This Is So Sweet

This is so sweet🥺🥺🥺🥺

star’s top tumblrs ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆

below is a list of tumblr profiles that have been deemed the prestigious award of star’s favorites. whether they’re my favorite people or my favorite writers on this app!! it also includes writers that have a death grip chokehold around my neck every time they post… this list is ever growing and ever changing! if you need recommendations for fics about rafe, anakin, spencer, the triplets, or other various men, this is where you’ll find them! ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

in no order:

@madsmadeit (president of my fan club)

@iluvmeeen (💍)

@princessbrunette

@justadmiringanakin

@coryosbaby

@anilovie

@anakinsbunniegirl

@fuckmyskywalker

@anakincentric

@st4rfckerz

@meiiie

@rafescokewhore

@drudyslut

@wifeofasith

@rafeandonlyrafe

@starkeyisthelastname

@hanasnx

@sturniolowhore

@proactivetypaperson

@maybankswhore

@dwntwn-strnlo

@lvrsparadise

@rafeysbafey

@ddejavvu

@golden1u5t

@soursturniolo

@ssahotchnerr

@delusionaldeadgirl

@recklesssturniolo

@flowerxbunnie

@mangosrar

@oversturn

@mangoposts

@drewstarkeyslut

@sturniozo

@kenzieiskoolaid

@shellxrls

@gamermattsgf

@freshloveforthefit

@rafeology

@rvfecamerons

@cosmicanakin

ceilings

18+, minors PLEASE dni! You're kinda cute and I would say all of this / But I don't wanna ruin the moment / Lovely to sit between comfort and chaos

It’s a single, wet splatter on your cheek at first.

Another as you lean forward to swipe a fresh strawberry, the plastic punnet crimping underneath the weight of your fingers.

The raindrops grow a little heavier, a little harder to ignore, descending into a full-blown deluge by the time you’re scrambling up.

“Oh shit.” Rafe reaches for your wrist and tugs you into him deftly, throwing his jacket over your head to protect you from the downpour. The Patagonia logo blurs and glistens as water rolls over it. “Here, c’mon.”

He swipes the picnic blanket up in a hurry, snacks still sprawled over the checkered thistle as he fastens the clip and places it under his armpit.

Unbeknownst to him, you have your face to the sky, grey pullover on your shoulders and hair darkened by rain. The cloudburst plunges your socks in tepid water.

“Polaris,” he breathes out, his strong arm held over his forehead. “The fuck are you doing? Come on —”

“Rafe Cameron,” you interrupt abruptly, shaking your head. You reach up and clasp the pillow of his bicep, pulling down to give the deluge free reign on his features. “It’s warm.”

Rafe squints heavenward bemusedly, his rough palm finding purchase on your waist like clockwork. He pulls you close as your hold on his arm acquiesces, unsticking your wet singlet from your frame to feel bare skin. The heat of his touch vaporises rainwater.

“And you’re soaked,” he murmurs, reaching up to run his thumb over your bottom lip. He presses down at its centre firmly, absentmindedly, feeling your pretty mouth pucker around him.

“Thought you preferred me that way,” you hum, tilting your chin to the sky again.

Rafe ducks his head and licks a strip of rainwater from the column of your throat, ending the assail by sucking hard on your neck. Right beneath your earlobe, the sensitive spot that makes you gasp and squeeze against him.

“Prefer you that way when it’s my doing,” he answers, his voice gruff and aroused. “Don’t love when it’s something else getting my girl this wet.”

You balk. From the way Rafe’s hand freezes against your waist in tandem, you know that the admission wasn’t meant to slip out the way it has.

“Your girl?” You echo quietly, bashful now.

There’s no denying that this so-called, casual fling is toeing a dangerous line, every moment with him like gasoline to a flame.

The bones of your ribcage are beginning to singe. Not long now before it breaks through and permeates your poor, heart chambers.

“So I’m a little possessive,” he admits after a beat, trying to play it off. His hands skates over your abdomen, the valley of your breasts, tucking under your jaw and pulling you in for a kiss. Rough and sloven, an overcompensating pressure. He adds, “Can you blame me? Never learnt how to share.”

You roll your eyes playfully, reaching up and running your fingers over his buzzcut. “Spoken like a true trust fund brat.”

“You love it,” Rafe returns, grinning roguishly. His baseball shirt is soaked through and beginning to reveal chiseled torso, the length of his forearms glistening with a sheen of rainwater wetness.

There’s something about it, about being caught in the rain, that makes everything feel more vulnerable than it is. Like the precipitation is capable of making your feelings see-through, the same way that it does the cotton fabric of your clothing.

Not that you’d ever admit it. You sigh contentedly as the downpour saturates your skin, lashes sticking together as they flutter to a close.

“Isn’t this a little cliche?” Rafe hedges, rain collecting above his thick eyebrows.

You peek up at him through one eye. “Hm?”

“Getting rained on.” Rafe gesticulates vaguely, raising his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t peg you for a romantic, Polaris.”

You pout, and he reaches out and thumbs over your bottom lip again. “Why not?”

“A romantic would never agree to a summer fling,” Rafe answers, his voice lower, now. Pensive.

A pause. The deluge is unrelenting, a flurry of dark rainclouds spreading out over the horizon. “I disagree,” you say, pulling away reluctantly. “I think that’s exactly what they would agree to.”

“Time limits aren’t romantic,” he tries, more grasping at straws than anything particularly obstinate.

“They are if they allude to the promise of more,” you reply, wrapping his grey jacket around your shoulders tight. All of a sudden, the rain begins feels like sharp sheets of ice. “They are if a small part of you doesn’t acknowledge them at all.”

Before he can answer, before the full weight of your words washes over him, you add, “How do you know that rain is a romantic cliche, anyway?”

Rafe doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved by the cop out he’s been given. He resigns himself to worrying about it later, wrapping his arm around your neck and tugging you into his side again. His forearm splays the dip above your breasts, an undeserved amount of soft skin at his disposal.

“You know I’ve got two younger sisters, right?” He asks, raising his eyebrows. “I’ve been forced to sit through enough God-awful romances to be able to write one myself.”

“Oh yeah?” You tease. “Go on, then. Sell it to me.”

Nearing the edge of the look-out now, Rafe’s black Jeep wrangler is creeping into view. Rainwater torrents onto the roof and rolls down over the side doors, a dry patch of concrete evident underneath the trunk and hood.

Your pace picks up as the deluge grows heavier, Rafe loosening his hold as you break into a run, his figure hot on your heels.

When you finally collapse into the front seat of his car, your chest is heaving from breathing hard, a layer of fog beginning to build on the wind-screen.

“Shit.” Rafe’s head lolls to the passenger’s side to face you fully, his gaze skating over your see-through singlet indulgently. “That’s gotta be uncomfortable.”

You raise your eyebrows at him coyly, reaching forward and giving his shirt sleeve a playful tug. “So uncomfortable.”

A film of breath and condensation obscures the glass, keeping you hidden. Rafe nods his head sagely before peeling off his wet shirt, throwing it into the backseat before angling toward you expectantly.

“Your turn,” he murmurs, reaching forward and encircling your thigh. He gives it a quick squeeze before tugging, knee hitting the centre console as you fall against his figure.

“Hm,” you hum faux-demurely, breaking free of his hold to remove your panties. You scrunch them up before throwing them against his bare torso, his pupils stretching over bright, barely-there blue irises. “On one condition.”

“It’s pathetic the lengths I’d go to get you on top of me right now,” Rafe answers gruffly, running his tongue over his wet, bottom lip.

“Sell it to me,” you repeat, stretching over the centre console to straddle his lap. You bend down and pull on the adjustment lever, shuffling forward in an attempt to push the seat back in tandem. His hungry gaze is trained on your covered breasts, singlet slick. “Your romance movie plot.”

Rafe’s eyes lift to your pretty face, the splatter of rain on your soft cheeks, the film of gloss on your softer lips. For a moment, his lust gives way to something stronger. He takes inventory of your features, and a yearning ache sears through his chest.

It’s terrifying. He murmurs, “Boy sees girl from a distance away.”

“Meet cute?” You prompt, peeling off your top torturously slow, slow enough for Rafe’s sloven hands to take over and discard it.

“Meant to be,” Rafe’s gaze holds firm as he unties the bikini strap at your neck, “but boy has this weird feeling he’s known her in another life.”

He leans forward and attaches his mouth to your breast, rolling his tongue over your hard nipple, worshipping the breathy moan you let out in acknowledgement.

“Boy does everything he can to get girl,” he murmurs, his hand sliding along the wet underside of your thigh. You can feel your slick folds convulsing with need, the heat of his touch rivalling that within your core. “But a part of him knows that it isn’t going to last.”

“Why?” You manage to gasp out, nimble fingers fumbling with the zip of his shorts. You spring his cock free and give the shaft a careless squeeze, his strained groan rumbling through your skin like hot static.

Rafe lifts you by the hips like it’s nothing, bringing you down on his cock in one, delicious motion. “Because — fuck, you feel unreal — he — shit — he knows he can’t give her everything she deserves.”

Your head collapses onto his shoulder as he begins rocking into you, a deep, unrelenting pace that has your vision blurring. Each buck of his hips jolts electricity through your swollen clit, the tip of his cock stroking every nerve-ending within it. Hot pleasure sears through you, his rough hands pinching and grasping and kneading your soft flesh.

“But — mhm — how can he know that?” You moan out, bouncing up and down in rhythm with his thrusts. A fresh sheen of sweat coats his chiseled torso, intermingling with rainwater.

“He’s got too much on his plate,” Rafe grunts out, giving your ass a reverberating slap. “So he makes a deal with himself — shit, yeah, just like that, baby — not to get too attached.”

His grip on your waist is beginning to bruise as his pace begins to quick, growing rough and sloven as he nears the peak of his orgasm. And you’re right there with him, the knots in your core beginning to tighten; you’re so close, so hot and sticky, one last swipe of your pulsating clit all you need to find the apex.

Your orgasm rolls over you in waves, thighs shuddering with pleasure, walls squeezing against his shaft. A few more, desperate thrusts before he’s finishing too, his warm cum shooting into you, sensation enough to coax a breathy whine from your lips.

A beat. In the afterglow, your voice is softer, and you say, “And what about her?”

“What about her?” Rafe echoes quietly, his hold acquiescing a little.

You look over his features carefully, heaving chest beginning to still. “What if she’s getting attached, too?”

“Oh.” Another pause. The intensity of Rafe’s gaze makes your heart stutter. “I’d tell her not to worry. Boy isn’t very good at keeping his word.”

—

—

the sexual tension!!!! the banter!!! rafe beinf a cocky mf (rightfully so)!!!!

gasoline - 2

Warnings (18+): DUB-CON (faint manipulation), SMUT (unprotected sex + car sex)

Tags: dark! rafe, he's an asshole who cant keep his hands to himself, teasing, praise kink a bit

series mlist! l wc: 3.9k

Notes: found a bit of motivation for this one! honesty i’ve tweaked and edited this ch so much to the point where i don’t even want to read it again so ignore any mistakes pls. also (small win) THIS is the longest piece of writing i've posted so cheers to that.

“It's five AM, my time again, I've soakin' up the moon, can't sleep”

I BLOCK AGELESS BLOG’s & MINOR’s who interact (that means even liking/reblogging this post)

The sun beams down, warming your skin as you ride by the large pond. The golf course was less busy than usual, a rarity for the country club in the summer season. It was truly a breath of fresh air, being able to take in the landscape, without having to do much work.

Not that your job was demanding, or anything. It was actually terribly easy, all you did was serve drinks to the members playing golf. It was simple. A con however, was that majority of them were entitled, condescending assholes. But somehow you find ways to persevere because of the pay and tips. 

No you didn't necessarily need the money, but it was nice to have some to call your own rather than it all being lumped together as your fathers. That’s why you were smiling, as you drove away from the man you just helped. He had given you a crisp benjamin, and you weren't even a full hour into your shift. 

It was bittersweet though. The entire interaction, he invaded your space and shamelessly studied your appearance. He even mentioned wanting to take you out to dinner, but you successfully diverted the conversation with a polite laugh and a lie. His behavior was creepy and gross, but it wasn't really out of character for the men that frequented the course. You tried to not let it get to you, but these kinds of situations always made you think back to what Jess and Di told you when you mentioned your first encounter to them.

“Men will be men. Why don't you just use it to your advantage?”

“I agree! Look at your uniform, it’s short for a reason. The club knows what their people want to see. So if you give it to them, I’m sure they’ll give you a nice sized tip!”

They were a bit ignorant to how it felt degrading to you, but their hearts were in the right place trying to make you feel better at the time. You shake off the memory, and tug the top of your dress so that it hides some of your cleavage.

The cart whirs as you near the next hole. It’s secluded from the others and hidden by clusters of palm trees. As you get closer, you hear the faint noises of laughter. You don't think much of it, aside from taking note that it was likely a group of people. When you breach the gap between the palms, a frown paints your face, as you discover who the group was. The trio stood on the small hill, where the tee off was, and their backs were turned to you. Completely unaware of your presence.

From where you were, It sounded like they were joking about something.

“Man, you're her bitch.” Rafe says, lining his club with the ball, and preparing to swing.

“Bro I’m not” Topper defends, while Kelce laughs.

“Yeah man. You are.” Rafe returns, before taking the swing and watching his ball travel in the distance. 

You were intensely focused on him, replaying the way his muscles flexed through his shirt when he took the swing. Your mind even flashes back to that night when he stood shirtless before you... confessing to you how he felt, just before kissing you.

You quickly snap out of your thoughts, trying to avoid the memory of what happened moments after you kissed him back.

It had been an entire week, and you had yet to process what happened. You had written it off in your head as a mistake, and avoided thinking about it, which worked for you up until now. Being confronted with his presence made it impossible to ignore the memories of the lust fueled night. An all too familiar desire even begins to pulse within you, but before it fully ignites you stop yourself, again. Realizing that this was bad.

That night shouldn't have happened, and you shouldn't be getting aroused by the memories, especially at your place of work. You inch down onto the gas, and make a U-turn for the direction that you came from. This way you could avoid seeing him and continue to repress your... emotions.

You're so close to the gap, when a holler from behind makes your stomach sink.

“Hey, hey! Hold on now!”

Your heart races in your chest as you come to a halt. If just looking at him made you feel this conflicted, how the hell could you have a conversation with him? You pause for a moment, and think before coming to the conclusion that pretending as if nothing happened was your best bet. If he even got a slight inclination that you were flustered, you knew he would pester and taunt you for the foreseeable future.

You inhale sharply, before flushing any kind of tell from your expression. The sound of dirt shifting, lets you know he’s near, and a tilt of your head confirms it. 

Your eyes follow his movement until he stops, right next to you. 

"Where were you going so fast sweetheart? No way you were leaving without offering us drinks, if so that’s kind of fucked up.”

“Sorry, I guess I didn't see you guys” You shrug your shoulders.

“It's a good thing I saw you then. Isn't it?”

"Yeah" you utter, glancing in the other direction. Feeling like you were at the brink of an implosion.

“How’ve you been?” you hear him say, causing you to look back at him, noticing he wears a smirk on his face.

“Great.” You lie.

“Good, Good.”

“Mhm. Is there anything I can get you guys?”

He slightly tilts his head, “Yeah uh actually, me and my boys are pretty parched. Wouldn't it have been a shame if we went thirsty because the cart girl’s ignoring us?”

The sly remark, pushes you to squint up at him. A thin layer of sweat, reflecting off his skin, and a hint of rose tints his cheeks.

“That would’ve been unfortunate.” 

You rub your palms down your exposed thighs, noticing how his eyes trail the movement and his lip tucks.

“Right? I mean, it would be kind of your fault though.” he peers down at you,“What do you think your boss would do if he heard you were making members unhappy?” 

It takes everything in you to keep it professional and ignore his attempt at provoking you. Pride wasn't worth your job.  

“Like I said, I didn't see you and I apologize.” you force a smile, and he hums.

“Aren't you cute?” his hand moves from his side, to pat your knee. “Why don’t you get out of the cart and show me what you have to offer?”

You hold back a scoff. The sheer audacity of him, to pester you and touch you.

Flooded with irritation you speak before you think.

“You know what we have, Rafe.” 

“Oh really? What do we have?” You squint knowing he was obviously insinuating something else. 

“Just tell me what you want. I know, you know the drinks” 

“So what If I know? I’m asking you to show me” He steps back “Now be a good cart girl and do as you're asked, or else maybe I’ll have to have a word with your boss.''

You wanted to scream, but instead you bite your lip. He was so incredibly good at getting on your nerves, and you hated him for it.

You scoot out of the seat, and throw him a glare as you sidle past him. On your walk to the back, you feel his presence lurking behind you.

When you reach the trunk, you grasp the side and bend to unlatch the cooler. You ruffle through the sea of ice, naming off your inventory as the logos cross your vision.

A soft strum up the back of your thigh interrupts your scanning and causes you to shiver. You peer behind you, to find Rafe responsible.

“What the-” You step away, glaring up at him and he doesn't even try to hide the smug look on his face. “What are you doing?”

He snickers, “You're so dramatic. You're really gonna keep pretending like we didn't hook up?”

“Yes actually, because it was a mistake” You cross your arms over your chest, and his eyes linger on the area.

He steps closer, into your space, and you feel the tension rise. As much as you try to be repulsed by him, you can't help how his mere presence rouses a warmth between your thighs.

“Why’s it a mistake?” 

“It just is.” 

His hand falls on your hip, “You’re lying, wanna know how I know?” Not really, but he gives you no time to say anything. “You literally begged for it”

You scoff, snatching his hand away from your body. “Like I told you then, It was a one time thing” 

“Why does it have to be hm? I wanna hear those pretty moans again.” Your eyes veer from his as you ignore the pulse in your core. “So you haven't thought about it then?” he tilts into your path of sight, forcing you to look at him.

“No.”

He chuckles “You're a shitty liar you know?”

“I’m not- I-” The words slowly die on your tongue, at the feel of him pressing his body to yours. He's leaned in so close that, it feels like there's no escape. Then, similar to earlier, you feel his fingers on your skin, only this time their trailing up your inner thigh close to your core.

“Rafe…” you gasp, looking up into his eyes, then down at his lips.

“Tell me you don't feel anything, and I’ll stop”

It was so wrong, but it felt so right.

You say nothing, looking up to him with approval, and his fingers continue trailing up your thigh until he reaches your mound. You let out a small whimper, as he traces your slit through the fabric. The barrier offers little release, as he presses against your clit. 

Your eyes travel to his lips again, the heat of the moment draws you in and just as you’re about to press your lips to his, he pulls away from your core.

You sigh defeatedly, and he grins while marveling over your dissatisfaction.

“Now, what was it you were trying to say earlier?”

Flustered, and slightly panicked, you observe your surroundings. Thankfully the only people around weren't paying attention. “Fine, yeah. It’s crossed my mind”

“Oh I know” he looks down at his fingers and they faintly glisten in the light, “What do you say, you give me your number and we can finish this later?” 

You knew you shouldn't entertain him, but you were blinded by the burning desire. Unable to resist his pull.

It’s late. So late, that you should be sleeping, but instead you lay awake restlessly staring out your bedroom window.

The sleepless nights started when you returned home for break, and the only thing that seemed to help the situation was the night sky. Specifically the moons soft light.

In your peripheral, another light glows and catches your attention. You curiously reach out for the device, and once it's in your hand your brow furrows, questioning the unknown number.

It takes you a short moment to realize who it was, but when you do you hum surprised that he messaged you so soon. 

Sweet y/n, you awake?

yeah. 

Send me your address.

for?? do u know what time it is?

You know why, I’ll pick you up alright?

You slowly type out your address, reassuring yourself that it would just be just sex, and nothing more. You hit send, then dangle your legs off the bed.

You stroll to the bathroom, and give your face a rinse. When you walk back to your room, you stand in front of the mirror, looking over your sleepwear. The tank top and sleep shorts didn't match, but did it even really matter if the clothes were coming off anyways? 

When he let you know he was there, you grabbed your keys and phone, then crept down the stairs being careful to not wake up your family.

Once you’re outside you make your way to where his truck sits. His headlights beam at you, forcing you to squint. When you get to the passenger side, you tug the door open.

“Are you trying to blind me?” you accuse, whilst climbing into the passenger seat. You turn to look at him for a response but instead, you find him… eyeing you, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

You notice him stifle a laugh. “I’m just appreciating how dressed up you are.” 

You sigh, knowing he was poking fun at your clothes. Maybe this was a dumb idea. Why should you be fucking someone who tormented you for an entire year? It was pathetic. Without much further contemplation, you grasp the door handle and push the door open. But before you can hop out, his large hand grasps your thigh.

“Would you relax, it was a fucking joke.”

“Stop being a dick to me then.”

“I’ll try." he gives your thigh a squeeze. "That make you happy?”

You grunt in return, as you close the door.

“Me messing with you, didn't seem to be a problem last week, though.” 

Of course it was, but knowing how he is you didn't even want to try and express that to him because somehow he'd find a way to hold it against you.

“I don't like you.” You mumble, leaning back into the seat as he pulls out the driveway.

“You seem to like fucking me though.” He glances over to you.

“Isn't it such a good thing that I don't need to like you as a person, to enjoy fucking you.” 

He doesn't say anything to that, just lets out a small tut, before reaching out to the stereo and drowning out the silence with loud music. 

The music faintly plays in the background, as you take in your surroundings. He had parked slightly off the road, down by the beach. Where there were no houses, no streetlights, nothing. 

“For someone who doesn't like me, you seem pretty nervous.”

You divert your attention from the windshield to him.

“Not nervous, just don’t want to get caught.”

“Now you want to act all innocent?” he tilts his body to you, “It's like four in the morning, nobody's going to catch us.” 

“How do you forsure know that?”

“I don't. That’s the thrill of it.” You throw him a glare, and he continues. “If anything, being a Cameron gets me out of trouble, so we’re fine alright?”

“Mhm” 

His tongue rolls over his bottom lip. “You looked hot at work today, the uniform doesn't really leave much to the imagination though.”

“You’re perverted” 

“Oh please, like you're not the one sitting in my passenger seat right now?” 

You huff, looking away from his gaze “I need a shot” 

“Nah” His hands cups your jaw, turning you to look at him and tugging you close to his lips. “Think you’re perfect like this. Only problem is this mouth of yours. So mean and nasty now, what are we gonna do about it?” 

A faint smile grows on your face, you had provoked him. It was unintentional but so satisfying to see.

“Doesn't feel nice does it?” you whisper, staring down at his soft lips. Aching for him to just kiss you already.

His forefinger and thumb squish your cheeks as he tilts your head up. Within seconds his lips press against yours. It was heated, and bruising. A gentle moan mixes into the kiss, when he gropes along your chest, squeezing at the soft skin. 

His grip on your face slides down to your throat. Then his fingers briefly brush your pelvis and dip past the band of your shorts. You moan, when he swipes his fingers through your wet slit. 

He smiles against your lips. “No panties for me baby?”

The pet name slightly pulls you out of your lust driven haze, you hated it, only because this wasn't that.

“Don't call me-” You heave a breath when his touch sweeps between your folds and rubs against your clit. A whimper escapes your mouth as he swirls the button, causing you to forget your train of thought. “Don't call me that.”

He hardly acknowledges your words with a hum, against your lips. His fingers work magic at your core, pulling strings of moans from you. It felt so good you didn't want him to stop. His pace picks up causing heat to bloom along your skin. You were approaching your orgasm, and nothing mattered to you outside of it. 

He peels away from your lips, and you whimper at the loss. “You’re so pretty like this you know?” Your eyes connect and the way he looks at you with complete desire, sends you over the edge. “S’much better when you aren't being mouthy.” 

Your breath wavers as the release floods your senses. The incessant strumming at your clit made you a writhing mess. Eyes clinched and face contorted with delight, completely blind to the fact that he was enamored by you.

You were unaware to the fact that after that initial night, he couldn't get you off his mind. He craved you. He adored how you completely let go when he touched you. Yeah you hated him, but the fact that you let him have you in this way only drew him to you more. 

He lightly tugs at the band of your shorts.

“Take these off for me, yeah?” 

Without thinking you foolishly do as he asks. Your shorts are discarded on the floor. He leans back into his seat, beckoning you over and you shift onto your knees and climb over the center console. Straddling his lap.

His hands splay along your thighs, and you fumble with his zipper. You slightly tug his briefs down and his member springs free. You gently bring him into your palm, and strum your thumb underneath the tip playing with the stickiness that’s accumulated there. His head falls back with a groan as you continue the slow motions.

“Do you have a condom?”

His head lifts up, and his brows are slightly furrowed. “You’re fucking with me right? We didn't use one last time.” 

His hands move to rest on your hips.

“Yeah, I know… but…” you trail off, unable to think clearly. 

“C'mon y/n,” You feel him lean forward, pressing his chest to yours before distractingly leaving wet kisses along your neck. “Need to feel you like that again. Felt so good.”

His ministrations made your brain fuzz, and walls clench. You could forgo the barrier, considering how you were on the pill and that Rafe wouldn't cum inside you. 

As if reading your mind his arm wraps around your waist and pulls you against him, as he leans back. Your hands rest on his chest, as his member now pokes at your entrance. He holds you tight against him, and his other hand connects with your column, pulling you into another kiss.

Knowing you were lost in the dance of your tongues, he deliberately eases you down onto his member. 

Your eyes slant as a lewd moan escapes your mouth. You sit there for a second, adjusting to him as he continues to work at your lips. By the end of the night they probably were going to be swollen. 

You slowly rock your hips, and his hand slips from your waist down to squeeze your ass. You peel away from his lips, and sit up as the grinding slowly transforms into small bounces. 

“Fuck.” he groans as he peers down to where you two connect, savoring how messy you got for him. With every bounce you’re dripping around him. So wet that a puddle of your slick, formed along his pants. “Just like that, so perfect and pretty like this”

His hand slides down your body, fondling your tits as you chase your high. The sudden cold air against your chest makes you shudder, however the chill only lasts for a split second before his mouth attaches to the sensitive bud. You were so sensitive, in all the right places. 

He detaches from your bud, with a lewd pop. “All it takes is some dick for you to be nice to me now? Isn't that right?” 

“Uh huh” you nod, eyes glazed over.

“Being so sweet to me right now, fuck”

Your head tilts back at the fullness, you were so close. Your eyes squint shut feeling your end approach. You're almost there when his fingers cup your jaw and pull you close.

“Look at me” his breath ghosts over you.

You whine looking into his eyes, as you clench down on him, walls fluttering with ecstasy as you ride out your high. You fall against his chest, for a moment to catch your breath and you’re suddenly taken by surprise when he begins fucking up into you, holding you tight. “Oh Fuck”

“feel so good,” he groans.

You were a murmuring mess, wrapping your arms around his neck at the overwhelming pleasure and overstimulation. You faintly hear his breaths grow louder, among yours. Then all of a sudden you feel so warm... and full, as he slows to a stop. It was a sensation you never felt before. 

At the realization, you quickly untangle yourself from him, and sit straight. “Rafe… Did you just…?” 

You stare dumbfounded, as you try to detach from him. His hand however grips your waist, holding you down.

“Hold on” he grunts, thrusting up into you one last time. Only then does he let you go and you slowly ease up off him.

“Why’d you do that?” you snap as you tug your tank top down.

“Felt too good, you’re fucking dangerous you know?” he grins up at you, and you huff before climbing back over to the passenger seat.

“I actually wouldn't know because nobody’s ever came in me.” you grab your shorts and tug them up your legs

 “Shit really?” he drags his palm down his face, and then zips himself back up. “Look, I'll give you money for plan B, alright?” 

“Don’t want your money, and I’m on the pill so it’s fine.” 

You glance at the dash, as you tilt your body into the door. It was already 5 in the morning.

He pulls onto the road and for a while it's just the soft noise of the music, as he drives.

“Why were you up so late anyways?” He looks over at your turned away body.

“Couldn't sleep” you mumble into the window before letting out a yawn. “You?” 

“It’s complicated.” he responds and you hum, not having anything to say to that.

You look out the passenger window, and think to yourself… What had you just done? More importantly, what had you just started? 

thanks for reading! thoughts and feedback are always welcome and highly appreciated ♡

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Cruel Summer

synopsis In the Outer Banks for summer break, you happen to cross paths with the one boy you know you shouldn’t. And there may not be any rules in breakable heaven, but you know it’s going to be a cruel summer with Rafe Cameron.

warnings cursing, angst, smut i.e. minors please DNI!

wc 8k

Fever dream high, in the quiet of the night

You shouldn’t be walking the streets alone.

It’s the first thought Rafe has when he spots your figure from a distance, smooth legs exposed and pretty face hidden. Above him, the argent moon wanes, a half-crescent of silver light that does little to illuminate your features. A lone star twinkles further north of the horizon.

He begins to slow down and squints hard, pupils sharp and thick eyebrows furrowed. You have your head down as you walk along the path ahead of him, worn sneakers kicking up loose bits of gravel from the asphalt. 

Of the paltry details he is able to discern, perhaps most valuable to him is your thready, white singlet and raw-cut, denim shorts. Glowing inches of bare skin. Rafe’s gaze skates along the poorly-defined edges of your silhouette, taking careful note of your slender limbs, the shadows created by the column of your throat. His pulse does something strange. You really, really shouldn’t be walking the streets alone, especially not looking like that. 

He’s frozen in place, a conspicuous few feet away, when you do finally lift your head and meet his gaze. 

You startle as his figure registers, stumbling backward in surprise. 

“Fuck,” you curse, clutching your chest with adrenaline-weak fingers. Underneath them, your poor heart staggers forth in quick surges. “You scared the shit out of me.”

The street lamp overhead stripes your face with lemon-yellow light. A thick band of kiss-able cheek, a soft corner of parted lip. You must be a touron. There’s no other explanation for why someone as pretty as you has evaded him until now.

“Me?” He asks, mostly joking as he raises his eyebrows. “What about you?”

You lift yours in tandem, the rate of your pulse acquiescing a little. Through the inches of velvet night that fill the space between your figures, there’s enough solid torso for your eyes to find purchase. Shadowing light defines his chiseled jaw, the strong biceps that become stronger, forearm muscles.

He’s hot. You almost forget that he’s also the stranger that’s blocking your path.

“What about me?” You return, faux-indignant.

“I’ve been walking this path since I was a kid,” he answers easily, taking a step closer. There’s something woody—vetiver, maybe, warmer notes of crackling musk—in his cologne that draws you in. “And never before have I seen you walking it, too.”

You shrug. “Maybe you’ve just never bothered to notice.”

“Trust me.” Rafe pauses, his voice low, gravelly around the edges. “When it comes to girls like you, I always bother to notice.”

You feel your pulse leap. The summer air presses into your skin, an all-encompassing heat, but it’s the sincerity in his tone that really has your warm cheeks burning.

“Girls like me?” You ask quietly, more bashful now. 

He steps even closer still, the tips of his sneakers making contact with yours. And maybe it’s the stillness that twilight tends to bring, the way that dead of night suburbia warps time into something meaningless. But Rafe swears, in that moment, that you’re definitely not real. There’s a thin film of sweat that shines over your bare skin, and Rafe swears, bathed in dim moonlight, it looks honest-to-God iridescent.

The way his train of thought is veering toward Jane Austen prose is perplexing. His hand twitches toward yours without meaning to, an absent-minded action.

“Yeah,” he says, his heavy gaze falling over your features slow, agonizingly slow, like he’s trying to commit all of you to memory. “You’re the whole reason I’m out here so late at night in the first place.”

Lie. His father’s stern instruction about taking care of family business was the only thing capable of bringing him back to the Banks in the first place. 

He’d only docked at the anchorage near Tannyhill a short while ago, the sky bleeding burnt ochre, dusk his only accomplice. And though he’d managed to sit down at Ward’s desk and get started, the restless whir in his brain had prevented any meaningful progress. 

All he’d needed was some air. Clearly, your presence had given more than he’d bargained for. 

“What?” You narrow your eyes jokingly. “Because I’m easier to kidnap in the dark?”

Rafe cocks his head to one side, his roguish grin cracking through. “Like… in a sexual way? Or…?”

“Oh my god,” you admonish, breathing out an exasperated laugh. “No way you’re trying to pick me up right now.”

“That’s the whole reason you’re out here, right?” Rafe asks seriously, furrowing his brow in feigned bemusement. “God’s put you in my path because he knows how much I need it.”

You raise your eyebrows appraisingly. “It?”

“You know,” Rafe answers vaguely, waving his hand in the air. His signet ring glints as the street light folds over it. “Beautiful girl with an end-of-summer deadline. Something to live for until the shit I’m running from catches up with me.”

This gets your attention. Your expression falters as the weight of his words wash over you, parenthetical tone with an allusion to something deeper. 

And it makes Rafe’s chest ache, the concerned crease between your brows, pretty lips he wants to kiss pulling down into a frown. He’s even about to call it quits on grounds of your worry alone, when he realizes, questionable motive or not, you’re a touron that’ll be leaving in two months.

There isn’t time enough for you to wind up in his fucked-up orbit. He can still have you, he attests, he’ll just have to keep at  arm's length; resign himself to touching, not marking, letting the bruises he leaves fade away.

Amongst other things. He adds, definitely overcompensating, “Don’t look at me like that, it’s nothing serious, yeah? I just mean the boring family business I’m supposed to inherit from my dad.”

“Oh,” you say, features relaxing it a little. You cock your head to one side and regard him for a moment, the moon’s glow bringing light to the mirth within your gaze. 

When you’d first moved into your grandparent’s quaint beach house a few days ago, never once had you imagined stumbling into a no-strings-attached arrangement. 

Not that there was any harm in one, especially not with a boy with as much small-town charm as this one. He’s just enough brash to make this fling a forgetful one, maintain a safe enough distance to ensure your heart remains unharmed.

You blink. Would-be fling. “So I’m something to live for, huh?”

“Worship, even,” Rafe murmurs quietly, his gaze dropping to your lips.

Your eyes widen in surprise, his rough voice rousing something deep in your stomach. “Little excessive, don’t you think?” You ask weakly, clearing your throat in an effort to regain your composure. 

“Probably.” Rafe shrugs. So close now, you can almost feel the rustle of his polo as he does so. “Working though, isn’t it?”

A pause. You hate how right he is about that. Trying for more fire, you answer, “Maybe it’d work better if I knew who you were.”

“Fair enough,” Rafe says through a roguish smirk, pressing his tongue against his cheek. “Rafe Cameron.”

“Cameron?” You echo slowly, brow furrowing in thought. 

Of the slew of unfamiliar names your grandfather had mentioned on his Outer Banks tour, Cameron was one of the few with enough significance to consolidate for good. The details were a little hazy — something about a powerful patriarch, a Pogue on Kook war gone awry. You’re sure the island slang would rouse more concern if you knew what any of it meant in the first place.

“Like…” you pause, looking up at him in astonishment, “…Ward Cameron who owns all of Tannyhill estate?” 

Rafe makes a face. “Of course you’ve heard of my dad and not me.”

“Rafe Cameron.” You say his name slowly, soft eyes widening as they skate over his features. It makes Rafe’s chest ache. “The family business you’re inheriting is Cameron Development?”

Rafe could get used to this. Not often does he come across strangers—let alone pretty strangers—who correctly identify him as the big deal he is. He raises his eyebrows playfully, returning, “You sure you’re a touron, Polaris?” 

“Pogue, kook, touron,” you list, shaking your head exasperatedly. “Why do the people that live here speak another language?”

Rafe chuckles appreciatively, strong arm swinging forward as he runs his hand over his buzz cut. Goosebumps bloom as the air shifts. “It’s a superiority complex thing.”

“To hold over tourons?” You half-admonish, mostly tease, the sticky heat of night pressing over you in waves. 

Rafe doesn’t miss a beat. “To impress them. You.”

You balk, frowning bemusedly. “Why would you want to impress me, Rafe Cameron?”

“Are you kidding?” A gust of wind lifts your hair from your shoulders, exposing a smooth canvas of bruise-able neck. He could definitely get used to this. “You’ve gotta know that you’re the most beautiful thing on this Island right now.”

“This thing has a name, you know,” you say indignantly, your traitorous cheeks warming. “And it’s not Polaris.”

“You’re sure?” He grins easily, placing his hands on your shoulders, a soft-on-rough pressure that has your skin burning. In one, swift motion, he pivots you on your heel, stretching an arm above you to point out a lone star that's twinkling. “It was right above you when I spotted it, you know that?”

His broad torso folds over you easily, a blanket of vetiver and musk body heat. “The North Star?”

“Yeah,” Rafe says, his head above yours, chin this close to your hair. “Pretty, huh? Sure your name’s prettier.”

A pause. You can feel his chest wall lifting with every breath he takes, a barely-there force that pushes against your chest.

“Guess you’ll never know,” you say with a shrug, pulling away slowly. Charming as he is, you’ll be damned if you make the chase that easy. You step out of his sphere of influence and turn back around, regarding him warily. 

“Anyway,” you add, beginning to walk past him. “I better get back before my grandparents realize I’ve left.”

“Hey — wait,” Rafe says in a hurry, reaching out to clasp your wrist. Hold you in place. He squeezes gently, jolting fire along veins that are already half-singed. “I can’t let you go alone.”

Your gaze drops to his rough fingers encircling your wrist, the way his thumb swipes over the skin of your forearm. You blink. “Of course you can.”

“No I can’t.” Rafe pulls ever so slightly, just enough force to return you to his side. “Not in good conscience, at least.”

“Seriously, Rafe,” you argue, drawing your hand back when his hold acquiesces. An imprint of heat lingers. “I’ll be fine.”

Rafe frowns, looking over your features carefully. “Why’re you out here this late, anyway?”

Your lips pull down in tandem, a little meaner, a little more defensive. “Why’re you?”

“I know this neighborhood inside out,” he answers, raising his eyebrows. 

“So you’ll know that the Clarence Lane cul-de-sac is only two streets away,” you return, folding your arms across your chest.

“Uh-huh.” He beckons you forward expectantly. “Won’t talk very long to walk you there.”

You frown down at his calloused palm, all the rough grooves and ridges that he’d pressed into your shoulders. “Alone.”

“Not on my watch.”

“If you’re trying to be chivalrous —”

“Would it help if I wasn’t?” Rafe interrupts faux-solemnly, splaying his large hard across the center of chest. “If I was only offering to walk you home as an excuse to get your number?”

“No.” You pause, the corners of your mouth twitching despite your feigned disinterest. “Maybe. Yes.”

“Alright then,” he says, nodding soberly. “I’ll be a total fucking douchebag from here on in.”

“From here on in?” You echo, raising your eyebrows playfully. “What? Because you weren’t being one of those when you scared the living daylight out of me ten minutes ago?”

“Shit, I know right?” He agrees apologetically, resting his hand on the small of your back to guide you forward. “I’m such a fucking tool. You’ve gotta make me pay by forcing me to walk you home.”

The warmth of his palm filters through your singlet, a spiderweb of heat that unfurls over your skin. You hadn’t realized, until now, how much comfort you’d find in his presence. It makes your pathetic pulse lurch, heart racing in juxtaposition. 

“A five minute walk hardly counts as a punishment,” you say.

“You know what else you could do?” Rafe’s thick brows furrow as he pretends to think. “You could… wait, I know — you could let me take you out. I hate doing that shit. Fucking hate taking out pretty girls. Especially hate paying for them, bringing them home with me for another drink —”

“Fucking hell,” you interrupt exasperatedly, laughing despite yourself. “You know how creepy this’d be, Rafe Cameron, if you weren’t as hot as you are?”

“And rich,” Rafe supplies unhelpfully. “You forgot to mention my lord of the manor shit.”

His large hand sinks lower, a little less chaste and a lot more firm. You turn a corner in tandem and kick up more loose gravel, your grandparent’s large beach house growing in your line of vision. 

“Cocky, too,” you return with a shake of your head, shying away from his touch. “Not used to people saying no.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” A few houses away from yours, now. The quaint cul-de-sac ends at a shortcut to the beach, suburbia beginning to thin as you near the trail. “Saying no to me?”

“If I am,” you say, raising your eyebrows at him. “It’s mostly just because I want to knock you down a peg.”

Rafe pretends to look affronted, his bright eyes full of mirth. “After I’ve taken the time to walk you all the way home?”

“Five minutes,” you remind him.

Rafe shrugs. “Feels longer.” His palm makes contact with your skin before drawing back, the rectangle of bare waist that’s exposed between hem and buckle. The heat of his touch lingers. “Actually, no, feels shorter. Five insanely short minutes where I still haven’t got your number.”

“Or your name,” he adds significantly, looking over you with a frown.

“Shame,” you say evenly, slowing to a stop as you near their gate. It’s paneled with driftwood and rustic bamboo, still quietly unlatched from when you’d snuck away before.

This time, when you step away from him, Rafe Cameron doesn’t catch your wrist and stop you. You walk backwards and nudge it open with your hip, trying to ignore the way your bones ache in protest. A phantom of his rough, clasping touch folds over your forearm.

“So…” Rafe trails off helplessly, running his fingers over his buzz cut, “...shit, I mean, that’s it?”

“I don’t know, Rafe Cameron,” you say softly, slipping through the gate and closing it on him. “Is it?”

“Fuck.” His pathetic heart lurches. “I hope not.”

“Hm,” he only just catches your silhouette shrug, any definable features shrouded by velvet night. “I guess all you can do is just keep hoping.”

Bad, bad boy shiny toy with a price

It’s a week before you see Rafe Cameron again.

The sky is a seamless, periwinkle blue, the sun shining over the horizon, a yellow bulb of light. Tepid seawater glimmers below it. 

As you roll along the Island Club green in a golf-cart, the coastline dances in and out of sight. You veer to the right as hole nine comes into view, your grandfather and his old friend, Judge Thornton, close behind you.

You don’t recognise him at first. His buzz cut is hidden under a regal, white cap, a salmon-coloured polo stretching over taut biceps. He’s in the process of loosening the Velcro straps of his glove, and as he slips his fingers free, a signet ring glints in the sun. 

An identifiable signet ring, with a flat surface of buttery gold. You swallow down the beating heart that’s bounding into your throat, trying not to think about the implications of him being here.

You being here. There’s something about the looming proximity that’s making your chest whir.

When the cart is close enough to cast his figure in shadow, he straightens and looks over, deep, blue eyes squinting hard. Acquiescing. He’s able to recognise you without any extra thought. 

The whir in your chest grows deafening. It replaces the golf cart’s ignition as you slow, stopping just short of his figure by the hole.

“Looks like all that hoping’s paid off,” he says by way of greeting, grinning down at you as you climb out of your seat. 

“All that hoping, huh?” you return playfully, folding your arms across your chest.

Rafe’s gaze drops with the action, an absent-minded gesture, and he catches an eyeful of cleavage that has him balking. You’re wearing a tighter singlet than you were a week ago, a black skirt instead of denim, shin-high socks with embroidered sunflowers. More gloss on your pretty lips, a sunscreen shine to your tired complexion. 

And a visor. Rafe gives it a careless, little flick before responding.

“Think we can make a deal, Polaris?” He asks blithely, cocking his head to one side.

You raise your eyebrows. “Depends on the deal.”

“Alright,” Rafe says, gesturing to the tee below him. “I get this hole below par, and you let me buy you a drink.”

“And if you don’t?” You return with a frown, looking over the green assessingly. The low rumble of Judge Thornton’s golf-cart grows louder.

“I will,” Rafe answers confidently, not missing a beat.

“That wasn’t my question, Rafe Cameron.”

“I know.” Rafe grins handsomely, strapping his golf glove back on. “That is my answer, though.”

You let out a defeated sigh, shaking your head exasperatedly. “What’s par for this hole, anyway?” You ask, obliging as he motions you backward.

Rafe doesn’t answer right away. He steps up to the tee with strong shoulders hunched, a punishing grip on the club that brings his knuckles to a blanch. When he swings, the metal heel clips the golf ball neatly, its trajectory through the air a majestic, half-crescent. It lands just short of the putting green, a few feet from a hole-in-one.

Behind you, your grandfather wolf whistles appreciatively. You blink.

“That was a beautiful shot, son,” Judge Thornton says then, stepping past you to give Rafe’s back a firm pat. 

“Beautiful shot for a beautiful girl,” Rafe says smoothly, flashing you a quick, roguish wink as he straightens. 

The compliment roars through your traitorous cheeks, a burning heat. You say, fighting hard to maintain nonchalance, “Par, Rafe Cameron.”

“Four,” he answers through a smirk, pressing his tongue against his cheek. “Does two under mean two drinks instead of one?”

“Woah there, country club,” you return playfully, trying not to smile. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Your ball’s on the putting green, you haven’t even got it in yet.”

“C’mon,” he faux-chastises, raising his eyebrows. “What did I say before?”

“Something fucking cocky, I’m sure,” you snort out, shaking your head exasperatedly. 

“Cocky or not,” he returns, plunging the club back into his bag, “I was right.”

“Not quite.” You watch him jog it backward with raised eyebrows. “Not yet.”

He grins devilishly before turning around and quickening his pace, the heavy bag gathering grass stains as it trudges along behind him.

There’s no denying the mild amusement on your features as you watch him, though it’s only once Rafe’s well out of earshot that someone addresses it.

“Ward’s kid, huh?” your grandfather says, raising his eyebrows appraisingly. Rafe’s poised and ready on the putting green, now, his strong forearms flexed, the sun’s shadow making them ripple. You swallow instinctively. “How do you two know each other?”

This gets your attention. You tear your gaze away from Rafe as he taps the ball forward, just enough force behind his mallet to make the ninth hole in two. “Hm?”

“Your acquaintance with the Cameron boy, my dear,” your grandfather repeats, regarding you with steely-eyed disapproval. “How long has this been going on for?”

You grimace abashedly, looking equal parts helpless and defensive. “We aren’t… well, I wouldn’t say we’re acquainted, per se —”

“Now listen,” your grandfather interrupts sharply, his gruff voice austere. “That boy may come from a very reputable family, but there’s no denying that trouble seems to follow him everywhere he goes.”

“Grandpa,” you groan, burying your head in your heads. You do not want to be having this conversation with him right now.

Or ever, for that matter. It isn’t as though this fling with Rafe Cameron is capable of turning into something serious.

Right? You add, your quiet voice muffled weaker by sweaty palms, “I’m not — I mean… we aren’t –”

“And that’s not to say,” he continues grimly, more to eschew an argument than anything particularly paternal, “that I forbid you from seeing him. God knows he’s still far better than the pogues your mother would bring home.”

Your diffidence eases a smidgen, head lifting again and pretty smile shining through. Through the corner of your eye, you catch a smug-looking Rafe Cameron with his putter raised above his head, thick biceps stretching. 

“You think so?” You ask absently, a little distracted now. Rafe relaxes his shoulders and jerks his thumb toward the Island Club, mouthing, through a satisfied smirk, “Come find me when you’re done, yeah?”

A terrifying emotion sears through you. You send him a playful glare before turning away, meeting your grandfather’s weary gaze with something akin to embarrassment. 

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly, grimacing again. “You were saying? About Rafe?”

A pause. Something within his stern features softens. “You’ll promise me one thing?”

“Anything.”

“You’ll take everything he says with a grain of salt?”

“C’mon, grandpa,” you chide, elbowing him playfully. “You really think I’d fall for his little douchebag act?”

“My dear,” he returns sagely, raising his eyebrows. “You can’t blame me for worrying. It’s a tale as old as time. How else do you think I got your grandmother?”

—

Rafe’s already ordered you a Mai Tai when you find him.

He’s drinking whiskey neat, the deep colour of thick molasses, lounging back against a chair that overlooks the yawning green. When he spots you, he’s quick to lean forward and straighten. The front legs of his chair slant down and strike the ground with a thud.

“What?” You fold your arms across your chest, pretending to look affronted. “I don’t come across as someone who also likes straight whiskey?”

“D’you want to swap?” Rafe offers with a grin, sliding his low ball across the table. 

You raise your eyebrows dubiously, sidling into the seat opposite his. The drink in front of you is sunset tangerine, a heady mix of tropical citrus and sweet, orgeat syrup.  “That easy, huh?”

Rafe presses his tongue against his cheek, regarding you with mild amusement. “Anything for a name, Polaris.”

“And what if I say no?” You return, taking a long sip of your drink. Remnants of sticky Curacao hang back as you acquiesce, mixing with saliva to make your full lips shine.

“I mean,” Rafe says, his voice lower now, more gravelly. His eyes drop to the column of your throat as you swallow, soft inches of bare skin that are waiting to be marked. “There’s nothing I can do about that.”

He leans forward and swipes his thumb over your bottom lip gently, just enough pressure to gather the glossy, Mai Tai film. When he brings it to his own mouth, his heavy gaze holding firm, it’s sweeter than he remembers it, more you than the orange liquer of his youth. “But I’ve realised,” he adds after pause, pulling away. “That a need-to-know basis doesn’t have to be so bad.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, hand lifting to your chin on instinct. The pads of your fingers press over your bottom lip, feeling the phantom of his touch, the soft nerve-endings he singed.

“Exactly,” you agree after a beat, swallowing thickly. “If anything, it’s better if you don’t know my name.”

Rafe cocks his head to one side, an imperceptible something flickering over his blue irises. “How so?”

You don’t miss a beat. “Makes things more interesting.”

Rafe picks up his wide-rimmed glass, taking a generous pull of whiskey. “And the other way around?” He asks, the auburn liquid burning as he swallows. “Am I less interesting as Rafe Cameron to you?”

“Not at all,” you answer honestly, shaking your head. “My name doesn’t carry the same weight that yours does.”

“Bad weight,” Rafe infers, a funny ache in his chest. 

“Mm-hm.” A pause. There’s no way you’re thinking straight right now. “So bad that it’s good.”

Killing me slow, out the window

You’d decided against providing Rafe with any means of contacting you.

Save knowing where you live and your affinity for moonlight trysts, you’ve given him little over nothing to work with since he’d bought you a Mai Tai.

Not that it mattered. Somewhere between your first meeting and now, he’d made a habit of sneaking through your grandparent’s driftwood gate and waiting below your window for you.

Admittedly, there’d been a hankering in his chest since your Island Club rendezvous. Though you’d politely declined his offer to walk you home after a few rounds, the promise of more had permeated the sticky air as you’d looked over his features.

Harder when you’d pulled him closer. The kiss had been quick and fleeting, soft lips tinged with longing, and his rough hands had only just found purchase when you’d broken it.

“Later,” you’d said in cryptic yearning, ducking away from his figure and disappearing through the exit.

And of course, he’d taken you up this on this offer, finding his way to your grandparent’s front porch that night, rough heat in the stillness of suburbia.

Another kiss to seal your fate. His was doomed the second you’d slipped away.

Tonight, the air is thick with honeysuckle and the trill of cicadas.

You unlatch your window and push it open fully, the thick heat of June curling over you unrelentingly. You push your head through the opening and peer into the back garden, a canopy of indigo dusk overlaying the perennials. No Rafe within the flowers. Your traitorous heart aches.

It’s as you’re preparing to pull back that a rustle of movement catches your eye. It crawls along the dimly lit path until it’s right below you, a vague form with broad shoulders that you recognise, strong forearms.

“Waiting for me, tonight?” He asks quietly, raising his eyebrows up at you. “I’m touched.”

“God, shut up,” you bite back, smiling despite yourself. “What are we doing tonight?”

He shrugs cryptically. “You’ll see.”

It’s how you find yourself in a secret alcove on the edge of the beach, two towels splayed out with a bottle of French label connecting them.

You’re sitting opposite each other, cross-legged, the tips of your knees touching, jolts of electricity that hold you in place.

You reach for the bottle and take a careless swig, the bottom of your singlet riding up from the action. Rafe’s eyes drop to the taunting rectangle of exposed skin, silvery moonlight making it glow iridescent. He swallows thickly.

“Okay,” you say, handing it over to him. “Truth or dare?”

Rafe presses his tongue against his cheek mirthfully, still looking over at you as he tips back the bottle. “Truth.”

“How’d you find this place?”

A pause. Rafe looks over the weathered walls of the alcove, his eyes lingering over familiar ridges, the grooves his mother traced over when she’d first brought him here.

“I didn’t,” he says after a beat, the revelation searing through his chest like a knife. “My mom did.”

“Oh.” You regard him for a moment, your mischievous smile faltering a little. “Do you think about her often?”

Rafe hesitates. He takes another steely pull of the wine before thrusting it toward you, quick to avert his gaze. “That’s two questions, Polaris. It’s my turn.”

“Right,” you say, frowning slightly. You accept the bottle and take another long sip, your soft lips stick with saliva and warm liquor.

“Truth or dare?”

“Hm.” You pause, turning toward the poorly defined coastline in the distance, inky night descending over a slurry of dark waves. “Dare.”

“I dare you,” Rafe says deviously, swiping the bottle from your grasp, “to go for a swim.”

You tear your gaze away from the horizon, raising your eyebrows. “That’s it?”

“Naked.”

There’s only a moment where you falter, a split- second of uncertainty. Had you not already consumed half a bottle of expensive wine, you probably wouldn’t have had it in you to go through with something so brazen.

There’s a blur to your vision that has Rafe liquefying around the edges. You nod curtly and stand up, a coy smile dancing over your features.

“On one condition,” you say, voice smooth and saccharine sweet.

“Anything,” Rafe answers, and means it, too. He discards the near-empty bottle and pulls himself onto his feet, your gaze lifting up as his shadow folds over you.

“You count to five before following me.”

“Fuck,” Rafe groans, reaching forward and pinching your hip indulgently. “Fine. Alright. One —”

You break free from his grasp and tug off your thready singlet, throwing it into his chest before turning around and running forward. Rafe watches as articles of clothing fly onto the warm sand, watches the soft curves of your silhouette, the way you shrink as you grow bare.

By the time he’s counted to five, you’re already submerged in the water. Your exposed limbs glisten in the moonlight as you wave him over, and as he follows your fabric trail, Rafe feels a strange pull that makes him falter.

He’s a few feet away from you, now, and the pulse in his wrist isn’t capable of bounding faster.

“It’s warm, I promise,” you say, running your fingers through your wet hair.

“Fucking hell.” It’s an unrelenting rhythm, and his fingers shake as he fumbles with his own clothing. “You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?”

“In a good way?” You ask. You watch as his arms muscles ripple in tandem with the waves, almost balking at the ease with which he wades through the water.

He’s in your space before you can so much as blink, his rough hands skating along your bare back. “The best way,” he murmurs, pressing you against him indulgently. 

“Guess that makes two of us, huh?” You mumble back distractedly, wrapping your arms around his neck. He nudges the slant of your jaw with his nose, coaxing your head to fall back, column of your throat exposed. Wet, hungry kisses sponge the skin he finds there.

“Hm?” He hums, the sound reverberating through your skin.

“You’re the best kind of bad weight,” you breathe out, a little distracted. His tongue is this close to rolling over your hard nipple. “And I’m the best kind of death.”

There’s no coming back from making love in the middle of the ocean.

In that moment, though, alcohol in your veins and Rafe everywhere, you realise, as the needy ache sears through you, that you couldn’t care less.

Control is overrated. For Rafe Cameron, you’d pick cruel over safe anyday.

And it's new, the shape of your body

“Shit, Rafe,” you breathe out, awestruck, staring down at the vintage bottle of champagne that he’s holding. “No way you just happen to have 1990 Cristal lying around.”

A dim row of wall sconces bathe the scene in yellow light. 

The air feels stale as it bears down on you, thick and untouched, every bottle you disentomb exhaling a fresh cloud of must. 

“What?” Rafe furrows his brow in mock thought, swiping over the chalky film of dust on the label. “This old thing?”

“Shut up,” you chide, swatting his chest playfully. “You have to know it’s worth like, $10,000, easy.”

Rafe’s blue eyes lift to yours, a glimmer of mirth painting them softer pastel. “Good enough to open, you reckon?”

You balk. “You’re kidding.”

There are a torturous, few inches between your figure and his, a little less when you consider the champagne bottle’s width.  A faint, yeasty scent, some vetiver, a little bergamot, enough emanating body heat to rid the air of your alcohol-heavy lungs.

Rafe’s long retired the baseball-style shirt he was wearing when you’d first arrived, the mood lighting etching every line on his torso. His shorts hang low on his hips, belt free, revealing the devastating V that defines his lower abdomen. He passes the bottle between his hands absentmindedly, strong shoulders square and thick biceps tensing. 

“C’mon, Polaris.” He raises his eyebrows faux-appraisingly, holding the neck away from your face. “Do I ever kid when it comes to expensive shit?”

He holds your gaze as he peels away the aureate foil, uncorking the screw and releasing wisps of white smoke. No brilliant spurts of foam, no deafening fireworks, and yet — you still feel that quick flurry of hope.

You reach for the bottle just as he pulls away, nimble fingers swiping still air instead of Cristal. He tsk-tsks softly before bringing it to your mouth, the cool rim bruising the pillow of your lips as he slants it forward to permit a pull.

It’s all effervescence and a hint of citrus, candied fruit and truffle within the melange. Rafe’s gaze skates along your neck as you swallow, his pupils dilating as he takes a gulp himself. 

“More?” He murmurs absently, more an ulterior motive than anything particularly gallant.

“Mm-hm,” you answer, lips parting obligingly. He pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb gently, tilting it up so he can tip more in. The wetness on the bottle rim leaves your soft lips shining. 

Rafe stares down at them, all pupil now, with something akin to reverence. “Can I have a taste?” He asks quietly, setting the bottle on a table beside him.

Your breath hitches. The criss-crossing shelves of the wine cellar press into your back, a firm pressure, though the heat of his gaze feels far heavier. He cages you in by placing his arm on the wall adjacent your figure, bicep to ear. And he’s so close, his head ducking to yours, lips a hairsbreadth away and yet still so far. 

You lean in first. 

There’s a tentative press of your lips on his before he gathers his bearings, pushing into you fully. The weight of his torso holds you against the shelves, a sloven, almost discomposed air to his movements. Like he’s desperate, memorising your mouth through rough, teeth scraping kisses. 

His lips drag along your jaw, the smooth expanse of your neck. And when he finds the sensitive spot beneath your earlobe, bruising it amaranthine, you have to bite down on your soft cheek to suppress the moan it elicits. 

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs into your skin, like he’s worshipping you. “Wanna hear you, sweetheart.”

There’s a mess of warm limbs and discarded clothing as he paws at your layers, eager to feel you fully. 

And though you’d never once imagined you’d make love in a wine cellar, the way Rafe Cameron rocks into you, slow, agonisingly deep, makes you feel as though you’ve been missing out on a whole avenue of sexual misdemeanours.

He’s in tune with your body in a way you didn’t think possible. Every thrust of his cock has your tender clit swelling, the stale air filled with the lewd sound of your wetness. And he’s a man starved as he fucks you, his needy tongue swirling over your nipple, rough hands groping every inch of soft skin. 

“Fuck, you feel unreal,” he grunts out, a thin sheen of sweat making his chiseled torso shine. 

“Mm,” is all you can manage in response, fingers gripping his broad shoulders, a needy ache at your core. “K—Keep going —”

“Yeah?” He encourages, his own orgasm close to apex. “You going to cum for me, angel?”

And when you do, hot pleasure shaking through you in waves, it isn’t the first time, nor the last, that Rafe’s made you finish since you’d arrived. 

There’s something about being around him that tends to charge the air with hungry static.

A little later, when you’re lying in his bed, details hazy, you turn your head and look over his vaguely obscured features. A lone band of silver moonlight spills through his slightly ajar, bedroom window.

“Rafe Cameron,” you whisper, angling your body toward his.

He shifts in tandem, his vivid, blue eyes like glow-in-the-dark stars. “What’s on your mind, Polaris?”

There’s an ache in your chest that’s difficult to explain. It enfolds the heart within your ribcage and squeezes, a heavy, cloying pressure that’s fairly unrelenting. 

If only you knew that you aren’t it’s only victim. 

“I don’t know.” A pause. Rafe reaches out before he can help himself, tracing over the planes of your face with his forefinger. Along your cheekbones, the pert tip of your nose. The Cupid’s bow above your lips. There’s a soft on rough juxtaposition that he’s trying to commit to memory. “Summer’s ending in a month.”

“I know,” he murmurs softly, barely audible. He thumbs over pillow of your bruised bottom lip, faltering. 

“I’m leaving in a month,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

Another pause. You reach up and clasp his outstretched wrist gently, squeezing the pulse within it that’s staggering. “How come I only feel like this when I’m meant to be sleeping?”

“The same reason you were out that night that we met,” he answers, coaxing your fingers free to intertwine with his. “Easier to think when the world isn’t listening.”

“I feel like,” you hesitate, exhaling carefully, “like this is going to end badly.”

Rafe moves a little closer, his hip brushing against your thigh. “Probably.”

“But hey,” he adds, bringing both of your hands down. He leans in and presses a kiss on your lips, harder, more pressure, his figure bearing down. “Let’s leave worrying about that for when it comes, okay?”

It's cool, that's what I tell 'em

Polaris: my grandparents aren’t home tonight btw

“…and — eh! Hey now, country Club,” Barry rebukes, his metal crown glinting as he bares his teeth. “I ain’t got the time to say this shit again.”

Rafe peels his gaze away from his phone screen forcibly, feigning a cool sense of disinterest. “What?”

Barry pauses, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “Who you texting?”

“Shit, relax, no one, alright?” Rafe answers in a hurry, locking his phone and sliding it into his back pocket. He raises his arms in placating surrender, trying to ignore the restless whir of his insides.

“Now I know that ain’t true,” Barry throws back, waving his weathered pocket knife at his face knowingly. “You ain’t been in this room for a while.”

Rafe swallows evenly, leaning back into Barry’s dirty couch and spreading his thighs against either armrest. “I’m listening.”

“No you ain’t,” Barry snorts back, shaking his head. “You been texting since you came. What…Mrs Country Club asking you where you went?”

The taunt makes Rafe’s face crumple, if only for a split-second, and the realisation that dawns on Barry’s features tells him he’s lost this battle.

“Well, shit,” he goads, wolf whistling lewdly. “A Mrs Country Club, huh. Didn’t even know that you had one of those.”

“I don’t,” Rafe answers, gritting his teeth.

“Why you getting your little panties in a twist then, eh?” Barry smirks smugly, regarding Rafe with mild amusement. “Where you two meet? Brunch, or some shit?”

“There’s — it’s not like that, okay?” Rafe responds wearily, running his fingers over his buzz cut. “We’re just fucking. No strings attached.”

“Shit, doesn’t look like no strings,” Barry raises his eyebrows, gesticulating with his knife. “You been off your game for a while now.”

Rafe balks, frowning bemusedly. Sure he’s had to cut a few business meetings short, cancel a trip or two to Barry’s because he didn’t want a date to stop.

But it isn’t as though he’s with you every second of every day, is it? Thinking about you within these parameters of time is different to your physical presence.

Right? He says, voice hoarse and unconvincing, “Whatever, bro. You’re full of shit.”

“And you, Rafe,” Barry returns, scoffing exasperatedly, “ain’t listening to me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rafe dismisses frustratedly, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “What were you saying? I’m fucking listening.”

Barry ignores him. He walks forward and squats just short of the couch, face to face now with his brown eyes narrowed. “She the reason you been avoiding these parts the last few weeks?” He accuses, cocking his head to one side.

“I’ve just been busy, alright?” Rafe answers gruffly, keenly avoiding the question.

“Huh.” Barry runs his tongue over his metal crown, his own jaw tight. “With Mrs Country Club.”

Rafe feels his phone vibrate with another text through his linen shorts. It’s as though, when the urge to check it surges through him, when the forefront of his mind works furiously to place his absence elsewhere, that he realises he needs to give in and stop fighting it.

You. Brazen as his taunts are, there’s some truth to what Barry’s saying.

Every spare moment Rafe’s had in the past few weeks, he’s wanted to spend in your presence. Sunset walks that end in moonlight trysts, endless hours of pillow talk, skinny-dipping at the beach. He’s tasted more champagne through your lips than he has a bottle, marked more of your soft skin with purple bruises than he thought possible. A criminal amount of touching. Don’t even get him started on the looking. Rafe thinks, the course of the cruel summer coming to fruition, that he’s done more memorising of you than school’s taught him. God, he’s in love with you, and the revelation is dreadful.

This wasn’t part of the plan. You’re leaving the Banks in a week or two.

“There,” Barry says after a beat, tapping the sharp edge of his pocket knife against Rafe’s forehead. “Shit’s clicking, ain’t it?”

“Yeah,” Rafe answers in a rush, straightening. “I need to get my priorities straight.”

“And what might they be?”

“Not this.” Nothing else has ever felt more obvious. “Not any of this. Listen, Barry, I’m done.”

I'm drunk in the back of the car

You aren’t quite sure what set you off.

The pair of you were a few drinks deep when you’d felt it, that deep, cloying ache that’d been plaguing you since you met him. It was a sudden blow to the system, this ticking time-bomb of an arrangement, and the Island Club clamour in your ears was only heightening your emotions. 

It was the same timbre of obnoxious as on your first rendezvous, a reminder of the day he’d used a Mai Tai to covet you. Frightening to think that that was a mere two months ago, the whirlwind of a summer romance with him feeling far longer.

Moments from ending. You were forty-eight hours away from being fully packed up and leaving.

So when that stupid, Taylor Swift song blares through the car radio, the same one you were listening to when he’d startled your midnight walk, you forgive yourself for the thick, hot tears that well to the surface.

Rafe’s struggling with his own hankering heart as they surge forward. He’s been stealing long, wistful glances at you throughout the car ride home, selfishly driving the scenic route in an attempt to avoid what’s coming. The fact that your skin glows in silver moonlight—a neck that he’s marked with a bouquet of bruises, smooth legs that he’s felt encircling his torso—is but an added bonus to an otherwise excruciating end to summer. 

He isn’t sure when exactly it happened, but somewhere within the haze, you begun taking precedence over his father.  He stopped thinking about retribution, his dauntless greed ebbed, and the situation with the cross and the pogues meant far less. Almost nothing, as he registers the falling tear on your cheek. It sears him with a fresh swell of longing, car beginning to slow as he pulls up beside your grandparent’s beach house. 

He unbuckles and leans forward, placing his hand on your thigh and squeezing gently. 

“What are you doing?” You ask in a strained voice, shying away from his touch. You turn away lest he see you cry, scrubbing your cheek in a hurry. 

“Polaris.” Rafe reaches up to cradle your jaw, feeling his chest tighten when you flinch. “You’re crying.”

“I’m drunk,” you mutter, looking away from him. A fresh steam of tears flow down your face, creating a trail of hot fire that makes you ache. 

“Talk to me,” he tries again, sounding more desperate than he wants to. He moves his arm around your headrest, the other finding purchase on the centre console. An all-encompassing figure in your periphery, the way he’s always been, the way you’re doomed to remember him.

“About what?” You ask, voice breaking as it rises.

“What — what’s on your mind?” Is it the same as what’s on mine? 

“What do you think, Rafe Cameron?” You let out an exasperated sigh, muffled weaker by the sound of a strangled sob. “I’m leaving in two days.”

A pause. You turn toward him bravely, the whites of your eyes tinged red with a spiderweb of tears. “You’re staying.”

Rafe swallows. The pads of his fingers brush over the bare skin of your shoulder. “I thought that’s what we agreed on.”

It comes out all wrong — Rafe didn’t mean it like that. He grimaces when he catches the way your face crumples, cruel buzzcut a little longer, almost swaying as he shakes his head. “That’s not — I mean — I’m not saying I’m happy with —”

“No… I, whatever, I get it,” you interrupt languidly, swallowing down another sob. “We… it was no-strings-attached for a reason.”

“I’m bad news,” he reminds you quietly, honest-to-God yearning.”

“And don’t even know my name,” you agree, equally as quiet, a touch more subdued.

Rafe feels his own eyes burn, the unshed tears in your making them vague and glossy. “Not for lack of trying,” he murmurs.

“Glad I held my ground, anyway,” you whisper back, biting down on your cheek roughly. “It’s better this way.”

Is it? 

Rafe doesn’t think so. His gaze falls to the same lips he’s memorised with his kisses, sometimes soft, something hard, and he really doesn’t think so.

“If you say so,” he allows after a beat.

“I do.” A pause. “I’m fine.”

Rafe forces himself to draw his arm back to his side. “You’re sure?”

“Of course I am,” you answer with a nod, averting your gaze as you click open the passenger’s side door. “Listen. Thank you. For… for showing me around, for taking me out, for making this summer so fucking incredible.”

Too fucking incredible. There’s a sad voice in your head that’s screaming in protest, growing louder, more desperate, with every inch of added distance.

“Hey,” Rafe calls, clasping your wrist as you pull away. “I — wait. That’s it?”

You look down at the rough fingers as they encircle it, wide-eyed and fairly close to acquiescing again. “That’s it,” you echo, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

“Well,” he retrieves his hand, running his palm over his buzzcut distractedly, “Now it’s my turn to talk

You exhale slowly, watching him. “About what?”

“Shit, Polaris, maybe the fact that I’m in love with you?” He says incredulously, torso over the center console now. He’s looking up at you with enough intensity to revive burning embers, dry the tears on your cheeks until your skin feels vulnerable. 

You balk, frozen in place as your eyes widen. “What?”

“I love you,” he repeats, sighing defeatedly. “And I know that I’m meant to keep that shit to myself, it wasn’t part of the plan and —”

“Rafe Cameron,” you interrupt, your warm cheeks burning. “I love you too.”

A pause. The confession makes the hankering dissipate, so quick Rafe almost doesn’t notice. His lips pull up until he’s sending you that sweet, devilish grin.

“Huh.” He reaches for your wrist again, tugging hard. “Well ain’t that just the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”

—

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babyyyy 🥲 It’s like a world sensation seeing you in my notifications 🙄 miss and love you bye

MISS YOU AND LOVE YOU SO MUCH BABYY