SUMMARY: After a date, she curls into his lap—lip-glossed, lace-wrapped, and all slow-burning mischief—Rafe doesn’t just want to fuck her, he wants to remember her. So when she hands him her scratched-up Canon and tells him to get her good side, he films everything
genre: smut-heavy, emotional intimacy, camera voyeurism, obsession through a grainy lens, slow reverence, tender filth, post-coital softness, femdom-leaning dynamic, Rafe being undone by beauty
pairing: nerd!rafe cameron x 2007angel!reader
tw: MDNI +18, explicit sexual content, oral (m receiving), filming (consensual), size kink/praise kink undertones, dirty talk, eye contact, hair pulling, overstimulation, post-sex cuddling, slight cum play if you squint really hard and do a backflip, thigh-highs, black lace lingerie, deepthroating, soft dom/sub undertones, creampie, body worship, Rafe whimpering/begging/falling apart, face-fucking (gentle), vaginal sex (reader on top + missionary), breeding kink subtext, male moaning, camera angle obsession, reader falling asleep on his chest, Rafe sending a post-sex pic to Topper & Kelce out of pure male ego
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: 5.4k words of just pure smut is crazy. I’m fine guys, just ovulating
They were in his bedroom, cloistered away from the sun-bleached opulence of the Cameron estate, tucked beneath the dull whir of the air conditioning unit that rattled faintly in the corner like a nervous tic. The door had been locked with quiet deliberation, the click swallowed by the carpeted hush of the room—a necessary precaution in a house where privacy was a foreign concept, where Wheezie had a habit of returning unannounced and Sarah’s brand of intrusion came with theatrical door slams and shrieked warnings. But none of that mattered right now. Not with her here. Not with Y/n—angel-eyed, lip-glossed, knee-socked chaos curled up in his lap like a bad idea he couldn’t quit.
They’d been circling this moment for days—texts blurring the line between flirtation and provocation, late-night grainy selfies that left his hands twitching over his waistband, voice notes that sounded like secrets. The tension hadn’t built so much as thickened, like smoke in a locked room. And now it pressed down on them, heavy and heated and real, as she straddled him where he lay back on the bed, hips grinding against his with languid, deliberate rhythm, the drag of her body through denim and cotton making him clench his jaw so hard his teeth ached.
Her fingers curled around his throat—not hard, not cruel, just guiding—tilting his head up so she could kiss him messily, open-mouthed and tasting like the cherry lip balm she always reapplied before selfies, like the strawberry milkshake he’d bought her earlier before they’d gone record shopping and she’d made him carry her tote bag like a boyfriend. His hands had found her hips immediately, gripping the waistband of her skirt, his thumbs pressing little bruises into the plush skin there, as if anchoring himself to reality through her.
When she moaned softly into his mouth, Rafe made a sound he’d be embarrassed to hear aloud—a low, desperate groan from somewhere deep in his throat as his hips bucked up against hers, chasing friction like a man dying of thirst. He let his hands glide upward beneath her shirt, fingertips brushing over warm skin until he found her breasts, cupping them like he couldn’t believe they were real, like they might vanish if he wasn’t careful. She was still kissing him, still letting him taste her, dragging her lips down to his jaw, then his neck, slow and indulgent like she had all the time in the world to ruin him.
His head dropped back against the pillows, breath catching, lashes fluttering like he was overwhelmed by her. And he was. Utterly. Completely. His voice came quiet, raw, a little cracked with arousal. “Can I ask you something?” he murmured, already breathless. “Well, fuck—more of a favor.”
“I’m listening,” she said, between slow, sucking kisses on his neck that left heat blooming across his skin.
He hesitated, mouth opening and closing, and she leaned back slightly to look down at him—her hair mussed, eyes glittering with interest, lips swollen and glossy. Rafe licked his own lips, glasses slightly askew and fogging with every heated breath. He looked undone already, like she’d short-circuited something essential.
“I was wondering if I could…” He swallowed hard, eyes flicking away for a second. “If I could maybe—possibly—record? Us. I mean. Just us.”
Her body stilled, slightly, just enough for him to feel the way she considered it. He froze, too, trying not to buck up into her as she sat fully upright on his lap. The look she gave him was unreadable—arched brow, slightly parted lips—and for a moment Rafe genuinely thought she might slap him.
Panic spilled out of him in a flood. “Okay—okay, I know how that sounds, but I swear, it’d be just for me. Just me. I’d never post it or save it somewhere unsafe or—fuck, I wouldn’t even keep it if you told me not to. It’s just—” He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Fine, maybe I wanted to show Topper and Kelce. Maybe. Just to prove I’m not totally bitchless. That I can pull, like, the hottest girl I’ve ever seen. But that’s it, I swear. They wouldn’t get to keep it or anything. Just one quick look. On my screen. Not theirs. You could sue me if I lie, I don’t even care—take my car, my records, fuckin’—my dignity. Whatever’s left of it.”
She didn’t respond right away. Just stared at him with that half-lidded gaze that made him feel like she could read his thoughts—which was a terrifying possibility, considering what he’d been thinking about since she first stepped into his room.
Then, slowly, her lips pulled into a smile—small, syrup-sweet, crooked like mischief. She turned toward the nightstand, reached into her bag, and rummaged through it until her fingers found what she was looking for. When she turned back, she dropped it into his trembling hands.
A Canon digital camera. Early 2000s. Scratched silver body, plastic casing worn down, the corners kissed with rhinestones. The kind of camera that doesn’t smooth your skin or hide the sweat beading on your brow. The kind that catches everything in stark, honest grain—raw, intimate, unfiltered.
Rafe stared at it like it was holy. His fingers shook around the device, eyes wide, glasses slipping further down the bridge of his nose. His mouth dropped open a little, blinking like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. “Oh fuck me,” he whispered. “Are you serious?”
She nodded, smiling wider now, eyeliner smudged just enough to look deliberate, her mouth glossy and kiss-bruised. “Only if you get my good side.”
And just like that, he was gone for her all over again.
“I might just be in love with you,” Rafe murmured, the words tumbling from his lips before he had the chance to second-guess them. His voice was wrecked with something half-reverent, half-ashamed, like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud but couldn’t stop himself.
Y/n snorted, not unkindly—soft and amused in that way she always was when he got too earnest for his own good. “Just turn the camera on, dork,” she said, her voice a little huskier now, all cherry cola and heat, as she leaned back and pulled her hoodie up over her head. The motion was lazy, unbothered, her eyes on him the entire time, like she liked watching him squirm.
Her top followed, discarded with the same quiet nonchalance, and she was left in nothing but those ridiculously tiny shorts—low-rise and frayed—and a black lace bra that hugged her like sin. The dark cotton of her thigh-high socks hugged the curve of her legs, trailing up toward the creamy expanse of her thighs, a detail so stupidly erotic Rafe felt something seize in his chest.
He couldn’t even speak—just stared, mouth parted, glasses slipping further down his nose as his fingers fumbled uselessly with the camera. It took three tries to locate the right button, hands trembling as he powered it on. The familiar low whir of it starting up filled the room, mechanical and intimate. The red light blinked, and suddenly the moment had weight.
He lifted the camera, angling the screen toward her, swallowing thickly. She smiled—slow and sultry, mischief curling at the edges of her lips—and rolled her hips down against him again.
“Fuck,” he gasped, the word punched out of him as the camera trembled slightly in his grip. It was focused now, the grainy little lens capturing the precise way she moved against the thick strain in his jeans, how her hips tilted with deliberate rhythm, cruelly slow. It caught the flex of her thighs, the twitch of his hands, the bruising grip he had on her waist like he was scared she might drift out of frame—or worse, away from him.
He tilted the camera down, filming the drag of her over him, the obscene way her shorts barely covered anything, the dip of her pelvis grinding against him like she knew what it did to him. His other hand ghosted up the outside of her thigh, slow and reverent, before gripping hard—tight, fingers sinking into soft flesh like he needed an anchor, something real to keep him grounded or else he might just float off into the ether.
Every nerve in his body felt raw, lit up like wire. He looked up from the camera to her, eyes wide, reverent. She looked like a fever dream—flushed and perfect, the glow from his bedside lamp haloing her in soft gold. Her hair was mussed, lip gloss half-kissed off, eyes low-lidded and sparkling with amusement and heat.
She reached down, curling her fingers into the hem of her shorts, and Rafe just about forgot how to breathe.
She rose onto her knees with a languid grace, hands slipping beneath the waistband of her shorts, shimming them down her hips in one fluid, unhurried motion. The fabric clung for a moment before surrendering, pooling around her knees and then kicked aside. Now she knelt before him in nothing but the matching black lace set—delicate, semi-sheer, and criminally well-fitted—and those inky thigh-high socks that somehow made it worse. Or better. Or both.
Rafe felt like something inside him might short-circuit. His grip on the camera tightened, trying to steady the frame, but his hands were visibly trembling now. His breath hitched audibly as she leaned forward, placing a single, soft kiss low on his stomach, just beneath his navel. It was barely anything—just her lips, warm and teasing—but it made his spine go rigid, like she’d whispered a secret into his skin.
She moved with an unhurried confidence, fingers undoing his belt with slow deliberation, eyes flicking up once to meet his—something glinting there, wicked and knowing. Rafe swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and lifted his hips instinctively as she tugged his jeans down over his thighs, revealing the pale skin beneath, the sharp cut of his hips, and the obvious strain beneath his boxers.
He licked his lips unconsciously, glasses slipping down his nose again as he stared at her over the camera, trying to focus, trying to document her the way he wanted to remember this—perfect and pixelated, like a private film only he would ever watch.
She leaned in again, trailing her mouth lower this time, pressing a soft kiss over the prominent bulge beneath the fabric of his Calvin Kleins. The contact was almost tender, and yet it felt like a jolt of electricity through his entire system. Rafe's head dropped back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut as a ragged breath tore from his throat.
“Fucking hell,” he exhaled, voice broken and desperate.
“Sensitive much?” she murmured, amusement curling at the corners of her voice as she smiled against him. Her tone was soft but sharp enough to tease, threaded through with that signature silk-and-cigarette sweetness he was already addicted to.
Then, slow as a film reel burning through its final frame, she hooked her fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers and began to tug. The elastic gave way with a soft snap, and his cock sprang free—thick, flushed, hard to the point of pain, the head glistening where precum beaded.
Rafe could barely think, could barely breathe, the camera in his hand dipping slightly before he remembered to lift it again, adjusting the focus, swallowing back the strangled sound clawing up his throat. She hadn’t even touched him properly yet and he already felt close to unraveling.
She glanced up at him, lashes low and lips parted, like she was taking in a piece of art instead of the writhing, undone mess sprawled out beneath her. Her fingers ghosted along his thighs, slow and featherlight, just barely tracing the lines of muscle as her eyes flicked back to his cock, studying the way it twitched in anticipation, how flushed and desperate he already looked for her.
And he was—God, he was. Rafe could barely hold the camera steady, the grainy lens catching her every move like it was sacred. Her kneeling between his legs, black lace and thigh-high cotton like something out of a low-res daydream. Her lip gloss was still there—barely—but now slightly smudged, mouth swollen from kissing and smiling and knowing.
She leaned in again, lips brushing over the underside of his cock like a promise, her breath warm and teasing against him. Rafe let out a guttural sound, low and hoarse, his free hand curling into the sheets like he needed to hold on to something, anything.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, voice cracking into a laugh that dissolved into a groan when she licked a slow, lazy stripe up the vein running along the underside, just enough pressure to make his hips buck involuntarily.
“Good,” she murmured, grinning against the sensitive skin before she wrapped her hand around the base, holding him steady, thumb brushing over the leaking tip with a touch that bordered on cruel.
Rafe’s head tipped back with a sharp gasp, camera wavering before he steadied it again, breath shaking. The red light was still blinking. Still recording. Still real.
And then—God—her mouth was on him.
Warm. Wet. Slow. She took him in with practiced ease, lips sealing around the head and tongue swirling just enough to make his eyes roll back. Her hand worked the base with a rhythm that matched the slow bob of her head, sucking him down in languid strokes, no rush, no mercy.
He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look away.
The screen in his hand showed everything in shaky, sacred detail—the soft drag of her lips, the way her cheeks hollowed out, the flash of tongue, the flex of her fingers on his thigh.
Rafe was trembling, every muscle tight and straining, his moans fractured and high in his throat. “Fuck, baby, f—fuck, you look so good,” he rasped, unable to stop the litany of praise tumbling out now. “Like a fucking dream. My fucking angel—”
She hummed around him at that, eyes flicking up through her lashes, and the vibration of her moan sent him hurtling toward the edge. His grip on the camera tightened like he could somehow preserve the moment forever—the grain, the light, the low whimper he made as her mouth sank deeper.
He was unraveling, heart pounding against his ribcage like it was trying to claw out, sweat clinging to his skin, glasses askew, hair damp at his temples.
And all he could see was her—her mouth stretched around him, lips slick and red, so fucking pretty like this, and all his.
“Look up, baby,” Rafe whispered, voice paper-thin and reverent, as if the sight of her alone might shatter him. His breath stuttered as she obeyed, lashes lifting slowly, gaze locking with his through the grainy filter of lust and low light. Her eyes gleamed—glassy, coy, obedient—and her lips were stretched obscenely around him, slick and parted wide, drool beginning to sheen at the corners.
He nearly dropped the camera.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed out, the words catching in his throat, “so fucking pretty…”
The hand not clutching the trembling camera reached down, gentle fingers brushing a curtain of her hair from her cheek, tucking it carefully behind her ear as if that would somehow make it less indecent, less overwhelming. But it only made her look more obscene—beautiful in a way that didn’t feel real. Like something he’d conjured, stitched together from every daydream and note-app fantasy he’d ever suffered through alone in the dark.
His palm slid lower to cup her jaw, thumb stroking beneath her chin as she hollowed her cheeks around him. He whimpered—actually whimpered—hips lifting slightly off the mattress as he pressed himself deeper into the wet heat of her mouth. And she let him.
Didn’t flinch, didn’t resist—just let him guide the rhythm, let him fuck into her mouth like she wanted it. Like she liked the way his cock twitched against her tongue. The little gasps and strangled moans that spilled from his mouth were involuntary, soft and high and cracking at the edges as if he couldn’t hold himself together even if he tried.
“F-fuck… fuck, baby,” he whimpered, voice nearly inaudible beneath the whir of the camera’s mic. He adjusted the grip, bringing it closer, closer still, until the frame filled with nothing but the obscene glide of her mouth over his cock—lips flushed and glistening, jaw working, a string of spit hanging from her chin like a thread of silk.
The camera stuttered slightly as his hands trembled. He zoomed in. He couldn’t help himself. The red light blinked, and in its dim glow, she looked like something unreal. A dream. A sin. A miracle wrapped in thigh-high socks and black lace.
She moaned around him, soft and guttural, the vibration pulsing through him like lightning, and Rafe's head dropped back into the pillow with a broken cry—utterly ruined, glasses fogged, stomach tight, toes curled, and so fucking close to falling apart beneath her.
Rafe's hips jerked upward, entirely out of his control, the motion sharp and instinctive when her tongue—cool metal glinting—dragged deliberately across the sensitive slit at the head of his cock. The piercing was maddening, a tease made crueler by the softness of her mouth surrounding it. His stomach clenched, breath torn straight from his lungs like someone had knocked the wind out of him.
“Okay—nngh—don’t fucking do that,” he gasped, voice cracking somewhere between a whimper and a plea, the camera trembling in his hands. “Holy fuck. Don’t—don’t do that again, I’m gonna cum way too quick, fuck, fuck…”
But she only giggled, low and syrupy, the vibration of her laugh humming against the underside of him before she did it again, tongue rolling over the tip with infuriating precision. Rafe choked out a sound that wasn’t even human, spine arching off the bed like he’d been electrocuted.
His hand flew to her hair, fingers curling into the strands, not to shove or pull but anchor—a desperate tether to reality as he gently tugged her back, trying to put even a breath of distance between her mouth and his impending collapse.
“I fucking hate you for that,” he panted, his voice hoarse, disbelieving, like she’d just hexed him.
But she only looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, the corners of her lips curling around the spit-slick head of his cock in a smile that was all mischief and command. “No you don’t,” she purred, voice thick with satisfaction, breath warm against his skin.
Before he could respond—before he could even think—she sank back down, swallowing him again in one slow, devastating motion, lips sliding over him with obscene ease.
Rafe’s head fell back against the pillow with a groan so soft it sounded like prayer. His fingers tightened in her hair as she bobbed her head, finding a rhythm that was both deliberate and devastating, like she wanted him trembling, like she likedhaving this much power.
The camera, forgotten for a moment, dipped slightly as his arm lost strength—capturing a raw, perfect angle of her mouth wrapped around him, spit slicking her chin, her throat working with every drag.
When he felt the pressure begin to mount—hips twitching, thighs taut, breath faltering in shallow bursts—Rafe gave a gentle, trembling nudge against the back of her head, fingers still tangled in her hair like he was asking, please. She didn’t resist. Didn’t flinch. She let him guide her deeper, slow and steady, taking him into the velvet heat of her throat until he was fully seated, her nose brushing the base, her hands braced against his hips to steady herself.
His other hand, the one still clutching the Canon, lifted with shaky precision, angling the lens downward to capture it—her mouth completely full, lips stretched wide, spit glistening, her throat bulging around him as she held him there like she could take all of him and more.
And then—his body stiffened, eyes flying wide for a heartbeat before fluttering shut, lips parted in a gasping exhale. His release hit hard, sudden and overwhelming, pouring into her with a cry that cracked at the edges. His grip on her hair tightened just enough to hold her there, to keep him buried deep as she swallowed around him, the convulsing of her throat only intensifying the aftershocks that rattled through him. She gagged once, a soft, choked sound as the tip nudged the back of her throat, but she didn’t stop. She took all of it, every last drop.
When it was over, she pulled back slowly, his cock sliding from her lips with a wet sound that made his spent body twitch, a thin string of saliva still clinging to her tongue before she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her eyes met his—dark, satisfied, smug—and Rafe could do nothing but collapse back into the pillows, eyes closed, chest heaving.
“Fucking hell,” he breathed out, voice raw, barely there. His body was boneless, flushed and limp and ruined.
But that blissful stillness didn’t last.
Because before he could even come down completely, he saw her shimmy out of the last remaining scrap of black lace, sliding her panties down her thighs with maddening ease. His heart stuttered. She climbed back over him, straddling him again like she’d earned it—and she had—hips poised over him, her skin flushed and glowing, lips still damp, eyes half-lidded with intent.
He watched—helpless and hypnotized—as she reached between them, fingers wrapping around his now-sensitive cock, still slick from her mouth, guiding him through the wet heat of her folds. Just once. Twice. And then—
“Jesus,” Rafe whispered, breath hitched, as the camera caught the moment her hips sank, slow and smooth, taking him in inch by aching inch. The lens trembled as he zoomed in, capturing the obscene beauty of it—the stretch, the wet slide, the perfect way she molded around him.
“Fuck,” she moaned, her head falling back, lips parting on a gasp, spine arching beautifully as she took him to the hilt. Her brows furrowed in pleasure, lashes fluttering like she could barely keep her eyes open.
Rafe's eyes flicked between the viewfinder and the real thing, completely mesmerized. He tilted the camera upward, just in time to catch the full scope of her wrecked expression—eyes shut, mouth open, cheeks flushed, looking like something holy come undone.
“You feel so good,” he whispered, reverently, like he was confessing to a sin and begging for it to never end. His free hand slid up to her hip, fingers pressing into the soft curve there, grounding himself as her warmth surrounded him.
He could feel her pulse around him. Hear the way she gasped softly through every inch she took. And all he could think—blinking up at her through fogged lenses and a camera shaking in his grip—was that he never wanted to forget a single second of this.
She rode him like she knew she was being watched, liked being watched—by him, by the red blinking eye of the camera, by the hunger in his gaze that devoured every motion, every twitch of her hips, every breathless little whimper she let slip. Her hands braced against his chest, nails leaving soft crescents in his skin as she rocked on top of him in slow, controlled waves, grinding down with that practiced roll of her hips like she’d done this a thousand times in her mind. Maybe she had.
Her thighs flexed with every motion, the black cotton of her socks hugging just below the soft swell of her skin, sticky now with sweat and the slick mess between them. She was drenched—Rafe could see it, feel it—how wet she was, how her cunt gripped him every time she lifted and sank again, pulling him deeper with each pass. He couldn’t stop moaning. Couldn’t stop filming. Couldn’t stop watching.
The camera was angled up now, catching the curve of her body as she bounced gently, the lace of her bra askew, one strap fallen, tits rising and falling with every movement. Her head tipped back, lips parted, the softest sounds leaving her throat—pretty, whimpering gasps that made his hips buck involuntarily beneath her.
“Jesus Christ, baby,” Rafe rasped, the hand not holding the camera sliding up her side, gripping her waist tight, trying to steady the ache building behind his ribs. “You’re so—fuck, you’re so fucking perfect. Putting on a show for me, huh?”
She looked down at him through heavy lashes, sweat dotting her temple, hair clinging to her damp cheeks. “Mhm,” she breathed, a breathless smile curling at her lips, “Figured I’d give you something worth replaying.”
And fuck if she wasn’t succeeding. Every bounce, every grind, every time she circled her hips like she was milking him, Rafe nearly lost it. He zoomed in again, the shaky lens capturing the perfect, raw glide of his cock disappearing inside her soaked heat, the way her pussy clung to him, slick and tight and fluttering.
But soon—too soon—her thighs started to tremble, rhythm faltering as she let out a soft, desperate noise and collapsed forward onto his chest, burying her face into the crook of his neck. “Rafe…” she whimpered, voice cracked and breathless, “I can’t—I can’t anymore.”
And that was all he needed.
Rafe didn’t hesitate. In one fluid, breathless motion, he set the camera down at the edge of the bed—careful to not knock it off the bed—before gripping her hips and flipping them, rolling her onto her back and settling between her legs with a low, feral groan. Her thighs fell open for him instinctively, and he didn’t even pause.
He grabbed the camera again with one hand, held it steady, and watched through the screen as he guided his cock back to her glistening cunt. She was pulsing around nothing, wet and twitching and begging to be filled again.
He lined himself up, nudged the swollen head against her entrance—and then pushed in, slow and unrelenting, splitting her open again with a deep, broken moan.
The camera caught everything. The wet sound of him sliding back into her soaked heat. The obscene way her hole stretched around him, fluttering, like she was trying to keep him inside. The way her thighs jerked and her stomach tensed, hands flying to his shoulders as her back arched off the bed.
“Look at that,” Rafe breathed, voice wrecked, staring through the lens with something like awe. “Fuck, look at how you take me. Look at that pussy, baby—spasming around my dick like she missed me.”
She cried out, incoherent, writhing beneath him as he bottomed out, hips flush against her, free hand gripping her thigh now as he started to fuck into her properly—hard, deep, slow enough to feel every drag and squeeze.
The camera rocked with every thrust, catching every slick sound, every obscene inch of him disappearing into her tight, quivering heat. And Rafe—sweat-slicked, flushed, glasses half-off his face—looked like a man possessed.
Like he’d never stop.
Like he’d fuck her through the lens and straight into memory.
He drove into her with a rhythm that had long since abandoned restraint—sharp, deliberate thrusts that hit so deep she could feel him in her ribs. The bed creaked beneath them, his hips smacking into hers, the sound echoing low and guttural under her breathless moans.
The camera, still clutched in one hand, captured the frantic blur of their bodies moving in tandem. His other hand—broad, warm, possessive—slid between them and found her clit with ease, two fingers circling the neglected bundle of nerves with unrelenting precision.
Her reaction was immediate.
She arched clean off the bed, a broken cry tumbling from her throat as her back bowed and her thighs trembled. Her cunt clenched around him in tight, rhythmic pulses that nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.
“Yeah?” Rafe panted, dark eyes locked on the way her body writhed under him. “You gonna cum, baby? Hm? You gonna fall apart on me?”
She could barely manage a nod, lips parted around a soundless gasp, eyes rolling back as her muscles began to flutter violently around him.
“C’mon,” he coaxed, voice hoarse, his thumb drawing tight circles, “Cum for me. Let go—fuck—I got you.”
With a soft, shattered sob, her legs wrapped around his hips, locking him in place as her orgasm tore through her—spasming, fluttering, her pussy milking his cock with desperate urgency.
“F-fuck,” Rafe hissed, eyes screwing shut as the spasms dragged him under with her. Her warmth, her tightness, the way she clenched around him like she needed every drop—he couldn’t hold on.
His own orgasm slammed into him with a choked whimper, hips jerking as he spilled inside her, filling her to the brim in thick, pulsing waves.
He buried himself to the hilt, riding it out as she trembled beneath him, both of them breathless, slick with sweat, dazed in the aftermath.
“Fucking hell…” he exhaled, his voice barely above a whisper. Slowly, tenderly, he withdrew, hissing softly as her walls clung to him all the way out. A lazy, milky trail of cum followed, slicking her thighs and the sheets below.
Rafe adjusted the camera with one last lazy flick of his wrist, angling it toward the mess between her legs, zooming in on the way his release leaked from her swollen, spent pussy. His lips curved into a smug little grin as he admired the sight—like he’d just made art.
After a beat, he turned the lens up toward her face.
She lay motionless, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted, skin flushed and glowing in the low light. Completely fucked-out. Utterly ethereal.
“So beautiful,” he murmured, so softly it was almost to himself, as if the moment was too sacred for anything louder.
He switched off the camera. Waited to make sure it saved. Then set it carefully on the bedside table like something precious, irreplaceable.
Rafe sank back onto the mattress beside her, chest still heaving, muscles trembling faintly. He pulled her to him without a word, letting her nestle against his chest, her bare skin warm and damp against his.
She tucked her head beneath his chin, eyelids already drooping, breath slowing with the quiet ease of sleep beginning to take her.
Rafe blinked up at the ceiling, hand absently stroking her back, the silence thick and sweet.
In his arms, she sighed—and within moments, she was gone.
Rafe had just begun to slip into that warm, post-orgasmic haze of sleep—his breathing shallow, her weight soft and grounding on his chest—when his phone buzzed obnoxiously against the nightstand.
He groaned, reaching out blindly with one hand, careful not to jostle her. His fingers wrapped around the phone, screen flaring to life. Predictably, it was them.
bro get on apex or kill urself
you promised we’d clear the goddamn event tonight
rafe don’t be a whore answer us
Rafe snorted under his breath. His thumb hovered over the keyboard—but instead of replying, he flicked open the camera app. He angled the phone so it caught the image perfectly: him, shirtless, flushed, a crooked, smug little grin tugging at his lips. And draped across his chest, fast asleep and bare-skinned save for the soft drape of his sheet, was her. Completely knocked out. Her cheek rested just above his heart, mouth parted, lashes kissing the tops of her cheeks.
He snapped the pic. A single quiet trophy.
And then, with a devil-may-care swipe, he dropped it into the group chat—a chat that, truthfully, was less a place for actual communication and more a running chaos log of their unfiltered bullshit. Gaming scores, porn links, thirst traps, conspiracy theories, and Topper’s latest attempts at TikTok fame all fought for dominance. This? This was content.
The response was instant.
my boy got laid🙏🏿 God is real
I WILL LITERALLY GIVE YOU MY GOOD KIDNEY FOR IT🙏🏻
why the fuck do you only have one good kidney???
can you question my lifestyle choices some other time please?? RAFE GOT LAID
and she looks completely fucked out
bro she looks like she got sent to the astral plane 💀 wtf did you do to her???
don’t explain just send a tape. cause I know your horny ass recorded at LEAST SOMETHING
Rafe rolled his eyes, though a crooked smirk tugged at his lips anyway. He tucked the phone under his arm and glanced down at her.
She was still fast asleep, the rise and fall of her breathing slow and even, her lashes fluttering faintly like she was dreaming. Probably something soft. Or maybe something filthy.
Either way, he wasn’t about to tell them anything.
They could use their imaginations.
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