calypso-rt

[calypso-rt]

what happens in vegas...

fratboy!rafe

part one (optional)

Summary: After an unforgettable spring break in Cabo with cocky frat boy Rafe Cameron, you return to campus expecting to forget him, especially since he ghosts you completely. Months later, your best friend Savannah ropes you into a chaotic road trip to Vegas with the same group of frat boys and sorority girls. When you’re unexpectedly thrown back into Rafe’s orbit, old feelings resurface fast.

“I swear, if you say no one more time, I’m filing for a best friend divorce.”

You barely glance up from your coffee. “You’d never survive without me.”

Savannah glares at you from across the kitchen island, standing there in her matching pink workout set like she didn’t just burst into your dorm at 9 a.m. on a Saturday. “I’m serious. This is the trip. The trip of the year. You’re coming.”

“Nope.”

“Yes.”

You take a slow sip. “No.”

“Yes!” She tosses a sparkly duffel bag onto the counter for dramatic effect. “Vegas, baby. Come on. It’s tradition. Summer, post-finals blowout, one big road trip with the girls and the boys—”

You cut her off, deadpan. “You mean the frat boys who spell 'Las Vegas' with a Z and think sunscreen is for losers?”

Her smile tightens. “Okay, first of all, they only did that once. And second, that was Topper. You can’t hold everything against him.”

You give her a pointed look.

“Okay, fine. You can hold that against him. But the rest of them? They’re pretty much harmless.”

You hum, not convinced. “What part of me ever gave you the impression I wanted to spend twelve hours in a cramped van with those people?”

She narrows her eyes. “You promised me you’d be less boring this year.”

“I did not.”

“Fine. I promised myself you’d be less boring.”

You sigh, rubbing your temple. “Sav…”

She softens. “Please? You’ve been, like…off. Since Cabo.”

You go still.

She notices.

“I’m fine,” you say, too fast.

She gives you a look that says, liar.

You hold her gaze. She doesn’t blink.

And the thing is, she’s not entirely wrong.

Because ever since that stupid, tequila-soaked, sand-in-your-shoes spring break trip, you’ve been a little…off.

Specifically, ever since Rafe Cameron flirted with you the entire time, was with you at every moment, slept in the same bed as you, and then never texted you again.

Not a single message.

Not a call. Not a reel. Not even a stupid emoji.

Nothing.

So you didn’t reach out either.

Because screw that.

You’re not the girl who chases guys, especially not guys like him. Golden, cocky, fratboy gods who know exactly what they do to people. And if he didn’t want to talk to you? Fine. Whatever. Cabo meant nothing.

(Except it did.)

(Except you still dream about his hand on your thigh and the way his voice dipped when he said your name.)

(But whatever.)

Savannah’s voice cuts through your internal spiral. “You don’t even have to talk to him.”

Your stomach tightens. “Who?”

She blinks innocently. “Who what?”

“Savannah.”

She winces. “Okay, fine. Yes. Rafe’s going. But I wasn’t gonna lead with that.”

You stare at her. “Absolutely not.”

“Please.”

“Fuck no.”

“Okay, but imagine this: you, hot as hell in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, feet on the dash, looking unbothered. You make him suffer. Tortured ex-hookup energy. A power move.”

You hesitate.

Because… okay. That does sound kind of fun.

She sees you crack. Pounces.

“C’mon. Vegas is the perfect distraction. Slot machines. Poolside cocktails. Getting hit on by guys in Hawaiian shirts pretending to be hedge fund managers. And maybe, maybe even revenge.”

You squint. “Revenge?”

She smiles like the devil. “Look good. Laugh a lot. Ignore him. Men hate that.”

You consider. Your silence is dangerous.

She knows she’s won.

“Fine,” you mutter.

“YES!” she shrieks, already pulling you off your bed. “You’re gonna wear that black dress, the one that makes you look like heartbreak in heels. And you’re gonna be so mean to him.”

You sigh. “I’m not gonna be mean.”

She grins. “Okay, fine. You’re gonna be icy. Emotionally distant. Like he’s just another grain of sand in the Vegas desert.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re insane.”

She winks. “And you’re coming to Vegas.”

...

You should’ve known he’d drive.

Of course Rafe Cameron would show up in a blacked-out Jeep Wrangler, all polished steel and testosterone, like this wasn’t a twelve-hour road trip and he wasn’t about to turn a freeway into his personal F1 fantasy.

You’re standing in the student union parking lot, trying to blend into the crowd of sorority girls squealing over matching trucker hats and portable chargers. You’re in your best chill outfit. Cute, effortless, completely disinterested. Sunglasses on. Coffee in hand. Lip gloss poppin’. You’re not nervous.

(Lie. You’re absolutely panicking.)

And then, you hear the engine.

The Jeep pulls in like a movie entrance: slow, dramatic, with that stupid subtle bass rumble that makes your chest feel like it’s vibrating. And then the door swings open and there he is.

Rafe.

Wearing aviators, a worn gray t-shirt, and the kind of smug expression that says yeah, I know you looked. His tan is back. His hair’s longer. His jawline is still doing unnecessary things.

He hops out of the car like it’s nothing.

But then his eyes find yours.

And everything else disappears.

Just like in Cabo. Just like always.

But unlike Cabo, you look away first.

Savannah elbows you hard. “He’s totally staring.”

“No, he’s not.”

“He’s definitely staring.”

“I’m not doing this,” you mutter, walking toward the van where the girls are sorting snacks and arguing over aux privileges. You do not need to make eye contact. You are not acknowledging him.

“Hey,” he says.

You freeze.

You glance over your shoulder. Rafe’s right behind you, thumb hooked in his pocket, acting casual, but his voice is low, almost hesitant.

“Hey,” you say flatly.

He nods once. Like that was the entire conversation. Like it didn’t just send a weird, electric tension zipping between you.

You start to turn away again, but then you're interrupted because Rafe grabs your duffel bag from the pile before you can reach it. Just picks it up like it’s automatic.

You blink. “I’ve got it.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t ask.”

You want to argue. But then he’s already walking toward his Jeep, not the van, and opening the passenger door.

You frown. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t even look at you. “You’re riding with me.”

You scoff. “Says who?”

“Savannah made a seating chart.”

“She did not.”

“She did,” he deadpans, pulling out a crumpled piece of notebook paper from his glove box and holding it up. It has highlighter marks. Your name is literally next to his.

You turn to Savannah, who gives you a shameless thumbs-up from the other car. “You’re welcome!”

You look back at Rafe. “I’ll ride with someone else.”

He tosses your bag in the back. “Too late. Dibs.”

You grit your teeth. “You are so—”

“I got you that coffee you like,” he says casually, cutting you off.

You blink. “What?”

He pulls a second coffee cup from the console and offers it without looking at you, like it’s no big deal. Like he didn’t just drop a memory bomb from four months ago.

You eye it suspiciously. “How’d you even know I was coming?”

He shrugs, eyes sparkling like he knows something you don't. “Didn’t. Got lucky.”

You stare at him for a long second. He doesn’t flinch. Just stands there, one hand on the door, waiting.

And god help you, you take the coffee.

You hate how good it tastes. And how much that stupid little gesture hits you harder than it should.

He opens the door for you. Doesn’t say anything, but when you slide in, the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s trying very hard not to smile.

You keep your eyes straight ahead like it's a hostage situation.

The others pile into the backseat. Topper ends up behind you and yells something about needing an “emergency gas station White Claw run.”

And just like that, the road trip begins.

But then Rafe adjusts the AC vents to point toward you. Turns down the music when you’re fiddling with your phone. Switches lanes early so you don’t have to get jolted. Drives smoother.

And maybe it’s nothing.

But maybe it’s not.

Because Rafe Cameron might not say much.

But everything else is loud as hell.

You stay silent for the first hour. So does he. The playlist rotates between trap music and Lana Del Rey, which is…oddly on brand for this group.

At some point, the sun gets in your eyes. You don’t ask for help, but without a word, Rafe reaches behind your seat and pulls out an old baseball cap. He tosses it into your lap.

It’s his.

Faded blue. Smells like sunscreen and something you don’t want to name.

You glance at him. “What’s this?”

He doesn’t look away from the road. “Sun’s in your face.”

You hesitate, then slip it on.

...

You pull up to a diner that looks like it hasn’t changed since 1973. The kind of place where time stands still and so do your better instincts.

You’re halfway through a plate of pancakes you didn’t even really want when Topper walks out of the bathroom and slides dramatically into the booth next to Savannah like he’s just returned from battle.

“Tell me why that bathroom had three different air fresheners and none of them worked.”

Savannah wrinkles her nose. “Maybe because you were in there for twenty minutes.”

“I was exploring!” he protests. “Don’t shame me for having curiosity.”

"More like taking a fat shit," Savannah mumbles under her breath.

You tune them out, eyes drifting to the other side of the table where Rafe’s sitting entirely too comfortably for someone who has you emotionally spiraling. Elbow propped on the back of the booth, one hand nursing a black coffee, the other absently spinning the silver napkin holder between his fingers.

He hasn’t looked at you in ten minutes.

Which would be fine.

Except he keeps nudging your foot with his under the table. Every few minutes like it’s a game.

And you keep pretending not to notice.

Except you absolutely do.

You shift in your seat, clearing your throat. “Can we not?”

He tilts his head, all faux innocence. “Not what?”

“That.” You flick your ankle against his, annoyed. “Whatever that footsie thing is.”

He lifts a brow. “Footsie?”

Topper perks up. “Who’s playing footsie?”

Savannah smirks, catching on immediately. “Oh my god, is this happening?”

You roll your eyes. “Nothing is happening.”

Rafe sips his coffee like he didn’t just get caught red-handed. “She started it.”

You whip your head toward him. “I did not—”

Savannah claps her hands. “Okay, wait. I’m just gonna say it, this is the exact energy you two had in Cabo, and we all saw it. You were basically the plot of a slow burn romance novel.”

“Except it burned out,” you say coolly, stabbing your pancakes a little too hard.

There’s a beat of silence.

Rafe glances at you. Quietly. Carefully.

Topper, oblivious as ever, picks up a ketchup bottle. “Burned out or just... paused?”

“Not everything needs to be analyzed like a Marvel post-credits scene, Topper.”

Savannah kicks you under the table gently, which is even worse. “Okay, but be honest. Are you mad at him or just mad you miss him?”

Your fork stills.

Across from you, Rafe’s gaze is heavy. You can feel him watching.

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

But then Rafe leans forward, voice low, just for you. “You want the rest of my hashbrowns?”

You blink. “What?”

He pushes his plate toward you with one finger, casual but intentional. “You always steal mine anyway. Figured I’d save us the trouble.”

Your heart betrays you with a flutter.

You try to recover. “I don’t always steal them.”

Savannah coughs. “You absolutely do.”

Rafe shrugs. “It’s fine. I like when she does.”

That shuts everyone up.

He says it with no theatrics. Just plain and honest. The way people say things when they mean them and don't care who hears.

Your chest tightens. “Don’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” You look at him, eyes sharp. “You don’t get to.”

Something flickers in his expression. But he nods.

Fair.

Quiet settles again. This time a little heavier.

Then Rafe picks up the ketchup bottle, unscrews the cap, and without looking, starts pouring a perfect R-shaped squiggle on Topper’s pancakes.

Topper howls. “Dude!”

Savannah snorts. You bite back a laugh.

And just like that, the moment cracks.

Rafe glances at you, mouth curving slow. “Smile looks good on you.”

You shake your head, warmth creeping up your neck.

This was supposed to be easy.

Eat. Ignore him. Get back in the car.

But somehow, even in a crappy booth with a plate of unwanted hashbrowns and fluorescent lighting buzzing overhead, Rafe finds a way to knock the air out of you.

...

The second the Vegas skyline comes into view, Savannah rolls down the Jeep window and screams.

Loudly.

For no reason.

The warm desert air whips through your hair. Neon lights flicker in the distance. You’re tired, vaguely dehydrated, and running on a diet of pancakes and emotionally complicated eye contact, but even you have to admit it’s a little breathtaking.

The Strip glows like a fever dream.

The group chat is blowing up. People are yelling from cars. Someone's honking like they just discovered sound. Topper's already lost a shoe.

“We made it, bitches!” Savannah hollers from the backseat, standing up and sticking half her body out the sunroof like she’s on a party bus. “Vegas, baby!”

Rafe rolls his eyes but doesn’t stop her. He’s still driving. One hand on the wheel. The other… is draped casually over your seatback.

Not touching you.

But almost.

He hasn’t said much since the diner. Just the occasional joke, a playlist switch, a quick stop for gas. But the air’s been heavy between you. And you haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

But you’re in Vegas now.

Which means distraction.

Which means chaos.

Which means—

“Oh my god, there are so many people,” Savannah says as the group finally pulls into the hotel drop-off zone.

It’s a blur of suitcases, sequins, and bad decisions waiting to happen. The valet is overwhelmed. The hotel lobby looks like a reality show on steroids. Everyone’s yelling. No one knows where their ID is. A girl from Savannah’s sorority has already thrown up in a conveniently placed bush.

You and Rafe step out of the Jeep at the same time, and it’s instant overload.

“Where’s the check-in line?” “Did we lose someone?” “Why is there a python around that man’s neck?”

You look around and immediately feel your brain short-circuiting.

“This is a nightmare,” you mutter.

Rafe, next to you, grins. “Told you. What’s a vacation without a little chaos?”

You scowl. “Did you just quote yourself?”

He winks.

Before you can respond, Topper appears, dragging three bags and yelling, “Room keys! I have the room keys!”

He waves them around like he’s won a prize.

Savannah runs over. “Who am I rooming with?”

“Me,” he says confidently.

“You wish,” she shoots back.

There’s shouting, switching, arguing over who gets the suite with the Strip view. The hotel manager looks mildly traumatized.

You try to stay out of it.

“Room 1215,” Savannah says, sliding a key into your hand. “You’re with me. But…”

She glances at Rafe. Then at you. Her voice drops to a whisper. “His room is across the hall.”

Your stomach flips.

You glance at the card in your hand.

Rafe’s watching you. Silent. Careful.

Before you can say anything, he leans in slightly, just enough for his voice to hit your ear. “I didn’t plan that.”

You turn your head. He’s close.

You can smell his cologne. See the faint stubble on his jaw. Watch the way his eyes search yours like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be doing this.

“Sure,” you whisper back.

He smirks, but it’s softer this time. “I didn’t.”

You don’t answer. You just pocket the key.

Then Savannah grabs your wrist and yanks you toward the elevators, yelling something about getting ready for the first club.

Rafe watches you go.

You feel it the whole way down the hall.

Like gravity.

Like Vegas is about to get a lot messier.

...

The Vegas club is loud enough to rattle your bones.

Bass pulsing like a heartbeat, lights strobing through the haze, bodies packed wall to wall. The VIP section you and the rest of your group scored is practically glowing, champagne bottles popping, sparklers waving, someone already standing on the couch in heels far too high for physics.

You’re three shots deep and glowing with the kind of chaos only Savannah could inspire.

“Drink this,” she shouts over the music, pressing another shot glass into your hand.

You eye it. “I’m already—”

“Drink it,” she demands. “You’re thinking too much. I see it. Cabo Brain. Still. Get it out.”

You frown. “There’s no Cabo Brain.”

“There’s so Cabo Brain,” she says, practically dancing in place. “You’re still hurt. Still bitter. Still waiting for some text that’s not coming.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not waiting for anything.”

“Then prove it.” She smirks, and nods toward the edge of the VIP section. “That guy’s been staring at you for ten minutes. Go flirt. Be reckless. Be hot. Make him—” she points discreetly toward the booth where Rafe is laughing with Topper and pretending not to be watching you “—miserable.”

You hesitate.

Savannah’s eyes glitter. “Time to make someone regret his whole damn life.”

You down the shot.

It burns on the way down. But not nearly as much as the thought of Cabo. Of him.

Of Rafe not texting. Not calling. Not anything.

So you stand.

You’re tipsy and warm and a little unhinged, but the dress you’re wearing fits like sin and your confidence spikes as you move across the floor.

You smile at the guy Savannah pointed out. He looked tall, decent smile, obviously in Vegas for some corporate retreat with a fake Rolex and too much cologne. Doesn’t matter.

You let him flirt.

Let him lean in.

Let him touch your waist when he laughs at something you barely said.

Because maybe it’ll make you forget.

“Seriously?”

The voice hits your spine before you see him.

You turn. Rafe. Towering. Furious.

Eyes dark, jaw clenched, shirt clinging to him like he fought his way through the crowd to get to you.

You blink, drunk and wobbly. “What?”

He’s looking at the guy. “Back off, man.”

“Dude, chill—” the guy starts, but Rafe’s glare is sharp enough to cut glass.

The guy takes the hint.

Vanishes.

You scoff. “Nice. So now you care?”

He looks at you. Really looks at you. His chest is rising and falling like he ran here. “What the hell are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” you snap.

“You’re drunk.”

You cross your arms. “No shit. That was kind of the point.”

He stares at you, like he doesn’t recognize the version of you in front of him. Or maybe he does... and it scares him.

You continue, words slurring just a bit. “Isn’t that what you do in Vegas? Get drunk? Dance with strangers? Forget people who disappear on you for four months and never f—freaking call?”

His face shifts. Pain flashes through it. Real pain.

You shake your head. “I thought you liked me. You were stuck to me like glue and then you just… evaporated. Like none of it mattered. Like I didn’t matter.”

He’s silent. Just watching you.

And you hate it. Hate how exposed you feel. How you’re slurring your heartbreak under flashing lights in front of the one person you swore you were over.

You laugh bitterly. “God, I am so stupid. I knew you were a frat boy. I knew you were trouble. I knew you were never gonna be the type who—”

“I didn’t know what to say,” he cuts in.

You blink.

He steps closer, voice quieter now. Barely audible over the music. “I didn’t know how to say it.”

You stare.

“I liked you,” he says. “Too much. More than I was supposed to. And I knew if I texted, if I called, I’d...”

“You’d what?” you whisper.

“I’d fall harder.”

You’re swaying slightly now. Not from the music. From all of it. The weight. The way his words slice through your chest like broken glass.

He reaches out gently, steadying your elbow. “Let me take you back upstairs.”

You want to fight him. You want to scream. You want to cry.

But you’re so tired.

So you just nod.

And when he walks you back through the crowd, hand steady on your lower back like you’re something fragile, something to treasure, you let yourself lean into him. Just a little.

Even if it hurts.

Even if you know tomorrow, everything could fall apart all over again.

...

You’re swaying in the elevator.

Rafe’s got one arm loosely around your waist to keep you upright, but he’s not doing much better. His eyes are glassy. His shirt is half unbuttoned. You’re both buzzing with alcohol and something deeper, something heavier.

“I lost my keycard,” you mumble, squinting at the blurry numbers above the doors.

“I know,” he says softly.

“You don’t know.”

“You dropped it in the ice bucket at the bar.”

“…Oh.”

He laughs, quiet and fond, like he’s trying not to spook you.

He nudges you gently into his hotel room, guiding you with both hands now, warm and careful. You trip on the rug, laugh into his chest. He catches you like he’s done it a hundred times.

And when you finally collapse onto the bed, face-first and sighing like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you, Rafe just watches for a second. Like he’s still trying to figure out if this is real. If you are.

You roll onto your back and stare up at him. “You really didn’t call because you thought I didn’t want you to?”

His hand drifts behind his neck, rubbing the back of it like he’s exhausted. “I overthink things. Especially you.”

“That’s dumb,” you whisper.

“I know.”

He sits at the edge of the bed, undoing his watch, toeing off his boots. “You were the first person I ever… I don’t know. Cared about who didn’t chase me.”

You blink up at the ceiling. “That’s even dumber.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah.”

You’re silent for a beat before you admit. “I missed you, asshole.”

His head tilts slightly, like he’s not sure he heard you right.

You’re barely conscious at this point. Voice slurred, body heavy, mascara smudged beneath your eyes, but honest. Raw.

“I hated you for not calling,” you say, eyes fluttering. “But I hated myself more for wanting you to.”

That lands hard.

You don’t see it, but Rafe’s face twists.

He exhales shakily, turns off the light, and crawls into the bed beside you without a word.

No jokes. No flirtation.

Just his arm brushing yours under the blankets. Just the quiet inhale when your legs tangle. Just the way his hand ghosts near your shoulder like he wants to hold you but doesn’t.

And when you roll over and curl instinctively toward him, your face tucked into his chest, you feel it.

His heartbeat.

Fast and unsure.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just pulls you in gently and closes his eyes like he’s home for the first time in months.

The world wakes before you do.

It creeps in through the thin hotel curtains, soft gold pouring over tangled sheets and your still bodies, warm like honey. The room smells faintly of his cologne and your shampoo. Of sleep. Of something safe.

You stir slowly, blinking your way back into consciousness.

There’s a weight over your waist.

A hand.

His hand.

And your leg is hooked over his, bare skin brushing denim, the fabric of his hoodie that he must've slipped onto you bunched up at your hips.

Your breath hitches.

Rafe.

He’s still asleep.

Head turned toward you, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other wrapped around your waist like it never left.

His brow is relaxed. Lips parted. Chest rising and falling in steady rhythm against your side, like your breathing has synced up somewhere between midnight and morning.

You don’t move.

You just look at him.

At the angle of his jaw. The tan line at his collar. The soft lashes you always pretended not to notice. His mouth, the same one that once to whisper things against your neck, things you pretended didn’t mean anything anymore.

You reach out, instinctively, and gently brush a strand of hair from his forehead.

His eyes flutter open.

Groggy. Sleep-warm.

And they land on you.

He doesn’t jolt. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t speak.

Just smiles, slow and sleepy. Like waking up next to you was a dream he didn’t expect to be real.

“Hi,” he whispers.

Your heart does something stupid in your chest. “Hi.”

His thumb drags softly along your hip under the hoodie. Not in a way that makes you flinch. Not in a way that asks for more.

Just there. Present.

“I didn’t mean to pass out like that,” you say quietly.

“You did in Cabo too,” he murmurs, voice still scratchy. “You get comfortable and then you just… go.”

You huff a laugh, face half buried in the pillow. “That’s so embarrassing.”

“No,” he says, gaze searching yours. “It’s so cute.”

You go still.

The room does too.

And when your eyes begin to sting, for reasons you don’t want to admit, he seems to sense it. His fingers trail up from your waist to your back, drawing tiny circles.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod before you mean it.

“I missed you.”

It slips out before you can stop it.

Soft and broken and too early for confessions like that, but it’s true. And it’s yours.

Rafe’s expression crumples just slightly. Then he shifts closer, tucking you fully against his chest like he’s trying to shield you from everything outside that room.

“I know,” he whispers. “Me too.”

Your face finds the warm space under his jaw, and his hand moves to the back of your head, cradling it gently.

He kisses your hair.

Not to prove a point.

Not to make a move.

Just because he wanted to.

And when you both drift back to sleep minutes later, curled into each other like muscle memory, you realize you’ve never felt more at peace.

this ones been in the drafts but its doneee

[calypso-rt]

AAA thank you for the rec, I’m going to be reading through all of these 💗

rec’s list

rafe cameron

manchild- rafe cameron angst to fluff @shortnspidey

sheriffs daughter- rafe cameron angst @rafesbabygirlx 

making rafe sleep on the couch- rafe cameron fluff @hearts4hughes

after fights- rafe cameron angst to fluff @kittykatinc 

back to friends- rafe cameron angst/fluff/smut @salem-s 

what the hell was that?- rafe cameron fluff @moondustbaby 

make this place your home- rafe cameron fluff @whytheylosttheirminds 

june gloom- rafe cameron pure angst @/whytheylosttheirminds 

june gloom second part- rafe cameron @/whytheylosttheirminds 

dad!rafe- rafe cameron fluff @goldsainz 

ghosting- rafe cameron angst to fluff @/hearts4hughes 

call it what you want- rafe cameron fluff @forevermoreharrington 

dad!rafe- rafe cameron fluff @rafecameronssl4t 

dad!rafe- rafe cameron @loveharlow  

first kiss- rafe cameron @rafslvbug 

gentleman- rafe cameron @/hearts4huges 

call it survival- rafe cameron angst to fluff @mrsbarnesblog

showing up- rafe cameron angst @dollyfiles 

don’t smile- rafe cameron angst @inbred-eater

meaningless judgment- rafe cameron fluff @sunsetmade 

nhl!rafe- rafe cameron smut @rafesteddy 

everything you do- rafe cameron fluff @/moondustbaby  

an enemies claim- rafe cameron fluff @/sunsetmade  

slipping through- rafe cameron angst to fluff @/sunsetmade  

i’ve always loved you just not like this- rafe cameron angst to fluff @/salem-s 

truth within the lines- rafe cameron fluff @/sunsetmade 

 break my heart- rafe cameron angst/smut @itneverendshere

mrs.cameron- rafe cameron fluff @/rafecameronssl4t 

ex!husband- rafe cameron angst @rafeslvbug 

ex!husband- rafe cameron smut @/rafesluvbug

clingy- rafe cameron fluff @rafescherie 

dad!rafe- rafe cameron angst @drewsstars 

don’t share whats mine- rafe cameron @calypso-rt

one step at a time- rafe cameron ed!warning @/sunsetmade 

one call away- rafe cameron angst to fluff @/sunsetmade 

the one he reaches for- rafe cameron fluff @/sunsetmade 

sensory- rafe cameron @rafescherie 

so not fair- rafe cameron angst to fluff @mrsbarnesblog 

dad to be- rafe cameron @/sunsetmade 

what he didn’t see- rafe cameron @/sunsetmade 

the little things- rafe cameron angst to fluff @/sunsetmade 

the quiet of july- rafe cameron fluff @/sunsetmade 

having a hot boyfriend- rafe cameron fluff @lizziesangel

jj maybank

stay here- jj maybank fluff @iitslera

pissed- jj maybank angst to fluff @lovelyjj 

10:49pm- jj  maybank angst to fluff @santaasi 

conrad fisher 

always almost- conrad fisher angst @rainandsentences 

love suffers- conrad fisher angst to fluff @probably-writing-x

note: please don't feel bad if i didn't add you to it. sometimes I read them, reblog them and forget to add them but i try to reblog every fic i read<3

[calypso-rt]

hiya:) i was wondering if you could do one where blue collar!rafe goes to corporate!readers fancy apartment for like a date night or something and it ends a little steamy? thank you xx

Came for Dinner, Stayed for Dessert

꩜ corporate!reader x bluecollar!rafe

꩜ WARNINGS: smut (not graphic)/cussing

꩜ in love with this request, ty anon

“Should’ve known you’d have a damn doorman.”

He's late and that’s the first thing he says when you open the door.

Not hi. Not you look beautiful, even though you absolutely do, hair pinned up, silk top cinched just tight enough to keep things interesting.

You lean on the frame, one brow arched. “And I should’ve known you’d show up in boots that track half the city into my marble foyer.”

He smirks. Doesn’t apologize. Just steps inside without waiting to be asked.

You watch him take in your apartment: the vaulted ceilings, the minimalist furniture, the wide, floor-to-ceiling windows that glitter with city lights.

Rafe Cameron in your sleek, quiet, grown-up space looks like sin in a bottle. Grease under his nails. Faint paint flecks on his forearms. T-shirt stretched tight across his chest. The kind of man who smells like sawdust and sweat and a little bit like trouble.

And he’s watching you like you’re the most captivating thing in the room.

“You sure I’m allowed in here, corporate?” he drawls, stepping past your white couch, glancing at the untouched coffee table books. “Feels like even breathing too hard might violate a lease.”

You cross your arms. “Why? Scared you’ll knock something over?”

His eyes flick down to your bare legs, an unseen sight thanks to the short silk skirt you chose to wear. “Wasn’t planning on it. But now I might.”

You roll your eyes and saunter into the kitchen, throwing him a perfectly curated unaffected glance. “I made dinner.”

He hums, eyes still flicking to your legs. “That what you’re calling it now?”

You whirl around, not sure exactly what he meant by that. “Rafe.”

“Relax.” He holds up his hands. “Just teasing.”

But it’s not really teasing, is it? Not when his voice is low like that. Not when he’s standing this close.

He’s been playing this game with you for weeks... hovering, smirking, brushing your hip when he reaches past you. Fixing your car, bringing you coffee, leaving oil-slick fingerprints on your pristine travel mugs like a mark.

You’ve held your line. You always hold your line.

But tonight?

Tonight, he’s not making it easy.

“Sit,” you order, needing to reclaim some sense of control. “I’ll get the wine.”

He watches you walk away. You feel it: the heat of his gaze, tracking the curve of your spine. When you return with the glasses, he’s still standing. Leaning against your kitchen island like he belongs there. Like this is his. You hand him a glass. He takes it. Lets his calloused fingers brush yours longer than necessary.

Then, without looking away, he says, “You ever get tired of pretending you’re not into me?”

You blink.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He sips the wine. Doesn’t even flinch at the taste, expensive, bold, red. “You act like you’re above all this. Like you’re above me. But every time I get close, you breathe like I’ve got my hand up your damn skirt.”

Your breath hitches.

He leans in, his voice rough. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“I…” You stare at him. “We’re from different worlds, Rafe.”

“And that’s supposed to mean what?” He sets the glass down, crowding into your space now. “That you don’t think about me when you’re alone in this place? That you don’t imagine what it’d feel like if I got my hands on you?”

“Rafe.”

“I fix things with my hands, baby. You think I wouldn’t know exactly what to do with you?”

You should stop him. You should say something clever. But your breath is caught in your throat, and your knees suddenly don’t feel as reliable as they usually do.

“I’ve been patient,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “God knows why. But I’m not leavin’ here tonight without gettin’ the truth.”

You meet his eyes which are furious, hungry, and you can't help feeling a little bit terrified by how much you want him.

And then you drop the last of your defenses. The last of your pride.

You grab him by the collar and pull him into a kiss that steals the ground out from under you both.

He groans against your mouth, and it’s filthy, the way he pushes you back against the counter, the way his hands slide up under your thighs, the way his teeth graze your lip like he’s starving.

“You have no idea,” he rasps against your throat, “how long I’ve wanted to ruin you.”

You gasp, head falling back. “Then do it.”

He lifts you onto the countertop like you weigh nothing.

And he does.

His hands slide under your thighs as he sets you down on the cold marble countertop, your silk skirt riding up in one smooth motion. You’re breathless, dazed, and dizz, but he isn’t. He’s focused. Controlled. Like he’s been waiting exactly for this moment.

“You know what drove me crazy?” he mutters, dragging his hands up the backs of your thighs, settling between your legs. “Everytime you came by the garage all tight-lipped and perfect. Acting like you didn’t see how hard I was lookin’ at you. Like you didn’t want me to.”

You suck in a breath. His fingers graze the edge of your panties.

“Rafe—”

“Say it,” he growls. “Tell me you’ve been wantin’ me too.”

You grip the collar of his t-shirt like it’ll keep you tethered. “I wanted you the first time you opened your mouth.”

That gets you a grin. Wicked and triumphant.

“Yeah?” His hand dips lower, under the silk. His fingers are rough, calloused, and when they find you, they slide through slick heat like it’s nothing, causing your entire body to jolt in his grasp. “Then why the hell’d you make me wait so long?”

You let out a whimper.

He groans at the sound. “Shit. This what you sound like when I’m just usin’ my hands?”

You nod, helplessly, not really knowing what else to do.

He leans forward, voice gravel low. “Can some white-collar pretty boy in a suit touch you like this?”

“N-No.”

“That’s right.” His voice sharpens. “They wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with you.”

You arch into his palm, biting your lip, and in a last desperate attempt to regain your composure you say, “Neither do you.”

He stills.

“Oh, baby,” he breathes, “don’t start.”

Then he’s got your silk top off your shoulders, and his mouth is on your throat, your chest, everywhere, his stubble scraping soft skin, his hands spreading your knees wider like he owns you.

“You’re gonna take what I give you,” he mutters, teeth at your collarbone. “Every touch. Every word. And you’re gonna remember it next time you try and act like I don’t wreck you with one look.”

Your nails rake down his back, perfectly manicured and perfectly sharp.

“Tell me,” he says roughly, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You gasp, already on the edge of something. “Rafe, I—”

He pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes, pupils blown, voice hoarse.

“Say it.”

You swallow hard. “I’m-I'm... fuck, I'm yours.”

He lets out the softest groan, not just turned on, but wrecked without even being touched.

Then he kisses you again, and this time, it’s deep. Desperate. Possessive. The kind of kiss that promises you’ll be aching tomorrow.

“You’re mine,” he repeats, voice like gravel and honey, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. “And I’m gonna remind you exactly what that means.”

Then he drops to his knees.

Right there in your marble-and-glass, penthouse-level kitchen like he was born for it. And you realize, with a sharp, breathless laugh as he yanks your panties down your legs:

You’ve never had anything this dirty feel so right.

TAGLIST (OG taglist + anyone who asked to be tagged): @lunaleah, @luzstarkey, @rafeycameronsgf, @pluviophilis @aerie717, @voqueflms, @drewstarkeyspecs, @nightchanges777, @starkeyjoseph, @bonjourjiminie, @discomago, @kissylec, @kelbrave

[calypso-rt]

(delayeddrabbles) i saw this and thought of corporate!reader x blue collar!rafe

https://www.tumblr.com/lvstfxrlife/789827227125743616?source=share

STOP WHEN MY TWO WORLDS COLLIDE

need a criminal minds x Rafe Cameron crossover stat

No but corporate!reader practically lives in her office so that’s so accurate

[calypso-rt]

THE dynamic duo

i can see corporate reader and blue collar rafe going to lunch or dinner and when the check comes they fight over who’s paying😭 cause she’s all independent and makes her own money but rafe is a gentleman if that even makes sense idk😭

Check, Please

꩜ corporate!reader x bluecollar!rafe

꩜ this request is perfect to explore their dynamic, ily anon!

"Color me impressed, Cameron."

The restaurant is nicer than you expected.

Not uptight-nice, but dimly lit with real candles flickering in old wine bottles and a jazz trio tucked in the corner playing like they really mean it. You’re seated at a small table near the window, the city bleeding neon outside. Rafe showed up in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled to the forearms, collar rumpled like he got ready in the truck’s side mirror.

He still looks unfairly good.

The conversation’s too easy He makes you really laugh, not the polite boardroom kind. His voice is smooth: that usual Carolina silk, and low and warm, and every time he looks at you, really looks, you feel like you’re being studied by someone who doesn’t miss much. Someone who’s not the least bit impressed by your résumé but can’t stop watching the way your mouth curves when you sip your wine.

You’re halfway through dessert (a shared crème brûlée he claimed he 'didn’t want' but somehow ate most of) when the waiter drops the check on the table.

You both reach for it.

Your hands collide.

Rafe freezes. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” you counter, already pulling your card out. “You invited me.”

He leans back slowly, mouth twitching. “And you said yes. That’s payment enough.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It doesn’t have to. I’m payin’.”

You blink at him, tilting your head. “Do you always do this?”

“What, treat a lady to dinner?”

“Argue with women who are perfectly capable of paying for themselves.”

His smile flickers wider. “Only when they look like they’ve got a black card and a point to prove.”

You narrow your eyes. “It’s not about the card.”

“Then what’s it about?”

You hesitate. “It’s about…equality.”

Rafe snorts. “Sweetheart, you’re already out here fightin' the patriarchy just by being the independent, strong woman you are. Lettin' me pay for dinner ain’t gonna let it win.”

Your mouth opens, closes. “It’s a principle.”

He leans forward on his elbows, voice low and teasing. “If I let you pay, will it ruin the fantasy that I’m some old-school Southern gentleman who wants to spoil you rotten?”

Your breath catches. “So you admit it’s a fantasy.”

He just shrugs, lips curved. “Didn’t say whose.”

You stare at him. The room buzzes, golden and slow, and for a second it feels like the two of you are the only ones in it.

“So what is this?” you ask. The question slips out quieter than you mean it to. “This dinner.”

Rafe blinks, straightens up a little. “You tell me.”

You fiddle with your water glass. “I’m not sure.”

His gaze softens. “You think I help strangers fix tires, drive twenty minutes to pick ‘em up, and put on a button-down for a business transaction?”

Your lips part. “So it’s a date?”

He leans in, voice like molasses and mischief. “That depends.”

“On what?”

He taps a finger against the check. “On whether you’re gonna let me pay like it is.”

You hesitate.

And then sigh deeply and let your card slide back into your purse. “Fine.”

Rafe smirks like he just won something bigger than a financial debate. He slips his card into the folder with a smoothness that makes you suspect he’s done this a hundred times before.

“I still don’t like this,” you grumble.

He chuckles. “You don’t have to like it. You just have to sit there lookin’ pretty and let me take care of you for one damn hour.”

You flush. Hard.

“I don’t need taking care of.”

“I know that,” he says, suddenly serious. “You don’t need anyone. That’s not why I’m here.”

You glance at him, startled by the shift.

“I’m here because I want to be,” he says, voice gentler now. “Because I like the way you pretend you’re all business, but you blush like hell when I flirt with you.”

You stare at him. And then, unwillingly, traitorously, you smile.

“You’re trouble,” you say softly.

Rafe leans back, satisfied. “I’ve been called worse.”

When the check disappears, he stands and offers you his hand. You take it before you can think. His palm is warm, calloused, steady.

He leans in as you leave the restaurant, voice right against your ear.

“You can get the next one, corporate.”

Your heart does something stupid in your chest.

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

He knows you will.

TAGLIST (OG taglist + anyone who asked to be tagged): @lunaleah, @luzstarkey, @rafeycameronsgf, @pluviophilis @aerie717, @voqueflms, @bonjourjiminie, @drewstarkeyspecs, @nightchanges777, @starkeyjoseph

[calypso-rt]

CORPORATE!READER

(and Bluecollar!Rafe)

MASTERLIST

꩜ the other side (they meet!) ꩜ first date ꩜ excuses to see each other ꩜ jealousy ꩜ check, please ꩜ date night! (18+)

taglist still open!

[calypso-rt]

GUYS

thank you so much for all the amazing bluecollar!rafe x corporate!reader requests, i'll definitely be writing all of them.

[calypso-rt]

i can see corporate reader and blue collar rafe going to lunch or dinner and when the check comes they fight over who’s paying😭 cause she’s all independent and makes her own money but rafe is a gentleman if that even makes sense idk😭

Check, Please

꩜ corporate!reader x bluecollar!rafe

꩜ this request is perfect to explore their dynamic, ily anon!

"Color me impressed, Cameron."

The restaurant is nicer than you expected.

Not uptight-nice, but dimly lit with real candles flickering in old wine bottles and a jazz trio tucked in the corner playing like they really mean it. You’re seated at a small table near the window, the city bleeding neon outside. Rafe showed up in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled to the forearms, collar rumpled like he got ready in the truck’s side mirror.

He still looks unfairly good.

The conversation’s too easy He makes you really laugh, not the polite boardroom kind. His voice is smooth: that usual Carolina silk, and low and warm, and every time he looks at you, really looks, you feel like you’re being studied by someone who doesn’t miss much. Someone who’s not the least bit impressed by your résumé but can’t stop watching the way your mouth curves when you sip your wine.

You’re halfway through dessert (a shared crème brûlée he claimed he 'didn’t want' but somehow ate most of) when the waiter drops the check on the table.

You both reach for it.

Your hands collide.

Rafe freezes. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” you counter, already pulling your card out. “You invited me.”

He leans back slowly, mouth twitching. “And you said yes. That’s payment enough.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It doesn’t have to. I’m payin’.”

You blink at him, tilting your head. “Do you always do this?”

“What, treat a lady to dinner?”

“Argue with women who are perfectly capable of paying for themselves.”

His smile flickers wider. “Only when they look like they’ve got a black card and a point to prove.”

You narrow your eyes. “It’s not about the card.”

“Then what’s it about?”

You hesitate. “It’s about…equality.”

Rafe snorts. “Sweetheart, you’re already out here fightin' the patriarchy just by being the independent, strong woman you are. Lettin' me pay for dinner ain’t gonna let it win.”

Your mouth opens, closes. “It’s a principle.”

He leans forward on his elbows, voice low and teasing. “If I let you pay, will it ruin the fantasy that I’m some old-school Southern gentleman who wants to spoil you rotten?”

Your breath catches. “So you admit it’s a fantasy.”

He just shrugs, lips curved. “Didn’t say whose.”

You stare at him. The room buzzes, golden and slow, and for a second it feels like the two of you are the only ones in it.

“So what is this?” you ask. The question slips out quieter than you mean it to. “This dinner.”

Rafe blinks, straightens up a little. “You tell me.”

You fiddle with your water glass. “I’m not sure.”

His gaze softens. “You think I help strangers fix tires, drive twenty minutes to pick ‘em up, and put on a button-down for a business transaction?”

Your lips part. “So it’s a date?”

He leans in, voice like molasses and mischief. “That depends.”

“On what?”

He taps a finger against the check. “On whether you’re gonna let me pay like it is.”

You hesitate.

And then sigh deeply and let your card slide back into your purse. “Fine.”

Rafe smirks like he just won something bigger than a financial debate. He slips his card into the folder with a smoothness that makes you suspect he’s done this a hundred times before.

“I still don’t like this,” you grumble.

He chuckles. “You don’t have to like it. You just have to sit there lookin’ pretty and let me take care of you for one damn hour.”

You flush. Hard.

“I don’t need taking care of.”

“I know that,” he says, suddenly serious. “You don’t need anyone. That’s not why I’m here.”

You glance at him, startled by the shift.

“I’m here because I want to be,” he says, voice gentler now. “Because I like the way you pretend you’re all business, but you blush like hell when I flirt with you.”

You stare at him. And then, unwillingly, traitorously, you smile.

“You’re trouble,” you say softly.

Rafe leans back, satisfied. “I’ve been called worse.”

When the check disappears, he stands and offers you his hand. You take it before you can think. His palm is warm, calloused, steady.

He leans in as you leave the restaurant, voice right against your ear.

“You can get the next one, corporate.”

Your heart does something stupid in your chest.

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

He knows you will.

TAGLIST (OG taglist + anyone who asked to be tagged): @lunaleah, @luzstarkey, @rafeycameronsgf, @pluviophilis @aerie717, @voqueflms, @bonjourjiminie, @drewstarkeyspecs, @nightchanges777, @starkeyjoseph

[calypso-rt]

omg the way I’ve been obsessed with Clark Kent I absolutely needed this. THANK YOU for the mention I’m so happy I could inspire you 💕💕

꒰ঌ ໒꒱ Eloping with Clark

♡⸝⸝ 18+ mdni, wordcount. 3.5k

❝ ϑ𐑞 tags/cw: pairing clark kent & fem!reader, oral (f. rec.), outercourse (thighs), gagging with panties, slightly mean clark if you squint, biting, slight overstim., established relationship, metions of martha and jonathan kent, louis & jimmy, slight exhibitionism, nipple sucking (f. rec.),

ϑ𐑞 sum: You and clark decide to elope, the beggining of your honeymoon, and reactions to your marriage from your friends and families.

ϑ𐑞 authors note: This is my first time writing a longer fic, i hope you guys enjoy mwahh 💋.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ + i kinda didnt proofread this so i apologize for any mistakes lol <333 comments and reblogs are always appreciated .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ ❞

────୨ৎ────

The day started as usual; you woke up next to each other, lying in bed a little too long, never wanting the moment to end. Clark made his way downstairs in only his dark blue pajama pants to start breakfast. The subtle scent of your favorite breakfast foods and fruit grew stronger as you followed your boyfriend downstairs after completing your morning routine.

You greeted him with a kiss, letting your fingers linger a bit too long on his chest, dragging down to the waistband of his pants. "Hey, pretty girl, you want to sit down and eat?" he spoke with a smile.

"Mhm," you responded in a breath. You unapologetically watched Clark's muscles flex as he grabbed a plate from the cabinet and filled it for you, and made his way to the dining table. He gently patted his thigh, signaling for you to sit on his lap.

You could feel his deep chuckles on your back with every joke or flirty remark made, one hand on your thigh and the other bringing strawberries to your lips. The tension in the air was thick to say the least, last night's activities still lingering in the air. All that covered your body was Clark's old university t-shirt & a pair of tiny pink panties that caught his eye with every movement.

His lips were on your neck, behind your ear, leaving a trail of pecks, wanting to take things further but restraining himself. He broke the silence, "We should get ready to leave soon, we don't want to keep our friends waiting, he whispered, his breath caressing the tip of your ear.

You agree in a nod, standing up and making your way to your closet, hands lifting to pull Clark's shirt down. You could feel his eyes on you as you walk away, purposely swaying your hips to get his attention. "Stop looking at my ass, Clark!" You said facetiously. Giggling as you turn back to your boyfriend's embarrassingly red face.

To say your closet was huge was an understatement. Clark spoiled you endlessly with whatever your heart desired, and it just so happens that shoes and dresses were high on that list. You walked out of your closet, heels rhythmically hitting the floor as you called out for your boyfriend.

"Carkie, I'm ready to go!" you shout. He kisses your hand, telling you how beautiful you look; hearing people call you beautiful wasn't a new thing for you, but something about it coming from him made it that much more exceptional. Alright, let's go, baby," he says as you walk to the car.

After pulling into the driveway of your shared friend's house, Clark opens your car door, grabs your hand, and leads you to their door. You were both invited over for an intimate lunch celebrating your friend's engagement.

Chatter filled the air as you and your friend had a conversation, "I mean, if I knew weddings were this draining and expensive, I would've just eloped, my goodness," she said sardonically. You chuckled at her joke against your wineglass. You knew she was joking, but her words lingered in your mind the rest of the time there.

Clark, who's always watching and listening, heard this conversation from across the room and took a mental note of your reaction. The gathering went on, and you couldn't help but feel a hint of jealousy watching your friends express their love and wedding plans to the group. Marriage was always something you wanted, especially with Clark. You'd previously had a conversation about marriage, which you both wanted, but agreed to wait it out, wanting to make the right decisions.

The car ride home was a bit quiet, being that you were both far in thought. You tried to place your focus on the trees passing by or the soft sound of the radio. The silence was met with the comforting voice of your boyfriend, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Huh, talk about what?" you replied, looking over at your boyfriend. You couldn't help but notice how the late afternoon skies stretched across his face, highlighting his deep blue eyes. He starts with a hum, "You're staring, honey," he chuckles.

"But I was referring to the conversation you had about eloping. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn't help but notice your reaction…". He turns back to you, holding eye contact & awaiting your response, secretly longing for you to admit to what he had been feeling.

You let out a deep sigh, "Oh yeah, that I was just thinking about how it would feel to just run away and make a sudden life-changing decision like that." You fidget with your fingers nervously waiting for his reaction. Talking to Clark about serious topics rarely made you nervous; he was deeply understanding and could resolve any problem, prioritizing your happiness. But, in situations like this, you couldn't help yourself.

Clark parks the car in front of your shared house, his brows furrowed, gaze fixated on the steering wheel in front of him. The hum of the engine fills the car as your stomach ties in a knot. Questions run through your mind 'Did you say the wrong thing? Does he feel rushed? Is he realizing he doesn't see a future that far with you?'

He turns to you, skimming over your features before locking eyes, "Say the word and we'll do it, baby," he confesses, "Right now." Clark was a goodie two-shoes, planning-ahead type of person, so his saying this came as a shock to you. You let out a small chuckle, presuming he's just making a joke.

"Honestly, Baby, let's do it." The last words spoken before you both ran from the car, laughing and racing to the door. The excitement from both of you couldn't be contained, barely being able to get through the front door. Chaotic bag packing and household items being knocked over from in between make-out sessions made your recently made plans that much more exciting.

After 20 minutes of packing, Clark carries your bags to the car, helps you in, and closes the door behind you. You watch him walk around the car and make his way in. "So where are we going?" You say with a smile. "You'll see when we get there," he replies as if he has a secret you'll never know.

A couple of years ago, you'd told Clark about your dream country to vacation in, and ever since then, he's been planning on surprising you with a flight there. A month ago, he decided to buy plane tickets, not yet finding the right time to gift them to you, until now.

It's almost like this was fate.

Once your flight lands and you both settle into a villa & make your way to the nearest shop to buy semi-formal clothes. You found a fluffy, white strapless dress with pearl detailing. It wasn't the best quality or your dream wedding dress, but you weren't expecting much on short notice.

You both meet up in your villa after preparations, ready to find the nearest chapel or courthouse to seal the deal. "Hey, baby, I found a place for us to get married." Clark had asked a few people where the best place to get married quickly was, and they all directed him to a beautiful chapel with a seaside view and fields of flowers.

Your heart fluttered, and tears swelled on your waterline as you both walked up to your wedding site hand in hand. "Oh my- Clark, this is beautiful, how did you find this place?" You said, emotions taking over all of your words. "Ah, I have my ways," he says sarcastically. "Don't mess up your makeup yet, sweetheart. We haven't even gotten to the good part yet."

The light hum of music and the sea carried its way to where you both stood before each other face to face, chest to chest, hand in hand. Your wedding officiant had been reading from his book, although both you and Clark were far too distracted by how happy you both were.

"And the rings?" he asked, before you could finish replying that you didn't have time to get one, Clark reached into his back pocket and pulled out a little pink box. You'd looked at him with wide eyes and furrowed brows, asking where he found a jewelry shop. "My ma gave me this ring after the first time she met you; it's the same ring my pa asked her to marry him with. She thought it should be passed down to you since she never had a daughter." You fought back tears, blinking rapidly to keep your composure. After what felt like years, you're both asked if you'd take each other as husband and wife.

"I do." You both reply with urgency.

Before the officiant could finish instructing to kiss, Clark's warm and soft lips were already on yours. You ran your fingers through his hair, lightly gripping to deepen the kiss, the world around you both fading with each second, dipping you down like a princess, making this moment as special as possible. Pulling apart the sounds of your giggles and the claps of a few witnesses brings you back to reality.

You've finally married the man of your dreams.

────୨ৎ────

After hours of 'congratulations' and celebration, you both decide to get a start to your honeymoon. On the way back to your villa, Clark can't help but act on his hopeless love for you. Clark took your driver's distraction with the road as an opportunity. He lowers his head to kiss your neck, only taking breaks to tell you how breathtaking you look. His hand travels down your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps that force the smallest whimper from your lips.

Unmissed by Clark, he takes this as leverage to tease you further. Your breath hitched as he discreetly licked from your collarbone to your earlobe. You slapped his thigh in response, not wanting to be embarrassed in front of foreign ears. Gripping a fistful of Clark's tuxedo, you whisper into his ear, "You can have your way with me after we get out of the car, okay? Whatever you want.'' He responded with a deep kiss and a nod, unsure if he could contain himself until then.

At last, the long drive of teasing comes to a halt as Clark almost breaks the door of the vehicle and sprints to your side to carry you to the door bridal style. "I have to carry my wife over the threshold, it's tradition.", he spoke before pecking your lips. The door slammed with a kick, and the glimmer that was usually in your now husband's eyes was long gone. The air was thick with sexual tension you'd both been waiting to release, only this time it was different. Better. Sex wasn't a new aspect of your relationship, but this was the first time you would copulate as husband and wife.

His throbbing dick took over his mind as he ripped your dress off with ease. Hands immediately making contact with your ass & gripping it with force that would leave bruises tomorrow. He made eye contact with the soft white lace panties that barely covered your lower body, smirking at the sight, "I wore them just for you, Clarkie," you said in an almost whisper.

The usually cautious characteristics that he held near and dear disappeared along with your makeshift wedding dress. You could feel his throbbing dick pressing against your stomach through his slacks, His hips subtly grinding against your half-naked body.

Your heart rate increased, finding his jaw and softly caressing it as your tongue found his. Your soft movements collided beautifully with the rough moans and grunts that exuded from both your lips. He pulls away suddenly, earning a disappointed whimper from you, "Go to the bed and bend over."

You run to the bed at the speed of light, as if you had superpowers yourself. The sound of his belt unbuckling and his footsteps getting closer behind you made you grip the sheets in front of you. A harsh smack comes down on the bulb of your ass, quickly met with a swift pull of your panties dangling at one of your ankles, leaving you in nothing but your wedding ring.

You hear the ruffling of a condom and turn your head to face him. "Can we do it without the condom this time?" you ask. Every time you guys had sex, Clark used a condom because he was scared to hurt you, not knowing the reactions his bodily fluids could have on you. "I want just you this time, Clarkie, I want you to make me your wife," you implore. He thinks about it for a few seconds before tossing the wrapper to the side and approaching you, deciding you were right; he did want to make you his wife and take the next step.

"God, you're so wet for me.", he muttered in a tone that says he's turned on but also a little amused. He told you to bring your thighs together before you feel his left hand grip your left ass cheek. You can feel his throbbing red tip slip between your thighs, the top of his dick slightly stroking your clit. His hips pulled back and forth, pace quickening with each thrust, forcing your first orgasm of the night out of you.

Clark couldn't help but stare at the ring on your finger. You were now his and only his - forever, and he would prove that over and over to anyone, including you. He pulled out from between your thighs, ropes of his cum, and the juices from your orgasm being the only thing connecting the two of you. He desperately attaches his mouth to your pussy, whining and groaning as he sloppily smears you over the lower half of his face. He swallows your juices and pulls away from your swollen clit with a pop, groaning and biting his bottom lip as if he's already savoring your flavor.

The bed dips as Clark leans forward over your body, sloppily kissing you; the aftermath of him eating you out lingers on his tongue. You feel the tip of his dick beginning to stretch you out, "Are you ready?" he asks before slamming his entire length into you and rubbing your tender clit mercilessly. "Clark, yes fuck me!" you shriek, tears falling onto the bedsheets.

You could feel his deep breaths down your spine as he left open-mouth kisses with each slam of his hips. "Open," he says firmly before stuffing your mouth with your panties. After kissing you on your cheek, he instantaneously flips you on your back. Your back hit the mattress as Clark locks his hands behind your knees, rocking his hips, teasingly stroking your clit with the base of his dick.

Tears well at your waterline from overstimulation, you grunt out unintelligible pleas and begging through your lace panties. He smirks before inserting his twitching dick in you slowly, stroking, pulling his length out, and pushing back in swiftly. "I swear you were made for me. I love you so much, he groans." His head dips into your neck, leaving soft bite marks and hints of bruising that you'll have to cover before going out tomorrow. His strokes become messy and inconsistent as he shoots pools of cum into your aching cunt that immediately overflow, splashing onto his abs every time he bottomed out.

He pulls your panties from your mouth rapidly, met with your whimpers and pants. Your body felt like putty from the continuous orgasms, Clark not even breaking a sweat, and you knew it would be a long night. He grabs your legs, pulling you to the edge of the bed and picking you up as if you were nothing but a feather. He wraps your limp legs around his waist and grips your hips, firmly positioning his hips into the floor before pulling you up and down his length. The tip of his dick is almost falling out of you before bringing your hips down to meet his.

You whine as he sucks your nipples for a few seconds with every lift, plop plop plop. Clark brings you close to his chest, the ragged breathing and moans between the two of you are the only things that fill the air as he kisses your shoulder. "You're not tapping out on my, are you?" he asks, seeing the way your eyes are continuously rolling back and your body going limp. "No, no, no, one more pretty please," you muster up all the strength you had left to bed for one more orgasm.

The day had been long and eventful, & you lost track of how many orgasms you've had so far. Knowing Clark, he could keep going forever, literally, but he knew he had the rest of your marriage to make up for everything he couldn't finish tonight.

"Yes, ma'am, anything for my wife."

────୨ৎ────

After two weeks of your honeymoon and no connection with others, you decide to go back home. Metropolis needed Superman, and you were excited to tell your loved ones about your affairs. "I think we should stop at my ma and pops' house first, how's that sound?" Clark asks.

The car comes to a stop on the gravel outside of the Kents' farm. Nothing but grass for miles, and the sound of cows and chickens, it feels like home even though you didn't grow up there. Jonathan and Martha stand at the front porch, greeting you and Clark with a pie in hand; they look like a picture from a Hallmark postcard.

Once the greetings were at an end, you and Clark explained the story of where you'd been the last two weeks. Martha was immediately ecstatic, hopping up from her couch to hug you and congratulate her son and new daughter. She was a bit disappointed that she wasn't made aware beforehand, as she wanted to help plan your wedding, but was joyful nevertheless. Johnathan whooped and shouted with his fist in the air as if his favorite football team scored a touchdown. You'd spent the rest of the evening in Clark's childhood bed, giggling as he told you stories about Smallville & growing into his powers.

The next day at the Daily Planet, everyone nearly chokes on their beverages and knocks over their papers when you both say, "We got married," with the biggest grins on your faces.

"Wait, what, why didn't I get an invite?" Louis replies with a faux pout, reaching for your hand to look at your ring. She shot a smile at you, telling you how beautiful your ring is. "No one did," you giggle, "it was a spur-of-the-moment thing."

Jimmy's coffee mug hit the table, grasping everyone's attention. "You actually married him," he starts with high eyebrows and a finger pointed at your husband, "wow…" He wore his jealousy all over his face, and everyone noticed it. Rolling your eyes, you ignore him, reaching into your purse to show everybody the polaroids from your big day.

Your coworkers were aware that you and Clark had been seeing each other, but no one thought it was a serious relationship. He was the oversized, clumsy dork who made cheesy dad jokes. Needless to say, people didn't take him seriously. Although he was a sweetheart, Clark came to work in a rush almost every day, curls tousled, coffee stains on his suit, desk filled with messy papers.

You, on the other hand, were a bit different. Hair perfectly placed, makeup flawless; you were the 'hot girl' of the office. Your cubicle had pink fuzzy pencils and little My Melody stickers. You had a whole 'girl next door' vibe going, all the girls in the office wanted to be your best friend, and the men offered to get you coffee and sit with you on your lunch break every day, unaware that you only had eyes for Clark.

Days passed, and your marriage was still the talk of the Daily Planet, until Clark accidentally wore his ring while fighting crime. A picture was in the papers of him holding a kitten, left hand on full display, and his ring glimmering in the sun.

The tabloids immediately filled with articles about Superman's engagement; "Is this why he went on a two-week hiatus?, Is he married to another superhuman?, Who's the lucky woman… or man?".

Ever since you and Clark tied the knot, he hasn't been able to take his eyes off your left hand. After your face, it's the first thing he looks at when he rolls over in the morning. He also can't get enough of referring to you as his wife.

"My wife is calling, hold on."

"My wife said she wants the pink one."

"Doesn't my wife look beautiful today?"

Even when he's talking to you. "Does my wife want waffles or French toast this morning?"

And especially during sex, "Does my wife want to cum?"

Greeting you every morning with "How did you sleep, Mrs. Kent?" And putting you to bed with "Goodnight, Mrs kent, I hope you sleep well."

When you ask him about his fixation on calling you 'Mrs.Kent' & 'My Wife', he chuckles, placing a kiss on your forehead, "I've been waiting for this moment," he lets out a deep breath, "We've been married from the moment I laid eyes on you."

imagine your something blue being his eyes, ou la laaa

+ inspired by @calypso-rt elope fic ♡⸝⸝

bow divider by dollywons . ♡ 𓂃 ଓ ݁ 𓈒

[calypso-rt]

WAIT yes. Imagine he’s like a mega nerd when it comes to video games or math or something. MarineBiologist!Reader would be so into that

Hook, Line, and Sinker

𓇼 Rafe x MarineBiologist!Reader

𓇼 first encounter

You're waist-deep in brackish marsh water, the sun hazy behind a curtain of stormclouds, and your arms are elbow-deep in a cooler of water samples. It's humid, muggy, and the bugs are relentless, but you're too focused on your pH readings to care.

That is, until you hear yelling.

You barely glance up. Some guy is stomping across the dock above, waving his arms like a lunatic. Kook, probably. Tall, blonde, polo shirt. Typical. Probably drunk, maybe high. This area always attracts the worst kind of—

“Hey! Hey, are you good? Do you need help?!”

You squint. “I’m working.”

He cups his hands around his mouth. “That water’s full of alligators and bacteria and—wait, are those leeches? Are you bleeding?”

You sigh. “I’m literally wearing waders.”

That doesn’t stop him. The guy, undeterred and clearly suffering from a hero complex, kicks off his shoes and sprints toward the marsh like he’s auditioning for Baywatch. You try to stop him “No, seriously, I’m fine” but it’s too late. He yanks his shirt off and jumps from the muddy dock, lurches forward, and with a very satisfying splash, he jumps straight into the marsh.

Water goes everywhere. Your notes, your test tubes, your day, ruined.

There’s a beat of silence as he emerges, soaked to the bone and blinking up at you with sea-blue eyes and the most pretty smile you’ve ever seen.

“…You’re alive,” he says, beaming. “Good.”

You stare at him. “You just cannonballed into three hundred dollars worth of equipment.”

He blinks. “Oh.”

You turn back to your samples with a muttered curse, wringing out your notepad.

And yet, he doesn’t leave.

Instead, he sloshes behind you like a lost golden retriever, dripping and still grinning. “You’re like…a water scientist or something?”

“Marine biologist,” you mutter.

“That’s hot.”

You pause. Glance at him over your shoulder. He looks like a wet chiseled ocean god in designer sunglasses, shirt stuck to his toned chest, proud of himself like he just slayed a sea monster instead of bombing your research session.

“Are you always this stupid?” you ask with an unimpressed look because it doesn't matter how attractive he is. He ruined your research.

He shrugs. “Only when a pretty girl looks like she’s about to be devoured by the marsh.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

He smirks wider. “I know. I’m Rafe.”

You shake your head, thoroughly unimpressed, and thoroughly soaked. “Of course you are.”

...

You’re not easily impressed.

He should’ve figured that out back when he swan-dove into the marsh like an idiot. But he managed to convince you to go on a date with him so he could inadvertently make up for the damage. (He begged you everyday until you said yes)

But here you are anyway, climbing onto the gleaming deck of his boat, the kind that costs more than your entire degree program. It’s spotless, sun-drenched, all polished teak and chrome. There’s a cooler full of Pellegrino, a bluetooth speaker playing some mellow indie surf rock, and he’s waiting for you at the wheel, white button-down fluttering in the wind like he’s starring in his own cologne commercial.

“Welcome aboard,” he says, cocky grin in place. “I cleaned it for you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And here I thought the yacht just naturally repelled dirt.”

He laughs like you said the funniest thing ever, then offers a hand to help you down the steps into the seating area.

You settle in while he starts the engine, navigating away from the marina with casual expertise. He keeps sneaking glances at you like he’s trying to catch you smiling.

“So,” he says after a while, throwing an arm over the back of your seat. “What’s your favorite sea animal? And please don’t say clownfish. I’ll actually cry.”

You glance over the edge, watching the water ripple like silk beneath the hull. “Octopus,” you answer easily.

He nods solemnly. “Eight arms. Smart. Sneaky. Could probably outwit me.”

You smirk. “Wouldn’t be that hard.”

Still, he tries. He shows you the hidden sound system. The anchor that drops by remote. He slices fresh mango for you with a kind of flourish. He even lets you steer the boat for a few minutes and pretends not to panic when you nearly beach it on a sandbar.

But you’re still not swooning.

You’re kind, of course, thanking him, laughing at his jokes, pointing out sea birds with quiet delight, but your eyes haven’t lit up yet. Not like they did back in the marsh.

That changes when you spot something in the water.

“Oh!” You lean forward, eyes wide. “Did you see that? It was a stingray!”

He follows your line of sight, squinting toward the glimmer of movement below.

“Cownose ray,” he says instantly. “They migrate in groups sometimes. Their pectoral fins flap like bird wings, kinda gives them the name. The tail’s long, but the barb’s usually way further back than people think, so the odds of being stung are, like, super low type shit.”

You blink.

He goes on, caught up now. “They feed on mollusks, crush ‘em with these plates in their mouth. They can actually detect electrical signals from their prey, like a sixth sense. It’s pretty fuckin wild.”

You stare at him, stunned.

“…How did you know all that?”

He blinks, stunned. “Oh. Uh. Thanks. Middle school science fair,” he admits, under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing! Just...big stingray enthusiast."

You’re smiling now. Soft, real. Not the half-sarcastic smirk he’s used to.

And then, before he can process it, you lean over and kiss his cheek. Just a light, sweet press, but it sends him short-circuiting.

“That was for the stingray,” you say softly. "Don’t get cocky.”

Rafe doesn’t say anything for a second. Just grins like an idiot and looks out at the water, pretending not to be blushing.

But deep down, he knows he’s absolutely winning.

Even if it was just because of a project on stingray he did when he was thirteen.

[calypso-rt]

Hook, Line, and Sinker

𓇼 Rafe x MarineBiologist!Reader

𓇼 first encounter

You're waist-deep in brackish marsh water, the sun hazy behind a curtain of stormclouds, and your arms are elbow-deep in a cooler of water samples. It's humid, muggy, and the bugs are relentless, but you're too focused on your pH readings to care.

That is, until you hear yelling.

You barely glance up. Some guy is stomping across the dock above, waving his arms like a lunatic. Kook, probably. Tall, blonde, polo shirt. Typical. Probably drunk, maybe high. This area always attracts the worst kind of—

“Hey! Hey, are you good? Do you need help?!”

You squint. “I’m working.”

He cups his hands around his mouth. “That water’s full of alligators and bacteria and—wait, are those leeches? Are you bleeding?”

You sigh. “I’m literally wearing waders.”

That doesn’t stop him. The guy, undeterred and clearly suffering from a hero complex, kicks off his shoes and sprints toward the marsh like he’s auditioning for Baywatch. You try to stop him “No, seriously, I’m fine” but it’s too late. He jumps from the muddy dock, lurches forward, and with a very satisfying splash, he jumps straight into the marsh.

Water goes everywhere. Your notes, your test tubes, your day, ruined.

There’s a beat of silence as he emerges, soaked to the bone and blinking up at you with sea-blue eyes and the most pretty smile you’ve ever seen.

“…You’re alive,” he says, beaming. “Good.”

You stare at him. “You just cannonballed into three hundred dollars worth of equipment.”

He blinks. “Oh.”

You turn back to your samples with a muttered curse, wringing out your notepad.

And yet, he doesn’t leave.

Instead, he sloshes behind you like a lost golden retriever, dripping and still grinning. “You’re like…a water scientist or something?”

“Marine biologist,” you mutter.

“That’s hot.”

You pause. Glance at him over your shoulder. He looks like a wet chiseled ocean god in designer sunglasses, shirt stuck to his toned chest, proud of himself like he just slayed a sea monster instead of bombing your research session.

“Are you always this stupid?” you ask with an unimpressed look because it doesn't matter how attractive he is. He ruined your research.

He shrugs. “Only when a pretty girl looks like she’s about to be devoured by the marsh.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

He smirks wider. “I know. I’m Rafe.”

You shake your head, thoroughly unimpressed, and thoroughly soaked. “Of course you are.”

...

You’re not easily impressed.

He should’ve figured that out back when he swan-dove into the marsh like an idiot. But he managed to convince you to go on a date with him so he could inadvertently make up for the damage. (He begged you everyday until you said yes)

But here you are anyway, climbing onto the gleaming deck of his boat, the kind that costs more than your entire degree program. It’s spotless, sun-drenched, all polished teak and chrome. There’s a cooler full of Pellegrino, a bluetooth speaker playing some mellow indie surf rock, and he’s waiting for you at the wheel, white button-down fluttering in the wind like he’s starring in his own cologne commercial.

“Welcome aboard,” he says, cocky grin in place. “I cleaned it for you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And here I thought the yacht just naturally repelled dirt.”

He laughs like you said the funniest thing ever, then offers a hand to help you down the steps into the seating area.

You settle in while he starts the engine, navigating away from the marina with casual expertise. He keeps sneaking glances at you like he’s trying to catch you smiling.

“So,” he says after a while, throwing an arm over the back of your seat. “What’s your favorite sea animal? And please don’t say clownfish. I’ll actually cry.”

You glance over the edge, watching the water ripple like silk beneath the hull. “Octopus,” you answer easily.

He nods solemnly. “Eight arms. Smart. Sneaky. Could probably outwit me.”

You smirk. “Wouldn’t be that hard.”

Still, he tries. He shows you the hidden sound system. The anchor that drops by remote. He slices fresh mango for you with a kind of flourish. He even lets you steer the boat for a few minutes and pretends not to panic when you nearly beach it on a sandbar.

But you’re still not swooning.

You’re kind, of course, thanking him, laughing at his jokes, pointing out sea birds with quiet delight, but your eyes haven’t lit up yet. Not like they did back in the marsh.

That changes when you spot something in the water.

“Oh!” You lean forward, eyes wide. “Did you see that? It was a stingray!”

He follows your line of sight, squinting toward the glimmer of movement below.

“Cownose ray,” he says instantly. “They migrate in groups sometimes. Their pectoral fins flap like bird wings, kinda gives them the name. The tail’s long, but the barb’s usually way further back than people think, so the odds of being stung are, like, super low type shit.”

You blink.

He goes on, caught up now. “They feed on mollusks, crush ‘em with these plates in their mouth. They can actually detect electrical signals from their prey, like a sixth sense. It’s pretty fuckin wild.”

You stare at him, stunned.

“…How did you know all that?”

He blinks, stunned. “Oh. Uh. Thanks. Middle school science fair,” he admits, under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing! Just...big stingray enthusiast."

You’re smiling now. Soft, real. Not the half-sarcastic smirk he’s used to.

And then, before he can process it, you lean over and kiss his cheek. Just a light, sweet press, but it sends him short-circuiting.

“That was for the stingray,” you say softly. "Don’t get cocky.”

Rafe doesn’t say anything for a second. Just grins like an idiot and looks out at the water, pretending not to be blushing.

But deep down, he knows he’s absolutely winning.

Even if it was just because of a project on stingray he did when he was thirteen.

[calypso-rt]

are you going to write more for marinebiologist!reader? I'm studying marine biology and I LOVE the concept

AAA i love that. Marine biology is the coolest, I'm definitely writing more for them at the moment. THATS SO COOL that you're studying it, and so happy you love it.

[calypso-rt]

im obsessed with corporate and blue collar rafe😖 can i be added to the taglist for them? i hope theres more works for them soon 🫣

I’ll definitely add you to the taglist MWAH

I love them too they’re the coolest but I’m lowkey out of ideas at the moment so if anyone has any SEND REQUESTS 🙏

[calypso-rt]

the way i just saw this HELLO i love this writer thank you for taking the time to read and appreciate it 💕

definitely need to continue more marinebiologist!reader

workaholic

𓇼 Rafe x MarineBiologist!Reader

𓇼 had to join in on the @zyafics campaign

From the moment Rafe started hanging around you, he knew one thing for certain:

You were obsessed with the ocean.

Marine biology wasn’t just your job, it was practically your entire personality. Your hair always smelled like saltwater, your car was littered with field notebooks and stray seashells, and every time you opened your mouth, it was either about plankton populations or coral bleaching or the mating habits of some fish Rafe couldn’t pronounce.

At first, he thought it was cute. Hot, even. He never thought smart girls would be his weakness. Well, a smart girl.

But after watching you fall asleep on your laptop for the third night in a row, he’d had enough.

That’s how you ended up on Rafe’s boat an hour later, your hair tousled by the ocean breeze, a life vest cinched tightly around your middle (your rule, not his).

Rafe lounged back behind the wheel, sunglasses on, one arm draped casually over the steering lever, his other hand resting on the curve of your hip as you leaned over the railing.

“See?” he said, voice low and pleased as he watched the horizon. “Relaxing. Just you, me, and the ocean.”

You pushed your hair out of your face, practically vibrating with excitement. “Those are Mugil cephalus down there.”

Rafe blinked. “Huh?”

“Striped mullet!” you said brightly, pointing at flashes of silver beneath the surface. “They’re euryhaline, so they tolerate a wide range of salinities, that’s why they can go between brackish and marine environments, which is fascinating because—”

Rafe groaned, tipping his head back toward the sun. “Babe. The whole point was not to talk about fish.”

“They’re not fish, they’re mullet.”

“Same thing.”

You turned toward him, mouth open in indignation. only to find him watching you, soft-eyed and smirking, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to tease you or kiss you.

“You’re hopeless,” you muttered.

Rafe gently tugged you closer until you were standing between his knees, his hands sliding under the edges of your life vest to rest warm on your waist. “I’m so not hopeless. I just… think my girlfriend deserves a day off.”

“I’m fine,” you said, even as you melted into his touch.

“Liar,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I’m about to name six species of crustaceans’ look.”

You burst out laughing and he grinned, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek.

“Tell you what,” Rafe said, brushing a thumb over your jaw. “You can teach me about fish—”

“Mullet.”

“Whatever. You can teach me about… mullet… if you promise to let me steal you away for at least one day a week. No lab, no samples. Just us.”

You hesitated for a moment… then nodded, unable to resist the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

“Good,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to the tip of your nose. “Now come sit with me. Or I’m throwing your test tubes overboard.”

...

Rafe had really tried this time. He’d put on a nice shirt, and made a very fancy reservation. He was proud. He was confident. He was crushing this date.

Until you saw the lobster tank.

You stopped dead in your tracks at the entrance of the seafood restaurant, staring into the bubbling glass box like you’d just walked in on a crime scene.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, wide-eyed. “That one’s waving at me.”

Rafe followed your gaze, confused. “Baby, that’s—”

“They keep them in bright lighting like this?” you interrupted, completely appalled. “They’re nocturnal. And where’s the substrate? They literally have no substrate.”

“Okay,” Rafe said slowly, glancing around at the other customers. “You’re doing the marine biologist thing again.”

You leaned closer to the glass. “Do you see that one’s claws? They’ve banded them shut. They can’t even forage or self-regulate. This is actually devastating. I need to speak to someone.”

Rafe blinked. “Like… the waiter?”

“No, the manager. Maybe corporate.”

Rafe gently took your hand and tried to guide you toward your table. “Baby. We’re here to unwind. Not start an uprising.”

“They’re sentient, Rafe. They form social bonds. That one literally just tried to crawl on top of the other one for comfort.”

You glanced up to see Rafe giving the hostess an apologetic smile like, Sorry, my girlfriend’s about to unionize the lobsters.

At the table, you were visibly distracted.

“Alright,” Rafe said, opening the menu. “What if I don’t order anything that lived in the ocean? Will that make you feel better?”

You sighed, eyes flicking to the tank again. “I just don’t think I can eat while they’re looking at me.”

“…I was gonna get the lobster mac and cheese.”

You gasped. “Rafe.”

He immediately slammed the menu shut. “Okay, you’re right. That was messed up. I’m getting a salad. And I’ll smuggle a leaf in for your emotional support lobster on the way out.”

You burst out laughing, shoulders finally relaxing.

And when you weren’t looking, Rafe pulled out his phone under the table, googling: "how to safely rescue lobsters from restaurant tanks."

Just in case.

...

After the lobster incident, Rafe made it his mission to get you to relax.

So he showed up at your lab one evening, leaning into the doorway with an inexplicably smug grin.

“Okay, genius,” he said. “We’re leaving. You’ve had enough sea creature drama for one lifetime.”

You didn’t even look up from your tank. “Rafe, I’m cataloging crustacean molting patterns.”

“And I’m cataloging how many days in a row you’ve worn that same hoodie,” he shot back. “Spoiler alert: It’s five. Come on.”

Twenty minutes later, you were in Rafe’s kitchen, standing over a bowl of flour and sugar while he poured chocolate chips into your palm like it was some sacred ritual.

“You’re gonna tell me this isn’t science?” he challenged, gesturing to the mixing bowl. “It’s measurements. Chemical reactions. All that nerd stuff you like.”

You pursed your lips. “Baking is a science, but—”

“Exactly,” he interrupted triumphantly. “Except this science ends in cookies, not you sobbing over a whale with sunburn.”

You glared. “It was a thermal injury, not sunburn.”

“See?” He grinned. “Already thinking about marine stuff. You need a distraction.”

He proudly held up a starfish-shaped cookie cutter like it was a priceless treasure.

Your brows shot up. “Are those…echinoderm cookies?”

“I don’t know what that means, but yes,” he said.

Despite yourself, you started giggling.

“You’re insane,” you said, cracking eggs into a bowl while Rafe measured flour badly.

“I’m festive,” he countered, flinging a puff of flour onto your nose. “And I’m tired of you working yourself to death. You deserve to have fun. And if it takes baking sea creatures to do it, I’m in.”

By the time the cookies were in the oven, there was flour everywhere. On the counters. On your hair. A dusty white handprint on Rafe’s chest where you’d shoved him for dumping half a bottle of vanilla into the dough.

But for the first time in weeks, you were laughing.

When the timer dinged, Rafe pulled out a tray of perfectly golden starfish cookies and wiggled his brows. “Pretty good, huh? Not to brag, but I’m basically a marine biologist now.”

You rolled your eyes. “They’re adorable.”

He gently offered you one, still warm. “Taste it.”

You took a bite…and promptly choked on a mouthful of salt.

“Rafe!” you spluttered. “Did you confuse salt and sugar again?”

Rafe’s eyes went wide. “Oh. Yeah. I did that.”

Despite the terrible taste, you were still laughing as he scrambled to get you a glass of water. And as he apologized for the culinary disaster, he leaned closer and pressed a flour-dusted kiss to your temple.

“Worth it,” he murmured, grinning. “Totally worth it if it makes you smile.”

[calypso-rt]

I don’t share what's mine

꩜ corporate!reader x bluecollar!rafe

꩜ jealousy, jealousy

It starts harmless enough.

You’re in the corridor outside the conference rooms, phone to your ear, scanning an email on your tablet, when you hear his laugh.

That low, careless, sun-warmed sound that somehow crawls under your skin every time.

You stop in your tracks.

Rafe’s leaning against the reception desk again, the picture of relaxed confidence. His arms are crossed, biceps flexed under the sleeves of his T-shirt. And perched on the edge of the counter beside him is Chloe, the new bubbly blonde intern.

She’s giggling. Like, actually giggling. Twirling a strand of hair around one finger.

“…and then I said, ‘Well, I might not know how to change my oil, but I’m real good with my hands,’” Rafe’s saying, eyes sparkling. Chloe dissolves into fresh giggles, practically shoving his arm. “Oh my God, stop. You’re terrible.”

You freeze, invisible ice sliding down your spine.

Rafe, your Rafe, with the rag stuffed in his back pocket and the grin he only usually gives you, leans closer, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “Anyway, point is…you ever need help checkin’ your fluids, you know where to find me.”

Chloe squeals. Squeals.

You don’t even realize you’ve hung up your phone call mid-sentence. You just turn on your heel and march back toward your office, ever the avoidant.

He comes knocking an hour later.

Your door’s half-closed, but he doesn’t bother knocking, of course. Just pokes his head in.

“Hey, corporate—”

You don’t look up from your screen. “I’m busy.”

There’s a beat. You can practically feel him staring at you.

“…O-kay,” he says slowly. “I just—”

“Busy.”

Another pause. Then you hear the door close again.

The next day, you find a sticky note on your monitor:

“Lunch? Or you still mad?” — Mr. Corporate

You crumple it and toss it into your trash can.

By Thursday, he’s had enough. He corners you at the elevator bank, stepping in front of the doors just as they’re opening.

“Okay, what the hell,” he says.

“Move, Rafe.”

“Not ‘til you tell me why you’re actin’ like I keyed your car.”

You lift your chin. “I’m not acting like anything.”

He folds his arms, towering over you. “Bullshit.”

You refuse to look at him. The elevator doors slide shut again behind him.

He lowers his voice. “Is this about Chloe?”

“Why would it be?” you snap. “You can flirt with whoever you want.”

His brows shoot up. “So that’s what this is.”

You glare at him. “I don’t care what you do. It’s none of my business.”

“Oh, see, that’s funny.” He steps closer, voice dropping. “’Cause you sure look like you care.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He studies you for a long moment. The playful glint is gone. When he speaks again, it’s softer, but still intense enough to pin you in place.

“I was messin’ around. I don’t give a shit about Chloe.”

“Seemed like you were having fun.”

“She’s nineteen, corporate. I was tryin’ not to be an asshole. That’s it.”

You fold your arms tighter. “I’m sure she’d love to hear that.”

Rafe sighs. “Jesus. You really don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?” you snap.

He hesitates. Just a second. Like he’s deciding something. Then his jaw firms.

“That I don’t come all the way across town in the middle of my workday to see anybody else.”

Your heart stutters. You try not to let it show.

“That I don’t bring sandwiches to girls I don’t give a shit about.” He tilts his head, eyes blazing. “That I’m not interested in anyone else but you.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

He exhales. “You drive me fuckin’ crazy, you know that?”

You swallow hard. “Then why…why flirt with her?”

“’Cause I was tryin’ to prove I can hang in your world. And I screwed it up. Happy?”

You blink. “Why would you have to prove anything?”

“Because you’re…” He gestures vaguely at your suit, your heels, your entire immaculate presence. “This. And I’m…not.”

You hesitate. A long beat of silence stretches between you. Then you say, softer than intended: “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

He searches your eyes. “Then why’d you freeze me out?”

You glance away. “I didn’t like it.”

Rafe grins, slow and a little wicked. “Didn’t like me flirtin’ with someone else, huh?”

You scowl. “Shut up.”

He takes another step closer, invading your personal space completely. “So what you’re tellin’ me…is you’re jealous.”

“I am not—”

But he cuts you off, mouth brushing your ear. “God, you’re cute when you’re mad.”

Your entire body locks up.

“Tell you what,” he murmurs. “Why don’t you let me make it up to you tonight?”

You shove his chest lightly. “Rafe—”

But he’s already smirking. “I’ll pick you up at eight, corporate.”

And then he’s gone, sauntering away like he hasn’t just shattered your defenses completely, leaving you breathless in your power suit and wishing you’d pulled him back instead of pushing him away.

...

You’re back at the garage on a Friday afternoon, wearing a silk blouse and dark jeans instead of your usual suit, casual for you, though you still look wildly out of place among the oil stains and rattling pneumatic tools.

Rafe’s truck is nowhere in sight.

Which is unfortunate, because your car is definitely making a noise this time.

A real one.

Like a metallic screech that sends a jolt straight through your bones every time you brake. So you pull in, pop the hood, and hover beside your car, arms folded, trying not to look helpless.

That’s when you hear a voice behind you:

“Whoa. Fancy car for a fancy lady.”

You turn.

He’s tall, maybe a couple years younger than Rafe. Dark hair, mechanic’s shirt half unbuttoned, grease on his fingers. He’s wiping his hands on a clean rag, grin firmly in place.

“Hi,” you say cautiously. “Is Rafe around?”

“Nah, he ran to the parts store. I’m Eli. New around here.” He flashes a brilliant smile. “But lucky for you, I know my way around a BMW.”

“Oh…that’s okay. I’ll just wait for—”

But he’s already stepping closer, peering into your engine bay. “Pop the hood the rest of the way for me, sweetheart?”

You bristle faintly at sweetheart, but comply. “I just came in for a noise—”

“Brake noise, right? I heard it when you pulled in.” Eli shoots you a wink. “Bet you didn’t know a pretty car like this could scream so loud.”

You open your mouth, then shut it again.

He leans closer into the hood, arms flexing under the fluorescent lights. “You from around here?”

“Uh…kinda.” You shift awkwardly. “I work downtown.”

He grins. “I knew you were a corporate girl. You’ve got that boss energy.”

Your cheeks warm despite yourself. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Oh, it means you probably scare the hell outta half the guys you meet. But that’s okay.” He glances over his shoulder, eyes gleaming. “Some of us like a woman who knows what she wants.”

You stare at him, thoroughly off-balance.

And that’s precisely when Rafe comes back.

You hear his boots before you see him. The slam of his truck door. The crunch of gravel.

Then his voice, sharp as a blade: “What the fuck’s this?”

You blink up, startled. “Rafe—”

He’s striding across the lot, eyes zeroed in on Eli like a predator who’s spotted something on his territory.

Eli straightens, rag still dangling from one hand. “Hey, man. Just helpin’ her out—”

“Didn’t ask what you were doin’,” Rafe snaps. He plants himself between you and Eli so abruptly you nearly stumble backward. “Back the fuck off her car.”

Eli raises his hands. “Jesus. Chill.”

“Don’t tell me to chill.” Rafe’s jaw is clenched so hard you can practically hear his teeth grinding. “You don’t touch her car. You don’t talk to her like that.”

“Rafe, it’s fine,” you try to cut in, but he ignores you completely.

“You think ‘sweetheart’ is how we talk to customers around here?” Rafe demands, voice low and dangerous.

Eli blinks. “I…I was just being friendly—”

“Yeah? Go be friendly somewhere else.”

Eli glances between you two, looking faintly rattled. Then he mutters, “Whatever, man,” and walks off, tossing the rag onto the nearest tool cart.

The moment he’s gone, Rafe rounds on you, eyes blazing.

“What the hell, corporate?”

Your mouth drops open. “Me? I didn’t do anything!”

“You let him touch your car!”

“I didn’t let—he just started helping!”

Rafe rakes a hand through his hair, leaving a streak of grease at his hairline. “You should’ve waited for me.”

“I was waiting for you!”

He’s breathing hard. His chest is rising and falling like he’s been running.

Then he grabs your wrist, not hard, but firmly, and yanks you away from the car a few steps, out of earshot of the others.

“Do you even realize…?” His voice is hoarse now, lower, ragged. “The way you stand there, all wide-eyed…lettin’ guys lean all over your car, talkin’ to you like you’re somethin’ to win…like you’re—”

“Like I’m what?” you demand, getting ticked off at his tone.

He glares at you, but there’s a wild, almost panicked glint behind it. “Like you’re available.”

You blink, stunned.

“Rafe…” your voice softens. “I didn’t even notice he was flirting.”

He lets out a harsh laugh. “Yeah, well. Every guy within ten feet notices you.”

You scoff, a slow smirk spreading on your lips. “What, are you…jealous?”

He stiffens. “No.”

“Rafe—”

He grips your chin gently, tilting your face up. “You’re mine.”

Your breath catches, and you shouldn't find it attractive but you do.

He blinks, seeming to realize what he’s said. His thumb drifts across your jaw. “Shit. I didn’t—”

But before you can answer, he’s ducking his head and kissing you. It’s not soft, not gentle. It’s rough and urgent and tastes faintly of salt and grease and something purely Rafe.

When he finally pulls back, your pulse is thrumming in your ears.

You whisper, “I was just getting my brakes checked.”

Rafe grins, still breathless. “Not by him, you weren’t.”

And then he tugs you back toward your car, muttering under his breath, “C’mon. Lemme fix it proper.”

A/N: i may be spamming this duo but i just love them

TAGLIST (OG taglist + anyone who asked to be tagged): @lunaleah, @luzstarkey, @rafeycameronsgf, @pluviophilis @aerie717, @voqueflms, @bonjourjiminie

[calypso-rt]

i know its a good day when there's more siren

little miss perfect - r.c (+18) - that's dirty work

pairing: siren!reader x rafe. warnings: suggestive.

He doesn’t let you touch him for the forty-eight hours.

Rafe keeps company around, always. Kelce, Topper, someone—anyone—sitting on the couch, crowding the kitchen, crashing on the guest bed because he can’t be alone with you. Not after what you did to him, after what he let you do.

You’ve been so calm since that afternoon, good. He knows you’re waiting for him to come crawling back—let him rot on his own until he begs for the next hit.

You never push, but you bend too far in front of him to grab something; he knows what you’re doing. There are too many of his friends around for you to show your true colors.

Tonight, however, the house is finally empty.

Not by choice, Topper bailed, something about his dad’s work, Kelce was away for the weekend, and Rafe told himself it was fine. One night. He can handle one fucking night.

You’ve been humming under your breath for the last ten minutes as you sit on the couch next to him, another normal evening. You’re bare-legged. Another of his old t-shirts hanging off your frame, the neckline gaping wide, showing the slope of one perfect collarbone.

He tries to focus on the game. Or the TV. Or anything that isn’t the warmth of your body pressed casually against the cushion beside him.

One night.

He tells himself that again. One night.

You finally glance over your shoulder. “Want something to drink?”

He shakes his head, “No.”

“Are you sure? You look… tense.”

His eyes snap up. You’re facing him fully now, that saintly smile on your lips.

“I’m fine.”

Your head tilts, expression mock-concerned. 

“If you say so.”

He doesn’t answer.

“You’ve been keeping so many people around lately,” you murmur, “It’s starting to hurt my feelings.”

His throat bobs. “That so?”

You nod, “Feels like you’re… scared of something.”

He scoffs. Or tries to. It comes out weaker than he wants; it gets strangled halfway up his throat. He’s scared of himself, what he does when you’re close, and what he lets you do to him, over and over again.

Rafe shifts on the couch, putting space between you. 

He swears he can feel you smiling beside him. You haven’t moved closer or touched him. You never do when there’s still an inch of self-control left in him.  You approach him quietly, tucking one bare leg beneath you and pretending to be interested in his well-being.

He lets his gaze slip to your thigh, the swell of it disappearing beneath the hem of his shirt.

“Ward called earlier.”

“What?”

You’re playing with the hem of the shirt now, twisting it between your fingers.

“He said he couldn’t reach you,” you go on, breezy. “Told him you were in the shower.”

He turns toward you, falling for the bait.

“Why the fuck would he call you?”

“Because I answer when he calls.”

It burns him that his father reached out, and somehow, you were the one he got. Of course, you spoke for him. Played perfectly. 

Your dad also calls you a lot, he’s noticed. Often enough that it stopped feeling like care and started feeling like surveillance, checking the locks on the cage, making sure you haven’t wandered too far...or picked up the phone if your mother calls.

Rafe has yet to ask you directly, but the way your expression drops when your dad’s name flashes on your screen… the way your voice changes when you answer…

“What’d you say to him?” he asks tightly.

You shrug, the motion making the collar slip off your shoulder.

“Told him you were doing well. Taking real good care of me.”

Your eyes glint as you look up at him through your lashes.

“Real good care."

You lean in another inch.

“He was worried,” you murmur. “Told him not to be.”

His mouth parts, he wants to say something, but it dies in his lungs.

“I didn’t ask you to talk to him,” he mutters, but it’s too late—your knee brushes his thigh, closer, the ghost of your skin touching his.

You get a kick out of playing the part; you like inserting yourself where you don’t belong. His life, his house, his fucking head.

“I think it’s sweet. He trusts me.” You’re crawling into his skin again, and this time there’s no one else here to save him from it. “You don’t trust me?”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “No.”

That gets a twitch of your lips.

“Why not? 'Cause I get you all twisted up? Because you let me?"

Your fingers are ghosting up to rest on his shoulder, kneading.

He stiffens.

“Relax,” you coo, “You’ve been sooooo tense lately.” 

You close the last inch between your bodies.Your legs move around him again, knees brushing his thighs as you crowd into his space like you own it.

“I can help with that.”

Rafe grabs your wrists suddenly.

“Don’t fucking touch me because you’re bored.”

You blink, mouth parting, about to play shocked—offended. But then, something darker flickers in your eyes. That look again—it makes his spine lock and his cock quiver in the same breath.

“I’m not bored.”

“You wear my shirt, answer my phone, sit on my lap like you belong there—” his voice breaks off, hoarse. He hates the sound of it.

“Don’t I?” You drag forward again, and he lets you. This time, you close around his hips.

You’re warm on top of him, wearing nothing but his shirt and those thin little panties you always pretend not to know are see-through. Your skin smells like his detergent, your lips are a breath from his, and every move you make carves a fresh notch into what little resolve he’s still clinging to.

You settle against him with purposeful weight, your hands braced on his shoulders, getting comfortable.

You smile—fucking lethal. “I missed you.”

“Cut that shit out,” he warns, but his voice is shallow.

You move enough to make his hands tighten, to drag friction across the front of his sweats.

“You want to fuck me so bad it makes you angry, don’t you?”

His hands fist in the hem of the shirt, white-knuckled. You’re so close he can feel the heat of you through both layers of fabric, your thighs flexing around him.

“Tell me what you want, Rafey”

"I want you gone," he retorts.

But his cock twitches under you, stiff against the front of his pants, betraying him in the worst way. You rock forward again the slightest and his head tips back against the couch.

You hum, pleased. “No, you don’t.”

His fingers tingle at your waist—he’s not holding you, but he’s not pushing you off either. Your lips find his jaw, open and warm, tongue soft against skin. He jerks beneath you like it burns, but he doesn’t stop you. 

“Say it,” you murmur, nose brushing his cheek.

“Get off,” The last gasp of a man already drowning.

“No.”

Rafe’s hands slide up, finally, curling around your thighs like he’s going to shove you off—but instead, his thumbs press into your flesh.

You move again, harder this time.

The breath punches out of his lungs. His eyes fly open, and you’re looking right at him, pupils blown, your lips parted, your expression still wearing that mask—but he knows you now. He sees the monster in the mirror. Your greedy hands trail up the back of his neck, nails ghosting over the edge of his scalp, he shudders.

 “You can just sit there. Let me make you feel good.”

God, he wants to. He wants to.

He’s not supposed to need this.

You’re still speaking, still whispering that soft poison—

"I’ll do allllll the work.”

You rut down against him again, and he groans low, head dropping forward against your shoulder. His forehead presses to the side of your neck, his breath shaky. You’re humping him now, grinding your soaked panties over his sweats like you’re trying to fuck through them.

He can feel every drag of your went cunt against him. Every breathy sound you make as your rhythm stutters and picks back up. You’re panting into his hair now, murmuring his name like it means something to you.

“Rafe,” you whisper, biting your lip, dragging yourself over him again and again. “—feels so good. I can make it better.”

His eyes squeeze shut.

You angle perfectly, and his cock catches against the soaked center of you, and you whimper—not faked, not put on.

“Shit,” His fingers are gripping your waistline now.

“I missed you,” you breathe, forehead pressed to his. “You had me play nice all week, and I’ve been going crazy.”

"You are crazy," He mouths at your throat, teeth scraping your skin, his name tumbling off your lips in response.

You rut again—greedy, mindless—and he can feel how worked up you are through your panties, through his sweats, and he fuck into the space between you before he can stop himself.

Your nails dig into his shoulders. Your mouth falls open. His cock is leaking, his balls drawn up, the pressure insane—and you’re still moving, breathy and desperate and so fucking smug.

He lets out a broken noise.

“Fuck,” he chokes. “You—fuck—”

Your hips roll with filthy precision, ruined cotton dragging over the hard line of him, His breath shatters in his throat.

You’re soaked through now; he can feel it, the fabric of your panties clinging to you, to him. He can barely fucking think—his blood is boiling, cock stiff and pulsing beneath layers that aren’t keeping you apart nearly enough.

He tries to speak, to warn you, but your mouth brushes his lips again, and it’s like something detonates behind his brain.

“You’re gonna make me come like this,” you whisper, so sweet it makes his stomach twist. “Just from humping you like a slut—”

“Fuck.”

He growls it this time, snapping his pelvis up against you, hard.

You gasp, rhythm stuttering, but your legs hold him in place; you’re not going anywhere.

“Feels so good, doesn’t it?”

He manhandles you again, not to push you away—God, he should—but to rut you down harder, meeting the pace of your grinding since you’ve both lost it now.

He loves it.

He loves the fucking way you pant his name into his skin. Loves the way your cunt is dripping through your panties like this is the only thing you’ve thought about for days. Loves the way you use his body like it belongs to you—and the part of him that still has any control left is fading.

Your hand slides between your bodies, he hears the faint friction of fabric on fabric, the obscene sound of how wet you are as your fingers slip beneath the band of your panties and stay there.

“What are you doing?” He asks, already knowing.

Your eyelashes flutter. “Helping.”

It happens fast, everything slams back into place.

“Stop.”

It comes out guttural.

You pause immediately, not out of fear or obedience, simply gauging to see if this is part of the game. Rafe lifts you off him in one swift motion, setting you beside him with enough force to make you bounce.

Your expression slips right before you paste on the wounded look. His cock’s still hard, aching, straining against the waistband of his pants. 

“What?” you ask, annoyed already.

Rafe runs a hand over his jaw, breathing through it. He studies you. You look flushed, lips kiss-bitten, thighs pressed tight together holding onto the ghost of what happened.

“I’m gonna ask you something."

You cock your head, wary.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Your dad calls you a lot.”

“We were about to fuck and you stopped to talk about my dad?”

The second it leaves your mouth, Rafe blushes.

“I—yeah, I know, I just—fuck, listen to me.”

“What the fuck, Rafe?”

He can’t back out now. It’s already out of his mouth—between you.

“He calls a lot,” Rafe goes on. “And not to check in. He’s… monitoring you. It’s different now. Making sure you're...”

You frown deepens, eyes narrowing.

“Is this about your mom?”

You let out a hollow puff of air. “Don’t start with that.”

“I’m not starting anything,” Rafe clicks his tongue. “I’m asking. You gonna lie to me now? Pretend you haven’t been picking up every time he calls like he’s got a gun to your head?”

You look away for a second, it’s enough for him to know he’s right.

“So what? You’re hard as a rock, practically fucking me through your sweats—and now you want to talk about my parents?”

“What happened?”

“Drop it.”

He leans in. “No.”

You turn to him sharply, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think I do.”

There’s a show of fear behind your lashes. Rafe sees it—and hates that part of him that wants to smooth it away.

“You gonna tell me the truth?” He asks, gentler now. “Or are you gonna fuck your way out of it again?”

“Oh, now you care?” you bite, “Because you overheard one phone call?” You let out a harsh laugh, shaking your head. “Spare me the fucking savior act.”

“I’m not trying to—”

“Then what is it?” you hiss. “A guilty conscience thing? A weird daddy complex? You don’t even like me.”

“Listen—"

“You never gave a shit about me. Not when we were kids, not when I’d follow you around like some lovesick idiot, not when I’d flirt and flirt and flirt to get a look out of you—”

Rafe opens his mouth, but you steamroll right over him.

“—And still you’d pick the dumbass Kildare girls who wore puka shells and let you finger them behind the jet skis. Don’t act like you didn’t make that crystal fucking clear. You told Gemma—and probably God knows how many others—that you despised me.”

Rafe flinches. He did say that, more than once, loudly and casually.

She’s annoying. Crazy. Won’t leave me the fuck alone.

But he never told them he liked how your voice lit up when you said his name.

The hurt in your words doesn’t match the smug siren he’s used to, who slinks around in low-cut dresses and drinks tequila like it’s water, who laughs at every scowl he throws and moans when she shouldn’t.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t mean which part?”

“That I despise you.”

Doesn't he?

It’s the first time in a long time that you don’t have some clever thing to toss back. Your eyes stay on him, between his eyes and his mouth, searching.

“So what,” you scoff finally. “You say that now because you almost got your hand down my panties? Rafe—”

“No.” He cuts you off. “You were right. I do think about you every fucking night.”

You’re skeptical. That same wariness from before curls in your spine instinctively. He can sense you wrapping yourself back in it—careful, calculating.

“Cute,” You brush it off. “Do you tell all the girls that after they grind your dick into next week?”

Rafe scowls. 

“You always have to twist the knife?”

You shrug, playing with the edge of a pillow, bored out of your mind. “Just trying to keep things clear.”

He stands up, can’t sit still anymore, pacing to the other side of the room.

“You think I’m saying that to—what? Make you feel special?” He huffs, turning to face you again. “You're the most infuriating girl I’ve ever met.”

“Thank you so much!” You clench your teeth. “I’ll cherish that.”

“You’re worse,” he adds. “I fucking hate how much I—”

He doesn’t finish it.

Your face lifts, daring him.  “You what? C'mon, Casanova, finish your big speech.”

“I don’t like seeing you scared.”

It lands wrong. Or maybe right.

“I’m not scared.”

He hums. “Okay.”

You glance away.

“You could...tell me what’s going on. You don’t have to play it off all the time.”

You look back at him slowly. “And you’d care?”

He exhales through his nose. “Don’t start that shit again.”

You lean back on your palms, detached, the whole conversation has already bored you half to death.

“You should try med school, Cameron,” You muse, feigning admiration. “You’re real obsessed with dissecting things that don’t concern you.”

He knows what this is.

The mask’s back on, too fucking familiar. You bat your lashes and stretch your legs out, taunting a storm you think you’ll survive.

“That what I’m doing? Being concerned?”

“No,” you smile, too sweet. “You’re being nosy.”

He shakes his head, laughing without humor. 

“My bad. Forgot I’m only allowed inside your head when you’re trying to get off.”

You grin wider, biting your bottom lip.

“Exactly. You’re catching on, so spare me,” You get to your feet, brushing past him on your way up, like the whole thing a dumb conversation you already forgot about. “Go back to brooding. It suits you better.”

He doesn’t stop you.

“Maybe I should call your dad.”

You stop dead in your tracks, turning slowly. Surely, you didn’t quite hear him right. 

“What?” you ask, voice level.

Rafe shrugs. “You heard me.”

Your laugh is brittle. “You wouldn’t.”

“I think I would."

You narrow your eyes in disdain. “Fuck you.”

“No,” He hisses, “Fuck you. You’ve had my balls in a vice for years—running off to Daddy every time I did something you didn’t like. Telling him I had drugs, that I skipped probation meetings, that I was out on the Cut again. You never even blinked when you snitched.”

“That was different—”

“No, it wasn’t,” he growls. “You liked knowing you had that kind of power. You were doing me a favor by not sinking me.”

You look away—guilty, proud, furious.

“So maybe I should return the favor.”

“You really gonna rat me out?” You scoff incredulously, “Is this some pathetic revenge move?”

He fucking should. Wouldn’t that be fair? One betrayal for another?

“Don’t act like you’re innocent,” Rafe says. “You’ve been lying to him. For how long now—weeks? Months?”

You don’t answer.

“You sneak off for those calls. Get all quiet afterward. You don’t tell anyone where you’ve been. But I hear you.” He tilts his head, studying you. “The way you talk to her. still that little kid, begging for attention.”

Your eyes flash, wounded and furious. “You don’t know shit about it.”

“I know your dad would lose his fucking mind,” Rafe snaps. “And I know you’ve been terrified of him finding out. Why else would you flinch every time your phone rings?”

He expects you to lose your fucking mind for real this time, lash out, call him the most out-of-pocket names, storm off. But your features seem to pale in comparison to minutes ago.

Suddenly, it doesn’t feel like a Victory, more as if he’s kicked something fragile, that wasn’t supposed to be touched.

Rafe swallows.

He didn’t mean to go that far.

Did he? He wanted to hurt you, part of him sneers. He wanted you to feel like he felt.

“You don’t know what happened.”

He doesn’t and now he’s scared to ask.

“I was six,” You add, voice growing with the grudge you’re forming. “When she left. His family made me swear I’d never see her again.”

Rafe’s heart punches the inside of his ribs.

“Why’d you talk to her now?” He asks before he can stop himself.

Your lips press together. “Because she’s dying.”

The bottom drops out of him.

Oh.

Rafe steps back in shame, braind flooding with something he can’t name—grief, regret, guilt, fuck.

He runs a hand through his hair.

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” You chuckle bitterly, turning toward the door again. “Shit.”

You’re gone, leaving Rafe in the middle of the room, your secret scorching in his hands.

[calypso-rt]

excuses, excuses..

corporate!reader x bluecollar!rafe

You’re not entirely sure why you’re here.

Because the noise your car made this morning was hardly a noise at all. More like a single, delicate click, like a fingernail tapping glass. A sound that disappeared the moment you turned down the radio to listen for it.

And yet…here you are, easing your BMW into the cracked lot beside Rafe's garage, tires crunching over gravel.

Rafe’s truck is there. So is Rafe, half-sitting on the hood of an old Mustang as he counts some cash. One boot planted on the bumper, the other dangling, pen hanging from his lips as he budgets.

He’s in a sleeveless shirt this time, tanned shoulders on display, grease smudges on his biceps, sweat darkening the neckline. A pair of sunglasses sits low on his nose. He pushes them up when he sees you, slow and deliberate.

“Well, well,” he drawls as you step out, black heels clicking on the asphalt. “Either the city finally gave up on fillin’ potholes, or you just missed me that bad.”

You fold your arms, chin high. “My car’s making a noise.”

“Mm.” He tilts his head, studying you like a piece of art he’s deciding where to hang. “Funny how that happens right around lunch hour.”

“It’s an…intermittent issue.”

His lips twitch. “Is it now?”

You bristle a little, despite yourself. “Are you going to help me or not?”

Rafe slides off the Mustang, wiping his palms on a rag. He walks around your car, slow and assessing, like he’s inspecting livestock at auction.

“Describe the noise for me, corporate.”

You purse your lips. “It’s…a click. Or a tick. Possibly a ping.”

“A click, a tick, or a ping,” he repeats solemnly, like he’s writing it down in an invisible notebook. “Well, that narrows it right down.”

You glare at him. He’s trying not to grin.

“I’m serious, Rafe. What if it’s important?”

He leans closer, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “Sweetheart, you drive a Beemer so uptight she probably makes a noise if the air pressure changes.”

Your mouth drops open. “Excuse me—”

But he’s already crouched beside the front tire, pressing a palm to the fender like he’s listening for a heartbeat.

“You hear it right now?” he asks, glancing up.

You hesitate. “Not…exactly.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “So, to be clear…there’s no sound right now, and it only happens when no one else is around to hear it?”

You lift your chin another inch. “Are you suggesting I’m imagining it?”

“Nope.” He straightens, towering over you, close enough that you smell his aftershave beneath the motor oil. “I’m suggesting maybe the car’s fine…and maybe you just wanted to come see me.”

Heat crawls up your neck. You drop your gaze. “I did not.”

“Mm.” His thumb brushes a speck of dust from your blazer sleeve, feather-light. “Guess I’m just good at what I do.”

You force yourself to look at him, determined, lips pressed tight. “If you’re done being smug, can you check under the hood?”

Rafe shrugs, still smiling, and pops the latch. The hood rises, and he leans in, forearms braced on the frame. His shirt stretches across his back, sun glinting off a thin line of sweat tracing his spine.

“Looks good to me,” he calls after a moment. “All your important bits are still attached.”

You frown. “That’s…not helpful.”

He peers back at you over his shoulder. “C’mere, corporate. I’ll show you.”

You approach cautiously. He gestures you closer until you’re practically flush against his side.

“See that belt?” He points, his fingers brushing yours as he guides your hand. “No cracks. No squeal. That’s a good sign. Hear that hissin’?”

You strain to listen. “Yes?”

“That’s your AC. Not your engine dyin’. And that little click you heard?” He taps a metal bracket. “Coulda been this. Loose heat shield. Tightened it just now. Cost ya nothin’.”

You blink at him. “That’s…all it was?”

“Mm-hm.” He lowers the hood and wipes his hands again. “Tragedy narrowly avoided.”

You swallow, cheeks warm. “I didn’t come here just to…see you.”

“Course not,” he says lightly, hooking the rag into his back pocket. “You came here ‘cause your car was clickin’, tickin’, and pingin’. Just so happened I was here to rescue you again. No shame in that.”

“I don’t need rescuing,” you snap, but it comes out too soft.

“I know.” He leans closer, voice low. “But I like doin’ it anyway.”

You go still, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.

Rafe steps back, grinning as if the moment never happened. “Wanna grab lunch since you’re here?”

Your voice fails you for half a second. Then: “I…suppose I could spare thirty minutes.”

“Thirty, huh?” He chuckles. “Gonna put me on the clock, corporate?”

“Someone has to.”

He smirks, already leading you toward the garage office. “Let’s see if I can earn my keep.”

And as you follow him, your car silent and purring behind you, you wonder when exactly it became so easy to find excuses to be here.

...

You’re in your office, halfway through an endless spreadsheet, when your intercom buzzes.

Your secretary, Alexa, says, “Hi…there’s a man here asking for you? He says his name is Rafe?”

Your entire body stiffens. “Rafe?”

“He’s…um. Wearing jeans. And he has a…hat?” The receptionist lowers her voice like she’s describing a criminal. “He says he’s here to drop off…a…bolt?”

You blink. “A bolt.”

“That’s what he said.”

You close your eyes for a second, inhale slowly. “Send him up.”

Five minutes later, there’s a knock on your office door.

Rafe appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame like he owns it, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. His t-shirt is clean-ish today, but he’s still Rafe, sun-bleached hair, tan skin, a streak of grease near his jaw like he’d wiped his face with the back of his hand and forgot about it.

“Hey, corporate.”

You fold your arms. “Are you seriously here…to deliver a bolt?”

He holds up a shiny silver bolt between his thumb and forefinger, like it’s proof. “Yup. Important business.”

You stare at him. “Rafe. Why are you actually here?”

He shrugs, sauntering closer. “Had a job in the area. Figured I’d, y’know…swing by. See how the other half lives.” He peers around your office, eyes catching on the floor-to-ceiling windows, the glass conference rooms outside. “Fancy. Smells like printer toner and overpriced coffee in here.”

“It’s called professionalism,” you say crisply, resisting the way your lips threaten to curve upward.

He leans in, voice dropping. “Mm. I’m partial to sweat and motor oil myself.”

Your breath hitches, just a little. You force your expression back to neutral.

“Well. Thank you…for the bolt.” You pluck it from his fingers, very proper. “I’ll, keep it…somewhere.”

“Good,” he says solemnly. “Never know when you might need one.”

You exhale sharply, fighting an eye-roll. “Rafe. Seriously. You drove thirty minutes into downtown traffic to give me a bolt?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he strolls toward your window and looks out at the skyline, hands in his pockets. “Y’know. I get it now.”

“Get what?”

“The view,” he says. “This whole…up-in-the-clouds thing. Glass everywhere. City lookin’ like one big jewelry box.” He glances over his shoulder. “But it’s kinda lonely up here, huh?”

Your chest tightens. You look away, pretending to straighten a stack of files. “I like it fine.”

“Mm.” He turns back, grinning. “Can’t exactly work on a carburetor in here, though.”

You purse your lips. “How tragic.”

“Hey. I bring culture wherever I go.” He nods toward your pristine glass desk. “If you want, I could leave a few oil stains around. Liven the place up.”

“I’ll pass.”

Rafe’s grin softens. He steps closer, close enough for you to smell the faint trace of soap and sun on his skin. “So…you busy?”

“I’m at work, Rafe.”

“Yeah, yeah. Work. So…lunch?”

You blink. “Lunch?”

“Yeah.” He shifts his weight, scuffing his boot on your gleaming floor. “I dunno. I figured…you gotta eat sometime, right?”

Your brows draw together. “But…you’re probably busy. At the garage.”

He waves a hand. “Garage’ll survive for an hour.”

“Rafe…” You shake your head, a small, helpless laugh escaping. “Why would you come all the way up here? You hate it downtown. You said there’s no good parking. And you hate the smell.”

He shrugs again, looking weirdly shy for half a second. “Guess I…wanted to see you.”

Your heart does a weird little somersault. But you push the feeling down, hard.

“You don’t have to pretend,” you say, forcing a light tone. “I know you’re just…being nice. Because of the tire thing.”

Rafe’s entire expression changes. The grin drops. His brows pull together. “Sweetheart, you really think I’m here ‘cause of some tire?”

You stiffen. “I just mean…we’re so different. You don’t have to feel obligated—”

“I ain’t obligated.” His voice is rougher now. “I’m here ‘cause I wanna be. And for the record? You’re the one who keeps droppin’ by my garage talkin’ bout phantom noises in your car.”

Your face goes hot. “That’s not—”

He steps closer, close enough you feel the warmth radiating off him. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t like seein’ me.”

You swallow hard. “That’s not the point.”

Rafe tilts his head, studying you. Then he smirks, though it’s softer this time. “Fine. I’ll let you off the hook…this time.”

He jerks his chin toward the bolt still sitting on your desk. “Keep that. So you’ll remember who to call next time your Beemer starts squeakin’.”

And before you can answer, he’s backing toward the door.

“Oh—and corporate?”

You look up, pulse still galloping.

“Don’t work too hard,” he says, and winks. “Wouldn’t want ya gettin’ stress lines on that pretty forehead.”

Then he’s gone, leaving the scent of summer and motor oil lingering in your glass-and-chrome office.

You stare at the bolt on your desk for a long time.

And for reasons you can’t quite explain, you tuck it carefully into the top drawer.

A/N: return of the corporate reader!

TAGLIST (OG taglist + anyone who asked to be tagged): @lunaleah, @luzstarkey, @rafeycameronsgf, @pluviophilis @aerie717, @voqueflms,