extra credit ( rafe cameron x f!reader)
summary: frat boy!rafe can’t help but feel drawn to the overachiever freshman!reader in his class. with finals around the corner, he convinces her to come over and help him study.
word count: 3.7k ish
content warnings: 18+ , p in v, unprotected sex, cockwarming, a little conditioning if you squint
an: a lovely anon requested frat!rafe and immediately my mind went to how icky he can be when he needs to make sure he can get a passing grade. <3
you’re not sure why rafe cameron’s even in that 300-level political theory class. he doesn’t take notes. he never has his book. he spends most lectures leaned back in his chair, bored and beautiful and barely listening.
and yet he always looks directly at the professor when he talks. like he’s trying to memorize the rhythm of his voice instead of what he’s saying. or maybe he just wants to look like he’s paying attention.
so when he slides into the empty seat beside you one thursday — ten minutes before class ends — and murmurs, “you take good notes, right?” you almost choke on your highlighter.
he grins when you look at him, all teeth and mischief. he’s wearing his tri delt hoodie, backwards cap, two rings on one hand. you’ve never spoken outside of group discussions, and even then, you only exchanged a few awkward glances and one “you wanna read this section?”
you nod slowly. “um… yeah. i guess.”
he leans in just slightly, voice lower. “you free this weekend? i could use a little help.”
a pause. then, like he’s joking: “academically, i mean.”
your eyebrows pinch together. you’re still suspicious. still trying to figure out if this is some kind of hazing joke or if he actually needs you.
“don’t you have, like… a study group?”
rafe chuckles under his breath. “yeah. they’re idiots.”
he rests his chin in his hand and watches you for a second too long. “you’re not.”
you feel your face heat up. immediately, you try to look back at your notes. it’s too late. he’s already planted something in your head — something that buzzes in your chest all the way through the rest of class.
when you’re packing up to leave, he reaches out and flicks the corner of your notebook with one finger.
“see you saturday at my place, smarty pants.”
you blink.
“we never said—”
he’s already walking backwards out the door, smirking.
“you’ll come. you love this shit.”
you’re still sitting there, half zipped backpack in your lap, when you notice your little plaid skirt has ridden up just slightly. and across the room, rafe glances back at you one last time — not at your face. lower. like he knows what he’s doing. like it’s on purpose.
you tug the hem down quickly, heart skipping.
of course, he doesn’t look away until he’s fully backed out of the room.
you wait until friday night to check your messages — not because you’re trying to be cool, but because you’re not even sure what you’re doing. rafe’s text came hours after class ended, short and simple:
> saturday. 3pm. tri delt house.
> come teach me something, smarty pants.
you must’ve reread it twenty times.
you typed out three different versions of can we meet at the library instead? and deleted every one.
by saturday morning, you’ve convinced yourself he probably forgot. he’s probably already passed out drunk or halfway to some tailgate. he was probably just being… whatever he is. frat boy charming. lazy. slightly cruel.
but then, right before three, he texts again.
> don’t flake
> i cleaned my room for you
you’re still not sure what you’re walking into when you show up, but it’s already loud outside — music echoing from behind the tall white house with the greek letters nailed above the front door. red cups in the yard. beer spilled down the steps. a pack of guys on the porch.
your stomach sinks a little.
it’s not even dark out.
you tug your cardigan tighter around yourself, your notebook clutched tight to your chest as you climb the steps. every step feels louder than it should. one of the guys elbows another when he sees you.
“yo, cameron’s got a tutor?”
“she’s cute, damn.”
someone whistles, and you duck your head, cheeks burning.
you mutter something like excuse me and slip past them, ignoring the way they laugh behind you.
inside, the house smells like weed and cheap cologne. someone’s watching a basketball game in the living room, yelling at the TV. you hover in the entryway, unsure which way to go until someone calls from upstairs.
“yo, smarty pants — up here!”
your heart jumps.
you climb the stairs fast, desperate to escape the front room, and find rafe leaning against a doorway at the end of the hall. he’s in a wife beater and boxers, barefoot, hair damp like he just showered.
he smiles when he sees you.
“hey. you came.”
you try to steady your voice. “yeah. i— yeah.”
“you look nervous.” he steps aside, letting you into the room.
“don’t be nervous, sweetheart. i’m just here to learn.”
his room smells like cedarwood and something a little more dangerous. cologne, probably. the bed is unmade. there are books stacked messily on the desk. one of them is actually for your class.
you set your notebook down and sit on the edge of the desk chair.
your knees bounce a little. you can still feel the eyes from downstairs.
“why couldn’t we do this at the library?” you ask softly, not quite looking at him.
rafe shrugs, flopping back onto the bed with his hands behind his head.
“library’s boring.”
a pause.
“and i like my bed better.”
your throat tightens. you don’t know what you expected — but it wasn’t this.
it wasn’t rafe watching you from his mattress like he’s already imagined this, like he’s not planning to read a single word of your notes.
you force a small smile, opening your notebook.
“okay. well… you said you needed help with the concept of ideological state apparatuses?”
he hums, gaze still locked on you. “right. ideological state apparatuses.”
he lets the words roll off his tongue like he’s never said anything smarter.
“sounds kinky, honestly.”
you roll your eyes, but your thighs press together.
this was a mistake. a mistake you’re about to make anyway.
the room is too quiet.
just the faint sound of a fan clicking above and rafe’s lazy inhales from the bed while you flip pages in your notes. you’re seated at his desk, pencil in hand, trying to maintain the illusion that this is academic — that you’re not in the bedroom of a boy who smells like cigarettes and citrus and knows exactly what he’s doing.
you can feel his eyes on you. have been for minutes now. heavy and hot and so obviously fixed on your legs, the way they’re crossed beneath your skirt. you shift a little in your chair, skirt riding up an inch higher.
“you always wear skirts like that?” his voice slices through the stillness, smooth and low.
you pause. blink down at your notes. “like what?”
“short.” he doesn’t even pretend to think about it “tight.”
your mouth opens, then closes. clearly gripping your pencil tighter. “it’s just what i had on today.”
“mm.” a lazy hum. “lucky me.”
you swallow hard. you can feel your heartbeat in your throat, your ears, your thighs. still, you don’t look at him. if you do, you’ll stop pretending. pretending you didn’t notice the way he watched you in class. the way he waited till the room emptied before he spoke to you. the way he texted you my room like there was no other option.
“i really think if you just broke down the differences between repression and ideology,” you start, voice steadier than you feel, “you’d understand the rest of the theory.”
he doesn’t respond. not for a while.
you hear the bed creak behind you, slow and deliberate. the soft sound of his bare feet hitting the floor. your breath catches when you feel him step behind your chair, his hands gripping the wooden armrests on either side of you.
you go completely still.
“smarty pants,” he murmurs by your ear, “you always gotta sound so sweet when you’re talking about things i don’t give a shit about?”
you turn your head, just a little — and he’s already watching your mouth.
he doesn’t kiss you. not yet. he just leans closer, lets the silence press in around you both, and says, “you know i didn’t ask you here to tutor me.”
your thighs squeeze together again. it’s instinct. but then, carefully, you pull your chair forward an inch, trying to slip just out of reach.
your voice comes quiet. “rafe… we should study.”
he hums again, almost amused.
“we are studying,” he says. “i’m learning a lot.”
you turn your head just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. his eyes are still on your mouth.
you try again. “seriously.”
he doesn’t back off. doesn’t touch you either — not yet. just dips his head until his lips graze the shell of your ear.
“you’re so fucking cute when you pretend like you don’t want it.”
your spine stiffens. you open your mouth, a protest forming — but his hand slides up the side of your thigh, slow and warm. not high enough to be explicit, but enough to quiet your thoughts. enough to distract.
“just wanna make you feel good,” he murmurs. “let me do that.”
your breath catches, your legs tense. you feel warm all over, dizzy with it.
his other hand curls lightly around your wrist, the pencil slipping from your fingers and clattering to the desk.
you still hesitate, though. not moving away, but not melting yet either. he sees that. sees the way you blink like you’re trying to remember what you even came here for.
“okay,” he murmurs, like he’s had a sudden thought. like he’s compromising. “how about this. what if…”
his thumb brushes under your skirt, just barely grazing the crease of your thigh.
“what if we keep studying… while you let me play with you a little?”
you don’t say anything — but you don’t say no, and he takes that as enough.
“just sit with me,” he whispers, coaxing you up by the waist. “not even asking for anything serious. just wanna be close. warm you up. you can keep going over your notes, i swear.”
you let him guide you to your feet, legs shaky, nerves hot under your skin.
he sinks into the desk chair with a lazy kind of confidence, legs spread, then reaches for your hand. "c’mere."
you hesitate for half a second — but he’s already pulling you in, gentle but sure, guiding you to turn around and lower yourself into his lap.
your back presses to his chest. your skirt rides up instantly as you straddle him, knees bumping the sides of the chair. you feel him — thick and hard — under you, just his boxers separating him from the heat between your legs.
his hands slide up your thighs, thumbs brushing the crease where they meet your hips.
“good girl,” he murmurs, voice thick, almost smug. “see? we’re multitasking.”
he shifts beneath you just slightly, hips tilting up, and then he’s pushing down his waistband just enough to free himself — flushed and heavy cock springing out to hit against his stomach. his hand slips under your skirt, pushing your panties aside but not pulling them off, just baring enough.
and then he slides the veiny rod between your folds — not in, not yet — just lets the length of him press along your slit. your breath hitches.
“go on,” he says low against your ear. “grind on it. nice and slow.”
you do. you can't help it. rocking your hips until he’s slick with you, until you’re soaking through your panties, breath getting quicker with each pass.
he groans into your neck, like it’s hurting him to wait.
“fuck, that’s it… get yourself ready for me, pretty girl.”
you try to refocus. really, you do. you open your notebook again, force your eyes to the page — but the second you shift your weight, even a little, he takes it as permission. his hands on your hips begin to guide you back and forth even faster.
you gasp, nails digging into the pages of the textbook. the fat bell shaped tip snags against your clit each time you shift backwards on him. a filthy sound spilling out of you much louder than you intended. your head falls back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.
he groans low in your ear, one hand gripping your waist, the other splayed possessively across your thigh as he settles you down fully on his cock. fills you so deep it steals your breath.
"fuck," he breathes, almost to himself. "just like that."
he leans back a little, relaxed like it’s nothing. like he’s not buried inside you right there in his desk chair, your skirt barely covering anything, your panties stretched at the side.
his mouth brushes your shoulder.
"now,” he says, voice smooth as ever, “start from the top.”
you try — really try — to keep reading.
flipping to the next page in your notebook, breath catching as you blink hard and mumble,
“the— the dominant themes in.. ” but your voice stumbles. your hips shift.
his cock, thick and pulsing, is wedged right between your soaked folds — your panties barely pushed aside, thin fabric clinging to your swollen cunt. you can feel every vein, every twitch of him as he pulses against your slit, smeared in your arousal.
“keep going,” he says, calm, like he’s not the reason your voice is shaking. like he doesn’t know your clit’s aching, engorged and throbbing, so needy it flutters with every tiny shift of pressure.
you swallow. try again.
“dominant themes in— in postmodern lit include…”
his hands flex on your thighs, keeping you pressed tight to him.
just enough to drag that thick, throbbing length through the mess between your lips when you move, just enough to let your clit catch on the ridges of his veiny shaft.
wet, filthy, slow grinding.
you squirm, your mouth parting in a broken gasp, nails digging into the desk as you try not to ride him like you need to.
“include fragmented— fragmented narrative— f-fuck” he chuckles low behind you. smug.
“mm, you’re almost there, smarty pants. don’t stop now.” you whimper. desperate. aching.
your hand flies back to clutch at his thigh, shaking.
“rafe, i- i need it, i can’t- please.”
he leans in close, mouth brushing your cheek, voice thick and smug. “you want me to fuck you, baby?”
your thighs tremble. your panties soaked through.
“yes,” you pant, whining now. “please. i want you to put it in. all the way. i need it.”
his hands slide down to your hips, gripping tight.
"then read me one more sentence," he murmurs, cock twitching right against your clit.
“earn it.”
you suck in a shaky breath, blinking hard as you look down at your notes — the words barely legible through your haze.
“uhm… the dominant themes in postmodern lit include… fragmented— fragmented narrative structure… and…”
your voice breaks on a gasp when his cock twitches again, thick and flushed, dragging right along your achey swollen clit. your whole body jolts, trembling with need, your thighs spread wider without even thinking.
“…and, uh… disillusionment with… objectivity in—”
he cuts you off with a quiet, pleased sound.
“that’s my girl,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, hand sliding up your thigh. “such a smart little thing.”
and then he shifts — lifts you just enough for your soaked underwear to drag sticky over his cock, and without warning, he grips your hips and pulls you down onto him.
all the way.
you cry out, sharp and broken, your body stretching to take him. the stretch form him is nothing you’ve felt before. your whole body washing over with cold chills.
he's so deep you feel it in your stomach, your walls clenching hard around the sudden, intrusive thickness.
“there she is,” he groans, jaw tight. “knew you could take it.”
your hands fly forward to brace against the desk, chest heaving, brain blank. your leaky wet cunt flutters around him, so wet, stretched full and trembling.
“rafe— oh my god”
he’s panting too, both hands gripping your hips, keeping you pressed to him.
“ride me,” he says, voice rough with command and praise. “fuck my cock like a good girl.”
you whimper, grinding helplessly down, knees digging into the chair as you start to move.
“that’s it. let me feel how desperate this pretty pussy is, fuck.” he leans in, mouth brushing your ear.
“so sweet. so wet for me. you pretend to be shy but your pussy’s starving for it, huh?”
you nod, eyes fluttering, moaning as your pace picks up — sickly wet sounds filling the room as you bounce on his cock, needy and messy.
“you look so fucking good riding me, smarty pants,” he growls, one hand sliding up to cup your tits through your top. “bet no one else at this school knows how filthy you really are.”
you’re bouncing in his lap now, all rhythm lost to desperation, to the heat coiling low in your belly. your thighs are shaking, breath stuttering as his cock grinds deep into the spot that makes your whole body tremble.
he groans, voice strained. “shit— you feel that? pussy’s squeezing me so tight. you gonna cum like this?”
you try to answer, but the words dissolve on your tongue—your head lolling back against his shoulder as you roll your hips down again, chasing friction.
and then he moves. in one smooth, breath-stealing motion, he grabs your hips and stands, lifting you with him, his cock still buried inside. you gasp, arms flailing slightly as he turns and forces you forward—chest to the desk, legs spread, panties still bunched at your knees.
your cheek hits the cool wood. you’re bent over, ass up, his rough, basketball worn hands pinning you in place.
you can feel him pulsing inside you, so fucking deep, like he owns your body from the inside out.
“rafe— wait, i’m—” you’re cut off by your own moan as he slams back in.
“nah,” he grunts, thrusting into you hard, fast, unforgiving. “no more waiting.”
his hips smack into your ass, the sound obscene, wet and loud and relentless. you claw at the desk, your legs wobbling beneath you, trapped under the weight of him as he fucks you through every gasp and sob of pleasure.
“you like this?” he snarls, dragging you back into every thrust. “this what you needed? my cock deep in this slutty little cunt while you pretend to be all shy?”
you’re crying out, barely able to breathe, the orgasm building like a wildfire.
“tell me,” he pants, fucking you harder, meaner. “tell me how good i make you feel.”
“so good—fuck, rafe, please”
“yeah?” he hisses, leaning over your back, one hand curling in your hair. “come on then, smarty pants. cum all over me.”
and you do. your whole body locking up, muscles clenching around him as you come with a cry, your vision going white.
he follows with a low groan, hips jerking erratically, burying himself deep as he spills inside you, thick and hot.
you’re still bent over the desk, legs trembling, panties tangled at your ankles, when he finally pulls out with a groan. you flinch at the wet slide of it, at how full you feel, his cum dripping slowly down your thigh.
rafe palms your ass, lazily smoothing his hand over the curve like he’s memorizing it.
“fuck,” he mutters, voice thick and dazed, “you were made for me.”
he tugs your skirt down, not gently, then leans in to kiss the back of your neck—just once, his lips wet against your skin.
you’re barely upright when he slides an arm around your waist and murmurs against your ear, “c’mon, smarty pants. let’s get you home.”
his hand rests low on your stomach the whole walk out, possessive and warm.
and in the back of his head, he already knows. this isn’t a one time thing. not even close.
he’s just getting started with you.
