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salem-s · 1 month ago

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04 ── PLAYING UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON

── SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. ── WARNINGS language, fingering, p-in-v sex. angst (familial issues, mentions of abuse). but also hella fluff??? 18+ mdni. ── WORD COUNT 13.7k. don't. ── NOTES edited from third person perspective to second, so let me know if there are any mistakes. my italian skills may be slightly inaccurate, translations provided. reader's birthday is around thankgiving for plot sake. ── SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT PART ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER 24 hours by sky ferreira

The thought of tomorrow sets a pit in your stomach.

You toss and turn for the better part of two hours, wanting to throw a pillow at Rafe’s face when you see him sleeping soundly in his twin bed, envious of the rest that he’s getting that you yearn for since you obviously didn’t get to nap today after the beach.

It’s not uncommon for you to dread your birthday.

Growing up, it was always so close to or sometimes on Thanksgiving that it was overshadowed by the holiday, and you never got an extravagant celebration and instead was pushed to the sidelines. Truly, you never cared for a giant blowout, but the song and a slice of appreciation would’ve been nice.

This holiday in particular is a big time of year for your family to flaunt all the things that they are ‘thankful’ for, which mainly entails money, clothes, and materialistic things that are so out of touch with reality that it makes you sick. So, taking that into account, you associate this time of year with dread and misery.

On your thirteenth birthday, the day fell on the holiday and no one in your family remembered. The one thing you asked for was a birthday cake with candles that only you got to blow out, not your little cousins or your brother, just you.

Apparently, you asking that was far too annoying for your mother, resulting in a swift backhand when you prompted one too many times.

That was the last time you asked for a birthday gift, and stopped bringing the day up altogether in the future.

So, you don't really tell people with the exception of a few friends and nonna, who promised to not make a big deal out of it in front of Rafe. The last thing you want is it to become a thing for a multitude of reasons, and pulled Lorenza aside when Rafe was preoccupied with Ticino to not let it slip to your so-called boyfriend.

Of course, Lorenza would not let the topic slide away that easily, so you settled on her making your favorite meal with your favorite bottle of wine.

The day, its lonely memories, plus the thought of having to dress shop keep you from being able to fall asleep.

You try all sorts of positions, fluff your pillow, count sheep. Nothing.

Anxiety creeps up the longer you're awake, knowing the clock is ticking until you have to cross off a lot of items off your check list: the dress, formalities with your extended family, dealing with your mother, pretending to be Cupid-struck by the guy sleeping seven feet away from you. You don't know how long you've been up at this point, and you're starting to grow delirious.

One idea - a horrible one, at that - stays in the back of your mind for the betterment of an hour.

That last resort sleeps across the room, probably frolicking in a field in his dreams peacefully based on the content expression on his face.

The thought of what you're about to do makes your head spin in embarrassment, the idea of needing Rafe Cameron - of all people - to be able to sleep. It sounds revolting and pathetic to even consider, and it makes you slap a hand to your forehead in frustration, reeling in the thousands of possibilities of how it could go down.

What if it doesn’t work and you still can’t sleep, and then you're stuck in his arms for the rest of the night? What if he wakes up and tells you to go back to your own bed? He wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy after you had sex earlier, and was weird all day following it.

Weirder than he usually is, anyway.

But it’s the only option, frankly, because the few times he’s slept over or you've slept at his, you always got surprisingly good sleep.

You usually forgo the sleeping over aspect since your dorm rooms are quite literally next to each other, so the walk of shame is only a mere few steps. But, on occasion, he will be too tired to retreat back, or you'll get caught up in stupid conversation, or whatever the excuse is that night.

As much as you hate to admit it, you always found better sleep in his arms, and that remedy is calling your name right now. Honestly, you fear if you don't do it, you'll be up all night wondering if it would’ve worked.

Fuck it, you think.

With diligence, you slip out of bed and hiss quietly at the cold tile floor against your feet, adjusting to the temperature. You sheepishly pad over to his side of the room, analyzing where it’ll be best for you to slip in without waking him up. A wave of ridiculousness washes over you, cheeks burning in the darkness at how desperate this feels.

Rafe is fast asleep on his side, facing your bed with an arm slung over the edge and nearly brushing the ground. The position leaves a tiny sliver of space between his body and the wall that you can see from the moonlight casting a pearly hue into the room, particularly towards his half.

Now or never, you think bitterly.

You nudge his arm gently with your palm to see if he’s truly out cold. He is, because he doesn’t even flinch, chest rising and falling deeply even and syncopated.

Then you slowly lower your knee onto the edge of the bed, careful not to bump into him as you hike your other leg over his body. Diligently, you place your foot firmly on the mattress, wincing at the way it dips down at the weight of you and you bite your lip at the fear you've woken him up.

However, Rafe doesn’t budge, so you continue your stealth mission and move to climb over him.

But – of course – when you launch forward to quickly hop over his body, you severely overestimate how close the wall is and-

Thud.

You smaaaack your forehead against the wall, hard. The bang isn’t that loud, but you involuntarily yelp at the pain and nearly collapse at the ferocity of the collision. The unsteadiness of your posture has your trailing leg nudging his hip harshly.

You freeze, hoping it isn't hard enough to wake him up, and for a moment you think you're in the clear.

But your absolutely heart drops when Rafe twitches, groans, and moves to lay on his back, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes in an adoring way that makes your cheeks flame even hotter than before. His hair, from what you can see, is freshly tousled and sticking up in every possible direction, some pieces falling over his eyes while others stick up and out.

You'd normally laugh at the sight if you weren't currently getting caught in the most embarrassing position to grace planet earth.

Rafe squints in the dark and blinks blearily, taking in the dim sight of you kneeling on his bed and cupping your forehead. All you can do is look down at him with wide eyes, like a deer in headlights.

Despite being lulled from his sleep, you hate how he smiles at you. No, not smiling. He's beaming.

“What are you doing?”

Your mouth opens and closes, attempting and failing to find an excuse for your endeavors as your head throbs at how hard you smacked it on the wall.

Say something, idiot.

Apparently, you take too long to come up with a response, because soon a cool hand comes up to brush against your knee, rubbing a thumb across the bone lazily as if Rafe has all the time in the world, as if he hasn't been woken up from a peaceful sleep.

Now you really stumble over your words.

After a moment of gaping like a fish, you sigh in exhaustion. “I can’t sleep.”

“Hmm?”

“I thought maybe…” you trail off, furrowing your brows.

But you wince when the gesture makes your head throb even more.

Rafe drops his teasing demeanor when he sees a flash of pain paint over your pretty features, concern immediately rising as his chest tugs something foreign from him. Protection, maybe? Fear? Whatever the emotion may be this time, it makes him panic for a moment at the thought of you being hurt.

He pushes himself up on his elbow and brings his hand from your knee to your cheek, brows furrowing. “Hey, are you okay?”

The whole thing is so ridiculous that you can’t help but snort, but the humorless facade fades quickly and all of a sudden you feel stupid under his gaze and feather light touch.

Incredibly stupid.

You feel stupid that you woke him up when you really didn’t need to, and feel even stupider as his hand caresses your jaw so affectionately that it evokes a need to lean into his touch, to feel protected and cared for. You feel stupid that you just want to melt into his big arms and play dumb.

Especially with the way he's looking at you right now.

God. You hate that you're so tired. You hate that the dress doesn’t fit you. You hate that you have to seek solace in him in order to feel at ease. You hate that your head hurts.

You hate that it’s your birthday.

Before you know it, tears spring to your waterline. You pray it’s dark enough so he can’t tell.

But he notices.

Rafe sits up immediately, keeping one hand on your cheek and the other on your bicep to ground you, but also to force you to face him. He ducks his head to your level to meet you eye to eye, and even in the darkness you can still pinpoint those gorgeous blues staring at you.

However they hold a new look you don't recognize from him, and after a moment of staring you realize it’s concern.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

God, it makes you want to melt. And puke. And scream. Why does he have to say that outside of intimacy? Why does he have to play with your heart? Why can’t he simply say your name like normal friends do?

“I just–” Your bottom lip trembles and frustration bubbles in your chest. “I hit my head," is all you can pathetically muster.

You hope that’ll be enough to not have to share the other stuff.

Rafe’s eyes land on where you cradle your forehead, frowning as he gently moves your hand away. The moonlight offers him the ability to lightly inspect the damage. There’s no visible blood or bump as his thumb smooths over it with a feather light touch.

Without thinking, he leans forward, pressing a light, chaste kiss on the soreness. When he pulls back, Rafe pushes some hair away from your face and tucks it behind your ear, his hand then settling back on your cheek with a nonchalance that doesn't match how incredibly intimate the act was.

You watch him the whole time, still willing the tears to not fall as you blink them away quickly. Your head doesn’t really hurt that much anymore.

After a moment of staring at each other, Rafe gently coaxes you down onto the mattress and pulls you against his chest. His hands sprawl on your back, rubbing up and down your spine and over the ridges of your muscles. Your cheek rests against his bare chest, hearing the loud thump, thump, thump of his heartbeat which contrasts his relaxed demeanor.

Is he nervous?

You push the thought away. He probably feels panicked on how to handle someone crying in front of him, as emotions are not in his forte.

“I’m sorry, sweet girl,” he murmurs against the crown of your head. “Can I do anything?”

You simply shake your head with little to no motion, heart dropping as you remember this is just an arrangement, a fake ploy to help you get through the next week. He’s doing this to have leverage. Rafe Cameron doesn’t do things without expecting something in return. But you really don't feel like having sex right now.

“I don’t feel like doing anything right now,” you murmur, voice more shaky than you'd like. “Maybe tomorrow. I just want to sleep.”

Rafe frowns at the implication behind your words, something ugly brewing in his chest as he repeats them in his head.

Do you really think he wants to have sex right now?

“No, I–” He stops himself. You want to sleep, he needs to let you sleep, but he also feels the need to defend himself. Rafe comes up short on his response, a flicker of panic rising in his throat at the thought of revealing too much.

He sighs to himself, irritated that that’s how he presents himself.

Rafe says your name quietly. “Go to sleep.”

You frown at the use of your name, knowing he never really uses it unless he’s angry or upset about something or coming down from a high. He sounds annoyed, probably because he thought he was getting some when he saw you climb into his bed, not expecting the late night blue balls.

You bite your lip at the meaning, wanting to go through all the potential reasons of why he would say that instead of his usual obnoxious pet names, but sleep starts to lull you away as his big arms cradle you, cage you in, share warmth and everything nice.

Not that you'd ever admit this to anyone – not even in a confessional booth – but this is you favorite place to be.

The overwhelming urge to sleep plus the contentment of being in his arms makes you relax, turning your brain off as you flutter your eyes shut.

You assume this position also makes you delusional, because you swear you hear Rafe whisper, “Happy birthday.”

You wake up in a sour mood.

First, Po steps on your chest and it feels like a hundred tons on your sternum, jolting you awake.

Begrudgingly petting the cat, you then notice you're alone in the bedroom with the covers bunched around your waist. Inhaling out of frustration, you try to ignore how the sheets smell like him and sit up, but the act makes you groan, the lingering throbbing on your forehead springing back at the sudden movement.

Then when you leave the bedroom, you discover the house to be quiet. Too quiet.

You enter the kitchen and movement in the garden catches your attention, and your breath hitches when you see Rafe and Lorenza sitting at the outdoor table, sipping coffee and talking animatedly.

Ticino sits right against Rafe’s leg, alternating between typing on his phone and petting him. You watch Rafe type something into his phone and then show Lorenza, who nods and takes the phone, pressing a button and speaking into it.

A pang of frustration pricks at your chest when you see them laugh together. What could they be talking about?

No, you panic.

They aren’t supposed to be getting along. Rafe isn’t your boyfriend. He doesn’t need to be falling in step with this little act. He’s doing this as a pity favor, because he felt bad for you when your mother practically berated you in front of him. He’s doing this because he doesn’t want to go home and see his family for the holiday, he takes the first out he can get and clings to it. He’s not doing this because he wants to, but because he has to.

You push the thought away when you remember your agenda for the day, a cloud of grumpiness shifting over your head as you grumble something incoherent. The sun hasn't been up for long and you're already wishing it's the next day.

Instead of joining the two for coffee, you change into daytime clothes and freshen up, hoping to be able to slip out of the cottage and go on your endeavors alone.

The thought of entertaining Rafe all day makes your stomach do a somersault, as you just want to go in, get a dress, and come back. All you want to do today is relax, maybe go to the beach again, and get stupid drunk at dinner so you can pass out before all the heartfelt emotions circulating your birthday memories come into fruition.

The only remedy to today is drinking yourself into oblivion at dinnertime.

Of course when you exit the house, purse in arm and sunglasses perched on the bridge of your nose, Rafe and Lorenza frown.

“Dove stai andando?” (where are you going?)

You admit your tone is nothing inviting, as you reply that you're going to the dress shop, and your nonna stubbornly matches your irritable tone.

“Porti il tuo ragazzo.” (bring your boy)

An excuse brews in your throat but Lorenza doesn’t let you argue, shushing you harshly and gently ushering Rafe towards you.

You nearly roll your eyes at the difference in treatment, practically coddling your so-called boyfriend. You guess you wouldn’t be surprised if, at some point, your nonna ends up pinching his cheeks endearingly before you leave for the wedding.

You bite back a groan when Rafe shoots up from his seat, waving goodbye to your nonna and falling into step with you. You don't wait for him before you start practically speed walking onto the dirt path, eager to get this whole thing over with - especially since you begrudgingly have a babysitter now.

However, his long legs allow him to catch up with ease, even taking it one notion further and spinning around so Rafe's walking backwards and facing you.

If you weren't so irritated you'd actually be impressed with his foot coordination.

“You weren’t even gonna wait for me?” he teases, his tone and demeanor a stark contrast from last night. Maybe he jerked off this morning and got rid of his blue balls, as it seems like the only valid excuse for his chippier attitude on this bright sunny day. “I find that highly offensive, baby.”

You roll your eyes, and then realize you're wearing sunglasses. “What’s highly offensive is the lack of steps you took to catch up. Has anyone ever compared you to Gumby?”

“Is he handsome?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

You groan. “You’re in the wrong profession. You should be on some sort of court instead of running your mouth all the time.” You try to side step so he’s not backwards-walking right in front of you, but he mirrors your movements to prevent that from happening, taking utter glee in your irritation. “Stop.”

“No,” he retorts, shuffling with a skip in his step. He must’ve played soccer with the way his feet are coordinationally graceful. “This is how I like to walk.”

“No, it’s not.”

“How would you know?”

All you want to do is leap forward and throttle him.

It’s bad enough you have to run this errand in the first place, and even worse that he has to torment you the entire time with that stupid smile that he wears when he knows he’s pissing you off. It also frustrates you that he’s essentially forcing you to look at him, his biceps outlined offensively well in his plain navy t-shirt and his hair falling over his squinted eyes.

You attempt to mask your staring with a scowl, but it feels like he sees right through you. And it further pisses you off.

“You know you don’t have to talk, right?” you hiss, hating the way he laughs at you. “Sometimes people like to walk in silence.”

“I don’t.”

You throw your head back, huffing at his stubbornness, at your headache, at the whole ordeal in itself. “Well, I do. So shut up.”

Of course, Rafe doesn’t listen and instead taps his chin in mock contemplation, humming low as he pretends to think. “Do you think I could get away with robbery? I’m not talking amateur klepto, I’m talking something big. Like a car. Or a freight train.”

The rest of the walk is essentially just that: Rafe talking your ear off as you brush him off with one word responses, move to hit him, or ignore him altogether.

You know you're being a dick, but today, of all days, you do not want to be tested. Rafe doesn’t seem to run out of words, though, moving past your bratty attitude and filling in the gaps of silence with outrageous hypothetical questions or random stories and facts about stuff you don't care about.

After tuning him out for the better part of fifteen minutes, you nearly sigh in relief when you approach town. He eventually falls into step next to you, taking in the sights around him. Your heart does a weird leap when you see him pull out a camera you've never seen before and snap some photos of the scenery around you.

In a moment of his distraction, you race forward and slip into a store in a feasible attempt to lose him.

But Rafe doesn’t shake that easily, following you inside with ease and shooting you a deadpanned look as if to say nice try.

The store doesn’t end up selling clothes, instead holding antiques and random trinkets that you actually don't mind looking at. Frankly, you want to stall your loitering as much as possible with the hopes that he’ll get bored and go venture off somewhere else for the better part of an hour. But to your dismay, Rafe doesn’t budge, instead looking at the items with you and lingering around the things you seem to pick up, inspect, then put down.

You forget about your irritable facade when you pick up a ceramic fish about the size of your palm, the sardine painted in whites, blues, and yellows with two little holes through the top fin, assumingely there to be able to hang it up with a piece of string. The handmade item sits gently in your hand, inspecting the grooves and crevices and paint job as you run your thumb across the glassy surface.

There’s a small section of the table devoted to similar ceramic fish, all painted with the same colors but in different patterns, no two alike. They're all beautiful, and you stop and inspect all the different detailing on each one while still holding the original you picked up.

Rafe suddenly appears next to you and follows your gaze to the art piece in your hand, picking up another one off the table and flipping it over to see the artist’s small signature on the back. Your arms brush as he moves his hand next to yours so you can look at both fishes next to each other. The one in his hand looks so much smaller than yours despite being the same size.

“These are cool,” he murmurs, almost challenging you to agree.

But you simply hum, taking one more lingering glance before putting your fish back down on the table and walking away to inspect other items. You're so dismissive to his presence that you don't seem him pick up the sardine you were previously holding, cradling it along with the fish he picked up in his hand.

You do that a few more times in the store: pick up a random item, inspect it, hum in appreciation, then put it back. Rafe trails behind you, as if following your movements and analyzing the same things that you do.

When you move to leave, Rafe calls your name in warning before you can exit.

“I’m getting something for my sisters, can you wait for me? Or am I going to have to chase you down again?”

You roll your eyes at him, but nod nonetheless as you linger by the door obediently, picking at the material of your purse with one hand as you absentmindedly trace the spines of old books with the other.

It doesn’t take long for him to meet you, gripping the brown paper bag tightly as he approaches with shifty eyes.

“What’d you get for them?” You ask quietly as you move to leave, deciding the question is too intimate so you don't hold the door for him to make up for it.

Rafe scratches the back of his neck and falls into step next to you, avoiding your eyes as he pretends to busy himself looking through the windows of passing shops. “Uh, there were some small posters in the back made by a local artist. They’re kind of freaky looking, but my sisters are weird. So. That’s what they get.”

You hum at the thought of him thinking about his sisters, catching yourself smiling lightly. But you wipe it off your face as quickly as it came. “Cool. I think there are other shops like that if you wanna get them more stuff. I’m gonna pop in here quick to look around.”

“Nuh-uh,” he warns sternly and your shoulders sag at his stubbornness. “I’m under strict orders to stay with you from Lorenza. Stop trying to get rid of me.”

The thought of the two of them conspiring broaches a weird feeling in your gut, a combination of confusion and envy and something else that you can’t quite pinpoint. There’s a slight tick of anxiety that flashes in your mind that their conversation this morning was all about you, more specifically on what today is. You just hope your nonna respected your wishes and didn’t tell him that it’s your birthday.

“Whatever,” you eventually grumble, cutting off his stride to side step into a dress shop.

Rafe follows obediently, trailing behind you in the store to inspect the vintage looking dresses on the racks. He watches you fish through them without a forethought, humming at some possible contenders but then continuing to move on with your search.

You feel his gaze burning from your peripheral and decide to ignore him, taking his focus as boredom because he has nothing better to do than to watch.

You take a few possible dresses under your arm as you move onto the neck rack, ignoring the gross feeling in your chest when he offers to hold them for you while you continue to look.

It almost makes you laugh at the sight of Rafe Cameron as your personal clothing rack.

You have half a mind to tease him on the matter, but when you look back at him to hand him another dress to hold, he looks perfectly content. Happy, even, to provide such a small service. You hate that he doesn’t complain once, grumbling something incoherent about his stupidly incessant presence as you turn back to the rack to resume your search.

Then your gaze settles on a particularly unordinary dress shoved deep in the back as if someone hid it.

You pull it out and inspect it with a quiet gasp. It’s a silky spaghetti strap dress with all kinds of patterns etched through it, decorated with delicate beading that make up swirls, small flowers, and dotted lines along the hem. The bottom is uneven, creating an edgy diagonal stitch as it cascades down. The neckline is a v-neck, you assume, because there’s a sliver of material in the bust that gives the dress a bit of a cowlick design.

With one hand you hold up the dress by the hanger and gently skim over the material with the other, as if admiring its beauty through touch alone.

You hear Rafe hum quietly behind you, drastically pulled from the mesmorizing moment as you nearly cough from the surprise.

“You like that one?” he asks gently, voice void of any teasing regard.

You mimic his hum, but then frown as you further inspect the dress. “It’s beautiful, but…”

You trail off. The dress is beautiful. Ethereal. It’s the kind you’d see in a dream and spend life trying to find.

But you catch the numbers on the tag and your shoulders sag, because there’s no way in hell you’re able to afford that off a measly part time job at school. Even then, you can’t think of a scenario where you would wear this, knowing it’ll ultimately sit in your closet collecting dust. Because this dress will turn heads, and you’re not the kind of person who normally holds the spotlight.

Plus, the dress isn’t wedding guest appropriate to you, because it would no doubt draw attention to you in a way that you really don’t want – assuming that it will even fit you.

Your mother would probably call it hideous and demand you change into something else more appropriate: basic, standard, conservative, because god forbid you try to figure out your own style versus molding into whatever cookie cutter shape your mother wants you to be that day.

“But what?” You hear Rafe behind you, confusion edging his tone.

“I wouldn’t wear it to the wedding,” you say softly, almost dejected and trying to convince yourself not to waste your savings on a dress you have no occasion to wear it for. “Too…out there. Besides, it’s worth like three months of work for me.”

You put it back on the rack and move on with your search, knowing the longer you look at it the more upset you’ll get.

In another life, you suppose.

But Rafe doesn’t let you get far, reaching back in to grab the dress and add it to the growing pile. You spin around with an argument ready in your throat, but your words don’t come when he gives you a pointed look, a warning, forcing you to shut up before you create another argument.

The thought of standing in the middle of this shop and arguing with him seems like your personal hell, so you humor him with a dejected sigh, turning back around to fish through the last rack.

“I’ll be quick,” you grumble as you take the pile of dresses from his arm. “You can wait outside if you want.”

Rafe’s response is immediate. “Sweet girl.”

A warning.

The changing room is small. Well, calling it that is generous, because it seems more like a supply closet that the owners were forced to change into a dressing room. It’s a fully closed off room with no seats for observers, so Rafe settles on leaning onto the wall next to the door.

You have to physically look away when he shamefully crosses his arms, shutting the door quickly behind you to put the barrier between you.

It's as if Rafe knows how achingly annoyed you are at this little errand, because, bless him, he tries to make it fun for you.

The first dress you try on is a deliberate no based on the awkward fit, but he insists you show him anyway despite your excessive cursing. With a scowl, you oblige, doing a sarcastic twirl for him. In return, he puts on a fake southern accent to thoroughly judge the dress with dramatic flair.

Rafe only amps it up when you barely - just barely - crack a smile.

After breaking the ice, your cold demeanor slowly starts to slip. You come out one by one, needing his help a few times with a lingering zipper. There’s one that is so atrociously bad that you step out to show him as a joke, and hate how he laughs with you (not at you, it seems) pulling out that camera before you can protest and snapping a photo of you mid-shout. Rafe holds the camera high above his head when you nearly tackle him to get him to delete it, failing to no avail as he simply fights you off as you attempt to reach it.

You wouldn’t even call it fighting, because it takes little to no effort for him at his offensively tall stature.

Eventually, you give up on the matter, grumbling something about judge-model confidentiality before disappearing back into the changing room.

It isn’t until you come out in a sleek wine-red gown that Rafe perks up, and he's at a loss for words because he can't even muster up the gall to put on the judge-facade he's been milking the whole time.

And, boy, does he stare.

The dress is beautiful and wedding appropriate. It’s conservative enough with a higher v-neck that ties into a halter, your entire spine exposed with a cowlick at the base of your back. The form is fitting around the bust but falls loosely from your hips down, a knee-high slit showing a sliver of your leg.

You hate the way Rafe is drinking you in right now, staring shamelessly up and down your body.

To fill the gap of silence, you try to distract yourself by explaining what you’d do with your hair, which is tie it up, and what kind of jewelry you’d adorn. But, frankly, it’s as if it goes in one ear and out the next given how Rafe can only nod absentmindedly at your words, eyelids low and lazy.

“Okay,” you roll your eyes at his demeanor, “clearly this is the winner based on your lovely review.”

Rafe can only blink stupidly as you shoot him a pointed look before disappearing back into the dressing room.

In your absence, he masks a cough as he readjusts his pants, suddenly irritated how he seemingly has to wait at least another thirty minutes before he can fuck you right, and that’s if Lorenza isn’t home. He sighs at the thought of having to sneak around again, wanting to hear you loud and clear every single time.

This knuckle-biting-moan-preventing bullshit is starting to irritate him.

When you exit the dressing room, back in your normal clothes as you hold the red-wine dress, Rafe frowns, angrily huffing.

“You didn’t try the other one on.”

You look up at him quizzically, gesturing to the piece of material in your hand. “I’m getting this one. There’s no need.”

Rafe scoffs, as if the whole thing offends him. “Go back and try the other one on.”

“Cameron–”

“Go.”

His incessant tone makes you freeze, your gaze flickering between his furrowed brow and his palm upturned at you, gesturing you to hand him the dress.

Your frustration bubbles at his bossiness, pinching your brows at his sudden demeanor switch and nearly stomping your foot when you move to walk to the register and he grabs you by the elbow, keeping you in place.

Rafe squeezes in warning. “Now.”

You narrow your gaze right back at him, so it just becomes a few moments of you staring at each other in mutual irritation, waiting to see who will break first.

Eventually, Rafe squeezes your arm again to which you relent, rolling your eyes so hard it kickstarts a migraine, shoving the dress in his hands and slamming the door behind you.

You grumble to yourself the whole time, shoving your pants off and ripping your shirt over your head as it falls to the floor carelessly. Despite the anger, you handle the dress with delicacy as you slip it onto your body with such care it might as well be made of glass. After adjusting the straps and zipping the side, you sigh dreamily at the sight.

It fits you like a glove. It makes you feel beautiful.

Though your heart is heavy.

Fuck, you wish you hadn’t even picked it up, because the sagging feeling of not being able to afford it nags at your brain. A wave of sadness crashes over you as your palm skims over the material longingly.

A knock at the door startles you, pulling you from the moment. You don’t realize how long you’d been standing there admiring the piece until you hear Rafe’s voice.

“Are you dead in there? What’s taking so long?”

God, you want to throttle him. His impatience turns your sadness into anger.

You swing the door open, nearly hitting him as you meet his gaze. Huffing, you gesture to the dress with an attitude.

“Here it is. Happy?”

There’s a prolonged silence between you as Rafe takes in the sight before him, studying the way it shapes your body, cascades down your legs, and hugs your breasts in the right place. His breath hitches, feeling his dick twitch uncomfortably at how frustratingly perfect it looks on you. The delicacy and beauty of the dress starkly contrast the expression on your face, one of irateness and annoyance that it makes him furious.

You take his silence as dislike.

Grumbling something under your breath, you spin around and attempt to slam the door in his face.

But Rafe’s foot jabs out to stop it from shutting.

Before you can yell at him, the words die in your throat as Rafe pulls you in for a bruising kiss, pushing himself into the small changing room and shutting the door behind him. His hands wander all over, shameless groping and fondling you as he pushes you against the mirror, caging you in.

Breathless, Rafe pulls back, reeling in the way you lean up to chase his lips and pout when you don’t get your way.

“I need you to understand something,” Rafe warns low, his fingers feather light against the neckline of the dress, tracing it and ghosting over the warmth of your sternum. “You've been nothing but a brat all morning.” His finger finds the strap, pulling one down your shoulder agonizingly slow, his touch the complete opposite of his intentions. “So, I’m going to fuck the attitude out of you. And you’re going to be good and quiet, and you’re going to take it.”

You nearly gasp when he presses his hip against yours, feeling his already aching hard-on against the swell of your belly.

He doesn’t falter. “When I’m done with you, I’m buying you both dresses and you’re not going to complain about it.”

“Bu–”

A hand grips your chin, forcing your mouth shut. “Shut. Up. Not another word about it. Alright?”

Frustration seeps from your pores. You don’t want him to feel obligated to buy you the dress, the price tag flashing across your mind and a swell of guilt rises in your chest. The topic of money is no concern for him, you assume, but it’s more so the implication of the purchase.

Why does Rafe care?

His fingers only grip harder when he sees your internal battle, and the guilt slowly starts to fizzle out and is replaced by lust, especially with the way his other hand ghosts under the material to slowly fondle your ass.

Rafe peers down at you, patiently waiting for the green light, and he moves lightning fast when you nod against his hold, submitting.

He suddenly takes a step back, hands and body leaving yours and you nearly slump without the weight of his support. Your mind feels fuzzy as he inspects the scene in front of him, dick painfully hard at the sight of you waiting obediently.

“Good,” he growls. Then, with a wave of his hand, he gestures to the dress. “Off.”

For once, you don’t argue as you carefully push the straps down your shoulders and unzip the side, letting the material fall to the ground and pool around your feet. Eagerly, you grab a hanger and step away, gently putting the dress back on the wall as your tummy flutters with excitement.

There’s no denying you’ve been a brat all day. Maybe you really do need him to fuck you into a better mood.

Rafe hums in appreciation. “Turn.”

Obliging, you spin and face the mirror, eyes coming into contact with his as he takes a step forward, closing the distance. Your heart skips a beat when you feel him up against your back, and suddenly you survey the scene in front of you, naked besides a pair of panties while he stands behind you, fully clothed.

A flicker of embarrassment coats your features, as you want him to be as naked as you are right now (almost in solidarity?), so you spin around and grab at the ends of his shirt to try and pull it over his head.

But Rafe doesn’t allow that to happen, snatching your hands to pull them away from him and forcing you to face the mirror once again, tsking in your ear at the disobedience.

“I thought you were gonna be good for me,” he spats quietly, but the words feel amplified as his mouth ghosts over the shell of your ear.

“I-I am,” you defend weakly. “You’re being—“

“No,” he rasps, interrupting you with a firm tone that has you shutting up immediately. “Quiet.”

Rafe doesn’t break eye contact with you through the mirror as one of his hands snakes around your waist, flattening his palm against your lower belly and traveling lower to trace the outline of your panties.

Your breath hitches, watching his fingers slowly descend into your underwear as your heart races with anticipation. It doesn’t take a look in the mirror to know how ferociously your cheeks burn when he slips a finger through your slit, the embarrassing realization dawning on you that you’re already wet for him.

You can feel and see your face get hot, and it only spurs him on further.

Rafe smiles at you and it’s nothing nice.

He drinks in the way you’re practically putty in his arms, chest heaving when he enters one finger inside and eagerly watches your reaction. Stubbornly, you try to not give him one, but fail when he enters a second without warning, humming in satisfaction when you let out a low moan at the feeling.

You flutter your eyes shut but snap them open when his other hand roughly grips your hip.

“Eyes open,” Rafe commands with a whisper. “I want you to watch yourself come on my hand.”

Jesus, the words make you bite back a smile.

You should act like a brat more often if this is what the result will be.

Rafe continues to shamelessly finger you in this dingy dressing room, his other hand groping your ass, tits, waist — anything else he can get his hands on — while he works you towards your high.

Every time your eyes start to slip closed from pleasure, he stops and scolds you with a particularly harsh squeeze with whatever part of your body his hand happens to be on in that moment. It's usually accompanied with a simple "sweet girl" or "eyes" when he notices.

And, of course, you obey.

It only takes a minute for you to feel shaky under his touch, especially when he presses his thumb against your clit and traces tight circles on it. Your head falls back onto his shoulder, reaching an arm up to grip his hair to ground you to something while you feel your release approaching.

Your other hand flies up to your mouth, biting down on your knuckle as you try — and fail — to hide a shameful moan.

"Look at you." Rafe's voice is right in your ear, sucking ungodly kisses on your neck. "Dirty girl, fucking my hand for everyone to hear."

It only takes around half a minute before you’re writhing from his touch, panting as you feel your orgasm coming.

“Fuck, Rafe, I’m–” You can’t finish, instead interrupting yourself with a pornographic moan as you rut against his hand like a bitch in heat.

You force yourself to look in the mirror at the scene in front of you in fear that he’ll rip his fingers away if you close your eyes. With eyes slitted and your mouth parted, you will yourself to look him in the eye, only spurring your orgasm.

And Rafe simply stares at you.

His mouth is agape, eyes trailing from yours down to your breasts and eventually down to where his fingers disappear inside you. Rafe has to bite back a moan when he sees your cum coating his hand and your underwear, relentlessly continuing to shove his fingers in and out to shove your cum back inside as you ride out your high.

You moan in overstimulation when you come down from it and realize he’s still going.

Weakly, you try to push his hand away with a huff, attempting to assert any last ounce of dignity, but that quickly flies out the window when he snatches your wrist with his other hand, gripping so tight that you can’t move even if you wanted to.

“No,” Rafe orders, bringing your hand back up to his hair where it was before. “You’re giving me another.”

You splutter in protest. “Bu–”

He interrupts you when his thumb returns to your clit, entering a third finger that elicits a loud whine from you.

Gripping his hair impossibly tight, you nearly pull him forward to where his lips ghost over your flaming cheeks, the roughness making his eyes roll back for a fraction of a moment. Your back arches off of him when you feel Rafe press against you again, feeling his hard-on through his shorts, and in a feeble attempt to stake your claim of control, you push your hips back to press into him.

Of course, that makes him stop.

Rafe scoffs meanly at you absolutely writhing against him. “You’re such a fucking brat. No complaining.”

The dominance makes your head feel fuzzy, and when his other hand comes up to wrap around your neck, the coil in your belly starting to gradually build again.

With a fuzzy brain, you whine, mouth agape as you get closer and closer until–

“You want my dick, princess?” Rafe urges mockingly.

Your head is spinning as your orgasm builds, and builds, and builds. “Yes, Rafe, I’m cl–”

“Fine.”

A gasp rips out of your throat as Rafe suddenly pulls away, his fingers leaving your pussy devastatingly early.

You stumble on your own two feet at the loss of support, about to spin around and hit him on the chest for teasing you until the hand around your neck grips your chin, forcing you to look at him in the mirror.

“Stay,” he commands harshly.

Rafe brings his cum-coated fingers out of your underwear and to your lips, eyes narrowing as it takes a moment for you to realize what he’s waiting for you to do. With bleary eyes and shallow breaths, you take his fingers in your mouth, sucking the taste off of him and swirling your tongue around his digits.

The act elicits a low moan to escape from his mouth, and he hates the way it comes out involuntarily.

Rafe takes his fingers out and quickly unbuckles his shorts, letting them fall to the floor as you both look down to the achingly pitched tent in his boxers.

Your mouth nearly salivates at the sight of it, your hazy muscle memory forcing you to dart your hands forward to grab him.

But his fingers harshly grip your wrists and pull them away from him.

“Turn around,” Rafe grumbles.

You stumble on your feet as he tries to spin you around. “I want to–”

“No.”

You huff in frustration, nearly stomping your foot. The bratty excuse but it’s my birthday rises but dies in your throat.

Irritation clouds your mind. You want to suck him off. The last time you did so was in his dorm room about a week and a half ago, as he had a particularly rough day. A small part of you loved when he let you take control, giving into the notion of letting you take care of him without needing to ask. Instead, you had insisted.

You want an ounce of that semblance back in an attempt to gain control of the situation. But you can’t help but feed off of being bossed around, since this isn't the first time Rafe has fucked his frustration out on you. After snipping and barking insults and orders, it’s nice to let someone else take the reins for a little.

Despite your wishes, you oblige and turn around with a pout, letting Rafe practically shove your underwear down the curve of your ass and around your ankles. Your faux irritation wipes away from your features when he butterfly splays a calloused palm on the middle of your spine, pushing you down to bend over.

With a spark of excitement, your hands brace themselves on the mirror, biting your lip in anticipation as you watch him admire you from this angle, cock hard in his hands as he fists himself up against your ass.

“Look at you,” Rafe coos, almost mockingly. You meet his eyes in the mirror, the piercing blues dark with lust. ��Being such a good girl for me.”

Rafe takes achingly long. It could be seconds but it feels like hours before he brings his cock between your folds to soak up your wetness. You’d be embarrassed if it didn’t feel so damn nice, and you can’t help but moan at the sensation, wanting to yell at him to stop elongating the foreplay.

“Rafe, please—“

But it’s as if he reads your mind, aligning himself with your entrance and pushing himself in until he’s buried fully.

“Shut. Up.”

Unlike the tender-like intercourse yesterday, Rafe snaps his hips harshly, setting a fast starting pace as he thrusts in and out of you, keeping one hand on your hip to raggedly keep you in place while the other stays firm on your back to keep you low and bent over nicely for him.

His tip nearly leaves your cunt every time, slamming back into you with his full length.

God, your eyes roll back into your skull.

“Feel good, baby?” Rafe asks huskily. The tone is far from genuine.

You can only babble something incoherent back to him.

It only makes him laugh darkly. Mean. “Done being a fucking brat, hm?”

Your elbows fold and extract with every thrust, trying your very best to hold yourself against the mirror instead of smacking headfirst against it. You moan as he fucks you deep and rough, the sound of hips snapping together only spurring you on further.

"N-Never—"

One of his hands leaves your hip to firmly smack your ass, jolting your body forward as you can't help but sigh at the sensation, head lulling as your legs begin to shake from his force. But Rafe notices, and instantly his palm is snaking up your spine to grab at your hair, forcing your eyes back into the mirror.

"Eyes. Up."

Back arching at the sensation, you both moan when his cock nearly hits your cervix, the mixture of pain and pleasure creating a low rumble in your tummy.

You try and say something back, some half-assed retort that never reaches the light of day because you find his eyes in the mirror, and you instantly notices he's equally as fucked out as you are.

Rafe’s hand on your back snakes around your body, instead splaying on your stomach as he pulls you to stand up straight, the new angle causing you to roll your eyes back. You throw your head against his shoulder, forehead sticky with sweat and legs shaking from overstimulation. He continues to fuck into you, a thumb finding your clit that has you immediately arching your back, molding into his body.

When you glance into the mirror, you notice Rafe is already staring at you.

“Look at yourself, princess,” he rasps breathlessly, your blissed out state nearly making him finish. “Taking it so goddamn well.”

Suddenly, it’s all too much.

The pace, the obscene noises, the way Rafe’s blue eyes are blown black with lust, never straying away from your face.

“Give me one more.”

It’s as if his words ignite a fire in your stomach, the sensation of everything happening in this room catches up to you.

His thumb on your clit. His dick hitting every possible angle. His chest heaving against your back. His breathy moans ghosting the shell of your ear.

The coil snaps for the second time as you’re coming so hard you see white, the noise wrangling from your throat in surprise as you throw a hand up to cover your mouth, not wanting to alert the shop owner of the scandalous activity happening in the room, but you really don't do much to prohibit the noise as your hands shake from the force.

The sight in front of him has Rafe’s pace stuttering, trying to ignore how fucking nice your orgasm feels around his cock, how your hand knots in his hair, how your pretty little sounds echo off the walls.

“Shit,” Rafe curses, eyebrows furrowed in what looks like pain as his thrusts gradually slow.

You return to planet Earth momentarily, frowning at his elongated pace. In an attempt to ride out your high for a little longer, you snap your hips back into him.

The rebellious act has Rafe gripping your hips impossibly tight, probably bruising, as his rhythm falters.

“Where? Where should I–?”

The response is immediate and careless.

“Inside.”

That seems to startle Rafe as he nearly shoves himself forward, coming inside of you with hot spurts as he groans into your ear, both of you nearly drooling at the side of his cum pooling down your thighs as he fucks you through his orgasm. His hands on your hip are iron clad, guiding your motions in rhythm with his.

Eventually, Rafe’s thrusts gradually slow as you lean against one another with heaving chests and breathy pants.

Once he’s assured his knees won’t give out, Rafe slowly pulls out of you. You stand there for a moment, balancing on wobbly legs and nearly collapsing from the dull ache from between your thighs.

But he’s quick to hold you in place, gentler this time, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder as his fingers smooth over the roughness of his previous grip, soft enough to be considered an apology.

Blinking away the fuzziness, your mind comes down from the dumbification.

And it makes your heart ache.

You hate the way Rafe’s eyes soften in his post-orgasm haze, trailing his eyes up and down your body not in hunger but in admiration.

At least you hope it’s admiration.

You two stand there for a moment, chests heaving and staring at each other through the palm-stained mirror with matching fucked out gazes. In an attempt to regulate your breathing, you bring a hand up to smooth down the pieces of his hair that you pulled abhorrently tight, doing your best to make it look presentable.

Then, Rafe manages to chuckle lightly. “Still wanna be a brat?”

That makes you snort.

“Hm,” you hum in mock contemplation, eyes slitting. “Can we do reverse cowgirl if I do?”

He shakes his head in disbelief, but the rising grin gives away his faux irritation. "Sweet girl, you don't even need to ask."

It’s funny because the first couple of times you and Rafe hooked up, you were thoroughly appalled at his lack of aftercare.

You remember cussing him out for practically ignoring you, thinking he was purposefully not helping you clean up because you weren’t really friends at the time and you still couldn’t really come to terms with how you both, sometimes, had to be nice to each other. But once you brought the word up to him in the heat of an argument, you watched his anger morph into confusion.

Given his track record, you were stunned that he genuinely had no preconception of the word, let alone the concept in itself, and taught him the implications of aftercare and how it makes life so much easier for everyone.

He hasn’t forgotten about it since.

Rafe helps you clean up, but not without pushing some of his cum back into your pussy with his fingers, then proceeding to pull your underwear back up over your hips.

You, truly, try to ignore the casual intimacy of it, but it doesn’t seem to faze him as he helps you dress first, then takes care of himself.

With a racing heart, you tell him you’ll meet him out at the register in a minute, spewing some excuse of wanting to fix your hair. Rafe doesn’t press any further, grabbing the dress hanging and throwing it over his arm before he leaves the room, closing the door behind him to give you some privacy.

What the fuck was that?

It was almost perfect. Almost.

Why does Rafe have to do things like that? Why can’t he just fuck you rough and hand you your clothes instead of dressing you himself? Why can’t he use a tissue to clean his cum instead of pushing it back into you? Why does he have to say stupidly endearing things right after as if he didn’t just give you an earth-shattering orgasm?

Pull yourself together, you harshly think.

After you nearly coach yourself to calm down in the mirror, you slide out of the room looking presentable enough to see Rafe at the register, flashing his black credit card to the shop owner. When he stuffs the card back in his wallet, you catch a glimpse of a giant wad of Euros that you’ve never seen before.

You don’t linger on the moment before the shop owner is handing him a bag, taking it with a curt nod.

Rafe’s eyes find yours as you carefully approach him. “Ready?”

So nonchalant, you think.

You can’t find the words, instead nodding and murmuring grazie to the shop owner, partially out of guilt for what went on in the changing room. As if the universe hates you, Rafe’s hand grazes your lower back, guiding you out of the store and back out onto the street.

You don’t venture back up to the cottage just yet, as your mood has – shockingly – improved.

Finding an ounce of independence again, you decide you want to look around in a few more stores for shits.

Rafe doesn’t complain, and instead encourages it, claiming he can look for more trinkets for his sisters. Although, you don’t see the way his gaze shifts to you when he says it, nervously waiting for you to call him out on his strange behavior of why he wants to buy things for his family after bitching and moaning about them.

But you don’t seem to catch on, thankfully.

Because Rafe practically buys everything you express the slightest interest in in secret.

When you’re off distractedly looking at something else or hopping to another store, he’s carefully building up his collection: dainty rings with jewels, clunky rings, a pair of earrings with pretty green jewels, an old annotated copy of Macchiavelli’s Un Principe, an old Italian movie poster that he doesn’t understand, a thin frilly scarf, and even manages to sneak a pair of vintage heels that he has to nonchalantly confirm are in your size.

Rafe stuffs all the items in the only two bags you know about, not wanting to raise suspicions even though they get heavier after leaving each store. He imagines you’d be mortified if you caught him in the act buying all the things you seemed to touch, and no doubt bites back a laugh as you’d probably force him to take it all back.

After all, he bought you a computer once after yours broke, and you harassed him for a week to take it back or let you pay him for it. Rafe edged you so fucking much one night until he forced you to drop it.

So, yeah, he’s content doing this under your nose.

Eventually, after Rafe convinces you that you need gelato from a stand on the street, you retreat back to the cottage with a careless pace in your strides, taking all the time in the world as you eat your ice cream and talk about stupid stuff that has no meaning. He wishes he had another hand so he could take a photo of you like this: grinning into your cone with the slightest bit dribbling on the side of your lip, no doubt grilling him about something stupid he says.

Rafe quickly finishes his cone so he can have the hand free, reaching over and brushing the pad of his thumb over the sweet strawberry gelato ghosting your lip.

The fuuuuuck.

Your mind turns to mush as you pause mid sentence at the action, watching him as he takes the thumb in his mouth, tasting the flavor.

“Mhm,” Rafe hums. “Good choice.”

You shake your mind out of the gutter at the terribly intimate action, telling yourself that he is so casual about it because he doesn’t care about stuff like that.

Besides, he’s probably doing it to get a reaction out of you — his favorite past time — which you refuse to give him.

Instead, you roll your eyes in faux irritation and continues what you were saying.

After twenty minutes, you make it back to the cottage and the overwhelming gloom-cloud over your head returns, popping out of fantasy land and remembering your birthday celebration tonight, the memories of the day in the past creeping up to haunt you.

Memories of you begging your mother for a cake or the newest Barbie or whatever infatuation you had of the year to get absolutely nothing in response, maybe an eye roll or – that one year – a swift backhand to the cheek for interrupting her phone call.

A small part of you wishes you felt comfortable enough to ask for what you want, as it would certainly make life a lot easier. Instead it only augments your stubbornness and makes you skeptical of what people do actually bring you things. And that definitely doesn’t allow for an easy way out of situations.

Unfortunately, Rafe notices your quiet demeanor, trailing off from whatever tangent he finds himself on and frowning.

“You okay?”

His change in tone pulls you away from your nagging thoughts, looking up at him distractedly. “Hm? Oh, yeah. Fine. Just tired.”

Rafe nods, half accepting that answer but also not wanting to push it. You enter the garden. “How’s your head?”

The question tugs something in your heartstrings. Why does he care?

You push it away. “Better. Might refrain from sneaking around in the dark, though."

You go to push open the door but Rafe beats you, opening it for you despite the two bags he carries.

Thinking back to the dresses, that former guilt of him spending all that money on you resurfaces as you pause. Rafe expectantly holds the door open, gaze flickering from his arm down to you, who stares at the bags in deep thought.

A shot of panic flashes to his mind, thinking you caught a glimpse of all the things for you stuffed deep in the bags, but instead you peer up at him sheepishly, a kind of look he hasn’t seen from you before. It has him tilting his head to the side in concern, half torn between making a chide comment in teasing and half resisting the urge to kiss you.

“What?” he whispers, gazing deep into your eyes.

You bite your lip, frowning ever so slightly. “You really didn’t have to buy them. The dresses, I mean. They were expensive.”

Rafe’s mouth curls up into a smile, the cost having little to no effect on his wallet and it’s endearing to him that that’s your concern.

Hell, he’d buy you anything you wanted with no questions whatsoever – if only you asked.

Asking isn’t in your nature. Rafe learned that pretty quickly after the computer debacle. Plus, he just had to fuck you stupid in order to buy two dresses for you alone, so he couldn’t imagine what he’d have to do to convince you to let him take care of you more often.

“I just…” you continue, hating the way he’s practically beaming at you, “don’t expect me to let you buy stuff for me just because you fuck me nice.”

That earns a belly laugh from him, throwing his head back precariously close to hitting the doorway and you have to refrain from mirroring his smile, switching your demeanor back to serious as best as you can to keep up your firm facade. Although, it's proven difficult because he has the audacity to look incriminatingly handsome.

Rafe’s grin burns a hole through your heart. His eyes gleam with pride. “So you’re admitting I fuck you nice?”

Cheeks burning embarrassingly red, you turn away from him and roll your eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. But I’m not letting you buy me anything else ever again.” You point to him in warning, then brush past him to enter the cottage.

Rafe’s laugh echoes throughout the house as you storm into the bedroom, partially laughing at how mad you’re going to be at him later.

Boy, is he wrong about that.

Dinner runs swimmingly.

Lorenza makes your favorite kind of meals: gnocchi with a crab based tomato sauce, breaded chicken with lemon squeezed over the top, along with a homemade tiramisu that the neighbors bring over just an hour before you all eat. The older woman prepped with two bottles of wine: one to drink during the cooking and another to drink while eating.

It’s wonderful.

It’s all you want out of your birthday: having a lively dinner full of laughter and conversation with a belly full of wine. Rafe asks a bunch of questions to Lorenza and she answers, trying to tie a few English words into her stories to help him understand. However, you end up translating for most of the night, but you don't mind.

Not in the slightest. Not when your mouth hurts from smiling so much.

After eating, Lorenza slips a gift into your hand when Rafe leaves the room to play with Ticino, an assortment of your favorite Italian chocolates and an old pendant of hers that you once complimented. Along with the present, she gave you a smooch on each side of your cheek with a quiet, “Tanti auguri.”

You tell your nonna that she absolutely did not need to get you anything, but, in Lorenza-like fashion, waves you off with a scoff, nearly offended at the thought of not doing anything for you.

When you retreat back to the room, a little tipsy and toying with the gift in your hand, you sit down on the edge of the bed, a stupid smile painting your lips as you close your eyes and hum dreamily.

This is the most content you've felt in a while, and you feel incredibly grateful at the notion of your nonna getting you a gift. It’s small and light, wrapped delicately with a ribbon, a short handwritten note folded inside with something so beautifully written that you can't bring yourself to read it right now, otherwise you'd probably cry from the sappiness.

The door creaking causes you to open one eye, seeing Rafe poke his head in to see if you're in here. He reciprocates your smile as he pushes inside, walking over to you and kneeling between your legs.

The sensation of his cool hands gently running up and down your thighs makes you hum sweetly and brace your hands on his shoulders, smoothing down the ridges of his collar.

“Hi, pretty,” he says softly.

You beam at him and he swears he’s never seen a better sight. “Hi.”

Rafe drums his fingers on your soft skin in anticipation. “How do you feel?”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Mhm.” You shut your eyes in contentment, sighing dreamily as the effects of wine make you feel warm. “Great.”

Rafe taps your thigh gently. “Hey. Don’t fall asleep.”

You open your eyes obediently and pout. “But ‘m tired,” you nearly whine, especially when his smile grows larger.

“Wake up.”

Your eyes flutter shut again. “Why?”

“‘Cause we’re going out.”

Then they shoot open, staring down at Rafe in confusion.

Your feather-light touches around his collar and the nape of his neck cease. He taps your thigh again, noticing he's trying (and failing) to suppress a grin, one that screams trouble. If you weren't so tired, you'd tease him for his eagerness.

But curiosity gets the best of you, especially when he has this look in his eyes that means he’s up to something.

“Why?”

“Did you really think I wasn’t going to do something special for your birthday?”

You freeze, the confession causing a moment of panic to rise like bile in your throat.

God, you're going to kill your nonna.

Your gaze darts between his eyes to see if he’s going to add anything else, or berate you for not saying anything. People usually go berserk when you neglect to tell them your birthday, seemingly more upset about it than you. Over the years, you've gotten used to the lectures, and it's given you more reasons not to tell people the day to avoid such grandiose scoldings.

However, Rafe simply stays quiet, watching you intently with a gaze so genuinely soft that it makes your stomach somersault. Suddenly, the wine doesn’t make you feel so nice.

You hate the way your voice is barely above a whisper. “We don’t have to do anything.”

Then Rafe sits up, placing a caressing hand on the side of your neck as his lips place a chaste kiss on one cheek. “We’re going out.” He alternates and places another on your other cheek. “You’re going to wear your pretty new dress.” And then his gaze flickers from your eyes down to your lips, pausing for a moment before leaning in and kissing you. “And we’re gonna take your nonna’s Vespa.”

That pulls you from the moment, brows furrowing and blinking stupidly. You move a fraction away, still confused about the whole matter.

“Nonna has a Vespa?”

Rafe nods. “Mhm. It took a lot of convincing. But she eased up when I told her I know how to drive a motorcycle.”

A...what?

The confession sends warmth to your tummy, the thought of Rafe operating a motorcycle has you shifting in your seat. “You do?”

“Mhm. What do you say, sweet girl? Wanna go?”

God, if you ever say no to that question...

It doesn’t take you long to get ready, simply pulling on your new dress and putting on some mascara. The whole time, Rafe simply watches you, lounging lazily on the bed after quickly changing with an arm tucked under his head.

It isn't until you're digging through your bag to take out your heels – meant to be for the wedding – Rafe stands and stops you, putting his hand over yours and pulling something out from behind his back.

You want to slap him silly when it’s a pair of heels, shoes that you voiced interest in earlier during your shopping (or browsing) spree. Of course, you were never going to buy them, and placed them back on the rack, but it seems as though he snuck his way around you.

You never really know how to accept gifts. Usually it’s with reluctance and dismissal, but right now, in this very moment, you've found a new reaction when he hands them over to you: a scowl.

“Okay, this is the last thing you buy me. Deal?”

Rafe puts his hands up in surrender, dressed adoringly in a collared shirt and dress pants. He looks so ridiculously handsome that it makes you blush, especially with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the top button undone. It almost makes you angry at his audacity. Truthfully, he looks good in anything: T-shirts, flannels, polos, nothing. It isn't fair.

The urge to stab him with the stiletto of your shoe but also pull him in for a bruising kiss comes into fruition, and you have to shove it to the back of your mind when you stand with the heels on, slinging your purse over your shoulder. You have the sudden realization that you're dripped out in clothes he's bought you, and you'd be pretending if you said it didn't make you feel some type of way.

Like his.

"Ready, baby?"

Shamelessly watching you, Rafe crosses his arms and tilts his head, drinking the sight of you in.

Thank god you're still a little buzzed from all the wine you drank, because you can't stand it when he looks at you like that.

So, instead of babbling like an idiot, you smile sweetly and nod.

And, jesus, the sight of it makes him bite his lip.

You're annoyingly beautiful, especially dressed in clothing that he's gotten you. A wild wave of possession rolls over him, much to his dismay, and it only makes his heart lurch when he remembers that you're not his.

Not really, anyway.

But regardless, Rafe ignores the thought.

Lorenza escorts you to the scooter waiting patiently at the edge of the gate, exchanging a few words with you and forcing a helmet into your nimble hands. Rafe waits patiently on the vehicle, biting back a grin when you nuzzle in behind him, wrapping timid arms around his middle and pulling yourself flush against his back. He can feel your breath on the back of his neck, and it makes the hair stand up with a chill. Before he starts driving, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze in reassurance.

The ride is, admittedly, stupidly fun.

Rafe is careful on the dirt road, rightfully so, focused on his task so intently that he barely registers you hugging him tighter, expressing your thanks in the only way you know how.

The sun sets low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the horizon that your eyes seem glued to, and soon the drive is illuminated by street lamps, making it into the heart of town as the roads slowly transition to cobblestone. Watching the life on the streets pass by, you rest your helmet clad head against his back, looking out towards the sea in longing and glancing at the locals basking in the setting sun.

Only now, you allow yourself to relish in the moment, shutting your eyes and simply existing, feeling his warm chest against your palms, the wind blowing against the exposed skin of your leg, hearing the sounds of laughter emitting from the street. The whole journey is so achingly pleasant that you forget you're actually stopping.

Rafe parks on the street in a small designated spot, hopping off before you can think. He slips his helmet off then proceeds to unbuckle yours, diligently lifting it off your head and holding both of them in one hand by the straps.

Then he offers a polite hand to help you off. “M’lady.”

You raise a quizzical brow. "Is this the Rafe Cameron boyfriend experience?”

“Shut up and take my hand.”

You roll your eyes, taking his hand anyway and allowing him to help you off the scooter. “How charming.”

Ignoring the thumping of your heart, you walk across the street to a quaint little restaurant, his hand splaying on the small of your back possessively as you enter.

You peer further into the restaurant to see they have outdoor seating with a view of the ocean, deciding to indulge in the pleasantries of a birthday and attempt to learn how to ask for (seemingly small) things.

Before the host can pull them into a corner to hide you from the locals, you ask, “Se è possibile, possiamo per sederci fuori?” (if it’s possible, can we sit outside?)

The request is successful, because the host leads you to their private tables outside, and you nearly sigh when you feel the ocean air brush your cheeks. You and Rafe sit away from others, tucked in your own world as the ocean laps gently to your left, his right. The table is lit gently by hanging lanterns and a single candle on each table, impossibly romantic in a way you try to disregard.

You order two red Chianti’s for them, the same wine you drank earlier at dinner.

When the waiter disappears, the silence stretches between you.

It suddenly dawns on you that you're on a date. With Rafe Cameron.

He seems to have the same epiphany simultaneously, and he chuckles out an anxious laugh and scratches the back of his neck.

The act makes you reel. Is he nervous?

You decide to elongate his misery as he comes up short on things to say. “How’d you find this place?”

“Oh,” he murmurs, the question catching him off guard.

He can’t look you in the eye.

It makes you grin.

“Lorenza recommended it. Said it was fancy to the locals, but far enough from the tourists.”

“Technically, we are tourists,” you tease.

Big, bad Rafe Cameron nervous on a date. Who would’ve thought?

Rafe finally meets your gaze, rolling his eyes when he sees your big grin at his stupidity. The hard edges to his exterior slowly smooth out, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Repressing his own smile, he shakes his head and turns away from you, hating the way he feels his cheeks turn pink.

“Shut up.”

“You’re being awfully rude to me on my birthday.”

“You were being awfully rude to me on your birthday,” he retorts as the waiter brings the wine, setting each glass in front of you.

Despite his playful tone, the accusation has you frowning.

You definitely were an asshole all day, no doubt about it given the dressing room treatment. There really was no excuse to take out all the anger surrounding your birthday and the upcoming wedding out on him, who simply has been helping you this entire time and going above and beyond in front of your nonna. A flicker of embarrassment coats your features at the thought of it.

After the waiter pours you each a glass, he places the bottle on the table and walks away, leaving you alone once again.

This time, it’s you who can’t look him in the eye, absentmindedly swirling the wine by the leg of the glass.

Fuck it.

You decide to swallow your pride because, regardless of how insane he drives you or how much of an asshole he is or everything in between, he didn’t deserve to be at the receiving end of your behavior today. After all, he did buy you two beautiful dresses and heels despite being your personal punching bag all morning.

Guilt washes over you. You don't even remember if you thanked him.

“I’m sorry for being such a dick today.”

The confession catches Rafe by surprise, his brows rising as he brings the glass to his lips, pausing his sip mto see if he heard you right. The genuine tone of your voice renders him speechless as he's only able to stare at you.

His silence makes you continue. As well as the alcohol.

“I don’t really like celebrating my birthday just because of…stuff that’s happened in the past. It’s not an excuse, but contrary to popular belief, I’m juggling a lot of shit right now and I took it out on you.” You struggle to get through the sentence, finding a shroud of bravery to look him in the eye. “So, I’m sorry.”

Rafe takes a sip, then puts the glass down on the table. A moment of silence stretches between you before he finds himself asking, “Do you…want to talk about it?”

You raise a brow. “Which part?”

“Any of it.”

Rafe knows his tone reeks of desperation, but he wants you to be able to trust him, even if it’s for one night.

Because, fuck, he wants you to tell him what’s bothering you, and he wants you to know that he’s here to listen. He stills, nearly holding his breath and waiting for you to reject it, to shove him back into a cloud of mystery surrounding the pleasantries of your past. The pounding in his ribcage only augments the longer you stay silent, contemplating opening up to him.

Taking a long sip of your drink, you take a moment to compose yourself, swirling the drink more as you stare at it.

Fuck it.

“My birthday brings up a lot of bad memories,” you murmur quietly, almost reluctantly. You refuse to look at him but he doesn’t even mind, eager to pick on the breadcrumbs. “I, uhm, am used to not celebrating it because it’s so close to the holiday, so it usually just gets…brushed over.”

You decide that’s a nicer term than what the reality is.

But Rafe simply doesn’t understand. How could anyone treat you like that?

You fidget with the glass, finding it really interesting to look at all of a sudden as you feel his gaze burning into you.

“As a kid, I used to have to beg my mom for the family to sing me happy birthday, trying to compromise that I didn’t even need a cake or presents or anything. Obviously that went nowhere, so after thirteen I stopped asking.”

You find yourself faintly smiling, remembering the gift your nonna gave you and the clothes he bought you today.

“I can’t remember the last time I got a birthday gift. So, thank you,” you say so gently.

The expression on his face is indifferent, you realize, when you look up at him.

It’s a mixture of concern, pity, admiration, and a bunch of others that you can’t quite pinpoint. He doesn’t offer an immediate response, instead staring at you as if he’s carefully collecting his thoughts by darting his piercing blues around your features.

You once again fidget under his gaze, unsure of what to make of it.

But Rafe takes a deep breath, sliding his hand forward to cover yours that anxiously picks at the glass, ceasing your movements altogether. The gesture of comfort makes your shoulders visibly relax, leaning into the conversation instead of shying away from it.

Rafe squeezes your hand, as if to coax you to continue, to let you know that he’s here to listen.

So he does.

Rafe listens intently to you lament about (most) issues plaguing your mind: how the whole concept of celebrating your birthday feeling foreign and disingenuous to you, the upcoming stress surrounding the wedding – more so having to see all of your extended family and deal with your mother at the same time – and how you wish you could just exist with them instead of constantly trying to prove yourself, the term paper that you have to submit by the end of the month that you forgot to start, and the thought of leaving nonna again since your mother is forcing you to come home for winter break.

The bottle of wine is eventually finished, and Rafe insists on getting some food so you're not stumbling around on an empty stomach.

You share a calamari appetizer throughout the night as you go over your checklist of worries. Rafe offers a few of his own so you don't feel left out: the fact that he has to say goodbye to the greatest dog he’s ever met, the nagging reminder that he has to call his dad at some point and give a thorough explanation of why he didn’t come home for the holiday, the excuses he has to come up with as to why he doesn’t want to spend Christmas with them, and how he doesn’t want to leave Italy to return back to the cold.

"I almost have maternal instincts for him," you frown after you're both long finished with the lamenting. "If I was having a really bad day, I think I would get irritated with him even though he doesn't know any better. He would probably think it was his fault."

"Sweet girl, Spongebob isn't real, you know."

This exact conversation is a tale-telling sign that you're tipsy.

You're babbling about nothing, but you really don't care. "It doesn't matter. No one understands him-"

Rafe is grinning at you taking this conversation so seriously.

"-I mean, his own best friend participated in the 'No Spongebob Day' for fuck's sake." Your cheeks flush at Rafe's teasing expression. "Stop looking at me like that. How would you feel if your best friend celebrated in a 'No Rafe Cameron Day'? It probably wouldn't feel good, you know. You're not being very sympathetic right now."

"Sorry, baby." His tone is hardly apologetic.

All you can do is narrow your eyes. "You're on thin ice, Cameron."

He nearly laughs. "Whatever you say."

You reluctantly let Rafe pay for the drinks and food despite a million protests, claiming that Lorenza gave you money to spend on the evening, but he doesn’t buy it for one second, flashing a wad of Euros to the waiter to take care of the bill without so much a thought.

Once you finished your last glass of wine (not Rafe, he stopped drinking hours ago), he guides you out of the restaurant by the hand, intertwining his fingers with you gingerly. You blame the overly affectionate act as special treatment for today and today only.

The ride back is calming, hugging him impossibly tight the entire time. When the cottage comes into view, you frown under the helmet that the little excursion is over already, nearly laughing in disbelief that your date with Rafe Cameron was actually pretty decent (maybe excluding the part where you drunkenly ranted about the implications of modern day make-up in period pieces or the Great Molasses Flood).

Even if it was all pretend, anyway.

Lorenza’s asleep given all the lights are off except the entryway, so you and Rafe quietly tip toe towards the bedroom. It’s much easier for him than it is for you, so it’s mainly him guiding you through the house by your waist, careful not to bump into anything or make a lot of noise. At one point, you almost knock over a vase that makes Rafe pull you taut against his chest, not letting you an inch from his grasp until you make it to the room.

He shuts the bedroom door behind you, flickering on the lamp behind his bed before turning back to the birthday girl.

Rafe isn’t sure if it’s technically your birthday still, but none of it matters because he still needs to do a few things before you fall asleep, starting with showing you how much you mean to him without having to say anything.

Without further ado, he gently takes your hand, slips your dress off, and guides you to bed, all while kissing your knuckles, your cheeks, your forehead, your lips, murmuring sweet nothings against the goosebumps on your skin in a tone that seems only reserved for you, his sweet girl.

Then Rafe proceeds to make the softest love he knows how to you.

There isn’t an inch of your body that goes unnoticed, un-kissed, unappreciated. It’s slow, gentle as he can, and completely, irrevocably, impossibly revealing his true feelings, spilling secrets he can’t seem to speak into fruition or else it’ll simply confirm the rawness of it all. So he lets his body do all the talking, and all it does is worship you.

Frankly, you relish in the princess treatment, liking it a little too much that you can’t even find the gall to tease him for how doting he’s being.

So you both submit to each other, emotionally and physically.

When you lay under his sheets together, limbs entangled with one another with quiet chatter spilled across cotton sheets, it’s the most content he’s felt in a really long time. He could spend the rest of his life in this twin bed with you if he had the ability to choose, to forget about everything else happening and solely devote himself to you and only you.

Fatigue creeps up on you in your body and soul, your core aching in a pleasant way as you nuzzle into the sheets that smell like him while adorning one of his t-shirts, the clothing practically swallowing you whole. You're surrounded by him, physically, emotionally, mentally, a thick fog that clouds your vision.

Your eyes start to lull shut, but a calloused palm shakes your shoulder gently.

"Hey, don't fall asleep yet."

You whine, but obey nonetheless as you watch Rafe turn over and nearly hang off the bed, reaching underneath to pull out a bag and the sight of it makes your heart throb.

It’s the same bag he carried around all day, you recognize with a pang of guilt.

And he's handing it to you.

Moving to sit up, you reluctantly take the bag from him and he twiddles his thumbs together as he watches you.

“What’s this?”

“It’s for you.”

Your shoulders sag. “I told you not to get me anything else.”

Rafe simply shrugs, not entertaining the thought.

You have half a mind to tell him off, but your eyes catch a glimpse of something in the bag and your heart flutters, freezing as your gaze flickers between the contents and his nervous expression. Reaching into the bag, you can’t help but grin as you hold up the ceramic sardine you so patiently admired earlier today.

Leaning back to pull something out of his backpack, he holds up another ceramic sardine, the one that he picked out. “I got one, too. Now we can match.”

God, the whole thing is so fucking thoughtful that you want to cry.

You pull out more objects, the gifts seemingly never-ending: the fish, more clothes, a scarf, a book, jewelry, and more.

The realization dawns on you like a tidal wave. He got you everything you expressed interest in at the stores and managed to do it right under your nose. The whole thing is severely overwhelming and you cradle each item with such love that he nearly melts at the care.

You've never had someone do anything like this for you, never had to not ask to get something, never had someone who simply understood what you wanted without needing to outright say it.

You're hugging him before you can process it.

The action startles Rafe, your arms hooking around his neck as you press yourself impossibly tight against him. He hesitates to reciprocate it in a moment of surprise, but Rafe eventually slides his arms around your waist, warm hands settling on your back as he shuts his eyes at the sensation of simply holding you, being held by you, holding each other.

Rafe decides that he really likes hugging you.

Being a hugger is not in his day to day agenda, not even his year to year. Hugs are viewed as hello and goodbyes in his family, nothing more. When someone was upset, he simply talked it out. When someone had something great happen, he poured them a drink. When someone was expressing gratitude or love or genuine appreciation, it was through words or not expressed at all. Rafe doesn’t realize what he’s been missing out on all his life, not knowing hugs can just be. They can simply happen because it can, no need for an occasion.

But when your shoulders start to gently shake with a quiet sniffle, his eyes snap open.

Are you crying?

Rafe tries to pull back to inspect the damage but you only grip onto him tighter, holding yourself there in his arms for a little longer before you have to face reality again.

He says your name so fucking soft that it brings upon more tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, worry evident in his tone.

Fuck. Was it too much? Was it not enough?

Rafe nearly huffs in frustration at the thought of fucking it all up, kicking himself because he was doing so well, or at least he thinks he was doing well, but all of that goes out the window by making you upset. No, not just upset: he made you cry. Now that’s a new low, even for him, and panic rises in his throat as his heart drops at the sound of your sniffling.

He decides he hates the noise, never wanting to hear it again after tonight.

In another attempt to comfort you, Rafe pulls back again and you let him.

He doesn’t get a glimpse of your face as you immediately cover it with your hands, sniffling once more as he frowns deeper. His hands ghost over your forearms, unsure if he should touch you right now or give you a bit of space. There’s always a caution when it comes to people crying, and he normally doesn’t handle it correctly.

But his anxiety simmers when you let out a strangled laugh, aggressively wiping your tears away and sniffling once more as you finally manage eye contact with him, faintly smiling at his severely worried expression.

“I–” you hiccup, “I was so mean to you all day, and you were doing all of this for me.”

Rafe’s shoulders drop in relief, huffing out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Gingerly, he lets his hands run up and down your arms endearingly as you continue to wipe away your tears, the nerves in his chest simmering down because, phew, you aren't mad at him or upset or, more importantly, he didn’t overstep.

Brushing a stray tear away with his thumb, he manages a tired smile. “Don’t scare me like that. I thought I upset you.”

You pout, confused. “Why would I be upset? This is…so thoughtful. I’ve never…” you trail off.

But he understands what you're trying to say. And he hates that he's the first to do so.

“You deserve all of it,” Rafe says quietly before he can stop himself. “All of it. And more. I’m sorry that no one has done it before.”

He opens his mouth again to say more, but the words die in his throat, not wanting to say too much even though a small part of him fears he has. Instead of speaking, Rafe settles in silence, keeping his hand against your cheek as he caresses your jaw and stares deeply into your eyes to compensate for his lack of words, trying to telepathically tell you what he's trying to say.

You do the same, so confused on how someone could think you deserve all of this, especially when that someone is Rafe Cameron.

Melting into his touch, you nearly sigh, relishing in the moment and trying to draw the line between real and fake. However, dwelling on the fine line of the arrangement will only make you more upset, so instead you lean into his touch and decide you'll indulge in your delusions for tonight.

At that, Rafe breaks eye contact to look at your lips. It doesn’t take long for him to lean in, kissing you slowly, passionately, earnestly. The kiss ends as soon as it begins, you feel, because he’s already pulling away and tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“C’mon, sweet girl. Let’s go to sleep.”

After carefully putting all the gifts back in the bag and setting it on the floor where you won’t step on it in the morning, you settle into his bed as he turns the lamp off, following suit and pulling you taut against his chest. Your face nuzzles into his neck as a big hand cradles your back, rubbing gentle circles along your spine underneath his shirt.

In the dark, you feel a little more comfortable and a little less vulnerable (despite literally crying in front of him a few mere minutes ago), but the confidence to say what you've been meaning to say all night comes easy in the pitch-black.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his neck, voice so quiet you aren't sure he hears you.

But Rafe hums, confirming he does. He says your name quietly. “You don’t ever have to thank me for that…for anything. I want you to know that.”

Your heart beats uncontrollably at his words, at your name. “Okay.”

“I’d get you anything you wanted if you just asked.”

Your chest feels funny at the confession, confusion running awry in your mind at all the implications that statement can have. What is he trying to say to you right now?

Exhaustion fatigues you, eyes lulling shut as you lay in his big, warm arms. Despite all the nagging and overly complicated emotions plaguing your mind, you manage to softly smile against his skin, pressing a featherlight kiss on him.

“Even a Mary Poppins umbrella to save myself from a tsunami?”

Rafe chuckles above you. “Anything you want, baby.”

“What about a talking car?”

“Sure.”

“A magic crystal that turns me invisible?”

“Mhm-hmm.”

“The Fairy Godmother’s wand from Shrek 2?”

“‘F course.”

You pause, biting your lip. “What about a cannoli tomorrow at the bakery by the beach?”

Rafe snorts. “Now you’ve crossed a line.”

You can't help but laugh, nuzzling even closer to him as you hum in contentment.

The sensation of being in his arms, the warmth of the bed, and the fuzzy feeling pooling in your chest quickly lull you to sleep, soon turning limp in a matter of minutes. The last thing you register is Rafe's lips pressing on your hairline, pulling you just a fraction closer than before.

notes please leave comments. i yearn for feedback.

#rafe cameron #salem-s works #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe x reader #rafe x y/n #rafe x you #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron smut #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron outer banks #outerbanks #reader insert #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe x female reader

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chrisspirategirl · 1 month ago

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Cologne.

જ⁀➴ Matthew Sturniolo

“Am I attractive? Tell me am I good enough?”

SUMMARY: you’ve been feeling insecure as of lately, not really knowing why since you’re known for your burst of confidence. But when your.. “fuck buddy” Matt finds out theres a sudden shift between the relationship.

You were and could proudly claim, the baddest bitch everyone knew. Always confident, sexy, seductive, a bitch, a sweetheart, everything in the book at this point. You always had on the most cuntiest outfits never ashamed to show off the body you were blessed with. But as of recently a sudden shift in your perspective changed. It was one of those days where you get hit with sudden depression and go through a whole crisis of anxiety, grief, and anger.

You were unhappy with how you looked for the first time which was a shock because hello? You’re stunning! But even people who seem to be absolutely flawless can still have some insecurities about themselves.

Your phone goes off, a message from Matt.

Matt 🤓: can I come over?

Matt and you were.. an interesting pair. Both constantly yelling at each other at the top of your lungs. You wouldn’t label Matt as your enemy because that was just corny to you. You both were just the same person in a different font and hated how similar you both acted. But over 6 months ago what started as a heated argument about some stupid movie turned into a night of raw, rough passionate sex. And since then you both agreed to be not so much as friends but definitely with benefits, fuck benefits if you will.

Something about him being so angry and pounding inside of you made your organs rearrange. Hate sex was definitely a new favorite for you. And Matt could definitely say the same. You both promised to keep this sex secret to yourselves because people were too nosy. And if ANYONE even found out about you and Matt secretly having sex the world would probably stop spinning.

You were hesitant to say yes to Matt’s message but you said yes regardless which you immediately regretted but he had already read the message so there was no doubt he was on his way. With a soft sigh you toss your phone to the side. You really weren’t in the mood for sex but you convinced yourself it was what you needed and definitely NOT someone to talk to.. yeah.

Roughly 20 minutes go by there’s a knock already knowing who you stand up from the couch opening the door to see Matt in a black hoodie and some jeans, “you look rough” he commented playfully like he always did but you weren’t in the mood to hit him with a comeback, “thanks.” You responded nonchalantly as you moved aside to let him in.

The blank response catches him off guard, “are you okay?” He asked slightly worried but tried to make it seem like he didn’t care, “I’m fine.” You said stuffing your hands into your black sweatpants.

“That doesn’t sound like you’re ‘fine’” he says with an eyebrow arched. “I said I’m fine okay?” You responded sharply, God, you really were a bitch huh?

“Okay sorry then geez.. what’s up your ass lately?” The last sentence he mumbled under his breath but you were able to pick up on it “you don’t have to be here you know?” You snapped at him.

“First off chill the fuck out. Second you said I could come if you didn’t want me here you could have said no.”

“Well.. I change my mind then get the fuck out.”

“What?”

“Get out Matt!”

“Y/n what is wrong with you?! Why are you crashing out like this?”

“I said I’m fucking fine! Are you stupid?!”

Matt strides towards you pinning you against the front door, “why the fuck are you being so aggressive for?” He asks roughly, not tolerating your bitchy attitude.

“Get off of me Matt!” You replied trying to squirm out of his grasp, his grip tightens on your hips not too hard but good enough to keep you from slipping away. “What’s wrong with you, you’re not being yourself” he asks again firmly

“Why do you even care.” You say desperately trying to stop yourself from crying in front of him.

“I’m asking you. What. Is. Wrong.” He repeats looking directly into your soul.

“I- I don’t know okay? I feel gross. I feel unhappy about everything, about myself.” Your words were choppy, barely able to speak as you managed to choke up a sort response.

Matt stands there holding you firmly looking at you like he was examining your emotions that were clearly visible, “what do you mean..” he says softly

“You don’t understand.”

“I want to, y/n. Talk to me.”

“It’s not so easy for me to just open up. I don’t even know how to explain what I’ve gone through.” You explained with tears that you refused to let run down your cheeks, but Matt was no idiot. He knew you were trying to act tough like nothing was bothering you but he could see it through your downturned eyes that used to stare up at him with lust now filled with tears and a calling to be cared for.

“Shhh” he coos, “you can let it out, I’m here.”

His hand gently wipes across your cheek and suddenly you’re balling your eyes out in his arms, you were definitely mentally kicking yourself for showing such a weak side to someone you’re not even supposed to be emotionally connected to but the feeling of Matt’s arms wrapped around you like he actually cared had you refusing to even push him away.

The smell of his cologne, an earthy soft wood fragrance filled your nostrils. The familiar scent you grew to secretly love brought a sense of comfort.

“Listen, kid” he begins softly whispering just above your ear, “I know we’re not on the same page most of the time, but I promise you you’re going to get through this. You’re enough, you matter, not just to me but to everyone who admires you. I’ll always be here for you even when you can’t force yourself to seek for help.” His words sink into your mind, the slight flutter in your stomach makes you almost sick but you can’t push him away nor did you really want to. He was the only one who showed a bit of affection rather than saying some crappy ‘aww I’m sorry’ and then leaving you alone.

You gently pull away from his embrace, “thanks Matt..” you say softly barely even putting any effort to talk but he’s able to hear you perfectly fine. He wipes the tear rolling down your cheek with his thumb. Leaning in to press his lips against yours gently rather than roughly like he always did.

He pulls away after a few seconds holding your pretty face in his hand, “God even when you’re upset you’re still so beautiful.”

Chat I love love LOVE cologne so fucking much it’s my most repeated song. It’s such a fucking banger I literally cannot. And I get to see beabadoobee this month I’m so excited :33

ALSO! This post isn’t made to offend anyone, if this topic came off as triggering I do apologize!! The fanfic is based off on what the song is about but again I apologize!!

Besos a mis amores!

↳ @chrisspirategirl 💘

Dividers —> @bernardsbendystraws

#°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🍒ྀིྀི works #sturniolo triplets #the sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo fanfiction #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo x you #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets fanfic

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pinkmoonastro · 1 year ago

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What I think of Lilith through the houses

Both polarities blended together, Enjoy!

Sb: pls take it with a grain of salt if it doesn’t apply let it fly.

1st: dogmatic views, do as I say not as I do, attracted to the bad boy/bad girl, relationships with promiscuous people, openly opinionated, body dysmorphia, magnetic aura, captivating presence, traditional views when it benefits them, competitive, strong work ethic, very attractive but it may be hard for them to see it, money is power and they know this, dark humor, gets people to open up easily, self imposed restrictions, victim mentality.

2nd: jealous co workers, insecure without money, focused on long term success, thinking outside the box, quirky, illusions around upbringing, favorite child, should embrace new perspectives //possibilities, attracted to the outcasted, can feel pressured to help others, victims of betrayal, takes shortcuts to get what they want, responsible with money, loves the idea of love but not the commitment, pressure to perform well.

3rd: secret teller, uses sex for power, uses communication for power, odd sex appeal, unique style, entrepreneurial mindset, self motivated, driven, spiritual blessings through others, easily adaptable, loved by women, team player, liar, familiar with the underworld from a young age, ambitious, fast thinker, prefers to be coupled up, questions others authenticity.

4th: self driven, “been there done that” vibe, quirky sense of humor, untrustworthy mother, misuse of sexual energy, confusion around self identity, jumping from relationship to relationship, doesn’t know when to let a relationship go, generous in relationships, charming with their words, idealistic about love, passionate, cold demeanor, manifest desires easily, persistent with what they want, right place right time, hard worker, likes/requires routine, attracts/likes conflict, dramatic relationships, impulsive, loves adventure, victim of betrayal, liar, self destructive, possessive, comes across as intimidating.

5th: charming, witty, self destructive, overly emotional, lashing out, makes friends with common interest easily, convincing, attracts money easily, make it and get it right back mentality, lacks patience, needs to do things in moderation, anxiety, worry, fear of the unknown, depression, needs to find peace within themselves, overly serious, scattered brain, life of the party, big personality, attracted to big personalities, lives outside the box, always standing out in the crowd.

6th: requires stability, shame around upbringing, lacks self esteem, thinks too much before acting, hasty careless movements, overworks the body, running from thoughts, overwhelms themselves, feels they have something to prove, intellectual, restricts sexual desire, attachments issues, addicted to ideas/belief systems, reliable, helpful, resourceful, natural leader, feels they have big burdens, should let go and be more carefree.

7th: feels misunderstood, values family dynamics, strength, disconnected from others, integrity questioned, do what they want not what their told, distorted view of family and relationships, strong intuition, divine feminine, nurturing spirit, frequent conflicts, lacking accountability, escaping justice, partners that bring out the worst, popularity, unique voice, charming, very opinionated, sexually explorative, calm before the storm.

8th: relationships that alter view on sex, emotionally manipulative, self critical, overworks themselves, always stressed about time, too much on their plate, overwhelm, self sufficient, luxury, abundance, doesn’t rely on others to make things happen, can see their plans through, should flow more with life, slow down and take your time, receives a lot of gifts, also gives a lot too, gift of gab, dark humor, sneaky vibe.

9th: comes off quiet but really a social butterfly, confident, independent, determined, chooses partners that talk disrespectful to them, lacks self discipline, easily unmotivated, changes paths often, loves podcast, sweet words, jack of all trades master at none, trust your intuition, many rebirths, it’s okay to be the student, don’t fear growth, insecure about how their perceived, feeling misvalued in relationships, hard time feeling ready enough”.

10th: home body but equally likes being outside, big family lots of kids, multiple baby daddy’s/baby mamas, impulsive decisions, gets a lot of attention from their outfits, defending your beliefs to the public, advocating social issues, underdog, very intelligent, people come to them for advice, secret relationships, weighs the risk vs reward, doesn’t value others opinions, brushes issues off, truth seeker/ truth teller, would rather work alone, loves love, attracts a lot of haters and secret fans, always partnered up or wants to be, gets lied to a lot, so much potential, generous, loves to be a provider, doing the same thing and expecting different results, strong emotional world.

11th: inflexible, likes to dominate others, would benefit from connecting to Mother Earth, jealousy, overwhelmed by responsibilities, loves to be in a relationship, creative, doesn’t invest time properly, wasteful with their energy, sharing wealth, attract fake friends, friends are very different from them, very confident demeanor, don’t get along with women, very convincing, two sides like a Gemini, a lot of love to give hopeful it’s not being misused.

12th: reserved, quite but a social butterfly, courageous, loves learning new things especially darker subjects, wants their voice heard on a public forum, should take time to be alone to hear your own voice and strength intuition, fear of change, escaping at the nick of time, learning to develop personal beliefs, people pleasing, strong will, persistent, misuse of power, direct, quiet power, reads the room.

#astrology #12th house #astrology101 #astrologyfacts #8th house #wellbeing #astro notes #pluto aspects #Lilith #chiron #astrologychart #pluto astrology #astrologyzone

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onlygarden · 9 months ago

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[it's all on me] - yang jungwon

genre: angst

description: after making a habit of coming home late, jungwon aims to hurt you with his words once you confront him. his words cause insecurity to brew in your mind.

a/n: i haven't written a fic in 83 years :0 thank you for being so patient with me i really don't mean to keep anyone waiting. to the anon who requested an angst fic about insecurities (about a month ago hehe...) i hope this lives up to your expectations and i'm so so so so sorry that it took me ages i'm not always this lazy i promise!!!! anyways, thank you for being so patient and i hope you thoroughly enjoy it : ]

the relentless reminder of your boyfriend’s absence has visited your troubled mind an unsettling amount in recent hours. you check the time on your phone once again, the movement becoming almost instinctual; it was as if your muscles committed the movement to memory due to the amount of times you’ve been left to worry about jungwon’s whereabouts.

it was 12:03.

you sigh, your eyes beginning to feel burnt out from their endless consumption of the glow from the television. the television’s harsh brightness kept your eyes open, but the growing intensity of the concern you held for your boyfriend is what kept your body rigid and alert.

‘see you at nine, baby. i love you.’

three hours later, your mind still forces you to revisit that lie. as the hours passed, it was all you could do to abuse your nerves with the countless, dreadful justifications for jungwon’s failure to arrive home at his promised time. ‘maybe he’s overworking himself, why can’t he at least text me? maybe his phone is dead, maybe he’s gotten in an accident..’

your heart jumps with a cruel mixture of fear, excitement, relief, and anxiety as the sound of the front door unlocking travels to your ears. jungwon steps into the house, and despite his late arrival, his body doesn’t give way to any signs of exhaustion. in fact, as you take in his appearance, you notice that he looks strangely content, almost energized.

“hey, baby. why are you still up? it’s late,” jungwon simply says.

why are you up? no explanation, no hint of sympathy, no apology for making you worry. just a casual look and an equally casual question, as if he isn’t three hours late. as if he hasn’t ignited every wrinkle in your brain with a plague of anxiety and distress.

you take a deep breath, answering jungwon’s tactless question. “jungwon, what happened? you said you’d be home at nine. i was worried about you…”

although your mind is a pool of distress, swirling with words born from your overflow of emotions, you leave it there, waiting for jungwon’s response.

as if he was offended you even asked, and as if he wanted to dismiss your concerns entirely, he allows a sigh to drift from his lips. with no attempts to conceal it, jungwon paints the evidence of his irritation all over his face.

“i met with a friend after practice. what’s the big deal?” he responds sharply, his distaste for this conversation already showing itself proudly.

the displeasure flowing from him causes your brows to furrow. “why are you getting so irritated? you think i don’t have a right to be concerned after you come home three hours late?”

jungwon sighs again, slipping his shoes off. you continue.

“so you were with a friend. you could’ve at least called me, jungwon! even a simple text would’ve been better than just leaving me to worry!”

your attempts to relay your perspective to him seem to only drive him further into a state of irritation. your hopes for even a shred of sympathy from him begin to shatter helplessly. your hopes for a response along the lines of ‘i’m sorry, baby. i hate to make you feel that way’ are brutally snatched away from you, too.

jungwon steps closer to where you sit on the couch, his annoyance starting to burn through his skin. “i never asked you to worry about me, (y/n)! fuck, do you need to know what i’m doing every goddamn second? you whine so fucking much, it’s ridiculous.”

you stand up from the couch now, your frustration with his persistence to be so inconsiderate beginning to drive you. “are you fucking kidding me? don’t give me that. you think i’m ‘whining’ because i wanted to know what you’ve been doing for the past three hours? which friend were you with, anyway?”

jungwon’s face darkens, his body growing tense as you toss the question at him. “you don’t- you don’t know her,” he says, his voice quieter than before.

her? you look at him incredulously, the emotions building so quickly inside of you that you hardly have the time to identify them, and processing them is a separate battle entirely.

“what? you spent three hours with some girl i don’t know, and you didn’t even tell me about it? you had me waiting here, worrying about you, while you were happy as ever with another girl?”

anger flashes over jungwon’s expression at your words, and he steps even closer to you, speaking in a raised tone.

“yea, i was! don’t pretend like you’re the only victim, (y/n). do you ever think about how i feel, having to spend everyday with you?”

your expression crumbles as the last sentence dances from his lips. the force of his words settles upon you, your chest blooming a pain that seems to immobilize you.

“what?” your voice trembles slightly as you utter the word, the volume of your voice lowering drastically.

although he notices your distress, the anger burning within him does not die out. “what?” he remarks with force, “i needed a break. you’re too much, and everytime i look at you, it just reminds me of how i wish i had so much better.”

the tears spring fiercely to your eyes, and you cannot even begin to will yourself to hold them in.

“if you need better, then go find it jungwon,” the tears begin to stream down your face, and you walk past jungwon towards the direction of your bedroom.

jungwon’s eyes widen as the shock from your reaction sets in. his anger tames, long forgotten as desperation and regret wash any trace of it away. god, he hopes he’s not too late.

“wait, baby…”

jungwon hastily approaches your retreating figure, reaching out to wrap his hand around your arm gently. you turn to face him, and jungwon’s heart aches as he takes in your pained expression, coupled with the tears falling rapidly from your eyes.

“you’re… you’re my everything. please, baby… i didn’t mean it like that. i’m sorry, baby, i didn’t mean-”

you interrupt him before he can insist again that he didn’t mean it, as if those words alone are nearly enough to soothe the heartache he caused within you.

“then what did you mean, jungwon? what exactly did you mean to say?” the tears continue to fall, your voice straining with the effort to speak past them.

jungwon sighs, the pain laced within it starkly contrasting his sigh from earlier. his tone is soft, almost pleading as his eyes peer deeper into yours. “baby, i… i just needed something different. i wanted… a change. i started talking to her, and she was just… so cute, and- and interesting...”

you pull your arm away from his gentle grasp, staring up at him, disbelief scattered across your features. “jungwon, how would you feel if i said the same thing? if i spent three hours with some guy, and i told you exactly what you just told me, how would you feel?”

realization crashes onto jungwon. as the words reach his ears, his body fills with regret, and the guilt in his facial expression further proves the magnitude of it.

“god, baby… i’m so sorry. i never wanted to make you feel this way. i promise you, you’re the most important, most beautiful woman in my life. i love you so much… you’re all i need… all i’ll ever need.”

his words, and the unbridled sincerity behind them, start to mend the frayed emotions within you, but a few threads of doubt tangle with your inclination to forgive him.

“jungwon, i love you too. i love you more than anything. i just don’t understand… why would you need something different? am i not-”

am i not enough for you? this time, jungwon cuts you off before the words can escape you.

“baby, please… don’t ever say that. you’re more than enough for me. you’re so beautiful, and perfect… i’m just stupid for ever making you doubt that. so, so stupid.”

he pulls you towards him, enveloping your body in a warm, desperate embrace. the urgent desire to comfort you, to absorb the pain he bestowed onto you, radiated from jungwon’s body plentifully. still, his touch was delicate enough to avoid breaching the fragility of situation.

your tears soak his shirt, forcing the fabric to absorb their boundless downpour. the pressure on jungwon’s heart tightens, the relentless squeeze of sorrow, remorse, and agony becoming nearly unbearable. he loves you so much, he’s absolutely delighted by every aspect of you, how could he have ever been so foolish to smear the conviction behind those words? jungwon continues to hold and shush you gently, his hands gently gliding along your back, attempting to remind you of the ferocity of his devotion to you through more than just words.

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fumifooms · 1 year ago

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I don’t like minimizing the importance and gravity of Laios and Toshiro’s fight into just being a childish squabble, even if to a degree it is framed that way, because to both of them it has a lot of personal significance and emotional weight and runs very deep to their characters… The fight isn’t nothing it’s a LOT, they made up but it’s not something easy to express and to get over for either of them which makes it all the more meaningful! I’m on both sides but there very much are sides, there’s no "they’re both having a ball, Toshiro and Laios hand in hand yay" side to the fight, that comes after

The fight with Toshiro WAS very scary to Laios, almost existentially so, but it’s moreso the "I thought I’d made a friend!!" bit and my god. My god actually

Like it’s not "just" about oh his friend liking him less than he thought, THAT IS SO MUCH. It’s a bond he thought he had being a lie it’s all the time and moments spent together either being a lie from his perspective or marred now looking back. It’s not only being upset at Toshiro for lying but upset at himself that he’s so easy to fool, it’s being upset that there’s something so wrong with you that you can’t even tell if your "close buddy" even actually likes you or not, it’s like. Holding my head. He can’t trust his own vision of events that happened do you see. There’s always this film of distrust that it could be a lie that should be there when he interacts with people there’s always this sense of cloak and dagger to expect backstabs out of nowhere because you CAN’T see it coming you CAN’T you CAN’T there’s something about you which makes it impossible so you CAN’T-

He’s so scared of not being able to read people. He knows it’s a weak spot he has, he’s always known. All of these bits are centered around social expectations and betrayals, the assumption that he doesn’t belong either in society or with other humans.

And Laios’ level of awareness is actually sort of complex to analyze, but it’s there, there’s how out of him and Falin he was the one sensitive to the ~aura of hatred~ he felt from the townspeople, there’s of course his nightmares whispering to him about the mocking looks, and how yeah actually he realizes that his gold stripper coworker was taking advantage of him. There’s of course the Winged Lion speech about his trauma and how he fundamentally mistrusts/dislikes humans to some deep seated degree, this distrust that he still keeps under control always. There’s how pre-canon he often wanted to suggest eating monsters but never worked up the courage to bring it up with the others. There’s how he comes across as stoic when he isn’t being enthusiastic…… We don’t know how aware and wary he is exactly in the moment but we do know he has some anxiety around social stuff, and looking back he does notice and aughh augh, the sense you have to hide yourself to not get hurt, and be on your guard and shit and.

When you don’t know what to look out for and when to look out for it, the general ‘common sense’ of not always trusting people or noticing when someone’s messing with you becomes hypervigilance in social settings

"Man they really know what you hate huh." Being socially unaware literally plagues him, he knows, he knows it so well.

It’s so quick that it’s almost hard to digest how literal and blatant Laios summoning his monster to crush all the people who’ve hurt him is. His literal go-to coping mechanism for comfort in his literal monster-induced emotionally intense nightmare, saving him by taking away the upsetting element (the humans)

"Monsters are his coping fantasy, where they can whisk him away from humanity, all the hurt it’s caused him and its arbitrary rules" with the subtlety of a brick. Monsters are his comfort safe zone "because they kill humans" yes but no it’s because he pits them as the guardians against humans who to him are in the role of the agressors. To him they represent freedom from the shackles of what it means to be part of humanity, a fundamentally social species

#Fumi rambles #Was asked to post this but a lot of this is present in my shuro-Laios fight analysis from Laios’ pov #Bite sized fumi #Laios touden #Meta #happy nightmare chapter day #Character analysis #Spoilers #dungeon meshi manga spoilers #And humanity being a social species is ofc ultimately not shown as a negative.#Dunmeshi is about unity and coming together when seeking to understand that which you do not!!!#But yeah like imagine if you will that you can never really trust your own perspective of events because you literally can’t tell #Wether the person likes you or hates you and you just can’t tell. Even when they ARE being obvious about it #The nightmare scene is so real like I def have vivid memories where I’m like ‘Ah yeah they cringed here #that should have been a dead giveaway’. It wears on self-esteem and self-trust. Like “you don’t belong in society” in a way they’re #sorta like factually not wrong and like. Oh ok man. Sitting down #Just spitballing here obvi. Personal experience. Hey did you guys know that dunmeshi is good. Man. It’s good #Dungeon meshi #Analysis #Feeling The Owl House Gus meltdown episode in tha club tonight #Sobbing about how the flashbacks we see of Laios’ childhood are only happy when it centers around Falin or the dogs

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novlr · 5 months ago

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I have a bad habit of never finishing writing I start - I work hard on a story, make it to 3/4 of the way through, then lose passion for it and start something else. I know the key to overcoming this is discipline, and I’m trying very hard to make myself keep going with my current story that I like very much and spent so much time researching and outlining, but it’s a struggle every day to make my writing goal. Any advice for how to re-ignite writing spark or how to push through to the end?

We can lose our drive to write for a lot of reasons. It often indicates a growing maturity as an artist — you understand the craft better and your own (current) limitations better, and so you begin to feel overwhelmed in a way you didn’t before. It can also be that external anxieties are getting in the way or simply that you’ve lost interest in your current project.

Hope is not lost. Read on for some tips on reclaiming your writing spark.

Shift gears

Sometimes, all you need to reignite your writing spark is to engage your brain in a different way. If you’re struggling with your novel, take a break and try writing a poem or a piece of flash fiction. Or, you could try drawing sketches of your characters, a map of your story’s world, or some possible outfits for your climactic battle scene (it doesn’t have to be good. No one’s going to see it).

The trick is to stay creative but to approach your work from a different angle.

Change location

If you’ve been trying and failing to write at your desk, surrounded by crumpled up dreams drafts and last week’s candy wrappers, you may be suffering from an environment with stagnant energy. Try taking yourself on a writer’s date: go to a location that fits the tone of the project you’re working on (lux hotel lobby, seedy theatre bar, the wilds of a nearby park), and see if that gets your creative wheels turning.

Dress [in]appropriately

In Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg has a chapter called “Blue Lipstick and a Cigarette Hanging Out Your Mouth”. By this she meant, “Use outfits and props to step outside yourself and get a new perspective”. You might find it helpful to have a special “writer’s sweater” that you only wear when you’re writing or to dress like someone confident and cool enough to smash writer’s block in the face.

Do some soul-searching

What’s really going on here? If the above tricks aren’t doing it for you, there may be some bigger issues at play that are inhibiting you from connecting to your writing spark.

Write letters

I’ve written about the restorative powers of letter writing before, and I’ll mention it again: handwritten letters are a great way to get the words flowing. You don’t actually have to send them when you’re done (although you can if you want to); the recipient doesn’t even need to exist. Simply by putting your thoughts down in a low-risk way, you’re unclogging your creative pipes.

Join a writing group

There’s power and accountability in numbers. You can find writing groups online, through community centres and writers centres, or by sticking a flyer up in a bookshop and starting your own. There’s even a Novlr writing community on Discord where we share tips, struggles, and just generally talk craft! By inviting other people into your writing practice, you’ll have some support and encouragement to keep you going.

Find your writing spark with writing prompts

The internet is awash with writing prompts. These can be a helpful way to get something down on paper and stretch out your writing muscles. Whether it’s a premise, an opening line, or a character study, writing prompts can give you a gentle, creative push and even inspire new work.

Experiment with found structure

If writing a traditional story feels like pulling out your own teeth, try a found structure story. This means using fictional “found material” like shopping lists, calendars, to-do lists, ticket stubs, banking records, and so forth to create a narrative.

Here’s an example: Imagine a week in which a bride-to-be prepares for her glorious wedding, is left at the altar, rages in misery, and ultimately emerges healthier and stronger. Now, write her shopping list for each day of that week. How does it change from beginning to end? How much emotional detail can you communicate to the reader through the items that appear on these lists? This can be a fun way to create a story without the anxiety of writing it.

Set a petty life goal

I am a proud champion of the value of pettiness as a motivator. There are plenty of noble reasons to write: to share powerful stories, to help readers in need of healing, to inspire others to write stories themselves, and to draw attention to important social issues or minority identities.

There are also some really inane and selfish reasons to write: to become more famous than your ex, to appear on TV and make your ex regret everything they’ve ever done to you, to have your book made into a movie and receive casting consultation rights and pitch your favourite actor in the lead role and allow them to take you for coffee as a thank you. But the thing is… these are the motivations that are really going to pull you out of the dirt when you need it most. Find the silly driving goal that really gets under your skin and hold onto it for dear life.

Forgive yourself

Many writers experience a lot of shame when they aren’t writing as much as they feel they should. Needless to say, this shame only makes the writing harder. Allow yourself the space to take some time when you need it, process your struggles, and return when you’re ready. The page will be waiting when you get back.

#writeblr #writing tips #writers of tumblr #writing community #writers #writing #creative writing #creative writers #writing inspiration #writerblr #writing advice #writing resources #writers on tumblr #ask novlr #writing blog #helping writers

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jungkoode · 3 months ago

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OFF-LABELS

→ PAIRING : Med Student!Hoseok x F!Reader (Brother’s Best Friend AU)

→ RATING: Mature, 18+, suggestive tones.

→ DATE POSTED: January 30, 2025.

→ NARRATED AUDIO:

→ SUMMARY: You’ve spent four years convincing yourself that your brother’s best friend is just being nice when he remembers your coffee order, quizzes you on neuroanatomy, or lets his touch linger a second too long. Because there’s no way that the golden boy of Seoul National’s medical program might actually be flirting with you. Especially when he keeps saying things that could be perfectly innocent… if only he didn’t say them in that voice.

→ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, medical school au, brother’s best friend trope, age gap (4 years), pining, touch starved, overthinking reader, confident hoseok, gentle dom hoseok, medical terminology as flirting (lmao), study sessions, domestic moments, innocent (but not really), plausible deniability king hoseok, anxiety, internal monologue, guilty crushes, subtle teasing, emotional edging, gentle manipulation, praise kink undertones, intellectual attraction, competency kink, hand fixation, voice kink, medical intern hoseok, first year med student reader, home setting, casual intimacy, unresolved sexual tension (for now), secret attraction, nervous rambling, self-doubt, intrusive thoughts, anatomy lessons with ulterior motives, competent hoseok, flustered reader, close proximity, accidental touches that aren’t accidents, virgin!reader.

→ CONTENT in this chapter: plausible deniability king hoseok, subtext, dropping slight innuendo with that voice, gentle teasing, double meaning, sexual tension

→ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 2.6k

→ A/N: So. Listen. I was out there, freezing my ass off at the bus stop, cursing my life choices because why am I even going to the gym at ungodly hours??? And then—THEN—the bus just had the audacity to drive right past me. Love that. Amazing. Naturally, I did what any rational person would do: opened my notes app and started writing instead of using those 45 minutes to, idk, reconsider my entire existence. And thus, Off-Labels was born. This drabble? It’s about the kind of man who is dangerous in the most insidious way—intelligent, competent, and hiding behind a veneer of plausible deniability like it’s a damn art form. You know he knows what he’s doing to you. You know he’s aware of the effect he has. But can you prove it? No. Because he’s just so nice. So helpful. So unintentionally devastating to your nervous system. It’s honestly sick and twisted and exactly my type. Am I a menace? Absolutely. First installment in what might become a series because apparently I can't stop writing about competent men in medical settings using anatomical terms as foreplay. Will I be taking criticism? Absolutely not. ❤️‍🩹🩺

→ MINI SERIES: NEXT

PLAYLIST

You don’t believe in stories like in books.

Sure, you like to read them—disappear into them, let them pull you under like a riptide until you forget about deadlines and midterms and the existential dread of being a twenty-something who still doesn’t know what they’re doing.

But that’s all they are.

Stories.

Fantasies about tragic, fated loves and brooding billionaires and dangerous men with wings. You like them because they’re not real. Because it’s fun to pretend, for a little while, that you’re the kind of girl who’s got a winged fae warrior at her feet. Or a CEO husband who calls her darling in an office with floor-to-ceiling windows. Or—God forbid—her hot math teacher, who lets her stay after class for extra lessons.

Or your brother’s best friend’s secret hookup.

Not that you’re thinking about that one.

Not that it would even be your case.

You shift on the couch, burying yourself deeper into the cocoon of your brother’s old hoodie. It’s massive on you, the sleeves swallowing your hands, the faded fabric smelling like dust and detergent.

Perfect. The ideal uniform for an evening of doing absolutely nothing.

Your e-reader is dead, so you’ve resorted to flipping through some random paperback you found wedged under the coffee table, something with an aggressively shirtless man on the cover. You’re only half-paying attention, your eyes skimming over the words without really absorbing them.

Caleb should be home soon. Probably. He has class—or he says he has class, but you’re not entirely convinced. He’s in that phase of university where it’s mostly networking and group projects and going out more than actually studying.

Not that you care. He does his thing, you do yours.

A sharp knock at the door pulls you out of your haze.

You ignore it. Caleb has keys. If he forgot them, that’s his problem.

The knock comes again. Then the doorbell rings.

You groan, untangling yourself from the blanket and shuffling toward the door with all the grace of a sleep-deprived goblin. Your hair is a mess, your socks don’t match, and you’re fairly certain you have crumbs on your face from earlier. Good. Whoever’s on the other side can suffer.

Except—

It’s not Caleb.

It’s Hoseok.

Oh.

You freeze, hand still gripping the doorknob, brain buffering at the sight of him standing there, all easy confidence and warm eyes and—why does he always look so put together? It’s unfair. He’s in jeans and a hoodie, nothing special, but it fits him just right, and his hair is slightly tousled, like he just ran a hand through it, and—

Stop.

You force yourself to blink, to breathe, to act like a normal human person.

“Uh,” you say, which is a stellar start.

Hoseok smiles. “Hey.”

He has the kind of voice that makes people listen, rich and smooth, the kind that carries even when he’s speaking softly. Which he is now, like he knows you spook easily.

“Caleb’s not here,” you blurt out.

He tilts his head, amused. “Yeah, I figured.”

Right. Obviously. Because if Caleb were here, he’d be the one answering the door.

You scramble for something else to say, but your brain is blank, completely derailed by the fact that he’s here. In your doorway. Looking at you. And you must look insane—your hair sticking up in weird directions, drowning in a hoodie that is definitely not yours.

And he’s still smiling. Patient. Like he has all the time in the world.

You clear your throat, gripping the edge of the door. “Um. Did you—need something?”

Hoseok shifts, rocking back on his heels. “I was in the area. Thought I’d stop by, see if Caleb was around.” A pause. “And you, too.”

Your brain does an emergency reboot.

You, too.

You swallow. “Oh. Right. Cool. That’s—cool.”

His smile twitches, like he’s holding back a laugh.

You want to throw yourself into traffic.

“Mind if I come in?” he asks, ever-polite, ever-easygoing.

You should say no. Caleb’s not here, and even though Hoseok is Caleb’s best friend—and a genuinely nice person, thoughtful and reliable and the kind of guy who remembers your favorite coffee order—something about being alone with him makes your stomach twist.

But saying no would be weird.

So you step back. “Yeah, uh, sure.”

He steps inside, and suddenly the room feels smaller. Or maybe you’re just too aware of him—his presence, the faint scent of clean laundry and something warmer, something mellow. He’s always been like this, always drawn your attention whether you wanted him to or not.

You watch as he shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair like he’s been here a hundred times before. And he has, technically, but not like this. Not without Caleb.

Hoseok glances at the book on the coffee table. “Good?”

You stare at it, momentarily forgetting what book it even is. “Uh. Yeah.”

His eyes flick to the cover. His smile turns amused.

Heat floods your face.

"Interesting choice.”

You freeze. A slow, creeping horror slithers up your spine. Because you didn’t even look at the book before picking it up—you just grabbed whatever you had lying around, assuming it was something boring, something safe—

And now Hoseok is holding a novel titled My Professor’s Secret Temptation.

Oh.

Oh, you actually might be sick.

You scramble for something—anything—to say, but the words wedge themselves somewhere between your throat and your rapidly spiraling embarrassment.

Hoseok flips the book over, scanning the back cover with a curious hum. “Didn’t take you for the forbidden romance type.”

You want the ground to open up. You want to disintegrate.

“I—I didn’t even read it!” you blurt out, a little too fast, a little too desperate. “I wasn’t paying attention, I just grabbed something random, and—and it’s not—”

Hoseok glances at you, amused but not in a mean way, just…interested? "Oh, yeah?”

You nod. Aggressively. “Yes.”

His mouth presses into something thoughtful, like he believes you, but there’s still a flicker of amusement in his expression, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with this new information.

“Huh.” He flips through a few pages idly, head tilting. “He’s pretty bold, huh?”

Your stomach drops. “Who?”

“The professor.”

Your soul leaves your body.

You stare at him, mouth opening and closing, incapable of forming a coherent thought.

Hoseok just nods, easy, unbothered. “Some of these lines are intense,” he muses, flipping another page. “Do real professors talk like this?”

You are going to die. Right here. On the floor.

“I—” Your voice cracks. “I don’t know.”

He hums again, like he’s genuinely considering it, then—just as casually as everything else—he looks up and says, “You think he’s hot?”

Your heart stops.

Not in a teasing way. Not in a mean way. Just…like it’s a normal question. Like this is just an easy, natural conversation between two people who absolutely do not need to be having this conversation.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

Hoseok’s lips twitch, but it’s not a smirk, not a knowing smile—just quiet amusement, like this whole situation is genuinely kind of funny, and he doesn’t think it’s a big deal at all.

“Relax,” he says, closing the book with a soft thump. “I won’t tell Caleb.”

It’s so casual. So reassuring.

Like he really, really isn’t trying to mess with you.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Hoseok sets the book down with deliberate care, spine aligned parallel to the edge of the coffee table like he’s arranging museum artifacts. Your traitorous eyes track the flex of tendons in his wrist—medical resident hands, steady and precise, the kind that’ve probably held beating hearts in ORs. You bite the inside of your cheek until copper blooms.

He glances at the sofa.

You glance at the sofa.

Three cushions. Two throw pillows. Seventy-two inches of fabric that suddenly feels like the Grand Canyon between acceptable and catastrophic.

“Mind if I…?” He gestures to the spot beside your abandoned blanket nest, already moving before you nod.

The springs creak faintly as he sinks into the middle cushion, thighs spreading in that effortless way men do—knees wide, elbows propped, phone balanced on his lap. You sit next to him—two cushions away—and watch his thumb scroll through messages, the screen’s blue light catching the silver ring he always wears on his index finger. Surgical steel, he’d told you once when you’d asked. Sterile. Practical.

Practical.

Practical like the way his left knee now brushes the edge of your blanket. Practical like the faint cedar-and-disinfectant scent of his cologne. Practical like the half-inch of skin exposed when his hoodie rides up as he stretches his arms behind his head.

Don’t look.

You look.

Stop looking.

He shifts, a subtle roll of his hips that has no business being this distracting. The movement pulls the denim taut across his thighs, and you try—really, genuinely try—to keep your eyes anywhere else. The ceiling. The floor. The stack of medical textbooks by the TV. Anything but the way his thumb now absently traces the inner seam of his jeans.

“Told Caleb I’d wait,” he says, tilting his head toward you. The motion makes his throat work—Adam’s apple bobbing, chin catching gold in the lamplight. “Movie night. You’re welcome to join, if you want.”

Your tongue feels like it’s been replaced with felt. “I—I have… readings.”

“Readings.” His mouth shapes the word like it’s fascinating.

“For… neuroanatomy.” You gesture vaguely toward your backpack slumped by the TV stand, half-buried under a sweatshirt you’ve been using as a pillow. “Midterm next week.”

He hums, low and considering. “Limbic system?”

“Hippocampus. Amygdala. All the… emotional bits.”

“Ah.” His smile softens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “The parts that make you want to throw textbooks at walls.”

You blink. “You… remember?”

“Your first-year meltdown over the cranial nerves? Yeah.” He chuckles, warm and rasping. “You called them ‘twelve little traitors’ and threatened to switch to art history.”

Heat crawls up your neck. You’d forgotten he’d been there that night—Caleb dragging him along for a pizza run, finding you knee-deep in flashcards and tears. Hoseok had quietly made tea while Caleb joked about selling your cadaver lab notes on eBay.

“Still think about it sometimes,” you mutter, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. “Art history sounds peaceful. No one dies in art history.”

“No,” he agrees. “But you’d miss this.”

“Miss what? The sleep deprivation? The existential dread?”

“The way your nose scrunches when you’re trying to memorize Brodmann areas.”

Your hands freeze.

He’s looking at you now—not the performative eye contact of someone making conversation, but the kind that pins you in place. Clinical. Observant. Like he’s cataloging your reaction.

“I don’t… scrunch,” you say weakly.

“You do.” His knee nudges the blanket again. Accidentally. Probably. “It’s cute.”

The air conditioner kicks on. You count the vents in the ceiling. Eight. Eight is a safe number. Eight is not the number of times you’ve imagined him saying that word in different contexts.

Cute.

Your lungs forget how to oxygenate.

Hoseok’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, then sighs. “Caleb’s running late. Some study group thing.”

“Oh.”

“You hungry?”

“What?”

He’s already standing, rolling his shoulders in a stretch that pulls his hoodie taut across his chest. “I’ll make ramyeon. You like the kimchi kind, right?”

You stare.

He’s in your kitchen now, rummaging through cabinets with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times. Which he has—game nights, birthday parties, that one time Caleb got food poisoning and Hoseok stayed over to make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit.

But this is different.

This is him pulling two bowls from the shelf you can’t reach without a step stool. This is him filling the kettle with exactly 500ml of water because he knows your stove runs hot. This is him glancing over his shoulder to ask, “Soft or firm noodles?” like it’s a question that matters.

“Soft,” you croak.

He nods, turning back to the counter. You watch his hands—capable, unhurried—tearing seasoning packets with his teeth. The steam fogs his glasses when he leans over the pot, and he pushes them up into his hair, revealing the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow.

Bike accident, he’d said when you’d asked. Twelve years old. Thought he could jump the curb like X-Games.

You’d dreamed about that scar for weeks afterward.

“Here.” He sets the bowl in front of you, chopsticks balanced across the rim. “Careful, it’s hot.”

You murmur thanks, staring at the swirling red broth. He sits closer this time—one cushion away instead of two. His knee brushes yours when he leans forward to blow on his noodles.

Accident, you tell yourself. Always accidents.

The TV murmurs in the background, some nature documentary about deep-sea creatures. Hoseok asks about your classes, and you answer in staccato sentences, hyper-aware of the way his sleeve brushes your arm when he reaches for the water glass.

“—and Dr. Park’s lectures are killing me,” you hear yourself say, chopsticks hovering over uneaten noodles. “She goes so fast, and the diagrams…”

“Want me to quiz you?”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He shrugs, but there’s a glint in his eye—the same one he gets when Caleb challenges him to Mario Kart. “I handled multiple neuro cases last year. Could walk you through the basal ganglia.”

“You’re… busy.”

“Not really.” He sets his bowl aside, rolling up his sleeves. Your pulse thrums at the reveal of his forearms—dusting of dark hair, veins mapping paths you shouldn’t be tracing. “C’mon. Hit me with your worst.”

It’s a mistake.

You know it’s a mistake even as you fetch your notes, even as he pats the space beside him. Even as his shoulder presses against yours, radiating heat through three layers of fabric.

“Okay.” He scans your color-coded flashcards. “First question. What structure connects the hippocampus to the mammillary bodies?”

“F-fornix,” you stammer.

“Good.” His finger taps the next card. “Main neurotransmitter in the substantia nigra?”

“Dopamine.”

“And loss of dopamine here causes…”

“Parkinson’s.”

“Nice.” He shifts, knee pressing into yours. “Now point to your amygdala.”

You freeze. “What?”

“On your head. Show me where it is.”

“I—it’s—it’s medial temporal lobe, so…” You hover a hand near your right temple, acutely aware of his gaze tracking the movement. “Here? Ish?”

His chuckle vibrates through the couch. “Ish.”

“Shut up, I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

You glare at him. He grins back, all white teeth and crinkled eyes, and something in your chest cracks open.

“Medial,” he says softly, reaching over to adjust your hand. His fingers graze your wrist—brief, clinical, devastating. “Deeper. Protected.”

You stop breathing.

The documentary narrator drones on about bioluminescent jellyfish. Hoseok’s thumb brushes your pulse point.

Accident.

Always accidents.

Then his phone rings.

You jerk back like you’ve been shocked. Hoseok answers with a calm, “Yeah?” while you stare at your knees, pretending your entire nervous system isn’t short-circuiting.

“Caleb’s downstairs,” he says, standing. “Forgot his keys again.”

“Oh.”

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

He pauses, head tilted. For a horrifying moment, you think he’ll call you out—on the shaking hands, the flushed cheeks, the way you’re clinging to a pillow like it’s a life raft.

But he just smiles. Gentle. Endless. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

You collapse sideways onto the couch, pressing your face into the cushion that still holds the warmth of him. Somewhere in the hallway, the elevator dings. Laughter floats up from the parking lot.

Four years.

Four years of this.

Four years of almosts and maybes and don’t be stupid, he’s just being nice.

Your phone buzzes. A text from Caleb:

𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝙷𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚘𝚔 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐?? 𝙽𝚎𝚛𝚍. 𝚆𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊. 𝚆𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎?

You type no with trembling fingers.

The couch creaks as you curl into yourself, knees to chest, forehead pressed against the spot where his ring had left a faint indentation in the upholstery.

Deeper.

Protected.

Somewhere in your medial temporal lobe, dopamine fires for all the wrong reasons.

→ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

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joys4joy · 2 months ago

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— Shifting tarot reading + Shufflemancy .ᐟ

(about your s/o)

what they like about you

relationship status (from their perspective)

what they dislike about you/what they want you to improve

disclaimer: I’m a beginner in tarot! I decided to start this blog because it helps me practice. I use spanish playing cards for my readings since I haven’t had the chance to buy a tarot deck, but so far I have had good experiences reading the cards.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ PICK AN IMAGE ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

Advices: trust your intuition, if the reading doesn’t resonate with you, you can try with another pile. Although I primarily interpret the reading from your s/o's perspective, if you feel that it’s the other way around (for instance, if you identify with the energy that is supposed to represent your s/o), you can take it that way as well. I hope I made myself clear.

PILE NUMBER ONE

♱ what they like about you (your personality): They feel that no one compares to you when it comes to your personality. Maybe there are people who try to win them over or take your place as their partner, who envy you and envy the relationship you both share (I sense some kind of fame here; perhaps your s/o is very famous—maybe you are too, but I feel it leans more on their side). However, your s/o feels that no one can compete with you.

They see you as a dominant person, someone who knows what they want. Determined and capable of achieving anything you set your mind to. Brave and strong-willed, with many aspirations. Although sometimes they feel that you set your sights on things that are highly unlikely, difficult to achieve, or beyond your reach, they admire how decisive you are. They feel that you have a very strong willpower. Extremely loyal and honest, committed, though a bit passive-aggressive.

♱ relationship status (from their perspective): They cannot escape from you.

Fear of a breakup, or perhaps they feel the need to take some time or distance themselves from you to return to the relationship stronger than ever. It’s as if they feel that you both need a break or space from each other for some reason. It doesn’t speak of a definitive breakup; there’s something that keeps you from breaking up, something that draws you back to each other again, like a very deep and emotional connection. Perhaps there’s some kind of trauma bonding, or a magnetic or dark energy between you, a fear of losing one another.

“No one knows me like you do.”

I feel that the need to “take some time” is because when you spend too much time together, the passion fades. It’s as though they feel that by separating from you for a while, they will be able to desire you intensely again. It’s as if, for some reason, they prefer to feel the anxiety of losing you, like “I need to have you, make you mine,” rather than wanting the stability of knowing that, in fact, “you belong to them.”

♱ what they don’t like/want you to improve: You might be very jealous, and they don’t like it. They feel that you’re too possessive and clingy with them, and I feel that’s why the need to take some time apart keeps coming up in the reading. You’re very attached to your s/o, which makes them feel trapped, as though they don’t have freedom. You’re overly attached, and they want you to understand that they need their space.

They feel that you’re always defensive and wish you would open up more about your feelings.

────୨ৎ────

channeled songs ♪

(this songs came out while I was doing the reading)

⟢ Same Place - JOY: You’re in a "flickering" relationship, and I don’t know how else to describe it—it’s like you both break up and get back together over and over again, stuck in a constant cycle you can’t escape. You can’t be without them, but at the same time, you need distance now and then, as if sometimes you can’t stand each other but still deeply love one another. For some reason, this reminds me of Selena Gomez and Justin Bieber.

⟢ ISSUES - Daniel Di Angelo: There’s a bit of toxicity in your connection—it feels like both of you try to pretend you don’t love each other as much as you actually do. YOU CAN’T LET GO OF EACH OTHER. It’s like, “If I can’t have you, no one else will.” You hurt each other but also heal one another at the same time.

⟢ Saturn - SZA: You need to break the pattern.

⟢ Give Me Time - Zeina: Exactly what the title says—you need to give them time.

────୨ৎ────

colors that popped in my mind:

dark red

black

baby blue

────୨ৎ────

While doing the reading, this image of two people sharing their energy kept coming to my mind, as if a source of energy sprang from both of their hearts and it mix together lol.

PILE NUMBER TWO

♱ what they like about you (your personality): Umm, I don’t know why they think this is a good thing, but they like that you’re cold, distant? That you keep your feelings to yourself? Maybe it’s because they like difficult things or challenges—it reminds me of Beck and Jade from Victorious, that’s the first thing that came to my mind. They don’t like things that come easy, and that’s why they like you.

They see you as very active, never still, and find you fun and social. They love that you’re so confident and selective about the people you let get close to you. Again, it speaks about hiding your feelings—I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY THIS PERSON LOVES SO MUCH THAT YOU HIDE WHAT YOU FEEL.

They see you as very perfectionist and materialistic, but far from bothering them, they love it. I feel like your s/o loves giving you gifts and spending their money on you.

It’s giving femme fatale—they love that you’re sensual and that you’re not afraid to present yourself as someone “egocentric” (I don’t think that’s the right word, but they love that you enjoy the attention).

♱ relationship status (from their perspective): The relationship is at its peak; your s/o might be considering marrying you—marriage came out twice. Both families (yours and theirs) support your relationship. You’re both successful and gain status/social recognition through this relationship. The relationship is SERIOUS, they’re not playing around anymore.

♱ what they don’t like/want you to improve: They don’t like it when you act as though you know everything, believing your intuition is always right—it’s not. They dislike that you don’t allow yourself to be corrected or accept when you’ve made mistakes, though they understand it’s part of your personality. However, they feel it can come across as immature at times.

This person has a somewhat contradictory perspective because, while they love your confidence, they also feel that at times you can be arrogant, full of yourself, or stuck up. They would like you to express your confidence and self-assurance in a way that isn’t abrasive, as they feel it can make you come off as unpleasant at times.

────୨ৎ────

channeled songs ♪

(this songs came out while I was doing the reading)

⟢ Baby - Madison Beer, The Way You Make Me Feel - Michael Jackson: You’re such a teaser, and your s/o loves that about you. They adore your bold and sensual side, the one you show only in their presence. You make them feel desired. Your confidence and the strength of your presence—“you really turn me on.”

This person desires you deeply, they’re completely smitten, IN LOVE, and it’s so obvious to everyone. I love this energy; it’s such a beautiful and healthy kind of love.

GIVE ME YOUR LOVE - Chris Grey: Oh my God. The intensity of their love for you… Goals. THEY CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT YOU. What kind of spell did you cast on them? Lol.

Blazed - Ariana Grande: In case it’s not clear; “I will never let you go.” They will never let you go; they want to marry you 100%

────୨ৎ────

colors that popped in my mind:

dark purple

baby pink

pastel yellow

white

────୨ৎ────

Golden Retriever + Black Cat vibes, fr. It’s like a movie kind of love—your s/o is so sweet and fun, their energy is absolutely delightful 😭. I also feel like your s/o is someone influential, though not necessarily famous—maybe they run a company or hold an important position of power, or perhaps they come from an influential family. Could they be a CEO, an heir, or even royalty? 🫣

PILE NUMBER THREE

♱ what they like about you (your personality): So, I did the reading, and I didn’t like the energy nor the meaning. I did it again, and something very similar came up, so sadly I guess that’s it. It speaks of third parties and betrayals—I don’t know if you were ever unfaithful, thought about being unfaithful, or if there was mistrust between you, but they feel that you’re not entirely trustworthy. They think you’re confused and don’t make the right decisions. Now, it was supposed to show something positive, but is this positive? (NO) I don’t think it’s a behavior they appreciate. I’m not feeling that vibe—instead, I see someone very possessive fighting for your love. It could also reference some kind of love triangle. This energy is very prominent because it’s the first thing that came up.

I also sense an energy of domination from your side—you are dominant, and your s/o sees you as someone influential. I sense a slightly masculine energy coming from you? (This has nothing to do with gender/sex; it’s just an energy).

Hmm, I see sensitivity, transparency, and femininity, but I don’t feel like this energy belongs to you. Maybe (if you feel identified), but I feel more that your s/o feels vulnerable being with you—this energy belongs to them.

On your side, they see you as someone diplomatic, with a strong character, wise, and with a lot of experience. More than anything, they feel you are good at your job, an excellent leader. Just like in the previous reading, I see an important job position, but here, I feel it’s you who holds this level of influence and control over others. You might be a CEO or something similar. It could also mean that you’re the one who “wears the pants” in the relationship.

♱ relationship status (from their perspective): Insecurity and selfishness (on your part). They feel like they’re not getting enough attention from you, and this is where the insecurity stems from. They feel you’re not fully committed to the relationship. I’m not sure if this is a situationship, but it could be—it gives off similar vibes.

AGAIN, INFIDELITY. Seriously, what’s going on here? It suggests having eyes for someone else. At first, I thought you might be unfaithful to this person, but it’s also possible the relationship itself began with infidelity, you cheat on your partner and this someone is/was a sneaky link.

♱ what they don’t like/want you to improve: Goddamn, this is… not it. AGAIN? I’m having a mental breakdown, I don’t like this shit. You have more than one option. They don’t like that you’re INCAPABLE of making a decision…

(This reading can also be interpreted the other way around, I mean, if you identify with the energy that was supposed to be your s/o’s, I feel like I needed to clarify that cause maybe you’re not the bad one here, I was trying to do the reading from your s/o’s perspective but I don’t know, this energy is confusing me)

────୨ৎ────

channeled songs ♪

(this songs came out while I was doing the reading)

⟢ LOYALTY - Daniel Di Angelo: "I need your loyalty for me, I would wait for you."

Okay, this is CRAZY, because when I pulled the first cards and saw something related to infidelity, I tried to ignore it, but while shuffling the cards for the second time, this song started playing—it can’t be a coincidence.

⟢ Favorite crime - Olivia Rodrigo: Okay, so this is crazy, I don’t think I need to explain it. AGAIN? This relationship began with something improper. It’s giving Cassie and Nate vibes.

⟢ Best Mistake - Ariana Grande: BRO STOP, WTF IS THIS READING.

⟢ I’m Yours - Isabel LaRosa: Good! 😄👍🏻

────୨ৎ────

I don’t even have colors or anything else for this one, I felt disconnected omg I’m so sorry I was not feeling it I’m so dramatic.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! This is my first post, hope you guys liked it. 🫶🏻

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just-a-sewer-goblin · 1 year ago

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Part 5 of Butcher!Simon x gn!reader Sorry guys this turned out crappy, I'm really unhappy with this one but I hope the next part will be better again. Finally we get to see readers perspective on things. Also name reveal of readers dog, finally. < Part 4 | COD Masterlist | Part 6 >

So there’s this new butcher. He’s kind of intimidating but he’s nice. At least you’re pretty sure he’s nice. He rarely speaks but the meat at that shop is the best so you power through the anxiety the big man induces (the first time you caught a glimpse of him you had to hide and gather your nerves before going inside).

God, he’s big. Built like a brick shithouse he looms over you even behind the counter. The fact that Wraith has to wait outside the shop makes you wring your fingers nervously on the regular. You’re happy that Simon, that’s what his name tag said, never gives off creep vibes.

Still, stepping into the shop always makes you want to curl in on yourself. Somehow the butcher has a way of taking up the entire room with his presence. The way he stands and moves makes you think he somehow got dominance drilled into his genes. Maybe if you go in often enough some of that will rub off on you, god knows you’d enjoy being a bit intimidating.

When he allows you to bring in Wraith with you, you reconsider. Simon isn’t just nice. He’s kind.

Sure he’s quiet and big and he could snap your neck with one hand (don’t think about that, don’t think about that) but he’s considerate. The consideration he showed for you also proved that he is scarily observant and you’re not sure you like that.

You hate being observed or looked at. You’d prefer to be a ghost, existing in the world but not being perceived. But since you don’t plan on dying anytime soon you got yourself your own personal bodyguard.

Wraith is the sweetest soul on earth and you’re not sure what you did to find him. He saved you in more ways than one and it seems you saved the scarred and tired dog too.

Being allowed to bring him into the shop with you helps a lot. As big and scary as the butcher is, Wraith could do serious damage to him if he so much as raised a hand against you.

So you’re pretty confident nowadays when you go to buy Wraith’s treats. Over time Simon has grown to be a new part of your routine and you don’t mind him anymore. He might be a goddamn intense man but he’s proven himself to be nice (you just pray that your intuition isn’t wrong with him).

You’d even say you’re more or less comfortable around him by now so when you walk in one day and hear one of your favorite songs play you can’t contain yourself. Maybe you’re making a fool of yourself in front of the butcher but the way he chuckles immediately soothes you. He doesn’t seem to judge you at all.

Still you’d be mortified by yourself (you can’t remember the last time you were yourself that much anywhere besides your own four walls) if Simon didn’t smile at you behind his mask and oh... His eyes are kind and sparkle lively with mirth; you’ve never seen him have an expression like that before.

Suddenly you realize how hidden the man keeps himself. Always behind a mask never any unnecessary movements, always controlled. To see his eyes so expressive is kind of a shock. But it’s a good shock, you decide.

It’s the first real conversation you have with him and it’s about music. That immediately makes you warm up to him even more. So much so, that you end up admitting that you don’t want to go to a concert alone.

You’ve barely recovered from making a fool of yourself and having the first real conversation with the butcher, when he pulls the rug out from under your feet:

”I’m planning on going to that concert, wanna join me? I’ll make sure you’re safe, sweetheart.”

#the sewer writes #simon ghost riley x reader #simon x reader #simon riley x reader #butcher!simon x gn!reader #au #cod x reader

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81pastrys · 2 months ago

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College!AU

Part 1 / 7

Summary— She arrives at her dorm and expects to see her new roommate, but when HE shows up; her perspective changed on the perfect roommate she had imagined.

Warnings— they’re both a bit dickish; Lando is dismissive as well

A/N— It is Lando! I just started writing without his name.

Series List

I finally bit the bullet and moved out for college. I was so excited to start classes and get settled into my dorm. My mom had her worries, along with my dad, but nothing could beat the overwhelming joy I had in branching out on my own.

There I was, staring at the boxes and furniture pieces eager to be placed in their spots. I began putting furniture in place then began unpacking boxes. The room was a semi-private suite. Technically one room, but divided by a wall in the middle and an open sliver to the other side for a roommate.

I unpack my toiletries and organize them, hang clothes up, break down the finished boxes, until it all came together to be cozy and mine. A sigh of relief leaves my body as I finally relax on my bed. I go to start shopping for things I may have missed or need for the future. The night creeps in and no sight of a roommate. I ignore it and go to sleep in my new cozy space.

The next day I explore campus, finding the cafeteria, study halls, main buildings, and my classrooms. I settle down in a small coffee shop near the perimeter of the school grounds. I make sure my classes are in line and have what I need for classes.

Once midday hit, I return to my dorm. The entrance had a pile of clothes and few boxes strewn about. “Hello?” I call out expecting a girls voice to answer. Well, the dorms do have mixed placements so it could be a guy. Although I get no answer. I walk in and see more random shit about in the once empty space.

I notice quickly I’m roomed with a man or a really masculine girl. I shrug it off and lay on my bed. They’ll come back and organize, I hope. I hear voices in the hall, laughing and talking loudly. I roll my eyes and try to ignore it until the door clicks open. I sit up and abandon my phone to greet my roommate.

“Hey, you must be my roommate!” I greet before rounding the corner. A man. Of course. He stares at me like I’m insane and snuck in. He swaps the keys to his opposite hand and takes his phone out.

“Uhh I hope not, I thought my buddy was rooming with me.” He dismisses me. I’m taken aback by the audacity. I cross my arms and lean against a wall.

“Well I’ve already organized my things so.” I reply softly, as if he didn’t just dismiss me. “Maybe it was an application mistake.” I offer a simple explanation, in which he rolls his eyes at me. He walks over the pile of clothes and plops on the bed.

“Yeah, whatever I’ll fix it.” He scoffs still on his phone. I walk back to my side of the room and try to relax. It’s just a guy, and I won’t even see him around. My mind now races with anxiety, I didn’t get his name, what if he’s a serial killer, well anyone can be a serial killer.

Time passes with a few laughs here and there from both of us. I hear him mumble something and then what sounds like commentators on his phone talking about some sort of racing. I roll my eyes. “Can you turn that down?” I yell across the wall. He doesn’t turn the volume down, but up. I hear him chuckle.

I get up and walk to the open wall. “What? I can do what I want, it’s my room.” He said. His room is still a fucking mess and it’s starting to bother me. How can you just throw everything and call it a day?

“Okay, well it’s also my room.” I say, my arms crossed. “Can you at least clean up your side?” He looks at me like I just killed his puppy. Then goes on to ignore me. “Ok I don’t even know your name and you’re being a dick.” I say and return to my side of the room.

What an amazing start 🤭

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salem-s · 1 month ago

Text

02 ── PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON

── SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. ── WARNINGS language, fingering, oral sex (fem receiving). 18+ mdni. ── WORD COUNT 7.5k. need to learn how to reel it in. ── NOTES edited from third person perspective to second, so let me know if there are any mistakes. my italian skills may be slightly inaccurate, translations provided. ── SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT PART ── SONGS OF THE CHAPTER julia by sza and yuck by charli xcx

Of fucking course Rafe manages to get a first class seat on the flight.

You want to slap that stupid smirk off his face for the umpteenth time when he boards before you, especially when he sends you a farewell wink and over-exaggerated kiss.

Rafe's parting words echo in your head over and over again like a tortuous mantra: “Can’t wait to date you, baby.”

You tap your foot impatiently as you wait for your boarding class to get called, cursing at yourself for your bruising pride when refusing your family’s money when buying the ticket. You absolutely hate using their money, their trust funds, their anything since you barely talk to them, much less feel entitled to their money.

There’s also the thought of wanting as little contact as possible, so the idea of your parents, more so your mother, having some sort of leverage over you makes you a little nauseous.

Whatever. Basic economy will do. Regardless of the seat, you will get from point A to point B.

Although that nonchalant philosophy nearly goes out the window as you pass his seat as you board towards the back, Rafe's stupid smirk making your blood boil. The bastard is already strapped in with that stupid night mask settled over his forehead.

Priiiiiick, you think as you sit in the middle seat between a priest and a middle aged man.

The flight itself isn’t bad. You don't manage to sleep much due to the overwhelming anxiety of your impulsive decision, and constantly teeter back and forth on the topic of if bringing Rafe along was a mistake.

The pros are that he’ll help give your mother a topic to brag about to your family and friends since she claims everything else in your life is boring and not meaningful enough to boast about.

Plus, you might even get a little action if you're lucky.

The con is that it’s Rafe Cameron: the notoriously known prick prince of your campus. The guy who gets under your nerves with every opportunity that presents itself, the guy who will fuck anything with a vagina and flirt with a brick wall if it meant getting his dick wet, the guy who can put on a charming facade and woo you to where the horizon meets the sea without feeling a shred of likings towards you.

No, you need to realize. No real liking.

He likes your pussy and your mouth when it doesn’t speak. He doesn’t do relationships. He doesn’t have girlfriends. He rarely fucks the same person twice, you being an exception due to your arrangement, and even then it’s a stretch.

It gnaws at your heart, knowing the next week is going to play with you mentally and emotionally in two different directions.

Truthfully, the only reason you continue sleeping with him is that you knows for certain he’s never going to want to take that next step with you.

Rafe’s made it perfectly clear it’s purely casual, and you agreed wholeheartedly (at first). Despite the toll it takes, you know better. You know that it’ll never be more than sex because of his track record, because relationships are a dying breed when it comes to the two of you, because the thought of being someone’s first choice makes you sick to your stomach.

You groan when the plane lands with a jerk, lulling you from a sleep that you just fell into.

It doesn’t take long for you to meet Rafe as he waits by the gate, looking more refreshed than ever. You conclude you probably look like you've been hit by a truck, the only thing keeping you awake and motivated is that you're seeing your nonna soon.

Rafe has way too much energy while you stand in customs, talking your ear off about whatever nonsense movies he watched on the way here, relishing on how relaxed and well-rested he feels after all that time. The words go in one ear and out the other, as you can solely focus on standing on your own two feet right now.

God, you've never wanted to hit someone more in your life than you do right now, especially because he has the audacity to look good with his long hair falling over his bright eyes.

It isn’t until they get in the taxi that you feel somewhat relaxed.

Sure, it’s the smallest sports car you've ever seen in your life, your thigh and shoulder are smushed against Rafe’s in the backseat. It’s comical how he looks cartoonish the way his long legs are folded and how his head nearly hits the roof of the car, but you don't have the energy to laugh or even tease him on his grumpy facial expression.

“Via di dodici Ardoino, per favore,” you mumble to the driver as you close your eyes, feeling the car move a few seconds later.

You miss the incredulous look that Rafe gives you when you speak Italian so effortlessly, his dick twitching immediately – to his utter dismay. But he barely has the chance to comment on it before you're shutting your eyes and down for the count.

While you sleep, Rafe pulls his head out of the gutter to admire the Sicilian scenery as you drive through the countryside. It’s beautiful: the vast mountains, colorful houses, acres of farmland. It seems nice. Quiet. Quaint. The coast is to his right, the country on his left. He toggles looking at both, a small smile making its way to his lips without it meaning to. Rafe meant it when he said that he always wanted to visit Italy.

The driver tries making small talk with him a few times, but Rafe sheepishly nods, not understanding the language in the slightest. He wishes you were awake to translate for him, but decided against waking you up due to how tired you looked after the flight, probably getting no sleep in whatever economy seat you were sitting in.

There’s a slight twinge of guilt in his chest when he thinks of you trying to get comfortable in the small seat, sitting thigh to thigh with strangers, neck straining and tossing and turning in frustration.

Rafe then curses at himself. He should’ve given his seat to you. Why didn’t he switch?

Shit. He’s already doing horrible as a boyfriend.

But his worries slowly start to fizzle out when you unconsciously rest your head on his shoulder, drooling ever so slightly onto his t-shirt and nuzzling into his side.

He can’t help but laugh at the irony of shooting him death glares all day and practically cursing his bloodline with every pointed look you threw at him, but ultimately ending up seeking refuge in him. There’s a small swell of pride in his chest, the notion of you needing him. Even if you don't realize it.

The opportunity is too good to pass up. Rafe takes a selfie with you, setting the incriminating photo as your contact picture, trying to ignore the stupid grin that etches on his face when he looks at it over and over again.

He tries to snap his mind out of it, taking pictures of the scenery, but his focus always reverts back to you, making sure you're still sleeping when he moves too quickly or if there’s a bump in the road that has him hitting his head on the roof of the car.

The car slows at a countryside villa with a low stone perimeter fence, just on the edge of a cliff leading to the ocean. Rafe doesn’t have time to stop and admire as he notices the Euro meter displaying the charge of the ride, and he straightens his posture at his first task as a boyfriend: paying for all things under the sun for you.

He carefully digs his wallet out of his pocket, stacked with Euros that he got in exchange at the airport before you could catch him and interrogate. He pays the driver the set amount, making sure he pockets it before shrugging his shoulder to coax you from your beauty sleep, his palm gently resting on your cheek.

You snap awake, blinking the bleariness out of your eyes as you take in your surroundings: the driver already out of the car and unloading bags from the drunk, your nonna’s cottage in sight.

And Rafe Cameron staring down at you.

“Hi, baby,” he says gently. “Sleep well?”

You hum and nod wordlessly. You stretch and frown at the wet spot on his sleeve.

Rafe follows your gaze and raises a brow. “You drool when you sleep.”

“I do not,” you grumble, fishing around for your purse, ignoring his stupid grin and stupid laugh and stupid hair that falls right over his eyes. “That was there before we got in the car.”

“Hmm,” he hums unconvincingly. “Must’ve missed that.”

Sleepily, you grab your bag, sticking your hand in to grab your wallet but when you pull it out, Rafe opens the door with one hand and covers yours with the other one and squeezes once, twice, and the motion makes you dizzy all over again.

“I already got it. Let’s go.”

Your mind spins. “Wh–?”

Rafe tugs on your arm to coax you out of the car, and he sighs in relief being able to stretch his legs. “I paid already.”

“What? Why?”

He shrugs as he watches you get out of the car slowly, like a baby deer trying to find its footing. “Boyfriend tax.”

You roll your eyes and shove him with little to no strength at all to where he doesn’t even budge, ignoring the way your heart lurches at the thought of him casually putting himself in the role he appointed himself to. The driver sets the remainder of the bags on the side of the taxi, and you offer a soft grazie to him before he drives away, kicking up some dirt from the path that has you waving your hand in front of your face.

Rafe takes a long look at the house, nodding in approval. “This is real nice. Cozy.”

A snort escapes your lips. “What were you expecting? A barnyard?”

You're no stranger to the fact that Rafe comes from money. Heaps of it, even. He’s the type of rich that isn’t voiced, but rather shown through his demeanor, like how he wears a ratty old graphic t-shirt and jeans to class along with his hundred thousand dollar watch, or how he casually replaced your computer after you told him once that the sound stopped working, or how he always seems to smell nice even after he comes home from parties.

Maybe Rafe’s never stayed in a place like this, somewhere cozy, as he describes it, instead of a giant mansion with a yacht waiting in the water. Something tells you that his life before college was far from quaint or homey based on the content expression on his face as he takes in the scenery around him.

“An old building, I guess.” Rafe looks down at you. “Like in The Godfather when Michael flees to Sicily.”

And there it is. You roll your eyes. Of course he’d find a way to bring that movie up.

“You’re never beating the performative film-bro allegations, Cameron.”

You grab your bags and start hauling them towards the house, ignoring his spluttering attempts to defend himself. He follows suit, wishing he could take the bags from you and carry his own at the same time.

As you trek on the cobblestone path, Rafe takes in his surroundings: the quaint cottage with a fenced in garden, two metal garden chairs planted next to a matching circle table, a tabby-cat lazily perched on the stone fence, a shallow rectangular pool that can’t be longer than fifteen feet filled with natural leaves and stones.

He sighs. He could die here peacefully in a place like this, somewhere remote yet warm and inviting.

A dog barking breaks him from his thoughts as a shetland-sheepdog barrels out of the house and runs up to you and greets you like an old friend. You crouch down and swallow up the attention, scratching the shaggy brown fur.

“Ticino!” you coo. “Che bellino!”

The dog, Ticino, eventually makes his way to Rafe, sniffing him cautiously and inspecting the stranger. Once he decides that Rafe isn’t a threat, he allows Rafe to pet him all over. His hands run over the smooth coat, scratching his back, head, ears, and eventually belly when Ticino collapses on his side, throwing a leg in the air as Rafe rubs his tummy with utter enthusiasm.

He nearly sighs in relief at the set-up, as he’s always wanted a dog or generally any animal ever since he was a kid. His father never allowed amenities such as pets, claiming they tainted their family home’s appearance, and would ultimately end up with him paying the staff more to clean up after it (despite Rafe’s constant promises that he’d take care of it).

Rafe figures he can settle, only if it means having one for a few days.

“Ah, lui ha incontrato il tuo ragazzo, sí?” (He met your boyfriend, yeah?)

The unfamilar voice causes Rafe to pick his head up, meeting the gaze of your nonna standing in the dark blue doorway, a crayon-sun yellow apron loosely tied around her waist as a pair of reading glasses flatten the unruly grey curls on top of her head. Her arms are folded, studying the scene in front of her.

The only factor that reassures Rafe’s nerves is the tiny smile seeping onto her lips, more so as she looks at you approaching her.

“Penso che Ticino avrà un nuovo amico,” you sheepishly respond, giving your nonna a warm hug, an embrace that feels genuine. (I think Ticino will have a new friend)

Something in Rafe’s chest tightens, a phantom ache in his heart.

He doesn’t remember the last time he hugged someone in his family like that – or anyone, for that matter – as the Camerons aren’t big on public displays of affection (at least towards Rafe, that is). He watches from the outside peering in.

Despite the unfamiliar feeling bubbling in his stomach, Rafe swallows the lump in his throat and manages to stand and offer a friendly smile. Ticino gets back up on his feet and looks up to Rafe, anticipating more pets.

The older woman releases from the much needed hug and you step aside as Rafe approaches the door cautiously.

“Uh, nonna, questo è Rafe.” You turn to Rafe. “Rafe, this is my nonna, Lorenza.”

Rafe offers the same polite handshake extension he offered Paulette back in the tiny dorm room. But your nonna takes one look at his hand, rolling her eyes in you-like bravado and pulls him in for a hug, one with the same ferocity as she had for her faux grandchild.

He chuckles nervously at the tight – but seemingly genuine – squeeze, reciprocating the quick hug with a wink towards you, who watches the whole thing with an uneasy smile as if your nonna is going to see through the whole facade.

Then Lorenza releases him, hands gripping his biceps as she inspects him head to toe. “Lui è troppo magro. Ha bisgno mangiare,” she mutters, flickering her gaze to you as you snort unattractively at the words.

“Basta.”

You wave her off as Rafe chuckles nervously again, fully aware you're talking about him in a language he doesn’t understand.

He suddenly feels stupid. Like, really stupid.

Because he should’ve studied some common phrases or words that wouldn’t make him feel like such an idiot. Rafe didn’t factor in the whole wait, your grandmother-like-figure doesn’t speak English situation when thinking about the itinerary of the trip.

After all, the wedding is the main event of the mini vacation. This is just the calm before the storm, the prelude.

Rafe nearly slaps himself at the idiocy of his lack of planning, worried that his inadequate knowledge will score him less points with the grandmother, the person whose opinion matters most to you.

Oh, god. He’s already fucking up.

Lorenza steps inside the house, beckoning you to follow. “Vieni. Ho fatto un'insalata." (Come. I made a salad)

She disappears in the house and Ticino follows her, leaving the two of you in the warm breeze as you grab your bag, a small smile creeping up on your lips as Rafe is sure his is dripping in anxiety.

“Uh, what did she…what did she say about me?”

You stand in the doorway, looking him up and down. He isn't sure if you purposefully wait a few moments to respond to prolong his nerves. Given the shit-eating smirk on your face, he assumes this is your own sweet little way of messing with him.

“She said you’re too skinny. You realize she’s gonna try and fatten you up before we leave, right?”

Phew. He can work with that.

Even though he has no idea what she’s saying without your translation, Rafe decides he really likes Lorenza. Obsessed, even.

Obsessed in the way he wants a miniature version of her to keep in his pocket as constant amusement in this grim world. She’s bright, witty, and effortlessly way cooler than what he expects. Her all-yellow kitchen is her safe space, and he laughs out loud when she tells him – or rather when she tells you who proceeds to tell him – that she loves her kitchen, only partially for the cooking, but mainly for the cleaning and maintenance of it all.

Something about the domesticity of it makes his chest warm, especially with the way you're chuckling along with him.

It’s nice to see you unguarded, and Rafe can’t help but shoot teasing glances every time you show an ounce of niceness towards him.

You weren't wrong about Lorenza making him do all sorts of chores around the house. He’s already lifted heavy pots and moved them to different cabinets, reached a spot on the top shelf that she couldn’t quite get with her paintbrush, rearranged some furniture and plucked two tomatoes from her garden outside (and he doesn’t even complain about the worm he saw slithering in the dirt).

His chest pathetically swarms with pride when he completes another task for Lorenza, happy to be of service, and also privy to the way you watch him and translate his next assignment.

By the time he feels like he can sit down, the sun is already setting.

You help Lorenza with the cooking, jabbing at him in both English and Italian that he should be nowhere near a kitchen setting after he nearly set their friends’ house on fire (neglectfully forgetting to add water to instant noodles), as he sits at the kitchen table and watches you.

There’s a moment where you struggle to open a jar and Rafe instantly shoots up from his seat, placing his hand on the small of your back as if to coax you into giving it to him.

The touch lingered longer than he meant it to, opening the jar with ease and handing it back to you with a focused furrowed brow. You nearly teased him with how quickly he jumped out of his seat, but your words died in your throat when your nonna shoots you a knowing smile, a genuine one.

That shut you right up.

Rafe shamefully watches you, how you chop the fruit, pound down the chicken, speak so eloquently that he tries to listen to every syllable. You maneuver around the kitchen with ease, you and Lorenza talking a mile a minute as Ticino sits right next to his chair, laying his head in Rafe’s lap as Rafe strokes his forehead absentmindedly.

He doesn’t even break his stare when the cat, Po, jumps on his lap too, sitting upright as if to claim his stake with the new guest. The aroma of dinner has his stomach rumbling and by the way it’s looking, it’s ready soon.

Rafe helps set the table and tries to make it look pretty the only way he knows how, trying to recall how the chefs at his house make the dinner table look presentable. He does nowhere near the same level of pretty, but Lorenza thanks him gratefully nonetheless. She swats his hand away as he tries to get up and serve himself, but she points at the chair, insisting he sits down, as she fills his plate up with the primo piatti, pasta with homemade pesto sauce.

You sit to his left, filling up the wine glasses with a light white as he fights the urge to push a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

Once Lorenza sits down, she sighs in mock exhaustion and grins. “Buon appetito, ragazzi.” She begins to dive in and so do you, so he takes that as the hint to start eating.

Sitting here at the small wooden table with barked laughter and a warm feeling in his chest, Rafe tries to remember the last time he sat down with his family and had dinner that didn’t result in a screaming match.

He keeps tensing, waiting for something to happen. But it never comes.

Despite there only being three people, it’s the most lively and comfortable he’s ever felt at a meal. It doesn’t even feel like an interrogation when Lorenza spews question after question, to which you translate, and Rafe answers and asks his own questions, and so on.

She asks about his life: what he’s studying, where he’s from, what movies he likes (Lorenza’s a big film lover like him which warranted a giant tangent that he almost feels bad for, making you roll your eyes), and eventually starts asking about your relationship, or at least that what he assumes she asks about given sharp hitch of your breath and your nonna's darting gaze between the two of you.

Rafe doesn’t understand, but the way you shift in your seat and brush off the question with a light chuckle all but confirms his suspicions. Lorenza side-eyes you, dropping the topic.

You know you'll have to tell your nonna about your relationship at one point or another, but you figure you'll brush it off for now in order to get the story straight for later.

After two giant plates of pasta, three pieces of chicken, and a salad, Rafe is spent. He hasn’t been this graciously fed in what feels like forever, yearning to lay down for a little while to catch his breath.

He politely tries to help Lorenza clean, but again she waves him off and he’s selfishly a little grateful for that. She also waves you off, gesturing to your unpacked bags loitering in the doorway and nodding towards the bedrooms at the end of the hall.

Before you walk away, Rafe gently grabs your forearm.

“Um, how do I say thank you?” he sheepishly asks. “You know, for dinner.”

Your lips curl into a pretty smile, a genuine one. It’s quickly replaced with a teasing one and he hates how the tips of his ears turn pink. “What? Didn’t take your Duolingo lessons?”

Rafe bites his lip, looking away from you bashfully. “Shut up. What is it?”

Recognizing the soft gaze in his eyes, your heart skips a beat.

How dare he look so pretty right now?

Then, you tell him. “Grazie per il cibo.”

“Grazie per il cibo,” he repeats slowly, feeling a bit stupid at his over-Americanized pronunciation but turning around to face Lorenza nonetheless. He clears his throat, causing her to pause her dish-washing. “Uh, grazie per il cibo.”

Lorenza beams. “Bravo, Rafe. Adesso, vai, vai,” she waves them out of the kitchen.

You grab his forearm. “C’mon. I’ll show you the room.”

You two exit the kitchen and grab your bags, waiting until Lorenza’s out of earshot even though she won’t understand anyway, ducking low to ghost over the shell of your ear.

“One bed, I hope.”

He’s met with a swift backhand slap against his chest but it only riles him up further, the thought of sharing a bed with you makes him nearly jump in excitement, the cherry on top of the whole trip.

You two enter the room and you flick on the lights, stifling a chuckle as you turn around to gauge Rafe’s reaction, whose cheeky smirk falls into confusion.

Two twin beds.

On opposite sides of the room.

You full on belly laugh at the stupid pout on his face, moving your bags into the room and claiming the bed on the left side as he remains unmoved from his spot in the doorway. His gaze alternates between the two beds, dumbfounded at the ridiculous amount of space between you.

He grumbles something incoherent as he trudges over to the other twin bed that is so small it’ll probably have his ankles poking over the edge when he sleeps.

“This is worse than separate rooms,” Rafe practically whines.

You roll your eyes, lounging on the twin. “You’re such a baby. Not everyone has the luxury of a king mattress with Egyptian cotton.”

Rafe frowns, his grumpy facade simmering into confusion and slight irritation.

Is that what you think he’s bitching and moaning about?

He pushes the thought down.

“Baby, I don’t care if I sleep on the floor or strung upside down like a bat. I hate that there’s this,” he gestures between the two beds, “much space between us. How am I supposed to be able to sleep knowing you’re right there?”

“Uh, I don’t know, maybe start by having an ounce of self control for your fake girlfriend?”

He rolls his eyes. “Now is not the time for jokes. I’m in mourning.”

You sit up, faux concern. “Of what? My vagina?”

Rafe shakes his head with a scoff of disbelief as you bark out a laugh. He hates the way he almost stomps his foot like a toddler.

“Whatever,” he mumbles, running a hand through his hair. “I’m gonna shower. Do I have to do that separately, too?”

“Yes, you do.” You stand, crossing the room to end up right in front of him. The centimeters between your bodies is palpable, and these rare moments where he's undoubtedly flustered only fuels your playfulness. “Sometimes, boyfriends need to suck it up.”

Oh, he hates the way the tips of his ears turn pink.

That word, the b-word, sends a foreign chill down his spine as he squirms away from you, grabbing the pajamas at the top of his bag and moving towards the door.

It’s okay when he uses the word, but when you use it…

Rafe pauses in the doorway, looking back to see the smug look on your face that has him automatically rolling his eyes, irritation blooming. He grumbles something incoherent and heads off to the bathroom, ignoring the way your laughter echoes in the hallway and can even be heard after he shuts the door.

When he exits the much needed shower, you aren't in the bedroom.

Rafe dries his hair messily with the towel as he throws it on his bed, leaving the bedroom in his thin pajama pants and a plain white t-shirt to search around the cottage. He enters the living room and sees no one, then peeks into the kitchen and sees no one. But he pauses, hearing muffled laughter beyond the kitchen.

Moving quietly, he gently pats Po's head, who sits on the kitchen table as he looks towards the yard. Rafe follows the cat’s gaze, settling on you and Lorenza sitting at the garden table, each nursing a half-smoked cigarette. The moonlight behind you casts a pearly hue on the ocean as your faces are lit up by the dim kitchen light.

You laugh at something Lorenza says, and he swallows the bile of emotion in his throat at the sound.

He almost leaves to go back into the bedroom, to give you some time to catch up, but there’s nothing subtle about his six foot something stature as Lorenza notices him standing in the kitchen and waves him over with an exaggerated hand, cigarette ash spewing on the cobblestone.

You follow your nonna’s gaze and settle on him, fresh out of the shower in a white tee that snugs his biceps a little too well.

Jesus. You physically have to look away as Rafe approaches. But as he gets closer, you frown when Lorenza stands, ashing her cigarette in the tray as the light slowly dies.

“Vado a letto,” Lorenza announces, flicking her gaze between the two of you with a knowing smirk. You open your mouth to protest but your nonna gestures for Rafe to sit down and take her seat. “Ecco. Buona notte, ragazzi.” (I’m going to bed. | Here, goodnight guys.)

You watch your nonna saunter into the house, Ticino following close on her tail as Po joins them as they all head to the master bedroom.

There’s a calm quiet between you as Rafe plucks the cigarette out between your fingers and brings it to his lips for a long drag.

You find the strength to face him, and much to your dismay he’s already looking at you as he blows the smoke out, gaze intently focused on you with a sort of…

Softness?

Suddenly, you squirm, the whole situation feeling weirdly intimate as you hastily grab the cigarette back from him.

“Leech,” you mutter, taking a drag.

Rafe snorts, putting his elbows on the table and leaning closer to you. “So? What’s Lorenza’s verdict?”

“Hmm?”

“Does she approve?” he teases, but there’s a small part of him that’s bleeding anxiety at the thought of not being liked. Rafe tries not to let it show and if you can see right through his facade, he can’t tell. “Do I need to pick the couch up with one arm to prove it?”

You take a long, painful drag, each second feeling like steel in his chest. “She didn’t say she doesn’t like you.”

“That’s a horrible way to phrase it. This is detrimentally important.”

“Jesus, relax.” Another drag. Rafe steals the cigarette from you, and you let him. “What’s the big deal?”

“Baby, I’m supposed to be your loving, doting boyfriend. I’m losing my mind here.”

You roll your eyes at the pet name. “She likes you, alright?” God, you want to smack the giant grin that spreads across his face. “Stop grinning.”

“I’m not grinning,” Rafe mumbles, still grinning.

You hum low in your throat, forcing yourself to look away from his piercing blue eyes and charming smile that creates a fuzzy feeling in your chest.

Instead, you settle your gaze on the horizon, looking to where the moonlight meets the sea and honing your focus to try and hear the distant waves crashing.

Taking another long drag, you ignore the feeling of his intense stare burning in your peripheral.

“I told nonna that we’re going to the beach tomorrow,” you say after a few minutes of silence. “Supposed to be nice and sunny.”

“Oh? Didn’t think to ask me?”

“I want to lay in the sun. You’re free to stay here and do laundry with nonna, though.”

Rafe snorts. “On second thought, the beach sounds great.”

One of his arms dips under the table to absentmindedly run the pad of this thumb over your kneecap. You nearly jolt from the contact.

Despite it, you hums to appear indifferent, offering him the roach of the cigarette that no one wants. He rolls his eyes but takes it anyway.

“It’s only a twenty minute walk. Figured we could go in the morning, bring some lunch, then come back in the afternoon. What do you think?”

Finally gathering the courage, you turn your head to look at him, a soft expression on his face as if he’s soaking in the moment before you find something to jab about to him. His hand still rests on your knee and you have every urge to nudge it off, because you don't like how you have the urge to brush his damp locks away from his pretty eyes.

No, you reel. Not pretty. Just normal eyes. Nothing more.

“Sounds good, pretty.” His voice is saccharine.

You tear your gaze away from his face to his hands, watching Rafe put out the cigarette in the ash tray with a lingering smile that has undertones of honey.

Suddenly, despite the fresh air, you're suffocating.

Nope.

This is too intimate right now. It’s all too much: his eyes, his voice, his hand still seeking refuge on your knee.

Standing abruptly, his hand leaves your body as he looks up at you in adorned confusion. You really don't like this mushy-gushy voodoo in the air right now, because his gaze is far from teasing, from his normal playful, and instead emulating that of candor.

This whole thing is pretend, fake, faux for show. The person that you're putting the show on for isn’t even here, so there’s no reason to milk the part. All you both do is fuck and argue. Why aren’t you doing either? Why are you pretending to act like you can do anything outside of that?

“I’m gonna shower,” you say almost awkwardly, the sudden movement startling both of you. “Just, uh, lock the door behind you.”

“Wh–?”

You spin on your heel and leave him sitting at the table before he can retort, entering the kitchen and refusing to look back.

You purposefully take an elongated shower, trying to rub off the grime from the plane and airport and the sweat from milling about in the AC-less cottage.

Additionally, you try to shake the foreign feeling in your chest, trying to decide if it’s from the jet lag or from a certain dirty blond playing his part a little too well.

Before you know it, you're contemplating the latter so intensely that you don't know how long you've been standing under the water for.

And of course when you turn the water off you realize you didn’t bring any pajamas into the bathroom, just a measly towel that barely covers your ass.

You just pray that Rafe immediately fell asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, or better yet, he’s still outside scratching his head about you leaving so abruptly.

Poking your head into the hallway, you notice all the lights are all off and you nearly groan.

So, he’s definitely in the bedroom and definitely awake due to the lamp light radiating underneath the door.

It’s fine. Totally fine.

Rafe’s seen you naked more times than you can count. It’s no big deal.

You open the bedroom door quietly, taking in the surroundings cautiously. Rafe lays on his back on the twin bed, ankles propped off the edge. One arm rests under his head as the other holds his phone against his shirtless tummy, lazily scrolling through social media without giving you as much as a courtesy glance.

Normally, you'd laugh at his large frame on the small bed, but that’ll bring attention to yourself.

Maybe later, you note. When I have clothes on.

You slip in the room and nearly sigh in relief when he doesn’t bother looking your way. He’s probably salty at your premature departure, because you know if Rafe hates one thing, it’s not getting what he wants. He’s a primadonna when it comes to holding grudges, and normally it drives you up the wall but now it’s a blessing in disguise. Maybe he won’t even look up at all.

But the worst comes into fruition when you slightly lean over to unzip your suitcase on the bed, fingers brushing your pajamas when you hears a harsh breath hitch.

“Jesus, baby,” Rafe groans.

Fuck.

You spin around as if you were caught stealing, clutching your flimsy pajamas with one hand and desperately trying to keep the towel up with the other.

You take in the sight in front of you: Rafe’s arm is draped over his eyes as he sighs so gutturally deep that he almost sounds irritated, as if it's your fault he decides to look up your towel. His phone is long forgotten, thrown about somewhere on the bed as he pinches his eyes shut.

Rafe takes his arm off his eyes and looks at you sinfully, scanning the water droplets on your chest and bare legs. He lazily lets his arm hang off the bed as he mentally undresses you with no shame at all.

You shift your weight between feet, feeling hot under his gaze.

He likes to do this: watch and prolong the inevitable and get you all hot and bothered and ready for him. It's shameful how well he knows your body, how it reacts to him. He's calculating, precise, and uses his ever-growing knowledge to his advantage. Every. Damn. Time.

It feels like muscle memory when he silently nods towards his bed and your feet instantly pad over the tile towards his side, throwing your pajamas on the floor absentmindedly.

Rafe wastes no time bringing his arm to trickle up your thigh, skirting under the towel and catching a glimpse of your heat. He groans, pulling you onto him by the back of your thigh as you fall onto him, moving to straddle him.

Your hands flatten on his broad chest to stop yourself from collapsing fully onto him, as he wastes no time fisting the towel and ripping it off your body, letting it hit the floor with a damp thud.

Shamelessly, Rafe’s gaze travels to your bare chest, tummy, waist, lower and lower until he sighs gutturally again when you moves your hips against his to tease.

His eyes roll back as his hands grip the curve of your ass, guiding your movements over his thin boxers. Rafe huffs as he moves to sit up, your chests bumping as he pulls you into a bruising kiss as one hand tangles in your hair.

“Fuckin’ tease,” he mumbles against your lips. In retaliation, you push your hips down further and his grip on your hair tightens. “Barely covering anything.”

“You’re the one who can’t control himself,” you retort, biting back a whine when he rubs over your clit.

Oh, but he notices and hums in baritone. “Never can around you, baby. You drive me fucking crazy.”

Rafe can’t take this position anymore because he knows at this pace he might — no, will — get embarrassingly closer to release.

Pathetic, he thinks to himself as he pulls away and slides you off his lap, pinning you down as gracefully as a twin bed will allow and slotting himself between your legs. He ducks down and harshly sucks on that oh-so-sweet spot under your jaw, eliciting a saccharine sigh from you. At the same time, his broad hand skims over your tummy as he presses the heel of his hand against your clit.

You moan, then slaps a hand over your mouth as Rafe chuckles huskily against your burning skin. God, you hate the way that the noise only edges you on further, the vibration against your throat sending a warm feeling to your core. Your other hand finds the nape of his neck, pulling at his hair harshly when you feel a finger enter you effortlessly.

Rafe hums low. “So tight for me, baby. Feel so fucking nice.”

The sudden realization of where you are, what you're doing, and everything in between hits you with a ragged breath.

“Shit,” you whisper breathlessly, mind reeling. “Rafe, we can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“Shouldn’t,” you retort, biting back another moan as he enters another finger, thumb pressed firmly on your clit.

Rafe feels the way you're squirming as he peppers wet kisses down your torso, roughly sucking your breast in the way he knows you like.

The strangled moan you let out goes straight to his dick, painfully straining his boxers. He licks a greedy stripe over your bud, then moves to the other nipple, giving an equal amount of attention as he practically bruises the swell with how hard he’s sucking. A pang of possession fires in his chest, hoping his marks will litter your soft skin with the bikini you'll wear tomorrow.

You whine when his fingers leave your cunt, bringing his hand up to you mouth. You know the drill, taking his fingers in his mouth and sucking sultry. Meeting his gaze, his pupils are blown dark in arousal as he watches you with pouty parted lips.

“Good girl,” he murmurs low before retracting his hand, moving lower and lower over your body before his lips ghost over the softness of your inner thighs.

Rafe’s eyes nearly roll back at your glistening cunt ready for him as he places chaste kisses closer and closer to your heat.

Then, he scoffs, “Separate beds,” to himself before connecting with your sweet pussy, lapping up and plunging his tongue deep into his favorite meal.

Your back arches, biting down on your knuckle to refrain from letting a shameless moan out, fingers tangled in Rafe’s hair and wiggling your hips to chase your high. But his forearm comes up and pins you down, rending you unable to buck up and ride his face. Which is torture, essentially, because his nose keeps hitting your clit and his tongue flattens and licks and sucks.

If there's one thing you've learned about Rafe through your time sleeping with him, is that he has no problem wasting away an afternoon between your thighs.

You've never understood it completely, but you never complained about it.

Why would you?

Despite how selfish he may look on the outside, it detrimentally contradicts how he really is in bed. There'd be times where you'd get a text in the middle of a lecture from him, simply the female head emoji with a question mark, and that'd be enough for you to understood what he wanted from you.

One afternoon, Rafe went down on you for hours. Literal hours. You remember seeing the sun, then seeing it set, and suddenly it was night. The only excuse he offered was that he had a bad day, and needed a distraction. Apparently, whereas other people used drugs or alcohol, he found solace between your thighs.

God, he’s your favorite eater by far.

Especially now, even though it's embarrassingly frustrating to settle at the pace he's picked: unhurried. It's almost possessive the amount of time Rafe's spent going down on you, ruining every other experience you've ever had with another guy (not that you'd ever tell him that).

It always turns your mind to mush. You consider the cause: his mouth, and the effect: dumbification.

Rafe adds two fingers, looking up for a moment to see your head thrown back as you bite back moans, teeth pressing hard on your knuckle, and, fuck, if that doesn’t drive him insane. He pathetically ruts his hips against the bed in rhythm with his movements, feeling pent up from all the traveling and stolen glances and batted eyelashes he's been enduring all day.

His hot mouth is everywhere it needs to be. When he found your clit the first time you'd slept together, Rafe never missed it again. In fact, he could pin point it every time after that first try. A part of you would be flattered at how well he's mapped your body out by now, but most of the time it simply drives you crazy.

Like now.

You writhe particularly harshly and it makes Rafe groan into your cunt, knowing you're close by understanding your body language: shallow breaths, furrowed brows, incessant bucking of your hips that he has to physically flatten against the mattress.

He prides himself on being able to tell.

“Rafe,” you moan breathlessly.

He’s never heard a prettier sound: his name falling from your lips.

“I know baby,” he mumbles against you. (He is too.) “Come for me.”

The vibration of his voice, his fingers, the scandalous situation in general has you reeling over the edge towards your high, biting down so harshly on your hand as you come embarrassingly fast.

And Rafe’s right there lapping it all up, groaning into your cunt as he, too, releases in his boxers. You ride and wriggle against his face as he no longer tries to hold you down, the heel of your foot meeting his spine as you pull him closer subconsciously.

After a moment, your pants start to settle as you catch your breath, letting out a small whine of overstimulation when he continues lapping up every last drop lazily. And he takes his damn time, too, making sure nothing is wasted. Unashamed, one of his favorite places is between your thighs, so excuse him for wanting to prolong the moment.

Anything to get a rise out of you.

His warm breath fans on your core as Rafe places one last kiss against your cunt, adjusting out of his uncomfortable position on the twin bed and climbing up your body, nearly collapsing on top of you with little space you have.

Your hand stays locked in his hair, smoothing down the parts you gripped harshly earlier, partly out of guilt but also out of endearment. His face nuzzles in the crook of your neck as he sighs in contentment, getting comfortable for the night as his brain slowly starts shutting off, feeling content and pleased and everything synonymous to that.

Despite your exhaustion, a small bubble of excitement rumbles in your tummy, eager to reciprocate. You move to get him off but he throws an arm and leg over your body, caging you in.

“No.”

You frown. “What about you?”

Rafe just hums tiredly against your jaw, shutting his eyes and holding you down to further render you immobile.

You try to wiggle out of his trap. “Rafe.”

“‘m fine,” he murmurs.

The realization hits you. A teasing grin rises to your lips.

“You–”

“Go to sleep.”

You bite your lip. “Awe, baby. I’m flattered.”

“Sweet girl,” he drones out in warning.

“Want me to clean you up?”

“Shut up.”

You bring your fingers to his abs, tickling him. He doesn’t budge, and instead huffs in irritation. Regardless, you open your mouth to dig further, but he senses it and nudges you with his nose.

“Go to sleep,” he repeats.

With a quiet laugh, you relax against the pillow. You sigh with a subtle chuckle embedded into it, but the moment of solace comes and goes when you realize how incredibly naked you are.

Yikes. You picture your nonna walking into this scene right now with a gasp, and probably followed by an hour long interrogation and a lecture on the importance of safe sex, which is a conversation you're not ever ready to have with someone you consider family.

The thought of it makes you shudder uncomfortably.

Attempting to move from underneath his hold again, Rafe refuses to let you get up and murmurs something incoherent. The sound is so fucking precious that you nearly stay, but the disaster of your mother walking in on you two settles fresh in your mind.

“I need to put my pajamas on,” you whisper to him, almost cooing.

Rafe huffs and shakes his head like a toddler.

“Dude, my nonna could walk in.”

“Let her.”

“No.”

“Stop talking. I’m trying to sleep.”

You try again to no avail. “They’re right there on the floor. You can reach them with your long ass arms.”

He hums. “I’m asleep.”

“Stop being a baby.”

“Sleeping.”

You groan. It’s like talking to a brick wall, sometimes.

You eventually succeed in slithering out from underneath him, the boy falling asleep almost immediately when you started scratching his back gently.

As much as he loves to flaunt his tough boy act, he sure folds quickly when it comes to cuddling, or scratching, or massaging, and you usually like to use it to your advantage to get what you want. He melts in your touch, and usually with a low mmrrph, he’s down for the count.

You quietly get out of bed, nearly bursting out laughing when you see his one foot hanging off the bed, the other hiked up across the sheets, snoozing contentedly. The urge to push the hair out of his eyes comes into fruition, and you do it light enough to be sure not to wake him.

A soft smile unintentionally comes when you study his figure. He looks younger when he sleeps, a stroke of innocence coating his features in a way you never see. A mild wave of disgust rises in your throat at the mushy-gushy thoughts, but you can’t help but swoon at his small furrowed brow and parted lips and how his chest heaves in and out deeply.

It’s uncommon to see him at peace, because Rafe is usually bitching and moaning about something, or being obnoxiously arrogant, or sulking in his own brooding.

You let out a breath you're unaware you're holding, snapping yourself out of the moment and picking up your pajamas off the floor and slipping them on. God forbid he woke up and saw you staring down at him like a righteous freak.

He'd never let you hear the end of it.

Tiptoeing back to his side, you frown as you notice he's completely taken up the bed, arrogantly spreading all over the twin mattress in Rafe Cameron fashion.

You wonder if he still thinks you're there, even in his sleep. Or maybe the added room is a relief, even to his unconscious self.

You shake the thought away. Girl, stand up.

The final decision is that there's definitely no room for you anymore, that you probably won’t be able to slip back in without waking him up. Or worse, not waking him up and being left to adjust and awkwardly settle back into your original position.

So you settle on your own cold bed with a pout, turning off the lamp and settling into the cold sheets.

Despite the loneliness, sleep finds you almost immediately.

note bit of a filler, just fyi lorenza isn't blood related (more of a family friend). also, a few people have asked me about a taglist and i actually have no idea how to do any of that??? if anyone could enlighten me that would be greatly appreciated!

#rafe cameron #salem-s works #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe outer banks #rafe x reader #rafe x you #rafe x y/n #outerbanks rafe #rafe obx #rafe fanfiction #rafe fic #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron smut #reader insert #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron outer banks

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