#rafe is dad coded

it always starts with your boyfriend’s tone. short and irritated in a way that makes you feel like you're wrong before you even open your mouth. he tells you you’re too sensitive, that you’re making a big deal out of nothing, that you always do this. you try to explain. you’re patient, gentle, careful with your words. but he talks over you until your sentences lose shape. by the time you leave his place tonight, your chest aches and your eyes burn, and you’ve apologized for things you didn’t do just to keep the peace.

rafe told you from the beginning that he didn’t like him, and he didn’t cushion or soften it either. he said it once, like past experiences should've already done the math for you. he didn’t like the way he spoke to you. how you came home quieter than you left, or how it seemed like you’d been trained to walk on eggshells.

you told him it was different, that he didn’t know him like you did. but rafe looked at you, something quiet and earnest in his voice and said, “i know you.”

and now, sitting in the driveway with your hands tight on the wheel, eyes glassy and cheeks tear-stained, you realize he wasn’t guessing. he was waiting for you to catch up.

you walk inside without announcing yourself. you don’t slam doors or cry. you just move slower than usual, shoulders rounded like you’ve been carrying something heavy all day and finally ran out of places to set it down. the tv is on, but it’s so quiet it may as well be muted.

rafe is on the couch, legs spread, settled deep in the cushions like he’s earned the space. there’s an ease to him that comes from years of knowing his own weight. jeans worn thin at the knees, shirt loose at the collar, sleeves pushed up over forearms thick with muscle and old scars. his knuckles are scraped and bruised from work, and they wrap around the neck of a beer bottle slick with condensation. he looks solid. tired.

his eyes lift to you and drag down slow. they start at your face, linger on the shine in your eyes, then move down your body like he’s assessing damage. almost like he already knows what it means.

“take your shoes off,”

you hesitate, then bend and slip them off. they hit the floor softly.

“come sit.”

your head shakes before you can stop it, feeling embarrassed and tired from the emotional stress. “no, it’s okay,”

rafe doesn’t answer right away. he just watches you, patient and steady, like he’s waiting out weather.

“’m not askin’.”

you walk toward him because it feels like the next step of something that's already decided. when you’re close enough, his hand comes up and grips your waist, warm and calloused, fingers pressing into you like he already knows where you fit. he pulls you down onto his lap with a single, controlled movement, guiding instead of forcing.

“sit. right here,” he says quieter.

you do, even though it feels wrong the second you settle. his thigh is solid beneath you. his arm comes around your back, forearm resting there like a boundary and his hand settles on your thigh, palm flat, full contact, pressing you into place. it shouldn’t be there, but the warmth of it sinks into your skin anyway, and something about the touch triggers another quiet sniffle that threatens to turn into tears.

“easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and even, like he knows exactly how to reach you. “tell me what happened.”

so you do. you talk because stopping would mean thinking. and you don't wanna think. not right now. you tell him about the fight, about what was said, about how stupid it made you feel. you soften it out of habit, laughing once like it wasn’t that bad even though it was. rafe listens without interrupting, his thumb moving slowly against your thigh in the same measured rhythm, keeping you anchored while you ramble.

“i had a feelin’,” he says when you finish, nodding once as he takes a quick swig from the sweating bottle in his hand.

“’s why y’need someone who knows better,” he adds calmly, his eyes dipping briefly to your mouth before lifting again. you ask him what he means by that, voice thin but threaded with curiosity despite yourself. “you weren’t made to carry that kinda mess,” he says evenly. “you understand?”

rafe doesn't say it outright, but it's there in the way he looks at you. that you're too soft. too delicate for a world like that. too easily bruised to hold something so sharp without bleeding. you understand. and you nod, gazing at him through wet lashes.

his hand slide higher, callouses brushing rough against your skin. he doesn't move it far, just enough for his fingers to slip beneath the hem of your shorts. it’s precise. intentional. wrong in a way that tightens your stomach.

“you don’t need him,” he says, shaking his head slightly, eyes burning into you like the words are meant to take root. “jus’ need me.”

you shake your head and shift like you might pull away, like your body remembers itself too late. his grip tightens immediately, fingertips pressing into the soft skin of your thigh without urgency. it feels firm. corrective.

“'don’t— ‘m not finished with you,” he says, low and gruff, like it’s something he’s said before which earns a soft, barely audible 'i’m sorry' from you.

his hand leaves your thigh and comes to your jaw, thumb settling beneath it as he tilts your face down to get a better look at you, eyes drinking in how soft and broken you look sitting in his lap. “y’gunna behave f’me aren’t you? gunna be good?”

“i’ll be good,” you whisper softly, nodding your head though you’re not entirely sure what you’re agreeing to. his hand then moves to the back of your head to cradle it, fingers threading into your hair to hold you steady. you don't dare look away. you can’t. he looks at you like you’re fragile, like he’d taken responsibility for you a long time ago.

“good…” he pulls your face closer and leans in to kiss you before you can protest. “i knew you would.”

he doesn't ask, he just takes it. his mouth is cool from the beer. you feel the scrape of his stubble against your skin and the weight of his arm holding you there when your body tenses. you don’t kiss him back. you just let him do it.

when you pull away, breath uneven, he doesn’t follow. he just waits, watching. he looks at you for a long moment, eyes dragging to your mouth again, slower this time. you stare at him for a second too long, breath caught, cheeks warm with something like shame. your eyes drop, then flick back up, searching his face like you’re waiting for him to take it back.

“hey— ’s alright. don't be embarrassed,” he says quietly, voice low and gravelly like he’s trying to calm something in you. “this'll make it better, i promise. y’trust me, yeah?” his hand moves just the slightest bit higher beneath your shorts, and you can feel him caressing your thigh like it's meant to ground you.

“i trust you.” the words come soft, like you know you’re supposed to. he can feel you melt just the slightest bit in his lap, watching your face inch forward like you know you shouldn't but want to anyway. he sees every bit of it, and uses it to egg you on, his voice turning thin and raspy.

“yeah, that’s it… let me make it better.”

you hesitate, just long enough for the wrongness to flare again, then you kiss him. this time your lips move with his. the kiss deepens. the claiming, sloppy slide of his mouth against yours makes you sigh quietly, warming something low in your core. his lips guide yours like he’s in charge of the rhythm. he does it slow like he's trying to taste every inch of you, like he's teaching you his way. the right way.

a low sound slips from him, a soft groan against your mouth, like this is the last thing he needed to finally unwind after a long day of work. the sound settles deep in your chest. you taste beer and heat on his lips, a faint trace of cigarette smoke clinging to him, and something about it feels grounding. comforting, even though you know better.

he sets the beer bottle aside without looking and pulls you further into his lap so that you straddle his waist, both hands firm on your hips you until you feel the solid press of his chest against yours. you let your body sink into his warmth, settling there like it was all you'd ever wanted to know.

his tongue swipes slow against your lower lip, and when you part your mouth just enough, he follows with the same steady control, guiding the pace like he’s showing you where to soften, when to give.

the kiss stretches on, turning wet and languid. soft smacking sounds fill the air with time and he grips your hips harder to press you against his lap. your breathing turns shallow without you noticing, soft little inhales catching too fast in your chest. your hands drift up and settle against him like you’re bracing yourself there. one palm splayed over his chest, the other resting at his abdomen like you’re already leaning into what comes next. he holds you in place, his mouth still deciding when to move, when to linger, when to pull you back in.

“there you go,” he mutters after pulling back. he lifts a hand and tucks a loose piece of hair behind your ear, the gesture careful, almost habitual, his thumb lingering at your temple like he’s steadying something fragile. you go still at the touch, like your body recognizes it before your mind does, and the praise settles warm and heavy in your ribs. you look at him with softened, dazed eyes as something loosens, relief slipping in with the affirmation.

“good girl,” his words draw out just enough to sink in, his eyes flicking to your lips once more and back again, taking in his work. they're reddened now and a little swollen, still glistening from when your mouths met. a small, satisfied smirk ghosts the corner of his mouth before he smooths it away, and his hand slides lower to the curve of your ass to hold you there, fingertips pressing in like they belong there. “that’s better, isn't it. jus' needed t'see it for yourself, yeah?”

“mhm.” the sound hums low between you, a soft, pliant nod following after like punctuation. his hand other hand stays firm at your back, anchoring you there as he watches you, eyes steady and assessing, like he’s making sure you’re exactly where he wants you.

“mm, i know, baby. ’s why ’m here,” he adds, voice calm and approving, his hips lifting beneath you and shifting just enough to sink deeper into the couch. the movement changes the angle between you, bringing him closer where your legs frame his hips, and the new pressure beneath his jeans pulls a soft breath from you before you can stop it. “to show you what’s right,”

your weight tips forward instinctively, just a fraction, adjusting to the way he’s settled, like your body’s trying to stay aligned with him and still feel more of what he’s offering between your thighs. you still yourself as soon as you realize you’ve moved, waiting to see if he’ll correct you. rafe notices all of it. he always does.

“i’m doing it right,” you breathe, because he already decided that you were, and it feels safer once he’s already said it.

“yeah, you’re doin’ real good.” he murmurs, eyes steady on your face as you hold there, close and wanting. his thumb comes up to your mouth briefly, dragging your bottom lip down slow, his face showing a flash of restraint. the sight of it makes his cock twitch beneath you. you lift your face toward his without thinking, already moving back into him.