Anti Valentine’s, Pro-You
💌 Moondustbaby’s Valentines Special 💌
summary: You and Rafe have always made fun of Valentine’s Day, spending it together with movies and junk food instead of dates. This year, the jokes get quieter, the touches last longer, and your “anti-Valentine’s” sleepover ends with you finally crossing that line you’ve both been toeing for years.
cw: smut, friends to lovers, dry humping, fingering, unprotected piv sex, lots of praise
Rafe’s been on a roll all week.
Every time a commercial comes on TV with roses or diamonds or some poor man sweating over a heart-shaped pizza, he does the same routine—groaning like he’s in agony, flopping onto whatever surface is available, muttering about capitalism and “Hallmark brainwashing the masses.”
And you, of course, always match his energy.
“Imagine needing one day a year to act like a decent boyfriend” you’d scoffed two nights ago, stealing the last fry off his plate.
“Couldn’t be me” Rafe had agreed, nudging your knee under the booth. “My imaginary girlfriend gets bare minimum affection year round.”
You’d kicked him for that one, but your heart had done that annoying little stumble it always does when he calls you his anything.
You’ve both always been loudly anti-Valentine’s. It’s part bit, part genuine—making fun of overpriced flowers, mocking couples’ Instagram captions, talking big about how you’d rather drink beer on the beach than sit in some overcrowded restaurant with a prix fixe menu and bad music.
But this year… it’s been weird.
Maybe because you’re both single. Maybe because more of your friends are in relationships now. Maybe because every time you scroll, it’s another bouquet, another “to the love of my life” mushy post, another reminder that you and Rafe are… whatever you are.
Anyway, it leads to this:
Just you and him. His place. Takeout, movies, a firm ban on romance.
you: u better have snacks
rafe: do i ever not have snacks
you: valid. anti v movie lineup locked in?
rafe: only the worst. see u tonight, date
Your stomach had flipped at that last one for no good reason.
You’re still thinking about it when you walk up the driveway to Tannyhill, hoodie zipped halfway, your breath ghosting in the cold February air. The big house glows warm against the winter-dark, light spilling out through the front windows, shadows moving from the TV in the living room.
You don’t knock. You haven’t knocked since you were, like, six.
But tonight, for some reason, your hand hovers over the doorknob for a second—heart tapping a weird rhythm in your chest—before you shove it open and call out, “Rayyy!”
“In here!” he yells back.
His voice comes from upstairs, so you take the steps two at a time, like you’re twelve again and racing him to see who can get to his room first.
You stop dead in the hallway when you see him.
He’s standing in his bedroom doorway in gray sweats that hang low on his hips and a white t-shirt that’s seen better days. Hair a little messy, like he’s run his hands through it too much. Bare feet. Soft eyes that go warmer when they land on you.
And in his hands—of course—is the ugliest bouquet you’ve ever seen.
Like, truly awful. Grocery store roses that are already kind of droopy, wrapped in cheap crinkly plastic, complete with a sad little bow. In his other hand, a heart-shaped box of candy that definitely came from the gas station down the road.
“Oh my god” you say, bursting into laughter. “No you didn’t.”
He shrugs, mouth pulling up at one corner. “Relax, it’s ironic.”
You cross your arms. “Gas station flowers and a heart-shaped box of chocolate is your idea of irony?”
“Yeah. Like, the most cliché shit possible.” He steps closer, holding them out to you anyway. His ears are a little pink. “It’s funny.”
You should keep roasting him. You should tell him it’s pathetic. You should snap a picture to send to Sarah with a caption like your brother has lost his mind.
But something about the way he’s looking at you—hopeful, almost shy under the bullshit—makes your throat tighten.
“Happy Anti-Valentine’s, bug” he says, softer now.
You roll your eyes purely for survival. “Wow, Rafe, you really know how to sweep a girl off her feet.”
He smirks, recovering his swagger. “Just remember this when I win Boyfriend of the Year for my hypothetical girlfriend.”
You clutch the bouquet to your chest. “She’s a lucky, lucky woman.”
His gaze flicks to your mouth for half a second, quick enough that you could pretend you imagined it. Then he clears his throat, steps back, holds up the candy.
“Also got these” he says. “They were by the register. Guy upsold me.”
“You got scammed by a seasonal display.”
“You’re a menace” you murmur, but you take the chocolates too, fingers brushing his, and it’s not a big deal. It shouldn’t be a big deal. You’ve had your hands all over each other your entire lives—piggyback rides, hand-holding across streets, his palm on the small of your back in crowded parties.
But tonight, there’s a little static that jumps between you when your skin touches. Your chest flutters.
You change into his t-shirt in the bathroom because it feels like a thing you shouldn’t just casually do in front of him tonight. You’re already in soft shorts, but your own top gets swapped for one of his big old OBX shirts, the cotton worn and soft.
It smells like his detergent, like his room, like him.
You try not to think too hard about that as you crawl onto his bed, plopping against the headboard, adjusting your pillow.
Rafe comes back from the kitchen with a huge bowl of popcorn balanced on one forearm and a couple of sodas pressed against his chest.
“Okay” he says, letting everything drop onto the bed. “So we’ve got three options for our Anti-V lineup.”
You tuck your knees up under his shirt, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. “Hit me.”
“One,” he holds up a finger, “we watch the worst romantic comedies we can find and roast the shit out of them.”
“Strong start” you say, grabbing a handful of popcorn.
“Two, we go full horror and cleanse our brains anytime someone on Instagram posts a ‘to the love of my life’ caption.”
“Three, we watch the dumbest action movie known to man and pretend it’s a metaphor for how we’re fighting the heteronormative Valentine’s industrial complex.”
You blink slowly. “You just wanted to say ‘heteronormative Valentine’s industrial complex.’”
“Yeah, but it sounded smart, right?”
You end up with option one. A truly terrible rom-com fills the screen—cheesy music, over-saturated colors, fake snow despite the Valentine’s day setting.
You and Rafe settle in on the bed, backs against the headboard, shoulders touching.
He shifts so his arm is casually slung along the back of the bed, and it’s natural, automatic, to lean into his side. You’ve done it a thousand times. His body is familiar—solid warmth and the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
He makes some comment about the lead guy’s haircut; you snort popcorn, he laughs too hard at you choking.
Thirty minutes in, the insults get softer around the edges. You’ve eaten half the bowl; there’s butter on your fingers and salt on your lips.
On screen, the main couple does some grand gesture in the rain. Rafe groans.
“If someone did that for me, I’d move states” he mutters.
“No, I’d file a restraining order.”
“I don’t need a valentine” he says, eyes still on the TV. His voice is casual, but there’s something under it. “I have you.”
He has said versions of that a hundred times. Who needs anyone else, I’ve got you. You’re my person. Don’t need a therapist, I have you.
But tonight, the line hangs between you in a different way. Heavy. Important.
His profile is lit by the blue glow of the TV, jaw tense, throat working as he swallows. You can see the little muscle jump in his cheek.
“Yeah, well” you say softly, “same.”
His arm dips from the headboard to your shoulders, pulling you closer. You go easily, curling into his side. His hand starts tracing slow circles on your upper arm, thumb brushing bare skin where the sleeve of his t-shirt has ridden up.
It’s thoughtless, probably. Rafe’s always touched you like this, gentle and sure and without asking.
Still, your skin wakes up under his fingers. Heat unfurls low in your belly, a slow, dangerous ache.
The movie keeps playing. You stop paying attention.
—his breath fanning your temple.
—the steady thump of his heart where your cheek rests against his chest.
—the way his thumb drags absentmindedly over the curve of your shoulder, over and over, like he can’t not touch you.
You shift, just a little, to get more comfortable. Your bare knee bumps his thigh. His hand pauses for half a second, then keeps moving—but now his fingers skim lower, down your arm, then up again, drawing goosebumps in their wake.
You tilt your face up to say something—some joke, some deflection, anything to cut through this thick, humming tension.
He’s already looking down at you.
The rest of the world falls away.
Up close, you can see every little detail of him—dark lashes, the faint scatter of freckles across his nose, the tiny scar at his eyebrow from when he fell off his bike when he was eight and refused to cry in front of you.
His eyes flick to your mouth. Your breath catches.
“Yeah?” His voice is rougher now.
There’s a kernel of popcorn stuck to the corner of your lip. He lifts his hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, thumb rubbing gently across your mouth to swipe it away.
Except then his gaze snags on where his thumb is. On your lips parting around the touch.
The TV laughs in the background. Neither of you does.
“Bug” he says quietly, thumb still resting against your bottom lip. “You’ve got…”
He trails off. You can feel his pulse, racing, in the pad of his thumb.
“Is this—” You swallow. “Are we…?”
He huffs out a shaky breath that’s almost a laugh. “I have no fucking idea.”
Your heart is pounding loud enough you’re sure he can feel it.
“We can just…” you start.
“That’s… that’s an option.”
His eyes search yours. For a second he looks almost scared.
Then he says, very softly, “Do you want me to stop?”
The honest answer punches out of you before you can think better of it.
Something cracks in his expression—relief, want, something you don’t dare name.
His thumb presses a little more firmly into your lip, tugging it down just enough to make your breath stutter. He watches your mouth like it’s the only thing in the room.
Then he leans in and kisses you.
It’s not a gentle, testing little peck. Of course it isn’t. This is you and Rafe, and nothing’s ever been halfway.
His mouth lands on yours like it’s been waiting forever, like he’s been holding himself back for years and finally, finally let the dam break.
His free hand cups the back of your neck, fingers sliding into your hair, tilting your head exactly where he wants you. You make a surprised noise against his lips, fingers curling in the front of his t-shirt.
He chases that noise, deepens the kiss, lips moving over yours with this hungry, almost desperate focus.
You’ve thought about this. You’ve pretended you haven’t, but you have. Late at night, when he drops you off and waits until you’re inside before pulling away. On long car rides, when his hand sits palm-up on the console, and you put yours in it without thinking.
But none of that touches the reality of his mouth on yours.
The warmth, the taste of butter and sugar and Rafe. The way he groans low in his chest when you part your lips for him, letting his tongue swipe against yours, messy and a little clumsy and perfect.
You tighten your grip on his shirt and pull.
He goes willingly, letting you drag him down until he’s half on top of you, until the popcorn bowl tips and spills forgotten across the bed.
His weight presses you into the mattress, a solid, anchoring heat. You arch up into him without thinking, your chest flush to his, your legs tangling with his.
“Shit” he mutters against your mouth, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. “Bug, fuck…”
You should stop. You should. This is Rafe. This is your best friend. The person who knows your worst secrets and your favorite snack combo and the exact face you make when you’re trying not to cry.
One wrong move and you could blow up everything.
But with his hand warm on your hip and his mouth moving over yours like he’s starved for it, your brain is just white noise and want.
He pulls back barely an inch, breathing hard, forehead resting against yours. His hand spreads over your stomach, thumb rubbing slow circles into the sliver of skin where your borrowed shirt has ridden up.
“We’re—” His voice is wrecked. “We’re supposed to be making fun of people like this.”
You let out a breathy, hysterical little laugh. “We’re huge hypocrites.”
His mouth brushes your cheek, your jaw. “Yeah. Guess so.”
Your eyes meet. It’s all right there—years of friendship and shared jokes and stupid inside references; nights spent on this very bed, shoulder to shoulder, falling asleep halfway through a movie; all the almosts you’ve carefully ignored.
“I’ve wanted this forever” you admit, voice shaking.
Something in his face breaks.
“Fuck” he whispers. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”
“I mean it.” Your fingers cradle his jaw. “Ray, I—”
He kisses you again, cutting off whatever risky thing you were about to say. This time you roll with him, turn with him, until you’re straddling his lap, knees bracketing his hips, his hands flying to your thighs like magnets.
He drags you closer, pulling you fully onto him. You land right over the hard line beneath his sweats, the realization sparking through you like livewire.
“Sorry” you blurt, trying to shift away.
His hands clamp down on your hips, keeping you right where you are. “Don’t” he says, low. “Please don’t.”
He tips his head back to look up at you. From this angle, eyes blown wide and hair mussed, he looks young. Vulnerable. Yours.
“You’re not ruining anything” he says. “You couldn’t ruin us if you tried.”
You search his face. “You don’t know that.”
He huffs, a little breathless. “You really think I’m doing this, all of this, if I haven’t thought about it? I’ve wanted you on me like this since… hell, since before I knew what it meant.”
The confession knocks the air out of you.
His grip on your hips tightens. “I don’t need a valentine” he says again, firmer now, like he’s staking a claim. “I have you. I’ve always had you.”
Your heart aches, full and hurting all at once.
“I’m scared” you whisper.
“Me too” he admits immediately. “Terrified. But I’m more scared of not doing this and watching some other guy get to have you instead.”
“Okay” you repeat, voice steadier. “Kiss me again.”
His answering smile is shaky and bright and devastating. “Yes, ma’am.”
It’s messy, of course it is.
You’re both too worked up, too wired, years of unsaid things snapping into something physical all at once.
His hands are everywhere—your back, your thighs, sliding under his t-shirt to find bare skin. You shimmy forward to get closer, and your shorts hitched up, the rough cotton catching on the curve of your ass as you move.
He curses into your mouth. “Bug, you’re gonna kill me.”
“You’ll be fine” you murmur, rolling your hips.
He groans, head thunking back against the headboard, fingers digging into your hips hard enough you’ll feel the bruises tomorrow. His eyes flutter shut for a second as you grind down on him, the friction sending sharp little sparks of pleasure up your spine.
“Fuck” he breathes. “You’re… that feels…”
You do it again, because now you want to see him fall apart like this.
He opens his eyes, dark and heavy and fixed entirely on you. “You know you’re mine, right?” he asks suddenly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve been mine since we were kids.”
Your breath catches, a new wave of heat flooding you.
He nods, tugging you down so your foreheads touch. “Yeah. My bug. My girl. You just didn’t let me say it like this before.”
You kiss him instead of trying to respond to that, because you might cry if you do. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through his shirt.
“Can I—?” He breaks the kiss to ask, voice rough. “Need you to tell me if it’s too much, okay?”
It takes you a second to process. Then you realize he’s asking if he can touch you more, if this is okay, if you’re okay.
“Rafe” you say, breathless and sure. “I want you to.”
He exhales like he’s been holding it for years.
The next thing you know, his hands are under the hem of the shirt, pushing it up. You lift your arms, letting him peel it off you, suddenly bared to his hungry gaze in your simple bra and little shorts.
He goes completely still.
You squirm, suddenly self-conscious. “Don’t stare.”
“Shut up” he says hoarsely. “You’re… you’re so fucking pretty, bug. You know that?”
You don’t, not really, but you let him look at you like this, like you’re the first beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
His hands move slower now, skating up over your ribs, thumbs grazing the edge of your bra, then carefully cupping your breasts through the thin fabric.
You gasp, back arching into his touch. He swallows, eyes tracking every reaction like he’s taking notes.
“Yeah” you breathe. “Yeah, Ray, that’s… god.”
He grins, a little smug, thumb flicking over your nipple. “You’re so sensitive.”
He does, laughing into your mouth, hands never leaving your chest, kneading gently. You rock against him, feeling the hard line of him trapped by his sweats, your shorts damp where you’re pressing down.
“Baby” he groans, the new endearment slipping out rough and low. “If you keep doing that…”
You tilt your hips deliberately. “What? Tell me.”
“You’re evil” he mutters. “Always have been.”
You laugh, high on the way he’s looking at you, high on everything. “You love it.”
“Yeah” he says honestly. “I do.”
You kiss him until you’re both dizzy. At some point, his hands slide down to your waistband, fingers toying with the elastic.
“Can I take these off?” he asks, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye.
You nod so fast you’re surprised your head stays attached. “Please.”
He moves carefully, like you’re fragile and he’s huge. You scoot back just enough to let him tug your shorts down your legs and drop them off the side of the bed.
Then you’re sitting in his lap in just your underwear, bare skin against his thighs, and he’s staring at you like he might combust.
“You’re killing me” he says again, strained. “You really, really are.”
“You’re still wearing too many clothes” you point out, emboldened.
His mouth quirks. “Yeah? You wanna help with that?”
Between fumbling kisses and half-laughs, you both manage to get his shirt off. You’ve seen him shirtless a thousand times—beach days, pool parties, long hot summers—but it feels different now, like you’re seeing something new.
You run your hands over his chest, feeling muscle and warmth and the steady thump of his heart under your palm. He shivers.
“You’re shaking” you murmur.
“So are you” he says. “We’re even.”
You smile, then let your hands slide lower, to the waistband of his sweats. The bulge there makes your cheeks heat, but you push past the nerves, fingers curling into the fabric.
He swears softly. “Yeah. Yeah, bug, whatever you want.”
You ease the sweats down his hips, and he lifts his hips to help you, revealing dark boxer briefs that do nothing to hide how hard he is. Your breath catches.
He watches your face carefully. “Too much?”
You shake your head, mesmerized. “No. Just… new.”
He smiles faintly. “Guess we’re doing a lot of new tonight.”
You nod, swallow, then meet his eyes. “I’m on the pill” you blurt, because your brain is a mess of want and practical anxieties. “I just… wanted you to know.”
His expression flashes with something hot and possessive. “You… fuck.” He inhales sharply. “You trust me like that?”
“I trust you with… everything” you say honestly.
He closes his eyes for a second, like he’s centering himself. When he opens them again, they’re blazing.
You go, climbing back into his lap, thighs bracketing his hips. His hands slide to your ass, fingers digging in as he pulls you down to grind against him.
You gasp, the pressure just right. He groans, head falling back.
“Baby” he rasps. “You feel… fuck, you feel insane.”
You rock again, chasing that friction, your panties damp and clinging, his cock hard and hot under the thin cotton of his briefs.
Soon you’re moving without thinking, slow circles and little thrusts of your hips, your hands braced on his shoulders.
He catches your mouth again, kissing you like he’s drowning and you’re the only air.
When you whimper against his lips, he pulls back just enough to murmur, “Tell me what you need.”
You’re not used to saying it out loud. Not with him. Not with anyone.
But this is Rafe. Your Rafe. Who’s seen you ugly-cry and snort-laugh and throw up after that one disastrous kegger. Who still calls you bug and steals your socks and knows how you take your coffee.
“I need you” you say, voice shaking. “I need… more.”
“Yeah?” His thumb strokes your hip. “You want me to touch you?”
You nod, cheeks flaming. “Please.”
He swallows, then carefully slips one hand between your bodies, fingers curving down over your stomach to the waistband of your panties.
He pauses. “Last chance to kick me out, bug.”
You grab his wrist. “Rafe. I want this. I want you.”
The sound he makes is almost a growl.
His fingers slide under the elastic, brushing through the damp heat of you. You jerk, a soft moan escaping before you can bite it back.
“Fuck” he breathes. “You’re so wet.”
“Can’t” he says, but his voice is reverent, not mocking. “Been dreaming about this too long.”
His fingertips find your clit with embarrassing ease—a lifetime of knowing you apparently translates into knowing exactly how to touch you—and he starts slow, gentle circles that make your eyes roll back.
“Ray” you whine, forehead falling to his shoulder. “Oh my god.”
“That good?” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “Feels good, baby?”
“Yes” you gasp. “Yes, yes…”
He keeps his rhythm steady, working you with this focused, careful intensity, like he’s trying to memorize every sound you make.
He presses a kiss to your hairline. “You sound so pretty. Been wanting to hear you like this for so fucking long.”
You cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders.
When your hips start moving against his hand, chasing more, he slips his fingers lower, teasing your entrance.
“You okay?” he asks again. “Can I…?”
He slides one finger inside you, slowly, watching your face the whole time. You gasp, body tensing, then relaxing around the stretch.
“There you go” he murmurs. “That’s it, baby. Taking me so good.”
He adds another finger when you’re ready, working them in and out, crooking them just right, his thumb never leaving your clit. Heat builds fast, sharp and overwhelming.
“Rafe—” you choke out. “I’m gonna—”
“Yeah?” He sounds wrecked. “Already? That’s my girl.”
The possessive thread in his voice makes you clench around his fingers, a broken whimper spilling from you.
“Look at you” he says, eyes dark. “Falling apart on my hand. You’re mine. You know that?”
You try to answer, but your orgasm crashes over you before you can, ripping through you in waves. You cry out, biting into his shoulder to muffle it, your whole body shuddering.
He holds you through it, fingers gentle but unrelenting, thumb working you down easy, murmuring praise against your skin.
“Good girl” he whispers. “So good for me. You’re okay, I’ve got you.”
When you finally sag against him, boneless and trembling, he eases his hand out, rubbing soothing circles on your back while you catch your breath.
You’re still panting when you feel him, hard and insistent against your thigh.
You lift your head, meet his eyes. He looks like he’s hanging by a thread—jaw clenched, sweat at his hairline, fists bunching in the sheets.
His jaw flexes. “You sure? Because we can stop here. I don’t need—”
“I do” you cut in. “I want all of you. Please.”
He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, like he’s praying for strength. When he opens them again, they’re blazing.
“Okay” he says. “Okay, baby. Just… lie back for me, yeah?”
You slide off his lap and onto the mattress, head landing on the pillows, heart pounding. He kneels between your legs, staring down at you like he can’t believe you’re real.
“Jesus” he mutters. “You’re… you’re everything.”
You blush, suddenly shy under the weight of his gaze.
He leans down, kissing you slow and sweet, before trailing his mouth along your jaw, your throat, the tops of your breasts. He unhooks your bra with frustrating ease, pulling it away and tossing it aside.
“Fuck” he whispers. “Even better than I imagined.”
You’re about to tease him for imagining, but then his mouth closes around your nipple and your brain just… stops.
He takes his time with you, kissing and sucking and biting gently until you’re squirming, hands in his hair, whimpering his name.
When he finally shoves his boxers down, you watch, wide-eyed, as his cock springs free, thick and hard and flushed. Your breath catches.
He notices instantly. “You okay?”
You nod, cheeks burning. “Just… big.”
He grins, smug and a little nervous. “I’ll go slow.”
He leans over you again, bracing one arm by your head, the other guiding himself to your entrance. He pauses, eyes locked to yours.
“Tell me if it hurts” he says. “Or if you want me to stop. I mean it.”
“I trust you” you whisper.
He kisses you once, soft and sure, and then he pushes in.
The stretch is intense, bordering on too much, and you gasp, nails biting into his shoulders.
His face crumples. “Shit, I’m sorry—”
“It’s okay. Don’t stop.” you pant. “Just… go slow.”
He does. Inch by inch, letting you adjust, stopping whenever your breath catches too sharply, rubbing his thumb soothingly over your hip.
“Doing so good” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Taking me so well, bug. You feel… god, you feel perfect.”
You breathe through it, focusing on his voice, his weight, the way he’s holding himself back for you. After a moment, the sting fades, replaced by a deep, full ache that makes your toes curl.
“Okay” you say, exhaling. “Okay, I’m good. You can move.”
He stares at you like you’ve just offered him the world.
He pulls out an inch, then slides back in, and oh.
The friction hits that sweet, sensitive spot inside you, and you moan, loud and shameless.
His eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck, don’t do that. I’m trying to be a gentleman here.”
“You’re failing” you whisper.
He laughs, broken and thrilled, and starts to move.
It’s not smooth at first. He’s too worked up, hips stuttering, breath coming in hot pants against your cheek. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans, dropping his forehead to yours.
“Shit, baby” he gasps. “You’re… I’m not gonna last if you keep doing that.”
“Then don’t keep me waiting” you murmur, kissing him.
He finds a rhythm—deep, steady thrusts that make you feel every inch of him, his hips pressing into yours, his pelvis grinding just right against your clit. Every drag and push sends a shiver up your spine.
You cling to him, nails scratching lightly down his back, head tipped back as little sounds spill from your mouth with every movement.
He drinks them in like he needs them to survive.
“That’s it” he pants. “Let me hear you. Sounds so pretty, bug. So fucking pretty.”
You can feel him everywhere—inside you, over you, under your skin. Your best friend, your constant, now wrapped around you in every possible way.
He ducks his head to your neck, kissing the spot just below your ear that’s always made you melt. “You’re mine” he murmurs against your skin. “Always have been. Don’t need a card or some stupid heart balloon to prove it. I’ve got you. You’re my girl.”
You whimper, a fresh wave of heat slamming into you.
He slips a hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit again, working it in time with his thrusts. The double sensation hits you like lightning.
“Rafe” you choke out. “I— I’m close.”
His pace gets a little ragged, but he doesn’t falter, focused entirely on your pleasure.
“That’s it” he grits. “Come on, baby. Come for me. Wanna feel you.”
You fall apart with his name on your lips.
Your orgasm rips through you, sharp and blinding, your entire body clenching around him. You cry out, fingers digging into his shoulders, back arching off the mattress.
He groans, a raw, punched-out sound, as your walls clamp down on him. “Fuck, bug— you’re… I can’t—”
He pushes in deep, burying himself to the hilt, and you feel him shudder as he finally lets go, spilling warmth inside you with a strangled gasp.
For a moment, everything is just heat and heartbeat and the sound of your breaths tangling in the air.
Then the edges of the world slowly come back into focus. The TV is still playing some ridiculous montage in the background; the bowl of popcorn is overturned, kernels in the sheets. Somewhere downstairs, the old house creaks.
Rafe is heavy on top of you, braced on shaking arms, eyes squeezed shut like he’s afraid to open them.
You lift a hand, brush sweaty hair off his forehead. “Hey”
There it is again—that flash of fear. Vulnerability. Like he’s braced for you to push him away.
You smile, unexpected tears pricking your eyes. “Hi.”
“Are you okay?” he asks immediately. “Did I hurt you? I tried to go slow, but—”
“Rafe” you cut in gently. “I’m okay. You were… you were perfect.”
His shoulders sag with relief. “Yeah?”
You nod, thumb rubbing his cheek. “Yeah.”
He searches your face. “We’re okay? You’re not… you don’t regret…?”
You shake your head. “No. Do you?”
He looks at you like you just asked if he regrets breathing.
“I’ve wanted this since I was old enough to know what wanting you even meant,” he says quietly. “You’re my best friend. You’re… you’re it for me.”
The words hit you square in the chest.
Your throat closes. “Say that again.”
He swallows. “You’re it for me.”
You pull him down and kiss him, slow and lingering, tasting every word on his tongue.
When you finally part, you press your forehead to his. “I don’t need a valentine,” you whisper, echoing him. “I have you.”
“Good” he says. “Because you’re stuck with me now.”
“Okay, more stuck with me,” he amends. He shifts, slipping out of you carefully, making sure you’re okay before rolling to the side and pulling you into his chest.
You curl into him, his arms wrapping around you, the steady thump of his heart under your ear. He reaches blindly for the blanket at the foot of the bed and drags it up over the both of you.
The movie credits roll; neither of you look.
“So…” you say after a moment, voice muffled against his chest. “Does this mean we’re boycotting Valentine’s again next year, or…?”
He huffs out a laugh, kissing the top of your head. “I mean, I was thinking maybe I upgrade from gas station flowers to something that doesn’t look like it was fished out of a dumpster.”
“For my girl? Yeah.” He squeezes you tighter. “But we can still roast everyone else. Equal opportunity haters.”
He’s quiet for a second, thumb tracing lazy patterns on your back.
“Hey, bug?” he says softly.
“Just so we’re clear” he says, voice going a little shy, “this wasn’t, like… a one-night Anti-V special. I’m… I want this. You. Us. For real.”
You tilt your head back to look at him. “Yeah?”
He nods, all fake bravado stripped away. “Yeah.”
You reach up, cup his jaw, and kiss him again, sweet and certain.
Outside, Valentine’s Day ticks by with all its clichés and noise.
Inside, it’s just you and him, finally letting yourselves have what’s been there all along.
a/n: happy wednesday babies! it’s another long one! this one took me no joke like 8 hours from start to finish 😭 i could not decide which way to go with it but i’m really happy with how it turned out in the end. bsf!rafe owns my whole heart actually. love you alll 🫶🏻
💘 Valentines Special Masterlist 💘
𝒯𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉: @psychicnatural @superlegend216 @rafesbabygirlx @raineshua @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @angelofcigs @tiaajosephin @sweetnastybunny @littleshinythoughts @outersbanksgirly @luvvrafey @maybejj @sunny1616 @UnsaidJaelinRose @rafessbaby @coastalcowgirlie
