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Snickerdoodle pt. iv

pairing: Art Donaldson x reader, Patrick Zweig x reader, Tashi Duncan x reader summary: Art comes out of retirement to test out his coaching skills. Your relationship with him continues to spiral. warnings: smut 18+, cheating, divorce, rough sex, piv, marijuana use, slight angst, hastily proofread word count: 7.7K divider by @cafekitsune <3 prev part | next part

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

Kaleb decides he wants to play tennis. Or that he wants to “get serious” about it. He’d done tennis camp every summer along with soccer camp, and he’d enjoyed it enough. But for some reason, he’s determined to be a tennis player now. You blame it on how much time he’s been spending around the Donaldson’s. Between the various play dates and carpooling, he and Lily have been attached at the hip.

The two of you are enjoying a quiet evening  on a weeknight when he brings it up. 

“Lily doesn’t really like tennis,” he tells you in between bites of mashed potatoes. 

“Well that’s okay. Sometimes our friends end up having different hobbies,” you say.

“Hm,” he puts his finger to his chin, “kinda like you and Mr. Art?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well he’s like the greatest tennis player ever,” he says, spreading his arms out wide. “But you’re terrible at tennis. And you guys are friends right?”

His assertion has you placing your fork down. “Okay, first of all, I’m not terrible at tennis. Secondly, it’s really not fair to compare me to a professional tennis player, K, he’s had years of practice.” Then, you reluctantly think of the last thing he said. About the two of you being friends. 

Images of Art kneeling above you in bed dance through your mind. You think of the last time you were with him. How he’d laid his cheek on your thigh while you threaded your fingers through his tufts of blonde hair. His gaze searing as he watched you in all your post-orgasmic bliss. Your chest was still heaving as you tried to recover.  

You clear your throat. 

“Yeah, um, I guess we are friends.” You avoid eye contact with Kaleb and pray he changes the subject. You don’t want to think about Art. 

Unfortunately, your son is too young to properly read the room. If he was, he’d see the way you’re clenching your fork in your fist. Or he would’ve realized by now that his mom is a harlot. Instead of calling you out on your immorality, he turns to you with express earnestness. “I wanna play tennis like Mr. Art,” he says definitively.

He then furrows his little eyebrows and asks you, “you think I can be as good as him one day?”

You smile, reach over to smooth your palm over his curls, and tug his ear. You say what every parent would. “I think you can do whatever you put your mind to, my little monkey.” 

He grins at you, dimple poking out.

After all, you’re almost certain this is just an eager phase prompted by Lily bringing Tashi to school for career day. Tashi mentioned to you that Kaleb was very eager to ask questions about her job. Apparently, he thought it was super cool that she “got to coach the best tennis players in the world.” You’re worried that before dinner is over he might ask you to put in a word with her about coaching him. 

Once you’ve finished eating, tucked Kaleb in, and tidied up the kitchen, you finally get to relax with a cup of lavender chamomile tea.

Before you settle into the refuge of your bed, you make a note to sign Kaleb up for club tennis. 

ᯓ

You’re at a gas station near Kaleb’s school when you realize your dumb credit card has a faulty chip. You grab your purse and lock the doors to your car, having been forced to go inside the store and pay for your gas the old fashioned way. 

The door shuts behind you with a ring of a bell. The unmistakable smell of fuel fills your nostrils as it mixes with stale coffee and the emblematic stench of small convenience stores. You grumble when you see there’s a short line. 

With a sigh, you take a detour down one of the narrow aisles to grab a pack of gum. You pick out a random pack of spearmint, but your inner child lingers on the yellow packaging of juicy fruit bubble gum sitting beside it. When you were little, your mom would’ve made you pick one or the other. Without a second thought, you pluck the yellow pack out from the shelf and head back towards the front. 

On your walk back, you glance out the windows, checking to make sure the pump you’re parked at is still number 5. 

The line is shorter now. There’s only two people. You think you recognize the dark head of the person standing at the counter. They’re digging through the back pocket of their jeans and pulling out a leather wallet when your cellphone dings. It’s an email notification from your boss. You read the subject header before dropping the phone back into your purse, hoping to avoid whatever stressor awaits you there for a couple more hours or so. When you look back up, you’re met with the face of the dark haired stranger. 

His eyes meet yours. Patrick Zweig sends you a mischievous smile of recognition as he saunters toward you. He snaps his fingers. “I know you.”

“Hi, Patrick,” you say through your tight smile. The last time you’d seen him, he tried to blackmail you into going out with him. If he wasn’t so attractive, you’d probably be repulsed by him. 

“Long time no see.” He pockets his package of Marlboros. “How you been?”

“Um just busy you know,” you hum. “You?” 

He nods. “Same, same.” He looks you over, smile growing wider when he meets your eyes after lingering on your cleavage. He doesn’t even attempt to be discreet. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes to the side.

Thankfully, the bald guy in front of you finishes up his transaction so you have an excuse to say “excuse me” to Patrick as you approach the register. You glance back when you hand your money to the bored cashier, catching one last glimpse of Patrick as he exits through the door. You nibble on the inside of your cheek, feeling the tiniest hint of disappointment. 

You accept your change and two packs of gum and make your way back to your car. Not wanting to waste any more time at this point, you toss the plastic bag into the passenger seat and hurry to pump your gas.  

You’re leaning against the trunk while the fuel fills your tank when you hear a small “hey.” 

You’re startled as Patrick approaches you again. You look around suspiciously. “Um are you stalking me?” 

“No.” He huffs out a laugh. “I was standing over there taking a smoke.” He points towards his beat up suv. You wonder why he doesn’t have a better car. You thought tennis players made money. “And I saw you. Didn’t get to say goodbye earlier.” 

You click your tongue. “Well, bye.” 

“Wait—I hope I didn’t rub you the wrong way last time.” He rubs his palm over the back of his neck. “I kind of have a fucked up sense of humor.” 

“It wasn’t the joke,” you supply. “It was more so you trying to blackmail me into going on a date with you.” 

He laughs. “Yeah, I don’t know why that didn’t work.” The grin he gives you sends a shiver down your spine. 

This time, you smirk, your gaze tracing the length of his body, from his Nikes to the curly wisps of hair flying in the wind. The gas pump clicks, signifying that your tank is full. You don’t remove it right away because you’re busy letting Patrick type his number into your phone. You wish you could say you played hard to get, but that would be a lie of monumental magnitude. 

You don’t actually intend to call him, content to let his number go forgotten in your phone. After all, what type of woman would get involved with the best friend of the man she’s having an affair with? 

Later on, when you’re having a glass of wine, mommy duties complete for the night, you pause on his number as you tap through your phone. You inhale, take a sip from your glass, and quickly save his contact before swiping out of the app. You can blame it on your being slightly tipsy when you notice that he’s saved as “for a rainy day.” 

ᯓ

It turns out that the tennis thing isn’t just a phase. You don’t mind of course. You’d always support your kid in whatever he pursued. The only issue is that Art fucking Donaldson thought it would be a good idea to train little Kaleb. As if you needed more reasons to be around the man. 

You’d told him that you didn’t think it was necessary because your son was only eight years old. Surely, he wouldn’t need a retired professional tennis player to train him. His tennis lessons at the local club would certainly suffice. Plus, you imagined he had more important things to attend to than give private lessons to a third grader. 

On a random weeknight, you’d gone to pick Kaleb up from a play date with Lily, hoping to grab him and get back home before the rain got any worse. Art had greeted you at the door, placing a hand on the small of your back. 

He decided to bring up the topic again. Even Tashi, who was usually busy with training of her own, chimed in, claiming it would be a good opportunity for Art to find real meaning in tennis again. Whatever that meant. Patrick, who you had been avoiding thinking about, once again inserted himself into a conversation, pointing out how young he and Art were when they first started playing tennis. According to him, it was never too early to learn how to properly hit a ball with a racket. 

ᯓ

The thought of Art spending time with Kaleb through tennis is an endearing one if you’re being honest with yourself. But you know you would have an intense fight on your hands should Chris find out. 

Ever since Art had stepped in with your ex at the fall festival, he’d harbored an attitude toward him. He’d gone as far as complaining about all the time Kaleb spent at his house, accusing you of trying to turn your son against him. If it weren’t for the court mandated visits, you’d have simply told Chris to go to hell. But in an attempt to maintain peace for your son’s sake, you reassured him that Kaleb only spent so much time around Art because Lily was his best friend. 

You asked him if it was worth destroying his son’s friendship. He conceded for the time being, but you’re sure if he found out about any extra tennis lessons, he’d blow a gasket. 

Ironically, you had never been offered the freedom to express such possessiveness. You had to be content each and every time your son stayed at his father’s new house with his new fiancée that you barely knew anything about. You handle some occasions better than others. 

This time, though, when you watch Kaleb go through the front door of their luxurious home, Spider-Man backpack affixed on his back, your stomach churns. Chris’ fiancée smiles and waves to you with her left hand. Bitterly, you think it’s a miracle she can even lift it with the large diamond wrapped around her finger. She places her hand on your son’s shoulder, pulling him into their home, as if she wasn’t the one that helped wreck yours. 

Maybe it’s the fact that this past week would’ve been your anniversary, but your shoulders shake with sobs throughout the entire drive home. You sniffle as you think about Kaleb building a life with his soon to be step-mom. You hope she treats him right, but, ultimately, you wish he didn’t have to know her at all. 

It doesn’t help that you aren’t able to bury your sorrows in Art’s chest or on his dick. He’d already told you about the gala he’d be attending that weekend for the Donaldson Foundation. You haven’t seen him since last weekend, and you ache to call him, but the thought makes you feel nauseous when you think about the wretched irony of seeking comfort in a married man. In a decision that’s almost homogeneously pathetic, you sit in your lonely driveway and send a “hey” to ‘for a rainy day.’

ᯓ

It doesn’t take long for Patrick to offer to come over. You send him your location as you pop open a bottle of wine. 

You reach for a glass, your eagerness causing you to apply too much force as you slam the glass down. It breaks under the pressure of your haste, immediately cracking at the stem. The inconvenience is too much for you. You curse before bringing the entire bottle up to your mouth. You take a swig, red liquid spilling out of the corner of your mouth. With a gasp, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Pitifully, your vision starts to blur again as your eyes swell up with hot tears. You resort to sitting on the kitchen floor, taking the occasional drink, and wallowing in your despair. 

You’re propped against the cabinet, knees to your chest as you cradle the green tinted bottle of red wine like a toddler holding a stuffed animal, when you hear your doorbell ring. You stumble to your feet, dragging them as you move toward the door. When you swing the door open, Patrick is standing there with his hands in his pockets. He looks you over once, mumbling that you “look like shit” before stepping into your home as if he’d been there a thousand times. 

He lifts his eyebrows when he sees the neglected pieces of glass on your counter. He looks back at the bottle in your fist before groaning. “Please don’t tell me you’re an alcoholic.” 

You roll your eyes. “No, I’m just having a pretty shitty day.” 

“No shit,” he snorts. 

You send him a glare. “I don’t even know why I called you,” you say and rub your temples. 

“Because I’m obviously easy and you know it.” He smirks. 

It makes you laugh, your red, puffy eyes squinting back at him. 

Patrick eventually convinces you to smoke the joint he’d brought with him. You haven’t gotten high in years, and you find yourself mindlessly rambling about your life as you pass the joint back and forth to him. You’d stopped crying a while ago, your eyes now red because of the weed. 

You and Patrick are lounging on the floor of your living room. You’re dragging your fingers through the shag rug underneath you and leaning your head back on the sofa when you hear him laugh. He sounds like he’s far away, down through a tunnel, but when you turn your head, his face is right beside you. 

“What’s funny?” You grunt. 

He shakes his head. “S’nothing.” 

You frown and shove his bicep. “Tell me,” you say, scooting closer to him. “I hate feeling left out.” 

His smile falters for a second like he’s remembering something, but when you blink he’s sporting a melancholic grin. “It’s just—you kind of remind me a lot of Art.” His head falls to the side to really look at you. “I mean not like completely, and not really how he is now, but when you’re upset—it reminds me of when we were teenagers.” 

“I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not,” you say. It comes out as a whisper. Your faces are so close that you don’t want to startle him. 

“Hm.” His eyes flicker to your lips. “Not a good or bad thing. Just a thing.” 

“That’s why you like me?” You mumble teasingly. “Because I remind you of your boyfriend?” 

He smirks, lips so close to yours you feel his breath fan them. “Who said I liked you?” 

“You don’t have to.” You’re just the slightest movement away from kissing him. If you tilt your head just the tiniest bit—

He lets out an almost imperceptible moan when he finally presses his lips to yours. It’s so quiet, you think you might’ve imagined it. It all happens incredibly fast, but feels like slow motion. Your head is fuzzy and your body is tingling as Patrick grabs your waist, hoisting you onto his lap. It takes you a moment to build momentum, your sensory overload working against you.

When you’re finally able to match his energy, the kiss is searing. He’s sucking your lip into his mouth like you’re already his, hands roaming everywhere he can get them. When he bites your bottom lip, you suck in a breath, giving him room to thrust his tongue into your mouth. You mewl at the way your mouths seem to fit together like velcro. Your toes curl and you tighten your fists into his dark locks when you feel his hot tongue traveling down your throat, leaving white hot bites that feel like being branded. His teeth sting and your cunt throbs as you impulsively rut against his length. 

Patrick rubs his large palm over your ass before abruptly smacking it, making you release an embarrassingly airy moan. His teeth tug on your earlobe. “You like that?” 

You only nod, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. 

“Hmm?” He mumbles, continuing to lave over the skin behind your ear. His hand comes down on your ass again, harder this time. 

You let out a pathetic squeal and slam your hips down against him in search of some kind of friction to relieve the ache between your legs. “Oh god—please fuck me—“

His mouth meets yours again. You can barely kiss him properly, panting about needing him to fuck you right now. 

He really is easy, you think, but it’s not like you have room to talk.

ᯓ

The first time Patrick Zweig sinks his cock into you, you’re on your knees, face pressed against your rug. The slam of his hips threaten to take your breath away as tears cling to your eyelashes. He’s rough, possessively grabbing your flesh with no regard for potential damage. When he experimentally grips your hair in his hand, tugging your head back gently, you see stars behind your clamped eyelids.

Patrick nearly whimpers at the way it makes you arch your back into his thrusts with increasing intensity. He groans something about you being a slut and fists your hair with less restraint. Your walls clench around him when he wraps his hand around your throat, pulling you to his chest. 

He grunts into your ear. “I knew you liked it rough, could tell from the first time I saw you.” 

The tears have started to spill now. Whether it’s from the humiliation or the utter ecstasy, you aren’t sure. All you know is that you almost sob when Patrick drags his tongue alongside your face, collecting the salty tears.

ᯓ

He buries himself inside you for a second time no more than twenty minutes after you’ve both cum. You gasp and claw at his back as his body presses you into your couch cushions.

You have to admit that Patrick knows how to fuck. Knows how to read your body, tapping into just the right frequency to get you off. 

It’s obvious that you’ve been craving this type of treatment from the way you’re responding to him. But you’re sure that he must have a sexual sixth sense because in the midst of fucking you wildly, he grabs your ankle that’s dangling by his ear, turns his head, and plants a sweet kiss to the bone. It makes you melt into the sofa. 

He leans down to shove his tongue into your open mouth. Softly pats your cheek, relishing in your cock drunk state. 

“Does he fuck you like this?” He murmurs into your neck.

You don’t have to ask who he’s talking about. 

“Huh?” He prods. 

You choke down a moan. “Better. He—“ You cry out when you feel him start rubbing harsh circles into your clit. “He fucks me better.” 

He huffs out a laugh through his smile, but his hips slam down harder as if he’s determined to change your answer. In less than a minute, you’re biting down on his shoulder when you feel another orgasm rack through your body. 

ᯓ

You take a longer break this time. Stopping to pour yourself a real glass of wine. One with its stem intact. Patrick lazily inhales from a cigarette as he watches you, with hooded eyes, attempt to hold a throw blanket over your bare torso. In contrast, he nonchalantly spreads his thighs over your couch, body on full display. 

His eyes leisurely meet yours. They shine prettily in the dim lighting of your home. His dark lashes flutter on each drag of his cig and it makes the corner of your mouth curve up when you take a sip. The lamps have cast a cozy shade of amber over the room. It blankets Patrick’s skin in a golden aura reminiscent of something being baked in an oven. 

Patrick reminds you of the gingerbread man, you think. It makes you press the tips of your fingers to your lips to stifle a giggle. 

He tilts his head at your odd behavior, but he assumes the weed must still be affecting you. 

Once you’ve placed your glass on the coffee table, and he’s put out his cigarette, Patrick is pulling you by the ankle, tossing your blanket to the side and kissing his way down your abdomen. 

You yelp when he captures one of your hard nipples in his mouth but let him press his hot kisses into your skin nonetheless. 

You end up cumming for the third time that night with his head buried between your legs. 

ᯓ

Patrick leaves while you’re asleep. 

When you wake up around 3am to an empty house, you think it’s for the best. You check your phone. You have a missed call from “a.d.” and a text from Patrick that says “had fun” with a winking emoji. You don’t respond to either, instead, opting to pad your bare feet to the bathroom. You desperately need a shower.

In the morning, you tidy up your home from the events of the night before, cringing at what took place on the terracotta colored sofa.

When the buzzing in your head doesn’t stop after cleaning your entire living room from top to bottom, you find yourself in the kitchen, pulling out ingredients to make chocolate chip cookies. 

You’re frantically kneading dough when the doorbell rings. You frown, not expecting company, but clean your hands as best you can as you make your way to open the door. Sometimes, your talkative neighbor, Mrs. Taylor, likes to come knocking on your door early in the mornings. 

You’re surprised to find that Art is standing on the other side with a latte and a bag containing a chocolate croissant. You assume it’s for you. He places his things down on the table by the door, the one that holds your catch all tray, and scoops you up into a hug. 

He groans into it, making you smile. “Hi,” you mumble into his chest. 

“Hi, pretty girl,” his voice comes out equally mumbled. “Missed you.” You can hear the grin in his tone. It makes your heart clench. 

You allow yourself to hold onto him, despite the ever present worry that you should be reining yourself in when it comes to him. He moves to let you go, grabbing your face in his palm and kissing the side of your head. You whine and lock your arms around his waist in protest. You inhale his scent, all warm and familiar. You’ve missed him. 

“Baby,” he laughs into your hair. You grunt, squeezing him tighter. “Okay, c’mere.” He pulls you into him, securely engulfing you in his arms. “I got you, I got you.” 

You eventually release him long enough to walk into your home. 

You’re relieved that you’d been overtaken by a cleaning spell this morning because you fear that Art might take one glance at your couch and figure out who had been here. That he’d smell him in the air. 

You’re afraid he might’ve detected it anyway when he freezes in the walkway separating your kitchen from the living room. You nibble on your lip as you try to search his body for any signs that he’s onto you. 

To your relief, Art is actually focused on the copious amounts of cookie dough you have on the counter of your kitchen island. He turns to you with the all knowing look of a father, his eyes creased with concern. “Oh no, what happened?” 

ᯓ

After a therapy session in which you decide to stop letting your ex influence your decisions from afar, you finally relent, allowing Art to begin practicing with Kaleb on their private tennis court. It seems like since you got involved with their family, that’s all you ever do, give in to everyone’s requests. In any other context, it would be disturbing, but the sight of Kaleb racing to the court with an oversized tennis bag fills you with joy. The bag threatens to pull him down, but his excitement keeps him upright as he makes a beeline for Art. 

You don’t know who’s more excited to see Art between the two of you. Your son’s tennis instructor waves at you from across the court. And you have to fight the rush that flows through you, threatening to cut off your oxygen, and give a simple wave in return. It makes you feel like a kid with a fervent crush. You could gag.

You remind yourself that you’re here for Kaleb. Not you.

You think that as long as you get to see him happy like that, you’d agree to anything. It’s a scary notion, but becoming a mom has made you aware of a lot of terrifying realities. 

ᯓ

It’s this maternal need to preserve your son’s happiness that leads you to another prolonged encounter with Tashi Duncan. She’d caught you when you were dropping him off for tennis lessons one day. Apparently, she had a free day. Lily was spending the day with her grandparents, and Patrick is, thankfully, nowhere to be found. You try to hide your relief when she tells you that. You don’t think you can face him right now. 

She insists you join her in their sunroom while the boys practice. You try to think of an excuse to turn her down, but you decide your karma from sleeping with her husband has built up too much to take the chance of tacking on more. So, when she offers to make you a cup of tea, you oblige and sink down into the fabric of a warm sofa.

When Tashi reappears, she sits down with a cup of steaming hot tea for the both of you. You thank her with a smile, letting your eyes trail over her figure. She looks ethereal. The sunlight pouring through the glass forms a halo of light around her, illuminating her like a Madonna painting. She has her hair pulled back into a low ponytail that causes her to have to tuck the loose strands behind her ear every now and then. The motion makes you take notice of her slim neck and the way her collarbones dip into her loose-fitted button down. Even dressed casually, she looks like a goddess. 

You feel your heart start to beat a little faster and reach to take a sip of your tea. You wonder how she knew that lavender chamomile was one of your favorites.

It’s only awkward for a moment because the two of you quickly fall into a conversation about what she’s missed now that Art has taken over attending the PTA meetings. That’s how you’d initially met her. She had actually been the one who you exchanged communication with about carpool and play dates. Art’s retirement allowed her to focus on tennis and other aspects of raising Lily that she preferred. You giggle when she admits that she never really liked those meetings anyway. You don’t tell her that you always had that inkling. 

When you mention that Cynthia is still advertising her knitting business at every single meeting, she sucks in a laugh before leaning toward you. She presses her lips together, holding in her giggle. “Guess what?”

You squint at her, your expression already anticipating a joke. “What?” You all but sputter out. 

“I’m probably responsible for like half the sales on her Etsy shop.” She says like she’s admitting to something top secret. It’s a lot like the expression Lily takes on when her and Kaleb are playing “secret agent.”

“Girl, what?” You didn’t think she’d be a fan of crocheted animal figures. 

“I ordered one for my mom for Mother’s Day,” she explains. “She fell in love with the thing I swear, thought it looked just like her little Yorkie, next thing you know she’s asking for the link to share with all her friends.” 

You’re snickering into your mug imagining Tashi unintentionally being Cynthia’s best saleswoman.

She smiles at you. “I’m serious. Apparently, amigurumi is the new thing. It’s gonna be flying off the shelves. That’s why I had to go ahead and put in my order.”

“Of course you know the official term.” You toss your head back. “What’s yours look like?” 

“It’s a little tabby cat,” she smiles wistfully. “Like the one I had growing up. Her name was Aphrodite.” 

It’s a fitting name.

You’re biting back a grin as you take a sip from your tea. You sigh at the taste. “How’d you know what type of tea I liked?” You ask absentmindedly. 

“Art mentioned it to me.” 

You freeze. “Art?” 

“Yeah he says you like to make it before bed. Now, he’s hooked on it.” 

All the blood in your body rushes to your head. You feel that unwelcome yet proverbial sinking in your gut. You think you might start projectile vomiting.

“Are you okay?”

You don’t respond. It’s hard to speak when you feel like you’re dangling upside down on a roller coaster.

“Wait… you didn’t think I knew did you?”

For some unintelligent reason, you decide to play stupid. Usually, in times of danger, humans resort to fight, flight, or freeze. You choose fucking idiot. “Knew what?”

“That you’re fucking my husband.” Tashi says quite unceremoniously.

“What—what do you mean?” You squeak out.

“Don’t.” She laughs. “I’ve known the whole time.” 

“How?” Your voice is shrinking smaller and smaller to your ears. The sound of Tashi’s voice, her pert laughter, drowning it out.

“Art tells me everything.”

“And you’re okay with it?” You attempt to ask though you can barely hear it.

You know your question reaches her ears because she shakes her head and tells you, “I suggested it.” 

Your eyes go wide. Her divulgence seems to propel you forward on your metaphorical roller coaster. In a snap, it brings you out of your stupor.

“I told Art that he should fuck you.” She says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s as simple as telling him to pick up some carry out on the way home. 

You’re confused, and your head is starting to hurt from the whiplash, and you wish this ride would end already. “I’m—I’m not sure I understand what’s going on here.”

“Okay, well, Art’s been attracted to you since the day he met you,” she says plainly. “But he’d never actually do anything about it because that’s just who he is. He needed that push—“

“That push?”

She nods. “He needed to know he could do it and everything would be fine. He’s still figuring out how to be open to stuff like this.” She explains, gestures vaguely in the air. “He’d never break up what seemed like a happy marriage, but when it was clear that your marriage was far from happy…well he started to warm up to the idea.”

“What do you mean far from happy?” The shock has you feeling unreasonably defensive.

“Clearly something was off. You never seemed happy with him. You’ve said it yourself that he was a dick.”

“Um—okay, well, I’d say something has to be off if you’re coaching your husband into sleeping with unsuspecting women.” You shoot back. Your gaze is sharp and accusatory.

She lets her eyes fall down to her lap, picking at little buds of lint being exposed by the sun’s glow. “You’re right, something was off between us,” she says like it’s something in the past. Like maybe they’re good now, but at one time they weren’t. “But Art knows how I feel about him.” Then, her gaze returns to you. “Something tells me your husband either didn’t know or didn’t care.”

Her comment strikes a nerve. Chris did know something was off, and she was right, he didn’t care. He made you feel like needing more from him made you selfish. As if the reminder of the vows he made to you was an affront to him. He knew you were unhappy. That you felt ignored. But he didn’t care. When you’d served him the divorce papers, you naively thought that he’d realize what he might lose, that he might beg for your forgiveness, promise to be better. Instead, you watched him sign the document in the same way he’d signed receipts for dinner before closing the tab and tucking the pen inside. 

You think you envy her. Because she has a husband that actually doesn’t want to leave her. 

“Hey.” She grabs your attention. Her voice softens when she sees your glassy eyes peering back at her. “I’m not judging you. I’m just trying to offer an explanation.” 

You work to swallow down the onslaught of emotions threatening to rise up like bile. You release a fractured noise from your throat, letting the revelation fully soak in. “So you really knew this whole time then? Or rather you orchestrated it?” 

“Okay, that’s a little extreme,” she says. “When we found out you were getting divorced, I mentioned to Art that he should pursue you. That’s all.” She shrugs. “I never knew if he’d actually do it or when he’d do it. All I know is that the first night he came home smelling like you, he fucked me like he did when I first agreed to be his tennis coach.” 

“Then, he was constantly meeting up with you or staying to talk after PTA meetings,” her fingers curl to form quotations around the word, talk. “But I knew what was up.” She bites her lip. “It was honestly kind of hot.” 

You frown. The thought of him sleeping with her immediately after being with you has your stomach in knots. The worst part is that you can’t stop wondering if he’d showered first. If he’d cleaned himself up or if he’d went straight to her, buried himself inside her, cock still sticky with your fluids. In a way, it’s like you had also been inside her. If you think about it long enough, you can imagine what it must feel like. So, you don’t think about it. Instead, you fix your gaze on the golden pothos plant sitting on top a table to your right. The tapping of your nail against the ceramic mug fills the silence. 

She gives you a questioning look. 

Ignoring the implications of what she just told you, you settle for the anger you’re feeling instead of dwelling on any confusing arousal. “Do you not realize how fucked up this is, Tashi?”

“Excuse me?” 

“Yeah! It’s fucked!” You throw your hands up. “I mean I’ve been running around feeling guilty, thinking I was a fucking homewrecker while the two of you get off on a cheating kink!”

She can tell you have more to say, so she leans back and lets you go on.

“I mean how could you do that? I was fucking depressed.”

She snorts. “Not so depressed that it ruined your libido. You two have been going at it like rabbits.” Her smirk makes your cheeks burn. 

You place your mug down onto the table. “Wow. You know what?” You’re on the edge of the couch now, body rigid. “You and Art can go fuck yourselves! This is seriously messed up.”

She raises her eyebrows. “As messed up as you fucking another woman’s husband?” 

Her words drip with mirth, and it pisses you off that the fiery look in her eyes is poking at a budding desire in your belly. “This is ridiculous,” you mumble to yourself. You’d rather focus all your energy on being outraged than interrogate why this is kind of turning you on. You’re about to stand up to leave when she places a hand on your arm.

“Are you seriously mad right now?” She asks you. 

An incredulous look takes over your face. “What do you think?” You spit out.

“Well, would you have preferred I not know?” She asks as if you’re the crazy one here.

“I—“ you squeeze your eyes shut, and try to gather your thoughts. “Obviously not, Tashi.” You glance up to the glass paned ceiling. “I just—it would’ve been nice to know what was really going on. I mean he never even told me that you knew.”

“Well, did you ask?” She asks simply. 

Did you? You think back to the past couple of months. The more you and Art hooked up, the more you avoided directly mentioning Tashi. He didn’t bring her up more than what was necessary, so you suspected he was actively trying to keep it from her. 

To be fair, he did mention a couple of times that he’d told Tashi you two were going to meet up for lunch, but you thought he must’ve been leaving out the activities that followed. And if she happened to call him while the two of you were together, he would casually tell her he was with you. You obviously assumed he was downplaying your friendship because there was no way Art would be so nonchalant about a mistress. But, apparently, the word mistress didn’t even apply to you. 

“I mean, I guess I didn’t.” You stammer. “But I feel like that was on him to bring it up to me.”

“Well that’s where you went wrong. Art can get in his own way sometimes.” A pensive expression works it’s way onto her face. “Or maybe part of him did kind of get off on feeling like he was sneaking around.” The thought seems to bring a small smile to her face. 

It still doesn’t make sense to you. You try to tamper down the sinking feeling that you’ve been nothing more than a pawn. “I just don’t understand why you two couldn’t proposition me like a normal couple looking for a third,” you say.

“Who said you were our third?” 

“Oh, so there’s other women you’ve sent Art to fuck?”

“No. I—I don’t just pimp out my husband, okay?”

You back down.

“We already have a…third I guess.”

You look at her with furrowed brows. 

“Patrick.” She answers.

“Patrick? Like Patrick Patrick?”

She nods.

You laugh cynically. You didn’t think this situation could get any worse.

“I know.” She sighs. “I know how it seems—”

“Was that part of the plan too?” You’re out of breath, chest heaving. 

She looks genuinely confused. “What are you talking about?” 

“Me and Patrick,” you blurt. 

“Wait a minute, you’re sleeping with Patrick?” She’s scooting closer to you. 

You shake your head. “It just happened once.” You think of how he’d shoved your face into the rug, fucking into you as he grunted out various obscenities. “I was high. I haven’t spoken to him since.”

She looks away for a moment, brows drawn together tightly. She’s piecing together what you’ve told her. 

“I—I didn’t know he was with you guys,” you try. 

She waves you off. “No, it’s not that.” She sits back. “I’m just not surprised that he wormed his way into your pants. He just couldn’t take that Art had something to himself.” She’s speaking to you, but her eyes are trained ahead. 

“So, you really didn’t set that up too?” You ask meekly. 

“God, no!” She says. “I had no idea.” 

You believe her. 

“Look I don’t care what type of weird shit you tennis players are into, if you guys have wild orgies or whatever. I just would’ve liked to have known that I wasn’t a hypocrite.”

“A hypocrite?”

You nod. “I mean I sit here and give my ex shit for cheating on me with that skinny ass whore from Modesto. Hell! That’s why I got so much fucking alimony.” You’re rambling now. “And, then, I go and let Art fucking Donaldson screw me and then send him back home to play loving father and husband like it’s nothing. God! And on top of it all, I also sleep with his best friend! I became the whore from Modesto.” 

Tashi’s watching you like you’re a kid experiencing big feelings.

“I felt like a home wrecker.” You sniff. “But apparently I’m actually not…because it was your idea, well only Art, not Patrick, and I—it’s all just fucking with my head.”

Tashi swallows. “I honestly thought you’d be relieved to find out.”

She looks at the frown on your face, takes in the way your plump bottom lip is jutting out. She reaches for your hand. “We’ve never really been the best at communicating. Me and Art. For the past year or so, we’ve gotten better at talking to each other, being honest about what we want, but we’re still working on doing that with other people I guess.” You let her thumb rub the back of your hand before you gently pull away. 

You grab your mug again. The handle is cold to the touch. 

“I promise we didn’t mean to fuck with you. Honestly, I think Art really likes you.” She offers you a small smile.

You look into your mug trying to still your reaction. You don’t care. 

Tashi’s gaze feels heavy on the side of your face as you feel her watching your expression. You start to fiddle with your watch. Checking for the time. Except your watch is too busy displaying your increased heart rate to offer the time. 

You sigh. 

She reaches out to you again, but this time she brings her hand up to your face, moving the curls falling down over your eyes. You let her nimble fingers caress your cheekbone before trailing down to your chin, guiding you to look at her. 

She gives you a steady, knowing smile. “You fell for him didn’t you?” 

Your cheeks go ablaze, and you try to look away from her. 

“Hey.” She grasps your chin in a firm, but gentle hold. “It’s okay.” She nods as if it’ll telepathically make you agree. 

You clear your throat. “I know you say that, but this is all new to me.” Your voice is slightly wobbly and you think you might cry. “I—I didn’t think it’d happen but it did. I thought I could get him out of my system but now,” you inhale and press two fingers against your neck, subconsciously trying to self-soothe. “Now, it’s like—it’s like I can’t stop.” Your voice comes out almost like a whisper. Like you’re afraid to admit the truth. 

And, really, you are afraid. You’re fucking terrified. 

You’re scared to fall in love with a man who already has one—two people in his life that he’s in love with. The last time you entrusted a man with your love, he was only meant to love you, and he couldn’t even give you that. 

What if you realize you’re absolutely enamored by Art Donaldson and he realizes the same thing Chris did? That there’s something about you that makes you unworthy of love. That the depth of you is as deep as your cunt goes and that’s it. 

What if he realizes that he already has what he needs in Tashi, even Patrick? What if they realize they actually aren’t willing to share?

You apparently voice the last bit aloud.

Tashi tilts her head, some of her strands have fallen loose again and she wears the prettiest pout on her lips. “Do you want me to prove it to you?” 

You gulp when her hand presses into your thigh, and she brings her face impossibly close to yours, forcing you to hold her gaze. “You want me to prove that I’m okay with it?” Her eyes flit between each one of yours with a level of seriousness you’d expect from someone like her. 

Her expression demands an answer, and so, you give a faint nod, transfixed on the woman in front of you. 

You gasp when you feel her mouth on yours. 

You learn that Tashi tastes sweet when she has her tongue in your mouth. You think you can taste the tartness of the lemon she’d sucked on earlier. It’s good, and you realize you’re fucked because you really like kissing her. 

Her tongue twirling around yours has you panting quietly, and you keen when you feel her manicured nails press into the nape of your neck. You haven’t kissed a woman since your last girlfriend in college, and you find you miss it. Something about it feels like drinking sweet tea on a hot summer day. Climbing into cool sheets at night when you’re bone tired. Or the feeling you get when you discover the song that you’re going to replay for the next week. 

It also makes you feel absurdly wet. 

The two of you work up a rhythm of pulling away for a breath before coming back together like magnets, letting your foreheads gently press together as you breathe deeply, thumbs caressing skin, eyelids fluttering. 

Your tongue is sweeping across Tashi’s lip, on a path to enter her mouth again, when you hear someone clear their throat. 

There’s an audible smack as you yank yourself from Tashi, eyes flying to the doorway of their sunroom. 

Art is standing there staring at you, gaze shifting from your face to the hand you still have placed on his wife’s neck. His jaw is clenched, and his bulge is painfully evident in his pants. 

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

a/n: I've been waiting for this since the first post. Let me know how you feel about the reveal <3 as always, my asks are open!

synopsis: rapper!onyankapon and his pretty housewife grow desperate for a new addition

warnings: breeding, p in v, talks of pregnancy and kids, food on the floor (blame ony horny ass 🙄) etc.

a/n: might be a series!

your duty as ony’s wife was to keep him satisfied. his satisfaction meant your eternal happiness. he moved y’all from the hood to the suburbs after all, gave you a whole new life, so you did everything that was expect of you, cooked his meals, washed and folded his clothes, and gave that tight pussy up whenever he desired. in return ony kept you in the latest designer, showered you with affection, and kept you full of his fat dick. but it was just the two of you. you were growing so lonely as ony was writing and recording in the studio five days a week. all of your friends were having children too. mikasa and eren recently welcomed a newborn, reiner and his wife were on their second, even connie up and knocked someone up. ony saw how you had shifted from when you were newlyweds to now. the honeymoon phase was over, this was serious, and his baby was ready to have a baby. ony had no choice but to pump that cute cunt full of his kids.

he comes home from a stressful day in the stu, only having one song done for his new album. he can smell the sweet aromas of tonight’s dinner that you were preparing and as much as he loved your cooking, that was far from what he was craving right now. you were done setting the table, now getting ready to put the food out when your husband walks into the kitchen, almost running into you as you were setting the roast out. “oh baby! dinners almost ready, do you need a beer or anything?” he doesn’t respond, just looking down lustfully at you while you walked the foil covered pan to the table. “uh why you looking at me like that?” you blink a few times.

“cause i’m bouta get you pregnant.”

that’s how you end up in nothing but your tiny picnic print apron, titties bouncing around as your husband is fucking you into the dining room table. “onyy~” your eyes roll back when he pulls you to the edge, making you claw at the table cloth. he’s all snug in your warm hole, juicing that pussy for all its worth. the veins on his cock are being dragged down those gummy walls of yours and you can feel him getting ready to spill inside. “pa s–slow down, pussy ‘s sore,” you’re whining when he’s bucking those hips forward with this newfound stamina.

“can’t slow down ma, gotta make you a mommy first,” he pants out, tongue poking at his cheek in concentration. “you gon make some pretty ass kids baby, look at you. gon give me my son and daughter right ma?”

“yess ony! g–gonna give you as many as y–you want daddy!”

his hands grab at those exposed tits of yours, fondling them around and making your apron act as a thing wedged between them. you hear your fine china plates crashing to the ground with your fancy metal silverware falling on your beautiful wooden floors. ony doesn’t give a shit, he can replace it all by tonight, but this man had to get his seed fucked into you now. “bouta be all pretty and plump mama, this pussy getting bred all night.” ony could picture you now, his pretty wife who’d never have to think about a job application. all you had to worry about was keeping his house clean, food on his table, and sending his children off to school. he pressed his forehead to yours, his big hands engulfing yours, pinning them against the table you ate your meals at. “bouta fill that pussy up baby– nnnngh shit–” your wet sounds filled the house, the cute little squelch and watery sounds of your cunt bouncing off the walls. another thrust and you were drowning in his thick load. you were never so excited to have morning sickness ever.

“ony,” you sulked. “our china, and my roast? you couldn’t wait until we were in the bedroom?” you pushed the heavy man off of you, giving him quite the view as you bent over to examine your tender roast splattered on the floor. ony saw his cum dripping onto the floor and adding to the mess, of course he couldn’t have that. you weren’t phased when you felt his fingers stuffing every drop back into your messy cunt, sealing it with a slap on your ass and watching the rippled recoil.

“stop all that nagging and go grab me a beer. get my card and order chinese too, imma clean this up.”

with no more lip or back talk you happily obeyed, skipping to fetch him a bottle. “yes daddy.”

after tonight you’d never have to look at a family and frown again, your hubby gave you your very own, just how he gave you everything else you’ve ever wanted. you already knew the blogs and gossip sites were about to be on it after a few months pass without you being in the public eye, everyone thinking you and ony are done until he pops out with this post:

© kittyarmin 2023. all rights reserved.

mariacarla boscono @ roberto cavalli s/s 2003

Beneath the Surface

So I have been wanting to watch this for the longest time after seeing clips of this man and David Tennet. I mean yum! I haven't quite got around to watching it yet but I have been reading the book/s and this thought has been rattling around my head for ages that I needed to get out of my head.

Rupert x Curvy Reader- Some suggestiveness

The garden party at the Harborough estate was in full swing, all crisp linens, chilled champagne, and laughter floating through the balmy afternoon air. Rupert Campbell-Black, sprawled lazily in a wicker chair with a drink in hand, barely feigned interest in the polite chatter buzzing around him. He was here out of obligation—a necessary appearance alongside Declan O’Hara, his insufferable rival, and the rest of the local television circus. He had expected the usual tedium, but then he noticed the shift in atmosphere.

A ripple of attention moved through the party. Heads turned, conversations briefly faltered, and a few men subtly adjusted their postures as they took in the presence of someone new—or rather, newly transformed. Snatches of murmured conversation drifted towards him.

“Did you see O’Hara’s stepdaughter? Christ, she’s changed. The arse on her, no wonder Maud sent her away—don’t want her husband around a stepdaughter like that.”

“Always thought she was a little mouse. Who knew she had that hiding under all those books?”

“Spent time abroad, didn’t she? Some scandal, if you believe the whispers.”

“I heard she turned down some prince, left him at their own engagement party.”

Rupert followed their gazes, eyes narrowing as he finally landed on you.

At first, he didn’t recognize you. Declan O’Hara’s stepdaughter had been spoken of, but never seen. Rupert had vaguely registered Maud O’Hara’s fond but exasperated descriptions—a bookish, serious girl, forever with her nose in a novel, lost to academia. Dull, he’d thought. Dull and unimportant.

The woman standing across the lawn, laughing with her half-sisters, was anything but.

You were curvy and glowing from your time abroad, and exuded a confidence that made his sharp blue eyes narrow with interest. Your hair gleamed in the afternoon sun, and your laugh—a rich, uninhibited sound—carried over the party, drawing more than just his attention. The moment you threw your head back, grinning at something young Caitlin had said, Rupert had the unwelcome realization that he was staring.

“Oh, bloody hell,” he muttered to himself, taking a slow sip of his drink, eyes traveling down your body. What he wouldn't do to get a chance to get behind that figure and bunch those skirts up...

His mind, never particularly noble, immediately assessed the situation. Declan’s stepdaughter—off-limits, complicated. But also tempting, clearly underestimated, and possibly trouble. Christ, she’s a proper handful, he thought, gaze lingering on the swell of your hips. A woman like that didn’t just slip unnoticed through life. He wondered how many men had already tried and failed to claim her. Maybe even had claimed her.

He imagined what that soft, curvy body would feel like beneath his hands, how you’d react if he pushed, if he tested, if he whispered something wicked in your ear. He had a sudden, vivid image of you sprawled on a bed, eyes flashing defiance even as your lips parted beneath his. Oh, now wouldn’t that be interesting? He pictured those plush thighs wrapping around him, the way your breath might hitch if he bit at that delicate spot on your neck.

He spent the next half-hour mooching about the party, gathering snippets of conversation, watching you from a comfortable distance. You weren’t at the center of the social fray but hovered at the edges, observing with an amused detachment, sipping your drink with the air of someone who found all this social posturing vaguely entertaining. Not shy, exactly, but aware. Selective.

More whispers followed him as he drifted through the crowd.

“She had some torrid affair while she was away, you know.”

“No, no, she turned down some lord or diplomat. Broke his heart. Ice-cold, that one.”

Rupert filtered the exaggerations from the truths. The woman people spoke of was bold, confident—but something about you, something in the way you stayed just outside the party’s thrumming heart, suggested a wariness, a careful distance. Bold, but vulnerable, he thought. There was something in your eyes—a fire but a fear—and the realization intrigued him even more.

Rupert wasn’t a man who liked mysteries left unsolved. He liked his women obvious, uncomplicated, and preferably already in his bed. You, however, were none of those things. And that, annoyingly, made him want to know more. Perhaps he could get you into his bed, being sprawled across crisp white seats would suit you.

It was only when he lingered near the buffet table, pretending to be interested in the uninspired selection of canapés, that Taggie caught him.

“You’re watching her,” she said, tilting her head curiously.

Rupert didn’t look at Taggie immediately, instead swirling the drink in his hand with studied nonchalance. “I watch many things, darling.”

Taggie frowned slightly. “Well, yes, I suppose you do.” She brightened. “Isn’t it wonderful she’s back? Caitlin’s thrilled. I think she’s missed her terribly. I know I have.”

Rupert finally turned to face her, the faintest smirk on his lips. “Tell me, when exactly did your sister become the most interesting woman in the room?”

Taggie blinked at him, momentarily thrown. “Oh, I suppose she’s always been, really. You lot just weren’t paying attention.”

He exhaled a short laugh. “And what brings her back to this charming little patch of England?”

“For Caitlin’s eighteenth birthday, of course,” Taggie said earnestly, completely unaware of the sharp interest in Rupert’s gaze. “And, well, she wants Caitlin and me to move to London with her. Or maybe even go abroad. Away from Daddy and Mummy.”

Rupert raised an eyebrow. “Ambitious.”

Taggie nodded. “Oh yes, but she’s always been determined when she sets her mind to something.”

Rupert hummed thoughtfully, gaze flicking back toward you. As if on cue, you turned slightly, speaking to someone just within earshot, your voice carrying just enough for him to catch Maud’s sharp reply.

“You should have worn that dress—it makes you look full, round, and plump. You’ve gotten fat. Why couldn’t you just wear the dress I got you?”

There was a pause, and then, to his utter astonishment, your voice, clear and cool: “Because it was at least two sizes too big and shapeless. I think I look rather bangable. My tits have never looked better. I thought this is what you wanted rather than your bookish daughter?” you snapped, swinging back a gulp of champagne, eyes burning.

Rupert nearly choked on his drink.

Taggie gave a small, horrified gasp at the family squabble, face burning in embarrassment “Oh, God.”

Rupert, however, was utterly fascinated. His keen gaze traced the curves that Maud had so carelessly dismissed. You were lush—undeniably so. And you carried it like a woman who knew exactly what kind of attention you could command if you chose to.

Well, well.

He’d assumed you were a bookish little nobody, a person that he didn’t even register, a faceless name, but now? You were something else entirely. A challenge. A contradiction. A woman who knew her own worth but still carried something guarded in her expression. He felt the sharp tug of interest low in his gut, imagining what it would be like to make you gasp, to hear that cool, composed voice turn breathless under him. To push and see how much you could take, to watch you unravel, inch by inch, under the right hands. His, of course.

Taggie groaned again, oblivious to the meaning behind his expression. “Please don’t be you about this.”

Rupert shot her a wicked grin. “Oh, darling, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

But that wasn’t exactly true, was it?

SOOOOO what do you think?

LIKE. COMMENT. REQUEST

brb, about 2 go find a rich ceo to marry just so i can have super cute bachelorette and bride accessories 🐩

alyson dubey for id japan, photos by josh wilks

Dilf/Husband!Rafe thinks you deserve all the pipe. 😻

With Rafe drowning in development projects, your son’s last year playing football, and the two of you trying to plan your daughter’s upcoming sweet sixteen, getting a free weekend to spend together alone felt like a dream. Especially getting to be however loud you wanted with no kids around and your gorgeous husband feeling the need to be inside you at every possible chance.

The white sheets of the hotel’s bed were a mess as your manicured nails dug into the linen. Your poor cunt was sore from the constant stretch of his thick cock plunging in and out of you, his low grunts of pleasure behind you only making you leak more around him. You watched him in the long standing mirror of the expensive hotel room, his muscled body flexing with each thrust he gave you as his hips smacked against your ass.

“This what you needed, huh?” He asked with a breathless growl as he relentlessly pounded into your wet hole. His blue eyes met your gaze in the reflection, a smirk coming to his face as he watched you take his dick. “So goddamn beautiful baby. You deserved to be filled every fucking second. Don’t you?”

You nodded the best your dizzy head would allow you to only for your upper body to give out as your arms grew weak. Your cheek pressed against the soft mattress, huge diamond ring and glittery band shining as you reached your hand back to tap at Rafe’s abs. “R-Rafe baby… it’s too much.” You mumbled, your climax slowly sneaking up on you. It wasn’t like you wanted him to stop, but the man was huge and your cunt was sensitive. You definitely deserved it though, he was right. While two of you had a very healthy sex life, everything had been so busy lately that you had missed getting to feel him, hear him and be with him in such an intimate way. “You’re gonna make me cum baby.” You whimpered, voice muffled by the sheets. The sounds of your moans, and wetness filled the hotel room along with the sexy groans and words of your husband.

“Fuck… you sound gorgeous. Let me fucking hear you baby, tell me how much you want daddy to shoot his cum inside your perfect cunt.” His tone and little strained, which caused you to come undone with a cry to his name.

Everyman gets his wish

P1

Rafe Cameron x Pogue!reader

Synopsis: The king of figure eight hooks up with a sweet doe eyed stranger a party. Thing is, he doesn’t know that she is everything he isn’t; a hard working Pogue.

Content warnings: Use of fem pronouns, smut, loss of virginity, mentions of blood, mentions of class.

Word count: 6623

I've only read over this part once, there will be more. Let me know if I missed anything. xx

Tonight was the biggest night on the Kook calendar Midsummer, where the rich folks of Kildare congregated once a year to brag about their business and financial achievements and show off their wealth to one another.

Another year another midsummer but for you it was just another day working, serving drinks to the super rich.

To everyone here you were no one, nothing actually or at least that's what it felt like living on this island when you were around Kooks, they wouldn’t even look at you if you were on fire let alone when you poured their drinks and served them food. Most of them thought they were too good to even breathe the same air as you, especially the ones here.

Your whole life revolved around accommodating to kooks you were never on their side of the island unless you were  working even before you could work you could remember your time in figure eight with your mom as she cleaned the Cameron house. You had memories from as early as four years old following her around the house as she swept and folded their expensive clothes back then it ment nothing to you.

You got your work ethics from your mother. You worked your ass off serving drinks with a smile and a polite attitude despite the unlikeable personalities you had to endure, such as Ward Cameron. He behaved like he was committing an act of charity by just existing in your vicinity like you should be so greatful. Even when you were a kid and Sarah tried to befriend you, your mom told you to be careful not to upset Mr Cameron or his kids out of fear that she would lose her job if you did. It was bramatic but it was a very real possibility.

“I don’t know how much they pay you here but I'm sure it's enough to know how to make a proper Tom collins. Did you even put any Gin in this?” Ward snarked as his wife clung to his side with her obnoxiously big head piece threatening to poke out the eyes of her youngest step daughter.

“I'm so sorry sir. I can make you another one.” You offer with a tight lipped smile.

“Try to get it right this time, huh?”

“Dad, chill.” The blonde girl at his side snapped in your defence.

As you remade Ward’s tom collins your eyes flickered up to the group noticing the illustrious Rafe Cameron, not even looking fazed at the way his father was acting obviously used to it and absolutely fine with it. The family in front of you made you grateful that your family wasn’t anything like them, because despite their grand entrance and lavish clothing you could tell not a single one of them enjoyed the company.

“Here you go, sir.. Can I get you anything else?” You ask looking at the group for confirmation. 

“Macallan on the rocks.” Rafe requests from behind his family not even sparing you a single glance, of course.

“Good choice, it's a popular whiskey.” You say trying to brighten the bitter mood his father supplied only for Rafe to look you up and down with an even more bitter glare in response.

You’ve never had an issue with Rafe beyond his attitude which he’d had for as long as you could remember, the only time you could think of him not being like this was with his mom. She was always the only person he seemed to really like and she was the only person he would listen to, like the time Rafe joined in with you and Sarah playing tag and he tripped you if it hadn’t happened right in front of your eyes you wouldn’t have believed anyone could get him to apologise but his mom did.

You turn away from Rafe’s scrutiny to grab the bottle from the top self with the assistance of a small step ladder and as you reach for the bottle you hear Ward begin again. “Do you really think it's a good idea to drink today?”

“I’m 23, what's wrong with one drink?”

You pour Rafe’s drink despite Ward's words to his son and drop in two ice cubes, not forgetting to plaster your face with a smile before you turn around. Ward shoots you a disapproving look as you place the whiskey in front of Rafe.

“That will be all.” Ward confirms in a way that tells you he definitely won't be tipping your service.

“Thanks.” Sarah says before following her father into the crowd.

Only an hour in and Midsummer was in full swing, every kook in attendance eager to mingle and flaunt their wealth but none of them had the wealth the Cameron’s did. Everyone on Kildare knew them, not always for the best reasons but everyone knew them, especially Rafe. He was everything your parents raised you not to be but you couldn't blame him when he had a father like he did.

This was your third year working midsummer and your first time working at the bar, now that you were old enough. The conditions behind the bar were a lot better than when you served hors d'oeuvres to the rowdy teens dragged along by their parents. Behind the bar you didn't have to wear a shirt and tie and the tips definitely made you reconsider your choice to not come back next year.

“Hey sweetheart, lookin’ nice!” You hear a voice call from over your shoulder, deciding to ignore it as now that your shift was over you didn’t have any obligations to anyone here anymore so you kept walking to your car.

When a car pulled up beside you cruising as you avoided the gaze of the driver hanging halfway out the window until he called for you again this time with a whistle, you stopped abruptly to face them.

“I really liked your service back there.” When you continued to  walk beside the car not feeling a need to respond to that comment. “Don't say you don't remember me. I'm hurt.” Of course you remembered him, Topper Thornton, a mythic snob who seemed to be in a good enough mood to not insult you right now.

When you got a good look at the car you noticed Rafe in the passenger seat looking bored as ever, followed by Kelce in the back with a couple of other guys who you couldn't name but they were definitely also kooks.

Topper doesnt seem deterred by your lack of response. “How about you hop in and we take you to a real party?” 

“I would take you up on that offer but I'd literally rather be doing anything else with anyone else.” You reply as you reach your car quickly unlocking it and hopping in.

The drive back to the Cut seemed longer today probably because of the irritation from having to deal with so many kooks and all the unfilled potholes you had to endure once you crossed over into low income territory. When you got home you weren't surprised to see that no one else was there. There was a mess left in the living room that you knew wasn’t going anywhere if you didn’t do something about it but you resisted the urge to clean up after your brothers.

Instead you headed straight for the bathroom wanting to rid yourself of the tight little black dress you thought was a good choice for your first time behind the bar and despite all the tips it earned you, you were more than grateful to be out of it. If it weren't for the hot water turning cold you probably would have stayed in the shower for much longer but the moment the icy liquid hit your body you squealed and hopped out into the small bathroom switching off the water once you were wrapped in your towel safely.

Without the sound of running water you could hushed voices and movement coming from the otherside of the door assuming it was one of your brothers you walk into the living room wrapped up in a towel ready to chew out whoever was home for leaving the place in such a state but when you're met with a set of baby blue eyes belonging to a certain blonde you scream and clasp a hand to your chest protectively.

“Jj! What the hell?!” Just as you finish up your sentence you hear wrustling of plastic coming from behind him and see the other pogue boys behind him, John B waving from behind the fridge door and Pope sitting on the couch as if there isn't a pile of laundry nearly his size stacked next to him. “Guys have you ever heard of knocking?

“Hey.” Pope waves at you and you smile back at him still waiting on a reply.

“We did knock duh.. You just didn't answer.” Jj says as he takes a seat on the other side of the couch and laundry pile.

“We saw your car outside so we just came in, sorry.” John B says in between mouth fulls of cocktail sausages

“Okay so why are you here?” You ask, running out of patience with the boys.

“Kiara sent us to come get you. She said you looked miserable behind the bar earlier and thought maybe a party would cheer you up.” Pope says apparently the only one in the room who wants to be useful. “Oh and she will not take no for an answer.”

“And y’all really think a kook party will help?” You ask rhetorically.

“Sorry, we are just as powerless as you here.” John B raises his hands in defence.

“Now go get dressed before we drag you out in that towel.” Jj threatens.

You roll your eyes and walk away. The first thing you do when you reach your room is put on body lotion wanting to feel good at least knowing you were about to proceed to stress out over what to wear, Jj insisted on Knocking on the door every five minutes to hurry you despite your offers to stay home.

When you finally come out of your room Jj is pacing impatiently while John B rambles about some girl he’s nervous to see tonight and Pope seems too relaxed for someone who hates kooks as much as you.

“Why did it take you so long to put on a tank top and a skirt?” Jj asks, sounding exasperated.

“You wouldn’t understand but beauty takes time.” You state simply with a smile.

“You know Kie will kill us if we're late?” Pope asks as if it is some big revelation.

“Exactly, let's go.” John B says and before anyone else can respond he’s rushing to the door as he unwrapped a mini muffin and stuffed it in his mouth. As you lock the door behind him and the others you wonder where he found all that food since you didn’t buy groceries yet this week.

“John B what's up with you? I haven’t seen you this nervous since Jj stole that money from his dad for pizza when we were twelve.” You ask genuinely concerned that he was gonna have a nervous breakdown before you even got to Figure eight.

“He's fallen in love with the Kook Princess.” Pope says nonchalantly.

You crane your head to look over your shoulder at John B, his expression confirming Pope’s statement. “As in.. Sarah Cameron?” You laugh as you jiggle the door handle to confirm it's locked.

“Yep.” Jj confirms popping the P at the end of the word.

“You know Kiara hates her..” You say as you hop into the twinkie behind Jj and Pope.

“Y/N I think it's true love.”

“Hey, it could be worse. She could be a psycho like Rafe.” Pope firmly pats John B’s back.

“Oh god.. If Kiara doesn't get to me first, Rafe is gonna kill me!” John B’s head drops onto the steering wheel dramatically and he starts mumbling about his doomed romance.

“If you're gonna have a fit let someone else drive.” You say as you punch the back of his seat.

“No, I'm okay.. I'm okay.” He sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

When you arrived at Tannyhill John B made sure to park on the street outside so as to not attract attention from any kooks, that's where Kiara met you waiting by the gate.

“Hey guys, you're late.” Kie says as you all hop out of the twinkie.

Everyone grumbles an apology which makes Kie roll her eyes.

“Sorry, John B was having a fit.” you say in mocking.

The party was in full swing, kooks and their fancy cars lined the obnoxiously large driveway and music blasted from inside the house.

“About what?” Kie asks.

“Don't blame me, Y/N took an hour to get ready.” John B defends.

As the group reached the front of the house you passed Rafe’s black truck a car anyone in the outer banks would be able to identify if it passed them and as the

“Y’all literally broke in while I was in the shower. Plus I just got home from the country club twenty minutes before you guys.” You argue back as your group squeezed past a group loitering in the foyer.

Kiara chuckles and stops in front of the kitchen island that held all of the drinks– a lot of drinks. “Honestly I don't even care anymore, let's drink!”

“That's what I'm talking about!” Jj yells as he grabs a large jug to mix up some toxic concoction. You grimace as you watch Jj empty out half a liter of Vodka into the mixture, mixing it swiftly with a spoon he found on the counter then pouring it into five separate solo cups.

“Jj are you sure this is safe to drink?” You ask as you take an attentive sip. “This could kill someone! Where's the cola?”

While the others were brave enough to choke down Jj’s attempt at a cocktail, you walk around the island to grab the bottle on the other side from there your eyes scan across the room noting the faces of the various Kooks you served that day and right in the middle of them all was Rafe Cameron you knew he would be here but you just thought you wouldn't spot him so soon.

“Don't water it down too much!” He whined as he watched you dilute the mixture with cola. Your eyes trail over to the adjoining lounge flicker between your drink and Rafe as he leaned down to the coffee table in front of him to snort a line of something. Jj’s eyes follow yours across the room. “What are you.. Oh.”

Once you finished pouring the cola it wasnt who you thought in your line of sight. No, it was Sarah Cameron in all her glory, really living up to the princess title. Perfect hair, perfect smile and all over perfect no wonder John B was in love.

“What is she doing here?” Kiara says pointing at Sarah and every one follows the point of her finger to the blonde girl.

“Oh no.” John B mumbles to himself and rubs his hands over his eyes in frustration.

“Dude, it's her house.” Pope sounded almost confused.

“Whatever, why is she coming over here?” She huffs.

“Hey, guys.” Sarah waves flashing her pearly white teeth at the group which Kie rolls her eyes at. Everyone watches apprehensive as she walks toward John B putting a hand on his arm before turning back to the group. “Glad you could all make it. You’re Y/N right? We met earlier.”

“Yeah, I make the worst tom collins in Kildare.” You wave from across the kitchen island and she laughs.

“Why is she talking to us?” Kiara asks with a serious crease in her brow. “Seriously, John B?”

 “Kie we have bigger problems. Rafe cameron at twelve o’clock.” Pope says, tilting his head forward. The whole group including Sarah perk up looking over at rafe seeing that he's walking over with Topper and Kelce on his tail.

“I'm out.” Pope says quickly leading the group out of the packed room. By the time you were able to get back around to the other side of the kitchen island Rafe, Topper and Kelce were cutting you off from the group with large strides following your friends out through the back door but never once even sparing you a glance, focused completely on their rivals.

You sigh at the realisation that you managed to get out of yet another scuffle with Rafe Cameron, remembering the last time you witnessed his wrath was last summer when Jj worked Midsummer with you as a server rafe was so brutal you feared Jj would have ended up in the hospital it wasn't until Ward stumbled in that Rafe even considered stopping. It's safe to say that Jj will never work at the country club again.

You waited it out in the kitchen sipping on your drink until Kiara texted you to say that they had lost Rafe and his goons and they were coming back to find you. Turns out Sarah was actually a big help in harbouring your fugitive friend, apparently she managed to hide everyone in the pool shed before Rafe got to them.

“He didn't say or do anything to you did he?” Sarah asks, eyeing you as if looking for any sign of injury or being shaken up.

“Didn’t even look at me.” You spread your arms out beside you as if to show her you’re completely fine.

“Who knew, not all Camerons are Bad?” Jj says, sounding genuinely surprised.

“I reluctantly have to say he might actually be– just a little bit– right about that.” Kiara adds looking at Sarah with a half contained smile.

“Good to know this is my redemption arc.” Sarah laughs Obviously over whatever beef she and Kiara had.

“I’m glad everyone is getting along now.” John B sighs as if the group dynamic being saved was a bigger feat than surviving Rafe.

The night went pretty smoothly until you split off from the group again to find a bathroom, after three more of Jj’s cocktails you finally felt the need to go and in your inebriated state you had no patience but it seemed every bathroom in the house was occupied or covered in vomit even with the excessive amount of them, they didn’t seem to be getting any less occupied as you stumbled from door to door.

Eventually you made your way upstairs only to be met with the same issue. Each door you attempted to open was either a bedroom, closet or occupied. After some careful consideration you decided to go into one of the empty bedrooms knowing that at least one of them had to have an en suite.

When you entered the room was empty, so you headed for the door on the right side of the room hoping it was a bathroom so you wouldn’t have to go outside in a bush. To your relief it was and you wasted no time locking the door behind you.

As you wash your hands in the sink you hear movement on the other side of the door and still your movements trying not to make too much noise. You wait a few minutes for the  noise to die down then make your way to the door slowly unlocking it and sadly that silence didn’t mean the room was empty no. The was Rafe laying on his bed legs dangling off the side. This must have been his bedroom. God what were you supposed to do now? Before you could close the door again and retreat back inside, Rafe sat up from his bed looking over at you.

Your stomach did that thing it always seemed to do when he looked at you, this time just a little more violently. If your friends knew about it they would either make fun of you for it or hate you but that exactly why they will never know.

“Hi, I’m so sorry. I just needed to use the bathroom.” You say as you step off of the tiled floor turning off the light as you move into his dimly lit bedroom. He just continues to look at you with a raised brow and stands towering over you. As you stare back you notice a small cut on his brow and a pink welt forming on the side of his face.

“Are you okay?” You ask as your hand reaches up to touch his face but his hand catches yours before you can make contact. “Sorry.” You step back unsure of when you even got close enough to touch him.

“I'm fine.” He says in a clipped tone.

“You’re bleeding..” As the words come out your eyes drop to his hand hanging by his side with a small first aid kit clutched in his fist. “Can I help you?”

You should have been trying to get out of there as fast as possible but your drunken reckless mind forgot all about Rafe’s messy history the moment he looked at you.

Your hand reaches for the kit and he begins to pull away but when your fingers make contact with his he stills allowing your delicate hands to take it from him without opposition. If anyone else were pushing him back to sit on his bed right now he might think they wanted him to fuck them but you just seem too pure to think like that.

He watched your small fingers tear open an alcohol wipe and when he glanced up, you were staring at him with those kind doe eyes that he only now noticed so he nervously averted his gaze before his mind could take note of how glazed over or round they were.

When the wipe made contact with his skin he hissed slightly and you whispered out an apology, your voice so gentle he relaxed despite the sting. He didn't even know what he was doing until his hand clasped the back of your thigh almost fully enveloping it and squeezing slightly as you pressed a small band aid to his brow and you didn’t question it thinking that he needed something to distract him.

There is a long silence and Rafe drops his hold on you. “You should put some ice on that.” You gesture to the side of his face.

Rafe just looked at you, something between suspicion and curiosity in his eyes. “Do I know you from somewhere?” The thought flashes through his mind that you might be his guardian angel because here you are dressed in all white looking more innocent than anyone at this party.

“I-”

“Nah, I would know if I’d seen you before.” He continues, not too bothered whether you had an answer to his previous question or not. It was funny to you that now that there were no clear signs as to what class you fell into he was willing to give you more than a few words.

You’d met Rafe many times before not that he ever fully acknowledged your presence which was a good thing considering, the closest you’d gotten to him in years other than serving him food and drinks was when he was tormenting your friends.

“So angel, who invited you to my party?” His gaze lingered a little too long on your body as he spoke to you only looking up when you didn't answer.

You were very careful with your next words knowing that if you said you came with your Pogue friends that wouldn’t end well and he’d be kicking you out on the street and marching off to fight them. “Kiara.. Carrera-.”

“Yeah I know her.. She brought those low life pogue friends of hers didn’t she?” His tone switched slightly deepening when he asked about the boys that were like brothers to you.

His words echoed in your head reminding you exactly why you should cut this conversation short with him– because he hated low life Pogues such as yourself.

“I wouldn’t know, umm.. I should get back to-” Once again you were cut off by Rafe.

“You’re not gonna leave me here alone are ya, Angel? I’m hurt.” He said in a tone that was so sickeningly sweet and if he hadn’t gently grasped your hand to stop your retreat you would have thought his words were aimed at someone else. “C’mon we can have our own fun up here.”

The hand that held yours moved to your side right above your hip, his touch was light and tickled as his fingers landed against your body tapping softly like they were pressing down on piano keys. He guided you to sit down with him on the bed in the center of the room.

“What's your name?” he asked, staring deeply into your eyes, almost actually looking interested.

“Y/N.”

“Y/N.” He repeats. “That's a pretty name, I'm Rafe.”

“I know.” You confirm as if you didn’t know whose party you were at or whose house you were in.

He nods in satisfaction. “So Y/N, do you like my party?”

“Parties aren’t really my thing..”

“That's why I haven't seen you before.” Rafe surmised wrongly. “Don’t worry I’ll show you a good time.” he adds and all of a sudden he's closer to you than you remember and his hand is on your upper thigh thumb caressing the exposed skin there.

You forced a smile and nodded at him, if it weren't for the fact that your brain was all hazy from the cocktails Jj had mixed up maybe you would have had the sense enough to say no to him when he asked you to stay or when he pulled you into his lap or even when he kissed you. The kiss turned into heavy breathing and grinding down on his lap but your body just drew you closer to him each time you thought about moving away from his touch.

You pulled back trying to calm yourself and come back to your senses but Rafe’s lips just latched on to your jaw, working their way down your throat. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer with the other hand on your hip grinding you down against his hard on.

“Take this off.” He breathes between kisses as he tugs on the hem of your shirt and you’re momentarily taken aback by the sharpness of his command.

You lift your arms enough for him to lift your tank over your head, leaving you in a bralette that was too skimpy to really cover anything underneath. He throws your shirt aside then lifts you in his arms and turns to place you on the bed for him to climb on top of you between your legs.

He gripped the back of your neck, pulling you into another kiss, this one deeper and messier, his tongue swiping across yours. There’s the faint drone of the party going on outside and people passing  by but you couldn’t care less as he pulled his hips away from yours kneeling between your thighs to pull his shirt off over his head.

If he couldn’t feel your wetness before he could definitely see it from his position with your skirt bunched around your waist exposing your cotton covered core. He gives you a warning look, when your hands begin tugging on the hem of your skirt trying to cover the evidence of your arousal.

“Don’t be shy, Angel.” He sounded rougher like he was straining himself.

For a moment, his gaze softens as he studies you, a flicker of admiration passing through his eyes. When his eyes trail down to your soaked panties again they darkened and filled with lust.

“Fuck..” Slowly, almost hesitantly, he leans in, his lips hovering just a breath away from yours. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

You bit your lip softly not trusting your voice so you shook your head in reply. 

He kissed the corner of your lips softly then pulled back shaking his head. “I need you to say it. Out loud.”

“Please don’t stop.” You whined and that’s all the confirmation he needed to reach down to your skirt and panties pulling them down and completely off. Once the damp fabric was out of the way he began rubbing his fingers between your wet folds.

You cursed yourself for giving in, for getting so caught up in the moment but his touch was so intoxicating all you could do was whine and tug at the sheets around you as his fingers sank into your core and began pumping in and out of you.

The sound of your wetness mixed with your soft moans had Rafe groaning deep in his throat. 

Your back arched towards him as his thumb landed on your sensitive bud. He breathed out, his eyes twinkling as he took in your appearance completely overwhelmed by his touch.

He pumped in fingers and slowly scissored them inside of you stretching your walls. He quickened the pace of his thumb against your clit and you bite down on your lip as you approach your high.

He can tell you’re close and his eyes burn intensely as he watches your face contorted in pleasure. “Let go for me Angel.”

Even after you came around his fingers he didn't stop his hands movement until he saw tears begin to form in your eyes.

“You did so good for me, Angel.” He says as he pulls back and pulls his fingers out of your core bringing them up to his lips tasting your juices on his fingers. Your head rolls to the side, lip caught between the whiteness of your teeth as you tremble beneath him.

He wanted to go down on you so bad but at this point his dick was straining against his jeans painfully. 

Rafe’s hand cups your cheek tilting your face back to look at him slowly, almost hesitantly then he leans in, his lips hovering just a breath away from yours. “You’re doing so well, f’me.” He mumbled against your lips and closed the distance between you, the large hand on your face moving to tangle into your hair as your lips meet again.

What you were doing was so wrong knowing the history Rafe had with your friends, this was essentially a betrayal but at this point there was no going back. You'd already taken it too far and now he was between your legs pulling the zipper of his jeans down and tugging them off with his boxers and you had no qualms as he rested himself between your thighs again and began lining his hard cock up with your entrance.

His hands drop to your sides, reaching up to the straps of your bralette tugging them down to expose your breast. “Damn, you’re beautiful.” He attempts to unclasp the bralette from the back only to get impatient and pull on both sides until something gives and it comes undone and he throws it somewhere in the room along with the rest of your clothes.

You watched the corner of his mouth curve upwards as he gazed down at you. “You ready, Angel?”

“Yes, I want you inside me.. Please.” Rafe liked that you were so obedient and you wanted him as much as he did you right now.

“Stay still for me okay.” Rafe commanded, as he pushed his hips forward finally beginning to push past your warm folds, your wetness enveloping his length slowly. You felt a painful stretch as he pushed through your tightness.

Rafe's eyes lulled back as your warmth enveloped him. He swore he felt it suctioning him in and he knew he would’t be able to pull away if he wanted. It seemed like forever until Rafe bottomed out when he finally did your eyes were brimming with tears.

“You’re doing so good for me.” He whispered with a shaky voice.

You could only whine in response to his praise too caught up in the overwhelming pain and pleasure to form words coherently.

“Say my name.” Rafe commands as he thrusts just once to emphasize his words. “Say it!” he grunts as he continues not able to hold back his thrusts for longer.

“Rafe.. Rafe, Rafe.” You chant his name in time with his thrusts. 

He leans down on his forearms, caging you in to kiss down the column of your neck and gently nip at your collar bone moving further down between your breast before he wrapped his lips around your left nipple sucking it harshly into his mouth and releasing it from his lips with a pop before going back down to lick and suck on it more.

The sound of your wetness filled the room and Rafes breath was heavy as he latched onto your breast muffling his groans as a knot was forming deep in your gut making your core squeezed around his length. You were so overwhelmed by all the sensations and sounds.

“Fuck, I’m close angel.” He groaned against your chest, speeding up his thrusts sitting up on his knees and moving his hands to your hips to hold you down as he adjusts his angle making you take him deeper. “Let go, I can feel you holding back.. Just let go.”

And you did, your body convulsed beneath him still whimpering his name as you came undone around him, he wasn't far behind you and came only a moment after later spilling into you while still thrusting wanting to extend your shared pleasure.

As you came down from your high your gaze was focused on the ceiling and your mind went hazy as you focused back on the sounds and vibrations in the house around you. Only then did you remember you were at a party where you had maybe too much to drink and your friends were probably looking for you downstairs somewhere, completely unaware that you had public enemy No.1 between your legs right now. 

But before you could finish that thought Rafe hisses as he pulls out of you instantly missing your warmth when he does and all you could think about was how empty you felt now that he wasn't inside of you. You open your eyes as he falls to your side resting his arm across your abdomen gently hugging you against his body. 

You needed to leave it was the right next move but you felt yourself drifting in and out of unconsciousness maybe because of the weight and warmth of Rafe’s touch, the alcohol in your system or the long day of working at the country club but either way your need to leave was out weighed by your want to stay.

When you woke in the morning Rafe’s presence was no longer there, instead you were met with an empty bed still slightly warm on the left side. You took that as a sign that you should leave assuming Rafe left to avoid an awkward goodbye and would want you gone before he came back.

You stumbled slightly as you stood trying to locate each piece of clothing you had arrived in coming up short when it came to your phone, knowing you couldn't leave in your current state. When you finally located your phone too much time had passed and you feared Rafe would find you still in his space. The door to the bedroom opens up revealing Rafe standing shirtless with a glass of water.

He walks over leaving only a small distance between the two of you. “Good to see you’re awake.”

Try to step around him towards the door. Rafe puts the glass down on his desk quickly grabbing your wrist to pull you in, his hands cupping the sides of your face, pulling you towards him for a slow deep kiss.

You try not to show the shock that envelops you as he pulls back tugging your lip as he does. His eyes are missing their usual darkness and intensity, his face looks relaxed and almost happy, this wasn't the Rafe Cameron you learnt to avoid. Your eyes flicker across his face as if you’re trying to make sure that this is the real Rafe Cameron standing in front of you.

“You could stay.” He suggests and despite how tempting that offer felt, now you knew that your friends would be looking for you and maybe they had been already and gave up either way you needed to get home before anyone saw you here.

“I can’t.”

Rafe caught your hand just as your other one found the door knob to his bedroom. He crowded you against the door and kissed the side of your neck. “You’re gonna leave before I get your number?” His eyes gleamed as he turned you to face him and pulled your body against his. “C’mon, don’t just use me and abuse me.” He jests, feigning offence. “Phone?” He commands with his hand out.

He steps back allowing you to unlock and hand over the device so he can type in his number but not before deleting the two dozen texts you got from the pogues last night. “I Texted myself so if you don’t call I will.” He says, peering down at you through slightly squinted eyes as he hands back your phone that's when he notices your outfit, stepping back to eye your body more closely.

Rafe quickly turns away to grab the grey hoodie that was hanging from his desk chair handing it to you. “I could give you a ride..” He suggests as you take the sweater from him and he smiles a real toothy smile.

“No, I'm good.” You say, smiling up at him through your lashes before pulling the hoodie over your head. “I promise, I’ve got a ride.” You lied.

Rafe nods, looking satisfied before opening the door behind you so you can leave but not before he pecks you on the lips one last time.

Once Rafe’s bedroom door was closed behind you rushed down the stairs trying to rationalise what you had just done and nothing came up. How could you think sleeping with Rafe was a good idea? What would you do if your friends found out? Fuck where were your friends?

When you exit the house you check the most recent text on the P4L group chat assessing the vibe noting that everyone was freaking out over your disappearance. You pause at the gate at the end of the Cameron’s drive when you hear someone calling your name.

You turn back to the house seeing Sarah running towards you. “Y/N! Thank god! We’ve been looking for you all night.” She says trying to catch her breath. 

“We?” You ask.

She nodded, still trying to gain back her breath as she walked beside you. “The others are waiting in the twinkie.” she points across the street through the open gate. “Where did you go?”

Before you could answer her there was yelling from across the street. “She’s alive!” Jj exclaims opening the door to the back of John B’s camper.

“Did you guys sleep in here?” You ask, looking at them in disbelief as you climb into the back.

“Duh. As if we were gonna leave you here.” Pope chuckled.

“Sarah, where did you find her?” John b says looking genuinely surprised that she came back with you.

“I didn’t. She was leaving when I was.”

“What were you doing in there all night Y/N?” Pope asks with a raised brow?

“Yeah and whose hoodie is that? Did you meet a guy?” Kie asks excitedly.

“Better not be a Kook!” Jj adds, which earns him some nods and hums of agreement.

“Can we just go?” you snap.

“Oh my god! You did. Didn’t you?” Kiara says, sounding even more giddy. “Wait, You never talk to guys. Who was he?”

“I think I'm still drunk guys. Can we please go home?” You beg, starting to get anxious that you might actually admit to who you were with last night. Your body ached and your head was still a bit hazy as you had only woken up about half an hour ago.

“Agreed, my bed is calling.” Pope says no longer sounding interested in the conversation.