reader taking care of drunk!bf!rafe
(this is very very short, apologies in advance yall)
you were at home finishing dinner when rafe called you asking you to come pick him up from the party you had allowed him to go to earlier. you didnt really like him drinking, especially when you werent there, because he didnt know his limit.
and tonight being some celebratory party for topper of all people, meant you knew he'd get fucked up.
but you didnt want to go, so you told him to go without with you.
he didnt want to—if his girl wasnt going, what was the point of him going?—but topper kept blowing up his phone over and over and over again.
so he reluctantly went.
now you were here, trying to carry him out to the parking lot to get him home because he is obliterated.
"'m'soooo happy you...you picked me up!" he giggles, his arm draped over your shoulder for support.
“no, no, no, baby don’t-” you curse under your breath as rafe sways on his feet and faceplants into the bushes nearby.
“ow…”
this was why you didn’t like him drinking. because he lost all the common sense in his brain and did stupid shit like. this.
you sigh as you hover over him and gently turn him over. “up, ray, cmon, up, up, up.” you hold his hands firmly and pull him up on his feet, catching him around the waist when he nearly topples over again.
“princessss. yerr so prettyyy.” his smile is so wide and giddy you cant help but smile back. “i love—” he hics “—lov…e you.”
“I love you more,” you say softly. “but we gotta go home, okay? we’re almost there.”
“Mmmm, okayyy.”
the walk to the parking lot is full of stumbles and more of him falling to the ground, but after a while, you finally reach the car.
you strap him in the passengers seat, slide into the drivers, and hand him a bottle of water before you turn the key in your ignition. "drink the water, baby, you gotta sober up."
rafe takes the bottle and turns it to his head obediently, like he always did. he was a lot more cooperative when he didnt have to think so much, when his body felt lose and his mind was quiet.
he hics as he finishes the water, putting the empty bottle back in the cup holder then burping. "did...did i fuck up your night?" he pouts, rubbing his eyes.
you glance over at him and take a hand off the wheel to hold his. "No, ray. i dont mind picking you up, i promise."
"pinky promise?"
"pinky promise." you interlock your pinky with his and give him a reassuring smile.
once you reach home, you give him a plate of the food you had made earlier—buffalo chicken pasta—and a piece of garlic bread to soak up some of alcohol, and more water to wash it down.
"'s good," he says inbetween bites, shoveling bite after bite into his mouth until his plate was clean. he slouches in the dining room chair afterwards, holding his full stomach.
he groans, "oh god i think i overate..."
you chuckle softly and clear the table, putting both your dishes in the sink and cleaning them before you go back to him. you stand behind him and run your hands down his chest, pressing a kiss to his neck. "youre full now so how about a shower and then bed, hm?"
he hums in content and leans into your touch. "yeah...that sounds nice, princess."
tags: not proof read, edging, overstim, oral (m receiving), handjobs, biting, riding, bondage, begging, dacryphilia, orgasm denial, traffic light system, praise, teasing, p in v, petnames (sweetness, baby)
authors note: thank you guys so much for 890 followers???? holy crap i love you guys😭💜
“baby, please…” rafes strangled pleas fall on deaf ears, helplessly tugging on the fur cuffs binding his wrists together the same hes been doing for the past hour while your hips roll down on his cock again and again and again.
there are two tripods set up—one by the foot of the bed catching the obscene visual of rafe slipping in and out of you, your slick and a mix of his pre sliding down his length and onto the sheets; the other on your right, showing off a better angle as you lean down and kiss him lazily.
he whines into your mouth, the sound low and broken. he babbles in your mouth, "mmmn, 'm so close, ‘m so close please…"
you lift your hips, letting him slide out.
"nononoplease," he sobs and weakly tugs on the cuffs again, trying to reach for you, for something to give him the release you've been neglecting him of.
loose tears pool against his eyelashes before they roll down his flushed cheeks.
"you're doing sooo good, ray," you murmur against his lips, your thumb grazing his bottom lip as his hazy eyes find your own.
you kiss down his throat, over the bite marks you'd left earlier, down the chest, down, down, down, until your lips meet his aching tip.
his hips buck into the fleeting motion. you push him back on the bed.
"what, is it too much?" faux sympathy drips in your tone as you loosely wrap your hand around him, gliding your thumb on the underside of the tip.
"i-i wanna—hnngh—cum...i cant—fuck, i cant-" his voice dies in his throat with a silent moan when the warm of your mouth surrounds him, his vision flashing white for a moment; his tip leaking pre against your tongue as you taste yourself on his cock.
you swirl your tongue around the tip before you take him deeper, bobbing your head until he's hitting the back of your throat.
his thighs tremble under you, head falling back against the pillows. he doesnt even have the energy to moan properly —just whine and whimper and pant like hes in heat.
"sweetness," he gasps.
you pull off, leaving him unsatisfied yet again.
"what number was that?" you run the pad of your index finger over the slit on his tip.
his head is a dizzy mess of endorphins and and dopamine as he lifts it to look at you—he doesn't even remember what he's supposed to be counting. how unfortunate.
you press a kiss to his hips, looking up at him through your lashes as you murmur, "did you forget, baby?" you run your palm over his sensitive tip, feeling it twitch against your hand.
more pretty tears fall from his eyes as he hesitantly nods, trying not to buck into your touch again. he can barely see you through his blurred gaze. "'m'sorryy...didnt-" he chokes back a whimper. "didnt mean'ta..."'
you tilt your head, mocking. "didn't mean to..what? what didnt you do, ray?" your hand strokes his cock with an agonizingly slow pace.
his adam apple bobs as he swallows. "i-i dont know," he whimpers. he squirms under you as you squeeze him, your touch both soothing and fucking painful.
"Youre sorry, but you dont know what youre sorry for?" you scoff out a laugh.
“'m'sorry'm'sorry, please just—fuck, dont stop."
you do exactly that, taking your hands away.
the sound rafe lets out doesnt even sound like something he'd consciously make—his voice breaking somewhere between a frustrated yet pathetic groan as he cries out.
god he looked good like this.
pre smearing against his stomach where his cock twitches. his thighs, chest and throat decorated with bites and hickeys. but the prettiest site was his face, new tears flowing over the dried ones, his cheeks flushed red, his pupils blown wide, his lips kisses and bitten raw.
you clean your hands on a nearby towel before running them up his sides, smiling when his abdomen contracts under your touch. "color?"
he wants to lean into your touch, your warmth. he tries to find your eyes through the tears in his own, a soft whine leaving his lips as you come up to wipe his face. "gimme a color, baby," you murmur.
"greeenn—jus' wanna...wanna cum, p-please," he begs. he lets out a sharp breath when he feels you straddle his lap again. "pleasepleaseplease."
"shhh, i know, i know." you uncuff his wrists one at a time, easing them onto the bed before you reach between your bodies and line him up with your entrance again.
his hands find your hips with a hiss of pleasure as you sink down, taking all of him in one go. "n-not g'nna last."
you bite back a teasing grin as you press your lips to his throat. "i havent even moved yet, rafe." your tongue runs over a previous bite mark before your teeth dig into the same spot, your pussy clenching around him as you raise and drop your hips.
his eyes roll back—his nails dragging against your skin; he’s failing to differentiate the growing pain with the ongoing, torturous, brain numbing pleasure.
his hips meet yours halfway, lazily fucking up into you to chase the sweet release he's been crying for.
you lick up his throat before you reach his jawline, then his lips.
he loves the way you grab his face to kiss him; its mean and its dizzying and its too much yet not enough all at the same time.
you feel his cock twitch against your walls, his tip kissing your g-spot with each slam of your hips against his. it feels so good you almost lose your rhythm. you lean your forehead against his, both of you moaning into the others opened mouth.
"fuck—fuck, dontstoppleasedontstop." his words are slurred together in a mess of pants and high pitched whines.
"yeah? you wanna fill me up, baby?" shockwaves run up your spine as he wraps an arm around your waist and holds you by the nape of your neck with the other, his thrusts picking up pace, sloppy but frantic.
"y-yeah, yes—nnghh—please let me cum," rafe gasps. his voice was so pathetic, so shaky, like he was barely hanging on by a thread.
your walls flutter around him rhythmically, your own orgasm threatening to break through.
you push your hips down harder, deeper. "go ahead, baby, lemme feel you," you murmur, bracing a hand on the headboard.
rafes resolve crumbles to dust as you finally, finally give him the words he's been waiting for.
his lips find yours in a messy kiss as he paints your insides with a broken whimper, pushing you right over the edge with him. you both groan into each others mouths, hips still rocking together as you ride out the aftershocks of your orgasms.
» You play a game of 'marco polo' with him for fifteen years. Call and response, you and him, always. «
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TAGS: childhood best friends to lovers, streamer!kenma x mod!reader, CONSTANT flirting over stream, first meetings, falling in love with your online best friend? more likely than you think, youtube filming of 'boyfriend does my makeup' trend, it's all just one big excuse for them to finally meet they honestly dont care about anything else, insanely desperate 'obsessed with each other' type sex, mutual pining but millions of people are watching it happen live
a/n: this singlehandedly made me a kenma girl. ive fallen down a hole of "kenma is a confident introvert who knows how to run his mouth" feelings. thank you so very much to the person who commissioned this <33
[commission honee here!]
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Ba-bum!
"Testing, testing, mic check."
You scroll on your phone, curled up on your oversized gaming chair. "You don't need to mic check every time," you mumble into your headset.
"Discord's shit these days," is all he says. His voice is gentle as ever, even if his words cut. "I pay up the ass in internet and it still lags."
"Add me to your family plan," you say, just like you do every time. You don't know his exact expenses, but you do know that Kozume Kenma doesn't spare when it comes to his gaming setup.
"I'll add you if you promise not to use it for League."
You scoff, reaching for your coffee. You won't hear his usual admonishments about taking care of yourself — if he wants to do overnight stream challenges, he gets to deal with a malnourished moderator.
"My ping would thank you greatly, Koz."
"Your ping can suck my dick."
You grin, tossing your phone on the desk and glancing at the time. "On that note-"
"Yep. See ya."
You both end the call, only thirty-two seconds long. Your phone immediately buzzes.
[10:00 PM]
kozuken is live!
You're the first in the chat, your monitor split between his video feed and the chat box.
"Hello, hello," he says. "Mic check, testing, testing."
You roll your eyes.
"Marco's rolling her eyes. I can feel it."
You grin, leaning in to type a response.
[10:02 PM]
Marco: eat my ass
He grins, eyes dragging over the chat before looking away so he can set up his game. "Time and place, baby."
The chat goes crazy, the way it always does, when you two talk to each other like this. Purposely walking the line between platonic and flirtatious — once just a joke, made a regular dynamic. Once you'd noticed that his fans loved it, it was easy enough to continue, especially since Kenma's so fond of egging you on in his streams.
"Roll call, moderators," he mumbles into his mic, his eyes flitting back and forth between monitors while he loads in his screen recorder and audio buff.
[10:04 PM]
Marco: marco
"Polo," he responds, an afterthought. "Looks like everyone's here, so we can get started."
The comments filter in, your eyes trained to skim quickly. The brand new fans are easy to pick out, questions coming in about why he does roll call if you're his only mod. The old fans are busy spamming the word 'marco' over and over again in the chat, a joke long turned habit.
At one point, he'd considered having more than one moderator. It's just so much work for you. But you know — he'd told you — that he can't trust anyone else. That he wouldn't be able to keep track of anyone else in is DMs, not when you take up so much of his time.
"You're always yapping," he'd jokingly complained once, when the two of you were in college. "You're a full-time job."
You wouldn't let him have another moderator, anyway. This is yours. You made this place for yourself without meaning to, and both of you know — unacknowledged, unconscious — that no one else can have it.
Things had always been that way for you and Kozume Kenma. Unspoken, inexplicable.
—
He's ten when you meet him. You're ten, too. Way too young to be playing games online with strangers, but internet safety isn't really on your mind at that age.
And he doesn't try to chat you up, doesn't try to get any personal information out of you. You happen to play a single round of a game together, and you happen to add him as a friend afterward, because he's good. He happens to accept it.
He also sounds ten. He types in short, clipped phrases, simple DMs that say 'party?' when you're both online. After a few months, that single word turns into adding each other on Discord, which you're both still too young to have but do anyway. It turns into near-silent phone calls, where you both make simple requests of each other in-game and nothing else.
It isn't until months later — almost a year since meeting him — that you're brave enough to send a meme. He responds with a reaction. You think that'll be it, and then you're surprised the next morning to find he'd sent one, too.
He turns eleven, and you send a quick 'hap birth', which he responds to with a cake emoji. You turn eleven a few weeks later, and he just sends the emoji again.
And then, one night, he texts a quick 'party?' and you respond with 'tired :/', expecting that to be it. Expecting, at most, a thumbs up.
He calls. You answer, thinking maybe he hadn't gotten your text.
"Hello?"
"Hi."
He says nothing else. You just get the notification that he's streaming his screen. He's playing a cozy game, something low-stakes with gentle background music.
You fall asleep like that, watching his stream on your phone, no words shared between you.
It becomes a habit — first, only when one of you is too tired to play, and then scheduled. Every Wednesday night, when you're both most tired from school, and then Fridays, too.
Friday streams turn into Friday movie nights, and those turn into Friday 'play something in the background and talk over it' nights.
You turn twelve on one of those nights. He spends two hours building you a house-sized cake in Minecraft, telling you in that deadpan voice to shut up when you start making insane requests.
"I just think if we put a river through it-"
"No."
"But it could be like one of those molten lava cake things-"
"Stop it."
"I'm just imagining-"
"No imagining. Less imagination from you."
You fall asleep before he's done, your face sore from laughing. You wake up to a picture of the finished block-cake, a stupid little river running through it.
You grow up like that, middle school passing with your closest friend only accessible behind a screen. He tells you about his friend Kuroo, and you tell him about your school friends, too. He starts playing volleyball, and you spend some Friday nights watching pro-volleyball matches with him so he can learn.
And then one day, when you're both fourteen, Kuroo logs on while Kenma's in the shower and calls you. You answer, of course, but you're completely unprepared for the video feed to be turned on.
"Oh," you say. "That's not what I thought you'd look like."
The boy on the other end furrows his brow, a scoff leaving him. "You guys haven't video called before?"
It's not hard to figure out that this is not Kenma.
It's even easier when Kenma does come into view, a blur of dark hair and Kuroo tackled to the floor, out of sight.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
You listen as they wrestle, watch as the real Kozume Kenma appears in the video, wide-eyed and panicked.
"Holy shit," he says, frantically trying to turn his camera off. "I'm so sorry."
You just laugh, watching him mute-unmute-mute-unmute himself instead of pressing on the camera icon. He swears again, beet-red, so you just turn your camera on, too, your nerves fluttering.
He freezes, stares. Opens his mouth, closes it, blinks.
"Hi," he says, voice quiet.
You swallow, feeling your face burn and hoping it doesn't show in the camera. "Hi."
The moment is interrupted by Kuroo, who starts to laugh in the background. "This story is going in my best-man speech at your wedding."
Kenma turns an insane shade of red within milliseconds, and then he hangs up. You have to sit for a long time staring at the dark screen just to catch your breath.
One good thing comes out of Kuroo Tetsurou's intervention — video calling.
High school marks the era of sending exhausted morning selfies and late afternoon study calls, your cameras on and your mics muted. He calls after practice every day, only half his face showing as he walks home, and you bring him with you for post-midnight snack searches of the kitchen, all the lights off around you.
He's there when you move into your college dorm, his voice echoing from your back pocket as he complains about the view. You're there when he decides to start streaming professionally, your smile knowing and silly when you offer to be his moderator. Both your grins full of mischief when he actually considers it.
He starts out slow, quiet, but he's good at what he does — what you both do — and his fan base grows quickly. He hits 100,000 followers within a year, and he's at a million by the time you graduate. You run his chat with a firm hand, banning viewers after one warning and spending your free time accepting and denying requests to be unbanned. He spends his time editing VODs and posting them to Youtube, and he brings on a friend — Lev Haiba — to run his accounts. The guy's a model, apparently, and knows the ins and outs of social media better than anyone.
And then Kenma starts his own company — Bouncing Ball Corp. — and suddenly, his face and name are everywhere. You see him on bus ads and in storefronts, sports outlets marketing him and his sponsored players — Hinata Shouyou the most famous of all — until you can spot a cutout of him at least once a day on your way to work.
You always send him a picture. He always responds with a middle finger emoji.
Your days are spent working your boring office job, Discord open on one monitor as you speed through your work on the other. Your lunch breaks are spent on the phone with him, complaints sent in spam texts on the few days your coworkers actually invite you to join them.
It passes through your mind a few times — the fact that you haven't met him. You're 25 years old and have yet to meet your best friend of 15 years.
You wonder sometimes if he thinks about it, too.
—
[10:00 PM]
kozuken is live!
"Mic check, testing testing. Roll call, mods?"
Marco: marco
"Polo." Kenma scrolls through his Steam library for the viewers, humming contemplatively. "Not sure what I wanna play today. I want something lowkey. It was a rough day."
You grin evilly, typing out something quick without thinking.
Marco: i can make you feel better :')
His smile is immediate, his tongue poking out as he shakes his head. "Got enough space for you under my desk, Marco."
Marco: i pray for days like these <333
Marco: god is real <333
Marco: lemme get a hair tie real quick
He purses his lips, his laugh escaping anyway. "That'll take too long, just borrow one of mine."
The chat is responding at a rate that even you can't follow, but you do catch one comment.
'BE SO HONEST WITH US, HAVE YOU GUYS FUCKED???'
You know Kenma's seen it because he starts choking, fist beating down on his chest. You fire off a response, ignoring the flaming heat in your cheeks and that the swirl of nerves in your gut.
Marco: omw as we speak
He barks out a laugh, nodding. "Yeah, she's got a key to my place. That's how this whole mod thing happened in the first place."
Marco: aftercare is just stream ideas
"We talk about hiring VOD editors while I'm rearranging her guts."
You gasp, face searing hot as you switch to your DMs and message him.
You: YOU CANNOT SAY THAT ON STREAM!!!!!!!!!!
His eyes flick to the next screen, and then he beams, his grin a little too pleased. "Uh oh, I'm in the doghouse. Do you guys think she'll still let me hit?"
You text again.
You: NO I WILL NOT!!!!!!!!!!
His brow furrows for a moment, and you realize that you should have said that in the stream chat, not in his DMs. You groan aloud, burying your face in your hands in humilation. You only lift your eyes when you hear the ping of his text.
Koz: what if im not in the doghouse?
You freeze, staring. Eyes flicking to the video feed, watching him closely. Watching those little mannerisms that only you can see, the ones that make it clear he's nervous about that text. When you don't answer fast enough, he starts to chew on his bottom lip and his eyes take on a distracted glaze as he pretends to read the stream chat.
You watch him type again quickly.
Koz: joke
You exhale shakily, typing with trembling fingers in the stream chat.
Marco: chat, tell koz to stop begging for nudes in my dms
He finds it immediately in the sea of messages, eyes going wide and then flicking away. His laugh is full of relief, and he just shakes his head.
"One day," he says. "One day, Marco." You ignore the heat building in your gut and watch as he switches topics, scrolling through Steam again. "Alright," he eventually sighs. "Let's play Stardew."
You pin a chat that catches your eye, your fingers still shaking.
'co-op farm with marco???'
Kenma smiles, small and sweet this time, and shakes his head. "Marco's too busy running this shit like the Navy. She won't be able to focus."
You pin another chat.
'what if you guys play off stream and upload to yt???'
He nods, shrugging. "I don't see why not. We basically just play games in our free time, anyway."
One more pin, your nerves at an all-time high.
'film irl??? even if it's not games???'
His smile takes on a curious quality, brows furrowed as he hums and launches the game. It's obvious that you're interested in the idea, because you wouldn't be pinning the messages if you weren't. Everyone watching can see it, too, an influx of support crashing through the chat.
"What'do you wanna see us do, then?" he asks, attention turned to his Stardew file. A message flies by that says 'WE WANNA SEE YOU FUCK!!!', and he laughs, but his voice is tight. You understand why, your skin breaking out in a cold sweat. You type fast, trying to play it off.
Marco: lets do plushy tour
"What're you gonna do, haul your shit all the way to my place?" he jokes. "I've seen your plushy collection. It's semi-truck-requiring."
The chat continues to be spammed with ideas, and he pauses every few minutes to glance at them. You put out a few polls here and there, most having to do with his gameplay, but one of them is titled 'MarKoz Youtube Collab Ideas'. It stays up for a while, votes flooding in. He examines it for a moment, and then you watch him type.
Koz: you wanna meet up?
Your nerves peak and crash, your skin covered in goosebumps at the thought of meeting Kenma.
You: could be fun
He swallows, takes a sip of his drink. Types again.
Koz: could be
Koz: soon? or
It strikes you then that you have no idea where he lives. It can't be far, but…
You: depends
You: train tickets can get pricey
Koz: stfu
Koz: you know i'll pay
A few minutes go by with you distracted by the chat and him playing his game.
Koz: send me your address
You flush, realizing this is actually happening.
You: [location attached]
He chokes on his drink, in the middle of his livestream. You watch the chat react, a range of concern and 'Marco finally sent the nudes' jokes.
Koz: wtf
Koz: what the fuck yn
You: ????
Koz: thats ten fucking minutes from here
Your whole world comes crashing down.
—
You exhale in disbelief, staring up at the high-rise with a small grin tugging at your lips.
"Of course," you whisper, shaking your head and hauling your tote bag higher up on your shoulder. You push your way through the revolving door, glancing around as you approach the front desk. "Hi… I'm… I guess I'm here to see a resident?"
The girl behind the counter smiles up at you, humor lacing her voice. "Okay. Can I get a name?"
"She's with me."
His voice feels like a cord was wrapped tight around your spine when you weren't looking. Like he was baked into your DNA, his life intertwined with yours.
Your eyes fly to his. He's staring back at you like he feels the same way.
Disoriented. Shocked. Unsteady.
You clear your throat, smiling briefly at the girl as you drift away, your grip on the strap of the tote bag almost painful.
You meet him at the elevator bay, your legs shaking. "Hi."
He inhales, eyes flicking between yours rapidly. "Hey."
You're not sure how to greet him. If you should hug him — you've known him most of your life — or if it would be weird — this is your first time ever meeting him. He steps away to call the elevator, so you take it as a sign not to hug him and just wait beside him.
"Was the walk okay?" he tries, voice quiet and hesitant. You shift awkwardly, just shrugging.
"Yeah. It was alright."
God, this is uncomfortable. What is it? What's making this so weird?
You follow him into the elevator, taking stock of the situation. What you know about him and what's new.
His voice is familiar, but it's different in person. It affects you more. His stance — lazy with a slight slouch — is comfortable to you, but his height is new. His hair and face are the same, but now you can see his skin, his eyes. You can smell his shampoo. His cologne. You can feel his warmth, gentle and washing over you.
Your eyes dart over his form once, twice, and then they return to his face.
He's doing the same to you. His face is tinged pink with embarrassment, and you realize that your cheeks are warm, too.
His eyes catch yours, widening slightly. "Uh," he starts, gaze flying away. You see the spread of warmth across his ears and down his neck. "I was thinking we could eat first and then film… Maybe play a game or something?"
You nod quickly, following him out of the elevator. "That sounds good to me." You wince internally, imagining how awkward the video would be if you started filming right away. You can only hope that some buffer time before then would ease the tension.
When you enter his apartment, your jaw drops, eyes scanning the luxurious space. "Damn," you whisper. "You sure I can't join your internet family plan?"
He smiles, shooting a glance back at you as he leads you to the kitchen. There are bags of takeout already there, the smell of food wafting wonderfully over you. "You gonna use it for League?"
Your grin is comfortable, and there's a wave of relief crashing over you. You can feel the tension fading just a little bit, which means there's still hope.
"What're you gonna do if I do?" you joke, leaving your bag by his couch.
Golden eyes find you, and there's a flash of something there — something that warms the knot underneath your navel — before he looks away, his smile tighter than before.
"Guess you gotta find out."
You flush with warmth, all the way down to your toes. Had that transferred over as well? The jokes that lean a little too far away from platonic? The one-liners that hold more than they should?
You don't hate the idea. Not at all.
You help him unpack the food – he’d gotten your favorite, despite only ever seeing you eat over a discord call – and join him on the sofa, his massive TV and multiple game consoles collected on his TV stand. He untangles two controllers, passing one to you as he crouches by the stand and plugs one of the consoles in.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. You watch him tilt his head, watch his hair cascade down like a waterfall, feel the urge to tangle your fingers in it. “The only people who come over are Kuroo and Hinata. I can never get them to game with me.”
You cross your ankles, uncross them, look around his place some more. “I can come over more, if that’s what you’re asking.”
You hear him laugh through his nose, and then he nods. That urge to tangle your fingers in his hair grows stronger.
"Yeah, that's what I'm asking," he jokes. "Want you here every day."
"Get me a key, then."
He turns, eyes finding you. He doesn't say anything, just rises and hits the power button on the console. Then he joins you on the couch. You try not to notice that he sits close enough that his thigh touches yours.
The Mario Kart soundtrack fills his living room, so you force down the thought of his body heat. Of his cologne, washing over you. Of the hyper-sensitivity on the right side of your body, the side that's pressed to his.
You manage to fake your way through the nerves, the game relaxing you and the food delicious. Jokes fly easily, the bump of his elbow on yours easy and the shove of your shoulder into his when he's winning all too comfortable.
You don't even realize that several hours have passed, not until you glance out his floor-to-ceiling windows — he's way too rich, you think — and see that it's completely dark out.
"Oh," you breathe, looking around. The food is long-finished, and you've gotten completely comfortable in Kenma's home. Legs kicked up on the coffee table, hoodie removed from the warmth of pushing and shoving and yelling about the game for hours on end, your weight slumped heavily against his.
He shifts, moving you in the process, and stares out the window. "Damn," he says, slightly out of breath from screaming his head off at you hitting him with a blue shell. "We should film, huh?"
You laugh. "Yeah, probably." You set the controller down and rise, stretching your arms high above your head and groaning quietly. When you open your eyes, you find Kenma's gaze latched onto the slip of skin you're showing, just above your jeans. He looks away quickly, but you'd still caught it, the same way you're catching the pink tinge in his ears.
You swallow, warm, and clear your throat. "Shall we?"
"Yeah."
You follow him down the hall, your tote bag weighing you down. It's full of your makeup, the consensus on the last stream that everyone wants to see him do the "boyfriend does my makeup" trend.
You stop at the door he steps through, staring.
It's his bedroom.
"Oh-" you start, eyes wide. "I thought we would be in your office."
His eyes fly to yours, panic seeping into his expression. "Oh. I thought it would be more comfortable on the bed." He blinks, and you see his brain working overtime. "We can-"
"No!" you laugh, entering and setting your bag on the floor by the foot of his bed. "It's okay, you're probably right."
He's silent while you unpack all your makeup onto his bed, and then he sighs quietly. "Okay," he breathes. "I'll get the tripod." He scurries from the room with the pace of someone incredibly nervous, and you can't blame him. You feel the same.
He returns after a moment, tripod and camera in hand, and sets up next to the foot of his bed. When he's done, he looks to you expectantly. "Ready?"
You climb onto the mattress, nodding. "Let's do it."
He settles down next to you and presses record. "Okay," he says, examining the view in the little side panel. "We're good."
You grin, waving at the camera. "Howdy."
You see his brows furrow, watch the grin slide across his face as he looks at you. "'Howdy'? That's what we're doing?"
"Just start the damn video."
"It's started!" he laughs. "Be normal!"
"This is normal!"
"Oh, my god," he sighs, addressing the camera. "Hi. Kozuken here," he starts. He gestures to you. "Marco, as you probably guessed."
You wave again. "Howdy."
"I'm gonna kill you."
You shove him. He shoves back. When you try again, he catches you by the wrists with one hand, dragging them down into his lap. You gawk at him, flushing, and then remember that the camera is on.
You turn to it, one eyebrow raised and a smirk tugging at your lips.
"And that, ladies-" you say. "-is how you get a man to do what you want."
You can't help it — falling back into what's comfortable. It's unfortunate that this is what's comfortable.
Kenma leans into it, too. He can't help it, either, then.
"She thinks I don't know what she wants," he jokes, shaking his head. "I'm always ten steps ahead." And then he lets you go with a quiet exhale. "Let's get to the point of the video, please." His voice is light, but you can see the warmth in his cheeks.
You can feel the warmth in yours, too, but you push on. "Okay, so by popular demand, we're doing the 'boyfriend does my makeup' trend!"
He smiles, giving you a purposely pointed look. "You gonna clarify for the masses, or are you just gonna let them think I'm your boyfriend?"
You grin, shrug. "I'm gonna let the masses think what they want."
"Whatever you say," he gives in easily. He turns so that one leg is hanging off the bed, the other ankle crossed under his knee as he faces you. You mirror him, getting as close as you can and leaving your leg overlapped with his.
"Shall we?" you say, gesturing to your mountain of different products. "I brought everything I own, just because I want to make your life harder."
"You certainly do like to do that," he says, shaking his head at the pile. "Fuck, this is a whole store." He glances around and then up at you. "Alright," he sighs. "Let's see what I can fuck up in the next hour."
And then he pulls a hair tie off of his wrist and cups your face with both hands. You gasp quietly, eyes trained on his in confusion. He smothers a smile and slides his hands into your hair, looping his arms around your neck and gathering it all up in one hand. He ties your hair up like that, your breath mingling in the minimal space between you and his eyes locked tight on yours. His eyes flick down to your lips quickly and then come back, and you know he sees how you warm because his smile grows before he bites down on his bottom lip to cover it.
He leans away, examining your makeup. You turn to the camera while he does, staring hard. "You guys saw that, right?"
"I'm sure they're rewinding over and over again as we speak," he jokes, yanking a bottle from the depths. "'Foundation'," he reads. "Well, that seems promising. Buildings start with the foundation, don't they?"
You grin, staring up at him while he reads the back of the vial. "Good boy," you tease. "Using your wittle bwain."
He glares at you through his lashes. "Say it again. Go ahead."
You shrink away, just beaming at him while he uncaps the bottle and starts to smear foundation all over your face. He uses far too much, enough that you feel a whine build in your throat.
"You're wasting it. That was expensive-"
"Shh," he whispers, drawing on your forehead. "I'll buy you more later."
"You better."
"You know I'm good for it," he mumbles, focusing hard. You try not to flush, but you can feel his voice — deep, low, close — dripping down your spine like honey. "Now be quiet. I'm making art."
Now that you notice, you realize he actually is drawing. He's writing something on your face with the wand. You start to pull back, but he catches your chin with his other hand.
"Where you goin'?" he breathes, still focusing. "I'm not done."
You grimace. "You're writing weird shit on my face, Koz." You hear it, the bratty whine that trickles out with your words. But you can't help it, not when he's gripping your face like that and talking to you like that. Like you're his.
He just chews on his lip, that grin still threatening to spill out. "Just be patient."
"I'm not good at that."
His teeth flash briefly when he snickers. "I can teach you, if you'd like."
You push him away, huffing petulantly. He just laughs, the sound bright. You use the opportunity to lean into the camera, examining the side panel.
Property of Kozuken
Your tongue pushes against the inside of your cheek, nostrils flaring. You know the camera catches it all, that it catches the look you shoot him over your shoulder.
He's still smiling, all too pleased and not nearly embarrassed enough.
You find your spot again, glaring up at him. "Fix it." When he just coos, cupping your face teasingly, you lean forward, pressing your hands into his thighs and filling his space with your presence. "Fix it, Koz," you breathe, your pout poking out for him.
You're close enough that you hear his breath stutter. You feel his body twitch in response to you. You watch his eyes flick between yours and down to your lips, lingering too long to be accidental.
"Okay, okay," he mumbles. His thumbs spread over your cheeks, wiping away the Kozu and ken in two gentle swipes. "Don't get mad. I was joking."
You don't know what to do with the fact that he'd said it quietly enough that there's no way the camera caught it. That he'd said it for you, just for you.
"Not mad," you whisper, still leaning on his thighs, still pressing your face up toward his. "Definitely not mad."
His eyes widen, and then his eyelashes flutter, his lips parted and his breath shaky as it leaves him. He glances at the camera, laughing nervously.
"Chat, she's whispering nasty shit in my ear."
You push off of him with a roll of your eyes, ignoring the fingers that snag on your wrist, the thumb that swipes over your pulse once, twice, before leaving your hand in his lap. He shuffles through the rest of your makeup, starting to organize the bottles by type.
You talk to the camera while he works. "I think next time, we should do something that doesn't involve wasting all my makeup. Like a plushy reveal!"
"I told you no," he says right away, still sorting. "You have a storage unit's worth of plushies in that bed."
"Okay, then you come to my place. We can rank them together." You lean over, off camera, and snag your fingers on the single plush he has on the armchair. It's a cat, orange and squishy and totally messed up from years of tugging and kneading at it. "But bring this with you."
He snatches it, smacking you on the head with the squishy butt of it before tossing it up to the head of his bed. "You're biased. You bought it."
You nod, contemplative as you tell the story. "He had a bit of an anger issue with games when we were kids. But he would just punch the air and scream, so I sent him a little stress toy." You reach for it again, showing the camera how disfigured it is. "Look what he did, guys! He's a monster."
"I have a lot of cute aggression to get out of my system."
You turn over your shoulder, meeting his eyes. "Oh, yeah? About what?"
His gaze is steady, even when a single eyebrow lifts.
You look back at the camera, your face noticeably warmer. You look away, the sight of yourself in that camera tugging at the fluttering nerves in your stomach.
Kenma moves on without comment. "These all say concealer," he says, turning a few over and reading them. He glances at you when you stay quiet. You know he can see the burn of your cheeks, that your gaze is distant. That you're clearly still embarrassed about how things are falling into place between you.
"Too much?" he finally says, eyes still reading labels and hands still separating vials into different sections. You get the sense that he plans to cut this part out of the video.
You shake your head. His knee is starting to bounce anxiously. You let your fingers dance over his jeans, pressing down on his knee to calm him. "Not too much," you say, chewing on your lip and staring down at the spot where your leg overlaps with his. "Just nervous."
He stalls, fingers hovering a tube of lipstick. You hear him swallow.
"Yeah," he eventually breathes. "Me, too."
You both move on.
He clears his throat and raises his voice for the camera again. "I'm gonna try one of these concealer things."
"Okay."
"Where do I put it?"
You just smile. He rolls his eyes.
He ends up slathering it in random spots. The only one he gets right is the spot under your eyes, where he ends up putting way too much.
"Wow, this is ass," he jokes, trying to rub it in with his thumbs. You make choked noises, leaning away in fear that he's going to stab you in the eyes. He ends up bent over in laughter, hands still cupping your face, and you end up straining to look at the camera, the panic in your eyes obvious.
He moves on, leaving you caked in foundation and concealer as he picks up a pile of pencils. All lip liner.
"These look like they go on your eyes." When you stare at him in horror, he smiles innocently. "Eyeliner, right?"
You just smile, full of fear, and turn to the camera again. "Yeah."
"Close your eyes, then."
You keep smiling at the camera. "Don't wanna."
"C'mon," he laughs, nudging you. He's wielding a red pencil. You just stare. "Close your eyes."
You whimper dramatically, letting your eyes fall shut.
He's gentle, but that was never a concern, really. The real concern — the one that sits at the back of your throat as your eyes are sliding shut — is how close he's going to choose to get.
It's close. Really close.
You feel his breath on your lips, feel his hair tickle your face, feel his fingers holding gently to your chin, keeping you steady.
"While he fucks this up," you start, voice light but slightly shaky. "Let me talk about the games I wanna play that we can record off stream and upload later."
"Mhm," he hums. You wonder if he's nervous about your breath on his lips, too.
"Well, I wanna play Stardew. I also think people would have fun watching me try games I suck at."
"Like League?" he jokes quietly. You gasp, ignoring the fact that you can feel when he speaks, feel the bass in his voice and the slide of honey that comes with it.
"Take that back right now."
"No."
"Koz," you whine. "Be nice to me. I'm letting you mess up my face."
There's a long pause, one where you feel him start to laugh, the bed shaking slightly. Your skin warms dramatically under his touch.
"Shut up," you bite. "You have such a dirty mind."
"I didn't even have to say anything for you to get there, too."
"You just wanna see me under your desk."
He chokes, leaning away from you quickly. "Shit," he coughs. "Warn a man."
Your eyes are still closed. "You never warn me!"
He comes back after a moment, drawing lightly on your eyelids for just a little longer. And then he sighs.
"Fuck," he jokes. "I don't think I should have picked a red one."
You smile, trying not to shiver when he cups your jaw with his free hand, fingertips pressing softly into your cheeks. "I think," you start, breathing deep when his fingers twitch in response. "That you should have picked an eyeliner."
He pauses, and you just know he's staring at the pencil in confusion. "What are you?" he whispers, loud enough for the camera.
You keep smiling, your whisper just as loud. "Lip liner."
"Ah, shit," he laughs. "Well — Since I'm here." His fingers push at your cheeks, forcing your lips to pucker for him.
You stop breathing, and your eyes snap open in surprise. He meets your gaze evenly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and then he refocuses his attention on drawing the outline of your lips.
"You look ridiculous," he comments while he works.
You just roll your eyes. "I wonder why," you mutter, your voice muffled by his grip.
He leans away when he's done, humming pleasantly. "I think I'm done."
"What?" you laugh, turning to examine yourself in the camera. "Koz, I look so stupid."
"I'm too scared to try anything else."
"You didn't even do lipstick," you complain. "Or mascara. I look like a fool."
"I think it suits you." He just laughs when you smack him, his hand rubbing at the spot on his chest that you'd hit. "Say bye to the masses."
"Koz," you complain, lamenting your appearance in the camera. "You've got to be fucking with me-"
"Bye!" he calls, his hands coming down on the camera and shutting it off.
You just stare. "Do you see me?"
He laughs, squeezing your cheeks together with one hand. "You look like a dumbass."
"Yeah!" you laugh back. "My foundation's splotchy, there's concealer caked under my eyes, and you used lip liner all over the place!"
He just stands, tugging a box of tissues over and wiping his hands diligently. You swipe one, too, scrubbing at your skin. He gasps.
"My art!"
"I'm not going outside like this," you say, standing at the full-length mirror in the corner and working at your face until, though red and splotchy from scrubbing, it's clear of makeup. You don't say anything about the fact that Kenma's just been watching from the bed, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle while he leans back on his hands.
"You wanna stick around a little?" he asks quietly. You glance at him in the reflection, smiling shyly.
"Next time? It's late."
He looks reluctant to nod, but he does anyway. "Yeah. Next time." He turns, packing your makeup away while you wash your hands in his en suite bathroom.
He walks you to the door quietly, hauling your tote bag for you and waiting while you put your shoes on. "Want me to walk you?"
You smile at him, taking the bag. "I'll be okay."
"I don't like that you're walking in the dark. Let me call an uber at least."
"I'll be fine," you say. "Want me to call you while I walk?"
He flushes. "No."
"Would it make you feel better?"
"… Yes."
You laugh. "Okay. I'm gonna go."
He looks like he's searching for any reason to keep you here. You purse your lips, the nerves coming back. But you set the bag against the door for just a moment, anyway.
When you hug him, it surprises him. You feel his inhale, sharp and quiet, as you wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face in the crook. His hands find your waist easily, gentle and trembling slightly. He slips his arms around you after a moment, pulling you flush to his body.
You let your urge from earlier win, fingers finally tangling into his hair.
He shivers. It flies down his spine almost violently, shaking you in the process. The breath he lets out is mixed with a sound that you desperately want to call a moan.
"Fuck," he whispers, laughing nervously. "Sorry."
Warmth floods your skin, seeping low into the spot under your navel. You cling to him, feeling when his hold on you tightens.
"'s okay," you whisper back.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You feel him swallow, the sound dragging past your ear.
And then he presses his lips to your shoulder. Quietly. Gently.
You inhale harshly, your exhale just as hard.
He does it again, against your pulse. His fingers dig into your skin when a whine flies past your lips.
"Kenma," you breathe.
His chest is rising and falling unevenly. "You should go," is all he says.
It takes all your strength to pull away from him. He looks as unsteady on his feet as you feel. His pupils are blown wide and his face is burning red and he's carding his fingers through his hair and letting out a sigh that speaks of distress and feelings he doesn't want to voice.
"Bye, Koz," you say, wanting him to look at you again.
He does. You wonder if he can even help it anymore.
"Call me," he says, his voice rough, thick with emotion. "Soon as you leave."
"I will," you promise.
You do, the moment you step foot in the lobby.
He doesn't sound any less overwhelmed. You know you don't, either.
—
"Oh, my god," you laugh, scrolling through the comments. "This is nuts."
"It's only been up 12 hours," he says, equally amazed. He's watching your shared screen so that you can react to the same comments at the same time.
'you cannot physically convince me that these two arent secretly in a relationship and are just gaslighting us.'
You laugh. "Should I like it, just so people crash out?"
"You know my answer."
You leave a little heart on the comment and scroll.
'WHY DO THEY LOOK AT EACH OTHER LIKE THAT. SOME OF US ARE SINGLE.'
Another like.
'property of kozuken??? are you joking??? are you kidding?? are you playing??? you think this is a damn joke, markoz??????'
Another like, and you add a heart in a comment, too, just because it's that funny.
'the way she whines his name whenever he does anything stupid?? you just KNOW he loves it.'
You stare at the comment, your mouse hovering over it. Kenma says nothing. You scroll without liking it.
"Go back."
You jump, a shock running through you. "What?"
"Go back," he says again, his voice soft as ever but his words tugging on that cord he has wrapped around your spine. "And like it."
You want to tease him. You want to make some stupid joke. You want this to be part of the running bit between the two of you.
But you can't do it.
So you just scroll back up and like the comment.
You rush to scroll down again, your face burning and your ears starting to ring.
'every time she sasses him he looks like he cant decide if he wants to kiss her or do so much worse'
You scroll quickly.
"Go back."
You go back and like it.
'if you look hard enough you can see the moment koz pops a boner'
"Oh, my god," you mutter, your face burning. You scroll, praying he doesn't say those two words again. Praying you can move past it, because you're not sure you can handle it if he doesn't.
"Y/n."
That's worse than telling you to go back.
You sigh, the sound stuttering. "Koz," you whisper. "C'mon."
"Go back. And like it."
"You have to be joking."
"I'm not," he says, his voice still soft, even though he's saying something truly terrible. "If you don't do it, I'm gonna go in there and write a response."
"What could you possibly say?" you joke, your laugh desperate.
"That they're right."
Your skin breaks out in goosebumps.
"And then I'm gonna leave the timestamp."
You bury your face in your hands. "Kenma," you whisper.
"4:52."
You're shaking. You can't deal with the fact that he has an answer. That he's telling you to go look.
"Y/n."
You shudder, hand clamped over your mouth and the warmth under your navel burning hot, dangerously so.
You find the timestamp.
'Fix it,' you're saying. You're leaning onto his thighs, your eyes big and your pout petulant as you push your face into his. 'Fix it, Koz.' The words property of kozuzen are half-visible on your face. He's looking down at you like he's losing his mind. You hadn't realized it at the time, but the pained expression is plastered on his face.
You swallow. "That was super early on."
"I know. It was torture."
You hang your head, breathing hard. "I regret meeting you in person, Koz."
He's silent, completely silent.
"What?" he finally says. His voice is thick. You can hear the fear in that single word. "Why?"
You laugh pitifully. "I knew I wasn't going to be able to handle it. That I wouldn't be able to be normal about you afterward."
His breath is heavy in the mic of his headset. "Normal about me?"
"I like you so much," you whisper, almost hoping he doesn't hear it. "It's so much worse now." You dig the heel of your hand into your eye. "I want you so bad, Kenma."
You hear when his breath stutters, when he whispers 'oh, fuck' to himself.
"You mean that?"
You haven't ever meant something this strongly in your whole life. It's been three days, and you haven't stopped thinking about him for even a second.
"Kenma," you whine, tears pricking behind your eyes. "Please."
You hope he gets what you're saying.
He hangs up.
Your heart jumps. He got it.
—
He makes it to your door in under ten minutes. You don't say anything about the messy hair or the way his chest is heaving or the wild look in his eye.
You don't say anything at all. You just grab him by the collar of his hoodie and drag him into your apartment.
He crowds you against the wall immediately, barely managing to kick his shoes off in the process. His eyes are flying across your face, checking your gaze and the flush in your cheeks and the way you're chewing on your lip.
"Please don't take it back," he breathes, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. "Please."
You just shove your fingers into his hair, tangling tight and pulling him to you. A moan rips out of his throat and his hands slam down on the wall on either side of you as you push your lips against his.
He kisses you like he's been thinking about it for years. You let yourself admit that you've been thinking about it, too.
His lips burn on yours, the push and pull full of desperation, urgency. He pushes his body against yours, and you feel so clearly that he's shaking. That he's leaning on you like he's worried you'll disappear. You cup his face, kissing him deep and then whispering into his mouth.
"I'm not goin' anywhere, Kenma."
He shudders, drops his hands to your waist and pulls you impossibly closer. "I know. It's just been so long." You don't have to ask what he means. You just wrap your arms around his neck, letting him haul you up, letting your legs wrap tight around his waist. Feeling when he presses you into the wall and pins you there with his hips. "I've known you my whole life," he breathes. "Had you my whole life."
"Wasn't enough," you mumble, a little distracted by the way his lips get rougher, the way his grip on you gets possessive.
"Yeah," he mutters, teeth tugging your bottom lip into your mouth. His tongue presses to it hard, tasting you. "Wasn't enough."
"Always kinda hoped you weren't joking," you admit, clinging tight when he starts to walk you through the room. He pauses every few feet, pushing you against the nearest surface so he can kiss you, like he can't help it. "When we started messing around on stream."
He laughs into your mouth. "The first few times, I was sure you could see how red I was." You couldn't, but you remember your own reactions so clearly, back in college when you and Kenma were just starting to realize you were both adults.
"Why did this take so long?" you breathe, shuddering when his lips trail down the line of your throat, his tongue searing into your skin. "We could've been doing this the whole time."
He nibbles on your pulse, passes his tongue over it. Starts to suck on that spot. "I dunno," he mumbles. "We were socially stunted kids on the internet?"
You giggle, carding your fingers through his hair and tugging. He grunts, marking you in another spot now. You tug again, and he pushes his hips against yours, a warning. You sigh, your eyes shut and a smile on your lips when you feel how hard he is.
"I think I like pulling your hair," you admit, tugging again. He uses his grip on your waist to pull you into him harder.
"I think you think you're in charge."
"Am I not?" you sigh. "You're so soft. You let me do whatever I want. You always have."
He lifts his head away, golden eyes locked tight on yours. His gaze glints with the edge of something sharp.
"You just said it," he breathes, smiling. "I let you do what you want." He tilts his head when you start to shrink under his gaze, his smile stretching wide. "You didn't notice?" he coos.
You purse your lips, staring up at him. "Shut up, Koz," you grumble, tugging on his locks again.
He sets you on your feet before you can blink, and you realize in that moment that playing volleyball regularly since high school wouldn't have left him without something to show for it.
Your hands are ripped from his hair and pinned above your head without a single word from him. He just holds you there, trapped against the living room wall, his smile entirely too smug.
"Wanna take it back?" he teases, eyes passing over your embarrassed flush with glee.
You pout at him. "C'mon, Koz."
"Say 'please'."
You sigh. "Please, Kenma."
He lifts his brows. "Now say 'pretty please'."
You glare. "Fuck you."
You can't decide if that look in his eye — pleased, smug, victorious — makes you want to kick or kiss him.
"Not 'til you say 'pretty please'," he says, starting to laugh.
You groan, laughing because he is, and put on your best pout.
"Pretty please, Kenma?"
You watch his brain stop working. It's a beautiful sight.
You use the chance to rip out of his grasp. He blinks, surprised, but it's smothered by you throwing your arms around him and dragging him into another searing kiss. He moans, relenting and just pulling you close.
You stumble down the hall like that, half-blind and knocking things over without care. He slams his hand down on the wall multiple times to keep you from falling over and dragging you down with him. You just keep doing it, too busy kissing him to care if you end up on the floor. It's a dance — a clumsy, stupid dance — but you eventually make it to your room, shoving your back against the door and pulling him in with you.
You collapse on the bed together, the desperation taking over again now that you're here. Now that this is real.
His hoodie hits the floor first. Your shorts go next.
Nothing else makes it off of you.
He starts to moan openly, and you start to whimper into his mouth, his hips rocking you into the mattress again and again. You fist his t-shirt in your hands, keeping him close. He slips his fingertips under the band of your panties, tugging while he rubs his tongue against yours.
"Can I…" he whispers, his breath warm against your lips and his mouth falling back on yours right away. You nod, expecting him to pull them down.
He doesn't. He doesn't have the patience for it. He just slides his fingers between your legs and presses them against your clit. Your back arches, and you whine loudly into his mouth. His breathing grows more ragged while he touches you, and his moans fall out in time with yours, like he gets as much pleasure from touching you as you do from being touched by him.
Your high approaches too soon. "Kenma," you breathe, high-pitched and full of warning.
He stops immediately, shaking his head. "Not yet," he mumbles, still kissing you. You don't understand how it's possible that you haven't gotten tired of kissing him yet. "Wanna feel you around me when it happens."
You whimper, nodding. "Please? Now?"
He smiles against you, nodding along. "Yeah. Now."
He shoves his pants down blindly, barely letting them hit his thighs before he's reaching between your thighs again. A wave of chills crashes down over the crown of your head, flooding your body when you feel him pull your panties to the side and slide the head of his cock through your folds.
"Oh, my-" You shiver, moans falling past your lips without your permission.
He's no better, his breath shaky and quiet groans building in his throat. He shoves his lips against yours again, moaning down your throat when he nudges against your entrance. You hear yourself begging, hear yourself mumbling his name over and over again while you beg him to do it.
When he pushes into you, it comes with a moan that gets caught in his throat, his voice cutting off and his breath going with it. Your vision goes white, and you just cling to him, knowing he's going to have nail marks in his skin and holes in his shirt later.
"Please," you breathe, almost inaudible. "Yes, please, fuck-"
He isn't patient enough to bottom out. He just starts to thrust, bullying his cock into you little by little with each push of his hips. "Oh, fuck," he moans. "Fuck, fuck, fuck-"
His pace isn't steady or even or anything remotely controlled. His hips stutter and twitch, and his moans get louder every time you clench around him. It's messy and desperate and neither of you cares nearly enough about making this perfect. You're too lost in each other, too lost in the fact that this moment was built over years of loving each other, of learning each other.
When he comes, it's with a trapped whine and your name, his forehead pressed to yours and the words 'I love you' slipping out as he pushes his lips against yours. When you come, it's much the same, his name on your lips like a mantra, your love washing over him in time with the flutter of your walls around him.
It takes several minutes — maybe even hours — for you to move, your body trapped under his and your mind completely content, warm.
You both fall asleep, sweaty and messy and completely at peace.
As you're drifting off, curled up in his arms, you mumble a question.
First time Dad!Rafe who cried with you after the birth of your son because he was so unbelievably proud of the pain you were strong enough to push through. First time Dad!Rafe who offered to get a vasectomy because he never wanted you to go through the trauma of childbirth again. First time Dad!Rafe who hired a private chef to cook your meals because he wanted to spend all his time with you and baby Cameron.
you and rafe were best friends and best friends only.
granted, he ate you out once to make sure he was doing it properly, and fingered you til you saw white, and then kept going til you were twitching on his bed. but you were just practice for his future girlfriend.
it wasn't personal.
you, however, never did anything in return. dicks are scary and you'd rather stay celibate than learn to suck a random guys dick.
except rafe wasnt a random guy.
and you didnt have to learn what youd already filled your brain with—smut. giving head seemed easy enough when it was words on a screen. maybe you could even use the same techniques you read up on.
"would you let me suck your dick?"
rafe glances up at you as you stand in front of him, his eyebrows raised. he puts his phone down on the empty space beside him on the couch. "sorry?"
you put your hands on your hips. "yes or no?"
a smut smirk appears across his face as he slowly nods. "you don't know how to give head, sweetheart."
you roll your eyes and sink to your knees. "i will bite your dick off, cameron." you reach for the waistband of his sweats; he lifts his hips to help you.
unsurprisingly, he's big. bigger than big, actually. not to mention hes already hard and his tip is leaking precum.
"you gonna keep staring or—oh shit." rafe exhales sharply as he feels the sudden heat of your mouth around his dick, your hand around his base to stroke what you cant take.
you hallow your cheeks and relax your throat before you start to bob your head, gradually taking more and more until your nose pressed against his pelvis and you gag a bit. you could feel him pressing against the back of your throat as deep throat him.
you keep stroking him as you pull off to breathe. you look up at him through your eyelashes and lower your head again, sticking your tongue out to lick against the vein on the underside of his dick.
"h-holy fuck," rafe groans, chest rising and falling quickly as he tries—and miserably fails—to control his breathing. where the fuck did you learn to suck dick like this?
his eyes nearly roll back when your tongue runs over his balls, your thumb rubbing against the slit on his dick; he cant take his eyes off you. he watches in mortifyingly confused pleasure as you suck the life out of him.
hes gotten head in the past but not from you and not this good.
your lips wrap around his tip again; you wrap both hands around the base, slightly twisting as you let out a muffled moan, feeling him pulse against your tongue.
"shittt, I'm g’nna cum," he rasps, hips bucking.
you don't let up—keeping the same pace until his hands find your head and he holds you in place while he sloppily thrusts into your throat before cumming down it.
its a little satly but you don't mind the taste. slowly, you pull off, coughing and panting as you catch your breath.
rafe pants softly. your pupils are blown when you look up at him, your lips a little bruised. youre a sight for sore eyes on your knees and he cant help the way he gets hard all over again.
you grin, wiping the access cum off your lips with your thumb then licking it off. "so much for not knowing how to give head right?"
Rafe Cameron was everything you could ever want in a man. He listened to your rants when you had a bad day and offered solutions to make it better, he remembered the perfume you once mentioned in passing so he could surprise you with it, he understood your outbursts when you got overstimulated to the point where you started having a panic attack and he was always there to calm you down, he made you breakfast the morning after you drank too much at a party, he surprised you with dinner dates throughout the week and had a fresh bouquet of Marigold flowers just because. He practically worshipped the ground that you walked on.
However, you have trust issues. Yes, you two were already dating, but it’s still early and you second guessed everything. Yes, you loved that he took care of you in ways you didn’t have to ask for or point out, but there way always this nagging voice in the back of your head telling you how he’s just using you. He doesn’t love you the way he says he does, you know that. He’s lying. He’ll leave you just like everyone else in your life did. It’s only a matter of time before he breaks things off for a better girl. A girl who’s not as messed up as you. A girl who can actually articulate her feelings instead of pushing everyone away. You’re not good enough for him.
You wish you could communicate the way your brain fought with you to Rafe. You wish you could speak to him without that burning feeling crawling up your throat while you blink away tears before they have the opportunity to spill and shut the conversation down with a frustrated, “Nevermind.”
Right now, you were wishing you didn’t drink as much as you did a few minutes ago. Your brain feels like it’s bouncing off your skull as you push through the overwhelmingly hot, moving bodies dancing under the flashing, bright lights in some Kook’s house party. You need to get outside. You can’t stay in here.
You came with Sarah but she disappeared after you went to the bathroom. It’s too loud in here for you to call Rafe and you can feel the panic in your chest rising. It hurts when you swallow; the air can’t exhale through your nose quick enough so you change to breathing through your mouth. It doesn’t help.
Pushing at the front door, you finally feel the cool airflow through your lungs as you force yourself to take deep breaths. It takes you half an hour to calm down, however, your head still feels heavy. You sit on the steps and cover your eyes with your palms, a resigned sigh falling from your lips.
“Pretty?” The sound of Rafe’s voice makes your head snap up. “I thought you’d be inside—what’s wrong?” He helps you up to stand and gently wipes at the loose tears you didn’t realized had fallen. “You wanna go home?”
You nod silently.
…
You swear you feel drunker by the time you sit at your dining room table while Rafe reheats your leftovers the way he knows you prefer—in a pan rather than the microwave.
Something in your heart swells as you watch him move around your kitchen with practiced ease. Tell him. Your eyes dart down to your folded hands on the table and you fidget, picking at the skin around your thumb. A nervous habit you’ve been trying to break, but alas, here you are. Tell him. You want to. Tears are already forming in your eyes. Tell him. You need to say it; you can’t keep bottling up your hurt because of fear. Tell him—
“I’m scared you’re gonna leave me eventually,” You confess softly.
Rafe freezes, then turns around, but you can’t bring yourself to look up at him. You keep going; you need to get all of this out before you start second guessing yourself.
“I keep…I keep telling myself that you’re not gonna stay the way you say you are, that you’re gonna leave once you realize how messed up I am and that sounds so selfish because all you do is shower me with love…” You clear your throat despite it tightening. “I feel like I’m holding you back from more important things in life and burdening you with my presence, like-“
“Like your mom told you,” he murmurs. It’s hard to hear how unloved you feel when he’s been trying to do the exact opposite of that. He knows you bottle up your negative emotions, but when he asked you about it in the past, you brushed it off and changed the subject. Now, you felt safe enough to let your vulnerabilities shine through. It’s a start.
Rafe walks over to you and kneels. He doesn’t make you look at him—he knows you need to make that decision on your own—but he does take your hands into his and kiss your knuckles. He keeps his head in your lap as he speaks, “I know you’re scared that I’m like everyone else in your life who walked out on you, and unfortunately, I can’t make you see that I’m not them. I can’t take the pain you’ve bottled up and give it to myself to stop you from hurting because God knows you don’t deserve it. You didn’t deserve what happened to you; you deserve the love a mother should always give her child and I’m so sorry that she failed you.” Your tears fall into his hair. “I’m sorry I can’t protect you from that voice in your head that keeps telling you theres no way out or there’s no one who loves you because I love you. I know no amount of words or actions can heal the scars that your mother left on your heart, but I do know that I will always, always, love you and I will always be by your side no matter what, okay?” He lifts his head finally and gently wipes at your tear-streaked face. “I promise I’m not leaving you.”
You spent the rest of that night sobbing into his shirt until you exhausted yourself and fell asleep, but you felt the warmth of Rafe’s arms even in your subconscious, the steady beat of his heart under his shirt calming you the way it always did. Maybe it was okay to trust him…
Unless I’ve specifically stated/hinted otherwise, the y/n’s i write for are not white because I am literally not white. I’m not using “raceplay undertones” i’m using MYSELF, a black woman, when writing for my characters.
Find sumn safe to do and have the day you deserve, thank you.
do you guys ever like forget you’re interested in something until you start engaging with it again and you go “oh wait i’m like crazy crazy about this yeah”
to all my fic writers: be that one rarepair writer. even if literally no one else is there. be the single glowing lightbulb in the void. write the rarepair so good some poor reader stumbles on it at 3am, loses their mind, and then realizes… oh. there’s only one fic. yours. congrats you’re both the blessing and the curse.
russian soldier. soft vodka and cigarettes breath. knuckle bruises. soviet era ballads. fur ushanka. says little, watches everything. husband material. doesn't believe in therapy. mama's boy. winter mornings. thick accent. swears in russian. snowy walks. military buzzcut.
rafe grew up too fast. just with his mother's presence. raised on a depressing town full of silence, grief and superstition.
⤷⠀SLAVIC!RAFE who's hands are always cold so he stuffs them inside your sweater between your boobs because — "they're warm".
⤷⠀SLAVIC!RAFE who hums old russian lullabies under his breath when he thinks you're asleep — songs his mother used to sing when the power went out.
⤷⠀SLAVIC!RAFE who loves physical touch — doesn't know how to talk about his feelings so he shows them through actions.
⤷⠀SLAVIC!RAFE who when jealous, clenches his jaw and goes quiet until getting home where you can make it up to him.
⤷⠀SLAVIC!RAFE who gets up early to chop wood in the freezing cold, shirtless for no reason. comes back inside with snow in his hair, rubbing his nose, muttering “zamerz kak suka.” (froze like a bitch)
⤷⠀SLAVIC!RAFE who presses a kiss to your forehead after sex like he didn't just ruin you five minutes ago.
⤷⠀SLAVIC!RAFE who groans your name and mutters in russian when he's close — leaves bruises on your thighs like he's marking territory.
⤷⠀SLAVIC!RAFE who bites your shoulder when he wants to stay quiet because his mama's downstairs — but keeps going, hand over your mouth, fucking you slow and deep to tease.
suguru geto’s guide to cunnilingus ft. cuck gojo. minors DNI.
satoru gojo was a good boyfriend. a great boyfriend even.
while your girlfriends were trying (and failing) to convince theirs to do the bare minimum, your boyfriend was off buying a purse you’d mentioned once in passing. spending a couple grand daily without so much as batting an eye.
satoru brought over an extra coffee and your favorite pastry whenever you were pulling a particularly long studying sesh in the school library. there was hardly anything that went unnoticed.
but there was only problem in your relationship.
satoru gojo could not make you cum to save his own life.
piles and piles of books all focused around anatomy and female pleasure were stacked on his bookcase next to his neat lil’ collection of comics. he’d read them multiple times—to the point where he could probably recite each one back to front and front to back.
and still, he couldn’t manage to put what he’d read into action. every time he slid your panties down, salivating just at the sight of your glistening folds (after almost thirty minutes of foreplay), he froze.
his hands grew clammy, sweat beaded up on his forehead like he’d just ran a marathon, and his tongue started to feel like lead. everything he read left his mind and he ended up lapping at your cunt like a desperate dog until you pulled him off with a small, reassuring smile.
and now, you weren’t even entertaining the idea. “‘toru, it’s fine. i’ll just get my vibe to help me out or something,” you told him before he could even kneel down. satoru felt his heart drop to his ass.
satoru dropped back on his knees, staring at you like you’d offended him and his bloodline in one go. “you’re seriously gonna let a clanker-” he spat out the word with such disdain before continuing with his rant, “-into our bedroom? into our safe space and abode? i mean, seriously, think about the environment and the battery power required to power that thing. soon enough you’ll replace me with a robot and-”
you stopped him before he could continue with his rambling, “do you have a better idea then?”
“actually yeah, give me a second.” before you could respond, he darted off. locking himself in the bathroom and pulling his phone out like it was urgent.
it was.
his fingers flew across the screen, dialing the only number other than yours he had memorized by now.
he didn’t give the other man a chance to speak, immediately talking like he was recruiting geto for the military. “suguru i need your help. i feel like she’s about to dump my ass.”
a yawn left the other man’s lips, “okay woah, slow down,” the sound of sheets rustling sounded next like he’d just woken up, “why do you think she’s gonna break up with you?”
“because i don’t know how eat pussy!” satoru whined, louder than he intended to. “can you come over and teach me, pleaseee? i’ll pay you.”
“teach you how?”
that was surprisingly.. less resistance than gojo was expecting. “can you eat out my girlfriend?” he knew how ridiculous it sounded, but he was desperate. “i’ll learn by watching you.”
the line went silent, suguru seemingly considering the offer for a couple seconds. “and your girlfriend’s okay with all this?”
“…..yeah.”
“i’ll be right over in twenty then.”
twenty minutes later on the dot, suguru was settling in between your thighs, pulling your legs to dangle over his broad shoulders. the little ‘s’ anklet satoru had got you dangled almost mockingly. looking up at you before he asked, “this okay with you?”
you turned to look over at satoru, over in the cuck chair in the ‘corner of shame’ as he so called it, but suguru quickly brought your attention back to him, gently biting on your inner thigh. “i’m asking you. i’m not asking your idiot of a boyfriend. is this okay?”
“yeah, it’s okay,” you responded almost immediately, feeling a shiver run down your spine as suguru crawled up, tilting your chin up. his kiss wasn’t desperate like satoru’s were, but it was still hungry. his tongue traced the seam of your lower lip before he coaxed your mouth open, tasting you like you were a divine fruit.
one of suguru’s hands moved down, pushing your lace panties to the side with ease. “oh f-fuck,” you whined into his mouth, hips bucking up into his fingers as he started to rub your folds, spreading your slick like jelly on bread.
“there we-” suguru murmured, pushing two fingers inside of your dripping cunt, “-go. took it so well for me, just relax,” he all but cooed in your ear, fingers moving in a torturous pace as he thrust them in and out. in and out, slow and steady.
admittedly, it was a little hard to relax when your boyfriend’s big blue orbs were staring at what seemed to be your soul while he dutifully took notes. scribbling down what exactly had you making the most noise, what you seemed to enjoy that he didn’t do.
but you leaned back, allowing yourself to get lost in suguru.
suguru dropped back to where he was once before and where he belonged: face to face with your cunt. but he ignored your desperate attempts of bucking your pussy in his face, choosing to start off on your inner thigh. each brush of his lips, each kiss, felt like a mocking tease the more he avoided touching where you wanted.
“please,” you spoke up. suguru’s eyes darted over to yours, a shit-eating smile on his face as he leaned forward. breath hitting your cunt, your walls clenching at nothing.
“please, what?”
“please eat me out, i need it, need you, please,” you babbled despite the chuckle that escaped the man’s throat. satoru wrote that down enthusiastically—you’d never begged for him like this. if anything, you asked for him to stop.
suguru give your thigh one last teasing bite before his tongue swiped across your folds, your slick overwhelming his taste buds. “you’re mmmf, missing out toru. she tastes like heaven.”
of course, satoru knew that. a pathetic whine left his lips as he watched suguru’s eyes practically roll back with each taste, eyes practically hyper focused on everything the man was doing. suguru spread your legs even wider, the tip of his tongue flicking against your entrance before he delved in.
“o-oh fuck, sugu!” a loud moan left your lips, fingers digging into his scalp as he started to eat you out like a man starving. saliva and slick dribbled down from his lips to his chin, the tip of his nose prodding against your throbbing clit.
satoru gojo didn’t bother even trying to keep up with his notes.
his notepad was left discarded, cock straining against the thin material of his digimon boxers. satoru didn’t free himself though, he didn’t deserve it. but he did palm himself through his sweatpants, giving himself just the slightest bit of pressure to feel some sort of relief.
“taste so good, such a shame satoru can’t make you cum,” suguru let out a muffled groan against your cunt, each one sending a vibration shooting up your spine. his lips latched onto your swollen clit, sucking and swirling his tongue against the sensitive bud while his fingers thrusted in you once more.
“don’t stop, fuck- sugu, fuck, gonna cum, gonna cum.” you sounded so pretty when you weren’t faking your orgasm. your back arched off the bed, toes curling and desperate babbles left your mouth—all in desperation to cum.
“there we go, take what you deserve,” suguru cooed, your orgasm washing over you like a wave almost instantly. you soaked his lips and chin, and yet, you laid back against the bed with a satisfied sigh.
suguru got up from his spot, walking over to the cuck chair. he tilted satoru’s chin, immediately met with the sight of the flustered man before he leaned in. being so generous as to give him the divine taste, spit dripping down satoru’s skin the messier the exchange got. satoru let out a moan, fingers digging into the man’s shoulder to pull him impossibly closer.
and just as quickly as it’d started, the raven haired man pulled away. “alright, hope that helps,” suguru announced before leaving, the door slamming shut behind him. leaving you panting and clenching the bedsheets like it was nothing.
and leaving gojo unsure if the cum dripping onto his underwear was from the sight of you being pleasured or from being kissed by his best friend.
@riveredmoon thank you for the clanker bit idea <3
p⭐️ rafe who doesn't count an orgasm unless he makes you squirt, even when you're at home
He had you stuck like this—folded, fucked-out, drenched—for so long that the only thing keeping you upright is his hand. Your knees have gone numb. One broad palm braced at the base of your spine, holding you down, while the other anchors your hips in place. His rhythm is cruel. Deep and steady, like he’s trying to rearrange the way your body remembers pleasure.
And it would be easier if you hadn’t already come three times. If your body wasn’t sore and puffy and slick. If the third orgasm hadn’t left you weeping into the sheets, trembling like you’d break if he kept going—
But he did keep going.
Because that one didn’t count.
Only the first one did, when his tongue had you writhing, knees locked around his ears as you squirted with a whimper and tried to squirm away from him afterwards.
“Where’s my girl now?” Rafe’s voice is low behind you, almost teasing, like he can see straight into your head. “She too fucked out to finish what she started?”
You let out a sob, more breath than voice, arms giving out beneath you as his cock drives in again—harder now. Your cheek presses to the mattress.
“I—I can’t—”
“Yeah, you can,” he snarls, snapping his hips once, twice—deep enough to punch sounds out of you. “You’ve been dancing around it all night, baby. Acting like I can’t feel the way you lock up right before it’s supposed to happen.”
You whine.
He leans forward, chest to your back, breath hot and ragged against your ear as his hand slides up to the front of your throat. He doesn’t apply pressure—yet—but he holds you there, warm and heavy and grounding.
“You think I ate your pretty pussy just to make you moan?” he whispers, fucking into you deeper now, every stroke dragging a desperate sound from your throat. “I did that shit so I’d know exactly what it feels like when you’re about to break. So when I’m inside you—like this—”
Another angled thrust right into your g-spot.
You choke on your breath.
“—I can drag it out of you. Whether you’re ready or not.”
“I—fuck—” You squirm, body clenching tight around him.
The slap of his hips against your ass gets louder. Wetter. You can hear how soaked you are, hear how your body reacts to him even while your mind tries to hold the dam together. But it’s cracking. You can feel it. Every thrust hits deeper. His hand on your throat gets firmer. His voice lower. Meaner.
“Don’t run from it again,” he growls, picking up speed, “You do, I’ll fuck you all night.”
“I’m not—nngh!— g’nna last,” you moan out, choked sounds leaving your throat. “Rafe, please—“
“Nah, you can.” He’s panting now, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder, pace turning vicious. “Relax this time, pretty girl.”
Your body’s losing it. Thighs trembling. Every muscle drawn taut as the dam in your stomach continuously tightens. You’re stuffed so deep it aches—full of him, surrounded by him, split wide open and shaking on his cock.
He growls low in his throat when he feels you clamp around him.
“That’s it. There she fuckin’ is.” His hand shifts to your jaw, holding your face to the mattress as he fucks into you harder than ever, voice thick with hunger. “Come on, sweet girl. Cum the way I need you to.”
He slams in. Right where it hurts, where it builds, where it shoves all the breath out of your lungs.
Your whole body locks, and then jerks so violently you scream—throat raw, sobs spilling out between gasps as your cunt clamps around him, pulsing, gushing, breaking. It’s too much. You feel it rip through you like a tidal wave, uncontrollable, massive, hot. You cum so hard your vision whites out, squirting around him, soaking the sheets.
“Goood girl,” Rafe snarls, hips slamming forward one final time as your walls milk him into submission. “Mhmmm. That’s the one. Fuck—” His hips snap against yours once, twice, three times before his cock twitches and he paints your insides white.
Your thighs are still wet when you slide off the table, knees knocking like they forgot how to hold you. You tug your skirt down fast, the fabric sticking to your skin, and swipe blindly between your legs, heart still galloping. Rafe’s lips are slick, swollen—his smirk lazy like he didn’t just have his face buried in you less than a minute ago.
“Go—Rafe, go,” you hiss, whisper-shouting, fingers trembling as you try to straighten your face, hair—the table—everything. “I heard the car, they’re here—”
He doesn’t move. Just leans back on his heels, blinking slow, smug.
“They won’t come in that fast,” he says casually, already strolling into the adjoining kitchen. “They probably stop to grab something from the trunk or argue in the driveway like they always do.”
You’re half in shock—watching him reach the sink like it’s just another afternoon. He turns on the tap, splashes cold water over his flushed face, and drags a paper towel across his cheeks. Then—without a hint of shame—he presses it to the wet patch on his shirt. The one at the center of his chest. Then dabs once, twice, at the stain soaking through the crotch of his pants. Because of you.
“Oh my God,” you mutter, scrambling for your journal like it’s a lifeline. You pull out the chair hard, nearly toppling it, and drop down, flipping open a random page. Your pen hits the paper before your brain can form words.
In front of you, the faucet shuts off. You hear the trash can lid creak—paper towel tossed—and then Rafe leans coolly against the counter, like he’s lived in this kitchen his whole life.
“Breathe, pretty girl,” he teases, a grin plastered across his face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
The front door swings open before you can bite back a response.
“Sweetheart?” your mom’s voice calls out, echoing too close. “Is that Rafe’s truck outside?”
Your entire body locks. Like it did when you—You stab your pen into the page too hard and it rips.
“Heyyy,” your mom says brightly as she enters the room, keys jingling in her hand. Her eyes go wide when she spots Rafe. “Oh my goodness! We didn’t know you were here.”
Rafe turns to her with that same casual charm, smile widening as she pulls him into a hug. “Just stopped by to say hi,” he says, “Didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Not at all! You’re always welcome.” She lets him go and looks between the two of you. “We didn’t interrupt anything, did we?”
You force a laugh, hand clenching your pen so tight it might snap. “Nope. I was just journaling.”
“Dishes?” your mom repeats, positively beaming. “Well now. He’s a keeper.”
Your dad walks in behind her, glancing around with his usual sharp eye. His brow furrows as he looks at Rafe.
“What happened to your shirt, son?”
Rafe glances down, not missing a beat. “Spilled some water helping with the dishes.”
You duck your head to hide the full-body shudder that climbs your spine.
Rafe doesn’t even blink. Just smooths a hand through his damp hair, eyes landing on you for half a second too long. You take in a breath.
And right as your mom sets her purse on the counter, he mouths it where only you can see:
Good girl.
THANK YALL FOR 700 FOLLOWERS ????? so grateful for every one of you 🥹🩵
When your nights get long and your nonstop thoughts consume your mind, your boyfriend has his ways to make you sleep.
The cherry glow flares as he offers the joint to your lips from behind, voice low and husky with sleep when he speaks.
“Take a hit, baby. However many you want.”
You do, slow and deep. It burns just enough to make your shoulders drop a little, and he smiles faintly against your neck as he presses a kiss there—soft, lingering. Another one just below your ear, then one behind your jaw. He kisses like he’s got time, like he’s trying to soothe your bones from the inside out.
“You’re wound so tight,” he murmurs, lips brushing your pulse. “Let me help, yeah?”
The hand that isn’t holding the joint slips down the curve of your waist, over your stomach, lower. You don’t flinch, don’t stop him. You just breathe—hit after hit, your exhale shaking slightly now as he slides his fingers between your thighs and parts you with gentle care.
“Fuck…” he groans, soft and ruined, at how warm and wet you already are. “Already so ready for me, pretty girl.”
He pushes in slow, two fingers scissoring, stretching. His other hand steadies the joint near your lips again, and you barely realize you’re leaning into it until the taste of smoke hits your tongue. You suck in another drag, deeper this time, while his thumb brushes your clit and his mouth stays on your neck, kissing, whispering, biting, just faintly.
“Doing so good,” he praises, voice breathy now. “You’re always so fucking pretty at night, baby.”
Your hips twitch back against his and he meets it with a slow roll of his own—his cock thick and hard, straining through his boxers as it drags against your ass. He groans again, the sound barely restrained, and you whimper without meaning to, hips tilting in search of friction.
He hears it, feels it, and kisses your jaw again, murmuring into your skin.
“Yeah? That feel good, baby? Need more?”
You nod—barely, breathlessly—and he kisses the corner of your mouth, then finally turns your head enough to press a real kiss to your lips. Deep and slow and sweet. You taste smoke and skin and Rafe, the quiet moan he lets slip into your mouth like a reward for how soft you’ve gone in his arms.
“Keep takin’ hits,” he whispers against your lips. “I’ll keep touchin’ you. You just let go.”
His fingers fuck into you deeper now, slick and filthy between your thighs. Every little sound you make—your breathy whines, your gasps—he matches with his own, low groans rumbling against your back every time your hips roll back into his. He’s so hard it aches, but he doesn’t rush. He’s not even thinking about himself—not really. Just about getting you there, getting you relaxed enough to finally fall.
Your body tenses, thighs starting to shake.
“You’re close, huh?” he breathes, pressing the joint to your lips again. “Don’t stop now, baby. Take another. Breathe through it.”
You try, but your hand falters, drops somewhere beside your thigh as the first sharp wave of pleasure twists low in your belly. Rafe notices instantly. The way you clench around his fingers, the way your hips stutter, the first broken whimper that escapes you.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, head dropping to your shoulder. “That’s it. Let go for me.”
You do. Your orgasm hits like a wave breaking, messy and loud. Slick gushes over his fingers, your thighs, the sheets beneath you. You cry out, body twitching, and he shudders right with you—moaning, nearly panting against your skin, his cock pulsing untouched against your ass while your pleasure floods his hand.
“That’s my girl,” he pants, kissing your shoulder, your neck, your jaw again. “So fuckin’ pretty when you cum.”
You breathe hard through it. Your body goes limp in stages—first your legs, then your arms, then your head tipping back onto his shoulder like it’s too heavy to hold up. He brings the joint to your lips again, and you take it automatically, shaky inhale, like your body’s not sure what’s happening anymore.
“That’s it,” he whispers, mouth at your jaw. “Let it all go.”
And you do. You sink into him, muscles gone soft, breath finally slowing, limbs weightless and warm. He kisses you behind the ear, hand still lazily stroking your thigh as the haze settles deep.
You don’t remember falling asleep. But Rafe remembers the exact moment your breathing evens out—how your hand stays limp on the sheets, the joint gone cold in his fingers, your body completely relaxed against him.
“Sweet dreams, baby,” he whispers, even though you’re already gone.
Good god are y’all getting fed. Me posting for three days straight???? Maybe it’s cause somebody birthday coming up 😛
a/n: just sumn short n sweet w/ preachersdaughter!reader cause i felt like it
The table groans beneath you, just faintly, under the pressure of your weight—bare thighs pressed against cool polished wood, chest heaving, mouth parted as Rafe devours you like he’s starving.
Time melted somewhere between his first slow lick and the third time your knees almost gave out. He hasn’t said a word. Just stays locked between your legs, tongue and mouth working in steady, practiced waves that are driving you out of your mind.
He groans low, the sound caught between your thighs, and it makes your stomach twist. His tongue drags a long, slow circle over your clit, then flattens against it, applying just enough pressure to make your legs shake. Your hand pulls at the strands of his hands as you lean your head back.
Your thighs start to close around his head, but he’s already anchoring you open, arms braced under you, thumbs digging just enough into the curve of your hips to make you press harder into his face.
“I’m—fuck—Rafe, I’m gonna cum,” you gasp. It rips out of you unfiltered, cracked, and shameless. “Oh god—”
And then gravel crunches outside under the weight of tires. The hum of a car engine cuts off.
Your heart lurches. “Shit! Rafe—Rafe, they’re back,” you whisper, voice tight and breathless with panic. “They’re here—”
You try to squirm back, to push at his shoulder—but your grip on his hair tightens instead. He doesn’t budge or pause. He doubles down. Tongue flicking fast, lips pulling softly, greedily, like he’s pulling it out of you. Like he wants it on his tongue, in his throat, written into his skin. He only hums into you, more deliberate now, eyes never leaving yours, and tongue dragging in slow, greedy strokes that make your spine curl.
The front gate creaks. Footsteps approach the porch. A key rattles in the front door.
“Rafe, seriously—” You’re panicking, breath caught in your chest, but your hips still rock against his face in a helpless daze. “I can’t—We’re gonna get caught!”
And that’s when it hits you—fast, hard, white-hot.
YYour body seizes, then shudders, waves of release crashing through you—slick, hot, overwhelming. You try to push him back, but he won’t move, mouth still locked to you, licking you through it, drinking every last bit like you’re not seconds away from being disowned.
You breathe out a quiet groan and he finally—reluctantly—pulls himself up to stand, face flushed and shining. You hear the door open with a sharp, hollow click.
