π’pit in my face π’tepbro
Pairing: Mean!Stepbro!Rafe x Timid!StepSis!Reader
Warnings: Rafe verbally abusing, slutshaming and calling reader a bitch, spitting in readers face, humiliation, hair pulling, slight noncon threat, mention of slapping reader (he doesnβt)
The sun is hanging overhead, painting the sky orange with its slow descent. Youβre sitting on the bleachers in a mini-skirt, feeling the humidity latch onto your skin with a thin sticky layer. But your mind is stuck on your stepbrother.
Heβs covered in sweat and his arms are swollen from the blood rushing to his muscles. He adjusts his helmet, making sure itβs secure while everyone gets back into their positions to run the same drill over again.
You watch in rapt attention as Rafe tackles another guy his size to the ground. The way he barrels into the boy almost makes you flinch. Itβs so angry, so cruel, almost like Rafe is trying to knock him out. And you arenβt the only one who feels that way, because sure enough, the Coach blows his whistle.
βCameron, what the hell was that?!β Coach Lewis sneers. βYou told me to hit him, Coach.β Rafe replies clearly and evenly. βI told you to hit the sonuvabitch, not kill him!β Lewis yells back, pointing toward the bench against the brick wall below the bleachers. βOff my fuckinβ field.β he commands, turning back to the other players standing there awkwardly, visibly more afraid to face Lewisβ wrath than Rafe. βYou assholes take a water break. Ten minutes.β
You stand up immediately, shoes padding down the metal stairs until you reach the railing just overhead of where Rafeβs sitting with his helmet off and shoulders slumped. βDid you just get benched?β you ask, peeking over. He looks up at you, eyes tired and jaw clenched in irritation. βShut up and get down here.β
Rafe runs a tense, gloved hand over his greasy blond bangs while you hurry down to him. He looks up as you practically materialize by his side, taking a seat next to him on the worn wood. His cheeks are flushed and a bead of sweat drips down his forehead, his body hot and overworked like a furnace. You can feel the heat radiating off of him with each slow second.
Then he grabs you by the back of your head, his large palm almost covering it entirely, forcing you into a passionate kiss. Your eyes widen a brief moment before fluttering closed, meeting his kiss with less intensity. Your lips fit together perfectly, like God itself crafted the two of you to be one. As if your senses return at the mere feeling of Rafeβs swollen lips against yours, your hands press against his padded chest. βRafe, we canβt.β
He scoffs, his face twitching indignantly. βChill out, no one sees us.β You look over at the field, paranoia creeping up your spine, but the coast is clear. No one even spares a glance in your direction. From your peripheral, you see Rafe stand up with a newfound determination in his once fatigued form.
βGet up.β He nearly barks, loud enough to spook you off the bench but not enough for someone else to notice. For the first time today, Rafe gets a good look at your skirt. You stand there timidly as his narrowed eyes take in the sight of your bare thighs, and the way the fabricβs edge picks up with every light brush of wind. βWhat the fuck are you wearing?β He snaps at you, his voice booming in demand. βItβs a skirt!β you reply defensively, hands going down to brush it, trying to tug it lower.
Rafe shakes his head in disapproval, seizing the opportunity to drag you by your mocha-colored backpack to the underside of the bleachers. You stumble along, trying to keep up with his long strides.
βWhat are you doingββ youβre cut off by the feeling of something wet landing across your forehead and nose, making you freeze. You blink in shock, mind buffering in its processing of what heβs done. But Rafe doesnβt waste any time tearing into you in your stuck-in-place stance.
βHow dare you walk around in a slutty little skirt like some rent-a-whore?!β he nearly bellows, his voice dropping into something scary. Something you arenβt used to with him. βI- I-β you shake your head, stammering over your words while your hand finally goes up to your face, wiping off the saliva from earlier.
βYou what?β he grits, not allowing you to respond as he spits in your face again. Your eyes close, a whimper ripping from your throat. βAnswer me, bitch.β he presses, grabbing you by the jaw and squeezing your cheeks with his thumb and pointer, proceeding to spit in your face for the third time. His saliva, warm and sticky from dehydration, hits your eyeliner, landing in your lashes and slowly trickling down your face. You gasp, βRafeββ you whisper and he spits on you once more, this time landing on your contoured nose.
He lets go, forcing himself to take a step back and a deep breath, doing his damnedest not to slap you across the face. βTell me. Fucking tell me why my sisterβs walking around with her ass out for everyone to see!β
You wipe the spit from your eyes, feeling tears burn in humiliating pools that are threatening to overflow. βI thought it was cute.β you answer quietly.
βBullshit, you wanted attention.β he snaps. You stand there with a frown, because heβs not wrong. You did want attentionβ but only his. βI wanted you to look at me.β you admit with shame. He scoffs, grabbing you by your hair and yanking you closer. βYouβre a little attention-seeking bitch.β he glares, his eyes conveying nothing but anger and repulsion.
The two of you maintain silent but uncomfortable eye contact, the energy behind the bleachers charged with disgust that makes you want to disappear.
Then he grabs your face again, not as harshly but still too rough. βOpen your mouth.β he says softer this time, already shoving his thumb through the small gap in your lips. Your lips wrap around his finger on instinct, making his jaw clench with annoyance. βI said open.β he repeats, and this time you do, albeit hesitantly.
Rafe smirks, βStick out your tongue.β he adds. And once again, you listen. He moves his thumb out of the way and spits again. This time he aims right for your tongue. He misses, the sticky DNA landing perfectly into the back of your throat, making you choke. He watches with a lick of his lips as you cough, and before you can catch your breath, he pulls your head back and spits again. This time a thicker glob lands in your mouth, on your tongue. Despite how sweaty and dirty his body wasβ the dehydration tooβ his taste isnβt bad. It makes you want more. So you swallow, which isnβt unusual. You always swallowed Rafeβs fluids.
βGood.β he says simply, petting your hair while you gaze up at him, your eyeliner slightly runny and nose blushed. Then he leans in. His tongue carefully runs across your wet cheek, lapping up the salty tears and leftover spit like some kind of dog.Β
βAgain.β he murmurs, standing up straighter and towering over you.
You nod, opening up. He spits one more time, you swallow, then his hand drops from you. He looks you up and down, his gaze still critical but more pleased now with your obedience. Rafe leans in one last time, kissing you. This time heβs softer, savoring the flavor of your cherry chapstick. He shoves his tongue in your mouth, letting it run across your own with something that tastes forbidden in the best way.
βDonβt wear shit like that again or Iβll fuck you on the field.β he states unnervingly easily as he pulls away. And you know heβs being honest.
βOkay.β you say quietly, watching him walk back out from the bleachers and slowly to the field, leaving you there with runny makeup, a wet face, and a sense of regret.
