nneptunexo

[nneptunexo]

“ FUCKED MY WAY TO THE TOP ” !

TULLE AND TAXES AU

content: you’re made upset other ballerinas claim your rise to success is credited due to you sleeping with rafe.

warnings: derogatory language against women, insults

w/c: 1.5k

pairing: ruthless!businessman!rafe x crybaby!ballerina!reader

a/n: i flipping love this fic

you had practiced your solo again tonight on stage rehearsals. you hadn’t noticed the judgy looks in the corner, or their harsh whispers, concealed with hands over their mouths. evidently, everyone else had. everyone else was in on it, the cruel little joke you’d later become aware of. it’s why they gave you faux smiles as you passed, and clapped stiffly once your final spin was over.

you changed into your sneakers, tying your laces in the dressing room, tongue poking out your mouth in concentration. then folded your clothes, laying them into your pink duffel, and avoiding as much disruption as you could as you packed away.

it was the quietness, the sharp eared, yet muted tongue of your character that caught what anora, and lucy were whispering in the corner. eyes staring you down, something you caught in the mirror, and words laced with venom, something you hardly had to strain to hear.

“she’s not even that good..” anora scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest. she had this belief that she was second pick to be the soloist, and that you’d stolen her spot. she hadn’t mentioned this directly, just thrown about comments like ‘stay safe, i’d hate to have to take over on the performance day!’ the teacher hadn’t even announced her as the understudy, yet she was quite firm on this. “tell me about it,” lucy mumbles, trailing down your legs with her eyes. criticising your looks without words. it made your skin prickle, and you tightened your cashmere cardigan tighter around yourself. “you know why she’s picked though,” lucy nudges anora. “hm..” the black-haired girl hums in acknowledgment. “that cameron..don’t know how she did it– she doesn’t even speak two words,” lucy murmurs, and you refrain from looking behind to her. settling for a subtle glance through the mirror, pretending to adjust your bun. “oh yeah, it’s always the quiet ones. such sluts..couldn’t do it by herself so she just had to fuck her way to the top,” anora spits out, slightly louder. she wanted you to hear it. your eyes dart down, but you know she’s smug. you know she knows– she’s hit you right where it hurts most.

slut.

fucked your way to the top.

terms you’d never thought would be associated with your name. you would keep your head down, bloody your pointe shoes, and soak your leotard with tears just during relentless practice. rafe would push you further, support you. you didn’t think sleeping with him had anything to do with it…unless it did. unless you were being favouritised by rafe.

“y/n!” the director’s voice snaps you out of your trance in front of the mirror, and you shuffle around to face him. “yes sir?” you murmur, wary of the watching girls. avoiding their eye contact, and his, you look down at the floor. the scuffles and scratches. “we have an hour extra practice today, why’d you look like you’re about to go home?” he asks, and the girls snicker. you flush red with shame, every inch of your skin burning. “i don’t– i don’t think i can do anymore today,” you whisper shamefully. his head moves back in bewilderment. “you have to y/n–“

“sorry, i just can’t,” you nearly sob, brushing past him, and murmuring another hasty apology as you leave. your footsteps hurry through the theatre, down the steps, clutching your bag against your shoulder. “i’ll tell mr cameron about this!” he calls after you, and it makes the tears fall harder.

mr. cameron.

rafe.

the girls are probably having the time of their life hearing that. giggling– sure, you’d love for him to call mr. cameron. so he can feed your ego, and career. tell you lies, and put you on this pedestal.

or the rafe you know might be disappointed. expecting his perfect angel to be perfect at all times, finding a flaw– a weakness– that skews his perception of you, might make him feel like he failed. his project of the best ballerina, poised at all times, ruthless like him, now gone awry because you couldn’t handle a few untrue words.

sensitive.

weak.

your apartment feels hollow, and cold. dumping your bag by the kitchen table, you slug yourself into your bedroom, curl onto the bed against the headboard and sob. your knees pull in to your chest, chin tucked between and eyes stinging as they go red, and your cheeks go damp with tears. the weight of the centre-stage, of the judgement, of the pressure comes crashing down in wails released from your lips, soaking through your tights as the tears drip down.

through your cries, you don’t hear the door open. or click shut. you don’t hear rafe’s footsteps. or his call out for you. you don’t hear him nudge open the bedroom door. or his soft sigh.

you feel him settle on the bed, though. you feel him stroke back your hair. you feel him pull your head up, and brush away your tears. noticing his uncharacteristic softness that always shows for you. the patience he somehow musters for your sensitivity and constant tears.

you sniffle, rest your chin on your knee as you look up at him through glossy eyes. “what’s this i hear about an uncooperative ballerina?” he strokes your cheek, wiping away your tears with the pad of his thumb. “bawling her pretty little eyes out..what’re you crying over angel?” his voice is delicate, like he’s cooing at a baby.

your lip wobbles. you hesitate to tell him– surely this proves their point? crying to your boyfriend, and causing him to no doubt take more action. he might fire them. no. he would fire them.

“what happened?” his tone turns serious, nearly growling it out. his fingers dig into your cheek more firm, forcing your face fully into his direction. he can see something’s wrong– worse than usual. usually your little sobs can be cured with a few words, and he has you muttering what’s wrong within seconds. not today.

you wipe away your tears with fisted hands, and rafe catches them, pulling them away so he can do it himself. “the girls–“ hiccough “they— they–“

“shh..” rafe calms you, relaxing his grip. he scoots closer to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “deep breaths angel, then tell me what the girls did.” he has you cuddled into his chest, head tucked under his arm, shielded by his body and the hand that continues to rub circles into your cheek.

fighting through your hyperventilations, you take deep breaths like rafe said, following the rise and fall of his chest as a guide. “the girls said i– that i couldn’t make it on my own, so i had to sleep with you to get there.”

his jaw clenches.

there are a thousand things he could say about them, in return. their talent is debateable, they evidently lack skill, and their looks couldn’t get them anywhere— no. if you’d heard that you’d no doubt only feel worse.

aiming to settle for something more mild, he dips his head so it’s the only thing you see. “they’re just mad because you have what they don’t,” he says bluntly, though delivered in a soft tone, preparing the cushions for a big blow. “they’re a bunch of graceless girls, who wish they had your talent and effort.” the word ‘graceless’ rolls off his tongue disdainfully sharp, and you don’t miss it.

“ray that’s rude,” you mumble, fiddling with the hem of your cardigan.

“reality is harsh baby,” he tells you. “some people don’t want to hear the truth, but they have to. and these girls? they needed that wake up call, that maybe they should consider a different career,” he chuckles, like it’s a joke to him. like he finds their attempts at performing amusingly bad– and he does.

“they’re not talentless..”

“angel..” rafe sighs. “point is, you make me money. when people come to see this, they’re not here to see those idiots, throwing themselves about the stage– “

“ray!” you scold, interrupting his verbal onslaught.

“–they’re here to see you. gorgeous, and perfect, they’re here for you.” he continues, ignoring your words. “and putting you front and centre? that’s just good business, it has nothing to do with the fact that you’re a doll in bed—“

your eyes widen, and your hand swiftly covers his mouth as if there’s someone here to eavesdrop on your conversation. it doesn’t seem impossible that one of the girls might have dropped some listening device in your bag, or your house. “ray!” he smiles against your hand. presses a soft kiss to your palm and uses his own hand to take yours away.

“angel..do you need me to have a word with–“

“no!” you hasten to refuse, shaking your head. “it’ll only make them believe it more..” you add, sagging against him. rafe lets out a defeated hum, resting his chin on top of your head. “alright,” he huffs. “so what do you want, hm?”

you shrug against him.

“do you just want a break?” he offers, rubbing your arm up and down. you nod into his chest, and rafe holds you tighter. he doesn’t offer breaks, or moments of peace, the word even sounds foreign coming from him. but for you? rafe does a lot of things his coworkers would find shocking.

he’ll call the director.

he’ll handle the girls in whatever subtle way he can think of.

but he’ll do it later.

now he has to take care of you. maybe his favourite thing.

taglist: @angelicameron @yelqze @loverliner @tinythebunni @dollarbillsflying @lxvrgirl @imliterallysocoolfr @imnothrowingawaymyshot

[nneptunexo]

don't think I forgot abt u guys, new work soon🤭

[nneptunexo]

TULLE AND TAXES

– crybaby!ballerina!reader x ruthless!businessman!rafe

a/n: this was going to be a series, then i lost the plot so just enjoy the fic!

he leans back in his chair. the spot in the back of the theatre, hidden in the shadows, next to a business partner he intends to buy out tomorrow. hands folded in his lap, tracking his newest investment.

white tulle in ruffles around her waist. poised and elegant. her headpiece doesn’t fall from her head, while he notices some other girls hurry to adjust theirs. discreet, but he still spots it. her pointe shoes are seamlessly blended to her skin. her legs are straight, movements evenly timed. not sloppy. precise. he knows she’s practiced. he respects it.

“so? what’d you think?” his partner nudges him in the arm. rafe knows he doesn’t think like he does. his partner’s preoccupied with infrastructure, the beauty of the place, whether it’s worth investing in. turning it into some apartment complex like every other cement block they own. rafe knows it’s the girls on stage, devoting their life to the audiences who fill the halls that will make him the money he spends. his partner hasn’t glanced at them once.

“i think she’s perfect,” rafe murmurs, following how you gracefully back yourself into the corner, out of the way. you let a girl with the clumsiness of a human take the stage, the spotlight, while you dance with the gracefulness of a swan. she doesn’t compare to you, yet you let her believe she does.

“them? i’m talking about the look of this place..” he scoffs, shaking his head at rafe. he thinks rafe is stupid. there’s nothing rafe hates more than being undervalued. he’s the top of his chain, fought his way there– how could he be questioned? and his partner got it wrong too– not them, just you.

“an’ i’m talkin’ about her.” rafe nods his head to you. undervalued, too. somehow so content when you’re being pulled back, limited.

he can help with that.

“who? i don’t see her..” his partner moves his head closer to rafe’s.

“of course you don’t,” rafe tuts. no one sees you. “doesn’t matter, it’s a good investment, put me in contact with the sellers.” he pushes to his feet, deals the order out with ease. the man’s on the same level as him, but not anymore. now rafe’s shoving him out, and he’s defenseless to stop it. can’t even try.

his partner disappears behind the curtain. rafe stays. he observes you. some girls, with keener eyes than you, spot him. flush. fumble. they think he’s looking at them.

he’s focused on you.

you don’t spot him. your head is bowed. pure concentration looks so seamless on you.

he loves it.

when he forces himself away, he doesn’t make the buy yet. he knows not to look hasty. it raises the price, and though he figures you might be worth it, he’d rather save that money to improve you. invest in you, instead. over this, he seeks out the director, intently watching behind the backstage curtain.

“rehearsals hm?” rafe wonders aloud, behind the director. he startles the man, but rafe’s calm. glances at him, over him, like he’s so unimportant, then through the gap in the curtain. he can see you closer now, and can’t spot much flaw other than that you’re not where you should be: the centre.

“uh– oh, yes,” the director stammers, disorganised. rafe questions whether a man like that could really produce something as wonderful as you, and based on the quality of the other dancers he assumes he can’t. you’re an angel of your own creation.

“when i buy this place, i’d like this to continue..” rafe says, but it doesn’t sound like a request. no, it sounds like a plan. one the director can’t oppose to, and wouldn’t even try to go against.

the man blinks at rafe behind his glasses. maybe he hadn’t realised rafe was the investor. well, he did now. it rendered him somewhat speechless, or perhaps afraid, for he simply nodded.

“good.” rafe tilts his head, angling himself better to see you. 

“do you like the ballet?” the director inquires, hopeful. someone who will take his passion seriously, fund them how he hoped.

rafe shrugs.

the director’s shoulder’s sag. his hope deflated. 

“when it’s well executed, i guess,” he sighs. disappointed. 

the man doesn’t miss the comment, the way it’s directed at him. “you don’t think my girls are performing well?” 

he’s offended– rafe can understand that. he would be too, if he produced work as badly as that. 

“that one,” rafe nods to you. 

“we can get rid of her?” the director suggests. rafe scowls. how can a man be so blind to talent? perfection.

“she’s the only good one. if you do anything, get rid of everyone but her.” 

[nneptunexo]

—𝑇𝐴𝐾𝐸𝑁 𖦹

dark! rafe cameron x reader.

warnings: dark content, past coercion, obsession, emotional manipulation, noncon, degrading language, crying, rough manhandling (jaw/waist grabbing, forced kissing), toxic power dynamic.

Not romanticized. Please read with caution.

You didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. The window was cracked—barely, like you’d forgotten. But it was enough, rafe always found the gap. Always watched first.

"You’re shaking" he said. His voice slid down your spine like a blade.

Rafe was behind you already, his chest brushing your back. The heat of him felt like a threat. You froze.

“I didn’t say you could come in.”

“You didn’t say no, either.” His hand came around to your waist, low, possessive. “And you never locked the window. So whose fault is that?”

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out.

He moved faster than you could track. Suddenly your back hit the wall, his hand splayed flat across your belly, pinning you in place. His other hand cupped your jaw—not soft, not kind.

“You remember what you called me last time?” he asked. “Right before I bent you over your desk and made you sob into your own reflection?”

You clenched your jaw. He grinned.

“Monster,he whispered. “But your pussy still clenched around me like it couldn’t bear to let go.”

“Rafe—don’t—”

His mouth was on yours before you could finish. Hard. Not kissing. Taking.

His teeth scraped your bottom lip raw. His tongue forced past yours. And all you could do was cry.

He moaned when he felt it—your body trembling, the first tears sliding down your cheek into the kiss.

“Fuck,” he growled, pulling back just enough to see you. “Crying already? Didn’t even get my cock out.”

"get off me" you said.

"I will, once I'm done helping you remember who you are," Rafe spat, his grip tightening on my wrist until I winced, tears already blurring my vision. His eyes, the same stormy blue that had once held such a magnetic pull, were now dark and possessive, raking over my trembling form. A shiver that was equal parts terror and a sickening, unwanted anticipation ran through me. "Every tear you shed, every choked sob… they just prove how deeply you crave this," he growled, his voice a brutal caress that sent a confusing tremor through my core. "Don't pretend you don't."

He dragged me closer, the expensive fabric of his shirt a rough contrast against my tear-stained cheek. The familiar scent of his cologne, once an intoxicating lure, now felt like a brand, marking me. "You remember the way you used to look at me," he whispered, his breath hot and suffocating against my ear, stirring a shameful flicker of desire amidst the fear. "The way your body would tremble just at my touch." His fingers dug into my hip, a painful reminder of his strength, his control, yet a forbidden heat still bloomed where he touched.

He lifted me as if I weighed nothing, my body shaking uncontrollably, a silent scream trapped in my throat. Yet, as he carried me, a treacherous part of me, a buried instinct I hated, recognized the possessive strength in his arms, the raw power that both terrified and, shamefully, thrilled me. He dropped me onto the soft mattress, the impact jarring, but even through the fear, my gaze locked onto his, a desperate plea mixed with a horrifying, undeniable longing.

He stripped with a deliberate slowness, each discarded garment a step further into my nightmare, yet my eyes couldn't look away. His nakedness was a stark symbol of my vulnerability, but also a stark reminder of the forbidden allure that still clung to him, a ghost of the desire I once freely offered. He reached for me, his touch sending fresh waves of fear through me, yet beneath the terror, a treacherous ache began to stir. His kiss was brutal, possessive, silencing my whimpers, but even through the pain, a ghost of the pleasure we once shared flickered to life.

His hands moved over my body, stripping away my clothes with a callous disregard for my trembling protests, yet each touch, each invasion, ignited a confusing storm of revulsion and a shameful, undeniable heat. The slickness between my legs was a testament to my body's unwanted betrayal, a horrifying response. yet a part of me, the part I loathed, recognized his knowing touch, the way he seemed to understand the secrets of my own flesh. He entered me roughly, the pain sharp and immediate, tearing a sob from my throat, yet even in the agony, a twisted sense of inevitability washed over me, a surrender that felt both forced and, in a horrifying way, almost…right.

Tears streamed down my face as he moved within me, each thrust a brutal reminder of my powerlessness, yet my hands, despite my will, clenched the sheets beneath me, a desperate grip that felt almost like clinging. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the sight of him, the feel of him, the crushing weight of his dominance, yet my body betrayed me, arching against his. The fight drained out of me, replaced by a hollow resignation, yet beneath it, a dark, unwelcome pulse throbbed. I was broken, and he knew it, and in that brokenness, a terrifying, twisted part of me still craved him.

Finally, the relentless rhythm slowed, then stopped. He withdrew, leaving me feeling empty and breathless, yet a strange sense of loss, a hollow ache, resonated within me. He didn't offer a word of comfort, didn't acknowledge the tears still streaming down my face. Instead, he rolled off me, his breathing heavy, and stood to retrieve his discarded clothes.

"Don't think this changes anything," he said, his voice cold and dismissive as he dressed. He didn't look at me, his attention already elsewhere. "You're still mine. And next time, maybe you'll remember sooner and save us both the trouble." He turned then, his eyes devoid of any warmth or remorse. "Clean yourself up."

He left the room without another word, the click of the closing door echoing the finality of his control. I lay there, naked and trembling, the wetness between my legs a stark reminder of what had just happened.

The tears continued to fall, hot and silent, a mix of pain, fear, and a deep, self-loathing shame for the treacherous longing that still lingered within me.

He had broken me, and the emptiness he left behind was a chilling testament to his cruel victory, a victory made all the more devastating by the unwanted echo of my own dark desires.

[nneptunexo]

dark rafe shot tonight!!!!!

[nneptunexo]

— 𝐻𝑎𝑧𝑦 𝑚𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑛' 𝑇𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑠 ༄

rafe cameron x trailerpark! reader.

The porch light flickered overhead, casting a sickly glow over the cracked concrete slab you called a front step. Rafe stood next to you, out of place in his clean sneakers and crisp hoodie, the kind that probably cost more than your rent. His Range Rover was parked a few feet away, headlights still glowing faintly like it didn’t belong here—and it didn’t.

You were back after a week at his place—air conditioning that actually worked, blackout curtains, stocked fridge, silence. But the quiet had felt too clean. Too unfamiliar. So you’d told him to bring you home. And for some reason, he had.

He leaned against the porch railing, lighting a cigarette with the kind of detachment you knew too well. You were sitting barefoot on the step, one of his sleeves stretched over your hand as you dipped Oreos into a chipped mug of sweet tea.

“You sure you wanted to come back here?” he asked, not looking at you.

You shrugged, staring into your cup. “Didn’t say I wanted to. Said I needed to.”

He didn’t argue with that. Just took a long drag, jaw tense. The wind shifted, and the trailer creaked like it always did, like it hated being still.

A cat—your not-cat—rubbed against your ankle. It had been hanging around for weeks now, acting like it owned the porch. You bent to scratch its head, voice soft. “Think we could keep it?”

Rafe glanced down, lips twitching at the corners. “You gonna feed it with what, exactly? Expired cereal and government cheese?”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Can cats eat eggs?”

That made him huff a laugh, the kind he tried to stifle but didn’t quite manage. “Jesus Christ.”

You smirked, tapping the edge of your mug. “I mean, I’m no gourmet chef, but she’ll live.”

Still, he didn’t say anything for a moment. Just watched the cigarette burn lower between his fingers.

“I’m gonna get you out of here,” he said finally. Quiet. Real. “I don’t give a shit how. You’re not staying in this place.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “rafe, stop”

“I mean it,” he said, eyes meeting yours. “You think I don’t see how they look at you? What you deal with just to stay afloat out here?” He ran a hand through his hair, like he was trying to push the frustration down. “You don’t belong in a place that keeps breaking around you.”

You glanced back at the trailer, then down at the cat stretching across your feet. “Maybe I do.”

He shook his head, softer now. “No. You belong wherever you feel good. Wherever you can breathe. That doesn’t have to be some big house or anything. Just... not this.”

The trailer behind you groaned again with the wind. Down the row, someone yelled about rent. A car backfired. The cat startled but didn’t move from your feet.

You nudged the toe of your sock gently against Rafe’s clean shoe. “Even if I still wanna keep the cat?”

He looked down at the animal now curled up like it had always belonged. Let out a quiet laugh. “If it eats my good food, it’s sleeping outside.”

You smiled, small and stubborn and soft. “Then I’ll teach it how to open your fridge.”

He snorted, flicking ash into the dirt.

You didn’t say anything else. Just took another sip of tea and sat with him in the glow of the busted porch light, the cat asleep by your feet, and something kind of like a future sitting quietly between you.

[nneptunexo]

── 𝑂𝐹𝐹 𝐿𝐼𝑀𝐼𝑇𝑆 ༄

rafe cameron x carrera! reader.

You didn’t mean for it to happen, but then again, no one means to start secretly hooking up with the guy who used to call your sister a bitch every other day.

It’s not like you like him: rafe's rude, smug and probably still kind of hates everything about you and the people you hang out with.

You should absolutely hate him back, but he looks at you like you’re the only person who’s ever shut him up, like you make his brain stop chewing itself alive for five minutes. And that does things to a person.

Especially when he gets close—too close—at some dumb party, leans down like he’s gonna say something awful again, and instead says:

“You’re not like her". Quiet, like he regrets it already. You roll your eyes, because—what the hell is that supposed to mean?

but your stomach flips anyway.

The first time rafe kisses you, it’s all wrong.

You’re both kind of pissed— he says something mean about John b, you say something worse about his dad— and then suddenly you’re backed up against the side of his truck, his mouth is on yours and you don’t even remember how it started.

It’s too fast, and too messy

his hand is in your hair while yours fisted in his hoodie like you might shove him off, but you won’t.

And when it’s over, neither of you says a word. You just stand there, breathing like idiots, not looking at each other.

You walk away first: no reaction.

but the next time you see him, his eyes flick down to your mouth like muscle memory and yours do the same.

so, yeah.

you’re both kind of screwed.

[nneptunexo]

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON PEOPLE, I opened tumblr to three freaking scandals today

[nneptunexo]

── 𝑅𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑒𝑑𝑔𝑒𝑠, 𝑄𝑢𝑖𝑒𝑡 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑠 ⋆

rafe cameron x reader.

part one !

It’s been a week since the night I started to feel this way.

I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about it—his eyes, that strange tension hanging between us, the way his voice softened when he told me my voice calmed him. I keep replaying it in my head like some kind of broken record, trying to make sense of it. Because nothing about that moment made sense, especially not when it comes to Rafe Cameron.

But tonight, it’s not about that. It’s about this party. This damn Kook party, and the noise, the chaos, and the fact that I’m here—again—sticking out like a sore thumb.

I’m here with Sarah, of course. She’s made it her mission to drag me out to these parties. “Come on, we’ll have fun!” she says, but fun, for me, is not being suffocated by people I don’t know, wearing clothes that are too tight, and feeling like everyone’s eyes are on me for reasons I can’t figure out.

The house is packed with bodies, all of them moving to the loud beat of the music, swaying and laughing, and just... existing in a way I’ve never been able to do. Sarah’s already lost in the crowd, her blonde hair bouncing as she laughs too loudly, grabbing people’s attention like she was born to be in the spotlight. She fits in perfectly.

I, on the other hand, don’t.

I end up near the drink table, away from the noise, clutching a beer and trying my best to disappear. But that’s when I see him.

Rafe.

He’s standing by the grill, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket like he’s too good for this party—or any party, for that matter. His face is as cold and unreadable as ever, but there’s a darkness to him that doesn’t belong here, like he’s playing a different game.

And then our eyes meet.

It’s like everything else falls away for a second. The music, the laughter, the flashing lights—they all blur into the background as I’m stuck in his gaze. There’s something in the way he looks at me, something sharp and calculating. It doesn’t make me feel safe. It doesn’t make me feel warm. But it makes me feel alive, like I’m not invisible to him, even if he wants me to think I am.

Before I can break the stare, he pushes off the wall and starts walking toward me. His movements are slow, measured, like he’s in no rush, like he knows he has all the time in the world.

"Not a dancer, huh?" he says, his voice low but clear over the music.

I shake my head, taking a small sip from my beer. "Not really my thing," I answer, trying to keep my tone casual.

He doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches, just a little. “Yeah, I can tell.”

There’s a pause. The kind of pause that feels too long, but I don’t know how to fill it, so I just shift my weight and look away for a second.

“You here alone?” he asks, his voice still that cold, cutting thing I’ve come to expect from him.

“No,” I answer quickly. “Sarah’s around somewhere.”

"Of course," he murmurs, almost to himself. Then he looks at me, really looks at me, like he’s trying to figure out what I’m doing here, why I’m standing so far outside of everything.

I don’t know why I feel like I have to defend myself, but the words come out before I can stop them: “I don’t really fit in with... well, this.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t look surprised, either. He just leans a little closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming in a way that makes my skin prickle.

“Good thing you’re not trying,” he says, and there’s something about the way he says it—like a dare, or a challenge.

I don’t like the way it makes me feel.

I don’t like how much it makes me want to prove him wrong.

“Not sure I’d want to try,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. “I’m not really into pretending to be something I’m not.”

Rafe doesn’t respond right away. He just watches me, his eyes narrowing, like he’s searching for something. He doesn’t need to say it, but I can feel the judgment in the air, thick and heavy.

But then, almost as if he’s not satisfied with whatever answer I gave, his attention shifts. I follow his gaze as he looks over my shoulder, his eyes narrowing just slightly, and then he’s walking away from me without a word.

I stand there, confused. Did I say something wrong? Was I imagining the whole thing?

But I don’t have time to dwell on it. He’s already talking to someone else.

A girl.

She’s blonde, wearing a red dress that’s just a little too tight and a little too flashy for my taste. She’s laughing too loudly, her voice high and flirtatious as she gets closer to Rafe. And then... she touches him.

Her hand lands on his arm, fingers trailing up the fabric of his jacket. Rafe doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. He lets her touch him, and something in my chest tightens, like a knot that won’t loosen.

They’re talking. She’s standing too close. Her hand is still on his arm, and he doesn’t seem to mind.

And for some stupid reason, I feel something sharp twist in my stomach. Jealousy? Yeah, that’s the word.

I try to look away, but my eyes keep coming back to them, like I can’t help myself. Rafe’s face is cold, as usual. But he’s not ignoring her. He’s not shutting her down. His body language is almost... welcoming. Like he’s enjoying the attention.

I should probably leave. I should go find Sarah or anyone who can distract me from this, but my feet are glued to the floor. And every time I look back at them, I feel this strange, uncomfortable pull in my chest.

It’s not like I care—but I do.

I care more than I should.

A few minutes later, Rafe glances in my direction, catching my eye. His expression doesn’t change. If anything, it gets colder. But then, almost as if nothing’s happened, he turns back to the girl and says something I can’t hear. She laughs, tossing her hair over her shoulder, and just like that, I’m not even on his radar anymore.

That’s it.

I don’t know why it hurts, but it does.

I try to keep my face neutral, trying to hide whatever I’m feeling, but my heart’s pounding in my chest as I turn away from them and head toward the edge of the party, needing some space to breathe.

A couple of minutes later, I find myself alone by the drinks again, trying to keep it together. My fingers are shaking around my cup, and I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the feelings that are making my stomach churn.

And then, I feel him behind me.

Rafe.

The pressure of his body is enough to make me tense, but I don’t turn around. I don’t want him to know that I’m struggling to keep my composure.

“Jealous?” His voice is soft, almost too soft, but there’s an edge to it that tells me he’s testing me.

I swallow hard, not sure how to answer. My heart's still racing from seeing him with her.

“No,” I say quickly, even though I know it’s a lie. “Why would I be?”

Rafe doesn’t respond right away. I can feel his gaze burning into the back of my head. His presence is like a weight, heavy and suffocating, and I can’t ignore it.

“You sure about that?” he asks, and there’s something almost amused in his voice now, like he’s enjoying watching me squirm.

I don’t look at him. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I’m upset, even though the jealousy is eating me alive. “I don’t get why it matters to you.”

“Maybe it doesn’t,” he murmurs, but his tone is too quiet, too low, like he’s testing the waters. “But you looked like you wanted to say something.”

I bite my lip, my thoughts a jumbled mess. “I don’t know what you want from me, Rafe,” I say, finally turning around to face him, my voice more fragile than I want it to be. “You act like you don’t care, but then you get close, and... then you pull away. And now you’re messing with me by flirting with her.”

Rafe tilts his head, studying me with that unreadable expression of his. “And what about you?” he asks, voice dipping into something almost teasing. “You think I can’t see it? You think I don’t know how you’re reacting? You can’t pretend like you’re unaffected.”

I don’t know how to respond. There’s something in his words that feels too close to the truth, too close to what I’m not ready to admit.

Before I can speak, he takes a step forward, closing the distance between us. His hand reaches out, brushing a strand of hair away from my face, and the simple touch sends a jolt through me.

“Don’t lie to me,” he whispers, voice low, almost dangerous. “I can see it. I know you care. You just won’t admit it.”

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. Everything is too loud and too quiet all at once.

And then, before I even realize what’s happening, his lips crash against mine.

It’s rough, it’s hungry, and it’s everything I wasn’t expecting. My body goes still for a split second, before everything inside me lights up in a way I can’t control. My fingers grip the front of his jacket, pulling him closer, like I can’t get enough of him.

He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t slow down. It’s just raw, intense, the kind of kiss that makes the rest of the world disappear.

And for a moment, it’s just us.

[nneptunexo]

── 𝑊𝑖𝑙𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠, 𝑆𝑜𝑓𝑡 𝑚𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 ⋆

rafe cameron x reader

part two !

The sun in the Outer Banks hit different in the late afternoon—golden, lazy, and hot enough to make everything feel a little dreamlike. You were leaning against the railing of the porch at the Cameron house, your lemonade sweating in your hand, watching the waves crash lazily against the shore.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

You knew that.

Wheezing motorcycles and drunken fights aside, the Cameron estate wasn’t exactly known for its warm welcomes. But when Wheezie had invited you over, practically begged you to come spend the weekend—“please, I need another girl here or I’ll lose my mind” — you caved. Against your better judgment, you said yes.

Now you were regretting it. Or, more accurately, regretting that he was here too.

Rafe Cameron.

He hadn’t spoken more than a few words to you since you arrived last night, but somehow he still managed to make you feel…watched. Judged. Maybe even hunted. You couldn't quite figure him out. He was cold. Closed off. Mean in a way that didn’t make sense, like he wasn’t just lashing out at the world but at himself too.

Still, when you caught him earlier—alone in the kitchen, shirtless and brooding over a protein shake—you’d said, “Good morning,” with a smile. Just being polite.

He’d looked up, eyes piercing, and replied, “Is it?”

What a charmer.

Now, you were counting seagulls and wondering how early was too early to leave when the porch door creaked open behind you.

Footsteps. Heavy ones.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

“You’re in my spot,” Rafe said flatly.

You turned, leaning your hip against the railing, trying not to seem too intimidated. “Didn’t know it was assigned seating.”

He didn’t smile. Of course he didn’t. But something in his expression flickered. Like he wasn’t used to people talking back to him—at least not nicely.

“I always sit there,” he said.

You lifted your lemonade. “Guess you’ll have to share".

Rafe didn’t answer at first. Just stared at you with that unreadable expression of his, like he was trying to figure out your angle. Like he thought your kindness was some sort of game.

But instead of pushing you aside or walking away, he sat down.

Right next to you.

The porch swing creaked under his weight. You stayed still for a second, then slid half an inch closer to the edge—not that it made much difference. He was warm. Solid. You could feel the heat radiating off him even though he wasn’t touching you.

“Lemonade?” you offered, holding your glass out to him.

He looked at it like it might be poisoned. “No thanks.”

You shrugged, taking a sip yourself. “Suit yourself.”

The silence between you stretched on, filled only by the sound of the waves and the distant calls of gulls. You weren’t exactly sure why you stayed—why you didn’t get up and go find Wheezie or grab your book or literally do anything else.

But something about him made you want to stay.

“Why are you so… nice?” Rafe asked suddenly, his voice low and rough like he wasn’t used to using it for anything gentle.

You blinked. “What?”

“To everyone,” he said. “You’re nice to Wheezie. To the staff. Even me, and I’ve been kind of an asshole.”

You smiled a little, keeping your eyes on the ocean. “Being mean takes too much energy.”

“Or maybe you’re just soft.”

You turned your head to look at him. He wasn’t looking at you—he was staring straight ahead, jaw tense, eyes distant.

“I don’t think being soft is a bad thing,” you said after a moment.

Rafe didn’t respond, but his hand shifted on the porch swing, fingers flexing like he wanted to say something else and didn’t know how.

Later that night, after dinner (tense and awkward, thanks to Ward being Ward), you found yourself wandering into the living room in search of a good spot to read. The couch was empty. The lights were dimmed. It was peaceful.

You curled up in the corner, blanket over your lap, and cracked open your book.

You were about halfway into your chapter when Rafe walked in.

Hair damp from a shower. White T-shirt clinging to his chest. A sleepy scowl on his face.

“You’re still up?” he asked.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you said without looking up.

He hovered in the doorway for a second, then walked over to the other end of the couch. You felt the dip as he sat, then stretched out—long legs almost brushing yours.

“Can’t sleep either,” he muttered, pulling a cushion behind his head. “Too quiet.”

You watched him from the corner of your eye. For someone who acted so confident, he looked… restless. Like his own thoughts wouldn’t let him be.

"You want me to read out loud?" you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Rafe looked up from where he sat, flipping his lighter open and closed. His brow twitched, “What for?”

You fumbled for a reason. “I just thought... maybe it’s better than sitting in silence?”

He didn’t answer right away, just studied you for a second too long. Not hostile, just... wary. Like he was waiting for the catch.

Then, with a small shake of his head, he muttered, “Whatever. Do what you want.”

You opened the book before you could change your mind. The words felt strange coming out of your mouth, like you were trespassing on something private, but you kept going.

Rafe didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look at you. Just sat there, one leg bouncing, knuckles tapping his knee. But after a while, the tapping stopped. His eyes stayed open, but unfocused.

When you finally paused at the end of the chapter, unsure if you should keep going, he spoke. Quiet. Not soft—just low.

“You always talk this much?”

You blinked. “Uh. No?”

He gave the faintest smirk, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You flushed. “I’ll stop, then.”

“No,” he said, already leaning back again. “Didn’t say that.”

You glanced down at the book, unsure, but turned the page anyway.

When you finished the next chapter, his voice cut through the quiet again, a little rougher this time. “You know... your voice is kind of... calming.”

You weren’t sure if you’d heard him right. “What?”

Rafe’s eyes flicked over to you for just a second before he looked away, like he was trying to act like he hadn’t said anything at all. “I mean, it’s... not bad. Makes things feel less... tense.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just nodded and kept reading, even though your heart had started beating a little faster than it had before.

[nneptunexo]

soooo i've been thinking in start writing again