Discover Top Posts Tagged with #cheatingwhore

TITLE: ARRYTHMIA

PAIRING: latina!reader x toxic!rafe

WARNINGS: smut, kinda angsty idk, toxic rafe, mentions of drug usage, profanity

SUMMARY:In which, latina!reader feels lead-on and confused on what they are. (inspired by heartbeat - childish gambino)

WORDCOUNT: 6.5k (ive never weote this much😭😭)

(one shot… maybe ;) )

The bass was loud enough to shake the floorboards, the scent of alcohol and weed clinging to the air like humidity.

But you felt him before you saw him.

Rafe Cameron never missed a party you were at.

It didn’t matter if it was a rival frat — Alpha Tau Omega, Kappa Sigma, somewhere he swore he’d never step foot in. If your sorority was invited, Rafe would show up eventually. Like clockwork. Like a habit he couldn’t break.

You tried to pretend it was coincidence.

It never was.

You weren’t even supposed to be here. You barely knew anyone in your sorority; except Sofia.

Your best friend.

His girlfriend.

That part should’ve stopped you.

But it didn’t.

Because every time you brought her up, he’d shrug like she was a business deal instead of a person. Convenience. Status. Something safe.

“She’s not my real girlfriend”

Yeah, she had a key to his apartment.

But she didn’t have him.

And somehow, that lie was enough to keep you close.

Tonight, you looked deliberate.

Not accidental pretty. Not effortless. Intentional.

Your usual waves had been smoothed into a silky blowout, long and controlled down your back. A denim mini skirt hugged your hips, leopard tank fitted just right, the brown puffer jacket slipping off one shoulder like you couldn’t be bothered to adjust it. Gold jewelry caught the strobe lights — luminous against your skin.

You sat tucked into the corner of the couch, legs crossed, posture steady. Chin lifted. Composed.

Red solo cup in one hand. Phone in the other.

Detached.

Events like this exhausted you. The constant smiling. The meaningless conversations. The noise pressing against your ribs until it felt suffocating.

Unlike Sofia.

Sofia thrived in it.

She was already halfway across the room, laughing too loud, red satin dress catching the lights, hair falling perfectly down her back like she hadn’t tried at all. Radiant. Carefree.

Effortless.

You watched her for a second longer than necessary.

Then you felt it again.

That weight.

Across the room, Rafe stood near the kitchen island, a shot of whiskey loose in his hand.

He wasn’t laughing.

He wasn’t talking.

He was watching you.

Volatile energy radiated off him — restless, wired, something almost unhinged beneath the surface. Smoke clung faintly to his clothes. His jaw ticked once. Twice.

He lifted the glass to his lips but didn’t drink.

Set it back down.

Picked it up again.

His leg bounced.

Knuckles whitening slightly around the rim.

Like he was debating something.

Like walking over to you would either ruin everything —

or finally make it worse.

He was used to control.

You were the one thing he couldn’t control.

And Rafe Cameron hated that you never chased him.

You didn’t look at him.

You knew better.

Because the second your eyes met, his pulse would start hammering — and you’d feel it from across the room.

Addictive.

Magnetic.

Inevitable.

And you were so tired of pretending you weren’t already spiraling with him.

Rafe doesn’t hesitate this time.

The glass in his hand empties in one swallow, his throat tightening as the whiskey burns down his chest. He sets it down harder than necessary, like he needs the impact, and starts walking toward you with a focus that makes the space around him feel thinner. The crowd parts without meaning to — or maybe he just moves through it like it doesn’t matter.

You feel it before you look up.

The shift in energy. The way the air feels charged, like before a storm cracks open the sky.

When your eyes finally lift from your phone, he’s already halfway there.

He doesn’t look drunk. He looks decided. His shoulders are squared, jaw tight, eyes darker than they were a minute ago. There’s something intense in the way he watches you — not casual curiosity, not playful flirting. Something more deliberate. Like he’s been fighting this all night and finally lost.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the red cup, condensation dampening your skin. You don’t uncross your legs. You don’t straighten your jacket. You refuse to give him the satisfaction of reacting.

He stops in front of you, close enough that you can smell the whiskey on his breath mixed with cologne and smoke. It’s subtle, but it lingers — warm, heavy.

For a moment, he just looks at you.

Not your outfit. Not your jewelry. You.

Like he’s trying to read something off your face.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he says quietly, voice rougher than usual.

You tilt your head, unimpressed. “You’ve been busy.”

Your eyes flick past him, briefly landing on Sofia across the room, laughing with some random guy who’s clearly too close. The music swells again, bass vibrating through the couch beneath you.

His jaw tightens at that — not because you looked at Sofia, but because you did it so calmly.

“I came over here, didn’t I?” he says.

And there it is. That edge.

Before you can answer, a hand lands on his shoulder — firm, careless.

Topper.

He’s already grinning, already leaning too hard into Rafe’s space, pupils blown just slightly. “Bathroom. Now,” he mutters, low enough that it’s not meant for you.

Rafe doesn’t turn immediately. His eyes stay locked on yours.

You watch the irritation flicker through him — a flash of annoyance that someone dared interrupt him. His hand flexes at his side like he’s resisting the urge to shake Topper off.

“I’m in the middle of something,” Rafe says, not breaking eye contact.

Topper laughs under his breath. “You’ve got time.”

The tension shifts.

You see it — the pull. The habit. The easier choice.

Your expression doesn’t change, but something tightens in your chest as Rafe glances toward the hallway for half a second. The music, the noise, the chaos — it’s calling him. It always does.

When he looks back at you, there’s something almost frustrated in his eyes. Like he hates that this moment feels heavier than it should.

“I’ll be back,” he says, but it’s quieter now. Less confident.

He lets Topper tug him away.

And as he disappears down the hallway, you exhale slowly, forcing your grip on the cup to loosen.

Because he did come over.

He just couldn’t stay.

And somehow that hurts more than if he hadn’t tried at all.

The bathroom door barely latches before Topper is already moving, already talking, already wiping his nose with the back of his hand like he’s about to tell the funniest story of his life.

Rafe doesn’t sit. He doesn’t lean. He plants his hands on the marble counter and stares at his reflection like it personally offended him.

Topper snorts under his breath, still riding whatever buzz he came in with. “You saw the way she was sitting out there?” he says, grinning. “Like she hates everybody. It’s kinda hot.”

Rafe doesn’t respond.

Topper keeps going anyway. “Man, she always looks like she’s judging the entire room. Like she’s too good for this place.”

That earns him a look.

Sharp. Immediate.

“Shut up,” Rafe mutters.

Topper laughs at that — not loud, but entertained. “What? I’m just saying. She doesn’t look at you the way Sofia does.”

The name makes Rafe’s jaw flex.

Topper tilts his head. “Sofia looks at you like you hung the moon. Your girl’s friend? She looks at you like she’s debating whether you’re worth her time.”

Rafe hates that he knows exactly what he means.

Because you do.

You never rush toward him. You never cling. You never hover around him waiting for scraps of attention. If anything, you’re colder the closer he gets.

It makes his chest feel tight in a way he doesn’t like.

Topper leans back against the sink, watching him. “You’re actually pressed.”

Rafe straightens slightly. “I’m not pressed.”

Topper grins wider. “Yeah? Then why were you staring at her like that?”

Rafe says nothing.

Topper’s tone shifts — less teasing, more matter-of-fact. “You know she made out with that lacrosse captain last week, right?”

And there it is.

It’s not said dramatically. Not whispered like a secret. Just dropped casually, like a piece of gossip that doesn’t mean anything.

But it lands heavy.

Rafe’s fingers curl against the counter. Subtle. Almost unnoticeable.

Topper shrugs. “Back patio. After the game. Whole team was out there. She didn’t look mad about it either.”

He laughs again — this time at the memory. “Dude had her pinned against the railing like it was some rom-com scene. I thought you knew.”

The image builds without Rafe’s permission.

Your hand on someone else’s chest.

Your mouth tilted up.

Someone else’s fingers at your waist.

The thought is immediate. Violent. Possessive in a way that feels irrational.

He pushes off the counter.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he says flatly.

Topper studies him. “You sure?”

Rafe drags a hand down his face.

He shouldn’t care.

You’re not his.

He has Sofia.

You’ve never promised him anything.

But the idea of someone else touching you — claiming even a second of you — makes something inside him twist.

Not jealousy. He won’t call it that.

Something uglier.

He exhales sharply, pacing now. The room feels smaller. Warmer. Too loud even with the door shut.

Topper snorts. “Man, you’re acting like she cheated on you.”

Rafe shoots him a look that shuts him up instantly.

There’s something off in Rafe’s eyes now — not anger exactly. Something more unsettled. Like the ground shifted beneath him and he didn’t see it coming.

Because you didn’t wait around for him.

You never do.

Meanwhile

Out in the living room, you’ve stopped checking the hallway.

At first, you told yourself you were just giving him space. Then you realized that was a lie.

You were waiting.

And you hate that about yourself.

The music feels louder now. Sofia’s laugh cuts through the room, high and bright. You glance over to see her dancing with some guy who’s leaning in too close, hands low on her hips. She doesn’t look like she minds.

You look away.

Your phone screen lights up with nothing important.

No new texts.

No missed calls.

Of course.

You adjust your jacket, suddenly feeling ridiculous for sitting here like this. For letting your mood depend on whether a boy decides to come back from a bathroom.

Respétate.

You stand up slowly, smoothing your skirt down your thighs. Your reflection in the black TV screen looks calm. Composed. Untouched.

You don’t announce you’re leaving. You don’t search for him.

You just slip out the front door.

Cold air hits your bare legs, clearing your head instantly. Your heels click steady against the pavement, each step grounding you more than the music ever could.

You don’t look back.

He doesn’t text you at the party.

That would make it obvious.

When Topper says you probably left, Rafe just nods once like it doesn’t hit. Like he expected it. Like he doesn’t care whether you waited or not.

He even laughs once — short, dismissive — when Topper makes some comment about you being “dramatic.”

“Whatever,” Rafe mutters.

But he checks the front porch anyway.

Just in case.

Your car’s gone.

That’s when something settles wrong in his stomach.

He tells himself it’s fine. He tells himself you do this all the time — you disappear when he disappears. You don’t beg. You don’t hover. You don’t wait outside bathrooms like Sofia would.

You leave.

And that’s what makes it worse.

He stays another fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Talks to people he doesn’t register. Finishes another drink. Pretends he’s still part of the room.

But every time someone laughs too loud, every time he sees a girl in a mini skirt from the corner of his eye, his brain flashes back to what Topper said.

Back patio.

Pinned against the railing.

Her mouth tilted up.

His jaw tightens again.

It shouldn’t bother him this much.

You’re not his.

He has a girlfriend.

But the more he tries to act normal, the more restless he feels. His body is buzzing in a way that’s no longer fun. The coke has sharpened everything — his thoughts, his anger, his want.

Especially his want.

By the time he leaves, the air outside feels too thin.

His house is quiet when he walks in.

Too quiet.

Sofia’s not there tonight — she mentioned sleeping at her place earlier. He’d barely listened at the time.

Now the silence feels louder than the party did.

He tosses his keys on the counter. The sound echoes.

He moves through the living room aimlessly, running a hand through his hair, then pacing back. The adrenaline hasn’t worn off. His skin feels tight. His chest feels wrong — pulse skipping, then racing, then settling too slow before jumping again.

Arrhythmic.

He drops onto the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

He imagines you walking home.

Imagines someone pulling up next to you.

Imagines that lacrosse captain again.

The jealousy isn’t loud. It’s simmering. Territorial in a way that feels ugly and instinctive.

He stands abruptly and walks to the kitchen. Grabs water. Doesn’t drink it. Sets it down.

He hates that you left without looking for him.

He hates that you didn’t text.

He hates that you probably don’t care as much as he does.

And underneath all of that?

He wants you.

Badly.

Not just physically — though that’s there, sharp and immediate — but in that obsessive way he won’t say out loud. The way your calmness drives him insane. The way you never fold.

He pulls his phone out.

Stares at your contact.

Types.

Deletes.

Types again.

He doesn’t ease into it. He doesn’t pretend it’s casual.

come over baby

pls.

need you so bad

im painfully hard rn

He stares at the screen after sending it.

The message looks desperate.

He doesn’t care.

Because right now he doesn’t just want you — he wants to know you’ll choose him. That you’ll answer. That you’ll come when he asks.

That you didn’t give those lips to someone else and move on.

He runs a hand down his chest like he’s trying to calm his own heartbeat.

It doesn’t work.

He can already picture it — if you walk through his door tonight, he won’t be steady. He won’t be soft.

He’ll be wired. Restless. Touching you too much. Kissing you like he’s trying to reclaim something that was never officially his.

And somewhere deep down, he knows you’ll see it immediately.

You always do.

When you get home, you don’t check your phone.

You kick your heels off by the door, drop your purse on the kitchen counter, and stand there for a second in the quiet. The silence feels clean compared to the party — no bass, no bodies pressing too close, no eyes watching.

Just you.

You grab the vodka from the freezer.

Not because you’re heartbroken.

Not because you’re spiraling.

Because you’re irritated.

At him. At yourself. At the fact that he still has the ability to make your chest feel tight without even being in the room.

You pour a shot.

Down it.

The burn is sharp and immediate, cutting through the leftover haze of the party.

Another one.

You lean back against the counter, staring at nothing, replaying the night in your head. The way he walked toward you. The way he looked at you like he was about to say something real.

And then he left.

Again.

You refuse to be the girl waiting on a couch for a boy who disappears into bathrooms.

You grab your phone off the table to check the time — and that’s when you realize it’s been off.

You press the side button.

The screen lights up.

Notifications flood in.

Four texts.

From him.

Your jaw tightens slightly as you read them.

come over baby

pls.

need you so bad

im painfully hard rn

You stare at the screen for a long second.

You almost laugh.

Because of course.

Of course he waits until he’s alone to need you. Of course he only reaches when the party’s over and he’s stuck in his own head.

You don’t answer immediately.

You set the phone back down.

Let him sit in it.

Let him wonder if you’re ignoring him. Let him replay the lacrosse rumor in his head. Let him imagine you in someone else’s bed.

You pour one more shot.

Down it slower this time.

Then you pick the phone back up.

Your fingers hover over the screen.

You don’t send something emotional. You don’t send something needy.

You send:

You disappear for an hour and now you need me?

You wait.

It takes less than ten seconds.

don’t do that

i just want you here

please

There’s something raw in the way he types. No punctuation. No ego-polished confidence.

You should ignore it.

You know what he’s like when he’s wired. Restless. Impatient. Touching too much. Talking too fast. Eyes too sharp.

Erratic.

But part of you wants to see him like that.

Wants to look him in the face and finally ask what this is.

So you grab your jacket again.

Slip your heels back on.

And you go.

When he opens the door, it’s immediate.

You can see it.

His pupils are blown slightly. His movements a little too quick. He steps back to let you in, but his hand lingers at your waist for a second too long, like he needs to confirm you’re actually there.

“You came,” he says, and there’s relief in it. Real relief.

You step inside slowly. “Don’t get excited.”

The house is dim. Quiet. Just the low hum of the fridge and his uneven breathing.

He’s close already.

Too close.

His hands slide to your hips, thumbs pressing into the denim of your skirt like he’s grounding himself. He leans down, mouth brushing your jaw before you can decide whether to pull back.

It’s heated instantly.

Not slow.

Not gentle.

Hungry.

Like he’s trying to erase something.

His kiss isn’t soft. It’s claiming. Teeth grazing your lower lip, fingers tightening at your waist. He exhales against your mouth like he’s been holding his breath for hours.

And you let it happen for a second.

Just a second.

Because you feel it too. That electric pull. That chaotic magnetism.

But when his hands slide up under your jacket, when he presses you back against the wall like he’s in a rush—

You push at his chest.

Firm.

“Rafe.”

He tries to kiss you again.

You turn your head.

“Rafe,” you repeat, sharper.

He exhales, frustrated. “What?”

You step back, creating space.

“¿Qué somos?” you ask quietly.

He frowns. “What?”

“What are we?” you translate, eyes steady on his. “Are we dating? Or am I just convenient when you’re horny and bored?”

The word lands.

His jaw tightens.

“That’s not what this is.”

“Entonces qué es?” Your voice doesn’t shake. “Because you disappear. You let your girlfriend walk around with your key. And then you text me telling me you’re hard like that’s supposed to mean something.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once, then coming back.

“You left.”

“You left first,” you snap back.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then—

“Did you kiss him?” he asks suddenly.

The shift is sharp.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“The lacrosse guy.”

Ah.

There it is.

You cross your arms. “You have a girlfriend.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“And that’s not what I answered.”

He steps closer again, agitation building. “Did you?”

You tilt your chin up slightly.

“Maybe I did.”

It’s not even fully a confession. Just a refusal to give him control.

His nostrils flare. His hands clench and unclench at his sides.

“I don’t like that,” he mutters.

You almost laugh.

“No te pertenece,” you say calmly. You don’t own me.

His eyes darken at that.

And now?

Now the argument can explode.

Because he wants to claim you.

But he hasn’t earned that right.

The second you say “No te pertenece,” something shifts in him.

It’s subtle at first — his shoulders square, his jaw tightens, his body language changes from frantic to deliberate. Like he’s deciding to take control of the situation instead of reacting to it.

He steps forward again.

Slower this time.

His hands find your waist, not frantic now — firm. Grounding. His thumbs press into your hips like he’s reminding you exactly how close he is, how easily he can close the space between you.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he says, voice lower now, steadier. Controlled in a way that feels intentional.

You don’t move.

“Then what did you mean?” you ask.

His grip tightens slightly when you don’t soften.

“You think I’d be acting like this if I didn’t care?” he says, leaning closer. His breath is warm against your cheek. “You think I’d be losing my mind over some stupid rumor if you were just convenient?”

The word tastes bitter in his mouth.

You can feel how badly he wants to twist this into something physical again. His mouth brushes against your jaw, your neck, like if he kisses you long enough you’ll forget the question.

His hands slide up your sides, fingers digging in just enough to make you feel claimed.

And for a second — a dangerous second — it works.

Your breath stutters. Your hands instinctively grab onto his shirt. He presses you back against the wall again, his body heavy and solid against yours. His mouth is on yours, hot and urgent, like he’s trying to mark you.

But even in the heat of it, you feel it.

The frustration in his movements. The aggression just under the surface. He isn’t just turned on.

He’s angry.

His hand slides up to your jaw, tilting your face so you can’t pull away.

“Tell me you didn’t kiss him,” he murmurs, but it’s not really a request. It’s pressure.

You push against his chest.

He doesn’t move.

“Rafe,” you warn.

His fingers tighten just slightly at your waist, not enough to hurt, but enough to make the message clear — stay.

“You know I hate that,” he says. “You know I can’t stand the thought of someone else touching you.”

You stare at him.

“You can’t stand it?” you repeat.

He exhales sharply, frustration bubbling up. “Yeah.”

“And what do you think I feel watching your girlfriend dance all over other guys?” Your voice doesn’t break. It cuts.

That’s when it hits.

The word.

Girlfriend.

His body stiffens.

He steps back like you physically shoved him.

“Sofia has nothing to do with this,” he says quickly.

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“Nothing to do with this?” you repeat, your accent slipping heavier as your emotions rise. “She has a key to your house, Rafe. She calls you hers. And you’re standing here asking me who I kiss?”

His face flushes — not embarrassment. Cornered anger.

“You know it’s not like that with her.”

“Then what is it like?” you demand. “Because from where I’m standing, you get to have both. You get safety and status and something soft waiting at home. And then you get to text me at midnight because you’re jealous and horny.”

His breathing gets uneven again.

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s trying to gather his thoughts, but they’re moving too fast. The coke hasn’t fully worn off. His emotions are amplified — sharpened.

“I don’t love her,” he snaps suddenly.

The words are loud. Defensive.

You go still.

“But you’re with her,” you fire back immediately. “That’s worse.”

His chest rises and falls harder now.

“You think this is easy for me?” he asks, stepping closer again, agitation back in full force. “You think I like feeling like this? Like I’m constantly—” He stops himself, jaw tightening.

“Like you’re what?” you press.

He hesitates.

There it is.

That minute.

That ugly, quiet struggle where pride fights honesty.

His eyes flick away from yours for the first time.

“Jealous,” he mutters finally.

It’s barely audible.

You don’t let him get away with it.

“Say it.”

His gaze snaps back to yours.

“I’m jealous,” he says again, louder this time, anger threaded through it. “I’m jealous of the way he looked at you. I’m jealous that he touched you. I’m jealous that you walked out of that party without even looking for me.”

The last part is the most honest.

And it lands heavier than the rest.

Your chest tightens, but you don’t soften.

“You don’t get to be jealous,” you say quietly. “Not when you go home to someone else.”

His composure fractures.

“I don’t go home to her,” he argues. “She just— she’s there.”

“Exactly,” you say.

Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating.

“You almost had me just now,” you admit, your voice lower but steady. “When you were kissing me like that? I almost forgot. But I’m not going to be the other girl in someone else’s story.”

His face shifts at that — something raw flashing through his eyes.

“You’re not the other girl,” he says.

“Then make me not be,” you reply.

The room feels charged.

He looks like he wants to say something — something real, something decisive — but fear flickers there too. Fear of blowing up the safe thing he already has. Fear of choosing.

And that hesitation?

That’s what detonates everything.

Because you see it.

And you shake your head slightly.

“Until you figure out what you’re willing to lose,” you tell him, voice quiet but unwavering, “don’t come to me like this.”

His hand twitches at his side like he wants to grab you again. Like he wants to pull you back into something physical so he doesn’t have to answer that.

But this time, you don’t let him.

And that’s what makes it hurt.

You don’t storm out.

You don’t scream.

You just look at him like you’ve finally understood something about him — and that’s worse.

“Until you decide,” you say, voice steady but tired, “don’t touch me like you own me.”

And you walk toward the door.

He doesn’t follow immediately.

That’s the part that guts him later.

Because he stands there, fists flexing at his sides, listening to the door close. Listening to your heels fade down the porch steps. And for a few seconds, he tells himself he did the right thing by not chasing you.

By not begging.

But the house feels wrong again the second you’re gone.

Too empty.

Too quiet.

He replays the look on your face.

Not anger.

Disappointment.

That’s what gets under his skin.

He grabs his phone before he can think.

Not to text you.

To call Sofia.

She answers on the third ring, already half-laughing about something in the background.

“Rafe? Everything okay?”

He doesn’t waste time.

“Come get your key.”

There’s a pause.

“What?”

“Come get your key,” he repeats, pacing now. His pulse is racing again — not from drugs this time. From adrenaline. From finally choosing something

“Why are you being weird?” she asks, tone shifting.

“I’m not being weird. I’m done.

Silence.

“Done with what?”

“With this,” he says, gesturing around the empty room like she can see it. “With pretending.”

She starts talking — fast, confused, hurt — but he barely registers the words. His chest feels tight but clear. Like he’s ripping off a bandage he’s known needed to come off.

“Is there someone else?” she finally asks.

He hesitates.

That’s answer enough.

Her voice hardens. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

He ends the call before she can say more.

His hands are shaking.

Not regret.

Shock.

Because he actually did it.

He stares at the wall for a long second.

Then he grabs his keys.

He doesn’t think about the timing. Or how insane it looks to show up at your place again after you just left his.

He just drives.

Too fast.

Music off.

Mind loud.

When he pulls up, he doesn’t give himself time to second-guess it.

He knocks.

Harder than necessary.

When you open the door, you’re not expecting him.

That much is obvious.

Your hair is slightly messier now. Jacket gone. The room behind you dim, softer than his house felt.

He looks different.

Less controlled.

More certain.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

He steps closer, not aggressively — urgently.

“I ended it,” he says.

You blink.

“With Sofia.”

The name hangs between you.

Your face doesn’t soften immediately.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” he says, voice rough. “I told her to come get her key. It’s over.”

Your chest rises and falls slowly.

“Why?” you ask.

And that’s the question.

Not did you. Not when.

Why.

He exhales, stepping into your space.

“Because you were right,” he admits. “I don’t get to stand there and act like I own you while I’m still holding onto something safe. I don’t get to be jealous and not do anything about it.”

His hands hover at your waist like he’s asking permission this time.

Not taking.

Asking.

“You walked out,” he continues, voice lower now. “And I realized I was more scared of losing you than I was of losing her.”

The room feels smaller suddenly.

Warmer.

You search his face for hesitation.

You don’t find it.

“You don’t get to do this halfway,” you say quietly. “No me vengas con mentiras.”

“I’m not,” he says immediately. “I don’t want halfway with you.”

That does it.

Because for the first time tonight, he isn’t trying to dominate the room.

He’s choosing.

You step closer.

Slowly.

His hands finally land on your hips again, but softer now. Reverent almost. Like he understands the weight of it.

When he kisses you this time, it’s different.

Still hungry.

Still heated.

But there’s no anger behind it.

It’s relief.

It’s possession earned, not stolen.

His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel the tension still buzzing under his skin — the leftover adrenaline, the emotional whiplash of what he just did.

He kisses you like he’s been holding it in for weeks.

Like he doesn’t have to sneak it anymore.

Like he finally picked a side.

And when his forehead rests against yours, breath uneven, he murmurs against your mouth:

“I was jealous. I am jealous. And I don’t care if it makes me look insane.”

You slide your fingers into his hair.

“Then act like you want me,” you whisper.

And this time?

He does.

He doesn’t hesitate.

The second the words leave your mouth, his hand comes up, fingers wrapping around your jaw — not rough, but firm enough that your breath catches. His thumb presses lightly against your lower lip like he’s testing something.

“You don’t get to say that unless you’re ready for it,” he murmurs.

His voice isn’t rushed anymore. It’s controlled. Low. Dangerous in a steady way.

You hold his gaze.

“Then show me.”

That’s all he needs.

He kisses you again, but this time it’s slower at first — deliberate. Like he’s memorizing the feel of you now that he doesn’t have to sneak it. His mouth moves against yours with purpose, tongue sliding against yours in a way that feels claiming rather than frantic.

One hand slides down your back, gripping your waist, then lower — squeezing like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re here.

“You have no idea,” he breathes against your mouth, “what that rumor did to me.”

You tilt your head slightly, teasing but steady. “Maybe I do.”

His hand tightens at your hip.

“I couldn’t stand it,” he admits, jaw clenched. “The thought of someone else’s hands on you. Someone else kissing you like this.”

He kisses you harder on the last word.

There’s heat behind it now — but not the unstable anger from earlier. This is focused. Controlled intensity.

He backs you up slowly until the back of your knees hit the couch. His hand slides up your thigh, pushing your skirt up inch by inch, eyes never leaving yours.

“Look at me,” he says when your lashes flutter.

You do.

That’s important. Eye contact.

His expression softens just slightly — not weak, just vulnerable for half a second.

“I chose you,” he says. “Don’t ever think I didn’t.”

And then he pushes you down onto the couch.

Not violently.

Confidently.

He kneels between your legs, hands spreading your thighs apart like he has every intention of taking his time. His thumb traces over your skin slowly, possessively.

“You walked out on me tonight,” he says, voice low. “Do you know what that did to me?”

“You deserved it,” you reply softly.

He smirks slightly at that.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I did.”

Then his mouth drags down your neck, slow and intentional, like he’s mapping territory. His hands roam your body with more control now — not grabbing, not frantic. Claiming.

When he pulls back, his fingers hook under your chin again.

“No more halfway,” he says. “No more hiding.”

You swallow.

“And no more girlfriends,” you add.

His jaw tightens — not in anger, but agreement.

“Gone.”

The air in the room is suffocating, thick with the smell of Rafe’s expensive cologne and the sharp, metallic tang of the storm brewing outside. He leans down again, kissing you with a desperate, starving hunger that feels like a collision. His tongue sweeps against yours, demanding and deep, while one hand slides under your thigh, hooking your leg and pulling you so flush against him that you can feel the

frantic thrum of his heart through his shirt.

He breaks the kiss just an inch, his breathing jagged as he guides your hands down from his collar. His fingers are trembling, a fine, high-frequency vibration that betrays the composure he’s trying so hard to keep. He presses your palms flat against the rigid, pulsing length straining against his trousers.

“You feel that, baby?” he rasps, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that vibrates in your marrow. “That’s what you do to me. You’re the only one who does this.”

He doesn't wait. With a frantic, jerky motion, he unfastens his belt. The leather snaps, the sound echoing in the quiet room. He shoves his pants and boxers down to his knees, and his cock springs forward against his stomach, heavy and dark-veined. You stare, your eyes widening, the sheer size of him making your pulse skip. It looks impossible—too much for the soft, aching heat between your legs.

Rafe catches your chin, tilting your face up until your eyes are locked on his. His blue eyes are blown wide, pupils swallowing the iris until they’re nothing but black pits of possessiveness.

“Keep your eyes on me, baby, okay?” he commands, his voice a soft, dangerous thread. “Don't look away. I want to see you realize you're mine.”

He lifts you, his hands digging into your hips with enough force to leave marks you’ll be tracing for days. He doesn't go slow at first; he’s too far gone, too haunted by the image of you and that lacrosse captaine, the way you let someone else breathe your air. He enters you in one slow, soul-crushing stretch that feels like he’s claiming every inch of your internal space.

You let out a sharp, high-pitched cry, your fingers clawing at his shoulders. Rafe freezes. He presses his forehead against yours, his eyes closed tight, grounding both of you in the sheer intensity of the connection.

“I don’t share,” he whispers, his voice breaking. He doesn't wait for an answer, driving into you again, harder this time. “No one else gets this. No one else gets to see you like this.”

The rhythm is brutal, a relentless, driving pace that makes the bedframe groan against the wall. Rafe reacts to every sound you make—every hitch in your breath, every muffled sob of pleasure. If you moan too loud, he bites your shoulder; if you go quiet, he handles you rougher, demanding your focus.

“Look at me when I touch you,” he growls, his hands moving from your hips to your throat, not squeezing, but weighing you down, marking his territory. “Tell me you’re choosing me. Tell me you’re not walking away from me again.”

“I’m choosing you,” you sob, your legs locking around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Always you, Rafe.”

His jealousy shifts. It morphs into something softer, something almost terrifyingly vulnerable. He slows down for half a second, his movements becoming a heavy, agonizingly deep grind. He looks at you—really looks at you—and for the first time, the manic edge in his eyes flickers into raw, naked yearning.

He looks like a man who has finally found his anchor in a hurricane.

“You’re mine now,” he says, and it isn’t a threat. It’s a realization. A confession.

You tilt your head, your hair splayed across the pillow like silk. “Say it again.”

His eyes darken, the vulnerability turning back into a fierce, protective fire.

“You’re mine. You drive me insane, you know that? I can’t breathe when you’re not in the room.”

He picks up the pace again, his movements becoming frantic as he nears the edge. He’s talking constantly now—filthy, possessive praises whispered against your skin, his spit slicking your collarbone as he leans down to lick the pulse point there. He’s reaching for you, touching your hair, your cheeks, your chest, as if he’s reassuring himself that you’re real, that you’re actually here under him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he gasps, his hips snapping forward with a desperate urgency. “My girl. My perfect, pretty girl.”

He hits his peak with a guttural, choked-off roar, his body locking as he unloads inside you, a hot, pulsing flood that feels like it’s filling your very soul. He collapses onto you, his head buried in the crook of your neck, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your own.

He stays there for a long time, his pulse thrumming inside you, his hand still tangled in your hair, refusing to let go.

“Don’t leave,” he whispers into the dark, his voice raw. “Just... don't ever leave me.”

#fem reader #rafe smut #rafe cameron blurb #toxic relationship #cheatingwhore #latina!reader #afab reader #rafe cameron x reader #tumblr fyp #angst #light angst #rafe cameron smut #rafe obx #childish gambino #mud on my boots blood on your jacket #frat!rafe #frat au