Luxury hits different when you’re from the cut
Rafe Cameron x bimbo!pogue!reader
Warnings : fluff fluff fluff
It was just another sticky, sun-drenched summer day in the Outer Banks. The salty breeze tangled in your bleach-blonde extensions as you strutted barefoot across the sand, pink lip gloss glistening under the Carolina sun. You were a pogue, through and through—cutoffs, tan lines, and a knack for turning heads. But also? A total bimbo. You liked your lashes long, your outfits tight, and your daydreams bougie.
And somehow, against every odd, you were dating Rafe Cameron. Yeah—that Rafe. Kook royalty with money to burn and a reputation that could make your mama faint.
You didn’t care. He was intense, protective, and weirdly sweet when it comes to you. Plus, he listened when you talked about stupid stuff that mattered to you, like how you’d been obsessed with this pink Miu Miu bag since forever. You’d seen it once in a magazine your cousin stole from a rich tourist’s beach house.
“It’s so perfect,” you’d told him one night, lying across his bed, twirling a fake diamond ring on your finger. “But it costs, like, my rent for three months.”
Rafe didn’t say much then—just looked at you with those stormy eyes of his, thumb brushing your hip.
A week later, he picks you up in his boat.
“You look hot,” he says, sliding his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. “Get in, babe.”
You giggle—like always—and hop aboard, letting the breeze whip your pink bikini.
Eventually, he pulls the boat up to the dock behind Tannyhill, the water calm and glittering in the late afternoon sun. He hops out first, tying it off like he’s done it a million times — probably because he has — then turns back to help you off like a gentleman. Well… like his version of one: one hand gripping yours, the other still holding a half-finished beer.
You follow him up the dock, past the trimmed hedges and stone steps, and through the back door of the Cameron estate. It’s quiet inside — too quiet — and you immediately clock that the place is empty. No Ward. No Rose. Just you, him, and that soft hum of central air and money.
And there, sitting pretty on the glass coffee table in the middle of the living room like it’s the centerpiece of a museum exhibit, is a sleek white shopping bag with black ribbon handles — designer, no doubt. It practically glows against the cold neutral tones of the Cameron house.
You freeze. “Wait… what is that?”
Rafe just drops onto the couch, his legs spread wide like he owns the entire island. “Go ahead,” he says, nodding toward it with that cocky little smirk. “Open it.”
You pull the bag closer, open it —and freeze. Your heart skips.
There it is. The bag. The pink Miu Miu bag. The one from the magazine, the one from your dreams. Glossy, perfect, bougie as hell.
You just stare. “Rafe…”
“Yeah?”
You blink a few times. Your fake lashes start fluttering like they’re about to fly off your face. “I think I’m gonna cry. Like, actually cry.”
Rafe’s face softens. “Hey, baby—don’t. Why’re you crying?”
“I’ve never had something this nice. Like—ever. You don’t get it. I used to stare at this bag online, screenshot it, zoom in on the stitching like a weirdo. It was, like… a dream.”
Tears stream down your cheeks.
“I’m a pogue, Rafe,” you say, voice cracking. “Pogues don’t get Miu Miu bags.”
He get up from the couch and walks toward you, pulling you into his chest, wiping under your eye with his thumb. “You do now. You’re my pogue.”
You sniffle, clutching the bag like it’s sacred. “I’m gonna cry again.”
He laughs into your hair. “It’s a bag, babe.”
“No—it’s a lifestyle,” you say dramatically, causing him to snort.
You peck his lips like, maybe 10 times. “Thank you, thank you thank you! You’re, like, the best sugar daddy and boyfriend ever.”
“I’m offended,” he smirks. “I’m way too hot to be a sugar daddy.”
You giggle again. “Okay, fine. You’re a sugar zaddy.”
He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling — that rare, real smile he only ever shows you.
You glance at the bag, fingers tracing the stitching like it’s made of magic, then look back up at him, eyes shining. “I love you, Rafe. For real. No one’s ever made me feel like this before.”
For a second, he just stares at you — like you caught him off guard. Then his whole expression softens, his arm tightening around your waist.
“I love you too, baby,” he says, voice low and a little rough. “Always.” He lowers his head and kisses you softly. A kiss full of love.
And that day, with your dream bag clutched in one hand and Rafe’s arm around your waist, you felt like the baddest, luckiest pogue in all of OBX — and for once, completely loved.