✮⋆˙ stepbro!rafe pries your thighs open just to touch you.
warnings — stepcest. stepbro!rafe x stepsis!reader. toxic dynamics. slight dub-con.
cherie's note — i just know wearing a skirt around rafe will have you bent over somewhere like nine times out of ten. sign me up!
the voice cuts through the quiet of tannyhill like a blade — low, amused, familiar. it startles you at first, pulling your attention away from whatever show you weren't really watching, until you glance over your shoulder and see him standing there. rafe.
he's just gotten in, probably from whatever bullshit he spends his nights doing — joyriding with his lowlife friends, some half-hearted party, or straggling home still half coked-out despite your mother's stern lectures and ward's tight-lipped disappointment.
he drapes himself over the back of the plush couch, elbows planted on the cusshions, looming, with that stupid fucking grin spread across his face, the brim of his snapback flipped up, letting messy blond hair curl around his forehead. he adjusts the hat lazily, pushing it back with one hand like he owns the room — like he owns you.
smug. spoiled. dangerous.
he's close — too close — and you catch the familiar scent of the cologne that clings faintly to his polo-shirt; something clean, like bergamot, with a warmer undertone of cedar. it smells expensive — it smells like him.
"what d'you have under it, huh?" his voice is silk over gravel, dipping low and lazy, each syllable drawn out like honey. his eyes are already dragging slow over the length of your bare legs, unapologetic and hungry. the question rolls off his tongue like he already knows the answer.
and you find yourself tugging down the hem of your skirt, suddenly feeling exposed in the room, like an invisible spotlight had been casted directly on you, highlighting the shame and the guilt that ate the inside of your stomach. it was a stupid idea, wearing this skirt — or the poor excuse of one, anyway.
"rafe," you hiss, barely above a whisper, voice catching in your throat as you shift uncomfortably beneath his gaze. "not now — mom and dad just left the room."
he hums, a low sound from deep in his chest, and leans in closer — past the boundaries, crossing the line — his lips brushing just beneath the shell of your ear, breath warm and deliberate, "c'mon," he purrs, the edge of a smirk still playing at his mouth. "be a good girl for your big brother... show me, yeah?"
you barely have time to flinch before his hands are on you — rough and firm and greedy — sliding over your thighs, fingers digging into the soft skin as he pries them apart like he has every right to do so, like this was normal. a soft squeal escapes you, high and startled, as you try to push back, to twist away, but it's useless. his grip is unrelenting. his strength swallows yours whole.
he pulls you forward on the couch, dragging you closer against his chest, until your back is nearly arched and your thighs are wide and trembling beneath his palms. and then — fuck — you feel it.
the unmistakable press of his fingers, right where you need him most.
he doesn't rush. he doesn't need to. he has you right where he wants you, and there's no coming back from it now. he just eases the heel of his hand down over the thin fabric of your panties, letting it settle heavy and perfect over your clit. the lace does little to dull the pressure. if anything, it makes it worse — the texture catching against you just enough to make your hips twitch, for the ache.
"there she is," he breathes, almost too soft to hear, like it's some kind of secret between you. his fingers move with precision, rubbing tight, purposeful circles over the dampening fabric, every motion sends sparks ricocheting down your spine. "wasn't so hard, was it?"
you swallow hard, but it doesn't help. the whimper within claws at your chest, trembling just beneath the surface. and when he leans in again, breath warm against your neck, lips barely brushing the sensitive skin, the goosebumps follow instantly, racing down your arms.
he laughs — low and cruel — like it's all some kind of joke. like your family wasn't only a few thin walls away, while you grasped for his wrist pathetically and bucked into his palm in desperation, his voice squeaking out, "fucking pathetic how fast you fold."
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