idk-void

[idk-void]

rafe cameron x reader — 1,4k words

WARNINGS: basically canon rafe in S1/S2 being a dad, that's the warning.

you didn’t expect Rafe at the hospital.

It was nine months of watching him unravel. One minute he was promising he’d get clean, swearing he’d be there, asking if you wanted the baby to have his last name, the next minute he was gone for days and when he came back it was with trembling hands and pupils blown wide. He’d punch walls, accuse you of cheating, say things like “You did this on purpose just to trap me.” Then, an hour later he’d be crying into your stomach, whispering apologies to the baby.

So no, you didn’t expect him at the hospital.

But the day after you gave birth, he walked in.

Just walked in like he hadn’t missed the entire labor, like he hadn’t disappeared for the last three weeks, like he hadn’t screamed at you the last time you spoke, telling you that maybe he wasn’t meant to be a father at all.

He looked... like someone who had scared the shit out of himself. Face pale, his eyes bounced around the room before finally landing on the tiny bundle in your arms.

“I—” he started, then stopped, his jaw flexing.

You didn’t say anything, if he wanted to speak, he could find the fucking words.

His fingers dragged down his face before he took a breath and stepped closer.

“Is that him?” he asked quietly.

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

Rafe blinked a few times, nodding too much. “Okay. Yeah. He’s, uh… he’s small.”

“He’s a newborn.”

“Right,” he mumbled, eyes darting away again. “Right.”

You shifted a little in the hospital bed and tilted the baby up, just enough so his face was visible, his soft little cheeks, a pink nose, eyes still squeezed shut looking way too much like Rafe in his baby pics

“He has your mouth,” you didn’t know why you said it, probably because it was true… or maybe because some part of you needed Rafe to notice it

Rafe stared… just stared.

You watched him try to figure out where he fit into the picture (if he even did.)

He finally broke the silence. “He doesn’t know who I am.”

“No,” you said. “Not yet.”

“Will he?”

You looked at him, standing in a hospital room like it was a courtroom, and he was waiting for a verdict.

“That’s up to you,”

Rafe nodded again, then scrubbed a hand over his mouth, pacing a short path along the foot of your bed. “I—I didn’t know if I should come. I thought maybe you’d tell me to screw off or call security or something.”

“I thought about it.”

That made him pause.

“Do you wanna hold him?” you asked.

For a second, you swore he almost shook his head, but then he nodded slowly and stepped closer. You adjusted the baby gently, motioning with your hand for Rafe to sit in the chair beside the bed. He looked like he was about to pass out.

You leaned over and placed the baby in his arms, carefully guiding his hands into the right position.

Rafe's entire body tensed as he stared down at the tiny weight in his arms, he looked terrified, like the baby might explode if he breathed wrong.

the baby didn’t cry, he just wriggled a little, then settled, tiny fist pressed against Rafe’s chest.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered.

You looked at him, heart clenched.

“No one does at first.”

His arms relaxed a fraction, one finger brushed against the baby’s cheek, it was so gentle you almost didn’t believe it came from him.

Rafe Cameron, who’d threatened people, killed people, broken things, broken you. Sitting here with his son in his arms, silent and still.

You didn’t realize your hands were shaking until you went to adjust the hospital blanket around your waist.

“I was high the night you went into labor,” he said suddenly, his voice hoarse. “I was in some house... didn’t even know whose. I think it was Topper’s cousin’s… uncle's or something. Someone gave me something stronger, i don’t even remember saying yes, i just... woke up on the bathroom floor and couldn’t feel my legs. thought i was fucking dying.”

Your stomach twisted, you should’ve known. well, maybe you did know.

“I wanted to be there,” he went on, his eyes still locked on the baby. “Swear to God, I did. I just… I don't know. can't bring my head to work right”

You leaned back against the pillows, tired in a way that had nothing to do with your body

“You don’t have to be perfect, Rafe, but you do have to be present.”

The baby stirred in his arms, letting out a soft sound, more a breath than a cry, but it made Rafe freeze all over again.

“What—what do I do?”

“He’s fine,” you said gently. “Just hold him like you’re doing.”

“I’m gonna drop him,” Rafe muttered.

“You won’t drop him.”

He looked up at you, and it was that same look you’d seen when he was seventeen, and his dad first punched him in front of you. The same disbelief, helpless, bitter confusion.

And suddenly, you remembered that saying you always thought ridiculous “hurt people hurt people.”

You watched him press his cheek to the baby’s head, eyes squeezed shut, and you didn’t know if it was a prayer or a breakdown.

The next morning, he was still there, he hadn’t slept a single minute

The nurse came in and raised an eyebrow at you, and you said, “It’s okay. He’s the dad.”

It felt strange saying that, because the word dad had always sounded too big for Rafe, too adult. but in that moment, when he turned to you with tired eyes and asked, “Can I try feeding him this time?” it didn’t sound that impossible.

But he was still Rafe Cameron. He disappeared again three days later.

he’d kissed your forehead, kissed the baby’s head too and said he just needed an hour.

An hour turned into five, five turned into a night, your messages stayed on “delivered.”

You sat in the dark at 3 a.m. feeding the baby alone.

Of course, of course he left, of course he couldn’t handle it. You were an idiot to believe even for a second that maybe something had changed.

just as the sky was turning from black to blue, there was banging on your door.

You opened it in a panic, heart in your throat, and there he was.

Bloody lip, split knuckle, eyes wild.

“Someone tried to sell me something tonight,” he said breathlessly, stumbling inside. “I almost said yes.. almost, but i didn’t. I didn’t, okay? i - i got in a fight instead, I ran, i - i remembered what he felt like in my arms… I remembered his face, your face, and i ran.”

You stared at him, soaked in sweat and crying in a way that didn’t make a sound.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, over and over, falling to his knees right there in your doorway.

“I’m trying.”

“I’m trying.”

“I swear I’m trying.”

wrote this one at work, still haven't decided if i like it or not and i also had no idea how to end this 😭 i was thinking about my obx dr and i just felt the need to write abt it

ALSO, I LOVE S1 RAFE SO MUCH, HE’S SUCH A LOSER

[idk-void]

CAN’T SLEEP WITHOUT YOU .ᐟ

summary .ᐟ jj is not a routine guy, not really. but there it is some things he needs daily. there's one. . . someone that he really needs for every mundane thing though. even to sleep. even if he's away and with his friends. . .

warnings .ᐟ jj maybank x deer!reader — soft fluff, very cuddly, CLINGY JJ. the pogues being boring 🙄

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

It starts like this:

JJ’s sprawled on the couch in John B’s living room, limbs too long and blanket half-tangled around his legs, one arm draped dramatically over his face like he’s been wronged by the universe itself.

He’s not sleeping. At all.

Not even close.

“Dude,” Pope mutters from the kitchen, “just go to sleep.”

“I can’t,” JJ grumbles, voice muffled and pouty. “Something’s wrong.”

“You’re just being dramatic,” Kiara calls from the hallway, “again.”

“I’m serious this time!”

Because he is.

He knows what’s wrong.

You’re not there.

You're probably curled up at your place, soft and warm in your deer-print pajama shorts and that too-big faded t-shirt he loves, probably snuggled under your weighted blanket with one of your stuffed animals pressed against your chest. And he’s just… not.

Not next to you. Not tangled up in you. Not wrapped around your waist like a starfish. Not snoring into your neck.

It sucks.

He groans, kicks off the couch, grabs his keys.

⋆

You’re half-asleep when you hear the tap at your window. Not loud, just a little scratch-scratch. Then a whisper.

“Bambi. Bambi. Baaambiii…”

You roll over, squinting.

JJ’s head pops up from below the sill, hair messy, hoodie half-zipped, looking like a wet puppy that’s been left out in a storm—even though it’s dry and warm outside.

You open the window. “JJ? What are you—”

“I can’t sleep,” he blurts out. “I need you.”

You blink, sleepy and confused. “You… what?”

“I need you to sleep. Like—seriously. I’ve been tossing and turning for two hours and nothing works. I tried hugging a pillow. I tried putting on your stupid deer documentary—”

“It’s not stupid,” you pout automatically.

“—but it’s not the same!” he continues, dramatically throwing himself halfway through your window and flopping inside. “You’re my sleep charm or some shit. I need my deer girl.”

You giggle softly. “You sound insane.”

“I feel insane,” he says, already tugging the blanket off your bed and diving underneath it. “Now come here. Please. Before I lose what’s left of my mind.”

You close the window, crawl back in beside him. The second your body touches his, he lets out a deep sigh—like someone just deflated all the tension in his chest.

You tuck into his arms, his face nuzzles into your hair, and his voice is already slurred with exhaustion. “There we go. That’s it. Perfect. You’re like—like a little space heater. A soft snuggly deer space heater.”

You smile sleepily against his shoulder. “You’re a big needy golden retriever.”

He hums. “Mmhmm. Your retriever. Yours.”

Within minutes, he’s snoring softly, mouth open and arms locked tight around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

And you?

You fall asleep with a little smile, heart full, nose pressed against the boy who can only dream if he’s wrapped up in you.

[idk-void]

green means go

toxic!ex!bf!rafe cameron x toxic!reader

You broke up with Rafe nearly four months ago, addiction driving the wedge between you deeper than you could've imagined. When all else fails at winning your heart back, Rafe invites you to a party, buying you a dress for the occasion. What he didn't tell you was that it was a traffic light party, and the dress he bought you was red.

warnings: two toxic babies sitting in a tree..., mentions of addiction, much angst, rafe being sulky

wc: 2.9k

rafe cameron masterlist

Finishing your day at work at your parent’s firm, all you could think about was how good a hot shower and your bed would feel. Fate apparently had other plans. You crack the door to your bedroom, instantly being greeted with the soft breeze of your perfume and room spray. 

On your perfectly made bed sat an overly large box, a small letter lurking on top. You throw your handbag to the floor, dragging your feet over to your bed. The envelope has two words scrawled on the front, that handwriting unmistakably Rafe’s. 

Open me.

Rolling your eyes, you slip your acrylic nail under the seal, pulling out the letter. It’s short, which surprises you, because ever since you broke up with Rafe, you’ve become used to his overly long, whiny, apologetic letters and extravagant gifts. 

You appreciated the effort, but there was no way in hell you were going to continue being in a relationship with a raging cocaine addict. 

There’s a party tonight, Top’s house. Bought you an outfit. See you at 9. 

You place the letter on your bed, reaching to pull the lid off the oversized box. The contents make your mouth go dry. You begin opening the items one by one. There’s a Cartier love bracelet, a white Jaquemus handbag, a pair of black Rosalie Louboutins, a double heart Tiffany necklace, your favourite perfume, and red silk flooding the bottom of the box. 

You don’t even look at the dress, instead reaching for your phone, texting Rafe.

You: this is a little overboard, don’t u think?

His response is near instant, like he already knew what you were going to say.

Rafe: do you think i’m poor or smth?

You scoff, sending back a quick reply.

You: ur lucky i’m not busy tn

Rafe: i’m lucky anytime i get to see you xx

You force yourself to throw your phone, not wanting to engage in any further conversation with him. You’ll see him tonight, and you’re sure he’ll be lurking close enough to converse for most of the night. 

The dress is gorgeous. Red silk, ruched down the side seams. It will hug your curves perfectly. You can see exactly why Rafe would’ve bought you this dress. You’re going to look like an absolute smokeshow tonight. 

After having a shower, you return to your bedroom, tinkering with Rafe’s box of overly pricey gifts, not knowing where to start. Your hands find their way to the jewellery pieces, internally cringing at the tiny house-deposit priced items in your hand. 

You put the jewellery from the box on, appreciating that he’s aware of your choice in metals. They’re beautiful and compliment your skin tone perfectly. He may be an idiot for spending so much money, but lord are they beautiful.

Your hands reach for your forgotten phone on your bed, pulling up Sofia’s contact. You type a quick message, not particularly wanting to go to this party if she’s not going to be there. 

You: are u going to tops tn? rafe bought me a whole fit, now i feel like i gotta go 

You see the three bubbles pop up on the screen, her fingers evidently taking their sweet time replying. 

Sof: after i spent two weeks trying to find a sexy green dress? hell fucking yes.

You snicker at her response, wondering why she was being so specific.

You: green? babe you look hot asf in any color.

Anger begins to bubble in your chest when her reply eventually comes through. 

Sof: it’s a traffic light party lol i’m tryna find a mans

Is Rafe serious? A red dress for a traffic light party? Your fingers respond quicker than you can even think the words. 

You: meet me at the boutique in 20? i’ve got a green dress to buy.

Sofia responds almost instantly this time. 

Sof: i thought rafe bought your fit?? 

You: he did. a red one. 

Sof: see you in 20 HAHAHA

You’re all dolled up, having gotten ready with Sofia at your house. Your hair and makeup is done flawlessly, everything on and ready besides your dress. Sofia holds the sealed boutique bag up from earlier, ready to help you get changed. 

‘Hold up. I need to make him think I’m playing his game,’ you tell her, reaching for the red dress you’d left on your bed. You slip it on quickly, sending him a quick photo in the mirror. As rushed as you put it on, you take it off, putting your green dress on for the party. 

Sofia can’t help but laugh at your antics, sipping on a cocktail at your vanity. 

‘He’s going to lose his shit tonight.’ 

‘That’s the plan.’ 

The ambient air at the party smelt of weed, sweat and alcohol. The typical scents of a Figure Eight party. You’d gone in the front door with Sofia, eager to find a top-up on your booze, which seemed to be located through a crowd of partygoers. 

Sofia drags you through, a bunch of boys in green all looking your way, hollering as you pass. Realistically, you weren’t here to find a man. Hell, wearing red seemed more appealing. It was the fact that Rafe thinks he owns you that cemented your desire to arrive in green. 

You finally pour yourself a drink, and as you tap your plastic cup to Sofia’s, you’re taken aback by a heavy set of hands on your shoulders. 

‘Well look at you…’ Rafe drawls coldly from where he stands behind you. Sofia’s eyes widen in amusement and she brings her drink to her lips to conceal her smirk. You give her a cheeky wink before spinning to face Rafe. 

You’d been waiting for this all evening. The look on his face when he realized you weren’t playing his game. The jealousy in his voice thinking you’re ready to move on from him. Getting under his skin filled your soul more than you cared to admit.

‘Hi Rafe,’ You say sharply, taking a sip of your drink as you feign boredom. His eyes rake over you, feasting on your skimpy little dress and the way it accentuates every inch of your body. 

Your eyes briefly scan his outfit, a burgundy button-up, black chinos, perfectly tailored, and every last button of his shirt undone, flaunting his toned figure. He’s even got his sleeves rolled up, leaving you wondering why he even bothered putting a shirt on. 

‘Green, huh? I think red is more your color,’ he remarks, the hand not holding his drink coming up to run along the thin strap of your dress. 

‘I think she looks hot as fuck in green, but I’ll let you guys bicker alone.’ Sofia butts in, her voice laced with amusement. You feel like you have to fight the instinctual eye roll, keeping your eyes firm on Rafe.

‘Green is a little bit more accurate, y’know? With the theming and all.’ Your words are cold, knowing exactly how to get him all riled up, even in front of a hundred other people.

‘Accurate?’ Rafe scoffs in disbelief, continuing on with a heated passion in his voice, ‘You went through all this effort to prove a point when you know what this is anyway.’ 

He motions between the two of you, his drink coming dangerously close to splashing out of his red plastic cup. You laugh bitterly, patting his sturdy chest a few times mockingly. 

‘We knew. Past tense. I don’t belong to you anymore, Rafe.’ His jaw is set angrily, his cup beginning to crumble in his grasp. 

‘You walk around in green like you’re up for grabs… don’t act all shocked when someone turns up hurt.’ Rafe snarls, his hand reaching to drag you closer by the waist.

‘Is that a threat?’ Your eyes narrow on him, seemingly unbothered by his words externally. Internally, it’s hard to ignore your pulse thumping between your thighs, your body all but crying out for his touch. 

‘Take it as a warning. I don’t like games.’ Rafe practically spits through his clenched teeth, his abs contracting with the anger coursing through him. 

‘Then stop playing them, Rafe.’ You give him the same energy he gives you, turning on your heel and making your way through the sea of people, searching for Sofia. 

You eventually find her, chatting up another guy in green. You stand there and weigh up your options for a brief moment, deciding to not be a cockblock, and searching for someone else to start talking to. 

Your eyes settle on Topper, a pretty close friend of Rafe’s who always treated you like royalty. The heels Rafe bought you dig into the soles of your feet with the intensity with which you approach Topper.

‘Hey Top! Thank you for inviting me!’ You approach him from the side, watching his head flick over to you at the sound of your voice. A smile lights up his face, his arms opening to welcome you into his embrace.

‘I didn’t know you were coming! It’s so good to see you!’ Topper beams, pulling you in for a tight hug. You wrap your arms around his waist, his hug tight around your shoulders. 

‘Of course! I wouldn’t miss one of your infamous matchmaking evenings,’ you say with a jestful wink. Topper nods in understanding, pursing his lips briefly, his eyes lowering to your dress respectfully.

‘Speaking of matchmaking, you’re in green tonight? Are you and Rafe like, actually over?’ Topper’s question makes your skin crawl, knowing that Rafe still hasn’t officially told anyone you’re not together, nearly four months after your breakup. 

Sure, there’s been rumors, but it’s hard to believe when the source is telling you they’re just ‘going through a rough patch.’ 

Rough patch my ass. 

‘I’m standing here in green, aren’t I?’ You conclude, motioning to your dress. Topper laughs dryly, standing by your side, redirecting your vision to the other side of the room. 

‘He’s still over there in red.’ Topper nods in Rafe’s direction, and your eyes lock onto him through the sea of people, his tall frame overshadowing most of the crowd. He’s watching you like a hawk, and suddenly you feel a remnant of guilt in the pit of your stomach. 

You let out a sigh, bringing your drink to your lips for a moment. 

‘He can wear whatever he wants. So can I.’ You mumble out, just loud enough for Topper to hear over the music. He shakes his head, impressed by your determination to prove your point. He lets out a contagious laugh, your own forming very quickly in your chest. 

‘You’re literally just poking the bear,’ he snickers out. ‘He’s crazy and you’re-no offence-just as bad.’ You laugh at his words, swatting his arm in retaliation. 

‘That’s low, Top, so-’ A hand around your wrist startles you from continuing. Your eyes drift away from a now timid Topper, landing on a buzzed frame clad in that stupid sexy burgundy shirt. 

‘Can we talk?’ Rafe’s voice is as equally demanding as it is pleading, as is the firm look on his face. His chest rises and falls like he’s just ran a marathon, your actions affecting him more than he’d care to admit. 

‘What is there to talk about? If you don’t like my dress you’re more than welcome to eat some concrete and-’ 

‘It’s not about your dress. Please.’ Rafe is practically begging, cutting your cold-hearted words off with a demanding impatience. You look to Topper for backup, but he just stands there and shrugs. 

With a roll of your eyes, you follow Rafe to an unoccupied bathroom down the hall. He closes the door behind you both, his hands immediately running up through his hair in exasperation. 

‘Topper? Seriously, princess?’ Rafe snaps, trying his best to keep his cool and stay out of your personal space. 

‘My friend, Topper? The one that I was just having a civil conversation with?’ You retort, eyeing him with a sense of disbelief at his childlike actions. 

‘You-fuck! Don’t you see everything I do for you?! I’ve tried so hard to tell you I’m sorry and you keep pulling stunts like this to make me jealous! You’re driving me fucking crazy!’ You let Rafe have his outburst, his hands moving erratically as he vents. 

‘I don’t need your shitty gifts or whiny letters, Rafe! I don’t need your money! I wanted a boyfriend who cared more about me than his next fix. I wanted a boyfriend who wasn’t irrationally angry because he was too coked up to care! Sue me for wanting to find someone who is actually ready to treat me right!’

Your words come out louder and more emotional than you had planned, but seeing him here, on the verge of breaking down stirred up feelings you thought you’d let go of. Feelings you tried so desperately to keep from breaking the surface. 

Rafe steps in closer, his hands reaching for yours, tugging you closer with his unravelling grip. His forehead falls forward, resting on your own, and you wished you had the power to push him away. To tell him to fuck off. But you don’t. 

Because deep down, you know he’s a broken little boy.

Rafe is a good person, even if he’s made shitty choices, but that’s not someone you’re willing to settle for. 

‘Rafe, you should go.’ Your voice is hushed, unsure, and it doesn’t sound convincing, even to you. He shakes his head lightly against yours, a shuddering breath falling from his lips.

‘I can’t.’ His voice cracks, his eyes beginning to glass over. You’ve never seen this side of Rafe before, and you’re torn between wanting to run and wanting to hold him and tell him you never stopped loving him. 

‘I haven’t touched anything. No coke. No pills. Nothing.’ His words make your chest clench painfully, your eyes fluttering shut to try to drive the tears away. 

‘Not since you left.’ Your heart is throbbing violently in your chest, your pulse being felt throughout every inch of your body. A tear slips down Rafe’s cheek. You’ve never seen him cry before. Not when his dad died. Not when his sister ‘died’. He was the definition of emotionally constipated. 

Yet here, in this moment with you, all his walls have come tumbling down. Maybe you weren’t just a game to him. Maybe whatever you two had actually did mean something. 

‘I swear to god, I’ve been trying. I’ve been trying so fucking hard because…’ He chokes up, his hands clenching impossibly tight around yours. 

‘Because you’re stronger than every drug I’ve ever touched. It feels like I’m drowning without you.’ Your eyes flutter open, glassy, locking onto his reddened orbs. The contrast of the red on his normally bright blue eyes draws more attention to the fact that he was crumbling right in front of you. 

‘Rafe…’ 

He doesn’t let you continue, ‘I’m clean. I’m sober. I’m…’ He chuckles helplessly, the knot in his chest reaching the tightest of tensions. 

‘I’m trying to be the man you fell in love with again.’ 

Your heart breaks into a million tiny pieces at his words. The fight in you drains out like a river that flows into the sea. You shake your head, trying to convince yourself that you’re making the wrong decision. 

‘I should go.’ 

Rafe looks at you, your hands falling weakly from his grip. He nods in understanding, his lips pulling into a tight grimace as he tries to hold his pain in. He’s done this all for you. He’s turned his whole life around, but it’s too late. 

‘Maybe you should.’ He moves out of the way, letting you reach for the door handle. Your hand lands on the cold metal, but it doesn’t move. Your heart hammers in your chest as you listen to Rafe’s shallow breaths behind you. 

Everything in your body is telling you to go, but when he says those words, your entire body tenses up. 

‘Tell me you don’t love me anymore.'

'Tell me you never want to see me again and I’ll let you go.’ 

His voice sounds ruined, like those words cost him more money than any gift he’s ever bought you. They’re heavy and they force your hand to grip fiercely around the door handle. Your eyes begin to burn, emotions threatening to flood out with tangible proof. 

You need to leave. You know you need to leave, but before you can stop yourself, you whip around, crashing your lips to his, before your brain even has time to catch up with the weight of your decision. 

The kiss is messy, and holds the weight of a million unsaid words. Rafe’s arms clutch at your waist, painfully tight, like he was afraid that if he loosened his grip, you’d disappear right in front of him. 

You stagger backwards as he leans into you, your ass eventually hitting the edge of the basin. You feel Rafe’s hands snake around, reaching for the zipper on your dress, his lips trailing from your mouth, down your neck. 

‘I fucking hate that I still love you.’ You breathe out, your hips already rolling against his through his pants, your body falling right back into that sweet rhythm you had all those months ago. 

Rafe pulls away from your neck slightly, his hot breath moving up to your ear. 

‘Tell me you hate me.’ 

Kiss. 

‘Tell me I ruined everything.’

Kiss.

‘Just don’t tell me it’s over.’

taglist: @rcwhore @mariechristine00

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[idk-void]

If Anything Happened To You

bad!Rafe x bsf!Reader

a/n: based on this request! 💌

cw: car accident (minor injuries), blood mention (nothing graphic)

summary: After a terrifying car accident, Rafe throws himself into protecting you—panicked, shaken, and completely undone by the thought of losing you. In the aftermath, he finally admits the truth he’s been trying to ignore: this isn’t just a crush. He’s completely in love with you.

⸻

The whole night had felt weird.

Something off in the air. Something sitting too heavy in your stomach.

You and Rafe were just supposed to drive home from Topper’s place. Simple. Easy. Barely a ten-minute trip. Rafe even offered to drive your car, insisting, “You’ve been drinking. Barely, but still. I’ve got you.”

And you always let him take care of you. That was just how it worked.

You didn’t expect the truck to run the stop sign.

Didn’t expect the screech, the metal, the impact.

Didn’t expect your body to jolt sideways, head slamming into the window, Rafe’s arm flying out across your chest like it could hold you in place.

It was fast. Loud. Terrifying.

And then everything was quiet.

⸻

You’re the one who speaks first.

“…Rafe?”

He jerks toward you so fast his neck cracks. “I’m fine. Are you—” His eyes sweep over you. “You’re bleeding.”

Your hand trembles as you reach for your temple. Your fingers come back red.

“I think I hit my head,” you whisper.

Rafe’s already halfway out the driver’s side, yanking open your door, hands on you immediately.

“You’re okay,” he says, voice shaking. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

You’re dizzy. The world tilts. But he’s holding you—hands on your face, arm around your back, forehead nearly touching yours.

“I’ve got you,” he says. “I’ve always got you.”

And then, to himself, almost too quiet to hear:

“Fuck. I could’ve lost you.”

⸻

The police come. An ambulance. People talking too loud, flashing lights painting the trees. You sit on the back bumper of the ambulance with a blanket around your shoulders while a paramedic checks your head.

Rafe’s never more than a foot away.

He keeps pacing, scrubbing a hand down his face, hair wild from tugging at it. He’s got a tiny cut on his cheek, but you don’t think he’s even noticed.

“You need to let them look at you,” you say softly.

He shakes his head. “Not until I know you’re okay.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.” His voice cracks. “You could’ve died.”

You blink.

He’s never said it like that before. Never even come close to sounding like this.

“Rafe—”

He finally stops pacing and just looks at you. And it’s awful. His eyes are wide and red-rimmed and so full of something you can’t name that it physically hurts to look at him.

“I can’t—” He swallows hard. “I can’t do this again.”

You frown. “Do what?”

“Watch someone I love get hurt and not be able to stop it.”

Your heart stutters.

“I was two seconds away from losing you,” he says. “And all I could think was—shit, this is it. I’ll never get to tell her. She’ll never know.”

You stare at him, frozen.

“Know what?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He closes the distance in one step.

“That I love you,” he says. “Not like a friend. Not like a crush. I love you.”

The words hit you like a second collision.

You just blink at him, wide-eyed, mouth open but no sound coming out.

Rafe scrubs his hands over his face, pacing again.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that. Not like—shit. I wasn’t gonna tell you like this. I just…” He trails off, breathing hard. “You were bleeding. I couldn’t—God, I couldn’t breathe.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’ve felt this way for a long time,” he says, voice softer now. “I was just scared to mess it up.”

“Rafe—”

“I didn’t want to lose you,” he continues. “But tonight made me realize—I’d rather ruin it all than spend one more second pretending it’s not real.”

You stand slowly. Dizzy, aching, but steady enough.

You walk over to him, heart hammering. He’s standing in the glow of the ambulance lights, looking like he’s waiting to be punched.

Instead, you take his face in your hands.

“You should’ve told me,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“I’ve been in love with you since Christmas… God probably even before that.. but that’s when I realized it…”

His breath catches.

You laugh, watery and broken. “You were wearing that stupid red beanie and grinning like a dumbass and I just… knew.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you. Like you’re the most important thing on the planet.

And then he leans in.

And you meet him halfway.

The kiss is slow. Careful. A little shaky.

But it’s also the most real thing that’s ever happened to you.

⸻

Later, after the medics check him out and you get cleared to go home, he drives you back to your house in silence.

You’re curled into the passenger seat, wearing his hoodie now. Still a little dazed. Still a little in shock.

He reaches over and grabs your hand, threading your fingers together.

“I didn’t know what to do when I saw the blood,” he says quietly. “I thought I was gonna throw up.”

You squeeze his hand. “But you didn’t.”

He glances at you. “I love you,” he says again, like he’s reminding himself it wasn’t just a panic-fueled blur.

You squeeze his hand tighter. “I know. I love you too.”

His thumb brushes your knuckles. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Right back at you.”

You both laugh—quiet, breathy, full of relief.

And just like that, the fear starts to fade.

Not all at once.

But enough.

Because he’s here.

And you’re his.

And you both know it now.

a/n: ahh idk how i feel about this one 😭 i feel like i’m a little rusty when it comes to writing situational angst instead of my usual emotional spiral type lmao but i really wanted to do this request justice!! thank you sm for sending it in, and i hope you enjoy this protective, panicked, in-love bsf!rafe 🫶🏻

♥️ lani

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𝒯𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉:

@psychicnatural @superlegend216 @rafesbabygirlx @raineshua @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @angelofcigs @tiaajosephin

[idk-void]

hii! i absolutely loved the last fic based on back to friends and it made me think abt all the angsty rafe fics.

i was wondering if you could do a fic where rafe and reader are best friends but reader is in love with rafe but rafe openly calls her his best friend so reader moves on and rafe yearns for her?

YUP. love this. love angst. awesome.

I'VE ALWAYS LOVED YOU, JUST NOT LIKE THIS — RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT

SYNOPSIS you’re rafe’s best friend. always have been. have you wished the two of you were more than that? only everyday since junior year of high school. but when he calls you his best friend, the mocking title you wear with a court jester hat, you come to the conclusion that that’s all you’ll ever be. so, you’ll start putting yourself first.

WARNINGS fluff, obbbvviously angst (miscommunication, two idiots not knowing how to emote properly, self sabotaging behavior), mentions of underage drinking/smoking, suggestive content but no actual smut. all that. bsf!rafe is so special to me. he’s such an idiot. not edited literally at all.

WORD COUNT 7.8k. very description heavy so sooooorrrry.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER infrunami by steve lacy

You've loved Rafe Cameron all your life.

The two of you have been attached to the hip since you were kids, play fighting and emulating Smackdown in the backyard and scratching up knees and elbows, triple-dog-daring each other to bridge jump in the middle of the night as rebellious teens, sneaking through each other's windows for impromptu sleepovers where you'd stay up until the crack of dawn talking about nothing and everything at the same time, mingling with your separate friend groups at parties but always finding your way back to each other by the end of the night.

You patched up his bloodied lips and iced his bruised knuckles. He opened doors for you and scared off any guys who came a little too close. From a young age, you knew you loved him. He was your best friend, the person who knew you like the back of his hand and still stayed despite your flaws. It never crossed the line. Ever.

But the moment you realized you were in love with him, all you could do was hyper-fixate on the fact that all you'll ever be is his best friend.

It wasn't a grand realization with confetti and sickly sweet hearts as an aura around his head.

You were seventeen, drunk at prom, and crying in the sand dunes after your date — Matthew from the lacrosse team who you'd been pining over for a year — stood you up to shack up with Natalie who you used to do Girl's Scouts with. No one noticed you slip out, as you were subtle and sneaky and frankly so fucking embarrassed that you wanted nothing more to do with the night. Everyone had been drinking or smoking too much anyway, and you sought that out as the perfect time to dip, pour your emotions out on the dunes of solitude, then mosey on home in hopes of forgetting about the whole thing.

But, of course, Rafe always kept tabs on you.

He found you not even five minutes later, knowing exactly what happened when he caught a glimpse of Matthew leading Natalie upstairs by the hand with you nowhere in sight. In an instant, he was sitting beside you a little too close (as usual) and slinging an arm around your shoulders, pulling you taut to his chest. And he simply let you cry, murmured sweet nothings in your ear on how that prick didn't deserve you anyway, holding you in a way he has a million times before.

But something in your heart clicked that night. Because you realized two things: that no one will ever know you the way Rafe Cameron does. And that you were in love with him.

Ever since then, all you've pinpointed is the fact that you'll only ever be his best friend.

You were his best friend throughout childhood, throughout high school, through graduation and the slobbery crying mess of a goodbye when you both left for different colleges, during semesters over the phone and even more-so when you came back for breaks, through his ups and downs of relationships with girls that weren't you, through all of it.

So when you overhear him tell someone at a party that "She's the best friend anyone could have," you pointedly decide to yourself that your heart has had enough.

You have to stop seeking his traits in other guys. You have to stop pretending that there's any kind of world that would sustain this giant, stupid, debilitating crush you have on him. You have to stop living in fantasy land and wake the fuck up, because it's not gonna happen and it never will.

You'll always love him, there's no doubt about it and there's no way you can remove him from your life (not that he'd even let you if you tried), but Project Fall-Out-Of-Love, FOOL for short, commences the moment the words leave his mouth. That night, you stay in the joint-rolling corner with your friend group, not finding solace under his arm or texting him five min break? halfway throughout the night to debrief. After all, he doesn't question it, probably thinking you're too engrossed with your friends as that happens from time to time.

But when you start relying less and less on him, Rafe spirals.

Of course, he doesn't outwardly bring it up, because the vulnerability would absolutely kill him and his dignity. But he notices small things here and there that simply don't add up: you've slowly stopped texting him when you're bored at home with nothing to do and simply go out alone instead, stopped hanging around him at parties or even sitting next to him on the couch when your and his friends get together for a chill night in, stopped throwing your legs over his lap or leaning your cheek on his arm or grabbing his hand when walking through a crowd.

The first couple of times you pull away, he finds himself making up for the absence subconsciously. When he gets himself a drink, he's automatically getting you one and bringing it to you without you having to ask just as an excuse to insert himself in the conversation at your side. When you're walking to your favorite breakfast spot to pick up your coffee, he's got a hand on the small of your back when you weave through people on the sidewalk. When you have an eyelash on your cheek, he's brushing it off with his thumb. When your necklace is off center, he's fixing it without a word. You never say anything and carry on with your day as usual.

He doesn't realize that his hands linger longer than they should when yours stop touching him.

And for the life of him, Rafe can't figure out why. He can't conjecture why you're the same... just without your hands. Instead of mussing your hands through his hair, you're telling him to fix it. Instead of fixing the collar of his shirt or adjusting the buttons of his button-down, you're giving tips on how to make it look sharper. Instead of pawing at his back for a piggy-back ride on your walk home from the bar, you're asking your friend. You're still you, laughing and poking fun at him and getting into all sorts of trouble like the two of you normally do. But he can feel a shift, a change, as you don't look at him longer than you need to and only touch him when it's necessary.

After a month of dancing around your change in demeanor, Rafe bites (more-so nibbles) at the topic.

"Feel like I haven't seen you lately," he murmurs one night, trying to keep his voice even and uninterested even though his heart is pounding.

The two of you are sitting on the couch in your apartment, on opposite ends which is unusual for you to create so much distance, watching an older movie with subtitles that he has a hard time focusing on. You, on the other hand, are intently paying attention, brows furrowed as you pluck popcorn one by one into your mouth, appearing as if nothing is wrong (and for all he knows, nothing is wrong, but you've stopped touching him for whatever reason and he's going crazy over the considerable amount of physical space you've put between you over the past month).

When you think you hear his voice, you glance his way only to be met with his stare.

"Hm?" You hum sweetly, almost startled. "You say something?"

Rafe opens and closes his mouth, darting his gaze between your eyes and hating how far away you feel.

But he's not ready to admit that, so instead he shakes his head.

"Didn't catch that last line," he says on the spot. "They're talking too fast."

Your brows raise. "Oh? Wanna put something else on, then?"

What he wants is for you to come and curl up next to him like you've done for every single movie night since the two of you were nine, to nuzzle against his side and end up falling asleep on top of him like you always end up doing by the end of the film, to feel you next to him and most likely fall asleep too, to know that he's going to wake up next to you and start his day with you.

However, Rafe doesn't say any of that.

Instead puts on his trademark smirk that stands more as armor than it does pleasantries. "Finally, thought you'd never ask."

The only time you touch him that night is when your fingers graze his when you hand him the remote, still flashing your sweet smile and rolled eyes at his prince-like behavior, something you've always poked fun at him for. The contact feels like a cruel joke, because your hand pulls away as fast as it came and suddenly he's tethered to nothing once again.

And it only gets worse.

The next week, you're late for the unplanned-planned hangout with all your friends in your living room.

Every first Friday night of each month, his friends and your friends come together to hang at someone's apartment - this night it being yours - and drink, play cards, be stupid and laugh about shit that doesn't matter. It's easily his favorite night of the month, one because he gets all of his friends in the same place but also because he gets to see you in your lax state, more often than not in your pajamas where he'll usually crash at your place or you'll crash at his. That's usually what ends up happening.

But not tonight, because you show up thirty minutes behind the unofficial meeting time looking prettier than ever.

At first, Rafe assumes you had a late presentation at work or some special affair that causes you to look so nice. But when you come closer and put your bag down and slip your shoes off, he notices a little bit of gloss on your lips and a smidge of glitter on your eyelids. Your shirt's a little more provocative than usual and you're sheepishly smiling to all of your girl friends' knowing looks across the room, widening your eyes slightly in warning as a I'll tell you later look.

It dawns on him that you were on a date.

Rafe can simply tell, and he suddenly hates that he can. He hates how he can notice your suppressed smile as if you're fighting a blissful grin. He hates how you're so dressed up and showing off your pretty to someone else, someone that isn't him, someone that probably doesn't deserve to see the real you. He hates how you seemed to tell everyone but him, and that breaks his fucking heart. Why wouldn't you tell him? Why aren't you telling him anything anymore?

When most of your friends leave and it's just you, your two roommates, and him, he bites.

"You went on a date."

It's a little silly, the timing of it all, because he feels a stupid sitting on the couch with you and your two best girl friends sipping cheap wine and gossiping about your love life. If his friends saw this set up, saw how much he cared and how he's practically in on girl talk, he'd never hear the end of it and that's a fucking promise. But Rafe can't seem to care, not in the slightest, because the question is detrimentally important that you could've put a face mask on him and that stupid headband you use, and he wouldn't say anything, only as long as you answer the question.

You quirk a brow at him, legs tucked underneath you that causes your dress to ride up a little. "Who told you?"

He ignores the looks from your roommates. "No one. Tell me."

Before you can answer, one roommate interrupts. "Tell us. How'd he pick you up?"

And to Rafe's horror, you tell everything.

You give a very detailed rundown of the entire night. How he picked you up with flowers, how he opened the car and restaurant door for you, how he paid for the meal and the drinks you got at the bar around the corner, how he wrapped his arm around your waist and asked to kiss you goodnight on the doorstep, how he asked to see you again this weekend and how you said yes.

He wants to leave. He wants to run out the fucking door and pretend he didn't hear any of it. But he can't, he's glued to the couch with an agape mouth and spiraling brain as he listens to you speak, watches how you smile, pays attention to what details you cling onto. The feeling in his chest is tight, too constricting and it's making him claustrophobic. His heart thumps erratically, threatening to burst through his ribcage the more you talk about your night.

"So? That's it?" Your one roommate Ainsley asks. "Just a kiss? Not even an ounce of fondling?"

You shrug and shake your head. "Maybe he's saving it for next time?"

"Hopefully it's a little more than fondling," your other roommate Cora muses, lips brimming the rim of her wine glass as she pointedly glances at you. "You deserve at least three orgasms. Minimum."

The image makes Rafe grimace.

Of course, you notice and laugh so fucking sweet that it does something weird to his chest. "Oh, please. You know how many times I had to hear about you fucking girls from the back in places AI couldn't even make up?"

Rafe knows he's overstaying his welcome and definitely intruding on girl talk. But he couldn't care in the slightest. The scowl is permanently etched on his face at the thought of you touching, let alone by touched, by someone else. It's selfish, he knows that much, but frankly he really doesn't want anyone to know you the way that he knows you. He knows your coffee order, your pet peeves and deepest secrets, your menstrual cycle for fuck's sake, the name of your first pet and the things you do when you're upset.

"That's different," he mumbles, downing the rest of his drink.

"It's really not," you argue playfully, eyelids slightly low with your drunken buzz. When you poke his thigh with your toe he nearly jolts, shocked at the first bit of contact you've initiated in what feels like forever. "It's just payback for all the times you made me listen to the intricate details of your hookups. So pour another glass and kick back, Rafey."

Despite the weird lurch in his gut, Rafe does what you say because it's frankly impossible to say no to you.

He doesn't even know why he's getting so worked up. Perhaps it's because you're physically pulling away from him since you're seeing other people. But he still doesn't understand: you've had boyfriends, you've told him about bad and good hookups and still never stopped touching him, never stopped doting on him and carrying on your friendship as normal. Why now? What's the difference between two months ago and now? What changed?

The thought keeps him awake. Rafe left your apartment hours ago and he still can't stop thinking about it, thinking about the strange sense of dread in his chest and how it feels like the end of the world when you talk about the possibility of being with someone else. He's lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, blinking the minutes away until the sun rises.

And when it hits him? It's all he can think about.

Because Rafe has loved you all his life.

He's cared about you more than he has anyone else, because you're the only person who was never afraid of him, who saw him through his brutal insecurities and helped him become a better version of himself. You held him when things got too loud and calmed him down when his mind was running amuck. You bandaged his cuts and bruises but not without a good scolding. You had no mercy tackling him in beach football every weekend in the summer. You told him when he was acting stupid and made sure he fixed up his act. He values you more than anything else.

But the moment he realizes he's in love with you, Rafe doesn't know how to act.

All it took for him to realize was your physical absence. Because perhaps he's been in love with you all this time, but could never distinguish it from that best friend admiration he's had for you his entire life. He gushes about you to others, how you're the best friend anyone could have, how smart and funny you are and how you always keep him on his toes and keep him in check.

Now, it’s all he can think about.

How your eyes light up when you laugh, how the sound of it immediately brightens a room, how you put everything to the side to help someone, how you know the way all of your friends like their eggs without even having to ask, how you can be the sweetest and funniest in the same breath, how you go through life making the flowers bloom at your feet with every step.

But there’s another added factor. More so a disadvantage. Because now his eyes linger in places they shouldn’t. When the loose collar of your shirt dips down over your shoulder, his breath hitches at the sight of your bare collar bone. When you wear dresses in the summer breeze, he can’t help but stare at your legs, and he has to force himself to look away when the hem rides up to further expose your thigh. When you speak to him, he fixates on the way your lips move, and he finds himself wondering how sweet you’d taste. He wants to worship you, kiss the ground you walk on, let his hands appreciate every dip and crevice of your body in the way he knows you deserve.

It haunts him. Plagues him. Rafe can barely sleep at the realization, at how disgusted he is with himself. You’re his best friend, for fuck’s sake, the girl who has been with him through it all. You’re someone he cannot lose, because if he did, he doesn’t know what he’d do.

“Rafe? Did you hear what I said?”

Your sweet voice startles him, knocking away his grueling thoughts with a simple sentence.

You’re cooking lunch with added ingredients to accommodate his spontaneous arrival. Sleep deprived, Rafe finds it difficult to be alone with the confinements of his mind, especially now, so he went for a walk to take advantage of the nice day. However, in the hopes of clearing his mind, his feet decided otherwise, and subconsciously walked himself to your apartment. You, being so kind, offered to make him a meal, saying that you were making one anyway, what’s one more?

So now he’s sitting at your kitchen island, twirling the family siglet ring on his finger in an attempt to calm him down, watching your back as you stand over the stove. But it’s proving less of a relaxing afternoon when all he can stare at is the planes of your shoulders exposed in a tank top. Every time you laugh, it makes his chest constrict. When you turn to meet his eye briefly to make a point, he finds himself automatically smiling regardless if you're berating him or not. He has to fight the urge to stand and hold you.

"Hm?" He hums distractedly, almost sheepish that he got caught in a daze. "What'd you say, pretty?"

Whether you hear the nickname, you don't comment on it, nor do you turn around. "I asked if you could save me some of Sarah's cookies when you go over tonight."

Rafe frowns. "Wait, you're not coming?"

You make a noise that resembles a snort and a laugh. "Do you ever listen to anything I tell you?"

A response rises and dies in his throat, because, yes, normally he does, he always tries to hang onto every word out of your mouth. But sue a guy if he was too busy admiring your pretty for a moment.

"Uh, that seems like a trap," he muses, trying to appear playful but frankly you're avoiding his question. "Not trying to be on your bad side."

"Smart."

"Never answered my question."

You shake your head to yourself as you add ingredients to the pan. "I have another date tonight with that guy. Nosy."

Rafe's heart drops. "You— I— What?"

The stuttering must amuse you, because you half turn around to sneak a peek at him, taking in his furrowed brows and parted lips as he stares at you with those bright blue eyes, looking confused and almost panicked. It's as if you told him two plus two is five. And even though you just said something to flip is world upside down, he can't deny how fucking pretty you look right now: face bare with the scent of your freshly washed hair filling the kitchen with a citrus aroma, clad in a tank top and boxer shorts that he's pretty sure are his.

The sight of it makes him go crazy.

"You know," you say pointedly, shrugging nonchalantly as if his gut isn't sinking to the earth's core. "The guy I was telling you and the girls about the other night?"

He blinks stupidly. "Wh— Yeah, I know. But you’re… He’s… Another one?”

“Are you okay?”

No, he thinks immediately. How could he be?

“Yeah,” he drawls out unconvincingly. “Why’re you seeing him again?”

You fully turn to face him, leaning against the oven handle, eyes searching his for an answer to his strange behavior. “I like him. Why does it matter?”

How long do you have? Rafe snorts to himself.

But all he can do is shrug, trying to dance around the obvious answer. “Because this guy could be a creep. You don’t know him.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, Rafe. That’s literally the point in dating someone. You get to know them.”

“I don’t like that.”

“You don’t have to?”

Rafe stares at you for a moment, blue eyes almost glossed with worry, desperate to say anything to get you to not go, regardless of how pathetic it makes him look. And you simply stare back accusatorially, quirking a quizzical brow and waiting for his response, curious to see what kind of excuse he’s going to come up with to get you to not go.

Where this sudden apprehension is coming from, you have no idea. He’s never been this invested in your love life, never been this forward on getting you to not date around. It’s comical, almost, to have him practically begging, but you can’t find the gall to laugh. Not when you’ve been craving this sort of attention for years, not when you’ve been wishing it was him all along for as long as you can remember, not when he’s looking at you right now as if his life will fall apart if you go.

The sizzling of the food on the pan interrupts your staring contest, and with a dejected sigh, you spin back around to tend to your meal.

“He’s not a creep, if it makes you feel better. He’s one of Ainsley’s coworkers.”

Rafe sucks in a breath. “So?”

You add more ingredients to the pan. “So,” you drawl out, “she can vouch for him. And I trust that.”

When you don’t hear an immediate response, you assume he’s seceded and dropped the topic. The sizzling of the pan fills the gap of silence, and you internally praise that your hands are busy so you can’t examine the way they’re shaking subtly at the practical confrontation.

Why now? Why does he give a shit now? When you’ve just started to get over him? It’s not fair, how he constantly pulls you back in just when you think you’re in the clear, out of the abyss that is your infatuation, until he’s saying something sweet or hugging you close enough to get your heart pounding all the same again. It’s a curse, loving him is the tide, pushing and pulling and pushing and pulling. All day. Every day. All the time.

“Don’t go.” You hear from behind you. “Please.”

You frown even though he can’t see your face, blinking stupidly at the pan as you decipher his words, hear the emotion in his plea, picture the look on his features. You don’t turn around. You can’t. You can’t have him pull you in again just to date someone else the next week. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. He has to know that, right?

“Rafe—“ You start quietly.

But the door swinging open interrupts you, both you and Rafe whipping your heads to find the culprit.

It’s Cora, one of your roommates, slugging two full bags of groceries and slapping them down onto the counter with a loud sigh, unknowing of the thick tension brewing in this kitchen right now. Rafe's eyes are solely trained on you, on the words that linger in the air and itching to know what you were about to say. You meet his gaze for one, two seconds before pulling away, looking back to your roommate slipping her shoes off.

“Smells good!” She chirps innocently, unloading her bags. “Whatcha cookin’?”

Despite his protests, you go on the date.

The night is fun, don't get yourself twisted, because Nate — who's all bright smiles and light laughter and honestly a nice breath of fresh air — takes you to a nice outdoor pavilion with food, drinks, miscellaneous activities such as mini golf and wine tastings and shopping for clothes that are way out of your pay grade. You hold his hand when you walk around the area and laugh when you're supposed to, drink the beverages he buys you and say your pleases and thank yous.

But you can't help the nagging feeling in your heart.

And you hate yourself for it, because Nate's great. He's charming, funny, easy-going, and someone you can definitely see yourself being with or being friends with. However, the entire time, all you can think about is your exchange with Rafe in your kitchen, how wrecked he looked when you told him about the date, the desperation in his eyes when you told you not to go, the way his fingers twitched in your direction as if he was itching to hold you.

It's delusional. You know. You know because you've been feeding them to yourself for years.

Your lips are still tingling from when Nate kissed you goodnight, trudging up to your apartment with a heavy heart and a befuddled brain.

Your mind spins. You want to like Nate. You want to dive off the deep end and forget all about Rafe Cameron, forget about how many years you've wasted pining over him knowing it was never going to be mutual. You want to look into Nate's eyes and not wish they were Rafe's. You want to be with someone without constantly comparing them to your best friend, which is something you've found yourself doing subconsciously. It's a plague eating away at your heart, chipping pieces away one by one until you're left with nothing.

It only proves more difficult when you turn the corner only to discover the one person you don't want to see.

He's leaning against your door frame, picking incessantly at his nail beds which is a habit you've tried time and time again to help him stop. A graphic t-shirt snugs his torso, the arms shaping the outline of his biceps as sweatpants hang low on his hips, as if he rolled out of bed to come and wait by your door. As to how he got in the building, you have no idea, but you wouldn't put it past him to have somehow found a mischievous way.

The click of your heels alert him, and Rafe snaps his head up.

You try to ignore his wide eyes and how he almost looks relieved that you're alone, eyes scanning quickly over your pretty dress before darting up to meet your gaze.

"Hey," he says gently, "how as it?"

You open your mouth to respond, but no words come out as you stand there puzzled. A million questions rise and die in your throat, mind reeling at the concept of him sitting here and waiting for you. He was supposed to see his sister tonight, another friend of yours, yet instead he's leaning on your door for support as he looks at you in a way that makes your heart thrum.

"Good,” you respond meekly, still desperately confused of his presence. "I thought you were sleeping at Sarah’s?”

He shrugs, but offers no words.

You catch a glimpse of his nails beds, red and irritated as you can put two and two together and guess that he’s been picking them all night. His hair is tousled, as if he’s been tossing and turning and fighting sleep and didn’t bother looking in the mirror before he ventured here. Sunken from exhaustion, his blue eyes simply stare at you with a softness you’ve only seen from him a few times, usually when he’s trying to butter you up with an apology, or when he’s deep in thought, or when something’s really bothering him and he’s internally building up the courage to say something.

You bite. “What are you doing here?”

“I just…” He starts quickly, but trails off with uncertainty, as if his mind is trying to catch up to his words. “Do you like him?”

“Wh— Nate?”

“Sure,” Rafe says immediately. “If that’s his name. Are you into him?”

You furrow your brows, taking a step closer to really see the desperation behind his expression. Your confusion morphs into compassion.

“Rafe, are you okay—“

“Will you just—“ He sucks in a particularly harsh breath and squeezes his eyes shut, as if he’s composing himself to refrain from crashing out. “Please. Answer me.”

It takes everything in your power to prevent yourself from reaching forward to grab him, to rub a palm up and down his bicep or squeeze his hand to give a gentle reminder that it’s just you, that he has no reason to be panicking right now and committing acts of high treason against his nail beds. You fight the urge to brush his hair back out of his face and smooth down the wrinkles by the collar of his shirt.

But you don’t. You can’t touch him, as an ode to your dignity, and keep yourself at a respectable yet comforting distance. It’s not much, but to you, it’s progress of attempting to move on.

“I don’t know,” you mumble confusedly. “I…guess? I think so. He’s nice.”

Rafe furrows his brows through your spluttering. “You guess, or you think so?”

You groan, digging your key out of your purse and pushing forward towards your door. “I don’t know, I’ve met him twice. What’s with the interrogation?”

“I’m…curious,” he mumbles unconvincingly.

Moving to accommodate you unlocking your door, he shifts his weight between feet, and it’s daunting when you can feel his piercing eyes on your profile. You swear you hallucinate when you catch a glimpse of his hands twitching in your direction in your peripheral, as if he’s itching to grab you.

Delusional, you spat to yourself. Stand up.

“Are you gonna see him again?”

The door creaks open, and the sound of it mixes with your scoff of disbelief as you yank your key out of the lock with a particularly harsh tug. It’s no surprise that when you enter your apartment, he’s hot on your tail.

You slip your heels off. “Maybe?”

“Maybe?”

“He asked me to drinks this week.”

“What did you say?”

Stopping abruptly, you spin on your heel in the middle of your apartment to stare at him incredulously, even going as far as jutting your hip out for emphasis of your irritation.

“What has gotten into you?” You ask quietly, but he hears you all the same.

You cannot deny how fucking wrecked he looks, especially under the bright kitchen lights. It’s only now that you can fully grasp the desperation of his expression, how he looks at nothing but you, focuses on nothing but you standing in front of him. Slowly, but surely, Rafe begins shaking his head, body moving before he can even get the words out.

“Don’t go out with him,” he practically begs.

The breath momentarily leaves your lungs. “Why not?”

Rafe’s mouth opens and closes, gears turning in his head on figuring out what to say. But the words don’t come, instead he shakes his head, almost at himself, and scoffs as if the notion of you asking why is absolutely audacious, as if the answer is obvious.

But it’s not. Not at all. He’s throwing you for a loop. A long, windy, emotional strung out loop that never seems to end with him. You used to pride yourself on being able to read his mind, to be able to decipher his emotions as if you were reading a children’s book, but now, as he stands in front of you seemingly dripping in frustration, you can’t help but feel lost.

“You can’t just do that,” you say tiredly. “You can’t show up at my door in the middle of the night and ask me not to see someone without providing an explanation—“

“Because I’m in love with you,” Rafe interrupts gently, “and the thought of you being with someone else is fucking killing me.”

You falter.

Did you...hear him right? You couldn’t have, because how could the words you’ve been yearning to hear for years came and went as quickly as the tide? Spoken in one soft breath with a cadence of honey, of honesty, of desperation. He says it so surely, as if it’s law, as if nothing else in the world matters besides this, besides his feeling, besides this pull that he has towards you.

Rafe almost looks as shocked as you that he blurted it out. Well, you can’t imagine your expression, probably a humiliating mix of disbelief, shock, uncertainty, but it’s safe to say his brows are raised in surprise only for a moment, before settling on a softer gaze as he tries to read your reaction, takes in your befuddlement.

You suck in a harsh breath when he takes a step closer.

“I couldn’t figure it out,” he murmurs, eyes trained on you. “I thought I did something wrong when you stopped touching me, or sitting with me, and you were...you were still there but not where I was used to having you."

All you can do is stand frozen, watching him inch closer and closer.

Rafe sighs quietly. "But after you came home from the first date, I couldn’t shake this weird feeling. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't even fucking eat without feeling sick. It almost felt like I was losing you, like I’d fucking die if I couldn’t have you.”

Another step.

“Then it hit me. I—I tried to push it down because you’re my best friend and I couldn’t have you thinking I was just…lusting after you, because it’s not…"

He trails off, shaking his head lightly almost at himself and darting his gaze away momentarily, as if he's gathering his thoughts, calculating his response. And you don't dare make a sound, move a muscle, even hint towards doing anything that will drift his focus and make him lose what he's trying to say. It's agonizing, really, standing as still as a statue and holding your breath as if the world itself will fall apart if you do so.

The words he speaks almost make your knees buckle.

"A part of me has always loved you, just not like this, like—“ He takes a deep breath. “Like how I don’t want anyone else to know you the way I know you.”

Rafe stands inches away.

He takes in all your pretty, admiring you for a moment before settling for another long breath, figuring out his words with a newfound patience he’s never been prided for. And you almost laugh at the irony of it, of how his entire life he's been branded as the hot-headed basket case, the guy whose temper could implode at any moment, someone who was prompt and to the point and never saw the ideal in dancing around the subject. Now, it's entirely different, as he's apparently the epitome of I've got the time today.

“It’s selfish, I know,” he whispers softer than you’ve ever heard him. “But it’s true.”

When his palm experimentally hovers over your cheek, you don’t pull away, and rather stand frozen in your spot as all you can do is blink stupidly at him, digesting his words, digesting the moment. Then, gingerly, he allows his hand to cradle your jaw, holding you so delicately in place as if you’d break if he pressed any harder.

Sure, he's touched you before and more intimately like this. But now it holds a different meaning, the implication you've been wanting it to mean for so long. He's always held you in a way that almost grounds himself, though in this moment, as he skims the pad of his thumb just below your bottom lip, it's almost as if he's doing it to ground you.

“Breathe,” Rafe says gently.

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding.

The weight of the moment, of his confession, starts to sink in as you blink at him. He loves you. He loves you. He loves you. You can't move, stuck in place as your mind runs awry as years and years of silently pining over him, once thought to be a fruitless attempt, now comes to laugh in your face. It's almost comical, almost, because there was a point in time where you never thought he'd ever feel the same, never thought he'd see you as something more than the girl he skinned knees with play-wrestling in the backyard, covered in dirt and grass stains and sweat.

"Tell me you don't want this," he adds after a minute of you finding the ability to breathe again, "and I'll walk away. I won't ever bring it up again."

You swallow thickly. "I— You— How come—?"

Stifling a soft smile, Rafe's fingers skim your hairline, eyes following his movements before darting back down to meet your gaze. "Easy. Take a second. It's just me."

One, two beats.

Finally, you find your (relative) footing. "You love me?"

"I'm in love with you," he corrects immediately.

"You—" You suck in a harsh breath. "Okay. Alright."

It's no secret you're short circuiting, brain blowing fuses left and right still trying to comprehend everything that's going on. But it's proving difficult with his hand caressing your jaw, the intrusion of his cologne, how fucking good he looks like this, soft and unguarded and letting nothing distract him from you, you, you.

"Are you okay?" He asks, half concerned half amused.

You nearly laugh out of disbelief. "Am I—" You scoff. "Am I okay," you mimic mockingly, adding a self deprecating laugh. "Seventeen year old me is freaking out right now."

Rafe immediately frowns, and you instantly regret saying that.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"What?"

You blink stupidly, adding a nervous chuckle to attempt to steer the conversation. "Uh, what?"

His brows furrow. "What do you mean?"

"What do you mean?"

Rafe says your name firmly, low and baritone as if in warning.

A flicker of panic makes your heart thump wildly, taking in his confused expression mixed with his bubbling impatience. His palm presses a tad harder into your jaw, a gentle emphasis to keep talking, to answer his question, because if there's one thing Rafe Cameron hates, it's being left in the dust, being unanswered.

But you can't respond, not when you're cursing yourself in your head, calling yourself stupid, stupid, stupid in every single language with all synonyms you can think of. Really? Are you kidding? That's what you say? That was something you agreed to yourself that you'd never tell him, never tell anyone and have them see the light of day, and with the way he's staring at you right now, you wish you could shrink in place and bury yourself in a hole. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Seventeen?" He adds incredulously, tone dripping in desperation. "Did you—? Since we were—?"

"Yes," you answer meekly, and your cheek feels hot under his touch, instantly heating up at the notion of exposing yourself.

Rafe looks absolutely wrecked as he shakes his head at you. "Why didn't you— You never said anything. Why didn't you say anything?"

For a multitude of reasons, you think immediately. He had a girlfriend, you were seeing someone, you both left for different colleges, and a plethora more. It never felt right, there was never a point in time where you thought, wow, I'm actually going to tell him. Because it was a secret you tried to bury so deep, push and push away with the fear of fucking everything up. You never banked on the possibility of him telling you first.

You attempt to respond. "I couldn't lose you."

Rafe curses as if he's been stabbed in the heart. "Baby..."

Squeezing your eyes shut, you refuse to see his look of compassion, because honestly you won't be able to discern it from pity. Besides, the foreign pet name does absolute wonders to the kettlebell in your gut, as in making your heart feel ten tons heavier than it feels in this given moment. You've heard him call other girls the good stuff, the babe, sweetheart, honey once, but knowing you're on the reciprocating end makes your chest feel funny.

"Don't—" You start, but take a deep breath to regulate your emotions. "It's fine. It is. Honest."

"It's not." His response is immediate. "Look at me."

With a shroud of bravery, you slowly blink your eyes open.

And Rafe's looking at you so intently, so ardently, that it nearly makes your knees buckle.

"Listen to me," he says quietly yet firmer than ever. "There's no one on this planet that I'd rather be loved by than you."

You frown, but more-so in a way to regulate your quivering lip.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to catch up," Rafe murmurs, thumb ghosting over your bottom lip that tingles with anticipation. "I know it's not much, but I'm here now and I'm not going anywhere." He pauses, brows furrowing for a split second. "That is, if you want."

Despite your trembling lip, despite your erratic heartbeat, despite the way you're nearly a puddle of a mess in his hold right now, despite it all, you manage a soft, ragged chuckle.

"Rafe Cameron," you playfully scold despite the waver in your voice. "You always have the worst timing."

His palm presses further into the curve of your jaw, reciprocating your laugh and smiling so fucking soft that it makes your heart melt. The dimples you know and love are on full display, pearly whites shining bright and you can't help but wonder what he tastes like.

"Sorry, baby," he murmurs in response, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. "Let me make it up to you, yeah?"

You're not sure who leans in first. Maybe it's you, pent up from years silently pining over a guy you never thought you could have. Maybe it's him, feeling a new rush of emotions and eager to act on them as soon as he possibly can. But, regardless, you meet in the middle and kiss him like your life depends on it.

Rafe's hands are suddenly everywhere: your jaw, your neck, your back to pull your body taut to his, your waist, looooooow on your hips with the pads of his fingertips digging into the soft flesh of your ass. The noise he makes when he kisses you back, fervently than ever, makes your heart flutter, and you can easily confirm he tastes better than you imagined, his hands feel sensational venturing into uncharted territory.

Your hands hesitantly place firmly on his chest, slowly sliding up his torso the more you test out the waters. They soon seek refuge on his shoulders, skimming your palms over the hills and ridges of his muscles almost in admiration, before sliding up to clasp around the back of his neck.

When you gently tug the ends of his overgrown hair, Rafe groans into your mouth.

"Fuck," he says absolutely wrecked, chest practically heaving as he rests his forehead against yours. "I can't— I wanna do this right, but you're—"

"I'm what?" You challenge breathlessly, realizing you sound equally as fucked out.

He groans. "You're killing me. I need to— Fuck— I can't just— and you—“

When your hands slide down the slope of his torso slowly, his breath hitches, and his eyes follow the way your fingertips ghost the waistband of his sweatpants. You glide them over the fabric as if you're admiring the topography of a map, and when your nails lightly graze the sliver of skin exposed between the waistband and his t-shirt, Rafe nearly flinches.

"You can't—" He tries to hold his ground as his grip tightens on your hips.

But he lets out a shaky breath when you dip your fingers under the waistband.

"I can't, what?" You ask innocently. "Wanna make you feel good."

Suddenly, his nimble fingers encase around your wrist and yank your hand out of his pants, much to your dismay, and hold them in place when you try to dive back in.

But you can't be mad. Not in the slightest. Especially at his next words.

"You first," Rafe nearly orders, tone firm as his palms lay refuge on your hips and push you to move backwards, down the hall towards your bedroom. "I don't feel good unless you do."

And as he guides you into the bedroom, lies you down gently on your back and kisses up and down your body as if he's admiring a timeless piece of art, you can't configure any sort of argument, any kind of retaliation that would get him to stop what he's doing. There isn't a muscle, inch of skin, crevice on your body that goes unnoticed, as his hands and lips make you feel appreciated, worshipped, loved before he even considers thinking about himself. It's intoxicating, and the years spent wondering what kind of lover he really is is disproved yet confirmed all the same in the matter of minutes. Safe to say Project FOOL was a bust.

Rafe shows you how he's infatuated with you, for hours at best, making the softest love he knows how within the four walls of your bedroom, entangled within cotton sheets with whispers of sweet nothings ghosting the shell of your ear.

And you figure you can get used to this.

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

notes not enttttttiiiiirely proud of this but i hope this is what you envisioned for the prompt anon. hope you enjoyed!

[idk-void]

could you do Rafe x kook!reader where they’re friends with benefits and maybe inspired by Maddie from euphoria when she says “idk if ur head is all scrambled from all the molly u take but I never said that.” maybe reader is in argument with Rafe because he was telling a guy reader was seeing that her and Rafe were exclusive reader is mad abt it?? Idk just a thought, I love ur writing sm 🫶

We good? || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: I love this idea thank you!!!

Warnings: angst!!!! Toxic!rafe, fwb

Word count: 1,654

MASTERLIST

The glow of the bonfire cast golden streaks across the sand, crackling and spitting up into the dark Carolina sky. The usual people were scattered around the beach—red Solo cups in hand, some half-drunk, others halfway to blackout. Music thumped from the Bluetooth speaker Topper had half-buried in the sand.

It was your scene. Your crowd. But you hadn’t cracked a smile all night. You were sitting on the arm of a wicker lounge chair with your legs crossed, nursing the same drink for the past hour. Your eyes kept flicking toward Rafe. He was surrounded by his friends near the firepit, grinning like he hadn’t just fucked up your night.

Because he had. You knew it the second Jonah stopped texting you. Jonah Blackwood—Chapel Hill college boy home for the summer. He was sweet, preppy, clean-cut in a way that promised safety instead of chaos. You’d gone on a few dates. He liked you. Liked-liked you.

There was potential, and you needed that—needed someone who didn’t live in the constant chaos that followed Rafe like a shadow. But out of nowhere, he just stopped texting. You’d seen him yesterday at The Wreck, and he couldn’t even look you in the eye.

Then today, you got the message: “Didn’t know you were with Rafe Cameron. Should’ve told me.” You had blinked at your phone like it had personally slapped you. You’d never said that. Never claimed Rafe, never pretended this arrangement between you two was anything more than backseat sex and bad decisions.

And he knew that. He knew. So why the hell was he chasing off anyone who got close to you like you were his to protect—or keep? That question had been simmering under your skin all night, hot and sharp. And now? Watching him laugh with his boys like he hadn’t just blown up the first decent thing you’d had in a while? You could feel the anger rising in your throat, ready to spill over.

You stood. Tossed your cup into the sand. And walked straight toward him. A few heads turned. You didn’t care. Rafe was mid-laugh when he noticed you coming—his grin faltered for half a second, like some distant warning bell had gone off in his head. He stood up straighter, cocked his head, his usual lazy smirk settling into place.

“Hey, look who’s finally decided to—” “What the fuck did you say to Jonah?” you cut in, voice ice-cold. His smile dropped entirely. The group around him—Topper, Kelce, Jason, that junior Tyler—went quiet. Tense. A couple of them traded looks, the kind you give when you know shit’s about to go sideways. “Jonah who?” Rafe asked, all faux-innocence and drug-fueled arrogance.

You stepped closer, toe to toe with him now. “Jonah Blackwood. The guy I was seeing.” Rafe raised his eyebrows like you’d just told him you were dating a garbage man. “That the UNC kid? Button-downs and baby-blue loafers?” You didn’t blink. “Yeah. Him. He stopped talking to me. Know what he said?”

Rafe didn’t answer. You said it for him. “Didn’t know you were with Rafe Cameron.” The fire crackled behind you. Sand shifted under your feet. Rafe didn’t move. “I didn’t tell him that,” you continued, voice rising slightly. “I never said we were together. So I’m gonna ask again—what did you say to him?” His jaw tightened. You saw it. Quick, subtle.

His mask slipped for half a second. “I just told him he should know who he’s dealing with,” Rafe said smoothly, voice low and infuriatingly calm. “Didn’t think you’d want some guy disrespecting you.” “Disrespecting me?” you snapped, your eyes narrowing. “Or just not treating me like you do?” A sharp pause. Topper gave a low whistle under his breath.

Kelce took a step back. Jason muttered something and grabbed a beer from the cooler, clearly not wanting to be part of what was about to go down. One by one, the guys peeled off. Now it was just you and Rafe. “You think just because I let you touch me, you get to make decisions for me?” you asked, teeth clenched. “I wasn’t making a decision for you,” Rafe bit out. “I was looking out for you.” “Bullshit.” His jaw ticked. “He was a fucking joke—”

“No, you’re the joke,” you snapped, stepping in closer. “And I don’t know if your brain is all scrambled from all the coke you take—” His expression cracked. “Watch it.” “—but I never said that,” you went on, voice hard and venomous. “I never said I was yours. So whatever little fantasy you’ve got playing in that fucked-up head of yours? Cut it. Because if you ever spread some shit like that again, I will fucking come for you, Rafe. Don’t test me.”

You could see it—the pulse in his neck, ticking like a warning. His chest rose and fell a little too fast, breath starting to shallow. But you didn’t stop. “You ruined something for me,” you said, voice steady but low, thick with heat. “Something normal. Something that didn’t involve back rooms, secrets, or pretending I don’t exist in the daylight.” You took a step closer, your eyes locked on his.

“And if you ever pull that shit again, Rafe? I swear to God, I’ll make sure you’re the one getting ghosted.” Silence. The kind that buzzed in your ears. That made the air feel thick. You let out a breath, sharp and shaky, your hands still curled into fists at your sides. Adrenaline still clinging to your skin. Rafe just stared at you—like you’d ripped him open and left him bleeding on the sand. No smug comebacks. No smartass grin.

Just that look. Like whatever was left inside him had just been scraped raw. He didn’t answer. Not right away. The only sounds were the fire cracking behind you and the music thumping from somewhere down the beach—distant, muffled, completely irrelevant now. Then, after a beat, his voice—low and tight: “You done?”

You let out a sharp scoff, half a laugh, half something darker. “Yeah. I’m done.” You turned and started walking. But behind you, you heard it—the sudden crash of glass, a chair scraping violently across the sand, someone cursing under their breath as Rafe kicked something hard enough to send it flying.

[idk-void]

hiii can you do a fic based off this tiktok?💝

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP8rMdPXD/

sorry it took so long!!

The room was filled with the quiet hum of some random show no one was really watching. Sarah was lounging on the floor with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, half-asleep but still shoveling spoonfuls of ice cream into her mouth like it was a sport.

You were curled up next to Rafe on the couch, your legs tucked under his, iPad resting lightly on your lap — camera discreetly recording. Just for the sake of the TikTok trend you saw yesterday.

You scrolled, then tilted the iPad screen toward him and Sarah. “What do you think about this bag? Tell me this isn’t adorable.”

It was soft lilac — a pastel purple Coach shoulder bag, dainty and elegant. The kind of thing that would look perfect with your sundresses.

Rafe barely looked at it before nodding. “Yeah, that’s nice. Pretty.”

Sarah perked up from the floor. “Oh my God, stop. That color? Yes. You need it.”

You smiled, chewing your bottom lip. “Right? But it’s like… $250. I don’t know if it’s that cute.”

Sarah didn’t hesitate. “It’s worth it.”

Rafe turned to you, brow lifting. “Do you want it?”

Rafe didn’t hesitate — didn’t even look back at the screen. His eyes were already on you.

“You’re worth anything, baby. If you want it, just say the word.”

You felt your cheeks warm a little, caught off guard even though you should’ve seen it coming. That was just Rafe — all in, all the time.

He didn’t even flinch, already reaching into his pocket, pulling out his phone. “You just want that?”

You nodded, smiling. “Yeah. You like it?”

Rafe gave you this soft look, the kind he reserved just for you. “Yeah. It’s really pretty, baby. You should have it.”

You closed the iPad with a tap, trying not to grin too hard. “Good, ‘cause it’ll be here in a few days.”

“Okay-,”He blinked. “Wait… what?”

“I already bought it.”

Rafe froze mid-movement. “…You did what?”

You stayed calm. “I paid for it. Like ten minutes ago.”

“With what card? My card isn’t on that ipad yet.”

“My own.”

He sat up fully, brows furrowing, phone still in hand. “You used your money?”

“Yeah.”

“No, like—hold on.” He scoffed, baffled. “You paid for it?”

“Yeah, babe.” You tilted your head at him, confused why this was such a big deal.

His jaw clenched a little, and he leaned back like he needed to process it. “What? No. You’re not buying your own shit.”

You raised a brow. “Baby, it’s fine. I’m capable.”

“I know you are,” he said instantly. “That’s not the point. You’re smart, you’re independent, you’re capable as hell. But you don’t need to spend your money on this kind of stuff when I exist.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a grin. “Babe, it’s fine.”

He shook his head, already opening his banking app. “Nah. It’s not.”

“Babe—”

“No.” He cut you off. “You keep your money. I’ll buy it for you. I’ll buy ten of them if you want. You’re not doing that.”

You huffed. “Seriously, it’s not a big deal—”

Ping.

Your phone buzzed. Notification: $500 from Rafe Cameron.

You stared down at it. “Did you seriously just—”

“Yep.” He leaned back, smirking. “That should cover the bag. And whatever else you think about buying without telling me.”

Sarah sat up, barely containing a laugh. “This is so dramatic, I love it.”

Rafe didn’t even blink. “She’s not buying her own shit. That’s not how this works.”

You looked up at him, heart doing all kinds of flips even as you tried to play it cool. “You’re impossible.”

He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “And you’re mine. So let me take care of you, yeah baby?”

You melted, despite yourself, “…Fine.”

But the camera? Still rolling. And it caught everything—especially the moment Rafe leaned in, kissed your cheek, and muttered, “Next time you pull that, I’m deleting your card and adding mine. And just to be sure, I’ll steal your card so you can’t add it back.”

And honestly, you believed him.

Some comments you got on your video

User1: Nah bc the way he said “you’re not buying your own shit” like it was the most disrespectful thing you could’ve done 😭😭😭

User2: not him sending $500 like it’s a refund and a warning

User3: the way he genuinely got offended?? like you cheated on him with a debit card 🤣

User4: gonna show this to my situationship and saying “be more like him”

MASTERLIST — no taglist

[idk-void]

being best friends with rafe cameron includes having scary dog privileges — if you have any trouble with anybody, he’s there the moment you ask. on command.

it means if anyone gives you a look you don't like, he's already clocked it (i don't think it's clocking to you, that i'm standing on business) before you even say a word.

it means you're never alone at parties. he stands a little too close, eyes scanning the crowd, beer or solo cup in hand, but he's watching — always watching. and if a guy gets too bold? tries to flirt? tries to touch? rafe's suddenly there, all sharp jaw and mean eyes, a lazy arm around your shoulders and a voice low and condescending: "she's not interested, bro. move along."

it means late-night calls when your ex texts you something gross, and rafe shows up at your door five minutes later, hoodie slung over his shoulder, all quiet rage and tension under the surface. "you okay?' he asks, but he's already planning what he's gonna say if he runs into them.

it means you're never scared to walk home alone — because rafe will always offer to drive. or wait on the line until you're inside. or pull up in his truck without you even asking, headlights sweeping the street like some feral guard dog looking for a reason to bark.

and it doesn't matter if he's tired. or pissed. or hungover. if someone hurts you, scares you, talks sideways — he's there. no questions. just fury and loyalty and the kind of quiet protection only rafe can offer.

you've got scary dog privileges.

and rafe cameron?

he bites.

[idk-void]

୨ৎ ── putting rafe in time out

- request a fic - masterlist -

“i’m just saying, i think i’m better at swimming that you” rafe shrugs, laying down on his front next to you, the sheets rustling beneath him.

“rafe, i don’t really care” you smile sarcastically at him and he continues, making you sigh.

“but i’m still a better swimmer. like im so good” he reiterates for what feels like the thousandth time. you groan and drop your head to your hands.

“i told you, i don’t care if you’re better than me. i don’t even know why we’re having this conversation…” you huff and look over at him. there’s a smug expression in his sun-kissed face.

“i’m still better than you…” he pokes your waist a few times just to annoy you even further.

“time out.” you snap and push his hands away from you. his face screws up and he scoffs.

“you can’t just send me to time out. i’m a grown-”

“one…” you start counting, you eyebrows raising.

“fine, jesus christ.” he sighs and gets up, sitting down on the floor in the corner.

you smile proudly as he props himself down on the floor, his head leaning back against the wall behind him. he has a soft scowl on his face.

“i’m only doing this because you’re scary when you’re mad…” he mumbles, his fingers picking at the floor. “and hot…” he adds quietly, a cheeky smirk tugging at his lips.

“you’re so stupid” you giggle, making his smile wider. he looks up to where you are on the bed and glares at you softly— there’s no real anger behind it.

“can i come out now?” he scowls, even though his eyes still display the slightest glimmer.

“no! you’ve barely been there for that long.” you giggle and he sighs, dropping his head to his hands. he groans loudly and rubs his face.

a few minutes pass by, your attention had been averted to the tv show you guys had been watching. rafe drops his hands down and groans.

“please, it’s so boring and lonely over here.” he mumbles, his grumpy voice muffled by his palms.

“fine, but only because you’re being cute…” you chuckle and lay down, he immediately stands up and walks over to the bed. he lays down on top of you and peppers kisses all over your face.

“i missed you…” he murmurs, his smile pressing against your sternum as he buries his face in your chest.

“drama queen…”

[idk-void]

ೃ࿔:･ bsf!rafe is a ‘gentleman’?

“he opened the door for me.” sofia says it all dreamy, like it means something. like it’s rare, fragile, and blooming with potential.

you don’t even look up from your phone. “mm,” you hum. “he’s been doing that since he was thirteen.”

sofia blinks and scratches the back of her neck. “seriously?”

sarah snorts. “it’s true. he used to forget, and she’d just stand there in front of the door with this little princess expression until he realized.”

“okay-” you cut in, glancing up finally, a little smug. “it wasn’t like that.”

“oh my god, yes it was,” sarah says. “you wouldn’t move until he circled back like a sad little butler. even my mom started calling him your footman.”

you roll your eyes but don’t deny it because it was kind of true. it started small in the second grade. at the school doors, you just… paused and expected, with your foot practically tapping the ground. rafe, confused but eager to impress even then, jogged back and opened it. you smiled and he lit up.

then it was car doors…and pulling out your chair…and standing on the traffic-facing side of the sidewalk. not because you asked, but because you expected. you’d grown up around the kind of southern men who took off their hats when they walked inside and never let women pump their own gas.

and rafe just adapted. he learned your world like it was a second language. you never noticed. not until girls like sofia started fawning over “how sweet” he was.

you didn’t have the heart to tell them he still slammed doors when you weren’t around. that his idea of flirting was practically insults and bruised knuckles. that the only reason he even knew to grab your coat when it was cold was because the one time he didn’t, you gave him the silent treatment for an hour.

“he brought me a drink before i even asked,” sofia adds now, hopeful. “that’s sweet, right?”

you shoot sarah a look. she doesn’t even try to hide her laugh. “he only does that because of her.”

“what?”

“i mean, come on. you think he was out here reading etiquette books? he learned all that shit from being around her twenty-four-seven.”

sofia falters. “i…guess that makes sense.” her cheeks burn with something unusual.

you hum again, biting back a smile as you scroll. because rafe may be a lot of things—loud, reckless, occasionally unhinged—but to you, he’s always been the guy who brings your favorite snacks when you’re pissed. who pulls you behind him in a crowd without thinking. who mutters “careful, babe” every time you trip over your own feet, even though he’s the reason the hallway lightbulb’s still out.

and when he walks in ten minutes later, sweaty from god-knows-what and shirt halfway untucked, he barely glances at sofia. he sees you on the couch, sees your blanket slipping, and without a word, tugs it up over your shoulder before dropping down beside you.

you smirk. he doesn’t notice. but sofia does and for the first time, she finally gets it. rafe doesn’t do those things because he’s nice. he does them because he was raised on your standards. even if he never says it, you both know the truth…

if rafe cameron’s a gentleman, it’s only because you trained the beast yourself.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove @dsfault @missabsey @ivysturnss @kisses4rafey @katiebby04

[idk-void]

Drown in you

Summary: JJ needs everything in his head to quiet down and drowning himself in you is the best way to do that

Warnings: Touching, kissing, grinding, JJ being a bit rough, crying, talks about using someone, swearing

The sky was dark and light rain pattered against the windows as another storm rolled in. You were in one of the extra rooms at the chateau, as per usual, curled up on your side as you flipped through the pages. The room was dark since the power had gone out, but you had a flashlight propped up so you could see, highlighting something you had previously underlined from the first time you read this book.

JJ had just walked back into the chateau after being outside trying to fix the twinkie in the rain. Everyone wanted to go to the beach tomorrow, assuming the storms let up, but the alternator was being annoying.

That accounted for why he was soaking wet, but his tight jaw and red rimmed eyes couldn’t be explained by the rain. Those things were due to the absolute shit day he just had. He had gotten into it with his dad and then he came back and took his anger out on John B and Pope. He was just at his wits end with the world for the day.

You heard him come into the room, but didn’t take your eyes off of the book, to engaged with the words you were reading.

JJ pulled off his soaking wet T-shirt and shorts, tugging on some random pair of sweatpants before crawling in bed next to you, propping himself up on one elbow. He watched you tentatively for a moment, one of his hands coming to your waist to trace gentle lines on your skin, but the comfort of that only lasted so long.

There wasn’t much that would pull JJ out of his head or help numb all of his bullshit feelings, and when the alcohol and the weed didn’t work, he turned to you.

His touch was more sudden than it normally was. Hungry. He set your book on the nightstand before rolling on top of you, hands on your hips as he pinned you to the mattress and buried his face in your neck.

His kisses weren’t soft, and they were intermixed with bites on your skin that were soothed by his tongue soon after.

You tilted your head to give him more room as your arms hooked around his shoulders. “God, hello to you too.” You huffed out a small laugh as you spoke, a whine at the tail end of your words.

“Missed you.” Those were the only words he mumbled into the crook of your neck as he pulled on the collar of your T-shirt to be able to trail his lips down towards your shoulder.

“I missed you too.” You smiled softly to yourself as JJ pushed his hands up under your shirt and dug his fingers into the skin of your hips, holding on significantly tighter than he normally would… and that was something you picked up on pretty quick.

“Jayj…” He hummed into your skin as he unbuttoned your jean shorts, mumbling his words yet again. “Just touch me.”

You lifted your hips as he tugged at your shorts, JJ pulling them off of your body before moving right back over you and pulling your lips to his.

JJ always took his time to love on you. He would praise you, pay extra attention to all of the thing he knew you were insecure about and make sure you knew he loved you all the same, and he hadn’t so much as muttered an ‘I love you’.

Those three words tend to free fall from JJ’s lips in moments like these, and the fact that you hadn't heard them was worrying you.

You traced your hands up and down his sides underneath his T-shirt, feeling his cold skin and JJ rolled his hips into yours as he groaned into your mouth. One of your hands came up to run through his hair as your lips parted from his, a small ‘fuck’ leaving your lips.

“JJ…” “Hm?” His eyes still didn’t meet yours, instead taking his lips right back to the already marked skin of your neck.

“Hey… slow down for a sec…”

He shook his head as he rolled his hips again, not because he didn’t care about how you were feeling, but just because he needed it all to stop.

“Baby…” You spoke in almost a whisper, trying to gently pull his head back so you could look at him.

JJ had been focusing on nipping at your skin, but the word ‘baby’ coming from your lips made him stop and he pulled his mouth away from your neck, resting his forehead in the crook of your shoulder, panting softly.

The feeling of your fingers in his hair and the sound of you calling him that was almost enough to make him forget what was going on in his head. Almost.

“What’s goin’ on, Jayj?”

He closed his eyes and pressed the whole length of his body harder against yours, feeling a desperate need to be buried inside you with your skin on his own. He just needed his head to be quiet for once. “Nothin’.”

“JJ… look at me.” You finally got him to lift his head, and as soon as you saw his glassy eyes and his tight set jaw, you knew something was up, and it was something that had nothing to do with you. “Where are you?”

He huffed, knowing exactly what you meant. You wanted to know where his head was at. “M’right here. With you.”

“You’re here physically, but you’re not with me, JJ.” You sighed softly as you moved some of his damp hair off of his forehead and studied his face. His light blue eyes seemed to be crying out for help.

“Can we not make this a thing?”

“I’m not trying to make this a thing, but you’re not okay…”

“I’m fine, I just need you.” He swallowed hard as his arms flexed a bit from holding himself above you for so long.

“No… you don’t need me; you’re using me to get to what you need.” You spoke with a tight jaw and a soft, but stern tone.

JJ felt his heart sink at your words… because you were right. He was using you, and god, that was the last thing he ever wanted to do. “I’m not trying to use you… I just… I need it to be quiet in my head…”

You pressed a light kiss to his nose before speaking. “But using sex to make all of the thoughts go away isn’t okay, JJ… and it isn’t fair to me.”

You watched JJ tighten his jaw at that, your words cutting through his anger and his desperation, and it was like for the first time since he came in the room, he actually saw you. He saw the girl he loved more than anything instead of just a way to escape the noise.

JJ ducked his head to your shoulder again and this time you pulled him closer to you, running one hand through his hair again and the other up and down his back.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled, trying to swallow the burning in his throat.

“I know… I just need you to talk to me.” You murmur to him softly, just trying to calm him down.

“I’m so sorry…” He felt a tear escape and he was starting to feel his walls crumbling down. They always did around you. Every damn time.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere. I’m right here.”

Those words are what made the quiet, strangled sob leave his lips as he wrapped his arms around your waist and held tightly to your body.

You held him and you let him cry into your shoulder until he was calmed down and his breathing was back to normal, and you pressed a small kiss to the top of his head as if to remind him that you were still there. “Shitty day, yeah?”

He nodded and picked himself up again, just on his elbows this time as he looked down at you, one of his hands coming up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “Real shitty day…”

You didn’t pressure him into talking, you knew he would tell you when he was ready, but until then, you would make damn sure he knew you were there. For every thought he tried to make go quiet. For every shitty day. “I love you, you know that?”

“Hell yeah, I know that…” He huffed out a small, forced laugh as he committed every single aspect of your face to memory like he hadn’t already done so hundreds of times. “I love you so fuckin’ much.”

You smiled softly at him and he just leaned down and pressed a small, tender kiss to your lips, one starkly different to the previous kisses. When your lips separated from his, he went right back to just looking at you. Taking you in. Reminding himself that you were there.  

[idk-void]

kook!reader teaches rafe a lesson

masterlist | kook!reader masterlist

part of @zyafics MRGA campaign <3 warning: rafe is in his typical teenage boy asshole phase in this, but like the title suggest, kook!reader teaches him a lesson. also warning for alcohol/drugs and discussions of sex

It was a picturesque day in the Outer Banks. The sun was high, the water was perfectly clear, and the sky was blue as y/n and the boys floated just off the coast of Kildare in Topper’s yacht. Y/n laid out on the deck, her skin damp and glowy in the unyielding heat as she sipped on whatever alcoholic concoction Kelce had thrown together.

“No, no, that’s what I’m saying.” Topper chuckled as the boys emerged from the cabin. They shoved against each other, drunkenly stumbling along until they collapsed onto the bench that sat across from y/n. Y/n’s eyes pried open as she sat herself up, wincing at the sun. She noticed a fine dusting of powder underneath Rafe’s nose, causing her to quickly prop her sunglasses atop her head and scowl at him.

“What about that, uh… Chelsea? Yeah?” Kelce asked, causing Topper to let out a drunken laugh that nearly caused him to spill his beer over himself and Kelce. Rafe scoffed, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his greasy bangs.

“Yeah, no.” Rafe sighed as he took a cigarette out. He put the cigarette between his lips, carefully lighting it with his “Cameron” engraved lighter before tossing it down on the endtable. Y/n stood with a sigh before crossing the deck and plopping down next to the boys on the bench, her leg draped over Rafe’s as he let out an exhale of smoke.

“But c’mon she had like—” Kelce gestured dramatically— “huge tits.”

Y/n grimaced, taking the cigarette from Rafe’s fingers before popping it between her own lips. The boys talking about girls was a part of their unique relationship that y/n always found a bit hard to navigate. She didn’t want to scoff or say “ew”, but she also wasn’t entirely a fan of how crassly the boys would sometimes speak. Ok, sure, she wasn’t entirely innocent. Yeah, when she and Sarah got drunk they’d talk about their hook ups, but it still felt weird coming from her boys.

“Yeah but she was crazy.” Rafe scoffed. “That bitch was psycho.”

Y/n quirked a brow, glaring harshly at Rafe, but his focus remained on the two boys he was talking with. She knew how teenage boys were, but even so, she wasn’t one to let the boys get too crass with their language and wasn’t afraid to reprimand them.

“What do you mean?” Topper asked, smirking in a way that signalled he knew he was stirring the pot.

“She fuckin, like, wouldn’t stop calling me, texting me, tryna talk with me.” Rafe said, taking the cigarette back from y/n without sparing her a second glance. “Like, I’m just trying to fuck I don’t need you to talk to me.”

Topper and Kelce laughed, taking sips of the drinks drunkenly. Y/n scoffed, crossing her arms across her chest as she shifted uncomfortably on Rafe’s lap. Noticing the seemingly “good” reaction, Rafe smirked before he continued.

“It’s so much better when they have the body but none of the fuckin brains to go with it.” Rafe said.

And y/n had had enough.

“What?!” Y/n shouted, scrambling to her feet to stand in front of the boys. Kelce’s eyes widened and Topper gulped harshly.

“What?” Rafe said, his voice filled with annoyance as he took a long drag of his cigarette before snubbing out.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Y/n snapped, her arms planted on her hips as she gazed furiously down at Rafe.

“I—” Rafe let out a chuckle. “It was just… guy talk it’s not that serious.”

“Not that serious, Rafe?” Y/n scoffed. “You just said you like it better when women have ‘the body but none of the fuckin brains to go with it’, do you even hear how fuckin gross you sound?”

“That’s not— I didn’t mean it like that.” Rafe sighed, running a hand along his jaw. Topper and Kelce glanced between Rafe and y/n as she stood angrily in front of him.

“No?” Y/n said, letting out an exasperated chuckle. “Then what the fuck did you mean by it then, Rafe? ‘Cause it sounded to me— a woman by the way, dumbass— that you prefer when we are stupid and hot.”

“That—” Rafe groaned. “That’s not what I fuckin meant.”

“Then what did you mean, Rafe?” Y/n snapped again, taking a step closer.

“I— Jesus!” Rafe swore. “Why the fuck are you being such a bitch right now—”

Rafe was cut off with a swift slap to the face, his head snapping to the side with a shattering force from y/n’s palm. The boat fell into an eerie silence, Kelce and Topper watching in horror as Rafe slowly turned back to face y/n, his face suddenly stone cold sober.

“Don’t you dare speak to me like that, Rafe Cameron.” Y/n said, her voice sharp as she pointed a finger squarely in his face. Rafe’s bottom lip trembled slightly as he looked back at her.

“After all I have done for you— after all I’ve done for all of you,” y/n snapped, pointing at the two other boys as she spoke in a scarily still tone, “and this is how you fuckin speak to me? How you fuckin speak about girls in general? Are you fucking serious?”

“Y/n—” Kelce stammered, but immediately stopped himself once y/n looked over at him with ferocious eyes.

“I could say so much right now— so fucking much— but I am going to stop myself.” Y/n said cooly, straightening up as she crossed her arms across her chest. “I am going to stop myself because, despite how I feel right now, I respect you guys… I just wish you had the same courtesy for me.”

With one last angry sigh, y/n grabbed the lighter and cigarettes sat on the end table before stalking off towards the cabin. Y/n felt her eyes begin to water as she popped a cigarette into her mouth before she came out the other side, tossing herself down onto the stern with a huff. With a shaky hand, y/n lit the cigarette before taking a long inhale. Her eyes fluttered closed, her heart still pounding as Rafe’s words played over and over again in her head.

She wasn’t sure how long it had been until the sliding glass door behind her opened. The almost empty pack of cigarettes sat next to her as she turned around, her eyes puffy as she looked up at Rafe. His cheek was still red, a stinging reminder of the events of earlier.

“Hey.” Rafe said softly as he hesitantly met y/n’s eyes.

“Hi.” Y/n whispered, turning away from Rafe with a sigh as she gazed out at the setting sun. Rafe quietly stepped forward, slowly taking a seat next to y/n as she remained focused on the view in front of them.

“I, um, I’m sorry.” Rafe said, his voice shaky as he spoke. Y/n’s head turned to look at Rafe, her brow furrowed. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d heard Rafe apologize outright, the words “I’m sorry” leaving his lips. Sure, he’d apologize in other ways, showing up with a coffee, going with her to take Jack on a walk, or even hugging her with a long and sincere exhale of relief, but never saying “I’m sorry” aloud.

“I—” Rafe sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have said… that about her and I shouldn’t have called you… what I called you. Shouldn’t have talked to you the way I did.”

Y/n’s gaze softened when she noticed the slight glassiness in Rafe’s eyes, his inner turmoil and guilt evident on his face.

“I don’t think of you in that way and I’m sorry I made you think I did.” Rafe whispered, his eyes flicking up to meet y/n’s. Silently, y/n reached over, grabbing one of Rafe’s shaking hands and squeezing it lightly. Rafe's shoulders softened, a trembling exhale coming out of his lungs.

“I… forgive you, Rafe,” Y/n said quietly, nodding, “but you have to do better.”

Rafe swallowed harshly as he gazed back at her, his lips slightly parted as he listened to her speak.

“When you say shit like that…” Y/n sighed. “It’s not just me you’re disrespecting, it’s everybody. Your sisters, your friends, your… mother.”

Rafe’s eyes fluttered closed at the mention of his mother, a new wave of guilt seemingly washing over him.

“I… love you, Rafe, I really do, so I know this isn’t you.” Y/n said. “I just need you to show me that you’re willing to be better.”

Rafe nodded quietly, swallowing harshly as he opened his eyes to meet her own.

“Ok.” Rafe whispered. “I’m sorry and I will do better. I promise.”

A smile spread slowly across y/n’s lips before she scooted closer to Rafe, their shoulders touching. Rafe bit at his lips as y/n looked at him closer, a finger going to brush against his cheek.

“I’m sorry.” Y/n frowned at the red marks on his skin, to which Rafe let out a scoff and shook his head.

“I deserved it.” Rafe said, looking over at y/n with a guilty smile. Y/n’s smile widened before she bit her lip, trying to suppress it.

“Yeah, you did.” Y/n said before letting out a giggle. Rafe shook his head, letting out a chuckle as he looked over at her. Y/n elbowed his side playfully before she rested her head on his shoulder, a trust between them that they’d always respect each other and strive to be better.

taglist: @ladyatwalmart @lilfreakjez @starkeyslutzz @maiya-16 @neonuserlforce

[idk-void]

the bastard & the clown

★ P A I R I N G ★ boxer!rafe cameron x witty!barkeeper!reader + some platonic barry x reader

★ S U M M A R Y ★ you’re working a regular shift at the bar you run when rafe and barry drop by for a chill night out. but when a pair of men at the counter start running their mouths, rafe puts one specific bastard politely in his place.

★ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ★ rafe's pov, cursing / strong language, mild suggestive language and themes, (verbal) themes of toxic masculinity/sexism/misogyny/domestic violence/tradwife, semi jealous!rafe, also flustered!rafe hihihi, physical violence (a punch) & mentions of blood

★ W O R D C O U N T ★ 6.4k+ (it was supposed to be 3k help)

★ A / N ★ been wanting to introduce this duo in a while now and thought they could fit @zyafics campaign. also, thought it'd be ironic if rafe got to put some asshole in his place who basically represents some of these twisted versions of him. a lot longer than intended but i got a little carried away. also only proofread twice so pls don't mind any context mistakes. anyway, hope you guys enjoy and lmk what you think <3

ps: idk if it gets clear throughout the fic (or the title hahahah) but each man at the counter is assigned a term. so don't get confused, 'clown' always refers to one guy and 'bastard' to the other.

xx ᓚᘏᗢ

R. C. M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

"Ahhh, now I get why you insisted on coming here, Country Club," Barry said with a fuckass grin as the bar’s wooden entrance door swung shut behind them.

The two of them just came back from a boxing session, freshly showered, and now in need of some time out.

Rafe followed that idiot's gaze, a scowl already forming on his face.

The Bastard’s Lighter was packed with a mixed crowd of shitty people, the air thick with smoke and the sharp bite of cheap whiskey. Round tables glowed under soft golden lighting, casting gentle shadows over laughing assholes and clusters of sweet girls beneath them.

Some of those girls had even turned their heads when the two of them walked in, flashing Rafe pretty smiles and giggles in their cute little summer dresses (god, how he loved this season for exactly that). They were probably hoping he’d come over and talk to one of them.

But he didn't give a shit about them.

Why should he? Because at the far end of the room, the bar awaited—a silver-lit, crescent-shaped counter with high stools offering seats with the view on the best part of this entire place.

You.

The hot bartender with the cheeky laugh and teasing smiles, the one who could outdrink any bastard who dared challenge you.

Or better: the girl Rafe had come here for tonight.

That scowl threatening to creep onto his face quickly disappeared, replaced by a faint smile and softened gaze.

"Come on, loverboy," Barry chuckled, clapping a hand on Rafe’s shoulder and nudging him forward. "Don’t wanna keep your lady waiting. Might be some other slick bastard trying his luck.”

And the scowl was right back.

Rafe turned around with a tilt of his head, eyes squinted, a crooked smile playing on his lips as he tapped Barry’s chest. “You fucker behave tonight, alright?”

“Me?” Barry raised his brows in mock innocence, shaking his head with an amused snort. “Dunno what you’re trynna tell me here, big boy, but I’m just here to drink and enjoy your delightful company. I ain’t ever—“

“Just keep count of your fucking drinks, yeah?”, Rafe said, brows furrowed as he held Barry's stupid grin. “You falling from the stool tonight, I’ll leave you there. I'm not dealing with the same shit as last time.”

Shit, Rafe had been so close to getting your number—hell, you’d already pulled out your cute little notepad and pen, that teasing glint in your eyes, the first two digits already written down—and then swamp rat Barry ruined this one-in-a-million chance by almost throwing up on the counter.

Idiot hadn't just embarrassed himself, trying to drink a dockworker the size of a bear under the table, but Rafe as well. And right in front of you on top of that.

Barry was lucky Rafe had even let him tag along tonight. He would’ve preferred bringing Kelce this time—that idiot at least knew how to be a decent wingman—but he was on some kind of detox bullshit and wouldn’t go near fast food or booze right now.

Barry let out a lazy chuckle. “Not my fault for—“

“I don’t give a shit”, Rafe cut him off, passive-aggressively fixing the crease he’d caused on Barry's tank top with a one-sided smile. “Don’t act like a clown, and I won’t treat you like one. Can’t be that hard, right?”

For a moment Barry just eyed him, mouth tugged into a downward smile, then he raised his hands in surrender. “A’right, a’right, Country Club. Relax your balls.” He nodded toward the bar. “Now get ya fancy ass movin', ya girl's been eyeing the wrong guy the past five minutes.”

Shit, what.

Rafe’s head snapped around.

Aw, hell no, fuck that.

There you were, a few meters down, chatting with some greasy fucker in his late forties, dressed in a cheap-ass Suitsupply suit (yeah, Rafe could smell that offense from across the room). And it wasn’t just one bastard you were serving with that practiced little smile—knowing full well they were disgusting pricks but also well aware you could squeeze some good profit out of them—but another one of this breed sat right beside him.

Rafe only saw the backs of their heads in those terrible excuses for suits, but he could still make out the balding patches from over here (not to mention the probably receding hairlines). He didn’t need to see their faces to know exactly how they were looking at you—lecherous grins and eyes creeping over places they had no business looking.

He knew their type. He'd seen men like these at business events of his dad.

Middle-class managers leading some irrelevant departments at some irrelevant company selling irrelevant shit. And when they weren’t sitting in their sad little three-square-meter offices, drinking bad coffee and pretending their phone calls were presidential briefings, they hit up country clubs and bars, puffing cigars and sipping whiskey, trying to make up for their miserable little lives by gathering in their self-proclaimed alpha circles.

And the worst part? They probably had a sweet wife and kids waiting at home, but instead chose to sit at a bar ogling the boobs and butt of a bartender in her twenties.

Pathetic losers.

Rafe's fingers were already twitching as he followed after Barry. And of course, as lucky as he was, only three stools left at the bar. Right next to those wannabe CEOs.

Fucking great.

Barry plopped down next to some sweet girl while Rafe had no choice but to sit down beside one of the pricks—at least one stool of space between them.

He would’ve loved nothing more than to just chase them off, but he didn’t wanna cause a scene in front of you. And, judging by the stack of glasses in front of them, you were at least making decent money off these pricks.

Besides, he knew you could handle yourself if you needed to. No reason to question that.

“Be right with you, boys,” you said with a cheeky grin, not even looking up as you mixed one of the losers a Jack & Coke (a pathetic drink for a pathetic clown).

God, but the way you worked the bottles so smoothly, not spilling a single drop. Rafe could watch you behind the bar for hours, soaking up your energy and that laugh.

“No worries, Boss,” Barry called back, matching your grin and already reaching for a peanut bowl next to him. “Got allll the time in the world.”

That stupid-ass nickname of his even made you laugh, making a soft smile creep onto Rafe’s face too.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” the clown next to Rafe slurred, voice already half gone, as you slid the glass toward him (Rafe could feel his blood pressure spike the second that fucker tried sneaking a look down your top).

You let out a light breath, pulling the drink back with a raised brow. “Aww, didn’t you see? ‘Sweetheart’ isn’t on the menu. Unless you’re cool with paying ten bucks for it every time.”

The clown had the audacity to gasp. “What? No way. Not happening.”

“Shame,” you said, pretending to pout. “You looked like a guy who could afford it.” You shrugged and started pulling the drink back again. “But I guess I was wrong—”

“I am!” the guy cut in, nodding like a maniac. “CEO of Bulk & Bloom. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

Rafe almost burst out laughing. That fuckass health/gym/whatever store Kelce swore by? That's what he was CEO of? Most embarrassing shit Rafe had heard all month.

You tilted your head with a pondering expression, face all scrunched up like you were desperately trying to remember the sad little company he worked at (god, the way you played that clown, milking him for cash—shit was so fucking hot).

"Oh, yeah, I remember now," you finally said, fluttering your lashes at the stupid fucker (Rafe knew it was all an act, but that little gesture still stirred something vile in him). "Then I’m all the more confident that a man in such an important position won't mind coughing up a few extra bucks, right?" Without waiting for that pathetic clown's response, you slid the drink across the counter toward him, your voice slipping back into your true tone. "Just leave it on the bill later, sweetheart."

As soon as you turned to face Rafe and Barry, Rafe straightened up, unable to hide a smile as your pretty eyes landed on him for a second—

—before your gaze fell on swamp rat Barry.

“B!” A wide grin spread across your face as you leaned against the lower bar with one hand, the other resting on your hip. “Good to see you. You recovered from last time? Looked pretty rough.”

Acting as if Rafe wasn't here. Ha. Funny. Fucking hilarious.

Barry nodded, swallowing a handful of peanuts. “Sure as hell did, Boss. Shouldn’t have mixed my drinks so heavy.”

You chuckled, a sweet sound Rafe wished had been directed at him. "Nah, you shouldn't have participated in a drinking game with Big Ol' Hank."

“Could’ve warned me about the guy’s skills. Man’s a bear,” Barry said, shaking his head with a lopsided smile.

You turned and pointed toward a portrait on the wall behind you—a big, grumpy-looking dude. Below him, a golden plaque read: Keeper of the Lighter since 1977. His fire never died, and neither did his thirst.

“I’m pretty sure that should've been warning enough,” you replied, amused, as you turned back to them, nodding toward Rafe. “Lucky your boyfriend walked you home that night. Would’ve been a real shame to find you washed up dead on the shore the next morning.”

"Fucker's not my boyfriend", Rafe said.

With a raised brow, you finally spared him a glance, that cheeky smile playing on your lips. “You sure? You two come in here every week, giggling like schoolgirls over god-knows-what, drinking the same kind of beer, and now you even got matching buzzcuts.” A chuckle escaped you. “Surprised you’re not wearing each other’s names around your wrists.”

Fuck that.

Rafe had the buzzcut first and a week later fucking Barry decided to chop off his hair too, for whatever fucking reason.

The worst part? You might actually believe Rafe was taken now.

“Boy’s lips probably taste like shit from kissing his daddy’s ass,” Barry said before Rafe could reply, and the fucker was lucky Rafe didn’t deck him right then and there. "Ain't wanna get involved with that mess."

Not a wingman. A fucking clipman, cutting off any chance Rafe might’ve had with you.

“I’m not—” Rafe started with a deep frown, but shut his mouth when some girl at the far end of the bar called your name.

“Coming!” you called back, then turned to Rafe with a teasing little smile in your eyes. “Sorry, Ralph, no time for—”

"Rafe."

“Right. Anyway,” you said, grabbing your notepad and pen from your waist. “The usual, I assume? Two Modelos?”

Barry nodded and motioned to the empty peanut bowl. “And refill this, would you?”

“For you, always,” you said grinning, scribbling something down, then looked up at Rafe with an expectant expression. “And you, handsome?”

Rafe blinked.

Wait, what.

Shit, why the fuck did he feel his cheeks heat up and why the fuck did you eye him like that? Like you were staring straight into his damn soul.

Rafe let out a baffled chuckle, scratching his jaw with furrowed brows. "Uh, PBR this time."

“Oh, feeling adventurous today, I see,” you teased with a grin, jotting it down. You quickly refilled Barry’s snack bowl and left with a “Be right back.”

Rafe’s eyes trailed after you, drinking up the way your hips swayed as you walked—sweet yet confident. That whole attitude of yours… shit was driving him absolutely crazy.

After Wheezie, you were probably the coolest girl Rafe had ever met. Always so unbothered, quick-witted, cheeky, and with the perfect flirt-to-roast ratio.

And Rafe still hadn't bagged you. Shit was starting to get embarrassing.

"Boy's in love."

Rafe’s gaze snapped to Barry, who was watching him with a way too shit-eating grin for someone who’d just narrowly avoided a punch to the face.

“You know if you’re trying to get your ass beat tonight, you’re on the right track,” Rafe said, tilting his head with a crooked smile.

Barry just chuckled and reached for another peanut, but Rafe grabbed the shitty-ass bowl and moved it out of reach.

“I’m serious, dude,” he said, gesturing to his chest with both hands. “Told you not to clown around tonight, and you go spouting bullshit like I’m not right here.”

Like, what the fuck was that ass-kissing comment about? Seriously.

“What?” Barry raised a brow, grinning as he leaned on the counter. “Don’t tell me Country Club’s scared I’ll shoo away his girl.”

More like cockblocking Rafe but yeah, same fucking thing.

“All I’m fucking saying is—” Rafe started, but Barry waved him off before he could finish.

"You’ve already almost won the race, bro, a’right," he said with that fuckass smile, jerking his thumb back toward where you were chatting with some other chick. "You think Little Miss Bar Queen would bother exchanging more than just your order with you if she didn’t already consider you rocking her world, at least a little?"

For a second, Rafe just stared at the idiot.

Could that be true? Were you actually interested in Rafe? Sure, you’d been cool enough to (almost) give him your number last time, but not even remembering his fucking name now… that shit felt like a punch straight to the gut.

Okay, shit, yeah, of course, you served all kinds of people every day, some shittier than others, and of course, there were guys in the mix who liked you just as much as Rafe did. A blind man could see how fucking gorgeous you were.

And of fucking course you'd flirt back. That’s just how you were. And as much as it gnawed at Rafe’s chest, as much as it stirred something deep and ugly in his gut, it wasn’t all that unlikely that you gave your number out to other guys too.

But swamp rat Barry claiming Rafe actually had a shot with you? That shit lit something in him. A wave of energy crashing through him, almost feeling as good as snorting a line (yeah yeah, Rafe was clean now, but the comparison still fit).

Shit, okay, so maybe he needed a new approach. Maybe he just had to—

"--beat up my wife if she'd dared talk to me like that", the bastard beside the clown said loud enough for Rafe to hear.

Shit, what the fuck?

"I'm serious," the bastard continued his bullshit, talking to the clown. "You let every woman talk to you like that, and pretty soon they start thinking they own you. When in reality, it's the other way around, ain't it?"

The clown nodded, letting out a sigh. “Yeah, yeah I guess you’re right, Tommy, I just—“

“What’s with the scowl, bro?” Barry said, ripping Rafe out of the retarded convo next to him. “Tried cheering your sulky ass up and here you are—“

Rafe shushed him with a wave, brows deeply furrowed. “Shut the fuck up for one second.”

"Man, am I glad I'm not your boyfriend," Barry muttered, reaching over to pull his snack bowl back and skimming the menu.

Fuckass.

“—that’s why it’s important to put them in their place, alright?”, the bastard continued preaching. “Women want someone they can follow. It’s natural they seek a man who protects them and cares for them.” He tapped the counter aggressively. “Wonder why there are no female presidents yet? Exactly! We are born leaders.”

Oh, Rafe was this close to getting up and smashing that fucker in the face, knocking a few teeth out, and giving him a pretty little black eye to match. His knuckles were still warm from earlier, would be a shame not to put that last burst of energy to use.

But nah.

He held himself back. Now he was curious. Let that asshole keep talking. Maybe he was witnessing the dumbest fucker in world history present himself right here, and Rafe wasn’t about to miss that celebration.

"Guess that makes sense," the clown slurred, swirling his half-empty Jack & Coke. "Harris is always bitching about me getting home late and not helping with the chores. I think I just gotta remind her of her role in this family, right?"

The bastard knocked on the wooden counter, a filthy chuckle escaping his lips. "You get it, man! She's working remote, right? So what's she complaining about? Got all the time in the world to prep the house for when you get home."

Rafe's blood boiled just beneath the surface. He hadn't heard this level of fucked-up nonsense in a LONG time. Last time, some cocky little shit at the boxing club thought he had a chance against Rafe. Like, was there something in the air lately making people extra fucking stupid?

The clown sighed, staring into his drink. "I just don't know how to—"

"Okay, beautifuls, sorry it took so long." The sweet sound of your voice yanked Rafe out of this retard bubble. "Former high school friend decided to say hi."

With a soft thud, you placed two bottles of beer in front of the guys. The Modelo you slid over to Barry. "Here you go, B." And the PBR to Rafe, a bolt of lightning surging through him as you winked at him. "And this one for his cute boyfriend." You leaned back, drying your hands on the rag at your hip. "Anything else?"

Rafe blinked.

Cute!

Shit, why did that make the funniest feeling arise in his chest? He felt like some schoolgirl going insane over her crush.

Get a fucking grip, dude. Jesus.

"Get his fancy ass some ice," Barry mumbled, mouth full of peanuts, thumbing toward Rafe. "Boy decided to go gloveless at training today. Now he's hurting but too proud to admit it."

Rafe was gonna kill Barry the moment they stepped outside. Sure, his knuckles were still throbbing, but he wasn't hurt. What the fuck was that swamp rat even on?

Your soft chuckle melted Rafe's scowl, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Yeah? Wanna let me take a closer look when I'm done here? I'm sure you could use someone to tape that up after such a session."

Oh?

A breathy laugh escaped Rafe as he raised a brow, nerves buzzing under his skin. "What, you some kind of part-time sports therapist or some shit?"

"No, but my aunt is," you said with a grin, tilting your head. "Picked up a few things from her. And I'm guessing it's real tough to reach your back on your own."

Fuck yeah. Now Rafe had officially been allowed in the ring.

"Alright," he said, smiling crookedly, fingers picking at the beer label. "When's your shift over?"

"As soon as the place closes down," you replied, grinning. "Guess you'll have to stick around for a few more hours."

Oh, you could bet your sweet little ass he would.

Rafe shrugged, corners of his mouth tugging down as he shook his head lightly. "I'm free." Then mirrored your grin. "Seats here are kinda shit, but I guess the view makes up for it."

And the genuine laugh that escaped your usually bold mouth felt like snorting three lines in a row (nah, fr, Rafe was clean, alright).

"Okay, then," you said, nodding at the beers. "If you need anything else, just holler. Got other customers to tend to."

With that, you spun your cheeky ass around and walked down to the other side of the bar where some old ladies were sitting.

"Shiiit, dude," Barry said with the biggest grin ever, gulping down a sip of his shitty-ass Modelo. "I think I just third-wheeled some telepathic sex right here. Might as well thank me for giving ya the nudge."

Rafe scoffed with a shake of his head, taking a sip of his PBR and immediately regretting his choice of beer. "You can thank me for not beating the shit out of you later."

A giggle left Barry's lips and whatever smart-ass reply he threw back, Rafe didn't register, because right next to him, three seats down, he caught the bastard tossing another comment to his clown friend.

"See, Frank, and that girl right there?" Oh, that fucker meant you, huh. "Pitiful. Probably no man at home to teach her not to swing her ass around other men in public. Sad what girls are turning into."

"Say that again." Rafe had now fully turned toward the two sorry-ass losers, head leaning forward, eyes locked on the bastard behind the clown.

Both looked up. The clown blinked, confused. The bastard raised a brow like he couldn’t believe someone had just interrupted their little alpha circle jerk.

"Sorry?" the bastard said, eyeing Rafe up and down like he was sizing up if the boy in a polo and shorts deserved to be taken seriously.

Rafe nodded, letting out a sharp scoff. "Yeah, you're gonna be sorry if you open that fucking mouth of yours one more time."

The bastard's face scrunched up and in that moment he seemed to decide Rafe was beneath him. "Boy, best not get involved in things that don't concern you."

That’s when Rafe knew for sure: this asshole was getting punched tonight. Just a matter of when.

"Bullshit’s spilling out of you like this place is a fucking stable," Rafe replied with a crooked smile. "So yeah, it does concern me when your shit's reeking all the way to my seat."

The clown was already sinking into his stool, but the bastard apparently thought Rafe was the joke here. He let out a disbelieving breath, not even looking at Rafe anymore as he turned to the clown, gesturing in Rafe’s direction. “See that, Frank? That’s what happens when a father doesn’t raise his son right. His mother was probably—”

“Finish that sentence, and your loser friend can go ahead and reserve you a hospital bed.” Rafe’s voice had dropped to a low edge, his expression far too calm for how close he was to dragging that fucker’s face across the counter.

The fucking audacity—not just dragging you and his dad through the mud, but now even throwing Rafe’s dead mother in too?

“Rafe, bro, come on,” Barry said from behind. “Idiots like him ain’t worth it.”

But Rafe spared him no mind, gaze fixed on the bastard three seats down.

The clown of the duo just looked between them, then down at his sad little Jack & Coke like he hadn’t just sat in the middle of all this shit, like he hadn’t co-signed every word his bastard friend had said. (Don’t worry—Rafe would deal with his sorry ass later.)

“I know your type, boy,” the bastard went on, eyeing Rafe’s clothes again (if only he knew Rafe owned socks that cost more than his entire outfit). “Dropped out of school, probably had some rebellious phase, and of course no real man around to beat you into shape. What a shame. Society’s raised nothing but soft little men these days.”

Rafe tilted his head slightly, brows raised in mock confusion. “Funny hearing that from a pathetic loser like you. Talking about ‘real men’ like you even qualify.”

As soon as the bastard started laughing, Rafe was on his feet, brushing off Barry's hand as he stepped around the clown. He let out an amused breath and rubbed his jaw with a shake of his head as he came to a stop in front of the bastard. "Not sure what's so funny about that."

The drunk clown nearly tripped over himself pushing himself off the stool, mumbling something about needing to piss as he staggered away. The bastard only furrowed his brow, watching his loser friend stumble off.

“What do you know about being a man?” he spat, turning back to Rafe, the wrinkles in his face bunching up like worn-out leather. He nodded toward Barry. “Your friend’s a pogue by the looks of it, and you...” His eyes dropped to Rafe’s sneakers. “Either the same breed or some kook who lost his crown.”

What the actual fuck was even going on in this fucker's brain? Fucking apes had more relevant shit to say than him.

"Yeah, talking reaal big for a guy with a knockoff Armani suit two sizes too big for a small fucker like you," Rafe snorted, eyeing the bastard down for a second. "Suit's fake, Rolex fake, shoes look like you got 'em from TKMinimum, and what's that?"

Rafe let out a disbelieving scoff, raising his brows as he gestured toward the fucker's feet. "Socks matching the color of your cheap-ass suit. Lemme guess: trying to appear taller to compensate for your poor little ego and tiny cock. I mean, shit", Rafe ran a hand over his buzzed hair, grinning crookedly as his gaze zeroed in on the guy’s forehead, "Even your fucking hairline’s running away from the bullshit coming out of your mouth."

Sure, Rafe could've given him some preaching about how to treat women and how fucking stupid his fuckass worldview was but that idiot was too far gone already and the only way to put him in his place was to question his entire appearance.

That's what guys like him actually cared about. Not morals, not decency, just how they appeared in public and whether everyone saw just how glorious and wealthy they were.

And the way that pathetic loser looked at Rafe now? Worth more than all the silver, gold, or diamonds in the entire damn world.

And then the cherry on top: your chuckle from behind the bastard—light and effortless, like the ring of a bell announcing Rafe's victory after a boxing match.

Rafe hadn't even noticed you coming up but now he felt like a fucking winner getting to put a fucker like that in his place in front of you AND getting that sweet sound out of you for the second time tonight.

And then, that bastard made the biggest fucking mistake of his entire pitiful life.

He turned his head back, eyes daring to look you over as he let out a disdainful scoff. When he made a hushing motion with his hand, he said "Do me a favor, woman, and--"

Rafe’s fist collided with the asshole’s face, a sickening crack echoing through the air—nearly as satisfying as your chuckle just right now.

The guy let out a sharp gasp as he stumbled back from his stool, hands flying up to his broken nose just in time to catch the blood now spilling over his fingers and lips. He crashed chest-first onto the seat next to him, bleeding all over the supposedly precious leather cushion.

The area around the bar went dead silent, except for a group of girls giggling about something in the back and fucking Nickelback playing on the speakers.

Rafe quietly met your gaze as he rubbed at his throbbing knuckles, while the bastard on the floor dramatically moaned like he’d been shot instead of just having his nose broken.

And you cheeky little thing only raised your eyebrows at Rafe, the faintest smile playing on your lips. “I’m pretty sure the house rules say no fights.”

Oh, how much Rafe loved that glimmer in your eyes.

"And I'm pretty sure it needs two for a fight", Rafe replied with a scoff and gestured to the sorry-ass loser clutching onto the stool. "Bastard's nowhere near to even be considered a walking vendor for a match, let alone a contestant."

“Shit, Country Club, this ain’t no damn boxing ring,” Barry chimed in with a chuckle, tossing the bleeding bastard a wad of tissues onto the stool beside him. “Bro, you’re staining the seats.”

The groaning bastard finally pushed himself up and knocked the tissues off the stool, one hand clutched to his nose, blood running through his fingers and dripping onto his knockoff suit and cheap-ass shoes.

Aww, and even a bloodshot eye—how unfortunate.

Now that was a picture worthy of being framed behind the bar. Gold plaque underneath: Biggest Retard in the Universe (since birth probably).

“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer, you little shit,” the bastard groaned, eyes watery from the punch, glaring at Rafe with a face so twisted, he looked like he was mid-way through busting the world’s saddest nut.

Rafe almost let out a giggle. Instead, he just nodded, lips curled. “Looking forward to it. Be so kind and address it straight to Thornton LLP, yeah?” And on the bastard’s delightfully baffled expression, Rafe piled on: “A very busy man, but if he sees my name on the envelope, I’m sure you’ll get priority.”

The bastard’s jaw clenched, and he let out another theatrical groan. “And that would be?”

“Rafe Cameron.”

Boom.

That was when it finally clicked in that baboon brain of his. Face pale, eyes wide as he realized just how far beneath Rafe he actually was in this little imaginary hierarchy of his. Fucker looked close to either pissing himself or throwing up just thinking about how expensive his own lawyer would be if he actually pulled through with his complaint.

A crooked smile played on Rafe’s lips as he raised his brows. “Need me to write it down for you?”

The bastard just stared blankly at him, and shit, even had the nerve to look over Rafe’s clothes again, like he couldn’t believe some dude in a basic polo and shorts was the CEO of Cameron Estates and Ward Cameron’s son.

“A'right, my guy,” Barry said, pushing off from his stool and grabbing the bastard’s shoulder. “Guess that was ya cue to leave. Pretty sure ya got plenty of paperwork waiting back at home now.”

“Get your filthy hands off me,” the bastard spat, shoving Barry’s hand away—and that alone nearly made Rafe punch him again, give him a matching bruise on the other side. “Fucking pogue. Thinks he has any say around here.”

“No, but I do.” Your voice rang out from behind the bar, hands braced on the lower ledge, an amused smile on your face. “Looks like you should call it a night, mister.” Grin deepening. “Not before you pay, though. For you and your sweetheart of a husband, of course.”

Barry said something like “I’ll get him, Boss,” and strolled off toward the restrooms.

The bastard’s chest rose and fell, face as red as the blood on it. “Back in my day, a bitch like you—”

“Shiiit, man,” Rafe chuckled low, grabbing the fucker by the shoulder and patting his chest. “You’re really asking for it right now, huh?”

Oh, and Rafe drank in that anger and fear in the guy’s eyes up like liquid coke, too scared to shove Rafe off.

Rafe nodded toward you with a crooked grin. “You’re gonna apologize to the nice lady now, pay for the drinks you and your loser buddy have downed, and then get your pathetic asses outta here.” He raised his brows with a smile. “Sound good?”

Bastard already opened his mouth but Rafe shook his head, tapping his chest with a finger, grip on his shoulder getting just a little firmer. “You’re lucky if all that bullshit earlier was just talk. Otherwise, I’m sure the cops would love a chat with that wife you bragged about beating.”

That silenced that fucker very quickly.

Rafe raised his eyebrows, waiting. “I mean, unless you need a second reminder—”

“I-I’m sorry”, the bastard blurted out.

“Nah,” Rafe said with a shake of his head, gesturing from himself to you. “Don’t tell me that shit. Apologize to her.”

A chuckle escaped your lips as the bastard finally met your gaze, brows scrunched into a pained grimace. “I’m sorry.”

Rafe let out an amused breath, clapping the bastard’s chest. “Shit, see? Easy. Now you do the same shit at home and question your morals and maybe hell’s promoting your room just a level.”

And the fact that that was apparently the scariest idea to this asshole? Not surprising. Guys like him always preached about God and then used it as an excuse for all the shit they did.

“There ya go,” Barry said as he came back in, dragging the drunk clown from earlier along. By the looks and stench of him, he’d just thrown up. “Now go over there and give the lady a generous tip, a’right?”

He did. Both of these fuckers, as a matter of fact.

Rafe and Barry both watched over their shoulders as each of the two reluctantly pulled out a $200 bill (surprised they even had those—then again, probably received them at some sad little business anniversary).

You flashed a big smile as you accepted that 60% tip. “Thanks, dearies. Hope you had a fun night.”

Rafe didn’t even let them respond, just politely kicked the bastard toward the door while Barry dragged the clown along after him.

Outside, the same clown stumbled forward and hit the pavement, landing on hands and knees in a puddle after Barry gave him a friendly shove. “Shit, bro, nobody told you the South Side ain’t no place for suits?”

“Don't think those cheap-ass knockoffs even deserve that term,” Rafe scoffed, then nodded at Barry to head back in. He didn’t want to spend another second around these losers.

Shit felt like a stain on Rafe’s evening.

Back at the bar, they were greeted by a bucket of soapy water, a pair of old gloves, and a sponge. The vibe in the place? Completely back to normal.

“You made the mess, you clean it,” you said firmly with your arms crossed—very clearly talking to Rafe only. Then, with that familiar amusement back in your voice, you added, “Want me to grab you an apron too?”

Rafe chuckled, mouth twitching into a downward grin. “You’d love that, huh?”

Oh, and that cheeky little laugh you let out? Priceless.

You tossed the rag in your hand over your shoulder, shrugging. “Nothing hotter than watching a man do chores.”

Honestly? For you, he’d probably even get on his knees and scrub the floor in an apron if you asked for it.

Fucking shit. What.

Alright, Barry had definitely hit Rafe too hard in today’s training. Now it was catching up to him, frying his brain into thinking shit like that.

“Yeah, nah,” Rafe said with a strained chuckle, running a hand over his buzzed hair. “I got this.”

A laugh slipped from your lips, nodding. “Alright. You two enjoy the rest of your night. I’ve got guests to take care of.”

“Wait!” Rafe called after you just as you were turning to leave. “Your offer—it still stands, right?”

Geez, what the fuck was up with his voice? Suddenly almost desperate. Even fucking Barry chuckled beside him.

And you? You just shot Rafe that signature teasing smile of yours, flashing your white teeth as a chuckle escaped you that made Rafe’s stomach tingle in all the right ways.

“The stool won’t clean itself, boxer boy,” you said, then turned that sweet ass of yours around and walked over to some new guests at a table in the back.

Was that a yes?

Shit, that had to be a yes. Otherwise, you’d have said No, right? Right???

"A'right bro, you have fun cleaning that shit up", Barry said as he patted Rafe's shoulder. "I'll go have a chit chat with the lady that's been eyeing me the whole night."

Rafe grimaced. "That just some bullshit excuse to dip?"

As much as Barry pissed him off, he did fuck with his ass. And now he wanted to bail after Rafe had allowed him to come along? The fuck was that.

Barry chuckled. “Ain’t goin’ far, Country Club. See,” he pointed toward a smiley redhead near the entrance—one of the girls who had turned around earlier. “I’ll be just around the corner. No need to panic about being orphaned." He smiled lazily. "Besides, I’ve had enough of third-wheeling ya and Little Miss Bar Queen eye-fucking each other.”

Fuckass.

Fine. Let him dip.

Rafe furrowed his brows and waved Barry off with a flick of his hand. “Aight. Go do your thing, then.”

After the swamp rat called Barry had strutted off, Rafe eyed the cleaning supplies on the bar with a deep frown. Never in his life had he cleaned up after anyone, let alone himself. Probably would’ve been easier to just buy a brand new damn barstool and maybe some new floor panels than to stand here looking like a damn idiot.

He could already picture the headlines if anyone actually cared enough to report it:

Rafe Cameron, CEO of Cameron Estates and local boxing champ, ready to start a new career path as cleaning lady? Inquiries welcome.

Yeah, whatever.

A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

And right now? That meant cleaning up the mess he’d made in your bar.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he walked up to the counter, stepping around the small crusted pool of blood on the floor (the bastard had bled like a goddamn pig for someone with just a broken nose).

And when Rafe stretched his fingers out to pull the gloves on, his heart skipped a beat as he spotted a little note. Torn straight from your notepad, by the looks of it.

He expected to find some numbers written on them but this was even better.

Rafe stared at the note for a solid minute, eyes locked on your pretty handwriting, lingering on the way you’d written his name.

Then, carefully, he folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket.

And just like that, the biggest motherfucking grin spread across his lips, feeling like he’d won the second round tonight.

If he played the cards right, the third was just right around the corner—set on a private stage reserved for just the two of you.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒄𝒂𝒕 ᨐฅ 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

R. C. M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M

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[idk-void]

CALLING RAFE BY HIS GOVERNMENT NAME

SUMMARY : you call Rafe by his government name to see how he’d react and he basically goes through five stages of grief.

A/N: I had to make up a middle name and Henry sounded pretty Kook to me. Also I tried to make it funny but also Rafe-like as possible 😌

You sit at the edge of his bed, arms crossed, gaze fixed firmly on him. You haven’t smiled in ten minutes—not even when he muttered, “What is this, an interrogation?”

You just blinked.

And then you’d said it.

“Rafael Henry Cameron.”

He stopped mid-step like you sniped him. Now he’s doing that thing where he overthinks everything but refuses to admit it.

You glance up just in time to see his jaw tighten. He turns slowly, trying to play it cool, but his eyes are already giving him away—guarded, sharp, flickering with ‘what the hell did I do?’

“Okay,” he finally says, “why’d you say it like that?”

You don’t answer.

Stage One: Denial.

“I didn’t do anything.” He says it with full confidence, hands up like he’s innocent until proven guilty. “You’re messing with me. I know you are.”

You raise an eyebrow, still silent.

Stage Two: Deflection.

“Why do you even know my middle name?” He squints. “Did my sister tell you? Was it Wheezie? I’m blocking her.”

Stage Three: Bribery.

“Alright. You want something? A shopping trip? Dinner anywhere. I’ll even go to that overpriced candle store with you and pretend to care.”

Still, you stay quiet, arms still folded, and watch him squirm.

Stage Four: Guilt.

“Okay, seriously,” he mutters, pacing again, voice lower. “If I forgot something, just say it. You know I’m not good at this—this emotional decoding crap. Just… don’t go quiet on me. I hate that.”

Still nothing. He’s unraveling. Deliciously.

Stage Five: Unhinged affection.

Rafe walks over, crowding into your space. His hands go to your waist, pulling you closer, his nose brushing the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent like you’re his precious cocaine.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” he says, voice dangerously low. “But don’t pull that tone again unless you’re gonna follow through and punish me properly, baby.”

You finally crack a smile. Just a little.

He notices instantly. “Oh my god. You were messing with me?”

You shrug, innocent. “Maybe.”

He pulls back, his eyes flashing with both betrayal and amusement. “You’re evil. I went through the five stages of grief in ten minutes.”

“You were very dramatic.”

“I was ready to propose.”

You grin. “I know.”

He leans in, brushing his lips by your ear. “You do that again, I’m never letting you leave my bed.”

You finally laugh and tilt your head with that twinkle in your eyes that makes Rafe feel like he’s been shot in the chest.

“Is that a promise?”

⭐️JJ’S VERSION⭐️

[idk-void]

Can you do more of reader x rafe that involve Sofia.

Calm down || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

gif by @tetragonia

Summary: basically based off this scene in s4 ep 2 but ofc including reader

Warnings: none rlly!!

Word count: 1,986

MASTERLIST

The music was too loud, the air was too thick, and the vodka in your cup wasn’t nearly strong enough to make any of this bearable. “So… how have you and him been?” Ruthie asked, her tone loaded despite the way she lazily twirled the straw in her drink.

You rolled your eyes, already annoyed at the direction this conversation was heading. “Rafe and I?” you echoed, lifting your glass and swirling the half-melted ice like it was the most interesting thing in the world. “Haven’t talked to him since that bonfire a month ago.”

Your voice was clipped, tone dismissive, but Ruthie was looking at you too closely. The kind of look only a friend who’s seen you at your worst would know how to give. You hated it. “I’m just so over it,” you added quickly, hoping it sounded convincing.

“Can’t believe he stooped that low,” she muttered, snorting into her drink. “A pogue, seriously?” You didn’t answer, but your jaw tensed slightly. You gave a loose shrug, feigning indifference. Like it didn’t burn every time you heard his name. Like you didn’t still dream about that night—his hands, his mouth, the way he said your name like it meant something.

The sound of laughter and shouting swelled around you, and you looked up just in time to see Topper sink a perfect shot into the last cup on the beer pong table. His friends exploded in cheers. “Let’s go, baby!” Topper bellowed, arms thrown up in drunken victory.

Ruthie squealed and immediately threw her arms around her boyfriend in exaggerated celebration “Oh man,” Topper slurred as he staggered over to the two of you, a goofy grin plastered on his flushed face. “It’s just a little harmless celebration, right?” You couldn’t help but laugh at how absolutely wrecked he already was.

“Oh, absolutely. You need another beer.” Topper laughed, leaning heavily against you. He slung an arm around your shoulder, the scent of cologne and whatever he spilled on himself earlier clinging to his shirt. “You know me so well, Y/n. Fuck, I love you.”

You rolled your eyes but let him kiss your head anyway, playing along like always. Ruthie giggled beside you, probably just as tipsy but much better at hiding it. Then—“Hey!” The loud voice cut through the buzz of conversation, music, and drunken laughter. You turned instinctively, and your entire body went stiff.

Rafe. Making his way toward the group with that same confident swagger like he owned the place. Your stomach dropped. “Yeah, my brother!” Topper hollered, practically leaping forward as the two of them pulled each other into a half-hug, half-clap-on-the-back. “There he is! How are you, baby?”

Rafe actually lifted Topper slightly off the ground before setting him down again, both of them laughing like this was any other night. Like everything was normal. You fought the eye-roll threatening to escape and instead focused on sipping your drink. Then Ruthie nudged you sharply.

You glanced at her and followed her gaze. Sofia. Standing just a few feet behind Rafe. Hair perfectly curled, but her posture stiff—like she knew she didn’t belong but was pretending otherwise. Her eyes darted around the crowd before finally landing on you. She gave you a small, awkward smile.

You stared for a second too long before mustering the fakest smile you could manage and looking away. Arms crossing tightly over your chest. “Of course she’s here,” you muttered under your breath, venom lacing every word. Ruthie raised her brows and leaned in. “I swear she follows him around like a lost puppy.”

You didn’t respond, because when you glanced back at Rafe—he was already looking at you. The smirk was gone now. No bravado, no cockiness. Just that unreadable look he’d perfected. The one that made you wonder if he regretted everything… or nothing at all. “Hey,” he said quietly.

And that was enough to make you snap out of it. Without acknowledging him, you picked up your drink, turned on your heel, and walked away. “Wait,” Ruthie called, rushing to follow you. You didn’t stop. You didn’t want to deal with him. Not tonight. Not with Sofia hovering awkwardly in the background like some replacement you never agreed to.

He knew it pissed you off—seeing them together, acting like what the two of you had wasn’t even worth protecting. And the worst part? He brought her anyway. You made it to the bar, needing something stronger than the half-warm cocktail melting in your cup. You pushed your way through the cluster of sweaty Kooks and grabbed a beer from the tub of ice, popping it open with a sigh. Ruthie stood next to you, her eyes scanning the crowd with laser focus.

“God,” she muttered, leaning against the bar as she sipped her drink, “she stands out like a sore fucking thumb.” You followed her gaze. Sofia. She was lingering near Rafe, too close for comfort but still visibly uncomfortable. Her posture was tense, her smile unsure. She looked like she was trying to blend in, but everything about her screamed not from here.

You took a sip of your beer, eyes narrowing. “Yeah,” you muttered. “Wait—wait. Do you think he pays her to hang around?” Ruthie whispered, mischief dancing in her voice. But before you could even laugh, a sharp voice sliced through the bass-heavy music. “What did you say?” You both stopped. Looked up. The tone was unmistakable.

Rafe. He was standing near the entrance, voice raised, jaw locked, shoulders squared. Your chest tightened. “You got something to say?” He was talking to someone now—a girl who looked vaguely familiar. Local. Not a regular. Maybe a plus-one of a plus-one. Whatever he was, he clearly hadn’t learned one of the unspoken rules of Figure Eight: Don’t talk shit where Rafe Cameron can hear you.

“Hey, listen, if you want to say—” “Back off, Rafe!” The guy close by shoved him. Ruthie slapped her hand to her mouth. Your beer paused mid-sip. “Holy shit,” she gasped. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Just shook your head slowly. “Typical. Always picking a fight.” You took another swig as Rafe’s voice rose, chest heaving as he advanced.

“If you wanna whisper some bullshit behind my back, why don’t you say it to my face? I’m standing right here.” He stepped forward again, pointing aggressively. Topper lunged in, grabbing him by the shoulder with a grunt. “Rafe, chill, dude—” “You got something to say? Say it to my fucking face!” Rafe barked again, leaning in, slapping his own cheek like some unhinged invitation.

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Here come the theatrics.” Topper finally got a better grip, dragging him back slightly. Sofia hovered awkwardly nearby. Her face was blank, expression unreadable. When Rafe stumbled back, she stepped in and helped Topper steady him.

She said something to him—probably trying to calm him down—but you couldn’t hear over the shouting. Then, as if the chaos couldn’t escalate further, Rafe’s voice boomed again. “He was a great man!” You blinked. “Jesus Christ,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. “He’s spiralling,” Ruthie said, half in awe.

Before you could agree, the clatter of bottles jolted you. You turned just in time to see Rafe storming toward the bar—your bar. “Hey,” Sofia said behind him, her hand catching his arm, gentle. “Don’t listen to them,” she murmured. You weren’t even trying to eavesdrop. Not really. He wasn’t exactly being discreet.

“Don’t listen to them? Don’t listen to them?” he echoed bitterly. “Kind of hard when they do it in front of me. I mean, I expect that shit from the Cut—but not here.” You exchanged a quick look with Ruthie. There it was. The line.You could practically see it hit Sofia in real time—the flicker of something breaking in her face.

She recovered quickly, but not before you caught the sting in her eyes. “Shit,” Ruthie whispered. “He doesn’t even realise he just insulted her.” Topper reappeared like a storm-drenched lifeguard. “What is this bullshit, man?” Rafe asked, exasperated. “Who do you have at your party?” Rafe shook his head like a wet dog, pacing, seething.

“I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m just—getting a drink.” And that’s when it happened. As he turned, his eyes found you. Locked. He didn’t smirk. Didn’t look smug. Just stared. Something unreadable flickering beneath all the anger—something dangerous. You raised your brows but didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile.

Just took a slow sip of your beer, eyes never leaving his. Almost daring him to say something. He walked right past, close enough for your shoulders to nearly brush. Then Sofia stepped forward. Still lingering behind like she didn’t know where else to go. Her movements were stiff.

And when she looked up, her gaze met yours. It wasn’t awkward this time. It was deliberate. You stood there, holding her stare, bottle in hand. And then—Sofia started walking toward you. Ruthie leaned in, voice low. “Oh my god. Don’t tell me she’s about to start something.”

She stood beside you, just barely within arm’s reach, her presence cutting into the thick air around the bar like a cold gust through summer heat. You didn’t look at her at first—not until she said something. Not until she spoke. “How did you do it?” You paused mid-sip, the neck of the beer bottle still against your lips.

Slowly, you lowered it and turned your head, brows furrowing as your eyes met hers. “Do what?” you asked, voice even but laced with confusion. Sofia’s eyes didn’t move from Rafe—still visible a few feet away, his shoulders tense as he paced near the cooler, Topper doing damage control.

“Calm him down,” she replied, quiet but clear, the weight of the question hanging between you like smoke. You let out a short, disbelieving laugh through your nose. A snort, really. You and Ruthie turned to each other instinctively—your best friend’s eyes wide, eyebrows raised, lips twitching in amused disbelief like is she for real?

Was she seriously asking that? You blinked, looked back at Sofia. She was still watching Rafe like he was a ticking bomb she hadn’t figured out how to disarm. Like you were the only one who ever knew where the wires connected. “You think I knew how to calm him down?” you said, the edge creeping into your voice now.

“He’s Rafe, Sofia. No one calms him down. He decides when he wants to stop.” Her brows pulled together, and for a second, you saw something real flash across her face—something like defeat. Or maybe just realisation. Maybe she thought there was some secret you had. A trick. A formula. But there wasn’t. There never had been.

“It didn’t look like that when you were with him,” she said quietly, eyes dropping to her drink. You exhaled sharply, leaning one arm on the bar, facing her now. “Yeah, well,” you said, “that’s because he and I are alike.” Sofia blinked. Hard. And in that second, you almost felt bad for her.

Almost. But then Ruthie spoke, cutting through the tension with her usual bluntness. “He’s not a project you get to fix, babe. Trust me, she tried.” You didn’t correct her. Sofia stared at the condensation sliding down her glass. “He said he was different with you,” she murmured.

“He was,” you answered simply. “But he fucked it up so there’s that.” And for a moment, the silence between the three of you felt heavier than the party around you. The laughter, the music, the clinking bottles—all of it felt far away. Sofia nodded once, almost like a thank you—but more like a quiet resignation.

Then she turned, walking back toward where Rafe stood—his jaw still clenched, eyes wild, not looking at her. Not looking at anyone. Ruthie sighed beside you. “Well, that wasn’t awkward at all.”You took another swig of your beer, finally letting yourself breathe again.“Nope,” you muttered. “Just another night in paradise.”

[idk-void]

more shaw pack! texts . . .

cw . . . gn reader, darlin’/tank! reader, they/them pronouns used for all listensers, david. angel, asher x babe, milo x sweetheart, darlin’ x sam, tank calling out some of these FREAKS, i love these idiots sm

[idk-void]

the shaw pack, as seen by outsiders !

david shaw. he's got this menacing, lingering aura about him, and when he walks into the room people go silent. their backs straighten, they double their work speed, and whispers die.

and in bounces his golden, glowing, mini-skirt wearing, sexual innuendo-spewing s.o. who's chattering to david like they're teenage girls in a coffee shop and shock of all shocks, david's smiling back.

asher talbot. the snarky, bouncy, happy-go-lucky guy's everywhere all the time. he never rests, never stops moving, and he's chattering about a mile a minute. he has a tendency to speak over you, not because he's rude, but just because the adhd is a bitch.

but when his sweet-faced, gentle-toned s.o. walks in, hands him a glass of water, and begins to tell a story, asher looks like he can't speak. he just stares, in awe, drinking in his beautiful mate and listening to the melodic cadence of their voice.

milo greer. milo's the perfect blend between david and asher. serious, dedicated, all business when it comes down to it, but he's always got time for a smile, a kind word, or a teasing joke. finely dressed and always put together, but you can sense an undercurrent of stress leeching from him. he needs everything to be perfect, and he needs to pick up the slack that his alpha and beta don't have time to cover.

but one touch on the arm, one sarcastic deadpan joke from sweetheart, and milo's hackles relax. they sit on the arm of his chair and review his work, a hand in his hair. they tease him about his sloppy handwriting and give him a kiss and an ice cream before they leave, and afterwards milo is twice as quick to hand out compliments, and holds his temper better than ever.

tank/darlin. if david's the steel, asher's the bubble, and milo's the happy medium between the two, then darlin' is the opposite. where milo is quick to compliment and soothe, darlin' is quick to honestly and brutally speak. they're all bark and all bite, and everyone eyes them warily when they come into the room. they're known to be fiercely loyal, but their affection is shown in aggression and brusque nods of approval.

but sam softens something in them, draws out the gentleness the pack remembers seeing in tank as a child. sam rests a big mitten of a hand on their shoulder and they find themselves able to smile more, smile genuinely. sam gives them a wink, and they're damn near bubbly all day. sam leaves, but his lingering woodsmoke warmth stays wrapped around darlin' all day, and the office is significantly calmer.