luvonstyles

[luvonstyles]

DUE DILIGENCE ~ CHAPTER FOUR

wallstreet!rafe x assistant!reader | warnings: graphic violence (murder, blood), emotionally charged arguments, power imbalance, explicit sexual content (oral sex, dom/sub undertones), morally gray behavior, obsession, possessiveness

his mouth finds yours in the dark like he’s been starving for it. like he’s earned it. rafe kisses you hard, no hesitation, no foreplay, just his hand at your jaw and his other one already fisted in your blouse, pulling you toward him. there’s teeth, there’s heat, and there’s something dangerous in how desperate it feels—how much he needs this to mean nothing and everything all at once.

you breathe through your nose because you have to. he doesn’t pull back, he just deepens it, drags his thumb over your cheekbone like he’s trying to memorize what surrender feels like, and you kiss him back like you want to hurt him a little. your back hits his desk, spine arching under his palm, and that’s when he drops to his knees.

TWELVE HOURS EARLIER

it seems like the city is finally asleep around rafe. no building lights on, less taxis traveling the streets. even the sky looks sleepy. below, the pavement shines with the last traces of a street sweeper’s rinse, and traffic lights blink dumbly at empty intersections. new york doesn’t sleep, but it does pause, and this is the closest it gets to stillness.

he couldn’t possibly go to sleep and pretend that didn’t happen—not after the meeting, not after you walked out with your chin high and your voice like a blade. not after he made you bleed with it. you were the one person in that building who could get under his skin without breaking a sweat, and he hated that he liked it. hated that he noticed your silence before anything else.

but that wasn’t what kept him up. it was the spreadsheet error. he doesn’t tolerate mistakes, not in the firm and not in himself, but it wasn’t yours and he knew that now. he’d watched the footage, reviewed the version history. the analyst, conner something, had pushed a shadow update to the deck right before upload. subtle, but off enough to tank the whole deal.

what pissed rafe off wasn’t the mistake, it was the motive. maybe the guy thought tanking the pitch would make him look smarter. maybe he thought rafe would slip. or maybe he thought making you look bad would loosen your grip on that chair next to him.

and that wasn’t allowed. so rafe doesn’t go home and begin his nightly routine. instead, he waits for the guy outside his apartment building, sitting in the backseat of a matte black town car like a ghost in a suit. engine purring, window cracked, and the city fog thick like soup just enough to conceal him.

connor comes home just after eight. earbuds in and backpack slung over one shoulder. he doesn’t notice rafe until he’s dragged into the backseat beside him, looking confused, like he’s about to apologize for opening the wrong uber. he doesn’t get the chance. rafe grabs the back of his head and slams it once into the armrest. it’s sharp and clean, enough to rattle, not enough to kill. he won’t get off that easily.

“you think this is a fucking game?” rafe mutters. it’s calm. the kind of calm that terrifies. “you think i wouldn’t find out?”

connor begins blinking blood, eyes wide, breath shaking. “i-i didn’t-”

“no?” rafe pulls the deck out of his coat pocket and drops it on the seat between them. “you doctored this. right before final review. why?”

“i wasn’t trying to-“

“who told you to do it?”

“n-no one, sir.” the kid stammers and beads of sweat drip onto the black leather. when he can finally speak, it’s nothing more than a pile of lies. wrong move. rafe doesn’t raise his voice, he doesn’t need to. he just leans in, hand closing around connor’s throat, his knuckles pale with control.

“you made her look incompetent.” the words are soft, like he’s confessing something. “and that’s something i can’t let slide.”

the rest happens fast. his knee drives into the kid’s ribs. his elbow clips the temple. there’s a moment where rafe thinks about stopping. maybe letting him crawl away, bruised but breathing. making a lesson out of fear instead of a corpse. but then he remembers your voice.

“i’ve worked my ass off for months”

and the way it cracked when you said it. how your hands trembled when you typed that email. how you didn’t slam the door, even though you wanted to. he remembers the look on your face when he told you you weren’t special. so he doesn’t stop. not until the useless body under him stills.

~

by the time he shows up to the office, it’s almost six. the day’s come and gone. the halls of his building are absent of the usual hustle. of course, you’re still there.

the elevator opens and rafe steps towards your desk. the bouquet of white lilies is almost laughably out of place. it’s too clean, too delicate for the mess he’s about to walk into. his eyes lock on yours immediately, sharp and unreadable. he’s calculating how much you’re willing to take before you snap.

“still here,” he says, voice low but edged with something like a dare. “thought you’d be gone by now.”

he holds the flowers out like an offering, but you don’t take them. your gaze drags across the white petals, then back up to him, unimpressed. “what’s this?” your tone is flat. bored, almost. like he’s late to a meeting you no longer care about. “an apology from corporate?”

rafe doesn’t flinch, doesn’t smirk, just stands there, watching you unravel, like he wants to catch the moment the thread snaps. “a boss can’t buy flowers for his assistant?” he says, tone loose, but there’s something behind it. something coiled and waiting.

“not when he spent the morning making her look like an idiot,” you shoot back. “not when he stood in front of a room full of men and treated her like she was disposable.”

his jaw tightens, barely. “i came to talk.” he tosses the flowers onto your desk with a thud.

“talk?” you laugh. the sound is hard and humorless. “what could you possibly say that would make it better?”

he doesn’t answer. he just takes one slow step forward. then another. he’s walking through a minefield blind and praying he doesn’t step on the wrong spot.

“i was wrong,” he says, and you roll your eyes before the second syllable drops.

“no shit,” you mutter. “but you don’t get to waltz in here with flowers and a half-assed apology and pretend that fixes anything. you don’t get to humiliate me and then decide we’re okay now. that’s not how it works.”

another step. “i don’t care if we’re okay.”

“of course you don’t.” you roll your eyes with a huff.

he stops a few feet away. close enough for you to smell his cologne, the aftershave clinging to his collar, that expensive fucking scent that’s seeped into the carpet of your mind and refuses to leave. “but i care about you.”

your laugh cracks halfway through the sentence. “no, you don’t.” you rise from the chair slowly, deliberately, like a match lifting off the box. “you care about control. about who you can push and who you can break. and i didn’t break. that’s what’s pissing you off.”

something shifts in his face. it’s not anger and not guilt. it’s something heavier. something that makes your chest tighten even before he speaks.

“you’re right,” he says, voice quiet. “you didn’t break. you walked out with your head up, like i didn’t just gut you. and i’ve never hated myself more than i did watching that.”

you blink. the heat behind your throat gets sharper. but you don’t let him see it. he closes the last of the space. slow and methodical. you back up once and your hip connects with the frigid edge of his desk. “you said i was replaceable,” you whisper.

“i lied.”

you should say something else. something cutting. you should shove him back and make him choke on his regret. but then his hand finds your jaw. his hands aren’t rough like it’s words, no, they’re gentle. his thumb sweeps just beneath your cheekbone. your eyes flick to his lips, then back up.

“this doesn’t mean i forgive you,” you murmur, chest heaving with the weight of everything unsaid.

“i’m not asking you to.” he murmurs, eyes glued to your lips. your stomach flips with anticipation. then, his lips are on yours.

his mouth finds yours in the dark like he’s been starving for it. like he’s earned it. rafe kisses you hard, no hesitation, no foreplay, just his hand at your jaw and his other one already fisted in your blouse, pulling you toward him. there’s teeth, there’s heat, and there’s something dangerous in how desperate it feels—how much he needs this to mean nothing and everything all at once.

you breathe through your nose because you have to. he doesn’t pull back, he just deepens it, drags his thumb over your cheekbone like he’s trying to memorize what surrender feels like, and you kiss him back like you want to hurt him a little. your back hits his desk, spine arching under his palm, and that’s when he drops to his knees.

no hesitation. not even a flicker of doubt in those dark eyes, just rafe cameron kneeling between your legs like a prayer no god could answer. this is the only way he knows how to apologize—through devotion veiled as violence, through worship that sounds like your name caught between his teeth.

his hands trail up your thighs, rough palms dragging slow and possessive. he’s relearning the shape of you through fabric. he’s daring you to flinch…you don’t…you can’t. you’re too busy watching the way his jaw clenches when his fingers reach the hem of your skirt and shove it up without ceremony. there’s no sweet nothings, no coaxing, just the sound of your breath catching and the soft rasp of him cursing under it.

“fuck,” he mutters when he sees the outline of your panties, already ruined with how badly you want this. how badly you want him. “bet you’re always this wet around me, huh?”

you hate how smug he sounds. you hate that he’s right. then he leans in and mouths over the fabric, nose brushing against your inner thigh, and the rest of the world dissolves. heat punches through your gut like a match to gasoline. his tongue presses firm through the damp lace, slow and unrelenting, and your hands fly to the edge of the desk behind you, gripping like you need it to stay upright.

he doesn’t rush. he hooks a finger into the waistband and pulls the panties to the side with that same lazy entitlement he wears like his italian suits. then he’s on you mouth open, tongue thick and slick and hungry, and it’s not gentle. no, it’s greedy.

he licks like he’s claiming territory. sucks like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. every pass of his tongue sends a fresh spike of heat down your spine, every inhale drawn like he’s savoring you, memorizing the taste. his eyes are open and locked onto yours. he wants you to see what he’s doing to you.

you swear that your soul leaves your body when he flattens his tongue and groans against you. it vibrates through your core, makes your knees buckle, and he doesn’t stop to ask if you’re okay. (of course he doesn’t). he just grabs the backs of your thighs and drags you forward until your hips are right on the edge of the desk and his mouth fits better, deeper, lower.

you moan and you curse. you forget your own damn name for a second and the sound you make when he circles his tongue is enough to echo off the glass walls. thank god the office is empty.

and just when you think you can’t take it, when your fingers curl into his hair like you’ll break skin if he dares stop. he moans your name into you. the taste of you has him confessing sins he hasn’t even committed yet.

it’s filthy, it’s unholy, and it only gets worse when he pulls back for half a second, lips slick and swollen, chin wet with you, and rasps, “look at me.”

your doe eyes meet his. he takes in your flushed face and staggered breaths. when he dives back in, its unrelenting. his nose nudges just right as he sucks where it counts, and that’s it. your body breaks the rest of the way. the moan that rips out of you is almost feral. you come with your hands in his hair, your thighs shaking around his shoulders, your vision blurry and your mouth open, too stunned to form a single word that isn’t his name.

he stays there a second longer, licking you through it like a man with no shame. he doesn’t have any. he left it back in the garage with the body. but right now, he just looks up at you, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and stands like nothing about what just happened should make you question him at all.

you’re still gasping. still undone and catching your bearings. that’s when you see it—blood. it’s a pinprick splatter just above the toe of his shoe.

you blink. once…twice…then again. as if it’s just your post-orgasm haze. but when you open your eyes again, there it is. everything in your stomach turns cold.

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[luvonstyles]

After Dark

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: She goes for a late night swim at Tannyhill assuming she wouldn’t get caught, only to be discovered by her best friend’s brother— Rafe Cameron.

The island air clung to her skin like a warm, damp blanket, thick with the familiar salt and humidity that never really let up, even after sunset. The Outer Banks had its own kind of stillness at night—lazy, slow, like the whole world had exhaled and forgotten to breathe back in.

Tannyhill sat in the dark ahead of her, almost ghostlike beneath the dim outline of moonlight filtering through the clouds. Not a single light glowed from the windows. The gravel driveway, usually crowded with cars or bikes or signs of life, was empty. No distant laughter, no music pulsing from the porch speakers, no low buzz of conversation drifting on the breeze. Just the chirr of crickets and the hush of the ocean somewhere far off.

It was strange. Too quiet. But not enough to stop her.

She eased off her sandals, the soles of her feet brushing against the soft grass as she crept around to the side entrance—the one Sarah had always told her to use when Ward was around. The same way they’d snuck in countless times before, when nights were meant for skinny dipping and secrets whispered through the dark.

Sarah had promised her a swim this week. “Late one, promise. No one’ll even know you’re there,” she’d grinned just a few days ago, twirling a damp towel over her shoulder like it was summer forever.

So when the text came in earlier—Can’t make it tonight, my dad’s being weird. Raincheck?—she almost didn’t come. Almost. But something about the night had tugged at her. The heat. The stillness. The way the day had pressed in too hard. She’d needed to escape, and a quiet, hidden swim sounded like the only kind of peace that might work.

She slipped through the gate, her breath catching with that quiet thrill of trespassing—even if it wasn’t really. Not with Sarah’s blessing. The pool lay ahead, glassy and untouched, lit faintly by the moon and the soft glow of underwater lights still on from earlier.

It was perfect.

She pulled her shirt over her head in one slow motion, the fabric soft from wear and warm from her skin. Folding it loosely, she placed it on the nearest cushioned lounge chair, glancing around once more out of habit—even though she was sure she was alone.

Her fingers hooked the waistband of her shorts, and she shimmied them down her hips, the denim catching slightly on damp skin from the lingering humidity. They joined the shirt on the chair, leaving her in nothing but a pink polka-dotted bikini, the kind Sarah always teased her about it, “Matching your personality perfectly.”

Her hair, thrown up into a messy bun earlier that afternoon, now hung in loose strands around her face, a casualty of the long day and the sticky air. She didn’t bother fixing it. This wasn’t about looking cute. It was about feeling weightless for a while.

Padding quietly to the edge of the pool, she dipped one toe into the water, instantly recoiling with a sharp inhale. “Shit,” she whispered under her breath, the sound barely echoing across the surface. The pool lights shimmered pale blue against her legs as she braced herself, then descended the steps slowly, the cold biting at her skin with each inch she sank.

A soft gasp slipped past her lips as the water reached her stomach, but she kept going, finally pushing off the last step and gliding into the deeper end. The cold wrapped around her like silk, jarring at first, but quickly soothing—washing away the day, the noise, the expectations.

For a moment, it was just her and the stillness. The soft hum of crickets. The distant crash of waves. And the gentle ripple of water cradling her in the dark.

Until it wasn’t only her.

She lifted one hand lazily, plugging her nose before slipping beneath the surface with barely a splash. The water rippled outward in soft rings, shimmering under the pool lights as her form disappeared below.

Inside, Rafe was standing barefoot in the dark kitchen, bathed in the faint glow of the open fridge. He reached in for a cold bottle of water, cracking the cap and taking a long drink, hoping the chill would do something to clear his restless mind. Sleep hadn’t come easy lately—too hot, too quiet, too many thoughts crowding his head.

He ran a hand through his buzzed hair, exhaling, then stretched with a quiet groan, arms raised over his head as he turned lazily toward the window overlooking the backyard.

That’s when he saw it—movement by the pool. A soft splash. A figure in the water.

His eyes narrowed.

For a second, he thought maybe he was imagining it, sleep-deprived and edgy. But then the shape surfaced, and he blinked, realizing exactly who it was.

Her.

Sarah’s best friend. The sweet one. Quiet. Cute. Always looking like she had something to say but never quite said it. He hadn’t seen her in at least a week.

What the hell was she doing swimming in his pool in the middle of the night?

He stepped closer to the window, peering out to make sure it was really her. Even under the water, that pink polka-dotted bikini stood out—cute, playful, so perfectly her it made him smirk. She resurfaced with a gasp, pushing wet strands from her face, completely unaware she had an audience.

Rafe shook his head, amused. Of course Sarah would promise her a late-night swim and then flake. Typical.

Still, he didn’t hesitate.

He padded across the cool tile, twisted open the back door, and stepped outside. The humid air hit him like a wall, thick and warm against his skin. His water bottle dangled loosely in his hand as he walked across the patio, his steps easy, deliberate, slow.

He stopped just a few feet from the pool, standing half in shadow, half lit by the glow reflecting off the water.

“Didn’t think you’d be the type to break in,” he called out, voice low and laced with that usual Cameron sarcasm. His smirk deepened as her head snapped toward him, eyes wide.

Got her.

Her heart nearly dropped straight into the water. She gasped, startled, her hand flying to her chest as she whipped around.

There he was—Rafe Cameron.

Standing at the edge of the pool like he belonged there, which, of course, he did. Towering in the low light, shirtless, his skin kissed golden from too many days in the sun. His grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, clinging just enough to make her look twice—wet hair and nerves forgotten as her gaze snagged on the sharp lines of his v-cut disappearing beneath the waistband.

She swallowed hard, blinking up at him.

“Rafe,” she said, her voice barely above a breath. “What are you doing here?”

His mouth curved into a slow, amused smirk, like her being caught in his pool, in his house, in his space, was somehow funny to him. His eyes flicked down briefly to where the water hugged her figure, then met her gaze again—steadily, confidently.

“Pretty sure I should be asking you that, sweetheart,” he said, voice low, gravelly with sleep and something else—something warmer. “Didn’t know we had uninvited guests tonight.”

He took another step closer, the concrete cool beneath his bare feet. There was no rush in his movements, just that lazy, languid confidence he always carried—like the world bent around him and he knew it.

She opened her mouth, scrambling for some kind of explanation, but her brain hadn’t caught up to her pulse yet.

“I—uh—Sarah said…” she started, blinking fast. “She told me I could come. She was supposed to meet me. I thought—” Her voice trailed off, the embarrassment creeping up her neck in a warm flush.

Rafe tilted his head, pretending to consider her words, like he wasn’t fully enjoying the way she squirmed under his stare.

“Sarah’s not here,” Rafe said simply, his voice low as he gave a slow shrug, like her explanation didn’t surprise him—but didn’t quite excuse her either.

She nodded, the motion small and unsure. His gaze on her felt heavier than the humid night air, and she instinctively sank deeper into the water, as if that could shield her from the intensity of his eyes. Rafe always had that effect on her—ever since she met him. He could unravel her with a single look, and now, in nothing but a bikini, under a dim pool light, she felt like every inch of her was exposed.

She didn’t trust her voice not to tremble, so she didn’t say anything. Instead, she pushed off the pool wall and glided to the far end, her limbs moving in slow, quiet strokes through the water. When she reached the other side, she turned and swam back again, the cool water calming her nerves—but only slightly.

Rafe didn’t move. Not a single muscle.

His eyes followed her the entire time, unblinking. Tracking her. Studying her. And not in a polite way, either. In that way he always looked—like he was trying to figure something out, and maybe liked what he saw a little too much.

His gaze swept over her slowly, deliberately, from the droplets slipping down her neck to the soft curve of her waist just beneath the water. His jaw tightened for the briefest moment before he let out a quiet sigh, running a hand over his mouth and sitting forward slightly in the chair.

She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath until she surfaced again and found his eyes still on her—darker now, unreadable.

She always found a way to mess with him.

Even when she didn’t know she was doing it.

He leaned back again, tossing his water bottle to the side, and dragged a hand through his buzzed hair. “You know,” he muttered, mostly to himself, “you really don’t make this easy.”

She drifted back to the shallow end, the water gliding over her shoulders as she slowly reached the edge closest to where he sat. Her arms slipped up onto the pool ledge, skin glistening under the soft glow of the backyard lights. She rested her chin against her forearm, eyes lifting to meet his.

He hadn’t looked away. Not once.

“What do you mean?” she asked softly, her voice barely above the gentle ripple of the water. There was no challenge in her tone—just quiet confusion, curiosity threading through her words like a ripple beneath the surface.

Rafe tilted his head slightly, amusement on his face, one arm still draped along the back of the lounge chair, the other resting on his knee. He looked at her for a long moment. Not just at her—through her, like he was sizing up everything she didn’t say out loud.

“You just…” He exhaled, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he was weighing his next words. “You show up here. Looking like that. Acting like none of it means anything.”

She blinked, unsure if she should feel flattered or offended.

“Like what means anything?” she asked, voice even quieter now.

Rafe leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees, the muscles in his arms flexing as he studied her. His expression was unreadable, but there was something unmistakably focused in the way he looked at her—like she was a puzzle he didn’t mind taking his time to figure out.

His eyes dipped lower for just a beat, trailing the slope of her shoulders where the water clung, then snapped back to hers with that quiet intensity that always made her stomach tighten.

Feeling the weight of his gaze, she shifted in the water and slowly made her way to the steps. Each movement felt strangely deliberate, like the air between them had thickened somehow. As she stepped up onto the first ledge, water slid down her skin in rivulets, catching the light in a way that made her wish she were invisible—or at least dry.

By the time she reached the top step, fully out of the pool, her body was damp and glistening in the warm night air. The cool breeze hit her all at once, raising goosebumps along her arms and legs. She shivered slightly, whether from the breeze or from the way Rafe’s eyes didn’t budge from her for a single second—she couldn’t tell.

She reached for the towel she’d left draped over the chair nearby, wrapping it around herself slowly. Not hurried. Not bashful. But not exactly confident either. She could feel his gaze following the motion of her hands, the tension crackling in the silence between them.

Still, he said nothing. Just sat there. Watching her like she was something he wasn’t supposed to want—but couldn’t look away from.

And she let him.

She didn’t say a word—just let the towel linger against her skin, heart racing as she looked over at him, caught between curiosity and something that felt suspiciously like anticipation.

Let him keep looking.

Let him think whatever he was thinking.

Because for the first time in a long time, Rafe Cameron looked like someone who didn’t want to be anywhere else.

“Like you don’t know what you do to people,” he said. “To me.”

The words landed heavy in the space between them. Her breath caught before she could stop it, and the warmth spreading in her chest had nothing to do with the summer air.

Rafe let out a low huff, the kind that came with a crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back in the chair again, head tilted slightly as he watched her dry herself off, oblivious to just how much she was messing with him.

She had no idea—none—that she was such a tease.

And that somehow made it worse.

He dragged a hand over his jaw, shaking his head like he was silently scolding himself. “Cute bikini,” he said finally, his voice rough around the edges—raspy and a little too casual to be innocent.

She froze.

The towel stilled halfway down her arm, and her breath caught before she could even think about hiding it. Her back was to him as she dropped the towel onto the cushioned seat, the fabric falling with a quiet thump. Her skin was still damp, faint trails of water running down her spine, and she felt every inch of herself under his stare like it was heat pressing into her back.

He didn’t give her a second to recover from what he’d said before.

Didn’t let her breathe from the last thing he said either—that quiet confession about how she didn’t make it easy for him. And now this?

She swallowed hard and glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to find him laughing, or maybe distracted.

But no. Rafe was still sitting there, still watching her like she was the only person in the world. That smirk was lingering, sharp and slow, and his eyes—blue and unblinking—dragged over her like he was committing the moment to memory.

She turned quickly, towel clutched a little tighter around her chest.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered under her breath, cheeks hot.

Rafe only shrugged, like he didn’t mind one bit.

“Never said I wasn’t.”

She huffed and he swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, smiling.

He stood up.

Not in a rush—slow and deliberate. The chair creaked softly as he rose, towering and shirtless under the warm night sky, the soft glow from the porch light casting shadows along his chest and arms. His grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, and his bare feet made no sound against the stone patio as he walked toward her.

She tensed slightly, instinctively backing up a step, her back brushing against the edge of the chair behind her.

“You’re jumpy,” he murmured, smirk deepening as he closed the distance. “Didn’t think I scared you.”

“You don’t,” she said quickly—too quickly.

He chuckled low in his throat, a deep sound that made her stomach twist. His hand brushed over the curve of her bare hip—barely a touch, but enough to make her shiver beneath it. He leaned in slowly, his face inches from hers, and she caught his scent all at once—woody and warm, like cedar and something darker, more dangerous. It wrapped around her like heat.

His fingers slid upward, calloused yet careful, trailing the edge of her skin until they reached her jaw. He traced along it gently, almost reverently, his eyes locked on hers the whole time. Her breath caught in her throat, lips parted slightly, heart racing as if it was trying to close the space between them.

Rafe tilted his head, leaning just a little closer, so close that she could feel his breath fan across her cheek. His lips hovered above hers, and her eyes fluttered half-closed—

A light flicked on inside the house.

Harsh and sudden, the glow from the kitchen window cast across the yard, breaking the spell. Rafe froze, his hand still on her face, but the sharp shift in atmosphere was undeniable. They both turned their heads slightly toward the source, blinking.

He didn’t move away right away. His jaw flexed like he was annoyed, like the moment had been stolen from him. From them.

“Someone’s up,” he muttered, voice low and almost regretful.

She nodded, barely breathing, still caught somewhere between what almost happened and what didn’t. His hand dropped slowly from her jaw, dragging slightly like he didn’t want to let go. And neither did she.

Rafe stepped back just an inch, but it felt like more. The night air suddenly felt cooler without the warmth of his body pressed so close. His eyes lingered on her face, flickering down to her lips like he was still considering it—still wanting to finish what they’d started.

She wrapped her arms around herself instinctively, pulse pounding in her neck. Her skin still buzzed where he’d touched her.

“I should probably go,” she whispered, voice soft and uncertain.

But Rafe didn’t answer right away. He looked back at the house, the yellow light still spilling from the window, then back at her. He reached up and tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear, slower than necessary.

“You always swim this late?” he asked, voice casual, teasing again—but quieter now. Softer.

“Only when no ones awake,” she said, trying to smile. It came out a little shaky.

His lips curved. “Guess I ruin that for you, huh?”

Her cheeks warmed again, and she ducked her head, water dripping from the ends of her hair to her shoulders. “You kind of do.”

He didn’t move away. His fingers brushed her shoulder this time, tracing a water droplet as it rolled down her skin. Then, like it was nothing, he tilted his head and added, “Next time, wait for me.”

Her eyes snapped back to his, startled. “Next time?”

Rafe grinned, boyish and charming and maddening all at once. “You break into my house again, I think I deserve an invite. Fair’s fair.”

She rolled her eyes, but the flush in her cheeks betrayed her. “I didn’t break in.”

“You hopped the fence,” he said, stepping closer again, voice low. “Trespassing. That’s technically breakin’ in, sweetheart.”

Her breath hitched again at the nickname, her chest rising and falling a little too fast. He noticed. Of course he did.

“I—I should go,” she said again, weaker this time.

Rafe’s grin softened. “Yeah,” he said, stepping back at last, though his eyes lingered on her like he wasn’t quite ready to let her go. “Before you get arrested or somethin’.”

She turned, heading toward the gate, water dripping from her legs with every step. But just as her hand touched the latch, she heard him behind her again.

“Hey.”

She looked over her shoulder. Rafe was still standing at the edge of the pool, shirtless, moonlight brushing across his skin.

“Next time you sneak in,” he said, “maybe bring two towels.”

She smiled, biting her lip to hide it. “Goodnight, Rafe.”

“Night, pretty girl.”

[luvonstyles]

ೃ࿔:･ how wallstreet!rafe hired you

you walk into his corporation like you own the building. the other candidates—tall, slim, blondes who look more like models than assistants—gawk as you pass. you don’t look at them. don’t need to.

rafe sees you through the pane of glass mid-interview, already bored out of his mind. the redhead across from him has a voice like a fire alarm and a push-up bra that looks physically painful. the second he can usher her out, he’s pointing at you.

you don’t sit. you arrive.

he offers you the job halfway through your resume. halfway through undressing you with his eyes. (he already decided when he saw your name.)

now, you’re showing up to work everyday as his personal assistant in an outfit more provocative than the last. other employees stare at you, companies sign six-figure deals the second you smile at them in the lobby. he’s never seen anything like it.

but you still greet him every morning with his coffee and a shy smile. you still scribble down his commands while you push up your glasses (that are more for decoration than anything). you still blush like a schoolgirl when he gives you praise and sit with your legs crossed, like sex on a stick.

and rafe’s main priority ever since he’s laid eyes on you is keeping you here, with him, under his control.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @43hughes @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck

[luvonstyles]

My Sweet Little Crybaby

summary: Rafe learning how to handle his sweet crybaby. characters: rafe cameron. crybaby! reader warnings: just rafe being a little mean. word count: 1.2k

The afternoon sun slanted low through the windows of Rafe’s room, staining the air gold. The ceiling fan whirred tiredly overhead, stirring the heavy heat that clung to the walls. Rafe’s shirt lay crumpled on the floor, his shoes half-kicked under the bed, abandoned like everything else when you’d stumbled back from the chaos of the beach and the races and the noise.

Now, it was the slow, honeyed part of the day - the part where time stretched soft and quiet around you, where the only thing that mattered was him.

You were curled into Rafe’s side, arms looped tight around his waist, your cheek pressed against the warm skin of his chest. His heart thudded steadily under your ear - a tether, a comfort, the one thing anchoring you after the frantic, endless weekend.

Rafe lounged against the headboard, scrolling lazily through his phone with one hand, the other resting heavy and absent on your lower back. His fingers tapped idly against your spine like he didn’t even realize he was touching you - like it was just muscle memory now.

You squeezed him a little tighter.

Rafe shifted, sighing, but didn’t look away from his screen.

"Jesus, babe," he muttered, voice rough and amused. "You’re like a damn koala today."

You only nodded against him, your fingers curling tighter in the waistband of his jeans, grounding yourself.

He chuckled under his breath, low and smug.

"You scared I’m gonna run off or somethin'?" he teased, voice lilting with lazy affection. "Clinging like that, huh?"

Still, you said nothing. You just pressed closer, breathing him in - the salt of his skin, the faint sting of sweat and ocean and Rafe - and soaked in the solid, irrefutable realness of him.

It had been a long weekend. Too much noise. Too many people. Too many ways you could have lost him if things had gone wrong.

You needed to feel him. Real and safe and breathing, alive right under your hands.

Rafe finally glanced down - caught the small, stubborn way you buried your face harder into him, the tremble he hadn’t noticed in your hold.

He snorted.

"God, you’re such a little crybaby sometimes," he said lightly, his voice playful but sharper than he realized. "You gonna start bawlin’ if I get up to take a piss?"

It was meant to be a joke. It was supposed to make you huff, maybe smack him and laugh it off.

Instead - You sniffled. A small, broken sound you couldn’t bite back.

Rafe froze.

His phone dropped somewhere onto the mattress as he tilted your chin up with two careful fingers, forcing you to meet his gaze.

Your eyes - big, watery, shimmering with unshed tears - blinked up at him, your bottom lip trembling pathetically.

Rafe’s heart cracked clean down the middle.

"Aw, fuck," he muttered, his voice crumbling into something soft and desperate. "Hey, hey- come on, baby girl. Don't cry. I didn’t mean it."

A fat tear slipped free, tracking a slow, shimmering line down your cheek. Rafe let out a miserable, helpless laugh - the kind of sound you make when you realize you’ve just hurt the only thing you care about.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered, almost to himself.

He dragged you fully into his lap, wrapping himself around you like a shield. One big hand smoothed over your back, the other cupping the back of your head, cradling you like something fragile and precious.

"I’m such an asshole sometimes," he murmured into your hair, pressing desperate, apologetic kisses against the crown of your head. "You know I don’t mean that shit, right? You know that, baby?"

You hiccupped softly, clutching the front of his shorts like you were afraid he might vanish.

"You’re my girl," Rafe whispered, voice low and urgent against your temple. "You’re my whole fuckin' world. You hear me?"

He wiped your cheeks with the rough pads of his thumbs, slow and careful, like he was terrified of hurting you again. His forehead pressed against yours, the warm brush of his breath grounding you in the sticky, quiet room.

"You wanna be clingy? Fine. Be as clingy as you want," he whispered, almost smiling. "You wanna follow me around like a little lost puppy? Good. You’re mine either way."

You sniffled again, the sound smaller this time, your body slowly melting against him.

"You scare me sometimes," you whispered, the words barely audible - more breath than voice.

Rafe's arms tightened instantly, locking you against him like he could anchor you both by sheer force of will.

"I know, angel," he breathed, fierce and ragged. "I know. I scare myself sometimes too."

He kissed you then - once, twice, messy and lingering - the kind of kisses that left you a little ruined, a little more his with every brush of his mouth.

"Not gonna leave you," Rafe promised against your lips, voice raw and solemn. "Not ever. You hear me?"

You nodded, silent tears slipping free again - but this time, they weren't from hurt.

This time, they were from how loved you felt. How completely, utterly, hopelessly loved you were.

And Rafe - reckless, cruel, brutal Rafe Cameron - just held you tighter, like if he let go even for a second, the world might swallow you whole.

He wouldn’t let it. He’d burn it down first.

Later, long after the sun dipped below the horizon and the house settled into silence, you were still tangled up together in the messy, rumpled bed. The soft whir of the fan filled the room, mixing with the slow drag of Rafe’s breathing.

You shifted closer, nuzzling into the warm crook of his neck, and heard him huff a soft, grumbly laugh.

"Jesus," he muttered, half-asleep. "Clingier than ever. You got no self-respect, huh?"

You stiffened, heart sinking stupidly fast. You didn’t want to be too much. You didn’t want to annoy him.

You started to pull back - just a little - but Rafe’s arm snapped tighter around you, locking you in place.

"Where the fuck you think you’re going?" he grumbled, voice rough with sleep. His mouth brushed the top of your head, the press of it warm and firm. "You started this, crybaby. You’re stuck with me now."

You let out a tiny, breathless laugh against his chest, your fingers curling back into the bare skin of his side.

Rafe shifted, pulling the blanket higher over both of you, cocooning you against him. His thumb drew slow, lazy circles into the small of your back - grounding, sure, his.

"You feel good there," he murmured, so soft you barely caught it. "Stay right there, yeah?"

You nodded, every part of you relaxing, the last thread of fear or shame unwinding from your chest.

Rafe kissed your forehead, slow and lingering, and just before you slipped into sleep - warm, safe, completely surrounded by him - you heard him whisper into your hair:

"My sweet little crybaby," he breathed. "My whole fuckin' heart."

And for the first time in days - maybe weeks - you knew you were exactly where you were meant to be.

[luvonstyles]

Breed You Again, Baby

cw: 18+

You’re still twitching, still leaking Rafe’s cum all over his lap when he grabs you by the hips — strong, rough, possessive — and lifts you off his cock with a loud, wet pop.

“Look at this,” he growls, voice low and shaking, watching his cum drip out of your fluttering, abused pussy. “Fuckin’ leaking everywhere. Goddamn messy little thing.”

You whimper, weak and trembling — but Rafe’s not feeling merciful tonight.

Not even close.

He flips you around like a ragdoll — face down over the couch, ass up, legs shaking — and before you can even beg, he’s shoving his cock back inside you, forcing every thick, dripping inch back where it belongs.

“You think I’m fuckin’ done, princess?” he snarls, slamming into you so deep you see stars. “You think I’m gonna stop before you’re dripping outta every hole? Before you’re bred so full you can’t fuckin’ think straight?”

You sob into the couch cushions — overstimulated, throbbing, completely helpless — and it just makes Rafe grin, filthy and proud.

“That’s right,” he pants, pounding into you rough, brutal, mean. “Take it. Fuckin’ take it. My perfect little cumdump.”

You’re gushing again, slick and messy, the slap-slap-slap of his hips against your ass obscene — and Rafe loves it, losing his mind, big hands bruising your waist as he uses you, fucks you, fills you again.

“Gonna knock you up, baby,” he grunts, rutting into you harder, faster, wild. “Gonna fill you so full it leaks out for days. Gonna see you waddlin’ around with my fuckin’ kid inside you. Everyone’s gonna know you’re mine.”

You sob his name, barely able to breathe — brain broken, body ruined — and Rafe just growls low in his chest, fucking you even deeper, like he’s trying to carve himself inside you.

“Fuckin’ tight little pussy,” he spits, cock throbbing inside you. “Made to take my fuckin’ cum. Made to be ruined by me.”

You feel it when he cums — thick, hot, overwhelming — stuffing you so full you feel like you’re going to burst, gasping at the filthy wet heat flooding you again and again and again.

You’re already dripping down your thighs, but Rafe doesn’t care — doesn’t pull out, doesn’t stop.

“One more,” he pants against your spine, cock still rock-hard inside you. “Gotta make sure it sticks, pretty girl. Gotta fuck another one into you.”

You can only nod weakly, wrecked and crying and so fucking full — because you know he means it.

He’s gonna fuck you until he’s bred you properly.

Until you can’t hold anything else inside you.

And you wouldn’t want it any other way.

[luvonstyles]

president!rafe x secretary!reader plsplspls.. olivia and fitz stand tf up

tw: adultery, both are married, secretary is a whole mother

"You're supposed to be at the inaugural ball." You say, your hands behind your back, a practised smile on your glossy lips that your President stares at. Your back pressed against the wall.

"I was at four of inaugural balls." He mutters, as he takes of his blazer, while keeping his eyes on her at all times.

Rolling his sleeves up, and you couldn't help but stare, every thought of your husband out of the window. He was doing this on purpose. "And now I'm here." His gaze pierced through her.

"With you." He adds.

Your arms crossed, a smile on your face. "Where's your wife?" You couldn't help but ask, even if it was a hot topic about the President's strained marriage with his wife.

"Two floors and a whole wing away." He walks closer to her, as he sees her feet move.

Your eyes take more than one second glances at the veins of his arms when it was rolled up. He catches her looking. A smirk on his face.

But you look away. Your nose flared up a little.

"Mr President──" You begin but he cuts you off.

"Oh, I like that." He replies. "Say it again." He walks even closer.

You back away a little to tease him, a smile on your lips. "Mr President." You whisper again.

"Mmhm." He hums in agreement. And you laugh. Knowing why he's crossing the room to you so quickly.

Backing away, you laugh. "We can── we can't..." You smile.

"We can." He reaches for your waist, grabbing you before you could move even further. A hand on your thigh, the other on your waist.

His hand intertwines with yours, and his lips meet with your neck, he knows exactly how you like it. And his hand goes under your skirt.

[luvonstyles]

✮⋆˙ how rafe finds out you like being choked during sex.

warnings — 18+. MDNI. pure smut. choking kink. slight praise and degradation + humiliation.

cherie's note — i would let rafe cameron strangle me to death please

it was wrong.

so fucking wrong. and disgusting, at that.

the idea of somebody wrapping their hand around your throat while they focused on the sensation of feeling so good? it was filthy in a way that made your skin burn and your heart race with something way too close to guilt. what kind of girl wanted that? what kind of girl got turned on by the idea of someone's hand wrapped around their neck; of surrendering completely and still begging for more? you couldn't tell rafe that — too scared, too ashamed — but the idea kept coming back.

his hand would be perfect wrapped around your pretty little throat, and you found your thighs squeezing together pathetically at the thought itself.

his cock was buried inside of you, thrusting deep and slow, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you. your legs were trembling, back arching off of the bed — and then, his hand slid up, fingers wrapping around your throat on a whim, without warning. and you gasped. your body betrayed you instantly — tightening around him so hard he cursed under his breath.

"that did it for you?" he groaned out, the length of him slipping effortlessly against the velvet warm of your cunt, "jesus christ, you're worse of than i thought."

you whimpered out at his words, face flushing with embarrassment. with shame. he rocked into you mercilessly, the knot tightening with each touch of pressure against the pulse point of your neck. your eyes flutter shut, rolling to the back of your head methodically as his fat cock nudged against that sweet spot inside of you.

"pussy's choking me," he laughs, cruel and teasing. your skin only served to flush further from guilt, "you're a fucking mess."

his grip on your throat tightened just enough to make the edges of your vision blur, the weight of it grounding you in the filth of the moment. every thrust felt deeper, sharper, like he was trying to fuck the shame out of you — like he enjoyed watching you unravel. "all brainless and fucked out just from a little pressure," he muttered, his breath hot against your cheek.

his hand flexed slightly, dragging a whimper out from your lips that only made his smirk grow. your nails dug into his back, desperate for something to hold onto, but he didn't slow — just kept driving into you, using your body like he owned it, like it was made to take him this way.

it hit you all at once — sharp and overwhelming, like your body had been teetering on the edge for too long. your thighs shook violently, walls clamping down around him like never before as your orgasm tore through you, messy and loud and impossible to hold back. a broken cry ripped from your throat, strangled by the pressure of his hand still wrapped around it, and he didn't let up — not the grip, not the pace, not the way he watched you fall apart like he'd planned it this way from the start. "fuck— there it is," he groaned, voice thick with praise, "that's it, baby. knew you'd cum the second i wrapped my hand around that pretty throat. sick little thing." his words spilled over your skin like gasoline, igniting the last spark of shame left within you as you trembled beneath him, completely ruined.

[luvonstyles]

drunk words sober thoughts - r.c

pairing: bitchy!pogue!reader x rafe

Here you were, in the middle of Figure Eight at four in the goddamn morning, dragging your six-foot-something, entirely-too-drunk boyfriend away from a kook party you didn’t even want to go to in the first place.

He was stupidly wasted, stumbling along like his legs had forgotten how to work, slurring every other word like his tongue was three sizes too big.

“Baaaaaby,” Rafe sloppily enunciated, breath against your neck as he practically draped himself over you, "You’re so fuckin’—shit—so fuckin’ hot, like—like the hottest thing I ever seen in my life—swear t’god, baby,—holy shit—” His hands groped at your waist, sliding down to your ass as he tried to pull you closer, touching you like it was his god-given right—which in his mind, it probably was.

You smacked his hand away, though you couldn't help but feel a little fond—just a little.  "Touch my ass one more time before we get home and I’m gonna leave you in a ditch."

He gasped, as if you just threatened to burn his whole family fortune to the ground. "You wouldn’t."

You shoved him off with an annoyed huff. “I would.”

“But—”

“Shush.”

He let out a dramatic groan but complied, mostly because he was too drunk to fight back. You had managed to yank him out of the house, away from all the Kooks he swore he didn’t fuck with anymore, away from the shots he was knocking back like water, and out onto the empty street.

Kelce was still inside, which meant you had no ride home, and the only other person who offered—a random-ass Kook girl—had given you a look you did not appreciate. You’d rather drag Rafe’s dumb ass across the island than owe one of those trust-fund bitches a favor.

Rafe pouted like a damn child but, miraculously, mostly kept his hands to himself as you dragged him down the street. The man was dead weight who kept leaning into you, his heavy, muscled body pressing into your side.

"Can you walk?" You huffed, struggling under his weight.

"M’walking," he spluttered, sounding genuinely offended.

"You're stumbling like a newborn giraffe.”

Rafe chuckled, rubbing his face against your shoulder. "Love when you’re mean t’me”

You rolled your eyes. "Of course you do, you freak."

The party had been fun—for exactly twenty minutes. Then Rafe, despite all his I swear, baby, I’ll behave promises, had proceeded to down shots like he was getting paid for it. 

He had stuck to your side, arm around you, lips constantly pressing against your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. See, baby? he’d murmured against your skin. M’not even that drunk. 

Clingy drunk didn’t even begin to describe him.

Rafe had spent the next two hours attached to you, breath alcohol-laced against your ear as he whispered absolute nonsense. He was insatiable—every time you turned around, he was either kissing you, grinding against you, or telling everyone who would listen that you were his girl, the best girl, the only girl that mattered.

His hands had wandered, spanking your ass, slipping beneath the hem of your dress like he had no concept of public decency.

He was still stupidly wasted.

Rafe stumbled, nearly taking you down with him as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “I feel—”

You turned your head just in time to see his face twist in discomfort, his body swaying, our stomach dropped. "No, you do not—Rafe Cameron, don’t you dare,” you snapped, gripping his shirt to keep him upright.

He groaned, clutching his stomach. “Think—think 'm gonna be sick...”

“The fuck you are,” you shot back, already tugging him down the road. “You are not throwing up out here. I am not letting you pass out on the goddamn street, and I definitely can’t carry your heavy ass, so get it together.”

He whined, actually fucking whined, like a kid being denied candy at the store. “But I feel—”

“Walk.”

Rafe grumbled something but miraculously kept moving, though he nearly toppled both of you when he tried to nuzzle into your neck again. “Mmm. Love you,” he murmured, pressing wet, sloppy kisses to your jaw, your ear, any part of you he could reach. “Love ya s’much.”

You cracked—just a little—because, drunk or not, Rafe was always a touchy, clingy mess when it came to you. You sighed, as you led him down the dark road, trying to act annoyed but feeling that mushy tug in your chest “I know.”

"S—saaay it back.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’ll say it when you’re not about to puke on my shoes.”

A dramatic gasp. “"You—you don’t love me?"

“Dude.”

"Say it baaaack."

"Rafe."

He pouted, leaning his full weight into you again, and you swore you were about to just let his ass collapse on the pavement.

"You’re sooo pretty," he mumbled, voice all dreamy. "So fuckin’ pretty. Prettiest—prettiest girl I ever seen... swear t’god, baby... like an angel or some shit...”

You sighed, readjusting your grip on his waist. "You’re so fucking annoying."

Rafe slurred some more against your neck, his hot breath making you physically recoil. He whuffed, tilting his head dramatically. "Jus' wanna kiss’ya,”

"You’re disgusting."

"’M sexy."

"You reek of tequila."

"B-but— I love you,” he insisted, voice all dramatic, he had just made some groundbreaking realization. His arm tightened around your shoulders, nearly choking you as he clung to you like a goddamn koala. “Tink I might die if you ever leave me.”

 “If you don’t move your ass, I’m gonna leave you—right here.”

You somehow made it another few blocks before he stopped dead in his tracks, groaning as he bent over. Your stomach twisted in anticipation, but before you could yell at him, he straightened back up, blinking at you. “Shit.”

You stared at him, waiting. “What.”

“M’m kinda fucked up.”

“No shit, dumbass.”

He blinked again, then broke into a lazy, drunken grin.

You shook your head, suppressing a smile. “I’m dragging your stupid ass home.” He hummed, leaning down to kiss your cheek. You sighed, finally resigning yourself to the fact that you’d be stuck dealing with his drunk ass all night. “Love you too. Now move.”

He groaned again, slumping further into you. "Wanna hold you." His lips brushed your jaw, his kisses hot, sloppy, desperate. "Baby, just lemme—"

You shoved his face away, trying not to laugh at how absolutely ridiculous he was. "Not while you're about to vomit on me, you fucking menace."

He pouted, eyes all big and glassy like some lovesick golden retriever. "Prettiest girl in the world."

You sighed, trying to resist the affection. "I know."

"S-say it backkk. Tell me ’m your prettiest boy."

You snorted, knowing you were gonna use this shit against him in the morning, “Get off of me, you giant fucking toddler.”

"Never."

Before you could shove him away again, Rafe’s turned into the hulk—pressing your back was against the nearest car.

“What the fuck—"

"Hi," he blinked down at you while his hands splayed against the cool metal behind you, trapping you between the car and him.

You squirmed, trying to duck under his arms, but Rafe just grinned, leaning in until his lips were brushing your ear. "Where d’ya think you’re goin’?"

"Home," you huffed, shoving at his chest. "Without getting humped to death by my drunk boyfriend."

"But I need youuuu," he groaned, voice all wrecked. "Fuck, baby, you don’t get it. I’ve been thinkin’ bout you all fucking night, and you—" he pressed his hips against yours, making you gasp—"you feel me?"

You did, hating how fast heat crawled up your spine, how your body responded to him instantly despite how fucking annoying he was being.

"Rafe," you warned.

"Baby," he mocked, pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss to your throat. “Lemme have this,” His voice was thick, his hands skimming to your waist, gripping your hips, tugging you closer despite how little space was between you already.

“You’re not fucking me here.”

Rafe just grinned. "No?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your jaw.  His lips trailed lower, sucking at your pulse, making you shiver.  “Can't even fuckin’ think s-straight."

“You can’t think straight because you’re hammered."

"Nah," he murmured, "M’ drunk on you."

You groaned. "You're so fucking corny, I swear to—"

Rafe cut you off with a kiss.

Sloppy, deep, needy.

His hands were groping your cheeks so tight you knew you’d feel it in the morning. His tongue licked into your mouth as he shamelessly moaned against your lips, grinding into you like a bitch in heat.

"You taste so fucking good," he moved  to your neck again, sucking at the skin, "Gonna wake up tastin' you, fuck—"

"Rafe—"

"Bet you’re soaked for me right now," he groaned, hand gripping your jaw, tilting your head back so he could kiss down your throat.

Your entire body burned. "Oh my fucking god, Rafe—"

"I love you," he muttered into your skin. "Love this fucking body. Love the way you feel, the way you—"

And then, his whole body tensed.

"Baby—" his face twisted in discomfort. "Oh fuck."

Your stomach dropped. "No. No, no, no. Do not—"

“Think 'm gonna be sick,” he swayed on his feet.

You grabbed his shirt with both hands, yanking him upright with all your strength. "You are not about to throw up after whispering the nastiest shit into my neck like five seconds ago—"

He gripped your arms, blinking at you all slow and dazed. "’M serious, babe, shit’s—not good—"

"So help me god."

Rafe took a few stumbly steps away from you, suddenly lurching forward with a groan. His body bent before you could grab him again, he was kneeling on the ground, his hands clutching his stomach as he made a noise that made you wince.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” you muttered, running a hand over your face in exasperation. This was not how you planned to spend the rest of your night. 

Rafe's voice was hoarse as he sat back on his heels, eyes red-rimmed. “I didn’t mean—didn’t mean to—"

“I know. You’re just—" You paused, looking down at him, the man who couldn’t even sit up straight. “You’re an idiot.”

He grinned, his eyes hazy, clearly missing the sarcasm. “But I’m your idiot,” he slurred, and it was hard not to feel the affection despite how much of a pain in the ass he was being.

"Yeah, you are," you said, finally kneeling down beside him.

Rafe let out a half-giggled, half-groan sound, leaning into you as he tried to catch his breath. "Can we jus’ go h-home? Swear, never drinkin’ again. M’ sorry…”

You knew that was a lie, but you also knew he was genuinely miserable right now.

You sighed, wiping a hand down your face as you helped Rafe to his feet. He wobbled, gripping your shoulders. His face buried in the crook of your neck. “Y’so good t’me,” he mumbled, his breath hot and sticky against your skin.

“You say that now,” you muttered, adjusting your grip on his waist as you continued dragging him down the empty street. “Wait till you wake up tomorrow and realize I recorded half the shit you said tonight.”

Rafe made an exaggerated whimpering noise. “Baby, nooo.”

You snorted. “Baby, yes.”

Every other step, he either tripped over his own feet or stopped dead in his tracks to dramatically profess his love for you. By the time you finally made it to his driveway, your arms ached from holding him up,.

You shoved the front door open and all but dragged Rafe inside. The house was dark and quiet, Ward was out of town, and Rose was probably dead asleep, thank god. The last thing you needed was a lecture from her about how “boys will be boys” while Rafe was in the middle of trying to hump your leg like a golden retriever.

You maneuvered him toward the stairs, dreading the climb. “Up we go.”

Rafe blinked at you like you just asked him to solve a math equation. “That’s—” he tilted his head, “—so many stairs.”

You exhaled sharply. “You are a six-foot-something, gym-rat motherfucker. Get your ass up the stairs before I leave you here.”

He pouted but complied, albeit slowly. You stayed behind him, hands on his back to make sure he didn’t topple over and eat shit halfway up. He wobbled a few times, but eventually, you managed to get him into his bedroom and onto the bed with an unceremonious plop.

Rafe rolled onto his stomach, face buried in the pillow. “Dying.”

“You’re not dying,” you said flatly, grabbing a water bottle from his nightstand and uncapping it. “Drink.”

He peeked up at you with bleary eyes. “Don’ wanna.”

You sighed. “Rafe.”

“Baaaaby.”

“Drink the water.”

Rafe grumbled but obediently took a sip, grimacing like it physically pained him. You shook your head, amused despite yourself. You kicked off your shoes and climbed onto the bed beside him, brushing his sweaty hair off his forehead.

“Feel like shit,” he muttered, pressing his face into your palm.

“That’s what happens when you drink your weight in tequila.”

 “’M never drinkin’ again.”

 “Sure.”

“I mean it,” he insisted, grabbing your hand and pressing a sloppy kiss to your wrist. “Jus’ gonna stay home with you forever. Never leavin’ this bed.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, yeah.”

Rafe hummed, eyes slipping shut. His breathing slowed, his grip on your hand loosening as exhaustion finally overtook him.

You sighed, settling in beside him, your fingers still tangled with his. 

You found yourself staring at him as he slept—mouth slightly open, hair a mess, snoring just a little. 

A year, a whole damn year of this. Of dealing with his bullshit, his temper tantrums, his insufferable ego—but also his stupid soft side, the way he always pulled you in closer, how needed to be near you like you were oxygen or some shit.

Never in a million years did you think you’d be this girl, the one who loved Rafe Cameron. Yet, here you were—pathetically, hopelessly, disgustingly in love with him.

With a quiet sigh, you brushed a strand of hair off his forehead and pressed the lightest of kisses there. “Idiot.”

The next morning, Rafe woke up with a dramatic wail, immediately burying his face in the pillow. His entire body hurt like a bitch, his mouth was dry as a fucking desert, and his head was pounding, going off inside his skull.

“Fuck,” he rasped, voice rough with sleep. His stomach twisted in protest, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the nausea.

You, on the other hand, were already sitting up beside him, scrolling through your phone like you hadn’t spent half the night wrestling his drunk ass into bed.

“You look like shit,” you said casually, not even bothering to glance at him.

Rafe groaned, dragging the pillow over his face. “Feel like shit.”

“That’s what happens when you go full frat boy mode.”

He grumbled something incoherent into the pillow before peeking up at you with bloodshot eyes. “Sweetheart…”

You arched a brow. “What?”

“Fix me,” he stretched an arm out toward you like a spoiled prince demanding attention.

 “Now you want me to fix you?” You leaned down, brushing his hair back. “You don’t remember the absolute nonsense you were saying last night, do you?”

Rafe hesitated, blinking at you. “…What nonsense?”

“Oh, you know,” you said, smirking. “Telling me I’m the prettiest girl in the world. Saying you’d die if I ever left you. Practically dry-humping me in the street.”

Rafe squeezed his eyes shut, rolling onto his back and draping an arm over his face. “Kill me."

You grinned. “I got videos too.”

He looked absolutely miserable. “Baby, please.”

You pushed yourself out of bed. “I’ll get you some Advil and water.”

Rafe watched you, his lips twitching up despite his pain. “Told you you love me.”

You tossed a pillow at his face. “Shut up and suffer.”

[luvonstyles]

Her Day

CEO!Rafe x pregnant nanny/gf!Reader

a/n: based on this request! 💌

summary: It’s your birthday, and Rafe and Mason team up to make sure you feel loved every single second. From breakfast in bed to handmade gifts and backyard cupcakes, it’s a cozy Sunday you’ll never forget—with the two boys who love you more than anything.

⸻

You wake up to the smell of cinnamon and the sound of someone whisper-yelling in the hallway.

“No, Dad, you’re supposed to let me carry it!”

“Mase, it’s hot. I’m just helping you not burn your fingers.”

“I’m seven, not a baby.”

You smile into the pillow.

There’s a soft knock at your door, and before you can answer, it creaks open and Mason bursts in, holding a slightly crooked tray with a stack of pancakes, a paper flower, and a glass of orange juice that’s sloshing dangerously close to the edge.

“Happy birthday!” he shouts.

Rafe follows behind him, grinning. “We come bearing syrup and chaos.”

You sit up, cheeks already aching from how hard you’re smiling. “What is all this?”

Mason sets the tray in your lap proudly. “Breakfast in bed. And I made the card. It has a poem.”

“A poem?” you gasp, clutching your chest. “Let me hear it.”

He clears his throat dramatically.

“Roses are red,

You are the best,

Better than waffles

And way better dressed.”

You snort-laugh, and Rafe groans. “He wrote that part himself. I tried to offer editorial support.”

Mason beams. “Do you love it?”

“I love it,” you say, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “It’s the best birthday card I’ve ever gotten.”

He wiggles beside you on the bed while you take your first bite. The pancakes are shaped like hearts. Rafe pretends not to watch you too closely, but his gaze softens every time you glance his way.

⸻

After breakfast, Rafe takes Mason out for “secret errands,” promising to be back by noon. He kisses your cheek and tells you to relax, take your time, and not peek in the living room.

So you shower slowly, put on the soft sundress Rafe bought you last month “just because,” and let yourself sink into the stillness of a quiet house. The sunlight spills in through the windows, and everything feels a little golden.

By the time they return, Mason’s carrying a grocery bag with something clinking inside and looking very pleased with himself.

“Okay,” Rafe says, clapping his hands together. “Birthday activities commence.”

Mason takes your hand like a gentleman. “You get a full day of presents, snacks, and zero rules. Except maybe one rule. You have to wear the crown.”

He pulls a foam tiara from behind his back—glittery, pink, and clearly handmade.

You laugh and place it on your head.

“It suits you,” Rafe murmurs, kissing your temple.

⸻

The living room is decorated with a banner that reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY (we love you!!!) in Mason’s handwriting. There are paper flowers taped to the windows and little confetti hearts sprinkled on the coffee table. It’s messy and adorable and so completely them.

You sit on the floor while Mason presents you with your first gift: a framed drawing of the three of you—stick figure style—with a caption that reads “OUR FAMILY :)” in crayon.

You nearly cry.

The next gift is from Rafe. A small box. Inside: a delicate gold necklace with a tiny charm shaped like a crescent moon.

“I saw it and thought of you,” he says quietly. “Something soft. Something steady.”

You lean over and kiss him. “It’s perfect.”

He smiles. “You’re perfect.”

Mason groans. “Kissing? On your birthday? Ew.”

⸻

The rest of the day is slow and easy just the way you like it.

There’s a picnic in the backyard with finger sandwiches and juice boxes and sparkling lemonade. Mason gives you a “birthday quiz” where every answer is somehow about how awesome you are. Rafe grills for dinner, even though he absolutely hates grilling, and the three of you eat barefoot on the porch while the sun starts to dip low.

As night settles in, Mason brings out the final surprise: cupcakes he helped decorate (absolutely covered in sprinkles) and a handmade coupon book filled with things like “1 free hug” and “I will not argue about bedtime (1 time only).”

You’re laughing through tears by the time he curls up against you on the couch, your arm around him and your other hand holding Rafe’s.

“I hope you had the best birthday ever,” Mason says sleepily.

“I really did,” you whisper, pressing a kiss into his curls. “Thanks to you.”

“You’re my favorite girl,” he murmurs. “After the baby.”

You laugh. “Fair enough.”

Rafe raises a brow. “I’m not even in the top three, am I?”

Mason shrugs dramatically. “You’re the wallet.”

Rafe sighs. You and Mason giggle.

⸻

After Mason’s in bed, the house finally quiet, you find Rafe in the kitchen tidying up. He stops when he sees you.

“Hey, birthday girl.”

“Hey.” You wrap your arms around his waist, resting your head on his chest. “Thank you for today.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead. “You deserve more than one day. You’re… everything.”

You look up at him, smiling.

He leans down and kisses you slow. Sweet. The kind of kiss that says I see you, I love you, I’m yours.

“Happy birthday,” he murmurs.

You kiss him again. “It really was.”

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

a/n: this one made me emotional in the softest way—rafe being tender and thoughtful, mason in full chaotic party planner mode, and you in a tiara with cupcakes and kisses?? a dream. 🥹

♥️ lani

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𝒯𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉:

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[luvonstyles]

DIRTY LITTLE SECRET.

rafe cameron x sister’s bestfriend!reader

author’s note - I will make it a habit to make a rafe fic of almost every song on aftercare..listen to dirty little secret by Nessa Barrett to get the vibes. xoxo

warnings - provocative language, fucking your best friends brother, being fwb, doggystyle, NOT proofread, p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it UP.), creampie, implied pregnancy but it’s optional, mouth covering, more of a blurb but u get the gist, pogue!reader.

let’s keep it discreet, sneakin’ out the back door. You’re so into me, what ya doin’ that for?

The party.

God, the party. That was the first time you and rafe had hooked up. How it happened? You had no idea. What was the saying? Blame it on the alcohol? Yeah, you both opted to go with that.

But then it became a habit. A bad, bad habit. Seriously, what kind of friend hooks up with her friend’s brother?

But, come on. It was rafe. Rafe Cameron. Was he a psycho? Maybe, but his touch on you didn’t reflect that.

You were both at a gathering at ward’s house, eyeing each other in your fancy get-ups from across the room. Sarah begged you to come, not that you felt like you belonged (as a pogue, at that.), but you couldn’t say no to her. But you knew how this night would end.

After hours of incessant rambling and rich laughs, your eyes followed rafe as he gave you a look. This wasn’t the first time you two had snuck away, so you recognized it. You took the hint immediately and touched Sarah’s arm, excusing yourself and telling her you’d be back.

Rafe looked different from when you started messing around with him. He was more muscular now, a buzz cut that made him way more attractive than you cared to admit, and in that black suit? God have mercy on your soul.

He smirked, setting his drink aside as he eyed you. “You made it.” He immediately stepped closer, and though you were hesitant due to your fear of being caught, you still let his hands find wherever they needed to go.

“You should know I would.” You looked up at him, and he only chuckled in response before bending you over the railing of the backyard which was surprisingly vacant. You could only hope it’d stay like that, at least until after you get your back blown out.

Rafe decided to do the absolute most and grab your leg, propping it up on the railing as he watched your dress ride up. He bit his thumb for a second before sighing out, feeling your skin. “What’d you tell Sarah?” He murmured, kissing your back.

“That I had an emergency…I’d be back..” you muttered out, feeling a bit embarrassed at how quickly you lost composure just from a few light touches and kisses.

“Guess you’ll have to be extra quiet today then.” He sighed out.

Though, that was a challenge when he had your dress bunched up in his hand, covering your mouth with the other as he pounded into you. “F— fuck, rafe!” You moaned into his hand, and he groaned over and over again from the sounds your bodies created together. “Fuck. I know you’re close. Cum for me.” You hated how well he knew your body. The tiniest twitch, the smallest breathier moan, and he knew you were on the edge. His hands dropped from the bunched up dress and went to rub your clit, his eyes focused intently on you. You were a sight to see.

Rafe began twitching a bit, his own groans and moans getting more feverish before he thrusted just a few more times before spilling into you. He kept himself there for a bit. “Hope you’re on the pill,” He smirked out, breathing unsteady and breathy.

“Or we’ll have to keep another dirty little secret.”

[luvonstyles]

Thank You For Everything

blue collar!Rafe x sahm!Reader

cw: smut, oral (f rec), piv, rafe worshipping his wife

mdni 18+

summary: After the kids are finally asleep, Rafe sets out to give his wife the night she deserves — slow kisses, soft hands, and the kind of deep worship only a blue collar husband with a filthy mouth and a heart of gold can deliver.

⸻

The house is quiet.

For once.

The dishwasher hums in the background. A dim lamp glows in the corner. The kids are finally asleep upstairs—bath time, stories, last-minute drinks of water all handled. You’re still in your robe, hair messy from the day, a faint spit-up stain on your shoulder, and you’re half-asleep on the couch when he comes in.

Rafe pauses in the doorway, watching you.

You don’t notice at first—eyes closed, face tilted toward the ceiling, a soft breath slipping past your lips like you’ve just finally let yourself exhale.

He walks over and kneels in front of you.

You blink awake, smiling sleepily. “Hey.”

“Hi, baby.”

He presses a kiss to your knee. Then another to your thigh. His hands slide under your robe, fingertips warm and rough on your skin.

“Kids finally out?” you murmur, voice low.

“Out cold,” he says. “Lights off. Doors shut. Monitors on.”

You hum. “We should clean up the kitchen.”

He ignores that completely.

Instead, he hooks his fingers into the tie of your robe and tugs it loose, parting the fabric slowly like it’s the only thing he’s wanted to do all day.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, lips trailing up your inner thigh. “I don’t think I told you that today.”

You laugh under your breath. “You did. Twice. Once while I was cleaning up pee off the bathroom floor.”

He grins, but his eyes stay locked on yours. “Still true.”

His hands slide up your legs, spreading them gently. You’re bare underneath, thighs parted around him like muscle memory. He leans in, nose brushing your skin.

“You’ve been taking care of everyone all day,” he says softly. “Now let me take care of you.”

You melt instantly.

He kisses the inside of your thigh, then higher, and higher, until his mouth is pressed against your core—hot and soft and slow. His tongue licks a stripe up your slit, and you gasp, back arching off the couch.

“Rafe—”

“Let me make you feel good, mama,” he murmurs against you. “You deserve that. Every night.”

His mouth is relentless—open, messy, reverent. He licks you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, like he’s starving for it, like he lives for the sound of your breath hitching, the tremble of your thighs around his shoulders.

You whimper, hands fisting in his hair. “God—Rafe—”

He groans, tongue flicking fast over your clit, one arm wrapping around your thigh to hold you steady while the other drifts up your belly, pressing flat over your stomach where your babies once grew.

“You gave me everything,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “Let me give you this.”

Your orgasm hits fast, sharp, and blinding. You cry out, legs shaking as he works you through it, sucking and licking until you’re panting, tugging him up by his shirt collar with shaking fingers.

He climbs over you slowly, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and soft.

You nod, breathless. “Need you.”

He doesn’t rush.

He takes his time undressing—pulls his shirt off over his head, unbuttons his jeans slow, lets you watch the way his stomach flexes and his cock springs free, thick and hard and already leaking.

Then he leans over you again, positioning himself between your legs, lining up with your entrance.

“You sure?” he murmurs, kissing your forehead.

“Rafe,” you whisper, “please.”

He slides in slow, letting you feel every inch. You both groan at the stretch, the tight warmth of it. His forehead drops to yours, hands gripping your hips.

“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters. “Always so perfect for me.”

He moves slow at first—deep, heavy thrusts that rock the couch, your bodies pressed together chest-to-chest. His hands roam everywhere—your breasts, your belly, your thighs—like he’s memorizing you all over again.

“You made me a dad,” he breathes. “You wake up every day and give everything to this family. And you’re still the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

You tear up, but you don’t stop moving—rocking your hips up to meet him, chasing that second orgasm already building.

“I love you,” you whisper.

He kisses you. “I love you more.”

He angles his hips, thrusting deeper, and you cry out, nails digging into his back. “Right there—”

“I got you, baby,” he groans. “Gonna make you come again. Want you to fall apart on my cock.”

Your second climax hits harder than the first. Your whole body tightens, and you sob his name, clinging to him as you come with a full-body tremble. Rafe grits his teeth, thrusts a few more times, then pulls out just in time—coming hot and thick across your belly with a low, ragged groan.

He collapses beside you, catching his breath, hand on your thigh.

After a moment, he leans over, grabs a towel from the side table—always prepared—and cleans you up gently, eyes never leaving yours.

Then he pulls you into his chest and kisses the top of your head.

“Happy Mother’s Day, mama,” he whispers. “Thank you for everything.”

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

a/n: you know i had to write a mother’s day fic where blue collar!Rafe is worshipping his wife like the literal goddess she is. the kids are asleep. the robe is falling off. rafe’s on his knees with a mission and a mouthful of praise. this is soft filth. this is earned reverence. this is “thank you for giving me babies, now let me give you head” energy. happy mother’s day to all the hot, exhausted, powerful mommies out there — rafe sees you.

♥️ lani

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𝒯𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉:

@lolabunnyworldss @superlegend216 @bonjourjiminie @rafesbabygirlx

[luvonstyles]

Sundress Season

Blue collar!Rafe x Wife!Reader

a/n: based on this request! 💌

Summary: You surprise your husband Rafe with lunch at his worksite—wearing a sundress that turns a few too many heads. His coworkers are bold, but Rafe’s jealousy is bolder. He handles it the only way he knows how: by making it very clear you’re his.

⸻

You should’ve known better than to wear the sundress.

It’s not like you were trying to be a distraction. You were just hot, the Carolina sun beating down through your windshield, and the soft yellow cotton was the only thing in your closet that didn’t make you want to cry. So you threw your hair up, grabbed the brown paper bag of lunch, and headed to the job site with a smile.

You knew Rafe was working somewhere out off the mainland, some big house renovation, and he’d sounded exhausted on the phone earlier. You figured a surprise lunch would be the least you could do.

What you didn’t count on was the way the crew looked at you when you stepped out of the truck.

A couple of guys near the framing area went silent mid-conversation. One of them let out a low whistle.

“Damn, Cameron’s wife is somethin’ else,” one muttered, not quietly. “No way she came out here lookin’ like that just to see him.”

Your cheeks burned instantly. You weren’t trying to make a scene—you just wanted to feed your husband. But you were very aware of how the dress clung to your waist, how the breeze caught the hem and played it around your thighs.

You smiled politely, tried to focus on the little path leading to the house, pretending not to hear the not-so-subtle commentary.

“Need a hand, sweetheart?” another guy offered, jogging up beside you with a grin. “That bag looks heavy. Bet I could carry it better than your man.”

You blinked. “Uh, no thank you. I’ve got it.”

“Sure? Don’t wanna strain those pretty arms—”

“You talkin’ to my wife?”

The voice cut through the air like a blade. Deep, rough, unmistakable.

You didn’t have to turn around. You felt Rafe before you saw him.

He was stomping over from the other side of the site, sawdust in his hair, sweat dripping down his neck, and he looked like he was about to throw someone through a two-by-four.

The guy beside you went stiff. “Was just being polite, man.”

Rafe didn’t blink. “Polite looks different than flirting.”

He took the bag from your hands without saying anything else and slid his arm around your waist, tugging you in close—close enough that you could smell the mix of sawdust and soap on his shirt. Close enough that no one could mistake whose you were.

“I’m fine,” you murmured, your hand brushing his chest. “They were just—”

“Did he touch you?” he asked quietly, jaw clenched, ignoring everyone else.

“No. Rafe, really—”

His eyes flicked back to the guy who’d offered to help. “You look at her again like that, you’re off my site. Got it?”

The guy mumbled something and backed off, and Rafe didn’t even wait to see where he went. He was already guiding you inside, big hand firm on the small of your back.

Inside, where it was quieter—unfinished drywall and the faint hum of a portable fan—he finally stopped. His eyes scanned you slowly.

“That dress,” he muttered.

You gave him a look. “What about it?”

He swallowed hard. “You wore that here?”

You crossed your arms. “Why, you don’t like it now?”

Rafe ran a hand down his face, looking borderline feral. “Oh, I like it. Too much. That’s the problem.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “So you’re mad ‘cause I look good?”

“I’m mad ‘cause you look good around other men.” He moved closer, eyes narrowing. “They shouldn’t even know what your legs look like. That’s for me.”

“You think I wore this for them?”

Rafe grunted. “I know you didn’t. Doesn’t matter. You still walked out there lookin’ like a damn dream.”

You shook your head with a soft laugh, resting a hand against his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re mine,” he said, kissing you hard before you could argue.

He didn’t pull back for a long moment. Just stood there, hands firm on your hips, lips pressed to yours like he was still staking a claim.

“You really came all the way out here just to bring me lunch?” he finally asked.

You nodded. “You sounded tired. Figured you could use a break.”

His gaze softened. “You always know what I need.”

“I also know you’re gonna murder your coworkers if I show up again like this.”

He smirked. “Not if you wear my jacket over it.”

You grinned. “Deal.”

And when you finally sat on the tailgate of his truck to eat—Rafe beside you, protective as ever, practically growling if anyone even looked your way—you couldn’t help but love him a little more for it.

Because sure, he was over-the-top. Maybe even a little unhinged. But you knew underneath all that jealous rage was the same man who always kissed your knuckles, remembered your favorite drinks, and called just to hear your voice.

And the way he looked at you—like you were the sun and the moon and every star in between—made you feel beautiful, wanted, his.

Even in a sundress at a job site.

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

a/n: i’d like to personally apologize to the guy who tried to offer you help—Rafe will let him live, eventually. maybe. moral of the story: don’t flirt with the boss’ wife especially if she’s in a sundress, unless you’ve got a death wish (or a strong dental plan). shoutout to blue collar Rafe for keeping jobsite HR in business.

♥️ lani

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𝒯𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉:

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[luvonstyles]

Busy

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

CW: Explicit sexual content, dominant/submissive dynamics, spanking, power imbalance, emotional vulnerability, mild humiliation, tears, aftercare, consensual BDSM with soft limits.

Synopsis: Y/N gets bratty after Harry ignores her for a week.

You had a bad idea.

Not just any kind of bad idea, but the kind of bad idea that your sweet, sensitive self wouldn’t normally even think about acting on. Except… well, it had been a week.

A full, torturous week of Harry holed up in the studio, headphones half-off and hair a mess, obsessing over the final mixes of his album. He came home late. Ate silently. Fell into bed next to you smelling like vanilla and frustration. Every night, you’d curl into his side like a good girl, hoping he’d roll over, mouth at your shoulder and pull your panties down.

But every night?

Nothing.

So now, here you were, standing at the doorway of his at-home studio in your little sleep shirt, barely-there fabric, hem riding up every time you shifted your weight, sleeves falling past your knuckles, pouting so deeply your lip trembled. But not in the soft, sniffly way he was used to. No. You were being a brat.

"You're obsessed with that stupid album," you muttered, arms crossed.

Harry didn’t even flinch. He turned a knob and scribbled something on a notepad, his back to you.

You scoffed. “You're honestly being such an asshole.”

That did it.

His head turned, slowly. He looked over his shoulder, hair a little messy from running his hands through them over and over again.

“Come again?” His voice was low. Calm. But not amused.

You shifted on your feet, unsure now. This wasn’t your usual tone with him. You were the sweet one. The cry-easily one. The soft girl.

You swallowed. “Nothing.”

He leaned back in his chair and spread his thighs a little wider. His eyes dragged over you. “You’ve got about five seconds to come in here and say what you meant.”

You squirmed. Your plan hadn’t gone much further than this.

Still, your feet moved. You padded in, heart pounding. “I just meant… you haven’t touched me in days, Harry.”

He nodded, once. “I know, sweetheart. I’ve been busy.”

“That’s not fair,” you huffed, suddenly brave. “You always say that when you're working. What about me?”

He raised his eyebrows and didn’t blink. “What about you?”

You stared at him, the flush creeping up your neck. “I’m—I need you. But you don’t care.”

His jaw ticked. Slowly, he stood.

You watched him walk around the desk. He didn’t stop until he was in front of you, and still, his voice never rose.

“Let me get this straight,” he murmured. “You storm into my studio. In your little shirt. Acting like a brat. Talking back. All because I haven’t fucked you in a week?”

You bit your lip, nodding.

He tilted his head. “You think I don’t care about you because I’ve been finishing an album I’ve poured years into?”

That part stung. You didn’t mean it like that. You looked down.

“I didn’t mean—”

“No, baby. You did,” he said, quietly. “You meant it. You wanted to hurt me a little. Thought if you poked me hard enough, I’d snap.”

“I—”

“Be quiet.”

You closed your mouth.

He stepped closer, chest brushing yours. His hand found your jaw, not rough, but firm. His thumb pressed against your lower lip.

“You’re usually such a sweet thing,” he murmured. “What’s gotten into you, hmm?”

Your eyes welled up. Instinctively, you tilted toward him.

“I missed you,” you whispered.

“I know you did,” he said. “But that’s not how you tell me.”

“I’m sorry…”

He hummed. “You will be.”

Your stomach flipped.

He took your hand and walked you to the edge of the couch in the studio, small, low, the one he sat on between takes. He sat first, then pulled you over his lap, face-down, ass up. His hand ran gently down your back, toying with the hem of your shirt.

“I try so hard to be patient with you,” he murmured. “You’re usually so good for me. Sweet little thing. So why do you act like a brat when you know I’m barely holding it together?”

His hand smoothed over your ass once, then landed a sharp, open-palm slap that made your breath catch.

“Count for me.”

“O-One.”

Another. Firmer.

“Two.”

“You looked so pretty standing in that doorway,” he murmured. “So pretty, even when you’re being a little mean.”

Three. Four.

You gasped, hips twitching in his lap.

“Harry—”

“No talking,” he said gently. “Keep going.”

Five. Six. Seven.

Your voice trembled.

“Eight…”

By ten, your legs were shaking. You buried your face in your arm.

When he finally stopped, his hands smoothed over your warm skin. “That’s enough.”

You breathed in sharply, then again, like you were about to cry. But he gently moved you to stand between his legs.

“Take your shirt off.”

You blinked at him.

“I said take it off.”

You pulled the sleep shirt over your head, bare underneath, your nipples pebbled from a mix of cold air and nerves. He looked you over, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek.

“Get on the couch.”

You obeyed, knees sinking into the cushion.

“On your tummy.”

You froze.

You hesitated.

“I don’t want to,” you said softly. “I wanna look at you…”

His expression didn’t change. But his jaw clenched slightly. He moved closer.

“No.”

Your lip trembled. “But I just—”

“No,” he repeated. “You don’t get that tonight.”

You blinked fast. “Harry…”

“Get on your tummy.”

When you didn’t move right away, his voice came again, soft but unmistakably stern.

“Now.”

You turned, heart in your throat, and laid on your front. Your cheek pressed into the pillow, and tears began to slip down without permission.

He knelt behind you, strong hands parting your thighs. You whimpered, wanting, needing, his touch.

When he eased into you, slow and deep, you gasped sharply.

“You’ll take it,” he murmured. “You’ll take it and remember not to act out next time.”

You cried softly, face buried, hands curled in the pillow. Your hips twitched toward him, needy, even as your body quivered.

Halfway through, when you felt overwhelmed and aching and emotional, you reached behind blindly, searching for his hand.

He caught your wrist. Held it firmly.

“No touching.”

You sniffled. “I—I’m sorry…”

“I know,” he whispered. “But you still need to learn.”

You nodded into the pillow, crying quietly as he drove deeper, relentless but not cruel. You wanted to see his eyes, to see softness return, but he wouldn’t let you. He stayed behind you, keeping the space between you firm, no matter how much you squirmed.

When you came, it was with a sob in the pillow.

He pulled out slowly, breathing heavy, and tucked himself back into his sweats. The room fell quiet, save for your soft sniffles.

Then…

His hands—warm, wide, familiar—slid under your body. He lifted you gently and turned you over onto your back, then pulled you into his chest like you were made of glass.

His voice, finally, was soft again.

“Oh, baby…”

You curled into him immediately.

“I didn’t mean it,” you whispered, fists in his hoodie. “I missed you. I just—I don’t know what came over me—”

“I know, lovie. I know,” he whispered, kissing your temple over and over. “I shouldn’t have let it get this long. That’s on me.”

You clung to him, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin.

“I just wanted you to look at me,” you mumbled.

He pulled back, tilting your chin.

“I always look at you,” he murmured. “Always. Even when I’m tired. Even when I’m busy. You’re all I see, baby.”

You hiccuped.

“I didn’t like not touching you...”

“I didn’t like saying no,” he whispered. “But I had to. You needed to know you crossed a line.”

You nodded, eyes glassy.

“I was bad.”

“No,” he said firmly. “You’re never bad. Just a little bratty sometimes.”

You smiled through your tears.

He kissed your nose.

“You’re still my sweet girl.”

“Even when I make you mad?”

“I wasn’t mad,” he said. “Just… frustrated. And maybe a little hurt.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know.”

He rocked you gently, murmuring against your hair.

“Let me take care of you now,” he whispered. “You were good in the end. So good for me.”

You nodded, already dozing off in his arms.

He reached for a blanket and tucked it over you, laying back into the couch and holding you like you were the only thing he needed in the world.

And really, you were.

[luvonstyles]

PROFESSOR!RAFE CAMERON

professor!cameron who stammers over his words and can barely breathe in your presence. every time you sit in his class, in those tiny, tiny skirts, tits pressed together. he has to try not to get hard during his lectures.

professor!cameron never asks you to stay after class, but you do anyway because you know he cant resist you. looking at him as you bat your eyelashes, nails grazing his chest and your chest pressed flush against him and you tempt him into giving in. he gets beyond nervous, not confident enough to touch you until you grab his hands, placing them on your ass as you bite your bottom lip. "I don't bite professor...unless you want me to.."

professor!cameron who may or may not already have a girlfriend, and yet it didn't stop him from looking at you like he knows your cunt tastes sweet. going to his office hours for no good reason other than to keep him company, and looking at the small trinkets, and other shit occupying his office. your fingers grazing over a polaroid of him and his girlfriend, giving a small giggle. "cute photo, it's a shame you don't look at her how you look at me."

professor!cameron finally confessing that he wants you so desperately. dreaming of you at night, thinking of you as he strokes his cock in the shower. palms sweaty as you sit on his desk in front of him, computer and papers pushed aside as your legs swing. his voice shaky, mouth dry. "y-you're very uh...voluptuous." a giggle leaving your lips as you hop off the desk, dipping low to palm him through his slacks. "professor cameron, you callin' me sexy?" his gaze averting to your hand and his tongue darting to his bottom lip, glasses slipping to the tip of his nose as he tries to keep composure. "uhh...," a silent 'fuck' leaves his lips as you continue to palm him, "yeah, yeah I am."

professor!cameron being nervous as fuck the first time you suck his dick after confessing, struggling to maintain eye contact and beads of sweat falling off his forehead as you take him down your throat. the moment you pull up for air, your hands continuing to stroke him, all to be heard being the wet sounds of your saliva sticky on his cock and his heavy breathing. he continues to breathe heavy, head thrown back until your voice speaks syrupy sweet. "rafeyyyy, look at me." a whimper leaving his lips when he catches sight of your eyes staring back at him and your tongue swirling around the thick tip of him, pre-cum coating your tongue.

[luvonstyles]

Is It Casual? || FWB!H ||

prompt: it's casual, right? but god, it really doesn't feel that way

word count: 6k

warnings: subspace, lack of aftercare, angst, lack of communication

author's note:

I upload a piece of writing every 1-2 days.

There are other parts of this up and will be updated this month

I recently started a second tier called The OG Tier where 2

one shots (2-5kish) are posted a week.

There are currently 375 + pieces available to read

Tier I - $3 USD where you get access to main stories, everything except the mini one shots.

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you can check it out here

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+

The bar was clearing out, trivia night had come to a conclusion, and everything was winding down.

The big chalkboard in the corner still displayed the final scores, a lopsided tally where “Team Niall” had tragically lost by two points.

It was Tuesday night and everyone had work the next day which meant that there was a rush through the door and left them as the last ones to filter out because they always tended to lollygag even though most of them had early mornings.

The group of friends were all saying their goodbyes.

YN stood with Georgia near the AC vent, arm linked through hers for warmth because the cold blast from above made her huddle in closer.

Hailee and Jessa were a few feet away, still laughing about the last round of questions, and how the boys were such sore losers at every turn.

Someone always tended to leave Trivia night with their feelings hurt.

Niall, Harry, and Mitch were all arguing about the question that had them lose the game.

“Why the fuck would you say Delaware?” Harry scolds as he runs his hand through his hair, a scowl that was saved for Niall and Niall alone, “It's not even a fucking city. It's a state.”

“I got confused! Delaware is the smallest state!” Niall defends putting his hands up, pinks cheek from the beer he's had.

“No, it's really fucking not. It's Rhode Island!” Harry shouts back at him with exasperation, hands thrown up in annoyance, “Come on!”

“You're off the team,” Mitch adds in, monotone and bored as he tugged his keys out from his jean pocket - slowly but obviously trying to see himself out of the argument.

“That's bullshit! We're literally named Team Niall,” He argues with wide disbelieving eyes.

“It's not hard to change the name,” Harry adds in, agreeing with Mitch, and an annoyed roll of his eyes because even though the two have been friends since diapers - they fought more than middle school girls and made up just as quickly.

“Okay, well we work tomorrow morning and have seen enough of this cat fight,” Hailee announces as she wraps her hand around Mitch’s wrist, guiding her boyfriend towards the door.

Jessa trailed behind, waving goodnight to everyone with an amused smile tugging at her lips.

Niall is mumbling about unfair treatment as they all start heading towards the door.

“You did good,” Harry manages to slip next to YN, bumping her hip and then glancing over at Georgia, “You too. I didn't know about Montana's state flower.”

“Better do some studying before next Tuesday,” Georgia quips as she throws her arm around YN, who just laughs softly.

“You did a good job too, Harry,” YN compliments as she leads Georgia towards where they parked next to each other.

“Thanks,” He replies with a slight smile, he pauses as he realizes his car is next to Niall’s on the other side of the lot, “I'll see you guys next Tuesday, yeah?”

“Yeah,” YN said, both she and Georgia giving a small wave as he headed off.

“You two should totally date,” Georgia says as soon as Harry is out of earshot, glancing back quickly to double check, “You'd be so cute together.”

YN shakes her head with an annoyed scowl towards her friend, “We both just got out of long-term relationships. I don't think that would be a good idea.”

Georgia made a dismissive sound, clicking her tongue, “Harry’s been broken up with Lauren for, what, four months? You and Ben ended things at least three ago.”

YN bit the inside of her cheek, the familiar tightness crawling up her chest, “You literally just think we should date because we’re both single.”

“And you guys would look hot together,” Georgia doesn't disagree with her accusation, “I mean…look at him. He's insanely fit. He carried four drinks with one hand!”

YN had noticed. 

She wasn’t blind. 

She remembered the way his hand had dwarfed the copper mug as he slid the Moscow Mule in front of her before passing out three other beer bottles.

And the size of his hands… yeah, she noticed that too.

“No, I'm not looking for a relationship and I doubt he is either,” YN reiterates as they get to their cars, “He's nice but I'm not ready to commit again.”

Georgia scoffed, pressing the button on her key fob - her car chirped and blinked to life, “Who said anything about commitment? I said a date, not a full ass wedding.”

“Goodnight, George,” YN sighed, her tone exasperated but affectionate, she unlocked her own car with a quiet beep,“I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Georgia groaned, slumping dramatically with a frown coating her features, “I’ve got that god-awful presentation. You better pretend to care.”

“Always do,” YN said with a laugh as she slipped into the driver’s seat, glad the conversation had moved on. 

Her head was already too full, her thoughts spiraling the moment Harry came up.

Ben.

Just the name made her temples throb, an implosion that she was trying to avoid because it made her head hurt at least once a day, sometimes more if she thought about him for too long.

It's been three months and it's been amazing to be out of a relationship with an immature man child who got insecure when she went to trivia night so he always tagged along, needed to be included when he hated trivia and rarely ever answered correctly.

So yeah, it had been a relief. 

Being single was better than babysitting a grown man’s ego.

Georgia blew her a kiss before backing out of the parking spot with a little screech of tires. 

YN gave her the middle finger with a smirk before starting her own engine.

It seems like every week now she was bringing it up, trying to play matchmaker for two people who were healing from heartbreaks.

YN only knows a little about the break-up.

Lauren rarely came to trivia. 

When she did, she looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. 

YN knew that Harry had ended it, even though it was hard—he’d said once, in a rare vulnerable moment, that he wanted someone he could build a life with. 

Lauren didn’t want that.

She hadn’t gone easily either. 

She’d shown up at trivia twice post-breakup, trying to win him back. 

Each time, the group acted like they weren’t watching as Harry gently pulled her aside, voice low and kind, guiding her to the other side of the bar before walking her out to her car.

Ben had shown up a few times too, clumsy and bitter, trying to stake some kind of claim.

That hadn’t ended as well as with Lauren.

It didn’t end quietly because Niall and Mitch had to guide him out of the bar while Harry stood between them to make sure that Ben didn’t approach her again - acting as her makeshift bodyguard.

So now Georgia was rooting for two broken people to get together—not necessarily out of romance, but maybe just because the group missed their spark.

Missed the way YN used to laugh, the way Harry used to be sharper, quicker.

+ few minutes later +

“Hips up, come on. You’ve been teasing all night,” Harry grunts, voice low and rough the moment the backseat door thuds closed behind them.

There’s no hesitation—he’s already on her.

His hands at the waist of her skirt, fumbling big hands trying to find the zipper as he bullies her further into the space until her back hits the opposite door.

YN has to remind herself that she's just romanticizing this whole situation because it's her first time having a sexual relationship with someone she's not dating.

She convinces herself the excitement is what makes their chemistry so magnetic and nothing else but she knows she never felt like this with Ben or any other partner.

“Wasn't teasing,” YN manages to get out but she was already breathless, eager in a way she's never been with sex, her thighs dampening was a new sensation.

“No?” His tone is almost mocking, but laced with something darker—something feral, his fingers finally land on the zipper at her side, tugging it slowly down with infuriating precision, “Then your cunt isn’t needy? Am I reading the signs wrong?”

Her breath hitches.

God, she should be annoyed. 

She should be offended.

 But the filth coming from his mouth only fuels the heat already pooling low in her belly. 

The way he says it—so confident, so cocky lights her up in a way she didn’t know words could.

“What signs?” YN pushes back because their back and forth only build up her arousal even further, searching for more dirty words out of his mouth.

Harry leans in, his mouth a breath away from her ear. 

His words send a full-body shiver down her spine.

“The way you watched my mouth all night,” Harry murmurs, voice thick and gravelly. 

His fingers press insistently into the soft, plush flesh just above the waistband of her tight skirt, “Saw you clench your thighs when I took off my coat.”

“You’re full of yourself,” YN manages, but the protest comes out barely above a whisper. 

Her fingers curl into the fabric of his jacketat his shoulder, grounding herself in him because it still doesn't feel real—being able to touch him like this, have him this close. 

There’s something that happens when she’s with Harry—this overwhelming impatience, a hunger that feels heavier, more intense than lust.

Like if she doesn’t get his hands on her, in her, she might actually combust. 

“So you didn't want this? Haven't been looking forward to Trivia night for this?” Harry has this cocky smile on his face, his fingers haven't move at all from her waist and it was making her tick.

“Didn’t cross my mind once,” YN bites out, teeth clenched, her toes curling inside her boots, heels digging into the expensive leather of the car seat. 

Her body is aching to be touched—every inch of her buzzing with restless need but she’s trying to keep control of the dynamic. 

Barely.

Harry narrows his eyes slightly, amusement and heat flickering behind them as he begins to pull back.

 The shift is subtle, but she feels the loss instantly—his weight, his warmth. 

And that just won’t do.

Before he can move another inch, her other hand snaps up to grab at his jacket, fisting the fabric roughly and yanking him back toward her. 

Their lips collide in a kiss so heated it steals the breath from her lungs.

His hand flies up to cup the side of her face, fingers splayed against her cheek and jaw, holding her in place like he’s claiming her. 

The way he kisses her—hungry and messy and unrelenting, it feels like he’s trying to devour her, like he earned her mouth, like he owns it.

“Admit it,” Harry’s mouth is still against hers, barely separating to speak before he's dipping his tongue back into her mouth like he can't help himself.

“No,” YN chases after his tongue as he pulls back, trying to follow his lips because they were addictive and she wanted more.

Harry doesn’t let her take.

He sits back just enough, his body still caging her in, but now his eyes are on fire. 

That same molten look she’s only ever seen when he’s like this—turned on and completely focused.

“Why are you being difficult, honey?” Harry hums as he moves to cup her knees where they're bent around him, ghosting down her right, and dancing along the hem of her skirt, “I know what you want. Don't need to be ashamed of it.”

YN feels a swoop on her stomach, the way he spoke never managed to not get her even more turned on for him, and the whole dynamic of feeling this aroused and playful was new.

“Then give it to me,” YN huffs out as she hitches her hips impatiently,  blinking down at him - she couldn’t take her eyes off of him.

He reaches up and captures one of her wrists, the same one curled tight into his jacket. 

Gently but deliberately, he pries it free and guides it downward. 

With his other hand, he hikes her skirt up, bunching the fabric at her hips until she’s fully exposed, her thighs spread, her breath trembling in her throat.

Then he moves her hand between her legs.

It takes her breath away—literally. 

Her gasp cuts sharply through the close air of the backseat, a startled, needy sound as her own fingertips brush the soaked heat of her thong.

Harry doesn’t look away from her, not for a second. 

She can’t help the shudder that racks through her when her fingers press more firmly to her clit.

It’s not the same as when it’s his hands on her, his mouth. 

But it still eases the throbbing, even if just a little.

“Feel nice, sweet girl?”  Harry nearly croons, it sounds fonder than it should for what they're doing, what they are, and aren't to each other, “You're filthy, touching yourself like this in front of me.”

There’s something unbearably hot about the way he guides her, how he’s using her fingers to pleasure herself the way he wants.

She opens her mouth to throw the insult back at him, to call him filthy, but all that escapes is a whimper as he withdraws her hand suddenly.

He holds it between them, his grip gentle but commanding. 

Her slick glistens on her fingertips under the dim lights filtering through the foggy windows.

“Not wet for me?” Harry asks, cocking a brow with mock innocence.

“No,” she replies with a bratty edge, her chin lifting in defiance. 

She’s proud of the attitude—but it doesn’t last long.

Because without missing a beat, Harry brings her hand up to her face, rubbing her soaked fingertips across her lips until her own arousal glosses them.

He doesn’t stop there.

Harry leans in and presses his mouth to hers again, tongue sweeping over the same place he’d just marked with her slick. 

It’s possessive, greedy.

He licks into her mouth like he’s starving, and the kiss nearly sends her reeling.

“Please, I was wet for you all night,” YN finally gives in, “Was thinking about this.”

There’s no point in pretending anymore. 

She knows how patient he can be.

Harry doesn’t rush. 

He waits, teases, stretches her thin until she’s begging—and she always breaks first.

“About what? Getting your needy cunt touched?” Harry laughs meanly , albeit pleased that she relented because then he can really start being a menace, “Do you think about it all week? Do you think about me all week?”

She should say no. 

She should lie. 

Because she does think about him, not just the sex. 

His laugh, his stupid jokes, the way he looks when he’s concentrating on a trivia question.

But she doesn’t tell him that. 

She can’t.

“I want to come,” YN says instead because it seems safer than telling him the truth, she bucks her hips upwards towards his center but doesn't make contact.

“And I want you to behave,” Harry grunts with annoyance in his tone, hands coming to press her hips back down with a harshness that she hadn't had from previous partners.

She loved it.

She lets out a soft moan at the contact, even as frustration builds. 

She wishes they weren’t crammed into the backseat of his car. 

Wishes she could be stretched out on his bed, bare and unhurried, with his full weight pressing her into the mattress.

“I’ll be good,” YN says, her voice gone kitten-soft and breathy. 

It surprises even her, the way it sounds—submissive and sweet. 

Not like her at all.

“Show me what I want to see then. Be a good girl,” Harry sits back, his eyes tracing over her body, and resting down on the thick of her thigh - squeezing.

YN briefly wonders if this is how Harry had been with Lauren - dominant but attentive, and that's a twist of jealousy in her stomach that she'd rather not consider right now.

The skirt is already bunched at her waist, fabric wrinkled and forgotten. 

Her hand trembles slightly as she dips back down to her center, hooking the gusset of her thong around her fingers and tugging it aside.

It was nerve-wracking to expose the most private part of herself to the man she was crushing on so deeply, had been for so long, and even though he's seen her like this before - it still hadn't become any less intimidating.

“Fuck,” Harry curses when she does so, his hand coming down to almost curiously roll her swollen, hard bud until his thumb, “So puffy f’me. Never seen a prettier pussy.”

And it's probably just a line, he has said those words to the girls that came before her but it still boosted her ego quite a bit.

Emboldened, YN arches her hips into his touch, a pretty moan slipping out as her head tilts back, exposing the soft, pale column of her throat.

“Desperate for my touch, huh?” Harry rasps, ghosting down to tease around her entrance, not dipping in but gathering the wetness there.

“If you don't make me come soon, i'll go back in that bar and get Will,” YN threans with her own smile because she knew he wouldn't like that, “He would get me off.”

Will was one of the DJ’s who ran trivia and he had taken quite a liking to YN, had made it known, and had asked her out a few times.

Harry didn't outwardly admit jealousy but would make snarky comments about how pathetic Will was, how annoying he was, and how he just needed to do his job.

His expression hardens instantly, brows furrowing, top lip curling. 

“You think Will could get you off?” He snaps, glancing up from where his fingers still hover just shy of her cunt, “That fucker doesn’t even know where the clit is. You’d be getting licked out until next year.”

“It’d still be quicker than how long it takes you to get me off,” YN shoots back, chin tilted.

Her pulse is thundering in her ears—because she’s poking the bear, and she knows it.

Harry’s easy to rile when it comes to showing off.

He never backs down when his pride is challenged.

His jaw ticks once, eyes narrowing. 

Then, in a flash, he's had enough.

“Stop fuckin’ running your mouth,” Harry hisses finally hitting his breaking point, it was impressive because he rarely got to that point this quickly.

Before she can fire off another comeback, Harry grips her hips and yanks her down the seat, until she’s lying flat, skirt bunched at her waist, legs parted. 

The leather squeaks under her, echoing in the silence of the car.

His hands grips her ass, firm and rough, pulling her pelvis up until she arches toward him—and then he’s there, his mouth crashing onto her with no warning.

YN cries out as his lips close around her clit, tugging it into his mouth with punishing accuracy. 

Her body jolts, trying to flinch back from the intense pressure, but his grip tightens—keeping her locked in place and leaving her no room to wriggle away.

Harry’s nose nudges against her mound, his lips and tongue relentless, like a man feral.

He barely comes up for air, working her over with deep, rhythmic licks and suction that feel like they’re pulling the pleasure straight from the source.

YN reaches down to grab at him, fingers tangled in his curls as she pushes into his mouth before trying to shy away.

He moves one hand from her ass, thumbing over her seam before he's nudging two fingers in until he can pet at the front of her inner walls, scissoring them to make her feel the light, welcome stretch.

“Ye-yeah,” YN can only gasp as the stimulation grows more quickly than she's used to, his fingers and mouth are so knowledgeable , know exactly what their doing, “Oh, I'm clo-close, H.”

His eyes flick up to her, barely visible from this angle, but the glint in them is unmistakable—dark, electric.

His mouth never lets up, tongue lapping at her, lips sealing around her clit again in a rhythm that has her thighs trembling.

His fingers pump into her at a steady, sure pace, and he knows she’s right at the edge.

And then he stops.

Just like that.

He lets her drop back to the leather seat, slick and desperate, the cool air hitting her exposed skin. 

She blinks in disbelief, mouth open in shock, hips twitching in search of the sensation that vanished too fast, and watches as he rubs his face against the calf that was hooked over his shoulder.

Harry’s the filthy one, really, because he runs his tongue over where he'd just wiped off her arousal without any shame.

“No, no,” YN complains desperately, she had been so fucking close, tryin to hold it at that delicious almost there bliss for as long as possible and it was starting to fizzle, “No, I didn't come- Harry, I didn't-”

Harry comes to cup her jaw, effectively shutting her up with a thumb pressed roughly against her lip.

“If only our friends knew what a mouthy, greedy lil’ thing you are,” Harry admonishes as he tugs down her bottom lip, his nose nearly brushing hers, “I know you didn’t come, silly girl. I didn’t want you to.”

“But why?” YN snaps at him, the sensitivity was continuing to fizzle out like a sparkler come to the end of it’s life, and it left this unsettled, uncomfortable ache that she was never used to feeling because if a partner was getting her that close - she didn’t have the luxury to edge or she wouldn’t get it back then she just wouldn’t come that time when they had sex.

Harry doesn’t answer with words at first.

His hand drops sharply to her inner thigh, a slap of dominance that makes her yelp—not from pain exactly, but the sting of surprise, of being handled like that.

“Because I said so,” Harry retorts lowly, teeth clenched as his brow draw further together, “I don’t think you’ve earned it. Not sweet ‘nough for me yet.”

“I’m sweet, I’m sweet,” YN knows she sounds like a begging puppy but he was the only person who brought of this desperation in her, this unhinged beahvior where she had no shame because she wanted him so much more than she wanted to keep her dignity. 

Harry’s face softens—just a little. 

His gaze travels over her flushed face, her trembling body, her wide, needy eyes. 

Something fond flickers in his expression, just for a beat, and it makes her chest ache.

“Are you?” He murmurs, voice gone almost gentle in contrast. “How are you gonna show me?”

YN nudges forward to steal a kiss, relieved when he allows it but only for a moment before he’s biting down on her lip as punishment.

Her hand comes down to his center, gripping at him through the tight denim of his jeans, and it made her confidence skyrocket when she felt how rock hard he was for her, twitching underneath her palm at the unexpected touch.

“I’ll suck you,” YN tells him, it’s nowhere near the filth that he spills out but it still felt so foreign rolling off of her tongue, “Please, I want you in my mouth.”

“You’re already getting sweeter,” Harry croons as he bats her hand away, moving to unbutton his jeans, and shove them as well as his briefs down his thighs - he was intimidating, the size - the length and girth of him was enough to stretch the corner of her lips and make them ache, she remembers how it felt last week when she had swallowed him down and made her eyes water.

They’d only been doing this for a few weeks, with a break in between during the holidays when there was no trivia, and she still wasn’t use to handle someone as well endowed as him, her eyes had gone wide the first time she’d seen how pretty he was and he had given her this sleazy, proud smile at the time.

Harry wraps a hand around the base of his cock, thumb brushing the slick head. 

Her breath hitches. 

She’d promised herself she wouldn’t ask. 

That she’d wait for him to initiate.

But they hadn’t had penetrative sex yet, sure they’d only hooked up in his car a total of three times now but it hadn’t come up, he hadn’t mentioned even one word of it yet, and she realizes just how much she has been craving him, having him fill her up in a way she’d never felt before.

“C’mon, darling. You’re been so good for me now,” Harry hums as he thumbs over the ruddy, wet tip, it was welcoming, tempting.

“No, I -” YN cuts off because she wants to stop herself, she told herself she wouldn’t, “Want you to fuck me.”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline, his composed facial expression fades momentarily with the surprise of her words, and his hand stops on his length, “Fuck you?”

“Yes,” YN tries to sound sure of herself but it’s faltering, because she’s not.

“And you’ve earned that?” Harry prompts, his cool demeanor right back in place, the shock disappearing just as fast as it had happened, “Or are you being selfish and trying to get out of sucking cock now that you’ve gotten your own?”

YN’s brow furrow, “I didn’t come though.”

Harry snickers, boyishly because he’s getting off of this, “I forgot, your mouthiness has me distracted.”

And looking back, YN thinks this is what people talk about when they use the term subspace.

She’s never felt like this—never felt safe enough to let go.

Because she’d never experienced it before this point but something in her just breaks, she feels floaty and unashamed - there’s no insecurity, no worries about how desperate she’s acting because all she can thinking about is Harry.

It’s an arousal that clouds anything logical and it feels like she’s in the clouds, drifting and weightless, and that’s she’s fully relying on him to take control.

Tears prickle in the corners of her eyes, not from sadness, but from sheer overwhelm.

“Want it,” she whispers, voice cracking, “Please. I’ll s—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Harry hushes softly, his tone is more like his normal cadence and not that deep, horny rasp that he gets, “Honey, are you alright?”

YN swallows, her fingers dug into his arms, “Just want t’come.”

Harry laughs quietly, it’s one of the nicest sounds that she’s ever heard, and right now it seems like the most beautiful music to her ears.

“Okay, pretty,” Harry simpers, his demeanor shifts into something more careful, more cautious as he helps pull her up, “Not many ways to do it comfortably in here.”

Invite me back, please.

Is her needy thought, she wants to be spread out on his bed.

But his next words shut down that hope.

“Will you ride me?”

It’s not really a question. 

He’s already guiding her, and she follows without fussing. 

She doesn’t have time to mourn—he’s sitting back, pulling her into his lap, and her thighs bracket his hips as she lowers down, the thick, flushed head of him brushing against her folds.

The sight of it is obscene.

She wishes she could take a picture, frame it, live inside this moment where he’s so hard and she’s so desperate, spread open and slick with need.

YN’s impatient, she’s never felt so needy in her life, and she couldn’t believe they were actually about to have sex because even when she was with Ben - she fantasized about this more than she’d ever willingly admit to anyone, especially him.

YN goes to grip at him, to guide him but he bumps her out of the way to do it himself, his other hand comes up to cup her cheek, “Tell me what you want.”

“You, want you,” YN babbles, willing to say just about anything if that means that he’ll stop drawing this out.

Harry shakes his head, his expression suddenly serious, and voice more firm, “No, YN. What do you want me to do?”

“Fuck me, I want you to fuck me - oh,” YN cuts out with a high-pitched moan because he’s painting himself down towards to press into her folds, thumping against her clit once before he’s tucking himself inside, and once his tip has breached his hands move to her hips to start moving her to sit down on him.

And it stretches, more intense than it’s ever felt with her partners in the past but it wasn’t painful, it was just a new sensation of accommodating, and he was bringing her down slowly, pushing her skirt higher up so he could grip her bare hips.

“Jesus,” Harry grunts out, it’s louder than he’s been since they had piled into his car, startling in the otherwise quiet space apart from their heavy breathing.

YN’s eyes widen, glancing up at him, and she’s knows she must just be moony-eyed, looking at him like he was the best thing in the world, her hair was falling into her eyes, startening to dampen as it got hotter, more humid in the confined area.

Harry lets out a low chuckle, his hand come to pet the hair back and behind her eye, voice hushed and sweet as maple syrup, “I’m sorry, sorry honey, didn’t mean to startle you. You just feel so good.”

“Yeah?” YN blinks at him, it was hard to keep anything straight but he was filling her up so fucking well that she didn’t feel like she was about to rip at the seams anymore.

Harry laughs again, happy and private as he bumps his forehead against hers, “Yeah.”

YN doesn’t do much of the work, her limbs are jello and the way Harry utilizes his grip on her hips has him doing the heavy lifting, hitting her spot dead on every single time, and his rhytmn isn’t fast but it’s steady, consistent, and hard.

There’s tears trickling down her cheeks as her orgasm starts to build again, faster than expected, and she actually feels a swoop of disappointment because it she doesn’t want it to be over when it feels like it really just began.

Her clit brushes up against his pubic bone, smearing her slick there as it gives her the perfect friction, and her fingertips are digging into the skin of his clothed shoulder because he was still fully dressed and that didn’t feel quite right but it was too late now.

“Can feel you squeezin’ on me,” Harry hums as he brings her down and sits her there, stops her hips from moving as he plants his feet and starts to thrust up into her, “Are you close, sweetheart? Do you need help?”

YN shakes her head, sniffling slightly as she rolls her hips into his thrusts, “Don’t wan’na.”

Harry doesn’t stop all together but he slows his rhythm, “Don’t want to what, honey? Talk to me.”

“Don’t want to come, don’t want it to be over,” YN admits as she blinks through the film at him and the look he has on his face, well it’s one that she’s never seen before but her brain isn’t in the place to be able to decipher that right now.

“I’ll give you another,” Harry promises, his hands slipping down to grip her bum and pull her even fruther into his lap until their chests are pressing together, tilting his head up to bite at the underside of her jaw, “I’ve earned a squeeze though, haven’t I? Get me wet, darling.”

And YN wishes those words didn’t get to her as easily as they did but it works, her hilts jittling to a stop as she grinds harshly into him, head falling backwards, and he starts sucking a mark right at the center of her throat that she can’t even start to be mad about.

“You’re so pretty, never seen anything prettier on my cock,” Harry groans as he picks up his thrusts, she was sensitive, it didn’t feel as pleasant but she still wanted it, wanted to feel how much he wanted her, and he was throbbing, “Fuck, where do you -”

“In me,” YN’s hand cups the nape of his neck, it felt like there was no other thoughts in her mind.

“Fuckin’ christ,” Harry responds as he squeezes her backside hard enough that she feels pinpricks of pain, knowing it was going to leave marks, and being happy about that, a memento from the best sex of her life, “How’d I get so lucky to get you on me?”

YN doesn’t have time to respond, wasn’t going to anyways when she feels him start to pulse, twitch as he starts to come, his hips slowing to a sluggish pace as he starts to come down from it, panting as sweat beads on his forehead - it was hot, sticky in the car now after all the physical activity.

Harry moves quicker than she can keep up with, plopping her back onto the seat and pinning her against the door as he wedges himself between her thighs.

It’s filthy, it’s something she’s never had anyone do but he swipes at her entrance, tasting himself before he’s wrapping his lips around her bud, and starting that tortuous pulsing that he’d done prior, only this time it doesn’t take more than a minute because she’s already hypersensitive from the first orgasm and he doesn’t tease.

No, instead he rides her through it, chasing after her like a starving man when she rears her hips away, and whines after she’s rode it out, “Too much.”

She was still floating, still teary as Harry wipes her up with a clean gym towel he had in his duffel, hands her an unopened bottle water before helping hero ut of the backseat, and walking her towards her car with a hand on her lower back.

He gives her a hug that seems far to platonic for what they just did, things suddenly awkward like they have been after every single time they’ve done this, and then he’s opening her car door and waving ‘bye’ before he’s heading back to his own.

YN doesn’t know why she starts crying as soon as she pulls out of the lot, why she has to park on a side road because her brain isn’t cooperating, and the pit of emptiness in her chest that wasn’t there prior was now gnawing away at her.

[luvonstyles]

You Are Home

Pairing: Harry Styles × Reader

CW: Emotional distress, Strained family relationships, Crying, Comfort, Soft intimacy.

Synopsis: After two hard weeks with her distant family, Y/N returns to Harry’s arms, only to break down in the airport. He holds her, kisses her tears away, and brings her home to remind her: she’s safe, she’s loved, and she never has to face anything alone.

Two weeks.

It wasn’t long, not in the grand scheme of things. But when it came to her, it felt like an entire lifetime.

Harry stood still, anchored in place just a few steps past security, his eyes locked on the frosted sliding doors. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his grey wool coat, a quiet nervous energy flowing through him.

He kept replaying the last phone call they had the night before, how her voice had trembled, how she'd whispered “I can’t wait to be back with you” like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

Harry wasn’t sure what had happened during her visit to her family. She’d been vague, careful, deflecting any time he asked if she was okay. But he knew her well enough to know something had been wrong. That strained tone. That silence between words.

The doors hissed open.

And then she appeared.

Y/N stepped into view, pulling a small black suitcase behind her, a soft pink sweater hanging off one shoulder. Her eyes scanned the crowd until they landed on him.

Harry barely had time to open his arms before she crashed into him, wrapping herself around his chest like she could burrow inside and never leave again.

He held her tight, his arms locked around her waist, her head tucked beneath his chin. She was trembling.

“Hi, angel,” he murmured against her hair, his voice soft, reverent. “Missed you so much.”

And that’s when he felt it.

The wet warmth of her tears against his collarbone.

His brows furrowed. He leaned back just enough to look down at her, cupping her cheeks with both hands.

“Hey… hey, what’s all this then?” he said gently, brushing a thumb beneath her eye.

“I’m fine,” she lied, voice cracking.

He looked at her, really looked, and saw how red her eyes were. How her mouth was set like she’d been biting it for hours. How her shoulders shook.

“Baby,” he whispered, and that’s when she broke.

“I missed you,” she choked out, voice catching, tears spilling over. “I missed you so much it physically hurt. I couldn't sleep. I—” she hiccuped. “I don't wanna go anywhere without you again..”

Harry’s heart squeezed painfully in his chest.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. He just gathered her tighter, pressed his lips to her temple, then her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. Little soft kisses, like sealing every crack he could find in her.

“I’ve got you now,” he murmured. “You’re home, yeah? You’re safe.”

She nodded into his chest, fists clutching his coat like she was scared he’d vanish.

He leaned back again, framing her face with his hands, thumbs gently brushing away every falling tear.

“Look at me, love,” he said softly. “You don’t ever have to go back there if you don’t want to. I don’t care if they’re your family. if they make you feel like this, I’ll protect you from all of it.”

Her bottom lip trembled. “I just… I didn’t realize how much I rely on you. I felt so alone, Harr...”

“Oh, baby…” He kissed her forehead. “You’re never alone, alright? Not while I’m breathing.”

He pulled back slightly, enough to see her face. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes swollen and glossy, nose a bit red. Beautiful. She was always beautiful. But this—this raw, tear-streaked version of her—made him want to gather every shattered piece and kiss them whole.

She nodded quickly, swallowing a hiccup. “I thought I could handle it. I mean, it’s just my parents. It’s not like I haven’t done this before…”

“But you didn’t have me before,” he said softly. “You’re not alone anymore.”

Another wave of tears came, and he didn’t stop kissing her. Across her cheeks, her eyelids, her jaw, her nose.

She let out a trembling laugh. “You’re gonna kiss the tears off my entire face?”

He grinned gently. “Damn right I am.”

They stayed like that for a while, in their own little bubble while the world bustled past them. Eventually, Harry brushed her hair out of her face and said, “Come on. Let’s get you home, yeah? Hot shower, tea, and my arms around you. That sound alright?”

She nodded, smiling through her tears.

“You’re gonna hold me all night?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Darling,” he said, pressing one last kiss to her lips, “I’m not letting go of you for a second.”

Back at Harry’s place, she collapsed into his bed like she belonged there, because she did. She curled up under the covers while he made her a cup of tea, humming softly from the kitchen. When he returned, she was already watching him with sleepy eyes, like she couldn’t quite believe he was real.

He placed the cup on the nightstand and slid into bed beside her.

“C’mere,” he murmured.

She climbed onto his chest like a sleepy kitten, legs tangled with his, cheek pressed to the spot just above his heart.

“Tell me something nice,” she whispered.

“Hmm,” he considered. “Okay. You’re home. You’re safe. I love you.”

She let out a soft sound, something between a sigh and a sob.

“And…” he added, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “You’re never going back there alone again. Not if it makes you cry like that.”

She tilted her face toward his. “But I have to, sometimes. Obligations.”

He nodded slowly. “Alright. But next time, I come too. Or you stay three days, max. And we’re setting up a FaceTime schedule.”

She giggled, despite herself. “Yes, Daddy.”

Harry arched a brow. “Don’t tempt me when you’re this tired.”

She yawned. “Not tempting. Just stating facts.”

He chuckled, deep and rich, and kissed her forehead again.

“Can I tell you something kind of pathetic?”

“Please.”

“I cried in the bathroom on the third night,” she admitted. “Because I remembered how you make tea for me, and how you rub my back when I sleep, and I realized… I never want to be without that again.”

Harry kissed her again. On her lips this time. “Then you won’t be. Simple as that. And you’re not pathetic. You’re someone who needs to be loved right. And you are, Y/N. You are so loved.”

The tears welled up again, but she didn’t sob this time. She just nodded, buried her face in his chest, and breathed him in like she was trying to refill her lungs after drowning.

“You don’t ever have to hide that from me, yeah? Missing someone you love—it’s not weakness. It’s just proof that you feel deeply. That you’re real.”

He held her for a long time. Stroking her back. Running his fingers through her hair. Whispering things she barely caught but still felt in her bones

Eventually, he coaxed her up for a shower. Not because he wanted to rush her, but because he knew she’d feel better after. He undressed her slowly, reverently, like she might break if he wasn’t careful. She stood in the warm stream while he massaged shampoo into her scalp, kissed her shoulder blades, whispered soft things while her eyes fluttered closed.

After, he wrapped her in a towel and led her back to bed. One of his oversized t-shirts found its way onto her, and she sank into the mattress like it was the only safe place in the world.

Harry climbed in beside her and opened his arms.

She didn’t hesitate.

Curled against him, her head on his chest, she sighed. “I hate that two weeks did this to me.”

“I don’t,” he said softly. “It just proves how real this is.”

She tilted her head up to look at him.

“You know,” he added, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead, “For a really long time, I used to think maybe someone like me wasn’t made for love.. But then you came along, and suddenly I wanted to believe in everything again.”

Her throat tightened. “That’s the kind of thing you say when you’re about to propose.”

He smirked. “Easy, tiger. One emotional breakdown at a time.”

She rolled her eyes, but it made her laugh. That was all he needed.

“Come here,” he whispered, gently flipping her onto her back so he could hover over her, his arms caging her in, but his touch as soft as breath.

“I love you.”

He leaned down and kissed her deeply. “I love you more.”

He kissed her again.

Her jaw. Her neck. Her collarbones. Her lips.

And again.

And again.

Until her eyes fluttered closed and the world went quiet.

No family, no expectations, no bruises left by words unsaid.

Just Harry.

Because with Harry, she wasn’t just loved.

She was home.

[luvonstyles]

finally finding a masterlist with the characters ur interesed in and click in one // “None yet”