what NHL!Rafe did for prettygirl!reader for mothers day…
she woke up to whispering.
aggressive whispering.
“isla, stop pushing me.”
“i’m not pushing you.”
“you literally elbowed me.”
“because you’re standing too close.”
then a loud crash echoed from downstairs followed by rafe hissing, “shit.”
she smiled before even opening her eyes.
mother’s day.
the second she walked into the hallway, she could smell coffee and something sweet drifting upstairs. probably pancakes if she had to guess. she made it halfway down before hearing tiny footsteps racing toward her.
“mama!”
her daughter launched herself directly into her legs while her son followed behind at a much slower pace, trying very hard to act cool despite the giant grin on his face.
“you weren’t supposed to wake up yet,” he informed her seriously.
“sorry,” she whispered dramatically. “i ruined the mission.”
her daughter gasped. “daddy said mission too!”
“yeah? where is daddy?”
both kids immediately looked toward the kitchen.
and there he was.
rafe stood at the stove in gray sweats and a black compression shirt, hair messy like he’d been running his hands through it for the past hour. there was flour on his shoulder somehow, pancake batter on the counter, and syrup dangerously close to spilling off the island.
he looked exhausted.
he also looked ridiculously pretty.
the second he noticed her standing there, his entire face softened.
“c’mere,” he said quietly.
she barely made it two steps before his arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her against his chest while he kissed her slow and warm.
“happy mother’s day, pretty girl.”
“you made breakfast?”
“attempted breakfast,” their son corrected.
“i heard that,” rafe muttered.
their daughter proudly pointed toward the stove. “he burned six pancakes.”
“five,” rafe argued.
“six.”
“one was barely burned.”
she laughed against his shoulder while he pressed another kiss into her hair.
“go sit down,” he told her softly. “you’re not allowed to do anything today.”
“that sounds fake.”
“it’s not fake,” her son said immediately. “dad woke us up at six.”
“six?” she repeated.
rafe shrugged like it was nothing. “needed time to prep.”
“you mean needed time to fail multiple times,” the boy answered.
rafe narrowed his eyes. “watch it.”
their son only grinned before helping his little sister carry plates to the table. she watched the entire thing with warmth sitting heavy in her chest.
because rafe had always been intense about loving people.
everything with him was overwhelming. loud. consuming.
but fatherhood had softened him in places she didn’t think existed.
he still played rough on the ice. still got into fights. still had that mean streak when it came to literally anyone else.
but with them?
god.
with them, he was gentle.
she sat at the table while rafe brought over coffee exactly how she liked it without asking. then he placed a horribly misshapen pancake onto her plate like he was presenting fine dining
“be honest,” he said. “they look terrible, right?”
“they look beautiful.”
“liar.”
their daughter climbed into the chair beside her. “daddy almost cried earlier.”
“i did not cry.”
“you got frustrated.”
“that’s not crying.”
“you said a lotta bad words.”
he sighed heavily. “i’m surrounded by haters.”
their son snorted into his juice.
breakfast was honestly awful.
the pancakes were raw in the middle and somehow salty, the fruit was unevenly cut because apparently rafe let the kids help, and the bacon was nearly black.
she loved every second of it.
after breakfast, the kids disappeared upstairs while rafe cleaned the kitchen despite her trying to help.
“absolutely not,” he said firmly, pointing at her with the spatula. “sit down.”
“yes sir.”
his eyes darkened for half a second before rolling them. “don’t start.”
she smirked.
a few minutes later, both kids came running back downstairs carrying handmade cards.
their daughter’s had glitter glued so aggressively to the front that it was literally falling off.
their son’s was messier in a different way. older. less little kid-ish. he tried to act embarrassed handing it to her.
“dad said we had to make them.”
“because it’s mother’s day,” rafe defended.
“you made me redo mine twice.”
“because the first one said ‘happy birthday.’”
“i was tired.”
she laughed so hard she nearly cried.
then she actually did cry opening the cards.
because her daughter had drawn their family holding hands under a giant uneven heart.
and her son had written, in messy handwriting, thank you for always coming to my games even when dad’s games are bigger.
that one ruined her.
completely.
“oh, buddy,” she whispered, pulling him into her arms immediately.
he groaned dramatically about her embarrassing him, but still hugged her back tight.
rafe leaned against the counter watching all of them quietly.
softly.
like this was his favorite thing in the world.
later that afternoon, after flowers and gifts and an expensive necklace she’d already scolded him for buying, rafe drove them out to the lake house for the rest of the weekend.
the kids ran ahead toward the dock while she stayed behind beside the car, watching them.
watching him.
rafe came up behind her slowly, hands sliding around her waist.
“what?” he murmured against her temple.
“nothing.”
“you’re staring.”
she turned in his arms a little. “just thinking.”
“dangerous.”
she rolled her eyes.
his grin faded into something softer when he looked down at her.
“you happy today?”
the question caught her off guard.
not because of what he asked.
because he sounded nervous asking it.
like after all these years, after two kids and a million “i love you”s and every impossible thing they’d survived together, he still worried about getting it right.
she reached up, fixing the collar of his shirt gently.
Heyyy! i just had a thought about bardown!rafe and reader, like reader being in rehearsal or smth and rafe watching and getting turned on… (and maybe leading to something +18🤭🤭)
Would love to read something like this! Love your work💕💕💕
-bia
Hi babe!! Thank you for your compliments and your ask 🤭 that means a lot to me. This does not need to be read with the rest of the au
c/w: slut!rafe, language, sexting, masturbation (male), sex tape and casting it on the TV, sex fantasies about the reader, overstimulation (rafe), unprotected p in v, possessive!rafe, begging, creampie, praise, rough-ish (hair pulling, slapping hand away) + voyeurism
2.4K
Rafe should’ve stayed busy.
Should’ve kept the TV on. Should’ve gone for a run. Should’ve thrown his phone under a couch cushion and walked the hell away from it.
But he didn’t. He’s sprawled on the sectional, thumb swiping restlessly, halfway watching Sports Center while waiting on the clock to hit draft party o’clock. His jaw’s tight; shirt wrinkled. And his patience? Nonexistent.
📱Rafe: Baby I miss you so much. You free?
He stares at the message like it’ll bring you home faster. Like maybe if he wants it bad enough, you’ll teleport from that studio across town and climb right onto his lap.
Buzz.
📱You: No baby. Sorry 💔
And then—fucking then—comes the picture.
You’re in glam. Full beat, hair curled, mouth glossy, posing mid-laugh in a silk corset and high-waisted micro shorts.
His head drops back against the couch with a low, guttural groan.
“Jesus Christ…”
He palms himself through his pants on instinct, already half-hard, vision blurring slightly as he squints at the screen like that’ll make your image drill deeper into his brain.
📱Rafe: You sure you’re not getting out soon?
📱Rafe: Like soon-soon?
He’s only half-joking, fingers fidgeting, stomach all twisted up—because it’s been days since he’s touched you, since he’s felt you curled up in his arms.
📱You: No 😞
His free hand flies up to rake through his hair, mouth parted in exasperation.
“Cool, cool, cool,” he mutters.
Then buzz. Another pic.
This one’s worse. You’re sitting pretty in front of the mirror, legs crossed, strap falling off one shoulder, giving the camera that look that always fucks with him—that “I know what I’m doing” smirk like you’re the star of his wildest dreams.
His slacks are definitely tighter.
Rafe adjusts and hisses at the pinch.
And then TikTok has the absolute audacity to send a notification.
🔔 @/yourname just posted: with @/stassiebby — Lights Down Low dance credit: @/kiana
His thumb’s already moving, instantly.
There you are, his girl, twirling, dropping into the beat, laughing with your best friend and looking way too fucking good for someone who just told him ‘no, baby, sorry.’
You’re so damn talented. So bubbly. So hot it actually hurts.
Rafe drags a hand down his face, biting back another groan as you spins in those tiny shorts, ass recoiling with a hard step.
And he knows. He knows if he opens that hidden folder—the one with the private videos you sent him on his road trips, the slow ones, the unedited ones, the ones where you moan his name and gasps “I wish it was you” he’s gonna spiral completely.
His body’s already burning; zipper halfway down.
Hearing your voice echo through the living room might just break him. But honestly? If he can’t have you, that’s exactly how he wants to go.
His phone buzzes again—and yeah, of course it’s you. You always know.
📱You: You got real quiet baby…
📱You: What are you doing?
He chuckles to himself, slow and low, filling the dark room. Rafe bites his lip, hand already resting over the thick bulge, hand rubbing teasingly.
“Yeah, yeah…” He mutters under his breath, fingers gliding toward the hidden folder on his phone, “you know what I’m doin’, sweetheart.”
The folder opens. He taps once. It expands.
And just the thumbnails alone nearly make him come undone.
You in his t-shirt. Bent over the edge of his bed, glancing back at the camera with that breathy little smile.
Or you in the back of his sports car, legs spread, moaning out his name as your pussy swallowing him up—Rafe’s cock glistening with you.
Or you and that first time you ever sent him a video in the pitch black, just your voice, soft and needy, whispering “I miss you so bad, Rafe…” leaving the rest up for his imagination to run wild.
He scrolls, breath caught somewhere high in his throat, heart racing faster with every thumbnail he flicks past. God, you made it so difficult for him —and right now it’s a fucking lifeline. Each preview teases something worse than the last: your face, your thighs, your mouth… his t-shirt slipping off your shoulder.
And then he finds the one.
That first night you filmed something for him alone in his house when he was gone, wearing his white button-down, nothing underneath except that lace she knew drove him insane, like you’d already know he’d be watching it in a moment like this with his hand wrapped tight around his cock.
He taps the screen. AirPlays it to the living room TV.
It fills the space in front of him and his hand drops to his lap. He moans, unzipping the rest of the way, letting his cock free and aching in his palm. The video starts, the soft whisper of fabric falling away.
He’s already close and you haven’t even started yet.
His phone buzzes.
📱You: baby?
A grin curls on his lips as he types back one-handed, thumb slow over the keyboard.
📱Rafe: Hands a little busy princess. Unless you have some time for me
You smirk as your driver rolls through the traffic light. You’re almost there… Just two turns away from the high-rise and your heart’s pounding from the thrill of it. Rafe doesn’t know yet. He thinks you’re still at the studio, teasing him just to wind him up.
You open the texts, see his name, and already you feel yourself start to throb. You move in your seat, thighs squeezing together.
📱You: I wish I was there
You don’t wait for his reply. You flick open your camera roll, grabbing a picture he hasn’t seen yet. One you took to tease him on his upcoming trip. His Kings sweatshirt lifted up around your waist showing off your ass and panties.
📱You: your turn
He nearly chokes when he sees the photo, and the contrast of your sweet little message with the image is too much. He’s already pumping slowly, but now his grip tightens, hips pitching.
📱Rafe: jesus fucking christ
📱Rafe: you’re evil
📱Rafe: you’re perfect
📱Rafe: you do this shit on purpose baby
📱You: send me a video when you cum. Volume on
📱Rafe: anything for you
📱Rafe: watching that video you took when I was in Vegas. You were wearing my shirt. Red panties. So fucking wet holy shit
He watches himself in the reflection of the window; jaw tight, eyes hazed, cock swollen in his fist. He’s not gonna last like this.
He lowers the phone for a second, groaning into the void, eyes locked on the TV where your slipping your panties lower and lower down your thighs.
You bite down a grin and don’t even wait to make it to the elevator—already typing.
📱You: don’t forget the video baby. I want to use it later
📱Rafe: Stop shit I’m trying to last
📱You: no baby. i want you to cum for me.
You’re walking now—keys in hand, purse hanging off your arm as you hit the elevator button and lean against the wall, heart in your throat.
You know what that video does to him. You made it for this reason. You can picture it perfectly: the way he’s watching, breathing hot and heavy, legs spread wide on the couch where you’ll be joining him in about thirty seconds.
You pop the lock open and step inside quietly. The second you look up, your whole body floods with heat.
He’s sunk into the couch—shirt wide open, pants halfway down, hair sticking up in every direction like he’s been raking through it for hours. One hand’s gripping his phone tight, knuckles washed out from how hard he’s holding on. The other moves slow between his thighs, stroking himself slick, twisting at the tip with a low, ruined sound that shoots straight through you.
Your voice’s everywhere—floating out of the TV in soft moans and shaky little sighs. The screen lights up his face in flashes, catching the edge of his jaw, the slow blink of his lashes as his head falls back, mouth open.
He’s too far gone to hear the door. Doesn’t even flinch when you step inside.
Not when you drop your bag.
Not when you toe off your heels.
Not when you reach up to pull off the Kings sweatshirt—his sweatshirt—exposing nothing but the lace underneath.
You watch him close, not even knowing you’re in the room yet. Your fingers curl around the straps of your panties, slowly dragging them down as you cross the floor, and still he doesn’t move. Still lost in the image of you on his screen, your name slipping off his tongue.
You peel off the last piece of clothing.
And then you speak. He sees you—and it’s like his brain stalls out.
Because there you are. His hand slips off his cock, chest heaving, and for a second, he honestly wonders if he’s dreaming—if the video, the moans, the grip of his own fist made him hallucinate you.
But then you’re on him. Straddling his lap. Skin on skin.
And it’s too real. Too warm. Too good.
“Baby…” He breathes, hoarse from panting your name. “You’re here?” He whispers, almost like he doesn’t believe it. “—Didn’t think I could need somethin’ so bad.”
You take over without a word, your hand wrapping around him, slick from his own palm, stroking him slow and tight. And it’s everything. His hips twitch. His eyes slam shut.
“You close?” You murmur, eyes teasing, lips right by his ear.
“Yeah—Fuck yeah, baby—I was right there—”
He’s a mess beneath you—hands gripping your ass like he doesn’t know where else to hold, head nuzzling the crook of your neck, muscles trembling. You’ve never seen him this worked up; so close he’s barely breathing, moaning under his breath like he’s trying to hold it together now that you’re here.
But you don’t let him.
You rise up on your knees, line him up, and sink down in one slow, sinful motion.
And that’s it. Rafe shatters. His entire body locks up—eyes rolling, jaw falling open, one loud, guttural groan echoing off the high-rise windows as you take him deep.
“Fuck—Fuck. Oh my god, baby—” he cries out, spilling the second you bottom out. His fingers dig into your skin, anchoring himself to you.
He wasn’t ready. He didn’t think this was how tonight would end.
But here you are. Wrapped around him. Making him cum so hard he sees stars. He barely gets out a broken, “Thank you,” before you start to move.
You roll your hips dragging a jagged gasp from his chest, like it shocks his whole body. Like it’s the first time he’s ever felt you. The sound between you is filthy, wet, too much. He jerks, hands flying to your waist, but he doesn’t stop you. Couldn’t if he tried.
He’s still twitching, barely coming down—and the second you move again, he’s gone. Eyes glazed, lips parted, completely overstimulated, just how you like him.
You know he’d never beg you to stop. Not when it’s you. Not when he’s finally got you back on him where you belong.
Your hands drag down his chest, nails trailing through the light sheen of sweat painting his abs. The flash of silver catches the city lights outside; the delicate initial around your neck and the shiny pendant stamped with his number. He watches it bounce with every thrust, his jaw going slack again.
“Fuck, baby…” He groans, helpless as you tilt back slightly and plant your hands on his knees, bouncing on his lap now, giving him the full view—your body taking every inch, squeezing around him like you were made to. He grips your thighs, hard, knuckles white, moaning so softly it barely makes it past his throat.
You reach one hand down to circle your clit but his reflexes snap. He slaps your hand away, fast and rough, and replaces it with his own greedy fingers.
“Mine,” he groans, low and possessive.
Then he fists your hair, pulls you forward, and crashes his mouth to yours. It’s messy and deep—his lips dragging across yours like he’s trying to memorize you again. His fingers don’t stop.
“I missed you,” he mumbles, kissing between every word. “Missed your voice, your body—how fuckin’ pretty you look when you take my dick—”
You hum into the kiss, mumbling right back, telling him how much you missed him, how good he feels, how you never wanna leave again.
You tighten around him—and fuck, he feels it. That flutter, that shake in your thighs, the way your breath catches as your head tips back.
“Baby…” He warns, voice cracking like he’s already there again. His grip clamps down on your hips, using you, bouncing you just right on top of him, driving into that spot that makes you cry for him. You're moaning with yourself on the TV as the video continues on, and to him it sounds like heaven. And then— “Rafe!”
You scream his name, eyes squeezing shut as you fall apart in his lap, soaking him, shaking from head to toe as your orgasm rolls through you.
And the second you do he follows.
With a sharp, broken groan, his head falls back, mouth open as he spills into you again. The overstimulation hits hard and his thighs jolt beneath you. Rafe’s hands clamp down on your hips, holding you tight, filling you completely as his heartbeat hammers against your palms. His lashes flutter shut.
You fold into his chest, and his arms come around you right away.
Your mouth finds his—messy, deep, breathless. He kisses you like he’s afraid to let go. One hand cradles the back of your neck, the other spread wide across your spine, holding you close.
“I miss you,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours, his voice all shaky heat. “Miss you so bad it fuckin’ hurts.” You nod against him, still dazed, still trying to catch your breath.
And he holds you tighter. “Be here when I get home… I need you again before I leave.”
You giggle breathily into your kiss, still trying to catch your breath. “I think I’m just gonna come with you. How does that sound?”
Rafe’s smile pulls along your lips before he kisses you again.
“How the hell am I supposed to focus now? Got your moans stuck in my fuckin’ head… You in my bed all weekend? Yeah, that’s perfect, baby.”
jamie was three months old when she finally admitted something was wrong.
not to a doctor.
not to her mom.
not even to herself, really.
just to rafe.
it happened at two in the morning after jamie had finally fallen asleep. the apartment was dark except for the small lamp glowing in the corner of the nursery. rafe sat in the rocking chair with their son sleeping against his chest while she stood frozen in the doorway.
watching.
jamie always seemed happier with him.
it wasn’t true.
or maybe it was.
she couldn’t tell anymore.
all she knew was that every time she held him, she felt terrified. every cry felt like proof she was doing something wrong. every difficult feeding felt like evidence he didn’t want her.
rafe looked up from where he sat.
“baby?”
she swallowed.
“i think he hates me.”
the words slipped out before she could stop them.
immediately, rafe’s face fell.
“what?”
her eyes started burning.
“he doesn’t smile at me like he smiles at you.”
“jamie barely knows how to smile.”
“he does with you.”
“baby.”
“he cries every time i hold him.”
the tears came before she could stop them. suddenly they were falling down her face and she hated herself for crying because she’d been crying all day. all week. all month.
rafe carefully stood, transferring jamie into the crib before crossing the room.
“hey.”
she stepped back.
“don’t.”
“don’t what?”
“look at me like that.”
his brow furrowed.
“like what?”
“like you’re worried.”
that hurt him.
she could see it.
because rafe had been worried.
for months.
he’d watched her stop sleeping even when the baby slept. watched her pick at her food. watched her stare at walls for hours. watched her smile less and less until she barely smiled at all.
still, he’d never pushed.
never judged.
never made her feel broken.
he simply wrapped his arms around her and held her while she cried into his shirt.
“jamie loves you.”
she shook her head.
“he does.”
“you don’t know that.”
rafe pulled back just enough to look at her.
“yes, i do.”
“how?”
“because you’re his mom.”
she laughed bitterly.
“that’s not enough.”
his jaw tightened.
“for him, it is.”
she looked away.
the next morning, she woke up expecting rafe to leave for practice.
instead, she found him sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with jamie lying on a blanket between them.
their son kicked his tiny legs happily while rafe shook a stuffed penguin above him.
“good morning.”
she blinked.
“aren’t you late?”
“took the day off.”
“rafe.”
“don’t.”
he looked at her firmly.
“one practice isn’t more important than you.”
her throat tightened.
before she could answer, rafe scooped jamie up and stood.
then he placed the baby directly into her arms.
she instantly stiffened.
“rafe…”
“hold him.”
“he’s gonna cry.”
“he’s not.”
“you don’t know that.”
“i do.”
jamie stared up at her.
big blue eyes.
tiny hands.
a little milk stain on the front of his onesie.
she waited for him to start screaming.
he didn’t.
he just looked at her.
rafe moved behind her, wrapping his arms around both of them.
“see?”
she couldn’t relax.
couldn’t breathe.
couldn’t stop the voice in her head telling her she was doing everything wrong.
rafe must’ve noticed.
he always noticed.
because he rested his chin on her shoulder.
“tell me what you’re thinking.”
she stared at jamie.
“that he deserves a better mom.”
silence.
then—
“don’t ever say that.”
his voice wasn’t angry.
it was heartbroken.
she closed her eyes.
“i mean it.”
“i know.”
“he deserves someone who doesn’t mess everything up.”
“you don’t mess everything up.”
“rafe—”
“baby, look at me.”
she turned reluctantly.
his eyes were glossy.
and somehow that was worse.
because rafe rarely cried.
“you carried him for nine months.”
she felt tears forming again.
“you gave birth to him.”
another tear slipped free.
“you stay up with him.”
“rafe…”
“you love him so much that you’re sitting here convincing yourself he deserves better.”
his hand found hers.
“that doesn’t sound like a bad mom to me.”
she couldn’t speak.
couldn’t even breathe properly.
jamie made a tiny noise between them.
then something grabbed her finger.
she looked down.
his little fist had wrapped around her index finger.
completely by accident.
probably.
but he held on.
tight.
for some reason, that broke her.
she started crying so hard she had to sit down.
rafe immediately sat beside her.
one arm around her shoulders.
the other rubbing circles over jamie’s back.
they stayed like that for a long time.
just breathing.
just existing.
just surviving.
days turned into weeks.
rafe helped with everything.
he found doctors.
went to appointments with her.
held her hand in waiting rooms.
got up during night feedings even when he had practice at six in the morning.
never once complained.
never once made her feel guilty.
and slowly, things started changing.
not all at once.
not magically.
just little moments.
jamie falling asleep on her chest.
jamie turning his head when he heard her voice.
jamie calming down when she sang to him.
small things.
important things.
one afternoon, a few weeks later, she sat on the couch with jamie in her lap while rafe cooked dinner.
their son was awake and unusually content.
just staring at her.
watching.
she smiled hesitantly.
and suddenly, jamie smiled back.
a real one.
not gas.
not random.
a genuine smile.
his whole face lit up.
she froze.
“rafe.”
he looked up immediately.
“what happened?”
her eyes filled with tears.
“he smiled.”
“yeah?”
“at me.”
rafe’s expression softened instantly.
jamie smiled again.
she laughed through her tears.
and before she knew it, rafe was kneeling beside the couch.
one hand on her knee.
the other brushing jamie’s hair back.
watching them both.
watching the two people he loved most.
“told you.”
she looked at him.
“what?”
a small smile appeared on his face.
“he loves his mama.”
this time, for the first time in months, she believed him.
The morning started before the sun even broke the sky.
The baby monitor let out a soft, rhythmic static—then a sleepy whimper. Isla was up. Again.
Rafe groaned quietly, rolling over. “I got it.”
She didn’t argue. Four years of marriage had taught her that Rafe Cameron in dad-mode was a machine. He could be half-dead from an away game in Calgary and still get up for a 3 a.m. feeding like he was born for it. Which, of course, he claimed he was.
She heard the faint creak of the nursery door, then the gentle hush of Rafe’s voice, deep and low, as he lifted Isla into his arms. It was always like that—soft in ways the rest of the world never got to see.
Pretty girl, pretty life.
She stretched, turning her face into the pillow with a smile, and listened to the baby settle.
Twenty minutes later, the sun finally broke through the curtains, and Rafe returned with Isla against his bare chest, one big hand splayed protectively across her tiny back.
“She’s back out,” he murmured.
“Of course she is.” She shifted to sit up, her sleep shirt sliding off one shoulder. “You’re her favorite person.”
“I better be. You think she knows I drop gloves for a living?” he smirked, laying the baby gently in her bassinet next to their bed.
“She thinks you’re a squishy bear who smells like cedar and warm milk.”
He came back to the bed and climbed in behind her, looping an arm around her waist. “So do you.”
She laughed into his chest.
It didn’t last long. The pitter-patter of feet down the hallway gave them a ten-second warning before Jamie launched himself into the room, all messy curls and boy energy.
“Dad! You forgot pancake morning!”
Rafe sat up, rubbing his face. “You wake up every day like it’s Game 7.”
Jamie grinned, victorious.
Pretty girl married the hot jock. Had the strong son and the sweet baby girl. But her favorite mornings were the ones where nothing glittered—just sunlit floors and sleepy kisses, the clatter of spatulas and Rafe in sweats with his hair sticking up.
They migrated downstairs, the baby in her arms and Jamie dragging his blankie behind him like a cape. Rafe beat her to the stove, flipping pancakes like a pro, while she moved through the kitchen barefoot, popping Isla’s pacifier back in her mouth.
Jamie was climbing onto the counter stool, legs too short to really make it up, but Rafe caught him with one hand, already pouring syrup with the other. “Protein first,” he warned.
“Daaaad,” Jamie whined.
Rafe gave him the look, then passed him a half-pancake with peanut butter spread across the top. “Fuel for future captains.”
From her seat at the island, she looked around: a mess of bottles, hockey gear in the mudroom, baby toys under the table. Rafe humming to himself, Isla in her lap, and Jamie loudly declaring he was going to be “the first kid to play in the NHL and also be a dinosaur.”
It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t always pretty. But it was perfect.
And as Rafe slid a fresh cup of coffee into her hands—kisses her shoulder as he passed—she realized that love didn’t always live in roses or grand gestures.
Sometimes it lived in sleepy foreheads pressed to hers, pancakes on Thursdays, and the way Rafe still looked at her like they were 17 and he’d just won the game and the girl.
what was bardown!rafe’s reaction to hearing pornstar??
Thank you so much for your ask! 💕This can absolutely be read as a standalone—no need to read Bar Down first. All you need to know is that Rafe and the reader got together quickly, but they agreed to slow things down after a misunderstanding. Much to Rafe’s frustration, they’re “just friends” for now… but it’s anything but simple with these two. Rafe is a defenseman on the LA Kings, and this story takes place in Los Angeles. Kelce is the goalie, dating the reader’s best friend, Stassie. If you have read Bar Down, this occurs right before Valentine’s Day and the Four Nations Tournament.
*intentional text message spelling mistakes*
+18 -> smut
𝓱𝓸𝓬𝓴𝓮𝔂!𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝔁 𝓹𝓸𝓹𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓻!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻
c/w: pining, teasing, swearing, ownership (you're mine, etc.), pet names, smau at the end, mutual masturbation <- neither one is aware, but there are graphic depictions of Rafe and the reader in fantasy, dirty talk, sex toys, wet and messy, Rafe and the reader are down bad, pathetic!rafe
Rafe’s phone lights up with your name. Mid-stretch on the couch, he answers like he’s been waiting all day.
“Hey, you,” your voice hums through the speaker, warm and teasing. “You free?”
He smiles, already sitting up. “It’s an off night.”
“So?”
Rafe leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees like you could somehow see him through the phone. “Off nights are for you.”
You laugh—bright and helpless—trying to play it cool but giving yourself away instantly. “God, you’re a sweetheart,” you murmur, smiling so wide it almost hurts.
“A sweetheart, huh? You know Kelce thinks I’m pathetic, right?”
“Kelce?”
“Yeah. Says I’m whipped.”
“Mhmm… And he’s not with Stassie?” you tease.
“Nah, we both are, sweetheart,” Rafe shrugs with a grin. “Lost causes when it comes to you two—like you didn’t already know.”
“I wasn’t aware…”
“No shit?” He laughs and sighs softly. “Guess I’ll need to come on stronger—”
You giggle and sigh too—a little laugh that lets him know you’d love that more than anything. “Well, I actually called because I need your help with something—”
“My help?” He asks, and you can hear the smile in his deep voice.
“Mhmm…”
“Anything for you.”
𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹
You’re standing in front of his door. All dolled up: lips glossy, hair curled, heels high, holding a garment bag and a heavy-looking canvas tote.
Rafe opens it and takes one look at you, any semblance of a “cool guy” act folding with a single glance. “Damn. Please tell me you’re moving in—”
You laugh and roll your pretty eyes. “Ha, ha.”
“M’serious,” he says as you stroll past him, tossing the garment bag onto the couch. “I’m here on business?”
“Business?” He repeats, one brow lifting in that teasing way he knows drives you crazy.
You spin around, eyes dancing as you dig into your tote, pulling out a smaller bag—and from it, a chunky, silver-trimmed camcorder straight out of the early 2000s.
Rafe blinks a few times, staring back at you. “Okay…”
“You’re helping me shoot a music video,” you say sweetly.
Rafe stares even harder, brows rumpling with confusion. “You’re jokin’… Me?”
“Of course you.” A grin tugs slow and wide across his mouth as he reaches for the camera. “It’s supposed to look like it’s shot at home, very chill, relaxed—”
“Holy shit,” he mutters, voice already dropping into that soft, playful tone he only ever uses with you. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” you coo as you reach into the garment bag pulling out a black satin dress you know he’ll love.
“My pleasure…” The words leave his lips slower than intended, almost comically slow as his entire night takes a turn for the better. His dream girl in his apartment, dressed like a fantasy. Yeah, it’s not getting any better than this.
You hold up the dress by the hanger, fingers delicate as they slide down the material before throwing Rafe a wink and disappearing down his hallway. His eyes track the swing of your hips until you vanish behind the bathroom door. The door stays cracked open—just barely, but enough—enough to send him into a tailspin.
Rafe stares at the space between the hinges like it’s a portal; a portal filled with mistakes he can’t afford to make if he wants you back. One where he’d slam the door and take you right there on the bathroom counter, dismissing any ‘just friends’ rule he has the displeasure of following.
His heart hammers in his chest; palms sweaty as he grips the camcorder like a lifeline. Rafe drags a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath. “… Think pure thoughts,” he mutters. “Be normal. Be cool. Be a friend.”
He fiddles with the buttons, clearing his throat like that might somehow fix him. “I, uh… Wha—what’s the name of the song, sweetheart?” He calls, desperate to redirect his thoughts.
“Pornstar,” you answer, light and bubbly like it’s just any other word and the man hearing it isn’t Rafe Cameron.
Rafe freezes, staring at the wall blankly before looking down at the camcorder in his clammy hands like it might catch fire. He laughs—dry and nervous—shaking his head, trying to rattle out his impure thoughts. “Of course it is,” he mutters. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Rafe leans back against the counter, staring up at the ceiling, trying to redirect his thoughts, derailing in a moment as the door creaks and time stops. You step out in a satin dress—the inky black fabric clinging to your soft skin like it was painted on.
Your hair is tossed messily; lashes dark and fluttering. You look through the camera at him, giving him that come-hither smile that has him holding his breath.
You walk past him again—dressed like sin, and Rafe follows you like a puppy, angling the camera down at you as you sit down on his couch, the high slits on the sides of your dress teasing upper-thigh—tormenting him. Rafe lifts the camera, hands already trembling.
You reach over, pushing play on the track, letting your new single swell through his lavish apartment. “Action.”
♫⋆｡♪ I wanna watch you like a movie
I wanna put you on the stage
I wanna know what you’d do to me
I wanna put you on the tape…
Flashing red light
Baby, you’re a star…♫⋆｡♪
Rafe is fixated; following the slow drag of your palm down your thigh, the curve of your lips when you mouth the words of the song coming from your phone, the arch of your back when the chorus drops.
♫⋆｡♪Fuck me all night
Show me who you are…
Pornstar…♫⋆｡♪
He swallows hard, jaw tightening, knees locking, brain short-circuiting as you tip your head slightly, eyes wide and longing as you lip sync.
Because this isn’t just a song. This is you asking, Do you still want me? And every part of him—the broken and longing—is screaming: Yes.
You stand up mid-chorus, smooth and deliberate, and he follows, still clutching the camcorder, still forgetting how to breathe around you as you walk toward his bedroom.
You don’t say a word as you push open the door, disappearing inside, leaving it wide for him to follow.
He catches every moment, the shift of your hair when you move, the stretch of satin over your curves, the sly bend of your smile. He barely makes it through the doorway when you spin around, grinning wickedly.
“Cut.”
His eyes widen, lashes blinking like that can’t possibly be true. “That’s… uh. That’s it? Don’t you need more?” He almost whines, looking back at you helplessly.
“Yeah, silly. I just have to change,” you tease, walking past him and running your hand across his broad chest as you move toward his walk-in closet.
Rafe sets the camcorder carefully on the nightstand and rests his hands on top of his head.
His ears perk up at the rustle of clothes, the sound of hangers sliding, the breath of satin hitting the floor. He turns, just enough to catch a glimpse of black pooling at your feet, before looking away.
“Can I help you find somethin’?” He asks hopefully—just a few seconds too late—but his disappointment is quickly interrupted by the sight of you stepping out in nothing but heels and a game-day button-down—white, oversized, freshly pressed, hanging half off your shoulder.
“Fuck me.” He can’t stop those two needy words from slipping past his lips. His cheeks burn with embarrassment as you giggle and roll your eyes.
“That’s not very professional, Cameron,” you smile.
“Well,” he huffs, his eyes refusing to blink, “never said I was… M’workin’ for free, by the way—”
“Damn,” you giggle. “This isn’t a part of our friendship agreement. You wanna get paid?” You ask as you step toward him slowly, designer heels clicking across the hardwood.
“I guess… I—” He mumbles, swallowing hard, eyes locked on the valley of cleavage peeking from his button-down. “What, umm… What was I talkin’ about?” He asks as his gaze lifts to yours.
You shrug and smile, and he moves a little closer. Your heart races as you feel the heat of his body radiating off his clothes, his rich cologne muddling your thoughts. You lean in, breath warm and teasing, as you press your hands against his chest feeling his heart bang under your palms.
“Action.”
You walk away and he shakes his head, rattling out those thoughts, fumbling as he raises the camera to meet you. Your hips are slow and fluid, swaying to the music bleeding faintly through the room.
Your fingers trail along his black curtains, the edge of his dresser that he fucked you on once before, running your nails across the glass of the stand up mirror he watched you from as he took you from the back—moment after moment, memory after memory–marking your territory without ever saying a word.
When you reached the balcony doors, you slid one open, letting the cool LA night spill in, goosebumps rise along his strong arms. You step outside; the city lit up around you, a halo of gold and blue washing over you.
The hem of his shirt flutters around your thighs; hair caught up in the breeze–Rafe’s jaw clenches tight as he watches you back up into the balcony rail, arching your back, letting your hair dangle over the edge.
You lean forward, twist around like he grabbed your hips, arching your back slow and deliberate.
♫⋆｡♪I wanna hear you talking dirty
I wanna see it on your face
I wanna feel you put the work in
I wanna watch you entertain…
Flashing red light
Baby, you’re a star…♫⋆｡♪
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t fucking think. Could barely remember why he was supposed to stay still at all.
♫⋆｡♪Fuck me all night
Show me who you are…♫⋆｡♪
And then, just when he thought it couldn’t get better your hands moved up your body. Pinch. Twist. Pop. The first button came undone and Rafe’s stomach dropped. You moved to the next as you walked past the stunned man before you. Pinch. Twist. Pop. Pinch. Twist. Pop.
When the last button slipped free, the shirt slid from your shoulders onto the floor. And underneath? Nothing but black lace. Thin straps clinging to your shoulders. Bodice hugging every perfect curve. The fabric, sheer in all the right places. Cut high, curved low—designed to kill him on sight.
♫⋆｡♪ Pornstar
Pornstar
Show me who you are…♫⋆｡♪
Then you turn around and it knocks the air clean out of his chest. He knows that lingerie. Knows it down to the little bow at the center of your chest, the sheer black lace, the thin straps framing your hips just right.
You’re standing in front of his bed like you never left it. Same look in your eyes… His girl. It’s like his body remembers before his brain can catch up—a sudden ache behind his ribs that makes it hard to swallow.
Tears threaten before he even understands why as his frustration swells in his throat because why the fuck are you so pretty? And how the hell did he mess this up?
He’s already burning it into memory again. The way the lace hugs your curves. The way your hair falls. Every inch of bare skin he hasn’t seen in weeks. He takes a mental picture—one he knows he’ll see every night when he closes his eyes and reaches for himself.
Then you hold out your hand and without a second thought, he gives you his. You pull him gently toward the bed, the camera still rolling, catching the gold glint of his Rolex and the way his big hand perfectly wraps around yours.
You step backwards, guiding him, eyes locked on him. And when your knees hit the edge of the bed, you let yourself fall back.
Your hands drift higher and higher, fingertips skimming up your sides as you stretch across the comforter. And just before he crumbles and waves his white flag of defeat you whisper a soft, “Cut.”
𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹
Neither of you sleep. Not really. Not even after you say goodnight and goodbye. He stays sprawled out on the couch, muscles aching, sweat cooling on his bare chest, breathing hard. Even harder when he thinks of you—smiling in that hoodie he let you take home.
His mind reels with snapshots of the night: you in that black dress, dropping his shirt off your perfect body, you in the lingerie he thought maybe he had just imagined in some sort of lucid dream but it was that same pretty little set. His same beautiful girl.
His cock throbs against the waistband of his sweats—trapped and leaking—twitching with every heartbeat.
˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡ ˚
Across the city, you lie twisted in his sweatshirt, flushed and panting, vibrator buzzing steady against your clit.
Your thighs are slick, trembling; your whole body on edge, hypersensitive and starved for him. You whimper into the sheets, grinding against the toy in frantic, needy little circles.
In your mind, it’s him—his hands, rough and greedy on your skin as his hungry mouth moves desperately with yours. His voice, low and deep in your mind as it swirls around like a song. ‘You have no fucking idea how bad I need you right now, sweetheart.’ You press the toy harder, making your stomach coil, your hips rolling faster.
It crashes over you—sharp and hot. Your orgasm rips through you, thighs shaking, hips bucking helplessly, but it barely scratches the surface.
You’re still burning; still clenching around something fake, craving something real, dragging the sleeve of his hoodie to your mouth, breathing him in deeper.
˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡ ˚
Rafe groans, low and broken, as he shoves a hand in his pants and wraps it around his thick cock. He’s already a fuckin’ mess, sticky with precum, throbbing and sensitive, hissing at his rough touch.
He squeezes his eyes shut, but all he can see is you—slick and spread wide, whimpering into his pillow with his cock buried in your pussy.
In his head, your voice ruins him, ‘Say it, Rafe. Say you’re mine.’
He fists himself harder, rough strokes dragging over the fat head of his cock, hips jerking off the couch.
“Fuck,” he gasps, breathless as his orgasm hits, spilling all over his fist and stomach, groaning into the empty room. Ropes and ropes of cum, picturing it filling you up; your glossed hole creamy and wet, leaking onto his sheets.
He pictures the way your fingers reach between your thighs, showing it off like you’re proud, gathering him on your fingers before you take it between your lips, your pretty pink tongue swirling slow, sucking yourself clean, making his thoughts turn greedy as he thinks about ruining your mouth, the man not even close to coming down from his high, already dreaming about the next with you.
But the second it fades… the second he thinks those thoughts, he’s hard again. Still aching. Still desperate.
˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡ ˚
But you don’t stop either. Tears sting your eyes as you tow the toy back up to your clit, nipples dragging across the rough material of his hoodie.
You picture him slamming the bedroom door open, crossing the room in two furious strides. Tearing the toy out of your hands.
Your second orgasm crashes into you harder than the first—sharper and meaner, soaking the sheets, dripping down on the mattress.
You toss the toy beside you, chest heaving as your body shakes, chasing what only he can give you. You reach over, rolling to his side of the bed, grabbing his pillow you couldn’t bring yourself to wash.
You shift just enough to straddle it, thighs burning as you start to ride, eyes screwed shut as you picture Rafe below you.
You can see him so clearly—his hands on your hips, jaw clenched, blue eyes dark as he drinks you in. ‘Look at you, baby… So needy for me. So fuckin’ wet. I’ve got you. You don’t have to beg. I know exactly what you need. You’re mine. You know that, right? You were made to fuck me.’
You cry out, grinding harder as the pressure inside you builds fast. Your hips rock, frantic and filthy, your soaked pussy dragging against the pillow in tight, desperate rolls. You picture his hands gripping your ass, guiding you faster.
His head tipped back, breath ragged, smiling up at you like you’re his whole fuckin’ world. ‘You’re so beautiful when you cum for me. So fuckin’ perfect. That’s it, baby. Just like that.’
Your eyes squeeze shut, hands clawing the pillow, and your release finally hits. Tears spill hot down your cheeks—you don’t even try to hold them back.
˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡ ˚
Rafe slows down… That’s what you would do.
He lowers his pants down on his hips, laying down on the couch, gathering his cum on his hand for lube before starting again.
He bites down on his bottom lip, picturing you riding him slow; hips grinding, tits bouncing. ‘You’re dripping for me, baby. Look at you.’
It’s a full-body fantasy of you straddling his hips, eyes rolling back, mouth slick and swollen from kissing. He pictures your hands on his chest, nails scratching down, voice soft and breathless. ‘Fuck, Rafe… Feels so good, baby… You’re so deep.’
He pictures you tilting closer, taking in your sweet perfume, the warmth of your breathing hitting his lips as they brush against his and you whisper into his mouth, ‘—It’s like you were made for me…’
“Fuck,” he groans, head falling back.
‘You like watching me ride you, don’t you?’ Your smile is so ingrained in his mind—burned into his memory—your soft giggle and the sparkle in your eye making him groan with need. ‘I know you do, Rafe. Let me make you feel good, baby… Let me take care of you. I love taking care of you. I love you—’
And with those sweet thoughts, he’s gone.
‘Tell me you’re mine, Rafe. Say it so I can cum for you—’
“I’m yours,” he gasps—pathetic and hoarse. “All yours, sweetheart. Always.” He strokes faster, rougher, your voice wrapping around him like silk.
He chokes out your name as the orgasm crashes over him, cumming in thick, messy spurts, hips stuttering, body jerking under his own hand. Moaning deep into the quiet.
And without thinking, hands shaking, he grabs his phone…
Rafe: i miss you so bad it’s pathetic
Rafe: can’t even close my eyes without seeing you
He tosses the phone on the table, rubbing his hands over his eyes in annoyance, grumbling about his lack of self control.
Your phone buzzes on your night stand, making your stomach flutter. Your body clenches the second you see his name; heart melting when you see the words on his text you were dying to say yourself.
You snap a photo—messy hair, glowy skin, thighs bare, his sweatshirt bunched around your hips, hiding just enough, and send it.
Your Name: me too
He lets out a strangled, broken laugh and buries his face in the couch, smiling like a fucking idiot. Like he’s hopelessly in love… because he is. There’s no surviving you. There’s no getting over you. There’s only you.
warnings: public image tension, jealousy, reunion sex
Off the Ice, Off the Record
She hadn’t been to a game in three weeks.
Not since that article dropped—“Cameron’s Off-Ice Distraction: Meet the Girlfriend Hurting His Game.”
They’d used the word girlfriend like a slur.
And the photos? Of her cheering too loud. Wearing heels that matched his team’s colors. Lip gloss shiny under the stadium lights.
Like existing in his orbit made her a problem.
And worst of all?
He didn’t say a thing.
No press rebuttal. No cute couple picture on his story. No interview where he called her his.
Just silence.
So yeah, she didn’t wear his jersey tonight.
Didn’t come down to the locker room.
Didn’t even glance toward the bench when the whole arena screamed his name.
But Rafe saw her. Of course he did. He always did.
He didn’t bother showering after the game. Just shoved past reporters, still half in gear, and stalked toward the press box tunnel with his jaw clenched and blood drying on his bottom lip.
He found her behind the media suite, alone by the wall, scrolling on her phone like her heart wasn’t breaking.
“You look good,” he said roughly.
She didn’t look up. “You shouldn’t be back here.”
“You shouldn’t be acting like you’re not still mine.”
That got her attention. Eyes snapping up. Fire behind them.
“You’re not allowed to say that,” she hissed. “You let them drag me. Made me look like some clout-chasing puck bunny—”
“You think I believed any of that?”
“You didn’t do shit to stop it!”
“I couldn’t,” he growled. “You think I don’t fucking know what they said about you? I wanted to rip someone’s throat out. But my agent—”
“I’m not your brand, Rafe.”
His chest heaved.
“I know,” he said, voice softer now. “You’re my girl.”
She stared.
He stepped closer. Slow. Measured.
“I miss you screaming when I score. Miss you blowing kisses at the glass. Miss that smug little look you get when the WAGs try to flirt with me and you just smile like, ‘He’s going home with me.’”
“I don’t flirt quietly,” she warned.
He smirked. “I don’t want quiet.”
Then he kissed her.
Hard. Desperate. Like he’d lost oxygen and she was the only thing left to breathe.
She shoved him into the nearest room—an empty trainer’s office—and locked the door. Rafe pulled her against him with bruising hands, tongue sliding into her mouth like he owned it.
“You gonna let me make it up to you?” he rasped.
She glared, chest heaving. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“If you can still fuck me like you mean it.”
That grin—cocky, crooked, hers—flashed across his face.
“Oh, baby,” he groaned, tugging her skirt up, “you’re about to forget what you were mad about.”
He lifted her onto the desk like she weighed nothing. Her thighs parted fast, need burning through her. His fingers found her soaked through the lace.
“Missed this pussy,” he growled, sinking to his knees.
“Rafe—”
“Shh,” he murmured, nosing against the fabric. “Off the ice, off the record, remember?”
He pulled her panties to the side and dove in—tongue lapping, sucking, devouring. She nearly came just from that, his hands gripping her thighs like a man starved.
When he finally stood, mouth wet, he unzipped and lined up without a single tease.
“You’re mine,” he whispered.
Then he pushed in—and she screamed.
Hard, fast, relentless. The desk shook. Her moans echoed. His teeth scraped her shoulder as he muttered her name like gospel, like prayer, like apology.
When she clenched around him, crying out, nails in his back—he came so hard he nearly collapsed.
After, he held her there. Pressed against him, sweaty and panting. Kisses to her temple. Her collarbone. Her lips.
He nuzzled her ear.
“Next game, I want you in that tight red jersey,” he murmured. “And front row. I want everyone to see you.”
She smirked, still breathless. “You’re not worried about the distraction?”
His hands slid up her bare waist. “Nah. They’ll just be jealous I’ve got the prettiest girl in the league.”
