This is it for me. This is the end. I CAN FEEL IT IN MY TOES CAUSE WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING? WHAT AM I LOOKING AT WHERE AM I? HELP!!! This is single-handedly the best thing I’ve ever seen in my life. (Except for every other hyunjin picture ever posted ofc)
⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲
Seungmin never minded staying out of the spotlight in the shipping wars- until it came to you. Tired of seeing you paired with everyone but him, out of equal parts frustration and longing, he does the unthinkable- he writes a fanfiction. Anonymous, harmless, just a way to spill feelings he can’t say out loud. But when his words ignite the fandom, going viral overnight, Seungmin’s private fantasy becomes a public storm. The company wants him to lean into the ship, the fans can’t stop dissecting every glance, and you…you’re suddenly obsessed with the mysterious “author” who seems to know Seungmin a little too well. Now he’s trapped in his own story- juggling staged moments, a dangerous secret, and a love that feels more real with every passing day. Because what started as fiction might just become the truest confession he’s ever made. ⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲⌯⌲
Seungmin x 9thMember Fem!Reader
(My apologies for the long break I took. I had a lot going on in my everyday life, and I hope that things have slowed down enough for me to be able to be back on here and posting consistently. Thank you so much for all of you who interreacted with my content while I was away!!!)
Seungmin hadn’t realized he’d published his fic until three days later-not when Jisung had been acting weirdly chipper that morning, bouncing on the balls of his feet as if he’d already seen the headline in his dreams, not when Hyunjin kept glancing at his phone and smothering laughs into the crook of his arm, not even when Chan’s summons rang through the speakers of the studio, the kind of tone reserved for emergencies or literal fires, and you all knew- somehow- you were about to find out something you didn’t want to.
He only realized when the screen at the front of the meeting room blinked to life, a title he recognized too well glaring at him.
His title. His words. Words he hadn’t meant anyone else to see.
His heart dropped, but he did his best to keep his face straight.
“Alright,” the PR manager began, voice crisp, professional, tapping through slides as if this were some dry report on merchandise or schedule updates and not the slow-motion collapse of Seungmin’s dignity. “It seems like a fan wrote a fic of Seungmin and Y/N.”
The words landed like a bucket of cold water.
“Oddly enough it’s of pretty decent quality. They have a real shot of being an author one day.”
A murmur swept through the room as the manager clicked to the next slide.
You blinked, caught between disbelief and curiosity, brow furrowed.
How…how did this happen?
Your mind raced as the man up front cleared his throat.
“Normally,” The manager continued, completely unaware of the way Seungmin’s pulse had spiked, as yours had long since dropped. “We’d let fanfiction run its course- these things happen you have whole parts of the fandom dedicated to replenishing the supply -but this one…” He raised his brows, tapping the screen. “This one’s gone viral. Global. Fastest engagement spike we’ve seen in a long time.”
The room tilted slightly toward you, then, almost inevitably, toward Seungmin.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe in a way that betrayed panic. His face stayed smooth, expression neutral- calm, detached, polite disinterest, like he was listening to a weather forecast rather than the revelation that his deepest, private confessions had been blasted to thousands of strangers.
Yet inside, every thought, every heartbeat, screamed.
What if they know? Do they know? What does this mean?
The manager clicked to the next slide. Screens filled with screenshots, tweets, art, fan edits, reactions. The noise rose, a tidal wave that crashed over him even before he could process it.
The manager clapped hands, cheerful and clinical. “The public’s eating it up. Engagement is through the roof. We’d like you all to lean into it. Interactions, soft moments, behind-the-scenes posts… fans are waiting for content. They love this story, and it’s bringing attention to the group like nothing else has recently.”
The room was suddenly heavy.
You shifted in your seat, fingers twisting, nails digging slightly into your palms. “So… we’re just… supposed to play along?”
“That’s the idea,” the manager said brightly, unaware of the silent storm brewing in Seungmin’s chest. “There’s no downside if handled correctly. In fact-” a brief pause, tap of the pointer. “It could be a huge opportunity.”
The words hit the room like a shockwave, leaving a heavy silence in their wake. You shifted in your seat, hands clenching lightly in your lap. “So… you want us to… play along?” You said once more, voice sounding way smaller than you intended, and unsure, like you were testing the ground for cracks.
“Yes.” The manager repeated, still bright, still professional, as if reading a viral fic was just another KPI. “It’s a chance to connect with fans. The more organic it feels, the better. If we handle it right, it could be huge for engagement.”
Seungmin’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table. Leaning back slightly, he kept his expression polished, eyes calm, voice nonexistent. Every inch of him screamed panic, embarrassment, and disbelief, but his exterior betrayed nothing. He had mastered this mask over years of practice. Inside, though…
He was about to combust. Every word he’d written- the whispered confessions in the dead of night, the way he had imagined you looking at him, with this soft, tentative vulnerability and gentle admiration- was now being paraded in front of dozens of people, and thousands more online.
“But…but…I…” You started, voice tight, hands gripping the edge of the table. “I don’t…I’m not comfortable with this. Shipping- this-” You gestured vaguely toward the screen, toward the glowing quotes, the tweets, the edits. “I don’t want to be paraded like that. I…I don’t do that. Everyone knows I don’t do it.”
“Seems to be fine when it’s with Mr. Yang. Matter of fact you seem rather comfortable…” The manager chirped musically as he adjusted a pile of papers on the desk.
“That-That’s different though!” You fought back. “Staff practically forces Innie and I to go along with it and that took months of getting used to! You’re stripping away my only sense of normalcy with this!” You felt you eyes burn as you tried to regain your composure. “At least with Innie-Oppa it’s…it’s…” You looked over at Jeongin who had a small frown and reached to squeezed your shoulder gently.
A tense silence fell. Seungmin’s chest tightened. His mind was already spiraling, imagining every cruel comment, every misinterpretation, every fan assuming your feelings for him matched the story.
This is my fault. My fault. Why did I even write it?
Before anyone could respond, Minho leaned forward, playful tone failing to mask the protective edge in his voice. “Yah!” He chuckled nervously. “Don’t make her! I’ll just be more touchy with Jisung, or something. That should redirect the chaos, hmm?”
The manager shook his head. “Doesn’t work like that Mr. Lee.”
Minho leaned forward with a small scoff, voice sharp. “Look, I was trying to be respectful but I guess I have to lay it out straight. Y/N-ah is obviously uncomfortable. The shipping that’s already happening isn’t because of anything forced. It’s from normal interactions- things we’d do anyway as her close friends or brothers. If we try to manufacture moments with Y/N-ie just to ride the fic’s popularity, it’ll feel fake. And the backlash? She’ll be the one in the middle, catching all of it. And God forbid if things start to go left she’ll be the one put on the chopping block to take all the blame, not Seungmin.”
Chris nodded, tone firm. “Exactly. Remember how they made Y/N apologize after Chuseok for being ‘too clingy’ with Felix? Even though Lix was the one who initiated the contact? That wasn’t anything she did wrong- it was just how they interact. But fans already overanalyze every little thing. Now imagine amplifying that, twisting moments she never intended to be interpreted romantically. That’s not engagement- its a target on her back.”
Changbin crossed his arms, voice low but forceful. “We can’t protect her from the internet entirely, as we've long since realized, but we can make sure we’re not adding fuel to the fire. Trying to stage interactions will only make it worse. She’s already uncomfortable. We need to respect that. I would think you’d have known that by now, or come to that grand conclusion yourself.”
The manager’s eyes narrowed as he tapped through his tablet. “I get that you’re all worried about her- really, I do. But let’s be honest: this isn’t about feelings. It’s about engagement. Numbers. Trends. Fans don’t care if someone’s uncomfortable- they care about content, speculation, drama. That’s the reality.”
Chris’s jaw tightened. “Them not caring is the issue! Y/N isn’t a product. She’s a person. You can’t just-”
“Can’t? Or won’t?” The manager cut him off sharply, voice cold. “Look, I’ve been doing this a long time. Way before any of you guys walked onto the scene. How do you think you guys came to be huh? You think we got to this point by being considerate of every little feeling? It happened by giving people. What. They. Want." He slammed his palm on the table with each word, causing you to slink back and Jisung squeeze your hand lightly. “You guys knew this was exactly what you’d be expected to do when you put your signatures on your contracts. You agreed to be marketable, desirable, and most of all bring in profit for the company. Which comes from the fans.” The manager cleared his throat and gave a smile that didn't reach his eyes. " And right now, the fans want this. You can argue morality all you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that this is already happening -whether you like it or not. So, it's best to just play along, and make the best of the worst hmm?” He clapped once. "Let's continue, yes?"
The tension in the room brought an uncomfortable heat. The guys stared at the table, hands resting tensely on its polished surface, words lodged in their throats. You could feel the weight of their frustration radiating off them, quiet but palpable. You noticed how Chan’s jaw twitched and Jisung’s leg shook next to yours.
You looked up to see Seungmin, your heart aching for what this meant for you two.
Would you lose your closeness do to this? What if he somehow hated you by the end of it all? Were you truly going to lose the one person you felt most at ease with?
Seungmin’s chest ached for a different reason, guilt pressing down so hard it felt like it might crack his ribs everytime he took in a breath. Every glance he took at you reminded him that all of this was his fault.
And he couldn’t let anyone know.
The manager, oblivious- or more likely indifferent- to the storm in the room, continued, voice crisp and unyielding. “Now that we’re all clear on reality: here’s how we’re going to handle it. Nothing too overt, nothing too forced. Just…subtle hints purposefully placed. Simple interactions. Little things that seem natural. A brush of the hand, a laugh a second too long, friendly glances, matching clothes- things fans already notice in daily posts or streams. Just…more.”
He tapped the screen, sliding through examples, graphs, and mock social media interactions. “The goal is to fuel curiosity without actually saying anything. Fans will fill in the blanks themselves. That’s where the engagement comes from. And we keep it consistent, subtle, until the album drops. That’s the window. That’s your timeline. After that, you can go back to normal.”
Minho exhaled sharply through his nose, leaning back, jaw tight. Chris’s fingers drummed the table in frustration. Changbin’s arms stayed crossed, Hyunjin eyes narrowed at the manager, unblinking. Jisung, usually the one to diffuse tension with a joke, just sat with his mouth pressed into a thin line, one hand idly brushing against yours as a quiet anchor.
You looked down at your own hands, feeling trapped between the eyes of the boys who treated you like family and the cold, unyielding authority of the manager. Seungmin kept his gaze fixed somewhere past the edge of the table, lips pressed together. Every fiber of his being wanted to argue, to protect, to pull you out of this- but he knew it wouldn’t matter. Not against charts, trends, and numbers.
The manager clicked through another slide, showing potential reactions, hypothetical fan responses. “Unless of course, the engagement is still spiking. I mean it has for Mr. Lee and Mr. Han for years right?” He said with a dry laugh expecting a response.
All he got was a death glare from Minho and a disgusted scoff and look away from Jisung.
The manager cleared his throat. “Well then…anyways remember, subtlety is key. Make it easy, make it believable, and make it happen more. You don’t push, you don’t prod, you just… hint. That’s it. Keep it light, keep it natural, and let them do the rest. And for the other members...just instigate those curiosities? Yeah? Joke, tease, talk about the two in discreet ways. Any questions?”
The guys exchanged glances, unspoken words passing between them: How do we protect her? How do we prevent the potential consequences? Their silence was answer enough.
Seungmin felt a hollow pang in his chest.
This is my fault. Every hint, every comment, every glance they’ll interpret- it’s because of me. Because I wrote that fic. Because I couldn’t keep my feelings to myself. She doesn’t deserve this.
You shifted slightly, eyes meeting his across the table. No words, just a shared understanding of what was coming. And for Seungmin, that silent acknowledgment was a dagger to the heart, guilt twisting like fire inside him.The manager’s voice cut through, sharp and final. “Good. Then let’s proceed. I expect full cooperation. Numbers don’t lie, and neither do fans.”
------
The canteen was crowded and noisy, the hum of trays and chatter filling the air. You sat quietly at a corner table, picking at your food, a bland looking salad, still trying to process the day. Seungmin across from you seemed equally withdrawn, staring down at his own tray, fingers drumming lightly on the edge.
Jeongin slid into the seat next to you, offering a small smile. “Hey…want to get something else to eat? Maybe something warm, something that actually fills you up?” His tone was gentle, meant to nudge you out of your thoughts without pushing. “I got Channie-Hyung’s card?”
You nodded faintly, thankful for the distraction. “Yeah…that sounds good.”
“Maybe we can get dessert too-”
Before you could stand, a stylist appeared at your side, practically bouncing as she held up a few outfits. “Ms. Y/N! Hi! I’ve got some new clothes for you to try,” she said, laying a selection on the end of the table. Bright colors, soft textures. “Just casual stuff, but cute. And…” She glanced at a tablet, then back at you, voice dropping a little. “They want subtle matching with Seungmin. Fans love noticing small details.” She squeaked excitedly. “I already found some matching jewelry too if you know what I mean.” She motioned to her fingers.
You blinked at the clothes, confusion and unease mixing in your chest.
“So...parading us as a couple…” You said quietly, voice tight, the words tasting sour on your tongue. "You sure no one will get mad about me cheating on Jeongin." You clicked your tongue as you picked up one of the necklaces.
The stylist’s smile faltered for the first time, though only for a second- like she’d been trained to override discomfort with perkiness. “Ha ha, oh no, no, no-” She rushed, shaking her head so fast her ponytail hit her cheeks. “Not a cheating its all pretend! Just think of it as a...a-” She lifted a pale blue sweater and held it next to the soft cream one she’d brought for Seungmin. “A mystery.”
“A mystery?” Jeongin repeated, eyebrows raised so high they nearly touched his bangs. “What is that supposed to mean?”
She beamed, relieved to have something she could explain. “A mystery! Something fans can screenshot and say, ‘Wait…is that the same shade?’ or ‘Oh my, is that the same pattern?’ They'll look through old content try to figure out what is real and that's even more views for us!” She made a little exploding gesture with her fingers. “As they uncover the mystery they’ll freak out. In a good way!”
"That makes zero sense." Seungmin whispered under his breath.
Your stomach tightened. “And if they don’t freak out in a good way?”
“Oh, they will.” She said confidently, as if fans were predictable creatures that could be summoned like a storm with the right temperature and pressure. “Trust me. The company knows what works. Just wear it, take a picture or two, maybe be seen walking beside each other or out at dinner-”
“Out at dinner?” Seungmin echoed flatly, voice quiet but sharp enough that Jeongin turned toward him.
The stylist blinked, surprised by the tone. “Ah-just…natural things! Stuff you already do.” She waved her hand. "It's truly not that big of a deal. You're used to this anyways."
Jeongin scoffed under his breath. “Used to? They don't 'usually' have any us caught in public with each other. Let alone in a date setting in couple attire. It's always in a controlled environment- I'm sorry but are you trying to get Y/N-ah in some controversy? You know how the 'fans' act with her.”
“I'm trying to do my job. I'm suggesting Y/N do hers.”
“Well, you can take your suggestions elsewhere.” Seungmin snapped suddenly.
The stylist paused, sensing the shift, then glanced nervously between the two of you. “I just…I have to bring something back. They’re expecting this. If I say you refused-”
“Then say she refused.” Seungmin’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was harsh and loud enough to get the gaze of a few trainees two tables away.
He sat rigid in his seat, shoulders tense, hands curled around the edge of his tray until his knuckles whitened. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even cold. He looked…scared. Like he was standing in the middle of a collapsing building holding up a single pillar with shaking hands and praying no one noticed.
The stylist let out another sigh. “You know they won't accept that.”
“Tell them it was me who said no then.” He replied, voice low. “They can do what they'd like with that information.”
Your breath caught.
The stylist hesitated once more, eyes flicking to you, then to Seungmin, then to the clothes. “I’ll take them back.” She finally murmured. “But you know the higher-ups won’t be happy.”
She gathered the clothes quickly and hurried off, leaving behind a quiet that felt too big for the small corner of the canteen.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Jeongin let out a slow exhale. “Hyung…you didn’t have to go that hard.”
“I didn’t.” Seungmin said, pushing a piece of rice around his tray. His voice was softer now, almost fragile. “I just said the truth.”
You looked at him- really looked at him. His lashes were low, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable but his fingers fidgeted restlessly. You recognized that subtle tremor. You’d seen it in him during bad days, tough meetings, moments when he kept everything inside until it stacked too high.
“Seungmin?” you said gently, leaning forward.
He didn’t lift his gaze.
Jeongin nudged him with a shoulder. “Hyung.”
Still nothing.
You reached out, hesitating only a heartbeat - a pause that used to not exist - before letting your fingertips brush the back of his hand under the table. The contact was featherlight, but it got him to look up.
His eyes were dark, rimmed with exhaustion and something deeper-fear, guilt, conflict.
“Are you okay?” You whispered.
A lie formed on his lips. You saw it. You felt it. The instinct to brush everything off, smile, pretend, keep functioning.
He swallowed it.
“Yeah. I just don’t like that you’re being dragged into something you never asked for. I don’t like that they’re treating you like you’re not a person and ignoring how much this is hurting you.”
His hand trembled under yours.
“And I don’t like…that I can’t stop any of it. It's gonna change our dynamic isn't it?”
Its my fault. My fault. Myfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfault-
“It’s not your fault.” You whispered almost as if you read his mind. “It falls on whoever wrote that fic...”
If only you knew, Y/N...
Before you could say anything else, a shadow dropped into the seat beside Seungmin- the one person who could have a chance at breaking the tension.
Jisung set down a tray stacked with snacks, plopped a drink in front of you, another in front of Seungmin, and rested his chin in his hand as he looked between you two.
“Okay,” he said, voice light but eyes dead serious. “Who do I need to fight?”
You blinked. “Fight?”
“Yes.” He said, nodding sagely. “Physically? Verbally? Spiritually? I am versatile. I have the power of God and Anime on my side. Like that one kid said.”
A tiny laugh escaped you without permission.
"Hyung your screen time is showing." Jeongin said reaching for the juice Jisung had bought for you before taking one swig that barely left you with half.
He shot you a mischievous smile as Seungmin’s shoulders loosened just a fraction at the interaction.
Jisung leaned back, crossing his arms. “Good. We got a smile and a... non-violent reaction. Progress." He snapped his fingers and shot finger guns at the both of you. "Now-” He gestured clapped once. “We are officially having comfort time. Right here. Right now. Ice cream.” He motioned to a bag in his hand. “Snacks. Drinks. And absolutely no work talk.”
“You bought eight chocolate puddings. Not ice cream.” Jeongin pointed out blandly as he dug through the bag.
“Yes.” Jisung said. “For emotional support.”
“You only got two types of chips and the shrimp crackers that only grandpas like.” Jeongin added, squinting.
“Yes.” Jisung repeated, straight-faced. “For emotional support.” He cleared his throat. "It was on sale. I lost a bet to Hyunjin and I am living paycheck to paycheck for the next month." He said with a fake sniffle and pout.
Despite yourself, you laughed again, the noise breaking whatever heaviness was still lingering like fog around the table.
Seungmin breathed out slowly, looking almost relieved at the shift, even managing a smile as you, Innie and Jisung tried throwing the shrimp crackers into each other's mouths.
But beneath the surface- beneath Jisung’s jokes, Jeongin’s fussing, your trembling hands and any antics that could only rid the awkwardness and anxiety momentarily-
The truth was what still lingered:
Things were about to get harder. The company wasn’t backing down. The fans were watching.
And Seungmin…
Seungmin was still holding the weight of a secret he was terrified would destroy everything.
carolina - karol g ❀ la bebe (remix) - yng lvcas, peso pluma ❀ dead to me - kali uchis ❀ de nadie - kali uchis ❀ bellakeo - peso pluma, anitta ❀ drugs n hella meoldies - don toliver, kali uchis ❀ te quería ver - alemán, neton vega ❀ hasta cuando - kali uchis ❀ te pongo mal(prendelo) - kali uchis, jowell & randy ❀ corazón sin cara - prince royce ❀ obsesion - aventura, judy santos ❀ labios mordidos - kali uchis, karol g ❀ like a tattoo - sade ❀ honey baby (spoiled!) - kali uchis ❀ siesta freestyle - lewis ofman, alicia te quiero ❀ can’t remember to forget you - shakira, rihanna ❀ odio - romeo santos, drake ❀ it’s just us - kali uchis ❀ cumbia de los monjes - super grupo g ❀ lokera - rauw alejandro, lyanno, brray ❀ são paulo - the weeknd, anitta ❀ gata only - floyymenor, cris mj ❀ ponte bonita - cris mj ❀ provenza - karol g ❀ eres mía - romeo santos ❀ pyramids - frank ocean
could you do the 21 with grumpy!rafe x sunshine!reader
please and ty
─── THE WARM UP EVENT prompt #21
“Here comes the airplane,” Character A sings, as they move the spoon closer to Character B’s mouth. “I’m not a kid anymore,” Character B grumbles, sniffling miserably; grabs a tissue to prepare for another sneeze incoming.
WORD COUNT: 3.9k
WARNINGS: sickness, obviously.
Tannyhill isn't the clamorous space it used to be, Rafe told you before, all the war zone elements of a resentful household washed away with the tide. It's hard to picture it now when it's so far from what you've known, quiet hallways of eerily posed pictures and curtains only ever disturbed if Kildare's breeze decided so. It's a big house for one person, no matter how much room you think Rafe's shoulders take, but you've been around long enough to recognise the sounds that hint someone is here.
Like the brush of his bare feet as he pads across the upstairs floors, or the clinking of glass signaling a warm-lighted way into the office. The faint buzz coming from the bathroom whenever his hair gets too long, a pan sizzling with butter, or his muttering voice dragged across the yard because he likes taking his calls with a view. Rafe doesn't notice, but you're always listening.
That's why, when you step foot across the threshold, you immediately assume he's not home. Not a sound. Not a trail you could follow after and smack a kiss against the destination. You linger, door still held open in case you have to turn around and leave, and try to pick up even the smallest suggestion of which room he could be in.
It's a good thing you don't have to wait that long. You hear him sneeze.
When you walk into the kitchen, you can't help but bark a laugh so harsh it startles him in his place, hunched over the island with a towel draped over his head and a steamy pot beneath. Rafe curses in between teeth, an echo muffled by the scratchy fabric and the stainless steel, but doesn't move away or tries to look up. He's sniffing, holding his head with two big and shaky hands, a leg that you notice isn't bouncing up and down anxiously. It gives him away, especially with the slump of his posture — he's exhausted.
"What happened, big guy?" you ask, carefully lifting the towel with a finger only far enough to see his face. An earthy scent wafts from the opening, eucalyptus crisp on the tip of your nose "Allergies got you bad?"
"Topper," oh, the irked cadence in his voice. You wouldn't want your name tied to it under any circumstance "Fuckin'– came back from Colombia with a fuckin' virus or somethin'."
"Not precisely his fault his immune system's a bitch," you intervene, and almost regret it. The towel conceals most of his face, but you see the glare he sends your way Kubrick style, raspberry red blush and tired blinking to soften the landing "Oops."
He waits a beat, eyes narrowed, then continues, "He brought this– this travel mug full of coffee and instead of, I don't know, inviting us over for a cup back at his place, he fuckin' let us drink straight from it."
"You–" you stop, nose wrinkling and head tilting to the side "You still refuse eating from my fork."
"Yes, that's gross."
"How is that any different from sharing a mug?" you ask, half scandalised and half entertained. He shrugs, closing his eyes and puffing out his cheeks in a quiet sigh.
"It's colombian coffee," he deadpans, almost exasperated with your questioning.
"Right, and what about making out?"
He shrugs again, "'s hot," his voice pitches up at the end like he's about to sneeze, but his shoulders never tense "Shit, I knew I shouldn't have tried it."
A shiver visibly rattles through him. It makes you pout. It's a good thing Rafe isn't looking, otherwise he'd be irked by the sympathy.
"That sucks," you say, carefully dropping the towel back into place. He sniffs again, then digs his fingers into the fabric covering his head — a migraine, probably "You said 'us' before. Kelce?"
"Texted him this morning," he answers, pressing his head further into his palm. If you weren't so afraid of making it worse, you'd splay a hand over his buzzcut and stroke gently "Throwing up since last night."
"Yikes."
He huffs, right before he shudders again. A fever, you guess. It's so warm outside you would've thought he was dealing with the aftermath of pollen season, but you've lived a winter with him, and not even the snow found a way to get him this covered. Crewneck, sweats, socks bulging over the cuffs — nothing like the thin tee you're wearing today, skin exposed to the spring sun. Slowly, he lifts his head, towel draping over his cheekbones like a veil. You smile instantly, he frowns only a bit.
"Didn't know you were a nun, Rafe. You had that well hidden."
He blinks, not a semblance of a smile. Face made out of sharp angles and straight lines, red in all the wrong places, none of them you wouldn't dream of kissing.
"Shut up."
Even when he tries to be mean he makes you laugh. You think you saw his mouth tilting up, but you may have imagined that.
"How did you get in?" he asks, pressing his fingers where his brow bone meets the bridge of his nose. Carefully, you extend a hand and swipe the dampness off his face with your knuckles. He lets you pamper him, meek like a puppy "Did I give you any keys?"
His confusion makes you hum, amused, "Door was unlocked–"
"Huh."
"–like it usually is," you finish, then grin with enough smugness to feed you both into the next year "Planning on giving me keys already?"
"What if I did?" but the comment comes with a wobble on his stance, tilting to his left a little too much before he catches himself up. It has you straightening up in alarm.
"I think you should lay down, Rafe."
"I'm fine," he rasps out, the pads of his fingers tracing a straight line down to his temples, where he circles slowly. His fever is too evident, it kills you just to look at him "Got a meeting in two hours, just need to get my hands around some Tylenol."
It squeezes something mean in your chest, the dismissal. You don't think Rafe notices how often he gives you brief heartaches, innocent and unintentional, the way he's been raised at an arm's length leaping out of the blue to stun you speechless. He's not used to it, being taken care of, instead molded from young age into keeping head-to-head with the money he won't stop chasing after. When he brushes his own well-being off for the benefit of the business, you resentfully trace it all the way back to how his father treated him.
It hurts to think he was probably never tucked back into bed whenever sickness creeped over him.
Gnawing on your bottom lip gently, you round the kitchen island until you're standing next to him, waist against the edge of the counter. His eyes remain shut, fingertips turning white where he presses further and further into his skull. From here, the smell of herbs is stronger, and you cautiously push the pot away to avoid accidentally knocking it over.
"I'll get you some," you assure him, hand finding his lower back. You flatten a firm trail up to the back of his neck, nudge your touch in between the fabrics keeping him warm, and squeeze the skin delicately. His stance relaxes if only a little bit "But you need to cancel the meeting."
His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, "Don't worry 'bout that."
"Are you kidding? You can't even open your eyes."
"Then get me the Tylenol," he snaps. A second later, so fast you can't decide whether to be upset or not, he weakly adds "Please."
You pause, but only to prepare for the mood swing. You haven't found a way into turning him around without getting a taste of all that bitterness he tries keeping in check. Until you do, you decidedly speak up.
"Cancel the meeting."
"I'm not cancelling a damn thing," he grits in between teeth, head turning to the side in a scowl that does nothing to scare you off. You tilt an eyebrow, his jaw clenches in response.
"Yes, you are," then, with a softer voice and a pinch to the lobule of his right ear, you add "Listen, I know you hate this, I know. These people are not gonna think less of you because you caught a cold."
"It's not a cold, it's Topper's fau–"
"Whatever, Rafe," at the edge of your tone, he presses his mouth into a thin line "When was the last time you cancelled a meeting? Scratch that, have you ever cancelled before?"
He scoffs, "'Course not."
"See? You're a professional. I know that, they know that," you assure him, thumb kneading the tension of his upper back. He still hesitates, eyes darting across your face and leaning only a bit away "You're sick, it's human, big deal. Stay home, let me take care of you."
That seems to scandalise him further than the idea of skipping a meeting. To be fair, you should've guessed. His eyebrows knit together, face screwed up in offence. If you didn't know any better, anyone could've convinced you you just insulted him.
In his own fucked up ways, you sort of did. Still, it's hard not to roll your eyes.
"You're not taking care of me."
"Really?" you fight back, trying to keep him from scrambling away from you. The stool tumbles with a scratch when he stands up, and your hands fly to secure him by the arms "Seriously, stay still. You're gonna get dizzy."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not."
He huffs, eyes as wide as they can get under the heavy puffiness of his eyelids. He's about to argue, hands ready to gesture wildly along the irritated timbre of his voice, but it all dies in his throat when an incoming sneeze makes his breath hitch.
Rafe is... oddly cute when he releases it. That could be the greatest of your discoveries yet.
"Bless you."
Sneeze.
"Bless you."
Sneeze. With it, the towel slips to the ground.
"Bless you."
"Fuck!"
Sneeze.
You snort, "Are we done? Bless you."
He groans, rubbing a harsh up-and-down on his face, hands covering from the hairline to the chin. That's how you notice it the most, his fingers trembling like leaves when he isn't pressing them against any surface. Again, you pout, and again, Rafe doesn't see it.
"Let's go upstairs," you tell him, voice barely hushed.
Rafe doesn't argue this time.
He lets you guide him, docile at the touch like he didn't just spend three minutes barking under your nose, sluggish paced and resigned. His arms are crossed over his chest, tightly, either to keep himself warm or to avoid the annoying flutter of his fingers, and when you reach up tentatively where he keeps his right hand tucked under his left armpit, he clutches your pointer with all the fondness of his fallen-ill heart. He taps twice, you wedge your free fingers vaguely in to tickle without intent in return.
Upstairs, his room has that neatness you haven't yet seen dwindle into a mess, not even a little bit, not even with the crumpled sheets and twisted duvet. He didn't have a second of shut-eye, it's clear, and the bags under his eyes are more obvious to you now than they were seconds ago. Rafe sighs, and when he's near enough he drops side first on his favorite part of the bed, face half hidden on the soft silkiness of his pillow.
It's almost nature by now, you just can't help but pout. He catches you in the act.
"Don't look at me like that," he whines, a wrinkle between his eyebrows that keeps deepening into something equal parts fierce and adorable "Honestly, it's pissing me off."
You giggle, a tender sound that rips some warmth out on your cheeks. He groans, mutters under his breath, throws a nasty glare in between blond eyelashes, but it all leaves a sweet taste in the smile stretching your mouth wide. To distract him of his misery —or maybe putting him under some more, based on his logic—, you stretch the covers over him and tuck them under his chin. He's all red, cheeks flushed angry and feverish in response to your coddling, but he does nothing to push you away.
All bark, no bite.
You lift a finger sharp in the air, final, "Cancel your meeting, Rafe."
"I know," he hisses back, mouth twitching down in a grimace "Just– pass me the phone, I'll give 'em a call."
It's on his nightstand, closer to him than it is to you, but the implication of him being too comfortable to move an inch makes you giddy with satisfaction.
He groans, "Sorry– please."
The corners of your mouth stretch softly, too fond of him for your own good. He tracks down the faintness of the gesture with strange fixation, something warm blooming deep in his chest. Nothing he's not used to, nothing he doesn't like. It hurts, but it's the kind of pain he can't get enough of, how you keep finding ways to melt the frost in all of the sharp edges he's still learning how to let go of.
His fingers peek out near his face, and you drop his phone where he can grab it. He's still glowering. There's no way you know how fast his heart is beating for you.
"Did you eat?"
"Had a coffee."
"Did you eat?" you repeat, almost making fun of him.
He stops a beat, "No."
"I'll make you something warm, then," you decide, pinching the highest point of his cheek with the joints of your fingers "And I'll get you that Tylenol. And I'm taking your temperature, too."
"Is that necessary?" his voice sounds a little rougher than before, you try not to pout again when he winces.
"Which part?"
Rafe stills, then uncomfortably sinks in his place. He's not explaining himself, but you think you know. The caring, he means.
"Actually, I don't care," you shrug, he studies you like he's never been this disoriented "You're sick, I'm not. We're living under my rules today, and I'm doing whatever I want."
He scoffs, but you really do think he tried to laugh, "Right," he drags out, batting his eyelashes slower each time "'Cause you never get away with anything."
"With you? Never."
But you sound so honest, he peeks an eye open to make sure you don't mean it, "Bullshit."
Your smile is a blinding occurrence. Rafe thinks you must know that when you leave his side to draw the curtains.
"It's gonna take me a while, I still need to go shopping," you say, bringing the curtains impossibly closer. There's a thin gap where sunlight always sneaks in, he's complained about it a few times, never expecting you to listen. The mindfulness leaves him dizzy "Try to sleep, yeah? I'll wake you up when the food's ready."
Another shiver. He brings his knees up and curls into himself, arms crossed over his chest. It's almost absurd fighting against the weight pulling his eyes shut, but he still tries. As long as you're in the room, he'll be looking at you.
"Wallet's in the kitchen, I think," he mumbles, breath a little ragged when his back quivers at the nonexistent cold.
"Good to know."
His eyes land on you more severe than he intended to.
"The hell does that mean?"
You spin on your heels, already on your way out of his room, and rest your weight on your hip, "I have a job, you know."
"And?" he urges. You shrug, and it almost drives him up the wall "Don't you dare."
"Excuse you?" you ask, but there's too much lightheartedness in your tone, you're not taking him seriously "I'll use my well-earned money however I please."
"Grab my wallet," he commands, but you're turning around and opening the door "I swear to God–"
The rustle behind you alerts you he's getting up, and you spin so fast to face him it almost leaves you lightheaded.
"Rafe," he stops, frown a straight line made out of something purely unable, but he's never heard your voice so sharp "You're getting on my nerves. Lay down, and sleep. I'm going out, I'm using my money, and I'm taking care of you. Is that clear?"
He bites his cheek, you lift an eyebrow.
"Clear."
You beam, "Alright!" again, and against his palpable irritation, you tuck him back in. He presents more of a fight this time, like he truly feels helpless at the idea of his money not being used "C'mon, let me spoil you. You're always taking care of me, I wanna repay you."
"But I don't need that," he exasperates.
"Well, you're in no condition to chase after me, so."
He breathes out hard. When you lean down to kiss his forehead, way too warm for your own liking, you see a dejection in his eyes you can't quite describe yet.
"Sweet dreams, pretty boy."
He only blinks back. Rafe watches your leisure path out of his room, stomach sinking with something that feels too much like guilt, but he's out before he hears you leave.
He's not sure how long it's been when he comes to. There's a soft rustle downstairs. Tannyhill has been making it impossible for him not to pick up on the smallest of sounds ever since he came back from Guadeloupe. His eyes flutter open, but even then it's easy for him to picture it: the route you make back and forth across his kitchen, the placement of plates and forks and wooden spoons, the slight puckering of your lips when you hum a song. It fills him with warmth, to picture a life in which he's no longer waking up to a lonely house.
Is it too soon to ask you to move in?
A squeak not far from his bedroom door, the noise that springs up on that very specific step he's too lazy to fix. You must be done in the kitchen. He rubs the sleep off his face, then slowly sits up, waiting for you to walk in.
Your face peeps in, the dulcet strings of your voice way too soft to match your devilish grin, "You're awake."
He tries to answer but it comes out a groan.
"I made you soup," you begin, walking in with a tray in your hands. You carefully place it by the seat at the end of his bed "It was a nightmare searching for the thermometer, by the way. Couldn't find it anywhere. Did you know it was in the office?"
"What?" he asks, puffy eyed, his voice rough from sleep. He's almost expecting you to coo, but you only fix the pillows behind him "Fuck, I feel like I've been run over."
"Yeah, I can see."
His laugh is a single tired exhale, "Shut up."
You're quick as you work through his room. You open the curtains for enough light to spill in, then pick up the tray, sit down beside him, and finish by tugging back the neck of his shirt to burrow the thermometer in his armpit. It's cold, but it doesn't make him shiver. With an open palm, you offer him a single pill, a glass of water in your other hand, and smile so bright he's surprised you're not giving him a headache yet.
"Cheers," you joke, when he swallows down the paracetamol "How are you feeling?"
He hums, "Better," but he sounds tentative "Still feel like shit, though."
"Happens to the best of us," you shrug.
On your lap, a tray with a bowl of soup, a single spoon, and two slices of gold-crusted bread. He sniffs, miserably, but the smell of broth can't reach past his nostrils. He's almost bummed out by that, it looks good enough to make his mouth water and get his stomach to open up with interest. When he extends a hand to leave the glass on his bedside table and impatiently dig in, he tenses, then sneezes so hard water spills out on his hand. You chuckle, of course, when he scowls and mutters in response to his own mess.
"I'll clean that later. Here."
You offer him a tissue, he takes it enthusiastically. Rafe's just about to reach for the spoon when you do the weirdest thing — you hold it out for him. He eyes you warily, then the spoonful of soup only inches away from his face.
"What're you doin'?" he asks, skeptical, rubbing an itch away on the tip of his nose with the sleeve of his crewneck.
You grin, "Say 'ahh'."
He watches you, lips parted in a grimace full of bewilderment. His eyebrows twitch in something that, for the first time, doesn't look like a frown.
"You're insane," he simply concludes. Your laugh is a breezy thing, nudging the spoon closer to his lips. He traps your wrist under his hand "What– stop?"
"C'mon, babygirl," you say, too sultry to be be anything but fake "Open wide for daddy."
"I'm kicking you out."
"No, you're not."
"I'm breaking up with you."
You pout, "After I made you soup?"
"You're infuriating."
The smile that comes after is softer. You're done playing, maybe.
"Alright, I'll stop."
He waits, doing a quick scan from your face to the spoon in your hand. You're looking at him like you have all the time in the world, pastel pink smirk that would surely taste sweet had he not been sure he's incredibly contagious. Steam rises slowly and swipes warmth under his nose, and he tries to pretend he isn't too affected by your pampering as he opens his mouth and lets you guide the spoon in. It's delicious, just as he expected, and he hums in recognition.
"Good?" you ask, awfully quiet. He can't bring himself to speak.
He can't remember the last time someone cooked for him. Or tried to feed him, for that matter.
Another sneeze. You extend another tissue his way, then break a piece of bread and hand him some. The rest, you chew with a cheeky dimple — here you come again. Rafe almost sighs in anticipation.
"I'll take it from here," he says, trying to get your hand into slipping off the spoon. He stalls only because he's about to sneeze again, and you take advantage of that.
He sneezes into the tissue, curses against it. You make an awful sound, like you're mimicking an engine, and Rafe groans with a roll of his eyes before you could begin to sing.
"Here comes the airplane!"
He scoffs, dodging the spoon with a scowl, "I'm not a fucking kid," he fumes, trying to push your wrist with his. His nose still has that awful itch that makes his voice stagger, squeak like a pubescent boy. You make another engine-like sound, and swoop the spoon in the air "You're gonna spill."
"Never, I'm a pretty good pilot."
He huffs, but a smirk is already plucking a dimple out on the surface of his cheek, "You're impossible."
"And you need to cheer up," you say, finally dropping the spoon into the bowl.
Before he could register it, your lips find his in a loving kiss. He could turn his head, let your mouth meet his cheek to avoid transferring all of that sickness to you, but even bedridden he's selfish.
Rafe likes it when you kiss him, sue him.
"I'll probably infect you," he mutters, his bottom lip bumping your grin. You frown, sneaking the thermometer out of his shirt.
"I never get sick."
"We'll see about that."
You blink, then giggle girlishly, "No, I swear."
He spends an entire week trying to return the favour, waiting with too much hope for your nose to twitch with a cold. It never happens.
notes from clemz — did i get carried away? yes, let's maybe ignore that.
the whole grumpy x sunshine trope never gets old, does it? it always makes me SOFT. anyway, i hope you guys like this one! it was fun imagining what taking care of rafe would look like, now i'm sad i'll never get to make fun of him while he's sick:( as usual, pleeeaase like, reblog, and comment! i genuinely love knowing what you think😁😁
summary: everyone sees rafe as dangerous, but when he’s with you, he’s gentle
you’re sitting on the dock behind tannyhill, legs dangling over the edge, the water below glittering gold from the late afternoon sun. your phone buzzes beside you — a single message:
“back yet?” – rafe
you smile. he’s always short with texts, like he’s afraid someone will read too much into a single word.
“yeah. behind the house.”
you barely hit send before you hear the back door creak open. footsteps crunch on the gravel. you don’t turn around — you don’t have to.
“hey,” his voice is quieter when it’s just you.
he sits beside you, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear but not lighting it. “how was visiting your cousin?”
“fine. loud.” you lean back on your hands, brushing against his. “miss me?”
he scoffs softly, but you see the way his jaw shifts — like he hates being seen through so easily.
“not really,” he lies. then, quieter: “yeah.”
there’s a beat of silence. then his hand, warm and rough, brushes yours again — this time staying.
no one knows about you and rafe. not your friends. not his friends. not even wheezie, and that girl sees everything. you started out sneaking around for the thrill of it. but now? now it’s more than that. it’s like this small world you’ve built between just the two of you — a place where he can breathe.
where he doesn’t have to be rafe cameron, kook royalty. or ward cameron’s fuck-up son.
just rafe.
you shift closer. “you okay?” you ask.
his shoulders tense. that question always makes him flinch.
“i am now,” he says finally, low and honest. “i don’t know. it’s better when you’re here.”
you glance over — and it stuns you, every time, the way he looks at you. like you’re the calm in the middle of his storm.
then he presses his forehead to yours. just for a second. barely a breath. but it’s everything.
if anyone saw him like this — soft, gentle, almost fragile — they’d never believe it. but that’s the thing.
hii i love LOVE love power play! can i ask a blurb where rafe's pissy again so he's a bit hostile to reader but this time she doesn't take his shit? she's kind but this time she wants to reiterate that he can vent but she's not a punching bag
thank you!! ong the man has zero emotional regulation skills 😭 most of the time, she doesn’t take it personally and just makes a joke about him being a brat, but when he crosses a line, she doesn’t play around. blurb set in the power play au.
Rafe presses down on the horn yet again, earning another sigh from you.
This is not how today was supposed to go. He’s already been in the car for three hours just to get to you, and five minutes after picking you up, you hit standstill traffic on the freeway on the way to a place you said is your favorite spot for lunch.
This is the second time he’s seeing you this summer, only a few months of officially dating behind you.
You’d greeted each other affectionately, but his mood turned sour the moment you hit traffic. He honks again, glaring at the bumper of the car ahead of you.
“I don’t think that does anything,” you say lightheartedly.
“How is nobody moving?” he mutters.
“I’ll check when it’s supposed to ease up,” you offer, picking up your phone to open a traffic map. “Yikes. We have two exits to go.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Rafe groans. He wants the purge the stress he’s been under. This is only making it worse.
“Is that all you’ve had today?” you ask, pointing to the empty shaker bottle in the cupholder.
He nods tersely and you decide against making a joke about him being hangry.
He rakes a hand through his hair. He tried hard today. He wanted to look good for you, but his clothes are damp and wrinkled against his skin, and when he looks in the rearview mirror, he can see the fatigue in his eyes.
You clasp your hands together, determined to bring up the mood.
“How was the gym this morning?” you ask. Now that he’s fully healed from his injury, he’s just gotten back into training.
“I’m not even close to hitting what I used to,” he answers, disappointment laced in his tone.
You wince. That wasn’t the right question. He takes his conditioning seriously, and you obviously just reminded him of how much work he has ahead of him.
“We could work out together one day,” you say.
“Sure,” he scoffs, already grown to despise the distance between you. “When?”
You suck your teeth, your patience starting to wear thin at his harsh tone.
“Whenever you’re in a better mood,” you mumble under your breath.
Rafe shakes his head to himself. The last thing he needs is your judgement.
“I’ve been driving for so goddamn long,” he mutters.
“I know,” you empathize, “but we’re finally together again and we’ll be eating lunch soon and we don’t have to be miserable the whole ride there.”
“You think I want to be miserable?” he says with a sarcastic scoff.
“I didn’t say that.”
Rafe bites his tongue from muttering that you’re saying a lot. He only stares forward, trying to remind himself of how shitty he feels when he loses it on you.
You smooth down your pants, the silence biting at you.
“So, we should just not talk until we get there?” you ask. He shrugs in response.
You scowl. Frustration bubbles up inside you. You know your boyfriend well, familiar with how anger is his fallback, and you usually can take it in stride.
But this is too much. It hurts that he’d rather give into his temper than just enjoy being with you.
“You’re being mean,” you say quietly.
“I’m just tired,” he mutters.
“How do you think it makes me feel when you’re like this, especially after we haven’t each other in so long?” you say. “I thought you…”
You trail off into silence, trying to cool yourself down.
“Thought I what?” he mutters.
You swallow hard. You knew going into this relationship that even though you typically think on the bright side, you hold a pessimism about romance that you can’t shake. It rears its ugly head any time you feel like Rafe doesn’t care as much as he says he does.
“I thought you missed me,” you reply.
Rafe grips the steering wheel and says, “I do.”
“So, why make me your punching bag?”
His brows pull together, irritation pricking at him.
“That’s how you feel?”
“Sometimes, yeah,” you reply, on edge.
Rafe’s heart twists in his chest. Underneath the frustration, it hurts that you don’t see that he’s making an effort.
“I try to be better about it,” he says. “I’m always trying.”
You look out the window as he eases on the break, following the slow moving traffic.
“It’s not fair that I have to do this for you every time,” you mumble.
“Do what?”
“Tiptoe around you and talk you through your own emotions,” you say. “Is it that hard to say, I’m tired and hungry and none of that is your fault and I’m sorry I’m taking my bad mood out on you?”
Rafe meets your eyes, guilt seeping into him, cutting overwhelmingly worse than his anger is.
“I am sorry,” he says.
It cracks through your frustration. You have a weak spot for him, you always have, and you can tell by how quick he always is to apologize that he has one for you, too.
“And?” you say.
“I don’t think any of this is on you,” Rafe says. “I just want us to have a good day, alright? You deserve a nice date. Not this.”
You not, a soft smile on your face. He can be rigid and grumpy, but this is why he stole your heart; the softness underneath, the pressure he puts on himself to be lovable, the way that even when he’s annoyed, you can tell that he treasures you.
“Okay,” you say. “We can listen to some music to pass the time.”
“I want to listen to you.”
“You listen to me every night on the phone,” you remind him.
“And?” Rafe replies, echoing your tone.
You roll your eyes and chuckle. He puts his warm, heavy hand on your thigh, making your skin tingle with endearment.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he says. “I know I got shit I gotta work on, okay?”
“Yeah,” you reply.
You put your hand on top of his, hope blooming in your chest, louder than the doubt.
note: hellooo! this is my first post on this blog and i hope you enjoy ˊᗜˋ i want to make this a series so pls let me know what you think, send me asks, and reblog and like if you enjoyed it!! thank you so much for reading ˘³˘
pairing: bsf!rafe and bsf!y/n
summary: rafe may or may not have feelings for y/n, and there's a confession of sorts
warnings: this is 18+. drug mentions and alcohol use.
“Did you know that Sarah broke up with Topper?” You say, your eyes darting to Rafe through the mirror. He’s laying on your bed, holding his phone over his face as he did…whatever it was he did on his phone. It certainly wasn’t answering texts, because you swear he’d leave you on delivered for years if you didn’t call him.
His gaze meets your through the mirror, as you continue fiddling with your necklace. He drops his phone on the bed and sits up on his elbows, his face knitting in confusion.
“Wait—what?”
You nod, your lips curling inwards as you occasionally meet his gaze in the mirror.
“Yeah, she told me last night. Said he got pissed at her for not wanting to give it up.” You scoff.
“Okay, first of all, I don’t wanna hear that shit about my sister—”
You roll your eyes, turning to face him. “Okay, I literally just said she didn’t have sex—”
“No. No, no, no, no,” Rafe’s voice raises slightly.
He’s not actually upset, you know that, but to anyone else it would certainly seem like it.
“No,” he continues, and you can’t help but crack a smile at his disdain. “Don’t say that again, please. And second of all, why would Topper do that? Doesn’t seem like him.”
You purse your lips and Rafe sits up on your bed, his legs hanging off the edge. Of course he would rather find fault in his sister rather than his friend. Any chance he had at putting Sarah down, he would do so. Ward’s influence was heavy, and his disappointment in Rafe even heavier. You would be blind to not recognize the obvious favoritism that Ward shows his daughter.
You sigh. “It is totally something Topper would do. He’s gotten mad about it like a million times, ‘cause he’s desperate for—”
You cut yourself off, not wanting to mention Sarah’s sex life. Again. “Listen, I’m not saying he’s this horrible person, Rafe, but that’s fucked up of him.”
Rafe just presses his lips inward. “You might be right, but I don’t—I don’t wanna talk about this anymore. It’s grossing me out.”
You roll your eyes again, turning back to the mirror to take yourself in. “Fine,” You look back at Rafe. “How do I look?”
“Fine.” He says, disinterested eyes flickering over your form.
That was the most you’d get from him. A ‘fine’ in Rafe’s world was a ‘great’ in yours. You smile and start putting on your shoes.
“Why is Kelce even having this party again?”
“Because,” You drag the word out slipping on your sneaker. “His parents are out of town and it’s summer. You’re asking like you need a reason to party.” You tease, standing straight.
His lips quirk up ever so slightly. He hates how you know him so well, but he can’t help the way his heart skips everytime you show it.
“True,” Rafe shrugs. He stands and slips on his own shoes. “Shots before we go?”
You laugh and walk to your closet, pulling out the bottle of tequila you keep hidden in the corner. You uncap it and take a swig, your face twisting at the harsh burn spreading down your throat. He takes it from your hand as you wipe the corner of your mouth, your body involuntarily shuddering.
He chuckles, taking a sip of his own, barely reacting as he passes it back to you.
“You’re such a lightweight.” He grins, watching as you hide the bottle back in your closet.
“Maybe because I’m not 200 pounds, over six feet tall, and a man.” You roll your eyes.
“Hey, Ruthie can down five times more shots than you can. It’s not just about size.” He teases, following you out of your house.
“Sue me for saving money, I guess.” You huff as the two of you walk down the street, the setting sun casting a glow on the pavement.
You try not to think about how Rafe knows that about Ruthie. She was in your friend group after all, but you and Rafe had spoken about your shared distaste for her. You shook your head. If Rafe simply talking about another girl got under your skin, you knew you had to mentally prepare yourself for tonight, when he was bound to flirt with or even hook up with some random tourist or kook.
You knew why you were jealous. Your affection for Rafe had grown into something much less freindly over the years you’ve known him. But you’d never say anything. He was your best-friend. One of the most stable relationships you’ve ever had, and Rafe was notoriously unstable, so that was saying something. He was your rock, and you couldn’t imagine loosing him because of some stupid feelings.
The walk to Kelce’s was fast, but the increasing absence of the sun was giving you goosebumps. Before you realize what’s happening, Rafe’s right next to you, his arm around your shoulders, and his hand rubs the top of your arm. “Cold?” He asks.
It’s things like this that confuse you. His affection was rarely given out, but recently, he’s been doing things like… whatever this was.
“Kind of,” You lean into him. “I think I just need to drink more.”
You can tell he’s grinning, even though you aren’t looking up at him. “I think so too. We should get fucked up tonight.”
You nod in agreement. “Oh, we will.”
When you get to Kelce’s house, he drops his arm, and a feeling of emptiness wells up in your chest before you push it down. You walk in, and he’s behind you for only a second before someone pulls him away.
You’re used to that, so your eyes dart around for someone you know, but before you can find anyone, Rafe’s back at your side again.
“Sorry,” He says, leaning down just enough so you can hear him over the pounding music and chatter. “Dan thought I had shit with me tonight.”
You look up at him. “You don’t?”
You try not to act too suprised, but you know he can read it all over your face. It was true, he usually did have coke, and sold it (and did it) at parties like this, but not tonight. It was also somewhat shocking considering that just the other day Ward had ripped into him, again, about getting his life together, being irresponsible; the usual flaws he found in his son.
Rafe had rarely divulged any details, as per ususal, but you could tell it was bad. Especiallly considering he had called you at 10 P.M. and just took you for a drive in his car. Not to talk about it, or go anywhere in particular, but to just be with you. He did that sometimes.
“No, I don’t.” He says simply, jaw clenching.
He didn’t feel like talking about it, but he knew you would want him to. Sure, you wouldn’t say anything. But you would look at him a certain way that told him you wanted to know more. He hated how it usually worked, and he ended up saying something to you he didn’t plan on telling anyone.
It was strange, how you were able to get him to talk with just a look. It was also strange to him that you cared enough to want to know. Well, he knew why you cared. You were best-friends. Recently though, he’s been feeling…strange, around you. There was just something about you that made him think about you all the time. But he doesn’t know what that means, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to find out.
You smile slightly. “Let’s get a drink.”
He sighs in relief as he follows you to the kitchen, grateful you changed the subject. Truthfully, he didn’t want to be coked-up tonight. It always made his chest do that weird achy thing when you saw him like that.
You resign yourself to one more shot and a seltzer for the night. Partially because you were anxious that if you were around him while you were excessively drunk, you might say something about how you’ve been feeling, and you coudn’t have that.
Rafe, however, was throwing back shots and shotgunning beers like there was no tommorow. Maybe it was because of him and Ward’s conversation, maybe it was because he just wanted to party. Or maybe it’s because everytime you get a little too close to him his palms start sweating. He’s not totally sure.
The party rages on, and Rafe sticks by your side most of the night, talking to other people, or playing pong, but he disappears a few hours in and you find yourself with some girls from school. They’re all talking about Sarah and Topper’s breakup, but your mind wanders to earlier that night when Rafe and you played a game of pong.
Some guy had come up after the two of you had won and asked you to play. While you were politely declining, Rafe’s hand found its way around your waist. Like you were his. You shook your head, trying to rid yourself of the delusions you allowed yourself to create when he did those things.
You eventually got bored, and left the group of girls, meandering around the party to find where Rafe had gone. You do a lap, and he’s nowhere to be seen, so you walk out on the front porch for some air, only to find him sitting on the porch swing.
“Hey,” You smile, walking up and sitting next to him. “Why’re you out here?’
He looks over at you, and his eyes are glazed over, a signature look that tells you for certain; he’s plastered. He grins lazily as you sit down.
“Needed some air.” He says, staring at you.
You tilt your head, and as you're about to ask why, he speaks up. “I looked for you.”
“I was by the staircase, like, the whole time.” You can’t help but crack a smile at his obliviousness.
“Oh,” He nods, eyes flickering in recognition. “I missed you.”
You let his words wash over you, and you suddenly feel hot.
“I missed you too. But I’m here now.” You smile softly. He smiles back, and looks out at the neighborhood.
“You’re here,” He nods, like he needs to repeat it to know for sure. Then he looks back at you, with something in his eyes.
“Whenever I need you, you’re there, and I always need you," He scoffs like he wishes he didn't. "You’re like—it’s like I can breathe when you’re around, you know? And when you aren’t here, I just like…” He trails off, but makes a clutching motion at his chest. “It all comes back.”
I can breathe when you’re around.
You almost stop breathing at his words. They hit you like a train, and you feel like the Earth had stopped spinnning on it’s axis. He always needs you? How the fuck were you supposed to repond to that?
“Well, I guess I can never leave then.” You say, forcing yourself to smile like it was a joke. Because he can’t be serious. Can he?
He just looks at you, and rubs his chest with his knuckles, like it’s physically hurting him. But then he drops his hand back into his lap, and he smiles, tilting his head slightly, like he had just processed your words.
He had just laid himself bare in front of you, and you suddenly felt a wave a guilt wash over you. You couldn’t be what he needs. You can’t even be honest with him about how you feel.
You furrow your brows and look towards the street for a moment, trying to gather yourself. He wasn’t asking for help. No, he was just…telling you how he felt. You knew that. But it scared you, the weight of his words. How could you ever be enough for him? How could you be what he needs?
You take a deep breathe and school your face into something soft, and look back at him. He’s still looking at you, but he’s miles away.
“That’s…” You trail off, grabbing his hand. “I’ll always be here for you. Seriously. I need you, too.”
He looks down at your intertwined fingers and squeezes your hand. He doesn’t say anything in response, and he loosens his grip. You pull your sweaty hand back into your lap as you both look towards the flickering street lamps.
“Yo!”
Your heads turn in unison to the front door, where Kelce had just burst out of.
“You guys need to see this shit, Top’s gonna drink the bitch cup.” He grins, panting.
“Fuck, yeah.” Rafe stands, a bit wobbly and laughs, following Kelce inside, leaving you on the porch without a glance back at you.
not beating the mini him allegations 𓈀 ⟡ he doesn’t get hurt in this one! 𓈀 ⟡ himbo introduction
rafe runs over when he sees you about to fall backwards, grabbing you by your waist and holding you above the ground as the board continues to roll in front of you. you huff, arms down at your sides in defeat. “why does it keep leaving me?”
rafe shakes his head, “that thing is nothing like me. i would love you on top of me.” you giggle as rafe sets you down.
“well, what did i do wrong? i tried it like you showed me.” rafe had been showing you a few tricks, trying them on the board with you, then letting you do them by yourself. this was the first that didn’t land.
race shrugged, poking at your pout, “i didn’t get it the first time either. it’s like you’re just like me. . what a coincidence,” he teased. you slightly pushed at him, “okay, dude. just say it.” rafe frowned innocently. “say what. .” he headed towards the skateboard, then whispered in your ear as he passed you, “. .mini me.”
he didn’t bother hiding his smile as he retrieved the board then returned to you. “want to try a different one? i don’t want you getting hurt. not that i doubt you can do it, but if you get a scrape, we’re leaving.”
you shook your head, “no, i want to do it. can you do it with me on the board again?” rafe rose a brow, “i get to hold you again? of course,” he placed down the board, assisting you on top.
he stepped on behind you, pushing you two forward. “now, when i kick it at the back, jump up and switch sides, okay?” you nod, holding onto rafe’s arms wrapped around you.
and when he did, and you did as he said, and the board landed, rafe pushed down on the back to stop the board. you squealed, turning to face him. “i’ve totally got it, can i try again?”
rafe wouldn’t be able to say no to anything you asked him as long as you kept smiling up at him like that. “you can ask me to bang this board over my head repeatedly and i’d say yes. yeah, go ahead,” he stepped back and gave you two thumbs up with a smile like he didn’t say the first part of his sentence. you doubt he even realized he said it out loud.
you focused on the board, gave yourself momentum, did what rafe did and kicked up the back of the board, and landed back on it, facing the opposite direction you started in. stopping the board, you looked back excitedly to see rafe punching his arms in the air.
“yeah, she did! she’s a natural and the crowd is losing their crap right now,” he mock announced.
you picked up the board, running back to rafe who picked you up in a spin. you were grinning as he sat you down. his face suddenly turned serious as he held a nonexistent microphone up to his mouth, “miss cameron, how do you feel about landing that trick?” he held the ‘mic’ out to you.
you smiled up at him, “amazing. with the help of my incredible boyfriend,” you spoke to his hand. rafe glanced to your side, brows raising, “i think i see him heading over.”
he stepped to the side of you, raising his hands in a double high five, “good job, baby.” you both were grinning silly as you returned the high fives.
⟢ fuckboy!rafe who's been sent off to college to study business even after he adamantly expressed a lack of interest in higher education. he's rich, his dad owns a company, he doesn't think he needs a degree and surely, if his dad just fucking showed him the ropes, he'd be able to handle himself quite nicely at Cameron Development.
. . . who suspects his father sent him hundreds of miles up North just to keep him away. he's highly aware he isn't the easiest boy to deal with, but the thought of being treated as an inconvenience, something his dad could just kick off for a few seasons and forget about until winter break, can actually make him so sick he won't come out of his room.
⟢ fuckboy!rafe who, initially, planned on being so terrible at all things academic-life there'd be no choice but to be dragged back to Kildare by his father's fist. turns out, he's one competitive, ambitious, persuasive asshole practically built for college. he's the best student in every class, and a nightmare for both professors and classmates alike. he won't shut up, he's always right, and he gets what he wants — he'll smack down his exam on his professor's desk and demand a higher grade, raise his hand and aggressively respond if he thinks somebody made a weak point, get ahead with every course he takes just to show off how much better he is than the rest. he's everyone's terror and the ultimate academic weapon.
⟢ fuckboy!rafe who lives off campus but still owns a dorm. he occasionally uses it to nap in between classes, and since he doesn't share it with anyone else he treats it as a storage room. he keeps most of his work in there, does the majority of his assignments hunched over his desk, and it's closer to both the library and the few of his friends living on campus. it's more of an office rather than a dorm but he likes how impersonal that is.
. . . who keeps that dorm because the thought of bringing a girl to his place can almost give him a headache. he hates the general idea of it, the stain of someone else in a place that is purely his own — to fall asleep above a stranger's perfume, to find bits and pieces that don't belong to him across his home. it's sacred to him, that apartment. the first glimpse of a life far away from his family, some sort of escape he doesn't want to share with anyone else.
⟢ fuckboy!rafe who wasn't a fuckboy back in Kildare, but accidentally gained the title after fucking his frustrations out on a classmate he was paired up with for a project. word spread around fast that he was, uh, let's say... a talented individual in such department and soon, he was the object of desire of the entire campus. before he realised he had been baptised with a new name, there was a different body shoved against his desk every other day, girls leaving his dorm with hair that wasn't greasy before and legs that not long ago could stand on their own.
⟢ fuckboy!rafe who isn't really heavy on the emotional manipulation part that comes with the position, not because he's playing Mr. Nice Guy (which he recognises he isn't, like, at all) but because sex to him is more of a transaction, very much offer and demand. he will make sure it's clear how superficial his intentions are, how casual he'll be about it and, especially, how unattached. he isn't afraid of cutting a girl off if she's blinking up at him particularly sweet, treating him with borderline fondness, even if that's the case with the majority of girls that make it into his dorm.
. . . who doesn't mess with anyone's feelings because he's done that before, and it costed him a broken heart. he once allowed that foreign scent to linger on his sheets, that suffocating warmth to tuck him in, those hands to trail up and rest tenderly on his cheeks, only for that affection to turn out a disguise and for him to be used.
⟢ fuckboy!rafe who rejects closeness because each time he let someone near, he was taken advantage of. his dad, his sister, his ex, his friends — all forever neglecting him to no end, while still demanding every bit left of him.
⟢ fuckboy!rafe who's never known how to handle how absurdly sensitive he actually is, how susceptible to his surroundings; who's uncomfortable with vulnerability, who's gagging on trust issues because he's never been shown a reason to rely on anyone other than himself.
⟢ fuckboy!rafe who's a fuckboy because that's all he will ever allow himselft to be.
. . . and then loser!reader came along.
literally coming out of nowhere with this offering but that's that me the hermit— anyway!
fuckboy!rafe and loser!reader are these two creatures hunting me at night and i'm done with them so i'm bringing them to life. haven't figured out if i'm making it a proper series written with my blood and tears or a mess of blurbs either requested or my own but as soon as i have those details covered i'll let the town know☝️
! loser!reader's introduction coming soon, along with the general idea of this college!au hell yea
CONSIDER: you give me like and reblog, i give you little pat in the head
dilf!rafe x living!barbie!reader where barbie didn’t ever have anyone teach her how to do plaits or that kind of thing (not close with parents, etc) so has to ask rafe to do it for her. i feel like he knows how to because he has two younger sisters in canon. then he teaches barbie how to 💖
- from someone who learnt to do plaits and braids far too late
RIBBONS AND ROUTINES
DILF!RAFE x LIVING!BARBIE!READER
a/n: to the angel who sent this… this one’s for every girl who had to learn a little later. i hope this feels like a hug 🎀
you were quiet when he walked in—sitting cross-legged on the floor, pretty pink brush in your lap, your hair falling around your shoulders in messy waves. he could tell you were frustrated from the way your lip was tucked between your teeth.
he crouched behind you gently, like he was scared to startle you.
“whatcha doing, baby?”
you didn’t turn around. just looked at the mirror, eyes low. “trying to braid my hair.”
he tilted his head, stepping around to sit behind you. “yeah?”
“i never learned,” you murmured, like it was something to be embarrassed about. “no one ever taught me.”
he didn’t say anything right away. just reached out, brushing a hand through the strands to smooth them.
“you want me to show you?” his voice was soft, barely above a whisper.
you looked up, hopeful. “you know how?”
he smiled, the kind of slow, gentle smile you always trusted. “mmhm. two little sisters. i used to do theirs every morning before school. come here.”
you shifted between his legs, and he moved so carefully—like you were porcelain, like he couldn’t mess this up.
he sectioned your hair with steady fingers, explaining each step in that low, hushed voice. every once in a while, he kissed your shoulder or told you you were doing so good. when you tried it yourself, he guided your hands—thumb brushing over your wrist, patient when you fumbled, always encouraging.
and when you finally got it—slightly uneven but yours—he didn’t let you look in the mirror right away.
“just one second,” he said, tying the end with your favorite little ribbon. “there. now you can look.”
you blinked at your reflection, smile growing with every second. “i did it.”
he leaned forward, resting his chin on your shoulder.
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