𓂃✍︎ bf!rafe dealing with you squirming during sex . . .
summary: perhaps it was the fact that he was thrusting in a terribly fast and harsh pace, but you just couldnt seem to be able to stay still.
content: smut, dom!rafe with a lot of manhandling + talking you thru it, piv, positions change; missionary to doggystyle.
Both of your weeks ended like every sweet couples' usually do; using the last bits of your staminas just to get a satisfying release that'll clear out your heads from the long, tiring day. The word release, in this case, meaning sex till you're damn near breaking the bedframe.
That night, Rafe was being particularly rough, choosing the missionary position like he always does whenever he felt the desire to be the one 'in charge', placing wet, open-mouthed kisses around your neck while the sound of your moans fills his ear, his favorite melody.
Perhaps it was the fact that he had not only a tiring day but also a somewhat bad one, needing and chasing this satisfaction more than ever with his hips thrusting at a terrifyingly fast pace, practically slamming again and again into you while his fingers were grabbing onto your hips so tight it might even bruise your skin. His hands were a guide to your hips so you too were moving against him.
"Oh fuck... just like that..." he grunted, panting into your ear as he fasten his pace even more, your hips shoved together.
The problem isn't that you didn't like it, oh you fucking enjoyed it. Instead, the problem is the fact that you were a squirmy person, barely able to keep your limbs still as he drives his cock in and out of your pussy rapidly.
Your hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging into his burning skin, only to let go and grip onto the sheets instead, not even knowing what to hold onto anymore. Your back arched, hips stuttering frantically in his hold, making his control on your hips movement a tad difficult, meanwhile your toes curled with your legs restless and your head thrown back over the pillow.
A moan escapes your throat, loud and desperate, "Fu- mm.. fuck!" You gasped, "S-so fast! I... I can't- please!" You pleaded with him, your shaky hands reaching for his wrists to try and pull them off your hips.
"You can, baby... I know you can..." Rafe assured you with ragged breath, his voice incredibly calm for someone who's raging cock is pounding into you, "Shit... stop moving, can you?"
He let out a grunt, patience growing thinner with each movement you made, which then led him to grabbing your wrists with one hand and pinning them up above your head on the pillow.
With your hands stuck on that position, you could only arch your back and move your legs as the tip of his cock kept on hitting all the right spots to make your toes curl even more. It might just be your favorite feeling in the whole wide world.
"Stop moving around, baby..." Rafe groaned, feeling your tits pressed against his chest due to how much you were arching your back, his ears filled with your desperate, mumbled, and frantic pleas. "I know, I know... You can take it, okay? Just... ah fuck..." He whispered, ragged breath and moans of his own filled your ears.
Yet now with only one hand on your hip, it was harder to guide them to move against his when your just kept on squirming and wriggling, so much that his dick managed to slip out once. Which to Rafe, once was plenty.
Rafe let out another groan, "Goddamnit!" He took his hands off your wrists– only to flip you over onto your stomach, hands guiding your hips to be lift up to provide him with your ass in the air, "Fuck... hold on, baby..." He cooed, as if as a silent apology.
As he thrusted back into you hard and deep, his hands held your wrists behind your back tightly, the slight grin on his face showed how he was assured that now you weren't gonna move as much. Not even gonna be loud, not with your flushed face pressed against the pillow, surely.
"Ra... Rafe..." You managed to moan against the pillow, eyes rolled to the back of your head and drool pooling onto the white pillow case. The position you were in had the least possibility to squirm around, only able to wiggle your fingers.
Rafe just kept on pounding into you, longing to feel those walls squeeze around him and hear the loudest and dirtiest moan leave your swollen lips, to know you were satisfied with the night just as much as he was. And while he's at it, he was still busy holding your wrists together, keeping your roaming hands still from clawing onto him.
hmmm thinking of ur biting threat which has inspired me… what if reader leaves bite marks and scratches on rafe. how would he react to comments like “did you get into a fight with a shark/bear” when he takes his shirt off at the gym
RAFE LOVES IT WHEN YOU MARK HIM !
rafe was obsessed with you leaving your scratches and bites all over his body, he loved being reminded of the things that the two of you did together.
"jesus christ, what the fuck happened to your back? did you get into a fight with a bear?" topped asked, hand on his chin and a stunned expression on his face.
rafe's eyebrows scrunched in confusion, not knowing what this idiot was talking about, as per usual.
he managed to turn his neck and look in the mirror that was behind him, and sure enough there were deep scratches that started at his shoulder blades and ended at the bottom of his back.
he huffed out a laugh and shook his head in disbelief, "that's my fuckin' girl" he murmued under his breath.
an weird sense of pride filled his body, seeing your marks on him would always bring this reaction.
knowing you as well as he did, rafe assumed that you were a little rougher, knowing that he was going to the gym in the morning and would therefore be taking his top off.
pulling himself out of the trance he was currently swept up in, he looked up to topper who was still staring at him.
rafe casually shrugged his shoulders, "don't know how that happened"
someone else laughed and chimed in, "bet it was his girl, she always did look wild"
the weight that rafe had just picked up fell back to the floor, causing everyone to fall quiet, hushed "oooh's" going around the group.
topper hesitantly put his hand on rafe's shoulder, "just ignore him, man"
rafe nodded and tilted his head towards the exit, "fuck off before i break your neck" he grunted, sighing as he moved back to the weights.
JJ’s legs were thrown over yours on the couch, chin on your shoulder as you scroll on your phone. He’d been like this for the past hour, touching you like you’ll disappear if he lets go. “I missed you,” he mumbles, even though he’s been with you since the sun rose this morning. His fingers lazily draw circles on your thigh, rings clinking together when he shifts.
You smile, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “I’m right here, clingwrap.”
JJ ignores that. Then he adds, dead serious, “You’re not allowed to leave me. Ever.”
You scoff. “What about work, Jackson?”
He melts at the sound of it. Jackson. No one else calls him that. Not even his friends. To them, he’s JJ, always has been—loud, reckless, a little unhinged. But to you? He’s Jackson. Soft and warm and real.
He nuzzles into your neck with a small smile. “Say it again.”
“Jackson?” you repeat with a giggle.
A pleased hum leaves his lips. “Mmm. Just like that. Sounds so pretty coming from you.”
“You’re such a weirdo,” you laugh, leaning your head against his.
“I don’t care. No one else gets to say it. Just you. If anyone else calls me Jackson, I’m fighting them.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”
JJ pulls back, eyes serious now—like he means it. “I’m not kidding. That’s your name for me. You gave it meaning, you know?” His voice softens, “Jackson didn’t mean anything until you said it.”
You freeze, heart doing flips. “That’s… weirdly poetic for you.”
He grins, a little proud. “I can be deep.”
Then he tugs you until you’re laying on his chest, legs tangled. His hand slides under the back of your hoodie, warm and possessive. “I like when you say it when I’m sleepy,” he murmurs against your temple. “Or mad. Or when you’re all cute and bossy.”
“Jackson, get your hands outta my shirt.”
He gasps. “Hot.”
You swat his chest, and he catches your hand easily, lacing your fingers with his. “Don’t test me, Maybank.”
He makes a face. “Ew. Everyone else calling me Maybank? Normal. You calling me Maybank? Hate it. Feels illegal.”
You laugh so hard your stomach hurts, and Jackson is right there, eyes on you like you hung the damn stars. He presses a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. “Seriously though. It’s yours. That name. Jackson. You made it soft.”
You go quiet, your fingers playing with the hem of his sleeve. “I like that,” you admit. “That it’s mine.”
“It’s all yours, babe. I’m all yours.” He kisses you again—slower this time, and you believe he’s yours.
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ fluff!! + pet names (baby, pretty + no y/n) ᢉ𐭩✴︎˚
“…Did she say why?”
You glance up from the dresser drawer you’d been emptying, folding another sweatshirt before setting it carefully into the box between stacks of jeans.
“No.”
The answer hangs there longer than either of you expects. Half the shelves sit empty already, picture frames stacked neatly on the floor beside labeled storage bins.
The pale pink curtains she’d picked out when she was seven still sway softly in the ocean breeze drifting through the cracked balcony door, and one wall is covered in faded rectangles where photos and posters had hung for years before she’d peeled every last one down this morning.
It feels strange looking at it now—like somebody had packed away pieces of her without asking either of you first.
Rafe stands in the middle of the room with one of her hoodies draped over his shoulder, staring after the last box she’d carried down the hall.
“I mean…” he scratches the back of his neck, still looking toward the open bedroom door. “Did she say why she wanted that room so bad?”
You shake your head, climbing up her bookshelf ladder. “No, baby.”
His jaw works once before he nods to himself, looking down at the hoodie in his hands.
“I think she’s just ready.”
He lets out a quiet huff through his nose. “Ready for what?”
“To be thirteen.”
His shoulders sink almost immediately.
“You know…” you continue softly, sliding another pile of books into the next box. “Max moved down the hall when he was thirteen.”
“I know.”
“She probably just wants her own space.”
“I know,” he mumbles, every answer gets quieter than the last. “…Still hurts.”
Rafe kneels down on the floor, arm stretching under the bed, pulling out a box. He wipes a light covering of dust with his palm, Winnie’s Treasures etched across the top in Rafe’s scratchy writing, making his lips draw to the side and his eyes go wide like he already knows he’s close to tears. He doesn’t need another reason to let them slip.
He pulls back one flap, peering inside, then the other. His heart swells and his nose scrunches, his lashes fluttering fast as the memories come flooding back—and some stirring up nothing at all—no recollection of why he’s seeing what he’s seeing. A forgotten memory. And, he can’t decide what hurts the most.
The first thing he reaches for is the little stuffed bunny tucked against one side of the box, once white but softened into a warm cream after years of being dragged through the house by one floppy ear.
Rafe turns it over in his hands, his thumb finding the corner where the fur has been rubbed almost completely raw, worn flat from Winnie brushing it back and forth across the tip of her nose whenever she was tired.
His expression crumples as he stares down at it, remembering how that same ear would disappear beneath her tiny fist while she fought sleep against his chest.
“She wouldn’t go anywhere without this thing,” he murmurs, running his thumb over the bare patch again before carefully setting the bunny beside his knee instead of burying it beneath everything else.
He lifts out a tiny yellow sleeper no bigger than both of his hands, unfolding it carefully, the little feet dangling. The cotton has gone softer after years tucked away in storage, but one tiny milk stain still clings stubbornly near the collar.
His thumb rubs over it without thinking, just like it had in the middle of the night thirteen years earlier when he’d stood over the washer with a toothbrush and some stain remover, convinced if she looked perfectly clean that would somehow convince everyone around him that he had it together—that you weren’t two twenty-year-olds with two babies and not a single clue what you were doing.
A quiet laugh slips through his nose.
You watch him smoothing the fabric flat again, fingertips tracing little wrinkles that had settled over the years, and your chest tightens because he still handles every piece of your children’s lives like they’re made of glass.
“We really had no clue what we were doing,” you whisper, seemingly reading his mind.
“No… We were pretty convincing though,” he chuckles softly.
“We were,” you whisper. “Remember when she had her first cold?”
Rafe hangs his head between his shoulders, chuckling softly. “‘Course I do… Why was that so scary?”
“I remember we finally got her to sleep and we snuck into her room, just to make sure she was breathing.”
“And every twenty minutes after that,” he whispers. “I still check. Can’t help it.”
“I know.”
Rafe folds the sleeper, laying it back into the box again. “…No way.” He slides an old vinyl record free, laughing under his breath before the cover is even visible. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Dust clings to the cardboard sleeve until he wipes it away with the side of his hand, turning it over slowly like he hasn’t seen it in years.
“I couldn’t sing a damn song off this album,” he mumbles, replaying those moments he’d walk circles around the nursery with Winnie tucked against his shoulder, humming softly until she fell asleep.
He pulls the record out of the sleeve, studying the back, each scuff telling a story. His eyes lift to yours for a second, the smile on his lips turning quieter before he slips the record carefully back inside its sleeve.
He reaches into the bottom of the box again and pulls free an old paper envelope. A handful of photographs slide into his palm when he tips it over, the first one stopping him before he can look through the rest.
Max is balanced in Rafe’s arms beside Winnie’s hospital bassinet, dressed in tiny boat shoes and a little polo with his baseball cap turned backward over hair long enough to curl around his ears.
“Look at him,” Rafe whispers. “He was still a baby too.”
“He was,” you say softly, when he turns the picture toward you. “You wouldn’t let anybody cut his hair because you said he wasn’t ready.”
“I wasn’t ready,” he corrects, laughing gently as his eyes move across the picture again.
The laughter slowly fades, leaving him staring at two children who had once fit together inside his arms and now needed bedrooms on opposite ends of a house too big to ever feel full without them.
His features tighten, holding back tears. He flips the next photo and that emotion he’d been fighting finally breaks free, his thumb brushing beneath one eye before the tear can fall any farther.
His girl.
You’re sitting upright in a hospital bed with Winnie tucked against your chest, your hair tangled around your face and your eyes heavy from exhaustion, but you’re smiling down at her.
Rafe’s sitting beside you, one arm curled around your shoulders and his other hand resting over Winnie’s tiny body, but the fear in his younger face is unmistakable now that he knows what he’s looking for.
“I don’t remember this,” he admits, his voice fraying at the edges. “I know I was there. I remember bein’ scared, but I don’t remember this.”
Rafe looks down at the photograph again, his throat working around whatever he can’t quite say.
“Wish I remembered,” he whispers, his words so soft you don’t even catch it.
Rafe sets the last photograph back inside the envelope before sliding everything carefully into the box again. His palm lingers against the lid for another second before a soft creak overhead finally pulls him back into the present.
You’re balanced near the top of the rolling library ladder tucked against Winnie’s built-in bookshelf, one foot planted carefully on the step beneath you while you reach toward the highest shelf.
Rafe is already crossing the room before he really thinks about it—the ladder giving another tiny groan beneath your weight.
His hand settles instinctively against the rail, the other comes to rest against the back of your thigh, brushing once against your leg as though making sure you’re steady.
You look down at him and smile. Your stomach sinks, your heart breaking for him because his blue eyes are shimmering with unfallen tears, reddened slightly from trying to keep it together. Your bottom lip juts out slightly. You can’t help it. A chuckle breaks past his lips.
“Please,” he stops you. “Just—I’m fine, baby.”
You know he’s not, but you also know that he’s exhausted his emotions for the moment, and he’s hoping you’ll give him a chance to catch his breath.
“Co’mere,” he nods for you to come down and you step carefully onto the next rung, his hand never leaving your leg until both feet find the hardwood again.
Before you can move away, he reaches for the books in your hands and sets them beside the others waiting to be carried to her new space.
His hands settle at your hips while the curtains billow softly in the midsummer breeze. Rafe draws a deep, needed breath as your arms wrap around his neck, his big arms lacing a little tighter around your waist, needing you close.
“Keep thinkin’ about our little house.”
A smile tugs at your mouth immediately. “The air conditioner barely worked?”
“Mhmm.”
“The kitchen sink that leaked every other week.”
“…I fixed that thing six times.” He sighs. “Figured it out eventually.”
“You did,” you whisper, nails scratching into the hair curling beneath his hat. “It was perfect.”
“It was… We figured it out.”
“We did.”
His thumbs drift slowly across your hips before his eyes wander around the room again.
“I was sittin’ over there lookin’ through all her baby stuff…” he says quietly, nodding back toward the box still resting beside the bed. “And all I could think about was how fast we did it.”
You tilt your head slightly, waiting for him to gather the words he’s trying to say.
“We were runnin’ the whole time,” he whispers. “But I keep thinkin’…” He pauses, searching your face before the words finally find him. “We’re not those kids anymore. We’ve got time now.”
A smile tilts on the corners of his lips, forehead tilting forward, resting against you.
“I’d like to do it again, baby,” he murmurs. He steps just a little closer until hardly any space remains between the two of you. “…I think we’d actually get to slow down and remember it all.”
You close your eyes for a second, feeling his breath against your lips.
“What do you say, pretty…” he whispers. “One more?”
🍼 housewife!reader finds ceo!rafe trying to build a crib for their baby. ⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆
you awoke with your brain still scrambled with sleep, the second trimester making you more tired, taking its toll on you, but luckily your morning sickness seemed to ease up on you. you grabbed your phone off your nightstand, your new morning routine involving playing mobile games to help you wake up, but it was interrupted by the sound of your husband shouting out 'fuck!' from the next room.
with your brows furrowed, you got out of bed, slipping on a pair of slippers and tying your nightrobe around you, making your way down the long halls of your home, to hear rafe grunting and letting out noises of frustration behind the door of your intended nursery.
you opened the door, only to be faced with rafe kneeling on the floor, hands covering his face, the man surrounded by scattered pieces of the wooden crib you'd bought for your little one, along with a bunch of his tools.
"rafe...? what's this?" you furrowed your brows, your hands on your hips, rafe looking to you, running his hand over his head as he got up off the floor, making his way towards you, "shit, i didn't wake you up, did i?"
"no, don't worry." you laughed softly as rafe wrapped his arms around your middle, pressing a kiss on your lips, "good morning, gorgeous." he mumbled against your lips, before bending down to press a kiss on your stomach, "good morning to you too, peanut."
"so, what's all this?" you asked, amused, pointing to the pieces of wood on the floor, rafe turning his head to look at them before turning to face you with a tight-lipped smile. "i was trying to build the crib."
"i thought you said we were gonna get someone to do it for us?"
"i wanted to surprise you." rafe shrugged, "and it felt more personal if i did it myself. but the stupid thing... won't come together."
you looked around the room, your lips turning down into a pout, "where's the manual?" "there wasn't any." rafe shrugged.
"what kind of furniture comes without a manual?" you laughed softly, pulling away from rafe's embrace and making your way towards the empty box the crib came in, digging through the paper padding that had come with the crib.
grinning, you held up a leaflet that had a picture of the crib, your brows raised. "oh, it didn't come with a manual?"
"shut up." rafe rolled his eyes, grinning as he made his way to you, grabbing the manual from your hands and throwing it onto the floor before pulling you into a kiss.
little kids in their costumes, giant treat bags ready to be full by the end of the night, and parents dreading the sugar rush after it all.
you were smiling wide, sat on the porch steps besides rafe holding you close and guarding the bucket of candy in front of you.
"i can't believe you actually splurged on king size candy bars. it's ridiculous," he groaned, looking down at you through his mask.
little red riding hood and the big bad wolf... it was just one out of a few couple costumes you had put together for halloweekend.
"hey, it's our first halloween that we get to hand out candy. better start off our candy reputation with a bang," you shrugged, waving at little kids skipping up the pathway.
"the hell does that even mean—"
rafe was cut off by three minions yelling trick or treat!
he only chuckled and shook his head before tossing one candy bar into each of their treat bags.
"happy halloween, minions." giggling, you both watched them run off again.
"this is not fun. we have like... two more hours of this before the party starts. and you shooting down my idea of scaring kids makes this ten times more boring, sweetheart." he hung his head back, arms propped behind him.
"just because you're dressed as the big bad wolf doesn't mean you have to act like one," you teased, glancing back at him.
"oh, i'll be the wolf, alright," he murmured as he sat up, arms wrapping around your waist. his fingers found your sides and you dissolved into giggles.
you squirmed, pushing at his chest, but he only leaned in, pretending to bite at your shoulder through the mask.
"rafe! cut it out!" you gasped, kicking and laughing all at once.
trick or treat!
the next group to approach was a full-on incredibles family. the mom balanced a chubby baby on her hip, the little brother nearly vibrating with excitement at the candy, and the dad trying (and failing) to settle him down. their daughter looked between you and rafe with the sweetest smile.
"i love your costume! you're so pretty!" she announced, stepping forward with her bag open.
"aww, thank you, honey! happy halloween," you replied, placing a candy bar in her bag and then in each of her brothers'.
as the family walked away, rafe turned to look down at you, smirking behind the mask. "we're totally stealing that costume idea. we'll put it to good use in a few years."
raising an eyebrow at him, "you're ridiculous, rafe. obviously, our first family costume will be the avengers." you reached up, moving his mask out of the way to kiss his cheek, leaving a red mark.
"god, i love you." he leaned in, kissing you straight on the lips.
"ewww!"
you both turned in silence.
trick or treat... a toddler coincidentally dressed as spider-man paused, scowled at your kiss, grabbed a candy bar, and ran back to his mother like his feelings had been personally hurt.
"thank you, mister and miss!" he yelled, waving as he disappeared around the corner.
you and rafe turned toward each other and fell into laughter.
"that right there?" rafe murmured, slipping his hand to your hip. "that’s my future. and it looks pretty damn bright. happy halloween, baby."
— a/n: wrote this in like under two hours (i’m very tedious LMAO) but i’m HOPING to post one blurb a day this week in honor of the loml, halloween :) kisses love you alllll
synopsis :: you’re a kook, jj is a pogue. your parents find out you’re together. what could possibly go wrong? thankfully jj is there to catch the falling tears
based off this request
warnings :: none, mentions of a fight
word count :: 1.2k
pairing :: jj maybank x kook!fem!reader
outerbanks masterlist (not yet linked!)
The humid Kildare air was thick with the scent of marsh water and cheap beer as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the marsh in bruised purples and golds. At the Chateau, things were as chill as they could be. John B and Sarah were tangled together in a hammock, Pope was trying to explain the mechanics of a rusted winch to Kiara, and JJ was perched on the porch railing, mindlessly flicking a lighter open and shut.
The rhythmic clink-flick of the lighter was the only thing grounding him. He’d been off all day. Shorter fuse than usual, eyes constantly darting toward the dirt path leading to the road.
"Earth to JJ," Kie called out, leaning back in her lawn chair. "You’ve been staring at that street for twenty minutes. You expecting a package or something?"
JJ forced a grin, the practiced, lopsided one that usually hid everything. "Just waitin' for the inspiration to strike, Kie. Thinking about taking up interpretive dance."
"Please don't," Pope muttered, not looking up from his manual.
The banter was cut short by the sound of tires crunching on gravel, fast. A pair of high end LED headlights cut through the twilight, far too bright and far too expensive for the Cut. A sleek, white SUV skidded to a halt just inches from John B’s rusted-out van.
John B sat up, squinting. "Who the hell is that? Topper? Rafe?"
The Pogues stood in unison, a collective wall of defense. JJ’s lighter stayed shut in his palm. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He knew that car.
The driver’s side door flung open, and you stumbled out.
You didn't look like a Pogue. You wore a silk camisole and expensive linen trousers, the uniform of Figure 8. But you were also shaking. Your hair, usually perfectly styled for country club luncheons, was a wild mess, and even from the porch, they could see the dark tracks of mascara staining your cheeks.
"JJ?" your voice broke, thin and desperate.
The group went dead silent. Pope dropped his wrench. Sarah’s eyes went wide, darting between you and the blonde boy standing next to her.
"y/n?" John B asked, his voice laced with pure confusion. "What are you doing here?"
You didn't answer him. You didn't even see him. Your eyes were locked on JJ. When you caught his gaze, a fresh sob escaped your throat, and you started toward the porch, your steps uneven.
JJ didn't wait. He cleared the porch railing in one fluid motion, landing in the dirt and sprinting toward you. He caught you just as your knees started to give way, his rough, calloused hands gripping your waist while yours flew up to clutch at his salt stained t-shirt.
"Hey, hey, I got you," JJ whispered, his voice dropping an octave, losing every bit of its usual bravado. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, pulling you so close there wasn't an inch of air between you. "Shh, y/n, I'm right here. You’re okay."
On the porch, the silence was deafening.
"Uh," Pope started, his finger pointing aimlessly at the scene. "Does... does anyone want to explain why a Figure 8 princess is currently melting into JJ’s arms?"
"Since when do they even know each other?" Kie added, her brow furrowed. "JJ hates kooks. He spends fifty percent of his time complaining about her neighbors."
Sarah, who had grown up in the same circles as you, looked stunned. "That’s y/n. Her dad is on the board of the restoration project. She’s... she’s supposed to be dating some guy from Charleston. JJ, what is going on?"
JJ ignored them. He was busy brushing the hair out of your face, his thumbs wiping away the tears with a tenderness none of the Pogues knew he possessed. "What happened? Did someone hurt you? If one of those country club douchebags touched you, I swear to God—"
"No," you choked out, clutching his wrists. "It’s my parents, JJ. They found the letters. They found the pictures of us at the wreck. My dad... he said if I didn't stop seeing 'that Pogue trash,' he was sending me away tonight. I just... I couldn't. I left. I drove and I didn't know where else to go."
JJ’s jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his cheek. The "Pogue trash" comment clearly stung, but his priority was the girl trembling in his arms.
"You're staying here," JJ said firmly. It wasn't a suggestion.
He turned back toward the porch, still holding you tightly to his side. The four faces staring back at him were a mix of shock, betrayal, and awe.
"JJ," John B said softly, stepping down the stairs. "Man, how long?"
JJ sighed, his defensive walls creeping back up just a fraction, though he didn't let go of you. "Four months. Since the bonfire at Mason’s. I didn't tell you guys because... look at her, man. She’s got everything to lose. I didn't want the kooks coming for her, and I didn't want you guys giving me hell for 'sleeping with the enemy.'"
"We wouldn't have given you hell," Kie said, though her voice lacked total conviction. Then, seeing the state you were in, her expression softened. "Okay, maybe a little. But JJ... you should've told us."
"I'm sorry," you whispered, finally looking at the group, your eyes red and puffy. "I know I'm the last person you want here. I'll go, I just... I needed to see him."
JJ’s grip tightened. "You aren't going anywhere."
He looked at John B, a silent plea in his eyes. John B, who knew better than anyone what it was like to be hunted by the Figure 8 elite, simply nodded.
"The Chateau’s a safe house, y/n," John B said, a small, welcoming smile tugging at his lips. "Even for kooks in distress. Sarah, you got some clothes she can change into?"
Sarah was already moving. "Yeah. Come on, y/n. Let’s get you cleaned up. Pope, go get some water. JJ... stop looking like you’re going to punch a hole in the wall. She’s safe now."
As Sarah led you inside, JJ stayed in the yard, watching your retreating back until the screen door swung shut. He let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for months, his shoulders finally dropping.
"Four months, JJ?" Pope asked, whistling low. "You kept a secret for four months? I didn't think you had the lung capacity for that."
JJ reached into his pocket, pulling his lighter back out. Clink-flick. "She’s different, Pope. She's the only thing in this whole damn island that makes me feel like I’m not just some kid from the Cut destined for a jail cell."
He looked at his friends, his expression raw and honest. "I love her. And if her old man wants to call me trash, that’s fine. But he’s not taking her away."
The Pogues exchanged a look. They knew that tone. JJ Maybank had found something worth protecting, and for the first time, it wasn't a treasure map or a gold bar. It was a girl from the wrong side of the island who had found her way home.
a/n :: @mirrorballdickinson I hope this lived up to your expectations! Thank you again for requesting!!
rafe shows up to your house with blood on his face
You hear the knock before you see the time. Three soft taps. Even. Unhurried. You don’t even have to check. You already know who it is. Your stomach turns, but your feet move anyway.
When you open the door, Rafe’s standing there—bruised and bloodied. Again.
There’s a smear of red across his jaw, some dried at the corner of his mouth. His nose is still bleeding a little, and his knuckles look like he punched a wall, or a person.
His eyes lock onto yours, and the second he sees your face, he exhales. “Hey, baby,” he mutters with a scratchy edge to his voice.
You don’t say anything. Just open the door wider.
He steps inside, brushing past you like this is routine. Like this isn’t the third time this month. You shut the door, slowly.
He leans against your kitchen counter, swiping the blood from under his nose with the back of his hand. “It’s not mine,” he says casually, like that’s supposed to comfort you.
It doesn’t.
Still, you don’t say anything. You head to the sink, grab a washcloth, run it under warm water. You hear him chuckle softly behind you. “You’re mad.”
You’re not. Not really. Just scared. Worried. But you don’t want to give that to him right now. You don’t want to feed whatever this part of him is.
When you turn, he’s already watching you. Waiting.
You walk over. Hold the warm cloth to his face.
He flinches, just a little, then lets out a breath and leans in. His eyes flutter shut, like your touch calms him down. “You always take care of me,” he murmurs, lips brushing the air near your wrist. “Even when you look at me like that.”
You pause. “Like what?”
He opens his eyes, smirking. “Like I scare you.”
You don’t respond. You just keep cleaning him. Careful, quiet. His hand drifts to your waist at some point, fingers resting there like it’s normal. Like this is just your thing now—late nights and blood.
“Still love me?” he asks after a beat. You roll your eyes, but your hands get gentler. He smiles, “You do.”
And even though you don’t say it out loud, you think he knows.
Because a few minutes later, he’s dozing on your couch with his head on your shoulder and your fingers are in his hair, quietly tracing circles. You might be mad. You might be scared. But when he’s here, with you, it's when you feel the safest.
