I feel like boxer!rafe would be the kind of guy who would like drag you away from stores after a long day of you draining his wallet. (Smut!! Closer to the end!!)
And no, Rafe’s not an evil boyfriend, he’d buy you the world if he could. He’s just tired from his matches earlier that day, he’d went all out. Obviously, you had your own money, but why spend yours when you could spend his?
Rafe would’ve been patient through the first few stores, then you saw a thrift store (of course he let you in there, he had to), then you saw a designer shoe store, and you looked up at him all sweetly and innocent before dropping the fact that you’ve been wanting Miss Z’s since forever.
He looked up to the sky and exhaled as if he was looking for patience,”Seriously?”
And you nodded aggressively,”Yesyesyes!”
He looked at you, and sighed,”I really can’t say no can I?”
You grabbed his arm,”Nope!”
And he let you walk him there. You went straight to the Louboutin section, then got the shoes in your size—but wait—the Dior section looked good, so you browsed. Rafe ended up choosing one out for you, it was a pair of Adiorable slingback pumps.
You narrowed your eyes,”I thought you didn’t wanna come in here, Ray?”
He looked at you and shrugged,”Didn’t, but you’d just look good in these soo pshhh.”
Then you started tickling him, and he started tickling you back, and then he joked that he’d run out on you then you stopped…then hit his arm as your proof of winning. He just rolled his eyes.
After a quick snack at a cute bakery you said you had to try because well the cinnamon rolls looked good (Rafe was hungry so he went in there with joy), you stumbled across a boutique.
You weren’t really a reseller, you just wanted some stuff to inspire you on your next estate sale or Depop search for your own boutique. Rafe seemed to be distracted, so if you walked in there before he could see…then well he’d come find you and he’d have to pay.
But he saw and paused, and gave you a sideways glance and chuckled,”Seriously?”
You pretended not to hear him, already two steps to the door.
“Uh-uh. I love you, but not on my watch.”
In three long strides he caught up, grabbing you by the waist rom behind gently and picking you up and setting you back on track, well after kissing you silly of course.
You giggled,”Just one more!”
Rafe grabbed your face lightly with both hands and matched your tone of voice,”That’s what you said two stores ago, baby!”
“Walk.”
“Ray…”
“Walk.”
You rolled your eyes,”Fine.”
He stepped in beside you, draping an arm on your shoulder,”There’s always gonna be more shopping. How many things do you have waiting on that wishlist of yours?”
You thought for a second.
“I don’t know, I lost count.”
He nodded,”Perfext. I’ll buy all that. You give me the list and we go buy ‘em. But I gotta save my wallet. I have a chip coming up, and it’s big money.”
“Big money?”
“I could buy you the world and more, Y/n”
You kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear in a sultry tone,” You better win, buster.”
He inhaled sharply,”Don’t talk like that.”
You giggled,”What do you mean?”
“The voice.”
“What voice?”
He sighed,”Forget it.”
He opened the passenger side door, he tapped your ass softly. You turned around and stuck your tongue out. He went round the other side. You guys sat there.
Then you leaned over the console and whispered in his ear,”This voice, Rafe?”
He tossed his head back and ran his hand over his face,”Damn…”
The drive home was quiet, but the air between you still was heavy with tension. Rafe kept glancing over at you, cheeks a little flushed, one hand resting on your thigh like he needed the contact. That sultry whisper in his ear had clearly done its job.
By the time you got inside, he was already soft-eyed and pliant. You pushed him gently back against the closed door and kissed him slow and deep, tasting the faint salt of his post-fight exhaustion. He melted into it immediately, hands settling lightly on your waist instead of gripping hard.
“You’ve been so good to me today,” you murmured against his lips, sliding your hands under his sweatshirt to trace the ridges of his abs. “Carrying all my bags. Letting me drag you around. My big strong boxer… all tired and sweet for me now.”
Rafe let out a shaky breath, head tipping back against the door. “Baby…”
You tugged his sweatshirt off, kissing down his chest as you went. When you nipped lightly at his collarbone he whimpered—actually whimpered—and the sound went straight between your legs.
“Bedroom,” you said softly, taking his hand.
He followed without protest, letting you guide him. Once you had him sitting on the edge of the bed, you straddled his lap, cupping his face in both hands. His eyes were heavy-lidded, lips parted, already breathing harder.
“Can I take care of you tonight?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone.
He nodded quickly, cheeks pink. “Yeah… yeah, please.”
You kissed him again, slower this time, grinding gently in his lap while your fingers worked open his jeans. When you freed his cock, it was already leaking at the tip, flushed and heavy against his stomach. Rafe hissed when you wrapped your hand around him, stroking lazily.
“Feels so good,” he mumbled, hips twitching up into your fist. “Don’t tease me too much tonight, I’m already—”
“Shh. I’ve got you.”
You pushed him back until he was lying down, then stripped the rest of his clothes off, followed by your own. Climbing back on top, you rubbed yourself along his length, coating him in your wetness. Rafe’s hands fisted the sheets, eyes fixed on where your bodies were almost joined.
“Please,” he whispered, voice cracking just a little. It was rare to hear him like this—needy, unguarded, completely at your mercy—and it made you ache.
You sank down onto him inch by inch, both of you moaning softly. Once he was fully inside, you stayed still for a moment, just feeling him throb, and leaned forward to kiss him again. Sweet, lingering kisses while you started rolling your hips in slow, deep circles.
Rafe’s head fell back, exposing the long line of his throat. “Fuck… you’re so warm. So tight. I love when you ride me like this.”
You smiled, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “Yeah? You like letting me use you after you’ve been such a good boy all day?”
He nodded frantically, hands sliding up to rest on your hips—not guiding, just holding on. You kept the pace languid and playful, grinding down every time he bottomed out, occasionally leaning down to suck little marks onto his chest and shoulders. Every soft moan and whimper he gave you was gold.
When you sat up again and started bouncing a little faster, his eyes fluttered shut.
“Look at me, baby,” you coaxed.
He did, gaze glassy and adoring. “Gonna cum soon if you keep doing that… feels too good.”
“Not yet,” you teased lightly, slowing down again until he was whining beneath you, hips chasing yours. “Want to play a little longer. You can hold it for me, can’t you?”
Rafe nodded, biting his lip hard. “I can… I will. For you.”
You rewarded him by reaching down to rub your clit while still moving on his cock, letting him watch. His breaths came quicker, chest rising and falling, but he stayed perfectly obedient, letting you set the pace.
Eventually you took pity on him, leaning down to kiss him messily as you rode him harder.
“Cum with me,” you whispered against his mouth.
Rafe’s arms wrapped around your back, holding you close as he finally let go—thick, warm pulses deep inside you while he moaned your name like a prayer. The feeling pushed you over the edge right after him, trembling on top of him as pleasure washed through you in soft, rolling waves.
You stayed like that for a long time afterward, still connected, trading lazy kisses and gentle touches. Rafe’s hands stroked up and down your spine, his voice sleepy and content when he finally spoke.
“Love you spoiling me sometimes too,” he admitted quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Especially after a day like today.”
You smiled, nuzzling into his neck. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done taking care of my tired boxer tonight.”
pairing – husband!rafe cameron x wife!reader
summary – rafe comes home from a business trip to find his teenage son drunk in the kitchen, his youngest waiting upstairs, and his wife barely holding the house together in one of his shirts.
warnings – teen drinking, underage alcohol use, drunk behaviour, stealing/taking a boat, parental discipline, family tension, swearing.
notes from me – that's dada!!!!!!! as requested, thank u babe!! 💌
word count – 4.6k
navigation – masterlist |
By the time Rafe gets home, the kitchen has become one of those bright, ridiculous domestic crime scenes that only happen after midnight in expensive houses with too many windows.
The island is scattered with the evidence of four separate lives and none of them peaceful: Lila’s purple marker uncapped beside a half-finished drawing of something that might be a mermaid or might be arson.
Marlowe’s water bottle abandoned on its side with a sticker peeling off the lid, a stack of mail Rafe would absolutely pretend to understand and then quietly hand back to her, and Banks Cameron standing under the pendant lights with glassy eyes, damp hair, and the loose, self-satisfied sway of a boy who hasn’t yet realised how close he is to death.
Not actual death. Probably.
But the maternal version. The version where his mother stands barefoot on the cool tile in sleep shorts and one of Rafe’s old button-downs, hair twisted up badly at the back of her head, one hand planted on her hip while the other points at him with the kind of precision that has been built, brick by brick.
Built over four days of solo parenting, a delayed grocery order, one school email containing the words behavioural reflection, and now her sixteen-year-old son sneaking home drunk through the side door like the whole house wasn’t basically designed by paranoid rich people who loved glass too much.
“Do not laugh at me,” she says, low and sharp enough that even the fridge seems to mind its business.
Banks presses his lips together. His shoulders shake once.
Her eyes narrow. “Banks.”
“I’m not,” he says, which would be more convincing if the words didn’t come out rounded and wet around a laugh. He lifts one hand, palm out, all sloppy innocence and inherited audacity. “I’m not laughing. Sorry, Mom.”
“You’re absolutely laughing.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re drunk.”
He blinks at her very seriously, like this is an important legal distinction and he's about to represent himself poorly in court. “I can be sorry and drunk.”
The terrible thing is that he sounds exactly like Rafe when Rafe is wrong and still thinks charm might drag the body out of the water before anyone notices the crime.
Same blue eyes gone too bright under the kitchen lights, same unfair mouth trying to hide a grin, same broad-shouldered Cameron posture beginning to happen in him like bad genetic weather.
He’s still soft in places Rafe was never allowed to be at sixteen, still boyish around the jaw and long in the limbs, but there are moments where she looks at her son and sees the precise shape of the man she has loved since high school arriving in fragments: the pride first, the deflection second, the fear buried so far down he may not even know where he put it.
And tonight, because she’s tired and Rafe has been gone for four days and Lila cried at bedtime because Daddy always does the second voice in her dinosaur book wrong but better, it does not move her into tenderness. It moves her toward violence.
“You took the boat,” she says.
Banks’ face changes just enough to tell on him before his mouth can lie.
She exhales through her nose. “Unbelievable.”
“I didn’t take it far.”
“Oh, okay. Thank God. You only stole your father’s boat a little bit while drunk.”
“I wasn’t drunk when we went out.”
Her eyebrows lift.
His gaze drops to the counter. “Ish.”
“Ish,” she repeats, and the word comes out so calm it should scare him. It doesn’t scare him enough, because he’s sixteen and male and temporarily possessed by whatever evolutionary defect makes teenage boys believe consequences are a rumour invented by mothers. “You are standing in my kitchen at twelve-thirty in the morning smelling like beer, lying badly, and trying not to laugh while I speak to you. Do you understand how much trouble you’re in?”
Banks nods, too fast and not sober enough to make it respectful. “Yeah. Yep. Totally.”
“Don’t yep me.”
“Sorry, Mom.”
There it is again. The laugh tucked behind the apology. Small. Stupid. Careless in the way teenagers are careless when they’re too loved to understand yet that care has weight.
Her jaw tightens. Something hot climbs the back of her neck, gathering under the loose collar of Rafe’s shirt, and she feels suddenly, dangerously close to becoming the kind of mother who says things like I am not one of your little friends, which is devastating because she’s always considered herself too self-aware for that and also because it would be true.
Then, from the front of the house, the lock clicks. The soft mechanical turn of the front door opening into the cool dark hallway, followed by the low thud of a suitcase wheel catching over the threshold and one tiny, ecstatic gasp from somewhere upstairs that proves Lila Cameron has either been pretending to sleep or was born with sonar specifically tuned to her father.
“Daddy!”
Banks goes still.
It’s immediate. Beautiful, actually. Horrifyingly satisfying. One second he’s loose and drunk and grinning at his mother like he’s negotiating a parking fine; the next, his spine straightens so fast he nearly looks sober.
His eyes flick to the hallway, then back to her, and for the first time all night there is real awareness in them. Not guilt. Not yet. Survival.
She shouldn’t enjoy it as much as she does.
From the stairs comes the sound of small feet hitting wood at a speed that will one day end in urgent care, then Rafe’s voice, rough from travel and smiling through exhaustion. “Hey, hey, slow down– Jesus, Lila.”
A tiny shriek. A deep grunt.
Then Rafe again, closer now, laughing under his breath as he catches their youngest daughter somewhere near the bottom of the stairs. “There she is. C’mere, baby girl.”
Her body reacts to his voice before her brain has finished resenting everything else. It always has, which is frankly embarrassing after this many years and three children.
Some soft, tired part of her loosens toward the hallway, toward the low scrape of his shoes, the familiar weight of him moving through their house.
Relief hits first, warm behind her ribs and low in her stomach. Then the smaller, less noble flicker of panic over how much he heard. Then, because she’s learned nothing from building an entire life with a man who still looks like trouble with a mortgage, something far worse and lower when he walks into the kitchen with Lila on his hip.
Rafe Cameron has no right looking like that after a business trip.
He’s still in his button-up from the flight, white with a thin blue stripe, the top button undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows because he knows. He has to know.
There’s no other explanation for the forearms, for the watch, for the faint crease at his waist where he’s been sitting too long, for the buzz cut making every line of his face sharper under the kitchen lights.
He looks tired in a way that only makes him more unfair, mouth slightly rough from the plane, jaw shadowed, eyes cutting across the room with the kind of focus that can still make her stomach drop even when there’s a six-year-old attached to him in unicorn pyjamas and one sparkly sock.
Lila has both arms locked around his neck and her face pressed to his cheek like she’s trying to absorb him through contact. “I waited for you,” she announces, loud and proud and absolutely incriminating.
“Yeah, I see that,” Rafe murmurs, kissing her cheek once, then again when she giggles and shoves at his face.
His eyes flick to his wife first. Always first. A fast, dragging look that takes in her bare legs, his shirt on her body, her tired mouth, the tightness in her shoulders. Something in his face shifts, almost imperceptible. Then his gaze moves to Banks.
The air changes. Rafe doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. He just looks at his son, and all the warmth that had been wrapped around Lila stays there, held carefully against her little back, while everything else in him goes still and cold and awake.
Banks swallows.
Rafe kisses Lila’s temple, eyes never leaving him. “Go to your room, baby girl.”
Lila pulls back immediately, offended. “But you just got home.”
“I know.” His voice softens for her without weakening. It does something horrible to her chest, the way he can split himself like that now, the way fatherhood hasn’t made him gentle so much as more controlled about where the sharp parts land. “I’ll come say goodnight in a minute. Gotta talk to your brother.”
Lila looks at Banks, who’s standing by the island like a drunk little defendant. Her nose scrunches. “Is Banks in trouble?”
“Yep,” Rafe says.
Banks mutters, “Thanks.”
Rafe’s eyes cut to him. Banks shuts up.
Lila, being six and therefore a violent little opportunist, kisses Rafe’s cheek with great ceremony before he sets her down. “He smells like outside,” she whispers, not quietly.
Their mother presses her lips together.
Banks closes his eyes.
Rafe gives one short breath that might have become a laugh in another room, another night, with fewer felonies. “Room, Lila.”
“Are you gonna do my story?”
“In a minute.”
“Promise?”
Rafe crouches enough to fix the twisted hem of her pyjama top where it has ridden up under her arm. Even with the anger held in him, his hands are careful. Ridiculously careful. He smooths the fabric down, taps two fingers beneath her chin, and says, “Go.”
She goes, but only after one suspicious look at Banks and a skipping little run out of the kitchen, like she isn’t leaving behind a scene with the emotional temperature of a gas leak.
For a second, nobody says anything. The house holds around them. Somewhere upstairs, Lila’s door clicks. The fridge hums. Outside, beyond the dark glass, the pool lights ripple blue over the patio and the humid night leans against the windows.
Rafe sets his phone and keys on the counter with too much control. His suitcase remains abandoned in the hall.
Then he looks at Banks fully. “What’d you say to your mother?”
Banks’ mouth opens. “I didn’t–”
Rafe’s chin lowers a fraction. “Try again.”
She watches their son work through three separate versions of denial and abandon all of them because, drunk or not, he knows his father. Knows that tone. Knows the precise danger of Rafe calm.
It’s one thing to be yelled at by his mother, who loves him with her whole exhausted body and will still make him eggs in the morning if he looks pale enough.
It’s another thing entirely to stand in front of Rafe Cameron after midnight, smelling like beer and boat fuel, while Rafe has just come home from four days away to find him disrespecting the person Rafe has spent most of his adult life orbiting like a badly behaved planet.
“I was just–” Banks starts, then stops when Rafe’s eyes narrow. He drags a hand through his hair, making it worse. “I was being stupid.”
“Yeah,” Rafe says. “I got that.”
“Rafe,” she says quietly, because she can feel it in the room now, his temper pulling tight beneath the shirt, beneath the rolled sleeves, beneath all the years of trying not to become his father and all the years of sometimes sounding like him anyway.
He glances at her. A brief, grounding look, like her voice puts a hand somewhere inside him. Then he looks back at Banks.
“You can be stupid,” Rafe says, low. “You’re sixteen. You’re gonna be stupid. You can sneak out, and you can lie badly, and you can get drunk with your little friends like every other idiot kid on this island.”
Banks’ jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move.
“But you will never,” Rafe continues, each word placed with frightening care, “stand in this kitchen and laugh in your mother’s face while she’s talking to you. You understand me?”
Banks nods.
Rafe’s expression does not change. “Use your mouth.”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
Banks’ throat moves. “Yes, sir.”
His wife feels it move through her, which is unfair and frankly inconvenient given the current disciplinary context. The low tone. The rolled sleeves.
The sheer exhausted authority of him standing in their kitchen, furious because he heard enough, careful because the boy in front of him is theirs, protective because there has never been a universe where Rafe knows how to love her quietly. Her body warms under his shirt, a traitor in cotton.
Rafe breathes out through his nose. “You took the boat?”
Banks looks at his mother.
“Don’t look at her,” Rafe says. “Look at me.”
Banks looks back. “Yeah.”
“Were you drinking before you took it out?”
A pause.
Rafe smiles, but it has no humour in it. “Careful.”
Banks’ face flickers. Younger suddenly. “A little.”
She closes her eyes for half a second. Rafe goes very still.
That’s worse than yelling. Banks seems to know it too, because his shoulders lose some of their drunk looseness at last. The kitchen lights catch on his face, and beneath the beer and bravado, he looks scared now.
Rafe steps closer, not crowding but near enough that Banks has to tilt his head up slightly. “You ever do that again,” he says, “you won’t touch that boat, my truck, your car, or anything with a key until you’re thirty.”
Banks nods quickly. “Okay.”
“I’m not done.”
“Sorry.”
“Stop apologising to make people stop talking.”
That lands. Their son’s eyes flicker. Rafe sees it and, for one strange second, the room folds backward. She can see him at sixteen, at seventeen, at twenty-one, all sharp elbows and swallowed panic, saying sorry like a door slam, sorry like a weapon, sorry like a receipt he could hand someone so they’d stop holding up the wound. His mouth tightens once before he continues.
“You scared your mother,” he says, rougher now. “You put yourself in danger. You put your friends in danger. And then you came in here and acted like she was annoying you by caring whether you made it home alive.”
Banks looks down.
“No,” Rafe says.
His eyes come up again, wet and angry in that teenage way that means humiliation and fear are fighting over the same chair. “I know. I’m sorry.”
This one sounds different. Smaller. Better.
Rafe holds his gaze another second, then nods once toward the back door. “Go get water from the outside fridge.”
Banks stops, then recalibrates with the visible desperation of a drunk teenager choosing life. “I mean– yes, sir.”
“And before that,” Rafe says, “apologise to your mother properly.”
Banks turns to her.
The change in him almost breaks her. Enough that the tight thing around her ribs loosens by one painful notch. He looks like Rafe and not like Rafe at all. Tall, messy, drunk, ashamed, still with a softness around the mouth that was his before the world got to him.
Her baby, horribly. Her ridiculous, six-foot, beer-smelling baby.
“Sorry, Mom,” he says, and this time the words come without the smirk. “I was being a dick. I love you.”
She stares at him for one second too long because she wants to stay angry cleanly and motherhood never lets anything be clean. Then she lifts her chin. “I love you too. I’m still furious.”
“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Fair.”
He comes around the island and bends to kiss her cheek, awkward and quick and smelling like salt air, beer, and the expensive shampoo he steals from Rafe’s shower because apparently no man in this house can respect ownership as a concept.
Her hand catches briefly at his elbow before he pulls away. A tiny squeeze. He squeezes back, barely, then wanders toward the back door with the tragic dignity of a boy headed to scrub consequences off teak flooring.
Rafe waits until the door slides shut behind him. Then she exhales so hard her whole body bends with it.
The silence he leaves behind is huge for half a second, stretching through the kitchen, over the spilled shapes of their life on the island, across the mail and the marker and the cold cup of tea she forgot to drink three hours ago.
Rafe stands where Banks left him, shoulders still tight, jaw still working, eyes on the back door as their son disappears toward the boat dock.
She looks at him. Really looks now that the immediate crisis has gone outside with a water bottle and a hangover still under construction.
The sleeves are still rolled. The buzz cut is still unfair. His face is tired, older than the boy who used to pull up outside her parents’ house in high school with too much cologne and not enough emotional regulation, but not less beautiful in any useful way. Worse, maybe.
More dangerous to her specifically because every line in him now has history attached. The faint crease between his brows from years of bills and business and children and loving badly, then better.
The hard set of his mouth that softens only when he forgets to guard it. The biceps under the cotton because God and airport lighting had both been committed to her personal ruin.
“Hi, honey,” she says softy.
Rafe’s eyes come to her. Whatever was left of his anger changes shape so fast it almost makes her dizzy. It doesn’t vanish. Rafe isn’t a man anger leaves politely. It just moves aside for her, making room for the thing underneath it.
Relief. Want. The exhausted, private ache of coming home and finding her still there, barefoot in his shirt, holding the whole house together with her teeth.
“Hi, baby,” he says.
That’s all it takes.
She crosses the kitchen like her body has been waiting for permission and pushes up onto her toes, arms sliding around his shoulders. Rafe catches her immediately. One arm locks around her waist, the other spreads hot and broad across her back, pulling her into him with a force that makes the breath leave her in a small, relieved sound she will later deny if questioned by anyone with legal authority.
He buries his face in her neck. For a second, he just breathes her in. His nose presses beneath her jaw, his mouth warm against the side of her throat, and his hands tighten at her waist like he’s checking something. Like four days away have left him with some private, irrational suspicion that she might have evaporated in his absence, replaced by laundry and children and the kind of competence that scares him because it proves she can survive without him even though he would strongly prefer the universe not explore that option.
Her fingers slide over the back of his buzzed head, then down to his neck. “Rough flight?”
“Long,” he murmurs into her skin. “Missed you.”
Her eyes close. The kitchen is still too bright. Her son is outside cleaning a boat as penance. Their youngest is upstairs waiting for dinosaur voices. Their middle child is asleep at Sarah’s, probably sprawled diagonal in a guest bed like she pays property tax. There’s nothing sexy about this moment except her husband, unfortunately, has never needed conditions to be ideal to ruin her.
“I’m so glad you’re home,” she says.
Rafe’s mouth moves against her neck. Not quite a kiss yet. Almost worse. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
His hand slides higher up her back, bunching the loose fabric of his shirt. “House still standing.”
“Barely.”
“Kids alive.”
“Also barely.”
He huffs once, and the warmth of it hits her throat. “Banks drunk?”
“Very.”
“Took the boat?”
“Apparently only a little.”
Rafe lifts his head enough to look at her, eyebrows raised.
“I know,” she says. “I nearly became my mother.”
His mouth curves, tired and mean and fond in the way that still makes her stomach flip after all these years. “You’d be hot as your mother.”
“Do not ever say that to me again.”
“What?” His grin deepens. “You’d be hot.”
“I’m ignoring you.”
“No, you’re not.”
She isn’t. Obviously. She has never successfully ignored him a day in her life, not in high school when he used to lean against her locker like an expensive warning sign, not in college when they broke up for three months and she still knew exactly when he entered a party by the shift in her own bloodstream, and certainly not now, married with three children and a mortgage and a teenage son outside reenacting several of Rafe’s worst instincts with worse alcohol tolerance.
Rafe’s gaze drops to her mouth.
Her grip tightens around his shoulders. “Marlowe’s at Sarah’s.”
He nods slowly, like this information has been placed into a private and immediately inappropriate filing system. “Yeah?”
“Sleepover.”
“Mm.”
“Don’t mm me like that. Your six-year-old is awake upstairs.”
“Our six-year-old,” he corrects, already leaning in.
“She adores you and has terrible boundaries.”
“Gets that from you.”
“I have excellent boundaries.”
“You married me.”
“That was charity.”
His laugh is low against her mouth. “Yeah? Feeling generous?”
She answers by kissing him.
It starts sweet, or close enough. The kind of kiss that belongs to the front end of a reunion, the relieved press of mouths after days of bad hotel pillows and solo bedtime routines and phone calls cut short because one of the kids was crying or someone in Charleston needed Rafe to pretend not to be angry in a conference room.
His lips are warm and a little dry from travel. His hand comes to her jaw, thumb settling just beneath her cheekbone with that steady pressure that still makes the world narrow, and when she opens for him, his whole body pulls tighter around hers.
The kiss deepens hard enough to make her fingers curl into the back of his shirt. Rafe steps her back into the island without looking, his other hand low at her waist, fitting her against him like he has been thinking about exactly this in airport lounges and rental cars and whatever polished hotel room he slept badly in without her.
The edge of the counter presses into her lower back. Somewhere outside, a hose turns on, then Banks swears faintly at the dock, which should make this less hot and doesn’t, because marriage is an illness.
Rafe smiles against her mouth when she makes a sound.
“Missed you so much,” he says, low and rough, the words scraped into the kiss rather than set apart from it.
She nods, because talking would require more dignity than she currently has available. “Missed you more.”
“No.”
She laughs into his mouth. “Competitive freak.”
“About you?” His thumb drags along her jaw, tilting her face higher. His eyes are dark now, still blue but nearly swallowed by the kitchen light and whatever he’s been carrying home for her across state lines. “Always.”
Her stomach goes warm and loose. “That was almost romantic.”
“Almost?”
“You were doing so well.”
“I’ll try harder.”
He kisses her again, and this one is worse. Slower. Deeper. His hand on her jaw, his body pressing closer, the familiar shape of him pinning her lightly to the island while her toes lift off the tile for half a second.
She feels the hard line of his watch against her back, the heat of his palm through the shirt, the little groan he tries to swallow when she bites softly at his bottom lip because she knows him and his restraint and exactly where both start to come apart.
Then, from upstairs, Lila yells, “DADDY, WHERE ARE YOU?”
They freeze.
For half a second, neither of them moves. Rafe’s forehead rests against hers. Her mouth is still open beneath his. His breath comes out rough and amused, and then she starts laughing, quiet and helpless.
Rafe’s mouth twitches against hers. “Coming, baby girl!”
“NOW?”
He closes his eyes. “Yeah. Now.”
She laughs harder, and he kisses the corner of her mouth once like he can’t help it, then the other corner, then her lips properly but too quick to count as anything satisfying.
“We’ll pick that up later,” he murmurs.
She hooks two fingers in his collar before he can pull away entirely. “Promise?”
His eyes drop to her mouth, then lift again with the kind of look that makes her deeply grateful their oldest child is outside and their middle child is elsewhere and their youngest has the patience of a lit match.
“Baby,” he says, voice low enough to land under her skin, “I’ve been thinking about that since I left.”
Her breath catches. “Go read the dinosaur book.”
Rafe grins, awful and bright and tired around the edges. “Bossy.”
“You love it.”
His face softens so quickly it almost hurts. He kisses her once more, softer this time, like even now, even with Lila beginning to chant daddy from upstairs and Banks probably spraying himself in the face with a hose outside, he has to put the love somewhere before he leaves her.
“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”
Then he steps back, dragging his hand from her waist like it takes effort, and starts for the stairs.
Halfway to the hall, he turns around. “Hey.”
She lifts her brows.
His eyes move over her again, slower this time, lingering on his shirt hanging loose off one shoulder, the tired set of her mouth, the bare legs, the whole unruly shape of the life he came home to and still looks at like he cannot believe he gets to touch it.
“You look ridiculous in my shirt,” he says.
She smiles. “That means hot, right?”
His grin cuts sideways. “Stupidly hot.”
Warmth blooms low in her stomach, pleased and familiar and still somehow girlish after all this time. “Go upstairs, Mr. Cameron.”
“Yeah,” he says, backing toward the stairs, eyes still on her. “Don’t go anywhere, Mrs. Cameron.”
She looks around the kitchen – at the markers, the mail, the cold tea, the open back door, the damp footprints Banks has left on the tile, the whole beautiful disaster of what they’ve made together – and then back at him.
“Where would I go?”
Rafe doesn’t answer right away. His smile shifts, something quieter slipping through the heat and humour and fatigue. Something almost young. Almost wounded. Almost the boy who used to ask impossible things badly and the man who still sometimes does.
Then Lila yells, “DADDY!”
He looks toward the stairs and exhales. “Jesus Christ.”
“Your favourite child calls.”
“They’re all my favourite.”
“That’s not true.”
“No,” he says, already heading up, “but it sounds good.”
She laughs, and from the stairs he glances back once more, catching the sound like it belongs to him. Outside, Banks curses again under his breath and the hose clatters against the dock. Upstairs, Lila launches into a detailed complaint about dinosaurs waiting. And in the bright, messy kitchen, with Rafe home and the house loud around her again, she finally lets her shoulders drop.
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Summary: Basically, the idea of scouting stiles out when you guys were all weird little freshmen—him being the weirdest—and being able to brag about it senior year after your boyfriend had gotten hot over the years.
WC: 1.2k
Freshman Year
A month into freshman year, you had a nice big catalogue of friends. You were generally a friendly, often shy, but funny person and it attracted all different kinds of people to you. So yes, you were friends with Lydia Martin and her gang of mean girls—although you wished they weren’t so crude—as well as Stiles Stilinski with his nerdy obsession in sci-fi and insane intelligence.
Stiles offered to help you with your math homework, seeing as you were already getting less than satisfactory grades in the class, and you agreed to come over after school. Stiles, sweet, adorable, oblivious Stiles never caught the way you’d smile just for him and lean forward him and twirl your hair girlishly. But as you walked over to your lunch table after saying bye to Stiles, you knew that Lydia did.
The table was silent and everyone was looking at you as you began eating your home packed lunch.
“Uhm..what?..” you hoped it wasn’t another comment about how your sandwich didn’t have enough protein and your dessert had too much sugar.
Lydia, the ring leader, cleared her throat. “Uhm. That.” She mocked as she pointed over to where you were just sitting. “That is a no-no. That is social suicide.” She scolded you, agitated at her friend for risking her reputation.
“What?.. Stiles?.. He’s my friend.” You shrugged, trying your hardest not to roll your eyes. Lydia could mean well sometimes—really! Other times, she could kind of be a bitch.
She flinched at the word friend. “Lower your voice!” She whisper-yelled. “Look, the little shy sweetheart thing you’ve got going on is cute. It’s a good look. But don’t push it. Whatever that is, is gonna leave you surrounded with nothing but incense virgins who’ll try to get you to call them ‘overlord’.” She deadpanned. She could be a little dramatic at times.
“I think he’s kinda cute.” You shrugged. You knew Lydia wouldn’t kick you out, even if you were pushing her limits. From around the table sounded a bunch of Ewww’s and yuck! and As if..
“That’s like saying a naked mole rat is cute.” One girl commented.
“You may as well go kiss the gum beneath the desk.” Another rolled her eyes.
“Hey! That’s mean. He’s a good person! He may not be..conventionally attractive but he’s sweet and really smart! And..yeah..he’s cute with his little freckles and his little snaggle tooth..and he’s still growing! Watch, he’s only gonna get cuter.” You ranted about how adorable you found the social reject of the school.
“Keep dreaming, lover girl. While you’re at it, keep those..odd little dreams to yourself.” Lydia rolled her eyes and moved on from the topic. But you knew you were right. Stiles was precious now. He could only get cuter!
Senior Year
Everyone was preparing for graduation, and part of that was all the grad parties. People knew everyone would be busy with work or college stuff or more grad parties after graduation, so some of them were having their parties early.
Your friend group had been through a lot but in return, had grown so much closer. You and Stiles specifically had grown the closest. You’d always liked him, always found his sarcasm funny, his intelligence astonishing, and his loyalty endearing. Yes, he’s cute, but you always knew that, it was his personality that brought you closer. But maybe you were too busy fighting literal demons to notice that you were wrong. Stiles did not get cuter. He got hotter.
You all ended up at one of your friend’s grad parties. She invited you, Lydia, and Scott. But you weren’t gonna go without Stiles and the rest of your friends. You were sitting on the couch with Stiles while you were trying to convince him to have one drink with you. You promised him you’d mix your own drinks and watch them carefully—he had some odd phobia of getting roofied—which wasn’t unreasonable but kind of random considering all the other things you’d go through.
But he agreed, so you pressed a grateful kiss to his cheek and got up to grab a couple drinks for you guys. When you walked into the kitchen, you were ambushed by your old group of friends, the girls you and Lydia used to hang out with. Before you could even look at a drink they rushed you with questions.
“Woah, who’s that you were sitting with?”
“You have a boyfriend?”
“What’s his name?”
“He’s kinda cute!”
“He’s kinda hot in like a nerdy way..”
“Like Matthew Grey Gubler!”
“Exactly!”
They commented and conversed more at you than with you. All you could do was laugh. “Guys that’s Stiles!” You tried to remind them.
They looked at you with blank faces.
“Stiles..Stilinski..” Nothing. “Y’know the nerdy guy I used to follow around all the time..”
“Not ringing a bell..” One girl commented.
You sighed. “Buzzcut Bart.” You deadpanned.
“OH!” They all realized at once. They used to give everyone in the class nicknames instead of calling them their real names. “Oh..”
They continued to realize. “That can’t be him, he was like..yay big..” one girl gestured to the height of a nearby chair.
“Yeah and he like… had a buzzcut..right?..” another commented. You laughed at their shock.
“Remember? I had a crush on him freshman year and you all called me crazy.” You called them out on the way they all seemingly switched up now. Though you had to admit—you’d always loved him, but he definitely got hotter, and even if he didn’t realize it. He gained more confidence from simply growing and maturing. It looked so good on him.
He laughed with Scott on the couch, his hair effortlessly falling just right over his forehead in all directions, shaggy and somehow perfect. He was sporting that same teasing smirk that showed off his sharp canine teeth and made him look dangerous. He leaned comfortably back against the couch, his legs spread out in a confident manspread. Every so often, he would shift, his hips rising for a moment, his jeans tenting for just a second every time. It makes you weak in the knees. And all the girls in the kitchen were basically drooling.
“Did you say he’s dating anyone?..” one girl asked in a daze. The other girls turned to her with an irritated gaze. You just laughed and walked back over to the couch with your drinks. You sat back down right next to him, his strong arm immediately moving to rest around you as he took his drink from your hand.
He noticed the giddy, smug smirk on your face—he noticed everything about you. “What’s up with that look on your face?” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at you.
“Nothing..” you shrugged.
“You look like Catwoman after she escapes Batman.”
“More like Catwoman when she catches Batman.”
“What..the hell does that mean.”
“Just never forget. I saw the vision.” You took hold of him with a serious look on your face.
“What are..you're making 0 sense right now..” he was so adorably confused.
“Shhhh..just sit there and look pretty.” He blushed at the compliment but laughed anyway.
“You are so odd..” he said, completely endeared, pressing a kiss to the side of your head.
When did you get hot?
A/N: All I can think about is in the beginning it kinda reminds me of the sound on tiktok like “please like..he’s my friend..”
so the dolan twins posted a short film yes? they’re both in business suits and looking very nice but i watched it immediately after playing lego batman and all i can think of is clark and bruce! ethan and grayson
now i don’t know enough about the twins to assign them but i can’t stop thinking about this
. ۫ ꣑ৎ . loser stiles and his out-of-his-league pretty girlfriend.
pairing: stiles stilinski x fem!reader.
summary: when stiles finally asks you to be his girlfriend and you say yes, he can’t believe it —and he’s not the only one. you two come in very different fonts. but, you’re so quick to prove him and his self-deprecation that you like him, fully and shamelessly.
warnings: used of y/n… im sorry. a little fluff? reader being a menace and the end of stiles life (in a good way).
a/n: i tried my best to be funny and make it a little longer. a mother needs to feed her kids. based on this req <3
stiles stilinski had spent a solid seven-teen years being a complete and utter dork. a nerd. a disaster in human form. the kind of guy who could tell you, unprompted, that the fear of long words is called hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia but somehow still couldn’t spell “necessary” on the first try.
he was the guy who tripped over air, made obscure pop culture references no one asked for, and had a deeply unhealthy relationship with sarcasm.
so, naturally, when you—actual goddess, the prettiest face in beacon hills, social butterfly extraordinaire—agreed to date him, stiles was convinced he was being pranked.
“she said yes,” he had told scott the night it happened, voice shaking, hands gripping his best friend’s shoulders like he was trying to transfer the shock through sheer physical contact. “she said yes. to me. like, willingly. no coercion. no hostage situation. just… yes.”
scott, ever the supportive best friend, blinked at him. “huh.”
“what do you mean huh?”
“I just—” he rubbed the back of his neck, looking way too amused. “I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but… dude, that’s y/n.”
exactly.
you weren’t just popular. you are the cool kind of popular. the kind that made people want to be around you instead of just tolerating your presence because of high school hierarchy rules.
you had this effortless confidence, this ability to make everyone feel like they belonged—even stiles, who had spent most of his life on the outskirts of social normalcy.
you are the type of person who could go from hanging out with the lacrosse team and his girlfriends to sitting with the theater kids in the same day, and everyone would be happy to have you there. people gravitated towards you.
meanwhile, stiles had spent most of freshman year trying to convince people that his name was, in fact, not short for “stilton” like the cheese.
It didn’t make sense. and yet, somehow, here they were.
dating you was like winning the lottery, except instead of money, stiles got the incomprehensible love and affection of a literal angel.
which was great.
except for the fact that he had no idea how to be cool enough to keep up with you.
“you’re overthinking it,” you told him one day as you sat in your car, legs propped up on the dashboard.
you laughed, and god, that laugh. It was the kind of sound that made people pause, made them turn their heads just to see what could possibly be so funny.
“okay, fine,” you said. “then tell me. what’s running through that giant brain of yours right now?”
stiles exhaled dramatically. “alright, let’s start with the obvious. I am a disaster. you are not a disaster. explain.”
you tilted your head, amused. “you really don’t see it, do you?”
“see what?”
you smirked, leaning in a little closer. “you’re kind of amazing, stiles.”
he blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
“you make me laugh,” you continued, like you hadn’t just dropped a bomb on his entire worldview. “like, really laugh. you make things interesting. and you care so much about the people around you. I like that.”
stiles stared at you, brain officially malfunctioning. “uh. are you… are you sure you’re not under some kind of supernatural influence?”
you rolled your eyes, shoving his shoulder playfully. “just shut up?”
and just like that, he realized something insane. you actually liked him.
not just in a “haha, he’s fun to have around” way. not in a “pity date” way. not even in a “this is a temporary thing before I move on to someone more worthy” way.
you liked him. dorkiness, sarcasm, ADHD-riddled brain and all.
maybe he wasn’t as out of your league as he thought.
still, he spent the next few weeks in a state of perpetual disbelief.
he kept waiting for the moment where you would realize you had made a grave mistake and move on to someone who, well… had the ability to walk in a straight line without tripping over absolutely nothing.
but you didn’t.
In fact, you made it very clear that you were, for some ungodly reason, into him.
like, full-on, public displays of affection into him.
which was insane.
because now, not only did stiles have to deal with his own confusion, but also the confusion of literally everyone else at beacon hills high.
It started with a completely normal lunch. stiles, scott, lydia, and you were all sitting together, as usual, while he rattled off some extremely important information about why the original ‘star wars’ trilogy was superior to the prequels.
“you just have to accept that Jar Jar Binks was a crime against cinema,” stiles was saying, mid-rant, when he felt a hand casually slip into his.
he froze.
the table went silent.
you, completely unbothered, just kept eating your fries, fingers lazily intertwined with his.
scott immediately stopped chewing. lydia raised an eyebrow. somewhere behind them, he was pretty sure he heard jackson choke on his drink.
stiles, being the mature and composed individual that he was, blurted out, “are you—did you—was that on purpose?”
you gave him a deadpan look. “no, stiles, my hand just accidentally fell into yours.”
scott made a choked sound that was very unhelpful.
“I just—” stiles floundered. “you’re—you want to hold my hand? In front of people?”
you smirked. “what, do you want me to sign a permission slip first?”
lydia rolled her eyes. “stiles, stop acting like you just won the lottery.”
“but I did,” he said, eyes still wide. “this is like if someone found bigfoot, but instead of running away, bigfoot started dating them.”
you snorted and leaned closer, whispering, “you’re an idiot.”
and then—just to completely obliterate stiles’s ability to function—you kissed his cheek.
the cafeteria erupted.
all right, maybe “erupted” was an exaggeration. but scott definitely lost all ability to contain himself, because he burst into uncontrollable laughter, clapping stiles on the back so hard he nearly faceplanted into his lunch tray.
jackson muttered something about how the world was officially broken.
and lydia? lydia just sipped her drink and said, “honestly, this might be the funniest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
stiles, meanwhile, was still sitting there, trying to process the fact that you had just kissed him in front of the entire student body.
“okay,” he breathed. “alright. cool. totally fine.”
you squeezed his hand. “you’re so lucky I can keep up with you.”
“I strongly agree.”
scott shook his head, grinning. “dude. just take the win.”
yeah.
maybe he should.
────୨ৎ────
now stiles had zero business being on the lacrosse team. he was only there because coach finstock occasionally needed a warm body to throw onto the field, and also because scott insisted that he “needed to be included in the team dynamic.”
that was stupid, because stiles was about as useful on the field as a drunk giraffe.
still, here he was, suited up, trying his best to not die.
you were sitting in the stands, chatting with some of the other girls on the cheer squad, but every so often, he caught you watching him.
why on earth would you be looking at him when there were actual athletes running around?
at some point, coach finstock (in a moment of pure insanity) decided to sub stiles in.
naturally, it went horribly.
he got knocked over in under a minute.
hard.
like, wind knocked out of him, stars in his vision hard.
by the time he sat up, still gasping for breath, he vaguely registered that someone was calling his name.
then, suddenly, you were there, pushing past some of the other students on the sidelines, crouching next to him.
“oh my god, are you okay?” you asked, eyes scanning him for any visible injuries.
“you,” stiles wheezed. “just—taking a quick—dirt nap.”
you sighed, shaking your head. “you really shouldn’t be allowed to play this sport.”
“tell that to coach crazy over there,” he muttered.
you rolled your eyes, then—without warning—cupped his face and kissed him.
right there.
on the field.
In front of everyone.
stiles was pretty sure his soul left his body.
by the time you pulled away, he was definitely malfunctioning.
“god,” he managed.
you smirked, brushing some dirt off his jersey. “maybe if I keep doing that, you’ll actually start scoring points.”
scott, who had jogged over at some point, burst out laughing, —again.
“please don’t encourage him,” he told you.
you just shrugged, standing up. “what can I say? I like an underdog.”
stiles, still staring into the middle distance, finally processed what had just happened.
then, very calmly, he said:
“I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m definitely not complaining.”
────୨ৎ────
stiles finally gets it. he gets you.
It took three months of dating before stiles finally stopped expecting you to give up on him.
because the truth was, you could.
but for some ridiculous, unexplainable reason—
you didn’t want to.
and maybe, just maybe, that was the best part of all.
stiles stilinski had exactly one defense mechanism when faced with overwhelming emotional stimuli:
panic.
pure, unfiltered, high-octane panic.
and you?
you loved it.
you lived for it.
In fact, stiles was about 80% sure that her actual favorite hobby—above reading, music, and being generally awesome—was finding new and creative ways to make him short-circuit.
your weapon of choice?
kissing him.
at random.
without warning.
In the most inconvenient and socially inappropriate moments possible.
────୨ৎ────
stiles was already having a rough day.
coach had made him run extra laps for “being a distraction” (which was not fair, because technically speaking, it was danny who had laughed first).
so there he was, post-practice, dripping in sweat, hair a mess, brain still recovering from almost getting hit in the face with a lacrosse ball, when you materialized out of nowhere.
“hey, loser,” you greeted, leaning against the locker next to his.
stiles jumped about a foot in the air. “jesus—you can’t just sneak up on a guy like that!”
and before his brain could fully reboot, you leaned in and kissed him.
right there.
In the locker room.
With scott and half the team still standing right there.
stiles froze.
his brain immediately short-circuited.
somewhere in the background, he could hear the distinct sounds of his teammates reacting.
jackson made a disgusted noise.
“seriously? right here?”
danny, ever the neutral observer, just snorted. “I mean, props to her, I do love watching stilinski suffer.”
scott, instead of helping, just shook his head fondly. “dude. just accept it.”
you, for your part, just smirked against stiles’s lips, completely unbothered, and pulled away with a satisfied little hum.
stiles, meanwhile, was still frozen in place.
mouth slightly open.
face burning red.
brain? completely fried.
“did I break you?” you teased, poking his cheek.
stiles let out a strangled sound.
jackson groaned. “oh god, get a room.”
you turned to him, smirking. “jealous?”
jackson scoffed. “not even remotely.”
you shrugged, looping your arm through stiles’s. “good. because I’m not sharing.”
and then you walked off, dragging stiles with you—leaving the entire locker room howling in laughter.
────୨ৎ────
stiles had one sacred rule in life:
the library is a safe space.
the library was for quiet and learning and pretending to do your homework while actually texting scott about supernatural nonsense.
the library was not for being publicly humiliated by your ridiculously hot girlfriend.
unfortunately, you did not respect the sanctity of anything.
stiles was sitting at his usual spot—textbook open, pen in hand, pretending to study—when you slid into the chair next to him.
“hey,” you greeted, voice suspiciously sweet.
stiles narrowed his eyes. “you’re up to something.”
you smiled, all innocent. “me? never.”
he squinted harder. “what do you want?”
you tilted your head. “can’t I just want to spend time with my adorable boyfriend?”
stiles immediately turned red. “I—you—stop that.”
“stop what?”
“being cute,” he hissed, glancing around to make sure no one was listening.
you grinned. “make me.”
before stiles could formulate a response, you very casually leaned forward and kissed him.
and not just a quick kiss.
oh, no.
this was a calculated attack.
a slow, lingering kiss, tongue and all—just long enough to completely fry his brain, but not long enough for him to actually do anything about it.
by the time you pulled away, stiles was bright red, gripping the edge of the table like his life depended on it.
“why?” he gasped out.
you shrugged. “felt like it.”
stiles gaped. “we are in library.”
you smiled sweetly. “uh-huh.”
“In a library.”
“yup.”
“where people can see us.”
she leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “I know.”
stiles let out an undignified squeak.
and that was the exact moment lydia martin—who had apparently been sitting three tables away—very loudly shut her book and said, “I’m going home. this is disgusting.”
you just laughed.
stiles, meanwhile, buried his face in his hands.
────୨ৎ────
now, there were rules when it came to dating in front of parents.
rule #1: no PDA.
rule #2: seriously, no PDA.
rule #3: do not test sheriff stilinski’s patience.
you had no regard for any of these rules.
stiles had just walked you to the door, ready to say a very normal, appropriate, and respectful goodbye, when you suddenly grabbed his hoodie, pulled him way too close, and kissed him stupid.
right there.
In his driveway.
where his father could definitely see.
and as if that wasn’t bad enough—
the front door creaked open.
sheriff stilinski cleared his throat.
you pulled away completely unbothered, turned to the sheriff, and grinned.
“good afternoon, mr. stilinski.”
stiles, meanwhile, had stopped breathing.
the sheriff raised an eyebrow. “you trying to kill my son?”
you smirked. “not today.”
and then you smiled—like a menace—patted stiles on the chest, and walked off, leaving him to deal with the aftermath.
the sheriff stared at him.
stiles stared back.
after a long, painful silence, his dad just shook his head and muttered, “unbelievable.”
then, he walked inside—chuckling to himself.
stiles, still standing frozen on the porch, groaned.
💻 : loverboy! stiles puppy love fluff stiles just wants to give you everything
masterlist
loverboy! stiles who will do anything for you. need to get driven home? he'll take you. lifting something heavy? stiles will get it despite the fact his hands are aching.
loverboy! stiles that will listen to what you say, he's basically like a dog.
loverboy! stiles who says cheesy pick up lines he found on the internet to have you be more attracted to him, which works oddly enough . . .
loverboy! stiles that cannot stop staring at you. scott scoffs when he realizes that he wasn't even listening to him, "dude, your eyes are going to be stuck open."
loverboy! stiles who is infact still awkward around you sometimes. poor guy can help it, your looks and presence makes him forget he's your boyfriend.
loverboy! stiles who once went to your neighbors window instead of yours and ran so quick to your window . . .
loverboy! stiles who LOVES when you kiss him, he pouts and tries to lean back in for more before you put your hands on his mouth to stop him that causes him to groan.
loverboy! stiles does in fact write your initials plus his and draws a heart in pen on the corner of his notes and clears his throat if a teach walks by and sees.
loverboy! stiles who actually felt so dizzy on your first date because he was so nervous and had no idea how to act around you.
loverboy! stiles loves having any part of him touch yours.
loverboy! stiles who is absolutely whipped for you.
summary: you show up for a study session in a particular choice of clothing
wc: ~900
a best friends to lovers trope is at no moment NOT running through my head. i'm also entirely thinking of buzzcut!stiles in this
masterlist and taglist!
when stiles opened the door, his mouth was dry on impact. there you stood, innocent and ready to study for your upcoming test -- in his flannel. he didn’t remember when it came into your possession, but he didn’t care.
he didnt even know he wanted so badly to see you in his clothing, until now, where he just can't seem to take his eyes off of you.
you.
in his shirt.
"stiles? can i come in, or..."
you spoke suddenly, breaking stiles from his trance. he shook his head dramatically, cringing at his first impression at the door.
"yeah jesus sorry, come in."
he stepped out of the way, making small talk as you made your way to his room, unloading your textbooks and notes across his bed. you sprawled out, laying on your stomach as you began to flip through the pages. stiles' eyes once again fell to the way his flannel fell against the curves of your body, his own feeling too hot suddenly.
he hadn't really thought of you this way before. okay, that was a lie, but he never took it seriously. he’d known you forever, and anytime he felt you unconsciously slip into his thoughts, he felt embarrassed to be thinking of his best friend like that and pushed it away. but now, seeing a shirt he had worn a few days earlier now draped over what he can only presume as your bare torso, he was torn between feelings of cuteness aggression and wanting to rip the shirt off of you.
you could sense the gaze, looking towards his frame slumped at his desk, smiling as he turned away as though he'd been caught.
he cleared his throat. "so. where do you want to start?"
you weighed your response carefully.
stiles had left his flannel in your car the other night after dropping him off, and you hadn't taken it off since. originally, you'd put it in your backpack to bring to him the next day, however after being sleepless long enough, you grabbed it, hoping the extra warmth would send you dreaming.
you were awake the rest of the night.
you couldn't get over the smell. when his scent first hit your nose, you found it calming, sure it would bring you a sense of comfort and immediately put you to sleep. as it turns out, it was taunting.
with the smell of espresso and fresh linen overwhelming you, the only thing on your mind was stiles. everything about him, every memory of you two, every accidental touch -- suddenly, it was all you could think about.
in the back of your mind, you always knew there was something special about him. something deeper within him that drew the two of you together. stiles made you feel every single thing with so much more passion, so much more intention. but you'd brushed it off, convincing yourself you were crazy.
that he didn't feel that way.
but he was flustered, and you hoped you were right about why.
"so, where do you want to start?"
you let out a hum, toying with the topmost button on his flannel, blushing as you noticed his eyes honed in on your actions. you sat up slowly, trying to build any ounce of courage you had.
"i want to start with why you're being so weird today."
stiles cleared his thoat, scratching the back of his head and turning back towards his desk. he shuffled his papers. "I, uh I mean, I don't know what you're talking about, I'm being completely normal."
you sat up facing him, tugging at his sleeves. "sti-"
"why are you wearing my shirt?"
your eyes shot up and you frowned immediately. suddenly uncomfortable, you wrapped your arms around your waist and looked down.
"oh, im sorry, you left it in my car and I didn't think it would be--"
"no no it's okay i just-"
"-- an issue, i have a sweatshirt in my bag I can--"
"-- i like it"
you looked up at him, completely silent. your brain fought hard to process what he said and how you could be reading it incorrectly.
"you..."
"i'm sorry, i, that sounded weird, jesus. i just mean its fine that you, you know you're wearing it, and--"
"stiles."
he shut up. he knew he was rambling and he just hoped he wasn’t reading the situation incorrectly. he locked eyes with you, anxious and listless.
"i wore it so you would notice."
stiles felt hot again.
he took a shaky breath, trying to think past the growing tension in the room. he wheeled his chair closer where you were sitting.
"oh"
you swung your feet over the edge of the bed.
"yeah"
both of you would swear that time stopped. the air got thick, and the moment was a blur. you don't know who made the first move, but suddenly you were both standing, your lips against each other in a relieving kiss. neither of you had allowed yourselves to imagine this moment seriously, yet here it was, and you had no idea how you’d lived without it before this.
his lips moved sweetly across yours, nervous but needy. it felt like forever before you pulled away, your body impatiently reminding you of its need to breathe.
both of you blushed, foreheads touching as you relished in the moment.
"i think i'm going to start forgetting my clothes around you more often."
stiles’ mind is easily changed. all it takes is one single kiss, and he’ll do whatever you ask of him.
including carrying all your bags when you’re out shopping.
“is this cute?” you ask, holding a striped black and white top infront of you, picturing how it’d look on you with the help of the mirror.
“yeah, yeah. you look fantastic in everything, now can we leave? i’m so not doing this for any longer, i might die.” he groans, leaning against a wall like it’s the only thing keeping him standing upright.
you playfully roll your eyes at him. you know you should’ve done this with lydia or allison, but it’s fun to bring your boyfriend along some time, and you haven’t been on a date in a while, so it’s perfect.
even if all the words out of his mouth have been complaints, and stiles can ramble on and on, so you bet the complaints were one after another.
he’s been complaining that it’s too hot inside the mall, glaring hard at anyone who resembles a construction worker to fix the air conditioning, even if it’s not all that hot inside.
complaints about when you guys can go home, or even get a bite to eat somewhere, he’ll even complain about his shoe being tied incorrectly, even if it’s perfectly fine.
you know he doesn’t like this, shopping for hours and hours on end, because it’s really a girl thing, not a stiles thing.
maybe he just needs a little help, something to pepper his mood up a little.
you go to the checkout, to pay for the abundance of clothes slung around your arm, stiles lazily trailing behind you, covering his eyes when you’re paying for your stuff.
the girl behind the counter grabs the biggest bag available, strategically placing all your clothes and other miscellaneous items in the bag so everything fits, so you won’t need another one. considering you already have four.
you take the bag from her, but oh boy is it heavy.
you might’ve gone a teeny tiny bit overboard, but those clothes will last you two summers, maybe three. so it’s completely worth it.
she gives you a sympathetic look before you walk out, stiles snapping out of his trance that wasn’t filled with shopping bags and tanktops, quickly jogging to walk beside you.
“are you done now?” it’s just you now, since he was done with all of this two hours ago.
“maybe, i can’t hold any other bags.” which is right, your hands and arms are completely occupied by shopping bags, the thin paper handle digging into your skin.
“oh thank god, i was on the verge of hallucinating sequin tops and leather print leggings back there, with that really annoying song in the background.” the dramatic sigh he lets out makes you laugh.
“unless, you carry my bags for me?” you look at him with your best puppy eyes, knowing that that’s what usually causes him to give in, but it doesn’t seem to do the trick today.
he lets out a loud groan, yes normally he’d love to hold your bags for you, in situations that there’s no more than two, but five is really over the limit.
so, you settle for the next best thing to try and win him over.
you move over a little so you’re standing infront of him, and move your face just close enough to his so your lips brush, startling him the slightest bit.
and then you lean in closer, a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself as you deepen the kiss.
and you pull away just as fast as the kiss was, making his eyes go wide like he witnessed a murder right infront of his eyes.
“did you just—” you give him a cheeky grin, “hold my bags for me?” you ask again, hoping and praying that the kiss made him cave.
“yep, gimmie all your bags, i’d die before my girlfriend had to carry all those super heavy bags on her own, that would put too much shame on my game.” you hand him your bags, and his posture falters a little when you hand him the heaviest one.
he regrets his decision a little, maybe half, maybe completely, but you guys can finally go home now, right?
you’re already dragging him somewhere before he can fully decide if he regrets this or not.
and no it’s not a fast food place, not the grocery store, but you’re heading to ulta. and he knows you’ll be there for a really good while.
he sighs, already preparing for his hands to be covered in lipstick swatches and highlighter. but you’ll definitely kiss him with said lipstick on later, so it’s entirely worth it.
i just need the sappiest like nap with stiles he's such a baby i cannot
BABY LOVE
a stiles stilinski x fem!reader fic
— ౨ৎ masterlist
CW ! (literally only the most cutest fluff)
lav speaks.. i’m so tired and it’s 3 am! i listened to the feels by twice the entire time while making this fic; take that as it is :)
heading to the stilinski household after lacrosse practice was the highlight of your day. of course — stiles lacrosse practice. one day in particular, you had happened to head to his house a little bit later than normal.
going up the front porch steps, and knocking on his door to no response was a little confusing to you. usually with the 4 knocks, stiles and yours speciality, he would run down the stairs, knock into a few things, then quickly open the door.
nope, today it was an embodiment of silence. beacon hills was growing darker by the second. of course with the reputation of the supernatural, you had to either go home and explain to stiles later why you didn’t show up, or risk being hit by a baseball bat in self defense.
you chose the second option.
slowly creaking the door open, the lights were on, but sheriff stilinski was at work; meaning that stiles had to be somewhere. fear creeping within, you quickly ran up the stairs and towards stiles room. his door was ajar, meaning he was definitely home.
“sti?”, you questioned softly while opening his door. your face contorted into an awe once you saw he was sleeping on his bed, still in his lacrosse jersey. stiles shoes were on, his hair slightly sweaty, and he was hugging one of your blankets that you gave him tightly.
you slowly pulled out your phone, and snapped a photo of him, sending it to his phone for him to look at later. heading over to him, you quickly took off your shoes and jacket, and laid right next to him.
“stiles — wake up i’m here”, you giggle. stiles groaned, turning over while practically crushing you underneath him. he mumbled something incoherent, so you didn’t even bother trying to understand what he meant. “sti, you’re hurting me”.
his arms started to feel around, as if he was looking for something important. finally finding your warm body, he pulled you in closer making you breath in his musky scent. you practically died at the touching from him. even though he was your boyfriend, every experience felt new and never got old.
he embraced you, as you wrapped your arms around his torso. you felt his chest rise, slowly up and down. he was dead asleep, and there was no waking him up from this comfy position.
you gave up fighting it and actually gave in. making yourself comfortable, you wrapped your legs around stiles legs, interlocking each-others bodies. with being able to slightly use your hands, you connected your phone to his speaker and put on some soft music.
stiles woke up in a haze, trying to figure out his surroundings and who he was cuddling. once he realized it was you, a smile absorbed his face. “hey”, he spoke softly. you laughed at his expression, half-asleep, and practically dreaming.
“did lacrosse kick your ass?” you slight snickered. stiles just groaned at the thought of lacrosse, “yes — yes it definitely did.” without second thought, stiles pulled you closer to his sweaty body. you didn’t mind it though, you guys were just close like that.
besides, it was kind of a turn on.
stiles yawned, which caused you to yawn — complete chain reaction. “baby, are you tired?”, stiles asked in a compassionate voice. in a sleepy haze, your eyes started to droop and your thoughts wandered. “mm’ so tired sti.”
he smirked at your words, slightly rubbing your back to make you even more sleepy. “here, wear my jersey baby”, stiles spoke in a whisper. he stripped himself of the jersey, and slowly maneuvered it onto your body.
it had to be immediately after that action that you were out like a light, breathing in the comforting scent of his. stiles faced his back towards you and took your hand around his body. he needed to be comfortable too, and of course he was the little spoon, always.
minutes later, stiles was sound asleep in your arms. both dreaming of each-other, lovers became closer.
summary: you finally spend the night with your boyfriend Stiles for the first time as a couple.
warnings and content: childhood friends to lovers, no use of y/n, female reader, use of pet names (baby, sweetheart).
author's note: thank you so much for the request!🫶🏻 for some reason, as I was writing this, I was stuck multiple times 😭 but finally I finished writing it! I hope you’ll enjoy reading it🫶🏻 also a special thank goes to @azoknemfankok because once again she helped me a lot and on multiple occasions to write this fic.
dividers by @pixopix
Ding dong
The doorbell rang and the sound echoed almost shyly across Stiles’ house. Inside in the living room, he was pacing, waiting impatiently for your arrival.
And finally you were there.
Stiles ran to the door and opened it without thinking twice. He had a big smile on his face when he saw you and he greeted you with a quick kiss.
Only then he looked down at your bag and he noticed all the stuff you brought: two suitcases and a sports bag. For a sleepover. He exhaled, laughing: “Jesus, baby, you didn’t need to pack for an apocalypse! Why do you even need all of this? It’s not like you’re moving in… yet…”
Just at the thought of the possibility of moving in together, Stiles felt his cheeks flushing. He was very fond of the idea and if someday that would become true, he would’ve been the happiest man alive.
“I just wanted to be prepared” you say as you shrug your shoulders nonchalantly. You dropped your bags at the door for him to bring them inside.
“Do you remember when you would only bring your toothbrush, your pajamas and a sleeping bag for sleepovers?” He sighed, complaining a bit for the exaggerated amount of things you brought: “They were the best times ever!”
It wasn’t unusual for you to have a sleepover when you were kids. You would always be sleeping at each other's houses every week. Stiles was very fond of the memories, he used to love every minute of those nights. The best part was probably building a fortress and then telling stories instead of going to sleep. It was fun, careless, free, everything you needed and more, but even the best things come to an end sometimes.
With middle school and then high school it became hard to organize sleepovers and it became awkward for both of you.
So eventually they stopped, but now, since you two started dating, there was no reason to not do a sleepover.
At first it was awkward. It has been a while since your last sleepover and the situation was completely different. You were alone, which was the first big difference. You used to have pajamas parties with all of your friends and they were the best moments you could ask for.
At that moment Stiles hears a loud crash coming from the kitchen. It sounded like glass breaking and that brings him back to the present, the memories already forgotten.
“What happened, sweetheart?” He asks, alarmed, eyes wide open when he sees the fragments of glass covering the floor: “Are you hurt?”
As he approaches you keep apologizing over and over again. as if he cared about that at that moment.
"Shhh, baby, let me see if you’re okay.” He gently takes your arm in his hands and kisses every part of it gently: “May this help you feel better.” He looks at you and notices your shy smile that he adores: “Don’t even worry about the glass, it’s replaceable, but you’re not and I’m glad you’re not hurt. Let’s clean this mess and then let’s watch a movie together, okay?” You nod slowly and in no time everything seems like new again.
Despite the initial awkwardness and the little problems they encountered, Stiles was finally starting to feel comfortable.
He couldn’t understand why, but he felt a bit nervous when he asked: “So, what about we watch ‘10 things I hate about you’?” as soon as he finishes asking the question you laugh out loud at him, but he continues: “I’m serious! I know you like that so I actually rented it for tonight…” while saying that his face flushed a little. He tried to hide it, but underneath his sarcasm he was a softie and with you he felt comfortable enough to show you this side of himself.
Finally the movie started. Stiles had never seen it before and he tried to focus on the movie. He really tried. But he couldn’t help but stare at your profile when you weren’t looking because you were such a prettier view than the movie could ever be.
Soon, he took your hand in his and drew invisible patterns on the back of your hand. That gesture made his heart beat a little faster. He loved touching you in every way possible and just a light touch made his day better.
Whenever you were together, Stiles would try to find new ways to explore your body a bit more. And today he had the perfect excuse to do so.
Suddenly he let go of your hand so he could trace patterns all over your body.
He started with your arm.
His touch was teasing, light, barely there but you could feel it deeply. The touch was comforting you, like a presence that could protect you. For you it was relaxing and you could almost fall asleep. What kept you awake was the fact that you were scratching his head almost mindlessly, as it almost became an automatic movement.
You were both so deep in your thoughts that you didn’t notice the movie was almost over.
Actually, neither of you watched it at all.
Instead, you were cuddling and hugging, ‘trapped’ inside your bubble. The real world wasn’t important at the moment; all that mattered was you. Stiles was stroking your back gently and whispering even sweeter words in your ears, trying to soothe you. In fact he noticed your muscles were tense and so he started massaging your neck and shoulders to provide you comfort.
Slowly, the muscles relaxed, the tension eased and everything seemed calm again. So calm that at some point Stiles realised you were sleeping in his arms. Your breathing was slowing down and he could feel how regular it was because one of his hands was resting on your lower back. You were adorable with your lips partly open and the little sounds you were making. Stiles smiled, thinking about the fact that his girlfriend trusted him so much that she was able to fall asleep in his chest and that made his heart full. He was holding his whole world at that moment and he swore he would never let go. With that thought in his mind, he closed his eyes and immediately drifted off to sleep, dreaming of his future with you, the love of his life.
stiles doing the accidentally hot things because he's so used to being considered ugly that it doesn't cross his mind?????????
stiles dropping unceremoniously on the couch and pushing his hips out as he manspreads to get comfortable, arm thrown over the top of it casually.
stiles clenching his jaw when he's frustrated or focused or horny- or all three. eyes roving over you because he's so mad he can't have you because ugh he's ugly and annoying and..... meanwhile you're trying not to drop to your knees and give it to him straight.
stiles leaning on the doorframe of your bedroom, arms crossed over his chest. explaining something something scott pack danger while you practically drool over his frame taking up so much room in the doorway.
stiles' adams apple, and that's it.
stiles' hands. have i mentioned his hands? they're like porn, only more erotic. he can't figure out why you're not retaining anything he's saying, but his hands are just.... there.
stiles getting confused at why you're so distracted lately, and then getting very, very confused when you stutter and blabber and blush and avoid eye contact with his grey sweatpants.
just.... stiles can be cocky, but remember that this boy spent his developmental years as a loser. he's a lil oblivious and it's the hottest torture ever istg
