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maybankiara · 5 years ago

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THESE WICKED GAMES WE PLAY

pairing: Rafe Cameron x Implied Fem!Reader

summary: Barry decides he needs to get money back from Rafe, one way or another. When you become a part of the bargain, Rafe decides that’s enough.

w/c: 3.2k

t/w: kidnapping, canon-typical violence, toxic relationship

a/n: this is basically something straight out of an action movie (...or obx). not proofread so will probably contain typos, but i’ll get around to doing that. it’s midnight. sorry about the formatting, i did this on my phone.

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written for @whormotional

Your boyfriend deals coke, alright. It's something that passes by unacknowledged for the sake of whatever relationship you're trying to keep in place, with your college and his college and whatnot.

When it comes to dating Rafe Cameron, "easy" is the last word you'd use to describe it.

(You often wonder - why stay? What is it that's keeping you around? Then you see him lying in bed next to you, eyes closed and messy hair covering them, and you see the boy you fell in love with. You hope he's still somewhere in there, waiting his turn on the surface.)

(It's hope.)

That exact hope is what you're clinging to as you walk through the cut, looking for your boyfriend. It's summer and the North Carolina heat is dry, palpable, as your shoes are already warm against the pavement.

A kook is not welcome to the Cut.

You keep one of your hands in your pocket, the other one to your ear, dial tone turning to voicemail for what feels like the hundredth time.

'Fuck.'

Another five minute break. You slip your phone back into your pocket, turning on some music to tune out the voices of people around you. They all seem to be taunting you, even if you don't stick out like a sore thumb without your fancy car - even if you know nobody is taking notice of you.

Rafe doesn't do this often. If he plans to go MIA for the day, he'll shoot you a text in the morning and let you know. He'll call you in the middle of the day to see if you're doing okay.

He'll care.

Well, not today.

It's nearly eight in the evening and you haven't heard from him since late last night. As far as you know, neither have Topper nor Kelce. The Camerons don't know shit about Rafe anyway, so that's a dead end in the start.

It doesn't warrant you searching for him through the middle of fucking nowhere. The centre of the Cut, the part of it that's looking semi-decent, is long behind you. Your feet are uncomfortable on a gravel road, grass too dry to grow anywhere

The next few moments happen in slow motion and fast forward at once. You feel a hand on your bicep, and you see that you're standing genuinely in the middle of nowhere, and the air feels cold in your throat. The song in your ears has ended and all you hear is the hum that's an aftermath of loud music, and someone's footsteps on the gravel.

The hand gripping you spins you in place, and you feel warm metal against your back.

You don't fight back. You freeze.

The person in front of you is your height, and he's got a bandanna covering the lower half of his face. You see that his hair is black and tied up in a ponytail, and you look into his eyes, but all you remember about them is how fearful they make you feel.

Another metal is pressed against you, this time cold, and on the bare flesh of your neck.

'Get in the van.'

A door slides open and you're dragged into the van, frozen still. The man jumps in behind you and someone holds your hands behind your back. The engine hums and the door slides shut, and the moment the metal blocks daylight, your brain catches up.

'LET ME OUT! YOU FUCKIN' PSYCHOS! WHAT THE FUCK!'

You scream your lungs out and push forward, rashly enough that the person holding you back doesn't have time to harden their grip, and you slip free. In front of you is the man with the bandanna, and all you see is your right hand pushing into his chest as your left reaches for the door. He falls -- you open the door -- the van swerves, and you fall back into the arms of the person holding you earlier.

'LET ME GO!' you scream again, reaching forward like a tied bull, but the grip is tight this time around.

'Shut the fuck up, bitch,' says the one with the bandanna, rising from the floor.

The road is bumpy and you keep fighting to maintain your balance. He wipes the corner of his mouth where a trickle of blood dripped from, and you wonder for a moment if you hit his face, or he got it in the fall.

'Let. Me. Go.'

'Aren't you going to bargain, you fuckin' kook bitch?' The bandanna is off, you notice only now, and you have a vague feeling as if you've seen his face before; your body goes stiff. 'Yeah, I know who you are. Country Club's pussy.'

Your brain works as if on speed -- Country Club. Rafe. You've heard only one person call him that.

The lump in your throat is heavy to swallow, but you do it anyway, straightening your back as much as the van in motion allows you.

The urge to spit in his face is almost too much to take.

'Rafe will kill you, Barry.'

The grin with the golden teeth he flashes you makes your stomach churn. Chills run down your spine, but you keep your teeth clenched, and eyes full of spite.

All it does is make him laugh. 'He doesn't have it in him.'

There's something cold on your throat; cold and sharp. Barry slides the blade across, pressing just tight enough to make you feel the hints of pain, but not enough to hurt you.

You keep your chin high, even if the tremble has already betrayed you.

'Your boyfriend owes me money,' he says. His accent is dirty--pogue--and sleazy in a way that makes you want to throw up. 'A lot of it.'

'You know he's going to pay you back. He always pays you back.'

The pressure on your throat increases in a moment. Your whole body clenches and you bite down on the inside of your lip, feeling the blade cut into the skin.

'Oh, he gon' pay back, alright. Where is he?'

You stare at him for a moment, waging your options. 'I don't know. I haven't heard from him the whole day.'

Barry's eyes squint as he leans into your face, close enough for you to smell tobbaco and weed coming out of his mouth. The pressure on your neck dissipates, enough to let you breathe.

'Fucker better not be dead in a ditch.'

'He'll pay you back,' you promise.

He glances you up and down, and you feel as if someone is throwing filth all over you. He licks his lips as they stretch into a grin, and he nods to himself. 'Yeah. One way or another.'

If there is a God, you pray to him.

Rafe is losing his mind. He knows he's fucked up.

There was a call-in last night, a delivery to some of his college friends on the mainland. They were throwing a massive house party, and a lot of people needed a supplier, and it was easy to just call him.

He caught the last ferry over, drove three hours, all without telling you because he knew you'd worry -- and there should've been no reason for you to worry.

He wasn't going to stay, or drink, or do coke.

But he did. He did all three of the things he told himself he wouldn't.

By the time he woke up, it was nearly three in the afternoon, his phone had been smashed the night before, and there was no way to get a hold of you. He sat into his car and shot straight for Kildare, looking for you at home and every place he could find, until it was Topper who told him you'd went looking for him.

In the Cut.

A certain kind of darkness he'd never felt before washed over him. You weren't answering your phone when Topper called, and it didn't take long for Rafe to get back into his car and ignore all the speed limits on his way to the cut. He didn't care about being seen -- all he wanted was to be wrong. To roll up into Barry's backyard and for Barry to have no idea where you could be.

That's what he wanted. And when he got there, and no one was there, he waited. He'd wait until fucking Barry came back and he can make sure he didn't do anything with you.

Rafe fucked up, but he knew that if Barry had done anything to you, he'll fuck up to the point of bloody hands and time behind bars.

And he wouldn't hesitate.

So when Barry doesn't answer his phone and Rafe sees his van roll up, but it's someone else in the driver's seat, and the van is rocking unnaturally, the darkness falls over his eyes again.

He doesn't see red. He doesn't see black.

He sees Barry's face when he walks out of the van with you behind him, a drip of dark red on your neck, and he lunges.

You don't comprehend Rafe until he's at Barry's throat. It's a flash of blonde and a polo shirt and mutli-coloured shorts, and then Barry's down and you recognize the grunts and the hair and the clothes, and then you're screaming his name.

Someone comes behind you and places a hand over your mouth, grabbing your tied hands with another. Someone else jumps out of the van and onto Rafe, knocking him into the floor.

Your screams are muffled, but you bite the hand on your mouth and they're loud again, until you're hit in the face. The pain is numbing -- dull and painful sound of flesh against flesh echoing in your skull. You've got a hand covering your screams again, and you stumble backwards.

Next to you, on the ground, Rafe is pushing himself up with a streak of red coming out of the left side of his hair. He looks at you and you see the rage and the fear all in one -- "Y/N.'

You try to say something, but it hurts when you move your mouth, so all that comes out is a whimper.

He reaches for you but a guy smacks him on the side of his face. Rafe stumbles towards you, hands outstretched, but the loss of balance is enough for the guy to pin him against the wall, gun to his temple.

You scream.

The guy hits you again, and you smell copper.

Barry gets himself off the ground and presses the heel of his palm to his temple, and a mixture of blood and dirt remains on it. He spits blood and wipes his mouth, wiping the rest of his face with the bandanna. His left eye is swollen and there are a few cuts from Rafe's rings scattered here and there, bruises already starting to form.

You glance at Rafe, and you see him struggling to get to you. Even with a gun to his head -- he doesn't stop trying.

Another whimper leaves your mouth and the guy holding you pulls your head back, to the point where it's painful, and Rafe screams 'HEY! LET GO OF HER YOU FUCKIN'---'

Barry slaps him across the face. You hear skin snap and Rafe grunts in pain.

'Shut your damn mouth, Country Club.' He comes closer and takes over the gun, letting the other guy hold Rafe in place. 'Your girl over there seems to be ready for some f--'

'I've got your money.'

'Now we're talkin'.'

A satisfied grin stretches across Barry's features, whereas Rafe's neck tenses, veins looking as if they're about to burst. He glances at you for a second, as if he's trying to tell you something, but you don't get it -- you're barely standing on your feet.

The gun travels from Rafe's forehead to underneath his chin, pushing his head backwards.

No. You surge forward, the moment's weakness allowing to to take two steps closer until Barry waves his free hand and there's something cold and circular pressed into the back of your head, and you whimper again.

Rafe twitches, but is pushed back.

'Nu-uh, that ain't how we doin' this. Gimme money, and y'all loverbirds walk outta here alive.'

The threat makes your bones shudder; 'Please.'

You don't know if you're begging Rafe or Barry or God, but one of them has got to answer.

Rafe catches your eye and nods at you, tears streaming down his face. He's no less afraid than you are -- somehow, that hurts even more. 'I won't let anything happen to you.'

'Yadda, yadda, yadda. Pay up, Country Club.'

'It's in the glove compartment,' Rafe says.

'Everything?'

'Half.' Rafe tenses again, and you see a flash of bravery across his features. 'I'll give you the rest when you let her go.'

Your boyfriend laughs, a maniacal laugh you've never heard before -- desperate and high-pitched; the laughter of someone who laughs in the face of danger.

The gun on your head moves from back to the side; you can almost hear it sliding.

It's even colder on the bare skin of your temple.

'If you hurt her, you'll never get the other half of the money,' says Rafe, poison dripping from his voice.

Barry contemplates this for a second. 'You're not the one in position of demands.'

'I swear.'

For a moment, Barry's moment tenses on the trigger finger, safety off. Your chest tightens and you're convinced he's going to shoot, and you can't even move -- but he doesn't.

The breath that passes your lips is shaky.

'I know where y'all live,' concludes Barry. 'You either gimme the money now, or I come take it.' He glances at you, checking you up and down, and Rafe squirms in the guy's arms at the sight, a hand covering whatever he's saying. 'I won't let her off easy come next time.'

You watch as the guy lets go of Rafe, now only Barry's gun pressed to his chin keeping him in place. He walks over to the truck, opens the passenger door and the glove compartment, and takes out a wad of cash.

Some part of your heart sinks, and seeing the way Rafe is looking at you, he knows it, too.

The cash is placed on Barry's empty hand. 'Damn, kid. Y'all delievered.'

'Let her go.'

'You're not in the position to make demands.'

'You promised---'

'And I shit on my promises, wipe my ass with 'em, make sure it's sparkly clean,' snaps Barry. The gun is cocked, a crook in Barry's elbow as he's inches of Barry's face. 'You better give me the other half or it ain't gon' be promises I wipe my ass with.'

Rafe gives in. He tells them about the secret compartment he had installed in the back of the truck, the one not even you knew about. There's a wad of cash in there equal in size to the one Barry gave to someone for counting. You're shaking, trembling, feeling your knees are about to give in; all you can feel is that, and the gun pressed to the side of your head.

It ends up being almost a third more than Rafe owed him, but Barry takes it all anyway.

They let you go first. You've still got a gun to your head as you roll down the passenger window and get into the truck. Barry promises Rafe to blow your brains out in case of any funny business, and leads Rafe to the driver's side.

He places a hand over yours, but you pull it back.

You see his heart shatter.

When the guns are away, Rafe drives the two of you out of the Cut, just driving around the island. You don't want to go home -- he doesn't want to go home. For a while, you don't talk, save for the one time he asks you if you're okay. You shake your head and he says he's sorry, but sorry won't change anything.

Sorry won't take away the feeling of a knife to your throat, or a hand hitting your cheek, or the gun ready to bang.

He pulls up at a gas station, refills the thank, goes into the store. He comes out with a bag full of snacks and two bottles of water, looking as if nothing happened.

'How can you be so calm?'

Rafe starts the car and comes onto the road, taking a long time to answer. 'Because you're okay.'

You feel like you've been slapped in the face. 'Is this a normal thing for you? Being beaten to a pulp, a gun to your head?'

'No,' he says. While you can tell it's the truth, it still doesn't make it okay, how easy he's done this. 'I fucked up, Y/N.'

'You fucked up, alright. Where did you get that money from? Did you go rob a bank today, that's why you were gone and I was the one who got my ass handed to me?'

'Please don't do this.'

'Do what?' You watch him avoid eye contact; you watch the arch of his brows, the slope of his nose, the curve of his Cupid's bow, and wonder if you'll ever be able to see him the same way. 'Rafe, you're a fuckin' drug dealer. I don't want to have anything to do with that.'

'You don't have to,' he offers, speeding up a little. 'We could just keep separate---'

'WELL HOW'S THAT WORKING OUT SO FAR!'

Rafe swerves and the truck hits the side of the road, jumping you to a startle. You clutch onto the handrail above your head -- Rafe turns the wheel to the other side -- a car coming in your direction honks and moves out of your way -- Rafe gets the car in control.

Your heart is beating fast, and you're done.

'Take me home.'

'Y/N---'

'No,' you say, your hand a barrier between the two of you. 'Just... don't. I've tried to ignore that part of you, but I'm over that.'

'You're breaking up with me,' he realises.

(It shouldn't hurt; but hope died when you saw the boy you loved on top of another man, beating the shit out of him.)

'Yes.'

He doesn't argue -- knowing him, he'll call you later, when he's given you space and you've had the chance to calm down.

You know each other too well.

(Hope died when he was the reason why there were moments when you thought you wouldn't see your family again.)

He drops you off at your home, doesn't even turn the engine off. His hand catches yours before you leave and he says he's sorry once more, with tears staining his cheek, but you shake your head and rip your hand out of his.

This has been a long time coming; you can no longer live in a lie.

(The Rafe you fell in love with is gone.)

★

tagging. @jjtheangel @teenwaywardasgardian @thelocalpogue @jjmaybanky @sacredto @chasefreakinstokes @drewstarkey @thatsme-johnbookerroutledge @margaritatimebaybee @outrbank @yourlocalauthor @justawilddreamerchild @snkkat @mynamewontwork13 @sunwardsss @storiesbymads @koufaxx @drewstarkeyobx @ilovejjmaybank @jjmaybanksbaby @mahleeyuh @starkeymarkey @nicolewithasoul @kiarawilliams127 @butgilinsky @bricksatanakinswindow @starlightstarkey @copper-boom @starrystarkey93 @hotel-colson @stargazingstarkey @outerbanksbro @anonymous0writer @annedub @outerbongs @jjandreidsgirl @jjmaybanqs @kaitieskidmore1 @maybanksbaby @yelyahryan

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #outer banks #obx #obx fic #outer banks imagine #obx imagine #my fic #my imagine #f: obx #c: rafe #tuserscout #bricksatans

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brockkboeserr · 5 years ago

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still not sorry - pope heyward

the one where pope broke your heart, but still can’t say he’s sorry

pairing: pope heyward x kook!reader

warnings: angsty still (sry)

word count: 1.1k oops

a/n: oops, continuation of this blurb. s/o to @ptersparkers and @bluesiderudy and my spotify release radar playlist for inspiring part 2 I’ll get back to my blurb night requests tomorrow!!

“I don’t know what you see in him,” Scarlett mused over the rim of her mimosa. You rolled your eyes, you’d had this conversation with your girls so many times over it feels routine at this point.

“He’s smart and sweet and he likes me,” you told her for probably the third time that week alone. There were a million more things you could say about Pope, that he saw past how much money your mommy and dad had, that he was the first one to tell you that you were more than just your parent’s daughter, that you had value beyond being someone’s trophy wife. But there was no point, Scarlett’s mind was made up. To her, and truthfully almost everyone else you cared about, he was just a dirty pogue who would some day break your heart.

“Yeah, but you could say that about any guy on our side of the island,” Scarlett replied, taking two tries to successfully attach her cherry-red lips to the straw. Always a bit of a lightweight, she was clearly feeling the effects of two strong bevvys.

“You really can’t,” you rebutted, “name one guy you would call ‘sweet’ and I’ll buy the next round.” She thought carefully for a second, chewing on the inside of her cheek before she shrugged.

“Alright, you win this round. Mark my words though, babe, you’re gonna get your heartbroken.” You had laughed and finished off your drink, secure in the thought that your sweet boyfriend would never.

You were foolish, naïve, stupid even. To think that true love or whatever would be enough to cross the proverbial line in the sand between the two sides of the island. You had loved Pope despite or maybe even because of his status as a pogue. In turn, he hadn’t been able to look past your privileged upbringing. It was ironic, you thought, that they were so comfortable believing you to be the model of the kook stereotype, meanwhile they accepted two kooks into their ranks without hesitation. For the first few days you wallowed in that knowledge, that it wasn’t necessarily that you were a kook, but that the kook was you.

You had driven right to Scarlett’s front door after leaving John B’s, tears blocking your vision. You didn’t remember all of the drive, scarily having relied on muscle memory alone to get you there. Crying into her lap, she had soothingly ran her hands through your hair, lightly scraping at your scalp with her manicured fingernails. To her credit, she had only told you ‘I told you so’ once that first night, preferring to let you cry and let it all out. “Your heart is too big, y/n y/l/n,” she told you, “and he wasn’t worthy of it.”

Word had travelled in your circles quickly. A week later, you were spending time at the club with Scarlett, who was very satisfied with herself for not only getting you to shower and dress cute, but also dragging you out of your house where you had been hiding for days. You spotted the boys, fresh from a game of golf, shrinking down in your seat to try and make yourself smaller. You weren’t sure you had the strength for Topper, Kelce and Rafe’s inevitable ‘I told you so’s. If you thought Scarlett wasn’t supportive of your new relationship, those three put her to shame. You knew there was no lack of bad blood between them all, but you were blown away by their strong opposition to the relationship. Always protective of you, they didn’t think Pope was good enough for you.

It didn’t matter, because the second Scarlett spotted Kelce, she was waving them over. Bracing yourself for the worst, the worst never came. Instead, Topper nudged your shoulder with his in a show of silent support and Kelce sent you a supportive smile before sitting next to Scarlett and wrapping his arm around her. Rafe’s reaction was the strangest of them all, simply sitting next to you and asking you softly if you were okay. You just shrugged, what could you say, only a week ago the man you loved had taken your heart and ripped it apart.

“You were too good for him, y/n. Just say the word and we can take care of him for you,” He told you seriously, Topper and Kelce nodding in agreement. Truthfully, you didn’t know if it was for your benefit or just for an excuse to beat the pogue up, but you just shook your head.

Somehow, Scarlett is able to convince you to head to the boneyard, despite knowing the possibility of seeing Pope is almost a guarantee. To your chagrin, you’re not drunk enough when he corners you alone.

“Listen, y/n, I’ve been calling you…” He’s not looking at you in your eyes, rather he’s staring down at the sand.

“I wouldn’t know, Scarlett blocked your number,” you tell him honestly. Your best friend had resorted to the desperate measure two days into your wallowing, as you had cried about wanting to answer when he called. His eyes finally met yours at your words, looking hurt.

“y/n, you have to let me explain,” he begged again, reminiscent of when your relationship had imploded. “I love you,” Just a week ago, those three words would have sent your heart soaring, and truthfully you did feel your heart constrict at the information, but it was a case of too little, not good enough.

“When you love someone, you don’t talk shit about them behind their back, or let your friends insult them.” You snap back, fingernails digging into the palm of your hand from how tightly you’re clenching your fists.

“Just, let me explain, okay? John B and JJ were-“ you don’t even give him the courtesy of finishing his sentence, snapping back at him.

“Don’t you get it? You hurt me so bad, there’s no coming back from that. There’s nothing you could say that would make me change my mind. Despite what you and your friends think, I am a good person, I love a lot and sometimes I give that love to the wrong people,” he winces at that, “I know my worth, and I know I’m worth more than someone who is so ashamed of me, they speak terribly of me when I’m not around.”

“So that’s just it, then?” He asks, chest deflating.

“You didn’t even say you were sorry, did I not deserve that?” You ask, earlier anger dissipating in favour of misery.

Before he can answer, Rafe appears at your side, asking you, “Is he bothering you?” Topper and Kelce are close behind him, Scarlett probably saw Pope corner you and sent them.

“Doesn’t matter,” you say, turning your back on Pope, “I was just leaving.” Linking your arms with Rafe, you let him lead you away from Pope, heart breaking again at the realization that this is actually the end.

Pope is left there alone again, realizing that his mistake might have permanently cost you. Worse yet, he thinks he may have driven you right into Rafe’s arms.

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#pope obx #pope x you #pope x reader #pope x y/n #pope imagine #pope heyward x you #pope heyward x reader #pope heyward x y/n #pope heyward imagine #pope heyward fanfiction #diverdcwn writes #tuserscout

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