rafe cameron tumblr imagines

soft - me

"Crackers?" You ask.

"And Pringles." Sarah reaches forward and swipes two red cylinders off the shelf, depositing them into the metal basket of your trolley. "Definitely Pringles."

Below them, a bag of Sour Patch Kids crinkles in protest. You watch as the pesto you picked out rolls forward, its inertia interrupted by a punnet of dew-damp blueberries. The artificial lighting in the store makes them glitter.

"Sarah," you say, eyeing the selection dubiously. "Don't think that we're missing a pretty crucial ingredient?"

Sarah leans over the rubber handle of the trolley, peering into its depths with a frown. "No?"

"Sarah Cameron," you hedge, kicking a faulty wheel loose. "What are we recreating?"

"A Pinterest cheese-board on a My Druthers backdrop," she recites diligently, her pretty lips pulling down further, distracted by retribution. "To show Scarlett fucking Du Pont that I don't need an invite to her yacht party to have fun."

"Right," you say, slowing your voice to a placating trawl. "And to make a cheeseboard, you need..."

"...common sense?" snorts someone behind you, his deep timbre like thick molasses. The familiar scent of cedar-wood and musk unfurls over your figure, a body-heat warm embrace.

"Rafe," Sarah greets in a clipped tone, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I don't know," Rafe throws back, furrowing his brow in mock thought. "What do people usually do when they come to the supermarket?"

"I mean here." Sarah scowls, taking note of his proximity to your figure warily. "In our aisle."

Rafe ignores her, placing his hand adjacent yours on the metal rim. His torso presses into your back as he steps closer, chin tucked over your shoulder, warm breath like goosebump-bait on your neck. His voice is lower, a rough murmur when he adds, "Going out on the Druthers, huh?"

"Maybe," you answer after a beat, angling back to take inventory of his features. His blue eyes are bright and full of mirth, lips pulled up in a pleased grin, marvelling at your closeness.

Not a few hours ago, you were tracing the planes of his face with your finger, roughing your knuckles over his stubble, feeling his calloused palms on your waist. His wet lips on your neck. Your pulse jolts. You have to actively remind yourself that you're out in public.

With his younger sister—your best friend—painfully privy to this exchange.

Not in his bed. Not with your arms around his neck. Not with his teeth dragging along the smooth column of your throat, scraping hard, sponging kisses to soothe amaranthine hickeys.

You blink. He's looking over you with that same, pupil-dilating intensity.

"Thought you were going to let me take you out, today," he murmurs, his free hand folding over your waist and squeezing absently.

"Shit," you say, grimacing sheepishly. "Sorry. Totally spaced. We were —"

Aforementioned best friend—so-called, she'll attest, unable to protest as her older brother takes over her place in your brain—clears her throat loudly.

"Sorry?" She echoes incredulously, looking fairly perplexed. "You're saying sorry to him?"

She punctuates her words by waggling her forefinger between the pair of you, a weapon of destruction disguised in fake tan and a fresh manicure.