paperbackpetals

[paperbackpetals]

The Price Of Freedom

Rafe Cameron x reader

Summary:

After escaping a toxic relationship with Rafe Cameron, she finds comfort in JJ and a taste of the freedom she thought she lost. But when Rafe discovers she’s back—and with someone else—old habits resurface. Torn between the boy who broke her and the one helping her heal, she makes the choice that feels familiar. Even if it costs her everything.

⚠️ Content Warnings:

✦ Toxic relationship

✦ Emotional/verbal abuse

✦ Substance use

✦ Trauma & manipulation

✦ Love triangle

✦ Themes of relapse & recovery

Rafe hadn’t always been the worst boyfriend in the world. Once—before the coke, before the booze, before the screaming matches in Barry’s backyard over absolutely nothing—he was kind. Attentive. He remembered your favorite flower. Played your favorite song in his truck like it was a ritual. Bought you candy just because you said you liked it once. He made you feel like you mattered. Like maybe someone could see you.

But that boy disappeared the moment he realized your love could never compete with his need for his father’s validation.

He started slipping after that. Started sniffing lines with shaky hands, started getting mean with his mouth. Started looking at you like you owed him something just for staying.

And you did stay.

Through the yelling, the jealousy, the bruised wrists and darker words. You stopped going out, because he didn’t like how other guys looked at you. You stopped texting friends back, because he didn’t like you having them. You even started showing up at Barry’s, standing stiff in the corner while he got high out of his mind, because he said being there made him feel better. That having you around kept him from doing worse.

That was a lie. But you believed it. Or maybe you just wanted to.

Sarah had tried. Told you a hundred times that her brother was bad news. That you didn’t deserve this. Eventually, even she gave up. Everyone did. You became a town secret—everyone knew how Rafe treated you, and no one said it to your face. They just whispered behind your back. And maybe that was worse.

You knew Rafe’s moods like the back of your hand.

Knew how to read the twitch in his jaw, the way his fingers danced against his thigh when he was itching for a hit. Tonight, he was wound up tight—like a fraying wire sparking at both ends—but he was trying. For you. Or maybe for the fantasy of you he still believed in.

You leaned against the railing of the rusted freighter, eyes on the inky sea below. The moonlight hit the waves just right—like silver flames licking at the edge of the world. Your hair stuck to your neck from the humidity, but the night was quiet. Still. Almost peaceful if you ignored the fact that someone was locked up just a few rooms away.

Behind you, heavy boots thudded along the deck. You didn’t have to turn. You could feel Rafe coming like a storm rolling in.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low, careful. His hands slid around your waist from behind, the brush of his fingers cold against your stomach.

You tilted your head just enough to see him. “Everything okay?”

“Just making sure everything’s where it should be.” He glanced back toward the shadows of the corridor leading to the engine room, where Sarah was held. “Still no sign of the Pogues. They’re not stupid enough to try anything tonight.”

You reached for his hand, interlacing your fingers, soft and slow. “You should go check again. Just in case.”

He hesitated. “You think?”

You nodded, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “I just don’t want anything to go wrong.”

That was all it took. His mouth twitched into something like a smile, and for a moment—just a second—he looked like the boy you used to know. The one who brought you flowers and curled up beside you in bed, whispering dreams he never believed in.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he said quietly.

You swallowed hard. The ache in your chest felt like guilt, but you weren’t sure who it was for. Him—or you.

You forced a smile, fingers tightening around his. “Well, luckily you don’t have to find out.”

He turned to go, hand lingering on your back as he walked away. You watched him disappear into the dark and waited. Counted ten slow, quiet seconds, then slipped through the door.

The room was darker than you remembered. The metal walls sweat with heat and rust, and the single flickering bulb overhead made everything look jaundiced. Sarah was slumped in the corner, arms wrapped around her knees, her blond hair tangled and dirty, but her eyes snapped up the second you stepped inside.

“You.”

You closed the door gently behind you.

“What the hell are you doing?” she hissed, scrambling to her feet, hands still zip-tied in front of her. “You’re doing this with him? Come on. Are you seriously—?”

“I’m getting you out,” you cut in, voice sharp.

She blinked, startled. “What?”

“I said, I’m getting you out.” You pulled the small knife from your waistband—one Rafe had forgotten he gave you when he thought you’d need protection—and knelt in front of her. “Hold still.”

She stared at you like you were a ghost. “Why? After everything—”

“Just shut up and let me do this.”

The plastic tie snapped after a few quick saws, and she hissed, shaking out her wrists.

You stood. “There’s a raft on the starboard side. You can lower it quietly. If you time it right, the engine noise will cover it.”

Sarah hesitated, rubbing her arms. “You’re coming too, right?”

You stared at her.

She stepped closer. “You can’t stay with him. You know that, right? He’s not—he’s not Rafe anymore.”

“I know who he is,” you said quietly.

“Then leave. Please.” Her voice broke. “Come with us. You don’t owe him anything. He treats you like you’re his toy. The Y/n I knew before Rafe would’ve never let any man treat her that way.”

“She doesn’t exist anymore,” you reply, reflecting on everything you’ll never be again.

“She can. If you leave with us. Leave him behind. He deserves the pain of losing you.”

You wanted to say no. You wanted to tell her that this was your problem, your mess. That love—real, ugly, terrifying love—didn’t just vanish because someone turned into a monster. But the words wouldn’t come. Because deep down, you didn’t believe them anymore.

You nodded once.

Sarah exhaled shakily and grabbed your hand. “Come on.”

You moved fast. Quick and quiet. The sound of heavy machinery masked your steps as you crept along the side of the boat. Sarah handled the raft like she’d done it a hundred times before, her hands working ropes and knots with fluid ease. You climbed down the side, boots slipping against the damp metal as the raft swayed below.

JJ and Kiara reached up first, steadying the raft. Pope was already inside, checking the oars. John B’s eyes widened when he saw you, and his mouth opened—probably to curse you out—but Sarah was faster.

“She helped me,” she snapped. “She’s coming with us.”

There wasn’t time for arguments.

You hit the bottom of the raft just as Sarah climbed in behind you, the wood rocking violently. JJ shoved off with the oar, and suddenly you were drifting away.

The freighter grew smaller. Quieter. Distant.

Until—

“Hey!”

Rafe’s voice cut through the night like a gunshot. You looked up and saw him at the rail, silhouetted by moonlight. His eyes scanned the deck, frantic.

“Babe?”

He called again. Sharper now. Panicked.

Your chest caved in.

“Babe? Where the fuck are you?!”

John B muttered a curse and rowed harder. The raft picked up speed. You kept your eyes on Rafe, even when Sarah tugged at your sleeve to look away. Even when he shouted your name so loud the birds fled from the mast.

“Babe!”

His voice cracked.

And you knew—you knew—that he would burn the entire ocean if it meant getting you back.

You curled your knees to your chest and buried your face in them.

You didn’t cry.

Not yet.

But the sound of his voice stayed with you long after it faded into the wind.

Your heart ached.

You had been trapped in the middle of nowhere, on an island JJ had ironically named Poguelandia—the flag proudly flapping in the breeze, painted with a chicken smoking a blunt. What a great mascot. Exactly the kind of dumb humor that made this group feel like a weird little family.

Except you weren’t really one of them.

Not yet.

You were still the girl who had dated Rafe Cameron. The girl who stayed with him even when he became the worst version of himself. The one who helped Sarah escape, but didn’t quite know how to save herself.

But JJ never looked at you like that. Not once.

He’d been oddly close to you since the escape. It started with the occasional glance when you thought he wasn’t paying attention, but it had turned into more. Moments where you’d catch him completely zoning out—his eyes somewhere far off but always… always in your direction.

Maybe he saw something in you he recognized. That broken, bruised thing trying to fight its way out.

He sat beside you on the beach now, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair a salty mess. The sun was starting to set, dyeing the sky in oranges and pinks, and your stomach growled for something other than roasted fish and coconuts.

JJ flopped dramatically into the sand, groaning like he’d just lost the will to live. “I’m so tired of eating fish,” he muttered. “I’m beginning to turn into a mermaid.”

“You’d be a merman,” you corrected with a soft laugh, stretching your legs out beside him.

He grunted and rolled onto his side, then lazily placed his head in your lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stiffened for just a second—but then your fingers found their way into his hair, combing through the golden strands gently, like second nature.

JJ let out a low hum of approval, eyes fluttering shut. “Nah, mermaids are cooler. Mermen just sound like insecure fish dudes who need a gym membership and a trident to feel something.”

You snorted. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this, huh?”

He smirked without opening his eyes. “I’ve had a lot of time to reflect. You know—between the fishing, the hunger, and the trauma bonding.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was soft. Heavy in a comfortable way, like being wrapped in a blanket that smelled like salt and sun and safety.

JJ opened his eyes again, this time quieter. More serious.

“I meant what I said, by the way.”

You glanced down at him. “About the fish?”

He shook his head faintly. “About you.”

His eyes stayed on yours. “You’re a badass. A warrior. Like Wonder Woman… just, you know, if she was from the Outer Banks.”

Your fingers stilled in his hair.

“I’m serious,” he said. “After everything with Rafe… You didn’t just survive him. You saved Sarah. You jumped.”

You looked away, throat tight. “It didn’t feel brave. It felt like I was abandoning him. Like I… like I betrayed him.”

JJ sat up a little, resting on his elbow to face you, the fading sun casting shadows across his face.

“He betrayed you first,” he said, voice firm but quiet. “Over and over again. You don’t owe someone your life just because they were good to you once.”

You swallowed hard, blinking fast. His words cracked something open in your chest that you hadn’t realized was still sealed shut.

“You think he’ll come for me?” you asked, even though you already knew the answer.

JJ’s jaw flexed. “Yeah. I do.”

You felt your stomach twist, the familiar weight of fear trying to worm its way back in.

“But we won’t let him get to you,” JJ added. “I won’t.”

Your eyes locked with his.

There was something in the way he said it—not a throwaway promise, but a vow. No sarcasm, no filter. Just him.

You gave a small smile, the first real one in days. “Thanks, fish boy.”

JJ grinned. “Anytime, Wonder Woman.”

And for the first time since you leapt off that boat into dark water and certain chaos… you didn’t feel like you were running.

You felt like maybe—just maybe—you were finally free.

But freedom came with a price, apparently.

Freedom was supposed to feel like lightness. Like breathing without a weight on your chest or looking over your shoulder every second. But ever since you returned to the Banks, it felt like your lungs had never fully reinflated. Like you’d only survived, not escaped.

You were back home—technically. Your mother and younger sister had cried when they saw you on the porch, their arms wrapping around you so tight it almost hurt. They didn’t ask questions. Not about what happened, or who did what, or what he did to you. They were just glad you were back. Alive.

But you weren’t really there. Not fully.

You were quiet at dinner. Distant when your sister tried to braid your hair like she used to. And at night, you stared at the ceiling until the shadows crawled off the walls and wrapped around your chest like chains.

The only thing that felt even remotely familiar—like you—was JJ.

Since Poguelandia, since that stupid chicken flag and the smell of sea salt and smoke, he had become a constant. Not perfect, but honest. Kind, in his reckless way. With JJ, you didn’t have to be the broken girl who escaped Rafe. You could just exist. Just be.

You weren’t dating, not really. But it looked like it. Felt like it, sometimes. He kissed you—sweetly, slowly—like he didn’t want to scare you off. Always short, like a question. A promise that he’d never take more than what you offered.

And yet your heart stayed locked up tight. Not because JJ didn’t deserve it.

But because it had been shattered before, and you didn’t trust it not to betray you again.

“Aren’t you tired of Sour Patch Kids in our popcorn?” you asked, eyeing the candy wall inside the corner store. JJ stood beside you, sunglasses pushed up on his head, hoodie slung halfway off his shoulder like it always was.

“That’s tradition,” he scoffed, grabbing the red bag anyway. “We’re not about to break Pogue customs now.”

“Chocolate sounds better.”

“That sounds disgusting,” he shot back with mock betrayal.

“Says the man who drinks beer after brushing his teeth.”

He made a face. “That happened once.”

“Twice.”

JJ leaned in, grinning. “I don’t see you complaining when I bring it on beach nights.”

You smirked, nudging him with your elbow. “That’s different.”

You were so wrapped in the rhythm of him, in the comfort of laughter that felt real again, that you didn’t hear the footsteps behind you.

But you felt it.

The silence. The shift in the air. The way JJ went rigid beside you, shoulders stiff, hand half-curled into a fist before he even turned around.

You turned too.

And there he was.

Rafe.

Hair shorter than you remembered. Face sunburned at the edges. The sleeves of his shirt rolled up like always, showing off arms that used to wrap around you like a shield—and later, a prison.

His eyes landed on yours like he’d been searching for you in every store and alley and street in the Banks. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You’re back,” he breathed, stepping forward.

JJ instinctively moved closer to you.

“Don’t,” you whispered under your breath. But you didn’t know who you were saying it to—JJ or yourself.

Rafe’s gaze flicked to JJ, then down at your linked arms, and the soft red imprint on your neck from earlier where JJ had kissed you just before coming inside.

His jaw clenched.

“You’ve been fucking him?” Rafe’s voice cracked, tears gathering in his eyes. “After everything? Him?”

You froze.

JJ immediately stepped between you. “Back the fuck up, man.”

“You don’t get to touch her,” Rafe snapped, shoving JJ’s shoulder. “You don’t know her—”

“I know she’s safer without you.”

Rafe laughed—a short, bitter sound. “She loved me.”

JJ’s fists clenched. “She survived you.”

“Stop it,” you said, voice barely a whisper.

They didn’t hear you.

Rafe looked at you again, the way he used to when he was clean. When he was yours. “I don’t care what happened. I don’t care how mad you were. Just come with me. We can talk. Fix this.”

You said nothing.

He stepped closer. “Come with me.”

“She’s not going with you,” JJ growled.

“You don’t get to make that decision,” Rafe spat.

JJ shoved him this time, hard enough that Rafe staggered back a step. His face twisted, and it looked like a fight was about to break loose right there in the aisle, among the M&Ms and Red Vines.

And you—

You did nothing.

You stood still.

Because part of you was screaming go with JJ, but the other part—the damaged, scared part that still remembered soft nights in Rafe’s truck, his lips on your neck, the boy he used to be—was whispering: what if he means it this time?

What if this was your fault? What if you broke him, too?

So when Rafe said it again—“Come with me”—you nodded.

And JJ’s face broke right in front of you.

“No,” he said, voice cracking. “No. Don’t do this.”

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t.

Rafe reached out, and this time, you let him take your hand.

You left the store with him.

And JJ didn’t follow. No matter how bad he wanted to. You had abandoned him, just like his father, and he refused to beg for you back.

Back in Rafe’s truck, the world passed by in a blur. Your heart beat out of rhythm, your fingers numb against the cold windowpane.

He talked. About starting over. About rehab. About his dad. About how much he missed you.

You didn’t respond.

You just stared out the window, one thought circling like a shark beneath your skin:

Freedom had a price.

And maybe—just maybe—you weren’t done paying it.

[paperbackpetals]

When The Hero Breaks

Rafe Cameron x reader

Hero Rafe Cameron x Villain!Reader AU

Summary:

You’re chained in his penthouse. Not in some cell, but somewhere private. Familiar. You once kissed him on that couch. Once slept in his shirt.

Now you’re cuffed to the chair. And he’s pacing like he doesn’t know if he wants to kill you or kiss you.

⸻

You smirk as he stalks past you again.

“Still pacing like a caged animal, Rafe,” you say, voice syrup-sweet. “That therapy not working out?”

He stops cold. Back still to you. You hear him breathe in through his nose like he’s trying to rein himself in.

“Shut up,” he says quietly.

You lean back in the chair, cuffed hands draped across your lap, ankles crossed like you’re sitting poolside instead of in captivity.

“Not very hero of you.”

He spins. Sharp. Furious. And—god—you love it. Eyes blue and storming. Jaw clenched so tight you swear you hear it pop.

“You think this is funny?” he snaps.

“No,” you purr. “I think you’re funny. Trying to act like you’re above it all now. Like the past didn’t happen.”

“You burned a hospital.”

“They were experimenting on kids.”

“You blew it up.”

“I freed them.”

Silence drops like a stone.

Rafe’s eyes flicker. And for a second, that righteous fire dims—just enough for something softer, older, to break through.

“You used to come to me first,” he says, voice low. “Before you did shit like that.”

“I used to love you,” you reply, quieter. “Before you left me behind.”

He turns away, jaw twitching. Runs a hand through his hair.

You stare at his back, at the tension in his shoulders. At the scar that runs down his arm. You remember how he got it—how you wrapped it. How you kissed it after.

“You remember what it was like?” you murmur. “Living in that house? Pretending everything was normal? Eating dinner with a man who’d beat the life out of us if we looked at him wrong?”

Rafe doesn’t move. But you see the fists curl at his sides.

“Don’t,” he says.

“He ruined us. You know that. He made us into what we are.”

“We’re not the same.”

You laugh. Bitter and soft.

“We are exactly the same. Same house. Same screams. Same blood on the walls.”

He turns then. His eyes are glassy. You almost don’t recognize him.

“But I crawled out of that,” he says. “I made something of myself.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah? That what they call it now? Hiding behind a badge? Pretending you don’t still have nightmares? You think helping people makes up for what we survived?”

“At least I’m not out here hurting them.”

You pause.

Your smile fades, just a little.

“You think I do this for fun?” you whisper. “You think I like being the villain?”

He doesn’t answer.

You laugh again. This time sad. “You don’t know what they did to me after you left. You got your golden boy ticket out, Rafe. I got handed back to him.”

Silence.

“And you know what?” you say. “When I put that first man in the ground, I didn’t feel guilty. I felt safe. For the first time in my goddamn life.”

You’re breathing hard now. So is he.

And then suddenly, he’s moving.

He strides toward you, yanks the chain on your cuffs, and yanks you to your feet.

“You don’t get to do this,” he growls, chest against yours. “You don’t get to make me feel sorry for you.”

“Why not?” you hiss back. “Because you’d have to admit you left me to rot?”

“I saved you—”

“You abandoned me.”

His hand fists in the front of your shirt. You don’t move. Don’t flinch.

He’s breathing heavy, like he’s about to snap.

And maybe he does.

Because in the next second, he crushes his mouth to yours.

Not a kiss—a war. Teeth. Tongues. Rage and grief and desperation.

You moan into his mouth, cuffed hands curling into his chest, and he drags you against him like he’s trying to climb inside your skin.

His mouth moves to your neck—biting, wet, unhinged. You gasp, and he growls when he hears it. Like the sound broke something in him.

“Still taste the same,” he mutters.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “And you still kiss like you want to own me.”

His hands drop to your waist. Squeeze hard. “Don’t test me.”

“Then take these cuffs off,” you whisper. “Or are you afraid of what I’ll do?”

The cuffs click.

You feel it like thunder under your skin—the shift. One second you’re shackled, the next your wrists are free, aching with blood rushing back into them.

You don’t waste time.

Your hands shoot to his face, grabbing him, pulling him in with a desperation you didn’t know you had left. Your lips crash into his—teeth and tongue and fury. It’s not a kiss; it’s a brawl in the shape of one. Years of silence and abandonment, violence and heat, all poured into this one impossible moment.

His mouth is warm and rough, biting at your lower lip, his breath ragged. You moan when he grabs the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the kiss like he’s trying to climb into your chest and never leave.

He breaks away first, forehead pressed to yours, panting.

“You’re fucking poison,” he growls.

“So drink me,” you whisper, lips brushing his again. “You already have.”

That’s all it takes.

He grabs you by the thighs and lifts you like you weigh nothing. You lock your legs around his waist, your back slammed against the nearest wall with a heavy, vibrating thud. You claw at his shirt, tearing it open—buttons scatter across the floor like shrapnel.

Your hands are on his chest—warm, scarred, trembling—and his are everywhere. Palming your ass, dragging you higher, fingers digging into your hips like he wants to bruise you.

He kisses you again—this time slower, deeper. Tongue sliding against yours with the kind of rhythm that sends shockwaves to your spine. He groans when you bite his lip, and you gasp when he grinds against you through your pants—his cock thick and hard, pressed right where you need it most.

“Missed that mouth,” he rasps. “Even when I hated you.”

You laugh into his neck, breath hot. “You never hated me.”

He grinds into you again, slower this time. Deliberate. He’s teasing you now. Dragging it out like he wants you begging.

You lean close and bite the shell of his ear. “You gonna fuck me, Rafe, or you gonna keep pretending we don’t want this?”

That’s what breaks him.

He drops you to your feet, turns you around, and shoves everything off the nearest table with one sweep of his arm. Papers, weapons, glass—gone.

Then he pushes you forward, bends you over the edge, and tears your pants down with both hands. Your panties follow—ripped at the seam, carelessly discarded.

You feel the air hit you and hiss.

“Still so fucking wet for me,” he mutters behind you, hands spreading your thighs, exposing you. His fingers slide between your folds and find you soaked, swollen, throbbing.

You choke on a moan. “Don’t tease.”

He leans over your back, lips dragging along your spine. “Say please.”

“Fuck you.”

He shoves two fingers into you hard. You gasp—back arching, legs shaking—and he curls them just right. You moan again, louder, and feel your stomach coil.

“You’re so tight,” he mutters, fucking you slow and deep with his fingers, palm grinding against your clit. “Still open for me though. Like your body remembers.”

You grip the edge of the table so hard your knuckles ache. “Rafe—”

“Tell me what you want.”

“You.”

That’s all it takes.

He steps back, unbuckles his belt—fast, clumsy, desperate—and the sound alone makes your thighs clench. His pants drop. You glance back just as he strokes himself once—long, thick, flushed red at the tip.

Then he grabs your hips and slides in.

You both groan—long, raw, guttural.

He’s so deep you feel him in your ribs. Stretching you, splitting you, filling you to the brim. And he doesn’t give you time to adjust—he just starts moving.

Hard. Brutal. Punishing.

The table rocks under you. His grip bruises your hips. Your moans turn into broken sobs, each thrust knocking breath from your lungs.

And he’s not quiet.

“Fuck,” he grits, every other word a growl. “You feel so fucking good. Goddamn. You were made for this. For me.”

He slaps your ass once—hard—and you jolt forward with a cry. You feel the sting bloom, and it only makes you wetter. He groans when he feels it.

“Say it,” he pants. “Say you missed me.”

You shake your head, gasping. “No.”

He pulls out halfway, slams back in. You yelp.

“Say it.”

“Fuck—yes—I missed you, I missed your cock, I missed—Rafe, fuck—”

His hand slides around to your throat, gently, just enough to make your voice catch. Not choking—holding. Claiming. He leans over you, breath hot against your ear.

“I never stopped dreaming about you,” he says. “Even when I wanted to kill you. Especially then.”

You whimper.

His rhythm slows—deep, controlled thrusts now, grinding up into you just right—and your legs are shaking, your body on fire. You’re close. Too close.

“I’m—Rafe—I’m—”

He kisses your shoulder, then your neck. His hand finds your clit again, rubbing fast tight circles, and your orgasm hits like a freight train.

You cry out—loud, uncontrolled—as your walls clamp down around him. He groans, fucking you through it, chasing his own release.

Seconds later, he spills inside you with a low, guttural moan. His hips stutter. His hands tremble.

And then he collapses over you, chest heaving, breath ragged.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your panting and the distant wail of approaching sirens.

He pulls out slowly, gently, letting your body come down from it all. You turn, still braced against the table, barely able to stand.

You look at each other.

You sit up. Reach for your shirt. Look at him.

“What now, hero?”

He stands. Breathless. Shirtless. Eyes wild.

Then he opens the side door to the fire escape.

“I never saw you,” he says.

You smirk. “Sure you didn’t.”

And then you’re gone.

He stands there, your cuffs still warm on the floor, his chest aching, and the sirens getting closer.

[paperbackpetals]

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𝟏𝟏. 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞: Barefoot and The Blues (Sammie x reader)

𝟏𝟐. 𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐮𝐟𝐮𝟏: Lil’ Ol Doves (Sammie x reader)

𝟏𝟑. 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭: Not an angel (Smoke x reader)

𝟏𝟒. 𝐏𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐱𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬: Summer Romance (Smoke & Stack x reader)

𝟏𝟓. 𝐙𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬: Coffee (Modern!au Stack x reader)

𝟏𝟔. 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐞: No Love (Modern!gang!au Stack x Reader)

𝟏𝟕. 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐞: Told you I Like Gentle Giants (Modern!gang!ai Smoke x reader)

𝟏𝟖. 𝐏𝐲𝐫𝐚𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧: “Jolene, I’m a women too” (Stack x reader)

𝟏𝟗. 𝐒𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐫: I’m Grown (Sammie x reader)

𝟐𝟎. 𝐁𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐰𝐫𝐥𝐝: Creepin’ In ( Sammie x vamp!reader)

𝟐𝟏. 𝐒𝐚𝐮𝐝𝐚𝐝𝟑: Childhood friend! Sammie x reader

𝟐𝟐. 𝐃𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧: Voice of an Angel (Stack x reader)

𝟐𝟑. 𝐓𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐬 -𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐟𝐟 :Candy Licker (Sammie x reader)

𝟐𝟒. 𝐈𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲: Vampire hunter! Reader x Vamp! Stack

𝟐𝟓. 𝐒𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬: Inked all Over (Stack x reader)

𝟐𝟔. 𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐲𝐚𝐩𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐬: Les Retrouvailles (Stack x reader)

𝟐𝟕. 𝐖𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐥𝐞-𝐢𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐞: “Don’t run from me now” (Stack x reader)

𝟐𝟖. 𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞𝐣𝐚𝐱: Jumpin’ (Stack & Smoke x reader)

𝟐𝟗. 𝐖𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐥𝐞-𝐢𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐞: “You doin’ me so well pretty.” (Sammie x reader)

𝟑𝟎. 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢: Seven ( Smoke x reader)

𝟑𝟏. -𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐛𝐡: The Wayward kind still Love deep (Smoke x reader)

𝟑𝟐. 𝐋𝐮𝐧𝐚-𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫: Flicker and Fade (Smoke x reader)

𝟑𝟑. 𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐠𝐫𝐥𝐜𝐞𝐜𝐞: Fever Prologue ( Stack x reader)

𝟑𝟒. 𝐔𝐳𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢 𝐑𝐞𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧: Choose One (Smoke & Stack x reader)

𝟑𝟓. 𝐖𝐢𝐝𝐞-𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝-𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐮𝐥: Sinners (Sammie x reader)

𝟑𝟔. 𝐋𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫: Behind the Joint (Sammie x reader)

𝟑𝟕. 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞: Where you been, Baby? (Stack x reader)

𝟑𝟖. 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞: Where did you sleep last night? (Smoke x reader)

𝟑𝟗. 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐥𝐮𝐯𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥: Tease your Man (Smoke x reader)

𝟒𝟎. 𝐊𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐲𝐤𝐢𝐚: Savoring You (Stack & Mary x reader)

𝟒𝟏. 𝐆𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐳𝐳: More Than That (Sammie x reader)

𝟒𝟐. 𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐮𝟏: All Mine (Sammie x reader)

𝟒𝟑.𝐑𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: Two Step Trap ( Smoke & Stack x reader)

𝟒𝟒.𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐞𝐦𝐲𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲𝐲: No Guidance (Stack x reader)

𝟒𝟓.𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐞: Preach It, Baby (Sammie x reader)

𝟒𝟔.𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐛𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐝𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤: Of Traits and Closets (Stack & Smoke x reader)

𝟒𝟕.𝐆𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐳𝐳: “Whole New World” (Smoke x reader)

𝟒𝟖.𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐥𝟕: His Woman (Stack x reader)

𝟒𝟗.𝐒𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬: Comfort Zone (Modern!au Smoke x reader)

𝟓𝟎 .𝐆𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐳𝐳: Baritone (Sammie x reader)

𝟓𝟏.𝐆𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐳𝐳: “Home” (Sammie x reader)

𝟓𝟐. 𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐬𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐚𝟑𝟎𝟎𝟎: Devour You (Sammie x reader)

𝟓𝟑.𝐒𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐞: Wings and Two-Steppin’ (Stack x reader)

𝟓𝟒 .𝐒𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬: Three’s Trouble (Stack & Mary x reader)

𝟓𝟓.𝐑𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐯𝐲: Lead Astray (Stack x Reader)

𝟓𝟔.𝐀𝐯𝐢𝐚𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬: Anastasia Antoinette (Smoke & Stack x reader)

𝟓𝟕 .𝐒𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬: Just a lil’ something, Smoke (Smoke x reader)

𝟓𝟖.𝐀𝐯𝐢𝐚𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬: Love bites (Stack x reader)

𝟓𝟗. 𝐀𝐯𝐢𝐚𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬: Wait for me (Smoke x reader)

𝟔𝟎.𝐅𝐜𝐤𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤: I Never Told You ( Stack x reader)

𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐘𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐆!!🩷🩷

[paperbackpetals]

Killer Crush

Billie Loomis x reader

Summary:

She has a boyfriend. Billy Loomis has a knife—and a dangerous obsession.

He wants her sweet. He wants her sinful.

And he always gets what he wants.

Warning:

Dark themes, horror elements, smut, manipulation, toxic romance, canon-typical violence, cheating, obsessive behavior, death.

🔪 This isn’t your usual love story.

——

The sun was high and almost too bright, casting long shadows across the concrete as students gathered around the stone fountain on campus like vultures circling fresh gossip. There was no escaping it—Casey Becker and Steve Orth were dead, and no one could shut up about it.

Y/N sat on the fountain ledge, biting into an apple without looking away from Sidney Prescott. Her friend looked pale, distant, like she’d watched the whole thing happen with her own eyes. Her boyfriend, Malik, stood behind her with his arm slung across her shoulders, his fingers twitching against her collarbone every time someone brought up the murders.

From the overhead speaker, Principal Himbry’s voice crackled across the courtyard:

“Remember, your Principal loves you, and I want you to be safe. All students are encouraged to return home promptly from school grounds. Avoid strangers, walk in twos and threes.”

Stu Macher made a dramatic “ooooh” sound, his arms spread like he was about to reenact a horror movie.

Tatum snorted. “What kind of questions did they ask you, Sid?”

Sidney pushed her food around on her tray, eyes down. “They asked me if I knew Casey.”

Tatum nodded. “They asked me too.”

“Hey,” Stu chimed in, chewing with his mouth open. “Did they ask if you liked to hunt?”

Billy Loomis, sitting beside Sidney with his arm lazily draped over her chair, looked up. “Yeah, they did. Did they ask you?”

Tatum frowned. “Why would they ask if you liked to hunt?”

Randy leaned forward, eyes lit up like he was on a crime podcast. “’Cause their bodies were gutted.”

“Thank you, Randy,” Billy muttered, looking annoyed.

Y/N wrinkled her nose. “Jesus, subtle much?”

Malik’s jaw tensed beside her.

“They didn’t ask me if I liked to hunt,” Tatum said, frowning like she was missing out on the fun.

Stu shrugged, eyes dancing with the same twisted glee Randy had. “’Cause there’s no way a girl could’ve killed them.”

Y/N raised a brow slowly, then turned to look at him full-on. “You wanna say that again? Maybe this time with your whole chest, caveman?”

“That is so sexist,” Tatum snapped. “The killer could easily be a female. Basic Instinct.”

Randy laughed. “That was an ice pick. Not exactly the same thing.”

Stu waved a hand. “Yeah, but Casey and Steve? Completely hollowed out. It takes a man to do something like that.”

“Or a man’s mentality,” Y/N said, voice cool as the ice melting in her cup.

“Seriously,” Malik cut in, frowning. “What kind of dude brags about knowing how to gut people? Y’all need help.”

Sidney’s voice cut through quietly. “How do you… gut someone?”

Everyone turned.

Stu grinned, teeth flashing. “You take a knife, and you slit ‘em from groin to sternum.”

Sidney’s face twisted in horror, and even Y/N flinched. She shot Stu a disgusted glare. “You’re sick.”

“Hey,” Billy snapped at Stu. “It’s called tact, you fuckrag.”

Y/N blinked, startled by the sharpness in Billy’s voice. That was… sudden.

Sidney cleared her throat. “Hey, Stu, didn’t you used to date Casey?”

Stu blinked. “Yeah, for like two seconds.”

“Before she dumped him for Steve,” Randy added smugly.

“I thought you dumped her for me,” Tatum said, raising a brow.

“I did!” Stu said quickly. “He’s full of shit.”

Randy shrugged. “Are the police aware you dated the victim?”

Stu’s grin faltered. “What’re you trying to say? That I killed her?”

“It would sure improve your high school Q,” Randy quipped.

“For the record,” Tatum said, cutting across him. “Stu was with me last night.”

“Yeah, I was,” Stu agreed, nodding.

Randy gave a little mocking bow. “Was that before or after he sliced and diced?”

“Fuck you, nutcase!” Tatum snapped. “Where were you last night?”

“Working, thank you.”

“Oh, at the video store?” she sneered. “I thought they fired your sorry ass.”

“Twice,” Randy muttered.

“I didn’t kill anybody,” Stu said, but now his usual cocky grin was starting to fade.

“Nobody said you did,” Billy muttered beside him.

“Thanks, buddy.”

Y/N watched the whole exchange unfold with narrowed eyes. Something about Billy’s tone set her on edge. It wasn’t what he said—it was how he said it. Like he was trying to calm the situation but not too much. Like he wanted the spotlight to stay just where it was.

Randy leaned forward across Tatum, grabbing at her fries. “Did you really put her liver in the mailbox? ‘Cause I heard they found her liver in the mailbox next to her spleen and pancreas.”

Tatum slapped his hand away. “Randy, you goon—I’m trying to eat here.”

Stu leaned in, eyes gleaming. “She’s getting mad, alright? You better liver alone.”

Malik groaned audibly. “That’s not even funny, bro.”

Y/N gave a reluctant snort, pushing Randy back with one finger. “You’re gonna make me spit out my fries.”

Sidney stood abruptly, tray forgotten. “I’ll see you guys later.”

Billy reached for her, but she was already walking off. He turned and smacked Stu upside the head.

“Liv—Ow!” Stu yelped, rubbing his head. “Liver. Liver. It was a joke!”

Y/N shook her head, leaning into Malik. “Jesus. This school is deranged.”

Malik kissed her temple but kept his glare locked on Billy.

Billy wasn’t looking at Malik, though. He was watching Y/N.

And he didn’t look away.

—

The late bell rang.

Y/N didn’t move.

She stood by her locker, hand resting on the cold metal like she’d forgotten what she came for. Across the hallway, a girl sobbed into her friend’s shoulder about Casey’s death, mascara streaking down both their cheeks. The air in Woodsboro High felt heavy—too many whispers, too many eyes.

She was reaching for a notebook when she felt it—that presence. Close. Too close.

“Third time’s the charm,” a low voice murmured behind her.

She didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

Billy Loomis leaned against the lockers beside her, the slouch in his shoulders so casual it might’ve looked lazy if it weren’t for the way his eyes clung to her like they knew things. He was chewing gum, slow and deliberate, his tongue running across his bottom lip when she finally met his gaze.

“Jesus, Billy,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Don’t you have a girlfriend to go smother?”

He grinned, teeth white and wolfish. “Sid’s in the bathroom. Crying, probably.”

Y/N raised a brow. “Touching.”

“Yeah, I’m a real gentleman,” he said, voice dripping sarcasm.

She shut her locker with a loud clang, hoisting her notebook to her chest. “You must think I’m stupid.”

Billy tilted his head. “Why would I think that?”

“Because you keep sniffing around like I’m some kind of side dish when you’re already full.”

He chuckled under his breath. “I like dessert.”

She turned to walk away, but he caught her wrist—not tight, just enough to make her freeze.

“Let go,” she said, quiet.

“I saw you lookin’ at me at the fountain.”

“I was looking at the walking red flag running his mouth about gutting people. Big difference.”

Billy leaned closer, his voice suddenly lower. “C’mon, Y/N. You don’t have to pretend. You’re always watching me like you want to see what I’ll do next.”

“Yeah, so I know where to run when the murder charges stick.”

“You’re cute when you lie.”

She yanked her arm free, heat crawling up her neck. “You know, for someone with a girlfriend and a murder investigation on his back, you sure have a lotta time to harass me.”

He smirked. “If it makes you feel better, I think about you way more than I should.”

Y/N’s heart stuttered, but her face didn’t flinch. “You’re disgusting.”

“I could be fun.”

“I have a boyfriend.”

His eyes flicked over her shoulder like he was scanning the hallway. “Malik? He’s not here right now, is he?”

“You’re bold.”

“I’m honest.”

“You’re dangerous,” she snapped.

He smiled, a slow and sinful curve of the mouth. “Even better.”

She opened her mouth to fire back—but for a second, just one, she saw something underneath the charm. A crack. A gleam in his eye that wasn’t flirty at all.

It was hungry.

She stepped back.

Billy didn’t follow. Just watched.

“I’m not yours,” she said finally.

“Not yet.”

And with that, he walked off—like he hadn’t just dropped a live grenade at her feet.

The phone rang once. Twice.

She almost didn’t answer.

“Hello?”

His voice slid through the speaker like silk and barbed wire. “You leave this at the store, or were you trying to give me a reason to see you again?”

Y/N blinked. “Billy?”

“Bingo,” he said.

“…What store?”

“Gas mart, by the school. You dropped your lip gloss—kinda hard to miss. That cherry stuff you wear?”

She froze. She had stopped there on the way home. She’d used it at the counter. Hadn’t even noticed it was gone.

“You stalkin’ me now?” she asked, half a joke, half a challenge.

He chuckled. “Nah. Just fate.”

Y/N sighed, leaning against her kitchen counter. “So what—you want me to meet you somewhere and pick it up?”

“Nah,” he said smoothly. “Thought I’d drop it off. Be a gentleman.”

She hesitated. “Billy…”

“Ten minutes,” he said, then hung up.

⸻

She told herself not to open the door.

But ten minutes later, there he was—leaning against her front porch railing like he belonged there, bag in one hand, mischief in the other.

“I should slam this door in your face,” she said as she cracked it open.

“But you won’t,” he replied, smiling like he’d already won.

She stared.

Then she sighed, stepped aside, and let him in.

He handed her the bag without breaking eye contact. “See? Perfectly harmless delivery.”

“Right,” she muttered, tossing the bag on the table.

He didn’t leave.

She turned. “Well, thanks. You can—”

“Nice place,” he said, eyes roaming the living room like he was memorizing it. “You live here alone?”

“No, Billy. With my FBI-agent father and six pitbulls.”

He smirked. “I can be a dog person.”

“You already drool like one.”

“Ouch,” he grinned. “But I like it when you bite.”

She rolled her eyes. “You want water or something before you go?”

He cocked his head. “Actually… yeah.”

⸻

She moved into the kitchen, and Billy followed. His footsteps were quiet, deliberate. When she bent to get a glass from the bottom shelf, she felt his presence behind her. Close. Radiating heat.

She straightened—only to find him less than a foot away.

“Billy,” she warned.

“What?”

“You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it,” he murmured. “You’re addictive.”

He reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Slow. Gentle. Fingers brushing her cheek like he wanted to memorize the shape of it.

Her breath hitched.

“Billy…” she said again—but softer.

He leaned in, hand grazing her hip now, voice low. “You keep looking at me like you don’t want this, but your body says otherwise.”

“You’re with Sidney.”

“You’re with Malik.”

Their faces were too close.

His hand slid from her hip to her lower back, pulling her in flush. Her heart raced.

She didn’t stop him.

When his lips brushed hers, she let him.

When his mouth fully claimed hers—hot, possessive, greedy—she gasped and kissed him back. Her arms looped around his neck, his tongue flicked against hers, his hands exploring the curve of her waist, the dip of her back, pressing her against the counter until her knees buckled.

His mouth trailed down her jaw, to her neck. “Say stop,” he whispered against her throat. “Say it, and I will.”

She didn’t.

He bit softly—her pulse thundered.

Then his hands slipped beneath her shirt, fingers skating over her bare skin, her stomach twitching under his touch. She moaned.

That snapped her back.

She pushed him. “Billy—wait.”

He paused, breathing heavy, lips red, pupils blown.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “Not like this. Not when you’re—when I’m—”

He stared at her, the hunger still thick in his gaze… then slowly nodded.

“You’re right,” he said. “Wrong time.”

She fixed her shirt, heart pounding.

He stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender. “But you felt that. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

She didn’t answer.

He grinned. “See you at school, sweetheart.”

And just like that, he was gone—leaving her breathless, trembling, and horribly aware that she’d almost cheated on Malik with a killer smile and too many secrets.

—

The night had folded into itself by the time Y/N slipped out of her car, heart still racing. Billy had given her the wrong time. Or maybe it was the usual chaos of trying to balance school, Malik, and Billy’s unpredictable invitations. Either way, she was late.

Her costume—black silk corset with dark lace accents, thigh-high stockings, and just enough leather to hint danger—felt like armor and temptation all at once. The cool night air kissed her bare shoulders as she pushed open the front door to the party house.

Music throbbed through the walls, but something was wrong.

Inside, the scene was twisted.

Randy lay sprawled lifeless at the bottom of the stairs, his neck at an unnatural angle, blood pooling beneath him like spilled wine.

A shiver zipped down her spine.

She wasn’t alone in the living room.

Sidney stood frozen, pale and wide-eyed. Stu and Billy crouched nearby, faces smeared with blood and sweat. Their gazes flicked toward her, sharp and dangerous.

Before she could take a step back, a glint of cold steel appeared—the barrel of a gun trained on her chest.

“If you move,” Billy’s voice cut through the music, “you die.”

Her breath caught. Every instinct screamed to run, but the gun held her hostage in place.

Billy’s eyes were a storm—possessive, dark, promising destruction.

“Come back inside,” he commanded.

With trembling legs, she obeyed.

Billy closed the door behind her and, without a word, pushed her hard into an empty room. The door slammed.

She spun, facing him—wild-eyed, chest heaving.

“If you walk out that door,” Billy whispered, stepping closer, “I will kill you. And your family. Every last one of them.”

Her stomach twisted.

“But if you stay,” he said, voice low and smooth, “if we run away together, I’ll protect you. I’ll keep you safe. We can have something real. You and me.”

Her pulse pounded in her ears.

She swallowed, voice barely a whisper, “And if I say no?”

He smiled—a dark, cruel thing. “Then you die.”

Torn between fear and temptation, her lips parted.

“Okay,” she breathed. “I’ll stay.”

Billy’s grin deepened.

Billy didn’t give her time to process—his mouth was on hers the second the words left her lips.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t romantic.

It was desperate.

Teeth, tongue, fingers pressing into her hips like he needed to brand her. She gasped against him, caught between the primal rush of adrenaline and something darker simmering under her skin.

“Tell me again,” he breathed against her lips, dragging her backward until her spine hit the wall.

“I’ll stay,” she whispered, stunned at the sound of her own voice.

And maybe it was the blood still smeared along his jaw, the scent of fear and metal in the air, the way his hands trembled just slightly when he touched her. But he looked at her like she was salvation. Or maybe like she was next.

He tugged down the zipper on her corset top with one hand, the other cupping her jaw as he kissed her again—slower now, more deliberate, but no less intense.

“You’ve been driving me crazy,” Billy muttered, lips trailing down her neck, biting just hard enough to sting. “Walking around in that mouthy little attitude like you’re not the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Her head tipped back against the wall, breath catching when his fingers found the hem of her thigh-highs and slid underneath.

“Billy,” she warned, a flicker of hesitation returning.

“You want me to stop?” he murmured against her collarbone.

She didn’t answer right away.

“I can make you forget him,” he whispered. “Forget her. Forget all of them.”

His hand pressed firmly between her thighs.

She gasped, eyes fluttering closed.

But then, through the haze, a flicker of reality:

Sidney. Malik.

The world outside this blood-slicked room.

Her hand shot up, pressing against his chest. “Stop.”

Billy stilled.

Her voice wavered but stayed firm. “I’m not her. I’m not a cheat.”

He stared at her. That smile returned—half amused, half psychotic.

“Not yet,” he said, backing up just a little. “But you will be.”

Y/N’s hand stayed flat on Billy’s chest.

But her fingers… trembled.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His skin was hot beneath her palm, his heartbeat steady and smug, like he had all the time in the world.

“Tell me to stop,” he said again, voice low and thick, his mouth barely an inch from hers. “Look me in the eye and say it.”

She didn’t.

She couldn’t.

Because every part of her was screaming with confusion, lust, guilt—and none of it drowned out how badly she wanted him. Even with Sidney upstairs. Even with Malik somewhere else—missing. She was wet, her thighs pressed tight together, her breath shallow.

And Billy fucking knew it.

“You’re insane,” she muttered, chest rising and falling.

Billy grinned, slow and wolfish. “Little bit.”

Then his hands were on her again—sliding up the backs of her thighs, rough palms teasing her skin as his mouth crashed into hers.

The kiss was brutal. Messy. All tongue and teeth and hunger. Her back slammed against the wall as he kissed her like he was starving, like he hadn’t tasted something real in years.

She gasped when his hands found her corset. He didn’t untie it—he ripped it. Threads snapped. Her breath caught.

“Fuck,” he muttered, eyes blown wide as the satin fell apart, revealing her chest.

Then his mouth was there—hot, wet, open—kissing down her neck, across her collarbone, dragging his tongue slowly over one breast while his fingers teased the other.

“God, you’re sweet,” he whispered against her skin. “I knew you would be. The way you walk around like you don’t even know what you’re doing to people.”

“I don’t—” she tried, but her voice broke on a moan as he sucked her nipple between his lips.

Her head hit the wall. Her legs buckled.

But he caught her—hands gripping her ass, lifting her off the ground like she weighed nothing. Her thighs instinctively wrapped around his waist.

“Tell me you want it,” he breathed into her neck. “Right now.”

She was dizzy. Floating. Her nails dug into his shoulders. Her lips grazed his ear.

“You know I do.”

And that was all he needed.

He spun them toward the bed and dropped her onto the mattress like a possession.

He yanked his shirt over his head in one motion—exposing the pale, lean muscle beneath. His belt hit the floor. Then his jeans. He crawled up her body like a predator, eyes locked to hers, the air between them thick with heat and danger.

“You wore this for him, didn’t you?” he asked, tugging the remains of her costume lower. “For Malik?”

She flinched.

But he didn’t wait for an answer.

Her panties were ripped away, tossed somewhere behind him.

His fingers found her center—slick and aching.

Billy let out a dark laugh. “He never got you like this, did he?”

“Billy—” she gasped, trying to sit up.

He pushed her back down.

“Don’t lie to me, sweetheart. I already know the truth.”

Then he slid inside her.

One thrust.

She gasped—sharp and guttural—as her back arched and her thighs squeezed around him.

He filled her completely, buried to the hilt, his chest pressed to hers.

“You feel that?” he growled, hips rolling. “That’s mine now.”

Her lips parted but no sound came out.

He set a rhythm—deep and slow, grinding against her just enough to keep her on the edge. Her moans slipped free, louder than she meant. His mouth was at her throat again, teeth scraping over sensitive skin.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say it’s mine.”

“You’re sick—” she hissed, trying not to fall apart.

He slammed into her harder.

“Say it.”

“You’re—fuck—you’re crazy—”

He grabbed her wrists, pinned them above her head. His pace turned punishing, unforgiving.

And she cracked.

“It’s yours,” she gasped, eyes fluttering shut. “It’s—fuck—it’s all yours.”

“That’s my girl,” he whispered, kissing her hard.

He thrust into her again, and again, until she was choking on her own moans—hips lifting to meet his, heels digging into the sheets.

Her orgasm hit like a goddamn train—blinding, writhing, raw.

And that’s when it happened.

A scream.

Not hers.

Sidney.

Shrill. Distant. But real.

Y/N froze.

Billy didn’t.

His hips still moved—slower now. His lips grazed her cheek, her jaw, her throat.

“Billy…” she whispered, voice hollow.

He didn’t even blink.

“She was never gonna make it,” he said softly.

She shoved at his chest. “What the fuck does that mean?!”

He pulled out slowly. Almost reluctantly. Climbed off the bed like he wasn’t the least bit surprised by the panic clawing at her face.

“You said Malik was missing,” she gasped, covering her chest with shaking arms. “Where is he?”

Billy was quiet.

Too quiet.

And then—

He smiled.

That same, slow smile.

“I told you he wasn’t coming,” he said. “Because he’s not anywhere anymore.”

Her stomach dropped.

“No,” she whispered.

He picked something up from the floor.

Her phone.

Covered in blood.

He tossed it into her lap.

“You left it by his body,” he said.

She stared at the phone. At the red. Her breath turned shallow. Her chest heaved.

“No,” she said again, but softer now. Broken.

Billy crouched in front of her, cupping her cheek.

“I’m the only one left who wants you,” he said gently. “You can hate me. But you need me now.”

Tears streaked her cheeks. Her lips quivered.

“I should kill you,” she whispered.

He kissed her again.

“You already let me inside you, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You’re mine now.”

[paperbackpetals]

The Jezebel Gospel

Sammie Moore x female reader

Summary:

She was the girl the town called Jezebel.

He was the preacher’s son who just wanted to sing the blues.

In a town that believes in fire and brimstone more than forgiveness, they were never meant to fall in love.

But they did.

⚠️ Warnings:

Slow burn, deep hurt, and even deeper love.

Explicit smut 🔥, religious trauma ⛪, small-town judgment 🥀, and a whole lotta Southern angst.

Mentions of past abuse (non-graphic). Handle with care, sugar.

—

They say you showed your stepfather your bare thigh.

That’s the story they whisper behind their hymnals. That you walked into his room late at night and pulled your nightgown up to your hip like a harlot in the street. That you were asking for it.

No one asks what he was doing in your room first.

No one wants the truth in this town—they want the lesson.

And now you live as one. A parable in curls and quiet shame. You walk slow, keep your chin down, and press your lips shut while they hiss “Jezebel” like it’s your given name.

Your mama don’t speak to you no more. Her eyes slide past you in church, like if she pretends hard enough, God might pretend with her. That the daughter she bore wasn’t touched. That her husband wasn’t a liar. That none of it ever happened.

It’s a Sunday when you first see him.

You’re fanning yourself in the second-to-last pew, listening to the preacher shout about sin with spit-slick rage. Your dress sticks to the sweat at the small of your back. The air smells like dust and judgement.

That’s when Sammie Moore steps up to the front of the church.

The preacher’s boy.

The one with the pretty voice and softer eyes. He don’t look like the type to damn a soul—but then again, neither did you.

He stands behind the pulpit, hymnbook tucked under one arm, and tilts his head to the congregation like he was born above it.

And then he sings.

Not loud. Not proud. Just real. Like he ain’t showing off, but confessing something he don’t have the words for yet.

His voice curls around the rafters. Honey-slick and aching.

It slides through your chest like hot oil.

And then—he looks at you.

Just a flicker. A single glance, mid-note. But it lands hard. Like he sees you. Not the story. Not the scandal. Just… you.

And instead of looking away like most do, he holds it.

Long enough that something stirs inside your belly. Long enough that shame and longing get tangled up until you can’t tell one from the other.

You drop your gaze first. Heart racing. Skin prickling.

You don’t dare look again. Not with his father preaching five feet away. Not with all of town waiting to say you bewitched another man.

But when the hymn ends, and the congregation rises, and the preacher roars about harlots and harbingers—

You swear Sammie Moore is still looking at you.

And he smiles.

Not big. Not proud. But soft. Curious. Like he knows what they say about you and maybe—just maybe—he don’t give a damn.

The church lets out slow, like molasses.

Hats tilt back. Fans wave. Children tug at their mothers’ skirts, itching to get free. You stand in the back like you always do—waiting for the aisle to clear, waiting to disappear.

You feel eyes on you, as always. Their judgment clings to your skin like sweat. You don’t flinch anymore. You just count the seconds.

One, two, three—

“Y’ain’t stayin’ for fellowship?”

His voice is low, light, and unexpected.

You turn.

Sammie Moore stands a few feet away. One hand tucked in his pocket, the other smoothing down his crisp white shirt. Sunlight catches in his curls. His tie is askew like he rushed to loosen it the second the sermon ended.

You blink, slow.

He’s not supposed to talk to you. No one’s supposed to talk to you.

You swallow. “Didn’t reckon I was invited.”

His smile doesn’t waver. If anything, it softens. “Don’t remember seein’ your name on the town blacklist.”

You snort—short, dry, surprised at yourself. “You don’t listen much, do you?”

“I listen just fine,” he says, eyes flicking over you. “Heard all kinds of things about you.”

Your jaw tightens.

“And I don’t believe a single one.”

He says it like it’s simple. Like it’s not a firecracker dropped at your feet.

You should walk away. You know better. You’ve learned what kindness from men really means. But something about Sammie is different. He isn’t offering you salvation. He isn’t looking at you like a prize. He’s just… here.

“I ain’t tryin’ to get you in trouble,” you say, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Your daddy sees you talkin’ to me, he’ll have you on your knees ‘til next Sunday.”

Sammie grins. “Then I guess we better make this quick.”

He steps in just slightly—close enough you catch the clean scent of soap and summer heat on his skin. Close enough to hear the way his breath hitches when he gets a good look at you.

“You ever been out past Waverly Road?” he asks, voice dropping. “By the tree line?”

You frown. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Juke joint opens up there after dark. No church folk. No eyes. Just music and moonshine. I play sometimes.”

“You sing the blues?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

He nods. “My daddy hates it. Says it’s the Devil’s music.”

“Isn’t everything fun?”

That makes him laugh—really laugh. It’s low, warm, and just a little dangerous. He looks at you like you’ve got a spark in your mouth and he wants to taste it.

“I’m goin’ tomorrow night,” he says. “Midnight. You should come.”

You hesitate.

Because you know what this town will say if they see you with him.

Because you know what men are like when the lights go low.

But more than anything… you want to go.

You want to see Sammie Moore sing like he means it. You want to feel something besides shame for once.

You lift your chin.

“If you’re lyin’—if this is some kind of joke—”

“I ain’t,” he says, gaze dead serious. “I want you there.”

And something about the way he says it—quiet, deliberate, almost reverent—makes you believe him.

Just like that, you nod.

“Alright,” you whisper. “I’ll be there.”

You lie to your mama.

Tell her you’re spending the night with an old school friend. She doesn’t ask who. Doesn’t care, really. Just nods like a woman half-dead already and shuts the door behind you.

By the time you reach Waverly Road, the sky is split wide open—black and humming, heat still clinging to the earth like it forgot how to let go.

The juke joint is a shack made of sweat and secrets. Half-falling apart, tucked past a grove of old trees that look like they’re watching. There’s a red light swinging above the door, casting the dirt in blood.

You hesitate on the steps. Part of you thinks this is a mistake. That maybe Sammie Moore invited you just to laugh with his friends after. That maybe this is another trap.

But then you hear the music.

Low, aching, filthy in the best way. A moan dressed up like a melody. Blues, sure as sin.

You push the door open—and there he is.

Onstage, bathed in gold.

Sammie Moore, singing into a mic like he was born to do it. No tie, sleeves rolled, sweat glistening at his temple. He’s not the preacher’s son here. He’s something else. Something raw and radiant and alive.

And the way he sings?

It ain’t holy.

It’s the kind of sound that makes people do stupid things in dark corners.

Your breath catches as he closes his eyes, mouth barely brushing the mic, voice dripping over the crowd like molasses and lust.

The crowd sways.

You stand still.

He sees you.

Mid-line, mid-verse, Sammie opens his eyes and locks on you like he’s been looking all night. And he doesn’t look away.

You’re wearing a dress you don’t wear to church. One that hugs your waist and bares your shoulders. It’s not much, not scandalous—but in this town? It might as well be naked.

Sammie’s gaze drops once—slow, like prayer—and rises again, hungrier.

He doesn’t blink.

You feel it in your knees.

The song ends. Applause follows. People cheer, whistle, call for more. But Sammie steps offstage like he’s only here for one reason now.

You.

He crosses the room with sure, deliberate steps. The music still plays, but it fades into background static.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he murmurs when he reaches you.

“You asked,” you say simply.

Sammie looks at you like he wants to do something that’d make his daddy spit blood. Something heaven wouldn’t allow.

“I was singin’ about you, y’know.”

“I figured.”

“You mad?”

You shake your head.

“No one’s ever sung for me before,” you whisper. “Not without meanin’ to mock me.”

Sammie steps closer. One breath away. His fingers ghost over your wrist—light enough to ignore, heavy enough to feel.

“I ain’t mockin’ you,” he says, voice low. “I been thinkin’ about you ever since that first Sunday. Ain’t right what they done to you.”

You laugh, bitter. “You gonna save me now?”

His jaw tightens. “I ain’t no savior.”

He leans in. His lips brush your ear.

“But I’ll sin with you.”

Your breath hitches.

And just like that—you’re dancing.

He pulls you into the crowd, hands at your hips, moving slow. Blues thumping behind your ribs. His touch isn’t rushed. Isn’t greedy. It’s deliberate. Like he’s learning the shape of your body through the sway.

You don’t speak.

You just breathe in each other.

Sweat. Smoke. Sin.

It’s not sex.

But it feels like it.

A few weeks past and Sammie convinces his twin cousins to let him have to joint go himself for one night. They reluctantly agree, giving you two some privacy away from the plantation and people.

The piano is dusty.

It sits crooked in the back room of the juke joint—hidden behind torn curtains and crooked shelves, like something sacred and shameful. The lights are low. One candle flickers. There’s sweat on your neck and thunder rolling in the distance.

And Sammie Moore is sitting beside you.

He’s close. Real close. You can feel the heat from his thigh where it brushes yours. You can smell the cigarette smoke on his shirt. You can see the bruise-purple of a hymn book callus on his thumb.

“Loosen up,” he murmurs, leaning over you. His chest brushes your shoulder. “You play like you’re scared to be heard.”

You blink down at the keys. “Maybe I am.”

He’s quiet a moment.

Then, gently—“Ain’t nobody listenin’ but me.”

He slides his hand over yours.

Guides your fingers, slow. He hums a low note in his throat to match it.

You feel it all the way down.

“You feel that?” he asks.

Your voice comes out soft. “Feel what?”

“That little ache between the notes.”

You shiver.

Sammie watches you with eyes that don’t blink. “That’s where the blues live. Right there. In the places that don’t make it to Sunday.”

His fingers leave the keys.

And find your wrist.

You turn to him.

There’s no crowd this time. No pulpit. No judgment.

Just breath and skin and want.

Sammie’s hand drifts to your jaw. Callused thumb brushing your cheek. “You want me to stop, you tell me.”

You don’t.

Instead—you lean in.

The kiss starts like a secret. Gentle. Almost scared. His lips brush yours like a prayer, then return deeper, firmer. Like he’s waited weeks. Like he’s starving.

You open for him.

The groan that slips from his chest is soft and sinful. His hands tangle in your dress, your hair, your hips—touching like he doesn’t know where to start.

“Sammie,” you whisper, breath hitching.

“Say it again.”

“Sammie.”

He moves like he’s memorizing you. His mouth trails down your neck, slow, reverent. Like every inch of you deserves worship. Your thighs part under his hips before you even think about it.

You’re breathing like you’re running.

He’s kissing like you’re dying.

“I dreamed of this,” he murmurs against your skin. “God help me—I dreamed of you.”

You tug at his shirt.

He helps you—shrugging it off in one motion. His chest is warm, strong, marked by a life spent carrying everyone else’s burden. And now, he wants to carry you.

He kisses your chest through the fabric of your dress. Tongue wet, lips open. His hand slides under your hem, warm and slow.

When he finds the heat between your legs, you flinch.

But not from fear—from relief.

You grip his forearm. Your eyes meet his.

There’s lightning outside.

And there’s lightning inside you.

“I don’t want to be good,” you whisper.

“You ain’t gotta be,” he answers, voice wrecked and honest. “Just be mine.”

His hand parts your thighs.

Slow.

Steady.

Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he rushes.

You feel his breath when he leans in lower. Feel the way his thumb strokes the soft skin just above your knee. It ain’t rushed. Ain’t greedy. It’s intentional. It’s a man learning his religion all over again, and this time, the gospel is you.

“You’re shakin’,” he whispers.

“So are you.”

He grins—crooked, devilish. But his eyes are soft. “I ain’t never touched anything this sacred before.”

He lifts your dress slowly, reverent. Folds it over your hips, palms brushing your thighs like a benediction. His fingers trace the edge of your underwear, and he kisses you as he slips them down, breathing you in like incense.

“You tell me if it’s too much,” he says again, voice rough with restraint.

But it’s not too much.

It’s not even enough.

You reach for him—curl your fingers in his hair, tilt your hips toward his mouth.

And when Sammie Moore puts his tongue on you, it’s like being set on fire slow.

He doesn’t tease.

Doesn’t play.

He worships.

Long, wet strokes. Gentle pressure. He moves like he’s learning you note by note, like your moans are melody, like every twitch of your body is a hymn. His hands hold your thighs open, firm, patient, greedy. You buck under him when he sucks—soft at first, then harder, until your whole body arches off the bench and your mouth spills his name over and over like confession.

“Sammie—Sammie, oh Lord, I—“

“Don’t pray now,” he murmurs, lifting his mouth just long enough to look up at you, lips glistening.

Then he keeps going.

Your hand flies to your mouth, muffling a cry, legs trembling. The room spins. Your skin burns. And when you fall apart on his tongue, it’s not soft—it’s holy.

He rises slowly, kissing your thigh, your hip, your stomach.

And when he finally kisses your mouth again, you taste yourself on his lips.

You kiss him harder.

Fingers fumbling now—buttons popping, hands greedy. He unbuckles his belt and lets his slacks fall low, breath hot on your cheek.

You feel him—hard, heavy, flushed against your thigh.

Your chest heaves.

“You want me to stop?” he asks one last time.

You don’t answer with words.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him down, legs parting wider, hips tilted up. He groans—God, that sound—and sinks into you slow.

And it’s everything.

Thick, hot, stretching you inch by inch. You gasp into his neck, clutching his back, body clenching. He stills when he’s fully inside—just holding there, buried deep.

Neither of you breathes.

Then Sammie rocks his hips, and your breath shatters.

His pace starts slow, deep—grinding against you, dragging over every nerve. His lips find your throat, your shoulder, your mouth. You meet him with every thrust, slick and open and aching. His hand slips under your dress, between your bodies, thumb circling where you’re most tender.

And then—you break again.

Clenching, crying out, hips stuttering. He follows right after, pulsing deep inside, face buried in your neck, moaning like a man possessed.

He stays there.

Buried in you.

Both of you trembling.

Both of you holy in your ruin.

The candle gutters low.

And outside—the storm breaks.

The dawn crawls slow through the cracked windowpanes, painting your skin with soft gold and shadows.

Your body aches in places you didn’t know could hurt, a dull, delicious reminder of last night.

The scent of smoke still clings to the sheets and the faint taste of Sammie on your lips.

You sit up, bare shoulders trembling, fingers tracing the marks where his hands left blessings and promises.

Outside, the town wakes slow — the distant toll of the church bell, a rooster’s crow, the faint murmurs of gossip beginning anew.

You dress quickly, pulling on the faded dress Sammie handed you, the one with the small tear at the hem.

As you step outside, the humid morning air clings heavy, smelling of earth and pine and secrets.

You don’t see Sammie at first.

Then, there he is — leaning against the porch railing, his shirt half-open, the light catching the sharp angles of his jaw and the sadness in his eyes.

His lips twitch into a crooked smile when he sees you.

“Well, Jezebel,” he says low, “you look like hell.”

You smirk despite yourself.

“And you look like trouble.”

He shrugs.

“I’m both,” he says, stepping closer, his hand brushing yours in a touch that sets your skin ablaze all over again.

“But,” he adds, voice soft, “I’m yours — if you’ll have me.”

You want to say yes, want to throw yourself into his arms and forget the world, but—

The memory of the town’s eyes, the whispers behind closed doors, the weight of the lies your stepfather told—

You pull back.

“What about them?” you whisper. “What about what they say? What they think?”

He takes your face in his hands, eyes fierce.

“Let ’em think what they want.”

He kisses you then, slow and sure.

“Ain’t nobody got the right to judge what we got. Not my daddy. Especially not yours.”

But judgment is waiting, just beyond the edge of town.

And your secret, your sins—they are about to be laid bare.