nerdy rafe invites you over for dinner at his house, but you had other plans. 18+ mdni
you knock nervously, as you smooth your hand over your skirt like it matters more than it really does. the door opens almost immediately, like he’s been standing there waiting, and rafe looks way more casual than you’re ever used to. no slick back hair, or button up shirts. his hair is slightly messy, glasses low on his nose, white tshirt hugging his arms, and exposing his biceps in a way you definitely didn’t expect. loose blue jeans that are slightly exposing his very sluttly waist.
“hey,” he says, a little breathless, like he rushed to get there. you smile, tilting your head just slightly. “hi. you look nervous.” he huffs out a quiet laugh, stepping aside to let you in. “i am, a little. i didn’t want to mess this up.”
you step into his place, glancing around, taking in how clean and put together everything is. “you? mess something up? i doubt it” you tease lightly, slipping your shoes off. “that doesn’t sound right.” he shrugs, shutting the door behind you. “you’d be surprised.”
there’s a small pause before he says, “i already started cooking, i hope that’s okay.” you glance back at him, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “you started without me? i’m offended.” his eyes widen immediately. “no, i mean, i just didn’t want you waiting, i thought-” you laugh lightly, cutting him off. “rafe, i’m kidding.”
in the kitchen, he relaxes just a little, turning back to the stove, though you can tell he’s still aware of you watching him. you lean against the counter, arms loosely crossed, eyes following every movement. “so what are you making?” you ask, curious. he flips something in the pan, carefully. “uh steak, mashed potatoes, bell peppers and onions.” you raise an eyebrow. “wait, that’s…” he glances at you briefly, then back at the stove. “you said you liked it once.”
you kinda get taken back a bit, “you remember stuff like that?” you ask. he shrugs, but it’s shy, almost embarrassed. “yeah. i mean, if it’s important.” you push off the counter slightly, stepping closer towards him. “and i’m important..to you?” you ask in shock. he freezes for a second, then nods quickly. “yeah. yeah, you are.” you look away, a blush permanent on your warm cheeks.
you stay there while he cooks, asking little questions, watching the way he moves in his methodical manner. when he reaches to grab something, his sleeve shifts just enough for you to truly notice the shape of his arm, and you blink hard, caught off guard. “you’ve been hiding that,” you say before you can stop yourself. he looks over, confused. “what?” you gesture vaguely to his arm, trying to play it off. “nothing. just didn’t think you were-” you pause, a small smirk forming, “a gym rat..”
he goes pink instantly, looking down like that somehow helps. “i don’t, work out that much,” he mutters. you hum, unconvinced. “sure. well, you look good.” that one really gets him, he fumbles slightly with the pan, clearing his throat. “thanks,” he says, barely above a mumble. you pretend not to notice how flustered he is, but your smile gives you away just a little, loving how you can make him squirm in the best way.
once he finishes cooking, he insists on plating everything nicely, setting it in front of you like you’re at a michelin star restaurant. as you take your first bite, he’s watches you, trying not to be obvious about it, but clearly failing. “okay,” you say after a second, nodding to yourself. “this is insanely good.” he exhales immediately, shoulders dropping. “yeah?” you glance up at him, a small, sincere smile on your lips. “yeah. you’re impressive.”
he lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “i don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before.” you tilt your head, studying him again. “that’s a shame.” you say honestly, noting how rafe doesn’t get the praise he deserves.
“you do a lot of thoughtful things, rafe. people should notice that, more often” he looks down at his plate, a little shy again. “you notice,” he says with a shrug, like it’s enough, and you don’t deny it. “i do.”
-
after dinner, he cleans up quickly, like he needs something to do with himself, and when he comes back, he lingers awkwardly near the couch, placing your class of moscato down for you. “um, do you wanna watch something?” he asks, glancing at you briefly. you lean back slightly, watching him. “what did you have in mind?” he hesitates, then, “interstellar. it’s my favorite.” your lips curve faintly. “of course it is.” he frowns slightly. “is that bad?” you shake your head. “not at all.”
he sits down first, leaving a bit of space between you, because he’s trying to be respectful, and you follow a second later. for a few minutes, you let it stay like that, both of you watching the screen. then you decided to shift closer towards him. enough for your knee to brush his. he goes still immediately. you glance at him, pretending not to notice. “so what’s it about again?” you ask.
“uh, space,” he says ironically, then winces slightly like he just caught himself. “and time. and uh, a lot of other stuff.” you smile softly, inching just a little closer until your shoulder presses lightly against his. “you’re really selling it,” you say. he lets out a quiet breath, trying to focus. “it’s actually really good, i just-” he cuts himself off when your hand settles gently on his thigh.
you do it absentmindedly, like you didn’t think too much about it. but he definitely thinks too much of it.
“oh,” he breathes, barely audible, his whole body tensing for a second before he forces himself to relax. you keep your eyes on the screen, voice soft and curious. “wait, why does he have to leave again?” your fingers shift just slightly where they rest, and rafe swallows hard.
“it’s, um, because of the mission,” he starts, already losing his train of thought. “they have to find another planet, so he um, he goes, and time works differently so when he comes back it’s-”
you glance over at him, your head so much closer to his face than you intended. “that sounds kind of sad,” you say softly. he nods, but he’s clearly distracted now. “it is. it’s really-” he stops again, exhaling softly. “sorry, i’m not explaining it well.” you smile faintly, a little amused. “you’re doing fine.” your thumb moves just slightly, barely there. “i think you’re just distracted.”
he lets out a quiet, nervous laugh, shaking his head a little. “yeah. a little.” there’s a pause, then he glances at you. “you’re, kinda distracting.” you look back at him, your expression filled with warmth and playfulness. “am i?” you ask, cocking your head to the side.
he nods once, and before he can second guess it, his hand comes down to rest over yours. it’s hesitant at first like he’s testing the waters but when you don’t pull away, his fingers press a little more firmly. the contact sends something warm straight to your chest, and suddenly you’re very aware of how close you are, of how he smells. a clean and expensive woodsy scent.
you let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, shaking your head a little. “you smell really good,” you mumble, and immediately cringe. “sorry that sounded so weird.” you say now it being your turn to be shy and awkward.
rafe glances at you, a little startled, then shyly amused. “no, it didn’t,” he says, his thumb brushing slightly against your hand without him even realizing. “you just, said it out loud.” you huff a quiet laugh, cheeks warming as you look away for a second. “yeah, well, filter’s gone i guess.” when you look back at him, he’s already looking at you, and the moment lingers, longer than it should.
you lean in and press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek, not thinking too hard about it. and he freezes. “what was that for?” he asks, quiet and dazed, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself. you just shrug lightly, settling back like it was nothing. then you tilt your head slightly, eyes flicking to his lips before meeting his gaze again. “kiss me, rafe.”
he doesn’t hesitate, as he leans into you, pressing his lips to yours. the kiss is so soft it almost catches you off guard. he’s so afraid of doing it wrong, holding himself back without even realizing it. his hand tightens just slightly over yours, and you can feel how nervous he is, how much he’s thinking instead of just feeling.
so you fix it for him, your hand slides from under his, moving up to his jaw, guiding him just a little closer as you kiss him again deeper this time. he makes a quiet sound, surprised, but he follows your lead almost immediately, melting into it. and that makes your chest tighten. the shyness doesn’t go away, but you don’t mind it.
you move without really thinking about it, turning toward him fully, your knee sliding over his thigh until you’re halfway in his lap. he lets out a quiet breath, hands hovering for a second like he’s not sure where to put them. you take them gently, guiding them to your hips, and he swallows hard but doesn’t pull away.
“is this okay?” he asks, barely above a whisper. you nod, just as soft. “yeah. you’re okay.” he relaxes into you, just a little, hands settling more confidently, thumbs brushing lightly against your sides like he’s still figuring it out but wants to get it right. the kisses get warmer, less hesitant, and there’s something so sweet about the way he’s trying, like all of his attention is on you, on making sure you’re comfortable, that you want this.
rafe pulls back just enough to look at you, a little breathless, and wide eyed. “wait,” he says, like something just clicked. your eyebrows furrow, still close enough to feel his breath. “did i do something wrong?” you ask, confused.
“no, no ,no ,no. i uh,” he runs a hand through his hair, clearly flustered now. “i don’t, i don’t have anything. like um condoms. or anything. not that i think we’ll, i just…” he looks genuinely stressed about it, like this is the worst possible timing and word choice. “i should-i should go get some. just to be, safe.”
you stare at him for a second, then you start laughing, because he’s so, attentive. “rafe,” you say, shaking your head slightly, “you’re unbelievable.” he frowns a little, worried now. “is that bad?” you reach for him, brushing your fingers lightly against his arm. “no,” you say gently. “it’s actually really sweet.”
he still looks unsure, already halfway standing. “i’ll be quick,” he says, like he’s made up his mind. “there’s a store like five minutes away, i can just go and come back, it’s fine.” you can’t even stop him before he’s grabbing his keys, cheeks still flushed. “don’t go crazy,” you call after him, amused.
-
he’s gone for maybe fifteen minutes. when he comes back, slightly out of breath, hair even messier than before, he’s holding a small bag like it’s the most serious mission he’s ever been on. you eye it immediately, a smile already forming. “what did you even get?” you ask, trying not to laugh.
he sets it down, a little sheepish now. “just items,” he mutters. you walk up to the stuffed bag on the counter, taking a peek inside. there’s condoms, lube, a bottle of tropical vitamin water, a small box of plan b, and painkillers.
you look up at him, completely shocked and then you laugh again, “you uh,” you start, shaking your head, stepping a little closer to him, “you really thought of everything, huh?”
he shrugs, a little embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. “i just wanted to make sure you were comfortable. and, yeah.” your expression softens completely. and this time, when you lean in to kiss him again, it’s so much gentler because somehow, he just made you want him even more.
the kiss deepened as he kicked his shoes off, his hands finding your waist, as he doesn’t want to break contact with you. you hum softly against his mouth when his hands slightly slip under your shirt. the placement, and the warmth sending a shiver up your spine, you press your body closer to his, a quiet breath catching in his throat.
he pulls away, just barely, trying to catch his breath. his eyes are different from how you’ve ever seen them, a little darkness added to it now. but his gaze is locked on you, watching you intently. “you’re so soft, it’s unfair” he says.
you smirk, fingers tracing the edge of his polo collar teasingly. "you say that like you haven't been thinking about this for weeks." his blush deepens instantly, confirming your suspicions. "maybe," he admits sheepishly, hands tightening slightly on your hips as he leans in again, his breath warm against your lips. "well yeah, definitely."
the way he says it, so honest, makes your stomach flip. you press forward, nipping lightly at his bottom lip before murmuring, "show me just how much." and he lets out a needy little groan before kissing you again, and it send the want so deep into you.
there's an edge of impatience now, his fingers gripping your hips a little more firmly as he pulls you flush against him. you can feel how tense he is, the barely restrained desire in the way he moves. as he backs you toward the bed, his lips never leaving yours, he presses gentle kisses along your jaw, down your neck, finding that one spot that makes you shiver.
his hands slip under your shirt again, lifting it up and over your head. even in the dim light, he takes a moment to just and admire you, to the point it makes you cross your arms covering yourself. “hey no, why’d you do that?” he asks lightly. “i don’t know” you whisper. he reaches towards your arms, “can i?” he asks again. you nod, and he unhooks your arms. “you’re so mesmerizing” he says with a smile.
he guides you gently to lay back against the pillows, his gaze roaming over each curve and contour of your body. his hands follow, warm and reverential, as if he can't quite believe what he's allowed to touch.
he leans over you, bracing himself on one arm while the other trails down your stomach, then back up again, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. his lips find your collarbone, trailing slow, open mouthed kisses down your chest. when he grazes the underside of your breast, it's your turn to gasp, your fingers finding their way into his hair.
he glances up at you, eyes darkened, and then moves lower, pressing delicate kisses along the arch of your rib cage, his breath hot against your skin. he pauses just above your belly button, looking up at you again, this time with a question in his gaze.
you know what he's asking, even if he can't quite get the words out. the desire in his eyes is enough to make you shiver. you nod, your fingers still threading through his hair. "please," you breathe out, more a plea than an answer. and that's all he needs.
his hand slides lower, fingers toying with the elastic waistband of your skirt, then moving lower lifting it up, to reveal your lacey pastel yellow panties, with a bow on top. "god, you're gorgeous." his voice is filled with genuine awe, his eyes roving over the newly exposed skin, taking you all in. his fingers trace a light path along the inside of your thigh, making you shiver.
he presses a kiss to the soft skin where thigh meets hip, then drags his lips along your inner thigh, his touch feather light. the anticipation is a delicious ache, building with every slow, deliberate kiss. he's so close now, his breath warm against you.
he hovers just inches away, his voice a ragged whisper. "i want you so badly." the raw honesty in his words makes your heart race, even as his fingers trace tantalizing patterns on your thighs. you can feel just how much he wants this the way he's shaking with how hard he's trying to hold himself back.
"please," you breathe, arching towards him. "please, rafe..." he takes another shuddering breath, bracing himself. "are you sure...?" the question is genuine, filled with an uncertainty that's both endearing and maddening. he's giving you an out, a chance to pull back, and you should be touched. but right now, all you can feel is impatience, a need so intense it borders on desperation.
you tug his hair just hard enough to get his attention, forcing him to meet your gaze again. your voice is hoarse when you say, "i'm sure. i want this. fuck, i want you, please." his pupils dilate, his breath coming faster now. "okay," he murmurs, nodding like he's convincing himself just as much as you. "okay."
and then he finally closes the distance. his mouth is warm and soft, hesitant at first, testing the waters, until you arch against him with a sharp gasp. the sound seems to unravel him, his hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you closer as he loses himself in the taste of you.
the way he worships you is overwhelming. the slow drag of his tongue, the way he looks up through his lashes every few seconds just to watch you come undone, it's too much and not enough all at once.
your fingers fist in his hair, desperate and pleading, and he groans against you, the vibrations making your legs shake. "oh yes rafe" his name spills from your lips in a broken moan, and his grip on your hips tightens, making him shudder in auditory pleasure.
he pulls back just enough to speak, his lips slick and his voice wrecked. "you taste so good," he murmurs, breath hot against your skin. "tell me what you want. anything."
you feel like you're drowning in pure sensation, his touch setting your skin ablaze. it takes a moment for his words to sink in, but then you manage to catch your breath long enough to gasp out, "i want you to fuck me rafe”
his eyes darken even more, if possible. "yeah?" he asks, licking your cunt in an agonizing slow pace. cutting off any further thought from your mind.
"yeah." you manage to gasp out, gripping the sheets so tightly your knuckles turn white. he chuckles softly, the low sound sending ripples of heat through you. "then tell me to." he says it lightly, like a challenge, even as his mouth moves back to your inner thigh, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin.
your breath hitches, body arching towards him involuntarily. "please," you moan, already unraveling. "please, i want-" you can feel his lips curving into a smirk against your skin. "what do you want?" he says and it’s both innocent yet so agonizingly teasing.
you pull tug him up, flipping you both over, so he’s now on his back. you unbutton his jeans, not looking away from his face, as his glasses fog up from the sweat. “i don’t think you’ll need these for right now” you say reaching for his glasses. “no, don’t please” he begs, and his little breathy voice makes you wetter than you thought you could be
“i want to see you” he says, so innocently. “so watch me” you say, letting his cock out. he gasps softly, as you straddle him, pinning him with ease. he looks so flustered, like he can't help himself right now, and you love it.
you take a moment to look down at him, your eyes roaming over him, taking in the way he looks with his pants undone like this. you spit on his cock, rubbing him up and down, as he squirms under you.
"you look so damn good like this," you tell him, your voice low and rough. he whines, arching up against your touch, needy and desperate. "please." he sounds completely wrecked already, like he'd beg for more if you asked.
"please, what?" you ask, teasing. his eyes are wide, lips parted, and he looks so good like this, you don't know how he can be so sweet and so dirty all at once. "please what, rafe?" he swallows hard, his whole body trembling with a mix of nerves and desire. he looks like he's struggling to find the words, his eyes pleading with you. you wait, watching as he gathers himself, trying to find some ounce of composure. but when he finally speaks, his voice is still shaky, filled with need. "please, taste me."
he arches off the bed with a choked gasp, fingers immediately tangling in your hair, not pushing, just holding on for dear life. his thighs tremble beneath your hands as you take him deeper, hitting the back of his throat, as you’re humming around him just to hear the way his breath cracks into a moan.
“f-fuck” his voice cracks, head tipping back against the pillows, glasses slipping slightly down his nose. he doesn’t dare adjust them, too transfixed on the sight of you between his legs. his hips jerk involuntarily, but he catches himself, gripping the sheets instead. “sorry, i’m sorry, i just-”
you pull off just long enough to smirk up at him. “you don’t need to be sorry rafe,” you tease, before swallowing him down again, faster this time.
his moan is embarrassingly loud, his fingers tightening in your hair as his legs tense. “i-i’m not gonna last if you-” he cuts himself off with a whimper when you swirl your tongue just right, his entire body shuddering.
you can tell he’s close, his breath coming in ragged pants, his thighs quivering. but then suddenly, he’s gently tugging you off, his chest heaving. “wait, wait-” you blink up at him, lips slick and swollen. “what’s wrong?”
he shakes his head, flushed from his chest all the way up to his ears. “i just, i want to feel you,” he admits, voice wrecked. “all of you. please.” and how could you say no to that?
you lick your lips slowly, watching the way his eyes darken at the movement. "you want me to ride you?" you ask, crawling up his body until your lips brush his ear. he lets out a shaky exhale, hands instantly finding your hips. "god, yes."
you reach between you, guiding him as you sink down, so slow it’s agonizing for both of you. his mouth falls open, a broken moan slipping out as you take him inch by inch. "fuck, you're-" he chokes on the words, his grip tightening as you finally seat yourself fully.
you roll your hips experimentally, biting your lip at the way his breath hitches. and you can’t help but feel so satisfied at his whimpers, at how he’s so open and vulnerable for you. he whines, hips twitching up instinctively, but you press a finger to his chest "uh uh," you tease. "you said you wanted all of me. so let me take care of you now."
and then you move, slow at first, savoring every drag, every little hitch of his breath. but when his fingers dig into your hips, when his moans grow more desperate, you can't help but speed up, chasing your own pleasure as much as his. "rafe," you gasp, feeling your own climax building. "
his eyes snap open, hazy with pleasure, but locked onto yours. and when he comes, with your name on his lips, his body trembling beneath you, it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
you collapse onto his chest, both of you breathless and spent. after a moment, his arms wrap around you, holding you close.
"that was..." he starts, then trails off, laughing softly. you tilt your head up to look at him. "yeah?" he grins, boyish and sweet despite everything. "perfect."
you’re still catching your breath when you both come down from your high. your head resting against his chest while his arms stay wrapped around you like he doesn’t want to let go just yet. his heartbeat is still a little fast under your ear, uneven, and you can tell he’s thinking about something.
“hey,” you mutter gently, tracing small, absent patterns against his shirt. “you okay?” he lets out a quiet breath, almost like he’s been holding it in. “yeah,” he says, but there’s a pause after it, something uncertain lingering in his voice. your brows knit slightly, and you tilt your head just enough to look up at him.
“that didn’t sound convincing,” you say softly. he gives a small, nervous laugh, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck again, a habit you’re starting to recognize. “it’s just,” he hesitates, eyes flicking away for a second before coming back to you. “i haven’t, um, i’ve never done that before.”
you pause for a second, letting the words process. “you mean…” you start carefully, and he nods quickly, cheeks already flushing again. “yeah. i mean, i’ve thought about it, of course,” he adds, a little awkward, a little self conscious. “just, never actually with someone.”
you blush at the thought of you being his first. “oh,” you say quietly, you shift slightly, propping yourself up just enough to really look at him, your expression warm. “rafe, that’s okay.” he searches your face like he’s trying to figure out if you mean it. “it is?” he asks, quieter now.
you nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “yeah,” you say. “it just means you trusted me enough to be honest, and to share that with me.” your fingers brush lightly against his jaw, “that’s kind of a big deal.”
he exhales slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “i didn’t want you to think it was weird,” he admits. you shake your head immediately. “it’s not weird at all,” you say, almost instinctively. “if anything, it makes this feel…” you drag on, searching for the right word, then smile slightly, “special.”
that makes him look at you differently. like everything he ever thought about you was solidifying in truth. “okay,” he says, almost to himself, like he’s letting that sink in. his hand finds yours again, lacing your fingers together this time without hesitation. “i’m really glad it was you,” he adds after a second, a little shy but completely honest.
your heart does that annoying, fluttery thing you try to ignore. you squeeze his hand lightly, leaning back into him again. “yeah,” you say, a small smile lingering.
۶ৎ pranking husband military!rafe cameron that you want to break up
you set your phone against the salt shaker on the kitchen counter, trying to angle it so it could see both you and rafe sitting at the table behind you.
he barely noticed, too focused on cleaning one of his guns, sleeves shoved up his forearms and jaw tight in concentration. unfairly attractive for no reason. you bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling as the tiktok audio started quietly from your phone.
“babe,” you said casually.
“hm?”
“i’ve been thinking…”
“that usually means i’m about to get yelled at.”
you rolled your eyes, fighting a laugh. then, trying to sound serious, you said,
“i think we should break up.”
everything stopped. the small clicking sounds from his gun immediately went silent. slowly, rafe looked up at you. “what?”
you almost folded right there. instead, you shrugged lightly. “i just think maybe we should—”
“quit playing.” his voice dropped low enough to send heat straight to your stomach.
you looked away before he could see you smiling. “i’m serious—”
the chair scraped harshly against the floor. your breath caught a little as he stood and walked toward you, staring at you like he was trying to figure out if this was real.
“baby.” oh, that tone was dangerous. his hands settled on your hips automatically, warm and firm. “look at me.”
the second you did, you broke. a laugh escaped you and his expression immediately flattened. “…you’re annoying.”
you covered your mouth, giggling. “it’s a tiktok trend —”
before you could finish, he pulled you flush against his chest, arms wrapping tightly around your waist as he buried his face in your neck. “not funny.”
the way he said it made your heart ache a little because he’d actually believed you for a second and your laughter faded instantly. “hey,” you mumbled softly, sliding your arms around him. “i’m sorry.”
he just held you tighter. “thought you meant it.”
you tilted your head enough to kiss the corner of his jaw. “never.”
he pulled back just enough to look at you, still frowning slightly before leaning down and kissing you hard enough to steal the rest of your breath.
when he finally let you breathe again, he rested his forehead against yours. “post that video and i’m deleting your tiktok account.”
“oh my god, rafe!” she cries. rafe is balls deep inside her when she orgasms, clenching around his thick cock when he cums with her.
“fuck, baby.” he groans, staying inside of her as he softens. he buries his face in the crook of her neck.
after a few moments of silence, she whispers, “rafe, get off me, fatty.”
he doesn’t move.
not even a twitch.
just keeps breathing slow and heavy against her chest, one arm locked around her waist while half his body weight crushes her into the mattress. she stares at the ceiling for another second before grabbing her phone from beside the pillow.
the room is dark except for the dim light from her screen.
she scrolls mindlessly through tiktok, barely paying attention until a video pops up with the caption:
pussy put his ass to sleep now he callin’ me nyquil.
she snorts.
the girl filming turns the camera toward her boyfriend absolutely passed out beside her after sex while the audio plays dramatically in the background.
immediately, she looks over at rafe.
dead asleep.
completely unconscious.
his face is buried against her chest, hair messy, mouth slightly parted. one massive hand is still gripping her thigh like he fell asleep mid-touch.
she bites back a laugh.
oh, this was perfect.
carefully, she opens her camera and angles it toward him, trying not to shake from laughing already. the audio plays quietly from her phone while she films his sleeping face.
“pussy put his ass to sleep,” she lip syncs to the camera before tilting it toward him again, “now he callin’ me nyquil.”
she’s giggling halfway through it.
and apparently loud enough to wake him up.
rafe groans low in his throat, face scrunching before he blinks open one eye. he looks completely disoriented for a second, still half asleep, staring up at her chest before his gaze drifts toward the phone in her hand.
“…the fuck are you doing?”
she loses it instantly, laughing like shes watching a clown.
he squints at her, voice rough and deep from sleep. “why are you recording me?”
“because you’re literally unconscious,” she laughs. “look at yourself.”
he frowns, still barely awake, then drops his face right back against her.
“m’tired.”
“yeah, no shit.”
his arm tightens around her waist again.
“turn that damn phone off,” he mutters into her skin. “and stop calling me fat.”
💋 pervert!reader makes nerd!rafe speak to her while she rides him 𝟏𝟖+ ౨ৎ⋆˚｡⋆
one of things you loved the most about riding rafe, was how vocal he was when you were doing that—no, not the cute little moans and whines you’d let out whenever you were intimate, even though you adored those little noises.
you loved to make him speak to you. more specifically, you liked to make him tell you strange facts.
you were straddling rafe’s lap, his cock nestled in you, your nails digging into his shoulders. rafe’s head was thrown back, looking at you through half-lidded eyes.
“i’ll move if you keep talking to me.” you cooed teasingly, pressing a featherlight peck on rafe’s lips, trailing a manicured nail over his jawline. rafe let out a breathy whine as you purposefully squeezed your walls around his cock, his voice unsteady, “p-please…” “you know what i want, rafe.”
"nnnghh…” rafe whined, squeezing his eyes closed and taking in a deep breath, “o-okay, uh, did—did you know, that, uh, the human body—fuck…” rafe let out a hiss as you started slowly lifting your hips, "it’s… it’s got enough graphite, to, uh, make 9000 p-pencils…”
you let out a soft giggle, biting down on your lower lip as you sunk yourself down on him again, deserving a whine from him. you rolled your hips, bringing your lips close to his ear and whispering, “continue…”
rafe’s hands were squeezing your thighs so hard; most of the time, his mind wouldn’t shut up for even a moment, but being buried inside of you felt so good, your walls so tight and warm around him, his brain seemed to short circuit.
you brought your hand to rafe’s hair, tugging on it in a way that made his dick twitch inside of you as he let out a yelp, and you let out a soft chuckle, moving your lips to his and whispering, “continue…”
rafe’s hips lifted off the bed, a breathy moan of his name leaving your lips as the head of his cock hitting the soft spot inside of you that made your head spin.
“nonono—” you whined, pulling your head back slightly, continuing to move up and down on his cock with a grin on your lips, “talk to me.”
“can’t… can’t think of anything…” rafe whined.
you stilled your movements, rafe buried in you, “you better. or i won’t let you come.”
at your words, rafe let out a strangled cry that you swallowed by pressing your lips against his, rafe’s hands trying to move you, only for you to keep yourself down as you deliberately squeezed your walls around him again.
“o-okay… uh, e is the most common letter… nnnghh… used in the english language.” you eased up; slowly starting to move again as he babbled, “it- it appears in, uh, 11% of english words.”
you smiled, one of rafe’s hands trailing to your breast as you started moving on his cock using a painfully slow pace.
pairings: brother’s best friend!theodore nott x fem!reader
warnings: smut, explicit sexual content, enemies to lovers, weed/drug use, dry-humping, car sex, semi-public sex (sort of), MDNI
A/N: wrote this back in november. not really proofread, just eyeballed it 😣. the first time i wrote ‘real’ smut.
summary: a ride with theodore nott is already a bad idea. getting stranded with him on a dark country road is worse. discovering the reason he’s been insufferable for seven years might be the worst of all.
word count: roughly 3.5K
masterlist
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the living room smelled like doritos, red bull, and whatever overpriced body spray lorenzo had decided was ‘his signature scent’ this month. you hated that you could identify it from the staircase.
you paused halfway down the steps, already regretting the outfit choice.
the black mini dress was cute. off-the-shoulder, dangerously low neckline, hem that barely survived a deep breath; but it was meant for your girls’ night at pansy’s, not for whatever fresh hell was waiting on the couch. you should’ve thrown a hoodie over it. or a cardigan. or a fucking potato sack.
too late now.
enzo’s voice hit you first, mid-laugh, mid-trash-talk.
“dude, you’re actually dogshit at this map, how are you still silver?”
then came the answering drawl. lower. lazier. infuriating.
“cause i look better losing than you do winning, berkshire.”
you knew that voice better than you knew your own heartbeat at this point. theodore nott had been haunting your house since you were both eleven. same year, same friend group, same stupid face showing up uninvited three to four times a week like rent was optional. your parents adored him; called him polite, charming, such a good influence on lorenzo. they clearly had never heard him call someone a “useless fucking helmet” in the group chat at 2 am.
you reached the bottom step and immediately regretted not apparating straight out the back door.
theo noticed you first.
of course he fucking did.
his head turned slowly, like he had all the time in the world, and his gaze dragged down your body the exact same way it always did when he thought no one else was watching. except he never actually tried to hide it. not once.
cleavage first, then thighs, then back up like he was cataloguing every inch for later use. that stupid little smirk curled his mouth. the one that made you want to hex his stupid perfect face off.
“evening, amore,” he said, voice dripping with mockery. “y’know, people usually put clothes on before going somewhere.”
you didn’t dignify that with an answer. you looked straight at your brother instead.
“enz. i need a ride to pansy’s. like, right this second. please, i’ll owe you one.”
lorenzo didn’t even pause the game. just tilted his head back against the couch and groaned.
“can’t. sprained my ankle at practice. healer said no driving till monday. sorry, sis.”
you blinked. “you’re literally sitting here playing call of duty.”
“yeah, cause i’m healing. and my right foot is currently the size of a fucking balloon. theo saw it earlier. he can confirm.”
theo, still staring at your legs like they owed him money, gave a lazy hum of agreement. “ghastly. truly grotesque. i almost vomited.”
you shot him a look that should’ve set his hair on fire.
“great. i’ll just call an uber.”
you were already turning toward the hallway when theo’s voice cut through again; casual, almost bored.
“i can take you.”
everything in your body locked up.
“hard pass.”
he raised one infuriating brow. “why not?”
“because i’d rather walk barefoot through the forbidden forest.”
“bit dramatic.”
“bit accurate.”
enzo finally looked away from the screen, frowning between the two of you like he still didn’t understand why you and theo couldn’t be in the same room for longer than ninety seconds without drawing blood.
“dude, just let him give you a lift. it’s literally ten minutes. theo’s going that way anyway to pick up–”
theo cut him off with a sharp glance. enzo shut up instantly.
you narrowed your eyes. “pick up what?”
“nothing,” they said at the same time.
classic. as if the whole town didn’t already know that theo dealed.
you crossed your arms. the motion pushed your chest up. theo’s gaze dipped again, shameless– and you hated how your skin prickled under the attention.
“i’m not getting in a car with you,” you said slowly, not even looking at him.
theo leaned forward, elbows on his knees, controller dangling loosely between his fingers. that grin was still there, but now it had teeth.
“scared you’ll enjoy it?”
you barked a laugh– sharp, humorless. “scared i’ll vomit on your leather seats.”
“they’re easy to clean.”
“i’ll aim for your face.”
enzo groaned. “can you two not do this right now? i’m trying to clutch.”
you glared at your brother. wondering how the two of you were related at all. let alone twins.
theo stood up in one fluid motion. tall, lazy, all long limbs as he stretched like a cat, arms over his head, shirt riding up just enough to show the sharp cut of his abdomen and the dark trail of hair disappearing into his jeans.
you hated that you noticed.
he grabbed his keys off the coffee table, spun them once around his finger, and looked at you like he’d already won.
“last chance before i change my mind and leave you here to rot with your brother’s terrible aim.”
you stared at him. he stared right back. unblinking. smirking.
you hated him so much that the only thing worse than getting in his car… was admitting you had no better option.
“fine,” you bit out. “but if you try anything weird, i’m jumping out. moving vehicle or not.”
theo’s grin stretched wider. “noted.”
he walked past you toward the front door, close enough that his sleeve brushed your bare arm. you felt the heat of him like a brand.
enzo called after you both, “text me when you get there, yeah?”
you didn’t answer.
theo held the front door open for you.
you stepped through without thanking him.
his car was exactly what you expected: matte black, illegally tinted, smelled like weed and expensive cologne the second the door opened. there was a single green air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror that was doing absolutely nothing.
you dropped into the passenger seat, wishing you hadn’t.
theo slid in after, started the engine with a low purr, and didn’t say a word for the first thirty seconds. just pulled out of the driveway, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift so his fingers were inches from your thigh.
you stared straight ahead.
he glanced over once. twice.
“seatbelt,” he said finally.
“i’ve been in a car before.” you huffed.
“nice dress. real classy.”
you whipped your head toward him. his tone was pissing you off. “got a problem with it?”
he shrugged, eyes back on the road. “just saying. looks like you’re trying to start a riot.”
“i’m going to a friend’s house. not a nunnery.”
“shame.”
you clenched your jaw so hard your teeth ached.
silence stretched again. thick. electric. the kind that made your skin itch.
after another minute he reached for the center console, popped it open, pulled out a lighter and what looked like a half-finished joint.
your eyes narrowed. “you’re not seriously–”
“relax.” he tucked it behind his ear like a pencil. “not while driving. i’m not trying to kill us both.”
“how noble.”
he smirked again. didn’t deny it.
you turned your face toward the window, watching streetlights streak past. the dress felt shorter now. tighter. you tugged at the hem uselessly.
theo noticed, of course he did.
“cold?” he asked, voice quieter now. almost… careful.
“no.”
“could’ve fooled me.”
you didn’t answer.
he sighed through his nose, reached behind your seat, and tossed his hoodie into your lap without looking at you.
“put it on before you catch pneumonia and i have to explain myself to enzo for not taking better care of you.”
you stared at the hoodie like it might bite you.
it smelled like him.
that stupid cologne he wore. and smoke. and something darker you couldn’t name.
you pulled it over your head anyway; because you were cold, not because you wanted to be wrapped in him.
the sleeves swallowed your hands. the hem hit mid-thigh. swallowing your whole dress.
theo glanced over once. his jaw ticked.
he didn’t say anything else for the rest of the drive.
but you felt his eyes on you every time you shifted.
out of nowhere; the engine coughed once–dramatically, like it was auditioning for a death scene– then gave one last pathetic sputter before going completely silent.
the car rolled to a slow, insulting stop on the side of a narrow country road that hadn’t seen a streetlight in at least 3 kilometres.
you stared at the dashboard. the little orange engine light blinked at you like it was in on the joke.
theo let his head fall back against the headrest with an exaggerated sigh.
“fuck me,” he muttered. “of course.”
you turned to him slowly. very slowly.
“you have got to be kidding me.”
he didn’t look at you. just reached forward and turned the key again. nothing. not even a click.
“not even budging. looks like it’s dead,” he announced, like he was reading the weather.
your voice came out dangerously calm. “theo.”
“hm?”
“did you.. do something to the car?”
he finally glanced over. one brow arched. that stupid, lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth again.
“you think i sabotaged my own baby just to get you alone?” he placed a dramatic hand over his heart. “i’m wounded.”
“you’re capable of it.”
“true. but i’m also capable of basic car maintenance, and this piece of shit has been on borrowed time for weeks. timing belt’s been whining louder than you do when i breathe near you.”
you glared at him and he just shrugged.
silence settled again, thicker this time. the kind that pressed against your ears. outside, crickets. wind in the trees. nothing else.
you pulled out your phone.
no bars.
of fucking course.
theo watched you from the corner of his eye.
“rural charm,” he said. “no signal for at least 10 kilometres in either direction.”
you dropped the phone into your lap. “perfect.”
he reached up and plucked the half-finished joint from behind his ear, rolling it between his fingers for a second before flicking the lighter open with practiced ease.
your eyes narrowed. “you’re not seriously—”
“relax, principessa. i’m not driving anymore.” he held it loosely between his fingers, like it was the most casual thing in the world. “and you look like you could use something to stop you from clawing my eyes out.”
“i’m not smoking your dirty weed.”
“it’s not dirty. it’s top shelf. you’d know if you ever tried my stuff. y’know, supporting local small businesses type shit.”
you rolled your eyes at him.
he held the joint between his lips and took a slow, deep pull. the cherry glowed orange against the dark interior. he exhaled through his nose like some smug dragon, smoke curling around the rearview mirror.
then he offered it to you.
you stared at it like it might bite.
“i’m not putting my mouth where yours has been.”
he laughed, shaking his head. “that’s cute. you think i have cooties?”
“i think you have everything.”
another drag. he held the smoke in his lungs for a long second before letting it drift toward you in a slow, taunting cloud.
“scared it’ll make you like me?”
you snatched the joint from his fingers before you could think better of it.
“i’m not scared of anything you’ve got.”
big talk.
you took a pull– smaller than his, cautious. the smoke hit the back of your throat like velvet fire. you didn’t cough. wouldn’t give him the satisfaction really.
theo watched every second of it. eyes half-lidded. unreadable.
you exhaled. it came out smoother than you expected.
“not bad,” you muttered.
“told you.”
you passed it back. your fingers brushed his.
silence again; but it was different now. had softer edges. the weed was already creeping in, loosening the knot in your chest.
you leaned your head back against the seat, staring at the roof liner.
“why do you hate me so much?” he asked suddenly. quiet. almost curious.
you snorted. “you’re kidding.”
“i’m serious.”
you rolled your head toward him. “you’ve spent the last seven years being an absolute prick to me. every time you’re in my house you act like i’m an inconvenience. you mock my clothes, my music, my friends. and then you stare at me like that–” you gestured vaguely at his face. “–and act like i’m the problem.”
he didn’t interrupt. just took another slow hit. passed it back.
you took it. inhaled deeper this time.
“i don’t hate you,” he said after a long pause.
you laughed, sharp. “could’ve fooled me.” you retorted, repeating his own words.
“i annoy you on purpose,” he admitted. voice lower now. smoke curling from his lips with every word. “because the second i stop… you stop looking at me.”
your heart did something stupid. stuttered.
“what?”
he turned his head fully toward you now. eyes dark. serious in a way you’d never seen.
“you think i don’t notice? the way you glare at me across the dinner table. the way your jaw ticks when i talk to other girls in front of you. the way you always leave the room five seconds after i walk in; like you can’t stand to breathe the same air. you hate me so much you can’t ignore me. and i like that.”
you stared at him.
he stared back.
the joint burned forgotten between your fingers.
“you’re delusional,” you whispered.
“maybe.” he leaned closer just an inch. “but you’re still here. in my hoodie. in my car. smoking my weed. when you could’ve walked. or called literally anyone else.”
your mouth went dry.
he reached over. took the joint from you. took a final drag. crushed it out in the ashtray.
then he turned his body toward you fully. one arm braced on the center console. the other resting along the back of your seat.
close.
too close.
“you want to know the real reason i volunteered to drive you tonight?” he murmured.
you couldn’t speak.
his voice dropped even lower.
“because every time you walk through a room in something like that–” his eyes dragged down your body again, slower this time “–i can’t fucking think straight. and i’m tired of pretending i can.”
your breath hitched.
he didn’t move closer.
he waited.
like he was giving you an out.
like he knew if he pushed too hard you’d bolt.
but you didn’t bolt.
you leaned forward instead, just enough that your nose almost brushed his.
“then stop pretending,” you whispered, something breaking inside you.
theo’s mouth crashed into yours like he’d been starving for it.
no gentle first kiss. just teeth and tongue and seven years of pent-up bullshit exploding all at once.
you met him halfway; fingers immediately knotting in the front of his shirt, yanking him closer across the center console. the gear shift dug into your hip but you didn’t care. you kissed him like you hated him. hard. mean. like you were trying to bruise his lips and prove something.
he groaned into your mouth — low, wrecked— and the sound shot straight between your legs.
his hand found the back of your neck, thumb pressing against your pulse, holding you exactly where he wanted you while the other slid under the hoodie; his hoodie. pushing it up along with your dress so his palm could flatten against your bare stomach. skin on skin. hot. rough calluses from quidditch and rolling joints and whatever else he did when he wasn’t tormenting you.
you bit his bottom lip. hard enough to sting.
he hissed. laughed against your mouth. “fucking savage.”
“shut up,” you breathed, already climbing over the console like you couldn’t possibly settle on his lap soon enough.
he helped; big hands gripping your waist, hauling you into his lap so you were straddling him in the driver’s seat. your knees bracketed his hips. the hoodie he gave you was already off. and your dress rode up instantly, bunching around your waist, leaving nothing but thin lace between you and the unmistakably hard ridge of him straining against his jeans.
you both froze for half a second. just breathing each other in. heavy. ragged.
then you rolled your hips down.
slow. deliberate.
theo’s head thudded back against the seat. “fuck.”
you did it again. harder this time. grinding your clothed cunt right over the length of him, feeling every thick inch twitch under the denim.
his hands flew to your ass; grabbing, spreading, urging you to keep moving.
“there you go,” he rasped. “just like that, tesoro. use me to get yourself off.”
you hated how good it felt. hated how wet you already were. hated that the friction through your panties was enough to make your clit throb every time you dragged yourself forward.
his head dropped forward, forehead pressing to yours. eyes locked. pupils blown.
“you’ve been thinking about this,” he muttered. not a question.
you didn’t deny it. just rocked faster. harder. chasing the pressure.
“so have you,” you shot back, voice shaking. “all those times you stared. you were hard, weren’t you?”
his laugh was almost dark. “every fucking time you walked past me in those little skirts. had to jerk off in your bathroom more than once just so i could sit at dinner without a tent in my trousers.”
the confession punched the air out of your lungs.
you ground down viciously.
he bucked up to meet you; sharp, involuntary. a choked sound tore out of his throat.
“shit–slow down or i’m gonna–”
“no.” you grabbed his face, forcing him to look at you. “you don’t get to come yet. not until i do.”
his eyes flashed. dangerous.
then he flipped the script.
one arm banded around your waist, the other shoved between you– fingers finding your clit through the soaked lace and rubbing tight, ruthless circles.
you cried out; sharp, surprised.
“that’s it,” he cooed, voice syrupy-sweet and filthy. “let me hear you. been dying to hear what you sound like when you’re falling apart on my fingers.”
you tried to keep the rhythm. tried to keep control. but he was relentless. pinching. flicking. slipping the fabric aside so he could drag two fingers through your slick folds and circle your entrance without pushing in.
teasing.
edging.
you sobbed against his neck. “theo–”
“yeah?” he pressed harder on your clit. “say it again, bella. say my name.”
“theo—fuck—please—”
he groaned like the sound of his name wrecked him. “good girl. that’s my good girl.”
the praise hit like a drug.
you shattered– hips stuttering, thighs clamping around him, coming so hard your vision whited out for a second. you bit down on his shoulder through his shirt to muffle the scream.
he didn’t stop rubbing. just gentled the circles until you were trembling, oversensitive, whimpering.
when you finally sagged against him, panting, he kissed your temple. soft. almost tender.
then he murmured against your skin:
“outside.”
you blinked. brain still fuzzy.
“what?”
“want you on the hood.” his voice was gravel. “want to fuck you under the stars so every time you look up you remember who made you see them. literally.”
your cunt clenched around nothing at the words.
you nodded, too wrecked to argue.
he opened the driver’s door. cool night air rushed in, raising goosebumps on your overheated skin. he lifted you out like you weighed nothing– your legs still shaky– and set you on your feet for half a second before spinning you around.
your palms slapped the warm hood.
he kicked the door shut behind him.
then he was on you.
hands shoving the dress higher. ripping your panties down your thighs; not off, just tangled at your knees like makeshift restraints.
you heard his zipper coming down.
he pressed against your back. chest to spine, cock hot and heavy between your ass cheeks.
“tell me you want it,” he growled in your ear. “tell me or i stop right now.”
you pushed back against him. “i want it. i want you. fuck me, theo–please–”
he lined up.
pushed in slow, inch by torturous inch. stretching you open until your nails scraped paint and your breath punched out in a whine.
“fuck,” he hissed against your neck. “so tight–fuck, you feel–”
he bottomed out and held there. letting you feel every thick pulse of him inside you.
then he started moving.
hard. deep. relentless.
the car rocked with every thrust. metal creaking. your tits bouncing under the thin fabric. his hand fisted in your hair, not pulling, just holding. like he needed the anchor.
you moaned his name— loud, broken, echoing into the empty night.
“theo–theodore–oh god–”
“i know, baby,” he cooed, voice soft and wrecked against your ear even as his hips snapped brutally. “i know. feels so good, doesn’t it? taking me so well–fuck, look at you.”
he reached around. found your clit again. rubbed fast, messy circles.
you bucked. sobbed.
“too much—theo—”
“you can take it. i know you can, amore.” his other arm wrapped around your waist, pinning you in place so you couldn’t escape the pleasure or the pressure. “just let go again. come on my cock like a good girl. i’ve got you.”
the praise, the angle, the filthy drag of him inside you— it was too much.
you came again, harder this time if possible. thighs shaking. vision blurring. screaming his name into the dark like a fucking prayer.
he fucked you through it, groaning, praising, hips losing rhythm.
“fuck– gonna–where do you–”
“inside,” you gasped. “please– want to feel it–”
he swore; vicious, reverent– and slammed in one last time.
came with a guttural moan, pulsing deep, filling you until it leaked down your thighs.
he didn’t pull out right away.
just held you there. chest heaving against your back, lips brushing your shoulder, still buried to the hilt.
after a long minute he kissed the side of your neck. soft.
“you okay?”
you laughed; breathless, shaky. “still despise you, so yeah.”
he smiled against your skin. “yeah? wouldn’t want it any other way.”
he finally slipped out —slow, careful. fixed your dress. pulled your ruined panties back up even though they were useless now.
then he turned you around. cupped your face with both hands and kissed you. slow this time. lazy. like he had all night.
when he pulled back his eyes were soft in a way you’d never seen.
“still want that ride to pansy’s?” he murmured.
you snorted. “we’re like forty minutes late already.”
he grinned– that same infuriating grin.
“then stay here with me a little longer.”
you looked up at him; flushed, wrecked and utterly satisfied.
“fine,” you muttered. “but only because your car’s broken.”
he laughed– low, real.
“sure, principessa. whatever you say.”
and when he pulled you back into the car,
you didn’t argue.
not even a little.
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sorry if it’s rushed. gotta work on it. though, this was made a while ago!!
synopsis: in which car mechanic!rafe knows exactly how you can pay him back for the amount of times he has fixed your car.
warnings: 18+ (mdni). seriously i only wanna see grown people in this bitch. KINDA CRINGE? at one point im just straight up yapping, reader's hair is long enough it can be pulled, manhandling, oral (f receiving), p in v, no protection (please don't do that), belly bulge kink a little bit?
It’s very simple: you miss Rafe. Too much. His warm skin, that slurry drawl to his raspy voice, the little dark moles on his back and arms. Hell, you even miss that disgusting cigarette smell that faintly wafts off him. Just two days ago, he replaced your spark plugs, insisting that you didn’t have to pay, much to your dismay. But he’s done so much for you: repairing your broken brakes, battery issues, radiator failures. Therefore it’s only right you thank him accordingly.
So it’s no surprise that you waltz into the shop again at the end of the day, carrying the rich smell of vanilla cookies with extra frosting with you with every lingering step, and a guilty, abashed expression on your face to top it off. Immediately, you’re met with that familiar toned back, hunched over the opened hood of a car. Jordans that are supposed to be red and white — that are now grey and a dull shade of orange, it seems — peek out under the frayed edges of Rafe’s baggy jeans. And of course, an annoyingly stupid tank that highlights the muscles in his back.
Rafe stops in his motions. He probably feels your looming presence behind him. You come to a halt far enough to not disturb him, but close enough to see his oil streaked arms and hands. “Hey.” You croak out, voice feathery, trying to sound blasé by ignoring the heat in the pit of your stomach at the sight of Rafe. You fail tremendously.
Before the man turns around, he releases a breathy chuckle. “Was wondering how long it’d take ‘til my baby found her way back to me,” he shakes his head lightly. He half-sits on the opened hood of the car, tools clattering to the floor. With a cocky smile, his cerulean eyes settle on you. His familiar tone embraces you in warmth and comfort when he asks, “how can I help my pretty princess today?”
Your stomach bubbles in excitement when you hold up the dish with fresh cookies on them. “T-these are for, you know— all those times you fixed my car,” you start, voice shaky. Rafe’s eyes flick over to the sandy cookies, a small smirk on his face. Of course you would thank him with something so utterly you like that, but you know he’s been craving something much sweeter. “When you wouldn’t let me pay. So this is my token of appreciation.”
You extend your arm with the dish balanced on it in Rafe’s direction. He doesn’t say a word. His teasing, admiring stare, the bunched up biceps as he leans against that car. It does something to you. You take a couple extra steps, until you are right in front of him. “I hope you’ll like them.” You breathe out, voice suddenly tiny.
And Rafe never stops staring and grinning, like an idiot. “Everything you give to me I like, angel,” he replies lowly, his sturdier hands taking the dish from yours. “And y’know you never have t’pay. ‘Cause my girl’s always taken care of.” His girl. You definitely like the sound of that. Rafe dotingly flicks at your nose, leaving a small streak of black oil on your skin.
The pressure in your stomach, in your heart, grows heavier by the second. “You’re too good f’me,” Rafe continues, voice raspy and husky. He gestures to the white dish, signalling for you to take a cookie— which you gladly do, before putting it away on his work bench. “Always so sweet.” he murmurs, his free hand settling on the bare skin between the hem of your low-rise jeans and cropped tank top. His touch is like fire, so addictive and lingering.
The subtle flavour of vanilla explodes on your tongue. The creamy mixture of the frosting on top adds the perfect amount of texture to your bite. “But you know I’ve been wanting something a bit sweeter than those cookies, baby.” The hand on your hip meanders to the swell of your ass with a gentle stroke. When you finish your self-made little cookie, you feel Rafe’s stare even heavier on your lips.
“Something sweeter? You mean cupcakes—?” You retort slowly. The sound of your voice is thick in the air. The feeling of impending doom rests upon your shoulders. You never wanted to disappoint him. “I’m so sorry. I’ll— I’ll make them today, right away.” You nod with confidence.
Rafe throws his head back in despair, backwards hat almost sliding off. “Fuck. This is harder than I thought,” he mumbles to himself. The need coursing through his veins is taking over. “Nah, baby. I’ve been wanting this.”
Without another word, Rafe’s calloused fingers dip below the hem of your jeans, tugging you even closer to him. You’re pressed against him, breath hitching in your throat. “Been wanting t’taste you, baby. Your beautiful lips. Your sweet pussy.” His free hand finds its way into the back pocket of your jeans, kneading the flesh.
Your what—? You feel your cheeks grow warm under his heavy gaze, but you don’t protest at all. In fact, you kind of like it. The fine line between just being flirty and more thins between your fingers. You can feel it dissolve into dust, and Rafe can too.
However, all you can say is: “oh.” Your voice is small and shy, almost as if you don't want to admit you’re feeling it too. The needy pulse in your cunt, the way your vision is blurring at the edges. Your breaths grow heavier, and you’re lightheaded. “I’ve been thinking about you every night. When I’m alone,” Rafe admits shamelessly against the column of your neck. “Have been imagining your mouth around my dick instead of my fist.”
“Really?” You ask, voice cracked open in wonder, and Rafe chuckles darkly at your surprised tone. “Really, princess,” You almost feel kind of… flattered. The air is sparkling with electricity and tension, because this is what you two have been waiting for. “Want to show you how much I’ve been craving you.” He sounds almost out of breath.
And then, Rafe places a tentative kiss to your chest. It’s chaste. Short. Sweet. And before you can stop yourself, you let out a needy moan. He looks up at you to gauge your reaction. “Y’like that, baby?” He taunts, devilish smile spreading against your warm skin. You nod frantically, “I do, I do— please, don’t stop.”
At this point, Rafe’s fingers are digging into the plush of your ass, trying to contain himself. He knows he can’t— not in his repair shop, where professionalism is a necessity. He knows that. But with you on top of him, your perfect body so close to his, the delicious smell of your perfume, your hair all bouncy and perched perfectly on his lap with your cute little ass, he can’t help but throw the concept of professionalism out the window. He was never one to follow the rules, anyway.
“You gonna let me, sweetheart? Undress you, touch you—” He places a kiss the side of your neck. You answer with another soft mewl. “Bend you over this car—” Rafe continues, fingers dancing along the hem of your tank top. “Fuck you right—” He breathes, gripping onto your waist as if his life depends on it. “You’ll feel me for days.” His eyes scour your face for any sign of discomfort, but he’s only met with your blown pupils, cushiony lips puffing out small gasps at his crude wording.
An unfamiliar throb drops in your cunt at his words, because yes, you want that, all of it. So much, it scares you. Your whines are pitchy and pathetic when you finally answer the blond. “Rafe,” you sigh as he continues to pepper kisses all over your chest. Without a care in the world, you push the hat off his head, instantly carding your fingers through the blond locks. “Oh my god— yes. So bad.” You almost plea.
“Can’t say no to you, princess, y’know I can’t. Fuck,” the mechanic sighs in defeat. He sounds constrained and frustrated, pulling himself away from your chest, which is now covered in his spit and small bites. He looks up at you again, saying nothing. Only that tender gaze in his eyes, the look that makes you feel like you’re in safe hands.
Rafe breaks the tension by finally closing the distance between you with a single swipe of his tongue over your bottom lip, before locking his lips over yours. The kiss is everything but prim and proper. It’s nasty and sticky, with tongues tangling and teeth clashing. Both of you don’t care. His fingers move to the strands of your hair, using his grip on your hair to move your lips against his, just how he wants it— like a rein. The wet squelches of wet lips moving against each other echo through the space.
Rafe’s hands roam over your body like a man touch starved: every inch of your back, your ass, the back of your thighs. He uses all of his remaining focus to push you further onto him. “Jesus, baby,” he says between kisses, out of breath, “tastes better than I’ve ever imagined.”
And you swear your heart blooms. The praise, the sweet names. Rafe’s big hands rest on your lower back, spurring you on to shallowly drag your hips over the swollen tent in his jeans. The position you’re in doesn’t allow too much movement, but Rafe’s strong hands — now resting on your ass — grant you enough security to slide back and forth with small motions, all under his control. You almost feel like a marionette doll, the way his hands are slightly pulling your hair and moving you in waves over his hardened length.
Both of you are incoherent messes, communicating with kisses, grunts, caresses on the body and heavy breaths instead of words. Anticipation sizzles in the air, it sizzles within you.
“Fucking hell,” he grunts against the column of your neck. The movements of your clothed pussy over his cock beneath his jeans grow sloppier, and the car Rafe’s seated on starts to rock with you two, making poor, squeaky sounds. The man beneath you rips away from the kiss, flipping you over, so that your back rests against the opened hood. On instinct, your fingers clamp around the front bumper.
Your knees are wobbly when Rafe spreads them open with his deliciously tender touch. “Gonna eat this pussy ’till you can’t think no more,” he murmurs, more to himself. His fingers unbuttoning your jean shorts are light, almost as if they aren’t there, and before you know it, Rafe pulls them off, straight to the ground. He kneels to the ground with devotion— as if worshipping you, his only salvation. “So soaked, huh, princess?”
At his obscene choice of words — which you know, Rafe Cameron has a very foul mouth — you can feel your panties dampen. He’s so unapologetically honest and upfront, it’s sexy. The tantalising anticipation, expectations pulsing through your pussy has you breathing pitchy, almost as if you’re hyperventilating.
“Don’t worry, angel. I’ll make you feel real nice.” Your legs dangle off the hood. Rafe grabs your ankles, placing them on each of his shoulders. “Keep those pretty legs there, beautiful.” He says, the heat of his breath too close to your cunt, your thighs, the place where you need him most.
You can only respond with hysteric breaths. Before you can even realise, you feel his light, soft, plush lips dotting kisses all over your inner thighs. He creates a line— a journey from the inside of your knee to the undeniable heat radiating off your pussy. You keep your gaze concentrated on him, the blond mop of hair between your legs as he drags a tentative lick over the already wet fabric of your panties. “Rafe— oh my—”
He groans lowly at your taste. “Tastes so sweet ’n haven’t had the real thing yet.” Rafe whispers, eyes flicking up at you. He teasingly snaps the elastic band of your panties against your hip, before finally pulling them down. Your fingers find the strands of his hair again. The balmy, musty air of the car shop coats your bare flesh. The tantalising silence creeps up on you. Excitement settles on your shoulders.
His tongue meets your clit in a slow lick. You can’t believe the shocks that fare through your veins. His grease-streaked fingers leave stains on your bare legs, your inner thighs. It’s like Rafe leaves his mark on you, literally, and you can’t help but feel your cunt clench around nothing at that thought. The continuous delves of his hot tongue between your folds make you see stars, and Rafe groans too as if he’s the one being pleasured.
Transparent juices keep flowing out of you with every bump of his nose against your clit. He looks ravenous. Jaw working open and closed, the slurping sounds indicate he’s enjoying this a little too much. “I— this is—” you gasp. Rafe pulls away, mischievous grin on his face at your dazed expression. You’re unable to form coherent sentences.
“You’re doing so good for me, baby,” he coos, his bangs sticking to his forehead. You feel his blunt fingers prodding at your aching hole, sliding them in with suspicious ease. “Such a strong girl for me.” You nod frantically in agreement, eyes fluttering shut in pleasure. His fingers set a slow pace, thick digits scissoring you open with full attention and care. He seals his mouth over your clit again, sucking mercilessly.
Within a short moment, Rafe curls his fingers to hit that sweet, spongy spot inside of you. Your back bows off the hood at the contact, and your mewls and whines grow breathier, pitchier. “There, Rafe, oh my god.” Your hand clasps around his wrist. You’re not sure why: to keep his hands away from you from the overstimulation, or to push his fingers further into you.
You’re sure you’re leaking all over the hood now, rocking yourself onto Rafe’s fingers. You feel that flame flare up again in your abdomen. “Fuck,” you bite out, shy waves of bliss washing over you like a prelude of what’s about to happen. “You close, baby?”
You nod your head. “Look at me, angel. Wanna see y’come,” Rafe grunts, fingers still working at that delicate, perfect pace. “Y’look so pretty like this. All for me, huh? Showing me how good you are.” The combination of his digits hitting you just right, that deep voice you love so much, the sighs and groans he lets out too. It spins in your head. The knot inside your stomach unravels, and the wet pulse of your cunt vibrates through your entire body, like a heartbeat that drives you mad.
You burst with a silent whimper, tears brimming in your eyes. You feel your hole convulse, thighs shaking pathetically as a light stream of juices flows out of you. Rafe gleefully laps it up with a flat tongue, humming in approval, his free hands on your thighs sweet and caressing until you’re breathless and limp against the hot hood of the car, reduced to a poor pile of soft whimpers and shaky breaths.
“So— fuck, so pretty. You did so well, princess.” Rafe lets you catch your breath for a moment. Your tank top has ridden up from all the writhing, your chest rising and falling in consistent intervals. Rafe reaches up, placing his lips over yours in a searing kiss. You can practically taste yourself on his tongue. Rafe’s hand unconsciously travel to palm himself over the rough fabric of his jeans, reminding himself he needs freeing too.
“Gonna let me fuck you against the hood?” Rafe drags you off the hood slowly, also out of breath. “People are gonna see, Rafe—” you stutter, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy from your orgasm. You look so fucked out, and Rafe thinks he’s never seen anything prettier. “Don’t give a fuck who sees, princess,” he huffs with a filthy grin. His thumb rubs over your lower lip. “Show them how good I can make y’feel. Y’think you can do that for me?” And you, only wanting to obey his every command right now, nod dutifully. And just like two days ago, the man turns you around, slides his hand all the way down to your lower back, and pushes you down softly with a demanding hand until you can only look at the anatomy of the hood of the car Rafe was working on.
Your hands scramble to hold onto different car parts, seeking leverage. “That’s my good girl.” Rafe presses his hand hard enough on your back so that you arch into a curve, ass pressing directly on his cock. “Jesus fucking christ,” Rafe mumbles, hand rubbing over his mouth as he stares at your arched back. You’re still dripping, still ready. “The perfect view. My favourite things— cars, and you, baby. Always you.”
You hear the faint sound of his zipper being pulled down, and before you know it, you feel his velvety tip drag through your folds like a promise of what’s to come. “Please,” is all you can muster before you finally feel the achingly slow press of his head into your tight, suffocating hole. Your lips spread around him like flower petals. “‘M goin’ slow, baby.” It hurts. He feels heavy and taut within you, and Rafe’s hand slides around you to give your pulsing clit some attention, whilst the pushes himself into you. You two stay silent for a while Rafe presses into you until he’s fully sheathed himself into you, only Rafe’s heavy groans and your floaty whimpers swirl through the room.
“Look at that,” Rafe’s slurry voice grunts out, giving one shallow thrust to test out the waters before building up a consistent rhythm. Like you two were made for each other, you respond with needy, muffled moans to spur him on further. The obscenely vulgar sounds of your pussy sucking him in fill the space, as well as your small, tiny, needy mewls. “Takin’ my cock like you’re made for it, sweetheart.” Rafe tells you earnestly.
“Y-yes— taking it so well,” you babble back, turning your head back to catch a glimpse of the man behind you. You’re completely lost in the throes of lust, your body only accommodating Rafe’s length into you over and over again. The sounds of skin on skin, the squeaky car sounds again, it all feels like a routine now.
“Jus’ needed a good screw, huh?” Rafe leans down, voice right beside your ear, wicked smile on his face. His hand lingers on the back of your neck, keeping you in place although he wouldn’t dare to control or hurt you like that. “Only your Rafey can fix you, right, baby?” You release a couple of dulcet hums at the tone in his voice, hand travelling down your abdomen to splay your fingers over the ebbing and flowing print of his dick inside you. “Only need you, only need you. You’re so deep—”
In turn, his thrusts grow sloppier, all melting into one another like chocolate. “Y’gonna let me come inside you, pretty? Swear you’re gonna feel me for days. Right here.” His hand circles around your waist, right where the faint outline of his cock pokes out underneath your skin, where your hand already rests. His bigger hand completely swallows yours, thick fingers stroking yours. Even his hand motions are suggestive. “I’m close, baby.”
You clamp one free hand around his wrist again, needing his touch to feel warm enough, thumbing at his silver bracelet. “Inside— just, inside—” you gasp through broken cries, the sensation too much for you. “Fuck, you’re perfect—” Rafe utters, voice low and filthy “Milking me ‘n shit. ‘S like you can’t let go, sweetheart.” He sets a maddening pace, accompanied by slick sounds of him driving his cock home. Your throat feels raw from the whimpering and moaning. And with a sharp, deepening thrust, you feel him flood inside you with a guttural moan. His climax is long, it’s a lot and it’s sticky. It’s creamy and heavy inside of you, and you feel full. Filled to the brim.
Both your arms are shaky and tired. Rafe pulls out slowly, watching how both of your releases dribble down your thighs. He wastes no time to turn you around in his arms, your sticky skin against his sweaty skin.
“Sweetest treat I’ve ever had.”
a/n: inbox is open for rafe thirsts and thoughts if anyone wants to yap abt him 😼 also am i the only one who’s a total fiend for backwards hat rafe… like imagine him dropping you off somewhere and he flips his hat around so he can kiss you, BYEEEEEEEE i need to touch grass!
synopsis: in which you’re car mechanic!rafe’s favourite customer.
warnings: suggestive bordering on smutty, so proceed with caution.
The orange sun hangs low in the sky when you drive your car slowly through the opened bay doors of cameron’s auto repair shop — the only car shop you trust with your vehicle, for obvious reasons — before stepping out.
The place is completely empty, save for a couple of old chevies planted on vehicle lifts. An old 2000s r&b tune is blaring from the radio, and two long, denim-clad legs and worn out Jordans are sticking from under a beat up car, dull grunts coming from under it.
“Hello? Rafe, you there?” You call out, voice ricocheting off the walls, through the empty space. “In a sec.” The strained voice from under the car responds, the sounds of metal clinking against metal ring through the room one last time before the man pushes himself from under the car and sits up within a second.
You have to swallow your nerves when your eyes land upon Rafe. Delicious tanned skin, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead from a whole day of hard work. A grey tank top is clinging onto his upper body, black stains of oil adorned his forearms and surprisingly also the tips of his blond hair. His shoulders are also shiny, coated with sweat. One single cigarette is tucked behind his ear casually, and a slow, sticky smile spreads on his face when he sees your familiar, pretty face.
“Well, well, well,” Rafe’s voice is low and gruff, eyes raking over your figure, unconsciously taking one confident step toward you, rubbing his hand over his mouth. “If it isn’t my favourite girl.”
You miss the way Rafe’s eyes linger a second too long to admire the way your jeans are wrapped perfectly around your plump ass. You mean all business, turning toward your car. “I don’t know really,” you start, voice unsure and uncertain. “I was driving home and I don’t know— the engine was making this spluttery sound. And I didn’t know what to do, so I came here.”
You didn’t notice the way you were rambling until you feel Rafe’s heavy gaze bore through you. A sharp chuckle escapes him at your distressed state. “Easy, baby,” he reassures you lowly. His speech is slurry, almost sleepy. The term of endearment shoots straight to your stomach. He says it so comfortably, so casually. It makes you wonder if he would call you that if you were his girl too.
He moves swiftly toward his work bench, wiping his hands off with an evenly dirty rag that doesn’t do much, except for smearing the oil stains even more on his big hands. “Y’just needed my help, didn’t you?” Rafe flashes you a slow smile before opening your car door to pop the hood open. “I— I just didn’t know where to go.” You confess softly.
“Let’s take a look then.” You don’t do anything to hide the faint blush on your cheeks. The way he moves, smiles, how the tendons in his forearms flex when he pushes open the hood. You’re lost in your fantasy about the man in front of you, you almost don’t hear him calling for you with that usual mischievous glint in his eyes. “Come here, baby. Want y’to look with me.”
His warm hand clasps around your wrist when you’re close enough to pull you nearly into his chest. Without a word, he settles you in front of him, bending you over the hood of your car by pressing one hand to your lower back, the other caging you in on the other side.
Rafe’s body covers you like a shield. He smells like gasoline, cigarettes and something soft, like fresh laundry. The man is also much taller than you, and you can feel it. The way the rugged lines of muscle scrape over your back every time he moves to check the cables. You also feel the thick ridge of his length poke into the plush of your ass, and you have to try your best not to squirm every time he pushes himself more into you.
“You see this, sweetheart?” Rafe whispers, even though you’re alone. His mouth is so close to your ear, it feels as if he’s kissing your ear every time he speaks. He points to a random spot— you don’t completely follow, mind too hazy to focus on anything than Rafe’s voice, his warm body behind yours.
You nod silently. “Spark plug’s broken,” the blond tells you. You catch his stare as you turn your head around. “But I’m gonna fix it for you, yeah? Thirty minutes.” A filthy, knowing grin is plastered on his face as Rafe sees your breath hitch when you fully turn around. He makes no move to start working.
Your eyes are wide open. A broken spark plug? How did you not notice that? Rafe releases a slow breath at that cute expression on your even cuter face. You look like a damsel in distress. “‘S nothing bad, sweetheart. Just glad you came to me for help.” He hums gently, still with that wicked smile on his face, tilting your head up with his grease streaked fingers on your chin. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it, yeah?”
“How much do I owe you?” Your quiet voice cuts through the thick, hot, tension-ridden air. You look up at Rafe from under your lashes, your hand casually resting in the crook of his elbow.
His gaze hardens— just for a moment. The thought alone of you paying him for something as easy as replacing your spark plugs has him annoyed. “You ain’t gonna pay for shit, princess.” Rafe tells you, voice achingly tender in comparison to his sharp glare. He emphasises his words by giving your chin a wiggle. “Y’think I’m gonna let my favourite customer pay?”
Rafe takes one step closer to you, which seems impossible because it looks like you two are glued onto each other. He shoots you that classic, filthy grin again before turning you back around, heavy hand pressing you down over the opened hood of your car. Instinctively, your back arches into a perfect curve, ass pressing into Rafe’s front.
Tension simmers in the air upon the realisation what you’re doing. You’re both quiet for a moment. Your breath feels heavy in your lungs when he reaches down again, voice deep and low in your ear.
“Besides, I know a better way for you to pay me back.”
➤ summary: Rafe and your boyfriend are working on a project together, and you both can't help the attraction you feel from day one. He can't miss an opportunity to show that you can do better.
➤ w/c: 5.2k
➤ warnings: unloving relationships, toxic behavior, and name-calling (not by Rafe) smut, unprotected p in v, cheating, kitchen sex, creampie, a bit of manhandling, neck holding, Rafe is a warning himself
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The first time Rafe Cameron stepped into your house, he was greeted not the way he expected. Over the few years of working in Cameron’s development and dealing with a bunch of people, he saw everything. But when the door opened, a pretty and young woman, a bit flushed and with eyes glassy from what seemed like anger, stood there and at first barely even noticed him; he was a bit taken aback.
Not even a second after you opened the door, your boyfriend’s voice was heard from the distance—sharp, annoyed, like you two had been going at it for some time now. “…And could’ve stopped being such a bitch about my damn money!” Your head whipped back, hair almost bouncing in Rafe’s face, fully enveloping him in your scent, while he also tried to understand what on earth he had walked into.
“Then you can deal with your shit by yourself from now on!” You yelled back to somewhere behind you, not even properly looking at the person at your door, because Rob woke up and decided to complain about everything under the sun, again, and by the afternoon you were already fed up and ready to explode.
Rafe held back a tiny smirk of amusement, as just a corner of his mouth had barely lifted at your words. Your face then turned back to him again, and you bit your tongue the moment your eyes fully took him in—six foot something, broad shoulders that damn nearly took all of the space. A crisp white button-down stretched tightly across his form, the sleeves rolled up to show off the tanned and veiny arms that made your skin feel a bit warmer. Your eyes slowly trailed up to the blue ones that were already looking at you with interest and a tiny bit of enjoyment, to the messy and sun-bleached hair that looked just good enough to run your fingers through.
You swallowed instinctively, as the man in front of you had the confidence rolling off of him in waves, making your knees feel a bit weaker and your head forget about the argument you’d been indulging in for the last twenty minutes. And the way he looked at you—eyes shamelessly sliding down your body, noting the curve of your waist and hips that were highlighted by your jeans and summer top—made your stomach flip even though the anger was still burning somewhere at the edges.
“Hey.” The word rolled off Rafe’s tongue as he focused back on your eyes. His voice was low and calm, nothing like the bitchiness of your boyfriend you already got used to. “I’m Rafe Cameron. I and your... husband are supposed to work together on a site plan.”
"Boyfriend.” You corrected with a small scoff, leaning against the door frame. Rafe nodded, taking that into account. Not a husband. “Rob is in there. You can come in. I’m going to need some fresh air anyway.” Gesturing vaguely somewhere behind you, you gave him one last look, maybe a bit longer than necessary, before you pushed past him outside.
You squeezed in the doorframe so close to Rafe that he could feel you through the layer of his clothes. He couldn’t say anything else, mostly because you had already padded down the stairs, and all he could do was look back at you and at the way your hips moved while you walked away. The voice then called his name, and Rafe snapped back to reality, stepping inside of the house and now finally seeing Rob with a glass of whisky in his hand.
He shut the front door softly, his mind still just a bit hazy from an encounter with you. Rob walked down the stairs, greeting Rafe with a weak handshake, his pale face clearly flushed from the argument.
“Sorry about her, man.” Rafe held back an instinct for a sharp reply because, as far as he could understand, Rob was the one screaming at his girlfriend and calling her a bitch. Instead, he just nodded indifferently—he still had to work with that man whether he liked him now or not, and if Rafe had an opportunity to see you around from time to time…well, maybe it wouldn’t be that bad.
Indeed, after that, Rob invited him to talk at your house almost all the time. Papers about zoning permits, investors’ suggestions, and site plans were spread across the dining table, which always received an eye roll from you because you hated when Rob clustered everything with his work stuff and then had the nerve to tell you to not touch anything.
Rob talked numbers and timelines like he knew stuff, but more often than not, Rafe thought that everything he said was complete bullshit. Yet the money from this project was promising, and seeing you all around was just a cherry on top.
Rafe wasn’t creepy, wasn’t leering, but was more like… interested. His eyes kept finding you, as if he had a sixth sense, and every time you walked down the stairs, or came into the kitchen, or just wandered around for whatever reason, he couldn’t stop looking. His gaze lingered on the curve of your waist, on your bare legs, on your chest, or on your face—shamelessly studying and meeting your eyes, like your boyfriend wasn't sitting in the same damn room.
Rob never noticed.
Maybe he was that careless, maybe he was too confident, or maybe just outright stupid—Rafe didn’t decide that yet. He’d laugh, clap Rafe on the shoulder like they’re the best buddies, and complain that you were “on his ass” and "bitching" again.
Rafe’s jaw ticked every time, a joke sitting on the tip of his tongue, and he had to hum something that would look like agreement so Rob would just shut up. Because, he thought, how fucking stupid should you be to have a woman like that walking in your house, and instead of having the time of your life, be a miserable bitch? And during that time, Rafe saw you both in your pajamas and no makeup on when you carelessly made yourself coffee, pretending not to feel his eyes on the back of your head, and in a full face of makeup and the sexiest summer dress he’d ever witnessed.
So yeah, for him, Rob was a total loser who couldn’t handle what he had.
On Thursday they were supposed to meet at 2p.m. at your house, and for that Rafe cleared out his schedule. Yet, when he pulled up in the driveway, there was no Rob’s car. He cursed under his breath, hopping out of the truck and wincing uncomfortably at the way his body started heating up from the button-up and suit jacket that he was wearing. He pressed on the bell a few times until the door opened, and there you were—pretty as always, this time with a soft smile, and looking all domestic in a simple flowy dress.
You took him in slowly, eyes roaming over the dark material stretched tightly over Rafe’s shoulder and biceps; a few opened buttons at the top gave you just a tiny glance at the tan skin and heavy gold chain. The weather was hot outside, and so you were wearing a simple white linen dress, which, you noticed, Rafe appreciated enough to stare at your bare legs and cleavage more than was appropriate.
“Hey.” You leaned against the doorway the same way you did the first time, though now there was no sign of your annoyed boyfriend behind you. “Rob’s not at home.”
“Figured.” Rafe nodded with a scoff. He wiped at the few beads of sweat that formed on his forehead. “We were supposed to meet at 2p.m. Don’t know where he is?”
“Well, he texted me about some important thing that came up at the last minute. Said he wanted to get home by noon but might be stuck in the office till evening.”
“You’re joking.” Rafe's shoulders dropped as a deep frown appeared on his face when you shook your head no. “I cleared my schedule for this shit.” He mumbled, reaching for his phone to check the time.
“Sorry. He’s always like that.” You shrugged—there was nothing new about Rob being careless toward other people, and now he didn’t even bother to notify Rafe about the change of plans. Yet… A thought appeared in your head, as you looked at the frustrated and very hot, both figuratively and literally, man in front of you, that maybe it was a good chance to invite him inside to soothe the ache that you had for the past few weeks.
“Since you’re here, you wanna come in? I just made myself an iced coffee, and there’s a fresh pie…” You trailed suggestively, tilting your head and studying his surprised face. The air seemingly shifted around you, and by the change in Rafe’s face, you were sure you both felt it.
“Really?” He muttered, waiting for a joke that never came.
“Mhm.” You hummed. Rafe nodded then, eyes fixating on the way you smiled at him, stepping aside and letting him in.
He brushed past you, walking towards the kitchen and casually taking off his jacket like he was already getting comfortable. The shirt slightly clung to his back, and, walking behind him, you took your sweet time to look there.
Rafe settled down on one of the bar stools near the island, long legs stretched comfortably, sleeves already rolled to show off more skin and an expensive watch on his wrist.
You couldn’t help but think that he ws everything Rob ever wanted to be—effortlessly hot and confident, just oozing money and power without even putting on an act or trying to be anybody else. Rafe Cameron was like no one you’d ever met, and that spark in him, that simple and natural aura pulled you more and more since the day you first saw him.
He leaned forward on his elbows against the marble, looking at you like you were something tasty, following you with his eyes while you were casually moving around the room. Pretending that you didn’t feel it.
The hem of your dress moved softly against your thighs, not enough to show anything more, but enough to heat pool low in Rafe’s stomach. He studied your back, the curve of your neck, and the way you moved quickly yet gracefully around the kitchen while some of the sunlight kissed your skin softly.
You finally turned around then, lip in between your teeth, a glass of iced coffee in your hand before you placed it in front of him.
“Here.” Rafe flashed you a smile, your fingers briefly grazing each other when he took the glass. You put a slice of a perfectly golden peach pie on a separate plate, and he whistled slowly at the sight alone.
You stayed on the other side of the island, your own glass in hand, feeling the condensate cold and wet on your fingers while you stared at Rafe waitingly. He took a giant bite off the piece, groaning instantly the moment the sweetness blossomed on his tongue.
He chewed slowly, shaking his head while his eyes bored back into yours. “This is fucking good.” He mumbled with a groan.
“It is?”
Rafe nodded. “I’m a sucker for homemade food, the sweet stuff especially.” Your face heated when he smiled at you sheepishly, then dove back in to finish up his piece. No one had ever appreciated your stress-baking skills in the way that Rafe did in that moment, at least for sure not in that house, and it alone pulled at something deep in your chest. “Not to be dramatic, but I would’ve died happy if someone cooked that for me.”
“Well, I’ll let you know if I make something else. I usually give it to my girlfriends or eat it myself, so…” You shrugged, and Rafe's brows shot up.
“You serious?” He laughed, now slowly drinking his coffee, enjoying the way the icy liquid slowly cooled him down. You shrugged again, leaning forward and mimicking his own posture unconsciously, and accidentally making your cleavage even more noticeable for Rafe’s eyes. “He’s not good for shit, huh?”
You smiled, looking down at your hands, tracing the rim of your almost untouched coffee, suddenly way too exposed under the intense blue eyes. When you didn’t answer, Rafe leaned forward again, muscles bulging through the shirt, wanting to know more, feeling like if he didn’t do something, he would miss the chance he thought he had.
“Why stay then?” You looked back up, noting the posture and the confidence that he talked with, admitting to yourself that Rafe’s natural charm worked on you better than anything else. He was attractive; he was so effortlessly hot, and you didn’t know what to do with yourself when he was looking at you like he wanted to devour you on the spot.
“It’s… Now for me it’s a habit, you know?” You winced at your own words because, quite frankly, they sounded ridiculous and just straight-up disappointing. “Like we’re roommates who are already sick of each other. Mentally, I've been out of these relationships for months.”
He hummed in agreement, head tilted slightly to the side and eyes narrowed in a way that made your skin tingle. “You deserve better than him, y’know? Not the way he talks to your face and behind your back. Not the way he treats you.”
You swallowed nervously as the tension around you became even heavier.
“Yeah. I know.”
Rafe looked at you without hesitation—not backing down, not trying to make it look friendly and polite, and not even hiding his obvious interest. Your face heated, your palms slightly sweating from nerves and from the warmth that filled your body, making you slightly switch position when the evidence of your arousal made your underwear feel uncomfortable against your skin.
You shook your head slightly to distract yourself. “Another slice?” You changed the topic, and yet Rafe nodded to your question, you knew that pie wasn’t the thing that was on his mind.
You didn’t know why your brain decided that you needed to walk around the island and stand near him to put another piece on the place. Or why you couldn’t just do it from a safe distance. But in a few moments you stood so close to Rafe that his thigh brushed yours through the clothes, and his face turned to yours, studying your profile, while you tried to be a good host.
He turned on the bar stool, legs spread in a way that made you stand almost in between them. You smelled his cologne now better too, your brain becoming a mush under the influence of a man who seemingly did nothing but was turning you into a hot mess.
You put the slice on the plate, your brain too busy with you trying to play it cool, but it all crumbled when Rafe’s fingers wrapped around your wrist—softly, but not without the usual confidence. Your spatula fell out of your hand, your face turned toward his, and then you were slowly tugged to the side until he was all you could see and feel—sitting right in front of you.
“Tell me that I'm reading it wrong. Tell me to leave.” Rafe mumbled, his fingers slowly trailing up your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps on its way. His head tilted, eyes searching your face for an answer. “I’ll leave.”
Your heart rate spiked up at his touch, as the calloused fingers ever so slightly traced your skin. All of the rational thoughts were thrown out of the window at that exact moment because the attraction that you’d felt for Rafe from day one was all-consuming, leaving nothing else but the pure and simple need in him. It was wrong—you knew that. But so was the relationships that you were currently in, the ones you tried to revive to many times, tried to work on to make things better and stepped over yourself again and again, when the other person didn’t seem to care at all.
Rafe’s eyes were dark with lust, with want, but they still carried that softness that made your heart flutter. He wasn’t demanding; he wasn’t pushing you into anything. Instead, he was patiently waiting for an answer, and at that moment you knew that “something better” was sitting right in front of you.
You moved first, shocking even yourself, as you fully stepped in between Rafe’s spread thighs and kissed him softly, letting him pick up the lead from that moment on. He groaned softly, surprised, just barely smiling against your lips, before pushing off the bar stool to have you the way he wanted. His broad form was looming over you, the warmth radiating off him and the scent of his cologne enveloping you in an addictive mixture that made your thighs rub against each other again.
One of his hands settled on your waist, fingers digging firmly into the thin fabric of your dress, while the other sprawled on the side of your face to angle you the way he needed. Rafe took control of the kiss, as it picked up the pace and intensity with every passing second—his tongue moving against yours, the occasional bites of your lower lip that made you whimper softly—made your mind go blank.
It felt like making out with him might make you come just like that. Rafe pushed you back against the counter until it pressed into your ass, while the outline of him in expensive slacks was grinding against you from the front. Your underwear was getting wetter, the heat tugging low in your stomach when you tried to pull him closer by the collar of his shirt, your own hips moving in the same desperate way against his.
He pulled back slowly, panting and not stopping his hands from moving all over your body. His palms gripped your ass shamelessly, then slid under the hem of your dress, tickling your skin with just fingertips. You jerked the moment his knuckles started moving up and down your covered pussy, feeling the heat and wetness covering the soft cotton.
“Fuck, I can feel how wet you are.” Rafe mumbled, dipping his head lower to nip at the skin of your neck as his fingers pressed directly on your clit. “Is it for me, baby?”
You nodded desperately, your head moving to the side to give him more space. “Yes. Only for you, Rafe.” He smiled against your skin, pulling away. You looked at each other much closer, both knowing that you felt the same exact pull, knowing that you both wanted the same exact thing.
He pressed another kiss against your lips, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, before spinning you around. Your body was pushed forward until your forearms rested against the cool marble, and you stood there—trembling and shaking from arousal, waiting for him to finally soothe that ache.
Rafe pushed the bottom of your dress up, hooking two fingers into your panties and tugging them down your legs. He helped you step out of them, hiding the soaked material in the back pocket of his pants. You kicked your legs a bit wider, a shaky breath escaping you at the feeling of the cool air against your skin, or maybe that you were suddenly exposed in front of him like that. A part of you wanted to hide, to cover yourself up from his hungry eyes, thinking that maybe Rafe was like him, but then he moaned lowly in appreciation, just barely brushing his hard-on against you.
Rafe kneaded your ass with both hands, slapping one side lightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to make your body jolt and your pussy clench desperately around nothing.
“So pretty.” He mumbled, shaking his head before lowering down. You felt his lips against the sensitive skin of your ass cheek, leaving open-mouthed kisses once, twice, then another one a bit higher on your back. He couldn’t stop touching you, squeezing you in his rough hands like it was not enough. “God, I’ve been thinking about you all this time.”
“Please…”
Rafe’s voice was low, rough, almost reverent as he laughed and straightened up behind you. His hands never left your skin—big palms sliding up the backs of your thighs, thumbs dragging along the sensitive crease where leg met ass, spreading you just enough to make you whimper.
“You have no idea how many times I looked at you and pretended that I didn't see you staring, that I didn't want to get my hands on you.” He murmured, one hand sliding up your spine to press softly in between your shoulder blades. “That I didn’t want to take you away from him.”
You bit your lip hard, forehead resting on your crossed forearms. Every word sank into you like heat, making your thighs tremble. The metallic clink of the buckle followed shortly after, and you felt the anticipation making you shiver. Fabric rustled, Rafe hissed when he probably took his cock out of his slacks, then there he was—the blunt and heavy mushroom tip pressed against your folds, sliding slowly and teasing you.
He dragged himself back and forth, making your pussy lips part for him and covering his dick in your slick. You cried helplessly when Rafe teased your entrance, another playful slap landed on your ass and was quickly soothed with Rafe’s palm.
“Fuck, look at you.” Rafe groaned, biting down on his lip from the sight in front of him, feeling the way his cock twitched helplessly with the need for you. “So ready. So fucking pretty bent over for me.”
You pushed back instinctively, needy, and he hissed through his teeth.
“Easy, baby. I’ve got you.”
Then he pushed in. Slow at first—just the thick head breaching you—and your walls clamped down hard around him from the sudden, obscene stretch. You moaned softly, your body wanting to move away and back on him at the same time, unable to help yourself, as your nails dug into your palms, trying to even your breathing to relax your muscles to let him fully in.
“Jesus—fuuuck, you’re so tight.” He gritted his teeth, rocking slowly, pushing inch by thick inch inside of you and looking down to see how you were taking him.
You couldn’t speak. Your forehead was pressed against your hands, eyes squeezed tightly and mouth hanging open at the feeling of him stretching you out. Rafe pushed a bit more until his pelvis met the plush of your ass, and he was buried to the hilt. You could feel him throbbing, hot and heavy inside of you, filling you in a way that made your toes curl against the cool tiles.
He gave you the moment to adjust, but then Rafe started moving in long, punishing strokes, beating the air out of your lungs with each movement. Your body was jolting back and forth down the slippery surface and held only by his hands, firm and possessive on your hips. Your nails were scratching uselessly, trying to reach or grip something to stop you from losing your mind when he was hitting the same spot again and again.
You couldn’t even think, let alone say anything else, rather than an incoherent babble of his name mixed with whines. Your body was moving on its own—the way you tried to push back on his cock, chasing it the moment it slipped out and left just the tip, the way you arched your back as if it could let him get even deeper.
Rafe was groaning behind you, letting the soft praises slip past his lips, as he fucked you the way you dreamed—hard, deep, and greedy. His hands were almost possessive on you, eyes alternating between your pretty arched back and the place where you were connecting, noticing the way you were stretched out around him, the way he slid so easily and perfectly inside.
“Talk to me, baby.” He rasped, one hand sliding up your spine again, fingers splaying wide between your shoulder blades. “Tell me how it feels, baby. Tell me I’m hitting it right.”
“Mh—R-Rafe!” You cried, unable to speak with the way he was knocking the breath out of you.
He grumbled, not satisfied with your answer, one hand sneaking up your back, curling gently but firmly against your neck and pulling you up. "Come here."
Rafe enveloped you—chest pressing to your back, crisp and half-unbuttoned shirt brushing your overheated skin, one hand on your neck and another one wrapped around your waist so he could keep his steady pace. You felt his mouth at the side of your neck, gentle open-mouth kisses covering the side of your throat, then that sensitive spot behind your ear, and then your cheek.
He kept fucking you in deep and punishing strokes, using the hand on your waist to barely move you back and forth, making your vision blur at the sides and your own hand desperately grip at his wrist.
“I know, baby. I know.” Rafe soothed, breath hot against your cheek. “Use your words f’me.” He slowed down his pace a bit more, dragging his cock slowly in and out of your velvety walls, making you feel every vein and every twitch of him inside you. “Tell me how good you feel. How much better this is than anything he ever gave you.”
You nodded again, your head briefly falling back against his shoulder before snapping back up when you felt the hand on your neck tightening just a tiny bit. “S-so good! Rafe—Please!”
He nodded in agreement to your words, feeling the change in your body language—the tremor in your legs, the way you started pulsating around him with every hard thrust, and the way you were clearly getting closer to finishing and could barely stand still. And, fuck, Rafe needed to see your face when he made you cum.
Rafe manhandled you more quickly than you could process it. He pushed you slowly back down on the counter, then pulled out of your dripping heat, making you whine in the process, and rolled you back on your spine. The marble was cold against your open shoulders, making you shiver, or maybe it was the reaction to the sudden emptiness and dissatisfaction you currently felt.
Rafe slightly hovered above you, and you would’ve lied if you said that the sight of his pretty and really flushed face didn’t make you clench harder as he pushed your legs further apart and then looked down at you spread on the table.
“The next time I'm eating this pussy— fuuuuck, baby.” He groaned, shamelessly parting your lips and nudging his tip against you, letting your cunt naturally swallow him fully. Your mouth fell open on a long, broken moan. He bottomed out with a guttural curse, hips flush to yours, and paused—just long enough for you to feel him throb deep inside. “So fucking pretty like this.”
He smirked, smoothing his fingers over your trembling thighs, as he started railing you again—harder and faster this time, taking his sweet time watching your face twist in pressure. One of his hands slid up your stomach, fingers hooked into the already-low neckline of your dress, and yanked it down further, making the fabric stretch and give in until your breasts spilled completely free. Rafe groaned at the sight, palms immediately cupping them, rough thumbs brushing over your nipples before pinching, rolling, and tugging until you arched into his touch with a sharp cry.
“These—” He rasped, leaning down to suck one peak into his hot mouth, tongue swirling and then softly biting. "Are fucking mine now.”
You threaded shaking fingers into his hair, tugging hard as he switched sides, leaving little marks while his hips kept snapping forward. You were clinging to him—nails raking down his shoulders through his shirt, legs locking around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. Every stroke coiled the pressure tighter, hotter, until you were trembling on the edge again.
“Rafe—please—I’m—I’m gonna—” You gasped, feeling it start burning hot in your stomach.
“Come for me.” He pushed back up, keeping the same exact pace, hitting that spongy spot inside of you again and again. His fingers found your clit again, rubbing fast and tight circles. “Show me how good my cock makes you feel.”
You shattered. Your back arched on the counter, a broken sob of his name filling your small and cozy kitchen, stars burst behind your eyelids, and your thighs shook violently, nails digging crescents into his skin.
And Rafe kept fucking you through this, growling low praises until his own rhythm stuttered. “That’s it. Fuck, yes—squeeze me just like that. My good girl, feel s’good—“ He buried himself deep one last time, hips flush, and came with a rough, guttural moan, letting hot spurts of his cum fill you fully, spilling out around where you were joined. Rafe gave a few shallow thrusts, brows pinched, looking at the slick covering his cock, not wanting to leave you just yet.
The silence settled on the room; the only thing heard was the mix of your breaths and hammering hearts. You lay there, feeling sluggish, sweaty, and totally fucked out, staring up at the white ceiling and blinking slowly.
Rafe grabbed you by your waist, sitting you up and letting you rest against his chest, a smile playing on his lips when your hands softly settled on his shoulders. He silently reached for something behind you, making your eyes widen when you heard him chewing, his free hand still softly caressing your back.
When you turned your head, your eyes widened at the sight of him holding an already half-eaten piece of pie you had put on his plate earlier, sweet golden crust covering his lips only to be swept by his tongue.
“Are you… eating right now?” You couldn’t help but laugh despite the slight shivers that ran through your body, looking at him with amusement.
Rafe shrugged. “I’m greedy. I like having two good things at once.” He took a big bite again, smirking at you. “Here, open up.”
He let you bite into the soft pastry, the peach giving you the rush of sweetness, while Rafe’s eyes were glued to your mouth, both greedy and soft. You smiled too as he ate the last piece himself, chewing slowly and pushing your upper body a bit closer to his.
“Y’know I’m not letting you get back to him, right?” He mumbled, suddenly serious, eyes darting between yours. You held his eye contact, your hands just barely squeezing the material of his shirt under the palm of your hand, before you let yourself fall forward again, your face pressed against Rafe's neck.
headphones on. ugg boots. black cat energy. secret glances. vanilla & sandalwood. hobby collector. bookworm. curiosity. strong coffee. deer in headlights. cd's. tinted limbalm.
shy!reader is a skeptical person, never too sure enough to go after what she wants. she's a sensitive soul, but is still mildly intrigued by conflict nevertheless. she tries her best to avoid any uncomfortable situations, but feels a rush when she can hold her own.
shy!reader has had a crush on rafe for the longest time now, always curiously watching him from afar, drawn to him for an unexplainable reason. she thinks that he doesn't notice her, but rafe sees everything.
summary: a chaotic hookup spirals into an accidental confession, emotional whiplash, and an unspoken relationship one of them doesn’t know how to handle.
warnings: sexual content, sex, emotionally abusive language, volatile emotions
an: i love frat boy rafe with a little ditzy reader it’s so fun. this has me wanting to continue them as a series and show their relationship dynamic but let me know! and send request please☹️(also not proof read lol so be aware of potential mistakes)
the headboard was cracking against the drywall in a frantic percussion, the whole frame of the bed groaning with every punishing thrust from rafe’s hips. the sound was probably waking up the entire floor of the fraternity house, but neither of them gave a shit.
"holy fuck," he grunted, the word punched out of him as he drove into her, hitting that spot that made her toes curl and her eyes roll back. she wasn't quiet about it. a high, whiny moan tore from her throat, her nails dragging red lines down the sweat slick expanse of his broad back.
"oh my god, rafe! right there!" she cried out, her voice breathy and pitched an octave higher than normal. he just grunted in response, like a goddamn animal, a bead of sweat dripping from the end of his nose and landing between her tits. he was chasing his own high, and she was just along for the glorious, mind numbing ride.
his pace got sloppy, the powerful strokes turning short and desperate. he buried his face in her neck, smelling like sex and expensive cologne. she felt the vibration of a deep, guttural moan against her skin more than she heard it.
"god, i love fuckin' this pussy," he breathed out, the words thick with lust. "love you... love this so much. fuck, i love you."
the words barely registered at first, lost in the haze of pleasure that was clouding her brain. she just tightened her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, because that's what her body wanted. more. more of him, more of this, more of the feeling that made her feel like she was going to explode into a million glittery pieces.
then it hit. i love you?
his whole body went stiff. it was like someone had hit the emergency brake on a freight train. the frantic energy vanished, replaced by a sudden, horrifying stillness.
he pulled out so fast it was almost violent, leaving her feeling cold and gaping and confused. he shot off the bed like it was on fire, stumbling back a few steps and raking a shaky hand through his messy hair.
"shit," he spat. he paced a short, agitated line on the ratty rug, his back a tense line of muscle. "don't- don't even. don't say a fuckin' word. you know i didn't mean that shit."
she pushed herself up onto her elbows, the duvet, a thing that had probably seen more action than a porn set, clutched to her chest. she watched him pace, her head tilted like a confused puppy.
"what didn't you mean?" she asked, her voice small and genuinely bewildered. "the 'i love fucking this pussy' part? or the ‘i love you’ part?"
he stopped dead and whipped around to face her, his blue eyes wide with panic and fury. "the other part! obviously the other fuckin’ part! what the fuck is wrong with you? it meant nothing. you're nothing to me. nothing but a warm place to stick my dick, alright? that’s it. just a good fuck."
a normal girl would have been devastated. a normal girl would have burst into tears and started grabbing her clothes. but she wasn't a normal girl. and for some reason, the insult just kind of bounced right off. at least he’d just called her a good fuck.
a slow, dopey smile spread across her face. "you love me," she said, the words coming out as a soft, happy sigh.
he stared at her like she'd just started speaking a foreign language. "are you- i just called you a hole to fuck. did you not hear that part?"
"i heard it," she said, nodding enthusiastically. "but you said you loved me while your dick was still inside me. which one do you think i'm gonna focus on? the good one, duh!" she bounced a little on the mattress, a giddy, bubble filled excitement bubbling up inside her. "oh ‘em gee, rafe! i love you more!" she blurted out, the words a bright, shiny thing. it felt so good to finally say out loud.
his jaw literally dropped. he looked completely confused, all his practiced, frat guy cruelty suddenly useless against her relentless, dizzying cheerfulness. he looked like he was trying to solve a math problem in his head and failing spectacularly.
"jesus christ," he muttered, looking up at the ceiling as if for divine intervention. "is your brain powered off?"
"nope!" she chirped, patting the empty space on the bed beside her. "just in love! now c'mere. you can't tell a girl you love her and then not cuddle her. that, like, breaks all the rules of the universe, rafe."
he didn't move. he just stood there, a statue of pure frustration, looking at her, then at the spot on the bed, then back at her. he let out a long, defeated sigh, the sound of a man who had lost a war he didn't even know he was fighting.
slowly, like he was approaching a wild animal that might bite, he walked back to the bed and sat down on the very, very edge, as far away as possible without actually falling off. he didn't look at her, just stared at the wall.
she scrambled over, wrapping her arms around his rigid middle and pressing her cheek to his stupidly perfect back. "see?" she murmured, nuzzling into him. "this is way better than being all grumpy, isn’t it?”
his muscles were still bunched up tighter than a drum, but he didn't pull away. he just sat there, a silent, brooding monument to emotional constipation, letting her cling to him like a human sized barnacle.
"unbelievable," he mumbled to the wall, but the bite was gone. it just sounded exhausted.
"so you're my boyfriend now!" she announced happily, the logical conclusion of this entire conversation. "that's what happens when you say you love someone and they say it back. boom. instant relationship, obvi."
that made him react. he twisted around, finally looking at her, his expression a mix of alarm and disbelief. "whoa, whoa, hold on. no one said anything about me being your boyfriend."
she blinked at him, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second. "but you just said you love me?"
"that's... i was caught up in the moment!" he sputtered, running a hand through his hair again before patting his own cheek repeatedly out of frustration. "it was a slip of the tongue! it doesn't mean we're, like, dating or some stupid shit!"
her bottom lip started to tremble. the glittery, happy feeling inside her was quickly being replaced by a heavy, confusing ache. "but you don't just say you love someone if you don't want to be with them," she whispered, her eyes getting glossy. "that's... that isn’t right."
his face crumpled. the anger and panic were gone, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated horror. seeing her cry, genuinely cry, was like a punch to the gut. it was one thing to be a dick to her when she was smiling and bouncing back, but it was another thing entirely to be the reason her beautiful face got all scrunched up and sad.
"no, hey, fuck, don't- don't do that," he said, his voice softening into something she'd never heard before. something gentle. he reached out a hesitant hand, his thumb awkwardly wiping at a tear that had escaped and was trickling down her cheek.
"shit. don't cry, okay? this is just not how i do things. i don't do… this." he gestured vaguely between the two of them, a motion that encompassed their entire, complicated, freshly minted relationship.
"well, how do you do things?" she asked, shuffling closer to him, her curiosity momentarily overriding her sadness.
"i don't know!" he burst out, running both hands through his hair in frustration. "i fuck, and i party, and i go to class, sometimes. i don't... i don't do feelings. i don't say 'i love you'."
"but you did," she said softly, reaching out to trace the tense muscles of his back. "and i loved it."
he flinched at her touch but didn't pull away. he just sat there, a monument to conflicted masculinity. "yeah, well. look where it got me."
"it got you a girlfriend who loves you a whole lot," she murmured, leaning her head against his shoulder. "is that so bad rafe?"
he was quiet for a long moment, the only sound in the room the distant chatter from his brothers downstairs and her own quiet sniffles. then, with a sigh that sounded like it came from the soles of his feet, he slumped.
"nah," he mumbled to the wall. "i guess it ain’t so bad."
"so i am your girlfriend?" she asked, her voice wobbly with hope.
he let out a groan that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. he looked at her, at her bright, tear filled, hopeful eyes, and he knew he was fucked. utterly and completely fucked. he couldn't say no. not to that face.
"fine," he ground out, the word tasting like acid in his mouth. "yeah. whatever. you’re my fuckin' girlfriend."
"yay!" she clapped her hands together. "so now what do boyfriends and girlfriends do?"
"they usually get dressed," he said, eyeing the door. "before someone comes looking for me and finds us like this."
"oh. right." she looked down at herself, at the wrinkled sheet and the drying sweat on her skin. then she looked back at him, at his handsome, miserable face, and a new idea struck her. "or… we could do it again? to, like, celebrate?"
a slow, reluctant smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. it wasn't a full blown smile, but for rafe cameron, it was the equivalent of a standing ovation. "wow, putting that pretty little brain of yours to work now," he said, a warmth in his voice now, a grudging affection that hadn't been there before.
"am i?” she smiled cheerfully at the praise, leaning in to kiss him properly this time.
"yeah you are," he murmured against her lips, pulling her closer. "my smart girl."
the kiss was different this time. it wasn't frantic or desperate. it was slow and deep and full of newness. “yours?” she muttered against his mouth, smiling.
he nodded, and when he finally laid her back against the pillows, his movements were still sure and possessive, but there was a softness to them that hadn't been there before.
he took his time, like he was learning the terrain of her body all over again, mapping every curve and hollow with his hands and mouth. he watched her face, his blue eyes dark and intense, as if trying to memorize every flutter of her eyelids, every sigh that escaped her pouty lips.
when the headboard started its frantic rhythm against the wall once again, this time, it sounded different. like less of a rough act of desperation and more like a beginning, a very pink, chaotic and glitter filled beginning.
Summary: rafe cameron doesn’t do relationships —but tonight, with you on his lap and his hands all over you, he makes damn sure everyone knows who you really belong to.
notes: this is going to be written from Rafe’s POV. thought it’d be something new💘. Also, english is not my first language so excuse any possible spelling mistakes. -anyway enjoy xoxo 💘🍒
warnings: 18+, sexual content, possessive!obsessed!rafe, explicit language.
𓆩♡𓆪
The second I step into the party with her at my side, I feel it. The shift. Every eye in the room lands on us like a fucking spotlight, and for once, I don’t mind it. I want it. I want them all to see her here with me, pressed to my side, my hand low on her waist, already sliding down to grip her ass like I own it. Because I do.
She stiffens for a second, embarrassed, like she doesn’t realize what I’m doing. Doesn’t get that it isn’t just me being handsy. It’s a message. A warning. Nobody here is dumb enough not to get it— she is mine now.
I drag her through the crowd, not even pretending to let her pick where to sit, hauling her straight onto my lap the second I drop down. She squirms a little, blushes when people glance our way, but I don’t care. My arm’s locked around her waist, my hand sliding up her thigh, fingers brushing high enough that I can feel her tense against me. Perfect. That’s exactly how I like her—on edge, aware of every inch of me pressed against her.
Topper and Kelce’s faces are priceless when they see us together. Shock. Amusement. Like they can’t believe Rafe Cameron’s actually sitting here with a girl on his lap like she’s more than a hookup. And the truth? They’re not wrong. I don’t do this shit. I don’t let girls linger. I don’t show them off.
But this isn’t just some girl. It’s my girl.
The way they tease me doesn’t faze me. Let them call me whipped, let them laugh. They don’t get it. They’ve never had someone who could walk in and make the whole fucking room irrelevant. She’s it.
She drags me onto the dance floor later, and yeah, normally I’d roll my eyes, refuse, say I don’t dance. But with her? I’m already moving before I realize it. Everyone steps back, watching us like they’re expecting me to slip up, like they can’t imagine Rafe Cameron actually doing this type of shit in public.
She moves like she doesn’t give a fuck who’s watching. Hips swaying, hair falling in her face, lips parted—Christ. She’s not even trying and I’m hard already, cock straining against my jeans just from the way she rolls her body against mine.
My hands lock onto her waist, dragging her against me harder, tighter. No space between us. Grinding with the beat until it feels less like dancing and more like foreplay in the middle of a crowded room. Every sway of her hips has me throbbing. Every flick of her hair has me imagining her bent over, moaning for me, the music replaced with her voice begging for me to fuck her harder, faster.
I dip my head and suck at her neck because I can’t help myself. Don’t care who sees. If anything, I want them to see. Want every guy in this room to choke on the sight of me marking her, claiming her. She gasps when my teeth catch her skin, and fuck, the sound shoots straight to my cock.
She’s warm against me, trembling a little, and all I can think about is how much I want to rip her out of that dress and bend her over the nearest surface. My cock’s pressed into her stomach and I know she feels it. She has to. That little flush on her cheeks tells me she does, and the thought of her squirming because of me, because I can’t hide how badly I want her? Makes me even harder.
I can’t stop touching her. My hands are everywhere—ass, thighs, waist—like I’m daring anyone to come close, to even look at her too long. She’s straddling my leg at one point, moving against me without even realizing it, and I swear it takes everything in me not to cum in my jeans like some horny teenager.
And the best part? She’s letting me. She’s not pushing me away, not rolling her eyes like I’m going too far. She’s fucking feeding into it. Looking at me with those pretty big eyes, lips swollen, body pliant in my hands like she knows she belongs there. She’d better.
The music changes but I barely hear it. My blood’s rushing too loud in my ears. All I can think about is how good she’d look on her knees right now, mascara smudged, throat stuffed with my cock while the whole house whispers about how I finally lost my fucking mind.
Because I have. Around her, I’m insane. Can’t think straight, can’t breathe without wanting more.
When I drag her off the floor, it’s not because I’m tired. It’s because if I don’t, I’m going to fuck her right there in front of everyone, and she deserves better than that. Or maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she deserves to be ruined in front of them all, just so every single person in this room knows exactly who she screams for every day.
And all I can think about is how I’m going to take her home tonight, peel that dress off her slow just to hear her beg, then fuck her so hard she won’t be able to walk tomorrow. She doesn’t even know the half of what I’ve been holding back. The things I’ve imagined doing to her since I picked her up and saw her in that stupid dress that barely covers her ass.
And the second I get her alone? She’s not leaving my bed until she can barely remember her own name.
𓆩♡𓆪
The second the front door shuts behind us, I’ve already got her pinned. Back against the wall, my hand tangled in her hair, my mouth crushing hers. I’m not gentle. I can’t be. I’ve been fucking starving all night, sitting through that party with her grinding on me, letting me touch but not nearly enough. Like a fucking punishment.
Her lips part and I shove my tongue inside, groaning against her mouth because fuck, she tastes sweet and I want all of it. My free hand fists in her dress, yanking it up past her thighs and gripping her ass like I’ve got any patience left. But I don’t.
“Jump,” I growl against her mouth, and the second she does, I’ve got her legs locked around my waist, her ass in my hands. She gasps when I grind her against my cock through my jeans, already hard and leaking, pressing right against her pussy. She’s hot there, soaked through her panties—I can feel it, and the thought of her sitting wet on my lap all night, desperate for me without even saying it? Drives me fucking feral.
I carry her to my room, barely making it to the bed before I throw her down, standing over her like a predator ready to rip her apart. My chest is heaving, my cock straining, and all I can think is how bad I need to be inside her. How nothing’s ever felt this necessary in my life.
She starts to sit up, maybe to tease me, maybe to slow it down, but I’m on her before she can even breathe. My mouth latches onto her neck, biting, sucking, marking her the way I’ve been wanting to all night. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, nails sharp, and I fucking love it.
“Take it off,” I rasp, tugging at her dress. She fumbles with the zipper and I lose my patience, ripping it down myself. The sound of fabric tearing or her whiny voice complaining doesn’t even register—I don’t give a shit. All I care about is ruining her.
Her bra’s gone in seconds, panties next. She’s naked under me, spread out and perfect, and I have to pause for a second just to look. Her tits rising with every breath, nipples tight, pussy glistening like it’s waiting for me. My mouth waters. My cock twitches so hard it hurts.
I drop to my knees, dragging her legs apart, and bury my face between her thighs without warning. She cries out, back arching, and I moan against her cunt like I’ve just hit heaven. Sweet, wet, fucking addictive. My tongue’s everywhere—lapping, fucking into her, circling her clit until she’s shaking and clawing at my hair, begging without even using words.
Her thighs clamp around my head but I don’t stop, won’t stop, until she’s coming against my mouth, gasping my name like it’s the only thing she knows. Her pussy spasms, coating my tongue, and I lick her through it, groaning like I’m the one getting off.
By the time I crawl up over her again, I’m beyond gone. My cock’s aching, dripping pre-cum, ready to tear through my jeans. She looks up at me all flushed and wrecked, and it nearly undoes me right there.
I fumble with my belt, shove my jeans and boxers down, and my cock springs free, heavy and throbbing. Her eyes drop to it and widen, and fuck if that doesn’t make me harder.
“Condom,” she whispers, breathless, and I nod, yanking one from my wallet, rolling it on with shaky hands because I’m seconds from losing it.
And then I’m right there, pressing the head against her slick pussy, and it’s too much. Too fucking much. I slam into her in one thrust, burying myself to the hilt, groaning into her neck as she cries out. Tight. So goddamn tight I can barely move.
I give her a second, just one, then I’m pounding into her like I’ve been waiting my whole life for this. The bed shakes, her moans fill the room, and all I can think of is the fact that she’s mine, mine, mine. My hands grip the back of her thighs, pushing them towards her chest and folding her in half easily, my hips snapping hard, ruthless. Every thrust is punishment for making me wait, every grind deep inside her a claim
She’s clawing my back, gasping, begging, nails raking, and it only pushes me further. I slam harder, faster, until she’s screaming, until her voice is breaking, until she’s falling apart around me again. Her pussy clenches, milking my cock, and I just lose it.
I growl her name into her neck, thrusting through my orgasm, spilling into the condom, hips jerking until I’m drained, until I collapse against her.
I’m sweaty, panting, still hard inside her even after I’ve come, because fuck if one round is enough. It never will be. Not with her. And if she thinks even for a second that it’s over, she’s dead fucking wrong.
A/N: from this request. I really love the idea of reader wanting Rafe to do all the work when they fuck, and even when she wants to be on top he’s still like no I’m going to do everything still.
Rafe slides the aching tip of his cock through your soaked folds, the filthy drag sending shockwaves through your body as it catches your clit. A long, low moan escapes your parted lips, your back arching, yours hands desperately scrabbling for purchase on the sheets. An embarrassing whine slips out of you when he starts pushing in slowly and your eyes flutter shut in bliss.
"Shiiit, baby," he groans against your neck, deep and low, "feels so good." Your nails rake down his back as you arch up into him, wanting more, more, more. But then you remember what you really want, what you'd been working up the courage to ask him for over a month now.
"Um, Rafe?" You tap his shoulder, your body shaking slightly from nerves.
"Yeah, sweetheart? You need somethin?" He stills, all his attention on you as he waits for you to continue.
"Could I— um, would it be okay if—"
Rafe cuts you off with a soft chuckle, his hands cupping your face tenderly. "Gotta breathe f'me, sweet girl." He waits until you've taken a few shaky breaths before speaking again. "What's got you so worked up, huh?"
"Can I ride you?" Your words come out so fast they're nearly unintelligible, syllables jumbling together into one word. Rafe snorts and looks down at you incredulously, brows rising so high you're surprised they don't fly off of his face. His head shakes slightly and he smirks, ignoring you and returning his attention to slowly sliding into your warmth. You smack his shoulder in outrage, shocked that he'd ignored you completely after you'd spent so long trying to build up enough courage to ask him. "Rafe! I'm serious!"
"That right, sweetheart?" He snorts again, pressing his lips together to stop himself from laughing. "You wanna be on top?"
"Yes! That's what I asked! Did…did I say something bad?" You were suddenly unsure of yourself, his repeated dismissal of your request making guilt and shame bubble up inside of you, nervous that maybe you'd said the wrong thing and screwed it all up.
At your sudden shift in mood, Rafe's expression turns serious. "Oh, sweet girl, course you didn't, just took me by surprise 's all. You always want me to do all the work, so it was just unexpected, yeah? You're perfect, baby, you didn't do anythin' wrong."
Before you get the chance to respond, Rafe is pulling out and rolling onto his back on the bed, holding his arms out for you. "C'mere, angel." His hands are firm on your hips as you straddle him, supporting you and making sure you're steady as you get settled. He holds his cock by the base for you, the hand that's still on you guiding you until your entrance is brushing against his sensitive tip.
You whimper as you start to sink down, the stretch the most intense it's ever been in this position. Once the fat head slides into you, Rafe lets go of his cock and catches you by the hips, halting your movements. "Slowly, sweet thing, you don't need to rush." You squirm in his grasp, trying to push yourself down, but he holds you up with ease, not letting you move an inch. "No, baby, I don't want you to hurt yourself, okay?"
You roll your eyes but agree, happy when he rewards you by loosening his grip. Rafe groans, his eyes fluttering shut and his head rolling back on the pillow as your pussy swallows him inch by inch, the stretch burning in the best possible way. You can't help but grind down on him once you're fully seated, your involuntary movements making him crack his eyes open to look up at you, his breath catching when he does. "God, you're gonna kill me. You look so good up there baby, so, so perfect."
The first roll of your hips is tentative, cautious, just testing the waters. Rafe guides you, his strong hands helping you find your rhythm, find what feels good. He looks up at you with a soft smile, eyes so full of adoration you don't know what to do with yourself. You plant your hands on his abs, whimpers and moans spilling from your lips as you start to bounce on his thick length; you feel so full you can barley move, filled to the brim and split in half.
Rafe looks up at you with so much pride, smiling like he's the luckiest man alive. "Good girl, look at that baby, you're a natural. You feel good?"
Just as you're about to answer, you change your angle, your whole body jolting in pleasure as his cock rubs perfectly against your G-spot, stars dancing behind your eyes from the overwhelming shock of it. You frantically nod, your pace faltering as you grind down on him, your head tipping backwards and your back curving in a perfect arch.
"R-Rafe please, please, please—" you choke out, not even fully understanding what you're mindlessly begging for.
"That good, huh?" He lets out a rough chuckle, smirking as he watches you fall apart above him. "Gotta tell me what you need, sweetheart, or I can't do anything." He runs his hands up and down your sides while he waits for you to answer, tracing mindless patterns on your sensitive skin.
"C-can you help me, Rafey?" Your plea comes out as a half whimper and half whine, your eyes starting to brim with tears as you get more overwhelmed.
"I've got you, princess, lemme take care of you." Rafe sits up, wrapping his arms around your waist and planting his feet on the mattress, pressing your foreheads together as he slowly thrusts up into you, letting you feel every vein and ridge on his cock massage your walls just right as he builds up a languid rhythm. "That better, sweet girl?"
You nod the best you can, your lips parted as you moan from the intense pleasure. Rafe nuzzles against you neck before kissing his way down your chest until he can suck one of your nipples into his mouth, laving his tongue over the sensitive peak. You cry out, your nails digging crescent shaped marks into his shoulders, your walls fluttering around him from the added stimulation.
He pulls off of your nipple with a pop, pressing a kiss to it before leaning up an connecting your lips in a messy kiss, panting into each others mouths, tongues rolling together. While you're lost in the kiss, Rafe snakes one hand down between your bodies, starting to rub at your swollen clit. Your body tenses up at the feeling and he smirks at you, his thrusts getting harder, faster, sloppier.
"Close?" You nod, your eyes fluttering shut. "Come f'me, sweet girl, I need to feel it."
With one last rub of your sensitive clit, you shatter, pussy clenching around him like a vice, body shaking as your orgasm washes over you. Rafe isn't far behind you, spilling into you with a groan, grinding his length up into your fluttering cunt until he's as deep as he can get, leaning in and connecting your lips again.
It's filthy. Desperate.
Perfect.
Rafe nuzzles against your neck and wraps his arms around you tight as he catches his breath, panting against your skin. He lets out a breathless chuckle, groaning before looking up at you. "Still makin' me do all the work, huh? My needy little princess."
You try to pull away in mock outrage, but he holds you against him tight, giving you puppy dog eyes until you relent. "You're so mean to me!" You pout at him, yelping when he suddenly rolls you over and settles on top of you, his softening cock still nestled in your warmth.
"Nah, baby, 'm just loving you," you smile up at him, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer, "…even if I have to do all the work." He kisses you before you can protest again. "I'm joking, sweet girl, I nearly died when I saw you on top of me. You looked like a goddess, I swear I saw the light."
You giggle at his antics before giving him a shy smile, heat prickling under your skin. "Can we do it again?"
summary: after rafe sees you around campus a few times, he goes from stalking all of your social media to finally having you to himself.
warnings: unprotected sex, choking, drinking, cursing, more i don’t feel like listing😩
rafe cameron wasn't usually one for pre-party nerves. but tonight, the air in the frat house basement felt different, thicker, buzzing with an energy that had nothing to do with the thumping bass of the stereo. it had everything to do with the fact that she was supposed to be here.
he took a long pull from the cold bottle in his hand, the cheap beer doing little to quell the thrum of anticipation under his skin. he’d seen her around campus, of course. how could he not? It was like she'd been plucked straight from one of his daydreams and dropped into the hallowed halls of their university.
his nightly ritual had become a shameful, obsessive dive into her digital life. he’d scroll through her instagram, her private story glimpsed through mutual friends, even her aesthetic pinterest boards. he knew she liked rom com movies and overpriced fun drinks. he even knew her dog's name was daisy. he felt like a creep, a total fucking weirdo, but he couldn't stop. he was absolutely hooked. and tonight, he was finally going to talk to her.
then, she walked in.
the crowd near the makeshift bar seemed to part for her. and rafe’s breath caught in his throat, a sharp, painful little hitch. she looked even better than she did in her pictures and from a far on campus she was wearing a scrap of black fabric masquerading as a dress, all strategic cut-outs and clinging material that left very little to the imagination. the lights from the beer signs caught the strands of her hair as she laughed at something her friend said, and rafe had to physically grip the edge of the pong table to steady himself.
"damn, rafe," topper's voice was a low whistle beside him. "would you look at that. that’s your girl, isn't it?"
"she’s not my girl, top," rafe gritted out, his eyes glued to her as she scanned the room. “not yet.” he saw the exact moment her gaze landed on him. a flicker of recognition, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across her perfectly pink glossed lips. yeah. she knew who he was, too.
"bullshit bro. i’ve caught you staring at her account. go talk to her before someone else does," topper urged, giving him a shove.
rafe didn't need to be told twice. he straightened up, draining the rest of his beer and discarding the bottle into the nearest trash can. he pushed through the throng of bodies, a man on a mission. the noise of the party faded to a dull roar in his ears, his entire world narrowing down to the path between him and her.
he stopped just in front of her, close enough that he could smell her perfume, something sweet and expensive, vanilla like. "hey," he said, his voice a low rumble that he barely recognized as his own.
"hey there," she replied, her eyes sparkling with amusement and what looked suspiciously like hunger. she tilted her head, letting her hair spill over one shoulder. "rafe, right?"
"the one and only." he smirked, feeling a surge of confidence. "you're a lot prettier up close."
"and you're a lot bigger," she shot back, her gaze dragging down his body before meeting his eyes again. the boldness sent a jolt straight through his pants. "i was wondering if i was gonna see you tonight."
"oh, yeah?" he leaned in closer, their shoulders almost touching. "been thinkin' about me, have you?"
"maybe a little," she admitted, biting her lower lip. a move that made him want to bite it for her. "topper said you've been asking about me."
"topper talks too much," rafe chuckled, but there was no heat in it. he was thrilled. "but he's not wrong. i have been asking about you. i've been waitin' for this, not gonna lie."
"for what?" rafe didn't answer with words. he let his hand drift to her waist, his fingers brushing against the warm, exposed skin of her hip. the contact was electric. her breath hitched, and her eyes darkened with desire. he watched her, a predator observing its prey, and saw the exact moment she surrendered.
"c'mon," he murmured, his hand guiding her through the crowd, an unspoken understanding passing between them. he led her toward the stairs, away from the prying eyes and the pounding music, towards the second-floor that was usually reserved for frat brothers only.
the second he had the door locked behind them, the noise of the party was muffled, replaced by the sound of their ragged breaths. he had her pressed against the door before she could even protest, his body pinning hers, one hand tangling in her long hair while the other gripped her ass.
"fuck," he groaned against her neck, inhaling her scent. "you have no idea how long i've wanted to do this."
"then stop talking and do it," she gasped, her hands fisting in the front of his polo shirt.
that was all the encouragement he needed. he crushed his lips to hers, a desperate, hungry kiss that was all teeth and tongue. it was messy, and perfect, and everything he’d fantasized about and more. he couldn't get enough of her. he tasted like cheap beer and desire. she tasted like cherry lip gloss and sin.
his hands were everywhere, tracing the curve of her spine, skimming over the smooth skin of her thighs exposed by the short length of her dress. he was hard as a rock, and he ground against her, letting her feel exactly what she was doing to him.
"rafe," she breathed against his mouth, her voice a needy whine that went straight to his head. "please."
"please what, baby?" he growled, pulling back just enough to look at her. her lipstick was smeared, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were wide with lust. she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. "tell me what you want."
"you. i want you."
"you got me," he promised, before kissing her again, slower this time, deeper. he took his time exploring her mouth, savoring the moment. but the slow burn wasn't enough. he needed more. he needed all of her.
he hooked a finger in the strap of her dress, pulling the halter over her head. "this dress is fucking lethal, you know that? driving me crazy."
"that’s the point," she panted, helping him pull the other strap down. the fabric pooled around her waist, leaving her chest bare to his hungry gaze.
"jesus christ," he muttered, dipping his head to take a peaked nipple into his mouth. he swirled his tongue around the sensitive bud, loving the way she arched against him, her fingers rubbing over his head. he gave it a gentle bite, and she cried out, a sharp, breathy sound that made him even harder.
he took a step back, just to look at her. her dress bunched at her waist, her hair a mess from his hands, her lips swollen from his kiss. she was a goddamn vision. an absolute masterpiece.
"on the bed," he commanded, his voice rough with need. "now."
she didn't hesitate, scrambling onto his unmade bed, her eyes never leaving his. he followed, crawling over her, caging her in with his body. he wrapped a hand around her throat, not squeezing, just resting his fingers there, a silent promise of what was to come.
"i'm gonna ruin you for anyone else," he vowed, his thumb stroking the delicate skin of her neck. "gonna fuck you so good you'll forget your own name."
her eyes fluttered shut, a soft moan escaping her lips. "do it," she whispered. "ruin me, rafe."
he started to apply pressure, a slow, steady squeeze that cut off just enough of her air to make her head spin. her hands flew to his wrist, not to push him away, but to hold on, her nails digging into his skin. he could feel her pulse fluttering against his palm, a frantic little bird beating against its cage.
"that's it," he praised, his voice a low, gravelly hum. "take it. you like that, don't you? like my hand around your pretty little throat."
she couldn't speak, could only manage a choked little whimper and a desperate nod. her hips bucked up against him, seeking friction, seeking relief from the ache he was building inside her.
he let up just enough to let her gasp in a breath, before leaning down to whisper in her ear. "i've thought about this. so many times. thought about how you'd look underneath me, how you'd sound. it's even better than i imagined."
his other hand slid down her body, pushing the bunched-up fabric of her dress the rest of the way off. he tossed it aside, leaving her completely bare except for a tiny black thong that did nothing to hide how wet she was.
"so fucking wet for me," he groaned, sliding a finger over the damp fabric. "and i've barely even touched you."
he finally hooked a finger in her panties and pulled them down her legs, adding them to the growing pile of clothes on his floor. he spread her thighs wide, settling between them. he took a moment, just looking at her, at the slick, pink flesh of her pussy, already swollen and ready for him.
"rafe, please," she begged, her voice strained. "stop teasing."
"patience, baby," he smirked, but he was done teasing. he leaned down and licked a long, slow stripe through her folds. her back arched off the bed, a sharp cry tearing from her throat. "oh, god!"
he did it again, and again, flattening his tongue to lap at her clit before sucking it into his mouth. he ate her out like a man starved, like this was the last meal he'd ever have. he was messy and unapologetic, devouring her with a single-minded focus. her hands were tangled in the sheets, her head thrown back, a string of incoherent praises and curses falling from her lips.
he could feel her getting close, her thighs trembling around his head, her breath coming in short, sharp pants. he slipped two fingers inside her, curling them just right to hit that spot that made her see stars.
"rafe! i'm— i'm gonna—"
"come on, baby," he urged, pumping his fingers faster, sucking harder on her clit. "let go. cum for me. i wanna feel it."
that was all it took. her body went taut as a bowstring, a silent scream on her lips as her orgasm crashed over her. he didn't stop, working her through it, prolonging the pleasure until she was a writhing, sobbing mess beneath him.
he pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. she lay there, boneless and breathless, her chest heaving. he thought he'd never seen a more beautiful sight.
"get up," he commanded, his voice rough with desire. "on your hands and knees."
it took her a moment, her limbs still shaky, but she complied, turning over and presenting herself to him. the sight of her ass in the air, her glistening folds on display, was almost enough to make him cum right then and there.
he quickly shed his own clothes, finally freeing his aching cock. he gave it a few rough strokes, not wanting to waste any more time.
"you ready for me, baby?" he asked, positioning himself behind her.
she breathed, pushing back against him. "please, rafe."
he didn't need to be told twice. he slammed into her in one smooth, powerful thrust. they both cried out at the sudden, fullness. he gave her a second to adjust, then he started to move.
his thrusts were hard and deep, setting a punishing rhythm that had the bed slapping against the wall. he gripped her hips, pulling her back to meet him, driving into her again and again.
"fuck," he grunted, his head thrown back. "you feel so good. so fucking tight." he could feel the muscles in her stomach clenching, a sign that she was close again. he reached around and started rubbing her clit in tight, fast circles.
"cum with me," he demanded, his own orgasm building rapidly. "cum all over my dick."
her walls clenched around him, pulling him deeper, triggering his own release. he buried himself inside her, spilling into her with a hoarse shout. he collapsed on top of her, both of them panting, their bodies slick with sweat.
for a moment, they just laid there, a tangle of limbs, the only sound their ragged breaths. then, he rolled off of her, pulling her into his arms.
"damn," he said, his voice still a little shaky. she just hummed in agreement, nuzzling into his chest.
after a few minutes, he pulled away, getting up to grab a towel from his dresser. he gently cleaned her up, then pulled the covers over them.
he laid back down, pulling her close again. she settled against him, her head on his chest.
"so," he said, after a while. "you wanna go get a drink?"
she laughed, a soft, breathy sound that made his chest feel weirdly tight. "i think i need about ten of them."
he chuckled, pressing a kiss to her lips. "c'mon then." they got dressed, her little black dress somehow looking even more devastating now that it was rumpled. he watched her, a smug satisfaction settling over him.
she was his now. he knew it.
when they opened the door and went back downstairs, the party was still in full swing. they didn't make it five feet before topper and kelce cornered them by the beer pong table, identical shit-eating grins on their faces.
"well, well, well," topper drawled, eyeing them both. "look what the cat dragged in. or should i say, what rafe dragged up to his room." kelce just slapped rafe on the back, way too hard.
rafe felt a flush creep up his neck, but he just shrugged, an arm wrapping possessively around the girl's waist. "had to make an impression," he said, looking down at her.
she just rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "you're all animals," she said, but there was no real heat in it.
ask ⌯⌲ I was thinking about an idea where reader and Rafe are playing an innocent game of two truths & a lie that turns into something slightly spicier… ?
c/w .ᐟ.ᐟ friends‑to‑lovers, jealousy, soft-for-her!rafe, angst/fluff/smut, unprotected p in v, love confessions, + pet names
2.9 K
You’re sitting on Rafe’s couch, in a borrowed hoodie, fingers absently carding through his fluffy hair. He’s lying on his back with his head in your lap, face glowing in the light of the TV as the movie plays.
You glance down, getting distracted for the nth time. Those stupid-long lashes, skin still flushed from the shower he stepped out of when you showed up. Your fingers curl around the ends of his hair; his chest rises and falls slower by the second, the man seconds away from mumbling, ‘this is exactly what he needed’ as he always does.
His hair’s still damp at the roots. His skin smells like whatever soap he stole from your place a while back you pretend not to miss. You could count the freckles across his nose if you weren’t so focused on the shape of his mouth.
Your nails scratch through the hair at the crown of his head, and he groans—his head falling deeper into your lap. He bites his bottom lip, holding back a smile, but the corners of his lips deceive him. “Shut up,” he murmurs as you giggle. “Feels so fuckin’ good. This is exactly what I needed.” You chuckle again and roll your eyes, trying to focus on the movie, but it’s no use.
“Nah. Keep doing that,” he mumbles, mimicking your fingers in his hands as they were, the moment you got “distracted” and changed course.
“Jesus, you’re ruined for your next girlfriend,” you sigh.
“Yeah. Yeah,” he murmurs—right as your phone buzzes beside you. You glance down, lips tugging to the side. Your disappointment’s obvious—of course he notices. “What?” He asks, voice rough and tired like he already knows. “JJ?”
You hesitate, pressing the lock screen as you blow out a breath. “It’s nothing—” You think about telling him. You always tell him everything. But the moment you open your mouth, the words twist around your tongue, too ashamed to speak.
“—Bullshit,” he cuts in with a knowing laugh. “He’s an asshole.”
“He’s not… You two just don’t get along.”
“Not true…”
“You’re kind of an asshole too,” you whisper.
“Yeah, but not to you,” he answers without a blink—without hesitation. “Never to you.”
“Very true,” you answer honestly as he reaches up, grabbing your wrist, placing your hand back on his hair, moving it in a circular motion so your nails start to glide again. “Fucking diva.”
“And?” He grins, smug and sure. “Love when you baby me.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“You love it,” he whispers and you hate how much you do. Hate how good he is at saying shit like that—easy and soft and just for you.
“So,” you start quietly, listening to your voice waver, but you can’t help but ask, it’s been on your mind for nights. “How’s it going with you and Blaire?” Rafe sucks his teeth, his annoyance doing nothing but easing your nerves. “Oh?” You ask, with a soft laugh that sounds like you care that it went bad.
“Not for me,” he breathes.
You nod, chewing the inside of your cheek, feeling like you can finally take a deep breath. A part of you wants to tease him—a part of you wanting to ask for more information on why she wasn’t a good fit—but the larger part of you wants to move on fast. To never bring it up again. To get his mind off her and on to something else. Someone.
Your heart flutters—relief coursing through your veins like hope you don’t have a right to feel.
But you can’t say it.
There’s so much you can’t say. Because what would happen if you talked about those last-night calls? What would happen if you brought up the text chain that never ended or the way your heart skips a beat when he remembers the little things that everyone else forgets? Or, how he makes you forget about everything and everyone else but him?
“Ya know JJ and I get along fine–” You pause mid-scratch; mid-thought, leaning down to look him in the eye with your brow raised. He smirks, cheeks a little pink, and shrugs—eyes glued to the TV.
“That,” you say flatly, “that was the worst lie you’ve ever told, Rafe Cameron.”
He snorts out a breath, neither confirming nor denying the obvious. “I don’t know. I just think you deserve better. We’re cordial—I guess. For you.”
“When I’m watching.”
“And, when you’re not,” he mumbles.
“Lies. Lies. Lies,” you whisper, tugging on his hair playfully. “You’re awful at lying.”
“You don’t know everything about me,” he mutters as he rolls onto his stomach, with his cheek pressed against your lap, eye locked on the screen still.
“I do–”
“Then prove it,” he pushes himself up, all offended like you’re disturbing his peace. “Right now, two truths and a lie, princess. C’mon, show me how well you know me.”
“Rafe, that is the most middle-school—”
“Scared?” He stops you before you can even start.
“Scared? No…” You chuckle breathily.
“Then go first,” he taunts, shooting you a boyish smirk that has your whole body buzzing.
“No you,” you whisper.
“Fine,” he shrugs, the back of his big hand hitting your bare thigh, three fingers splayed. He scoots a little closer and you lean in, letting your head fall against his shoulder.
“My favorite color’s red—”
“Ew,” you cut in with a scoff.
“Ew?” He laughs.
“You’re so annoying—my favorite color’s red?” You mock his low voice teasingly. “Give me something, Cameron, c’mon.”
He chuckles and nods, watching as your fingers wrap around his, lifting it back to the number three.
“Bossy as hell,” he mumbles and you chuckle and sigh.
“Try again.”
“Alright, alright. Take two.” Rafe clears his throat dramatically, nodding like he’s finally settled on something. “Okay. One, I love when you wear my hoodies ‘cause they smell your perfume. Two, you’re the first person I call when something goes wrong or right. Three, Maybank’s my best friend,” he chokes on the last word like it’s pained him to say.
“Hmm?” You question, giggling nervously at his honesty, feeling your pulse climb. His eyes linger, peeking out of the corner of his eye to gauge your reaction. “I’m guessing three’s a lie,” you whisper and he nods with a smile.
“Got me,” he breathes, his face movie closer; lips mere inches from yours.
You swallow, pulse thudding in your ears. “My turn?”
“Lay it on me, sweetheart.”
“One, I look forward to grocery shopping with you every Sunday more than most dates I’ve been on.”
A smile tugs at his lips and he elbows you playfully, like a silent ‘me too’—like there’s no way that could be a lie and you just beat him to it.
“Two, I like to wear your sweatshirts after you’ve worn them because my perfume and your cologne is like my favorite smell.”
“No shit?” He asks softly as you piggy-back off his confession. “Mine too.”
“Mhmm,” you whisper. “And—I… Umm, Blaire’s… Blaire is my best friend.”
“Fuck off,” he chuckles. “Lie. That’s a lie.”
“Guilty,” you whisper.
“M’sorry,” he mumbles. “Did she say somethin’ to you?”
“No… Just jealous,” you murmur. “If I’m being hones—”
“Of Blaire?” He stops you, looking back at you surprisedly.
“I’m just—I don’t know. She had what I wanted, Rafe.”
The silence that follows is louder than anything. His hand grips his thigh, like he’s grounding himself—trying to hold back—like maybe he’s going to say something but he doesn’t.
You draw a deep, needed breath and before you can break the tension he turns toward you now, ready to take his turn—different, like something in him shifted.
“Your turn,” you breathe and he smiles nervously.
He nods in agreement and slides a little closer, letting his arm drape around the back of the couch, biting his lip when you turn into him as well.
“One… I’ve thought about kissing you on this couch so many times, I can’t even tell you. Two, if I ever got with anyone but you I wouldn’t just be settling. “Three…” He wets his lips, eyes dropping to your mouth. “When you called me last weekend and I said I’d just finished a run?” He laughs softly to himself. “That was a lie.”
“Yeah?” You ask softly and he nods.
“I’d just woken up. Dreamed about you. You were on top of me. Saying my name—screaming it.” His voice dips. “And I’m pretty sure we weren’t just best friends in that dream.”
He leans closer. His mouth is almost touching yours.
“Wasn’t the first time I’ve had a dream like that.”
“Really?” You ask and he mumbles ‘yes’, making your breath hitch. A smile creeps across your lips, as his face moves closer to yours. So close you can feel his measured breathing from before, picking up pace.
“Only place I get to have what I want,” he whispers.
You don’t know how to be careful anymore, not when his hand moves from the back of the couch, resting warm and sure on the back of your neck.
“Number two’s the lie,” you whisper.
“Mhmm… Damn, you’re pretty good at this game,” he smiles, chuckling under his breath like he isn’t throwing you soft balls but the way your heart’s racing is leaving you feeling like he’s giving you exactly what you were hoping for from the start. “Your turn, pretty,” he mumbles. “Give me something.”
Rafe turns your words back on you with a dreamy twinkle in his eye. Your cheeks burn from your smile, so hot you have to look away but he steers you back with a soft squeeze on your nape.
He watches you closely now. The cocky smirk is still there, but softer now, like he knows what’s coming but even he’s nervous.
“One…” You say slowly. “I’ve always wondered about us—you and me. What would you do if I just told you how I felt.”
“Holy shit,” he breathes, the words tumbling past his lips before he can stop them.
“Two, when I came in the house and heard the shower I wished I could get in there with you—”
“Wait, seriously?” He asks, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he smiles, a blush creeping across his cheeks.
“Seriously,” you smile. “And three…” You inhale. It’s shaky. “I could see myself with someone else… And I don’t dream about you. I don’t say your name when I—” You anxious giggle steals the words off your tongue, but he shakes his head ‘no’—no way he’s gonna let you stop now that you’re almost there.
“Keep going,” he breathes.
“Whenever I umm… Whenever I,” you babble.
“Just say it, c’mon,” he pleads through a soft breath, like he knows where this is gonna go, like he could finish your words but he wants them to leave your lips.
“I don’t say your name whenever I cum.”
“Lie,” he says, voice low and hoarse, different than you’ve ever heard it before. “You serious right now? You really do that?” He asks as he pulls you in, your body trembling as his nose nudges yours and your lips graze, just barely.
“Really—” You sigh and he swallows your words and your whimper, pushing you down on the couch, pressing his body weight into you as he kisses you for the very first time.
Your hand fists into the back of his hoodie, your lips parting for him. His tongue rolls with yours, slow and tender as his hand cups the side of your jaw. “Fuck,” he whispers, barely pulling back, breathing your air. “We’re really doing this, huh?”
Your eyes flutter open, pupils wide. “We… we can stop—”
His laugh is barely a sound—more breath than voice; more ache than humor. “No,” he says, serious now. “Not stoppin’. Not unless you want me to.”
One palm wraps around your thigh, his hand warm and solid as he lift you leg and rolls his hips into you, grinding where you’re throbbing with need.
“You’re all I fucking want.”
“Then don’t stop,” you whisper.
He smiles against your lips, living in your words for a moment. “Say it again,” he mumbles, trapping your bottom lip between his, sucking slow, releasing you with a soft tug, and a softer whimper.
“Don’t stop.”
Something breaks loose inside him. His mouth is back on yours, more urgent now. Pulling soft sounds out of you, that you’ve never heard yourself. You gasp when his hand slides under your sweatshirt, and he stills, letting you breathe.
“Okay?” He asks softly.
You nod, and his lips ghost across your cheek to your ear. Your hand lifts, resting on top of his, the cotton of your clothes in between urging him to squeeze, making your back arch up into his chest.
Your hands slip beneath his hoodie—skin warm and tight—and he peels it off without a word, eyes never leaving yours.
You sit up a little and he takes his cue, stripping you of your sweatshirt as well; The AC kisses your flushed skin as his hands curl around your back unclasping your bra.
“Fuck me,” he mutters, diving back, lips locking on your neck; pulse pumping underneath as his hands hold your tits; thumbs dragging over your nipples, making your thighs fall open even wider.
“I’ve thought about this,” he mumbles against your skin. “So many fuckin’ times.”
“Me too,” you smile as your hand slips beneath the waistband of his sweats now, fingers brushing his tight skin. “Shit,” he groans, head dropping against your shoulder. “You sure.”
“I’m sure,” you breathe as you tease him a little, dragging your nail along his v-line. “Are you?”
“So fucking sure,” he hums as he reaches for your hand this time, guiding you right where he wants you.
“Fuck, Rafe,” your voice trembles with excitement as your fingers wrap around the thick base of his cock.
“Shit,” he groans, like even that already feels right, his eyes falling to the slight space between you. The two of you watching together as your hand, fists the length of him, pearly precum dripping from the tip.
And before he can ask you one more time if you’re sure your eyes lift, matching his, fingers bunching up the waist band of your shorts just enough to push them down your thighs.
Rafe hums out a satisfied breath, dipping down to kiss your hips, right above the lace trim of your panties, pulling them down as well.
He looks up at you; his hair a mess, his expression like he’s living somewhere between a dream and the moment. “You matter so much to me you know that right?” He breathes and he pushes his sweats and his boxers down.
You reach for him, trembling under the weight of it all—how right it feels. How long you’ve wanted this. “You mean everything to me,” you breathe.
His forehead rests against yours as he lines himself up. And when he pushes into you, slow and careful, your gasp punches the breath from both of you.
“Breathe, baby. Just breathe,” he soothes and you blow out a little breath. He rocks forward, just a little bit, huffing out a breath at just how good it feels. “You feel so—so fucking good,” he mumbles, burying himself deeper. “That’s it. Doin’ so good for me.”
Your hands are in his hair again, tangled this time just like he loves. Your mouth falls open with a gasp, and he nearly loses it just from the sound.
“Fuck,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to see you. Your eyes are half-lidded, chest rising and falling so fast, and he knows you’re close. “You gonna cum for me, pretty?”
“Y-Yeah,” you stammer, overwhelmed with pleasure.
He lowers himself to your lips as his skin cracks into yours with every deep stroke.
“You play with your pussy when you say my name, huh?” He whispers against your lips.
“Yeah,” you smile.
“—Like this?” He mumbles as his fingers press against your clit too, circling perfectly, making you eyes roll back in your head.
“Yes, fuck,” you whimper.
“I can feel it… Squeezing me so—shit. So fucking tight—so wet, baby. I’m trying not to cum, I swear, but you’re—you feel so good. You feel so damn good.”
He buries his face in your neck, lips open, panting against your skin. Your legs tremble, fingers digging into his back now. He hears the little breathy sob you let out and that’s it. His whole body tenses, then shudders as you come undone; his name breaks past your lips as it has for years.
He buries himself deep, arms wrapped tight around you as he spills into you, his big fingers still rubbing you through as your pussy flutters around him, so full of him your mind feels like it’s floating away.
“Baby,” he mumbles as his nose brushes against yours, his lips work from your neck to your cheek to your mouth. “How did that feel?”
“Amazing,” you whisper through a smile, holding his face in your hand, bringing him in for a kiss.
“I can’t lose you,” he whispers, his voice shattered. “Not as my best friend. Not as anything. I can’t lose any part of you. I hate everyone else but you.”
You giggle through the afterglow, letting your thumb brush along his bottom lip.
“M’serious… I’m not lying.”
He pauses, pressing his forehead to yours.
“I love you. It’s gonna be you and me, alright? You and me.”
“I love you too,” you whisper. “Always have.” He kisses you again, slower this time. “You and me.”
“It’s always been that way, hasn’t it?” He mumbles, resting his forehead against yours.
“It has, now it’s just better.”
He chuckles proudly, still buried to the hilt, his bare body pressed to yours, your hearts finally slowing together.
“So much better, sweetheart, ‘cause you’re my best friend,” he breathes the words. “And now you’re mine.”
⋆˙⟡ SYNOPSIS Your computer isn't working. again. However, instead of sending the overly-chatty technician that you nearly despise, IT sends their newest recruit: a tall, quiet, yet endearingly charming Rafe Cameron who cannot seem to meet your eye. Now? You’re discovering all the creative ways to keep your computer continuously broken, and scheming all the ways to get in his pants.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ CHAPTERS & BLURBS
── 01 — 02* — and more...
── (Frrreaky and also) Wholesome Relationship Headcanons* | Giving Him a Dance | more coming soon...
₊˚⊹ WARNINGS & NOTES
── 18+ on chapters marked*. Do not interact if less than.
── I figured I'd make this a (relative) series since I plan on writing more of them. There isn't a cohesive or set plotline really, just putting all my ducks in a row since I plan on writing multiple full chapters of this pairing: nerd!rafe x flirty!reader.
── These are Rafe Cameron x female!reader chapters and blurbs. No use of Y/N anywhere.
A THOUSAND WAYS TO BREAK A LAPTOP — RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT
SYNOPSIS your computer isn't working. again. however, instead of sending the overly-chatty technician that you nearly despise, IT sends their newest recruit: a tall, quiet, yet endearingly charming rafe cameron who cannot seem to meet your eye. now? you're discovering all the creative ways to keep your computer continuously broken, and scheming all the ways to get in his pants.
WARNINGS fluff (more like one sided banter?? where reader has absolutely no filter and rafe doesnt know how to handle it???), suggestive content. this is one of those prompts like the four times you fluster nerd!rafe and the one time he flusters you. having a that's so raven moment, this is my current calling. will def want to write more of them i can already tell. nooooooot edited.
WORD COUNT 14.1k...omfg???? will make a part 2.
When the CPU on your computer skyrockets only after opening it, you know your boss is already sending a member from IT.
Unfortunately, you're no stranger to being your computer's worst enemy. Ever since working here, you've become quite familiar with the members from the technological help desk due to the high influx if issues you seem to attract. WiFi refuses to connect. Disk memory is full despite you knowing damn well it isn't. CPU soaring to one-hundred percent of its usage despite simply logging in to start your work day. And — of course — the guy they normally send has no off-button and asks you to dinner at least three times in the span of however long it takes to fix your tech, and the thought of enduring a masculine dominated conversation seems like a horrible start to your morning.
That is, until IT actually shows up in thin wired glasses, a sheepish smile, with piercing blue eyes you can see across the room.
You try not to stare. Really. But it proves increasingly difficult the closer the IT man gets to you, walking alongside your boss and towering a whole head taller than him, ducking his head just a tad lower to be able to hear your boss better. His dirty blond hair is neatly styled, a few lingering pieces hanging down on his forehead and brushing the lens of his glasses. A thin knit green sweater sits snug over his torso, the button down he wears underneath poking up by the collar with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, all tucked prim and proper into khakis adorned with a black leather belt.
He looks so perfect. You bet he looks like sin underneath all those layers.
It isn't until he's right in front of you that you take him all in: smelling like hints of cedar-wood, sharp and crisp yet subtle and subversive.
Blue eyes suddenly meet yours, and his once nonchalant and composed demeanor crumbles in less than a second. They widen slightly when your boss aimlessly introduces you, gestures to you sitting pretty at your desk peering up at him with a newfound sense of pride, especially when you see his perfectly sculpted cheekbones blush the faintest of pinks, a sight so beautiful it makes your stomach do a weird flip, a mixture of excitement and adventure.
There's something so enticing to you about a man who looks like he's never experiences the touch of a woman, haven't experienced contact besides a firm handshake, never been felt below the belt. You're seconds from sinking your talons in, especially with the way his eyes can't seem to leave you, and you internally decide that if this is the guy they're sending to fix up shop, you'll be finding ways to break your laptop a hundred times over.
Your boss — unknowing to the wordless interaction spewing ungodly levels of unchecked hormones — nods curtly.
"As far as we know, it's just the CPU acting up today." Your boss pats the back of your chair once, twice, then eyes the computer wearily. "Let me know if anything else comes up, yeah?"
Your eyes never leave the handsome man standing in front of you. "Will do."
When your boss pats your chair once more and slides away back to his office, a thick silence settles over the two of you, him blinking stupidly down at you almost in disbelief, taking in the way your lashes kiss your skin, how your shirt adorns your torso, how your eyes never leave his. And - you - peering up at him with a cheshire cat smile as you tap your freshly-done nails on top of the reportedly broken computer, and it doesn't divert his attention, as if he's hypnotized to the sight of you.
"Well," you start after a minute of silence, "are you just gonna stand there and stare at me, or are you gonna do your job?"
He blinks once, twice.
Then you tilt your head to the side, not missing the way his eyes briefly stare at the exposed column of your neck when you do so, staring shamelessly before his eyes widen slightly, as if catching himself, returning his gaze back to your eyes. The professional way to look at someone. Not the I'm ready to jump your bones at a sliver of skin kind of glance.
"Not that I'm complaining," you murmur, almost to yourself. "You're nice to look at."
Puffy parted lips open and close, words arriving and escaping as his brows furrow in befuddlement, cheeks rosy. You swear you've never seen a prettier sight.
"Wh—What?"
You've only heard one word from him and it has your heart thrumming.
"You're, by far, the prettiest one they've sent," you say pointedly, as if it's law. "First it was the guy with Cheeto-dust stained fingertips. I always had to keep wet wipes in my bag after he was through. Then there was that older lady, definitely nicer on the eyes but smacked her gum so loud it burst one of my eardrums, once. After she disappeared, they sent that one guy, rude, handsy, mouthy..." You trail off, looking up to the ceiling in faux-contemplation, tapping your finger to your chin as you think. Then, as if you've had an epiphany, you snap your fingers and point at him as if you've just discovered fire. "Cole! Yeah, him. Are you Cole's replacement?" You inquire sweetly.
He blinks.
After a moment of digesting your words, he swallows thickly. "Do...you mean Charlie?"
Shifting your gaze from him to the wall behind him, you shrug quickly before bringing your attention back to his pretty blues. "Sure. Semantics. Same thing, right? Phonetics, and all?"
You almost miss it: his lips twitching at your hurried words in a slight admiring kind of way, as if he's amused by you, enthralled and intrigued, not the kind of cocky grin you've endured from failed situationship after situationship. It's refreshing, even if it is for a split second, and you feel your grin morph into something softer, less forward, as you watch him tap an unsynchronized rhythm against his thighs.
"Not...really," he says eventually, that ghost of a smile still hinting his lips. "But yeah. Him. On maternity leave."
Your brows skyrocket.
And his eyes widen, slightly panicked.
"Well, not him, obviously," he corrects quickly. "But his... You know... His wife, and all. Paternity leave, technically, if you want to be...uh, technical."
The last word is strung out, unsure. You watch his face nearly contort in pain, cringing at himself for his poor extension of vocabulary, and you swear you see the tips of his ears tint pink to match the rosy shade of his cheeks. But you don't think it's embarrassing at all, not even in the slightest, because now you've heard him talk. A full sentence. Sort of. But now you're craving more.
"Paternity leave, got it," you say slowly, not lingering on his nerves and instead breezing right past the moment that make his shoulders release the slight tension they've been carrying for the whole conversation. "And here I thought he was allergic to human connection."
The strangest thing happens.
He laughs.
He fucking laughs.
And it's a beautiful sound, unexpected and boyish and something you could never get used to hearing. It's light yet carries through the office, like the top layer of a fog misting the entire surface. But the laughter is one thing, because the smile that follows? One of the prettiest things you've ever seen, with pearly white teeth and soft dimples adorning the corners of his mouth, nearly missing the light crinkles by the corners of his eyes when he squints. It only lasts a few seconds, but you stretch it to a lifetime, holding onto the cadence of it like a lost tape, replaying it in your head over and over.
"He kinda is," he says quietly after the come down, the laughter dying as soon as it came, and you're wishing it was longer. "But, uh, until he's back, I'm on call."
You grin. "You are?"
A few moments of silence coat the air between you two. Then, he nods gently, almost as a reminder to himself, to affirm it, gaze softening. And you? You take that and run, imagining all the different ways you can break a laptop without pointing fingers at yourself. All the reasons that would be needed to warrant an IT visit. All the ways in which you can have him underneath you, on top of you, sideways, upside down if needed.
"Good," you muse happily. "Because this computer alone is about to fuel half your paycheck."
When you learn his name, you use it as much as you can.
It's always a careful, Rafe, don't kneel so close to the corner, you'll bang your knee to which he'll respond with a curt nod (on top of a raging blush) or a single, quiet noise of affirmation, almost a wordless yes, ma'am. Or a Rafe, has anyone ever told you that blue suits you really well? where he'll stifle a chuckle of disbelief or shake his head gently, as if what you're saying is simply leverage for him to fix your computer well, not because you mean it. Or a can you promise that you'll fix it real nice for me? I hate making you come all this way every week? to which he'll respond that he'll try his best.
Every week, he comes like clockwork.
Granted, by first thing Monday morning, you already know the cause of the issue that'll happen at least by that Thursday. One week it was a virus. The next a memory disk issue (that you studied how to tamper with for hours the previous weekend on a deep Reddit thread). The following a water cooling issue since you may or may not have spilled your water in your bag, which was a total accident but proved worthy in the end. And, finally, this week, a glitching screen from thumping the monitor a little too hard the night before, claiming the screen kept flickering as soon as you opened it to work.
And Rafe is there every single time.
He kneels beside you, and even though you stay perched pretty in your office chair, he's practically eye-level with you. When you slide the laptop in his direction, you absolutely, positively, make sure that your fingers brush every time. Then when he finds the root of the issue, which never takes him too long, he explains it to you quietly, slowly, as if he's dragging out the moment. All you do is stare at his profile, not the screen, and despite his eyes never leaving the laptop when he goes through the problem and how to avoid it, you know he can feel your eyes on him.
And he refuses to meet your gaze when you lean in close next to him. Why?
Because Rafe will lose his mind.
It's already bad enough he's been placed on a technologically influenced witch-hunt, covering for Charlie for his three months of paternity leave instead of holing away in a dark corner, coding in the silence that he prefers away from people. But no, of course his boss had to have him fill in the gaps, claiming his expertise should be shown to the world, not just the backrooms of the building. Unfortunately, Rafe had no say in the matter, and picked up the shift temporary shift change with heavy shoulders.
But when his first ticket was yours, suddenly the task didn't seem so bad.
Granted, Rafe can only look in your eye for about ten seconds maximum before he can feel his cheeks flaming, flustered by the way you're able to hold eye contact so well, and how it feels like you're peering into his soul every time you look eyes. But when you're that close, barely brushing shoulders whereas his fingers stay electrified from your brief touch in the beginning, his focus stays solely on the screen. It has to. In order to save his dignity, to keep his fragile pride where it is, he doesn't let his desire win.
Not at your citrus scented shampoo. Or jingling jewelry. Or the honey cadence of your voice every time you interrupt his nerd-talk to compliment his sweater, or ask him how his day's been, or any question under the sun not pertaining to the reason he's there. Rafe answers every single time, but not without a few ums or the tips of his ears getting pink.
You never comment on it. You wait for him to stutter out his response, and nonchalantly move on. You don't tease, or even entertain the thought, and instead speak. Listen. Wait. Respond. It's the bare minimum, he knows it, but after dealing with assholes all his life about how shy he gets, it's refreshing to have someone willing to listen, willing to take the time and not rush him. Even if you do it to be polite, he's grateful for it.
Although, you catch him off guard. A lot.
"Rafe, have you ever done it in a car?"
He chokes. He literally chokes on his own breath, sucking in a harsh breath at your question - completely unprompted, by the way — as everything he's been trying to teach you about this week's technological problem suddenly flies out the window. Along with his common sense. And brain. Because he nearly catches flies with how wide his jaw dropped.
"Did you—? Have I—? What?"
You seem unfazed, resting an elbow on the table and propping your chin against your knuckle. "I'm trying to test something. All the people I've asked have, and I'm starting to think I'm the outlier here," you practically pout.
Rafe swallows thickly attempting to gather his thoughts in a polite, professional manner and not the direction is dick wants him to think.
"Uh, I— Well, this doesn't seem professional," he weakly argues.
All you do is hum, unnerved.
"Beg to differ," you continue. "Julia's writing a sex column and was asking everyone's input, so now I'm running my own little survey after I humiliatingly discovered my lack of adventurousness. Granted, she's writing about the implications of what the term situationship means in modern day and age and how that changes the intimacy of what sex is supposed to be, but apparently that includes taking office-wide polls on the nuances of semi-public hookups in the back of a Jeep Wrangler." You pause. "Or Grand Cherokee. I can't remember. But the point is, I feel like a...sexual fraud."
Rafe blinks once, twice, finding the bravery to spare you a concerned side eye.
"Sexual...fraud..?" He drawls out, the words feeling foreign on his tongue, as if he's attempting to hear you right.
You nod, pleased he's meeting your gaze. "It's a real phenomenon, you know. Millions of people suffer from its emotional discrepancies."
Despite his heart about to leap through his throat, his subtly shaking hands, and how looking at your pretty face right now is sending him through a whirlwind of emotions he can't comprehend, Rafe's lips twitch into what he thinks is a smile — a nervous one, at that — but with the way you phrase certain things it boggles his mind, as if it shouldn't make phonetic sense, but it does. To him.
"Millions?"
You frown in faux offense at his playfully skeptic tone, nearly bursting with joy that you're slowly cracking through his steel-like layers.
"Rafe Cameron," you say quietly, drawled out with purpose. "Are you doubting the statistics of my scientific research?"
He shakes his head immediately, an involuntary response, but his lips curve up into a smile. A cautious, unnerved, apprehensive smile, but still something to make your tooth rot due to how sweet it makes him look.
“Not…doubting,” Rafe says eventually. “More so amused.”
“Amused?”
His cheeks feel hot at your suggestive tone. “I—Well— Yeah. Seems like you’re very dedicated to your research.”
You grin, and his heart skips. “You’re damn right it’s research, research that you’re stalling to participate in.” You point a knowing finger at him, wiggling it gently just to put some emphasis on your words, raising your brows in addition.
It becomes too much for him, the insinuation behind your words, what you’re really asking him, so he darts his gaze away from your face to stare idly back at the screen — now fixed — but hoping it’ll spontaneously break again just to give him something to do, something to focus on and steer the direction of the conversation into something less…incriminating. Sure, he feels slightly better that you haven’t done it in a car (even if you’re lying to stand in sexual solidarity with him, because it’s probably obvious from a mile away that he hasn’t) but the question still makes him nervous, as if he’s doing something wrong.
Sex has always been a taboo topic for him, growing up with very strict and conservative parents that he was always made to think pleasure and sex were wrong, something scandalous and ugly instead of something that is natural in human nature. His hometown was too small, not geographically but socially. Everyone knew everyone’s business. Everyone knew who slept with who and who cheated on who as if it was written in the daily paper. It scared the shit out of him, the possibility of being exposed like that in front of all of his peers. It took him a long time to realize that sex isn’t wrong, more so to believe it, but because of the long term celibacy, he never really explored this sort of intimacy until his upperclassmen years in college. He’s always felt a bit behind, inexperienced, almost ashamed of his lack of hands on studies (literally).
“Um, no,” he says eventually, quieter than you’ve heard him. “I haven’t.”
But you don’t poke fun. You don’t laugh. You don’t keel over and insult his lack of experience and take his dignity down with it. Instead, you hum, almost happily, and he nearly jolts when he feels your hand on his shoulder, tapping once, twice, before retracting as quickly as you started. Despite the two layers of clothing — a button down underneath a sweater — Rafe swears he can feel the coolness of your skin, the ice of your palm that nearly steams from the warmth of his body.
“Finally,” you sigh pleasantly. “Someone I can relate to.”
You sound pleased, affirmed, despite your tone a little playful but it sounds sincere to him. It makes him let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, hoping you don’t notice the release of tension in his shoulders and letting out the wound up nerves in his lungs.
But — of course — you notice. But you don’t comment on it.
Instead, you take him in, staring at his profile for a little too long before clapping your hands together, a sounds that makes him jump only slightly.
“Okay,” you continue cheerily. “Now that I’ve conducted my research, go on and tell me about your day.”
The next time you see Rafe is in your building’s coffee shop.
It’s quiet, you’re on the dreaded once-a-month evening shift that lasts well into the night. One person from your team has to do it, and of course on one of the nicest summer nights you’ve yet to see this year, you’re stuck in the office. The implication is nearly poetic: gazing longingly out the cafe window (that’s conveniently on the first floor) watching all the people go to and from the bar, going as far as placing your palm on the window as if you’re waiting for your husband to return from the war. All of your friends are out there somewhere, taking advantage of the beautiful night and making your horrendous case of FOMO flare up like a bad allergic reaction.
You nurse a decaf coffee, swirling it in your hands as you peer out the window. There’s only thirty minutes left in your mandatory hour long break (even though you’d rather just skip the break and leave your shift an hour early, but apparently that’s forbidden), debating if you spend the rest of it outside. But that’s almost like dangling a dollar bill on a fish hook. You’ll have to go inside at some point, and you’d rather not know how nice it is just to have to leave it. Protecting your peace, is what you’re calling it.
You hear your name quietly above a gentle silence.
It’s spoken so delicately, as if you’ll snap in half if he says it too loud, and you almost don’t hear it. But you do, and your heart leaps to your throat when you turn to find the culprit, only to be met with your newfound favorite person, adorned in casual jeans and a button down, no sweater in sight and pieces of his hair falling onto his forehead. He looks unpolished, a bit disheveled, and so fucking real that it makes your breath hitch.
You find yourself smiling. It’s really an involuntary act whenever he’s around. “Hi. You’re here late.”
He blinks, confused he’s even seeing you in the first place.
“…You too. Are you—? What is the—?” Rafe stops himself, shaking his head gently as if to tell himself to get it together, then he takes a deep breath. “Overtime or mandatory?”
Groaning, you gaze outside for a split second. “Mandatory, unfortunately.” Then your eyes settle back on him, still shifting his weight between feet, as if he’s deciding whether to walk away, keep standing there, or sit. “Only have to do it a couple times a year, it’s not bad. Are you also here against your will?”
His lips twitch at your words. “Uh, sorta. I’m so busy covering for Charlie that I’ve barely had time to do my own job.”
You quirk a brow.
Rafe’s eyes widen at his mistake, at his insinuation. “Not that— Not that it’s your fault! At all. I’ve had so many tickets, never knew how busy he was, basically running all over the building. I just— I haven’t— It’s been—“
“Easy,” you interrupt softly, a hint of a grin etching your lips. “I’m teasing.”
He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, darting his gaze between your eyes, letting the panic wash away as he takes in your playful smile. You’re joking. It’s a joke. You’re not mad at him. If you actually were, he has no idea what he’d do. Crawl in a hole and die, maybe. That sounds like the plausible answer.
Before he can say anything to dig himself deeper into a hole, you pipe up. “Wanna sit?”
“Yes,” Rafe says immediately, then his face instantly feels hot at the urgency of his response. “If that’s fine?”
Pleased with his answer, you gesture towards the other side of the booth, rather empty and unoccupied, and he’s sliding in quickly, almost savoring your offer before you come to your senses and boot him. He’s expecting it, counting on it, even. Because you’ve been far too nice to him to the point where he feels like he’s being pranked, mocked from a far. It doesn’t seem right: someone as pretty as you voluntarily wanting to hang out with him. It seems like a trap.
But Rafe can’t deny how nice your company is. Even if it is all a ploy, a joke, he has gotten used to the pleasantries of your company, and wants to be a little selfish for a bit longer, elongating the notion of being in your presence for as long as he can, up until you’ll start laughing in his face and saying it was all one big, fat experiment to see how long it’ll take the nerd of the IT department to crack. Spoiler alert: he’s already cracked. Wide open. Like an egg over a pan. So fucking far gone for you that it’s pathetic.
“Do you stay late often?” You ask gently, pulling him from his self deprecating thoughts.
He tries to ignore how pretty you look right now. “Uh, not really. I like being home before sunset.”
Once it comes out of his mouth, he realizes how fucking lame that sounds, like he’s some little kid scared of the dark. The real reason is far more incriminating, that he likes to read in the daylight, getting in all the time he can before the sun goes down and he’s left to use the LED lights that indefinitely give him headaches. Plus, on the nights he doesn’t spend with his sister and her friends, the darkness only reminds him of how fucking lonely he is.
However like the angel you are, you don’t tease.
“I get that,” you agree, taking a sip of your coffee. “I like having my nights. I’m not really a morning person, like at all. I barely function my first hour here, but I’d rather work those in exchange for evenings, you know? More time for having fun.”
The response leaves his mouth before he can stop it.
“What do you like to do for fun?”
You quirk a brow, surprised, and he nearly takes it back but you tilt your head to the side, intrigued by his interest, as if he’s been itching to ask you about yourself. Now you’re away from a work setting (sort of) so it doesn’t feel as taboo as it normally does, because it feels wrong asking you questions while he’s supposed to be working, but as you sit across from him and look at him as if he’s has an ounce of worth, Rafe finds himself wanting to learn everything under the sun about you. Sue him.
And you? You practically lean forward with excitement because finally — finally — he’s slowly stepping out of his shell, forgetting the intricacies of workplace professionalism and treating you like a friend (even though you’re literally begging to be more than that) but you figure with a guy like him, someone so guarded and apprehensive about breaking some loose rules, you’ll have to take your time, get to know him which is something you are eager to do anyway, and not scare him off.
“Lots of things,” you start slowly, calculated and thrilled and refraining from jumping his bones. “Hanging out with friends, cooking too much food for one person, reading when I remember it’s something that people normally do to relax, traveling when I actually save my money which never really happens, laying in the sun in parks and doing absolutely nothing. You know. Stuff like that.”
Rafe’s lips twitch. “Definitely sounds fun.”
You watch him for a few seconds. “And you?”
“What about me?”
“What do you do for fun? Besides compute binary code in a dark corner?”
He huffs out a laugh, almost self deprecating, as he feels his cheeks burn a bit hotter. Hesitating, he reaches up to scratch the nape of his neck as he searches for an answer, one that is far from the truth and won’t make him sound like a complete loser.
“You basically just summed it up,” he says without thinking.
Rafe curses himself in his head. So much for sounding relatively interesting.
But you roll your eyes, not buying it. “C’mon, I know there’s more to you than that.”
Racking his brain for answers, he pathetically revisits your answer, trying to find some silver linings of comparisons and make it seem like you and him have remotely the same interests, which seems impossible. It’s no secret that you’re cool — way too cool for someone like him — and that your interests definitely match your demeanor, unlike him, who’s as boring as he looks. He’s sure you can tell, right? It terrifies him, not being able to read your expressions.
“I, uh, like reading too,” Rafe starts quietly, picking absentmindedly at the label on his drink to avoid your intense gaze. “Classics, theoretics, stuff like that. I draw sometimes when I’m bored.”
(His cheeks burn at the thought of it, because in his notebook stuffed between his mattress back at his apartment are drawings of you. Your hands adorned with your everyday rings. Your face propped up on a knuckle. Your profile. You sitting straight on. You typing on your computer. It’s fucking pathetic. He’s in deep.)
Rafe clears his throat, shaking the images away. “I like to run. Early in the morning, before the heat settles in. Right along the water and before the city wakes up. It’s like…my time to gather my thoughts, or something. I don’t know.” God, stop fucking rambling.
When you hum with an impressed tone, his blue eyes shoot up to meet your gaze.
“That’s impressive, I admire that.”
If his face wasn’t red before, it definitely is now.
Meanwhile, you have the mental image of him running, preferably shirtless, wondering what his bare chest looks like with sweat glistening it. You’re no idiot, you’ve seen the way his biceps sometimes stretch through the fabric of his button downs and you often wondering what your hand would feel like curled around it. You wonder what it’s like to grip it to steady yourself. You wonder what it’s like to be in a headlock—
“I wish I could motivate like that in the morning,” you say, almost praising to shake away the daydream. “Unfortunately, I’m sleeping in until the last possible minute. Have you always been a morning person?”
And the two of you continue, just like this. Bouncing questions back and forth, sharing similar interests and learning more about the things the other doesn’t really know about. (I.e. he told you offhandedly he’s from a beach town and you started asking him a lot of questions mostly pertaining to the amount of sharks and seals he’s ever seen rather than the town itself, which he is inherently grateful for). Rafe learns fragments of your life, how many siblings you have and the names of your best friends. Your favorite places in town and what kind of things you like to buy. The name of your childhood pet and reason you were fired from your first job as a fresh fifteen year old.
He holds onto every single word, every single anecdote, barely breathing just to make sure he doesn’t miss a thing, doesn’t miss a consonant or vowel. You gaze in his eyes so intently deep that it makes him a little nervous, especially when it’s his turn to answer your very simple question. But you can tell he’s not used to this, talking about himself and introducing himself in such depth. It’s almost refreshing, a bit possessive, because you wonder how many people actually know him like this.
It isn’t until you glance at the time when you curse.
“Fuck.” You shuffle to slide out of the booth. “I was supposed to go back twenty minutes ago.”
Rafe follows your movements only because he’s unsure of how to react. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you.” He can’t imagine how long he’s been away from his desk, but for once he can’t find the energy to care, solely focused on you, you, you.
You stand, tossing your long-empty cup away in the trash and snort.
“Are you kidding? This was the most entertaining part of my night. I should thank you.”
His cheeks tint a rosy hue.
“Well,” you continue. “I’ll probably see you next week for another technological mishap?”
Chuckling, Rafe nods a little too eagerly at the thought of continuously seeing you, more important how you seemingly want to keep seeing him.
“Yeah,” he finds himself saying. “See you then.”
You don’t see him then.
Instead, it’s far more incriminating. For you.
To preface: you’re never going out with your cousin ever again. She comes to town a few times a year and the two of you always take it too far. Always agree on a chill night in. Maybe watch a movie and split a bottle of wine or two. But no, that never happens, because before you know it, the two of you are getting ready to go out and you’re clubbing until it’s far too late to surrender. You laugh. Take turns buying each other drinks. Dance to your favorite songs and catch up in the bathroom. It’s refreshing, stupidly fun, something that you never know you need until it’s moments before you leave your apartment, and the jitters are too much to handle.
Everything was fine. The night was going so well.
That is, until you leave the club and the sun is just barely rising.
You’re not that drunk anymore. Just tipsy and tired and high off life. You’re in the phase of laughing a little too hard at everything around you, taking in the simplicity of the world around you instead of being angry at it due to how tired you are. But despite the exhaustion in your bones and the way your eyes are barely staying open, you manage to breathe in the fresh air, grin, take it all in.
Nudging your cousin’s shoulder playfully as you walk down the hauntingly quiet street, you huff.
“Never fucking going out with you ever again. The fucking sun is coming up.”
Isla, your cousin, snorts, and it echoes throughout the emptiness of the world around you. “You’re such a hypocrite. You say that every time, and guess what? Here we are, disappointing our ancestors yet again.”
You laugh loud. Boisterous. Perhaps waking some people up at the volume. But you don’t care, listening to the sound of your heels against the concrete and how that plus the combination of Isla’s heels sound like a herd of horses galloping down the street. For someone who is never awake during sunrise, it sure is beautiful, especially with how peaceful it feels with the barely-there sunlight glistening your skin and the cool air giving you more oxygen than you’re used to.
“We’re degenerates,” you pointedly argue. “It’s our job to—“
You don’t finish, because the words are so harshly knocked out of your lungs as something big collides with you. Hard. Fast. And…wet?
Your body is hitting the concrete before you register it, your tipsy brain a few seconds behind your body and your body way behind your brain. It doesn’t hurt, not really, with the exception of a quick sting on your knees and on the heels of your hands that steady your abhorrently disgraceful fall. Your purse flies out of your grasp, landing somewhere unknown as you can only hear the ringing of your ears for a full five seconds before voices start to come back into range.
Well. One voice is actually speaking. The other noise is the sound of loud, audacious, drunken laughter. Your cousin. Then who—?
“—my god, I’m so sorry! Are you alright? I didn’t— The corner— My headphones, I didn’t hear, couldn’t see—“
Then the voice stops abruptly, inhaling a breath so harsh that you can hear it crack. You blink blearily, letting out a chuckle in disbelief, because it’s a little funny you just got your absolute shit rocked, knocked to the ground to forcibly that it spun your brain in a full circle. Or flip. Whatever you want to call it. It doesn’t hurt, besides a bit of your dignity, but it’s more comical than anything.
Your vision comes back when he says your name, and you’re absolutely mortified to see Rafe Cameron standing over you: shirtless, sweaty, and far more ripped than you ever imagined. His hands hover over you, as if he wants to touch you and help you gather yourself, but afraid of hurting you further. For a moment, you consider your appearance: bleary-eyed and eyes probably going in two different directions, messy and sweaty from dancing, wearing next to nothing that’s probably not covering up everything it needs to.
And — for once — you’re absolutely speechless. You couldn’t make this up, and nearly laugh in his face at the coincidence.
But it’s not funny to Rafe, whose heart just fucking stopped seeing that he hurt you.
“Holy shit,” he curses low, and you’re surprised to hear him swear for the first time. “I just— I totally— Jesus, are you okay?”
You open your mouth to respond, but the howling laughter coming from your cousin interrupts whatever humiliating thing that was about to come out of your mouth.
“That was—“ She keels over, hysterical. “You just— He just rocked your shit!”
Rafe looks absolutely wrecked, not finding the situation funny at all and completely ignoring your cousin, whose loud reaction continues to bounce off the brick walls on the street, no doubt waking people up at its volume. One hand hovers over your skinned knees, the other just barely touching your bare shoulder, and he nearly retracts when he can nearly feel the heat of your skin against his palm.
You manage to let out a light chuckle. “How fast were you going?”
“I didn’t— I wasn’t paying attention,” he says quickly, hurriedly, eyes scanning your body for injuries. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Before you can stop yourself, you place a hand over his knuckles, stopping his incessant ramble of apologies as his blue eyes immediately find yours at the contact he’s desperately been wishing to make, blinking stupidly at your simple gesture. More so at the fact that you’re holding his hand. Holy shit, you’re holding his hand—
“I’m fine,” you assure gently, smiling so sweet that it confuses him. “Besides my ego, of course.”
Rafe sucks in a harsh breath, speechless for a moment as he looks into your eyes, then flicking down to the small spots of blood on your knees. “But the— Oh god— Your knees—“
You wave it off. “Eh, it’s fine. Do you know how many times I’ve banged myself up worse than this?”
“I— Uh— No—?”
“Worse than this, trust me.”
“But I— You…”
“Help me up?”
Rafe blinks, silent for one, two beats, as he takes in your very serious and it’s really, actually, totally fine expression. Then softly, “Okay.”
You grip is hand a little tighter, to which his breath hitches at the contact, and he doesn’t hesitate to grab your other hand as he helps you stand gently, not pulling particularly hard but doing the majority of the work, and this time your breath hitches at just how fucking strong he is, how he essentially picks you up with little to no effort to help you find your footing. For a split second, you concoct the mental image of him throwing you over his shoulder, taking you to the nearest bed, and absolutely—
The stiletto of your heel suddenly dips, caught in a crack in the sidewalk, as you twist uncomfortably and lurch forward.
Riiiiiiight into his chest.
You oof against his bare skin, bracing your hands on his abdomen to find some semblance of balance while his hands grip your biceps out of surprise, holding you steady as much as he can with the short notice as you scramble to find your footing. His chest is sleek, defined, incredibly rock hard and solid that the impact almost hurts, versus the soft contrast of your skin. Your cheek — not that you're complaining — smushes against his torso and you nearly forget how to fucking breathe. Why does he smell good? He just went on a run, how does he feel this nice?
Despite how nice it is to feel his hands, to practically press yourself against his chest as you’ve been dreaming about doing for ages, you can’t help but panic, because this is not how you wanted to make a move: gross and tipsy and totally unprepared. Godforsaken heel, curse the shoemaker and their mother and their mother’s mother—
“Fuck, sorry, the fuckin—“
When you land on two feet again, heel out of the crevice of the earth and back on solid concrete, you sigh as if you’ve completed the hardest task to date, pleased that you’re (seemingly) done embarrassing yourself in front of the guy you’re trying to bag.
And Rafe’s face as never been more red.
“There!” You say, brushing the dirt off your too-short-skirt. “Can’t say I’ve ever been run over before, but I guess there’s a first time for everything, yeah?”
He winces at the blood trickling down your knees. “I’m so sorry. Really, I am. I never wanted to hurt you, of all people—“
“Why aren’t you wearing your glasses?”
The question makes his jaw slack, forgetting the words of an apology and letting them die in his throat as he blinks, startled by the interruption, peering at you with confusion. How are you not mad at him? Swearing at him? Cursing at him for hurting you? Seeing the blood on your knees, the dishevel of your hair, it’s making him sick, knowing he’s the root cause of it. But he swallows the bile in his throat, taking a deep two-count breath to remind himself that you asked him something, you’re waiting for an answer.
“I— I don’t run with them,” he says breathlessly. “Maybe I should, now that I apparently slam into people.”
His tone is self deprecating, frustrated with himself, meanwhile you’re smiling, no, beaming up at him. Because…was that a joke? A Rafe Cameron exclusive? A sliver of that sense of humor you’ve been dying to catch glimpses at? You’re hungry for more of it, starving, and you nearly jump with glee despite literally getting knocked on your ass a mere few minutes ago.
“Could’ve been worse,” you muse teasingly. “Could’ve been an old woman.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, cringing. “God. Don’t say that.”
You laugh, and at the sound, he peeks his eyes open so he can fully experience the noise, the kind that makes his heart feel like it’s gonna burst out of his chest and his brain feel airy and empty. He nearly curses at himself at how stupid he gets around you. It doesn’t matter that he was top of his class, top of his major, could be on top of the fucking world, for what it’s worth, yet no amount of intelligence makes up for the behavior that he exhibits around you. Dumb. Speechless. All of it.
“Well,” you say quietly, suddenly a bit sheepish now the adrenaline is starting to wear off. “I don’t wanna keep you. Throw you off your game, you know.”
Rafe frowns gently, not really wanting the moment to end. Granted, he was in the middle of a run, an act he rarely gets interrupted on. Truthfully, he has no idea how he’s supposed to continue the workout after this — how could he? When he’s finally held your hands, felt your body against his, close enough to where he could practically lean forward and—
Stop, stop, stop, he thinks immediately. Time and place.
Instead, he peers down at his feet, and in the act of doing so, he notices your purse laying askew a few feet away. Without hesitating, he moves to pick it up, delicately grabbing the strap and dusting off the minuscule pebbles etched into the leather. As he's peering down, he glances at your shoes.
Heels. Pretty, sparkly ones that show off your pink nail polish. It hasn’t even occurred to him as to why you’re out, especially this early, after just lamenting to him on how you wish you were a morning person. He takes in your short skirt (that he absolutely cannot allow his eyes to linger on), then your snug tank, and the pretty jewelry adorning your skin.
“Are you—? Were you out?” He finds himself asking, just to prolong the moment. “I thought you and mornings, you know, didn’t mix?”
You sheepishly smile, nearly cringing at the implication and messing with the rings on your fingers. “Kind of an accident. Didn’t realize what time it was because I was, for once, unplugged. Well, not by choice. My phone died. So. Not much doom scrolling to do there. But totally not my fault, blame her—“
Jabbing a finger aimlessly behind him, Rafe turns to follow your gesture to Isla, leaning up against the brick building with her arms crossed, smirk deep, watching the two of you interact so shamelessly bold that it makes your face feel hot. Sure, she stopped laughing, but her knowing look is arguably worse, especially since he can see it too.
At the sudden attention, Isla throws her hands up in surrender.
“Totally not my fault, by the way." Your cousins pauses. Then, "Was I part of the problem? Absolutely. But not entirely. If anything, you were the one who—“
“Okay!” You interrupt, and Rafe’s attention is suddenly back to you. “That’s enough. Alright. Yeah, fine, you got me. You’ve caught me during the once-in-a-blue-moon kind of outing that has me up with the sun. What about that run?”
“Do you want me to walk you home?”
The question makes you falter, whatever deflection you had cooking has suddenly burned, nonexistent, evaporated. The offer stands in the air idly, nerves pricking his skin but excitement stinging yours. Is he…offering? Doing this because he wants to or because he feels obligated to since he practically ran you over a few minutes ago.
Isla, however, steps in.
“The apartment is right around the corner,” she says to fill the silence, darting her gaze between you and him. “Kind of ran her over in the perfect spot, not gonna lie.”
So Rafe walks you and Isla home…one block away.
The act is nothing short of chivalrous as you walk side by side with Rafe as Isla lingers a few steps behind, no doubt grinning and coming up with a million ways to tease you as soon as the two of you are alone in the apartment. The sun is nearly beaming now, and slowly but surely people are starting to emerge in the daylight, starting their day unknowing to the groundbreaking experience you’re currently having. Not only have you now seen him without his glasses and his hair disheveled, you’ve seen him shirtless. Fucking shirtless. You feel like you’ve won at life even if your pride is devastatingly bruised.
The walk is mainly quiet, but a comforting one, as if there’s no need for forced words to fill the gaps. You just…exist together. Breathe the same air. Walk in step with him (even though his stride is much wider than yours) yet he slows down to ensure you don’t fall behind. Plus, he walks on the outside of the sideway, not that there are any cars around to warrant that kind of protection, but the small insinuation makes your heart flutter.
When you linger idly in front of your apartment, his steps stop with yours, handing your purse back wordlessly to which you gently retrieve from him, fingers brushing for a split second. Rafe retracts his hand, scratching the back of his neck to have something to do with his hands. Blue eyes search yours for a moment, almost sheepish, as a hint of a grimace ghosts his lips.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” he apologizes with a wince. “I— It was an accident, I never—“
You wave him off dismissively with a gentle smile. “Please, don’t worry about it. I’m tougher than I look.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. I only cried for six minutes when I finished Lost, and that was a way bigger deal than a couple of scrapes.”
Rafe laughs boyishly, caught off guard and genuine and so fucking pretty that it physically makes your heart hurt. For a moment, his fingers that rest at his side twitch in your direction, as if he was going to reach forward to you, but stay idly where they are, firmly deciding to keep the space open between your bodies. Half of you wishes he would close the distance, hold you like you’ve been wanting him to do all this time, but the other half of you agrees on his decision for space, partly because your cousin would definitely say some embarrassing shit if any more touching was going on.
“Okay,” he says gently. “Have a nice day. Uh, or night?”
Grinning, you hum. “Enjoy your run. Sorry to interrupt a potential PR.”
When he does end up jogging away — not without a parting glance that lasted a little too long to be considered casual — you watch him slowly get further and further away, studying the way the planes on his back move in tandem with the swinging of his arms, how good his ass looks in the basketball shorts, and how badly you wish you could kiss that beautiful sun kissed skin.
“Girl,” Isla says after a few minutes of shamelessly ogling. “You did not tell me he was that fucking hot.”
The dam breaks when your AC does.
You called every number on planet earth to try and fix the problem, because it's the middle of the summer and not having even an ounce of cool air, especially when you live on the fifth floor of your building, is absolutely horrendous. Apparently, everyone in your apartment complex is also out, which is causing the landlord to scramble, and basically told all the tenants to find temporary housing, perhaps stay with a friend, for the night until the whole building's internal cooling system can be repaired.
Awesome. Yeah. Find a place to crash. Ask a friend.
Well, it doesn't help that the friends you have aren't home this weekend. One is visiting his family. The other is on a business trip that, of course, only happens once a year. Another has pneumonia (not what you need in your life right now). The rest are either unavailable or busy or extremely apologetic. It seems like the planets have aligned, every star in the universe shining down upon you to seize the opportunity, the lone chance that he'd even say yes.
At this point, you've been subtly coming onto him for months now. There is only so much you can take. Only so much time left before you're literally going to jump his bones.
Rafe gave you his number about a month ago, just after the run-in-collision that one incredibly incriminating morning, for emergencies. It was probably completely innocent on his end, wanting to exchange contacts for a legitimate emergency or for work-related purposes, but you took the insinuation and ran with it. He asked you. He gave it to you. Without you even asking. In your book, that's a fucking milestone. A small victory. Plus, now you can extend your flirting to text, and even the occasional phone call when you've over-poured a glass of red wine.
And he answers. Every time.
So it's no surprise that when you send him a message, he's responding within five minutes.
You: is the ac out in your building too or is the universe only playing a sick prank on me?????
When the three dots pop up, you're in the shower. A cold one, at that, but simply on the off chance that he'd let you crash, there's no way you'd head over without polishing up, first. Like a freak, you'd kept your phone propped up on the counter next to the shower, drawing the curtain back every few minutes to check the status of his response. When you hear a faint buzz, you nearly rip the shower curtains off the rungs.
Rafe: No, everything's working here. Did they say when it'll turn back on?
Despite your wet hands and the fact that your phone probably won't work properly for a little while, you answer.
You: tomorrow night. gonna boil to death in the meantime.
The response is immediate.
Rafe: We don't want that. Do you have somewhere you can stay to prevent that from happening?
Hook. Line. Sinker.
You: nope. friends are all conveniently away.
The amount of water you're wasting by standing here and sickly waiting for the three dots to appear is astronomical, because they don't come immediately. It's as if he's debating the offer, teetering between the fear of crossing over the line of professionalism and simply helping a friend in need. That's all it is, right? You can handle that. You can accept that sort of reasoning.
You nearly drop your phone when he answers.
Rafe: I'm not sure if this is weird to offer, but you can stay here for one night. To prevent the boiling.
You: really??? you'd do that for me??? because im not ready to burst into flames just yet in life. maybe next winter solstice.
He solely responds with his address, with the addition of Head over whenever.
So you take your time in the shower. Diligently use your favorite body scrub on every crevice of the surface of your skin. Massage your scalp with your scented shampoo. Exfoliate in the places you want to accentuate. You want to feel good, smell good, solely focus on your words when you're with him and let your body fill in the gaps. You're probably in there for what feels like forever, and it's when your fingers start to prune that that's your cue to get out, to get ready, and go to his fucking apartment.
The jitters are insatiable.
You opt for a more casual approach, ditching the business professional attire he normally sees you in and simply adorning your normal street-wear. The sun begins to dip into the horizon, making the head a little more bearable than before, but it doesn't stop your stride as you hike your bag higher on your shoulder, walking with a pep in your step as the distance between you and him gradually gets smaller. The music blasting in your ears gives you the proper confidence you need, adding to your long, long list of manifestations.
When you end up arriving, you send him a text letting him know. Within minutes, he's letting you in.
Rafe's face is slightly flushed, as if he ran down a flight of stairs to prevent from keeping you waiting, simply wearing a white t-shirt and casual jeans you've seen on him once, that late night at the coffee shop, with his glasses dipped low on the bridge of his nose and hair neatly pulled back. He looks beautiful, especially with the setting sun illuminating his profile to make him appear as a make-shift god. It's unfair, truly, how pretty he is.
"Hey," he says, out of breath. "Sorry, were you waiting long?"
You brush past him as he holds the door open for you. "Two minutes. But it felt like two hours."
"Wh—? Really? I'm sorry, I didn't see your message—"
When you send him a pointed look, he falters, words dying in his throat as he exhales a shaky breath. Rafe gently shakes his head at you, leading the way up the apartment stairs as you trail behind him, smelling hints of the cologne he has on that nearly makes your toes curl. He lets out a low chuckle, one of amusement, because you're not only always finding ways to keep him on his toes, but you told him about a month ago that he apologizes too much, automatically assumes he's in the wrong for everything, and that he needs to stop beating himself up all the time.
"Still not used to that," he murmurs quietly with an edge of playfulness, then after about two flights of stairs, he opens his apartment door. "Did you eat?"
You don't even answer his question. You can't. Because you're standing in his apartment, small yet quaint, simple but personable. He has a wall-length bookshelf full of all sorts of books: small pocket sized ones to textbooks. Journals. Novels. Magazines. Any form of literature under the sun is confined to the mahogany of his book shelf. His couch is simply grey but adorned with leafy green pillows and a patterned blanket. The coffee table has a candle, tv remote, and a bouquet of flowers. The wall decor are cool posters, ranging from movies to magazine covers to simply interesting art. It's very unapologetically him.
When he realizes you're not responding, he spins on his heel in the middle of the kitchen, taking in the way you're examining the decorations on the wall and the fabric of the blanket Sarah knit for him. You haven't even put your bag down, yet (but you slipped your shoes off, like the gracious guest you are), nor have really glanced in his direction as you're distracted by the new environment, learning more about him in a matter of minutes than it took nearly three months.
Rafe suddenly feels shy. "Uh, sorry, I kinda have random stuff, uh, everywhere."
But something in his shoulders relax when you shake your head, eyes still on the printed manuscript paper on his wall. "This is awesome. Where'd you find all this stuff?"
The purely genuine interest in your tone throws him for a loop as he studies you for a moment. Don't you think it's...nerdy? Over the top? A bit strange? Why haven't you laughed at him yet? No, instead your hand is gently skimming over artwork, posters, even small ceramic items he managed to put on the wall, almost with admiration, deliberation, as if you're learning the material and crevices of each item. He watches in awe, nearly holding his breath as you take an interest in all he has to offer, not running, not laughing.
Then, he realizes you've asked him a question.
His eyes widen, forgetting.
"Um, kinda everywhere? Made some, found some at markets that my sister drags me to, was gifted some. I just..." He swallows thickly, hating being put on the spot but wanting to try. For you. "Don't have a style, or anything like that."
You hum, impressed.
"If this is not having a style, then you don't want to see my apartment," you snort, half joking half serious. Then, you turn to him, meeting his bashful gaze and nearly grinning at his flushed cheeks. "I haven't eaten, actually. What's good around here?"
"Oh, I actually was gonna cook," he says instantly, then after a beat or two of stupidly blinking at you, his eyes widen. "I don't— Unless you want take out? There's a couple of good general stores, one sushi place where they know me by name, it's a little humiliating every time I go but—"
"Rafe," you interrupt gently, suppressing a grin. "Breathe. Haven't you ever had anyone in your apartment before?"
His shoulders sag, releasing tension as he does what you command, taking a deep breath as he (attempts) to gather the majority of his thoughts, to fucking relax even though it seems impossible with a pretty girl standing in the middle of his living room right now. By choice. And little by little, his nerves slowly dissipate, especially when you smile so pretty and already look disgustingly endearing in his apartment.
"Not really," Rafe answers after a few seconds. "Is it obvious?"
"No, you're doing great."
"Now you're just lying to my face."
You laugh playfully, finally letting your bag drop to the floor as you saunter into the kitchen. Skimming the metal of the barstool attached to the island, you take a moment to feel the material, simply prolonging the conversation as you know he's watching you. Then, after one, two seconds, you hop onto the stool and prop your elbows on the counter, bracing your chin on your knuckles as you peer at him, your signature look whenever he comes by your desk with yet another IT ticket.
"I'm gonna pretend you didn’t said that," you muse teasingly. "Whatcha cookin'?"
It's almost unfair how good of a cook he is.
You try to find one flaw with him. One. But your brain comes up short. He's chivalrous, incredibly smart, one of the hottest people you've ever laid eyes on in your life, and knows how to cook? Knows how to cook well, at that. You take in his movements, how he nonchalantly adds spices and ingredients while barely paying attention, solely focused on whatever you've been yapping about for the past twenty minutes. It's almost muscle memory for him, maneuvering around the kitchen as if it was what he was born to do.
And he hangs on to every. Single. Word.
When his back is momentarily turned, you're shamelessly staring at his arms, how the muscles flex every time he moves them, or laser-beaming your vision through his t-shirt to try and focus on the planes and ridges of his shoulder blades shifting, or drifting your gaze down, down, down to simply admire the way his jeans snug his ass. It's sin. It really should be. Because it's not fair that he's simply existing like this, completely oblivious to the fact that he's got your insides all twisted up just from the sight of him cooking, for fuck's sake. Plus, he's making one of your favorites (how he knew that is beyond you, or it's a very crazy coincidence).
By the time he's setting the plate in front of you, you're in the middle of a rant about continuity in media (a total, immeasurable, astronomically detrimental way to make a guy lose a hard-on, if you had to guess). But he seems interested, taking your ranting to heart and even offering an appreciative hum or counter question.
"I mean, it's absolutely insulting to the reality of history," you lament as you take a hearty sip of the wine he poured you earlier. "The show was set in the eighteen-hundreds. She had a smokey eye."
Rafe settles into the barstool next to you with his own plate, and you almost let out a pathetic noise when his arm brushes yours.
"Not to discredit the accuracy of historical fashion," he says through a bite of food. "But do you think that was done to appeal to the targeted audience? You know, smokey-eye enthusiasts and chronically online Gen Z-er's?"
You pause for a moment, taking in his half calculated yet half bullying remark.
"Are you..." You start slowly. "Calling me chronically online?"
Rafe freezes his fork midair, full of what would be a delicious bite, and sheepishly side eyes you, and the close proximity automatically makes the tip of his ears go hot, along with the higher part of his cheekbones when you're giving him, another, pointed look that he can never decipher on if it's faux or suggestive or truly insulted. He's been studying you, analyzing your behavior and expressions to the best of his ability, but his results always come up short because you always find a new way to surprise him, new way to keep him on is toes and question everything he's ever been taught before in life.
"Because you'd say the same thing if you saw it," you add accusingly. "You would think it was an abomination. An insult to a historian's lifework. You'd throw up, or something. Don't act like you wouldn't."
He blinks.
"I'm also not a smokey-eye enthusiast," you add pointedly. Then, "Except on Tuesday."
A beat. Two. Then,
"...Really?"
You throw your hand over your heart.
"Rafe Cameron, I am offended."
Again, he simply blinks. "About the smokey-eye or being chronically online?”
“Both. My screen-time has drastically decreased in the past six months, if you even care.”
His lips twitch, and the faintest hint of a dimple appears at the corner of his mouth. You match it, your threatening tone only hanging on by a loose thread, and you’re realizing that with this close proximity that you can really see the blues of his eyes, the beauty marks on his skin, and the way his pupils seem to dilate when you stare at each other for a little too long to be considered casual. The urge to kiss his reddening cheeks nearly skyrockets the longer he stares at you, so much that you have to pinch your thigh under the counter to hold back.
You need to distract yourself. Now.
“Where’d you learn to cook, by the way?” You ask curiously, eyes returning back to your food to eat another big bite. “It’s suspiciously delicious.”
Forks scrape fiesta-ware plates to fill the few moments of silence between you, and you wash the flavorful meal down with another sip of wine, one that’s nearly perfectly paired with the cuisine. For a split second, your eyes dart over to admire his hands, one flexing around the glass and the other loosely holding the fork, taking in the way his nimble fingers navigate movement. How badly you want to reach over and grab them, lace his fingers with yours, smooth over his knuckles, trace every scar.
“My mom,” he responds softly, tone laced with gentleness. “As a kid, I used to sit in front of the television and watch cooking shows, and then go and tell my mom how to make everything I saw.”
You laugh quietly. How fitting.
He matches it, swirling the wine around in his glass while he hums fondly. “She finally got sick of it and let me help. Taught me what food mixes with what drinks, how much spice to actually put into meals, how to eyeball measurements. Stuff like that.”
“That’s so sweet,” you say genuinely, peering over at him. “Like a little, mini sous-chef.”
“Yeah, well,” Rafe muses in faux-frustration, but the small smile hinting his lips gives away his indifference, “my sister now uses it to her advantage. Demands I make her meals in exchange for hanging out with her.”
Taking another bite, you snort, ignoring the way your heart is absolutely lurching with every word he’s revealing about himself.
“That’s not a bad tactic, you know. Forcing proximity in exchange for some company. I might start doing that, put your skills to the test.”
“That so?”
You readjust in your seat, causing your arms to brush casually (absolutely nothing about it is casual to you, especially when the skin to skin contact makes your body nearly jolt with electricity, and double especially when he seems to lean into your touch, only a fraction, but you notice all the same). It’s practically unbearable, because he’s right here, within arms reach, and there’s nothing more you want to do than hold him, have him hold you, run your fingers through his hair and smooth over the hills and ridges of his body as if you’re studying the topography of a map. You want it. You want him. You want it all.
But that’s too forward. Time and place.
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you continue. “Next on the list is arancini. Maybe fried cabbage. You ever tried making French onion soup?”
If you would’ve told yourself two months ago that you’re currently sitting pretty perched on Rafe Cameron’s couch, finishing your third glass of wine and sitting a foot apart watching Arrested Development, you probably would’ve flipped a table. Or shouted from rooftops. Or made a public disturbance. Because it seemed unattainable then, something so far fetched in a way that you could only daydream about.
He looks good like this: unguarded, face a bit flush from the wine, finally feeling comfortable enough to lean into the conversation to not have to calculate every single response. His shoulders aren't as wound up and he stumbles over his words less and less. There's an eased flow to your discussions, topics ranging from ridiculously absurd theories to deeper meanings of life that are often taken for granted.
You sit with your legs tucked underneath you, fully facing Rafe as he sits normally about a foot from you, eyes trained on the coffee table in front of him or his glass of win. But every so often he'll tip his head back to rest against the back of the couch, lulling his head to the side to stare at you while you speak about nothing and everything. The act is complete innocent in itself, but something about the casual intimacy of it, the slight domesticity of hanging out with him in his apartment, that makes your stomach do flips.
It isn't until your accidental catalyst, a yawn, interrupts him mid sentence.
You cringe at the involuntary act. "Sorry. You were saying?"
Rafe's gaze flicker to the time, and yours follow. When did that time pass? "I didn't realize how late it was. I set up my room for you if you wanna head to bed."
Being so caught up in the disappointment of the time, you nearly miss what he says, your heart skipping a beat as you double take. His room? You'll be... Christ... You'll be sleeping in his bed? Against his pillow? Under his sheets? Snuggled into his scent? You didn't even expect to see his bedroom, and predicted you'd have to dream of what it looked like as you slept on the couch, or on a pullout, or even on the floor, for fuck's sake. But his room? It seems oddly personal, like you're intruding (technically, you are), but that means he... He'll be—
"You did?" You ask before your mind can take it back.
Whether Rafe sees the gears turning in your brain, he doesn't let on. So innocent. So sweet. So polite giving his room up like that, such a sacred place and he's handing it over to you on a silver platter. As if it was the most obvious decision he could've ever made. He barely flinches, nodding nonchalantly, as he smiles.
"What? You think I'd let you sleep out here?" He jokes shyly, rubbing the nape of his neck.
You blink at him. "Well, yeah."
Blue eyes just blink back at you. "Wh— You're not— You're not sleeping on this excuse of a couch."
"I'm not?"
Despite his flaming cheeks and racing heart, he doesn't back down. He doesn't let up because it's you, your well-being, your comfort. And he's not playing around with that, even if it makes him a little more bossier than usual. God, he'd sleep on brick if it meant you could have a nice, warm bed.
Rafe shakes his head. "No, I am."
When he stands, he misses the way your shoulders sag.
Separate, you think miserably. Of course. He's not the kind of guy to force any sort of insinuation, make you uncomfortable in anyway. Hell, he'd said shut up to you playfully a week ago and apologized after about fifty times. If that rattled him so deep to the core, you can't imagine him ever making the first move, not for an epoch, you fear. Not unless you give a push.
But the words don't come. The urge rises and dies in your throat.
What if you're reading this wrong? Taking advantage of a guy who is simply doing all of this out of the good of his heart? Thinking of you as a friend, not someone he could see something more with? He's been so hesitant to pursue anything further than barely friends, more co-workers than anything. Is he doing this to be nice? Professional? Because he feels like he has to? As a friend? When all you've been doing is practically lusting after him like some sort of prize? Trophy? When he's probably the most emotionally intelligent, walking green flag, perfect archetype kind of guy? When he's so much more than that? When he definitely doesn't see you like that?
The thought makes you sick, all of a sudden, and the wine makes you feel incredibly more tipsy than you originally thought you were. You follow his movements, uncurling your legs from out underneath you as you stand on bone-jelly legs, downing the rest of your wine in one go and grabbing your bag that you left aimlessly in the living room.
Rafe doesn't notice your inner turmoil. "Let me just grab clothes, and then you're all good to set up camp."
You respond with a half amused noise, watching him glide down the hallway and disappear into the first room on the right. In the meantime, you place your and his glass in the sink, cursing yourself in your head as you hear him rummaging through his things for one, two more beats before you hear his footsteps emerge once again.
When you look up, he still has the simple t-shirt on but swapped his jeans with simple plaid pajama pants. Light blue that matches his eyes mixed with whites and navys and greys. God, he looks so fucking good, so pretty and comfortable. In his hand, he's got a charger, book, and water bottle, his night-time essentials, as he sets the items down on the coffee table by the couch and finds your eyes.
Rafe smiles gently when he does. "You okay?"
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you put on your best smile, one that he doesn't seem to look too much into and nod, perhaps a bit too quickly, but regardless, you hike your bag up your shoulder and follow him down the hallway. When he opens the bedroom door for you, you step inside quietly, taking in your surroundings.
There are all sorts of decor adorning his walls. Newspaper cut outs, movie posters, comic posters, music posters, photos of him and a similar looking girl and a younger brunette, cheeks smushed together with a beautiful beach and sunset in the background, professional film photos of beautiful landscapes and architecture from recognizable places like Paris and Milan and Santorini, clippings of manuscripts and ink-dotted parchment paper, a faded map of the eastern hemisphere, and smaller tidbits like movie theater tickets, faded wrist-bands from events, a roll of film not yet developed, and so many other things that nearly make you fall in love with him.
When your eyes settle on a black and white ink artwork from Howl's Moving Castle, you hear him clear his throat behind you.
"Uh," he says a bit hurried, feeling a bit sheepish that you're basically seeing all the parts of him he tries his best to hide, "do you want me to get you anything? Water, toothbrush, I think I have a candle somewhere—"
You wave him off gently. "I'm alright. Thank you."
Rafe lingers for a moment, almost waiting for you to make a comment on his decor. Poke fun at the Batman poster. Compliment the sporadic artwork. Gush about the adorableness of the photos with him and his sisters. You always have something to say, something to fill the silence, ready to speak your mind on things he's always eager to hear about.
But you don't. Instead you take one last fond glance at the walls and sit on the edge of the bed, smoothing your palm over the neatly made comforter as you send him a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. You notice his brows furrow for a split second as he stands in the doorway, opening his mouth as if he's gonna say something else.
"Goodnight," Rafe whispers eventually. "I'll be out there if you need anything, okay?"
You nod up at him. "Okay." Then, quieter, "Goodnight, Rafe."
The soft click of the door behind him coats you in a painful silence, and it's as though you feel your heart tear in two.
Here you are: practically surrounded by him, sitting on his bed that he sleeps on every night within the walls he looks at every day, seeing a glimpse of who he really is behind rosy cheeks and nervous laughter. He's everywhere. All you can see. Hear. Smell. Touch. Just not where you physically need him to be, not where you emotionally wish he could be. He's just beyond the door, separated by a thin wall covered with every piece of him, so close yet just out of reach.
You let out a quiet sigh, quite frankly taking the loss as you rummage through your bag, plucking out your pajamas. As you put on the barely there sleep shorts and oversized t-shirt, you wonder what it'd be like to sleep next to him, or simply lay against his chest or nuzzle into the crook of his neck. You'd probably feel secure, safe, protected. Especially in the gentle, dim light from his lamp and soft sheets that smell like him.
Rounding the bed (as you like that particular side better), you pull the sheets back gingerly that are neatly tucked into the mattress. Yet, you have to tug a bit, similar to whenever you stay at a hotel and the staff make the bed so damn neat that you have to use all your strength to simple get under the covers.
"Motherfuck—"
You yank particularly harsh, stumbling a bit when the sheets untuck, but something thuds gently on the ground, pulling you from your anger-induced thoughts and guiding your attention to the floor. Sitting on the rug is a notebook, brown worn leather with coffee stained pages, tallied with a random business card as the book-mark. It looks used. Worn. Loved. A journal.
A very private looking journal.
You lean down to pick it up but hesitate mid-bend. This is his private possession, something clearly hidden not for anyone to find, as it was stuffed within the mattress to never see the light of day. You should put it back, forget you ever saw it, and simply go to sleep, dream of something pleasant, and wake up and share a nice morning with him. Perhaps brew a pot of coffee. Be asked how you like your eggs. And you won’t mention it. You’re not even gonna deal with it. Don't touch it. Not gonna...
Fingers are skimming over the sleek leather before you know it, kneeling onto the rug and picking the journal up with two hands, as if it'll break if you mistreat it. This is precious, a prized possession, something deeply intimate that you’d argue is a reflection of the soul. You’d be pissed if someone went through yours, yeah? No, this is wrong, this is so wrong—
Frantically, you try and stuff it back into the mattress, but in your endeavors in doing so, the aged notebook slips out of your grasp and thuds against on the rug. When you curse under your breath and lean down to pick it up again, your breath hitches, air stolen from your lungs when it falls with a page open, seeing the contents of what the fuck is actually in there.
You.
From the first day you met him. You remember the blouse paired with those specific earrings, the way your hair was freshly styled after getting it done the day before. Deep and thin pen lines makeup a beautiful portrait of you, nothing like you’ve quite ever seen before, ink marked deep in the parchment-like paper to resemble that of a portrait. But it’s not lustrous, it doesn’t accentuate your breasts or sexualize you in any way. It’s simply…you…existing. His definition of beautiful, all your beauty marks and each stroke of an eyelash. The texture of your hair down to the slope of your nose.
Shamefully, you flick through more pages.
You sitting across from him at the coffee shop. Another one of you at your desk. You peering at him in front of your apartment that fateful morning. Every feature of yours is down to the minute detail, each pen stroke is done with care, caution, as if he was terrified of messing it up, recollecting you wrong. It’s…beautiful. Slightly twisted. But you now know that your shameful thoughts, images of him writhing underneath you and the sight of him below your thighs and the idea of essentially becoming his second skin, are mutual. He likes you. He adores you. He cares for you. He wouldn’t remember you like this if he didn’t. He wouldn’t sketch hearts in the corner of the paper if he didn’t.
Before you know it, you’re stuffing the journal back between the mattress, just where you found it, and your legs have a mind of their own as they round the bed and head for the door. He doesn’t need to know that you found it. He never needs to know. All you needed to know was that the feeling was mutual. Mutual. More than you thought it could ever be.
A hand twists the doorknob gently, cracking it ajar as you step quietly into the hallway. It’s dim, not dark, with a lamp on in the living room that cascades down the hallway. When you peer into the living room, he’s propped up on the couch, book in hand, eyes narrowed in focus as he hasn’t noticed your entrance yet.
But a faulty plank in the floorboards alerts your presence.
Rafe’s head snaps up. His eyes linger on your practically bare legs for one, two seconds, then search your face. “Hey, you okay?”
Your mouth opens and closes. How exactly do you phrase it? Hey, I saw your drawings of me and I didn’t realize how bad you wanted me, too. Or Is it appropriate to come and join you but preferably on your lap? Or a real kicker, If I lie on your bed naked, will you paint me like one of your French girls?
The words come before you know it. “Do you wanna join me?”
Rafe’s jaw goes slack.
The breath is momentarily knocked from his lungs, because are you asking him what he thinks you’re asking him?
There’s no surprise his cheeks are already reddening, heart thumping, because here you are: standing in the middle of the hallway with a shirt covering you mid thigh with — what appears to be — no pants underneath, asking him if he’s going to stay with you. Be with you. Not sleep in separate rooms. Stay with you. Holy shit. Stay with you.
“I— Wh— Do you want me to?” He asks incredulously, yet his voice is barely a whisper.
But you hear him all the same. And you nod.
You fucking nod.
He blinks for one, two seconds before — yup, okay — his body is moving, throwing the blanket off his lap and tossing his book aimlessly on the couch, not bothering to mark the page, as he switches the lamp off and quietly follows you into the bedroom, stepping in the same places your soles have and shutting the door behind him. His heart is fucking racing, can you hear it? Can you feel the vibration of its rhythm even though you’re not touching him—
Yet, suddenly, you are.
Gripping the collar of his shirt and bringing his lips to yours.
Rafe freezes, his brain only registering the honey taste of your chapstick and your hands lightly bracing on his chest. His mind yells at him, touch her! Do something! But his body remains still, petrified into stone, and he begs his hands to hold your waist and pull you close, for his mouth to respond to yours and find a rhythm, for his instincts to finally fucking kick in and kiss you back. But he can’t. He can’t fucking move.
Yet you pull back as soon as you leaned in, faces inches apart as you peer into his eyes, practically staring into his soul.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” you whisper breathlessly, “and I’ll drop it. Wipe it from existence. We can pretend it never happened.”
He sucks in a harsh, panicked breath. He doesn’t want that at all, not in the slightest, not by a long shot. How could he ever pretend that never happened? How could he ever pretend you didn’t just incapacitate his motor functions by kissing him for three Mississippi’s? How could he go on casually in life knowing how you taste? There’s no way he’s dropping this. Absolutely no way.
(How many shameful nights has he spent with you on his mind? When his hand is beneath his waistband with your name on his lips like a mantra? A prayer? An incantation? Cursing at himself every single time because it felt dirty, thinking of you so precariously when you’re perhaps the only person who has treated him with respect. How many times has he fantasized your hands, skin, lips, everything against his own hands, skin, lips? How could you even think he couldn’t want this? Want you?)
“I want this,” he responds quickly, blinking ferociously to make sure what’s happening is real. “I just— I don’t— I’m not really experienced. I don’t want to be—”
You’re already shaking your head. “I need you to be you. Okay?”
The words make Rafe falter momentarily, because when has anyone ever said this to him? When has he ever been told to be himself? It’s always a be normal or act more like a man, as if being his own self wasn’t enough. Stop talking so soft. Stop being so shy. Stop hiding away. He’s never been embraced — not like this. So inviting and certain real. Just be himself. Be Rafe Cameron. You said you needed him. Needed. When has he ever been needed before? Especially by someone looking at him so pretty.
Slowly, but surely, Rafe finds his voice. “Okay. Okay.”
notes sorry for the cliffhanger but I LOVE THEM so i will be writing more. maybe a series? dont know. dont care. all i know is that there will be more.
Shy y/n (maybe also a pouge?) getting hit on at a party and she is really uncomfortable and the dude is not getting the hint and being pushy
And so she says I am here with my boyfriend and points at rafe (and maybe walks over to him and kisses him?) who is standing next to her
So rafe has to pretend to be her man?
Something like that
Would be great if y/n and rafe hadnt really met before that
Thank you !
♡ — warnings : unwarranted touching, fluff
“come on, i think you’d really like my place..” you shook your head, flashing an apologetic smile up at the man who was currently towering over you. you should’ve known that the one time that you’d actually take someone up on their offer to attend a party that they’d leave you alone to fend for yourself in a huge mansion on figure eight— a side of the island that you weren’t even too familiar with. “i’m sure you have a lovely home, but i—” you hadn’t even finished your sentence when you felt the stranger’s hand come up and pull you against his frontside by the small of your back.
grimacing, you squirmed uncomfortably before attempting to put some space between you two. “but what? by the looks of it, you’re here all by yourself.” you laughed nervously, feeling a small sense of panic pang in your chest once his hand began moving lower. eyes scanning the crowded room, you pushed against the stranger’s chest just in time to break free and latch onto someone else who was walking by. “i have a boyfriend!” you shrieked, your eyes widening once you saw the bicep you were currently clinging onto for dear life. glancing up, your cheeks heated once you made eye contact with someone who was equally handsome as he was intimidating.
eyes flickering between you and the man at your side, the guy who couldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer scoffed. “you’re dating rafe? there’s no way—” cutting him off, you reached up on your tippy toes and planted a kiss on rafe’s cheek, your lipgloss leaving behind a shimmery print on his skin. rafe would be lying right now if he said he wasn’t confused as fuck about what was going on, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to pick up on the fact that you needed obvious saving. “you’ feeling up my girl?” you ignored the way a rush of butterflies erupted in your tummy when rafe spoke up, the baritone of his voice making you jump ever so slightly.
you watched as the guy stammered over his words, a mix of gibberish and rushed apologies falling from his lips as he held his hands up in surrender. “nah, man, it wasn’t anything like that!” he backed away, walking off before the situation could escalate. you didn’t realize how hard your nails were digging into rafe’s skin until he placed his hand over your own. “sorry.” you whispered, adjusting the purse on your shoulder before letting go of him. rafe studied your face, the drink in his hand suddenly being the last thing he could worry about. “are you okay?” he leaned down to talk in your ear, his cologne filling your senses at the close proximity.
“yes, i’m okay,” you nodded, his hand still enveloping your own, “sorry i got you involved, i just didn’t know what else to do.” you apologized, swallowing thickly as embarrassment began seeping in. tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, rafe shook his head. “no, don’t be sorry, you just made my night.” eyebrows knitting in confusion, you met his gaze. “made your night?” you repeated. “yeah,” he smiled, the action making you melt, “i’m your boyfriend.” you laughed, allowing him to take you somewhere more quiet. it didn’t take long for rafe to convince you to exchange contact information with him, both of you already planning your first date before he was giving you a ride back home.
