#like soft rafe or coho rafe or cowboy rafe

[downbytheouterbanks]

My favorite murderous coke addict... do you ... have a l e a s t???? Favorite????

canon rafe is both my favorite and least favorite murderous coke addict

[sunnypogue]

taking care of drunk coho!rafe

oh how the tables have turned. sequel to THIS.

normalize drunk couples who take care of each other equally!!

for: @moldisgoodforyou​ & @oopmyheartwent-obx​. happy new year.

pairing: coho!rafe x reader

warnings: excessive drinking, references to other substances.

enjoy xx

Normally, your boyfriend had a relatively decent grasp on his tolerance. It didn’t mean he would push his limits from time to time (he was a college student after all), but he was a responsible drinker for the most part.

Football games were his downfall. More specifically, tailgating.

No matter the time of day, if there was a home game, your boyfriend would be three sheets to the wind by 8:30 am, crushing his fourth “mouthmade” mimosa of the morning as you begrudgingly dressed for work.

By the time you were out the door at nine, Rafe would be opening his third Andre bottle of the morning, smacking an obnoxiously loud kiss on your cheek as he sent you on your way to the stadium, hooting and hollering with his equally drunk friends as you made a swift exit.

After that, it was a complete fucking mystery as to what your idiot boyfriend and his teammates got up to in the eight hours y’all were separated. Rafe wasn’t big on drunk social media use and was known to misplace his phone during his benders – not that you particularly cared, considering your job had you hauling ass through a stadium in 105-degree heat.

All while wearing khaki’s, of course.

It wasn’t until you returned to the sanctity of your car that you began to worry about your boyfriend’s location, digging your phone out of your team-issued backpack to attempt to get in touch with him – if he had his phone, that is.

Surprisingly, he picked up on the second ring.

“Hullo?”

“Rafe?” You sat up a little straighter, genuinely surprised he still had the cognitive function to answer his cellphone (a feat that had bested him on more than one occasion prior). “Where are you?”

A beat passed.

“Hullo?”

You sighed, dropping your phone to your lap, casting an exasperated look towards the roof of your 4-Runner. Cranking your keys, your car rumbled to life, transferring the call from your phone to your Bluetooth.

You tried again.

“Hi Rafe. Where are you?”

“I am exactly where I need to be.” He slurred, his voice becoming fainter as you imagined his head drifting away from his phone.

“Rafe!” You yelled, trying to get his attention as you turned out of the parking lot. “Rafe, that is not at all helpful if you want me to come pick you up.”

A loud gasp erupted through your car as your boyfriend figured out where his receiver. “You’re coming here? Now?”

“If you want me to come get you so you don’t have to Uber back later, yes. I’ll come get you.” You paused to take a long pull of your water bottle. “But I can’t do that if you don’t tell me where you are.”

Before Rafe could respond, you heard the warbling of drunk college students singing an off-key rendition of John Denver’s “Country Roads” in the background.

Turns out you didn’t need to play 20 Questions with Drunk Rafe – you knew exactly where he was.

“Be there in 15, do not leave.” You barked through the phone. “Understand?”

“Yes’m.” He slurred. “Bye bye.”

Illegally cruising in the carpool lane got you to Rips in 12 minutes, the bar surrounded by various Uber XL’s parked illegally in the middle of the street. You whipped your car into parking lot of the sex shop down the street, knowing no one would be ticketing you there at 5 pm on a Saturday.

Ignoring the double glances you got as your marched down the street in your men’s cut polo and khaki ensemble, you pulled your phone out to call Rafe, hoping to avoid the line to get in.

You spotted him during the third ring, his broad ass easy to spot in a sea of drunk sorority girls and their 5’9” frat boyfriends.

He was standing precariously on the curb, one hand on Clark’s shoulder as he wobbled forward.

“Rafe!” You barked, shoving your way through what looked like 75% of Lambda’s pledge class. “Rafe!”

He turned slowly, inadvertently pulling Clark with him as he tried to locate the voice calling his name.

His face lit up when he registered your presence. “Baby! You came!”

You rolled your eyes, suppressing a smile at your boyfriend’s uninhibited joy to see you, despite your appearance. “I told you I would.”

You glanced at his teammates, all messily drunk in their own distinct way. “Boys. How you doing?”

Matty burped in response.

“Sounds about right.” You nodded, turning your attention back to your still-wobbling boyfriend, who was now clutching Clark with both hands.

“Is now a good time to ask why half of the team is sitting on the sidewalk?” You probed, directing the question more at Clark, who seemed slightly less drunk than the rest of the boys.

“S’fault.” Clark pointed a crooked finger at Matty, who clumsily flipped him off in return. “He lit up in the bathroom.”

“And now you’re all out here?”

Clark shrugged. “Rafe and Luke tried to fight the bouncer taking Matty outside.”

You moved your hand up to your mouth, breathing evenly through your nose before your posed your next question. “Okay. Good. Great. Now what are you doing?”

“Looking for,” Clark paused, fumbling for his phone. “Dave in a Black Tahoe.” He waved his cracked screen in your face.

“And that’s gonna fit all of you?” You asked.

“If not, we’ll just leave Matty behind. He’s a survivor. He can find his way back.” Clark offered.

You glanced over in time to see Matty gag, presumably puking in his mouth.

“Or he’ll just pass out here and someone will find him. Whatever works.” Clark finished.

You snorted. “Am I good to take this one then?”

Clark patted the top of Rafe’s head, which had somehow found its way onto his shoulder. “Be my guest.”

A swift kick toward Rafe’s calves had him stumbling forward, nearly crushing you as he went to swing his arm around your shoulders.

“M’comin’.” He slurred, face inches from yours.

“Alright big boy.” You groaned, starting your shuffle back to your car. “Walk with me, we’ve gotta get to the car.”

“Big boy.” He parroted. “S’me.”

“Okay, don’t let it go to your head.” You rolled your eyes, tugging him through the increasing crowd.

You only threw an elbow once, when a girl got a little too close to Rafe’s chest, and managed to shove him into your passenger seat with little fuss.

“Dixie Chicks.” He demanded as you started the car. “Or shit. The Chicks. I can’t remember.”

You laughed, pulling onto the busy street. “I gotcha. Old or new?”

Rafe huffed, as if he was offended you’d ask. “Old.”

You punched in Cowboy Take Me Away, and let the soft singing of The Chicks (feat. Rafe’s drunk humming) guide you home.

“S’posed to sing that with Luke tonight.” Rafe sighed as you pulled into his driveway.

“Next time, bud.” You parked the car. “Want me to come inside?”

Rafe frowned. “You don’t wanna?”

“No, I just wanted to check with you. I’ll come in.” You unbuckled yourself, laughing as Rafe stumbled through the motions of exiting your car. “Maybe some water?”

You grabbed the keys from Rafe after watching him try to unlock his door for two minutes, guiding him into the messy kitchen for water and whatever food you could find.

“You’re gonna hate this in the morning.” You glanced at the sink full of crushed Bud Light cans.

Rafe just shoved a handful of chips into his mouth.

“Cute.” You went to move towards his room, ready to steal some of his sweats for yourself, when you were stopped, Rafe’s long arm securing itself around your waist.

“C’mere.” He grinned, pulling you into his chest. “I’m cute?”

You laughed, moving to brush the remnants of his snack off his chin. “Unfortunately. That’s why I keep putting up with your dumbass.”

Rafe just grinned wider, eyes focusing as he grabbed gently at your chin. “You love it.”

You let him guide your chin upwards. “Only ‘cause you do the same for me. Two-way street, baby.”

He leaned down, brushing his lips against your cheek, clearly missing his mark. You burst out laughing, dislodging your chin from his grip as he blushed.

“Here,” You move to mimic his position, grabbing at his chin and letting your thumb rub across the unshaved stubble up to his full bottom lip. “C’mere – I gotcha.”