Jealous!Charlie Dalton x Fem!Reader
Summary: A campfire hangout was supposed to be a chance to relax. Yet, the flames crackling before you pale in comparison to the heat simmering between you and Charlie Dalton—a rivalry so fierce that everyone swears you're opposite forces of nature. But, as science dictates, opposite poles attract.
Tags: 18+, plot, enemies to lovers, cursing, protection, intercourse, oral, soft aftercare, assurance, read at your own risk.
WARNING!Even if it's an 18+ story, please be mindful and be respectful, or I will have to block you.
The smell of cedar smoke clings to your wool blazer, a heavy, earthy scent that mixes with the crisp evening air of Welton. Around the circle of the campfire, the orange light flickers against the stone faces of your classmates, casting long, dancing shadows that stretch toward the dark treeline. Mr. Keating stands a few paces back, his silhouette soft against the moonlight, watching with a small, knowing smile as his students finally shed the rigid armor of the classroom. He had insisted on this. A night to breathe. A night to think.
You sit on a rough-hewn log, your back straight, your notebook resting on your lap even now. Habit is a cruel master. Beside you, the other boys are lounging, their ties loosened or discarded entirely. Laughing loudly it echoes through the air.
Across the fire, Charlie Dalton is the center of gravity. He is leaning back on his elbows, his legs sprawled out in a way that screams defiance of every conduct code in the handbook. His arm is draped over the shoulders of a girl from the neighboring house, his fingers grazing the fabric of her cardigan. He isn't touching her inappropriately, but the proximity is a statement. He is invading her space with a casual, magnetic confidence that makes your teeth ache.
You watch him throw his head back and laugh at something she said, the sound loud and jagged against the quiet of the woods.
"He is doing it on purpose," you mutter, the words barely escaping your lips.
The boy sitting next to you, a quiet youth named Arthur, tilts his head. "Doing what?"
"Existing loudly," you reply, your eyes narrowing.
"Look at him. He treats this entire institution like his personal playground. There is no discipline, no respect for the gravity of the semester's end. He is a chaotic variable."
Arthur chuckles, a soft sound that vibrates in the small space between you. He shifts closer, his shoulder brushing yours.
"Maybe that is why people like him. He does not look like he is constantly calculating the trajectory of his next grade." He rests his shoulder near you, closing the gap between the both of you.
You feel a flicker of warmth at the contact, a sudden, grounding presence. You turn to Arthur, offering a small, rare smile.
"Calculation is what ensures survival here, Arthur. Not reckless abandon." You fire back at him yet all he did was laugh.
"And yet, you look like you are suffocating in that blazer," Arthur says, his voice dropping an octave. He reaches out, his fingers tentatively touching the lapel of your jacket. "You should relax. Just for tonight."
As Arthur leans in, his gaze lingering on your lips, you feel a sudden, sharp prickle of awareness. He slowly embraces the edge of your blazer, finding the consent to remove it in your eyes to feel the warmth of the campfire. You don't look away from Arthur, but suddenly you can feel it. A gaze. A heavy, burning weight pressing against the side of your face. You shift your eyes just a fraction. Charlie is staring. The smile has vanished from his face. His arm is still around the girl, but his fingers have tightened, bunching the fabric of her sweater.
His eyes are narrowed, the playful spark replaced by something dark and possessive. He isn't laughing anymore. The roaring flame perfectly framed the expression written on his face—had it seemed like his overflowing anger controlled the fire that was growing stronger. You feel a surge of triumph—being able to push him off his edge, enabling the idea that he deserves it. You lean closer to Arthur, letting your voice become a soft, melodic hum.
"Perhaps you are right, Arthur. Perhaps I have been too rigid."
Charlie suddenly stands up, the movement abrupt. He kicks a spray of embers into the air, the sparks dancing like tiny stars.
"I am bored," Charlie announces, his voice cutting through the conversation like a blade. "This atmosphere is far too sedate. It feels more like a wake than a celebration."
The girl he was flirting with looks up at him, confused. "What do you mean, Charlie?"
He doesn't look at her. His eyes are locked on yours, a silent war raging in the amber light.
"I mean that some people are so focused on playing the part of the perfect student that they have forgotten how to actually live," he says, his voice dripping with a sarcastic sweetness.
"It is a tragedy, really. A complete waste of a perfectly good brain."
"And some people confuse immaturity with authenticity, Dalton. It is not a personality trait to be a nuisance; it is a lack of self-control." You mumble under your breath—but of course Charlie heard it, he was paying very close attention to you and no one else.
Charlie steps toward you, the fire between you casting his face in harsh contrast.
"Self-control is just another word for fear. You are terrified that if you let one hair fall out of place, the whole facade will crumble. You are a suck-up. A polished, perfect little mirror reflecting exactly what the professors want to see."
You stand up, the notebook sliding off your lap and hitting the dirt with a dull thud.
"At least I am not a liability," you snap, stepping closer until you can smell the faint scent of peppermint and rebellion on him.
"You drag everyone into your messes. Your stunts, your disruptions... you think you are freeing us, but you are just making us collateral damage of your ego."
"Better to be collateral damage in a revolution than a footnote in a textbook," he retorts. The girl beside him laughs, a loud, shrill sound that echoes through the trees.
"Oh, Charlie, stop teasing her! She is just stressed about the finals." Mr. Keating steps in your defense, but the few students that surround enjoyed the show to care that Mr. Keating was being serious.
The sound of that laughter was the final straw. It is the sound of someone who does not see the tension, who does not see the way the air between you and Charlie has become thick enough to choke on. It is a superficial sound, and it drives you over the edge. You don't say another word. You turn on your heel and walk away from the warmth of the fire, stepping into the oppressive silence of the woods.
The night air is cold, biting through your blazer as you trek toward the lake. You need the silence. You need the stillness of the water to drown out the noise of Charlie Dalton's voice. When you reach the shoreline, the lake is a sheet of black glass, reflecting a sliver of the moon. You stand at the edge, breathing in the damp, metallic scent of the water, your chest heaving.
"Running away is a bit cliché, don't you think?"
You don't have to turn around to know he is there. The cadence of his voice is unmistakable—that arrogant, sliding tone that always sounds like he is sharing a joke that only he understands.
He walks up beside you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He doesn't look at you; he looks at the water.
"You were really enjoying yourself with Arthur. I almost felt a twinge of guilt for interrupting your little study session on the art of the bland." Speaking like a true poet, with a bite of jealousy.
You turn to him, your eyes flashing. "Why do you care? Go back to your fan club. Go back to the girl who thinks your arrogance is a charm."
Charlie finally looks at you. The sarcasm is gone, replaced by a raw, jagged intensity.
"It is an act. The blazer, the notes, the perfect posture. It is all an act. And it drives me insane because I know you are in there, screaming to get out."
"You know nothing about me," You hissed.
"I know that you look at me with a hatred that feels a lot like hunger," he says, stepping closer. He is in your space now, the heat radiating off his body clashing with the midnight chill.
"I know that you hate me because I do the things you wish you had the courage to do. You hate that I don't care about the rules, because you have spent your entire life becoming a slave to them."
"I am not a slave," you whisper, though your voice trembles. "I am disciplined."
"You are a prisoner," he counters, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "And the worst part is, you love the bars.
You reach out and shove him, your palms hitting his chest. It is not a strong push, but it is an explosion of the tension that has been building for months.
"I hate you," you say, the words tasting like copper. "I hate how you think you can see through people. I hate how you think you are the only one who is authentic. You are just a boy who likes to break things because he is too afraid to build something that might actually fail."
Charlie's expression shifts. The smirk vanishes. He grabs your wrists, his grip firm but not bruising, pulling you closer against his chest.
"Then stop talking about it," he says. "Stop analyzing it. For once in your life, just feel something without trying to grade it."
You didn't react nor spoke back but he could see it in your eyes the mixed emotion, yet it is the way your eyes yearned for him that lures him in. He kisses you. It is not a gentle kiss, it is a collision. It is a clash of teeth and tongue, a desperate, angry exchange that feels less like romance and more like a fight. You groan into his mouth, your hands moving from his chest to his hair, pulling him closer, wanting to tear the arrogance right out of him. He tastes of peppermint and desperation, and the way he sucks on your lower lip is an invitation to a war you are more than willing to fight.
You pull back, breathless, your lips swollen. "I still hate you," you pant.
"Good," he whispers, his eyes dark. "If hating me allows me to kiss you like this, then keep doing it."
Suddenly an idea pops inside your head, just to push his buttons—One.More.Time. Once he lets go of your wrists to place it on your waist, you pull back before suddenly bolting. You turn and run back toward the dorms, a mischievous glint returning to your eyes.
"Catch me if you can!" You pause for a moment, sticking out your tongue before dashing away.
He stood there for a second, stunned, before a surge of adrenaline hit him. He takes off after you, his polished shoes clicking against the stone paths, his half open blazer flapping behind him.
The chase leads him through the darkened halls of the academy, the air smelling of old wax and dust. He can hear your laughter echoing off the vaulted ceilings, a ghost of a sound that lures him deeper into the corridors. He is running hard, his heart hammering against his ribs, the physical exertion stripping away the layers of his composure.
He darts around a corner, his silhouette a blur of motion. You push yourself faster, your lungs burning, the competitive streak in you overriding every rational thought. You aren't just chasing a boy; you are chasing the chaos he represents.
He catches up to you just as you reach the door to your room. You turn, a triumphant grin on your face, but he doesn't stop. You tackle him, your weight slamming him against the wooden door with a loud thud. The door swings open, and you both tumble inside, landing in a heap of limbs and wool on the floor. The room is dim, lit only by the moonlight filtering through the curtains. The fight doesn't stop. It just changes form. The heat that was building up pushes both of you to let your hands roam each other's body. You push him on the bed before hovering over him, your hands find a way to grip the collar of his shirt, pulling him up so close to your face.
"You think you are so clever.” You whispered, gently dragging your lips across his lips but not enough for a kiss.
“I think you are finally awake."
He reaches up, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you down into another kiss. This one is deeper, more frantic. Your tongues intertwine, exchanging saliva in a messy, hungry rhythm. You can feel his heart racing beneath his shirt, a frantic drumming that matches your own.
Your hands scramble, desperate to remove the barriers between you. You rip at his tie, tossing it somewhere into the shadows. He groans, his hands sliding down your back, gripping your hips and pulling you tightly against his groin. You can feel the hardness of his cock through his trousers, a thick, insistent pressure that makes a sharp ache bloom between your thighs.
“Fuck, you feel that? It's all yours.” He smirked.
It drives you to your edge as you scramble to pull your blazer off, the fabric catching on your shoulders before it falls away. Charlie doesn't wait. He reaches for the buttons of your blouse, his fingers clumsy and urgent. A button pops, skipping across the hardwood floor with a tiny click, but neither of you cares. He pushes the fabric aside, exposing your breasts to the cool air.
His eyes widen, his gaze raking over your skin. "You are beautiful," he whispers before placing gentle kisses on your shoulders then up to your neck.
"And you are absolutely infuriating." You hum, as he found the sweet pop on your neck. He sucks hard—marking his name on the side of your neck. You let out a moan, driving him to work harder for the reward he will get at the end.
He leans down, his mouth finding your nipple, sucking it hard, the other being grasped by his hand, enjoying the time he had in between your breasts—it's becoming his favorite place. You arch your back, a loud, guttural moan escaping your throat. The sensation is electric, a sharp spike of pleasure that makes your toes curl. Charlie groaned at the sound of it, feeling his throbbing erection wanting to be freed from his pants.
Realizing it, you reach down, fumbling with his belt, your fingers shaking. You manage to undo it, sliding his trousers and boxers down in one fluid motion. His cock springs free, thick and pulsing, the head already glistening with a bead of pre-cum. It is larger than you imagined, a heavy length of vein-streaked flesh that looks almost violent in the moonlight. You reach down, your fingers wrapping around the shaft, squeezing. He lets out a strangled gasp.
"Fuck...shit..." He mutters under his breath.
“You're so good at everything, maybe you can study me next time and see what I can do for you.”
“Yeah..” You challenge his suggestion. Your finger wrapped around his cock, moving up and down.
“H-hhm..” He shudders, “I might not be smart enough to teach you about the stars, but I'm strong enough to open your legs and make you see the stars.” You clench at the idea, images flying across both of your heads.
You shift your focus, kissing his face, down to his neck until you reach his chest yet you don't stop, going all the way down to his shaft—his eyes never leaving you. Once he understood what you had planned to do, his head arched back into the pillow, calming himself down and seeking for self-control.
All discipline and morals you have built has been thrown off the window as you place a few kisses on the head of his cock before taking him whole. Hallowing your cheeks and letting your tongue explore. The room echoed his groan and moan, even if he tries to suppress it, his mouth hangs open. His half-lid eyes looked down upon you but every time he did, the more he got turned on, the more his cock throbbed in your warm mouth. You pull back with a loud pop, he groans in frustration, sitting back up to roam his hands on your smooth wet skin. You shift, sliding your skirt up and kicking off your shoes. You aren't wearing much underneath, and as you move, you feel the slickness of your own desire. You are soaking wet, your pussy throbbing in time with your heartbeat.
Charlie reaches down, his hand sliding between your legs. He finds your clit with a precision that makes you gasp, his thumb rubbing in a fast, circular motion. You grab onto his shoulders, feeling the pleasure take a hold of you.
"You are so wet for me," he murmurs, his voice a low vibration. "Where is all that discipline now? Where is the perfect student?"
"Shut up," you sob, your hips bucking against his hand. "Just... shut up and fuck me."
He doesn't need to be told twice. He flips you over, pressing your back into the mattress. You feel the soft linen against your skin and the heat of his body hovering over you. He spreads your legs, his knees prying you open, exposing your glistening folds to the air. He reached for his pants that laid on the bed, grabbing his wallet for a condom; with great urgency that was too hard to resist. He positions the head of his cock against your opening, the pre-cum lubricating the entry. He took his time, pushing himself to you, as he got closer the tighter you felt. The way you clench around him drove him to the edge, he closed his eyes trying to picture imagines of the boys making a fool of themselves reading poetry to prevent himself from coming.
Your moan echoed soft melodies in his ears, he is so thick that you feel yourself stretching, your walls straining to accommodate him. The sensation is overwhelming, a mixture of pressure and pleasure that borders on pain. He doesn't stop. He begins to move, his thrusts heavy and rhythmic. The sounds of your bodies interacting fill the room, the wet noise of his cock sliding in and out of your tight pussy. Every time he bottoms out, his balls slap hard against you, a fleshy, rhythmic sound that adds to the intensity.
"I hate you," you moan, your voice breaking. "I hate how much I want this."
"I love it," he grunts, his voice strained. "I love that I am the one breaking you." His pace stuttered, feeling the sweat, peppermint, and musk, combining with the pleasure and tension that lingered in the air. He grabs your waist, lifting you up to switch position, your back facing him. He reaches forward, grabbing your hair and pulling your head back, forcing you to look at him over your shoulder. His face is twisted with effort, sweat beading on his forehead. He increases the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and faster.
The friction is intense. You can feel the heat building, a coil of tension tightening in your lower belly. He is hitting your cervix with every stroke, a deep, blunt pressure that sends sparks of white light through your vision. Suddenly, his rhythm falters. He lets out a sharp hiss, his cock slipping out of you almost entirely due to the sheer vigor of his movement.
"Dammit," he curses, but he quickly corrects himself, slamming back inside you with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs.
The sound is visceral—a wet, air-pushing squelch as he fills you completely. You are shaking now, your muscles contracting around him, milking him with every movement. You can feel the build-up, the inevitable crash.
"Charlie... I'm... I'm going to..." You spoke in-between moans.
"Do it," he growls, his voice raw. "Cum for me. Let it go."
You shatter. Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, your pussy clamping down on him in rhythmic spasms. You cry out, your body arching, your fingers clawing at his arm.
The feeling of your climax triggers his own. He lets out a loud, guttural roar, his body stiffening as he pours himself into you. He thrusts one last time, burying himself as deep as possible, his breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps. For a long time, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is the synchronization of your breathing, the heavy, labored heaving of two people who have finally exhausted their anger.
Charlie slowly pulls out of you, the sound a wet, sliding pop. He collapses beside you, his skin slick with sweat, his chest heaving. You turn your head to look at him. The moonlight has shifted, illuminating the softness in his eyes that he usually hides behind a mask of sarcasm.
"You are still a nuisance," you whisper, though there is no venom in it.
He reaches out, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead. "And you are still a stuck-up perfectionist."
He pauses, his fingers lingering on your skin. "But I think I would rather spend my life fighting with you than being bored with anyone else."
You feel a lump form in your throat. The walls you had built—the grades, the standards, the rigid expectations—feel fragile, like glass that has finally been shattered.
"I don't know how to do this," you admit, your voice small. "I don't know how to be... this."
"That is the best part," Charlie says, pulling you into his arms. He wraps his body around yours, the heat of his skin grounding you. "We get to figure it out together. We can be a complete disaster."
You lean into him, closing your eyes.
"I love you, Charlie. God help me, I actually love you." He kisses your temple, a gesture so tender it almost hurts.
"I know," he whispers. "I've known since the first day you tried to report me for wearing a non-regulation tie. You were so angry, your eyes were practically sparking. I knew right then that I had to make you lose your mind."
You let out a soft, genuine laugh, the sound echoing in the quiet room. "You are an insufferable brat."
"And you are mine," he replies, tightening his grip.
As the moonlight fades and the distant sounds of the other students returning to their rooms drift through the window, you lie there in the wreckage of your clothes and your composure. The semester is ending, and the world of Welton still expects you to be the perfect student. But as you feel the sticky residue of your encounter drying on your skin, you realize that the perfection was the lie. The chaos, the anger, and the desperate, messy love you found in the arms of Charlie Dalton... that was the only thing that was ever real.
