Rick & Michonne The Walking Dead — (6.10) The Next World

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Rick & Michonne The Walking Dead — (6.10) The Next World
is your pussy indica or sativa
bestfriend!rafe helping reader while she's drunk. fluff-ish ? just a cutesy silly moment, no other warnings.
“fuck, baby, you can’t just take your shirt off like that,” rafe mutters under his breath. his voice is low and strained as he quietly shuts your bedroom door behind him.
he keeps glancing toward the hallway every few seconds, probably terrified your parents are going to wake up and find their daughter stumbling around half naked with him standing in the middle of her room looking guilty as sin.
rafe’s too big!
you lay there on the soft sheets of rafe's bed, his strong arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you close as his lips brush your neck in soft, lingering kisses. "you're so beautiful," he whispers, his voice rough and needy, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip. you feel his hardness pressing against your ass, thick and hard, making your breath hitch.
he shifts, guiding you onto your back, his pretty blue eyes locking onto yours with that intense, yet loving gaze that always makes your heart race. "i've got you, baby," rafe murmurs, hovering over you, his massive cock throbbing against your thigh. he kisses you deeply, tongue sliding against yours, as he positions the swollen head at your slick wet entrance.
slowly, so slowly, he pushes in, just the tip at first, and you gasp, your walls clenching around him. "'s’ too big," you whimper, tears pricking your eyes from the delicious burn. he pauses, cupping your face tenderly, thumbs wiping away the first tear that falls. "shhh, i know, pretty girl. just breathe for me." he kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your lips again, pouring affection into every touch as he inches deeper, giving you time to adjust.
you moan loudly, a mix of pain and pleasure, your body trembling beneath him. another tear slips down, and rafe groans, loving the sight of you like this, all vulnerable, completely lost in him. "fuck, you look so good crying for my cock," he says softly, as he sinks in further, stretching your pussy wide. with his free hand he uses his thumb to stroke your clit gently, easing the pain away, while he peppers your jawline with kisses.
bit by bit, he fills you completely, until he's buried to the point he can't go any further, both of you panting. "that's my girl, taking me so well," he praises, starting a slow rhythm, each thrust deep and loving. "rafe!" you cry out, moaning through the tears, and he captures your mouth in a passionate kiss, whispering "i love you" between breaths, making the moment even more intimate as he claims you as his.
~ ~ ~
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corruption 002. 𓍯𓂃 r ֶָ֢cameron
rafe cameron x shy!reader
𝜗𝜚 summary : you've been avoiding rafe since your shared moment in his bedroom and he's been trying to reach out to you by every means possible. of course he finds you at a fucking glitter party.
𝜗𝜚 words : 2.6k
𝜗𝜚 c!w : drinking, weed, icky men, use of 'slut', violence, swearing, suggestive.
part 1, part 3.
to say you'd been avoiding rafe cameron was putting it very, very lightly.
you hadn't uttered a word of the moment let alone the kiss you'd shared with your best friend's older brother to anybody. much less to sarah. you were sure she'd murder you both before you could finish the sentence.
but you couldn't help it, the kiss had plagued your memory.
it stung when you tried to think of anything else. you were so buzzed, a floaty feeling as your head turned to nothing but pure fuzz. rafe's hands were big and warm, fitting around your waist like a glove and his lips oh so soft. you'd never kissed anyone before him, and you were sure now that you never again wanted to kiss anyone but him.
INTO YOU - PART THREE
RAFE CAMERON X READER
part 1✰part 2✰ part 4
TW: mention of explicit sex, detailed smut,rough intense sex,dirty talk,bruising,drugs, prison, criminal activites, violence, death threats, gang, dangerous lifestyle, police, possessiveness,anxiety.
Plot:
Rafe Cameron is one of the most powerful and feared men on the island. A member of one of the two most dangerous gangs, he has built his reputation through violence, control, and loyalty. After spending two years in prison, he is finally released, fully aware that several of his rivals are waiting for the right moment to strike.
Despite the constant threat surrounding him, his first priority is you—the only person who never abandoned him. After four years together, you remain his closest confidant and the only person he truly trusts. In a world shaped by crime, betrayal, and danger, your relationship represents the one place where he feels safe.
Marked by a childhood and past filled with abandonment and betrayal, Rafe learned early to protect himself by shutting others out. He built emotional barriers that no one has been able to cross. Only with you does he allow himself to be vulnerable.
As tensions rise and enemies grow bolder, your relationship is put to the test. Between loyalty and survival, love and fear, you must face the consequences of staying with a man who lives on the edge of violence. Together, you navigate a fragile balance between devotion and danger, questioning how long love can survive in such a world.
5181 words
instagram: @drewiddle
this is my original idea and storyline. anything familiar is purely coincidental. this story is written purely for enternainment purposes only.
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| ENGLISH IS NOT MY 1ST LANGUAGE |
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The small back room behind Kurt's bar has always felt like a place that exists outside of time, as though it has been forgotten by the rest of the world and left behind with nothing but its memories and secrets to keep it company.
No matter how often you step inside, no matter how many nights you spend sitting on its worn furniture, listening to whispered conversations and dangerous plans, it never truly changes. The faded wallpaper still peels away in long, fragile strips, revealing cracked plaster beneath. The wooden floor still complains softly beneath every movement, and the weak neon light above continues to flicker in irregular intervals, casting unstable shadows across the walls.
The air is heavy, saturated with the persistent scent of stale alcohol, old cigarette smoke, dust, and leather. It clings stubbornly to your clothes and hair, following you long after you leave, as if refusing to let you forget where you have been.
You have spent more time in this room than you sometimes care to admit.
You remember the first time you were brought here, how hesitant you had been, how uncertain you felt about stepping into a place that clearly held more danger than comfort. Back then, you had wondered if you truly belonged among them, if you would ever understand their world.
Now, the room feels disturbingly familiar.
It has witnessed your laughter during rare moments of relief, your tears when things became overwhelming, your silent fears when you waited for news that could change everything. It has absorbed every confession, every argument, every promise that was made and sometimes broken.
Kurt is not here tonight.
He rarely is when they gather for serious discussions.
He gives them the privacy and independence they need, trusting them to handle their own affairs while remaining quietly present in the background of their lives. The room exists because of him, and yet he never intrudes upon it.
Kurt is a respected man throughout the city. In his fifties, with carefully styled gray hair and a natural charisma that makes people listen without question, he carries himself with calm authority. He has the appearance of someone who has lived enough to understand both the darkness and the beauty of life, and who has chosen, consciously, to remain balanced between the two.
To most people, he is nothing more than a successful bar owner.
To them, he is something far more significant.
A mentor. A protector. A substitute father.
Many of the boys grew up without stability, without guidance, without anyone to teach them how to navigate life without falling into destruction. Kurt had quietly filled that role, offering them shelter, advice, and protection when no one else would.
Yet he never sought recognition.
Everything remained discreet.
Always.
You close the door gently behind you and step into the room, immediately noticing the tense atmosphere that hangs in the air like an invisible weight.
The boys are already seated around the round wooden table, their expressions serious and focused. No one is joking, no one is relaxed. Their body language alone is enough to tell you that this meeting is not a casual one.
Rafe sits at the head of the table, as he always does.
Not because he demands it, but because leadership seems to gravitate naturally toward him. Even when he tries to remain in the background, people instinctively look to him for direction.
He sits upright, shoulders squared, hands loosely folded together. His face is calm, almost disturbingly so, as though he is discussing something ordinary rather than a potential threat.
You move quietly toward the couch near the wall and sit down, careful not to interrupt the fragile silence. The worn leather is cold beneath your skin, and it creaks faintly as you adjust your position.
You fold your hands in your lap and lower your gaze briefly before lifting it again to observe the group.
Mostly, you observe him.
Your eyes trace the familiar features of his face, the tension hidden beneath his controlled expression, the subtle movements that reveal his thoughts when he believes no one is watching.
Forty-eight hours.
That is all the time he has been free.
And already, danger has found him again.
After several long seconds, Rafe finally begins to speak.
"When we came back from the beach," he says evenly, "someone had painted my front door."
Your heart tightens instantly, a quiet unease settling in your chest.
"Fresh red paint," he continues. "Large letters. Impossible to miss."
He exhales slowly.
"'Welcome back.'"
A bitter hint of amusement touches his lips.
"I knew it would happen," he adds. "I knew I'd become a target the moment I got out."
No one interrupts him.
"I checked the house first," he says. "Everything was normal. No signs of forced entry. No damage."
He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table.
"Then I checked the cameras."
You hold your breath without realizing it.
"There was an old black car," he explains. "Cheap. Probably stolen. It parked only a few minutes after Hailey and I left."
A sense of guilt washes over you, irrational yet impossible to ignore.
"One man got out. He was dressed entirely in black. Hoodie up. Face covered. He wrote the message and left."
The moment Rafe finishes speaking, the silence that follows feels unbearable.
It doesn't last long.
Derek is the first to react, pushing his chair back slightly as he runs a hand over his face.
"Could be Mason," he says slowly. "After what happened last year… I never really believed he'd let that go."
Nathan lifts his head.
"You mean after we took over his territory?" he asks.
"And humiliated him in front of his own guys," Derek adds. "Yeah. That."
One of the others lets out a dry laugh.
"He lost everything that night," he mutters. "Money. Reputation. Half his crew. You don't forget something like that."
You watch Rafe closely.
His expression doesn't change, but you can tell he's listening to every word.
"He swore he'd make us pay," Nathan continues. "I remember it. He said it right to your face, Rafe. Told you he'd wait as long as it took."
Rafe exhales slowly.
"Yeah," he replies. "I remember."
Another guy leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.
"What about Leon?" he suggests. "After the warehouse incident, he blamed us for everything. Said we ruined his life."
Derek nods.
"He went to jail because of that," he says. "Lost his wife. Lost custody of his kid."
Silence falls briefly.
"That kind of resentment doesn't disappear," Nathan murmurs. "It grows."
You feel the atmosphere grow heavier with every name that is spoken.
Someone else shakes his head.
"No," he says. "Leon's too careful. If it was him, he wouldn't leave a message. He'd just act."
"Then maybe Northside," another voice suggests. "They've been quiet for months. No moves. No noise. That's never a good sign."
Rafe finally speaks.
"Quiet usually means preparation," he says calmly.
Nathan nods.
"Exactly. Last time they went silent like that, they hit us three weeks later."
Derek frowns.
"Yeah, and we barely survived that."
The memories clearly aren't pleasant.
You see it in their eyes.
Old fear. Old anger. Old wounds.
"What about inside jobs?" one of them asks suddenly.
Everyone turns toward him.
"You really think someone from our side would do this?" Derek asks sharply.
"I'm saying it's possible," he replies. "People get greedy. People get scared. People switch sides."
"That's bullshit," Nathan snaps.
"Is it?" the other guy challenges. "You think nobody's ever betrayed anyone in this business?"
The tension rises instantly.
Rafe raises a hand slightly.
"Enough," he says.
The argument dies down.
He looks thoughtful now, distant.
"Every name you mentioned has a reason," he admits. "Every one of them has something against us."
He pauses.
"That's the problem."
Because it means the list is long.
Then Nathan suddenly leans forward, his expression sharpening.
"Rafe," he says carefully, "you're sure it parked right after you left?"
"Yes," Rafe answers. "Almost immediately. Why?"
Nathan hesitates briefly before continuing.
"That means he was either already watching you…"
Everyone stiffens.
"…or he knew your schedule."
The realization spreads slowly through the room.
"So it's either someone close to you," Nathan adds quietly, "or someone who's been tracking you."
Rafe's body tenses visibly.
You watch the moment understanding strikes him, the way his jaw tightens and his eyes darken.
"Fuck," he mutters under his breath.
"I didn't even consider that."
"Relax," Derek tries. "It doesn't mean—"
"No," Rafe interrupts sharply. "It's not okay."
Silence follows.
No one seems to understand what he means.
Except you.
A chill runs through you as the implications become clear.
You lift your head slowly and speak, your voice quiet but steady.
"Because if someone has been watching us already," you say, "then there's a chance someone followed us here."
Every face turns toward you.
Understanding dawns.
Fear follows.
"Fuck," someone whispers.
And suddenly, the room feels smaller.
Colder.
More dangerous.
For several long seconds after your words leave your lips, no one speaks.
The silence that settles over the room feels heavy and unnatural, as though even the walls themselves are listening, absorbing every breath, every nervous movement, every unspoken fear that circulates between you. You can hear the faint buzzing of the neon light above your head, the distant sounds of music and laughter from the bar outside, and the steady rhythm of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.
It is Lucas who finally breaks the stillness.
He exhales sharply and drags a hand through his hair, his expression tight with anxiety and frustration.
"Fuck… we need a plan," he mutters, his voice low but trembling slightly despite his attempt to remain composed.
His words seem to unlock something in the room.
Slowly, almost instinctively, everyone turns toward Rafe.
They do not do so because he has asked for their attention, nor because he has raised his voice or imposed himself. They do it because, in moments like this, he has always been the one who knows what to do. The one who thinks clearly when others begin to panic. The one who transforms fear into action.
Rafe does not speak immediately.
Instead, he remains seated for a moment, his gaze fixed on the surface of the table, as though he is carefully arranging his thoughts before allowing them to escape. His jaw tightens slightly, and you recognize the familiar expression of concentration that appears whenever he is forced to make difficult decisions.
Finally, he inhales slowly and lifts his head.
"Relax," he says quietly.
Under different circumstances, the word might have sounded ridiculous. Almost offensive. Yet there is something in his tone—steady, firm, unshaken—that immediately commands attention.
"We're not doing anything reckless," he continues. "Not tonight. Not ever."
He pushes his chair back and stands up, the legs scraping loudly against the wooden floor. The sound echoes through the small room, emphasizing the sudden shift in energy. This is no longer a conversation. It is preparation.
Rafe turns toward the far corner, where a large black sports bag rests against the wall.
You notice it properly for the first time.
A dull, uncomfortable feeling spreads through your chest.
You already know what it contains.
He reaches for the bag, lifts it effortlessly, and walks back toward the table before dropping it in the center with a heavy, resonant thud. The impact causes several empty glasses to rattle slightly.
Every single boy rises to his feet almost simultaneously.
Chairs scrape backward.
Postures straighten.
Expressions sharpen.
Without fully realizing it, you stand up as well and step closer to Rafe, as though instinctively seeking his presence.
He unzips the bag.
The soft metallic glint of steel reflects the unstable light.
Several firearms lie inside, carefully arranged, cleaned, and prepared.
Your throat tightens.
No matter how many times you see them, the sight never becomes normal.
It is always a reminder of how dangerous this life truly is.
"Everyone gets armed," Rafe says firmly. "Now."
He looks around the room, making sure no one misunderstands.
"Text your girls," he adds. "Tell them we're packing. No explanations. No delays."
Phones are immediately pulled from pockets.
Fingers move quickly across screens.
Messages are sent.
Lives are silently rearranged.
Rafe reaches into the bag and retrieves one of the guns. You watch him closely, noticing once again the precision of his movements, the confidence with which he handles the weapon, the absence of hesitation. It is the behavior of someone who has long accepted that violence is sometimes unavoidable.
He slides the gun behind his back and secures it against his waistband, exactly as he has done so many times before.
The familiar gesture makes your stomach twist.
It always means that something serious is coming.
Then he turns back to the group.
"Here's how this is going to work," he says.
His voice is calm, controlled, and authoritative, leaving no room for argument.
"Nobody stays alone," he begins. "Not any of you. Not me. Not our girls."
His eyes briefly meet yours.
A silent promise.
A silent warning.
"If they can't reach us directly," he continues, "they'll go after the people we care about."
A tense murmur ripples through the room.
"We're leaving the bar together," Rafe goes on. "At the same time. No one stays behind."
He begins to walk slowly as he speaks, pacing back and forth, organizing every detail with meticulous precision.
"You'll all take different directions," he explains. "Not toward your houses. Somewhere random. Somewhere unpredictable."
Nathan nods thoughtfully.
"So we see if we're being followed," he says.
"Exactly," Rafe replies. "If anyone notices something suspicious, you text immediately. No stupid risks."
He pauses and looks directly at Derek.
"Don't try to handle it alone."
Derek lifts his hands slightly in surrender.
"I won't," he promises.
"If someone follows you," Rafe continues, "we regroup at the emergency location. Armed. Ready."
He stops pacing for a moment.
"If nobody follows you, you go home fast," he adds. "You grab your essentials. You grab your girl. No arguments."
Your thoughts drift instantly to your belongings, to the small pieces of your life that suddenly feel fragile and temporary.
"Then you head to the port," he says. "Nine p.m. sharp."
"Barry's helping?" someone asks.
"He's taking care of my boat," Rafe replies. "And he'll make sure your cars disappear."
The level of preparation is both reassuring and terrifying.
"And if someone follows you to the port," he continues, "the rule doesn't change. You alert the group. We regroup."
He stops moving.
Looks at every face in turn.
"We're going to the island," he says quietly. "Just until we know who we're dealing with."
His voice hardens.
"Right now, we don't even know how many enemies we have."
The reality of that statement settles heavily over the room.
"We take no risks," Rafe concludes. "We protect ourselves. We prepare."
He pauses.
"And when we're informed…"
His eyes darken.
"…we strike."
(PORT — 08:30 PM)
The sky was slowly turning dark when you and Rafe arrived at the port. Shades of deep blue and orange still lingered on the horizon, reflecting on the restless water. The air smelled like salt, fuel, and cold wind, typical of the harbor at night. Boats were gently rocking against the docks, their ropes creaking softly in the background.
Rafe parked the car near the entrance and turned off the engine. Before you could even unbuckle your seatbelt, he was already out, walking around to your side. He opened your door with a small smile, offering you his hand.
"Careful," he murmured.
You took it without thinking, stepping out on your heels.
A few of Barry's men were already there, moving efficiently, loading bags and suitcases onto the boat. They barely spoke, focused on their work. One of them took the car keys from Rafe and nodded before disappearing into the crowd.
Rafe squeezed your hand slightly as you both started walking toward the others.
Some of the guys were sitting on coolers, laughing loudly. A few girls stood nearby, wrapped in jackets, phones in hand, taking pictures of the port and the boats. Someone had music playing softly from a speaker, mixing with the sound of waves and distant engines.
Seeing everyone together again made something warm settle in your chest.
It felt… familiar.
Strangely comforting.
You knew the situation wasn't normal. It was risky. Unstable. There were things going on behind the scenes that you weren't supposed to know about. Things involving drugs, fights, deals, and enemies. Things that could get people hurt.
Things that had already sent Rafe to jail once.
And yet…
Standing here, surrounded by everyone, you couldn't help but feel a little excited.
Before Rafe had gone away, this was how it used to be.
All of you living together. Watching each other's backs. Sharing meals, arguments, laughs, late nights, and secrets. Always close. Always united. Always trying to survive in your own messy way.
Back then, it had felt like a strange little family.
Maybe it wouldn't have been easy without the girls around.
Being with them felt like being on a permanent holiday. There was always something happening. Someone telling a story. Someone teasing someone else. Someone blasting music too loud. Someone starting a game, a challenge, or a stupid bet.
You were never bored.
Never alone.
On the other side, though, the boys were always planning things. Stuff you weren't supposed to ask about.
But somehow, you and the girls had never really experienced that part.
They made sure of it.
The boys always kept you away from the worst. They never let you see the blood, the fear, the chaos. They never let you hear the full stories. They never let you be present when things turned ugly.
They didn't want you involved.
Didn't want you scared.
Didn't want you traumatized.
Didn't want you broken.
So from your side, everything had always seemed… normal.
Almost peaceful.
It was strange. Unhealthy, probably.
But you had never truly been afraid. And you didn't think the other girls were either because you trusted them.
You trusted your men.
You trusted Rafe.
And he had never let anything happen to you.
Not once.
By 8:50 p.m., everyone was finally there.
The docks were bathed in warm orange light from the old lampposts lining the port, their reflections trembling on the dark surface of the water. Boats rocked gently against their ropes, wood creaking softly, metal chains clinking now and then in the quiet evening air. Somewhere nearby, music drifted from a bar along the marina, blending with laughter, engines, and distant waves.
It felt strangely peaceful.
The guys were gathered near the dock, leaning against railings, standing in loose circles, cigarettes glowing faintly between their fingers. Smoke curled lazily into the night sky, disappearing almost as soon as it formed. Barry stood with them, laughing loudly at something Derek had just said, one hand resting casually in his jacket pocket, the other holding a phone he checked every few minutes.
Everyone was dressed up.
Derek had insisted.
He’d turned the whole thing into a “Welcome Back Home” celebration for Rafe, claiming that if they were going to disappear at sea for a night, they might as well do it properly. And somehow, he’d convinced everyone.
Rafe wore a black button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a silver chain resting against his collarbone. Chad and Nathan had gone for fitted shirts and dark jeans, clean sneakers, hair carefully styled. Lucas looked unusually neat, like he’d actually spent time in front of a mirror for once. Even Derek, usually careless, had made an effort.
You and the girls stood a little farther away, near the edge of the dock, gathered in a loose circle.
Riley twirled slowly, showing off her tight emerald-green dress, laughing as she did.
“Okay, tell me I don’t look like I’m about to steal someone’s man tonight.”
Emma rolled her eyes affectionately.
“Please. You look like you already stole him five years ago.”
Kelsey adjusted the strap of her heels and smiled.
“And you’re still winning.”
You glanced at your reflection in the dark glass of a parked boat. Your dress hugged you perfectly, simple but elegant, catching the light every time you moved. Your hair fell in soft waves over your shoulders, and for once, you felt… confident. Not guarded. Not tense.
For a moment, standing there with the girls, laughing softly, complimenting each other, fixing stray hairs and crooked straps, it felt like you were just a group of friends about to go on vacation.
Not people living with danger in the background.
It was almost surreal.
Barry cleared his throat loudly, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Alright,” he said, stepping forward, his tone shifting into something more serious. “Listen up.”
The conversations slowly faded.
Rafe turned toward him first, cigarette between his fingers, eyes attentive. The others followed.
Barry gestured toward the boat behind him—a large, sleek yacht rocking gently against the dock, lights glowing softly from inside.
“Everything’s inside already,” he continued. “Bags, food, drinks, equipment. We checked it three times.”
He raised three fingers for emphasis.
“My guys have been doing rounds inside the boat and around the port since this afternoon. Nobody suspicious. Nobody hanging around too long.”
One of Barry’s men nodded silently from a few steps away.
“We checked the security cameras,” Barry went on. “No strange movements. No unknown faces. No one entered or left the port without being recorded.”
Rafe listened closely, jaw tight, posture relaxed but alert.
“A few of my guys are placed at different corners,” Barry added. “Just in case something goes wrong after you leave. They’ll stay on watch until you’re out of range.”
Rafe stepped forward and raised his hand.
They slapped palms in a firm, solid high-five.
“Thanks, man,” Rafe said sincerely. “I appreciate it.”
Barry smiled.
“You know how it is, Cameron.”
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.
“Also… I’ve got a few connections on Isla Verdanza.”
The name rolled off his tongue easily.
“Some good guys out there,” Barry continued. “Ex-military, security work. Loyal. If you need backup, manpower, anything… you call me.”
Rafe nodded slowly, lips pressed together.
“I will.”
Barry hesitated for a second, then lifted one finger.
“And one last thing.”
Everyone turned fully toward him now.
“I prepared everything inside,” Barry said with a grin. “For you to have fun tonight.”
The guys exchanged confused looks.
“Prepared… what?” Derek asked suspiciously.
Barry only laughed.
“You’ll see.”
He shook hands with Rafe again, then Chad, Nathan, Lucas, and Derek. His men stepped back, quietly untying ropes and checking the last details.
One by one, everyone climbed onto the boat.
Barry’s crew stepped off, giving final nods and thumbs-ups.
“All clear,” one of them said.
You took Rafe’s hand briefly as you stepped aboard, feeling the solid wood beneath your feet, the gentle sway of the boat responding to your weight.
Inside, warm lights glowed softly, reflecting off polished surfaces and wide windows. Everything looked clean, organized, ready.
You and the girls headed straight toward the living room, laughter bubbling up again as soon as you were out of the guys’ earshot.
Riley dropped onto one of the couches dramatically.
“Okay, I’m officially on vacation mode.”
Kelsey wandered toward the minibar.
“Speaking of vacation…”
She pulled out a chilled bottle of champagne, beads of condensation sliding down the glass.
“Oh yes,” Riley said instantly, jumping up. “Hand it over.”
Kelsey popped the cork with a soft pop, and it bounced harmlessly against the ceiling. Foam spilled slightly over the rim as she laughed.
“Perfect.”
She poured the champagne into tall glasses, handing them around.
You took yours, feeling the cold glass against your fingers.
Meanwhile, upstairs, the guys had disappeared toward the upper deck, already arguing about music and drinks.
Rafe slipped the keys into the ignition, settling into the captain’s seat. The engine hummed to life, deep and powerful, vibrating softly through the floor.
The boat began to move.
Slowly at first.
Then steadily.
The dock drifted away.
The lights grew smaller.
The night opened up around you.
A few minutes after the boat left the harbor, everything changed.
The quiet disappeared.
Music exploded through the speakers, loud and heavy, vibrating through the walls, the floors, the furniture—through everyone. Bass thumped so hard it felt like a second heartbeat. The kind of music you couldn’t ignore even if you wanted to. The kind that forced your body to move.
Lights inside the living area dimmed automatically, soft neon strips glowing along the ceiling and walls, bathing everything in deep blues and purples. Reflections shimmered on the windows as the dark ocean slid past outside, endless and black.
Someone—probably Derek—turned the volume even higher.
“THAT’S what I’m talking about!” he yelled, raising his drink.
Within seconds, everyone had something in their hand.
Beer bottles clinked together. Red cups were filled and refilled. Clear glasses caught the light as liquid sloshed inside.
The smell of alcohol mixed with cigarette smoke and weed, thick and familiar, curling lazily toward the ceiling vents. Windows were cracked open just enough to let fresh sea air drift in, carrying salt and wind and freedom.
The boat settled into autopilot.
Rafe checked the controls once, twice—pure habit—then finally relaxed, leaning back against the counter with a drink in hand, eyes scanning the room automatically before softening when they landed on you.
The girls had already claimed the center of the living space.
Riley was first, hips swaying effortlessly, arms lifted above her head, hair flying as she laughed. Emma followed, spinning dramatically, pretending she was on some invisible stage. Kelsey clapped along, then joined in, dragging you with her.
“You’re not standing there like a statue,” she laughed. “Come on!”
You didn’t fight it.
The music took over.
Your body moved without thinking.
Hips rolling. Shoulders loosening. Feet following the rhythm.
Champagne in one hand, fingers loose around the stem.
You laughed when Riley bumped into you on purpose.
“Watch it!” you teased.
“Never,” she shot back.
The guys watched from the side at first, pretending not to care, pretending not to stare.
Failing completely.
Chad leaned toward Nathan.
“Tell me she’s not doing that on purpose.”
Nathan smirked.
“Everything she does is on purpose.”
Lucas filmed for three seconds before Kelsey flipped him off and stole his phone.
Derek danced badly on purpose, earning groans from everyone.
“Stop! You’re embarrassing us!” Emma yelled.
“I’m expressing myself!” he replied proudly.
Smoke drifted around the room as Chad lit another cigarette, passing it to Riley between kisses. Someone else rolled something on the counter. Someone else opened another bottle.
Glasses were never empty.
Laughter never stopped.
The music never dropped.
Song after song after song.
Time blurred.
At some point, sweat clung lightly to your skin. Your cheeks were warm. Your head buzzed—not drunk, not sober—just floating somewhere in between.
Happy.
Free.
Alive.
When the current song finally faded out, replaced by the soft transition into the next, you slowed, breathing lightly, brushing hair out of your face.
Your eyes found Rafe instantly.
He stood near the window now, shirt unbuttoned halfway, drink in hand, watching you with that familiar mix of pride, desire, and something deeper. Something protective.
Without thinking too much, you walked toward him.
You stopped in front of him, close enough that his knees brushed yours.
He raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Hey, baby.”
You didn’t answer.
You simply reached for his hand.
Your fingers slid between his.
Warm. Certain.
“Come with me,” you said quietly.
No explanation.
No hesitation.
His lips curved into a slow smile.
“Where?”
“Outside.”
That was all.
You tugged gently.
He followed instantly.
You led him past the others, through the narrow hallway, up the small steps, and out onto the deck.
The music muffled behind the door.
The night rushed in.
Cool. Dark. Endless.
The ocean stretched in every direction, glittering faintly under scattered stars. Wind played with your hair, with his shirt, with the loose edges of everything.
You didn’t give him time to say anything clever. The second your back was to the railing, you fisted the open edges of his black shirt and pulled him down into you. Your mouth crashed against his—hungry, no preamble, no teasing buildup. Just lips and tongue and the faint taste of whiskey still on him.
Rafe groaned low in his throat the moment you connected. His hands found your waist immediately, yanking you flush against him like he’d been waiting for this exact second all night. He kissed you back just as hard, matching every slide of your tongue, every small sound you let slip.
When you finally pulled back just enough to breathe, your lips were swollen and your voice came out husky.
“Did I tell you,” you murmured against his mouth, “how fucking good you look in this black shirt?”
You didn’t wait for an answer. You kissed him again—this time slower, deeper, deliberate. His hands slid lower. One palm flattened against the small of your back; the other curved possessively over your ass, squeezing hard enough to pull a soft gasp out of you.
He broke the kiss just long enough to rasp against your lips, voice rough and low.
“Stop it now, baby, if you don’t want me to take you right here in front of the boys.”
You laughed breathlessly, still kissing him between words.
“I mean…” Another slow, filthy kiss. “There’s like eight bedrooms on this boat. You’re definitely gonna take me after.”
His grip tightened. He bit your bottom lip lightly, tugging before letting go.
“Tease.”
“I’ve got something for you,” you said, finally pulling back enough that he could see the wicked little smile curling your mouth.
His brows lifted, interest sparking in those blue eyes.
“Yeah?” He smirked, thumb brushing the curve of your hip. “What’s that?”
You bit your lip, holding his gaze, letting the anticipation stretch just long enough to make him impatient.
“Come with me,” you whispered. “We need to be protected from the wind for this.”
He didn’t ask questions. Just let you take his hand again and lead him along the side deck, past the glowing navigation lights, until you reached the sheltered alcove near the stern—one of the few spots with a low, cushioned bench tucked out of the direct breeze. The music from inside was a dull throb now, distant enough that you could hear the water slapping against the hull and the occasional laugh drifting through the walls.
You sat first, legs crossed delicately, skirt riding up just enough to show the smooth skin of your thighs. Rafe dropped down beside you, arm stretching along the back of the bench, body angled toward yours like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.
You reached into the deep V of your top, slow, deliberate and pulled out the tiny clear plastic bag you’d tucked between your breasts earlier. A small mound of white powder sat inside.
“Surprise,” you said softly, dangling it between two fingers.
Rafe’s eyes darkened instantly. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face.
“Where the hell did you get this?”
“Barry’s,” you answered simply, shrugging one shoulder like it was nothing.
He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“Usually I don’t like you doing that shit…” He leaned in, brushing his lips over your temple, then your cheek, voice dropping. “But since it’s your ‘welcome back’ party…”
He kissed you again, slow this time, appreciative, tongue sliding against yours in a lazy promise of what was coming later.
“Thanks, babe.”
You smiled against his mouth, then carefully opened the little bag. Without breaking eye contact, you tipped a neat line along the upper swell of your breast, right where the fabric dipped low and your skin was warm and flushed from dancing.
You didn’t say anything. Just arched your back slightly, offering.
Rafe’s gaze dropped to the line of powder, then flicked back up to your face. His smile turned filthy.
“Jesus, Hailey.”
He didn’t hesitate. He dipped his head, nose brushing the soft curve of your breast first, inhaling deeply then followed the line in one smooth pull. The sensation of his warm breath and the faint scrape of his nose against your skin made your breath hitch.
When he finished, he didn’t pull away. His tongue darted out, slow and deliberate, licking up every last trace. The wet heat of it sent a shiver racing straight down your spine.
“Fuck, babe,” he muttered, voice wrecked. Then his mouth was on yours again—harder this time, tongue deep, tasting the faint chemical edge still on his own lips. You moaned into the kiss, fingers threading into his hair, tugging just enough to make him growl.
He pulled back barely an inch, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged.
“When the hell did you get so slutty?”
You laughed softly, breathless.
“Guess you bring it out of me.”
His hand slid up the outside of your bare thigh, fingers splaying wide, possessive. He squeezed once, then dragged his palm higher, disappearing under the hem of your skirt, tracing the sensitive skin there with slow, teasing strokes.
“Careful,” he murmured against your lips, smirking. “Keep looking at me like that and we’re not making it to any bedroom.”
You tilted your head, lips brushing his ear.
“Who said I want to wait?”
His grip tightened.
“Fuckin’ dangerous girl tonight,” he rasped, kissing you again messy, desperate, like he was already half-gone.
And the night was still young.
INTO YOU - PART ONE
Rafe Cameron x Reader
part 2 | part 3 | part 4
TW: mention of explicit sex, detailed smut,rough intense sex,dirty talk,bruising,drugs, prison, criminal activites, violence, death threats, gang, dangerous lifestyle, police, possessiveness,anxiety.
Plot:
Rafe Cameron is one of the most powerful and feared men on the island. A member of one of the two most dangerous gangs, he has built his reputation through violence, control, and loyalty. After spending two years in prison, he is finally released, fully aware that several of his rivals are waiting for the right moment to strike.
Despite the constant threat surrounding him, his first priority is you—the only person who never abandoned him. After four years together, you remain his closest confidant and the only person he truly trusts. In a world shaped by crime, betrayal, and danger, your relationship represents the one place where he feels safe.
Marked by a childhood and past filled with abandonment and betrayal, Rafe learned early to protect himself by shutting others out. He built emotional barriers that no one has been able to cross. Only with you does he allow himself to be vulnerable.
As tensions rise and enemies grow bolder, your relationship is put to the test. Between loyalty and survival, love and fear, you must face the consequences of staying with a man who lives on the edge of violence. Together, you navigate a fragile balance between devotion and danger, questioning how long love can survive in such a world.
4691 words,
instagram: @drewiddle
this is my original idea and storyline. anything familiar is purely coincidental. this story is written purely for enternainment purposes only.
masterlist
| ENGLISH IS NOT MY 1ST LANGUAGE |
ENJOY!
The summer sun poured over your bare skin, warm and golden, like it was trying to make up for every lost day. Your heart hammered against your ribs. In the distance, waves crashed lazily against the shore, birds sang overhead, and for once you believed really believed that nothing could ruin this day.
You hadn't enjoyed a summer in two years.
But that ended today. Things were finally going back to normal. Or at least, to whatever version of normal you could rebuild.
You sat on the hood of the car, legs dangling, flanked by Derek and Taylor two of his ride-or-dies staring at the massive metal doors that had kept you and Rafe apart for 730 endless days. The minutes crawled. Every second stretched until it hurt.
Then — bip.
A sharp electronic tone.
The doors groaned to life, metal scraping metal, parting with agonizing slowness.
You slid off the hood and started walking forward without thinking. Closer. Closer.
Until finally, through the widening gap, you saw him.
Tan skin kissed darker by prison yard sun. Jaw sharper, more carved. Veins snaking down forearms thickened from endless push-ups and pull-ups. Shoulders broad enough to block out the world. Duffel bag slung over one shoulder proof he wasn't coming back in cuffs. And those eyes.
God.
Those piercing blue eyes still looked right through you, same as always, only hungrier now.
"You're out, Cameron," one of the officers called, voice flat and bored.
Rafe didn't move at first. Just smiled slow, dangerous, victorious.
And then you ran.
You crashed into him like a wave, lips finding his in the same heartbeat. He lifted you instantly, effortless, hands clamping around your thighs, hauling you up so your legs locked around his waist. Your arms wound tight around his neck.
He kissed you back like he was starving, like two years of want had finally snapped its leash.
The catcalls and cheers erupted from the windows above prisoners banging on bars, whistling, yelling his name.
You barely heard them. You were too busy trying (and failing) not to climb him right there in front of everyone.
God, you'd missed him.
And from the way his fingers dug into your skin, the way his tongue claimed every corner of your mouth, he'd missed you more.
You broke the kiss first, gasping, forehead pressed to his. He growled low in his throat, clearly not ready to stop.
You smiled, eyes locked on his.
"Welcome home, baby."
He set you down gently, but kept you close, arms caging you against his chest. Then he buried his face in your hair for a long second, breathing you in like you were oxygen.
Taylor approached first, huge grin splitting his face. He slapped Rafe's shoulder, then pulled him into a rough hug.
"Damn, man. You've been hitting the gym hard."
Rafe chuckled — low, rough, familiar. He clapped Taylor on the back.
"Yeah, well... had to do something to keep from losing my mind thinking about her every damn night." His eyes flicked to you, dark and possessive. "Worth it, though."
Derek was next same high-five, same brotherly hug.
"We've missed you, bro."
"I missed you too." Rafe's arm slid around your waist, fingers splaying wide, claiming. "Thanks for taking care of her. I owe you both."
Taylor waved it off, easy. "Nah, man. That's what brothers do."
You smiled, chest tight with something softer than lust. These three they'd grown up together in the middle of blood, betrayal, and gang wars.
Loyalty like theirs didn't come with an expiration date. It was carved into them.
Derek jerked his thumb toward the car.
"Let's go, guys. I think you've been here long enough."
Nods all around.
Derek took the driver's seat, while Rafe slung his bag into the trunk with a heavy thud that echoed like finality. He slid into the backseat beside you, thigh pressing against yours immediately, like he couldn't stand even an inch of space after two years. Taylor shotgun, already fiddling with the radio like nothing had changed.
The car smelled like leather, salt air, and the faint trace of whatever cheap prison soap Rafe still carried on his skin. You couldn't stop staring at him the new bulk of his shoulders straining the thin white t-shirt, the fresh ink peeking from under the sleeve (something you'd have to trace later), the way his blue eyes hadn't lost that piercing edge, only sharpened.
Rafe caught you looking. Of course he did. His hand found your thigh, fingers digging in just enough to say mine without words. He leaned in close, breath hot against your ear.
"Two years, baby," he murmured, voice low and rough like gravel. "And you still look at me like you wanna eat me alive."
You laughed soft, breathless and elbowed him lightly. "Shut up. I'm allowed to stare. You got... bigger."
He smirked, that signature Cameron smirk that used to drive everyone crazy. "Yeah? You complainin'?"
"Never." Your fingers slid up his arm, tracing the vein that popped under his skin. "Just missed this version of you."
His smirk softened for a second, something real flickering in those eyes. Then he glanced forward, at the two men in front.
"Yo," Rafe said, louder now, voice carrying that easy authority. "You two really held it down for me? No bullshit?"
Taylor twisted in his seat, grinning. "What, you thought we'd let your girl run off with some pogue while you were inside? Nah, man. We kept her locked up tighter than your cell."
Derek snorted, eyes on the road. "She's the one who kept us in line. Threatened to burn our bikes if we stepped outta pocket."
Rafe's hand tightened on your thigh. He looked at you, brows raised. "That true?"
You shrugged, smiling. "Maybe. They were getting lazy."
Rafe laughed, a real one, deep and surprised, the sound you'd dreamed about on lonely nights. He pulled you closer, arm wrapping around your shoulders, fingers playing with the strap of your tank top.
"Fuck," he muttered, almost to himself. "I don't deserve that. But I'm takin' it anyway."
The car rolled down the coastal road, windows down, summer heat rushing in. Waves still crashing in the distance, birds still singing like the world hadn't paused for two whole years. Rafe's free hand found yours, lacing fingers tight. His thumb ran over your knuckles back and forth, like he was making sure you were real.
After a minute of quiet, he spoke again, quieter this time.
"Listen..." He cleared his throat, glancing at Derek and Taylor before looking back at you. "I'm not the same asshole who went in. I mean — I'm still me. But I had a lot of time to think about what matters. And it ain't the bullshit drama, the money, the fights. It's this." He squeezed your hand. "You. Them. Us."
Taylor reached back for a fist bump. Rafe met it without hesitation.
"Brothers for life," Taylor said simply.
"Always," Derek added from the driver's seat.
Rafe nodded, jaw tight like he was holding back more than he'd ever admit. Then he turned to you, blue eyes locked on yours — intense, hungry, finally free.
"So what now, baby?" he asked, voice dropping low again, just for you. "You gonna let me make up for lost time? 'Cause I got two years worth of ideas, and none of 'em involve clothes."
You felt heat crawl up your neck, but you held his gaze, smiling slow.
"Take me home, Cameron," you whispered. "And don't stop till we're both wrecked."
His grin was feral. "That's my girl."
Derek cranked the music louder,some old rap track you all used to blast and the car sped toward Figure Eight, toward the house, toward whatever messy, beautiful, second-chance life waited on the other side of those prison doors.
For the first time in two years, summer felt like it belonged to you again.
After a few moments, the car rolled to a stop in front of the house that sprawling, sun-bleached beast of glass and stone perched on the edge of the island like it owned the ocean itself.
This place held so many damn secrets.
It was the headquarters where deals went down in low voices and blood sometimes stained the marble. The safehouse they'd barricaded when rivals came looking, when cops circled too close. The first time you stepped inside, you'd been terrified,heart in your throat, realizing exactly what kind of life Rafe and his brothers led. Back then, they were just criminals to you. Dangerous.
Untouchable.
And now?
Years later, this same house was home.
You'd lived here alone for two years — well, not quite alone. Derek and Taylor had become your shadows, your protectors, your family. They'd turned this fortress into something softer, something survivable. You wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.
Rafe stepped out first, muscles shifting under his shirt as he grabbed his duffel from the trunk with one easy pull. You followed more slowly.
Derek and Taylor stayed in the car, engine idling.
"Aren't you guys coming?" you asked, leaning toward the open window.
Derek shook his head, small smile tugging at his mouth.
"Nah. Think you two need some time alone."
Taylor grinned wider, throwing an arm over the back of the seat.
"Plus, it's our day of freedom too.Now that your man's back to take care of you, we're finally off the clock. Gonna go live a little."
You laughed, light, real, the sound surprising even you.
"Alright," you said softly. Then, quieter: "Thank you. For everything you did for me."
Taylor winked. "Now lets go get some chicks."
"Hell yeah, baby!" they chorused together.
The car peeled out with a dramatic honk of the horn,loud and obnoxious, like they were breaking out of prison themselves. In a way, they were.
For two years they'd lived in shifts: always watching the perimeter, always ready if someone tried to use you to get to Rafe. No real nights off. No real life.
You owed them. More than words could cover.
The sound of the engine faded down the road.
Silence settled,just the waves, the wind, and Rafe.
He stepped up behind you, hands sliding around your waist from behind, pulling your back flush against his chest. His chin rested on your shoulder, breath warm against your neck.
"Still can't believe you stayed," he murmured, voice rougher than before. "In this house. With all the ghosts."
You turned in his arms, hands sliding up his chest.
"Where else was I gonna go? This is ours."
His eyes searched yours — blue and piercing, softer at the edges now.
"Yeah. It is."
He kissed you then,slower this time, no audience, no rush. Just deep, deliberate, like he was memorizing the taste of you all over again. When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours.
He pulled back from the kiss just long enough to kick the front door shut behind you with his heel the heavy thud echoing through the foyer like the final slam of a prison gate. Then he was on you again.
His mouth crashed back into yours, hungrier, more desperate, like two years of restraint had finally shattered. Hands everywhere at once sliding up your thighs, gripping your waist, then lower, rough palms finding the curve of your ass through the thin denim of your mini skirt. He squeezed hard, possessive, fingers digging in with enough force to promise bruises you'd trace fondly tomorrow.
"Damn, baby," he growled against your lips, voice gravel-rough and wrecked, "this fucking mini skirt of yours..."
Another bruising kiss, teeth grazing your bottom lip.
"I'm gonna destroy you in it."
The words hit you like a spark to dry tinder. Your pussy clenched hard around nothing, heat pooling low and instant. You'd missed that filthy mouth of his more than you'd ever admit — the way he could unravel you with just a few dirty promises.
You kissed him back like animals, tongues sliding, tangling, chasing. No patience, no gentleness — just raw, starving need. Your fingers twisted in his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer while you guided one of his big hands under the hem of your skirt.
He didn't hesitate.
Calloused palm slid up the back of your thigh, then cupped your ass fully,skin on skin now, the denim bunched up around his wrist. He gripped hard, lifting you slightly onto your toes, grinding you against the solid length of him so you could feel exactly how much he'd missed you.
You gasped into his mouth. He groaned, low, guttural and pressed you backward until your spine met the cool wall of the entryway.
"Fuck," he breathed, forehead pressed to yours, eyes dark and blown. "You're soaked already, aren't you?"
You nodded, breathless, hips rocking shamelessly against his hand.
"Been soaked since I saw you walk through those doors, Rafe."
That seemed to snap something in him.
In one swift motion he hoisted you up, thighs wrapping around his waist like they belonged there and carried you through the house without breaking the kiss. You vaguely registered the familiar layout flashing by: the wide staircase, sunlight spilling across the marble floors, the faint salt smell that always clung to everything here. But none of it mattered.
Only him. Only this.
He didn't bother with the bedroom.
Halfway up the stairs he pinned you against the wall again, one arm braced beside your head, the other still under your skirt, fingers now teasing the edge of your panties. He rocked into you slow, deliberate, letting you feel every thick inch through his sweats.
"Two fucking years," he muttered, lips dragging down your neck, teeth scraping your pulse. "Two years of jerking off to the memory of this pussy... and now you're right here, dripping for me."
You moaned — loud, shameless — head falling back against the plaster.
"Then take it, Cameron. Take what's yours."
His control frayed.
He yanked your panties to the side, not bothering to remove them, and ground the heel of his palm against your clit while his fingers found you slick and ready.
"Gonna fuck you everywhere in this house," he promised, voice wrecked. "Kitchen counter. Shower. That big bed. Every fucking room. But first..."
He pulled back just enough to look at you — eyes wild, chest heaving.
"First I'm gonna make you come on my fingers right here on these stairs. Then I'm carrying you upstairs and burying myself so deep you forget there was ever a day I wasn't inside you."
Your nails dug into his shoulders.
"Yes," you gasped. "Please, Rafe — now."
He didn't make you beg twice.
Rafe's fingers slid lower under your skirt, calloused tips brushing the slick heat between your thighs. He teased first : agonizingly slow circling your clit with the barest pressure, watching your face like he wanted to memorize every gasp, every flutter of your lashes. His free hand pinned your hip to the wall, keeping you steady as your knees threatened to buckle.
"Look at you," he murmured, voice thick with lust, breath hot against your collarbone. "Already shaking. Been dreaming about this pussy clenching around my fingers... bet it's tighter than I remember."
You whimpered, nodding frantically, hips bucking forward for more.
He chuckled — dark, satisfied — and finally gave in. One thick finger pushed inside you, slow and deliberate, curling just right to hit that spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. You cried out, nails scraping down his back through his shirt.
"Fuck, yes," he groaned, eyes locked on where his hand disappeared under your skirt. "So wet for me, baby. Dripping down my wrist already."
He added a second finger without warning, stretching you, thrusting deeper now — in and out, building a rhythm that matched the frantic beat of your heart. His thumb found your clit again, rubbing firm circles, syncing with the pump of his fingers.
The wet sounds echoed off the staircase walls, obscene and intoxicating, mixing with your ragged breaths and his low curses.
You grabbed his wrist — not to stop him, but to hold on — feeling the flex of his forearm as he worked you harder. He twisted his fingers inside, scissoring slightly, stretching you wider while his thumb pressed down, rolling your clit under the rough pad. Pressure built low in your belly, coiling tight like a spring, every stroke pushing you higher.
"Rafe — oh god — don't stop," you gasped, head thrown back, thighs trembling around his hand.
He leaned in closer, lips brushing your ear. "Not stopping till you soak my hand, princess. Wanna feel you come undone right here. Scream for me."
His pace ramped up — fingers plunging faster, curling sharper, thumb flicking your clit in quick, relentless bursts. The crescendo hit like a wave: heat spreading from your core, muscles clenching around him, pulling him deeper. You rode his hand shamelessly, grinding down, chasing the edge.
It built and built — intense, almost overwhelming — your whole body tensing, breaths coming in short, desperate pants. His free hand slid up to your throat, not squeezing, just holding you there, thumb stroking your pulse point like a reminder of who owned every inch of you.
"Come on, baby," he growled, fingers slamming in now, palm grinding against your clit with every thrust. "Give it to me. Let go."
The coil snapped.
You shattered — a long, drawn-out cry ripping from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you in waves. Your pussy clenched hard around his fingers, pulsing, gushing slick that coated his hand and dripped down your thighs. He didn't let up, dragging it out, thrusting through every aftershock until you were shaking, oversensitive, begging in broken whispers.
Only then did he slow, easing his fingers out gently, bringing them to his mouth to lick them clean while you watched, boneless against the wall.
"Fuck, you taste even better than I remembered," he said, voice wrecked. Then he scooped you up — legs still trembling — and carried you the rest of the way upstairs like you weighed nothing.
The bedroom door banged open. He set you down on the edge of the massive bed, sunlight streaming through the windows, casting golden stripes across his tan skin as he peeled off his shirt. His sweats tented obscenely, the outline of his cock straining against the fabric.
Your turn.
You dropped to your knees before he could say a word, hands tugging his sweats and boxers down in one pull. He sprang free — thick, veined, already leaking at the tip.
You wrapped your hand around the base, stroking slow, feeling him throb under your palm.
"Missed this too?" you teased, looking up at him through your lashes.
Rafe's hand tangled in your hair, gentle but firm. "Every fucking day. Now show me how much you missed it."
You leaned in, tongue flicking out to taste the salty bead at his tip. He hissed, hips jerking slightly. Emboldened, you took him into your mouth — slow at first, lips stretching around his girth, tongue swirling along the underside as you sank deeper.
He groaned deep in his chest, fingers tightening in your hair. "Just like that, baby. Fuck — your mouth..."
You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder, bobbing your head in a steady rhythm. One hand stroked what your mouth couldn't reach, twisting slightly at the base. The other cupped his balls, rolling them gently, feeling them tighten under your touch.
Rafe's breaths came ragged now, hips thrusting shallowly to meet your mouth. "Deeper," he rasped. "Take all of me."
You relaxed your throat, pushing forward until your nose brushed his pelvis, eyes watering but holding his gaze. He cursed — loud, filthy — holding you there for a beat before letting you pull back, strings of saliva connecting you as you gasped for air.
Then back down, faster now, sloppy and eager. You moaned around him, the vibrations making his thighs tense. His free hand braced on the bedpost, knuckles white.
"Gonna come down your throat if you keep that up," he warned, voice strained.
You didn't stop. Sucked harder, faster, hand pumping in sync. His abs flexed, breaths turning to growls.
"Fuck — yes — " He thrust once, twice, then held your head as he came, hot spurts flooding your mouth. You swallowed every drop, milking him through it until he shuddered and pulled you off gently.
Rafe hauled you up from the floor like you weighed nothing, tossing you onto the center of the massive bed. The white sheets bunched under your back as he climbed over you, knees bracketing your hips, eyes wild and black with hunger.
He didn't bother taking your skirt off. Didn't bother taking anything off except his sweats that were already shoved down around his thighs. He just shoved the tiny denim up around your waist, ripped your soaked panties to the side again, and lined himself up in one brutal motion.
"Look at me," he growled, voice shredded. "Wanna see your face when I finally get back inside this perfect fucking cunt."
Your eyes locked on his — wide, glassy, already wrecked from the stairs — and that was all the permission he needed.
He slammed into you in one vicious thrust.
The stretch burned so good you screamed his name instantly, back arching off the mattress, nails raking down his shoulders hard enough to leave red trails. He didn't pause. Didn't give you time to adjust.
He just pulled out almost all the way and drove back in — deeper, harder — setting a punishing rhythm that had the heavy wooden headboard slamming against the wall with every stroke.
"Fuck—yes—Rafe!" The words tore out of you, broken and loud, the only thing you could manage.
"That's it, baby," he snarled, hands gripping your hips so tight you knew you'd have fingerprints tomorrow. "Scream my name. Let the whole fucking island know who owns this pussy."
He fucked you like he was trying to carve himself into your soul — hips snapping forward with brutal force, cock driving so deep you felt him in your stomach. Every thrust punched the air out of your lungs, turned your brain to static. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, heels digging into his ass, trying to pull him even deeper, but he was already giving you everything.
"Two years," he panted against your neck, teeth scraping your skin. "Two fucking years of blue-balled torture and now you're creaming all over my dick like a good little slut. Feel that? Feel how fucking soaked you are for me?"
You couldn't answer. Couldn't form words. Just another broken cry of his name as he angled his hips and started hammering that spot inside you that made your vision white out.
"Rafe—Rafe—fuck—Rafe!"
He laughed — low, dark, feral — and shifted his grip. One hand slid under your ass, lifting you higher so he could pound down into you at a steeper angle. The other wrapped around your throat — not choking, just holding, thumb pressing against your racing pulse.
"Who do you belong to?" he demanded, voice rough as gravel. "Say it."
"You," you sobbed out, barely coherent. "You—Rafe—only you—"
"Louder," he snarled, thrusting so hard the bed creaked dangerously. "Let 'em hear it outside."
"You! Fuck—Rafe! Yours—yours—yours—"
He groaned like the sound of his name on your lips was better than any drug. His pace turned savage — erratic, desperate, chasing his own edge while dragging you toward yours again. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, mixing with your screams and his filthy praise.
"Gonna fill you up," he rasped, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest. "Gonna pump you so fucking full you'll feel me leaking out of you for days. You want that? Want me to breed this tight little cunt?"
You shattered around him before you could even try to answer.
Your orgasm hit like a freight train — violent, blinding, every muscle locking up as you screamed his name loud enough to rattle the windows. Your pussy clamped down on him like a vice, pulsing, milking, soaking his cock and the sheets beneath you.
Rafe lost it.
"Fuck—fuck—there it is—take it—take it all—"
He buried himself to the hilt one last time and came with a guttural groan, hips jerking as he flooded you.
Thick, hot spurts painting your walls, so much it leaked out around him with every shallow thrust he gave to ride out the aftershocks.
When the storm finally broke, you both collapsed in a sweaty, tangled heap on the rumpled sheets. The room smelled like sex, salt air, and summer. Your chest heaved, thighs still trembling, his cum slowly leaking out of you and onto the bed beneath your ass.
Rafe's heavy arm draped across your waist, pinning you to him like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go.
For a long stretch, neither of you spoke.
Just breathing.
The sound of waves outside the open windows.
The distant cry of gulls.
The slow thump of his heartbeat against your back.
After a few quiet minutes, Rafe's voice came low and rough, almost reverent.
"God... it's so good to be back."
You turned your head just enough to press a soft kiss to the inside of his bicep. Your voice came out small, still hoarse from screaming his name.
"So... what are you gonna do now?"
You swallowed. "They'll know you're out. Word travels fast on this island. What do you think's gonna happen now? They're gonna come after you, right?"
He exhaled through his nose, long and slow, fingers tracing lazy circles over the curve of your hip.
"They'll sure as hell come after me."
No sugarcoating. No bullshit.
"I don't have any plans yet. Haven't had time to think that far. But one thing's for damn sure—I'm not going back to jail. If someone has to die so I stay free... then that person's gonna die. Simple as that."
He paused, voice dropping softer. "We'll leave the country after. Or hell, I don't know. Mexico, Costa Rica, wherever. But I'm not going back inside. Not ever."
Your stomach twisted.
The fear you'd been shoving down all day rose sharp and cold in your throat.
"I'm scared, Rafe."
He shifted, rolling you gently until you were facing him. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your eye like he could wipe the worry away.
"Don't be, baby."
His voice was steady now, the same tone he used when he was making promises he intended to keep. "And don't think about that shit yet. If something happens, I'll take care of it. We'll get off this island—me, you, Derek, Taylor. We'll disappear. Start over. And we'll build that family we always talked about."
You searched his eyes, blue and fierce and finally free.
A small, hopeful smile tugged at your lips.
"For real? You want to be a father?"
He chuckled—low, warm, the sound vibrating through your chest.
"Hell yeah, baby. I want the whole damn thing."
He pulled you closer, nose brushing yours. "The family house. The fucking dog. The kids running around screaming. All of it. Far from here. Far from this island and all its bullshit. Just us. Real shit. Normal shit."
Your smile grew, soft and real, the first one that didn't feel fragile since he'd walked out those prison gates.
You leaned in and kissed him—slow this time. Deep. No rush. Just the quiet certainty of two people who'd waited two years for this exact moment.
When you finally pulled back, you tucked your head under his chin, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.
His arms tightened around you like he'd never let go.
And as the golden afternoon light faded into dusk outside the windows, you drifted off in his hold—safe, sated, and—for the first time in forever—hopeful.
Tomorrow could wait.
The threats, the plans, the blood that might still come...
Tomorrow.
For now, it was just you and Rafe.
Finally home.
Finally together.
the walking dead: the ones who live; 1.05: become
the walking dead; 5.13: forget
rick and ethel cain is heavenly
tiktok : @sianacst
ohhhh fuck it’s everywhere
What do you mean both Rick and Michonne started giving up when they thought they’d lost the other
♱ day 2: kidnapping ⸝⸝ rick grimes
kinktober 2025 masterlist . . wc: 5.9k
cw: dubcon, brief violence, choking, restraints, coercion??/prostitution??, fingering, mean rick summary: you’re not who you say you are. your cover’s blown and rick’s left to deal with you. can’t have you running that pretty mouth and spreading their secrets. awful shame to have to kill you, though.
I would do anything to just eat ricks pussy out
You beautiful man I want you to squirt on my face
i have nothing appropriate to say