#let there be a day that cameron learns his lesson

[your-stranger-halfblood-things]

Let there be a day that Spaz isn't sick

Let there be a day that Stick actually speaks

Let there be a day that people call him Nuwanda

Let there be a day that Meeks dances to the radio while getting dressed

Let there be a day that Knox kisses Chris

Let there be a day that Pitts throws a paper airplane in class

Let there be a day that Todd confesses to Neil's grave

[princessbrunette]

˚˖𓍢ִ🐰໋✧˚.🎀୨୧ ⋅˚₊

let’s go back to my roots. let’s talk about girly, prissy, spoiled bunny!reader with rafe.

you’re untouchable, kook royalty just for your attachment to the cameron’s but you don’t even care about all of that. all you care about, is rafes time money and attention.

he loves you a lot, but more so — he puts up with your shit. whilst you don’t have much of an attitude, soft in all corners of your life, you can still manage to be a nightmare. you clutter his sink with your makeup and skincare, decidedly a maximalist when it came to your self care and beautification rituals. he plucks a clump of mink eyelashes from the side of the sink, something he nearly mistook for a spider and sets it aside— only calling out a “jesus chr — bun, told you to clear out your shit. my bathroom looks like fuckin’ sephora. in here, now.” before he hears the soft padding of your feet come tottering along, happy to do as your told.

if that’s not making him huff and puff — it’ll surely be the outfits, moreso scraps of fabric you parade around in. expensive, according to his black card, for items of clothing that cover so little — and he can’t say you don’t get your moneys worth, toddling around in strappy powder pink dresses that leave nothing to the imagination or white mini skirts that cling to the fold of the bottom of your ass cheeks, giving not only the chumps at the country club a good look — but his closest friends too. his life had become a sequence of tugging down your hem, manhandling you to be decent. “you—y-you think i need my fuckin’ friends getting an eyeful of your pussy each time you move? are we gonna have to have another talk about what’s appropriate, bunny girl? huh? or maybe the belt will help you learn a valuable lesson. fuck.” he sulks, stomping around after his threat. you’re clung to his bicep with a dazed smile only five minutes later because his mean treatment usually flew through one bedazzled ear and came out the other. soft and dopey as ever.

back to him ‘putting up with you’, there’s a ton of reasons why that is. like aforementioned, he does love you a lot. you’re his little prized possession, his trophy. you were soft in all the ways that mattered and understanding, always listening when no one else would, even if he was admittedly in the wrong. that, and you really did fuck like a bunny rabbit.

you had a libido that was constantly set to high, all hours of the day. you were a chronic pillow humper when rafe wasn’t available to sate you, the man often times walking in to find you teary eyed with a white lacy thong binding your spread knees, pulled down just enough to grind your messy, glossy pussy against the fluffed white pillow from his side of the bed. because really, you were a chronic rafe humper— but you were well behaved enough to know that sometimes he had to handle business and didn’t have the time to feed your greedy cunt.

you’d grown accustom to taking him in any position too, whether it was in doggy style — waving your plush ass in the air, pointing that fluffy pink bunny-tail butt plug straight at him as you mewl into expensive pillows, or you’re crouched on his lap on the couch, feet planted either side of him, a high pitched whimper punched out of you each time you slam your hips back down on his cock, mushroom tip thumping your cervix. you said you liked the pain, liked when it bruised, liked when you could still feel him the next day when you missed him. reminded you of how grateful you are to have a boyfriend who dicks you good.

you had a little obsession that was serving as a problem though— having to give you plenty of ‘sit down talks’ when he talks to you real slow like you’re stupid because you keep begging him to breed you. it seemed no amount of “sweetheart, i’on know how many times i have to say this to get it through that head, but you are too young for a baby. i—i gotta get my shit together first, alright? promised you as many babies as you want after i secure tannyhill did i not? i…i really need your patience… okay?” would stop you from bouncing on his cock with a feverish and determined look in your eye, or locking your legs around his waist when he’s about to nut— babbling tearfully as you beg “please daddy, please gimme a baby. please want — want your babies!”

you’re lucky he was so much stronger than you, often wrestling you down to straddle your face and aim his cock at your mouth before he blew his load, gritting out a spiteful “well you’re gonna have to fuckin’ swallow them ‘til the time comes. fuck.” through gritted teeth as you mewl miserably (but lap it up nonetheless)

you gave him trouble, but nothing he couldn’t handle. he wouldn’t trade his spoiled bunny girl for the world.

˚˖𓍢ִ🐰໋✧˚.🎀୨୧ ⋅˚₊

[harryspet]

well kept [3] r. cameron

[warnings] dark!ceo!rafe x reader, size difference, billionaire!older!rafe, shy!reader with low self-esteem, reader is a person who stutters, boss x personal assistant, heavy abuse of power, emotional/mental manipulation, DUBCON, little editing, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK 18+

A/N: Pls reblog and let me know what you think! Thank you so much for all the feedback so far :)

word count: 4.5k

In which it's your first day working from home with Rafe and you have a new lesson to learn.

well kept masterlist

The Cameron residence was fifteen minutes outside of downtown Charlotte and situated in a large neighborhood where hills and huge oak trees hid all the houses. You didn’t really see his house, only what you could tell was large pond, until the driver was at the end of the mile-long driveway.  When you did, you felt woefully underdressed. Assuming that being inside all day meant you could opt for something casual, you’d chosen a cream knit dress. 

Following Rafe’s instructions, you sent him photos of each outfit you tried on, but he hadn’t told you which ones you could return. It was another blow to your confidence. You began to doubt whether he’d even been serious, but the fear that he might mention it the next day kept you from taking any chances.

Stepping out of the black Escalade, your eyes widened as you took in the architectural masterpiece before you. The house was a striking blend of traditional and modern styles, with a light-colored exterior contrasted by dark shutters framing the windows. A stone chimney rose from the roof, and the three-car garage with wooden doors added a rustic touch.

After your car drove away, a tall and impeccably dressed staff member named Anthony guided you up the stone-paved driveway. From your cheat sheet, you recalled that he was the House Manager. Rafe required a full team: Anthony, two housekeepers, a private chef, a driver, a gardener, and now you—his personal assistant. The inside of the house was as intimidating as the exterior. The expansive foyer featured high ceilings and a grand staircase that curved up to the second floor. To the left, you caught a glimpse of the formal dining room. Each room you passed was more impressive than the last. Anthony informed you that there were six bedrooms and eight bathrooms.

“I don’t usually work on Fridays but Mr. Cameron wanted me to give you a tour of the house and show you the ropes of house management. It’ll be important for you to be able to oversee the staff when I’m absent and understand the scheduling.”

Once again, it was all too much to take in. Today was your fifth day working for Rafe, and you’d barely survived until now. 

“I want to clarify that what happened yesterday stays between us. That includes Eleanor. Okay?”

That was all he said about his outburst. There was no apology for groping you, for pinning you down on his office couch, or for taking your virginity. If you were to tell the story, you’d have to mention how your body had betrayed you—not once, but twice. But you had said no. You didn’t want to use the word that described what happened to you. You didn’t want to think about it at all.

And it didn’t happen again—not over the next three days. He continued to be harsh, forcing you to apologize for every small mistake, even those you weren’t aware of.

As you followed Anthony through the expansive kitchen, you couldn't help but marvel at its sheer size and sophistication. The kitchen was a chef's dream, with gleaming marble countertops that seemed to stretch endlessly, state-of-the-art stainless steel appliances, and custom cabinetry in a rich, dark wood finish. An oversized island dominated the center of the room.

At the far end of the kitchen, massive glass-paneled doors stood, offering a glimpse of the world beyond. The porch was furnished with elegant wicker seating with plush cushions. The space was perfect for elegant parties, with enough room to accommodate at least a dozen guests.

Beyond the porch was a stunning infinity pool stretched out towards the horizon. As you walked closer, to the right, you took notice of a garden. You spotted the gardener, Tyler, who Anthony had mentioned earlier. In simple clothes, the young man blended easily into the scenery. 

“This is where Mr. Cameron will typically entertain his guests,” Anthony said, 

The beauty of the outdoor space was undeniable, but so was the control that permeated every aspect of it. You wondered what hand Rafe played in how spotless it looked. You could almost picture him, his jaw clenched and eyes blazing with a harsh intensity, if even the smallest detail were out of place. It was easy to imagine him demanding that every leaf, every petal, every stone be exactly where it belonged. 

Did his staff ever make mistakes? Did he make them beg him forgiveness like he did with you? 

“Shall I show you the study? It’s approaching seven-thirty.”

You nodded, a small smile on your lips. He was kind but part of you didn’t want him to hear your voice shake or your face contort into an uncomfortable position as you struggled to get your words out. 

There would be enough struggling today, you knew that. 

Surprisingly, Rafe’s home office was more quaint than you expected. Dark wood panneling decorated the walls as well as floor-to-celing bookshelves. As you made your way around the room, you took note of the picture frames containing images of what you believed to be his family. Here, it seemed he had a heart. The four of them stood on a dock, sun shining down, and his arms were wrapped a young girl with dark brown hair. His smile was genuine and there was darkness lingering in the blues of his eyes. 

Other than the bookshelves, the room only contained his desk, a set of leather couches and a coffee table. The smaller room still managed to exude sophistication but it was far less imposing than you expected. 

The room almost felt intimate as sunlight trickled in through light colored curtains. You were standing behind his desk, glancing out his office window which faced towards the nearby pond. Beside it, sat a gazebo, although you couldn’t imagine Rafe enjoying it. You wondered if he lived here alone as you saw no traces of the other three people in his family photo. 

“Boo,” You yelped as you heard Rafe’s deep voice. 

You placed a hand over your beating heart as you looked toward where he stood in the doorway. Having been deep in thought, you hadn’t heard the door opened. He knew that much which explained the amused look in his eye.  

Everything flooded back at the sight of him. The air had already left your lungs. You felt his body pressing down on yours, warm breath against your ears, and that pain between your legs. 

The door clicked shut, making you flinch.

“Good morning,” he said, his gaze fixed on you.

It hit you then, you hadn’t greeted him like you were supposed to.

You were taken aback by his appearance. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a plain navy t-shirt, a stark contrast to your heels and carefully applied makeup. You weren’t sure why you were expected to dress up, especially when he looked so casual.

“G-Good morning, Sir,” You crossed the room, his eyes locked on yours. You remembered where he liked you, near the door, ready to greet him and present yourself to him. You hated how your voice always betrayed you, how weak it made you sound. Your only saving grace was that you’d already memorized his schedule for the day, having spent the entire commute looking at your laptop. You recited it to him, including the midday Zoom call he had with Kelce and Topper.

Topper, you had learned, was Eleanor’s husband. Rafe hadn’t ever touched her but the way Eleanor always answered your questions with vague responses made you suspect that her relationship with Topper mirrored your own with Rafe. She hadn’t warned you but now you were suspecting that was because Rafe seemed to always get what he wanted, no matter who got hurt in the process.

You froze the moment his hand reached out to touch you. His fingers curled around your side, hovering just above your stomach but dangerously close to your breasts. His grip was surprisingly gentle as his thumb grazed over the fabric of your dress. You stiffened as his other hand mirrored the first, sliding across to the opposite side of your body. “Eleanor picked this,” he murmured, his brows knitting together as his gaze slowly traveled down your figure. A jolt shot through you as his thumb brushed over your nipple, sending a wave of panic coursing through you.

“Y-You don’t like it?” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. 

He clicked his tongue, “Turn around for me.”

You did as he said, “Doesn’t do enough for your figure,” Your heart panged in your chest, suddenly feeling self-conscious of your own shape, “Are you wearing the panties I sent you?”

All you could do was nod. Rafe never commanded you to wear the panties everyday to work but you didn’t risk it. Luckily, they were all comfortable despite the lace and cheekiness. 

“Pull up your dress,” He said next. 

You’d spent the last three days in a fog, trying to make sense of the situation, trying to understand why your body betrayed you. When you were younger, you always asked the universe why you couldn’t speak like the way all your friends at school did. Now you asked the universe why Rafe’s voice made you want to clench your thighs together. Why you had felt empty ever since he’d finished inside of you. Why you wanted to try again, to experience that intimacy again without so much fear. Your life was so simple before but now it felt like it was too late to turn back. 

Your thoughts were too jumbled. Rafe cleared his throat and you realized you were just staring back, “I’m not gonna fuck you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Please-”

He rolled his eyes, “Don’t make me ask again.”

You squared your shoulders. “I’m nnn-nn-not comfortable—”

“Just do it.”

You reached down to the edges of your dress, slowly pulling the fabric to your waist. It was nothing he hadn’t already seen and yet you were shaking, “Turn around. Face the other way.” Like a robot, you obeyed. You’d chosen a light pink color today. 

“Good,” You felt him against you. He pulled your hair back over your shoulder and leaned down against your ear, “Maybe I should make you walk around naked while you’re here, hmm?”

You bit down on your lip, wanting to contain the protest that was about to leave your mouth. You wanted to lean into his touch, to embrace the comfort that would accompany the torture. He brushed past you just as you tilted your head back, “Go make me a coffee,” He commanded. 

He made his way behind his desk and you reached down to move your dress, “Did I say to pull your dress down?”

“N-No, Sir,” You moved your hands quickly to your sides.

“I could make you walk around like that, couldn’t I?” He asked, leaning back in his chair.

He tilted his head and you realized you needed to answer. You gave him a painful look. You could say no but what would it cost you, “I . . . I don’t know,” He wasn’t satisfied by your answer, clearly. It was torture to force the words out, “Y-Yes.”

“Right answer,” He said, “Pull down your dress, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t help but see the irony in the fact that despite that you upgraded to a salaried job, you were still making coffee for the rich and spoiled. The opulent kitchen had an even fancier coffee machine than his office. Your movements as you prepared his steaming mug of coffee were precise despite the turmoil in your mind. 

Searching for solutions, your mind landed on the idea of trying to assert your competence. Sure, you could make a great cup of coffee but the whole point of getting a real job was so that you could have real skills to market yourself. You could be perfect at this job, anticipate his every need, and you could more than an object to look at. 

You re-entered his office quietly after realizing he’d begun his first meeting of the day. Carefully, you set his coffee down on the edge of his desk. He was always so intense, so completely absorbed in his work, and that unwavering focus made you even more anxious. Maybe that’s how you should be, more composed, projecting an air of confidence.

Unsure of where you should settle, you made yourself comfortable on one of the leather couches. You checked your email on your laptop, finding several reminders from Eleanor. You found yourself frustrated by how she picked and chose what information to share with you but you balanced those feelings with the fact that she was often your saving grace. 

She gave you a list of tasks including arranging for a delivery of documents that needed to be signed by Rafe, confirming his dinner reservations for the night, and proofreading the notes you took from yesterday’s meetings. You told yourself by the end of the next week, you’d be able to handle things by yourself, and you wouldn’t have to lean on her so much. You’d have a day, eventually, where Rafe didn’t point out anything you did wrong. 

“I was thinking-” Rafe’s voice cut through the silence. You were so focused that you hand’t realized his meeting had ended. He folded his hands over each other, his eyes on you, “From now on, I want you to wear what I pick for you each day.”

“How …y-you’re not happy with what I’ve been choosing?”

“It’s not about not being happy. Now I have more of an idea of what I like on you,” His voice was smooth and authoritative, “You want to reflect my taste, my standards, yeah?”

You mustered the courage to ask your next question, “Can I-I dress a l-little less … formally when I work at home with you?”

“Less formally?” He tasted the words on his tongue, “You mean, like more casual?”

“Yes, Sss-sir. Like more comfortable.”

“We could experiment with that,” His tone was deceptively light, “On my terms though. Yeah?”

You nodded and were grateful that he hadn’t reacted lightly. He seemed to enjoy that you were asking him for permission.

“You’ll have to wear something different tonight though, for dinner. Eleanor is coming by towards the end of the day to bring you your outfit and take you to get your nails done.” 

“Oh,” Your eyes opened wide, “I-I thh-thhought it was more of a personal-”

“I won’t keep you out forever,” He said, “You got plans or something?”

You shook your head quickly, “No, Sir.”

Rafe worked through lunchtime, so you brought him the meal prepared by his chef, Stevie—an elegant older woman with blonde hair. She had made a pesto pasta salad that looked like it belonged in a gourmet magazine, despite your protests and insistence on eating your own packed lunch. Only after delivering the meal did Rafe grant you permission to take your break elsewhere.

You settled on the outdoor patio by the pool, enjoying the peacefulness of the space despite the distant, steady hum of a lawnmower. For a moment, you didn’t feel out of place. Your dress, though apparently unflattering to your figure, was worth a small fortune, and the gourmet lunch you were now enjoying was a far cry from the PB&J you’d packed.

Thirty minutes later, after finishing your lunch and enjoying a lengthy chat with Stevie, you reluctantly headed back upstairs. Hearing Rafe still on the phone, you decided to explore a bit more. His office was situated in the private wing of his house, and as you meandered through opulent corridors, you couldn’t resist sneaking a glance into the master bedroom. It was cozier than you had anticipated, with tall gray walls that gave it a masculine feel and a plush bed draped in navy linen blanket that created a snug, cocoon-like atmosphere.

Rafe ended his call a minute later and the afternoon wore on. You settled into a rhythm, completing the various tasks that you’d added to your own to do lists and ones he’d assigned to you. You spent some time organizing files in his office. His gaze burned into you, even more when you were turned around, and surprisingly, you were starting to get used to that unnerving feeling. 

He waited for you to make a mistake but you used a hundred-percent of your effort to make sure that didn’t happen. 

The clock inched towards the evening, and the day grew even more quieter, more intimate. “I was looking over your notes from yesterday’s meeting with the board members. I highlighted some sections for you to read back to me,” He waved you over, his voice gruff after a long day of talking. You joined him behind his desk and you moved to lean over and get closer look, but he placed a hand on your hip. The gesture was firm, possessive, leaving no room for hesitation. With effortless strength, like a wolf guiding its prey, he maneuvered you onto his lap, settling you on his thigh. You felt the power in his grip, the unspoken control, and all you could do was comply.

“Rafe–” You started, an desperate attempt at a protest. 

“Start with the first section,” He commanded, his grip tightening. 

“I’ve been working on proofreading them–”

“Sweetheart,” He warned, not needing to add that you were making him angry. You could feel it, the heat coming off of him. 

You took a deep breath and slowly tried to read each sentence. Even if you didn’t have a sentence with a small typo, you still stammered over several of your words. He slid the chair closer to the desk and you yelped. 

“See right here,” He pointed to the screen but that only pressed him into you. You breathed slowly, trying not to hyperventilate, “This whole section needs more detail. I don’t want to have to ask more information.”

You were taken aback when Rafe actually began to instruct you on what you were meant to do. He spent at least ten minutes walking you through each sentence, explaining how to word your report, and deleted all the unnecessary details you added. He was surprisingly patient. 

“Now, your turn,” he said finally, leaning back in the chair. For a moment, you thought he was letting you up, but the pressure of his hand on your waist told you otherwise. “Fix it.”

You swallowed, hesitating as your fingers hovered over the keys. Ever keystroke was amplified in the quiet room. Doing your best to actually use your brain, you carefully made the changes he suggested. He watched you closely, his hands first placed on your hips but soon one wandered between your thighs. 

“Good,” He said. You could do it again, you thought, and not be so scared. His touch was teasing, a reminder of what he could do to you, all the pressure that built inside of you a spilled over. You could impress him, you could be beautiful, and not turn into a crying mess when he was inside of you. You could be more than a fragile thing to be broken.

Each word was a small victory. It was a battle you thought you could win until his fingers slipped inside your panties and his other hand grabbed a handful of one of your breasts. It was unbearable, and as he made small circles, you found your fingers slipping clumsily over the keys. 

You pressed your palms into his desk, your body tilting forward. A frustrated sigh left your lips, you couldn’t contain it, and Rafe’s chuckle rumbled from behind you, “Do you ever touch yourself like this? Be honest with me this time.”

“Y-Yes,” You whispered. 

“How do you do it?” He pulled you away from the desk, pulling your torso against his, “You use a toy?”

“J-Just my fff-fingers,” You admitted. 

“Like this? How do you like it?” Carefully, he switched between different approaches. He rubbed circles over your clit, smaller ones and then slower, bigger ones. Then he stroked you up and down, fingers slipping easily into your warm hole as he wandered lower, “You put those little fingers inside of you?”

“Rafe, please.”

“Tell me,” He kissed the side of your neck, “Or I’ll stop.”

"I-I don't usually put them inside… ," you confessed, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I always use my pillow…”

He hummed against your ear. "See how much better this is when you cooperate? You can be such a good little assistant when you try."

You nodded, unable to speak, and let the feeling consume you. He brought you right to the edge, you were seconds away coming undone, but his movements slowed. Before you could register the feeling as disappointment, Rafe was hoisting you off of his lap. 

Moving with sudden determination, your feet were suddenly off the ground and Rafe was carrying you out of the room in his strong arms, “Rafe!” You clutched his shoulders as he carried you down the hall.

You turned your head as he nudged the bedroom door open with his foot, the heavy thud of the door slamming shut reverberating through the room. With a swift motion, he laid you gently on the bed. The softness beneath you was just as you had imagined, but the thought barely registered. You shot him an incredulous look, your face flushed with a mix of pleasure and frustration.

He leaned over you, grabbing a pillow from behind you and placing it in front of you, “Show me.”

You shook your head instantly and moved to crawl away. Somehow, you could let all of his other sleazy behavior slide by but this was an insane boundary for him to try to cross. He’d already been inside you and yet this was a thousand times more intimate. 

He grabbed ahold of your thigh, “You’re so close, sweetheart. I know you want it,” He challenged you, “Probably feels like you need it.”

“Please,” You tried, your voice threatening to crack. His hands found your hips again, slowly positionin you over the pillow. The soft fabric brushed against your most sensitive spot, the familiar sensation making you bite down on your bottom lip, “Rafe.”

“You saying my name like that just makes me want it more,” Balancing on his knees, he grabbed ahold of your face and leaned in to kiss you. You felt the intensity of his desire, how much he wanted this, and it left you dizzy. 

When he pulled back, he looked over you. Your hips started moving in a familiar motion despite your embarrassment. You trembled from the vulnerability, the pounding in your chest, but you chased that high he gave you. It ignited your fire again, and since you didn’t have the full force of his touch anymore, you focused your eyes on him, “Good girl,” He said again and you whimpered, “Look at me just like that.”

You rolled your hips harder, faster, imagining his kiss, his touch, as the tension coiled tighter inside you. His gaze never left yours, his words a constant stream of encouragement and control.

“Doesn’t that feel good?” 

His words all jumbled together. 

“Just let it happen.”

“I want to see your face when you cum, sweetheart.”

“You look so desperate.”

“So needy.”

“You’re gonna make yourself cum, huh?”

“Just because I told you too.”

“Such a good girl.”

“Look at you.” 

The words pushed you over the edge, finally, and you were able to let go. He watched as you rode out that wave of pleasure and his hands found your body again, his grip grounding you. “Fuck,” You heard him say but you couldn’t respond. 

You were too overwhelmed to respond, your mind unable to fully process what had just happened. All you knew was that you felt good, embarrassed, and strangely satisfied that you'd pleased him, all at once. 

When you manage to look at him again, the doorbell rang. 

Eleanor navigated through the upscale nail salon, a palace of white and silvers, with ease, like she was a regular, and this was just an extension of her universe. You imagined this place as an escape for her, from both Rafe and Topper. She secured side-by-side seats near the back of the salon and you followed her lead as she set down her purse and removed her sandals. Her movements were fluid and assured. 

“Have you thought about what color you want?”

“Oh, um, n-no,” You tried to make yourself comfortable in the pedicure chair, “What d-do you think Rafe would like?”

“Maybe something pastel. You can’t go wrong with a soft pink.”

“Is that what you’re getting?” You asked, unassured, as you glanced around the luxurious setting. It wasns’t like other nail salons you’d been to where the technicians and customers talked at whatever volume they liked. It was quiet and each technician wore matching black uniforms. 

“I’ll tell them you want ballet slipper on your nails and white on your toes.”

You nodded, grateful for her guidance, “Thank you.”

As your pedicures began, the warm lavender-scented water soaking your feet, two technicians took their places by your sides, working silently as they filed your nails. 

“How are you holding up?” Eleanor asked.

“Fff-fine,” You said, “I’m trying to . . . t-to understand him, I guess.”

“You’ll go crazy doing that,” She laughed lightly, flashing a look that said “poor you”. 

“How d-did you meet Topper?” Her face tightened at your question, “I mean, y-you didn’t say.”

“I’m from the same town as them, Rafe and Topper. Not really the same town, my parents didn’t have money growing up. But I worked at the country club they all went to. That’s how I met Topper.”

“And you started dating?”

“Something like that,” She made a small shrug, “I owe everything I have to them.”

You nodded, sensing the weight of her words despite the lack of detail. Another piece to the puzzle you were trying to put together. Maybe the two of them had an attraction to girls struggling to get by.

“It’s not so bad, is it?” She asked and it made you pause.

Your instinct was to mirror her shrug, but you hesitated, wondering if you could trust her with your thoughts. If anyone could understand what you were going through, it had to be Eleanor.  “I-I just ffff-ffeel like I’m doing everything wrong.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve only heard good things.”

“A-About me?” She nodded and your lips parted in shock. 

“Yes. I know you feel uncertain right now, but I think you'll be glad if you can stick it out. Topper… he’s a bastard, but he takes care of me. Rafe likes you too. Maybe he doesn’t know how to show it, but…” She paused, her eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place. “He’s filthy rich. That would be enough for me.”

In that moment, her brutal honesty felt almost like reassurance. You weren’t sure if Eleanor truly grasped the extent of Rafe’s inability to show affection, that his pleasure came from humiliating you, from making you cry. Just as you couldn’t fully know what she endured with Topper. Her words weren't necessarily comforting but at least they felt real.

Please reblog WITH your thoughts on the chapter to be added to the taglist for the story :)

[seasons-of-death]

bf!rafe x pogue!reader cooking

warnings: suggestive language, nsfw, fluff i literally got this idea when i was cooking and my delusional ass was like "hmm i wonder what it'd be like to cook with rafe..."

there are a lot of things that rafe cameron was good at; being a sneaky motherfucker, manipulating people to do as he wishes, and of course ...

but it only took you a few weeks to find out one thing that he hadn't mastered, and that was the art of cooking. to be fair, if your family had been as rich as him, you probably wouldn't either, the boy having grown on meals prepared by professional chefs, and before his mother's passing, hers.

meanwhile, you had known how to cook pretty much ever since you were old enough to reach the stove, cooking for yourself whenever your parents were working late, and eventually cooking for your siblings as well. your parents never told you that you needed to learn how to cook; you simply wanted to take some of the burden off their shoulders, knowing that your father worked two jobs while your mother worked as a cashier despite her back being damaged for as long as you could remember.

one time, about two weeks into your first date, rafe had tried to cook for you and... it didn't end well. almost every part of his dish, (except for the store-bought garlic bread) had burnt, and he apologized while he was ordering more dishes than you could even dream of eating to his family's home. eventually, the leftovers ended up at your house, feeding your family for a good few days.

it had only been a joke; you'd casually said "hey, what if i teach you how to cook?" but it seemed that rafe had taken it completely seriously. and if he was in, who were you to say no to that exciting look on the boy's face?

"rafe, if we're actually gonna get something done, you're gonna have to let go of me eventually." you chuckled, the boy's arms wrapped around your torso.

"i could just eat you for dinner..." he said, pressing tempting kisses on your neck while you were chopping up a bit of chili pepper to add into the recipe; rafe had sworn that he could handle the heat, but you were curious if that was really the case, or if he was just showing off as usual.

you turned around, pressing a quick, playful kiss on the boy's lips, "we'll see if you'll get to have me for dessert." you said, a grin on your lips as you continued cooking, and rafe swore that he was paying attention to your lesson, but you knew that the part he was the most excited about was the fact that he was able to manhandle you without you smacking his hand away, his hands already resting on your tits.

after about thirty minutes, the two of you were seated at the table, each of you trying the new pasta recipe you found. "shit, this is good..." rafe said, before taking a long chug of water, and you immediately knew what had caused it.

"babe, if you wanna relieve some of the spice, you're gonna have to drink milk or something. y'know, sometimes when i smoke up with my friends, we have chocolate milk on the side to help with the sore throat." you chuckle, watching as he rises to his feet and pours himself a glass of milk.

after a short moment, he returned to the table shaking his head, a wide grin on his lips as he pressed a kiss on your cheek. "you know, i'm definitely gonna need to have some of you for dessert."

[cameronspecial]

Let Me Fix Your Problems, Angel

Pairing: Frat!Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings:  N/A

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 1.1K

Summary: Y/N needs to vent, but Rafe needs to solve her issues.

Masterlist

Girls know that when another girl comes to them with a problem, it is just to vent about the issue that they have. Boys. Well, boys like to go to each other for solutions and Rafe isn’t innocent of that mentality. Before Y/N, Rafe hadn’t been in a relationship, so he didn’t have a chance to learn that women just need an outlet to voice their frustration. And he is about to be taught that lesson. He waits for her at the coffee shop with a mug of coffee in his hand and a hot chocolate across from him for her. His fingers tap along the ceramic mug. He looks out the window to see if he can spot her arrival. This is the first time that they are going to be seeing each other in person after returning to campus from the holiday break and he anticipates seeing her again. He wants to see all the gifts she got this Christmas and she is excited to show him. He spots the pompom of her pastel green hat that he sent over to her for Christmas. A massive grin grows on his face and he knows the bell sounding announces her entrance. As she slides into the booth across from him, she leans over the table to kiss him on the lips. “Hey, Rafe. How are you?” she greets. 

He can see something is wrong. There is a slight furrow of her brow and a slight dip of her lip that she is trying to hide. He plays along with her pleasantries for now, “I’m good now that I get to see you, Angel. How was your Christmas?” “It was good. I got to spend time with my family. I was also pleasantly surprised with how many gifts I woke up to on Christmas morning. Some handsome fella even gave me this pretty bracelet with his initials on it. I think I might keep it and him around,” she recounts, holding out her wrist for him to see. He takes her arm into his hand, “Wow. That handsome fella must really be special if you are wearing this even though you have only been dating him for around four months.” “Yeah, I guess you can say that I love him,” she teases and kisses him. “Thank you for the gifts, Rafe. I just wish you told me we were also sending each other stuff because I hate the thought of you not getting anything from me on Christmas.”

His warm hand cups her cheek and his thumb brushes reassuringly against her skin. “Don’t worry about it, Angel. You gave me my gift before we left for break. Plus, getting that FaceTime call from you on Christmas day was my gift,” he promises. She kisses his wrist and this thumb goes to trace the slope of her lips. He can’t be in the dark about her sadness anymore. “What’s wrong, my angel? Why do you seem so sad?” he questions. She shrugs, “Nothing, I’m fine.” “Please, don’t lie to me. I can see something is wrong,” he pleads to her. She sighs, “It’s stupid, but Stacey is having a back-to-school get-together this weekend and she didn’t invite me. I guess I feel a little left out.” “That’s not very nice of her. Have you tried telling her how you feel?” he suggests. She shakes her head, “No. Do you know how embarrassing it would be to run to her like a little schoolgirl and tell her she hurt my feelings?” Rafe understands what she is saying and slides in on her side of the booth. He rests her head on his chest, vowing to help her with her problem. 

———

Rafe knocks on Stacey’s door and puts his hands behind his back. She opens the door with a slight frown at who is waiting for her. “Uh, Rafe. What are you doing here? Is everything okay with Y/N?” she worries, knowing that Rafe only cares about one person. Rafe’s head moves from side to side, “Actually, she isn’t okay. You didn’t invite her to your get-together this weekend.” Stacey nods and cracks her knuckles nervously. “I did not. Because, you see, Y/N and I aren’t really that close of friends and this party is for girls that I am really close to,” Stacey tries to explain. Her mouth shuts when she sees that is not the answer Rafe is looking for. He chuckles, “Obviously, she feels close enough to you that she feels left out by what you did.” He pauses to see if Stacey has anything to add to her defence. She doesn’t. “You know what I want you to do, correct?” Her head hinges up and down, “Yes, I understand. I’m sorry that I hurt Y/N’s feelings.” “Good, I’m glad we can come to a conclusion. I’ll see you later,” he grins and heads back home. 

———

Y/N doesn’t bother to knock. She uses his passcode to storm into his room and finds him on his bed. He sits up right at the sight of her. “Is everything okay, Angel? You didn’t tell me you were coming over,” he frets, rushing to her side. Her arms cross over each other, “You forced Stacey to invite me to her party.” “I did. You said you felt left out that you weren’t invited,” he states. He places his hands above her elbows. She lets out a low laugh, “Why would you do that?” 

“Because you had a problem and you needed help fixing it.”

“Rafe, most of the time, when I come to you with my problems, I don’t want you to fix them. I just want you to listen and agree that I am in the right.”

“Why can’t I fix your problems if I have the solution? Come on, let me fix your problems, Angel.” 

“Sometimes girls just want someone to vent to. Plus, I don’t even like Stacey so the last thing I want to do is go to her party, but now, I have to go because you made a point of getting her to invite me,” she complains. He chuckles and pulls her into a hug, “Okay, I’ll take that venting thing into account for next time. Angel, if you didn’t want to go to the party, then why did it bother you so much?” “Because I wanted to be able to turn her down,” she mumbles, burying her face into his neck. He lets out an amused breath, “I see. Well, I’m sorry that I ruined your ability to reject her. If you want, I can call you with an emergency half an hour into the party so you can leave early.” Y/N pulls back to look him in the eyes. “That is the least you can do. You are getting me sushi too,” she orders. “Sounds fair. I’ll do whatever you want, Angel.”

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @queen-shadow22 @victory-in-the-llama @drewsmusee @starkowswife

[rafesfuckdoll]

Since Day One

summary: Mr. Cameron your teacher was the most desired man in the entire school, but so were you for him.

warnings: p in v, unprotected s, harsh words, daddy calling, fem uni student x teacher smut, semi public, hidden, slut shaming (kinda)

word count: 1.6k

Rafe Cameron, otherwise known as... Mr. Cameron teaches history at your university. I don't think there is a single person who doesn't find him attractive, not one. All eyes in class were glued to him, making it impossible for anyone to concentrate. But you caught his attention. You were the one he fixed his eyes on. You were aware of the sexual tension between you two, yet unsure whether to acknowledge it or engage with it.

When the class ended, you approached his desk to bring up a question about today's material. Altering your outfit to reveal a touch more cleavage. "Excuse me Sir". You remarked innocently as he stashed his laptop in his bag, hoping to catch his gaze. Turning towards you, he is taken aback slightly and his eyes widen in surprise at the sight of you adjusting your outfit. A soft sigh escapes him as his eyes roam over your form. "Well, hello. How can I lend a hand?" He responds in a playful yet serious way.

Smiling, you lock eyes with him and raise your head to meet his, emphasizing the height contrast between you two. "Well.. I was wondering if you offer private tutoring sessions? I don't really get history.. Sir". A smirk appeared on his lips when he heard your question. Taking a seat, he leaned back in his chair, keeping his eyes locked on yours. He can pick up on the tension between you two and he's not ignoring it. "So, private lessons, huh?" You nod, curious why he's posing a rhetorical question as if it wasn't clear. With a mischievous grin, you place your hands on his desk and subtly showcase your cleavage. "Yes, Sir..".

After a momentary glance at your cleavage, Rafe's gaze returns to your face, with a spark of desire flickering in his eyes. "Hmm..." He murmured, followed by a brief pause. "You know what, I can help you out, kid. I can see you're really enthusiastic about learning, so I'll give you some assistance today. " He says as he rises from his desk. "Thank you very much, sir. Would you like to head to the library?" He gestures with a flourish as he extends his hand to you. "After you Miss.. Miss L/N." The library is a place of calmness on campus. Like my office." He grins at you as he leads you out of the door. Both of you get out of the lecture hall and make your way to the library. On my journey there, I take a moment to fix my outfit, raising the hem of my mini skirt.

Upon reaching the library, Rafe's attention is drawn to your revealed skin, his gaze filled with desire as he observes the way you sway in your form-fitting attire. You chose a desk located in the corner of the library for added privacy. Your intentions as clear as water. Following closely behind, he pulled out a chair for you and then sat down next to you. Seated comfortably, you lean in with your elbow on the table and your hand supporting your cheek. "Teach me.." 

At your words, his eyes brighten and he leans in closer, his gaze burning with intensity. "Very well, Y/N." He reaches to the book you placed on the table, that you used in class and starts flipping through pages until he finds what he's looking for. "Alright.. let's begin with... this" He said pointing at the page. Your eyes focused on the book. But your mind barely concentrating.

Rafe observes your distracted state, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Miss L/N, is there something on your mind?" Leaning in, he places his hand on your thigh beneath the desk and gently squeezes it. "You appear... preoccupied." His touch stirred butterflies in your stomach, yet you dismiss it with a shake of your head. "I'm perfectly fine, sir," he smirked wider, clearly unconvinced by your words. His fingers delicately moving up and down your thigh in a teasing manner. "Of course.." He says, his voice low and husky, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. "We shall continue." You said nervously and quickly.

He watches your lips intently, his thumb tracing over the sensitive skin. "I think that's a good idea," he replies, taking his hand off your thigh and leaving behind a comforting warmth. Silently nodding, you turn your attention back to the book. Briefly captivated by your cleavage and curves, he soon returned his gaze to the book in his hand. "Now, where were we? Ah yes." He flips through the pages until he finds the right spot. 

Rafe Cameron's voice trails off as he becomes lost in the words and teachings in the book. Unaware of the growing tension in the room. "The ancient texts speak of a ritual, a way to harness the power of desire and lust, and use it to fuel your own abilities." The library was quiet. Your thoughts could only focus on him being right beside you. The notion of him using his spare time to teach you was charming. Boldly, you inch closer and place your hand on his thigh. "Mhm.. desire and lust.." You repeat his words. His breath caught in his throat as he felt the weight of your hand on his thigh, a surge of energy coursing through him at the touch. "Yes.. desire and lust" His voice tracing desire. He becomes aware of the implication of your words, causing his heart to race a bit. With each passing day, he can't ignore the attraction he feels towards you. The tension between you is palpable as he leans in closer, his lips dangerously close to your ear.

He inhales sharply as he detects your hand nearing his expanding bulge.  The tempation is too great, and he gives in to the urge, whispering huskily in your ear. "I've craved you.." You face him, your lips on the verge of touching. You softly suggest, "How about we head to your office?" He couldn't resist grinning at your suggestion. His desire for you growing with each moment. He answers your question with a nod, his hand gently touching your cheek. "Yes, I do."

Rafe Cameron enters his office, his eyes flicking over to the desk before turning his gaze back to you. His eyes heavy with desire. With a gentle click, he secures the door and places the keys down before stepping towards you, his hands sliding around your waist as he pushes you against the door. "Let me see more of you." Your breath hitches at the sudden pin to the door. "Make me.." You reply in a quiet voice, moving your hips against his. He lets out a low growl of desire as he listens to your reply, holding onto your waist firmly while drawing closer to you.

"I've been longing for this moment," you say quietly, close to his lips. His lips curve into a smile as he moves his hand from your waist to gently lift your chin, meeting your eyes. "Have you?"

"Mhm.. the teacher everbody wants to fuck, and he chose me.." His eyes darken with desire from your sentence, his hand moving from your chin to your neck, gripping it. "And what do you want?" He asks in a stern dark tone. "Fuck me" You reply as you look into his eyes your mouth open from the grip on your neck while your eyes were locked with his.

He tightens his grip on your neck as he draws you in closer to him. "You want me to fuck you against the door like some desperate slut?" He whispers in your ear. Your head instinctively nodding in agreement at this point, yearning for his touch. "Fuck me like your personal doll". Your words ignite a primal desire in his eyes, causing his hand to move from your neck and slide down your body, lifting your skirt to uncover your thighs and panties. "You want me to use you, fuck you so rough until you're begging for me to stop?" You let out a quiet moan at the imagination of it nodding your head. "Yes.. yes please"

He lets out a deep chuckle as he moves in close to your ear. His warm breath brushing against your skin. "I'll make sure you can barely stand by the time I'm done with you."  His hands move to your hips, his fingers digging into your skin as he pins you against the door again, His grip on your hip tightens as the other hands thumb brushes against the skin of your inner thigh. "Beg for me then." You whine a little at how he teases you "Please baby, I want you so bad". He swiftly pulls down your panties with a quick movement of his hand. "You want me? You got me". His whispered words were followed by his lips crashing into yours, his tongue entering your mouth as he lifted you up, your legs wrapping around his waist. You responded to his kiss by wrapping your arm around the back of his neck, seeking stability. 

His pants hit the floor with a thud, his hard cock pressing against your core. "Tighten your legs around me, babe," he chuckles, kicking his pants away and sliding one hand underneath you to lead himself into you. "Tell me if I hurt you" He pants out. His tip teasing your folds which already made moans escape your mouth. "Yes daddy".

As he thrusts into you, his groans mix with the sounds of your pleasure, his throbbing member filling you to the hilt. "Fuck, you're so tight baby girl.." He groans, staring to move, in and out of you with the force of a possessed man. "God, I've wanted to fuck you since the moment I saw you" His hand grips your hips as he fucks you harder and faster. From time to time, your back colliding with the door.

[merakiui]

boyfriend.

yandere!female!riddle rosehearts x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, obsession, implied (cyber)stalking, cheating, dub-con, alcohol/intoxication, characters written as 18+ note - riddle seeks to prune the filthy weeds from your life, starting with your ill-mannered boyfriend. // inspired by dove cameron's boyfriend.

i. i can’t believe we’re finally alone. i can’t believe i almost went home. what are the chances? everyone’s dancing, and he’s not with you.

Riddle has never traveled to this part of the city before—the seedy, unsavory sliver overshadowed by towering skyscrapers, illicit, perilous secrets tucked away in every alley. It’s not as if she’s here under duress. Although if you were to frame it from her perspective, it would feel less like an active, consensual choice and more of a you’ve-forced-my-hand choice. It’s blatant rule-breaking all the same, a stain on her delicate character. Blight on her shiny social status as a golden child, forever marked as the obedient one.

She’s lived her rebellious streak, was punished swiftly and accordingly, and strived to be better in the aftermath. It was one thing to slip out during independent study, and that fun had been trampled upon by a cruel, heeled foot. That was a child’s error. A lesson learned. A valid reason to sever all distractions and improve academically, consequently maturing with sharp, sparkling intelligence and abysmal social skills. 

But Riddle is no longer that starry-eyed, impressionable child, and she does not make the same mistake twice.

Or so she’s always believed, but she’s willing to risk an unforgiving tongue-lashing and life imprisonment at the hands of her mother if it means she can fix things. No matter how she spins it, the truth remains the same: She’s fallen back on an old habit, sneaking out and keeping secrets. She’s an open book to Trey, though, who she’d taken care to message on the train ride into the city, her text mostly cryptic: Should anything happen, this is where I’ll be. It’s wrong to skirt around the truth, especially when it’s your closest friend. She knows this, but then she also knows Trey gives terribly good advice. The type of terribly good advice you often don’t want to hear.

Advice like: “You need to let her go.”

And Riddle can’t—won’t. 

So she steps into the digital footprints left by that brash, brutish party animal you lovingly call your boyfriend, and she follows the string of social media posts like a diligent detective, flicking through each with manicured fingernails. She commits them to memory so that they remain imprinted in her mind before they’ll eventually expire at the twenty-four hour mark.

In the days leading up to tonight, Cater had taken her out for their usual self-care makeover day, which was really just a day dedicated to dressing up and gossiping at the salon. It was a monthly arrangement, and it kept the both of them entertained and sane. The latter of those two was called into question when Riddle, wholly out of character, selected black nail polish for her mani-pedi, which left Cater looking on with brewing curiosity. She gazed at him, pouty lips upturned slyly, and said, “I thought I’d give red a temporary break.”

“Oh, but red is so your color!” he insisted, raising his phone to capture both of them in frame. 

Riddle smiled at the camera. “I know.”

It has always been her color, a staple in her closet. It’s a favorite she can never truly shake, hence why it stains her lips instead. Bright like arterial blood, a blossoming carnation, it stands out starkly on her pale countenance—the only splotch of color on her person. Cater took her shopping when he’d learned she was attempting to fit a new style into her wardrobe of prim, modest clothes. They ran up and down the racks, grinning at each other from across the store and holding up sweaters and skirts, weighing whether either would suit Riddle’s night out. In the end, she settled for the outfit she wears now: a red tube top, a cropped puffer jacket, a pencil skirt that doesn’t pass the fingertip test (not that she cares to follow that rule), tights, and knee-high heeled boots. To finish the look, she’s pulled her hair from its usual plaits, allowing it to cascade down her back like a crimson waterfall. Fingerless lace gloves adorn her hands, stitched with intricate patterns of roses and thorns.

Cater called it the Femme Fatale Friday fit. It’s a Saturday night, but it feels like Friday when she peers at her reflection in a pocket mirror, checking her makeup once more. 

She will not make the same mistake twice. She’s a paragon of perfection—Riddle Rosehearts, for seven’s sake! 

Stuffing the mirror into a matching handbag, she eyes the skyscraper looming before her, sleek with its metal framework and industrial glass. The bright cityscape reflects off of each window, dazzling with luminous specks of light. She considers the contents in her purse, reviews each with a critical eye, and inhales a steadying breath. 

This is necessary.

She’s an adult now, nearly finished with her graduate studies. She lives on her own in a quaint, pet-friendly apartment with her hedgehog, and she works part-time at the café down the street, putting forth her best effort as she weathers the woes of university. Despite all of this independence, she doesn’t feel like an adult. 

Not when she can hear her mother in the back of her head: You look ridiculous. Come home right now before you make a fool of yourself and sully my good name.

Riddle scowls at the concrete, curling her fingers into fists. 

She’s an adult now. She is not her mother’s doll.

Leaving all hostility and self-doubt at the door, she steps through the lobby and beelines for the lift. It carries her to her destination—one of the highest floors. A penthouse suite. 

And not just any penthouse suite. Floyd Leech’s penthouse suite.

Under normal circumstances, she would never willingly set foot in his territory. She survived four years of school with him, which was already a sickening amount, and in that time she watched him glide through his undergraduate with just barely passing grades. That wasn’t enough to stoke the red-hot embers of envy, though. It only made him seem even more like a cockroach, unable to be crushed by the weight of scholarly responsibilities, for he never took anything seriously.

For that reason, Riddle has never envied Floyd. But by the end of their third year, he had something Riddle didn’t. 

He had you. 

How he managed to settle into a relationship when all he did was slack off, party, and break the rules was beyond Riddle. He was a slippery delinquent, hardly deserving of your sweet affections, and yet you looked at him like he was the only one on the planet. Just where was the appeal? His manner of dress is sloppy. The way he carries himself is unpalatable and crude. The way he acts suggests his insipience is incurable. Even when he applies himself, he is still Floyd and that doesn’t clean his slate or shine his reputation. So in Riddle’s discerning eyes, he does not possess a scintilla of romantic appeal.

You don’t seem to agree with these sentiments, for you’ve been with Floyd for four long years. 

Love is blinding, but Riddle has never been in love before and so she doesn’t have adequate data to prove this point. It was forbidden in her home. She’s only allowed to love the men her mother handpicks, plucking each specimen like they’re ripened strawberries from a bush. In the beginning she found all manner of minor details to excuse them from her life, insisting upon a nonexistent list of impossibly high standards. He was too tall. He was too forward with his interest. He wore contrasting colors. He didn’t like tea. These reasons were far too critical and childish, and each man had been sent away in a huff. Her mother would scold her, halving her with a nasty glare: “Are you planning to die alone?”

Yes, Riddle realized by the twentieth admonishment, yet another man cast aside. If dying alone means romantic freedom in life, I’ll do just that.

The elevator spits her out into the hall, which isn’t as silent as she thought it’d be. Bass shakes through the walls, reverberating all the way through her ribs as if it intends to stir up her organs. She catches her reflection in the windows, noting the dark, monstrous scowl, and smooths her face into something courageous. She means business as she clicks down the hall, preparing herself for the whirlwind that undoubtedly waits behind the door. Riddle starts to wonder how Floyd’s neighbors have yet to file a noise complaint and then stops, her thoughts cutting off abruptly. It’s a challenge to make complaints when your father holds parts of the city’s underground in his palms.

He’s got it easy, that spoiled pest. 

Riddle’s gait slows to a halt and she reaches out to knock thrice. The door is thrown open before she can even bring her fist down. Soon she’s staring at a rosy-cheeked stranger, whose eyes trace her figure like he’s trying to paint her on his mental canvas. She’s prepared for the worst, having tucked the spray in her bag, its container disguised to look like lipstick. The strawberry keychain hanging from her purse is a self-defense alarm, ready to be pulled at a moment’s notice. His ogling does not frighten her, nor do his intentions, if he can even harbor any in that intoxicated brain of his. She’s braved scarier horrors. Like living out years of her life with her mother.

“Heyyy, you one of Floyd’s girls? Here for the party?”

Riddle suppresses the disgusted shiver threatening to crawl up her spine, swallowing bile. “Just the party.” 

She is no one’s girl. Definitely not Floyd’s. 

When she’s let inside and the stench of sweat and alcohol assault her nostrils, coupled with the too-loud party music, she considers retreating, her mother’s judgment echoing: You look ridiculous. Her fingers twitch towards her purse. One text and Trey would pick her up. One call and Cater would be on his way. But then she’d be forced to tell them the truth—would have to admit that she’s chasing the one person she can never have. 

She hardens her resolve, pushes through the throng of bodies in an effort to find refreshments, and there you are, her perfect, pretty wallflower in a perfect, pretty silver dress. The dim neon lighting casts you in a luscious pink haze, and she watches you scroll through your phone, your eyelids falling and opening. You’re so beautiful—the sweetest thing she’s ever seen, more saccharine than a truckload of strawberry tarts. Her hand slides away from her purse, and she tamps down a gleeful smile, stepping over to you with newfound confidence.

“(Name)?”

You turn your whole body towards her, your gaze unfocused. She can smell the liquor on you, can see the hickeys not quite covered by a velvet choker. Her gaze narrows. He’s all over you, isn’t he? From top to bottom, you are covered in traces of him. Her nose scrunches. Just what do you see in him?

It should be her teeth on your skin, tearing it open, bruising it, tasting slick copper on her tongue. It should have always been her, but it’s not. Why did you have to settle for less when you’re entitled to so much more?

You peer at her like she’s something in a museum, perplexing and abstract. And then it clicks. You gasp, your mouth falling open in awe, and your words come out horribly slurred. She fails to hide her wince when you throw your arms around her, hanging off of her like a tote on a shoulder.

“Riddle! You…seriously showed up… Can’t believe it’s really you. It feels like it’s been forever.” You pull away, swaying with the motion, and place your hands on her arms. “Your outfit is suuuper cute.”

She’s blushing. She knows she is because her face is burning with heat and suddenly it’s much too stifling in here. “Oh. Ah, um, t-thank you very much… You look very nice, too.”

Really? Is that the best thing I could say? ‘You look very nice’? Honestly, Riddle…

But you smile, and the sight steals her heart all over again. You can have it. By all means take her heart. Take it and love it to pieces. That way it will be fair when she takes yours. An even exchange in accordance with the rules of love. 

Or maybe it’s more so the rules of romantic warfare, carried out to the extreme on a chessboard. Or a croquet court. Something sporty and metaphorical, anyway.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” she asks, refusing to say his name lest she speak him into existence and tarnish her near-perfect evening.

Her question strikes a chord within you, and you heave an exaggerated sigh. You cross your arms over your chest, leaning against the wall for support. “Left me to go hang with the guys. S’not fair!” you whine, sliding further down until you’re sitting in a defeated heap. 

Riddle bends down to your height, her tone as soft and sympathetic as her expression. “Does he always do this?”

Hurt flashes across your face, but you don’t say anything. So he does. Why is she not surprised?

Who in the world leaves their partner at a party, vulnerable and alone? Riddle thinks, anger flaring up in her chest. Someone could take advantage of you. You’re in no state to be standing here by yourself. That fool… He doesn’t know how to treat a lady at all. How have you put up with him for four years? Your patience amazes me.

“It’s not like…” You shut your eyes and rest your head against the wall. “Not like an always-happening thing…”

Riddle isn’t going to sugarcoat it. She wants her words to cut deep, all the way to the heart you’ve allowed Floyd to bind. “Whether or not he does it often, the fact still stands that he left you intoxicated in the corner of this room. That’s careless and unsafe.” She tilts her head, admiring the way you’ve done your makeup, the way your plush lips jut out in a miserable pout. And it just rushes out, words she’s thought but never had the courage to say. At least, not to the sober you. “I wouldn’t do that to you. You deserve so much better.”

Like me, she almost adds, but that’s too direct. And she’s not even sure the admission will land when you’re so out of it.

“Appreciate it…” You scrub your face, groaning. “Ugh. I feel sick…”

“Would you like to get some fresh air?” 

You shake your head, stubborn to a fault. “Can’t. Gotta wait for Floyd.”

Riddle frowns. “I highly doubt he’s coming back anytime soon.” 

“Still.”

“At the very least, let’s get you some water.” She offers her hand, hoping and praying to the heavens above that you’ll take it.

You do. It’s a flawless fit. Her heart flutters, weightless and feathery, when her fingers close around yours. She wonders what moisturizer you use, what sort of lotions kiss your skin. Are they scented, or is that just your perfume? Or have you done away with perfume for tonight and is that a natural fragrance? Or maybe it’s the sweet scent of a fruity wine, printed on your tongue like a delicious tattoo. 

She wants to kiss you. 

“Just how much have you had to drink?” 

“Like a cup or two? I…dunno. Does it matter?”

You stumble when she helps you up, grabbing at her shoulder for support. Riddle almost falls back, but the wall braces her. You place your palm right by her head, and suddenly you’re leaning in, inadvertently pinning her to the wall. Her pupils nearly eclipse her blue-grey irises, and her breath sticks in her throat. Oh, you’re so close. You’re a drunken mess, pushing yourself up against her, your beauty enveloping her like a chrysalis. If this is a dream, she never wants to wake, for the world that awaits her beyond this is cold and colorless. 

Your head lowers to the dip between shoulder and neck, and she gazes heavenward. The ceiling is much nicer at this moment, if only so she can clear her own heady haze of impure thoughts. 

There are people about, she has to remind herself, shaking off the urge to close her fingers around your chin and tilt your head up to meet her mouth. And she has a boyfriend. Just because I can doesn’t mean I should.

But the chance is much too beguiling. You’re right here, quite literally within her reach, and Floyd’s nowhere in sight. It’s too perfect. She can’t quite wrap you in an affectionate embrace—though that is an irresistible urge she must fight off—so she settles to rub circles into your back instead, dutifully reflecting the role of a concerned friend. It’s not the part she wishes to play. Rather, she’d gladly take on the title of boyfriend if it meant you’d feel loved. Every day, at every hour, for the rest of your life. She’d do all the things Floyd ought to do: care for you, appreciate you, protect you, stay by your side through thick and thin. 

Love is a dangerous, thorny thing, but it’s the encroaching jealousy that kills. 

Floyd doesn’t deserve you. If anything, he deserves a mouth full of soap to scrub every profanity he’s ever uttered. Just what does he tell you in bed? That you’re a good girl? That you’re soooo tight? That you can take it? Does he know which ways you like it? Does he know where to touch so you’ll unravel faster? Does he know how to get you properly, thoroughly worked up, so much so that it feels like your skin is aflame with potent want and desire? 

Does he even know your anatomy, or are you simply a body for his avaricious appetite? 

Like roses twining possessively around a trellis, Riddle holds you close in her arms, her hand sweeping across your lower back. Her glacial eyes scan the crowd, warding off anyone who may be curious with her most malevolent death stare. 

“Mm… I need to lie down. My head is…spinning…”

With that, the murderous, overprotective haze sticking to Riddle like a poisonous fog dissipates. A sickly sweet smile widens on ruby-red lips. “Let’s find someplace quiet.”

Together, the two of you stagger-walk out of the room, leaving the party and its inhabitants behind. Crossing through the attached kitchenette, Riddle pilfers a bottled water from the fridge.

Her mind is sharp as a cut diamond. Her skin prickles with anticipation.

Down the hall you go, with Riddle supporting you with what minimal physical strength she has. A door looms before the both of you, cast in a comfortable glow from a neighboring skyscraper, and you struggle to pull your heels off while she pushes the door open. It reveals a messy room, clothing and candy wrappers strewn about sloppily. 

Riddle feels like she’s on top of the world, and she is. Up in the clouds on the forty-third floor of this luxurious penthouse apartment. 

ii. i could be a better boyfriend than him. i could do the shit that he never did. up all night, i won’t quit. 

All throughout her undergraduate, Riddle pined. Hopelessly. Forlornly. Desperately.

Hungrily. 

It was unbecoming to want something to such an obsessive degree. She buried herself in her studies to do away with lustful delusions, each more distracting than the last. But then you would crop up in her life when she least expected it and soon the two of you were studying together. Soon you were visiting her dorm to watch movies during the times in which she allowed herself the break (and she only did so because it was you). Soon you were spending nights in her room, sleeping sprawled on the floor even though she offered her bed time and time again. You’d get ready in the mornings, debating what the breakfast menu would entail. She’d watch your reflection in the floor mirror as you pulled your shirt up and over your head, eyeing the way you slid seamlessly into a lacy black bra. And then she’d change out of her nightgown, and you’d comment on her undergarments. 

“We should go shopping sometime. You gotta get cuter stuff!”

“Why should I? No one’s going to see it,” she insisted with a flustered huff.

“I’ll see it the next time I sleep over,” you told her, smiling innocently as you stepped into a blue handkerchief skirt. “Besides, there are so many cute sets you could wear. You’d look so pretty in something red and frilly. You’re totally missing out.”

Riddle considered it back then. Your eager eyes had almost won her over, but she was firm in her decision. “I’m fine with what I have now.” 

And the conversation ended there. She really wishes you would have pushed it back then because just a little nudge in that direction and she would have given in, entirely at your mercy. 

Selfishly, she just yearned to be stuck in a changing stall with you. 

All throughout her undergraduate, Riddle fostered a special sort of friendship with you. You’d stop by her dorm during finals to insist she take a break, your offer too tempting. She’s always been weak to sweets. You were close enough to exchange intimate details with one another. She listened to all of your dating woes, and conversely you’d sit still and bear witness to her ramblings about fascinating law facts. Sometimes she’d rant about her mother. You always listened. “She sounds like she sucks,” you said once. “How are you even related to her? You’re so nice.”

It was a pleasant three years. If she deluded herself enough, she could have pretended you were her girlfriend and then she’d have something to tell her mother to put an end to the countless attempts at scoring her a husband. I will never marry any of your options, she would think, playing the confrontation out in her head. I have a partner now and we’re very happy together. Sometimes Riddle imagined her mother tossing darts at a board with photographs of men attached to it, disregarding compatibility altogether in favor of upholding traditional rules. But then Riddle realized she’d have to die before she could ever admit her own romantic freedoms to her mother, and so that conversation only ever came about in daydreams. 

I’d rather die alone than live life shackled in a loveless marriage. She wonders if her father thought the same.

Those three years had been a wonderful reality, filled with sugared, candy-coated love. A one-sided love, sure. But Riddle could settle for platonic affections, for that was just as sweet.

And then he arrived at the doorstep to Riddle’s fantasy cottage, kicking the walls down and sweeping you off your feet.

Floyd Leech has always been a nuisance. You were there to shoo him away every time he came knocking, all broad grins and vexatious jeers. He listened to you most days, a mutt without proper leashing, oddly loyal to you. As if you were his keeper of sorts. Riddle was amazed, befuddled, and worried all at once. Unlike her, you could keep your cool, could still smile so kindly even when Floyd was being an utter pain in the ass with his foolish nicknames. When he tried to pluck Riddle’s hairpin from out of her braids—a handmade gift you had given her for her birthday—she slapped him hard across the face and hissed, “Don’t ever put your filthy paws on me again.”

And maybe it was because you were there that she was able to recover shortly after the outburst. (Although she still meant that slap with every fiber of her being.) Maybe you were her collar. Maybe you were her keeper. Maybe she was meant to meet you so that you could color her world, lead her along into the friendship she’d been robbed of as a child. 

Looking back, Riddle realizes that was the catalyst. Because when Floyd cradled his bright-red cheek, giggling like a maniac, you asked him, “Don’t you have anything better to do? Can’t you bother someone else?”

And then you were made the prime target. 

What’s worse is that you reveled in it, adored every ounce of attention Floyd gave you like it was something holy, later admitting to Riddle during a movie marathon that you “wondered if Floyd was seeing anyone.” She wanted to retch. You, a seraph incarnate, with a devil like Floyd? Impossible. But your tone was so whimsical; you were dreaming of it. You liked him. 

She couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it.

By the end of her third year, just as finals gave way to summer, you threw your arms around Floyd’s neck while he pressed you up against the trunk of a flowering tree. Pink petals fluttered to the ground, and with the falling blossoms came Riddle’s hope, crashing and burning in a heartbroken heap. 

She won’t make the same mistake twice, which is precisely why, when you flop onto Floyd’s unmade bed, she turns the lock to keep all outside influences away. The party is but a mere muffle now, thrumming through the floorboards with reckless abandon.

Her nose wrinkles at the pile of dirty laundry. Slob, she thinks, brimming with hate. What does she see in you? You’re a mess, you’re definitely a criminal, you can’t keep a stable job, you throw obnoxious parties every other week, you leave your own girlfriend unattended… What part of that is appealing? She gazes at you next. You’re too good for him, (Name). You can do so much better. Raise your standards. Find someone respectable and attentive. Someone who’ll stay with you forever. Someone who won’t let you get stupidly drunk and then run off to Queen-knows-where.

“Someone like me,” she mutters.

You have to be coerced into drinking, and you’re so sleepy that the water dribbles down your chin. Riddle tuts at you, swiping the liquid away with her sleeve. 

“You’re a mess,” she says, affectionate despite the barb. 

You’re my mess.

She slides your heels off, casting them elsewhere. You look like a starfish when you lay sprawled, or maybe you’re more like a snow angel. Only rather than snow, you imprint yourself amongst wrinkled sheets. Riddle knows it’s wrong, but you’re right here. She’s waited so many years for a moment like this one.

It’s not fair. 

She unzips her boots, kicks them off, and stands at the edge of the bed, locked in a fierce debate. You should have thrown your arms around her that day. You should have kissed her, should have spent the last four years with her, should have stayed in her life like the permanent fixture you were destined to be. She’s never wanted anything more than this. Not even a surplus of strawberry tarts. Not even the dreams she’s working tirelessly towards achieving. She’s only ever wanted you. 

But Floyd took you away, and her world has never been the same since. 

The mattress dips under her weight; she’s made up her mind. 

“Do you remember the promise we made?” she whispers, running her hands up your legs. You lift your head to look at her, eyes glassy with inebriated exhaustion. “The one in which we’d live together after graduation? You said you’d want to live somewhere pet-friendly so we could get hedgehogs and name them Tweedledee and Tweedledum.”

You hum, your lashes fluttering. 

“We could still do that. Just you and me. Without your boyfriend.”

“What?”

Her fingers catch on the waistband of your panties. “Hm?” 

“Mm, no, nothing… You should get going. It’s late…” “Someone has to look after you.”

“Floyd can.”

She presses her thumbs into your hips and the tiniest gasp leaves your parted lips. “But Floyd’s not.”

“He will.”

“He won’t,” she snaps. Something flickers in your eyes, a flash of unrest. Riddle chews her lower lip. “He’s… (Name), what do you see in him? Honestly, truly, what is it? Please educate me. Please… What does he have that I don’t? What makes you stay?”

“Cuz he’s my boyfriend,” you mutter slowly, perplexed, “and I love him.”

“Do you?” 

“Riddle, why are you so…” The words fizzle out on your tongue when her touch strays too close to home. “Wait… We can’t… Not in here.”

“Why not? It’s just one more mess. He won’t even notice.”

“That’s not it… Riddle, wait. I… I don’t like you in that—”

She collapses, anchoring herself to you, her manicured nails digging deep into your arms. And then her mouth is on yours, clumsy and uncoordinated. She doesn’t want to hear it—can’t bear to hear it. She knows the truth. It’s haunted her from the day she met you, a shadow looming like a guillotine’s blade. You were fated to be forever out of reach. Just like those strawberry tarts in the bakery window. The kiss is filthy, all desire and zero skill. Her tongue flashes into your mouth. It’s nothing like the way they describe it in fiction or portray it in films. It’s obscene. Sinful. Libidinous. Her lipstick smears; she tastes the wine in your throat, licks your teeth and nibbles your lip, delicate and gruesome all at once. She tries her best, unyielding. 

The technique doesn’t matter. Not now, anyway. It’s just blind, unrequited passion. She’ll learn it eventually and when she does she’ll kiss you drunk. It’s just another thing she’ll master. And she will because that’s just who she is. Give her a textbook and she’ll have it memorized. Give her a kiss and she’ll return to practice it to perfection. 

She pulls away, panting, her lipstick in disarray. It’s all over you, smudging on the corners of your mouth. Running a hand through her hair, her figure outlined in the tantalizing glow from the city lights, she licks her lips. 

“Riddle…” 

Spoken soft like prayer, it’s a whisper she’ll treasure. Over and over, without end, repeat it like a mantra. 

“Riddle, please…”

“He doesn’t know anything about your preferences, does he?” Your dress is slid up next. She traces a heart into your bare stomach, capturing your navel in invisible lines. You shudder under her touch, grabbing at her wrist with a limp hand. She brings it up to her lips and presses a chaste kiss to the top of it. “I know you much better than he does. I always have.”

To prove it, she presses two fingers to your clothed pussy. You whine, reedy and high-pitched. “But…”

“I read it takes fourteen minutes for women to reach their end during partnered sex.” She levels you with a half-lidded stare, smirking. What she lacks in skill, she makes up for in raw confidence. “I’ll only need less than that, so you won’t have to feign anything for my sake. I know you well enough, my rose.”

A wide range of emotions waltzes across your countenance. Your arm falls over your face next. It’s defeat or hesitant acceptance, but to Riddle it’s love. 

“Ten minutes,” you whisper, conceding. “And then…you need to leave.”

She makes you cum in just five, covers you in lipstick prints, each kiss a sly cover-up. Floyd may be all over you, bites and bruises blooming new and old, but he’s not inside you, wringing you out like a sodden towel. You sob like you’re in heat when she sinks her fingers into your slick warmth, scissoring so slowly, until you’re begging her to make you cum again. Your fluids soak through the sheets. The scent of sex and sweat hangs heavy in the air. She’s alive, wildly untamed, a knight who’s just rescued the princess and slayed a bloodthirsty dragon. 

Her head is between your thighs next, her hands braced on either leg to keep them apart. You watch her with glazed eyes, soon throwing your head back when she slides your hood up to reveal your pretty, pert clit. Experimentally, she licks a teasing stripe up your slit. You shiver and dig your fingers into her scalp, imprisoning her there. It’s where she’s always wanted to be. 

“Tell me,” she murmurs, the words fanning across your pussy, “if he’s so good, why haven’t you proven it? Is this the most you’ve ever cum in a night? Does he please you or do you please him? If he’s everything you’ve ever wanted, why are you still so unsatisfied?” 

“Because… B-Because!”

Your protests are fragmented and spotted with gasps. That’s arguably more telling than a detailed response. 

Riddle smiles like a Cheshire, her eyes narrowed victoriously. Spidery digits creep along your thighs. Her thumbs dip into your pussy, spreading it wide for her viewing pleasure. “Don’t think of him. Tonight, it’s just you and me. I’ll give you what you’re owed. That and so much more.”

Like a fragile statue, you topple. Right into her, bucking against her mouth like the world is ending, and she’s there to steady you.

She always is.

iii. i’m gonna steal you from him. i could be such a gentleman. plus, you know my clothes would fit.

“Sooo… Gimme the goss. How was your night out?”

Riddle looks up from an assortment of nail polish colors, each one more red than the last, and says, “It was more enjoyable than I thought.”

“Yeah?” Cater prompts, brows raised. “Don’t be so vague! I wanna know all the juicy details. It’s rare for you to stay out so late. And to go to a party, of all things, in the city? Hello?! New Riddle, who’s this?” 

“I was only meeting an old friend.”

“That’s what they all say.”

The technician asks her to pick a color. “This one,” she says, pointing. “The one named Sanguine Sunrise.” 

“You’re totes keeping me in the dark!” Cater whines, dramatic. “At least give Cay-Cay some hints! Something! Anything! Spare change, please?”

Riddle smiles smugly. Pride drips from every syllable when she speaks next. “My friend will be spending this Valentine’s Day alone.”

“Bummer.”

“Not quite. She’ll have me and half-priced chocolates. A rather charming combination, no?”

Cater laughs. “GL. I’m rooting for you.”

You don’t need to, she thinks, tracing the love bite stamped into her skin, hidden under the soft fabric of her blouse. Because I’m already winning.

Her phone buzzes with a text: about last night… if i did anything weird, i’m so sorry. i was way too drunk. 

Riddle turns it over, dips her feet in the heated water, and settles into the massage chair, pleased as a peach. “It was one bad decision. Four years of bad decisions, but it’s forgiven. We all make silly mistakes when we’re lovestruck. Hopefully her silly mistake disappears for good and we never have to speak of him again.”

“You’re so scary, Riddle. Remind me to never get on your bad side.”

Another message arrives: i think we might’ve kissed last night. i’m really super sorry.

There’s a brief delay.

ok this is gonna sound weird coming from me but maybe we can do it again??? floyd’s kisses are sorta… :/ 

Her phone vibrates for the final time that afternoon.

actually i’m just gonna stop talking omg i’m crazy. i have a bf and everything. sorry riddle please ignore all of this kk tysm ttyl <3

wait one more text before i forget,, if you wanna meet up for tea i wouldn’t mind. we should definitely catch up when i’m not hungover. kk bye fr this time <3

A start is a start. You can’t grow a rose tree without first planting a seed.

[rafedaddy01]

Step Bro, What Are You Doing?

series masterlist

Summary: Rafe teaches his sister a lesson after she disobeys him.. pt1

Indeed it was the beginning of your relationship with Rafe.

Your parents finally came home and you could not have been more relieved to not be alone with Rafe, his wandering eyes were soaking up every ounce of your body and you would be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy it but what happened couldn’t happen again, ever!

Right after you let Rafe take your virginity you rushed to your room with tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god!” You muttered as you paced in front of your bed.

A knock broke your thoughts and Rafes voice softly spoke.

You opened the door to his outstretched hand, “you forgot this”

There’s a devious glint to his eye and you snatch your phone before shutting the door, but his foot stops it.

“Rafe, please-“ you interrupted as his hand grips your throat and brings you forward to him.

“Your mine now, understand?” He cocks an eyebrow at you and watched you nod before claiming your mouth with a possessive kiss.

You don’t know what came over you but as you watched him leave you tried not to show how much that turned you on.

With panting breath you fell to the floor with your back against the door.

Your phone dinged and you looked down, quickly losing any feelings of lust you had.

“What the fuck?”

**

It’s been a week since your parents have been home but they are still so busy with work their never really around.

“You’ve been avoiding me” Rafes voice makes you jump slightly as you try to relax on a pool chair.

“Leave me alone Rafe, what we had was a mistake” you huff and try to shake him off as the sun hits your glistening skin.

His shadows hovers over you and you glare daggers at him as his jaw clenches. “I thought I told you your mine” he run his finger tips down the middle of your chest between your breasts until he reached the waistband of your bikini bottom.

You suck in a breath and try not to show how much he turns you on, this is wrong. “That was before you ruined my relationship” you snap and cause him to pull his hand away.

He scoots a chair up to yours and lays down, propping his head on his palm and watching you.

“It was already ruined babygirl. He didn’t appreciate what he had”

You scoff. “I’m your step sister Rafe” you remind him.

“So? Your still mine” he replies.

Before you can snap back at him the slide door opens and two guys walk in.

“Sup Cameron” a tall, muscular guy with blinding hair walks in. Next to him is a dark skinned guy, less muscular but still fit.

They stride over and rafe gives you a look before walking off towards the pool.

The blonde smiles at you and follows his friends.

You stand up and start walking inside since the relaxing day has been ruined.

“Hey! Wanna join us for a swim, topper, whose name you learned asks.

An idea pops into your head.

“Sure!” You exclaim as you eye Rafe with a devious smirk.

You push past them and make sure to brush your boobs against Rafes bare chest before sitting next to topper.

“I’m topper, that’s kelce”

“Y/n” you reply, giving him your best flirty tone.

Rafes face is red as he watches your interaction

“Cameron you good?” Kelce asks.

“Yeah” he says as he stares into your eyes.

You ignore him and ran a hand down toppers arm “so.. topper, how long have you known rafe?”

This little interaction goes on for a few minutes before Rafe jumps out of the pool and heads inside, not bothering saying anything.

You smile, feeling victorious.

**

Your stirring and bed and suddenly feel pleasure building between your legs, your breath pants as your nails claw at the mattress. A low moans sounds out of your throat and your eyes shoot open.

Your hands fly to your core where they come in contact with hair.

“Oh fuck!” You arch your back as Rafe tongues at your clit.

“RAF-“ you barely get out before your screaming your release and his hand flys over your mouth.

“Quiet sis, mom and dad are home” he crawls up until he’s face to face with you.

“What the fuck are you doing in my room” you whisper as he nips at your neck and you try to push him off

“Teaching you a lesson” he whispers in your ear and your skin fills with goosebumps.

“I told you, you belong to me” he grips your throat and claims your mouth with his.

You don’t even register his fingers making their way to your cunt until one thrusts in and a second follows.

You moan against his lips and it feels so good as he curves them that your already falling apart but he pulls back.

“What the hell?” You question but then your face feels heated and your head whips to the side.

“You wanna act like a whore in front of me? You get treated like one!” Rage spits out and you hate yourself for getting turned on from him slapping you.

“Fuck” you groan.

“You’ll cum when I say so” he kissed you again and you don’t fight it.

His fingers come in contact with your entrance again, this time adding a third and curving them to rib against your g-spot.

Your squirming and begging him but he pulls away and stands up.

“Next time don’t test me”

And with that he walks out, leaving you high and dry.

Taglist

@f4ll-for-you @v21sstuff @rafeysworldim19 @baby19sthings @eventualoptimism @drewstarkeysbae @sevenwivesofrafecameron @rxfecameronsslut @findapenny @r1vrsefx @spencerreidsrealgf

[baurbiediv]

sorrows

pairings: ex!rafe cameron x reader, platonic!pogues x reader, jj maybank x reader

warnings: like one curse word, rafe being rafe, reader slaps rafe

authors note(s) based off sorrows by bryson tiller, italics represent flashbacks, takes place in throug ending of s1/middle of s2

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

sometimes people say relationships end on good or bad terms.

you and rafe? that’s an entirely different story, one for the books if anything.

messing around with rafe was not in your best interest, even your closest friends weren’t in favor of the idea. they tried to get you to understand that rafe wasn’t there all together, yet you were skeptical about what they had to say.

the pogues knew firsthand how rafe was. they’d tried to tell you many times that he was untrustworthy and unreliable.

sarah of all people knew how her brother was, she tried her best to get you to understand that this was something that would’ve ended well.

of course everything went through one ear and out the other. and well, lesson learned.

he was, and if not, the hottest kook that had ever lived in kildare. but of course, you’re still young and experimenting.

settling down with someone was an idea that rippled in the back of your mind, yet that would be years later down the road.

the problem with rafe? you were a pogue. rafe was known for his reputation, kook prince.

he’d looked over anyone that wasn’t near his status or even above. something about rafe had sparked an interest within you, and it you wanted to found the sole cause of it.

-

yet here was a feeling down in your stomach that something was going on with rafe, his sporadic and bizarre behavior had you wondering what was going on with him.

your head peaked through the entryway oh his room, he was hunched over the priceless glass table that laid in the center of the room.

there rafe was, splitting white lines with some random card. eyes wide, you watched him as he sniffed the lines. he quickly sat up, soon his body then slouched against the cushions of the couch, manspreading and all.

one foot after the other, quietly walking into the room, you looked at him. “rafe you cannot be serious right now.” looking at the boy, standing right in front of the table.

you stared at the blond, gone out of his mind. “look y/n, don’t ruin this shit for me, not right now.” the boy groaned.

“so when do you wanna explain to me how you beat up one of my closest friends, pope, with a golf club? you don’t remember that shit?” you spat at him, by now you were shifting your body side to side.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about, i really don’t.” the smug on his face real and very prominent, and how badly you wanted to slap it off of him.

“you can’t just do shit like that rafe! you could’ve killed him! he was doing his job, and you taunted him like a child. you’re 19 rafe.” trying to voice your concern, but clearly he didn’t understand.

at this point in time, rafe couldn’t register a single thing that was said or done by you.

the only thing that he was able to make up was your body moving and wiping the table clear of the white powder that was lined up perfectly.

in an instant rafe was up and grabbing your face in his hand and pushing your body against the wall.

his hand squeezed your jaw so tightly you thought he’d be able to break your jaw right then and there. you brought your hand up to his wrist to pull his hand away. but to no avail, your effort didn’t work.

his other hand pointed directly into your face, “you’re unbelievable y/n. you know that? i should’ve known better than to not mess around with you, some pogue. i should’ve just left you where you were.”

he told you, your eyes watering and tears were just waiting to leak out of your eyes.

“now,” he let go of your face, “get the hell out of here and don’t fucking come back.”

-

present day, you and the rest of the pogues were hanging around geechie’s, buying beer and hanging around, soaking in the north carolina sun.

sarah and john b were sitting right next to each other, pope and kie talking, meanwhile you and jj were hitting each other.

being around the pogues made you very aware of the family that you had with them and you were so grateful to have them in your life.

“well well well, what do we have here!” rafe said clapping his hands together obnoxiously loud, topper and kelce behind him.

kie looked over, “i think you’ve really lost your mind this time rafe, the hell are you doing on this side of the island?” her arms crossed, sitting on the edge of the boat.

you rolled your eyes at the thought of rafe, so the only thing you did was keep your back turned to him. jj kept his eyes on rafe intently, eyeing his every move.

“what pogue? you think i’m gonna do something to little miss y/n? sarah? or kiara? you ladies look real nice.” rafe grinned, out into the open air.

your hand reached over and rested on jj’s arm.

john b stood up, getting off the boat, “topper get your dog and get off this side of the island.” john b said, which promoted jj and pope to stand right behind him.

“who the hell are you calling a dog?” rafe said, walking up to john b. sarah watched the two boys closely and hoping that something wouldn’t go down.

“rafe just go.” your voice quiet, turning the your body turning to him while still sitting on the boat. that same smug look on his face, kie and sarah were watching you now.

you stepped off the hms and made your way to the boys and stood in front of rafe.

“nice to see you y/n.” rafe said looking down at you, his empty blue eyes peering into yours. there wasn’t an ounce of empathy, nor sympathy in those eyes.

you never understood how he came to be the way he was, but what rafe has done to you and your friends was shameful, let alone his own sister.

you all could never forgive him for what he’s done, a harsh slap was brought across rafe’s face. you heard jj, sarah, and kiara going ‘ooh!’ behind you, john b and pope patting your shoulders.

“what? you gonna hit a girl? is that what you do now?” you questioned him, taunting and provoking him.

“cmon man, let’s go. you know these pogues are always looking for a fight.” kelce said, jj looking at him like he was crazy.

“and you kooks don’t start fights?” jj chimes in, “now that’s not really fair now is it?” you could hear the cockiness that was obvious in his voice. topper grabbed rafe by his shoulder and began walking away, pulling the boy with him.

“this shit ain’t over.” kelce said as he looked at the rest of the group, pointing directly at you, making sure his words stick. kie yelled back at kelce, “oh no, it’s definitely over!”

jj wrapped his arm around you, kissing the top of your head and keeping you close to him as the both of you quickly hopped back into the hms.

john b started the boat as you headed through the marsh, looking for a place stop to watch the sunset.

“sarah, why can’t rafe be more like you?” jj asked popping the cap off his beer bottle, sarah laughed which prompted everyone else to laugh as well.

she shrugged, “i don’t know, it might be the drugs but i mean .. other than that i really couldn’t tell you.” she said leaning further into john b’s chest.

“well, i’m glad you turned out to be the sane one sarah!” pope told her, the rest of the group chatting amongst themselves and laughing. jj watched you as your legs dangled over the front of the hms.

the sound of the wind carrying the water throughout the marsh was calming and fitting for the scene, you and your friends out and together and having a good time.

you never understood the why being a pogue was painted as a bad thing, you lived your life just like any other person on the island, just without the lavish luxuries that people on the other side had.

jj made his way over and took a place next right you, “you alright? i can tell you’re in your head a little bit.” jj whispered, the boy could read you like the back of his hand, he could tell when something so simple bothered you, that’s just how he was.

you nodded to him as you let your head rest on his shoulder, his hand came and rubbed your lower back, his lips came and placed and a quick kiss on your forehead. it was the small things like that, that made you fall in love with jj.

he was something more to you than just a ‘simple guy’, you saw firsthand how jj cared for the rest of the group. for a long time, when you broke the news of you and rafe’s split to the rest of the group, jj was the first one of the first people (sarah being the actual first person) to make sure that you were okay.

and you loved him for that, for a long time he was in love with you yet he never understood how to show it. so he relied on pope and john b to help him.

-

“alright, so what you’re telling me is, you like y/n but you don’t know how to tell her!” pope said as he sat on the couch in the living room, looking at jj.

the only thing the blonde could do was nod in agreement.

“can i just say something really quick?” john b said with his hands out in a surrender motion, “go ahead! you’ve got the floor!” jj said sarcastically, the blond boy clearly very timid of what his friend was about to say.

“i have never seen you this quiet before. you really must like y/n huh?” the brunet boy said, teasing jj.

pope rolled his eyes, “you see if he never tells us anything, i’m blaming you.” he said pointing sternly at john b, this time he really put his hands up in defense.

a loud sigh came from jj who was clearly fretting over his silly little schoolboy crush.

“look if you guys aren’t gonna help me then i’ll ask kie and sarah for help!” he blurted out, annoyed by the two boys he came to help for.

they both looked over at him and yelled, “no!”, pope got up out of his seat and rushed over to jj, extending an arm to his friends shoulder.

“telling kie and sarah is the last thing you want to do! they’ll tell her immediately.” pope ushered, he wanted to help his friend, he really did. a laugh could be heard coming from behind pope.

john b’s smile quickly faded. in a matter of seconds jj grabbed a couch pillow, immediately smacking john b in the face with it.

pope suppressed his laugh, “see that’s funny, my situation? not funny. very serious bro. you’re playing games right now.” jj told his friend, the brunet couldn’t tell if he friend was being serious or not. pope and jj headed out the front of the chateau, leaving a disheveled john b to catch up after them.

-

“m’ okay, thank you my love.” you told him, somehow the nickname always brought a smile to his face, you’ve said it a million times before, even before you were together.

yet somehow you said it, it had him smiling like a complete idiot in love every time. “oh, i know what will make me feel a little better,” you said as you looked up at him, causing him to raise an eye brow.

“tell me about how you had pope and john b help you again!” you said excitedly, removing your head from his shoulder while smiling.

jj looked at you, got up, and took his shirt off, “hold this for me real quick, darling?” he said handing you his beer, which you gladly accepted.

he quickly front flipped off the boat and into the water, cheers erupted from behind you. jj resurfaced, you laughed at him and his antics.

it was no doubt that jj maybank was your boy, and he wouldn’t hesitate to tell the whole damn island that you were his girl.

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

[princessbrunette]

thoughts on jj x bunny!reader ??

oooof, yes. i think it’s time we revisit the au where it’s bsf!jj and kook, prissy, well groomed bunny!reader.

୧ ‧₊˚ 🧁 ⋅🐰 ˖°

you’re total opposites. yes you want to fuck eachother. yes you’re both oblivious to this.

your parents were never a fan of the pogue boy from the start. especially your father. he didn’t like the way that dirty pogue with the big smug smile would shake his hand at the door when he’d come round to pick you up, still wearing that black backwards cap and an expression that said ‘i’m probably balls deep in your sweet innocent daughter. you’ll never know.’ they’d scowl when they’d watch you disappear down the driveway with him, clutching his arm, practically rubbing all up on him in your tiny skirts. sometimes he’d even look back at them with a cheeky grin, like he just couldn’t believe it either. it was obscene, but they couldn’t stop you. you were soft, yes — but what bunny wanted, bunny got — and it just so appeared that bunny wanted to slum it with some blonde stoner from the cut, so for now they’d have to bite their tongue until you learn your lesson.

jj can’t spoil you like he wants to, no— he’s broke, and plus there wasn’t much you didn’t already have. but he’ll be damned if he didn’t give you the princess treatment, it was the least he could do for perving on his sweet, innocent best friend who knew no better (right?)

what this entails, is never having the power to tell you no. you need picking up from a kook party because you’re too tipsy and he certainly doesn’t trust rafe cameron to see it to it that you’re safe? he’s already outside, and has been for twenty minutes. you wanna learn how to smoke weed because you’ve never done it before? it’s better off he teaches you anyway, right? he would put his foot down with you, clearly needing some guidance and ‘taming’ if you will, but it’s harder than it seems.

“please, jayj?” you cling to his arm stood at his side, plush tits pressed against his bicep and eyelashes batting up at him routinely.

“nah, don’t do that.” he groans, shutting his eyes.

“pleaaaase?”

“you know it’s like, really not fair to pull the doe eyes on me. disappointing you is like… choking out a baby rabbit or something.”

“so you’ll come with me?” you muse hopefully and his eyes flutter, bordering on a roll as he licks his lips.

“fine, okay? fine.”

“weak.” john b passes by, clucking his tongue with a smug head shake.

“weak and pussy whipped.” pope follows him, bringing his can to his lips.

he’s also always getting looped into all of your girly shit somehow. “lets uh, keep this our special little secret, yeah cupcake?” he’s likely to say from your bedroom wearing a robe too small for him with cucumbers on his eyes, a victim of your ‘spa day’— which he secretly agreed to because he saw the potential of some possible feel-ups. maybe a massage, or showering together. not this shit.

you’ve also heard the phrase. “aint no way you’ve tied a pink ribbon to my bike again, princess.” more times than you can count. again, girly shit.

it does pay off though, the pogue tucked up in your pristine bed when your parents are out of town, whistling jokingly when you arrive back from the shower with just a towel tied round you.

“ooo—wee, aint that a sight.” he calls and you giggle, walking over to his side.

“not ashamed of anythin’ around you, jayj— just that comfortable. look!” you pull the towel off, giggling and doing a spin as you reveal your still dripping naked figure, pretty much the blondes wet dream presented before him.

it’s safe to say he nearly loses composure, but he’ll settle for you riling yourself up based purely on his reaction and praise, writhing your naked body on his lap only fifteen minutes later, humping him through his sweatpants.

“th—this isn’t normal for best friends, jj!” you mewl, body still warm and damp as he paws at you anywhere he can get his hands on.

“sure it is, sweetcheeks. don’t even trip.”

୧ ‧₊˚ 🧁 ⋅🐰 ˖°

[prismatoxic]

I want to know about Confrontation!

(the post this ask is referencing)

that one is the first fic i started writing about these guys:

my intention was to explain how tobias and cam first started their romantic/sexual relationship, and i actually did get into the beginning of the sex but then got distracted by other things, as my adhd self is wont to do

it's from tobias's pov, explaining how he's felt like things have been different with cam lately:

It’s impossible to deny that things have felt different for a while. Of course, that’s just what happens when children become adults; Tobias knew it was coming, one way or another. He just wasn’t expecting the way things have shifted—the way the air around Cameron has become electric, like he’s full to bursting with a sort of energy he’s never had before. Deacon feels subdued by comparison; he’s more mature, now, effortlessly engaging in adult topics and learning a sort of precise control over his emotions. Tobias is incredibly proud of them both for coming as far as they have, but... It’s still strange, with Cameron specifically. Looking back, he supposes it began when Cameron started going to college, which makes some amount of sense. His parents have always been overbearing, and any amount of freedom would be expected to change him. They’ve never liked Tobias or Deacon—efforts to coordinate their sons hanging out were usually in vain—and on top of being resistant to Cameron’s most important non-familial relationships, they’re also, at best, dismissive of the trans thing. A perfect cocktail of underlying resentment that will surely lose them contact with Cameron as soon as he doesn’t rely on them at all anymore. (As Tobias understands it, they're still paying for his schooling.) Living in the campus dorms, Cameron surely feels liberated; he's mentioned in passing how hard it was to get his folks to agree to let him move out in any capacity. He also spends a lot more time here, at the Rivera household, than he was ever able to before. It’s nice seeing him so enthusiastic about life and having fun. It’s nice that he clearly feels safe here. It’s nice that he’s blossoming into a young man. And it’s weird how different his presence feels now, but frustratingly, it’s hard to quantify how or why.

things take a turn after deacon's 21st birthday; tobias takes him out drinking and it goes well. he's been trying to model a healthy relationship with alcohol for his son, but when deacon seems to have taken that lesson to heart, tobias slips up a bit because it's not an active concern anymore. (he's long-divorced and depressed; he's done everything to be a good father, not only for deacon but for cameron as well, but the man is Sad.)

anyway while drunk he manages to wind up looking at porn and that rabbit-hole eventually leads him to cam's, uh, camshow. whoops! he's so worried his son's best friend is like having money troubles or something that he doesn't stop to think about what he's doing until he's watching. then, uh, well, this isn't doing anything but making him feel like a creep.

naturally deacon is at work the next day and naturally cam comes over for a visit. tobias decides making sure cam is safe is more important than hiding his shame.

“So, what, you’re gonna tell me to stop?” Cameron spits, and the words and venom with which they’re said makes Tobias look at him again, stunned. The way Cameron is positioned now, hugging his legs almost defensively with something deeply betrayed in his eyes, Tobias fears for the worst. ...then it clicks. This isn’t about the sexual nature of it, Tobias seeing him in such a state. It’s about control. It’s about how his parents would lose their minds and demand he cease immediately; how they’ve always dictated everything he can and can’t do. Maybe that’s what the sex work itself is about, too. Freedom. “...That’s not why I brought it up,” Tobias says softly, and Cameron seems to relax just a bit. “I’m just worried, Cam. I don’t like the idea of you being backed into a situation like this out of necessity.” He continues before Cameron can speak up again, clearly poised to do so; “But if that’s not what this is, then... it’s none of my business. If it’s what you want to be doing, then that’s your decision.”  Cameron watches him a moment longer, and then the tension starts to bleed out of him, replaced instead with what looks like guilt as he curls in on himself. “...God, Toby, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, looking away. “You’ve always supported me. I shouldn’t have gotten mad...” “It’s okay,” Tobias assures, pushing past his own conflicting feelings to reach out and gently set a hand on Cameron’s upper back. “I know how your parents are. I should have chosen my words more carefully.” He smiles when Cameron looks over at him again, adding, “Just be safe, okay?”

but tobias makes a mistake as cam opens up a little more about it; he indicates that he actually was in the stream, not that he just realized it was happening. and cam, who's been hot for toby for ages, seizes the opportunity. he's actually a crafty little bastard under the cute surface.

so, you know, mutual attraction (despite tobias's insistence that he's too old for cam) leads to sex. but tragically i moved on right when it was getting good 😔 i gotta go back to it.

[drberkes]

f*ck

Ok hi so I (12/2/22) am going to force myself to write now because the amount of anxiety is unacceptable and I have tentatively identified not enough writing as a possible source. So here we go: if you’re expecting a nice eggplant dish, please manage your expectations. I am going to do my best. I may just hand you a f*cken eggplant and tell you, “Best of luck, I’ve done all I can.”

Ok so how did I get here? I tried writing about it a bit for my Technology Awareness paper I wrote for Natalie, but that paper was just for fun and I’m not proud of it (there were swear words in it). Hmm…let me tell you about Anacortes, like I told one of my nurses when I was in the hospital for ten days back in May. My Aunt Barb and a friend she had liked for a long time decided to go on a road trip together. My Aunt was agreeable with everything her friend wanted - no audiobook, weird climate control requests, fancy bathroom requests, everything - even agreeing to go to Anacortes against her own judgment. She wanted to go to Port Townsend where they would have had no shortage of restaurants by the water to enjoy. They got to Anacortes and discovered that unless there is a festival, Anacortes is a sleepy little port town with not much going on. My Aunt spent her time there in the quilt shop, making the best of it, while her friend went off to get a tshirt. So they wound up in Anacortes with nothing to do and only a t-shirt to show for it. This journal entry, written in December (December!) is the same t-shirt from Anacortes. And the agreeableness I’ve described here is just the tip of the iceberg for her trip. Boy, let me f*cken tell you… …like I told everyone at the ketamine clinic. I was supposed to be tripping balls during my extremely expensive infusion and getting an abundance of insights from my subconscious but I spent the last half of it babbling to my doctor about everything that I haven’t written about yet - all the people I tried to help and how it almost killed me. I’m seeing four paragraphs now so I’ll take that as a sign that I am probably going to survive. BUT *********@#$%^, WTF. People people people are just people, people, people (Brown). And chronic stress prevents our writing/reading/learning brains from getting online. Less writing, more stress. It’s enough to make you crazy if you let it. Anyway, I have no idea where to begin inspiring you with the extremely horrific dumpster fire that is my mental health and how I got here. So I’ll start with you. If you’re reading this, you are probably a person. What does it mean to be a person? I wish I could bust out one of my papers and tell you what I think, but hellfire in the form of a dozen pieces of garbage masquerading as people rained down on my f*cken house. I’ve had windows broken, death threats, graffiti across the street (“f*ck you” written on the curb). All because when people get pushed in the wrong direction, they make bad decisions. They decide they want to go to Anacortes. For the record, I want to go to Port Townsend. But I’ve already been there. Thanks Aunt Barb! 🙂 What was Port Townsend supposed to look like for me? Let’s circle back to the beginning of the pandemic. Kameron was out. So I’ve just spent a couple years at a community college and got sent home like Isaac Newton. What am I gonna do? Study Calculus? Write 100 papers? No, I’m gonna try to help Kameron. And Clay and Cameron and his girlfriend Missy and Brynn and Robert all at the same time. This where we’ll lose some definition...there were so many encounters there where I tried using my AS to push as hard as I could in the right direction. The outcomes were mixed: Kameron went back to prison, Clay moved to NY with Jeff, Cameron and Missy had to move also, and I worry about Brynn. Robert is doing better and has a job now. Why did this f*cken happen? Because they needed more help than I could give them. Lesson learned: you have to identify if someone is doing well enough for you to help them otherwise they will just pull you down too. It is not their fault. I suppose you get to be a certain age and you’ll get weird looks if you still act like a child, but I digress. These folks are good people who wound up in bad situations because of forces beyond their control. That reminds me of what my Uber driver told me when I came back from Portland right before (AM)^2 started: “...they’ll eat you alive.” But if someone is heading down a path where they’re gonna end up in a bad position when they’re older and I can do something about it, how can I choose not to act? How can I sit there and protect myself when there is work to be done? Now we’re getting into Tara Brabazon.  Anyway, this all sort of came to a head when I lost my job, checked myself into the hospital, got out and promptly had a tiny, tiny relapse which actually improved my PHQ-9 score considerably. But ah, now Tara Brabazon is reading this I’ll just head off to watch some of her videos. I feel better already having written something. Yay. Why did I lose my job? Because if I try to show up I’ll get probably get arrested. Why did this happen? ...and reason 546 is because I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t take care of myself well enough. And I wasn’t careful enough. I built a gun that shoots live piranhas and aimed at my fucken self.

[duncandriver]

Lessons Learned From Ferris Bueller’s Day Off

III. How to experience spontaneous, self-directed learning

Frankly, I don’t believe that Ferris, Cameron and Sloane would have spent their ‘day off’ better in school. Consider everything they pack into it: they ascend to the top of Willis Tower and observe the ant-like movements of workers 1400 feet below; they stare at the frenzied floor of the stock exchange and learn the sign-language of its traders; they take in a baseball game at Wrigley Field at the exact moment they should be enduring a gym lesson. Far from blowing learning off, Ferris’s rich schedule of activities achieves anything you could want for an educational field trip. The point is well made in a scene filmed inside the Art Institute of Chicago in which Ferris, Cameron and Sloane hold hands with a group of much younger children who are there with their teacher – everything they do mirrors the curriculum being delivered to their campus-bound classmates, the difference being how much more engaged they are.

John Hughes offers a comparable opportunity to the film’s audience. During the same gallery sequence, lengthy shots of masterpieces by Edward Hopper, Amedeo Modigliani, Jackson Pollock and Pablo Picasso fill the screen to an instrumental version of the Smiths’ song ‘Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want’. There is no clear motive to this montage: it doesn’t advance the film’s plot or match the frenetic pace of its comic hijinks; the art is celebrated for its own sake. Perhaps Hughes is doing for Ferris Bueller’s Day Off what galleries do for cities the world over, providing a respite to the bustle and purpose of everything else. In narrative terms, the scene is a prime example of what Timothy Morton means when he says that a ‘middle’ (development) is characterized by a slow, meditative pace and a feeling of absorption. In educational terms, the scene supports a claim for the value of the unplanned (much of it was improvised) or the apparently irrelevant. It can be frustrating for English or Arts teachers to vindicate their content in ‘lessons planned for … audit and accountability’, sacrificing ‘the unfinalisable struggle for meaning’ at the mendacious altar of ‘the easily-measurable’. Art, music and literature are illustrative of the ways in which meaning can be a slippery, mercurial thing; when they appear in an educational context they can also force a distinction between usefulness and value, reminding us that many of the things we place the highest value on are, from a utilitarian perspective, useless: chocolate, wine, sunsets, love. Hughes’s Art Institute sequence invites us to consider the flaws of an education system so staid and inflexible that it requires a ‘day off’ for students to reckon with something powerful enough to influence their perception of themselves and the world around them.

It is just such a reckoning that occurs when Cameron stands alone before Georges Seurat’s pointillist work, A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. The painting depicts a group of well-to-do people promenading by the banks of the river Seine in the late 19th century, the men in top hats and the women in bustle-heavy dresses. Everyone in the painting seems together yet somehow alone, and a small girl dressed in white stares at the viewer from the centre of the canvas. Cameron fixates on this little girl – she is the only figure in the painting who makes a connection to the world outside its frame, and so the raw perceptive powers of childhood are contrasted against the dulling superficiality of adulthood. A teenager hovering between these two states of being, Cameron’s wrapped expression suggests that he is young enough to identify with the child but old enough to fear the looming demands of adult life. The film cross-cuts between increasingly close shots of his face and that of the girl, who on closer inspection appears to be wailing in distress. Eventually, Cameron’s eyes and the specks of paint on Seurat’s canvas appear in such extreme close-up that they cannot be resolved as themselves – they become abstract details of shape and colour.

It’s an ambiguous but quite moving sequence of film, especially when set inside of a breezy, feel-good comedy. If there’s a point, it may be that Cameron sees his own anxieties reflected in the girl’s anguished face and either he or the audience (or both) are made aware that overwhelming pain can obliterate identity. Hughes alludes to this in an audio commentary recorded for the film’s DVD release:

The closer he looks at the child, the less he sees with this style of painting. The more he looks at it there’s nothing there. He fears that the more you look at him there isn’t anything to see. There’s nothing there. That’s him.

Erik Erikson’s seminal research into identity formation considers that emerging adults experience a dynamic interplay between identity synthesis and identity confusion: while most of us use the process of ‘trying out’ possibilities to determine an internally consistent sense of self, some experience an arrested development in which a fragmented or piecemeal selfhood does not support decision making. On this basis, we might consider Ferris’s play-acting to be an example of normative behaviour leading to identify formation. Cameron, on the other hand, appears to be enduring an atypical crisis: believing himself to be dying from an incurable disease, immobile with anxiety at the wheel of his car, staring in horrified recognition at the deconstructed face of Suerat’s child, he could be said to exemplify what James Marcia calls ‘identity diffusion’: he does not enjoy exploring options in the way that Ferris does, nor does he make a commitment to any of the possibilities lain before him. When an incredulous Ferris asks him to acknowledge all that he’s seen and done on his ‘day off’, Cameron’s laconic response is, ‘Nothing good’.

Perhaps we should resist the temptation to psychoanalyse a fictional character as though he were possessed of a ‘real’ inner life. Cameron has more depth than Ed Rooney, but he’s not Hamlet. Ferris is the character you want to be, but Cameron is who you think you are (or fear you might be). Because you identify with him, there’s a temptation to project your psychology onto him. This might lead to the sobering realisation that you share some of his issues, but it’s worth remembering that Cameron is also a more perceptive individual than his famous friend. It is his depth and sensitivity that awe him when confronted by Seurat’s painting. The moment is almost epiphanic: what could be more absorbing than seeing yourself staring back at you from a hundred-year-old work of art? Ferris and Sloane enjoy their ‘day off’, but Cameron has a life-altering encounter, despite his claim of not having seen anything good. At the end of the film (and in a revealing act of growth) he resolves to confront his authoritarian father. Eleanor Harvey, senior curator at the Smithsonian American Art Museum, considers there to be a direct link between his experience of the painting and the way the arc of his character resolves: ‘That encounter with the painting … gives [Cameron] courage to understand that he can stand up for himself’. Not a bad lesson to have learned on your day off.

[onceuponastorybrookhq]

CONGRATULATIONS, Cameron! You have been accepted into the group as Wendy Darling. Please make sure to follow our checklist, and let us know if you have any questions!

OOC Info:

- It’s Cam again :)

IC Info:

Desired Character: Wendy Darling

Second Character: Ruby/Red

Writing Sample:

1. How do you feel about magic?

- I like to think that maybe it would be better in the right hands… I’ve only seen it once so I suppose I wouldn’t know much past that.

2. Is there something or someone that is keeping you from getting your happy ending?

- Yes. His name is Peter Pan and he has an ego problem like I’ve never seen before. If good wins one day I’ll be free. I know it. I know, Pan has to fail. Eventually. Right?

3. Does everyone deserve a second chance?

Once I would have said yes. Now? …Well, no. Not everyone does deserve a second chance. A lesson I wish I’d learned sooner.

- No additional info

[pokechosen]

the first few weeks after lillian becomes champion, there’s one constant refrain, echoing in her mind : thanks, noah.

thanks, cameron.  thanks, harry.  thanks, ethel.  lillian is very good at experiencing pain and letting none of it show.  lillian is good at putting on a pleasant, placid experience while people hurt her.  lillian is very, very, very good at turning off feeling and empathy.  and it is different, now — the press and the people in the league who now (   it feels   ) own her are not bullies who want to hurt her.  but lillian is surprised to find that the same part of her heart — the same part of her mind that internalized lessons she had to spend years learning — lights up when making a television appearance while adults badger her that lit up when ethel and harry cornered her.

just stay blank.  don’t show them it hurts.  don’t show them they hurt.  smile.

lillian wins, and her knees give out.  she collapses there, on the pitch, and for a moment no one is sure if it’s because of the injuries — bandages visible, she’s got a limp, everyone knows what happened just three days ago — or relief and awe.  leon hides his pain behind his hat and jogs to meet her — helps her up.  she smiles.  he raises her hand above her head.  a new legend begins.  and lillian is overwhelmed, and joyous, and afraid.

i don’t want to make it all about pain.  lillian loves being a pokémon trainer.  lillian LOVES battling in front of crowds, it makes her feel powerful and giddy.  she loves so much of what being champion is.  but she is also deeply traumatized.  but she is fifteen years old.  but she is afraid, and exhausted.

and she has all the skills to keep from showing when she afraid.

for the first three weeks after she wins, lillian does not feel anything.  

there’s no grand breakdown.  there’s just leon helping her stand, and her wide - eyed shock giving way to placid smiles and careful defenses.  the coping mechanisms she gained being bullied and ignored become very useful.  she spends three weeks being passed between this tv show and this event, some adult patting makeup onto her and telling her to smile, and lillian does, and it’s easy.  hop and her mum notice that she’s far away, but the rest of the world has nothing to compare against, and they can’t tell.  even when lillian isn’t sleeping.  even when lillian is falling apart — even if lillian doesn’t know it.  because how could she know it?  she’s turned her feelings off.

thanks, noah.

three weeks later, she has her first day where she has more than a few minutes to herself.  she moved into her apartment a week ago, though hasn’t unpacked.  and she unpacks a bit, and then goes to sleep early, and instead of sleeping she lays in bed and stares at her ceiling.  and it all hits her, all at once.  eternatus.  hop’s dream.  leon’s pain.  the expectations on her shoulders.  that she ended a legacy.  the weight of an ENTIRE COUNTRY depending on you.

she lays in bed and stares at the ceiling, and she trembles and her hands curl to fists, and she cries, and she doesn’t stop.

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Friday 4.. October 1833

7 ½

11 40

very fine morning F62° at 7 ½ am – at German – breakfast at 10 - note from lady Harriet asking for my letters Mr Brown still in town - sat down immediately (at 10 20) and in ¾ hour added a line or 2 what I wrote to V- last night (chitchat - affectionate enough) to ask her to get me any information about Norway - what best worth seeing - what carriage to take and wrote 1 page and 1 end dated this morning of envelope

SH:7/ML/E/16/0119

to lady Stuart - what I wrote on Monday good account of the de H-s the large handsome house - their very great kindness to me - the children much improved - both draw well etc and mention of my good passage from Lubeck and having gone round by Bremen and being 5 days (from rain and my bad cold) at Göttingen - how this prevented from going to the Hartz mountains - like Copenhagen - shall have plenty of society - learning German mean to stay the winter - should be delighted to see Lord Stuart here - shall envy him the sight of Heckla – mention of Mrs. Stuart Courtenay – sleeps with her maid for economy, and, does not pay her debts – mention Lord Kerry (M. of Lansdowns’ son, and Mr. Colville) having arrived from Stockholm yesterday at noon and embarked in the evening for Lubeck – Mr. Peter Browns’ difficulty about having them to dinner asked the Spanish to let them dine in his room, and to get his cook cook for them – no! but would receive them as his friends if presented – that would not do – would he then order the dinner at a restaurants’ – declined – so our poor chargé d’affaires obliged to contrive as he could – said I should write as oftener as Lady Harriet did – and as oftener as I could get my letters sent – at 11 sent off Thomas with my letter to ‘the honourable Lady Stuart’ enclosing my letter to ‘the Lady Vere Cameron’ undercover to Lady Harriet de H- with my thanks and adding if she was not here at 2 ½ I should go to her – finished dressing – read the Hamburg Reporter of the 1st instant – an American Troy-built coach runs from Mexico to Vera Cruz, in 5 days – 70 dollars each person – thus one can go across the passes of the Andes as across the Green mountains – the American fur companies steamers have gone 2,100 miles from the mouth of the Missouri, and in high water, steamers of light draught can ascend 2600 miles – the Mississippi is navigable between 600 and 700 miles above St. Louis - M. Christiani from 12 35 to 2 5 lesson 9 – then writing out my bit of translation from English into German and then what I had read aloud of Kotzebue into English till 3 20 – out at 3 40 to Lady Harriet – had been gone about 10 minutes  left little note to beg me to go this evening or write what I had to say about the carriage – did the latter saying I must write letters this evening – said my German took up my time terribly – said I had promised to dine with Comtesse B- at 3 tomorrow and spend the evening with them, but as Lady Harriet was a [later] person would call and ask if she was at home at 9 – asked for the carriage at 3 50 pm tomorrow – walked round the citadel – beautiful sea view and the fortification and fossés all round very pretty – the grass so green, the water so clean, everything so neat, the town looking so well only half hidden, and the country in sight so well wooded the woods still [?] all along great Kings’ street etc. etc. home at 5 ½ - dinner at 6 in 50 minutes then wrote the last 24 lines till 7 ¼ - my cousin came gently just after breakfast absent since twenty one August and for sometime before came every three weeks – from 7 ¼ to 10 ½ writing out some literal French translation (Voltaire’s letters) and from 8 ½ to 10 ½ at German – Lady H- de H- had called just after I went out – very fine day F62° now at 10 35 pm