#cherrywriter ‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

[cherrywriterrr]

closer r.c

✵ warnings: angst angst angst, kissing, language, the L word!!!

✵ words: 4k

✵ previous

his door clicks shut behind you. the music downstairs becomes a muffled hum, just the bass vibrating through the floor, nothing clear, nothing loud enough to distract you from the fact that you’re here. in his room. again.

your breath catches. it’s cleaner than you remember. but it still smells the same. something like cedarwood and ocean breeze detergent, like him. and god, it makes your chest ache.

he stands by the bed while you hover near the door, both of you caught somewhere between saying everything and saying nothing.

his fingers twitch by his side before he clears his throat and mumbles “uh—your… your diary.”

you look up.

he walks over to the bed, lifts the pillow on the right side—your side—and pulls it out, worn and familiar, soft blue leather still creased from all the nights you fell asleep on it. all the nights you didn’t know he was holding it long after you were gone.

he hands it to you gently. like it’s fragile. like you are. you take it. your thumbs graze the edges before you flip it open, a small nervous breath falling from your lips. and then you see them. highlighter marks. dozens of them. circled dates. underlined words. your messy handwriting surrounded by his desperate need to hold on to something.

on one page, you wrote about the first time he cried in front of you he highlighted “he didn’t say anything, just buried his face in my neck. i think that was the first time i realized he was more boy than monster.”

another, circled three times in gold ink, “i think i’d let him ruin me if he asked. maybe i already did.”

you flip more. a smiley face drawn beside a line you forgot writing “rafe told me my laugh makes him feel normal. i didn’t tell him his laugh makes me feel alive.”

your heart is pounding. your hands shake just enough for him to notice. you don’t look up yet. you just whisper “you read all of it?”

his voice is hoarse when it comes. “every night.”

your fingers still over a torn edge, lips parting but no words coming out, not right away. you finally lift your eyes, voice small. “why?”

he’s already watching you, not blinking, not breathing too much “closest thing i had to you.”

your heart caves in again, in that same soft place he’s always known how to hurt without meaning to.

you blink, flipping to the back. pages you thought were blank—now filled with darker ink, heavier strokes, different handwriting. his. you glance up “you… wrote your own things here?”

he rubs the back of his neck, like he’s nervous, like being known too much might break him. “uhm… on the last pages. yeah.”

his voice drops even softer, like it’s something sacred “read them… home.”

you close the diary gently, fingers brushing the edge like it might burn if you held on too long. it feels heavier now. like it’s soaked in everything you never said. everything he never could.

you place it carefully on his desk before looking at him “you said we needed to talk,” you say, your voice calm but laced with something unsteady. “so… talk.”

he nods slowly, jaw clenched like he’s trying to hold everything in—every version of you he still sees when he closes his eyes, every word he’s rehearsed but never had the nerve to say until now.

“you just… drifted,” he says finally, voice raw. “you started slipping away from me and i didn’t even realize it until it was already happening. you weren’t calling anymore, or showing up to the marina, or answering my texts.”

you stay quiet.

“and it fucked me up,” he says, firmer now. “i thought—i thought i did something. or said something. i replayed every second of every last conversation trying to figure it out. like maybe if i just found the moment it all cracked, i could fix it.”

your chest tightens. he laughs, bitter and breathless. “and when i couldn’t, i started being mad at myself. and at you. because you didn’t even say goodbye. you just vanished and expected me to be fine.”

his eyes are glassy now, hands gripping the edge of the desk like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

you step forward, slowly, even though it hurts “it wasn’t really you,” you say softly. “it was us.”

he scoffs, shaking his head. “don’t do that.”

“rafe—”

“don’t fucking do that,” he snaps, louder now, voice trembling. “don’t say ‘us’ like we both ruined it the same way. like we were equally to blame.”

you flinch but don’t turn away “we were destroying each other,” you say anyway, because it’s the truth. “we weren’t sleeping. we were fighting over nothing. i felt like i was bleeding for you and you didn’t even notice.”

his face twists, pain flashing across his features “that’s not fair,” he breathes. “you were everything to me. everything. and yeah, i didn’t always know how to say it right, or show it the way you needed, but fuck—don’t stand here and tell me we were just burning down.”

“we were,” you whisper. “you just didn’t see it yet.”

he steps back like you hit him. and god, you wish you had something softer to give him. but all you have is what’s left. what’s honest. what hurts.

you look down. your voice comes out quiet, like it’s afraid to be spoken aloud, but you say it anyway “i know we were best friends,” you begin, your throat tightening, “but it wasn’t healthy anymore. i couldn’t breathe. i felt like i was drowning and trying to save you at the same time.”

he turns away like it physically hurts to hear.

“i loved you,” you add, barely audible now. “but it wasn’t the kind of love that made me feel safe. it was the kind that made me feel like i was breaking open just to be close to you.”

he laughs. it’s bitter and sharp, a defense mechanism dressed in cruelty “yea?” he scoffs, spinning around. “fucking best friends—that’s all you saw in me, huh? a friend you had to save and then leave?”

his voice cracks on that last word. he doesn’t try to hide it “you think i didn’t feel it?” he goes on, stepping closer. “you think i didn’t notice how you looked at me like i was some fucking broken bird you just had to fix before you moved on to something easier?”

you shake your head, but he doesn’t let up.

“you called me your best friend like it was some badge of honor, ike it explained why you let me fall apart in front of you and didn’t stay long enough to help me pick it back up.”

your bottom lip quivers, and he sees it, sees the effect he has, but he’s spiraling now and can’t stop.

“you left me,” he says, barely above a whisper. “you left me, and then i kept reading your diary like a fucking addict just trying to remember what it felt like to matter to someone.”

he rubs a hand over his face. his chest is heaving now “you wrote all those things about us—about me—and then you just disappeared. you kept saying ‘we were just friends’ but none of it felt like just friendship to me. not one fucking second of it.”

you don’t know what to say. because he’s right. it wasn’t just friendship. not to him. not to you, either. but you were so scared of the fire you’d built together, you ran from the burn.

you swallow, voice shaking “i didn’t leave because i didn’t care,” you say. “i left because i didn’t know how to be near you without losing myself.”

his eyes drop to the floor. like if he looks at you any longer, he might fall apart completely.

you take a step closer, arms folding tightly across your chest to keep them from reaching for him “i couldn’t save you,” you whisper. “and it was killing me to keep trying.”

his shoulders rise with a silent inhale “you didn’t have to save me,” he says, looking back up, eyes burning. “you just had to stay.”

“yeah, okay,” you say, voice bitter, voice broken. “and who the fuck was gonna save me, rafe?”

the name hits heavy. you don’t say it often anymore. but when you do, it’s like a trigger. a match thrown onto gasoline.

“you wanted me to stay?” you laugh, sharp and humorless. “stay with me then. stay with me through the nights i couldn’t sleep because i was too busy wondering if you were alive. stay with me when i cried so hard my chest ached and you didn’t even notice.”

he looks at you like you’ve just ripped the air from his lungs.

you shake your head, voice rising now, eyes burning “you think you’re the only one who hurt? the only one who lost something? you were so wrapped up in your own pain you didn’t even see mine. you just needed and i gave and gave until there was nothing fucking left.”

he stares at you, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring—and then he explodes “i would’ve!” he shouts, voice cracking in the middle. “me! rafe! i would’ve saved you!”

he takes a shaky step forward, finger pressing into his chest like he’s trying to convince both of you “i wanted to save you. i wanted to be there. but you didn’t let me. you never let me. you treated me like a project and then blamed me when the parts didn’t fit the way you wanted.”

his voice drops, something thick and jagged creeping in, like he’s choking on everything he didn’t say before “you think you’re the only one who was breaking?” he whispers. “you were all i had.”

you were each other’s whole fucking world. and no one taught you how to handle that without setting fire to it.

“that’s not fucking true,” you snap, too fast, too defensive. “you had other people, rafe. other friends, other—”

“no,” he growls, cutting you off so hard it’s like a slap. “you were not just my fucking friend, do you understand that? do you?”

your breath catches.

his eyes are wild now, glassy and dangerous and full of everything he’s been burying for too long “who else was there,” he spits, stepping closer, “when my parents divorced? when my dad started bringing rose like she hadn’t already ripped my whole fucking family apart?”

his voice cracks, but he pushes through it, louder, messier “who sat in the driveway with me for hours when mom locked herself in the bedroom crying? who climbed through my window at two in the morning when i was losing my shit and pretending i wasn’t? you. always fucking you. no one else.”

he’s right in front of you now, and it feels like the room is caving in with every word “i didn’t have a mom most nights. dad was always drunk or gone. sarah had john b. wheezie was a kid. i had you. you knew everything. every ugly, broken part of me. and you still held on—until you didn’t.”

your throat burns, heart hammering so hard it hurts.

“you left,” he whispers, voice unraveling. “and you keep saying you were my friend, like that’s all it was. like it didn’t mean everything to me. like you didn’t mean everything to me.”

and then quieter, shaking “so don’t stand there and tell me i had anyone else. because when you left, i didn’t just lose a friend. i lost home.”

your jaw tightens, heart splintering, because it’s not that simple; it never was “i didn’t want to leave like that,” you say, the words tumbling out rough and uneven. “i didn’t plan it, rafe. it wasn’t some big fucking escape plan, it just—i couldn’t breathe anymore. i couldn’t sleep, i couldn’t be around you without feeling like i was drowning.”

he flinches, but you keep going, voice rising.

“you needed me so much, and i wanted to be there, i did, but i was breaking. you were spiraling and pulling me down with you and i tried so hard to keep us both afloat, but—i was nineteen, rafe. nineteen. i didn’t know how to carry both of us.”

his mouth parts, but nothing comes out. his hands tremble slightly at his sides.

“i never stopped caring,” you add, softer now. “but caring wasn’t enough. not when it felt like loving you meant losing myself.”

silence again. he swallows hard, his voice barely above a whisper “fuck,” he says. “i get it. okay?”

you look up, startled by the rawness in his tone.

“i didn’t then,” he goes on, eyes glassy. “but i do now. or at least, i’m starting to. it doesn’t make it right, it doesn’t make it hurt less—but… yeah.”

his voice breaks, a breath caught in his chest like something lodged dee “you left. and it shattered me. but i know now you weren’t just trying to hurt me. you were trying to survive me.”

his eyes flick up to meet yours “and that… might be the worst part.”

“don’t say it like that,” you whisper, a little too fast, like you can stop it—like you can pull the words back into his throat before they finish tearing you apart.

but he’s already shaking his head, bitter smile twisting at the corner of his mouth “no,” he says, more to himself than to you. “it’s true. it’s fucking true.”

his voice is unraveling, raw and exhausted. “i mean—i fuck everything up, right? it’s what i do. i ruin good things. you were a good thing. maybe the best one. and i still made you feel like you had to run just to stay alive.”

you step forward, but he won’t meet your eyes.

“i get mad too easy. i say the wrong shit. i shut down or blow up or disappear. i get jealous. i get scared. and you—god, you were so patient with me. for so long.”

his voice cracks again, like a fault line opening wide “but in the end, it wasn’t enough. i wasn’t enough. and i hate that i did that to you. i hate that i’m still doing it now.”

his hands run through his hair, fingers tangled like he’s trying to physically hold himself together“i don’t blame you,” he mumbles. “for walking away. i never did.”

you want to tell him he’s wrong. you want to tell him he was never not enough.

he exhales hard, like he’s been holding it in for years “okay. fuck,” he mutters, pacing a step back before stilling again, eyes dark and locked on yours. “i’m gonna say this once. because i’m already scared enough as it is.”

your breath catches.

he swallows thickly. his voice low, shaking but sure “i don’t see you as a friend. not just a friend. never did.”

he says it like it’s a confession that might damn him, like it’s the one thing he swore he’d never admit but can’t keep in anymore “i think i realized it too late, or maybe i always knew but just—didn’t think i deserved it. didn’t think you deserved someone like me, like this. so i kept it in. i played the best friend role. but it was never that for me. not really.”

he laughs under his breath, no humor in it “god, it was so much more. every day. every night you’d call or show up or laugh at something i said and i’d feel it, in my chest, in my fucking bones. and i kept pretending like it wasn’t killing me that you didn’t see it.”

his voice lowers to something quieter, shakier “you were the only thing that ever made me feel like i could be good. that maybe i could get better. not the coke. not the fights. just you.”

he looks at you, helpless, like the words came too late. like he doesn’t expect anything back. like he just needed you to know.

you stare at him. blink once. then again “and the other girls?” your voice isn’t loud, but it slices through the room. “rafe, you had girls while we were still… friends.”

the word sounds bitter now. hollow. not enough for what you really meant. not enough for what he just said.

his jaw ticks. “when?” he steps forward. “when exactly, huh? when you had a boyfriend?”

you don’t answer. can’t. he scoffs, bitter. “right. exactly.”

and then it hits you. hard. deep in your chest, like a wave that crashes too fast for you to breathe. he never looked at anyone when you were alone. not once. every girl you saw him with—every blurry memory of someone on his arm, someone clinging to him at parties, at the club, in town—had only happened when you had someone else. when you’d been wrapped up in someone who wasn’t him.

fuck.

you sit down, or maybe your legs just give out a little. because you remember now—every time you came crying about your boyfriend, about your confusion, your fears, your heartbreaks—he was there.

and then he’d vanish for a bit. and then you’d hear about some girl. and it always stung, but not enough for you to question it, not until now.

your heart starts to race “rafe,” you whisper. like saying his name might explain something.

he just shakes his head. not mad anymore. not smug. just hurt “yeah,” he says. “you think i didn’t notice how fast you forgot about me when someone else held your hand? i was just the friend. the one who got to watch.” he laughs once, low. “so yeah. i fucked around. but only when you weren’t mine to stay loyal to.”

you blink, heart pounding in your chest, eyes wide and unsteady “i… i didn’t know,” you whisper, voice barely holding together “i—i don’t know what i thought.” your words stumble out, full with confusion and regret. you never realized how much he was holding back

“exactly,” he says, too fast, too sharp. like he’s been waiting for you to say those words, like he’s been choking on them. “you didn’t think.”

he stops. breathes in. breathes out slowe “but… i didn’t either.”

his voice drops, softer now, the heat draining out of him like he’s exhausted from holding it in for so long “i didn’t think about how much it was hurting you. how it must’ve felt watching me spiral and act like you didn’t matter when you were the only person who ever actually did.”

you look at him, chest aching, lips parted like you want to interrupt—but nothing comes out. he doesn’t let you speak anyway.

“i loved you.” his eyes flick to yours, raw and open. “i love you. still do. and not the way you love your best friend or someone you’re supposed to love out of habit or guilt. not like that.”

he steps forward just a little, slow, like you might disappear if he moves too fast “i loved you when i was sober, and i loved you when i wasn’t. i loved you through the silence, through your boyfriends, through the months you didn’t call. even when i was being a complete asshole—i was in love with you.”

he runs a hand through his hair, like it helps him stay grounded, like he’s barely holding himself together “and i should’ve said it. fuck, i should’ve said something instead of pushing you away, instead of acting like it didn’t kill me to see you pull back. i should’ve been better. i should’ve been better for you.”

his voice wavers, cracks a little “but instead, i made you feel like it was your job to save me. like you were supposed to hold me together while i kept falling apart and dragging you with me.”

his hands ball into fists at his sides “and i hate that. i hate that i did that to you. that the only person who ever made me feel safe, i turned into someone who couldn’t even look at me anymore.”

you’re quiet. both of you are. there’s just the sound of your breathing and his, all uneven and heavy like the weight of everything unsaid is still sitting between you.

and when he looks at you again, his voice is barely above a whisper “i’m sorry. i should’ve loved you better.”

your mouth opens like you’re about to say something, but nothing comes out. just the sound of your breathing—shallow, uneven, your lungs trying to keep up with your heart as it slams against your ribs like it’s begging to get out. your eyes blur. he just… stands there. waiting.

and then it happens. your throat tightens. your lips tremble. and the tears fall, slow and silent, streaking down your cheeks like they’ve been waiting too long to be released.

because it hits you all at once. he wasn’t trying to be your friend. not really. not in the way you thought. he wasn’t just being kind because he was a good guy, not in the way people usually mean that.rafe never did anything for show, never overplayed his part or showered you in exaggerated words or meaningless promises.

he just… did things. small, soft, stupid little things.

carried your books without asking. kept your favorite lighter in his pocket even when he quit smoking. held his breath when you cried, like inhaling might make it worse.

always kept the side of his bed cold because you liked it that way. bought that cherry bracelet because you liked cherries, even though he swore he didn’t notice jewelry. showed up when no one else did, not because he had to—but because he didn’t know how not to.

you thought he was just being sweet. just a good friend. but that’s all he knew. he didn’t have a guidebook for how to say i love you without ruining it, so he did the only thing he knew how to do—be there.

and fuck. you broke his heart thinking he never tried.

you finally blink, and your voice comes out hoarse, breath hitching. “all those times… you weren’t just—” you cut yourself off, shaking your head slowly, eyes wide and wet as you look at him.

he doesn’t say anything. but his eyes… god, the way they’re locked on yours, it says everything.

no. he wasn’t just being nice. he was loving you. every fucking day. quietly. unconditionally.

your hands tremble as they lift, halfway between reaching for him and holding yourself together.

your voice is cracked glass, “you were trying to show me… and i never saw. never saw it, not really—”

your breath hitches, breaking down mid sentence, “i feel horrible, rafe. fucking horrible. i didn’t think about that, i—i—i—”

“hey,” he cuts in, stepping forward, voice low and strained, like it hurts to interrupt you but he can’t bear to hear you tear yourself apart “it’s okay. i know. i know it wasn’t the best—”

“no,” you snap, the word barely holding shape through the tears in your throat.

you shake your head hard, like if you shake it enough you can reverse time, undo it all “fuck, stop. don’t do that. don’t try to make it okay just to make me feel better.”

your voice cracks again “i loved you too.”

he freezes. the air halts. everything in the room stills.

you don’t stop. you can’t. it’s pouring out now “i love you too, rafe,” you whisper, stronger this time, like a truth you should’ve screamed years ago “i think i always did. even when i didn’t understand what that meant. even when i called you just my best friend and pretended that was enough.”

you look at him through the tears, eyes begging for him to see you now—finally, really. your chest rising and falling in uneven waves.

“you deserved more than how i left you. more than confusion and silence. i know that now. and i just…”you break again, “i just don’t want it to be too late.”

he’s on you in seconds. hands on either side of your face like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he blinks. his breath hits yours, warm and rushed and trembling “say it again,” he whispers, voice shredded. his thumbs brush your jaw, his forehead nearly touches yours. “please,” softer now, like a prayer.

your voice shakes as much as your knees “i—i love you, rafe.”

that’s all it takes. his mouth crashes into yours, not rough but urgent. like he’s been holding his breath for years and you’re the air. like every moment he went without you was penance.

your fingers fist into his shirt. he kisses you deeper, fuller, pouring everything into it. years of silence. years of pretending.

“i love you,” he mumbles against your lips, over and over. between breaths, between gasps “i love you so much.”

his hands slide into your hair “i’m so fucking sorry—i should’ve told you sooner, i should’ve done everything differently, i’m sorry—”

your lips part like muscle memory, like home, even tho it’s the first time. and god, if this is what forgiveness feels like, you’ll take the heartbreak a thousand times over.

✵ taglist ✵ masterlist

tags 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @rafesteddy @httpsdrewstarkey @qversazex @meetmeintheemeraldpool @babygoddam @eunivalaa @belle101200 @pillowprincess4him @rgrimesr @abireichstein

[cherrywriterrr]

...mortician!rafe

✯ certified freak ✯ pale hands ✯ small scar on finger ✯ poetry ✯ taxidermy ✯ photography ✯ gloves ✯ 20s ✯ dark under eyes ✯ reliquary ✯ pressed flowers ✯

✯ 18+mdni ✯ mini series-> devour me darling (…soon) ✯

✯ taglist ✯ masterlist ✯

tags 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @rafesteddy @httpsdrewstarkey @babygoddam @meetmeintheemeraldpool @t0x1cfaerie @rgrimesr @abireichstein @silkylovey @macbaetwo @whosyourmommy69

cherrywriterrr ©️ please do not copy, repost, translate or claim my work as yours. violations will result in an immediate block. respect creators!

[cherrywriterrr]

mistake r.c

warnings: 18+mdni!!! smut, unprotected sex, slight degradation, friends to “fuck that was a mistake,” post sex tension, denial, emotional repression, swearing, ANGST, emotional repression, one sided feelings???self worth issues, unspoken jealousy, no closure!!

words-> somewhere between 1k and 10k??idk man, i’m sorry

||i don’t really like this yall but wtv

||next>>>>

you’re not sure how long it’s been like this. all you know is your back’s sticking to the wood floor of his room, your legs are shaking, and rafe’s still inside you.

he’s sweating, grunting your name through his teeth as his hips slap against you. his grip bruises into your thighs, holding them open like he owns them. he does right now. owns every part of you. the heat between your legs, the mess leaking out of you, the bite marks across your collarbone and neck. alllll him.

“fuck, you like being used like this, don’t you, baby?”

you moan something incoherent in response. your brain isn’t working anymore, hasn’t been for the past hour. not since he shoved your phone off the bed and said,“shut up. just let me.”

and you did. you also let him touch you like he’s been dying to. like you’ve both been pretending not to want this for months. let him kiss you like you were more than friends. let him take you. in every.sense.possible. bed, wall, floor. jesus christ.

and now…“gonna cum again,” he groans, letting his head drop to your shoulder. “shit, baby, you feel too fuckin’ good.”

you shouldn’t like that. the way he says baby like you’re actually more than just a one time fuck. the way his voice breaks and his rhythm falters and you clench down so hard around him it drags a raw sound from his chest.

he fucks you through it—his high, your last one, the wreckage of all the ones before. he spills inside you with a shaky breath and buries himself deep, not bothering to pull out.

he doesn’t look at you when he groans,“fuck. that was so dumb.”

and god, it was.

he collapses beside you. neither of you say anything for a minute. your chest rises and falls like you’ve just run a mile. your thighs are slick. his hand brushes yours on the floor. you don’t move away. not until he does. he gets up first, swearing under his breath as he tucks himself back into his boxers and grabs a shirt from the floor.

you stay there. arms above your head, trying not to cry or laugh or both. when you finally sit up, your legs scream in protest and your heart’s worse. it shouldn’t hurt like this, but it does. not your body. your chest. your pride. because that was supposed to mean something—and it didn’t. it meant nothing.

you find your shirt. not your underwear. your shorts are backwards and you don’t fix them. you pretend your skin’s not on fire. pretend the ache between your legs is just from walking too far. pretend you’re not ruined.

he throws you a bottle of water. you catch it. you say, flatly, “thanks.”

“you good?” he asks like he didn’t just have you moaning his name on the floor five minutes ago.

“yup.” you twist off the cap, take a sip, avoid his eyes.

he scratches the back of his neck. “cool.”

silence. you look at the clock. it’s not even midnight. you should leave. you should say something. ask what this means. if it’ll happen again. if it was just a one time thing or if you’ve both been dancing around this for a year for nothing.

instead, after you took a quick shower you go back to his room and mutter, “movie?”

his eyes flick up to yours, unreadable. then, he nods once, like nothing happened. like he didn’t just cum inside you. like you’re not still shaking. “sure.”

so you both sit on his bed. feet apart. you pick something dumb on netflix. he pretends to watch it. you pretend not to care. you cross your legs tight, pull his hoodie around yourself like a shield, and don’t speak. and he doesn’t touch you again.

it’s been a week. seven full days.

you’ve counted them..every one. because ever since that night, you haven’t said a word to rafe cameron.

you saw his name flash across your phone the next morning, bleary eyed and sore and heart in your throat and you let it ring.

no voicemail. no text. just rafe cameron calling. and you watched it go silent.

truth is, you couldn’t bring yourself to answer. what were you supposed to say?

hey, good morning. thanks for fucking me like a stranger and then tossing me a water bottle like we didn’t used to laugh about dumb memes at 2am? wanna come over and pretend we’re not fucked now?

fuck that. you couldn’t even look at yourself in the mirror. and since then, you’ve been dodging him like your life depends on it. he’s called once more. maybe twice. or four times. maybe more…you wouldn’t know, you blocked his number on day three.

not because you hate him. but because you don’t trust yourself not to pick up if he called again. you know your weakness.

and it’s six foot something, arrogant, and built like he was sculpted for sex.

rafe fucking cameron. of course you had a crush on him. who wouldn’t??? he’s hot, annoyingly so. stupidly so. broad shoulders, stupid smirk, abs like he gets paid to have them, the kind of hands that could ruin a girl. and yeah, he’s rich, sure. confident. knows how to make you laugh when he wants to.

but also? he’s a dick. a certified, flaming, grade a douchebag. everyone knows it. especially you.

and still, you always let him get too close. sitting next to you on the couch, knee against yours. stealing bites of your food like it was cute. dragging you to parties just to keep you by his side all night and then claiming he didn’t mean anything by it.

just friends. you were stupid enough to believe that. and now? now, you can’t even be in the same room as him.

you’re at topper’s place now, cramped on the couch between two people you barely know, staring into your red solo cup like it’s got the answers written at the bottom.

the music’s loud, someone smells like weed, and your skin is crawling. you should go home. but then you hear his voice. low and laughing, just beyond the hallway.

you freeze. heart in your throat, stomach in knots. you don’t turn. you can’t. he’s coming into the living room now, laughing with cam and someone else. god, he looks good. sweatshirt slung over his shoulder, chains glinting against his chest, hair messy in the way girls swoon over.

he doesn’t look at you. not at first. but you feel it when he does. a flicker of heat at the back of your neck, like he’s peeling your layers back with his eyes. like he knows what you look like under your clothes and doesn’t mind reminding you of it.

you grip your cup tighter. he says something to someone. smiles. and when he finally walks by you—close enough that you smell his cologne—he doesn’t say hi.

he doesn’t say anything. and that’s what breaks you. not the silence. not the distance. not even the ghost of his touch still lingering between your thighs.

no. it’s the nothingness. like it never happened. like you never happened.

you sit there another ten minutes, pretending you’re fine. and then you leave without saying goodbye to anyone.

not that anyone notices. especially not rafe. you make it to the porch before the air catches in your lungs.

outside, it’s cooler, quieter. the bass still thumps through the walls, but out here, it’s muffled. like a heartbeat underwater. like a reminder you’re still alive.

barely. you lean against the railing, cup still in your hand, but your mouth’s dry. not from the drink. from him.

you try not to think about it—his voice, his mouth, his hands—but they all come rushing back like they’ve been waiting. like they knew the second you were alone, they’d crawl into your chest and set it on fire.

you exhale slow. steady. it was just sex. that’s what you told yourself. no feelings. no strings. just a one time, dumb, regrettable fuck between friends. just rafe being…rafe.

you don’t even mean it like an insult. it’s just fact. that’s who he is.

smooth talking, fast fucking, emotionally unavailable. he makes girls feel special and forgets their names the next day. he kisses with his whole mouth but leaves no part of himself behind. and if you fall for him—god help you—he’ll pretend he never asked you to.

and you? you knew all that. still climbed into his bed like it wouldn’t ruin you.

idiot.

you press the rim of the cup to your lips, but you don’t drink. you’re too busy trying not to cry. and then you glance through the glass.

inside, the lights are flashing red and gold. bodies moving to some remix you can’t make out anymore. and right in the center of it—where he always is—is him.

shirt slightly tugged up. one hand on a drink, the other on her. brianna. his hand’s on her waist, low and confident. her ass pressed to his front as they move together, lazy and intimate. his fingers flex on her side. he leans in, mouth against her ear, says something that makes her laugh.

then he drags his hand up. slow. from her hip, to her ribs, to just under her tits. and you stand there—outside, alone, watching it all like you’re the joke. your throat closes. you want to look away. you should look away. but your eyes are glued to him, to them, to the way he’s smirking like the devil himself.

he doesn’t even look at you. doesn’t know you’re there. or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t care. you swallow the lump in your throat, jaw tight. just friends. you repeat it like a prayer. like if you say it enough, it’ll absolve you of how fucked up you feel right now.

just friends. it was just a fuck. just rafe being rafe. he touches girls. he whispers shit. he dances like that all the time. you weren’t special. you were just… there. convenient. willing.

you toss your cup into the grass. your hands are shaking and your heart’s a mess and the only thing louder than the music is your own voice in your head whispering, i should’ve never let him touch me.

because now? you can’t look at him without remembering how he made you feel. and you can’t forget the way he made it clear—afterward—that it meant absolutely fucking nothing.

not to him. and maybe, if you’re honest..it meant too much to you.

“yo,” a voice cuts through your spiral. low, tipsy, familiar.

you blink out of it and look up just as topper thornton stumbles out onto the porch, holding a half empty beer and squinting like the night personally offended him.

he stops when he sees you. “oh shit, hey,” he grins, clueless and golden and full of beer. “been looking for you. kinda. not really. i got distracted by these fireball shots, but still.”

you force a smile, even though your chest is tight and your throat’s burning. “hey, top.”

he plops down on the porch step next to you, stretching his legs out like he owns the whole world and doesn’t have a single thought in his head besides where the next drink is coming from.

“you good?” he asks casually, not really expecting the truth. he doesn’t notice the tremble in your hands. doesn’t notice your eyes keep flicking back toward the glass.

“yeah. just needed some air,” you lie, smooth and soft and practiced.

he nods, content with that. takes a long pull from his beer.

then he says the one thing that makes your stomach fucking twist. “oh—rafe’s here, by the way.”

you don’t answer. just stare ahead. like, yeah topper. i know. i saw him groping brianna like she was a damn appetizer.

but topper’s still talking. “crazy you guys haven’t talked,” he says around a lazy smile. “you’re always around each other. did you not see him yet or something?”

you pause. blink once. say something normal. act normal. you’ve been holding yourself together with duct tape and pride all week…you can keep it up for one more conversation.

“we’ve both been busy,” you say lightly, like it doesn’t gut you just to say his name.

topper scoffs. “busy? what’s he even been doing? i was literally with him yesterday for like six hours and he didn’t say a word about you. figured you were mad at him or something.”

your jaw tics.of course rafe didn’t say a word. he never does. he just fucks and forgets.

topper leans back, kicking his feet a little. “honestly, kinda weird. you two were, like… thick as thieves. you sick of his shit or what?”

you laugh under your breath. it sounds wrong in your throat. “something like that.”

topper finally glances over at you. frowns, but not deeply. just a flicker of confusion. then he grins again. “whatever. he’ll get over it. he’s just stubborn. and dramatic. like you.”

you look away so he doesn’t see the way your mouth twists. he doesn’t get it. he doesn’t know. to him, it’s just a random tension. another spat between two people who always end up fine again.

he didn’t see you crying in your car two nights ago. he didn’t see rafe’s hands all over someone else five minutes ago. he doesn’t know that every time someone says his name, it feels like a bruise getting poked.

you hug your knees to your chest. bite down the real answer. “we’re good,” you lie. “just friends.”

topper nods. “cool. yeah. same old, same old.”

and you nod too. you think maybe the conversation’s over. maybe you can sit here in silence with topper until the buzz fades and your lungs stop shaking.

but of course not. he shifts next to you, elbow bumping yours, grinning like he’s been waiting to say something juicy. “wanna know something crazy?”

you sigh, slow and soft, eyes still fixed ahead. “sure.”

“i got a guy for you.” that makes you turn.

eyebrows raised. “a guy?”

topper nods enthusiastically, completely unaware of the war going on behind your eyes. “yeah. like—legit. solid dude. not a total asshole. decent job. kinda funny. not as funny as me, but y’know, who is?”

you blink. “you got me a guy?”

“well, not got you one. not like, gift wrapped or whatever. but like—i know this guy, okay? he asked about you once. saw a picture of you on my story. said you were cute.”

you stare at him, mouth parting slightly. you want to laugh. or scream. or cry. you don’t know which. the irony is choking you.

“what’s his name?” you ask, voice low, detached.

“nate. or maybe nate something. he works out. drives a jeep. doesn’t do coke, which, you know, in this economy, that’s a huge win.”

you huff a quiet laugh. he smiles like he’s proud of himself.

“you’re trying to set me up with jeep nate?” you ask.

topper shrugs. “you’ve been kinda down lately. figured maybe you needed someone to… i don’t know. make you laugh. make you feel hot again.”

make you feel hot again. you swallow hard, gaze dropping. you don’t say it, but you’re thinking it: i only ever felt hot when rafe looked at me like he wanted to ruin me. when his hands were on your thighs and his voice was in your ear and you actually believed—for just one second—that he saw you as something more.

you look away, the sharp sting of memory slicing through your chest like glass. “i’m good,” you say finally.

topper frowns. “you sure?”

“yeah.”

he doesn’t push, thank god. just shrugs and takes another sip of his beer. “his loss, honestly. you’re a fucking catch.”

you smile tightly. say nothing. because what you really want—what you hate that you want—is inside that house with his hands all over another girl, not thinking about you at all.

and no amount of nate the jeep guy will fix that.

topper doesn’t let it go for too much tho. “oh, c’mon,” he groans, nudging your side like this is all some joke and not the slow implosion of your emotional stability. “you haven’t gone on a real date in months. you’re boring now. boring, baby girl.”

you snort, dry and unimpressed, but the nickname still sinks under your skin like it always does. not because it means anything. just because he used to call you that too. once. right before he pressed your wrists into his mattress and said you looked pretty like that.

you swallow the memory back down and blink at topper like you’re totally unaffected. “maybe i like being boring.”

“no you don’t,” he says, too confidently. “you’re just scared to have fun again. i’m telling you, nate’s chill. you’ll like him. he’s got, like, manners. and forearms. real ones.”

you exhale a slow breath, chin tipping back toward the stars, which are faint and barely visible in the suburban glow of figure eight.

he’s not wrong. you have been off the grid. distant. avoidant. hiding behind excuses and errands and bad timing.

it’s pathetic, honestly. how one night with rafe fucking cameron flipped your whole axis. you keep telling yourself you’re fine. you’re over it. you’re over him.

and maybe tonight’s the final push you needed. maybe seeing him all over someone else, not even sparing you a second glance, was enough to crack the last piece of whatever you were holding onto.

because fuck rafe. fuck his stupid voice and his goddamn hands and the way he looked at you like you were his right before he tossed you aside like nothing.

it didn’t mean anything. it was just sex. you’re not in love with him. you never were.

you cross your arms and nod like you’re convincing yourself. “okay,” you say.

topper blinks. “okay?”

“fine. i’ll meet your jeep boy.”

he grins like he just won something. “yes. finally. see? you do wanna get laid.”

you roll your eyes, lips twitching. “never said that.”

he winks. “don’t need to.”

and as he goes back inside to grab another drink or maybe find your new date, you stay out there, hands in your lap, back against the porch rail.

you repeat it in your head like it’s gospel..it meant nothing. he means nothing. just a hookup. just rafe being rafe.

and if your throat still aches and your chest still tightens every time you hear his name, that’s fine.

you’ll bury it. just like he buried you.

the door swings open again, spilling light and bass onto the porch, and topper’s silhouette appears first—two drinks in hand and a crooked grin on his face like he just sealed a deal. “brought you back some liquid courage,” he announces, holding out a red cup. “and a surprise.”

you raise an eyebrow. “that better not be code for fireball again.”

“even better.” he nods behind him. “it’s nate.”

you blink. and then you see him. tall. broad shoulders. sharp jaw. soft eyes. messy dark curls. tanned skin. hoodie pushed up over toned forearms. smelling like expensive cologne and smiling…right at you.

nate. jeep guy. and holy shit. he’s hot. like, actually hot. not just in a he’s not rafe kind of way. in a he could ruin your life if you let him talk long enough kind of way.

he steps forward, eyes flicking over you in a way that makes you sit up a little straighter. “hey,” he says, voice low, velvety smooth. “topper wasn’t lying. you’re even prettier in person.”

you blink, startled for a second, then let out a breathy laugh—automatic. your cheeks warm. maybe from the alcohol. maybe from how fucking direct he is.

“are you always that forward?” you ask, tone light, teasing. playing along. pretending you’re not two seconds away from comparing him to someone else.

he shrugs, sipping from his own drink. “only when it’s worth it.”

topper’s practically glowing at this point. “see? told you.”

you ignore him. just tilt your head at nate. “so what, you let him recruit girls for you at parties?”

“nah,” nate says, smiling wider now. “just this once. he said you were smart, funny, and mean.the mean part got me.”

“mean?”

“yeah. said you’d either fall in love with me or break my heart.”

you scoff, looking away, sipping your drink just to hide the way your throat’s starting to tighten again. because god, this guy’s perfect. flirty. handsome. confident. and he smells so good. like safety and sex and new beginnings. and still—still—your chest’s whispering someone else’s name. you remind yourself he’s hot. he’s into you. he’s here. he’s not rafe. maybe that’s a good thing.

you force your lips into a smile. “guess we’ll find out which i’m more.”

topper makes a sound like a proud dad watching his kids graduate.

nate chuckles, licking a bit of beer off his bottom lip, gaze lingering on your mouth like he’s imagining what it tastes like. “mind if I sit?”

“go ahead.”

he drops beside you, close but not too close, like he knows how to tease without smothering. your knees brush. he’s warm. solid. he’s everything you should want. and maybe, tonight, that’s enough. maybe if you smile wide enough, flirt hard enough, let him call you pretty enough—you’ll finally forget the hands that held you last week. the mouth that called you baby. the boy who didn’t look at you once when he touched someone else tonight.

maybe you’ll let nate kiss you later. maybe you’ll even like it.

topper practically jumps to his feet, nearly spilling his drink. “fuck yes,” he shouts, pointing at you like you just won a trophy. “this? this is growth. i need to celebrate. you’re finally getting out of your boring ass comfort zone.”

you roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite behind it. “thanks, dad.”

“no, seriously,” he says, slinging his arm dramatically around nate’s shoulder. “you don’t understand. she’s been, like, anti fun lately. all business, no boys. total nun energy.”

you scoff. “topper.”

he grins. “what? i’m proud of you, baby girl. it’s character development.”

nate laughs beside you, low and smooth, eyes flicking over your face again. like he’s trying to see under your skin.

and god—you feel it. that attention. that heat. he’s got that look in his eye. the kind that makes you want to shift in your seat. the kind you’re used to seeing on rafe’s face when he used to stare too long.

but nate’s expression is lighter. playful. less like he wants to own you and more like he wants to unwrap you slowly. “so,” nate says, tilting his head, “what exactly is your comfort zone?”

you shrug, swirling your drink lazily. “avoiding men. staying home. emotionally dissociating. the usual.”

he smirks. “hot.”

you laugh. can’t help it. it bubbles out too fast, surprised and sharp. and it’s the first time all night that something actually feels good.

nate leans in just a bit, voice dropping. “seriously, though. topper was right. you’re the whole package.”

“hm?”

he grins, eyes dragging from your lips to your legs and back up like it’s casual. like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. “yeah. you’ve got that whole, don’t fall in love with me energy. pouty mouth, sharp stare. it’s dangerous.”

you raise a brow. “and you like dangerous?”

“i thrive on it.”

you shake your head, cheeks warm, tucking your tongue into your cheek to hide your smile. it’s too easy. too fun. too simple.

topper claps both your shoulders from behind. “nate likes girls who’ll ruin his life. and you? you’ve got that.”

you shoot him a glare. nate just laughs again.

“ruin it,” he says, grin widening. “i dare you.”

you look at him. really look at him. and for one, brief moment, you let yourself imagine it. letting him take you out. letting him make you laugh. letting him call you beautiful and actually mean it. letting him replace the phantom touch of the boy who made you feel like you were nothing.

“careful,” you murmur, voice sweet with venom. “i don’t come with warning labels.”

nate smiles, sharp and slow. “neither do i.”

topper takes one look between you and nate—your knee brushing his, the way you’re half-smiling into your cup, and nate’s eyes locked on your mouth like it owes him something—and throws his hands up in exaggerated triumph.

“okay, no. i’m getting another drink for this,” he declares, stumbling backward toward the door with the flair of a drunk game show host. “you two are giving off serious fuck me in the guest room energy and i am not emotionally stable enough to witness it.”

you groan. “topper—”

“nope! not listening! not responsible!” he shouts over your protest, pulling the screen door open. “but hey—” he points at you, then at nate, then squints like he’s trying to look serious. “hands off tonight… or stay protected, kids.”

you gasp. nate full on laughs, teeth flashing, head tilting back like he’s genuinely amused.

“jesus christ,” you mutter, face hot. “he’s actually insane.”

nate grins at you, leaning back on his palms, knee still brushing yours, voice dropping just enough to make your breath catch. “so… handsy’s off the table?”

you glance at him, biting your lip to hide the smirk threatening to give you away. you should say yes. you should shut it down. you should stop pretending this isn’t dangerous. ut then again—this isn’t rafe. and maybe you want to be touched by someone who looks at you like this.

you shrug, tilting your cup toward him. “depends.”

“on what?”

you meet his eyes. “on how many drinks topper has.”

nate huffs a soft laugh, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip like he’s already imagining things you shouldn’t let him imagine. “fuck,” he mutters, grinning. “i like you.”

you look away. heart twisting.

yeah, you think bitterly. he’d probably even mean it. nate swirls the last of his drink around in his cup, leans back a little, and gives you that look again. the kind that’s casual on the surface, but full of sharp, playful interest underneath.

“sooo,” he says, drawing the word out like he’s easing into dangerous territory, “relationship status…?”

you arch a brow, not giving him much to work with.

he grins anyway. “man hater, i suppose?”

you laugh, dry and short. “not a hater. just… a realist.”

“damn.” he mock-winces. “what did he do?”

you hesitate. just for a second. just long enough for the name to scrape against the inside of your throat like broken glass.

what did he do? he kissed you like it meant something. then acted like it didn’t. and that’s the worst kind of heartbreak, the one that’s too casual to even be called a heartbreak.

“it wasn’t like that,” you say eventually, voice light but flat. “just a one time thing. mistake. no big deal.”

nate watches you. doesn’t press, just sips his drink, waiting.

you look at him, chin tilted slightly. “you ever hook up with someone and then wish you hadn’t the second it ended?”

“once or twice.”

“and then you see them at a party groping someone else five feet from you like it never happened?”

he exhales. “ah.”

you sip your drink. “yeah. that.”

“sounds like a dick.”

“mm,” you hum. “most hot guys are.”

he smirks, eyes narrowing. “am i included in that?”

you glance at him, tilt your head thoughtfully. “too soon to say. the night’s still young.”

he laughs. not cocky—more genuine this time. like he appreciates that you’re not pretending to be impressed. and honestly, you’re not. you could be, if things were different.

but tonight, nate’s what you should want.

so when he leans in a little closer and says, “guess i’ll just have to work on not being a regret,”

you don’t even realize how much time has passed. the music’s still thudding through the walls behind you, the occasional burst of laughter cutting through the night, but out here? it’s easy. easier than you thought it would be.

nate’s warm. not just physically—though the way his arm brushes yours every so often makes your skin buzz—but in the way he talks to you. like you’re not a project. like he sees you. and yeah, he’s got a mouth on him. but it’s not in the desperate, performative way you’re used to. he’s calm. cocky. funny in that dry, i could make you cry or cum depending on the mood kind of way. and maybe that’s dangerous.

maybe you’re just tired of pretending you don’t like the way he looks at you.

you stretch your legs out, feeling the lingering buzz of alcohol soft in your veins, and glance over at him. “you know,” you say, swirling the ice in your cup, “you’re not as obnoxious as i thought you’d be.”

nate raises a brow. “wow. glowing praise.”

you smirk. “i mean it.”

he leans a little closer, eyes gleaming. “you pegged me for the worst, huh?”

you shrug, playing coy. “topper said just nate jeep guy and also he recommended you so..”

“topper also thinks four shots of fireball is an acceptable pregame, so—”

you laugh, full and unguarded this time. it slips out before you can hold it back, and nate grins like he’s proud of it. “there it is,” he murmurs.

“what?”

“that laugh. you’ve been giving me your fake polite one all night.”

you tilt your head. “and that bothers you?”

he shrugs. “nah. just figured if i’m putting in effort, i want the real you.”

you arch a brow. “maybe this is the real me.”

he looks you up and down, slow, measured. then smirks. “nah,” he says, voice low and taunting. “real you’s way meaner.”

you blink. “excuse me?”

he grins. “i saw it. the second i walked out here. that little look you gave me? all yeah, prove you’re worth my time. i like it. hot, actually. intimidating. but hot.”

you try to bite back the smile, but it’s creeping in anyway. he’s not wrong. you were skeptical. still kind of are. but something about the way he pushes back? you like it.

“you’re kind of an asshole,” you say sweetly.

“you like assholes,” he shoots back, matter of fact.

you narrow your eyes. “what makes you think that?”

he gives you a knowing look. “because you’re talking to me.”

you laugh again and shake your head, pressing your cup to your lips to hide how good that made you feel. god, you hate that it made you feel good. but it did.

the door creaks open again behind you, and before you even turn around, you hear it “hello, children.”

you groan immediately, already bracing yourself.

“i gave you two way too much time to get to know each other,” topper announces dramatically as he stumbles back onto the porch, now carrying not one, but two beers and a fresh drink that’s probably way too strong for anyone to responsibly handle.

he plops down beside you like he’s reclaiming territory. “you’re welcome, by the way. but the party’s not over, and i refuse to let you fall in love and elope on the porch while i’m still inside taking fireball shots with cam.”

nate huffs a low laugh, settling back like he’s perfectly unfazed. “damn,” he says under his breath, “guess the honeymoon’s over.”

“it was short lived,” you deadpan.

“devastating,” he replies, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s still having too much fun.

topper hands you a drink with a flourish. “drink up, my little emotionally guarded menace. you’ve got a long night of questionable decisions ahead of you.”

you accept it without complaint, fingers brushing the cold cup. “god,” you mutter. “i should’ve stayed home.”

“but then you wouldn’t have met jeep boy,” topper says proudly, already cracking open his own beer.

“jeep man,” nate corrects, tone mock offended. “i have a car payment and also trauma.”

you choke on your sip mid laugh, and topper throws his head back, cackling.

“okay, fine,” he concedes. “jeep man. and emotional unstable girl. you two have chemistry. sexy chemistry. like a bad romance novel. i love it.”

you shake your head, trying not to smile. but it’s hopeless.

topper leads the way back into the party like some overexcited tour guide who’s had one too many and zero shame. he pushes through the crowd like he owns it, dragging you and nate behind him with all the subtlety of a frat boy on a mission.

you’re hit with the heat and bass the second you step inside. bodies everywhere. sweat, perfume, cheap vodka. lights flickering. music pulsing like a second heartbeat in your chest.

it’s dizzying—but not in a bad way.

nate’s hand brushes the small of your back as he leans in to be heard. “still with me?”

you glance up at him, lips curling. “barely.”

“good,” he grins. “you look better when you’re slightly wrecked.”

you laugh, eyes narrowing. ���are you always this charming?”

“only for the emotionally unavailable.”

topper finds the shots table—of course—and immediately starts lining up little plastic cups like it’s an olympic event.

“alright, porch girl. jeep man. it’s time,” he announces, sliding two toward you and nate. “bonding. chaos. terrible decisions. let’s go.”

you lift the shot glass, eyeing it suspiciously. “what even is this?”

“you don’t wanna know,” topper smirks, raising his own. “cheers.”

the three of you clink. the shot burns down your throat—syrupy, sharp, way too sweet—and you wince, tongue darting out to swipe the corner of your mouth. but before you can wipe it away, nate’s already leaning in.

his thumb brushes the corner of your lip. gentle. slow. he holds your gaze as he does it, thumb dragging with just enough pressure to make your stomach flip. “missed a spot,” he murmurs.

you freeze, just for a second. breath catching.

he doesn’t move away right away. doesn’t say anything else. just stands there, thumb still ghosting your skin, eyes darker now under the flashing lights.

you swallow. hard. then you laugh light, sharp, impressed “smooth.”

he smirks. “better than letting topper do it.”

“he’d lick it.”

“exactly.”

you take another shot just to busy your hands.

topper’s already halfway across the room, distracted by something shiny and blonde.

it’s 5 a.m. the music’s still playing, but lower now cause someone finally had the sense to kill the bass. the air is thick with the smell of liquor, sweat, and whatever weed topper and cam passed around earlier. bodies are scattered across the couches, the floor, even the porch.

most of the crowd has cleared out. just leftovers now. you, nate, topper, kelce, cam, and a couple girls who are curled up next to kelce and cam.

topper’s leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer he doesn’t need, shouting something about how someone definitely stole his lighter.

“you had it in the bathroom,” cam slurs, half-asleep in the armchair. “saw it on the sink.”

“no i didn’t,” topper insists. “that was a candle.”

“you’re a candle,” kelce mutters, face buried in a throw pillow.

you sit on the arm of the couch, nursing a bottle of water, head tilted as you watch the slow, sloppy unraveling of what was once a raging party.

nate’s beside you, both of you way more sober than the rest. not because you didn’t drink—you did. but not enough to drown. not like them.

“honestly,” nate says low, leaning closer so only you hear, “i’m impressed. your tolerance is either insane or you’re secretly drinking water.”

you lift your bottle, tapping it against his with a smirk. “hydration nation, baby.”

he chuckles. “sooo hot.”

you laugh softly, shifting your weight so your knee brushes against his thigh. not intentionally—but you don’t move away either. “do they always end up like this?” you ask, nodding toward the chaos.

“worse, sometimes. once topper tried to put kelce in the dryer.”

“…was he in the dryer?”

“legs first.”

you shake your head, eyes drifting toward the mess. topper’s now arguing with the microwave. cam and kelce are both semi unconscious, and one of the girls is eating chips off the floor.

“so,” nate says, casually turning toward you. “what’s next?”

you raise a brow. “what do you mean?”

“i mean… it’s 5 a.m., we’re the only two people here still forming full sentences, and i’m pretty sure topper’s about five minutes away from face planting into the sink.”

you glance at him. “and what do you wanna do?”

his eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes—lazy and unbothered but burning underneath. “wouldn’t mind walking you home.”

yo pause. not because you’re surprised but because it suddenly hits you how easy this is.

nate, sitting close. nate, flirting like it’s second nature. nate, wanting to walk you home like he’s been thinking about it all night.

you want to let him. because it’s 5 a.m., and he’s here and rafe isn’t. because nate’s warm, and safe, and hot in a way that feels dangerous but not destructive. and you deserve something that simple, right?

just… a walk home. no lies. no confusion. no pretending nothing happened.

“you sure?” you ask, voice quieter now. “you don’t have to.”

nate shrugs, that slow smile curving his mouth again. “don’t have to. want to.”

your stomach does something you wish it wouldn’t. you’re about to say yes.

the word’s hovering on your tongue—soft and uncertain, but there. because nate’s looking at you like he means it, like this isn’t just some game, and for the first time in days you feel like maybe you’re allowed to want something that won’t leave you feeling empty after.

“yeah, i—” the stairs creak.

your eyes flick up—just instinct, just the sound of someone moving in the house. and then you see him. shirtless. low sweatpants slung across his hips, a hickey blooming across the edge of his collarbone. his hair’s a mess, slightly damp, like he just rinsed off, and behind him, following two steps down in an oversized tee and nothing else— brianna.

something inside you caves in. just a little. just enough. you don’t say anything. don’t have to. he sees you. of course he does.

his eyes land on you instantly sitting there on the arm of the couch beside nate, who’s still looking at you with that easy, flirty grin like he didn’t just witness the quietest heartbreak in history.

rafe’s jaw tenses. not a lot. not enough for anyone else to notice. but you do. you always do.

brianna giggles behind him, pressing against his back like she owns him. like she didn’t just get felt up by the same hands that touched you not even a week ago. like he didn’t make you feel like you were the only girl in the world for exactly twenty four hours and then disappear like it never happened.

you swallow hard.

“you good?” nate asks, voice lower now, like he can sense the shift.

you blink. force a breath. straighten your spine. “yeah,” you say, the lie so practiced it’s basically muscle memory now. “yeah, I’m fine.”

rafe disappears into the kitchen without a word, brianna trailing behind him like a shadow.

your skin burns. not with anger. not with jealousy, either. no—this is something worse this is humiliation. because you knew better. you knew what he was like. tall, hot, in great shape, rich. and an absolute fuckboy. and you let him ruin you anyway.

“hey,” nate says gently, nudging your knee. “you still wanna get outta here?”

you nod. not because you’re sure. not because you want to use him to forget someone else. but because staying here feels like drowning.

and maybe walking away from rafe—really walking away—is the only way to make sure you don’t go back.

rafe doesn’t say anything right away. he just watches the door swing shut behind you, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

nate had a hand on your back. your laugh was too soft. your eyes were already somewhere else. on the way out, away from him.

he fucking felt it. then brianna leans on the counter next to him, all smug and giggly, and he’s had enough.

“okay,” he snaps, voice low and sharp, “you can stop fucking pretending now.”

brianna’s smile fades. “what?”

“the moaning. the clinging. the little oh my god rafe you’re so mean but i love it bullshit,” he mutters, tossing the beer bottle int the sink with a hard clink. “cut it out.”

brianna crosses her arms, face twisting. “jesus, you’re such a dick to me. just ‘cause your bitch isn’t here anymore—”

he turns to her fast. close. looming. “don’t,” he says, voice deathly quiet, “call her that.”

brianna scoffs, pushing off the counter. “god, are you fucking serious?” she laughs bitterly, flipping her hair back. “you’re unbelievable.”

he steps in closer. drops his voice to a whisper “you don’t say a word about what happened in the bathroom. to anyone.”

she laughs again. sharp. mean. “why?” she taunts. “you scared i’ll ruin your reputation? because i got on my knees for you?”

his expression stays blank.

brianna shakes her head, stepping into him now, voice rising. “you were rock hard, rafe. you had your hand in my hair, your mouth on my neck—and then you opened your eyes and your dick just went fucking limp.”

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t deny it. just clenches his jaw harder.

“know why?” she spits. “because i wasn’t her.”

silence. thick. ugly. choking. brianna grabs her purse from the counter, muttering under her breath, “pathetic.”

and then she’s gone. heels stomping down the hall, slamming the front door behind her.

rafe’s left alone in the kitchen, the fridge humming in the stillness.

he stares at the door. jaw locked. hands curled tight at his sides. he hears nate’s laugh from somewhere down the street. yours, too..softer. shy. fading as the night stretches on. and he hates it. he hates him. he hates you. he hates himself worst of all.

because it wasn’t just a one time fuck. it never fucking was.

he’s still staring at the sink like it said something that pissed him off. he’s running over every second of what just happened—the sound of your voice, the way you didn’t even look at him, the way nate’s hand touched the small of your back like he could. like he had permission. he slams the cabinet shut, jaw tight, just as topper stumbles in through the sliding glass door, grinning like an idiot and holding two half empty red solo cups.

“yo!” topper calls, voice way too cheerful for five a.m. “rafe. rafe, my man.”

rafe doesn’t answer. topper doesn’t notice.

he throws an arm around rafe’s shoulder, completely oblivious. “guess what? guess who i just successfully matchmade?” he says proudly, shaking him by the shoulder. “nate and our baby girl.”

rafe stiffens. topper keeps going.

“they just left together. together. i hooked them up, bro. they were so happy. like, full rom-com chemistry. sparks flying. her laughing at his jokes, him wiping alcohol off her lip—dude, it was lowkey hot.”

rafe’s hand curls around the edge of the counter. tight. topper doesn’t see it. keeps sipping his drink.

“i told her, like, you gotta get outta that little shell, girl. do something fun. it’s been months since she’s had someone, you know?” he grins. “and nate’s the man. respectful, flirty, smells insane—like woodsmoke.”

rafe stays silent. his jaw ticks. his chest burns.

topper laughs again. “you should’ve seen them, bro. she was glowing. like, actually glowing.”

glowing. right.

rafe exhales slowly through his nose, nods once, cold and slow. then he shrugs topper’s arm off and grabs a full bottle of bourbon from the counter—not even bothering with a cup.

topper blinks, confused. “uh… you good?”

rafe walks past him without a word, heading for the door, bottle in hand, murder in his silence.

topper watches him go, frowning a little. “damn. you’re not still pissed about brianna, are you?”

but rafe doesn’t answer. he’s already out the door. already storming into the dark. already tasting blood and bourbon in the back of his throat. because his girl just left with someone else. and he let it happen.

he didn’t just let it happen. no—he made it happen. he made you walk away. made you think you were just a quick fuck. just a late night mistake. just another name in the long, blurred list of girls he’s touched and left behind without so much as a second glance.

and that was never the intention. not with you. not ever. but intentions don’t mean shit when your actions are poison and your silence is the rope that strangles every good thing you touch.

rafe cameron doesn’t do love. he doesn’t chase he doesn’t beg. he doesn’t sit around looking at a closed door wondering how the fuck it got to this point.

and yet—here he is. outside. five a.m. shirtless and barefoot on the concrete.

gripping the bottle of bourbon and standing in the afterburn of the worst mistake he’s ever made.

you’re gone. with nate. someone who looks at you like you’re worth something. someone who doesn’t flinch at the idea of wanting you out loud. someone who isn’t fucked up in the head and carved from the same cold marble as the men who taught rafe that vulnerability gets you eaten alive.

his fingers tighten around the glass. because the truth is—he didn’t grow up with soft love.

he didn’t learn affection in quiet kitchens or warm hands. he learned it from fists through walls and silence louder than screaming.

he learned it meant giving up power. and rafe cameron never gives up power. not even when it costs him you. especially not when it costs him you.

but now, with the bourbon burning down his throat like punishment, he realizes something that makes his stomach twist. he didn’t lose you tonight. he lost you the second he zipped up his jeans in the morning and left without a word. the second he looked at you like you were something disposable. like he hadn’t just touched you like a man starved. like you hadn’t gasped his name like in pure bliss. like his mouth hadn’t memorized every inch of your skin like he’d been waiting his whole fucking life to do it.

and now nate gets that. nate gets your laugh, your warmth, your fucking glow.

and rafe? rafe gets brianna’s perfume still stuck to his collarbone and a memory of you he’ll never stop choking on.

he closes his eyes. and for a moment, just one, he lets himself picture what it might’ve been like to hold your hand in daylight. to kiss you without tasting guilt. to wake up next to you and not pretend it meant nothing.

but rafe cameron isn’t built for shit like that. he ruins what he wants before it ruins him. and right now, he thinks he ruined the only thing that ever mattered to him.

his bare feet scrape the concrete as he stumbles around the side of the house, muttering curse words under his breath.

“fuck… fuckin’ nate,”

“fuckin’—stupid,”

“bitch ass laugh,”

“fuckin’ mine.”

the bourbon sloshes in his hand, warm and burning down his throat every few steps like it’ll erase the sound of your voice in his head.

but it never does. it never fucking does. and then he hears it again. your laugh. soft. breathy. just down the street. he stops. his breath catches like it always does when it’s you. he tilts his head, follows it instinctively like a wolf catching a familiar scent in the dark.

there’s a bench under the oak tree at the corner. he knows it. you always said it felt safe—far enough from the house, but close enough that you could still pretend you were part of the party. still tethered to something, without being swallowed whole by it.

you liked deep talks. liked to let the alcohol settle and the night soften before you said the things you’d regret in the morning.

rafe leans on the fence post. bottle hanging loose in his hand. he can hear you now.

your voice, low and warm. nate laughing in response. the subtle hush of shared secrets under moonlight.

and it fucking kills him. he should be next to you. should be the one making you laugh like that. should be the one brushing his knee against yours, watching your eyes sparkle under the yellow streetlight.

but instead he’s here. half drunk. heart pounding like a fucking kid with a crush. watching from a distance like a ghost who knows he’s the reason for his own death.

he takes another swig. you laugh again, and it’s softer now. quieter. like it’s for nate only.

like rafe was never even part of the memory. he runs a hand over his face. groans.

“god, you’re so fuckin’ dumb,” he mutters to himself. he leans against the fence, gripping the wood so hard his knuckles go white.

“could’ve had her,” he breathes, more to the dark than to anyone else. “could’ve fucking had her.”

but rafe cameron doesn’t get the girl. he gets the regrets. he gets the jealousy. he gets the bench with someone else sitting on it.

and the sound of your laugh—the one he used to make you choke on when he had his mouth between your thighs—is now echoing through the street like it never belonged to him at all.

he doesn’t even remember when he started walking. maybe it was after the third time you laughed. or the way nate said your name like he had the right to.

his mind’s spiraling by the time he rounds the curb. you’re still there. sitting on that stupid fucking bench in your stupid fucking tank top, with your knees tucked to your chest, legs bare, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re not his favorite secret in the whole goddamn world.

and nate’s beside you. close. too close.

rafe’s steps are uneven. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, shoulders rolling, bottle swinging low in his grip as he stumbles toward the two of you.

“hey,” he slurs out, voice rough. his eyes are bloodshot, grin lazy, mean “look at you two. sittin’ all cozy like it’s some nicholas sparks movie out here.”

you freeze. nate shifts slightly.

rafe squints. “nate, right?” he drawls, like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “damn, man. didn’t think i’d be seeing you again so soon.”

nate raises a brow but doesn’t take the bait. “hey, rafe.”

rafe sways a little, then points the mouth of the bottle at you. “you,” he says, “are a real ray of sunshine. y’know that?”

you blink at him slowly, unsure if he’s serious or seconds away from exploding.

he leans in closer, smile tight and sharp. “until,” he drags the word, “until she blocks you. then it’s like—bam. radio silence. ghost town. cold shoulder. brutal, really. makes a man wonder what the fuck he did wrong.”

you look away. nate puts a casual arm along the back of the bench. not touching you, but close enough to say she’s not alone.

rafe notices. his eyes flick to the gesture like it offends him on a molecular level.

“blocked, huh?” he echoes. “crazy how someone can suck your soul out, then pretend you don’t exist the next day.”

you suck in a breath. nate’s gaze sharpens. “you good, man?”

rafe laughs under his breath. it sounds broken. like glass. “oh, i’m great. never better,” he says, eyes fixed on you now. “just really enjoying the view. my bad if i’m ruining your little… bench date or whatever the fuck this is.”

you finally look at him. and it hits him all at once. the way you’re holding yourself. guarded. sad. tired. not mad. not even hurt. just… done.

and somehow, that’s worse.so much fucking worse. he shifts his weight, like he might say something real for once. but the moment’s gone before it starts, and his tongue is heavy with pride.

instead, he scoffs and mutters, “guess blocking people’s your thing now.”

and walks away before you can answer. before you can see the way his jaw clenches so hard he might grind his teeth to dust.

before you can hear the part he doesn’t say..i didn’t want to be someone you had to forget.

you sit there in silence for a second, throat tight, the cool night suddenly feeling way too hot.

nate’s still next to you, his arm stretched casually along the back of the bench. he doesn’t move, doesn’t press, just lets the weight of rafe’s words linger between you.

you exhale, finally. shallow. sharp. nate turns his head slightly toward you, voice quieter now. “you blocked him?”

you stare at your knees, your thumbnail digging into your palm.

he lets the silence stretch. then, with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “is he the guy you talked about?”

you blink slowly. “what?”

nate leans in a bit, dropping his voice. teasing, but edged with curiosity now. “the one you mentioned. the fuck and dump.”

your heart stutters. and your face—god, your face—it’s burning. “fuck,” you mutter, squeezing your eyes shut. “well… yes.”

you don’t look at him when you say it. just pick at your nails like they’ll give you somewhere to hide.

nate lets out a low whistle, half amused, half surprised. “well, damn.”

you groan, slumping into the bench. “don’t start.”

“hey,” he says, throwing his hands up. “no judgment. i just… wasn’t expecting that to be the guy.”

“what guy did you expect?” you mutter.

“i don’t know,” he says with a shrug. “not the six something menace who came over slurring his words and marking his territory like a drunk caveman.”

you snort, despite yourself. and nate grins.

“he didn’t look happy,” nate adds, glancing in the direction rafe disappeared. “like… at all.”

you shrug, eyes back on your knees. “not my problem anymore,” you say, trying to make it sound final. solid but it doesn’t. not really.

your mind is still spinning. your chest is still heavy. the taste of him is still somewhere between your throat and your memory.

nate watches you for a beat. “so,” he says eventually, voice lighter, trying to steer the mood. “is it safe to say i’m not getting blocked after this?”

you laugh, barely. it’s fragile. but it’s real.

“you’re not that lucky,” you murmur.

he grins. “good. wouldn’t want to end up haunted like that poor bastard.”

but deep down, buried beneath the surface you know he isn’t rafe cameron. and that’s the exact reason you let him sit beside you a little longer.

nate lets out a low, amused whistle again, then leans back, shaking his head.

“man,” he says, laughing under his breath. “sucked the soul out of him then blocked him. that’s cold. i’m kinda impressed.”

you glance over at him, a dry smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “didn’t really have a choice, i guess.”

nate lifts an eyebrow.

“right,” you continue, more to yourself than to him. “he was with brianna after all.”

his smirk fades a little, gaze narrowing with a kind of slow realization. “ah,” he says quietly, like it clicks now. “right. that girl trailing behind him like she owned his dick.”

you hum bitterly, biting the inside of your cheek. “she did for like… a minute,” you mutter. “good for her.”

he watches you, the way your arms wrap tighter around yourself, your gaze fixed on nothing in particular. “he’s a dumbass,” he says simply.

you shrug, voice small. “he’s just… rafe.”

“exactly,” nate nods, like it’s a known fact. “rafe fucking cameron. tall, tan, bad temper. all the red flags, none of the emotional regulation.”

you let out a short, quiet laugh.

nate leans forward, elbows on his knees, then glances over at you with a crooked grin. “but hey, at least you came out of it with your soul still intact. can’t say the same for him.”

you look down at your hands, voice soft barely above a whisper “yeah. sure feels that way.”

the streetlight buzzes overhead as rafe drags himself back toward the house, hands shoved deep into his pockets, jaw locked so tight it aches.

his heart’s thudding. or maybe it’s just the alcohol. he can’t tell anymore.

he pushes the front door open, the scent of stale beer and smoke hitting him immediately. inside, it’s quieter now, just the leftover scraps of the night still hanging in the air.

topper’s in the kitchen, shirt half off, hair a mess, bent over the sink. “man,” he groans, lifting his head, pale as hell. “i threw up like… everywhere in my sink, bro. like all over the rim. it’s disgusting. i think something died in me.”

rafe doesn’t answer.

topper turns, squinting at him through half lidded eyes.“wait. what happened to you?”

rafe just stares at him. face unreadable. knuckles white where they’re still clenched.

then he mutters, voice low, almost cracked, “i lost her, man.”

topper pauses. “huh?”

rafe swallows, shoulders tense. “i fucking lost her,” he says louder now, like it burns. “to your fucking friend.”

topper blinks. “who? nate?”

rafe looks away. jaw clenched. eyes hot. like he might hit something just to feel it.

topper’s quiet for a second. then “bro… baby girl?” he says, confused. “you two were just friends, weren’t you?”

rafe laughs, but there’s no humor in it just sharp edges and disbelief. “yeah. no,” he says, voice brittle. “we fucking weren’t.”

topper’s eyes widen slightly, piecing it together.

and rafe leans back against the counter, hands dragging down his face. “she wasn’t just a fuck,” he mutters. “but i made her think she was.” his throat tightens. “i made myself think she was.”

topper opens his mouth, but for once he doesn’t know what to say. because he’s never seen rafe cameron like this. not for anyone

topper just stares at him, mouth open, like the words are short circuiting his brain. “wait” he starts, eyes wide. “you two fucked?”

rafe doesn’t look at him. doesn’t flinch. just exhales through his nose, slow and miserable. “we did,” he mutters, voice low and gutted. “and i fucked it.”

topper blinks. “you—wait—what?”

rafe finally turns to look at him, eyes bloodshot, face unreadable except for the mess behind his stare. “i fucked it,” he repeats, harder this time. like if he says it enough it’ll make it hurt less. “it was supposed to be nothing. one time. i thought i could handle that.” he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, shoulders tight.

“but then she didn’t call. didn’t text. blocked me. and now she’s out there with nate—nate—laughing and smiling like i didn’t have my fucking hands all over her a week ago.”

topper’s jaw drops. again. “jesus christ, rafe.”

“yeah.” rafe huffs out a humorless laugh, leaning forward, bracing himself against the counter with both hands. “jesus fucking christ.”

“so you like her?” topper asks, like he’s trying to confirm the earth is round.

rafe doesn’t answer. doesn’t even have to because his silence speaks louder than any answer right now.

topper starts pacing the kitchen, one hand clutching his forehead like he’s trying to physically hold his brain inside his skull.

“fuck—fuck, dude,” he mutters. “this is my fault. i made them talk. i brought nate. i pushed her, man—i was trying to help her move on, you know? not from you, i didn’t even know it was you—what the fuck, rafe—”

rafe shakes his head, dragging a hand down his face, exhausted. “it’s not your fault, man.”

topper freezes, mid panic.

rafes voice is hoarse, hollow. “it’s mine.”

he laughs under his breath, the sound sharp and bitter. “i was the one that made her feel like she was nothing but a quick fuck. made her feel replaceable.” he swallows hard. “and then she saw me with brianna tonight. feeling her up on the dance floor.”

topper cringes. “jesus.”

“yeah,” rafe mutters, leaning back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer him a way out of this hell. “she saw it. i know she did. i could feel it. and the worst part is… i don’t even fucking want brianna. i never did. i just…”

he stops, jaw tightening. “i was mad. i was stupid. i was trying to prove to myself that i didn’t care.”

he lets out a breath, eyes dark and sunken. “but i do.” a pause. “fuck, i do.”

outside the house,down the street on the bench, nate…he looks over at you with that easy smirk, eyes glittering like he knows he’s got you comfortable now. calm. unguarded.

“so,” he says, tapping his fingers along the wood. “what if i asked you out?”

you blink, caught off guard.

he shrugs, still watching you. “like…an actual date. dinner. maybe no heavy shots or bitchy exes this time.”

you hesitate. not because you don’t want to.

not because he’s not hot—he’s perfect, actually. tall and built, the kind of face you’d find on a cologne ad. sarcastic, flirty, and for once in your life, someone who doesn’t make you feel small.

but you know what this means. a line in the sand. a move forward. a choice.

you glance down at your hands, then back up at him, forcing a breath past your lips. “…yeah,” you say quietly. “okay.”

he grins. “yeah?”

you nod, smiling for real now. “yeah.”

he bumps your knee gently with his. “dope. friday night. don’t be late.”

and you laugh, because he’s funny, and he’s sweet, and he’s here. not hiding. not pretending. not making you feel like a mistake.

you lean back on the bench, the cool wood pressing into your spine.

and across the street, beyond the glowing windows of the house you just left behind—rafe cameron still lingers. but you don’t look back this time. you don’t want to. you want to be someone’s first choice and not feel like just a warm body after.

taglist next part>>>>

tags 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @rafesteddy @httpsdrewstarkey @qversazex @iconiccolo @devoutedlover @viqtoria @sc05 @alphabetically-deranged @k4yr14 @t0x1cfaerie @purplerose291 @mrspuffdriving @silkylovey @rafescloudie @babygoddam @meetmeintheemeraldpool @mayanqueenxx @glitterylightkingdom @lolasangelz @my-diary1 @addyleigh

[cherrywriterrr]

mistake(reminder)

pairing: friend!rafe turned ex hookup x reader

warnings: 18+ mdni. cigarettes/smoking, language, emotional cheating ig???, veryyy bad decisions, flirting, suggestive. word vom honestly, I’m very sorry if this is disappointing.

word count->9.3k??? i’m SORRY!

first part<-

it’s been two weeks since rafe last saw you—really saw you. not through a crowd. not through a screen. not passing by with a half glance and a polite nothing smile. he means saw you. eyes locked. air tense. yours,his.

but that was two weeks ago. now? you’re kinda dating nate. kindaaa.

you’ve been going out on cute little dates almost daily since topper’s party. he picks you up with flowers sometimes. he takes you to actual restaurants, not just drive thrus. he holds your hand in the car. he kisses you slow, not desperate.

everything’s been great, really. comfortable. consistent. safe. a pace you can breathe in. you’ve even stopped thinking about rafe. not really, though.

he’s still there clinging to the back of your mind like cigarette smoke in your hair. but you don’t let it fester. you trained yourself not to rewind. not to linger. you decided it didn’t matter. you decided what happened between you and rafe was nothing.

now, everything you choose to think about is nate, nate, nate. his cologne. his voice in your ear. his hands around your waist.

you’re good at pretending. so good, you almost believe it. until something reminds you. buuut, you’re with nate. consistent.easy. good on paper. he says all the right things, shows up when he says he will, takes you out to places where the chairs match the curtains and the water comes in fancy glasses. he listens when you talk. he calls you baby when he’s not even trying to be flirty.

you’ve let yourself settle into it. into him. because why the hell not? it’s better than holding onto a memory you can’t get back. better than holding onto rafe. you’ve decided to let that whole situation rot in the back of your mind.

a chapter closed. a mistake buried. he doesn’t exist in your day to day now. except—he kiiind of does.

and that’s thanks to topper fucking thornton, who hasn’t shut the fuck up about rafe since the night he accidentally set this whole thing in motion.

every hangout turns into a slow spiral back to him. topper will be halfway through telling you about some new gym equipment, or a bar fight he barely won, and then “man, you know who’s been acting real different lately?”

you already know.

“rafe.” of fucking course. it’s become background noise at this point. the static that buzzes under every conversation.

“i don’t know, i just think maybe nate isn’t your guy,” topper’ll say, sipping his drink with that god awful straw chew he does. “he’s cool and all but… i don’t know. feels off. too cool. you know what i mean?”

or “rafe’s been showing up on time to everything. saying thank you and shit. thank you, bro. who even is he now?”

or your personal favorite, “he probably misses you.”

and you always laugh it off, or change the subject, or pretend not to hear. because what the fuck does it matter now? you made your decision. rafe didn’t stop you. he didn’t try again. he didn’t come after you that night. and if he wanted you—if it ever meant something—he would’ve shown you. he would’ve said something. but he didn’t.

so now, it’s nate. it has to be.

you’re sitting with topper at the country club right now, waiting for nate to show up. it’s one of those casual meet ups that nate planned late lunch, maybe a swim, a few drinks with friends. you’re dressed cute, sundress and lip gloss, legs crossed and sunglasses pushed up into your hair. topper’s in board shorts and that faded OBX shirt he refuses to throw out, sipping on his second bloody mary like it’s water.

and—you guessed it—he’s talking about rafe. “no, but like seriously,” topper’s saying, “he’s been different lately.”

you look at him. “you’ve said that.”

“i mean it, though.” topper leans back, one arm across the chair, eyebrows raised like he’s just waiting for you to agree. “he’s polite now. and sweet. he holds doors open for people. he helped my mom carry groceries last week. like… who the fuck does that?”

you roll your eyes, adjusting your dress.“what do you want me to say?”

“that you notice it.”

“i don’t,” you lie.

topper sighs, like he’s trying to make you see some great revelation. “he probably misses you. i’m not even joking this time. he asks about you every time we hang out. not directly—but, like, in that weird rafe way where he pretends he doesn’t care but totally does.”

you stare at your glass, the condensation dripping down like it’s melting under the heat. your stomach knots. you told yourself you were done letting him have that kind of space in your brain. he doesn’t deserve it.

but topper’s still talking. “i think he fucked it up and he knows it. you’re just… you’re different, you know? he’s not used to you. he doesn’t know how to do someone like you.”

you snort. “someone like me?”

“yeah. real. not after him for his money or his name or whatever. not scared of his attitude. you’re—i don’t know, you’re good for him. and you don’t take his shit.”

you look away, swallowing. “nate doesn’t give me shit to take.”

topper looks at you then. soft, quiet “yeah. maybe that’s the problem.”

before you can answer, you hear footsteps.

nate’s voice cuts through the air, easy and familiar. “there she is,” he grins, walking toward your table. his sunglasses are hooked into the collar of his shirt, and his smile stretches wide across his face. “my favorite girl.”

he leans down to kiss your cheek, hands warm against your waist. “only girl. sorry i’m late. traffic. and some idiot ran a stop sign near the marina.”

topper gives a pointed look to you but doesn’t say anything else. you smile back at nate, lips tight, and let your body lean toward him on instinct. you ignore the heaviness in your chest.

you think of rafe. only for a second.one. the way his voice dropped when he was angry. the way he held your face after—like he’d never forgive himself for what he just did.

you blink hard and wipe that thought clean. nate is here now. nate is safe. nate is yours. and rafe is just a reminder. a bruise you stopped pressing on. a mistake that doesn’t get to live rent free anymore. right?

nate slides into the seat next to you,he smells good. clean, coastal, something expensive but not try hard. he’s got that ease to him, the kind of boy who never doubts the space he takes up. confident but not cocky. at least, not in a way that’s annoying.

he leans back in his chair, arm brushing yours, eyes bright under the sun. “god, i’m forever grateful you told me about this amazing girl right here,” he says to topper, nodding toward you like you’re some glowing miracle. “i mean, look at her…”

he gestures with both hands like he’s presenting a painting. a masterpiece. “…perfection.”

you try not to laugh. or blush. or melt straight through the deck chair.

topper barks a laugh, shaking his head. “bro, you sound like you’re about to propose.”

“don’t tempt me,” nate grins, turning back to you. “if i knew girls like you existed around here, i would’ve moved out sooner.”

you shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “okay, relax.”

“what? i’m serious.” nate turns back to topper. “she’s funny, she’s hot, she’s got that scary confidence thing going on—i love it. and that little eye roll she does when she’s pretending not to like compliments? lethal.”

“you’re a sap,” you mumble, but you’re definitely smiling now.

“i like you,” he corrects.

topper watches the two of you with a lazy smirk, sipping the last of his drink. “man, i did good. i’m a fuckin’ matchmaker now.”

“you should put that on your resume,” you mutter.

“nah, just on my instagram bio,” he says. “got my friend laid and emotionally supported, ask me how.”

you laugh—actually laugh, loud and real and warm—and nate watches you like he wants to memorize it. like he’s trying to bottle it. the buzz in your chest isn’t regret. it isn’t guilt. it’s almost something like happiness.

“not laid though, top,” you say, cutting him off with a raised brow and a pointed tone. “we didn’t… do that.”

nate lets out a low, amused whistle beside you. “damn. setting the record straight.”

you shrug, playful. “just don’t want anyone spreading rumors.”

topper blinks. “wait—seriously?”

“seriously,” you echo, sipping your iced tea like it’s champagne and this is some goddamn brunch gossip segment.

nate throws an arm over the back of your chair, grinning. “not for lack of trying on my part, just to be clear.”

you elbow him gently, rolling your eyes with a smile.

topper leans back, clearly confused. “but like… i thought you guys were basically glued together lately.”

“we are,” you say. “doesn’t mean we’ve fucked.”

“yet,” nate adds, teasing, and you shoot him a warning glance that only makes him smirk harder.

topper looks between you two like he’s witnessing some kind of miracle. “man. she really likes you.”

“you say that like it’s rare,” you mutter.

“it is!” topper exclaims. “i mean… you’re hot, yeah, but you’re also emotionally distant as shit and don’t return texts unless you’re bored.”

you and nate both laugh, and nate says, “bro, she’s just selective.”

you grin into your glass. “exactly.”

and for a second, everything’s calm. light. simple. until you glance down at your phone. a notification. one you haven’t opened in weeks. a name you’ve been ignoring. you didn’t block him on spotify so when he changed your playlist name it shocked you “you still hate me?”

your chest tightens. your throat dries. you lock your screen. you smile at nate. you pretend again. and that little voice returns—you don’t. you never did. you twirl your straw between your fingers, letting your gaze fall somewhere past the umbrellas and golf carts, past the blue sky and the stillness that doesn’t quite reach your chest.

“i just don’t want us to regret it after,” you tell topper, not looking at either of them as the words land. “we’re taking our time.”

your voice doesn’t waver. not even a little. but inside, your ribs feel too tight. like you’re trying to convince more than just topper. like maybe you’re reminding yourself, too.

topper raises a brow, hands up in surrender. “hey, i get it. no pressure. just sayin’, he’s clearly down bad.”

before you can respond, nate leans forward with that easy smile of his, his fingers grazing the back of your chair again—like he needs to be touching you, even just barely.

“damn right we are,” he says, warm and steady. “taking our time.”

you look at him, really look, and there’s something in his eyes that makes your stomach twist but not in that volatile, rafe cameron kind of way. this is different. this is calm. this is good.

he nudges your knee with his. “you’ve got nothing to prove. we’ll get there when we get there.”

you nod slowly, feeling your shoulders drop just a little. “thanks.”

“plus,” nate grins, “i like earning shit. and you? definitely worth the slow burn.”

topper groans. “okay. that’s enough hallmark channel for me. i’m gonna go grab another drink before you two start writing vows.”

you laugh, head tilting back, and for a second—just a second—you let yourself forget what slow burns feel like when they end in ashes.

you let yourself believe this might actually work. that this won’t turn into another—mistake.

now it’s just you and topper sitting in his car, parked outside your house in figure eight. windows down, your sandals dangling out the open door, the sky streaked purple and pink above the marshes.

he’s been quiet for a minute. too quiet. then he glances over at you. “okay,” he says. “spill.”

you give him a side eye. “spill what?”

“why you didn’t sleep with nate.”

you groan, head thudding back against the seat. “topper—”

“no judgment! i’m just confused. you like him, right? and he’s into you, obviously. so what’s the holdup?”

you sit there for a moment, watching the cicadas light up across the yard, the soft flicker of a porch light down the street. then you say it “i’m guessing rafe told you we slept together.”

topper blinks. caught “…he might’ve mentioned it.”

you nod, biting your bottom lip. “yeah. it was a mistake.”

topper frowns. “a mistake how?”

“a mistake,” you repeat, sharper. “i thought we were friends. i mean, we were friends. then that happened and it” you stop yourself, exhale. “i don’t want to do the same thing with nate.”

topper stays quiet, listening like he knows you’ve got more to say.

you gesture vaguely, frustrated. “what we have now? it’s good. it’s easy. nate’s… sweet, and normal. he actually likes me and doesn’t make me feel like I’m just—something convenient.”

topper tilts his head. “so what, you’re scared of ruining it?”

you glance at him, shrug. “kinda. i think i ruined a lot of things that night with rafe. including how i see him. including how i see myself.” you swallow. “i don’t want to do that again.”

topper stares at you, mouth pressing into a line. “you didn’t ruin anything,” he says eventually. “you’re allowed to want something different this time. nate’s lucky.”

you smile, soft and sad all at once “thanks, top.”

“but,” he adds, playful again, “if you two do hook up, i better not find out from rafe.”

you shove his shoulder with a laugh, and he grins. the porch light flickers as you shut the door behind you, but before it clicks fully closed, you hear the soft thunk of topper’s car door swinging open again.

you pause. then pull it back. he’s halfway up your driveway, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, a rare seriousness carved into his face.

“top?”

he exhales like he’s been holding it all day. “i want you with rafe.”

you blink. “what?”

“i want you with rafe,” he repeats, louder this time. “i know you noticed it. whatever it is between you two. i’ve known.”

you step onto the porch slowly, arms folding across your chest. “you’re the one who hooked me up with nate, topper.”

“yeah, i did,” he says. “because i thought you needed a distraction. thought maybe rafe would stop acting like a fucking idiot if he saw you moving on. but now—i don’t know. maybe i screwed everything up.”

you shake your head, voice going flat. “you didn’t screw anything up.”

“then what are you doing?” he says. “you’re with nate, but you’re not. you’re smiling but not really. and rafe’s walking around like someone shot him in the chest every morning. and i just keep thinking… maybe i should’ve never played middleman.”

you look away, jaw locked tight “my thing with rafe,” you say, quieter now, “was nothing.”

he scoffs, but you keep going “nothing to him. nothing to me. it was just—it happened. and it fucke with my head. and i’ve been trying so hard not to let it ruin anything else. especially not something good like nate.”

topper steps up onto the porch, facing you fully now“he never said it was nothing,” he says. “not once.”

your heart pulls hard against your chest, but you don’t let it show “well” you mutter, “he didn’t say it was something either.”

topper sighs, gaze dropping, and for a second the only sound is the wind rustling through the trees in your front yard “i just want you to be happy,” he says finally. “but you don’t have to pretend around me. not about rafe.”

you swallow thickly. but still, you say nothing. because happy looks like nate. right?

you look at topper, and you hate how sincere his face is. how he looks at you like you’re the last puzzle piece in a game he doesn’t even want to win. like if he could just say the right thing, it’ll all fall into place..you and rafe and whatever past he’s trying to resurrect.

you blink slowly, jaw tight. “well, there’s nothing i have to say about rafe, topper.”

he opens his mouth, and you hold up a hand, stopping him before he even gets the words out. “no, seriously. i mean it. there’s nothing left. there was barely anything to begin with. we weren’t dating. we weren’t anything. we were friends and then we fucked and then we stopped talking. that’s it.”

topper exhales, dragging a hand down his face.

you step back, leaning against one of the porch pillars, your arms still crossed but your heart thudding like you’re the one being confronted. like you did something wrong.

“i get it,” you mutter. “you’re trying to help. but you’re acting like any of this matters when it doesn’t. it’s done.”

he hesitates then his voice drops low, more serious than before. “rafe regrets it.”

you shake your head instantly. “no. don’t do that.”

“i’m serious,” topper says. “he regrets it so fucking much, he can’t even look me in the eye when i bring you up. he’s different, okay? lately? he’s been… off. and not in his usual ‘about to beat someone up’ way. like really off. i’ve never seen him like that.”

you let out a dry laugh, more bitter than anything “cool. he’s spiraling. good for him.”

topper flinches a little at your tone, but doesn’t back down. “he told me he fucked up. he said he lost you. not just the hookup—you. the friend. and he hates himself for it.”

you look away, out toward the dark street. your porch light buzzes softly behind you “topper,” you say quietly. “it doesn’t matter what he says.”

“it matters to him.”

“no,” you say, sharper now. “it doesn’t. it’s just talk. that’s all rafe ever does. say the things he thinks will fix shit without actually fixing it. and i don’t want that.”

topper’s brows furrow, confused.

you keep going, words picking up like a wave, riding the frustration that’s been sitting in your chest since the second you pulled your clothes on that night. “rafe talks. he says things. and then five minutes later he’s with someone else or disappearing or making me feel like I imagined everything. he made me feel like I was disposable. and now he’s what? remorseful? he wants to say sorry? why? what do i get from that, huh? a guilt trip and some vague closure? no thanks.”

you shake your head again, this time firmer.“nate’s not like that.”

topper’s eyes soften.

you shrug like it’s obvious “nate doesn’t talk. he shows. he actually listens to me. he compliments me in a way that doesn’t feel like he’s trying to get something out of it. he holds my hand when we walk places. he remembers what kind of wine i like and doesn’t let me pay for dinner and says stupid shit like ‘you’re worth it’ and god, maybe that’s corny, but i’d rather corny than another pretty lie.”

topper’s quiet now. he nods, once,“i get it,”

you look back at the house, then at him. your voice is quieter when you say“i’m just tired of feeling like a convenience. nate doesn’t make me feel that way.”

and topper—finally—doesn’t argue. he just nods again, pats the top of your head in that dumb, big brother way he does when he knows he’s pushed too far. “alright,” he says. “alright. i’ll drop it.”

you nod once, like a truce.

but later, when you’re in bed and staring at the ceiling with your phone lighting up with a goodnight text from nate—it’s not his name your mind drifts to, not his voice that you hear. not his arms you remember.

you tell yourself it’s just old wiring. just a memory trying to trick you. t’s just because you got used to rafe. that’s all. he was your friend. emotionally unavailable, unstable, trying to get clean, trying to be better…but still, a friend.

the one who always found the lighter when you couldn’t. who’d sit in the back of parties with you, sipping cheap beer and saying shit like “we’re too good for this”

it’s not that you miss him, not really. you miss the familiarity. the rhythm. the way you didn’t have to explain yourself when you were pissed at the world. he already got it. the way his voice dipped soft when he was really listening, when he wasn’t putting on the cocky act. when it was just you and him and no audience to impress.

it’s nothing more than that. your mind’s just remembering your friend—not the guy who pressed his mouth to your neck like he needed to ruin something. not the one who called once and never again. not the one you caught with another girl that night. no. you’re just adjusting to the quiet.

nate makes it easy. you like that. you need that. you tell yourself again it’s not about rafe. it’s just about the past. it was a mistake. you chose to forget it.

so stop remembering now.

kelce leans back against the hood of rafe’s car, half a blunt in one hand, watching his best friend unravel at the seams like it’s a once every three days event now.

and it is. maybe rafe’s always been unraveling, just slower, quieter. maybe it only started spilling loud the moment you walked out of his life like you never meant to stay in it.

“fuck,” rafe mutters for the sixth time, pacing, fingers buried in his hair. “fuck, man. i lost her.”

kelce exhales smoke, unimpressed. “you said that already.”

“no, like—really lost her. for good. because of what?” his voice climbs, cracks slightly. “because i wanted to feel powerful when i left? because i couldn’t just say how i felt? fuck, that’s fucked, man. i’m fucked.”

“you’re dramatic,” kelce says. but his tone’s not mean. not tonight.

rafe’s spiraling harder than usual, and that’s saying something. he hasn’t hooked up with anyone since you. not a single girl. not one.

he can’t even look at another girl without remembering how you looked beneath him—flushed, breathless, whispering his name like it meant more. like he meant something.

but then he did what he always does. he ran. he made it a joke. a fuck. because he didn’t know how to sit in the aftermath without control, and losing control meant losing everything. so he made you feel disposable.and you walked away.

and now? two weeks. two weeks since topper’s party. two weeks of hearing about you and nate—nate the golden boy, nate the good guy, nate who calls you “baby” and opens your doors and fucking waits for you.

and all rafe’s got is regret and a lighter that won’t spark.

“she made me feel like…” he trails off, eyes dark, glassy. “like i was fun again. not crazy. not some rich asshole with a fucked up head. she made me feel—free.”

kelce doesn’t say anything, just looks up at him like he’s waiting for the rest.

rafe laughs bitterly, shaking his head. “clean, too. like not sober clean, i mean like… like i wasn’t rotting from the inside out. i never had that before. not even with... not with any of ‘em.”

his voice dips, quieter. “but i made her feel like she was just a body. like i didn’t care. and now she’s with nate and i’m just—i’m just the fucking guy who couldn’t hold it together long enough to matter.”

he kicks gravel, hard, and kelce finally speaks. “so what’re you gonna do? sit here and sulk while she falls in love with someone else?”

rafe doesn’t answer. because yeah, maybe that’s exactly what he’s doing. because he doesn’t know how to fix this. because he’s rafe cameron. he doesn’t do love. he fucks. he ruins. he regrets.

rafe scoffs under his breath, digging the heel of his palm into his eye like that’ll stop it from twitching. like that’ll keep the burn behind it from turning into something wetter, something pathetic.

he paces in a half circle and mutters, “she fucking blocked me, man. like full on my calls, my texts. just gone. like i didn’t even exist.”

kelce lets out a low, dry laugh. “bro. bro. that’s what happens when you treat a girl like shit after railing her. like what did you think was gonna happen? you ghosted her the second you finished—literally. wiped your dick and left her hanging like it was some fucking game.”

rafe shoots him a glare. “i didn’t ghost her.”

kelce grins. “oh, right. you just didn’t call. didn’t text. didn’t look at her and then let her catch you getting felt up by brianna fucking weston at the party where she was standing ten feet away. my bad. you’re right. not ghosting. just your average emotional terrorism.”

“shut the fuck up, kelce,” rafe growls, dragging a hand down his face. “you think i don’t know i fucked up?”

“yeah, actually. i don’t think you knew.” kelce flicks ash, leaning heavier on the car. “because if you knew, you wouldn’t’ve done it. or you would’ve owned it. but nah—you spiraled, man. you imploded. you took the one good thing you had and you torched it just to prove to yourself you could still ruin something.”

rafe opens his mouth. closes it again. nothing comes out but a shallow breath and a crack in his voice when he finally says, “she looked at me like i mattered. like i wasn’t just..this.” he gestures to himself like that explains everything. the blood under his nails. the bags under his eyes. the guilt in his gut.

“you don’t get it,” he mutters. “she made me feel fucking human again. and now she’s out with him every goddamn night like i never meant shit.”

“you didn’t,” kelce says bluntly, shaking his head. “not the way you acted. you don’t get to yearn after you made her feel like a quick fuck, man. you don’t get to want her back when all you did was prove she was right to walk.”

“i do want her,” rafe spits, hands balled into fists, “i fucking ache for her. i close my eyes and it’s her. she’s in my head, man.”

“then maybe next time,” kelce shrugs, “don’t fuck someone you’re in love with and pretend it’s casual.”

rafe freezes. stares. “i’m not in—” he starts, voice sharp defensive.

kelce laughs, cuts him off. “you’re not in love? right. that’s why you haven’t touched another girl in two weeks. that’s why you nearly murdered a tequila bottle last night listening to her playlist. that’s why you’re standing here ranting like a sad ex husban instead of texting some hookup. okay. not in love. got it.”

rafe doesn’t say anything. doesn’t move. his chest just heaves, once. twice. then—“fuck,” he whispers, voice splintered. “fuck, i am.”

and it hits him like a goddamn truck. he is. he loves you. and he ruined it before it even had the chance to start.

rafe’s voice is barely a breath. cracked and frayed like the rest of him. “you think she knows?”

kelce stops mid laugh, then blinks at him like he’s grown two heads “do i think she knows?” he repeats, scoffing, then fully doubles over. “man what the fuck.”

rafe’s jaw clenches. his eyes narrow but not with anger, more like shame

kelce keeps going, laughing harder now, borderline wheezing “you think she’s sitting at home all soulmate telepathy like, oh rafe definitely loves me—he just looked like he got his dick sucked by another girl in a bathroom at a party where she was literally downstairs?!”

“i didn’t,” rafe snaps. too fast, too sharp. his chest heaving now like he needs to justify it to someone, anyone.

kelce drops the act for a second, exhales, then shrugs. “i know you didn’t. she doesn’t.”

rafe doesn’t say anything.

kelce lights another cigarette, then points it at him like a dagger “you think i don’t know?” he says. “how fast you zipped up? how you stormed outta that bathroom like you’d seen a ghost?”

he grins.“your dick went limp the second she started talking.”

rafe closes his eyes like he’s being exorcised.

kelce just keeps going. “nah, not even talking. existing. she opened her mouth and boom—you were soft as hell because she wasn’t her.” he laughs again, mean but not cruel. just honest. “congrats, romeo. you got the ick mid blowjob.”

rafe mutters something low and hoarse that sounds like “fuck off.”

but kelce just smirks, flicking ash “you’re not mad at me, bro. you’re mad ‘cause she’s out there thinking you’re a fuckboy when really you’re just a lovesick dumbass.” silence. “you better pray she finds out the truth before you lose her for good.”

rafe exhales, voice rough and bitter. “i already lost her, bitch.”

kelce chuckles, shaking his head like it’s the most obvious thing in the world“well, just for the record, nate really is a good guy. did you know they didn’t even fuck yet?”

rafe blinks, surprise flickering across his face for a second before it hardens again “no shit?”

kelce grins, lighting another smoke “yeah man, like… they’re actually taking their time. which is pretty damn impressive considering who nate’s dealing with.”

rafe lets out a dry laugh, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes “guess that’s what she deserves.”

kelce nods slowly “exactly. someone who shows her she’s worth more than a quick fuck and some empty words.”

rafe looks away, swallowing whatever else he wants to say “yeah… guess i really fucked up.”

kelce laughs, a low, rough sound “you soooo did, man. i mean, she’s taking her time now ’cause she’s probably scared he’s gonna leave her—just like you did, dickhead.”

rafe sits back, arms resting on his knees, the cigarette smoke from kelce’s mouth drifting right into his face but he doesn’t even flinch. he’s not thinking about it. he’s barely thinking at all. just spiraling in slow motion.

his voice cracks when he speaks again, all swallowed pride and helpless ache “so what do i do, man?”

kelce just stares at him for a beat. like really looks at him. like he’s not used to rafe cameron asking questions instead of pretending he knows everything.

then he exhales smoke through his nose, slow and sure “do exactly what you did when you wanted to be her friend,” kelce says. “remember? how you used to show up to her place with shit she liked? how you let her vent for hours? drove her to class, walked her back even when you didn’t have to? you didn’t try to be important to her back then. you just… were.”

rafe’s jaw tightens, his fingers twitching against his knees. he remembers. of course he does.

late night drives with you riding shotgun, legs on the dash. spending hours laying in the back of his jeep just talking about everything and nothing. bringing you your favorite stupid gas station candy after bad exams. not trying to flirt. not trying to fuck.

just being someone you could count on. someone you trusted.

and then he ruined it.

“you just existed in her space,” kelce says, tapping ash off the edge of the curb. “you didn’t try to make her fall for you. you just showed up.”

rafe turns slowly, watching his best friend with the kind of disbelief that’s almost reverent “..fuck,” he mutters, running a hand over his face. “you’re a fucking genius.”

kelce snorts.“i know. not the first time you’ve been blessed by my wisdom.”

“don’t push it.”

but rafe’s already thinkin… being there. again. like before. not rafe cameron the mistake. rafe cameron the friend. the one you used to trust.

because maybe, if he can be that again..you might let him back in. even just a little. and god, he’d take even that.

rafe suddenly shoots up like his body can’t sit still another second. he paces a few steps, runs a hand through his hair, his whole chest moving like he’s trying to breathe around something lodged deep in it.

“i’m gonna do a grand gesture,” he blurts out, wild eyed. “she’ll probably fucking hate it.”

kelce doesn’t even blink. just takes another drag and blows the smoke out through a crooked grin “hate it at first,” he says. “cry about it later, you mean.”

rafe stares down the street, eyes sharp and stubborn and aching. “yeah.” his voice is low, serious“yeah, exactly that.”

your room isn’t what people expect when they hear figure eight. no sharp lines or minimalist bullshit. nothing sterile or showroom perfect.

your walls are a soft chaos—warm-toned posters, overlapping polaroids, scribbled notes, postcards from nowhere. the string lights don’t match, half are dim, a few flicker like they’re tired too. it’s all a little messy, a little magic.

your bed’s unmade, corners half tucked. the window’s cracked open, wind slipping in like a whisper, fluttering the edge of an old photograph tacked to the frame. it smells like lavender and body spray and that one candle you keep lighting even though it’s down to the nub.

too cozy for a kook girl. too soft. too human. not what they expect from someone who grew up where money grows on trees and reputations are currency.

you’re pacing. arms crossed, biting the inside of your cheek. nate texted. something sweet. like always. you like him. you soooo like him. he says the right things. he respects your pace. he looks at you like you’re art—something you always wanted to be to someone. and still—god, still…there’s something in your stomach that doesn’t settle. something that feels off. not bad, just… almost too good. too clean. too easy.

nate makes you feel warm, but you don’t burn. he kisses you and your heart skips, but it doesn’t trip.

you lean against the window frame, breathing in night air. your fingers reach for your phone—scroll, scroll, stop.

rafe cameron. still blocked. you close your eyes. you like nate. you really, really do. but something about the way it’s going…it almost feels like pretending. like you’re playing the part of the girl who moved on. and you’re starting to realize..maybe you’re not ready to.

you tell yourself not to. you always tell yourself not to. and then you do it anyway. your phone’s already in your hand, thumb moving like it has a mind of its own.

photos. videos. summer. god, summer.

you scroll past blurry sunsets and half eaten ice cream cones, candid group shots and late night gas station runs.

and then—you find it. the one. the video. your screen lights up with blue. water. you’re laughing, soaked, breathless. the camera shakes—he was holding it, of course he was—and you can hear him in the background, voice rough and playful

“you’re gonna make me drop my phone, dumbass.” and you, laughing back “you said cannonball, so i cannonballed.”

the camera dips as he walks closer, waves licking the lens. you’re in the water up to your chest, hair slicked back, droplets running down your skin “come here,” you say.

“no,” he says. “you’re evil. you’ll dunk me.”

“i won’t.”

he laughs. it’s real. unguarded. god, you forgot how real he sounded with you. then the camera jerks a little, water splashes again, and suddenly—he’s in the frame. right beside you. soaked. dripping. both of you gasping, grinning. your arm reaches out and wraps around his neck, pulling him close. “see?” you say. “wasn’t so bad.”

he’s looking at you like—fuck. like he didn’t know how to stop. the video ends with water on the lens and a muffled laugh from him. you watch it twice. three times.

your chest feels full and hollow all at once. your stomach does that slow twist it always does when you remember what came after. you lock your phone and set it facedown. the air feels heavy now. your room smaller.

nate doesn’t make you feel like that. but maybe that’s the point. maybe that’s what you need. still…you miss the ocean.and you miss him in it. with you.

your fingers hover over the screen for a second. you should stop. you sooo should. but your body doesn’t listen. you swipe. right again. and again. it’s all there. frozen in time, like nothing ever went wrong. like your heart didn’t end up somewhere under his heel.

photos you almost forgot existed. screenshots of your conversations.

rafe with a stupid hoodie half on, half off, hair messy, holding a slurpee you made him buy you. you said: my personal atm 🥰

his reply had been “fuck you” followed by “ily tho.”

just friend things.

another one. he’s asleep in your passenger seat, mouth slightly open, a sunbeam across his jaw. your hand had been on the wheel, your other hand holding the phone, catching that soft moment because—because it felt like yours to keep.

another. he’s holding your hand under the table at toppers. you remember the way your stomach twisted, how your pulse fluttered in your throat. he’d been saying something about a movie you were both obsessed with, but his fingers were tracing circles on your palm like none of it mattered except that.

just friends. sure.

and the one that undoes you. you’re laughing, head thrown back. rafe’s looking at you—not the camera, not the beach around you—you. eyes soft. almost dazed.

he’d told you later that day that you were his favorite person. his favorite person ever.

and god. you knew him then. more than anyone. he gave you his weekends like they were nothing. showed up uninvited and stayed the whole day. called you when he couldn’t sleep, texted you stupid memes at 2am. let you in.

you remember him handing you a hoodie and saying “this one’s yours now.”

you remember sitting on the porch while he smoked and he’d say shit like “you’re the only person that doesn’t make me feel like shit.”

it all lives here. in the photos. in the quiet between swipes. in the ache behind your ribs.

you should delete them. you should. but you don’t. you never do. because for a second, before everything got messy, he was yours. and you were his. just… not in the way that counted. the way you both wanted. or want.

it starts to hit harder now. not the video.not the pictures. the memories behind them. the kind of shit that sneaks in when you’re not paying attention. when the house is too quiet and the light from your phone screen is the only thing illuminating your room.

you remember the first time you smoked a cigarette. you were sitting on the edge of rafe’s truck bed, feet kicking the dirt beneath you, one of those hazy figure eight nights that smelled like gasoline and summer sweat.

you’d bought the pack yourself. cheapest one you could find. half out of rebellion, half curiosity, all stupid.

he snatched it out of your hand the second you pulled it from your bag. “what the fuck is this?”his nose wrinkled, his voice sharp “you bought this?”

you shrugged “didn’t wanna spend a lot, just wanted to try it.”

rafe had glared at you, shoved the pack into his back pocket and muttered, “if you’re gonna kill your lungs, at least let me buy the good shit.”

he left. came back ten minutes later with a better brand and a flask. you lit your first one with shaky fingers. burned your throat. choked.

he laughed “you’re not even inhaling right, dumbass.”

and then he stood behind you, two fingers on your wrist, the other hand on your waist, talking you through it like it was something sacred. like he’d done it a million times and you were the only person he’d ever teach.

that same night, you got drunk together. not tipsy. not buzzed. drunk.

he passed you the flask and you took a big gulp like you had something to prove.

he made a face, said “relax, lightweight,” then downed twice as much just to one up you. you sat shoulder to shoulder against the back tire of the truck, liquor heavy in your veins, and you started talking. about anything. everything.

he told you shit he probably never meant to share. about his mom. his dad. his anger. his addictions. his nightmares.

you didn’t even realize your hand had slid into his. not until he squeezed it back. and you didn’t talk about that part the next day. or ever. because friends don’t hold hands drunk in the dark while spilling their guts. you both pretended it never happened. but your heart never really forgot.

even now, it plays back in your head like a movie reel. the heat of his skin, the softness in his voice just before the slur took over.

the way he’d looked at you like he wished the world would end right there so he wouldn’t have to go back to it. you were a warm place for him. and he was—god. he was a mistake.

well fuck. fucking fuck.

you drop the phone face down on your bed like it burned you. your chest tightens, throat all knotted up with something that feels too much like guilt and not enough like air. your heart’s beating so fast it’s starting to piss you off. it’s just rafe. it’s just some old photos. old shit.

but you can’t lie to yourself. you’re fucked.

because no matter how many times you look at nate and smile, how many cute little dates you go on, how many times he texts you just to say he misses your face—you don’t feel the fire.

not the wrong kind, not the reckless kind. not the kind rafe used to set off inside you just by walking in a room.

nate is so sweet. so consistent. so… nate. he remembers your coffee order, walks you to your door every time, texts good morning beautiful like it’s a reflex. he doesn’t make you second guess yourself. doesn’t ruin you, doesn’t break you. he makes you laugh, he listens, he holds your hand.

and here you are, barely able to look him in the eye. because the guilt is fucking chewing you alive.

you keep thinking about him. about rafe. about his stupid mouth and his bruised knuckles and that look he used to get when you said his name. you think about the way he kissed you. the way he didn’t say sorry. the way he made you feel like everything and nothing at the same time.

and still—still—you can’t stop. you think of him and your stomach flips. you think of nate and your stomach sinks.

you can’t do this to him. you shouldn’t. but god. you already are.

you stare at the blank screen like it holds all the answers. it doesn’t. your fingers type before you even know what you’re doing: i’m about to do something so stupid.

sent to: topper

delivered

you don’t wait for him to reply. you don’t even want to know what he’ll say.

your thumb hovers for a second…then you swipe down and shut it off completely.

no notifications. no more reminders of who you are when you’re not with nate. when you’re not pretending to be better than you are.

you sit on your bed, silent, heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out. the room that felt warm a second ago suddenly feels too small, too loud.

you can hear your thoughts—scraping, screaming, scratching.

rafe. nate. you.

and that last one—that one hurts the worst. because who even are you right now?

the girl who kissed rafe like he was the only air she needed, then pretended it never happened? the girl who goes on cute dates with nate and lets him look at her like she’s worth something, when she can’t even meet his eyes without hearing rafe’s voice in the back of her head?

you’re spiraling, and you know it. but you don’t stop. you just sit there, in your too cozy room, lights dimmed and heart racing,

thinking about how everything went to hell the moment you let rafe cameron touch you. thinking about how maybe— just maybe—you never stopped wanting him to.

you try to talk yourself down. try to breathe. to be rational. to not be this girl. but it’s no use, your mind is already halfway gone. because no matter how many times you tell yourself it was just a hookup, just a mistake,just a moment…you keep coming back to that night.

topper’s party. 2 a.m. haze. sticky floors and pulsing music. and him. him walking down the stairs with brianna, her hair a mess, her lipstick smeared like it had been wiped off someone’s skin. him with that look in his eyes—like he was high on the power of being wanted. wanted by someone who wasn’t you.

you blink too fast, too much, and everything burns. you saw it. you know what you saw. she was behind him, smug and glowing, like she’d just been fucked stupid in someone’s bathroom.

and rafe?rafe didn’t even look at you. and it shouldn’t matter. he wasn’t yours. you weren’t his. except for that night before—when he was.

when you were all tangled limbs and hushed moans and his mouth on your neck whispering “you’re so fucking pretty, fuck, i can’t stop”. when you felt wanted. chosen.

so yeah, you’re spiraling. because no matter what kelce or topper or anyone says, you remember the visual. her behind him. him not looking at you.

and all it screams is:he still fucked her. he still picked her. he still left you. you grip the comforter like it’s the only thing anchoring you to earth, but it’s not working.

your thoughts are spinning out too fast. how could you want someone who made you feel like that? how could you even be thinking about him when nate’s been perfect?

but none of that matters. because no matter how much you hate it—how much you hate yourself—you’re still picturing him with her.

her skin on his. her breathless laugh echoing through that hallway.

and worse, you’re wondering if he touched her like he touched you. if he whispered the same things in her ear. if his eyes closed and he pretended she was you.

god. fuck. you want to scream. you want to throw your phone across the room and pretend none of it ever happened.

but you already texted topper. and you already turned the phone off. so now it’s just you. you and the fucking aftermath of your own doing. well…not really. it takes two to fuck after all—but, in this case, there are 5 people involved—you, rafe, topper, nate and brianna. that’s a…pretty interesting gang bang if you ask me.

fuck. you press your palms into your eyes until you see static. like if you press hard enough, maybe you can erase the part of your brain that still wants him.

i can’t do this to nate. you repeat it like a prayer. i can’t. i won’t.

he’s been nothing but good. like actual good—not performative, not conditional, not the kind that only shows up in the dark. he lets you rant about dumb movies and lets you eat his fries even though you said you weren’t hungry. he likes your laugh. he respects your pace.

so why the fuck are you here, pacing your room with your phone off, trying to not picture rafe’s mouth on your neck?

you hate yourself for it. because nate deserves better. he deserves someone who isn’t torn up over a guy who made her feel disposable.

but was that real? or did you just take it that way? god, you don’t even know anymore. you don’t know anything.

you think am i in love with rafe? do i just miss the way he made me feel? am i just horny and nostalgic and fucked up from all of this?

because it’s easy to remember rafe through the filter of your favorite memories. his hoodie on your back. his laugh, low and soft, when he made fun of the way you smoked.his voice ‘you’re my favorite person, don’t tell Topper’

but maybe you’re just remembering the good shit. maybe your brain is romanticizing the chaos because nate is calm and real and steady and—“he’s not rafe.” you whisper it. you fucking hate that it slips out.

because even after all the crying, the blocking, the spiraling, the pretending, you’re still comparing him to a guy who walked down a staircase with another girl and didn’t even glance at you.

and now what? you’re gonna break a sweet guy’s heart because you might maybe still want the chaos? the possibility of something real with someone who never promised you anything?

you sit on your bed, breathing like you just ran a marathon. how the fuck are you even supposed to tell Nate? “hey, sorry, I’m emotionally constipated and still halfway in love with a guy who might not even feel the same?” yeah, no. solid plan.

maybe you won’t tell him. maybe you’ll wait until the guilt swallows you whole and he notices you flinch when he touches your knee.

or maybe— maybe you’ll wake up tomorrow and the spiral will be gone.

but deep down you know better.you know the feeling doesn’t fade, it festers.

‘maybe i’m ovulating. maybe that’s all this is. hormones and memories and a little too much silence at night.’ you stare at the ceiling and try to rationalize it because god knows you can’t feel it anymore without wanting to rip your skin off.

maybe it’s not rafe. maybe it’s just the fact that you haven’t been touched in a while. not like that. not-grab you by the throat, fuck you until you forget your own name- touched.

not like the way rafe did when the world was quiet and the room was too dark and you were pretending not to love it. maybe you just miss his dick. not his personality. you shift in bed, hating yourself more with every passing second.

it happens sometimes, right? when you’re sex deprived and lonely and your body just wants what it used to know. familiarity. friction. a little rough around the edges.

and nate… nate is so sweet. too sweet, maybe.but he’s got hands. he wants you. and you’re starting to think maybe you should just let him. just once. get it out of your system like some fucked up cleanse.

maybe if you fuck nate, rafe will finally leave your head. maybe your body will stop aching for someone who never even looked at you twice when he had someone else’s lip gloss on his neck.

maybe if you get off to someone new, you’ll stop craving the memory of rafe’s mouth on your collarbone like it was the first prayer he ever learned.

but you don’t move. you don’t text nate. you don’t reach out. because the truth—the one you’re avoiding—is ugly. you don’t want any dick. you want his. and no amount of logic or orgasms is gonna change that.

you start pacing again, like that’ll knock some sense into your brain. “okay,” you whisper to no one but the string lights and your own spiraling reflection in the dark window glass. “okay. i have two choices.”

you hold up one finger “one… i tell nate it’s not working. i come clean, ruin something good, and go back to wanting someone who clearly doesn’t want me.”

second finger “two… i stop thinking about rafe. i let nate be good to me. i let it happen. i stop being so… emotionally constipated and just move the fuck on.”

your hands drop. you stare at your bed like it’s supposed to answer you.

and then “…or,” you say, bitterly. “three. i can go fuck myself. the better version.”

you scoff under your breath and flop down on the bed“that’s the one, honestly.”

you lie there a while. staring at the ceiling. every breath heavy with guilt and want and noise that doesn’t shut up no matter how much you will it to. you try to think about nate. his laugh. how he always opens the car door for you. how he lets you pick the movie even when you choose the worst ones. how he’s gentle. warm. so easy to like. easy to trust.

but all that comes up is rafe. and how he was the one who taught you to shoot a bottle cap off a fence post with your eyes closed. how he made you laugh when you were pissed. how he used to call you at 1 a.m. just to say “i’m outside, come sit in the truck with me.”

he used to listen. really listen. your heart thuds once, real low and stupid. you reach for your phone. there’s notifications. texts from nate, topper, even sarah. you ignore them all. you go straight to his name.

that little block label sitting there like it’s daring you to press it. unblock. you hover. stare. don’t. your brain begs you.

but your thumb moves anyway. unblock.

no message. no call. no story view or accidental like. just the simple, dumb, fucked up act of unblocking rafe cameron.

your screen goes black again. you toss the phone across the bed like it’s contagious. and suddenly your chest feels tight. like you just handed the devil your spare key again.

you stare at the black screen like it owes you something. like it should’ve stopped you. you chew your bottom lip, dig your nails into the blanket, whisper “well… fuck my life.”

and then you do it. the most absolutely, undeniably, stupid thing you could ever do.

you open the text thread—after that unblocking. you type: come to my street corner

no emoji. no punctuation. no explanation. you hit send. your heart hits your ribs.

you launch off the bed like you just set it on fire, racing to your mirror. you grab the first perfume bottle in reach—some overly sweet body spray that smells like veeery bad decisions and sugar—and drench yourself. literally coat your neck, your wrists, your hair

you fumble for the breath spray too. psst-psst-psst. probably way too much. like it matters.

your phone’s face down on the bed. your knees are bouncing. you are pacing. spiraling. spiriting yourself into hell. and he hasn’t even read the message yet.

ding. one vibration and it’s done. just his name. the notification banner glows like a devil grinning in the dark.

->rafe cameron: 15

fifteen. fifteen fucking minutes. and he’ll be on your street. on your corner. you didn’t even say why.

your stomach caves like it got punched.

your phone is hot in your hand, your palm sweating. you check the time. 1:42am. this is how people end up in therapy.

you look down at yourself and mutter, “oh my god,” because you forgot—you’re literally in pajamas. not the hot kind either. not silk, not lace, not low cut oops i didn’t know this was seductive type.

no. just shorts you probably bought from target with a faded waistband and a worn out drawstring. and a t-shirt the size of a parachute, probably rafe’s. it says something dumb on it like “Outer Banks Surf Club” and has a bleach stain near the hem. it smells like detergent your perfume. you slip into the hall like you’re sneaking out of church. quiet, quick. your dad’s asleep.

the air outside is warm—muggy, thick with that summer sweat feeling. you’re barefoot on the porch for two seconds before you dart back in, grab your slippers. pink. fuzzy. humiliating.

you check your reflection in the microwave door before slipping out.

you’re out there now. on the corner. arms crossed. your heart louder than the cicadas. this is ridiculous. so ridiculous. you whisper to yourself “what am i doing. oh my god. what the fuck am i doing.”

and then you see the headlights.

sooo…next part? || previous taglist ||

||note->u can comment here or on my taglist post if you want to be tagged in next part!!

tags 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @rafesteddy @httpsdrewstarkey @qversazex @iconiccolo @devoutedlover @viqtoria @sc05 @alphabetically-deranged @meetmeintheemeraldpool @k4yr14 @t0x1cfaerie @purplerose291 @mrspuffdriving @silkylovey @mayanqueenxx @glitterylightkingdom @babygoddam @lolasangelz @my-diary1 @addyleigh @lalaloopsieparty @emeloyy @eunivalaa @belle101200 @ennycutie @maybankslover @zuccheromorena @senatorpadmeamidala @swhistledown @imaginethatblog @maybejj @f1petra @rosetintmworld

[cherrywriterrr]

⋆｡°✩ Introducing… boyfriend’s dad ✩°｡⋆

rafe cameron | age 47 | 6’3”

✧ he opens the door in low slung sweats and nothing else. bare chest, gold chain, a towel slung over his shoulder like he forgot you were coming(he didn’t)

✧ eyes you like he’s never seen a girl your age wear that before. ✧ has a tan line from his wedding ring—he hasn’t worn it in years. ✧ calls you sweetheart in a tone your boyfriend never uses. ✧ smells like bourbon and pine✧ he sees his wife, sofia, maybe twice a week. ✧ she’s always somewhere else. always out, always dressed up, always fucking someone that isn’t him and he’s stopped pretending to care. ✧“you’re early, sweetheart.”

♡ two years with jake. 23. frat boy energy. charm that wore off fast.

✿ he still thinks a “gift” means stopping by the gas station and grabbing you a flower and a scratch off ✿ “wait—today’s our anniversary?” every single time ✿ calls you “babe” instead of your name. all the time. even when he’s mad. even during sex. ✿ leaves his dirty socks on your side of the bed ✿ forgets you hate pickles. still orders your burger with extra

💌 things you wanted from him:

✧ good morning texts that actually came in the morning ✧ someone who listens when you talk about your nightmares ✧ effort. just effort. once.

👎🏻 things you got:

✧ a boyfriend who says “you’re just being dramatic.” ✧ more apologies than affection ✧ a dinner reservation he forgot to make—again

🖇️ and yet, you stayed. why?

✧ because leaving after two years feels like failure ✧ because sometimes he makes you laugh ✧ because it’s easier than starting over

…until his dad, rafe, started looking at you like he knows you deserve better. like he wants to show you what better means.

-> touch me like a gangster

->bad table manners -> two -> three

->sunburnt and filthy -> under the towel

taglist here<- masterlist

[cherrywriterrr]

bad table manners 3

bfd!rafe x reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, dom!bfd!rafe, masturbation, reader watching rafe jerk off, voyeurism, degradation/praise, cheating, age gap (rafe is 47), filthy dialogue, rafe’s obsessed, reader touches herself, extremely NSFW, it’s a mutual thing now — things are spiraling (in the hottest way possible) absolutely unholy smut, mirror sex, sir kink, daddy kink, degradation, corruption, possessiveness, rough unprotected sex, spit, hair pulling, light dumbification, he keeps her hand on her lower back the whole time, mean filthy dirty talk

☁️ minors — seriously. go. this is not for you. ☁️

bfd!rafe

you wake up to sunlight and silence.

jake’s still snoring beside you, twisted in the sheets like a child, drooling on the pillow. his arm flops across your stomach, and your first instinct is to shove it off.

you stare at the ceiling.

your thighs still ache. your lips are sore. you’re sore

last night was real.

your pussy throbs remembering the weight of rafe’s body against yours, the way he groaned when he came inside you like he meant it, like it wasn’t just fucking—it was a claim.

your throat’s dry.

you slip out of bed quietly. still in that tiny tank top and the same shorts he pushed to the side. you pad down the hall toward the bathroom, legs shaky, heart heavier than it should be.

you don’t expect to hear it.

the low groan. the steady sound of skin on skin.

wet. slow. desperate.

you pause.

the bathroom door is cracked open. just a little.

you shouldn’t look. you do.

and there he is.

rafe cameron. your boyfriend’s father. the man who fucked you on his kitchen counter less than ten hours ago.

he’s standing in front of the sink, hand wrapped tight around his cock, head tilted back, jaw clenched. his towel is slung over the edge of the tub. water’s still running from the shower, steam curling around him like smoke.

and he’s saying your fucking name.

your mouth parts. your knees lock.

“fuck, baby…” his voice is hoarse. ruined. “tightest pussy i ever had… fuckin’ ruined me…”

he strokes harder. precum smearing across the head, hips twitching with every pull.

“that little voice—sir, it’s not right…”

he laughs. low. “wasn’t saying that when you came all over me.”

your hand falls between your thighs before you can stop it.

your fingers slide under your waistband.

you’re soaked.

you bite your lip. stay hidden in the shadow of the doorway.

he’s close now. muttering. “should’ve finished in your mouth.”

stroke. stroke. tighter. “should’ve made you swallow every drop like a good little girl—”

his eyes open. he sees you.

and he doesn’t stop. his lips curl, slow and wicked.

“you like watching, sweetheart?”

his voice drops to a growl. “look at you touching yourself. dirty girl.”

you don’t move. don’t speak.

you just rub harder. faster. shameless now.

he steps closer. cock in hand. still fucking himself to the sight of you.

“come here,” he says, low and firm.

you step into the bathroom.

he spins you around, presses you against the sink.

your eyes meet in the mirror—his face flushed, lips parted. your reflection looks fucked out already.

his cock slides between your thighs.

not inside. just there. heavy. hot. ready.

“you want it again?” he breathes against your neck.

you nod, whimpering.

he grinds against your ass, moaning deep. “then take it. right here. against the mirror. and this time, don’t you fucking dare pretend you don’t love it.”

the glass is fogged, steam clinging to your skin, your breath already shaky as rafe presses your body against the mirror.

his hand is flat on your lower back, big and firm, holding you there.

“stay just like that, sweetheart,” he murmurs, breath hot against your ear.

“you move, i stop. you understand?”

you nod quickly.

“say it.”

“yes, sir.”

his grip tightens. “fuck, you’re so good when you listen.”

his cock slides between your folds, heavy and teasing—he doesn’t push in, not yet. he lets you feel it. lets it drag across your soaking slit while you whimper in the mirror.

his other hand comes up to your throat from behind, thumb brushing your jaw, making you look at yourself.

“look at this little fucking whore.”

his voice is calm. cruel. “can’t even go a day now without begging her boyfriend’s dad to fuck her stupid.”

you moan. high, soft, shameful. your thighs already trembling.

“bet you touch yourself in his bed thinking about me, huh?”

“bet you close your eyes and pretend it’s my cock splitting you open.”

you nod, flushed and wrecked and feral.

“please, sir—”

he cuts you off with a slap to your ass—sharp, loud.

“no begging. you get what i give you.”

then lower, meaner—“and you’re lucky i’m still giving it to you after last night.”

his tip catches your entrance, and then he’s inside—deep—all at once.

you choke on your breath, eyes wide, mouth parted in a silent moan.

he doesn’t let you fall forward

his hand is still on your lower back, keeping your spine arched, your ass tilted perfectly for him.

his hips pull back. slam in.

again.

again.

again.

the slap of skin is obscene in the echo of the bathroom, your moans muffled by your own palm now. you’re drooling, trembling, your eyes rolling back as he drives into you over and over like he owns you.

and fuck, he does.

he does.

“you like being bent over for me like this?” he pants. “like being used like a little cumdump?”

“yes, sir—oh my god—”

“you like getting fucked by your boyfriend’s daddy like a good little slut?”

you nod, crying now.

“say it.”

your voice cracks. “i like getting fucked by you, sir—only you—”

his hand in your hair, yanking your head up.

“that’s right, baby. say it louder. say you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp.“i’m fucking yours.”

“yeah, you are. this pussy’s mine now. you feel that?”

he thrusts harder. meaner. “he’ll never make you cum like this. he’ll never touch you like this. he couldn’t even make you whimper—”

he leans in, breath hitting your ear. his voice drops. “but i made you cry for it.”

and you do cry.

as your orgasm hits so hard you go weightless, silent at first—then gasping, shaking, body locked as he fucks you through it like a man obsessed.

his hand never leaves your lower back.

he cums with a guttural moan, cock buried to the hilt, hot ropes painting your walls. his chest against your back. his teeth at your neck.

both of you staring into the mirror, ruined.

he grins. “you’re mine now, sweetheart.”

a kiss to your temple. “tell your boyfriend to keep sleeping in.”

bfd!rafe taglist masterlist

interacting with this post (likes, replies, reblogs) lets me know you still want to be on the taglist! i’m trying to keep it active, so if you’re silent for too long, i might stop tagging you <3 no hard feelings, just trying to keep it tidy!

tag: 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @qversazex @iconiccolo @devoutedlover @sc05 @viqtoria @k4yr14 @t0x1cfaerie @purplerose291 @mrspuffdriving @silkylovey @rafescloudie @babygoddam @meetmeintheemeraldpool @rafessbaby @mayanqueenxx @bigjuli444 @jamesbeaufortismylife @glitterylightkingdom @alphabetically-deranged @deeninadream

[cherrywriterrr]

closure r.c

warnings: best friends to nothing to…? ghosting, angst angst ANGSTT, a lot of descriptions, coke mentions, pls tell me if i missed something

words: 6k??i have no idea once again.

you knew how bad your friendship with rafe became. you always thought you needed to save him…but who was gonna save you?

you’re begging whatever god that exists that he’s going to forgive you one day for what you did. for slipping away, for not remembering his laugh and smile; the way his nose crunches when you were teasing him. how he used to open up for hours and hours to you, pouring his heart out like it was liquid and you were the glass catching it.

it wasn’t you though, it was the way it made you feel alive but crazy. the way you felt like the soil was falling over your head; how you needed him more than you loved him sometimes, how he knew it was over but he still clung…so so crazy.

“and if you’re sooo clever and funny, why are you on your own tonight?” you asked him that one night at the country club, the first time you two ever really talked, first time you actually saw rafe. not the cameron, just rafe. only rafe.

he was so entertaining, so very looking… but he was sleeping alone—every night. all nights. not just sleeping, everything really. from eating to chilling. he’s allll alone.

it takes strength to be gentle and kind when people crush you, mind and soul. but if that’s really true, you are the strongest of them all. because being rafe’s only belief meant watching him suddenly become mean and angry, cold and aggressive…destroying himself and dragging you along…and you let him. god, you let him. you let him ruin you with those hands, the same ones that used to hold your wrists like bruised fruit, like if he squeezed too hard he’d break you open and spill whatever was left inside. and maybe that’s what he wanted, because maybe he knew you were rotting from the inside out, too.

but what neither of you said—not back then, not when he stopped answering your calls, not when you stopped showing up—was that you were both already broken before you found each other. you just fit your cracks together like puzzle pieces, thinking it was healing. thinking it was love.

you remember the last night you saw him clearly, like it’s stitched into your memory in blood. he was sitting on the hood of his truck outside your house, hoodie over his head, knuckles already bruised from a fight you didn’t ask about. you didn’t need to.

you didn’t say anything when you sat beside him. just let the silence fill your lungs like smoke.

and he looked at you, really looked at you, the way he used to, and said, “you’re already fucking gone, aren’t you?”

you didn’t answer. maybe because you were. maybe you already had one foot out the door, your heart left in his hands weeks before. maybe you were just too tired to keep bleeding for someone who never stopped cutting.

you told yourself you were doing the right thing. you told yourself that leaving was mercy. but the truth is you couldn’t carry both your pain and his anymore.

so you walked away.

and now..now you’re standing in front of the mirror, smearing on mascara that won’t last the night, trying not to look like you’ve been crying. sarah’s birthday party starts in an hour.

sarah, whose name still tastes like family. whose party rafe will be at.

you almost didn’t go. you almost said screw it and stayed in bed with the guilt gnawing at your ribs like a starved animal.

but sarah texted you this morning. “i need you there. please.”

so you’re going. because it’s her. because you owe her that much. because, maybe—maybe—you want to see him.

you tell yourself you just want closure. but really, you want to see if he still looks at you like he used to. like you were a lifeline he didn’t ask for but clung to anyway.

you want to know if you still matter.

your diary is still at his house. you forgot. but rafe didn’t. it’s under the pillow on the side of his bed that was once yours, still dented in like your body made a permanent shape there. like the mattress itself is grieving.

and he reads it every night. not like he’s snooping, not like he’s prying—more like he’s trying to keep you alive. like if he stops reading, the last version of you that loved him will disappear for good.

he doesn’t touch the newer pages. can’t bring himself to. he only reads the old ones—the ones where you still wrote his name like it was your safety, like you believed in him. where your words didn’t tremble. where you wrote about his laugh, how it cracked open something buried in you. how you used to count the freckles under his eyes when he was asleep. he memorized every line. he could quote them like scripture.

you never knew how much you meant to him. he never told you the right way. never said how your voice was the only one that could talk him down, that some nights, when everything got too loud, all he wanted was to lay in your lap and forget who he was. forget what he did. forget everything but you.

but you left. and he let you.

and now he reads your diary with shaking hands and a cigarette burning a hole in the nightstand. he swears he can still hear your laugh sometimes. in the quiet. in the cracks.

he keeps your hair tie around his wrist like it’s some kind of lifeline. he never wears it in public—just at night, just when he’s alone, like it’s a secret between the two of you. like you’re still his. like he didn’t break you. like you didn’t break him.

you’re going to be at sarah’s party tonight. he knows. he heard her talking about it, saw the texts.

and suddenly he’s seventeen again, nervous and stupid and in love with a girl who never made him feel like he was too much.

he’s going to see you. and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if you look happy. if you don’t look at him at all. he wants you to hate him. wants you to scream. cry. shove him. see him. anything but nothing. because if you walk past him like he never mattered—that might just kill him.

you never knew how in love rafe was with you. you were stuck on the best friend title—said it like it was sacred, like it was enough. like calling him anything else would shatter the fragile thing you two had built between the long nights and shared secrets, the bruised hearts and half-meant jokes.

but it wasn’t enough for him. it never was. he never said it, not out loud, but he showed you. in all the ways he knew how.

like how he always walked on the side of the road closest to traffic. how he memorized your coffee order and kept napkins in the glove compartment because you always spilled. how he let you crash in his bed after fights with your mom, even if it meant sleeping on the floor and staring at the ceiling all night just to be near you. how he kept extra tampons in his backpack because you’d forget, every month, without fail.

he showed you. he tried.

but you didn’t see it for what it was. because it didn’t look like love the way you’d been taught. and it didn’t sound like it either—not when rafe’s version of love came from a house where yelling was more common than hugging, where his father taught him that softness was weakness and that needing someone made you small.

so rafe loved you the way he understood. quietly. protectively. with a desperation he didn’t know how to name. he brought you candy after your tests, let you cry into his chest, kissed your forehead every day—but never crossed the line. not until you were already slipping away.

and by then, it was too late. you were chasing some other version of love, some safe and structured thing that made sense in your head.

and rafe didn’t make sense. rafe felt like chaos. like stormwater and shattered glass. like a need so deep it scared you. so you ignored it. you called him your best friend and left it at that. but it gutted him every time you said it.

every time you turned to him with those soft, oblivious eyes, thanking him for being there—for being the one constant—and he had to smile through the ache in his ribs. because he was constant. he would’ve left the island, his friends and family if you even hinted that you wanted that. and you never even knew. now all he’s got is your diary and an ache that won’t quit. and all those things he never said rot behind his teeth like poison.

and tonight, when you show up to sarah’s party, you’ll hug her, and laugh, and you’ll probably look like the kind of girl who’s doing just fine. and rafe will be standing in the corner with a glass of whiskey and a fake smile, pretending he’s not watching your every move. pretending he didn’t love you so hard it hollowed him out. pretending he doesn’t still dream about the life he never got to have—because you never saw him that way.

but god, he saw you. and he loved you. more than anyone else ever would.

hell is loving you in his sleep and waking up alone. waking up to a cold pillow where your cheek used to rest. to silence where your laugh used to be. to nothing. no warmth. no you.

and the worst part? sometimes, in his dreams, you still love him back. sometimes, you’re still sixteen and you’re in his truck, legs on the dash, music low, and you’re humming along to a song he hated just because you liked it.

and he looks over at you—god, he loved looking at you—and you say his name so simple, so you. just rafe. not cameron. not fuck up. not project. just his name, soft and sure.

he wakes up gasping. every time. and he used to turn to coke when that happened. used to tear through drawers and lock bathroom doors and sink into whatever high would blur your face in his head for five minutes.

because you were his escape before all that. you were his first one. you were the one who sat on the floor with him after his dad screamed at him for hours. the one who didn’t flinch when he broke down, when his breath stuttered and his shoulders shook and his pride dissolved in your hoodie.

he cried on your shoulder. you never told anyone.

and when you cried on his? when your mom slammed the door or your boyfriend didn’t text back or you just felt too much all at once—he held you like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

you’d bury your face into his chest and whisper “don’t let go, okay?” and he never did. he never would have.

but you let go of him and now he’s stuck with a thousand memories and no one to tell them to. a thousand versions of your voice in his head and none of them real.

rafe never learned how to love gently—but with you, he tried. and for a while, it was enough. but now, the space where you used to be is louder than any fight. darker than any high. meaner than any voice in his head.

and hell? hell is still dreaming about holding you and waking up with nothing but the echo of your name in his throat.

sarah nearly screams when she sees you. “oh my god—no. no way.” her bare feet slap against the grass as she runs full speed, throwing her arms around you so hard it knocks you back a step. “you actually came. you’re here.”

you barely get a word out before she’s talking again, practically vibrating with excitement.

“this is seriously the best gift ever. ever,” she says, eyes wide, clutching your hands like you might disappear. “like screw the party, screw the cake. you showing up? best present. i win.”

you laugh, already tearing up as she hugs you again. she smells like vanilla and bonfire smoke.

“you look so good,” she gushes, pulling back to take you in. “like—seriously? i missed you so much. it’s not even funny. you’re like..my older sister.”

your chest tightens at that. you’re not her sister. not by blood, not anymore by title. but the way she’s looking at you? it’s like nothing ever changed.

“i’m not gonna cry,” sarah says, fanning her face. “wait, yes i am. i don’t care. you don’t get it. you being here means everything. mom asked me what i wanted for my birthday and i didn’t say anything but all i was thinking was ‘i wish she would come.’ and now you did.”

you smile, heart aching in the best and worst way. “i missed you too,” you whisper.

“i thought you weren’t gonna come,” she says, eyes soft. “i thought… i thought things were just gonna stay the way they were. like, forever.”

you shake your head. “i could never miss your eighteenth, sar. never.”

she beams, wrapping her arms around your waist like she’s six again. like she doesn’t care who’s watching. “you’re stuck with me again,” she says. “whether you like it or not.”

you liked hearing that, because no matter what happened between you and rafe, you were always her girl.

you reach into your bag, fingers brushing velvet, heart already full from the way she’s looking at you—like you hung the stars just to show up tonight. “i got you something,” you say, pulling out the little pink box tied with thin gold ribbon. “it’s not much, but…”

“shut up,” sarah gasps, clutching her chest like she’s about to faint. “you brought a gift too? are you trying to kill me? emotional murder on my birthday?”

you laugh, pressing the box into her hands. “open it.”

she rips the ribbon with a squeal, tearing the paper so fast you can’t even warn her to be careful. her hands go still when she lifts the lid and sees what’s inside.

a thin gold necklace, delicate and simple. heart shaped locket, tiny etched stars around the edge. sarah blinks, jaw slightly open, like her brain is short circuiting. “no way.”

she opens the locket with shaking fingers. inside is the photo—you and her on the beach, sunburnt and tangled up in each other, cheeks pressed together, smiling like the world had never touched you.

“no way!” she yells again, louder this time. people glance over, but she doesn’t care. “this is—i’m gonna—i am crying, oh my god.”

you can’t help but grin, watching her blink rapidly, trying to stop tears from ruining her makeup “do you remember that day?” you ask, softly. “that was the night we dared top to jump in the ocean fully clothed.”

“he did it!” sarah bursts out laughing, clutching the necklace to her chest. “and then blamed you when he lost his phone. that was the best day of my life, i swear.”

she throws her arms around you again, necklace still in one hand. “i’m never taking this off,” she mumbles into your shoulder. “like, ever. you could pry it off my cold, dead body.”

“morbid, but i love the energy.”

she pulls back just enough to hold the locket up to the light, grinning through watery lashes. “you’re my person,” she says suddenly, with that wild honesty only sarah can pull off. “you always were. i don’t care what happened. you’ll always be my sister.”

your throat tightens. your eyes sting. you smile, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand before the tears can fall. “yeah,” you say softly, voice catching. “you too, sarah. always.”

her smile gets impossibly bigger, cheeks glowing under the string lights. she slips the necklace on right then and there, fumbling with the clasp until you help her fasten it, fingers brushing the back of her neck like it’s still familiar. when it’s on, she holds the locket in her palm like it’s something holy.

you look around for a second, eyes scanning the yard, and then glance back at her. “hey, where’s wheezie? figured she’d be here causing chaos by now.”

sarah snorts. “she was here for five minutes, stole three cupcakes, called top a loser, and left.”

you laugh. “iconic.”

“seriously. she said ‘happy birthday, sarah’ like she was being forced at gunpoint and then vanished. she’s thriving.”

“tell her i asked about her.”

“she’ll pretend she doesn’t care, but she will,” sarah says with a little smirk. “she still uses that tote bag you gave her, by the way. the one with the little frogs on it.”

“that thing was cute,” you say, smiling softly. “figured it’d be her vibe.”

sarah links her arm through yours like she’s never letting go again. “you coming to hang out inside?” she asks, already tugging you toward the porch.“everyone’s gonna lose their minds when they see you.”

you hesitate for half a second—but then you nod. “yeah,” you whisper. “let’s go.”

rafe sees you the moment you step inside. and his breath..it just stops. like his lungs forgot how to work, like his body doesn’t know how to be around you anymore, only how to ache.

you’re standing in the doorway beside sarah, laughing at something she says, wearing that cute little dress in a color he’s sure he’s seen on you before but somehow it looks brand new now. your platform sandals click softly on the floor, and there’s a necklace around your throat with a tiny cherry charm that catches the light every time you move.

he doesn’t mean to stare. but he does. he always did. it’s like his mind slows everything down just to take you in—every movement, every blink, every second he’s not allowed to have back.

and then he watches his dad move toward you. ward. followed by rose, then lily—his and sarah’s mom. you don’t even look surprised. just a little breathless, maybe, when they reach you. when lily wraps you up in the kind of hug rafe hasn’t felt in years. when rose touches your arm, soft and careful like she’s worried you’ll vanish. when ward’s hand rests on your shoulder and he says something that makes you press your lips together like you’re trying not to cry.

and they’re all looking at you like you’re still family. like you never left. like you never broke someone in this house clean in half.

rafe’s standing across the room with a drink in his hand he can’t taste, locked in place, watching you shine in the middle of a world that used to be his.

and all he can think is god, she’s even more beautiful now. god, he’s never wanted anything more.

not a world that used to be his—scratch that. you were his world.

and standing there now, with the lights casting that soft gold halo around you, that cherry charm resting right where his fingers used to, that easy laugh slipping from your mouth like it still belonged in his memory…

he realizes nothing ever replaced you. not the parties. not the noise. not the girls. not the drugs. nothing even came close.

because it was never just about missing you. it was missing himself with you. the version of him that only existed in your presence—the one who knew how to smile for real. the one who wasn’t always angry. the one who didn’t wake up aching.

he watches lily tuck your hair behind your ear like you’re hers again. watches ward nod with that proud little smile he rarely gives anyone. watches rose whisper something that makes you laugh, that kind of laugh he used to earn when he got it right.

and all he can think is, that should’ve been our life. not a scene in passing. not something he watches like a stranger.

it should’ve been him beside you. hand on your back. mouth against your ear. your cherry necklace tangled in his fingers while he told you how beautiful you looked—just for him.

instead, he stands frozen, surrounded by people, and still entirely alone.

you hadn’t expected this. you’d prepared for awkward hellos, stiff smiles, maybe a few polite nods across the room. but the moment you stepped inside, it was like the air shifted. like everything cracked open just a little.

ward’s hand was the first to find your shoulder. warm. welcoming “look at you,” he said softly, eyes almost… proud. “it’s been too long.”

and when rose came next, arms gentle, perfume the same as always, you nearly forgot how to speak. she brushed your cheek with her thumb and whispered, “you look so grown. like the world never touched you.”

but it did. it touched you. broke you in places no one here can see.

still, when lily pulled you into her chest and didn’t let go right away, when she called you baby like she used to—like you never left—you let your eyes fall closed.

because it felt like home. because part of you was still aching for this.

you’re laughing at something ward says, something about that one summer sarah made him take you and her tubing and you nearly flew into a tree, when the sound of feet slapping hardwood pulls your attention.

“you’re here!” wheezie.

she comes flying from around the corner, all arms and messy hair, and throws herself at you like she’s still ten. you catch her just in time, arms wrapping around her without hesitation. “oh my god,” you breathe, holding her tight. “hi, baby girl.”

“you didn’t tell me you were coming,” she says, muffled into your shoulder.

you smile, hand cradling the back of her head. “wanted to surprise you.”

she pulls back, eyes wide, brimming with something soft and unsaid. “this is the best surprise ever.” then, without missing a beat, “you smell the same.”

“like what?”

“like summer and sleepovers,” she says with a grin, already tugging you toward the couch. “come sit with me before sarah steals you forever.”

you glance back over your shoulder, catching lily’s misty eyes and ward’s small nod. rose touches your arm again, just once.

you feel… overwhelmed. but not in a bad way. you feel wanted.

wheezie tugs you through the crowd, weaving between bodies and laughter and spilled drinks like it’s second nature, like she hasn’t missed a beat since the last time you were here.

she leads you to the far corner of the room—round table, half full, plastic cups and crumpled napkins scattered across it—and your chest tightens a little when you realize where you’re standing.

“the kids’ table,” you say, half laughing as you pull out a chair. “huh. just like the old days.”

wheezie plops down beside you, crossing her arms on the table like she owns it. “yeah,” she says, raising an eyebrow, “except i’m sixteen now and you’re, what, twenty?”

you smirk, leaning back. “twenty and ancient. i know.”

“basically. you have taxes now. and probably back pain.”

“rude,” you say, nudging her knee under the table. “i do stretch, thank you very much.”

she grins, pleased with herself, and you feel it again—that warmth in your chest, that easy comfort that only comes from people who knew you before you knew yourself.

wheezie leans in, voice low but teasing. “so… did you see rafe yet?”

you freeze for a second, heart skipping like it remembers a song it thought it forgot.

you glance over toward the other side of the room. there he is..his eyes locked on you sharp, impossible to look away from.

and just like that, the world tilts, slows down, then stops. everything crashes back all at once, the way you left him behind, the silences that grew between you, the nights you told yourself it was better this way.

you moved on with your life, or at least tried to. but right now, looking into his gaze, it feels like none of that ever mattered.

you swallow hard, cheeks burning, and try to tell yourself it’s just a party. that you’re okay. but your hands won’t stop trembling. can’t stop shaking.

“hellooo,” wheezie says, waving her hand in front of your face. “earth to emotionally spiraling twenty year old.”

you blink, breath catching, tearing your eyes away from him like it actually hurts.

she raises an eyebrow, smirking like she knows exactly what just happened. “i see there’s still tension,” she says, drawing out the word with a little grin. “y’know… you could talk to him. it wouldn’t kill you.”

you laugh under your breath, but there’s no rea joy in it. just ache. “it wouldn’t be fair to him,” you say quietly, fingers tracing the rim of your plastic cup. “after everything, you know...”

wheezie tilts her head. “he might not see it that way.”

“doesn’t matter,” you whisper, mostly to yourself. “i left. i chose to let go. even if part of me never really did.”

she watches you for a second, all of her usual sass gone“you didn’t ruin him, y’know.”

you don’t answer. you just keep staring at your cup, trying not to look back at the boy who’s still staring at you like you never left at all.

wheezie notices before you do. her eyes flicking to someone behind you, mouth twitching like she knows something’s coming. “i’ll give you two a minute,” she says, standing up with a dramatic stretch. “try not to emotionally combust while i’m gone.”

you look up just as she slips away, and there’s lily. soft smile, calm presence, eyes that always saw too much.

“hi, sweetheart,” she says, gently, sliding into the seat next to you like she’s been waiting for the right moment. “you look beautiful.”

“thank you,” you murmur, heart already in your throat. “so do you.”

she pauses, resting her hand lightly on the table between you. “i saw the way you looked at each other.”

you freeze, eyes locked on hers.

“you and rafe,” she says, not unkindly. “i always thought there’d be more.”

you open your mouth, then close it again.

“i’m not saying that to make you uncomfortable,” she adds, gently. “but you loved each other. you did. and maybe you still do, i don’t know. but what i saw just now… it looked like two people who never got their ending.”

you inhale slowly, shoulders tight. “i couldn’t be what he needed,” you say, barely above a whisper.

lily reaches out, brushing a piece of hair from your face like she used to when you were younger, when you still belonged here.

“none of us knew how to be what he needed,” she says softly. “but you came the closest.”

you swallow hard, blinking down at your hands as your fingers twist around the rim of the cup. “we were destroying each other more than we were building something,” you say quietly, voice more steady than you expect. “it felt like love, maybe it was love, but it hurt more than it healed.”

lily’s eyes soften, her hand still resting gently near yours.

“and besides,” you add, forcing a small, breathless laugh, “we were just best friends.”

but the words taste wrong the second they leave your mouth. thin. empty. like a lie you’ve told yourself so many times it stopped sounding like one.

lily doesn’t press. she just looks at you, really looks at you, the way only someone who’s watched everything from the edge of the room can. “i don’t think he ever saw it that way,” she says softly. “and i don’t think you did either.”

you force a laugh, light and sharp, trying to shake the weight off your chest. “well,” you say, leaning back in your chair, “doesn’t matter now, does it?”

your fingers tap against your cup like it’ll distract you, but it doesn’t. not when the words keep pushing up your throat like smoke.

“i mean—” you add, looking away, “isn’t he with that girl from the country club? the brunette.”

lily’s expression doesn’t change, but her voice softens. “sofia?” she says, almost like she’s double checking. “honey, i barely see her. haven’t heard her name in weeks.”

you blink. your heart stumbles. you don’t know why it matters. but it does.

lily watches you for a moment longer, eyes kind, knowing, too full of things she doesn’t say out loud. and you sit there, suddenly aware of the way rafe hasn’t stopped watching you from across the room.

lily sighs, eyes drifting for a moment, like she’s seeing a different version of the past one that still aches, one she never fully let go of. “y’know,” she says quietly, “before the divorce with ward… before rose… hell, even before rafe—”

you look up at her, brows slightly raised.

“ward and i were just best friends too,” she says, lips tugging into something that’s not quite a smile. “we swore that’s all it was. and maybe it was, at first. until it wasn’t.”

she shifts in her seat, gaze heavy but gentle. “we fucked it when rose came into the picture. we let pride and fear speak louder than anything else. but maybe—” she pauses, eyes meeting yours—“maybe we could’ve saved it if we weren’t just as stubborn as you and rafe are right now.”

your breath catches, throat tight.

“maybe then,” she adds, voice quieter now, “rafe wouldn’t have a stepmom and a mother he barely sees. maybe he’d have a home that still felt like one.”

and when you glance over your shoulder again, rafe’s still watching you. like he never stopped. like he never will.

your voice drops to a hush, almost like you’re not sure you’re allowed to say it “i always felt bad about that, lily…”

she looks at you, waiting. you glance down at your hands, thumbs twisting in your lap “ward cheating with rose, i mean.”

the words sit heavy between you, truth laced in guilt, the kind that never really went away. “i was there all the time back then. i saw it. not them, but… the shift. i knew something was wrong and i never said anything. i didn’t know how.”

lily’s eyes soften, a sad sort of knowing behind them. “you were just a kid,” she says gently. “that wasn’t your burden to carry.”

you nod, but it doesn’t lift the weight.

“still,” you murmur, “i always felt like i should’ve done something. like maybe it wouldn’t have happened. or at least not the way it did.”

lily’s quiet for a moment, then reaches over, her hand covering yours. “ward made his choices. so did rose. and so did i.” she squeezes gently. “you were never the one to blame.”

lily watches you for a moment, eyes lingering, voice dipping just low enough that no one else could hear “but,” she says softly, “you are the one to blame ten years from now… if you’re still thinking about rafe.”

your breath stills.

“if you’re lying awake at night wondering what would’ve happened if you’d just said something. if you’d stayed. if you’d let yourself love him the way you wanted to—if you keep living your life pretending you don’t.”

you look at her, throat tightening, chest aching in that place only he ever touched.

“he’s a lot,” she whispers, almost smiling. “but so were you. and somehow… you made each other lighter.”

you don’t say anything. because what could you possibly say to that?

she gives your hand one last squeeze before standing, brushing invisible lint from her dress, eyes soft.

“think about it,” she says, turning toward the crowd. “before ten years turns into forever.”

and then she’s gone, leaving you in a chair, heart loud, hands shaking. your mind starts spiraling before you even stand.

this is sarah’s birthday. her eighteenth. you came here for her. not for him. not to have your heart dragged out and picked apart in front of chandeliers and champagne flutes.

not to remember every kiss that almost happened. not to relive every night you cried on his chest or the mornings he made you laugh like the world hadn’t already broken you in half.

you didn’t come here to see the boy who ruined you. you didn’t come to apologize—especially not for something that wasn’t even your fault.

you had to leave. you had to survive. you couldn’t keep loving someone who only bled on you. who said he didn’t need saving, but still reached for you every time he drowned.

you remind yourself…he wasn’t ready. you weren’t enough. he let you go. but still… he’s here now.

you get up too fast, heart pounding too loud, body moving just to move. just to get away from thoughts that are swallowing you whole. your phone’s in your hand before you even realize it, thumb scrolling aimlessly, anything to distract yourself, to pretend none of this is unraveling inside your chest.

you’re walking toward the drink table, eyes glued to your screen, heat rising in your cheeks, teeth digging into your lip and then

crash.

your body collides into something—someone—and your glass tips forward, half your drink sloshing down the front of a button down shirt.

“shit,” you gasp, stumbling back a step, eyes wide.

and then you look up. and it’s him. of course it’s rafe. and the whole world stops like it knows.

just like it did the first time you heard him laugh. just like it did the night he held you in the back of his truck, whispered that he needed you more than anything he’d ever had.

he blinks at you, his expression unreadable, lips parted, chest rising and falling slow like he’s afraid to speak—afraid you’ll disappear if he does.

your breath catches in your throat. the music fades into a hum, something that sounds like a frank ocean song bleeding through the speakers. low and tragic, all velvet and yearning.

you look at the mess on his shirt, dark liquid soaking through linen, and then up at his face again.

he’s older now. more tired in the eyes. more beautiful in a way that hurts.

your voice comes out soft, like a ghost of you “i’m… i didn’t see you.”

“i know,” he says, and god..his voice. raspy, familiar, a knife made of silk.

you stare at each other, frozen, and for a second it feels like all those nights come rushing back. your head on his shoulder, his fingers tracing shapes into your skin, his quiet promises in the dark. your heart is screaming. your body aches to run.

but neither of you move. and maybe that’s what love is. standing in a room full of people, pretending you didn’t already lose each other but still loving each other so much you just can’t go.

he leans in, just barely, like it hurts to get too close. like your gravity is still the same and he’s trying not to fall again. his breath grazes your cheek when he speaks, low and wrecked. “you always look at me like that.”

you freeze. like what? like you loved him too long? like you still do?

but your voice doesn’t work fast enough. instead, your eyes flick down to the mess on his shirt, the wet fabric clinging to his chest, and you fumble for an escape, something to fill the silence, something safe. “i—i will, i…” you stammer, blinking quick. “i’m gonna get some napkins. for your shirt. i didn’t mean to—”

but his hand wraps gently around your wrist. not tight. not possessive. just enough to stop you. just enough to say don’t go.

his fingers are warm. too familiar. your skin still knows him “don’t,” he says, and his voice cracks on it. “just… don’t.”

your heart caves a little, something fragile cracking behind your ribs, and suddenly all you can hear is the song playing in the background.

something slow, aching, like it was written for the two of you before you even met.

his eyes are glassy now. you think if he blinked, the whole party might flood. “stay,” he whispers. like he’s saying it for the first time. like he’s saying it for every time you didn’t.

he holds your wrist a little tighter, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again if he lets go. his voice drops lower, heavier with a weight you didn’t expect “i have your diary, you know. had it since you left.”

your breath hitches, heart suddenly exposed bare like a wound you thought was healed.

you look away first, swallowing thickly. “i know,” you whisper, voice trembling like a secret. “never had the guts to ask for it back.”

he lets out a slow, humorless laugh, like something cracked inside him and never really glued back together. “it was under my pillow. the side of the bed that used to be yours.”

the words hit you harder than any punch. the bed. the room. the space you once filled, now just a ghost. you swallow again, eyes heavy, voice barely steady. “why did you keep it?”

he looks at you then something raw and vulnerable shining behind his guarded stare. “because,” he says, voice breaking like a fragile thing, “it was the only way i could keep you close.”

you pull your wrist gently free, blinking hard to steady yourself“you can throw it away, you know. it’s nothing important to me.”

his eyes don’t flicker, don’t waver. instead, he steps closer, voice low but certain. “it’s important to me.” there’s a weight behind the words that presses into your chest, heavy and impossible to ignore. “you should’ve known that”

you blink up at him, voice barely a whisper“did you… read it?”

he swallows hard, eyes flickering away for just a second before meeting yours again,“yeah… i—i did.”

you laugh then, breathless, shaking your head like it’s the funniest, most heartbreaking thing you’ve heard all night. “you did, huh?”

his smile is small, almost sad, “yeah.”

you set your drink down on the table, voice soft but firm, “you should clean that shirt, yknow?”

he nods, a slow smile tugging at his lips, “yeah, you’re right.”

before you can say anything else, he takes your hand—warm, steady—and leads you through the crowd, “we need to talk anyway.”

upstairs, away from the noise, just the two of you. finally talking, finally alone.

taglist part 2

tags 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @rafesteddy @httpsdrewstarkey @qversazex @iconiccolo @devoutedlover @viqtoria @sc05 @alphabetically-deranged @k4yr14 @t0x1cfaerie @purplerose291 @mrspuffdriving @silkylovey @rafescloudie @babygoddam @meetmeintheemeraldpool @mayanqueenxx @glitterylightkingdom @lolasangelz @my-diary1 @addyleigh

[cherrywriterrr]

after hours r.c

bsf!rafe x reader

warnings: 18+ mdni, unprotected sex (raw as hell), car sex, dirty talk, possessive!rafe, jealousy, very explicit sexual content, overstimulation, rough pace, use of “baby” and “mine,” degradation + praise, best friends to way more, slight dom/sub vibes, reader on top (cowgirl), marking, praise + filth, very heated and emotional, overstimulation, full of filthy talk and filthy intentions, kinda breeding kink??

previous<<

you’re still shaking when the door swings shut behind him. still bent over the counter. still wet between your thighs. still breathless and bruised and confused.

and then your phone buzzes.

rafe🍭: 5 mins. outside. truck bed. don’t make me come in there again.

your stomach drops.you don’t fix your hair. don’t fix your shirt. don’t fix anything.

you just lock the register, grab your keys, and go.

the sun’s barely down. heat rising off the pavement. and there he is—propped against his truck like he didn’t just eat you out behind a cash register.

he doesn’t smile. doesn’t say a word.

just watches you cross the lot like he’s been starving for years and you’re the only thing left to taste.

you stop in front of him. heart hammering.

he jerks his chin. “get in the back.”

you climb into the bed of the truck, hands shaking, thighs already slick again. you hear the cab door slam, and then he’s climbing in after you—kicking the tailgate shut behind him like he’s sealing a crime scene.

you don’t even get a chance to speak.

he grabs you. kisses you like he’s drowning in it, like he’ll die if you pull away.

“this what you want?” he pants, already pulling your shorts down. “you want your best friend to fuck you in a truck behind your mom’s shop?”

you nod, dizzy. “yes.”

“nah, baby.” he grabs your face, makes you look at him. “not your best friend anymore.”

your breath catches.

“say it.”

you blink. “you’re not my best friend.”

his eyes flash. “what am i?”

you hesitate. “you’re…”

he grinds his hips into yours, cock pressing hard and hot between your legs.

“you’re mine,” you gasp.

he groans—like that broke something in him.

“fuckin’ finally.”

then he’s slamming into you. no teasing. no hesitation. just skin against skin, bodies colliding, years of tension snapping all at once.

you cry out.

“shh,” he growls in your ear. “fuckin’ take it. you wanted this, remember?”

you dig your nails into his shoulders. his rhythm is brutal, fucking into you like he’s making a point. like he’s carving it into your skin.

“you’re tight as fuck,” he grits. “so fuckin’ wet. you missed this, huh? missed what it’s like to feel.”

you nod, wild, desperate. “rafe—fuck—please—”

he flips you. presses your chest to the truck bed, takes you from behind.

“you thought we were gonna stay friends?” he pants, pounding into you. “after the way you came on my tongue?”

you scream. he slaps your ass. once, twice.

“quiet.”

you’re trembling.

“i’ll never be your friend again,” he says, voice dark and raw and ruined. “not after this. not after you let me inside you like this.”

your thighs shake. your body clenches.

“you’re close?” he taunts. “gonna come for me, baby?”

you sob. “yes—yes—rafe—”

“you come on my cock and it’s done,” he growls. “you’re mine. no more flirty bullshit. no more pretendin’.”

your body breaks.

you clamp down around him, shaking, crying, moaning his name so loud it echoes off the empty buildings.

he groans—loud and ragged—then stills.

you feel him twitch inside you.

then he pulls out—slow, deliberate—and flips you again so you’re on your back, dazed and wrecked.

he leans in, presses a kiss to your jaw.

“not your best friend,” he whispers again.

his fingers slip between your legs. “but i’ll ruin you better than he ever could.”

your thighs are still trembling. your lips are kiss-swollen. your whole body feels like it’s buzzing, overstimulated and barely holding on.

and he’s still hard.

you blink up at him from the truck bed, sprawled out beneath the stars and the echo of your moans. your shirt’s off now. your panties are somewhere in the cab. you’re fucked-out and floating. but he’s not done.

he grabs your waist.“ride me.”

your breath hitches. “rafe—”

“get on top,” he says, jaw tight. “wanna watch your face when i fill you up.”

you whimper.

he lies back, hands behind his head like he’s daring you to take control. cock flushed and thick between his thighs, already leaking for you.

“don’t get shy now,” he murmurs. “you already screamed my name with your mom’s store sign flipped to closed.”

you crawl over him, thighs straddling his hips, palms flat against his chest.

“fuck,” he groans, looking up at you like you’re made of gold. “look at you.”

you sink down. his mouth drops open.

“jesus christ,” he grits. “you were made for me.”

you can’t speak. can barely breathe.

he fills you so deep it’s dizzying. so hot you feel it in your throat. and when you start to move—slow, sinful rolls of your hips—he loses it.

“yeah, baby, just like that,” he pants. “take what you need. use me.”

you do. you fuck him like you own him.

like you’ve been aching for this since the first time you hugged too long. the first time he said your name with something filthy underneath it. the first time he walked in the shop with hungry eyes and a lazy grin and you felt it between your legs.

your rhythm builds—grinding down, his hands guiding your hips, pulling you closer.

“you feel that?” he growls. “that stretch? that pressure? that’s me, baby.”

you cry out.

he grips your throat—gently, just enough to make you look at him. “you know what this means?”

you blink. “what?”

“means no one else gets to fuck you like this.”

you tighten around him.

“means i’m the only one who knows what your pussy feels like from the inside.”

you moan, loud and needy.

his fingers dig into your thighs, holding you down. “means this little cunt’s mine now.”

you’re unraveling. his voice, his hands, the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted and he’s about to ruin you with it.

and then he says it “ride me ‘til i come in you, baby.”

you gasp.

“i want it all the way in,” he groans. “want you so fuckin’ full you leak down your legs.”

you clamp down around him, tight, hot, dripping. your hands fist in his hair. your whole body shudders.

“gonna come for me?” he growls. “gonna come with me buried inside you, stretchin’ you open, fillin’ you up so deep it sticks?”

you nod. frantic. trembling.

“do it.”

you come—loud, wet, shaking apart with him still pulsing inside you. you collapse onto his chest, crying out his name again and again and again.

and when he finally comes—deep, messy, groaning your name like a prayer—he holds you there. doesn’t let you move.

“stay right there,” he whispers. “wanna keep it inside you a little longer.”

your lips brush his throat. “rafe…”

his arms lock around you.”you’re mine now.”

bsf!rafe taglist masterlist

tags: 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @k4yr14 @iconiccolo @devoutedlover @sc05 @purplerose291 @t0x1cfaerie @deeninadream @rafescloudie @meetmeintheemeraldpool @sydneysslove @babygoddam @mrspuffdriving @silkylovey @qversazex @alphabetically-deranged

[cherrywriterrr]

paracosm r.c

✯ pairing: barista!rafe x reader

✯ warnings: language maybe?? fluff fluff fluff!! mentions of alcohol, family trauma, family member death, mentions of past hookups and blood, self hatred. will have smut in the future cause i love these two actually!

✯ word count: 6k

✯ introduction

it smells like cinnamon and dark roast the second you walk in. the café sits on the corner of two quiet streets—ten minutes from campus, ten from your new apartment—and it’s the kind of place that looks like it belongs in a movie. old brick walls, dried florals hanging upside down, mismatched mugs drying on an open shelf. the door jingles softly behind you, and the air inside is cool, scented with espresso and vanilla. sunlight pools on the wood floor like spilled honey.

you take your headphones off and tuck them into your bag, scanning the place. it’s quiet. a couple girls studying in the back, one guy typing furiously on a laptop. faint music plays over the speakers. low, slow, dreamy. maybe frank ocean. you can’t quite tell.

you step up to the counter. the barista is already there.no greeting. no smile. just standing behind the register, staring at you like a loading screen.

you blink. he looks like he walked out of a portrait. clean shaven, jaw like sculpture, glasses with silver frames sitting perfectly on the bridge of his nose. his hair’s slicked back, not too neat, like he didn’t try too hard. he’s wearing a black apron over a gray tee and there’s something dark smudged under one fingernail.

he doesn’t say anything. just nods once, like: go ahead.

you clear your throat “hi. can i get an iced vanilla oat milk latte? with brown sugar syrup. and cinnamon on top. and caramel drizzle, like… a lot of it. and light ice, please.”

his expression doesn’t move. not even a twitch. but then—barely there—his eyebrow lifts. his mouth flattens. a face. a whole face.

“what?” you snap, eyes narrowing. “did i say something wrong?”

he blinks, startled. looks down at the screen, then back at you. “n-nothing,” he mutters. voice low. hoarse like he doesn’t talk much. then, quieter “just. um. it’s a… b-basic order.”

you pause. stare “wow. okay.”

he winces like you slapped him. the tips of his ears are already pink “i didn’t mean that in a bad way,” he blurts. “like, it’s not bad. it’s just… common. i mean—not that you’re—i’m not saying you’re common, just—”he exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose “i should stop talking.”

you’re half amused, half annoyed. his poker face is gone now, and in its place. awkward panic, shaky breath, visible regret. “are you good?” you ask, honestly curious.

he nods, too fast. grabs a cup and writes something on the side in sharpie. his handwriting’s neat, kind of pretty. you lean over the counter a little, but he whirls away before you can read it.

behind the machine, he mutters something that sounds like idiot, then turns on the steamer like it’s a distraction.

he makes your coffee with surgical precision. doesn’t speak again. the blush on his cheeks doesn’t fade.

you wonder how many people have made him look like this.

he sets the drink down on the counter like it might bite him. doesn’t meet your eyes. just slides it toward you, fingers retreating fast like he’s been burned.

“enjoy,” he mumbles. barely audible. barely there. voice wrapped in gravel and nerves.

you look at the drink—iced latte layered perfectly, syrup sinking like golden smoke, caramel laced along the lid in an uneven heart. cinnamon dusted like he actually gave a shit. you smile before you even take a sip.

then you notice the sharpie writing on the side of the cup. basic coffee for a not so basic girl

your brows lift. you let out a short scoff, lips tugging into a grin as you hold the cup up and glance at him. “oh wow,” you say, sweet and just a little teasing. “you’ve got moves, huh? i’ll give you that.”

he freezes. like genuinely doesn’t move a muscle. not even a blink. just stands there, eyes wide behind his glasses, ears turning pink all over again like he wasn’t expecting you to actually read it.

you laugh under your breath. take a sip of the coffee, which is honestly kind of amazing. the ratio’s perfect, the syrup hits first, then the roast, warm and smooth.

you’re still smiling when you step away from the counter. he watches you leave, expression caught between horror and awe.

you’re halfway to the door when you glance back and say, “i’m definitely coming back here.”

and the thing is he doesn’t answer but he smiles. just barely. almost invisible.

late golden hour—your favorite kind—makes everything look soft around the edges. street lamps aren’t on yet, but the shadows stretch long and lazy across the pavement. you’ve still got your drink in hand, ice mostly melted, caramel clinging to the sides like it’s refusing to let go.

you cut through the park outside your building, like always. it’s small, just a few benches, a short path lined with crepe myrtles, and one ancient fountain that hasn’t worked since the second world war. but it’s quiet.

and then you see him. the barista. him. same glasses. same jaw. hair now a little looser, like he’s run his fingers through it a few times since work. he’s sitting on the bench closest to the trees, hunched slightly forward, sketchbook in his lap. one headphone in. pencil moving in slow, careful lines.

you stop for a second, staring like a creep. because wow. he’s… kind of gorgeous like this. peaceful. focused. not flustered or fumbling over words. just existing in the golden light with a smudge of graphite on his knuckle and a worn moleskine balanced across his thigh.

you walk over. he doesn’t hear you at first. his head’s tilted, mouth a little parted, pencil moving in slow, deliberate strokes. you tilt your head, trying to see what he’s drawing, but before you can lean any closer—he senses you. freezes.

his whole body stiffens as he slowly pulls the headphone out and turns his head. the second his eyes meet yours, he looks like someone caught with stolen jewelry.

“…hi,” you say, amused.

he blinks. “hi.” his voice is small. even raspier than earlier, like it’s been hours since he’s used it. you notice a flicker of panic in his expression, like he’s trying to figure out whether to run or pretend he’s invisible.

“you always hang out here?” you ask, gesturing around vaguely.

he hesitates. shrugs a little. “sometimes. after work.”

you gesture toward the headphone still hanging over his shoulder “what’re you listening to?”

he glances at his phone, half hiding it in his palm. “…frank ocean.”

you smile. “figured. i heard it faintly. solo, right?”

that gets him. he looks up at you fully for the first time, surprise flickering in his eyes like a lighter sparking

“yeah,” he says. “it’s my favorite. it just… sounds like being lonely. but in a good way.”

you nod slowly “like a soft kind of sad.”

“exactly,” he says, voice gaining a little strength. “like… like a memory you don’t want to forget even though it hurts.”

you blink, caught off guard. the way he said that—it wasn’t awkward. it was sincere. like the rest of the world disappeared and that’s just what he meant.

you glance down at the sketchbook in his lap, and curiosity bubbles up again “what’re you working on?”

immediately, the blush returns. he shifts a little, hand moving like he wants to close the book but not fast enough “it’s not—it’s nothing serious. just practice. stuff.”

you step closer. and when you finally get a look, your breath catches. it’s a sculpture sketch. you can tell by the shading—the depth, the way he’s drawn texture into stone. it’s a figure wrapped around itself, knees drawn to chest, arms loose, like it’s caught somewhere between collapsing and floating. the face is vague, almost ghostly. delicate. t’s beautiful.

“wait… this is good,” you say, brows lifting “like… really good.”

he shifts again, shoulders tight. “i’ve been doing it a while.”

“do you study art or something?”

he shakes his head once. “dropped out of college last year.”

you glance back down at the drawing “that’s crazy. with this kind of talent?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just shrugs like it’s too complicated to explain in one sentence. after a moment, he says, “it didn’t feel like mine anymore. school. so i left.”

you nod slowly. that makes more sense than anything you’ve heard all day.

you sit down next to him on the bench, careful not to bump his arm. he looks at you like you’ve done something wild—like sitting next to him is an act of war or religion.

you sip your coffee. it’s warm now, but still sweet “…so,” you say casually. “am i gonna keep getting little notes on my cups? or was that a one time flirtation?”

he chokes on air.

you grin. “i’m kidding. kind of.”

he looks away, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “i just… thought it might make you smile.”

you glance sideways at him. his cheeks are flushed again. his glasses are slipping a little down his nose.

and maybe you’re tired, and soft, and dreaming a little—but you think you could really get used to seeing him like this.

alone in the light, sketching things he doesn’t let anyone else see. quiet and thoughtful. sharp and shy. all carved out of something warmer than he lets on.

you smile again. “it did,” you say. “it did make me smile.”

he looks over at you slowly, a flicker of something behind his glasses—like he’s trying to decide if you’re joking or serious.

then, quieter than before, he says “oh. really?”

you glance at him, surprised he asked. surprised he’s even still talking.

you smile,“of course,” you say. “you’re cute.”

and there it is again. his whole body stiffens. like the word cute physically landed on his skin and sent his nerves short circuiting. the tips of his ears go crimson. his eyes dart to the side like he’s trying to find the nearest exit, or maybe just disappear into the sketchbook. he opens his mouth like he might respond—but nothing comes out. just a breath, half caught in his throat.

he stares at the paper instead. doesn’t move. doesn’t blink.

you sit there a second longer, your heart suddenly loud in your chest. and then it hits you. maybe that was too much. maybe he’s not used to it—someone sitting here, calling him cute, talking to him like this. maybe he hates it.

you shift slightly, pulling your knees together. your voice drops “i-i mean,” you murmur, already standing up halfway, “i can go. obviously. if you want. i didn’t mean to… intrude or whatever.”

he looks up, eyes wide, lips parting—finally, finally something like panic rushing forward as he blurts “no—wait. no, don’t—”

but you’re already standing, one hand gripping the melting cup, the other clumsily tucking your hair behind your ear. you glance down, avoiding his gaze for the first time.

you shake your head, backing off a little, fingers tightening around your half empty cup. “no, i mean—” you laugh, but it comes out crooked. forced. “it’s weird. i don’t even know your name. or if you have, like… a girlfriend. or a wife. or—i don’t know, kids or something.”

you glance at him, then away, then back again, like your own words embarrass you. “maybe you’re not even into my bullshit. maybe you’re just… being polite.”

he stares at you. like you just slapped him with a sunflower. lips parted. eyes wide. something like disbelief flickering through his features.

and then—he scrambles. legs jerking, sketchbook forgotten on the bench, he stands up so fast he nearly knocks over his pencil case “rafe,” he blurts, breathless. “my name’s rafe. that was—i meant to say rafe.”

you blink.

he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up for the first time today. his glasses slide down his nose again, and he shoves them back up with his thumb, flustered beyond salvation “and i—I don’t have a girlfriend. or a wife. or kids. jesus.” he mutters that last part under his breath, eyes flicking everywhere but your face. “and i’m not just being polite. i—i liked talking to you. i mean, i am bad at talking, clearly, but i wanted to. i want to.”

his chest rises and falls like he just ran a mile. and you’re just standing there, looking up at him. stunned. warmed. something slow spreading in your chest “…rafe,” you repeat softly, testing it out.

his eyes flick to yours. he nods once, quieter “yeah.”

you smile. you don’t walk away. you tilt your head, the corner of your mouth curling “that’s a cute name,” you say, voice light, a little teasing. “rafe.”

he swallows, visibly. his ears are still pink. he mumbles, “thanks.”

you smile wider, easing a bit now that he hasn’t shut down completely or bolted into the trees. your gaze flicks over him again—rumpled shirt, smudged fingers, the way he’s still gripping his pencil like a lifeline.

“so, where are you from, rafe?”

he hesitates for a beat, eyes lifting toward the horizon like it’ll give him the right answer. then he scratches the back of his neck and says, “uh… kildare. it’s this little island off north carolina. the outer banks.”

your eyebrows raise “ouuu,” you say, dragging the sound out with a grin. “beach guy?”

he looks mildly horrified. “not—like—i wasn’t a surfer or anything.”

you laugh, stepping closer again, shoulders brushing as you glance at his forgotten sketchbook on the bench “no? no long blond hair and shark tooth necklace?”

he groans quietly. “god, no. i wore glasses and read dune at lunch.”

you glance up at him again. “so you were a nerd.”

he shrugs, almost proud this time. “still am.”

you sit back down without thinking, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. your knees brush his. his sketchbook’s still open between you, but you’re not looking at it anymore. your eyes are on the trees, the way the leaves catch the last of the sun.

then, all at once, you say it—soft but certain “my favorite song from frank ocean is definitely thinking about you.”

rafe blinks. turns toward you just slightly, like the words tugged at him.

you keep your gaze forward, fingers tapping absently on your cup “it’s just—i don’t know. it feels like… like love when you’re too scared to say it out loud. or maybe too late. like it’s stuck in your throat, and you pretend it doesn’t hurt, but it always does.”

you glance at him “does that make sense?”

he doesn’t answer at first. just stares at you, almost like he’s never heard someone say something so plainly beautiful.

then, quieter than ever he nods “yeah,” he murmurs. “it makes sense.”

you glance down at the sketchbook again. that figure he drew still there, folded in on itself, shaded like something from a dream. his pencil lies next to it, worn down to a stub, the eraser nearly gone.

“so,” you say casually, turning to him, “maybe you could teach me how to draw sometime?” you say it too sweet, on purpose. a little tilt in your voice. you’re already smiling before the words even land.

and god, the effect it has on him is immediate. he blinks. hard. looks at you. looks down. looks at his sketchbook. back at you. then away again, like his brain’s buffering. like he’s just been asked to solve a moral crisis with no prep. “i—uh—what?”

yo bite back a laugh. “draw. like… teach me. y’know, lines, shading, all that. unless you’re, like, a tortured artist who refuses to share his craft.”

he blinks again. opens his mouth. closes it. his hand grips the edge of the sketchbook like he might need it to stay grounded.

you lean in, just a little. playful. “what, you scared i’ll be better than you?”

his jaw drops slightly, and he visibly struggles for a second—trying to speak, to function, to breathe. finally, he says, voice crackin somewhere in the middle “no, i—i just—i mean. yeah. sure. if you want. i—I could try. yeah.”

you raise a brow, grinning now. “that sounded extremely convincing.”

he groans into his hands, dragging his fingers down his face “i’m not usually like this,” he mutters behind his palms.

“mm,” you hum. “sure you’re not.”

he peeks at you through his fingers. you’re still smiling. and something about that seems to calm him down—just enough for him to whisper “…you really want me to teach you?”

you nod. “yeah, rafe. i do.”

he swallows. and then, after a beat—he smiles. tiny, crooked. but soooo cute.

you glance at your phone and frown a little. the lock screen glows with the time. 7:52. later than you thought. orientation stuff starts again early tomorrow, and your backpack’s still on your floor, untouched, your planner shoved somewhere between your shoes and your anxiety.

you sigh softly and start to rise from the bench, brushing your fingers down the front of your shorts. “well, rafe,” you say, turning to him with a grin, “i’m glad we met. you’re really nice.”

his head jerks up like he wasn’t ready for it to end. like you said something much bigger than what you actually did.

your smile softens. “but i need to get home. i’ve got a bunch of stuff to study for tomorrow.”

you see the change in his posture instantly. like something tugged his spine straight. he stands too, notebook still in hand, pencil now forgotten behind him. the way he fidgets with the corner of the page is almost endearing. like he doesn’t know what to do with himself without something to hold.

his mouth opens. then closes. then opens again. “i—uh—do you…” he hesitates. clears his throat “do you want me to… walk you back?”

he says it fast, like if he slows down the nerves might win. and then he just stares at you, wide eyed, like he didn’t even know he was going to say it until it was already out.

you blink, caught off guard—but your heart stumbles in your chest. the way he said it—hopeful, shaky, soft—like you might be the first person he’s offered that to in a long, long time.

you smile again, warm and slow “yeah,” you say. “i’d like that.”

and for the first time since you met him—he beams. not a smirk. not a twitch. a full, teeth baring, heart squeezing smile.

and you think, shit. you really, really want to see that again.

you both fall into step like it’s been rehearsed. your building’s only a short walk from the park—less than five minutes if you don’t stop to stare at the sky or pet neighborhood cats—but neither of you are in a rush.

rafe keeps his sketchbook tucked tight to his chest, head slightly ducked like he’s trying not to blush again. you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, and his lips are pressed together in that awkward, nervous almost smile, the one he keeps trying to hide. his hands are still smudged with pencil and maybe clay. his sleeves are wrinkled. and he walks just slightly behind you, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to walk beside you unless you say it’s okay

so you say something. “so… you do that full time?” you ask casually. “sculpting, i mean.”

he exhales, relieved by the question. “i try. when i’m not at the café.”

you nod, brushing your knuckles along the side of your cup. “how’d you get into it?”

he pauses for a beat. then says, “i started when i was a kid. i used to dig through the sand for shells and bones and stuff. and then one day i started making shapes. hands, mostly. figures. i liked how quiet it felt.”

you glance at him. “quiet?”

he nods. “like nothing was expected of me. the clay just… listens. it doesn’t talk back. doesn’t ask questions.”

you hum in response, watching the sidewalk shift into shadow as the sun disappears behind your building “do you live nearby?” you ask, almost offhand.

his voice is quick. too quick “yeah. three minutes from the park.”

“same,” you smile. “apartment or dorm?”

“apartment.” he swallows. “just me.”

you wait a beat, wondering if he’ll say more.

but he doesn’t. no mention of a roommate. or a dog. or a family. no “my mom used to love my sketches” or “my dad taught me how to hold a chisel.” nothing like that. just silence, calm but final. like that part of him is off limits.

you don’t push. instead, you say, “i love that you sculpt. it’s really cool.”

he ducks his head again, trying to hide his smile “thanks.”

your building comes into view, brick and ivy and half lit windows. you both slow down when you reach the gate.

“this is me,” you say, stopping at the steps. “thanks for walking with me.”

he nods, hands shoved into his pockets now, fingers probably twitching to fidget with something.“yeah,” he says. “anytime.”

you linger, just for a second. the porch light flickers above you “see you at the café?”

his eyes finally meet yours again. and this time, he doesn’t hesitate “yeah,” he says, a little breathless. “see you.”

if you asked rafe about his family, he’d rather say he doesn’t have any. not because it’s true—though sometimes he wishes it were—but because it’s easier than explaining the hollow space they carved into him.

he doesn’t talk about ward. not because he can’t, but because when his father threw him out for choosing sculpture over steel beams and business cards, something inside him cracked. “man up,” he’d said. “you’re embarrassing yourself. that’s not a real job”. and he remembers standing there, suitcase by the door, swallowing the hurt like broken glass.

the truth is, his heart broke a little that day. not in a loud, dramatic way. but quietly. in that final, heavy way only sons understand when they realize their fathers never really saw them as people.

his mom—lily—was the only one who did. she died when he was fourteen. cancer, quick and cruel. but she used to sit beside him on the porch, tracing the curve of his clay shapes like they were masterpieces.

she called his hands magic. she said art was a form of god. he hasn’t felt real love since she left. only anger. and pressure. and the impossible weight of fragile masculinity shoved down his throat until he gagged on it.

so yeah—when he called himself a nerd yesterday? when he told you he used to sit alone and read dune during lunch?

he lied. he wasn’t a sweet, quiet, glasses wearing beach boy. he was a cocky, fucked up, drunk frat kid with blood on his knuckles and girls in his bed he couldn’t name. he laughed too loud, drank too hard, and hated himself the whole time.

but you’d looked at him yesterday with that fond little smirk when he said it. called him cute. smiled like you actually meant it. so he let you think he was always this version of himself. because this version is the only one he can stand being in front of you.

the café looks different in the morning light. not dramatically, just softer. less honeyed, more muted. the windows are slightly fogged from the early humidity, casting a haze over the soft wood floor and mismatched chairs. someone in the back corner is reading a newspaper, and the low hum of indie jazz floats lazily through the speakers. there’s a new bouquet of dried lavender in a mason jar by the sugar bar, and the pastry display is fogged with condensation, like the muffins are still waking up too.

you push the door open a little after ten, your iced coffee from yesterday still lingering in the back of your mind. part of you wondered if it’d feel awkward coming back—if maybe yesterday had been a one time thing, if maybe you’d imagined the way his eyes lit up when you said his name.

but then you step inside.

and he’s there. not behind the counter. he’s standing by one of the window side tables, hands tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie—gray and oversized and clearly worn in. his sketchbook is on the table, closed. a half drunk cup of coffee sits beside it, untouched for a while. he looks like he’s been there for some time.

you stop mid step “hey,” you say, a little surprised. “you’re not working?”

he looks up fast like he hadn’t realized you’d come in until your voice hit him. the second your eyes meet, he straightens slightly.

his cheeks go red “uh—no. i’m—i’m off today.” he clears his throat, gaze darting from your face to the floor, to the table, and back again. “i just… um… came in anyway.”

you tilt your head, stepping closer. “came in? just for coffee?”

his hand goes to the back of his neck, scratching nervously, and god, he can’t even look at you when he says it “i… i knew you said you’d be here,” he mumbles, soft and a little rushed. “and i didn’t want to, like… not be here. in case you showed up.”

you blink “wait,” you say, trying not to smile too wide. “so… you waited here until i came?”

he shifts on his feet, jaw tightening like he’s bracing for you to laugh at him. his voice drops even lower. “i didn’t wanna disappoint you,” he says, glancing up just enough for you to see the flicker of sincerity in his eyes.

your chest pulls a little.

he shrugs awkwardly, words tumbling out like he’s trying to fill the silence before it can stretch too long “i thought about texting you but realized i didn’t even have your number. and i didn’t want you to think i lied or something, or that i wasn’t serious about wanting to talk again. i just… yeah. so i came. sat here since, like, nine thirty. figured if you didn’t come by eleven, i’d go.”

you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning. and there’s this ache in your chest, full. because here’s this boy. this quiet, awkward boy with blue eyes and ink stained fingers—who was too nervous to say he wanted to see you again, so he showed up and sat for half an hour just hoping you would.

you slide into the seat across from him “well,” you say softly, setting your bag down beside your chair, “good thing i showed up.”

his gaze lifts to meet yours again, still a little shy. and this time, he smiles first “i knew you would,” he says, almost too quiet. almost to himself.

but you hear it. and it makes your smile pull wider. you lean forward, resting your arms on the table, teasing, “oh? did you now?”

he goes red immediately. the tips of his ears, his cheeks, even his neck starts to flush, and he looks down at the table like it might open up and swallow him whole “i—i didn’t mean it like that,” he stammers, scratching the side of his thumb. “i just… had a feeling. like, not a creepy feeling, just, you said ten, and i figured you were the kind of person who says things and means them—”

he cuts himself off.

your brow lifts, amused “you rehearsed that in your head, didn’t you?”

his mouth opens, then closes. then opens again “…maybe.”

you giggle. and that’s when he clears his throat and adds, voice still a little shy, “i already ordered your coffee, by the way.”

you blink “wait, what?”

“yeah.” he gestures vaguely toward the counter. “i told elijah—he’s the morning shift guy—to start it when you walked in.”

you stare at him. “um… why?” and now you’re the one stuttering “i mean—don’t get me wrong, that’s sweet, really sweet, but—you didn’t have to. i should pay. i made you wait—i literally made you sit here like a sad little victorian widow—”

he cuts in, eyes wide, flustered but firm, “no—no, you’re not paying. seriously. it’s not a big deal.”

“but—”

“i work here,” he says, trying to sound cool but still so very pink in the face. “i have a discount.”

you squint at him. “a discount doesn’t mean free, rafe.”

he shrugs. “for you, it kinda does.”

and you’re left blinking at him, heart thudding quietly beneath your ribs, the beginnings of a grin tugging at your mouth.

you look at him for a long beat. his lashes are darker in the daylight, catching in the glow that filters through the fogged up café windows, and his glasses have slid slightly down the bridge of his nose. he doesn’t push them up. he just looks at you like he doesn’t really know how to handle you seeing him like this, unguarded.

and something about it makes your voice soften “thank you,” you say finally, sincere and slow, meaning it more than you thought you would. “really.”

he clears his throat, waves it off a little too fast. “yeah—yeah. no problem. i… i wanted to be here.”

you study his face again. the way he won’t hold eye contact for longer than a second, the nervous little tap of his fingers against his thigh “but you could’ve been sculpting,” you say gently. “or sketching, or… whatever else you do when you’re not stuck in this café.”

his mouth opens like he might say something, but you keep going.

“i mean, are you sure you wanna stay here? with me?” you don’t mean to sound sad—but you do. not because you don’t want him here, but because he’s the first person in days who’s made this new town feel a little less lonely. and you know how much it hurts when someone chooses to sit next to you just to be nice.

rafe blinks. like he didn’t expect the question then, slowly—he sits back in his chair. exhales through his nose. nd for once, he looks right at you “i do,” he says quietly. “i’d rather be here.”

rafe shifts in his seat like the words made him nervous the second they left his mouth, then abruptly stands—fast, almost like he’s been caught saying something he wasn’t supposed to.

“uh—the coffees,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “i’ll grab them, be right back.”

you watch him walk away, shoulders tense, ears red again, the back of his neck blushing just like the first time you saw him behind the counter. he murmurs something to the other barista, who gives him a suspicious little smirk and nudges one of the drinks his way.

he returns less than a minute later, carefully balancing two to go cups—yours topped with a tower of whipped cream and caramel drizzle, his dark and steaming.

he slides yours across the table and sits down slowly, like he’s afraid of making too much noise.

you look at the lid, grinning. he’d written basic coffee for a not so basic girl again.

you don’t say anything this time, but he catches you smiling at it anyway. and that’s enough to make him take a quick sip of his drink to avoid your eyes completely.

you take a sip of yours—perfect, as always—and then lean forward with your chin in your hand. “so.”

he swallows. “so?”

you tilt your head, feigning innocence.

“you live alone. you sculpt. you draw. you have excellent taste in coffee and horrible taste in not telling me your shift was over—what else?”

he frowns slightly, cheeks already pink “that’s not really a question.”

you smirk. “fine. what’s your favorite animal?”

“uh”

“no thinking. go.”

“i—uh—sea turtle?” he says it like a question.

you nod thoughtfully. “cute. okay. favorite sculpture you’ve ever made?”

“a…a bust of a woman,” he mumbles. “her eyes were closed. i was trying to make her look like she was sleeping but… not peacefully. like she was dreaming something too big for her.”

you blink “that’s… weirdly poetic.”

he shrinks in his seat again, holding his cup with both hands. “yeah, well. it’s clay. no one has to get it.”

“can i see it?”

his brows shoot up. “what?”

“your sketchbook,” you say, smiling. “you have it, don’t you?”

he hesitates. eyes flick down to the worn canvas bag at his feet“…maybe.”

“rafe.”

with a heavy sigh—and another whispered god under his breath—he leans down, rummages through the bag, and pulls out a weathered, spiral-bound sketchbook. it’s smudged around the edges, creased and full. he hands it to you like it’s made of glass. you open it slowly, careful not to bend anything.

and you go still. because the first page is a side profile of a hand, detailed, elegant, the knuckles curled just slightly like it’s reaching for something.

you flip to the next page. it’s a woman curled on her side, knees tucked to her chest. her hair spills over the edge of the page. there are tiny notes in the margins. wrong shape. fix fingers. shoulder slope off but it looks… perfect.

“rafe,” you say softly. “these are insane.”

he tugs at his collar, blinking down at his coffee like he didn’t hear you.

you turn the page again—another bust. another set of eyes closed “this is the one, isn’t it? the dreaming one.”

he nods once. “yeah.”

“you’re incredible.”

he finally glances up. swallows hard“…you really think so?”

you close the sketchbook, slide it back toward him“of course,” you say, smiling. “you’re cute and talented. total package.”

his entire face goes red. again. he doesn’t say a word.

you stifle a laugh behind your hand, sip yours again, and lean back into your chair, utterly entertained.

he doesn’t look up right away. just drags his fingers along the rim of his coffee cup like it’s anchoring him, grounding him in this moment where someone actually looked at his work and meant it when they said it was good.

then softly, almost under his breath, like it costs him something—he says,“thank you…”

you meet his eyes. he still looks like he’s blushing through his bones.

“i mean it,” you reply, warm.

rafe nods, swallows, glances away. his lips part once, then close again. he does this twice before finally forcing the words out.

“so, uh…” his voice wavers. “c–can we talk about you now? not me?”

you raise an eyebrow, hiding your smile.“me?”

he nods quickly, hands gripping the sketchbook like it might save him from sinking into the floor “yeah. i just… i’ve been talking a lot. and—you’re really nice, and pretty, and—and, um, you said you just moved here, so…”

he trails off again, blinking fast, like he already regrets opening his mouth.

you lean forward, chin in your hand again, a soft grin playing at your lips “what do you wanna know, barista boy?”

he blinks again“…everything?” and god he means it.

you smile into your cup, the coffee already lukewarm but sweet enough to distract you “well,” you start, watching him fidget with the edge of his sketchbook, “i don’t have much to say, really.”

his eyes flick to yours, curious. patient.

“moved here for college,” you shrug. “barely been a week. haven’t really met anyone yet.”

his brow furrows just slightly, like that surprises him.

you glance away for a second, then add quietly, “you’re basically my first… friend here, i guess?”

the word friend lands heavier than you expect it to. awkward, soft, maybe a little unsure. you’re not even sure why you said it, it just felt true.

rafe blinks like you just dropped a glass on the floor “oh,” he says, and his voice cracks a little. “i—uh… really?”

you nod, still not looking at him. “yeah.”

he stares for a second too long, then fumbles for his drink, nearly knocking over his sketchbook in the process “i mean, i… that’s cool,” he says, flushing to the tips of his ears. “i didn’t think you’d…uh. like, consider me a… friend. yet.”

you tilt your head “why not?”

he shrugs, suddenly interested in the sugar packets beside the napkin holder.

you lean closer, voice lower now. “do you normally make coffee for girls and wait for them on your day off?”

he freezes “…no.”

“hm.” you smile, gentle and a little smug. “then you’re my first friend and i’m your first exception.”

he looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real. and under the table, his foot taps nervously against the floor.

you wrap both hands around your coffee cup, eyes tracing the swirl of whipped cream half melted into caramel “i like to read, though,” you say

rafe glances up, and you catch the way his gaze lingers like he’s trying to memorize the way your voice sounds when you say something small. something true.

“always did,” you continue, playing with the sleeve of your hoodie. “romance books, mostly. poetry, sometimes. stuff like that.”

you give a little shrug, eyes flicking to his.“very basic, i know.”

rafe doesn’t say anything right away. he just blinks at you. slowly. like he’s not sure what to say first. finally, after a beat, he shakes his head. “it’s not basic.”

you raise a brow, teasing. “you sure? i’m like, peak hopeless romantic. i dog ear pages and highlight sentences like they’re bible verses. it’s kind of embarrassing.”

he shakes his head again, firmer this time. “no, i think that’s… nice.”

you smile. “you think romance is nice, huh?”

he turns pink instantly. dead giveaway. stammers, “i didn’t mean—i mean—”

“relax,” you laugh. “i won’t tell the other baristas you’re this soft.”

rafe sinks in his chair, trying not to smile, and fails completely. he’s quiet for a second, still pink in the cheeks, still trying to recover from the whole romance is nice thing you just threw at him. but then, voice low and careful, like he’s afraid to interrupt whatever moment is hanging in the space between you, he asks, “are you… reading anything now?”

his eyes flick up behind his glasses, genuinely curious. you can tell it’s not just small talk—he wants to know.

you exhale a soft laugh, leaning back a little in your chair “besides my college sheets?” you raise a brow. “not really. haven’t had time for anything else.”

you watch him process that, a subtle frown tugging at his mouth like he’s disappointed on your behalf “that sucks,” he says, quietly. “you like it too much to not have time.”

your lips twitch. “yeah. i do.”

his thumb taps against the corner of the table, mind clearly spinning faster than his mouth can keep up “you, um…” he starts, voice going quiet again. “you could always come read here. if you wanted. i mean, we’re open till late, and the back tables are usually quiet and i could…i dunno. keep the coffee coming.”

you smile slowly, warmth blooming behind your ribs “you offering me a reading corner?”

he shrugs, trying so hard to look nonchalant but failing miserably “maybe.”

you tilt your head, grin growing “and what if i want a reading date, rafe?”

he chokes on air. full blown blushing. again. classic. he blinks fast “w–what,” he stammers, voice catching like his throat isn’t sure it agreed to speak. “a—a date?”

his hand twitches on the table. he’s clutching the edge of his sketchbook like it might save him from spontaneous combustion.

your grin spreads, teasing, biting back a laugh as you lean forward just slightly “i was just joking,” you say airily, then pause. “not really.”

his breath catches. he’s frozen, like you’ve just short circuited his entire brain “but we don’t have to call it that,” you add, shrugging, eyes glittering. “maybe just… two people sitting close. books open. coffee in hand. one of them maybe blushing too much.”

he makes a soft, strangled sound—definitely him.“…i’m the one blushing, aren’t i?” he mutters under his breath.

you take a slow sip of your coffee, smile pressed against the rim “just a little.”

he looks like he wants to melt into the floor. but he doesn’t move. he just stays there—quiet, flushed, stunned—and then… the smallest, shyest smile tugs at his mouth.

“i’d, uh… really like that,” he says finally. “the reading. and the… coffee. and you.”

you beam “good. i like me too.”

he huffs a laugh, shaking his head—but you catch it, the way his eyes stay on you a little too long.

“then it’s settled. tonight?”

✯ masterlist

✯ quick a/n!!! i have a new taglist so this is the last time i’m tagging people from my last one. if you want to keep getting tagged please please please comment under that taglist!!!

tags 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @httpsdrewstarkey @rafesteddy @meetmeintheemeraldpool @babygoddam @qversazex @iconiccolo @addyleigh @devoutedlover @sc05 @alphabetically-deranged @k4yr14 @t0x1cfaerie @purplerose291 @mrspuffdriving @silkylovey @mayanqueenxx @glitterylightkingdom @lolasangelz @my-diary1 @rgrimesr @mochibunnyyyy @whosyourmommy69

[cherrywriterrr]

bad signal

rafe cameron x oc series(au)

summary-> a college neighbors-to-enemies-to-maybe-horny situationship. by god, it’s messy. Tessa plays her music so loud it could kill a Victorian child. Rafe is a rage gym boy with curtain bangs and an existential crisis. They live in side by side apartments and don’t know each other yet. But then he changes his Wi-Fi name to youretooloud and she claps back with dealwithitbitch and that’s when everything starts to go to hell. They’re both hot. Unfortunately. They’re both stubborn. Unfortunately. They both think the other is an annoying, self absorbed menace with a god complex. Unfortunately, they’re right. -smau and au. (not that much social media!!)

warnings-> 18+mdni. This series contains explicit content and is written for mature audiences.It has very strong language, excessive excessive swearing, detailed smut scenes, and detailed graphic descriptions of it. Will include college partying(classic), underage drinking, smoking(lots of it at one point) toxic af dynamics, emotional manipulation??, jealousy, a lot of jealousy, cannibalism used as a metaphor, and drug addiction related content: past addiction, rehab, and mentions of overdosing.Mental health struggles,impulsive decisions, and unhealthy coping mechanisms are also mentioned. also a looot of fuffff at one point. If you question any of the above please don’t interact!! You’ve been warned. For the one who said “cannibalism?! count me in.” this one’s for you!

rafe

-22. transferred from rehab. business major. football player. boxing. obsessed with routines and quiet. hates being distracted. wears headphones to sleep now because of her.

tessa

-20. art major. full of attitude. plays music constantly at max. thrifted weird shit. guitarist. screamo and rock. secretly soft. starts playing music even louder and practices at night just to annoy him.

them<3

“I hate you but I hear your laugh in my head when I’m alone.” aggressive sticky notes on doors. silent treatment. pranks. changing wi-fi names. rooftop. bean me up cafe. trap house. group chats.

chapters->one · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·two · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·three · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·four · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·five · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·six · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·seven · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·eight · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·nine · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·ten

taglist here<-

just a quick reminder — if you ever want me to stop tagging you, please don’t hesitate to let me know. no hard feelings at all! also, if you’re not interacting with the posts, I’ll assume you’re no longer interested and might remove you from the taglist to keep it active. appreciate you all 💋also, supporting creators here is very much reblogging babes💞💞

tags-> @rafesbabygirlx @rafesteddy @qversazex @viqtoria @rafescloudie @devoutedlover @iconiccolo @alphabetically-deranged @sc05 @t0x1cfaerie @k4yr14 @purplerose291 @mrspuffdriving @silkylovey @babygoddam @meetmeintheemeraldpool @lolasangelz @glitterylightkingdom @mayanqueenxx @deeninadream

© All work on this blog is original and belongs to me, @cherrywriterrr. Do not copy, translate, repost, or steal my writing in any way. If you do, you will be blocked — no warnings, no exceptions. Respect writers. Stealing isn’t inspiration, it’s just theft. — cherrywriterrr©️

[cherrywriterrr]

buddy

bff!rafe x reader

warnings: best friends to fucking, teasing, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, semi public vibes (they’re not home), slightly dom!rafe, heavy eye contact, wet messy smut, rafe’s mouth should be illegal, toxic levels of tension, kinda slutty reader tbh, sorry not sorry. not proofread.

a/n->i’m back ig???this is a veeery short one but i have more promise!!!lemme know what you want to see next💋

you shouldn’t be here. not like this.

but his mouth is on your thigh and his fingers are curling slow and practiced inside you like he’s got something to prove, like he’s pissed off you’ve been holding out this long. just ‘buddies’

“fuck,” you gasp, heels digging into the edge of the couch. it’s not even his couch. it’s topper’s basement. a party upstairs. music thudding like a warning you don’t listen to.

he licks into you again, groaning like you taste sweet, like you were his first. maybe you were. first best friend, at least.

“you gonna cum already?” he murmurs against your skin. “just from my tongue, baby? that easy for me?”

your head drops back. you want to slap him. you want to kiss him. you want to ride him.

“rafe,” you whisper. your voice breaks on the second syllable. “you’re not supposed to be doing this.”

he grins against you, then spits slow and wet against your cunt, spreading it with his tongue like he wants it all over his face.

“didn’t ask what i was supposed to do,” he says. “you told me you missed me, remember?”

your hand shoots down to grab his hair, pull him closer, harder, deeper. he chuckles, fucking laughs into you.

“god,” you breathe, legs shaking, “you’re such a—”

“a what?” he asks, lifting his eyes. they’re blown wide, pupils swallowing blue. “say it.”

you swallow the word. whimper instead.

he slaps your thigh. “say it.”

“slut,” you spit. “you’re such a fucking slut, rafe.”

and he grins like it’s praise. he licks a stripe up your center, slow and filthy, then pushes two fingers back inside without warning. “finish on my tongue, baby,” he says, voice all breath and gravel. “go ahead. gimme what’s mine.”

and you do. like a fucking idiot. loud and messy and clenching around his fingers while he groans and keeps going like he wants you overstimulated. like he likes you ruined.

his fingers don’t stop. his mouth stays latched. and when you come down the second time, panting and writhing, he finally pulls away just enough to look at you—face soaked, chin wet, lips shiny.

“taste so good,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “gonna need more.”

you blink at him, still trembling. “again?” you ask, voice hoarse.

he smirks. “no,” he says. “this time, it’s your mouth on me.”

bff!rafe masterlist taglist

tags @rafesbabygirlx @qversazex @iconiccolo @devoutedlover @viqtoria @sc05 @k4yr14 @t0x1cfaerie @purplerose291 @mrspuffdriving @silkylovey @rafescloudie @babygoddam @meetmeintheemeraldpool @iwumrndbm @lolasangelz @glitterylightkingdom @mayanqueenxx @alphabetically-deranged @deeninadream

[cherrywriterrr]

attention

rafe cameron x reader

warnings: 18+ mdni | party setting, tension, light humiliation??, obsession, possessiveness, smut, public bathroom, mirror smut, possessive behavior, oral (f receiving), light choking, overstimulation, filthy talk, unprotected(wrapt that d before pls), riding, spit, filthy talk, overstimulation, cocky!rafe, obsessed!rafe

based on this request

a/n->sorry i changed it a lil bit hope u don’t mind and sorry that it’s so late but i took a break🫢🫢

the music is loud, but not loud enough to drown out your irritation. you’re standing in the corner of the room, clutching your drink, wearing that dress he picked out. the one he said would make him lose his mind.

and yet, here he is. talking to some random guy near the kitchen, barely glancing your way.

he's been ignoring you all night. not on purpose, maybe. but you didn't come here to be alone.

so you try calling his name. once. then again. and again. nothing.

he doesn't even look at you. you glance down at the heel of your boot, then at the table leg behind you. and then, ever so innocently, you back into it.

a light knock to your shin. it doesn't hurt. not really. but that doesn't stop you from gasping. "ah- Rafe…”

you moan his name like it like it's the only thing you know how to say. dragging out the vowels, letting your voice slip into something warm and breathy. sweet. sinful.

and it works. his head snaps around so fast it makes your stomach flip. he doesn't say anything, doesn't blink just stares.

eyes locked on you, jaw tight. because he knows. he knows that wasn't real. he knows you're playing dirty.

and that's the moment you see it — the subtle twitch of his fingers, the slow inhale through his nose.

he's pissed. he's turned on. both. and he's walking toward you now. steady. your heart races, but you don't move. not until he grabs your jaw and tilts your head up, his grip just shy of bruising.

"you think that's funny?" he growls, voice low enough that only you can hear it.

you smirk. "you weren't listening." his thumb drags over your bottom lip. "i'm listening now."

you shrug. innocent. teasing. "maybe i wanted you to look at me."

his mouth twitches - not quite a smile, not quite a warning. "you want attention, baby?" his hand slides down your throat, wrapping lightly around it. "you got it."

you barely have time to respond before he's dragging you down the hallway, past half-drunk strangers and cracked doors, until he finds a bathroom and slams the door shut behind you. his body is on yours instantly, pressing you up against the wall, hand already slipping under your dress.

"say it again," he breathes into your neck. you swallow, feeling his fingers hook around the band of your panties.

"say my name the way you did out there." you hesitate, breath catching. "Rafe—" his hand tightens on your thigh. "nah. not like that." his lips brush your ear, voice dark and dripping with lust. "say it like you want everyone in that fuckin' house to know who owns you."

you smile, wicked and breathless. "Rafe..." you moan it again louder this time.

and just like that, he loses control

he's rough with you in that way that tells you he missed you. like he's mad. but not at you— just at the way you made him feel. your laugh. your legs. your voice.

his fingers dig into your waist as he yanks you back up, knuckles white around your wrist, dragging you to the counter with a singular focus in his eyes.

no lock on the door. he doesn't care.

you're barely standing before he's spinning you to face the mirror, pushing your palms down against the sink, lips brushing your ear.

"look at you," he mutters, hips pressing into yours from behind. "moaning my name in a room full of people like you don't care who hears it."

you blink at your reflection - flushed cheeks, parted lips, pupils blown wide.

"maybe i don't," you whisper.

he exhales sharply. "you're such a fuckin' brat."

he yanks your dress up with one hand, the other curling around your throat from behind, forcing you to meet your own gaze. "you're mine.fucking mine, no one else gets to hear those sounds from you baby."

he drops to his knees before you can say a word.

you gasp, one hand flying to the wall as he shoves your panties to the side and buries his mouth between your thighs.

no teasing. no warning. just devouring. like he's starved. like he's trying to remind you exactly who you belong to with his tongue, his lips, the groan vibrating through his throat when he feels how wet you already are.

you choke out his name again, half a whine, half a warning. "Rafe—!"

his nails dig into the backs of your thighs."yeah, baby?" his voice is wrecked. wet. smug. "say it louder."

your head drops back. legs start to shake. the bathroom door swings open for a second - some guy takes one look and backs out real fast.

you try to close your legs, but Rafe just growls, keeps going, licking you through it, tongue lazy now just to humiliate you.

"bathroom's still open," he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak, lips slick and pink. "let 'em all hear how needy you get for me."

you whimper his name again. he moans.

and when you finally fall apart, breathy and broken and clenching the edge of the sink, he smiles against your skin — eyes glazed, fingers tightening on your hips like he never wants to let go.

"that's it, baby," he breathes, standing back up, mouth shining with you.

his voice is rough with pride. possession. "next time you want my attention….. just say the word."

he licks his bottom lip slow, eyes locked on your reflection. "...or don't. i kinda like when you make me come take it."

your legs are barely steady when he lifts you onto the counter. dress bunched around your hips. panties still off. thighs sticky. his mouth on your neck now, kissing the mess he made like he's proud of it.

and he is. he grins against your skin, tugging the neckline of your dress down to suck a mark between your tits.

"bet you think that was enough, huh?" his voice drips. teasing. dark.

you nod, breathless. "it was-fuck, it was more than-"

"nah." he bites your collarbone. not hard. possessive. "you wanted attention so bad, baby? take it."

he reaches down, unzips his jeans, and pulls his cock out like it's nothing - like this is normal - like someone could walk in again and he still wouldn't stop.

you glance toward the open door. "Rafe-"

"look in the mirror."

his tone cuts sharp.

you do. and god, the image. your dress hiked up, lipstick smeared, pupils blown wide. his hand wrapped around himself, leaking, hard, thick.

he taps the tip of his cock against your clit. "get on," he tells you, voice like gravel.

you blink. "what?" he smirks. "ride it."

you hesitate a second too long, and that smug fucker spits on his hand, jerks himself once, then grabs your hips and drags you forward.

"you wanted to act like a slut in front of everyone?" he breathes, lining himself up. "act like one now."

he sinks in slow, so slow that you feel every fucking vein. making you feel every inch until you're gasping, grabbing his shoulders for balance.

"Fuck, Rafe-"

"you're so tight," he groans, bottoming out.

"dripping for me like you knew i was gonna fuck you dumb."

your head drops to his shoulder, but he pulls your chin up, forcing you to look back behind, in the mirror again.

"nope. you watch."

he grips your hips and lets you 'ride' him - slow at first, then harder, faster, guiding your movement with both hands until you're bouncing on him, tits jiggling, lip caught between your teeth. pushing back onto him.

every slap of skin on skin echoes through the bathroom. the sink rattles beneath you. the mirror fogs.

you moan his name again and he growls.

"say it louder."

"Rafe-"

he snaps his hips up into you, cock hitting that spot that makes your thighs tremble. "yeah, that's it. fuckin' scream it."

his hand wraps lightly around your throat. "let everyone know who's making you fall apart in here."

your body's on fire. overstimulated. your climax's already building again.

and he knows. he can feel it. feel the way you clench around him like you don't want to let go.

"gonna come for me?" he pants, nose brushing yours. "on my cock, like a good little attention whore?"

you nod. "please, please-"

"then do it." he kisses you hard, wet, teeth, tongue. and that's all it takes. you shatter.

and he knows. he can feel it. feel the way you clench around him like you don't want to let go.

"gonna come for me?" he pants, nose brushing yours. "on my cock, like a good little attention whore?"

you nod. "please, please-"

"then do it." he kisses you hard, wet, teeth, tongue. and that's all it takes. you shatter.

you cry out his name, body shaking, legs locking around him as you fall apart on him, mouth open, breath stuttering.

he follows seconds later, groaning your name into your shoulder as he fucks up into you one last time, burying himself deep.

and for a moment, it's silent. heavy breathing. sticky skin. then he tilts your chin again, makes you meet his eyes. smirks.

"next time you want my attention, baby?" he presses a kiss to your collarbone, cock still buried inside you. "just fucking ask."

masterlist taglist

tags-> @rafesbabygirlx @qversazex @viqtoria @rafescloudie @devoutedlover @iconiccolo @alphabetically-deranged @sc05 @t0x1cfaerie @k4yr14 @purplerose291 @mrspuffdriving @silkylovey @babygoddam @alphabetically-deranged @meetmeintheemeraldpool @lolasangelz @glitterylightkingdom @mayanqueenxx @deeninadream @iwumrndb

[cherrywriterrr]

touch me like a gangster

bfd!rafe x reader

warnings:18+ mdni!!!! suggestive, sexual tension, age gap (rafe is 47), light dom/sub themes, mention of bdsm kinks, voyeurism-adjacent, daddy issues, neglectful bf, reader is bratty & curious, rafe is not safe. denial, possessiveness, implied cheating, degradation kink

jake said he’d be right back. just a beer run. just a quick hang with the guys.

just another night where he left you on the couch, legs curled up and lonely, surrounded by a house full of silence that wasn’t yours.

you nod. you smile. you kiss his cheek and pretend you’re not used to it by now. you don’t ask what time he’ll be home. you already know it’ll be late.

so it’s just you, a half finished glass of wine, your phone dimmed on the coffee table… and him. his dad.

he comes in like he always does—quiet, but not exactly unnoticed. he’s got that presence, the kind that fills up a room even when he doesn’t speak. even when he’s just wearing joggers, a tight black tee, and that fucking watch that says “i have money and i ruin women.”

he eyes the wine. your legs. the slight dip in your shirt when you shift. “he leave you alone again?”his voice is dry. teasing.

you don’t answer. just shrug and try to act like the heat in your stomach isn’t from the way he’s watching you now.

and then he sees your phone. you don’t even notice until it lights up again. a half open tab you forgot to close.

how it feels to be tied up.

why i like pain during sex.

does it mean something’s wrong with me if i wanna be used?

and one post. bold. messy. raw.

“i wanna be turned upside down, tied to a swing, whipped, used, ruined.”

you freeze when his eyes catch it.

but he doesn’t say a word. he just picks it up, slow and deliberate, and reads. lets the silence get thick.

your whole body goes still. cheeks hot. heart pounding.

he glances at you, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “…you into that kinda thing, sweetheart?”

your voice breaks. “i—jake doesn’t—i mean, he’s not into—”

“didn’t ask about jake.”

he sets the phone down. walks over. every step sounds louder than it should. “asked about you.”

you swallow. nod, barely.

“thought so,” he says, soft. dark.

he comes closer, slow, like you’re prey he doesn’t wanna spook. his fingers brush your cheek. your chin. tilt your head up just enough.

his thumb ghosts over your bottom lip. you don’t move away. you part them.

“he doesn’t know what to do with a girl like you,” he murmurs. “never did.”

you whisper it, so faint he almost doesn’t catch it “and you do?”

his gaze drops to your lips, then your thighs. “sweetheart,” he mutters, voice rough, “i could teach you things that’d ruin you for every boy you’ve ever known.”

his hand slides down your throat. not tight. not firm. just there. and when you breathe in, shaky and low, he smiles. “you wanna be touched like a gangster?”

“then stop playing like a good girl.”

his hand stays there—light on your throat, warm and heavy, thumb brushing softly under your jaw like he’s already decided you’re his. like you’ve been his this whole time and he’s just been waiting for you to realize it.

you whisper it, voice shaking “this… this isn’t right, sir.”

he huffs a dark laugh through his nose. doesn’t step back. doesn’t stop. his eyes drag over your face, lips, chest. slow. deliberate. cruel.

“sweetheart.” his voice drops, thick with heat. “it stopped being right the second time you came over here in that short little skirt.”

his palm traces down to your waist, gripping your hip like he remembers it, like he’s thought about this “i saw everything, baby.” his mouth is near your ear now, breath warm. “you wanted me to.”

your breath hitches. legs press together without thinking. you remember the skirt—black, tight, barely long enough to cover your ass. jake didn’t say anything, didn’t even look twice.

but rafe did. you caught him in the hallway.

leaning against the frame, eyes low, jaw tight, tongue pressed to his cheek like he knew what he was doing just standing there.

you remember how hot your skin got. how you couldn’t sit still the rest of the night. how you hoped he’d look again.

and now here you are, standing in front of him like a deer caught in headlights. except you don’t want to run.

“you wore that skirt and bent over in front of me like a little slut,” he murmurs, fingers sliding just under the hem of your shirt. “and now you’re standing here, calling me sir with those wide eyes and pretty lips, pretending you don’t want me to fuck the innocence outta you.”

you suck in a shaky breath. his words shouldn’t make your knees weak. but they do. you say nothing. you can’t.

“say it,” he growls. “say what you want.”

you blink up at him, dazed. trembling “i want… i want you to touch me.”

his smile is slow and dangerous “hm?”

“like a man who’s gonna fuck you so good, you forget that stupid boy’s name?”

you whimper. nod.

his grip tightens on your waist. “then get on your fucking knees.”

your knees hit the carpet. almost. one second you’re sinking down, lips parted, heartbeat so loud you can hear it in your ears—ready to give in, ready to beg if he tells you to.

and then he steps back, sharp. cold. your eyes shoot up, confused, desperate.

he just watches you from above, something wicked curling behind his smirk “next time, baby.”

your mouth parts. a soft, disappointed sound escapes before you can stop it.

he tilts his head, gaze dragging down your body, slow and appreciative—like he’s memorizing the sight of you on your knees in his living room.

“maybe you break up with my son before you drop to your knees for his father.”

the words hit like a slap. shame and heat mix in your stomach, thick and filthy. your lips tremble. you want to argue. you want to say jake doesn’t love you, doesn’t touch you, doesn’t see you like this.

but rafe already knows. he crouches down to your level, fingers brushing under your chin, lifting your gaze back to his. “you don’t get to play innocent now, sweetheart.”

“you knew what you were doing. you’ve known.”

his thumb presses against your lip. “and next time you get on your knees for me…”

he leans closer, his voice almost a whisper, “you won’t be getting back up for a while.”

then he stands. walks away like nothing happened. like he didn’t just unravel you without laying a hand.

you’re left on the floor, burning. aching. ruined.

and your phone lights up again.

jake: “on my way back soon, you want anything?”

you stare at the screen. and you realize:you do. but it’s not from him.

bfd!rafe taglist masterlist

tags: 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @qversazex @iconiccolo @devoutedlover @sc05 @viqtoria @k4yr14 @t0x1cfaerie @purplerose291 @mrspuffdriving @silkylovey @rafescloudie @babygoddam @sydneysslove @meetmeintheemeraldpool @rafessbaby @mayanqueenxx @bigjuli444 @jamesbeaufortismylife @glitterylightkingdom @alphabetically-deranged @deeninadream

[cherrywriterrr]

closed r.c

bsf!rafe x reader

warnings: 18+ mdni, very explicit sexual content, dry humping, grinding, oral (f receiving), possessive!rafe, jealousy, built-up tension exploding, degradation + praise, best friends to way more than friends, public-ish setting (shop), power play, slightly rough (consensual), reader = feral for him

->next

it starts with the lock. just a soft click.

but everything changes after that.

you’re behind the register, reading off inventory receipts, lips pursed, pretending he doesn’t have his arm draped over the back of the chair like he owns the air around you.

you hear it first. the lock. then the sound of the sign flipping on the glass. closed.

you glance up. “rafe?”

he’s staring at you. leaning against the front door with that look—like he’s about to do something irreversible. like he already did.

“rafe,” you say again. this time more breath than sound.

“we’re not open anymore,” he says, voice low, eyes dark. “just us now.”

you blink. “my mom’s gonna—”

“she’s not here.”he walks toward you.

“rafe…” you take a step back.

he follows.

“you should go home.”

he smiles like a sin. “you want me to go?”

you don’t answer.

his hand hits the counter behind you with a soft thud. you flinch. not from fear, from heat. from knowing exactly what’s coming and not having the spine to stop it.

“every time i walk in this fuckin’ shop, i watch your mouth talk and talk and talk…” he’s crowding you now. voice behind your ear. “but you never say what you’re thinkin’. not to me.”

your breath hitches. your legs press together.

“so i’ll say it for you.”

his knee slides between your thighs. your hands grip the edge of the counter.

“you wanna fuck your best friend.”

your eyes flutter shut.

“rafe—”

“don’t.” he grabs your chin, makes you look at him. “don’t lie.”

you’re shaking. your hands fist in his shirt, trying to push him off and pull him closer at the same time.

“you wanna know why i really locked the door?” he whispers. “wanna know why i flipped that little sign?”

he drags your hips forward until your clothed pussy is pressed directly against his thigh. he flexes, bounces it once, watches your whole body twitch.

“’cause i’m done pretending we’re just friends.”

you whimper.

his hand slides under your shirt, hot palm against your stomach, moving up—slow, teasing.

“this the part where you tell me to stop?” he asks, mouth ghosting over yours. “or the part where you ride my thigh like you mean it?”

you snap.

you rut against him, rolling your hips like it’s the only thing that’ll keep your brain from melting. he groans, head falling to your shoulder, fingers tightening at your waist.

“fuck, baby. that’s it. been waitin’ for this.”

you’re both panting now. heat everywhere. no one’s talking, just grinding—friction friction friction—your clit dragging along the seam of your shorts like he planned it. like he knew.

you whine. loud.

“shh,” he murmurs. “door’s locked, but not soundproof.”

his hand covers your mouth. you moan into it.

“look at you,” he mutters. “riding me like it’s the last time you’ll ever get touched.”

you buck harder.

“y’know what you sound like?” he asks, voice thick with lust. “sound like someone who needs to be bent over this fuckin’ counter and wrecked.”

your breath catches. your whole body goes still.

he freezes too.

you both look at each other—wild-eyed, flushed, barely keeping it together.

then you’re turned around. palms splayed on the wood. shirt bunched to your shoulders. his hand slips under your waistband like it belongs there.

“wet already,” he growls. “fuckin’ soaked for me.”

you can’t even deny it. can’t say a word.

he kneels.

you gasp. “rafe—”

“shut up and let me taste you.”

his mouth is hot against your center, tongue flicking fast, precise, devouring. you sob, back arching, hips jerking. he grabs them, pins them down.

“don’t run from it,” he says, voice muffled. “take it.”

you do. you break. fall apart on his tongue, shaking so bad he has to hold you upright with both arms.

you’re still catching your breath when he stands, cock straining in his jeans, chest heaving.

“gonna fuck you next time,” he promises, mouth wet, voice hoarse. “gonna make you scream in this shop, let the whole street know who you belong to.”

you blink up at him, dazed. “but not now.”

you blink harder.

“now?” he grins, cocky and ruined and in love with your mess.

“now i’m gonna walk outta here like i didn’t just eat my best friend out behind a cash register.”

he kisses your jaw.

“you clean up.”

click.

the lock turns again. you’re still trembling when the door swings shut.

and the sign should’ve been sorry, we’re fucking.

bsf!rafe ->next taglist masterlist

tags: @rafesbabygirlx @k4yr14 @iconiccolo @sc05 @devoutedlover @viqtoria @purplerose291 @t0x1cfaerie @deeninadream @rafescloudie @meetmeintheemeraldpool @sydneysslove @babygoddam @mrspuffdriving @silkylovey @qversazex @alphabetically-deranged

[cherrywriterrr]

leave me alone

bsf!rafe x reader x oc

warnings: 18+ mdni!!!! insinuation of threesum, intense kissing, hands everywhere, jealousy + possessiveness, heavy teasing, language, sexual tension, dom-ish rafe, reader + lily(oc) kissing/touching, throuple energy, implied threesome public setting, shift toward reader x rafe, emotionally charged eye contact, lily being observant and unbothered, smut, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (don’t😔), rough, intense emotional tension, fingering, choking (gentle), soft manipulation, rafe being mean in a hot way, breeding kink undertone, “mine” kink

->bsf!rafe

you don’t know who pulled who in first.

maybe it was lily. maybe it was rafe. maybe it was you.

but now you’re all in the corner booth like no one else exists.

her legs draped over your lap, your hand on her bare thigh, rafe’s arm thrown behind you both—fingers playing with your hair while his other hand rests low on lily’s waist.

there’s a red light flickering above you.

the music’s too loud. the bar’s packed. no one’s looking. or maybe they are. you wouldn’t blame them.

because lily’s got gloss all over her lips, and you’re biting your bottom one trying not to moan when she leans in, laughing at something you didn’t hear.

“you’re staring,” she teases, brushing your cheek with her nose.

you smirk. “so are you.”

“so is he,” she whispers.

you glance sideways.

rafe’s already watching. leaning back like a king, legs spread, a drink in his hand. there’s a slow smile playing on his lips—something dangerous behind it.

“keep playin’ like that,” he murmurs, “and i’ll take both of you home.”

your stomach flips.

lily giggles, but you can feel her pulse picking up beneath your hand.

“maybe we want that,” you say quietly.

rafe raises a brow. “yeah?”

he leans in—presses a kiss to your jaw, then one to lily’s.

his voice is low and warm and filthy. “how the fuck am i supposed to behave when you’re both sittin’ here lookin’ like this ?”

you shiver

lily’s fingers slide over your inner thigh. you turn your head, lips brushing hers, soft at first, then hungry. desperate. her mouth opens and you taste tequila and lip gloss and something like yes.

rafe groans. “jesus christ.”

you break apart, breathless, and she laughs again—sweet and smug. you can’t help it. you grab her chin, kiss her again, deeper, tongue slipping past her lips like you’ve been dying to.

rafe’s hand curls into your hip. “you wanna make me fuckin’ lose it?” he growls.

you and lily both look at him. lips kiss-swollen, eyes glassy.

“say please,” you whisper, smiling.

he shakes his head. “nah, baby. not beggin’. not when you’re sittin’ here grindin’ on each other like you want me to ruin it.”

lily smirks, slides into his lap like it’s nothing, wrapping an arm around his neck. “then ruin it.”

you lean in too, press a kiss to his throat.

your hands tangle—his in lily’s hair, yours under her skirt, hers creeping beneath rafe’s shirt.

he groans again.

“you two better be ready for what you’re askin’ for,” he warns, voice rough, hand gripping both your thighs now.

“we are,” you whisper.

lily smiles against your neck. “take us home.”

lily’s hands are all over you again. her mouth too—wet kisses up your neck, tongue teasing, her breath hot against your ear when she giggles.

you’re gasping now. trying to breathe through the high. but rafe hasn’t moved. he’s just watching.

his jaw’s clenched. one arm’s still slung behind you, the other gripping his drink like it’s saving him from doing something reckless.

you know that look. you’ve seen it before.

the same look he gave you when you kissed that guy at midsummers. the same one he wore when you let another man light your cigarette.

lily sees it too.

her eyes flick to him over your shoulder, smirking against your collarbone. she nips your skin once—playful, then pulls back just enough to whisper something that makes your whole body go still.

“she’s all yours,” she murmurs, so quiet only he can hear. “i had my fun.”

and then she kisses your cheek and slips off your lap like nothing happened.

you blink up at her, lips parted, dazed and flushed. “wait—”

but she just winks.

“text me when you’re done pretending,” she says softly. “you guys have way too much tension for me to be the third.”

your heart skips. rafe hasn’t looked away.

you shift in your seat, suddenly hyperaware of the heat between your thighs, the ache in your chest, the way his stare is burning through you.

he leans in.

you swallow.

“she’s not wrong,” he mutters. “you been teasing me all night.”

“you were the one watching,” you whisper, barely audible.

“i’ve always watched you,” he says. “and you’ve always fuckin’ liked it.”

your breath catches.

his hand slides up your thigh, slow and certain. he doesn’t ask. doesn’t wait.

you’re trembling. breathless. already soaked.

“lily’s smart,” he growls. “she knows what this is. knows you’re already mine, even if you haven’t admitted it yet.”

you glance at the door. your heart is racing.

“rafe—”

“i almost took you both home tonight,” he murmurs, voice dark. “but now i think it’s just gonna be you. bent over, fucked slow, marked up so no one even thinks about touching you again.”

your thighs clench. his thumb brushes the hem of your skirt.

“you want that?” he whispers. “wanna finally stop pretending and let me fuck you like we’ve both been dying for?”

you nod, breath shaky.

he leans in, lips ghosting your ear. “then let’s go, baby. you’re not leavin’ my bed for a week.”

the second the door closes behind you, he’s on you.

your back hits the wall. rafe’s mouth finds yours. hard, messy, starved.

his hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, tugging your shirt up, dragging you closer by your hips until there’s no space left. you’re gasping into his mouth and he’s biting at your lip like he’s mad.

“you think i don’t see it?” he breathes. “how fuckin’ bad you want me?”

“shut up—”

he laughs, dark and low. “yeah, that’s what you want, huh? want me to shut the fuck up and ruin you? wanna forget lily even exists?”

his hand slips between your legs. he groans when he feels it. “jesus, you’re soaked.”

you whimper, hips rocking into his touch.

he grins. “fuckin’ knew it.”

he’s cocky, mean, smug as hell—but his fingers slide under your panties like he was made for this. slow circles, teasing pressure, two fingers slipping inside and curling just right.

you moan. loud. needy.

“yeah,” he murmurs, lips at your jaw. “let me hear you, baby. no one else gets you like this, do they?”

you shake your head.

“say it.”

“no,” you whisper, already falling apart. “just you.”

“yeah,” he groans. “just me.”

he sinks to his knees, pulls your panties down with one hand and hooks your leg over his shoulder. you’re gripping his hair before you can even think. and then—his mouth. holy shit.

his tongue, his lips, the groan he lets out when you gasp his name. it’s all teeth and heat and desperation, like he’s been dying to taste you.

you’re shaking.

“rafe—i’m—”

“go ahead,” he pants, pulling back just enough to look up at you. “cum for me. right here. wanna watch you lose it before i fuckin’ ruin this pussy.”

and you do.

you fall apart, moaning his name, trembling against the wall with his fingers still deep inside you. he stands, wipes his mouth, eyes dark with something filthy.

“you good?” he smirks. “or you want more?”

you pull him by the shirt, crashing into another kiss.

“bed. now.”

he lifts you without question, carries you to his room, throws you on the mattress like you weigh nothing.

your clothes are gone in seconds. his too. his hands are on your thighs again, spreading you open.

“you sure?” he rasps.

“rafe,” you whisper, “please.”

he groans, strokes himself once, then pushes in.

slow. deep. stretching you just right.

you both gasp.

“fuck, baby,” he grits. “so tight. so wet. made for me.”

you nod, nails digging into his back.

“say it,” he growls. “say who this pussy belongs to.”

“you,” you cry. “it’s yours, rafe—fuck—”

he starts to move. slow at first. then faster, harder, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

“you wanted me all night,” he pants. “even when you were kissin’ her. even when you were sittin’ in her lap. you were thinkin’ about this. about me.”

you moan, barely able to breathe.

“say it again,” he commands. “tell me who fucks you like this.”

“you,” you sob. “only you. always you.”

he groans, kisses you hard. his hips snap faster, deeper, every thrust sending sparks through you.

“gonna cum in you,” he growls. “fill you up so good. fuckin’ breed you if you let me.”

you choke on a moan.

“want that?” he murmurs, hand around your throat now, gentle but firm. “want me to make sure no one else even tries to touch you?”

“yes,” you breathe.

“that’s my fuckin’ girl.”

he cums with a low, broken growl—thrusts slowing, deep and possessive. you fall apart around him, again, clenching, crying, shaking under his hands.

when it’s over, he collapses beside you, arm pulling you in tight

“mine,” he says again, softer this time.

you smile. wrecked. ruined. owned. “yours.”

bsf!rafe taglist masterlist

tags:🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @rafescloudie @qversazex @iconiccolo @devoutedlover @meetmeintheemeraldpool @k4yr14 @sc05 @mayanqueenxx @viqtoria @mrspuffdriving @t0x1cfaerie @purplerose291 @silkylovey @babygoddam @glitterylightkingdom @alphabetically-deranged @deeninadream

[cherrywriterrr]

sunburnt and filthy

bfd!rafe x reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, dom!bfd!rafe, smut in a public bathroom (semi-public), rough unprotected sex, age gap (rafe is 47), sir kink, daddy kink, choking, spit, hair pulling, exhibitionism, cheating, possessiveness, toxic obsession, reader’s a brat, rafe’s a menace, sofia & jake are just outside, absolutely no morals left

☁️ minors — don’t even think about it. ☁️

bfd!rafe

vacation was jake’s idea. sun, sand, and “family bonding.”

you pretended to be excited. packed tiny bikinis and barely-there dresses, kissed his cheek when he booked the airbnb, smiled through the six-hour car ride while he played the same three songs over and over and still forgot to ask you how work was.

but none of it mattered.

not when rafe got out of his truck in a white tee, sunglasses hanging off his neck, one hand gripping a beer and the other flexing around your waist when he hugged you a little too low.

“you look good, sweetheart.” a pause. “real good.”

you couldn’t even say thank you.

just looked at him, heart hammering, thighs pressed together.

now it’s day three.

sofia’s on her phone at the pier bar—flirting with a man she swore she didn’t know. jake’s off buying overpriced sunglasses at the boardwalk shop.

and you?

you’re slammed against the back wall of a hot, humid beach bathroom with your boyfriend’s dad’s hand over your mouth

“quiet, baby.” his voice is rough. low. “you make one sound, i leave you like this. dripping and needy. can’t cum without daddy, remember?”

you moan behind his palm.

his other hand slips up your sundress, thick fingers brushing over the lace of your thong—then tugging it aside like it offended him.

“fuck, you’re soaked already.”

he chuckles. cruel. “just from me walking in here, huh? such a little whore.”

he spreads you with his fingers, leans in to spit on your cunt, then slides two fingers in without warning.

you whimper.

“what would jake think if he saw his girl like this?”

his voice is a growl now. “bent over in a dirty fucking bathroom, desperate for his father’s cock?”

your knees buckle.

he catches you with ease—of course he does—grabs your face, makes you look at yourself in the scratched metal mirror.

“look at you,” he whispers. “mouth open. eyes fucked out. drooling already.”

you whine, eyes fluttering. “please, sir…”

“please what?”

“fuck me,” you gasp. “please, fuck me with your cock—make me yours again—”

he pulls his belt open like it’s instinct, pushing his jeans down just enough to free himself.

and then he’s inside.

deep. all at once.

you slap a hand to the mirror, eyes wide, jaw slack.

he groans behind you, grabbing your hips with bruising force, dragging you back onto him.

“so fuckin’ tight,” he grits. “this pussy was made for me.”

your breath catches.

you nod. “yours, sir—yours, always—”

he starts to fuck you in slow, brutal thrusts.

the kind that leave you gasping, the kind that make your toes curl in your sandals, the kind that make you forget your own fucking name.

your dress is bunched around your waist, his hand pressing your face to the mirror.

“what if sofia walks in?” he breathes. “or jake?”

you whimper.

he tightens his grip. “you’d let me keep going, wouldn’t you?”

“let me fuck you while they watched?”

you nod frantically. tears spilling.

he moans, cock twitching inside you.

“fuck, baby… you’re gonna make me cum just from that.”

he pulls out. flips you around. lifts you onto the edge of the sink and slams back in.

your legs wrap around him, arms flung over his shoulders. his hand finds your throat—tight. perfect.

your eyes roll back. “sir—sir please—i’m gonna cum—”

“then do it.” his voice is sharp.”cum for daddy. make a mess. i’ll lick it off the fucking floor if i have to.”

and you do.

loud. messy. choking on your own gasp as you tighten around him and fall apart like you were born to be ruined by this man.

he cums seconds later, teeth at your collarbone, cock twitching deep inside.

when he pulls back, your legs are shaking.

his hand brushes your cheek. “clean yourself up, baby.” he smirks. “they’re probably wondering where we are.”

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