❛ prettiest girl in the morgue ༉‧₊˚ ⸝⸝ professional yapper, two timming rafe and jj. twentii. she | her. biteable. sleep deprived capricorn. horror movies. cigarettes. music. european. mean girls are ugly ! ₄₄₄
╰─▸ ❝ @[vampiriito] ₊˚ෆ hi i'm lala!! i love writing as much as i love doing my makeup. i live for the weeknd, lana or chase atlantic references, and i go insane every two days. so don't mind my posting habits. enfj, so i love making friends! i'm in every fandom you can imagine, but i'm currently obsessed with obx. romanian, so basically a vampire (dracula was my grandfather.)
KSJDKDBDNJEHSHS THE OLD JJ ONESHOT WAS SO GREAT, i'm surprised i didn't expect you to have the audacy to put reader's as jhon b's and sarah's daughter specifically (and then my mind went crazy with the idea specially when i remembered how jj would be reader's godfather since canonically jhon b asks him that- oopsie). I loved it. If you ever feel like returning to that au feel more than encouraged.
God bless the us sluts
── .✦ dad's best friend! dilf! jj x reader
previous dilf! jj
⊹ ࣪ ۶ৎ cw; the reader's john b and sarah's daughter, age gap (the reader is a consenting adult), piece of written p*rn with barely any plot. i'm emptying my drafts and i have very old requests i've never gotten to write for some reason so here's another part of dilf! jj because he's SO hot. ₊˚⊹ ᰔ
The Chateau had a smell that was etched into your very soul: salt, cedar, and the faint, lingering scent of your father’s fishing gear. It was the smell of home, of safety. But lately, a new scent had begun to weave its way into the tapestry of your childhood: motor oil, stale coffee, and JJ Maybank. At twenty, you were supposed to have outgrown your childhood home, but a gap year had turned into two, and you were still here, watching the sunsets over the marsh, and watching him.
Your dad, John B, had made JJ your godfather the day you were born, a request made with a beer in one hand and a profound, unshakeable trust in the other. For years, JJ was just "Uncle JJ," the wild-haired man who’d toss you in the ocean, teach you how to bait a hook, and sneak you sips of his beer when your parents weren’t looking. He was a legend, a story, a permanent fixture in the background of your life.
↳ ❝ [masterlist] ¡! ❞
But then you’d grown up. Your body had curved in ways that made his eyes linger a second too long. Your laughter had deepened, and you’d caught him watching you from across the bonfire, a look in his eyes that was far from uncle-like. The dynamic had shifted, a subtle, seismic change that you both felt but never acknowledged. You were his goddaughter, the one person he was supposed to protect, not the one he was supposed to desire. That line, once a thick, solid wall, had become a gossamer thread, stretched taut with unspoken words and forbidden glances.
The tension finally snapped on a sweltering August night. A summer storm was rolling in, the air thick and heavy, promising a deluge. You were on the porch, watching the lightning crack across the sky, when JJ’s old van rumbled up the driveway. He’d been working late at the garage, and he looked it. His t-shirt was dark with sweat and grease, his hair was a mess, and a streak of oil was smudged across his sharp cheekbone. He looked exhausted, and utterly, devastatingly handsome.
“Hey, kid,” he grunted, jogging up the porch steps. “Your old man around?”
“Nah, he and Sarah took the boat out. Said they’d be back before the storm hit,” you replied, your voice a little too high. You were suddenly acutely aware of the thin strap of your tank top and the short length of your denim shorts.
He nodded, his gaze sweeping over you, a slow, deliberate perusal that made your skin prickle with heat. “Good. Means I got you all to myself for a bit.” He didn’t wait for an invitation, just collapsed into the wicker chair beside you, leaning his head back with a groan. “Fuck, I’m gettin’ too old for this shit.”
You couldn’t help but stare at the line of his throat, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. You could see the frantic pulse beating in his neck. “You’re not old,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
He cracked an eye open, a small, wry smile playing on his lips. “Oh yeah? What am I then?”
“Just… experienced,” you managed, your cheeks flushing.
He let out a low, raspy laugh. “Is that what we’re callin’ it now?” He sat up, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. The space between you crackled with electricity. “You know, I remember the day you were born. Your dad, he was a mess. Crying and everything. He looked at me, this tiny little screamin’ thing in his arms, and he made me promise I’d always look out for you.”
Your heart hammered against your ribs. “I know.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. “I don’t think this is what he had in mind.”
And then he was kissing you. It wasn’t gentle or tentative. It was a desperate, hungry kiss, a decade of pent-up frustration and forbidden longing crashing down on you. His lips were firm and demanding, tasting faintly of mint and the cheap coffee he drank by the gallon. His hand came up to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place. You kissed him back with just as much desperation, your hands fisting in the front of his grease-stained shirt.
He pulled back, his breathing ragged, his blue eyes burning with an intensity that made your stomach clench. “We shouldn’t be doin’ this,” he breathed, but his actions betrayed his words. He stood up, pulling you to your feet, and backed you up against the porch railing. The wood was warm and solid against your back.
“Then stop,” you challenged, your voice a shaky whisper.
He shook his head, a dark, humorless laugh escaping his lips. “Can’t. Been wantin’ this for too long.”
His hands were on you then, large and calloused, roaming over your body with a possessive urgency. He slid one hand up your side, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast, sending a jolt of pleasure straight through you. His other hand gripped your hip, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the hard, thick ridge of his cock pressing against your stomach, a testament to his desire. The sheer size of him was intimidating, a thrilling, terrifying prospect that made your head spin.
He hooked his fingers into the neckline of your tank top, his knuckles brushing against your collarbone. “I’ve thought about this,” he murmured, his eyes dark with lust. “Thought about what you’d look like under these little clothes you wear.”
With one sharp, deliberate tug, he ripped your tank top down the middle. The fabric gave way with a satisfying tear, and the cool night air hit your exposed skin. He didn’t give you a moment to process it before his mouth was on your breast, his hot, wet tongue swirling around your nipple. He sucked hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak, and a cry escaped your lips.
“Shh,” he grunted, his voice muffled against your skin. “Don’t want the neighbors hearin’ what a dirty girl you are for your godfather.”
The word “godfather” was a jolt, a shocking, illicit thrill that only heightened your arousal. He was right. This was wrong, so incredibly wrong, but it felt more right than anything ever had.
He abandoned your breast, his lips trailing a fiery path up your chest, to your neck, to your ear. “Gonna take you inside,” he growled, his hands gripping your thighs. “Gonna spread you out on your bed and show you what it feels like to be properly fucked.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He lifted you as if you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. He carried you inside, kicking the door shut behind him. He didn’t bother with the lights, just navigated the familiar darkness of the Chateau with an ease that was both comforting and terrifying. He kicked open the door to your bedroom, a space that had always been your sanctuary, and laid you down on your bed.
He stood over you, his silhouette a large, imposing figure in the moonlight filtering through your window. He stripped off his ruined t-shirt, revealing the hard, defined planes of his chest and stomach. He was all muscle and golden skin, a testament to a life lived under the sun.
He crawled onto the bed, caging you in with his body. He unbuttoned your shorts, sliding them down your legs, along with your panties. He spread your thighs, his eyes fixing on the slick heat between them.
“Look at that,” he groaned, his voice thick with awe. “All this for me.” He slid one long, thick finger through your folds, and the sensation was almost too much. You were already so wet, so ready for him. He circled your clit with a maddening slowness, his eyes locked on your face, watching every flicker of pleasure.
“Please,” you whimpered, your hips bucking involuntarily.
“Please what?” he demanded, his tone stern. “Please what, sweetheart?”
“Please, JJ… more.”
He rewarded you by sinking one finger inside you. The stretch was immediate, a delicious ache that had you arching your back. He pumped it in and out slowly, deliberately, his thumb still teasing your clit. It was a tantalizing taste of what you wanted, and it was driving you insane.
“You’re so tight,” he groaned, adding a second finger. The stretch intensified, a burning pleasure that had you mewling. “Gonna feel so fuckin’ good around my cock.”
He began to scissor his fingers, stretching you, preparing you. The heel of his hand pressed against your clit with every thrust, building the pressure inside you to an unbearable peak. You were so close, right on the edge, your hands fisting the sheets beneath you.
“That’s it, come on,” he urged, his voice a low rumble. “Come for me, let me feel it.”
Your orgasm crashed over you, a blinding, intense wave that stole your breath. You cried out, your body convulsing around his fingers. But he didn’t stop. He kept pumping them, his thumb rubbing your clit in relentless circles, pushing you through the first orgasm and straight into a second, more intense one.
“Too much,” you gasped, trying to squirm away from the overwhelming stimulation. “JJ, please, it’s too much!”
His free hand shot out, pinning your hip to the bed. “I’m not done with you yet,” he growled, his fingers curling inside you to stroke that sensitive spot deep within. “You wanted this, remember? You wanted me. Now you’re gonna take everything I give you.”
The overstimulation was a blinding, white-hot pleasure-pain that had you seeing stars. He was relentless, his fingers a blur of motion, his thumb a relentless pressure on your clit. You were completely at his mercy, your body a vessel for his pleasure, and the thought sent another gush of arousal through you. He leaned down, his mouth hot against your ear, sucking a dark mark into your skin as he continued his assault on your senses.
He brought you to the brink again, your body shaking uncontrollably, your vision blurring with tears of pleasure. And just as you were about to tip over the edge, he pulled his fingers away completely.
A desperate, frustrated cry escaped your lips. “No! Please, JJ, don’t stop!”
He just laughed, a low, wicked sound. He brought his glistening fingers to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours as he licked them clean. “Taste fuckin’ incredible,” he groaned. “But you’re not coming again until I’m buried so deep inside you you can feel me in your throat.”
He quickly shed his jeans and boxers, and his cock sprang free, thick and heavy, curving up towards his stomach. The size of it stole the air from your lungs. It was flushed and angry-looking, the tip already beading with precum, and it was far bigger than anything you had ever taken. The sheer anatomical reality of him was both terrifying and intoxicating.
He gripped your hips, pulling you to the very edge of the bed. The head of his cock nudged against your entrance, hot and insistent. “Gonna split you open, sweetheart,” he warned, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. “Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”
He pushed inside, and it was a slow, relentless stretch. Your body struggled to accommodate him, a burning, overwhelming fullness that bordered on pain. He was huge, and every inch he sank into you felt like a revelation. He let out a guttural groan, his head falling forward against your shoulder.
“Fuck… so tight. Takin’ me so good,” he gritted out, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. He gave you a moment to adjust, his thumb stroking soothing circles on your hip, a stark contrast to the punishing stretch between your legs.
Then, he began to move. He pulled out almost all the way before slamming back in, a deep, powerful thrust that knocked the breath out of you. He set a brutal, punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against yours with enough force to make the bed frame slam against the wall. Every thrust hit you impossibly deep, stroking places inside you you didn’t even know existed. The initial pain melted into an all-consuming pleasure, so intense it was almost painful.
He manhandled you effortlessly, one hand sliding up your back to arch it, forcing you to take him even deeper. His other hand tangled in your hair, tugging your head back so he could devour your mouth in a messy, possessive kiss. It was all teeth and tongue, a desperate, claiming act that left you dizzy.
“You feel that?” he growled against your lips, his thrusts becoming harder, more erratic. “That’s my pussy now. You hear me? Mine.”
You could only moan in response, your nails digging into his shoulders, leaving red crescents in his skin. The pressure was building again, that familiar coil tightening in your stomach, but this time it was different. It was bigger, more powerful, a tidal wave gathering strength.
“Please,” you sobbed, tears of pleasure streaming down your face. “Please, JJ, can I come? Please let me come.”
He slowed his pace, grinding into you, his pelvic bone rubbing against your clit with every devastating roll of his hips. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough. You forced your eyes open to meet his intense, burning gaze. “You’re my goddaughter. My best friend’s little girl. And you’re underneath me, beggin’ for my cock. You wanna come? Come for me. Now.”
That was it. The filthy, taboo confession was all it took. Your orgasm ripped through you with the force of a hurricane, a violent, shattering release that had you screaming his name. Your walls clenched around him like a vise, your body shaking uncontrollably as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you.
He fucked you through it, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chased his own release. With a final, deep roar, he buried himself inside you, his cock pulsing as he spilled himself deep within you. The feeling of his hot release filling you was the final push, triggering one last, smaller orgasm that left you a boneless, trembling mess.
He collapsed against you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure. You were both breathing heavily, the only sounds in the room the ragged sound of your breathing and the distant rumble of thunder. After a long moment, he pushed himself up, his gaze softening as he looked down at you. He gently brushed a stray strand of hair from your sweaty forehead.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice a low, gentle rumble, a stark contrast to the dominant man from moments before.
You could only manage a weak nod, a blissed-out smile spreading across your face. He chuckled, leaning down to press a surprisingly soft kiss to your lips.
“Good,” he murmured, pulling out slowly and helping you sit up. He grabbed a discarded t-shirt from your floor and gently cleaned you up, his touch infinitely tender. “Because I’m not done with you yet. Not by a long shot.”
He lay down beside you, pulling you into his arms. The storm outside was finally breaking, the rain lashing against the windows. But inside, the storm was just beginning. You were his goddaughter, his best friend’s little girl. And you were his. And as you lay there in his arms, you knew that nothing would ever be the same again.
Oooooo would love to see T.A. Rafe and Reader get together in his apartment or hers and getting to know each other outiside the college personas! Imagine the domestic bliss bubble and the sex being not urgent🫠
"T.A STANDS FOR TITS AND ASS" iii
ᡣ𐭩. ݁˖ . masterlist. taglist ᵕ̈⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚˚∗
. . . IN WHICH professor Rafe gives you a thorough house tour.
The rain comes down in a solid, gray sheet, hammering against the high glass windows of the faculty building lobby. Outside, the courtyard is completely submerged, water churning over the pavement and the wind whipping the trees until they bend almost double.
You stand just inside the heavy glass doors, your canvas tote bag hanging heavily off one shoulder. The building is nearly empty—most students and faculty fled an hour ago when the sky first turned the color of a fresh bruise. You had stayed late in the library writing, completely oblivious to the weather, and now you’re stranded. The streetlights outside flicker erratically. There is no chance of walking back to your dorm in this without being soaked to the bone in under ten seconds.
Footsteps echo down the marble hallway behind you. Measured, crisp, unmistakable.
You don't turn around right away, but you catch his reflection in the dark glass of the door. Rafe has his leather briefcase in one hand, his suit jacket draped over his arm. His white button-down is slightly creased at the elbows, the top two buttons undone, tie loosened just enough to expose the hollow of his throat. His thin-framed glasses catch the dim ambient light of the hallway.
He stops a few feet beside you, looking past your reflection out into the deluge.
"A rather predictable lack of foresight," Rafe says softly, his voice low and calm in the quiet lobby. "The weather advisory was issued at noon."
You turn your head to look at him, leaning back against the glass. "Some of us were busy studying, Professor. Not all of us spend our afternoons checking meteorological reports."
Rafe swivels his head toward you, his dark eyes assessing you over the rim of his glasses. The corner of his mouth twitches with that familiar, maddening hint of amusement. "Studying, or simply ignoring reality until it forces a confrontation? A classic avoidance mechanism."
"I was waiting for the storm to pass," you reply, crossing your arms. "It’s called patience."
"It’s called poor planning," he counters smoothly. He adjusts his glasses with his forefinger, his gaze lingering on your face, taking in the damp chill clinging to your skin, the way your fingers are tucked into your sleeves. He lets out a quiet, resigned exhale. "My car is in the underground garage. I’m driving."
You raise an eyebrow. "I live across campus. You’re going in the opposite direction."
"Your dorm path is currently a river," Rafe says, turning toward the stairs that lead down to the parking level. He doesn't wait to see if you follow, but his tone leaves no room for debate. "My apartment is three blocks away. You can wait out the flash flood there, or you can risk hypothermia on the quad. The choice, biologically speaking, should be obvious."
You stand still for two seconds, watching his broad back as he descends the stairs, before swinging your tote bag higher on your shoulder and following him down into the dim subterranean garage.
The transition into his personal space feels entirely surreal.
His apartment is on the top floor of a quiet, turn-of-the-century building downtown. It smells like old paper, cedarwood, and rain. The floorboards are dark hardwood, partially covered by thick oriental rugs, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line almost every wall, packed to bursting with dense volumes on psychoanalysis, behavioral biology, and literature.
There are no cold fluorescent lights here. Rafe turns on a single warm lamp on a side table, casting soft, golden shadows across the open kitchen and living area.
"Leave your boots by the door," he says quietly, setting his briefcase down on the dark granite kitchen island. He hangs his jacket on a brass rack, unbuttons his cuffs, and rolls his sleeves up past his forearms in two crisp folds.
Without the podium, without the whiteboard, and stripped of the harsh classroom glare, the sharp edge of his authority softens into something far more intimate. He looks less like a formidable academic and more like a man simply coming home—except you are standing in his kitchen, watching the way his shoulder blades move under his shirt as he moves around the space.
He steps into the hallway and returns a moment later holding an oversized, thick gray fleece sweater and a pair of dark sweatpants.
"You're shivering," he notes, hand extending the clothes toward you. "Go change in the bathroom. Second door on the left."
You take the clothes, your fingers brushing against his. He doesn't pull away immediately. His eyes hold yours for a long beat, clinical distance warring with something heavy and quiet beneath the surface, before he smoothly steps back.
"I’ll make tea," he adds quietly, turning back toward the kitchen stove.
When you come out of the bathroom, the clothes swallow you completely. The sweater smells faintly of his cologne—sandalwood and light citrus—and the hem falls past your thighs. You roll the sleeves up twice so your hands can peek out. You left the sweatpants off, walking bare-legged into the warm light of the kitchen.
Rafe is leaning back against the edge of the cold granite kitchen counter, two mugs steaming behind him. He has taken his glasses off and is setting them down next to the stove, looking tired in a way he never allows himself to look on campus. When he hears your bare feet on the hardwood, he looks up, his gaze dropping to take in your bare legs, then rising slowly to how you look swallowed up in his sweater. Something dark, heavy, and possessive flickers behind his eyes before he masters his expression again.
"You skipped the trousers," he notes softly, his voice dropping an octave, losing its sharp lecture-hall clarity. It’s thicker now, raspy around the edges.
"They were too big," you say, stopping right in front of him. You place your hands on the edge of the counter on either side of his hips. "You don't have to keep playing the professor here, Rafe. There are no grades to turn in."
Hearing his first name fall so casually from your lips in his own home makes him go still. He rests his broad hands on your waist, his thumbs tracing the warm fabric over your hips.
"Habits are hard to break," he replies quietly. "Especially when the alternative requires acknowledging things that breach proper protocol."
"Protocol went out the window in your office three weeks ago," you remind him softly.
Rafe exhales a low breath, looking down at your mouth. A strand of blond hair falls out of its usual combed-back style, dropping over his forehead. "That was... an anomaly."
"Was it?" You lean in closer, your chest almost touching his. "You look at me during your lectures like you're trying to figure me out. But tonight... you just look relieved."
Rafe’s hands tighten on your waist. The intellectual defense mechanisms are slipping, piece by piece, dropping away into the rain-hushed quiet of the apartment.
"I am relieved," he admits quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. He lifts his hands, his fingers lifting the hem of your sweater just enough to grip your bare thighs. With one smooth, firm lift, he hoists you up, sitting you directly on the cold, smooth edge of the granite kitchen counter.
You part your legs instinctively to accommodate him, wrapping your knees around his hips. The contrast between the chilled stone beneath your thighs and the radiating heat of his body between your knees makes a soft breath hitch in your throat.
"I’ve spent the last three weeks watching you sit in the front row, throwing my own theories back in my face, driving me completely out of my mind," he murmurs, leaning in until his breath brushes your lips.
"You like it," you whisper, reaching out to thread your fingers into his blond hair, ruining the neatness of it completely.
"It terrifies me," he corrects, his voice gravelly as his lips meet yours.
The kiss isn't like the frantic, desperate one in his office. It is slow, deep, and heavy. His mouth moves against yours with an unhurried warmth, his tongue slipping past your lips to taste you deeply, drinking you in without any rush. There is no fear of discovery—only the storm pounding against the windows and the low, hum of the refrigerator in the quiet room.
Rafe's hands travel slowly up the backs of your bare thighs, gathering the thick fleece sweater up toward your waist until you are exposed to him in the warm light. He breaks the kiss, sliding down to his knees on the dark hardwood floor right between your parted legs.
The sight of Professor Cameron—immaculately dressed in his unbuttoned dress shirt, blond hair messy, resting on his knees on his own kitchen floor—makes your heart hammer against your ribs.
"Rafe..." you gasp, your hands dropping to his broad shoulders.
He doesn't answer with words. He places his large, warm hands on the inside of your knees, gently pushing your legs wider apart over the edge of the counter. He leans forward, his hot breath brushing against the slick, sensitive skin of your inner thighs.
When his lips make contact with your core, pressing a slow, warm kiss right to your center, a sharp sound slips from your throat.
"Look at me," he rasps against your skin, his voice thick and muffled.
You look down through the hazy golden light. Rafe gazes up at you from between your thighs, his dark eyes wide, dark, and completely unguarded. He parts his lips and laps at you, slow and deliberate, drawing a wet, broad stroke from bottom to top.
You arch your back off the counter, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair. Rafe lets out a quiet, raspy whimpering sigh into your flesh as he tastes you, the sound vibrating directly against your most sensitive spot. He buries his face deeper, his tongue working in steady, rhythmic laps, swirling around your clit before dragging wetly down your opening.
Hearing that soft, vulnerable whimpering noise break through his usual rigid composure hits you harder than anything else. The articulate, commanding academic is completely gone, replaced by a man utterly undone by the taste of you, breathing heavily against your thighs.
"Look at you," you whisper weakly, your knuckles white where you hold onto his hair. "So needy for me, Rafe."
His shoulders jerk slightly at your words, a small, helpless whine catching in the back of his throat. He swishes his tongue faster over your wet heat, two of his fingers sliding smoothly inside you, pumping slow and deep in tandem with his mouth.
"Yes," he breathes out against your skin, the admission raw and completely devoid of pride. "Yes..."
"Such a good boy," you murmur, guiding his head tighter against you. "Taking care of me..."
The praise undoes him entirely. Another sweet, high whimper escapes his chest, his fingers working inside you with a desperate, flawless rhythm while his tongue flicks relentlessly over your clit. The friction against the cold granite counter, the heat of his mouth, and the steady, heavy slide of his fingers push you over the edge in seconds.
Your inner walls contract tightly around his fingers, a long, shivering moan tearing from your chest as your climax crashes through you. Rafe doesn't pull away; he drinks in every drop of your release, lapping hungrily until the worst of your tremors pass and you're left gasping for air, your legs shaking against his shoulders.
He slowly stands up, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His dark eyes are flushed with heat, his chest heaving under his open shirt.
Without a word, he unbuckles his belt, dragging it free and letting it clatter to the floor. He unfastens his trousers, pushing them down along with his briefs, freeing his heavy, erect cock. It twitches against his stomach, slick and burning hot.
He steps back between your legs, bringing his hips flush against the edge of the granite counter. He reaches down, guiding his broad tip to your wet, swollen entrance.
"Please," he rasps, his hands coming up to grip your hips securely, anchoring you to the stone. "I need to be inside you."
You wrap your legs firmly around his waist, lifting yourself slightly to meet him. "Then take what you want, Professor."
Rafe groans, a deep, primal sound, and drives his hips forward in one slow, fluid push. He buries himself completely inside you, filling you to the hilt.
The sensation is so intense that his head falls back, his jaw clenching as a sharp breath hitches in his throat. You curl your arms around his neck, pulling him down until his forehead rests against your collarbone.
"Ah... god," he pants, his hands digging into the flesh of your hips as he pulls back slowly, only to plunge deep into your wet heat again. The hard edge of the granite counter presses into the backs of your thighs, keeping you steady while he sets a heavy, unhurried pace.
Every time his hips hit the counter with a quiet, solid thud, he drives deeper inside you, his chest heaving against yours. The rhythm is slow, deliberate, and excruciatingly thorough. There is no rush—just the steady slide of his cock, the rain hammering the windows, and the wet, heavy sounds of his undone composure filling the warm kitchen.
"You feel... incredible," he stammers, his voice thick with devotion. He lifts his head, kissing your jaw, your neck, his lips searching for yours in the dim light. "So tight..."
"You're doing so well, Rafe," you whisper into his ear, feeling his body shudder at the sound of his name. "Just like that... keep going for me."
He lets out another low, needy whimper, his hips rolling up into you with more urgency now, matching your encouragement. His hands move from your hips to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him so that every thrust reaches as deep as possible.
You feel the coil tightening in your gut all over again, the steady, rhythmic friction against your sensitive walls pushing you toward another peak. You dig your fingernails into his broad, bare back, your breath coming in ragged gasps against his ear.
"Rafe... right there," you cry out softly. "Don't stop."
"I won't... I'm right here," he breathes, his pace quickening just a fraction, his body taut and flush with sweat. His dark eyes lock onto yours, catching every micro-expression of your pleasure as he drives into you over and over.
The wave hits you hard, a second, sweeter orgasm rippling through your lower abdomen, contracting tightly around him. Hearing your sharp gasp and feeling your walls clamp down around him snaps his last thread of control.
With a long, muffled groan buried in the crook of your neck, Rafe thrusts deep one last time and holds himself there, his hips trembling violently against the counter as he comes inside you, filling you with long, heavy pulses.
For several minutes, neither of you moves.
He stays buried inside you, his forehead resting heavily against your shoulder, his broad chest rising and falling in deep, ragged breaths. His arms remain wrapped securely around your waist, keeping you safely balanced on the edge of the counter.
Rafe kisses the side of your neck softly, a tender, unhurried gesture that feels entirely foreign to the man who berates students over bibliography formats.
"We're going to have to address the glaring breach of boundaries eventually," Rafe murmurs after a long silence, his voice low, heavy, and entirely devoid of its usual sharp edge.
You let out a soft laugh, resting your chin on his shoulder and looking down at him. His blond hair is a complete mess, his glasses are sitting abandoned on the stove, and a gentle, relaxed smile plays on his lips.
"Tomorrow, Professor," you whisper, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. "You can lecture me about boundaries tomorrow."
Rafe lets out a quiet, contented huff, lifting you carefully off the counter and carrying you toward the soft leather sofa in the living room, pulling the heavy fleece sweater back over your legs to keep you warm in his quiet, rain-sheltered world.
The shift from the cool granite of the kitchen island to the soft warmth of the sofa is only a brief reprieve. Rafe carries you effortlessly, his strong arms locked under your thighs, his chest still slick with perspiration and heaving with shallow, deliberate breaths. When he sets you down on the deep leather couch, he doesn't pull away. The distance between you, even for a second, seems to distress him in a way he can no longer articulate or hide behind academic jargon.
Instead of drawing back to put his clothes on, he sinks to his knees between your feet once more, resting his forearms on the edge of the cushion. He looks up at you through the golden glow of the floor lamp, his blue-dark eyes wide, heavy-lidded, and utterly stripped of authority. The thin-framed glasses are still sitting forgotten on the kitchen counter; without them, his expression is soft, raw, and completely exposed.
"You haven't seen the rest of the place," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sends a pleasant shudder down your spine. His large hand slides up your leg, his calloused palm tracing the curve of your calf, your knee, up to the soft inner flesh of your thigh. "It would be... inefficient not to give you the full tour."
"Inefficient?" you whisper, a breathy laugh escaping your lips as you reach down to stroke his messy blond hair, smoothing back a damp lock that has fallen over his forehead. "Is that the psychological term for it, Professor?"
Rafe lets out a soft, self-deprecating huff, his breath warm against your inner knee. "It’s the only justification I have left before I completely lose whatever sanity I have managed to retain around you."
He stands up, towering over you for a fraction of a second, before reaching out to pull you to your feet. He doesn't let your soles touch the floor for long; instead, he shifts you back against the heavy wooden wall of the hallway that connects the living space to his private study. The dark wainscoting is cool against your spine, but Rafe is a wall of heat in front of you, trapping you effortlessly between his body and the hard wood.
He lifts one of your legs, hooking your knee firmly over his hip. His cock, still semi-erect and glistening, brushes hot against your sensitive core. With a heavy, needy sigh, he aligns himself and pushes back inside you with one long, unhurried stroke.
You gasp, your fingers digging into the broad muscle of his shoulders as he fills you completely once again. The hallway is narrow, lit only by the faint light spilling from the living room, amplifying the quiet, secretive nature of the space.
"The hallway," he pants against your jaw, his hips beginning a slow, rolling thrust that presses your back rhythmically into the wooden panels. "Transitional space. Historically associated with movement... with passing through. But with you..." He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a wet, searing kiss to your pulse point as he drives deep. "...with you, I just want to stop time entirely."
"Rafe..." you whimpered, your head tilting back against the wall as the friction builds with incredible speed. His rhythm is steady, possessive, every thrust deliberate and heavy. "You talk too much."
"Force of habit," he rasps, a faint, breathless smile brushing your skin before he lets out a quiet, pathetic whimper as your inner walls clamp tight around him. He loves the way you fit together, the way your body welcomes him without hesitation. He works his hips in tight, agonizingly deep circles, driving you to the edge of the precipice before you’ve even had a chance to catch your breath from the kitchen.
"Good boy," you whisper into his ear, feeling the violent shudder that runs through his entire frame at the praise. "Keep going... right there..."
A sweet, needy whine escapes his throat—a sound so completely antithetical to the sharp, intimidating professor who commands his lecture hall—and he thrusts harder, his hands bruising-soft on your waist as he rides the crest of your shared heat. You come together with a muffled cry, your release spilling over him, triggering his own breathless completion right there against the hallway wall, his forehead resting heavily against your collarbone as he shakes in your arms.
When the tremors finally subside, Rafe doesn't let you fall. He keeps you gathered close against his chest, walking you slowly down the dim corridor into his private study.
The room smells richly of old leather-bound books, ink, and tobacco. A massive, antique mahogany desk dominates the center of the space, stacked high with student essays, reference volumes, and brass desk lamps. Tall bookshelves line three of the walls, rising all the way to the high ceiling.
He sets you down on the smooth, cool leather of his executive swivel chair—the very chair he sits in when he grades your papers, when he prepares his scathing critiques, when he thinks about you in the quiet hours of the night.
Rafe stands over you, breathing heavily, his chest glistening in the shadow. He pulls the heavy gray fleece sweater off you completely this time, tossing it onto a nearby armchair, leaving you entirely bare against the dark leather of his chair. He leans over you, planting his palms on the padded armrests, trapping you in a cage of his broad shoulders.
"My study," he whispers, his voice thick with a mixture of reverence and sheer, unadulterated desire. "Where I am supposed to be at my most rational. My most disciplined."
He drops to his knees on the rug between your legs, parting them wide over the arms of the chair. He looks up at you, his eyes dark with a wild, desperate devotion.
"I have sat at this desk for three weeks trying to write my lectures, and every single page ended up filled with thoughts of you," he confesses rawly, placing his hands flat against the insides of your thighs. He leans forward and presses his hot face directly between your legs, inhaling the sweet, sharp scent of your mutual arousal before his tongue glides up your center in a long, agonizingly slow stroke.
You cry out, your fingers gripping the edge of the wooden desk behind the chair, your toes curling against the plush rug. Rafe eats you out with a feverish, worshipful intensity, his tongue swirling around your clit, his nose pressing into your soft curls, making low, helpless sounds in the back of his throat every time your hips twitch upward to meet his mouth.
"Rafe... please, I can't..." you pant, overwhelmed by the sensory overload of his study, the leather, his tongue, his complete undoing.
"You can," he rasps, breaking away just long enough to look at you, his mouth wet and gleaming. "You're going to take everything I have to give you in every inch of this apartment."
He stands up, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the desk. He grabs a stack of ungraded essays from the corner and carelessly sweeps them aside, clearing a wide space on the polished wood. He lifts you out of the chair and sets you onto the center of his desk, the cool mahogany stark against your warm, flushed skin.
He steps between your knees, guiding his slick, hard length back to your opening. With a single, heavy push, he anchors himself inside you, his hands coming up to hold your face gently between his palms.
The rhythm he sets on the desk is slow, deep, and deeply emotional. It is no longer about the frantic friction; it is a slow, methodical undoing of every barrier he ever built. Every time he thrusts, the desk creaks softly under his weight, the brass lamp flickering in the dark. He kisses you—deep, wet, possessing kisses that taste like yourself—whimpering into your mouth every time you roll your hips to meet him.
"You own me," he whispers brokenly against your lips, his composure completely shattered as he thrusts with a rhythmic, mesmerizing power. "You know that, don't you? There is no recovery from this."
"I know," you breathe, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into your center. "Show me, Rafe. Show me how much you need me."
He lets out a raspy sob of pleasure, his hips pounding into you with a desperate, beautiful rhythm that shatters your control all over again. You arch off the mahogany desk, your voice echoing in the quiet study as your third climax crashes over you. Rafe follows you instantly, his body stiffening, his face buried in your shoulder as he pours himself into you, his hands clutching you as if you were the only solid thing in an unraveling world.
By the time he carries you into his bedroom, the storm outside has settled into a steady, rhythmic cadence against the large bay windows. The city lights flicker softly in the distance, casting long, cool blue shadows across the king-sized bed.
The room is minimal, clean, and dominated by the smell of fresh linen and rain.
Rafe lays you down in the center of the soft mattress, his heavy body following you down immediately. He doesn't go straight for insertion this time. Instead, he simply holds you, his long limbs tangling with yours, his broad chest pressed against your side as he buries his face in your hair, breathing you in deeply.
There is a profound, domestic warmth in the bedroom. The frantic desperation has burned away, leaving behind a thick, heavy intimacy that feels almost overwhelmingly sweet.
"This is the end of the tour," Rafe whispers into the quiet space, his thumb stroking your cheek with a tenderness that makes your eyes sting. His blond hair is wildly disheveled, his skin warm and damp. "My bed. Where I sleep... or where I fail to sleep, thinking about you."
You turn your head to kiss his palm, your heart aching with the sheer weight of affection in the room. "No more theories, Rafe. No more academic distance."
"No," he agrees softly, his dark eyes locking onto yours with absolute sincerity. "No more hiding."
He shifts over you, his body a gentle, comforting weight. He spreads your legs with slow, reverent care, aligning his hips with yours once more. When he slides inside you this time, it is the slowest, deepest push yet—a complete, unhurried joining that feels less like sex and more like an anchor dropping into deep water.
He moves inside you with a lazy, agonizingly sweet rhythm, his gaze never leaving your eyes. Every slow stroke of his cock is accompanied by a quiet, trembling breath, a soft murmur of your name, or a gentle press of his lips to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips.
There is no rush left in him. The domestic bubble has expanded to swallow the entire night. He whimpers softly—not out of desperation now, but out of sheer, overwhelming bliss—as he moves within you, his chest rising and falling against yours in perfect synchronization.
"My good boy," you whisper, cupping his face, your thumbs tracing his cheekbones.
Rafe lets out a soft, shuddering sigh, closing his eyes as he buries his head in your neck, his hips continuing their slow, perfect dance until both of you are lifted into a soft, glowing peak that ripples through the quiet bedroom, leaving you both tangled in the sheets, breathing as one as the rain continues to fall outside.
small author's note: wow, this is so embarrassing. i don't think the anon remembers leaving this request but trust, it has been in my drafts for MONTHS. it was sitting there with my other bs that i was trying to cook up and i ended up listening to house tour by sabrina carptenter and this came out. i would tell you to request something else since i'm back now, but i'm not sure you'd see this. love you anyway, and hoped you enjoyed this and it at least met your domestic expectations🥹❤️
now that you came back may i know what's in your wips?👉👈
well, i have stuff i've been working on since i took the small hiatus for exams. i wanna post a new chapter for cherry bomb (please like i hate myself) since i watched off campus and it inspired me. i have a chapter for glass eyed creatures, THAT HAS BEEN IN MY DRAFTS SINCE LAST FALL. and.... i got a few ideas for stand alone fics. cute au's with rafe. (a friends to lovers one, a body switch one, grumpy x sunshine except rafe is the sunshine, pastor's daughter dark romance, an au where rafe is chronically online and has an internet bsf, a TRUE enemies to lovers with actual violent tendencies from both parties and maybe a forced marriage? OH and the mermaid au.) of course, pillowtalk and lucky charm and i'm ashamed to say this, but some requests i've started working on but never finished. so yeah....
not to be nosy but did i just heard you mentioning mermaid concept with rafe miss larissa?!?!?
YESSSSSS ive written a small chunk when i was still in school in the breaks, and this one has so much LORE, although the plot is hazy. imma tell you briefly, basically rafe meets this mute mermaid and tries teaching her how to speak english. she disappears for a week or so, in the meantime this very aristocratic italian family who have a VERYYY quiet daughter moves to figure eight. rafe doesn't care (obviously, cause he's nonchalant and broody) but he's forced to meet the family at a garden party.
they're very fancy and well spoken and ironically the young kooks think they're vampires, but rafe thinks otherwise. he meets their daughter and is SHOCKED (and lovestruck, duh) to realize that the italian quiet daughter is none other than our friendly mermaid. i loved writing this because i could play around with the parents speaking italian amongst themselves AND giving them an italian last name🥹 let me know if i should add this to my LONG list of fics to post and maybe post a teaser👀
YESSSSSS HEYYY, I'VE BEEN HAVING SUCH A MESSY START OF THE SUMMER AND I DIDN'T HAVE TIME TO WRITE. also college had been crazy lowkey, i finally did coke (overrated tbh, i 100% prefer weed) so i can write rafe cameron accurately. 🙂↔️
yeahh you should totally make an ao3 (if you have time ofc)!! Bc even though tumblr is fun to use for fics i feel like works usually get more valued on actually fanfic sites yk? And your works are v good, they kinda would deserve the spotlight. Besides i've seen two people from different fandoms here do that lately bc idk if u know (did this update reach you yet?) but tumblr's having a beef with people's age and censoring posts for some people
this is such a sweet ask! i've never thought people would appreciate my fics so much that i'd be worth of AO3 out of all places!!!! and OUUUUU don't get me started with the censoring thing, most of my posts don't show up if you don't have your age sent on a new account PLUS they get hidden to some people entirely. i would probably make an ao3 since it doesn't have a text block limit (like they do on tumblr since the new update) but i'll continue posting on here since i LOVE the tumblr aesthetic. i love you for this though, and i'll link the ao3 when it's set up. 🥹💖
girlie do you have an ao3? you post your fanfics there too?
omg hi! no i do not. i was thinking about it since it's easier to reread a fic if you can have it on your phone or a kindle, but i figured i'd be bad at keeping up with that blog, since i barely keep up with this one. do you think i should start an ao3?🥹👀💕
hii, this is a bit out of nowhere but can you tag me on the comments of your fixed post and on the part2 of your older!jj oneshot? I hit the like button of the latter to read later but i accidentaly hit the button to hide post too, and now for some reason the post is not appearing for me and neither your fixed one..?
hiii! i hope i didn't lose you by replying so late, i can tag you, but the posts might not be showing up due to you clicking hide post and the age restriction setting in. you might wanna update your birthday on here since tumblr is hiding mature posts for some reason (as if it isn't an app for mature fanfics ugh, so annoying.) let me know if you can see the tags!❤️
heyyyy i love ur pillow talk story i js wanna know when the next part is coming out tyyy
not promising anything, but i officially got done with school and moving out of my dorm back home, but maybe in a week? from now on. i promise i didn't go on hiatus or abandoned this fic. i'm not done with this fic. i'm sorry for the late response :(
for starters, i'm reading the new chapter of luck charm a little too late so that's why i'm just sending this now hehe srry😶🌫️
It's not confirmed if jhon b and mermaid are from the same family tree yet but jhon b's my man and all i can think about is jhon b's moral conflict in season three cuz of his dad. can't wait t see how this would play out, if jhon b will find himself in this situation again if big jhon returns (this time, conflicted between team up with his beloved dad VS team up with the new found sister that could be depending on him to do the right thing to protect her)
oh peach don't worry i'm bad at responding too! i don't mind if you read my stuff later. i didn't think about reuniting them with their father yet, but john b and reader are definitely half siblings. big john is a tender topic for me and i don't know what i should do with him. maybe they somehow find out he's actually dead? that could add a layer to their relationship. let me know!💙
i feel like I could curse in english but any curse word in my native language would express better my feeling rn. You actually thought of monica bellucci too?? that just proves my point that she's one of the most beautiful women living, and the fact that we thought of the same person is crazy.
(also focus on the part where jj's the only one having the telepathy thing because the traces of her mother's magic got awakened on him after he was saved, because that's so smart?? I've seen you mention here a few times how you're usually the type of writer that justs writes short stuff and smuts with no plots most of the time, and is kinda ironic because i think if enyone met you through lucky charm they wouldn't guess it you don't write other supernatural fics) and wait jj's gonna read her mind eventually?😭this is so cute stop, i love this little detail because it could provide so many scenarios with it (damn imagine if sarah ever tells reader she's pregnant like canon and later jj reads her mind) In other words, i'm in love with a schizophrenic blondie and his whimsy magical girlfriend.
-🧜♀️
okay so im back, officially done with school and exams and moving out of my dorm room. it was so crazy because i had monica's face in my mind but i didn't remember her name! we are soulmates. on my time away ive gotten so many new ideas for one installment fics, which one of them is like a supernatural one but with rafe. i wanna dive more into the supernatural aspect of obx tbh, because you can basically do any AU if you know how to write it correctly. lucky charm has been a bit hard for me since it was my first, but i'm planning on doing something mermaid themed with rafe too! with a different plot of course. i'm back and idk what to start with but trust im putting out a new chapter of lucky charm soon!💙🙂↔️💙
a small check in before I dive into exams and start posting again, I love being mentioned in things like these!🥰 thank you so much for putting my one shot there! there's more coming i promise💓🫶
Another hc of mine is that rafe's also a ragebaiter when he's happy enough to be in the mood to act like an asshole
as an older sister this actually cannon. he'd be the kind of older brother that would go into wheezie's room, flex in her mirror maybe even drop some of her stuff on the floor and then leave the door open and the light on. if we're talking other people, he'd stare at someone blankly without answering just to annoy them. if he's getting asked to do something he's like "no" and then does it anyway smirking to himself. loves to ragebait people by manspreading and getting dirty looks for taking too much space on the couch. as i said this guy is lowkey the spawn of satan, just an evil blond boy who loves to ragebait and act nonchalant on purpose (he's not.)
Your rafe headcanons are so spot on at this point it baffles me to remember he's a character and not a real person existing rn
i'm glad because i always see mixed feelings when people write headcannons for characters. i think writing his character for so long and investing so much time in writing him as if he's a real guy and not a two dimensional character just kinda helps. cause im like scrolling on tik tok and i'm like: rafe would wear that, or he'd like this song. AS IF HE'S MY FRIEND LOL. so i get the whole being baffled thing. i definitely can make another part, and i can also do one for jj cause i love analyzing fictional characters!❤️
'maybe reader's mom saving her could've altered her dna before she died and therefore made jj also magical' jj being abnormal too somehow? Ok that would explain his deep love to the sea probably (i mean he jumped in to surf even tho a hurricane was going on, that's so uncommon it's funny) and maybe even why he's the only one who can have a one-sided telepathy with reader. Or maybe the last part is because they're soulmates idk. I love science fiction stories and fantasy, because depending of how reader's mom could've changed jj's mom's (and jj's) dna, i wonder how jj's coexistence with reader could affect him somehow (if, in this case. Beause i can't even say "scientifically speaking" given the mermaids x real life circunstances).
and wait i think I was going to mention it on my first comment but you just reminded me rn - The concept of reader's mom being like 'haha, he has charisma...🗿🪄you'll be family🪄🗿' is funny af, let's hope nothing happens to this diva🙏🏻
btw i'm curious, do you picture someone when you write reader's mom? Personally the first time she appeared on this fic for some reason monica bellucci on the "Malèna" movie came to my mind (and "for some reason" might because she's probably one of the most beautiful and hypnotic women my brain could conjure in a span of seconds.)
you are genuinely onto something with the first part of this ask because that's what i was trying to convey with the beginning of the story. a small part of jj knew that he wouldn't die if he surfed into the hurricane. another reason why he's the only one experiencing the telepathy is that once she saved him the traces of her mother's magic got awakened in jj. so technically speaking if jj's mother was alive after she got saved by mermaid mommy, they'd also be able to communicate telepathically. just a fun fact for you! but there's also the fact that they're soulmates lol as i said in my last response. jj's bond with the reader would only grow stronger if she decides to live on land and get married to him. but if they get separated that bond grows weaker. them coexisting would be like, they're at a fastfood place and they're looking at the options for food and because of their connection jj knows that she would hate pickles and love tomatoes on her burger. something like that.
the downside of it would be that jj wouldn't be able to keep any secrets from the reader. like if in the future he wants to propose, he basically can't keep it a secret. it would just go like: "yes" "what?" "i wanna marry you. you don't have to do the speech if you're nervous. or get on your knees. the ground is kinda gross." and jj would just be standing there like he's the bride to be and just got proposed to. their relationship contains no secrets. with time jj can kinda learn to read her mind too. like hear her thoughts even when she's not reaching into her mind. so if she's making fun of a strangers outfit in her head he goes "you're so right babe he does like a giant crab with that hat" outloud for everyone to hear. he sounds schizophrenic most of the times lol.
now onto the diva that is her mother. nothing will happen to her, i like her too much. if you wanna believe me, i pictured her in my head as someone who looked vaguely like monica belluci. that woman is so delicious god, except mermaid mommy has longer and darker hair. malena was a very based movie you're so cultured i could kiss you. i was also kinda thinking about catherine zeta jones, but monica belluci is the closest to what i was picturing lol. and by now you don't need to add the emoji because i know you and your asks.💙🥹🦇
