#Im not another brick in the wall | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

salem-s · 2 months ago

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10 ── PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN ── RAFE CAMERON

SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT PART

WARNINGS language, annnnnnnnnnnnnngst (im so sorry reader???), mentions of blood (brief), descriptions of parental abuse. 18+ mdni.

WORD COUNT 7.3k. no chill.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER back to me by the marías

Rafe’s panicking.

Once the feeling in his legs comes back, he abruptly leaves the dance floor, seeking refuge in the hallway in a feasible attempt to calm himself down.

A part of him is pissed.

Pissed at how easily you brushed him off, pushed him aside, dumped him as if the past few days meant nothing to you. Rafe finally builds up the courage to tell you how he feels, and you do that?

You tell him to forget it, call him a liar, and run away? And you have the audacity to lie to his face, saying it’s meant nothing to you? None of the words, touches, moments spent curled up in confidentiality? His temporary humiliation haunts him, creating an ugly feeling that sits in his chest, the feeling of being rejected without so much as a glance.

Another part of him is worried.

Rafe replays the moment in his head over and over again, not quite able to get the image of your disbelief out of his mind.

You looked offended, almost, as if the whole debacle was one giant trick. You kept trying to convince him that it’s not true, coming up with numerous excuses for him to back out, but he believes you were the one trying to convince yourself of it.

Why were you so adamant that it was a joke? Did it come across that way? Is it that hard to believe?

He’ll never forget the shimmer of desperation that glossed over your eyes at his confession, as if the mere thought of him wanting you seems like a horror story, a fantasy. The approach he took has him kicking himself. Did he come on too strong? Was he holding you too tight? Did he hurt you again?

Rafe’s nail beds are irritated as his thoughts plague him. You pulled away from him so fast that he had whiplash, as if his skin was on fire and you were getting burned at his very touch. You put as much distance as you could between them multiple times.

The realization dawns on him.

You're scared.

Rafe quickly gets over his pity party and nearly runs back into the ballroom, eyes desperately scanning the crowd to try and find you.

Because, fuck, he’s scared too.

Not scared- terrified.

Running a hand through his hair, he huffs as his search goes nowhere. He just needs to talk to you, to clarify a few things, and to let you know that he can’t have this confession separate you. Even if you never touch each other again, Rafe decides that that’s better than losing you all together. Even if he has to love you from afar, to only be able to look at you or be around him is infinitely better than a brick wall built high between you.

The thought of never being around you again makes his chest pull achingly, desperately. He needs to fix this. Now.

Shit, he’d rather wait eons for you than be with anyone else.

And that scares the shit out of him.

But Rafe’s always been someone who knows what they want, when they want it. As a spoiled kid, he’s used to getting what he asks for, and he refuses his fuck-up to come between him and the only person he’s ever been tethered to. The string is fraying, and he’s getting desperate to make sure it doesn’t get snipped.

With a thumping heartbeat, he retreats back to the table and notices all of your stuff is still there, sitting neatly on your chair, untouched. Without a second thought, he grabs your clutch and scans the room again. The search is unsuccessful, only seeing Lorenza talking to extended family, but no you, no glimpse of that godforsaken pinot noir colored dress that’s been making his head spin all night.

“Looking for angel?”

Rafe spins around to see Yara, peering up at him eagerly.

He nods quickly. “Yes. Have you seen her?”

Yara sultry nods her head, spinning on her heel without a word and leading him out towards the hallway with the bathroom and exit.

Like an idiot, Rafe follows.

And his head truly begins to spin when they enter the empty space with no you in sight. Rafe’s ducking his head in every corner, brows pinched in confusion as he looks around the corridor desperately, only to be met with desolate hallways and only his reflection seen in the pristine marble walls.

His frustration only blooms.

“Uh, Yara, she’s not–”

The thumping in his ribcage augments when Yara harshly grabs his arm, pulling him into a see-through storage closet and shoving him up against a shelf that digs painfully into his back, caging him into the small space with a smile that's nothing nice.

“Finally,” she purrs at him. “I’ve been thinking about you all night.”

The words make Rafe feel drunk. Or drugged. Or both. Because he gapes his mouth open and closed like a fish, brain short circuiting with the combination of whatever the hell is stabbing his back and whatever is happening in front of him. What the fuck?

Blinking stupidly and offering no words, Yara simply giggles low and places a manicured hand on his chest, fingers playing with his tie and splaying across his toned chest through the dress shirt.

“C’mon, Rafe. Don’t act dumb.”

What? The words don’t come out of his mouth, paralyzed.

“I've seen the way she treats you,” Yara muses low, her talon nails tracing idle shapes through the hills and ridges of his abdomen. “I can take care of you.”

Her touch is burning hot, uncomfortable, unfamiliar, unwanted.

Rafe’s chest bubbles in panic, senses heightened from his anxiety of not being able to find the one person he needs right now and the uneasiness that this proximity is thrusting on him.

Anything feels wrong when it’s not you.

His chest is heaving. God, it feels like he’s about to throw up, and he can’t help the flash of anger that roars in his mind, because why does this girl think she’s on the same playing field as you? His sweet girl? The audacity to even utter your name is downright disrespectful, undeserving.

Rafe roughly grabs Yara’s wrist, shoving her arm away from him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He spats.

Yara’s eyes widen innocently with confusion. “Wh-What?” The girl takes an uneven step back as if the revelation is inconceivable. “You don’t want me?”

Want Yara?

“You better be fucking kidding.”

Rafe balls his hand into a fist, nails most definitely embedding crescents into his palm as he barrels out of the closet, frustration and anger simmering up to his ears as he feels he’s on the verge of crashing out, tugging on his hair for the upteenth time. Ignoring the faint desperate pleas behind him, Rafe storms back into the ballroom, letting out a shaky breath as he scans the room again.

This time he doesn’t hesitate to get up in people’s faces.

Rafe approaches people he’s never met before, asking if they’ve seen you, describing the details of your hair and your dress and even mentioning the color of your eyes, once. He must go up to dozens of people, the result all being the same – nothing.

They have no idea where you are. Some people don’t even know who you are, nor can spare an ounce of regard for his dilemma. Most are confused at his desperation, wordlessly shaking their heads in befuddlement and shrugging him off as if he’s crazy.

Not even Lorenza understands, who looks concerned at Rafe’s worried expression but nonetheless is unable to decipher his ragged breath and fast words.

The spot that Yara touched on his chest aches, as if he’s been branded. It feels ugly, it feels wrong. He feels like he needs to change and take a shower, to wash off any trances of people that aren’t you.

How could he ever learn to love the touch of another when you're the only presence he can endure?

Rafe feels like he’s been searching forever, even poking his head into the women’s bathroom to see if you've taken refuge in there without a warning or apology to the elderly woman who clutched her pearls at his intrusion.

When that goes nowhere, he feels like he’s suffocating, like you're slipping through his fingers despite feeling like he just had you. As he stands in the hallway with the sounds of echoed laughter and muffled music, he realizes his ears are ringing and his hands are shaking.

He needs air.

And that’s the smartest thing he’s done all night, because when he seeks solace in the brisk ocean air, he spots something off to the side, practically buried in the sand.

Heels.

Rafe’s heart lurches.

His legs are moving before he can process it, gripping your clutch so tight he feels like he might’ve broken something inside. The thought passes quickly, reassuring in the back of his mind that whatever he broke he’ll just pay for, as he scoops up the discarded heels and scans his surroundings, eyes narrowing at the pathway leading into the dark, to the quiet lull of the ocean, and his gut lurches him forward, heart thumping as he finds himself descending into the inky void of the night coated with nothing but suffocation.

Each step feels like a lost cause, frustration bubbling as he curses at the wild goose chase he’s thrust himself into.

Here he is: the big, bad Rafe Cameron stumbling through the night, looking high and low for a woman he’s practically sold his soul to, gripping your belongings between calloused fingers and bleeding nail beds.

Rafe curses again, but his footsteps falter when he sees a silhouette in the distance, crouched low to the ground. The sight makes his ears, finally, stop ringing, but he almost wishes they hadn’t because then he wouldn’t hear it.

Quiet sobbing.

The noise Rafe breaks his fucking heart.

A moonlit figure sits on the sand, hunched forward with shaking shoulders that match the sound of hushed weeping. God, he prays it isn’t you, hoping that horrific sound isn’t coming from you, selfishly pleading that it’s someone else having a bad night.

But the closer he gets the more his suspicions are confirmed, chest tugging at the sight of your backless dress and wine colored gown cascading over the ridges of the sand.

His voice wavers when he says your name.

You don't even turn around, waving him off dismissively. “Not now, please.”

Yeah, no.

There’s no way Rafe’s leaving. He physically can’t. In fact, he hurries over to you, setting your clutch and heels down in the sand a few feet behind you as he comes up to place a hand on your shoulder.

You shake off his touch immediately and he panics. Did he make you feel like this? Did he hurt you, again?

You turn away from him, sniffling. “Seriously. Leave me alone.”

“No.” Rafe lowers cautiously next to you. He hates that you don't look at him. “Look at me.”

“I want you to go.”

Even if I wanted to, I can’t, he thinks.

“I can’t leave you like this,” he whispers, frustrated you won’t look up, desperate to get you to stop crying. “Please, we can talk about this. I really didn’t mean to freak you out, I–”

Then a bitter laugh escapes your lips, and Rafe frowns at the sound, something that sounds so disingenuous, so unlike you, that it makes his stomach drop.

“What?”

“This isn’t about you,” you whisper, voice wavering despite all of your best efforts.

“Then what is it?” Rafe pleads. When you don't answer, exasperation bubbles as he says your name again. “Talk to me, I swear we can–”

“We can’t. Just go.”

Rafe wants to scream. “No. God, will you look at me?”

You do.

And it gives him fucking whiplash.

Glossy and tear striken eyes meet his, but it’s not the running mascara or puffy eyes that concern him. No, it’s the bloodied towel you hold up to your lip.

The air is pulled from Rafe’s lungs, heart dropping instantly.

All the frustration that has been built up in his temper immediately dissipates, now flooding solely in concern, in worry, in anxiety.

You're hurt. You're bleeding. He can’t even form a single thought except how uneasy he is seeing this, knowing he did nothing to stop it, whatever it was.

Then he’s seeing red.

Balling his fists so tight, he’s sure he might draw blood himself, because someone did this to you, deliberately hurt you, laid a hand on his sweet girl.

Rafe’s mind immediately wanders to Patrick, that stupid prick would do something like this and probably laugh it off after. There’s a slight chance it could’ve been Grant, merely based on your history alone, but the fact that he’s barely spoken to, let alone looked at, you the entire trip doesn’t make him believe he’s the culprit.

No, you must’ve gotten in a fight with someone. A random person. Maybe a catfight. Because none of this makes any fucking sense.

With a trembling hand, Rafe slowly moves the cloth away to inspect the wound. It’s a cut on your lip, swollen and plump but no longer bleeding.

When his hand comes to cradle your jaw instinctively, you pull your face away from his touch, avoiding his eyes and looking out onto the water. You try your hardest to remain stoic, but a few tears continue to fall as you attempt to stop hiccuping.

“Who did this?”

His voice is as still as he can possibly make it, but there’s a wave of anger, of fury, at the thought of someone doing this to you, someone hurting you. Rafe tries to mask it, but his tone drips in irateness.

But you don't relent. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” he nearly screams. “Tell me.”

“Please go back inside, Rafe.”

Frustration floods his chest as he raises his voice. “Don’t you understand?”

You lightly flinch at his volume, and a part of him knows he needs to reel it in but he needs you to feel his desperation.

“I can’t! I can’t just go back inside. I can’t leave you.”

You shake your head, still refusing to look at him as you squeeze your eyes shut. “I don’t need you. Stop.”

He shakes his head in disbelief, running a hand through his already ruined hair out of irritation.

Resisting the urge to cradle you close, he instead settles on a long deep breath to steady himself, readjusting himself so he’s kneeling right in front of you, forcing you to face him. The uncertainty in your voice allows him to keep going, allowing him to understand that you're saying this to protect yourself.

You're here right in front of him, looking anywhere but at him, but Rafe couldn’t feel further away.

“I know you don’t mean that," he says softly, delicate enough to make up for his outburst earlier but firm enough to get you to understand. "Stop pushing me away.”

The dam breaks.

A hiccup. “I don’t know how,” you sob before you can stop yourself, covering your eyes with your hands. “I don’t know how to stop.”

Rafe’s heart fucking shatters.

The feeling kills him. He doesn’t care if he’s crossing a line or overstepping when he’s hugging you, pulling you tighter when you try to evade his grip as you cry and push and writhe.

He doesn’t budge, tears brimming his eyes at your struggle, at your inability to let someone in, at how someone could even fathom hurting you.

“Let go–” You struggle, weak hands meekly attempting to push him away.

But he doesn’t. He can’t. “Stop– Stop. I’m here. Stop.”

A jagged sob escapes your lips. He holds you tighter.

His sweet girl.

The thought makes him sick to his stomach.

Eventually your efforts gradually stop, fully collapsing into his embrace as you cover your face with your hands, letting his arms cage you in entirely. Rafe does the best that he can, cradling the back of your head and running his other hand up and down your back soothingly, whispering sweet nothings to talk you through your cries.

And all you can think about is how embarrassed you are.

You're embarrassed of it all: the playing pretend, the overtly snobby family, the emotions that can’t seem to stop and continuously overflow under the faucet of nonstop misfortunes, the thought of him with someone else, the cut on your lip, the helplessness.

It makes you feel weak, curled up in his arms like this in a blubbering mess, probably bleeding onto his nice dress shirt with smudges of mascara. You aren't used to being coddled, it’s suffocating, pathetic.

It takes a long time for you to find your voice. And when you do, it comes out through choked ragged breaths.

“I’m sorry.”

Rafe sighs deeply above you. “No, baby. None of that.”

Your lip wavers.

How badly you want to apologize for how ridiculous you feel, how strange these pet-names are making you feel, how stupid this whole night has been. But you can’t find the words, not without sobbing, so you bite your lip, hard, and then wince as a sharp sting jolts you.

Idiot, you think.

“No apologies,” he whispers. “I’m here. Whatever you need.”

God, he’s being so fucking sweet that you nearly forget about what you saw earlier.

There’s no doubt you're laying on the same spot Yara touched, brushing over the same fabric that met the smooth, lotioned callouses of her hand. You have half a mind to pull away, to keep protecting your heart, but no matter how hard you want to try, you can’t. Besides, Rafe’s grip is too secure. It’s clear he’s not letting go anytime soon.

You want to yell and scream and shriek to get him off, to tell him to go fuck off and be with his new girl, his new plaything, because apparently he’s already moved on.

But that flies out the window when you hear Rafe sniffle.

Your confusion is through the roof. Your heart is pulling in a million different directions, teetering between the anger of betrayal to the sympathies of hurt. The whole anterage you've gone through with Rafe is the last thing you want to think about right now, wanting to push your feelings to the back of your mind for the time being. The thought of talking about what happened earlier sits heavy on your heart, the feeling of dread weighing you down.

You can’t talk to him. Not right now. As much as you seek comfort in the warmth of his arms, it feels wrong, disingenuous, fake.

Frankly, you know what you need, and choke on your breath to find the courage to say it.

“I want… I...”

Your words are so quiet, incomplete and fragmented, barely a whisper as your lip quivers.

Rafe hears it. He understands.

It takes him a moment to find the courage to release you, reluctant to let you go, you can tell, because his touch lingers a little longer than it should as he sucks in a deep breath, as if he’s been punched in the gut. Rafe hugs you a fraction tighter, a wordless promise, before he slowly pulls away.

You feel your hair brushed out of your face, his fingers delicately ghosting the hot skin of your cheeks. Half of you wants to lean into the touch, the other half wants to pull away, knowing deep down it’s dishonest.

“Don’t move,” Rafe commands softly, taking one more moment to gloss his eyes over you, over your cut, before he’s gone.

You hate how cold it feels without him, and you hate how you miss his warmth. The desperation makes you feel sick. Rafe’s made it clear his confession earlier was said out of hysteria, out of confusion. God, everything is so confusing.

The waterworks spring up again when Lorenza is suddenly at your side, cradling your face and wiping your tears away.

And you let it all out.

Through blubbering tears, you spill everything to your nonna: the purposeful dress alteration, how your dinners have been cut in half, the condescending comments on the yacht and at the table, the constant comparison to Yara, how Paulette gave the dress to someone who deserves it, the speech, and, finally the slap.

Lorenza simply listens, occasionally wiping your tears away.

When your nonna asks about what led up to the slap, you sigh, shutting your eyes momentarily and giving in. You're sick of lying. Of playing pretend. Of putting up a facade.

You tell Lorenza the truth about Rafe, that you never were together, and the threat to leak that information to the family is what warranted the slap.

You explain the arrangement, how you were only sleeping together and how Paulette caught you two, how Rafe is simply doing you a favor because he didn’t want to go home to see his family, and you figured having the boyfriend card would get everyone off your back for once. You even lament further that you don’t even like each other, not in the way you were supposed to.

The shock is evident on your nonna’s face, appalled and confused.

Not at being deceived, but at how you're calling it pretend.

Lorenza doesn’t believe it.

Not when she’s seen you both unguarded together.

Not when she’s seen you huddled together in the morning, fast asleep in each other’s arms in an uncomfortable twin bed. Not when Rafe woke up early on your birthday to enlist her help to make the day special, basically begging for information despite not understanding a word of her native language. Not when you worriedly checked out the window every ten minutes to see when he was coming back from his run. Not when she’s seen you sneaking unintentional glances when the other wasn’t looking, or lingering touches when you passed by each other.

As you explain the fake arrangement, your nonna lets her eyes shift over to Rafe, who’s been pacing back and forth about twenty feet away the entire time, close enough to keep an eye on you but far enough to where he’s not intruding, and doesn’t believe for one second that you feel nothing for each other.

But that’s not what you need to hear right now. Definitely later. But not right now, as the sting from your mother’s wedding ring burns fresh against your lip, scarring more than something physical.

Lorenza reassures you that everything that’s happened is not your fault, that your mother is cruel and vile and wrong for everything she’s put you through. The actions of the mother are not done because of the child, but rather done to mask the insecurities that haunt her. The world will forgive you if you choose to let your mother go, saying there’s no consequence in cutting the parasite off. The weight on your shoulders will lift at the loss.

It takes a long time for you to calm down, to fully calm down, head pounding at the intensity of your meltdown as sand embeds itself in your fingernails. The cool breeze combined with how frail you feel has you caving into yourself, aching all over your body.

Once you have the strength to stand, Rafe’s at an arms length away, extending a cautious hand that ghosts over your body to ensure you don't fall. Lorenza can tell he’s torn on his involvement, unsure of whether to support your bodyweight or keep his hands to himself, afraid of overstepping.

Your nonna generously offers the two of you to come back to the cottage for your last night, knowing that being in the general vicinity of Paulette might stir up more trouble. And, without question, you accept the offer, because the thought of being around your mother for one more second makes you feel sick, and you decide your nonna is right: you will feel much lighter if you never see your mother again, starting tonight.

The room is packed hastily. You don't bother neatly folding your clothes as usual and instead shove them in your suitcase, solely desperate on leaving the resort, leaving it all behind. Whatever doesn’t fit in the bag from the lack of organization, Rafe is wordlessly putting in his suitcase. You don't even change out of your dress, simply leaving it on with your heels.

When you slip on Rafe’s suit jacket to cover up, he doesn’t complain or poke fun.

As you and Rafe pack the taxi, Lorenza is approaching the front desk, turning in your keycards and checking you out of the room prematurely. Once she returns, she squeezes in next to you and pats your knee. You look past Rafe’s profile to watch the resort get smaller and smaller, soon its bright lights fading into a low dim.

You feel his eyes on you, and when you gather the courage to look, you notice he’s looking at the cut – no – staring at the cut, a pained expression glossing over his eyes.

It makes you frown. When Rafe meets your eye, he lets his pretty blues linger for a second before turning to the window, almost ashamed. He wants nothing more than to hold you but knows he shouldn’t. He can’t.

The familiar cottage broaches into sight and you let out a deep breath, feeling as if you can finally relax. The giant fog of uncertainty and anxiety that consumed you seems to dissipate into thin air. The worst is over.

Ticino and Po greet you three, and Lorenza helps you with the bags and escorts you back into the same little room, neatly made twin beds adorning opposite sides of the wall.

You and Rafe float to your respective sides hesitantly, unsure if approaching one another is safe territory. Lorenza’s voice feels far away, the only noise filling the silence, and you can only absentmindedly nod to your nonna’s words as you sit at the edge of the bed, smoothing over the sheets with a calloused hand.

The only time you shake your head is when Lorenza asks if you want her to clean the cut.

A gentle kiss is left on your forehead, your nonna whispering a sweet nothing before leaving the room, not before momentarily coming back with a dry wash cloth in case you want to do it yourself. With a soft goodnight and an appreciative nod towards Rafe, who stands awkwardly at the end of his bed, your nonna leaves the room, quietly shutting the door behind you and filling the room with silence.

The tension is thick, suffocating.

All you can do is sit, staring into space and absentmindedly reaching for the cloth and attempting to stand.

Suddenly Rafe is kneeling in front of you, a hand covering yours to cease your movements.

You find his eyes, snapping out of your trance and pinching your brows at him, confused. But the softness in his pretty blues eases the worry line away, especially when he places your hands back into your lap and grabs the cloth.

“I got it,” Rafe whispers, saying your name gently. “C’mon.”

A warm hand splays on the bare skin of your back, easing you up off the bed and towards the bathroom. Him saying your name feels wrong.

The bright light makes you squint, but nonetheless you move towards the counter at his guide. As you sit on the closed toilet lid, Rafe turns on the water, wiggling a finger under the faucet to make sure the temperature is what you need. Once it’s to his liking, he dabs the washcloth under the stream to get it wet, then pumps out the smallest portion of antibacterial soap that sits on the counter.

Rafe turns to you, kneeling on the cool bathroom tile to get nice and close. It can’t be comfortable on his knee, and you almost tell him that he doesn't need to do anything, but his expression is so indifferent that you can’t discern if it’s concern or anger.

You can smell his cologne masked with his scent, your head pounding from all the crying but also spinning at his close proximity, at how he’s continuously coming back to you despite your constant pushing.

One of his hands rests on your lower thigh just above your knee to ground himself, and neither of you flinch from the familiar touch, a second nature. The moment of solace comes and goes, because he gently caresses your jaw with the cloth, you leaning into his touch subconsciously.

But when he gingerly presses the cloth against your cut, you wince at the contact, and Rafe frowns, pulling away a fraction.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is saccharine. “I need to put it back on, okay?”

You lightly frown, but nod anyway. You grimace again when the warm cloth touches the cut, but don't pull away this time and let him keep his hand there to cradle your jaw. A moment is spent like that, still and unwavering.

Then he pulls back to dab the areas around the cut, wiping away any makeup or dirt that might’ve gotten around it.

Your words are slightly muffled from the contact.

“Don’t you need hydrogen peroxide?” You ask quietly, surprising him.

But Rafe’s shock comes and goes. “Not for the lip. Actually, it could make it worse, make it take longer to heal. So just water and soap.” His voice is soft, reserved.

Just for you.

“Really?”

Your genuine tone of curiosity makes his heart fucking melt. His sweet girl. Not trusting his words, he settles on a nod and small smile.

“How’d you know that?”

Rafe continues to clean the cut with a feather light touch, pinching his brows in focus with parted lips, so in tune with his actions that he almost doesn’t hear you.

“Used to get in a lot of fights,” he all but whispers. Noticing your frown, Rafe’s heart skips a beat, instead smirking to try and reverse your expression. “I practically have a medical degree at this point.”

But his joke doesn’t land, and your frown only deepens.

Rafe’s eyes soften. “Hey. I’m retired. It was a long time ago. Okay?”

You reluctantly nod. “Okay.”

Your fingers gently play with his that are splayed on your thigh. Once you realize what you're doing, you freeze, and move your hands away.

Rafe hates it, speaking before he can shut himself up. “It’s okay. You can keep doing it.”

I want you to keep doing it, he wants to say. I never want you to stop.

Hesitantly, your hands move back to cover his, trying to ignore how your cheeks feel hot under his gaze especially after getting caught. But this time is different, there’s no poking fun or mockery or charming smirk. Just the green light. It’s funny how serious he sounds, the tone feeling foreign to you, especially when he’s being nice and serious.

You should push him away. You should be mad at him after his little rendezvous, his impractical prank of pushing and pulling you like the tide. You should group him in with all the other men you've been with who jump ship at the first sight of hardships and sail onto the next girl.

But you can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like this, taking such good care of you without you having to ask, doting on you without anyone as a witness.

Despite it all, he deserves to know what happened.

“It was my mom.”

That makes Rafe still, eyes flickering from the cut up to your gaze and glossing with confusion, bewilderment.

This time, you don't look away. “I told her the truth about us. How we aren’t…together.” You ignore how he stiffens. “I was upset because…”

The words die in your throat. You were upset because you saw him cuddled up with the one girl who is everything you can’t be.

But you can't say that. Instead you suck in a breath. “It doesn’t matter. But I was threatening to tell everyone just to piss her off and she…yeah.”

Rafe’s chest pulls achingly. This is because of him?

“Apparently the thought of a whore of a daugher is worse than one with a busted lip.”

Rafe flinches at the word you call yourself, moving to defend you but you speak before he can.

“I told nonna, too,” you confess, quieter. “Although her reaction was handled much better, I’d say.”

The attempt to joke falls on deaf ears. Slowly, he pulls the cloth away, putting the pieces together in his head with puffy parted lips and a pinched brow. You hate that you have the urge to lean forward and kiss his heartbroken expression away.

“Don’t… Don’t call yourself that,” is all he can meekly come up with.

You shrug. “It’s the word I said to Paulette. Just trying to tell the story straight.”

It still makes him sick, squeezing his eyes shut in disbelief. “She hit you because of that?”

You nod.

His whole body feels uneasy as he albeit whispers your name. “I’m so sorry.”

The use of your name makes a shiver go down your spine. Not trusting your words, all you can do is shrug again, finally averting your gaze and looking down at your hands still brushing along his knuckles.

His next question makes you still. “Has she done this before?”

Part of you wants to tell him everything. How this isn’t the first time you've had to cradle your cheek and cover it up with makeup. How the burden of trying to please her has been aching your shoulders for years. How you finally want to let go, finally want to stop and pull away for good. But the words don’t come. You don't think they ever will, not for anyone.

Your silence is the answer.

Rafe hates how you don't say anything. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s not really a bedtime story,” is all you can whisper.

That makes him frown.

None of this is a bedtime story. This whole thing has seemed like one giant nightmare for you, and he wishes he could say he’s doing his part to help it turn into a dream but can’t say for certain if his intrusion has been good or bad.

But he’s had his fair share of nightmares, of scary accidents that he’ll never be able to forget. There’s a strong pull that he feels towards this moment right here, because despite all of the tennis-match bickering and pushing away that you've both been doing in self sabotage, you're connected by fragments of similar memories. Like it or not, you understand each other on a level deeper than intimacy.

“Last summer my dad choked me out for fucking up a business deal,” he finds himself saying, which makes you pick your head up. “Had bruises on my neck for ages. Could barely talk. My sister had to teach me how to use concealer.”

He hates how his voice wavers despite bitterly trying to laugh, and when he notices you go to say something, he quickly interrupts you to clarify the reasoning for the antidote.

“This isn’t… I’m not telling you to get something in return. I just want you to know that I understand.” Then, softer, “More than you think.”

One of your hands reaches up to brush some of the hair out of his eyes, hair that he’s been helplessly tugging all night from the emotional turmoil.

“I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Rafe nearly sighs at the contact, wanting nothing more than to pull you close. Instead, his thumb ghosts over your cut, blue eyes scanning over the wound. “And this to you.”

You're talking before she can process what you're saying.

“I’m sorry about earlier… I wasn’t very nice to you.” You continue at his confused tilt of his head. “When we were dancing…”

The realization makes him suck in a small breath.

Your mouth opens and closes, shocked that you brought it up. “I just… I can’t–”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not–”

Rafe interrupts firmly by saying your name, yet with an edge of softness that silences you, “We don’t have to do anything about it. I’ll be alright.”

It’s funny how desperate he was earlier to get answers, as if not knowing was going to make him immediately drop dead the longer it kept getting prolonged. But the sequences of events of tonight force him to put it on the back burner, because it truly can wait. He’ll wait forever if it means the possibility of being with you.

You want to say more, he can tell, but he doesn’t allow it. “C’mon. Let me get that makeup off.”

So he does. Rafe finds the stash of makeup wipes and takes one between his fingers, gingerly rubbing circles all around your face to get rid of the stains of today, of course avoiding the area of the cut. You eventually close your eyes, relishing in the feeling of removing the reminders of the night. And he does it so gingerly, too, that at some points, you aren't even sure he’s touching you.

You wordlessly get ready for bed, brushing your teeth and retreating back into the bedroom where you change into pajamas. This time, he doesn’t help you, and part of you is glad to have gained back a semblance of independence, even if it only lasts a fraction of a moment.

Because you don't get into your twin bed.

You can’t.

Rafe’s already laying in his, not wanting to push any boundaries more than he already has tonight, opting on not inviting himself to invade your space once more.

He watches you, hovering by the bed frame as if you're contemplating getting in or not, and he sees right through your struggle, wanting desperately to gesture you to his side like he always does. But not this time. He needs to let you come to him, if you even want that.

And you do. But not in the way he likes.

“Last night?” You ask sheepishly, almost dejected.

Rafe nods without hesitation as you pad over to his side, his arms immediately greeting you to help you lay down. You take solace in your rightful spot, slipping underneath the covers and pressing your body taut against his as if it's made to be there.

His fingers fumble with the lamp switch as he leans up to turn the light off, grateful for the darkness to mask his confusion, his panic.

Last?

That solidifies it, he thinks. After tonight, it’s done.

Part of him wants to believe you're still dazed from the whirlwind of a night you've been through, distracted and unwilling to give his preposition any thought. There’s no way this can be the last time he holds you close, and his heart lurches at the image of future-him all alone. Pitiful. You'll come to your senses in the morning and your mind will be more clear.

But that’s the other part that haunts his thoughts.

Your mind is clear. Well, at least clearing by the minute. You're preparing to let him down easy, already apologizing for how abruptly you handled the situation in concocting a plan to soften the blow that, no, you don't want to be more with him. You've had plenty of chances to tell him if you reciprocate, and haven't.

It kills him.

It kills him even more that you were upset about something before the slap, that there was more of something that he has no idea about. Whatever it was, it lead you to tell your mother the truth of the arrangement. It kills him further that you couldn’t seem to tell him why, but all fingers seemingly point to him.

Rafe must’ve done something, and if it wasn’t his fault, he’d be pretty surprised. It must’ve been bad enough for you to spill the secret willingly.

He can’t ask you questions right now, even though he desperately needs answers. Rafe is losing his damn mind in this twin bed as your heartbeats press against one another, his arms wrapped securely around you as if you're going to disappear if he lets go.

He figures that’s true, and finds himself pulling you a fraction tighter to relish in your final night together, limbs entangled and skin pressed against skin, not that you notice because by the feel of your steady breaths, you're asleep.

Now all that surrounds him are his suffocating thoughts. And those don’t let him sleep.

You're forced to wake up earlier than expected to account for the longer cab ride to the airport.

Rafe anticipates the alarm, pretending to shut his eyes moments before to assimilate into the role of being awoken so severely.

But the truth is, he didn't sleep a wink.

He’s sure the bags under his eyes will give him away momentarily, and he’s already come up with a number of excuses to brush off the truth to dissipate your worry. That is, if you even worry about him.

You jolt from your sleep to the sound of the blaring alarm, immediately groaning and curling further into the sheets and, coincidentally, nuzzling further into Rafe’s embrace. It’s warm and it smells like him, the thought of leaving this makes your head pound in an emotional hangover.

But you said last. As in final. One more. Done-zo.

Had you meant it? Not in the slightest. But you need to mean it to protect yourself.

It doesn’t help when his hands rub up and down your back soothingly to coax you awake. It also doesn’t help that his morning voice is so deep, so unintentionally sultry, that it sends a shiver down your spine, lulling you to rouse from your slumber. But, truthfully, it only makes you more tired as the effects of last night catch up to you.

The last thing you want is to replay all of the events, however the harsh sting on your lip is a painful reminder, a long lasting reminder, of what happened in that closest.

So you push it down.

You lean away from his touch.

And he leans away from yours.

You say goodbye to your nonna quickly but meaningfully, because if you let yourself linger, you'll never get on the flight.

The cab ride is silent. Distant. Cold.

Rafe doesn’t say a word to you, and the clench in his jaw prevents you from saying anything either, not wanting to further ruin his damp mood. He eventually puts his headphones in, completely shutting you out. You don't even want to go on your phone, as the hundreds of missed texts and calls from your family are the only things waiting for you.

You notice him anxiously pick at his nail beds as he stares out the window, expression hard and collected, and this time you don't reach over to stop his anxious tick and instead turn a blind eye.

You've pissed him off enough in the past few days, pushing and pulling him in like the tide. With a heavy heart, you decide to have your final move be the push so you can move on from him once and for all.

That way he can go about life as he wants to: uncommitted, free, not tied down as he has previously talked against. After a few days away from you, Rafe will come to his senses and will realize his confession was simply the spur of the moment. He said it himself, you don’t need to do anything about it.

Because there’s no way he wants you after he’s seen all of your ugly.

The thought is incorrigible.

The flight is long and you can barely pay attention to the movies you put on the small screen. You figure Rafe’s getting his beauty sleep in his first class seat, noticing how dark the eye bags under his eyes were this morning but deciding not to comment on it. It’s funny, you would’ve made fun of him for it a week ago. Now you can barely look at him without feeling a dull ache plague your heart.

And he doesn’t look at you.

Not when the plane lands.

Not when you catch an Uber back to campus together.

Not when you part in front of your respective dorm room doors.

Standing silently, almost aware of the space, you glance at him staring down at his keys, jiggling them in his palm to delay the inevitable. Still, he doesn't look at you.

You're just gathering up the courage to say something, to thank him for everything that he's done for you in the past week, to tell him how grateful you are to have had him by your side during the shit show that was the entire week.

But he takes a long deep breath, finding the right key for his room and gripping it tight.

“I’ll see you around,” is all Rafe says before he unlocks his door and disappears inside.

You stand in the hallway for another minute, paralyzed in place from the animosity in his voice, feeling like you're back to square one: barely friends.

Even though you know it’s your fault.

You push, and push, and push, incapable of pulling, incapable of accepting things you don't think you deserve. All these horrible thoughts in your head prevent you from truly enjoying things, from pushing past the hurt and deep insecurities rooted in your mind. It's hard to allow yourself to be happy, to think you deserve it, in fear of getting it ripped away from you.

Despite the pit in your stomach, you pull yourself together, knowing it’s for the best in the long run, as you unlock your own room and greet the solemn walls like an old friend.

notes legit myyyyy bad yall

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rafesplaymate · 3 months ago

Text

Dirty Little Secret 𐙚₊˚⊹

Paramour!Rafe Cameron x Married!Reader

warnings: smut. spit-play. impact play. choking. degradation. dumbification? infidelity (not on reader). slight age gap (reader is early 20s / rafe is mid 20s). slight angst on rafe’s end.

a/n: im sorry but Rafe would def be my side piece, don’t lie you know you get it.

········ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡⋆ ········

She should feel guilty.

She should be swearing to never see him again. To be a faithful wife to her husband and give him the loyalty he deserves. He’s truly a good man — she should feel so many disgusting emotions that leave her wrecked.

But the only thing she feels inside her, is the brain-numbing pleasure and intoxicating desire that being around her lover brings.

What he gives to her, over and over again without any hesitation.

Rafe Cameron is everything she desires in a man.

Powerful, affluent, domineering — intoxicatingly handsome.

A menacing air of influence constantly swirling around him as he swaggers through life with an unmatched aura of assertiveness. And she knew that the moment they locked eyes that first night, her whole world, everything she knew — would be set ablaze.

She’d settled down too young. Too quickly. Too blinded by the idea of love and stability her husband was quick to offer her. Too enticed by the idea of living in luxury and getting far away from a place she felt was a dead-end.

Her husband was a good guy. Handsome, fit, in her age range. A trust fund, baby who fell in love with the dancer he met on vacation. Completely infatuated with her captivating beauty and the need to give her a life away from the club scene.

So he promised her a life of grandeur, mumbling sweet nothings of ‘you don’t need this anymore. I’ll give you whatever you want, just come back home with me. Marry me.’ He’d murmured to her— too wrapped up in her, in the sheets of the hotel room he was staying in.

And she did marry him.

It was a ticket out. A ticket to the taste of a lifestyle she desired for herself. So, she let herself fall for him and she went with him. All the way from home and settled into Kildare. The perfect trophy wife with the perfect life.

He gave her everything she wanted, whatever she needed. All to easily with a bat of her lashes and a pout on those lush lips. Whatever she wanted, her husband provided.

Until that wasn’t enough anymore. He wasn’t enough.

Because when she met Rafe, she’d realized the heavy weight of the opulent diamond ring on her finger. Feeling like a shackle tying her to a man and a life she doesn’t know she wants anymore. At least not with the man she calls her husband.

Rafe Cameron had swept her off her feet with ease. Catching her in his line of sight during a gathering, at the island club on Figure 8. Watching the sweet, little trophy wife getting tugged around like a show pony and hanging off the arm of his long-time friend.

Brandon’s pride and joy. His perfect wife, who he catered the world to.

All tight-fitting clothing, stratospheric heels, sultry smiles and gazes — behind sensually done up, lips and eyes. Decadent glitz and glamour that he knows doesn’t belong to this island.

She stood out like a sore thumb. Nothing like the Figure 8 Divas’ or the Pogue Princesses’ he’d been accustomed too. No.

He wanted her, wanted a taste.

Like a child envious of their friend getting a better toy.

A ring on her finger he could easily replace and a weak display of ownership wasn’t going to stop him. And when they caught each other’s gazes for the first time— he knew then and there. They’d end up tangled within each other, one way or another.

He’d make sure of it.

It didn’t take much to he corner her in an empty hall at the gathering; trapping her against the wall and his brick of a body. His darkened gaze staring into her flustered eyes. His lips twisted in a sick, smirk as he dominated her presence with ease. He’d known his hook had sunk in when her faux-lashes fluttered at his lips grazing lightly against her jaw, landing against her ear with a whispered ‘you ever need anything — come find me, minx.’ Slipping his business card in her hand.

He bit the lobe of her ear softly next to her diamond stud, before pulling back and excusing himself with a quick pinch to her chin. A soft threat of ‘don’t make me come find you’ falling from his lips before he excused himself with a triumphant smirk. Leaving her trembling and confused against the wall, inner thighs soaked through her lace panties as she struggled to catch her breath.

It didn’t take long for her to seek him out. Thoughts twisting in her mind at how terrible it’d be. Being unfaithful to a man so good to her. But her desire to uncover the enigma that Rafe was, overweighed everything.

She felt weak, he made her feel weak.

Because after that fateful night she found herself calling him, listening to him when he told her over the line he’d known she would call him. Telling her to come to him. She’d ended up at the front doors of Tannyhill and being welcomed into a whole new world.

One she never wanted to leave, and he doesn’t think he’ll let her.

That’s why she finds herself tangled in his sheets whenever her husband’s gone. Or giving excuses to her absence with small lies of ‘meeting up some girls at the island club’ or ‘going to the beach.’ Making herself scarce in her husband’s life as she fell hard, and deep into Rafe Cameron’s world.

She doesn’t think she’d have it any other way. Especially not with the way he leaves her legs shaking, body quivering and head fucked out — every moment he gets his hands on her.

Tonight is no different.

“He doesn’t know, huh?” Rafe said with twisted, glee layered in his voice. His large hands running up the smooth expanse of her damp back. Taking in her beautiful complexion that he yearns to mark up.

She never lets him.

Only giving him small pieces of herself before she leaves him and goes back to her happy life. The one he’s determined to wreck. Anguished every time he finds her wrapped up in her husband, leaving him wounded and lonely every time she leaves him.

“Doesn’t know that his wife is my stupid, little fucktoy, huh? That she begs me to ruin this sloppy, little cunt any chance she gets?” He mocked, his weight pressing against. Hips flush against her ass as she whines and moans into his ruined sheets.

Gripping them and almost tearing into them with her manicured nails. Her makeup ruined and staining them along with arousal. Whining at his words as she feels the guilt settle in her chest. “Oh, don’t start whining,” he started, bringing his large palm and landing it on her ass with a sickening smack. Watching the skin jiggle under his movements as he grinds his soaked dick into her messier cunt.

His paradise is right in between her plush thighs.

He’s feeling mean tonight. He wants her to understand. Wants her to feel the affliction she cast upon him with the way she disregards him. Leaves him yearning for her.

“You know it, you fucking know you belong to me.” He said with conviction in his voice, leaning his body over her arched one as he lands a hand next to her face and the other wrestles her arm to lay right against her back. “You know that, you’ll always come back to me. I’m the only one who knows how to shut that little brain off and get this pussy fucking, right.” His voice was gruff, desire and hurt etched in every syllable that dripped from his lips.

Like stings of passion that burn her and scar her. Marking her as his and less as her husband’s with everyday that passes.

“That fucking bitch —doesn’t know you like I do, alright? The only thing he did right was getting to you first and bringing you right to me.” He sneered, moving his hips once more and starting up the rhythm that left her ruining his expensive sheets. “Doesn’t matter, I’m going to make sure you end up right where you belong.” His hips were digging into her now, loud squelches filling the room as their bodies met once in that beautiful dance of pleasure —only they seem to know how to offer each other.

“One day,” Rafe started up again after a long, drawn groan. Bringing his hand to grip her hair at the base of her skull. Tugging harshly till she was looking up at him, watching with satisfaction as her tear-filled eyes landed on him. Pretty face contorted in ecstasy at the way he was plowing into her. Their mixed arousal dripping beneath and puddling in a sloppy mess on the sheets.

“One, fucking day —m’gonna make sure he catches us. Gonna show him who’s bitch, you are.” He was so mean. So ready to use that guilt she had built inside her to his advantage, knowing she would argue and fight back against him. Whines of refusal falling from her swollen lips as her brows furrowed at him.

“Shut up,” his voice was gruff, bringing his free hand to grip her jaw as his torso stood up straight. Her hand coming to lay flat against the headboard, nails scratching as her other hand reached back and gripped into his strong thigh, digging her nails in as she struggled to maintain any semblance of stability from his harsh thrust.

“Open,” his voice was full of command. Watching as her gorgeous lips parted and tongue stuck out like his dumb, little puppy. Faux-lashed clumped with tears and makeup falling down her face in messy streaks. Eyes looking up at him like he owned the world. And to her — her did. Her owned her world.

But she wouldn’t let him know that.

Rafe gathered the wetness in his mouth, bringing the hand that was gripping her jaw and wrapping it around her neck harshly. His hand tangled at the base of skull — tugging her harder and forcing her body to bend back deeper. He leaned over, letting the string of spit fall from his lip and land directly onto her waiting tongue. Watching as it dripped down onto her chin.

Spitting harshly against her mouth once more, before bending down and consuming her lips with his own. His tongue dominating her as her nails dug harsher into his thigh and her knees struggled to keep her upright with the way her body was shaking. The only thing keeping her in place, being him. Physically and metaphorically.

When he pulled back, a string of their combined saliva kept them connected, only breaking with he smacked her cheek harshly with the hand that was around her throat and dug his hips harder into her. She could feel him breaking her in, molding himself into her. Pressing against her g-spot and cervix.

Claiming her from the inside.

Rafe wondered how his ‘friend’ would feel knowing his cum burns the woman he calls his wife, from the inside almost everyday. Wonders if Brandon knows he’s licking it out of her when he buries his face inbetween her thighs.

He’s determined to ruin them, ruin what they have.

He’s selfish. A selfish, selfish man. But it’s not like she stops him any way — she’s just as selfish as he is.

He knows eventually this will blow up, they’re getting too comfortable. Too messy. But they don’t care. Because when it all eventually blows up, and Rafe will ensure it does.

He’ll sweep her away and lock her down with a rock of his own. Bigger, better, more expensive. More definitive.

But for now, he bids his time. He can wait.

After all,

He loves being her dirty little secret.

········ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡⋆ ········

a/n: listen … i might even write an alternate sad one where she leaves Rafe all heartbroken and whiny .. we’ll see

taglist: @littlelamy @slut-4-gojo @nemesyaaa @rafesangelita

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