watching you for months from behind foggy glasses and shaky hands, jerking off to the thought of you with his earbuds in and a pillow clutched to his chest, pretending it’s you. whispering your name like a prayer, like he’s ashamed of how bad he wants it.
so when it actually happens—when you kiss him, when you pull him onto your bed, when you say “do you wanna…?”—he nods like a fucking puppy. eager, dumb, eyes already wide and blown-out.
he tries to act confident. really, he does. tells you in this shaky little voice,
“i-I’ve seen a lot of videos, I know what to do…” like it’s something to be proud of. like his entire sex education isn’t a pornhub rabbit hole and three reddit threads.
but the second you guide him in? game over.
his hips jerk forward way too fast, eyes rolling back as he gasps, forehead pressed to your shoulder.
“oh god—oh fuck—fuckfuckfuck, i’m sorry, I didn’t—”
he whines. actually fucking whimpers into your skin, clutching your waist like he’s drowning in it.
"y-you’re so warm—can’t—can’t help it—feels s-so good, I—I didn’t mean to—"
and then he just freezes, pulsing inside you, biting back a sob because he came already. not even thirty seconds in.
he can’t look you in the eye. rolls off you like a guilty little rabbit, red-faced and mumbling apologies into your neck.
“i swear i’ll make it up to you. i’ll—i’ll go down on you, okay? for as long as you want. just… don’t hate me.”
he does make it up to you. tongue trembling, nose buried in you like it’s his job, moaning every time you tug his hair and call him good. (he cries again when you cum on his tongue. it’s kind of sweet.)
the face bsf!rafe first made when he saw the bikini picture you posted from your day at the beach
“fuck,” he whimpered softly, jaw slack as he desperately rutted his aching cock into his fist, angry tip leaking with pre-cum as his eyes flickered over the phone screen.
he felt like such a fuckin creep, getting off to his own best friend’s instagram pictures. he couldn’t help it though; not with the way your ass was hanging out of the bottom of your suit, tan lines clearly visible. and most definitely not with the way your tits were spilling out of your bikini top, the wet material clinging onto the soft curves of your breasts.
he couldn’t help but think about what it’d be like to fuck them; his tip coming to barely brush between your lips after every thrust, how he’d make you part your lips and lick at the stickiness that would string off.
“sh-hit,” he moaned softly, eyes fluttering shut and brows furrowing as he picked up his pace, tightening his hand a little - trying to imagine it as you fluttering around him instead.
“fuckfuckfuckfuck, mmmh shit-” he whined, biting down on his lip to quiet himself.
his hand moved frantically for more friction, the cool of the ring on his index finger only bringing more effect to the warm pool in his stomach.
“need it y/n, shiit, wan’ to cum.” he groaned under his breath, his blue eyes opening to look back at your picture. but this time, a small glint in the sun caught his attention.
sitting beautifully on your neck was a gold necklace he had gotten you on your birthday, a little ‘r’ pendant hanging just out of reach from your cleavage. how the fuck did he not notice it before? a flare of possessiveness bloomed in his chest, n he felt the familiar rush of heat course through him.
he came hard, the spurts of slick painting his chest and stomach; his hips stuttering and abdomen flexing.
as he slowly came down from his high, body spent and limp against his mattress, he silently made a decision - he was definitely gonna make you take that post down.
ᯓ★ “please tell me that isn’t what I think it is.”
⋆˚꩜｡ pairing : fem!reader x bsf!JJ MAYBANK.
⋆˚꩜｡ summary : Apparently, the friction and feeling of you on his lap in the overfilled Twinkie was too much to handle. ꒰ wc .ᐟ 1.2 k ꒱
⋆˚꩜｡ warnings : vryy suggestive !! the most ima ever go broskis !! Other then that, enjoy mllll
The most normal thing to happen in the friend group is JJ flirting. He flirts Kiara, sometimes he flirts with Pope and John B, he pretty much flirts with anything that dares to walk within a fifteen meter radius around him. But the one person he flirts with the most often — and the most shamelessly — is you. Sometimes you flirt back, but usually you just roll your eyes and scrunch your nose at him. So you can only imagine his reaction when he asked “So princess, y’wanna sit on Papa J’s lap?” when the Twinkie was full, and you agreed. Like the words “yeah sure” physically came out of your mouth.
Pope and Kie looked at you like you’re mad; let’s face it, you sort of are.
Now you’re placed comfortably between your best friend’s thighs, with his large hands wrapped around your waist to keep you from slipping off, chatting happily with Sarah and John B in the front seats. The blonde’s switching from leaning back against the van all nonchalant, wearing his dumb smirk, to pressing his chest against your back and dipping his forehead to rest on your shoulder every few minutes. You don’t have a clue why he’s so agitated.
He gets even worse every time the Twinkie goes over a speed bump or a pothole: JJ grunts quietly under you, and tightens his clench around your flesh. You protest each time, turning yourself slightly to face him better — so he can get the full impact of your glare-pout combination — and complain about how hard his grip is getting. And each time, he just nods once and adjusts your placement over his lap. His eyes are hazy, and his jaw twitches; It’s like he’s not even paying attention to you and your disapproving comments, instead he looks like he’s focusing on something you can’t quite put a pin on.
After one particularly large lurch forward, JJ’s seemingly had enough of the brunettes borderline reckless driving. He sinks himself back into the seat, and leans slightly ahead — once again pinning his front against you — so he can get heard clearly: “Yo, JB? Y’think y’could drive a tad slower, ‘n’ maybe watch out for ‘em speed bumps?”
“What, you're getting a little motion sick, huh JJ?” you tease, lacing your words with a playfulness he usually mimics. But today he doesn’t. All he does today is murmur a quiet “Not exactly,” under his breath, and adjusts your position over himself again.
Why’s he being so pissy? Wasn’t he the one who offered his lap in the first place?? Fuck. You roll your eyes exasperatedly, going back to the conversation going on around you like normal.
Thing is, when you do turn back, your body obviously moves. The amount of friction between JJ’s and your own is tiny — absolutely minuscule — but it still draws an almost guttural groan from your best friend. You glance at him from the corner of your eye; you’re met with the sight of the blonde once again placing his head in your shoulder, biting at the inside of his cheek, with his eyes pressed tight together.
“Babe, ‘m beggin’ you, please stop movin’,” he murmurs. It’s almost a plea, a beg even. It causes your lips to curl upwards into a smile, because it’s honestly so amusing to you how receptive he’s being. You don’t hesitate to make it worse; you squirm around in this lap for a few beats, only wriggling around more as he wraps his around your waist to stop you while you hum, “Why? This too much f’youuuu?”
“Stop. Movin’. I ain’t kiddin’,” he whines. You finally give in, slouching against his front and pouting — not that he can see, he’s still forcing his eyes closed like he’s allergic to sunlight. You're quickly recovering, joining in with the rest of the pogues laughing and joking in the van, but you swear you hear your best friend grunt behind you and keep you lifted a few centimetres away from his lap. “Fuck.”
That's when you feel it: the unmistakable feeling of a tent forming in your best friend’s cargo shorts under you, pressing slightly against the curve of your ass. So that was what he was freaking out about?
“Hey Jayj?” You ask quietly, feeling your eyes widen as he only grows harder. He’s biting back another low groan, gnawing at the inside of his cheek and pressing his palms against your warm flesh, keeping you now locked in place. Judging by the slight squeal that had fallen out of your lips, he’s sure you’ve clocked onto everything. He hesitates in responding, but he does so anyway: “ … yeah?”
You’re also now significantly more hesitant to even utter something else – what if you move again and make the whole situation worse – but you have to anyway, right? You swallow once, trying not to listen to the blonde’s shallow breathing beneath you. “Please tell me that isn’t what I think it is.”
It’s easier to skirt around the bushes, and it’s easy for him to understand. It’s easy for anyone in the stuffy, crowded van to understand, that's why you purposefully lowered your voice to an almost inaudible volume.
“Hey— I tried, ‘kay? You ‘n’ your fuckin’ squirmmin’ didn’t help, like at all,” he whines, throwing his head back against the seat and staring up at the ceiling. He’s pretty much seeing stars by this point; he’s been pretty much obsessed with you since forever, thought about this exact situation maybe a total of a thousand times – maybe minus all the pogues surrounding you both – he’s jerked off to old instagram photos of you too many times to count. Hell, he’s had dreams about touching you, feeling you, tasting you. But for this to be happening now? It’s humiliating.
“What? ‘S JJ tryin’ to sneak his fingers under your shirt?” Kie quips from the other side of the Twinkie, noticing how hard JJ’s fingers are flexing against your torso. You glance towards her – hoping on everything she doesn’t notice how wide your eyes are, and how you’re unintentionally biting at your bottom lip.
“Yo—? ‘M not that pervy,” Your best friend shoots his head back up, wincing slightly at the new wave of friction between you both. He can’t even blame you for this one, it was entirely his fault. Kie doesn’t pay another care to the tiny chirp you let out, or the way your hand tries to casually cover your mouth — caused by the firmer sensation of his hard-on pressing under you. Instead she just goes back to whatever she was doing with Sarah, after playfully glaring at JJ and saying: “Sure you’re not.”
“It’s nothin’—! Right JJ?” You squeak, refusing to even acknowledge the boy. He flickers his eyes onto you on instinct — feeling his lips curl again once he notices the undeniable flush creeping up your neck. He concurs, letting his head hit gently at your shoulder again, “Yup. Nothin’.”
John B’s still driving like he was before JJ’s first warning, meaning the Twinkie once again hits a pothole or something; you’re both thrown forwards, then you’re shoved back against the sun-bleached blonde who’s currently trying not to loose his mind. Another groan leaves his lips, one he can’t suppress — it’s louder this time. You throw your arms to somewhere, trying to get a good enough grip so this stops happening. Damn John B and his fuckass driving.
Regardless, you quickly turn to JJ and shoot a high-pitched apology to the man — “Sorry—!!” — before returning to hover over your bestfriend’s lap. He looks gone. Absolutely whipped. Like the poor dude’s seconds away from just whimpering right in the middle of the pogues.
“Fuck. ‘S fine princess. Know y’didnt mean it that time,”he mutters into your ear, squeezing once at your flesh like this normal. Anything to make this less awkward, right? Then he lifts up his head gruffly, raising his strained voice loud enough that everyone can hear, not just you like as of recently: “John B I wasn’t kiddin’! Slow down, for fucks sake.”
“Uh … promise t’never mention this again?” he whispers into your ear after a few moments of just straight up tension. Trying once more to play the entire situation off — even though he somehow seems to still be growing his length under you each passing moment — he adjusts he brim of the cap he’s wearing backwards, before returning his calloused hand back around your hips to keep you from pressing down against him. You agree instantly, nodding fervently and squeaking back, “Mhm. Never again.”
“Thank fuck. Sorry ‘bout … everythin’, didn’t expect this to happen—“ he murmurs, sort of rambles, easing some of the heat between you both. He also happens to grip at your hips harder, lifting you just a tad bit higher off of his lap, at the exact same moment. Gosh, he’s so far gone it’s sort of comical. You can’t help but smile softly, quietly assuring the blonde that: “It’s okay JJ. I shoulda not been so … yeah.”
It’s in fact better than okay. Sure, you were a little stunned when you realised what had happened, but now you’re thinking about it? You made your best friend hard. From nothing. You made him hard. And that thought sends a flurry of butterflies erupting in your stomach.
Honestly it makes you want to just grind agains thin harder, just to see what’ll happen.
ᯓ★ a / n : like I said, this is the most smutty ima ever go !! i mean it’s pretty much there but hey we live. also this is lowk inspired by a carl gallagher c.ai bot lmao
“baby?” you hum from the couch as rafe washes the dishes. you're snug as a bug. toes and nails freshly done, hair freshly blown out, in your cute victoria secret pijamas while sitting comfortably in your couch with a fluffy pillow cocooning you.
rafe hummed in acknowledgment, scrubbing on a cup. “whats up?” “i dont think i'll be able to pay the mortgage. sorry.”
he stops scrubbing. the hot water still running. you never pay, anything really. not because you are not capable, your old job payed you well. the same job that he made you quit because you didn't need it. you didn't need to worry about money, he had that handled.
he had you taken care of. in possibly every means possible. when he stops the water from running, wipes his hands with a towel and starts walking towards you, you tense up.
you expected him to laugh, or to roll his eyes. something humorous! but no...he looks almost mad, or sad? “bab-” he kneels beside you, gently cupping your face. “dont ever say that.”
you knew rafe was sensitive. he didnt exactly have a normal family. sometimes when he was expected to show any kind of emotion such as crying, he didnt. like when you both found out sarah didnt want rafe to be near her child, he didnt cry. he simply moved on with his day. but in moments like these, were you attempted to make a joke, he was trembling.
almost as if he was scared.
“dont ever worry about money or-” you shushed him, gently pushing his hands off your cheeks. “rafey, you're crying.” he was crying. little tears,but tears nonetheless. you gently grab his shirt, pulling him up so he can lay on you.
and he does, with all his big arms and broad shoulders, rafe cameron finds solace in your embrace. and it shows with the way he willingly melts his body into yours. how he buries his face into your shoulders, allowing you to drape the blanket over both of you. “it was just a silly joke,” you mumble, scratching his scalp.
“i know, i just dont want you to worry about anything like money while im here.” he whispers, lips brushing against your neck as he gently rubs your side.
you and rafe spend the rest of the day in the couch. whispering sweet words of comfort as he calms down.
maybe its time to pipe down on the tiktok trends for a while.
husband!rafe cameron swearing infront of your child for the first time
it happened so fast neither of you even realized it at first.
one second, everything was calm. quiet morning, sunlight spilling through the windows, your kid sitting on the floor surrounded by toys while rafe attempted to put together something that absolutely did not need assembling.
and the next—
“shit.”
the word slipped out under his breath as the piece snapped the wrong way in his hands. he froze. you froze.
the entire room went quiet.
slowly, painfully slowly, rafe lifted his head. his eyes met yours, already apologetic. “i didn’t just say that.”
you stared at him. “you just said that.”
he winced. “i didn’t mean to.”
“rafe —”
“it slipped,” he insisted quickly, already running a hand through his hair like he could undo it. “it was an accident.”
a tiny voice from the floor. “…shit?”
you both snapped your heads down at the exact same time. your kid sat there, wide-eyed, looking between the two of you like they’d just discovered something incredible.
rafe blinked like he had something in his eye.“no.”
you slapped a hand over your mouth. “oh my god.”
“shit,” your kid repeated, a little more confident this time.
rafe looked like he had just been shot.
“no — no, no, no — don’t — don’t say that,” he rushed out, immediately dropping what he was doing and crouching down in front of them. “that’s a bad word. we don’t say that.”
your kid tilted their head. “shit?”
“no,” he said again, softer this time, trying to keep calm. “no, sweetheart, that’s not a word you use.”
you were fully turned away now, shoulders shaking because you were trying so hard not to laugh.
“where did you hear that?” rafe asked, like he didn’t already know.
your kid pointed directly at him.
a quiet, strangled laugh slipped out, and you had to press your face into your hand to muffle it.
rafe shot you a look.
“this is not funny.”
“it’s a little funny,” you whispered.
“it’s not funny,” he repeated, but his voice was already cracking slightly.
“…shit,” your kid said again, testing it out like it was their new favorite thing.
rafe groaned, dropping his head for a second before looking back up. “okay—okay, listen to me,” he said gently, cupping their tiny face in his hands. “we don’t say that word, alright? that’s a grown-up word. you don’t need it.”
they blinked at him. “grown-up word?”
“yeah,” he nodded quickly. “and you’re not allowed to say it.”
there was a small pause. “you said it.”
you made a choking sound behind him.
rafe closed his eyes like he was gathering every ounce of patience he had left. “yeah,” he admitted quietly. “i did. but i’m not supposed to either.”
your kid considered that. seriously. like they were weighing the logic. “shit,” they said again.
rafe stared at them in disbelief, then slowly turned his head toward you. “say something.”
“this is your problem.”
“our problem,” he corrected immediately.
“no, no,” you grinned, “you started this.”
he let out a long breath, then turned back to your kid, softer now. “hey,” he said gently. “how about we use a different word, yeah?”
“what word?”
he thought for a second. “uh … ‘uh-oh.’”
your kid lit up. “uh-oh?”
“yeah,” he nodded quickly. “that’s a good one. we like ‘uh-oh.’”
blurb: you clean Rafe up when he shows up at your house after getting in a fight
warnings: fluff, kissing, mentions of violence
wc: 1.6k
2:14 AM. The numbers flash on the alarm clock on your bedside table. You’re sleeping, nestled under your thick white blanket, wearing a muted pink satin button-up pyjama top with matching shorts. Rain patters against the window, loud enough to drown out the outside world. That’s when you hear a thud and blink sleepily, trying to adjust to the darkness. For a second, you think you imagined it, or it’s simply something that fell, but it comes again. A second time. More insistent. You turn to the source, your window.
Then you realise. Rafe.
You slip out of bed, alert now, padding barefoot to slide open the glass. You’re hit with a spray of cold water and a gust of wind, followed by the feeling of wet fabric against your bare skin, goosebumps rising. Rafe shuts the window behind him, sealing the chill outside, before slumping against you. He’s soaked, hair sticking to his forehead, his blue polo shirt glued to his toned torso.
You pull back to look at him, noticing the bruise on his left cheekbone. “Hey… what happened?” Rafe’s blue eyes are darker in this light as he shakes his head, before pulling you closer, his hands around your waist. His head drops into the crook of your neck as he breathes you in. You try again, brushing his hair out of his face gently: “Rafe? What’s going on?”
“They were talking shit about you. I couldn’t just stand there,” he mumbles under his breath, almost like he doesn’t want you to hear.
He got into a fight. Again.
You step back, keeping him close while fumbling to turn on your nightlight. You freeze when the room lights up, illuminating the cuts on his face and the blood seeping through his shirt in the shape of a gash on his stomach.
“Oh my God, Rafe…” you trail off, taking another step back to fully assess the severity of his injuries. That’s when you notice his hands, knuckles bloodied and bruised like usual after a fight.
“It’s nothing, okay?” he murmurs, his voice low and hoarse.
“It’s not nothing, Rafe. You’re hurt.”
“I’ll be fine. I always am.” He tries to add a smirk, but it falls flat. Rafe sighs before adding: “I just… I needed to see you. Needed to know that you’re okay.”
“Rafe, I’m fine. You are not.”
You proceed to grab his arm, still soft, and lead him into the bathroom, making him sit on the edge of the bathtub like always. Rafe finds it cute how you always boss him around when he comes to you like this. It doesn’t help that you’re in those cute little shorts as well.
You turn around to grab the first-aid kit that you keep in the bottom cabinet of your sink. For emergencies like this. Rafe showing up to your house half-bruised and bleeding has happened more times than you can count now. You pop the first-aid kit open and place it on the sink counter before grabbing an antiseptic wipe.
“Why do you always have to do this?” you sigh, pretending to be pissed off, but it comes out more as worried.
Rafe just sits there watching. Taking in the way your hair falls loosely around your shoulders, slightly dishevelled from sleep. The way you turn to him with those concerned eyes that you try to hide and stand between his parted legs.
You slowly reach up and press the wipe to the cut on his jaw, trying to be as gentle as you can while cleaning the wound. Rafe doesn’t wince; the cut isn’t that deep, but he clenches his jaw instinctively. He tries his best to stay still and let you patch him up.
“Maybe I like it when you take care of me like this.” It’s clear Rafe is trying to hold back a smirk. You press down just a little harder with the wipe, not enough to hurt him, just enough for him to notice.
“You think this is funny? What if you like… ended up in hospital or something!”
That just makes him try not to laugh. “They were talking shit about you, what was I supposed to do?” he says, putting on his innocent eyes.
You try to focus on cleaning his cuts, telling yourself his pout does not faze you. But it does. And he knows it.
“You can’t just go and start a fight with anyone who says something about me, Rafe,” you exhale, putting the used bloody wipe on the counter, grabbing a new one to clean whatever mess is hiding under his shirt.
“Why not?” Rafe asks like he genuinely doesn’t have a clue as to why it’s wrong.
“Because-” you cut yourself off, taking a breath before saying more quietly, “Lift your shirt.”
“So bold now, are we?” Rafe teases.
You just narrow your eyes, waiting for him to do as you said. Rafe groans, muttering under his breath, “You’re no fun.”
He slips off his shirt, revealing his toned arms and defined torso, along with a new cut across his stomach, red and swollen. It looks bad. Like really bad.
You freeze, staring at it. Sure, Rafe’s probably gotten hurt worse, which is why he’s unbothered by it, but that doesn’t mean you’ll ever get used to seeing him hurt.
“How… how did this happen?”
“We both kinda fell… on a glass table,” he shrugs. You don’t say anything. You can’t. You don’t know whether to be upset, concerned or pissed. Rafe notices your reaction. The worry bleeding into your eyes despite your conflicting emotions.
“Hey, don't worry, I'm okay,” he tries his best to reassure you. When you still don’t say anything, he pulls you closer by the waist, leaving you no choice but to look at him.
“I really do try not to get into fights. It’s just… I get so mad when they say stuff about you.”
Your voice comes out quieter now, the fight gone. “It’s not worth getting hurt over, Rafe. I’m not-”
“Don’t. You are worth everything, you hear me? I’d do anything for you.” His thumb brushes over your bottom lip before he leans in and kisses you, his mouth moving against yours, soft for once.
You kiss him back, wrapping your arms around his neck when his warm hands slip under your little singlet top, fingers brushing against your skin. Rafe’s tongue swipes along your bottom lip, and you take the invite, parting your lips. “Mm…” you hum, pulling back a few seconds later before things get too heated.
You still have to clean him up. “Don’t think this makes anything okay. I’m still mad,” you huff before grabbing a cloth and some disinfectant.
His smirk comes back full force. “You should’ve seen the other-”
He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale as you press the disinfectant-soaked cloth against the cut. “Fuck…” Rafe groans under his breath. It burns like hell.
“And this is why you shouldn’t get into fights,” you lecture, before grabbing some antibiotic cream, layering it carefully over the wound before wrapping it with gauze.
Rafe sighs as the sting fades, leaning back on his hands, braced against the edge of the tub. He runs a hand through his messy hair before looking at you with his usual smug look, “What would I do without you? Hm?”
You bite your lip, trying to hide a smile, looking down. Rafe catches it and tilts your face back up. “Thank you, baby,” he murmurs before kissing you again.
“You’re welcome,” you whisper against his lips, then: “But you have to make it up to me.”
“Of course,” Rafe laughs lowly. He stands up, towering over you now. His warm hands slide right back down to your hips, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “How about… we go shopping tomorrow? Just you and me?”
“I’d like that…” you whisper, looking up at him. He brushes a strand of hair out of your face before: “Can I stay the night?”
You can't help the small laugh that escapes you, the lingering worry finally melting out of your chest. "You think I’m letting you go back out in the rain to waste all of my effort cleaning you up? Come on."
You turn off the harsh bathroom light and lead him back into the dim, warm glow of your bedroom. The rain is still drumming a heavy, steady rhythm against the glass. Rafe wastes no time peeling back your thick white duvet and sinking into the mattress. He sighs heavily, the exhaustion of the adrenaline crash finally hitting him as he pats the spot right next to him. "Get over here, baby."
You slip into bed beside him, the satin of your pyjamas sliding against his bare chest. The second you're under the covers, Rafe hooks his leg over yours, pulling you flush against his side. His long arms wrap around your waist, burying his face right back into your hair, breathing you in.
"If you get into another fight tomorrow, I'm locking the window," you whisper into the dark, resting your head carefully on his chest, above his bandaged stomach.
"Mm... sure you will," Rafe mumbles against your neck, his voice thick with sleep. His grip tightens around your waist just a fraction more, completely content. "Goodnight, baby."
You close your eyes, listening to the rain and the steady beat of his heart. "Goodnight."
a/n: tysm so much for 100 followers!!! it's only been a month since i've started this blog and i cannot tell you how grateful i am for all the love and support. this is my first fic so and hopefully you guys like it. i've got lots more content coming soon including more short fics and headcanons!
