Sunburnt knees and wind-tangled hair. Late nights in the hammock behind John B’s chateau, your voice blending into JJ’s laughter, Kiara’s sarcastic comebacks, Pope’s calm reason. Your world had sand in its teeth and salt in its veins, and you loved it because it was yours.
And then you met Rafe Cameron.
No you knew him before. Everyone did. Rich boy. Golden boy. Violent boy. Sarah’s older brother with rage behind his eyes and a temper that didn’t need provocation.
You knew what he was.
You just didn’t think he’d ever want you.
But when he did, he wanted all of you.
And now? You don’t belong to yourself anymore.
You’d be lying if you said you friends did care—cause they did more then anything.
You got text after text…
They were mad, and they had every right to be.
John B: you alive or nah? We just want to know you’re safe.
Pope: guess being a pogue is that shitty huh? Once a pogue always a pogue no matter what fancy fucking car ur in.
JJ: seriously tho. what did we do? was it me? if it was me just fuckin say it.
Kiara: cmon pls call us, atleast let us know ur ok 🩷?
JJ: don’t bother anymore if you wanna be his little toy, wtv. we tried.
You read every word, and each one felt like a blade twisting between your ribs.
You wanted to scream: I miss you. I’m not okay. Please come get me.
But Rafe was asleep in the next room. And your phone had his fingerprint now.
You sat on the bathroom floor that night in his house marble floors cold beneath your thighs, his sweatshirt swallowing you whole. You stared at your reflection in the mirror above the sink, barely recognizing the girl blinking back.
She looked tired. Older. Expensive. Hollow.
There was a bruise just under your jawline — not dark, not dramatic. Just a quiet echo of where he gripped you too tightly earlier when you said you wanted to go home for the weekend. He’d pulled you against the wall and kissed you like punishment.
“You don’t need them,” he whispered against your lips. “You have me.”
And that’s how he says it, every time: You have me. Like it’s a gift. A promise. A threat.
He didn’t always hurt you.
Sometimes, he was tender. Obsessively so.
He brushed your hair with callused fingers while you sat between his legs on the floor. Bought you books he never let you read. Dressed you in white silk just to tear it off. Told you he wanted to make you better. Wanted to “fix the Pogue in you.”
You let him.
Because he’d helped your mom with her bills. Put gas in your car when it died. Bought your medication when your insurance lapsed. He made sure you needed him.
Its your own fault really, your are the one that flirted with him on the beach that one day the minute he gave you attention.
Then you ended up at dinner and a few dates later wearing expensive jewelry he bought while telling him you were completely a virgin even though we all know you and JJ fucked sophomore year on some random looks bed at a party.
And now you were nothing but a mouse trapped in an impossible cage to escape.
| JJ (1:30am) : Pls, we just wanna know you’re doing well. I mean at least turn on your read receipts so ik ur alive.
Coachella looked even dreamier than you imagined. Glitter floated through the air like confetti, the sun sinking low and warm over a sea of pastel cowboy hats, rhinestones, and daisy chains. You could barely stand still — the music, the lights, the pure vibe of it all had you bouncing on your toes in excitement.
“Rafe, look! They have the pink drinks over there—” you squealed, tugging on his hand as you pointed toward a distant booth, your stack of festival bracelets jingling.
He barely spared it a glance. “Later,” he muttered, tugging you back into his chest before you could wander off like you always tried to do. His big hands wrapped around your waist, firm and grounding. “You’re not running off in the middle of all these people, alright? Stay where I can see you.”
You giggled, craning your neck up to beam at him. “But it’s right there, Rafe! I can be super quick!” Your voice was syrupy sweet, full of promise.
Rafe just stared at you for a second, the muscle in his jaw ticking. God, you really didn’t have a clue sometimes. You were too busy twirling in your tiny little white crochet dress, the hem flipping up every time you moved. And the way you smiled — wide, bright, like you didn’t even know half the guys around you were already staring.
Of course you didn’t. You never noticed stuff like that. Too busy picking flowers and chasing glitter.
“You’re not quick, baby,” he said finally, squeezing your waist until you squeaked. “You’re the kinda girl who gets distracted by every damn shiny thing out here.”
“That’s not true,” you pouted, poking his chest lightly with your manicured finger. “I’m very focused.”
He smirked at that — a real, soft kind of smirk — like you were something so ridiculous he couldn’t even be mad. His hands slid down to your hips, pulling you against him like he was afraid you’d float away.
“Focus on me, then,” he said lowly, leaning down so you could hear him over the bass vibrating the ground. “Not the drinks. Not the stage. Me.”
You nodded eagerly, biting your lip to hide the giddy smile that threatened to spill out.
For a little while, you actually behaved — perched on your tiptoes to dance in place, swaying against Rafe’s solid chest as the set started. His hands stayed on you the whole time, fingers tapping lightly against the bare strip of skin between your skirt and your top.
Every now and then, you’d get carried away — jumping, squealing when the beat dropped, accidentally bumping into people around you. And every single time, Rafe would reel you back in with a hand around your waist, a quick, low “Careful, baby,” whispered against your ear.
The third time you nearly tripped over your own platform boots, Rafe huffed out a breath, frustrated but fond. He caught you easily, one arm banding tight around your stomach.
“You’re gonna bust your ass if you don’t slow down,” he muttered, voice rough but warm. “And I’m not carryin’ your drunk ass back to the house in front of all these people.”
You just giggled breathlessly, looping your arms around his neck. “You’d carry me,” you teased, tipping your head back so your glossy lips brushed his jaw. “Cuz you love me.”
Rafe grumbled something under his breath, but he didn’t deny it. He just adjusted your flower crown, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear almost…tenderly.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he said finally, brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. His gaze dropped to your pink-glossed mouth, lingering for a second too long. “Otherwise I’d leave your ass right here.”
You just laughed and tugged him closer, spinning the two of you clumsily to the music. And Rafe let you — grumbling, rolling his eyes, but never letting go for even a second.
Tags: NSFW, overstimulation, soft dom/rough dom mix, emotional clinginess, crybaby!reader, begging, praise/degradation mix, unprotected, pet names, possessive Rafe, aftercare mention.
You were already a fucking mess before he touched you.
Tear-stained cheeks, voice trembling from some earlier argument you barely remembered — something about Rafe being distant, you being dramatic. You’d cried so hard your lip gloss was long gone and your thighs were stuck to the silk sheets under you. Every breath came out in a hiccup, chest rising and falling like a frightened bunny.
And Rafe?
He was calm.
Dangerously calm.
“Don’t even remember what you were crying about, do you?” he murmured, brushing his fingers down your thigh, “Just needed attention that bad, huh?”
You whimpered, nodding, your hands gripping the sheets like they were the only thing tethering you to earth.
“Rafe, I— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Shh.” His palm came down hard on your inner thigh, not a full slap — just enough to make you freeze.
“I know, baby. I know you didn’t mean anything. You never do.” He leaned over you, his breath warm against your jaw. “Just feel too much, cry too fast, say dumb little things ‘cause your head’s all soft.”
His fingers slid down between your legs, finding you already wet — soaked, actually — from crying, from being touched, from the way he looked at you when you were falling apart.
“God, look at you,” he growled, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re dripping. You like this. You like being ruined, don’t you?”
You nodded, tearfully, biting down on your fist. “I c-can’t help it, Rafe, I swear—”
He cut you off by sliding two fingers into you without warning, burying them deep.
You choked on your breath, head falling back with a sharp whine.
“R-Rafe—”
“I’m gonna make you feel everything, baby,” he promised, curling his fingers just right, “You wanted attention so bad? Gonna give you all of it. Not stopping ‘til you can’t cry anymore.”
And he didn’t.
He kissed you while he fingered you through your first orgasm — soft tongue, rough hands, calling you sweet girl, needy thing, my little mess. And when you were still shaking, still begging him to slow down, he didn’t.
He pulled your legs over his shoulders, pressed his chest to yours, and sank into you like he’d earned it.
You gasped — voice breaking, nails clawing at his back — and he moaned, low and deep and possessive.
“So fucking tight,” he breathed. “Like your body knows it’s mine.”
You were crying again — real tears now, your voice high and desperate as he rutted into you, deeper and rougher with every thrust.
“Too much— Rafe, I— I can’t, I c-can’t take it, please—”
He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head.
“You can. You will.” His eyes were dark, sharp, but soft around the edges. “You’re gonna take all of it ‘cause you love being my crybaby, don’t you?”
You nodded, sobbing, body arching up into him helplessly.
“Y-Yes— yes, I love it, I love you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
And when you came again, this time on his cock, your whole body went still — like your brain shut off completely — lips parted, eyes rolled back, legs twitching as he kept fucking you through it.
“There she is,” he whispered against your neck. “Pretty when you’re wrecked. Quiet when you’re full.”
And only when you were completely limp beneath him — tears still drying on your cheeks, lips swollen from crying and kissing — did he slow down. One last thrust. A groan in your ear. Then warmth spilling into you as he kissed your shoulder.
You were too far gone to even speak. Just tiny whimpers. A broken “Rafe…” barely audible.
He pulled out slowly, carefully, one hand stroking your hip.
“You’re okay,” he murmured. “You did so good for me, baby. So, so good.”
And when you curled into his chest, still trembling — still needy — he wrapped his arms around you and whispered, “You’re mine. Always. Even when you’re crying.”
The water shimmered, gold and endless, as the boat rocked lazily near the dock. Not out in the open water, not in motion anymore—they’d dropped anchor early to hang out close to shore, tie it off near the sound. You could’ve walked off the boat if you wanted.
And God, you wanted.
The laughter behind you should’ve been warm. Comforting. It was everything summer was supposed to sound like: John B cracking open a beer, Pope talking too fast about some theory none of you cared about, and Kiara laughing—bright, loud, alive.
But JJ’s laugh cut deeper than the rest.
Because it was only ever for her now.
You sat at the edge of the boat, feet dangling just inches above the water. The surface danced beneath you, glittering like it could carry the pain if you poured it into it long enough.
Your fingers curled tighter around your phone, knuckles white.
Behind you, JJ wrapped his arms around Kiara’s waist like it was second nature. His head dropped to her shoulder, lips brushing skin.
Something inside you cracked. Quietly. Deeply.
You used to be his person. The one he’d call when Luke hit him too hard. The one who’d pick him up drunk from gas stations at 3 a.m. The one who held him when he didn’t want to be touched by anyone else.
But you’d never been his girl.
And now he had one.
Kiara.
You’d been there first. Before her. But JJ had never looked at you the way he looked at her now. He touched her like he couldn’t not. Like she made him forget everything.
You wanted to disappear.
You wanted to scream.
You wanted him to see you.
Instead, you opened your phone and stared at the message again.
Rafe:
You coming or what?
Another buzz followed, like a dare.
I’m not gonna ask again.
The air tightened around your throat. You stared at the water, tried to swallow the lump in your chest, but it was lodged there like a fist. You glanced back once—JJ kissed Kiara’s shoulder and didn’t even notice you were gone.
And that was it.
You stood up.
“Yo—Y/N?” John B’s voice drifted lazily. “Where you goin’?”
“I forgot something at the Chateau.”
“You want a ride?”
“I’ll walk.”
“Back’s like thirty minutes from here…”
But you were already stepping off the boat onto the dock, jaw clenched, hands shaking. No one stopped you. JJ didn’t say your name. Kiara didn’t glance up.
No one followed.
𐙚ᣟ݂
By the time you reached the Cameron estate, your throat was dry, and the sun was dipping below the tree line. The house loomed like a monster behind the gates—too quiet, too clean. A place built by people who didn’t believe in love.
You pushed open the front door without knocking.
The music upstairs was low, bass-heavy, pulsing through the walls like a heartbeat. You didn’t call for him. You didn’t need to.
You climbed the stairs slowly, the ache between your thighs already forming—not from desire. From need. From the ugly, empty space you were trying to fill.
You turned the corner into his bedroom.
Rafe stood shirtless near the window, his back to you. Cigarette between his lips. Tattoo across his ribs. Low sweatpants riding dangerously on his hips. He didn’t turn when he heard the door click shut.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I wasn’t going to come.”
“You always come.” He turned his head, blue eyes cutting over his shoulder. His gaze dropped. “Take your clothes off.”
He wasn’t gentle. He never was.
You didn’t say anything. Just peeled off your sweatshirt, slow. Then your shorts. Then your top. You weren’t wearing a bra. You hadn’t needed one.
You stood there in your underwear, arms around yourself, heart hammering in your chest.
He tossed the cigarette out the window and turned, jaw flexing. “Why are you here?”
You knew what he was really asking.
What did he do this time?
You walked toward him, every step a silent scream. Your eyes stung, but no tears came. You didn’t let them.
“I want you to fuck me.”
Rafe’s expression didn’t change. But something in his eyes flared. His tongue swept across his bottom lip.
“You want me to make you forget him again.”
You didn’t answer.
He stepped forward, slow. “You know he doesn’t care about you, right?”
“I said fuck me.”
He grabbed your throat.
Not tight. Just enough. Enough to make you stop thinking. Enough to tilt your head up until your lips brushed his.
“You wanna be used, pretty girl?” His voice dropped, low and dark and sinful. “Or you wanna be broken?”
You didn’t flinch.
You kissed him.
Hard.
Rafe growled, the sound deep in his chest, and shoved you backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed. He pushed you down, climbed over you, eyes never leaving yours.
He kissed like he wanted to punish you. Teeth, tongue, spit, bruising. His hands roamed, possessive and brutal—grabbing your thighs, yanking your underwear down. He didn’t undress himself yet. Just stared.
“Look at you,” he muttered. “So desperate to be touched.”
He ran two fingers between your folds, slow and deep. You gasped.
“Dripping for someone who doesn’t even like you.”
“Shut up.”
He grinned.
“Make me.”
And then he did.
He dropped to his knees and devoured you—tongue slick, relentless, dragging every sound out of you until you were grabbing the sheets, sobbing with your thighs trembling around his head.
When he stood, his mouth was wet with you. He yanked his sweatpants off with one hand, stroking himself, thick and hard and angry.
“You want this cock or just the humiliation that comes with it?”
You reached for him.
He shoved into you hard.
You cried out, back arching. It wasn’t slow. He fucked you like he didn’t care if you broke.
And that was why you came.
Because pain was easier than heartbreak.
He dragged your legs over his shoulders, pounded into you until your vision blurred, until your fingers clawed into his back, until you were begging—but you didn’t even know for what.
He flipped you over, face into the sheets, hand on the back of your neck as he took you from behind, relentless and brutal. Every thrust knocked the breath from your lungs.
“Say my name,” he hissed in your ear.
“R-Rafe—”
“Louder.”
You screamed it.
And he came with a guttural moan, burying himself deep, hips grinding through the aftershock.
You collapsed.
Sweat. Soreness. Shame.
He rolled off of you, chest heaving. Lit another cigarette. Didn’t say a word.
But he watched you.
And for a moment—just one—his hand twitched toward your back. Then stopped.
You turned your face into the pillow. Not because you wanted to sleep.
