cw: angst, heartbreak, wedding, childhood best friends to unspoken love, sister’s wedding
wc: 576| one-shot
You had known him forever.
His voice, his laugh, even the shadow of his walk — all of it was a part of your childhood, your world. Memories of Rafe stretched like fragile threads: summer vacations by the ocean, when he splashed water at you and you screamed with joy; secret late-night talks on the roof of his house, where you dreamed of a future while staring at the stars.
You both knew. But neither of you ever said it.
The words always got stuck in your throats, and silence became the safest place to hide.
Now you’re staring at his reflection in the mirror.
A white shirt, perfectly ironed, far too formal for the boy you once knew. He’s playing with the ring in his fingers, as if it doesn’t belong to him, as if it doesn’t fit his skin.
You’re standing too close — far too close for your heartbeat to stay calm. Your fingers catch on the fabric of his tie, adjusting it, while he leans just a little lower, and his breath brushes your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.
“You always fix everything for me,” he whispers with a faint smile, as if he’s afraid to shatter the fragile moment.
You look up. And the world slows down.
Those blue eyes — so familiar, so achingly dear — hold everything you both left unsaid. They ask the question: “Why not us?” They hold a desperate confession he’ll never say out loud.
But between you stands a wall.
His choice — your sister. Your blood. Your family.
You smile. Too tightly, too steady.
“It’s perfect now.”
He looks like he wants to say something more, but the words drown in the air. And both of you pretend nothing ever happened.
The ceremony begins in the garden.
The sun hangs low above the horizon, drenching everything in golden light. The air smells of jasmine and candles lined along the aisle. Wooden chairs creak, guests whisper, someone clinks a glass of wine.
Everyone looks at the bride.
And you look at him.
He stands by the altar, dazzling in his suit, and in that moment he doesn’t feel real. Too distant. Too far away.
Your sister walks toward him down the aisle, smiling so wide it squeezes hearts in the crowd. You hear women sighing softly beside you, children giggling as they scatter rose petals.
And you feel your own heart breaking — slowly, with a crack only you can hear.
He speaks his vows. His voice is steady, firm — but you know him too well. You hear the fracture beneath every word. You hear the shadow behind every pause.
And then she slides the ring onto his finger. He does the same for her.
Applause. Laughter. Pure happiness all around.
But you sit in the shade, and tears stream down your cheeks. Everyone thinks it’s joy, affection, tenderness. That’s what it should be. You’re the bride’s sister. Of course you’re happy.
But you’re not.
Every tear is a farewell.
Every drop is a confession that will never leave your lips.
For a moment, he looks at you. Just one second.
And you see it. The same thing in his eyes that burns in yours: “Who knows?”
Maybe both of you.
Maybe neither.
And then it all drowns in music, in applause, in the laughter of the guests.
And you sit there in the corner, crying — and no one knows why.
The heat clung to your skin like a second layer. Sticky, heavy. Even the breeze that drifted lazily through the backyard carried no relief — just the scent of chlorine, sunscreen, and smoke from someone’s half-finished joint.
You leaned against the edge of the pool, legs dipped into the water, sipping something strong and sugary. Laughter echoed behind you, bodies tangled in towels and drinks and sun. Somewhere behind all of it — you could feel him.
Rafe Cameron.
Leaning against the railing, dark tank top clinging to his skin, beer in hand, sunglasses sliding down his nose just enough to let his eyes rest on you. Again. And again.
He didn’t hide it.
He never had.
“You’re staring,” you murmured, not turning your head when his shadow loomed behind you.
“I’m lookin’,” he corrected lazily, voice soaked in confidence. “You always make it so fucking easy.”
You shivered. Not from the breeze.
From him.
He crouched behind you, fingers ghosting over the top of your thighs. “Been ignoring me all day. That little act you put on? Laughing too loud, walking around in that little swimsuit like I wouldn’t say shit?” His voice dipped lower. “You wanted my attention.”
“You’re insane,” you breathed, heart thudding.
His grip tightened suddenly — a silent warning. “You wore that for me. Didn’t you?”
You turned just enough to meet his eyes. Heat. Fire. No escape.
You didn’t answer.
You didn’t need to.
He chuckled low. “That’s what I thought.”
He pulled you up before you could react, leading you away from the crowd. Past the pool deck. Around the side of the house where no one could see — but could easily hear if you were too loud.
“Rafe—” you started, but he had you pressed against the wall, hand wrapped around your jaw.
“No more games, baby,” he said, mouth brushing yours. “You’ve been begging for this without even saying a word.”
Then he kissed you.
Hard.
Possessive.
Like he was claiming territory.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, trying to stay upright as his hand slid down your body, gripping your ass like he owned it. He did. In this moment — he fucking did.
“Turn around,” he growled.
You obeyed before your brain caught up. His hands were already tugging at the thin strings of your bikini bottom, letting it fall to the ground
He pressed against you — you could feel how hard he was, straining against his shorts.
“Bent over, soaking wet, waiting for me like a good girl,” he muttered. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”
Then he slid his fingers between your legs.
“You’re soaked,” he whispered. “Didn’t even touch you yet, and you’re dripping for me.”
A moan slipped from your lips.
“You gonna stay quiet for me, baby?” he teased, dragging his fingers slowly. “Or do you want the whole damn party to know who’s fucking you?”
He pushed two fingers in — rough, fast, curling in all the right places. Your knees buckled.
“That’s it,” he praised. “Take it.”
And you did. You took everything he gave.
His fingers.
His tongue — when he dropped to his knees and buried his face between your thighs, moaning like you were his last meal.
Then finally — finally — he was inside you.
Fast.
Hard.
No hesitation.
He kept one hand over your mouth to muffle the sounds, the other gripping your hip so tight it’d bruise.
“You feel that?” he gritted in your ear. “You feel what you do to me?”
You nodded frantically, lost in the rhythm, the slap of skin against skin, the way his body moved with yours like he’d been waiting forever.
“Say it,” he demanded.
“I want you,” you gasped. “Only you.”
He groaned — low and dangerous — and came with a growl, burying his face in your neck as you unraveled around him seconds later.
The world tilted.
You stayed like that — breathless, tangled, wrecked — until his hand slid down your spine and he kissed the back of your neck.
“Still pretending you don’t want me?” he murmured.
"you knew what you were doing when you walked in with that skirt."
He’s got you flat on your stomach, pressed deep into the mattress, hand tangled in your hair like he owns you — because he does, at least tonight. He’s not talking much. Just breathing heavy, jaw clenched, cock hard against your ass through his jeans.
You feel the rage in his grip. The way his body trembles not from nerves — but from holding back.
Not anymore.
"Spread your legs," he growls. "Now. Don’t fucking test me."
You do. You don’t dare disobey.
He slides in without warning — raw, fast, buried to the hilt — and you cry out, but he doesn’t stop. He shoves your hips down harder, deeper, fucking you like it’s punishment.
"You wanted this? You wanted me like this?"
Thrust. Thrust. Your fingers claw at the sheets.
"You do shit like that on purpose. Act all sweet, all innocent — but then you walk in with that mouth, that fucking skirt..."
His hand wraps around your throat. Not tight. Just enough to make your breath catch — just enough to remind you who you belong to.
"All you’re good for is taking my cock like the pretty little slut you are."
You moan, dizzy and dripping. He knows it. His fingers slide between your legs, rub fast, mean, like he wants you to fall apart all over him. You do.
You come with a broken sound, thighs shaking, mouth open, body gone — and he doesn’t stop. Not yet.
He bites your shoulder. Hard. You’ll feel it tomorrow.
"Mine. Say it."
"Yours," you whimper. "Fuck, Rafe — all yours."
He finishes deep, raw, growling against your skin, and you swear he almost collapses on top of you.
He stays inside. Breathing heavy. Not moving. Just holding you there, buried, full, wrecked.
"No more skirts," he mutters against your neck. "Unless you’re ready for this every time."
The party was already dissolving into its own mess. Sweat, alcohol, smoke, noise. Lost phones, smudged mascara, music that I didn’t even hear anymore — just felt in my chest like a second heartbeat.
But I knew he was watching.
Rafe.
Leaning against the doorway, cigarette half-finished, hooded eyes fixed on me like a fucking target.
I laughed at something JJ said — not even flirty, just polite — and that was all it took. Rafe dropped the cigarette, crushed it, and started walking.
You don’t hear him. You feel him.
And then he was behind me. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him.
"Having fun?" he murmured, voice low and rough like gravel. "You like people looking at you like that?"
I turned slowly. Didn’t flinch.
"It’s just a party..."
His hand wrapped around my wrist. Not hard. But firm. Intentional.
"Come with me."
"Rafe—"
"I said, come."
No room for arguing. He pulled. Through the crowd, up the stairs, into a locked bedroom — one I’m sure wasn’t his, but he had the key anyway.
The door slammed. Silence. Just breathing.
"Tell me you didn’t know what you were doing. Laughing like that. Acting like you’re not mine."
His voice dropped.
"Tell me you didn’t want me to snap."
I stayed quiet.
He moved in, crowding me against the wall.
"Don’t pretend you don’t want me to fuck you right now," he whispered, hand sliding up to wrap gently but possessively around my throat. Not choking. Just claiming. "You do. You want it. From me."
I inhaled sharply. His mouth was already on mine — messy, hot, angry. Tasting like beer and something dangerous. His hands slid under my skirt, ripped my underwear off like they were in his way. His fingers pushed inside like he owned me. Because he did.
"Already so wet," he muttered darkly. "One smile and I lose my fucking mind. You think that’s fair?"
You try to speak — he cuts you off with another kiss, harder. Rougher. His fingers don’t stop. They only go deeper.
Then he unzipped his jeans. Still staring at me like I was the only thing he could see. His cock was already hard, throbbing.
He lifted me in one swift motion, setting me down on the desk by the wall, pushing my knees apart, breathing fast.
And then he was inside. No warning. No patience. Just all of him, all at once.
You gasped. He groaned low in your ear.
"That’s it," he rasped. "You’re mine. That’s your punishment. And your reward. Got it?"
He fucked like he meant it — like he was mad, or scared, or starving. Every thrust harder than the last. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Just held onto him, nails digging into his back, moaning his name as everything blurred.
"Yeah, baby," he growled. "Let them hear who you belong to."
You came first. Loud, legs shaking, breath stolen.
He came after — deep, raw, gritting your name through his teeth.
Silence again. Heavy. Warm.
He didn’t move. Just stayed there. Still inside. Still looking at you.
Then he whispered:
"Now go. And tomorrow... be mine again. Or I’ll come remind you."
You nodded. Because you already knew what this was.
The corridor of the old church smells of wax, incense, and a subtle sweetness—perhaps that sweetness was you. This Sunday, you came again dressed in white: your skirt covers your knees, a ribbon in your hair, eyes lowered. But he’s already waiting—leaning against the stone wall, a cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth, eyes fixed only on you. You know: he doesn’t read the Scripture—he rewrites it to his will. He doesn’t fear the flames of hell, because he believes he is the fire sent to burn girls like you. And deep down, you like that. It scares you how much.
You walk toward him like a sinner to temptation. Like a blessing that came to ruin you. A curse in flesh and smoke.
pairing: preacher’s son!Rafe Cameron x church girl!reader
religious guilt & arousal • public innocence / hidden lust • cunnilingus in the confessional • dirty talk against prayers • face buried in robe folds • unprotected rough sex on altar steps • cum as communion • spiritual degradation / body worship • forced prayer with cock in mouth
tw:
fiction. All characters are 18+. This text contains taboo dynamics, religious symbolism, manipulation, and psychological dependency. Do not read if this causes discomfort.
You sit on a wooden pew. Hands folded in prayer. Nails short, pink, neat. The pastor’s voice is low, rasping, like it traveled centuries to reach you—but you listen. Dutifully. Obediently. Papa always said a good girl knows the Scripture. You’re a good girl. You study purity, spirit, and how the body is a temple. But your body feels like fire: every word in the sermon reminds you of him. His look. His touch. His promise to take you when you’re ready.
You’re ready.
More than ever. Ready to break. To shake. To burn.
He sits behind you. His breath—hot, heavy, animal—is close to your neck as he leans in and says:
— Amen, sweetheart. Is your pussy praying too, when I’m near?
You flinch. Knees press together. Eyes stay low. But you hear his grin. His voice is poison, and you drink it willingly.
— Obedient girl, he breathes. — So pure, right? But you’re full of flame. I dreamt of you moaning between verses. First — “Our Father.” Then — “deeper, Rafe.” I know you whisper my name between lines like I’m your god.
Psalms echo from the pulpit. Someone coughs. Your bench creaks. And his hand—already on your thigh. A gentle touch. Like a blessing. But you know: he curses. He ruins holiness with one brush of his fingers.
— Are you wet? I’ll find out. I don’t play. Your panties are stuck to your pussy like wax on a candle. Think God sees? Let him. He wants you too. Just like I do.
You say nothing. But your breath stumbles. Your pulse throbs lower. His fingers travel higher—under your skirt, to your panties. White. Lacy. Bought yesterday—for him. You prayed he’d notice. And he did. His fingers—on you. His sin—inside you.
He touches the fabric. Finds your clit. Circles it. Firmly. The world blurs. You bite your lip, trembling. Wanting more.
— Knew it, he exhales. — My little Christian slut. I said you’d pray to me. Look at you. Soaked with me, even when I’m not inside. Want me to fuck you right now? Want your moans to drown the psalms? I will, if you don’t follow me out.
He stands. Walks. The confessional door creaks.
— Now. Come.
You rise. Barefoot—you left your shoes behind. You walk to him. Through stained glass light. Into shadow.
The wooden door is heavy. Inside smells like him: leather, smoke, sweat. He’s seated, robe slipping from his shoulders. His cock’s already in hand—thick, flushed, hard. He watches you like a relic he’s about to desecrate.
— On your knees. Don’t close your mouth. I want you praying with my cock in your throat.
You kneel. Lips part. He approaches. Lets you breathe him in. You tremble. He commands:
— Start with "Our Father." I want to hear every moan inside each word.
You begin the prayer. Soft. Even. But each line becomes his. About his power. Your surrender.
He pulls your hair, guides you. His cock pushes deep. He groans. You choke—but don’t stop. You serve. Him. God. Yourself.
He moves fast. Rough. Deep. Your throat tightens. Tears spill. You cough, but stay. His fingers on your neck. He feels you swallow.
— Hold it. Don’t let go. Let the church know who you belong to. Mine.
He cums. Doesn’t pull out. Lets it drip on your tongue, your chin, your chest. Watches you lick. Take it in.
— Don’t swallow. That’s your communion.
You pray. He listens. His hand—still on your head.
— Ask forgiveness. Because I’m not done.
He pulls your panties down. Fingers between pussy lips. Feels the heat. Slides two inside. Deep. Relentless.
You moan into his robe. The fabric can’t hide you. Only he can. He fucks you with fingers. You shudder, grind back. Inside, everything tightens. Faith becomes orgasm.
You cum. He kisses. Tongue. Dominance.
— Next time — on the altar. In front of everyone. Let them know. You’re mine. Soul. Pussy. To the last drop of grace.
It was supposed to be just a movie night. But his fingers found you first… then your lips, your voice, your body — all while she was still asleep in the room.Now you're sitting on his lap, moving, gasping into his mouth, pretending this isn’t real. But it is. You already know you'll do it again.
pairing: stepdad!Rafe Cameron × fem!reader
rating: 18+ only
setting: domestic, forbidden, midnight
dark romance / taboo dynamic•age gap / power imbalance•heavy sexual tension•unprotected p in v•soft dom!rafe•quiet sex / someone asleep in the room•fingering•multiple orgasms•slow burn but filthy•heavy body detail & wet descriptions
tw:
all characters are 18+this is a fictional, consensual & taboo-themed scenarioexplore with caredo not read if you're uncomfortable with:stepdad/stepdaughter, public risk, manipulative undertones, age/power imbalance
You don’t hear the movie anymore.
It’s playing. Scenes change, someone laughs, someone speaks — but the sound is low, almost muffled, and the only thing you truly hear is how deeply and wetly he breathes, sitting right next to you.
The blanket covers both of you. Too thick, too warm for June. But you don’t throw it off. No way. Because underneath it — is his hand.
And yours — on his thigh.
No words are needed anymore.
Mom fell asleep twenty minutes ago. She slid into the armchair against the wall, legs curled up, blanket to her chin. Lips parted, her breathing deep and even. Her face fades into shadow, and you don’t know if she’s dreaming — but you’re sure you already are.
Rafe sits to your left.
Half-turned toward you.
One arm draped over the back of the couch. The other — under the blanket, between your legs.
You don’t even try to hold back. You’re slumped against a pillow, thighs clenched, eyes shut. He gently parted them.
His fingers slid under the waistband of your thin sleep shorts. No underwear.
You heard his breathing the moment he felt how wet you already were.
Not just turned on — dripping. From the moment he sat down. From the way he looked at you during the opening credits, the way his arm rested behind you, the scent of his shower gel.
You were soaked under the blanket, and he knew immediately.
His fingers don’t move fast.
They explore.
He touches you like it’s the first time.
Spreading folds. Barely brushing the tip of your clit. No pressure. Just teasing skin. Then a little deeper.
You exhale softly.
He watches the screen. Doesn’t move a muscle.
But you see the way his nostrils flare.
Your hand slides across his thigh. Slowly.
You feel the tension. Like his body reacts to you faster than he lets himself.
Under the blanket, he’s only wearing shorts. No underwear.
You touch him through the fabric. He’s already hard.
Very.
And hot.
You hear his whisper:
— Not now…
But he doesn’t pull his hand away.
Doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t do a thing to make it end.
You lean in closer.
He turns his face to you — slowly.
You see his eyes: blue, glinting, almost guilty. But so turned on it makes you tremble.
— You have no idea… how long I’ve wanted this, — his voice breaks into a rasp. — Ever since you moved in...
You don’t let him finish.
You lean in closer.
And your lips meet.
Slowly.
He breathes into your mouth. You breathe him in.
He touches you deeper.
You stroke his cock, feel it pulsing in your hand. He leans forward. Fingers sink in. You’re so wet it’s like your body is melting.
He breathes into you, nonstop.
His lips are warm, parted, your mouths pulling into each other.
He touches your chin.
Tilts it up. Kisses you deeper.
Spit drips off your lips.
You feel it stretch from his tongue to yours.
He doesn’t stop touching you.
You don’t stop stroking him.
All of it — in one breath.
One movement.
While in the armchair next to you, your mother sleeps, softly sighing in her dreams.
He moves his fingers.
Slowly.
Inside you.
Your clit pulses with every touch, like his rhythm is synced with your heartbeat.
He’s not just touching — he’s feeling.
From the inside.
He’s learning how you clench around his fingers, how you tremble, how badly you want more — but you're too afraid to breathe.
You part your lips — and he kisses you again.
Spit between you — warm, slick. His tongue meets yours. Lips glide. Breathing is shared. Wet and open.
You squeeze his cock tighter.
Your hand now fully wrapped around him, moving slow, then down again, thumb pressing into the head through the fabric.
He’s rock hard.
You feel the heat, the tension. He’s so firm you think he might burst in your hand.
— Fuck, — he whispers. — Don’t stop.
Lips — at your cheek, your ear.
His voice melts straight into your brain.
— I’m losing my mind over you, — he exhales.
You squeeze again.
He leans forward, breath catching. His fingers press deeper.
He finds that spot inside.
You choke on a moan, but catch it with your mouth. He kisses you while you nearly cum from that one perfect press.
You writhe.
Your hips move to meet him.
His fingers are slick. You both hear it.
Wet, sticky, hot sliding.
You break from his lips, and he sees your eyes.
Tears of arousal.
Shaking.
Flushed cheeks.
Hair stuck to your temple.
You want all of him, but all you have are his fingers — and the taste of him on your tongue.
— Please, — you whisper. — Don’t stop.
He moves his fingers faster.
You stroke him harder.
You’ve already slid your hand under his shorts, feel the bare heat of his skin.
He leans down, lips at your throat.
Kissing under your chin.
Sliding his tongue along your collarbone.
Then — to your mouth.
He bites your lips, gently.
Pulls.
Lets go.
You exhale into him — and he drinks it in.
From the chair, your mother shifts.
He freezes.
You do too.
Silence.
She turns. Gets comfy again. Starts snoring softly.
Rafe closes his eyes.
Squeezes them shut.
Then looks at you again.
— Get on top of me, — he whispers. — Slow. Quiet.
— But she’ll...
He presses a finger to your lips.
— Quiet.
— I can’t.
— You can.
— I’m not wearing anything.
— I know.
— You’re with her.
He looks at you in a way that melts any concept of right or wrong.
— Right now I’m with you, — he says. — Only you.
You rise slowly.
He pulls his fingers out. They’re wet, glistening, and you feel your slick dripping down your inner thighs, warm and messy.
You slide onto his lap.
He leans back. The blanket hides everything.
You straddle him, not even entering yet — just spreading over his lap, thighs open.
He stares at you.
Hands gripping your hips.
You lower yourself — slowly — feeling the tip of his cock at your entrance.
He leans up and kisses you again.
Spit drips from your chins.
Tongues — tangled.
The kiss — nearly wild. But quiet.
You breathe into his mouth, and he inhales like you’re oxygen.
You're sitting on him, thighs spread, like you always knew you'd end up just like this.
The blanket covers you both — soft, heavy, like it's keeping all of this inside, like a confession no one’s allowed to hear.
You lift your hips, guide his cock with your hand.
He’s too hot, slick at the tip — not from you, from him.
He’s already right on the edge, you can feel it because the moment you touch him — he shivers.
Lips, body, breath.
Holding back.
For you.
You lower yourself slowly.
The tip brushes your entrance.
You’re wet, slippery.
But still tight, too tight for him.
He pushes in with resistance.
Looks up at you, pupils blown, lips parted.
— Fuck, — he exhales, so soft it’s more breath than word.
You feel yourself stretch around him.
Your muscles pull open.
He sinks in — inch by inch.
Then deeper.
Then you sink all the way down, trembling, biting your lip not to moan out loud.
— Shhh, — he whispers, — easy, baby.
— I can’t...
— You can. Look at me. Just me.
You meet his eyes and sit down all the way.
He’s fully inside.
You feel him hit the back wall.
Like you’re connected, fused, your insides glowing hot like molten metal.
He grips your hips.
Firm, like he’s scared you’ll vanish.
And you just sit there.
On him.
Breathing.
Staring into his eyes.
He rocks up slightly.
You gasp — sharp.
He kisses you — full lips, tongue, moan.
Spit drips.
You don’t swallow — he breathes into your mouth, and his tongue licks the roof of yours.
You start to move.
Up.
Down.
Slow.
He glides in and out of you completely, and every time, your inner muscles clench and release.
Your slick is already dripping down his cock, down your thighs, onto his skin, the couch.
The blanket soaks it in.
You can’t stop.
He slides his fingers up your chest, lifts your shirt, pushes it aside.
Kisses your nipple.
Wet.
Sucks it into his mouth.
You arch into him, chest rising into his lips. He sucks you in, like he’s starving.
You move again.
He’s deeper.
You can hear the wet sounds of bodies meeting, even under the blanket.
You’re soaked.
He’s burning.
You say:
— I... I’m gonna...
He whispers:
— Yes.
— I...
— Do it. On me.
— But she’s...
— She’s asleep.
He whispers:
— And you’re riding your stepdad like a little slut, — and bites your neck.
You explode.
The orgasm rips through you like a wave.
You can’t hold back a whimper.
He catches it with his mouth.
You moan into him, while your body clenches, thighs twitching.
He holds you tight, kissing you, until you stop shaking with the aftershocks.
You exhale.
He’s still inside.
You’re slick down to your knees, wet running down between your legs, over his stomach.
He hasn’t come yet.
You feel him — hard, pulsing, he’s so close he’s shaking.
You're still trembling when he starts to move.
Slow. Heavy. Wet.
He holds your waist, lifts and lowers you, like he’s guiding your hips himself.
You’re soaked inside. After your orgasm, your muscles no longer resist — you’re open, raw, ready for him to go as deep as bone.
— Look at me, — he whispers. — Just me.
— I… I can’t…
— Yes, you can.
He kisses you again.
And again.
And again.
While moving.
While sliding in and out, wet and warm, like your bodies are glued together.
You feel his climax coming.
How his cock throbs inside.
How his stomach tightens.
How his breathing halts.
He’s right at the edge, and you know it.
— I can’t, — he rasps. — I’m gonna… fuck, I’m—
He lifts you faster.
You squeeze down.
He slams back in deeper than before.
You scream into his mouth, but quietly, lips sealed — it’s just heat, just air, like you’re burning inside him.
He lifts you once more — and holds back.
He doesn’t cum.
He keeps you on him, trembling, while his cock — rock hard, hot, pulsing inside you— and he finishes not in you, but on himself.
He pulls out fast, almost painfully.
You gasp from the sudden emptiness.
He jerks himself a few times under the blanket— and cums all over his own stomach, just above the waistband.
Warm cum splashes across his skin, onto the fabric, your thigh.
He moans into your shoulder.
Silently.
You’re shaking.
Drained.
You feel his cum sticking to your skin, your slick still dripping down your thighs, your inner muscles still pulsing from him.
He comes quietly.
Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t look you in the eye.
He just stays beside you until your breathing evens out.
And then he leaves.
But tonight — he lingers.
And for the first time, he stays.
You were almost asleep when the door clicked.
Very quietly.
But not quiet enough for you to miss it.
Your body shifted under the blanket — not from fear.
You knew who it was.
He never knocked.
He just came.
And you — you just waited.
Turning slightly, you saw him in the doorway. Same dark jacket. Same messy hair, like he ran his fingers through it too hard. He didn’t look directly at you. Shoulders tense. Hands in his pockets.
Like a stranger in his own dream.
Like even he wasn’t sure why he was here.
“You’re okay,” you whispered first.
Your hand rested outside the blanket, open.
You didn’t call him closer. Didn’t ask.
Just… let him.
He stepped in. Stopped. Looked down, as if something more important than you was on the floor.
There were shadows under his eyes.
Real ones.
And his cheeks were flushed from the cold. He’d been walking again.
“You can lie down,” you said softly.
You didn’t look too hard. Didn’t press.
He always noticed that. Always appreciated it.
He moved, finally.
Slow. Careful.
As if his own weight, his own presence — was dangerous.
The bed creaked faintly when he laid beside you. Not touching. Almost off the edge.
Like just being here was something he had to apologize for.
You lay on your side. He was on his back, eyes on the ceiling.
Breathing like he didn’t deserve to be here.
“Your hands are cold,” you whispered.
“yeah,” he exhaled. “ I wasn't gonna...”
He trailed off.
You didn’t ask what he wasn’t gonna do.
You knew.
He never planned to come.
You reached for his hand — slow, tentative.
He flinched.
Not from fear. From… unfamiliarity.
“Can I?” you asked.
He didn’t answer.
Just turned his palm up. Open.
You laced your fingers with his.
The warmth passed slowly between you.
He didn’t move.
“I’m scared one day you won’t come,” you whispered.
He turned his head. Eyes glassy. Tired.
Afraid.
“So am I,” he said. “More than anything.”
The silence stretched. Not tense — just delicate.
Like warm water.
Like the sound of his breathing beside you. A little too fast. A little too careful.
He was here.
He had let himself lie down.
And still — he looked like someone wearing the wrong skin.
You turned toward him.
Your fingers brushed his chest — soft, cautious. Like touching something bruised.
His heart was beating faster.
He didn’t speak.
He let you.
You rested your head under his neck. Close, not clinging.
His shoulder tensed, like it couldn’t believe it was allowed.
That someone could want to be this near to him — not out of fear, not out of need.
Just… because.
“Why do you come?” you whispered, your lips brushing the cotton of his shirt.
“Because here…”
He swallowed.
His mouth twitched, searching for words.
“…it’s quiet.”
You didn’t answer. Just stroked his ribs — barely touching.
He inhaled. Deep.
Like your hand was the key that unlocked him from the inside.
“I don’t deserve this,” he said suddenly.
You paused.
“This,” he exhaled. “You. The way you look at me. The way you speak.”
He blinked hard. Looked back at the ceiling.
“Sometimes I think, if I stay here too long — you’ll stop being like this.”
“Like what?” you whispered.
“Kind,” he said. “Soft....Clean.”
You smiled. Gently.
“If you think I’m soft just until the first touch — you have no idea how much pain I can hold.”
He stared at you.
Long. Still.
Like it was the first time he ever breathed fully.
And then, carefully, awkwardly — his fingers reached your cheek.
And you didn’t move away.
You leaned into it.
He held you like he might let go.
But didn’t.
“You’re not afraid of me?”
You shook your head.
“You’re afraid of yourself. That’s enough for both of us.”
quote
“You’re not afraid of me?” You shook your head. “You’re afraid of yourself. That’s enough for both of us.”
I'M WARNING YOU!I AM NOT A NATIVE ENGLISH SPEAKER, I IMMEDIATELY APOLOGIZE FOR MISTAKES AND UNCLEAR WORDING!
She came as a guest. He’s the groom. There’s no obsession, no lingering love — just memory, heat, and silence. No one touches like he does. No one moans like she does. There’s no emotion left. Just her hands on the sink, his cock buried deep, and cum dripping down her thighs while his bride smiles somewhere outside.
✦ Warning(18+):This fanfic contains explicit sexual content (18+), including:— rough sex between exes— morally inappropriate situation: sex on the day of someone else's wedding— cheating, semi-public place (bathroom)— unprotected sex / cum inside— verbal degradation, physical intensity, unresolved historyAll characters are 18+.Genre: PWP — no romance, focused on physicality, tension, and emotional detachment.
✦ kinks/content Tags:— rough sex / public bathroom— face down / hair pulling / choking — unprotected sex / cum inside— degradation (verbal)— exes fucking— no aftercare / no romance
✦ Tropes:— ex-lovers— cheating— public sex— forbidden setting— wedding day sex— cold, disconnected sex
You weren’t supposed to come. Honestly, you would’ve thrown the invite away the second you saw his name — but there you were, in a pale dress, champagne in hand, pretending to be just another guest. Just someone. Just anyone.
Rafe looked composed. White shirt, tailored suit, hair slicked back. Even the ring on his finger sat like it belonged. Not a trace of who he used to be. But when his eyes landed on you — you remembered everything. And worse — you knew he remembered too.
Not love. Not longing. Just a flash of you on your knees, his hand fisted in your hair, face shoved into the couch that now probably belonged to his new bride. He didn’t approach. Didn’t smile. Just raised an eyebrow. Then turned away.
You almost left.
But the room got crowded. You slipped away. Just for air. Just to fix your lipstick. The bathroom was quiet.
Until the door opened. He walked in — silent, deliberate. Closed the door behind him. Locked it.
“You weren’t supposed to come,” he said. Not angry. Just... flat. You kept your eyes on the mirror.
“And you weren’t supposed to fuck me after proposing to someone else.”
He scoffed. “I wasn’t planning to. You begged.”
You turned slowly. He stood close. Too close. But didn’t touch.
“Would’ve been easier if you stayed away,” he said low. “It’s almost fine without you.”
“Almost?” You smiled — bitter. “Because I know how you finish. And she doesn’t?”
His stare was flat. No hunger. No hatred. Just acknowledgment.
“Because you were the only one who didn’t whine when I fucked you long. The only one who didn’t think it meant love.”
He stepped in. You didn’t move.
“You wanna do this again?” you asked, steady. “Right here. Bathroom. While everyone thinks you’re the perfect groom?”
He said nothing. Just set his wallet on the sink. Took off his watch. You turned around, lifted your dress, pulled down your panties.
“No kissing,” you said.
“No names,” he replied.
His hand landed on your neck, pushing you forward until your palms hit the tile. You heard his belt, the sharp unzip, the silence just before his cock — heavy, thick, already slick with precum — pressed to your entrance.
You spread your legs wider. Instinct. His fingers grazed the inside of your thigh, then your folds.
Wet. Ready.
He scraped his nails lightly, just to remind you.
"Always easy."
"Always an asshole."
He shoved inside in one brutal thrust. No warm-up. No easing in. Just cock — thick and deep — slamming into soaked heat.
You gasped — not from pain, from remembrance. He was still the same.
He moved with that old rhythm: punishing, deep, unforgiving. Each thrust soaked in slick — your juices mixing, squelching. His hand locked on your waist, the other in your hair, jerking your head so your face met the mirror.
“Look at yourself.”
You did. Flushed cheeks. Open mouth. Spit glinting on your lower lip. You looked wrecked. Fucked. Perfect.
He fucked you harder. The sounds were obscene — skin against skin, your wetness gushing out, dripping down your thighs. His balls slapped your clit.
He grunted behind you.
“Still a dripping slut. Even when you know it’s wrong.”
You laughed, throat dry. “You’re still full of shit.”
He tightened a hand around your neck. His cock throbbed inside you.
“Shut the fuck up.”
You grinned. “Go ahead. Finish. You’ve got a wedding to attend.”
He growled. Slapped your ass. Fucked harder. Lost rhythm — chasing his release.
Final thrust. He froze.
Deep pulse. Hot spurts of cum emptied into you. Ropes of it. Thick. Raw.
He held you while he came, forehead to your spine. Your pussy clenched around him, milking every drop.
You stayed bent — dizzy, stretched, dripping.
He pulled out — slow, wet. You felt his cum slide down.
You fixed your dress. Pulled damp panties up, ignoring the leak.
“Better go,” you said.
He didn’t answer. You looked in the mirror — saw him fixing his suit. Buttoning up. Composed again.
No apology. No warmth.
You exhaled.
“Happy wedding, Cameron.”
He glanced at you. “Happy life. If you can swing it.”
You left first. He waited.
Five minutes later, his fiancée came out — beaming, glowing. Wearing a ring that never was yours. And never would’ve been.
I'M WARNING YOU!I AM NOT A NATIVE ENGLISH SPEAKER, I IMMEDIATELY APOLOGIZE FOR MISTAKES AND UNCLEAR WORDING!
✦ Pairing: DILF!Rafe Cameron × Slutty!Reader (she’s dating his son)
✦ WC:794
annotation
She lives with his son. Wears his shirts, sleeps in his bed, makes coffee in his kitchen. But she belongs—to him. Rafe Cameron calls her "daughter-in-law," smirks through his teeth, grips her by the throat, and never asks for permission. Her boyfriend disappears more and more often. Says, “You’re basically at home already.” And she is. Because now home is the weight of the older Cameron’s body pressing her down. The voice at her ear whispering: “Spread your legs, daughter-in-law.”
✦ Warnings (18+): This story contains explicit sexual content including: — dom/sub dynamic — age gap (DILF) — morally corrupt dynamic: girlfriend × boyfriend’s father — power imbalance and control — verbal degradation and explicit dirty talk — unprotected sex / cum inside — possessiveness, obsession, emotional manipulation All characters are 18+. Genre: PWP — plot is minimal, emphasis is on taboo, physicality, domination and moral erosion. If you are triggered by themes of infidelity, control, coercion, or power play — do not read.
✦ Kinks / Content tags: — rough sex — spanking / hair pulling / choking — oral (f→m) / facefucking — unprotected sex / creampie — degradation (verbal) — size kink — power imbalance — semi-public sex (in the house) — possessiveness / control — aftercare (rough → soft)
✦ Tropes: — forbidden relationship — age gap (18+ reader × ~40yo Rafe) — affair / cheating — morally grey DILF — reader lives with her boyfriend’s dad — “daughter-in-law” used as fetish term — he doesn’t share — sexual obsession / dominance / control — “You’re already home”
You don’t know when it started to be like this. You can’t name the day you crossed that line.
Maybe it was that first week, when he looked at you not like his son’s girlfriend, but like a woman lacking attention. Maybe it was the day you stayed home alone, stepped into the kitchen barefoot, in his oversized shirt, no panties, fully aware he was somewhere in the house. Or maybe when he first whispered: “My daughter-in-law… with an ass like that? Are you fucking kidding me?”
But one thing was certain: you lived with his son, but you belonged to the father.
This house became yours in ways you never imagined. You knew where everything was. Which steps creaked. Which faucet stuck. Which cabinet slammed too loud. You were a hostess—but not for him. For him, you were the little slut who stopped wearing underwear the moment his son left. You fed yourself to the wolf. Again. And again. And all you wanted was for him to go deeper.
Today was no exception.
Your boyfriend left without even kissing you. Said something about a meeting, waved a hand: “You’re basically home. Do whatever you want.”
So you did.
You took a shower. A long one. Left the door open. You didn’t just know Rafe was home. You wanted him to hear.
You walked out in his shirt—the grey one he wears in the mornings. In it, you were still someone else’s girl. But you smelled like his house. No panties. Barefoot. Across the familiar floor. Slow. Calm. Like you belonged.
You stood at the kitchen counter, sipping water when you heard the steps. Heavy, unhurried. Coming down. He knew what he would see. And you—you knew exactly what he would see.
He entered. No words. Just long seconds of watching. How the fabric clung to your chest. How your nipples poked through the cotton. How your thighs still glistened from the shower. How your legs were parted, like you were waiting.
“Again you,” he said, amused, voice rough with cigarettes and silence.
“Who else?” you replied. “He’s not home. As always.”
He stepped closer. The scent of skin and cedar hit you—masculine, warm. Dangerous.
“You’ve gotten too comfortable, daughter-in-law,” he murmured, running a finger up your inner thigh. “Don’t even bother pretending anymore. You love it when he leaves you here.”
You inhaled slowly, spreading your legs further. “Because you come.”
He narrowed his eyes. “And then what? You think I’ll hold back? You want me to fuck you right here?”
“I want you to be rough,” you whispered. “Filthy. Like always.”
His hand slapped your cheek. Not hard—but loud. He grabbed your jaw, squeezing.
“You’re not mine. You’re his.”
He leaned in close. “Now get on your knees and show me how well you’ve forgotten that.”
You dropped. Cold floor. Rough tile. Your knees would bruise again. He was already unzipping his shorts. His cock sprang free—heavy, thick, dripping at the tip.
“Look at it. Not me. It, daughter-in-law.”
You licked your lips. Slow. He grabbed your hair and thrust deep into your throat in one brutal motion.
You choked, gagged, tears filling your eyes. But you didn’t pull away. Only deeper.
He fucked your mouth like you weren’t even there—just a warm, soft hole made to calm down the elder Cameron.
“Yeah… my son’s little whore. My daughter-in-law. Nipples showing through my shirt, pussy dripping wet.”
He was relentless. Fast. Brutal. You gagged, licked, swallowed, sucked—until he tensed. He pulled out and came on your chest, hot and thick, smearing it into the fabric.
“You earned that. But we’re just getting started.”
He yanked you up. Turned you around. Bent you over the counter. Pulled the shirt up, exposed your ass.
“No panties. Again. You know what I’ll do? You know what I want?”
He spread you open. “I want you to feel me breaking you from the inside.”
He entered. Slowly. But with force. All the way.
You cried out. Clenched. He didn’t stop. He started slamming into you. Fast. Deep.
One hand around your throat. The other on your hip. His hips slapped your ass. Loud. Sharp. Merciless.
You gasped. Couldn’t breathe. Too much. And all of it—here. In the house. In the kitchen. While his son had no idea.
He fucked you like he was punishing you. Like he hated you. Like he loved you.
You came, screaming. Your body tightened like a wire. He kept going. Didn’t ask. Didn’t stop.
He spilled inside you. Hard. All of it.
Only then did he slow. Hands settling on your back. He stayed inside. Leaned forward. Close. Feeling your tremble. Feeling his cum drip down your thighs.
He kissed your ear.
“See, daughter-in-law…” “You’re not here for him.” “You’re home.”
I'M WARNING YOU!I AM NOT A NATIVE ENGLISH SPEAKER, I IMMEDIATELY APOLOGIZE FOR MISTAKES AND UNCLEAR WORDING!
and please excuse me for that!I swear, I wrote this while looking at my phone with one eye and very quickly, because I'm already switching off, just like my phone.
I am not a native English speaker, read at your own risk.and send requests about what you would like to read.
annotation :Rafe is begging you to delete the Instagram post where he's wearing makeup, where you practically made him sit still while you painted him and made him pout for effect by signing: "My beloved does everything I say."
"Delete it, baby, delete it, delete it, delete it, please," sounded so pleading that it was almost pathetic.
But you're having fun. Not everyone gets to see Rafe Cameron himself begging, right? Especially when you're his favorite girl, whom he can't handle, and so you do whatever your heart desires.
"No, honey, I like it. You're so cute there," you said almost boringly, looking at him innocently and almost mockingly pinching his cheek, touched by his expression.
He's so cute.
"Baby!" he exclaims desperately, but he doesn't move away, just leans on you harder to pin you to the mattress and take your phone.
"Topper has already eaten into my brain that it's a damn heel!"
"Aren't you like that?"
You pouted, raising an eyebrow for emphasis. There was a moment's silence, followed by a disappointed groan.
"Yes, I am," he snorted, trying to look damn angry and annoyed, but it only touched you even more.
"But they don't have to know, you know. They can't know that I'm under your damn thumb and doing whatever you want. Come on, baby, get out," he went on a long moan.
You couldn't stand it, so you squinted, holding the phone tighter just in case, so that he wouldn't pick it up ahead of time before you inserted the conditions.
"You'll buy me ten stuffed animals, and they'll be on our bed. Agreed?"
It was tough because he literally hated the way your toys, which you didn't need at all, were lying on the bed.
You thought he wouldn't agree, but he breathed a sigh of relief.
"Great, at least twenty. Get out, baby. We'll go get them right now, if you want."
You raised your eyebrows in surprise, but you smiled and gave him a quick peck on the lips before going to your page and deleting the photo. Under his close supervision, of course. This made him groan softly at the number of likes the post had garnered.
"Whiner," you whispered, putting down your phone. You just saw his face relax with relief and jumped off the bed. Finally, she exclaimed, "It's time to buy neighbors for our bed!"
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