hellooo!!! i was js thinking of ptputss and thought about how intimate the last chapter was, and thought about the reader cockwarming rafe as an even more intimate thing they would do (in the least sexual way posible) like to feel close to eachother, connecting as one, almost like a soultie was created out of that yk?
HELLLLLOOOOO yes absolutely a thousand times yes.
To me, the two of them definitely have quality time listed as their top love language, and will do shit like this and not even speak but just to truly feel one another, perhaps after a stressful day or when it's a little too loud. I can see them doing it before the ptputss series as like a post-sex comfort/pillow talk bullshit, but only for like five-minutes max because once there's a silence in their conversation, they'd be left with the fact that he's still inside reader and that shit would make her spiral lol.
However, post ptputss, they would totally do it in the least sexual way possible. Obvi they'd still do it post-sex if they have the time, but I'm thinking sitting and watching a movie, right after waking up, after a rough day, casual moments like that.
I love this prompt so much actually that I wanted to write a blurb about it. So. Here goes below. This blurb takes place a few days after the series ended.
Playing The Part Under The Sicilian Sun SERIES MASTERLIST | WORD COUNT: 4.3k
WARNINGS language, cockwarming (p-in-v unprotected), misogynistic language. 18+ MDNI
From the moment Rafe opens his eyes, the day is already off to a bad start.
Instead of the sun peeking through his curtains or you gently running your hands through his hair, he's woken up by the shrilling of his phone, a loud ringtone that only makes him groan and throw the pillow back over his face.
The specific ringtone that's solely reserved for Ward.
The third time his father calls him, Rafe figures that he can't ignore him forever, lazily patting around the bed to find his phone so he can just get the conversation over with. Unfortunately, he knows that the longer he stalls the inevitable, the angrier his father will get — even though being irate is his default state — and it's something that he knows he can't push off unless he wants to hear the horrible shrilling of the ringtone all day.
Getting viscerally berated over the phone wasn't on his agenda, and it hinders absolutely everything else throughout the course of the what-should-have-been-average-Sunday.
Rafe blames the rude wake up call on all the things that go south: his coffee order was completely wrong and barely salvageable (and there was no way he was getting back in line to order another), the forecast app predicted the opposite kind of day, so his new suede shoes got absolutely drenched in the downpour, the dealership by campus that he sent his car to said the part he needs is on back-order until the end of the month (how he’s going to drive home? He doesn't know), and, on top of all of it, all that he can replay in his head are the harsh vocal bullets his father shot at him at the break of dawn.
"Photography? What the hell were you thinking? I'm paying for you to learn how to carry this company, my legacy, and you're off indulging in, what? A hobby?"
Replaying the words, Rafe jabs his chopsticks particularly harshly into his noodles.
"It's pathetic, especially to hear this from your academic advisor and not from my own damn kid. What are you, afraid? You're here to learn about how to lead, how to control the estate, and instead you take history? Art history, nonetheless. It serves no purpose, no function for company. You're learning about a woman's profession, son. Did I raise you to be a woman?"
He huffs, stabbing the piece of beef.
"Alright, you've been committing first degree murder on your lo mein for the past fifteen minutes. Are you gonna tell me what's up?"
Rafe blinks at the sound of your voice, ripped from the confinements of his mind and glancing up from his thousand-yard-stare at his food to you, sitting pretty and cozy across the blanket.
You, being the innovative person you are, suggested a picnic dinner date to celebrate the end of finals, an ode to all the hard work you've both done and a mini celebration on being together (sort of? He hasn't officially asked you yet but ever since the night you proclaimed you reciprocated his feelings, he's found it hard to leave your side since). However, since the torrential downpour of the day ruled out the possibility of doing it outside, you didn't scratch the idea entirely, and set up the blanket in your dorm room, instead.
But as excited as he was for the idea yesterday, today has taken a different turn of events on his mood. Especially when he woke up alone (you spent a girl's night with Marianne and Sydney) to a call from his absolute favorite person in the world.
Besides, you look too pretty right now and it's making his heart uncomfortably race, especially under your stare. Also the fact that you're sitting criss-cross and he's half laying down, propped up on his elbows, where he feels even smaller under your gaze.
Rafe averts his eyes, settling on his food.
"'M just tired," he says quietly, not wanting to burden you with the pleasantries of his familial issues.
Obviously, you're not letting the cheap excuse fly. "So you're taking your lack of sleep out on innocent noodles?"
"Sweet girl." A warning.
Again, you don't let up. "Don't sweet girl me." Then, softer. "Talk to me. You're clearly upset."
Rafe only shrugs dismissively.
You sigh as you gaze at his dejected expression, eyes sullen and tired from whatever happened today. With the way his focus keeps drifting, his silence, and the incessant stabbing of his food, you unfortunately figure it has something to do with his father, because it's the same heartbroken expression he wore when you read to him that one day. Although, this time his eyes aren't bloodshot with the aftermath of tears. But his nail beds are a mess.
Delicately putting your chopsticks and your take-out container down, you crawl over to him and repeat those same actions to him, tucking your legs under yourself as you peer down at his practically horizontal body.
His hand, instantly, finds your inner thigh as some sort of coping mechanism to ground himself. Your hand gingerly brushes some of the hair out of his eyes, and he can only stare at the silly graphic on your t-shirt, unable to handle the vulnerability of meeting your compassionate expression. Fuck's sake, he's still getting used to the fact that someone cares about him, and it's definitely overwhelming to the point where he simply wants to brush it off and deal with it internally, but he knows you're not going to let that slide.
But Rafe is detrimentally on edge, on the verge of a panic attack as his mind spirals and spirals and deep dives off a plank into a sea of insecurities. He knows he's minutes from cracking, fuck, seconds, and he isn't sure he wants you to see it, to see him unravel in such a way only his father knows how to make him do so, knowing he needs to calm down, to feel instead of think, to tether to something to refrain from a certified crash out.
"Can I..." He asks before thinking. "Can I feel you?"
You raise a brow at him, tilting your head in confusion. The expression on your face is incriminatingly cute that it makes him hum. With one of your hands coming to cradle his face, you press a palm into his cheekbone experimentally.
"Like this?"
He feels so fucking stupid asking — no — begging for it. For you.
"No, uh." He swallows thickly. "Can I be in you?"
"Oh?" You hum absentmindedly, brain racking on what he could mean. It takes one, two, three full seconds before your brows fully raise, peering down at him. "Oh. Okay. Will that make you feel better?"
All he can do is nod pathetically, blinking ferociously to refrain from frustrated tears pooling his waterline. The last thing he wants to do right now is cry, especially around you. He's frustrated he can't just say what he feels, or get over his grueling emotions, or simply be normal and not let his father dictate whether he has a good or bad day. It doesn't help that you're being exceptionally patient with him, so tender and careful to the point where he thought it impossible to love you more than he already does.
Whether you notice his expression, you don't comment on it. "Let's go on the bed, yeah?"
Nodding once more, he nearly whines when your hand leaves the caressing of his jaw as he watches you stand and shimmy your pajama pants down, leaving you with just a graphic t-shirt on.
Rafe is soon following suit once he finds the strength to move, removing his shirt and jeans that leave him in his boxers. Climbing into your soft bed, he settles his back against the wall and holds up an arm for you, to which you're in his lap in an instant. Perched obediently on his lower thighs, you lean forward to press a chaste kiss on his lips and he barely has time to reciprocate before you're pulling away.
Your fingers meet the waist band of his boxers, meeting his gaze before you do anything further. "Is this okay?"
"Yes, baby," he murmurs, lifting his hips a fraction so you can slide his boxers down, revealing his half-hard cock.
He hisses quietly when it meets the cool air, and bites his lip as he lets you take a rare sense of control. It's as if he's putting a proverbial gun in your hand and asking you not to shoot him, because he's never asked anyone to do this with him, never reeked this badly of desperation in his life, never trusted anyone on the same level to do something like this as a calming mechanism.
You're taking him delicately in your hands as his fly down to your hips, quietly watching you align his length with your cunt before gently sinking into him. You both sigh at the sensation, about how full you feel as you slowly bottom out and how he feels like he can actually take a breath now. The remnants of the conversation with his father feel like a distant echo instead of a thrumming one, and he figures that's better than it was before (even if he can still hear it).
Bracing your hands on his shoulders, your nails soothingly scratch his upper back and shoulder blades, eventually venturing to the nape of his neck to where Rafe lets out a quiet hum, one of contentment, because this is the best he's felt all day, as if the nagging voice in his head is getting smaller and smaller. It's crazy how you make him feel, how he instantly is detrimentally less anxious as soon as you're around. It scares the shit out of him.
"Better?" You ask hushed, searching his eyes for any betterment in his mood.
He manages a soft smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Mhm, thank you, sweet girl."
You reciprocate his smile, but it's laced with etches of concern, gazing upon him so carefully that it makes his heart stutter. Has anyone ever looked at him like this before? Has anyone ever cared for him like this? Tended to his needs? Gave a shit about his feelings?
Rafe knows you're not going to ask, because you're calculated and know that he'll eventually end up saying something so you can stop giving him that expectant look. Besides, you deserve to know a fragmented version of what happened. After all, you dropped everything mid-dinner to check in on him, indulge in his request, dote on him even when you really didn't have to.
"Dad called me this morning," Rafe murmurs after an allotted silence, eyes to your collarbone. "That's it."
"About Christmas?" He doesn't have to look up to know you're frowning.
All he can do is shake his head, jaw clenched.
"Why do I even set expectations for you when I know you're only going to disappoint me?"
"Then what?" You ask, voice impossibly sweet that it makes his teeth rot.
Rafe takes a long, shaky breath as his father's words replay like a mantra in his head, echoing through his ears like a gong and embedding themselves in his brain. Absentmindedly, his thumb rubs circles on your smooth skin, attempting to ground himself. It seems as though only your touch can calm him down, these days.
Swallowing thickly, his jaw clenches and unclenches. "Just about classes."
If it's possible, he can feel you frowning even further. Your hand runs soothingly through his hair, lulling him into a sense of relaxation he hasn't felt all day. It's as if some of the tension is slowly starting to release itself from his stiff shoulders, all because of your touch, your compassion, your patience with him when he probably doesn't deserve it.
"But...But you did well in everything?"
Rafe manages a (very) faint smile at your concerned tone, remembering how proud you were of him yesterday when his art history exam score was posted (a B, but he ended the class with good marks), as if he was Einstein reincarinated.
But his smile vanishes as quickly as it appeared, remembering the conversation that came after his dad saw his transcript posted. More so saw the kind of classes the marks were attached to.
"Yeah," he whispers, "wasn't about the grades. Was about the classes."
"The classes?"
All he can do is hum distractedly, looking down to watch his thumbs skim over your hips as an excuse to not look up at you.
"What about them?"
Rafe blinks the bleariness from his eyes, wishing he can just lay you down and make you forget about asking all of this in the first place, but that isn't how he wants to do things with you. Of course, he'd rather be doing anything else right now than to be coddled for something he believes makes him look weak, emotional, insecure. Although, it's proving difficult to put a mask up when you genuinely want to know so you can make it better.
He finds himself speaking before he can stop. "Wasn't the kind of stuff he thinks I should be taking." Deep breath. "Like, career wise. Said half the subjects weren't..." He pauses to find the right word. "...worth my time."
Rafe figures that's a nicer way of putting it.
Your hand leaves his hair to cradle his jaw, gently tilting up so he's — finally — looking you in the eye. And he nearly wants to match your expression at the fact that you're even frowning in the first place. Although your eyes gloss with concern and a bit of confusion as your thumb brushes over his cheekbone, holding him with such delicacy that it makes him melt into your touch.
Frankly, he's a bit startled at the ounce of determination in your stare and — dare he say — anger.
"That's stupid," is what you end up saying. "This is the time in our lives where we're meant to figure out what we like, even if it doesn't end up being what we do for a living. Having a hobby doesn't mean you're giving up your major."
Rafe can only shrug, because he knows better than to let his dad rile him up like this, because he knows you're right and he hates feeling insecure over the shit that Ward says. But he can't help it, especially when he's been trying to gain paternal approval for his entire life and always coming up short, always disappointing, always doing or saying something to embarrass the family. He should be used to coping with it, with all this weight on his shoulders, but over the years the stress has only piled on.
"Tell me," you say after a few moments of prolonged silence, "did you enjoy the classes you took this semester that aren't related to your major?"
With a slow nod, he darts his gaze between your eyes, waiting for you to talk about something else to distract him, to dismiss the conversation that is taking everything out of him. It’s already bad enough his father thinks less of him as a man, and he doesn’t want you thinking the same. Rafe winces, waiting for the worst.
But it never comes.
Instead, your eyes soften. "So where's the harm? There's nothing wrong with taking extracurriculars and exploring your interests. You have your whole life for your career, it's okay to want a break from it," you assure gently, yet hold firmness to your tone.
Rafe frowns, eyes averting to your neck, words spilling from his tongue without warning. "My life is already mapped out. I'm the eldest, I'll inherit the company. It's been that way since I was born. I don't get...breaks."
"Yes, you do," you say immediately, tilting his chin up a fraction so he'll look you in the eye again. "Your interests are what make you happy. It's perfectly okay to indulge in them." Then, softer. "I'm sorry that you’ve been made to think that you can't."
Furrowing his brows, he can't help but look down again, gently tilting his chin down enough to where your hand leaves his face, instead settling modestly on his shoulder blade as you patiently wait for him to process your words, to believe them. His thumbs rub softly on your skin to say all the words he can't vocalize right now, to express his gratitude even if he never finds the ability to say them aloud.
Yet you understand, knowing his silence isn't him shutting down, it's him focusing his words on his actions. And his hands hold you so delicately in place as you feel comfortably full of him, trying not to make any sudden movements that might lull the direction of the cockwarning into something else. You want him to talk, you want him to express his feelings and learn how to process and deal with them. You're no therapist, but you care an awful lot and you want him to be okay, and one step towards connecting with him emotionally is trying to understand his brain.
"Have you ever seen Dead Poet's Society?"
The question is so out of left field (and a little ridiculous that you're bringing it up while he's literally inside you) that it makes Rafe lift his head, meeting your eyes with a furrowed brow.
All he does is shake his head.
You scoff. "We're watching it later, by the way." That earns a sliver of a smile from him. "But there's a quote that I like that the teacher says to his students. The boys are all bound to be lawyers, doctors, businessmen, all to follow in the masculine footsteps of their fathers and grandfathers and their fathers, etcetera."
"What is the subject?" Rafe asks quietly. "What does he teach?"
You smile at his engagement, how he's hanging on to every single one of your words. "English. So, they all think the class is pointless, right? Like, going on about how poetry is stupid and literature does nothing to contribute to the real world."
Rafe frowns. That conversation feels familiar.
You don't stop, though. "But the teacher says, 'Medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.' I've always loved that. And, now, I'm passing it along to you."
His thumbs pause their movements as Rafe furrows his brows, really taking in the weight of what you said.
"Don't let him make you think that you aren't allowed to pursue something you love," you add quietly, darting your gaze between his eyes. "I know you said your future is mapped out, but...it's still your life."
All Rafe can do is stare at you.
No one's ever told him something like this before. Never told him that he can do whatever he wants with his life. Never reassured him that, no matter what career he wants to go in, that he'll be loved no matter what. It's unheard of, foreign in his head to think in such a way that goes against everything he's been hearing while growing up, strange to even think about considering a different path.
And now here you are: the person he loves telling him he can be whoever he wants to be.
"You know," Rafe says after a minute of processing your life-altering words. "I never wanted to go into business."
"No?" You hum, your interested piqued.
He shakes his head. "No. I wanted to be Jacsque Cousteau."
The anecdote makes you laugh sweetly, and it's the prettiest sound he's ever heard. His heart swells at the noise.
"The ocean guy?"
Scoffing in faux offense, Rafe's lips twitch. "Baby, give him some credit. He changed the underwater exploration game."
Your grin settles into something warm, content, soft, something beautiful just for him, and there's a plethora of emotions blooming in your chest: hope, warmth, guilt, sympathy, sadness. On one hand, you see a man who loves the sea, who'd swim all day and appreciate the nature of it all without hesitation. You see someone who appreciates the water so adoringly that he'd dedicate his life to it, to its research and explorations and survival.
But on the other hand you see Rafe as a young boy, being told he's never meant to pursue anything from what he's expected to, being told his indulges are meaningless and his dreams are nonexistent. It breaks your heart that, most likely, all his life he's been believing he's not allowed to do what he wants.
"That's what you wanna do? Oceanography?" You ask simply, as if it's the simplest thing known to man.
Rafe only shrugs at the loaded question. "When I was a kid, yeah."
"And now?" You add sheepishly.
He only shrugs again, sending you a soft smile that, again, doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Doesn't matter. It was stupid."
Frowning, you can't help but feel your heart pinch.
You know that's his father talking, probably saying that to his son so often that he couldn't help but begin to believe it, believe his dreams are stupid, believe he doesn't have the privilege to explore his interests since his life is planned to a T. You're hearing the years of his father instilling that he's meant for nothing more than what is expected of him for the company, that anything else is insignificant and unimportant, that he doesn't have a choice.
The confession sits uncomfortably in your stomach, feeling like you've been sucked punched in the gut as you gaze upon Rafe, whose smile is trying to affirm you that he's fine with it. But his eyes tell a different story, hold a certain sadness of which he has accepted.
You don't even want to think about how often he dreams about switching majors, uprooting his life to become something that he wants to be, not what his family expects him to be. You don't even want to know how long he's been longing for change, for the ability to choose, pushing the urge deep, deep down because it's unattainable.
Oh, god. You could cry.
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you caress his jaw. "It's not stupid. Please don't say that."
The waver in your tone gives away your fucking broken heart as you peer at him through thick lashes, trying to blink away tears that haven't come yet. It's proving difficult though, because you unintentionally pout as you really, really focus on remaining headstrong, on being the voice he needs to hear to clear his mind. You're here to comfort him, reassure him, yet you're on the verge of being the one who needs comforting.
On the other side of the coin, Rafe is just absolutely amazed at your compassion, not understanding why you're so hung up about him not being able to be an ocean explorer, for fuck's sake. You look like a kicked puppy, frowning at him in a way that he can't help but grin at, because it seems like you're more upset about it than he ever was.
"Okay," he relents gently, grinning at your clear distress, "only because you said please."
You let out a ragged breath. "That's not funny. Stop it."
"Never. And it is a little funny," he muses. "You're more upset about it than I am, I think."
Your lips twitch. "This is serious. Stop making me smile."
"Aw, I make you smile?"
"Rafe."
"You look so pretty, baby. Give me another."
You end up rolling your eyes and shaking your head gently, peering at him longingly for a prolonged moment before leaning forward and placing a chaste kiss on his lips. He reciprocates as quickly as it comes, but you lean back a fraction to study him, faces inches apart as your eyes soften into a look he doesn't recognize. Regardless of what the undertones are, you are beautiful.
“Say it,” you whisper against his lips.
His brows furrow. “Say what?”
“Say it’s not stupid.”
Rafe sighs your name.
You only raise your brows, expectantly and wide eyed.
He only tilts his head slightly. “Really?”
You nod as if you’ve never been certain of anything else in your life.
Huffing again, his gaze shifts momentarily behind you, gathering up the courage to do so, cheeks tinting pink at the vulnerability of it all, at how silly he feels indulging your request. However, it’s hard to say no when you’re looking that pretty.
“It’s not stupid,” he says quietly.
“What’s not stupid?”
Rafe says your name in warning. And you only tilt your head in faux confusion, egging him on.
The sigh that emits from his mouth is guttural. “My interests are not stupid.”
“And?”
He indulges quietly. “I’m allowed to pursue what I want. It’s my life.”
Fuck, he’d say it a thousand times over if you keep smiling the way you are right now, beaming at him like he'd just hit the lottery, proud of him for finding his words.
Wordlessly, you find yourself gently wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling yourself taut to his body as if you weren't before. You rest your chin on the muscle connecting his neck to his shoulder, letting out a deep hum at the feel of him, the feel of his hands under your t-shirt gingerly rubbing up and down your back, the feel of his cock inside you, the feel of his syncopated heartbeat thrumming through his chest.
Rafe lets out a deep breath, partially out of relief, because he hates to admit that speaking it aloud has eased some sort of tension not only in his shoulders, but in his brain. He was appalled at your immediate dismissal of his father's words, saying your opinion as if it was written in code, enacted in law, praised for the world to follow. At the certainty in your voice, as if it was obvious, he figures his father must be wrong.
"Thank you." You hear him murmur.
All you can do is shake your head as best you can in this position. "You deserve to be happy."
"I am happy. I have you."
The simplicity of it has your heart skip, a wide smile etching on your face even though he has no way of seeing it.
"That's not what I meant."
Rafe snorts. "It's what I meant."
You shake your head again, but the words die in your throat as you're overwhelmingly consumed by love, compassion, care. When he does use his words, they're always firm, certain, truthful, as if they're the easiest things he's ever said. He sometimes speaks such beautiful words with such nonchalance that it throws you for a loop, makes you double take and attempt to confirm that you heard him right.
And, the worst part is, is that he has no idea the effect that it has on you. (Or he does, and he simply says it anyway to fluster you).
"Can we stay like this?" You ask sheepishly. "Just a little longer?"
As if the universe loves to prank, Rafe's stomach growls loud and audacious to the point where it silences both of you. You let out a snort and Rafe only groans, embarrassed when he remembers he spent all of dinner stabbing his food rather than eating it.
"We'll stay here all night, baby," he says low and certain. "But first, can you grab my to-go box?"
You laugh dangerously loud, the sensation making him stiffen underneath you.
"And, what?" You scoff playfully, as if the whole thing is a ridiculous idea. "We'll both eat while you're inside me?"
Suddenly, Rafe's grabbing your waist to make you lean back to stare at him, serious with a twinkle in his eye that only screams trouble. It's as if he's offended that you think he's joking.
"Uh, yeah?"
You're not one to refuse that request.
© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission. mdni.
notes apologies for the delay in response (this was sent in after pt.7), I wanted to wait until the series was completely uploaded to respond to asks about it. had to pull the dead poets society card like srrrrry.
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