s ever been on. you eye it immediately, a smile already forming. “what did you even get?” you ask, trying not to laugh.
he sets it down, a little sheepish now. “just items,” he mutters. you walk up to the stuffed bag on the counter, taking a peek inside. there’s condoms, lube, a bottle of tropical vitamin water, a small box of plan b, and painkillers.
you look up at him, completely shocked and then you laugh again, “you uh,” you start, shaking your head, stepping a little closer to him, “you really thought of everything, huh?”
he shrugs, a little embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. “i just wanted to make sure you were comfortable. and, yeah.” your expression softens completely. and this time, when you lean in to kiss him again, it’s so much gentler because somehow, he just made you want him even more.
the kiss deepened as he kicked his shoes off, his hands finding your waist, as he doesn’t want to break contact with you. you hum softly against his mouth when his hands slightly slip under your shirt. the placement, and the warmth sending a shiver up your spine, you press your body closer to his, a quiet breath catching in his throat.
he pulls away, just barely, trying to catch his breath. his eyes are different from how you’ve ever seen them, a little darkness added to it now. but his gaze is locked on you, watching you intently. “you’re so soft, it’s unfair” he says.
you smirk, fingers tracing the edge of his polo collar teasingly. "you say that like you haven't been thinking about this for weeks." his blush deepens instantly, confirming your suspicions. "maybe," he admits sheepishly, hands tightening slightly on your hips as he leans in again, his breath warm against your lips. "well yeah, definitely."
the way he says it, so honest, makes your stomach flip. you press forward, nipping lightly at his bottom lip before murmuring, "show me just how much." and he lets out a needy little groan before kissing you again, and it send the want so deep into you.
there's an edge of impatience now, his fingers gripping your hips a little more firmly as he pulls you flush against him. you can feel how tense he is, the barely restrained desire in the way he moves. as he backs you toward the bed, his lips never leaving yours, he presses gentle kisses along your jaw, down your neck, finding that one spot that makes you shiver.
his hands slip under your shirt again, lifting it up and over your head. even in the dim light, he takes a moment to just and admire you, to the point it makes you cross your arms covering yourself. “hey no, why’d you do that?” he asks lightly. “i don’t know” you whisper. he reaches towards your arms, “can i?” he asks again. you nod, and he unhooks your arms. “you’re so mesmerizing” he says with a smile.
he guides you gently to lay back against the pillows, his gaze roaming over each curve and contour of your body. his hands follow, warm and reverential, as if he can't quite believe what he's allowed to touch.
he leans over you, bracing himself on one arm while the other trails down your stomach, then back up again, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. his lips find your collarbone, trailing slow, open mouthed kisses down your chest. when he grazes the underside of your breast, it's your turn to gasp, your fingers finding their way into his hair.
he glances up at you, eyes darkened, and then moves lower, pressing delicate kisses along the arch of your rib cage, his breath hot against your skin. he pauses just above your belly button, looking up at you again, this time with a question in his gaze.
you know what he's asking, even if he can't quite get the words out. the desire in his eyes is enough to make you shiver. you nod, your fingers still threading through his hair. "please," you breathe out, more a plea than an answer. and that's all he needs.
his hand slides lower, fingers toying with the elastic waistband of your skirt, then moving lower lifting it up, to reveal your lacey pastel yellow panties, with a bow on top. "god, you're gorgeous." his voice is filled with genuine awe, his eyes roving over the newly exposed skin, taking you all in. his fingers trace a light path along the inside of your thigh, making you shiver.
he presses a kiss to the soft skin where thigh meets hip, then drags his lips along your inner thigh, his touch feather light. the anticipation is a delicious ache, building with every slow, deliberate kiss. he's so close now, his breath warm against you.
he hovers just inches away, his voice a ragged whisper. "i want you so badly." the raw honesty in his words makes your heart race, even as his fingers trace tantalizing patterns on your thighs. you can feel just how much he wants this the way he's shaking with how hard he's trying to hold himself back.
"please," you breathe, arching towards him. "please, rafe..." he takes another shuddering breath, bracing himself. "are you sure...?" the question is genuine, filled with an uncertainty that's both endearing and maddening. he's giving you an out, a chance to pull back, and you should be touched. but right now, all you can feel is impatience, a need so intense it borders on desperation.
you tug his hair just hard enough to get his attention, forcing him to meet your gaze again. your voice is hoarse when you say, "i'm sure. i want this. fuck, i want you, please." his pupils dilate, his breath coming faster now. "okay," he murmurs, nodding like he's convincing himself just as much as you. "okay."
and then he finally closes the distance. his mouth is warm and soft, hesitant at first, testing the waters, until you arch against him with a sharp gasp. the sound seems to unravel him, his hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you closer as he loses himself in the taste of you.
the way he worships you is overwhelming. the slow drag of his tongue, the way he looks up through his lashes every few seconds just to watch you come undone, it's too much and not enough all at once.
your fingers fist in his hair, desperate and pleading, and he groans against you, the vibrations making your legs shake. "oh yes rafe" his name spills from your lips in a broken moan, and his grip on your hips tightens, making him shudder in auditory pleasure.
he pulls back just enough to speak, his lips slick and his voice wrecked. "you taste so good," he murmurs, breath hot against your skin. "tell me what you want. anything."
you feel like you're drowning in pure sensation, his touch setting your skin ablaze. it takes a moment for his words to sink in, but then you manage to catch your breath long enough to gasp out, "i want you to fuck me rafe”
his eyes darken even more, if possible. "yeah?" he asks, licking your cunt in an agonizing slow pace. cutting off any further thought from your mind.
"yeah." you manage to gasp out, gripping the sheets so tightly your knuckles turn white. he chuckles softly, the low sound sending ripples of heat through you. "then tell me to." he says it lightly, like a challenge, even as his mouth moves back to your inner thigh, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin.
your breath hitches, body arching towards him involuntarily. "please," you moan, already unraveling. "please, i want-" you can feel his lips curving into a smirk against your skin. "what do you want?" he says and it’s both innocent yet so agonizingly teasing.
you pull tug him up, flipping you both over, so he’s now on his back. you unbutton his jeans, not looking away from his face, as his glasses fog up from the sweat. “i don’t think you’ll need these for right now” you say reaching for his glasses. “no, don’t please” he begs, and his little breathy voice makes you wetter than you thought you could be
“i want to see you” he says, so innocently. “so watch me” you say, letting his cock out. he gasps softly, as you straddle him, pinning him with ease. he looks so flustered, like he can't help himself right now, and you love it.
you take a moment to look down at him, your eyes roaming over him, taking in the way he looks with his pants undone like this. you spit on his cock, rubbing him up and down, as he squirms under you.
"you look so damn good like this," you tell him, your voice low and rough. he whines, arching up against your touch, needy and desperate. "please." he sounds completely wrecked already, like he'd beg for more if you asked.
"please, what?" you ask, teasing. his eyes are wide, lips parted, and he looks so good like this, you don't know how he can be so sweet and so dirty all at once. "please what, rafe?" he swallows hard, his whole body trembling with a mix of nerves and desire. he looks like he's struggling to find the words, his eyes pleading with you. you wait, watching as he gathers himself, trying to find some ounce of composure. but when he finally speaks, his voice is still shaky, filled with need. "please, taste me."
he arches off the bed with a choked gasp, fingers immediately tangling in your hair, not pushing, just holding on for dear life. his thighs tremble beneath your hands as you take him deeper, hitting the back of his throat, as you’re humming around him just to hear the way his breath cracks into a moan.
“f-fuck” his voice cracks, head tipping back against the pillows, glasses slipping slightly down his nose. he doesn’t dare adjust them, too transfixed on the sight of you between his legs. his hips jerk involuntarily, but he catches himself, gripping the sheets instead. “sorry, i’m sorry, i just-”
you pull off just long enough to smirk up at him. “you don’t need to be sorry rafe,” you tease, before swallowing him down again, faster this time.
his moan is embarrassingly loud, his fingers tightening in your hair as his legs tense. “i-i’m not gonna last if you-” he cuts himself off with a whimper when you swirl your tongue just right, his entire body shuddering.
you can tell he’s close, his breath coming in ragged pants, his thighs quivering. but then suddenly, he’s gently tugging you off, his chest heaving. “wait, wait-” you blink up at him, lips slick and swollen. “what’s wrong?”
he shakes his head, flushed from his chest all the way up to his ears. “i just, i want to feel you,” he admits, voice wrecked. “all of you. please.” and how could you say no to that?
you lick your lips slowly, watching the way his eyes darken at the movement. "you want me to ride you?" you ask, crawling up his body until your lips brush his ear. he lets out a shaky exhale, hands instantly finding your hips. "god, yes."
you reach between you, guiding him as you sink down, so slow it’s agonizing for both of you. his mouth falls open, a broken moan slipping out as you take him inch by inch. "fuck, you're-" he chokes on the words, his grip tightening as you finally seat yourself fully.
you roll your hips experimentally, biting your lip at the way his breath hitches. and you can’t help but feel so satisfied at his whimpers, at how he’s so open and vulnerable for you. he whines, hips twitching up instinctively, but you press a finger to his chest "uh uh," you tease. "you said you wanted all of me. so let me take care of you now."
and then you move, slow at first, savoring every drag, every little hitch of his breath. but when his fingers dig into your hips, when his moans grow more desperate, you can't help but speed up, chasing your own pleasure as much as his. "rafe," you gasp, feeling your own climax building. "
his eyes snap open, hazy with pleasure, but locked onto yours. and when he comes, with your name on his lips, his body trembling beneath you, it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
you collapse onto his chest, both of you breathless and spent. after a moment, his arms wrap around you, holding you close.
"that was..." he starts, then trails off, laughing softly. you tilt your head up to look at him. "yeah?" he grins, boyish and sweet despite everything. "perfect."
you’re still catching your breath when you both come down from your high. your head resting against his chest while his arms stay wrapped around you like he doesn’t want to let go just yet. his heartbeat is still a little fast under your ear, uneven, and you can tell he’s thinking about something.
“hey,” you mutter gently, tracing small, absent patterns against his shirt. “you okay?” he lets out a quiet breath, almost like he’s been holding it in. “yeah,” he says, but there’s a pause after it, something uncertain lingering in his voice. your brows knit slightly, and you tilt your head just enough to look up at him.
“that didn’t sound convincing,” you say softly. he gives a small, nervous laugh, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck again, a habit you’re starting to recognize. “it’s just,” he hesitates, eyes flicking away for a second before coming back to you. “i haven’t, um, i’ve never done that before.”
you pause for a second, letting the words process. “you mean…” you start carefully, and he nods quickly, cheeks already flushing again. “yeah. i mean, i’ve thought about it, of course,” he adds, a little awkward, a little self conscious. “just, never actually with someone.”
you blush at the thought of you being his first. “oh,” you say quietly, you shift slightly, propping yourself up just enough to really look at him, your expression warm. “rafe, that’s okay.” he searches your face like he’s trying to figure out if you mean it. “it is?” he asks, quieter now.
you nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “yeah,” you say. “it just means you trusted me enough to be honest, and to share that with me.” your fingers brush lightly against his jaw, “that’s kind of a big deal.”
he exhales slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “i didn’t want you to think it was weird,” he admits. you shake your head immediately. “it’s not weird at all,” you say, almost instinctively. “if anything, it makes this feel…” you drag on, searching for the right word, then smile slightly, “special.”
that makes him look at you differently. like everything he ever thought about you was solidifying in truth. “okay,” he says, almost to himself, like he’s letting that sink in. his hand finds yours again, lacing your fingers together this time without hesitation. “i’m really glad it was you,” he adds after a second, a little shy but completely honest.
your heart does that annoying, fluttery thing you try to ignore. you squeeze his hand lightly, leaning back into him again. “yeah,” you say, a small smile lingering.
𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: frat!Rafe Cameron x innocent Pogue!reader
𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: dark, dubcon, unhinged inner monolog from rafe, misogynistic rhetoric, classist rhetoric (in the context of kooks, pogues etc), daddy kink, innocence kink, loss of virginity, smut (oral + p in v), oral (female receiving, fingering, MAJORR size kink, spanking, daddy issues, condescension, babying, dirty talk, swearing, very unbalanced power dynamic, which rafe gets off on, slut-shaming, derogatory name calling, manipulation, college au, reader is a freshman and rafe is a senior, 18+ only, mdni
𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: Rafe bets his friends he can fuck you in one week.
𝘼/𝙉: It's here! The full fic. Word count: 23k. Please let me know what you think - reblogs and feedback mean the world to me. Read the warnings before you read, and enjoy!
“Her.”
Rafe looks over at the Pogue girl Topper’s nodding at and smirks. “Been there, done that. Pick a different one.”
Topper scoffs, “She literally moved here last week.”
“And?”
“OK… What about her?” He brazenly points at a leggy blonde that stands out in her group of Pogues.
“Last weekend at the beach party you threw. She gives good head.”
“Jesus Christ dude, is there anyone left??”
Rafe chuckles, leaning back and stretching his legs out while his friends stare at him in disbelief. He sometimes wonders if they know how stupid they look. Like followers. His followers. Hanging on to his every word, oohing and aahing at whatever he did. Making him feel like he was a God among men. Which he may as well be, considering that’s how most people at this college looked at him.
That’s why he loved fucking the Pogue girls. Almost exclusively. There was something about the power imbalance. Most of them came from poor families, looked at Rafe like he was a God. It didn’t take much for them to spread their legs for him, impressed by his power, turned on by his wealth. Hell, even the Kook girls were the same. But Rafe hardly ever took them home. They were spoiled sluts who hung around the country club wasting their lives and spending their daddies” money. Yeah, they didn’t pique his interest at all. Not as much as the Pogue girls who worked at the country club. In their little housekeeping outfits, deliberately teasing him in the hopes he’d take one of them home.
Yeah. It was safe to say Rafe Cameron had a type.
“Well, what about that one?”
Rafe rolls his eyes, about to say that yes, he had indeed fucked whatever girl Topper was pointing at this time. Because he’d fucked all of them. Because of who he was. Because of what he was capable of. Because of the family he came from. Because of what being a mere notch on Rafe Cameron’s bedpost meant to every single slut he’d ran through.
Except he doesn’t. Because Topper is pointing at you. And he’s never seen you before in his life.
You look so out of place, despite the fact you’re with a group of Pogues. And he knows you’re a Pogue. Like a shark with blood and a predator with its prey, he can always tell. And yet you stand awkwardly on the outskirts of the group, smiling yet not quite participating in whatever conversation is going on. You push your glasses up, straighten your skirt, pretend to look for something in your book bag. You’re shy. Self-conscious. Insecure. Rafe smiles.
“Who is she?”
“Aha! You haven’t slept with her!” Topper cheers like he’s won the fucking lottery. Sometimes Rafe wonders why he’s friends with him.
“Who is she?” He repeats like he hasn’t even heard him.
“She’s the new chick,” Kelce says, “except she’s not exactly new in town.”
“I heard she was home-schooled,” Topper snickers, “That’s why she’s fucking weird and has no friends. Even the Pogues don’t want her.”
Rafe observes you some more. Watches the bright smile on your face, how you try to chime in to whatever conversation the girls around you are having. They nod at you politely yet dismissively. They’re not your friends. As Topper said, you don’t have any.
Insecure. Weak. Vulnerable.
He licks his lips.
“How long?”
“Huh?”
He runs a hand through his hair impatiently, “How long do you wanna bet it takes me to get her into bed?” He nods in your direction.
Topper raises an eyebrow.
“You can’t be serious, man. She looks like she doesn’t even know what sex means.”
Kelce laughs, “She looks like she can’t even say it. Like she spells it out every time, s-e-x.”
They’re right. You look very innocent, but all that does is incense him. Rafe’s used to easy sluts who spread their legs after one drink or a ride on his motorbike. But you. He can tell you’d be harder to crack. But there’s something so fucking hot about how naive you look. How shy and sweet you are. How ruined he could leave you. Splayed out on his bike, legs quivering, all sweaty limbs and shy pants after he’s done having his way with you—
“How long?” He repeats, not in the mood to waste time and already getting hard picturing innocent little you with your tiny skirt flipped up and his head buried between those soft thighs, your sweet little confused cries because no one’s ever touched you like that, and—
“A week.”
“Mm?”
“A week to fuck her. With proof.”
Rafe stands up and stretches, licking his lips as he watches you retreat to a small bench, getting your little book out and burying your nose in it.
“That’s too easy. What do I get when I do it?”
“If you do it, you can decide what you get then. But as I said before, we’d need proof.” Kelce says.
“Yeah, proof,” Topper echoes, a glint in his eye as he looks over at you, “Pictures.”
Rafe shrugs, already kind of bored, “Sure.” He’d taken plenty of pictures of his conquests in the past. Him and his boys had a group chat where they shared that kind of shit. And the idea of taking pictures of you in such a vulnerable position gets him harder than anything. Sweet little freshman baby fucked dumb by the big bad senior, posing for pictures afterwards all teary-eyed but submissive. They all got submissive for him, even after he was done using them.
You flip a page, completely engrossed in your book and looking every bit the naive baby he’s imagining you as. A little lamb who has no idea she was in the presence of a fucking lion. And he bets you’re a virgin. Homeschooled with no friends? Forget virgin, you probably haven’t even had your first kiss. And that gets him so fucking horny, right there in the middle of the campus courtyard. The idea that you’re so pure, so untouched. So happy, so unassuming. A little fucking baby.
He’d have fun ruining you.
***
“You sure do love reading, don’t you?”
It’s the following day when Rafe finds you sitting by yourself in the corner of the library, with nothing but your book to keep you company.
You jump like a little mouse, pushing your glasses up your nose and gulping up at him, fear briefly flitting across your face before you force a small smile. And he likes his girls jumpy, he likes them slightly afraid of him. He knows he has that effect on people in general, but he wonders who’s told you about him.
“Sorry, were you — uh — were you talking to me?”
Rafe smirks, “Yes. Who else would I be talking to?”
“Oh, uh, I’m not sure…”
“It was a rhetorical question.”
“Oh, of course,” you look embarrassed, and he watches you squirm under his gaze for a good few seconds. “I… um…”
“You find books more interesting than people?”
“Huh?”
He chuckles, pulling up a chair next to you, noting how your eyes widen as he takes a seat, “Why are you always reading?”
“I don’t know, I guess I just like to read,” you shrug.
“You sure do.” He wonders if he could get you to read your precious book out loud while he went down on you, licked your virgin cunt while you cried because it felt too good. And then he’d spank you if you stopped or messed up a word, and like a stupid dumb fucking baby, you’d sniffle and wail through each paragraph, hold back your moans while he went to town on your little pussy till you wet yourself, and he’d suck your—
“Are you making fun of me?”
You pose the question so innocently— hell, you practically whisper it, and it knocks Rafe straight out of his daydream to find you blinking up at him with Bambi eyes.
“What?”
You bite your lip, “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m not so good at understanding if someone’s joking or not. I’m not… uh… I’m not used to being around so many people, and it makes me nervous and I can’t tell if someone’s being genuine or if they’re making fun of me.”
“You were homeschooled, huh?” Rafe stares at you intently, noting how you play with your hair nervously, and your fingers tap against the hard cover of your book. How you can barely make eye contact with him for longer than a few seconds.
“Yes. My mom taught me and my older brothers.”
Rafe nods, taking his time to answer. He looks at you some more, enjoying how it makes you uncomfortable. You fidget nervously, and it amuses him every time you peek up to meet his gaze before a look of alarm crosses your face and you divert your eyes down to your book once more.
“You’re a shy little thing, aren’t you?” He says finally, chuckling at the embarrassed look on your face.
“I… I guess. I do want to make friends but it’s pretty overwhelming.”
“I’ll be your friend.”
He does a good job of hiding his predatory, wolfish smile. And he wonders if you can see the glint in his eye as he mentally undresses you. You look so small and weak, especially compared to him. Gullible too. Too innocent for your own good, the way you gape up at him as if he’s offered you gold on a platter. It makes him want to stroke your soft cheek, pat it and tell you what a good little girl you are. For being so naive.
You shake your head as if trying to straighten out your thoughts. He can tell, he has that effect on women too.
“Oh, you don’t have to, I uh—”
“Rafe Cameron?! In the library?!” An annoying, high-pitched voice shrieks, making you jump as it cuts you off mid-sentence.
It’s a kook girl. A cheerleader. Rafe can’t be fucked to remember her name but he’s sure he’s hooked up with her. She’s one of those ones, the ones that hang out at the country club and try to catch his eye. One of the desperate sluts who thinks if she spreads her legs enough times for him, that he’ll make her his girlfriend or some stupid shit like that.
“Rafe, what are you doing here?” The cheerleader sidles up to him, her hand on his chest and batting her lashes in his direction in some pathetic form of seduction. She ignores you, and you shrink into yourself, hastily burying your face in your book.
“What do you want?” He asks, not quite as interested in her answer as he is in continuing to stare at you. How you try to act like you don’t care, but he knows you’re hurt from being ignored, from being treated like you’re invisible.
“Nothing. Just wondering what you’re up to.” But she flashes him her fuck me eyes, her nails scraping suggestively against his chest. Rafe yawns, considering it. He has time before his next class (not that he could be fucked to turn up to class half the time) and his dick’s hard from talking to you. And since you probably don’t even know what the word blowjob means…
“Go in there,” he nods at one of the private study rooms in the far end of the library, and the fucking slut nearly trips as she scrambles to obey him. Rafe takes his time, stretching his legs before slowly getting up.
You peek up from your book, “Are you guys gonna go study in there?”
He could’ve bust a nut then and there from how fucking innocent you sound. Batting your little eyelashes at him like you’re trying to seduce him without even realising it. He knows he’ll be thinking about you, weepy and on your knees, while the kook girl blows him. Fuck, and if he plays his cards right, he’d have you by the end of the week. And he always plays his cards right.
“You could call it studying.”
You nod, “OK, well, goodbye then.” You look back down at your book, but risk a glance up at him again, which he finds very amusing.
“What’s your name, homeschool?”
You tell him.
He sounds it out, before shooting you one last smile, “Well, I’ll see you soon. Won’t I?”
You give him a puzzled look, but it’s replaced by your usual wide-eyed Bambi stare when he pats your hand, his thumb lingering, stroking your skin. He wonders if you’ve ever even touched someone of the opposite sex before. Judging by how your breath hitches softly, he doubts it.
Fuck. He can’t wait to ruin you. Play the slow game and enjoy that sweet virgin snatch before any other man ever could.
That’s what he’s thinking of when he’s got the cheerleader on her knees in front of him. That sweet little look on your face, the look of curiosity mixed with shyness and that little hint of indignation. Fuck, he wants to ruin you. And he would. With proof.
***
Day two. Rafe finds you walking down the hallway, your books clutched to your chest and eyes trained to the floor. Cutest little skirt making your perky ass pop, winking at him enticingly with every step as if you’re deliberately seducing him. Makes him want to slap your cute little ass, reprimand you for teasing him and half the men on campus without even realising it. He wonders what you’d say if he just did it. Spanked you in front of everyone. You’d probably start blubbering like a little baby. He has to forcibly stop picturing it before he gets uncomfortably hard.
You’re alone. As usual.
“Hey, homeschool,” he falls into step beside you, eyebrow raising in amusement when you don’t slow down nor look at him.
“Oh, h-hello, Rafe.”
“What’re you up to today?”
“Nothing, just going to my next lecture.”
He grabs your wrist, watching as your breath hitches, and yet you still don’t look at him. Damn, what had gotten Bambi so scared?
“You’ve got time to talk to me, don’t you?” He asks, but it’s not really a question. And you know it, judging by how you swallow harshly.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t want to be late—” You attempt to tug your little hand out of his grasp but you’re so small and weak that it barely has any effect.
“C’mon, homeschool. That’s no way to treat your one and only friend.”
He’s walks you into a corner, and he likes how you gape at the wall before turning and looking up at him. He’s so much taller than you, bigger than you in every single way.
“Rafe, I…” you sigh, shifting from one foot to the other, “My friends said some things…”
“Friends?” You don’t have any.
“Some of the girls I know. They saw us talking yesterday at the library and they…” you sigh, “They said you were probably just playing a joke on me.”
Fuckin’ jealous pogue bitches.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. They said there’s no way you’d talk to me for any other reason apart from as a joke. And they…” you bite your lip, looking so cutely distraught and it goes straight to his dick. “They said some other things… about you.”
Of course they fuckin’ did. Always talking behind his back, but never to his goddamned face. Nothing but a bunch of jealous, gold-digging whores.
He doesn’t say anything, just merely looks at you as if he expects you to tell him. And he knows you will. You’re too innocent to keep secrets.
“They said that you… that you’re scary sometimes.”
Rafe remains impassive, waiting for you to continue.
“That you… that you pick on a lot of us Pogues. E-Especially the boys. That you and your friends bully them.”
He snorts. Bully. What a juvenile word. Sure, he pushed the dipshit Pogues around here and there. They deserved it for all the trouble they ran around town causing, disrupting the natural order of shit. And he could fuck their girls better than they ever could. Especially that fuckin’ idiot JJ Maybank…
“They also said that… never mind.” Again, you try to tug away from him but to no avail.
“Tell me.” He likes how you struggle under his scrutinising gaze.
“It’s… it’s not appropriate.”
“Say it. Now.”
You lower your voice, “They said you like to use the girls. The pogue girls. Th-That you have a kink for them.”
The scandalous words have hardly left your mouth before you duck your head down as if embarrassed. God, you were so fucking innocent. Rafe wonders how he should play this.
“Huh. Is that so?”
“Y-Yeah. One of the girls I talk to… She said that you…” you swallow, biting your lip, “that you’ve been with her and all her friends too. That you tell them all the same thing but it’s always a lie and you just end up using them.”
Rafe nods, “Hmm.”
“I’m sorry, Rafe, but I don’t think we should—“
“That’s funny. I thought you were smart. You know, with all your books and the glasses and shit.”
You blink, “What?”
He shrugs, “I didn’t think you’d go ahead and pass judgement on someone without even getting to know them first.”
“It’s not that–”
“I mean, here I am, wanting to be friends with you. And I’ve been nothin’ but nice, haven’t I?”
He’s still got you backed into a corner, and he watches as you flinch when he emphasises his words. He knows people get intimidated by his intensity, but there’s nothing he hates more than people talking shit behind his back. Especially low-life Pogues. And he likes how scared you look right now, pouty lips all downturned and alarm in your eyes.
“I asked you a question, homeschool.”
“Yes, you’ve been nothing but nice! It’s just, I heard all these things, and–”
“And you chose to believe them.” He steps back abruptly, “I’ll see you around, I guess.”
He walks away, about to count to three in his head but you beat the count before he can even begin.
“Rafe, wait! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to judge you.”
He stops, allows you to catch up.
“You’re right, I…I shouldn’t listen to other people.”
“You shouldn’t.” Rafe agrees, easily taking your heavy textbooks from where you’ve been balancing them in your arms. You gape, but he just continues smoothly: “Where’s your next class?”
You tell him, “But you don’t have to walk with me or anything–”
“I’m your friend, homeschool. That’s what friends do.”
*
Day 3. You’re eating your lunch on a bench outside all by yourself. Rafe’s heading to his car with his friends. They usually cut classes most days to hit the beach or the country club. Rafe doesn’t see the point of college anyways, not when he was poised to inherit all of his father’s businesses, money and property. And with the ideas he had, he’d expand tenfold on whatever Ward was doing now, make a shit ton more money than his old man ever did. That would show him…
”How’s the bet coming along, Rafe?” Topper asks.
“Wait till the end of the week.” Is all Rafe says. He doesn’t need to give progress reports to his dumb fuck ass follower friends.
“That means he’s nowhere near cracking that virgin pussy.” Kelce chuckles. “No worries, brother. She looks like she’s got a stick up her ass anyways. Not loose like the rest of the Pogue whores.”
He ignores them as they laugh. But they’re right. You’re not like the rest of the Pogue girls. They’d grown up wild, promiscuous, loose. Trained to catch the attention of a rich Kook like himself, filled with self-serving motivations to marry into money. But he can already tell you’re different. With your cute little outfits and respectful, quiet demeanour. You look like you’d fit in where he was from.
Too bad he was only going to fuck you before discarding you like he did the rest of them.
“I’ll catch you guys later.” He says, making a beeline for you.
“Hey,” he chucks you under the chin, smirking when you jump.
“Oh, hey Rafe.” You look beyond his shoulder, “Your friends are all leaving.”
“Yeah. The waves are good this time of day.”
You gape, “But don’t you have classes?”
He takes a seat next to you, making sure to stretch out while you shrink into yourself. Still so nervous around him. He snickers, “You gonna tell on us?”
You look aghast, “No! I would never–”
“I’m just kidding, homeschool.”
“Oh,” you look embarrassed, “Sorry. Sometimes I–”
“Can’t tell if someone’s joking or not,” Rafe completes, “I remember. I’ll be more straight up with you.”
You nod, and he can tell you’re trying to think of something else to say. But you’re too nervous, too awkward. And so you just bury your head in your book again, all while he watches you. You’ve got a bottle of apple juice and a half-eaten sandwich of some kind on the table next to you. Cut up into little triangles. He bets you’ve done it yourself. Fuckin’ cute.
“You dress cute.” He says, and again, widened Bambi eyes stare up at him. He chuckles, “You know, the little skirts and plaid and shit. It’s cute.”
“Thank you.”
“You do it on purpose?” He can’t help but ask, because he wonders if a part of you knows what you’re doing. Knows you’re dressing like a sexy little angel out of his wettest dreams. All little and cute and innocent, so much smaller than him. Weak. All pastel and pretty, like you’d look so fucking sexy on the back of his bike. On his arm. On his dick.
“I don’t know what you mean by that,” you say, sounding every bit as innocent as you look. Damn, homeschool must’ve done a number on you. But he likes how sheltered you sound. It gets him so fucking hard, and a part of him almost feels sorry for how primed you are to be taken advantage of. “I wear my mom’s old clothes, or stuff I find in the charity shops.”
He’d had maids and housekeepers who shopped in places like that. He remembers him and his siblings giving them their old clothes once they’d grown out of them.
He nods, “You look pretty.”
Your breath hitches, and you really don’t know how to respond to that, because you slam your book shut and stand up, “I, uh, I have to go. I don’t want to be late for my next class.”
He watches you leave, distracted by your ass again but not enough to miss the little smile that quirks on your lips as you bid him farewell and walk away.
*
On day 4, Rafe walks up behind you in the busy hallway, pressing his huge hand on your lower back and pushing you into another secluded corner. He smirks when you squeak, but he likes how easily he can push you around because of how weak and small you are.
“Hey.” He told himself he’d take it slow (well, as slow as he could take it in the span of one week) and yet he can’t help but press into you a little bit. It’s innocuous enough, but your eyes widen as per usual, and the feel of your hot little body against his much larger one is enough to give him a boner. It’s how he could easily push you into an empty lecture hall and have his way with you if he so wanted to. Sure, you’d cry and resist at first, but they all gave in in the end. And if someone caught them, he’d pay them off.
Rafe Cameron owned the world. Nothing could stop him.
“Hello, Rafe.” You breathe, and he loves how his name sounds when you say it. He imagines you moaning it when he has you on his lap, pressing you down on his dick while you cry and whimper because it’s too much, it’s too big. But your greedy little virgin pussy would take every inch of his fat dick, and he’d do all the work, of course. You’d be too busy crying, and he’d bounce you up and down on his dick while you grabbed at his arms, his hair, his face. He’d tell you to scrape your nails down his back, leave a fucking mark or two so daddy could remember you.
“Come for a drive with me? I’ll buy you lunch.”
Despite your shyness, a fire flashes in your eyes, “I can buy my own lunch!”
He raises an eyebrow. As if on cue, you lower your gaze.
“Sorry, I mean… thank you for your offer, Rafe. But I can buy my own lunch.”
Surprisingly though, you agree to the drive. And he still has his hand pressed against your back, guiding you out to where his car’s parked. You ogle at it, probably never having seen anything as expensive. He wonders if your family even owns a car, or if you even know how to drive. It would be hot if you didn’t, it made you look even more helpless. In need of someone like him to protect you, take care of you. Someone powerful and wealthy like himself.
“Wow, I’ve never been on this side of the island before!” You say, oohing and aahing as you stare out the window. Rafe’s never seen anyone so easily excited by the neighbourhood he’d grown so used to. But he supposes the mansions, sports cars, country clubs and private beaches would be impressive to anyone who hadn’t grown up with easy access to all of that.
“No?”
“No, but my brother’s friend works there, I think.” You point to the vast golf course at the back end of one of the clubs. “He says the tips are really good.”
Rafe frowns. You were talking to other men? No, not you. You were too sweet, too innocent. He was sure he was the only man you spoke to. Or even if you were speaking to others, he doubts a golf caddy pathetically running after balls would be much competition. And yet, he bristles, wanting to change the subject.
“Do you have a job?” Rafe asks.
You shake your head, “No. I sometimes tutor some kids in the neighbourhood but nothing permanent. I’d love to have a part-time job with proper wages like the country club or library or something, but my family’s kind of protective of me.”
“Mm?” He’s deliberately being quiet, wanting to hear you talk, wanting to learn more about you.
“Yeah. That’s why I was homeschooled. My mom’s scared someone’s gonna take advantage of me.” You pause, before giggling, “It took a lot to convince her to let me apply for colleges, but I think she’s finally starting to see me as an adult who can make my own decisions and protect myself.”
The irony isn’t lost on Rafe, but he finds himself leaning closer. You have this way of talking, so soft and breathy, yet energetic and full of life at the same time. Like you’re a storybook character, like you’re someone out of this world. Like an angel dropped down from heaven and sent just for him. You’re his type to a tee. God, he wants to fuck you so bad.
“What would your mom say if she knew you were out with me?” His hand creeps up to rest on your knee. You’re wearing jeans, which he doesn’t approve of but he decides to give you a pass since it’s windy today.
You don’t notice his touch anyways; you’re too busy pondering over his question. But there’s a glint in your eye, “Sh-She wouldn’t approve. But that’s only ‘cause she doesn’t know you.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, his thumb rubbing circles against the denim of your jeans. “And you do?”
You swallow, finally realising he’s got his hand on you. Surprisingly, you don’t move. It’s almost like you’re frozen, those big fuck me Bambi eyes making a comeback, “Uh…I…We’re friends, aren’t we?”
He smirks, “Yeah. Friends.” His hand creeps up higher, stroking your thigh softly, wishing you were wearing one of your little skirts so he could feel your bare skin. But it’s thrilling anyways, touching your quivering body while you’re defenceless inside his car. He could lock the doors and have his way with you right now. Hell, people outside would get quite the show but it wouldn’t be the first time he’s fucked in public.
Poor little you. Losing your virginity in the front seat of his car. He’d drag you into his lap, bounce you up and down on his cock. But not before making you beg for it first. And you’d cry so fucking bad, because it would hurt. Because he’d promise he’d be gentle but he knows himself, he knows he’d lose control like he always did. Fuck you so goddamned hard, he’d have to lay you down in the backseat afterwards because you wouldn’t be able to stop shaking. Then drive you back to his house, carry you into his bed and have his way with you again. And again. And again.
“Rafe?”
“Yes?”
“You’re not hanging out with me because you feel sorry for me, are you?”
That grabs his attention, “Why would you think that?”
You shrug, “No reason. I just… Well, you have so many friends. I guess I don’t quite understand why you’re hanging out with me.”
“I like you.” He shifts even closer, his hand steadily stroking your leg while you remain stiff, “Do you like me?”
“H-Huh?”
“You heard me, homeschool.” And yet he knows you’re distracted by his fingers tracing shapes on your thigh. Not random shapes, though. It’s his initials. Over and over again. R.C., he wonders if you can tell.
“I, uh, y-ye–” You’re having trouble getting your words out, and it amuses him. He can see you visibly shaking, and he wonders if it’s out of fear or anticipation. Or both. He leans down, bringing his face close to yours.
“I didn’t quite get that.” He licks his lips at how weak and intimidated you look. “Say it again.”
It’s an order, and you clear your throat, shake your head as if to clear your thoughts.
“Yes,” you whisper, as if it’s something scandalous, “Y-Yes, I like you.”
He pulls back abruptly, leaving you gaping at him.
“Let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”
He buys you a panini from a little artisan bakery, with a strawberry iced tea and a packet of chocolate hearts with a cherry cream filling. You protest at first, unzipping your bag to pay for yourself, but he’d sooner roll over and die than let a woman pay for anything.
“Toss me one,” he says, and you throw a little cherry-filled truffle at him. He catches it between his teeth, and your eyes light up, clearly impressed.
“Wow, that was cool!”
“C’mere, you’ve got a little something…” He grabs your chin gently, pulling you forward before rubbing his thumb against the side of your lip, wiping away a bit of chocolate. “Messy girl.”
Your breath hitches, but you stay still for him like a good little girl. His thumb lingers, and he wants to press it into your mouth, make you suck the chocolate off it. Then tell you he had something else for you to suck on. Push you down and make you warm his cock with your mouth while he drove you back to campus. One hand on the steering wheel, the other pressing your head down, making you take his big cock despite you whimpering and panicking because you can’t breathe.
He rubs your lower lip with his thumb for a moment before pulling away. You clear your throat, snapping out of whatever reverie you’ve been in, straighten up against the seat and put your seatbelt on. You still look like you’re in a daze, however, and he wonders if you’re wet from him wiping your face clean.
“I-uh-we should head back please, if that’s okay?” you say, voice slightly shaky as you avoid eye contact with him. “I don’t want to miss my afternoon class.”
He grins, “You a teacher’s pet?”
That makes you smile, and you shrug shyly. It almost enamours him.
He gets you back to campus on time, and you give him a little wave before you jump out of his car and walk inside. And god, it’s insane how hot you are. Even in your jeans, which have cute little embroidered flowers on the butt. Makes your ass look insane. Like it’s begging to be grabbed, smacked, fucked.
He breathes out heavily through his nose, slumping back against his seat. His dick is uncomfortably hard. God, you didn’t even realise how much you’d teased him tonight. Sitting tight and pretty in the passenger seat of his car, so quiet and pretty. So innocently impressed by Figure 8, and by him. How shy you’d been when you’d admitted that you liked him…
He gets his phone out, blindly texting one of the desperate girls on his phone. He needs a release. And he’d be thinking of you the whole time.
*
On day 5, Rafe tells you to give him your number. From his peripheral, he can see a bunch of Pogues whispering and watching while he takes your phone and puts his number in.
“Have your little friends been talking more shit about me?”
You flinch. He can’t help the intensity of his tone sometimes, and he’s noticed you never swear and, like a jumpy little mouse, probably feel intimidated when he does.
“No, I haven’t really spoken to them in a while.”
Rafe grins, “Yeah?”
“Yes. I’ve been busy with schoolwork.”
He saves his number on your phone before pressing it into your back pocket for you. You gape, eyes darting around to see if anyone saw. He wonders just how prim and proper you are, and how quickly he could get you to come undone once he got you comfortable and behind closed doors.
“You’re not too busy to text me, right?”
You smile, looking down and fidgeting with your binder. He notices you’ve got little stickers on it, like cupcakes and hearts and shit. What a fuckin’ baby.
“Text you? I don’t really– I have to a test tomorrow that I need to study for.”
But he knows you’ll text him. They always did. You weren’t any different.
“What are you smiling at?” Kelce asks, pulling up beside him as Rafe watches you head into your next class.
Immediately, he straightens his face, “Nothing man.”
“You falling for that homeschool freak Pogue?”
He snorts, “You wish. I have standards.”
“You sure about that?”
He whips his head sharply to stare down at his friend, “You want me to repeat myself?”
Rafe doesn’t miss the flicker of fear in Kelce’s eyes. They’d never admit it, but he knows his friends are afraid of him. Of his mood swings, his unpredictability. He doesn’t care. In fact, he prefers it this way. They weren’t like him, they were weak-minded, beneath him. He kept them around because of semantics, because of who their parents were and who his dad was. And because they proved to be minorly useful sometimes when he needed help to get shit done.
All the girls he’d been with had been afraid of him too. When he fucked them, he often lost control. But it turned him on, how they’d swallow their fear in case they offended him, or set him off. Once, he’d fucked a girl who just wouldn’t stop shaking. Sure, he’d showed her his gun right before he’d bent her over, but it was her problem if she was frightened by something as mundane as that.
You weren’t scared of him. Yet. Intimidated, sure. But he’d kept that side of him well under wraps when it came to you. You were too sweet, too pure. And you were a good girl, incapable of crossing him in any form. He didn’t have to scare you to get what he wanted from you. No, you’d give it to him, like the good little girl you were. Naïve, innocent little girl.
*
Rafe: Hey.
Y/N: Hi, Rafe. How are you?
He finds himself smiling at his screen. There’s a party going on downstairs, but Rafe couldn’t care less. It’s the same thing every other night. His friends showing up at his house and bringing along a whole entourage of people he doesn’t give a fuck about. Sarah used to do it a lot before she moved out, invite her fuck ass Pogue friend group into his house as if they were ever welcome there.
Rafe didn’t want any Pogues inside his house. Unless they were girls that he intended to sleep with. But he appreciated it when they showed themselves out once he was done using them.
Rafe: What are you up to?
A minute passes by, then another one. Fuck, he hates that you’re making him wait. What a fuckin’ tease. He wonders for the hundredth time if you’re doing it on purpose. No, not you. You’re too innocent.
Y/N: Nothing, I just finished cleaning my room. Wbu?
It’s insane how the visual of that gets his dick hard in less than a second. The thought of you doing something as domestic as cleaning. The good little college girl, who went home straight after school and spent her evenings dusting and vacuuming or whatever it was that cleaning entailed. Unlike the Kook sluts his friends were probably fucking downstairs. They were pathetic party girls who’d easily spread their legs for a line or two.
He calls you, losing patience with this texting bullshit. He runs a hand through his hair impatiently when you don’t immediately pick up, huffing and gulping down the remaining whiskey in his glass. Slamming it down on his desk when you still don’t pick up. Fucking tease. He grabs a baggie from one of the drawers, prepares a neat line; despite promising himself he wouldn’t do it tonight. Fuck that. Ten seconds have passed; you still haven’t picked up. He snorts it quickly, about to throw his phone out the fucking window, except you choose that moment to pick up.
“H-Hello?”
“Hi,” he sounds slightly breathless, but who the fuck cared. He refills his glass with more whiskey, taking a sip to calm himself down. “Took your time to pick up, huh?”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” you say hastily, “I got distracted.”
He feels a sudden surge of jealousy so violent, he doesn’t know how to act for a moment. Distracted by fucking what?
“The lights went out, so I had to go reset them,” you explain, and he barks out a laugh. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Y-You sound kinda breathless, Rafe,” you say, “Is everything okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be okay?” He downs his drink and sets it aside before his hand slips down. God, you sound so hot. All breathy and innocent, even just over the phone. “Tell me what you were doing.”
A pause, and then you force out a chuckle, “I told you, I just finished cleaning.”
“What like vacuuming and shit?”
“Yes.”
Over the years, Rafe had slept with a number of maids Ward had hired on multiple occasions. He’d fucked Wheezie’s babysitter a few years ago, the housekeeper too. His father had a knack for hiring hot Pogue girls, and maybe that’s where Rafe’s kink for them started.
He could imagine you working for him – he’d make you wear the sexiest little barely-there maid outfit. You wouldn’t question it because you were too innocent. With your little feather duster, trying to clean except you’d be too small to reach certain areas. Fuck, he wouldn’t last five seconds in the same room as you. And he wouldn’t have to because you’d be his hired help, his property. He’d have you bent over his desk, fuck you so hard till you couldn’t stop shaking, till you were crying like a baby and apologising for not focusing on cleaning all while he carried you up to his bedroom. Locked you up in there so nobody else could see you. His girl. All his.
“Uh, Rafe?”
“I wanted to talk to you,” he says.
A pause.
“Really?” You clear your throat, “Where are you? I can hear music.”
“Shit, yeah. Like, there’s a party or whatever going on downstairs. My friends came over unannounced.”
“Oh.” He can sense a level of dejection in your tone. He bets you’re thinking about it, thinking how it’s just a reminder that he has his own group of Kook friends. And you’d never be one of them. You’d never truly fit in. You were either one or the other. Hell, Sarah had proven that when she’d transitioned into the slums. But maybe there was a way to bring you into his world, a way that would stick.
He has to forcibly shake his head to remind himself you’re just part of a stupid bet.
“I’d rather speak to you than them.”
“That’s not true, Rafe.”
“I like how you say my name.” He’s palming his dick now, knowing he’s treading over the line and could easily scare you off now if he’s not careful. But fuck being careful. He’s never really been careful before in his life. He hasn’t had to be. “An’ I’m serious. I told you, I like you.”
“Rafe, I… I just can’t shake the feeling that–”
“That what?” He spits into his palm before resuming touching himself. And shit, he doesn’t know if it’s the drugs or if it’s really just the sound of your voice that’s got him so goddamned horny. He wonders if you’ve ever touched yourself before. If you even knew how to.
“That you’re just playing a big joke on me. I mean, even the people from the Cut think I’m this weird, homeschooled freak.” You laugh, but he can tell you don’t find it funny, “It’s just hard to believe that you’d want to be my friend.”
“They think I’m a freak too,” he says, being honest for once. “Only difference is they don’t talk shit about me because they know I’d kill them.”
“You’re funny, Rafe.”
You’re too innocent to realise he’s not kidding. Not in the least.
“And if anyone says anything about you, I’ll kill them too. I’m serious.” Fuck, he feels like his dick’s gonna goddamn explode. The thought of protecting you like that, like he was responsible for you. Like you were all cute and helpless and he was the one taking care of shit, the one protecting you. That’s all he’s done his whole life, take care of shit and get shit done. And nobody’s ever fucking appreciated him for it.
“Well, thank you, Rafe. I’ve never had anyone stick up for me like that.”
He likes how you keep saying his name now that he’s told you he likes it when you say it. Means you’d be real good at taking instructions. He can imagine telling you what to do when he finally has you in his bed. Order you to get on your hands and knees. Then he’d spread your cute little ass, eat you from the back while you moaned his name over and over, thanking him for taking care of you, weeping how much you appreciate him, how much he means to you. How much you need him.
“A-Are you still there?”
“Shit, yeah. Yeah, I am.” His dick’s red and painfully hard, and he’s still trying to pump it steadily but now he’s imagining your tight little virgin cunt wrapped around it. Soft like velvet, warm and wet. Pulsating around him. Never had even a finger up there but you’d take his big dick, because he owned you, because he was your protector, because you were too weak and helpless without him, and–
“Could you, uh, fuck, say my name again,” he orders you, not caring in the least if he scares you off.
“Rafe?”
He cums into his fist like a goddamned teenage boy, biting down to keep from making any noise. God fucking dammit, you’d listened again. What a good fucking girl. He wants to tell you that, tell you how good you were for him just now, how obedient and submissive you were without even realising it.
“If you’re busy, it’s okay and you can go,” you say softly.
“No, wait…” he clears this throat, grabbing a bunch of tissues from his desk. He can’t believe you hadn’t caught on to him jacking off. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“Do you want to come over tomorrow? To hang out?”
“Like, uh, at your house?”
“Yeah.” He needs you in private, needs you on his turf where he can control just about everything. God, was it even about the bet anymore? Or just this newfound fucking irrevocable need to fuck you just for his own personal satisfaction? Maybe both.
“I don’t know, I’ve never been to a guy’s house before.”
That just makes him even more determined to be your first.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun. We can go after your classes finish or whatever, and I’ll drive you home afterwards.”
“Rafe…”
He shuts his eyes for a moment, savouring the sound of your voice. He wonders if he can get you to call him daddy. God fucking dammit, just the idea of that was getting him hard again.
“Look, we’ll order some food, watch TV. Whatever you want. It’ll be fun. And it’s what friends do.”
That last part gets to you. He can tell. He knows how badly you want to have friends. He knows you’ve never had any. Not good, permanent ones like you saw in movies and TV shows. Hell, Rafe’s not sure he himself has real friends. But he doesn’t care. The idea of friendship means nothing to him. He’s best when he’s on his own because nobody else could be trusted. But what is important is having a girl like you in his bed. A girl like you who looks up to him with shining eyes, like he’s your goddamned entire world. A girl he plucked up from poverty and saved, and you’d appreciate him more than anyone in his dumb fucking family ever did.
“Say yes,” he all but orders you, but he already knows the answer before you say it.
“O-Okay, yeah. Yes, that sounds like fun. I’d love to come.”
*
“What do you mean you’re not coming?” Topper frowns, crossing his arms over his chest, “You were supposed to bring the, you know…”
Rafe rolls his eyes, wondering why he’s friends with a fucking loser who can’t even say the word coke. That’s why nobody on the goddamned island wanted to sell to Topper. Hell, even Barry refused to.
“I have plans.” Rafe answers, checking his watch for the tenth time. Your final class of the day was due to end any minute now, and he couldn’t wait to get you into his house.
“What plans? You were gonna help me with Sarah tonight.” Topper was a whiny fucking bitch, but even Rafe had to admit he was a better fit for his sister than that lowlife John B.
“I’m not helping you with shit, man.” He mutters disinterestedly, although he had promised a few nights ago that he’d help him. He’d been high as a fucking kite, though. So it didn’t exactly count. “Look, she’ll get bored eventually when she realises his broke ass can’t provide shit for her. Then she’ll come crawling back.”
Topper shakes his head, “No, Sarah’s not materialistic like that.”
Rafe smirks, “You don’t know her.”
“Well, speaking of broke, how’s it going with that homeschool girl? You guys sure seem to be hanging out a lot.”
“Do you have brain damage, Topper?”
“What?”
Rafe corners his friend against a wall, relishing the immediate fear in his eyes, “I seem to remember you placing a bet a week ago.”
“Well, yeah, but –”
“So why the fuck,” he hits the locker lightly behind Topper’s head, “are you asking me about hanging out with her a lot?”
“Chill, dude. It’s just,” he looks hesitant, scared as he’s barely able to make eye contact, “It’s okay if you like her, you know?”
Rafe feels a wave of emotion, something he can’t quite pinpoint. And that makes him mad, because what the fuck was he feeling? He has to clench his fists by his side to stop from slapping the taste out of Topper’s mouth. Why did him bringing you up irritate him so much? Jesus, reign it the fuck in.
He takes a deep breath and steps back, forcing a chuckle, “You think I’m gonna slum it like that?”
Topper grins nervously, as if Rafe hadn’t had him pinned against a locker like a little bitch just a second ago. He straightens up, “I mean, it’s not exactly a secret what your type is.”
Rafe laughs, and Topper relaxes and joins in after a moment or two. That’s when Rafe slams him against the locker again.
“Get it through your thick fucking skull, Topper. I may fuck a Pogue but I’d never date one. Got that?”
“Yes, okay, Jesus Christ, man.” Topper pushes Rafe off him and backs off, “Do whatever the fuck you want.”
That’s when Rafe starts laughing again. “I will, pussy.”
Topper fucks off after that. Sometimes, Rafe wonders what his deal is. He acted up in front of the rest of the group, then tried to act all sensitive and understanding in private. Like Rafe had time for that shit. And how dare Topper insinuate that Rafe had feelings for you? Hell would freeze over before he ever caught feelings for a Pogue.
He realises a bunch of people are staring at him. Goddamit. Fuck all of them. When he was younger, Ward had sent him to see a therapist once a week. He’d quit going once he’d realised it was everyone else who was the problem, and not him. But one thing the shrink had taught him that had stuck was to breathe slowly and count to ten whenever he felt angry or overwhelmed.
That’s what he’s doing when you arrive.
“Hey, Rafe. I’m sorry I’m late. The professor held me back.”
“Why?” He barks out before he can contain himself. He’s already on edge, and now some dumbass professor is keeping you back in class because you undoubtedly get his old, shrivelled dick hard and you’re too innocent to even realise it.
You blink, “He really liked the essay I submitted last week. He even said he wants to use it as an example for his other classes!”
“That’s great,” Rafe plasters a smile on his face but he’s only half listening, “Let’s go.”
He calms down some as he guides you out of the hallway and toward the parking lot. He almost grabs your hand when it gets a bit too crowded, but remembers himself just in time. He couldn’t be caught holding hands with a Pogue. It was too intimate, and like he’d said to Topper, he’d never let it get to that point with a Pogue. Instead, he places his hand on your lower back and pushes you forward. You smile at him, and it goes straight to his… well, not his dick, surprisingly. But it goes somewhere within him, and he feels it again. Something he doesn’t really recognise or know how to deal with. So he forcibly pushes it back inside himself.
“You look cute,” he says once he’s got you outside and there’s more room to breathe. You look like an angel in the afternoon sunlight, dressed in the cutest little sundress he’s ever seen. It’s this pinkish-orange, like the colour of the sunset, and you’ve got matching ribbons in your hair. Like you’ve really made an effort to get all dressed up just to go to his house.
“Thanks,” you look down as if you’re embarrassed, like you don’t know how to take a compliment, “It’s my mom’s dress.”
“It’s really pretty,” he says softly, before clearing his throat and looking away.
He gets you to his car, lifting you up by your waist and helping you into it. And that turns him on so much, how small and sweet you look. Like a little fairy in his arms. None of the other girls were like you. Not at all. He wonders what you’re wearing underneath, and feels his cock thicken in his slacks with anticipation when he realises he was probably going to find out today.
You don’t say anything when he pulls up into the driveway of his house. Ward had fucked off on some business trip and taken Wheezie and Rose with him so he had the place to himself. That’s how he liked it best, it gave him space to think and breathe without the constant noise of his family. Well, Wheezie was an exception. He didn’t mind her too much.
“Wait here,” he says, getting out the car and walking around to open the door for you. You allow him to lift you out again, this time your hands landing on his shoulders. And it’s fucking insane how that tiny, voluntary touch does things to him that no other girl has ever done before.
Now, he doesn’t think twice before grabbing your hand and pulling you down to the large, ornate wooden double doors. You’re distracted anyways, eyes wide as saucers as you ogle the mansion that Rafe’s never thought twice about. But he reckons it’s a step or two above whatever shacks the people from the Cut lived in, so he allows you to remain silent and let it sink in.
Finally, you exhale slowly, “This is… uh… wow. I can’t believe there’s people in this world who live like this.”
Rafe smirks, squeezing your hand, “Yeah. Do you want a drink?”
He leads you to the bar in the corner of the living room, again lifting you up and placing you on one of the stools. You giggle, “I can climb on myself, you know.”
“Yeah? You seem to like it when I pick you up, though.”
He winks, and notes how you duck your head and smile shyly, your hands wringing together on your lap like you’re nervous. God, you were so fucking cute.
“What’s your usual drink of choice?” He asks, going behind the island to inspect the liquor. His friends had gone through a lot of it at the party the night before, but the house help had restocked everything this morning.
You blink, “Um, water?”
He stifles a laugh, pouring himself his usual whiskey with ice, “You’re a good girl, huh?”
“I tried some of my mom’s wine once but it tasted horrible,” you shrug, “I don’t know why people like it so much.”
“Try this.” He pours you a Peach Schnapps with lemonade and ice, “It’s sweet like you.”
You hesitate, but end up taking it. And he watches as you take a tentative sip, and he knows you like it because you take another one. And then another. He can’t help but feel proud for introducing you to your first alcoholic drink.
“You’re not as bad as people say you are,” you say out of nowhere, and his expression immediately sours.
“People have been talking about me to you?”
“No, it’s just the stuff I’ve heard. Like what I told you before. But it can’t be true, because you’re so nice to me so it just doesn’t add up.”
He grips his glass tight, about to lose it because yet again people were talking shit about him behind his back and never to his fucking face. Because they were all a bunch of pussies who knew he’d beat the shit out of them or kill them if they said anything to his face. But then you speak again.
“Do you always drink after school?”
“Huh?”
“Like, alcohol. Do you drink a lot? Like every day?”
“No.” He lies. “Only sometimes.”
He takes you out to the patio, where the sun is shining and you look so fucking pretty in your little sundress. Like you fit right into his world, next to the pool with a drink in your hand, sat next to him and looking at him with sparkling eyes as if he was your god. He wonders if you’ve naturally grown more comfortable with him through the course of the week, or if it’s just the alcohol. Probably the alcohol, since no one was ever really comfortable around him.
Either way, he puts his hand on your leg just like he had a few days ago in his car. Your breath hitches, but you don’t make a move to stop him. Instead, you opt to take another sip of your drink, and he wonders if he can get you drunk tonight. Shit, did he even want to? It was no fun fucking a drunk girl.
“Tell me more about you,” he strokes the soft skin of your bare thigh, feeling your goosebumps underneath the pads of his fingers. “You ever had a boyfriend or anything?”
Your eyes widen, “No. I, uh, you don’t tend to meet any guys when you’re homeschooled.” Embarrassed, you giggle before looking away. He reaches out, grabbing your chin lightly and making you look at him again. Fuck, your lips were so sexy. So pouty and perfect, begging to be kissed. “What about…what about you? Have you had any girlfriends?”
He shrugs, “A few.”
You nod, “Of course you have. That was a stupid question. Sorry, I forget not everyone’s as far behind in life as I am.”
“You’re not far behind.” He says, although you are and he prefers it that way.
“I am. Every other girl my age has had all the experiences you’re supposed to have. Drinking, partying, boys, all of it.” You sigh, “Sometimes I feel like I’m so far behind that I’ll never catch up.”
Rafe inches his hand upwards, till he reaches the hem of your dress halfway up your thigh. He plays with the fabric, and he can tell you’re acutely aware of what he’s doing. You don’t make a move to stop him, but you do press your legs together.
“There’s still plenty of time to catch up,” he says softly, “I can help you.”
You smile up at him, holding up your drink, “You already have. I’d never drank with friends before now.”
“Congratulations,” he says, clinking his glass with yours, “To one of many firsts.”
He downs his drink and so do you, and he’s quick to get a refill for both of you. He’s guessing you’re a lightweight, and again the thought of getting you drunk crosses his mind. But that would be way too easy.
“I’m capping you after this one,” he says, handing you your second Peach Schnapps.
You giggle, “Are you gonna cap yourself too?”
“No.” He chucks you under the chin again, “But, see, I’m not a baby.”
“Hey!”
He kisses you. And shit, he hadn’t planned on catching you so off-guard. Hell, he’s caught himself off-guard. But he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help how kissable your lips looked, all pouty and bitten. And you taste like cherry lip gloss mixed with peaches and lemonade, and you’re so pliant underneath him, and he’s kissed a shit ton of girls but it’s never felt like this.
You pull away with a start, shocked as you stare up at him. Breathing hard and biting your goddamned lips before they turn into the shape of an o.
“I’m sorry,” Rafe says, although he’s not, “I’ve been wanting to do that since the day I first saw you.”
Your breathing is shallow, and with a shaky hand you put your glass down on the crystal table in front of you. “I’ve never, uh, I’ve never kissed anyone before.”
“Well, it’s easy. I could show you.”
You swallow, “I don’t want this to be like, a pity thing.”
Rafe exhales slowly, “You’re here in front of me in this tiny fuckin” dress, acting all cute and innocent and you think I want to kiss you out of pity?”
Your jaw drops, “Hey, it’s not tiny!”
He kisses you again. And sure, maybe he should’ve asked permission since it’s, well, your first kiss. But frankly he’s never had to ask permission to do anything in his entire life, and he wasn’t about to start now. The way he sees it, you wouldn’t have worn a slutty dress and agreed to come to his house if you didn’t want him to make a move on you.
Again, you pull away, “Rafe, I– don’t… I don’t know how to kiss, I’m sorry–”
He cups your face in his hands, pulling you closer and pressing his lips against yours again. Just to feel your soft, quivering lips against his confident ones. He kisses you once, twice, three times. Coaxing you to open your mouth, to let him in. Fuck, a part of him just wants to shove his tongue down your fucking throat, show you what it means to really be kissed. But he’s already pushing his luck right now.
“I’ll teach you,” he says, “But you need to do exactly what I say, okay?”
He can’t believe his goddamned luck when you nod. God, you were just so fucking hot, prancing around his house in your little dress, all impressed by his riches and shit, drinking your drink he made you like a good little girl, and now here you were, agreeing to whatever he said.
He taps his leg, “Get on my lap.”
Your eyes nearly bug out of your head, “Wh-What?”
Rafe smirks, “Didn’t you just agree to do exactly what I say?”
He’s surprised with the amount of patience he has with you. If you were another girl, he’d have thrown your ass out to the curb for asking too many annoying questions. Or bent you over, shoved your face into a pillow to shut you up and had his way with you. God knew he’d done that more times than he could count over the years. He was aware of how much bigger and stronger he was than you and every other girl, and that fact turned him on more than anything. The fact that he could, if he wanted to, completely take advantage of you however he wanted. And all you’d be able to do is cry and beg him to stop, which would just turn him on more.
“I did, I’m sorry, but I don’t–”
Easily, he grabs your hips and lifts you up onto his lap, makes you straddle him with one leg on either side of him. Your dress is just about long enough to still cover your modesty, but now he’s acutely aware of your panty-covered pussy just inches away from reach. Fuck, he wonders what kind of panties you’re wearing, and if you’d let him look…
“There. Comfy?”
“Well, I guess, but…”
He pulls you into another kiss, this time catching you mid-sentence so he’s able to slip his tongue into your mouth. And you’re so fucking shy, just rigid while he explores your mouth. But he doesn’t mind. You taste so fucking sweet, and it’s getting him so hard, knowing he’s the first man you’ve let touch you like this, kiss you like this.
He can feel your breath hitch as he strokes your face, his thumbs running across your cheeks before his hand tangles into your hair. He yanks you closer, grazing his teeth against your plump bottom lip. You gasp, and he chuckles into your open mouth. His tongue plays with yours, coaxing you to kiss him back, but not really caring too much if you don’t.
And god, he wants to thrust up into you so bad. You’re sitting right on top of his fucking hard dick, and you don’t even seem to realise it. In fact, you shift around, that cute little peachy ass rubbing against his boner, and he wonders if you even know what a boner is.
When you pull away this time, your eyes are bright and excited. And he loves how he’s kissed the gloss off your lips, and how he can still taste you on his tongue.
“Wow, that was…” you giggle, breathless yet excited from finally having your first kiss, “I don’t have anything to compare it to, but that was good!”
Rafe has to crack a smile at your innocence, and his hand lands on your bare thigh, tracing his initials on it again, “Yeah? You like kissing me?”
“I…um… yeah I do,” you say shyly, before closing your eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath, “Could we uh, could we try again? Could I try?”
Well, shit. He’s never devoted this much time and energy into just kissing a girl, but his dick grows even harder at how you’ve plucked up the courage to ask him that. And so he simply nods and sits back, lets you figure out what it is you want to do.
Your cute little hands hold on to his broad shoulders shyly. And you lean up, fluttering your eyes closed like it’s some kind of fairytale for you and you’re the little princess kissing her prince charming. It’s part enamouring, part pathetic. But Rafe feels it again, that unfamiliar feeling bubbling up in his chest. He shakes out of it, focusing on your plump lips that hesitantly press against yours.
He sits still; lets you explore his mouth. Your tongue pokes out, swipes against his. And the feeling goes straight to his dick. And then he’s kissing you back, because he doesn’t have the goddamned willpower to just sit there and do nothing. There’s an animal inside of him and you’ve awoken it, more than any drug or alcohol ever could.
And he gets rougher, biting your lip till you gasp into his mouth. His hands slip up and down your bare arms before he takes your hand, squeezes it before pressing it down on his chest, wanting you to touch him, feel how much bigger he is than you.
“Good girl,” he mutters when you don’t move your hand, and then he fingers the hem of your dress. “Gonna let me touch you a little bit?”
“Rafe, maybe not too much–”
“C’mon, princess, you have to touch while you’re making out, right? That’s lesson number two.” He distracts you with another rough kiss, grabbing your jaw and squeezing while he brings you closer to his mouth. Kissing down your jaw and neck before returning to your lips, smirking when you squeak out a little involuntary moan. That’s when he slips his hand up your dress and cups your ass. Perfect little handful of your bubble butt, and he gives it a little squeeze to test the waters. You’re too distracted with kissing him, and so he squeezes harder. God, so fuckin’ soft and pliable, just like how he’d imagined.
“Nice ass,” he murmurs against your lips, and that’s what jolts you out of it. He curses inwardly when you pull away, pushing against his chest when he doesn’t immediately stop. And a part of him knows how easy it would be to just pin you down on this fucking sofa and have his way with you. Tell you how it’s your fault for wearing this fucking dress, your fault for seducing him in his own home, acting so sexy and innocent and getting him so riled up. Teasing him with your shy little kisses and squeaks till he had no choice but to hold you down and fuck you.
“I’m sorry,” you say as you slide off his lap, straightening your dress, “I just… I got overwhelmed.”
He blinks, and he’s this close to pulling you back on top of him, telling you he didn’t give you permission to stop, that you had to listen to him because this was his house and he’d been kind enough to invite you over. And he could make you feel so good, if you just stopped being a goddamned little prude.
Instead, he forces a smile, “You’re a pretty good kisser for someone who claims she’s never done it before.”
You beam, relaxing immediately, “Oh, you’re just saying that. I bet I was really bad.”
“My memory’s kinda foggy, I think you’re gonna have to remind me,” he pulls you back into him, and you giggle as he presses light kisses on your lips, his arm going around your shoulders while your hands tangle into his hair.
It doesn’t go any further than that, though. You stop him when he tries to touch you again, and a part of him wants to slam his fist down on the glass patio table in frustration. And yet, something stops him from just overpowering you and taking what he wants. No, that would be too easy. He’s about to crack you, he can tell from the way you look at him with those big eyes, now full of trust and comfort. He just needs more time.
Too bad he only had one day left to complete the goddamned bet.
“You should come over again,” he says when he’s done up your seatbelt for you in his car. He finds he likes doing all that shit – opening the door for you, lifting you into your seat, clicking your seatbelt into place, all of it. A stark difference from other girls, where often he’s tossed their clothes at them and motioned for them to leave after he’s done hooking up with them.
“That sounds nice,” you say, waiting for him to come round and get into the driver’s seat, “And I told you; you don’t have to drive me all the way home. I could’ve just got the bus.”
He blinks. He didn’t realise buses even functioned in Figure 8, but either way, he can’t have you on a public bus. Especially not in that dress, where every man would be leering at you and you’d be none the wiser about it. The control freak in him is itching to be let out, to tell you exactly what you were and weren’t allowed to wear in public, tell you how you weren’t allowed to speak to any men except him. And you weren’t allowed to argue or contest any of this, because he was in charge of you now, and–
“No buses,” he says firmly, his hand resting comfortably on your thigh as he drives, “Anyways, come over again tomorrow. We can go in the pool or whatever.”
He feels you go rigid, “Th-The pool?”
He glances at you, “Yeah. It’ll be fun.”
You laugh nervously, “Uh, I’m not too great with water. I don’t really swim or anything.”
Rafe has to do a double-take, “You realise you live on an island?”
Even he knew that every child born in Kildare could swim before they could even walk. It’s just the way it was. They were surrounded by water. Rafe doesn’t even remember learning how to swim; it was almost like he knew how to do it by default.
“I know how to swim, I just don’t like water,” you say, and there’s something off about your tone. Something he can’t pinpoint, but you turn to the side and look out the window. Silent for the rest of the drive. Rafe doesn’t push it, although your odd behaviour has piqued his curiosity.
It’s only when he’s pulling up into the pitiful dirt road of a street where your house is situated that you clear your throat.
“Look, Rafe, you’re my friend now. And I don’t really like keeping secrets from you. I’m sorry I was so quiet just now.”
Cute. He likes how much you apologise to him. It shows how respectful you are, how much you respected him as an authority figure.
“That’s okay,” he says.
You take a deep breath, “I used to go out in the water a lot when I was younger. With my dad. He had a boat, and I would help him. But…”
Your voice trails off for a moment. Rafe thinks he knows where this is going, and a part of him is touched you’d share something like this with him. A tiny, obscure part of him, that is. He can’t help but squeeze your leg reassuringly, and you clear your throat again and blink several times. Like you’re trying not to cry. And Rafe’s never had the patience for emotional chicks, but it’s different with you.
You force out a little laugh, “I don’t want to go into details. But one time we were out pretty far, and the weather was bad. Like, really bad. The waves were rough and…” You swallow, looking down into your lap and wringing your hands together, your chest rising and falling rapidly, “And… Well, I was fine but… my dad…”
Shaking your head, you don’t say anymore. You don’t have to. Your eyes are wet and glistening, the muscles in your face working overtime to stop the tears from coming out. He parks the car in front of your house, turning to face you. He’s never been in a situation like this before, and he’s not sure how to act.
Fiercely, you wipe away the one or two rogue tears that have escaped down your cheeks, “It happened so long ago, I barely remember it. But I’ve been scared of the water ever since.”
He nods, “It’s just you and your mom now?”
“Yes. And my brothers. But they’re always working, so it’s just me and her. That’s why she’s so protective of me… I, uh, I don’t have a dad anymore.”
Rafe knows what it’s like to lose a parent, but he can’t fathom ever talking about it or voicing his feelings on it or some shit like that. His loser therapist had tried to get him to talk about his mother, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t. It was just muscle memory at this point, to force any thoughts of her straight out of his mind. It was easier that way. And now, it was like he could barely remember her. And he hated it, but it made it easier too.
He’s never been good at comforting anyone else. And a part of him is glad you’re not sobbing your eyes out right now, because he’s not sure how he’d handle that. So he’s happy when you clear your throat again and smile up at him.
“I’m not sure why I told you that, I’ve never had a friend to tell that to before. I guess I just feel comfortable with you, Rafe.”
What the hell had he done to make you so trusting of him in the span of less than a week? God, you were like an innocent little angel, sitting in his car all tiny and vulnerable. Making him feel like a goddamned fucking monster for the thoughts he had towards you, what he planned to do with you. Suddenly, the bet feels so stupid and insignificant. God, this was why Rafe didn’t speak to the women he fucked. They went all emotional on him, and now he wasn’t sure how to act.
“I feel comfortable around you too,” he says carefully. He’s never been great with his words, but he grabs your hands that continue to wring nervously together. His big, warm hand dwarfing your tiny ones, and he realises you’re shaking. And there’s a part of him that wants to protect you against everything. Take you back to his place, lock you up in his room so he could keep an eye on you and keep you away from anything and anyone who could ever hurt you and make you cry.
Even if the only person who could hurt you the most right now is Rafe himself.
You leave after that, thanking him again and again for giving you a lift home. He wants to walk you to your door, but you run off quickly, and his mind’s too distracted to follow you. He drives off once he sees you’ve safely closed your front door behind you, his mind moving a million miles per minute.
Jesus Christ, why’d you have to go and open up to him like that? This would be so much fucking easier if you hadn’t done that. He hates that he should know better, that he knows that he should leave you alone. You were too innocent, too vulnerable for his bullshit; to be caught in the middle of some dumbass bet he’d made with his friends. God dammit, he hates himself for agreeing to that stupid bet, seems so fucking juvenile looking back. Wished he’d picked a different girl at the very least, someone not as lovely a you.
Most of all, he hates himself because he knows that despite everything he’s just found out about you, he still has every intention of fucking you. Daddy issues and a phobia of water. It was almost like fate was handing you to him on a silver platter. He had to fuck you. He’d figure out the rest later.
*
Kelce: One day left, loverboy.
Topper: Can’t wait to see the pictures.
Rafe mutes the groupchat before throwing his phone aside. He’d goddamn throttle his friends if they were in front of him right now. Sometimes, he gets these violent tendencies. He doesn’t really know what to make of them except it feels good to have some kind of release. Usually that comes in the form of pushing around a sorry ass Pogue, but that option’s not really available right now.
Instead, he searches blindly for the coke he’s stashed in his bedside drawer. Again, he’d promised himself he’d cut down, but this was just to take the edge off. It didn’t count. Not really.
He wonders what you’d think if you knew how often he took drugs. Well, you wouldn’t because he’d keep you well away from that part of his life. Even when he made you his girlfriend, he’d keep you separate from all the partying. And he’d never allow you to even look at any type of Class A drug. And who knows, maybe he’d become better for you, maybe he’d go stone cold sober if you wanted him to.
That makes him laugh. Going sober for a Pogue. It was insane of him to even consider it.
Again, he has to remind himself to take his emotions out of it. All you were was a stupid Pogue, and a part of a bet he was going to goddamned fulfil. And he wouldn’t allow himself to think anything more of it. He may have had a momentary lapse of judgement yesterday, but today was a new day, the last day of the week he had to fuck you.
How? He wasn’t too sure. Reports of a storm meant you couldn’t come to his house again like how he’d planned. Even now, Rafe could hear the harrowing winds outside. Like a goddamned cyclone. And the rain pelting down unforgivingly, and the distant roar of the sea, waves crashing like they’d taken on a life of their own.
The weather on the island was usually all sunshine, but once in a blue moon a storm would hit like now. Residents were always told to wait it out and stay inside. For Rafe, that meant copious amounts of drugs and alcohol. Sometimes a girl or two to keep him company. But the idea of fucking anyone that isn’t you right now makes him sick.
He thinks about texting you, but what would be the goddamned point? If he couldn’t physically be with you today? He knows the weak, pussy part of his mind just wants to talk to you in whatever form he can. But he needs to bury that bullshit down deep inside him and never back, and–
His phone vibrates. It’s you. And he hates how he feels his heart jump to his fucking throat. You’ve called him all on your own, which means you were thinking about him like how he was thinking about you.
“Rafe?” You sound sexy like you always do, all breathy and weak and needy. A bit panicked too.
“Hey,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant, “What’s up?”
“Hey, calm down.” Rafe barely recognises the gentle quality of his voice as he straightens up, “What’s wrong, princess?”
“I’m scared.”
You say it so softly, with an air of embarrassment and shame, that at first he doesn’t quite get what you’re saying. But then he does, and something kicks in inside him. This innate need to protect you. You sound so small and needy on the phone, and you called him. You need him.
“What happened? Did someone hurt you?”
“No, no. Oh, Rafe, it’s the storm. It keeps getting worse.”
He chuckles in relief that you weren’t in any immediate danger, “Well, shit. Yeah. Looks pretty wild, huh?”
“I hate it,” you whimper softly, “and I’m sorry I called. But my mom’s stuck at work, and my brothers are crashing somewhere else. So it’s just me, and, and…”
“Hey, calm down. It’s okay, you’ll be okay.” He’s never had to comfort anyone before, but it comes naturally with you. “As long as you stay inside, the storm should pass. Just watch TV or something.”
“The lights are gonna go off any second,” you sniffle, “They always do when the weather gets bad.”
They did? Rafe never noticed shit like that. Then again, he doubts you had the luxury of backup generators where you lived. He pauses.
“Gimme twenty minutes. I’ll come over.”
“No!” You say quickly, “Rafe, it’s too dangerous.”
He snorts. He’d been in far more dangerous situations than a little bad weather. But the less you knew about that, the better. “I think I’ll be okay, princess.”
“B-But we’re not allowed out. You’ll get a fine.”
Rafe can’t count on one hand how many times he’d been fined by the dumbass police on this goddamned island over some petty bullshit reason or another. A fine meant nothing to someone with money. He was above the law, and most people on this island knew it.
“Stay put. I’ll see you soon.”
Rafe actually enjoys driving in the storm. The roads are deserted, and he can speed without worrying about anything else. And he does speed, and he runs more than one red light too. Gets to your house quicker than he thought he would. Past all the other tiny shacks all boarded up because they weren’t built well enough to withstand the storm.
“Rafe! You came!”
You sound like a fucking needy little baby, but something pulls at his heart when you hug him harder than you ever have before. And you’re so small, on your tippy toes so your arms reach around his neck. Automatically, his arms wind around your waist and he holds you close, and he can feel you trembling, your face buried in his chest as you hold on to him tightly.
“Yeah. Roads were empty. Didn’t take long.” He mutters, looking around the inside of your house. Pitiful. And pitch black, because you were right, the power had gone out. He hates that you live here. You’d fit in so much better at Tannyhill, in a pretty pink silk dressing gown and dripping with diamonds he’d buy for you. And you’d be so thankful for him, tell everyone that he saved you, how well he took care of you. How he gave you everything you could ever want, and how much you appreciated him.
At that moment, a clap of thunder makes you jump and squeal. Quickly, you pull him inside and shut the door. That’s when he notices that you’re crying.
“Hey, it’s okay. C’mere.” He pulls you into another hug, and he’s never seen another human being look so scared, so vulnerable. It makes him feel so powerful, like the man he knew you needed. “You’re safe now, I’m here.”
It feels natural, his lips pressing a kiss into your hairline. Like you’re his little baby, like he’s been trusted with something so precious and now he has to protect you. And you’re too scared to be your usual jumpy self, and you just snuggle closer into him. A flash of lightning lights up the whole room, the storm relentless against the weak confines of this sorry excuse of a house.
“Maybe we should head back to mine.” He suggests, but you whimper again.
“No, no, we can’t go out there. It’s not safe. Rafe, please.”
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen another human being so scared before. Not even when he was fucking that one girl after he’d showed her his gun. Even now, he consciously tucks his gun further down the waistband of his chinos. Of course he’d brought it with him, he wasn’t going to enter the Cut without a piece on him.
“Okay, okay. We’ll stay here. When’s your mom coming home?”
“Not till tomorrow once the storm’s died down.”
He licks his lips. It was too good to be true.
You’re still holding on to him as you lead him into your bedroom. He wonders why you’d take him straight there, but he guesses it’s your safe place. And you’ve got candles lit up, and they brighten the room enough for him to notice how small it is. The size of a shoebox, with a single bed covered in pink sheets and a bunch of stuffed animals.
Despite everything, his dick hardens.
“You’re a really good friend, Rafe.” You say honestly, “Nobody else would’ve come over like this.”
He shrugs, sitting on the edge of your bed and patting the mattress next to him. It’s not even his house and yet he feels like he needs to take control. And you obey, taking a seat next to him. But you’re preoccupied with your own fear, doing that thing where you fidget with your hands in your lap.
“I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.”
You look up at him with wide eyes, biting your lip like you can’t quite believe what he’s said, “I-I’m not special, Rafe, I–”
You’re cut off by another clap of thunder, this one so loud it makes the whole house shake. You scream bloody murder, and honestly, if you were anyone else Rafe would’ve laughed. But it’s you, and so he just watches. It’s fascinating, the way you clutch onto him like he’s your saviour, and he wonders just how this opportunity had basically just fallen into his lap.
He pulls you into his lap, knowing you won’t protest. Not in the state you’re in. You’re wearing a pair of black leggings and a little white tank top. No bra, because he can feel your nipples, hard and poking out from the fabric of your top. He can feel them against his chest as he hugs you again, and he can also feel you shifting on top of him. Your peachy little ass rubbing against his dick like you’re a fucking tease except he knows you’re none the wiser, that you have no idea the effect you have on him.
He’s so turned on, it feels like he might explode.
“I’m sorry,” you apologise for the umpteenth time, “It’s just so scary. Wh-What if the storm gets worse, Rafe?”
“It probably will,” he says, feeling slightly wicked. He holds you tighter against him, wanting to feel the brush of your breasts against his chest again. Fuck, he wants to cop a feel so bad. “They were saying something about a severe weather warning on the news. Not like anything we’ve ever seen before.”
“Noooo,” you moan like a goddamned baby, cuddling into him even more.
“It’s okay,” he says, running his hand up and down your back, “You ever, uh, you ever think of distracting yourself from the storm?”
You hiccup and blink up at him with wet eyes, “Nothing works, Rafe.”
He smirks, “I could distract you.”
“H-How?”
He runs his thumb over your lips. They’re wet with your salty tears, and yet like muscle memory, you part them for him. You watch him in wonder, your breathing shallow as he pushes his thumb into your mouth, his other hand holding you in place by your hip.
“Suck.” He instructs gently, and your eyes are as big as saucers. But in your frightened, vulnerable state, you obey immediately. And it feels like he’ll bust a nut right there, watching as you suck his thumb on command like a little fucking baby. Like he’s your daddy.
“Good girl,” he says, stroking your hair out of your face so he can watch you better. “Now listen to me, I can help you. I can distract you so that you forget all about the storm. Do you want that?”
You nod slowly, almost like you’re entranced by him. Not that he needs the green light from you, but it’s hot to see you agree so easily to whatever he’s saying. Fuck, you really were just like an angel fallen straight from heaven and into his lap. Perfect for him in every single way. So soft, so impressionable. Completely untouched. Ready to be ruined.
“That’s good,” he mutters vaguely, thinking of everything he was going to do to you. He takes his thumb out of your mouth, noticing how you pout involuntarily, like you’d gotten used to the feeling of sucking on it. Fuck, he could give you something else to suck on. “Give me a kiss.”
“H-Huh–”
“Do it. Just like how I taught you yesterday. You remember our lesson, don’t you?”
You nod, “Yeah, but will that really work? I mean–”
It’s like God himself is on Rafe’s side because there’s a loud boom of thunder at that exact moment. And you jump in his lap, tears welling in your eyes. Your chest rises up and down, and you bite your lip again, your gaze zeroing in on his mouth. Slowly, you lean up, shyly pressing your lips on his. But there’s a desperation to it, and Rafe’s returning kiss completely envelopes you whole.
He makes out with you for a while, smirking through your little pants and moans mixed with a whimper every time the weather gets especially brutal outside. He’s never been with such a goddamned scaredy cat baby before in his entire life, and it turns him on beyond belief. In the state you’re in, he could get you to do anything.
Rafe’s hands slip up to grab your little top, tugging it upwards. And this time, he almost loses it in frustration when again, you stop him.
“Rafe, Rafe no stop.” You push his hands off, straightening your top back over your midriff. “Couldn’t we just… just kiss?”
He presses his lips together in a thin line, “You trust me?”
“Of course, I just don’t know if I want to–”
“Look, didn’t I say I would distract you? I mean, shit, I could just leave.”
Your jaw drops, a flash of fear glimmering in your eyes. Instinctively, you grab onto his bicep with your tiny hands, a pleading look on your face, “No, don’t!”
He smirks, “I won’t leave. But you need to trust me to do what I need to do to distract you. Because the storm’s just gonna get worse.” He grabs your chin when you avert your gaze, forcing you to look at him, “Hey, c’mon. Who has more experience with this shit, you or me?”
“Y-You.”
“Yeah. And who’s older?”
“You are.”
“That’s right. Which means you need to trust me to make these kinds of decisions, because I know what’s best for you. That’s why you called me over, right?”
You don’t say anything, but this time when he tries to take your top off, you don’t protest. And Jesus fucking Christ, he was right. You’re not even wearing a bra, almost like you were deliberately trying to seduce him. Acting like a whiny little damsel in distress, pulling him into your pitiful little pink room, all candlelit and shit, on your little bed with your stuffed fucking animals.
Your nipples are hard, and he can’t help but cup your breasts. They’re so tender, so soft just like you. He’d imagined this exact moment many times over the course of the week whilst he’d jacked off to you, but nothing could compare to now. The way you tremble beneath his touch, knowing no one’s ever touched you like this before. He squeezes gently, watching how your breath hitches.
He’s overcome with animalistic instinct in just a second, and leans down to take your breast into his mouth. Sucks your nipple sweetly, before biting down. You cry out, arching your back so prettily, feeding him more of your nipple as you push it into his mouth. He bets you probably don’t even understand why it feels so good, having never been touched like this ever before.
He pinches your other nipple and you gasp. He smirks and does it again, looking up at you to see you gazing imploringly down at him.
“Th-That hurts,” you say pitifully.
“Yeah, but you like it, don’t you?” He takes your hands in his, bringing them up to his hair. Like a good little girl, you get the message. Your hands fist into his hair as he continues to play with your tits, licking and sucking all over them, pushing them together, biting your nipples and sucking the sensitive skin around them, wanting to leave his mark everywhere.
“Rafe, I, that… oh… oh my–”
“Stand up, baby.”
You squeak at the pet-name that falls so naturally from his lips, and he can tell you like being called that. It’s from the way your eyes widen, and how you scramble to obey. God, you were a little tease but you took instructions so fucking well.
You stand between his legs, and it gets him so fucking hard that you’re still barely eye level with him even when he’s sat down.
“Take your leggings off.”
You open your mouth to argue, but this time he just flashes you a look and you’re quick to shut the fuck up. That, and he distracts you with his hands running up and down your sides, squeezing your waist, then your hip. Finally landing on your ass with a light slap as if to tell you not to keep him waiting.
You push your leggings down and step out of them, till you’re standing between his legs in just your pink flowery panties and nothing else. And he feels a hunger he’s never ever felt before, looking down at you ravenously as if you’re a piece of meat and he’s a goddamned starved lion. A part of him just wants to grab you and stick his cock inside you while you scream and thrash and beg him to stop while you secretly enjoy it and cum again and again.
“Turn around,” Rafe says slowly, because despite his animalistic thoughts, he wants to savour this. And you do, letting him see your sexy butt adorned in just your panties. He hooks his thumb under the elastic, snapping it against your skin and laughing crudely when you yelp. “God, you’ve got such a perfect ass. I knew that since the moment I saw you.”
“Wh-What?”
“You heard me. You’re always wearing the cutest little outfits, like you were showing it off just for me.” He grabs your left ass cheek, squeezing it hard while you moan in pain or pleasure, right now he doesn’t really give much of a fuck. His other hand palms his cock through his pants at the sight.
“I wasn’t!” You say indignantly, as if he’s accused you of the absolute worst. “I wasn’t showing off, Rafe!”
“Sure you weren’t,” he snorts, “Now bend over, lemme see it better.”
He can’t believe it when you don’t hesitate this time, almost like you’re seeking his approval. Like you’re under some kind of submissive spell now, making everything even easier for him. You bend over, and your cute little ass is directly in his face. He pushes your panties to the side, gives the soft flesh a feather-light kiss before spanking you again. You yelp all cutely, but stay in position for him. What a good fucking girl.
“Stand up straight, look at me again.”
You turn back around, biting your lip as you look at him anxiously. Around you, the whole room seems to vibrate as another boom of thunder strikes. You make a noise in your throat, before grabbing onto his bicep again. You keep doing that, and it makes him feel strong, big, important. Like you’re a little baby seeking protection from her daddy.
“I’m gonna take your panties off now, okay?” He doesn’t know why he tells you before he does it, but he watches as you relax. There’s a war going on behind your eyes, he can tell. He knows part of you is liking how he’s making you feel, and part of you is desperate to distract yourself from the storm, and it’s battling the part of you that wants to keep your modesty, the part that knows this is a bad idea, that itching fear that he’s not a good guy, that he’s taking advantage of you.
Slowly, he slips your panties down your shaking legs, and you keep holding on to his arm like you’re scared to let go. Like the storm would come and get you the moment you stopped holding him like a little baby. He lets you, liking how weak you feel against him.
And then you’re completely naked in front of him, stepping shyly out of your panties that are left on the floor in a heap along with the rest of your clothes. And he’s still fully dressed, and that juxtaposition turns him on beyond belief. He can smell your pussy, and it’s driving him crazy. Makes him want to just pin you down and have his way with you. It incenses him in a way he’s never really experiences before.
His hands grab your hips, yanking you closer. He feels a wave of impatience, pushing you down till you’re sitting on the bed. He gets up, pushing your legs apart with one of his own. You gasp, and he sinks down to his knees, pressing a soft kiss to the skin just below your belly button.
“It’s time for lesson number three, baby,” Rafe murmurs softly, “this is how I’m gonna distract you, okay? Shit, I’m gonna make you feel so good, you’ll forget all about the storm. You gonna let me do that?”
You swallow, “H-How, Rafe?”
God, you were absolutely clueless. Made him feel like a fucking monster for taking advantage of you like this. But he liked it, liked how good and sweet and innocent you were, even now when he had you naked on your pretty princess bed with your legs spread for him.
“I’m gonna kiss you down here for a while, alright baby?”
“Down there?” You suck in your breath prettily, as if the very idea of that sounds so insane to you. God fucking dammit, just how much had your mother sheltered you?
Instead of explaining further, Rafe spreads your folds with two of his fingers, smirking when he sees you glistening and wet. And God, what a pretty and perfect pussy you had, all slippery and wet, like it was begging to be fucked. And even now, as you sit there breathing heavily, your pussy seems to get wetter just by him spreading it. You’re leaking down onto your pretty pink sheets, and it’s all because he’s merely touched you there.
You’ve gone silent, the storm seemingly already forgotten as you just watch him. Your chest rises up and down, and it’s like every other part of you is frozen in place. In awe, until he notices a slight movement in your pelvis. Involuntarily, you hump the air, like your poor pussy is begging for some type of contact or friction. He smirks.
“You have an accident, princess?”
You look absolutely aghast, “No!”
Rafe leans forward, inhaling deeply. And you smell so goddamned sweet, and he can’t wait any longer. He lays his tongue flat against your virgin cunt, and he can feel you throbbing with anticipation. He licks upwards, and you grab onto his hair, tugging hard as you yelp.
“Oh my God–”
He looks up, “Not God, baby. Just me.” Absentmindedly, he flicks your clit with his thumb and your entire body jerks. He chuckles, “And there’s another thing I’m going to need you to do.”
“What?”
“You’re going to call me daddy while I eat your cunt, okay?”
For the fifth time this evening, your jaw drops, and you gaze down at him in indignance, “What? But Rafe, you’re not my–”
“Your daddy? I mean, you do want me to take care of you, don’t you?” He smiles when you don’t immediately respond, “That’s why you called me today. Because you felt unsafe, like how you’ve felt your whole life ever since you lost your real daddy, isn’t that right?”
He half expects you to shove him off you, scream, lose it, slap him, kick him out of your house for going there, for trying to take advantage of your obvious daddy issues. But it’s like you’re in a trance, and he keeps going, “You want someone to take control, to reassure you that everything’s gonna be okay. That’s why you’ve let me take care of you this whole week, right? Because you need me, you like how I make you feel.”
He softly strokes your bare thighs, noticing that you’re shaking under his touch. And you look like you’re about to cry, in your most vulnerable state in front of him. And yet he keeps going, his voice like a calm lull, almost hypnotic with how you look at him with your huge, unblinking eyes.
“I can be your new daddy, princess. You’re gonna let me, aren’t you?”
Rafe doesn’t wait for your response. Instead, he grips your thighs harder, spreading them as far as they’ll go. He spits on your mound, watching his saliva drip down to your pussy. You’re watching too, with stricken, hooded eyes. Like you’re frozen in time and space, and he’s the only constant.
Leaning forward, he envelopes your clit between his lips, giving it a harsh suck. Your entire body convulses, and you moan the loudest he’s ever heard you. Thunder claps at the same time, but you’re louder than it, and your hands grab on to his hair, and you press your cunt into his face, practically smothering him but he fucking loves it.
“Tell daddy to lick your cunt,” he orders, his voice deeper and lower than it’s ever been, and a slight threat in his tone, “say it, or else I’ll stop everything.”
“L-Lick it, please,” you beg so prettily, keeping your voice barely above a whisper. Rafe sits back, looking at you expectantly till you make the prettiest little noise of impatience. You shoot him a pleading look of desperation, but he doesn’t let up. You cry out, gripping his hair harder before ducking your head in shame, “P-Please, okay? Please lick my cunt, daddy.”
Rafe could’ve orgasmed right there at the sound of your sweet, delicate voice pleading with him, finally addressing him as daddy. Instead, he sucks hard on your sensitive, engorged clit, and you scream bloody murder. He snickers against your soaking folds, grabbing your thrashing hips, stilling them slightly but allowing you to rock them against his face till it’s shining with your wetness.
“Messy little girl,” he mutters, “excited, aren’t you? Never had this virgin pussy eaten, huh?” he grows sloppy, messy with his licks. Tonguing your sensitive nub till you’re a writhing mess above him, incoherent little gasps and moans tumbling out of your mouth as you continue to hump against his face because you’re a goddamned virgin who doesn’t know how to act because you’re feeling so good.
Rafe’s practically making out with your pussy, and he’s never enjoyed going down on a girl as much as he is right now. It’s how responsive you are, it’s how this is all so new to you so you don’t even know nor care to hold anything back. You’re rubbing your pussy on his face like all you can think of is how good he’s making you feel. And he fucks you with his tongue, unable to quite believe how sweet you taste. Like an angel, his angel. All his.
“It’s…It’s too much, Rafe!” you cry out, and yet you’re rolling your hips with abandon, riding his tongue while he sucks and licks you out like he’s starved.
“You can take it,” his voice is muffled, and you try to wrap your thighs around his head except his grip on them is too strong. It’ll leave bruises in the shape of his fingers all over your soft skin, but he likes that. He wants to bruise you, mark you, make you his in every way possible. So next time when you wore a slutty little sundress, every goddamned man on this island would know you’re taken. Fuck, he’d get his name tattooed on your goddamned pussy, and–
You cum, squeaking so prettily he wants to bottle up the sound and keep it safe in his memories forever. Your first orgasm, and all it took was a couple of minutes of him eating your cunt. And your muscles squeeze around his tongue, and you cry and moan like you don’t even know what’s happening. Your grab at his hair, pulling so hard because you’ve probably never felt like this before.
And Rafe doesn’t stop, his tongue swirling circles while you hump and grind against his mouth, riding out your orgasm, moaning his name over and over again. Outside, the weather gets worse, and at one point he notes the whole room shakes as if the goddamned roof’s about to blow off. You don’t give a fuck though, and he doesn’t either.
“Oh, Rafe, oh, oh oh, it’s too much!”
Now, you’re trying to push him off you, but selfishly he keeps tongue-fucking you. His thumb rubs your engorged, sensitive clit. He knows it’s too much for you, but he’s too fucking turned on to stop.
“C’mon, baby. Don’t be like that. Lemme give you another one.”
“No, I-I can’t, I, oh fuck!”
He slaps your clit, and a squelching sound fills the room. You gasp, and he just snickers, having entirely too much fun with you. And again, you twitch your hips, inadvertently pushing your cunt into his face again. You’re out of breath and sensitive from your first orgasm, and yet your greedy little pussy wants to give him another one.
“You like it when your daddy slaps your cunt?”
You’re such a shy little thing, gaping at him as if he’s said the most insidious thing on earth. And yet, your cunt squeezes around his tongue, and he you up as you continue to leak into his mouth. He looks up at you, “Tell me you like it.”
“I, uh, I like it, uh… daddy, oh gosh!”
It takes just one more spank and you come undone, cumming all over his face and he licks you throughout. Long, languid stripes of his tongue flat against your wet folds, then he switches to fucking you with it, and your fuckhole’s so goddamned tight, his tongue barely even fits a little bit, but it doesn’t stop him. He’s got one hand slipped down his pants, jacking off because this is the hottest thing in the world he’s ever witnessed. Innocent little baby crying after orgasming from getting her pussy spanked by her daddy.
He feels like a lion closing in on the fucking lamb, forgetting himself for a second as he gets up. Aggressively pushing you down till you’re lying flat on the bed, surrounded by your stupid stuffed animals. In a second, he’s on top of you, breathing hard like a man possessed. God fuck, all he had to do was shove it inside you, hold you down and tell you to take it. Maybe press his hand over your mouth to keep you from screaming too loud. Not that it mattered. Nobody could save you from him tonight.
But you blink up at him so prettily, so unaware of his intentions, your eyelashes wet with tears. Your lips bitten and pouty, face shiny with sweat. Your hands grab his arms again, squeezing like you’ve grown used to doing.
“R-Rafe, that was… wow.” You say breathlessly, so blissfully innocent, not realising at all that he’s moments away from holding you down and fucking you, that he’s planning how he’ll do it in his head this very moment. “I never… I never thought it could feel that good.”
Rafe finds himself feeling that again, that weird feeling that kept bubbling up inside his chest from time to time whenever he was with you. He still doesn’t have a name for it; he can’t even properly describe it. But looking down at you now, watching you stare up at him with those shining eyes of yours. All he can do is push a piece of your hair out of your face, and smile slowly down at you.
“What do you even know about sex, baby?” He breathes, his face so close to yours.
“Oh, well, uh… Not that much. I mean obviously I know how it works. I just… I didn’t know you could call someone da– that.”
He smirks, tapping your cheek condescendingly, “You mean daddy?”
You look embarrassed, “Yeah.”
“I need you to keep calling me that, okay?” Rafe says gently, “It’s completely normal and I told you I’d take care of you from now on. You want that, don’t you?”
Again, he nudges at your lips with his thumb, making you suck it. Which you do, and the feeling goes straight to his dick. He wants to fuck you while you suck his thumb, gently rock his hips into you, your tight pussy squeezing his huge cock while you whimper around his thumb, sucking it while you cried and just took it, took whatever he gave you and then said thank you, daddy like the good little girl you were.
He starts kissing you again, unable to help it. And your response is so enthusiastic, he feels like he might explode. You’re getting more confident with all the kissing stuff, and Rafe likes that it’s all because of him.
“You ready for the next lesson, baby?” He asks between kisses, his hands everywhere all over your naked body. Squeezing your breasts, playing with your ass. Loving that you’re naked beneath him and so willingly too.
You swallow harshly, “I don’t think I’m ready–Oh!”
He takes your hand, pressing it inside his slacks. Right on his hard, throbbing dick. And fuck, it feels so small, so weak against his pulsating cock. He bites his lip hard to keep from thrusting into your hand.
“Take it out.”
“N-No!”
He exhales loudly through his nose, holding your hand tight against him when you try to snatch it away. “Baby, what did I tell you about doing what I say?”
“I-I know but… but I’m scared.”
“It’s okay to be scared,” he says, “but you need to do this, alright? Didn’t I make you feel good just now?”
“Well, yes, but–”
“So just trust me. I’ll make you feel good again, okay baby?” He kisses you lightly once, twice, three times till you smile, “You’ve been such a good girl tonight. So brave for me....”
You hiccup, looking up at him with those goddamned saucer-like eyes again, “R-Really?”
He strokes your cheek, innately aware of your hand relaxing against his cock, “Yes. Such a brave, good girl. You forgot all about the storm outside, didn’t you?”
As if on cue, you whimper and cuddle into him more. He smiles like a goddamned wolf, feeling evil yet desperate at the same time, “Call me daddy again, princess.”
You don’t even fucking hesitate, “d-daddy, I–”
“Take daddy’s cock out, baby. It’ll distract you, I promise.”
You do exactly what he says, and he helps you. He can’t help but hiss when you free his dick from the confines of his slacks, and you gasp too, dropping it immediately when you see it.
“Shit, gimme your hand,” he murmurs, and he doesn’t wait this time. Snatching your hand in his, he spits down into your palm before pressing it on his dick. “Stroke it.”
You pull back, “I don’t know how, I don’t–”
“Do it or I’ll leave right the fuck now.”
In your helpless daze, you whimper before placing your hand back on his dick. And it’s so red, about ready to explode the moment you touch him. He exhales slowly, and it feels so fucking good, and he covers your hand with his, guiding it, making you stroke him up and down.
“That’s so good, baby. You’re so good.”
“I am?”
“Shit, yeah, just keep doing that. You’re such a good girl for me, aren’t you?” He notes how you grow more confident, rubbing his dick and jacking him off like a good little girl. His hand leaves yours, instead cupping your face as he pulls you in for another kiss. He can’t help kissing you, you taste so fucking sweet and it’s insane because he’s never particularly enjoyed kissing anyone this much before. But he loves kissing you, leading you through it, guiding you. Loves how responsive you are, loves how you listen to him even when you feel all scared and hesitant. As if you know that at the end of the day, he was the one with all the power, the one in charge. The only one who knew how to take care of you.
“You ever seen a cock before this, princess?” He asks crudely between kisses.
Your eyes widen, “N-No, Rafe– I mean, uh, daddy.”
“No? Good girl. That’s so fuckin’ hot.” He bites your pouty bottom lip, and you gasp, squeezing his dick in your hand and it makes him moan straight into your fucking mouth. What a naughty girl.
“It’s, uh, it’s so big,” you say quietly, so quietly that Rafe almost doesn’t catch it. But he does, and he smiles, pulling back slightly.
“Yeah?”
Shyly, you duck your head, “Yeah, daddy.”
God, you were so fucking irresistible. He couldn’t take it anymore. He takes your hand, which was still steadily pumping his dick, and holds it tightly. Holds both your hands by your sides as he nudges your legs apart again, and watches as you take a deep breath, as if you know what’s coming.
Lowly, he whistles at how wet you are, your juices having leaked down to stain your pink sheets again. Rafe’s never had a virgin before but he knows how eager they are, how easily turned on they get. He can imagine how slippery wet and snug your snatch would be around his dick. Now, he swipes a finger down your slit, gathering your wetness while you squirm under him.
“Aww, look how excited your pussy is, princess.” He snickers, bringing his finger up to your lips, smearing them with your wetness, getting it all over your face too till it shines and you’re all messy. “Tell me, what’s got her so wet?”
‘I don’t know.”
SMACK.
Rafe finds he quite enjoys slapping your cunt, especially when it’s so wet and throbbing. You cry out, quivering and shaking underneath him. He flashes you a look, “Answer the question.”
“You,” you breathe, blinking up at him, “You, daddy.”
“Yeah? I get your pussy wet?” He’s working himself up, his dick nudging against your folds and he doesn’t know why he doesn’t just shove it in there. “Tell me why.”
You moan pleadingly, “R-Rafe, please!”
“When I ask you a question, I expect you to answer it properly,” he says, enjoying himself a bit too much. It was payback for all the times you’d teased him without even realising it this past week. Flaunting your sexy little body, blinking up at him with those fuck me eyes, as if you were just begging for it in your own little innocent way.
You swallow harshly, and despite everything he can see you thinking carefully, as if you want to give him a real proper answer to impress him. Cute.
“I, uh, I like how big you are,” you stutter slowly, “you-you’re a lot bigger than me.”
He grins wolfishly, pushing his hair out of his face before pressing a greedy kiss to your lips, which you respond to fervently. But he pulls away all too quickly, looking down at you as if he expects you to continue.
“I like how strong you are,” you’re looking anywhere but at his face, he guesses because you’re too shy. He sponges kisses down your jaw, your neck, down to your chest. Kisses all over your tits, presses them together and licks them, bites at your nipples while you moan between your words. “You make me feel safe, daddy.”
Rafe pauses, and it’s there again. That stupid fucking feeling that he doesn’t understand, nor does he care to understand it right now. Nobody’s ever felt safe with him before. Everyone’s always been afraid of him or hated him or screwed him over because they didn’t trust him. No one’s ever looked at him how you’re looking at him and it makes him feel things he’s never felt before.
But he shoves those feelings straight back down, clears his throat before pressing his finger down between your folds. You shiver and moan, hips bucking up before he pins them in place. He tries pushing his pointer finger inside you, but is met with resistance despite how soaking wet you are. Fuck.
“Tightest pussy I ever had,” he mutters, “but she’ll take daddy’s dick, won’t she?”
It’s more of a statement than a question, and he ignores your soft cries as he forces his finger up your cunt. Till it’s finally knuckle-deep, and he bets you can feel the cool silver of his ring against your warmth. And your pussy’s so fucking snug, gripping his finger like a vice, and even he has to wonder how he’d possibly fit his big dick inside you.
“So full,” you breathe, your chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath. But he shuts you up soon enough when he starts fingering you. One singular finger, because that’s all that fits. But he moves it in and out, curving upwards till you moan, thrusting your hips in rhythm like you can’t even help it.
“Gonna add another one, okay baby?”
‘W-Won’t fit, daddy.”
“Shh, yes it will. Daddy’s gonna make it fit.”
Rafe makes it fit. He has to hold you down while you cry like a baby, but soon he’s got his index and middle finger shoved inside you, finger-fucking your tight, virgin cunt while his hard dick slaps against his stomach, and he’s so fucking turned on. More than he’s ever been in his whole life.
“How’s that feel, baby?” He murmurs into your ear, nibbling at it, licking inside it and making you jump. And fuck, you’re so jumpy, and he has to keep you pinned down while he fingers you, and a sick part of him wonders if he’s drawn blood already.
“H-Hurts,” you whimper like the goddamned little cry-baby you are. “R-Rafe please slow down.”
“Come on, don’t tell me to slow down,” he continues pumping his thick fingers up your slippery wetness, feeling like you’re swallowing them up whole every time, “Not when you’re drippin’ all over your sheets like a little–”
“But it hurts!”
“That’s okay, it’s supposed to hurt,” he explains slowly, like you’re dumb, “it’s because you’ve never done this before, so that’s why I gotta stretch you out like this first, okay?”
A lone tear meanders down your cheek, “I-I don’t think it’s gonna fit, Rafe.”
“I made ‘em fit, didn’t I?”
“Nooo, you’re, uh, I mean your…” You sniffle helplessly, a wild look in your eye that looks half scared, half confused as he bets your body’s starting to betray you.
Rafe feels a smile creep up on his face, “You already thinkin’ about my cock, sweetheart? How it’s gonna feel when it’s up your virgin cunt?”
You shake your head vehemently, but you’re a little angel slut because your hips are bucking up to meet his fingers. “Rafe, no. Your f-fingers, they’re already too much, I don’t think I can take…”
“Didn’t I just tell you I’d make it fit?”
You grip his arm tightly, pleadingly “Y-You’re too big, I-I don’t think I can handle anymore…Oh fuck!”
He knows he’s hit that spot inside you because your whole back arches, and you let out the hottest moan he’s ever fucking heard in his life. Complete abandon, head thrown back, digging your nails so hard into his arm that he’s sure you’ve broken through his skin.
“That’s right, baby girl. Just fuckin’ take it,” he mutters, increasing his pace, wondering if he can fit a third finger in. “Fuck, you’re so good, baby. Taking your daddy’s fingers like a champ. God, look at your little virgin cunt, swallowing ‘em up like a greedy little slut. Didn’t think you’d turn out to be so fuckin’ slutty, baby.”
You clench around him, moaning his name and he can’t believe how much his dirty talk is having an effect on you. His thumb rubs at your clit while he continues to finger fuck you, wanting to draw another orgasm out of you because you’re so fucking gorgeous when you cum, and he wants you to make a mess all over his fingers before he finally takes you with his cock.
“Too much, too much, oh, oh, oh,” you’re half delirious, humping against his fingers, letting him fuck you with them, and he knows you must feel so full. And it feels like heaven for him, being inside you (even if it is just with his fingers). You feel so soft, so wet, so warm. Your muscles tensing and relaxing around him as he builds you up.
“Take it,” Rafe repeats, “bet it’s never felt this good huh? You ever finger yourself, baby girl? Touch yourself late at night when you think everyone else’s asleep?”
You gasp at his words, but he feels you clench around his digits.
“Mmm, not such a good little girl after all, huh? Fingering yourself when you think your mommy’s asleep,” he grins wickedly at the horrified look on your face, increasing pace, “but it’s never enough, is it? Your fingers aren’t as big as mine, so you could never make yourself cum.” He laughs, “this whole time, all you needed was a man like me to take care of you. Say it, say you need me. Say it.”
“N-Need you!” You cry out, delicious tears streaking your face, “I need you, daddy. I-I…Oh fuck, please! Please, I don’t… I just… I–“
You squirt all over his hand. And it’s insane; Rafe’s never seen anything like it before. He gazes in wonder, caught off-guard for once. You completely come undone, crying and panting his name, rocking your hips against his hand as you ride out your third orgasm of the night. And who knew it would take just a little bit of dirty talk to get you to squirt? God, you were so fucking hot, so full of surprises. So perfect for him, it was unbelievable.
“Good girl,” he strokes your head like you’re his little pet, taking his wet fingers and pressing them into your mouth, and you’re so hot when you automatically suck on them. “Such a good girl, baby. That was so fuckin’ sexy.”
All you do is clutch at him and cry, so spent and overstimulated from your orgasm. Rafe licks his lips, feeling both protective yet predatory at the same time. You’re at your weakest, most vulnerable state. Outside, thunder and lightning strike over and over again as if they were paid to do so, and the room lights up and goes dark, it shakes and shudders, and the winds howl like a pack of possessed wolves. And yet you look so pretty in the dim glow of the candlelight.
It's the perfect night for you to get ruined. His perfect little baby. Pristine and innocent and at his mercy.
Rafe’s cock is so hard it hurts, throbbing as he grabs it by the base, pumps it as he hovers over you. On his knees while you lie beneath him, looking so deliciously scared. He presses his whole length against your stomach, and watches your eyes almost bulge out of your head. He knows he’s big, but compared to your tiny frame, he’s massive. And he gets off on that, gets off on how much bigger he is than you. He smears his precum against your stomach, smirking as he watches you swallow and try to be brave.
“Listen to me,” he grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes, “You like my cock, baby? You like looking at it, huh?”
The way you lick your lips gives it away, and he laughs cruelly, tapping your cheek like you’re his little pet. “Say it, then. Say you like it. Beg me to put it inside you. C’mon, baby, look at your pussy, she’s crying for it. Beg me.”
He knows you’re at war with yourself, and you shake your head tearfully, opening your mouth to speak. But a clap of thunder sounds just then, so loud it makes the whole room shake. You cry out so pitifully, it makes his heart throb a little. You grab at him, and he falls down on top of you, kissing you, kissing your salty sweet lips and your tears. Kissing you all over while your desperate hands tangle into his hair.
That’s when he nudges the tip of his dick against your folds. And it already feels like fucking heaven, your wet warmth practically begging him to shove it inside you. He presses his tip on your puffy, sensitive clit and you jump, your eyes widening and then you push at his chest.
“R-Rafe, please, I don’t think–”
“Shh, c’mon, baby. Let daddy fuck you,” Rafe urges softly against your lips, “gonna make you feel so good again, mhm?”
“Nooo…”
He tries to ignore your soft cries, the way your palms press weakly against his chest.
“Shit, just relax,” he coaxes, knowing he could just hold you down and force it in, and yet…
He kisses you, tasting salt on your lips. You try to kiss him back, but he can feel you gulping for breath. He can feel your heart hammering against your chest. He can feel your limbs pushing at his body, but he’s just so much fucking bigger than you that it doesn’t even make a difference, and yet…
“Rafe, I… please…”
“Baby…”
His dick feels like it’s going to explode, and he runs it up and down your soaking slit, and you moan. And your face looks turned on beyond belief, and yet scared at the same time. Nervous, frightened, vulnerable. It’s a heady mix, and he doesn’t know what to do, and–
“Please, Rafe. I’m not ready, I-I can’t, Rafe. Please…”
“Fuck.”
Something comes over him, and Rafe feels it again. That bubbling, intense feeling inside his chest. Like a rush of an emotion he doesn’t know if he’ll ever understand. All he knows is he can’t, he fucking can’t. You’re so sweet, so kind, pure like a flower and he just can’t bring himself to pluck it. Tear it apart. Ruin it like how he ruined everything else he touched.
He rolls over, lying beside you while you quiver next to him. Both breathing hard. And outside, the wind howls and howls almost like it’s mocking him. Laughing at him for being a goddamned pussy. And there’s another clap of thunder, and he hears you crying softly.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Rafe finds himself gathering you in his arms, holding you against his chest, “Hey, look, don’t worry about it. It’s okay.”
“I-I thought I could but…” you hiccup between your tears, and your eyes look like there are a thousand stars shining wetly inside them, and he knows he’s never seen anything so beautiful. “I’m sorry, I thought I could do it, I thought–”
“It’s okay,” he repeats, cupping your face and making you look at him, his thumbs swiping away your tears, “Don’t cry, okay? Shit, it’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”
“Y-You’re not mad?”
He strokes up and down your back, soothing you while he wonders whether he is. But the only thing he feels right now is this strange, innate need to protect you. To reassure you. Hold your quivering body close till you stopped shaking. It’s insane, because he doesn’t feel like himself, because he’s never felt this before. It’s alien. Completely, utterly fucking alien.
“No,” he answers quietly, pressing a kiss to your hairline, “No, I’m not mad.”
“You pr-promise?”
“I promise.”
He feels like a different person as he tucks his dick back into his slacks. Like someone else, like someone he doesn’t recognise. But it feels so natural, holding you so close that your heartbeat feels like his. And the storm outside feels like a million miles away. Like it’s just you and him on a different planet and nothing else exists, nothing else means anything except you.
You fall asleep in his arms, spent after everything. And Rafe doesn’t even feel frustrated in that moment, because all he can focus on is how peaceful you look. Your tears dried on your cheeks, your chest rising and falling rhythmically. You trusted him with everything. And it made him feel like someone important.
The wind laughs and laughs all night.
*
The morning is calm, tranquil. Almost like the storm never even was. And Rafe wakes up well rested, with you cuddled on his chest, his arm around you and his thumb in your mouth. The room dappled in sunlight, the candles all blown out or melted away.
Slowly, he detangles from you, making sure not to wake you up. You look so peaceful, so innocent. So soft and pretty, in your little shack of a house on the Cut. He frowns as he looks around. In the morning light, your room looks even more pitiful. It’s clean, and you’ve made it pretty with notes and posters and fairy lights. But he can see the paint peeling off the walls, the fact it’s smaller than his closet back home.
Rafe can’t believe he’s woken up on this side of the island.
He has the sudden urge to leave. To run. Hastily, he types out a text to you.
Rafe: Hey. I thought I’d leave in case your mom came home and saw us. Didn’t want to wake you. Talk to you later.
He has to get home. Gather his thoughts. Recalibrate. Think about what the fuck came over him last night, when he’d had you right where he fucking wanted you. And then he’d pussied out of it. Rafe Cameron never pussied out of anything.
What the fuck did that mean?
His gaze shifts to you again, so pretty and sound asleep. Naked because you’d so willingly shed your clothes for him, spread your legs for him. And he could have had you. Hell, he could have you right now. Force himself into you while you were still asleep, and you’d wake up crying and sobbing, all confused and sleepy while he held you down and ordered you to just take it.
That’s what he should’ve done last night. So then what the fuck had stopped him?
Now, he lightly runs his fingers over your bare thigh, humming lightly at how smooth you feel. So soft, like an angel. A powerful, almost all-consuming feeling overtakes him. A wave of possessiveness coursing through him like a tidal wave of dark poison. You were his. All his. He could do what he pleased with you. Your body was his. You’d all but served it to him on a silver platter last night, in your pathetic little room with the candles.
Rafe feels like he’s having an out of body experience. He gets his phone out, ignoring any small, decent part of him that was sending warning signals to his brain. You were his. He had every right to do this.
Silently, he takes the pictures. And a sick part of him gets off on it, gets off on the fact you’re asleep and none the wiser to what’s happening. But this was the least you could do, you’d left him hanging last night. After he’d been so patient, so understanding. Fuck that. Why had he been like that? Like he was weak?
“You make me feel safe, daddy.”
Your words from last night ring in his ears, bouncing around in his brain till it gets too much, till they start to echo and get louder and louder. Till he feels the urge to punch the shit out of your bedroom wall. It was all too much. He had to get out of here.
He tucks his phone into his pocket, pushes the cotton covers up till your chin, and then leaves without looking back.
*
“There he is! The loverboy himself!”
His friends gather around him the next morning like he’s the second coming of Christ himself.
“How was she, Rafe?” one of them slaps him on the back, “That is, if you fucked her.”
“Yeah.” Kelce stands in front of him with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at Rafe expectantly. They all are. “Did you fuck her?”
Rafe scoffs, “Is that even a question.”
He’d waited all day yesterday for you to respond to his text. Like a pussy ass little bitch, he’d waited for you to say something. Growing angrier and more paranoid by the second when you didn’t. Staring at the pictures he’d taken of you like a man possessed, his thumb hovering over the delete button a handful of times before he’d thrown his phone angrily across the room. Hating how you were making him wait. Hating how his heart had leapt up to his fucking throat when you finally had replied: I’m so sorry for being such a scaredy cat yesterday. Thank you for coming over.
He'd discovered something then. He was obsessed with you. And he hated it.
“Pictures or it didn’t happen,” Kelce grins, cutting straight to the chase. Next to him, Rafe sees Topper’s eyes light with interest, as well as the others too. Fucking desperate losers, trying to catch a glimpse of something that belonged to him. Because they’d never get to see you like that, ever. No one else would. He’d make sure of that.
“It did happen.” Rafe says calmly, “Like I said it would.”
“Okay well, that’s great brother but we’re gonna need proof.” One of the clowns pipes up.
“You don’t need shit,” He shoots back.
“You didn’t take pictures?” Topper asks.
Rafe runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I did.”
“Then show us. That was the deal.”
He wants to beat the shit out of all of them for daring to ask to see intimate pictures of you. As if you were anything like the other whores he’d fucked in the past, the type of stupid girls him and his friends used every week. You were different, and you were his, and they had no fucking business looking at what was his.
“Look. I don’t give a shit if you don’t believe me.” He mutters, completely over the dumb ass bet and over his friends too. They’d forget about it by tomorrow, ready to become his willing followers once more. They always did.
“C’mon man, you can’t bring our hopes up like that. Either you never fucked her or,” Kelce’s eyes glint when it registers, “Or you’ve gone soft for her. You’ve–”
Rafe grabs him roughly by the collar, a sudden anger coursing through him like he’s been electrocuted. “Listen, you fucking moron. Don’t ever insinuate I’ve gone soft for a goddamned Pogue.”
He spits that last word out like it’s venom, and yet he tried to ignore how hollow it feels. When he realises people are staring, he quietly lets go, smoothing Kelce’s shirt while his friends stare at him fearfully in that way he’s grown used to people looking at him.
“I fucked her,” Rafe says plainly, his tone switching from aggressive to calm in a split second, almost like he’s slipped on a mask, “I fucked her just like I’ve fucked every other Pogue bitch who’s thrown herself at me before her. And it wasn’t anything special. She acts all innocent, but it was easy to get her to spread her legs for me just like I told you it would be.”
He hears a thud, and then a little gasp behind him. So soft, it barely registers. Except it does, and he turns around.
And immediately locks eyes with you.
And then it feels like it’s just him and you. And nobody else is there. And there’s no sound, like both of you have stopped breathing. You stand there, frozen, stricken. Your books on the ground in front of you. Only a few steps behind him, well within earshot. And he sees something break in your expression, porcelain features twisting in hurt, shock, dismay, disbelief.
“Oh shit,” Topper mutters from somewhere behind him. A few of his friends snicker, but Rafe can’t hear them. No, he’s frozen, staring at you as if he can’t quite believe it. And he sees the tears welling in your eyes.
A little broken sob falls from your lips, and then you turn and run. And Rafe wants to chase after you but it’s like he’s frozen in time and space. Watching you run off while he just stands there.
Stands and watches as you run away from him, your hands reaching up blindly to wipe at your face. And that feeling returns tenfold. That feeling that Rafe can’t quite put his finger on, that feeling which he wants to push back down because it suffocates him, and he doesn’t understand it. The feeling consumes him from the inside out, till he feels like he can’t breathe.
And he just stands there and watches until you’re gone.
𝘼/𝙉: OOF. Okay, I finally posted it! Please let me know what your thoughts! Literally any reaction, predictions, favourite parts etc. All of it, ANY of it would be so appreciated! Also please forgive any spelling or grammatical errors. Here's some questions in case you want to answer them (you don't have to!! you can comment/reblog whatever you want, i just always post questions at the end of my fics)
Does Rafe genuinely care for reader?
Should reader forgive Rafe?
Favourite scene/part?
Anyways, that's it. Now I'll anxiously wait to see what you guys think. PLEASE PLEASE consider reblogging this fic if you plan on liking it and want me to continue it. Thanks so much for all your support when I posted the sneak peek. I hope this lived up to your expectations! <3
4.1k words: You are a good friend of Rebekah and visit her in the compound. There her older brother Elijah challenges you to a game of chess that you win easily. Over time Elijah gets increasingly frustrated with your skills, until one night the tension snaps...
A/N: Ahhh I love chess and in my mind Elijah is an absolut chess freak. Honestly I love this whole prompt. It‘s so much fun to write frustrated Elijah who loses it. Sooo yes enjoy. Also I have written-finals next week and I will hopefully publish one story between Sunday and Wednesday (I have like 3 Klaus drafts to finish) and then I‘ll probably take a break to enjoy the time after finals. (And before spoken finals) But now enjoy Elijah being a bad loser.
Ps: add me on chess.com: Darth_Laeka
~~~~~~~
The storm outside had turned into a slow, steady downpour, drumming softly against the windows of the Mikaelson compound. It was your first time visiting it. You were a friend of Rebekah, you two had only met recently and gotten along immediately. Nevertheless it took her very long to invite you over. Despite you knowing about all the supernatural surrounding her life you had always wanted to be inside the Mikaelson compound.
But now Rebekah had gone upstairs fighting with Kol over shoes he had destroyed ("You did it on purpose!" "Rebekah I didn't even know those were yours") and for safety reasons (you were scared of Rebekah when she was angry) you had decided to stay downstairs. You looked around trying not to intrude, but you couldn’t help and admire the whole building. The entire compound was breathtaking. The furniture seemed ancient and expensive. The Mikaelson‘s were old money and you knew that, but everytime you were shopping with Rebekah you were reminded how rich they truly were.
Suddenly you noticed a chess board set up on a table across the room. Despite the fact that the pieces were all over the place it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. It looked as if every single piece had been done by hand and knowing the Mikaelson’s that wasn’t so unlikely.
You picked up the black queen, your fingers running over the smoothed wood. You smiled as you kept looking at the figures. You were admiring a rook when a voice, smooth and deep, spoke from behind you.
"Do you play?“
You turned, suprised to find Rebekah‘s big brother, Elijah. You didn’t know a lot about Elijah but when you saw him in his suit leaning against the doorway so casual you had to smile a little. There were no need to hide your true abilities or be modest. You loved playing chess and had been quite good at in since your childhood, you loved how able you were to control the pieces while you systematically teared the other side apart.
"Yes I do,“ you said with a smirk setting the pawn down, watching him taking a step forward
“Then we should play,“ he said his voice calm as always as he made his way over to you, inspecting you before sitting down, "I barely have good opponents.“
You raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? I’d hate to bruise that centuries-old ego,“ you said jokingly before taking your seat across him.
A quiet chuckle tore from Elijah’s throat as he raised an eyebrow, "Darling, I’ve been playing chess longer than you’ve been alive.”
You rolled your eyes at his antics and smirked as he turned the chessboard so you could have white.
You moved your pawn to d4 and Elijah contered with his pawn to d5. Then your knight to f3. Elijah looked at you but didn’t say anything before moving his bishop to b4. He didn’t have to say check but you quickly contered with a pawn to c3. Elijah had obviously only tried to intimidate you because his bishop retreated. You kept playing it safe for a while before you got bolder and took his queen.
"You talk about playing chess for centuries and now you fell for that?,“ you asked with a raised eyebrow. Elijah didn’t respond but you saw his jaw tense.
At first, he had played as if entertaining a guest. He smiled when he took your pawn. He complimented a clever move of yours but he only did that once. But as you took the queen and then his rook something shifted.
He started leaning forward. He studied the board longer. He touched one piece, paused, and withdrew his hand.
"Are you trying to castle me?,“ he mumbled and took another pawn. You tried not to grin, you had him exactly were you had wanted.
Ten more moves in and Elijah’s brows furrowed slightly, the first crack in his flawless composure. His knight was trapped, his bishop pinned, and your queen had just begun to sweep dangerously close.
“You’re… good,” he said quietly, watching your fingers as you moved a piece with practiced ease.
“I told you,” you said, resting your chin in your hand.
Another move, then another. You saw his eyes narrowing as you took his bishop. Then finally it was time for your final attack. He sat back slowly, almost disbelieving. His gaze flicked from the board to your face and back.
“You’re bluffing,” he murmured, but it was more to himself than to you.
“Nope,” you said sweetly, then pushed your queen into place. “Will you resign or do you wish to go through the whole humiliation process were I checkmate you?“
Elijah stared at the board, utterly still. He finally looked up at you, a slow, stunned smile spreading across his face. “I cannot remember the last time someone beat me.”
“You’ll remember this one,” you said, smug.
---
The next times you came over the chessboard was already set. Rebekah was rolling her eyes because Elijah insisted on playing a round of chess with her friend, after everytime her and Rebekah hung out. You wanted to decline, but his gaze held something challenging, his smirk something deceiving.
This went on for weeks. After a especially nasty loss for Elijah it was him who invited you over, not Rebekah. As you entered Elijah was seated in the room, wine poured, blazer off, sleeves rolled. He barely glanced up as you walked in, but you could feel the intensity in the air like static before a storm. You bit your lip but couldn't stop yourself from commenting.
“I see you’ve prepared for defeat,” you teased lightly, slipping into the chair across from him.
His eyes finally met yours, dark and unreadable. “I’d call it preparation for redemption.”
You smiled, slow and amused, already reaching for your first pawn. “That sounds dangerously close to hope."
The match began in silence, save for the gentle clink of glass and the occasional sound of your pieces meeting the board. Elijah played aggressively tonight, starting with The Scotch Game. You were about to make a joke about the name of the opening and the fact that he was drinking wine, but when you looked up you realized how serious he was. Elijah was done with polite openings and careful traps. His knight struck early, cornering your bishop, and his queen started to go on your nerves.
Nevertheless through it all you stayed calm and composed, blocking his attacks deciding to play a safe game, without recklessnes. And it drove him mad.
Each move you made unraveled his careful control. You could see it in the way his jaw clenched, in the flicker of frustration in his eyes when you slid your rook across the board with the confidence of someone who knew the end was already written.
By the time you murmured, “Check,” he was staring at the board like it had betrayed him personally.
He leaned back in his chair, one hand covering his mouth, the other drumming fingers against his thigh. You took a sip of his wine, pretending not to watch him seethe in slow, dignified silence.
Kol passed you two and raised his eyebrows watching the normally completely composed Mikaelson looking disheveled. "Elijah do you want t-," he started but Elijah raised his hand making Kol shut his mouth and left with a shrug.
“You’re toying with me,” Elijah muttered at last.
You raised an eyebrow, “Or I’m just better at chess.”
His gaze snapped to you, sharp and heated. “I haven’t lost this many matches in centuries.”
You chuckled slightly, "In a row or in general?“
He didn’t reply immediately. Just watched you, his eyes traveling over your face, down to your lips, your hands on the edge of the board.
“I’m starting to think you’re doing it on purpose,” he said softly, voice low.
“Winning?”
“No," he leaned in slightly. “Driving me insane.”
Your pulse jumped. You tried to hide it with a shrug, but he saw. Of course he saw.
You moved your final piece, trying to avoid his gaze, "Checkmate.”
Elijah stared at the board, then at you. I took a while and then he laughed quietly and disbelieving, shaking his head, the sound rough at the edges. “You are… impossible.”
“Is that a compliment?”
He stood slowly, coming around the table. You turned in your chair just as he reached you, his hand curling around the back of it. He was imposing your space but you didn't mind as he was hovering above you.
“I’m not sure yet,” he said, low against your ear. “But I know I’m not letting you leave without another game.”
Your breath caught in your throat “And if you lose again?”
His hand brushed your jaw, fingers barely touching. “Then I’ll have to find another way to win.”
Your hands were shivering as you set the figures up again. He took the hint and sat back watching you intensely. "Well let's hope it won't come down to that," you said your voice not sounding as composed as you had hoped.
Elijah jaw was tensed but there was the illusion if a smile on his lips. But you wouldn't let him win just because he was hot (Which he was. Like really, really smoking hot. brother of your best friend this, brother of your best friend that, Elijah was the prettiest man you had seen in a long time), that was why you took his bishops, his rooks, his queen and finally his king again with a sweet smile. Elijah didn’t even wince. As you stood up to head home Elijah speeded towards you, taking your wrist, "Wait," he whispered.
You turned around, heart racing at how close he was. His hand was still around your wrist, not tight, but firm as if he didn't want to let go, even if he would the second you asked.
“Elijah?” you said, voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes were already on you, dark and unreadable, flickering between your lips and your eyes. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty, it was charged with electricity, as he brushed his knuckles against your cheek.
“Listen, I have lost before. And I keep telling myself it’s just chess,” he murmured, his voice soft but threaded with something rougher underneath. “But I’ve never cared this much about losing a game.”
You blinked, mouth parting, and before you could reply, he was leaning in slowly giving you every second to stop him. Your breath hitched and your heart was racing probably a million times per hour but you didn't.
His lips brushed yours once and then again, a lot firmer like he’d finally allowed himself to fall forward. His free hand rose to cradle your jaw, tilting your head up as he deepened the kiss, and it was all heat and control and the quiet, devastating kind of hunger you’d only seen in glances before now.
His lips moved over yours with a reverence that made your knees weaken, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the softness of your sigh as you leaned into him.
Your fingers found his shirt, clutching it like an anchor, and Elijah deepened the kiss just slightly, just enough to steal your breath and leave you craving more. The hand on your jaw slid back into your hair, his fingers threading through it gently, possessively, like he’d already decided he never wanted to let go.
When he finally pulled back, barely an inch, his forehead rested against yours. His breathing was uneven, his voice husky when he whispered, “Come upstairs with me.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, like he already knew your answer but wanted to hear it anyway.
Your pulse jumped. “And what if I say no?”
He smiled, that perfect, composed Elijah Mikaelson smile, but there was a flicker of something dangerous behind it now. “Then I’ll insist on a rematch.”
You didn’t answer. You just kissed him again, and that was all the answer he needed.
In one smooth motion, he picked you up and you let out a startled laugh. His grip was strong, steady, like holding you was the easiest thing he’d done all night.
“I didn’t know vampires carried people to bed like that,” you teased, breathless.
“Only the ones who win,” he said, eyes locked on yours.
He threw you onto his bed and closed the door behind him. His sleeves were still rolled up and he hovered above you.
"You’re infuriating," he said, his voice low and rough with restraint. “And briliant, but you toyed with me," he said kissing your neck. You closed your eyes and smirked as he held himself above you.
“And you loved it,“ you whispered.
A smile flickered across his face as he looked down at you again, “I did,” he admitted, hovering so close his breath tickled your skin. “God, I did. You have no idea, what I was thinking every time you wore that smug smile."
He kissed you again, harder this time, with none of the earlier hesitation. There was praise in every touch, every press of his mouth against yours. His lips moved to your jaw, your throat, worshipful and hungry all at once. As if he was trying to communicate through his kisses how much he had enjoyed it
“I can’t stop thinking about the way you play,” he muttered against your neck. “How focused you get. How satisfied that little smile is when you take one of my pieces like it’s inevitable.”
You gasped softly as his fingers slid under your shirt, slow but sure, and he pushed it above your head throwing it to the floor. You arched into him as he pressed kisses down your collarbone, each one slower than the last, until he finally pushed the cups of your bra down taking your nipple into his mouth.
He unhooked the bra, bitting down on your other nipple making you gasp and look at him, "Maybe next time I'll bend you over that table, making you play while I take you from behind," he muttered into your ear.
You had to laugh. His words were so filthy and so unlike the Elijah you had come to know it was almost funny. He looked at you his eyes betraying his amusement as he licked over your hardened bud one time again before he kissed down your belly.
You felt your arousal and your body heated up as you watched him opening your skirt and pushing it down your thighs, before his fingers slipped between your thighs very slowly and controlled. It was maddening somehow. He watched your reaction closely, the way your lips parted and your hips shifted forward, just barely, as he ran the pad of his finger between your fold.
“Impatient, are we?” he murmured, voice like velvet, mocking you. You huffed. Normally you were the one mocking him while you were playing. A moan escaped you as he slipped a finger inside you, moving it slowly and purposefully. He was still fully clothed, while you were bare beneath him, squirming as he continued stretching you. His finger was a lot thicker and longer then yours and he knew exactly how to angle it to make you enjoy it while his thumb on your clit was igniting a fire inside you.
You met his gaze, lips curling into that same smirk that had cost him three matches in a row, “If I knew you were this good with your hands, I might’ve let you win.”
That made him pause. His hand stilled for just a second, and then he chuckled, low and darkly, it was a side of him you had never seen before but assumed that it was somewhere beneath the layers of his suit.
“You can dominate me on the chessboard,” he said, another finger slipping inside, sliding deeper, making you gasp as he curled them, “but not in bed.”
You were about to throw something cocky back at him, but then his thumb circled just right and the thought shattered like glass as your body started to tremble and you squirmed beneath him.
“Still smug?” he asked softly, watching you unravel.
You dug your nails into his shoulder and whispered, breath hitching, “I can multitask.”
His hand moved faster, expertly precise, like every move on the chessboard had just been practice for this, and now he was winning. It felt as if he was trying to find out how much you were able to take.
“Darling,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, as he slipped in a second finger, “the only game you’re playing right now is mine.”
Your body was trembling, breath ragged, as Elijah held your gaze with that maddening, controlled composure, the kind that only made you want to beat him. But this was his terrain and he knew exactly what to do to make you come undone.
He didn’t look away once as your back arched, as your fingers dug into the sheets. "Elijah," you moaned as he kissed you hard and kept his pace.
Suddenly he pulled out and you whimpered, trying to gain friction back, looking at him panicked as if to ask what had happened. He laughed at how desperately you tried to grind yourself against his hand and stood up watching you while you were still panting, as he undid his belt, took of his shirt and pulled his jeans down. You moved onto your belly, crawling to the end of the bed, your hands pushing his boxers down, revealing his half hard cock.
"Can you take all of me?," he whispered his hand gripping your head and you bit your lips nodding. He really was big and your cheeks heated up at the idea of him inside you.
“Open your mouth,“ he commanded
You did, and he groaned low in his throat, the sound barely restrained. He stroked himself once, then pressed the tip against your parted lips, smearing precum across them before sliding in slowly. His grip in your hair tightened again as he pushed deeper.
“That’s it,” he murmured, eyes hooded as he watched your lips stretch around him. “So obedient when I ask nicely.”
He didn’t give you a chance to take control, not that you would have expected it. With both hands in your hair now, he began to move slow, as if he wanted to get you to know the feeling. You moaned around him, the vibrations making him groan again as his hips rolled forward.
“You look so pretty like this,” he said, almost to himself. “Your mouth full off my cock, while your eyes are on me.”
He slid deeper with each thrust, until your throat opened for him, and he let out a hiss of pleasure, his jaw clenching. He held you there for a beat, buried deep, watching you struggle to breath and he loved it. He shifted your hair into a ponytail so he was able to hold it even better.
“Breathe through your nose, darling,” he murmured, a hand brushing the side of your face in a brief, shockingly tender moment. “Good girl.”
He began to move again, setting a pace that left your throat burning and your thighs pressed tightly together. He was relentless but controlled, his hips moving with steady force while his hands kept you exactly where he wanted you. You whimpered as his right hand grabbed your neck to angle you even better.
“I’ve dreamed of this,” he growled, watching his cock disappear between your lips. “Of fucking that smart mouth until you can’t speak and that smug little grin disappears from your face.”
Tears pricked in the corners of your eyes, but the heat coiling low in your belly was unbearable. You moaned again, loving the way he lost just a little more control every time you did. He was in control but you had quickly figured out what was turning him on.
He pulled out with a wet pop, while you gasped for air. He smirked down at you, thumb wiping at the corner of your mouth.
“Still think you’re winning?” he asked, voice full of dark satisfaction.
You tried to respond, but he was already pushing you back onto the bed, crawling over you with the kind of confidence that promised he wanted to fuck more than just your mouth tonight.
You didn’t even get a full breath in before Elijah had you flipped onto your stomach, hands pressing your hips down into the mattress.
“All those games,” he muttered, his voice low and sharp as his body hovered above yours. “All those nights you humiliated me. Smiling. Gloating. Like I was nothing but a pawn.” He bit you slowly drawing some of your blood making you whimper as he drank. You couldn’t see him as he withdrew, but you were sure his mouth was full of your blood and you shivered at the thought.
You gasped as he yanked your hips up, the sheets rough beneath your knees. He didn’t wait or tease anymore. He slid into you in one hard, punishing thrust, and you screamed into the mattress. Your fingers curled around the sheets holding you as you tried to get used to it and the pain mixed with pleasure as he slowly made you lightheaded.
“This,” he growled into your ear, thrusting again, harder this time, his pace becoming punishing. “This is what I’ve been thinking about every time you beat me.”
You clutched the sheets harder, your body shaking as he pounded into you with a fury that bordered on unhinged. His fingers dug into your hip as if he was trying to anchor himself, you knew his fingers would leave bruises bug you didn’t really care. Maybe you even liked the thought.
“I watched you lean over that board, all smug, while drinking my wine,“ he snarled. “I knew exactly what you were doing. I knew you wanted me to snap.”
Your moans were helpless now, high and broken, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. But he didn’t soften. He couldn’t. Not when he finally had you like this.
“Finally,” he hissed, pulling you back onto him, grinding so deep you saw stars. “I get my payback.”
You cried out as his hand slid up your spine and wrapped around the back of your neck, holding you there, pinned beneath him. You grinded your hips back encouraging him to keep going and he was happy to do so.
“You think you’re so clever,” he growled, teeth grazing your shoulder, again licking the wound he had left, “So untouchable. But look at you now, love, you are moaning like a little whore while being split apart by my cock. But you can handle it, can’t you?“
You couldn’t even answer, only nod. The pace, the intensity, the sheer force of his frustration was unraveling you from the inside out. Your climax built too fast, too sharp, and when it hit you, it stole the sound from your lungs. You screamed and your body trembled and for the second you had your eyes pressed together only seeing a white light. You clenched around him, thighs trembling, and that was it.
He lost it.
He groaned, raw and ragged, as he buried himself deep one last time, coming hard inside you. You felt him pulse, heard the curse fall from his lips as his hand fisted in the sheets beside your head and his fangs buried on the other side of your neck.
After that there was a long silence. He stayed there for a moment, chest heaving against your back, his breath hot against your neck. Then he pulled out slowly, almost reluctantly, and collapsed beside you, hand brushing your thigh, his voice low, "Are you alright? Was it too rough?“
You shook your head and moved into his hug. He pulled the covers over you both before leaning down again. "Checkmate,“ he whispered and you had to laugh shaking your head.
"A draw at best,“ you said. Elijah rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything else before kissing you deeply again.
It’s a little bit scary because he’s one of those guys who you would expect it from but the real deal is way crazier. He’s the type to hold you in place while he kisses you down your neck and make sure you were literally shaking.
You’d think it would be Klaus who’s insatiable (and he definitely is) but Klaus is like that because he just randomly wants to fuck you. Elijah gets turned on like magic.
You can take off your coat, just a little bit slow with your hair wrapped around your shoulder and your neck is visible, and now you’re in missionary. You’re bouncing up and down, and Elijah’s gripping the sheets next to your head. He’s staring deeply into your soul as he thrusts into you hard. Like he wants to break your pussy or something. And he might be trying too, you never know with him.
He’s talking to you, but quite a bit to himself, about how good you feel. About how cute you are, about how you should know better than to get him turned on in the middle of the day, about how it’s okay because your so pretty that he just HAS to forgive you. And when you try to squeeze out a sentence of rebuttal his big strong hands grab your warm face and he plants a kiss to your lips that has you wriggling under him and hoping this lasts forever.
In his mind, it’s your fault that you both spend so much time in bed. That he can’t stop grabbing your breast (he hates whenever you call them tits if you must refer to them in a way like that then he’ll accept boobs) and he can’t stop putting them in his mouth and making you melt. You look so good and you take such good care of him and the people he cares about that he just has to reward you for that.
How can he stop himself? When he wakes up horny, and has to go through the day stuffed in his suit. Then he sees you preparing to make breakfast for him in the kitchen. With that ass he adores and those breast he just can’t get enough of. His favorite handfuls. Your braids that you insisted had to be waist length are pulled into a pony tail that frames your face perfectly with two curled strands cupping your soft face. And you’re probably wearing a sun dress to combat the NOLA summer sun. He can’t help but want to take you in the kitchen.
But Elijah is a gentleman so settles for hugging you from behind and letting his hands roam up and down while whispering enticements in your ear.
“Why don’t you just come up to bed?”
“Elijah it’s 9:30 in the morning, I’m far from tired”
“Why don’t you come up to bed and let me reward you for looking so good?”
And it always works. The combination of him touching you like that and kissing your neck and whispering in your ear? Oh yeah. Draws dropped.
Now you’re back in bed in your room which was still messy from the night before when you came home from dinner and he put you up against your bedroom door.
Your dress was still on the chair from where he tossed it off you.
And he’s slowly peeling your dress off your body, while you rip off the buttons of his shirt with a tenderness. He’s looking at you like he wants to eat you, and he might do that. But when he slips his hand into your underwear and feels how warm and wet you are it’s ridiculous. He has no time to do anything else he has to fuck you and he has to do it now.
After all this time, you still seemed a little embarrassed at how wet you were but the other thing Elijah loves is that you’re a grown woman who also likes to fuck.
It’s why you both work so well.
And he’s already gotten you started. He knows it, because he knew the second he started feeling the soft warmth of your stomach and he felt your heart rate speed up he knew it. Elijah Mikaelson doesn’t just lay with any woman. You had to be a freak on some level but he lucked out with you.
You’ve unbuttoned the top of his shirt, and you won’t stop kissing him. It’s like he’s hypnotized you (which he would never do, to Elijah your word is basically law) and you’re fully giving him power. Your hands fumble with his belt buckle and you make sure you run your hand over his erection a few times. He feels you smiling into his kisses as he jumps his hips into your hand.
The way you whimper when he picks you up and places you on your back on your shared mattress, he gets a smell of your perfume and can’t help the growl that escapes him. Then he’s holding you by your face as he demeans you just a bit for wanting him so bad.
“What would you do without me? There’d be no one to take care of you and we couldn’t have that could we?” Then he’s going to nibble you on your neck.
He decides, to hell with your dress. He could just rip it but he does like this dress on you and doesn’t feel like going to the store for a new one. He doesn’t want to take his hands off you. He doesn’t want to back away long enough to take off your dress. He pulls down the top to free your breast, stunned by their beauty like always. You had tan lines, one part of your skin a lighter brown than the rest. The area around your breast covered by your bikini more specifically when you two head out into the sun for a swim.
Your underwear he didn’t mind ripping off and you were trying your best to get as much of his shirt off as possible. One of you needed to be sensible though. So you pushed him off for just a moment and looked up at him while you tore off his belt. He was standing over you at the edge of the bed while you were on your knees still on the bed.
You wanted it so bad it made him laugh. You were looking at him with those big brown eyes and you were breathing heavily. He ran his hands over your braids, and couldn’t help but bite his lip when he imagined what he was about to do to you.
You yanked his pants down, and then his boxers. All seven and a half inches of him sprung out at you and you, ever eager, gave him a long lick. Elijah shuddered, it was like you just sent an electric shock up him. Good god you were something. But Elijah didn’t have the time for all that, because of course Elijah has to do something with his days. Like cleaning up after his siblings. He could always get a blowjob later. Maybe he’d give you some too. Who was he kidding? Elijah loved giving head like it was no one’s business. But I’ll write about that later.
Did I mention that he loves being on top of you? In the sense that he has to be on top of you intimately. Squished on top of you, while he fucks you and you cream all over him.
He slides into you and can’t help the groan that escapes him. His head rolls back on instinct, and you shudder entirely.
He starts moving, rocking his hips into yours the way you like. Warm and wet, and tight with your back arching slightly. He presses his chest down against yours with his shirt open and his suit jacket stuck against his sweaty skin. The bed starts rocking as he picks up the pace and pulls your head to look him in his eyes.
It’s your weak point naturally. Elijah knows he’s handsome that’s why he keeping looking at you like that. He knows you can’t handle staring him in the face like that, and that it makes you want to act all types of crazy when he’s inside of you.
He likes asking you questions while he pounds into you. He does it hard but in a way that doesn’t make you feel like he hates you.
“Tell me how you feel.” You know things along that line.
And when he gets close to cumming, you can see the veins under his eyes start to push to the surface. His breathing gets heavier, but the effect he has on you is so much worse. He doesn’t even know but the way he has you folded on your back, begging him to cum inside of you speaks volumes when you were usually such a composed woman. But Elijah usually wouldn’t be muttering nonsense about putting a baby in you (especially when you both know it isn’t possible) so it works.
He likes when you both cum at the same time. He likes squeezing your breast tenderly, with the right amount of aggression to turn you on. He’s in your head, filling your brain with filthy images. He’s talking you through it, and then you’re both cumming. Elijah cups your face and tosses his head back (partially because his instinct is to bite you and he doesn’t want to scare you by biting you with no warning) and you’re letting out moans that Elijah wants to die hearing.
Elijah loves to fuck. He loves the soft tender feeling of squishing you, and feeling you grind up against him. He’s loves spanking you when you act out (brat tamer Elijah is coming soon trust) of line. He loves squeezing your neck just slightly. He loves when you pull out your variety of freaky tricks and when you let him have full control over your body. He’s loves you above all else. And fucking your brains out is one of his favorite ways to show it.
༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻
You guys can’t stop me, I’m on a roll
Guys Elijah has literally possessed me and I’m very much happy about it. I will not stop writing about Elijah I don’t even care if this is bad I just needed people to see my thoughts about him. He’s been my man since I was ten.
Anyways I don’t really know what this is either, I was scrolling through tumblr and randomly saw some porn so now you guys get to read this. Love you all and thanks for reading 🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾
minors, do not interact. the links below contain porn and graphic nudity. you are responsible for your own media consumption, understanding that the links below contain porn and should not be opened in public. I will block minors who interact.
A/N: This was a request, mostly for Damon 🫠
𝑲𝒂𝒊 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒆𝒓
❃ Kai can't get enough of torturing you
❃ He loves possessive, animalistic missionary
❃ Kai can be a bastard when it comes to your pleasure
❃ While trapped in the prison world together, you always found new places to enjoy each other's eternal company
𝑱𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒚 𝑮𝒊𝒍𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒕
❃ Pulling over for a quick creampie
❃ Jeremy is the king of water works
❃ He loves it when you wear his flannels
❃ His favorite position is whichever one pounds you into the mattress
𝑬𝒍𝒊𝒋𝒂𝒉 𝑴𝒊𝒌𝒂𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒐𝒏
❃ Distracting Elijah from his work
❃ Backshots from Elijah make you go feral
❃ You're usually not into receiving, but getting head from Elijah is a spiritual experience
❃ Imagine traveling with Elijah, and this is how you christen every place you go
𝑲𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒔 𝑴𝒊𝒌𝒂𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒐𝒏
❃ No doubt, Klaus has a bit of a breeding kink
❃ How Klaus wakes you up from a nap
❃ He loves to abuse your lack of a gag reflex
𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒆𝒍 𝑮𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒓𝒅
❃ You can barely take him whole
❃ Marcel swears you give pro top
❃ Fucking yourself back on his cock
❃ You're sore after every sleepover
𝑫𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝑺𝒂𝒍𝒗𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒆
❃ Damon has a way of driving you crazy with just his fingers
❃ Damon knows exactly how to put you in your place
❃ I'm sorry, but I'm a sucker for shower sex with Damon
𝑺𝒕𝒆𝒇𝒂𝒏 𝑺𝒂𝒍𝒗𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒆
❃ Hopping on Stefan's cock
❃ When it comes to intimacy, Stefan makes his feelings very clear
❃ Ripper!Stefan gives the most fantastic backshots
I have I request/fic idea that’s kind of a flip on the usual. Reader & Elijah are dating and he can tell that’s she’s been holding something back when they have sex and is determined to get her to let go so he really pulls out all the stops. Reader is a biter, especially in situations she needs to be quiet (& maybe even a bit of a scratcher ie kinda claws at his back) but a previous boyfriend told it was weird so she’s super self conscious about it and is always a little distracted during sex fighting the instinct to bite him. Elijah succeeds and she latches onto that area between the neck & shoulder and turns out, not only is Elijah totally fine with it, he really REALLY likes it.
Bites
18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}
{Elijah Mikaelson x f!reader}
You were afraid to bite him. Until he told you to do it again.
♡♡ hiii anon I love your mind && Happy day one of mikaelson week!! I've missed ya'll ~xo ♡♡
3.2k words - Warnings: smut, praise kink, riding, biting kink (the blood-free kind ... although Elijah absolutely wouldn’t mind...), overwhelmed reader, feral elijah && warm fire...
The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering light across all of the ancient books lining the walls. Everything felt still and quiet, that kind of soft silence that only came when you were wrapped in warmth and safety. It was your favorite kind of evening, curled under a soft blanket on the sofa with your favorite person tucked close.
You still weren’t sure how you managed to pull a man like Elijah. You met a while ago, when he walked up to you like he already knew what you would say. All dark eyes and smooth charm, tailored clothes and quiet confidence. He had disarmed you instantly. From the first moment, you sensed something different about him. Though you didn’t know then just how true that would turn out to be.
And now, months later, here you were. Nestled against one of the oldest living creatures on earth, with his arm around your waist like it belonged there. He could have had anyone. And yet, he chose you.
You certainly weren’t going to argue.
A soft sigh slipped from your lips as you pressed in closer, wrapping the blanket tighter around both of you. You looked up at him, studying the familiar lines of his face in the firelight. His hair fell softly across his brow, his dark eyes tracking the lines of his book. But the way his hand moved, slow and precise, long fingers flexing just enough to remind you how they felt against your skin. That was what made your heart flutter.
Your gaze moved up to the column of his throat, the curve where neck meets shoulder. A place you kissed before many times, gently, reverently. But tonight, you didn’t want to kiss it. You wanted to bite it.
The thought hit fast and hot. You swallowed hard, shifting under the blanket as heat pooled between your thighs. It wasn’t the first time you had felt it. That deep, aching urge always crept in during quiet moments like this. When you felt content and safe around him, overwhelmed by love and want and intense feeling.
But just as quickly, shame curled through you like smoke. You shouldn’t want that. Not like this. It was too much. You were too much.
The last time you followed that instinct, let it slip past your lips in the heat of the moment, your ex hadn’t understood. He laughed. Pulled back. Shut down. Called you intense. In that tone people use when they mean something else. When they mean weird. When they mean wrong.
You pretended it didn’t hurt, but it stuck. It lived in you. Ever since, you kept that part of yourself locked away. Bit your own lip instead. Dug your nails into the sheets instead of skin. Avoided the feelings that threatened to swallow you whole.
And now here you were, held in the arms of the most perfect man you had ever known. Still too scared to show him the whole of what you wanted.
Elijah turned another page, but he hadn’t read a single word in the last five minutes. He could feel your body pressed against his side, warm and restless, your breaths coming shallower now. And he could practically hear the thoughts racing behind your silence.
He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched you from the corner of his eye, taking in the way your gaze lingered on him a little too long, the way your lips parted like you might say something, then thought better of it. Your breath caught.. just barely. But he noticed. He always did.
There was a flush rising beneath your skin, a certain tension in your frame that made his chest warm. You were trying so hard not to let it show. He could feel it in the way you tucked yourself a little closer, like you needed him to notice without asking. He found it very sweet.
He didn’t know what you were holding back, not exactly. But he could feel it, some small ache just beneath the surface. Something you thought you needed to hide.
He could wait. He would wait. But it was hard not to smile when you got like this. All quiet and shy…and clearly about two seconds from climbing into his lap.
His book was forgotten. His eyes were on you now, wearing that unreadable expression he saved for when he was studying something closely. Not judging. Just observing.
"W-what?" you asked, trying not to squirm. "You’re very distracting, you know that?"
Elijah gave you a small, amused smile. "I haven’t done anything."
"Exactly," you said, returning the smile. "You sit there looking like that and expect me to concentrate on anything else?"
He hummed, low and content, and leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead. "I was under the impression we were just reading."
"I was trying," you murmured, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips brushed your skin. "Then your hand turned a page and my brain completely stopped working."
"That sounds serious," he said, voice dropping just a little, all low and velvet-soft as his fingers slipped beneath the blanket. "Should I be concerned?"
You giggled breathlessly just before he caught your mouth in a soft kiss. His hand trailed up your thigh, pausing just beneath the hem of your dress. Then, with careful ease, he dipped under the fabric. Your pulse quickened, but you didn’t pull away.
His palm slid higher, warm and steady against bare skin. He smiled into the kiss, then shifted, lifting you effortlessly into his lap. The blanket slid down, pooling around your waist as your knees braced on either side of his hips. He only broke the kiss long enough to lift your dress over your head, leaving you in nothing but your panties.
He hadn’t expected his evening to go like this. Elijah had planned to read, maybe kiss you once or twice and fall asleep with you curled against his chest. But now you were in his lap, bare and radiant, and all he could do was stare. The way your skin flushed under his palms, the way your fingers trembled as they touched him. It always undid something in him.
Your hands moved to the front of his shirt, fumbling slightly with the buttons. He didn’t rush you. He liked watching you like this. A little nervous, focused, so clearly wanting him. You got halfway down before he leaned in and kissed your jaw, a whisper-soft encouragement. You pushed the fabric back off his shoulders and down his arms, quickly tossing it aside.
His hand slid down your back, firm and possessive, pulling you tight against him. He was already hard, and the pressure of it beneath you made your breath hitch. He guided your hips with slow, deliberate movements, coaxing you to grind against him. The friction stole your focus, made your fingers tremble against his skin as the heat between you deepened, hungry and sweet and impossible to ignore.
You let your hands roam across his chest, drinking him in. His skin was warm under your palms, his muscles carved and defined. Your fingertips traced the ridge of his collarbone, slid up the curve of his neck, tangled in his hair. He felt like something meant to be worshipped.
You reached between you, breath shaky, and undid the fastenings of his pants. He let you, his eyes never leaving your face. You pushed the fabric down just enough to free him, and the second your hand wrapped around him, he groaned, the sound rumbling through his chest.
You stroked him slowly, deliberately, savoring the feel of him in your hand. The way he exhaled like you were undoing him. The way his fingers dug into your thighs, the ways his pupils dilated, making them somehow even darker.
The firelight flickered across your back, casting the two of you in molten gold. He leaned in, breath warm against your throat, and you tipped your head back as he kissed along your neck, his mouth open, tongue teasing. His hand moved between your legs, slipping beneath your panties and pushing the fabric aside.
His fingers teased you gently, not enough to satisfy, just enough to make your hips shift, seeking more.
"Go slow for me. Let it ache a while," he murmured. "I'll take care of you."
Your body trembled with anticipation, with need, and you bit your lip, stifling a whimper. He kept his touches light, too light, just barely brushing the surface, then a little deeper, circling and coaxing until your legs began to shake.
You tried to stay in control. Tried to hold back the part of you that wanted to claw, to bite, to take. The part that always felt too hungry.
But then he pulled away, slow and deliberate, and shifted beneath you. He pressed the head of his cock right where you wanted him most and held there, unmoving, letting the need twist hot and sharp inside you.
You held your breath as he pressed against you, and then, slowly, you began to sink down. You let out a quiet moan, savoring the stretch and the way his hands tightened around you, steadying you.
You started to move, slow and careful. Lifting just enough to feel the pull before sinking down again. Every motion was thick with wet heat, achingly slow. Sweet friction that built fire with every pass.
Your muscles burned with the effort of staying in control, and your heart pounded like it was trying to claw its way out of your chest. Your nails digging into the sofa.
His hands slid along your spine, grounding you as he let you set the pace. But it was not enough to hold back the rush building in your blood.
It was too much. The pleasure. The pressure. The unbearable fullness of him, deep and steady, everywhere.
And still, you tried to hold it together.
Still, you held back.
He felt it in the hitch of your breath, in the tremble that started in your thighs and worked its way through you like a current. Your heart was a wild, beautiful thing beneath your skin. Fluttering against your ribs, echoing in his ears like a siren’s call. And your scent… god, the warmth of it, the way clouded all of his senses as you eased down onto him. It nearly undid him.
You were trying so hard to stay composed. He could see it in the tension at your jaw, the way your fingers dug into the leather behind you instead of into him. It made something sorrowful ache in his chest. You were holding back. Still afraid. Still unsure if it was safe to fall apart with him.
He wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to be. That he could take it. That he wanted it. Wanted you to be hungry, wild and unrestrained. But he didn’t speak. Not yet. He didn’t dare interrupt the soft, sacred rhythm you set.
One of his hands slid across your shoulder, fingers trailing down your arm until he found your wrist. He brought it forward, pressed your palm to his chest, his skin hot beneath your touch.
“Touch me,” he said softly, steady as a heartbeat. “You don’t need to hold back.”
Your pulse jumped. The warmth of his skin, the steady thump under your palm, was too much. Too intimate. Too good. Your other hand followed, splayed flat over his heart. His hands returned to your waist.
You moved again, hips rolling deep and slow. You arched into him, nails dragging red down his chest. The pleasure built and built. And still, it wasn’t enough.
Your body trembled, caught between the instinct to take and the fear of being too much. You kissed along his jaw... that beautiful jaw. Just a little bit of stubble, sharp enough to cut. You kissed along it, slowly, breathing him in, afraid and desperate in equal parts to sink your teeth in.
Your mouth lingered there. Open. Wanting. But not daring.
His fingers flexed at your hips.
"Take it," he murmured, voice wrecked. "Whatever you want. Take it."
And finally you gave in.
You sank your teeth into the curve where neck met shoulder. Not enough to break skin, not on someone like him, but enough to hurt. Enough to shake him.
Elijah’s groan was guttural, the sound of a man utterly undone. His head fell back, and hips jerked beneath you, a sudden, uncontrolled thrust, and your body clamped down around him so tight it made your breath catch.
“Fuck.”
He swore under his breath, more primal than polished now and his hands squeezed your ass, guiding your hips.
“Again,” he hissed. “Harder.”
Your chest clenched. No one had ever enjoyed your intense side. No one had ever asked for more. The shame that always curled beneath your ribs was gone, burned out by the raw need in his voice. He wasn’t tolerating it. He was loving it.
And you were helpless to resist.
You bit him again, harder, and the strangled sound that escaped him sent a thrill down your spine. Your hands were shaking, fingers pressed tight against his chest, and your heart was pounding, but everything else felt perfectly, blissfully clear.
"Yes," he breathed, and his hand slipped between you, his fingers stroking over the spot where you were joined, and then up, rubbing in insistent circles over your clit, "Yes, love, yes..."
You moaned against his neck, the sound muffled. It was too much. The feel of him moving beneath you, the smell of his cologne, the taste of his skin, the press of his fingers, his hand against your back. The sounds he made. That beautiful, wrecked voice saying yes, over and over again.
Your mouth was everywhere, rabidly moving along the line of his jaw, the sharp ridge of his throat, the flushed skin you already marked once. You bit down over and over, teeth dragging just enough to make him groan, filthy and low. You felt drunk on it, dizzy, like the whole world was spinning around you and he was the only thing that could keep you upright.
Your hips bucked hard, your rhythm lost, and he began to bounce you, lifting your hips and bringing them back down with a punishing force. Every thrust drove a ragged sound from the both of you.
“Elijah,” you gasped, already breathless, fingers curling into his shoulders.
“Again,” he growled, voice sharp now. “Fucking bite me.”
The command in his voice hit like a punch to the gut. A moan tore from your throat as you did, harder this time, the taste of his skin flooding your tongue. His pace increased, his whole body shuddered, and his cock twitched deep inside you as he cursed under his breath. He started moving you even faster, every thrust hit something perfect, something devastating, and your moans turned into broken little sobs.
Your hands scrambled for his skin, digging into his chest, his shoulders, holding on as you bounced in his lap, thighs burning, body slick with sweat and slick and spit.
“Look at you,” he gasped, voice gone completely hoarse, his dark eyes wide and wrecked. “So fucking sweet like this. Look at how you ride me…wild fucking thing-”
You didn’t even recognize the sound you made. You were too far gone.
It wasn’t even sex anymore. It was heat and hunger and something feral. You bit him again, just under his jaw this time, and he groaned, his hips losing their rhythm, and you didn't care. You didn’t care how loud you were, how your teeth tore at his skin, the way your nails left angry red marks down his chest.
The ache in you was so deep. It had been there for months, burning like an ember in your core. And now, finally, the fire was burning through you, scorching everything else away. There was nothing but this moment.
You came with a cry, body clenching down around him in waves, your whole body shaking, lips still pressed to his skin. You couldn't stop. You didn’t want to. You kept licking, kissing, moaning into his neck as the pleasure overtook you completely.
He followed you, voice wrecked and raw, hands still guiding you through it as he spilled inside you with a shudder that wracked his whole frame.
Slowly, the world came back. The crackle of the fire, the cool leather of the couch, the heat of his body, and the gentle press of his lips against your cheek, your neck, your shoulder.
Your limbs felt like lead, and all the air left your lungs in a shaky exhale.
"Holy shit," you managed, still gasping for breath.
"That is," he murmured, the ghost of a smile on his lips, "One way to put it."
You laughed, still dizzy, and collapsed against his chest. He pulled the blanket back up around the both of you, his hands smoothing along your spine, soothing you as your breath came in pants.
The fire had burned low. Most of the room had fallen into shadow, and the chill of the air was starting to creep back in. Without a word, Elijah shifted, carefully disentangling himself from the mess of limbs and blankets.
“No,” you mumbled, arms wrapping tighter around his middle. “Where do you think you’re going?”
He chuckled softly. “Nowhere far, sweetheart.”
You let him go reluctantly, flopping onto your side as he stood. And then … well. You definitely didn’t regret letting him go.
The firelight kissed every plane of his body in soft orange-gold. You watched as he moved to the fireplace, unhurried and utterly unbothered to be naked, every muscle flexing as he bent to adjust the wood in the hearth. Strong shoulders, defined arms and the curve of his back… he looked like he should be carved into stone. He didn’t even have to look at you to know what you were thinking.
“You’re staring,” he said without looking back.
“You’re naked,” you shot back, pulling the blanket up to your chin, flushed and smiling.
He gave the fire one last nudge and turned, smiling in that infuriatingly composed way. “So I am.”
He crossed the room with slow, easy steps, the light catching the curves and ridges of his torso. Your gaze drifted lower, and he laughed, a low rumble in his chest. “You alright?”
You nodded, blushing.
He climbed back onto the couch, leaning in to kiss you, long and languid. When he pulled back, you were grinning, and he looked thoroughly pleased with himself.
“Was that alright?” you asked, voice small. “I know I can get… in my head. And the biting thing, it’s…”
He shook his head and kissed you again, gentle and certain, as if to hush every doubt before it could reach your lips.
“My love,” he said, brushing a knuckle down your cheek. “You are speaking to a vampire. You think I’d be scandalized by a few enthusiastic nibbles?”
You giggled, a little fluttery in your chest. He pulled the blanket closer, settling in beside you. He kissed the corner of your mouth, then the tip of your nose, then down to your jaw. He continued like that, peppering soft kisses all along the line of your jaw until he reached your ear. “I meant what I said. I want all of you. Even the parts you think are too much. Especially those.”
Your heart clenched.
You peeked up at him again, shy. “Even if I want to bite you like… all the time?”
hi babe! if that's okay, i would like to request a oneshot where y/n is sick and when elijah notices that, he immediately goes into 'doctor mode' and he's just being the cutest boyfriend taking care of you <33
The heavy, rhythmic drumming of a headache had been your constant companion since sunrise, but you were determined to play it cool. You sat tucked into the corner of the velvet sofa, a thick manuscript resting in your lap, trying to focus on the words that were beginning to blur into illegible ink blots. Every time you drew a breath, your chest felt like it was lined with lead, and a traitorous chill was slowly snaking its way up your spine despite the warmth of the Mikaelson estate.
Elijah was across the room, the picture of composed elegance as he leaned over a mahogany desk, his fountain pen scratching softly against parchment. He was always attuned to the atmosphere of a room, but today, his focus seemed centered entirely on his correspondence—until you let out a breath that was just a fraction too ragged.
The scratching stopped instantly.
You didn't look up, but you felt the shift in the air before you heard his footsteps. They were measured and purposeful. When he reached the sofa, he didn't say a word at first; he simply waited until you were forced to meet his gaze. Your eyes were glassy, your cheeks flushed with a feverish heat that clashed with the slight shivering of your shoulders.
"You’re pale," he observed, his voice dropping into that low, melodic tone that usually soothed you, but now held a sharp edge of clinical concern.
"I’m just tired, Elijah. It’s a long chapter," you murmured, offering a weak smile that didn't quite reach your eyes.
He didn't buy it for a second. In an instant, the poised nobleman vanished, replaced by the meticulous, "doctor-mode" version of the Original vampire. He bypassed your protests, sinking onto the cushion beside you. His hand, cool and steady, found your forehead. The contact was so soothing against your burning skin that you involuntarily leaned into his touch, letting out a soft sigh of defeat.
"Your temperature is significantly elevated," he murmured, his brow furrowing as he transitioned into a state of quiet, efficient motion. "And your breathing is shallow. You should have told me hours ago."
Before you could offer another excuse, he was on his feet. He didn't just ask you to rest; he orchestrated it. With a gentle strength, he scooped you up from the sofa, the manuscript sliding forgotten to the floor. He carried you up the grand staircase as if you weighed nothing, his hold secure and protective. He settled you into the center of the expansive bed, peeling back the heavy duvet to tuck you in with practiced precision.
"Elijah, you don't have to—"
"I very much do," he interrupted softly, already unbuttoning his suit jacket and tossing it aside—a rare sign of his singular focus on your wellbeing. "Rest now. I will return in a moment."
He disappeared into the hallway, and for a few minutes, the only sound was the distant clinking of glass and the hum of the house. When he returned, he was carrying a silver tray prepared with the discipline of a surgeon. There was a glass of water with lemon, a porcelain bowl of cool water with a folded linen cloth, and a small array of medicines.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, first offering you the water and insisting you take small, slow sips until the glass was half empty. Then, he took the linen cloth, wrung it out until it was perfectly damp, and began to dab at your face and neck. His movements were incredibly tender, his eyes tracking every flicker of your expression to ensure you weren't in pain.
"I’ve prepared a light broth, which should be ready shortly," he explained, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "And I want you to try and sleep. I’ll be right here."
He moved to the armchair he had pulled up to the bedside, but he didn't return to his work. Instead, he reached out and took your hand, his thumb stroking your knuckles in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. The fiercest of the Mikaelsons had narrowed his entire world down to the rise and fall of your chest, watching over you with a devotion that felt like a physical shield against the fever. As your eyelids grew heavy and the medicine began to take hold, the last thing you saw was the soft, guarded warmth in his brown eyes, promising that as long as he was there, nothing would be allowed to hurt you—not even a common cold.
The tranquil silence of the room was suddenly fractured by the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots echoing down the hallway, followed by the unmistakable, boisterous chime of Klaus’s voice.
"Brother! We have a situation in the French Quarter that requires your particular brand of diplomatic tedium," Klaus declared, swinging the bedroom door open with his usual lack of regard for boundaries. Behind him, Rebekah hovered, already mid-sentence about a gala she insisted needed Elijah’s approval on the floral arrangements.
The shift in the room was instantaneous. Elijah didn't even stand up; he simply turned his head, his spine stiffening into a pillar of cold marble. The warmth that had been directed at you just seconds ago vanished, replaced by a gaze so frosty it seemed to physically halt Klaus in the doorway.
"Out," Elijah said. It wasn't a shout; it was a low, vibrating command that carried the weight of a thousand years.
Klaus paused, a smirk dancing on his lips as he glanced toward your huddled form under the blankets. "Surely a little sniffle isn't enough to keep the noble Elijah from his duties? She’s hardy, I’m sure she—"
"Niklaus," Elijah interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, "if you take one more step into this room, I will personally ensure your next several decades are spent in a very cramped, very dark wooden box. Am I making myself clear?"
Rebekah winced, sensing the genuine lethality behind the threat. She reached out, grabbing the back of Klaus’s jacket. "Come on, Nik. He’s in 'caretaker mode.' You know there’s no reasoning with him when he’s like this. He’ll probably start boiling bandages and reciting medical texts soon."
"I am tending to a matter of far greater importance than your petty squabbles or social calendars," Elijah added, his eyes never leaving his brother’s. "The next person to cross this threshold without a medical degree and a valid reason for being here will regret it deeply."
With a dramatic roll of his eyes and a muttered comment about Elijah being "utterly whipped," Klaus allowed himself to be pulled back into the hall. Rebekah offered a sympathetic, albeit hurried, wave before pulling the heavy oak doors shut. You heard the distinct click of the lock—a sound that Elijah usually found uncivilized, but today, it was a necessity.
He let out a long, controlled exhale, the tension bleeding from his shoulders as he turned back to you. The lethal Original vampire disappeared, and the "doctor" returned. He reached out to adjust the cool cloth on your forehead, which had slipped during the commotion.
"My apologies, darling," he murmured, his voice returning to that velvet softness as he tucked the duvet tighter around your chin. "The world can wait. You, however, cannot."
He settled back into his chair, picking up a book not to read, but simply to have something in his lap as he resumed his vigil, his hand finding yours once more to ensure your pulse remained steady and your rest remained undisturbed.
____
The morning sun filtered through the heavy velvet curtains in soft, golden shafts, dancing across the duvet as you finally blinked your eyes open. The crushing weight in your chest had lifted, replaced by a lingering, sleepy languor that felt far more manageable than the fever of the night before. You shifted slightly, intending to stretch, but found your hand firmly anchored.
Elijah was still there. He hadn't moved from the armchair, though he had traded his waistcoat for a soft cashmere sweater that made him look disarmingly approachable. His head was tilted back against the leather, his eyes closed in a rare moment of rest, but the second your fingers twitched against his, he was awake. There was no grogginess, only an immediate, sharp focus that softened into a smile the moment he saw you looking back at him.
"Good morning," he murmured, his voice slightly raspy. He was at your side in a heartbeat, his palm pressing against your forehead with practiced ease. "The fever has broken. How are you feeling, truly?"
"Better," you croaked, though your voice was still a bit scratchy. "A lot better, actually."
"I am pleased to hear it, but do not think for a moment that 'better' translates to 'fully recovered,'" he countered with a playful, yet firm, wag of his finger. "Today is strictly for convalescence. I have already informed the rest of the household that any interruptions will be met with... extreme prejudice."
He helped you sit up, stacking a mountain of plush pillows behind your back until you were perfectly propped up. Before you could even reach for the remote, he was presenting a tray that looked like it belonged in a five-star hotel. There was a bowl of sliced fruit—cut into perfect, uniform pieces—a stack of golden toast, and a steaming mug of tea.
"I took the liberty of selecting a few films," he said, picking up the remote and gesturing toward the screen, where a curated list of your favorite comfort movies was already queued up. "And I have a supply of those specific chocolates you favor hidden in my desk, should you feel up to a bit of indulgence."
As the opening credits of the first movie began to roll, Elijah didn't retreat to his desk or his correspondence. Instead, he kicked off his shoes and settled onto the edge of the bed beside you. He pulled a soft throw blanket over both of your laps, and for the first time in centuries, the noble Original looked completely at peace doing absolutely nothing.
Every time you reached for your tea, he was already holding the handle out to you. When you let out a tiny, involuntary shiver, he was adjusted the blanket within seconds. At one point, during a particularly funny scene, you looked over to see him actually chuckling—a soft, genuine sound that made your heart skip. He caught you staring and pressed a lingering, tender kiss to the back of your hand.
"You're being very cute today, Mr. Mikaelson," you teased, leaning your head against his shoulder.
He hummed contentedly, resting his cheek against the top of your head. "I believe the term the youth use is 'attentive,' though I suppose I can live with 'cute' if it keeps that smile on your face. Now, hush. The main character is about to make a very questionable decision, and I wish to see how it unfolds."
The quiet of the late afternoon was broken not by the usual stoic silence of the manor, but by a rhythmic, somewhat frantic chopping sound echoing from the kitchen. Elijah had insisted that a "properly balanced, home-cooked restorative" was the only way to ensure your recovery was permanent. He had gently tucked you into a plush armchair by the kitchen fireplace, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, so he could keep an eye on you while he worked.
Watching Elijah Mikaelson in a kitchen was like watching a master conductor try to lead a chaotic jazz band. He had discarded his waistcoat and rolled his sleeves up past his elbows, revealing the lean strength of his forearms. A pristine white apron was tied around his waist—a sight so jarringly domestic that you couldn't help but stifle a giggle.
"Is something amusing, darling?" he asked, without looking up from a bunch of kale he was inspecting with the intensity of a diamond appraiser.
"Just seeing the Noble Brother defeated by a vegetable," you teased, pulling the blanket tighter around your chin.
He sighed, a small, playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I will have you know that this recipe dates back to a very talented physician in the fourteenth century. However, the modern stove is proving to be... temperamental."
The "temperamental" stove hissed as a pot of organic bone broth began to bubble over. Elijah moved with supernatural grace, whisking the pot off the heat before a single drop could hit the burner. He looked genuinely distressed for a split second, his brow furrowing as he tasted the broth with a silver spoon. He hummed, dissatisfied, and began raiding the spice rack with an air of sophisticated desperation.
He was being so incredibly meticulous—measuring out herbs with surgical precision and talking to himself about the "antioxidant properties of turmeric"—that it was easily the most adorable thing you had ever seen. At one point, a dusting of flour somehow managed to find its way onto the tip of his nose.
"Elijah," you called out softly, beckoning him over.
He wiped his hands on his apron and leaned down, his expression full of concern. "Are you feeling faint? Do you need more water?"
Instead of answering, you reached up and gently brushed the flour off his nose. He froze, his dark eyes blinking in surprise, before a soft flush of pink crept up his neck. He let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh and captured your hand, pressing a warm kiss to your palm.
"I am a thousand-year-old vampire who has toppled empires," he whispered, his voice warm and rich, "and yet, I am undone by a bag of flour and your redirected gaze."
He returned to the stove, eventually presenting you with a bowl of soup that was, quite honestly, the best thing you had ever tasted. He sat on a stool at your feet, watching you eat every spoonful with an expression of pure, unadulterated pride. He didn't even mind when you pointed out that he still had a tiny bit of parsley stuck to his thumb; he just laughed, tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, and told you how much he enjoyed seeing the color return to your cheeks.
____
The golden hour had begun to bleed into a deep, bruised purple across the horizon, casting long, flickering shadows through the kitchen’s arched windows. The warmth from the crackling fireplace, combined with the hearty meal Elijah had prepared, acted like a heavy, velvet curtain pulling shut over your consciousness. Your head grew heavier with every passing second, eventually finding its natural resting place against the firm curve of Elijah’s shoulder.
He didn't move an inch, fearing he might disturb the fragile peace you’d finally found. He simply reached out, his long fingers trailing lightly over the blanket draped across your lap, ensuring you were still cocooned in warmth. The rhythmic, steady sound of his breathing—a habit he kept more for your comfort than his own necessity—became a lullaby that finally coaxed you into a deep, healing sleep.
Elijah sat in the fading light for a long time, watching the way your features softened in slumber. The fierce protector who had threatened his own siblings just hours earlier was gone, replaced by a man who looked at you with a quiet, almost reverent awe. He waited until your breathing was slow and perfectly synchronized with the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall before he moved.
With the effortless fluidity that only an Original could possess, he slid one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back. He rose from the chair, lifting you as if you were made of the finest, most delicate porcelain. He didn't rush; he savored the quiet walk through the darkened manor, his footsteps silent on the polished wood.
When he reached your bedroom, the moonlight was spilling across the silk sheets he had straightened earlier. He lowered you onto the mattress, his movements so precise that you didn't even stir. He spent a few meticulous minutes arranging the duvet, tucking the corners around your shoulders and smoothing out the smallest of wrinkles with a focused intensity.
Before leaving, he leaned down, his lips brushing against your forehead in a lingering, feather-light kiss.
"Sleep well, my love," he whispered into the stillness of the room, his voice a mere shadow of a sound. "The world is at bay, and I am here."
He didn't return to his desk or his books. Instead, he took up his position in the armchair by the window, a silent, eternal sentinel watching over your recovery until the first light of dawn.
The scars we try hide sometimes get shown. — . a.p
pope x shy!reader x ( Nanny!reader )
WC : 3.5K
Summary : Smurf takes you in , she thinks you’d be good help with Lena, she wants you to be her nanny , Pope hates the idea ….
Warnings : enemies to lovers, Smurf is mentioned, established past career (former stripper until Smurf took reader in), age gap, pining, very soft-spoken shy reader, reader is very much into pink / Pope hates it, slow burn, sexual tension, cliffhanger, angst , r got bruised on left eye , comfort , emotional distress / trauma response , intense arguments / confrontation , ex is the one who cause the bruise eye ..
a/n : the past month i finally started watching animal kingdom take a guess why …shawn hatosy. he’s got some kind of hold on me, and i’m a little too obsessed with andrew “pope” cody ♡ so i wanted to give writing pope a try for the first time …hope you enjoy I’m on season three , where have I been ? I loved writing this it was so fun in I hope you enjoy it .. I’m so scared , I love pope so much I did my best to my ability to his character and Smurfs . 
Divider by @robinavitchslut & @lobster-graphics
So it begins
Smurf looks at you for a long second when she finds you, real quiet, like she’s already figured more out than you’ve said. Your eye’s bruised, left side, dark enough you don’t try to hide it. You don’t say much anyway.
She just hums, soft. “You’re the quiet type,” she says, almost to herself, then glances back at you. “I kinda like that.”
You sit beside her in the car, hands fidgeting with the sleeve of your soft pink cardigan, pulling it over your fingers like it might keep you tucked away. The ride’s quiet, just the sound of the road under the tires.
“My boys,” she adds after a minute, voice gentle but sure, “they can be a little rough around the edges, sweetheart. Don’t let that scare you.”
You nod, small, eyes down.
She reaches over, not touching, just close enough. “We’re family now, okay?” she says, like it’s something solid, something you can hold onto.
Your fingers twist tighter in the fabric.
She notices. Of course she does.
“And we are definitely taking you shopping,” she says, a little lighter now. “Gonna get you out of that hiding place you call a wardrobe.” You almost smile, just barely, still quiet, still tucked into yourself but not as alone as before.
She looks over at you , “welcome home sweetheart,” as you two pull up to the house, the engine still running for a second longer than it needs to.
You don’t move right away. Just sit there, fingers tugging at the sleeve of your soft pink cardigan, pulling it over your hand, eyes stuck somewhere down in your lap.
“Tell me,” she says, softer this time, studying you, “what was a pretty thing like you doing in a place like that?”
You swallow, throat tight. “I needed the money,” you say quietly, barely above a whisper.
She tilts her head a little. “And you thought being a stripper was a good idea?” she asks, not sharp, just… watching you, like she’s waiting to see how much you’ll give her.
You shrug, small, one shoulder lifting more than the other, wincing just slightly like even that pulls at something sore. Your fingers twist tighter into the fabric.
“Beats flipping burgers, I guess,” you murmur, voice soft, almost like you’re trying to make it sound like a joke—but it doesn’t quite land.
Your eyes stay down, blinking a little too slow, like you’re holding something back.
She lets the silence sit for a second, looking at you really looking this time, at the bruise on your left eye, the way you fold in on yourself, how quiet you keep your voice.
Her expression shifts, just a little. Softer.
“C’mon,” she says after a moment, gentle but certain. “Let’s get you inside.” — let’s get you something for that eye , she says .
You both get out the car.
You reach for your bag, holding it close as you follow her up toward the house, steps a little slow like you’re still deciding if this is real or not. The air feels different here. Quieter, but not safe quiet ,just unfamiliar.
Your eyes lift without meaning to. Three guys by the pool. Talking, laughing low, the kind of presence you feel before anyone even looks your way.
You shift slightly behind your bag, shoulders drawing in just a little.
Smurf notices. Of course she does.
“Come,” she says, like it’s simple, like there’s nothing to question.
Her voice doesn’t change, but her pace slows just enough for you to catch up beside her instead of behind her .
You both get inside, the house already loud in a low way voices somewhere deeper in, TV on, footsteps moving like the place never really sits still. The three guys come in behind you. You feel it before you even turn around.
Smurf doesn’t stop walking. Just glances back once.
“Nicky,” she calls, easy. “Get her an ice pack.”
Nicky moves right away, like she already knows better than to ask questions. She comes back a minute later, quiet, careful, pressing it into your hand before sitting close enough to help you hold it without shaking.
You flinch a little when the cold hits your skin.
“Easy,” Nicky says softly. “Just hold it there.”
You nod, eyes down again, letting her guide your hand a bit so it sits right over your left eye.
The guys are there now—Craig leaning back like he owns the space, Deran watching more than he says, and J standing a little off, jaw tight, eyes moving between you and Smurf.
“I’m Nicky,” she says after a beat, glancing at you. “I’m J’s girl.”
You don’t say much, just a small nod, still holding the ice pack in place.
The room stays quiet for a second too long. Smurf looks at all of them, then back at you like it’s already decided.
“She’s part of the family now,” she says, simple, final.
Craig shifts a little. Deran doesn’t move. J just watches.
And you sit there, small on the edge of it all, ice cold against your skin, trying to understand what “family” is supposed to feel like here.
“Where’s Pope?” Smurf asks…
J answers without looking up much. “He’s picking Lena up from school.” His voice is low, steady, looking between you in Nicky
Smurf just nods once. “Okay.”
She turns slightly. “Nicky, take her up to Pope’s old room. Help her get settled. Show her around.”
Nicky gives a small nod. No extra questions. Just stands and gestures for you to follow.
You get up slowly, still holding the ice pack against your eye, following her up the stairs. The house feels bigger the higher you go—quieter too, like the noise stays downstairs.
Halfway up, you glance at her.
“Who’s Pope?” you ask softly.
Nicky doesn’t even hesitate. She just keeps walking, like it’s normal conversation.
“That’s Andrew,” she says. “He’s one of J’s uncles.”
You nod a little, listening.
“He keeps to himself,” she adds, glancing back at you briefly. “Doesn’t sleep much. Doesn’t really talk much either. Just… kind of does his own thing.”
You look down again, adjusting the ice pack carefully.
Nicky pushes open a door at the end of the hall. “This is his room,” she says, stepping aside so you can go in first.
Behind you, Smurf’s voice carries up from downstairs, casual like it’s already decided.
“Burgers and fries with hot dogs for dinner,” she calls out.
Like that’s just how things are now.
Smoke from the grill hangs low in the backyard, burgers and hot dogs already sizzling, Smurf standing over it like she’s done it a thousand times and could do it with her eyes closed.
The back door creaks.
Pope comes in first, Lena right behind him. Small steps, backpack still half on her shoulder. The second she sees Smurf, she doesn’t slow down. She runs.
“Smurf!”
Smurf doesn’t even turn all the way, just opens her arms a little like she already knew.
“C’mere, baby,” she says. “Give me some love.”
Lena throws her arms around her waist, Smurf bending just enough to hug her back, firm and easy like it’s nothing new. Lena presses a quick kiss to her cheek before pulling back just enough to look up at her.
“Can I watch TV?” she asks, already bouncing a little on her feet. Smurf hums, like she’s considering it, but her hand is already smoothing Lena’s hair back. “Yeah,” she says. “Go on.”
Lena lights up instantly and darts back inside without another thought.
Pope stands a few steps back the whole time, quiet. Watching, like he always is. Not saying much, not needing to. Just there.
Smurf glances over her shoulder at him. “You eat?” she asks, like she already knows the answer.
He doesn’t really respond, just gives the smallest nod and moves past her toward the house.
The grill keeps popping behind them, smoke curling up into the warm air, like the whole place just keeps going whether anyone talks or not.
You come downstairs slowly, still holding onto the feeling of the upstairs hall like it might be safer than what’s below it. Your fingers keep worrying at your sleeves, tugging them over your hands as you reach the bottom step.
The house is louder down here—TV in one room, voices somewhere outside, the smell of smoke and food drifting through the air. You pause, just for a second, eyes scanning like you’re trying to place where you’re supposed to stand.
That’s when you hear them.
Voices outside.
You follow the sound, quiet steps across the floor, until you reach the glass sliding door. You stop just behind it, not fully stepping out yet. Just there. Watching through the reflection first before you actually look.
Smurf by the grill. Craig moving past without slowing. J off to the side. Nicky inside somewhere.
And Pope.
Standing a little apart from everyone else.
“What’s up?” he says, voice flat, tired already. His eyes flick once across the yard. “What’d you do, Smurf?”
“Nothing,” Smurf answers, not even turning fully. “Don’t start.” She brought someone home , Deran says walking past you stepping out side , grabbing a drink from the cooler.
Pope takes deep breath ,“It’s not enough you brought J in,” he goes on, lower now, sharper at the edges. “Now there’s someone else.”
You stay behind the glass. Still. Watching it all but not stepping out. You shift slightly at that, sleeves tightening under your fingers.
Pope’s eyes move—just once. Toward the door. Toward you. It’s quick. Controlled. Nothing held there long enough to read. Then he looks away again. Like he’s trying so hard not to stay mad even tho , nothing he says will get through to Smurf because she does whatever she wants anyways .
Lena comes up to you like it’s nothing, like you’ve always been there. Small steps, head tilted, eyes curious.
“Who are you?” she asks.
You pause, then soften your voice. “I’m a friend of your grandma’s.”
She studies you for a second, then shakes her head like that’s not enough. “I’m part of the family now,” you add quietly, almost unsure of it yourself.
“That means you watch TV with me,” she says like it’s settled.
A small breath leaves you. “Sure,” you say.
She grabs your hand without hesitation and pulls you toward the couch. You follow easily, still adjusting to how close everything is here, how people just… reach for each other.
The TV flickers on. Something about wolves. Forests. Pack behavior.
Lena settles in beside you like she’s known you longer than she has, fingers already finding your necklace, playing with it without thinking.
“What happened to your eye?” she asks, not scared, just curious.
You hesitate, hand lifting a little before settling again. “Um… it’s a long story,” you say softly. “One you might not understand right now.”
She looks up at you.
“Maybe I’ll tell you later,” you add gently.
Lena nods like that makes sense. No push. No fear. Just acceptance. Then she leans into you a little, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
On the screen, wolves move through the trees—quiet, alert, close together.
Lena watches for a second, then looks up at you again. “Wolves aren’t mean animals,” she says, low voice, serious like she’s sharing something important.
A small smile touches your face without you meaning it. “I didn’t know that,” you admit. “Who told you that?”
“My uncle Andrew,” she says simply.
The name lands quietly in the room.
You glance up slightly, just enough to see Pope inside the house now, standing where he can see the couch but not close enough, he watches the two of you , connecting he hates it, especially how soft your voice is .
He’s watching. Not interrupting. Just there.
Your fingers stay still under Lena’s hand as she keeps playing with your necklace, like she’s decided you’re safe enough to sit beside. Smurf brings the food in from outside, setting everything down like it’s just another night.
“Dinner’s ready,” she says.
You and Lena both get up, her hand still loosely in yours before she lets go to move closer to the table. You follow a step behind, quiet, watching where everyone goes before you move.
Smurf’s eyes catch the two of you. She pauses, then walks over toward Pope, nodding slightly in your direction.
“See,” she says low to him, “she’s good with her.”
Pope doesn’t answer. Just stands there, jaw set, eyes flicking once toward you before going back to nothing.
Nicky’s already grabbing plates, handing them out like she’s done it a hundred times. Everyone starts moving in, no real order to it, just taking what they want.
You stay close to Lena, reaching for a plate for her from Nicky , trying to do it right. Trying not to be in the way.
“I can help—” you start softly.
“I got it,” Pope cuts in, stepping in before you can finish. His voice isn’t loud, just firm.
Your hands pause mid-motion.
“Sorry,” you say quickly, pulling back a little. “I was just trying to help.”
“Don’t need it,” he says.
Just like that.
You nod, small, eyes dropping again as you step back to give him space, fingers finding your sleeves like they always do.
Lena looks between you both for a second, then back at her plate, like she’s used to it, and you grab some food , hamburger bun chips in hot dog , you then poor you a glass of tea, Lena wanted you to sit by her , so you did .
Pope looks up from his plate, eyes landing on you this time, not quick like before. He actually holds it. “What happened to your eye?” he asks. You barely get a second to answer “It’s a long story,” Lena says for you, mouth full, like she’s been waiting to say it. “Maybe she’ll tell us about it sometime.” There’s a small laugh around the table, not mean, just… easy.
Lena frowns, looking around. “What?” “Nothing,” you say softly, shaking your head a little. “They just thought you were being funny.”
“But I wasn’t,” she says. “I know,” you murmur. She nods once and goes back to eating like that’s the end of it. Pope’s still looking at you, just for a second longer, then he looks away, jaw tight again.
He stands up. “Smurf,” he says. “Can I talk to you outside?” She wipes her hands, already moving. “Yeah.” They head out the back. You sit there for a second, trying to focus on your food, but your ears are already picking up their voices through the open door. “What’s she doing here, Smurf?” Pope’s voice, low but not quiet enough. A pause.
“I thought maybe we could use the help around here,” Smurf says, calm, like she’s already decided it. “With Lena.” “No,” Pope says right away. “Not happening.” “Pope—” “No.” His voice sharper now. “She’s not staying.”
You don’t realize you’ve stood up until you’re already near the door, the voices clearer now, your hand pressing lightly to the frame like you’re steadying yourself.
“Lena needs a female around,” Smurf says, more firm now. Silence for a second. You step out just enough for them to see you, small, careful. “Why… am I here?” you ask, voice quiet but steady enough to be heard. Both of them look at you.
You swallow, fingers tightening in your sleeves. “Why did you pick me?” Smurf’s expression doesn’t change much, she just studies you, like she always does. Pope’s already looking away again.
She comes up to you, calm like she’s already decided it. “Look, sweetheart. I brought you in because I thought you’d be a good fit for our family. I saw you struggling.” “But I wasn’t…” you try to say, voice small but quick, trying to get it out before it becomes something else. You try to protest, but she doesn’t really slow down.
“Lena needs a nanny,” Smurf says, steady. “Someone to help look after her. I thought you’d be good for her. She’s already liking you.” “No,” Pope cuts in immediately, voice flat.
“I’ve got this handled.” You let out a quiet breath before you can stop yourself. “Clearly,” you say under your breath. Soft. Barely there. His head turns right away. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing,” you say quickly, like you didn’t mean for it to leave your mouth at all. Smurf shifts back a step, watching the two of you now instead of stepping in. She lets it sit, lets it play out.
“No,” Pope says again, sharper this time. “Say it.”
You hesitate, then lift your eyes to him. Something in you tightens instead of backing down. You fold your arms, taking a small step closer without really thinking about it.
“No,” you repeat, quieter but clearer now. The air changes just a little nothing loud, nothing dramatic, just heavy in a way that sits between you and him.
“Say it,” he repeats.
You exhale, sharper this time. “Fine.” You step closer to him now, not backing down. “You don’t want my help because you think I’m soft. Because I might be good for her.”
“Go on,” he says, voice flat.
“Because you don’t know anything about me,” you say, eyes locked on him now. “And that scares you.”
A beat. You shake your head slightly, frustration finally breaking through the quiet. “Well, you know what? This whole thing makes no sense to me, but here I am, okay.” Your voice steadies again, but there’s edge under it now. “You wanna keep pushing me away, fine. But Smurf invited me to be here, so I’m here. Deal with it.”
He looks at you for a second, unreadable. Then, plain as ever, “You wear too much pink.”
Without missing a beat, you fire back, “And you’re an asshole.”
You turn on your heel and head back into the house, heart beating a little too fast for how quiet you’re trying to stay.
“Get back here,” Pope says, his voice low, firm, right behind you. You don’t stop. “Why?” you call back, stepping further inside. “You’re not done insulting me?”
“You don’t walk away when we’re in the middle of a conversation,” he says, following you in.
You pause just enough to glance over your shoulder. “Oh… that was a conversation?” you say, soft, but there’s something sharper in it now.
Then you keep walking.
He comes in after you anyway. Close enough you can feel it, even without looking.
Outside, Smurf watches the whole thing through the open door, a small smile tugging at her lips. “She’ll fit right in,” she says.
Deran steps out beside her, letting out a short laugh. “Coulda warned us at least,” he says.
“What, and give Pope the satisfaction of turning it down right away?” Smurf says, taking the drink from him like it was already hers. “And miss this? Nah… I’m good.”
Inside, you move slow near the kitchen, fingers brushing your sleeves but not as tight this time. You turn slightly—and he’s right there. again, as your leaning your back against the counter .
Closer than before. Not touching. Just… there. Your breath catches for a second, but you don’t step back. His eyes drop for half a second to your cardigan, your hands, then back up to your face.
Still unreadable. Still steady.
“You’ don’t get todo that,” he says.
You lift your chin just a little. “Yeah,” you say softly. “ I think I do …. It hangs there between the two of you . Not loud. Not soft either. Just something that doesn’t move. “What happened to your eye?” Pope asks, voice low, not pushing but not letting it go either.
“It’s nothing,” you say, your voice almost cracks . “It really doesn’t concern you.” Your voice stays soft, but there’s a small edge under it now.
“Tell me,” he says.
You just look at him for a long second. Then you exhale. “Fine… Smurf found me. At a strip club.” His brow shifts slightly. “What was she doing in there?”
You shrug, small. “Don’t know.” A pause. “It’s from my ex… he got mad because I wouldn’t take him back.”
Pope’s jaw tightens just a little. “So he hit you?”
You nod.
Silence sits between you for a second.
“You know… I’ve seen you there before,” you say quietly, glancing at him. “At the club. You always seemed so mad… so down.”
His eyes flick to yours. “Maybe that’s just how I am,” he says, flat, but there’s something heavier under it.
Another pause. Closer now. Too close to just ignore. “We’re definitely not telling Lena this story,” he adds, low, like it’s already decided.
You nod. “Yeah.”
Your eyes meet his again, and it lingers this time. Not soft. Not warm. Just… something that doesn’t move, sitting tight between the two of you. “Tomorrow morning,” he says, voice low, like he’s already moved past everything else, “she’ll expect breakfast.”
You nod a little, still standing close, closer than you meant to be.“Waffles,” he adds. “Maybe some eggs.” “How about bacon?” you ask, softer now . He gives a small nod. “Sure.” A beat. “Chocolate chip waffles. That’s what she’ll want.” “Got it,” you say.
“Six-thirty,” he says, eyes steady on yours. “That’s when you need to be up. She’s gotta be at school before eight.” You nod again. “Okay.”“Do you drive?” he asks. You nod.
“Good,” he says. “Take Smurf’s car… since she invited you here.” A pause. “You can take the Jag.”
You shift slightly, and that’s when you notice how close he is.
Not touching.
But close enough that if either of you moved even a little—
His hand lifts like he’s going to point at something, but it doesn’t. His fingers just hover near yours for a second, like he changed his mind halfway through.
You don’t pull back.
Neither does he. “You’ll be ready?” he asks, quieter now. “Yeah,” you say, just as soft. His eyes stay on you a second longer than they should, then drop briefly to your hand before he steps back, like he’s the one breaking it.
“Good,” he says.
Don’t make me regret this,” he says, voice low. “I’m still not okay with it… but Smurf does her own thing.” A small pause. “You’ll notice that the longer you stay here.”
You nod, quiet.
Lena’s already passed out on the couch, curled into herself, the TV still playing low. Nicky and J are off somewhere, their voices gone from the house. Craig already left. Deran’s still outside with Smurf.
The house feels different now. Quieter.
You stand there for a second, not really moving, your fingers brushing over your sleeves again, but slower this time.
Your mind keeps replaying it.
The way he stood close. Too close. The way his voice dropped when he was telling you what Lena needed. The way his hand almost , You swallow, shaking it off a little, like you’re trying to settle back into yourself.
You don’t even hear Smurf come in.
“Sweetheart” you okay ?
You blink, looking up.
Deran’s leaning in the doorway now, slight smirk on his face. “She didn’t hear you,” he says to Smurf. Then, a little louder, “Shortbread.” He says
Your eyes flick to him, confused for a second.
Smurf steps closer, her attention already on you. I asked “You okay?” she asks, softer now.
You nod. “Yeah.”
She watches you for a second, like she’s deciding if she believes it.
“Tomorrow,” she says, lighter, “we’ll go shopping, okay?”
You nod again, small. “Okay.”
Deran huffs a quiet laugh under his breath, still leaning there. “Shortbread,” he mutters again, like it fits. That’s your nickname, he says , trust me it’ll stick …
You head upstairs to your room and catch Pope just finishing with Lena. He’s tucking her in, pulling the blanket up like it’s nothing new for him. He stands there a second longer, making sure she’s settled, then steps back and shuts the door behind him quietly.
“Heading up?” he asks you as he turns.
You nod.
His eyes drop for a second, catching your hands.
“Do you stay here on occasion?” You ask him trying to keep your voice steady because of how close he is …
He hesitate. “Sometimes….” Not so much anymore he says voice low … “You’re fidgeting again,” he says, flat but observant.
“I’m not,” you say softly, immediately, like your trying to catch up with your own thoughts.
He gives a small look. “Okay.”
You walk toward his old room—your room now—feeling him follow behind you without needing to look back. The hallway feels smaller with him there.
“Six-thirty,” he says again, like he’s making sure it sticks.
You stop at the doorway, then turn to face him. You step closer without really thinking about it, just enough that the space between you tightens.
“Pope,” you say, looking straight at him now. “I said I got it the first time.”
He doesn’t move back. Doesn’t move at all, really. Just looks at you for a long second, eyes steady, reading you in a way that makes your chest feel a little too tight.
“God, I hate this,” he says under his breath, voice low.
And for a second, neither of you moves.
“Look at me,” you say softly.
It takes him a minute. He doesn’t move right away, jaw tight, eyes still somewhere just past you.
“Pope… please look at me.”
Finally, he does.
The second his eyes lock onto yours, the air shifts.
“I promise,” you say, voice steady even though your hands aren’t, “nothing is going to happen to her. Not under my watch at least.”
You swallow, still holding his gaze. “I didn’t even know if I wanted this… to do this at first. I didn’t know why Smurf brought me here. She just told me to get in the car and that I was coming home with her, so I did.”
A breath slips out of you. You don’t look away. “And when I got here… I don’t know. It felt strange. Like I didn’t fit anywhere.”
Your back is against the wall now without you really noticing when it happened. He’s closer too—close enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to keep looking at him.
“Please keep looking at me,” you say quieter.
His gaze flickers for half a second, like it almost breaks, but it doesn’t.
“When you came in with Lena,” you go on, voice softer now, “and she wanted me to watch TV with her… I felt seen for the first time in a while.”
A beat.
“I know it’s stupid to say,” you add quickly, shaking your head a little, “but I think Lena will be good for me too. So please… let me do this, Pope.”
Silence sits heavy between you. Too close. Too still.
His eyes drop for a second—to your face, your cardigan, the way you’re pressed into the wall like you’re trying not to take up space—and then back up again.
“I really hate pink,” he says finally, low.
It almost pulls something out of you. Almost.
You let out a small breath. “Noted.”
He doesn’t move back. Doesn’t step away either. Just stays there, hovering close enough that it feels like neither of you, thinking about Lena anymore .
Summary: Bob wanted to surprise you with breakfast in bed, but his plan was thwarted the moment you wrapped your arms around his waist as he cooked. it's alright though, because he loves your hugs the most.
Warnings: Pure domestic fluff, food mentioned, think that's it.
Word Count: 665
Note: Well, I want pancakes now. Apologies that this one is really short, but I hope you guys enjoy this sweet morning with our Bobby! Work has been way busier than usual, but I should have a Rhett, Miles, and Miles & Bob fic all coming sometime next week! Based on this request here.
Masterlists
🐂Part of my 500 Follower Celebration🐂
The pan in front of Bob sizzles to life as he drizzles the olive oil onto it. The oil spirals as he spreads it around, coating the pan evenly throughout. His stomach growls, demanding to be fed, but alas, Bob has to actually wait for his pancakes to be cooked before he could eat them, much to his hungry stomachs annoyance.
Bob was excited to surprise you with breakfast this morning. You had been out late last night, meeting the rest of the squad at the Hard Deck for some celebratory drinks for another successful mission at Top Gun and your plan to be home by ten turned into you not rolling into bed until half passed two after you dropped off a stumbling Mickey and Jake off to their respective apartments, Nat ducking out just in the nick of time so she wouldn't have to deal with those two.
Bob hoped to make it to you with your favorite breakfast, already imagining your curious face poking out under the covers when he'd walk in with a plate stacked high with that fluffy deliciousness and how you'd stretch, pulling him into an appreciative kiss before snatching the plate from him.
That hope died the moment your arms wrapped him up in a back hug, your head leaning against his shoulder as you yawned.
Bob groans, dramatically throwing his head back at the fact his plan for a romantic morning with you was ruined, “You were supposed to stay asleep.”
“Well good morning to you too, grumpy.”
Bob mumbles something about him not being grumpy, but you ignore him, burying your face deeper in his back, “Couldn’t really stay asleep when my personal space heater walked away and left me shivering in that cold tundra, now could I?”
“It is not a cold tundra in our room.”
“Fix the heater and it won’t be anymore.”
Bob stifles a laugh as he flips the now done pancake onto a plate. You always claimed to the love the cold until it reached below 65 in the house, “Promise I will. Right after breakfast.”
You hum, accepting his answer, “You’re lucky it wasn’t the AC that was broken. If that wasn’t fixed on day one, we would not be here right now.”
“Oh really?”
“Yep. Some cold? Fine, okay. I’ve been fine the last few days that it's been broken. But… a few days without the AC? In San Diego, especially if it was during a heat wave? No thank you!”
Bob shakes his head as he chuckles, when you move to pull away, he brings his hand down from the pan to you, stopping you from detaching from his waist.
“No stay.”
“You just grumbled at me a second ago for hugging you?”
“Correction, not for you hugging me, for you getting out of bed when I was going to surprise you with breakfast in bed. There’s a difference.”
You roll your eyes, ready to say something witty when he adds, “Plus, you give the best hugs.”
“Well… since you said that so nicely, I guess I can stay.”
Bob does a quiet cheer. You lightly bite his shoulder and squeeze his waist a little harder, but it doesn’t faze him, he just chuckles as he flips another pancake, “Keep squeezing me while I flip these pancakes. It’s a great motivator.”
“Oh really?”
“Yep! The best.”
You stay there, hugging Bob from behind as he makes his way through the kitchen, stuck on him as he grabs cups from the cabinet and the syrup from the pantry, waddling behind him to keep up.
It’s a silly sight that would definitely get the squad to tease you both about being a sappy, lovey dovey couple acting like they were still in their honeymoon phase even though you’ve been dating for years, but it’s how you two worked. You could be wrinkled and grey and you’d still be sickeningly sweet on each other, too lost in one another to care otherwise.
Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated! Love ya!
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Hi hi I’m here with a request for Bob Floyd X reader going on there first day and they are both all shy and nervous and just idiots in love!
Thanks my love!!!
-Iris/Mars
A first date (nearly) gone wrong
Bob Floyd x fem! reader
A/n- Pretty self indulgent, reader's favourite flowers are daisies (cuz mine are), reader wears a dress and makeup, nat being the amazing wing woman she is, me doing unnecessary research on birds for two lines
This took me quite a while to get out (writing slumps' quite the bitch) but I do hope u like it!!
Join my taglist here!
Warnings- none! This is pure fluff gang
Word count- 2,135
You tugged nervously at your dress, fixing your entire outfit and hair every two seconds in the mirror.
"Oh my god, stop that you look amazing," Nat groaned from behind you. You sighed, "I know I just-”
You turned to her. "I want everything to be perfect. It’s our first date.”
"It- it decides the entire trajectory of the-" you waved your arms around. "the whole thing." You turned to the mirror again, awkwardly smoothening the fabric of your dress for what must have been the seventy-fifth time.
Nat huffed and left her spot on your couch. She held you by your shoulders, turning you in her direction. "That’s not true at all. If it's the right person, you could have a million dates gone terribly wrong and they'd still like you," she explained.
"And you have nothing to worry about," she smiled. "You are intelligent, cunning, talented, hardworking," she fixed a strand of your hair. "And the most gorgeous woman I've laid eyes on,".
That made you chuckle.
"No seriously," said Nat. "If I was in Bob's place, I would feel like I'm the luckiest woman ever," she shrugged.
You laughed, shaking your head, "You can keep dreaming," you gave her a sly grin.
Natasha beamed, "There she is!"
Just then, you heard three gentle knocks on your door.
"Right on time," noted Nat.
"Okay let's do this," you said to yourself and once again fixed your dress before heading towards the door.
"Good luck and don't trip over yourself," called out Nat from behind.
You smiled and opened the door to find Bob standing at the doorway with a bouquet of daisies in his hand.
"Hey hi," he cleared his throat.
"Hi," You gave him a little wave and a smile.
He widened his eyes, taking in your appearance. "You look amazing," he said.
You blinked, "I-yeah-I mean thank you," you quickly nodded.
He smiled then looked down at the flowers in his hand. "Oh these are for you,".
You smiled in awe, "How did you know?" you turned to him, referring to your favourite flowers.
"Oh you-uh you mentioned they were your favourite once," he tugged at his glasses as he explained.
"Oh," You breathed out, trying your best to ignore the sudden warmth blooming in your chest.
"Shall we?" He asked, gesturing towards his car,
"Yes, of course," You nodded and went along with him.
***
The two of you had decided to visit the Gardens for your date. Both equally craving some peace and quiet in nature, after a long, and awfully tiring week.
And as much you were loving being here, you were terribly freaking out. Each time you tried to ask him something, the words got caught up in your throat and you were afraid of som saying the wrong thing, and you were worrying every second as to whether your outfit was still okay or not.
"So," began Bob, pulling you out of your train of thoughts.
"Hmm, yes? I mean- yeah?" You turned to him.
"Do you.." he hesitated, struggling to find the words. "Do you like it here?" he asked.
"Oh yeah very much!" You nodded, a smile forming at your lips. "The weather's really nice and," you waved a hand around. "So are the surroundings,".
"It really is," he agreed.
He opened his mouth to speak again, but closed it, looking unsure.
For yet another moment, the two of you walk in absolute silence, with only the sound of the birds chirping.
"The uh-" You tried. "The birds sound very...sweet?" You managed.
"They are," smiled Bob.
"What bird do you think that is?" You asked.
Bob's eyes seemed to light up at your question "Well," He seemed to think for a moment. "Judging by the short and slurred call, it could be a white-winged dove," he said.
"Though it could be a mourning bird too".
You listened to him with a wide eyed grin, proud of yourself for finding a suitable enough topic.
You smiled fondly as the two of you walked at the edges of the lake, you listening to him talk about birds.
"Oh and the Common Nighthawk-"
You felt a round shape collide with your skull before Bob could finish his sentence. You lost your footing terribly and dove head first into the lake.
You heard Bob call out your name as you felt the cold water strike you across every inch of your skin.
You suddenly felt two hands grab yours as you attempted to get you out. Bob was already at the edge, pulling you back up easily with a surprising amount of strength.
"Oh my god, are you okay!?" He asked as soon as you landed back on the grass.
You heaved before using your sleeve to wipe the water away from your eyes. "Yeah - yeah I'm okay," You managed, but you were shivering.
Just then, a group of kids appeared in your sight. "We're so sorry," one of them said to you.
"We didn't mean to hit you, it was an accident,".
"It's-it's alright," You reassured them, before sneezing five times in a row. ""I'm okay, I promise," You sniffled.
"You're trembling," Bob said, concern woven in his irises.
"I’m okay Bob, don’t worry," You attempted.
You were not fine
You were cold, very cold.
It was as if he'd read your mind, Bob quickly pulled out a handkerchief. "You can use this to dry yourself,"he handed it to you.
"It's- no it's okay, Bob. You don't have to do that," You managed to sound convincing.
"No no no, it's very much not okay," He frowned. "Come on, let's get you dried up," He slowly draped an arm around your shoulder and led you away from the lake.
After very thoroughly, ridding yourself of the water on your skin, you could still feel your hair terribly clinging to you, your makeup entirely ruined and your outfit wrinkled.
You could feel the breeze send chills through your skin.
Seeing this, Bob quickly shrugged off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders. "Oh no Bob, you'll get cold," You shook your head.
"I'll be okay," He reassured you. “Just keep it on, please?" he pleaded.
You sighed and hesitantly put it on.
You wanted to break down in tears. You and Nat had spent so much time dressing you up and it was all entirely ruined in a few seconds.
"What's wrong?" Bob asked, his brows furrowed.
"It's- nothing," You looked away, trying desperately to brush off the tears threatening to spill out.
He reached out for your hand and held it on his own. "I can see something's bothering you, and I really hate to see you upset." He brushed his thumb across your skin.
"Can you please tell me what's wrong?" He leaned closer.
You bit your lip, "It's just-" You let out a sigh. "It's our first date and it was supposed to be perfect. "You turned to face him. "And I spent so much time making sure everything was perfect..making sure I was perfect." You admitted.
"And I've already ruined it." You looked down, fumbling with the fabric of your dress.
“Hey hey don't say that please,” concern washed over Bob’s features. “You've not ruined anything, I promised.”
You looked back up at him, lips forming a frown.
“Of course today hasn't really been going as we planned...” He slowly lifted a shoulder.
“Clearly,” you muttered, glancing down at your wrinkled dress.
“But still,” He held out both your hands in his. “I'm here with you,” He smiled. “On an actual date!” He beamed.
“You've no idea how much I've dreamt of this, of being here with you,” He gazed fondly into your eyes.
You couldn't help but smile at his words. “Me too,” You nodded.
Bob shifted closer to you. “And don't you worry about today not being perfect, because it already is.”.
He slowly brushed away a damp strand of hair away from your eye. “You're perfect to me.”
He moved his hand back to yours and placed a kiss on your knuckles.
Warmth bloomed through your chest like a living thing. And suddenly, you'd forgotten why you were so anxious about today in the first place.
“You know, I was really worried about today,” You admitted. “I mean I was excited, of course. But I was scared I might end up saying or doing the wrong thing,”.
Bob ran a hand through his hair, “Honestly, me too,”.
“Really?” You raised a brow.
“Yeah,” He pursed his lips. “And I spent an embarrassing amount of time practicing what I was gonna say to you,”.
You let out a chuckle, “Oh my god,” you shook your head.
Then shifted your focus back to him, “Well let's agree to not be so awkward in front of each other from now on,” You said.
“Yeah, I would really like that,” He smiled.
“Great,” You beamed.
“Oh shall we go check out the flowers?” He asked.
Your eyes light up, “Yes please!”.
***
The weather at the park was almost as perfect as it could be. There was a gentle breezing, cooling out the afternoon sun as the two of you walked together.
“Oh oh pansies!!” You excitedly pointed out to the lovely array of flowers.
“Oh they’re lovely,” smiled Bob.
You quickly rushed towards the bush and carefully plucked a few, beaming with joy upon seeing the flowers.
You picked one by its stem and attempted to put it in your hair.
Seeing what you were trying to do, Bob asked, “Do you want me to put those in your hair for you?”.
You looked up at him, “Yes!” You quickly nodded.
Bob took the flowers from your palm and gently placed them one by one in your hair, securing them using your hairclip.
“Ah there, perfect,” He looked back to proudly examine his work.
You smiled, “Thank you so much!”.
Bob’s cheeks flushed a bright red, “Of course, anything for you.”
After walking for a little more, the two of you settled at a quiet corner on a bench.
"Hey look at that," You pointed at two birds sitting on a tree branch.
"Hmm?" Bob looked around. "Ah," he glanced at the birds.
"They look lovely," he smiled.
"They do!" You nodded smiling, then stopped in your tracks and began to observe them closely. "Huh,"
"Wht is it?" Bob asked.
"I think the one on the left is upset," you pointed out.
Bob scrunched his brows, "How'd you know?".
"Look," You nodded in their direction. "She just moved away to another branch. Not too far from him, but not as close as before,".
Bob looked at you, confusion written all over his face. "How do you know which one's the guy and which one's the girl?" He asked.
"By observing their mannerisms, Bob Floyd," You met his gaze and stated casually.
Bob chuckled and turned his focus back to the birds, "Oh looks like he's going after her," He noted.
“Hmm?" You turned your head in their direction. "Oh yeah," .
"Guess she's too precious for him to let go of," You chuckled.
Bob turned to you with a small smile tugging at his lips, "I can relate," he said, mostly to himself.
“You know,” You turned to Bob with a small smile tugging at your lips.
“Hmm?” Bob turned to you.
“Today went really well, I had so much fun with you.” You said.
Bob beamed, “You did?”
“Yeah” You nodded.
“Me too,” he smiled. “Would you- uhm” he hesitated.
You shifted closer to him, “Yeah?”.
He looked up to meet your gaze, “Would you want to do this again, sometime?” he asked, his face a bright red.
You smiled fondly and nodded, “Yes, I would love that.”
Bob relaxed his features and smiled. “Great!”.
“Shall we uh- shall we head back now?” He asked, as the sun began to set.
“Yep,” You pouted, slowly nodding.
The two of you started to get up from your spot.
Just then, a thought struck your mind. “One little thing before that though,” You whipped your head back to face him.
“Yeah what is-” Before Bob could finish his sentence, you cupped his face in your palms and placed a quick kiss to his lips.
“Okay,” You let out a giggle, terribly flustered. “Now we can go.”
You expected him to agree and follow you but as you began to walk away, you felt him hold on to your hand.
“Actually,” he began.
As you turned back to him, he slowly wrapped his arms around your waist and placed his lips on yours, taking his time as he kissed you.
When you pulled away, your heart beating in your throat and your entire face burning hot, he said with a fond smile. “Now, we can go.”
hi queen can i request a daryl fic where the girls in the quarry group in season 1 doesnt seem to understand how can daryl and reader be together since he is always grumpy over something and has quite the temper, while reader is very gentle and sweet? but they soon end up noticing that daryl gives her princess treatment🤭 and even with his temper (towards the others ofc) he is actually a good boyfriend?
Scary Dog Privileges
You and Daryl fell in love long before the world met its end, though it seems no matter what you both do, the people you're making camp with can't grasp the concept of you, all frilly and sweet, and Daryl, all temper and rage, finding love together.
A/N: Hello, dear! Thank you so sm for requesting this fic! S1-S2 Daryl is so special to me, since I fell head over heels for his grumpy attitude almost immediately (so immediately MY MOM called me out on it, embarassing I know). I hope I did your request justice! Thank you for being so patient. I know this fic took some time to get out.
CW: 5k words, Established relationship pre-outbreak between Daryl and the reader, reader is an official sunshine! girly and Daryl spoils her rotten but won't admit it, the reader stays behind to help with basics at camp (i.e cooking, cleaning, mending), the reader gets Daryl out of his shell in more ways than you think (wink wonk), Outercourse between a male and female, brief mentions of pregnancy and wanting to avoid it, Daryl being kind of inexperienced and the reader guiding him briefly, Daryl being a grumbly little ball of anger but a softie for the reader, Carol teasing Daryl (besties), written with a plus sized! reader in mind (as always, chubby girls rise up), Petnames (sugar, doll, baby).
The fish aren’t biting today and you're two minutes away from crashing the actual fuck out. You sigh, tugging your borrowed flannel tighter around your shoulders as the wind kicks up, sending ripples across the quarry’s murky water.
Behind you, Carol hums something tuneless while scrubbing a shirt against the washboard, the rhythm steady as a heartbeat. "You’d think after all this time," she says, not looking up, "You'd be better at tellin’ when the fish are just plain stubborn. S’ not your fault, sweetheart."
You smile at her kindness, but it’s half-hearted. Your fingers fiddle with the frayed hem of Daryl’s shirt, the one he’d shrugged off onto shoulders this morning before heading into the woods, muttering about rabbit tracks he'd seen the day before. It still smells like him: sweat, gunpowder, and something stubbornly alive beneath it all.
Andrea tosses a pebble into the water, watching it sink. "How’s it you can stand him, anyway?" The question’s casual, but her eyes flick to you with real curiosity. "Man’s got a temper like a hornet’s nest."
Your cheeks flush pink, fingers tightening around the damp fabric in your hands. "Who, Daryl? Well… He’s not- " you start, then stop, unsure how to explain the Daryl that only you get to see, the one who tucks wildflowers behind your ear when he thinks no one’s looking, the one who builds little makeshift shelves in your tent out of scavenged wood and duct tape for the seashells you keep finding at the quarry.
They'll never understand him.
Carol’s lips quirk as she wrings out a pair of pants. "Oh, I know that look," she says, softer now. "Same one Ed used to give me when we were just kids, ‘fore he decided bein’ mean was easier than lovin’." The words hang heavy between you, the ghost of her bruises left unmentioned. Your heart breaks into pieces for her.
Andrea scoffs, tossing another pebble. "Still don’t get it. Guy snaps at Shane for breathing too loud, but you?" She gestures at the way you’re practically swimming in Daryl’s shirt, the sleeves rolled up almost six times. "He lets you steal his clothes like you're some kinda…"
"Pet," Carol supplies, grinning when you duck your head to try and hide the pink flush crawling up to your pierced ears.
"M’ not his pet," you grumble, but your ears burn hotter when Carol laughs, soft, knowing. The laundry flutters between your fingers, wet and shapeless, and you focus on folding it just to have something to do with your anxious, shaking hands.
"He brings me coffee," you say suddenly as if it's an epiphany, voice small against the quarry’s echo. "Every morning. Even when we’re low. He- uh- he remembers how I like it." Three sugars, no cream, because before the world ended, the corner diner always got it wrong and Daryl would watch you grimace through each bitter sip like a stubborn mule until he'd reach for the sugar packets and fix it himself.
Andrea’s pebble-throwing pauses. "Huh."
Carol’s hands still in the soapy water. "The man ever tell you why?"
You shake your head, pressing the folded shirt to your chest like a temporary shield. "Don’t gotta say it." The words come out quiet, barely louder than the water lapping at the rocks. "He shows me every damn day."
Carol’s eyes soften, but Andrea leans forward, elbows on her knees. "Yeah? How’s that?"
You bite your lip, tracing the stitching on Daryl’s sleeve where it’s come loose. "Last week," you start, voice gaining strength, "he came back from a hunt with his jacket torn up. Blood all over the sleeve." Andrea raises an eyebrow, but you rush on. "Not his. Walkers’. But he- " A laugh bubbles up, unexpected. "He still took it off before comin’ into the tent ‘cause he knows I don’t like the smell. Hung it on a tree branch like some kinda..."
"Gentleman," Carol finishes, grinning when you nod.
The conversation drifts away after that, dissolving into the quiet rhythm of washing and folding, but the warmth of Daryl’s secret kindness lingers under your ribs like a second heartbeat. By the time the sun dips low, casting long shadows across the quarry, you’ve retreated to your tent, the one tucked farther from the group, half-hidden by a thicket of pine. Inside, it’s a nest of mismatched blankets, scavenged trinkets, and the faint, stubborn scent of Daryl’s musk clinging to the fabric walls. You sit cross-legged on your shared rumpled sleeping bag, idly tracing the stitching of his shirt where it’s come loose at the shoulder, when the tent flap rustles, evening light filtering in briefly.
Daryl ducks inside, his silhouette backlit by the dying sun. He’s got a rabbit slung over one shoulder, its fur matted with dried blood, and a paper-wrapped bundle tucked under his arm. “Ain’t much,” he grunts, tossing the bundle into your lap. It’s warm, cornbread, probably scavenged from some abandoned pantry, and still faintly soft. “Figured you’d forget to eat.”
You unfold the paper carefully, revealing a hunk of cornbread, slightly crumbled at the edges. “You remembered,” you whisper in awe, because it’s Tuesday, and before the world ended, Tuesdays were cornbread nights at the diner down the road from your apartment. Daryl just shrugs, but his ears go pink as he busies himself with skinning the rabbit, his knife flashing in the dim light.
He works in silence, the only sound the steady rasp of blade against hide, until he pauses, glancing at you sideways. “Ain’t like you to hide out here, doll,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “Lori’s got that stew goin’ you like. Carol’s been askin’ after you.”
You pick at the cornbread crumbs in your lap, avoiding his gaze. “Wasn’t in the mood for company,” you murmur, but the lie tastes bitter on your tongue. Daryl’s knife stills mid-stroke, his brow furrowing as he studies you, really studies you, the way he does when he’s tracking something through the underbrush.
“Bullshit,” he says bluntly, wiping his hands on his jeans before scooting closer. The rabbit carcass lies forgotten as he nudges your knee with his own. “Spit it out.”
Your throat tightens. “They were talkin’ about you today,” you admit, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. “Andrea said she didn’t get how I could stand your temper. Carol called me your pet.”
Daryl’s nostrils flare, but it’s not anger that flashes across his face, it’s something raw and vulnerable, like a wounded animal caught in a trap. “They ain’t exactly wrong,” he mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck where the sun’s burned it pink. “Know I ain’t easy.”
"You're easy with me," you say softly, reaching out to trace the sunburned curve of his neck before you can stop yourself. Daryl goes still under your touch, his breath hitching like you've pressed against a bruise. "That's all that matters to me.”
His jaw works silently for a moment before he exhales through his nose, rough and ragged. "Still." The word comes out ground between his teeth. "Don't like 'em talkin' 'bout you like that. Like you're less than me, like I control you." The knife in his hand twitches, blade catching the fading light.
You catch his wrist before he can start skinning again, your thumb brushing the pulse point beneath his leather wristband. "They don't know, honey," you croon. "How you bring me coffee. How you built those little fucked up shelves for my shells." Your voice drops to a whisper, the tent walls suddenly too thin. "How you kiss me like I'm something precious even after all this time together."
Daryl's pupils blow wide, the knife slipping from his fingers to thud against the sleeping bag. "Christ, woman,” he breathes, and then his large hands are framing your face, calloused thumbs sweeping over your cheekbones like he's trying to memorize the shape of you. "Ain't never had nothin' half as good as you, you know that," he says, voice cracking on the last word.
His forehead presses against yours, the heat of his skin seeping into you like sunlight through leaves. You can smell the sweat and pine sap clinging to him, the metallic tang of walker blood still lingering under his nails. But when his lips brush yours, hesitant, almost reverent, it’s all you can focus on.
"You’re doin’ it again," you murmur against his mouth, fingers curling into the frayed edges of his vest.
"Doin’ what?" he grumbles, but his hands are already sliding down to grip your hips, tugging you flush against him.
"Talkin’ like you don’t deserve me. You know I hate when you do that." You nip at his bottom lip, grinning when he growls and kisses you harder, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a desperation that makes your toes curl.
Daryl pulls back just enough to glare at you, his breath hot against your lips. "Ain't talkin' like that…" he mutters, but his hands betray him, sliding up under the stolen flannel to trace the dip of your waist. "Just statin' the facts, sugar."
You arch into his touch, biting back a whimper when his calloused thumbs brush the underside of your breasts. "Your facts are stupid," you whine, and he snorts, dragging his mouth down your neck just to hear you gasp. The stubble on his chin rasps against your skin, the sensation sending sparks down your spine.
The cornbread lies forgotten as Daryl maneuvers you onto your back, his body a solid weight between your thighs. He braces himself on one elbow, the other hand still roaming under your shirt like he’s mapping new territory. "Always so damn soft, it drives me crazy," he practically coos against your collarbone, his voice rough with something that isn’t quite disbelief but close enough to make your chest ache.
You hitch a plush leg over his hip, grinding against the hard line of his cock straining against his jeans. Daryl groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. "Quit that," he grits out, but his hips jerk forward anyway, betraying him, seeking friction.
Daryl’s breath hitches when you rock against him again, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises. “Told you- fuckin’ hell woman- quit it,” he growls, but his body betrays him, pressing you deeper into the nest of blankets as his cock twitches against your thigh. You whine, arching up to chase the heat of him, but he pins you down with a rough hand splayed across your stomach.
“Ain’t got no condoms, y'know that,” he grumbles, voice thick with frustration. His nose brushes yours tenderly, close enough you can taste the stale coffee on his breath. “Can’t risk it. Not now. Not when things are like this.”
You squirm under his grip, fingers clawing at his vest. “Don’t need ‘em for what I want,” you pant, tipping your head back when his teeth graze your pulse point. “S’ called outercourse- just- just rub against me, c’mon- ”
Daryl freezes, brow furrowed. The confusion on his face is almost comical, like you’ve just suggested they start selling ice cream in hell. “The fuck’s outercourse?”
You giggle at the bewildered look on his face, cheeks flushing as you reach between your bodies to unbutton his jeans with trembling fingers. "Like this," you murmur, guiding his hand down to the damp heat between your thighs. His breath hitches when your fingers wrap around his cock, hot and heavy in your palm, as you drag him through the slickness gathering there. "Just- just move against me, okay? Can't get pregnant like this."
Daryl makes a strangled noise low in his throat, hips jerking forward instinctively. "Fuck, sugar," he rasps, forehead dropping to yours as you guide him between your thighs, the head of his cock catching against your clit with each shallow thrust. "This- shit- this legal?"
You snort, dragging your nails down his sweat-damp back. "Pretty sure the law ain't exactly a priority anymore, babe."
Daryl groans, hips stuttering as he grinds against you, the rough fabric of his jeans rasping against your inner thighs. "Fuckin' little smartass," he grits out, but there's no heat in it, just that rough, desperate edge that makes your stomach flip. His calloused fingers dig into the swell of your hips as he finds a rhythm, each thrust dragging his cock against your puffy clit in a way that has you biting your lip to keep from crying out and embarrassing both of you in front of the whole camp.
"Quiet, gotta be quiet, baby," he breathes against your ear, nipping at the lobe. "Whole damn camp's gonna hear you."
You whimper, arching into him as his teeth sink into the soft skin of your shoulder, just hard enough to sting. "Daryl- "
Your breath comes in ragged gasps, fingers twisting in Daryl's vest as he moves against you with rough, desperate strokes. Every drag of his cock against your clit sends sparks up your spine, the pleasure coiling tight in your belly. "Daryl," you whimper again, louder this time, and he clamps a hand gently over your mouth with a muttered curse, his hips never slowing.
"Told you- quiet," he growls, but his voice cracks halfway through, his pupils blown wide with want. His other hand slips between your bodies, calloused fingers finding your swollen, slick clit with unerring accuracy. The dual stimulation makes your thighs shake, a broken moan muffled against his palm.
Daryl watches you unravel beneath him with something like reverence, his breath hot against your cheek. "That's it," he croons, thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless circles. "Gonna make you come so damn pretty for me."
You writhe under him, the pressure building unbearably fast, almost overwhelmingly fast. The tent walls feel paper-thin at this point, every rustle of fabric deafening as Daryl's thrusts grow more erratic, his rhythm faltering. His forehead drops to yours, sweat dripping from his temple onto your flushed skin. "Close," he grits out, his voice raw. "Fuck- so close- "
You clench around nothing miserably as Daryl’s fingers work you closer to the edge, your thighs trembling where they bracket his hips. "Please, Daryl- baby-" you whine against his palm, the words muffled but ridiculously needy. His answering groan is ragged, his hips stuttering as he grinds against you with renewed urgency. The head of his cock catches your clit on every thrust, the friction just shy of too much, until it isn't, until pleasure crests like a wave and crashes over you in a shuddering rush.
Daryl’s hand tightens over your mouth as your back arches off the sleeping bag, your cry swallowed by his calloused palm. He watches you with dark, hooded eyes, his breath coming in sharp pants against your temple. "Fuck," he rasps, his hips jerking erratically. "Just- just like that, sugar- " His voice cracks as his own release hits him, his body going rigid above you before he collapses with a muffled grunt, his forehead pressing into the curve of your shoulder.
For a long moment, the only sound is your mingled breathing, harsh and uneven in the quiet of the tent. Daryl’s hand slides from your mouth to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had escaped. "Ain’t never seen nothin’ prettier," he rasps, voice rough with something that makes your chest ache.
You huff a giggle, still boneless beneath him, and nudge his shoulder with your nose. "Even with your hand smotherin’ me?"
Daryl snorts, rolling off you with a grunt, his body still thrumming with leftover heat. He reaches for the discarded flannel beside the sleeping bag, wiping hastily at the mess between your thighs before tossing it into the corner. "Woulda been louder without it," he teases, but there's no bite to it, just that gruff tenderness that still makes your stomach flutter.
You stretch lazily, the muscles in your legs pleasantly sore, and catch him staring at the chubby curve of your hip where his shirt has ridden up. His gaze flickers away when you notice, but not fast enough to hide the way his throat bobs. "What?" you tease, poking his ribs.
"Nothin'." He catches your wrist, pressing your palm flat against his hairy chest where his heartbeat thrums rabbit-quick beneath warm skin. His fingers twine with yours, callouses rough against your knuckles. "Just... you."
The simplicity of it punches the air from your lungs. You squeeze his hand, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. "Daryl Dixon, what a poet you are," you giggle, half-joking to mask the way your voice wavers.
Daryl scowls at your teasing, but his fingers tighten around yours,.anchoring, possessive. “Ain’t poetic,” he grumbles, rolling onto his side to face you. The fading light catches the scar above his eyebrow and you trace it without thinking, and he stills under your touch, his breath hitching like it’s the first time you’ve ever touched him.
“You are, though,” you murmur, and his brow furrows deeper. “In your own way.” You press a kiss to the scar, feeling his pulse jump under your lips. “Like when you patched my Chuck Taylors with duct tape ‘cause you knew they were my favorite.”
Daryl’s ears go pink. He swats halfheartedly at your shoulder. “Shut up, Christ almighty.” But his voice lacks its usual bite, softened by the way his thumb strokes circles into your palm. The silence stretches, comfortable, until his stomach growls loudly enough to startle a laugh out of you.
“Forgot about the cornbread,” you admit sheepishly, reaching for the crumpled paper packet. It’s cold now, the edges brittle, but Daryl snatches it from your hands before you can take a bite.
Daryl scowls at the stale cornbread like it's personally offended him, then shoves half into his mouth in one bite. Crumbs stick to his stubble as he chews, glaring at the tent wall like it’s hiding answers. You giggle, reaching up to brush them away, but he catches your wrist, turning your palm to press a kiss to the center. The gesture’s so sudden, so un-Daryl-like, your breath catches.
"Still tastes like shit," he laughs against your skin, but his lips curve just enough to betray him.
You wiggle your fingers free to poke his ribs again. "Hmmm, maybe. But I know you scavenged it from that gas station pantry just ‘cause you remembered it’s Tuesday.
Though he doesn't deny it outright.
His scowl deepens, but his hands betray him again, tugging you closer until you’re sprawled half on top of him. The rabbit carcass lies forgotten by the tent flap, its blood seeping into the dirt. Daryl’s fingers trace idle patterns down your spine, rough enough to raise goosebumps. "Ain’t like I got a damn calendar, jus’ knew you needed dinner," he grumbles, pink flushing his face.
His fingers pause mid-stroke when he feels the tremor run through you, not from cold, but from the way his blunt honesty still surprises you sometimes. The way he remembers things no one else would. Your nose presses into the hollow of his throat, breathing in sweat and gunpowder and something stubbornly Daryl. "You're fulla shit, babe," you murmur, but your lips curve against his skin when his chest rumbles with a sound too soft to be a laugh.
The cornbread crumbs itch where they’ve scattered between your bare thighs, sticking to the sweat still drying on your skin. Daryl’s fingers pause their lazy tracing of your spine to pluck one away, flicking it into the dark corner of the tent with a grunt. “Messy girl,” he mutters, but there’s no real insult behind it. He'd never and you know it.
You nuzzle deeper into the crook of his neck, smiling when his stubble scratches your forehead. “Your fault,” you murmur, dragging a fingertip through the trail of crumbs on his chest. “Shoulda let me eat it proper.”
Daryl huffs, catching your wandering hand in his. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, calluses catching on the delicate skin there. “Ain’t my fault you got distracted,” he says, but his voice dips low, roughened at the edges in a way that sends warmth pooling low in your belly again.
Outside, the campfire crackles, voices drifting on the wind, Shane’s booming laugh, Carol’s quiet murmur. The sounds feel distant, muffled by the thick canvas of your tent and the steady thump of Daryl’s heartbeat beneath your ear. You press closer, inhaling the scent of him, pine resin and gun oil, the metallic tang of the rabbit’s blood still clinging to his vest where it’s discarded beside the sleeping bag.
Daryl’s fingers tighten around yours as the campfire voices grow louder, Shane’s boisterous storytelling punctuated by Glenn’s nervous laughter. You feel the tension coil in Daryl’s shoulders beneath your cheek, his breath hitching like he’s bracing for impact. “Ignore ‘em, it's just me and you here,” you coo, pressing a kiss to the jut of his collarbone. His grunt is noncommittal, but his thumb strokes your wrist in silent thanks for the knowing comfort.
The tent flap rustles suddenly, not from wind, but from the deliberate shuffle of feet outside. “Y’all decent?” Carol’s voice is amused, muffled through the canvas. Daryl stiffens, his grip on you tightening possessively. You bite back a laugh at the way his ears flush crimson.
“No,” he barks, but you’re already wriggling free, scrambling for his discarded angel vest to cover yourself. Daryl snatches it back with a growl, shoving it into your chest again. “Wear it proper,” he practically commands, pointedly avoiding your eyes as he yanks his jeans up over his pale hips.
You button the vest with fumbling fingers just as Carol’s head pokes through the flap. Her eyes dart between Daryl’s disheveled hair and your swollen pink lips, her smirk widening. “Dinner’s ready,” she says, too innocently. “Brought y’all bowls since you were... occupied.”
Daryl's arm snakes around your waist like a steel band, yanking you back against his chest with a growl that vibrates through your shoulder blades. "We're good, thanks," he barks at Carol, his free hand snatching the offered bowls with more force than necessary. The stew sloshes dangerously close to the rim.
Carol's smirk doesn't falter. She lingers just a heartbeat too long, eyes flicking to the scattered cornbread crumbs and the way Daryl's vest hangs open on you, barely covering your thighs. "Mmhm," she hums, dragging the sound out like taffy before ducking back out. The tent flap falls shut with a whisper of canvas, but not before you catch her muttering, "Lovebirds."
You bury your face in Daryl's shoulder to muffle the giggle threatening to escape. His grip tightens. "Ain't funny," he grumbles, but his lips brush your temple in contradiction, lingering just long enough to make your toes curl.
The stew smells rich, rabbit, judging by the gamey scent, but Daryl sets both bowls aside without tasting them. Instead, his fingers find the loose threads at the shoulder of his vest where you've been worrying at them all week. "Gotta fix this," he mutters, more to himself than you, his calloused thumb rubbing circles over the frayed fabric.
Daryl's fingers still on the loose threads, his brow furrowing in that way it does when he's turning something over in his head. You watch the familiar crease form between his eyebrows, the one you've traced with your fingertips more times than you can count. Without thinking, you reach up to smooth it away, and his gaze snaps to yours, startled, like he'd forgotten you were there.
"Quit fussin' on me, woman," he groans, but he leans into your touch anyway, his stubble rasping against your palm. His hand drops to your knee, thumb brushing the sensitive skin just above where his vest ends. The contrast makes you shiver, rough hands touching you so softly it aches.
Outside, Shane's voice rises above the others, followed by a burst of laughter that sounds horrifically forced. Daryl's fingers twitch against your thigh, his jaw tightening. "What a fuckin’ asshole," he mutters under his breath, but there's no real heat behind it, just exhaustion, the kind that settles deep in his bones after too many days with too little sleep.
You catch his hand, pressing a kiss to his scarred knuckles. "Eat," you prompt gently, nodding toward the forgotten stew. "Before it gets cold."
Daryl scowls at the bowls like they've personally insulted him, but his stomach growls loud enough to make you snort. He mutters something about "damn traitorous guts" before snatching up the nearest bowl, shoving a spoonful into his mouth with all the grace of a starving wolf. Steam curls around his lips as he chews, his brow furrowing deeper with each bite.
"Carol put rosemary in it," he grumbles around a mouthful, nose wrinkling. "Tastes like a hotel's fuckin' potpourri."
You giggle, stealing his spoon for a taste. The herbs are overwhelming, definitely Carol's doing, her attempt at "civilizing" camp meals, but beneath it, you can still taste the careful balance of salt Daryl always insists on when he cooks game. "You seasoned it," you accuse, licking the spoon clean.
Daryl's ears flush pink. He swipes the utensil back with more force than necessary. "Ain't my fault she ruins good meat, was tryin’ to fix it," he grumbles, but his shoulders relax incrementally as he eats, the tension bleeding out of him with each spoonful.
The stew bowl scrapes against the tent floor as Daryl sets it aside, half-finished. His fingers find the curve of your knee again, where his vest rides up, tracing idle circles that raise goosebumps. Outside, the campfire laughter swells, Glenn's nervous giggle, Shane's annoying booming voice, but Daryl's touch anchors you, rough and sure.
A/N: Was listening to a few songs from NIKI and got too inspired. This is a very slow burn.
Word Count: 3, 279
It all started when you noticed him hovering over you wherever you go. You turn your head to one side, and he's right there in the corner of your vision. You walk away, a bit further from the group, and yet he still looks somewhat closer to you.
Daryl Dixon was a coward. Both you and he knew that much. He worries too much that he tends to scare himself in the process.
"Y/N, stick close."
His raspy (and hella attractive) voice advises you as he walks past, going behind you to ensure that the entire group is covered by his sight and presence. His eyes have such strength and fierceness that anything that gazes through them gets spooked as well.
He's been doing this ever since you went out together on runs to scavenge for food or anything that can help the rest of the group to survive. He sticks behind you, not too close, and always goes first before giving you a signal that everything is clear. And you start falling for his antics, giving you that sense of protection and security despite the environment you now live in.
You start joking around to test if he'll somewhat feel the same way, "You know you love me going out with you on runs like these, Dixon."
"Everyone else's just busy." He turns away and walks ahead of you.
Or that one time where he hands you a can of peaches and keeps the can of beans to himself.
"Aww, you remembered my favorite!" You smile at him, teasing, nudging his shoulder with your own.
"Ain't no favorites in a time like this." He turns his back on you as he begins to consume the contents of the can he held.
You almost gave up after this when he visits you at the guard tower the day after. He comes up the stairs unannounced and hands you a bottle of water and a sweet snack you mentioned you liked.
"You gotta eat if ya wanna keep your shift and stay awake. Wouldn't want them things to get in 'ere and eat us in our sleep." He mumbles, his face turned towards a different direction to avoid eye contact with you.
You raise your eyebrow at this and say, "You bribing me now, Dixon?"
"Shut up." He walks away after setting the items down right next to you.
"Don’t worry. Wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable by thinking you might actually care.” You call out to him, and he stops before resuming walking to wherever he's headed.
In the morning, Carol approaches you with a bowl of food and suddenly gestures for you to follow her. She guides you outside of the prison, where you head over to the stairs by the entrance of Cell Block C. She signals for you to sit down, hands you the food, and suddenly starts talking.
"He likes you, you know?" She smiles at you giddily, and you almost choke on your food.
"What?" You didn't expect this kind of confrontation, thinking you were smooth and unobvious with your feelings.
"Daryl, he likes you. In case you didn't notice."
You didn't say anything, letting her continue, "I saw you looking so glum and down lately, keeping your distance from the rest of us, and I just knew something was wrong. Did he say anything stupid or offensive?"
You swallowed hard and tried to gather your thoughts.
"He just tells me I shouldn't flatter myself, or that I read into things that aren't there. I thought he'd take it as a joke, but that shit hurt, Carol." You tried to laugh it off, but Carol just looked you directly in the eye, not laughing, with one brow raised.
"Yeah, well, he's stupid like that. He does like you. I spent some time of my life trying to make Daryl Dixon understand basic human emotions. Yours or his, take a pick." Carol smiles smugly.
"Although you need to stop letting him pretend he doesn’t know because you’re scared you’ll spook him. Daryl Dixon and soft just don't blend well together, you know?" She jokes.
"It's not like-" you stop and change your mind. "Yeah, it's a little… like that."
Carol softens. “He’s not going anywhere,” she says. “Not from you. But you can’t live in this almost-thing forever. You’ll break your own heart, waiting for him to say what you both already know.”
You try your best to sleep that night, but after losing that hopeless battle, you decide to take a walk around. To your surprise, Daryl and Carol also lost the same battle and are now outside talking about something serious. Carol was standing over Daryl, who kept his head down during the entire interaction. You step closer to try to listen in.
You didn't want to, but God knows this may be the only time you'll hear anything other than "Shut up," or a few other words from Daryl Dixon.
“You care about her,” Carol scolds. “More than you want to. And it scares you.”
“Don’t wanna get her hurt,” he mutters, almost inaudible.
“She’s already hurt,” her voice hardens. “Because you keep pretending she means less to you than she does. That doesn’t protect her, Daryl. It just makes her feel crazy.”
She sighs before leaving him, but not before turning back to say, "You just have to stop running every time your heart shows.”
On your next run with Daryl, he was surprised to see you fully packed with everything you needed. He noticed how wary you are this time, fully aware of your environment, as if you were alone. He didn't say anything but still made sure to look out for you.
Your focus and strengths ebb on your way back to the prison. You trip over something on the road and almost fall, but Daryl was there just in time to hold your arm and steady you back on your feet.
You shook his hand away and muttered a small, "Thanks."
To which he simply shrugs and says, "Always. Ain’t lettin’ nothin’ happen to you.”
He walks past you, leaving you trying to hide the blushing crimson slowly blooming on your face.
Everything blurs during the Governor's final attack on the prison. You wanted to give up after seeing what happened to Hershel, but after seeing everyone else fight back, it gave you a newfound courage to do the same thing. You tried to find Daryl throughout the dust and debris, and when you did, you found him with Beth, thinking at least he's not alone. You fight your way to him, but you know it's no use. But you know he's alive, and that was enough for now.
You were able to make it out on your own, and you did your best to survive, not knowing if Daryl and you would ever cross paths again.
"I need to start worrying about my own safety before him." You start to think to yourself amidst the tiredness and hunger.
You fell asleep in an abandoned barn, but not before ensuring everything was locked and secured. When morning came, you were surprised to see a note and a few items in front of the door.
"From a friend."
You were skeptical at first, but when he finally decided to approach you, you knew you just had to try.
And after arriving at Alexandria, you proved your worth by going on expeditions, looking for survivors with Aaron.
On the day you saw Rick and the others, you did your best to convince Aaron, although he didn't need much, that they were good people. You were worried when you didn't see Daryl with them, and that made your heart clench.
You tried to rush back home to let Aaron and Eric handle things out on their own. You couldn't manage your emotions at this time, and you were worried you would explode in front of the sweetest people ever. You hesitated at first, but ended up admitting how much you envy them and their relationship. How open they are to being together, how they didn't have to hide anything or make things even more complicated.
“So,” Aaron says one night, leaning back in his chair. “Tell me more about your prison people. You make them sound like superheroes.”
You stab a piece of carrot with your fork, smiling faintly.
“Hardly superheroes,” you say. “Just… stubborn. Lucky, sometimes. Unlucky, too.”
“Names?” Eric prompts, curious. “You always say ‘we’ and ‘they.’ I want faces.”
Aaron tips his head. “That’s the one you always slow down on.”
You look up sharply.
“I do not.”
Eric smiles into his cup.
“You do,” Aaron says mildly. “Every time. Like you’re afraid if you say it too fast, it’ll disappear.”
You try to make it a joke.
“Maybe I just like the sound of it,” you say. “Daryl Dixon. Has a ring to it.”
“Mhmm,” Aaron hums. “And who was Daryl Dixon to you?”
You hate how your throat tightens.
“He was…” You pick at your food. “He looked out for me. For all of us. Best tracker I’ve ever seen. Crossbow. Leather vest. Bad haircut.”
They chuckle, but you don’t.
“He sounds important,” Eric says gently.
You shrug, trying to keep it casual.
“We were good together on runs,” you say. “He watched my back. I watched his. That’s all.”
Aaron studies you.
“Is that all?”
You feel the edges fray.
You could lie. You have been, by omission, for months.
Instead, you say, very quietly, “I don’t know.”
It was still raining when you made it back. You didn't want to think of anything else, so you made sure to lock yourself in the comfort of your Alexandrian home. Aaron knew better than to disturb you, seeing as how you left in such a hurry, looking like you were about to puke despite encouraging him how great these people were. He caught a few names, Rick, Maggie, Glenn, but the one that stood out to him the most was "Daryl". He saw how you smiled when you were reminiscing about your time with them before finding Alexandria. And he instantly knew that this individual was different. He knows he makes the same face when he's talking about Eric, and he connected the pieces together.
You sat down on the couch, muttering, “Stupid,” photo in hand, listening.
“You better be alive,” you whisper to the picture. “After everything.” The only one you had been given to you by Glenn before you got separated from the rest of the group. You slide the photo back into the drawer and close it gently. You pull a blanket around your shoulders and curl up on the couch, facing the door. You tell yourself it’s because you like to be near the exit. You don’t admit that it’s because some stubborn part of you still believes one day there’ll be a knock, and it won’t be Aaron, or Eric, or anyone else.
"If he’s alive, if the world is kind for once, let him find me here."
Aaron is walking with the rest of the group; they're already at the gates of Alexandria, and he can't help but feel excited (despite what Rick did) to introduce them to the rest of the townspeople.
“There’s someone you know here,” Aaron casually says. “She helped us bring people in. Said she was with a prison group once. Y/N.”
Rick’s head snaps up. “Y/N? She’s here?” Daryl goes still behind Rick. Brain stopping to process the message it just received.
“She's in that brown house,” Aaron says. “She came back shaken today, so she went home to rest. You can see her tomorrow, after-”
“Now,” Daryl cuts in, voice rough.
Aaron blinks. “It’s late. She might be asleep.”
“You said she’s here.” Daryl’s eyes are sharp. “Take me to her.” And with that, Aaron understands the dynamic between the two of you.
Rain swallows the world outside your door.
At first, you think the low thud you hear is just another gust rattling the frame, but then it comes again, three solid knocks, spaced like whoever’s out there is trying not to wake the whole street.
You blink awake on the couch, blanket sliding off your shoulders. Your neck protests; you must have fallen asleep sitting up, waiting for nothing and no one.
The candle on the table is a stub now, wax cooled in uneven waves. The house is dim, lit more by flashes of lightning than anything else.
Another knock. “Aaron?” you call, voice rough.
“No,” comes the muffled answer. Deeper. Rougher. Familiar in a way that slams into your chest.
You’re already moving.
Your hands fumble at the lock for a second, slick with sudden sweat, not rain, then the door swings open.
He fills the frame. Daryl stands on your porch, soaked to the bone. Hair plastered to his forehead, jacket heavy and dripping, boots leaving small dark puddles on the mat. Crossbow slung over one shoulder, fingers clenched tight around the strap like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
Aaron hovers a step behind him under the overhang, eyes flicking between you two, reading the moment in an instant.
“I’ll, uh… give you guys some space,” Aaron says softly, looking at you directly this time. “I’ll be at my place if you need anything.”
His gaze sweeps over you, fast, almost frantic, face, neck, shoulders, checking for injuries you don’t have.
Then it lands back on your eyes and doesn’t move.
“You’re…” His voice comes out hoarse. He swallows. “You’re here.”
It’s such a simple thing to say. It shouldn’t knock the breath out of you.
But it does. You laugh, a wet, shaky sound that breaks halfway through.
“You’re here,” you echo, and suddenly your vision blurs.
The tears spill over before you can stop them. All the nights in the guard tower, all the runs where you watched his back, all the days after the prison where you wondered if he was dead in a ditch or tearing himself apart somewhere. He’s standing on your porch.
Alive.
He drops the crossbow as it burns him. It clatters against the wooden boards, forgotten, as he closes the distance in two strides.
You reach for him, hands finding his face, palms framing his cheeks, thumbs brushing the stubble and the rain and the years away.
“You’re here,” you say again, smiling through the tears now. “You’re actually here.”
His façade cracks.
His hands come up, one catching the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, the other wrapping around your waist and hauling you against him so hard you gasp. He tucks his face into your shoulder, into your neck, into the space that’s always felt like it was waiting for him. You clutch at his jacket, feeling the cold fabric, the solid heat underneath. For a moment, the world is just the drum of rain on the roof and the sound of your breathing.
“’m sorry,” he mutters into your hair, the words muffled and raw. “’m sorry. ’m sorry.”
He says it like a prayer. Like a confession. Like if he stacks enough apologies between you, they might make up for all the time lost.
“Why are you even apologizing?” you manage, voice thick, pulling back just enough to see his face. “You’re here. We’re both here.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, eyes locked on yours now. “I’m so sorry for bein’ scared. Sorry for bein’ such a coward.” And now you can’t tell where the rain ends, and the tears begin.
“I never wanted to lose you,” he says, words tumbling out faster now, like a dam finally broken. “At the prison. After. I fought my damn hardest to see you again. Every damn day, I-"
“Daryl,” you start, but he shakes his head, jaw tight.
“Lemme say it,” he rasps. “Please. Just… let me.”
“I love you,” he blurts. “I love you so much it hurts,” he says, the words rough and clumsy and perfect. “Hurts when you were right beside me, and I couldn’t hold your hand. Hurts when I saw you laugh with other people and couldn’t say nothin’ ’cause I was too chickenshit.”
You wanted to let him pour his heart out, and you did. “It hurt like hell,” he continues, voice breaking, “when that prison went up and I didn’t know where you were. If you were buried under concrete or out there alone. I kept hearin’ your voice in my head and didn’t know if I was talkin’ to a ghost.”
His fingers tighten at the back of your head.
“And then I get here,” he says, “and some guy tells me you’re alive. That you’ve been helpin’ people. That you’re in some house with walls and a roof and you didn’t have to go through…” He trails off, jaw clenched.
“I love you,” he says again, steadier now. “I love you, and I’m sorry it took me this long to say it. I’m sorry you had to hear it like this and not… when we had somethin’ solid under our feet.”
He was waiting for you to push him away. He was waiting for the rejection.
Instead, you laugh. A wet, shaky sound, full of too many things to name.
“You idiot,” you say, voice wobbling. “You absolute idiot.”
And with that, he frowns, "Do you have any idea,” you ask softly, “how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that?”
“I thought I’d imagined it,” you go on. “All of it. The hovering. The peaches. The way you always knew where I was on a run. I thought I was crazy for reading into every little thing when you kept telling me not to.”
“Carol told me,” you add, a small, watery smile tugging at your lips. “Back at the prison. She said you liked me. That you were scared. I heard her yelling at you one night, telling you to stop running every time your heart shows.”
Color rises in his cheeks even now.
“Should’ve known you’d be listenin’,” he mutters.
“Of course I was listening,” you say. “It was the only way I was ever gonna hear you say anything real.”
He huffs out a sound that’s almost a laugh.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess that tracks.”
“And I love you too,” you say. “I’ve loved you since the prison,” you admit. “Since before that, probably. Since you started hovering, I realized I felt safer with you behind me than any wall in this world. Since I saw you risk your life for people who didn’t always deserve it.”
“It hurt,” you confess. “When you brushed me off. When you pretended I was just another body in the group. But it hurt worse to think I’d never get to tell you any of this. To think you’d die not knowing.”
"You're such a dumbass, Dixon." You laugh but still hold his face with utmost affection. You kissed his face over and over again before kissing the side of his lips. He holds your face, hand on your cheek, letting you nuzzle your face into his palm. Looking at you with a smile so soft, delicate, and reverent. Worshipping you for loving someone like him. Worshipping you for looking so beautiful despite the apocalypse, despite crying your heart out.
“Okay,” he says, smiling. “Okay. I get it."
"I love you." He says, before you're finally pulling him inside your home.
Now, a home for you and Daryl. Yours. And the world seemed kind for once.
