rafesluckylady

[rafesluckylady]

teachers pet

brothers best friend!rafe x thornton!fem!virgin!reader

cw — minors dni, kissing, grinding, reader is very innocent, stereotypical girly room and stuff

summary — after getting asked on a date, you come to your brothers best friend to ask for advice on a certain subject.

authors note — i’ve been itching to write this trope so i hope you guys enjoy. please request!!

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

do not copy or post my work anywhere else.

you laid on your stomach in your room, kicking your feet behind you as your phone went off once more. a smile graced your lips immediately at the thought of the guy, who you’d just started talking to, texting you back after he’d been out all day.

enzo:

see you tomorrow night?

a blush coated your cheeks and you bit your lips to contain your excitement.

you:

what did you have in mind?

there was a pause. then three dots appeared.

enzo:

come to my place and find out

an excited squeal left your lips. you had really began to like him after the last three dates and you were suspecting he’d finally make a move this time. as badly as you wanted it, there was one issue. you had no clue what you were doing.

first kiss? never. any sort of touching? definitely not. sex? god no. you hadn’t even come close enough to a guy. topper always kept close tabs on your romantic life, meaning you never made it past the first date.

this time, it was hidden better. he wasn’t aware that you were seeing anyone yet which meant you may finally get the chance to do something more with enzo. and you wanted to so badly.

except you needed to know how. you needed someone you trusted, someone who would take care of you and teach you everything. your mind immediately wandered to the guest currently sitting in your living room.

it was probably the best idea you could muster up. so you put on a pair of baggy sweatpants that sat low on your hips and adjusted your cropped tank top to cover yourself a little better.

your feet carried you down the stairs before you could change your mind and found rafe, your brothers best friend, sat on the couch. you’d never really considered him as an option for you until now.

he looked a little too good. his legs were spread a little wider than normal, buzzcut freshened up, the fabric of his pants stretching over his muscular thighs, and his attention fixed on his phone. when he heard the last step on the stairs creak, he glanced up. “hey.”

“hi,” you smiled sweetly, the kind you’d flash him and your brother when you wanted something. “where’s topper?”

rafe shut off his phone and slid it into his pocket. “he went out to go get kelce and pick up some food from town.” his hips shifted slightly, sliding further into the couch to get comfortable.

his lap looked like a fantastic seat. “why didn’t you go with?” you asked curiously, allowing yourself to go take a spot on the couch beside him.

his eyes followed you the entire time, crossing his arms over his chest. “didn’t feel like it. it’s too hot out there.”

“how long will he be gone?” you twirled a piece of your hair around your finger as you waited for his response.

he shrugged. “maybe an hour?” he said unsure. “why? what’s up?”

there was a beat of silence. “can you help me with something?” you asked, giving him those eyes you know he can’t resist.

the boy didn’t think anything of it. he’d always helped you with things like lifting stuff, grabbing something off the top shelf, driving you around, anything you needed. this wasn’t unusual. “what is it?”

“so, i have a date with someone tomorrow,” you began. his jaw clenched at that. “and we’ve been on a couple already. that makes me think he might make a move.”

his eyes narrowed slightly. something in his shifted and a soft crease formed between his brows. “does top know about this?”

you shook your head quickly. “please don’t tell him,” you begged. “he’ll kill me.”

“so what do you need from me then?” he asked, almost bitterly. unbeknownst to you, he hated the thought of you with another man.

you subconsciously chewed your bottom lip. “i’ve never really done anything with anyone,” you admitted shyly. “you know how topper is, he never lets me hang out with boys so i’ve never had the chance. i really like him and i want to be good for him.”

i want to be good for him. rafe scoffed at that. as if you weren’t the most beautiful girl in the world already. what more could he want from you? “who’s the dude?”

a sheepish smile splayed over your lips. “his name is enzo.”

“mcgovern?” he almost choked on his saliva. “c’mon sweetheart, you can do better than that.”

you smacked his arm at that. “don’t be mean, rafe. i like him. he’s sweet and he makes me feel special,” you scolded, though there was no real bite in your words. “can you help me or not?”

a frustrated sigh left his lips. “help you with what?”

“i want you to teach me how to kiss,” you said. his eyes almost bulged out of his head. “i’ve never had my first kiss and i figured it’s best to have it with someone i trust and learn from them.”

the gears were visibly turning in his head. “topper would kill me if he ever found out you even thought about something like this.”

you carelessly shrugged. “then we won’t tell him,” you reasoned. still, he looked unsure. “pleaseee, rafe? i really don’t want to embarrass myself tomorrow.”

he close his eyes and leaned his head back against the couch in thought. you were his best friends little sister and he’d basically watched you grow up. and somehow, you were still the girl he was hopelessly in love with. hearing you talk about another man so excitedly hurt his heart in ways he’d never admit. hearing the stories about how much fun you have at university, going to frat parties every weekend where handfuls of guys are undoubtedly staring at you as if they have the right. it made him pissed off just thinking about it.

but if the closest he’d ever get to having you was teaching you how to kiss for your date, he was willing to take it. “fine,” he mumbled. “but we do not say a word of this to topper or sarah or anyone else.”

a devious grin plastered on your face. “deal.” you grabbed his large hand in your smaller one and excitedly pulled him up into your room where everything was pink or white. he looked so out of place in here.

he took a seat on your bed and made himself comfortable then waited for you to do the same. you nervously tucked your hair behind your ears. “so what now?”

a soft chuckle left his lips. “first things first, relax,” he said, noticing how her leg was bouncing up and down. his hand came up to rest just above her knee, running his thumb over it soothingly. “just be loose, yeah? it’s weird to kiss someone who’s all tense and shit. and don’t overthink it. it’s a lot more natural to do than explain.”

he glanced down at the gap between you two and gestured for you to come closer. “c’mere,” he muttered, his voice low and silky. it made your stomach turn. “it’s not about being perfect or devouring the other person, the best is when its slow and it means something. so just start slow and let it build, okay? let me do the rest.”

“what do i do with my hands?” you asked, your heart now beating out of your chest at how close the two of you were. you couldn’t deny that rafe was hot. and something about him being so delicate with you, so patient, it made you feel things you didn’t want to admit.

he gently took yours in his own and placed them around his neck. “just touch me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “doesn’t matter where. my neck, jaw, chest, hair, wherever you want sweetheart.”

you nodded and bit your bottom lip. you kept your arms loosely around his neck and locked eyes with him once more.

“don’t worry about doing it right, just come closer,” he replied softly, placing his hands on your bare waist a pulling you just a tad closer to him until your faces were inches apart. you couldn’t help but glance down at his lips instead. “look at me. take it slow. you don’t have to rush anything—just feel it. i’ll meet you halfway… all you have to do is kiss me back.”

nodding once more, you leaned in just slightly. his breath mingled with yours and you could feel his warmth getting closer and closer. then, his lips were on yours.

they were soft and pillowy and he tasted like strawberries. it was making your mind go haywire. you let your eyes flutter shut instantly and followed his lead as he pressed a long, sweet kiss to your mouth. he placed gentle pecks to follow.

it felt natural with him, like you weren’t being taught exactly what to do. he’d always had a way of making you feel comfortable.

your hands began to roam across his shoulders and buzzed hair, tilting your head a little more and matching the gentle pressure of his kisses. one of his came up to cradle your jaw, pulling away for just a second and tucking the loose strand of hair behind your ear again. “doin’ okay?”

“mhm,” you hummed. “am i doing good?” you asked shyly.

he thought that was a stupid question. of course you were. you could do anything and he’d give you a 10 out of 10. and for bonus points, he thought you looked breathtaking right now. your lips a little puffy and pink just like your cheeks. “real good, angel. wanna try more?”

you nodded eagerly like you were willing to take everything he could give. you in fact were. he used the hand on your jaw you slowly pull you back to him, his lips pressing against yours and his tongue prodding at the seam of your lips.

instinctively, you let him in and gasped softly into his mouth as the wet muscle brushed against yours like he was testing the waters.

when he was sure you weren’t freaking out, he let his tongue swipe across yours with a little more pressure until the two of you were dancing around each other. his hand that wasn’t on your jaw had moved up to your hair, softly tugging at the roots and pulling a quiet whimper from you.

the sound alone made his pants tighten a little bit. he stopped kissing you for a second. just to look at you. just to feel how close the two of you truly were. “you sure this is your first time?” he asked, slightly out of breath.

you laughed quietly and nodded. “i swear.”

and then he kissed you again—much deeper this time. slower. like he literally couldn’t get enough of your taste.

a boost of confidence surged through you when one of your hands slid down from his chest to his abs, earning a soft groan. your back was hurting from leaning forward so far so you climbed into his lap.

your thighs straddled his one either side and your hands rested on his shoulders. you broke the kiss for a second. “is this okay?”

a slight smile caught on his lips as he stared up at you like you were the most precious thing in this world. “yeah, ‘s perfect.” his big hands trailed down to your waist and pulled your front flush against his own.

if you would’ve told yourself a few days ago that you’d be making out with rafe cameron, your brothers best friend and your best friends brother, you’d laugh in your own face. but here you were, loving every second of it.

you let yourself sink fully into his lap, feeling a certain hardness below you. the pressure of you made rafe groan once more, a little louder this time. you swallowed down the sound and leaned a little further into him. the feeling of his mouth on yours was intoxicating.

your hips began to subconsciously roll into his. you’d read something about things like this before, how it’d make the guy go crazy.

and they were right. his hands found the globes of your ass like they belonged there and followed your rhythm, lightly aiding your movements. you couldn’t help the moan that left your lips. you’ve never felt something like this and it was making you lose your mind.

he pulled away for a second to catch his breath. “you’re so fuckin’ perfect. no man deserves this,” he muttered quietly.

you smiled a big toothy grin and kissed him again. you could stay like this forever. you thought it might actually be heaven.

that was until the front door was opened. “shit,” he cursed.

you shuffled off of him quickly and adjusted your clothes, walking over to your mirror to fix your hair and ensure you didn’t look like you’d just been making out with someone. “go hide in the bathroom,” you urged.

thank god for that. he needed to relieve himself or the boys definitely would’ve noticed the strain in his pants.

you casually peeked down the stairs at your brother and kelce. “i thought you weren’t supposed to be back for a while.”

“the restaurant was close. we’re jus’ gonna order something instead,” topper explained. “where have you been?” he asked curiously, shutting the door behind the other boy and toeing off his shoes.

“i just got back from pilates,” you lied, the perfect excuse for your flushed cheeks.

he nodded, fully believing you. “do you know where rafe went? he said he was gonna hang back.”

you shrugged as if you both didn’t just have your tongues down each others throats. “i just walked in before you. probably in the yard or the bathroom.”

he didn’t ask any more questions. therefore, you went back into your room. you couldn’t shake the grin off your lips from what had just went down in here.

[rafesluckylady]

stockholm ☆⠀rafe cameron

♡⃣where you're kidnapped by some masked russian after school. he's very mean but... what if he's hot under that mask?

pairing ! :⠀fem!reader x slavic!rafe.

warnings ! :⠀smut. degradation. swearing. handjob. fingering. cum in face. penetration. p in v. rough sex.

you wake up with your cheek pressed to the cold floor. for a moment, you forget where you are. then you remember the van after school.

you curl in on yourself. it’s cold in the room and your legs are bare, your school skirt hitched up halfway to your thighs. you're tied and it hurts, whimpering.

you hear voices—low, sharp—cut through the silence.

two russian men. you can’t see much from where you are, but you catch black worn boots. one stands with his back to you, the other leans against the wall.

“ona yeshchyo spit? (she still asleep?)

the standing older man turns. his eyes meet yours. they’re sharp, mean. he mutters something, walks closer.

“prosnylas', malen'kaya soochka. (awake, little bitch.)

you flinch. you don’t know what he said, but his tone makes your stomach drop. the other one doesn’t even look at you.

“w-where am i?”

“don’t speak,” he snaps, grabbing your chin hard. “daddy made bad decisions. you're here like a dog until he pays, yeah?”

you spit at him. directly into his face, landing on his cheek and mouth. it’s messy. wet.

“сука!” (bitch!)

his hand raises—fast. but it never lands.

“не трогай её.” (don’t touch her.)

you see the other man now. the one from last night. he wears a black ski mask, but his eyes are unmistakable. ice blue. his voice is cold, calm.

his hand caught the other man’s wrist mid-air. they lock eyes and the other man growls something.

“ты с ней сидеть хочешь? вперёд.” (you wanna babysit her? go ahead.)

“иди на хуй.” (fuck off.)

he leaves, and now it’s just you and him.

you sit up awkwardly, trembling, sniffling. your wrists hurt. your blouse’s half open from when they dragged you in here. skirt still crooked. white socks dirty from the floor.

he looks at you. no pity. just... observation.

you blink at him. voice small. dumb.

“…are you a perv?”

his brows lift slightly. “do i look like one?”

you nod, slow. his eyes narrow. he steps closer, slow, lazy almost.

“you’re tied up, crying. little uniform. looking at me like that... i could do anything i want to you right now.”

your heart stutters. eyes wide and scared.

but he exhales, bored. “but nah, not my thing.”

you frown. “…then why’m i here?”

he walks past you, drops into a couch like he owns the room and everything in it. you’re still on the floor.

“until daddy pays,” he says, “you’re mine.”

“did you have to tie me up?” you whine. “i’m not gonna run.” he doesn’t even look at you.

“i still think you’re a perv.”

his head turns slowly. those blue eyes find you again. unblinking. he crosses the room and grabs your face. not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to make you gasp. fingers on your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek.

his voice drops. “ty budesh’ sebya khorosho vesti, da?” (you’re going to behave, yeah?)

your eyes flutter. “yes... sir.”

in the middle of the night, you wake up shaking. the room’s dark, except for the orange flicker of a streetlamp bleeding through the broken blinds.

you sniffle again. louder than before. your stomach aches from crying. a groan cuts through the silence.

“blʲyat’...” (fuck...)

he’s on the couch still, mask on, shirt off now — broad chest rising and falling slow beneath a thin blanket. he lifts his head lazily, annoyed.

“what now?” his voice is thick, sleepy accented. “why the fuck are you crying again?”

you blink at him, eyes wide and stupid. you lift your hands weakly. “it hurts.”

he stares at you for a long second. then drops his head back with a groan. he doesn’t ask what. he sees it. the red. the chafed skin. he exhales like the world’s most exhausted man, gets up, and walks toward you. you feel small, stupid. he doesn’t say anything.

your eyes follow him, curious. “you’re probably hot under that mask.”

“yeah?” he says low. “you thinking about what i look like, little girl?”

you nod. “mm-hmm.”

he lifts you like you weigh nothing. you suck in a breath. he smells like cigarettes. his fingers dig into your thigh, big hand wrapped around your soft skin. he throws you back over his shoulder. you squeak while he tosses you onto the couch.

you bounce, skirt flipping up slightly, landing on your side. you let out a soft moan on impact.

his head snaps to you.

“…what the fuck was that sound?” he asks, voice tighter now. there’s almost a smirk behind the mask.

you look up at him, blinking. he steps closer, slow, arms folded.

“you that sensitive, kotenok?” (kitten)

you don’t answer.

he takes the knife from the side table and crouches in front of you.

“не двигайся” (don’t move.)

he slides the blade under the tie. a tiny flick — and it snaps. your wrists fall to your lap. they burn.

you don’t say thank you, just stare at him, wide-eyed. his face is close.

”you try anything…”

you nod slowly. “...you kill me. i know.”

you reach down to pull your tiny skirt lower — it barely covers your thighs, and it’s riding up a lot. he sees that too. he chuckles low. like it’s amusing to him.

“so shy now,” he murmurs. “i bet if i touch you again, you cry”

your thighs press together before you can stop yourself. he notices. of course he notices.

he doesn’t smile. just watches you.

“…my dad's probably looking for me right now,” you whisper.

he snorts. “no, princess. your daddy forgot about you.”

you have glassy eyes again. you try to hide them but he sees. he crouches beside the couch, pats your cheek like you’re a sad little dog.

“aw. don’t cry now,” he mocks. “was just getting cute.”

his hand drops to your thigh. plays with the edge of your skirt. pushing the fabric just an inch higher.

“…you’re mean,” you whisper.

he tugs the skirt back down. just a little.

he lifts the knife again but slower this time. deliberate. he drags the flat of it down your sternum. slow. the cold steel parts your already unbuttoned shirt, brushes the edge of your lace bra.

your breath hitches. he watches your chest rise.

then the blade glides lower. down your stomach. your waist. the hem of your skirt. he doesn’t break eye contact.

you open your mouth to say something—anything—but then something shifts. you glance down.

you see it. the tent in his pants. tight.

you giggle, it slips out before you can stop it.

his eyes narrow. “what’s fucking funny?”

you bite your lip, whispering, “…you’re hard.”

he looks down. stiffens.

“blyad’,” (fuck)

he covers it with his hand, turning slightly. annoyed.

you tilt your head. smile, soft.

“…i can help if you want.”

his head snaps toward you. brows low, eyes dark. the room is heavy with silence. he watches you. like he’s waiting for you to flinch. for you to backpedal. you don’t.

“god. you're so stupid” he says, voice lower.

“i am.” you whisper.

he leans in, slow. his hand cups your jaw again, rougher this time. thumb brushing your lip.

“you want to touch me?” he asks, voice tight.

you nod, heart pounding. “i think you want me to.”

“you dumb little girl…” his thumb presses into your cheek.
“offering help to the bad guy?”

“you’re the one hard over me,” you whisper back, a little breathless. he stares. then he laughs — actually laughs — low, disbelieving.

“pizdets,” (fucking hell)

he pulls you into his lap. thighs against his. his hands on your waist now, under your shirt.

his jeans press against the inside of your thighs. your fingers twitch, hovering over his chest like you’re not sure if you’re allowed to touch.

you look at him. really look. blue eyes. cold. amused. like he’s watching a child try something they don’t understand. he doesn’t move. doesn’t speak. just tilts his head slightly, watching.

your fingers brushing the lines of his abs. he doesn’t move. just lets you explore. you reach out with shaky hands lower to his waistband. his eyes narrow.

you press your palm over his crotch. he’s hard now. not all the way, not yet. but thick and growing under your hand.

you glance up, mouth parted. he watches you. doesn’t say a thing. like he’s waiting to see what this dumb little girl’s gonna do next.

you undo the button. then the zipper. you peek... he still doesn’t stop you.

when you pull it down, your breath catches — he’s only half-hard but already thick, heavy. you blink, unsure, shy.

his hands slide rough to your ass. you gasp.

“you want it, but you don’t know what to do?” he mutters.

you nod dumbly, and he tsks like you’re disappointing him. his hands keep grabbing you, kneading your thighs. then you see the knife. he lifts it without a word, presses the tip to your chest and cuts.

your shirt splits with a soft shrrrk — your lace bra peeking underneath. you flinch, heart racing. he hums low. not in comfort but in amusement.

he tosses the shirt to the floor slow, like he enjoys watching you squirm. his hands are on your bra with his palms rubbing over the lace, thumbs circling your nipples until they perk. you whimper and he groans quietly.

his hips twitch. you keep touching him, stroking his cock slow and clumsy, fascinated by the way he thickens under your hand.

“you don’t even know what you’re doing.” he growls, but there’s a hint of restraint under it. like he’s about to snap.

he curses. again and again.

“eto pizdets…” (this is fucked…)

then suddenly he moves. grabs you by the waist, throws you rough back onto the couch like you weigh nothing. you squeal.

he walks to a cabinet. you sit up on your elbows, heart pounding. he opens it and pulls out a wallet. opens it slowly and takes out a condom.

you swallow. he groans low under his breath, shoving the drawer shut.

“going to get me in trouble for this.” he mutters, voice flat, like it’s your fault. “so you better behave.”

you smile a little, still breathless. “…you were a perv after all.”

he drops on the couch and spreads his legs wide. then grabs your ankles and drags you by your thighs, flipping you so you’re on your stomach over his lap. your skirt rides up, legs kicking a little from surprise.

he grabs the back of your neck and pushes you down gently. “stay still.”

you shiver. his fingers play with your skirt. dragging it up slowly, teasing. you try to look back again, curious and confused. his palm lands on your ass hard.

his fingers hook into your panties, tugging them down slow.

“i’ll show you what pervs do to dumb little girls like you.” he murmurs and you moan softly, hips twitching.

he presses you down harder, dragging one finger up the back of your thigh, slow, right to where your panties were just a second ago.

he hums when he finds your pussy already wet.

“this all for me, baby?” he murmurs, amused.

you don’t answer. you can’t.

he drags the edge of his finger through your folds, just barely, not enough. he’s fucking teasing.

he pulls away and you whine, twisting, trying to rub your thighs together. looking for that friction.

“stop moving,” he says. “or i’ll leave you like this.”

he pushes your legs apart, slowly, like he’s checking how far they go. then leans in, voice rough.

“anyone ever touched your pussy before?”

you swallow. “no... just me.”

he groans under his breath. “of course.”

his fingers return. this time two slide in with ease, your body clenching tight around them.

“tight little thing,” he mutters. “you touching yourself at night thinking about bad men like me, huh?”

you nod weakly, already shaking. he curls his fingers, rough, hitting that spot, watching your body twitch.

then he pulls away again. you moan in frustration.

“you cum when i say,” he snaps. “not before.”

you nod frantically, desperate. “yes– yes sir.” he grins satisfied.

he stands, grabs your wrist. “c’mere.”

you stumble after him, skirt still bunched, panties at your knees. he drags you to the edge of the couch, pushes your chest down against the armrest.

your toes barely reach the ground. he’s so much taller than you, you have to stretch to stay in place — ass up, legs trembling.

you feel him behind you. he grinds his cock between your thighs.

“this how you wanted it?” he murmurs. “get used like a hole?” you nod, desperate, panting.

he lines up, pushes just the tip in — then pulls back. you whimper.

“shut up.” he slaps your ass. makes you jolt. holds your hips, positions you right where he wants you.

then he pushes in, slow. your walls stretch painfully around him, hot and thick and pulsing.

you gasp. he groans.

“fuck… so fuckin’ tight.”

he holds himself still once he’s in deep. then begins to move. hard and fast. no mercy.

he fucks you like you’re not supposed to enjoy it.

he grabs your hair, yanks your head back, keeps fucking you through every noise, every squirm, every twitch of your body begging for release.

“you wanna cum?” he growls.

“yes– please–” he pulls out.

you scream in frustration. he drags you back by your thighs, flips you to your knees on the floor. his cock’s right in front of your face now.

“mouth.” he says.

you open it eager. lips wet, eyes glassy.

but he doesn’t let you take him in. instead, he strokes himself — rough, fast.

he watches you look up at him, wide-eyed and ruined.

his voice breaks. "looking fuckin' pathetic."

you moan, thighs pressed tight, needy and undone. he groans once, deep in his chest— then finishes all over your face.

his cum messy and feels warm.

you flinch, mouth still open, cum dripping from your cheek to your chin.

he pants heavy. still towering over you.

then finally — finally — he pulls the mask off.

his face is flushed. jaw sharp. dirty blonde buzzed hair. blue eyes blown black with lust.

he stares down at you. and for the first time—

you see his smile.

“все равно нужно, чтобы папа заплатил.” (still need daddy to pay.)

[rafesluckylady]

ᤢ ♥︎⠀⠀‌⸻ dark is the night / rafe cameron!

content WARNING: rafe (22) / reader (19), violence, mentions of war, health struggles, pregnancy, mentions of death, money struggles, loneliness, sensitive content.

click here for the playlist — here for the pinterest board!

It was a February night, the kind where the cold didn’t just bite... it gnawed. And a 16-hour day on the trawler—hauling nets, gutting cod, dodging a near-miss with a snapped cable—had left Rafe’s muscles aching and his mind fogged. His hair stuck to his forehead, and his blue eyes, usually sharp were dulled by exhaustion.

Inside, the house was barely warmer. Rafe dropped his keys on the chipped Formica table, next to a stack of envelopes that seemed to multiply each day: bills, final notices, a creditor’s letter with red ink screaming urgency. As soon as he sank into a wobbly chair, the numbers stared up at him:

28,000 rubles for the boat’s fuel pump

15,000 for last month’s utilities

10,000 to appease the bank breathing down his neck about his grandfather’s debts

His last market haul had brought in 12,000 rubles, half of which went to diesel and ice to keep his fish fresh. Even food, real food, not just instant noodles or day-old bread, was a luxury he could barely afford.

Rafe rubbed his calloused hands together, trying to coax warmth into them.

Another job, he thought.

Night shifts, maybe, or loading crates at the warehouse.

Not because he wanted to. God, no.

His body was already screaming. But need didn’t care about want. If he didn’t find more hours, the house, his grandfather’s house—would be gone. And with it, the last piece of the man who’d raised him, who’d taught him to read the sea’s moods and knot a line before he could tie his shoes.

He stood, joints protesting, and shuffled toward the narrow hallway leading to his room. Sleep, if it came, would be a brief mercy before the 4 AM. alarm.

But then... a sound.

A faint rustle, not the wind’s usual moan or the groan of the old house settling. It came from outside, like footsteps. Rafe froze, one hand on the hallway’s peeling wallpaper. His grandfather’s neglected garden, a pitiful patch of cabbage and carrots barely clinging to life behind the house, was out there. He’d kept it alive out of duty, not care, coaxing a few vegetables from the rocky soil when he could.

Another rustle, louder now, and a soft snap, like a stalk breaking.

His first thought was exhaustion playing tricks. He’d been seeing things lately, shadows in the waves, flickers in the fog, his mind worn thin by endless days. He rubbed his eyes, and squinted through the kitchen window. The garden was bathed in the dim glow of a streetlamp, its orange light cutting through the night. There, a shadow moved among the rows of stunted cabbage. Not a stray dog or the wind. A person.

Rafe’s heart kicked.

“Hey!” he shouted, alarmed, almost irritated. He lunged for the door, boots thudding on the linoleum, and yanked it open. The cold hit him like a slap, but he barely felt it. He stumbled down the back steps, breath clouding in the frigid air, and caught a clearer glimpse, a girl crouched in the dirt, her hands clutching a half-eaten carrot. Her face, pale and sharp in the streetlamp’s glow, snapped up at his yell. Wide eyes—green, maybe?—met his for a split second, wild with panic, before she bolted.

“Wait!” Rafe called, but she was already gone, a blur of hair and a too-thin jacket vanishing around the corner of the fence. He ran a few steps, his boots crunching on frozen gravel, but stopped at the edge of the garden. She was fast, and he was too damn tired to chase her. His breath heaved, forming fleeting clouds, and he stood there, hands on his hips, staring at the empty street.

The garden was a mess. A few carrots lay uprooted, one half-bitten. Rafe’s jaw tightened. Those vegetables were his... But as his anger flared, it sputtered. That girl looked desperate. Her cheeks were hollow, her movements frantic, like a cornered animal. Hungrier than him, maybe. The thought twisted in his chest, a strange pang he couldn’t name. Guilt? Pity?

He knelt, picking up the bitten carrot, its dirt-smeared end cold in his hand. Why here? Why his garden? Vladivostok was full of markets, soup kitchens, places she could’ve gone. Yet she’d crept into his yard, risking getting caught for a few half-dead vegetables. Rafe’s fingers brushed the fishing hook pendant, a nervous habit, as he scanned the shadows. Nothing. Just the wind and the distant hum of the port.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ©slvbun(m) — written with love.

content: 01 , 02 , 03 , 04 , 05 , 06 , 07 , 08 , 09 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16. FINISHED!

extras: year in hell , cod , guardian

[rafesluckylady]

pairing ; babydaddy!rafe x babymomma!reader

WARNINGS ⭑.ᐟ pure smut, ex dynamic, swearing, praise kink, fem terms used, tit-sucking, not proofread.

NOTES ⭑.ᐟ you’re responsible for the content you consume.

WORD COUNT ⭑.ᐟ 1.1k

AUTHOR’S NOTE ⭑.ᐟ likes, reblogs, and requests are encouraged and appreciated 🐆

it wasn’t supposed to end up like this.

he was supposed to drop off june and leave. not end up in your bed, tangled up in your sheets, your bare chest pressed against his as your hips bounced on top of him, holding onto his shoulders for support.

he let out a groan of your name, his hands holding you up by the underside of your thighs, bouncing you up and down on his dick casually, helping you ride him. “fuck, baby..” he mumbled, letting out a heavy exhale. “best damn thing i’ve ever had, huh?”

you were barely listening, your brain flipping between how good it felt and how wrong it was, riding your ex boyfriend after swearing he wouldn’t get to you again, after swearing you were done with him.

despite your thoughts, your hips moved faster, clit catching against the base of him, forcing a choked moan from your lips as you leaned further into his chest. he leaned forward from his position against the pillows, his mouth closing around your nipple, sucking the bud lazily with a muffled groan. your hand flew to the back of his head, holding him against your chest with a shaky sound that sounded like a moan and a whimper, looking down at him.

“c’mere, baby,” he panted heavily, his arms lacing your torso as he held you up against him. he was looking up at you like you hung the stars, like you were his entire world, looking at you like you were still his, like nothing had changed. “ride it, baby, ride that dick like it’s yours, please.”

your hips moved faster against your better judgement, humping him desperately like he would disappear if you slowed down, the fire in your tummy burning hotter and hotter the more he spoke.

“rafe—“ you gasped, holding onto his bicep with a death grip, manicured nails digging into his skin. “don’t let me go, don’t make me stop—“

your words were jumbled, a slight crack making its way through your tone, your bottom lip wobbling as you pleaded with him. his hold on you tightened, his hand smoothing over your lower back, shushing you with a quieted murmur.

“shh, shh, shh,” he whispered, letting your hips rock against him in a desperate effort to get yourself to the edge. “take what y’need, honey, m’right here. ain’t lettin’ you go anytime soon, yeah? just make yourself cum, ma.”

you buried your face into his neck, your eyes squeezing shut as your thighs tensed up, feeling his hips raise up to buck into you. muffled whimpers fell from your lips, nails surely leaving red scrapes along his back, pulling him tighter against you. your mind was fuzzy, trying to push away the sense of guilt you felt, trying to let yourself have this.

“oh my gosh—“ you were panting now, a burning sensation settling in your thighs as you moved even faster if possible, hand tightening around the thick muscle of his bicep. “rafe, m’gonna cum—“

your voice was hoarse, raw from biting back the sob that threatened to come up. his hold on you was like an anchor, both hands splayed over your back, helping your hips bounce even if your thighs were shaking.

“c’mon, baby,” he murmured, the warmth of his voice comforting against your neck. his hand slipped around, thumbing at your clit in an attempt to soothe the burn, your hips shaking against him. “let it go, let yourself feel it, mama. y’deserve it, c’mon.”

between his cock plunging in and out of you, his thumb swiping at your clit in messy strokes, and him cooing into your ear— you were a goner. a sharp, whiny moan ripped from your throat, his hand covering your mouth in an attempt to silence the loud noise coming out of you, groaning quietly at the way you creamed around his dick.

“god, there y’go,” he groaned out, his cum spilling into you with a rough squeeze at your ass. “look so pretty when y’cum, always have— c’mere.”

his lips were on yours, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that was familiar, in a way that made the heat in your stomach dissipate in an array of affection. your lips moved against his like it was second nature, letting yourself enjoy the way his hands slid over your sides, groping at the fat of your hips and stroking the stretch-marks on your stomach.

“we shouldn’t—“ you started, his lips pushing against yours again in an attempt to silence you.

“don’t,” he mumbled, his hand resting against the soft skin of your lower back, pressing an array of messy kisses to your lips. “don’t say that after i just made you cum harder than any of those fuckers you’ve been with, alright? let me have this.”

he pulled you closer to his body, his hand resting against the back of your head with a heavy exhale, his bottom lip caught between his pearly whites. he pressed a kiss against your cheek, nose bumping against yours, before whispering into your ear. “let me hold you, just like before.”

despite your better judgment, you slumped against him, not having the energy to fight against your feelings— not having the will to deny him of what you both wanted.

another messy kiss was placed to your cheek, before he murmured— “good girl.”

© bardotfawn . copying or plagiarizing my work is not permitted.

[rafesluckylady]

are you cold, milaya? ☆⠀rafe cameron

♡⃣where you visit your mother's native town and meet her friends son, a hot soldier with a military buzzcut who swears in russian.

pairing ! :⠀fem!reader x slavic!rafe.

warnings ! :⠀smut. cursing. penetration. dirty talk. unprotected p in v. size kink. creampie. fingering. overstimulation.

you’ve been in russia for two days and already want to leave.

everything's grey. the house smells like boiled cabbage and bitter cigarettes. the village has four streets and one rusting bus stop. — your mom insisted you come. “visit where i grew up,” she said. “see real life” she said.

all you’ve seen so far is a grumpy old woman who sighs every time you speak english. nadya, your mom’s childhood friend, lets you stay in the guest room and barely speaks. she chain-smokes by the cracked window and calls you “devochka” like you're five. she has a son, but you haven’t met him. apparently he works some local patrol job or something. military-ish. you don’t really listen. you just stare out at the snow and dream of your american life.

you’re alone when a storm started. wind howling, snow beating against the windows like angry fists. nadya went to her sister’s, muttering about cabbage soup and gossip. left you with a pot on the stove, said her son, rafe, would be back “maybe.”

it's been some hours. you’re wearing a white off shoulder knit sweater and fuzzy socks when you hear it. the front door slams open.

you freeze.

heavy boots. snow slushing on the tile. then, his voice:

“blyad… zakryto vse…” (fuck… everything’s closed…)

you poke your head out the kitchen and see him.

him.

he’s peeling off a military parka, face flushed from cold, jaw clenched. thick arms, broad shoulders. there’s a buzzcut under his ushanka hat, and god, it does something to you. he looks like he came straight out of some war movie except hotter. muscles under wool, face sculpted like marble, nose red from the cold. snow melts on his sleeves as he breathes heavy through gritted teeth.

he sees you. stills.

you raise a hand awkwardly. “um. rafe?”

he squints. “you’re… american?”

you nod, already cringing.

he drops the hat on the floor, runs a hand through his blonde buzzed hair. “mama said guest here. didn’t say… girl.”

you blink. “uh. sorry?”

he shrugs off the coat. beneath it, a black thermal shirt hugs his torso tight. marked abs. he kicks off his boots, sighs. then looks at you again with this unreadable expression.

“she said to tell you there’s soup. in the kitchen,” you add, suddenly aware of how ridiculous you sound, standing in this dim soviet kitchen like a tourist guide.

he walks past you. his shoulder brushes yours. he smells like snow and cigarette and gunpowder.

you turn back to the stove, flustered.

“you want some?” you ask, already reaching for the plates.

you stretch onto your toes to reach the cabinet. your sweater lifts, revealing your waist. you don’t realize it until you hear him behind you, voice low.

“you always dress like that?”

your heart skips. “what?”

he doesn’t answer. you turn, and he’s looking at you. not rudely. not exactly. but looking. eyes trailing from your waist to your face like he’s trying to figure something out.

“it’s cold,” you say dumbly. “just… sweater weather.”

he smirks, just a little. then sits at the table, arms folded, watching you.

you serve him like you’ve done it a hundred times—ladling soup into a chipped bowl, finding bread in the fridge. hands trembling a little.

when you put the bowl in front of him, he murmurs, “you look like slavic wife.”

you blink. “what?”

he shrugs, eats a spoonful. “like girl from home.”

you snort. “i am in your home.”

he chews. then, with no warning, asks:

“you have boyfriend?” your heart thuds.

“what?” you say again, but this time it’s sharper.

he stares at you, eyes unreadable. “just ask. not many girls come here.”

you cross your arms. “why do you care?”

he gives a low laugh. “don’t. just… look like someone should care.”

you don’t know what to say to that. the kitchen suddenly feels too warm and smaller than it already is. you fidget with the sleeves of your sweater.

he eats in silence. then mutters, almost to himself:

“would take care of girl like you.”

you don’t even know if you were meant to hear it. but you did. and now your heart won’t slow down.

you don’t mean to linger in the kitchen. you don’t mean to stare when he licks the soup from the spoon.

but he’s sitting there like —arms big and lazy on the table, eyes on you like he’s not really hungry for soup at all.

“you’re from city.” he says finally, tone low.

you nod, laughing nervous. “yeah. figured?”

he licks his lips, tongue slow, and you hate that it makes your thighs press together.

“figured.” he repeats. “you look soft.” he shrugs. “just… different.”

you don't say anything. try to walk away —maybe to the sink, maybe just to breathe—but he stands before you can, blocking the small kitchen path.

you look up at him. you don’t mean to. but you do. he's way taller than you up close. face carved and rough. buzzcut sharp. blue icy eyes. god.

you try to speak, but his fingers reach out, grazing the edge of your sweater where it had lifted earlier.

“you wear this to tease?” his voice is hoarse now.

you go still.

“n-no—”

“but you bend like that,” he says, voice low. “reaching like that. little sweater lifting. like you want me to look.”

you feel hot all over. cheeks, chest, everywhere.

your voice is barely a whisper. “you were looking?”

he doesn’t deny it. instead, he moves closer.

“are you cold, milaya?” (sweetheart)

you shake your head, but your body’s already giving you away—arms crossed, chest heaving.

he lifts a hand, brushes your hair back behind your ear.

“you look cold,” he says, but there’s a dark smile on his lips. “you need body heat. da?”

you can’t answer. you nod. stupid. silent. soaked in something you don’t want to name.

he leans in slow. you feel his breath before his mouth.

“you american girls always so shy?”

“maybe it’s your buzzcut,” you whisper, trying to joke. but your voice is shaking.

he huffs a laugh. “you like it?”

“yeah,” you murmur. “makes you look mean.”

he grins. “i am mean.”

then his lips are on yours.

the kiss is rough. not sweet. not gentle.

his hands find your waist like they’ve been there before. he walks you back until your hips hit the counter. you gasp into it, and he takes that as permission — his tongue slipping in, tasting, teeth grazing your bottom lip.

your hands are on his chest before you realize. he’s hard under the thermal shirt, solid muscle and heat. you fist the fabric, try to pull him closer. you hear him groan.

his hands move lower. squeeze your hips. pull you forward. you feel the outline of him through his pants—hard, thick, heavy. your head’s spinning.

“you wear nothing under this sweater?” he breathes against your throat, fingers slipping under the hem.

you try to lie. “of course i… i am—”

he pulls back just enough to lift the sweater. you flinch, but he hums in approval. “fucking knew it.” his hands find your bare waist, sliding up slowly. fingertips hot, greedy, reverent.

“look at you,” he growls. “standing in my kitchen like something out of dream.”

you press your thighs together.

he notices. of course he does.

“you’re wet?” he asks, almost amused.

you look away. embarrassed. turned on beyond words.

his hand comes down to your thigh, under the hem of your sleep shorts.

“hm?”

“yes.” you breathe. you’re soaked.

“good.” he murmurs. “then let me feel.”

and when he finally does— when his fingers find the heat between your legs, slip past the fabric— you moan so soft he nearly loses it right there.

“fuck.” he hisses. “this pussy wet for me, isn’t it?”

you nod. you don't even care if it makes you weak. you’re panting. you’re barely holding onto the counter when he pulls his fingers from your underwear, slow, like he’s savoring every second. he looks at you with those blue icy eyes.

but then? he pulls away.

you whimper. “what—”

he cuts you off, licking his fingers. “we don’t fuck in kitchen.”

you blink, dizzy. “why not?”

“mama would kill me.” he shrugs, casually grabbing your hand. “you know how old russian women are. sacred kitchen, sacred table. no sex.”

your thighs are still shaking and he’s making jokes?

but you don’t argue because now he’s pulling you down the dark hallway. his grip is strong, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. the storm outside howls louder, wind slamming against the windows. it doesn’t matter. nothing exists but him.

his room is small. military neat. sheets gray, floor cold. he shuts the door behind you. doesn’t lock it. doesn’t need to.

“bed,” he says, voice rough, accent thicker now. “go.”

you do. you sit on the edge, hands in your lap, heart pounding. he stands over you, shirt still on. muscles flexing under black fabric.

“take off,” he nods at your sweater.

you hesitate. still, you pull it off. slow. your nipples hard in the cold air.

he watches. hungry and proud.

“you look so fuckin’ malyshka like this. too soft for winter.”

you shift. “is that a bad thing?”

you don't even understand what he's saying but it's the way he says it.

he kneels between your legs. his big hands slide up your thighs.

“no. you’re too soft. too small. too pretty. good thing.”

your breath catches. “then why are you still wearing clothes?”

he grins. “you want to see so bad, da?”

then he stands. he peels the shirt off, slow, deliberate. his body is unreal. broad chest, scars across his ribs, abs like stone. the buzzcut just does it with all that muscle. like he’s some war god.

but when he unbuckles his belt, everything inside you goes still. he drops his pants. underwear next. your jaw might hit the floor. because his cock is bigger than imagined. thick. heavy. veiny. hanging long and hard between his thighs.

your thighs press together out of instinct. your mouth goes dry. he notices—of course he does.

“mm?” he smirks. “you scared?”

you blink fast. “that’s not… gonna fit.”

he laughs, low and deep. it’s so russian it sounds illegal.

“oh, mila. i’ll make it fit.”

and then he’s on you.

pushing you back into the mattress, climbing over you like he’s claiming land. his hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your lips.

“sure you want it?”

“yes.”

“then open.”

you do. he kisses you again, harder now. one hand sliding between your legs, back into your underwear, finding that wet heat and groaning.

“you’re dripping for me,” he growls. “fucking little thing.”

you moan when he starts rubbing slow circles on your clit, two fingers deep now.

“feel how tight you are,” he mutters. “this tiny pussy… kak eto voobshche vozmozhno?” (how is this even possible?)*

“please, rafe,” you gasp. his eyes flash.

“you beg so sweet, malyshka.”

he lines himself up, and even just the tip of his cock makes you cry out. it burns. stretches. but fuck, it’s so good.

he goes slow at first—muttering in russian under his breath.

“takaya uzkaya… suka…” (so tight… fuck…)

“ty moye malen’koye sokrovishche…” (you’re my little treasure…)

every inch feels like too much, but you don’t want him to stop. his hands grab your hips, pinning you in place.

“take it,” he growls. “take all of me.”

you’re gasping, eyes rolling back. it’s too much. feeling him everywhere. his hips snap harder now. deeper. your legs are shaking.

you feel him in your stomach.

literally.

“you feel me here?” he pants, pressing a hand to your belly.

you nod frantically. “yes— yes fuck—it’s so—”

“takaya malen’kaya” he grits. “and taking me so well.”

and then he loses it. the rhythm breaks. the thrusts grow wild.

he flips you over like you weigh nothing, fucks you from behind like it’s instinct—big hands gripping your waist, teeth against your neck.

“gonna fill you up” he grunts. “you want that?”

you whimper. “yes—yes, please— come inside me.”

“my cum. fuck— deep inside your pussy.”

when he comes, it’s with a growl in your ear and a final, brutal thrust that sends you over the edge.

you’re both breathless, sweaty, wrecked.

he stays inside you for a moment, not moving, just breathing heavy against your back.

“bozhe…” (god…) he mutters. “welcome to russia.”

[rafesluckylady]

INTRODUCING... SLAVIC!RAFE⠀!

by. @sexwithrafe

🪆⠀slavic!rafe⠀is so...

russian soldier. soft vodka and cigarettes breath. knuckle bruises. soviet era ballads. fur ushanka. says little, watches everything. husband material. doesn't believe in therapy. mama's boy. winter mornings. thick accent. swears in russian. snowy walks. military buzzcut.

rafe grew up too fast. just with his mother's presence. raised on a depressing town full of silence, grief and superstition.

⤷⠀SLAVIC!RAFE who's hands are always cold so he stuffs them inside your sweater between your boobs because — "they're warm".

⤷⠀SLAVIC!RAFE who hums old russian lullabies under his breath when he thinks you're asleep — songs his mother used to sing when the power went out.

⤷⠀SLAVIC!RAFE who loves physical touch — doesn't know how to talk about his feelings so he shows them through actions.

⤷⠀SLAVIC!RAFE who when jealous, clenches his jaw and goes quiet until getting home where you can make it up to him.

⤷⠀SLAVIC!RAFE who gets up early to chop wood in the freezing cold, shirtless for no reason. comes back inside with snow in his hair, rubbing his nose, muttering “zamerz kak suka.” (froze like a bitch)

⤷⠀SLAVIC!RAFE who presses a kiss to your forehead after sex like he didn't just ruin you five minutes ago.

⤷⠀SLAVIC!RAFE who groans your name and mutters in russian when he's close — leaves bruises on your thighs like he's marking territory.

⤷⠀SLAVIC!RAFE who bites your shoulder when he wants to stay quiet because his mama's downstairs — but keeps going, hand over your mouth, fucking you slow and deep to tease.

[rafesluckylady]

Property of Dr. Cameron

summary: Subject arrives at the party wearing your homemade Frankenstein costume with the name tag: “Property of Dr. Cameron.” characters: mad scientist! rafe. experiment! reader warnings: manipulation. obsessive behavior. borderline stalking. slight dollification? word count: 2.6k

It took him longer than usual to enter the party.

Not because he was unsure. He’d been invited, technically-your little voice had chirped at him just the night before, “You have to come, Rafe! Please?”

You’d even sent a heart emoji. Green. Matching your Frankenstein theme.

No, he hesitated because he knew what tonight was. A test. The final variable in a months-long equation.

He smoothed his hand over the white lab coat. It was his real one, from the research wing. A little wrinkled at the hem, slightly stained with blue dye near the cuff from a week-old test. His safety goggles rested on his forehead, pushed up into his slightly greasy hair. He’d considered taking them off. Decided against it.

Let them laugh. Let them think he was being ironic.

They had no idea.

He wasn’t dressing up.

This was who he was.

And as he stepped through the door, into that heat-choked, beer-sour mess of a college party, he scanned the room for you.

He saw you instantly.

You were standing by the kitchen counter, surrounded by noise and red cups and people much louder than you. A little green streak shimmered down the side of your face. Glitter traced your cheekbones. Your curls were tied in two puffy pigtails, frizzy from static. A plush red heart was stitched onto the shoulder of your oversized, hand-dyed sweater.

But it wasn’t the makeup that made his breath catch.

It was the tag.

Pinned crooked to your chest, written in silver sharpie and surrounded by uneven stars:

PROPERTY OF DR. CAMERON

You were laughing at something someone said. Twirling a straw in a cup of off-brand soda. But Rafe couldn’t hear any of it. The music, the talking, the bass that shook the windows-none of it made it to his ears.

Because all he could see was you, beaming in your little Frankenstein costume, proudly, publicly, wearing his name.

And you hadn’t even told him.

You’d done it on your own.

He stood there a moment too long, stock-still in the crowd. Let the wave of realization ripple over his skin like static.

You’d named yourself.

And you’d chosen him.

He was going to be so gentle with you tonight. So careful. So patient. Because you’d just handed him the final piece.

SUBJECT LOG 10.31.01 - Initial Visual Confirmation Break Point: Subject arrives at the party wearing your homemade Frankenstein costume with the name tag: “Property of Dr. Cameron.”

Subject Identification: 001 - F (You) Observation Time: 20:03 EST Location: Social Field Test - Fraternity Residence (Delta Phi) Behavioral Trigger: Subject independently designed and wore symbolic clothing indicating ownership by Analyst. Analyst Response: Subject entered visual range at 6.4m. Immediate sympathetic nervous system response: heart rate elevation, micro-tremor in right hand, heat spike across collar. Analyst remained still until physiological symptoms stabilized. Analysis: Subject behavior is unprompted and entirely self-directed. Symbolic submission displayed openly in public environment. Subject appears unaware of implications. Suggests full assimilation of assigned role and psychological reinforcement of Analyst as authority figure. Conclusion: Primary hypothesis confirmed. Subject views Analyst not only as a caretaker, but as creator, stabilizer, and controller. Emotional Response: Euphoric. Dangerous.

You spotted him before he reached you. Lit up like you always did when you saw him-head tilted, eyes sparkling, like you were seeing something safe.

“There you are!” you squeaked, moving toward him. “I was starting to think you ditched.”

His eyes raked down your figure. The fuzzy green leg warmers. The little stitched smile you’d painted on your chin. The way your fingers kept fiddling with the red-stitch heart on your sleeve.

You were perfect.

“Nice goggles,” you said, grinning. “Committed to the bit, huh?”

He didn’t smile.

He just stared at the tag.

Then, slowly, stepped forward until the tips of his shoes nearly touched yours.

“You made this?” he asked, brushing one gloved finger against your sweater where the tag was pinned.

You giggled. “Yeah! I thought it’d be funny. You know, since I’m your monster and everything.”

Rafe’s eyes flicked to your face. You weren’t joking-not really. Not deep down. Your words were candy-coated, but he saw the truth behind them.

You believed what you were saying.

“I guess that makes you mine then,” he said quietly.

Your breath caught in your throat. Not because of the words-but because of how soft his voice was when he said them. You tilted your head and laughed it off. “I mean, yeah, until you patch me up too well and I run away into the woods or something.”

He stepped closer.

You stopped talking.

He adjusted the tag with two fingers, slow and clinical, like aligning a surgical tool.

“I built you better than that,” he murmured.

And you didn’t say a word.

You didn’t even blink.

SUBJECT LOG 10.31.02 - Verbal Reinforcement & Acceptance Break Point: Analyst approaches and subject says “I’m your monster,” referencing the costume.

Observation Time: 20:06 EST Location: Social Field Test - Delta Phi Living Room Transcript Fragment: Subject: “I thought it’d be funny.” Analyst: “I guess that makes you mine, then.” Observation Summary: Subject accepts Analyst’s phrasing without resistance. Humor used to buffer underlying truth. Subject does not cognitively challenge ownership terminology and responds positively to “mine.” Conclusion: Subject psychologically primed. No reinforcement required. Language of possession accepted as affectionate. Subject unconsciously aligns self within Analyst-controlled identity structure. Next Steps: Continue integrating casual ownership language into everyday interaction. Escalate to physical mirroring in controlled spaces.

The night went on. Loud. Stupid. Chaos disguised as fun. People in cheap wigs and ghost sheets spilled beer on furniture. Someone took edibles and cried during “Thriller.” A guy dressed as Shrek tried to get you to dance. Rafe was there in an instant-gloved hand slipping over your waist, grip like iron under the white sleeve.

“She’s taken,” he said simply.

The guy blinked. “Oh. Uh. My bad, dude.”

Rafe didn’t answer.

And you?

You just looked up at him.

“I am?”

He leaned in, breath brushing your cheek. “Aren’t you?”

You hesitated.

Then your fingers tugged your sweater closer to your chest, glancing down at the little tag you’d made.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I guess I am.”

SUBJECT LOG 10.31.03 - Social Intervention / Protective Reclaiming Break Point: Another student attempts to dance with subject. Analyst intervenes.

Observation Time: 21:04 EST Location: Main Floor, Dance Area Stimulus: 3rd-Party Male (unidentified) initiates unwanted proximity with Subject Analyst Behavior: Immediate step-in. Physical claim initiated with palm at Subject’s lower lumbar. Verbal declaration: “She’s taken.” Subject Reaction: Confusion → stillness → gaze lifted to Analyst. Query: “I am?” Analyst Response: “Aren’t you?” Subject looked down at tag, self-affirmed ownership with nod. Verbalized: “I guess I am.” Analysis: Subject required only minimal verbal redirection to reaffirm bond. Indicates growing dependence on Analyst’s perception to define self-reality. Threat Level (External): Low Threat Level (Internal): Controlled but escalating. Analyst experienced surge in protective ideation. Visualized physical removal of threat. Withheld. Conclusion: Possession language not only accepted-relied upon for emotional navigation.

He took you upstairs before midnight. Away from the music. Away from the stares.

A guest bedroom, door creaking slightly, walls too thin. The lamp was off, but the hallway light poured through the crack, painting both of your shadows across the floor.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, sweater bunched at your wrists.

Rafe stood in the doorway, watching you like a starving man. His gloves were still on.

You fidgeted with your tag. “It’s a little silly, right? The costume?”

“No.”

“You’re not just saying that?”

He didn’t speak.

Just walked forward. Kneeled in front of you.

Took your hands in his.

Glove against skin.

He turned one over slowly, stared at the lines in your palm like they meant something. Like he could read data there.

“You’re not silly,” he said, voice low and sharp. “You’re obedient. Soft. Malleable. You belong.”

Your lips parted. A nervous laugh slipped out, too quiet.

“I don’t know if I like how intense that sounds,” you whispered.

He looked up.

Expression still. Gaze steady.

“But you like how it feels,” he said.

And you didn’t deny it.

SUBJECT LOG 10.31.04 - Voluntary Isolation & Containment Break Point: Subject agrees to go upstairs with analyst, alone, without hesitation.

Observation Time: 23:12 EST Location: Guest Bedroom, 2nd Floor Analyst Behavior: Maintained close distance without touching until subject initiated verbal vulnerability. Transcript Fragment: Analyst: “You’re obedient. Soft. Malleable.” Subject: “I don’t know if I like how intense that sounds.” Analyst: “But you like how it feels.” Subject Response: No verbal challenge. Physical proximity increased. Analysis: Subject now equates comfort with proximity to Analyst. Private isolation triggers bonding behavior. Symbolism (costume, ownership label) reinforced under closed-system conditions. Next Step: Encourage subject to leave clothing/personal item in Analyst space. Seed permanent presence.

Because his hands didn’t hurt.

His voice never yelled.

And every time he was near, your brain stopped running in scared little circles.

You leaned forward without thinking.

Head on his shoulder. Fingers fisting the front of his lab coat.

“Just don’t… don’t unmake me, okay?”

He wrapped his arms around you. Pulled you fully in.

“I would never,” he whispered. “You’re my favorite invention.”

SUBJECT LOG 10.31.05 - Attachment Consolidation / Identity Merger Break Point: Subject leans into Analyst, asks “Just don’t unmake me, okay?”

Observation Time: 00:34 EST Location: Guest Bedroom, prolonged isolation Subject Quote: “Just don’t unmake me, okay?” Analyst Response: “I would never. You’re my favorite invention.” Conclusion: Subject has fully merged emotional identity with role in Analyst’s ecosystem. Sees Analyst as creator, guide, and emotional stabilizer. Final Observation: There is no need for force when the subject builds her own leash. She asked to be kept. And she thinks that’s love.

[rafesluckylady]

Oh fuck me

TEN SECONDS TO RUN

summary: The trend said run from your cop boyfriend. You sent him a video as a joke, but you didn’t think he’d make you run. So you run with a ten-second head start.

pairings: cop!rafe cameron x afab!reader

warnings: 13.9k words. mature themes. consensual non-consent (cnc). dubious consent. primal play. unprotected p-in-v. uniform kink. breathplay (light choking). spanking. clit stimulation. nipple play. mock resistance. degradation / praise kink. overstimulation. cockwarming. outdoor sex. light exhibitionism. impact play. power imbalance. d/s dynamics. read & consume responsibly.

note: hi!!! this has been sitting in my drafts for weeks now :// it took me forever to finish. it’s based on that trend from tiktok. please read the warnings carefully and only continue if you’re in the right headspace bcs your comfort comes first always :) ♡

If five years ago someone told you that you would live with your boyfriend of four years, you would laugh at them because you love having your own place and don’t like the idea of living together unless you are married already. And here you are, living with him. It’s been three years since you started living in this town, and it has been longer than you planned. It’s already long enough for you to get comfortable in the place. The air and environment are fresh and smell like grass and woodsmoke. You and Rafe have a house close to the forest. It’s nothing fancy, but it has a cute porch and a backyard that faces the woods. Close enough to hear the birds at dawn or when you wake up. The house is far enough from the other houses so no one really sees what’s happening in or outside of the house.

It’s domestic, soft, and steady in a way you’re still not used to, especially since you came from a city, which is loud and where time moves fast compared to being here. Rafe told you before that he used to live on some island or near the water; he doesn’t really talk about his past. Not that you press much about it since you respect his boundaries. He managed to pick up work with the sheriff’s department in a sleepy county where no one really runs and no one really fights, so it’s like they’re just protecting the peace and quiet here.

He has the badge and the uniform and gets free coffee at the diner. Everyone says he’s cleaned the town up, which is something to be proud of considering he’s kind of new to the town. It’s not like he found enemies already, but some men from the sheriff’s department envy him, and women from this town love him. But you know what he really is. He is restless, wired for something, a man who needs a target, and someone who wants to protect others. Especially you, since you are his top priority, and you’ve always been good at making yourself the center of his attention.

Before you know it, he has already left for his morning shift before 8 AM. He’s quiet about it and didn’t wake you up, just gave you soft kisses on your temple and boots low on the hardwood. You’re stirring awake when he closes the door shut and the sun touches your sheets. It doesn’t take you long enough before you walk barefoot towards the kitchen in a tank top and shorts, too lazy to get out of your night clothes. It feels too sleepy when you boil hot water and you scroll while waiting. Watch some clips that keep showing the same trend the whole time she’s waiting for water.

FYP plays it like a loop. You see girls running in spandex. They’re breathless, laughing, and glancing back as they run. Some of them don’t even show they got caught, but there’s the implication of it. Even now you pour the boiled water on your coffee, and you still see the same five videos again. Just click the heart button and scroll away, but you didn’t just heart it. You know you shouldn’t, but you are stubborn, and the trend reminds you of Rafe. So you tap share, scroll, tap his name in your contacts, and send it.

It doesn’t have any additional text or emoji, just the video. Then you put your phone face down like it’ll make you innocent again. Just try to ignore your phone for hours because you feel like you just sent something embarrassing and you’ll regret it. So you let it sit there while hours stretch. You cleaned, you read, and you did everything that needed to be done in the house. But it didn’t really last; curiosity is eating you, and your itching hands check your phone once only to see the seen under your message, nothing else, and your stomach tightens.

You shower, do your skincare routine, and do all the beauty things that you always do to stay pretty for him. You distracted yourself because there’s no knock, no call, and no message. Just wearing your favorite faded shirt- no bra underneath- and black cotton short shorts that cling around your thighs and ass and ride up. You tell yourself that you wear them because they’re comfortable, not because Rafe finds them sexy, even though they’re not the lingerie-level sexy. Maybe it’s because of all the clothes you wear; he still finds you sexy and beautiful.

After some time, you set the table and cook food for dinner, and it’s almost dark when you hear tires and sounds from the car outside. The door clicked open, boots across the kitchen. You don’t turn, but you know it’s him. “Smells good,” he says, voice rough and deep. Still in his uniform, and the scrape of Velcro rings in your ear as he pulls off his vest from his body. Walking towards you, his hand slides around your waist to hold you close, and his mouth is on your neck. “Missed you,” he whispers as he grazes his lips on your skin and gives it small kisses. “Missed you too,” you say back to him before you pull out of his hold and sit on the chair across from his seat. This night feels off, but not at the same time. It’s normal. Too normal. He doesn’t even mention the video and doesn’t tease you like he usually does. He just eats quietly while you try to read to him.

The whole dinner, he never mentioned it. He just talked about his day and how annoying the other officer at work is. How lunch tastes like shit since you’re not the one who made it. Even when you cleaned the table and dishes, nothing. Then, ten minutes later, when you’ve convinced yourself he forgot, he leans against the counter with arms crossed. His eyes flicked down your legs. Then up. “What was that video about?” he asks. Tone low, flat, not angry, and not playful. It’s just quiet in a way that you will feel something is off. Your body straightens before you realize, and fingers tighten around the plate. You blink, trying to play dumb. That will work. Yeah, it will. “What video?” His head tilts. Oh, so you will go that route. You’re not getting out of this. He saw it at 9:41 a.m., boots on the dash, sun on his thighs, and the notification ping: Baby ❤️ sent a video. He opened it without thinking; anything from you will always get his attention.

As it played, something in him stirred because of the caption in the video saying, “Just conditioning to outrun my cop boyfriend.” The woman is giggling, carelessly running ahead without glancing back. His mouth dried as he watched it, fingers locking on the wheel. You weren’t a TikTok girl. He knows you don’t do videos that are on the trend. And he knows you didn’t send shit like this unless it meant something. He stared at it for a full minute. Then tapped the sound and scrolled just to see more girls running and getting caught. The comments nearly made him lose it. People commenting things like “My bf tackled me into the grass” or “He chased me barefoot in the woods.” He should be guilty, but his cock twitched behind the belt, and he has no shame. Jerking himself raw in the cruiser while picturing your breath catching, thighs flashing as you disappear into the tree line. He’d actually thought about it before while his teeth were on your shoulder: ‘You ever think about running from me, baby?’ But he bit it back and didn’t say it out loud because he didn’t know if you were ready. Now, after that video, it’s like an opening for him.

He steps forward in your direction. “That video,” he says again. Slower and heavier. “That cop boyfriend one. Where the girlfriend runs.” His tone is serious, and it makes your stomach pull tight knots. You say nothing, feel your mouth getting dry, your skin too warm and flushing, and your thighs pressing together. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t raise his voice, but his presence presses in the whole house. It eats you in and almost suffocates you. “You sent it to me.” Your fingers twitch before you put the last plate inside the rack, and your knuckles tighten. “Oh, that?” you say, voice too airy. “I dunno. It’s just a trend.” Your laugh is shallow, hoping it sounds like nothing, but his silence answers first. You glance at him, and his jaw is tight.

You try again, hoping he will buy it. Your voice is much softer and sweeter. “I thought it was cute,” you offer. “Made me think of you.” Like that’s the reason, like it’s the only reason. Brow lifting at your words, a twitch that says he knows you’re lying but will not call it out directly. “Cute,” he repeats, like he’s baiting you. Throat bobbing, and eyes want to look away from him, but didn’t. “I wasn’t- I didn’t mean anything by it.” His hum isn’t agreement, just a low sound, like a dog deciding not to bite yet. “Have you been seeing it a lot?” You nod too fast. “Yeah, it kept popping up,” praying to anyone above you to make your boyfriend believe your words, but that seems impossible at the moment. “Hm.” His eyes dip to your oversized shirt riding high, bare thigh under the table.

“And what do they do? Just run?” Your breath wavers. You nod more slowly. “They run, the boyfriend chases, sometimes tackles. It’s dumb,” because it is, and you don’t even know why the trend exists! But… It’s hot at the same time, even if it’s dumb. “It looked serious to me.” The voice is sharper, but not louder, just cutting. “Comments were fucked up.” Your heart kicks. You hadn’t thought he’d read those. “Dragged me back by the ankle,” he quoted and also used both of his hands to show what he read, eyes on yours. “Didn’t even wait to get home.” You let out a brittle laugh. “TikTok people are dramatic.” Take the bait, goddamn it. Why can’t he just believe you? You are not some sort of criminal, hello? There’s no smile on his mouth when you tell him that; you can’t read what mood he is in or what he’s thinking. It’s just the sick silence wrapping around the both of you.

Thumb hooking on his belt, not to remove it but just out of habit, and the shift in the air is so evident. “Did you want to try it?” The breath stutters in your chest. Why would he even ask that? It’s not like you want to be chased like that. You know he will easily catch you, unless you are high on adrenaline. “What?” you manage to say. “I said,” he repeats before asking you again, “did you want to try it?” Your mouth opens again. “I didn’t mean it like that,” quiet words let out from your mouth before you bite your bottom lip between your teeth and take a deep breath. “No?” Your cheeks are warm while you shake your head, embarrassed like you’ve been clocked out. Thighs tensing, pupils wide, and he can see it. His eyes focused on you like he’s watching you like a fucking hawk. Eyes notice the way you move even just a little, how you press your thighs shut, your chest rising more and catching, your lips parting like you want him to kiss you, and how your pretty fingers twitch like something is scaring you. He's known you for four years now; he already knows how to read you like he knows you more than you know yourself. He knows what makes your nerves anxious and shake from excitement. Or when you are just being you, he knows it even when you don’t say things out loud.

Working as a cop is nothing if he can't observe people in a way he needs to; it means he’s not good enough if he can’t be able to read you. Luckily for him, it’s just you. He leans close to you before speaking, voice warm and comforting, “Hey.” His hand brushes from your hips down to the side of your thigh and squeezes it. “You can trust me, yeah?” The words wrap around you, thick with promises you should fear. But it’s only a disguise for something else, you know it. You look up, glassy-eyed, lips parting like you might say yes, maybe, or I don’t know, but nothing comes. God, he’s using his pretty smile against you, again. The smile that always fools other people in this town without knowing what he hid behind those teeth. “I know it looked intense,” he says like he’s trying to reassure you but it comes more like he’s just convincing you. You feel his warm palm that he managed to sneak on the side of your thigh, his touch is not like he’s trying to do something because it looks like he’s just holding you. “I know the way he grabbed her is harsh, but that’s not what I’m asking for.” His thumb rubs slowly. “We wouldn’t do something like that.”

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he assured you, his voice sounding so sweet and quieter now. “You say stop, I stop. You get too far ahead, and I let you win.” Letting you win tastes like bait. He knows how to catch people, and he’s using it to help you. It’s like cat and mouse; besides, you are the mouse who’s going to get caught. “I promise.” You look down, feeling his fingers tightening on your knees. “I just thought it could be fun,” he says, smoothing it over, “get outside, get some air. “You don’t even have to go far.” That made your eyebrow raise, and you blinked like you knew he was hiding something behind those words. He notices, eyes flickering before he leans in and levels himself down to your height before tucking hair behind your ear. His thumb drags at the edge of your mouth. “I was thinking,” he murmurs softly, “you could run down to that old fence at the tree line.”

“You hit the fence, you win. Game over.” His eyes gleam. “I’ll even wait. Give you a ten-second head start.” Your lashes lower, a small nod following, not a real yes, but enough because you want to believe it’s a game. But it sounds fair at the same time. His offers sound sweet; they’re promising even. He kisses your forehead with the same gentleness and softness he always shows to you. You are his girl after all, you need the best treatment, especially from him. “You trust me, don’t you?” Eyes looking up at him, lashes batting while you’re thinking if you don’t want to try it or you are too shy to admit that you want to do the trend with him. You nod, and that’s all he needs. He rises, fingers brushing his belt, pausing at the door to look back once- soft eyes, familiar mouth- before leaning down, voice nearly kind. “Go ahead, baby,” he whispers. “Tie your shoes.”

When he steps out, back door swinging shut, boots heavy on the porch, you don’t see the way his mouth twists. You feel the coldness of the knob under your fingers when you go upstairs just to change clothes or maybe just to put shoes on. It didn’t take you too long before you got out of the house, and he’s already there waiting for you. The breeze catches his uniform, sleeves rolled, badge glinting- and tugs it against his frame. He hasn’t changed, says he likes the weight of the day on him, and says it reminds him of who he comes home to. His eyes find you instantly. You haven’t changed either, just tied your shoes, and he notices, gaze dragging from your socks to your legs, to your shorts clinging to your hips, to your favorite shirt hanging loose. Your perfume hits him, faint, floral, and curling off your skin.

His head tilts. “…Perfume?” You glance away. “I don’t know, I just… felt like it,” the voice sounded so shy and flushed. Your words actually made him smile- the one that can make your stomach turn upside down. “You wore it for me?” he asks, stepping closer, voice warm, too tender to question. “Even just for a game?” You shrug, helpless. “You were already dressed up.” Heatness found your cheeks as he looked at you with adoration as if he was complimenting you through his eyes. “Hmm.” His smile grows. “Guess I have to make it worth it then.” You shift, nervous but not enough to pull away. He gestures toward the trees, the fence leaning in the dusk. “You see that post? That’s the finish line. No tricks. That’s the end of it. You reach it, it’s over.” He brushes his knuckles to your cheek before making you look up at him, and you do glance up at him with hesitation in your eyes. “Hey,” he says softly. “You can trust me.” You want to. You always do.

“I’m not gonna scare you,” he murmurs. “Just a run. Just you and me.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s soft, and grounding. “I’ll give you ten seconds’ head start, alright?” That’s good, right? Means you will be far from him when you run. “Okay,” you whisper. He backs away, giving you space, like this is still yours. He lifts a finger, smirking. “Ten…” You turn. And run. You don’t use your full speed, not that you try it and you are not much of a running person. Your pace is enough to move away quickly from the house and away from Rafe. The wind touching your skin makes you shiver, but it also feels good because of the good weather. The fence runs closer to your sight as you continue to move your feet, and you can remember how many times you passed by it but you never ran toward it like this.

Your heart pounds. You feel your limbs running like you are in a marathon, him behind you but he’s not running yet. Your feet just continue ahead, not looking back at him. The voices in your head tell you to focus and just run because you are going to win. But in all honesty, you don’t think you do. And behind you, Rafe continues counting with his being loud and you can still hear him. It was so cheerful even. “That’s it, baby! You look good out here!” That actually made you laugh breathlessly. You feel high, nervous, and maybe you’re already twenty yards out as your hair is whipping your face, and your muscles are burning. You’re not sure if it’s effort or anticipation. “Look at you go,” he calls out, It’s like he’s admiring you. “Didn’t think you’d be this fast!” His words make your stomach turn upside down and you giggle. Smile creeping to your face and maybe for one stupid and sweet second, you believe what he’s saying. You pass the garden, lavender brushing your calves, the ground dipping, grass uneven, the fence like a promise.

“Keep going, baby!” Rafe calls, warm on the breeze. “You’re doing so good!” he adds, low, like a hand on your back. You run harder, earth shifting under your feet, packed dirt turning soft, grass thickening, roots tugging at your rhythm. Feet don’t slow. Can’t. You told yourself it was fun, but something’s curling in your gut now, tight, low. “You’re so fast,” he calls, louder. “I’m proud of you, baby.” It sounds like praise. It’s not. You glance back once- just once- and the stretch behind you is empty, but that doesn’t comfort you. Because you know Rafe, how quiet he can be, how patient, and how kind he sounds when he’s about to do something.

The fence is there, old wood that looks fucked up. “Five!” he calls. Your chest tightens; you almost trip. “Four!” he shouts, voice sounds playful. Something in you knows he’s already moving even though you can’t hear the footsteps. “Three!” He continues counting. “You’re almost there!” Your lungs burn. “Two!” A sound breaks out of you, looks like a halfway between a gasp and a sob. You keep working harder, and your arms are pumping. “One!” Silence. Your legs falter, already weakening. The fence is closer but not close enough, and then, from behind, too near now- “There she is,” Rafe stated, voice thick with a grin. “My fast fucking girl.” It sounds proud and tender, like he’s cheering. But something deep in you pulses, that part that doesn’t believe him. Maybe because he sounds like a liar right now.

“You look so pretty when you run,” he calls, expression amused, and feeling aroused. “All flushed and breathless.” Just keep going. Just run. Don't look back. Don’t speak. Continue. There’s a thick air in your throat while trees blur from your eyesight. The path was turning faint. The branches brush your arms when you get too close to them. You keep going, past the garden, past the clearing, past the point you promised you’d stop. Rafe’s voice followed from behind, “God, I love watching you like this,” You don’t know what that was supposed to mean. Watching you run is fun? Watching you squirm and get sweaty and breathless? “You’re making me work for it, huh?” Oh yes, you do. Maybe it’s the adrenaline making you keep running. Maybe it’s your instinct. Maybe it’s fun. Legs are starting to feel tighter as you reach the fence after three more steps. But you didn’t stop. Legs keep moving even though you almost fall because of that stupid rock you didn’t notice, but you are not a quitter so you continue.

You also take that chance to slow down… to bend forward with your hands on your knees to get air that you know is not enough. Chest feels tighter, your legs are starting to shake when you try to catch your breath, and you feel the world is spinning around you. You reached the finish line. Or is that really the finish line? Because it doesn’t feel over. Your lungs burn, your calves ache, your throat is dry, the woods are blurring, feet are slamming harder. Something in you says: Run. So you do. You passed the garden, the tree line, the fence, but you run because your chest knows what your brain won’t say: He’s still coming. He never said what he’d do when he caught you. “Baby,” his voice calls, honey-slick, teasing, echoing off branches.

“You passed it. You got past the fence.” Voice echoing behind you and you can’t figure out what’s his tone he’s using, if he’s sincere or fucking around so you don’t stop. Your body doesn’t believe that voice. Not when your legs are still flying forward, or lungs clawing for air, or heart slamming your ribs like it’s trying to escape. The woods thickened, the last light almost gone. You are deep inside of it now, you just know it. Can’t even the road or the house or the surroundings beside the woods, the fence is gone from your eyesight if you turned around. Each step is just dragging and pulling them at this point, but it doesn’t matter because you are stubborn as fuck. Still proud to stop even when you feel him, maybe it’s your competitive streak that you have in your system. The shirt starts to get damp, and it feels cold and burning in your chest at the same time. Steps get uneven and you walk and run like a person who just got out of a hook up and is doing the hookup shame. Clue: limping. You run like you just get fucked, but God you didn’t… You still run. There's a messed up part of you that wants to keep running not because you want to win, but because you want to get chased by Rafe.

Behind you, Rafe slows, silent, watching you weave through tree trunks like a trembling deer. It’s beautiful to him. You don’t notice how far you’ve gone, how far he’s let you go. That’s the game. He doesn’t want to catch you yet. He wants to watch you run yourself ragged. Want your knees weak before he touches you, want you panting and brainless so when he closes in your body won’t know if it’s fear or relief that makes you fall. The ground dips, your ankle twisting on a root, and you curse under your breath, slower now. Shadows thicken, your body wanting to stop, lungs aching, your mind whispering: just one second. Then- “Still going?” His voice, smooth, amused, curls around a tree ahead.

You flinch, stumble. He’s in front of you now. You don’t know when that happened. But there’s a safe distance and he’s not catching you in his arms. “And you said to me before you are not a runner baby,” he said. You feel his presence looming over you. “This is surprising, actually. Didn’t think you’d make it this far.” You bite your lips, eyes looking up at him with your face sweaty and your hairs close to your forehead is soaked. “But you’re slowing down,” he adds. “Tired already?” You swallow, don’t answer, cold licking up your legs, wanting to move but frozen, and quivering. “You can stop anytime, baby,” Rafe says gently. “All you gotta do is fall.” You want to believe that means safety, that if you stumbled, he’d carry you back home.

But your body doesn’t believe him. Not your lungs, not your legs, and not that deep animal part that remembers how he looked earlier. That part screams: Run. So you do. Get past him and you feel the grass touching your shins. The branch almost makes you stumble and it strikes your thigh, but you don’t feel any pain. At this point you don’t give a fuck anymore. It’s all about adrenaline in your system that is giving you an energy like a redbull drink. Don’t forget how the woods feel unfriendly, it’s thick and dark: you don’t know where you're going to run. You don’t care. All you know is he’s behind you, somewhere, patient, letting you burn yourself out.

Breath starting to hiccup while tears are pooling under your eyes. Pace is unstable like you are some criminal running away from crimes you didn’t commit. Throat tasting like metal and burning. Arms feel heavy as if you carried the world on your shoulders. Behind you, his voice comes- closer than it should. “There she goes,” he teases. “I knew you’d run if I asked nicely.” You don’t dare look back. He sounds far, but Rafe’s a liar, patient, the kind of man who would walk through fire just to feel you melt. “You’re so fucking pretty when you panic,” he calls. It’s not even winding, it’s more like he’s like he’s strolling and has all night. “Keep going, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for me.” You trip over a root, barely recover, and still- you run. Because you know once he’s done watching, he’ll start running too.

And when that happens? You won’t make it far. You know it. It’s only a matter of time before he catches you. Then you hear a branch snap behind you loudly. It’s not just some step that feels powerful but it’s fast and thicker. It’s like the woods feel him and you know you can’t look back because it will slow you down. Mostly because you know you’ll see him. “Alright,” Rafe calls, voice loose and at ease. “You wanna keep going?” He exhales. Sounding sharp, and excited. “Then I’ll run too.” And then- you hear it. The steps. His boots. It’s heavy. It’s fast and trained. You know you’ll lose it because it’s different now. Should’ve just stopped when you reached the fence, what a regret, right? “Oh, baby,” he calls, closer now. “You should’ve fallen when I gave you the chance.”

It’s like your body is screaming already to stop but instead you try to run harder with uneven steps, legs burning, chest aching. Don’t give a shit about drenched in sweat and how your shirt is clinging as your every breath cracks on your ribs. He laughs- like it’s his favorite part. Maybe it is. “Told you to trust me,” he pants, “but you wanted to run.” Another branch snaps, closer, and you sob once, soft, confused, something between panic and something wetter. “You look so fucking scared,” Rafe growls. “You know that?” You trip again, just a little, and enough. He doesn’t pounce. Not yet. He’s close now, your panic bleeding into the dirt. Then he says it with want: “Don’t fall yet, baby.” A pause. “Let me decide when.”

So you didn’t fall because if he catches you, you’re not walking back. You don’t even know how long you’ve been running. It could be thirty minutes or an hour. Maybe less but it feels like it. The woods are getting darker and more dirt is showing, you don’t even notice the branches that make you stumble, but thankfully you don't fall on each branch you fail to notice. And don’t talk about your heart because it’s beating so fast it might punch your ribs to get out or you might be in cardiac arrest. Let’s not forget that the sound of his boots as he goes towards you is on the top list of your most hated things in the world. He talks again just to remind you he’s still here, “You getting tired, baby?” You gasp, throat raw, unable to answer, but your body does- legs buckling, stride faltering, trying to push but too late. You don’t fall because he takes you down. Heat and weight slam into your back, leaves crunching, and your breath is stolen in a ragged cry.

“Fuck,” Rafe snarls into your neck, voice wrecked. “You made me run, sweetheart.” Your cheek grinds into dirt, his hand fisting your shirt, yanking you back. His body shakes- not from effort, but restraint. You feel it in his chest caging your spine, also the hard press of his cock grinding slowly against your ass like it’s claiming. One hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back without asking. His other hand splayed across your belly underneath you. His palm dirty, breath hot in your ear, his forearm brushing under your tits. “You looked so pretty when you ran,” he whispers, all praise, all heat. “So fucking pretty when you get scared.”

The filthiness of his words makes you squirm and it’s shameful to feel it. He tightens. “Ah, ah,” he scolds, before he sits down and drags you with him to sit on his lap like something disobedient. “Where are you gonna go now, baby?” You can’t answer. Your breath’s gone, body loose, raw from running, fear, want. His chest is like a wall at your back, thighs spreading yours, your thin shirt is damp with sweat, and there’s nothing underneath. You don’t fight it. “You wanted this,” he growls, hand clamping your jaw, the other sliding under your shirt, feeling your heat in his palm. His fingers splay wide over your stomach, claiming, then lower, dipping between your legs, finding you wet, open, waiting.

“No panties?” he murmurs, voice like gravel. “No fucking bra either?” You flinch, thighs trying to close, but it’s too late. He knows. “Christ, you really wanted it,” he says, “was gonna be sweet, let you catch your breath, maybe kiss you.” His hand tightens under your chin, the other dragging through your slit like a promise. “But now?” He laughs. It’s low, and mean. “You’re dripping all over my jeans, and you’re still pretending this wasn’t planned?” No it wasn’t planned but you also know it will be just running from the house to the fence and quickly going back probably laughing because he catches you too quickly, but that’s not the narrative right now, isn’t it? “I didn’t mean- Rafe-” He yanks your head back, mouth at your ear. “You shouldn’t’ve sent me that fucking link.”

That link should have stayed there on TikTok, that will save you both a lot of trouble. It will make you just take him softly and pretty in the bed you share, especially at this hour instead of doing this. Your legs twitch, his thigh flexes under you. His hands grinding your hips down so your clothed cunt will rub against denim. The friction is brutal, perfect, and everything you weren’t ready to admit you needed. “You wanna be chased?” he growls. “Wanna be dragged down, split open in the woods like prey?” He ruts slowly, the bulge in his pants obscene, one hand yanking your neckline until your breasts spill free, his palm rough, rolling your nipple. “Fucking tight,” he mutters against your neck. “Still hot from running. This pussy’s starving.” Your voice breaks: “Please-” Lower lip caged between your teeth, thinking about what are you even asking about- the thing is, you don’t know if you want him to fuck you hard or go back inside the house. But the first choice is winning and making you excited by the idea of being here with him and trying this after a long time just being vanilla in bed. “Please what, baby?” he sneers. “Didn’t want me to catch you? Or didn’t want me to stop?”

You whimper. “You ran like you wanted to be taken.” His hand returns between your legs, pushing inside your shorts, two fingers plunging deep, making you jolt, his groan at your heat. “You did this,” he pants. “Sent that video. Wore this little shirt. No panties.” That video is cute, you don’t know it will work him up like this, but maybe he just likes the idea of chasing you in the woods like his prey. “I- I didn’t-” Okay, you might hope something will happen, maybe you got bold that’s why you wore nothing underneath- maybe it’s the sense of something to have him control you like this. You trust him to have you like this. Maybe you are just hiding this side of you underneath many layers of softness. Ever since you started dating him, you know that he’s the kinda of man you like to have control, and have that urge to take. “Don’t lie to me.” You cry out when he curls his fingers, the other hand fisting your shirt to your collarbones.

“You wanted me to fuck you like I caught you. Like I own you.” When he undoes his belt, unzips with one hand still working your cunt- you don’t beg him to stop. Back just arch. Cries found from your mouth, thighs jerking, heels digging into dirt as he stretches you open, uncaring, relentless. The other hand yanks your shirt higher, baring your tits to cold air. It bites. His breath burns. He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t slow. “You wanted me to fuck you like I caught you,” Rafe growls in your ear, “like I fucking own you.” He owns you, in a way. Not in the way he’ll lock you up to hide from others. It’s more like you learn to depend on your pleasure on him, just let him do the work for you. “No,” you breathe, too thin, too soft, a lie. His hand covers your mouth, silencing you, cutting the sound off like he’s sealing it in your throat. Then- “No?” he mimics, cruel, pitching it up in a parody of your voice.

“No, Rafe- don’t- please-” When Rafe heard it, he literally pouted but you know he’s taunting and messing with you. “Please,” he repeats like some broken vinyl. His tone is nasty, like it’s a joke, like he knows you don’t mean it. “You’re fucking soaked,” he snarls, fingers pressing harder. “Don’t fucking lie to me.” He shifts, spreading your legs over his lap, boots braced in the dirt, adjusting you like you’re his. Your back arches, and you hear the pop of his button, the hiss of the zipper, feel the heat of bare skin against your ass. His cock drags along your folds outside your shorts. He’s thick, flushed, slick with your mess.

He strokes once, and it glides easily, the sound filthy. The tip nudges your clothed entrance, and you shake your head- slow, shallow, like you know what’s coming. “Don’t,” you whisper, meant to stop him, but it sounds like begging for more. Inside, you’re screaming, ‘Please. Please don’t stop.’ He groans in your ear as he hears it. “Shouldn’t’ve sent me that link,” he hisses, hand dragging across your chest, groping like you’re something he earned. “Should’ve kept your pretty fucking mouth shut.” You whimper, try again, weaker: “Stop-” But he’s licking into the corner of your mouth, hand fisting your shirt tighter.

“Stop, Rafe- don’t- please,” he mimics nastier, rocking his hips until his cock is flush against your dripping slit. “You sound so cute begging for shit you don’t want me to stop.” You’re soaking him, denim dark, mess everywhere, and he hasn’t even pushed in. “You wanted to be chased,” he growls. “You wanted this.” He shifts, your breath stuttering, his hand yanking your shorts aside, not removing them, just enough to push his cock through, not inside yet, just rubbing, slow, heavy, and deliberate. The blunt head drags along your soaked folds, smearing your slick fabric, folding back, and sticking to your skin.

He keeps going, grinding through your folds, your wet soaking everything, the ache making your eyes roll back. “Feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s me. Right there. Not even inside.” He groans, thrusts again, slow, mean, cockhead nudging your clit before sliding back. “Hear that?” he grits. “That wet sound? That’s you, baby.” Your breath punches out. You want to grind down and tilt your hips, but he holds you still, hands firm. “Uh-uh,” he warns. “You’re not in charge.” He rocks again, cock dragging through your slickness, never entering, never giving you enough.

Just rutting between your folds, the head nudging your entrance, slipping lower each time. “I could fuck you like this,” he growls. “Through these fucking shorts. Not even needing to take ’em off. Just keep going until I mess you up from the outside.” Your legs shake, you pant, and he grins against your neck. “Not even inside you yet,” he murmurs, “and you’re already going to cum, huh?” And you are. Your hips twitch, chasing his cock, desperate. He chuckles. “Greedy,” he says, “fucking greedy little baby.” You feel him tense, like he’s about to give it to you, exactly how your soaked cunt’s been begging for.

Your body leans in, thighs flexing, breath stuttering. But then he stops, letting the thick head rest, hot at your entrance, twitching where your slick is messiest. “You want it?” he breathes against your ear, soft like a lover, sharp like a blade. You don’t answer. You can’t. You blink hard, try to nod, and whimper something like ‘please’ but you’re too far gone, strung out, every part of you vibrating with him so close yet not inside. He waits, letting you drown. His hand brushes your hip like he’s calming a spooked animal, mean in its gentleness. He leans in, breath hot. “Cat got your tongue?” You shiver.

He clicks his tongue, low, mocking. “I asked you a question, sweetheart.” Still no answer. His thighs tighten, hand sliding to your throat- not choking, not yet, just claiming space, holding you still. “That’s what I thought.” He laughs, soft and bitter. “You sent me that link like it was a joke. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like you weren’t imagining this exact thing while you watched it in bed.” You shake your head, barely, instinct, denial. “Oh, no?” he murmurs, his hand tightening at your throat, just enough for you to feel how easily he could take the air from you.

“You didn’t want me to chase you? To catch you? To knock you into the dirt and take what’s mine?” You’re shaking now. Not from fear, not really. From how badly you want it. But he keeps going, feeding it to you slowly, heavy, and cruel. “You didn’t want to be dragged back, crying and slippery and too fucking far gone to stop it?” You make a tiny noise, somewhere between ‘don’t’ and ‘yes.’ His cock drags lazily through your folds, slow against your clit, your slick streaking down his shaft. Still, he doesn’t give it to you. “You’re dripping,” he growls. “Soaking these fucking shorts.”

He tugs the waistband aside, gaping you wider, exposing more skin, but doesn’t strip you. “Fuckin’ greedy. Can’t even look me in the eye, can’t even ask- but your cunt’s screaming for it.” He presses forward just enough to make you gasp, then stops, watching you fall apart from the promise alone. “Tell me again how you didn’t mean it,” he croons. “Tell me again how that video was just a joke.” Lips sealed close, not saying yes or no through it but you’re shaking your head with your eyes wide, chest that is heaving, and your hips that won’t stop moving. Rafe sees it. Knows. “Poor baby,” he sighs, dragging the head of his cock down until it bumps your entrance, soaked, twitching, but still not inside.

Your hips tilt toward the pressure, desperate, trembling. His cock slides wetly against your folds, the sound obscene in the dark. Instead of giving in, he shifts his grip and flips you. His hand clutches your thigh, bruising it, wrenching you sideways in one pull. You gasp, head snapping back, knees buckling, and then you’re on your back, spine in the cold dirt, shirt bunched, tits exposed, and nipples stiff. The surrounding smells like wet wood, pine, body sweat from you and him. Rafe is kneeling behind you. One knee is the side of your hips while the other is touching the side of your left thigh. You could feel his cock touching your ass- thick, flushed, soaked in your mess. His eyes were dark and satisfied.

Hands warm in your hips and using the same hands to yank you down until your ass is closer to him. “Lay the fuck down,” he growls, palm pressing to your sternum. “Let me look at you.” You whimper, shaky, but your thighs stay spread, fingers twitching. He stares, like a wolf over a kill. “Is this how you wanted it?” he murmurs. “Pinned in the dirt? Little shirt up, tiny shorts hiding nothing?” He pushes your thighs wider, spits into your cunt, and watches it mix with your slick, his thumb pressing your clit sharply enough to make you jolt. “Shit,” he hisses. “You don’t even know how easy you made it.”

Words can’t even come out from your mouth properly when you try to speak. He’s rubbing the head of his cock against your slit, letting the fabric stretch with each drag. “I could fuck you like this,” he murmurs. “Don’t even need to take ’em off.” He drags himself along your slit again and again until your legs tremble. “But you don’t want that, right?” he teases. “You said no. You said stop.” His cock presses hard enough to hurt but never pushes in. Your thighs shake, your cunt pulses, and your mouth falls open, a broken whimper. His hands slide down, fingers curling beneath your waistband.

“You wore these knowing they’d be easy to take off,” he mutters. “Didn’t even wear panties.” His knuckles dig in, then one rough tug and your shorts are at your thighs, and then it’s gone. Nothing between you but the heat of him and your slickness. His eyes drop, devouring you, then look up, hungry. “You said no,” he says quietly. “You said don’t.” He strokes his cock, dragging the head over your bare, glistening cunt, watching your breath hitch, chest rise, and fingers twitch, remembering you can’t cover yourself with him pinning you down.

“But your pussy,” he murmurs, “your pussy says something different.” He pushes forward, but just barely and you can feel the head nudging into stretching you then he stops again. “You want it?” he asks like a dare. You blink up, lips parted, hips twitching, cunt clenching around nothing. “I-I don’t know,” you whisper. His eyes darken. “No?” he echoes, shifting forward a fraction, pressing deeper. “You don’t know?” Your breath catches. “I just- I thought…” It’s like you are getting mushy already even though he’s not yet fucking you completely. “You thought what, baby?” he murmurs, soft, sharp. “You thought I’d laugh? Say maybe next time?”

You don’t speak. He pushes again, slowly, sliding another inch in, enough to make you feel the stretch. Your head tips back, thighs trembling, and spine arches- except you’re not trying to escape. “Feels like your pussy knows,” he says quieter. “Feels like you’ve been thinking about this a lot.” Muscle pulls tight around the slow stretch, a soft, wet sound catching under the hum of cicadas. Heat gathers low, a pulse throbbing where slick meets skin. “I didn’t mean-” Leaves move above, and the night feels heavy and warm. Wet sounds mix with quiet breaths; each slow push is felt deep inside. The cool ground stays firm under shaking legs. “You didn’t mean to send it?” he interrupts softly. “Didn’t mean to get dressed up? Didn’t mean to run?” His hand comes to your throat, warm, a collar without pressure. “Didn’t mean to get wet?” You shake your head but it’s weak, unconvincing.

“Say it again,” he tells you, voice like gravel. “Say you don’t know.” And you do, whispering it with trembling body, “I don’t know.” His mouth breaks into a sharp grin. “Yeah,” he growls. “That’s what I thought.” You whimper when he pulls back, the absence cutting deeper. Your body clenches around nothing, twitching. Rafe sees your hips chase him, the tremble in your thighs, and the shine at your cunt. He smiles, predatory. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “Didn’t even take it yet and you’re already desperate.”

You shake your head, but it’s not a real no. He feels it, the yes buried under every shiver. “You want to pretend you didn’t ask for this,” he says at your jaw. Grasp let out from your mouth when his cock presses back against your folds. “But your pussy’s soaked,” he hisses. “So wet you’re drooling down your thighs.” You try to turn away. He grabs your chin, holding it steady. “Don’t look away,” he growls. “You said you don’t know? Let me make it simple.”

His hips jerk forward, shoving the tip inside again, deeper, a stretch you feel high and sharp, still slow, still manageable. “You want me to stop?” he asks. You don’t answer. Can’t. He pushes further, another cruel, slow inch. “You want me to stop?” he repeats, taunting. “Fuh-fuck I-I don’t know.” His hand lands hard on your thigh. “Wrong answer,” he snarls. Then he thrusts, all the way in one rough and punishing stroke that knocks the air from your lungs and pins you to the dirt. You scream. It’s a half-moan, half-shock, and maybe full surrender. He growls into your neck. “Now you fucking know.”

You’re split open on his cock. Too full, too deep, too sudden, and your cunt grips him anyway, tight, needy, like you were made for it. He doesn’t move right away, buried to the hilt, feeling your walls flutter, your breath quake. Then, slowly, cruelly, he pulls back. “All that attitude,” he whispers. “All those little rules you pretend to set.” His hips slammed forward again, harder. “And now look at you.” Another thrust. Your fingers scrabble in the dirt, your back arches, and your tits bounce with every snap of his hips. Tears catch in your lashes- not from pain, but from how your body loves this.

“You don’t say yes,” Rafe growls in your ear. “You don’t say no.” He fucks you again, brutal, possessive. “You just take it.” And God- you do. You take it so well. He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t soften. Every thrust lands like punishment, like you broke a rule you didn’t know existed. The sound is obscene and wet, the slap of his hips echoing in the trees. “Say it again,” he pants. “Tell me you don’t know. C’mon, baby.” You whimper, caught in the snap of his hips, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t-” Wrong. He pulls out so suddenly your cunt flutters around nothing.

You sob, back arching, and then- yank. His hand fists in your hair, dragging your head back, throat stretching, jaw slack, a broken gasp spilling out. “Eyes on me,” he snarls. “Fucking look at me when I fuck you.” You open your eyes, barely, and he’s right there- mouth twisted, eyes blown, sweat dripping. He looks unhinged. Beautiful. God, it’s so awful that he’s mesmerizing. Most importantly he looks yours. “Good girl,” he growls, cruelly tender. Then he spits on your chest, warm, slick, and messy, rubbing it in with his palm over your nipples. “Mine now,” he hisses. “Fucking mine.”

A cry rips from your throat when he thrusts back in, harder, faster. One thick arm wraps around your waist, dragging you down while he drives up, the other tangled in your hair, controlling every angle. “Nngh- Rafe-” you whimper and eyes rolling back. “You don’t get to hide,” he pants. “Not from this. Not from me.” His hand shifts going over your mouth, down tight around your throat. He’s not choking you, it’s just there. His thumb finds your pulse point but he doesn’t press and just rests it to feel it stutter. “You like this, don’t you?” he whispers. “Chased you down like a bitch in heat. Caught you. Now I’m breaking you open.”

“Gnh- fuck-” claws out. It’s raw and needy. The sound catches before you can swallow it, and he hears it as a win for him. “You’re soaking me,” he growls. “Came out here in little shorts like you dressed up to be chased.” His hand grabs your hip, spreading you open where there’s nothing left to hide, nothing between you. “You’re going to remember this,” he hisses. “Every step tomorrow. Every time you sit. You’ll feel me.” A soft, broken “mmf- p-please,” slips when you start crying, everything too much, shame and need flooding you, and he sees it and lives for it.

“That’s my good girl, begging when it’s too late.” You try to rise, maybe protest, but his hand comes to your shoulder, pressing you back down. “Stay.” And you do. Open. Shaking. Ruined. Exactly where he wants you. The ground is cold behind you, dirt and uncomfortable. It’s not the best feeling in the world and it’s soaking into your body. It sticks some dried and fresh leaves into your thighs, twigs that scratch your skin, but none of it really matters. All you can feel is him. Rafe doesn’t wait. He drags the head of his cock through your slickness, lets it catch on your entrance, then pushes in slow and steady, stretching and brutal. Your cunt clamps around him, trying to keep him out, or hold him in, or both. It doesn’t matter.

He’s bigger than you can take, deeper than you can hide from. He groans low. “Fuck, baby. Still tight? After all that running?” His palm plants on your shoulder, pinning you down, while the other slides under, groping your tits and your waist, cataloging you from the inside out. “You feel that?” he pants, rocking forward slowly but heavily. “This pussy’s hugging me,” you whimper, half-choked, half from the way his fingers find your clit, rubbing slow circles that make your thighs twitch. “Fuckin’ soaked,” he mutters. “Ran from me just to end up begging in the dirt.” His pace stays slow. Deep. Intentional. Like he’s not trying to get off- he’s trying to ruin you for anything else.

The movements of his hand never stop teasing your clit. It’s unbearable, especially the rhythm; it’s not yet enough to make you cum, but it’s enough to make your leg shake. He groans with his teeth gritted. “You’re squeezing me, baby.” Your lips are starting to feel like metal now from how you stop yourself from moaning so loudly. You can’t even speak to say what’s on your mind because you are getting cockdrunk more than you can admit to yourself. All that comes out is a gasping sob, and you both know he likes it.

“Yeah,” he breathes in your ear as he leans in, “just like that, baby.” Your back arches like a cat because the pleasure gets more into you while his hands are tightening on yours. Suddenly he just shifts above you and pulls out his cock from your pussy that is enough to make you whimper. You barely even process the pull before he flips your body to change position. He dragged your hips and rolled you onto your stomach. The position made your cheek touch the dirt and leaves sticking to your arms, and breath roared out a shocked gasp when your hips got yanked up, ass in the air with your thighs trembling.

“Stay just like that,” he rasps, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades, forcing you to arch, while the other drags down, spreading your folds open. You can feel the thick, soaked head of his cock teasing your entrance again, lining up, not giving you a second to think before his hips slam forward, cock sliding in deep from behind- so deep you see stars- and his fingers splay across your clit, pressing down while he pounds into you.

“You don’t even know how pretty you look like this,” he rasps. “Bent over, split wide, taking my cock like you were meant to.” Your thighs twitch, breath stuttering, but he doesn’t speed up. Not yet. He just rubs- deep and slow, one hand groping your tits, the other teasing your clit until your legs tremble. “You’re going to come so fucking easy,” he growls. “A little pressure and you’ll break.” But he doesn’t let you. This isn’t about you coming. It’s about him fucking you exactly how he imagined- wet, open, helpless, face-down in the dirt, your cunt swallowing every inch slowly and desperately.

Soft body bucks beneath him, getting more stubborn just to piss him off. “Get the fuck off me,” you hiss, voice ragged. Not that you really want him to get off, but in your mind, it’s thrilling to fight him off just for him to show you the control you let him have over you. Knees dig in the dirt while your hands scrabble at it; you try to crawl forward, and hips grind back against him like you are also moving every time you welcome each of his thrusts despite you pretending to fight him to get off. It just didn’t work because every time you crawl forward, you just end up getting dragged back, or it’s your own body betraying you, so you grind back. Rafe just laughs, low, like you’re adorable when you fight. “Oh, baby,” he groans, dragging his cock deeper, filling you until your back bows.

“You’re so fucking cute when you pretend you don’t want it.” Head shaking, just for the thrill of it- to push him more off the edge. “N-ngh- I… I-I don’t,” you snap, but your voice breaks, cunt clenching like it didn’t get the memo. His thumb flicks over your nipple until you gasp again. “Yeah?” he pants, mouth dragging hot over your shoulder. “Then why the fuck are you sucking me in like this?” He rolls his hips, grinding slowly. The stretch makes you sob. The angle is sharp, and unforgiving. “F-fuck you,” you breathe. “You’re trying,” he murmurs, teeth scraping your neck. “God, you’re really trying. That’s so brave, baby.” He licks the back of your neck, wet and slow, like a claim. “Think you’re gonna fight me with a dirty mouth?” His hips slam forward, one hard thrust with no warning. It made you yelp, loud, broken. “Aw,” he coos. “Was that too much?”

You growl. “I hate you.” He laughs harder. “Yeah? Hate me so bad your pussy’s crying for me?” His hand dips lower, finds your clit, and flicks fast and cruel. You squeal and kick. He pins you harder. “You say no,” he mutters, lips brushing your jaw, “but this greedy little cunt says yes, sir, every time I push in.” Your mind scrambles, hating how good it feels, hating how your hips keep lifting. You think you should push him away, but your body begs for more. You can’t even hide it, every nerve waiting for him to do it again. “Shut up,” you pant. “You shut up,” he snaps, grabbing your face, palm over your mouth, turning your head so he can see you. “Before I make you fucking mean it.” Your eyes flutter, a moan caught behind his hand. “That’s better,” he whispers. “Be good.”

He watches you, ragged and wet and silenced, grinding again, cock sliding so deep it punches the air from your lungs. “You want to curse me out?” he growls, breath hot in your ear. “Want to tell me to stop? You better fucking say it like you mean it.” You don’t because you just can’t. You tremble, whining into his palm, arching back, cunt squeezing, thighs shaking. “Oh,” he breathes, softer now like it’s devastating. “You’re so fucked.” He releases your mouth just enough for you to speak- but not enough to escape, thumb at your pulse. “Say you don’t want it,” he dares. “Go on. Tell me again.”

You do… Well, you did try, but not really because you didn't form a word besides moaning a broken ‘a-ah’ from your mouth. It looks like you’ve already surrendered your body to him. Maybe you have. The earth is cold beneath your knees, damp with every grind of his hips. Leaves bite your shoulders, moss clings to your calves. Your body is open, bent, used, and breathless, and Rafe doesn’t give you a second to breathe right, not when you’re clenching like this. He’s got one arm looped around your waist, palm pressing between your shoulder blades, holding you down and pulling you back at once.

His other hand moves under you, dragging across your chest to cup your tits like it’s his lifeline. “Fuck, baby,” he groans against your shoulder. “You feel that? Feel how tight you are around me?” You feel everything. The stretch. The burn. You know he fucking loves the feeling you wrapped around him because he barely pulls back before sinking back again. It’s like he’s savoring the feeling of your pussy and if that’s even possible but it gets deeper each time he slams his hips. He wants to shape his cock inside of you, to make a mark inside of you. It’s like he’s reminding you that your cunt feels better and fit with him than any man will try to get you. He’s choosing to keep you here, face down, ass up, your knees scraping the dirt as your body twitches with every thrust. Your breath catches as he shifts his grip, hand sliding down to grab your hip, hauling you back onto him, making you cry out, the angle hitting something unbearable. “Yeah,” he pants, sweat dripping onto your spine. “Right there. That’s where I want you.” Your shorts are twisted high, your shirt bunched around your shoulders. He hasn’t stripped you; he’s just fucking you through it, under it, around it, because he can.

The earth is cold beneath you, damp with every grind of his hips. Maybe each leaf under you is angry at you because of the way it bites your knees. Or maybe the moss prefers you more because it’s so clingy with your calves. Maybe it’s just how you bent forward with your chest, feel breathless and face warm from the way his cock and hips move behind you. The goddamn woods knows you try to keep your trembling thighs to keep steady and how you try to balance yourself with the way your fingers dig in the dirt to have something to hold. Rafe doesn’t give you a second to breathe right, not when you’re clenching around him like this, taking him so deep you feel split open. “Shit, baby,” he groans, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip, dragging you back onto him with every thrust. “You feel that? Feel how tight you are around me?”

You feel everything. The stretch. The burn. The slick mess running down your thighs. The way he barely pulls back before slamming in again, deep, like he’s trying to leave himself inside you. A ragged, high sound spills out of your mouth, helpless. “Nnh- mff- g-gah- Rafe-” You sound like some girl from a porn video especially from the way you can’t control it. “What, baby?” he grits, rutting into you harder, your back arching under the force, another dark grunt tearing from his chest. “What do you need, huh?”

“Ah- please-” you gasp, voice breaking around a soft hiccup as your hips rock back. “I- oh- wanna- nngh- wanna see you- p-please-” He stills, cock twitching inside you, a low growl rumbling in his throat. “Fuckin’ hell…” Slowly, his hands slide to your waist, guiding you down, pulling out just enough to make you whimper- “mmf- s-shit-” before he flips you over, pressing your back into the cold earth. Your legs spread instinctively, hips tilting up, your cunt clenching around nothing.

“There,” he mutters, eyes dark, chest heaving, lips parted. “You wanna watch me while I fuck you, pretty girl?” Of course you do. You don’t give a fuck if you are going back and forth from being all fours and laying down. Both feel good, but you want to see him, or you are going to bawl your eyes out if you don’t. “Uh- y-yeah- please-” you whine, lashes wet, body shivering as he lines himself up and pushes back in, thick and slow, forcing a strangled sound from your throat. “Ahh- mmh- fuck-”

The air is cold, but Rafe is molten, leaning over you, chest brushing yours, hands sliding everywhere- one gripping your thigh, the other palming your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until you let out a small, shocked squeal. “Mmn- n-no- s-sensitive- oh-!” His mouth drags along your jaw, your neck, biting down when your moans rise too loud. “Quiet, baby,” he pants, hips rolling in deep, deliberate thrusts, controlled, heavy, making your body jolt with every push. “Stay still for me.”

You try, but every thrust drags another helpless sound out of you, fingers clutching at his shoulders, head tipping back, mouth falling open around incoherent, needy noises. “Hah- nngh- mmf- Rafe- s’deep- oh- c-can’t-” Each moan coming from your lips is showing how far gone you are. You can feel his eyes locked into you, he’s watching you like he’s a director for the show you are giving out to him and he has to direct it with his cock that is plunged deep inside you. One of his favorite sounds in the world is the way your voice cracks whenever he hits your g-spot. And right now he’s hearing it and it makes him let out a low grunt from his chest with his jaw flexing. “Fuck- look at you, baby.”

Your moans spill out like you can’t control them, wet, slurred, pretty in their desperation. “Mmm- ah- unnh- fuck- R-Rafe-” The last word slips, soft, high, your eyes going wide even as your cunt squeezes around him. And he loves it. The way you look up at him, tear-glossed, dumb with it, your mouth dropping open around every choked whimper while he fucks you like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else, each thrust pulling a gasp, a sob, a broken syllable out of your throat until it’s all you can give him.

He thrusts forward and stays there. He’s buried, and grinding tight circles that make you claw at his back. Can’t even stop the way his cock pulses and twitches. He’s trying his best not to nut faster than he likes. He wants you to come first before him. “You’re so warm,” he breathes out. The feeling of your pussy is making him lose track in his mind and making him crazy. “So wet I don’t even have to move and you still squeeze me.” You whimper, your body shuddering under his weight as his hand drags down your stomach, sliding between your legs, two fingers finding your clit, barely touching, just pinning it there like it’s his.

Your body locks up, a gasp tearing out of you as your hips jerk, his grin pressing against your cheek as he shoves you closer, deeper, until you swear you’re not breathing air anymore, just him, denim scraping your thighs, the heavy push of him inside, and the cruel press of his fingers holding you exactly where he wants you. “You like this?” he breathes. “You like being touched like this? Fucked like this?” You don’t answer. You can’t do that because you feel too stuffed from his cock, it’s stretching out, you also feel so hot despite the wood feels windy, and you are definitely too fucked even he haven’t even let you come around him yet.

Hips pressing deeper, making his cock kiss your cervix and it’s enough to earn a gasp from your throat while you clenches and walls flutters around him like they want to keep him jailed inside of you. Rafe hisses, breathing hard against your jaw, dragging it out like he wants to break you inch by inch, muttering, “God, baby, you’re holding onto me so fucking tight.” Your hips twitch, cunt clenching around every slow, brutal grind, still not the way your body begs for it- he’s not fast, not rough, just deep and steady, like he’s fucking into the shape of you, molding you around him, claiming you.

“You’re so fuckin’ good like this,” he breathes, forehead pressing to yours, “just letting me use it. Letting me keep you.” He hands sneak into your cheek and strokes it with his thumb grazing your skin like it’s some instinct every time he touches it. “I’m not going to pull out,” he says, voice so soft and not even fitting to the scene the both of you are in. “You know that, right? God if you just know how I feel around you baby- f-fuck. I’m gonna fuck it in deep and leave it there.” His words makes your clit pulse, or maybe just your cunt in general. You even try to reply to his words, but he just hushes you with his thumb brushing your lips. He can feel your hot breath when he settles it there as he speaks, “You don’t have to say anything.” He adds, “Just lie back. Let me finish what I started.” When he moves again, it’s slower, still deep, still designed to have you, but there’s no rush.

Movement is steady. There’s this rhythm that is certain that translates to he’s fucking you until this fuck is going to be craves into your brain and your bones. He can feel and see how your thighs shake, the way your lips can’t close because of your little noises, how your body is caged by him. He knows you are far gone to speak to him, you don’t even speak much during sex because you are a whiner, you are loud, and he likes hearing you. God, don’t also forget how your cunt pulse around him. It’s tight and choking his cock like it’s begging without any words. This time, Rafe doesn’t tease. Doesn’t pull away or smirk. From your face, he slides it down to your hip to hold you down while the other settle between your thighs and touches your clit. “You’re right there, huh? You feel it?”

“Mhm- mmf- yeah- so good-” You cry out with a nod. “Feels s’good-” Eyes fluttering, cunt clenching around him with your mind only thinking about him, and your head tipping back more to the ground. You can’t even pretend you don’t love this from the way your pussy is sucking him more deep and how your hips lifting from the ground just to welcome his cock. His hand from your hip lifts up to swat your sweaty hair away from your face and his gaze is just on you like you’re his world. “You don’t have to hold it back,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing slow, wet circles. “I want you to come. Wanna feel you cum on me.” His hips don’t slam now; they roll- deep, controlled, heavy- like he’s fucking the orgasm into you instead of ripping it out. His body braces around yours, chest pressing to yours like he needs to feel your heart stutter when you go over. “You’re being so good,” he whispers, thumb grazing your jaw, eyes hungry and dazed, “so fucking perfect for me.” Your legs shake, eyes flutter, then he says it, quiet, rough, almost sweet: “Come for me, baby. Let go.” And you do.

Your body locks, arches, and goes tense; the sound you make- high and broken- has his eyes rolling back. You come hard around him, hips bucking into his hand, legs trembling, your body jerking like it doesn’t know how to contain it. Rafe moans, deep and guttural, kissing you like he needs your breath to survive while staying buried inside, fingers working you through it, praising you with every wave. “That’s it. That’s it, baby,” he groans, forehead touching your shoulder. “God, you’re so tight. So fuckin’ sweet.” Mouth can’t form any words for him and you are just twitching beneath him with your eyes wide and cunt still cleaning around him and it triggers the gates for him. His rhythm starts to stutter. His hips jerk deeper. It’s heavier, and he’s chasing it now.

Groans get more ragged while he’s folding your legs tighter as he fucks into you slow and hungry motion. “Shit- baby- ” his voice breaks as he buries his head to your neck. “You’re still fucking squeezing me- ” He moans as he listens to your whimper, and feel your cunt still fluttering with every drag of him. “I can’t- I can’t hold it-” and then he’s coming with his body locked above you. But he doesn’t stop moving, he can’t just find the will to stop. Movement is soft and grinding his hips as his cum settles inside your pussy and touches your cervix with a hot feeling. That doesn’t stop him from grinding deeper inside you, forcing more of his cum in and stuffing you full to the last drop while your cunt flutters at the feeling.

His hands also didn't stop touching you, it’s like it can’t calm down and continues to feel the curve of your body while his other hand is stroking your cheek and whispering low and warm into your hair. “You did so good, baby,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “Took it so well,” he adds before pressing kisses and peppering you with it. Lips touching your cheek, neck, and shoulder, and he drops his head down to kiss the cleavage of your chest. “So good,” he whispers, hoarse, trembling, “so fuckin’ good, baby- made me feel so good-” You can barely respond, breath caught, body spent, aching, still wrapped around him, but he doesn’t need you to say anything. He can’t stay still because his lips are on your body again like he’s worshipping you and his hands are doing the same too. Words are softer now with his ruined voice like he’s trying to sink inside you. He moves gently and calms you both down without letting you go as his hands caress your thighs up to your stomach and ribs and to your nipples. “You took all of me,” he whispers, “all of it. So fuckin’ perfect, baby.” You’re still trembling, twitching in the afterglow, and he feels every flutter of your cunt gripping him through the last throbs of his orgasm.

Lips press more kisses to your mouth- slow, open, grateful- and then he just stays there. Cock still buried, weight folded over yours, like leaving isn’t an option. He doesn’t pull out even as he softens a little, even as you pulse around him, overstimulated and sore, pressing deeper, hips flush, cock snug inside your aching cunt like he’s trying to plug the mess in. His fingers trace your hips, coaxing you back to earth while you can’t speak, just panting, lashes fluttering, and chest heaving. Your back sticks to the dirt. You feel filthy, beautiful, and exposed. His hand moves your hair out of your face with gentleness and palms your jaw after with his thumb grazing the softness of your cheek before his hips give you one more thrust that makes you clench and flinch.

He kisses your temple before he shushes you when he hears you whimper. “I know. I know, baby. You did so good.” Your voice finally comes, small and hoarse. “Still inside,” you whisper. His breath catches, but he doesn’t pull out. “I know.” Your heavy-lidded eyes take him in: the uniform, the smudged jaw, the weight of him braced over you while you lie there beneath him. “I’m all messy,” you breathe. “You made a mess of me, Rafe.” His jaw ticks, eyes darkening, one hand sliding between your thighs, and fingers brushing the mix leaking down your legs. “I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You’re fucking dripping for me.” You gasp, body tensing. His hands just continue holding you there. You feel full, stuffed, warm, and trembling in his arms while the woods are quiet around you. The air smells more like sex more than the environment. Or maybe you are just close to each other. And you lie there, messy and stretched open, caught under him, both of you breathing slowly. Just like that. Exactly where he wants you.

“Too much?” he asks when he starts moving his hips a little, just so gently, not slamming fully. Moving only just to ease more pleasure for you, and not to get another orgasm out of you. Hum found your lips, but you shook your head. “No. Just… a little. Please.” His smile deepens; it’s soft, and his eyes are full of adoration. “Yeah?” Rafe pulls his cock just to push it halfway in slow motion. You can feel it even if the whole of it is not inside. His hand holds your jaw while the other is resting on your stomach just to stroke your skin like he’s soothing the pain from the sex he caused you. “Feels nice…” You whisper. He kisses your shoulder.

“Is that good for you, angel?” His cock stays deep while your cunt keeps tightening around him, the air thick as you catch your breath. “Mhm…” Pressure eases in your chest while you listen to how he breathes. You like how his body stays heavy and warm against yours as your legs soften and shift around him, and you like letting him hold you close while you are getting out from the intensity of what you both did. “You’re still fluttering around me,” he murmurs. “Still squeezing me like you don’t want to let me go.” Lashes blink slowly while you feel how your body clings to him without thinking and how each slow push reminds you of what you took, how you let him stay inside while you let your head rest back against his arm. “I don’t want to,” you confess, too softly. His hips stutter, a groan slipping out. “I know,” he mutters, licking his lips and eyes while watching you. “That’s why I’m still here. You’re safe, and I know the sex… was intense. I’m sorry,” he apologizes before he kisses you everywhere. It’s slow and hungry, tasting your throat, your shoulder, and your tits, like he can’t stop.

“That was new to me, but I like it,” you say before you whimper beneath him, skin hot and open, your body full and aching. His cock softens but stays inside, his body covering yours, kissing words into your skin instead of growling them in your ear. “We should talk about it next time, Rafey… The, uhm… like the limits, safe word, and the other things, y’know,” you add, and it’s not like you are completely clueless about this, the rough sex. No. But you are just too shy to bring it to him, but you are aware that he might like it. The air cools, dirt sticking to the sweat behind your shoulders while his uniform is still buttoned, all tight authority while you’re naked and trembling under him. He does those little thrusts- it’s barely there. The movements of his hips are not even about fucking anymore, just staying.

“Rafe…” Breath hitches while fingers curl in the fabric at his chest, pulling him closer without thinking. Thighs tighten around his hips, holding on while air slips out shakily. “I know, baby. We will talk about it, pretty girl.” His words slide near your ear, warm and low, while his hand drags up your side and your lashes flicker with the quiet pulse that keeps pulling him deeper. “Did I go too hard on you?” A shake of your head comes slowly while your lips part, chest lifting as you try to catch a breath, the tight clench inside begging him to stay, needing every inch he gives. “No. It’s not that, I just-” You swallow, breath catching. “Maybe a little… But I don’t want you to stop.” He exhales, hand cupping your cheek as he tilts your face up, eyes soft, full of you. “You’re so fucking sweet like this,” he whispers, thumb dragging over your mouth. “Letting me fuck you in the woods like a filthy girl, now clinging to me like I’m all you got.”

You blink, dazed. “You are all I got.” His breath catches, cock still buried in your soaked cunt. That melts his heart, so he leans down to kiss you slowly and warmly. His lips are gentle, and there’s not even a tongue when he kisses you. It’s like he’s just savoring you and feeding you pieces of himself with every breath before he pulls away to kiss your forehead. “I fucking love you like this.” Something in him feels scared to admit how easy it is to call this love when your body holds him so sweet, how much he wants to keep you like this because letting go feels like losing air. This softness feels dangerous, a need curling in his chest that wants to claim, protect, and never leave. “Like what?” you breathe. “Just there. Messy. Full of me.” Another slow thrust. “Like you were made for me.”

Your eyes flutter shut. “Don’t say that,” you whisper. “I’ll believe you.” Can’t help wanting it to be true, wishing it’s real, wishing it could stay this warm and close forever. Every slow pull makes you melt in a way that feels safe. It’s like maybe you’re allowed to need him, allowed to let him have you. “You should.” Then he pulls out. It’s slow and gentle. You can feel your body clenching on nothing, both of your cum spilling out, which breaks out a desperate sound breaking from your throat. He groans, watching the mess leak from you. “Jesus, look at that.” You squirm, thighs twitching, but he lays you back gently, shushing you, one hand gathering the spill, the other cupping your jaw. “Still warm,” he murmurs, “still mine.”

Then he kisses your jaw down to your neck and collarbone and shoulder. His kisses are soft and wet. It is gentle. Maybe he’s saying sorry to you through it. Maybe he’s trying to make up for being rough with how he chased and fucked you. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes. “Don’t want to let you go.” His breath is warm while he presses closer, grounding you in the dark. Kisses sink into your skin, gentle after everything he’s done. You feel safe right here, not caring about anything else. “Then don’t,” you whisper. “I won’t.” You settle with him and his uniform rumpled with his cock wet with you. His head leans down before his forehead rests against your chest, and his lips give the same area multiple pecks, and his arms are warm and wrapped around your waist. “Are you going to carry me back to the house?” you ask him gently, but you are more like teasing him because you know that your legs are too wobbly to walk properly back there. He laughs softly but doesn’t answer. He just leans in and presses one last kiss to your temple before shifting back, sliding his hands beneath your thighs and back, lifting you like you might break. He sits there first while holding you and his back leaning against a tree. He settles you into his lap while you melt into him, folding your knees in, tucking your face to his chest.

Neither of you speaks. Both of you are just breathing slowly and coming down. The woods are humming around you. His lips in your hair, nose against your temple while fingers rub circles into your thigh. “Are you okay?” You nod against his chest. “Mhm.” His hand brushes your jaw. “Are you hurt, baby?” You shake your head. He leans back to see your face, cupping it. “Sure?” You meet his eyes and nod. “Good girl,” he whispers, eyes soft. “You took me so well.”

Your eyes flutter shut as he kisses your nose. “Didn’t even cry,” he teases. “Kinda wanted to see that pretty lip wobble.” You huff a laugh. “I almost did.” He grins, kissing you slowly, warmly, unhurriedly, and full of something softer. You pull back with a shaky breath. “That was…” Should feel embarrassed, but there’s nothing left to hide. Muscles still shaking, cunt still dripping, your skin carries every mark he left. It should feel like shame, but it only settles warm and quiet inside you. “I know,” he says softly. His fingers trail down your side, tracing where he left bruises, like he’s sorry and memorizing it all at once.

“Can we stay here?” you murmur. “Just for a minute?” No rush to move when the world feels so heavy and quiet. Warmth pools low while your limbs go light and your breath catches as your body remembers what he did. The air smells like sweat and dirt, like him, and it feels safe. Chest loosens with every slow inhale while the trees sway above as it hides you both from everything else. Everything feels clear, like the world outside doesn’t matter for now. “Yeah,” he says instantly. “We’re not going anywhere yet.” He holds you tighter, letting your head drop to his shoulder and your legs fold across his lap. His breath slows with yours until you’re both sinking into something warm and quiet. Something that has nothing to do with roughness anymore. Just you. Just him. Just the soft, fucked-out silence of the woods.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

[rafesluckylady]

Uhmmmm right

How aboutttt something like Tow-truck driver rafe who rails reader in the back of his truck after she calls him- the only company open that late at night. What she doesn’t expect is this 6foot something beefy man to jump down from the truck to help her🤲🏻

a/n: THIS IS SO HOT | warnings: smut (mdni), oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, slight dacryphilia, rafe being obsessed.

you didn’t think anyone would answer. it’s past midnight, asphalt radiating heat from a day that burned too long, and your shitty little car is hissing on the shoulder of some no-name highway. headlights flickering like they’re too tired.

the voice that picks up is deep. rough in a way that sounds slept in, like he’s just woken up. “mhm. text me your location.” he hangs up before you respond.

you blink at your phone. okay. ten minutes later, a beast of a tow truck growls onto the shoulder, its engine louder than your heartbeat. high beams slice through the dark like judgment. then, he steps down.

you forget how to breathe. he’s tall—really fucking tall. built like the kind of man who’s used to lifting heavy things and slamming them back down. dirty blonde hair curling slightly from sweat, a cap turned backwards. hands blackened with grease. arms corded with muscle and tattoos that should be illegal on someone like him.

“you the one with the civic?” he calls, already approaching, voice dipped in molasses and old car smoke.

you nod. “yeah, uh, it died. like, fully. no lights, no engine. just…dead.”

he squints at the car, then back at you. and there’s a flicker of something in his gaze. you barely catch the way his eyes darken like he’s filing you away. like you’ve just become something his. “pop the hood.”

you do and he leans in, knuckles brushing hot metal, jaw set. you try not to stare at the veins in his forearms and you fail miserably. “you got anyone coming for you?” he asks without looking.

“no.” you murmur with your fingers intertwined and gaze on your shoes. “your company was the only one still open.”

he hums. “guess you’re lucky then.” he raises his brows and sends you a smirk.

“are you always this charming?” you mutter, arms crossed.

his smirk is crooked and dangerous. “you have no idea what i always am, darlin’.”

he gets the car loaded up. you sit in the passenger seat of the truck, his heat leaking into the cab. it smells like engine oil and sunbaked leather. he drives with one hand. the other rests on his thigh, close enough that you can see a smear of black grease stretching over his wrist like a bruise. his fingers twitch when you shift in your seat.

you glance over. “do you always drive around picking up stranded girls in the middle of the night?”

“nah,” he says, eyes straight ahead. “only the ones who look like you.”

you roll your eyes. try to ignore the way your stomach flips. “what’s that supposed to mean?” he turns to look at you fully then. slow. deliberate. and fuck, that look—it’s like he’s already imagined what your thighs taste like.

“means you don’t know what kind of trouble you just climbed into, pretty thing.”

~

it happens in the back of the truck. the garage is closed. but he drives around back, into the shadows behind the lot, cuts the engine and turns to you like it’s the only thing that ever made sense. “come here.”

you pause. breath shallow. “you gonna fix my car or—”

“baby.” his voice drops, barely a whisper. “you called me in the middle of the night. all soft and sweet like that. you really think i was ever gonna fix a fuckin’ civic?”

you shouldn’t kiss him. shouldn’t crawl over the center console, but you do. his mouth tastes like black coffee and sin. his hands are huge and greedy, tugging you onto his lap in one motion. his fingers drag up your thighs, thumbs digging in like he’s mapping muscle and memorizing skin.

“you gonna let me touch you, huh?” he mutters into your neck. “in the back of my fuckin’ truck like a dirty little dream?”

you nod and gasp. your fingers tangle in his hair. “please-”

he groans like that word broke him. soon, pants are shoved down. his rough palm finds your cunt like he’s known it forever. you moan, pitchy and wrecked, grinding down on his fingers, and he smiles—lazy and smug and almost cruel. “knew you’d be soaked. drivin’ out here in that skirt like you wanted someone to wreck you.”

“shut up,” you whisper, but your hips tell a different story.

he presses his forehead to yours. slows it down just enough to make you squirm. “nah. not when i finally got you sittin’ where you belong.”

his mouth is on your chest, then your stomach, moving lower and lower, until he lays you back on the bench seat and devours you. there’s no mercy, just slick hunger and the kind of praise that shouldn’t sound so good coming from someone this mean.

“that’s it, sweetheart. let me have it. ain’t nobody gonna take care of you like i will.” and maybe it’s the hour, or the heat, or the way his voice wraps around you like a steel cable, but you believe him.

he doesn’t stop when you finally come. he just groans low into your thigh like the taste of you broke something open in him. his face glistens, mouth flushed, eyes blown wide and dark as oil. he kisses the inside of your knee like an apology he doesn’t mean.

you’re panting. “jesus,” you breathe.

he licks his lips with a sly grin. “he ain’t here, baby.” you glare, drunk on the way he touched you, like you’re mad about it. he just leans back, spreads his thick thighs on the cracked leather seat like an invitation, one arm slung lazily over the backrest.

“get up here.”

you laugh. “what?”

he nods down to his lap. his cock’s hard, flushed as he pulls it out of his distressed jeans. “you wanted me. now ride me.”

your mouth parts. your thighs are still trembling, slick and sore, but your body listens before your mind does. you climb over him slow, trying not to look desperate. your knees dig into the seat on either side of his hips. your hand wraps around his cock—hot, heavy, pulsing—and you swear he flinches.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, breath shuddering. “look at you,” he pants, “takin’ your time like you ain’t just cried on my fuckin’ tongue.”

your fingers tighten, just to punish him. “shut up.”

he smiles, cocky and ruined. “make me.”

finally, you sink down. it’s not graceful nor quiet. your thighs tremble as he splits you open, inch by inch, like a slow, brutal possession. his hands stay on your hips, holding you steady, guiding you down.

“there she is,” he murmurs, voice gravel. “knew you’d feel like this. all tight ‘n perfect. fuck.”

you drop your head, nails scratching into his shoulders. he’s big—you should’ve guessed. “rafe,”

he jerks a little at that. groans like it did something to him. “say it again.”

you look at him through your lashes, breath hitching. “rafe.”

he tilts his head, eyes burning into yours. “look at me while you ride me.” your gaze meets his even if it feels like his eyes are pinning you open.

you start moving slow at first, thighs trembling as you find a rhythm. he watches the way you take him, lips parted, pupils blown, jaw clenched. then his hands come up. one palm finds your chest, the other your throat—just resting there.

“you feelin’ that?” he mutters, barely holding back. “that stretch? how you keep squeezin’ me like you were made for this?”

you nod. tears burn behind your eyes. he fucks up into you gently, once, and your whole body flinches. “fuck-”

“you close again already?” he says, smiling like a devil. “shit. you do like this. you like ridin’ me. bein’ full of me.” you don’t answer. just keep moving, grinding now, needy, gasping with each pass over the thick base of him. his voice softens to a deadly tone. “you gonna come on my cock, pretty thing?”

“if you-” you stop to let out a loud moan. “if you don’t shut the fuck up,”

he laughs. laughs, while you fall apart on top of him. “nah, you love it. love when i talk like you’re mine.”

your hand flies up to cover his mouth. he grins against your palm. you come with his cock deep inside you, your hand pressed to his smirk, his eyes fixed on you like he’ll never forget this.

your whole body stutters. his name on your tongue like it means something now. he groans when you clench around him, lets it happen, doesn’t even thrust—just holds you in place while you fall apart all over again. “that’s it,” he murmurs, voice muffled under your hand. “fuckin’ knew it.”

only then does he fuck up into you for real. three slow, brutal thrusts. his hands guiding you, jaw tight, the truck groaning with each snap of his hips. he comes deep. he’s buried inside you, head tipped back, jaw slack. you feel it and whimper.

silence follows. it’s only your ragged breathing and the soft thrum of the engine cooling. “you okay?” he asks, voice suddenly gentle.

you nod against his shoulder. “yeah.” his hand brushes your spine. his other finds your thigh, squeezes once. like he can’t help it. when you finally pull back, try to climb off him with shaking legs and sore muscles, he holds you there. doesn’t let you move.

“not done with you yet,” he murmurs, eyes full with desire. “not even close.”

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[rafesluckylady]

ᤢ ♥︎⠀ ⠀⠀‌⸻ ⠀ aperol spritz / rafe cameron!

content WARNING: divorce allegations, married couple struggles, pregnancy, mentions of illness (cancer), mentions of death, sensitive content.

content

chapters: 01 , 02 , 03 , 04 , 05 , 06 , 07 , 08 , 09 , 10

extras: flowers 4 mommy , realisation , decoration, theo’s nightmare , sarah’s help , at last , the beginning ,

> Click here to see all the content!

[rafesluckylady]

Is it hot in here or is it just me

you hear an unreleased future song rattling the ground with its bass before you even see rafe cameron’s truck.

unreleased future. you want to laugh, really — you bite the corner of your bottom lip and swallow a tonne of lipgloss just to avoid it because you don’t want him to see your smile and mistake it for excitement. he didn’t deserve it. you hide your amusement by shaking your head, tapping your kitten heel as he throws his vehicle into a haphazard reverse to park up beside you. unreleased future. like he’s a teenage lana fan or something.

rafe squints out the window of the passenger side, leaning over to look you over, eyes lingering on your thighs for a second longer when he spots that you’re wearing a skirt. shit, maybe you were easy. it had been months since you’d seen him. it had been months since you dumped him.

as he glances over you his lips are parted in that classically boyish rafe-like way that made you feel something weird in your stomach that you hadn’t felt in a while. you bury it immediately, reminding yourself to stand on business.

“you uhh — gonna get in? or y’gonna keep standing there… acting like you don’t want to.” he forces his lips into a tight sarcastic smile and you roll your eyes. always the charmer.

the sun set pretty fast and it’s getting dark already as the two of you speed along a bridge. the musics too loud and he’s driving too fast like he always did — setting your nerves on edge. reaching forward, you pinch the volume nozzle with your manicured fingers and violently turn it left, turning it down a considerable amount before flopping back in your seat pointedly. rafe smirks, unabashed and open. you haven’t changed a damn bit.

“i thought you wanted to talk.” you find yourself still raising your voice a little to be heard over the hum of the car.

“jesus, i do — alright.” he’s quick to snap, but when you look at him, there’s lines on his cheeks and he’s laughing, which oddly softens you slightly.

“okay… well… i wouldn’t have been able to hear you.” you’re still defensive, albeit a little calmer.

“m’pulling up to our spot. if that’s alright with you. your highness.” he shakes his head, spinning the car round the corner to the empty lot that overlooks the water. your heart drops a little at the memories here. talking, laughing, fucking, arguing. it was always here.

he unfastens his seatbelt and stretches, hands on his buzzed head as he stares out at the tranquil waves. “shit… had some good times here, huh?” he croons. you know of all the times here you just pondered on which times he was thinking of. you swallow.

shamefully, not much talking happens next. some drone about how he’s a better man, getting his shit together and all that jazz. it feels like a rehearsed speech of sorts, one he’d gone over and over in his head to find any faults but ends up coming out all aggressive and forced in that way that was so quintessentially him. it should have made you pissed off. it just made you miss him.

your panties hang off one ankle in the backseat as he kneels between your legs, fucking that tall, thick, pretty cock up into your gummy walls. you feel defenceless, respectless as you shamefully take him and enjoy it. shit, it had been ages since you got fucked properly like you deserved— maybe you were just giving into impulses. you were simply overwhelmed, he’d used the magic he used on you to win you over in the first place and mixed it with your compulsion to nostalgia and got you right under his thumb again. his hips plap against you and you squeeze your eyes shut as to not look at him.

you don’t mind feeling him though, the way his mushroom tip stretches your insides. the way the skin of his bicep feels when you intimately and softly wrap a hand around it, gently scratching with your nails at each thrust. you can’t see but you don’t miss the shiver that runs up his spine or the soft moan that follows.

“come on. come on.” he grunts quietly to no one in particular before he hones in on you. “hey. hey you look at me alright? look at me when i’m fuckin’ you.” he tilts his head, staring you down like he could will your eyes open with telekinesis. maybe he could, because your sticky lashes flutter and your pupils dilate an embarrassing amount at the sight of him. “wanna — shit — wanna do things for you — yeah? wanna take you home. stay over at my place. just — just one night, alright? see how you feel —” he suddenly babbles, straightening his back and slowing his movements a little, all breathless as he scoops under your ass with his hands to fuck you deeper.

you groan, arching your spine up flailing your feet a little. “no.” you defy, feeling too hot as the windows fog.

“yeah. c’mon.” he disagrees like it was an opinion, kissing the corner of your mouth.

“no. don’t wanna go to your house. don’t wanna listen to you.” you spill in an emotional whine. there’d been no mention of obeying him here, but with rafe you knew subtext was everything. this is how he webs you into his trap.

he barely freezes but you notice him process what you said for a few seconds before he drops his voice even lower. “open your mouth baby.”

you do. and it’s so fast, and your tongue is so wet it’s humiliating. pavlovian, damaging to women everywhere. you blink and he’s grinning like the cheshire cat, leaning in to spit a fat glob down the back of your throat. fuck. fuck fuck fuck. fuck him. fuck me.

he stays there, nose to yours, lips nearly inside your mouth and he speaks into it, rolling his hips now nice and slow. “yeah uh, you don’t even believe what you’re saying — okay — make this easy on me— yeah? — make this — fuck, this fucking pussy — make this easy on me baby. i’m a man now.” he mumbles, nasally and familiar and you could have sworn you time travelled back to last summer when he was your entire world.

“mmghhh—” is all you could reply because now he’s angling his hips like a demon to scrape that gooey spot right near your cervix.

“you miss me.” he mouths at your lips.

“nuh—uh—ugh—”

“you miss me baby— come on.”

“. . .”

“you miss me kid.”

“i miss you daddy. i miss you!”

and just like that, the dam bursts. sure you can build a moat around your castle, but rafe cameron will always show you just how well he can swim.

[rafesluckylady]

♡ bitchy!kook!reader finally lets rafe fuck..

warnings: making out, slight degradation, teasing, fingering, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, praise, multiple orgasms

a/n: thank you to the anon who sent in this prompt request for my follower celly! i accidentally deleted your ask ૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა

you didn’t expect things to get this heated, this fast, both you and rafe messily kissing each other in the darkness of his room, his playlist playing softly in the background while his hands didn’t leave a single inch of you untouched. you could feel his hard-on poking you through the thin lace material of your panties, your resolve crumbling more and more as you let yourself get lost in the taste of him, your desire to surrender and give into his advances only growing with each filthy sentence he spoke to you. “remember all that tough shit you were talking? ‘saying i couldn’t handle all of this but here you are fucking dripping for it..”

you whimpered, your head rolling to the side as rafe planted his lips on your neck, his hand snaking down underneath the hem of your skirt until his fingers slipped below the waistband of your underwear. “you know i can make you feel so good, baby, just give me the word..” he whispered, his teeth lightly grazing your flesh just as his fingertips dipped between your folds, a curse falling from his mouth as your slick allowed him to stroke your clit with ease. you gasped softly, your nails digging into his skin as he rubbed hard, firm circles around your sensitive bud. “come on..” rafe encouraged you quietly, “let me fuck you.”

you sighed softly, your eyes fluttering closed as he moved his lips down from your neck to your chest, his digits continuing their ministrations on your needy cunt. you couldn’t believe you were finally giving into him, all the months of begging and pleading with you to let him have his way all coming to an end once you nodded, your boyfriend cursing under his breath as he tried to his best to keep his composure. rafe’s fingers prodded at your entrance, the sensation making you panic before you stopped him. “wait—!” you panted, slightly embarrassed, “i’ve never done this before, rafe..”

upon hearing your words, rafe used his free hand to grip the back of your neck, his gaze scanning down your pretty face as his chest rose and fell in disbelief. your usual bitchy expression was long gone and was now replaced with what looked like intimidation, your brow etched with worry as you watched the realization dawn on him. “holy shit—” rafe laughed, “you’re a virgin?” you looked away from him, avoiding his burning gaze. “don’t be weird about it, you’re not special.” rafe scoffed, his jaw clenching as he pushed his fingertips into you. crying out, your nails raked down his toned chest, the burning tension making you wince.

“these are just my fingers, babe.. if you can barely handle this, just imagine when i’m fucking you balls deep.” the thought alone made you shudder, a shiver running down your spine as rafe began filling you up with digits, your walls fluttering around the welcomed intrusion. “gentle, please..” you whimpered, a hiss leaving your lips when he pulled at the roots of your hair, forcing you to look at him as he started thumbing at your clit. “gentle?” he laughed, “why would i be gentle with you? you’re not special.” rafe used your words from earlier against you before curling his digits and hitting that soft spot inside of you, your head falling onto his shoulder at the added stimulation.

“m’gonna make you cum all over my fingers, ‘get you all nice and stretched out before i fuck you stupid, yeah?” you whined, wrapping your arms around his neck as your breathing grew sporadic, the heavy tension in your core making your limbs feel like jelly. “fuckkk!” you squealed, burying your face in his chest as you felt the sudden snap in your tummy, your pussy squeezing around rafe’s digits like a vice. you saw stars behind the backs of your eyes, your thighs trembling as he held your hips down to keep you from moving away from him. “r-rafe, that’s enough,” you huffed, “s’too much now!” considering you were about to let him pop your cherry, he decided he’d give your poor cunt a break.

rafe didn’t give you nearly enough time to recover before he had your wrists pinned between tits, your ankles sitting prettily on his shoulders as he tapped the aching tip of his cock against your clit. “i’m never gonna let you live this down,” rafe teased, slipping only the tip in to watch the way you took your bottom lip between your teeth, “no one’s ever gonna fuck you like this.” was the last thing he said before thrusting into you without warning, a half scream emitting from your throat as rafe groaned, his eyes glued to where you two were connected.

“oh my god, you’re fucking gorgeous—” rafe said through gritted teeth, admiring every detail of you he hadn’t seen before tonight. you were rendered speechless, any kind of protests or smart remarks dying on the tip of your tongue as the ache between your legs dulled and melted into pure unadulterated pleasure. from pained whimpers to pleading cries, rafe’s lips found yours as he fucked into you with an unforgiving force. nipping his bottom lip, rafe hissed, cursing under his breath as you managed to get your hands out of his grip.

“not so scared anymore?” he teased, his words making you roll your eyes. “shut up, rafe— oh!” your back arched up into his chest when he changed his momentum, the long strokes of his hips making you hiccup. “tell me to shut up again.” you just about lost it when you felt his thumb return to your clit, your palms pushing against his stomach at the overwhelming pressure building up in your tummy. you hated how easy it was for him to take control of you in this moment, but god, you felt too good to care. not daring to say another word, your eyes screwed shut as rafe pushed you over the edge, his own orgasm causing his hips to stutter.

burying himself as deep as he could, you pulled rafe close as he emptied himself inside of you, your toes curling as he filled you up with his seed, the thick, hot ropes of cum painting your insides while you cried at the overwhelming feeling of your high. you felt like your head was in the clouds, your vision growing hazy as you blinked in slow motion up at the high ceiling. with rafe’s weight on top of you like this, and his moans in your ear, you reveled in the new intimacy that you two hadn’t yet shared with each other, both of you holding onto each other as your climaxes subsided.

still nestled inside of you, rafe collapsed on top of you, your hands wasting no time in moving his bangs out of his face, your heart fluttering in your chest at the sight of the smug grin on his lips. “don’t you dare say anything—”

“i can’t believe you actually let me hit.” rafe sighed, leaving a trail of kisses along your collarbone. you shook your head, a soft laugh leaving your lips as you twirled the ends of his hair with your perfectly manicured fingers. “act up and you’re not getting sex for as long as you piss me off.” you threatened, your words making his eyebrows raise. “you don’t have to worry about me acting up after this.. i can’t go on without it now.” you rolled your eyes at his dramatics before he took your lips in a kiss. “i hope you’re not fucked out just yet, i got some more rounds in me.”

[rafesluckylady]

         ── MRSMITH!RAFE

HITMAN ⠀ ─ ⠀tailored suits. sleek cars. charming smile. headshots. brings down people for money. switch blades. strategic. lives a double life.

MRSMITH!RAFE | is very organised. it's apart of his job, apart of his routine, apart of both lives equally. workouts, black coffee, morning news while oiling his gun, checking up on the kids. he has the the upcoming days all down in his head. MRSMITH!RAFE | one side of his life? it's chaotic, full of brutality. but all that matters is the outcome of his life. guns, snipers, close combat. MRSMITH!RAFE | the other side of his life? he's a loving husband to his wife who has no clue about how his real income and a father to three, two girls and a boy. the reason he even makes an effort to come out alive in every bad situation. even has a doberman he trusts. his wife thinks he has a "shipping business job" he refuses to go into detail about because he thinks its protecting her. but he still teaches her. MRSMITH!RAFE | rafe is extremely possessive, but it's not something he voices, it's quiet. leaving marks only he can see, he doesn't need to talk for anyone to take the hint, just a few movement with his eyes, and if pushed far enough, with his bare hands. MRSMITH!RAFE | in public, he tries not to touch you so much. maybe on some days, a hand on your lower back. in private, he makes up for every second he never did touch you, one time after his bachelorette party with a few of his work friends who he got to never say a word about the hitman job, but he doesn't rush, he's like "you've been testing me all night." and he picks you up, and puts you on the kitchen counter, your legs on his shoulders, "now you're gonna take it."

@mqyra - all rights reserved.

[rafesluckylady]

──── REWRITTEN IN GOLD ────

WARNINGS: Explicit Sexual Content, Emotional and Psychological Trauma, Dubious Consent (Transactional Dynamic, Power Imbalance) Alcohol Use , Mild Violence (References to Physical Altercations, Bruising) Themes of Shame, Objectification, and Emotional Vulnerability

WORD COUNT: 5,365

A/N: very much inspired by the movie “Pretty Woman”

The neon sign above the shuttered club flickered like a dying star, its pink glow bleeding onto the cracked sidewalk, painting your silhouette in shades of ruin. Your heels were a cruel sentence, straps slicing into your swollen feet, the leather stained with sweat and regret. Your makeup was a battlefield—mascara smeared into shadows beneath your eyes, lipstick faded to a ghost of crimson, a testament to a night gone sour. Your purse hung limp from your wrist, its contents a mockery: three crumpled dollars, a dead phone, and the weight of your own fragility. Your friend had vanished into the arms of a stranger, her laughter fading into the city’s pulse—car horns blaring, laughter spiking from distant alleys, and the sour tang of spilled beer and asphalt stinging your nose. Summer heat clung to your skin, heavy as shame, and you stood alone, a sparrow in a storm, wings too delicate for this hard, hungry world.

You weren’t supposed to be here, not like this. You’d grown up in a house where love was a guest that never lingered—parents too consumed by their own wars to notice you, their screams echoing through thin walls, your dinners of cold cereal eaten in silence. You’d learned to be small, to need little, to expect less. Boys came and went, each one a promise of forever that crumbled to apologies and empty beds. There was the one who’d sworn he’d stay, his hands warm on your skin, only to leave a note on your pillow: I’m sorry. It’s not you. Another who’d taken your savings, your trust, and disappeared into the night. Each one chipped away at you, leaving you this: a girl in a too-tight dress, stranded under neon, starving for something you couldn’t name—warmth, safety, a gaze that saw you as more than a fleeting thing.

A blacked-out SUV rolled to a stop, tires crunching gravel like brittle bones. The window slid down, and your breath snagged in your throat. A man leaned out—mid-30s, jaw carved sharp as a blade, eyes dark as oil, glinting with a predator’s hunger. His knuckles were bruised, raw, as if he’d just split skin or gripped something too tightly, the red marks stark against his tanned hands. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a sliver of sculpted chest, and the faint scent of whiskey curled from him, sharp and sinful against the humid night. He was money, but not the polished kind—like he’d crawled from a fight or a deal that left blood on the table, his edges jagged, dangerous, and intoxicating, a storm in human form.

“How much for the night, sweetheart?” His voice was low, amused, like he’d played this game a hundred times, each word a hook sinking into your skin.

Your stomach twisted, a knot of indignation and dread. He thought you were working, a girl for hire under the neon’s cruel gaze. You opened your mouth to spit venom, to claw back your pride, but the ache in your feet, the emptiness of your purse, stopped you cold. A reckless spark flared in your chest, and you tilted your chin, defiant, your voice a dare. “More than you can afford.”

He smirked, intrigued, leaning closer, elbow propped on the window, his gaze pinning you like a butterfly to a board. “Try me.” He fanned a stack of cash—hundreds, crisp, obscene in their abundance, the bills catching the neon’s glow. But his eyes stayed on your face, not your body, and that was worse—his gaze wasn’t transactional; it was ravenous, like he’d seen something in you he hadn’t meant to unearth, something he wanted to claim, to devour.

You hesitated, pride and desperation wrestling in your chest. You weren’t that girl, not the one who climbed into strange cars for money, but the promise of safety, of warmth, of one night where you weren’t invisible—it was a siren’s call, luring you to the rocks. You thought of your childhood, of nights spent listening to your parents’ screams, of the boy who’d promised to stay but left you with a note and a broken heart. You were tired of being left, tired of being small. “No promises,” you said, your voice steadier than your heart, your eyes locked on his, challenging him to see you. “Just… company.”

“Company’s all I need.” He jerked his head toward the passenger seat, a command wrapped in velvet, his eyes never leaving you, a storm circling, waiting to break. “C’mon get in.”

The leather was cool against your thighs as you slid into the SUV, the door thudding shut like a verdict, sealing you in his world. He drove too fast, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming on his thigh, a restless rhythm that echoed the city blurring outside—neon bleeding into darkness, streetlights smearing like tears on glass. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and sin—filled the space, wrapping around you, heady and dangerous. You stole glances at him. Rafe, he’d said, his name clipped and casual, like it was a throwaway, but it felt like a key to something locked away. His knuckles were red and scabbed, and you wondered who or what he’d broken—a rival, a wall, or himself. The question burned, but you swallowed it, letting the silence stretch, heavy with unspoken things, the air crackling with what neither of you would say.

“You’re not like the girls I usually pay,” he said, eyes flicking to you at a red light, the crimson glow painting his face in shades of sin, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the shadow of stubble on his jaw.

You arched a brow, leaning back, playing braver than you felt, though your hands twisted in your lap, betraying your nerves. “You’re not like the men who usually do.”

He laughed, sharp and low, like you’d cut him, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine, warming your core despite yourself. “What’s your story, then? Stranded princess waiting for a knight?”

“Something like that.” You kept it vague, a shield, your voice light but your heart racing, memories of your past flickering—your mother’s slammed doors, your father’s empty chair, the lovers who’d used you and left. “What’s yours? Bruised knuckles don’t scream ‘white collar.’”

His lips twitched, a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes, which held a shadow of something haunted, a life of wealth that cost more than it gave. “Bad day at the office,” he said, but the words were heavy, laced with a past you could almost taste—betrayals, deals, a father who’d shaped him with fists and expectations, and lovers who’d wanted his name, not him. You didn’t press, but you saw it, the weight of his secrets mirroring your own, a silent understanding blooming in the space between you.

The hotel was a cathedral of wealth—marble floors gleaming like ice, chandeliers dripping light like liquid gold, and the air thick with the scent of citrus and smoke. Rafe led you not to a room but to the bar, all dark wood and mirrored shelves, where the clink of glasses and low laughter filled the space. He ordered you a gin and tonic without asking, the glass cold against your lips as you sipped, his eyes on you like a weight, a caress, a challenge. He talked—about a deal he’d closed, a city he loathed—nothing deep, but the way he said it, low and deliberate, felt like a confession, like he was starving for something real and didn’t know it. You listened, your heart a traitor, drinking in his voice, his presence, the way he filled the space like a storm waiting to break.

“You don’t belong out there,” he said suddenly, nodding toward the street beyond the windows, where the city gnashed its teeth, its neon claws bared. “Downtown. It’s, well dirty.”

You bristled but kept your tone light, teasing, a spark of defiance. “Not exactly my choice.”

His eyes darkened, a storm gathering, and for a moment, you thought he’d reach for you, pin you to the bar with those bruised hands, and claim you right there in front of the glittering crowd. He didn’t. Instead, he booked you a suite next to his, handed you a keycard, and walked you to the door, his shadow trailing you like a promise, his cologne lingering in the air. You fell asleep in sheets crisp as snow, his jacket draped over a chair, the scent of sandalwood and sin wrapping around you like a second skin. He didn’t touch you, but you felt him through the wall, a hunger pacing, unsatisfied, and your dreams were restless, tangled in his gaze, his voice, the weight of what you’d stepped into—a dance with a man who could consume you.

—

Morning light clawed through the suite’s floor-to-ceiling windows, harsh and unforgiving, exposing the smudges of last night—your dress crumpled on the floor, mascara flaking on the pillow, your reflection in the mirror a stranger’s. Your eyes were too wide, lips too soft, a girl caught in a game she didn’t understand, your heart bruised from years of being left. Rafe was in the living area, already in a tailored suit, sipping coffee, his silhouette sharp against the city skyline, a king in his domain. His eyes were bloodshot, like he hadn’t slept, but they sharpened when you walked in, tracing the bare length of your legs and the mussed hair framing your face, and you felt like prey, like treasure, like his.

He slid a wad of cash across the table, the bills fanning like a taunt, their crisp edges catching the light. “For last night.”

You stared, pride warring with necessity, a bitter taste flooding your mouth. He still thought you were for sale, a pretty thing to be bought and discarded, a doll to dress up and discard. You wanted to throw it back, to burn his money and his assumptions, but the weight of your empty purse, the looming threat of unpaid bills, and the memory of nights spent hungry and alone won. You tucked it into your bag, voice tight, barely a whisper, your eyes stinging. “Thanks.”

He leaned back, studying you like a puzzle he couldn’t solve, his gaze both tender and predatory, a paradox that made your skin prickle. “Stay for the week. I’ve got events—dinners, parties. I hate going alone. I’ll pay you to be… decorative.” He named a figure that stole your breath—enough to cover rent for a year, maybe two, enough to buy a sliver of freedom, a chance to breathe.

Your throat tightened, shame and want twisting together, a knot you couldn’t untangle. “Why me?” you asked, voice small, searching his face for something real, something beyond the transaction, your heart aching for a reason to stay.

“You’re different,” he said, voice soft but eyes hard, daring you to say no. “You don’t look at me like I’m a paycheck. Not yet.”

The words stung, a blade dipped in truth, but they also lit something in you, a dangerous curiosity. You thought of your childhood—nights spent alone, the echo of your parents’ fights, the boys who’d used you and left you hollow, their promises as empty as the bottles they left behind. You were tired of being nothing, of being left. Rafe saw you, even if it was through a distorted lens, and that was enough—for now. “I’m in,” you said, the words a surrender, a rebellion, a step into his world, your heart pounding with fear and want.

He didn’t smile, just nodded, a flicker of relief in his eyes, a crack in his armor. “Good. We’re shopping first.”

The boutiques were a world apart, all glass doors and velvet curtains, the air scented with jasmine and wealth, the hush of money palpable. Rafe was in control, picking dresses, lingerie, and heels, his hands brushing the fabrics like he was touching your skin, each choice a claim, a chain. “You’ll wear this for me tonight,” he said, holding up a silk gown, emerald green, that shimmered like a deep sea, its fabric flowing like water, its price unspoken but obscene. His voice was low, possessive, each word sinking into you like a hook, and you felt both owned and desired, a paradox that made your pulse race, your body humming with a need you didn’t want to name.

In the dressing room, you tried on a black lace lingerie set he’d chosen—delicate but obscene, the fabric barely covering your curves, leaving your breasts half-exposed, your hips framed in thin straps. The curtain didn’t close fully; you felt his gaze through the gap, though he stayed seated outside, legs spread, a king on his throne, his presence a weight. “Show me,” he called, his voice rough as gravel, a command you couldn’t refuse, though your hands trembled as you adjusted the straps.

You stepped out, heart pounding, the lace clinging to you like a second skin, your skin flushing under his stare. His jaw tightened, fingers flexing on the armrest like he was fighting himself, his eyes burning with something feral, something that made your thighs clench, your breath hitch. “Good enough for you?” you teased, spinning slowly, your voice a dare, though your knees trembled, your body alive, electric under his gaze.

“Too good,” he muttered, barely audible, his voice thick with restraint, his eyes stripping you bare, lingering on the curve of your hips, the swell of your breasts, and the pulse at your throat. He stood, paid for everything—thousands, like it was pocket change—and walked you out without a touch, his restraint a taut wire ready to snap, the air crackling with what he didn’t do, what he didn’t say. You felt his want, a storm held at bay, and wondered how long he could keep it leashed, how long you could resist the pull of him, the way he made you feel seen, wanted, and alive.

Back at the hotel, you stood in your suite, surrounded by bags, the weight of his world pressing in. You slipped into the lingerie again, catching your reflection in the mirror. The girl staring back was his—dressed in his money, shaped by his gaze, her edges blurred by his desire. You touched the lace, your fingers trembling, and thought of the girl you’d been—alone, invisible, starving for a touch that didn’t leave. Rafe’s touch was fire, but it was something, and you were tired of nothing. He knocked, his voice muffled through the door: “Be ready by eight.” You nodded, though he couldn’t see, already too deep in his orbit to escape, your heart a traitor beating for a man who could break you, who might save you, who was already changing you.

—

The yacht gleamed under a sky pricked with stars, its deck a stage for the elite—men in tuxes, women dripping diamonds, their laughter sharp as shattered glass, cutting through the salt air. You wore the emerald gown Rafe had chosen, its silk clinging to your body like a lover, the fabric whispering against your skin with every step, but you felt like an imposter, a soft thing among wolves. The guests were cruel, their eyes slicing you apart, whispering about your cheap earrings and your unpolished edges, their voices like needles under your skin. A woman—tall, blonde, with the polished cruelty of old money, her perfume sharp and cloying—leaned in, her smile venomous. “Didn’t I see you serving drinks at that dive bar last month? Or was it cleaning tables?”

Your face burned, the truth too close—a memory of spilled beer, sticky floors, nights spent scrubbing to make rent, your hands raw, your pride rawer. You tried to laugh it off, sipping champagne to hide the sting, your voice light but brittle, cracking at the edges. “Maybe I just have one of those faces.”

She smirked, unconvinced, and the table tittered, their amusement a blade, carving you open. You felt Rafe’s eyes on you from across the deck, dark and unreadable, a storm gathering in their depths. He crossed the space in three strides, his hand finding your waist, possessive, grounding, his fingers digging into your hip, a silent claim. “Say that again,” he told the woman, his voice lethal, quiet as a drawn knife, “and you’ll be swimming home.”

Her face paled, the table falling silent, the air thick with his menace. He didn’t shout, didn’t need to—his presence was a blade, cutting through their whispers, their smug superiority. The other guests shifted, uncomfortable, their eyes darting away, but you were mortified, grateful, and something else—wanted, in a way that scared you, his protection a fire that could burn you both. You touched his arm, whispering, your voice trembling, “They’re not wrong about me.”

His eyes flashed, a flicker of something raw—anger, hurt, need—but he didn’t respond, just led you off the yacht, his grip firm, unyielding, his thumb brushing your hip in a way that felt like an apology, a promise. The car ride was silent, his jaw clenched, the city lights streaking past like comets, each one a fleeting wish you didn’t dare make. You tried to lighten the mood, your voice soft and trembling, your hand resting on his thigh, a tentative bridge. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He snapped, voice raw, a wound laid bare, his hand tightening on the wheel. “They don’t get to talk about what’s mine.”

The word mine hit you like a drug, flooding your veins with heat, with want, with fear, a pulse that settled low in your belly. Back at the hotel, he shoved you against the suite’s floor-to-ceiling window, the city sprawling below, indifferent to your ruin, its lights glittering like a thousand eyes. His hands found your throat, his thumb brushing your lips, his eyes wild, unhinged, a man on the edge of himself. “You let them get in your head,” he growled, his breath hot against your skin, his cologne enveloping you, sandalwood and sin. The first kiss was brutal—teeth clashing, tongue claiming, a starved thing unleashed, tasting of whiskey and desperation, his lips bruising yours, his hands everywhere, like he needed to touch every inch to believe you were real.

He ripped the gown at the seam, silk tearing like paper, the sound raw and final, leaving you half-clothed, trembling, your skin bared to the cold glass, your breasts pressed against it, your breath fogging the surface. He dropped to his knees, hands gripping your thighs, spreading you open, his mouth on you, desperate, sloppy, like he was worshiping and punishing at once. His tongue was relentless, circling your clit, sucking hard, then soft, teasing with flicks that made your hips buck, your moans loud and broken. He dragged his teeth along your inner thigh, biting down, marking you, a bruise blooming under his mouth, a claim that sent a jolt through you. “You taste too good to be trash,” he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with possession, his words a blade and a caress, his fingers sliding inside you, curling, pumping, drawing gasps, your hands fisting in his hair, anchoring yourself to him, your body a live wire.

He stood, belt clinking as he freed himself, his cock hard and thick, pressing against you as he pinned you to the window, the city watching, indifferent. He teased you first, dragging the tip through your wetness, circling your entrance, making you whimper, beg, your hips rocking toward him, your voice a plea. “Please, Rafe—please.” He growled, low and guttural, loving your desperation, feeding on it. “So fucking perfect,” he rasped, praise laced with venom, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot. He thrust into you, hard, filling you, stretching you, each movement a claim, a ruin, his hands gripping your hips, bruising, his rhythm relentless, the glass cold against your breasts, your body pinned, owned. “Mine to ruin,” he growled, his voice a prayer, a curse, his teeth grazing your shoulder, biting down, marking you again, a second bruise to match the first, his thrusts deeper, harder, shaking you to your core.

You came undone, trembling, your body clenching around him, your moans echoing in the suite, raw and unfiltered, your nails digging into his shoulders, drawing blood. He followed, finishing inside, groaning your name, not pulling out, his warmth a brand, a claim that sank into your bones, his body shuddering against yours. The city glittered below, a witness to your surrender, your ruin, your want, its lights a mirror to the fire in you both. After, he was silent, cleaning you with a warm towel, movements gentle but face closed off, his eyes haunted, like he’d seen too much of himself in you, felt too much to bear. He laid you in bed, stroked your thigh absently, his fingers tracing the bruises he’d left, but didn’t sleep, his touch lingering like a ghost, warm and heavy. You drifted off, unaware of the storm in his chest—he’d felt too much, and it terrified him, a man unaccustomed to needing anything, his heart a vault he’d locked long ago, now cracking open for you.

—

Morning light was cruel, exposing the cash on the nightstand, a gift bag—emerald earrings, glittering like the gown, their green stones catching the sun—and a note: Be ready by 7. It was too much, the weight of it crushing, a chain disguised as a gift. You weren’t a girl anymore, just a doll, dressed and posed for his pleasure, your heart a casualty of his world. The money burned, the earrings mocked, each glint a reminder of what you’d become—a thing to be bought, to be owned. You thought of your mother, her absence a wound that never closed, her voice sharp in your memory: You’re too needy, always wanting more. Your father’s indifference, his empty chair at dinner, taught you to need less, to be less. Lovers had used you, taken your trust, your body, and your heart, and left you hollow, their promises as empty as the bottles they left behind. Rafe was different, but not enough, not when he saw you as his to buy, his to keep.

You packed your things, left the gifts, the cash, the earrings, their green stones winking like cruel eyes, and walked out, heart splintering with every step, the city swallowing you whole, its neon now faded in the daylight, its claws retracted. You couldn’t be his pretty thing, not like this, not when it cost you yourself. You returned to your cramped apartment, the walls closing in, the silence louder than your sobs, the air thick with the scent of mildew and regret. You worked shifts at a bar, pouring drinks for men who weren’t him, their eyes greedy but empty, their hands brushing yours with no warmth, no fire. You missed his intensity, his rare softness, and the way he made you feel seen, even if it was through a lens of possession. You cried in the shower, water drowning your sobs, hating yourself for caring, for wanting a man who’d caged you in gold, who’d made you feel alive, and then left you to drown.

Rafe returned to find the suite empty, the cash untouched, the earrings glinting like a taunt, their green stones a mirror to your eyes. He was furious, then panicked, snapping at his staff and canceling meetings, his world tilting without you in it. Flashbacks haunted him—your soft gasps, the way your eyes saw through his armor, like he was more than his money, more than his rage, more than the man his father had carved him into. He drank, whiskey burning his throat, and punched a wall, blood smearing the plaster, a physical echo of his unraveling. He thought of his own past—his father’s cold expectations, his mother’s absence, the lovers who’d wanted his name, his wealth, never him. He’d built a life of control, of power, walls of steel and gold, but you’d slipped through, a crack in his fortress, a light he hadn’t known he needed.

His sister, Sarah, found him, her voice sharp, cutting through his haze, her eyes seeing too much. “You finally meet someone who doesn’t want your wallet, and you scare her off. Fix it, Rafe. Or you’ll lose her for good.”

He didn’t argue. She was right. He stared at the earrings, their green stones catching the light, your absence a wound he couldn’t stitch, a void he hadn’t known he could feel. He’d thought he could buy you, keep you, and hold you at arm’s length, but you’d wanted him—his flaws, his fire, and his broken pieces—and he’d pushed you away, too afraid to let you in, too afraid to be seen.

—

Rain poured, drumming against the bar’s windows where you worked a late shift; the neon outside blurred to a smear of color, its pink glow a faint echo of that first night. The door swung open, and there he was—Rafe, soaked, no suit, just a T-shirt and jeans, knuckles bruised, eyes red like he hadn’t slept in days, his hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping to the floor. The other bartenders stared, whispering; he ignored them, crossing the room to you, a man stripped bare, his armor gone, his heart in his hands, raw and bleeding.

You were angry, defensive, wiping down the counter like it could shield you, your heart a traitor racing at the sight of him, your hands trembling. “What do you want, Rafe? Another week?” Your voice was sharp, but it cracked, betraying the hurt, the want, and the love you’d tried to bury.

He stood there, water pooling at his feet, his voice raw, breaking, his eyes bloodshot, pleading, his hands shaking like he was afraid to touch you, afraid you’d vanish. “I was trying to buy time with you. But it wasn’t enough.” He stepped closer, his voice trembling, his words spilling like rain. “You make me feel human. No one’s ever looked at me like you do—like I’m more than what I’ve done, more than what I have.”

Your throat tightened, tears spilling despite yourself, hot and angry, your hands gripping the counter to keep from reaching for him. “You made me feel like a thing. Not a person. Just your pretty little doll, dressed up for you to play with.”

He flinched, like your words were a slap, his hands hovering, desperate to touch you, to fix it. “I fucked up. I know. I was scared—scared of how much I wanted you, how much I needed you. But I want you—not the dresses, not the act. You. Your heart, your fire, the way you see me.” He grabbed your face, gentle but firm, his thumbs brushing your tears, his lips trembling as he kissed you, through your anger, through the rain, desperate and real, tasting of salt and need, his body shaking against yours.

You fought, your hands pushing at his chest, then melted, clutching his shirt, the kiss a surrender, a collision of need and hurt, your tears mixing with the rain on his skin. He led you to the back room, the bar’s noise fading, the world shrinking to just you and him, the air thick with the scent of damp wood and whiskey. He undressed you slowly, reverently, his hands trembling, kissing every inch—your collarbone, your wrist, the curve of your hip—like he was memorizing you, atoning for every moment he’d made you feel less. “You’re not a doll,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin, his lips brushing your ear. “You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

He laid you on a cluttered desk, papers scattering, his hands gentle but firm, spreading your thighs, his eyes locked on yours, a vow in their depths, a promise he’d never break. He kissed down your body, slow, deliberate, his lips lingering on your navel, your hip, and the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. His tongue found you, tasting you, worshiping you, his movements soft but intense, sucking your clit gently, then harder, his fingers sliding inside, curling, finding that spot that made you gasp, your back arching, your hands gripping the desk’s edge. He marked you again, a soft bite on your thigh, a claim that felt like love, not ownership, his tongue soothing the sting, his praise a litany against your skin. “So good for me, baby,” he murmured, his voice a lifeline, his eyes flicking up to meet yours, holding you there, tethered to him. “So fucking perfect, every inch of you.”

You pulled him up, needing him closer, your hands fumbling with his jeans, freeing him, his cock hard, thick, ready. He entered you slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, his forehead kissing yours, his breaths ragged, and his hands cupping your face. “You’re everything,” he whispered, his thrusts deep, measured, each one a promise, a plea, his body worshiping yours. You rode him after, his hands gripping your hips, guiding you, his voice a litany of “mine” against your throat, marking you with whispers, with kisses, with him, his eyes burning with need, with love. He finished inside, pulling you onto his chest, wrapping you in his arms as the rain drummed outside, relentless, a mirror to your hearts. No coldness now—he stroked your hair, your name a prayer on his lips, his warmth a balm, a home you’d never known.

You were both raw, unsure, but together, the fight drained from you, your bodies tangled, your hearts laid bare. He drove you to his place, his hand on your thigh, promising no more games, no more cages, his voice soft, steady. You fell asleep in his passenger seat, safe in his orbit, the rain a lullaby, your heart full, your wounds beginning to heal.

—

Months later, his penthouse was your home, softened by your touch—books you loved on the shelves, a throw blanket you’d picked draped over the couch, a vase of wildflowers you’d bought on a whim, their petals bright against the sterile marble. Rafe was still intense, still possessive, but he listened now, learned to let you breathe, to be a partner, not a keeper. He bought you a car—practical, not flashy—stocked your desk with notebooks, and let you paint his walls with color, his sterile world blooming under your hands. You were in school or working a job you cared about, his support quiet but steady, a foundation you hadn’t known you needed, a love that didn’t demand you shrink.

You’d both healed, slowly, your wounds laid bare in late-night confessions—your childhood of neglect, his of betrayal, the parents who’d failed you, the lovers who’d used you. You talked about the boy who’d stolen your savings, the woman who’d worn Rafe’s ring but loved his bank account, and the way you’d both learned to guard your hearts, only to find them cracked open by each other. He held you when you cried, kissed your tears, and promised you’d never be alone again, his arms a fortress, his heart yours.

One evening, you called him at work, your voice light, a smile in every word, the neon of that first night a distant memory, its pink glow replaced by the warmth of your shared home. “I miss you.”

He left a meeting mid-sentence and came home to find you on the couch, reading, wearing his shirt, your hair spilling over the pages, a vision of everything he’d never known he wanted. He pulled you into his lap, kissing your neck, his hands warm and sure, his lips tracing the curve of your shoulder, his cologne wrapping you in sandalwood and sin, a scent that was now home. You laughed, teasing, your heart full, your body alive under his touch. “You still think I’m pretty?”

He looked at you, eyes soft, unguarded, the man you’d unraveled, the man who’d fought to be yours, his gaze holding you like a vow. “No. I think you’re perfect.”

You were never just for the weekend, never just a pretty thing. You were his, and he was yours—messy, real, and whole, a love carved from the ruins of a hard world, a home built from the pieces you’d both reclaimed, a fire that burned brighter than neon, stronger than rain.

[rafesluckylady]

ღ ･::･ﾟ★･::☆ real houswife!reader au masterlist

𖥸💌

introduction to reader

𖥸💌

spotted in the background - first meeting

𖥸💌

[rafesluckylady]

GOSHHHHH this was my favorite!!!!! Rafe series ever !!

18+ mdni.

PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN ── RAFE CAMERON

SERIES MASTERLIST

𓇼 ⋆.˚ SYNOPSIS ── when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friend-with-benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin’s upcoming wedding in Italy, and even more out of control when he says yes. ── fake dating, friends with benefits, she fell first but he fell harder, college au. ── contains fluff, angst, occasional smut (chapters marked*).

𓆉 ⋆.˚ CHAPTERS

| 01 ─ 02* ─ 03* ─ 04* ─ 05 ─ 06 ─ 07* ─ 08 ─ 09* ─ 10 ─ 11 ─ FINAL* |

𓆡 ⋆.˚ NOTES ── This is a Rafe x fem!reader story. No use of Y/N. ── The only OC-leaning detail is that she has an Italian speaking grandmother (or grandmother-like figure) and can speak the language. ── This story is 18+. Do not interact if less than.

© 2025 salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission from me. mdni.

[rafesluckylady]

THE BACHELOR | Masterlist

sypnosis:

After years of building his real estate empire from the ground up, 27 year old Rafe Cameron is finally ready to build something just as meaningful. A life with someone by his side. As the newest Bachelor, he steps in for a chance at something real — lasting love, a true partner and a future that means more than numbers or net worth.

Among 32 women from across the country, one stands out —you. A 25 year old marketing manager from Staten Island, confident in your career and clear about what you want. Somewhere between the camera, chaos and that first stolen glance — you begin to believe this might actually lead to something true.

As the weeks unfold, connections spark and rivalries ignite — but while others fight for his attention, something quieter, deeper builds between you and Rafe. Something that can't be scripted.

In a villa full of love stories trying to be written, this one just might be the one.

pairings: rafe cameron x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ content, cuss words, verbal arguments, drama, sexual innuendos, jealousy, breakdowns, insecurity

content: fluff, angst, smut (not too much)

episodes:

ep 1

ep 2

ep 3

ep 4

ep 5

ep 6

ep 7

ep 8

ep 9

ep 10

ep 11

extras:

prologue

social media profiles: rafe & y/n

social media profiles: the other girls

confessional: rafe

confessional: y/n

[ lay-out inspired by @drewsephrry ]

© 2025 all rights reserved starkeyslibrary. unnauthorized modification, reposting, plagiarism is strictly prohibited without prior permission.