#rafe cameron lemon

[spiceforyou]

If I write Wally Clark x reader, Rafe Cameron x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader, Eddie Munson x Reader, etc. here ranging from fluff to smut to angst would you read it?

[rafesteddy]

Can we get dilf!rafe and milf!reader? Max lets it slip to rafe that his buddies ogle and find milf!reader so hot when they saw her pick up Max and Winnie from school a few times? You can choose how it goes afterwards!! I love your writing of their fam saurrrrr much

awe thank you bb 💕 I'm so glad you like it 🤭🤭🤭 sorry this one got a little long—but I hope you enjoy 😋💕 This story is meant to be read either alone or with the rest of the au.

+18 -> smut

𝓭𝓲𝓵𝓯!𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓸𝓷 𝔁 𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓯!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

c/w: teenage boys being gross, jealous rafe, swearing, ownership kink, possessive rafe, pet names, multiple orgasms, overstim., squirting, fingering, unprotected p in v, mirror sex, dirty talk, spanking, lots of cum, female oral (post-shared climax)

cameron kids= Max (18), Winnie (17), Rory + Poppy (4)

You lean into the counter, absentmindedly squeezing lemon after lemon into the glass pitcher. Cold juices run down your fingers, sticky as it slips into the creases of your palms and drips to your wrists. The whole kitchen smells like sugar and citrus, with that warm, buttery hint of cookies still cooling behind you.

The plate’s already half gone, devoured by teenage boys lounging in the common space: tall, tan, loud, sprawled across your furniture like they own the place.

“Sugar, please?” You ask, gesturing toward Kelce’s son, perched in front of the one cabinet you need.

“Yes, ma’am,” he hums, flashing you a grin as he hops down to grab it.

His hand brushes yours as he passes it off. You smile, polite and sweet as ever, returning to stir the mix.

“Fuck, she wants me,” he mutters to Max—just out of earshot.

Your son groans, tipping his head back against the cabinet. “Fuck off, Tripp.”

“Why else would she be in here squeezin’ her lemons?” Tripp groans, dragging the sentence out like it’s a double entendre.

“You’re still goin’, huh? Not scared?”

“M’not scared of shit—”

Before Max can answer, the door opens with a thud.

“Hi, Mom!” Winnie calls, sandals slapping the marble as she breezes in. Her boyfriend Jackson’s behind her, arms full, carrying the twins, still damp from the sprinkler, dressed like they’re headed out.

“Is it cool if we take the twins out for ice cream?” Winnie asks. Her tone’s breezy, but she looks sharply toward one of Max’s friends eyeing her up.

That same boy yelps when Max nails him in the arm. “M’gonna fuckin’ kill you,” he mutters, while the kid doubles down, clearly unbothered, shooting his shot at your daughter like it’s all just part of the game.

“Of course, sweetheart,” you say, crossing the counter for your purse.

“Mrs. Cameron, really—I’ve got it,” Jackson says, voice firm.

“That’s very sweet. But not necessary… Thanks for taking them off my hands.” You kneel in front of the twins gently brushing back your daughter’s curls; cupping your son’s cheek lovingly. “You two be good for your sister and Jackson, okay?”

You lean in to kiss their cheeks, and without realizing it, your sundress shifts. The neckline dips, your breasts press softly together, the hem lifts just enough to tease. You linger, whispering something about sprinkles and chocolate.

Behind you, the room goes silent.

One boy swallows hard. Another just stares—slack-jawed—like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“Max… Dude. This is your life?”

“Didn’t I tell you to shut the fuck up?” Max mutters, jaw clenched.

“I’d move in tomorrow,” Tripp grins. “Be your stepdad today.”

“Bet she tastes like sugar—”

“I said shut up,” Max snaps, louder this time.

Just then, another boy walks in from the hallway, Trevor. He catches sight of you, still bent low in front of the twins, and freezes. Smiling like the goddamn Cheshire Cat, he lifts both hands like he’s gripping your hips and starts thrusting the air behind you in slow-motion silence.

The other boys lose it—coughing, choking on laughter, trying and failing to keep it together.

You straighten up, sundress swaying back into place as you smooth it down with both hands, blissfully unaware.

“All right, go have fun,” you sing out, waving them toward the door.

You turn back to the pitcher, lift it to the sink, and flip the tap without thinking.

Water churns—lemon juice and sugar swirling, rising to the rim—as your gaze drifts out the kitchen window. And then you see him. Rafe…

His white t-shirt’s soaked through, hose in hand as he rinses down the G-Wagon. Sunlight turns the spray to glitter. Water drips down his arms, soaking the cotton clinging to every curve and cut of his chest and abs.

He turns, flipping his hat backward with one hand, jaw flexing as he wipes his brow.

Your thighs press together. Grip tightening on the pitcher just as the lemonade spills over, cold and sticky down your wrist. You fumble the tap, blinking fast, but your eyes don’t leave him.

His shirt clings to his back, practically painted on, while his blue swim trunks ride low on his hips and high on his thighs.

One hand coils the hose, and the other grabs the wash bucket. His chest flexes with every move, muscles rolling under wet cotton like sin in motion.

“Have fun, boys,” you call out, pouring lemonade into a glass, still watching him.

The front door clicks shut as you step outside barefoot. The grass is crisp beneath your feet; sun shining hot on your shoulders.

Rafe looks up the second he hears you. His mouth curves into a slow, knowing smile. “Oh shit, pretty,” he drawls, eyes dragging down your body. “That for me?”

“Mhmm,” you hum, offering him the glass—but he doesn’t take it. He steps closer, warm, wet arm curling around your waist, pulling you flush to him like he can’t help it. His mouth finds yours instantly—hot and slow. Your fingers hook behind his neck, greedy for more.

You giggle into the kiss, breathless. “How much longer?”

Rafe pulls back just enough to smirk, water dripping down his temple “What? You want somethin’, baby?”

ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴ 15 minutes earlier…

The garage is quiet at first—just the clatter of golf clubs and the squeak of a sponge as Rafe scrubs the green off his chipping wedge. The radio hums softly from the corner, low and easy. But that peace doesn’t last.

Beer bottles clink inside the fridge; ice rattles in the machine. And just around the corner from where Rafe sits, the boys start talking their shit like they don’t have a care in the world.

“I’m done,” your son mutters—tone flat and fed up like he’s been saying all day.

“Not my fault your mom’s hot as fuck, Maxi.” One of the boys fires back, voice deep and smug. “M’just waitin’ for the day she gets stuck in the washer. I’ll pound her shit right there—”

“Fuck you,” Max hisses. There’s a sharp thud and a groan; Max hits his friend hard enough to give him a moment's peace from him, but it doesn’t stop the rest of them.

“Did you see her in that swimsuit the other day? Playing with the twins? That bikini? She’s still got an ass on her. Those tits too?” Trevor chimes in, practically drooling. “I wanna play with her twins. Slide my dick right between ‘em—”

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you,” Max growls.

“Hey, you fucked my sister, Max. Both of ‘em. Think I get to tug one to your mom… every night—”

“She’s so hot, bro. Like stupid hot,” another pipes up. “Your dad doesn’t deserve that. He can’t keep up. Can’t handle all that. His stamina’s gotta be shot.”

“She made me cookies like it was foreplay,” one of them says, breathy and laughing. “You think she ever looks at us and wonders…”

“She made cookies for my dad,” Max mutters.

“Yeah. That’s what I said—”

And then Rafe clears his throat, loud and measured. The sound slices through the room like a blade. So quiet you could hear the soft clink of a stolen beer cap hitting the concrete.

The boys scatter like mice out the side door and back into the house. Their smug laughter from moments before dies on their lips, replaced by frantic whispers of “do you think he heard” and the squeak of boat shoes skidding across the floor.

“Come here,” Rafe says, low and calm.

Max exhales hard, stuffing his hands in his front pockets. His shoulders drawn up to his ears as he drags himself across the garage floor.

“You wanna explain what that was?” Rafe asks without looking at him, voice steady as he cleans his club.

Max shrugs, sullen. “I mean, you heard it.”

“Yeah… I heard everything—”

“Every fuckin’ day,” Max mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Anytime we’re at the house. I try shutting it down—it’s impossible.”

“They were talking about your mother,” Rafe says. “You just gonna let that fly?”

“They’re fuckin’ idiots,” Max scoffs. “Just givin’ me shit. They’re not gonna do anything. And what am I supposed to do, huh? Beat the shit out of every guy who opens his mouth about mom?”

“Nah,” Rafe says, smiling without humor. “They’ll get the hint some way or another.”

“Well that’s not horrifying,” Max mumbles, giving him a side-eye—because he knows damn well Rafe might handle this himself.

“She’s not just your mom, you know. She’s my wife,” Rafe says, nodding toward the garage door. “So yeah. I know exactly how hot she is.”

“Ew.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Rafe grins. “I just had to listen to that perverted pissin’ contest over your mother. And Trevor’s sister? Really?”

“…Sisters,” Max murmurs, not meeting Rafe’s eye.

He cringes, face twisting in the exact same way his son’s had moments earlier. “Aren’t you dating Top’s daughter?”

“They’re Trevor’s sisters,” Max repeats. “Doesn’t count.”

Rafe stares at him. “And what’s the math on that? It doesn’t count? You serious?”

Max shrugs, then deflects. “Hey—remember who the enemy is here, alright? He was talkin’ about Mom.”

That earns a dry laugh. Rafe crosses his arms, leaning back against the wall, still giving Max a look like this conversation’s not over.

“I like that excuse better,” he breathes. “Y’all headin’ out?”

“Mhmm,” Max hums, already inching toward the door like he’s trying to disappear. “Just gonna grab some snacks.”

“Yacht Club?”

“Mhmm,” he confirms, eyes on the exit.

“Be safe,” Rafe says, a little quieter now.

Max mumbles something back as he pushes into the house, and the door shuts behind him with a soft thud.

Rafe doesn’t move. He just stands there for a second, staring at nothing, letting the quiet settle. He knows what he feels. Always has. He just doesn’t always want to name it.

He used to love the attention. The looks. The envy. Part of him still does. When you were younger, his friends couldn’t keep their eyes off you. Couldn’t help the comments, the sideways glances. And he loved it—loved knowing that no matter how many mouths whispered your name, it was his bed you came home to.

You were his. All his. Always. But this? This was different. Hearing that kind of shit from teenagers—his son’s idiot friends, their mouths full of his food, beers stolen from his fridge, spending long, lazy days on his boat—no. It didn’t feel flattering. It felt like a fucking insult.

The way they talked about you was like you were some option. Like if given half a chance, they’d step right into his role. As if they could touch you. As if they could handle a woman like you. His wife. It pissed him off. And he knew it shouldn’t—not like this.

It wasn’t new. It wasn’t shocking. But today? It got under his skin in a different way. Raw and hot and fucking personal.

He let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand through his hair. This is what happens when your wife is you. People want you. They always have.

He laughs under his breath—half at himself, half at the absurdity of it all—and reaches for the sponge and bucket again. He wasn’t gonna fight them. He didn’t need to. There were better ways to remind them where they stood.

They wanted to act grown? Act like they could love you, care for you, fuck you like a man? Fine. Let them watch. Let them see what a real man does.

Rafe lets the door swing shut behind him and strolls across the drive, relaxed, deliberate. His gaze lifts straight to the window above the sink—and there you are, stepping into frame like you were waiting for your cue.

Rafe squeezes the hose handle, blasting water against the side of the G-Wagon. He shifts a little closer, just enough to let the spray bounce back misting his skin, ricocheting off the glossy paint.

The sun is hot, but the water is cool against his skin. The soaked fabric clings to the muscles of his chest and abs. He tugs his shorts a little higher on his thighs, watching the droplets slide down his body.

Then he smiles again—cocky and quiet—as he pulls the oldest trick in the book: flipping his cap from front to back like he’s not thinking about it at all.

Next, his shirt. He peels it off slowly and casually and tosses it aside, revealing his tan, chiseled frame. The gold chain with your initial catches the light.

“Five… four… three…” Bang. The door claps shut. He chuckles to himself, smug, reading you like a favorite book. He doesn’t even have to look to know it’s you. But he does.

Rafe glances over his shoulder as he hears your bare feet brushing through the grass; sundress swaying in the summer breeze. And then he sees you, glass of lemonade in hand, eyes already locked on him like he’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted.

“Look at you,” he mutters, watching you float closer. You took the bait. You always do. And he lives for it.

He spots movement through the glass, Max’s friends still inside, lingering, pretending not to watch.

Rafe praises you as he always does, a breathy “mhmm” buzzing past your lips is the only thing passing before he’s kissing you deep, hot, and possessive—right there in the driveway, letting them see. Letting them know who you belong to. How good you fit in his arms. How easily he could take you wherever and whenever he wanted.

He pulls back just enough to breathe you in; Rafe brushing his lips across yours like he can’t stop touching you. His big hand drifts lower, sliding over the slight curve of your back before grabbing a handful of ass—firm, slow, and so intentional it makes your breath catch.

Heat rushes to your cheeks. You laugh quietly, barely holding it in. His shirt’s been tossed somewhere behind him, skin warm and bare against yours, that heavy gold chain glinting faintly against his chest.

The teenage boys barrel out of the house, faster than usual. Lugging the cooler through the grass as they look anywhere but at you.

“Where are you headed?” Rafe calls out, still holding your waist.

“Told you—yacht club,” Max grits, like a chore.

“Yacht club, huh?” Rafe echoes. “Sounds real productive. Why don’t y’all finish cleanin’ the car before you go burnin’ my gas?”

“Dad, seriously?” Max groans, letting the cooler drop to the grass with a thud.

“You’re about to torch another five hundred dollars of fuel,” Rafe says, grinning as he jams the sponge into one of the boys’ chests hard. “Don’t even get me started on yesterday. Three-fifty in food, six bottles of cheap-ass liquor—none of which I’d let past my lips or hers… It’s the least you can do.”

“Pretty sure that was all Winnie—”

“Spare me the bullshit,” Rafe drawls, his Southern accent soaked in judgment, cutting like his smirk.

“Since when are you washin’ cars anyway?” Max mutters, dunking a sponge into the soapy bucket. You try not to giggle but you can’t help it. Rafe’s flair for the dramatics is so visible in Max it’s like looking in a mirror.

Rafe laughs as well, already turning back to you. He reaches up, wiping a drop of water from your cheek with his thumb, pressing a kiss to your lips—gentler this time, like he’s taking back the moment before their arrival.

“Now what did you need, baby?” Rafe murmurs as the boys start scrubbing the truck. You glance up at him, feeling nothing but butterflies. Rafe bites his lip slightly, head tilted slightly, making your brain short-circuit. “Name it, princess,” he mumbles, thumb tracing slow, possessive circles on the small of your back.

“You.”

That one word has him grinning, dark and knowing. “You want me, huh?” He mutters, voice dropping an octave. “Alright. Do somethin’ for me.”

“Anything…”

“Go on back inside. Head to the guest room. Get on the bed, just like this. Don’t take a single thing off,” he adds. “I wanna take it off you. You think you can do that for me?”

“Yeah… yeah, baby,” you murmur, lifting up just enough to press your mouth to his.

He leans in, lips lingering like he’s already counting down the seconds. “Beautiful,” he mutters, voice low, that crooked grin spreading as his hand lands on your ass with a lazy smack. “I’ll be right behind you— ”

“Love you, Max! Have fun, boys. Be safe,” you call out, voice bright and sweet as you disappear toward the house.

The driveway shifts the second the door closes, all the sunshine snuffed out the second you’re gone. The boys go silent, scrubbing like their lives depend on it.

Rafe’s shadow stretches long across the driveway. He folds his arms over his broad chest as he surveys the group, his gaze unreadable—far colder than anger.

“Yacht club, huh?” He says, nodding toward the cooler. “Gonna load up the boat? Burn my gas, drink my liquor, make some memories? I hope y’all have fun,” Rafe adds, and if they didn’t know any better, they might think he means it.

“Thanks, Mr. Camer—”

“Maybe you’ll even get lucky,” Rafe cuts in, clean and easy. “Pick up a few country club girls: pearls, spray tans; the kind who won’t notice your hands shakin’ while you fumble with their bras.”

A nervous chuckle slips out, quickly catching Rafe’s glare, his lips curling into a fake smile.

“You’ve seen my wife, yeah?” He asks casually. “Beautiful. Fuckin’ stunning actually. Prettiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

He looks back at the house giving the boys a moment to breathe before shifting his sights to them again.

“I’ve been working since I was eighteen. Built this house. That boat. Everything you boys use like it’s yours.” He leans in slightly, voice tightening. “And even after all that—I don’t deserve her.”

That hits. You can see it land—all of them blinking like they’ve just been slapped across the face.

“So what makes you think you do?”

“We were just joking, Mr. Cameron. I swear—”

“That’s my wife,” Rafe snaps. The words hit like thunder in their chests. “Mine. Always has been. Always will be. And I don’t give a shit if you go home and jerk off thinkin’ about her—hell, that fantasy’s older than any of you.”

His smile returns, slow and razor-sharp. “But if you say another word—if you breathe another comment about something you’ll never fuckin’ touch…”

He steps forward, and they shrink; stepping toward Max is self-preservation. His eyes zero in on Trevor. The kid nods before Rafe says another word, like he’s praying it’s enough to stay alive. “I’ll make sure the only thing you’re sliding into is a fuckin’ ditch. We clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Trevor stammers.

Rafe claps a hand on his back hard. The slap echoed through the grounds, making the boy stumble forward with a wheezing gasp.

Then, just like that, Rafe turns and walks away. Calm and steady, like it didn’t happen. He passes Max on the way back to the house, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Love you, kid.”

“L-Love you too,” Max mutters, the lot of them holding their breath until he’s gone for good.

ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴

You shift on the bed the second he walks in, soft and shy, biting your lip as your eyes meet his. His gaze darkens instantly, heat rolling off him like a wave.

“I know I changed…” You murmur, voice gentle as a pout tugs at your lips.

The robe’s already falling off your shoulders. Just hanging there. Lace underneath—barely visible, but that’s the point. One leg crossed, stockings tight on your thighs, garters showing just enough to make him stop breathing.

Rafe’s tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip as his eyes roam over you like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again.

He’s already hard, straining against the front of his swim trunks, jaw tight as his fists curl at his sides—like it’s taking everything in him not to rip that robe off you.

“Baby… Don’t apologize. Not when you look that fuckin’ good for me.”

Rafe steps closer, making your thighs part without thinking, giving him room, inviting him in. His hands slide up your legs—rough palms dragging higher—his thumbs hooking under the garter straps, snapping them against your skin.

“You bought this for me, didn’t you? Knew I’d lose my mind over this. Fuck, you know me too well…”

Your pussy clenches at the raw need in his tone. You toy with the satin belt at your waist, slowly teasingly letting the knot fall loose. The robe slips open completely as you lean back, arching your back, tits round in the pretty lingerie.

“Fuck... You don’t even realize what you do to me. The way you picked this out thinkin’ of me? Wantin’ me to see you like this?”

He kisses you, soft and slow, then starts to trail lower—his mouth brushing along your jaw, every touch unhurried, deliberate. His hand glides up your thigh and grips tight, spreading you open. His eyes are sharp, blue, and hungry—fixed on yours.

“Rafe…” You whine, already feeling your thoughts blur.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you for them,” he groans, hardly holding himself together. “Make sure they never look at you the same. Make sure they know it’s me in your head when you close your eyes. You know what they’ll never have?” He whispers, breath fanning across your lips.

“This. This soft little mouth. These legs wrapped around them. This sweet pussy drippin’ for them.” His voice drops even lower. “All mine.”

You blink up at him, a little crease forming between your brows like you’re trying to figure him out

He lets out this low breath, almost a laugh, but not really. “Fuck, you’re perfect… You don’t even see anyone else, do you?”

“Who, baby?” You whisper.

He scoffs, low and humorless as he tugs down his trunks, tossing them to the floor. “You should’ve heard what they were sayin’ about you.”

“Rafe…” You blink. “Is everything okay?”

Your words tip up into a gasp as he pushes you back suddenly, one knee sinking into the bed, his body climbing over yours. “Those boys,” he mumbles. “They want you.”

“Max’s friends?” You gasp as your face twists in disgust; eyes flicking toward the door.

Rafe grabs your cheeks, forcing your focus back to him. His fingers slip under the lace and he groans—low and guttural—when he feels how wet you are.

“Already soaked,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’ve been sittin’ here all sweet and innocent, like nothin’s goin’ on—when your pussy’s this fuckin’ desperate for me. Say you're mine… Who do you belong to?”

You whimper, breath hitching as he slips your panties to the side and drags two fingers through your slick slowly, savoring every second.

“Say it,” he demands, his forehead pressing to yours; hand working you open.

“You,” you whisper. “I belong to you—”

“That’s right… Mine to spoil. Mine to love. Mine to fuck.”

You go to touch him, but he grabs your wrists before you get the chance. Forces them up over your head, holding you there. His body presses into yours and when his hand slides down your thigh, it pulls a shiver straight out of you. “Uh-uh, angel. Not yet.”

His fingers curl just right, pressing into that spot that makes your hips jolt off the sheets. He keeps it slow, steady—watching your face with quiet adoration. He’s memorized every flutter of your lashes, every soft gasp that slips from your swollen lips. He knows what it takes… what you crave. And he knows you’re close.

“You’re gonna come for me, pretty,” he murmurs. “Just like this—”

You nod rapidly, falling apart not a moment later. “Fuck, Rafe,” you cry out, trembling as your pussy clenches around his fingers.

But he doesn’t stop. He keeps working you through it, fucking you with his fingers until you’re gasping into his mouth, thighs twitching, hips jerking away from the overstimulation. You reach for his wrist, gripping tight, trying to slow him down—but he groans against your lips, loving how little it takes for him to unravel you.

He catches the lace of your panties and rips them clean off, the tear sharp and sudden. The sound snaps through the room, and your legs twitch from the jolt.

Rafe pulls you off the bed, guiding you right where he wants you, not wasting a moment. “Hands on the glass,” he says, voice rough as he unhooks your bra with one practiced flick. His other hand clamps around your waist, steadying you.

You press your palms to the glass, cool beneath you. Your reflection stares back: hair a mess, lips wet, chest rising fast—tits bare as you beg for more, fighting to keep your eyes open already as they flutter shut.

“Eyes on me,” Rafe whispers roughly, his chest pressed to your back now; hips flush against your ass.

He pushes into you slowly, giving you every delicious inch, your greedy pussy pulling him in. “Shit, baby… You’re tight.” Rafe grinds in deeper, hand splayed across your stomach as he holds you there, impaled on his thick cock. “This,” he pants, dragging back and slamming in again. “This is my pussy. My house. My fuckin’ wife.”

Rafe sets a brutal rhythm, hips snapping against your ass with each thrust. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, lewd and filthy. He spanks your ass, hard enough to make you jolt forward into the glass.

“Let ‘em hear it,” he growls. “Let those little bastards outside hear what I do to you.”

Your body trembles with every ruthless thrust; the mirror rattles under your grip, the sharp slaps of skin echoing round the room.

“Gonna cum for me, baby?” Rafe grits out, voice rough and hoarse.

“I’m gonna cum,” you gasp, voice breaking as the knot in your belly coils tight, ready to snap.

“Yeah?” He growls, dragging you closer, rough hands holding you right where he wants you. “Then fuckin’ give it to me.”

One arm binds around your waist while the other slips down, fingers working your clit in rough, relentless circles that make your legs shake. “Show me what I do to you.”

Your mouth drops open in a silent scream as your body jerks—cunt clamping down around him. You peel your eyes open, desperate to see him. And there he is in the mirror behind you: jaw tight, lip caught between his teeth as his hips slam into you again and again.

“Good girl,” he snarls, not letting up for a second. “You ain’t done yet.”

Rafe yanks you upright, chest to back, one big hand wrapping gently around your throat, thumb stroking just under your jaw as he fucks you deep and hard—so deep it’s almost too much.

You break with a choked sob, another orgasm tearing through you so hard your vision blurs. You go limp in his arms, legs shaking, body spent. He doesn’t let go. Just grunts out a rough “Fuck, baby,” right against your neck as his hips pump forward. One last thrust and he’s coming, cock throbbing inside you, breath hot on your skin.

You feel every pulse of it, thick and messy, spilling deep as he holds you there, buried and shaking, not ready to move.

Rafe nuzzles into your cheek, soft kisses dusting your jaw as your breath comes out in shattered little gasps. He listens to every sound. “You still with me, baby?” He murmurs, peeking over your shoulder with a teasing smirk.

“Barely,” you whisper, still catching your breath as you slump into his chest.

He lets out a soft laugh, mouth skimming the edge of your lips. “That smile,” he mutters, voice thick. “Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

You let your eyes fall shut, head resting against him.

He slips out of you slow, gentle to the last second, then gathers you up without a word. Carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing, sets you down easy, and smooths your hair from your face with the back of his hand. Just stands there for a beat, staring like he can’t believe you’re real.

“Rafe…” you breathe, voice soft and pathetic, so sweet it nearly breaks him. He smiles, crawling between your thighs. “You gonna tell me you can’t take another?” He whispers, hands sliding under your knees, pushing your thighs open wide. “Yes, you can… You always do.”

Rafe kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other, mouth warm against your sex. His stubble drags across your skin, rough enough to make your lip tremble.

Your hands shoot to his hair the second he dives between your thighs. His tongue works you over, lips locking around your clit as he sucks hard. You cry out, fingers gripping his hair, and he groans into you, the sound vibrating so deep it makes your legs shake.

Rafe’s fingers slide inside without warning, drilling his cum back into you until your back bows and your eyes blur with tears.

You sob, thighs quivering as your heels dig into the mattress, your body barely able to take it anymore; your brain not able to think of a single coherent thought.

“Give it to me. Let ‘em know who owns this fuckin’ bed, aight. You and me… You. And. Me.” A scream rips from your throat, so cock-drunk you cum without warning, soaking his hand, his face, the sheets beneath you, everything drenched in the proof of your pleasure.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” Rafe sighs in relief, licking and kissing through the mess, savoring every drop. He slaps your pussy once, firm and wet, just to hear the sound of it. “Atta baby. That’s what I fuckin’ needed… So damn good to me.”

He drags his mouth up your body. Every touch lingers, every breath shared. He settles over you, wrapping you up in him.

You reach for his face, thumb stroking along his slick jaw. He leans into your touch, his mouth just a breath from yours.

“I love you,” you murmur, voice barely there.

Rafe’s leans in, resting his forehead against yours. A quiet smile breaks across his face.

“I love you more, sweetheart,” he says, low and steady. “Always have. Always will.”

ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴ the next morning

“I warned you,” Max mutters.

Tripp doesn’t reply—just stares into the void like something sacred was taken from him last night. Trevor’s slumped next to him, hoodie up, eyes hollow, chewing his thumbnail.

“Warned us?” Tripp breathes, voice shot. “About the wet bed? The screaming? The headboard hitting the wall like a metronome set to ‘destroy pussy’ all night long?”

Knock. Knock. Knock. Bauer adds, thumping his fist against the kitchen table. “All damn night.”

Max shrugs, calm as ever. “I told you not to talk about my mom.”

“…She was crying about it,” Bauer mutters. “Crying about dick—”

“Enough,” Max snaps.

Tripp rubs both hands over his face. “I’ve got PTSD. Did you sleep?”

“You think I slept?” Trevor huffs.

“You could’ve knocked,” Max says casually, sipping his orange juice.

All heads turn to him fast. “Knocked?” They spat in unison.

Max shrugs again, scrolling aimlessly on his phone. “Could’ve asked to crash in my room. I slept great.”

You walk in like it’s any other morning—light on your feet, humming under your breath, dressed in a tiny pajama set that has no business existing in a house full of teenage boys. Your tank’s stretched snug across your chest, love bites just barely visible where your robe slips open at the collar.

You pull the cinnamon rolls out, set them on the counter, steam rising fast. Without thinking, you grab the icing, swipe some with your finger, and lick it clean. You smile, small and sleepy, still feeling kind of floaty from the night before.

And for the first time in god knows how long they sat there in silence.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” Tripp whispers as heavy footsteps echo down the hall.

And then—Rafe.

No shirt, just his signature gold chain catching the light as it rested against his chest. His skin was tanned, muscles cut sharp, and those sweats hung low on his hips like he’d just rolled out of bed—or hadn’t bothered to pull them up all the way.

“Mornin’, baby,” He murmurs, already reaching for your waist.

“Good morning,” you hum, letting him pull you into him—cinnamon roll tray still in your hands—as he kisses your skin; fingers curling around the handle of the fresh cup of coffee you poured him, steam rolling over the rim of the handmade Daddy mug from a Father’s Day past.

“For me?” He asks softly, like the entire house isn’t holding its breath.

You giggle, warm and syrupy. “Made your favorite.”

“Already had my favorite last night.” It’s a whisper meant just for you, but every boy hears it.

Rafe grabs a roll, swipes his thumb through the icing, and licks it clean like he’s still tasting you. He sips his coffee slowly, his focus unwavering.

“Breakfast on the porch, baby?”

“Yeah,” you smile like he asked you on a date.

Then finally, with one last glance at his house, his wife, and the group of broken boys who will never forget last night, he mumbles, smug as ever…

“Ya’ll have a great day. ”

[cameronsbabydoll]

salvatore — rafe cameron

rafe always brings you fruit in the mornings.

dripping peaches, split open with his pocket knife, the blade still warm from the heat of his skin. he presses a slice to your lips, juice trickling down your chin, and laughs when you gasp at the sweetness. his laugh is lazy, sun-drenched, slipping through his teeth like molasses.

“you like that, don’t you, baby?” he thumbs the juice from your mouth, licking it from his hand. “sweet girl. my girl.”

you don’t remember how you got here. not anymore at least.

one day, you were someone else, living a normal life with normal things—grocery lists, alarm clocks, bus rides. and then there was rafe, golden and grinning, spinning you around on some villa balcony, promising you forever with a cigarette hanging from his lips.

“y’know you don’t need to go back,” he told you, brushing a lemon-scented kiss against your cheek. “stay with me.“

and you did.

now, your world is just rafe and the sea. sun-bleached afternoons by the pool, the glint of his watch as he reaches for another glass of champagne. he doesn’t work, doesn’t worry. he just drinks, kisses, pulls you into the water with him, soaking your dress as he presses against you.

but sometimes, when the sun is setting and the air turns thick, you think about leaving. about running. about what exists beyond the cliffs and the winding roads, beyond rafe’s golden hands and honeyed words.

and you wonder if he’d let you.

then he catches you staring at the horizon, fingers curling possessively around your wrist.

“where’d you go, huh?” his voice is soft, teasing, but his grip is iron. “thinkin’ about something?”

you shake your head, offering him a smile, and he presses a kiss to your palm.

“good girl,” he murmurs. “no need to think about anything but this.”

the sea glitters behind him, endless and inviting. but rafe always shines brighter.

[calypso-rt]

HONEYMOON

with Rafe Cameron

-> Rafe x F!Reader

📍 Amalfi Coast, Italy 🇮🇹

You knew honeymooning with Rafe Cameron would be an experience.

But as you step onto the sun drenched terrace of your private villa overlooking the endless stretch of the Mediterranean, waves crashing gently against the cliffs below, you realize nothing could have prepared you for this.

It’s breathtaking. The kind of view that belongs in a postcard, all golden light and soft ocean breeze, the scent of lemon trees lingering in the air.

And then there’s Rafe, grinning like he planned this entire thing himself (he didn’t), hands in his pockets, watching you expectantly.

“Well?” he prompts, shifting closer, voice dipping into something softer. “Worth marrying me for?”

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “Jury’s still out.”

Rafe hums, unconvinced. “Mm. Guess I’ll have to spend the next week proving you made the right choice.”

Before you can fire back, his arms loop around your waist, pulling you into him with that effortless ease, the kind that still makes your breath catch, even after everything. His lips find your temple, lingering just long enough to send warmth spreading through your chest.

And suddenly, you don’t care about the luggage still sitting by the door. Or the very long flight it took to get here.

Because Rafe is here. And he’s yours.

And if the next week looks anything like this?

You’re definitely in trouble.

☀️ Lazy Tanning on the Coast

The afternoon sun is warm against your skin, a lazy breeze rolling in from the water as you stretch out on the lounge chair. The sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below is almost hypnotic, so much so that you don’t even notice Rafe shifting closer until you feel his fingers graze your wrist. “You’re not even trying to tan,” he murmurs, lips curving into a smirk. You peek at him over your sunglasses. “Maybe because I don’t need to turn into a lobster like you.” Rafe scoffs, dramatically offended. “Lobster? Baby, I’m gonna be golden.” “You’re gonna be burnt." He ignores that, reaching over to steal your drink without asking, sipping lazily before setting it back down, closer to his side of the table. You huff, but before you can snatch it back, he shifts onto his side, propping his head up with one hand as he studies you. “What?” you ask, suspicious. His expression softens, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “You just look good. Happy.” The words settle warm in your chest, and for once, you don’t have a teasing remark ready. Instead, you reach out, threading your fingers through his where they rest between you. “I am,” you admit. And with him under the golden Italian sun, you really are.

🏍 Him absolutely renting a Vespa just to “impress you”

“You’re going to kill us.” Rafe scoffs, revving the Vespa like it’s a full blown motorcycle. “Baby, have a little faith.” You tighten your grip around his waist, already regretting this. “Last time you drove something this small, you ran over Topper’s foot.” “Okay, first of all, that was his fault for standing too close. Second, this is different. I’ve got it under control.” Famous last words. The Vespa wobbles as he takes off, and you let out an actual scream, clinging to him for dear life. Rafe just laughs, one hand way too casually gripping the handlebar. “Relax,” he says over the wind, sounding downright smug. “You’re in good hands.” You peek over his shoulder, past the stunning coastline, the rows of pastel-colored buildings, the winding cobblestone streets you’re probably about to crash into, and sigh. “Just try not to get us banned from Italy, okay?” Rafe chuckles, his free hand reaching down to squeeze yours where it rests against his stomach. “No promises, Mrs. Cameron.” And despite yourself, despite the very real possibility of disaster, you can’t help but smile.

🍝 Romantic candelit dinners where you can't keep your eyes off of him

The restaurant is tucked into the cliffs, candlelight flickering against white linen tablecloths, the sound of waves crashing below blending seamlessly with the soft hum of conversation. It’s the kind of place straight out of a dream: warm, intimate, effortlessly romantic. And yet, the only thing you can focus on is Rafe. He sits across from you, sleeves rolled up, tanned skin golden in the glow of the candles. There’s a lazy smirk tugging at his lips as he watches you, fingers idly tracing the rim of his wine glass. “You’re staring,” he murmurs. You roll your eyes, spearing a piece of pasta with your fork. “You’re imagining things.” Rafe leans forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Mmm. Don’t think so.” His voice dips, teasing but quiet, like it’s meant just for you. “Starting to think you like me, sweetheart.” You hum, pretending to consider. “Well, I did marry you. So, I guess you’re not totally awful.” His smirk deepens, but instead of responding, he reaches across the table, fingers grazing your wrist before curling around your hand completely. The warmth of his touch sends a flutter through your chest, one you pretend not to feel as he rubs slow, lazy circles against your skin. For once, there’s no bickering. No teasing. Just him. Just this. And as the night stretches on, wine glasses emptied, dessert shared, his foot nudging yours under the table, you realize something for the millionth time. You don’t just like Rafe Cameron. You love him.

🌊 A boat ride that ends with both of you in the water.

The sun is high, the water impossibly blue as the boat drifts lazily along the coast. It’s quiet except for the occasional hum of the engine and the rhythmic lapping of waves against the hull. Rafe stands at the bow, arms outstretched like he owns the ocean, wind ruffling his sun-bleached hair. “See? Told you renting a boat was a genius idea.” You lean back against the railing, sipping your drink. “Mmm. I’ll be impressed when you actually do something.” He turns, raising a brow. “Is that a challenge?” You smirk. “More like a fact.” And then, before you can react, Rafe strides toward you, that dangerous glint in his eye as he sets your drink to the side. “Rafe—” Too late. His arms wrap around you, warm and solid, and in one swift motion, he dives off the side, taking you with him. The water is a shock, cool against your sun-kissed skin, bubbles rushing around you as you resurface with a gasp. “Rafe!” you splutter, shoving wet hair from your face. He’s already floating beside you, grinning so smugly you could throttle him. “You said I should do something.” “You’re impossible!” You flick water at him, but he just laughs, swimming closer. Then, his hands find your waist beneath the waves, tugging you against him effortlessly. His voice drops, lower, softer. “But you love me anyway.” You roll your eyes, but your arms loop around his neck, your legs tangling with his in the water. “Unfortunately.” He grins before closing the space between you, his lips warm despite the cool water, the sea carrying you both in lazy circles. And maybe his boat idea was kind of genius.

🛏 Mornings spent tangled in crisp white sheets, sunlight spilling through open windows, his lazy grin the first thing you see.

Morning comes slow, golden light spilling through the open windows, the soft rustle of the ocean breeze slipping through sheer white curtains. The sheets are a tangled mess, warm, wrinkled, wrapped around your legs and twisted somewhere between you and Rafe. You blink sleepily, stretching against the pillows, only to be met with the sight of him. Rafe lies beside you, arm thrown lazily over your waist, his bare chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. His hair is a mess, sun-kissed strands falling over his forehead, and when he stirs, just barely, his lips curve into a lazy, lopsided grin. “Morning, Mrs. Cameron,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. Your heart does that stupid fluttering thing, but you roll your eyes anyway, fingers tracing absentmindedly along his jaw. “You just like saying that.” He hums, eyes still half-closed as he tugs you closer, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder. “Obviously.” You sigh, letting yourself melt into him, into the warmth of his skin, the steady press of his heartbeat against yours. Neither of you rush to move. There’s nowhere to be, nothing to do but exist here in this perfect little pocket of time where the world is quiet and love feels as easy as breathing. And as Rafe buries his face in the crook of your neck, mumbling something about five more minutes, you know, without a doubt, you wouldn’t trade this for anything.

A/N: Inspo struck guys I'm on a roll

[rafesapologist]

if you would've been the one ─ rafe cameron

summary: rafe gets engaged and you find out.

warnings: angst, swearing, not proof-read

author's note: if you guys didn't know, i love writing angst so enjoy!!

The Pelican Yacht Club hums with the familiar buzz of a humid summer day. You stand behind the bar, the scent of saltwater mixing with the tang of citrus as you slice limes for the afternoon rush. The air is thick, almost suffocating, but you’ve gotten used to it. It’s a typical day—until it isn’t.

You glance up when the door swings open, letting in a flash of sunlight that makes you squint. It's Sofia. She isn’t scheduled today. The sight of her here, so out of place in this moment, makes your stomach twist. You force yourself to look away, feigning interest in the drink menu as she walks past. You can’t help but feel a twinge of resentment as she greets the staff with her bright smile, as if she’s the sunshine that everyone’s been waiting for.

Part of you hates her for that smile, hates the way she effortlessly lights up the room. But it’s not really her you’re mad at—it’s what she represents. Rafe Cameron’s new girlfriend. The girl who has no idea about the summers you spent next door, about the nights you sat on the dock with him, talking about everything and nothing. The girl who has no clue about the history between you and Rafe before she ever came into the picture.

You find yourself inching closer, pretending to fix a shelf of liquor bottles while you strain to overhear her conversation with your boss. Sofia’s voice is low but excited, the kind of tone people use when they have news that’s too good to keep quiet.

You catch bits and pieces of the conversation—something about a new start, a fresh chapter. Your heart pounds as you try to piece it together. Then you hear it, clear as day.

“I’m engaged,” Sofia says, a soft, dreamy smile spreading across her face. “Rafe proposed last night.”

You freeze. The glass in your hand slips slightly, a cold splash of water running down your wrist, but you barely feel it. You’re too stunned, too caught in the moment. Engaged. She’s not just his girlfriend anymore—she’s his fiancée. And she’s leaving. You hear her tell your boss she’s quitting, planning to move in with Rafe, start their new life together.

Your heart sinks, the words echoing in your head like a tolling bell. Engaged. Moving in with him. The world blurs around the edges, your fingers gripping the counter as you try to steady yourself. You force a smile when your boss catches your eye, but it feels thin, barely there.

Your heart thuds violently against your chest, every beat echoing like a cruel joke pounding in your ears. It feels as if your very emotions are ripping at your heartstrings, tearing them apart one by one. The realization claws at you, raw and unyielding. Engaged. You can’t even say the word in your head without feeling your throat tighten, a wave of nausea creeping up as if the world itself has betrayed you.

Your lips curl, the bitterness flooding your mouth as if you’d just bitten into a sour lemon. It’s a twisted smile, one that burns with hatred and betrayal. She had no idea—how could she? How could she possibly know the history, the gravity of everything she just shattered with those simple, giddy words? Bitter tears prick at your eyes, the kind that sting and make you blink rapidly, as if you could will them away.

Without thinking, your fingers fumble at the ties of your apron, ripping it off with a sudden, violent tug. The fabric falls to the floor with a muted thud, but it feels like a thunderous crash in your ears. You don’t care who’s watching; you don’t care what they’ll say. The room seems to tilt around you, your vision narrowing as your breaths come in shallow, rapid gasps.

You place your trembling hands on the counter, feeling the cool surface beneath your fingertips as you try to steady yourself. It doesn’t help. You bow your head, squeezing your eyes shut as you suck in a ragged breath, trying to rein in the flood of emotions threatening to drown you. The noise of the yacht club fades to a dull hum, everything around you blurring as you fight to keep it together.

Suddenly, nothing around you matters anymore. The clinking glasses, the murmur of the club members, the dull chatter of your coworkers—all of it fades to a distant, meaningless buzz. Your job, your manners, your reputation—all the things you’ve been clinging to for a sense of normalcy—seem laughably small in the face of what you’re feeling. The rage and heartbreak surging inside you demand an escape, a release you can’t find standing behind this bar pretending everything is fine.

Without a second thought, you shove the door open, storming out of the yacht club. No one notices. No one even calls your name. The warm, sticky air hits you like a slap in the face as you step outside, but it does nothing to calm the storm brewing within you. You stumble forward, gasping for air, your chest heaving as if you’re drowning. You bend over, hands clutching your knees as you choke on your sobs, each tear hot and unforgiving as it spills down your cheeks.

You force yourself to look up at the sky, its bright blue taunting you. The sun burns harshly, casting long shadows over the marina, but you only feel the darkness wrapping around you. A bitter laugh escapes your lips, followed by a curse you fling at the heavens. You want to scream, to demand an answer from whatever cruel force is out there pulling the strings of your life. What about her? you think desperately, the words echoing in your mind like a broken record. What about her made her deserve a ring, Rafe’s ring?

Your hands clench into fists as you straighten up, trying to find your balance, but the ground feels like it’s shifting beneath you. The memories of Rafe slam into you like a tidal wave, overwhelming and inescapable. The late nights by the dock, the way he used to look at you when he thought no one else was watching, the soft, fleeting kisses that felt like promises he’d never actually made. They all flash before your eyes like a haunting nightmare you can’t wake up from.

It hits you then, like a punch to the gut—the realization that everything you shared, everything you held onto, meant nothing now. He’s chosen her. He’s given her everything you once dreamed he’d offer you. And in that moment, the weight of it all is too much to bear, your knees nearly buckling as you clutch your chest.

A rush of adrenaline surges through your veins, and before you can even think, your feet are moving. You take off, sprinting away from the yacht club, away from the suffocating weight of it all. Where you’re going? You have no idea. You just need to move, to run until the pain isn’t the only thing you feel. The wind pushes against you, almost as if it’s trying to slow you down, but you ignore it. You let it whip through your hair, the strands tangling into a mess of disheveled curls as you race forward.

Your feet pound against the pavement, carrying you closer into town, toward Figure 8—the gilded paradise of the wealthy, where your story with Rafe first began. The roads twist beneath you, familiar yet foreign now, each corner a sharp, painful reminder of the past. You pass the spot where he kissed you for the first time under the flickering streetlight. The bench where you once sat for hours, talking about dreams that were never meant to be. The old corner store where he’d steal glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking. It all burns a hole straight through your chest, the memories hitting you harder than the humid wind in your face.

You don’t stop. You can’t. The images flash by in a blur, each one slicing deeper into your already bleeding heart. It’s like you’re running through a living nightmare, haunted by ghosts of the life you thought you might have had. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, the tears streaming freely now, hot and unrelenting. Mascara streaks down your cheeks, black rivers tracing the contours of your face—a perfect, messy representation of where you were mentally.

You push yourself harder, faster, until your legs scream in protest and your lungs burn with every gulp of air. The world around you blurs, the people, the cars, the houses—none of it matters. You keep running, driven by the pain that won’t let you rest. Your chest heaves, a raw ache settling in as the adrenaline begins to fade, replaced by the crushing weight of exhaustion. You stumble to a halt, bent over, hands on your knees once more as you gasp for air.

You’re breathless, hair a wild halo of loose curls sticking to your tear-streaked face. Your vision swims, a cocktail of sweat and tears blinding you as you look up at the sky, feeling nothing but the hollow ache in your chest. Here you are, in the place where you once made all your memories with him. But it feels like a stranger now—empty, cold, and unwelcoming.

You stand there for what feels like an eternity, hands braced on your knees, gulping down air as if you’ve just surfaced from drowning. You can’t even process where you are—all you can feel is the tight, agonizing pressure in your chest, like your heart is being squeezed by an invisible fist. You’re vaguely aware that people are walking by, probably staring at you, but it’s like they’re part of a distant dream. Their gazes feel like nothing more than a blur on the edges of your vision.

But you don’t care. You’ve been stripped raw, exposed in a way that makes everything else fade into insignificance. You push yourself upright, your fingers digging into your waist as you take in deep, ragged breaths, trying to slow the pounding of your heart. The mascara streaks have dried, the salty residue of your tears leaving your cheeks tight and sticky. You close your eyes for a moment, just a moment, trying to pull yourself together.

Then you hear it. A voice—his voice.

"Y/N?"

The sound of your name hits you like a bolt of lightning, jolting you back to reality. You freeze, your heart skipping a beat as the familiarity of it wraps around you like a cold, clammy hand. You know that voice better than your own, and yet, hearing it now feels like a punch to the gut. It’s haunting, the way it slices through the air, so soft and unsure, as if he’s almost afraid it might actually be you standing there, looking as broken as you feel.

Slowly, you turn around, your eyes widening as you meet his gaze. Rafe Cameron stands just a few feet away, his expression a mixture of shock, concern, and something else you can’t quite place. For a second, it feels like the world stops spinning, the sounds of the town fading into the background until it’s just the two of you, standing there like the past has come back to drag you under.

He takes a hesitant step closer, his brow furrowing as he takes in your disheveled appearance—the wild curls, the streaks of makeup, the look of utter devastation in your eyes. You can see the questions forming on his lips, the confusion in his eyes. But you’re too stunned to speak, the words trapped in your throat. All you can do is stare back at him, feeling the sharp sting of fresh tears welling up again.

“What happened? Are you okay?” Rafe’s voice is laced with genuine concern, the sincerity in his tone unmistakable. His eyes scan your face, searching for answers, and for a fleeting moment, he looks like the Rafe you used to know—the one who held you close on quiet nights, the one who made you feel like you were the only person in the world.

But the sound of his words makes you feel sick to your stomach. The irony of his compassion now, when it feels like he’s the one who drove the knife into your heart, twists inside you like a dagger. You let out a bitter, humorless laugh, the sound cutting through the air like shattered glass. It’s as if he’s playing a cruel joke, and you’re the punchline.

“What do you care?” you snap, your voice raw and venomous. You can feel your top lip quiver in disgust as you shake your head, unable to look at him without the pain flaring up like a fresh wound. His expression falters, the shock evident in his eyes. It’s like he’s been slapped, his confusion deepening as he takes in the sheer hurt radiating off you.

“You don’t get to act concerned,” you spit out, each word drenched in the bitterness that’s been festering inside you. “Not after everything. Not after this.” The last word comes out almost as a whisper, your voice breaking under the weight of it.

Rafe’s expression shifts, a deep crease forming between his brows as he stares at you with wide, bewildered eyes. It’s almost laughable—the look of shock, the utter confusion twisting his features as if he genuinely has no idea why you’re standing here, mascara-streaked and heartbroken. He takes a small step closer, his voice soft and pleading.

“What did I do?” he asks, sounding clueless, like a child who doesn’t understand why they’re being scolded. His tone is so sincere, so filled with concern, that for a split second, you almost believe him. But then the truth crashes over you again, sharp and unforgiving, and it sends a fresh wave of anger coursing through your veins.

You scoff, a bitter sound that feels like acid on your tongue. His naivety, his complete obliviousness to the damage he’s caused, only fuels the fire inside you. You look up at him, your eyes blazing with the kind of betrayal that words can’t fully capture.

“I don’t know, Rafe,” you say, your voice dripping with venom as you take a step closer, your gaze piercing right through him. “You tell me. Maybe an engagement, perhaps?”

You spit the words out, practically throwing them at him, your voice cracking under the weight of your own disbelief. You watch as realization dawns on his face, his eyes widening slightly, the color draining from his cheeks. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. It’s like he’s been struck dumb, caught off guard by the sheer force of your anger and the pain radiating off you in waves.

The silence between you is deafening, charged with the weight of everything left unsaid. You can see it in his eyes—the moment he pieces it together. And it’s almost satisfying, watching the horror settle in, watching him realize that the life he’s built, the future he’s promised someone else, has shattered you in ways he never anticipated.

“You didn’t think I’d find out, did you?” you whisper, your voice hoarse as the tears well up again. “You didn’t think it would matter.” The words hang in the air, heavy and accusatory, and for once, Rafe Cameron has no response. He just stands there, staring at you like you’re a mirror reflecting all the mistakes he’s made.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

The words fall from his lips like an empty promise, and you can’t help but scoff, the bitter laugh bubbling up uncontrollably. You know it means nothing. It can never mean anything. No apology, no amount of regret can ever take back what’s been done, what he’s taken from you. Your chest tightens as the anger swells up, hotter and sharper with each passing second.

“Oh, you’re sorry?” you spit, your voice rising in pitch with every word. You can feel your fists balling at your sides, your body shaking with the weight of everything you’ve tried to swallow down, tried to bury. “You’re sorry?”

You throw your arms up in the air, an exaggerated motion of frustration, a physical manifestation of everything inside you that’s about to break free. “You think some bullshit apology is going to make up for what you’ve put me through?” you shout, your voice rising to a scream. The words burst out of you in a raw, jagged rush, like you’re finally tearing through the wall of calm you’d built just to keep from falling apart. “You think saying ‘sorry’ is going to make me forget everything? Forget you? Forget the way you made me feel like I was the only one in the world and then turned around and chose her instead?”

Your breath is ragged, your chest heaving as your emotions spill out of you uncontrollably. You’re not even sure where the words are coming from now, but they come in a torrent, desperate and aching. "How am I supposed to wonder for the rest of my life," you continue, your voice shaking, "why you chose her instead? What was it about her that made you pick her over me, Rafe? What the hell did I do wrong?"

You step closer, not caring anymore about the distance between you. Your face feels hot, your pulse pounding in your ears, but you can't stop yourself. "You think I won’t wonder, every goddamn day, why I wasn’t enough?" you add bitterly, the weight of your words crashing down on you.

“I didn’t do it to hurt you, I… I did it because she’s stuck by my side through all of this stuff I’ve been going through.”

The words hit you like a slap, but you don’t let him see the sting. Instead, your head snaps over to him, your eyes narrowed so dangerously that if looks could kill, he’d drop right there, dead. Every ounce of frustration, anger, and betrayal gathers in the pit of your stomach, and your mouth twists into a bitter frown. It feels like your entire body is ready to explode.

“And what? I wouldn’t have?” you snap, voice raw with fury. “You didn’t give me the fucking chance to, Rafe!” Your heart is pounding now, each beat a furious reminder of everything you’ve been through—of the way he’s shattered you, piece by piece. “You gave up! The second things got a little hard between us, you gave up. We could’ve worked through it if you actually tried!”

The words fly out of you, harsh and cruel in nature, but they don’t feel like enough. You shove him, your hands landing firmly against his chest in a fit of frustration. “I love you, Rafe!” you scream, the sound of your voice trembling with the weight of everything you’ve been holding back. “I fucking love you, and it has destroyed me watching you give your all to someone else. You have ruined me!”

And that’s when it breaks. The dam cracks, the tears flood, and you’re not just crying—you’re sobbing, your body wracked with the weight of it all. Your chest aches with the sobs, your body collapsing under the strain as you stand there, shaking uncontrollably in the middle of the street. All the rage, all the hurt, all the unanswered questions spill out of you like a river that’s finally burst its banks.

Rafe stands frozen for a moment, as if unable to process the sight of you, broken and vulnerable in a way he’s never seen before. His face goes pale, his eyes wide with guilt and horror, realizing that he’s the one who’s caused all of this—he’s the one who’s done this to you. And the weight of that realization hits him harder than anything else could.

Without another word, he pulls you into his chest. The gesture is sudden, almost desperate, as if he needs to hold you as much as you need to be held. His arms wrap around you tightly, firmly, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. You can feel his body against yours, the warmth of his chest as you crumble in his arms, your sobs echoing between you both.

For a moment, you stand there in his arms, the two of you swaying slightly as if the ground beneath you is unsteady. His grip on you is firm but gentle, like he’s trying to hold together the pieces of you he’s broken, letting you cry out your frustrations, your sadness, your heartbreak. The tears flow freely, soaking into his shirt, and he just holds you tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. He doesn’t say anything, because he knows there’s nothing he can say to make this better. So he lets you cry, lets you release everything you’ve been carrying.

For just a second, you almost let yourself lean into him. His hold feels like comfort—like a memory of what it used to be, back when you felt safe and wanted. But then the reality slams into you like a tidal wave. He’s not yours anymore. He belongs to someone else now, someone who wears his ring, someone who gets to wake up next to him every morning. The realization crashes down on you, a flood of emotions so overwhelming that you choke on your own sobs, the pain squeezing your chest until it feels like you can’t breathe.

“I can’t stand to see you like this, Y/N,” Rafe says softly, his voice trembling as he looks down at you. His eyes are filled with a deep sadness, like he’s finally seeing the full extent of the damage he’s caused. He pulls back just enough to see your face, his hands cupping your cheeks, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. The way he’s looking at you—it’s almost unbearable, like he’s mourning something he’s only just realized he lost. “This isn’t your fault,” he continues, his voice cracking slightly. “You’re right, it’s my fault. It’s my fault for not trying harder.”

His words are raw, filled with a regret you’ve never heard from him before, and it makes your heart ache even more. You want to scream at him, to push him away and tell him that it’s too late—that his apologies don’t change anything. But you’re too exhausted, too broken to fight anymore. You just stare at him, tears still streaming down your face, your lips trembling as you try to find the words to respond.

“But it doesn’t mean that I don’t… love you,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. The confession hangs between you like a fragile, broken thing. You can see the truth in his eyes, the love that’s still there, buried beneath layers of mistakes and regret. It’s there, as real as the pain in your chest, and it cuts you deeper than anything else he could have said.

The words sink into you, bittersweet and hollow. It’s what you’ve wanted to hear for so long, and yet it feels like a cruel joke now, a confession that comes far too late. You let out a shaky breath, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as you try to steady yourself. His love—it doesn’t change what’s happened, it doesn’t erase the hurt.

“You don’t mean that,” you whisper, your voice breaking as you shake your head, refusing to let his words sink in. It’s almost like you’re trying to shake them off, as if denying them will somehow lessen the pain. You close your eyes tightly, squeezing out the last of your tears because looking at him—seeing the raw, honest look in his eyes—will only make it hurt more. It’s too much. The truth you’ve waited so long to hear is finally being spoken, but it’s laced with the bitter sting of timing that’s all wrong.

Rafe’s grip on you tightens, his hands trembling slightly as he holds your face, desperate to make you believe him. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he searches your expression, as if he’s looking for a way back to you, a way to undo everything that’s happened. “No, I do mean that,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. He pauses, the words hanging between you, heavy and filled with a regret so palpable it feels like a punch to your gut.

“I’ve known it since the day I met you,” he continues, his eyes boring into yours as if he’s trying to imprint this moment into his memory, to make you feel the weight of his confession. “But I made a mistake. Letting you go was the biggest mistake of my life, and I know that now. I’ve known it every single day since. And that—” his voice cracks, and he looks away for a brief moment, as if he can’t bear to see the pain on your face—“that is going to haunt me for the rest of my life.”

The sincerity in his voice sends a fresh wave of agony crashing through you. You want to scream at him, to tell him that it’s too late, that he’s made his choice, and there’s no going back now. But the words get caught in your throat, choking you, leaving you gasping for breath. Because as much as you want to deny it, as much as you want to hate him, there’s still a part of you—deep down—that wants to believe him. That wants to believe you’ve always been the one, that he’s just as haunted by the loss as you are.

But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s made his choice. He’s with someone else now, someone who gets to have the version of him you once dreamed of, someone who’s standing by his side while you’re left picking up the pieces of what could have been. And that reality cuts through you like a knife, leaving you reeling.

“I wish that mattered,” you manage to whisper, your voice barely audible, each word a struggle as you force yourself to look him in the eyes. The storm of emotions churning within you feels like it might tear you apart from the inside, but you need him to hear this, to understand the depth of the pain he’s caused. “But it doesn’t change anything, Rafe. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re engaged to someone else, and I’m just… supposed to accept that.” Your voice breaks on the last word, the sound coming out fractured and hollow.

Rafe’s expression drops, and for the first time, you see something close to genuine despair flicker across his face. His blue eyes, which once held a spark of recklessness and life, now look empty, consumed by a dark realization. It’s as if he’s seeing the full weight of his choices for the first time, the horrifying dread of what he’s done sinking in like a stone dropped into still water. You can see the exact moment it hits him—the gravity of the mistake he’s made.

When he proposed to Sofia, he thought he was finally getting his life together. After years of chaos and self-destruction, he believed he was taking a step towards stability, towards becoming the man he always felt he needed to be. He convinced himself that this was the right path, that Sofia was the safe choice—the one who could ground him, the one who would stand by him through thick and thin. But now, standing in front of you, seeing the devastation in your eyes and hearing the brokenness in your voice, he realizes the truth he’s been running from all along.

He’s made a grave mistake—one he can’t undo.

The realization tears through him like a knife, and his knees nearly buckle under the weight of it. He looks at you with a mix of horror and regret, his face pale, his eyes glassy as if he’s about to crumble right then and there. He reaches out a hand, hesitating, his fingers trembling as if he’s afraid to touch you, afraid that this might be the last time he ever gets the chance.

“Y/N…” he breathes out your name, his voice breaking on the syllable. He looks utterly lost, like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, staring into the abyss. “I—” His words falter, and he closes his eyes, a shaky exhale escaping his lips. When he opens them again, they’re filled with a sorrow so deep it takes your breath away. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was finally getting my life together. But I was wrong. I was so, so wrong.”

You shake your head, feeling your heart shatter into a million pieces. His confession feels like a dagger twisting in your chest, confirming what you’d feared all along—that he never truly let you go, that you weren’t just imagining the way he used to look at you, the connection that lingered despite the time and distance.

“But you chose her,” you whisper, your voice laced with a bitter sadness. “You chose her over me, Rafe. And now you’re standing here, telling me this as if it changes anything. But it doesn’t. It’s too late.”

The words hang between you like a death sentence, and you can see it in his eyes—the crushing realization that he’s lost you for good, that this is the consequence of his choices. The haunting realization that he’ll have to live with this regret, this aching emptiness, for the rest of his life.

[rafecameronssl4t]

Farmer’s Market || dad!Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: a day out at the farmer’s market :)

warnings: none

Word count: 622

MASTERLIST (dad!rafe au masterlist)

The heat clung to your skin like a second layer, sticky and relentless even in the late afternoon. The Carolina sun dipped lower behind the trees as Rafe’s jacked-up Chevy rolled into the gravel lot behind the little roadside farmers market, tires crunching against stone.

You tugged gently at the hem of your white sundress, one hand resting instinctively over your bump as the truck came to a stop. “Wait—don’t move yet,” Rafe said quickly, throwing the gear into park and cutting the engine.

You were already reaching for the door handle, but he was around to your side in a flash, hat turned backward, those denim jeans slung low, and his white tee hugging his chest in all the right ways. He opened the door for you and held out his hand. “Careful, mama.”

You rolled your eyes, but you took his hand anyway. “Rafe, I’m pregnant. Not made of glass.” He didn’t let go. “Yeah, and you’re carrying my kid. So, yeah, I’m gonna be careful. That smirk of his softened when he caught the slight wince you tried to hide as your sandals touched the gravel.

His arm came around your waist immediately, warm and solid. “You good? Want me to carry you?” “I can walk,” you laughed, but it was soft, because the way he looked at you—protective, tuned in, like your well-being was the only thing that mattered in the world—made something in your chest ache.

Still, he didn’t let go. Not as he helped you down the uneven hill toward the booths, not when you paused to press a hand to your lower back, not when you grumbled about the heat. He wiped at your forehead gently with the edge of his shirt. “Too hot?” he asked, squinting down at you.

“You want a drink? Or we can just go home. I’ll make you one of those lemon slushy things you like.” You blinked up at him, slightly overwhelmed by how tender he’d gotten. “Why are you being so nice today?”Rafe frowned, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“Because you’re carrying our baby. And because I love you, obviously.” Your heart squeezed. A group of older women nearby gave you both a fond smile, one of them whispering something about how “young love always shows.” Rafe didn’t even notice.

He was too busy making sure you didn’t step wrong on a rock, adjusting his pace to match yours like it was second nature. You walked slower now, one hand on your stomach, the other in his. And when you were done at the market, when your feet were sore and your patience had thinned, Rafe helped you back up into the Chevy like you were made of spun sugar.

“Alright, in you go,” he muttered, hands strong around your waist as he hoisted you up effortlessly. He even buckled your seatbelt for you. “You’re gonna be such a good dad,” you whispered, head lolling back against the headrest as he shut the door.

He grinned, walking around to his side. “That’s the plan, baby.” And as he drove off, one hand on the wheel and the other resting lightly on your thigh, you knew you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

[angelluvsrafe]

Hey! This is my first time eating here! So um..can I please have a hotdog with some French fries…and a Fanta lemon along with some sweet chili sauce? How much do I owe you? 😉

order number #5 menu

good girl x bad boy, s1 rafe smut one-shot

kook reader x rafe cameron

MDNI 18+

warnings: unprotected sex (pull out method), loss of virginity, fingering.

“stay still, princess…” he murmurs as his fingers brush over your slit. he’d layed you down on the bed, stripped you of all of your clothes then kissed you from head to toe.

the kisses trailed from your neck, down your chest and sternum, down your stomach before the eventually came to an end at your glistening pussy lips.

his thumb gently rubs circles over your clit. you whimper and squirm.

you’d never felt anything like this before, it was weird. but it felt so good. it made you wanna pull away and squirm but you wanted him to carry on.

“shhh… keep still for me. i know it’s hard…” he leans down and presses soft, wet kisses to your inner thigh.

“sorry…” you moan, your legs twitching as his rubbing motion picks up the pace.

“it’s okay, babygirl… you’re still new to this, huh?” he smirks up at you, his hands moving to the back of your thighs and pushing your knees to your chest.

your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you try to stop your anxiousness from ruining the experience.

“yeah… i don’t really know what to do…” you respond quietly, your sentence trailing off into a whine as his finger drags down your slit to your weeping entrance.

“you don’t need to do anything, sweet girl. i’ve got you.” he chuckles lowly and dips his head down to press a hard kiss against your clit.

his middle finger slowly slips into your tight hole, your arousal helping it glide in effortlessly. he slides them in and out slowly, letting you get used to it.

then follows his ring finger with his middle finger, the pace is slightly quicker this time— withdrawing moans from your parted lips.

“good girl… you like that?” his smirk widens slightly as he sees your flushed face and glazed over eyes.

“yeah…” you moan, your back arching as he thrusts his fingers into your needy hole repeatedly.

he speeds his fingers up and rubs your clit with his other hand. your toes curl and he chuckles at your reaction.

“rafe- im gonna cum-“ you splutter out inbetween moan. his fingers curve upwards, hitting the perfect spot on your gummy walls.

your stomach feels incredibly tight as he works you up towards your climax.

it feels like a band snaps as a wave of immense pleasure washes over you, your pussy clenching around rafe’s digits.

“there she is… well done for telling me you were gonna cum, doll” he praises with a soft kiss to your stomach as he pulls his fingers out of your pulsing hole.

-

18+ link

your face is buried in the pillow as your ass is in the air, your knees bent and feet pressed back against his hips.. rafe is pounding his hard cock into your pussy. your moans are muffled by the thick material of the pillows.

his hands have hold of your hips as he pulls you back against him, his cock hitting the g-spot with every thrust.

“you little innocent thing… never been fucked before huh?” he taunts softly, his fingers digging into the plush skin of your hips.

“bet you’ve never been face down ass up for anyone else, have you princess?” he continues, he knows you can barely hear him but he taunts you anyway.

you’re such an innocent girl and you’re all his to play with, to teach dirty things to. this is rafe’s dream.

you cry out in pleasure as his cock stimulates you perfectly every time his cock pushes into you. his grunts turn into quiet sighs and whimpers, which causes his grip to tighten and move up to your waist— slamming you back against him.

“i’m gonna cum- again rafe-” you gasp and yet again, a wave of pleasure rushes over you.

this time, it’s more powerful. you feel rafe’s thrusts slow down as he pulls out and shoots white ropes over your ass and back.

“you tired, sweetheart?” he pats your hip and lays down next to you. you nod and collapse ontop of him, your face immediately hiding in his neck.

he kisses down your neck, his arms squeezing you softly.

“you’re my little doll… so sweet and perfect.” he murmurs

total: $7,03 - word count: 703

[rafeslittlepup]

How does sexist!rafe react to his son’s friend having a crush on reader? Like full on asking her out, singling rafe out, flirting with her, the boy’s 10. He doesnt know what he’s doing. Does reader play along? You can do whatever you want with this ask (but if you would write it that would be amazing!) okay, love you! Toodles!

-☀️

you’re in the kitchen making lemonade, barefoot in your little apron. rafe is pretending to read the paper at the breakfast bar but really just watching your legs while you hum and slice lemons.

jamie walks into the kitchen, sweaty from the backyard. and right behind him, his best friend, this tiny, freckled, bowl-cut menace named wyatt. he’s been coming around a little too much lately. he always asks if “mrs. cameron’s gonna be home today” before accepting a playdate invite.

you hand out lemonade, smile sweetly, and say, “don’t spill it on the porch, please.”

and then wyatt looks up at you, all bashful and red-faced and goes, “um… when I’m older, do you think maybe i could marry you?”

you blink, jamie gags. and rafe folds the newspaper in half like it just insulted him.

“what did you just say?” he chuckles

and you try not to laugh. “rafe…”

“no, no, hang on, wanna hear it again. go ahead, wyatt.” he’s smiling like a rattlesnake. “say it again, champ.”

the little boy is unaware he’s seconds from getting kicked, he just grins wide. “i like her a lot. she’s really pretty and she makes the best cookies, and she smells good.”

your son slaps a hand over his face.

“yeah? you know what else she does? she’s my wife… my very married wife, maybe keep your little fourth grade fantasies to yourself...”

“rafe!” you warn him

wyatt stutters something about going to play and sprints out of the room.

your son follows him, muttering, “told you my dad was crazy, dude.”

and you’re still holding the lemonade jar, torn between scolding and wheezing.

rafe just shakes his head, muttering, “kid’s got no damn respect, should’ve kicked him out when he said your cookies were better than his mom’s.”

you smirk. “you’re really jealous of a ten-year-old?”

“i’m jealous of anyone who breathes too hard near you.”

he reaches over, tugs your apron ribbon and kisses you like he’s got something to prove.

[aliciastarkeyy]

Fools gold

Summary ᯓ★ uncool, typically ‘nerdy’ and unseen by most, your life on the island is pretty simple. Until Rafe Cameron begins to pay attention to you.

Warnings ᯓ★ swearing, the motions of a ‘bet’ being made, wagers, fake love, one sided love, fighting, eventual smut. ! not proofread !

Authors note ᯓ★ title is inspired by ‘Fools Gold’, specifically the version by Niall Horan ♡ this will be a series, hopefully! I don’t want to cram everything into one part ✮⋆˙

Word count ᯓ★ 4,867

part2⟡ part3⟡ part4⟡

Ruth’s bookshop goes unnoticed by many who pass on the boardwalk of figure eight. The quiet, quaint little shop filled to the brim with all different genres, so much so that some are piled on the floor- is a beautiful place to work.

You love it. There’s plants in any places that they would fit, soft Melodic music fluttering around.

And the smell. Gods, you loved the smell. This place is your version of heaven, and the fact that you get paid to organise the books, read them, and serve the occasional customer as they come and go is amazing.

Willow, the bookshop cat, a tiny tabby, is also an extra. She makes for great company when it stretches hours between customers, or when Ruth isn’t in the shop- which admittedly, isn’t often anymore. She leaves you alone to run the shop most of the time, off spending time with her family.

You don’t mind spending most of your time here. After college, a gruelling four years studying literature in California, you welcomed the salty sea air of Outer Banks with open arms. A break, you’d called it.

But since you’d started working in the bookshop, the break had become a little more… permanent. To the displeasure of your parents of course.

‘You can’t work in a bookshop for the rest of your life,” or ‘I spent all my money on your degree and this is what you do with it?’

Your parents weren’t exactly the best, or the most supportive. Years upon years of them barely paying attention to you, shoving you into the arms of a nanny and trying to buy you off with expensive things, college tuition included, did them no favours.

Maybe this was you rebelling. A big ‘fuck you’ to your mom and dad, for feeling like you only existed to them when it was beneficial. Here’s what I’m going to do with my degree: nothing.

Today is an exceptionally slow day, aircon on full blast as willow rolls around on the counter looking for love. You’re nose deep in a book about nature cycles, patting the cat every so often as she rolls her head to the side for your scratches.

You reckon you’ve had around five customers, and the slowness on days like this sometimes makes you wonder how Ruth keeps the shop going. It serves as a gentle reminder that she’s rich, just like your own parents, when she stops by the shop sometimes, adorned in expensive clothing and accessories.

Sometimes you wish she were your mother. She’s always super nice to you, acting in ways your own mother couldn’t.

The bell above the door chimes as it opens and you perk up, eyes over the edge of the book. Willow hips off the counter to see what’s happening, rubbing up against some of the shelves. You see nothing but a tall mess of brown locks disappear behind one of the shelves, and you let your eyes fall back to your book.

If they need you, they’ll ask. The book you’re reading is getting particularly interesting, anyway. You can hear the slight patter of willows feet following whoever is in the store, and they’re getting closer to the counter.

“S’cuse me,” A voice interrupts your reading. It sounds oddly familiar, and you bookmark your page before placing your own book on the counter. A smile traces your lips at the sight of the books placed on the counter.

As long as the lemon trees grow and The Nightingale. Two utterly moving books, ones that had made you cry. A little.

A glance up at their purchaser has you doing a slight double take internally. The guy stood in front of you- of whom you knew you recognised, briefly, now you think about it, is Rafe Cameron.

He was in your year in school for most of the high school life until he suddenly just stopped turning up. And as you look at him now, he looks exactly as you remember. Floppy curtain bangs, piercing blue eyes that you’re sure you’d caught across the canteen a few times- kakis and a polo with a fleece.

Same guy. He grins lopsidedly, head slightly tilting to the left. “Done observing me? Can I pay for my books?”

Your cheeks nod and you grasp for the books, turning them over and fumbling with the scanner. You sure as hell weren’t one to judge but these did not seem like his type of book.

To be honest, he looked like he’d never read a book in his entire life. The memories of being sat in the library and listening to countless tutors trying to teach him simple scholarly lessons flashes for a second as you scan the second book, and you conclude. These are not Rafe Cameron books.

“Your total is fifteen dollars today,” you reply, letting the sentence linger in the air as he searches for his wallet. He picks a twenty dollar bill out, crisp as the day it was printed, and places it on the counter.

“Keep the change,” you nod and push the twenty into the cash register, watching as he picks up his books and begins to walk away. Just like that. One of your weirder experiences with a former class mate, but you’d take the short interaction over a stupendously awkward one anyday.

“Have a nice day,” you call out as he reaches the door, and he hesitates. Your fingers furl around the hard cover of your book as he turns and you immediately regret saying anything. Fuck customer service.

“Yeah, I think I will.” The door bell chimes as he steps out into the heat of the boardwalk, and you’re confused as ever. Certainly an interaction at least.

Ruth messages you at about three o’clock asking how many customers you’ve had. When you respond with six, she tells you close up shop and go and enjoy your day.

How ironic, considering the rest of your day that you’d planned consisted of going home and curling up in bed for a nice nap. You wrap up closing, leaving the till draw in the safe and locking the back room. Willow meanders by the front door, knowing exactly what time it is.

Usually, she’ll follow you all the way home, almost like she’s making sure you get home safe, before wandering off to presumably join her friends. When you open up on a morning she’s sat on the front step of the shop, waiting to be let in and fed.

She meows at you as you do your final once over of the shop, before joining her at the door and crouching down to her.

A scratching behind her ears makes her purr. “You’re excited to go see your friends, huh?” Her eyes glint as if agreeing and you laugh to yourself, standing straight and opening the door. Willow filters out onto the path. You flip the open sign around to say closed and grasp your keys, shutting the door and locking it.

An exasperated sigh leaves someone behind you. You turn, pulling the key out of the lock.

Rafe Cameron. He’s got that cheesy grin on his face again, books held under one arm as the other is reaching back, scratching at the back of his neck.

“Closing?” He asks, as if it isn’t the most obvious thing in the world. You quirk an eyebrow, jingling the keys in your hand.

“Yeah. You’ll have to come back tomorrow. Returning them already?” You query, causing him to laugh, breathily.

“Uhhhh, no actually, I just forgot one,” his arm falls to his side, waiting. Like you’ll open the store for him again just for one book.

“What, those two very complex and thick books won’t still you over until tomorrow?” The annunciation on the words makes him flinch, despite his best efforts to not show so. You see.

“Okay, okay, no need. They’re actually not for me, they’re for my sister,” he tuts, looking to the side, down the board walk. “You know, it doesn’t matter, I’ll come back tomorrow.”

He turns. Slowly. Like he’s waiting.

“Okay! Bye,” willow meows as you begin to walk in the opposite direction towards your house, and you hear him stutter.

“What? You’ll won’t even open back up for one book?” He sounds incredulous. It makes you giggle, dropping the shop keys into your bag. You glance over your shoulder, to see him a few feet from you, obviously having moved.

“No. It’s not worth the effort of reopening everything. You can come back tomorrow.” Your hands reach up to readjust your toe bag strap on your shoulder, setting a slow pace down the board walk with willow. She pads inbetween your legs, purring and rubbing up against each leg.

Your house is empty when you arrive home. No surprise there. The high ceilings and white marble of the front foyer mimic something of a liminal space, to you at least. There’s pictures on the wall, the few that your parents had taken with you and of you to make the place feel more homey.

It was far from. Since you grew out of the age of needing a nanny, it was mostly just you in the house. The occasional times your parents would be home, they’d be in their bedroom sleeping, or in their offices working.

There was no family here. Your room, in your opinion, was the only room of the house to have any life, any character. Most of the walls were lined with bookshelves, of course, and your messy bed that you hadn’t made this morning sat in the center of the room. There’s two big bay windows right across from the bed, overlooking the beach and ocean that had convinced your parents to buy the house in the first place. It’s a mixture of greens, all walls and carpets and beddings- the only colour in the house.

It was your space. You drop your bag into your desk chair, huffing a strand of hair out of your face as you loosen it from the claw clip you’d had it in all day. Sinking into your bed, it doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep.

The days evens play back in your mind as you drift off.

Your phone rings again and despite your best efforts to silence it, the noise does not cease. A groan falls from your lips as you lift your head from the pillow, hands grasping around the edges of your phone, eyes squinting to adjust to the brightness of the screen.

Maysilee.

She’s ringing, for what feels like the fiftieth time, and you roll your eyes before swiping to answer and bringing your phone to your ear.

“Hiiiiii! What’re you doing right now?” Her sweet, high pitched voice trails through the phone and you pull it away from your ear for a second, before bringing it back.

“I was asleep,” her tut is immediate. Despite being your best friend, the two of you could not be anymore different. She liked parties and shopping and looking like she belonged in money all the time and you liked books, sleeping and pretending you didn’t exist to the world.

“Why sleep when you can come to my house for this get together?”

“Maysi, no. You know I don’t like stuff like that.” A tut again.

“Cmon, you never come! It’s only a few people I promise.” You can hear her manicured nails tapping against a glassy surface of some sort, and that she’s in one of those moods where she won’t take no for an answer.

If you did say no, she’d turn up at your house. That’s just the type of person she is.

“May…”

“Look, no ifs or buts. You don’t even have to drink. Just come and hang out with me.”

You weigh out your options. If you say no, you’re going. If you say yes, you’re going. It’s a lose- lose on your end no matter what.

Reluctantly, you sit up in bed, checking the time on your phone before bringing it back to your ear. “Okay, sure. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

The squeal she makes is enough to shatter glass. “Finally! See you soon babe, love you.” She hangs up almost immediately, giving you no time to change your mind.

Half an hour from now would be seven. Clambering out of bed in the same clothes you fell asleep in, you trudge over to your closet. You weren’t exactly the type to be flashy with your clothes. Or revealing. The most you’d wear is a skirt, but even then it’s a decent length and you have tights on.

You opt for a brown sweater and black skirt, knowing if you turn up in anything else Maysi will be directing your straight to her own closet and forcing you to change.

Once you’re changed, you re clip your hair up and out of your face before slipping into your shoes that you usually wear, a pair of Mary Jane’s. It’s now fifteen minutes until you said you’d show up, and you debate changing your mind and just not going at all.

Maysi would kill you. Like she knows you all too well, a text from her pings on your phone reminding you to turn up or else. A threat. A promise of threatening actions.

Maysilee is not someone to fuck with. The air is slightly colder when you step out of your front door, a breeze sweeping through the trees and bushes that adorn your front garden.

You’re suddenly thankful that Maysi lives a few houses down. When you arrive, there’s a few more cars outside than you expected and a ‘few’ people lingering out on the front garden.

A little get together. You should have known.

Maysi’s house is warm. In the sense that she has lots and lots of family memories around, and the house looks like it’s lived in. It makes you envious. Maysi greets you in the foyer, pulling you through her house to the kitchen, the island in the middle simply stacked to the brim with different types of alcohol.

“Now, I know you said no drinks, but how about one?” She grins at you and beckons towards the extensive array of drinks.

“Maysi, no. I’ll just have some lemonade or something.”

“Boo. You’re boring. You’re lucky I love you though.” She boops your nose with one manicured nail, arm wrapping around your shoulder as she leads you to the soft drinks section of the island.

One lemonade later and an abandonment by Maysilee, you find yourself out in the back garden. There’s a lot less people out here than in the front garden and the house itself, the conversation quiet and mulling along the same level as the best of the music in the house.

You know this garden like the back of your hand, Maysi’s mum loving her garden like a child. It’s full of flowers, and ornaments, and you know there’s a secret little seating area hidden behind the gazebo that you can’t see thanks to the wall of trees.

It makes a perfect place to hide out until it’s an acceptable time to go home.

“I’m telling you man, she’s gonna go right for it. He’s got this irresistible charm with women,” a male voice, slightly chopped through the trees. The guy is stood in the gazebo, and you can see the top of another head stood close by.

It feels wrong to eavesdrop, but you’re not really, if you think about it. They’re having a conversation in a public space and you just so happen to be nearby. And interested.

“Nah man, I don’t think so. From what he’s told me about today, she’s got some wit about her. I don’t reckon she’ll fall so fast.” The other guy responds. You wonder what, or who, they’re talking about.

“You reckon? Well, we know what I’ve bet on,” poor girl. Whoever these guys were, and the mystery third guy who seemed to be playing with some poor girls feelings- you felt bad.

Another third voice calls the two guys away from the gazebo and you wrinkle your nose as they begin yelling, quietening as they further away from the gazebo.

The stars are out tonight. It’s easy to see them here when there’s no light pollution, and they’re beautiful. Having lots of time to read books means you’re quite clued in on a lot of things, and constellations are no exception.

“Pretty cool aren’t they?” You recognise the voice. Rafe stands at the edge of the little seating area, looking upwards too. He’s dressed in jeans and a simple brown shirt, hair seemingly groomed into neat side bangs instead of the unruly ones you’d seen him in earlier.

You take a sip of your lemonade. “They’re not so bad, I suppose.”

Rafe smiles, hands finding home in his front pockets. “Say, do you know any names of those… star configurations?”

You splutter on your lemonade. “Star configurations?”

“Yeah, can’t remember the word.” He quips, moving to one of the seats near your own.

“Constellations, That’s what they’re called.”

“Yeah right. That word. Do you know any?” He grins, pulling a bottle of beer from seemingly thin air.

You point upwards, at a set of stars that look slightly like a sand timer. “That one that looks like a sand timer is Orion. Named after the hunter from Greek mythology.” Rafe leans towards your side slightly, looking for the area you’re pointing towards. A small ‘ohhh’ escapes his lips when he notices it.

“Cassiopeia is that weird ‘W’ looking one. Named after the mother of Andromeda.” You point towards another.

Rafe nods. “Guess you’ve got a lot of free time in that book shop huh?”

You blush, a little. You’re thankful for the guise of nighttime to hide the fact that you’re blushing to begin with.

“Yeah, I guess.”

He takes a swig from his bottle, slightly turning towards you. You notice how much closer he’s really got, and shuffle back on your seat.

“So what’re you doing here? Doesn’t really seem like your kind of place,” you scoff. If only. Why else would you be sat outside on your own?

“It’s not. Maysilee forced me to come.”

“Ah. Makes sense, she’s a.. character, that one.”

A snort slips from you and you cover your mouth of sheer embarrassment. Rafe chuckles, one hand rubbing up and down his thigh.

“You’re half telling me, she’s my best friend. I get that twenty four seven.”

“My condolences.” Rafe expresses, holding a hand over his heart. It makes you giggle, hiding it behind a sip of your lemonade.

“Thanks Rafe, but don’t you have better places to be?”

“No better place than the present.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure those books aren’t for you?”

Rafe raises his hands like he’s been caught. “Got me. Just trying to impress the pretty lady at the bookshop.”

Your heart stutters. Stops, if you must. Your cheeks heat again, and you’re sure if you couldn’t feel the thrum of your pulse in your neck you’d be dead.

You don’t know what to say.

The awkwardness of the situation has you pulling at the cuffs of your jumper, lemonade cup long forgotten on the seat next to you. Like he can sense your discomfort, Rafe backtracks.

“Sorry, sorry. Too forward. I won’t take it back though, cos’ it’s true.” He stands from the seat, chugging the rest of his beer. From where he’s stood now, you can see the glint in his eyes.

Like there’s something else there. The same glint you used to see when you’d catch his eye in high school. When he was doing something he shouldn’t be.

“See you tomorrow, bookshop.” The pet name grates the back of your throat. You’re stuck the suspended silence of the downhill run of the end of the conversation even when you reach your own home, and your room.

Sleep does not come so easy tonight.

Authors note pt2 ᯓ★ phew ౨ৎ⋆˚｡⋆ really enjoyed writing this, did it in one sitting. Hoping to churn this series out I have so much planned pls let me know what you think/ if you like mwah ꩜⋆

[rafeyssugar]

CHERRY GLOSS AND CIGARETTES

bf!rafe cameron x bimbo reader

she walked like sin on satin heels. bubblegum gloss, glitter on her lids, and that tiny pink mini barely covering her ass. everything about her said trouble, but rafe? he was the kind of boy who begged for it.

she twirled her gum around her finger like it was a cigarette and rafe cameron swore she was made in a lab. a doll. a daydream. a walking heart attack in heels that clicked when she walked toward him, always toward him.

“hi baby,” she purred, soft and sweet like cotton candy melting on the tongue.

he was leaning against his truck, hands shoved in his pockets, but the second she got close, all that fake nonchalance went out the window. she was wearing his varsity jacket over her outfit. god, she looked like a fantasy — his fantasy.

“you wearin’ that just to kill me?” he asked, voice low, gravelly, eyes drinking her in like she was his favorite kind of poison.

“no,” she said, giggling. “but if i did, would you die happy?”

rafe smirked, stepped forward, cupped her cheeks in those big, rough hands and tilted her head back like she was something precious. “i’d die fuckin’ euphoric, princess.”

she gasped all dramatic, plush lips parted like she was in one of those old romance films. “you’re soooo obsessed with me.”

“can you blame me?” he murmured, eyes flicking down to her lips. “look at you. you’re like... the end of the world.”

she blinked up at him, lashes thick and fake and flirty. “i don’t even know what that means.”

he laughed. soft. stupid. completely enchanted. “means you’d be the last thing i’d wanna see before the apocalypse.”

she tilted her head, letting that process with her glossed-up, bubble-brain pout. then she grinned like sunshine. “aww, baby, that’s soooo sweet.”

rafe kissed her like a man possessed. slow and messy and full of hunger. her gum got caught between their tongues, but she didn’t care. she moaned into it, fingers tangled in his golden hair, hips bumping into his, all heat and perfume and pink-sugar chaos.

he pressed her up against the truck door, his jacket falling off her shoulders, but she didn’t fix it. just kept looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky.

“you smell like strawberries,” he muttered, burying his nose in her neck. “you’re gonna ruin me.”

“duh,” she said, giggling. “that’s, like, the plan.”

he groaned, head thudding against her shoulder. “you have no idea what you do to me.”

she bit her lip. “i do. that’s why i wear the little skirts.”

he looked down at her legs — long, smooth, tan, perfect — and nearly whined. she hooked one over his thigh, pouting up at him.

“you gonna take me to the diner or just keep kissing me till i’m dizzy?”

“both,” he said, without a beat. “diner first. dizzy later. maybe both at once.”

the neon motel sign flickered outside like a dirty promise. room 7 smelled like smoke and lemon cleaner, but rafe couldn’t care less.

not with her sitting on the edge of the bed in her thigh-high socks and panties, reapplying her gloss like they weren’t about to ruin the room.

“you look like a dream,” he muttered, kicking off his boots.

“i am a dream,” she said, smacking her lips. “and you’re so lucky i picked you to have me.”

“i’d thank god if i thought he had anything to do with it,” he murmured, crawling between her legs. “but i know you’re way too good for heaven.”

she giggled, squealed when he grabbed her thighs and dragged her closer.

“careful! i just did my nails.”

“then you better hold onto the headboard, baby,” he growled, yanking her panties down with his teeth, “cause i’m about to make you forget your name.”

she gasped, tossed her head back, eyes all heavy-lidded and pretty while he buried his face between her thighs. one hand in his hair, the other clawing at the sheets, high-pitched moans falling from her lips like a pop song stuck on repeat.

“rafe— ohmygod, rafe—”

he hummed against her, grinning, totally feral. “say it again.”

“rafe,” she whined, “baby, baby, please.”

he pulled back just long enough to look up at her, lips shiny with her gloss and her. “you look so fuckin’ pretty like this. all messy for me.”

she blinked down at him, face flushed, hair a mess, and god, he wanted to take a picture. frame it. tattoo it on his chest.

“come here,” she whispered.

he climbed up over her, hand slipping under her bra, squeezing just to make her gasp. she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him like she owned him — which she did.

he slid in slow, thick and deep, both of them moaning into each other’s mouths.

“god,” he hissed, “you’re so— tight— fuck—”

“told you i was a dream,” she whispered, biting his lip. “don’t wake up, baby.”

he laughed. “never could.”

they moved together like it was choreography. like a vintage tape left on repeat — her moaning his name, rafe whispering mine, mine, mine in her ear, her pink nails scratching down his back, her lips parted just enough to look obscene.

when she came, it was loud and pretty and perfect. when he did, he swore he saw stars.

after, she laid on his chest, tracing hearts on his skin.

“you’re, like, so obsessed with me,” she mumbled, yawning.

“you don’t even know the half of it,” he whispered, kissing her forehead.

and when she fell asleep, lips parted, cheeks pink, hair a mess, rafe just stared at her like she was everything. because to him? she was.

and he'd burn the world down just to keep her soft and spoiled and smiling like that.

taking requests !!

[moondustbaby]

Just Friends?

Bsf!Rafe x Bsf!Reader

Summary: karaoke night at the bar. you and rafe are glued at the hip—laughing, drinking, flirting without even realizing it. their friends definitely notice though.

⸻

The bar’s loud. It smells like beer and cheap perfume and the strawberry lip gloss that’s clinging to your drink rim. There’s a soft layer of sweat on your neck, your cheeks are warm, and Rafe’s knee is pressed against yours like it’s always been there.

You’re halfway through your third vodka cranberry, and Rafe is poking at the lemon wedge in his whiskey sour like it personally offended him.

“Ray,” you nudge him with your elbow, grinning when he turns with that lazy, crooked smile that only deepens when he sees your flushed face. “If you’re gonna be weird about the lemon, give it to me.”

“Didn’t know you were so passionate about citrus,” he teases, dropping it into your glass anyway.

Topper’s already two songs into his impromptu karaoke set. He’s screaming Mr. Brightside like it’s still 2007 and he’s not wildly off-key. Everyone’s cheering him on, but Rafe’s attention is laser-focused on you.

“You gonna sing?” he asks, nudging your knee back.

You laugh into your drink. “Not unless you do.”

“Babe,” he drawls, leaning in just enough to make your heart stutter. “You know I’d embarrass myself for you.”

The nickname doesn’t register at first—not with how often he tosses out “baby” and “pretty girl” like he’s got a personal stockpile of terms just for you—but this one lands differently tonight. You feel it in your chest.

And maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the way his hand settles on your thigh under the table like it’s second nature, but your voice comes out softer when you say, “Then get up there, Cameron.”

The rest of the group notices. Kie’s raising her brows. Sarah shoots you a look that very clearly says do you hear yourselves right now? but you don’t care. You’re too busy watching Rafe put your name down for a duet.

“Rafe,” you hiss, grabbing his arm as he comes back. “What did you do?”

“You said you’d sing if I did. I picked Shallow. Don’t make me do Gaga by myself.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

He just smirks. “You love it.”

You do.

When your names are called, he tugs you up with no hesitation. Your hands are clammy, your cheeks are on fire, but he doesn’t let go. Not once. Not even when the music starts and the crowd starts cheering.

Somewhere in the middle of the song—probably during the chorus when he puts a dramatic hand over his heart and belts it like he’s on Broadway—you’re laughing so hard you almost miss your cue. He grins at you like you’re his favorite thing in the world, and suddenly, everything feels louder. Brighter.

When the song ends, there’s more clapping than you expect, but maybe it’s because of the way he’s looking at you. Or the fact that he’s still holding your hand as you walk back to your table.

Back at the booth, Kelce whistles low. “You two done pretending?”

“Pretending what?” you say, reaching for your drink.

“That you’re not disgustingly in love with each other,” Sarah deadpans, pointing between the two of you.

Rafe doesn’t even blink. He just shrugs and drops his arm across your shoulders like it belongs there. You lean into him instinctively.

“She’s not denying it,” Topper says.

“She’s drunk,” Rafe replies, eyes still on you. “And cute. And probably gonna need someone to make sure she gets home okay.”

You shoot him a look. “You offering?”

“Always.”

The rest of the night blurs into more drinks, more dancing, and a round of “is this flirting or are they just like that?” from your friends. You’re not sure where the line is anymore. Maybe there never was one.

But when you stumble into the parking lot hours later, giggling as Rafe catches your arm and steadies you, you don’t question it.

Because drunk or not, flirty or not—you want him. And from the way his hand stays at the small of your back, from the way he helps you into his truck and cranks the AC so you won’t overheat, you think maybe, just maybe, he wants you too.

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

a/n: this one’s for the girls who definitely aren’t in love with their best friend but also… won’t stop sitting in his lap and sharing their drinks. be honest—what song would you make rafe sing at karaoke?

♥️ lani

Send Me Requests! 💌

Masterlist

𝒯𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉:

@psychicnatural @superlegend216

[rafesteddy]

Here’s a little teaser of my DILF!Rafe x MILF!reader I'm working on… 💕🤭

it’s a standalone but you can read more dilf/milf au here

+18 -> c/w completely unedited, swearing, 18 year old boys being gross, suggestive, Rafe doing DILFy Rafe activities aka washing a car #fuckingpurr

You lean into the counter, squeezing lemon after lemon into the pitcher, not really thinking—just letting the juice run down your fingers. It’s cold and sticky, soaking into the creases of your palms. The whole kitchen smells like sugar and citrus, with that warm, soft hint of cookies still cooling behind you.

The plate is already half gone, scarfed up by the group of teenagers congregating in the common space. They’re all tall, tan, and way too loud—sprawled out like they own the place.

“Sugar, please?” You ask as you gesture to Kelce’s son, perched on the counter, completely blocking the one cupboard you actually need.

“Yes, ma’am,” he hums, giving you a sweet smile as he hops to the floor and retrieves it for you.

His hand brushes yours when he passes it off. You thank him, sweet as always, and turn back to stir.

“Fuck, she wants me so bad,” he mumbles to your son, just out of your earshot.

Max groans, head thudding back against the cabinet door. “Fuck off, Tripp. Don’t fuckin’ start, alright?”

“Why else would she be in here squeezin’ her lemons?” Tripp groans, somehow making that sound as suggestive as possible.

“Hi, Mom!” Winnie calls, stepping in, her sandals slapping against the marble. Her boyfriend Jackson follows behind, arms already full—carrying the twins, their hair still wet from playing in the sprinkler, freshly dressed like they’re going out.

“Is it cool if we take the twins out for ice cream?” Winnie asks, only half-focused on you as she throws a displeased look at one of the boys who’s giving her an obvious up-and-down.

That same boy yelps when Max throws a punch, nailing him in the arm.

“M’gonna fuckin’ kill you,” he mutters, going after his sister too, which makes the other boys hoop and holler like it’s all one big game.

“Of course, sweetie,” you coo, walking toward the counter to grab your purse. You pull out some cash without hesitation.

“Oh—no, Mrs. Cameron, really, I’ve got it,” Jackson says quickly, but you glance back at him with a warm smile.

“That’s very sweet, but not necessary… Thanks for taking them off my hands for a little bit.”

You kneel in front of the twins, pushing back one of your daughter’s curls, brushing your son’s cheek.

“You two be good for your sister and Jackson, okay?”

You lean forward to kiss their cheeks, and without realizing it, your sundress shifts. The neckline dips—your breasts softly press together, your backside teasing the hemline—and you stay bent a moment longer than usual, whispering something about sprinkles and chocolate.

Behind you, the boys fall completely silent. The one who had been on the counter swallows hard. Another one stares like he forgot how to breathe.

“Max… dude. This is your life?”

“Didn’t I tell you to shut the fuck up?” Your son mutters.

“I’d move in tomorrow. I’ll be your stepdad today.”

“Bet she tastes like sugar—”

“I said shut up,” Max snaps.

Another one of their friends walks in from the hallway, catches you mid-bend, and grins like the damn Cheshire Cat. He lifts both hands in the air like he’s holding your hips, thrusting behind you with an silent moan.

The rest of the boys lose it—coughing, snorting, trying to swallow their laughter as you stand up and smooth your dress, still completely unaware.

“All right, go have fun,” you sing out as the group starts to head for the door.

You return to the pitcher, lifting it to the sink.

You fill it slowly—water churning the lemon juice and sugar together, rising to the top—when your gaze drifts out the window. And you see him. Rafe...

Out front on the cobblestone walk, his white shirt soaked through, hose in one hand as he rinses down the G-Wagon. Sunlight hits the spray like glitter. Water clings to his tee, molding the fabric to every cut of his chest and arms. You freeze, breath caught, as he turns—hat flipping backwards with one hand.

Your thighs press together. Your grip tightens on the handle of the pitcher just as the water spills over the top, running down your hand in a sudden splash. You fumble for the sink and shut off the tap, your eyes never leaving him.

His shirt clings to his broad back, light blue swim trunks riding low on his hips and high on his thighs. One hand grips the bucket, the other coils the hose. The sun glints off his biceps. The thin cotton darkens, outlining every muscle, his chest shifting and flexing with each slow move.

“Have fun, boys,” you chirp, draining a splash of lemonade into a glass, your eyes locked on your husband until the very last second.

[harryspet]

bambi eyes (6) r.cameron

[Warnings] soft!dark!rafe cameron x reader, daddy!rafe x little!reader older!rafe, crimeboss!rafe, DUBCON, dd/lg, sugar daddy rafe, spoiling kink, unprotected sex, forced? age regression. little editing, barry doing barry things 18+ READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

A/N: Enjoy!

word count: 4.5k

In which your Daddy finally takes you to the country club.

masterlist

You were reading—slowly but surely. You took each sentence of the chapter book word by word, sounding out each syllable until it made sense to you. With a pink highlighter, you marked over every word you didn’t know the meaning of. You’d ask Rafe about those later or spend some time flipping through the dictionary. You flipped around in the cloud of linens you called a bed, attempting to find another comfortable position. You were reading about a girl with cat-like superpowers and the adventures she went on with her pet cats. 

Lana had told you about all the stray cats she feeds out by her house and how a lot of them will let her pet them once they’ve been around her long enough. You’ve been doing your absolute best to stay on Rafe’s good side, knowing the next thing you’d ask him was if he’d let you get a cat. You knew there were plenty out there that needed good homes, just like you did at one point. 

You didn’t ask him to take you anywhere unless he invited you. And after that lady had that outburst at the grocery store with him, his invites became less frequent. Every week, he took you to ballet practice and straight home. You reminded yourself to be grateful even for that experience since it kept your boredom at bay. When your Daddy called, you came straight away. When he told you to stay in your room, you stayed. When he held your wrist so hard that they bruised, you kept tears from escaping your eyes. When he brought you a present, you thanked him with your words and happily with your mouth. 

A knock at your door caused you to sit up straight. You didn’t ever need to respond with “come in,” as the knock was just a warning that he was coming in, not a request. Rafe eyed you, the crinkles in his eyes letting you know he needed sleep before he looked down at his expensive gold watch. “If I’m not mistaken, I was invited to a one-o’clock tea party and lunch, and my host has yet to retrieve me.”

You palmed your face, your cheeks heating up. “I lost track of time, sorry.” You closed your book, stood, and straightened out your short gingham dress, “Everything should be ready though. Bunny is dressed. I just need help carrying all the guests.”

Before you could leave your book on the bed, Rafe said, “Bring it. I want you to read me somethin’.”

You agreed although the idea made you nervous. You grabbed Bunny, who was dressed in a matching gingham outfit, and then directed Rafe over to your mountain of stuffed animals. Impressively, he grabbed the six stuffed animals in one fell swoop, “Got ‘em, let’s go.”

Now that it was starting to get nicer outside, Lana suggested turning your tea parties into picnics on the front lawn. She’d laid out a floral linen sheet and placed a beautiful flower centerpiece in the middle, along with a wicker basket. You took your stuffed animals one by one from Rafe’s hand, placing them perfectly along the edge of the sheet, “And you sit here, Daddy,” You directed him and waited for him to get comfortable, “I’ll go get the sweet tea and finger sandwiches!” 

“Don’t run!” Rafe shouted after you as you hurried back into Tannyhill. As soon as you were out of his line of sight, you picked up your speed, looking to find Lana. 

You found Lana in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on the array of desserts, “These look beautiful, Lana!” You exclaimed as she finished piping pink icing onto the cupcakes. You opened the fridge to grab the pitcher of sweet tea. “Did you make sure to add extra lemons? He really likes extra lemons-“ 

“Yes, I did, I know,” Lana responded, “Don’t be so worried, it’s just Rafe.” 

You set the pitcher on the counter, taking a deep breath, “He wants to hear me read my book, Lana.”

“So? You’ve been doing so well in our lessons! You sound great to me when you’re reading and you’re only going to get better. The long, fancy words will come later,” She lifted the tray of sandwiches and desserts and you took it into your hands, “You’re a smart girl.” 

“I am?” Lana smiled warmly, making sure you were carefully holding both the pitcher and tray. 

“Yes, you are,” She assured you, “Go enjoy your lunch. Afterward, you’ll help me with the laundry, right?”

You beamed back at her, “Okay, I’ll see you soon.” 

When you made your way back to the front lawn, Rafe was where you left him but his phone was pressed to his ear. As soon as he saw you, he said, “---Everyone has dirt. Everyone has a weakness. Find it. I gotta go, I really don’t want to hear about this shit again.”  You carefully set down the tray and pitcher, Rafe having intense conversations over the phone having become very natural to you. 

Rafe let out an annoyed breath, setting his phone down, “Doesn’t it look delicious, Daddy?” You asked, cutting through the tension. 

Rafe nodded, “It does. This is the highlight of my day,” He admitted, “You’re the highlight of my day, Bambi.” 

Your nervousness slowly turned into eagerness as Rafe looked at you. He always looked at you like you were something precious, even if you felt the opposite, and you found that you could easily be yourself around him. Although it seemed you were figuring out who you were every day that you were at Tannyhill. 

You poured Rafe’s drink into an antique-looking glass, one that Lana had entrusted you with taking care of, “Made just how you like it,” You handed it to him and promptly began to hand out the rest of the dishware, making sure Bunny and your stuffed animals had tiny replicas of them. With small tongs, you carefully placed sandwiches on your and Rafe’s plates, “I like pickles now. They aren’t so bad.”

“Oh, thank God,” Rafe responded with his mouth full, already halfway through his first sandwich, “I was really worried there for a second.”

You giggled, “You were worried?”

“I was as soon as you tried one and said you didn’t like it,” Rafe said, which made you laugh more, “This just confirms you’re perfect. And open-minded. And beautiful.”

“Me liking pickles means that I’m beautiful.” You were trying to follow his logic, your cheeks heated in embarrassment, but he interrupted you with a messy kiss.

As you finished up lunch, you found yourself entangled with Rafe, your legs over his lap and leaning against his chest as you opened up your book. You hoped starting with chapter one would make it easier, knowing you’d read it at least five times this morning. Luckily, you now had someone who could tell you the meaning of the words you had the most trouble with. Rafe used the strategy of not only defining the word but using it in an example sentence. 

“Ill-u-min-ate.”

“Every time you walk into a room, you illuminate it with your beauty.” 

“Haz-ar-dous.”

“It would be very hazardous to get between me and my Bambi.”

“Fuh-ruh-strat-ed.”

“Seeing you naked gets me extremely frustrated.”

“I thought you said it meant to angry,” You countered, and you could feel him grinning. 

“Words can mean different things,” He spoke cryptically, “Hey, you know, I’m really impressed with your reading, Bambi.”

You straightened up and turned to look at him, “You mean it?”

“I’m really proud of you,” he nodded. “I wasn’t sure if Lana could help you all on her own, but I think you’re making good progress.” 

You wrapped your arms around him, immediately needing to physically express your satisfaction, your weight effectively toppling the two of you over. Pride was a new feeling that you were getting used to. “Does this mean I could go to a real school? Like in the movies? Maybe law school? Like Elle Woods?” You straddled Rafe, his hands gently exploring the backs of your thighs.

“Are you talking about Legally Blonde?” Rafe’s eyebrows raised, his eyes undoubtedly flashing to a past memory, probably related to his sisters, “Did Lana show you that?”

“It was really good,” You nodded, “How far away is Stanford?”

“Far,” Rafe stated, and you got the feeling he wasn’t explaining as much as he could, “Let’s not  — uh, let’s focus on just reading a chapter book. Once you’re reading like Shakespeare and shit, we can talk about college.” 

“Okay,” You agreed, pressing your nose to his, “How many books do I have to read before we get a kitty cat, Daddy?”

“I see what you did there,” Rafe stared you down. You gave him a mischievous look as you pressed your lower half closer to his. “I think Daddy’s going to need a lot of convincing on that idea as well.”

Your breath hitched in your throat as you felt Rafe’s fingers trailing over your panties, “What can I do to convince you, Rafey?”

You saw the lust in his eyes. That was one nickname he seemed to like even more than Daddy. “Slide those panties to the side and take Daddy’s cock out.”

“But the guards–” You rushed out, and Rafe’s grip tightened on your thighs. 

“You didn’t seem to mind when you climbed on top of me,” Rafe countered, “C’mon, you have to finish what you started, little girl.”

After those words, you tried to ignore the idea of one of Rafe’s men catching a glimpse of what the two of you were doing. You did as Rafe said but as timidly and covertly as possible, sliding your panties to the side and then undoing his zipper. Like Rafe had taught you before, you spit into your hand, rubbing the liquid against your hole and using the rest to lubricate his tip. 

You looked Rafe in the eyes before he could command you to, and Rafe gave you the same proud look that he had on his face when he complimented your reading skills. Rafe sat up on his hands, and as you placed him against your entrance, you made sure the skirt of your gingham dress was fully covering your ass. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you slowly enveloped every inch of him. 

You whimpered into his ear, already feeling overwhelmed. Your thighs burned as you tried to move up and down his length, and you couldn’t help but feel like you were doing it wrong. You and Rafe didn’t often have sex in this position, and if you did, Rafe would just end up pinning your hips in place and thrusting up into you. In this position, you were almost in complete control, and it made each sensation feel even more heightened. 

“Grind into me,” Rafe spoke huskily, “It’ll feel better that way.”

You started to roll your hips against him, and instantly you felt something building within you. With that motion, you could feel your clit rubbing against him. As you controlled the speed and how deep he was inside of you, you adjusted it entirely to your liking, and it surprised you how good you made yourself feel, “You gonna make yourself cum on my cock, Bambi?”

You gave him a shaky nod, “Y-Yes, Daddy.”

“Good girl. Cum for me.”

You whimpered into his ear, suddenly burning up even though you were directly under the sun. “Thank you, thank you,” you muttered breathlessly. “Thank you, Rafey.”

“Look at you,” Rafe said, “My grateful little girl is squeezing me so good. Keep going, baby.”

Rafe squeezed you tightly in his arms like he was hugging you as you felt him fill your insides. “Fuck,” Rafe grunted in your ear, “Didn’t know you were so good at that.”

Rafe was doing something he promised himself he’d never do. 

Maybe this would’ve been an option at the beginning of their relationship when he wasn’t so attached. The idea of doing this now … every fiber of his being was telling him that this was wrong. “Everybody has a weakness. You told me that, right? I did some digging. Some super fucking deep digging,” Barry had started. 

Atlantic Crest Properties is one of Cameron Development’s biggest rivals both on the island and the mainland. Nathaniel Sterling, the CEO, was one of Ward’s closest friends, but since his death, Rafe had struggled to maintain Nathan’s favor. In fact, he disliked Rafe so much that he was purposely starting to poach Cameron Development’s construction laborers and spreading misinformation about the company’s financial status. 

Rafe had worked hard to dig the company out of debt, and Sterling was preventing future investors from giving the company a chance, “There’s this high-end bar on the mainland that he always visits, placed called the Platinum Parlor. This guy is there every weekend, at least. One of my boys tells me that the place is basically a front for a swingers club. They won’t let you in unless you’re a member, and there’s like secret codes you use to, you know, get access to what you’re looking for.”

“Get to the point, please.”

“Basically, he’s a freak. He always asks for a girl named Venus. My boy was telling me this, and I realized I knew that girl; she used to buy from me. I rode over there looking for her before her shift started, and I offered her some powder for some information. She couldn’t tell me everything, but he’s shown her videos of him doing some stuff, and he always asks that she wear pigtails, a plaid skirt, glasses, the whole school-girl look …” Rafe listened as Barry delved further into all the debauchery he’d heard. 

“...what are you implying, Barry?”

“I’m trying to say you have the perfect tool to solve yo’ problem. This is the only thing the dude gets off on, and I know his wife ain’t home dressing up for him. You have the most innocent girl in the world, and she actually likes wearing her hair in pigtails.”

“I know you’re not telling me I should let him fuck her–”

“No, no, Rafe! I’m saying that you can let him think that he can for as long as you need him to. That’s your in.”

“Fuck, I don’t wanna do that.”

“It wouldn’t be the worst thing you’ve ever done, country club.”

Barry was right about that. 

You liked the way the Kooks dressed, and they all seemed to exude happiness. They matched and coordinated every piece of their outfits, and even the ones playing sports had at least one piece of expensive-looking jewelry on. 

Rafe’s black polo and khaki shorts were nicely pressed, and he looked every bit like a seasoned golfer. He also gripped the golf cart’s wheel in one hand, carefully and quickly navigating the expansive green course. 

After you made your first stop, Rafe started by showing you the basics of acting as his caddy. He pointed at the clubs he would most likely be using and made you practice grabbing them. He also placed you in charge of keeping up the scorecard, slowly explaining all the numbers you were meant to help keep track of. You quickly learned this was a more complicated game than you imagined, and you weren’t sure how much fun it would actually be to play it.

Still, you were overjoyed that Rafe had even invited you out of the house to the country club, of all places. You spent a total of two hours deciding what to wear that morning until Rafe ultimately made the decision for you, choosing a short-sleeve, collared white dress. He also helped you tame your hair into two high ponytails wrapped in pink bows. As soon as you saw how cute you looked, you made sure to ask Rafe if they made golf dresses in Bunny’s size. 

You watched intently as Rafe stepped up to the first tee, positioning his feet and adjusting his grip on the club with practiced ease. With a smooth swing, he sent the ball soaring through the air, landing neatly on the fairway with a satisfying thud.

“Wow,” Your mouth hung open as you watched, “That was amazing, Rafey!”

“You wanna try it?” 

Hands behind your back, you nervously stepped closer, “Relax,” Rafe said, “I’m gonna help you.”

The actual golf club was much heavier than you were expecting and probably too tall for you, but Rafe adjusted your position accordingly. You felt him pressed against your back, his strong arms enveloping your frame and his hands wrapped around yours. “You’re always going to start with a tight grip, and then it’s all about your stance.” Rafe placed his leg between yours, kicking your feet apart until they were about shoulder-lengths apart, “Bend your knees for me, sweet girl.” 

“This feels … hazardous,” You tried and you felt Rafe’s chest vibrate as he chuckled. 

He stepped back from you, “Try bizarre,” You nodded, mouthing the word quietly, but kept your stance, “But you look great. Now, for the backswing. When you swing, you’re going to keep your arms straight and shoulders relaxed, and I want you to turn your upper half until the club is all the way back.”

You tried to follow his list of instructions, but Rafe ended up grabbing ahold of you again to demonstrate the motion, “You’re going to let the club flow naturally through the ball,” He guided you until you were ready to entirely give it a go, “You got this, Bambi.”

You obeyed Rafe’s final instruction and were surprised that you actually hit the ball, although it landed about five feet in front of you. “Look!” you jumped from excitement. 

“You did it,” Rafe grinned, “Wanna try again?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but your voice trailed off as another golf cart approached. Instinctively, you closed the gap between you and Rafe. 

“Mr. Cameron!” An older gray-haired man, maybe in his 50s, approached, grin hidden partially by a thick mustache, “So lovely of you to grace this fine club with your presence after so many years.”

His deep and commanding voice soon matched his stature as he climbed out of the cart. A shorter, younger man was riding in the passenger side. A gold name tag was pinned to the left side of his chest. “Mr. Sterling,” Rafe greeted back, and you looked up to see a tight, slightly painful grin on his lips. “From what I’ve heard, you frequent this place a little too much. Do they have a reserved parking spot for you yet?”

Mr. Sterling let out a pinched laugh.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” 

It was then that the tall man made deep, soul-searching eye contact with you, “Bambi, this is Nathaniel Sterling. He owns Atlantic Crest Properties, which operates here on the island. Nathaniel, this is my girlfriend, Bambi.”

Nathaniel reached out a hand, and you officially felt you’d been thrown into the spotlight. You hadn’t interacted with anyone outside of Tannyhill or your ballet class. Rafe nodded slightly, signaling that it was okay to accept his hand. The man’s grip was strong and calloused.

“It’s nice to meet you, Bambi,” He greeted you. 

“Hi,” You spoke softly, “You do work like Rafe does?”

“Oh, yes, and much better, sweetheart,” You smiled, believing he was trying to make a joke, “I saw your swing on the way up. With some more practice, I can see you becoming a pretty good player.”

“Really?” Your eyes widened. 

“Rafe’s gonna have to get you your own set of clubs,” Nathaniel smirked. “Or maybe you can have my daughter’s since she only uses them sparingly anymore.”

“That would be–” The words came out faster than you could stop them, “That’s a really kind offer, Mr. Sterling.” 

You looked up at Rafe, excited by the offer, “I’m sure I can afford a new set,” Rafe stated. 

“Anyways,” Mr. Sterling coughed to clear the tension, “If the two of you aren’t too exhausted after your game, you should join me at the Steakhouse for an early dinner. Why waste the opportunity for us to catch up.”

You got a similar feeling to when you were around Barry and Rafe, like the two of them were having a conversation with their eyes. Mr. Sterling seemed intimidating, but you couldn’t deny that you wanted to see more of this place. 

“Sound good,” Rafe agreed, which you were grateful for, “We’ll see you there.”

After playing a few more holes and Rafe finishing your crash course on golf, he started showing you around. There were two Olympic-sized pools, a spa, daycare, and gym, and they even offered horse rides along the beach on special occasions. The two of you explored a women’s boutique—well, you explored it while Rafe had a conversation over the phone with Barry. You noticed Mr. Sterling’s name come up a few times but became distracted when you saw the perfect dress. 

Although you thought Rafe might say it was too fancy for dinner, Rafe immediately called the attendant over so you could try it on. It was princess style, with short sleeves tied with cream-colored ribbons and a skirt flowing out in three tiers. The attendant helped you into the corset, and you were practically locked in by the time you showed Rafe. 

He was already leaning against the payment counter, black card in hand. “We’ll take it; she’s going to wear it out,” he said as you twirled around. “You want anything else?”

“No,” You spoke breathlessly. “This is perfect. Thank you, Rafe!”

Rafe entwined his fingers with yours and held your hand throughout the entire walk to the restaurant. You found Mr. Sterling waiting for you at a table in the corner of the restaurant, with large windows on either side of him that looked out onto the beach. As he waved you over, Rafe leaned down to whisper to you, “You don’t have to say anything or answer any question you don't want to.” 

“Okay,” You said softly, knowing he was just looking out for you. 

“Rafe, Bambi,” He said as the two of you approached. You took the seat closest to the window after Rafe pulled it open for you, “How was the rest of your game?”

Despite the words he just told you, Rafe looked at you first as if he wanted you to answer, “It was really good,” You replied, trying to maintain a certain level of confidence, “I learned a lot and, uhm, the weather was just really perfect today.”

“I agree, it’s a beautiful day, and let me also say how beautiful you look in your dress, Bambi,” You had to glance away, a reflexive gesture to hide the embarrassed gesture that reached your face. You smiled despite the fact that your face was trembling, “It’s new?”

“Y-Yes, thank you. That’s—" You remembered the menu sitting on the table in front of you, and then you realized you were far too nervous at that moment to try to read it. “Do they have ice cream here?” you blurted out. 

Rafe’s lips parted, but Nathaniel interrupted, “I think you’ll be quite happy with the dessert selection. Order whatever you like,” You felt Rafe’s hands suddenly on your thigh. He was trying to hide how tense was, but it wasn’t working. 

When the waiter approached, Rafe ordered for you, which you were grateful for: chicken fingers, mac and cheese, and apple juice. He then went ahead and ordered you a dessert called strawberry crunch ice cream cake. 

Rafe and Nathaniel bantered for a while about business and things related to Kildare that you didn’t fully understand. For the most part, you focused on enjoying your food and addressing Nathaniel whenever he addressed you. Some of your nervousness washed away because the man seemed to smile and laugh in reaction to every word that you said as if you were the most amusing thing in the world. 

Halfway through the dinner, you leaned over to whisper in Rafe’s ear. 

“I need to go potty.”

Rafe nodded before pointing across the restaurant where he knew the bathroom was, “It’s over there. Go straight there and come back, please,” Rafe felt you squeeze his hand before you got up from your seat. 

Usually, he’d love to watch you walk away, but his eyes were entirely fixed on Nathaniel, who was watching you intently. 

“She’s quite … cute,” the man said sincerely, as if he were thinking deeply. “She’s so pure … hard to believe she was a whore when you found her.”

Rafe squinted, nodding his head, “She was never a whore, Nathaniel.”

“She knows how to fuck, doesn’t she?” 

“She comes from unfortunate circumstances, yes, but I’d appreciate it – greatly – if you didn’t call her that,” Rafe tone was sharp as he leaned closer, elbows on the table, “I really want to work something out with you, Nathaniel, but you’re not going to treat me like I’m just Ward’s son. I want something from you, and you want something from me. I’ll respect you if you treat me the same.”

“You’ve grown attached,” Nathaniel seemed to brush off Rafe’s intensity, “I apologize. Really, I’ve spent a short time with her, and I’m already quite enamored. I admire you, Rafe. You’ve trained her quite nicely.”

“She’s a good girl,” Rafe tried to set his emotions aside, and the feelings he had about you that seemed to make him go crazy. He needed to be cold. He needed to be the Rafe who’s able to pull a trigger and not feel any remorse, “She’s under tight lock and key. She’s under my watch, and I know exactly where she is 24/7.”

“Cameras?” Nathaniel’s interest peaked. 

“In her playroom,” Rafe shrugged.

“Huh,” The man’s jaw clicked, “I want pictures and videos, at the very least.”

This is what Rafe wanted but he couldn’t help but feel pause. The man in front of him was desperate. He could own Nathaniel with the knowledge he was giving up and the secrets that you could probably draw from in. It was dangerous involving you, but what Barry said was true, you were going to open doors for him. 

“At the very least?”

“Yeah, everything after that we can negotiate.”

Rafe could only think for a minute because you were happily skipping back towards the table. Your hands were cradled together, open towards him and holding peppermints, “Look, Rafe, they had a whole bowl of free mints in the bathroom,” You chirped, “I’m going to save some of these for Lana if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, baby, that’s fine.” Rafe smiled at you. “I was just telling Nathaniel about the amazing tea parties you like to throw.”

As you plopped down in your seat, your princess-style dress puffing up and then deflating like a balloon, your eyes widened. “It’s really fun!” you added. “Next time, I want to paint tea-cup handles. You should come, Mr. Sterling. Is that okay?”

The two men exchanged glances before Nathaniel narrowed his eyes back on you, running a hand over his face to smooth down his mustache, “That sounds delightful, sweetheart.”

reblog with a comment letting me know what you think to be added to my tag list!

[apricityxoxo]

here, with you

one shot

simon riley x reader

summary: simon knows that there is no other place that he is meant to be… except here with you, his wife.

wc: about 750

contents/ warning: domestic fluff, suggestive dialogue, and borderline smut, lowkey food play. not really proofread!!

hope you all enjoy, requests are open so don't be afraid to ask me something. kinda want to start writing for rafe cameron next.

Simon loved to be home.

He returned late last night, slipping off his large tactical boots, placing them neatly next to your Birkenstocks, the ones that he makes fun of you for. All the lights are off downstairs, he turns one on, and admires the clean and tidy house. He admires how you've made the house your own. From a cold, empty coastal house to a warm, perfect home that makes passersby jealous of your perfect property. 

He makes his way upstairs, admire the photographs ranging from old polaroids from when you all were first dating to military balls, to your wedding. His heart aches when he sees the same smile that hasn’t changed over the years. It aches from the times that hes been away and missed time that couldve been spent with you. 

He finds you in your shared bed with your legs thrown out of your comforter and your arms thrown across your face. He smiles with a shake of his head. 

He quickly showers and throws on a random pair of sweats, eager to finally get into bed with you. he gently rests his body next to yours and wraps his arms around your waist. In your sleep you roll on top of him and rest your cheek on his chest. His throat becomes tight and he swallows. 

He really missed you.

❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。

He woke up the next morning to the smell of something sweet. He smiled to himself, remembering that the last time he was with you, you told him you wanted to pick up baking. You gushed at how you finally want to start baking and wanted him to taste all of your creations.

He did his morning routine and made his way downstairs to see you decorating what looked to be small cookies. You're piping cream onto the cookies when he sneaks up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist. 

“Whacha making love?” He says in his accent, deepened by sleep. You jump into his arms.

“You scared me, Si.” You smile at him, turning your neck enough to give him a peck on his lips. “They're lemon macarons, they've finally cooled down, so im piping the filling,” you tell him with a smile. He is watching as you concentrate on piping the filling and topping them with the other macaroon. 

He slowly lets his hands wander under your shirt, drifting to your stomach and then up to your perfect breasts. He places his face into your neck and kisses you up and down. He slowly massages them and watches as you try to suppress a smile when he teases your nipple.

“Si…” You whine at him

“Missed you so much, sweeheart.” He rests his chin on your shoulder, with one final kiss. 

“Missed you more, Si, I wanted to surprise you with these this mornin',” you tell him

“You want to try one?” You hold up one of your perfect yellow treats to his lips.

He wraps his lips around the treat and your fingers and moans in satisfaction.n

“It's perfect, Love,” he tells you with a kiss on your temple.ple 

He watches impatiently as you continue to work, stealing more treats, slwiping his finger through the frosting. You both giggle and play in your kitchen, you wipe frosting on his lips and lick it off, in the end the task was abandoned and you were both chasing eachother through the kitchen trying to smeere frosting on the other. 

He finally catches you and smears the lemon frosting on your clavicle, licking it then sucking down to your breasts, he wraps his lips around your perked nipple, then licks his way back to your lips.

“You're gonna get me fat with all these treats, love,” he says against your lip.

You rub your hand against his stomach, which has gotten softer and softer throughout the years.

“Good, let's me know im taking good care of you,” you reply back to him in a sultry whisper.

He rubs his lower half against you, and you both moan in unison. He doesn't waste any time taking off your clothes, happy that your lounge wear only consists of one of his large shirts and panties. He drags you on top of him to the ground and pulls you by the back of your neck to deepen your make-out session. 

In the end, you both lie naked and out of breath on the floor, and Simon knows that there is no other place that he is meant to be… 

Except here with you, his wife

❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。

oki byeee

[slvbum]

ᤢ ♥︎⠀ 07⠀‌⸻ angel tears / rafe cameron!

content WARNING: toxic!rafe, psychological abuse, mentions of miscarriage.

For the first time in years, Y/N decided to do something for herself. She waited until Rafe left for work, his lunch packed, grilled salmon, quinoa salad, a slice of lavender cheesecake wrapped in parchment. She watched his car vanish down the drive, and felt a surge of resolve. She chose a white yoga set and braided her hair loosely, letting a few strands frame her face. Her heart raced as she walked to the country club, the salty breeze carrying a whisper of freedom.

The country club hummed with privilege: women in designer athleisure, men in crisp polos, their whispers trailing Y/N as she stepped inside. She felt like an outsider, their eyes recognizing her as Rafe Cameron’s wife, the princess kept under lock and key. She smiled through the stares, her cheeks warm, and found the pilates studio. She took a spot next to a pregnant woman, her belly softly rounded, her hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. She was maybe twenty-four, elegant in black leggings and a loose tank top, her face glowing with a quiet confidence Y/N envied.

This had to be the buzzcut man’s wife, Y/N thought.

The class was a revelation—stretching, breathing, moving her body in ways that felt like reclaiming a piece of herself. Afterward, the woman introduced herself, her smile warm as they settled at the club’s café, sipping matcha lattes. They talked easily. She shared stories of her garden, roses that refused to bloom, her triumph over a stubborn lavender bush. Y/N opened up about her baking, how she’d perfected her lavender shortbread but overbaked her last batch.

“My son, Theo, would devour those,” The woman laughed, her eyes crinkling. “He’s four, obsessed with dinosaurs and anything sweet.”

Y/N smiled, a genuine warmth spreading through her, the first in months.

The conversation deepened, the woman independence a quiet marvel to Y/N. She spoke of her work with her father with art and museums and how she balanced it with Theo’s school schedule.

“But of course, our nanny is a godsend,” The woman said, sipping her latte. “She’s been with us since Theo was born, but she’s itching to study—wants to be a teacher. I’ve been helping her research online university programs.” Y/N’s breath caught, the word teacher stirring a dream she’d buried under Rafe’s rules. “She’s so good with kids,” The woman continued, “and I want her to have that chance, you know? She needs to chase her dreams... I think teaching can be handful, a lot of kids, must be wild! Ever thought about teaching?”

Y/N’s fingers tightened around her glass, her heart racing.

“I used to,” she admitted, her voice soft. “I wanted to be a teacher, before…” She trailed off, the weight of Rafe’s control unspoken. The woman’s eyes softened, and when Y/N let slip, almost absently, that she had to get home because “Rafe doesn’t let me out much,” The woman’s face tightened, a flicker of concern crossing her features.

“Well that’s silly, he’s your husband... not your father,” The woman said, but soon she notice the discomfort in YN’s face and she urged with a gentle but insistent tone, like she was afraid she must go and not come back ever again. “Let’s order something to eat and talk a bit more, you deserve a moment for yourself.” She reached into her bag, pulling out two pamphlets. “These are for my nanny’s university programs—online courses, teaching credentials, that sort of thing. I grabbed extras from the coordinator. Maybe they’d interest you too.”

Y/N’s hands trembled as she took them, the glossy paper feeling like a forbidden key.

Study from home. Flexible schedules. Become an educator.

She asked if she could keep them, her voice barely above a whisper. The woman handed them over with a smile, and they talked longer; about Theo’s love for T-rex models, Y/N’s secret recipe for lemon curd, the way the woman’s pregnancy made her crave mangoes at midnight. Y/N laughed, a sound she’d forgotten she could make, and didn’t notice the time until her phone read 3:00 PM.

Panic spiked; she’d stayed too long.

She walked home, fast and urgent steps while her mind alight with possibility. After a quick bath, she changed into a soft sweater and leggings, curling up in the living room with the pamphlets. Online teaching programs. Start your career. The words were a lifeline, a dream she could almost touch. Her stomach twisted with excitement and fear, like she held a secret too big for the mansion’s walls.

Could she do this? Could she be more than Rafe’s wife?

The front door slammed, shattering her thoughts. Rafe was home early, his footsteps heavy, his presence a storm sucking the air from the room. His face was twisted with rage, his jaw clenched so tightly she could see the muscle tick. He loomed over her on the couch, his eyes dark, venomous.

“Where the fuck were you today?” he spat. “Your doctor called me... you missed the appointment for our baby.”

Her face drained of colour, her heart plummeting. She’d forgotten, Rafe was close to her doctor, his control extending to her calendar, a detail she’d missed in her fog of grief. She hadn’t told him about the miscarriage, couldn’t find the courage to confess the loss she was still grappling with. Her hands clutched the pamphlets, crumpling them, her voice trembling. “Rafe, I—”

He cut her off, his voice rising to a roar that shook her bones.

“Don’t give me excuses!” he bellowed, stepping closer, his fists clenched at his sides. “You’re out there, what, prancing around like some clueless bitch, while our child’s at risk? You’re so fucking pathetic, can’t even do the one thing you’re supposed to!” His words were a barrage, each one a blow that shrank her, twisting her guilt into something unbearable. “What kind of mother are you?” he sneered, his face inches from hers. “Negligent, selfish, too stupid to keep a damn appointment.”

Her chest tightened, tears burning her eyes as she fought to hold them back. She was exhausted, and she couldn’t keep her facade anymore. She couldn’t keep lying to herself.

“There’s no baby,” she yelled, her voice cracking, a desperate outburst that silenced the room. “I—I lost it, Rafe. It’s gone.”

His rage faltered, his face shifting, not to grief, not to compassion, but to something darker. His eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a vicious sneer as he processed her words. He stepped closer, his presence suffocating, his silence a weapon sharper than his screams.

“What?—This is your fault,” he said, each word a blade carving into her heart. “You killed our baby. Too busy playing house, baking your fucking cakes instead of taking care of what was mine. This is on you.”

The accusation was a gut punch, stealing her breath.

She stared at him, her husband, the man she’d loved, but in that moment, he was a void, a black spot where her Rafe should have been. His words weaponized her deepest fears, turning the miscarriage into her failure. She swallowed her tears, her throat raw, her body trembling as she searched for a defense, but nothing came.

“Okay,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She stood, her legs unsteady, and walked past him, her eyes fixed on the floor. She didn’t look back as she climbed the stairs to the guest room, locking the door behind her.

She wasn’t going to be his punching bag tonight.

Rafe’s words had shattered her, but they’d also cracked something open... a realization that she wasn’t just his to break. Curled up in the dark with the mansion’s silence swallowing her, Y/N clutched the edge of the mattress, whispering to herself that she was going to be okay.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ©slvbun(m) — written with love.