Just My Type (Fp Jones x Oc)

5.

Kissing.
Grinding.
Clothes on the floor.
Bodies against each other.
Sweat beading across our foreheads.
Moaning and panting and begging.
The touch of his fingertips.
The taste of his lips.
The heat radiating from his body.
The groans as I scratched him, as I moaned and panted as he fucked me.

I passed out on his bed, not even a whole twenty minutes later. I was dead tired. And I had a very emotional rollercoaster that day.

I think that's one of the reasons I was so willing to hand myself over to FP tonight.

But how could I tell?

Was I in love with him?

I don't know. I can't tell. It was in the moment, and that's what I told myself that morning when I woke up.

I put my clothes right back on, early that morning, maybe around 5 or 6, no later. I can't understand why I felt the need, why I chose this, but somehow, I knew I had to leave. I quietly exited through the door and began walking to—well, school would be stupid, it's so early, but at home I'd be dead before I could go to school. I decided on going to the bar because, hey, nothing like a good drink before school, right?

Wrong.

Very, absolutely, most definitely wrong.

What was wrong was that, because of all the events of the previous night, my guard was down. My guard was down and it was at such bad timing.

A man had sat next to me, and began conversation. I was in and out, paying some attention, but not fully.

And the next thing I knew, everything was dark. I wasn't at the bar. I wasn't at home. I was in this man's trunk as he undid my pants and began doing far worse than what FP had done.

This man—he hurt. He hurt me, and badly. I fought, I screamed through a piece of cloth he stuffed in my mouth to muffle my yelling and screaming, and as punishment, he slashed me with a knife, hit me with a bat, overall, he could've killed me.

Could've, I say, because someone pulled him away. Someone pulled him away and knocked him unconscious with the same bat he used on me.

The person dresses and unties me, and I soon find that it's none other than Juggie. I was so very thankful that it wasn't Jones. I don't know why, but seeing Jughead made me feel better. I threw my arms around him, with blood spilling from several wounds, and began crying harder than I've ever.

Juggie seemed to understand that I needed to get my emotions out, as he just hugged me and allowed me to cry. And boy did I need it.

After a while, he called his dad, whom I didn't know the identity of, and got him to drive me to the hospital.

And I was terrified to find out that Juggie's dad was none other than motherfucking Jones. He looked at me and frowned, most certainly because of my appearance, and he drove me to the hospital.

Everything burned now. The bruises, the cuts, all the wounds hurt so terribly. And we still weren't at the hospital. I was ready to scream, it hurt so utterly bad. I sat up front next to FP and I was squeezing his arm so damn tightly that he seemed to wince.

But he obviously didn't compare it to my pain, as he knew straightaway it was worse for me.

We finally get to the hospital, where I'm asked several questions as my wounds are treated.

Because of all the blood loss, though, I was pretty out of it, and it was as though I was on drugs.

Well, I guess I was. That was my only explanation to how the guy was able to make me so vulnerable. A drink, a simple drink on me was nothing. So the guy had to have done something to me.

I groaned as they continued questioning me, and Jones stepped in and told them to let me be for a little while.

I dreaded when my dad would be called, because God knows he'd bring hell with him.

I very weakly begged FP to make sure my dad was NOT. Called.

He simply sighed and looks at me with a face full of pity, and I knew already it was a bit too late; here comes my dad.