luna ⭑.ᐟ

✩°｡🦢𓏲⋆. mdni ۶ৎ sideblog

[archiveluna]

‧₊ ᵎᵎ ℒ ⋅ ˚ ✿

໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১

MASTERLIST 𝜗𝜚 PINTEREST

20s! i ♡ rafe cameron. especially season one rafe! pink. summer roberts. alexa demie. music & movies. i speak english & spanish. ♡ ̆̈

i reblog more than i write so please don’t expect much from me! a lot of nsfw & occasionally dark content. please don’t interact if that makes you uncomfy!

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pretty divider credits (i & ii)

[archiveluna]

#thinking.. 🫪

[kissmeuntil]

⎯⎯⎯; 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭?

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: therapist!rafe x sex addict!reader

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+ mdni. therapist/patient relationship, unethical therapy, professional boundary violations, power imbalance, emotional dependency, obsessive thoughts, explicit sexual content, fingering, edging/orgasm denial, dirty talk, discussion of compulsive sexual behavior/sex addiction, unhealthy relationship dynamics, and emotional manipulation.

this work is entirely fictional and is not intended to romanticize or endorse therapist-patient relationships or unethical clinical conduct.

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: twenty six sessions in, you're still pretending dr. cameron is just your therapist. he's still pretending he doesn't look forward to thursday evenings. you've told him everything except the truth, that every fantasy you've had for months ends with him.

𝐚/𝐧: a serious genius sent me this idea. i'm so so happy they did because i had a similar idea previously but didn't have the courage to pursue it due to... well. you know. which is funny because i've written much more taboo content. anyway, if you're reading this my love, thank you for the courage! this story explores quiet obsession and an intentionally unethical therapist/patient relationship. none of this is meant to reflect healthy therapy or healthy relationships. please read the warnings before continuing. ♡

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.9k

you're fifteen minutes early. you're never early.

the waiting room is empty, which is good because you don't think you could sit here making small talk with another patient right now. the white noise machine hums from somewhere behind the reception desk, a constant static that's supposed to be soothing but just makes you more aware of every sound your body makes. your breathing. the rustle of your clothes. the tap of your shoe against the floor that you can't seem to stop.

you left your hair down even though you always tie it back for sessions because it feels too vulnerable otherwise. but today you want to feel vulnerable. you want him to notice.

you check your phone. 6:47pm. his last appointment of the day is always at seven. you know this because you've been coming here every thursday at seven for six months and you've never seen anyone leave after you.

six months.

you remember the first session. how you sat on that couch and couldn't look at him while you explained why you were there. "i have a problem with sex," you'd said, and the words felt stupid coming out of your mouth. so clinical and detached.

"tell me about it," he'd said, and his voice was so calm that you actually looked up at him. he was leaning back in his chair, one ankle crossed over his knee, pen in hand but not writing anything yet.

so you told him about the compulsion. about the way you'd fuck someone and feel nothing and then do it again the next night hoping it would be different. the way you fixated on people... strangers, mostly, and built entire fantasies around them until the reality of actually being with them shattered everything. how you were chasing something you couldn't understand or begin to grasp.

he'd listened to all of it. didn't flinch, didn't judge, didn't try to fix it right away. just asked questions. "what do you think you're looking for?" and "how do you feel in the moment, right before?" and "what happens after?"

you'd left that first session feeling raw.

the second session, you noticed his hands. the way he held the pen, the way his fingers moved when he gestured while talking. you told yourself it didn't mean anything.

by the fourth session, you were thinking about his voice at night.

by the eighth session, you realized you were dressing differently on thursdays.

and then one night, session eleven, maybe twelve, you were fucking some guy you'd met at a party and you weren't thinking about him at all. you were thinking about dr. cameron. about what his hands would feel like instead. about whether he'd be gentle or rough, whether he'd talk to you the way he does in sessions, that calm steady voice asking you questions while he—

you'd came so hard you scared yourself. that was a rarity. you never came.

after that, it was over. every hookup became a placeholder for him. every confession in therapy became a way to see if he'd react, if you could make him break that professional mask even for a second. you started telling him more explicit details. not because you needed to for therapy, but because you wanted to see what he'd do with the information. if he'd really look at you.

you're pretty sure he does. you've caught him sometimes, when you're in the middle of a story, and there's something in his eyes that doesn't really feel like clinical interest.

or maybe you're delusional and maybe this whole thing is just another fixation.

but today feels different.

last weekend you fucked someone in a bar bathroom and the entire time you were imagining it was dr. cameron. you’d said his name so quietly, barely a whisper, but the guy heard it. asked "who's rafe?" and you'd lied, said it was your ex, but the truth sat in your chest like a bag of heavy rocks.

you can't keep doing this. you can't keep coming here every thursday and confessing everything except the one thing that actually matters.

the door to the inner office opens.

dr. cameron steps out, holding a file. he's wearing a light colored button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and you hate that you notice. the way his forearms flex, and how his long fingers grip the file. he sees you and something flickers across his face. surprise, maybe, but it's gone so fast you might have imagined it.

"hey," he says. "you're early."

"yeah." your voice sounds normal. "is that okay?"

"of course. come on in."

you follow him into the office and the familiar space feels different today, even though its all the same. the couch where you always sit with his chair angled toward it. the desk in the corner with his laptop and stacks of files. the lamp that casts everything in warm light. the door closes behind you, and you hear the lock click into place like he always does, for privacy, but today the sound makes your stomach turn.

"how was your week?" he asks, settling into his chair.

you sit on the couch, your usual spot. nothing feels normal. your skin is too tight.

"it was fine," you say. "i mean, not fine. i don't know."

he waits. he's good at that. letting silence stretch until you fill it.

"i hooked up with someone last weekend," you say, and you watch his face for a reaction, but there's nothing. just that calm, attentive expression. "met him at a bar."

"okay," he says. "tell me about it."

so you do. you tell him about meeting the guy, about how easy it was to fall into that classic pattern—drinks, flirting, the bathroom with its flickering fluorescent light and the smell of cheap soap. you tell him about fucking the guy against the sink, your jeans around your ankles, his hands on your hips, and how the entire time you were somewhere else. you were here. in this office. with dr. cameron's hands on you instead.

he's leaning forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, and he's listening the way he always does, but there's something else underneath it. the lamp casts shadows across his face and you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers are pressed together.

"and after?" he asks. his voice is steady but there's something underneath it now, something that wasn't there before. "how did you feel after?"

"empty," you say. the word sits between you like a stone. "like always."

"but you did it anyway."

"yeah."

"why?"

you shrug, but the gesture feels wrong, too casual for what you're about to say. "because... because i wanted to feel something? i guess? anything." the words come out uncertain, like you're testing them as you speak.

there's a pause that stretches way too long. it makes you aware of the distant sound of traffic outside muffled by the closed window, the fact that you're alone in this room with him and the door is locked. you can hear your own breathing. his too, if you listen closely enough.

and then you say it.

"i've been thinking about you," your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. "since session six. maybe earlier. i don't know."

session six is definitely a lie. you’d been thinking about him since session two. but there’s no way you could admit something like that. telling him at all was more than enough.

his face changes. it's subtle, just a flash of something raw crossing his features before he can stop it. he looks away, down at his hands where they're pressed together between his knees, and for a moment he's just a man sitting in a chair. not a therapist. not someone in control. just a man who's been caught.

when he looks back at you, his jaw is tight, and whatever argument he'd been having with himself is over. you can see it in his eyes.

"session six," he repeats, and his voice is quieter now, rougher around the edges. "that's... that's a long time."

"yeah."

he's quiet for another moment. you watch him process it, watch the way his chest rises and falls a little faster than it should. his fingers unclasp and he runs one hand through his hair, messing it up in a way you've never seen before.

"why didn't you tell me?" he asks.

"because i thought it would go away," you reply. the confession feels like peeling off skin. "i thought if i just... maybe if i kept coming here, kept talking about it, it would stop. but it didn't. it got worse."

he nods slowly. you can see the conflict playing out on his face, the way his mouth tightens, the way he looks at you and then away and then back again like he can't help himself.

he stands up. the movement is sudden enough that you flinch, and for a second you think he's going to ask you to leave, going to tell you this was a mistake and that you need to find another therapist. but he doesn't. he walks away from you, toward the window, and stands there with his back to you, one hand coming up to grip the back of his neck. you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way they're drawn up tight. the way they rise and fall with his breathing. the office feels smaller suddenly, the walls much closer.

he's pacing now. not frantically or anything, just a few steps back and forth in front of the window, looking at the floor like he's trying to work something out. his hand falls from his neck and he shoves both hands in his pockets, then pulls them out again. you watch him, and you realize this is it. this is the moment where he decides whether to cross the line or send you away.

he stops so abruptly it almost looks like something catches him. his hand falls away from the back of his neck again and when he turns, he doesn't say anything right away. he just looks at you, and there's something in his eyes you've never seen before. something hungry and raw and completely unprofessional.

the way he looks at you... it's not the way a therapist looks at a patient.

"stand up," he says.

you do. your legs feel shaky, unsteady, but you stand anyway. your hands are trembling at your sides.

"come here."

he sits back down in his chair, and the distance between the couch and where he's sitting is barely a few steps, but it feels way longer now. each one gives you another chance to turn around, another chance to pretend none of this happened, to walk out and find a new therapist and never come back. you don't take it.

your shoes are silent on the carpet. you're standing in front of him now, close enough that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted to. close enough to see the way his pupils are dilated, the way his chest is rising and falling faster than normal. there's no trace of the careful distance he'd kept for six months. it's gone completely.

"sit," he says, patting his lap.

"dr. cameron—"

"sit."

you do. you lower yourself onto his lap slowly, your back settling against his chest. his thighs are thick and solid and warm beneath you, the muscle firm under the fabric of his pants. you can feel his cock, already hard, pressing against your ass through the denim of your jeans. the knowledge of it sends heat flooding through you. you want to shift, to grind back against him, but you force yourself to stay still because part of you still can't even believe this is happening.

his hands settle on your thighs. warm and heavy, the weight of them grounding you.

"keep talking," he says, his voice low in your ear. you can feel his breath against your neck, warm and slightly uneven. "tell me about the compulsion."

"i—i don't know what you want me to say."

his hands slide higher, fingers tracing the inside of your thighs through your jeans. the touch is light, almost teasing. "tell me what it feels like. when you're with someone. what are you chasing?"

you can barely think. his fingers are moving in slow circles on your inner thighs and it's making it hard to form words. "i don't know... validation, maybe? proof that i'm wanted."

"and do you get it?"

"no. never."

his fingers pop the button on your jeans. the sound is loud in the quiet office, the snap of metal against fabric. you lift your hips slightly so he can pull the zipper down. the rasp of metal teeth separating sounds almost deafening in the silence.

"why not?" he murmurs, sliding his hand inside your jeans, over your underwear. you're already wet, soaked through the fabric, and you know he can feel it. his fingers press against you through the damp cotton and you gasp, your hips jerking forward involuntarily.

"because... because it's never enough," you whisper. "it's never—fuck—"

he presses against your clit through the fabric and your hips jerk forward again. his other hand comes up to grip your jaw, fingers splaying across your cheek and throat, holding your head back against his shoulder. the grip is firm and feels like a gentle anchor.

"keep talking," he says. "you're doing so good."

"dr. cameron, please—"

"please what?" his thumb catches the edge of your underwear, easing it aside. his fingers find you almost absently, like he's waiting for your answer more than your reaction, but you can hear the wet sound of it when he slides through your folds. "use your words."

you can't answer. your eyes are squeezing shut and it feels like you're hardly breathing. he circles your clit once, twice, and you're already shaking. the jeans are tight around your hips, constricting, and his hand is trapped inside them, the denim pressing his knuckles against you in a way that's almost uncomfortable but also perfect.

his fingers stop circling. they just rest there, warm and still against your clit. the sudden absence of movement makes you whimper, a sound you didn't mean to make.

"the guy from last weekend," he says. not a question. his breath is against your ear, warm and steady. "tell me what he did."

"he—" your voice cracks. you can't think. his fingers are right there but not moving and it's worse than if he'd pulled away completely. the stillness is torture. "i don't—"

"you don't remember?" his fingers slide lower, just barely, teasing your entrance. you can feel the tip of one finger pressing against you, not pushing in, just resting there. "or you don't want to tell me?"

"no, i—he fucked me. in the—" you're breathing too fast. the words won't come out right. your brain can't form complete thoughts with his hand between your legs. "backseat. i was—"

his fingers push inside you. just the tips, just enough that you can feel the stretch, the intrusion. you gasp and lose the sentence completely, your mouth falling open.

"you were what?"

"on top," you manage. "i was on top."

he pushes deeper. not all the way, just enough that you can feel the stretch, the promise of more. his fingers are thick and you can feel every ridge, every knuckle as they slide into you. then he stops again and holds still inside you, buried to the second knuckle.

"did you cum?"

"no."

his fingers don't move and he’s silent for a moment. you can feel your pulse around them, can feel yourself clenching involuntarily, trying to pull him deeper. the stillness is maddening.

"why not?" he asks, and his voice is so calm, so steady, like he's asking about the weather while his fingers are inside you and you're falling apart in his lap.

"because i—" you're shaking. "i never—with them, i can't—"

"can't or don't?"

"both? neither. i don't know." the words come out frustrated, desperate.

his thumb brushes your clit. once. the lightest touch. you jerk against him and he pulls it away immediately, denying you.

"but you want to," he says.

"yes—fuck—yes."

"what do you think about?" his fingers curl inside you slightly, pressing against that spot. not enough pressure. just enough to make you aware of it. "when you're with them. when they're inside you... what's in your head?"

you don't answer. you can't. your breath is coming in short gasps and his hand is still gripping your jaw, holding you in place, and you can feel the heat of him against your back, the solid weight of his chest. the hardness of his cock pressing into you through your jeans, and you wonder if he's as desperate as you are, if this is killing him too.

"answer me," he says, and his fingers push deeper, all the way now, buried inside you to the knuckle. you cry out, the sound echoing in the small office.

"i can't—"

"yes you can." he starts moving them. slow, methodical thrusts that make you see stars. his thumb finds your clit again and circles it once, twice. the dual sensation is overwhelming. "tell me what you think about."

"i—" you're climbing already, way too fast. the pressure building low in your belly, spreading through your thighs. "i think about—"

he stops. completely stops. his fingers buried inside you but motionless, his thumb lifting off your clit.

this broken and desperate sound falls from your mouth, something you'd never even heard before.

"say it," he says.

"you," you gasp. "i... i think about—fuck—i think about you."

"me." his voice is rough now, the professional veneer cracking. "you think about me while some stranger fucks you in a parking lot."

"yes."

"what am i doing?" his fingers move again, just slightly, just enough to remind you they're there. "in your head. what am I doing to you?"

"this," you whisper. "you're—you're doing this."

"yeah?" he pushes deeper, curling his fingers inside you. you can feel every ridge, every knuckle, the stretch of it. his thumb finds your clit and he starts moving in a rhythm that has you climbing fast. too fast. your hips start to move, grinding back against his cock, and you can feel how hard he is, can hear the way his breath catches. his other hand tightens on your jaw, fingers pressing into your skin hard enough to leave marks.

"stay still," he says.

you try. you're shaking so fucking badly, your thighs trembling. you're right there, right on the edge, the pressure building and building and—

he stops. his fingers stay inside you but they don't move. his thumb lifts off your clit.

"no—please—"

"tell me more," he says. his voice is steady but you can hear the strain in it now. "you think about me. what do i do? in your head?"

you're gasping. you can feel tears starting to form, burning in your eyes. "i can't—"

"yes you can." his fingers move slightly, just a tiny curl, pressing against that spot inside you. "tell me what i do to you. in your fantasies."

"you—you touch me like this," you say, your voice breaking. "you make me—you don't stop. you let me cum."

"do i?" his fingers curl inside you again, harder this time, and you cry out. "what else?"

"you fuck me," you whisper. "you fuck me and you—and you tell me i'm good."

"you are doing good," he says, and his thumb presses against your clit again. you're climbing again, faster this time, the pressure building impossibly fast. "you're being so good for me right now."

"dr. ca—"

"tell me why you chase validation," he continues. meanwhile his fingers are moving inside you, pumping in and out, and you can hear the wet sound of it, obscene in the quiet office. you can feel yourself dripping, soaking his hand, soaking through your jeans. "what are you trying to prove?"

"i don't—i can't think—"

"try."

you have actual tears on your face now, hot and wet and streaming. "that i'm worth something. that someone wants me."

"and do you feel that? with the men you fuck?"

"no—never—please—"

you're right there again. your whole body is tense and shaking and his fingers are moving faster and his thumb is circling your clit and you're so close, so fucking close, the pressure building to an unbearable peak and—

he stops again.

you actually sob, the sound wrenching out of you.

"not yet," he says. "we're not done talking."

"please," you beg. "pleaseplease let me cum. i can't—"

"you can." his voice is firm. "breathe."

you try. the jeans are soaked now, the denim dark with wetness. you can smell it, the smell of sex starting to fill the office, mixing with the scent of his cologne and the faint smell of coffee from earlier.

"why do you think you fixate on people who can't give you what you need?" he asks.

"i don't know."

"yes you do."

"because—because it's safe," you gasp. "because if they can't give it to me then i can't be disappointed."

"and me?" his thumb brushes your clit, so light it's almost nothing. "am i safe?"

"no."

"why not?"

"because you could actually—fuck—you could actually hurt me."

"how?"

you're crying. "because i actually want you. not just—not just the sex. you."

his fingers start moving again. slow, and you're climbing again, faster now. you grind back against his cock and he doesn't stop you this time. you can feel him hard and thick against your ass, can hear the way his breathing has changed, rougher now.

"say it again," he says.

"i want you."

"louder."

"i want you," you say, your voice breaking. "i want you so fucking bad. please- please let me cum. i'm so close. please."

he's building you up again. his thumb on your clit, his fingers inside you, and you're climbing so fast you can't breathe. his other hand is still on your jaw, holding you in place. you can feel his breath against your ear, the slight hitch in it, and you realize he's as affected as you are.

"that's it—" he whispers quietly. "take what you need."

you're right there. right fucking there. the pressure is unbearable and—

his fingers go still.

but this time he doesn't pull away. just... stops. his fingers stay buried inside you, his thumb resting against your clit. completely motionless. completely silent.

the silence is worse. you're right there, right on the edge, and he's not moving and he's not saying anything. you can feel your pulse in your clit, can feel yourself clenching around his fingers, your body begging for more. the stillness is psychological torture. you need it so bad you could honestly cum right then and there without him touching you anymore. your pussy is clenching around nothing, beggining for it. but god, what a waste that would be.

so you wait. five seconds. ten. fifteen. your breath coming in short gasps.

finally, he speaks.

"why do you think you're here?" he asks, and his voice is quiet. "really here. not the answer you gave me in session one. the real answer."

"i don't—"

"yes you do." his fingers curl slightly inside you, just enough to make you gasp, but then he goes still again. "why are you here?"

"because..." you whisper. "because i don't know how to want something without destroying it. because i'm afraid if i let myself actually have something real, i'll ruin it."

"and me?" his thumb presses against your clit, just barely. "what am i?"

"real," you say. you're crying again. "you're real. and i'm terrified."

"good," he says, and his fingers start moving again. slow at first, then faster, harder, and his thumb is circling your clit and you're climbing so fast you can't breathe. "you should be terrified. because i'm not going to let you run from this. i'm not going to let you turn me into another fantasy you can chase and never catch. this is real."

"yes—fuck—yes—"

"knowing you go home and touch yourself and imagine it's me?" his fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot, and he doesn't stop this time. his thumb is relentless, circling and pressing and you're climbing higher and higher. "knowing you're so desperate for it you'll fuck anyone just to feel something?"

"oh my... god, please—"

"you don't need them," he says. his fingers are relentless now, pumping in and out of you, the wet sounds loud and sloppy and obscene. "you need someone who knows what you need. someone who's been listening. someone who's been paying attention for six fucking months."

"i—i'm—i'm gonna—"

"then do it," he says. "cum on my fingers. right here in my office. show me what you look like when you finally get what you need."

and you do. you cum so hard you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but feel. it hits you like a wave, starting deep in your core and radiating outward. your body convulses in his lap, every muscle tensing and releasing. your hips grinding back against his cock, and his fingers don't stop moving, drawing it out, prolonging it. the orgasm tears through you in waves, each one crashing over you harder than the last. you can feel yourself clenching around his fingers, rhythmic pulses that seem to go on forever. the wetness gushing out of you, soaking his hand, soaking your jeans, probably soaking through to his pants.

you're aware of everything and nothing—the way your thighs are shaking uncontrollably, the way your breath is coming in broken gasps, the way you can hear yourself making sounds you've never made before, desperate and raw. his fingers keep moving, keep curling, keep hitting that spot inside you, and just when you think it's over another wave hits and you're crying out again, your back arching, your head thrown back against his shoulder. it goes on and on, longer than ever before, until you're begging him to stop, until it's too much, until you can't take anymore.

when you finally come down, you're crying. actual tears streaming down your face, your breath coming in gasps. he pulls his fingers out slowly and you whimper at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. your jeans are soaked, the denim dark and wet, clinging to your thighs.

"shh," he says, wrapping his arms around you. "you're okay. you did so good."

you're trembling. you can still feel his cock hard against your ass and you want to turn around, want to touch him, want to make him feel what you just felt, but you can't move. your body won't cooperate.

"that's what you needed," he says quietly. "someone who knows you. someone who listens."

you nod, still trying to catch your breath.

"next session," he says, and his voice is back to that calm, professional tone, like he didn't just make you come apart in his lap, "we're going to talk about why you keep choosing people who can't give you what you need. i think we made some progress today on identifying the root of the compulsion."

you almost laugh. the absurdity of it.

"okay," you whisper.

"good," he says. "now go clean yourself up. there's a bathroom down the hall."

you stand on shaky legs. your jeans are dark with wetness and you have to button them with trembling fingers. when you look back at him, he's watching you, his fingers in his mouth, tasting you. the sight of it sends another jolt of heat through you.

"same time next week?" he asks.

"yeah," you say. "same time."

you walk out of his office on legs that barely work. in the bathroom, you look at yourself in the mirror. your face is flushed, your eyes red and glassy, your lips swollen. there's a mark on your neck from where his hand gripped your jaw, dark and obvious. you reach up to touch it. the skin is tender, slightly raised. you stare at it for a long moment, and then you notice something else in the mirror's reflection: your therapy appointment card, sticking out of your back pocket. the next date is already written on it in his handwriting. thursday. same time. you pull it out and look at it.

he wrote it before today's session.

you tuck the card back into your pocket. look at yourself in the mirror one more time. the mark on your neck. your flushed face.

thursday can't come fast enough.

[chenslucy]

DREW STARKEY AS RAFE CAMERON Outer Banks Season 5 Official Trailer

[digitalpony]

synopsis rafe eating you out with cocaine.

Rafe doesn’t just sprinkle the coke.

He crushes the rock between his teeth first, right in front of you, jaw flexing, then spits the damp, half-melted powder directly onto your open cunt. It lands in a messy, uneven smear across your clit and the soft inner folds, already starting to dissolve in the heat and slick that’s been dripping out of you since he ordered you onto your back and spread your thighs with both hands.

“Look at that,” he mutters, voice low and almost fond. “Pretty little hole all dressed up for me.”

He doesn’t use his tongue right away. He uses the flat of two fingers first—rubbing the wet powder in hard, working it into every crease, pushing some of it inside you with short, filthy thrusts. The burn hits almost immediately: sharp, chemical, electric. Your hips jerk. He just presses his palm down on your lower stomach and keeps going, smearing, scooping, forcing more of it deeper until your cunt is glossy and pink and faintly frosted with what’s left.

Only then does he lean in.

The first lick is slow and deliberate, broad and flat, from the bottom of your hole all the way up over your clit. He collects everything—coke, cum, the thin string of spit he left earlier—and swallows it like it’s nothing. Then he does it again, harder, tongue pointed this time, fucking into you with it, chasing every last grain that’s tried to hide inside. The sound is wet and obscene. He’s breathing through his nose like an animal.

When he finally seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, it’s not gentle. It’s greedy. He sucks like he’s trying to pull the powder back out of your bloodstream, tongue lashing, teeth grazing just enough to make your thighs jump. Two fingers slam back into you mid-suck, curling hard against that swollen spot that makes your vision white out, and he keeps sucking through the whole thing—loud, messy, spit running down his chin and onto the sheets.

You’re shaking. He’s not done.

He pulls off just long enough to spit a thick string of coke-laced saliva directly onto your clit, then smacks it lightly with two fingers so it splatters. The sting mixes with the chemical heat and the ache of how empty you suddenly feel. He watches your face the entire time, dark eyes half-lidded, mouth shiny.

“Again,” he says simply.

He doesn’t wait for permission. He just ducks back down, spreads you wider with both thumbs, and starts licking like he’s trying to clean you out completely—long, filthy strokes that drag from your hole to your clit and back, occasionally stopping to suck hard enough that the wet sound echoes. Every time you try to close your legs he forces them open again. Every time you moan too loud he bites the soft inside of your thigh hard enough to leave a mark, then goes right back to eating you like he’s starving.

By the time he finally lets you come, your cunt is swollen and twitching and still faintly tingling from the coke, and Rafe’s face is a mess—lips red, chin dripping, pupils blown. He doesn’t wipe it off. He just crawls up your body, presses his wet mouth to yours so you can taste yourself and the chemical burn, and murmurs against your lips.

“Next time I’m packing it in deeper. See how long you can keep it in while I fuck you.”

[deergrande]

the single father you started babysitting for , who extends your hours because he likes having you around knowing damn well he shouldn’t

[rafey-baby]

what would sensitive!reader do without older!rafe protecting her from the invisible monsters in their home?

18+ mdni!

c/w: mostly fluff, her being scared & rafe comforting her while also being a menace, teeny tiny bit of angst regarding their age gap, use of daddy (once)

wc: 1.7k

unfortunately won’t be watching a single scary movie this halloween cause she’s literally me but happy kinktober & spooky season xx

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

She’s not exactly sure why she agreed to watch the new horror film Rafe’s friends wanted to see at a Halloween themed gathering he’d dragged her into. She wasn’t even the biggest fan of his friends, which is why she didn’t want to go in the first place.

However, when he’d mumbled a honeyed ‘it’s no fun without you ‘n don’t wanna leave my girl alone on Halloween’ into her hair, she’d reluctantly agreed; not one to refuse him of anything when he looked at her with that specific softened blue coloring his eyes.

And there was also the prospect of making him happy that finally made her melt into his wishes. 

And she wanted to like his friends, she really did. But it wasn’t exactly easy when they kept bragging about their accomplishments and how much money they had every opportunity they found in such an arrogant tone, it made her roll her eyes when they weren’t looking.   

Luckily, she could at least converse with their partners who were always fun company to sip wine with and giggle about anything and everything. And along with the warmth of Rafe’s gaze flickering over to her every once in a while, as he talked with his friends and coworkers, she was actually beginning to enjoy herself.  

Up until the point when someone suggested they watch a movie.  

“You sure you wanna watch this? S’okay if you wanna go home, could come up with somethin’ else to keep us entertained…” Rafe had murmured into her ear with his arms around her on the couch the whole group had settled down on.  

He knew how paranoid she could get; how easily she’d turn into a scaredy cat who once couldn’t sleep alone for a month after sitting through an entire scary movie in the cinema.   

And she truly doesn’t know why she didn’t just tell him she wanted to leave when the film started playing on the big screen of Topper’s television. She was going to, but when her eyes flitted over to him bringing a glass of whiskey to his lips in a carefree manner; she didn’t have the heart to ruin his fun because he seemed to be enjoying himself. After all, it wasn’t often he let himself relax due to his hectic work schedule packed with tedious meetings and whatnot.   

And on top of that, she’s already self-conscious over the age-gap between her and Rafe; sometimes gets a headache over the notion of him meeting someone more mature one dreadful day and deciding he doesn’t want to play house with her any longer.  

After all, his friends were all getting engaged left and right, while she still holds the title of being his girlfriend. And even if she isn’t sure she’d be ready for marriage quite yet, she’s still slightly upset that he’s never even so much as mentioned the matter.  

And she's not sure if it's because she's younger than him and he assumes she doesn't want a ring on her finger too soon or if he simply just doesn't want to make things too definitive with her.  

Nonetheless, it's something she's been thoroughly overthinking and mulling over recently, even if she knows it doesn't benefit her in any shape or form. Apparently, her mind just likes to always have some topic to ruminate over and obsessively worry about, or else it'll have too much free time.  

Therefore, she can admit that she didn’t want to appear as a big baby who couldn’t stomach anything even remotely scary (she really couldn’t). And was it such a crime to not want to make a scene in front of all his friends?  

That’s why she ends up meekly nodding her head and assuring him she was fine — which he didn’t entirely believe — but smiled nonetheless at the fact that she was willing to get out of her comfort zone for his sake, before pulling her closer to his side.   

However, when the white letters of the end credits finally rolled after a few gruesome and eerie hours later, she was anything but fine.  

Her weakened frame is trembling and she’s entirely too jumpy even after they’ve said their goodbyes and stepped past the threshold into the safe haven of their home.   

“Told you we should’ve just left,” he tuts when she flinches when the October wind rustles the leafy foliage outside the window.   

“Rafe, what was that?” she squeaks out when she hears another sound coming from outside — presumably their neighbor — however, there’s always the possibility of it being a serial killer simply waiting for the right moment to pounce.   

“What was what?” he huffs out a chuckle in amusement, causing her to pout.   

“This isn’t funny. I’m scared,” she whines, heart beating faster than ever along with her breathing unsteady.  

“I know you are. Shit, forgot why I don’t let you watch scary movies,” he shakes his head, padding over to the kitchen to fill up a glass of water; her feet immediately running after him.   

“Hey, hey, m’right here, yeah?” he laughs tenderly when she practically glues herself to his big and comforting arm with how tightly she’s hugging it against her chest.   

“Promise you’re not gonna leave me alone?” she blinks up at him with her pupils dilated, nervous.  

“It’s past midnight. Of course, m’not leaving, m’exhausted. Let’s get ready for bed, yeah?” he suggests calmly, managing to placate her some with his appeasing presence. Although the spine-chilling scenes still play behind her eyelids with every blink.  

She follows him to the bathroom and he tries not to laugh when she insists on staying there even while he’s peeing.   

“Want me to check under the bed for monsters?” his sickly-sweet tone is a stark contrast to the annoying smirk plastered on his face when they pad over to their bedroom after brushing their teeth.  

“Ray…I’m being serious,” she scowls.  

“So am I?” he feigns confusion with a furrow of his brows.  

Before she has the chance to complain about him being mean, he’s already crouching down on the floor and poking his head under the bed into the darkness he’s braved himself to submerge into. And she’s far too curious not to peer down as well, however, she can’t really see a thing from behind his broad shoulders.   

Suddenly, he lets out a loud gasp — making her jump back and nearly trip on her feet — before his breathy giggle follows soon after.  

“That’s not funny,” she grumbles as exasperation drags her lips downwards.  

“I’m sorry, baby. You jus’ make it so easy,” he approaches her with an apologetic expression that doesn’t come off as all that empathetic when he’s fighting off an amused grin the entire time.   

“C’mere, yeah?” he coaxes before tugging her into his strong arms; not letting go even when she tries to pull away since she’s still mad at him.   

“This one really got to you, huh?” he murmurs into her hair before beginning to soothingly rock back and forth when she finally halts her pursuits of escape.   

A faint hum is the only response she grants him.   

“Think the last time you were this scared was when we went to that haunted house with your friends last year, remember?” his warm chest rumbles in a pacifying manner in tandem with his words.   

“How could I forget,” she huffs out.   

“Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t wanna watch it? I wouldn’t have cared if we left,” he speaks softly.   

“I don’t know…just didn’t wanna seem like a baby in front of your friends,” she sniffles.   

“Since when do you care what they think? You hate them,” he argues with a lopsided smile when he releases his hold on her in order to unzip his jeans and change into something more comfortable for the night.   

“Hate is a strong word,” she defends herself as she pulls one of Rafe’s old t-shirts over her head and tries to focus on his familiar scent still lingering on the worn-out fabric instead of the imaginary monsters lurking behind the windows.   

“Is it?” he graces her with a lighthearted narrow of his eyes.   

“Fine. I don’t like them but they’re your friends, which means that I want them to like me,” she mumbles out.   

“Don’t really give a shit if they like you or not, which they obviously do. Think a little too much since you can’t help but be the sweetest angel even to the people you hate,” he grumbles out as he walks over to close the bedroom door.   

“And honestly, would much rather just stay with you than those pretentious idiots. Next time you wanna go home, just tell me. Don’t want you lyin’ to me, okay?” he says with something sincere sparkling in the lagoons of his eyes.   

“Okay,” she promises when suddenly, he switches the lights off with a click, causing her muscles to tense.   

“Ray, why would you do that?” she sounds alarmed; inhales and exhales growing labored because the bedroom is now pitch black and there could be anything hiding in the murky corners of the room since she can’t even see herself.   

“Shh, calm down. I’ll protect you, yeah?” he croons, before he’s guiding her under the covers with a big hand on the small of her back; following shortly behind her and tugging her flush against his steady chest.  

“You’re safe with me. Daddy’s not gonna let anything happen to you, alright?” his saccharine murmurs reach her racing mind and offer it momentary rest on the soft petals of his tranquil voice.   

She hums against the skin of his neck as her eyes begin to slowly adjust to the darkness surrounding them; the dingy shadows crawling along the walls appearing less and less threatening by the second when she’s in the warmth of his protective embrace.   

“Want your stuffie?” he asks, knowing her all too well.   

“Mhm,” she nods against him before he’s reaching a hand behind the pillows because somehow her stuffed animal always manages to end up in the most peculiar of places. At this point though, he already knows where to look since he’s usually the one who has to locate it for her. 

Nowadays, she doesn’t need it too often since she has Rafe volunteering to be her own personal teddy bear, but whenever he’s working past midnight, she likes to hold onto something that brings her comfort because she isn’t particularly fond of the idea of sleeping alone.  

He soon offers her the plushy lamb and she gives him a grateful smooch against his cheek along with a muffled ‘I love you’.   

And that night, he lulls her into dreamland with a warm palm resting on her tummy and his mellow breathing placating her distraught mind. 

[princessbrunette]

hiii princess i hope you can find inspiration in this one :)

bunny!reader getting all wet and horny after she gets all cocky and can think she can arm wrestle him. him winning so easily is hot and he notices she likes it and starts teasing her and fucks her

-👛

the best time to get silly with rafe would be after he smokes, which is why he has no problem stubbing out his joint with a smirk when you scooch up infront of him all giggly asking “rafey can we arm wrestle?”

“you really think that’s wise?” the smirk carries into his tone of voice as he adjusts himself in his seat, spreading his legs a little wider, arms folded casually over himself.

“i just think i can beat you.” you tilt your head mischievously, suppressing your laugh as he stares you down.

“oh really? alright…” he sits forward, seemingly going with the joke in good nature. rafe licks his lips, and positions his elbow on the small table between you, lightly slapping his bicep twice in gesture. “lets uh… let’s see it then.”

you feel all girlish and shy when you place your smaller, manicured hand into his larger, manlier one. he gets to adjusting the stance of your elbow, muttering something about not wanting to ‘break your damn arm’, before gripping your hand readily.

“‘kay, three two one, go.” you sing, grinning before putting all of your strength into trying to pin his arm down. unsurprisingly, his arm doesn’t move.

“are you actually trying?” he drawls, cocky as ever. you grit your teeth, throwing your weight more into your arm as you struggle in your seat. he’s not making any effort to pin you down, but not making any effort to hold you back either.

“s’not fair.” you strain, and he huffs out a quiet laugh before gently bringing your arm down— beating you. “lemme use my other arm.”

after three solid attempts, you’re pouting and your arm is sore — but you can’t help but feel effected by his casual display of strength. as you stare him down, all sulky and needy — he’s reclining in his seat, satisfied.

“you finished?” he sarks, not particularly expecting an answer. gently you scooch over, hand resting on his belt — and no words are needed once you look up at him. “yeah? it’s want want want with you, huh?” he complains, but slowly, he begins to undo his belt with one hand. the nonchalant skilfulness has you tightening your thighs together. “so what do you want? specifically?” he tries to sound bored, but you can already tell he’s hardening in his boxers.

“wanna suck it.” you mewl quietly, no louder than needed for him to hear you. he scoffs, standing above you to pull his belt from its loops all together.

“alright well uh— i’ll do you one better. why don’t you run along and grab that plug you’re so obsessed with and bend over for me. i got time today, so you’re getting double stuffed.”

[kooksandpearls]

rafe cameron 𖦹 don't get it twisted.

pairing – husband!rafe cameron x wife!reader summary – rafe is jealous, insufferable, and very convinced that being broken up is just another phase before marriage. warnings – post-breakup tension, jealousy, possessive rafe, alcohol, party setting, swearing, toxic-ish flirting. notes from me – as requested here!!! i decided to turn this into a husband!rafe fic cause... yum 😵‍💫 for context, this is set during college during their three month long break up! word count – 0.6k

navigation – masterlist |

The party is too hot, too loud. There’s beer drying sticky beneath her shoes, somebody shouting over the music about a missing phone, and Rafe Cameron leaning against the kitchen counter like the breakup has improved his posture.

It hasn’t improved anything else.

His hair has grown longer since she last let herself touch it, falling across his forehead in a loose middle part he keeps pushing back with the heel of his hand. He’s wearing a faded blue polo with the collar gone soft and two buttons undone, which feels deliberate in the personal, irritating way everything Rafe does near her feels deliberate now.

He’s been watching her talk to a boy from her economics tutorial for eleven minutes. She knows because she’s counted. Not consciously. That would be pathetic.

“Your friend seems nice,” Rafe says when she finally comes into the kitchen for another drink, his voice pitched casually beneath the music.

She reaches past him for the vodka. “He is.”

“Bit boring.”

“You spoke to him?”

“Didn’t need to.”

She twists the cap off harder than necessary. “Right. Forgot you can identify personality defects through walls.”

Rafe’s mouth pulls sideways. “I’ve got a gift.”

“You should get it appraised.”

He watches her pour, eyes dropping briefly to her hand and then to the thin strip of skin showing where her top has ridden above her jeans. It’s not a polite look. Rafe has never looked at her politely in his life, not even when they were fifteen and he used to pretend he needed help with chemistry despite having no intention of passing chemistry.

Her stomach tightens anyway, traitorous and immediate.

“Thought you hated vodka,” he says.

“I’ve developed.”

“In three months?”

“People grow.”

“Yeah?” Rafe tips his head, gaze moving slowly over her face. “You seem about the same.”

She smiles without warmth. “You seem worse.”

His laugh is quiet, almost pleased. That’s the problem with being cruel to Rafe: he takes it as flirting if she looks pretty while doing it.

Behind them, someone opens the fridge and stares inside for several seconds before walking away with nothing. The bass rattles through the cupboards. Rafe shifts closer, enough that she catches the clean, familiar smell of his cologne beneath beer and summer heat.

“You gonna go home with him?” he asks.

She takes a sip and lets the vodka burn before answering. “Maybe.”

His jaw moves once. It’s tiny. Satisfying. “Don’t,” he says.

Her eyebrows lift. “Sorry?”

“He looks like he says ‘gosh’ during sex.”

The laugh escapes her before she can stop it, sharp enough that she nearly spills her drink. Rafe grins, victory bright across his face, and she hates the warmth that opens beneath her ribs at the sight of it – young and stupid and familiar enough to feel like walking into a room she still has a key for.

“You’re such an asshole,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“And we’re broken up.”

“Temporarily,” he shrugs.

She stares at him. “That’s not how breaking up works.”

“It is for us.”

“There is no us.”

Rafe’s eyes flick over her mouth. “Keep sayin’ it.”

The room seems to pull tighter around them, all heat and noise and the unbearable inch of air he refuses to cross. Her fingers tighten around the plastic cup. His gaze notices that too.

She steps back first because one of them has to possess survival instinct. “Enjoy the party, Cameron.”

“Baby.”

She keeps walking, weaving around a couple making out badly beside the stairs.

Behind her, Rafe calls, perfectly calm, “You’re gonna be my wife. Don’t get it twisted.”

Several people turn. She doesn’t. She only lifts one hand over her shoulder and gives him the finger as she disappears into the crowd, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt.

to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for my fics.

[zyafics]

RED FERRARI CHASE | Masterlist

MAIN (Social Media AU)

Pairing — F1 Driver!Rafe x High School Sweetheart!(F)Reader

Summary — Before Rafe became known as one of the best drivers on the circuit, he was your secret. Until his popularity skyrocketed, his name plastered on every billboard, and he became one of the most eligible bachelors in F1. Leaving you behind to indulge in the notoriety of the sport, you and Rafe ceased all forms of contact. Years passed, and he hasn't stopped thinking about you: his first love, his high school sweetheart, the only person to believe in him. When new management takes over his team, he's afraid their new strategy could undermine his position in the cutthroat league. But in an unexpected twist of fate, the new leadership included you. Returning back to him. With a ring on your finger. Engaged to his boss.

Content — formula one au, high school sweethearts to strangers to lovers (...or worse), love triangle, om/ow drama, be prepare for anything and everything because i am not spoiling! with love <3

NAVIGATION — COMMUNITY

rfc asks – rfc thoughts – rfc help – rfc analysis

TABLE OF CONTENT —

Part 01 🏁 Part 02 🏁 Part 03 🏁 Part 04 🏁 Part 05

Part 06 🏁 Part 07 🏁 Part 08 🏁 Part 09 🏁 Part 10

Part 11 🏁 Part 12 🏁 Part 13 🏁 Part 14 🏁 Part 15

EXTRAS —

🏎️ past: yours and rafe's first kiss

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).

[archiveluna]

basically every rafe fic on here.. ♡🪽

[pittsick]

RAFE CAMERON ﹏ SAND ON SKIN.

cw ﹏ ( +18 ) mdni / no-plot smut fic. afab!reader. established relationship. petnames (baby). public sex (beach). exhibitionism / voyeurism risk. neck kisses. prone bone. praise. dirty-talking. breasts&nipples play. unprotected piv. creampie. playful teasing. casual intimacy. aftercare.

reblog is a creator's best-friend, thank you!!

“Shit—Stop moving, baby, I’m trying to—” Rafe groaned in your ear, one of his hands moving from the warm sand to grab your hip, lifting it up as his pelvis pressed against your ass.

You knew it was bad to have sexual activity on the beach; anyone could see you, walk by, call the cops. But when Rafe pulled you away from the party to a more private area, you couldn’t stop yourself anymore. You had thought about it through all the party, even when laughing and talking to your friends. 

But now, hidden by rocks and moans muffled by the sound of waves crashing close, it didn’t matter anymore. Rafe hadn’t lost any time when taking your mini-dress off, leaving your bikini on just because it turned him on. He made you lay your stomach against the sand, grain sticking to your slightly humid skin, and just pulled your panties to the side as he laid on top of you, prone bone style. 

Rafe pulled his swimming shorts down enough to free his hard, leaking cock. The tip was angry red, begging for attention, slit glistening with pre-cum. He groaned, pumping himself once or twice before wrapping his hand around the base. 

His blue eyes lowered to your wet pussy, the thought of him fucking you here had aroused you more than you wanted to admit. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like that. Fuck, if you could see yourself.” Rafe cursed and you sighed, pushing your hips backwards to feel him. He rubbed his bulbous head against your slick folds, parting them just to gather wetness onto his tip. “Rafe, please—” You whined at him, then. 

But instead of listening to you, he slapped his hard cock against your cunt, creating skin-slapping-skin noises that were eaten by the ocean. You gasped each time his cock slapped back against your folds and clit, squirming under him due to the feeling. Rafe’s free hand moved to your ass, squeezing a cheek in his strong palm just to push it to the side, giving him a better view of your pussy.

“M’going in now, okay? Going to fill that pussy up.” He said and you didn’t have time to reply before feeling his tip press against your slick hole, giving the muscles a push before entering you. “Fuck! Ah, yeah… S’good.” You hummed, your hands moving into the sand, mindlessly playing with it. Rafe hissed as his cock slowly pushed inside you, stretching your gummy walls apart. 

You relaxed your body for him to go deeper until he couldn’t reach more, his tip almost kissing your cervix. You gasped, eyebrows furrowing in a mix of uncomfortable and pleasure. Rafe waited for you to get used to the intrusion before he lowered his upper body to press against yours; his torso and your back meeting.

“Y’feel so good, baby. You’re squeezing my cock so good.” He groaned in your ear. His arms moved to rest in the sand near your face. 

His cock throbbed inside you, pressing against your slick walls and making you pulsate. “Rafe, please, move now…” You said, fist closing and relaxing a few times. Your boyfriend hummed, his head coming closer to yours just so he could move his arms under yours and his hands moved to your chest. You felt the fabric of your bikini top being pushed to the side, the two triangles not hiding your tits anymore. “Let me see you. You’re too pretty. You couldn’t even wait home for us to fuck, uh?”

You didn’t reply but gasped when Rafe pushed his hips away and back against yours, how cock sliding back and forth. His pace was slow at first but he did go deep. His warm palms groped your chest, squeezing the fat of your tits, fingers rolling around your perky nipples. His breathing hit onto the skin of your neck, giving you goosebumps. 

He was so close that you could smell his perfume; mango, vanilla and a hint of cigarette from the ones he smoked. The sensation of the sun hitting down on your skin, the sand sticking to your humid body and how Rafe was fucking you was almost too much for your brain to keep up, but your boyfriend had a way to tether you to Earth. “Speak to me, baby, feels good, uh? Knowing anyone could see us right now? Walk by to see me fuck you into the sand?”

His words made you moan, not afraid of the volume of your voice with the waves hiding it. Rafe’s cock slid inside you, his mushroom tip rubbing against your g-spot due to the prone bone position he had you in. Your thighs shook, hips pushing backwards to feel more of him. Your inner-thighs were a mess—juices coating the skin, making sand stick there.

“Please, fuck, it feels so good… Rafe, keep going.” You replied to him, your head rolled backwards which gave him the opportunity to kiss your neck. He groaned while picking up the pace, your body melting into the ground with the force of his hips. 

A gasp left your mouth as your boyfriend’s fingers kept rolling around your hardened nipples, and then, he decided to pinch them. Your eyebrows furrowed in pleasure. “Oh God, yes! I love that—Do it again!” You voiced at Rafe and you heard a chuckle leave his mouth.

Another pinch, another gasp. “You like that, baby? Like me taking care of you?” He said, his pelvis slapping against your ass as he fucked you both harder and faster.

Your brain had muffled all background noises since the sexual activity started, but you could clearly hear the music from the party happening not far away and the laughter of your friends who were probably under alcohol substances.

A rather hard thrust made you break out of your thoughts, crying out Rafe’s name when he rutted his hips against your ass, creating loud skin-slapping-skin that mixed with the squelching of your wet pussy. The hands you had in the sand moved to grab at Rafe’s biceps, nails burying inside his strong muscles. He hissed, another chuckle leaving him. “That’s it, baby. Show me how much you like when I fuck that pussy. You love it, don’t you? Such a good girl.”

You moaned, nodding your head without an answer to give. Your boyfriend’s fingers pinched your nipples again, tugging on them just to roll the bud with his fingers. 

“Please! P-Please! I love it so much, Rafe!” You voiced, tits bouncing against the sand due to the force of his thrusts. You could feel the warmth coursing through your body, that inevitable sensation of an orgasm showing the tip of its nose. The grip you had over Rafe’s biceps tightened which made him hiss quietly into your ear. “Coming! I need to come!” You added, mouth wide open.

Rafe’s balls slapped against your ass as he took more support on his knees after your words, his hands moving away from your tits just to press flat against the sand. He groaned, head falling against your shoulders.

“I know baby, I know. Come for me, yeah? Be a good girl, I know you are.” He said, making your ass bounce with the force of his thrusts. His bulbous tip rubbed against your g-spot and you could only cry out when the orgasm took over your body.

“Yes, fuck! Coming!” You gasped at your boyfriend, eyes wide. Muscles contracted, body squirmed, toes curled. 

Rafe’s cursed as your gummy walls clenched around his cock, your juices coating his length and sticking to his base and balls. He only needed a few more thrusts to bury himself all the way inside you, shooting his creamy, thick load into your pussy. A raw moan left his throat as he came, sweaty forehead shifting to your nape. “Fuck… Fuck, she squeezed me so good I couldn’t stop myself.” He spoke after a moment.

You both stayed in that position for what seemed like hours (even if it was only seconds) before Rafe slowly pulled out of your sloppy hole. Semen leaked out immediately, thick globs disappearing in the sand before your boyfriend helped you up on your feet. 

Rafe had a smile on his face, one that usually meant trouble and after what you had both done, you didn’t even question it. “Want to get cleaned up in the water?” He just asked, one hand lifting to brush sand away from your sweaty cheek. You bent to grab your dress before nodding your head at his question. 

“Yeah, I don’t want to go back to the party all sweaty and smelling like sex.” 

Rafe didn’t reply but suddenly grabbed you by the waist, throwing you on his shoulder before walking toward the water. You laughed loudly, slapping his back. “Get me down, you asshole! I don’t want to ruin my hair!”

“Nah, don’t care. Should have thought about that before letting me fuck you in the sand.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

taglist ﹏ @userhotd @nekkiotine @222col @ravensreadingrecs @prismozo @lvve-talks @kathh01 @dumbbandpoetic @hisfavoriteweepingangel @i-cant-stfu @bluestrd @coochiemama3000 @eepwtf @domingodeaan @peachyparkerr @jiminie-08 @rafeswriter @stqrfirez @iheartrosalia @cxlt-lamb1 @kill3ill @dolcefloral @avasarchve @chronic-fangirl-222 @filthgf @blessort @rottndeer @voidsuites @aerangi @agustd202204 @cup1dssorrow @mimisitaugu @bitemysin @s4yuriii @puppyinlace @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @doll2kiss @m4rk-ofcain @beausling @aphrahdite @nuitts @girldisrupted @wiishies @lovelyy-moonlight @melodypvnk @lovelorncapricorn ( to be added )

[divinefemnine]

❜୧ 𝐓𝐎𝐗𝐈𝐂 𝐁𝐅!𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐄 𝐗 𝐏𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒

toxic bf!rafe who only noticed you after his sister started dating john b and brought the rest of the group over to tannyhill one night. his eyes were immediately drawn to you, but if anyone asked him at the time he would deny it.

toxic bf!rafe who slowly started meddling in your life once he realized nothing was going to get his mind off of you. for example, he’d intentionally sabotage your route to the country club, so when you arrived late for work he was conveniently there to come to your defense as your boss yelled at you.

toxic bf!rafe who acts nothing but sweet around you, which effectively makes you question why the other pogues talk about him like he’s the devil reincarnate.

toxic bf!rafe who buys you a whole new wardrobe once you officially begin dating, and when you’re reluctant to accept it he assures you it’s normal in relationships (it’s not).

toxic bf!rafe who starts guilt tripping you into coming to parties with his friends, and just sits there quietly as they casually insult your friends, much to your disappointment. however when you confront him about it, he starts yelling and twisting the situation to make it seem like it was your fault. just as quickly, he’s apologizing and slipping back into the caring façade that made you fall in love with him, confusing the hell out of you.

toxic bf!rafe who secretly goes through your phone and deletes any texts from the pogues asking you to hangout, then acts none the wiser when you come crying to him because your friends have started acting cold towards you “out of the blue.”

toxic bf!rafe who brings up the fact that he pays for everything in your relationship whenever you get in an argument, which has been becoming more and more frequent.

toxic bf!rafe who seizes every opportunity to plant seeds of doubt in your mind about your friends, until you’re second-guessing every interaction. after all, from his perspective, he’s only doing what’s best for you.

toxic bf!rafe who intentionally starts a physical fight with jj or pope, then shows up at your doorstep bruised and bloody, effectively gaslighting you into believing that it was initiated by them for no reason.

toxic bf!rafe who thinks he successfully turned you from a nobody-pogue to a picture perfect kook princess.

[kooksandpearls]

rafe cameron 𖦹 house rules.

pairing – husband!rafe cameron x wife!reader summary – rafe cameron becomes a father in pieces: scared at twenty-two, steadier at twenty-five, and still impossibly protective by the third baby. warnings – pregnancy, pregnancy nausea, family conflict, disapproving parent, implied discussion of pregnancy options, toddler tantrums, parenting stress. notes from me – i love rafe. i love rafe. i love rafe. as requested here!! x word count – 3.5k

navigation – masterlist |

The first time she’s pregnant, they’re twenty-one and twenty-two and still living among boxes.

There are two unopened cartons of college textbooks in the spare room of the little rental near the marina, a saucepan in the kitchen that technically belongs to Kelce, and a pale rectangular patch above the couch where the previous tenants took their television mount and half the paint with it. 

Rafe has been working for Cameron Development for four months and wearing collared shirts every morning like the stiffness might force him into becoming the sort of man who knows what an escrow account is without quietly Googling it beneath his desk. 

She has a positive pregnancy test wrapped in toilet paper at the bottom of her handbag because she couldn’t bring herself to throw it out, and every time she remembers it’s there, something warm and frightened turns over beneath her ribs.

Ward asks them to come to Tannyhill for dinner. He doesn’t serve dinner.

Instead, they sit in his office while the late-afternoon sun falls in expensive gold strips across the rug, Ward behind his desk and Rafe beside her on the leather sofa, one knee bouncing so subtly she only notices because his hand is resting over hers and the movement travels through both of them. 

She’s been nauseous since breakfast. The smell of Ward’s scotch isn’t helping. Neither is the way he keeps looking at her stomach despite the fact there’s nothing to see yet, only the soft fold of her dress when she sits and Rafe’s palm spread low against her thigh like he could physically keep the conversation from reaching her if he held on tightly enough.

“You’re both very young,” Ward says finally, voice arranged into something calm and reasonable. It’s the same tone he uses with contractors who have disappointed him and waiters he intends to have fired later. “You’ve only just finished school. Rafe’s barely started at the company.”

Rafe’s jaw moves. “I know how old I am.”

“I’m trying to be practical.”

“Then be practical.”

Ward’s eyes harden slightly. “There are options here. You don’t need to announce anything until you’ve had time to think clearly.”

Beside her, Rafe goes still. Still in the particular way he gets when anger has moved past heat and found somewhere colder to live, his thumb stopping against the side of her hand, his shoulders settling beneath the pale blue cotton of his shirt. 

She feels her own fingers curl inward before she can stop them, nails pressing into her palm, and Ward notices. His gaze flicks toward her face with something almost sympathetic in it, which is somehow worse.

Rafe sees that too. “Don’t look at her like that,” he says.

Ward blinks. “Like what?”

“Like she– she did something to me.”

“Rafe–”

“She didn’t.” His voice stays low, but she can feel the pulse beginning to beat hard in his wrist beneath her fingertips. “We came here to tell you we’re having a baby. Not ask what you think we should do about it.”

“I’m your father. I’m allowed to be concerned about your future.”

“My future’s sitting right here.”

The words leave him before he can seem to decide whether he wants them exposed. For half a second, something young and naked moves through his face, the boy who’s spent most of his life waiting for Ward to approve of the next version of him and finding each one slightly wrong. Then Ward leans back in his chair, mouth thinning, and it disappears beneath Rafe’s anger.

“You need to understand what this looks like,” Ward says. “People are going to assume she–”

Rafe stands so quickly the leather cushion lifts behind him. She catches his hand before he can do anything else. She doesn’t think he’ll hit Ward. She doesn’t really know what she thinks he will do, and that uncertainty is the problem. 

His fingers close around hers instantly, and when he looks down at her, the whole room seems to drop away from his attention.

“You feel sick?” he asks.

“A little,” she mumbles. 

“We’re leaving.”

Ward says his name sharply, but Rafe has already bent to collect her handbag. He puts his hand at the small of her back and guides her toward the door with none of the usual uncertainty he carries through this house. Ward calls after him once more. Rafe doesn’t turn around.

His hands shake when they reach the car. Only slightly. Enough that the key scrapes once against the ignition, then again, and she covers his wrist before he can try a third time.

Through the windshield, Tannyhill sits huge and white against the water, every window catching the sun. Rafe stares at it with his mouth pulled tight, breathing through his nose like he’s run here instead of walked.

“You didn’t have to fight with him,” she says softly.

“Yeah, I did.”

“He’s shocked.”

“So am I.” His head turns toward her, eyes bright and furious and scared in a way he would hate anyone else for noticing. “But I’m not making you sit there while he talks about you like you trapped me.”

“I know I didn’t.”

“I know.” Rafe’s grip loosens beneath her hand. His thumb turns, dragging once over the inside of her wrist. “I was there. Very involved, actually.”

A laugh catches unexpectedly in her throat.

His mouth twitches, but the anger doesn’t leave his eyes. “Enthusiastic participant.”

“Rafe.”

“What? It’s an important distinction.”

She looks down at their hands and feels the nausea settle somewhere lower, becoming something else. Still fear. Still the enormous, impossible shape of a life arriving before they’ve bought a dining table. But Rafe lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses the centre of her palm with a tenderness that doesn’t suit the hard line of his jaw, and the fear no longer feels like hers alone.

“We’re not going back in there tonight,” he says.

“Okay.”

“Maybe not tomorrow either.”

“Okay.”

“Could be a while.”

She smiles faintly. “Start the car, baby.”

Rafe looks once more at his father’s house. Then he turns the key, puts the car into reverse, and takes her home.

Marlowe begins causing problems before she’s developed fingerprints. At twenty-five weeks, she’s turned her mother’s ribs into a private climbing wall, made the smell of coffee unbearable, and inspired Banks to completely reject the concept of sisterhood. 

He’s two and a half, deeply suspicious of change, and has spent the past week responding to any mention of the baby by shouting no with the sombre conviction of a tiny, corrupt villain.

“No baby,” he says when they show him the painted nursery.

“No baby,” he says when Sarah brings over a bag of miniature dresses.

“No baby,” he says directly to her stomach one morning, then bursts into tears because Rafe tells him he cannot cover Mama’s belly with a couch cushion to make the problem go away.

That night, after Banks throws half his dinner onto the floor and kicks the bathroom door because she cannot physically fit beside him and the tub anymore, she leaves bedtime to Rafe. 

Her back aches. Her ankles have begun disappearing by late afternoon. She stands beneath the shower until the water goes lukewarm, then pulls one of Rafe’s old shirts over her head and walks down the hallway with moisturiser still cooling against her legs.

Banks’s bedroom door is open by three inches. Through the gap, she can see Rafe sitting on the rug beside the toddler bed with his work trousers still on and his tie pulled loose around his neck. 

He has one forearm resting across his raised knee, the other hand wrapped around Banks’s small bare foot where it sticks out from beneath the dinosaur quilt. Banks is lying on his stomach, cheeks swollen with the final remnants of a tantrum, glaring at his father with wet lashes and exhausted hostility.

“I don’t want her,” Banks mutters into the pillow.

Rafe rubs his thumb over the soft curve of his heel. “Yeah, you’ve made that pretty clear, buddy.”

“Baby takes Mama.”

“No.” Rafe’s voice loses its dry edge. “Nobody takes Mama.”

Banks turns his face enough to look at him. “She’s mine.”

Rafe’s mouth moves like he has to bite back the first response that occurs to him, probably because it’s difficult to explain marriage-based territoriality to someone who still eats bath bubbles. “She’s everybody’s,” he says after a second. “But she was mine first.”

From the hallway, she closes her eyes.

Banks considers this grave injustice. “No.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

His little brows furrow. “No, Daddy.”

“Ask her. She’ll tell you.”

The mattress squeaks as Banks shifts, little fingers twisting into the quilt. “Mama likes me best.”

“Probably,” Rafe says, then lowers his voice to a whisper. “You’re shorter. People fall for that.”

But Banks doesn’t laugh. His mouth wobbles instead, and Rafe’s expression changes immediately. He leans closer, forearm sliding onto the edge of the mattress.

“Hey. Listen to me.” His voice is quieter now, shaped for the dark room and the boy inside it. “You’re allowed to be mad. New baby’s weird. She’s gonna cry, and she’s gonna take your stuff, and everybody’s gonna look at her all the time because babies can’t do anything for themselves.”

“I can do things,” Banks huffs.

“I know. You can put your own shoes on the wrong feet.”

Banks frowns, uncertain whether this is relevant. Rafe squeezes his foot once and continues before he can argue.

“But you don’t get to be mean to Mama because you’re mad. Mama’s making your sister right now. That’s hard work. Makes her tired. Makes her back hurt. Makes her cry when the grocery store doesn’t have the cereal she likes.”

“That was one time,” she whispers beneath her breath in the hallway.

“So we’re easy with her,” he says. “We help her. We don’t kick doors, and we don’t throw food, and we definitely don’t try to hide her stomach under couch pillows.”

Banks looks mildly ashamed. “Baby was gone.”

“Baby was still there.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Rafe brushes Banks’s hair away from his forehead, awkwardly gentle in the way he still is sometimes with softness, like he knows what he wants his hands to do but has to think through every movement first. “You know how Daddy looks after Aunt Sarah and Aunt Wheezie?”

Banks nods.

“Even when they’re annoying?”

Another nod, more enthusiastic.

“That’s you now. You’re the big brother.” Rafe taps two fingers lightly against his chest. “We look after our girls. You look after your Mama, and when your sister gets here, you look after her too.”

Banks is quiet for long enough that her throat begins to ache.

“What if she’s mean?”

“Then you come get me.”

“What if she takes my truck?”

“You take it back.”

“Rafe,” she murmurs from the hallway.

His eyes flick toward the door. “Politely,” he adds.

Banks pushes himself up onto his elbows. “Can I hold her?”

“Yeah.”

He tilts his head. “She little?”

“Very.”

“Smaller than me?”

Rafe’s eyebrows lift. “For a while.”

That seems to satisfy something in him. Banks lies down again, turning onto his side this time, his face pointed toward Rafe. “I look after her.”

“Good man.”

“And Mama.”

“Especially Mama.”

Banks’s eyes begin to close. Rafe stays where he is, hand resting around his son’s ankle, until the soft resistance goes out of the small body beneath the quilt. When he finally rises and steps into the hallway, she’s leaning against the opposite wall with both hands folded beneath the curve of her stomach.

He takes one look at her face and exhales. “Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re crying.”

She sniffles. “I’m pregnant.”

“You’ve been using that one a lot.”

She laughs wetly and catches the front of his loosened tie, drawing him closer. Rafe puts both hands around her waist, careful of the belly between them, and bends his head until his forehead rests against hers.

“‘We look after our girls’?” she whispers.

His eyes move over her face, suddenly wary beneath the humour. “Too much?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Sounded better than telling him I’ll throw him off the dock if he makes you cry again.”

“He’s two.”

“Mm. He’ll bounce.”

Her laugh presses them closer. Rafe kisses the damp corner of her eye, then crouches without warning and puts his mouth against the stretched cotton over her belly.

“Your brother’s being difficult,” he tells the baby. “Don’t take it personally.”

She places her hand on the back of his head. “She’s a Cameron. She’ll make it everyone’s problem.”

Rafe smiles against her stomach. “That’s my girl.”

By the third pregnancy, protection has become an administrative position. There are vitamins in her handbag, the kitchen, Rafe’s truck and both upstairs bathrooms because he’s decided folic acid should be available at emergency exits. 

There’s a standing grocery order every Tuesday, three numbers written beside the house phone even though everybody owns a mobile, and a family group chat called DO WHAT YOUR MOTHER SAYS that includes Sarah, Wheezie, ten-year-old Banks, six-year-old Marlowe, and, briefly, the plumber until Rafe notices and removes him without explanation.

The baby wasn’t planned. She had stood in their bathroom at thirty-one with the test in her hand and laughed once, sharply, because crying felt too obvious. Rafe had stared at the two pink lines, then at her, then back at the test as if one of them had committed accounting fraud. 

After nearly a full minute, he said, “I thought you said that app was accurate,” and she threw a hand towel at his head.

Now she’s seven months pregnant, Rafe is in Charleston twice a week overseeing a development project that appears to require his physical presence whenever the universe senses she has slept badly, and the children have developed a coordinated ability to need separate, urgent things at the exact moment her pelvis begins to feel as though it’s been assembled incorrectly.

He gets home after ten on a Thursday night and finds her halfway up the stairs carrying a laundry basket against the underside of her stomach while Marlowe trails behind in fairy wings, explaining that tomorrow isn’t technically costume day, but could be if her teacher was flexible. Banks is calling from the kitchen that the dishwasher is making a noise. One of Rafe’s socks is stuck to the side of the basket by static.

He leaves his suitcase in the foyer. “What are you doing?”

She looks down at him over the towels. He’s still dressed for work, sleeves rolled, collar open, travel sitting beneath his eyes in dark, tired shadows. “Laundry.”

“I can see that. Why are you carrying it?”

“Because towels remain tragically unable to climb stairs.”

Rafe comes up three steps at a time and takes the basket from her before she can object, his jaw already tightening. “Banks!”

From the kitchen, their son calls, “What?”

“Get over here.”

Banks appears at the bottom of the stairs with the wary expression of someone summoned by his father’s business voice. He has Rafe’s height beginning in him already, all knees and shoulders and hair that refuses to lie flat. “What happened?”

Rafe hands him the basket. “New rule. Your mother doesn’t carry laundry upstairs.”

Banks looks at the towels, then at her stomach. “Okay.”

“And fix the dishwasher.”

Banks frowns. “I don’t know how.”

Rafe sighs. “Neither do I. Press buttons until it stops.”

“That’s not how appliances work,” she says.

“It’s worked for me so far.”

Marlowe pushes between them, wings scraping along the wall. “What’s my job?”

Rafe looks down at her. “Keep your mother’s water full.”

Marlowe’s face lights up with the dangerous purpose of a child newly granted jurisdiction. “Always?”

“No,” she says quickly.

“Yes,” Rafe says at the same time.

Marlowe runs downstairs.

“Rafe,” she sighs. 

He puts a hand against her back and guides her up the remaining steps, slower now. “What?”

“I don’t need a household task force,” she grumbles.

“You were carrying a basket you couldn’t see over.”

“Also can’t see over my belly, why don’t you snatch that from me?”

“You nearly stepped on Marlowe.”

“She has wings. She should’ve flown.”

His mouth twitches, but the tension remains beneath it. In their bedroom, he sets his watch on the dresser and begins unbuttoning his cuffs with the short, irritated movements he uses when the anger isn’t really anger and both of them know it. She sits on the edge of the bed, pressing her fingers into the soft swelling above one ankle.

Rafe notices immediately. He drops into a crouch in front of her and takes her foot into his lap before she can pull it away. His thumbs press carefully along the arch, then circle the puffed skin beneath her ankle bone, his gaze fixed downward. 

The buzz cut has grown out slightly around the crown. There’s a faint crease through his shirt from the plane seat and a missed call glowing on the phone beside him.

“I’m fine,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“I am.”

“I know.” His thumb moves along her heel. “You’re always fine.”

Something in the way he says it makes her stop. Not sarcastic. Frustrated by the word and everything she manages to hide inside it.

Rafe looks up. “Banks said you fell asleep at the table Tuesday.”

She groans and rolls her eyes. “He’s a snitch.”

“He’s ten.”

“He’s your son.”

“Exactly. No loyalty.”

She tries to smile, but his hands have gone still around her foot.

“I can move Charleston,” he says.

Her brows draw together. “You can’t move a city.”

“The meetings.”

“Rafe–”

“I don’t need to be there twice a week,” he mutters.

“The project’s yours.”

“So is this.”

His eyes drop briefly to her stomach, then travel around the room as though this means the house too: the costume wings abandoned against the doorframe, the pile of school forms on her nightstand, the laundry moving down the hallway in Banks’s arms, the life waiting for Rafe every time his plane lands and continuing, somehow, on the days it doesn’t.

She brushes her fingers over the back of his neck. “I’m not asking you to stop working.”

“I know.” His jaw shifts. “That’s not the same as me pretending none of this is work because you don’t send an invoice.”

At twenty-two, he would have needed an enemy – Ward, the world, somebody standing close enough to push back against. At thirty-two, he sits on the bedroom floor with her swollen foot in his lap and understands, slowly and unwillingly, that sometimes the thing wearing her down has his name on the travel itinerary.

His phone lights again. Rafe picks it up, opens the email containing his flight confirmation for the following Thursday, and presses cancel.

She watches him. “You’re going to make everyone hate me.”

“They already hate me. You’re safe.”

A small set of footsteps comes charging down the hallway. Marlowe appears with a water bottle filled so completely it spills over her hands and onto the carpet. “Mama! Water duty.”

Rafe nods approvingly. “Good job.”

She takes the bottle before their daughter can flood the room. “Thank you, baby.”

“Drink it.”

Her eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

“Daddy said.”

Rafe looks down quickly, suddenly very interested in her ankle.

“Rafe.”

“What? She’s taking the position seriously.”

Marlowe stands over her until she drinks, then races away to report her success to Banks. Rafe’s shoulders begin to shake beneath her hand. She nudges his thigh with her foot, and he catches it before she can pull back, pressing his mouth to the inside of her ankle.

“You’re an idiot,” she says.

“Mhm.”

“And bossy.”

“Yeah.”

“And you cannot turn our children into your private surveillance network.”

He kisses her skin again, smiling now. “Already did.”

The baby moves beneath her ribs, a long, slow roll that makes her inhale and place one hand against the side of her stomach. Rafe’s palm leaves her foot and spreads over the movement, broad and warm, waiting until the small body shifts against him again.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

“She’s been there all day. On my bladder.”

“Missed me,” he grins.

“She doesn’t know you left.”

Rafe looks up at her. “Yeah, she does.”

She could argue. Usually would. Instead, she runs her fingers over the soft growth at the back of his head while his thumb moves absently over her stomach, his cancelled flight still open on the phone beside them and his suitcase untouched in the foyer downstairs.

Outside the bedroom, Banks tells Marlowe she’s giving Mama too much water. Marlowe tells him he’s not in charge of water duty. The dishwasher makes one final, miserable clunk and falls silent.

Rafe glances toward the hallway, then back at her. “See? Everything’s handled.”

“The dishwasher may be dead,” she sighs.

“I’ll buy another one.”

“You say that about everything.”

“Usually works.”

She smiles despite herself, and Rafe watches it happen with the same intent attention he has given her since they were teenagers, like every version of their life still begins with checking her face first.

Then he leans forward, rests his cheek against her stomach, and stays there while the house keeps moving around them.

to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for my fics.

[spankyourlocalbrat]

ARRANGED MARRIAGE RAFE PLEASE I NEED MORE

arrangedmarriage!rafe who loves hearing you say degrading shit. he loves laughing at you in your face while you cry, not being able to speak but moan. his favorite sentence to tell you to ‘thank your daddy for selling you to a cameron’ who then he rewards you with orgasms when you obey and gets meaner when you’re bratty.

arrangedmarriage!rafe who is is ridiculously turned on by your changing body. as soon as your tits start swelling and getting sensitive, he’s on them constantly, sucking, biting, and leaving marks all over them. always sucking bruises into the soft flesh, making you whimper because everything feels more intense.

arrangedmarriage!rafe who’s honeymoon phase with you is absolutely wild. he keeps you in the bedroom for days, only letting you out to eat. multiple rounds every single day, morning sex where he wakes you up by eating you out until you’re crying, lazy afternoon fucks on the balcony where anyone could see, and rough nights where he ties your wrists to the headboard and edges you until you’re begging.

arrangedmarriage!rafe who is so horny during the second trimester when your belly really starts showing. missionary is out of the picture, he loves fucking you from behind or spooning so he can wrap one arm around your bump and the other around your throat.

arrangedmarriage!rafe who didn’t want this marriage at first. he saw it as another one of his dad’s power moves; merging families for business. but the second he saw you walking down the aisle in that white dress, something dark clicked in him. that night he didn’t even wait to get to the honeymoon suite properly; he had you bent over the nearest surface in the reception hall bathroom, dress shoved up around your waist, while he fucked you hard enough that your legs shook for the rest of the night.

arrangedmarriage!rafe who makes shower sex become a regular thing because the water helps with the extra weight and rafe loves watching soap run down your pregnant body. he’ll press you against the tiles, one hand supporting your belly while the other rubs your clit, fucking you until your legs give out.

[archiveluna]

#hmm.. !!

[glossiercheek]

princess ℘ r. cameron

synopsis: i’m just obsessed with the concept of rafe calling his s/o “princess” because i’m a whore

warnings: 18+ mdni (one smutty blurb), smoking

he truly can’t help it! it just slips out most of the time and he’s completely unaware of the effect it has on you. it’s so simple and sweet, but there’s nothing simple about how the pet name gets you all hot and bothered. fidgety and flushed on the inside, like electricity coursing through your veins every single time.

after he’s made another property deal, he takes you to one of those fancy jewellers. tennis bracelets with various glistening and glittering stones, in every colour your heart desires, stare back at you. and rafe stands behind you, warm chest pressed to your back as he bends down to ghost his lips over the curve of your ear. “don’t look at the price. i got’chu,” he tells you lowly. “just tell me which one y’like, princess.”

or maybe you two are at a party, tucked away from the crowd, basking in the silence and each other’s presence, the thumping of the bass sounds far away enough as you’re passing a cigarette back and forth on an empty balcony. perhaps you’re a little out of it, mind a little hazy and unfocused. you don’t notice how you start taking longer drags from the cigarette between your fingers.

you feel the heavy weight of smoke in your lungs. the sensation appears to be too heavy. before you know it, you break out into a fit of coughs. pathetic puffs of grey smoke escape your lips and heat wavers over your cheeks as ash flicks off the cigarette from the way your body’s jerking with every cough.

“whoa, whoa, whoa,” rafe rushes out, hands running up and down your spine to soothe you. he immediately takes the red solo cup from your hands. “that’s enough, easy, princess.” he says it in a way that sounds so profound, so secure. it makes your heart skip a beat.

or when you two go out for your weekly date nights, rafe’s always excited to see what you’ll be wearing. he sits on the sofa, slouched, aimlessly scrolling on his phone, until he hears your heels click clacking on the tiles. his eyes drag up your figure lazily as he takes in your dress, highlighting your curves in the most perfect way possible.

he releases a surprised huff, shaking his head as if he can’t believe you’re standing here, in front of him, in all your glory. “c’mere,” he mumbles, extending his hand for you to take. and you do. of course you do.

you grab his hand with full certainty as rafe pulls you closer to him. “c’mon, princess, gimme a spin.” he says, grinning as you do, eyes raking over your shoulders, your elongated back, your bare legs shimmering with glitter as the silky material of your dress fans out around you. he can’t help but let out a low whistle. “you look like... we aren’t goin’ anywhere t’night.” rafe smirks, pulling you onto his lap.

or perhaps he uses the name when you’re on top of him, stifled mewls escaping from you as your sticky back and forth movements start to falter. the smell of musk sits deep in your nose, and your vision is a tad bit blurry. your hands keep slipping off your boyfriend’s sweat-coated chest as your ministrations become increasingly sloppier. “i— i can’t—” you manage to whisper between whimpery breaths.

as soon as rafe notices you’re struggling, his hands land on your hips with a knowing weight. “‘s all good, baby, ‘s all good,” he coos, dragging you back and forth over the thick bulge inside his jeans himself. “y’don’t—” he presses a light kiss to your knuckles as he loops your arms around his neck, his voice sweet like syrup and heavy with sin. “have to lift a finger w’me, baby.”

white spots flash before your eyes as rafe’s movements continue to make you lightheaded as he moves your body back and forth like you weigh nothing. you’re between wanting to pursue the pleasure and marvelling in ecstasy. a gooey, sentimental feeling sloshes in your stomach with anticipation. your breaths are quicker, your cheeks warming up. you don’t notice your eyes fluttering shut — just slightly — from the heat of it all.

you’re pulled back by a gentle pat on your cheek. “hey— eyes on me, princess,” rafe tells you softly, gently. “don’t tap out on me now.”

a/n: very rare sighting of aurora writing smut because i’m just so bad at it— it reads so lifeless, ykwim? also when is sugar daddy rafe gonna buy a rolex for me cuzzzzzz... a girl needs to tell the time ya know what im sayinnnn