YAHT ROCK???? Oh You See My Exact Vision

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.

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rest in peace angel, michelle trachtenberg (1985-2025)

Just watched a white lotus interview and Lochlan is going for my girl piper next STAY AWAY FROM HER I WONT LET YOU HURT MY BABY

Relationships are so scary cause what if fine shyt likes his brother more than me.

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HAPPY NEW YEARS LOVELYS💋

me because I’ll never be able to see the full play of Milo Mannheim as Seymour..