#⋆౨ৎ˚🐇⟡˖ housebunni!reader

[littlelamy]

       for some reason you don’t even remember calling him. one minute you were sucking down your third spiked strawberry snowcone—because the pink ones were your favorite, and also because they went down too easy and tasted like nothing except melted popsicle—and the next, your head was spinning, heels were off, and your phone was pressed to your ear, rafe’s name glowing on the screen.

“bun?”

you must’ve got his voicemail the first time. because now, on the second try, he answered.

you hiccuped. “hi baby.”

“where are you?”

you giggled, “at the bunny barn!”

he tries to remember where you told him you were going before you left earlier, “you mean your sorority house?”

“uh-huh,” you slurred, flopping back onto a bean bag chair that someone must’ve dragged into the yard. the sky was spinning or maybe your tummy. “we’re celebratin’. spring..something. i dunno. my sisters said i had to drink because i’m a legacy and legacies are fun!”

rafe exhaled hard on the other end. you could picture him already—shirtless, pissed, leaning over his steering wheel with that annoyed twitch in his jaw. “are you inside or outside?”

you squinted. “both..i think i’m outside the inside. the grass is cold, but my toes are pink.”

“stay put..i’m coming.”

“you’re coming?”

you gasped, “like right now?”

“yes, right now.”

you clutched the phone tighter, legs kicking a little. “ohmygod you’re my hero. you’re gonna rescue me like a hot knight with pretty eyes..rafe?”

“yeah?”

“don’t hang up. m’gonna forget where i am if i close my eyes.”

“i’m staying right here, bunny. just talk to me.”

“okay,” you breathed. “um. i saw a duck. it was waddling near the keg. i named him tater tot. do you think he wants a pledge pin?”

you don’t remember what you said after that, only the smell of jungle juice, the imaginary feel of warm grass on your thighs, and the sound of rafe’s voice cussing someone out in the distance.

“bunny,” someone's rough and sexy voice growls out. you blinked, slowly opening your eyes. rafe was standing above you, chest rising and falling under a thin white tee, hair messed up like he’d driven with the windows down. he crouched beside you, knelt on the lawn, scowling so hard and beautiful. “you called me drunk,” he said, low. “you never call drunk.”

“i misssed you,” you whispered, arms stretching up like a little kid who wanted to be carried. he didn’t hesitate and scooped you up, tucked your face into his shoulder as he started walking back toward his truck.

“i only had four drinks,” you mumbled.

“i can tell.”

“they were pink and sparkly.”

“of course they were.”

you nuzzled into his neck. “are you mad?” he didn’t answer for a second.

then mumbled out, “i’m not mad.” he pauses, a lazy smile spread on your face, but the smile is gone in an instant. “i’m fucking furious.”

you whined, “aw rafe, don’t yell at me.”

“i’m not yelling.”

“you’re growling. your mad growl.”

“you called me at midnight, drunk and alone. barefoot in the fucking grass with god-knows-who leering at you. what if i hadn’t picked up?”

you sniffled, “but you did.”

“yeah,” he muttered, setting you down gently in the passenger seat. “i did.” your thighs stuck to the leather. your short dress had bunched up even higher. you tried to tug it down, but your coordination was shot.

“baby,” rafe warned, already buckling you in, “if you flash me one more time in this dress, i’m putting you over my knee the second we get home.”

you pouted, “i just wanted to see my sisters.”

“and now i’m seeing way too much of you.” you hiccuped instead of replying.

he climbed in on his side, started the engine, and peeled out of the lot with one hand on the wheel, the other gripping your thigh. he was glowing under the bright dash lights. jaw clenched, knuckles tight, mouth twitching every time you made a little drunken noise. even though he's gorgeous, and you wanted to cry.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered. he didn’t look at you, but his thumb did stroked your thigh.

“you should’ve called me sooner.”

you blinked, “so you aren’t mad?”

“i was never mad at you,” he snapped. “i’m mad you were out here without me. mad you thought it was okay to party at some house full of girls in tiny dresses without backup.”

you blinked down at your tiny dress. “do you not like this one?”

his hand slid higher. “i love it.”

you smiled, “then why are you being so grouchy?”

“because i spent twenty minutes picturing you passed out on the lawn while frat boys took pictures.”

you giggled, “nooo, i was fine. tater tot was guarding me.”

“who the fuck is tater tot?”

“the duck.” he stared at you as you grinned. teeth still pink from the snowcones consumed throughout the event.

he groaned, dragging his hand down his face. “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

you leaned over, kissed his shoulder. “but i’m cute.”

“dangerously.”

he carries you inside when you get home. you protest a little, mumbling something about being able to walk, but then your ankle wobbles and he says “uh-huh, bunny, sure,” and keeps carrying you bridal style all the way up to your room.

he sets you down on the bed, starts unlacing your sandals.

you stare down at him, in awe. “you’re so good to me,” you whisper.

“not good,” he mutters.

“yes, you are. you take care of me even when i’m annoying.” he pulls off the second sandal, tosses it aside. you tug his shirt. “rafey?”

“yeah?”

“will you stay?”

he doesn’t hesitate, “yeah, baby.” he helps you out of the dress. wipes off your sticky makeup with warm water and one of your strawberry-shaped cotton pads. pulls one of his old t-shirts over your head and tucks you in.

he’s quiet the whole time until you’re curled up, half-asleep, whispering into the collar of his shirt. “i didn’t kiss anyone.”

he stiffens, “what?”

“at the party. i didn’t flirt. i didn’t… i mean, some people were being silly, but i just waited for you..like a good girl.”

his hand strokes your hair, “i know.”

you peek up. “you do?”

he nods, “mhm you’re mine,” he says. “even when you’re drunk and stupid and barefoot in the grass. still mine.”

you smile. “even when i smell like jungle juice?”

“especially then.”

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@rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @bevstofu @wintercrows @emluvsuxo @rafestoothbrush @cadhlabear @st8rkey

[littlelamy]

you’d never had a whole week off before. rose had pressed the note into your hand that monday morning—short and stiff, typed on her monogrammed stationery: “y/n l/n, take the week. you’ve earned it. the estate will survive without you. (we hope.)”

you read it three times before blinking up at her. “you mean like.. all week? like seven days? like… no chores?”

she stared at you. sipped her coffee. “yes, seven whole days. go do whatever it is girls your age like you do.”

you gasped, “like pilates and journaling and maybe alphabetizing my nail polish?”

“yes...exactly that.. go away.”

so you did it; you made a color-coded schedule with glitter pens. tuesday was for deep-cleaning your closet and trying on all your swimsuits to see which ones still fit your tits right. wednesday was for cookie experiments. and thursday—thursday was yoga day.

you’d laid your mat out just as the sun came up, soft pink light kissing the dew off the hedges. you wore your tiniest spandex shorts—baby pink, obviously, barely covering the underside of your cheeks—and a workout bra that wasn’t really a bra so much as a small fabric of coverage. it tied in the back, thin like ribbon, your breasts held together more by sheer hope rather than support.

you were already halfway through your routine by the time rafe walked out.

you didn’t see him at first. you were in a downward dog, back arched, breathing steady, totally unaware that his bedroom window faced the front lawn. or that he’d woken up late, shirtless, grumpy, barefoot, and about to storm the kitchen for cereal—until he saw you.

you, on your mat, sun hitting your thighs, bent over with your spine stretched like a sleepy cat and in those little shorts that were definitely illegal in several states, bouncing on your toes between poses like you were doing it just for him.

his mouth went dry, as he desperately trying to grab his phone, snapping a picture on after another and zooming in on some.

“fuck.” he took another one, tilted his head, cursed under his breath when you dropped into child’s pose, ass high, arms stretched forward. rafe inhaled sharply through his teeth, padding outside without a sound. “what the fuck is this, pretty?”

you squeaked, nearly tipping off your mat. twisted around, face gleaming with sweat. “rafe! oh—oh my god, good morning! i didn’t think anyone would be up yet, you scared me!”

he was grinning, eyes locked on your ass. “you’re doing porn on the lawn now?”

you blinked, correcting him, “i’m doing yoga.”

“sure you are.” he stepped closer. your eyes darted to his bare chest, the cute sleepy crinkle of his hair. he hadn’t even put on real pants, just old sweats hanging low on his hips. God, he's gorgeous. your thighs squeezed together at the thought of him from last night, when he split you open on his dad's desk.

you cleared your throat. “it’s thursday. thursday’s yoga day.”

“riiight,” he said, gaze trailing down your body like a drip of warm syrup. “and what’s with the outfit, sweetheart? trying to kill the neighbors?”

you pouted, “i always wear this for yoga. it’s comfy. i get sweaty.”

“you’re giving the grass a hard-on.”

you giggled, “you want to join me?”

he blinked. “what?”

you tilted your head, sitting back on your heels, adjusting your top where it barely clung to your tits. “i said, do you wanna join me? you came all the way out here. unless you just wanted to say hi?”

his jaw flexed, you were being very earnest. no idea what you were doing or how hard he was under those sweats.

“sure,” he said, voice rough. “let’s do some yoga.”

you scoot over, give him half the mat, which doesn’t leave any room for personal space. your knee brushes his; your arm bumps his chest when you stretch sideways. every time you exhale, it’s comes out as little whimper, and every time he inhales, it’s just to smell you. your coconut shampoo, sugary scented lotion, sweat, and sunlight, fuck—he’s going to die.

you guide him through cat-cow. he growls on the exhale. “am i doing it wrong?”

“n-no, baby” you stammer, “you’re just…intense. that’s good though. yoga should be passionate. like..from the inside. that’s what my instructor used to say.”

you move into cobra pose, arching your back until your chest pushes forward. your head falls back with a soft moan of breath.

rafe watches, commits it to memory. you peek over, “you’re not stretching.”

he huffs. “i’m stretched.”

“you’ll pull a muscle, silly. here—”

you reach over, place both hands on his waist. pushing him gently.

“lower..breathe out. let it all go.” he groans, but not from pain. you were right behind him now, hands on his hips, pressing him into the stretch. your chest brushes his back. “does that feel better?”

“yeah,” he chokes.

you tilt your head, “you’re really warm.”

“so are you.”

you smile, drowsy and pleased. “that’s the sun for you. isn’t this nice?”

he turns his head, and your faces are inches apart.

“baby.”

“mm hm?”

“are you trying to kill me?”

you blink, shocked at the accusation, “what? no! i’m trying to help you find your center. we’re working on alignment—”

“alignment,” he repeats, licking his lip. “pretty, if i align any harder, someone’s calling the cops.”

you frown, then following his eyes down to his sweatpants. oh...you cover your mouth, a smiling forming.“oh my god.”

“yeah.”

“was it the child’s pose?”

“babe.”

“or the cobra?”

“it was everything.”

you squirm. “i'm sorry, i didn’t mean to—” he cuts you off by grabbing your wrist.

“stop,” he growls. “don’t apologize for looking like that. i want you to apologize for moaning!”

you squeak. “i was breathing!”

“you were whimpering.”

you blush, “i didn’t know you were watching or paying attention.”

he tugs you into his lap making your legs spread over his thighs. “i’m always watching you,” he says, almost purring. your breath stutters at the sexiness of his voice. his hand slides up your bare back. “you wanna stretch, baby? i’ll give you a good stretch.”

“r-rafe—” like before cuts you off by kissing you.

“fuck yoga,” he breathes. “you and me need a different kind of session.”

❤︎ tags below

@rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @bevstofu @wintercrows @emluvsuxo @rafestoothbrush @cadhlabear @st8rkey

[littlelamy]

            you’d spent all day cleaning the baseboards in the upstairs guest bathroom—on your knees, humming disney songs, hair tied up in one of those giant puffy scrunchies that matched your apron. the idea of putting on makeup, or heels, or trying to sit still for hours at a place that used real cloth napkins and tiny forks for god-knows-what? it made your tummy feel twisty but a little excited.

but rafe had asked; in that voice that didn’t really ask, more like a direct demand. he’d leaned against the pantry door that afternoon, arms crossed, one brow raised while you tried to reach the top shelf for a cake plate.

“you do anything tonight?”

you blinked. “me?”

“no, the other barefoot girl in the house.”

you giggled, clutching the plate. “no plans, mister rafe. just a bath and maybe folding towels. i was gonna reorganize the drawer where we keep the twisty ties—”

“stop.” his mouth twitched. “you’re coming to dinner.. wear something cute.”

“oh! um—okay! i can be cute! i mean i am cute—i’ll be cuter. where are we going? will there be breadsticks?”

“get in the car by seven,” he said, already walking off. “remember to wear heels, baby.”

and now here you are. squeezed into the passenger seat of his sleek black car, nerves curled tight in your belly like a sleepy kitten. your dress was short, pink, and so shiny. your shoes are taller than you're used to. your lipstick keeps sticking to your teeth because you picked a new gloss called 'strawberry fizz' and maybe it’s too much, but rafe had looked at you when you came down the stairs and said “fuck, you look edible,” so you didn’t dare change.

the restaurant was fancy. all soft jazz and dim lights, plates that look more like art than food. rafe’s friends are already there, guys who look like rafe but definietly weren't as cute as him. you sit beside him, hands folded in your lap, smiling sweet as sugar while they talk about things you don’t understand—hedge funds? market something?

but rafe’s hand stays on your thigh, grounding you through all this real estate nonsense. his thumb strokes gentle circles into your skin, and every time you start to drift into a cloud of fizzy nothing, he squeezes just a little. like he was saying 'stay with me, bunny.'

as you begin to dream about a furture with rafe, you hear a loud, obnoxious laugh. “wait—no fucking way.”

your head turns. the guy was sitting at the bar—a group of three, all wearing button-ups, loafers, and a big red face.—and sadly, he’s looking right at you.

you blink as he continues, “bro,” he slaps the guy next to him. “it’s her! it’s fucking her! girls of gulf coast, spring 2022! pink heels, yellow lollipop, ass for days? you know—the one in the bunny ears with whipped cream on her tits?”

your stomach drops. even rafe’s hand tenses on your leg.

you try to smile and laugh. try to pretend you didn’t hear that. but you can feel heat crawling up your neck, all the way to your ears. oh no. oh no.

you haven’t heard that name in months or seen those photos since you stuffed the sample polaroids into a shoebox and slid them under your bed. you weren’t her anymore. you were a house manager. you made jam, organized spice racks, even kissed wheezie on the forehead before school.

but he keeps talking, not reading the room.

“dude, i jerked off to that spread like every night of senior year. girls of gulf coast, man, that issue was legendary.”

the guy next to him whistles. “no shit? that her? y/n something, right?”

you stare at the linen napkin in your lap like it might swallow you whole. your hands shake as you hear one of rafe’s friends laugh, very awkward.

“damn, rafe, you didn’t tell us your girl used to be in magazines.” it’s a joke. it’s all a joke, you think to yourself. well, this joke made you want to melt through the floor.

rafe stands slowly, you could almost see steam coming out of his ears. he turns toward the bar. “come again.”

the guy blinks, grinning. “what?”

“say it one more fuckin' time.” his voice isn’t loud, but it’s sharp which make the whole table go quiet. “you wanna talk about my girl? say it again. real slow so everyone can hear your bitch ass.”

the guy scoffs. “chill, man. it’s a compliment—”

“a better compliment would be you shutting up and mind your own business instead of talkin' about my woman.” his jaw ticks, as you go to hold his arm. fingers caressing his forearm, leading to his hands.

you whisper, “rafe, it’s okay—”

he looks at you and leans close, lips brushing your ear. “you don’t ever say it’s okay for people to talk about you like that.”

“but—”

“baby,” he cups your cheek. thumb brushing the sticky corner of your mouth where your gloss smudged. “you were art..still are.” you blink up at him. “they don’t get to mock art just because they can’t touch it.”

your throat tightens before he turns back to the bar. the guy was already avoiding his eyes now, nervous laugh dying in his throat.

rafe smiles, coldly, “look at her again, and you’ll be drinking out of a straw for a year.”

then he sits, completely casual, like nothing just happened. you’re stunned, staring at him. he could feel your eyes on him making him glance over with a smirk on his face.

“you want to leave?”

you nod, fast. "please." he quickly grabs your hand.

you don’t say a word until you’re back in his car. “i didn’t want you to be mad,” you whisper.

“i’m not mad at you.” you blink, confused. “i’m mad someone thought they could say your name like it was a punchline.”

you sniffle. “it was just a phase. i needed money. and i thought it was fun. i didn’t think anyone would recognize me in the real world.”

he squeezes your hand, reassuringly. “i did.” your head snaps up. “saw the spread. remember thinking, no fucking way someone this pretty’s real. i tore that page out and kept it in my glove box for three months.”

your jaw drops. “you—what?!”

“uh-huh. told myself if i ever met her, i’d marry her.”

you blink fast. “you’re lying.”

he shrugs. “maybe..but why would i?” and then he leans over, presses a kiss to your cheek. “either way, you’re mine now. magazine girl, house manager, whatever. all mine.”

you blush so hard your knees knock. you whisper, “you really think i was pretty?”

he grins, reaching out for you. “baby..you were and are so fuckin’ gorgeous.”'

❤︎ tags below

@rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @bevstofu @wintercrows @emluvsuxo @rafestoothbrush @cadhlabear @st8rkey

[littlelamy]

housebunni!reader who rose expected was proper manager. someone efficient, organized, and most importantly, stiff; maybe wearing heels. instead, what she got was a wide-eyed little thing in a puff-sleeved sundress and jelly sandals, a 3-inch binder tucked under one arm, and a heart-shaped lanyard around her neck with a sticker that read “hello :)” in pink glitter pen. she walked in smiling like she already loved the place, eyes big and glossy as she twirled once in the foyer and whispered, “oh wow, this house feels like it needs cuddles.”

she misunderstood the title completely. thought “house manager” meant she was there to emotionally care for the building—checking the walls for drafts, petting the bannister when it creaked, cooing sweet nothings to the washing machine. rose nearly sent her away on the spot, but housebunni!reader  beamed and offered her a handmade lavender sachet “for stress, miss rose, i made a bunch in case anyone get anxious at night.” by the end of the week, the estate was indeed running smoother. rooms smelled like sugar cookies, even the pantry was labeled in pastel chalk. sarah found fresh muffins on her desk every morning and wheezie had never been more punctual for school.

housebunni!reader who met rafe when she was tiptoeing down the hall in nothing but a fluffy towel and a juicy headband—and called him “stranger danger” before screaming and running into a closet. she’d just stepped out of the bathroom after her lavender milk bubble bath—the strong scented steam still curling around her, towel clutched to her chest, hair damp and twisted up in a fluffy white towel that made her look like a marshmallow cloud. she turned the corner in the hallway and slammed chest-first into someone—tall, solid, cologne and coldblood eyes—and instinct took over. “eek! stranger danger!” she shrieked, then bolted like a startled deer into the linen closet and slammed the door. rafe—home for the weekend, early—stood stunned, blinking at the towel flutter left behind.

when she finally peeked out, cheeks glowing, arms full of spare pillowcases like some confused laundry fairy, she mumbled, “i’m not supposed to talk to handsome strangers in the hall...are you...a delivery man?”

rafe interested in that mind of hers asked, “you live here?”

and she blinked, tilting her head, confused why a delivery boy was asking her a question. “umm… i think so?”

₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ more about her ₍ᐢᐢ₎⊹ ₊

housebunni!reader who talks to the furniture like it’s alive. every morning starts the same: a sleepy shuffle into the living room, bunny slippers flopping with every step, her robe half falling off one shoulder as she whispers, “good morning, mister davenport. did those mean guests put their feet on you again?” as she lovingly smooths the cushions. she says “bless you” when the coffee pot sputters, hums to the vacuum, and leaves fresh-cut daisies in a cracked teacup by the windowsill 'so the sun can have a friend.' rose doesn’t even question it anymore—it gets the job done, and somehow the house has never been cleaner.

housebunni!reader who makes color-coded charts and chore wheels...then forgets what they’re for and ends up baking cookies instead. there’s a massive corkboard in the pantry. it’s supposed to be the tannyhill 'house operations center' but it’s covered in glittery star stickers, marker doodles of happy brooms and vacuum cleaners, and several post-its that say things like “laundry = important!!” and “don’t let the raccoon back in!!” she tries, she really does, but the moment someone tells her “you smell like vanilla frosting,” her whole brain flatlines and she’s giggling and offering to make snickerdoodles from scratch. rafe once found her sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, eating raw cookie dough from the bowl, her apron covered in flour. she offered him a bite with fingers dipped in sugar and said, “shh, don’t tell miss rose. i was supposed to be reorganizing the spice rack but it started smelling like cinnamon, annnd i got...distracted.”

❤︎ notes & tags below

notes: i hope you guys like her! she's inspired by shelley from movie 'the house bunny!'

@rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @bevstofu @wintercrows @emluvsuxo @rafestoothbrush @cadhlabear @st8rkey

[littlelamy]

     you felt so refreshed; you’d just had your nice long bath. the kind where your fingers pruned and your cheeks flushed, while the steam clung to you like a silk robe. lavender milk and vanilla salt, two bath bombs fizzing into pearly haze until your whole body smelled like sugar and sleep.

you'd tied your hair up in a fluffy white towel, wrapped another one around yourself tight—tighter than usual, because rose had warned you the upstairs wing was off-limits this week and you didn't want to scandalize the house staff—but the hallway was empty, so you tiptoed out barefoot, slippery and squeaky-clean and humming the tune from your bath playlist.

you turned the corner and slammed chest-first into a brick wall; except it wasn't a wall, and it grunted. you stumbled, towel sliding. fingers scrambling to keep it clutched around your cleavage. and before your brain caught up, instinct kicked in—one that had been drilled into you at exactly one sorority safety seminar before you dozed off during the glitter glue portion.

“ahhh! stranger danger!!” you yell out, then ran, all four limbs flailing like a cartoon rabbit in a horror movie. you ducked into the nearest door, slammed it shut, heart hammering like a kettle drum in your chest.

you froze, taking note of the room, linen closet. stood there surrounded by sheets and lavender sachets, clutching the towel like it was body armor, with a face flushed and lips parted.

it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. said man mutters a “what the fuck...?”

you stayed in the closet for six whole minutes.

at minute two, you debated calling rose to tell her the estate had been invaded by a very handsome burglar. at minute four, you considered crawling through the laundry chute. at minute six, you realized the closet didn’t have a laundry chute, and you were just going to have to come out and face death.

so you cracked the door peeked out like a bunny from her burrow and there he was.

leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, eyebrows arched like he was trying to decide whether you'd lost your mind or just come from another planet. he was tall, about 6'2, with his shirt half-tucked, a nice chest broad, tousled blond hair and those icy, lazy blue eyes that blinked slow, like he was either incredibly calm or incredibly high.

you whimpered seeing his smirking face, “you done?” he chuckles.

you stepped out, cheeks glowing, arms full of spare pillowcases you'd grabbed in your panic.

“i’m not supposed to talk to handsome strangers in the hall…” you mumbled. he blinked at your words. “are you…” you tilted your head. “a delivery man?”

his face twitched as you hugged the pillowcases tighter. “did rose order something? she likes those candles from that one shop—wait, no, they don’t deliver on thursdays…”

he pushed off the wall and walked slowly toward you; making you squeak, backing up.

“you live here?” he asked, tone teasing but curious, eyes trailing over your towel, your bare legs, your little "juicy" headband still looped around your forehead like a crown.

you blinked, “umm.. i think so?”

he laughed, like he couldn’t help himself; the sound seemed foreign coming out of his mouth.

“you think so?”

you squinted. “why do you keep asking me questions, mister delivery?”

“because i also live here.”

you two, stared at each other for a couple seconds. you broke the silence by whispering, “no you don’t, i've never seen you before.”

he stepped closer, and you could smell him so much better now. mhm, cologne and leather. your thighs pressed together, making your small towel slip another inch.

he smirked again, “i’m rafe.”

you frowned, “…rafe what?”

“rafe cameron.”

your knees almost gave out, “like…like rafe tannyhill cameron?”

“that’s the one.”

you gasped, hands flying up, pillowcases tumbling down in a cotton waterfall. “you’re rose’s son?!”

he shook his head with a lazy smile. “not that bitch's son, but i am rafe. who did you think i was?”

“i dunno! a burglar! a model! a very confident exterminator—!”

he chuckled at your sillyness.

you slapped a hand over your mouth, “oh my god. i called you stranger danger.”

“you screamed it.”

“i ran into the linen closet!”

“like it was gonna save you.”

you squealed, “oh my god.. i’m so sorry!”

he stepped even closer, making your back hit the wall and sucking in a breath. he was big. not just tall, he was very sharp too, smiling like he could see through your towel and knew exactly how much you shaved.

you tugged the towel higher, while he watched your hands.

“so,” he said, voice lower now, “what’s your name, house fairy?”

“i’m the house manager.”

“uh-huh, and how long have you been streaking through the halls like that?”

you flushed, “i wasn’t streaking! i bathed, in the tub. rose told me i could use when no one’s home! because you weren’t supposed to be home!”

he tilted his head, “you got a schedule for my arrivals?”

“rose said you’d be back saturday!”

“yeah, i came early.” you glared yet he grinned wider. “you always tiptoe around in just a towel?”

you gasped again already, “i live here!”

he laughs under his breath, glancing at his buzzing phone. “well, princess, you’re a hell of a conversationalist—real captivating—but i gotta jet. barry’s waiting.”

he brushes past you with a wink, eyes flicking down to catch your flustered face. his palm slapping your ass as he walks off.

“i’ll talk to you later,” he tosses over his shoulder.

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[drewsephrry]

i love them so badly!!!

you’d never had a whole week off before. rose had pressed the note into your hand that monday morning—short and stiff, typed on her monogrammed stationery: “y/n l/n, take the week. you’ve earned it. the estate will survive without you. (we hope.)”

you read it three times before blinking up at her. “you mean like.. all week? like seven days? like… no chores?”

she stared at you. sipped her coffee. “yes, seven whole days. go do whatever it is girls your age like you do.”

you gasped, “like pilates and journaling and maybe alphabetizing my nail polish?”

“yes...exactly that.. go away.”

so you did it; you made a color-coded schedule with glitter pens. tuesday was for deep-cleaning your closet and trying on all your swimsuits to see which ones still fit your tits right. wednesday was for cookie experiments. and thursday—thursday was yoga day.

you’d laid your mat out just as the sun came up, soft pink light kissing the dew off the hedges. you wore your tiniest spandex shorts—baby pink, obviously, barely covering the underside of your cheeks—and a workout bra that wasn’t really a bra so much as a small fabric of coverage. it tied in the back, thin like ribbon, your breasts held together more by sheer hope rather than support.

you were already halfway through your routine by the time rafe walked out.

you didn’t see him at first. you were in a downward dog, back arched, breathing steady, totally unaware that his bedroom window faced the front lawn. or that he’d woken up late, shirtless, grumpy, barefoot, and about to storm the kitchen for cereal—until he saw you.

you, on your mat, sun hitting your thighs, bent over with your spine stretched like a sleepy cat and in those little shorts that were definitely illegal in several states, bouncing on your toes between poses like you were doing it just for him.

his mouth went dry, as he desperately trying to grab his phone, snapping a picture on after another and zooming in on some.

“fuck.” he took another one, tilted his head, cursed under his breath when you dropped into child’s pose, ass high, arms stretched forward. rafe inhaled sharply through his teeth, padding outside without a sound. “what the fuck is this, pretty?”

you squeaked, nearly tipping off your mat. twisted around, face gleaming with sweat. “rafe! oh—oh my god, good morning! i didn’t think anyone would be up yet, you scared me!”

he was grinning, eyes locked on your ass. “you’re doing porn on the lawn now?”

you blinked, correcting him, “i’m doing yoga.”

“sure you are.” he stepped closer. your eyes darted to his bare chest, the cute sleepy crinkle of his hair. he hadn’t even put on real pants, just old sweats hanging low on his hips. God, he's gorgeous. your thighs squeezed together at the thought of him from last night, when he split you open on his dad's desk.

you cleared your throat. “it’s thursday. thursday’s yoga day.”

“riiight,” he said, gaze trailing down your body like a drip of warm syrup. “and what’s with the outfit, sweetheart? trying to kill the neighbors?”

you pouted, “i always wear this for yoga. it’s comfy. i get sweaty.”

“you’re giving the grass a hard-on.”

you giggled, “you want to join me?”

he blinked. “what?”

you tilted your head, sitting back on your heels, adjusting your top where it barely clung to your tits. “i said, do you wanna join me? you came all the way out here. unless you just wanted to say hi?”

his jaw flexed, you were being very earnest. no idea what you were doing or how hard he was under those sweats.

“sure,” he said, voice rough. “let’s do some yoga.”

you scoot over, give him half the mat, which doesn’t leave any room for personal space. your knee brushes his; your arm bumps his chest when you stretch sideways. every time you exhale, it’s comes out as little whimper, and every time he inhales, it’s just to smell you. your coconut shampoo, sugary scented lotion, sweat, and sunlight, fuck—he’s going to die.

you guide him through cat-cow. he growls on the exhale. “am i doing it wrong?”

“n-no, baby” you stammer, “you’re just…intense. that’s good though. yoga should be passionate. like..from the inside. that’s what my instructor used to say.”

you move into cobra pose, arching your back until your chest pushes forward. your head falls back with a soft moan of breath.

rafe watches, commits it to memory. you peek over, “you’re not stretching.”

he huffs. “i’m stretched.”

“you’ll pull a muscle, silly. here—”

you reach over, place both hands on his waist. pushing him gently.

“lower..breathe out. let it all go.” he groans, but not from pain. you were right behind him now, hands on his hips, pressing him into the stretch. your chest brushes his back. “does that feel better?”

“yeah,” he chokes.

you tilt your head, “you’re really warm.”

“so are you.”

you smile, drowsy and pleased. “that’s the sun for you. isn’t this nice?”

he turns his head, and your faces are inches apart.

“baby.”

“mm hm?”

“are you trying to kill me?”

you blink, shocked at the accusation, “what? no! i’m trying to help you find your center. we’re working on alignment—”

“alignment,” he repeats, licking his lip. “pretty, if i align any harder, someone’s calling the cops.”

you frown, then following his eyes down to his sweatpants. oh...you cover your mouth, a smiling forming.“oh my god.”

“yeah.”

“was it the child’s pose?”

“babe.”

“or the cobra?”

“it was everything.”

you squirm. “i'm sorry, i didn’t mean to—” he cuts you off by grabbing your wrist.

“stop,” he growls. “don’t apologize for looking like that. i want you to apologize for moaning!”

you squeak. “i was breathing!”

“you were whimpering.”

you blush, “i didn’t know you were watching or paying attention.”

he tugs you into his lap making your legs spread over his thighs. “i’m always watching you,” he says, almost purring. your breath stutters at the sexiness of his voice. his hand slides up your bare back. “you wanna stretch, baby? i’ll give you a good stretch.”

“r-rafe—” like before cuts you off by kissing you.

“fuck yoga,” he breathes. “you and me need a different kind of session.”

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[drewsephrry]

now i am intrigueddd

     you felt so refreshed; you’d just had your nice long bath. the kind where your fingers pruned and your cheeks flushed, while the steam clung to you like a silk robe. lavender milk and vanilla salt, two bath bombs fizzing into pearly haze until your whole body smelled like sugar and sleep.

you'd tied your hair up in a fluffy white towel, wrapped another one around yourself tight—tighter than usual, because rose had warned you the upstairs wing was off-limits this week and you didn't want to scandalize the house staff—but the hallway was empty, so you tiptoed out barefoot, slippery and squeaky-clean and humming the tune from your bath playlist.

you turned the corner and slammed chest-first into a brick wall; except it wasn't a wall, and it grunted. you stumbled, towel sliding. fingers scrambling to keep it clutched around your cleavage. and before your brain caught up, instinct kicked in—one that had been drilled into you at exactly one sorority safety seminar before you dozed off during the glitter glue portion.

“ahhh! stranger danger!!” you yell out, then ran, all four limbs flailing like a cartoon rabbit in a horror movie. you ducked into the nearest door, slammed it shut, heart hammering like a kettle drum in your chest.

you froze, taking note of the room, linen closet. stood there surrounded by sheets and lavender sachets, clutching the towel like it was body armor, with a face flushed and lips parted.

it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. said man mutters a “what the fuck...?”

you stayed in the closet for six whole minutes.

at minute two, you debated calling rose to tell her the estate had been invaded by a very handsome burglar. at minute four, you considered crawling through the laundry chute. at minute six, you realized the closet didn’t have a laundry chute, and you were just going to have to come out and face death.

so you cracked the door peeked out like a bunny from her burrow and there he was.

leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, eyebrows arched like he was trying to decide whether you'd lost your mind or just come from another planet. he was tall, about 6'2, with his shirt half-tucked, a nice chest broad, tousled blond hair and those icy, lazy blue eyes that blinked slow, like he was either incredibly calm or incredibly high.

you whimpered seeing his smirking face, “you done?” he chuckles.

you stepped out, cheeks glowing, arms full of spare pillowcases you'd grabbed in your panic.

“i’m not supposed to talk to handsome strangers in the hall…” you mumbled. he blinked at your words. “are you…” you tilted your head. “a delivery man?”

his face twitched as you hugged the pillowcases tighter. “did rose order something? she likes those candles from that one shop—wait, no, they don’t deliver on thursdays…”

he pushed off the wall and walked slowly toward you; making you squeak, backing up.

“you live here?” he asked, tone teasing but curious, eyes trailing over your towel, your bare legs, your little "juicy" headband still looped around your forehead like a crown.

you blinked, “umm.. i think so?”

he laughed, like he couldn’t help himself; the sound seemed foreign coming out of his mouth.

“you think so?”

you squinted. “why do you keep asking me questions, mister delivery?”

“because i also live here.”

you two, stared at each other for a couple seconds. you broke the silence by whispering, “no you don’t, i've never seen you before.”

he stepped closer, and you could smell him so much better now. mhm, cologne and leather. your thighs pressed together, making your small towel slip another inch.

he smirked again, “i’m rafe.”

you frowned, “…rafe what?”

“rafe cameron.”

your knees almost gave out, “like…like rafe tannyhill cameron?”

“that’s the one.”

you gasped, hands flying up, pillowcases tumbling down in a cotton waterfall. “you’re rose’s son?!”

he shook his head with a lazy smile. “not that bitch's son, but i am rafe. who did you think i was?”

“i dunno! a burglar! a model! a very confident exterminator—!”

he chuckled at your sillyness.

you slapped a hand over your mouth, “oh my god. i called you stranger danger.”

“you screamed it.”

“i ran into the linen closet!”

“like it was gonna save you.”

you squealed, “oh my god.. i’m so sorry!”

he stepped even closer, making your back hit the wall and sucking in a breath. he was big. not just tall, he was very sharp too, smiling like he could see through your towel and knew exactly how much you shaved.

you tugged the towel higher, while he watched your hands.

“so,” he said, voice lower now, “what’s your name, house fairy?”

“i’m the house manager.”

“uh-huh, and how long have you been streaking through the halls like that?”

you flushed, “i wasn’t streaking! i bathed, in the tub. rose told me i could use when no one’s home! because you weren’t supposed to be home!”

he tilted his head, “you got a schedule for my arrivals?”

“rose said you’d be back saturday!”

“yeah, i came early.” you glared yet he grinned wider. “you always tiptoe around in just a towel?”

you gasped again already, “i live here!”

he laughs under his breath, glancing at his buzzing phone. “well, princess, you’re a hell of a conversationalist—real captivating—but i gotta jet. barry’s waiting.”

he brushes past you with a wink, eyes flicking down to catch your flustered face. his palm slapping your ass as he walks off.

“i’ll talk to you later,” he tosses over his shoulder.

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[drewsephrry]

ahh this is just the cutest thing ever!!! i loved this so so so much!!! 🩷

       for some reason you don’t even remember calling him. one minute you were sucking down your third spiked strawberry snowcone—because the pink ones were your favorite, and also because they went down too easy and tasted like nothing except melted popsicle—and the next, your head was spinning, heels were off, and your phone was pressed to your ear, rafe’s name glowing on the screen.

“bun?”

you must’ve got his voicemail the first time. because now, on the second try, he answered.

you hiccuped. “hi baby.”

“where are you?”

you giggled, “at the bunny barn!”

he tries to remember where you told him you were going before you left earlier, “you mean your sorority house?”

“uh-huh,” you slurred, flopping back onto a bean bag chair that someone must’ve dragged into the yard. the sky was spinning or maybe your tummy. “we’re celebratin’. spring..something. i dunno. my sisters said i had to drink because i’m a legacy and legacies are fun!”

rafe exhaled hard on the other end. you could picture him already—shirtless, pissed, leaning over his steering wheel with that annoyed twitch in his jaw. “are you inside or outside?”

you squinted. “both..i think i’m outside the inside. the grass is cold, but my toes are pink.”

“stay put..i’m coming.”

“you’re coming?”

you gasped, “like right now?”

“yes, right now.”

you clutched the phone tighter, legs kicking a little. “ohmygod you’re my hero. you’re gonna rescue me like a hot knight with pretty eyes..rafe?”

“yeah?”

“don’t hang up. m’gonna forget where i am if i close my eyes.”

“i’m staying right here, bunny. just talk to me.”

“okay,” you breathed. “um. i saw a duck. it was waddling near the keg. i named him tater tot. do you think he wants a pledge pin?”

you don’t remember what you said after that, only the smell of jungle juice, the imaginary feel of warm grass on your thighs, and the sound of rafe’s voice cussing someone out in the distance.

“bunny,” someone's rough and sexy voice growls out. you blinked, slowly opening your eyes. rafe was standing above you, chest rising and falling under a thin white tee, hair messed up like he’d driven with the windows down. he crouched beside you, knelt on the lawn, scowling so hard and beautiful. “you called me drunk,” he said, low. “you never call drunk.”

“i misssed you,” you whispered, arms stretching up like a little kid who wanted to be carried. he didn’t hesitate and scooped you up, tucked your face into his shoulder as he started walking back toward his truck.

“i only had four drinks,” you mumbled.

“i can tell.”

“they were pink and sparkly.”

“of course they were.”

you nuzzled into his neck. “are you mad?” he didn’t answer for a second.

then mumbled out, “i’m not mad.” he pauses, a lazy smile spread on your face, but the smile is gone in an instant. “i’m fucking furious.”

you whined, “aw rafe, don’t yell at me.”

“i’m not yelling.”

“you’re growling. your mad growl.”

“you called me at midnight, drunk and alone. barefoot in the fucking grass with god-knows-who leering at you. what if i hadn’t picked up?”

you sniffled, “but you did.”

“yeah,” he muttered, setting you down gently in the passenger seat. “i did.” your thighs stuck to the leather. your short dress had bunched up even higher. you tried to tug it down, but your coordination was shot.

“baby,” rafe warned, already buckling you in, “if you flash me one more time in this dress, i’m putting you over my knee the second we get home.”

you pouted, “i just wanted to see my sisters.”

“and now i’m seeing way too much of you.” you hiccuped instead of replying.

he climbed in on his side, started the engine, and peeled out of the lot with one hand on the wheel, the other gripping your thigh. he was glowing under the bright dash lights. jaw clenched, knuckles tight, mouth twitching every time you made a little drunken noise. even though he's gorgeous, and you wanted to cry.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered. he didn’t look at you, but his thumb did stroked your thigh.

“you should’ve called me sooner.”

you blinked, “so you aren’t mad?”

“i was never mad at you,” he snapped. “i’m mad you were out here without me. mad you thought it was okay to party at some house full of girls in tiny dresses without backup.”

you blinked down at your tiny dress. “do you not like this one?”

his hand slid higher. “i love it.”

you smiled, “then why are you being so grouchy?”

“because i spent twenty minutes picturing you passed out on the lawn while frat boys took pictures.”

you giggled, “nooo, i was fine. tater tot was guarding me.”

“who the fuck is tater tot?”

“the duck.” he stared at you as you grinned. teeth still pink from the snowcones consumed throughout the event.

he groaned, dragging his hand down his face. “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

you leaned over, kissed his shoulder. “but i’m cute.”

“dangerously.”

he carries you inside when you get home. you protest a little, mumbling something about being able to walk, but then your ankle wobbles and he says “uh-huh, bunny, sure,” and keeps carrying you bridal style all the way up to your room.

he sets you down on the bed, starts unlacing your sandals.

you stare down at him, in awe. “you’re so good to me,” you whisper.

“not good,” he mutters.

“yes, you are. you take care of me even when i’m annoying.” he pulls off the second sandal, tosses it aside. you tug his shirt. “rafey?”

“yeah?”

“will you stay?”

he doesn’t hesitate, “yeah, baby.” he helps you out of the dress. wipes off your sticky makeup with warm water and one of your strawberry-shaped cotton pads. pulls one of his old t-shirts over your head and tucks you in.

he’s quiet the whole time until you’re curled up, half-asleep, whispering into the collar of his shirt. “i didn’t kiss anyone.”

he stiffens, “what?”

“at the party. i didn’t flirt. i didn’t… i mean, some people were being silly, but i just waited for you..like a good girl.”

his hand strokes your hair, “i know.”

you peek up. “you do?”

he nods, “mhm you’re mine,” he says. “even when you’re drunk and stupid and barefoot in the grass. still mine.”

you smile. “even when i smell like jungle juice?”

“especially then.”

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