#Rafe simply cannot be normal

[rotteneldritchhorror]

Barry making Rafe feel pretty with scars and marks and “facials”

Rafe making Barry feel pretty by petting/playing with his hair and clinging to him constantly and getting close specifically to smell him

[salem-s]

SUNRISES, PENALTIES, AND LOSING SLEEP OVER YOU ── RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT

SYNOPSIS when Rafe can't sleep, he ends up at the soccer field to get some practice in. however, he can't seem to stop his sunrise practices when he discovers the pretty girl who reads on the bleachers is there every morning.

WARNINGS language, so much fluff??? consists of jock!rafe and nerd-ish!reader, college au, mainly rafe pov.

WORD COUNT 5.6k.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER everything is embarrassing by sky ferreira

Rafe contradicts himself this time -- he actually doesn't mind being up before the sun if that means some more practice...and some peace and quiet.

Surprisingly, he's quite the night owl, fighting the plague that puts him to sleep by distracting himself with literally anything he can get his hands on, even if that meant school work that's been pushed off for the last minute. He can go all night at a bar and he's the only one out of his friends to be able to actually pull all nighters on their designated movie night.  

While this has severely skewed his sleeping schedule, Rafe prefers to get things done while the rest of the world around him is asleep, you know, for some alone time.

Sure, Rafe's a pretty social guy: he enjoys time with friends and his teammates and classmates, and he definitely jumps at the chance to spend time with them whenever he can. It's a pretty rare occurrence where he isn't with someone or talking to someone, because he's a light converser and easy to fall in stride with. He's the stranger that people often fall in love with and never see again, perhaps it's the handsomely boyish smile or his ability to talk to a brick wall. 

And yet, there's moments like right now where some alone time is needed. 

Once again, Rafe's been up for nearly a day now, the sun just peaking over the horizon behind him, signaling the start of a lot of people's days (and the end of his, since it's Saturday and he'll need to recharge before going out tonight). The sleep simply...doesn't come to him.

Not easily, anyway.

After nights out with his friends (or when they go to bed), Rafe normally tinkers with things in his room, building trinkets from scratch or blueprinting random designs because he's bored, which he doesn't normally admit to people. His ability to draw was something his father always told him to push down deep, to ignore and focus on the money-driven careers of the world: business, science, all that crap.

Well, his father isn't here. And even if he was, Rafe wouldn't really care, anyway.

Sleep doesn't come very naturally to him during the night, which is highly unusual considering he has no insomnia or trouble sleeping. He just doesn't get tired. Usually the sunrise shining through his window signals him to try and sleep. 

He doesn't recall the last time he's really looked at a sunrise, this time being exceptional with colors portraying burning passion and dragon fruit, and the dirty-blond hums to himself, halting his movements to stop and enjoy it for a second.

The soccer ball planted on the ground by his foot is still as Rafe's balance. He holds himself together to take a deep breath in and observe the world around him.

Sure, he's never up this early but, goddamn, it really is pretty.

Hues of pink, orange, purple emerge in sight, getting lighter by the second and changing into something more tranquil. He's at ease. There's something more content and comforting about sunrises than sunsets, and while he cannot put his finger on the exact reason, he deems this a fact. 

Rafe mentally notes to do some sunrise workouts more often. 

At his university, he's on the club soccer team, which isn't the big leagues but it keeps him and shape and the competition isn't nearly as stressful, which he likes. Rafe enjoys the sport to have fun, and while he does care about winning and beating these other lame schools, at the end of the day it's just putting a ball through a net and spending time with his teammates, so he never holds a grudge if his team loses.

He's spent so many years fighting for love, fighting for affection, fighting for meaningless trophies to impress his father that in the end he just...realized it is what it is. Once Rafe learned the implication of life will happen anyway regardless of how certain things go, his outlook on competition changed.

Anger subsided into contention, rage simmered into acceptance, and fear contorted to nonchalance.

Rafe learned a long time ago that, no matter how athletic he may play or how many As he may earn, nothing will ever satisfy his father's insatiability for perfection.

That lifted a considerably heavy weight off his shoulders, once he started living to please himself rather than everybody else.

Of course, he still plays with heart and the frustration of the game naturally spurs during heated moments. But the implications of self pressure are no longer there, and Rafe has found incredible solace with his teammates.

They usually go out after games to celebrate, win or loss, anyway.

Rafe can't really argue with that.

The reason Rafe's alone now is because 1. all of his friends are sleeping and 2. he didn't get drunk enough to pass out.

He had a couple shots early in the night, but curse his heavy weight intake for making it hard to get drunk. So now he's here at the practice field at the ungodly hours of the morning - because he's bored and doesn't want to sleep just yet, and he doesn't have to worry about any classes, just about his plans tonight. 

Besides, his skills could always use some tidying up. 

Rafe goes back to his workout routine after his admiration for the sky, the sun rising behind him mindlessly while he dribbles the ball up and down the field to practice his precision, working on mind trick tricks in terms of scoring (Rafe is a center midfielder, no way could he play defense).

Sweat glistens his forehead as the coolness of the night gradually dissipates, and he doesn't know how long he's been on this field, maybe a few hours? Days? At this point, someone could've told him he's been here for a year and he'd probably take their word for it.

But Rafe, after shooting the ball and missing, notices someone sitting on the bleachers with a book.

You.

A very pretty girl, who now has the book in your lap and is instead watching him.

Rafe just shrugs and gives a welcoming wave with a smile that you definitely can't see, but instead of waving back, you instead close the book with such gentleness and sit up to speak.

"Isn't the ball supposed to go in the net?"

Rafe recoils.

What?

He bites back a laugh because at this ungodly hour, everything is funny no matter what. He decides to ignore the hot raspiness of your voice and pushes it to the back of his mind, because he'll want to think about that later.

Despite his internal turmoil, Rafe plants his hands on his hips and cocks his head to the side. "I don't suppose you could do better?"

You chuckle sweetly, even Rafe can hear that from the distance and thinks it's faint music to his ears. "No, I can't. Have fun playing kickball, though."

Rafe simply stands there, blinking with a dumbfounded expression and a hint of a grin, taking a moment to soak in the faint image of you, a beautiful stranger, who goes back to reading your book. Shamelessly, he continues staring at you, as he can can make out how your silhouette is swallowed by a crimson hoodie looking comfortable enough to make Rafe yawn.

Fuck, now he's tired.

It doesn't take long for Rafe to pack up his things after doing some last work-downs and begin walking off the field (and of course the exit gate is right by the bleachers). The sun is now risen, just barely, and he can already feel the heat coming to bite him in the ass. He's never been a fan of the heat, especially at the start of the school year where it's basically sweltering summer.

Besides, he's been yawning for the past few minutes and his movements are more sluggish than they were before, so he takes this as a hint to finally get some rest.

You look up from your book and notice the alarmingly attractive soccer player leaving. Going against your normal tendency to hide and avoid talking to people you don't know, you can't help but feel inclined to smile when the stranger perks up and makes eye contact with you. The wild thumping of your heart only augments when you notice how pretty his eyes are, a bright blue despite the exhaustion behind them.

Rafe sends you a boyish smile and a nod, almost as if he's known you forever and bidding you a familiar farewell.

Once he gets closer, he notices your coffee sitting idly beside you, ice melting as the sun starts beating down on it. He also notices how pretty you really are, much prettier up close.

"Do you always read at the ass crack of dawn or what?" Rafe decides to pipe up, making his tone lighthearted so you don't think any different.

You huff out a laugh. "I've been here every morning since the semester started, and I'm just seeing you for the first time, why?"

Despite the certainty of your tone, Rafe doesn't ignore the sheepish look that immediately creeps on your face, trying to act cordial but he can tell by the way you're wringing your fingers together, you're somewhat skeptical of him. He decides to spare you and not to comment on the nerves, because he also feels heat in his face (he's gonna blame the workout, not the hot stranger talking to him). 

"Late night, couldn't sleep, and I was bored so I thought I'd shoot around until I got tired."

"Wait a minute," you say, your tone suddenly serious and your expression indulgent, "you haven't slept yet?"

Rafe shrugs nonchalantly, not taking into consideration that other people have normal sleeping schedules, finally meeting someone who does.

"Nah, this is normal for me. I'm surprised you're up...willingly...that's honestly terrifying and I'm scared of you," he jokes and spins the soccer ball on the tip of his ring finger. 

You widen your eyes and let out a low whistle, the look of shock coating your features. "Not sure if I should be fearing you instead. I can't tell if you're a god or just fucking stupid."

This makes Rafe bark out a laugh, one that he doesn't expect to come out, but the fact that this beautiful, fragile, and relaxed stranger just dropped the f-bomb nonchalantly is somehow fucking hilarious to Rafe...or perhaps it's the lack of sleep that makes his perception of things much more different and jagged.

Either way, he doesn't care, because the smile on your face is something Rafe's mind is never, ever going to forget. 

"Probably the latter, unfortunately," Rafe admits in that cheery self-deprecating tone that everyone takes normally. "Well, sunny, I'll leave you to it."

Then he pauses for a second, biting his tongue to refrain from saying something too forward.

"I'll hopefully see you around?"

Your blush intensifies (at the nickname or his confidence, you don't know), and neither speak on it. "Yeah, that'd be nice. See ya, kickball."

Before Rafe can defend his sport, you open your book back up and pick up where you left off, lounging back and crossing your legs to get more comfortable as Rafe splutters and huffs out a response that you seemingly ignore.

Your small smirk of victory makes Rafe want to either punch it off or kiss it off. Please don't ask him which one he prefers. 

Rafe's been at the soccer field almost every morning now for the past week. 

He figures that he'll sleep during the day on the weekends and in between his classes during the week, setting a multitude of alarms and not getting the amount of sleep he wishes to. His sister, Sarah, hassles him because she wants to meet this stranger who's been taking up all of Rafe's free time, finally happy that her brother is 'seeing someone' who isn't a complete jerk.

His best friend, Kelce, begs Rafe to introduce them or at least tell them a name, and have even tried to sneak out of his apartment with Rafe to spy on them (to which Rafe immediately shut down). But Rafe likes the idea of keeping you all to himself, just for a little bit.

Sure, his sleep schedule is even more messed up, but seeing the beautiful stranger every morning is such a goddamned bonus.

Oh, and it's no longer stranger. He learns your name the third time you see him.

Rafe learns that you're majoring in graphic design but that you have a serious love towards history and art, and immediately shy-ed away when he asked you to draw something, anything, on the spot.

And Rafe thinks it's so attractive that you're calm, collected, and easily embarrassed. You're shy, no matter how much you try to hide it. But you've been getting more and more comfortable with him every morning and he counts that as a huge step in his book. The books you read every morning are nonfiction pieces for your classes, and bring a sketch book a couple times a week as a substitute when you don't feel like indulging in history at the ass crack of dawn. 

He's been practicing soccer every morning now and his teammates comment on his change in precision and dribbling, and all Rafe can do is shrug and bitch about how he's the best on the team and can't help his natural talent (which his friends are used to hearing, and immediately humble him).

Well, little do they know you're the entire reason for that, and Rafe teeters between telling you that or keeping that to himself. 

The only downside to all of this is that Rafe's sleep schedule is...no longer. 

He stays up during the night, partying, sketching, whatever, and then makes his way to the field around five-am to practice and wait for you to get there (to make it look like he's already been practicing), and sometimes he doesn't even practice but instead waits on the bleachers for you if he has a game that day, not wanting to push it.

But then Rafe stays with you well into the morning, time that he usually spends sleeping is spent talking and chatting ears off.

Pathetically, he doesn't want to miss a day with you, yet he's really fucking tired.

Maybe you'll understand? Or you won't, and Rafe will have to go back into a panic to figure out if you're actually into him or not. 

Rafe genuinely thinks he's dumb, because you'll graze his hand against his or subtly compliment him, and he doesn't know how to respond, and will just carry on normally because he doesn't want to assume anything is going on.

Because if there's nothing happening between you, then Rafe doesn't want to be embarrassed for thinking that way. Unfortunately, he needs verbal confirmation if you're into him, because these subtle ways of being touchy and flirty are very confusing to a dumb person.

A.K.A., him.

The realization that you're horrifically down bad for Rafe Cameron hits you at approximately 3:22am on a random Sunday, a week after you meet.

You'd gone to bed around eleven, trying to get some early shut eye before your history exam tomorrow. The prep had you cozied up in the library all day, forcing yourself to reiterate the material to no end until you were seeing your handwriting in your head when you shut your eyes.

That's usually your tale-telling sign to know when to wrap it up.

But the effort to get plenty of rest proves fruitless in its attempt due to the giant fucking spider you see a foot away from your face.

Panic rises in your chest.

After all, you often wake up naturally during the night at least once to turn over or stretch your legs and sometimes think you see something, like the hoodie on the back of your chair that looks like a person or the piece of string on your floor that emulates a snake. In the moment, you try to convince yourself that it's one of those pranks your brain likes to play on you.

When it moves, however, that's when you scream.

You fliiiiiing off the bed, landing harshly on the tile with a thud, probably dragging half of your bedspread with you as you fumble for the lamp switch on your dresser.

The light makes it worse, because it proves your suspicions as you stare at the biggest spider you've ever seen on the wall, inches from your pillow.

Of course, you panic.

Heart racing, you freeze in your spot as you can't seem to take your eyes off of it, scared that it'll disappear into your sheets or behind your bed if you move or look away for a fraction of a moment. It's a standoff, you realize, and it doesn't look like it's going anywhere.

And there's no way you're getting near it.

Your fingers shake as you reach for your phone on the dresser, not once taking your eyes off the creature. Once it's in your hand, you pause and suck in a breath.

What the fuck is your phone gonna do?

Think, you repeat in your head. Breathe. Call Laney.

Your thumb ghosts over your best friend's contact, but your heart sinks when you catch a glimpse of the time.

Christ, it's the middle of the night. No one is awake at this hour.

You groan, eyes flickering between your phone and the spider that stays still on your wall, probably thinking of its plan to kill you, or whatever arachnids normally plot.

Trembling in place, you run through your options.

A. You could attempt to throw something at it, but that would only work if you had a guaranteed throwing accuracy, which you do not have. This will probably result in you missing entirely, and the spider vanishing in your sheets to never be seen again. Nope.

B. You could attempt to call Laney or your RA for some roadside assistance, but you know that Laney of all people, who once shrieked and ran from a wasp (it was really a fly), would really be of no help. And your RA often slept through a lot of concerning events, as in multiple fire alarms, a cat fight right outside his door, and, once, a literal firecracker. Nope.

C. You could grab your lighter and attempt to light it on fire. Given the circumstances, you're also guessing that's a fat nope.

D. There's a-

Your endless spiraling comes to a halt when you get a text, a fucking text, none other than from Rafe Cameron. At three in the morning.

Rafe: hey! someone make a greg and rowley edit to fake plastic trees. got me fucked up lowkey. heres the link. lets debrief about it later.

A moment passes and you blink hastily at the message, wondering if your eyes are playing tricks on you or if he, truly, is awake right now casually looking at god knows what. You re-read it once, twice, double checking the time stamp he sent it, mere minutes ago, and your chest pains in embarrassment at what you're about to do.

Your gaze darts from the text to the spider and back to the text.

God, your options are thin.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you're pressing on his contact, hitting the call button.

It rings once. "Please don't tell me I woke you up from that stupid text."

"No, um." You bite your lip as you eye the spider. "Uh, are you busy right now?"

"Besides talking to you? Nothing, pretty. Isn't it past your bedtime?"

You hate how your cheeks burn at his nonchalance, but are thankful he can't see you right now, even though he might at some point in the nearby future.

"What's wrong?" Rafe's tone morphs from teasing into what sounds like concern.

"It's stupid," you whisper, swallowing your pride. "But, uh, there's a giant spider in my room, I'm not kidding the size of my palm. I'm just, like, kinda freaking out?"

There's shuffling on the other end, a grunt, then a thud.

"Ow," Rafe grumbles and it sounds far away, as if you aren't meant to have heard it. "What dorm are you in?"

Your heart flips. "Shaffer. But Rafe, you really don't-"

"Room number?"

"509. But-"

"Nah," he interrupts nonchalantly, as if he won't entertain the thought of not helping you. "I'll be there in five. Talk to me, what'd you do today?"

Rafe arrives in three minutes.

Creeping to the door without taking your eyes off the spider, you open it to reveal Rafe Cameron, clad in sweatpants and a ridiculous graphic t-shirt (that looks like it's inside out), hair disheveled and sticking in every direction, holding his phone to his ear where you're still connected on the call. His green sneakers are untied. His smile is bright.

You try not to stare. You really try. Especially since you're supposed to be keeping an eye on the problem to begin with, but it's hard to resist when he looks so disgustingly endearing.

Eager, even, to help you out.

"Good to know it hasn't eaten you yet," Rafe jests, hanging up the call and putting his phone in his pocket.

You swallow the lump in your throat and step aside to let him in. "You really didn't have to-"

He places a cool palm over your mouth, startling you into shutting up.

Blinking stupidly up at him, all your senses are inhibited when you realize how close he is, how you can smell his cologne and see how bright his blue eyes really are.

"None of that." Rafe grins at your wide eyes. "Now, where is it?"

It's almost annoying how fearless he is.

While you're huddled in the opposite corner of the room, hugging yourself through your thin pajamas, Rafe simply scans the scene in front of him: the array of sheets and blankets hazardously scattered on your floor, the spider on the wall, your hand-sized penguin plushie that Laney got you as a joke. He can't help but cheekily smile to himself, getting a glimpse of you through the items you have, the photos you have hanging up, delaying the arachnid trapping for a moment to be selfish.

You catch him staring at a photo on your wall under your miscellaneous posters, and clear your throat.

Rafe snaps his head back to you, as if forgetting why he's here. "Right, sorry, pretty."

You reel as you watch him. Looking around for items he can use for the entrapment, Rafe settles on a discarded empty coffee cup from your trash can, kneeling forward on your bed and holding the cup underneath the spider.

The thump of your heart only gets louder as you see him nudge it with his own bare hand into the cup.

Once the spider is in it, he simply puts his palm over the top, covering it with not so much a second thought.

Rafe stands normally, tilting his head with puzzlement when he turns around to face you, wide eyed and, frankly, a little horrified.

"What?"

"Wh- You-" You splutter. "You touched it."

All he does it shrug, as if it literally means nothing. "No biggie. You have any ops on this floor? I can set him down so he crawls into their room instead."

After you escort him (from a distance) to relocate the spider outside, Rafe only deems it polite to walk you back to your room. On the way back in, he catches a glimpse of himself in the window and winces at his appearance, so the whole walk back he's been subtly trying to flatten down his unruly hair. You stifle a laugh each time he brings his hand up to mess with it more, undoubtedly making it worse.

By the time you get back to your door, it's worse than before. But he's never looked better, in your opinion.

"Um, thank you," you say sheepishly, toying with the strings of your pajama pants. "I know it's late. Or early. Whatever you wanna call it."

Rafe's smile couldn't be bigger. "I was up anyway."

You frown. "I don't think that's very good for you. You know, not sleeping."

Your tone reeks of concern, frankly a little embarrassing to express such distress for his well-being despite knowing him for only a week now.

But he barely seems fazed by it, instead shrugging. "Maybe. But then I wouldn't have answered your call, hm?"

The amused gleam in Rafe's eyes make your head fuzzy.

"I guess," you mumble. "I'll get you a coffee for your...troubles."

Rafe laughs boyishly, leaning against your doorframe as if he has all the time in the world to talk to you. "No need, pretty. I'm a certified arachnid relocator. I'm putting this shit on my resume. You honestly did me a favor," he rambles. "Needed a new job to put on there, anyway."

You can't help but roll your eyes, not really understanding how he has the energy to quip with you right now.

"Right, put it under your specialty in kickball," you tease, fighting a smile when you see his brows raise. "Will you please try and get some rest?"

"Depends," he hums, tilting his head to the side in contemplation. "Will you be at the field tomorrow?"

Ignoring the way your heart leaps, you shake your head. "Can't. All the more reason to catch up on sleep, no?"

"Are you asking me to?"

"Begging, really."

Rafe then nods, but not without trying - and failing - to suppress a stupidly large grin. "Alright, fine. For you? Anything?"

When you finally convince him to go back to his room (only the building next door), you can't help but lie awake in your spider-free bedroom, staring at the dark ceiling as your mind replays the last thirty minutes over and over.

Yeah. You're already in deep.

Rafe's been meeting you for a few weeks now, ever since the spider incident, almost every morning to talk and hang out.

A couple days a week you'll get coffee before classes to keep Rafe stable, and he discovers that you two always have something to talk about, and if there's silence it's always comfortable and natural. You often watch the sunrise in silence when it first awakens, and then carry on your normal routines when the beauty is over. 

It's so stupidly endearing to him that you let him share your moment with him.

Safe to say he's horrendously down bad...despite his overwhelming fatigue.

This morning has been exceptional rough for Rafe, because around three in the morning while he had been bored tinkering with things in his room, he suddenly remembered a paper that needs to be written before his noon class.

Of course, it's the middle of the night. He knows you're definitely asleep and there's no way he'd wake you up for something like this.

Naturally, Rafe spirals into a messy panic, standing in the middle of his room for a few moments debating on writing the paper here in his dorm or just taking all his things to the bleachers and doing it there while waiting for you. He does have a couple hours to spare, but Rafe doesn't think when he grabs his backpack, laptop, and book and runs out of his dorm.

The darkness of the night has never bothered him, not while the moon shines above him and illuminates his path. It's one of the reasons he loves nightfall so much, is because of the beauty of the moon and the light that it reflects on the earth. He wishes he could see the craters more clearly so he can soak in all of her beauty, but tonight he's in too much of a rush and panic to really think about the deep ideas of the moon.

When Rafe gets to the bleachers, he immediately opens his laptop and starts writing, whipping his book out so that he can reference quotes and cite pages while he lazily goes off his shitty outline he wrote a few nights ago about the premise of his paper. The words he hastily types come out as lethargic unpleasantries, and he really, really tries to focus to make it good, but his head keeps lulling forward and his fingers shake from fatigue.

He doesn't even care. He's a STEM student anyway, so literature isn't really at the top of his list of things to care about.

But god forbid he misses a morning with you.

So he lounges back on the bleachers, ferociously typing away everything he can and scraps together every piece of knowledge he has about the book.

And that's exactly how you find Rafe a few hours later: head tipped back with his legs stretched out, laptop discarded beside him with a black screen, light snores emitting from his mouth and his hair disheveled in every sort of direction.

And you think you're gonna melt at the sight. 

Rafe is startled awake by a loud squawking by his ear, and yelps quietly while he shoos away the crow on the fence and tries to remember where he is and what he was doing. He sees the sun...the soccer field...holy shit, where are-?

You, sitting next to him with his laptop in your lap, waiting patiently for him to wake up. You try (and fail) to suppress a grin as you notice how disheveled he is right now, who's trying to piece together what he had been doing before he passed out.

"Good morning," you greet warmly. "Sleep well?"

"What time is it?" Rafe immediately asks, mind fuzzy from the short amount of sleep. "I have class at-"

"Noon," you interrupt calmly, trying to ignore how stupidly attractive his morning voice sounds, "I was planning on waking you up in an hour or so in order for you to have enough time to get there, but your professor emailed you and the rest of your class to tell you that class was cancelled for a family emergency. So I wasn't going to wake you at all, but that crow had other plans for you. Sorry."

Rafe sits up and rubs his eyes, cracking his back and stretching from the uncomfortable position, still foggy as he looks at your pretty and yawns. "I need to...I need to finish a paper. It's about-"

"Frankenstein?" you interrupt again, looking very prideful. "Don't worry, I've read the book before so I finished it for you. I also re-wrote everything you wrote because...well...it wasn't making sense. I mean, no offense or anything. I kinda submitted it already since it was still due at noon, so..."

Letting out a breath of relief, Rafe slouches and utterly destroys his posture as he regains his ability to think coherently.

His mind catches up to the situation. You found him asleep, finished his essay for him, and waited for him to wake up so you wouldn't disturb him?

Yup. Yeah, it's official, he's smitten with you.

"I don't know how to thank you," murmurs Rafe, unknowing of what to even say, scratching the back of his neck as he peers over at you.

You simply shrug, handing the laptop and book back to Rafe (of course while grazing your fingertips together, hopefully intentionally).

"Think of it as..." You rack your brain for words. "...Me returning the favor. You know, for the spider."

His mind is mush.

All he can think about is you not thinking twice to help him out, despite his idiocy and consistently scrappy appearance. Somehow, somehow, he hasn't driven you away yet. Just when he thinks he's fucked something up, you come back.

"That was- I wanted to do that for you."

Once again, you shrug. "And I wanted to do this for you."

Rafe blinks stupidly at you, unable to form a coherent thought. What ends up coming out of his mouth is, "You wrote a paper."

"Yeah."

"For me."

"Well, I couldn't submit the garbage you came up with. No offense, or anything, but I think you confused Frankenstein with Frankenweenie."

"That's a common mistake."

You manage to crack a smile. "Is it?"

Rafe decides it's one of the prettiest things he's ever seen. "Mhm."

But, of course, he has to ruin the moment by yawning so horrendously audacious that he nearly groans in self inflicted embarrassment.

"Sorry," he winces when he comes down from it, rubbing the side of his face in exhaustion. "That's my body's involuntary response to when a pretty girl writes my papers for me."

You roll your eyes to push away your shyness, to ignore the heat flushing your cheeks.

"You really should get some rest."

Rafe yawns again. ""M not tired."

Despite the dark circles under his eyes, Rafe looks perfectly content on these bleachers, leaning back onto the row above and lounging brazenly. His head is lulled in your direction, looking up at you with those pretty blues and a half lipped smirk that seems to be permanently etched on his face whenever he's with you.

You wring the ends of your shirt, nervously biting your lip under his intense gaze.

And you're speaking before he can call you pretty again.

"Well, how about this. After you get some sleep, we can...we can get dinner? We can even do take out, or I can try and chef something up in the communal kitchen, or something..."

His mouth drops open.

You trail off, unsure of what to make of his flabbergasted expression. Is he...Is this not what you thought it was?

But Rafe is over the moon, unable to get that stupid shocked look off his face as he realizes holy shit he thinks you're asking him out? and he can't find the energy to move, he's frozen, relaying the thought over and over in his head that you, of all people, are into him.

Are you? Or is this some sort of friend-quality time thing that's going over Rafe's head because, contrary to popular belief, he's very smart when it comes to blueprints and designs and sometimes mathematics, but also very dumb when it comes to pretty girls.

Is this a direct invitation on a date or not? His tired brain doesn't know how to think strai-

"I'll take that as a no...?"

Rafe blinks his way out of his thoughts at the sound of your voice again, and he finally finds the words and mumbles out a curse word as he notices the confused guise on your pretty face.

He immediately widens his eyes.

"No, no, no-"

Your brows raise.

Rafe recoils. "Yes! Well, I mean yes, yes, I'll get dinner with you. Sorry, I just...Yes, I'd love to." 

You find it in yourself to laugh, and subtly let out a breath you've been holding for all that time Rafe had been yelling at himself in his head, debating the context of the invitation.

Blinking blearily, Rafe shakes his head, trying to figure out if he's still sleeping and he's dreaming, or if this is actually happening to him. But with the intensity of his rapid heartbeat and the way you look so vividly real and present, he deems that this is in fact not a dream, and this is happily real life.

"Good, because I don't know what I'd do if you said no," you joke, twiddling your thumbs out of nerves and letting out a low chuckle. "Probably never talk to you again."

Rafe waves you off with a proud look on his face, a wide grin, saying your name with such a saccharine tone that it makes your brain go fuzzy.

"Oh please, like I'd even think of blowing off my very own essay-writer. I may be stupid, but I am not an idiot."

This makes you laugh with that stupidly adorable smile that you can't seem to fight off that well, and Rafe takes in how beautiful you are, with your perfect grin and bright eyes that remind him of the the lightness in his chest when he finds something funny, or how your sweet voice smoothes over the ridges and hills of his heart and fills in the gaps affectionately.

(Which is painful for Rafe to endure because he loves it so much).

"You are pretty stupid," you admit quietly, timidly. "You're stupid for losing sleep over me."

Rafe closes his agape mouth at the fact that he's been caught. "Well it's worth it." Then softer, "You're worth it."

You roll your eyes and stand up, Rafe watching you do so. "You shouldn't have to accommodate your entire schedule for me. Honestly, you should go home now and sleep," you suggest earnestly, because all you want is for him to be at his best.

"Only if you'll come with."

Your heart skips a beat and you find yourself rolling your eyes once again, but this time feeling heat creep up on your neck no matter how hard you try to fight it.

It's always something about the way Rafe flirts with you so effortlessly, and how you can tell he means it. 

"Fine," you agree gently, saying it as if it was a bad thing (although your suppressed grin gives that away), "c'mon, you stupid idiot."

So, Rafe gets his things together and leaves the signature bleachers with you, this time finding the gall to slip his hand into yours, gingerly squeezing.

All this time, he wondered what it'd be like to hold your hand, and safe to say it's even better than his preconceived expectations.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission.

notes some fluff for these hard times. hope you enjoyed!

[urcoolgf]

SILHOUETTE LOOK LIKE A $

pairing. stranger¡rafe && bitchy¡reader

content. fluff. drinking. suggestive content/thoughts. language.

summary. ‘break from toronto’ by PARTYNEXTDOOR. when rafe sees you at the bonfire, he's immediately intrigued. what he didn't realize was how uninterested you would be in him, and he simply cannot have that—not proofread

rafe was the king of the kooks. every girl on the island would drop to their knees for him, give it up without hesitation, beg him to give them just one chance. he liked it—liked the attention, liked the desperation on their faces, and the way their hopes shattered when he turned them down (or took them home only to say he ‘wasn’t impressed’ by their performance).

so, he was asshole… that was common knowledge at this point—everyone on the island knew it, but for some reason they let him get away with it.

rafe cameron had never pined over a girl, never planned to.

so, when you walked onto the beach for the annual bonfire—rafe didn’t even know himself anymore. sure, he found girls attractive, stole glances every now and then to get them hooked. but, you? he was staring, shamelessly.

first thing he noticed—besides your perfect figure, and the outfit that hugged you like it was painted on—was the fact you walked in alone. he had gone to many bonfires, and never once had he seen a girl walk in by herself.

you didn’t even look nervous. he had never seen you before which meant you had just moved here. your clothes looked expensive, and your hair was done up perfectly which meant you were probably definitely a kook. your make up was done expertly to accentuate your bold features—not too much, just enough to make you the most noticeable girl in the crowd.

you strutted in like you owned the place, your confidence radiating off you. rafe’s eyes were glued to you. your eyes wandered around the area, scanning the bodies, finally locating the beer keg. a soft sigh of relief left your lips. rafe couldn’t hear it, but he saw the way your lips parted ever so slightly.

he was addicted.

he wasn’t willing to give up his reputation though. you may have seemed confident and independent, but one glance in his direction and he was sure you’d be just like all the other girls clamoring over him.

you grabbed a red solo cup, ‘pouring’ some beer into it. once you filled your cup, you turned around almost pumping into another girl who stood behind you. she was dirty blonde, pretty face, full lips, and obviously wasted.

“oops! soooorrryyy,” she slurred, placing her hand on your shoulder, “that could’ve been bad!”

“don’t even worry about it, babe. you’re a little drunk aren’t you?,” you laughed.

“jus’ a liiittleee,” she laughed back at you, her hand slid from your shoulder down the side of your bare arm, finding stability on your forearm—gripping it like she would crumble if she let go.

“are your friends around? did you come with someone?,” you asked kindly, a soft smile on your face. you readjusted her hand so you could wrap your arm around her waist. she was practically hanging off of you, but you didn’t mind. underneath the alcohol stench radiating off her, you could smell something like a mixture of vanilla and flowers which you normally didn’t like, but she made it work.

“yeah! my boyfriend should be around here somewhere…,” she squinted her eyes, looking for him in the mass of bodies.

“okay, hun. what does he look like? what’s his name?,” you began walking around with her still attached to you, trying to get her a view of everyone.

“john b. he’s about yay tall,” she held her arm up just above her head, drink still in hand, “brown hair, pretty eyes…,” she trailed off, half swooning, half searching.

meanwhile, rafe’s eyes were latched onto you helping his sister like mother theresa. this was his chance—not to make a move on you, just put himself on your radar. once he did that, you’d be drawn to him, and the rest would be easy. he began walking up to the two of you, a fake concern appearing on his face.

“woah, there… somethin’ wrong?,” a man approached you two, and his fake ‘worry’ wasn’t fooling anyone. he had a baseball hat on—backwards, of course—and a dark shirt and shorts. he looked like a douche, but even you couldn’t deny that he was pretty attractive.

“and you are?,” you asked defensively. he wasn’t the girl’s boyfriend—he was taller, blondish hair… they honestly looked related.

“rafe! have you seen john b?,” the girl next to you slurred. okay so at least she knew him. he didn’t even respond to her, focusing on your question instead. you really didn’t know him? oh, now he was intrigued.

“‘m rafe, ‘nd you’re clutched onto my sister,” he responded with a hint of amusement, pointing at the girl next to you.

“oh! i’m sarah! wait– who are you?,” her drunken state only added to her confusion of the identity of the stranger holding her up right now.

“i’m y/n. so… rafe? you see her boyfriend anywhere around here?,” you could see his eyes roaming over your body before glancing up to look in the crowd.

“yeah, right over there,” he pointed, you followed the direction of his finger to a blonde guy, and someone who appeared to be john b next to him talking.

“i’ll take her over, get her off your hands,” he went to move toward the girl, before you shifted her away.

“i got her,” you narrowed your eyes slightly. it wasn’t that you didn’t trust him… no, actually it was. you didn’t care if he was her brother, or if she knew him—there was nothing wrong with being safe, and taking her over yourself.

“alright,” he put his hands up in surrender before you walked her over to john b. he watched the way your hips swayed with a hypnotic rhythm that had him forgetting where he was for a second, and the way he could tell you didn’t trust him only turned him on more.

“you john b?,” you asked once you made your way up to him and the blonde.

“shit! sarah! hey, baby… what happened to ya?,” he quickly grabbed her off your arm, letting her rest into his side.

“she’s pretty drunk, so i would take her home if i were you,” you advised before walking off.

you could hear the blonde say something quietly as you walked away, “who the hell was that, john b? y’know her?!”

“nah man, never seen her,” he said, more worried about the girl clung to him.

you smirked to yourself, lifting your untouched drink to your glossed lips—boys were just too easy.

you kind of just sat around and drank, only mingling with the people who came up to you. it was getting annoying, but you couldn’t be bothered to leave yet, either. you just shrugged off whatever guy came up to you—you were here to observe, not partake. eventually, the blonde made his way up to you, without john b by his side this time.

“hey, there, i’m jj,” he walked up with a sort of swagger—the kind that is half personality, half totally fake. you had gotten good at reading people, good at recognizing their intentions.

this jj guy—he wasn’t bad. he didn’t have that annoying type of cockiness, just the type that probably got him into trouble.

“thanks for the info,” you responded, uninterested. he was the sixth guy who had walked up to you in the past 42 minutes… yes you were keeping track—you always did. it was like a game to you.

he wasn’t as insufferable as the other ones, though. most of them had started with something along the lines of ‘what’s a pretty girl like you doin’ all alone?’ barf.

“ya see, this is normally the part where you tell me your name,” he replied back with a quick laugh.

“haven’t earned that yet,” you answered, still monotoned, like you couldn’t be bothered. you pretended to check your nails on the hand that wasn’t holding your drink. you barely even looked at him—not that he was totally awful, you just wanted no part of whatever he was offering.

“well, how ever might i earn tha–,” he began with a sort of dramatic sarcasm before he was cut off.

“beat it, maybank,” rafe. unfortunately, you could recognize that voice off of one interaction alone.

“rafe, i’m in the middle of somethin’ here,” he laughed. okay, so he’s a nervous laugher. good to know. hides behind humor—noted.

“‘n now you’re not. get outta here,” he replied low. his voice didn’t have to be loud to be commanding, or intimidating. you figured he probably ran this island with the mentality he had.

“whatever man,” jj laughed in surrender, walking away. didn’t even say bye—what a catch.

“i was having a conversation,” you told him. your voice still plain like you weren’t actually trying to convince him. you weren’t. you just didn’t like that he felt like he could walk over to you, and scare off whoever he pleased. you were a challenge, and rafe was officially ready to play.

“didn’t look too talkative to me,” okay, so he was the annoying kind of cocky. how wonderful.

“that’s not really for you to decide, is it?,” you quipped back at him. someone needed to knock this man down a peg. it was clear he thought he was the king of this place—and even if that was true—it didn’t mean shit to you.

“i like to think i saved you from an unwanted conversation,” he smirked, lifting his drink to his mouth. it was amusing how he thought his one-liners were just so good.

“and what do you think this is?,” your face was basically expressionless. you were amused, but he wasn’t going to know that—knowing him, he’d probably think you were enjoying his presence.

“this is you… talking to someone on your level,” his face was far too arrogant for your liking.

“my level?,” you almost laughed, “right… okay.”

“you think i don’t have what it takes?,” he did laugh. a semi-humorless laugh, like you should be lucky he was even speaking to you.

“you wanna know what i think? i think you don’t even know what you have to give… rafe, was it? i think you waltz around the island like you own it—and maybe you do—but deep down, you’re just a confused little boy who doesn’t know what he wants. so, you fill the void with parties, and drugs, and drinks, and girls, and sex—definitely lots of sex… and because of that you think every girl wants you because really, all you’ve ever wanted is to be wanted,” you replied, your tone low and unwavering, eyes narrowed. you realized that might have been a bit much, but you hated guys like him. you’ve had too much experience with them, and the only thing you’ve learned is that no one has humbled them in their lifetime.

all rafe could do was stare, jaw locked—he should be furious, he should want to kill you. he should. but, right now all he wanted to do was fuck you right on the table you were sitting on top of. he should be offended, should retaliate… he couldn’t. you had stopped him right in his tracks.

“think i’ve had enough of this ‘party’,” you said, hopping off the table. you pushed your half empty cup into rafe’s chest, which he grasped instinctively, “all yours. i know you wanna taste me, but that’s as close as you’re gonna get, rafe.”

you brushed past him, walking off the beach—the same confidence dripping off you. rafe watched you until you were out of sight. he took in every detail he could about you—the way you smelled, your lips, your smile, the way your eyes narrowed when your words had more bite than you were expecting, the way your hair fell down your back, the way your tits practically begged to be released from your top, and your too-short skirt.

he didn’t know how… but, he was going to have you.

an: made a whole character for this one just because i love the PND aesthetic/vibe, but i’ll definitely be using her for other one shots—maybe even a series in the future? maybe i’ll make this a series??? idk please let me know.ᐟ

JOIN MY TAGLIST

© URCOOLGF. est. 2025

TAGS .ᐟ @yktayy9669 @drewsswifeyy @drewrry @frankoceanluvr11 @dearestmillls @icaqttt @lynoriax @hpboysslut2707 @stoned-writer @angvl3tears @beabafreakbee

[goldsainz]

# HIGH INFIDELITY — CHAPTER ONE !

SERIES MASTERLIST !

001. SUMMARY !

✯ no matter what you do or who you’re with, rafe is the thorn in your side that persists.

002. WARNINGS !

✯ drinking, rafe’s a bitch.

003. NOTE !

✯ the italics part is meant to be past, normal is present. not a lot of rafe in this part, but we’re building up the tension, bear with me guys. also this is short n’ sweet, but it was either this or waiting like a week sooo 🤗

word count : 3,1k

Summer is, without a doubt, your favourite season of the year—a time when everything seems a little brighter, warmer, and full of promise. But above all, it’s the chance for romance that makes it truly special. As the breeze grazes your skin, you're struck with all the endless possibilities for a breezy, passionate fling. Summer brings not just warmth, but the promise of memories waiting to be made.

Perhaps that is why this summer feels different, why you're filled with a sensation you are not used to. Because, in true you fashion, you cannot help but fall for the first guy that makes eye contact with you. It’s as if that single look, just a fleeting connection, has already set something in motion within you. It doesn't really matter who they are, you just hope they're decent enough that when the summer ends you won't wallow until the next one.

Despite everything you’ve always been told—that Kooks and Pogues live in separate worlds, that some lines are best left uncrossed—you can’t help but feel all that advice slip away in a single moment. A single glance across the bonfire, a glint of warmth and interest in his eyes, has you questioning every cautionary tale you've ever heard. 

He lifts his hand in a simple wave, and without thinking, you lift yours in return. He smiles, and you find yourself smiling back, helpless against the pull he seems to have over you. It’s such a small exchange, yet it sends a thrill through you. So simply, your heart is already in the hands of a Kook that probably doesn't even know your name.

For a single moment, just when you finally let your guard down and begin to lose yourself in the summer night, you feel a hard shove against your shoulder. The unexpected force nearly sends you toppling, and you stumble awkwardly to keep your footing. A quick flash of irritation floods your mind, and as you turn, you see the culprit—and, oh, if it isn’t the most predictable sight in the world.

It’s Rafe Cameron. Of course, it is. He moves through the crowd like he owns it, barely glancing your way, as if you’re invisible, or worse, just an obstacle on his path to whatever or whoever he’s fixated on. 

“Watch it, Kook!” You shout at him, your voice sharp, as you glare down at the mess now soaking into the sand, the drink he so casually spilled with his careless shove. Typical Rafe—he couldn’t just bump into you and keep walking; no, he had to leave a mark, a small reminder of how easy it is for him to disrupt whatever, or whoeever, is in his way.

There’s no point in trying to get Rafe to acknowledge his mistakes. He wouldn’t care, and honestly, why waste the energy? Annoyed, you make your way toward the drink stand, trying to shake off the aggravation and enjoy what’s left of the night. The makeshift bar is stocked with copious amounts of beer, a few murky-looking bottles of whiskey, and vodka that looks questionably watered down. You sigh, filling a red cup and trying to hold on to a sliver of the excitement you felt earlier. Maybe it’s time to call it a night, to forget the rude shove and, disappointingly, to forget the boy you shared glances with.

“Hey,” a voice interrupts as you lift the cup to your lips, pulling you from your thoughts. You look up, and there he is—the guy from across the bonfire, standing right in front of you, his expression soft but earnest. “I’m sorry about him,” he says, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Huh?” The word slips out, and for a moment, you forget all about the spilled drink, the scowl on your face, even Rafe Cameron’s entitled shove. The memory of the night seems to blur, leaving just this moment, this exchange. You’re left with that same rush from earlier, only more intense now, standing close enough to see the way the firelight reflects in his eyes. 

“He shoved you, right?” he asks, raising his voice slightly so it cuts through the noise around you. There’s a hint of concern in his eyes, and he leans in just enough for you to catch the faint scent of saltwater and something earthy, maybe cedar. “Or did I mistake you for someone else?”

“No, no,” you reply, shaking your head, a small, sheepish smile creeping onto your face despite yourself. “That was me, unfortunately. Rafe Cameron’s idea of saying ‘excuse me,’ I guess.”

He laughs, a low sound that somehow makes the rest of the chaotic night fade into the background. “Sounds about right,” he says with a shrug, like he knows exactly the kind of person Rafe is—and isn’t surprised in the slightest. His gaze lingers on you, though, holding a warmth and sincerity that feels like a stark contrast to everything you just experienced. It’s as if he’s actually seeing you, not just some girl who got shoved around in the crowd.

“So… can I get you another drink?” he asks, nodding toward your mostly empty cup. “You know, as a ‘sorry for my obnoxious friend’ kind of thing.”

"I don’t even know your name,” you say, keeping your tone casual, though you can feel a flicker of heat rising in your cheeks. Of course, you do. But he doesn’t need to know that. Not yet, anyway.

He raises an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes as if he’s caught on to your feigned innocence but decides to play along. “Is that so?” he asks, a grin curving on his lips. “Well, then. I guess that makes us strangers, doesn’t it?”

You bite back a smile, shrugging, as if the flutter in your chest is no big deal. “I suppose it does.”

He extends his hand, the light from the bonfire casting a warm glow on his face. “I’m Joshua, but you can call me Josh.” he says, as though you hadn’t already heard the name whispered among your friends a hundred times. “And you are?”

“YN,” you say softly, letting your name slip past your lips like a secret, as if saying it too loudly might break the spell of this moment.

“Well, YN,” he drawls, your name slipping off his lips like honey, rich and warm. Somehow, in the noise and firelight, it sounds sweeter coming from him than you’ve ever heard it before. “Can I get you a drink?”

You hesitate, just for a second, but then you nod, feeling a lightness in your chest that hadn’t been there before. “I’d like that, yeah,” you say, and suddenly, youre not so ready for the night to end.

As you lie peacefully on the beach, your head resting on Josh’s chest and the sun’s warm rays caressing your skin, a deep contentment settles over you. The waves roll in rhythmically, their soft crashing mixing with the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. 

Josh’s fingers trace lazy patterns along your arm, a quiet gesture that says so much without a word. Somehow, these last days have passed in a perfect blur, each moment with him slipping effortlessly into the next. It’s as if the rest of the world has faded into the background, leaving just the two of you and the freedom of these warm summer days.

It hasn’t been more than three days, you’re sure. But in the rush of everything—of his touch, of the laughter, of the long talks that stretch into the night—it feels like so much more. It doesn’t matter, though. Summer is fleeting by nature, and relationships, much like the warmth of the sun, can’t last forever. You’ve always known that.

Maybe that’s why things feel so easy with Josh. There’s no pressure, no rush to figure it all out. You don’t need a lifetime to know that this connection is real, even if it’s only for now.

“I was thinking…” he whispers, his voice sending a shiver down your spine as it tickles your ear. “Why don’t you come with me to a party? It’s very casual.”

You turn your head slightly so you can look at him, feeling the heat of his breath against your skin. “Where?” you ask, curiosity piqued.

“Just… at a friend’s house,” he replies, his words vague, as though he’s trying to keep something hidden. You sense it, the hesitation, like he’s afraid the full truth will make you back out.

“Okay… whose house?” you ask, your voice a bit firmer now, wanting a little more clarity.

You roll your eyes and let out a dramatic groan, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “Fine. But the second he crosses a line, I’m out. Don’t try to stop me.”

Josh raises his hands, feigning innocence, though there’s a gleam of victory in his eyes. “Deal,” he says with a grin, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your forehead.

“I’m serious,” you press, your voice soft but your gaze steady, locking onto his as if to underline your words. You want him to know you’re not playing around; Rafe has crossed too many lines before, and you’re not about to give him any more chances.

Josh’s grin softens into something more earnest as he takes your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I know. And I won’t let him pull anything. I’ll be right there with you.”

You nod, reassured—well, mostly. There’s still a twinge of anxiety at the thought of walking into Rafe’s space. But with Josh by your side, it feels like a risk worth taking. You take a deep breath, pushing away the doubts, letting yourself focus on the warmth of his hand in yours.

You know you’ll probably regret being so compliant later, but in this moment, under the warm sun and the gentle pull of his charm, you can’t find it within yourself to care. Not right now, anyway.

The party is at its peak when you step inside with Josh, his hand a steady presence on the small of your back. People weave around, stumbling and laughing, drinks sloshing as they chug another round. The air is thick with the smell of beer and perfume, the music pounding loud enough to shake the floor.

Tannyhill is enormous, every inch of it polished and perfect. Compared to the flimsy house you call home, this level of luxury feels surreal, almost insulting—like you’re trespassing in a world you’re not meant to be a part of.

“You good?” Josh’s voice is low against your ear, his fingers pressing lightly, reassuringly, into your back.

“Yeah,” you manage, glancing around at the high ceilings and spotless marble floors. “Big house,” you mumble, trying to play it off, but Josh catches the edge of awe in your voice and lets out a soft chuckle.

“Sometimes I forget,” he says with a smile, “that this is all just… normal to me. It’s weird, huh?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “A little.” There’s an underlying discomfort, a feeling of not quite fitting in, but with Josh beside you, you tell yourself it doesn’t matter.

As you navigate through the crowd, you spot Rafe across the room, casually leaning against a table, a smirk on his face as he watches the crowd unfold around him. His gaze shifts, and for a brief second, his eyes lock onto yours, his smirk turning into something sharper, something that sends a prickle of irritation through you.

Josh notices and gives your hand a squeeze, as if grounding you. “Remember our deal,” he murmurs, his tone playful but his eyes serious.

“Right,” you reply, taking a deep breath and letting it go, trying to shake off the feeling of being under Rafe’s watch. Tonight, you tell yourself, is about being with Josh, about experiencing his world—even if only for a night.

There are barely any Pogues here, you realize, glancing around at the faces in the crowd. Maybe a few who hover on the edges, those who toe the line between a bad season of hard luck and those who might actually crawl and beg to be part of the Kooks’ world. They’re the ones who keep their heads down, wearing uncomfortable clothes, trying to blend in without drawing attention.

You feel the difference even more now, the gap between you and this place, this crowd. Everyone here is effortlessly at ease, basking in the privilege that’s been theirs since birth. And yet here you are, standing in the middle of it all, aware of every sideways glance, every slightly raised eyebrow as you pass by.

“You’re sure it’s okay for me to be here?” you ask again, your voice low, almost like you’re bracing yourself for Rafe or one of his friends to notice you and kick you out.

Josh squeezes your hand, his expression softening. “Of course. They don’t care, really,” he says, his tone steady, almost casual, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You wish you could believe him. You’ve noticed, over these past few days, how little Josh seems to care about the whole Kook and Pogue divide. He doesn’t see you as an outsider, doesn’t seem to register the tension that hums just beneath the surface. To him, it’s all irrelevant, a line drawn in the sand that doesn’t matter. It’s refreshing—and it’s blinding.

Because Josh’s indifference almost fooled you into thinking the world works that way, too. Like the Kooks and Pogues can just coexist, that the labels and histories are meaningless. But tonight, standing in this mansion with strangers’ eyes glancing your way, you feel the weight of it again, the silent reminders that you don’t belong.

He notices the hesitation in your eyes, the way you’re pulling back, and his hand slides to your shoulder, a gentle reminder that he’s here with you. “Listen,” he murmurs, leaning close so only you can hear, “I don’t care about any of that, and if anyone else does… well, that’s their problem. You’re with me.”

His words are a comfort, but they’re not enough to erase the uneasy feeling that lingers. You force a smile, hoping he can’t see the doubt flickering there, and nod. “Right. I’m with you.”

For the slightest moment you feel at ease, but almost like clockwork, the grating voice of Rafe Cameron breaks your reverie, pulling you out of your thoughts. “Hey, man,” he greets, slapping a hand on Josh’s back in that familiar, boy-ish way.

“What’s up, Rafe?” Josh replies, his smile wide, clearly used to this dynamic, his tone casual and easygoing.

“Nothing much, just trying to keep everything at bay,” Rafe responds, his voice dripping with indifference as he talks like you’re not even standing there. Like you don’t exist in this moment, and it stings more than it should.

“Cool,” Josh shifts slightly, turning toward you. “I’m sure you’ve met YN, hope it’s all good that I brought her?”

At that, Rafe finally looks at you. The weight of his gaze makes your skin prickle, and for a moment, you almost squirm under it. “Yup, all good,” Rafe says, his voice laced with something colder, something discomforting. “I said you could bring anyone… and you did.”

The way he says it is so backhanded, so typical of him. You can practically hear the unspoken judgement in his words, feel it in the way he looks at you, sizing you up.

You’re not surprised, of course—this is Rafe, after all—but the little jab only adds to the discomfort that’s been creeping up on you all evening. You force a tight smile, but it feels too small, too weak for what’s really going on inside. Still, you keep your eyes on Josh, hoping he doesn’t notice how the atmosphere has shifted, how Rafe’s presence has twisted everything just enough to make you feel smaller than you are.

“Well, enjoy the party,” Rafe says, his smile almost too practised, like he’s delivering a line he’s said a hundred times before. The kind of smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, that’s meant to keep things cordial, even if the undercurrent of judgement is thick enough to cut through.

“We will,” Josh replies easily, not missing a beat, his voice smooth and unbothered, as though none of the tension is hanging in the air.

Josh’s hand finds yours, his fingers warm against your skin as he gently pulls you away from the conversation. But as you pass by Rafe, you hear him lean in slightly, his voice just low enough for only you to hear. “Not too much, yeah?”

It’s a whisper, but it feels like a slap. You can feel your brows furrow instinctively, the words gnawing at you. You’re tempted, so tempted, to turn around and shove him and ask, What the hell is wrong with you?

But you don’t.

Instead, you let Josh lead you away, his hand tightening around yours in a subtle reassurance. The music swells, the noise of the party grows louder, but it all feels distant now, like a blur around the sharp edge of Rafe’s comment. You try to ignore it, try to shake it off, but it clings to you, sticking in your chest like a splinter.

Even as you move through the crowd, you know that this night isn’t just about the music or the people—it’s about the silent things too. The things you can’t control, the things you have to push past in order to keep moving.

And Rafe Cameron is the one thing you can’t push past, no matter how hard you try. The one who thinks he can push you down, who sees you as something beneath him, a reminder of everything he’s convinced he’s better than.

But if there’s one thing he needs to know, it’s that you don’t go out without a fight. He might have the money, the reputation, the home twice the size of anywhere you’ve ever lived, but he will not ruin your summer. 

He’s attempted to get under your skin before and failed. And you’re not about to let this be any different. The summer isn’t his to take from you, no matter how hard he tries. He’s not a force you’re willing to let derail everything good about these days. Not the warmth of the sun, not the nights you spend with Josh, not the taste of freedom you’ve felt since you stepped into his world.

You’ll be damned if you let Rafe Cameron, of all people, get in the way of that.

[4urvalidation]

A CASE OF LIMERENCE | Chapter One

| NEXT CHAPTER

There's no one waiting for her. 

With her phone in one hand and trolley full of suitcases in the other, Leni helplessly watches as a crowd of happy faces reunite with their loved ones, while she just… stands there. At first she thinks Rose might be running a little late and although this is rather uncharacteristic of her Godmother, Leni decides to give her some grace. The woman’s husband just died, be normal! But when fifteen minutes turns into two whole hours and her hoard of texts and calls are left unanswered, Leni has no other choice but to panic a little. 

It’s fine. 

You are fine. 

You know this place like the back of your hand. 

Her uber is chatty. He tosses her bags in the trunk like they are mere pieces of paper, but once he does a double check on her location Leni watches a million different emotions go through his face before finally settling on a rather unreadable one. She thinks he is about to ask questions regarding her connection with the Camerons, but he doesn’t. Instead, he turns up the radio and focuses on the long road ahead. 

In the meantime, Leni tries calling Rose again, but is once again left with an unanswered call and what now seems to be a warning of a full voicemail. Her mood worsens; the prickling in the tips of her fingers sends jolts of anxiety in every inch of her body and - what if she’s overreacting? 

What if, Rose is simply standing in the shadows of the ever daunting Tannyhill with Sarah and all their friends by her side, patiently waiting for Leni to arrive so they can finally throw that much needed surprise party she’s always been secretly hoping for? 

There’s no point in panic calling Sarah now; not when Leni has perfectly convinced herself that all of these missed calls are just a silly little ruse; a cruel prank she is yet to be mad at and when the uber drops her off in front of a house shrouded in darkness, she becomes even more convinced in the delusion she has created for herself. 

Even in the dark Tannyhill looks as glorious as ever. She remembers coming here for the first time as a doe eyed ten year old and being so impressed by its bigness that when she saw the pyramids for the first time in the following year all she could muster was: “I’ve seen bigger.” All of her best and most favorite memories were made in the halls and rooms of this giant of a house, but when she looks at it now, all Leni can feel is insurmountable pain. 

There is no surprise party waiting for her inside. 

With all her might, she tries convincing herself again; tries to read into the dim light coming from the random room on the ground floor, but despite all her attempts, Leni simply cannot escape from the truth: grieving people don’t throw parties. 

Her heart pulses in the middle of her throat as she presses the doorbell and allows herself to wait again. She no longer knows what or who to expect, but much like the plethora of calls, this too is left unanswered. 

Leni sighs and pulls her phone out of her pocket. It’s a winless fight, but perhaps this one last dial might be the one Rose finally decides to pick up-

“You came back.” 

A rough, almost dehydrated voice captures her attention and almost instantly Leni swings her head around. Standing before her is a face she hasn’t seen in a while; the only face she dreaded seeing each time she stepped foot in Tannyhill. But the Rafe Cameron in front of her is nothing like the one she remembers loathing all those summers ago. 

This one is frigid, with a pin straight back and even straighter shoulders. Hair buzzed dangerously close to the scalp and a suit so well fitted, it actually makes him look somewhat attractive. 

“Hey.”

“Elena.” His voice sends a child down Leni’s spine and she can’t help but notice the way his entire face dropped when he realized it was her standing there. 

“Yeah, I uh-”

“Sarah’s not here.”

“I know, Rose-”

“She’s not here either.”

Leni blinks. “What? Where… Where is she then?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me that.” 

“Me? Why would I know where Rose is?” 

Her heart is beating so fast and hard against her chest, she can barely hear her own thoughts, little alone pay proper attention to just how close she and Rafe have been standing until now. She watches as he silently retreats in the darkness of Tannyhill’s main corridor; his silhouette becoming one with the shadows and even though she can no longer see them, the coldness of his blue eyes lingers on her skin like poison. 

“You comin’ or what?” He bellows, waking Leni from her trance and she’s about to go in when Rose’s warning from all those years ago starts echoing in the back of her head. Like police sirens they grow louder and louder; enhancing the prickling in her fingertips and tightening the knot in the pit of her stomach. 

“I’m pretty tired actually, so I think I’ll just-” 

“Fine. I’ll bring it to you.” 

A wave of relief washes over Leni just then. She knows it’s far too soon to let her guard down, but she’s so tired… With heavy steps she marches herself over to Tannyhill’s surprisingly small stoop and allows her body to crash against it. 

How can Rose do this her? 

How can she insist Leni come visit and then not be here? 

“Here.” For the millionth time, Rafe’s voice jolts her upward. “She left this for you.” 

Suddenly wide eyed, Leni carefully snatches the small piece of paper away from Rafe’s hands. Gently, she grazes her fingertips against the curves of her name; Rose’s familiar handwriting unexpectedly brings a dash of warmth and comfort that grows even bigger once she realizes the letter is still very much sealed shut. 

Her gaze meets Rafe’s again and she really doesn’t like just how tall and daunting he appears from the angle she’s looking at him from. And whilst he’s always been somewhat scary to her, this new and improved version of him is a far cry from the boy she once upon a time used to make fun of in the comfort of Sarah’s room. 

The Rafe from before didn’t loom over her like some benevolent spirit. He simply made fun of the gap in her teeth and threatened to cut her hair in her sleep if she ever dared to step foot in his room again. 

“You really don’t know where she is, don’t you?” She asks quietly. 

“No.” 

“I don’t understand… She said it was okay. She said I was more than welcome to come here and-”

“When exactly was this?” 

Their eyes meet again. 

“A couple of months ago.”

“And you and Rose haven’t spoken since?” 

“No! We did. We… text. She, she…” Her hands scour through the mess in her bag, desperate to show Rafe all the text messages she and Rose have been sending one another in the past week, but much like most things regarding Leni, he seems uninterested. “She was supposed to be here.” 

“Yeah well… she isn’t.” Rafe laughs bitterly. “Fucking bitch. She has my sister, you know that? Wheezie. She waited for me to finally be out of town so she can take my fucking sister away from me! MY FUCKING BABY SISTER!” He shouts and Leni practically jumps out of her skin. “Stupid fucking bottle blonde ass whore!” 

Rafe’s fist collides with Tannyhill’s facade and if she didn’t know it then, Leni sure as hell knows that now is the time to fucking go. Her shaky fingers make several attempts to call an uber, but she’s in so much distress, she can barely press any buttons. And since her day hasn’t been shitty enough, Leni’s hands suddenly decide to stop functioning altogether. Helplessly, she watches her phone graciously slide away from her hands and fall onto the dirty gravel next to her feet. 

“Fuck.” 

Cold, cold sweat trickles down in every visible area of her body - this can’t be fucking happening - as Rafe’s heavy footsteps draw closer and closer. With a lump in her throat Leni watches him scoop up her poor little phone, before handing it to her with the same blase attitude he handed over Rose’s letter.  

“Y’know, you shouldn’t be walking ‘round with a broken screen like this. You can get hurt or something.”  

“Right. Thanks.” Leni blinks at him. “I’m gonna go now.”

“‘Kay.” 

The sound of her beat up sneakers echoes across the entirety of Tannyhill and the grip on her suitcase is so strong, she can almost no longer feel the heat of Rafe’s fingers against her skin. Unfortunately the same can’t be said about his gaze. Those haunting blue eyes of his follow each and every single move of hers like a shadow. He should’ve been gone by now; retreated in the darkness of his hollow home and never think of her again and yet, there he is - watching her. 

When she turns to look at him again, he doesn’t flinch like others might. He just stands there -shamelessly- with his hands in the pockets of his perfectly tailored pants. 

“You want me to drive you?” He says in a tone so condescending, it almost feels like the old Rafe is back. 

“No. Thanks.” 

Rafe nods and remains unmoving until Leni is inside the uber and on her way to the address written on the letter Rose left her.

━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⸰ .° ☆ ° ☆ °. ⸰ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━

| NEXT CHAPTER

[mochidolls]

now introducing . . . corporate!rafe !

uhhh, so this is a byproduct of binge watching industry for the past like two weeks… mdni por favor / brief mentions of masturbation & fingering + bot

now he’s not the y’know traditional multi millionare ceo of a big real estate firm daddy’s company who fucks his secretary from time to time (close enough but not quite).

corporate!rafe is a stocks bro —neck-deep in crypto, efts, and the kind of investments that make everyone else’s eyes glaze over. he’ll mansplain the basic principles of capitalism over lunch like you didn’t just close a deal worth more than his annual bonus. (rafe: 0, you: 1)

rafe’s favorite pastime is reminding everyone that he clawed his way to the top. him. not ward cameron’s money. not ward cameron’s connections. him. never mind that his “humble beginnings” included a trust fund the size of a small country’s GDP and a private boarding school education.

rafe is terrified of being nothing without his wealth and status. the dude is genuinely afraid that without the recognition, the promotions, the stock portfolios, he’ll be just another rich kid with a hollow sense of identity.

this is what drives him to undermine you: if you’re successful, it forces him to confront his own feelings of inadequacy, and god forbid, that cannot happen.

corporate!rafe has icanfixyou syndrome. in his silly little goofy brain, he is the one who has control, not you. the problem is, you’re fully aware of what he’s doing, and you’re only more determined to get under his skin. he keeps failing to win you over, and he doesn’t know how much it pisses him off. you don’t need him. he can’t stand it.

rafe has no idea how to flirt. his version of courting you is begrudgingly fetching your coffee order and getting it completely wrong. you like a hazelnut latte with just the right amount of foam? congratulations—you’re now the proud owner of a black americano that tastes like shit and the depths of a black hole. grim, i know.

and please don’t start to fantasise about him fucking you in the most nefarious of ways. quite frankly he was all too repulsed and blinded by the sheer eager need to be simply better than you to even imagine you in that light.

that is…until the hotel incident.

to summarise (and quite frankly not waste your time): HR’s genius solution for “team bonding” was sticking you two in interlinked hotel rooms. pure hell. he leaves his damp towels everywhere, his skincare products are obnoxiously expensive (and you definitely didn’t try his moisturizer when he wasn’t looking), and you’ve caught him singing jack harlow in the shower. loudly.

rafe had bare witnesses too many nip slips to be considered ‘normal’ around you. thus his little fantasies about you began.

you wore a bikini (a bit revealing for a work trip, but i mean…c’mon you’re in mallorca!) the bikini was a choice—your choice. rafe spent the entirety of the beach day trying to look anywhere but directly at you. that night however? a poor pillow suffered, fucked mercilessly and bred into (room service are going to have a ball cleaning that up!)

but…let’s not kid ourselves here, you weren’t less of a pervert yourself.

one single fateful night with his stupid gold heirloom ring glittering in the moonlight, lead to you clutching one of his beach shirts like a feral animal, babbling and praising his name into the soft cotton and wondering if the gold signet ring on his hand could double as a vibrator.

you think it’s a joke that everyone around you sees this mild rivalry between you and rafe? it’s not. it’s a full fledged fucking war. every small win you get, he has to match it. your first big client? rafe’s out there trying to snag a bigger one, even though it’s none of his business.

he hates that you’re quietly, secretly thriving, and the fact that he can’t quite figure you out drives him insane. you’re not his type. you don’t need him. he can’t stand it. he’d rather see you fail than admit he’s even a little bit impressed by you…maybe a little infatuated too.

your relationship with rafe fluctuates between clear disdain and ‘i want to fuck you and have your kids’ ism. he’ll try to play the role of “cool, unattached guy,” but everyone can see how much he carnally wants you.

he’ll make snide comments like, “i mean, it’s not like i’m some guy you’d bring home to meet your parents, but sure, you can always pretend i’m a secret you’re keeping.”

when rafe knows he’s gone too far and messed with you too much, he’ll offer you an apology— “look, i’m not sorry for calling you out, but i can tell you’re a little sensitive about it. so... i’m apologizing in the way that doesn’t undermine either of us. happy?”

he steals your favorite pens; you "accidentally" unplug his monitor before meetings. his powerpoints are aggressively over-designed, and you make sure to point out every typo during team calls. HR doesn’t even bother with your complaints anymore—they just schedule you for the same meetings so they can watch the fireworks. it’s childish, really.

on the surface, rafe oozes alpha male (threw up a bit there, excuse me). but underneath all that bravado? he’s a fucking miserable mess. he constantly checks his portfolio every 5 minutes to make sure his money is still growing. the real kicker? he’s terrified of you being smarter than him, which is why he’s always trying to “one-up” you. he knows you’re not impressed by his stupid wealth, and that drives him crazy.

[kinkyrafe]

Strap On Fun

Kinktober 2023 # 1

There he is. Rafe Cameron tied up, right in front of you. Fully naked. All yours to play with. You still cannot believe how lucky you are that this beautiful man not only turned out to love subbing but also turned out to be your sub.

Disclaimer: bondage, sub!rafe, strapon sex, praise kink

_

There he is. Rafe Cameron tied up, right in front of you. Fully naked. All yours to play with. You still cannot believe how lucky you are that this beautiful man not only turned out to love subbing but also turned out to be your sub.

You tied his wrists together, attached the restraints to the headboard of your bed and pulled his hips as far down the bed as possible, so that now, he is spread out on your bed, arms bound, no where to go.

You let your hands run over his outstretched arms, feeling up his muscles, feeling them tense under your hands. You watch his face, completely relaxed, anticipating what you have in store for him, his eyes watching your every move in return. Your fingers travel down his biceps, his triceps, over his arm pits which makes him wiggle for a second.

He laughs.

“I should tickle you some time,” you tease him with a smirk, “And you’d just have to take it.”

“Evil,” he replies and the way he says it, you know it is a compliment.

You grab his chin and kiss him. You kiss him tenderly at first, lovingly, nibbing at his lips, letting your tongue explore his mouth. He responds easily, kisses you back. Your kisses become rougher after a while and he knows that he just has to take whatever you offer to him, so he lets you do to his mouth whatever you want. “Beautiful,” you whisper against your lips once you are done with him. That he was, with his lips wet and swollen now, still staring up at you, expectant. Beautiful.

You let your hands explore his body again. You explore his face, his throat, his shoulders, his chest, his nipples. You stop there. He is so responsive. His nipples for sure are more sensitive than normal. You love playing with them. You roll them between your fingers, you let your nails scratch over them, you kiss them, you lick them, you suck them. Each of your touches drag a sound of pleasure out of him, each of your touches go straight to his dick. If it wasn’t so hot, it would be ridiculous. “I love how sensitive your nipples are,” you tell him because he deserves to know how much that turns you on.

Once you have wound him up enough by simply playing with his chest, you let your hands travel further down. Over his chest, over his muscles, down his sides, towards his stomach. By the time you reach his legs, he is trembling and his dick is fully hard and ready to play with. You choose to ignore it a little while longer though. You let your hands run up and down his inner thighs, alternating between the soft touch of the tips of your fingers and the rough touch of your nails. He moans loudly.

“Look at how turned on you are and I haven’t even touched your dick,” you praise him.

“I’m excited for what’s to come,” he replies.

That makes you laugh. “You don’t even know yet!”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. He was literally born to sub to you. So far, there was not one thing you did to him that he did not like – and you are a domme that pushes hard.

“Alright,” you say softly and suck on his inner thigh, making sure to leave a mark so that he had a little keepsake from today’s session.

He moans loudly.

You get up to get lube, two different plugs, your strap on and a dildo of your choice. With a soft smile that he can’t see, you attach the dildo to the harness.

Then you turn back to him and continue to work him up by kissing down his torso. You take your sweet time, making sure he gets hot all over and relaxes completely.

You guide his legs up so that you get a better access to his ass. “There you go,” you whisper softly, slicking up your fingers with lube and without another warning you suck down his dick and circle his entrance with your finger. He gasps. You are just starting.

You tease his dick with your tongue, your lips and your whole mouth while you’re pressing down on his hole, working first one, then another finger inside of him. He opens up easily, the result of having his ass played with on a regular basis. When he is ready for it, you lubricate the smaller plug and push it in in one go. His whole body trembles when the thickest part glides inside. “Ugh,” he groans, his face twisted in discomfort for a short moment.

You choose not to comment on it but continue playing with his dick, riling him up further. Stroking him with a slow but steady rhythm, your fist closed enough to apply firm pressure, you bring him to edge of an orgasm before you stop. He knew that he wouldn’t be allowed to cum just yet but he still puffs out a short, clearly disappointed gasp when you pull your hand away.

You grab the second plug which is bigger than the first one, it is not thicker by much but it is longer for sure. You hold it in front of his mouth. “Stick your tongue out,” you order and he does complies. You rub the plug along his tongue, carefully pushing it inside his mouth. “Suck it,” you order next and he complies again, closing his lips around it, sucking the toy that will soon be in his ass.

“Good boy,” you praise him. He smiles at you, his eyes a little dreamy already.

“Pull your legs up,” you tell him next, “Knees to your chest.” He does and you use one arm to push his legs further onto his torso, exposing his ass.

What. A. Sight.

He moans when you pull out the small plug. You quickly replace it with two of your fingers. It turns you on to feel the difference to before. You finger him for a little while, bending your fingers to find his prostate. He moans again. Much louder this time. “That’s it, huh?” You ask, working your fingers inside of him, again and again, rubbing against his prostate.

“Yeah,” he whimpers.

“Am I good to you then? Am I making you feel good?” You ask teasingly.

“So good, mistress,” he drawls. You let him have a couple of moments of this before you decide, it’s time to change that.

You pull out your fingers and drizzle more lube on his hole – such a trivial thing but yet so intimate and sexy. He hisses at the coldness of it. Then you start to push in the bigger plug. It takes a little while longer to work in than the first one but he still takes it ease.

“That’s a long one,” he pants when it enters him completely.

“It is,” you agree but it also makes you smirk because you know what you have in store for him and that would be a lot bigger.

You keep your arm at the back of his thighs, pressing them down against his chest. Without much force, you hit his ass with your open hand a couple of times – not necessarily to inflict a great amount of pain, but to make him feel the plug that is nestled deep inside of him. Even though he is used to more severe spankings, he hisses at each hit. It makes you smirk.

You let go of him and his feet come back down to the mattress.

You step inside the harness of your strapon and then move to kneel over his face. His eyes lighten up immediately when he notices what is about to come. “I will sit on your face and I want you to make me cum with your mouth, understood?” You ask and he nods, eagerly eyeing your pussy already.

You fasten the strapon as he gets started and you cannot believe how good he is at this. He flicks his tongue in just the right way, sticks it inside of you just how you like it and drags it over your clit at exactly the right time. You wish you could say that you trained him like this but this was all him. He is really good at learning what a new partner likes.

You bend forward, using his legs for support and let yourself have this.

“So good,” you praise him. “So, so good.” You thrust your hips a little and he immediately sticks his tongue out so that you can slide your pussy over it in the rhythm you desire.

It does not take you long to cum even though you could spend hours doing this. He licks you through your orgasm and sucks in your clit when you are nearly coming down, drawing out your orgasm like this. Your legs are shaking with it and you love it.

You swing around so that you can actually see his face and start kissing him as a reward. You are both panting with exhaustion and you can taste yourself on his lips and it is just so incredibly hot you really want to do it again. “Such a good boy,” you praise him when you pull back, looking at his face with awe. “Making me cum so hard.”

He smiles up at you. “Thank you for letting me eat you out,” he tells you.

“Your turn now,” you tell him and wiggle your hips with a sweet smile, the strapon soundly attached to it now. His eyes widen when they fall on the dildo.

“This is huge,” he says incredulously.

“It’s not,” you disagree. “It’s big and the biggest I ever made you take but there are bigger ones out there.”

He swallows.

“How about you put that mouth to good use again?” You push your hips forward so that the tip of the dildo is not far from his lips. “Get it all wet and get a good feeling for it before I fuck you with it.”

He swallows again and looks up at you for a second but then decides to just do what he’s told to do. He opens his mouth and just like with the plug before, he just goes for it, licks it, sucks it in a way that would make every man cum deep down his throat.

“Good boy,” you praise again and let your finger run through his hair. You scratch his skull a little and pull his hair gently, just like he likes it. Immediately, he moans around the dildo. “So predictable,” you tease him but keep doing it.

When you pull out the plug and replace it once again with your fingers, he tilts his hips so that you can enter him more easily and you just know that he is ready to be fucked properly – no matter how unsure he is about the size of the dildo.

You kneel between his thighs before you push his knees up again, once again holding his legs against his chest. Then you drizzle a generous amount of lube on both his hole and the toy and bring the tip of the strapon to his entrance. He hisses as you begin to push in. You go slowly but determinedly, stroking his cock while stretching him open inch by inch. “It is so big,” he whimpers when about two thirds are in – which is probably the size you normally peg him with.

“It is,” you agree again, “And still, you will take it all the way and I will make you feel good.”

He nods and takes in a big breath, breathing through the stretch.

“You’re taking it so good,” you praise him, “So, so good.” You let your fingers pulsate around the head of his cock which is something that always makes him moan. Just as this time.

It takes a while until you are in all the way but you manage to keep him hard the entire time which is a win because it makes everything so much more exciting. Even though you love to inflict pain you love to provide pleasure even more.

“There you go, all the way in now,” you say and you keep your hips really still for a while to let him get used to the feeling. Stroking his dick steadily with one hand, you take your other to let it run over the back of his thighs and his ass. You notice that the more he gets used to the strapon the harder his dick gets and the more frequent get his little gasps of pleasure. You knew he would love it.

You bend forward which makes him cry out as the strapon shifts inside of him but you keep bending forward until you can kiss him. He kisses back immediately. “Good boy,” you say against his lips, kiss him once more before you mouth down his jawline to his neck, finding sweet spot after sweet spot and using it to work him up.

When his dick is fully hard and throbbing and Rafe is whimpering and on the edge of cuming before you even had the chance to fuck him properly, you pull back so that you are hovering over him.

Slowly, you start moving your hips. His back archs immediately. “Do you remember,” you say softly, thrusting your hips gently, stroking his hips in rhythm, “When I first put my finger up your ass, I promised you I'd fuck you with a dildo as big as your cock.” He moans obsenely and you are not sure whether it is from your filthy mouth or your strapon or your hand or everthing all at once. “Here we go. This strapon is just as big as your own cock.” Your thrusts get less gentle now. “How does it feel?”

“It’s big, mistress,” he rasps, but immediately after his lips fall open with pleasure.

“But am I making you feel good?” You keep asking.

“Yes, you are, mistress,” he replies and you love how he only addresses you as ‘mistress’ when he is really worked up and in the right headspace.

You continue to thrust into him, slow and steady. “I’m not even sure whether you deserve to feel this good.” He whines and you continue to talk to him. “How many girls did you fuck in the ass without stretching them properly before?” He whines again and deepen your thrusts. “Did you just make them take it? Maybe I should have done that with you, huh? Just make you take it.” His cock is throbbing against your fingers now. “Do you think you deserve to come from this dick? Or will it teach you more of a lesson if I just wind you up, edge you and then leave you there, all stretched open and hard but not allowed to come?” You take your second hand to massage his balls and press against his prostate from the outside at the same time.

He cries out at a particular hard thrust at just the right angle. “No,” he begs, “Please don’t do that. Please, let me cum.”

You let your fingers pulsate around the head of his cock again, making him arch is back again. “That’s it,” you praise him, “Arch that back for me. Show me, how much you want to be fucked.”

You slide the strapon in and out of him in a nice steady rhythm now. Both of you are panting heavily, both enjoying it so much. You can feel his orgasm build up just as much as he can feel it himself. There is a layer of sweat on his skin, his breathing is ragged and his voice is all husky when he asks, “May I please cum, mistress? Please?” and he sounds so fucked up that you almost want to let him cum right now.

“Not yet,” you answer firmly and bend forward again to take your free hand against his throat, grabbing it tightly, fucking him harder and deeper at the new angle. "I'm still not sure whether you actually deserve to cum," you tease him.

He whines loudly.

"Do you think you deserve it?"

"Yes, mistress," he chokes out, arching into your movements, pressing his ass down on your strapon.

"Why?"

He nearly starts crying. "Because," he pants, "I did everything you wanted me to."

You nod. "That is true," you tell him and squeeze his dick a little harder.

He cries out with each thrust. “Please, mistress, please let me cum.” You squeeze his dick to hold him on the edge.

“Let yourself enjoy this a little while longer.”

“Please,” he continues to beg, “Please, let me cum, please, please, please.”

After a couple of thrusts more, you realize that you really can’t keep him from cumming any longer, so you decide to let him.

“You may,” you just say and he immediately cums with a shout. He cums and cums, shooting hot streaks of cum all over your bodies. You fuck him through it, your strap deep in his ass, your fingers firmly around his dick.

When he comes down from his orgasm, his body goes completely still, only jerking every now and then. "Such a good, good boy," you murmur softly against his lips and give him gentle kiss that he does not have the energy to return. You continue to praise him as you pull out the strapon, step out of the harness and get some wipes to wipe his cum off of both of you. He doesn't do much but lay there, a small smile on his lips.

[scottfuckingreed]

It’s a Pogue Thing - Part Two

This is a JJ Maybank story :)

Requested

-

Warnings!: swearing and it gets sexual (SMUT)

-

“That’s disgusting,” Ki grunts as we watch JJ spit into an impressively far distance. Today we sailed to a small piece of island in the middle of the ocean. Between the blue sky, and the slightly green water it’s quite beautiful. Not a cloud in sight either, which is a somewhat odd thing for the Outer Banks. Some would call it peaceful, except we seem to hang around with complete animals. The JJ smirk spreads across his face. “You know you love it,” he winks. With a laugh, I sigh. “That’s even worse.”

You’d think it was awkward. I mean, how can you go from being friends, to sleeping together, back to normal again? I don’t know. Over the past week it’s been indifferent. Sure, it was a bit weird the first day. Maybe even the second. I’m still in shock that it happened. Once we cleaned up my house after the party, the ice was pretty much broken. We know where we stand with each other.

“Are you seeing Sarah today?” I ask John B. I notice Kiara roll her eyes so I flash her an ‘I’m sorry for bringing it up’ look. He clears his throat. “No... why would I be seeing Sarah today?” His tone comes off slightly defensive. I imagine it’s because Ki’s here, and he once had a thing for her? Maybe he still does. “I don’t know. Was she any help at the party?” We haven’t spoken much about the party; any of us. I, for one, am a bit relieved. “A little, but Topper started following us around,” of course. I’m not sure if she has him on a leash, or the other way around. “Still a good party though,” he nudged. If he thinks that’ll get me to throw another one, he can think again. “Thank JJ, I didn’t even wanna be there,” I laugh jokingly. “You can definitely thank me, you seemed like you had a good time in the end,” his words send shivers down my spine. I’m thankful for the concealer on my face as I feel my cheeks redden at his husky voice. “I don’t know, maybe it was the alcohol,” my head turns to his. “Maybe.”

We sail straight back to John B’s house. “You guy’s can crash here if you’d like,” he shrugs. With his dad gone, it’s a pretty empty house. I know we all fantasise about a parent-free life sometimes, but I can’t actually imagine the feeling of someone never coming home. “I’ve actually gotta go. My mum’s cooking dinner tonight... you guys hungry?” I ask. John B sends a warm smile my way. “Thanks, but I got left over pizza inside.” “Nice,” I laugh. I shift my eyes over to Kiara. “I think I’ll stay and help John B tidy up a bit.” If you visualise a teenage boy’s room, his entire house looks like that 24/7. Beer bottles, left over takeaway boxes, smelly ass clothing thrown around. “Suit yourselves.” I lock eyes with Pope, and I already know the answer. “You know my dad’ll kill me if I don’t get my ass home and check in.” A smile spreads across JJ’s face. “I’m not stupid enough to turn down mama Y/L/N’s cooking,” he chuckles.

As soon as we walk through my front door, my mum is all over JJ. She loves him. Usually the parents despise the boys like him. He’s the bad boy! But no. She still sees him as this cute, cheeky boy. “Mama Y/L/N! Long time no see,” JJ exclaims with a cute smile on his face, bringing my mum in for a hug. She squeezes him back in a tight embrace. “It’s been too long, how are you?!”

The conversation flows smoothly throughout dinner. It’s actually nice, not that I’d ever tell my mum that. She needs to think I’m embarrassed, when in reality I love that it’s so chill. “Did you guys enjoy the party the other night?” My mum asks as if it hasn’t been playing on her mind throughout the entirety of dinner. She’s asked me, but I won’t tell her anything. So, of course she asks JJ; he will answer. “Oh it was great! Y/N and I had a great time!” He smiles greatly. In a quick moment that my mum isn’t looking his way, he winks subtly at me. “Really? She hasn’t said much about it.” This is one of those moments where you wish you could send a telepathic message to someone. It would scream ‘stop before it’s too late’! “It’s probably because Rafe turned up.” There it is. I immediately just want to shrivel up and crawl away. My mum’s eyes widen. “Shit, I hate that guy.” JJ sends an agreeing nod. At least we’re all on the same page here. Like with other things, I’ve kept Rafe as much to myself as I possibly can from my mum. She knows he was nasty, but not in much detail. She knows he hurt me, but not in any specific way. In a very vague way, she knows everything she needs to. Just to hate him. “He’s a dick.” “This is why I like you JJ,” my mum pauses. Her face as she processes her possible next words. I raise my eyes brows in a warning manner.

After dinner, JJ offered to help my mum clean up. You may think it’s cute, but I know this boy’s games. He can’t fool me. “Are you staying to watch a movie JJ?” She asks, passing the boy a plate to dry. Before he can answer, I interrupt. “Can you give us a second actually, please?” I smile innocently towards her. Her eyes widen and she wiggles her eyebrows at me. “Sure.”

“What are you playing at?” I giggle. Recently, although I hate to admit it, JJ’s company has honestly been what I’m craving. Somehow a he’s so predictable, yet he surprises me every time. “I’m not doing anything Y/N, you’re reading into things.” He dries his last plate and puts the pile into a cupboard. Of course he knows exactly where they go. “You’re not staying for the movie,” I warn him. Even with my mum there, I don’t trust him. I don’t even trust myself. “What are you watching?” He asks. “I don’t know. I think my mum was on about watching ‘Now You See Me’ or something.” His face lights up. “Come on Y/N! I love that one.” I shake my head. I don’t want to want him here. “Please,” he sticks his bottom lip out. Because of my lack of reaction, he brings his head closer. He was so close that I could feel his breath on my face. A feeling that took me straight back to the party. A moment that I am trying so hard to not think about.

Unfortunately JJ has something about him. He’s painfully hard to say no to a lot of the time. So, here he is, helping bring down some blankets from upstairs. Despite the fact that our friendship should be ruined at this point. I’m starting to think that this may just be an exception. Why should it ruin everything? It was nothing. Before going back downstairs, I change into an oversized hoodie and some shorts.

My mum makes popcorn whilst we get things set up. Some soft blankets and even comfier pillows are arranged on the couch. I sit myself in the middle, with JJ on my right and my mum on my left. A part of me wanted to have my mum split us up, but that would’ve just looked strange. My eyes light up when I catch a glimpse of the popcorn bowl. “Let’s get started then.”

As the movie starts, I begin to get more excited. “I’m excited,” I smile massively. The more I think about it, the more hyped up I get. “I didn’t know this was your sort of thing,” JJ mutters with a smirk. Of course it’s a great movie, but that’s not what it is. “I watch it for the plot,” I smirk back. The plot being Dave Franco and Jesse Eisenberg. I express my love for the two beauties, only for JJ to simply state “I am so much better looking than them.” I snort at his words. “Whatever.”

20 or so minutes go by. My mum has already started nodding off, and I am beginning to get myself comfy. Without thinking, I nudge myself a bit closer to JJ. I didn’t even have to look at him to notice the growing smirk. The best thing, I thought, was to pretend I didn’t notice what I was doing. I bring my feet up, and lean them against his leg. A small noise exits JJ’s mouth, which sounded like a small chuckle. “Sorry I-” I start. My words pause at the touch of JJ’s fingertips. Even before they touched my bare thigh, I could feel their presence. “JJ,” instead of being a warning, my voice let’s put a wobbled whisper. “It’s fine,” he presses his lips together in a smile. I couldn’t tell his to move his hand away. I didn’t want him to. So I let him sandwich his hand between my thighs.

His hand, large and warm, sat nicely. It felt like an average thing. Every now and then he gently squeezed against my bare skin. Whirlpools. That’s the only way I can describe the way my stomach flipped. I thought, stupidly, that with my mum inches away it would turn everything off. Of course, that is not the case. JJ tries to be slick as he moves his hand further up my thigh. The first time, I do nothing. I’m not sure what to do. But the second, I cup my hand over his. Just as I’m about to tell him off in a whisper, my mum yawns. My heart jumps. “Shit guys, I should probably go to bed,” she stands and stretches. I try and make it look like JJ and I aren’t sitting so close. “You can stay over though JJ, finish the movie.”

My mum wanders out the room. We’re silent as we hear her footsteps all the way upstairs. Until her bedroom door shuts. “You’re not sleeping over,” I try not to smile as I say those words. The truth is, these little flirting games, send rushes through my body. Just like shockwaves. Now we’ve acted on it and I’m not sure how to resist my current urges. “Sure,” and he slides his hand up a bit higher. I grunt, accidentally making it sound slightly like a moan. Oops. That’s embarrassing. “I- uh- we-,” There’s no getting out of this one. I have no choice but to stop myself from uttering another word. I cannot even find the words to sort into a fully functioning sentence. The tension in the air was thick. So thick you would struggle to cut it with any knife; it would simply be too blunt. There were seconds of silence that just dragged on too long. As the tips of his fingers on his right hand trace along my jaw, guiding my head to turn to face him, I find myself lusting for him. “Give in to me Y/N.” Some things are just too hard to resist. Especially when it’s purely sexual. It’s as if my silence screamed for him to continue. Maybe it was radiating through my body. Even if I did speak, I couldn’t hear myself. The only noise was the dangerously loud thumping of my heart as his fingers continued on the trail. My heat was throbbing. He isn’t even doing anything. At this point, probably doesn’t need to. Am I wrong if I just let him? It feels that if I give in, I’m not only betraying the other Pogues, but maybe even myself. This was the deal. Then again, a promise that I made years ago. I was younger then. I’ve changed since then. I don’t care about that shit anymore.

That’s it. I start leaning in. To feel my lips against his, and finally give in to him. Then...

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He grunts, rolling his eyes back into his head as his phone goes off. Facetime. My body leans back in a mix of defeat and relief. I rub my eyes and my face, and hear the sound of JJ answering. “What’s up?” I pretend to shuffle up to JJ, although our legs were still touching anyway. “You’re interrupting-” “The movie,” I rush, feeling the need to cut JJ’s sentence off. “So you don’t wanna come over?” Ki erupts from the background. With a piece of pizza in each of their hands, I realize I do. Being with them, and their cock-blocking asses sounds perfect. A glace comes from the boy next to me. His eyes screamed no. Every part of my body agreed with him. My brain, however, disagreed. “Sure.” His eyes widen. Another eye roll. “We’ll be there in 30.” And he hangs up.

“Why do we need 30 minutes?” I laugh, standing up and gently folding the blanket poorly. I turn down the tv before turning it off. Like a child, I notice JJ with a rather grumpy look on his face. “Come on, you’re not that upset are you?” I ask, trying to hold in my laughter. “I’m pretty pissed Y/N I’m not gonna lie,” he says with a half smile creeping. “We still have time... 30 minutes to be exact...” His hand reaches over to my arm. His soft fingertips slide from my elbow, down to my hand. With that comes a pull. I land perfectly on his lap. A leg either side of his. I try and contain my thoughts. I cannot control my hands as they sit on his face. It’s hard to keep my head straight when JJ’s hands run up and down my thighs. All I can think about is the thin clothing between our crotches. So little, yet way too much. I close my eyes for a second. Just to absorb the sensation. Then it’s time for reality. “Not now.” I whisper. A heavy breath leaves him. “Fine, but you owe me.” As much as I’d love to deny it, it’s promise I’m more than willing to keep. I pull my head away from his, presenting my pinky finger to him. A smile, isn’t cute to me at all, gleams; it radiates. So much so that its contagious. Our pinky’s lock. “Yeah?” The blend of his smile and tone screams extreme excitement. “Cross my heart Maybank.”

John B’s house was now clean. I don’t think I’ve seen for the floor for months. Although I don’t blame him for the way he’s lived for the past few months, It was beginning to get a bit much. He very persistent. I know he’s still waiting for his father to come home. That being said, Kiara clearly was the one who cleaned. “Wow, the shitty smell has faded,” I hit JJ as those words fall from his mouth. That boy has zero filter. “It looks great, I’d love to know how much you helped though Johnny,” I assure him with a smirk, nudging John B on the shoulder. 

“So, what are we doing?” I ask. As soon as the words left my mouth, I realised that I probably didn’t want to know. John B says nothing, just simply forced a smile. Jesus Christ. Instead I look at Kiara. “He said Sarah’s information gave a lead. He wants us to follow it.” I look down at my outfit. I still have my fucking nightwear on. I should’ve known. I’m the stupid one here. Damn. I actually thought we would maybe just sleep for once. 

With John B in the drivers seat and Kiara in the passenger, it left Pope, JJ and I in the back. I found myself staring at the stars flying past as we drove. The Outer Banks is a totally different place at night. It’s beautiful. It’s also scarier and creepier, but we cross those bridges when we get to them. “Hey,” JJ nudges me gently with a whisper. “You alright?” I nod slowly. I wouldn’t say this to John B, but honestly it’s worrying. This whole thing has become an obsession. I know it’s his dad, and I know he misses him like crazy, but is there really a chance he’s alive? And why has this whole thing been so mysterious and chaotic? “What’s up with you two?” It’s only when I hear Pope’s voice that I remember that we’re back as a group right now. “Are you feeling left out?” Is JJ’s response. I try and keep my smile contained. He just has this tone, and facial expression, where you can’t take him seriously. “I didn’t know you felt that wa-” 

“What the fuck John B?” Kiara snaps in an angry mumble. Before the van even stops Ki opens the door and hops out. We haven’t been driving for long, so we can’t be far. Kiara, with an extremely miserable face, hops into the back with the rest of us. I go to ask, but I see Sarah Cameron climb into the front passenger seat. What is this boy playing at? “Oh shit,” I whisper in JJ’s direction. A slight chuckle comes out, purely amazed at the balls on this boy. “Hi guy’s!” Sarah smiles enthusiastically. I feel somewhat obligated to respond. As I’ve mentioned previously, I’ve never had a massive problem with her. “Hey Sarah.” I feel bad for both sides. John B shouldn’t put Kiara into these situations as he knows she doesn’t like her. Then again, I think Ki needs to not be so rude sometimes. Right now, that’s not going to happen. Might as well just enjoy the awkward car journey. 

Sarah and John B giggle away in the front as if they have been life long friends. The rest of us, not including Kiara, sent awkward eyes each other’s ways. Ki sulked silently. So I go back to staring outside. It’s hard not to imagine what it would be like to be free. The Outer Banks area is all I know. My family may ‘have money’, but our trips have always been within an hour’s drive. There’s a world beyond this. There is so much more to see and explore. Maybe that’s why we’re all so hung up on these mini impossible adventures. We’re craving something more.

John B’s plan, he said, was simple. A clue has led us to an area of green. “There has to be something here. We’re close. I can feel it,” his words sound hopeful, despite the wobbly tone to his voice. “Can’t we do this in the morning? We’re not going to find anything in the pitch black,” Pope was right. But John’s desperate. I would be too. “We’ll just have a quick look around,” he promises. He wanders to the back of the van, and takes out some torches. “I think we should split up into three pairs,” when Sarah speaks, I can automatically feel the rage coming off of Kiara. With an excessive eye roll, she might as well have just said something. Everyone else must’ve seen it, but it get’s ignored. Probably best not to fight in the darkness, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees. I send a quick smile Sarah’s way. “Okay. So... I’ll go with Sarah. You and JJ, and Kiara and Pope.” 

“Don’t look so smug,” I warn the smirking JJ as we separate from the others in our direction. It’s pretty typical for us to be paired, but we also do make the best team. With a torch, I look around as if I know what I’m looking for. “This is going to be impossible,” I grunt already in defeat. I really want to help John B, but I don’t even think he’s helping himself at this point. How long is this going to go on for? “Do you think he’s alive?” JJ asks in a whisper. It’s a question, I think, we’ve all been too afraid to ask. John’s answer is simple. We wouldn’t be searching for clues in the middle of the night if he didn’t. I hesitate. As I shake my head, my heart breaks a little. I wish I did. It would make things a little easier. “Me neither.”

Although being surrounded by trees at night is usually the scene of a horror movie, it’s rather beautiful. Scary, but beautiful. Around 15 minutes has passed since we split from the others and no one has found anything; I assume anyway. There is zero service on our phones, so really we have no idea, but my gut is telling me that there’s nothing to find. “I spy with my little eye, something beginning with G,” I smile. For about 5 minutes, we’ve been playing I-Spy. Perhaps at the hope of us ‘spying’ something we usually wouldn’t spot. Unfortunately, that has not been the case. I’ve been the one annoyingly asking, and he’s just been playing along to humor me. “I swear to god Y/N if it’s grass...” He warns. Like I said, we’ve seen nothing but the wilderness. “My turn.” 

As someone who pretty much refused to play, I was interested to see what better he could do. There’s nothing to see. “I spy something beginning Y.” Okay. I immediately start looking around, into the darkness. This is only I-Spy, but I need to win. JJ is one cocky mother fucker. I turn to him and frown. “Y? You know you have to actually be able to see this thing right?” I finish my sentence. Two hands go to my waist, guiding me backwards. “It was “You up against a tree, naked.” And I was. Well, I was pressed against the tree. My heartbeat went from a normal pace, to almost having a sudden heart attack in seconds. I open my mouth to speak, but no words seem to come. What is wrong with me? “I make you speechless,” he leans down to my ear and whispers. I still say nothing. As I finally feel words ready to be released, I get interrupted. And no, not by JJ. 

We walk back to the van in silence. Trying to hold everything in, I restrain my need to smile and let out a giggle. I’m thankful to see the others. “How did the searching go?” John B asks as we finally become a group again. “We didn’t find anything,” A big part of me wished we would’ve found something. Not that me and JJ were properly looking, but it would’ve been nice to come back with some hope. “I’m sorry guys. We should’ve waited until the morning to look around,” Unsure if anyone else saw what I did, I glance around. Sarah - only for a second - nudged her hand against him. I can’t help but find it cute. 

Once we dropped Sarah and Pope home, we all went back to John B’s as planned. “You two can take the bed,” he, the gentleman he is, gestures towards the bedroom. John B’s dad’s room is locked. “I don’t mind sleeping-” “Just take the bed,” his voice, which was quite assertive, was joined by a smile. Without even thinking, I wrap my arms around John. “We will find something,” I assure him. He need to believe it, whether I do or not. I kiss him on the cheek. “I love you John.” In true JJ fashion, he joins in on the hug. “Wow I love you guy’s too.” “Hey! I wanna join,” I chuckle as Kiara swerves herself into the huddle. “Okay, that’s enough!”

So I lay there; just staring at the ceiling. Kiara is already asleep. I’m jealous. I’ve tried. It’s hard to sleep with all these thoughts going through my head. There’s too much going on. 

‘Are you awake?’ I text JJ. Within seconds I get a reply.

‘Do you need some company ;)’ I roll my eyes, more at the fact that he knows I do. 

‘You gotta get your mind out the gutter ;)’

My stomach turns at the response. I read it over and over, just to get it to stick. The picture those words paint in my head should be illegal. Words like that should be a crime. I’ll just read it once more.

‘I’d rather have my head between your legs’.

How does he expect me to sleep after that? I try and keep my eyes closed, but the only way they do is if I squeeze them shut. I hear quiet footsteps. When I let my eyes go, I see JJ tip-toeing into the bedroom.  My body sits itself up. “What are you doing?” I ask with haste. His face becomes clearer as he gets closer. “Didn’t you get my text?” He smirks, making my stomach flip just like a gymnast on a trampoline. I refuse stay speechless like earlier. He does not have this affect on me or my body. “Yeah but-” “It’ll help you sleep,” He shrugs, lifting the blanket slightly. “JJ.” I whisper, stopping as soon as an index finger starts trailing up my leg. I want to resist. I’m sure I can. It would be so much easier if I actually wanted to. He gets closer to the top of my thigh. I start asking myself, what if I just let it happen? Just one more time? It can’t hurt. “Y/N.” I was so caught up in my thoughts, I didn’t notice how close JJ’s head was to mine. When our eyes locked, I knew; I knew there was only one way this was going to go. 

I pull his lips down onto mine. I hate admit it, but the main thing that came to mind was ‘finally’. JJ doesn’t hesitate to start lining kisses from my lips down to my neck. Forgetting where I am, more importantly forgetting the fact that Kiara was inches away, I let out a slight moan. I immediately cover my lips. He lets out a deep but quiet laugh. “Shit,” I feel my cheeks begin to redden, and I’m instantly thankful for it being dark. “I have that affect on people,” shaking my head, I push him gently. “Yeah yeah.”

I hardly realized at first, but I was pushing his head lower. If I’m being honest, I was getting desperate now. I need him. Now. The tips of his fingers hook around the outsides of my shorts, smoothly down my thighs in the process. He didn’t hesitate removing my underwear quickly after, placing it next to the bed on the floor. 

A soft kiss gets placed on the inside of my thigh. I was already wet. Possibly the worst thing would be for him to know that he now has this hold over my body. A temporary hold. It won’t last. Another kiss, closer to my heat now. I wished to shout at him. He’s a teasing asshole. One more, the last one, gently exactly where I desired him. “Fuck,” he whispers, so attractively. His hand grips both of my thighs, pulling me closer to him. He attaches his lips to my throbbing heat. A deep breath exits my mouth. My hand goes straight to his hair, scrunching my fingers and pulling. Every fiber of my being wanted to moan. The pleasure shooting through my body was immense. As his tongue swirls with skill, he sends my body into a growing frenzy. Perhaps it’s the build up. Whatever it is, it feels amazing. His tongue starts concentrating mainly on my clit. Between every suck, every nibble, my stomach started building a tight knot already. My thighs clamp around his head, which he opens back up without interrupting his work. If I’d have known how good he was at this, maybe I would’ve given in a little sooner. “Oh my,” I whisper as quietly as I can. My breaths were loud enough. His arms hook a tighter hold on my thighs to keep my in place, as my body moving uncontrollably. I was so close. I knew he could feel it too. The knot begins to tighten, excitement growing more and more. And I let go, bringing a release that - although was only growing for a day - was much needed. I press my mouth against my arm to contain the majority of my moan. He gracefully lets me ride out my high, until I’m even more of a heavy-breathing mess beneath him. 

He unhooks himself. I can’t help but smile massively at him as his face comes into view. “Don’t,” I stop his words with a whisper. His eyebrows raise. I do wish he wouldn’t always have that fuckboy smile on his face. “Go back to the couch,” I nudge him on the shoulder. As quietly as he can, he gets up off the bed. He comes close to my ear once more. “Bet you can sleep now.” 

And I did.

Tag list:

@nevinna

If you are interested, here’s the link to Part Three :)

[lovemesomerafael]

It’s Complicated                             Chapter 7:  Playing By The Rules

Source: @all-things-raul-esparza

Chapters 1-5  Chapter 6   Story on AO3

Rafael Barba made the best huevos rancheros in the world.  The solar system, even.  He was fully aware of that and unafraid to acknowledge it to anyone who would listen. Frankie mocked his conceit about it, but her biting sarcasm was belied by the fact that she was on her third helping.

Beneath the playful ribbing, Rafael’s eyes kept sliding to the stack of luggage next to his door.  She had packed her things as he’d made breakfast, despite his repeated assurances that he was just as happy for her to stay.  He didn’t say he wanted her to stay, preferred her to stay, although they both knew that was what he’d meant.  

But Frankie needed to go home to her apartment.  Rafe’s plane had left at an ungodly hour that morning, and Amanda had taken him to Kennedy, so she didn’t need to rush in order to see her brother off, but she needed as much normalcy as she could find.  Alan was dead, and that was a good thing, however it had happened, and she could now resume her normal life without fear.  But it wasn’t that easy and, as a psychiatrist, she knew that.  

And then there was Barba.  Frankie needed a lot of things right now, and space was at the top of the list.  She was in love with Barba.  She’d told him that.  Twice. And she knew it was true.  But she also knew that she was a mess.  Having just come through a traumatic experience that had threatened every aspect of her life, and been welcomed into the arms of a man who was everything she had ever wanted, she knew as a psychiatrist that what she felt could very easily have been deep gratitude and a need for security being mistaken for love.  She needed to do the adult thing and reclaim her life.  When she had her feet back under her, solid and balanced, that would be the time to see how things stood with Barba.

The other benefit of that strategy was that it would give Barba space and time, too.  Frankie had fallen for him completely.  And he was being as supportive as she could ever hope for at this moment.  But that didn’t mean he felt anything for her.  It could easily just mean he was a good man who liked women.  She remembered what Amanda had said.  He dated, but he didn’t get involved.  If she wanted him to feel what she felt – and holy shit did she want that - she needed to give him time to get there.

“I ordered a lot of groceries when I knew you were coming here, but maybe I should have ordered more.”

“I do not apologize for my appetite.  Besides, I haven’t really eaten in days.”

“I can make more toast.”

“No, thank you.  More coffee would be good, though.”  

Rafael stood touching her as much as possible as he filled her mug with his excellent coffee.  When he was done pouring, he kissed her cheek before stepping away to replace the pot in the machine.  

“Francisca…”

“You can call me Frankie, you know. You’ve seen me naked.”

“Your name is beautiful.  I’m not about to desecrate it with that preposterous nickname.”

As she looked at him over the rim of her coffee cup, her eyes sparkled with the smile he couldn’t see.  It actually gave her a little thrill every time he said her name.  Not only did he pronounce it beautifully, but the slight roll on the “r” made her think about his tongue.  Every time. She even liked it when he called her “fresa”, although she would take that secret to her grave.  

“When are you planning to return to work?”  He asked, returning to the subject he’d been about to raise.

“As soon as possible. Tomorrow.  I want my life back.”

“I can understand that.  We��ll be glad to have you back.  This whole thing…  I don’t care what you had to do, I’m just glad it’s over.”

“What does that mean, ‘what I had to do’?”

He blinked.  Why had he said that to her?  It didn’t matter.  That was the decision he’d made; he would never let it matter.

“I don’t mean anything.  Just that I’m glad it’s over.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Barba. What did you mean by that?”  

“I misspoke, that’s all.  Let it go.”

Frankie set down her coffee cup on his kitchen table.  “Barba, this is important.  You’re… We’re…  If you have questions, or misgivings, you need to ask.  Or maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

Frankie ran a hand through her hair, looking around the room as if for help.  “Look, I mean…  We started out badly, and then things got intense fast, and…  I know you see a lot of women, and why wouldn’t you, you’re…”

“Rico?”  His mocking expression was a little forced.

“And if that’s what this is… was… then fine.  But I feel, um…  Well, that’s just it.  I feel. For you.  And I don’t need you to return that, I’m a grown-up, but if you wanted us to see each other, then you should know that.  And I would need to know that you didn’t think I’m a murderer or… whatever it was you were just suggesting.”

Rafael didn’t respond for a moment. Which of those things was he supposed to deal with first?  He turned and refilled his own coffee cup to give himself some time to gather his thoughts. “You really know how to pack a lot into a few nearly incoherent sentences.”

She stood and began to clear the dishes from the table.  “You don’t have to respond.  I need to get going, anyway.  Sorry if I dumped a lot on you.  I think too much about things.  Occupational hazard.”

“Stop it.  Don’t do that.”  He turned to her, leaning against his counter.  “I assume you were speaking your mind.  Now let me speak mine.”

She turned from the sink and unconsciously mirrored his position, leaning against the counter a few feet from him.

“You said I date a lot of women.  I don’t know what ‘a lot’ means, but I don’t suppose it matters.  That’s apparently something someone thought you should know, and there’s not much I can say about it.  It is what it is.  But I really don’t like you making yourself a notch on my bedpost.  That’s not what happened.”

“I apologize.”

“So do I, if that’s how I made you feel.”

“It isn’t.  Of course it isn’t.”

“Then there’s this whole idea that I think you killed Canady.  I don’t know how many ways to tell you that is not what I think.”

“But you think I did something to get the charges dropped.”

“I think…”  He frowned.  “We’re being honest with each other here.  I don’t know what I think.  It happened pretty fast, Francisca.  Out of nowhere, there’s this ‘anonymous tip’ about a guy who wouldn’t give us the time of day before, and suddenly he’s spinning the exact same story you are…”

“Spinning?  Story?”  

“Here we go…”

“Words are critically important, Barba.  You say a lot simply with your word choices.”

“Don’t try this at home, folks, she is a psychiatrist…”  He muttered unhappily into his mug.

“You say you don’t think I’m a murderer.  But I’m ‘spinning a story’ about what really happened, and apparently I somehow got to Jefferson from Riker’s so he would ‘spin’ the same ‘story’.”

“Francisca, I don’t care.  That’s my point.  You can parse my language any way you want, but you can’t tell me what I believe.  I know you didn’t kill Canady.  And I don’t give a flying fuck why some tweaker backed you up when there was no evidence we could use to help you…”

“FUCK!  You think I did it!”

“For the ten billionth time, I do not think you did it.”

“You think I got to Jefferson.”

“I think… something happened. And Francisca, I do.not.care.”

“I care!  Don’t you get that?  I care!  He told the truth!  What he said, that’s exactly what happened.  And if you don’t believe that, if you think he ‘spun a story’ to help me, then you think I’m no better than he is.”

“I really need you to stop telling me what I think.”  

They stood, side by side leaning against Barba’s kitchen counter, heads turned so that they were scowling at one another.  

“And I need to live with myself. I did not do what you think I did. Whatever that is.”  She kept a tight rein on herself as she spoke quietly and pushed up from the counter.  “I’m just gonna hail a cab outside.”

“Francisca, don’t leave like this. You’ve been through enough.”

She didn’t respond as she pulled on a short, fitted leather jacket over her soft grey tank top.  When she’d collected her luggage, she turned to him as she stood just inside the open door.  

“Thanks, Barba.  I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, more than I can say.”

“I’m not a monster.”

“Neither am I.”

“I know that.  That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

“And that’s the problem.  I’m one of the good guys, Barba.  I can’t feel the way I feel about you and have you doubt that.  Even if you don’t care.”

“What does that even mean?!” He shouted.

“It means I hear you.  You know I didn’t kill Alan but you think I did something to get the charges dropped, and you don’t care about that because all’s well that ends well.”

“Yes.  Exactly.”

“For you, that doesn’t make me a monster.  For me, it does.”

“You’re young, Francisca.”

“OK, that’s my cue.  When your argument starts being my age, we’ve said everything there is to say.”

For the rest of the afternoon, both Barba and Frankie muttered to themselves all the things they wished they’d said.

 *****************

“Amanda, stop!  I cannot hear that stuff.”

“I wasn’t telling you sex stuff!  I couldn’t, could I, when I’ve been back from Austin for a month?  It’s just that Rafe’s amazing, and we had the best time together, and why didn’t you tell me he was such a studmuffin?”

“Ugh.  Stop.”

“Well, he likes you.”

“I like him, too.  We’re close.  Just…  tell someone else.  Tell Carisi.”

“Carisi doesn’t want to hear about how hot your brother is.”

“Carisi is right.”

“OK, well, Barba’s here, so you get a reprieve for now.  But seriously, Frankie, he is just…”

“Briefing time.”

Around the table, the team provided the information they had about their latest case, making sure everyone had all the data they would need during the questioning to come.  Frankie’s role would be a passive one; she didn’t need to take part in the interview unless something unexpected happened.  What they needed was her read on the suspect.  

It was awkward standing next to Barba in his sublime suit, even though the past two months had been surprisingly normal.  Rafael and Frankie had even found their way into several arguments.  It was awkward because he’d hung his jacket over the back of his chair at the conference table and rolled up his sleeves.  His hands and forearms were beautiful and kept drawing Frankie’s attention.  Not only that, he kept making astute observations and asking piercing questions that were helping Frankie to zero in on this suspect’s psyche.  They were a good team.  

During the past months, blessedly full of routine and ordinariness, Frankie had recovered her sense of herself. It had been healing to be in her own apartment, waking up and going to work in her own office, in charge and control of her life.  She didn’t see any reason to replace her burned-out car; she liked the freedom of not having to deal with it.  Her colleagues at the FBI and in SVU had been wonderfully supportive.  She hadn’t had the opportunity to see Porter since she’d been released from prison, which was a little odd given what they’d been through with Canady, but he’d called.  Olivia assured her she’d see him soon.  

The problem was that, the more she recovered and settled permanently into her New York life, the more head space she had for Barba.  Her feelings for him were not lessening with time.  Worse, they had both been terribly adult about the whole thing, which told her that she was going to need to get over it.  She was the only one who had been foolish enough to fall in love in such an irrationally short time.  She didn’t blame herself – trauma could do that to a person, she’d seen it a million times on the job.  She just needed to shake it off.  But it made her very sad, and the more she grew into her role at SVU, the worse it got. Barba was so very attractive, so brilliant, so damn great at his job, she would really have liked to build something with him.  It was not going to happen.  He was a serial dater, and she’d just been the latest woman on his agenda.  He’d made her feel attractive and special, and had been exactly what she’d needed when she needed him.  But that was apparently just the reason he was so attractive to so many women.  He didn’t feel what she did.

“How old is this guy?”  She asked Barba as they stood, a discreet distance apart, watching the interrogation.

“Sixty-eight.”

“Yeah.  That fits.”

“What are you thinking?”

“He’s not faking this.”

“You’re saying the entire building and everything in it really has been replaced by exact duplicates?”

Rafael’s heart skipped a beat when she gave him the familiar scornful side-eye he sometimes said things specifically to elicit.  Like now.

“I’m saying that idea is a real symptom of a real problem.  It’s called ‘reduplicative amnesia’ and there’s an easy way to find out.” She knocked quietly on the door and walked into the box.  

“Mr. Wilson, I’m Dr. Rojas.  I apologize for the interruption, but I wonder if I might ask a couple of questions. It will only take a moment.”  

Rafael watched as she asked a number of questions about where the suspect believed himself to be, and was surprised when he informed her that this building was in Detroit. It was an exact replica of an actual police station in New York, but this wasn’t the original.  It was a fake copy, designed to trick him.  He could see “Aha!” written all over her.  

Barba appreciated the chance to simply watch her for a while.  He was fascinated by the way she made her simple shirtdress seem so elegant, and the way the different sections of her braid shone with slightly varied colors in the overhead lights.  He found her dazzling.  And watching her use her talent and insight was fascinating no matter how many times he saw it.  He even enjoyed the hell out of their verbal sparring.  But he was at an absolute loss as to what to do with his feelings for her, and it was starting to be a problem.

Rafael didn’t understand what had happened.  He’d thought that Frankie had asked him to be honest about what he thought of the information Juwon Jefferson had given them.  He had been, but apparently that wasn’t what she really wanted.  What she wanted Barba to do was tell her that he believed everything Juwon Jefferson had said.  She wanted him to lie.

Rafael might have been right about her in the first place.  Francisca Rojas might be a woman who required the people in her life to believe she was perfect, or at least to tell her that she was.  He couldn’t do that.  He’d told her what he believed.  He’d even told her that he didn’t care if she or someone else had done something that might not be entirely admirable, since it had kept her from going to prison for a crime she didn’t commit.  That was the best he could do.  But, apparently, that wasn’t good enough.  And, worse, what passed for “love” in her mind was far short of what he was looking for.  She’d said she loved him the night she came home from Riker’s, and although she hadn’t repeated it the next morning, she had at least confirmed that she had feelings for him.  Yet since the moment he’d blundered into suggesting that someone might have influenced Juwon Jefferson to give a statement corroborating hers, it was as though she’d turned it off.  Rafael needed a woman whose love was indestructible.  Francisca Rojas’s was apparently about as durable as smoke.  

“He needs a CT, and probably an MRI, as well,” Frankie was saying to Olivia, who had been in the interrogation but was now leaving with her and Fin, apparently having abandoned it.  “There are several things that can cause this: tumors, dementia, brain injury, other psychiatric disorders...  He needs a workup.  Because we need to know his mental state before we can go one step further.”

“Wait, wait, wait…” Barba cried, stopping them as they passed him on their way to Olivia’s office.  “What’s going on?”

“Wilson may not be competent to stand trial,” Frankie said.

“Bullshit. So he thinks he’s in Detroit.  He still knows rape is wrong, and he still tried to avoid being arrested.  Voila! Competent.”

“Oh, brother. Get over yourself, Barba.  Nobody’s that good.  Any expert psychiatrist as sane as Wilson is could make hay out of this.  We need a workup.”

“Not today, we don’t.  I’m charging him.  If it gets to the point where there’s a need for a workup-“

“Ni siquiera te importa si él es [1]–“

“Esto no se trata de [2]-“

“Ding! Ding!”  Olivia called.  “Fighters to your corners.  There’s no one in your room right now.  Let me know who wins.”

Rafael and Frankie expressed their displeasure, but both trudged into the least-used interrogation room at SVU, which had begun to be affectionately known as “their room”, because it had become routine for them to have heated disagreements that apparently could only be solved through half an hour of high-volume Spanish discourse.  

“Explain to me why you don’t want to know the truth here?”

“Explain to me why I need to explain anything to you?”

“I’m not here to be decorative, Barba.  This guy’s got a pathology going on, and it could mean he’s not legally responsible for what he did.  How is it that doesn’t matter to you?”

“Because even he thinks he’s legally responsible.  He ran away, remember?”

“Even you don’t believe what you’re saying.”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaand, we’re back to you telling me what I believe.”

Frankie was taken aback for a second.  Was he still talking about the case?  “I don’t think you really want to just stick your head in the sand on this.  Do you?”

“You call it sticking my head in the sand.  I call it looking at the world the way it really is.  You oughtta try it sometime.  It’s very refreshing.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”  He was talking about them.  She was sure of it now.

Rafael sighed. “Nothing.  It means…  Francisca, not everything is black and white.  This job, you gotta get a little more comfortable with gray.”

“Well, thank you for the career advice, but in this particular situation, there’s a fairly simple way to determine whether this man has organic brain damage that might-“

“So what if he does?  He still raped a woman and beat her bloody.  He still deserves the punishment for that.  I really don’t give fuck one if ‘the tumor made him do it’.  He’s still guilty, and he should still pay the price.”

“Even if that means breaking a whole shitload of rules.”

“Sometimes, to make things come out right, you have to break the rules.  You can do that and still be one of the good guys.  And that, mi fresa, is a lesson you have yet to learn.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.”

“Then stop acting like one.  The world is an imperfect place.  The sooner you get comfortable with that, the better off we’ll all be.  I’m instructing Liv to charge him.”  Rafael turned his back on Frankie and strode from the room. Although he’d won this argument, he’d lost what mattered.  

Olivia Benson constantly accused Barba of having too much respect for the rules, of being too bound by them.  In that moment, he realized that he had lost Francisca, a woman he could have loved, because she didn’t think he respected rules enough. It was the ugliest kind of irony.  And it was enough.  Time for Barba to stop living like a monk waiting for a woman who was never coming back.

 **************

One of Frankie’s favorite things to do had become Friday night drinks with Sonny, Amanda, and Fin.  They were so much fun, had so many great stories, and she really enjoyed the chemistry between them.  On rare occasions, they were joined by Olivia and Porter, but when the two of them had a night off together, they were much more likely to want to spend it alone together, or just the two of them with Noah.  Tonight was an “alone together” night while Noah stayed with a friend, which received its fair share of jokes in questionable taste around the table at Folini’s.  

Amanda and Sonny were now trying to get Fin to reveal details about the date he had planned for the next night.  Fin was enjoying their attempts, but was giving nothing away.  Apparently, Amanda and Sonny shared Frankie’s opinion that it was kind of cute how excited he was about the date, because they would not let it go.  They were well into their second drink before the subject finally changed.

“I don’t know why you won’t tell us about her,” Amanda said to Fin.  “We tell you everything.”

“Did it ever occur to you that might be why I don’t tell you anything?  You overshare.  Both of you.”

Sonny’s offended look was hilarious.  “I do not overshare,” he insisted.

“You so overshare,” Amanda laughed.  

“Oh, Partner, you do not get to go there with me.  I should not know how many condoms you went through when you visited Frankie’s brother in Austin.”

“Ewwwww! Stop right there!  I do not want to be in therapy for the rest of my life,” Frankie shouted.  

“Hey, look, we were celebrating!  He’d just got the splint off his hand so we were finally able to-“

“Wait, what? What splint?”  

“Hmmmm?” Amanda asked, with a false confusion Frankie saw through instantly.  

“What happened to Rafe’s hand?”  

Amanda looked around the table, each of the other faces as blank as she was trying to make hers.

“Oh, you must have heard about it.  He got… hurt on the ranch.”

“How?  What happened?”

“Oh, I don’t know. To be honest, I don’t remember the details.  I just know he was doing something with a steer, and his fingers got caught in a rope somehow.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“They probably thought they’d be accused of oversharing!”  Amanda laughed and began to tease Sonny about his own lack of discretion.

Something about the exchange bothered Frankie.  Amanda was clearly lying, and Amanda had done enough undercover work to be a very good actress when called upon.  But that was when she was prepared.  She had clearly said something she shouldn’t have.  There was something about Rafe’s hand injury Amanda, or Rafe, didn’t want Frankie to know.  But that made no sense.  What could be secret about a hand injury?

She was temporarily distracted from her thoughts when something across the street caught her eye; a familiar profile in a well-made suit walking in front of a Chinese restaurant the team never went to because it was far too expensive.  Rafael was holding the door open for a striking blonde woman in a pantsuit Frankie had been drooling over the previous week at Barney’s.  As she walked past him into the restaurant, the woman gave Rafael an unmistakable pat on the butt, which made him laugh in a way that made it clear the touch was quite welcome.  

[1] You don’t even care if he’s-

[2] This is not about -

[smokydrake]

“Friendly Neighborhood Watch” | Young Sam x Reader | FLUFF

WARNINGS: suggestive, language

WORD COUNT: 6,485

DESCRIPTION: There are four days left of school before Graduation Day. It’s so goddamn obvious you and your childhood best friend Samuel Drake feel the same thing for each other… but you won’t say anything because you don’t want to risk your established friendship, and Sam doesn’t want to say anything because he can’t risk giving himself away. But when two people are a perfect match for each other, some things are bound to be revealed sooner or later.

This is technically Part 2 of “Trick of the Light”, but you don’t have to read that in order to understand this (regardless I’ll still leave the link to it below). I’m really pleased with how this one came out because it just makes my heart so happy like aw Sam :,)) It switches between Reader and Samuel so sorry if it’s kinda unclear as to whose POV you’re reading from haha *sweats intensely*

And I also wanna tag @le-ephemere @hyperionbabe @a-n-g-e-l-frommynightmare and @nataliarmnov because you guys are SO NICE and left such sweet comments on Part 1 ily please enjoy

Trick of the Light

Inspired by this song (Rather Be With You - Sinead Harnett)

The only reason why you were with Rafe Adler in the first place was because you were lonely.

Well, more like the one guy you were ever seriously in to never paid attention to you the way you wanted him to, and conveniently, Rafe Adler transferred to your shithole high school and you thought he’d be a lovely distraction.

Except that, despite getting together with Rafe, you still couldn’t get over your one true crush.

The boy next door, your childhood sweetheart, your best friend: Samuel Drake.

You remember precisely when you started crushing hard on that boy. You were in middle school, still in your semi-awkward tween stage, lost in the masses of equally confused prepubescent boys and girls trying to find their places in the social hierarchy. Sam was one of the popular kids; he and his little brother were both notorious for their mischievous methods of cutting class and their bright, cheeky grins. Always the one with extravagant (although mostly exaggerated) tales of adventures, it was expected for girls and boys to flock around Samuel Drake. His heady Bostonian voice and loopy grin managed to light up any room he walked into; Samuel Drake had this laid-back, passionate, and approachable dynamic.

And on top of that… it was almost painful how good-looking he was.

So when senior year of high school rolled around, it wasn’t a surprise that he’d be quarterback of the varsity football team and “Class Clown” in the annual yearbook. You can’t remember how many girls approached you, asking for your help as wing woman because you were his best friend. It was pathetic. One, because you felt used and grew wary whenever girls were friendly with you, two, because, well, you liked Samuel Drake, and you refused to be lumped into the same absurd group of those fanatical girls.

You knew it was petty. Using Rafe, who was a pretty decent guy (although occasionally quite full of himself) as a twisted form of self-preservation and a defense mechanism against rejection. Hell, it was plain shitty: you kissed him the night of the homecoming game knowing that the star quarterback was watching just to prove a nonexistent point. Sam probably didn’t even care that you were dating Rafe. He was always messing around with other girls, girls who were cheer captains and homecoming queens, gorgeous girls equally as popular as Sam.

It hurt you to feel this way for Sam; it was impossible for him to be romantically interested in you because you guys were best friends. There was nothing you could do. You had a thing for him, and it wasn’t like those little things that went away with time; it was one of those big things, the ones that you couldn’t control.

-

A light knocking on the wooden table interrupts your carefully-curated method of memorizing the historical timeline of the ancient Persian wars for your upcoming final exam.

Looking up from your history textbook, Samuel Drake, wearing his stupid half-smile and his stupid denim jacket that you’ve poked fun of countless times (yet love to see him in), lazily slides into the empty lunch table seat in front of you. You pull an earbud from your left ear.

“Hello? Anyone home?” He waves at you ridiculously, peering behind nonexistent windows and doorways.

“Wrong house,” you answer wryly.

Knowing that he now has your attention, Sam scoots forward in his seat and leans his chin on his knuckles. “Hi neighbor,” he says simply, almost suspiciously.

You raise an eyebrow, holding up a hand to stop him from saying anything more. “Not so fast. I know you’re up to something.”

He laughs a hearty laugh, and you feel his shoes underneath the table bump against your ankles when he leans back. Something skips in your chest. “You are too smart for your own good, y'know that?”

A smile triumphantly crosses your face. “I do know that.”

He narrows his eyes jokingly at you, and then shakes his head. “No one likes a know-it-all. You goin' to Nadine’s grad party tonight?” He then frowns and turns his attention to your open textbook. “Jeez, Y/N. We’re graduating in four days. And you’re still studying?” He flicks through a couple of pages, losing your reading spot.

“Hey!” You swat at his hands and yank the book from his grasp, earning you a poorly hidden grin. “You know, colleges can still decline acceptance if you have shit grades. So yes, I am studying. And thanks a lot, you lost my page.”

He winks at you. “No problem, I do my best.”

You roll your eyes at him, but you’re anything but upset. This is normal; Sam being happy-go-lucky about everything that you rarely ever see him serious, and you being the one constantly trying to keep him out of trouble. It is just another day spent with Samuel Drake and his carefree nature, dealing with his playful antics, and secretly being head-over-heels smitten with him.

“Hey but for real. Please go. I don’t wanna be lonely,” he pouts at you.

You sigh, abandoning your history notes. “I dunno. She’s kinda intimidating.”

At this, Sam scoffs. “C’mon, Nadine’s the nicest person ever. Sort of. But whatever, I heard there’s gonna be a shit-ton of booze,” he wiggles his eyebrows.

“Ew, stop that,” you scrunch your nose, reaching out to hold his squirming eyebrows in place with your thumbs.

“Why? You don’t find it attractive?”

“No!” Your scowl grows into a giggle, and Sam laughs at your laughing. You shove his shoulder once, playfully, and then he pinches your dimples with a thumb and forefinger. “Fine, I’ll think about it,” you finally say.

Sam raps his fingers on the edge of the table. “Sweet. Where’s Rafe?”

“He’s in the library studying.”

“Not here with you?”

You shrug, unconcerned. It didn’t even cross your mind that Rafe isn’t with you until Sam had brought it up.

You two sit at the table quietly, unsure where to continue with conversation. Normally, there aren’t many awkward silences between you two. But, ever since that night, things have been a little… different.

The night you caught Sam watching you touch yourself.

In all honesty, what you did was partially in the spur of the moment and partially somewhat thought out. You had heard the ping of your text notifications, one unread message from a Sam Drake, and you just happened to have noticed him at his window, merely a dark figure shadowed by his almost-closed blinds. Driven by your high, you found his gaze and held onto it, turned on by the fact that he was watching you. Little did he know that it was him in your thoughts, doing all sorts of unsayable things to you.

You both have yet to acknowledge it. So far, you’ve been acting as if nothing happened. Sam is doing the same. You’re not sure what will happen if you say something about it, and part of you doesn’t want to know. But what you do know for sure is that there are new tensions between you and Samuel Drake, and they cannot be contained for long.

Sam opens his mouth to say something, but then the shrill ringing of the lunch bell interrupts his train of thought. He closes his lips with a tight smile and gets up from the table. “Later neighbor,” he calls to you with a flash of a smile before disappearing into the crowd of chattering backpacks and textbooks.

-

“Hey, what are you supposed to wear to grad parties anyway?”

At the sound of her voice, Samuel’s ears perked up. Dramatically, he turned in his swivel chair to see Y/N leaning out the window of her room, her elbows resting on the white windowsill and lips pressed into a perfect pout. Sam’s blinds were up and his window was open too, giving him full view of her room a couple of meters across from his. Her hair was curled and pinned up with rollers, and Samuel thought she looked stupid adorable.

He checked the digital clock on his desk. It was 6:40pm, and the sun was drowning itself in the invasive night sky. He shrugged at the girl next door. “Hell if I know. Check that Pinspiration site, or whatever.” He threw a crumpled math worksheet through his window at her, which she batted away with ease, conditioned by years of practice.

“Ha, nice try. It’s in your yard,” she teased, pointing at the small wad of paper near the bottom side of his fence. Then she made a face at him. “Wait, did you seriously just say Pinspiration? Sam, it’s called Pinterest.”

He grinned quietly, pretending to turn his attention back to the video playing on his desktop. He heard her groan and mutter something under her breath before turning away from the window.

He cherished moments like this: how casual they were with each other. But time was ticking. They were graduating in just a handful of days. Afterwards, summer would fly by in the blink of an eye, and then she’d be gone, off to an Ivy League in the south. He had gotten a football scholarship to a college on the East Coast, and he calculated; he’d be 2,660 miles away from home.

Away from her.

It stabbed at his chest every time he thought about it. He was happy here. Of course, he was also excited for college, but he knew that there would be no place like home. It was only a matter of time before they would have to part ways, and he wasn’t sure how well he was going to handle good-byes.

Something light smacked against his hair, hitting the floor at his feet with a small thunk.

“Take that, Samuel Drake!” Her voice rang again, this time louder and full of glee. She had chucked her own paper ammunition at him, catching him off guard as he swam through his dismal thoughts.

Sam turned to the window again and raised both eyebrows. He reached to swipe the crumpled ball from the ground and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head at her as she did a little dance of victory. She had taken the rollers out, and her hair cascaded down her shoulders and curved against her rosy cheeks. He bit his lip out of habit, wishing that he could keep her forever.

“Now pay attention to me,” she huffed. “How’s this?” She called to him, pushing back her powder blue curtains so that he could get a better look. She was wearing a sleeveless top and a casual pair of jeans, and he admired how she could make something so simple look so effortlessly sexy.

“Great,” he replied coolly, masking the effect she had on him. “You ready to go? I can give you a ride.”

He hoped she would say yes. He drove a motorcycle: a silver Suzuki 500cc that he absolutely loved to death. He had only taken her on it once. He remembered distinctly what it was like to have the icy wind slice at his skin while her warm arms were wrapped tightly around his body. Those were probably the two best feelings in the whole entire world.

But she just shook her head and waved a dismissive hand at him. “It’s okay, my friends are taking me tonight. I’ll just meet you there?”

“Sure,” He said back, getting up from his seat to stretch his arms and to hide his disappointment. “See you in a few.”

-

Nadine’s party is huge. You’re not talking about the house itself; it’s a cookie-cutter two story like yours, but the party… it’s the biggest bash you’ve ever laid your eyes upon.

Her house is brightly lit, thudding energetically with the beat of R&B and crowded with cars parked dangerously along the curb. Teenagers line the front lawn, in the open garage, on the roof; it’s almost chaotic.

“Shit, this place is sick,” your friends squeal, eagerly linking their arms through both of your elbows.

You and your small group work your way inside the house, pushing through the huddled groups of people, some sober, some utterly wasted. Couples hide behind not-so-hidden corners making out, and somewhere at the back of the house, you can hear ecstatic hollering after a round of beer pong. You can’t help but laugh; Nadine’s is something straight out of a 90’s high school chick flick.

You and your friends are finally in the living room, and everywhere you look, there are just people, more people, and even more people. Coincidentally, you make eye contact with Nadine Ross, prom queen two years in a row and salutatorian of your class, lounging on her sofa with her enviously attractive group of friends. She gives you a welcoming grin and you return it to the best of your abilities, secretly giddy at the fact that you’ve been acknowledged by the Nadine Ross.

Your friend at your right elbow tugs at your arm and points across the room. “Ooh, girl, there’s your man,” she coos.

For a second, you think of Sam. Your heart does a little dance, but when you turn your gaze, it’s not who you’re thinking of. Instead, your darkly handsome and lean boyfriend, Rafe Adler, stands in the kitchen, chatting with a couple of his lacrosse teammates, bumping fists and red Solo cups. You blush when your friends tease you, embarrassed by their suggestive remarks.

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” your other friend jokes, bumping your hip towards Rafe in the kitchen. Before you can even refuse, they’re gone, off mingling with others in an instant. You sigh, secretly amused by their playfulness as you wiggle your way through dancing bodies and sloshing alcoholic drinks.

You’re about to call out to Rafe when you catch the familiar tuft of messy brown hair and easy eyes from the corner of your eyesight. Samuel Drake leans against the dimly lit wall a little to your right, barely visible behind some vaguely familiar band kids passing around a blunt.

Butterflies float happily in your stomach. Rafe forgotten, you turn towards Sam’s direction with a grin on your face. You make your way through the band kids, peering over tall heads before you spot him.

Him and Crystal.

You stop in your tracks just before the two of them notice you. Sam has his hand on her waist and she is close, very close, to him that her blonde hair is pressed against his jawline.

Crystal was only one of the many pretty girls Sam has been on and off with in the past. She was one of the recurring ones, the ones that you saw Sam kiss goodbye on his motorcycle, saw Sam argue with, saw Sam make up with, saw Sam bring back home in the dead of the night. Crystal was his problematic favorite and your problematic problem.

You feel a sharp plummet in your stomach. You want to unsee them together, but you can’t. So you retreat quietly, disappearing from their line of sight.

As you turn to weave through the band kids again, your mood makes a significant turn for the worse. You feel left out and ignored. Sam invited you here tonight, for what? He looked happy with Crystal. Seeing them together served as a reminder that he saw you, vulnerable and dressed in nothing but moonlight, but still felt nothing for you.

You are almost frustrated to the point of tears. Blinking your eyes furiously, you push your way to the kitchen where Rafe is and wave him down. He takes notice of you quickly, and you are thankful for the distraction.

“Y/N,” Your boyfriend calls, reaching out to wrap an arm around your shoulder. “Hey stranger,” he smiles easily, handing you his cup in hand.

You take a swig at the drink and peck his cheek. You know it’s awful. You’re playing Rafe, keeping him around so that you won’t feel lonely. What you have with him is nothing like what you have with Sam; the chemistry isn’t as natural. But you’re tired of waiting for someone who doesn’t love you the way you love them. You’ve been playing this game of chase for too long… maybe it was time to put it in the past.

-

It shouldn’t have mattered, should’ve it?

Y/N was dating Rafe, and he was dating Crystal.

No, “dating” wasn’t the right term for it– Samuel was talking to Crystal. They weren’t official or anything like that; just a boy and a girl looking for something to keep themselves occupied with in the meantime.

Why was he so annoyed?

He had to admit. He wasn’t expecting Crystal to be at the party, let alone get distracted by her presence and easy conversation. What he really wanted was to get a chance to spend his final high school nights with, Y/N, the girl of his dreams, and then take her home on his motorcycle, where he’d get the chance to tell her how he really felt.

But it was harder than it sounded.

Occasionally, he would look around while Crystal was talking, casually searching the perimeter for Y/N. She was nowhere in sight… oh. There she was.

Y/N was in the kitchen, drinking whatever cheap liquor Nadine had lining the cluttered countertops. Rafe was there too, knocking back shots. Samuel noticed that she was drinking heavily, laughing with her boyfriend inaudibly over the pounding music.

She was never like this.

Samuel knew that Y/N wasn’t the best at holding down her alcohol. Two or three shots, tops. But at the alarming rate she was going at… things were not going to end well.

He was getting worried, anxious. What was she doing? She usually knew her limits… she was always the sensible one between the two of them.

“Hey, Sam.”

Samuel turned to look at Crystal who now stood further away from him. Her small arms were crossed and her languid body faced his, but her blue eyes were elsewhere. He followed her line of sight, and saw that she too was looking at Y/N in the kitchen.

“You have feelings for her, don’t you?”

Her tone wasn’t accusatory, nor was it angry.

Samuel didn’t know what to say. He had never said it out loud before.

“It’s really not that hard, you know. To tell her.”

Samuel laughed dryly at this. He didn’t mean for it to sound so scornful, but it did. “What? I don’t know what--”

She shook her head at him apathetically. “Stop. Just stop it.”

He looked at her. Really looked at her. Crystal was a girl that he had spent a lot of time with only because the girl he really wanted wasn’t for him to call his. Now, looking at her, he realized that she not only was she attractive; she was observant, keen, and probably better off without him.

She only stared back, and the two of them stood there, looking at each other with mutual dispassion.

“You need to stop lying to yourself, Sam. It doesn’t help anybody.”

She was first to walk away, and Samuel knew that she wouldn’t be coming back. And he was thankful for that in a bittersweet way.

-

“SHIT, THE COPS!”

“EVERYONE, GET OUT!”

You’re not exactly sure what that means.

Oh, wait– something bad. You should maybe leave, like now.

Rafe is gone. You don’t know where he went; it’s like he disappeared into thin air. Your friends are also nowhere in sight, and all you can see are people scrambling, jumping, and running everywhere.

It’s hard for you to focus; everything around you is disoriented and your vision spins every once in a while. You try to get up, but your knees give out and you end up stumbling against the kitchen counter. You giggle, tipsy from those shots you and Rafe did together just a second ago.

A tall, familiar body approaches you. “Y/N! We gotta go!”

Oh.

Him.

Sam Drake. That stupid boy next door that gave your heart way too much grief. You want to be done with him and his pretty face and mild smolder. He’s looking at you now with frantic, annoying puppy eyes. Why did he come back for you? Where is Rafe?

“I don’t wanna,” you try to say, but your voice comes out in a tiny whisper.

“Nope, not an option,” he says as he wraps an arm around your abdomen and hoists you up. He mutters something under his breath that you can’t catch as he leads you out of the house. The two of you are outside on the front lawn when you hear the sirens and see the illuminated red and blue flashing.

“Damn it,” Sam curses under his breath, his eyes frantically searching around. “C’mon, this way.”

Lacking any serious concern, you hobble after Sam with your hand in his towards the back end of the street, where his red and silver motorcycle parks under a low shade of tree branches. You notice its ruggedness and classic build, and you take note of the familiar characteristics of its proud owner.

Sam swiftly hops onto his motorcycle. He snaps back the kickstand with his heel and flicks on the headlight. He gives you a sideways glance and jabs his thumb at the small space behind him. “Get on and hold tight, you hear me?”

You nod sleepily. Slowly climbing on behind him, you wrap your arms around his waist and press your cheek to his back, happy to be so close to him. He smells like a fresh shower and cloudy engine smoke.

Muffled shadows of running people scatter all around in flashing red and blue. The motorcycle jerks forward with a sputter, and then the two of you shoot off, the sound of whining sirens gradually dissipating into the dark. You gasp, taken aback by the hurtling momentum. Your surroundings race by at hyper-speed, but your eyes can only process things one at a time. Everything around you is a blur of color; the green traffic lights, the glowing red shop signs, the flickering yellow of the streetlamps. Your eyes start to roll to the back of your head.

“Everything okay back there?” Sam shouts to the air, turning his head slightly to look at you. You blink your eyes, trying to keep them open. He’s the one thing you can see clearly; his hair is tousled by the wind, his freckles are pinkish-red from the cool air, and his hazel eyes are fiery and alive. A neon fusion of color frames his face, reminiscent of a static VHS glitch.

You try to tighten your grip on him, but your head dizzies. Your muscles don’t comply and your arms start to slip from his waist.

“Hey, hey!” One of Sam’s hands catches your wrists, holding them in place. “You keep your arms around me, a’right?”

“Mkay,” you hiccup and your forehead knocks against his shoulder blade.

“Jesus, Y/N. You’re giving me a heart attack.”

“Sam, I wanna go home.”

You vaguely feel a gentle squeeze of his hands on yours, a silent physical “okay”. Sam kicks up the speed, and then the two of you dart off again, weaving between dark cars on the streets, leaving behind a trail of rubber and smoke and sleepy laughter.

-

He felt alive.

His motorcycle reverberated violently underneath him, hungry for speed. Faster. He needed to go faster.

Samuel shifted the motorcycle up a gear, giving him less resistance and more traction. He accelerated noisily around the corner and through empty lanes, his heart pounding furiously at every drunk giggle that erupted from Y/N’s lips.

God, he felt so good.

The air lashed at his face, whipping his hair furiously against his forehead and neck. He couldn’t help it; a smile crept up his face, soon followed by a loud whoop of exhilaration. Y/N laughed even harder at this, and Samuel did it again, basking in the thrill of the night and her voice.  

The arms around his stomach tightened.

“Wait, waitwaitSamwait–“

Samuel instantly gripped the brakes, screeching his motorcycle. “What? What??”

“I’mgonnathrowup–“

“Son of a–!” He tried his best to pull over quickly, and Y/N hopped from of the backseat before he could come to a full stop. She hurried to the nearest bush at the edge of the streetlight and immediately started to heave, coughing up her night’s inventory of alcohol.

Samuel followed, catching her hair just in the nick of time. He pulled it away from her face, rubbing a palm against her hunched back patiently.

When she was finally done, he helped her up by the crook of her elbow and kept a hand at the dip of her waist to steady her. “You good?”

She nodded, blinking her dark eyes. “Oh man. Do I regret,” she groaned.

Samuel exhaled heavily, a fuddled wave of aggravation and worry washing over him. Without thinking, he said disdainfully, “do you now?”

She gave him a look; he couldn’t tell if it was confusion or annoyance.

“Uh, what’s that supposed to mean?”

Sam was taken aback by the tone of her voice; was she angry? He raked a hand through his hair. “You know you can’t hold your drinks, but you go and knock back like, fifty shots.”

Wrong move. Her eyebrows pulled even closer, and she pushed out of his arms. “It’s a party, Sam. I can do whatever I want.”

He knew that arguing back was just going to make her even more irritated, but he knew she was wrong– or he thought he knew she was wrong– and that was starting to make him mad too. “You’re never like this. Did Rafe make you do them or somethin’?”

“No! Rafe’s not like that. He’s my boyfriend.”

“A pretty shit one.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothin’. Forget it.”

She shifted from one leg to the other impatiently. “No, Sam. I hate it when you do that. Just say it.” she pressed angrily.

There was a thin line between the two of them, and he was very close to crossing it. He contemplated whether or not he wanted to. “You’re being blindsided, Y/N.” He warned.

She scoffed, dismissing him. “There you go again.”

Suddenly, he said, “Then tell me why he just left you in the kitchen when the cops came, huh?”

He had struck a nerve. Y/N gave a short huff of realization and her shoulders tensed harshly. She narrowed her eyes at him. “You don’t know that.”

He waved a hand frantically in the air and let out a humorless laugh. “Seriously? Y/N, I saw him! That prick cares about nobody but himself.”

Something simmered behind her eyes, and instantly, Samuel regretted his words.

Shit, shit--

She raised a shaky finger at him. “Don’t.”

She was hurt now and he couldn’t put his emotions into words in fear of giving himself away. It was as if every time he tried, it only escalated into something offensive. It frustrated and angered him even further.

He closed his eyes and sighed, thinking of how to diffuse his mess. “I’m just… worried about you.”

She went quiet for a bit, and it troubled him.

“Well, I’m fine. I’m just trying to have fun, okay?”

He looked away from her, over her shoulder. He hadn’t noticed earlier, but he had actually pulled over near his workplace: the small boat dock at the edge of town. They stood at the larger part of the harbor where the metal railing separated the city from the sea.

Crystal’s words hissed in his ear. You need to stop lying to yourself, Sam.

Y/N said nothing further, walking a little ways from him along the wooden floorboards of the dock. On she went, a pretty figure framed in starlight against the dark ocean.

It doesn’t help anybody.

His feelings were getting out of hand and he was running out of time… but he was afraid. He didn’t want to lose what he had with her already; what more did he want? Y/N was there whenever he needed her, to catch him when he was on the brink of danger, to smile and to laugh at his less-than-funny jokes. This should be enough, he told himself. Stop being greedy.

But Samuel Drake… he couldn’t help that he wanted more than what he had. That was just in his nature; “satisfaction” was a loose term in his range of vocabulary.

He had to let her know. Somehow.

He sucked in his breath. “Did you do it on purpose?”

She stopped walking and turned around, standing about a meter or two away with her head tilted slightly. “Do what on purpose?”

Uh, definitely not how he wanted to start. Oh well. It was too late now.

He swallowed his pride and went for it. “That night, at the window. You know what I’m talking about.”

She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t say anything. What was there to say?

He didn’t press her. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to tell her; he was terrible with words. They just never came out the way he felt in his heart. He didn’t know where he was going with this… maybe he just wanted hear her say that she knew and that it wouldn’t work out and then they could move on with their lives. Just like that. Simple.

He was about to tell her to forget it, to pretend like it never happened, but then he saw her nod once, curtly, hiding secretly behind her wind-tossed mane.

He was awestruck.

She rocked on the heels of her feet. “It kinda just… happened. I saw you, and I just…” she trailed off, biting a nail as she avoided his stare. The distance between them felt foreign, vast.

Samuel cleared his throat. “You don’t have to explain yourself. I mean, I know it was wrong.” She gave him a puzzled look, and then he caught himself. “Wait, no– like, what I did was wrong. Not you,” he stuttered, unable to stop the words from tumbling out. He felt his face burning.

She giggled at this, brushing back the wisps of hair from her forehead.

Samuel grimaced, but her smile was contagious. “Y’know, I can just pretend like I didn’t see anything.”

She looked at him, and again, he couldn’t read her expression. She looked perplexed, unsure… contemplative?

She took a step forward.

“You don’t… you don’t have to.”

-

Damn him, that Samuel Drake. He knew how to press your buttons and piss you off, even if he didn’t mean to. But this… this caught you off-guard. He was being brash, impulsive-- curious. He had asked you about that night two weeks ago, openly, giving you no space to dodge and flee.

What would happen if you told the truth?

“You don’t… you don’t have to.” You murmur, releasing your words cautiously into the air.

Did he hear you? Did you say it loud enough, or did it get lost in the faint crashing of waves underneath you two?

No– he definitely heard you. You watch his eyes widen and his head jerk back in surprise. Was he appalled? Uncomfortable?

Oh well. Too late now.

You suck in your breath. “I mean, if you don’t want to. Do you… do you want to forget?”

Ugh okay. That came out really weird. You’re about to tell him to forget it, nevermind, you meant to say something else–

His voice is barely a whisper. “Are you kidding?”

You frown. “No.”

You watch Samuel Drake, the confident and boisterous and handsome Samuel Drake, as he presses his hand against his forehead and ducks his gaze away from yours.

“I haven’t been able to get you outta my head for the past two weeks.”

…what?

Oh no, he was repulsed. You stammer, “I-I… jeez, I didn’t know. I’m sorry, I didn’t know it made you feel that uncomfortable–”

“What? No, no– that’s not what I meant,” he drops his hand and takes a step towards you.

Then what…

“Listen. Y/N.”

You watch as he grabs a fistful of his dark hair– you know what that means. He’s at a loss for words; he wants to say something badly, but he just doesn’t know how.

So you wait, focusing on the rhythmic thumping in your chest. You don’t push him; you know Sam Drake and his habits and his tendencies. You know that he’s not the serious one in your guys’ dynamic. This is different for him– this is difficult for him– and so you let him work it out at his own pace.

You notice the precise moment when he does. His eyes flick up, realigning with yours, and then his throat dips as he swallows hard.

“I… I might have a thing for you. Kinda.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

You pause briefly to consider your words.

“That’s funny. Because me too.”

“…Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

A little sound of disbelief escapes your lips. He catches it, and returns it to you as a louder chuckle. You both are dumbstruck, jittery, and at a loss as to what to do or say. This is actually happening.

“Wait, wait-- what about Rafe?” He suddenly asks, pointing a finger at you.

You cross your arms. “That’s a little hypocritical, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean?”

“Crystal?”

He drops his hand. “Okay.”

And then he’s laughing. And you start laughing at his laughing, because his laugh is just that infectious. He reaches out to you with outstretched hands and you walk over dizzily, fitting snug right between his arms. He’s warm and you can hear his heart beating powerfully underneath his gray Henley. His chin rests on the top of your head, and you know, deep inside of your heart, that this is where you belong.

-

Samuel told her.

It wasn’t super dramatic or sweet and a part of him regretted telling her so plainly, but he did it.

And the best part was, she felt the same way.

He couldn’t believe it. It took him years to finally tell her, and now he regretted not doing it sooner. He wanted to explode; he had never felt so raw and alive. It was as if a burden heavy as lead lifted from his shoulders and was replaced by a flitting, floating, airy happiness that sent him up and up and up.

“Since when though?” He asked the top of her head.

She tilted her chin up, resting it against his collarbone to look at him. A cheeky grin danced on her lips. “Uhh, yesterday.”

“Very funny.”

“You’re asking a lot of questions.”

“Please tell me?” He gave her that look, the one where he gazed at her broodingly through his eyelashes and up-turned eyebrows. He used it often to combat her witty and much too smart quips.

It worked on her like a charm and she said, “Eighth grade.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he warned her.

She glowered. “I’m being serious!” She poked a finger at his side, and he jerked into her, causing her to give him a winning smirk. “And you?”

“Don’t remember,” he mumbled, distracted by how soft her hair was against his neck.

“Are you sure? Like, really sure?” She mumbled back.

He snapped a finger, feigning recollection. “Sophomore year. When you almost fell outta your window climbing into mine. You were tryin’ to hide from your mom when she found your report card you threw behind that old bookshelf.”

“Wow, okay. Can you be a little more specific?”

He grinned at this. “You knocked over my entire Indiana Jones figure collection climbin’ in and that’s how I knew you were the one.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I know.”

She stuck her tongue out at him before burying her face in his chest. She sighed a long, blissful sigh, and Samuel knew exactly what she felt in that very moment.

“You know, I’m gonna miss you in college.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re supposed to say ‘me too’, Sam.”

“Me too, Sam.”

She poked another finger at his side, and he scowled, squeezing her cheeks between his free thumb and forefinger like he did whenever she was playing around too much. “Hey watch it, neighbor, that hurts.”

“Sorry, neighbor.”

Then, gradually, she got on her tip-toes and looked right at him, their noses touching, and suddenly, he was all too aware of her. Something in her eyes changed; they were all at once curious and unfocused. He soon realized that she wasn’t looking at him anymore– she was looking at his bottom lip. He watched as she bit her own.

They stayed like that for some time, until it became unbearable. Neither of them wanted to make the first move… it was exhilarating just as it was scary.

“Do something Samuel Drake,” she whispered to him.

Her words were like an activation code; a euphoric green “GO” sign lit up his brain upstairs. So then, slowly, he brought his lips to hers, his fingertips tenderly resting just against her jaw. It lasted only for a fleeting second. Her eyelashes fluttered like the wings of a butterfly, and Samuel wished that he could capture the moment and keep it safe in a glass bottle for him to relive again and again.

No other person made him this gushy and weak in the knees. She was a magician of sorts and he was her favorite trick. He would do anything for the girl standing here in front of him, and now, he could do it confidently.

“Can you do that again?” She smiled against his lips.

“Yeah, I’ll do that again.”

And Samuel kissed her once more under the moon’s watch and the ocean’s breath, and nothing else in the world mattered more. They both knew that in that moment, there was no other person they would’ve rather been with, and this was more precious than they could’ve ever imagined. He no longer felt afraid knowing that she was there for him to call his own, and she no longer felt overshadowed by the boy who had always thought she was unattainable.

It was a match made by the stars, and they watched protectively overhead, safeguarding the two under the youthful evening blanket.

[salem-s]

A THOUSAND WAYS TO BREAK A LAPTOP — RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT

SYNOPSIS your computer isn't working. again. however, instead of sending the overly-chatty technician that you nearly despise, IT sends their newest recruit: a tall, quiet, yet endearingly charming rafe cameron who cannot seem to meet your eye. now? you're discovering all the creative ways to keep your computer continuously broken, and scheming all the ways to get in his pants.

WARNINGS fluff (more like one sided banter?? where reader has absolutely no filter and rafe doesnt know how to handle it???), suggestive content. this is one of those prompts like the four times you fluster nerd!rafe and the one time he flusters you. having a that's so raven moment, this is my current calling. will def want to write more of them i can already tell. nooooooot edited.

WORD COUNT 14.1k...omfg???? will make a part 2.

When the CPU on your computer skyrockets only after opening it, you know your boss is already sending a member from IT.

Unfortunately, you're no stranger to being your computer's worst enemy. Ever since working here, you've become quite familiar with the members from the technological help desk due to the high influx if issues you seem to attract. WiFi refuses to connect. Disk memory is full despite you knowing damn well it isn't. CPU soaring to one-hundred percent of its usage despite simply logging in to start your work day. And — of course — the guy they normally send has no off-button and asks you to dinner at least three times in the span of however long it takes to fix your tech, and the thought of enduring a masculine dominated conversation seems like a horrible start to your morning.

That is, until IT actually shows up in thin wired glasses, a sheepish smile, with piercing blue eyes you can see across the room.

You try not to stare. Really. But it proves increasingly difficult the closer the IT man gets to you, walking alongside your boss and towering a whole head taller than him, ducking his head just a tad lower to be able to hear your boss better. His dirty blond hair is neatly styled, a few lingering pieces hanging down on his forehead and brushing the lens of his glasses. A thin knit green sweater sits snug over his torso, the button down he wears underneath poking up by the collar with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, all tucked prim and proper into khakis adorned with a black leather belt.

He looks so perfect. You bet he looks like sin underneath all those layers.

It isn't until he's right in front of you that you take him all in: smelling like hints of cedar-wood, sharp and crisp yet subtle and subversive.

Blue eyes suddenly meet yours, and his once nonchalant and composed demeanor crumbles in less than a second. They widen slightly when your boss aimlessly introduces you, gestures to you sitting pretty at your desk peering up at him with a newfound sense of pride, especially when you see his perfectly sculpted cheekbones blush the faintest of pinks, a sight so beautiful it makes your stomach do a weird flip, a mixture of excitement and adventure.

There's something so enticing to you about a man who looks like he's never experiences the touch of a woman, haven't experienced contact besides a firm handshake, never been felt below the belt. You're seconds from sinking your talons in, especially with the way his eyes can't seem to leave you, and you internally decide that if this is the guy they're sending to fix up shop, you'll be finding ways to break your laptop a hundred times over.

Your boss — unknowing to the wordless interaction spewing ungodly levels of unchecked hormones — nods curtly.

"As far as we know, it's just the CPU acting up today." Your boss pats the back of your chair once, twice, then eyes the computer wearily. "Let me know if anything else comes up, yeah?"

Your eyes never leave the handsome man standing in front of you. "Will do."

When your boss pats your chair once more and slides away back to his office, a thick silence settles over the two of you, him blinking stupidly down at you almost in disbelief, taking in the way your lashes kiss your skin, how your shirt adorns your torso, how your eyes never leave his. And - you - peering up at him with a cheshire cat smile as you tap your freshly-done nails on top of the reportedly broken computer, and it doesn't divert his attention, as if he's hypnotized to the sight of you.

"Well," you start after a minute of silence, "are you just gonna stand there and stare at me, or are you gonna do your job?"

He blinks once, twice.

Then you tilt your head to the side, not missing the way his eyes briefly stare at the exposed column of your neck when you do so, staring shamelessly before his eyes widen slightly, as if catching himself, returning his gaze back to your eyes. The professional way to look at someone. Not the I'm ready to jump your bones at a sliver of skin kind of glance.

"Not that I'm complaining," you murmur, almost to yourself. "You're nice to look at."

Puffy parted lips open and close, words arriving and escaping as his brows furrow in befuddlement, cheeks rosy. You swear you've never seen a prettier sight.

"Wh—What?"

You've only heard one word from him and it has your heart thrumming.

"You're, by far, the prettiest one they've sent," you say pointedly, as if it's law. "First it was the guy with Cheeto-dust stained fingertips. I always had to keep wet wipes in my bag after he was through. Then there was that older lady, definitely nicer on the eyes but smacked her gum so loud it burst one of my eardrums, once. After she disappeared, they sent that one guy, rude, handsy, mouthy..." You trail off, looking up to the ceiling in faux-contemplation, tapping your finger to your chin as you think. Then, as if you've had an epiphany, you snap your fingers and point at him as if you've just discovered fire. "Cole! Yeah, him. Are you Cole's replacement?" You inquire sweetly.

He blinks.

After a moment of digesting your words, he swallows thickly. "Do...you mean Charlie?"

Shifting your gaze from him to the wall behind him, you shrug quickly before bringing your attention back to his pretty blues. "Sure. Semantics. Same thing, right? Phonetics, and all?"

You almost miss it: his lips twitching at your hurried words in a slight admiring kind of way, as if he's amused by you, enthralled and intrigued, not the kind of cocky grin you've endured from failed situationship after situationship. It's refreshing, even if it is for a split second, and you feel your grin morph into something softer, less forward, as you watch him tap an unsynchronized rhythm against his thighs.

"Not...really," he says eventually, that ghost of a smile still hinting his lips. "But yeah. Him. On maternity leave."

Your brows skyrocket.

And his eyes widen, slightly panicked.

"Well, not him, obviously," he corrects quickly. "But his... You know... His wife, and all. Paternity leave, technically, if you want to be...uh, technical."

The last word is strung out, unsure. You watch his face nearly contort in pain, cringing at himself for his poor extension of vocabulary, and you swear you see the tips of his ears tint pink to match the rosy shade of his cheeks. But you don't think it's embarrassing at all, not even in the slightest, because now you've heard him talk. A full sentence. Sort of. But now you're craving more.

"Paternity leave, got it," you say slowly, not lingering on his nerves and instead breezing right past the moment that make his shoulders release the slight tension they've been carrying for the whole conversation. "And here I thought he was allergic to human connection."

The strangest thing happens.

He laughs.

He fucking laughs.

And it's a beautiful sound, unexpected and boyish and something you could never get used to hearing. It's light yet carries through the office, like the top layer of a fog misting the entire surface. But the laughter is one thing, because the smile that follows? One of the prettiest things you've ever seen, with pearly white teeth and soft dimples adorning the corners of his mouth, nearly missing the light crinkles by the corners of his eyes when he squints. It only lasts a few seconds, but you stretch it to a lifetime, holding onto the cadence of it like a lost tape, replaying it in your head over and over.

"He kinda is," he says quietly after the come down, the laughter dying as soon as it came, and you're wishing it was longer. "But, uh, until he's back, I'm on call."

You grin. "You are?"

A few moments of silence coat the air between you two. Then, he nods gently, almost as a reminder to himself, to affirm it, gaze softening. And you? You take that and run, imagining all the different ways you can break a laptop without pointing fingers at yourself. All the reasons that would be needed to warrant an IT visit. All the ways in which you can have him underneath you, on top of you, sideways, upside down if needed.

"Good," you muse happily. "Because this computer alone is about to fuel half your paycheck."

When you learn his name, you use it as much as you can.

It's always a careful, Rafe, don't kneel so close to the corner, you'll bang your knee to which he'll respond with a curt nod (on top of a raging blush) or a single, quiet noise of affirmation, almost a wordless yes, ma'am. Or a Rafe, has anyone ever told you that blue suits you really well? where he'll stifle a chuckle of disbelief or shake his head gently, as if what you're saying is simply leverage for him to fix your computer well, not because you mean it. Or a can you promise that you'll fix it real nice for me? I hate making you come all this way every week? to which he'll respond that he'll try his best.

Every week, he comes like clockwork.

Granted, by first thing Monday morning, you already know the cause of the issue that'll happen at least by that Thursday. One week it was a virus. The next a memory disk issue (that you studied how to tamper with for hours the previous weekend on a deep Reddit thread). The following a water cooling issue since you may or may not have spilled your water in your bag, which was a total accident but proved worthy in the end. And, finally, this week, a glitching screen from thumping the monitor a little too hard the night before, claiming the screen kept flickering as soon as you opened it to work.

And Rafe is there every single time.

He kneels beside you, and even though you stay perched pretty in your office chair, he's practically eye-level with you. When you slide the laptop in his direction, you absolutely, positively, make sure that your fingers brush every time. Then when he finds the root of the issue, which never takes him too long, he explains it to you quietly, slowly, as if he's dragging out the moment. All you do is stare at his profile, not the screen, and despite his eyes never leaving the laptop when he goes through the problem and how to avoid it, you know he can feel your eyes on him.

And he refuses to meet your gaze when you lean in close next to him. Why?

Because Rafe will lose his mind.

It's already bad enough he's been placed on a technologically influenced witch-hunt, covering for Charlie for his three months of paternity leave instead of holing away in a dark corner, coding in the silence that he prefers away from people. But no, of course his boss had to have him fill in the gaps, claiming his expertise should be shown to the world, not just the backrooms of the building. Unfortunately, Rafe had no say in the matter, and picked up the shift temporary shift change with heavy shoulders.

But when his first ticket was yours, suddenly the task didn't seem so bad.

Granted, Rafe can only look in your eye for about ten seconds maximum before he can feel his cheeks flaming, flustered by the way you're able to hold eye contact so well, and how it feels like you're peering into his soul every time you look eyes. But when you're that close, barely brushing shoulders whereas his fingers stay electrified from your brief touch in the beginning, his focus stays solely on the screen. It has to. In order to save his dignity, to keep his fragile pride where it is, he doesn't let his desire win.

Not at your citrus scented shampoo. Or jingling jewelry. Or the honey cadence of your voice every time you interrupt his nerd-talk to compliment his sweater, or ask him how his day's been, or any question under the sun not pertaining to the reason he's there. Rafe answers every single time, but not without a few ums or the tips of his ears getting pink.

You never comment on it. You wait for him to stutter out his response, and nonchalantly move on. You don't tease, or even entertain the thought, and instead speak. Listen. Wait. Respond. It's the bare minimum, he knows it, but after dealing with assholes all his life about how shy he gets, it's refreshing to have someone willing to listen, willing to take the time and not rush him. Even if you do it to be polite, he's grateful for it.

Although, you catch him off guard. A lot.

"Rafe, have you ever done it in a car?"

He chokes. He literally chokes on his own breath, sucking in a harsh breath at your question - completely unprompted, by the way — as everything he's been trying to teach you about this week's technological problem suddenly flies out the window. Along with his common sense. And brain. Because he nearly catches flies with how wide his jaw dropped.

"Did you—? Have I—? What?"

You seem unfazed, resting an elbow on the table and propping your chin against your knuckle. "I'm trying to test something. All the people I've asked have, and I'm starting to think I'm the outlier here," you practically pout.

Rafe swallows thickly attempting to gather his thoughts in a polite, professional manner and not the direction is dick wants him to think.

"Uh, I— Well, this doesn't seem professional," he weakly argues.

All you do is hum, unnerved.

"Beg to differ," you continue. "Julia's writing a sex column and was asking everyone's input, so now I'm running my own little survey after I humiliatingly discovered my lack of adventurousness. Granted, she's writing about the implications of what the term situationship means in modern day and age and how that changes the intimacy of what sex is supposed to be, but apparently that includes taking office-wide polls on the nuances of semi-public hookups in the back of a Jeep Wrangler." You pause. "Or Grand Cherokee. I can't remember. But the point is, I feel like a...sexual fraud."

Rafe blinks once, twice, finding the bravery to spare you a concerned side eye.

"Sexual...fraud..?" He drawls out, the words feeling foreign on his tongue, as if he's attempting to hear you right.

You nod, pleased he's meeting your gaze. "It's a real phenomenon, you know. Millions of people suffer from its emotional discrepancies."

Despite his heart about to leap through his throat, his subtly shaking hands, and how looking at your pretty face right now is sending him through a whirlwind of emotions he can't comprehend, Rafe's lips twitch into what he thinks is a smile — a nervous one, at that — but with the way you phrase certain things it boggles his mind, as if it shouldn't make phonetic sense, but it does. To him.

"Millions?"

You frown in faux offense at his playfully skeptic tone, nearly bursting with joy that you're slowly cracking through his steel-like layers.

"Rafe Cameron," you say quietly, drawled out with purpose. "Are you doubting the statistics of my scientific research?"

He shakes his head immediately, an involuntary response, but his lips curve up into a smile. A cautious, unnerved, apprehensive smile, but still something to make your tooth rot due to how sweet it makes him look.

“Not…doubting,” Rafe says eventually. “More so amused.”

“Amused?”

His cheeks feel hot at your suggestive tone. “I—Well— Yeah. Seems like you’re very dedicated to your research.”

You grin, and his heart skips. “You’re damn right it’s research, research that you’re stalling to participate in.” You point a knowing finger at him, wiggling it gently just to put some emphasis on your words, raising your brows in addition.

It becomes too much for him, the insinuation behind your words, what you’re really asking him, so he darts his gaze away from your face to stare idly back at the screen — now fixed — but hoping it’ll spontaneously break again just to give him something to do, something to focus on and steer the direction of the conversation into something less…incriminating. Sure, he feels slightly better that you haven’t done it in a car (even if you’re lying to stand in sexual solidarity with him, because it’s probably obvious from a mile away that he hasn’t) but the question still makes him nervous, as if he’s doing something wrong.

Sex has always been a taboo topic for him, growing up with very strict and conservative parents that he was always made to think pleasure and sex were wrong, something scandalous and ugly instead of something that is natural in human nature. His hometown was too small, not geographically but socially. Everyone knew everyone’s business. Everyone knew who slept with who and who cheated on who as if it was written in the daily paper. It scared the shit out of him, the possibility of being exposed like that in front of all of his peers. It took him a long time to realize that sex isn’t wrong, more so to believe it, but because of the long term celibacy, he never really explored this sort of intimacy until his upperclassmen years in college. He’s always felt a bit behind, inexperienced, almost ashamed of his lack of hands on studies (literally).

“Um, no,” he says eventually, quieter than you’ve heard him. “I haven’t.”

But you don’t poke fun. You don’t laugh. You don’t keel over and insult his lack of experience and take his dignity down with it. Instead, you hum, almost happily, and he nearly jolts when he feels your hand on his shoulder, tapping once, twice, before retracting as quickly as you started. Despite the two layers of clothing — a button down underneath a sweater — Rafe swears he can feel the coolness of your skin, the ice of your palm that nearly steams from the warmth of his body.

“Finally,” you sigh pleasantly. “Someone I can relate to.”

You sound pleased, affirmed, despite your tone a little playful but it sounds sincere to him. It makes him let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, hoping you don’t notice the release of tension in his shoulders and letting out the wound up nerves in his lungs.

But — of course — you notice. But you don’t comment on it.

Instead, you take him in, staring at his profile for a little too long before clapping your hands together, a sounds that makes him jump only slightly.

“Okay,” you continue cheerily. “Now that I’ve conducted my research, go on and tell me about your day.”

The next time you see Rafe is in your building’s coffee shop.

It’s quiet, you’re on the dreaded once-a-month evening shift that lasts well into the night. One person from your team has to do it, and of course on one of the nicest summer nights you’ve yet to see this year, you’re stuck in the office. The implication is nearly poetic: gazing longingly out the cafe window (that’s conveniently on the first floor) watching all the people go to and from the bar, going as far as placing your palm on the window as if you’re waiting for your husband to return from the war. All of your friends are out there somewhere, taking advantage of the beautiful night and making your horrendous case of FOMO flare up like a bad allergic reaction.

You nurse a decaf coffee, swirling it in your hands as you peer out the window. There’s only thirty minutes left in your mandatory hour long break (even though you’d rather just skip the break and leave your shift an hour early, but apparently that’s forbidden), debating if you spend the rest of it outside. But that’s almost like dangling a dollar bill on a fish hook. You’ll have to go inside at some point, and you’d rather not know how nice it is just to have to leave it. Protecting your peace, is what you’re calling it.

You hear your name quietly above a gentle silence.

It’s spoken so delicately, as if you’ll snap in half if he says it too loud, and you almost don’t hear it. But you do, and your heart leaps to your throat when you turn to find the culprit, only to be met with your newfound favorite person, adorned in casual jeans and a button down, no sweater in sight and pieces of his hair falling onto his forehead. He looks unpolished, a bit disheveled, and so fucking real that it makes your breath hitch.

You find yourself smiling. It’s really an involuntary act whenever he’s around. “Hi. You’re here late.”

He blinks, confused he’s even seeing you in the first place.

“…You too. Are you—? What is the—?” Rafe stops himself, shaking his head gently as if to tell himself to get it together, then he takes a deep breath. “Overtime or mandatory?”

Groaning, you gaze outside for a split second. “Mandatory, unfortunately.” Then your eyes settle back on him, still shifting his weight between feet, as if he’s deciding whether to walk away, keep standing there, or sit. “Only have to do it a couple times a year, it’s not bad. Are you also here against your will?”

His lips twitch at your words. “Uh, sorta. I’m so busy covering for Charlie that I’ve barely had time to do my own job.”

You quirk a brow.

Rafe’s eyes widen at his mistake, at his insinuation. “Not that— Not that it’s your fault! At all. I’ve had so many tickets, never knew how busy he was, basically running all over the building. I just— I haven’t— It’s been—“

“Easy,” you interrupt softly, a hint of a grin etching your lips. “I’m teasing.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, darting his gaze between your eyes, letting the panic wash away as he takes in your playful smile. You’re joking. It’s a joke. You’re not mad at him. If you actually were, he has no idea what he’d do. Crawl in a hole and die, maybe. That sounds like the plausible answer.

Before he can say anything to dig himself deeper into a hole, you pipe up. “Wanna sit?”

“Yes,” Rafe says immediately, then his face instantly feels hot at the urgency of his response. “If that’s fine?”

Pleased with his answer, you gesture towards the other side of the booth, rather empty and unoccupied, and he’s sliding in quickly, almost savoring your offer before you come to your senses and boot him. He’s expecting it, counting on it, even. Because you’ve been far too nice to him to the point where he feels like he’s being pranked, mocked from a far. It doesn’t seem right: someone as pretty as you voluntarily wanting to hang out with him. It seems like a trap.

But Rafe can’t deny how nice your company is. Even if it is all a ploy, a joke, he has gotten used to the pleasantries of your company, and wants to be a little selfish for a bit longer, elongating the notion of being in your presence for as long as he can, up until you’ll start laughing in his face and saying it was all one big, fat experiment to see how long it’ll take the nerd of the IT department to crack. Spoiler alert: he’s already cracked. Wide open. Like an egg over a pan. So fucking far gone for you that it’s pathetic.

“Do you stay late often?” You ask gently, pulling him from his self deprecating thoughts.

He tries to ignore how pretty you look right now. “Uh, not really. I like being home before sunset.”

Once it comes out of his mouth, he realizes how fucking lame that sounds, like he’s some little kid scared of the dark. The real reason is far more incriminating, that he likes to read in the daylight, getting in all the time he can before the sun goes down and he’s left to use the LED lights that indefinitely give him headaches. Plus, on the nights he doesn’t spend with his sister and her friends, the darkness only reminds him of how fucking lonely he is.

However like the angel you are, you don’t tease.

“I get that,” you agree, taking a sip of your coffee. “I like having my nights. I’m not really a morning person, like at all. I barely function my first hour here, but I’d rather work those in exchange for evenings, you know? More time for having fun.”

The response leaves his mouth before he can stop it.

“What do you like to do for fun?”

You quirk a brow, surprised, and he nearly takes it back but you tilt your head to the side, intrigued by his interest, as if he’s been itching to ask you about yourself. Now you’re away from a work setting (sort of) so it doesn’t feel as taboo as it normally does, because it feels wrong asking you questions while he’s supposed to be working, but as you sit across from him and look at him as if he’s has an ounce of worth, Rafe finds himself wanting to learn everything under the sun about you. Sue him.

And you? You practically lean forward with excitement because finally — finally — he’s slowly stepping out of his shell, forgetting the intricacies of workplace professionalism and treating you like a friend (even though you’re literally begging to be more than that) but you figure with a guy like him, someone so guarded and apprehensive about breaking some loose rules, you’ll have to take your time, get to know him which is something you are eager to do anyway, and not scare him off.

“Lots of things,” you start slowly, calculated and thrilled and refraining from jumping his bones. “Hanging out with friends, cooking too much food for one person, reading when I remember it’s something that people normally do to relax, traveling when I actually save my money which never really happens, laying in the sun in parks and doing absolutely nothing. You know. Stuff like that.”

Rafe’s lips twitch. “Definitely sounds fun.”

You watch him for a few seconds. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“What do you do for fun? Besides compute binary code in a dark corner?”

He huffs out a laugh, almost self deprecating, as he feels his cheeks burn a bit hotter. Hesitating, he reaches up to scratch the nape of his neck as he searches for an answer, one that is far from the truth and won’t make him sound like a complete loser.

“You basically just summed it up,” he says without thinking.

Rafe curses himself in his head. So much for sounding relatively interesting.

But you roll your eyes, not buying it. “C’mon, I know there’s more to you than that.”

Racking his brain for answers, he pathetically revisits your answer, trying to find some silver linings of comparisons and make it seem like you and him have remotely the same interests, which seems impossible. It’s no secret that you’re cool — way too cool for someone like him — and that your interests definitely match your demeanor, unlike him, who’s as boring as he looks. He’s sure you can tell, right? It terrifies him, not being able to read your expressions.

“I, uh, like reading too,” Rafe starts quietly, picking absentmindedly at the label on his drink to avoid your intense gaze. “Classics, theoretics, stuff like that. I draw sometimes when I’m bored.”

(His cheeks burn at the thought of it, because in his notebook stuffed between his mattress back at his apartment are drawings of you. Your hands adorned with your everyday rings. Your face propped up on a knuckle. Your profile. You sitting straight on. You typing on your computer. It’s fucking pathetic. He’s in deep.)

Rafe clears his throat, shaking the images away. “I like to run. Early in the morning, before the heat settles in. Right along the water and before the city wakes up. It’s like…my time to gather my thoughts, or something. I don’t know.” God, stop fucking rambling.

When you hum with an impressed tone, his blue eyes shoot up to meet your gaze.

“That’s impressive, I admire that.”

If his face wasn’t red before, it definitely is now.

Meanwhile, you have the mental image of him running, preferably shirtless, wondering what his bare chest looks like with sweat glistening it. You’re no idiot, you’ve seen the way his biceps sometimes stretch through the fabric of his button downs and you often wondering what your hand would feel like curled around it. You wonder what it’s like to grip it to steady yourself. You wonder what it’s like to be in a headlock—

“I wish I could motivate like that in the morning,” you say, almost praising to shake away the daydream. “Unfortunately, I’m sleeping in until the last possible minute. Have you always been a morning person?”

And the two of you continue, just like this. Bouncing questions back and forth, sharing similar interests and learning more about the things the other doesn’t really know about. (I.e. he told you offhandedly he’s from a beach town and you started asking him a lot of questions mostly pertaining to the amount of sharks and seals he’s ever seen rather than the town itself, which he is inherently grateful for). Rafe learns fragments of your life, how many siblings you have and the names of your best friends. Your favorite places in town and what kind of things you like to buy. The name of your childhood pet and reason you were fired from your first job as a fresh fifteen year old.

He holds onto every single word, every single anecdote, barely breathing just to make sure he doesn’t miss a thing, doesn’t miss a consonant or vowel. You gaze in his eyes so intently deep that it makes him a little nervous, especially when it’s his turn to answer your very simple question. But you can tell he’s not used to this, talking about himself and introducing himself in such depth. It’s almost refreshing, a bit possessive, because you wonder how many people actually know him like this.

It isn’t until you glance at the time when you curse.

“Fuck.” You shuffle to slide out of the booth. “I was supposed to go back twenty minutes ago.”

Rafe follows your movements only because he’s unsure of how to react. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you.” He can’t imagine how long he’s been away from his desk, but for once he can’t find the energy to care, solely focused on you, you, you.

You stand, tossing your long-empty cup away in the trash and snort.

“Are you kidding? This was the most entertaining part of my night. I should thank you.”

His cheeks tint a rosy hue.

“Well,” you continue. “I’ll probably see you next week for another technological mishap?”

Chuckling, Rafe nods a little too eagerly at the thought of continuously seeing you, more important how you seemingly want to keep seeing him.

“Yeah,” he finds himself saying. “See you then.”

You don’t see him then.

Instead, it’s far more incriminating. For you.

To preface: you’re never going out with your cousin ever again. She comes to town a few times a year and the two of you always take it too far. Always agree on a chill night in. Maybe watch a movie and split a bottle of wine or two. But no, that never happens, because before you know it, the two of you are getting ready to go out and you’re clubbing until it’s far too late to surrender. You laugh. Take turns buying each other drinks. Dance to your favorite songs and catch up in the bathroom. It’s refreshing, stupidly fun, something that you never know you need until it’s moments before you leave your apartment, and the jitters are too much to handle.

Everything was fine. The night was going so well.

That is, until you leave the club and the sun is just barely rising.

You’re not that drunk anymore. Just tipsy and tired and high off life. You’re in the phase of laughing a little too hard at everything around you, taking in the simplicity of the world around you instead of being angry at it due to how tired you are. But despite the exhaustion in your bones and the way your eyes are barely staying open, you manage to breathe in the fresh air, grin, take it all in.

Nudging your cousin’s shoulder playfully as you walk down the hauntingly quiet street, you huff.

“Never fucking going out with you ever again. The fucking sun is coming up.”

Isla, your cousin, snorts, and it echoes throughout the emptiness of the world around you. “You’re such a hypocrite. You say that every time, and guess what? Here we are, disappointing our ancestors yet again.”

You laugh loud. Boisterous. Perhaps waking some people up at the volume. But you don’t care, listening to the sound of your heels against the concrete and how that plus the combination of Isla’s heels sound like a herd of horses galloping down the street. For someone who is never awake during sunrise, it sure is beautiful, especially with how peaceful it feels with the barely-there sunlight glistening your skin and the cool air giving you more oxygen than you’re used to.

“We’re degenerates,” you pointedly argue. “It’s our job to—“

You don’t finish, because the words are so harshly knocked out of your lungs as something big collides with you. Hard. Fast. And…wet?

Your body is hitting the concrete before you register it, your tipsy brain a few seconds behind your body and your body way behind your brain. It doesn’t hurt, not really, with the exception of a quick sting on your knees and on the heels of your hands that steady your abhorrently disgraceful fall. Your purse flies out of your grasp, landing somewhere unknown as you can only hear the ringing of your ears for a full five seconds before voices start to come back into range.

Well. One voice is actually speaking. The other noise is the sound of loud, audacious, drunken laughter. Your cousin. Then who—?

“—my god, I’m so sorry! Are you alright? I didn’t— The corner— My headphones, I didn’t hear, couldn’t see—“

Then the voice stops abruptly, inhaling a breath so harsh that you can hear it crack. You blink blearily, letting out a chuckle in disbelief, because it’s a little funny you just got your absolute shit rocked, knocked to the ground to forcibly that it spun your brain in a full circle. Or flip. Whatever you want to call it. It doesn’t hurt, besides a bit of your dignity, but it’s more comical than anything.

Your vision comes back when he says your name, and you’re absolutely mortified to see Rafe Cameron standing over you: shirtless, sweaty, and far more ripped than you ever imagined. His hands hover over you, as if he wants to touch you and help you gather yourself, but afraid of hurting you further. For a moment, you consider your appearance: bleary-eyed and eyes probably going in two different directions, messy and sweaty from dancing, wearing next to nothing that’s probably not covering up everything it needs to.

And — for once — you’re absolutely speechless. You couldn’t make this up, and nearly laugh in his face at the coincidence.

But it’s not funny to Rafe, whose heart just fucking stopped seeing that he hurt you.

“Holy shit,” he curses low, and you’re surprised to hear him swear for the first time. “I just— I totally— Jesus, are you okay?”

You open your mouth to respond, but the howling laughter coming from your cousin interrupts whatever humiliating thing that was about to come out of your mouth.

“That was—“ She keels over, hysterical. “You just— He just rocked your shit!”

Rafe looks absolutely wrecked, not finding the situation funny at all and completely ignoring your cousin, whose loud reaction continues to bounce off the brick walls on the street, no doubt waking people up at its volume. One hand hovers over your skinned knees, the other just barely touching your bare shoulder, and he nearly retracts when he can nearly feel the heat of your skin against his palm.

You manage to let out a light chuckle. “How fast were you going?”

“I didn’t— I wasn’t paying attention,” he says quickly, hurriedly, eyes scanning your body for injuries. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Before you can stop yourself, you place a hand over his knuckles, stopping his incessant ramble of apologies as his blue eyes immediately find yours at the contact he’s desperately been wishing to make, blinking stupidly at your simple gesture. More so at the fact that you’re holding his hand. Holy shit, you’re holding his hand—

“I’m fine,” you assure gently, smiling so sweet that it confuses him. “Besides my ego, of course.”

Rafe sucks in a harsh breath, speechless for a moment as he looks into your eyes, then flicking down to the small spots of blood on your knees. “But the— Oh god— Your knees—“

You wave it off. “Eh, it’s fine. Do you know how many times I’ve banged myself up worse than this?”

“I— Uh— No—?”

“Worse than this, trust me.”

“But I— You…”

“Help me up?”

Rafe blinks, silent for one, two beats, as he takes in your very serious and it’s really, actually, totally fine expression. Then softly, “Okay.”

You grip is hand a little tighter, to which his breath hitches at the contact, and he doesn’t hesitate to grab your other hand as he helps you stand gently, not pulling particularly hard but doing the majority of the work, and this time your breath hitches at just how fucking strong he is, how he essentially picks you up with little to no effort to help you find your footing. For a split second, you concoct the mental image of him throwing you over his shoulder, taking you to the nearest bed, and absolutely—

The stiletto of your heel suddenly dips, caught in a crack in the sidewalk, as you twist uncomfortably and lurch forward.

Riiiiiiight into his chest.

You oof against his bare skin, bracing your hands on his abdomen to find some semblance of balance while his hands grip your biceps out of surprise, holding you steady as much as he can with the short notice as you scramble to find your footing. His chest is sleek, defined, incredibly rock hard and solid that the impact almost hurts, versus the soft contrast of your skin. Your cheek — not that you're complaining — smushes against his torso and you nearly forget how to fucking breathe. Why does he smell good? He just went on a run, how does he feel this nice?

Despite how nice it is to feel his hands, to practically press yourself against his chest as you’ve been dreaming about doing for ages, you can’t help but panic, because this is not how you wanted to make a move: gross and tipsy and totally unprepared. Godforsaken heel, curse the shoemaker and their mother and their mother’s mother—

“Fuck, sorry, the fuckin—“

When you land on two feet again, heel out of the crevice of the earth and back on solid concrete, you sigh as if you’ve completed the hardest task to date, pleased that you’re (seemingly) done embarrassing yourself in front of the guy you’re trying to bag.

And Rafe’s face as never been more red.

“There!” You say, brushing the dirt off your too-short-skirt. “Can’t say I’ve ever been run over before, but I guess there’s a first time for everything, yeah?”

He winces at the blood trickling down your knees. “I’m so sorry. Really, I am. I never wanted to hurt you, of all people—“

“Why aren’t you wearing your glasses?”

The question makes his jaw slack, forgetting the words of an apology and letting them die in his throat as he blinks, startled by the interruption, peering at you with confusion. How are you not mad at him? Swearing at him? Cursing at him for hurting you? Seeing the blood on your knees, the dishevel of your hair, it’s making him sick, knowing he’s the root cause of it. But he swallows the bile in his throat, taking a deep two-count breath to remind himself that you asked him something, you’re waiting for an answer.

“I— I don’t run with them,” he says breathlessly. “Maybe I should, now that I apparently slam into people.”

His tone is self deprecating, frustrated with himself, meanwhile you’re smiling, no, beaming up at him. Because…was that a joke? A Rafe Cameron exclusive? A sliver of that sense of humor you’ve been dying to catch glimpses at? You’re hungry for more of it, starving, and you nearly jump with glee despite literally getting knocked on your ass a mere few minutes ago.

“Could’ve been worse,” you muse teasingly. “Could’ve been an old woman.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, cringing. “God. Don’t say that.”

You laugh, and at the sound, he peeks his eyes open so he can fully experience the noise, the kind that makes his heart feel like it’s gonna burst out of his chest and his brain feel airy and empty. He nearly curses at himself at how stupid he gets around you. It doesn’t matter that he was top of his class, top of his major, could be on top of the fucking world, for what it’s worth, yet no amount of intelligence makes up for the behavior that he exhibits around you. Dumb. Speechless. All of it.

“Well,” you say quietly, suddenly a bit sheepish now the adrenaline is starting to wear off. “I don’t wanna keep you. Throw you off your game, you know.”

Rafe frowns gently, not really wanting the moment to end. Granted, he was in the middle of a run, an act he rarely gets interrupted on. Truthfully, he has no idea how he’s supposed to continue the workout after this — how could he? When he’s finally held your hands, felt your body against his, close enough to where he could practically lean forward and—

Stop, stop, stop, he thinks immediately. Time and place.

Instead, he peers down at his feet, and in the act of doing so, he notices your purse laying askew a few feet away. Without hesitating, he moves to pick it up, delicately grabbing the strap and dusting off the minuscule pebbles etched into the leather. As he's peering down, he glances at your shoes.

Heels. Pretty, sparkly ones that show off your pink nail polish. It hasn’t even occurred to him as to why you’re out, especially this early, after just lamenting to him on how you wish you were a morning person. He takes in your short skirt (that he absolutely cannot allow his eyes to linger on), then your snug tank, and the pretty jewelry adorning your skin.

“Are you—? Were you out?” He finds himself asking, just to prolong the moment. “I thought you and mornings, you know, didn’t mix?”

You sheepishly smile, nearly cringing at the implication and messing with the rings on your fingers. “Kind of an accident. Didn’t realize what time it was because I was, for once, unplugged. Well, not by choice. My phone died. So. Not much doom scrolling to do there. But totally not my fault, blame her—“

Jabbing a finger aimlessly behind him, Rafe turns to follow your gesture to Isla, leaning up against the brick building with her arms crossed, smirk deep, watching the two of you interact so shamelessly bold that it makes your face feel hot. Sure, she stopped laughing, but her knowing look is arguably worse, especially since he can see it too.

At the sudden attention, Isla throws her hands up in surrender.

“Totally not my fault, by the way." Your cousins pauses. Then, "Was I part of the problem? Absolutely. But not entirely. If anything, you were the one who—“

“Okay!” You interrupt, and Rafe’s attention is suddenly back to you. “That’s enough. Alright. Yeah, fine, you got me. You’ve caught me during the once-in-a-blue-moon kind of outing that has me up with the sun. What about that run?”

“Do you want me to walk you home?”

The question makes you falter, whatever deflection you had cooking has suddenly burned, nonexistent, evaporated. The offer stands in the air idly, nerves pricking his skin but excitement stinging yours. Is he…offering? Doing this because he wants to or because he feels obligated to since he practically ran you over a few minutes ago.

Isla, however, steps in.

“The apartment is right around the corner,” she says to fill the silence, darting her gaze between you and him. “Kind of ran her over in the perfect spot, not gonna lie.”

So Rafe walks you and Isla home…one block away.

The act is nothing short of chivalrous as you walk side by side with Rafe as Isla lingers a few steps behind, no doubt grinning and coming up with a million ways to tease you as soon as the two of you are alone in the apartment. The sun is nearly beaming now, and slowly but surely people are starting to emerge in the daylight, starting their day unknowing to the groundbreaking experience you’re currently having. Not only have you now seen him without his glasses and his hair disheveled, you’ve seen him shirtless. Fucking shirtless. You feel like you’ve won at life even if your pride is devastatingly bruised.

The walk is mainly quiet, but a comforting one, as if there’s no need for forced words to fill the gaps. You just…exist together. Breathe the same air. Walk in step with him (even though his stride is much wider than yours) yet he slows down to ensure you don’t fall behind. Plus, he walks on the outside of the sideway, not that there are any cars around to warrant that kind of protection, but the small insinuation makes your heart flutter.

When you linger idly in front of your apartment, his steps stop with yours, handing your purse back wordlessly to which you gently retrieve from him, fingers brushing for a split second. Rafe retracts his hand, scratching the back of his neck to have something to do with his hands. Blue eyes search yours for a moment, almost sheepish, as a hint of a grimace ghosts his lips.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he apologizes with a wince. “I— It was an accident, I never—“

You wave him off dismissively with a gentle smile. “Please, don’t worry about it. I’m tougher than I look.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I only cried for six minutes when I finished Lost, and that was a way bigger deal than a couple of scrapes.”

Rafe laughs boyishly, caught off guard and genuine and so fucking pretty that it physically makes your heart hurt. For a moment, his fingers that rest at his side twitch in your direction, as if he was going to reach forward to you, but stay idly where they are, firmly deciding to keep the space open between your bodies. Half of you wishes he would close the distance, hold you like you’ve been wanting him to do all this time, but the other half of you agrees on his decision for space, partly because your cousin would definitely say some embarrassing shit if any more touching was going on.

“Okay,” he says gently. “Have a nice day. Uh, or night?”

Grinning, you hum. “Enjoy your run. Sorry to interrupt a potential PR.”

When he does end up jogging away — not without a parting glance that lasted a little too long to be considered casual — you watch him slowly get further and further away, studying the way the planes on his back move in tandem with the swinging of his arms, how good his ass looks in the basketball shorts, and how badly you wish you could kiss that beautiful sun kissed skin.

“Girl,” Isla says after a few minutes of shamelessly ogling. “You did not tell me he was that fucking hot.”

The dam breaks when your AC does.

You called every number on planet earth to try and fix the problem, because it's the middle of the summer and not having even an ounce of cool air, especially when you live on the fifth floor of your building, is absolutely horrendous. Apparently, everyone in your apartment complex is also out, which is causing the landlord to scramble, and basically told all the tenants to find temporary housing, perhaps stay with a friend, for the night until the whole building's internal cooling system can be repaired.

Awesome. Yeah. Find a place to crash. Ask a friend.

Well, it doesn't help that the friends you have aren't home this weekend. One is visiting his family. The other is on a business trip that, of course, only happens once a year. Another has pneumonia (not what you need in your life right now). The rest are either unavailable or busy or extremely apologetic. It seems like the planets have aligned, every star in the universe shining down upon you to seize the opportunity, the lone chance that he'd even say yes.

At this point, you've been subtly coming onto him for months now. There is only so much you can take. Only so much time left before you're literally going to jump his bones.

Rafe gave you his number about a month ago, just after the run-in-collision that one incredibly incriminating morning, for emergencies. It was probably completely innocent on his end, wanting to exchange contacts for a legitimate emergency or for work-related purposes, but you took the insinuation and ran with it. He asked you. He gave it to you. Without you even asking. In your book, that's a fucking milestone. A small victory. Plus, now you can extend your flirting to text, and even the occasional phone call when you've over-poured a glass of red wine.

And he answers. Every time.

So it's no surprise that when you send him a message, he's responding within five minutes.

You: is the ac out in your building too or is the universe only playing a sick prank on me?????

When the three dots pop up, you're in the shower. A cold one, at that, but simply on the off chance that he'd let you crash, there's no way you'd head over without polishing up, first. Like a freak, you'd kept your phone propped up on the counter next to the shower, drawing the curtain back every few minutes to check the status of his response. When you hear a faint buzz, you nearly rip the shower curtains off the rungs.

Rafe: No, everything's working here. Did they say when it'll turn back on?

Despite your wet hands and the fact that your phone probably won't work properly for a little while, you answer.

You: tomorrow night. gonna boil to death in the meantime.

The response is immediate.

Rafe: We don't want that. Do you have somewhere you can stay to prevent that from happening?

Hook. Line. Sinker.

You: nope. friends are all conveniently away.

The amount of water you're wasting by standing here and sickly waiting for the three dots to appear is astronomical, because they don't come immediately. It's as if he's debating the offer, teetering between the fear of crossing over the line of professionalism and simply helping a friend in need. That's all it is, right? You can handle that. You can accept that sort of reasoning.

You nearly drop your phone when he answers.

Rafe: I'm not sure if this is weird to offer, but you can stay here for one night. To prevent the boiling.

You: really??? you'd do that for me??? because im not ready to burst into flames just yet in life. maybe next winter solstice.

He solely responds with his address, with the addition of Head over whenever.

So you take your time in the shower. Diligently use your favorite body scrub on every crevice of the surface of your skin. Massage your scalp with your scented shampoo. Exfoliate in the places you want to accentuate. You want to feel good, smell good, solely focus on your words when you're with him and let your body fill in the gaps. You're probably in there for what feels like forever, and it's when your fingers start to prune that that's your cue to get out, to get ready, and go to his fucking apartment.

The jitters are insatiable.

You opt for a more casual approach, ditching the business professional attire he normally sees you in and simply adorning your normal street-wear. The sun begins to dip into the horizon, making the head a little more bearable than before, but it doesn't stop your stride as you hike your bag higher on your shoulder, walking with a pep in your step as the distance between you and him gradually gets smaller. The music blasting in your ears gives you the proper confidence you need, adding to your long, long list of manifestations.

When you end up arriving, you send him a text letting him know. Within minutes, he's letting you in.

Rafe's face is slightly flushed, as if he ran down a flight of stairs to prevent from keeping you waiting, simply wearing a white t-shirt and casual jeans you've seen on him once, that late night at the coffee shop, with his glasses dipped low on the bridge of his nose and hair neatly pulled back. He looks beautiful, especially with the setting sun illuminating his profile to make him appear as a make-shift god. It's unfair, truly, how pretty he is.

"Hey," he says, out of breath. "Sorry, were you waiting long?"

You brush past him as he holds the door open for you. "Two minutes. But it felt like two hours."

"Wh—? Really? I'm sorry, I didn't see your message—"

When you send him a pointed look, he falters, words dying in his throat as he exhales a shaky breath. Rafe gently shakes his head at you, leading the way up the apartment stairs as you trail behind him, smelling hints of the cologne he has on that nearly makes your toes curl. He lets out a low chuckle, one of amusement, because you're not only always finding ways to keep him on his toes, but you told him about a month ago that he apologizes too much, automatically assumes he's in the wrong for everything, and that he needs to stop beating himself up all the time.

"Still not used to that," he murmurs quietly with an edge of playfulness, then after about two flights of stairs, he opens his apartment door. "Did you eat?"

You don't even answer his question. You can't. Because you're standing in his apartment, small yet quaint, simple but personable. He has a wall-length bookshelf full of all sorts of books: small pocket sized ones to textbooks. Journals. Novels. Magazines. Any form of literature under the sun is confined to the mahogany of his book shelf. His couch is simply grey but adorned with leafy green pillows and a patterned blanket. The coffee table has a candle, tv remote, and a bouquet of flowers. The wall decor are cool posters, ranging from movies to magazine covers to simply interesting art. It's very unapologetically him.

When he realizes you're not responding, he spins on his heel in the middle of the kitchen, taking in the way you're examining the decorations on the wall and the fabric of the blanket Sarah knit for him. You haven't even put your bag down, yet (but you slipped your shoes off, like the gracious guest you are), nor have really glanced in his direction as you're distracted by the new environment, learning more about him in a matter of minutes than it took nearly three months.

Rafe suddenly feels shy. "Uh, sorry, I kinda have random stuff, uh, everywhere."

But something in his shoulders relax when you shake your head, eyes still on the printed manuscript paper on his wall. "This is awesome. Where'd you find all this stuff?"

The purely genuine interest in your tone throws him for a loop as he studies you for a moment. Don't you think it's...nerdy? Over the top? A bit strange? Why haven't you laughed at him yet? No, instead your hand is gently skimming over artwork, posters, even small ceramic items he managed to put on the wall, almost with admiration, deliberation, as if you're learning the material and crevices of each item. He watches in awe, nearly holding his breath as you take an interest in all he has to offer, not running, not laughing.

Then, he realizes you've asked him a question.

His eyes widen, forgetting.

"Um, kinda everywhere? Made some, found some at markets that my sister drags me to, was gifted some. I just..." He swallows thickly, hating being put on the spot but wanting to try. For you. "Don't have a style, or anything like that."

You hum, impressed.

"If this is not having a style, then you don't want to see my apartment," you snort, half joking half serious. Then, you turn to him, meeting his bashful gaze and nearly grinning at his flushed cheeks. "I haven't eaten, actually. What's good around here?"

"Oh, I actually was gonna cook," he says instantly, then after a beat or two of stupidly blinking at you, his eyes widen. "I don't— Unless you want take out? There's a couple of good general stores, one sushi place where they know me by name, it's a little humiliating every time I go but—"

"Rafe," you interrupt gently, suppressing a grin. "Breathe. Haven't you ever had anyone in your apartment before?"

His shoulders sag, releasing tension as he does what you command, taking a deep breath as he (attempts) to gather the majority of his thoughts, to fucking relax even though it seems impossible with a pretty girl standing in the middle of his living room right now. By choice. And little by little, his nerves slowly dissipate, especially when you smile so pretty and already look disgustingly endearing in his apartment.

"Not really," Rafe answers after a few seconds. "Is it obvious?"

"No, you're doing great."

"Now you're just lying to my face."

You laugh playfully, finally letting your bag drop to the floor as you saunter into the kitchen. Skimming the metal of the barstool attached to the island, you take a moment to feel the material, simply prolonging the conversation as you know he's watching you. Then, after one, two seconds, you hop onto the stool and prop your elbows on the counter, bracing your chin on your knuckles as you peer at him, your signature look whenever he comes by your desk with yet another IT ticket.

"I'm gonna pretend you didn’t said that," you muse teasingly. "Whatcha cookin'?"

It's almost unfair how good of a cook he is.

You try to find one flaw with him. One. But your brain comes up short. He's chivalrous, incredibly smart, one of the hottest people you've ever laid eyes on in your life, and knows how to cook? Knows how to cook well, at that. You take in his movements, how he nonchalantly adds spices and ingredients while barely paying attention, solely focused on whatever you've been yapping about for the past twenty minutes. It's almost muscle memory for him, maneuvering around the kitchen as if it was what he was born to do.

And he hangs on to every. Single. Word.

When his back is momentarily turned, you're shamelessly staring at his arms, how the muscles flex every time he moves them, or laser-beaming your vision through his t-shirt to try and focus on the planes and ridges of his shoulder blades shifting, or drifting your gaze down, down, down to simply admire the way his jeans snug his ass. It's sin. It really should be. Because it's not fair that he's simply existing like this, completely oblivious to the fact that he's got your insides all twisted up just from the sight of him cooking, for fuck's sake. Plus, he's making one of your favorites (how he knew that is beyond you, or it's a very crazy coincidence).

By the time he's setting the plate in front of you, you're in the middle of a rant about continuity in media (a total, immeasurable, astronomically detrimental way to make a guy lose a hard-on, if you had to guess). But he seems interested, taking your ranting to heart and even offering an appreciative hum or counter question.

"I mean, it's absolutely insulting to the reality of history," you lament as you take a hearty sip of the wine he poured you earlier. "The show was set in the eighteen-hundreds. She had a smokey eye."

Rafe settles into the barstool next to you with his own plate, and you almost let out a pathetic noise when his arm brushes yours.

"Not to discredit the accuracy of historical fashion," he says through a bite of food. "But do you think that was done to appeal to the targeted audience? You know, smokey-eye enthusiasts and chronically online Gen Z-er's?"

You pause for a moment, taking in his half calculated yet half bullying remark.

"Are you..." You start slowly. "Calling me chronically online?"

Rafe freezes his fork midair, full of what would be a delicious bite, and sheepishly side eyes you, and the close proximity automatically makes the tip of his ears go hot, along with the higher part of his cheekbones when you're giving him, another, pointed look that he can never decipher on if it's faux or suggestive or truly insulted. He's been studying you, analyzing your behavior and expressions to the best of his ability, but his results always come up short because you always find a new way to surprise him, new way to keep him on is toes and question everything he's ever been taught before in life.

"Because you'd say the same thing if you saw it," you add accusingly. "You would think it was an abomination. An insult to a historian's lifework. You'd throw up, or something. Don't act like you wouldn't."

He blinks.

"I'm also not a smokey-eye enthusiast," you add pointedly. Then, "Except on Tuesday."

A beat. Two. Then,

"...Really?"

You throw your hand over your heart.

"Rafe Cameron, I am offended."

Again, he simply blinks. "About the smokey-eye or being chronically online?”

“Both. My screen-time has drastically decreased in the past six months, if you even care.”

His lips twitch, and the faintest hint of a dimple appears at the corner of his mouth. You match it, your threatening tone only hanging on by a loose thread, and you’re realizing that with this close proximity that you can really see the blues of his eyes, the beauty marks on his skin, and the way his pupils seem to dilate when you stare at each other for a little too long to be considered casual. The urge to kiss his reddening cheeks nearly skyrockets the longer he stares at you, so much that you have to pinch your thigh under the counter to hold back.

You need to distract yourself. Now.

“Where’d you learn to cook, by the way?” You ask curiously, eyes returning back to your food to eat another big bite. “It’s suspiciously delicious.”

Forks scrape fiesta-ware plates to fill the few moments of silence between you, and you wash the flavorful meal down with another sip of wine, one that’s nearly perfectly paired with the cuisine. For a split second, your eyes dart over to admire his hands, one flexing around the glass and the other loosely holding the fork, taking in the way his nimble fingers navigate movement. How badly you want to reach over and grab them, lace his fingers with yours, smooth over his knuckles, trace every scar.

“My mom,” he responds softly, tone laced with gentleness. “As a kid, I used to sit in front of the television and watch cooking shows, and then go and tell my mom how to make everything I saw.”

You laugh quietly. How fitting.

He matches it, swirling the wine around in his glass while he hums fondly. “She finally got sick of it and let me help. Taught me what food mixes with what drinks, how much spice to actually put into meals, how to eyeball measurements. Stuff like that.”

“That’s so sweet,” you say genuinely, peering over at him. “Like a little, mini sous-chef.”

“Yeah, well,” Rafe muses in faux-frustration, but the small smile hinting his lips gives away his indifference, “my sister now uses it to her advantage. Demands I make her meals in exchange for hanging out with her.”

Taking another bite, you snort, ignoring the way your heart is absolutely lurching with every word he’s revealing about himself.

“That’s not a bad tactic, you know. Forcing proximity in exchange for some company. I might start doing that, put your skills to the test.”

“That so?”

You readjust in your seat, causing your arms to brush casually (absolutely nothing about it is casual to you, especially when the skin to skin contact makes your body nearly jolt with electricity, and double especially when he seems to lean into your touch, only a fraction, but you notice all the same). It’s practically unbearable, because he’s right here, within arms reach, and there’s nothing more you want to do than hold him, have him hold you, run your fingers through his hair and smooth over the hills and ridges of his body as if you’re studying the topography of a map. You want it. You want him. You want it all.

But that’s too forward. Time and place.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you continue. “Next on the list is arancini. Maybe fried cabbage. You ever tried making French onion soup?”

If you would’ve told yourself two months ago that you’re currently sitting pretty perched on Rafe Cameron’s couch, finishing your third glass of wine and sitting a foot apart watching Arrested Development, you probably would’ve flipped a table. Or shouted from rooftops. Or made a public disturbance. Because it seemed unattainable then, something so far fetched in a way that you could only daydream about.

He looks good like this: unguarded, face a bit flush from the wine, finally feeling comfortable enough to lean into the conversation to not have to calculate every single response. His shoulders aren't as wound up and he stumbles over his words less and less. There's an eased flow to your discussions, topics ranging from ridiculously absurd theories to deeper meanings of life that are often taken for granted.

You sit with your legs tucked underneath you, fully facing Rafe as he sits normally about a foot from you, eyes trained on the coffee table in front of him or his glass of win. But every so often he'll tip his head back to rest against the back of the couch, lulling his head to the side to stare at you while you speak about nothing and everything. The act is complete innocent in itself, but something about the casual intimacy of it, the slight domesticity of hanging out with him in his apartment, that makes your stomach do flips.

It isn't until your accidental catalyst, a yawn, interrupts him mid sentence.

You cringe at the involuntary act. "Sorry. You were saying?"

Rafe's gaze flicker to the time, and yours follow. When did that time pass? "I didn't realize how late it was. I set up my room for you if you wanna head to bed."

Being so caught up in the disappointment of the time, you nearly miss what he says, your heart skipping a beat as you double take. His room? You'll be... Christ... You'll be sleeping in his bed? Against his pillow? Under his sheets? Snuggled into his scent? You didn't even expect to see his bedroom, and predicted you'd have to dream of what it looked like as you slept on the couch, or on a pullout, or even on the floor, for fuck's sake. But his room? It seems oddly personal, like you're intruding (technically, you are), but that means he... He'll be—

"You did?" You ask before your mind can take it back.

Whether Rafe sees the gears turning in your brain, he doesn't let on. So innocent. So sweet. So polite giving his room up like that, such a sacred place and he's handing it over to you on a silver platter. As if it was the most obvious decision he could've ever made. He barely flinches, nodding nonchalantly, as he smiles.

"What? You think I'd let you sleep out here?" He jokes shyly, rubbing the nape of his neck.

You blink at him. "Well, yeah."

Blue eyes just blink back at you. "Wh— You're not— You're not sleeping on this excuse of a couch."

"I'm not?"

Despite his flaming cheeks and racing heart, he doesn't back down. He doesn't let up because it's you, your well-being, your comfort. And he's not playing around with that, even if it makes him a little more bossier than usual. God, he'd sleep on brick if it meant you could have a nice, warm bed.

Rafe shakes his head. "No, I am."

When he stands, he misses the way your shoulders sag.

Separate, you think miserably. Of course. He's not the kind of guy to force any sort of insinuation, make you uncomfortable in anyway. Hell, he'd said shut up to you playfully a week ago and apologized after about fifty times. If that rattled him so deep to the core, you can't imagine him ever making the first move, not for an epoch, you fear. Not unless you give a push.

But the words don't come. The urge rises and dies in your throat.

What if you're reading this wrong? Taking advantage of a guy who is simply doing all of this out of the good of his heart? Thinking of you as a friend, not someone he could see something more with? He's been so hesitant to pursue anything further than barely friends, more co-workers than anything. Is he doing this to be nice? Professional? Because he feels like he has to? As a friend? When all you've been doing is practically lusting after him like some sort of prize? Trophy? When he's probably the most emotionally intelligent, walking green flag, perfect archetype kind of guy? When he's so much more than that? When he definitely doesn't see you like that?

The thought makes you sick, all of a sudden, and the wine makes you feel incredibly more tipsy than you originally thought you were. You follow his movements, uncurling your legs from out underneath you as you stand on bone-jelly legs, downing the rest of your wine in one go and grabbing your bag that you left aimlessly in the living room.

Rafe doesn't notice your inner turmoil. "Let me just grab clothes, and then you're all good to set up camp."

You respond with a half amused noise, watching him glide down the hallway and disappear into the first room on the right. In the meantime, you place your and his glass in the sink, cursing yourself in your head as you hear him rummaging through his things for one, two more beats before you hear his footsteps emerge once again.

When you look up, he still has the simple t-shirt on but swapped his jeans with simple plaid pajama pants. Light blue that matches his eyes mixed with whites and navys and greys. God, he looks so fucking good, so pretty and comfortable. In his hand, he's got a charger, book, and water bottle, his night-time essentials, as he sets the items down on the coffee table by the couch and finds your eyes.

Rafe smiles gently when he does. "You okay?"

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you put on your best smile, one that he doesn't seem to look too much into and nod, perhaps a bit too quickly, but regardless, you hike your bag up your shoulder and follow him down the hallway. When he opens the bedroom door for you, you step inside quietly, taking in your surroundings.

There are all sorts of decor adorning his walls. Newspaper cut outs, movie posters, comic posters, music posters, photos of him and a similar looking girl and a younger brunette, cheeks smushed together with a beautiful beach and sunset in the background, professional film photos of beautiful landscapes and architecture from recognizable places like Paris and Milan and Santorini, clippings of manuscripts and ink-dotted parchment paper, a faded map of the eastern hemisphere, and smaller tidbits like movie theater tickets, faded wrist-bands from events, a roll of film not yet developed, and so many other things that nearly make you fall in love with him.

When your eyes settle on a black and white ink artwork from Howl's Moving Castle, you hear him clear his throat behind you.

"Uh," he says a bit hurried, feeling a bit sheepish that you're basically seeing all the parts of him he tries his best to hide, "do you want me to get you anything? Water, toothbrush, I think I have a candle somewhere—"

You wave him off gently. "I'm alright. Thank you."

Rafe lingers for a moment, almost waiting for you to make a comment on his decor. Poke fun at the Batman poster. Compliment the sporadic artwork. Gush about the adorableness of the photos with him and his sisters. You always have something to say, something to fill the silence, ready to speak your mind on things he's always eager to hear about.

But you don't. Instead you take one last fond glance at the walls and sit on the edge of the bed, smoothing your palm over the neatly made comforter as you send him a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. You notice his brows furrow for a split second as he stands in the doorway, opening his mouth as if he's gonna say something else.

"Goodnight," Rafe whispers eventually. "I'll be out there if you need anything, okay?"

You nod up at him. "Okay." Then, quieter, "Goodnight, Rafe."

The soft click of the door behind him coats you in a painful silence, and it's as though you feel your heart tear in two.

Here you are: practically surrounded by him, sitting on his bed that he sleeps on every night within the walls he looks at every day, seeing a glimpse of who he really is behind rosy cheeks and nervous laughter. He's everywhere. All you can see. Hear. Smell. Touch. Just not where you physically need him to be, not where you emotionally wish he could be. He's just beyond the door, separated by a thin wall covered with every piece of him, so close yet just out of reach.

You let out a quiet sigh, quite frankly taking the loss as you rummage through your bag, plucking out your pajamas. As you put on the barely there sleep shorts and oversized t-shirt, you wonder what it'd be like to sleep next to him, or simply lay against his chest or nuzzle into the crook of his neck. You'd probably feel secure, safe, protected. Especially in the gentle, dim light from his lamp and soft sheets that smell like him.

Rounding the bed (as you like that particular side better), you pull the sheets back gingerly that are neatly tucked into the mattress. Yet, you have to tug a bit, similar to whenever you stay at a hotel and the staff make the bed so damn neat that you have to use all your strength to simple get under the covers.

"Motherfuck—"

You yank particularly harsh, stumbling a bit when the sheets untuck, but something thuds gently on the ground, pulling you from your anger-induced thoughts and guiding your attention to the floor. Sitting on the rug is a notebook, brown worn leather with coffee stained pages, tallied with a random business card as the book-mark. It looks used. Worn. Loved. A journal.

A very private looking journal.

You lean down to pick it up but hesitate mid-bend. This is his private possession, something clearly hidden not for anyone to find, as it was stuffed within the mattress to never see the light of day. You should put it back, forget you ever saw it, and simply go to sleep, dream of something pleasant, and wake up and share a nice morning with him. Perhaps brew a pot of coffee. Be asked how you like your eggs. And you won’t mention it. You’re not even gonna deal with it. Don't touch it. Not gonna...

Fingers are skimming over the sleek leather before you know it, kneeling onto the rug and picking the journal up with two hands, as if it'll break if you mistreat it. This is precious, a prized possession, something deeply intimate that you’d argue is a reflection of the soul. You’d be pissed if someone went through yours, yeah? No, this is wrong, this is so wrong—

Frantically, you try and stuff it back into the mattress, but in your endeavors in doing so, the aged notebook slips out of your grasp and thuds against on the rug. When you curse under your breath and lean down to pick it up again, your breath hitches, air stolen from your lungs when it falls with a page open, seeing the contents of what the fuck is actually in there.

You.

From the first day you met him. You remember the blouse paired with those specific earrings, the way your hair was freshly styled after getting it done the day before. Deep and thin pen lines makeup a beautiful portrait of you, nothing like you’ve quite ever seen before, ink marked deep in the parchment-like paper to resemble that of a portrait. But it’s not lustrous, it doesn’t accentuate your breasts or sexualize you in any way. It’s simply…you…existing. His definition of beautiful, all your beauty marks and each stroke of an eyelash. The texture of your hair down to the slope of your nose.

Shamefully, you flick through more pages.

You sitting across from him at the coffee shop. Another one of you at your desk. You peering at him in front of your apartment that fateful morning. Every feature of yours is down to the minute detail, each pen stroke is done with care, caution, as if he was terrified of messing it up, recollecting you wrong. It’s…beautiful. Slightly twisted. But you now know that your shameful thoughts, images of him writhing underneath you and the sight of him below your thighs and the idea of essentially becoming his second skin, are mutual. He likes you. He adores you. He cares for you. He wouldn’t remember you like this if he didn’t. He wouldn’t sketch hearts in the corner of the paper if he didn’t.

Before you know it, you’re stuffing the journal back between the mattress, just where you found it, and your legs have a mind of their own as they round the bed and head for the door. He doesn’t need to know that you found it. He never needs to know. All you needed to know was that the feeling was mutual. Mutual. More than you thought it could ever be.

A hand twists the doorknob gently, cracking it ajar as you step quietly into the hallway. It’s dim, not dark, with a lamp on in the living room that cascades down the hallway. When you peer into the living room, he’s propped up on the couch, book in hand, eyes narrowed in focus as he hasn’t noticed your entrance yet.

But a faulty plank in the floorboards alerts your presence.

Rafe’s head snaps up. His eyes linger on your practically bare legs for one, two seconds, then search your face. “Hey, you okay?”

Your mouth opens and closes. How exactly do you phrase it? Hey, I saw your drawings of me and I didn’t realize how bad you wanted me, too. Or Is it appropriate to come and join you but preferably on your lap? Or a real kicker, If I lie on your bed naked, will you paint me like one of your French girls?

The words come before you know it. “Do you wanna join me?”

Rafe’s jaw goes slack.

The breath is momentarily knocked from his lungs, because are you asking him what he thinks you’re asking him?

There’s no surprise his cheeks are already reddening, heart thumping, because here you are: standing in the middle of the hallway with a shirt covering you mid thigh with — what appears to be — no pants underneath, asking him if he’s going to stay with you. Be with you. Not sleep in separate rooms. Stay with you. Holy shit. Stay with you.

“I— Wh— Do you want me to?” He asks incredulously, yet his voice is barely a whisper.

But you hear him all the same. And you nod.

You fucking nod.

He blinks for one, two seconds before — yup, okay — his body is moving, throwing the blanket off his lap and tossing his book aimlessly on the couch, not bothering to mark the page, as he switches the lamp off and quietly follows you into the bedroom, stepping in the same places your soles have and shutting the door behind him. His heart is fucking racing, can you hear it? Can you feel the vibration of its rhythm even though you’re not touching him—

Yet, suddenly, you are.

Gripping the collar of his shirt and bringing his lips to yours.

Rafe freezes, his brain only registering the honey taste of your chapstick and your hands lightly bracing on his chest. His mind yells at him, touch her! Do something! But his body remains still, petrified into stone, and he begs his hands to hold your waist and pull you close, for his mouth to respond to yours and find a rhythm, for his instincts to finally fucking kick in and kiss you back. But he can’t. He can’t fucking move.

Yet you pull back as soon as you leaned in, faces inches apart as you peer into his eyes, practically staring into his soul.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” you whisper breathlessly, “and I’ll drop it. Wipe it from existence. We can pretend it never happened.”

He sucks in a harsh, panicked breath. He doesn’t want that at all, not in the slightest, not by a long shot. How could he ever pretend that never happened? How could he ever pretend you didn’t just incapacitate his motor functions by kissing him for three Mississippi’s? How could he go on casually in life knowing how you taste? There’s no way he’s dropping this. Absolutely no way.

(How many shameful nights has he spent with you on his mind? When his hand is beneath his waistband with your name on his lips like a mantra? A prayer? An incantation? Cursing at himself every single time because it felt dirty, thinking of you so precariously when you’re perhaps the only person who has treated him with respect. How many times has he fantasized your hands, skin, lips, everything against his own hands, skin, lips? How could you even think he couldn’t want this? Want you?)

“I want this,” he responds quickly, blinking ferociously to make sure what’s happening is real. “I just— I don’t— I’m not really experienced. I don’t want to be—”

You’re already shaking your head. “I need you to be you. Okay?”

The words make Rafe falter momentarily, because when has anyone ever said this to him? When has he ever been told to be himself? It’s always a be normal or act more like a man, as if being his own self wasn’t enough. Stop talking so soft. Stop being so shy. Stop hiding away. He’s never been embraced — not like this. So inviting and certain real. Just be himself. Be Rafe Cameron. You said you needed him. Needed. When has he ever been needed before? Especially by someone looking at him so pretty.

Slowly, but surely, Rafe finds his voice. “Okay. Okay.”

For the second time, you’re closing the distance.

And this time, Rafe kisses you back.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without given permission.

notes sorry for the cliffhanger but I LOVE THEM so i will be writing more. maybe a series? dont know. dont care. all i know is that there will be more.

[amirayna]

Dante pulled me aside today, at first .. I thought it was going to be something pleasant, Kings I was so wrong.  He told me .. that while I am an amazing woman, I deserve better than him, someone that can give me all that I deserve .. all I want, is to be loved. He has been amazing, tender, loving, taking such care of me like no one ever has in all my life, and yet, he thinks I deserve more.  When does it matter what I want?   I want him, so simple, quite plain, but he does not want me.  He called me complicated and extraordinary, and himself, a selfish bastard.  I do not understand, I was prepared to give him everything. Stavros said I was cursed, I never put much stock in that, but now.. I am no longer so certain.  Happiness is simply not to be mine, not like other women, there will be no man in my life, save for Rafe.  What sort of example am I for my children?  I cannot keep a man, is it me? Really?  Am I too demanding? Too passive? Do I now show enough passion? Or perhaps too much?  I have been called many things over the years, from ice ubara, to a passionate witch, I suppose it depends on my mood and the man, and how I feel about him.   I love Dante, further, I fell in love with Dante, but I was foolish, I thought he loved me, all the signs were there, I am normally a good judge of character, maybe I only saw what I wanted to see?  I cannot believe that, I simply cannot, I will wait, give him time, space, and hope to all that is holy that he comes to his senses. I want him to be My selfish bastard.

[salem-s]

CONFESSIONS UNDER SHEETS THAT SMELL OF YOU ── RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT

SYNOPSIS you’re drunk. Rafe’s drunk. after spending the entire night stealing glances across the room whilst the other isn’t looking, it’s time to go to bed. and you simply can’t say no when he, your best friend, asks you to stay the night.

WARNINGS language, fluff, suggestive content but no actual smut. hope you enjoy. another jock!rafe au bc i can.

WORD COUNT 5.2k.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER goodnight n go by ariana grande

Rafe's tongue burns once again after a tequila shot, his fifth? Eighth? He's lost count.

But who cares? Certainly not him.

All that matters is that he's finally letting loose, having fun, forgetting his troubles for just one night so he can spend quality time with his friends.

Well, all of his friends plus you.

(His favorite person, no doubt.)

Granted, he's been trying to go up to you all night and sling his signature arm over your shoulder as normal, but he tends to be the life of the party on every occasion and alcohol seems to make him a social butterfly.

Rafe's the guy all the girls want to linger on, who latch a talon around his bicep and make their indented mark on his smooth skin. He's the guy that's always down for a round of shots, or the guy who's eager to participate in drinking games (and the guy who wins them all, for some reason that the other people cannot fathom, especially you, who refuses to play against him in beer pong anymore after you kept betting away your Saturdays to accompany him for whatever event he wanted you at that day).

Sure, each drink he consumes piles onto his list of problems he's going to have to deal with tomorrow, but the wavy feel of the rhythmic bass, the moody lights hovering over him and sweaty bodies cheering and singing quite poorly, Rafe can't help but say fuck it and keep going. 

Life at university has been quite the trip for him. Luckily, all of his friends managed to snag a spot at the same college, all majoring in separate topics and studying concepts that run circles in his head, but he could care less about how much he understands their fields of study and rather focuses on the fact that all of them are here. With him.

Especially you.

Because if you had gone somewhere far?

Well, Rafe would've had to follow you. Just to keep a close eye on you. 

So, with his closest people by his side, every night is a goddamned trip. Especially whenever they all congregate in his apartment almost all the time, which seems to be the ultimate magnet for parties. Not that he or his roommate, John B, mind that much. 

With a drink in hand, Rafe roams the confinements of his living room, making small talk with his basketball friends, with girls eyeing him from across the room, hoping to be the one who ends up with him at the end of the night.

Yet, contrary to popular belief, Rafe isn't into hookups that much anymore.

Hookups with anybody that aren't you, that is. 

You. The pretty girl with cherry chapstick stained lips who's smiling so bright at something Kiara said in the kitchen, a sight he wishes he was close enough to really see. But it's a smile that makes Rafe fall in love with you all over again, the kind of smile that's reserved for your close friends only, (and a smile that often comes out when you're piss drunk, because despite the reserved and mysterious persona you put on is nearly a facade for your incredible sarcasm and sense of humor, and frequent blithe personality).

Rafe doesn't understand how he didn't fall for you sooner, especially when you dress straight out of one of his dreams.

You. You. You.

You who could genuinely wear anything and it would have him utterly speechless regardless. You who love to peer up at him with those doting eyes of yours whenever you're trying to get something from him, whether it be another coffee or the mug on the top shelf or to binge another show he could care less about but will indulge in as long as he can make you happy. You who are the only thing on his mind nearly all the time, easing in and out of his consciousness like a fog he can see and feel but can't quite catch.

There's nothing to prohibit his feelings. He's tried so damn hard to forget you, to try and ignore the pull you have on him without even realizing, to accept the fact that you'll only ever be friends.

Even when you always find each other by the end of the night after stealing glances through the kaleidoscope of fog the party lights provide. Even when your hand slips into his as if it's molded to fit. Even when his heart thumps exceptionally loud whenever you're near, or when he smells your signature perfume before he even sees you.

Even when he's been wondering what it'd be like to be yours for years upon end.

Rafe pines from across the room, blinking out of his trance to see which girl wants a selfie with him this time.

Being a star basketball player and all has it's perks (who's he kidding? He's on the club team, but he likes to think he's a celebrity at times). He grins widely in his well known charming-persona, and knows to expect his face over a few Snapchat stories that he'll find in the morning (or afternoon, given how much more he drinks from here on out). 

All these girls pining over him and the only person he wants is uninterested. Truly a shame. Rafe-0, Universe-a million and counting.

Though he lets it slide because having you as a friend is better than having you as nothing.

He values your relationship for what it is and it would hurt like hell if Rafe somehow managed to ruin that. Knowing his abysmal track record of infinite fuck ups, he wouldn't be surprised if he ended up doing something to jeopardize you.

Despite being a relatively smart person, Rafe can be pretty dumb when it comes to other people's feelings. He's the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, and he's never had a problem with confronting people about his feelings (i.e. letting girls down easy, standing up to his father when he lashes out at his sisters, that sort of thing), but for some reason he bites his tongue when it comes to you. 

Who cares about Rafe's sulky feelings when there's a party to host?

He shakes his head at himself, getting back into the zone of the room and taking a generous swig from his solo cup, the liquor burning his throat and coating his eyes with water, and nonetheless he grins and shouts to the music.

Rafe spares another glance at you, taking in all your pretty before downing the rest of his drink.

You watch Rafe from across the room, thanking the higher beings that Kiara's gotten drunk enough to not see straight, so she can't relentlessly bully you into oblivion. 

The two of you are in the kitchen along with a few other classmates who make pretty good small talk that even you join in, surprising people that you're actually pretty friendly behind the stoic expression you normally wear around strangers. You manage to laugh and tell a few anecdotes and let people see slivers of the real you, although you can't help that your gaze flickers to the six foot something life of the party who lingers on the opposite corner of the apartment.

His smile is so fucking pretty that it hurts to not be on the receiving end of it.

You really try to pay attention to your friend's story. By the way the rest of the group is laughing, you're sure it's comical enough to be worth listening to.

But the only consistent thing in the back of your mind is Rafe in that fucking black t-shirt with his hair falling over his forehead in messy nonchalance, contrasting his normal pristine look. 

You force yourself to look away.

You also decide that whatever is in your drink needs to be stronger, because the sight of Rafe taking selfies with girls and genuinely enjoying it just sets a fiery pit in your stomach, which you know is abhorrently irrational given that:

A. You aren't even dating, for starters.

B. Rafe's friendliness never dies down, even if it's to people he doesn't know all that well.

Annoyingly, you can't blame him for paying attention to girls and giving them the time of day. Rafe deserves the attention. He does, truly. You just wish some of that attention could be for you, and only you. 

Oh well, you think pitifully. It'll never happen so might as well drink even more than planned. 

It seems that whenever Rafe's looking at you, you're not paying attention.

And when you're looking at Rafe, Rafe is off talking or doing something else. 

Sarah's nearly going to kick everyone out, push you two in a room and lock you in.

This absurdity has been going on for years and it's honestly exhausting watching you dance around each other so timidly. Everyone in the group knows it, hell, everyone in the goddamned world knows it, except for the two of you.

If stupid and oblivious were people, it would be you and Rafe, rightfully so. 

For Christ sake, the two of you fall asleep next to each other every single movie night, heads leaning on the other, and other times it'll be your head on Rafe's lap or vice versa. Sarah can't count how many times you've ended up with limbs entangled on numerous couches, chairs meant for one person, or even once a beanbag.

You sometimes walk into the apartment just to take a nap in Rafe's bed, regardless if he's home or not, and if Rafe is home he just lets it happen. Sometimes he joins you.

Most nights, Rafe and you will spontaneously leave in the middle of the night to take a stroll around campus or get 24 hour cookies from the bakery on the other side of campus. You stay up late in Rafe's room watching WWE Smackdown every Monday night while eating popcorn and commentating like you're literally twelve years old. Sometimes you reenact fight sequences that almost always end up with you pinned to the ground.

One time Rafe planned a whole day to take you to the museum and dinner after you mentioned you wanted to see a specific piece of art once. You bought 37 packages of beef jerky for Rafe after he talked about a crave for it once. 

As if it means nothing.

Like Sarah says: Idiots. 

With John B's arm hanging over her shoulder, she darts her gaze between the two of you standing at opposite sides of the apartment, noticing Rafe's warm gaze on you that immediately gets interrupted by someone wanting to talk to him, and then cue you sneaking a glance at him with almost pitiful eyes.

She rolls hers, knowing your pining is based on hidden feelings while Rafe's is based on uncertainty. Sarah genuinely wants to smack both of you silly. You're so goddamned stupid.

"So do you think tonight's the night?" says John B quite loudly even though the music's too blaring for anyone to hear. Her ear tickles from his hot breath. 

Sarah sighs, watching her brother talk to his basketball friends. "I fucking hope so. Twenty bucks it happens tonight."

John B scoffs playfully. "I doubt that's gonna happen. You're on."

Rafe is almost upset that he's such a heavy weight because it takes drink after drink after drink for him to feel buzzed. It's a blessing and a curse at the same time.

It's a blessing for times when he wants to have fun and remember the night, or when he has serious shit to do the next day but still wants to get drunk. Sometimes he likes to sugar coat it so you'll tend to him in the mornings, although you've always been the one person to always see through his bullshit and call him out.

(You still dote on him, anyway.)

It's a curse for times where Rafe's in his feels and just wants to be drunk enough for forget his own name. Or your name, since you're the pinnacle for his mopey personality.

Tonight, he's grateful for being a heavy weight, especially since he has to write an important paper tomorrow. The fact that he's already heavily buzzed which means he's on the right track. 

After two in the morning people gradually weed themselves out of the apartment. Of course, the core group pledges to stay behind and emotionally support Rafe and John B tomorrow morning when they elect themselves to clean up the mess they made the night before. You usually end up making breakfast while everyone is scrubbing counters or cleaning sticky alcohol off the floor. One time, the group let JJ attempt the cooking and the house smelt like burnt toast for days, so now it’s solely you who take the reins in the kitchen.

It’s typical for everyone to crash at John B and Rafe’s apartment after a hangout, so it’s nothing out of the ordinary when Kiara or you or JJ crash in Rafe's room, sometimes all four of you are squished in his queen bed. It's a tight squeeze but comfortable, nonetheless. 

Soon enough, it's just the core group with the exception of a hand full of friends on the couch, and it's finally become that time of night where the upbeat EDM is replaced with something softer, slower, more intimate that’s reserved just for them. Kiara's passed out on the carpet while Pope props her on her side to make sure she doesn't throw up (if she ever were to, Kie's held the record for longest amount of time without puking). Cleo and JJ have been drunkenly debating the semantics of Hobbit feet for the past hour. John B and Sarah are snuggled on the couch, the girl forcing her boyfriend to massage the knots in her shoulders.

However, the only two people not in the huddle of friends in the living room are you and Rafe, leaning a little too closely together against the counter, watching the scene in front of you with lingering smiles.

You're slightly swaying, humming to the song while Rafe just dreamily stares at your friends, and then drops his head on your shoulder while he gazes. 

"I missed you tonight, Snaps," Rafe murmurs softly, compassionately, genuinely heart felt.

Despite the lurch in your heart at the nickname he's been using for years (you choke on a ginger snap one time), you manage a small laugh. "I've been here the whole time?"

He doesn't take that for an answer. "Didn't talk to you, though."

"Talking to you now, actually."

All Rafe does is hum in response, feeling warm in his embrace and caged in but in the best way. His cologne has probably imprinted on your scent at this point, given how your life always seems to smell like him, even when he's not around.

There's a moment where you think he's going to say something else, something deeper, based on the way his breath evens and how his hand that has been tracing the fabric of the end of your shirt slows down, as if in calculation.

Your breath hitches.

But he lets out a drunken laugh. "Re-remember when Sarah tripped in the parking lot yesterday and-and-and John B's drink went flying because he screamed so loud?"

You match his drunken laugh, shoulders slightly bouncing from it to mask the thumping of your heart. "And then we nearly pissed ourselves laughing while Kie complained she couldn't picture it herself because she wasn't looking."

As if it's second nature, you find his hand and trace your fingertips over his calloused knuckles, mapping the ridges and grooves you've grown to memorize. At this point, you could create a constellation map based on the markings on his body alone.

Rafe snorts, taking the last swig of his drink before throwing it over his shoulder, the cup landed hazardously in the trash-warzone of a kitchen.

"That was a good day, Snaps. Good...good day."

Rafe's lean is a little too strong to the point where you have to steady yourself just to keep the both of you upright, your hands stabilizing him on his chest and lower back. You take this as the normal cue that he's ready to start getting ready for bed, or else he goes on a drinking rampage until dawn or goes missing.

(That happened once and it wasn't very fun for anyone, except for Rafe who had the time of his life at the 24 hour karaoke machine at Jimmy's down the road). 

"Alright, Rafe," you say with a knowing smile, "you're done for the night." And before he can whine and protest, you add, "You have your engineering paper tomorrow and it's Jen's birthday, so you can't be too hungover or missing."

Rafe slumps in your grasp, gutting his lower lip to emphasize his reluctance even though his eyelids are all of a sudden growing heavier and heavier-

"Fine. But you have to come with me."

"That was the plan."

You shoot Sarah a look, gesturing to her brother (who's nearly asleep and limp in your grasp) and she nods back at you, but not without a wink and a thumbs up from John B.

Thank god it's dark in the room or else you'd never hear the end of the heat that you feel rising to your face, no doubt flushing your features.

Despite your hot cheeks and slightly fogged vision, you lead Rafe to his room, the last door on the left at the end of the hallway.

His room has scattered clothes and school supplies (???) all over the floor and you feel like Indiana Jones trying to avoid them as if they're boobie traps. You don't have time to admire the movie and TV show posters coating Rafe's walls, especially the wall of photos of the people who are important to him.

You always felt flattered that your picture is up there more than once. More than that, maybe try almost all of them. But you're just friends.

Good friends.

You gently let Rafe down on the bed and his bleary eyes nearly make you melt on the spot, and it takes a lot of self restraint to not kiss him right then and there. His blue eyes are dull and dilated when he looks up at you, but also warm and inviting. It doesn't help that his grin is sleepy and charming at the same time, or that he's waiting for you to curl up right next to him in your designated spot. 

You slip off Rafe’s sneakers and socks before stripping your own shoes, socks, and jeans (not before snagging a pair of his boxers) before turning on his LED lights, the automatic setting set to the color red.

Great.

You ignore the mood behind the color and climb over Rafe to get in your designated spot, making sure there's nothing under the sheets like his laptop or a chicken wing (which you found once, and nearly yelled his ear off about how disgusting it was. Rafe, who was drunk, ended up crying and you had no choice but to hug him and tell him it was okay, even though it was really gross). 

Settling into your spot on the bed, it feels more spacious without Kiara or JJ squeezing in next to you, resulting in you and Rafe being smushed together almost every time, not that either of you essentially minded.

But now there's more room and it feels almost empty without so many people in it.

Oh, how you wish Rafe would move closer to you, perhaps lay his head on your chest or-

Rafe says your name quietly, eyes trained on the ceiling.

"Rafe."

"I have a question for you," he slurs.

Your heart skips a beat, but nonetheless respond quietly with an: "Okay."

Rafe turns to face you and you now realize that the bed isn't that spacious after all, and your faces are mere inches away from each other. His blue eyes look grey in the red light and the shadow casted upon his face nearly sends electricity through your veins, but perhaps that's just the alcohol buzzing through you or the few hits of a joint you had earlier. Either way, you don’t want to admit that you’re feeling so anxious because of six stupid words that can lead to anything.

What if he asks you about your feelings? What would you say, and what is Rafe going to remember the next morning? Just so many uncertainties with-

"Do you think Mongo has feelings?"

Wh- Mongo? John B’s cat?

You nearly burst out laughing right in his face, but take note of the serious undertones of his gaze, blue eyes slightly etched in something teetering before curiosity and worry, as if this question is the deciding factor of his mood for the rest of the night — or morning, that is.

Furrowing your brow, you can’t help but answer with a slanted smile.

"I think he does. I mean, he gets happy when you pet him and sad when you don't feel him at exactly five in the afternoon," you explain, voice hoarse from all the singing and yelling.

Listening to yourself in such a quieter environment is almost shocking, even though you can feel the vibrations of the music from down the hall.

Despite your inner turmoil, Rafe almost looks relieved, sighing. "Oh good. I was worrying about that."

“For how long?”

“Like, three hours,” he answers quietly, intently. “At least. It was really bothering me.”

Now you can’t help but laugh.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” You ask, refraining from brushing away the hair on his forehead. “You could’ve saved yourself all the anxiety if you just asked.”

Rafe only shrugs as much as his horizontal position will allow him, his gaze returning to the ceiling in sudden seriousness.

“I have a lot of things I wanna ask but can’t.”

The words send a shiver down your spine, how casually they roll off his tongue as if they don’t carry such a tumultuous backbone to it.

He’s drunk, you think.

And you are too. Nothing can be taken to heart right now.

You push the implications down and manage a small smile. “Well, it’s funny you say that because I’m the all-knowing higher god trapped in a woman’s body for the next, er, ten minutes.”

Rafe lulls his head to the side to look at you, a smirk ghosting his lips. “Only ten minutes?”

“Yeah, so ask away.”

And then he pauses. "So, twenty questions, you and me?”

"I thought it was twenty one questions?"

"What? I mean, if you want to know more about my life, Snaps, then you should've just said so. No shame in wanting to know all about the Rafe Cameron experience."

"Okay, I’m taking it all back."

Rafe laughs drunkenly and you drunkenly grin. The soft R&B echos through the hallway and causes a low bass thrum in your eardrum. Yet all you can really focus on is him.

"Okay, okay," he says, adjusting himself so he can fully face you, hiccuping twice. "You start."

“Wh— I’m the all-knowing one here. You’re supposed to be the one asking the questions.”

“Well, what if I want a higher being trapped in my body, too?”

With an eye roll, you decide to indulge and mimic his movements, facing him the exact same way, wondering if the heat in your cheeks is from your close proximity or the alcohol buzzing through your body.

You want to believe the latter but it's utterly obvious that that's not the case. You can't help it - Rafe’s hot, especially when he looks like this: dazed and unguarded and almost in love.

"Alright," you start, "uh, would you rather live only in the sky or only in the ocean?"

"Yes. Are you into anyone?"

Your eyes widen and so do Rafe’s, you both not really expecting those words to come out just like that, so blatantly.

He places a hand over his mouth to suppress his nervous laughter or more drunken words that'll get him in more trouble, while you stupidly blink back at him, hoping both your inebriated natures will be able to mask the truth in the morning.

Fuck it, you’re both going to lose memory of the night anyway, so why not add fuel to the fire? You aren’t very logical, but you’ve got the spirit. 

"Just one guy, in particular," you respond slowly, watching his unchanging expression. 

Rafe removes his hand from his mouth and curses. "It's that tool from your chemistry lab, isn't it?”

Wh—?

You go to respond, to dispute that obscene theory, but he continues.

“I mean, I don't blame you, the guy's hot, but he won't shave that godforsaken-"

Blinking stupidly at him, all you can do is tune out his conjectures and stare at him as if he suddenly started speaking a different language. Does he really have no idea? No postulate? Are you really that subtle in the way you love on him?

"-Not that it should matter, but I guess it makes sense that-"

You roll your eyes at his rambling and don’t think twice before pushing yourself forward and pressing his lips to his.

It immediately halts his words and stupid conspiracies, and after a moment of holy shit is this happening, Rafe finally understands and kisses you back, a little hesitantly, but still passionate. 

But the kiss comes and goes when you pull away and slowly open your eyes to see a very, very shocked and confused Rafe Cameron ogling back at you as if you've grown three heads.

Can't take it back now, you think.

"I'll understand if you don't feel the same way, and I won't mention it ever again and we can go back to normal," you assure with a small smile even though every bit of you is shattering inside. "But I just... I had to."

You start to think about what therapy ice cream to purchase this time, and how much to indulge yourself in to pretend to get rid of the crippling depression of getting rejected by the guy you've been pining over for several years now. Based on the befuddled look on his face that hasn't gone away, he's either trying to come up with how to let you down gently or still computing the past minute of his life.

All he does is blink, darting his gaze between your eyes and back down to your slightly puffed lips, offering no words or confirmation after your declaration.

Thank god for tequila so you can blame your lack of inhibitions in the morning when this blows up.

"Say something," you urge quietly.

Eventually, after another agonizing moment, he does.

"Wait," says Rafe, scrunching his eyebrows in confusion and looking like someone just told him the most complicated math equation to exist, "you like me?"

You roll your eyes. "You're so fucking stupid, Rafe."

"I'm the guy you're into?"

"Yes."

Rafe immediately brightens, grinning so wide that his cheeks make those dimples that you love and so wide until it physically hurts for him to stretch even further. Despite the lighting, he feels a massive blush coating his cheeks and a warmth in his heart that is reserved for the pretty girl laying right here with him. 

"Holy shit," he exhales breathlessly. "This is the best day of my life."

You roll your eyes at how he states that like it's a fucking fact.

"Oh, shut up."

"No, I'm not kidding." Rafe can't stop grinning. "Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for this?"

Your stomach flips at the thought of him wanting you, too. Too. Mutual.

"You have?" Your voice is smaller than you would like, tentative, unsure if he's just saying this to indulge you or if he's actually telling the truth.

But Rafe gives you no indication that he's messing around, instead peering at you with such certainty that it makes your head spin.

"I have since freshman year. I thought everyone knew that."

Your mouth drops. "Wh- You- I didn't know that. You mean this could've been done sooner?"

Rafe contemplates that for a moment, understanding that he could've been with you much much much earlier than right now, but then shrugs, concluding that it's important you found each other in the end despite all those years of what felt like useless pining. He likes to think everything happens for a reason, and maybe all this time has just been a sign to further progress your feelings. 

"It's being done now," he murmurs, bringing his hand to your soft cheek and gently soothing your cheekbone, "that's what matters."

This time, Rafe's the one who leans in to kiss you, a soft and reassuring kiss that doesn't last very long but still means so much to you.

Your hand meets Rafe's warm skin, pulling his waist just slightly closer to yourself (to which he reciprocates). He pulls away because he can't stop grinning into your lips, which doesn't really help when he's trying to kiss you, still not over the fact that you literally confessed and made the first move after Rafe had been so adamant that you weren't into him like that.

"So, are you my girlfriend now or what?" he asks quietly, breath fanning over yours.

You tilt your head to the side as if Rafe just said something absolutely ludicrous. "Uhm, maybe —stop grinning — take me out to dinner first and we'll see about that."

"Baby, I'll get you anything in the world if I get to call you mine."

The saccharine words automatically make your eyes roll, a teasing smile hinting your lips at you pull back, watching him lean forward to essentially chase them.

You almost laugh at the way he nearly pouts, but it dies in your throat when you feel his hand smoothing over the cool skin of your waist and eventually snaking over the bare skin of your spine. You're no stranger to his touches, but now it implies a deeper meaning, a possessive one, that has you nearly losing your breath.

He's so close. You can make out the beauty marks on his skin and the faint scar on his lip from when he busted it as a kid. His eyes never leave yours, shamelessly staring and taking in your features as if he hasn't done it a thousand times before.

It feels like eons before Rafe moves, leaning in slowly to test out the waters and see if you'll tease and pull back again. But you don't. You lie still, ready for him and blinking at him with your doting eyes, and he doesn't waste another second before he's kissing you once more, pulling you impossibly taut to his body as if it was molded to be there.

Your hands brace themselves on his toned chest, gingerly feeling the ridges and grooves of his body as you'd feel the topography of a map, nearly sighing into his mouth when his other hand comes up to cradle your jaw.

In an instant, his lips move to your neck and one of your hands nestles in his hair, stomach flipping at the sensation of him sucking and kissing the soft skin, no doubt hard enough to leave a mark. Not that you really mind, anyway.

You let out a quiet sigh and Rafe groans against your neck.

"You can't- Don't make that noise."

You snort.

He hums. "Yeah, that one's fine. Make that one."

"Rafe."

He continues sucking and peppering kisses on your skin, offering another low hum of nonchalance, as if he has all the time in the world to be right here, to do what he's doing, to be unbridled to your beck and call.

And you stay like that for a while.

After a few more kisses and conversations of disbelief about how this hasn't been done sooner, Rafe passes out in your arms, sleeping soundly and deeply with a permanent hint of a smile ghosting his (swollen) lips. His arm is tightly wound across your stomach with his head on your chest, the lull of your heart beat dragging him to sleep. 

You hold him more tightly than other nights, because you did it, you're finally his person after years of dreaming of this.

Sure, you've held Rafe plenty of other nights, but those nights haunted by the fog of fear instilled in your head about the fact that it could be just platonic to him. It could mean nothing.

And now it's...you're sure that he feels the same, even though he's drunk, you just know. Sarah's wink makes sense, John B's thumbs up makes sense. All the hand holding and late night adventures make sense.

Everything Rafe's done for you, it makes sense.

He claims he doesn't care about your dating life but will make you text him once an hour as a proof of life. He massages your back and shoulders without you asking him to after you've had a long day sitting in front of your computer. He'll randomly drop by with your favorite snack or flowers or craft because he was simply in the area. Once he stayed up all night with you so you didn't have to binge the last season of your favorite show alone.

Selfless. Careful. Doting.

You sleep soundly, entangled within a mess of Rafe and not even bothering to set an alarm, to let yourself enjoy the moment for as long as you can. Because you normally rise before him anyway. You usually leave the room whenever you sleep in the same bed just to avoid the early morning pillow talk that you really aren't a fan of.

But now you don't need to worry about that. None of it.

Because you know you'll wake up and still be his.

"They're not up yet, do you think they're dead?"

"John B, they're not dead just probably asleep."

"Or worse. Someone's ass will be in the air."

"Kiara!"

"I'm not judging. They're both freaks anyw-"

"I- Oh fuck it, I'm opening the door. Shut up."

Sarah gently twists the knob of Rafe's door open, all three eagerly peeping their heads in to get a good look at what's happening and if she really owes John B (another) twenty bucks. She's been losing a lot of money because of her brother, but this morning is already raising alarm bells because you aren't up yet making breakfast for everyone as you normally do.

And as she peers in, she understands why: you're still in bed with Rafe, both sound asleep and tangled in each other.

The sight is so natural these days, so it barely fazes any of them. Usually where Rafe is sleeping, you're there with him. Usually where either of you are missing in any scenario, the other is accompanying. You're like yin and yang. Rum and coke. Plant and dirt. Hard to coexist without the other.

That's why your friends don't think twice about your otherwise compromising position.

"Typical," Kiara mutters.

"Should we wake her?" John B says quietly, darting his gaze between you and his girlfriend eagerly. "I'm starving."

Sarah rolls her eyes and slaps his chest with the back of her hand. "C'mon, let her sleep. This is probably the latest she's slept in in months."

"It's barely ten?"

"John B, make your own damn food if you're that hungry."

He goes to plead again, but Sarah scoffs at his selfishness, nearly ready to slam his head in the door to get him to shut up.

"Zip it," she says. "We'll give them thirty minutes, and if they're not up yet, then you can wake her up, okay?"

That seems to relatively satisfy him, as John B begrudgingly nods (not that he was ever going to win that debacle, anyway).

Sarah hums in contentment, slowly starting to shut the door and takes one last fleeting glance at you and her brother, sleeping soundly. "So, now we just-"

Her words immediately halt notices something that makes her heart drop.

"Is that a hickey?"

John B's eyes widen. "What?" he whisper shouts eagerly, eyes rapidly searching and pushing the door open more. "Where?"

Sarah breaks out in a mile long grin, eyes wide as she finally wins her twenty bucks back. She faces her boyfriend triumphantly and he groans silently, tipping his head back as he shoves a hand in his pocket and hands over a crumpled up twenty dollar bill.

He shakes his head and takes another fleeting look at his two friends. "I'd say I'm upset to be out of my fast food money, but holy shit, what'd that take, three years?"

"Four, more like."

"Goddamn," he mutters under his breath, then sighs in relief. "I almost don't want to wake them now-"

"I do," Kiara deadpans. Then, she screams. "HEY!"

Practically immediately, Rafe springs awake, nearly falling out of bed with a yelp. His eyes are wide yet bleary and coated with sleep while you just peek your eyes open, turning towards the noise and rubbing your eyes calmly.

Once you regain your vision, you see your three friends eagerly watching you in the doorway and can't help but suppress a grin as Rafe gets his shit together, trying to calm down from the abrupt wake up call.

"Good morning," you say nonchalantly, yawning and reaching your arms to stretch, almost cat-like. "Is it time for me to make breakfast?"

"Fuck," Rafe whines, rubbing his temples while completely draped over your body. "Fuck, Kie, you're a terrible alarm clock."

John B is about to answer your question with enthusiasm (because he is very hungry) but Sarah jabs him in the ribs and puts on a smile for you two.

"As much as we love your cooking, I think we'll go out this morning." She ignores her boyfriend's frown and looks to you. "You have your makeup here, right?"

Confused, you nod. "Yeah, why?"

Sarah's gaze flickers to something below your eyes. "Good. I'd use it in case you want to leave the house at all today."

Rafe grimaces at his headache but also tilts his head in confusion, while your eyes widen just slightly before your cheeks burn, gingerly brushing your fingers over your neck, remembering the events of last night.

You can't find your voice, instead offering a tight lipped smile and shrinking into the mattress as much as you can.

"By the way," Sarah jabs with a whisper, "I totally called it. Okay, bye."

Sarah closes the door with a knowing smile, while you can hear John B's protest of your lack of cooking while Kiara just ponders all the obscenities aloud, listing potential positions you could've been in and making lewd comments that shamefully reach your ears.

All you and Rafe can do is laugh. 

Last night hadn't been a mistake or some drunken mishap, but rather a renaissance of feelings that can finally be told.

Rafe settles back in bed next to you, feeling almost shy (and irritated at his pounding headache, god), but that feeling almost instantly goes away when you brush some of his hair out of his face gingerly, a small smile lingering on his lips as your eyes don't leave his. 

"Hi," you whisper, barely audible.

"Hi."

Rafe melts into your touch, feeling himself lure his mind back to sleep (as it seems pretty early, to which you can confirm since his friends are normally early risers), and he hums softly and shuts his eyes in content, loving the way your hands were always warm but not hot, welcoming but not sweaty.

Everything is just right and he cannot be bothered to do anything else with his day besides this. 

“Jus’ wanna stay here,” he mumbles, his baritone voice giving you goosebumps. “C’mere.”

You chuckle sweetly. “I’m already here.”

Rafe utters something incoherent, eyes already threatening to flutter shut. For a moment, you believe he’s fallen back asleep given his prolonged stillness. But there’s a flicker of hope, his fingers twitching against the hem of your top.

You’re about to say something else, but Rafe’s palm butterfly splays against your spine and pulls you practically on top of him.

You oomf against his chest, bracing your hands on his tummy and shoulder to reposition yourself to something resembling comfort. But there’s not much moving you can do because his hand holds you down, pressing you impossibly closer to him. Eventually, you cave and lay limp, burying your face in the crook of his neck and shamelessly inhaling his scent.

His chest jerks when he snorts. “Baby, d’you just smell me?”

“I have to breathe through my nose sometimes, too.”

“You totally just sniffed me.”

You — very gently — playfully bite the vocal cord on his neck, nearly smirking when he tenses underneath you.

“And now I just bit you.”

His cool hand feels like ice against your hot spine, especially how his fingers are feather light, almost ghosting your skin, teasing up so achingly slow.

“Easy, Snaps,” he says low, voice still gravely with sleep but more drawled out, almost in warning. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

You grin. “I plan on finishing. I’d like to. That really depends on you.”

The laugh that Rafe lets out is nothing nice. It teeters between disbelief and offense.

“How’s three sound?” His other hand ventures low, well beneath your spine, groping what’s rightfully his now. “Fuck you right back to sleep, yeah?”

You — somehow — press yourself closer to him, letting one of your hands trail gently on his shoulder, down his bicep, and soon lacing your fingers sweetly with his.

“As long as you’ll stay,” you say gently.

He squeezes back, once, twice, three times, then brings the back of your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss against the soft skin of your knuckle. You find the courage to tilt your head up to look at him, his grin lazy and his eyes soft, peering down at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. Really seeing you.

Not as a friend. Not as his best friend.

Something beyond that.

“Always,” he mumbles against your hand. “Never leaving your side, actually.”

“That so?”

“Mhm. ‘M obsessed with you.”

“Are you now?”

Rafe hums again, eyes flickering down to your lips. “Been for a while, believe it or not.”

Your breath hitches at the intensity of his gaze, especially at the way he looks so sure of himself, of his words, of his intentions, as if they’re set in stone regardless of any shroud of doubt you may still have lingering in the back of your mind.

There are so many things you want to say right now to him, wishing you have an ounce of the ferocity you had last night when you let confessions spill under sheets that smell of him, but with the anticipation of his touch roaming all over your body, it’s almost impossible to form a coherent thought right now.

You figure your questions, qualms, and curiosities can wait.

“Let me show you, yeah?”

Yeah, they can wait.

© salem-s do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni.

notes writing loverboy!rafe is actually so much fun because it's the furthest thing from canon and it's awesome. also thank you for 700 followers????? that's actually insane????