barbie. @barbiereads - Tumblr Blog

DARK!RAFE RECOMMENDATION | barbie's library. 📚

ㅤ⚠️ ! dark themes, toxic/abusive relationship, emotional ㅤㅤㅤㅤmanipulation, gun, drugs, threat, sexual active, kinks,ㅤ ㅤㅤcussing n more so read the warnings BEFORE reading. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤMINORS DNI ! ⚠️

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ♪ㅤshining like gun metal,

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤcold and unsure... ♪

♥︎ stick. by @rioasis

♥︎ thinking about toxic and manipulative s2!rafe... by @hearts4hughes

♥︎ s1!rafe threatening to kill himself if u try to leave by @sugrbrain

♥︎ catch me if you can by @lacydear

♥︎ the cameron problem, scc gender reveals by @cameronsbabydoll

♥︎ dark!rafe catches you running away by @angelicstarkey

♥︎ ex!husband rafe by @floosies

♥︎ baby trap her by @improactive

♥︎ say it to his face. by @isasweetie

♥︎ sick little rich boy by @babyybrii

♥︎ darling, bite back by @venigrantrogers

#divider by @uzmacchiato #divider by kthice #rafe cameron #dark!rafe #toxic!rafe #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron drabble #rafe cameron headcanons #rafe cameron imagine #fic rec

you're looking to score

#rafe cameron #lana del rey

kthice

𓈒 ͜ ︵ ݂ ׁ random dividers

*rainbow div from @sweetestpeacreates *credits are appreciated ty!!most of them are made by me and others are collected from pinterest*

uzmacchiato

𝓦𝓱𝓲𝓽𝓮 𝓛𝓪𝓬𝓮 /𝓟𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓵 𝓓𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼 - 𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓽 1 🤍

Suitable for dark themes only 🦢

IMPORTANT : If you use these dividers please tag @uzmacchiato for credit in the post you use it.

➡️ Part 2 🤍

➡️ Masterlist ✨

Top/Bottom Lace Dividers :

Pearl Line Dividers :

Lace Dividers :

Please support by Reblogging, Liking or Subscribing.

Please don't use without providing credit to the account mentioned above.

just through about the concept of mafs!rafe

#mafs!rafe #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x female reader #dark!rafe #toxic!rafe #rafe cameron imagine

improactive

— “baby trap her”

SUMMARY: When Rafe finds out that you want to apply for a six-months long internship far from Outer Banks, he starts to plan the most heinous act just to keep you home.

WARNINGS: abusive relationship; manipulation; coercion; reproductive abuse; emotional abuse; drug addiction; dependency; penetrative sex (DUB-CON).

GIF CREDIT | DIVIDER

English is not my first language!

oh that's just dada

#rafe cameron #rafe obx #barbiechats♥︎

angelicstarkey

dark!rafe catches you running away

dark!rafe cameron x reader

summary: as you try to have a chance at freedom, the one person you're running from manages to catch you (part of the masked lust series)

content warning: emotional abuse, gaslighting, discussions of postpartum disorder

wc: 2.9K

a/n: not exactly a part 4 as it takes place sometime between ml:exposed (part 3) after baby girl is born

The seams of your bag began to burst as you continued to stuff it with anything and everything you could think of. It’d got enough, you used to be someone, you used to have a life, have an impact on the people around you. Whatever this situation was, it wasn’t you and you’d be damned if you’d let yourself stay in it. Ever since you’d had your daughter, you felt that you were a ghost living outside of the shell of your body.

Even though you loved your daughter, you couldn’t keep looking at her knowing how she’d gotten here in the first place, nor how she had a stark resemblance to her father. It pained you to know that your love for her could be tainted by him, or at this rate, her love for you. Rafe spoiled you, he truly did, but not without a reminder that this couldn’t have happened without him “taking the lead”.

“Fuck him. Fuck his little superiority complex. And fuck his daddy, who thinks he’s above everything,” you hissed to yourself as you placed the last thing in your bag. A ziploc of all the memories you had from your pregnancy and birth, from your first ultrasound to the hat they’d put on your daughter when she was born. You barely recognized your own voice - when did you become so fearful and small?

You looked at the sleeping figure of your daughter as she lay in the cot next to your next, holding onto the stuffed bunny your best friend sent when she couldn’t make it to your baby shower. Her small bursts of breath filled the atmosphere, a sound you knew you’d miss when you’d leave.

The zipper finally gave in with a sharp, accusing sound, teeth splitting apart just enough for you to shove your hand inside and force it closed. You froze, heart hammering, waiting to see if the noise had carried beyond the walls of the bedroom. The house stayed quiet, the kind of quiet that rang in your ears and made your skin prickle. Like you were in a horror movie, except the irony was that your life felt like it was a horror movie with no ending to be seen anytime soon.

You glanced around the room, taking inventory like you wouldn’t be allowed to do it again. The bed was perfectly made on his side. The dresser he’d insisted on buying, even though you’d told him the old one was fine. The framed photo on the nightstand—your daughter cradled against his chest, his jaw pressed to the crown of her head like a claim. You turned it face down before you could stop yourself.

Your chest tightened, but you instinctively pushed it aside as you decided it was now or never.

Pulling on your shoes, you shrugged on the closest jacket your hands could get on without really caring what it was; it was hard to see through the tears in your eyes anyway. The cologne hit your lungs when you pulled it over your shoulders, the same one you’d grown accustomed to now. You remember when you first smelt it at your wedding, a small one at the courthouse, where he had kissed you to cement you down where you stood, like he was reminding you that you’re now bonded for life. Rafe always liked it when you wore his clothes, saying that it made you look like you were taken care of properly.

The staircase in your house, if you could even call it that, was surprisingly not creaky as you padded down the steps. The house was empty, it always was on Thursday nights when Rafe would be out late with a few of his friends from work. You couldn’t bring yourself to care about whether he was cheating on you or not; it was already numbing enough to be stuck with him that if he had a distraction, at least it’d take the attention away from you.

You look up at your bedroom door one last time, thinking about the baby you’d grown in your body for nine months. The one who’d felt like another person for you to feel less lonely for all these months. The one you’d wished you could raise to become strong-minded and independent, to be someone in society who would speak up for what she believed was right, and make the mark you once wished you could.

You straightened your back, swiping at your face when you realized your cheeks were wet. No time for this. You slung the bag over your shoulder, wincing as the weight pulled you down on one side. It felt fitting. Everything you’d ever been, condensed into something you could barely carry.

The hallway stretched out in front of you, dim and familiar. You moved carefully, avoiding the spots you knew would creak, muscle memory guiding you through a house that had never really felt like yours. Every step felt like betrayal, yet a breath closer to freedom all at once. The metal felt cold as you wrapped your fingers around the handle, and for the first time in your life, you could actually imagine yourself back on the island with your parents, getting to go back to your old life. Right when you managed to twist the knob, a voice spoke up.

“That bag looks kind of heavy.” Rafe glared at you, barefoot, sleeves pushed up his forearms. His features were dark as he leaned against the doorframe of his office in the low light. “Heading somewhere? You always love to overpack.”

The blood ran cold, and your breathing paused. It was almost as if your body locked itself in place, unable to move because of how stunned you were. Still, you slowly turned to face him.

“How long?” you asked, hating how small your voice sounded.

He tilted his head, considering. “Long enough to know you weren’t really going anywhere.”

“H-how?”

“There are cameras installed in the room to make sure nothing happens to you or the baby.” He chuckled, “Did you really think I wouldn’t think through everything?”

“I can’t do this anymore, Rafe. You win, I’m done. You’ve ruined my life, you’ve taken me away from everything I’ve ever loved, you even took away the joy of having my first daughter.” You choked out. It felt like the world was on fire right now with how overwhelmed you were, until you dryly chuckled, “It’s only a matter of time before you turn her against me, too.”

Rafe smirked in amusement, feeling internally proud that you’d finally admitted defeat, something he’d wished for all along. “Well, you can’t just leave if everything’s been done, now can you?”

Silence lingered in the air as Rafe bore his eyes into yours.

“What makes you think you could go back to the way things were? Who’d want anyone who has no skill set or remarkable achievements at your age right now? You’d be useless. And also, technically, a deadbeat mother to be who’s willing to leave her two-month-old baby!”

“Rafe, stop it.”

“Just come back, and we’ll try to get you back to normal.”

“That is anything but normal, and you know it.”

“Bold of you to say that when you’re wearing my jacket. Let go of the door handle and you’ll-Hey!”

Without wanting to hear another word, you flung the door open and ran out. It truly felt like life or death, running from the cage you were trapped in and running towards freedom. Your legs burned from your thighs, your calves pulsing as they carried you across the lawn. It was all a blur for you, the end goal only being that you could make it out past the block and try to navigate your way out from the smaller streets in your neighbourhood.

Rafe was hot on your heels, his footsteps heavy as he ran after you, screaming your name. As much as he loved it when you put up a fight, knowing that you’ll never be able to win, he was also just as scared of you leaving because he knew if he lost you, he’d lose his father’s good graces. He’d lose the picture-perfect family he’d always wanted, although it meant baby trapping you.

It all felt like child’s play to him, really. Why were you constantly fighting back if it always ended up with you still being stuck with him?

Rafe finally caught up to you, one hand firmly wrapping around your upper arm in a way you knew would leave faint purple bruises. You felt your body being pulled back, causing you to crash into Rafe’s front as you both fell on the lawn.

It was exhausting; you just wanted out.

Your chest heaved as you lay there, half tangled with him, the cold of the ground seeping through your clothes. Every breath felt too shallow, like your lungs refused to fully expand anymore, as if even oxygen had learned to ration itself around him. Your arms shook—not from the fall, but from the sheer effort of feeling anything beyond fear and grief and this bone-deep tiredness that never seemed to lift. Someone was screaming, blood curdling and haunting, before you realized it was yourself as you shook violently against him to try and release yourself.

The tears were hot against the coldness of your skin, acting as a reminder of the crushing weight of your situation. You’d never get to know what it’s like to grow old with no fear sitting in the back of your mind, nor a love that came with conditions. You hated crying, especially in front of Rafe, since it’d only be used as collateral damage against you.

You squeezed your eyes shut, memories crashing into you all at once—sun-warmed docks on the island, salt in your hair, your mother’s laughter drifting through the house. The version of you who’d had plans, opinions, a future that belonged to her. That girl felt like a stranger now, someone you’d once known but couldn’t quite remember how to be.

She’d hate this, you thought weakly. She’d hate what I’ve become.

Your throat tightened painfully. You weren’t brave anymore. You weren’t strong. You were just so, so tired of being told who you were, what you owed, what you deserved. A part of you—small and traitorous—wondered if this was it. If this was the furthest you’d ever get. If freedom was just another thing Rafe had let you almost touch, just to prove how impossible it really was. The thought hollowed you out.

“Is she okay, Rafe?” Though your vision was blurry, you knew it was your neighbour, Mr. Neilson, approaching you closely.

Rafe, being as composed as always, replied, “I’m hoping so. I think it’s the postpartum depression; she doesn’t seem to feel like herself anymore.” You turned in to continue sobbing into Rafe’s chest, not caring about having any sort of self-respect or care for your self-image. The ease with which he spoke for you, rewriting reality without hesitation, was something you’d only ever read about. A life where decisions were no longer yours, where manipulation gently nudged you into compliance until you forgot you’d ever resisted.

As you continued to weep out your frustration, you thought about the dreams you had when you were younger, the ones you only talked about with your best friend at your annual cottage trips.

“You know, I don’t really see myself wanting to work a real job,” Your best friend told you.

“Really?” You stared at her incredulously. It never dawned upon you that people could just… not want to do anything when they got older.

“Yeah, I mean, I kinda like being able just to shop all day, or ooh wait no you’re right! I love baking. Nevermind, I think I can own a cute little bake shop like the one we went to in Portland.”

You laughed, knowing she was unserious but completely herself, which made you appreciate her. “It was so cute! I kinda miss Portland.”

“There’s always spring break.” She paused before continuing, “I have a feeling you’d want to do something big. Like be a boss lady like Fiona’s mom and walk in her pant suits and heels.”

You looked up from the memory box you were painting, smiling that your best friend knew you so well.

“Well, for starters, I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing pant suits. But I do want to do something big, like, I dunno, I wanna help other people.”

“Like a lawyer?”

“Uh- maybe? I don’t know. I want to help people get back on their feet, y’know? I saw some Pogues in the Cut who barely get by. We’re from the same island, how is that fair?” Taking a deep breath, you continued. “I think I’d wanna help everyone get a chance at the life they deserve.”

Your best friend stared at you, with a bit of awe but also a bit bored since you’d gone on a tangent, before speaking up again. “You’re gonna do big things. Super glad you’re not gonna wear a pant suit thou- don’t throw paint at me! I just got these overalls from London!”

“Oh, honey, I think she really needs your support right now. She did just have a baby at such a young age, I’m sure she’s shocked right now.” Mrs. Neilson chimed in. You wanted to scream that he was the last person you ever wanted in your life. You thought to yourself, When did this become a neighbourhood spectacle?

“You’re right, Mrs. Neilson. My sister and my dad’s wife are flying in soon to help her out. Hopefully, I’ll get some time with her alone then.”

Rafe pulled you in closer to his chest, stroking your hair and squeezing you tighter, whispering sweet nothings into your ear. Though you weren’t sure if it was to calm you down or tether you to him. Your fingers dug into his shirt, nails scraping against dirt as if you could anchor yourself to the ground, to this moment, to the truth you were terrified of forgetting once he started talking again. You weren’t sure when your neighbours left, but you knew what came next. His cycle where he’d speak to you in his alarmingly calm voice, give you fake reassurances, then he’d frame this as concern and as love for you.

And part of you hated yourself for knowing how convincing he could be.

You turned around again and opened your eyes, staring up at the dark sky above you, chest aching with every breath. If this was the end of the road, you needed to remember one thing—you tried. Even if no one ever believed you. Even if your daughter grew up never knowing how close you’d come.

“You know you can’t run from us anymore.” Rafe said somberly, “We’re… a family, and we’re in this together, whether you like it or not.”

The word landed heavy in your chest, sinking deeper than all the others he’d ever used against you. Not shouted. Not thrown. Spoken like the truth so obvious it didn’t need defending.

“We’re a family,” Rafe repeated quietly, his hand still carding through your hair, fingers gentle in a way that felt almost cruel. “And families don’t abandon each other. Not when things get hard.”

You swallowed, throat burning. The way he said us made your stomach twist—like you’d been folded into something you never agreed to, like your identity had been stitched permanently to his. There was no space in his version of the world for you as an individual. Only roles. Only obligations.

His grip tightened just slightly, a subtle reminder. Not enough to hurt. Enough to warn.

“I know you think you’re doing the right thing,” he continued, voice low and steady, as if he were soothing a frightened child. “But you’re not seeing clearly right now. You’re exhausted. Emotional.”

Because of you. The words screamed in your head, but your lips stayed sealed.

Rafe sighed softly, pressing his forehead to your temple. “Let me take care of this. Of you. That’s my job.”

Your chest tightened painfully. That’s the problem, you thought. You didn’t want a caretaker. You wanted your life back. Your mistakes. Your choices. Even your failures, at least they’d be yours.

But his voice kept going, smooth and relentless, wrapping around you like ivy.

“We’ll go inside,” he said, already deciding. “You’ll rest. Tomorrow, this will all feel ridiculous. You’ll see.”

You thought of the bag you’d packed, still lying somewhere on the lawn, out in the open like you wished you’d been if you’d gotten away in time.

“I just want to be me again,” you rasped out, your throat dry from screaming for help earlier.

Rafe pulled back enough to look at you then, his gaze intent, searching your face like he was cataloguing every crack, every weakness. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.

“You are you,” he said firmly. “You’re just… better now.”

Bullshit. The hope that you still had in you never left; there was still a chance for you to go out and live the life you’d once wanted. Defeat wasn’t an option for you just yet. Rafe spoke up again, stilling you as you heard him whisper,

“I can’t let you leave. You’re all I’ve ever wanted and have, and I love you too much to let you go.”

The words wrapped around you, warm and sharp all at once.

And as he guided you back toward the house, his arm a steady weight around your shoulders, you forced yourself to memorize the sky above you—the darkness, the stars barely visible through the clouds. Only one thought ran through your mind.

This isn’t love.

another a/n: credit to @perfectlyviciousvision for the concept <3

cameronsbabydoll

taking santa photos at the mall with ex!husband!rafe ♡⸝⸝

the mall is a nightmare.

it’s loud, packed, twinkly in an aggressively cheerful way, and your son is vibrating with excitement like he’s been fed pure sugar. you’re already regretting agreeing to this when rafe pulls up to the curb in an unnecessarily expensive car and steps out like he’s attending a press conference instead of photos with santa.

“you ready, buddy?” rafe grins, crouching to your son’s level. “big guy in the red suit’s been waitin’ all year for you.”

your son nods so hard his hat almost falls off.

you, meanwhile, are gripping your purse like it’s a lifeline.

“we’re just doing pictures,” you remind rafe as you walk inside. “in and out. no chaos.”

he glances at you over his sunglasses. “you say that like it’s possible.”

the santa setup is… a lot. fake fireplace, ornaments everywhere, a line of screaming children and exhausted parents. your son bounces on his toes, eyes wide.

“mommy look! santa!”

you smile despite yourself. “i see him, baby.”

rafe immediately flags down the nearest employee. “how long’s the wait?”

“about forty minutes,” she says apologetically.

rafe hums, pulls out his wallet. “what if it’s… shorter.”

you glare. “do not—”

too late. he’s already tipping someone discreetly and smiling like he just solved world hunger.

five minutes later, you’re next.

“rafe,” you hiss, “you cannot buy your way through everything.”

he shrugs. “worked so far.”

your son climbs into santa’s lap, beaming, and when the camera flashes, rafe’s hand settles on your lower back automatically, like muscle memory.

you stiffen. he doesn’t move it.

“smile,” he murmurs. “you’re gonna want this one.”

you hate that he’s right.

after the photos, you think you’re done.

you’re not.

rafe immediately veers into the toy section.

“we’re not—” you start.

“we are,” he corrects, already grabbing a cart. “kid just told santa what he wants. can’t disappoint the guy.”

your son gasps dramatically at everything. rafe encourages it.

“yeah, buddy, that one’s cool.”

“you want the big one or the bigger one?”

“mom’s right, you don’t need it… but i want you to have it.”

you try to intervene. “rafe, this is too much.”

he leans in, voice low, smug. “relax. let him have fun.”

then, quieter, just for you: “don’t start now. people are watching.”

by the time you reach the register, the cart is full. toys, clothes, a stupidly expensive jacket rafe insists your son “needs,” and—somehow—a matching scarf for you.

you stare at it. “why is this in here.”

rafe doesn’t look away from the cashier. “because it’ll look good on you.”

“i didn’t ask—”

“i know,” he says lightly. “i offered.”

he pays without blinking. black card. no flinch.

your son is chattering nonstop as you walk out, arms full, happy and warm and glowing.

rafe opens the car door for him, then for you.

as you slide into the seat, you mutter, “you can’t keep doing this.”

he shuts the door gently, leans down so you’re eye level through the window.

“doing what?” he asks, smiling.

“acting like we’re a family.”

his smile softens—just a fraction.

“sweetheart,” he says quietly, “we are a family. you just keep pretending we’re not.”

then he straightens, walks around the car, and drives off like he didn’t just knock the air out of your lungs in the mall parking lot.

and you hate—hate—that your son had the best day ever.

divider by @bbyg4rlhelps and @brbievivi

written by: @cameronsbabydoll

cameronsbabydoll

THE CAMERON PROBLEM

ex!husband!rafe x ex!wife!reader

WARNINGS: toxic relationship dynamics, manipulation / gaslighting, possessiveness, jealousy, controlling behavior, power imbalance, condescending language, mild humiliation, co-parenting tension, sexual tension, alcohol use, mentions of wealth/class imbalance

AUTHORS NOTE: divider by @strangergraphics (also this is a full length fic — 3k+ words!! who cheered?) but also this fic is very all over the place and not very cohesive so forgive me :)

you should’ve known rafe was up to something the second you saw the black amex on your kitchen counter.

it was the first thing you saw when you came downstairs — not the coffee pot, not the half-packed school lunch, not even the sunlight through the blinds. just that stupid, heavy, arrogant little rectangle of metal. rafe’s calling card in every sense.

you didn’t hear him come in this morning. which meant he let himself in while you slept, probably humming to himself, probably smug as hell dropping his credit card in plain sight like a dog leaving its chew toy.

your phone buzzed.

Rafe: Thanksgiving’s at my place. I’ll pick you and our son up at 4.

another buzz.

Rafe: Use the card to get yourself something nice and to get him ready. And don’t argue.

you stared at the text so long your coffee went cold.

behind you, your son was jumping on the couch in dinosaur pajamas, yelling about turkey and pie and asking if daddy’s house would have “the big balloons again.”

you forced a smile for him. “yeah, baby. maybe.”

but inside you were already irritated, already bracing yourself for whatever performance rafe wanted this time. you told yourself you’d go for your son — not for rafe. never for rafe.

hours later, you were stepping out of the salon with perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect everything, feeling like you’d been polished to fit back into a world you left behind. the world rafe still lived in every single day.

and when you slipped into the caramel-colored silk dress you swore you wouldn’t buy? you hated that you looked good in it.

rafe always knew your weak spots.

—

he pulled up at 3:58 in a red ferrari that cost more than your entire house.

you heard the engine before you saw him. heard the way it purred, thick and smooth, like the whole neighborhood should be grateful he’d arrived.

your son ran to the window. “daddy’s here!! mommy he’s here he’s here—!”

you swallowed hard.

rafe stepped out of the car like the sidewalk existed solely to hold him. black suit, top buttons undone, aviators on even though the sun was dipping. rolex flashing. jaw sharp enough to cut you on sight.

he looked at you once — head to toe — and smirked.

smug. slow. satisfied.

“knew you’d pick that dress,” he said, voice warm like melted honey.

“you didn’t know anything,” you shot back, but your voice wasn’t as steady as you wanted.

he leaned against the ferrari, arms crossed, looking you over like he was confirming his own good taste. “sweetheart… i always know.”

your son barreled into him, and rafe scooped him up effortlessly, kissing his head, laughing. your chest twisted. he was always at his most dangerous when he was being a good father — because it made you remember the version of him you once thought existed.

you slid into the passenger seat and tried very hard not to react when rafe’s eyes lingered on your thighs before he got in beside you.

—

the mansion looked different from the last time you’d been there. warmer. fuller. more decorated than you’d expected. but something felt off the second you stepped inside.

then you saw why.

people.

so many people! men in designer suits, their wives glittering in diamonds, kids running through hallways they had no business being in.

your stomach dropped.

you grabbed rafe’s arm. “what is all this? who are they?”

he didn’t even pretend to hide his amusement. “guests.”

“rafe,” you hissed, “you said family thanksgiving.”

“it is.”

“this is not family.”

“oh, they’re practically family.” he looked around the room like a king surveying his kingdom. “business partners, investors, buddies from charleston. they haven’t seen you in a while.”

your pulse spiked. “why would they—”

“because,” rafe said, eyes glinting with something dangerous, “i told them we’re still married.”

you stared at him. “are you insane?”

he tilted his head, pretending to think. “no.”

“rafe—”

“don’t cause a scene,” he murmured, leaning down just enough that only you could hear the edge in his voice. “not tonight.”

before you could lash out at him, someone approached — a woman with diamonds dripping down her ears and a too-bright smile.

“oh, you must be mrs. cameron! rafe talks about you all the time.”

you opened your mouth — ready to correct, ready to shred the illusion—

and then rafe’s hand slid around your waist, firm, possessive, pulling you tight to his side like you’d never left his bed, never left his marriage, never left him.

“there she is,” he said, lips brushing your temple, voice thick with claim. “my wife.”

your breath caught.

in the woman’s view, it was affectionate. romantic.

but you felt the warning in his grip. don’t ruin this.

you swallowed your pride, your anger, everything.

you smiled for the woman.

rafe’s thumb stroked the side of your waist, slow and proprietary.

“attagirl,” he whispered.

—

dinner was torture.

long, gleaming table, polished silver, crystal glasses catching the light. chefs moving quietly in and out. important men talking loudly about numbers and power and money.

and rafe sitting at the head of it all, arrogant and bored like he owned the world.

your son sat with the other kids at the smaller table, happy and oblivious. that was the only reason you stayed seated.

rafe had placed you at his right side. you’d tried to move the place card. he’d raised an eyebrow and said, “really? don’t embarrass yourself.”

the moment you sat beside him, his hand slid onto your thigh under the table.

you stiffened.

he didn’t move it.

you kept trying to subtly push it off.

he kept putting it back. firmer each time.

he chatted with business partners while his thumb stroked slow circles on your leg, claiming you in plain sight while pretending not to.

someone asked how long you and rafe had been married now.

you swallowed, ready to speak—

rafe cut in without hesitation. “seven years.”

everyone congratulated you both.

you clenched your fork.

“i hate you,” you whispered to him.

rafe didn’t even look at you. just smirked into his wine glass. “i know. drink some water. you’re getting red.”

“from rage.”

“sure,” he murmured, voice silk. “looks good on you.”

someone mentioned how beautiful your dress was. rafe hummed.

“i picked it,” he said lazily.

you stepped on his foot.

he didn’t flinch. didn’t even pause mid-sentence while unintentionally flirting with an investor’s wife.

he just let his hand slide higher up your thigh.

you inhaled sharply.

he grinned.

—

after dinner, the kids sprinted to the theater room. your son tugged on your dress.

“can i stay and watch a movie, mommy? please? daddy said i can!”

you glared at rafe. “you said he could?”

he leaned back in his chair, unbothered. “it’s thanksgiving. let him have a little fun.”

your son was giving you big watery eyes.

you sighed. “fine. one movie.”

he cheered and ran off.

you turned on rafe the second he was gone.

“we’re talking,” you snapped. “right now.”

he rose from his chair slowly, deliberately, loosening another button on his shirt, looking down at you like you were something he was deciding whether to devour or toy with.

“what about?” he asked, voice low.

“about you lying. manipulating me. making me look like—”

he stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, his cologne, the weight of his stare.

“you think any of them would’ve come,” he murmured, “if i told them my wife left me?”

your breath hitched. “i’m not your wife.”

he brushed a knuckle along your jaw, gentle in a way that made your chest hurt.

“funny,” he whispered, eyes dragging over your face like he was memorizing it, “you look like mine.”

you froze. every nerve lit. every line blurred.

rafe smirked softly, triumphantly.

“go check on our son,” he said, stepping back like he hadn’t just messed with your entire nervous system. “i’ll join you in a minute.”

and then he walked away, leaving you breathless and furious and horribly, painfully aware that you hadn’t said a single word back.

the movie theater room was glowing with soft warm lights and a huge projector screen. your son had thrown himself into a massive beanbag, already giggling with two other children while the movie’s opening music played. he looked happy, unaware of the tension at hand.

you exhaled.

you’d barely had a second to unclench when you felt him enter the room behind you.

rafe always announced himself without making a sound — the shift in the air, the warmth at your back, that faint scent of sandalwood and expensive cologne.

you didn’t turn around.

“go away, rafe.”

“can’t,” he murmured, “my house.”

you finally turned, ready to snap — but the lighting hit him just right, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw, the loosened collar of his dress shirt, the smug tilt of his mouth. he looked like temptation wrapped in arrogance.

he looked like every mistake you swore you wouldn’t make again.

“stop looking at me like that,” you muttered.

“like what?”

“like you think you own me.”

he stepped closer — not touching, but close enough that it felt like a dare.

“sweetheart,” he said softly, “i don’t think. i know.”

your stomach dropped. “the delusion—”

“—is mutual,” he cut in, grinning. “otherwise you wouldn’t be in that dress.”

you pushed past him before he could see your face and started for the hallway. he followed, because of course he did.

—

the dining room had emptied out, but many of the adults lingered in the open lounge beside it — big couches, warm lighting, glasses of wine and whiskey everywhere. laughter, deep conversation, the faint clink of crystal.

you tried to slip in quietly, keep to yourself.

it didn’t work.

the moment you entered, every head turned. smiling, expectant, curious. the perfect cameron wife returning to the circle.

and rafe stepped right beside you, hand on the small of your back, guiding you forward like you were his by default.

“there she is,” one of the older men said, swirling bourbon. “the famous mrs. cameron.”

you opened your mouth — you were going to correct it this time, damn the consequences —

but rafe beat you with a warm laugh and a squeeze to your waist.

“she hates when i brag about her,” he said, smirking. “so pretend i don’t.”

the group laughed.

your nails bit into your palm.

one of the wives leaned in. “you two are just… stunning together.”

you forced a tight smile. “oh, we’re—”

“—getting better every day,” rafe finished smoothly, gaze sliding to you with blatant warning. don’t ruin this. don’t embarrass me.

you shot him a glare. he only smirked deeper.

someone else chimed in. “rafe, you’re a lucky man.”

“i know,” he said simply.

your jaw clenched.

one of the investors — tall, mid-forties, expensive watch — nodded toward you. “she’s a beautiful woman. no wonder you keep her so close.”

rafe’s hand tightened on your back. possessive. territorial.

“close?” rafe said lightly. “i keep her right where i want her.”

a few men laughed. a few wives exchanged looks.

you felt heat crawl up your neck — anger, humiliation, something else you didn’t want to name.

you twisted out of his touch. “i don’t appreciate being spoken about like—”

rafe cut in smoothly, tone lazy. “she gets shy when people compliment her.”

“i’m not shy—”

he leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “do not start,” he whispered. “not in front of them.”

rage flared in your chest. “or what?”

he didn’t blink.

“or i’ll pick you up,” he murmured low enough that only you heard, “put you in my office, and lock the door until you calm down.”

your breath stuttered.

the worst part?

he meant it.

and you knew everyone here would just assume the cameron marriage was… passionate.

rafe’s hand brushed your hip as he greeted another business partner, his arm casually sliding around you again. every touch was intentional. calculated. a public brand.

you tried to slip away once the conversations shifted. a polite step back. a subtle escape.

rafe caught your wrist lightly, stopping you.

“leaving so soon?” he asked, tone low and arrogant. “you’re being rude, sweetheart.”

“you’re being insufferable.”

“and you look so cute when you’re mad at me.”

a woman nearby laughed softly like she thought you two were flirting.

you wanted to scream.

rafe used your moment of distraction to pull you closer, fingers sliding to the dip of your waist — invisible to everyone but incendiary to you.

“you’re doing great,” he murmured, like this was some kind of performance review. “now smile. they’re watching.”

you didn’t smile.

rafe did. wide, charming, deceptively warm.

you felt the ground tilt beneath you.

you hated him. you wanted him. you hated that you wanted him.

the group eventually shifted into a loud, heated debate about stocks and real estate — the men bragging, the women nodding politely. rafe jumped right in, confident, cocky, dominating the circle effortlessly.

and every now and then, he’d glance at you over his glass.

like he was checking you were still there. like he expected you to be. like you wouldn’t dare leave without him.

like you belonged to him.

—

when the conversation reached a crescendo — profits, acquisitions, future projects — one man nudged rafe.

“how do you balance all this with family?” he chuckled. “business, travel, marriage, the kid?”

rafe didn’t miss a beat.

“easy,” he said. “i pick the right wife.”

you swallowed a gasp.

the men laughed. the wives gave jealous smiles. rafe’s hand found your hip again, sliding down just slightly, claiming territory he no longer legitimately had.

you whispered sharply, “stop touching me.”

you managed to break out of his hold and storm toward the hallway — heart racing, breath shaking.

and just as you reached the edge of the room, you heard him excuse himself behind you.

he was following.

—

everyone was finally gone.

the mansion was quiet again — too quiet, an echoing kind of silence that felt way too intimate for two people who weren’t supposed to be together.

the chef and staff slipped out. the last car left the driveway. the candles burned low.

your son was curled up on the couch under a blanket, clutching a stuffed dinosaur, fighting sleep. you were gently stroking his hair.

rafe was leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking disgustingly good and entirely too smug for someone who’d just manipulated an entire room of wealthy adults.

he watched you with that unreadable expression — part pride, part desire, part something softer he’d never admit to.

“he should stay,” rafe said quietly.

you didn’t look at him. “he has a bed at home.”

“he also has a bed here.”

“rafe—”

“he’s half-asleep already,” he added, voice calm and infuriatingly sure of himself. “don’t drag him out in the cold.”

you hated that he had a point.

you hated that he knew you’d agree.

you sighed, brushing your son’s cheek. “fine. he can stay.”

rafe’s smirk was immediate. “knew you’d see it my way.”

“don’t start.”

he didn’t argue. he just walked over, scooped your son up effortlessly, and carried him upstairs like he’d been waiting all night for the excuse.

you followed, slower, exhausted, wishing your heartbeat wasn’t doing stupid things.

rafe pushed open the door to the guest room — the one with the soft navy bedding your son loved — and tucked him in gently, smoothing his hair back.

he bent down and kissed his forehead.

your heart clenched. painful. unwanted. unavoidable.

when rafe straightened, he found you watching him.

he didn’t gloat. not right away.

instead, he said quietly, “you always look at me like that when i’m with him.”

“like what?” you whispered.

his eyes softened for half a second. “like you remember why you married me.”

you swallowed hard. “shut up.”

and the softness vanished — replaced by the smirk he lived in.

“there she is,” he murmured.

—

you left the room first, needing air. needing space from the man who took up every molecule of it.

but rafe followed right behind, closing the door gently before turning to you.

“guest room or my room?” he asked.

you blinked. “for what?”

he lifted a brow. “to sleep?”

“i’m going home.”

he scoffed. “no, you’re not.”

“yes, i am.”

“sweetheart,” he said, stepping closer with that condescending patience that made you want to punch him, “i let you get away with enough tonight. i’m not letting you drive home half-asleep.”

“i’m fine.”

“you’re exhausted.”

“stop telling me how i feel.”

you glared before finally agreeing. “i’ll sleep on the couch.”

he laughed — genuinely laughed. “you? on a couch? when there’s a king-sized bed upstairs? be serious.”

“then you sleep on the couch.”

“in my house?” rafe repeated, blinking like you’d told him to sleep in the ocean. “not happening.”

“i’m not sleeping in your bed with you.”

rafe walked past you, heading down the hall. “then don’t. sleep on the edge. i won’t touch you.”

you crossed your arms. “i don’t trust you.”

he turned at the doorway of the primary bedroom, one hand on the frame, and gave you the smirk that always, always signaled danger.

“you trust me enough to bring our son here,” he said softly.

that one hit too close.

you opened your mouth. nothing came out.

rafe shrugged lightly. “besides, you really think i’d let the mother of my kid sleep on hardwood? even i’m not that cruel.”

“you sure?” you muttered.

the smirk sharpened. “you didn’t complain when you were sleeping in my bed every night.”

you wanted to throttle him.

instead, you shoved past him into the bedroom.

the room was infuriatingly perfect — dim, warm lighting, curtains drawn, sheets soft and inviting. you dropped your bag and kicked off your shoes.

rafe watched you from the doorway like you were entertainment.

“i’ll take the floor,” you said, grabbing a spare pillow.

rafe’s voice came instantly, low and condescending:

“no the hell you won’t.”

“rafe—”

he strode across the room in three long steps and grabbed the pillow from your hands.

“i’m not letting you sleep on the floor like some stray i found outside.”

“you sleep on the floor then.”

“i’m not sleeping on the floor of a house i paid millions dollars for.”

“oh my god—”

“get in the bed, sweetheart.”

“no.”

“get. in. the bed.”

you were about to snap again when a small voice drifted down the hallway.

“mom?”

your son. half-awake. frightened by the unfamiliar place.

you immediately softened. “i’m here, baby.”

rafe was already moving — walking down the hall, scooping him up again, murmuring quiet reassurance.

he carried him back into the bedroom.

your son reached his arms toward you, sleepy, warm, needing comfort.

rafe placed him on the bed gently. “he wants you.”

you crawled in beside him.

your son snuggled right against your chest, little hand gripping your shirt. he was out in seconds.

you exhaled deeply, brushing his hair back.

when you finally looked up, rafe was still standing there.

watching you.

softer than before.

dangerously soft.

“happy now?” you whispered.

rafe didn’t answer the question.

instead, he walked around to the other side of the bed, lifted the blanket, and slid in without hesitation.

you sat up fast. “rafe—”

“he sleeps better with both of us.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“i know.”

he lay on his back, one arm behind his head, the picture of arrogance and comfort.

then he said, quieter:

“i’m not touching you. relax.”

you didn’t respond.

you lay back down on the opposite edge, your son between you, breathing softly.

thirty seconds passed.

a minute.

then rafe spoke again, voice low in the dark:

“you’re safe here.”

you closed your eyes.

you hated that he meant it.

you hated even more that he wasn’t lying.

lacydear

CATCH ME IF YOU CAN - C. RAFE

summary: where a heated game of chase with rafe turns real.

tags: cussing, chasing kink (?), kidnapping, insinuating of sexual activity, drugging.

it was weird.

how being with rafe made you realize weird things about yourself.

like how you loved being babied, or how you loved being held like a baby in his arms. or how you liked being chased.

it started as a joke, you were in his room, watching tiktoks while he ran his hands up and down your hip, occasionally ticking you. it was one of those days where the house was alone, just you and rafe in the cameron's house.

you had already asked rafe to stop tickling you. you considered it a form of torture. especially since he never stopped when you said no! so to get back at him, you suddenly bolted away from him. stumbling a bit on the stairs. you thought you had the head start, that he was going to have to chase you.

but in less than a minute you felt strong arms wrapping around your torso and picking you up. did he fuck you after that? yes...was it the best sex you had yet? absolutely.

it happened again at a party. you wanted to stay longer, to drink till you blacked out! but he was a partypooper and decided to head home. but with you. naturally, you whined, pouted and even stomped your feet like a little girl. and when he threatened to pick you up and take you to his truck, you did it again; you ran.

obviously you didnt last even a second before he picked you up again. and ofcourse, you did get fucked in the back of his truck. and again when you both got home. and again and again and again.

you assumed it was the adrenaline, the rush of running from a big man like rafe. getting chased and thrown and manhandled weirdly turned you on.

it turned into a little game between you too.

“im going to give you 30 seconds to get back here before i-” and before he could finish his sentence you had blasted past him, out of the house and into the woods. the sun was about to set, you were in a sundress and kitten heels yet still, you were pretty fast.

recognizing this little antic of yours, rafe gave you about 30 seconds before he was running after you. because even if rafe denies it, this little game of cat and mouse helped him. not only did it intensify an already very active sex life between you two, but it was also an outlet to release all his pent up rage that he had accumulated from his dad and the outside world.

you were so cute, thinking you could easily get away from him. you were oblivious of the fact that rafe was already near, your body flinched when your heel accidentally snapped a branch. ”shi-”

“boo.” he deadpanned behind you, big, bulging and arms wrapping around the back of your thighs to haul you up like a sack of potatoes. you didnt argue, just a small pout adorned your lips. it did make you feel better how he was out of breath though. it showed that you were getting better at the game.

fast forward to now.

today it was different, things were more serious, more tense. you knew rafe was...not exactly okay. he was broken, a little bit demented. you realized that when he killed a cop, when he drowned sarah, but it's all hitting you more when he's pushing you down the stairs against your will.

he's been repeating something about a boat, a cross, about a better life.

“let me go!” you cried into his palm, clawing at his forearm as he adjusted his grip to make your screams more muffled. “shut up. shut up shut up shut up.” he let you go abruptly, causing you to fall to your knees. a loud sob ripped through your lips. chest heaving as your hurriedly pulled yourself up and ran out of the house.

this time it wasnt a game, it was real. you could hear sarah scream in one of the closets, paired with rose telling her that it'll be okay. you needed to get out of here, fast. you dont know how long you ran, you just know your bare feet are bleeding.

it was futile, you knew that. rafe was probably behind you, probably beraly getting out of the house because he knows no matter what, he would find you.

“mm..” you let out a whimper,looking around, hoping to see any lights. but all you saw was dark, then you felt him behind you. a napkin being pressed against your nose, your nails dug harshly into his arm again as you kicked the air. “you'll understand. this is for us, baby. for us.” he whispered into your hair, his chest heaving erratically as your slowly went limp in his arms.

as he walked back to the house, rose was already placing sarah's unconscious body in the backseat. “everything okay?” he asked tightly, watching as he cradled you in his arms. slightly wincing at your cut up feet. “she'll be okay.” he whispered, sitting down next to sarah, your body still cocooned in his arms as he pressed delicate pecks against your cheek.

“ready?” rose mumbled as she sat in the driver's seat, giving a very scared wheezie a small smile before she looked back to check on rafe.

“just drive.” he mumbled roughly, his lips pressed against your hairline.

“she'll be okay.” rose echoes his previous statement, “she'll understand once she sees what we have on store for us.”

rafe smiles a bit for the first time that day. you'll understand, you'll learn to forgive him and he'll learn to give you the life you deserve outside of the outerbanks.

st4rfckerz

hi i’m stuck on thinking about rafe encouraging you to slap him during an argument.

rafe has a temper — we all know this. not a day goes by without him getting into an argument with someone and you’re no exception. but what he doesn’t tell you is that sometimes he gets under your skin on purpose.

he believes there’s something so incredibly attractive about the way you get increasingly more fed up with him. so he uses it to his advantage, for fun, of course.

you currently find yourself in that situation. you and rafe have been making snarky remarks towards each other for at least thirty minutes now, and you don’t see it ending anytime soon.

it doesn’t help that you’re no better than he is. if anything, you can be worse — following him into different rooms, jabbing him with a pointed finger, refusing to let him have the last word. meanwhile, he just watches you with that same irritating smirk, like this is all entertainment to him.

except this time it was different. instead of letting you keep following him, he suddenly turns, and you walk right into him — your nose bumping against his chest.

“you’re really that angry,” he stares down at you, the corner of his lip curling in amusement.

“are you being serious right now?” you scoff, crossing your arms. “it’s not just this, that’s the whole point. you keep acting like it’s just this one thing, like i’m blowing it out of proportion, and i’m not. it’s the way you push and push and then stand there like you didn’t do anything, like i’m crazy for reacting.”

your hands fly up as you talk, frustration written all over your face. rafe only watches, hands clasped behind his back, like he’s enjoying every second — because he is.

“god I can’t even stand to look at you right now, you’re so,” you mutter, exhaling sharply while burying your face into your hands.

he doesn’t argue, just slowly bends at the waist so that he’s eye level with you.

He taps his cheek lightly, his tongue pressing against the inside of it ‘attempting’ to hide his growing smile. “c’mon you’ll feel better, promise,”

you squint your eyes at him in disgust before turning on your heels and walking away.

“what?” he calls after you, a grin in his voice. “i’m just trying to help.”

you know he was trying to do everything but that.

isasweetie

say it to his face. (toxic!ex!rafe)

rafe’s not a very respectful ex. in his defence, seeing you in that little dress triggered him. it had been a while since he’d seen you, let alone those pretty thighs, and he didn’t know how to contain himself. he had bought you that dress, after all.

rafe’s eyebrows furrow from the pool table when he sees you finding another boy at the party. so you’re wearing a dress that rafe bought you while hugging your newest boy toy. it’s almost sad, he thinks, so certain it mean you must still want him.

so, arrogantly, he walks over. “shiiit, y/n, looking good,” he smiles, his hand on your shoulder from beside you so you look over — he always taught you to keep eye contact when he spoke.

you whisper something to your date, a little explanation as to who the hell this was. rafe snaps his fingers in your face when he sees the side conversation and obvious annoyed expression on your face. “hey, hey, what’s going on, huh?”

“rafe, please stop,” you sigh.

“nah nah nah, if you, uh, if you wanna say something about me to your pathetic guy, say it to my face,” he insists, bending his knees a bit to get to your level. “say it to my fuckin face,”

he starts slapping his defined cheekbone with his hand, condescendingly reiterating his former request. “stop it,” you insist. he leans his face in closer.

“and what if i don’t?” he asks, and when you don’t provide an answer, instead just rolling your eyes, he continues. “i just wanna know what you said, baby, don’t be stubborn,”

“i said you were my stupid ex and i apologized to my date for your immaturity,” you say honestly. he stands to his full height once more

“immature?” he repeats, scoffing at the blow to his ego. “yeah, does this guy run his own business? does this guy pay for his own house in figure eight, or do his parents still take care of him? does he even know what fuckin’ aftercare is? cause i sure do, baby, you know that—“

“rafe, stop!” you raise your voice, even though this is the third time you’ve told him to stop and he hasn’t yet.

he scoffs. “no, you stop. call me immature again, dare you,” his face moves over as if he wants you to whisper in his ear.

“you are,” you repeat.

“uuhhh huh,” he nods, as if in thought. “look, i moved houses, i don’t live in tannyhill anymore. here’s my card, has my number. call me and ill send you the address tonight, i’m going home and i’m gonna insist i see you there later,”

“rafe!—“ you start, glancing at your date.

“no, don’t start. don’t say shit. see you there,” he leaves, and in return leaves you standing beside your date, watching him go.

you hate yourself for dialling his number the minute your date is out of sight. you’re in the dress he bought you, for gods sake — you’re never getting rid of him.

drewsbby

your ex boyfriend rafe cameron.

exboyfriend!rafe who refuses to call you his ex, like the word itself pisses him off, jaw tightening anytime someone says it, muttering a quiet “that’s not my ex” under his breath like it’s a correction, but won’t explain what you are either.

exboyfriend!rafe who gets territorial the second he sees you with another guy. he doesn’t make a scene in front of you, but give him ten minutes? and yeah, he’s following that guy outside.

exboyfriend!rafe who corners them when they’re alone, voice calm in that scary way “promise you, she’s mine.” with a slight tilt of his head, “so i’d back off if i were you.” and he makes sure they don’t text you again, and when he comes back, you’re left staring at your phone like “why does this keep happening?”

exboyfriend!rafe who watches your confusion from a distance, a little satisfied because in his mind, no one else gets access to you.

exboyfriend!rafe who is always on your instagram liking your pictures within seconds, like he has your post notifications on, commenting things like, “mine.” “you’d look better in my bed.” and you’d delete that one immediately.

cameronsbabydoll

SUGAR-COATED CHAINS AND THE GENDER REVEALS

first born: baby boy

you didn’t even want a gender reveal.

you said, “i don’t care what it is, i just want a healthy baby,” and rafe scoffed, “yeah, and i want a kid who doesn’t cry every two seconds—doesn’t mean i’m gonna get it.”

it was his idea. the balloons. the drone footage. the champagne truck. the golf club venue he booked with his company’s name.

and you — standing there like a porcelain doll with a perfect blowout and a hundred strangers watching. you’re not even 23. you’re freshly married, still trying to figure out if you like being called mrs. cameron, and you’re pregnant. tired. swollen. pretending to smile because your husband said this will “look good for the business.”

they make you and rafe pose with a golf club for the “reveal shot.” you have to swing at a golf ball filled with pink or blue dust.

you miss the first swing.

your hands are shaking.

everyone laughs. not meanly, but it still makes your cheeks burn. rafe leans down to “fix your grip.” his fingers wrap around yours. it’s supposed to be sweet, but he whispers, “stop shaking. it’s just a ball.”

you blink back tears.

you swing again. the ball explodes in a cloud of blue.

the cheers erupt. confetti cannons go off. champagne is popped.

rafe pulls you into his chest. kisses your cheek.

“a boy,” he says like it’s a promise. “told you. my firstborn’s a boy.”

and you—barely a woman yourself—nod with a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. everyone claps. everyone thinks it’s beautiful. you wonder how you're going to mother a boy when you’re still growing up yourself.

later, alone in the bathroom, you sit on the edge of the bathtub in your poofy white dress, hand on your belly, whispering,

"i’m sorry you had to be born into all of this. i’ll try to make it okay. i’ll try really hard."

second born: baby girl

you’ve barely weaned your first baby off nighttime bottles. you’re still in your early twenties, still feel like you’re faking being a wife and a mother, and your body hasn’t even bounced back before rafe’s already filling the guest house with florists and photographers.

“it’s not a reveal,” he tells you while flipping through catering options. “it’s a celebration.”

you blink at him across the marble kitchen island, one hand resting on your lower back where it always aches now. “a celebration of…?”

“of me, baby. of us. of our family.”

he says it with a grin, like it’s something warm. something generous.

but you know what he really means: a celebration of control. of ownership. of having a wife so young and soft-spoken she doesn’t protest when he puts her in a dress three months postpartum and tells her to smile for the cameras.

the party is at the house this time — your new home, the estate. rafe planned the whole thing: valet, signature drinks, candlelit backyard, a chef plating microgreens like it’s a Michelin-star meal. your son’s waddling around in baby ralph lauren, hair gelled like his father’s, and rafe’s got him on his hip like he’s showing off a trophy.

“my boy,” he keeps saying to anyone who’ll listen. “he’s already obsessed with football. natural.”

you’re eight weeks pregnant, nauseous, and trying not to faint in your little ivory slip dress.

the reveal is this grand fireworks display in the backyard, right above the pool. rafe made the call: blue for boy again, pink for girl. he’s already buzzing, grinning, holding a glass of champagne he hasn’t sipped from yet.

you’re sitting down, one hand cradling your belly like instinct. your son is curled up in your lap, chewing on a wooden spoon from the caterer’s cart.

rafes friends are joking about “round two” and asking if he’s ready for another boy.

“oh, i can handle it,” he says, looking toward the fireworks guy. “as long as she gives me another one just like him.”

you smile. a small, tight thing. you don’t correct them.

and then the fireworks go off — pink.

you blink.

rafe just… stills.

someone shouts “it’s a girl!” and everyone claps, but he’s not moving. just staring up at the sky, smile slipping a little. his mini-me, his legacy, his second son dream — gone in one big pink puff.

he finally turns to you. his jaw clenched. his hand presses to your shoulder, squeezing.

“you sure?” he mutters under his breath.

you look up at him. tired. hormonal. aching. “rafe, the fireworks are already pink.”

he swallows hard. nods. forces a smile again, even if it doesn’t reach his eyes.

later that night, when the guests are gone and the baby is asleep in the crib, you catch him standing in the nursery.

he’s staring at the empty pink bassinet.

you slip beside him, still sore and tired and craving sleep.

“she’s gonna look just like you,” he says finally. “i can feel it.”

and you nod, soft and slow. “yeah?”

“yeah.” he clears his throat. “so… no boy clothes this time. no hand-me-downs. she gets all new. she’s not gonna wear his stuff.”

you blink. surprised.

it’s not a love letter. it’s not a promise. but it’s the closest thing to softness he’s given you in weeks.

you whisper, “she’s already spoiled.”

he doesn’t argue.

third born: baby boy

you find out you’re pregnant on a tuesday.

it’s summer. the kids are home from school. the house is loud and full of life—your daughter’s been stealing your lipgloss, your oldest son is always rolling his eyes, and you’ve barely had a moment to sit down. you feel dizzy when you go to grab towels from the dryer, and by the time you reach the kitchen, you’re clutching the counter and whispering,

“no. no way.”

but the test is clear. bold little pink lines. pregnant.

you sit on the edge of the bathtub for twenty whole minutes just staring, hand over your stomach. you’re older now. mid-to-late twenties. the kids are old enough to pick up on the tension in the house, old enough to understand the fights, old enough to remember.

you don’t know how you’re going to tell them.

you don’t know how you’re going to tell rafe.

but rafe finds the test before you can say anything.

he comes home early from a meeting—tie loosened, cigar still tucked behind his ear—and finds the bathroom door ajar. and there it is. the test on the edge of the sink like you forgot to hide it.

you hear his voice from down the hall.

“baby.”

he sounds smug. too smug. like he already knows what it means. like he planned this.

when he steps into the kitchen, you’re sitting at the table with a smoothie you’ve barely touched.

he holds the test up between two fingers. “got something to tell me?”

you just look up at him, exhausted. “it’s not a joke.”

and rafe? he laughs.

a low, rough sound, all teeth. he steps toward you, pulls your chair back just a little so you’re facing him.

“you’re serious? we’re really doing this again?”

you nod, barely.

he leans down, hand sliding to your belly. you’re not even showing yet.

“my pretty little wife. giving me another one.” his voice is sticky sweet. possessive. “and here i thought i was getting too old for this.”

the gender reveal is his idea. again.

this time, it’s a family affair. private jet. private chef. a pastel-colored spread on a white sand beach. the kids are there—your daughter in a pink dress, barefoot, your eldest son already over it, arms crossed, refusing to wear the all-white outfit rafe told everyone to wear.

there’s a giant cake. of course.

you sit next to your daughter, stroking her hair while she talks about what baby names she likes. she wants to help decorate the nursery. she wants a girl.

your son? he hasn’t said a word all day.

when rafe cuts the cake and the inside is blue, the cheers go up.

your daughter claps.

rafe grins.

your son… just walks away. straight down the beach.

you watch him go.

rafe doesn’t even notice. he’s too busy shaking hands with the photographer, holding you close with a proud hand on your stomach like he’s showing off a sports car.

“still got it,” he smirks, kissing your cheek. “you make me look good, baby.”

you nod and smile for the camera. because that’s what you do.

sugrbrain

tw // suicide threat + manipulation + guilt trip. not glorification, i just really see this as canon for his character :)

s1 rafe is def the type to threaten to kill himself if u ever try to leave him, like he's the type to corner you, veins bulging in his neck, voice all cracked like he's seconds from snapping. "no — you don't fucking get it. there's no rafe without you. if you walk, i'm done. i'll fucking end it, right here, right now." and you know he’s not bluffing.

his hand’s hovering near his waistband or his pocket, tears in his eyes but they’re not sad, they’re manic, full of something mean and raw. he’s shaking, muttering shit under his breath, pacing — then he’s slamming his fist into the wall until it cracks, until his knuckles split open and he smears blood down the drywall.

if you don’t cave immediately, he’ll pull the gun out, press it to his temple, just to see you break, to watch the panic hit your face. doesn’t give a fuck if it terrifies you. that’s the point. he wants you trapped in it with him, wants you so scared you’ll never think about leaving again.

cute-sucker

boxer!rafe holding his baby for the first time, and knowing him he made sure you had a private room and good food.

tell me why he would be so jittery though ??

୭ 🧷 ✧ ˚. ᵎᵎ 🎀 ୭ 🧷 ✧ ˚. ᵎᵎ 🎀

boxer!rafe never had gotten as scared as he did when you had given birth.

waiting. rafe had been waiting for hours, holding a lucky charm that you had given him. the strands of the bracelet were frayed as he toyed with it, over and over again. the smell of the hospital was nauseating, and the feeling of being in a place that smelt like antibiotics and sickness made his skin crawl.

he had gotten the call that your baby was born in the middle of a fight. he was on top of a guy before someone stormed in the middle of the fight. that was uncommon, and the referee quickly had them separated before rafe realised it was your work friend, delany. she looked frantic, as she tried to mouth something.

the minute he realised what it was, he was pulling the ropes of the ring, and yelling at people to get out of the way. blood was splattered across his mouth, and his swelling knuckles stung with pain, as his sweaty t-shirt stuck to his chest.

your water broke.

he was there in minutes, swearing as he tried to close the car. he'd run into the hospital with a huff, demanding to know where you were. to be quite frank it may have been sweet to you - but it was downright scary to the nurses.

a bulky guy with blood splattered all over him, holding a silly pink baby bag. the first nurse let out an uncomfortable laugh before telling him to sit down. now, rafe would have started yelling, but there was this drumming in his heart that made him feel as if he was going to vomit.

he couldn't lose you, no, this was a critical part of all of it. he'd read those stupid books that you had gotten him about pregnancy, and how dangerous it was, and how many mothers had died and how to hold a baby, and, and-

(goddamn it, he was scared.)

"mr. cameron. would you like to come in?"

he looked up to see a nurse with a painful smile, he took a deep breath before nodding his head. rafe felt his hands shake, as he took a step inside the room.

there you were, pretty as always with that discharge night gown, and a relieved sweaty smile on your face. you look so calm, but his eyes zone on your hands. the baby isn't in your hands, and he found himself wondering where the baby was, but he watched you get up to touch him.

"hey, hey baby. calm down. you need to stay like that," he muses, coming closer to rub your shoulders. you close your eyes, a soft gasp coming out of your mouth.

rafe gives you a soft peck on the shoulder, "why didn't you call me?" he whispers in that gentle tone of his. you squirm, peeling open your eyes with those pleading doe eyes,.

"i didn't want to bother you. i knew-" you gasped out, "i knew you had that important match and shit, and i don't know i thought it was like a bad time-"

rafe cursed, "didn't i tell you it was the two of us together? i shoulda' been there for you. shoulda' have held your hand through this shit-" and he knew he's going on a tangent as your lip wobbled and he quickly licked his lips while shaking his head.

"nah, it doesn't matter now. aw, my sweet girl did this all by herself. let me," he muttered, rubbing tears off your cheeks, "where's the baby?" you sniffled, nuzzling your face in his hands, before pointing to the sinks where he saw a small tiny girl.

she's squirming in the nurse's hands, as she gets washed off. her tiny face is squished up as she lets out small squeals. he's struck by how small, how tiny, how he made that little thing with you.

"i-" he choked up unable to take his eyes off your baby, "thank you sweets. thank you." his head bowed down into your lap, the words like worship. he was a devout in your temple.

"here's the baby, ms. cameron."

you looked up at her, a little bundle of joy as the doctor put her in your lap. rafe felt like everything was complete, feeling his throat sting and his hands get clammy. god, what did he do to deserve this?

the baby was perfect, a tiny sweet thing and rafe's hands shook at his sides as you looked up at him with teary eyes.

"do you want to hold her?"

he swallowed hard, his voice that soft whisper you knew so well, "can i?"

you laughed something that was so sweet, ringing in his ear like a song he never wanted to end. yet, he couldn't help but look at you with approval and when he looked into your eyes all he saw was love. all he saw was the truth. finally, he reached for his baby girl, calloused hands cradling her.

he finally had found his family.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

barbie.