RUE

[lvcstarkey]

“ HELLO RUE , YOU OWE ME MONEY ” she/her. scorpio. rafe cameron’s wife. reader 𖬺 writer. baking. skating. artistic. deans puck bunny. living in my reverie. love letters. jjs pouge girlfriend. to all the boys. movie dates. love over lust

“ i want all of you, forever, everyday ” . . . 📎 masterlist taglist guidelines

© lvcstarkey , please do not copy, take, or reupload my work as your own.ㅤ

[nessafangirling]

Need content of Cary Masterson asap 😭😭

[kooksandpearls]

rafe cameron 𖦹 pinky swear.

pairing – husband!rafe cameron x wife!reader summary – rafe and his fiancée survive their bachelor and bachelorette parties by getting jealous over strippers neither of them actually hired. warnings – jealousy, fake stripper mentions, bachelor/bachelorette parties, alcohol, postpartum body insecurity, swearing, suggestive tension. notes from me – based on a convo @theycallherl0ve and i had!! whipped this up fast asf because ur girl doesn’t sleep! 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ word count – 5.7k

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By six-thirty, their bedroom looks as though two separate vanity-related crimes have taken place inside it. Her dress is hanging from the wardrobe door in a garment bag Sarah has already called depressing because it’s black, which is apparently inappropriate for a bachelorette party despite the fact that it ends several inches above her knee and has a neckline Rafe has been staring at every time he walks past it. 

Three pairs of heels sit abandoned beside the bed while she decides which version of foot pain best represents her final night of unmarried freedom. The bathroom counter is crowded with makeup, perfume, curling irons and a glass of wine she poured forty minutes ago and keeps forgetting exists.

Rafe’s pacing behind her with Banks against his chest, one hand spread over the baby’s back while the other supports the heavy little head slowly losing its fight against sleep.

Banks is wearing blue footed pyjamas printed with tiny sailboats, one fist caught in the collar of Rafe’s t-shirt, his damp mouth pressed near his father’s shoulder.

Every few passes across the room, Rafe bounces him slightly harder, less from necessity than impatience.

“He knows you want him asleep,” she says, leaning closer to the mirror as she drags mascara carefully through her lashes. 

Rafe glances at Banks, who opens one eye with the deep suspicion of somebody being discussed behind his back. “He’s tired.”

“He was tired an hour ago.”

“Yeah, well.” Rafe adjusts him higher, patting his back with a rhythm too deliberate to be soothing. “He’s being difficult.”

Banks makes a small, congested sound into his neck. She smiles at their reflection. “Don’t talk about him like he isn’t there.”

“He can’t understand me.”

“He understands tone.”

Rafe’s eyes lift to hers through the mirror. “You would know.”

The smile disappears from her mouth slowly enough that he sees it happen. His own expression shifts, something alert and cautious beneath the irritation he’s been carrying all afternoon.

She turns back to the mirror and reaches for her lip liner. “Hope the strippers like your tone.”

Banks stirs at the word, or maybe at the way Rafe’s hand stops against his back.

“There it is,” Rafe mutters.

“What?”

“You’ve brought it up six times.”

“I haven’t brought anything up.” She traces the edge of her mouth with careful precision, refusing to look at him. “I hope you have a lovely night. You, Topper, Kelce and however many women you’ve paid to put their asses near your face.”

Rafe’s jaw tightens. “You said you were getting strippers first.”

“Because you mentioned them.”

“I made a joke.”

“So did I,” she says, glaring at her own reflection.

“Didn’t sound like a joke.”

“Well, neither did yours.”

Behind her, Banks lifts his head and looks between them with wide, sleepy eyes, his hair flattened into a soft brown sweep on one side. Rafe glances down, then resumes bouncing him with the stiff patience of a man being forced to parent through an argument with his future wife.

“You’d already booked yours by then,” he says.

Her stomach dips, stupidly, because this is the exact point at which she could end the whole thing. She could tell him there are no strippers.

She could tell him the rented house has two bartenders, a private chef Sarah found through somebody from Chapel Hill, an enormous bathtub nobody intends to use responsibly, and enough champagne to remove several years from their collective life expectancy. 

She could tell him the wildest thing planned is a game involving printed photographs of his face and several deeply personal questions about their sex life.

Instead, she folds one leg over the other and raises her eyebrows. “Why do you care?”

Rafe stares at her. Banks stares at her too, though with considerably less accusation and more interest in the shiny clasp of her robe.

“I don’t,” Rafe says finally.

It lands so badly that even he seems to hear it. Her mouth presses into a thin line. “Great.”

“Great.”

“Then we’re both happy.”

“Yeah.”

“Perfect.”

Rafe turns away and walks Banks toward the windows, where the last of the evening light is stretched peach and gold across the marina. Their rental is small enough that he only gets four paces before needing to turn again.

Banks watches the ceiling fan move overhead, his grip loosening from Rafe’s shirt while his father glares through the glass at absolutely nothing.

They’ve been together long enough that she knows the exact shape of Rafe’s jealousy before he admits it exists. It starts in his shoulders, climbs into his jaw and then settles around his mouth, where every word becomes too casual. 

In high school, he once spent an entire football game pretending not to care that a boy had asked for her number, then shoved the boy into a drinks table at an after-party for a completely unrelated reason involving disrespect. 

At twenty-two, with their son drifting asleep against his chest and a wedding six weeks away, he’s developed almost no additional dignity.

She turns back to the mirror and begins blending powder beneath her eyes. The skin there still carries the faint tired shadows Banks has given them both since birth, though hers are easier to cover. 

Pregnancy changed her in a hundred quiet ways nobody had warned her would remain after the baby arrived. Her hips are softer. Her breasts sit differently in dresses. There’s a pale little mark near her navel and a thin silver line low across one side of her stomach where her skin stretched faster than it could forgive her.

Rafe has never once looked at any of it as damage. If anything, he’s become more unbearable, hands always finding her waist when he passes, mouth pressing against the soft curve of her stomach like it belongs to him twice now. 

But the image arrives anyway: some polished, impossible woman with smooth skin and professional confidence bending over him beneath coloured lights while Topper and Kelce howl themselves stupid.

The mascara wand slips. She catches it before it marks her cheek.

“You okay?” Rafe asks immediately.

She looks at him in the mirror. “Fine.”

His gaze moves over her face, searching long enough to make her feel exposed. Then Banks gives one final sigh and goes heavy against his chest, saving them both. Rafe lowers his voice. “He’s out.”

“Thank God.”

“Wheezie texted. She’s downstairs.”

She nods and caps the mascara. “Can you put him down?”

Rafe doesn’t move. “You’re wearing that?”

Her eyes lift. “My robe?”

“The dress.”

She turns slowly. “Yes.”

He looks toward the garment bag with open dislike. “It’s short.”

“It’s my bachelorette party.”

“Yeah, I know what it is.”

“Do you?” she asks sweetly. “Because yours seems to involve significantly less clothing.”

Rafe’s nostrils flare. Banks shifts against him, and he immediately cups the back of the baby’s head, his fingers gentle despite the rest of him.

“Have fun,” he says.

She smiles without showing teeth. “You too.”

“I will.”

“Make sure you tip.”

“Make sure you keep your hands to yourself.”

She lets out a laugh that contains no amusement. “They’re being paid to put their hands on me, Rafe.”

His face changes. It’s small, but satisfying enough that warmth sparks briefly through the jealousy in her chest. His eyes narrow; his grip shifts beneath Banks; the muscle beside his mouth jumps once.

Rafe stands there another second, furious in complete silence, then carries their sleeping son from the room with the careful, controlled steps of a man leaving before he says something that cancels a wedding.

Wheezie is sitting cross-legged on the couch downstairs when they emerge, a bowl of cereal balanced on her knee and the television low enough to suggest she has already received several instructions from Rafe. 

She’s sixteen and trying desperately to look bored by the responsibility of keeping her nephew alive, though she has brought an overnight bag large enough for a week and arranged Banks’ bottles in the fridge by time.

“He went down?” she asks.

“Finally,” Rafe says, checking the baby monitor on the coffee table despite having checked it less than a minute ago.

Wheezie looks between them. Her eyes linger on Rafe’s dark expression, then move to the way her future sister-in-law is fastening one earring with slightly too much force. “You guys fighting?”

“No,” they say together.

Wheezie takes another spoonful of cereal. “Okay.”

Rafe points at the monitor. “If he cries longer than five minutes, call me.”

“I know.”

“If he feels warm–”

“I know.”

“Don’t give him the red pacifier. He hates it.”

“I know, Rafe.”

“And if somebody knocks–”

“Don’t answer unless it’s Sarah, call the police if they don’t leave, and never tell anyone I’m here alone.” Wheezie looks up at him. “You made me write it down.”

He ignores that and bends to kiss the top of her head, then bends again when she ducks away too late. “Don’t invite anybody over.”

“As if I’d invite someone here while your baby’s asleep upstairs and you’re acting like you’re in the Secret Service.”

“Our baby,” his fiancée corrects from the doorway.

Rafe’s eyes find her immediately. She’s changed into the black dress. It fits close through her waist and hips before ending high against her thighs, the neckline soft and low without being dramatic. 

Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, glossy from the curling iron, and the heels make her legs look longer than they have any right to inside their own home.

His gaze drags from her face to her chest, down her stomach and legs, then back up again with an intensity that makes Wheezie sigh loudly and focus on the television.

Rafe’s mouth parts. “No.”

Her brows lift. “No?”

“You’re not wearing that.”

She looks down at herself. “Seems like I am.”

“Baby.”

“Your strippers will be wearing less.”

“That’s different.”

The silence after it is immediate and lethal. Wheezie lowers her spoon.

Rafe closes his eyes briefly. “That came out wrong.”

“Did it?”

“I meant–” He gestures once, already losing ground. “They’re working.”

Her face goes blank. “Oh, good. I’m glad you respect their profession.”

Wheezie presses her lips together, shoulders beginning to shake. Rafe looks at her. “Go upstairs.”

“I’m babysitting.”

“Do it upstairs.”

“You said not to leave the monitor.”

He points toward the stairs anyway. “Wheezie.”

She collects her cereal and the monitor with no urgency at all, pausing beside her future sister-in-law to whisper, “You look really hot,” before disappearing into the hallway.

“Thank you,” she calls after her, then looks at Rafe. “Somebody appreciates me.”

Rafe steps closer, his hands finding her waist before either of them acknowledges the movement. His palms settle warm against the fabric, thumbs pressing into the curve above her hips while his eyes move over her face.

“I appreciate you,” he says.

“Mm.”

“Too much, probably.”

“You’ll survive.”

His gaze drops to her mouth. For one second, the fight thins beneath the familiar pull between them, all the stupid jealousy and wounded pride making space for the fact that she looks beautiful and he’s Rafe, which has always been a difficult combination for his self-control.

Then a car horn sounds outside. Her friends.

Rafe’s hands tighten once. “You gonna let some guy touch you?”

She stares at him. “Are you gonna let some woman touch you?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Neither was yours.”

The horn sounds again, followed by Sarah yelling her name through an open window.

She slips out of his grip, takes her small handbag from the side table. At the door, she turns back. Rafe’s still standing beside the couch, broad and tense in a black button-down with the sleeves already pushed to his forearms, looking less like a groom going out with his friends than a man attending a meeting where somebody may have insulted him in advance.

“Have a nice time,” she says.

His jaw shifts. “You too.”

“And don’t worry. I’ll make sure the stripper knows I’m engaged.”

Rafe’s eyes flash. “Real funny.”

She smiles, opens the door and steps into the warm night before he can see how badly she wants him to stop her.

The house Sarah rented sits behind a private gate on the sound, all white stone, high windows and expensive furniture chosen by somebody who has never spilled anything in their life. By nine, the furniture is already in danger.

There are balloons twisted around the stair railing, flowers crowded over every available surface and a hand-painted banner over the kitchen island that reads SAME DICK FOREVER in gold lettering. 

Two bartenders in white shirts are making cocktails beneath pendant lights while music rolls through the open doors toward the pool. Somebody from college has brought a disposable camera and has taken twelve photographs of Sarah drinking directly from a champagne bottle.

Her high-school friends have filled the dining room with gifts, matching silk pyjamas and enough lingerie to make her regret telling anyone her size.

It’s fun. Genuinely, loudly fun. She dances barefoot in the living room with a plastic veil clipped badly into her hair. She drinks something pink with rosemary floating in it, takes photographs beside the pool, cries once when Sarah gives a speech about how she has loved Rafe longer than any reasonable person should have been expected to, then threatens to drown Sarah for mentioning the time she and Rafe broke up and continued sleeping together anyway.

Still, every time the front gate opens or one of the bartenders carries a tray through the room, her stomach tenses before her mind catches up.

At ten-thirty, she’s sitting on the kitchen counter with her heels abandoned below her, turning the stem of a champagne glass between her fingers while Sarah and two of her college friends argue about whether Topper would book tasteful strippers or terrifying ones.

“Topper doesn’t know what tasteful means,” Sarah says. “He thinks boat shoes are formalwear.”

“He’d probably get, like, matching blondes,” one of her friends says.

Her fingers stop around the glass. Sarah notices. She’s spent too much of her life watching Rafe’s face and has become unfortunately skilled at reading the people attached to him too.

“Hey,” she says, pushing away from the island. “They don’t have strippers.”

She looks at her. “You don’t know that.”

“I know my brother.”

“You know he’s an idiot.”

“Yes, but he’s an idiot who’s been obsessed with you since, like, he grew facial hair.”

One of the girls nods seriously. “Before that, probably.”

She stares into the pale gold bubbles rising through her drink. “It’s not even that I think he’d do anything.”

“Obviously,” Sarah says.

“I know he wouldn’t. I just–” She draws in a breath and looks down at the dress gathered slightly over her thighs. “They’re strippers. That’s their whole thing. They’re supposed to look perfect and know what they’re doing, and I’m–”

“A literal smoke show,” somebody interrupts.

She laughs weakly. “I’m a… mother.”

The words leave a strange, embarrassed ache behind them. Banks has rearranged every room inside her, physical and otherwise, until she no longer remembers what life felt like before the weight of him sleeping against her chest. and she wouldn’t have it any other way. 

But motherhood has made her body feel public in ways she still isn’t used to – examined by doctors, touched by nurses, changed by a baby, needed at all hours.

Some nights she feels beautiful because Rafe looks at her like he could start a religion around the sight of her in an old t-shirt. Other nights, she catches herself in the bathroom mirror and doesn’t recognise where the girl from high school went.

Sarah steps between her knees and takes the champagne glass away. “Okay. First of all, Rafe has stared at you so hard at family dinners that Rose has asked him to stop.”

“That is true,” one of the girls says.

“Second, he threatened Topper at your baby shower because Topper said you looked good pregnant.”

She rolls her eyes. “He said I was glowing.”

“Rafe heard the word good and stopped processing language.” Sarah puts both hands on her knees. “And third, you had his baby. Do you genuinely think that made him less insane about you?”

She swallows.

Sarah’s mouth softens. “He checks your face before he checks Banks. He walks into a room and looks for you like somebody’s going to hide you behind a curtain. A woman could take every item of clothing off directly in front of him and he’d still be thinking about whether you ate dinner.”

“That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t look.”

“Well, he has eyes,” Sarah says reasonably. “But he also has fear. Specifically of you.”

A laugh breaks out of her before she can stop it.

Sarah squeezes her knees. “You are hot. You are marrying the worst person on this island. You won.”

She scrunches up her nose. “That feels insulting to both of us.”

“It should.”

Across town, Topper is standing on the leather seat of a private booth with one hand wrapped around a bottle of tequila and the other raised like he’s announcing the beginning of a war.

“To Rafe!” he shouts over the music.

Rafe sits below him with his elbows on his knees, staring into a glass he hasn’t touched for several minutes. The club is crowded and expensive and loud enough that the bass seems to thud directly through his teeth. 

Kelce is speaking to a girl near the railing. Three guys from high school are arguing about whether they can convince the bartender that Topper is famous. A bucket of champagne sweats onto the table despite none of them wanting champagne.

Topper lowers himself heavily into the booth. “You’re gonna love the next part.”

Rafe looks at him. “What next part?”

Topper grins.

Rafe’s entire body goes still. “What’d you do?”

“The entertainment.”

Kelce turns from the railing. “You actually got strippers?”

Topper looks offended. “It’s a bachelor party. Rafe organised them.”

“There are no strippers,” Rafe says.

Topper laughs. Then he sees Rafe’s face and stops. “What?”

“There are no fuckin’ strippers.”

“But you said–”

“I lied.”

Kelce blinks. “To us?”

“To everyone.”

Topper slowly puts down the tequila. “Why?”

“Because my fuckin’ fiancée said she was getting one.”

Topper frowns. “So you booked one too?”

“No.” Rafe leans back, dragging both hands over his face, then taps at his temple. “Jesus Christ, are you listening?”

“You… told your fiancée you were having strippers at your bachelor party,” Kelce says, piecing it together with painful care, “because… she told you she was having strippers at hers.”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re not.”

“No.”

Topper’s brows rise. “But she is.”

Rafe’s hands stop against his face. The club seems to become louder. Somewhere behind them, a glass breaks and people cheer. Coloured light moves over the table in slow blue strips.

Kelce grimaces. “Shit.”

Rafe looks between them. “What?”

Topper sits down properly now. “Do you think she actually got one?”

Rafe’s jaw shifts. “She said she did.”

“Girls say stuff,” Kelce offers.

“She had a whole house rented,” Topper says. “That’s prime stripper territory.”

Rafe looks at him with open hatred. “Prime stripper territory?”

“I’m saying there’s, like, space.”

Kelce nods reluctantly. “They’ve probably got poles and shit they bring with them.”

“Why do you know that?” Rafe asks.

“I don’t. I’m guessing.”

Topper leans closer, concern slowly overtaking his excitement. “Those guys are, like, professionals.”

Rafe’s expression darkens.

“They’ve got moves,” Kelce adds.

“Stop talking.”

“I’m just saying, regular guys can’t compete with that shit. They can pick women up and–”

Rafe stands so abruptly the table shakes.

Topper grabs his wrist. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“You can’t go home. She’s not there.”

“Then I’ll go to the house,” Rafe gets out through gritted teeth.

“And do what?” Kelce asks. “Fight a stripper?”

Rafe looks as though the idea hasn’t been ruled out.

Topper tugs him back toward the booth. “Sit down, man. You’ll look crazy.”

“I am not sitting here while some oiled-up asshole puts his hands on my fiancée.”

Kelce’s mouth twitches. “Oiled up?”

Rafe points at him. “I’ll kill you first.”

Topper manages to get him seated again, though only because two members of security have begun watching them from across the club.

“Okay,” Topper says, keeping one hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “Think about this logically. She loves you.”

“That’s not the point.”

“She had your kid,” Topper tries.

“Also not the point.”

“She’s marrying you even though everybody told her not to.”

Rafe turns slowly. “Who told her not to?”

Topper pauses. “Figure of speech.”

“Who?”

“Nobody.” He takes a drink. “Everybody’s very supportive.”

Rafe stares at the dark screen of his phone. He’s checked it twelve times. Her last message is a photograph sent two hours ago of Banks asleep in his cot, forwarded from Wheezie with the caption our perfect angel, followed by a second message thirty seconds later: unlike his slutty father.

He types, Rude. Then, You good? Then deletes both.

Kelce watches over his shoulder. “Text her.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not giving her the satisfaction.”

“Of… knowing you care whether she’s being dry-humped by a stranger?” Topper asks.

Rafe looks up. “You’re real close to gettin’ left here.”

At one the following afternoon, she lets herself into the rental with her shoes in one hand and her overnight bag dragging behind her. The house is cool, quiet and dim except for the television playing softly in the living room. 

Her head aches behind one eye. Her mouth tastes like champagne and the greasy breakfast sandwich Sarah forced into her before putting her in a car. There’s glitter inside her bra, though she cannot remember anybody using glitter.

Then Banks squeals from the floor, and everything in her softens at once. “There’s my baby!”

He’s sitting astride Rafe’s stomach in only a nappy and one sock, both hands planted on his father’s face while Rafe lies flat on the rug beneath him, visibly hungover and making no effort to defend himself. 

His hair is crushed sideways from sleep. There’s a faint purple mark near his wrist that looks suspiciously like a nightclub stamp, and his eyes open only halfway when she enters.

Banks slaps both palms against his cheeks. Rafe exhales. “Yeah, buddy. Great.”

She drops the bag by the door and crosses the room, the ache in her head briefly forgotten beneath the warm little burst in her chest. “Hi, my babies.”

Rafe’s eyes move to her first, even with their son sitting directly on his throat. They drag slowly over her bare legs, yesterday’s dress beneath Sarah’s oversized cardigan, the smeared shadow beneath her eyes. Something in his face loosens, though his mouth stays careful.

“Hey,” he says.

She lowers herself to the rug beside them and immediately folds into his side, pressing her face against his shoulder. Rafe’s arm comes around her by instinct, hand settling over her back while Banks makes an outraged sound at being excluded.

She laughs and pulls him down between them. “Hi, my love. Were you good for Auntie Wheezie?”

Banks grabs both sides of her face, fingers pressing into her cheeks with ecstatic force.

“Gentle,” Rafe murmurs, guiding one tiny hand away from her eye.

She kisses Banks’s palm, then his wrist, then the soft warm crease beneath his chin until he begins squealing and kicking his feet against Rafe’s ribs. Rafe grunts, but his hand remains against her waist, thumb moving absently beneath the cardigan.

She closes her eyes and lets herself fit there for a moment. Her boys. Her house. Banks’s warm body wriggling between them and Rafe smelling faintly of soap, stale liquor and the baby lotion he claims he hates but uses too much of.

Somewhere beneath the relief, an image tries to form – Rafe seated beneath nightclub lights, a woman’s breasts level with his face, his hands possibly on a waist that isn’t hers. She presses her mouth harder against Banks’s hair until it goes away.

Beside her, Rafe looks at the crease where her dress has ridden higher over her thigh and thinks about a man with professionally developed abdominal muscles placing his hands there. His jaw tightens.

Banks catches a fistful of his shirt and tries to climb higher. Rafe looks at him. “Your mother had fun.”

She hears the accusation beneath the words and lifts her head. “Your father did too.”

“Mm,” he hums, eyes narrowing.

“Mm,” she repeats mockingly.

Banks looks between them, delighted that the tension has returned.

It lasts until that night. Banks goes down easily, exhausted from a day spent using Rafe as furniture, and the house settles around them before eleven.

She showers until the last of the hairspray loosens from her scalp, changes into one of Rafe’s shirts and climbs into bed while he finishes brushing his teeth.

Neither of them mentions the party.

Rafe switches off the bathroom light and gets beneath the sheet beside her, broad and warm and freshly clean, his hair still damp at the temples. She immediately moves toward him because her body has no loyalty to her pride, stretching across his chest with one leg caught between his and her chin resting on her folded hands.

His palm settles over the back of her thigh. For a minute, they lie there in the blue-dark room listening to Banks breathe through the monitor. Rafe’s thumb moves slowly against her skin. She watches his face, tracing the tired shadows beneath his eyes, the faint roughness at his jaw, the mouth that has spent the entire day behaving suspiciously.

“So,” she says.

His thumb stops.

She lifts her chin slightly. “Your stripper.”

Rafe clears his throat. “What about her?”

The pronoun hits like a pin sliding beneath her nail.

Her smile becomes very still. “What was her name?”

He looks toward the ceiling. She waits.

“Uhhh.” Rafe swallows. “Tracy.”

“Tracy.”

“Yeah.”

Her stomach twists. A normal, friendly name. A woman named Tracy has apparently put her breasts near the father of her child and probably asked him what he wanted while moving in ways she learned in an actual class.

“Pretty?” she asks.

Rafe’s eyes flick toward her. “What?”

“Was she pretty?”

His hesitation lasts less than a second. It’s still fatal. “She was–” He shifts beneath her. “You know. Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Baby–”

“And what did Tracy do?”

Rafe’s mouth opens. Nothing arrives.

She pushes herself higher on his chest, hair falling around them. “What did she do, Rafe?”

“Well, there was–” His gaze moves quickly over her face, trying to calculate the safest route through a situation that has none. “There was Tracy, and then–”

Her whole body goes rigid. “And?”

He blinks.

“And?” she repeats, louder now. “Rafe Cameron, you had multiple strippers?”

His eyes go wide. “No.”

“You just said and.”

“I know, but–”

“You fucker.” She shoves off his chest, tangled immediately in the sheet. “Multiple? You sat there while multiple women put their– what, their tits in your face?”

“Wait, wait.” Rafe catches her around the waist before she can get off the bed. “Baby, I lied.”

She turns in his grip. “You lied?”

“I lied!”

“About which part?”

“All of it.”

Her face empties.

Rafe pushes himself upright, keeping both hands around her as though she may attempt to escape through the wall. “There were no strippers.”

She stares at him.

“None,” he says quickly. “Not Tracy, not anybody. Tracy’s not real. I panicked.”

She blinks. “You invented a stripper?”

“I needed a name.”

“Why?”

“Because you asked me!”

She opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “You told me you had strippers.”

“Because you said you were getting one.” His voice climbs before he remembers their sleeping child down the hall and drags it back into an urgent whisper. “You mentioned it first, and I thought you were serious, and I wasn’t gonna sit there looking like some pathetic asshole while you had some guy’s dick swinging around your face.”

Her eyes widen. “That’s not what strippers do.”

“How would I know?”

“You said you were hiring them!”

“I was lying!”

She pulls back slightly, still caught between his hands. Rafe’s face is open now in the particular, reluctant way it only becomes when embarrassment has finally overpowered self-protection.

His cheeks are faintly flushed beneath the low light. His jaw keeps shifting. He looks furious, but not at her. At himself. At the imaginary male stripper. At the entire concept of entertainment.

“You really didn’t have any?” she asks.

“No.” His fingers tighten at her waist. “Ask Topper. Ask Kelce. Ask every guy who was there. Topper thought there were gonna be some because I lied to him too, and then he started talking about professional moves and I almost left.”

Despite herself, her mouth twitches. “Professional moves?”

“Don’t.”

“Rafe–”

His eyes search her face, frantic. “Did you have one?”

She looks down at the small gold chain resting against his chest. “No.”

“What?”

“I lied too.”

For several seconds, nothing in the room moves except the numbers glowing faintly on the baby monitor. Rafe’s hands loosen around her waist. “You didn’t have a stripper.”

“No.”

“Not one?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

He studies her face with deep suspicion. “Swears?”

“Swears.”

Rafe stares at her, then drags one hand down his face. The breath that leaves him sounds as though he has been holding it since yesterday afternoon. “Oh, thank God.”

Her shoulders drop at the exact same time. “I know.”

His eyes return to hers. “You really swear?”

She holds out her little finger. Rafe looks at it.

“Pinky swear,” she says.

His mouth twitches despite himself. He hooks his little finger around hers, the gesture absurdly delicate between his large hand and hers.

“No strippers,” she says.

“No strippers,” he agrees.

“Ever.”

“What if we’re at somebody else’s–”

She sighs. “Rafe.”

“Right. Never.”

They hold the promise another second longer than necessary, both of them staring at their joined hands with the solemn relief of people who have survived something entirely self-created.

Then she lets go and wraps both arms around his shoulders. Rafe catches her hard, pulling her across his lap until her knees settle on either side of him and her face fits into his neck.

His palm slides up her back beneath the shirt, warm and broad over bare skin. For a moment, neither of them says anything. She breathes him in, clean soap and familiar heat, and feels the last tight little knot beneath her ribs finally loosen.

“I love you so much,” she murmurs against his throat. “You’re such an idiot.”

His mouth presses into her hair. “You lied too.”

“I know.”

“So you’re an idiot.”

“Not as badly.”

“Same lie.”

“Different motivations.”

Rafe draws back enough to look at her. “Your motivation was making me think some guy was gonna rub himself on you.”

“Because you were talking about strippers.”

“As a joke.”

“So was I.”

His expression flattens. She presses her lips together. For one suspended second, they look at each other.

Then Rafe laughs – quiet at first, breath moving warm across her mouth, then helpless enough that his head drops forward against her shoulder. 

Her own laughter follows, muffled into his neck so it won’t carry down the hallway, both of them shaking beneath the sheet over forty-eight hours of jealousy aimed at people who have never existed.

“You made up two,” she whispers.

“I panicked.”

“You said Tracy and then almost gave me another one.”

“I was building a believable story,” he groans.

“You are genuinely frightening.”

He grins. “You believed me.”

“Because you’re a slut.”

Rafe lifts his head, offended. “I have been with one person for, like, six years.”

“Temporary breakup.”

“Still you.”

Her smile softens before she can protect it. Rafe sees. His hand comes to the side of her face, thumb resting beneath her cheekbone while his expression changes around the edges, humour giving way to something quieter and more exposed.

“Never wanted anybody else,” he says.

The words are simple enough to hurt. She leans into his palm. “Me neither.”

“Not even the imaginary stripper?”

She tilts her lips down in thought. “He had great moves.”

Rafe’s fingers tighten gently against her jaw. “Careful.”

She smiles and kisses him. The kiss lands soft, almost apologetic, but neither of them has ever been good at keeping anything between them small.

Rafe’s hand slides into her hair. Her arms tighten around his shoulders. The relief moves through them both as heat, deepening the press of his mouth until she shifts closer across his lap and he makes a low sound against her lips.

When they finally pull apart, her forehead stays against his. His breath is warm and uneven. One hand remains spread at her waist as though he still needs the reassurance of finding her there.

“No more talking about strippers,” she whispers.

“Ever,” he agrees.

“No fake names.”

“Yeah.”

“No Tracy.”

He waves a hand. “Tracy’s dead to me.”

“She was never alive.”

He grins. “Even better.”

A laugh catches in her throat. Rafe kisses it from her mouth, once and then again, smiling against her lips when she curls both arms more tightly around him. From the monitor, Banks sighs in his sleep. They both go still automatically, listening.

When the room remains quiet, she settles back against Rafe’s chest and feels his arms close around her, secure and familiar and a little too tight. Outside, the marina shifts softly against its ropes. Their discarded party clothes are still heaped across the chair. 

Her wedding dress is waiting at Sarah’s house, the invitations are half addressed downstairs, and in six weeks she will become the thing Rafe claimed she would be long before either of them had earned the confidence. His wife.

She presses her mouth against the centre of his chest.

Rafe looks down. “What?”

Her smile grows against his skin. “You’re gonna be my husband.”

His expression warms slowly, pleased in the same young, impossible way it always does when the future proves him right. He strokes his thumb along her back and pulls her higher against him.

He presses his cheek to the top of her hair. “Told you that you’d be my wife.”

to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for my fics.

[zyafics]

HAPPILY EVER AFTER | 05

MAIN | Social Media AU

Pairing — Rafe Cameron x Female Reader

Summary — If having a fairytale love story guaranteed a happy ending, then, uh, why are you and Rafe getting a divorce?

Content — angst, hurt/comfort, brother's best friend, childhood friends to high school sweethearts to lovers to... divorce?

Navigation — Part 04 | Part 05 | Part 06

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).

TAGLIST FOR HEA: @grstarkeydrew / @newatthiss / @7-deadly-cats / @amterasuu / @supercoolhotsleepyfunnygirl / @lvcstarkey / @sunsn0w / @lewispool / @nnd-oma / @cooper8224 / @kooksandpearls / @disaster-rose / @theycallherl0ve / @princesscigarette

[lvcstarkey]

i’ve been eating this series down bro

[zyafics]

HAPPILY EVER AFTER | 05

MAIN | Social Media AU

Pairing — Rafe Cameron x Female Reader

Summary — If having a fairytale love story guaranteed a happy ending, then, uh, why are you and Rafe getting a divorce?

Content — angst, hurt/comfort, brother's best friend, childhood friends to high school sweethearts to lovers to... divorce?

Navigation — Part 04 | Part 05 | Part 06

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).

TAGLIST FOR HEA: @grstarkeydrew / @newatthiss / @7-deadly-cats / @amterasuu / @supercoolhotsleepyfunnygirl / @lvcstarkey / @sunsn0w / @lewispool / @nnd-oma / @cooper8224 / @kooksandpearls / @disaster-rose / @theycallherl0ve / @princesscigarette

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ not like that.

pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader summary – after sex, garrett and his girlfriend talk through old wounds, hospital fear, and what it actually means to show up for each other. warnings – references to controlling ex, past emotional abuse, garrett’s family trauma, hospital injury, lockdown mention, anxiety. notes from me – hi babes!!! as requested here!! word count – 5k

navigation – masterlist |

The room has gone soft around the edges. It’s partly the lamp on her desk, the little warm one, and partly the rain pressing quietly against the window, blurring the glass until the campus lights beyond it look melted and far away. Mostly, though, it’s Garrett.

Garrett naked beneath her in a bed technically designed for one person and currently holding two with the sort of optimism usually reserved for temporary bridges. Garrett with one arm folded behind his head, the other heavy around her waist, his skin warm and slightly damp everywhere their bodies are still pressed together. 

His chest rises slowly beneath her cheek, no longer the hard, uneven movement from ten minutes ago, though his heartbeat hasn’t entirely committed to acting normal yet. Neither has hers.

The duvet is tangled around their legs. One of her pillows is on the floor, along with Garrett’s jeans, her underwear and a pharmacology flashcard that had become a casualty of sex despite being several feet from the bed when they started. 

The open window has let enough cool air into the room that her bare shoulder should be cold, but Garrett’s palm keeps moving over it in long, lazy passes, warming the skin each time.

She traces one finger through the faint line of hair below his navel, then up again, over the ridges of his stomach and the centre of his chest. His skin moves beneath her fingertip with each breath. 

There are little things here she knows now without having deliberately learned them: the pale scar near his ribs, the place beneath his left pec that makes the muscle jump when she drags her nail over it, the tiny freckle near his sternum she once spent an entire morning insisting looked like a malignant melanoma until he threatened to ban her from examining him unsupervised.

Her fingertip circles it now. Garrett’s arm tightens faintly around her. “That still cancer?”

“Mm.” She gives it the grave attention of a specialist delivering devastating news. “Terminal.”

“Shit.”

“You’ve got hours.”

“Better make ’em count.”

His hand slips lower beneath the duvet, palm flattening shamelessly over her ass. She laughs into his chest, the sound still a little loose and breathless, and gives his side a weak pinch that does absolutely nothing except make Garrett’s mouth curve against her hair.

“Greedy,” she murmurs.

“You climbed on top of me.”

“You were being annoying.”

“Yeah, and you handled that very professionally.”

She lifts her head enough to look at him. His curls are completely wrecked, flattened at one side and damp at the roots where her hands have spent most of the last half hour. His lips are pink, his cheeks faintly flushed, the arrogant little satisfaction on his face softened by sleepiness and the fact that he’s currently looking at her like she’s done something much more impressive than have sex with him in a dorm bed.

She nuzzles her nose gently into the roughness along his jaw. Garrett’s fingers still at her waist. “You good?”

The question comes automatically now. Before, after and sometimes during, when her breathing changes or her face does something he cannot immediately translate. He still asks it with the same quiet attention, though. Like no number of previous yeses can answer for the current one.

She nods, nose brushing his skin again. “Very.”

“Good.” His hand resumes its slow pass along her back. “Was worried.”

“You frequently are.”

He huffs a laugh through his nose, but it doesn’t fully settle into the room. Something in his face stays elsewhere, his gaze drifting briefly past her shoulder toward the rain-dark window before returning.

She watches him for a moment. Garrett has several different kinds of quiet. There’s tired quiet, which usually means he’s three minutes from falling asleep with his full weight on some part of her body. There’s pissed-off quiet, all tight jaw and nostril breathing and shoulders that look like they have been raised two inches closer to his ears. There’s the rare studying quiet, distinguished mostly by an open textbook and Garrett staring through the same paragraph while pretending he’s not become distracted by her existing nearby.

This is none of those. She pushes herself a little higher against him, then smooths his curls back from his forehead with the flat of her hand. They immediately fall forward again at the edges, soft and impossible. “What’re you thinking?”

Garrett’s eyes return properly to her face. “Nothing.”

She pinches his side again.

“Jesus.” His stomach tightens beneath her. “Violent.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m a great liar,” he huffs.

She brushes the curls back again. This time she keeps her fingers there, threaded gently into the hair at his temple. “What’re you thinking, Graham?”

His mouth presses together for a second. He breathes out slowly through his nose, the exhale moving warm over the top of her head. “Just thinking.”

“Compelling.” She settles her chin on his chest. “About what?”

“A lot.”

“Okay.” Her thumb moves once over his hairline. “Fill me in.”

Garrett’s gaze drops to her shoulder. His fingers trace the curve of it without seeming to notice what they’re doing, following the same path again and again until the touch begins to feel less lazy and more like counting.

“About Nathan, mostly.”

The name lands in the room without doing much to her. Only recognition and a very mild irritation, like someone has mentioned an assignment she thought she had already submitted.

She studies Garrett’s face instead. “What about him?”

His jaw moves once beneath the stubble. “He knows we’re together?”

“I don’t know.” She thinks about it, then shrugs as much as she can while half lying on him. “Probably. People talk. Especially people who have nothing interesting happening in their own lives.”

“Is he gonna be pissed?”

She lets out a quiet breath. “Maybe.”

Garrett’s hand stops moving.

She looks at him. “I don’t know, baby. Probably, yeah. Nathan was pissed when I got a haircut without asking whether he liked bangs. His emotional range was not… especially selective.”

“That’s not funny.”

She lifts her shoulder. “It’s a little funny.”

“It’s fucked.”

“It can be both.”

Garrett doesn’t answer. The tendon in his neck has gone tight beneath her hand, a small, visible line disappearing toward his collarbone.

She smooths her thumb over it. “I’m not worried.”

“No?”

“No.” She rests her cheek against his chest again, listening to the slow beat underneath. “He doesn’t get to me anymore. Not like that. He hasn’t for a long time.”

Garrett’s fingers flex against her back. “I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” His answer is immediate enough to sound defensive. He looks toward the ceiling, then back at her. “Yeah, baby. I know you don’t want him. That’s not what I’m asking.”

“I didn’t think it was.”

His eyes narrow faintly. “You were about to reassure me.”

“I was about, like, to provide context.”

He huffs a breath through his nose. “You were using your calm nurse voice.”

She blinks. “I don’t have a calm nurse voice.”

“You do,” he murmurs. “It’s the one you use right before telling someone something’s gonna sting.”

“That’s because it’s going to sting.”

“Exactly.”

She presses her lips together around a smile. Garrett catches it, because Garrett catches everything her mouth tries to hide from him, but his expression only softens for a second before returning to the place it has been.

“I worry about you,” he says.

She rolls her eyes. “You worry when I take the stairs too fast.”

“You fall up them.”

“I’ve done that once.”

Garrett’s mouth twitches. His hand slides to the back of her neck, thumb resting beneath her ear. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” She turns her face and kisses his wrist. “But you don’t have to worry about me. I’m okay. Nathan and I are so over it’s, like, actually embarrassing he still comes up in conversation.”

Garrett shakes his head. “Not worried like that.”

The smile leaves her face, because of the way he says them. Quiet and frustrated, like the thought has been grinding against him for a while and he cannot find an angle that makes it less sharp.

“What, then?”

He looks at her for a second. “I don’t want him to hurt you.”

Her hand stills on his chest.

“Because of me,” Garrett adds, and the last part comes out rougher. “Or because he finds out you have a boyfriend and decides to prove he can still get to you, or because I hit him and now he wants to even the score, or whatever the fuck goes through his head.”

“Garrett.”

“He’s already shown up here and run his mouth about you to people. He knows where you live. He knows where you have placement. He knows your friends. I don’t–” His fingers tighten gently at the back of her neck. “I don’t like it.”

She watches the anxiety work through him in visible little movements. His thumb tapping once against her skin. The muscle shifting in his jaw. His other hand resting flat over her lower back as if he can keep her safe from a man who’s not in the building by making sure there’s nowhere between them for air to pass.

“Baby,” she says softly, “he can’t hurt me more than he already did.”

Garrett’s face changes. His eyes sharpen, his brows pulling together while his mouth goes flat. Still, she feels the words strike him in the exact place she probably should have anticipated.

“That’s not…” He swallows. “That’s a really fucked-up way to reassure me.”

“It was accurate,” she murmurs.

“I hate when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say something horrible… like– like it’s a weather update.”

She considers the criticism. “Cloudy with a high chance of unresolved male entitlement.”

Garrett gives her a flat look. She fights the smile for three seconds, loses and lets her forehead drop against his chest. His hand comes up automatically to cradle the back of her head, fingers sinking into her hair even while he mutters, “You’re impossible.”

“I’m making a point.”

“You’re making jokes,” he sighs.

“Both can occur simultaneously. That’s actually a key feature of my personality.”

“I’ve noticed.”

She lifts her head again. “What I mean is, Nathan already took what he was going to take from me. Time. Confidence. A deeply unreasonable fear of being asked where I am when I’m literally at work. He doesn’t have access to any of that now.”

“He can still say shit.”

“Let him.”

Garrett’s eyes flash. “You say that because you don’t hear half of it.”

“No, I say that because I know exactly what he sounds like.” Her voice stays easy, because the truth is easy now. It has edges, but they don’t cut her when she picks it up. “Nathan runs his mouth because he needs people looking at him. He needs me upset. He needs you angry. It’s the only way he can still stand in a room with me and feel like he has something.”

“He called you–”

“I know what he called me.”

The words come out firmer than she intends. Garrett goes quiet immediately, watching her.

She smooths her palm over the centre of his chest, once, then again. “I know what he says. I know what he thinks. I spent a lot of time thinking his opinion was– was everything. It isn’t. It’s just noise from a deeply unimpressive man in a button-down.”

Garrett’s mouth shifts faintly. “Hate that shirt.”

“I know you do.”

“Looks like he asks professors whether the homework’s due.”

“He did that once,” she smiles.

“Of course he fucking did.”

She laughs, and the tension in his body gives by a fraction beneath her. She takes advantage of it, sliding her hand upward to his jaw, smoothing her palm over the rough line of it before cupping his cheek.

“He can run his mouth,” she says. “Who cares?”

“I care.”

“You care too much,” she whispers.

“He hurt you.”

“Yeah.” She says it plainly, without making the room bow around it. “He did.”

Garrett’s eyes search her face like he expects to find evidence she has hidden from him. A twitch. A crack. Something that says she’s performing wellness for his benefit. She lets him look.

There was a time the memory of Nathan’s voice could make her body rearrange itself before she had understood what was happening. Shoulders lifting. Stomach tight. Words becoming harder to reach because some old part of her believed silence might make the moment pass faster. There was a time hearing his name could stain an entire night.

Now there’s only Garrett beneath her, warm and worried and entirely too naked to be conducting threat assessments. “You didn’t rescue me from him,” she says.

His brows pinch together. “I know.”

“No, listen.” She strokes her thumb over his cheek. “You met me after I’d already left. I’d already decided he wasn’t allowed to keep doing that to me. I was already putting myself back together.”

Garrett holds her gaze.

“You made things better,” she continues. “You make a lot of things better. Food. Sex. My understanding of how many grown men can share a bathroom before it becomes a public health issue.”

“Four’s apparently too many.”

“Correct. But you didn’t save me from Nathan. I did that.”

“I know,” Garrett says again, quieter now. “I know you did.”

“Good.”

“I’m still allowed to worry.”

She makes a face. “Within reason.”

“What’s within reason?” Garrett asks, his thumb moving once over the curve of her shoulder.

“Not committing another felony in your living room.”

His brows pull together immediately. “It wasn’t a felony.”

“Multiple people had to physically remove you from his body,” she reminds him, watching the corner of his mouth twitch like he’s already preparing an appeal.

“Allegedly.”

“I was there.”

Garrett’s expression turns thoughtful in the deeply unconvincing way it does whenever he’s about to misuse information. “You were concussed recently. Memory’s unreliable.”

She stares at him.

Garrett lasts perhaps half a second before his mouth twitches. “Too soon?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry.”

Her fingers move from his cheek to the shell of his ear, tracing it absently. “If Nathan says something, I’ll ignore him.”

“And if he does something?”

“Then I’ll deal with it.”

His jaw tightens again.

She sighs softly. “With my friends. Campus security. The police, if it actually gets that far. Not by personally challenging him to, like, single combat.”

“Okay.”

“And I’ll tell you.”

Garrett’s eyes narrow. “Immediately?”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

“Promise?”

“Garrett.”

“Promise.”

Her hand softens against his face. “I promise I won’t hide it if Nathan does something that actually worries me.”

“Thank you.”

She raises her eyebrow. “But you don’t get to put him through a wall.”

Garrett exhales through his nose. “What if it’s a weak wall?”

“No.”

“Drywall?”

“Garrett.”

“I’m asking about limits.”

She tilts her chin and kisses him before he can continue negotiating materials. Garrett takes the kiss immediately, one hand sliding up into her hair while the other captures the wrist resting on his chest. His fingers wrap around hers and hold her there, palm pressed over his heartbeat.

The kiss is softer than the ones before. No hunger left to chase, only warmth and the slow drag of his mouth over hers. She kisses the corner of his lips when he starts pulling back, then his cheek, then the line of his jaw.

Garrett’s thumb moves over the back of her hand. For a few seconds, the conversation seems to have settled. The rain continues its faint tapping against the glass. Somebody down the hall shuts a drawer, followed by the muffled sound of a girl saying, “That’s not mine,” with such personal outrage that it must be about underwear.

Garrett turns her hand over and kisses the inside of her wrist. Then his gaze moves up to her face. He lifts one hand slowly, his thumb passing over the bridge of her nose with such little pressure she barely feels it. The touch is careful out of habit now, even though the swelling has disappeared and the bruising beneath her eyes has faded into the last thin yellow shadow near one cheek.

“Nearly gone,” he murmurs.

She knows what he means. “Mhm.”

His thumb moves once more, tracing the place that had been purple and tender. “Does it still hurt?”

“No.” She scrunches her nose experimentally. “Feels good.”

Garrett’s face changes at once, tension cracking enough for amusement to come through. “Do that again.”

She looks at him. “What?”

“The nose thing.”

She scrunches it again, more dramatically this time.

Garrett laughs. It bursts out warm and surprised, his whole chest moving beneath her. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“That’s so fucking cute.”

Her face warms. “Shut up.”

“No, do it again.”

She giggles, cheeks red. “I’m not performing.”

“Baby.”

“No.”

He catches her around the waist when she tries to hide her face in his neck, rolling them just enough that she ends up half beneath him, half pinned by the solid heat of his body. The dorm mattress gives a warning squeak.

She starts laughing before he even touches her nose, because Garrett is grinning now, properly, curls falling over his forehead and every trace of the worried crease between his brows temporarily gone.

“Come on,” he says. “One more.”

“You’re making it weird.”

“You made the cutest fucking face I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ve seen you try to use chopsticks,” she giggles. “My face isn’t winning that competition.”

“That was one time.”

“You stabbed the dumpling.”

Garrett kisses her before she can continue, mouth smiling over hers. She makes the mistake of scrunching her nose when his own bumps it, and he pulls back laughing again.

“There,” he says, delighted. “That.”

“You’re deeply embarrassing.”

“You love it.”

She doesn’t answer. Garrett’s grin goes softer anyway, like maybe he heard something in the silence she doesn’t intend to say yet. He kisses the tip of her nose, then the bridge of it, then the fading bruise beneath her eye.

The last kiss changes the air. It settles more heavily, his mouth lingering against her skin while the hand holding hers goes still between them. She studies his face when he lifts his head.

The question has been sitting somewhere inside her since the hospital. Since the doorway of the hockey house and the way all the colour left him when he saw her. Since he stayed awake beside her, staring at her breathing as if he didn’t trust the room to keep doing it without supervision. 

Since the lockdown, when she stepped out after an excellent shift and found Garrett looking like the two hours outside had taken years off his life.

She hasn’t asked because he’s told her enough already. Because there’s a difference between making room and digging. Because Garrett’s history isn’t a locked medication cabinet she gets to open simply because she knows where he keeps the key.

Still, his thumb is resting beside the place her bruise used to be. She clears her throat. “Were you…”

Garrett waits.

“I don’t want to pry.” She looks down briefly at their joined hands, then back at him. “And you can absolutely tell me to fuck off.”

“Promising start.”

“I’m serious.”

“Okay.” His mouth softens. “Ask.”

She slides her hand free of his only so she can touch his face, fingertips tracing the edge of his jaw. “Seeing me like that. After the hospital.”

Garrett goes very still.

“And then the lockdown,” she continues more quietly. “That brought up stuff with your mom, right?”

His gaze moves over her face with an attention that feels different from before, no longer looking for injuries but trying to decide whether this is a place he can put something. The lamp catches the dark brown in his eyes. His chest rises beneath her hand, then lowers slowly. Finally, he nods.

“Yeah,” he says.

She doesn’t fill the silence. She only lets her thumb stroke once over his cheek.

Garrett looks past her toward the window. “Seeing you at the door was…” His throat works. He stops, presses his lips together, tries again. “I knew it was you,” he says. “That sounds stupid, but I knew. I wasn’t confused or anything. I knew you’d been at work and something happened with a patient. Maria was standing there. Logan was talking. I heard all of it.”

She nods faintly.

“But you had blood on your face.” His eyes return to hers, and there is something raw beneath the steadiness now. “Your shirt was fucked up. You were holding your shoulder weird. You looked at me and tried to smile like you were worried I’d be uncomfortable if you didn’t make it less bad.”

Her fingers pause against his cheek.

“I just…” He breathes out, but the exhale catches near the end. “I couldn’t breathe. For a second. I could see you standing there, but I was somewhere else too.”

She feels his pulse beneath the heel of her hand, faster now than it was minutes ago.

“It wasn’t one memory,” Garrett says. “That would almost be easier. It was… all of it. Every time I heard something from another room. Every time she told me she was fine before I even asked. Every time I knew she was hurt and couldn’t–”

His voice cuts off. She moves closer beneath him, her knee fits along his hip and his body has somewhere to settle if he needs it.

“I couldn’t do anything then,” he says, quieter. “And with you, I got there after. Again. You were already hurt. You’d already been scared. Everyone else had already helped you, and I was just standing in the fucking doorway.”

“Baby.”

“I know.” His eyes close for a second. “I know it wasn’t my job to stop it. I know I wasn’t there. I know you work in an emergency department and things happen and I can’t–” His mouth twists. “I can’t stand beside you every second in case somebody loses it.”

“That would violate several hospital policies.”

“Yeah.”

She strokes her thumb beneath his eye. “But knowing it and feeling it aren’t lining up yet.”

Garrett opens his eyes. He gives her a tired, crooked look. “There’s the nurse voice.”

“That wasn’t the nurse voice.”

He huffs. “That was absolutely the nurse voice.”

“It was the extremely hot girlfriend voice.”

“Right.” His hand moves to her waist, holding her a little more securely. “That one’s new.”

“Still developing.”

His mouth almost smiles, but the heaviness remains in his face. “The lockdown was worse in a different way,” he says after a moment. “Because I couldn’t… see you.”

She goes quiet.

“I had hospital, lockdown, your phone not working and nobody telling me what part of the building it was in.” His fingertips press into her waist, not hard, only enough that she feels the shape of each one. “The last time you got hurt at that hospital, you showed up at the house looking like…” His gaze moves over her nose. “Like that. So my brain decided there were about a hundred things happening to you at once.”

“I was editing an assignment.”

Garrett shakes his head, but his mouth has softened again. “I kept thinking there was a door between us and something bad was happening on the other side.”

She doesn’t need him to explain which door. There had probably been dozens. Bedroom doors. Kitchen doors. A bathroom door pulled nearly shut while Garrett stood in a hallway and listened for his mother because listening was the only action a child had left.

Her hand slides from his cheek to the back of his neck. She draws him down slowly until his forehead rests against hers. “You were a kid then,” she says.

“I know.”

“And you’re my boyfriend now.”

Garrett’s breath warms her mouth. “Yeah.”

“Those are different jobs.”

His eyes close.

“You don’t have to protect me from every single thing that might ever happen,” she continues. “That’s not a boyfriend job. That’s Batman, and he has funding you don’t.”

Garrett lets out a quiet, unwilling laugh. “I have a scholarship.”

She shakes her head. “Not enough for surveillance equipment.”

“Dean probably knows a guy.”

She lets the small laugh fade between them before she speaks again. “I don’t want you thinking being with me means you– you failed every time I get hurt.”

His fingers tighten at her waist.

“Because I’m going to get hurt sometimes,” she says. “I work in a hospital. I’m clumsy. I regularly walk into the open corner of my own desk.”

“You really do.”

“It moves.”

Garrett opens his eyes.

She holds his gaze. “I don’t need you to stop everything before it happens.”

“What do you need?”

The question comes out so direct that her chest tightens around it.

“You,” she says, then makes a face because the word feels dangerously simple for the size of it. “Afterward. Sometimes during, if you’re available and the hospital has not enacted an armed perimeter.”

“It was security tape.”

She narrows her eyes. “Very threatening security tape.”

“I almost crossed it.”

“I know. Dean told me you asked about the roof.”

“I was… exploring options.”

She smiles, her fingers moving through the curls at the back of his neck. “I need you to show up. Turn the lights down. Read the discharge instructions because my brain is leaking out of my ears. Stop Dean from yelling.”

“I cannot do that last one.”

“No. Nobody can.”

“Glad we agree.”

“And I need you to believe me when I say I’m okay,” she murmurs. “Not automatically,” she adds. “You’re allowed to ask. You’re allowed to worry. You’re allowed to tell me when you think I’m being stupid.”

“That’s often.”

“Careful.”

“Sorry.”

“But once I answer you – really answer you – I need you to believe I know what’s happening inside my own body.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“And I’ll try not to say I’m fine when I’m, like, actively bleeding on my shoes.”

“That would be huge for us.”

She strokes the hair at his nape. “You did everything right that night.”

Garrett’s mouth tightens. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You made the house quiet.”

“Tucker did.”

“You stayed,” she whispers

“Obviously.”

“You woke me up. You tracked my symptoms. You helped me change without making it weird.”

“I made it a little weird.”

She smiles. “You didn’t have to save me. You just had to be there.”

Garrett looks at her for a long moment. His eyes have gone bright at the edges, though he doesn’t look away or joke over it. “I can do that,” he says.

“I know.”

“I’ll always do that.”

The words come out before he can make them smaller. They settle between their mouths, unpolished and certain. Her fingers tighten gently in his curls. “I know that too.”

Garrett kisses her. His mouth closes over hers with careful pressure, one hand sliding from her waist to the centre of her back and pulling her flush against him. She lets him. Her arms go around his neck, bare bodies fitting together again without urgency, only skin and warmth and the steady proof of him breathing against her.

When he pulls away, he stays close enough that their noses touch. “So,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the base of her spine beneath the duvet. “You’re really not worried about Nathan?”

She gives the question proper consideration. “I’m worried he might continue dressing like a regional bank manager.”

“Serious.”

“No,” she says again, quieter. “I’m not. Not anymore.”

His shoulders lower with a small, reluctant breath.

“And if he tells people I’m insane,” she adds, “I’ll tell them he cried during sex once because he thought he pulled a hamstring.”

Garrett’s eyes widen. “He what?”

She bites the inside of her cheek.

“Oh my God.” Garrett lifts himself higher over her, suddenly awake in every meaningful way. “Are you serious?”

“I’m not giving you details.”

“You cannot say that and then refuse details.”

“I absolutely can,” she giggles.

“Was it actually a hamstring?”

“No.”

“What was it?”

“Probably a cramp,” she shrugs.

Garrett drops his forehead into the pillow beside her and starts laughing. His whole body shakes against hers, warm and heavy and delighted in a way that makes her laugh too, even while she presses one hand over his mouth to contain it before the neighbouring room files a second kind of noise complaint.

He catches her wrist and kisses her palm. “That’s the best thing you’ve ever told me,” he says into her skin.

“That’s incredibly insulting.”

“Did he stop?”

“Garrett.”

“Did he stretch?”

She laughs. “I hate you.”

“Did you do an assessment?”

She shoves at his shoulder, which accomplishes nothing. He rolls them anyway, catching her around the waist until she’s sprawled over his chest again, both of them still laughing quietly into the warm, messy room.

Eventually, the laughter eases. She settles her cheek above his heart. His hand returns to the back of her head, fingers moving gently through her hair.

“Hey,” Garrett says after a moment.

“Mhm?”

“If he ever does anything…”

“I’ll tell you,” she nods.

“And I won’t put him through a wall.”

She lifts her head.

Garrett grimaces. “I’ll try very hard not to put him through a wall.”

She considers this. “Better.”

“What if he trips?”

“No.”

“Near a wall?”

“Go to sleep.”

He smiles and presses his mouth to the top of her head. She nuzzles closer beneath his jaw, her nose brushing the warm skin there. Garrett’s arm tightens around her.

She scrunches her nose against his neck. His laugh moves through her cheek.

“So fucking cute,” he murmurs.

She smiles against his skin, traces one final slow line over his chest and lets her hand come to rest over his heart.

to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.

[lvcstarkey]

ughhh eve has done it again 🥹

[7-deadly-cats]

⋆.˚ CAMERON&CARRERA COUNSELING

BL MASTERLIST | MEET BL READER

R. C. M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M

COMMENT down below if you wanna be added to the tag list

@zyafics @hypersonicc-missless @lilyyyyy08 @runflyes @in3edcuddles @meslumieres @aliluvssyou @honeyskk @xealia @delulusweetheart

[lvcstarkey]

i’m just seeing INSANE FUCKING FACE CARDS 😵‍💫

[lacyydollette]

TEXTS BETWEEN BF!GARRETT GRAHAM X READER

ANGEL (💭) : some inspo for the texts were taken from pinterest. suggestive language & swearing ahead.

𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐘𝐘𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 — est. 2026 © do not copy, claim or take inspo of my work anywhere.

masterlist

[loveharlow]

BUZZCUT!RAFE X BLACK!KOOK!GF

[ works ]

a/n: i got too into this so i can't even use it as the masterlist for whatever i write for them lmao

"like, is it the real thing, or is it just a one night stand?"

BUZZCUT!RAFE who you'd first noticed in the halls, all throughout high school. he was loud, unpredictable and always with the same crowd. to you, he was just another privileged douche with too much money and an ego too big.

BUZZCUT!RAFE who noticed you long before he ever spoke to you. gorgeous and confident with this intimidating, unapproachable energy that made most guys try their luck or keep their distance. and while other girls went out of their way to get his attention or laugh at his jokes, you would walk right past him like he was invisible. he was used to getting whatever he wanted, so your indifference made him curious.

BUZZCUT!RAFE who couldn't not know you any longer, making his move at prom. rafe didn't bring a date—half the island had asked him, but he couldn't be bothered. you went with a guy from your grade who had asked you nicely, and you figured, why not? and by the time everyone had shown up to a beachfront after party, you were over your date and slipped away into the kitchen to grab a drink, when rafe walked in a minute later. instead of backing out when he saw you, he leaned against the counter, smirked, and tried to throw some line your way. to his own shock, you didn't blush or giggle. you just leaned against the kitchen island, looked him dead in the eye, and gave him a stubborn retort that deflated his ego. you treated him like a regular person, unimpressed by his family name or status. instead of getting mad, rafe was fascinated. he stayed in that kitchen talking to you for an hour, captivated by your wit and the fact that he actually had to work to keep up with you.

BUZZCUT!RAFE who, after that night, you'd started seeing at bonfires, beach parties, and casual hangouts considering your two friend groups had somehow started to merge. the more you were around him, the more you realized the rumors surrounding him, that you'd been hearing since freshman year of high school, didn't capture who he actually was, or who he'd become. he was calmer now it seemed, focused on bettering himself, and incredibly attentive—even buzzing his hair to signal a fresh start.

BUZZCUT!RAFE who, after one long impromptu night of driving around in his truck listening to music, ended up back at his place with you staring at him in the passenger seat. you slept together that night—passionate, intense, and something that shifted the ground beneath your feet. the next morning, you panicked. you didn't want to be another casualty of rafe cameron's board game of girls. you woke up, threw your clothes on, and acted distant when he woke up, trying to brush it off as a casual mistake. but he didn't let you slide out the door, stepping into your path, blocking the doorway and placing his hands on your hips, crowding you into his space as he forced you to look up at him. his jaw was tight, but his voice was soft—"you're spinning a whole bunch of bullshit in your head right now, thinking this was a game to me. it wasn't. don't walk out of here acting like last night didn't mean anything, because it meant somethin' to me."

BUZZCUT!RAFE who didn’t make you his girlfriend that morning—not because he didn't want to, but because he wanted to do it right. he knew you were a prize, a high-status girl who deserved high-status shit, and he wanted to prove to you how serious he was. it took him three weeks to ask—the weeks leading up to it filled with him spoiling you with dates, meeting your parents and winning them over, and perfectly integrating himself into who you were.

BUZZCUT!RAFE who didn't do a super massive gesture because he knew you wouldn't want it. he asked you out for a late-night cruise, telling you to wear something comfortable. when you climbed aboard, you found the deck covered in blankets, your favorite food warming in containers, and a speaker playing the same playlist he'd played in his car that night. he took the boat out to a secluded spot on the marsh where the water looked like glass under the moonlight. after you both ate and laughed, you were sitting in his lap in one of his grey hoodies he brought just in case you got cold. he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. he didn't hand you a promise ring. it was a bracelet, one you'd mentioned once in conversation and not even with him. he clasped it around your wrist, hands lingering over your skin. he looked down at you, thumb tracing your jawline—"i'm not playin' you, and i'm sure as hell not lettin' anyone else think they have a chance with you. you're my girl now. i'm takin' care of you from here on out, alright?"

BUZZCUT!RAFE whose polo shirts and slacks are strictly for functions, spending most days in high-end loungewear—oversized sweatpants, heavy-hooded streetwear sweatshirts, and sneakers

BUZZCUT!RAFE whose truck always smells like his cologne and your perfume, bass vibrating through the seats. his playlists are a mix of trap, R&B, and rap (think future, gunna, drake, j.cole and brent faiyaz). he knows every lyric, rapping them to you while keeping one hand resting on your thigh

BLACK!KOOK!GF who, to the world, is too gorgeous for your own good, making most label you unapproachable—witty, an envious sense of style, and an air of confidence that makes people naturally clear a path for you. rafe is obsessed, loving that, to everyone else, you look like a woman who wouldn't give anyone the time of day, knowing that the moment you two are alone, you turn into his baby

BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF who act like two giant, goofy kids when alone (or not). rafe will randomly pick you up and sling you over his shoulder while you're trying to do something, you screaming and hitting his back while he chuckles. you chase each other through the halls of the house, occasionally knocking over a vase or stubbing toes, ending up in a laughing heap on the floor. you drag him into arts and crafts—making him do pottery or painting. he pretends to complain, but always ends up sitting there with a focused look on his face

BUZZCUT!RAFE who loves taking you out on the boat. he captains while you sunbathe on the deck in a designer bikini. he keeps a constant eye on you, stepping away from the wheel just to rub sunscreen onto your back, kissing your shoulders, and whispering how beautiful you look. and when the sun goes down and the breeze picks up, he tosses you a hoodie and pulls you into his lap while the boat drifts, wrapping his arms around you, just content to watch the water.

BLACK!KOOK!GF who doesn't can't spend your money when rafe is around. if you try to pay for your food, drinks, nails, or clothes—anything—he will glare at you, pull out his card, and push yours away. if you somehow manage to pay before he can stop you or he isn't around to stop you, he'll zelle you double the amount with the note, "i'm gonna beat your ass."

BUZZCUT!RAFE who spoils you to a fault, buys you anything you glance at. it reached a point where your closet was overflowing with Chanel, Bottega Veneta, Telfar bags, and endless rows of shoes.

"rafe, seriously, you need to stop buying me stuff. i don't have room for it."

"i'll buy you more room for it, then."

BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF whose number one love language (besides physical touch) is music. before those headache inducing Cameron family foundation galas or country club charity events, rafe always gets visibly tense—jaw tight, shoulders locked in place under his suit jacket. right before one though, you text him a link to a playlist. now he listens to it on his way to every one

BUZZCUT!RAFE who you'd told casually one night that you can’t read to songs that have lyrics because you get distracted. rafe didn't say anything at the time. but the next morning, you find a playlist in your library titled "focus, baby". it's all instrumentals, some cinematic lo-fi here and there, ambient rap beats, and classical piano tracks he'd spent hours digging up from the memory of the music his biological mother used to listen to with him. he's never shared those songs with anyone, not even sarah

BUZZCUT!RAFE who no longer yells, throws things, or loses his temper. especially not during arguments with you—his frustration showing in a clenched jaw, a hardened gaze, and a deeply firm tone.

BUZZCUT!RAFE who uses blunt language when he's annoyed—"what the fuck are you talkin' about right now?" or "you're saying a whole bunch of bullshit."

BLACK!KOOK!GF who doesn't do arguments in the first place, but hates them with rafe. independent, but a softie with him. if the tension goes on too long, your eyes well up with tears, and the second a tear rolls down your cheek, rafe's shoulders fall and he drops his head, lets out a sigh, and steps to you, pulling you against his chest. but because you're stubborn, you tend to struggle at first, pushing his chest—"get off me." but he never lets go. he just wraps his arms tighter around your waist, buries his face in your neck—"jus' calm down. i'm sorry, alright? just breathe."

BUZZCUT!RAFE whose family approves of you. ward is proud rafe found someone who comes from an established, wealthy kook family with an immaculate reputation. ward sees you as an asset to uphold the Cameron name. sarah was hesitant at first. because of your untouchable exterior, she thought you were a typical clicky, elitist kook girl. but once she actually sat down and talked to you, you two clicked. now, she tends to stop by your house and raid your closet until rafe shows up, kicking her out.

BLACK!KOOK!GF whose parents knew about rafe's wild past and were wary at first. but rafe consistently showed up and proved himself. so much so, that your house became his home. your family gave him the unconditional love his own never could. your mom always cooks and leaves him leftovers. your dad invites him over to sit on the couch, drink a beer, and yell at sports on the tv. he's even met your extended family—your older brother and sister, who have moved away, trust him. when they bring their kids down for the holidays, your nieces and nephews tackle him to the floor yelling, "uncle rafey!". the first time they did that, rafe actually had to step into the bathroom to hide his tears because he had never felt so accepted

BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF who are the power couple of the island. other kook guys envy rafe, and kook girls try to mirror your style and demeanor. but no one dares disrespect either of you. even pogues were shocked at first. they expected rafe to stay a loose cannon forever. but when they see him out with you—calm, collected, protective, and completely sober—they respect it. they know you don't take any bullshit, and they respect that you seemed to have tamed such a guy just by loving him right

BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF who had a wild night when you both breathed 'i love you' into each other's mouthes and, weeks later, snuck off to a tattoo shop. you get matching micro-tattoos of each other’s first initials. you get his "R" tucked subtly behind your ear or on the inside of your finger, and he gets your initial in a sharp, clean font on the inside of his wrist

BUZZCUT!RAFE who's still pretty gentle in the bedroom, but when the heat catches up to him, he gets a little rougher. he likes to use his weight to pin you down, hands anchoring your wrists above your head or gripping your hips to guide your movements. he'll bite your shoulder or the skin of your neck. he'll wrap his hand around the base of your hair to tilt your head back for a sloppy kiss

BUZZCUT!RAFE who is overly vocal in the moment. he speaks in a low, raspy murmur right against your ear or mouth., telling you exactly what is it he wants or asking you.

"arch your back f'me,"

"nuh-uh, don't close your eyes, look at me"

"tell me what you want"

"gotta speak up angel, can't hear you"

BUZZCUT!RAFE whose two biggest kinks are breeding and marking. with marking applying to him, specifically. nothing makes him a happier camper than walking around knowing he's covered in hickeys, scratch marks, and the occasional bites—whether people can see them or not

BUZZCUT!RAFE who most likely also has some kind of underlying size kink—loving the way you squirm, muttering things like, "it's too much" or "slow down" or "you're too deep"—especially considering, half the time those words tumble from your lips, he isn't even halfway in yet. he finds it adorable that you sometimes struggle or gag giving him head, you seeming dissatisfied that you couldn't go all the way down on it, but unbeknownst to you for a while, however, it only pushed him closer to that edge

BLACK!KOOK!GF who is just as vocal. kind of a soft brat, you tend to make high-pitched, whiny sounds when he's teasing you or moving too slow. you moan his name, whisper what you want, and even gets relatively sassy even in bed—which only makes him smirk and drive in a little harder just to cut your words off

BLACK!KOOK!GF who, when you have a fresh silk press or a perfectly laid ponytail, always warns him beforehand—"rafe, do not mess up my hair. i'm so fuckin' serious." he'll smirk and promise to be careful, but the moment things get hot and heavy, his hands find the back of your neck, his fingers burying into your hair, sweat sliding off of his body and onto yours, and before you know it, your hair is done for

BLACK!KOOK!GF who, the second it's over, will look in the mirror, see the puffiness at your roots, and let out a dramatic, whiny groan. rafe will walk up behind you, wrap his arms around your waist, kiss your shoulder, and look at your hair in the mirror with a smug, satisfied grin before slapping your ass and pulling away. and, before you can open your mouth to chew him out for it, you hear the chime on your phone—an apple pay notification popping up for $250

but it doesn't stop at your hair, BUZZCUT!RAFE treats your beauty maintenance like a monthly bill that he is solely responsible for. he has his card on file with your nail tech, your lash artist, and your esthetician. if you mention wanting a new tattoo or a new piercing, he just hums, asks you to send him the inspo pic and, from there, you're right to expect a text from him on a random day in the middle of the week with a date and time, the link to one of the more renowned tattoo shops, his only words underneath, 'i already handled the deposit. i'll pay the rest when i take you to get it.' he loves seeing you love yourself, and he takes pride in knowing he’s the one providing it for you

BLACK!KOOK!GF who, because you are very meticulous about your appearance, sometimes refuses to go to a hair stylist—especially when you want a specific look

BUZZCUT!RAFE who both admires and hates when you decide to do your own hair. it's not because he doesn't like the look or the mess it creates for the next 6 to 12 hours—he thinks you look breathtaking in anything, especially boho braids, and he could care less about the hair all over the bathroom floor—it’s because he cannot stand seeing you suffer for hours. when he sees you pulling out the packs of hair and setting up your mirrors, his jaw tightens—"i thought we talked about this. baby, i'll pay double whatever your lady charges to get you in her chair today. i don't want you standing on your feet and cramping your hands up for ten hours straight. it's ridiculous. let me take care of it."

and because BLACK!KOOK!GF has to be the definition of a soft brat, you’ll pout and sigh, rolling your eyes, insisting that nobody else does the parts right or gets the boho curls to sit exactly how you want them.

and BUZZCUT!RAFE, realizing you aren't backing down, sighs and rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie, "alright, fine. then i'm helping. show me." and he'll sit on a stool in your shared bathroom for hours, dedicated to helping you manage your hair. and though his hands are large and calloused from working on cars and boats, the way he touches your head is unbelievably gentle. he's focused on not pulling your edges into the braids along your hairline or causing you any pain. he'll take extra care to make sure your parts are straight, leaning in with his tongue is slightly poking out in concentration.

BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF who, because you both have to maintain polished personas, during the day at least, the anticipation built up through text is unfathomable. if rafe is stuck in something family or business related, you’ll send him a quick 'fit check' selfie in the mirror. it looks innocent to anyone else, but you're wearing one of the silk or lace sets he bought you under an oversized piece of clothing of his, the material peeking out just enough for only him to see

BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF who aren't super into BDSM or anything, but love thrill-seeking. rafe loves mirrors, and he will position you so you have to watch exactly what he's doing to you. he also loves using his ties or scarves to lightly bind your hands to the headboard just to watch you squirm and whine for him when he holds back from giving you what you want

BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF who are pretty calculated risk-takers. you definitely don't do anything reckless in the middle of a crowded lawn, but you utilize private spaces—over the hood of his truck in the garage, out on the boat in the middle of the marsh, the guest bathroom at the country club

BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF who don't care about PDA. you aren't trashy or messy about it, but rafe especially makes it very clear that you are off the market—hand on your lower back, you clinging to his bicep, his hand on your thigh under tables or in vehicles, you tucked into his side at parties, you fixing his collar, you smoothing his buzzcut as some kind of self-soothing gesture, leaving soft kisses along his jaw and neck and sucking your teeth when he pulls away (needing to calm you down before he'd have to step away and calm himself down)

BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF who eventually step out from under their parents and move in together, eventually recognizing it as one of the best decisions of their lives

...YEARS LATER

BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF where you now run a luxury design firm, while rafe manages high-end real estate and his true passion—cars

BUZZCUT!RAFE who dropped a good amount on a massive private garage off the island that houses his growing collection of luxury vehicles—a matte black ferrari, a vintage mercedes-benz, a lamborghini, and a custom bmw—and the only person allowed inside that garage, and allowed to drive those cars besides him, is you. he loves watching you drive his ferrari with your sunglasses on, looking in your element, while he sits in the passenger seat just admiring his view

BUZZCUT!RAFE who gives you your dream proposal, built up and planned over months—years—mentally storing every little thing you said you ever wanted and dreamed of. though, he did almost get cursed out when he didn't answer his phone for hours in favor of planning the proposal in question. the ring was custom and everything that you wanted and you were in tears by the end of the night, saying yes over and over (for more reasons than one)

BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF who eventually get married (obviously) and have two kids—a boy and a girl.

and remember the matching tattoos? yeah, BUZZCUT!RAFE takes it way further once he’s fully established in his career and away from ward's watchful and judgemental gaze. he gets your full first name tattooed in elegant script over his ribs, right over his heart. he loves looking in the mirror while brushing his teeth, seeing your name permanently etched on his skin. and when your son and daughter are born, rafe immediately books that appointment. he gets their names and birth dates tattooed down his forearm. for a guy who grew up feeling like an unloved afterthought to his own father, wearing his wife and kids on his skin is his proudest badge of honor.

BUZZCUT!RAFE who's a phenomenal father because he knows exactly what not to do based on his own father's parenting. with your son, he always makes sure to tell him how proud of him he is in anything he does. he brings him to the garage, teaching him how engines work and letting him play with tools. he is firm with him, teaching him accountability, his emotions, and most importantly, how to respect women, especially when he isn't being the nicest to his sister

BUZZCUT!RAFE who is doomed as girl dad. your daughter has him wrapped around her little finger. she looks exactly like you, and rafe cannot say no to her, mirroring his struggles with you. he treats her like a princess, buying her every toy she asks for, which results in you having to yell at both of them to stop bringing things into the house when all of her dollhouses start to crowd the space

BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF whose parenting styles perfectly compliment each other. you're the independent, loving mom who enables their fun, but you also teach them how to speak their minds and be confident in themselves. when it comes to discipline, rafe is the anchor. he never raises his voice at the kids, but he has a very firm, serious dad-voice that immediately makes them stop misbehaving in a way yours can't seem to. he'll kneel down to their eye level, "look at me. we don't act like that in this house. you wouldn't do that with me, so don't do it with her. now, apologize to your mother."

BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF whose family days involve packing up the truck, blasting some music that the kids now know all the words to by now, and taking them out to a private beach. rafe will carry both kids on his shoulders through the water while you watch from the sand, laughing as you take pictures.

...ODDLY SEXY OBSERVATIONS

outside of being the family each of them always dreamed of, BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF do still make quality time for one another, indulging in the hobbies of one another

BUZZCUT!RAFE likes the gun range. it helps with discipline and control. he'd started taking you after you gave birth, knowing post-partum anything wasn't the easiest thing to deal with. whenever you two go, he stands directly behind you, chest flush against your back. his hands wrap over yours to help you get the proper grip on the pistol and you don't tell him you've got it because you like it all too much—his frame against your back, his voice in your ear. he speaks in a low, raspy murmur, breath tickling your neck over the sound of the range—"relax your shoulders, baby. don't lock your elbows. line up the sight... right there, there y'go. and remember, squeeze, don't jerk."

nothing beats when BUZZCUT!RAFE drives his truck. whenever he has to reverse, he doesn’t use the backup camera, just throws his left hand on the steering wheel, turns his body, and grips the back of your headrest with his right hand, bicep flexing right next to your face. He'll glance back, steering with one hand, jaw clenched in concentration. it's just such an effortless, masculine thing that turns you on every single time

and he is obsessed with BLACK!KOOK!GF's intimidating confidence. if you two are out anywhere, there's always a chance that some man will try his hand with you, typically when they realize that rafe has left your side for some reason. you don't make a scene or yell, though. you just slowly look the guy up and down with total disdain, a look that never fails to embarrass men who can't take no for an answer or simply disregard the fact that you walked into wherever you were with a man wrapped around you, matching rings on your fingers. and rafe will often walk back just in time to see the guy scurrying away, sliding next to you, a laugh against your skin before he glares at him for the next hour

and, as mentioned, BUZZCUT!RAFE doesn't let anyone touch his cars except you. he finds it hot when you confidently take the keys without question—you'll slide into the driver's seat, adjust his rearview mirror to your height, pull down the sun visor to check your lip gloss, and change his trap music to your own slow R&B playlist. the sheer confidence you have handling his multi-hundred-thousand-dollar machinery like you own it drives him insane in the best way. he'll just lean back in the passenger seat, staring at your profile with pure adoration while you floor the gas.

and lastly, because BLACK!KOOK!GF is incredibly independent but turns into somewhat of a spoiled brat just for him, you have certain mannerisms when you don't get your way. if rafe playfully steals the last bite of your food or tells you 'no' just to tease you, you’ll roll your eyes, suck your teeth, and cross your arms, turning your back to him. to anyone else, that kind of sass wouldn't fly. to rafe, though? it's the hottest thing in the world, a sign that he now has to work to win your attention back. he'll smirk, lean over, wrap his arms around you from behind, and start kissing your jaw until you crack a smile.

"do you really wanna love me forever? or is it just a hit-and-run?"

[lvcstarkey]

i loveee POC!readers , makes my heart happy 💕

[zyafics]

HAPPILY EVER AFTER | 04

MAIN | Social Media AU

Pairing — Rafe Cameron x Female Reader

Summary — If having a fairytale love story guaranteed a happy ending, then, uh, why are you and Rafe getting a divorce?

Content — angst, hurt/comfort, brother's best friend, childhood friends to high school sweethearts to lovers to... divorce?

Navigation — Part 03 | Part 04 | Part 05

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).

TAGLIST FOR HEA: @grstarkeydrew / @newatthiss / @7-deadly-cats / @amterasuu / @supercoolhotsleepyfunnygirl / @lvcstarkey / @sunsn0w / @lewispool / @nnd-oma / @cooper8224 / @kooksandpearls / @disaster-rose / @theycallherl0ve

[lvcstarkey]

ughh this shit is making me sad can they just kiss again already 💔

[kooksandpearls]

rafe cameron 𖦹 faster!

pairing – rafe cameron x reader summary – rafe learns that “faster” sounds very different depending on whether it’s said on the back of his bike or underneath him. warnings – 18+, sexual content, motorcycle scene, unsafe/reckless driving, speed, adrenaline, suggestive dialogue. notes from me – requested by my bby @theycallherl0ve 😌 thank u diva word count – 0.9k

navigation – masterlist |

The first time she screams, it gets eaten by the helmet and the wind and the ugly, thrilled roar of Rafe Cameron’s bike tearing down the back road. Her arms are locked around his middle so tightly her fingers have started to ache through the fabric of his shirt, thighs clamped on either side of the bike, cheek pressed to the warm curve of his back while the whole world turns into salt air and engine heat and sun-struck blur. 

Trees flash green at the edges of her vision. The road opens silver and empty ahead of them. Rafe leans into a curve with the kind of confidence only available to boys who have never properly believed in consequences, and her stomach lifts clean into her throat.

“Rafe!” she shrieks, laughing so hard it comes out broken. “Oh my God, slow down!”

He can’t hear her properly. She knows he can’t, because the engine is too loud and her voice is trapped inside her helmet and the wind is ripping at every loose part of her, but he feels her. He always feels her. Feels the way she shoves her helmet between his shoulder blades, the way her arms tighten around his ribs, the way she half-smacks his stomach with one flat palm in outrage. 

His shoulders shake once, laughter moving through his body before it reaches the air, and then because he’s terrible and beautiful and missing whatever internal mechanism tells normal people to be nice to girls who are clinging to them for their actual lives, he twists the throttle.

The bike surges. She screams again, louder, pure scandalised joy punching out of her as the road drops beneath them and Rafe laughs properly this time, head tipping just enough that she catches the sharp line of his grin beneath the edge of his helmet. “Rafe Cameron, I swear to God–”

“What?” he calls back, voice rough with laughter. “You said faster?”

“I said slower, you psycho!”

He lifts one hand off the handlebar for half a second to pat her locked fingers against his stomach, patronising and fond enough to make her want to bite through leather. “Hold on then, baby.”

She does. Obviously. She holds on like the wind might take him first and her after, laughing into the back of him, furious with adrenaline, face hot under the helmet, pulse everywhere at once. 

By the time he finally eases off near the dunes, coasting slower with the engine still growling beneath them, her whole body is humming. Rafe turns his head, smug even in profile.

“Still alive,” he says.

She presses her helmet into his back, breathless and warm and already smiling. “Barely.”

He laughs. “Drama.”

The second time she’s screaming, there’s no wind to steal it. Only his room at night, hot and dark around the edges, the fan clicking above them like it’s trying to mind its business and failing. 

Rafe’s over her, all heavy breath and bare shoulders, one hand braced beside her head and the other hooked under her thigh where she’s wrapped herself around his waist like she’s still trying not to fall off something moving too fast. 

The sheets are wrecked beneath them. Her hair is stuck to her neck. His mouth is at her jaw, then her throat, then back at her mouth when she says his name like she’s lost patience.

“Faster,” she gasps, fingers digging into his back. “Rafe– fuck, faster, baby.”

He goes still for half a second. Pausing just enough for the words to land somewhere smug and electric inside him. His head lifts. His eyes are dark in the low light, blue swallowed almost completely, mouth wet from hers and curving in that awful way that means she’s handed him a weapon and he intends to be unbearable about it.

“Oh, yeah?” he says, breath rough, voice dragged low with effort. “Now we’re faster, huh?”

A laugh breaks out of her, helpless and breathy. Of course he finds the joke in it while she’s under him trying to keep her brain functioning. “Uh-huh,” she manages, nodding, legs tightening around his waist. “Now faster.”

His grin flashes, mean and delighted and so stupidly pretty she could hate him for it if her body had room for anything except wanting. “Thought I was a psycho.”

“You are.”

“Thought you wanted me to slow down.”

“Rafe.”

“What?” He dips his head, kissing the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, too sweet for someone currently ruining her. “M’just listening.”

“You’re never listening.”

“I’m listening now.”

Then he moves, and the rest of her sentence disappears into his shoulder as she cries out, one hand flying to the back of his neck, the other twisting in the sheets. He laughs against her skin, she can feel exactly how affected he is in every rough breath, every tightening muscle, every messy loss of rhythm when she says his name again – because Rafe has always loved being asked for the thing he was trying not to give too much of.

“Like that?” he murmurs, mouth brushing her ear.

She nods too fast, half-laughing, half-moaning, nails scraping lightly down his back. “Yeah. Like that.”

His hand slides higher on her thigh, holding her closer, anchoring her under him with a care that would be almost tender if he didn’t look so pleased with himself. “Hold on then, baby,” he says again, voice rough and warm and wrecked around the edges.

So she does.

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[lvcstarkey]

this was a meal

[kooksandpearls]

rafe cameron 𖦹 faster!

pairing – rafe cameron x reader summary – rafe learns that “faster” sounds very different depending on whether it’s said on the back of his bike or underneath him. warnings – 18+, sexual content, motorcycle scene, unsafe/reckless driving, speed, adrenaline, suggestive dialogue. notes from me – requested by my bby @theycallherl0ve 😌 thank u diva word count – 0.9k

navigation – masterlist |

The first time she screams, it gets eaten by the helmet and the wind and the ugly, thrilled roar of Rafe Cameron’s bike tearing down the back road. Her arms are locked around his middle so tightly her fingers have started to ache through the fabric of his shirt, thighs clamped on either side of the bike, cheek pressed to the warm curve of his back while the whole world turns into salt air and engine heat and sun-struck blur. 

Trees flash green at the edges of her vision. The road opens silver and empty ahead of them. Rafe leans into a curve with the kind of confidence only available to boys who have never properly believed in consequences, and her stomach lifts clean into her throat.

“Rafe!” she shrieks, laughing so hard it comes out broken. “Oh my God, slow down!”

He can’t hear her properly. She knows he can’t, because the engine is too loud and her voice is trapped inside her helmet and the wind is ripping at every loose part of her, but he feels her. He always feels her. Feels the way she shoves her helmet between his shoulder blades, the way her arms tighten around his ribs, the way she half-smacks his stomach with one flat palm in outrage. 

His shoulders shake once, laughter moving through his body before it reaches the air, and then because he’s terrible and beautiful and missing whatever internal mechanism tells normal people to be nice to girls who are clinging to them for their actual lives, he twists the throttle.

The bike surges. She screams again, louder, pure scandalised joy punching out of her as the road drops beneath them and Rafe laughs properly this time, head tipping just enough that she catches the sharp line of his grin beneath the edge of his helmet. “Rafe Cameron, I swear to God–”

“What?” he calls back, voice rough with laughter. “You said faster?”

“I said slower, you psycho!”

He lifts one hand off the handlebar for half a second to pat her locked fingers against his stomach, patronising and fond enough to make her want to bite through leather. “Hold on then, baby.”

She does. Obviously. She holds on like the wind might take him first and her after, laughing into the back of him, furious with adrenaline, face hot under the helmet, pulse everywhere at once. 

By the time he finally eases off near the dunes, coasting slower with the engine still growling beneath them, her whole body is humming. Rafe turns his head, smug even in profile.

“Still alive,” he says.

She presses her helmet into his back, breathless and warm and already smiling. “Barely.”

He laughs. “Drama.”

The second time she’s screaming, there’s no wind to steal it. Only his room at night, hot and dark around the edges, the fan clicking above them like it’s trying to mind its business and failing. 

Rafe’s over her, all heavy breath and bare shoulders, one hand braced beside her head and the other hooked under her thigh where she’s wrapped herself around his waist like she’s still trying not to fall off something moving too fast. 

The sheets are wrecked beneath them. Her hair is stuck to her neck. His mouth is at her jaw, then her throat, then back at her mouth when she says his name like she’s lost patience.

“Faster,” she gasps, fingers digging into his back. “Rafe– fuck, faster, baby.”

He goes still for half a second. Pausing just enough for the words to land somewhere smug and electric inside him. His head lifts. His eyes are dark in the low light, blue swallowed almost completely, mouth wet from hers and curving in that awful way that means she’s handed him a weapon and he intends to be unbearable about it.

“Oh, yeah?” he says, breath rough, voice dragged low with effort. “Now we’re faster, huh?”

A laugh breaks out of her, helpless and breathy. Of course he finds the joke in it while she’s under him trying to keep her brain functioning. “Uh-huh,” she manages, nodding, legs tightening around his waist. “Now faster.”

His grin flashes, mean and delighted and so stupidly pretty she could hate him for it if her body had room for anything except wanting. “Thought I was a psycho.”

“You are.”

“Thought you wanted me to slow down.”

“Rafe.”

“What?” He dips his head, kissing the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, too sweet for someone currently ruining her. “M’just listening.”

“You’re never listening.”

“I’m listening now.”

Then he moves, and the rest of her sentence disappears into his shoulder as she cries out, one hand flying to the back of his neck, the other twisting in the sheets. He laughs against her skin, she can feel exactly how affected he is in every rough breath, every tightening muscle, every messy loss of rhythm when she says his name again – because Rafe has always loved being asked for the thing he was trying not to give too much of.

“Like that?” he murmurs, mouth brushing her ear.

She nods too fast, half-laughing, half-moaning, nails scraping lightly down his back. “Yeah. Like that.”

His hand slides higher on her thigh, holding her closer, anchoring her under him with a care that would be almost tender if he didn’t look so pleased with himself. “Hold on then, baby,” he says again, voice rough and warm and wrecked around the edges.

So she does.

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[kooksandpearls]

rafe cameron 𖦹 don't get it twisted.

pairing – husband!rafe cameron x wife!reader summary – rafe is jealous, insufferable, and very convinced that being broken up is just another phase before marriage. warnings – post-breakup tension, jealousy, possessive rafe, alcohol, party setting, swearing, toxic-ish flirting. notes from me – as requested here!!! i decided to turn this into a husband!rafe fic cause... yum 😵‍💫 for context, this is set during college during their three month long break up! word count – 0.6k

navigation – masterlist |

The party is too hot, too loud. There’s beer drying sticky beneath her shoes, somebody shouting over the music about a missing phone, and Rafe Cameron leaning against the kitchen counter like the breakup has improved his posture.

It hasn’t improved anything else.

His hair has grown longer since she last let herself touch it, falling across his forehead in a loose middle part he keeps pushing back with the heel of his hand. He’s wearing a faded blue polo with the collar gone soft and two buttons undone, which feels deliberate in the personal, irritating way everything Rafe does near her feels deliberate now.

He’s been watching her talk to a boy from her economics tutorial for eleven minutes. She knows because she’s counted. Not consciously. That would be pathetic.

“Your friend seems nice,” Rafe says when she finally comes into the kitchen for another drink, his voice pitched casually beneath the music.

She reaches past him for the vodka. “He is.”

“Bit boring.”

“You spoke to him?”

“Didn’t need to.”

She twists the cap off harder than necessary. “Right. Forgot you can identify personality defects through walls.”

Rafe’s mouth pulls sideways. “I’ve got a gift.”

“You should get it appraised.”

He watches her pour, eyes dropping briefly to her hand and then to the thin strip of skin showing where her top has ridden above her jeans. It’s not a polite look. Rafe has never looked at her politely in his life, not even when they were fifteen and he used to pretend he needed help with chemistry despite having no intention of passing chemistry.

Her stomach tightens anyway, traitorous and immediate.

“Thought you hated vodka,” he says.

“I’ve developed.”

“In three months?”

“People grow.”

“Yeah?” Rafe tips his head, gaze moving slowly over her face. “You seem about the same.”

She smiles without warmth. “You seem worse.”

His laugh is quiet, almost pleased. That’s the problem with being cruel to Rafe: he takes it as flirting if she looks pretty while doing it.

Behind them, someone opens the fridge and stares inside for several seconds before walking away with nothing. The bass rattles through the cupboards. Rafe shifts closer, enough that she catches the clean, familiar smell of his cologne beneath beer and summer heat.

“You gonna go home with him?” he asks.

She takes a sip and lets the vodka burn before answering. “Maybe.”

His jaw moves once. It’s tiny. Satisfying. “Don’t,” he says.

Her eyebrows lift. “Sorry?”

“He looks like he says ‘gosh’ during sex.”

The laugh escapes her before she can stop it, sharp enough that she nearly spills her drink. Rafe grins, victory bright across his face, and she hates the warmth that opens beneath her ribs at the sight of it – young and stupid and familiar enough to feel like walking into a room she still has a key for.

“You’re such an asshole,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“And we’re broken up.”

“Temporarily,” he shrugs.

She stares at him. “That’s not how breaking up works.”

“It is for us.”

“There is no us.”

Rafe’s eyes flick over her mouth. “Keep sayin’ it.”

The room seems to pull tighter around them, all heat and noise and the unbearable inch of air he refuses to cross. Her fingers tighten around the plastic cup. His gaze notices that too.

She steps back first because one of them has to possess survival instinct. “Enjoy the party, Cameron.”

“Baby.”

She keeps walking, weaving around a couple making out badly beside the stairs.

Behind her, Rafe calls, perfectly calm, “You’re gonna be my wife. Don’t get it twisted.”

Several people turn. She doesn’t. She only lifts one hand over her shoulder and gives him the finger as she disappears into the crowd, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt.

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[lvcstarkey]

fuck your writing is beautiful

[kooksandpearls]

GRACE VAN PATTEN as SLOANE CARRINGTON & DREW STARKEY as RAFE CAMERON in season four of deep blue

[filmjules]

⋆˙⟡ BSF!DEAN OFFERING TO HELP YOU OUT AFTER HE FOUND OUT YOU WERE A VIRGIN ꣑ৎ ( nsfw )

“Wait, are you..?” Dean trailed off, sitting up from where he was laid out on the couch. He invited you over for a movie night, claiming he hadn’t seen you in soooo long and you needed to hang out with him again.

Totally unrelated, all of his roommates were at their girlfriends’ places for the night.

You felt your cheeks warm, the thought of verbally admitting you’d never actually had sex far too embarrassing. It wasn’t like you didn’t want to, it had just never happened naturally.

Guys had tried, but it always felt like a bad idea. Like you would regret it after, wishing you’d just taken care of yourself at home.

It wasn’t a religious thing, you weren’t saving yourself for marriage. You just didn’t want to regret it. You only wanted to do it if you were 100% sure and that hadn’t happened yet.

“Well, I mean I haven’t like—” you trailed off, feeling a pit in your stomach. “I’ve done stuff.”

One of his eyebrows popped up, his ridiculously large smile terribly hidden. “Look, I’m not judging. I’m just... Surprised?” his eyes flickered over your body and back up to your eyes. “You’re like, objectively hot.”

You rolled your eyes, feeling the knot in your stomach turn to heat. “It’s not like there haven’t been opportunities, jackass. I just don’t want some disgusting douchebag to be my first.”

Dean noticed the way you were fidgeting with your sleeves, avoiding eye contact with him. He felt bad for making you feel uncomfortable but he was genuinely in disbelief.

“Is it like... You want it to be special?” his voice came out softer than before, the humor in it almost entirely gone.

Shaking your head, you told him the truth you’d kept to yourself for years, “No, it’s just—every time I tried, it was like either the guy was gross, or he literally saw me as a fucking fleshlight, or he was trying to do crazy shit, and I’m just scared,” you laughed in self-pity, “I know it’ll probably hurt, and I just want to trust whoever I’m fucking to not hurt me. But that’s not a hook-up thing, and I’m not in a relationship, so...”

There was a long silence between you, the only sound in the house coming from the tv playing whatever comedy movie Dean put on when you first got there.

Dean chuckled to himself a little, “What if... I helped you out?”

You knew Dean was a horny guy, but you wouldn’t in a million years expect him to try to fuck you.

The offer literally had you speechless.

“Look, I don’t mean it in a weird way, okay? But I mean, you know I know my way around a woman. And you can trust me. It’s an exchange between friends, nothing crazy.”

You were starting to consider it, his stupid explanations actually sounding somewhat reasonable.

“What exactly is the exchange? What are you getting out of it?” You weren’t planning on selling your body when you agreed to coming over.

His typical smirk flashed across his face as he replied, “I get to have sex with a girl and not feel like I’m being used as a dildo.”

You snickered, “actually, I think it’s the opposite. I’m literally just using you for your dick.”

“Potato, puhtahto,” he shrugged.

“I thought it was ‘tomato, tomahto’?”

He rolled his eyes, leaning so close to your face that you could feel his minty breath on your lips. “Do you want me to fuck you or not?”

Squinting your eyes at him, you nodded, “Yeah. You promise it won’t make things weird between us?”

“Pinky,” he stuck his pinky up to you, waiting for you to finish it.

The second your pinky laced with his, his mouth was on yours. He let you start kissing back before he progressed, his hand finding it’s place on your neck. “C’mon, my room,” he mumbled against your lips, pulling away.

You followed him up the stairs, biting your tongue to not make a joke about how you’re special because you get his bed.

But the closer you got to his room, the more nervous you got. Your mind was racing with a thousand issues that could come from this, yet you didn’t want to stop.

The click of the door shutting made it feel impossibly real, the realization that you would never look at his room the same after today invading your brain.

“Stop overthinking it,” Dean spoke, his body so close to yours you were sure you could feel the warmth radiating off of him.

“I’m trying,” you whispered, leaning forward just an inch, closing the gap between you. “Kiss me.”

You didn’t have to tell Dean twice.

His lips met yours in a heated kiss, the intensity of it compared to the one downstairs throwing you for a loop. His tongue was in your mouth, yours in his, and his fingers were brushing the skin underneath your waistband.

“Are you sure? Hundred percent?” he asked, pulling back enough to look you in the eyes.

“I’m sure.”

The second the words came out of your mouth, he pulled you closer by your waist, walking you backward until his legs hit the bed and you fell on top of him.

His hands slid up your shirt, the warmth of his fingers against your cool skin giving you goosebumps. “Can I take this off?” he asked, bunching up your shirt in his hands.

“Mhm,” you nodded, putting your arms up to help him pull it off.

You thanked whatever made you choose to wear cute underwear today, because you weren’t originally planning on anyone seeing it, yet here you were.

He leaned forward, leaving open-mouthed kisses all over your bare skin. His hands were steady on your hips, pulling you down to grind against him while he worked his mouth on you.

Your hands rested on his shoulders, suddenly thankful for his aversion to wearing a shirt around the house.

You felt his right hand find your bra clasp, a moment of hesitation in him before he unclipped it. “Okay?”

“I’ll tell you if it’s not.”

He rolled his eyes as he pressed another kiss to your neck, this one getting a little bit of extra attention.

The loose bra straps fell forward, exposing your entire chest. Your nipples perked up at the sudden cold air, hardening within seconds. “Jesus, dude, you’re fucking gorgeous.”

“Is calling me ‘dude’ your way of keeping this friendly?”

He scoffed, throwing your bra on the floor. “No…”

“You’re so weird,” you laughed, “Just, act like you normally would.”

Nodding, he spoke in his low voice, “I can do that.” Then he flipped you over on your back, hovering over you while his lips dragged kisses down your body. “Ever been eaten out before?”

You squeaked when your back hit the mattress, pulling a giggle from your chest as he moved his way down. “Nope, only ever been asked to give head, never to get it.”

“Well, we’re changing that today. Ain’t that right?” he whispered as he pulled your pants off, his warm breath fanning over your barely clothed pussy. “Y’want that?”

You whimpered a pathetic, “mhm,” and nodded, your hole clenching around nothing as he kissed right beside where you needed him.

His fingers dipped in your waistband, pulling it down your legs tantalizingly slow. The anticipation was killing you, your heart beating out of your chest.

He ran his hands up and down your thighs soothingly as he spread you open, his eyes focusing solely on your pussy. You started feeling self-conscious by how long he was staring, trying to close your legs and quit this while you could, but he held you open.

“So wet for me,” he muttered as two of his fingers slid between your folds, gently pressing against your entrance without slipping in. “So fucking pretty.”

“Dean,” you groaned, “Are you gonna do something, or not?”

He clicked his tongue, “Sorry, sweetheart. I’m just admiring the view.”

“Mhm,” you sassed.

“Have you ever been fingered?”

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you tell him, “Yes. Plus my own. A lot.”

His grin widened but he didn’t press on it further, he could always do that later. His tongue darted out, licking a stripe up your folds to get a first taste.

Moaning against you, his constant lapping at your cunt was a feeling you’d never expected to be so good. He wasn’t slowing down, either. Licking, sucking, at one point you even felt his teeth gently scrape against your clit—the feeling oddly good.

You were writhing under him, your back arching off the bed until one of his hands came to press you flat. The other started teasing your hole with just one finger, easily slipping in and out.

Just as he hit a specific spot inside you, his mouth came up to suck harshly on your clit. Your legs shook, almost missing when he added his other finger.

“Fuck, Dean. How are you so—” you cut yourself off with a loud moan, slapping your hand over your mouth.

He pulled away—without stopping his fingers—just enough to look you in the eye and say, “Don’t quiet yourself. Nobody’s home, and I want to hear how good I’m making you feel.”

“Okay. Okay. Jesus fuck,” you whined as a third finger slipped in your soaking cunt, stretching you out.

His fingers were longer and thicker than yours, more skilled than anyone else that’d fingered you before. They were sloppy and lazy and you had to practically teach them basic anatomy.

Dean was already amazing at it.

A tight knot was forming in your core, the familiar feeling of an orgasm building up as Dean relentlessly finger fucked you. “Dean,” you breathed, your fingers finding and gripping his messy blonde hair. “I’m gonna—”

“Uh-huh,” Dean hummed as he licked you through your orgasm, his other hand gripping your shaky thighs.

You gasped a deep breath when he finally let up, trying to direct oxygen back into your brain. “Holy shit, what is wrong with you?” you laughed, throwing your arm over your eyes as Dean sat up, towering over you.

“What?” his lips twitching up like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to laugh or not, “I just gave you the best orgasm of your life and—”

“Says who?”

“Are you saying it wasn’t?”

Your eyes darted to the other side of the room before you replied, “Can you just—”

“You haven’t said a full sentence since I put my mouth on you,” he scoffed, the playful fire in his eyes telling you he wasn’t going to drop this. “Admit it. Admit that was the best orgasm of your life and I’ll fuck you without another word.”

“Want me to scream it out the window too?” you asked, deflecting as long as you could.

He shrugged, a cocky look on his face as he mumbled, “Eh, it wouldn’t hurt.”

Ignoring him, you leaned up, your face lining right up with his very obvious bulge. Your fingers gripped on his waistband, slowly sliding it off to reveal his lack of boxers.

A quiet giggle bubbled out of your chest before you could stop it. “Really? No shirt and no underwear?”

“Dude,” he groaned, ignoring you to finish taking his pants off. “It’s convenient.”

“Were you planning on sticking your dick in me?”

“No! Oh my god. For peeing. It’s convenient for peeing. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

You rolled your eyes, laying on your back. “Okay, I’m ready.”

You could hear him sighing and shuffling around before his huge body was hovering over yours, one of his arms down and rolling a condom onto his already fully-erect dick. “Are you still—”

“Oh my god, Dean. Yes. Please.”

He nodded, lining up his tip with your aching hole. “Y’gotta relax for me. It’ll feel better if you do, okay?”

Nodding, you tried to let your muscles slacken. His lips were back on yours, a deep and controlled kiss that almost distracted you from the stretch of his cock sliding into you.

“Oh, fucking shit,” you strangled out, feeling a mix of pain and pleasure as Dean stilled. You took a deep breath and grabbed onto his biceps, “Okay. Keep going.”

He smirked, biting his lip as he slowly pushed himself further in.

His head fell to your shoulder, pressing his lips to your neck. But this time wasn’t a distraction for you. He needed something to focus on so he didn’t slam himself to the hilt.

Your moans were urging him on, your nails digging into various parts of his upper body. He stopped once he was fully in, feeling the need to check in again. “Does it hurt?”

Shaking your head, you whispered, “Just a little. But a good kind of hurt. I’m okay, really.”

The words seemed to comfort him, his back muscles loosening just a little. “Tell me when you’re ready for me to move.”

He was still pressing small kisses along your neck, eventually moving to your lips for a deeper, messier kiss. Your hand found the nape of his neck, pulling him closer against you.

You whispered against his lips, “I’m ready.”

You could feel him smile against your mouth, his hips starting to back up and come back down. His pace started slow, the pain turning into pleasure as his thick cock rammed into you.

“Fuck. Faster,” you panted, Dean’s actions quickly reflecting your words. He was still holding back, still being gentle, but giving you what you wanted.

His hips snapped back and forth, bringing that very familiar feeling back to your stomach. Dean was back to sucking on your neck, feeling his own orgasm start to build up.

Without warning, his hand slid between your sweaty bodies to rub circles on your clit. That tight knot in your core was already coming undone, your entire body squirming from the pleasure of your release.

“Fuck, I’m gonna...” Dean trailed off as you felt his warm cum fill the condom inside you, riding you through your orgasm.

He pulled out slowly once you’d finished, pressing a small kiss to your lips to distract you from the sensitivity of him sliding out.

Your chest was rising and falling quickly, still trying to catch up to the current moment. “Wow,” you breathed, feeling Dean’s heavy body drop beside yours after he took care of the condom.

“Still don’t wanna admit it’s the best orgasm you’ve ever had?”

You scoffed, throwing your arm over his bare chest. “You already know it is, you don’t need that extra ego boost.”

His laugh carried throughout the room, “Yeah, that’s probably true.” You shut your eyes, letting yourself breath for a minute before you went and washed up.

“So... Just to be clear... You don’t regret it, right?”

You shook your head. “No. That was actually really good. I’m glad I waited.”

Hearing his tongue click again, you turned your head to face him. “Y’wanna try shower sex next?”

masterlist

note ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 i feel like i’m so bad at ending smut cuz it’s so awkward but like wtv 😣 i kinda just realized the request never straight up said that they do it so i’m hoping that’s what they wanted LMAO also ts is not proofread my head hurts so fricking bad rn i cannot be bothered 😪

[zyafics]

HAPPILY EVER AFTER | 03

MAIN | Social Media AU

Pairing — Rafe Cameron x Female Reader

Summary — If having a fairytale love story guaranteed a happy ending, then, uh, why are you and Rafe getting a divorce?

Content — angst, hurt/comfort, brother's best friend, childhood friends to high school sweethearts to lovers to... divorce?

Navigation — Part 02 | Part 03 | Part 04

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).

TAGLIST FOR HEA: @grstarkeydrew / @newatthiss / @7-deadly-cats / @amterasuu / @supercoolhotsleepyfunnygirl / @lvcstarkey / @sunsn0w / @lewispool / @nnd-oma

[lvcstarkey]

so happy to see her back writing 😵‍💫🙏🏽

[merrymusings]