Ahhhhhh!!! This Is Too Adorable

𝙹𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚑, 𝟸𝟶𝟶𝟻 ˚ ₊ 👛

Please don’t give up on me all your requests will be dealt with TRUST

CHALLENGERS — suggestive, no smut, implied smut

frat rafe cameron and frat saxon ratliff x 𝒜ngel reader

The party is loud, music pounding through the walls, the air thick with alcohol, sweat, and something dangerous humming beneath it all. You’re not supposed to be here, not really. You’re the kind of person who shows up at these things with a friend, clutches a red cup full of something you won’t finish, and smiles politely at the chaos around you. You don’t belong in the thick of it. You never do.

And yet, here you are.

Standing by the makeshift beer pong table, watching Saxon Ratliff and Rafe Cameron destroy their opponents with a kind of reckless confidence that makes it look easy. Rafe is silent, his jaw locked, eyes razor-sharp as he lines up his shot, sinking another ball without so much as a smirk. Saxon, though, Saxon is eating this up, grinning as he flexes his fingers, talking shit with a voice that’s way too smooth for someone half a bottle deep.

They’re winning. Of course, they are.

Saxon catches your gaze mid-laugh, eyes flicking to you like he knew you were watching him before you even realized you were. His grin widens, and he raises the ball between his fingers, tilting his head in your direction.

“C’mere.”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to, but because the way he’s looking at you, like he knows something you don’t, makes your stomach twist in ways it shouldn’t.

Still, you move closer, slow, your fingers tightening around your cup. Saxon’s already reaching for you by the time you do, fingers brushing against your wrist, warm and confident.

“Give it a kiss,” he murmurs. “For good luck.”

Your lips part, heat crawling up your neck. “That’s stupid.”

He smirks. “Yeah? Do it anyway.”

You should say no. You really should. But Saxon’s looking at you like he knows you won’t, like he’s already won this game, and somehow, that’s worse. So you do it. You lean in, pressing a soft, barely-there kiss against the ping-pong ball, and you swear he breathes a laugh when you do, quiet and full of something slow and smug.

And then, of course, he makes the shot.

The room erupts into chaos, drinks spilling, voices rising. Saxon basks in it, dragging a hand through his hair as he turns back to you, his grin full of something victorious. Rafe just shakes his head, exhaling sharply like he’s unimpressed, but the way his eyes flick to you as he takes a swig of his drink tells you otherwise.

And that should be it. That should be the end of it. But somehow, it isn’t.

Because now they’re both following you around the party, circling you like you’re something to be won. And maybe you are.

“You a freshman?” Saxon asks, leaning way too close, his breath warm against your temple.

“Sophomore,” you murmur.

Rafe hums, standing just behind you, the contrast between their energies almost dizzying. Where Saxon is all heat and teasing touches, fingers ghosting against your waist, your wrist, your shoulder, Rafe is steady, quiet, eyes dark as they flicker down to the way your breath catches.

“You look like you don’t belong here,” Rafe observes, and there’s something about the way he says it that makes you feel small and exposed.

Your throat tightens. “I was invited.”

Saxon grins, tilting his head. “Yeah? By who?”

You glance away. That was probably the wrong thing to say.

Rafe’s hand brushes against the small of your back, slow and deliberate, like he’s testing something. “What’s your major?”

You swallow. “Film.”

Saxon laughs, deep and slow. “That makes sense.”

Your brows pull together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Saxon just smirks, but Rafe, Rafe leans in closer, his voice barely above a murmur. “Means you’re soft,” he says, his breath teasing the shell of your ear. “All sweet and careful.”

Saxon chuckles. “You one of those girls that reads romance novels and thinks she’s above all this?”

You open your mouth to argue, but it’s useless, they’re talking like you aren’t even here, like you’re something fragile between them, something to be studied and toyed with.

“Bet she’s never even done a keg stand,” Saxon teases.

Rafe smirks. “Bet she hasn’t even funneled a beer.”

Your face burns. “That’s not exactly—”

“You drink whiskey?” Saxon interrupts.

Your lips press together. “Not really.”

Rafe leans against the wall beside you, watching the way Saxon tips back his cup, throat bobbing as he swallows. “Not really,” Rafe repeats, shaking his head like that’s amusing.

Saxon grins, reaching up to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s cute,” he says, and the worst part is, you can’t even tell if he’s mocking you.

Your stomach tightens. “I should go find my friends.”

Saxon tuts, fingers grazing the back of your neck like he’s barely holding himself back. “They can wait.”

Rafe smirks. “Yeah. We’re having fun.”

And the worst part?

They’re right.

The party only grows louder, the heat of bodies pressed together making the air feel suffocating. But somehow, with them, Saxon grinning, Rafe watching, their touches light but deliberate, it’s not the crowd that has your head spinning. It’s them.

You don’t know how it happens. Maybe it’s the way Saxon’s hand finds the small of your back as he leans in, murmuring something low and teasing in your ear. Maybe it’s the way Rafe lingers, his gaze burning into you like he’s unraveling you thread by thread.

Or maybe it’s the way they move, together, separate, effortless in their control.

You don’t know how it happens, but suddenly, you’re upstairs.

The music is muffled from here, the dim hallway a stark contrast to the chaos below. Saxon tugs you forward with an ease that should scare you, but it doesn’t. Not really. He kicks open a door, stepping inside like he owns the place, and Rafe follows, the door clicking shut behind him.

You should leave. You should say something. But Saxon’s already tilting his head at you, his grin lazy and amused.

“C’mere, pretty.”

You swallow. Your feet move before you can think, drawn into the gravity of him.

Saxon’s fingers ghost over your hip, the heat of his touch barely there but still enough to make you shiver. Rafe is behind you now, solid and unyielding, his presence alone making your pulse stutter.

Saxon tips his head, his gaze flickering over your face. “You nervous?”

“No,” you whisper, though the way your breath catches betrays you.

Rafe chuckles, low and knowing. “Liar.”

His hand finds your waist, steady, grounding, and then Saxon’s fingers are brushing your jaw, tilting your chin up. You barely have a second to think before his lips are on yours.

Soft at first, slow, like he’s savoring it. But then he deepens it, his fingers curling around the back of your neck, pulling you closer, swallowing the quiet sound that escapes you.

And then he’s gone.

Your eyes flutter open, dazed, breath uneven. Saxon smirks, running his tongue over his bottom lip like he can still taste you.

“Pretty,” he murmurs.

Your stomach tightens.

And then, Rafe.

He doesn’t hesitate. His hand tilts your chin up just enough before his lips are on yours, rougher, more demanding, like he’s proving something. You whimper against him, and he makes a sound low in his throat, his other hand finding your hip, gripping just enough to make you ache.

When he pulls back, his breath fans against your cheek, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Baby,” he murmurs.

You shudder.

Saxon chuckles, his fingers tracing the bare skin of your arm. “Think she likes that.”

Rafe smirks. “Think she does too.”

And then, Saxon’s mouth finds your neck.

Warm and slow, teasing kisses against the sensitive skin, his breath hot as he hums against you. Your head tips back before you can stop it, lips parting as your hands find his shoulders.

Rafe watches. And then he’s there too, his lips tracing the other side of your neck, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers skimming the curve of your waist.

You should stop this. You should pull away.

But you don’t.

Because when Saxon grins against your skin and murmurs, “You’re so damn pretty,” and Rafe drags his lips up to your ear, whispering, “You like this, don’t you, baby?”

You can’t bring yourself to deny it.

taglist.. @italiansunsetss @sylvanianngirl @st7rnioioss-alt @sincerelykelsss @throatgoat4u @wiseladypoetry @gracieabrmslvr @pearlzier @1-hypegvrl @piperrrr-16 @mackyyyk @luna443 @flowerxbunnie @calliepie @cupidsword @notaboutlovebyfiona @recklesssturniolo @littlebookworm803 @blissfulxsins @camsturnz @st7rnioioss @yearlyism @itsyagrillkat

I wanna write for squid game but idk how to make it 70s🧍🏽‍♀️

Should i do Lochlan Ratliff smut.. I haven’t done smut before and I wanna see how good or bad it could be. And Lochlan is just too cute..

introducing..

໑ 70s STONER NATE DOE

STONER NATE.. who never seems to have an agenda—he’s just down for whatever’s happening, whether it’s a party, a late-night drive, or sitting in a field listening to music

STONER NATE.. doesn’t go out of his way to mess with freshmen, but he finds it hilarious when Chris does. If someone trips over their own feet because of Chris, Nate’s the one doubling over in laughter.

STONER NATE.. who no matter where he is, there’s a faint smell of weed clinging to him. He claims it’s because he “lives in the vibe,” but really, it’s because he’s perpetually lighting up.

STONER NATE.. who’s also the guy who has a crumpled pack of rolling papers in his pocket at all times.

STONER NATE.. who loves dropping “profound” thoughts that are really just common sense. For example:

“You ever think about how the sky is just… the Earth’s blanket?”

“Money’s just paper, man. Like, what even is a dollar?”

He thinks he’s deep, and honestly, no one has the heart to tell him otherwise.

STONER NATE.. who is the guy who “accidentally” ends up at every party, concert, or hangout. He’ll show up uninvited with a shrug and a grin, saying, “I heard this was the spot, man.”No one ever questions it because his chill energy is oddly comforting.

STONER NATE.. who’s infamous for saying, “Yo, you got snacks?” within five minutes of showing up anywhere.

STONER NATE.. raids your fridge without asking, then apologizes with a mouth full of chips.

STONER NATE.. who has an unassuming talent for painting and doodling. His notebooks are filled with trippy, colorful designs that blow people’s minds when they see them.

STONER NATE.. who once painted a mural in his friend’s basement while stoned out of his mind, and now it’s the ultimate chill spot.

STONER NATE.. who might not remember the details of your story later, but in the moment, he’s the guy who will sit and listen to your problems while nodding sagely.

STONER NATE.. who’s is always something vague like, “You just gotta, like, follow the vibe, man.”

STONER NATE.. who absolutely loves animals and will drop everything to pet a dog or rescue a stray cat.

STONER NATE.. who secretly befriended the neighborhood raccoons, who he feeds leftover pizza crusts.

STONER NATE.. who never seems to have money, but he’ll gladly share whatever he has, whether it’s his last joint or a bag of chips.

STONER NATE.. has a knack for collecting the perfect records/cds for any situation. His mixtapes are legendary, filled with everything from Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin to groovy, obscure B-sides. (Lowkey fucks with jazz a lot)

STONER NATE.. who whenever Chris’s antics start to go too far, he’s always the one who steps in with a chill, “Yo, man, maybe let’s not do that.”

STONER NATE.. somehow diffuses tension without actually doing much—his calm presence alone is enough to make people relaxed

@lovelymylene <3

i cant with how STUNNING your theme is um im actually in love.

Umm I’m actually in love with you tysm😭🙏🏽 your pfp and banner is so tea oml

too GIRLY

70s teenage dirtbag hamzah and reader

Hamzah had never seen a room like this before. It was pink, not overwhelmingly so, but in a way that felt intentional, soft yet loud, like her. The walls were lined with posters, some of musicians he knew, others of actors from old movies he hadn’t gotten around to watching. Trinkets and jewelry littered her vanity, bracelets stacked like small, colorful towers, rings scattered like forgotten treasures. Everything had a place, even in its slight messiness, and it smelled like her, warm, sweet, something floral but grounded.

He sat on the edge of her bed, hands pressing into the plush comforter, looking around like he was stepping into a world he wasn’t sure he belonged in. He wasn’t used to softness like this. His own room was plain, bare except for his boxing gear, a few records, and his camera sitting on the dresser. But hers? It was a reflection of her, vibrant, lived-in, a place that didn’t just exist but felt.

“You like it?” she asked, standing near the vanity, watching him take it all in.

He scoffed, running a hand through his bleach buzz. “It’s… a lot.” Then, softer, “It suits you.”

She grinned, walking over and plopping down next to him, the bed dipping under her weight. “You mean it’s too girly for you?”

Hamzah smirked, leaning back on his hands. “Nah. I think I like it.” His gaze flickered to the pink ruffly pillows, the delicate lace curtain fluttering from the open window. He turned back to her. “It’s nice.”

And it was. Not just the room. The feeling of being there, of sitting close, of knowing this was a space she felt safe in, and that, somehow, he’d been allowed into it too.

The late afternoon sunlight slanted through the blinds of her bedroom, painting soft golden stripes across her walls, her floor, the tangled sheets beneath them. Hamzah wasn’t sure how they got here, sprawled on her bed, bodies pressed together, warmth curling between them like the scent of her perfume. It was always the same, something light and sweet, like vanilla and flowers, something that made his head feel foggy whenever he got too close.

His hands trembled slightly, but not out of fear. It was something else. Something deep in his chest that clawed at his ribs, telling him that this, whatever this was, was just as thrilling as it was terrifying.

She lay beneath him, half-laughing, half-breathless, pink lips parted just enough to make him want to kiss her again. He did. It was soft at first, hesitant, searching, but then her fingers tangled in the back of his bleach-blonde buzz, and suddenly, he was kissing her like she was the only thing keeping him breathing.

Somewhere between the way she sighed against his mouth and the way his hands skimmed the warm skin beneath her shirt, that nervousness melted. Not completely. Not all at once. But enough. Enough for him to help her out of it, leaving her in that ruffled pink bra he swore was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. It had a tiny bow in the middle, delicate lace tracing the edges, the kind of thing he never thought much about until now, until her.

His fingers ghosted along her waist, and she shivered. He swallowed, feeling like his heart was somewhere between his throat and his stomach. “You okay?” His voice was quieter than usual, like he was scared of breaking whatever fragile thing was holding this moment together.

She nodded, looking at him with something warm, something trusting, something that made him feel like maybe he could do this, maybe they could figure it out together. He kissed her again, slower this time, letting the world outside her bedroom slip away, letting himself get lost in the feeling of her, the way she fit against him, the way she made him forget everything except her.

They weren’t in a rush. There was nowhere to be, nothing to prove, just hands exploring, lips meeting, skin against skin, and the quiet thrill of knowing they had all the time in the world.

@issysh3ll

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