used to kick sand at you in the sandbox when you were kids, now he kicks the setlist off stage if your name’s not at the top of it.
only ever shows up to rehearsal on time if you text him first.
sits next to you on the floor post-gig, still sweaty, and doesn’t talk unless you do. sometimes during rehearsal you sit on the amp across from him while tuning your bass, and the two of you sit in silence for an hour. no one understands it. but you don’t need to speak to feel like you’re heard.
shares his cigarettes and water bottles without asking, but only with you.
brings his boots up on the edge of his drum throne after soundcheck and just sits there in his own head, chewing on a ring he wears on his thumb while the rest of the band talks.
helped you write your solo once and never told anyone. he just nodded when the crowd screamed for it.
breaks out of his shell only when playing live. you’re the only one who can tell if it’s a good or bad night by the way he grips his sticks.
can’t fall asleep unless there’s sound. it used to be white noise, now it’s your bass riffs through his earbuds. you tease him about it. he tells you to shut up, but never deletes the voice memo you sent of your warmups.
tells you “you look hot like this,” mid-soundcheck, then doesn’t speak the rest of the day.
starts keeping a pick you dropped once in his drum case. he doesn’t know why, but doesn’t throw it out.
when your ex shows up at a bar gig, he doesn’t even look at him. he just plays louder.
refuses to comment when people ask if you’re dating. he just shrugs and says, “wouldn’t be your business if we were.”
lets you tune his kit, lets you wear his old band tees, lets you sit on his amp when the room’s too crowded. he still hates everyone, but doesn’t hate you. never has. says, “if this band ever breaks up, i’m taking her with me.”
♯┆"this may just be a vacation for you, cameron, but it's my life," ⏤ in which, rafe cameron joins a pogue band in an attempt to rebel against his father and show him that he does have ambitions, even if they're unconventional, but everything goes awry when he finds himself having to choose between his cushy, luxurious lifestyle and the gritty, raw world of rock n' roll, challenging everything he's ever thought he wanted.
NAV ! Part Zero. Part One. Part Two.
⠀ ⠀⠀♯┆Track One ⏤ Rum and Cocaine.ㅤ ۪ ୧
ᰋ. “ we were born with a taste for trouble, chasing highs that never last, rum in our veins and cocaine in our lungs, we’re living fast, but we’re fading fast ,, : IN WHICH . . . rafe cameron stumbles into the rusty nail with a pair of drum sticks in his back pocket and a determination to prove himself. ̼ ₊
THE FIRST TIME Rafe walked into The Rusty Nail he knew he didn't belong there. Loud music echoed off the walls, mingling with the sounds of pool balls clacking together and continuous chatter. The bar was dimly lit with a thin layer of smoke, fluorescent colored lights overhead casting a luminous glow over the room and adding to the grungy atmosphere. The establishment was mostly filled with burly, tattooed men who eyed him as he walked by, causing goosebumps to arise on Rafe's tanned skin.
The sticky linoleum floors clung to his designer shoes with each step he took, and the heady scent of stale beer, sweat, and cigarette smoke overwhelmed his senses, making him involuntarily cringe. His eyes darted around the room, landing on each patron briefly before moving on to the next—an overweight man with no hair and a large, bushy mustache at the bar, a tall, thin man behind the counter wiping out glasses with a rag, a redhead with a beard and a blonde with a scar playing pool.
None of these people were who he was looking for, yet all of them were showing a keen interest in him.
He kept his head high and stayed alert, not wanting to show weakness. He kept moving forward, stuffing his hands in his pockets to make sure his wallet stayed safe and sound. He didn't trust Pogues, especially not ones that looked like this.
"Oh, you've got to be shitting me," your voice cut through the noise in the bar, sharp and clear. His gaze immediately snapped in your direction, finding you glaring with a scowl etched onto your features. "Rafe fucking Cameron?"
Rafe's eyes narrowed as he saw you leaning against a graffiti-covered wall toward the farther end of the bar. Your arms were crossed as you regarded him with a look between pure hatred and amusement. How utterly stupid for a rich boy to walk into the lion's den.
He rolled his shoulders back, trying to keep up his confident facade—though he was feeling anything but surrounded by drunk thugs—while he sauntered over to you. "In the flesh," he remarked, yelling slightly to be heard over the music as his lips curled up into a smirk.
Your eyes rolled back effortlessly, as if on instinct. You pushed off the wall, stepping forward toward him. "What the hell are you doing here, Cameron?" You asked harshly, your brows pinched together. Rafe Cameron wouldn't be caught dead on this side of the island, let alone at a Pogue dive like The Rusty Nail.
Rafe’s smirk faltered slightly under your cold stare, but he recovered quickly. He wasn’t about to back down now, not when he had come this far. "Just thought I’d check it out," he shrugged, his tone nonchalant as he looked around casually. "I heard you guys were looking for a drummer."
You scoffed in disbelief, looking at him like he'd grown two heads. "What do you know about drumming?"
Rafe's eyes narrowed. He hated being underestimated. People always expected less from him, and he hated it. It was the whole reason he was going this stupid thing in the first place. "More than you'd think," he shot back, trying to keep his anger in check.
"Yeah, right," you laughed. His jaw tightened at your dismissal, and for a moment, he contemplated walking out and letting his old, cushy life swallow him whole. It would be easier than this, easier than being belittled right to his face, but he couldn't. He had to prove to his dad, to himself, that he could succeed and see something through to completion without giving up when things got hard. He had chosen this path specifically because music reminded him of his mother. She helped him learn how to play the drums.
"I've been playing since I was a kid," he defended, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side to calm him before crossing his arms over his chest. He was wearing a simple white t-shirt, so the action made his muscles strain against the fabric.
You eyed him skeptically before turning to call out to someone over your shoulder. "Jay!" Almost immediately, the dirty blonde emerged from an ajar door that led to another room. His shirt was discarded, his chest covered in a thin sheen of sweat. His hair was tousled, some strands sticking to his forehead.
"Yea—" He paused when his eyes landed on Rafe, his eyebrows furrowing as his blue eyes hardened. "What the hell is he doing here?" He asked you, his gaze not leaving the rich brunette.
"Says he wants to be our new drummer," you snickered, glancing over at JJ. JJ's eyes widened as he looked over at you in disbelief, an objection already forming on his tongue, but then, you two shared a look of understanding, both already convinced that Rafe's performance would be a train wreck and eager to watch it happen.
"Okay," JJ said slowly, turning to Rafe. He grinned, motioning to the old drum set on a slightly elevated platform. The Rusty Nail didn't get much live music, so the owners let Morphine Animals play there for free, so the stage area didn't go to waste. "Show us what you've got."
Rafe let out a small sigh of relief, his legs carrying him toward the stage before his mind could talk him out of it. His hands instinctively reached for the drumsticks in his back pocket. He could feel the eyes of everyone on him, their faces contorted in sneers and grins as they watched, expecting him to fail. He’d spent his whole life trying to be the best, but this felt different. This wasn’t about showing off. This was about him.
He stepped onto the platform, the old wooden stage creaking under his weight and making him tense up as the brief thought of the shitty structure collapsing flashed through his mind. He approached the battered drum set, its cymbals dull and scratched, the bass pedal stiff from years of use. It was a far cry from the pristine, high-end kit he had back home, but when he ran his fingers over the snare, adjusting its position, he felt something familiar settle in his chest.
He sat down on the stool, the cushion worn to the point that he could feel the hardwood underneath. For a moment, everything else faded, and all that remained was him, sitting on that stool with a pair of drumsticks in his hand. His mother's voice echoed in his mind, taking him back to when he was a kid, his feet barely touching the ground as he sat in front of the new drumset he got for Christmas.
"You’ve got it in you, baby," she had told him, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead as he looked up at her with big blue eyes filled with love and childlike wonder that had fizzled out after her death. "Rhythm like that? That’s a gift. Keep playing, okay? Doesn’t matter what your daddy says—music’s a language all on its own. You just have to learn how to speak it."
Rafe twirled the drumsticks between his fingers, the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Looking out at the bar, he could see JJ watching him with a smug smirk. You had never seen him so nervous, and something about it made you feel good.
He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath and letting the world fade to silence around him. "The world’s full of noise, Rafael, but you’ve got to learn how to drown it out. Focus on the sound that comes from within you. Don't let anyone else tell you that you can't do something."
Taking another steadying breath, Rafe's grip on the drumsticks tightened, letting the familiar feel of the smooth wood around him. He played slowly at first. Letting the beat build with his confidence, ignoring the crowd and focusing on the sound his sticks made against the drums, the music flowing through him like a second heartbeat. The world seemed to slow as his arms moved fluidly as if the drumkit were an extension of himself.
Your smug grin faltered as you watched him play, something so raw and natural about his demeanor. The music was good, great even, but his playing was real, and that was the most important thing to you.
You stood there with your arms crossed, a frown tugging at your lips. This was the same Rafe Cameron that waltzed in here, surrounded by an air of entitlement. The same Rafe Cameron that pranced around Kildare like he owned it, hiding behind his daddy's name and money whenever he did anything wrong. The very same Rafe Cameron who despised Pogues and took every opportunity to belittle them, even though they've done more work in one day than he's done in his whole life.
You would rather shoot up with a dirty needle than allow Rafe Cameron, of all people, to get anywhere near your pride and joy, Morphine Animals, yet as he played, something tugged at you. You looked over at JJ, who looked just as shocked and begrudging as you, his brows pinched and a scowl on his face.
The two of you had been looking for a drummer for the better part of three months with no luck. Everyone who auditioned was either well into their 50s or an amateur, neither of which was worthy. Your last drummer went off to some fancy college on a full academic scholarship. You were happy for her, of course, Stevie had been one of your best friends, but damn if you weren't a little jealous that she made it out and left the band behind.
You shifted uncomfortably on your feet. His skill was undeniable, a natural-born talent in his bones that was impossible to refute, but this was more than just being a good drummer when it came to him. It was the fact that he had everything handed to him. Meanwhile, people like you worked yourselves to the bone for anything more than the dirt underneath your feet.
He didn't have what it took. He would run at the first sign of trouble, the first time his Kook friends caused a stir at the fact that Rafe Cameron was associating with Pogues, and that's what worried you. You couldn't afford to lose another drummer, but you also couldn't afford to have one, especially not so close to the Underground.
Rafe's white t-shirt had dark splotches of sweat, his muscles glistening as he finished playing. His hair, which was once perfectly styled, was now sticking out in all directions. He almost looked like he belonged—almost.
“Well?” Rafe asked, his voice a little rough from the adrenaline as he flashed a lazy smirk, his confidence clearly revived.
“Not bad,” you said, voice flat, your arms still crossed tightly over your chest. "But we’re not a hobby for you to dabble in when it’s convenient, Cameron. This is real." JJ nodded, his jaw clenching like he wanted to curse Rafe out for even thinking they would let him join.
Rafe raised an eyebrow, the smirk never leaving his lips. "I’m not some rich kid with nothing better to do," he said, a slight edge in his tone. "I’ve been serious about this. You think I’m just here for kicks?"
JJ scoffed, shaking his head as he leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “Oh, here we go,” he muttered. “You seriously think just ‘cause you show up and act all nice, we’re gonna take you in? You’ve done nothing but piss people off around here."
Rafe's gaze hardened, the calmness from before slipping away into a familiar, cold edge. "Are you fucking kidding me? I wasn't just good, I was great, and you know it, Maybank."
JJ’s eyes flickered with a mixture of annoyance and disbelief. "Great? You think you’re great?" His voice was thick with sarcasm as he stepped closer to the drum set, his sneakers squeaking on the worn floor. "Newsflash, Cameron, I'm not your daddy. I'm not gonna tell you you're doing a great job when you're nothing but average."
You sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of your nose. Rafe Cameron was great, but JJ would never admit it; both of them were too caught up in their pissing contest to put their pride aside.
You grabbed JJ's arm, tugging him back. "As much as I hate it, he is our best option," you told him lowly, begrudgingly as you shot a glance at Rafe, who was glaring at the pair of you with his arms crossed defiantly.
JJ huffed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he shot one last, heated glare at Rafe. "Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean I gotta like it," he muttered under his breath, but you could see the wheels turning in his head. The tension between the two was thick, but there was an undeniable truth hanging in the air. Rafe Cameron had the skill, even if his presence still grated on every nerve you had.
You bit the inside of your cheek, letting out a long sigh before turning back to Rafe. "You really think you got what it takes?" You asked, quirking a skeptical brow.
"I know I do," he responded arrogantly, grinning in triumph. Your eye twitched, your brain suddenly rethinking this decision entirely. You knew you were going to regret this, but The Underground was swiftly approaching, and you needed to start practicing now if you wanted to be ready to perform.
You swallowed your pride and frustration, giving him a pointed look. "Alright, Cameron. You’re in for the trial. But if you screw this up—"
"I won't," he interrupted, that smug grin still plastered on his face. "Just watch."
You exchanged a glance with JJ, who was still visibly irritated but was already processing the decision. He shot a look at Rafe, sizing him up, and then rolled his eyes, clearly dismayed at your decision, but you were the leader. "Fine. But if you make us regret this, I’m personally going to kick your ass."
"I'd like to see you try," Rafe scoffed, puffing his chest out.
"Oh, yeah? You wanna go right now?" JJ advanced forward before you grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling him back.
"I'll kick both of your asses if you don't knock it off," you rolled your eyes, clearly not thrilled with the idea of having to deal with this during every practice. You looked back at Rafe, swallowing hard. "Listen, we don't have time to waste on your bullshit, so if you're in, there's no bailing on us. You're in it for the long haul."
"Understood," he nodded, his expression turning oddly serious at the mention of not quitting.
You didn’t trust Rafe Cameron, not one bit. But you had to admit, he was good. Too good. And that was going to make this a hell of a lot more complicated than you’d ever imagined.
🎸- 🥁 band!rafe - who plays the drums and guitar <3
The night you met Rafe was by pure luck. Your friend dragged you to a party, him and his buddies were playing a cover for “Should I Stay or Should I Go - The Clash” Making eye contact with him was probably the best worst mistake ever. Once he was done you found your way to the bathroom. The blonde on his knees, head buried between your thighs. To him- your moans were better than the music. But don’t let his friends know that! They’d kill him.
This has been rotting in my brain since last week..
Want more of them? Here 🎸
@annoyingassleo - because I know you love when I post. 💋
♯┆"this may just be a vacation for you, cameron, but it's my life," ⏤ in which, rafe cameron joins a pogue band in an attempt to rebel against his father and show him that he does have ambitions, even if they're unconventional, but everything goes awry when he finds himself having to choose between his cushy, luxurious lifestyle and the gritty, raw world of rock n' roll, challenging everything he's ever thought he wanted.
NAV ! Part Double Zero. Part Zero. Part One.
MORPHINE ANIMALS PRESENTS...
Sematary of the Living.
SIDE ONE:
01. Rum and Cocaine
02. Cat Killed Curiosity
03. From Insult to Injury
04. Friend of the Devil
05. Forget About Me
06. Numb Hysteria
07. A Song of Strangers
08. Analytical Killers
SIDE TWO:
09. The Labyrinth's Captor
10. Delicious Nothingness
11. Dirty Universe
12. Ashtray Chaos
13. Beginners Luck
14. Taken Down
15. Sematary of the Living
notes .ᐟ my plan is for each song to be a chapter, and then, if i need more to make more chapters, they'll release another album. i worked too hard on the vinyl and got lazy when it came to the cover 😔
stop i’m literally so in love with your acc, it’s gorgeous!!!! missed you sm. need to start writing or creating something again tbh but idk what.
anywaysss had this super cool drummer!rafe idea where they’re all like mid-20s and were suspected of murder (maybe a roadie died or an ex bandmate??)
buttt there you are interning with the local police department (aka nancy drew nerd) and go poking around (woah somehow you end up in rafe’s arms what a coincidence). maybe he did it or maybeee he didn’t, who knows. ur just a silly little inter.. right?? unless ofc this wasn’t the first time you met and you both did it together?
anyways do what you wish with this, feel free to let it rot. ur a genius mastermind either way. ily mwahhh
(here’s some drew pics mini moodboard bc why not)
Partners In Crime — Rafe Cameron.
pairing: drummer!rafe x policeintern!reader
summary: your internship at the kildare county sheriff's department proves extremely useful after ex-bandmate of local rock sensation, morphine animals, is found murdered.
warnings: smut! semi-public sex, unprotected p in v, murder, inaccuracies regarding police work
word count: 3.6k words !
a/n: this request is AMAZING omg!! your mind is literally so incredibly brilliant. i am so incredibly jealous. i just want to scoop it out and study it because your plots are always so genius it's insane. also, i got a little freaky with this request. i don't know where it came from, but i hope yall enjoy. side note, i know nothing about police stations or internships beyond what I've seen on tv, so this is most likely very far from anything that would happen in real life.
✶ . ࣪ ׅ You cursed quietly, swatting a mosquito away from you as your fingers danced along the collection of files, skimming through the box of evidence labeled "Ryder, Elliot". It was July, and the summer was in full swing. the air was thick and heavy, causing a layer of sticky sweat to cling to every inch of your body. The cramped storage room seemed to be at least 10 degrees hotter than the rest of the police station, and it had the added bonus of recycled air that smelled of dust and mildew.
Your gaze flickered between the door and the police report in your hands, readying yourself to be caught any moment now. Technically, you weren't supposed to be looking at anything in this room. You were simply an intern, and as such, your jobs mostly consisted of clerical work like running the front desk, answering phones, and filling out the occasional police report—typically for some misdemeanor offense that they had granted you competent enough to navigate your way around.
On a normal day, you did not have clearance to be in this little room with all the important documents pertaining to cases ranging anywhere from vandalism to first-degree murder. However, on this particular day, you had been instructed to organize and clean the records room, ensuring that everything was dusted off and placed in alphabetical order.
You knew you weren't really supposed to take a peek into any of these boxes, but when you saw the name Elliot Ryder on one of the boxes, you simply couldn't help yourself. It was the biggest case your town had seen in the last decade.
"Local rock legend Morphine Animal's ex-band-mate found murdered" had been splashed across headlines for weeks, each news site ranging from local to national discussing the case and their theories, but surprisingly much of the case had remained a mystery.
Morphine Animals had been practically untouchable ever since they skyrocketed to fame. It was truly fascinating how quickly they went from small-town rockstar wannabes to household names. They became a national sensation practically overnight, and it all started when Elliot Ryder was fired as the band's drummer and replaced by Rafe Cameron.
You remembered it vividly. Elliot went around telling everybody who would listen how he was cheated out of fame. The other three band members had been his childhood best friends. The band was their passion project and they had vowed to do it all together, but then, one night, they just dropped him out of the blue, and Rafe Cameron took his spot.
People couldn't help but wonder if the band's colorful history had anything to do with the murder. The whole situation would've made more sense if Rafe was the one murdered. It would be open and shut. Elliot killed Rafe to get back at him for taking his spot and stealing the fame that was "rightfully" his, but revenge just doesn't quite sit right with the case being turned around.
Rockstar drummer that has it all kills small-town drunk nobody? It just doesn't fit.
You turn your attention back to the police report in hand. You didn't have much time left before someone inevitably needed a file or came to check on you, so you needed to focus, read it, and put everything back where you found it before that happened.
Case Number 0608
Responding Officer: Sheriff Susan Peterkin
On 06/28/2023 at approximately 2100 hours, I responded to a noise complaint at 2971 Shorecrest Drive.
I knocked on the front door, but there was no answer. I announced myself as the police and knocked once more, but again, received no answer. I looked into the window for signs of life, and saw Elliot Ryder laying prone on the living room floor with a pool of blood around him. I immediately radioed for assistance and kicked down the door. I checked his pulse and discovered that Ryder was deceased. While I waited for assistance, I secured the scene. At approximately 2110 hours, Deputy Victor Shoupe, Officer Danielle Lyonne, and Officer Franklin Hewitt arrived on scene. Officers Hewitt and Lyonne canvased the surrounding homes and took their statements to find out if anyone had seen or heard anything. Their individual statements are enclosed. Deputy Shoupe called for the coroner and cordoned off the area while I began assessing the crime scene in a spiral method. Pictures included document the blood patterns and shattered glass discovered at the scene. No murder weapon was discovered.
I instructed Deputy Shoupe to stay at the scene and await the coroner's arrival while I headed back to the station. At approximately 2330 hours, I left the scene.
Your eyebrows furrowed in concentration as you read over the report. You used the back of your hand to wipe the beads of sweat that had formed on your forehead—created from a mix of the unbearable heat and your growing nervousness as the moments ticked by—stopping them from dripping down your skin.
Your gaze darted to the door once again before returning to the files, pulling out a series of pictures that documented the crime scene.
He was found on his stomach, the hair on the back of his head matted with blood. The cause of death was blunt force trauma, and it was very evident from the crime scene photos.
You turned your attention from the photos documenting his body to the ones showing the state his living room had been left in. There was broken glass from a shattered mirror near the front door coating the carpet, and the living room looked like it had been hit by a tornado. Furniture had been turned over, his belongings strewn about in a disorganized fashion. It seemed like whoever had been there was looking for something.
Something in one of the photos caught your eye. It was small, almost imperceptible, but the flash from the camera reflected off something imbeded into the cream colored carpet just beneath the table that Elliot's body was found beside.
Your brows furrowed as you brought the photo closer to your face, squinting to get a better look.
The sound of footsteps approaching made you jump. You quickly folded the picture and shoved it into your pocket before placing the photos and police report back into the box and hauling it onto the shelf.
"Hey, kid," Deputy Shoupe peeked his head inside, the sound of him chewing his gum seemingly reverberating off the walls. You turned, your face flushed, and your heart practically beating out of your chest. You had managed to get everything in order moments before he opened the door.
"Uh, yes, sir?" You cleared your throat, brushing away a strand of hair that had gotten stuck to your sticky forehead.
"Boss lady needs the Ryder files," he informed you, still smacking his gum. The sound filled your ears, somehow louder than the beating of your own heart.
You nodded, swallowing hard as you turned and grabbed the box, the piece of paper in your pocket feeling like it weighed a ton as you carried the heavy box over to him. "Can I ask why?" You worked up the courage to ask, handing him the files, your palms sweaty as you pulled back.
"Just got done interviewing Rafe Cameron," he told you, propping the box under his arm. Your eyes widened a fraction. Why was Sheriff Peterkin reinterviewing him? Was there new evidence to connect him to the murder? "So, she wants to take another look at the evidence."
"Oh," you simply said, the room seeming to grow hotter. "Whew, god, it's hot," you huffed, fanning yourself. "Are you hot?" You asked, clearly not doing well at playing it cool.
"You alright kid?" He asked, quirking an eyebrow curiously at your odd behavior.
"Yeah, I think I'm just gonna step outside and get some air," you nodded, suddenly feeling very suffocated in the stuffy atmosphere.
"Sure, whatever," he shrugged, clearly not all that interested in you or your actions as he turned on his heels to deliver the box to Peterkin.
You hurried down the long, grey corridor, pushing the backdoor open harshly when you arrived at it. Outside wasn't much cooler, but the small, shaded alleyway provided reprieve from the sun's unrelenting rays. You took a few deep breaths, feeling better now that you were breathing fresh, clean air.
"You look like shit," a voice piped up. Your head whipped to the side, eyes finding the source. Rafe Cameron was leaned up against the wall, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. He was wearing a white tank top that clung to him like a second skin. the heat was just as unforgiving on him, his muscles glistening and his hair sticking out in all directions, a few strands clinging to his slick forehead.
"Excuse me," you scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. Truthfully, you knew you probably did look like shit. You were sweating like a pig, your clothes clinging to you uncomfortably, and after hours of running your hands through it and being subject to intense humidity, your hair was undoubtedly frizzy and wild.
Rafe pushed off the wall, taking one last drag before flicking the cigarette onto the ground and crushing it under his boot. His blue eyes locked onto yours, amusement dancing in them as he approached you. "I'm just sayin'," he drawled, his voice a low rumble.
"Yeah, well, you don't look too hot yourself," you rolled your eyes. It was a lie, of course. Somehow, he even made sweating to death in the sweltering July heat look sexy. It was utterly infuriating.
He grinned, amused at your attempt to insult him, but he could see right through you. "You mad at me or somethin'?" His hand reached out and wrapped around your wrist, his grip sending shivers down your spine.
"You just said I looked like shit," you glared at him. The heat was making you irritable, and it didn't help that his stupid fucking earring—that you'd told him twenty goddamn times to take out—had showed up in a crime scene photo.
Rafe's thumb began to trace circles on the inside of your wrist, his touch sending electric jolts through your body. "C'mon, you know I was just teasing you, baby," he murmured, his voice soft and seductive. He knew how to play your body better than he knew how to play his drums.
You stubbornly pulled away from him, ignoring the way your body reacted to his touch. "You're lucky I got saddled with file room duty, asshole" you gritted out, pulling the picture from your back pocket and shoving it into his muscular chest.
Rafe wore a silver stud in his ear, a staple of his rockstar persona, and that little glimmer of reflected flash in that crime scene photo was that stud, which had fallen out during the murder.
Thankfully, it hadn't been logged into evidence and had been completely overlooked by the bumbling small town crime scene techs, so you only had to take the photo to keep that little piece of incriminating evidence from ever being discovered.
Rafe glanced down at the photo, his expression unchanging as he took it in. He looked back up at you, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You worried about me, babe?" He asked, his voice laced with mockery, but there was a harder edge to it that betrayed his unperturbed demeanor.
"No," you shot back, your brows furrowing in frustration. God, the heat was making you bitchy. "I'm worried about myself. I mean, I covered up your little fuck up perfectly. The last thing I need is for you and your lame ass jewlery to fuck me over."
Rafe's hand snaked out and wrapped around your throat, his grip tight but not painful. He backed you up against the brick wall, his eyes boring into yours. "You think I can't take care of my own shit?" He asked, his voice a low growl. His patience was clearly wearing thinner and thinner by the second. He was already agitated at being ripped away from band practice to do this little song and dance with the police. The last thing he needed was you bitching at him and challenging his capabilites.
"If you could take care of your own shit, you wouldn't have called me in the middle of the night panicking because you fucking killed someone," you retorted, not backing down. You weren't afraid of him in the slightest. You knew what he was capable of, but it didn't scare you. In fact, there was a twisted part of you that liked knowing about his violent side.
Rafe Cameron had been the one to kill Elliot Ryder in cold blood, and he'd called you up moments after because he knew your experience as a police intern would come in handy. You had rushed over and helped him stage the whole thing as a burglary gone wrong. Unfortunately, Rafe hadn't realized his little wardrobe malfunction until it was too late to go back and retrieve it.
His face darkened, his hand tightening around your throat. "I had it handled," he hissed. "Until you showed up and decided to play detective." His other hand reached down, gripping your hip possessively. "You're supposed to be on my side, not throwing my mistakes in my face."
"Then stop making dumb fucking mistakes," you spat, your jaw clenching in annoyance. You could feel your panties growing wetter by the second, which only fueled your frustration toward him. You hated how he could still make you want him even when he was being a complete asshole.
Rafe's face twisted with anger, but beneath it, you saw a flicker of something else—desire. He leaned in close, his breath hot against your lips. "You know, I should just shut you up for good," he muttered, his grip on your throat unyielding.
"Yeah?" You asked, your voice almost taunting. "You gonna kill me, Rafe?" You looked him in the eye, not backing down. "Who's gonna clean up your messes then, huh?"
His expression turned grim, and for a monent, you thought he might actually do it. But, then, without warning, he crushed his mouth to yours in a rough, bruising kiss. His hands tightened further on your hip, pressing against your body and pinning you in place.
He bit down hard on your lip, drawing blood. His tongue darted out, lapping up the blood and soothing the wound as his thumb rubbed over your pulse point, feeling the way your heartbeat quickened with desire. His mouth tasted of nicotine, stale beer, a slight hint of mint, and then the metallic taste of your blood on his tongue. If it were anyone else, you would've recoiled in disgust, but something about him was intoxicating.
He was so close you could feel his bulge pressing into you, and it only made you want him more. You didn't care that you were pressed against a wall in the back alley behind the police precinct, in fact, something about it, the potential thrill of getting caught, turned you on more.
Rafe's hands moved to grip your ass under your skirt, roughly palming the fatty flesh with his rough hands. He broke the kiss, his lips moving to your neck, where he bit down hard enough to leave a mark. "You drive me fucking crazy," he growled.
"Yeah, well you're fucking insufferable," you said breathlessly, tilting your head to the side and threading your fingers into his hair as he continued his assault on your neck.
He grunted in response, his hands squeezing your backside painfully before he pulled away to fumble with his belt, the buckle clanking loudly in the otherwise quiet alley.
As he fiddled with his belt, you took your opportunity to latch your lips onto his neck, the salty taste of his skin mixed with the thin layer of sweat coating him danced on your tongue as you sucked and nipped at the areas you knew would drive him wild.
Rafe's breathing hitched as you marked him, his body stiffening. He finally got his belt undone and his pants unbuttoned, shoving them down just enough to free his hard length.
He gripped your thighs, hoisting you up and pressing you hard against the wall as your legs wrapped around his waist. "Think you need to learn your place," he said darkly, pulling your panties to the side.
With one swift movement, he thrust deep inside you, filling you completely. He held you pinned against the wall, his hips rolling into yours in deep, punishing thrusts. "You're supposed to worship the ground I walk on," he muttered, his voice ragged.
You gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he began to move, his powerful hips snapping back and forth as he pounded into you. His blue eyes, darkened with lust, locked onto yours, watching your face intently.
"Answer me," he demanded, his voice low and menacing. He slowed his pace, his hips rolling leisurely, his thick length stretching you wide. He knew his slow pace was like torture to you. "Tell me you worship me, baby."
"Fuck," you moaned, your face scrunching in a mix of pain and pleasure as the brick wall dug uncomfortably into your back. "I worship you, Rafe."
A smug grin spread across his face at your words, his pace quickening as he continued to slam into you, his hips rolling in that way that always hit that spot inside you, making you practically see stars. "Good girl," he praised, his lips finding yours again.
Your arms snaked around his neck, fingers curling into his hair and tugging slightly as his mouth swallowed your little whimpers and moans.
He released your mouth, his head tilting down to watch where you were joined. He let out a low groan, his body tensing as he watched himself disappear inside of you. "Look at you taking me so well," he gritted out, his pace quickening.
You gasped when you felt his thumb begin rubbing tight circles on your clit, drawing you closer and closer to the edge. "Such a dirty fuckin' girl," he growled. "Letting me fuck you in an alleyway, behind a police station no less." His lewd words only served to heighten your arousal.
His other hand reached up to wrap around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you dizzy as he continued to pound into you. "I'm going to fill this pretty little cunt with my cum," he snarled, his voice echoing off the brick walls.
His words paired with his grip on your throat and the way he was pounding into you sent you over the edge, your eyes rolling back as you moaned his name.
His hand on your neck tightened possessively as you came apart for him, his own release following shortly after as he felt your walls squeeze down on him, milking his cock. He buried his face against your neck, his breathing hot and ragged against your skin. "That's my girl."
You panted, your head falling back against the brick as you caught your breath, your mind reeling as the weight of what you'd just done crashed over you. It was reckless and stupid to have let that happen, especially behind the police station you worked at. If anyone saw you, it could raise some serious red flags.
Rafe slowly lowered you back to the ground, pressing one last kiss to your swollen lips before tucking himself back into his underwear and pulling his jeans up, refastening his belt. He leaned against the wall beside you, lighting a cigarette as he looked you over with a lazy smirk. "Try not to look so guilty."
"Don't be an asshole," you shot him a sharp look, fixing your skirt and blouse. Now, you had to go back to work and act as if you didn't have a murderer's cum leaking out of you.
Rafe took a long drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a slow stream. He watched you intently, his eyes glinting with amusement as he observed you straighten your hair and adjust your collar, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism. "I'll pick you up after your shift. We've got a few more things to discuss."
"You can't pick me up here," you said, crossing your arms over your chest.
Rafe raised an eyebrow, pushing off from the wall and taking a few slow steps closer to you. "And why not?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. He knew very well why not, but he wanted to hear you say it.
"Don't play dumb, Rafe," you rolled your eyes. He could be so very infuriating when he wanted to be.
"Say it," he insisted, his voice firm. He took another step closer, towering over you. "Tell me why I can't pick you up here." His hand reached up, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a deceptively gentle touch.
You huffed frustratedly, narrowing your eyes at his insistence. "Because you killed Elliot Ryder, and I'm your fucking accomplice," you relented.
Rafe's hand tightened, gripping your cheeks firmly, his touch bordering on painful as he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. "Shhh," he whispered, his voice dark and threatening. "You shouldn't go around saying things like that, baby."
You glared up at him, your annoyance evident in your gaze. Everything always had to be a game with him, and sometimes it utterly maddened you.
Rafe's lips curled into a smirk as he pulled back, his hand falling away from your face. "I'll pick you up around the corner," he said, as if the matter was settled. He took another drag of his cigarette before tossing it to the ground and heading down the alleyway to his car.
You watched him leave, your gaze burning holes into his back for a moment as he retreated before you shook your annoyance away, pulling the back door to the station open and heading back inside.
♯┆"this may just be a vacation for you, cameron, but it's my life," ⏤ in which, rafe cameron joins a pogue band in an attempt to rebel against his father and show him that he does have ambitions, even if they're unconventional, but everything goes awry when he finds himself having to choose between his cushy, luxurious lifestyle and the gritty, raw world of rock n' roll, challenging everything he's ever thought he wanted.
NAV ! Part Double Zero. Part Zero.
🎧 ⊹ᡣ𐭩₊⋆ ─── INTRODUCING THE BAND.
[THE CAMERA SMASHCUTS FROM A SERENIC OCEANVIEW OF THE SUNSET TO A BLURRED SHOT OF A DINGY BASEMENT. LOUD ROCK MUSIC REVERBERATES THROUGHOUT THE ROOM]
HERE IS.... MORPHINE ANIMALS !
🎤 ⊹ᡣ𐭩₊⋆ ─── 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄.
rock n' roll soul .ᐟ lead singer of morphine animals. 555. bell bottoms. smudged eyeliner. band tees . faded denim. setlists scribbled on bar napkins. cigarette butts. cheap leather. vinyl records.
[THE CAMERA FOCUSES ON A GIRL, RED LIGHT FLOODING HER FACE AS SHE SINGS INTO A MICROPHONE MOUNTED ON A STAND, ADDING TO THE GRUNGY ATMOSPHERE OF THE OTHERWISE DARK ROOM.]
[JOHN B'S VOICE EMERGES OVER THE MUSIC]: See that girl right there?
[THE CAMERA SLOWLY ZOOMS ON HER FACE, FITTED WITH A BIG, GLEAMING GRIN AS SHE FEELS THE MUSIC FLOW THROUGH HER BODY, EACH WORD FALLING FROM HER LIPS WITH PRACTICED EASE]
[JOHN B VOICEOVER]: That's Y/N Y/L/N, but she goes by NICKNAME. She claims it's more "rock and roll," whatever that means. She's a Pogue, probably one of the coolest I know—but don't tell her I said that. She's got a killer voice. I think she's a natural born star, but she says that pogues can never make it beyond this island.
UP NEXT...
🎸 ⊹ᡣ𐭩₊⋆ ─── 𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐊.
adrenaline junkie .ᐟ guitar god. 666. calloused fingertips. spilled beer. stained tees. sun-kissed skin. guitar pick necklaces. burnt out cigarettes. band posters. gradfitied walls. bonfires.
[THE CAMERA SLOWLY PANS TO THE SIDE, FOCUSING ON THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM. A BOY'S EYES ARE SHUT TIGHT, HIS HANDS WORKING THE CHORDS OF AN OLD, RED ELECTRIC GUITAR, NICKS AND SCAPES LITTERING THE VARNISH, GIVING IT A WORN, ROCK N ROLL FEEL]
[JOHN B VOICEOVER]: That handsome blondie right there would be JJ Maybank, my best friend since birth. He can absolutely shred on the guitar, but he really only joined to make Y/N happy. His motto is to have a good time, all the time. Plus, as he always says, being famous wouldn't hurt..
AND FINALLY...
🥁 ⊹ᡣ𐭩₊⋆ ─── 𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍.
rebellious rich boy .ᐟ badass drummer. 888. whiskey breath. dilated pupils. fast cars. bloody knuckles. gold chains. expensive cologne. designer jeans. drumsticks and bad decisions. cocaine residue.
[THE MUSIC CEASES AS THE SONG COMES TO AN END. THE CAMERA ZOOMS BACK OUT, ALLOWING A WIDE-ANGLED SHOT OF THE ROOM THAT INTRODUCES A VISUAL OF A THIRD PERSON SITTING BEHIND A DRUMSET. HIS LIGHT BROWN HAIR, TYPICALLY SLICKED BACK IN A NEAT MANNER, IS STICKING OUT IN ALL DIRECTIONS, BEADS OF SWEAT GLISTENING ON HIS FOREHEAD AS SOME STRANDS CLING TO HIS FACE. HE LICKS HIS LIPS, LETTING OUT A LABORED BREATH.]
[JOHN B'S VOICE CUTS BACK IN, THE FAINT ADMIRATION THAT WAS PRESENT BEFORE NOW COMPLETELY GONE, REPLACED BY ANNOYANCE]: Last and certainly least is Rafe Cameron—so called, Kook prince and king of the assholes. He's only in the band because they couldn't find another drummer good enough. Unfortunately, musicians are sparse in Kildare.
BUY TICKETS HERE !
୭ৎ
notes .ᐟ not as aesthetic as i wanted, but i hope you guys like it !! i'm not sure how i'll tell this story yet, but i think i want the next part to be the track list, and then every chapter is a "track" (soleil stop making such complicated series challenge!!!)
tags .ᐟ @starkeysprincess / @cometmultiverse / @lovemesailor / @all4l0vee / @kissesfrmriri / @bradshawed / @rafeslittleangel / @bakugouswaif / @fakedhearts / @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 / @piastrify / @kisselxoll (you can ask to be added or removed at any time !!)
