Back in custody (au).
Pairing: sheriff!Rafe Cameron x pogue!reader.
Summary: Just another night of old habits.
Warnings: 18+ content, dubcon, power imbalance, toxic relationship, blowjob, penetrative sex, abuse of power and authority, drug and alcohol, anger issues, codependency, classism and discrimination, coercion, Rafe Cameron
A/N: Recycled idea
All of this had started long before any of you were even born: the war between Pogues and Kooks. Still, every generation took it upon themselves to keep it alive… and Rafe Cameron made damn sure it stayed at its peak. But now it was more alive than ever.
Living in the Outer Banks as a Pogue meant poverty, constant classism, and discrimination. And when you mixed that discrimination with the police, it was a guaranteed recipe for ending up arrested.
It had been the same with every sheriff, and as already mentioned, Rafe Cameron was no exception. More than once, you and your friends had ended up in his patrol car… just for having fun. And if we’re being honest, there wasn’t much else to do for fun besides wandering the beach, drinking, or getting high (both sides did it). But only one side of the island ended the weekend behind bars, and tonight wouldn’t be any different.
A bonfire, full of drunk and high young people, was exactly what you’d see on a Saturday at the end of summer. Everything was about laughing and having a good time… until he showed up.
Red and blue lights, along with a siren, cut through the music, and in the distance you hear:
“It’s Cameron—run!”
Most people manage to escape. You don’t. Someone shoves you in the chaos and you fall face-first into the sand.
“Good evening, trash.”
Rafe grabs your arm and yanks you to your feet.
He’s wearing his perfect khaki uniform, his shiny gold badge, and that smug “I’m better than you” smile.
“Sheriff Cameron,” you say with fake cheer. “Long time no see.”
“Fuck you. Hands up—slowly—behind your head.”
You do what he says. He pulls the handcuffs from his belt.
“See these? You’re under arrest.”
He forces your hands behind your back and snaps the cuffs on.
“On what charge?”
He opens the back door of the patrol car and pushes you in.
“Loitering.”
You smirk. That charge never sticks.
Rafe slams the door and a minute later slides into the driver’s seat.
“And possession of drugs.” He holds up a small bag of white powder and shakes it happily.
“That’s not mine.” Your face turns to pure panic.
“You’re the only one here, sweetheart… must be yours.” He starts the engine. The whole ride to the station, you can see him smiling in the rearview mirror, completely satisfied.
“Cheer up, you’ll look cute in your mugshot.”
He mocks you one last time as the car stops in front of the station.
“This is going to ruin me… your dad’s gonna kill me.”
You struggle as he pulls you out of the car. The asphalt in the parking lot hurts your bare feet.
“Let’s settle this like the old days.”
Rafe pauses, considering your offer, just before opening the station door.
“I’m not some cadet anymore.” He touches the badge on his chest. “I’m the sheriff now.”
“Your dad bought you that badge.”
Sometimes you really should just shut up, but no one could deny it: the job Rafe had now was just to keep him busy… and to help his father out while he was at it.
The station is empty except for the usual town drunk, a local celebrity.
“Let me go, Rafe,” you beg as he forces you down the hallway, stumbling, until you reach his office.
“No.” He fights to keep his voice calm, but Rafe is always angry. There’s something broken in him and he can’t hide it.
“You need to learn your lesson…” Rafe rubs his temples—that damn habit of his. He can’t explain anything without dramatic gestures.
“Your friends are a bad influence.” You want to argue, tell him no, but he’s right. You’d run out of fingers counting the times you paid for their mistakes.
“What’s the point?” He’s right, but you’re not going to give him the satisfaction. You always have to oppose him.
“That I…” He jabs a finger into his own chest with that annoying intensity. “That I always looked out for you.”
“My knight in shining armor.” The cuffs clink as you shift.
“Don’t mock me.”
“I protected you, I saved you!” Now he’s yelling; the veins in his neck and forehead pop instantly.
“And what do you do?” He pulls the bag of white powder from his pocket and tosses it onto the desk. “You go right back to hanging out with that trash.”
“Can you blame me?” Your voice cracks; your eyes are watering. “It’s all I know.”
“You had everything out there, and all you had to do was stay away.” He gestures wildly toward the window, frustrated.
“That’s why I let you go… and then you come right back to the same shit.”
“Stop it! Before you were the law, you were just trash in designer clothes with a country club membership.” Your voice rises too.
“Am I wrong…?” If your arms were free, you’d cross them for full dramatic effect.
He just stands there, staring at you, jaw clenched. You basically just spat in his face.
Silence.
Just silence.
Heavy, uncomfortable, threatening.
“You’re quick to judge and think you’re better than everyone.”
“I guess we have that in common,” you shoot back instantly. You’re not letting him call you a hypocrite.
He doesn’t answer. He’s out of clever comebacks.
“So that’s why you want to relive the old days? Handcuffed, shaking, in trouble you didn’t even cause… like always.”
“Waiting for me to save you.” He steps right beside you.
“After everything, you’re right.” The cuffs click—you’re free.
You rub your wrists. You don’t say goodbye; you just want to leave. As you head for the door, his hand shoots out and grabs your arm hard.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going? You promised it would be like the old days.”
Your face twists with worry. He closes the distance between you, pinches your cheek, and grips the back of your neck with his other hand.
“You promised,” he says, his face inches from yours. You can smell the mint gum on his breath. You try to turn away.
You swallow hard. Your heart is pounding so loud he must feel it. You didn’t want to fall back into Rafe’s web, and yet here you are—you left the door open for reconciliation, forgiveness, and all the same old habits.
“No more Sheriff. Just you and me again, in any abandoned place where we could be alone.”
Rafe is digging up old memories; he’s getting nostalgic.
“Come here.”
He takes one step, then another, and stops, waiting for your move. You lift your hand and gently hold his chin, just enough to look into his eyes.
And without warning, you kiss him. It’s calm, soft, almost shy. It’s not an impulsive kiss; it’s real affection that, after everything, is still there.
“If you want it like the old days, then that’s how it’ll be.” You slowly kneel on the station’s carpet. Your fingers shake as you unbuckle his black leather belt and pull down the zipper. He’s already hard, hot, throbbing against your palm when you free him. You stroke him once, twice—slow—looking up at him.
You remember exactly how it used to be: Rafe as a cadet thought he was hot shit and loved ruining the little fun you had. He’d threaten to arrest everyone, you’d hang back, and then you’d pay the price—which was pretty cheap. You’d do it fast in his truck, on the beach, in some empty building, and then go home with no fine, no record—just his taste in your mouth and his stupid satisfied face.
Now you take your time.
You hold him in your hand first, stroking slowly, and when you finally take him in your mouth he lets out a quiet moan—he missed you.
You close your eyes, taste him: salty, warm. You suck hard, then soft, then take him all the way down while he just whispers:
“I missed you.” He doesn’t hesitate.
You look up at him. He’s unbuttoned his shirt, his badge is crooked, his face twisted in pleasure. You bring him right to the edge—slow, torturous—until his hips jerk on their own and his breathing turns into broken gasps. When he’s right there, you pull away, stand up, and leave him hanging.
“Come here,” he says, patting the desk. You do.
“Turn around.” He yanks your shorts and underwear down in one motion. “Lie down.”
You obey without hesitation. You lie face-down on the cold, hard surface. Papers crumple under you; things clatter to the floor. You rest your cheek on your forearms, arch your back, and look at him over your shoulder.
He runs his hands down your back, your sides, your ass (giving it a light slap), leans in to kiss the back of your neck while one hand slides between your legs to stroke your clit and the other guides himself inside you.
He pushes in with one slow, deep thrust—all the way.
And he starts moving.
Hard. Deep. Relentless.
The desk shakes with every thrust; the old wood creaks like it might split.
Rafe leans over you, his chest pressed to your back, one hand on your shoulder, the other rubbing you fast and steady.
His lips brush your ear as he whispers, “You’re mine.”
All you can do is moan, push your hips back to meet every thrust, feel him fill you completely again and again. Each stroke rocks your whole body, makes you see stars.
He speeds up, grips your hips hard, fucks you like he wants to brand you forever. And right now you wouldn’t stop him—you can’t think of anything except him inside you.
When you come, it’s intense: your whole body locks up, you claw at the desk, forget how to breathe.
Rafe follows seconds later, burying himself deep with one final thrust and spilling inside you.
He stays there for a minute, still inside you, chest heaving, brain melted from pleasure.
The world stops for both of you.
Rafe recovers first: he pulls out, picks up your clothes, and starts dressing you with a gentleness that doesn’t match his personality. He sits you on the desk while he kneels on the floor, looking up at you like you’re the only thing keeping him sane.
He runs his hands slowly up your legs, touching you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“I don’t want another night of ‘old times,’” he says.
You look at him, confused.
“I don’t want more threats or tricks just to have you.”
“You’re a fucking mess, Rafe.” Your comment ruins the moment he was trying to build.
You slide off the desk. He thinks you’re leaving, but instead you kneel in front of him.
“And I still want you.” He gives you a broken half-smile.
The silence that follows is strange, heavy. He doesn’t push you away, but he doesn’t pull you closer either. He just watches you, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re going to run… and whether he’ll have to chase you again.
He cups your chin.
“I don’t want to lose you again,” he murmurs. His voice cracks with a vulnerability he shouldn’t let you see.
“I want you to actually want to be with me.”
You stay quiet too long. Your mind is blank—you’re not thinking about all the times he promised to change or the times he actually tried. You’re just looking for one second of peace… and he mistakes it for hope.
“I already want to be with you…” Your voice comes out soft, almost tender.
“But no more tantrums.” It doesn’t sound like a request anymore. It’s a demand.
“I can try.”
You know he’s lying. He’ll never stop being the Rafe Cameron you’ve always known: impulsive, angry… the villain of every story you have.
And you’re okay with that.
