#ft McClellan | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

neighbourscat · 3 months ago

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𝐒𝐄𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐆𝐘 || 𝙧𝙖𝙛𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙣

𓈒 ˙ ꪆৎ ꣹ ۫ 𖨂 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 . .. . president’s son!rafe cameron X crisis manager!black!fem!reader. ||

𓈒 ˙ ꪆৎ ꣹ ۫ 𖨂 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 . .. . lowercase intended! second person reading-perspective. mature language! ‘G’ in ‘God’ & ‘J’ in Jesus is lowercased. age-gap between black!fem!reader (32) & rafe cameron (24) / power dynamic! multiple uses of ‘y/n’ and ‘ms. mcclellan’. mentions of political corruption and doctoring. suggestion of and carrying out of an inappropriate relationship — while engaged to another! political drama! heavily inspired by scandal and how to get away with murder. wordcount :: 3.8k!++

𓈒 ˙ ꪆৎ ꣹ ۫ 𖨂 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 . .. . pyd, justin bieber ft. r. kelly ! || nervous, the neighbourhood !

BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY

with a perfect, manicured nail hovering over the green-call button, you thought of every way the next few minutes could go. each turn, each road block, each scenario more vivid than the next of how your mother would make the conversation / your situation, about her; letting you know what she wouldn’t have done, like ‘lie straight to the chief of staff, the national security advisor, and senior white house counsel’, though she sure would have, or remind you again that the white house just wasn’t the place for you. the courtroom was, by her side. she was batman, you were always robin.

you’ve tried the courtroom with your mother. you’ve tried ‘tegan mcclellan & associates’ law firm. it took you four years to realize that that wasn’t exactly the path you wanted to continue down, for building your own name and your own career was impossible with a.) tegan mcclellan constantly in your ear and b.) within the walls of tegan mcclellan’s fix-it-all firm. you experienced first hand why, sometimes, being employed in a family business does not work.

though, there were good things that came from ‘tegan mcclellan & associates’ .. you guessed your fiancé wasn’t too bad when he wasn’t complaining about work, loathing your mother, or drinking himself to sleep. like your friends, who were ( are ) constantly competing for your mother’s attention, approval, or begging you to put in a good word so they could take charge of a case.

you switched off your cellphone. you pulled open a drawer of your new desk and dropped the device into the empty space. you froze, taking another look at your phone .. and closed the drawer — a single knock sounded at the doorframe. you quickly gathered your thoughts.

“i heard what you did.” announcing her presence; it was gemma sutherland, looking slim and trim in a navy blue dress with white stripes under a plain cardigan, white pantyhose, and dirty red flat heels — this was gemma’s first year as the chief of staff’s assistant. gemma’s job entailed her to run around the west wing; delivering reports, key files, and memos to the chief of staff and the senior advisor. “you are incredible, ms. mcclellan.”

“thanks.” you hummed, unenthusiastic. you glanced over to the door, your expression cool and calm. you waved gemma in. your dark eyes — eyes that had sized up countless opponents in debate, law school — fixed on gemma with the kind of intensity that made her stomach flip. you weren’t just intimidating; you were magnetic.

gemma could hear her heartbeat in her ears, she did her best to keep her face neutral. “i, um, just wanted to applaud you,” she answered, her voice sounding a touch higher than usual, “i actually wanted to speak with you, ask a question or two .. really quickly, before you’re off.” gemma grabbed herself a chair, one of the three that had been lined up against the wall, and set it opposite your desk. without thinking much, she asked: “the recording was ‘doctored’?” not of usual icebreaker variety.

you gave a clean nod — you removed the president’s son from the narrative entirely. the recording was manipulated? a bold lie. a dangerous lie. but in today’s age; a world where digital forgeries were becoming harder to detect, it was plausible. “i know it’s not my place, but .. i’d rather hear about it - all of it - from you than the news, or office whispers in passing, if that - what happened in there?”

gemma knew of you. she knew a lot, but she learned more from the catch-up! category of the insider’s edge ( gemma had followed every article, every piece of gossip ); a self-owned, widely-read platform run by a seasoned political commentator who thrived on breaking exclusive, behind-the-scenes stories from capitol hill to the oval office. the blog’s built a reputation for sharp, incisive commentary, particularly on the role of women of color in washington’s power circles.

you weren’t just any washington insider. you were practically political royalty; the blog had chronicled your ascent from law school — where you showed flashes of brilliance akin to your mother’s — to your internships on captiol hill, and now to your coveted role in the white house.

the insider’s edge had consistently highlighted the pressures you face: navigating your role as a woman of color in a predominantly white, male political landscape while constantly being compared to your mother’s success. the blog didn’t dare shy away from critiquing your every decisions:

the blog’s most recent headlines:

— “following in her mother’s footsteps or creating her own path? y/n mcclellan’s first 100 days in the white house starts today!”

— “does washington have room for two mcclellan women? a look at the legacy y/n has to uphold!”

— “the new! crisis manager to watch: will y/n mcclellan rise above the expectations?”

— “recently engaged. is y/n taking his last name? or is he taking hers? i’d take hers! duh!”

gemma, with her auburn bob and bang swoosh, leaned in a bit — holding both hands over the edge of your desk. when you looked into her light brown eyes, it was just enough to make gemma’s heart rate spike — yeah .. gemma read the insider’s edge a lot, went nowhere without the tab available on that samsung device in her back pocket.

“gemma -“ you had barely exhaled when a harsh knock blared at your office door. rafe cameron stood in the doorway; tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, his usually composed expression shadowed by disbelief. his gaze cut past gemma and landed directly on you.

she looked between you and the president’s son .. not wasting a second — gemma nodded, pushing the chair back. she hurried out, not even brushing past the towering man .. and as she raced way back down the hall, she realised that she had gotten an answer to something that had been bothering her for months.

gemma sutherland was a reddit user. an avid user. months ago, she had stumbled upon a conversation post that had asked what y/n mcclellan smelled like, if one had to guess; many answered ‘too good to be described’, while others answered ‘chocolate’ or ‘vanilla’ or ‘pumpkin’ or ‘sea salt’, like a cool summer night on the boardwalk.

but gemma had an answer: floral. powdery. classic. like baby lotion. or exactly baby lotion.

— he closed the door behind gemma, careful not to let it slam.

“if you’re here to thank me .. don’t.” you started in ( poor ) attempt to lighten the air. and that was no good. you weren’t sure why you even tried. you remembered how he looked at you in the situation room — why would right now be any different? “why are you in here, rafe?” you should have started with that.

rafe took another step closer — hands in his pockets. and then another .. until he was standing directly in front of you, close enough that you could see the way his pulse ticked in his throat. close enough that the toe-part of your pearly-white heels bumped into his shins — you instantly uncrossed your legs .. any type of contact had your mind melting.

low and quiet: “because you lied.”

you should have expected this. “i did what had to be done.” you had lied. boldly. completely. without hesitation. you had taken something that was undeniably real and turned it into a fabrication. a deepfake. a smear campaign. a coordinated attack on the administration.

and the worst part?

people were actually believing it. the press was running headlines about AI-generated disinformation. pundits on cable news were questioning whether the recording could be trusted. the white house’s story was sticking ..

but it shouldn’t have been, because rafe had been there.

the scandal wasn’t just bad. it was catastrophic. it had everything the opposition could have hoped for — a secret meeting, an incriminating recording, and the president’s son; the face of the first family’s younger generation, at the center of it. the tape painted a clear picture: rafe cameron had tried to broker a private deal with a foreign power — one with enough economic leverage to tip the election if they pulled their support.

if the recording had gone unchecked, it wouldn’t just cost the president his reelection — it would have triggered a congressional investigation, accusations of collusion, and a media storm that wouldn’t die down until the administration was irreparably damaged.

and you had just buried all of it. you had stood in the situation room, surrounded by the most powerful men in the country, and rewritten reality with nothing but your voice — maybe your mother would be proud. you did what you always did. you fixed it .. but fixing wasn’t the word for what you had done. you lied. you fabricated a reality that did not exist — “by any means necessary,” your mother had instilled.

“i did it. i did that. i went behind my father’s back - you should have let me take the fall.”

you shook your head, rolling the office chair back .. giving yourself space to stand up. “i fixed it. i handled it.” he scoffed, scratching the scrunch in between his full eyebrows, “th- .. that shit? you call that fucking-shit fixing? handling? really, y/n?”

he watched as you circled around him and take position at the opposite end of your office .. at the liquor cabinet; its contents: high-end and classic. whiskey / bourbon, cognac, vodka, wine / champagne. “i saved you,” you corrected. “i saved you from public - generational trauma and humiliation -“

you snatched up a glass .. you wouldn’t go for something subtle. not tonight. you bypassed the carefully curated diplomatic wines and the champagne meant for toasts. you didn’t reach for the vodka — too clean, too impersonal. no .. you went for the bourbon. something strong and powerful. something with weight. you didn’t bother with a slow pour. two fingers, neat. no ice. no dilution.

“- you are welcome -“

“oh come-the fuck-on!” with lengthy strides, rafe came up behind and stole the glass of bourbon before you could gulp down the rest. “be honest with me, huh? you’re capable of that, yeah? me, not them? right?!”

a deep sigh, annoyed and exhausted. mentally. emotionally. politically. “if i didn’t, the administration would be over.”

“bullshit.” he set the glass down.

you rolled your eyes and reached for another mini glass. “well .. what else do you want me to say?”

“hmm, how about the fucking truth? hmm? for once, maybe? that would be fan-fucking-tastic.”

you huffed when his warm hands stopped yours from taking the bottle of bourbon. rafe then, gripped your shoulders and forcefully turned your front to face him completely. “what .. in the fuck .. were you even thinking?”

again: “the administration.”

rafe dropped his head — “you’re lying.” he removed his heavy hands from your shoulders and started toward your desk, creating distance. he couldn’t breathe anymore. taking a breath felt so much harder on his body. “this .. this wasn’t just about the administration.” rafe met your gaze again, “you didn’t lie to protect my father, his feelings and his job. what-the fuck-ever. you did that to .. to protect me. and i need to know why.”

yeah .. that had nothing to do with the president. and it had nothing to do with the reelection. “you don’t get it.” the answer was short, and way too simple.

“then make me get it.”

you shook your head — grabbing your previous glass of bourbon — because saying it out loud made it real. and if it was real, then so was the madness of what you had done. you had spent this entire year crafting your new career; fighting, clawing your way into the president’s inner circle, making yourself indispensable.

you felt like your mother.

the single woman who raised you to be sharp, relentless, untouchable. the woman who spent her life twisting the truth with ease, making impossible choices, cutting the world open with a scalpel and stitching it back together before anyone noticed the wound — the woman you swore you would never become. the woman who had taught you that power wasn’t about truth — it was about control ..

.. because in washington, that’s what survivors did.

rafe stared hard .. he wasn’t looking at you like a strategist. he wasn’t looking at you like a fixer. he was looking at you like he had just realized you were capable of anything.

“i ..” you were supposed to be above this. above emotions. above personal attachments. but tonight? you lied like a woman who had something special to lose. “.. saved you.” refilling the glass, “i saved you the trouble.”

“what ..?” searching your face for a new angle. “you should have let me fall.”

“i saved you ..” you repeated, wincing after the liquor intake, “.. from ruin. from becoming’a headline. front page of every outlet, broadcasted on every news channel. from the kind of scandal that doesn’t jus’end careers - it destroys legacies.”

rafe released a sharp breath, moving in — furious and disbelieving, “you think i give-a-shit about legacies? seriously?”

“i know you don’t. you’re reckless. i think you have no idea how dangerous that shit was - how one misstep, one wrong word, one leak could have ended everything. everything would have crumbled because of you!” you pointed a finger, hand trembling with restrained anger, “hours and hours and hours of everyone’s time spent into securing your father’s presidency .. wasted because of you!”

“me?!”

“yea’! yea’you! you don’t get to fuck up! you -!” and you stopped yourself. you had to. you couldn’t keep yelling .. especially at the president’s son. anyone could have barged in and caught the sight. you lowered the glass nearby and moved from the liquor station. you settled down on the arm of the lounge chair, much further from rafe now. you crossed your legs again, “you don’t get to be naive,” you said after, folding your hands over your knee. “you don’t get to be stupid. a stupid young adult .. like everyone else. you don’t get to make mistakes and think they’ll only fall on you -“

rafe stiffened, fists clenching and unclenching, his sky blue eyes widening just enough for you to see it. he dragged a hand down his dry mouth, his composure cracking. he needed the room to stop spinning — so he dropped himself down onto a corner of your desk .. looking straight at you. eyes flickering from your face, to the layered jewelry around your neck, to the closed buttons keeping your breast covered, to the glittering engagement ring on your left finger ..

he blinked off then.

“- you are the president’s son. you are the heir to a machine built on power and perception. and if you had gone down for this? if i had let you take the fall?”

a pause.

lethal, intimate: “they wouldn’t have just ruined you. they would have burned and buried you.”

rafe swallowed deeply, his adam’s apple bobbing.

“you would have been reduced to a cautionary tale. a disgraced footnote in your father’s presidency -“ unable to sit still anymore, you slid from the armrest. “- his failure. his shame. and then, rafe? he loses. ‘nd everything .. every policy, every promise, every ounce of work this administration has done - gets erased.”

and you weren’t done. not nearly.

you were marching toward him .. getting dangerously close. so close that he was starting to see the fire in your eyes, the seriousness. “rafe ..” barely a whisper, almost intimate in its intensity, “.. i saved you from a lifetime of being the reason your father lost his second term. i saved you from a shit-storm you would have never recovered from. i saved you from the press tearing into you, from the wolves in that room who would have chewed you up and spit you out before you even knew what was happening.”

rafe sitting on your desk allowed him to finally be eye-level with you. “i saved you from yourself.”

and the words hung between. rafe just stared at you, breathing hard. because now? now he understood. you hadn’t done it because of politics. you hadn’t done it because of strategy. it had felt like desperation. you had done it because it was him. and you cared so deeply about him.

that was the real problem.

you don’t save people. you fix. you manipulate. you control. you lie to keep your clients, your candidates, your president unbeatable.

again, this wasn’t strategy. this wasn’t some calculated political maneuver. because you cared about rafe, you had to save him. and for the first time in your career, you didn’t make a move based on logic or power or control — you made it based on him.

rafe was a weakness.

no. you turned sharply, ready to pack up your belongings and head home for the night. you had said what needed to be said. made your case. explained yourself well enough — rafe’s hand caught your wrist .. his grip firm and hot, locking around the cold silver of your timeless watch, like a restraint and a plea all at once.

“rafe,” a low warning.

but he didn’t let go. “i like when you say my name ..” with little force, he pulled you back in — swift, deliberate, no hesitation.

your body collided with his, and suddenly you were standing between his legs, your knees brushing against the edge of your own desk, your breath coming fast. “wh-no, rafe.” he shushed you softly, shaking his head. he released your wrist, only for a second, to snake both arms around your waist and tug you in even closer.

his gaze — god, his gaze. “no, rafe.” you tried to rip yourself away .. he wouldn’t dare let you go. not right now. your throat was dry and every exhale felt uncomfortable.

softly, “can we stop the bullshit?” rafe tilted his head a bit, careful as he leaned in .. trying to be extra sneaky. “please?” he leaned in some more, just enough for you to feel the heat of his breath against your jawline, and it was infuriating how easily he unraveled you. “please? can we stop the bullshit? please?” he was intoxicating.

when he pulled back to meet your eyes and study your face .. he could see the way your lips parted, the way your next breath caught, the way your entire body seemed to betray you. “please ..?” his fingers moved, maddening and slow, and skimmed the hem of your button-up.

a test. a warning. a promise.

you didn’t stop him. didn’t shove him away. didn’t say the words you should have said. so .. he kept going — his fingertips traced the first button, lingering for just a second before he slipped it free, gentle and precise, like he had all the time in the world.

“let’s stop the bullshit, yeah?” rafe’s fingers brushed against the skin just beneath your collarbone, burning against the cool air now slipping between the fabric. “we can do that, right?” light and easy.

then, the second button.

this time, you sucked in a breath, your pulse drumming beneath his fingertips. rafe lifted his gaze, watching you again — watching every tell. because you could outtalk, outmaneuver, outthink anyone. but your body couldn’t lie. not to him. he moved lower — third button, fourth — his knuckles grazing bare skin, the edge of lace beneath. “tell me we can .. ms. mcclellan.”

and when his slick fingers ghosted over your ribs, you finally reacted — your hand shot up, gripping his wrist, holding him still. your breath was ragged, your pupils blown, and god, you were trying so hard to fight this.

to fight him.

“you know i don’t beg, ms. mcclellan ..” and for you he would, which you knew. “we’re not doin’ th’bullshit anymore, right?” instead of responding, you brought your hands to his chest, fingers dragging against the soft, expensive fabric of his blazer.

he didn’t move. didn’t breathe. didn’t dare break the moment as you slowly pushed the suit jacket off his shoulders. the fabric slipped down his arms, and when he let it fall onto the desk behind him .. you found the first button of his crisp white shirt and drew downward; you were crossing a line you could never uncross.

his shirt parted just slightly, exposing the smooth skin of his collarbone, the faintest hint of muscle underneath. you continued on .. you weren’t thinking about the scandal. you weren’t thinking about the lie you had told to protect him, about the fact that you had risked everything for him.

you were thinking about how rafe cameron had always been off-limits ..

he didn’t speak, didn’t smirk, didn’t push — like he knew this was something you needed to do .. and this was something you needed to do.

daydreaming: two bubbles had been floating around in his mind. rough .. gentle. the two words were bolded and in their own unique, distinct font. and then, more words swept in. the question: ‘how was she in bed’? reserved? kinky? passionate? placid? dominant? submissive? too lost in his own world, he opened his mouth and almost asked the question —

— without so much as a warning, he felt your thumb on the underside of his cock .. you took in a low breath, heavy and wanting as you crept all the way to the tip. the pad of your thumb teased and gently dipped into his slit before you lifted your chin, finding his eyes.

rafe’s face twisted up as he let out a wounded noise. his whole body locked, gasping .. he hadn’t felt when you unzipped his fresh slacks and dipped your hand below, into his boxers. with a deeep gulp, he grumbled out: “i can’t do this ..” there had been enough build-up. there had been far too much sexual tension the last couple of months. he couldn’t do the foreplay. he couldn’t do the teasing, the edging, the whatever else before the sex. “i can’t -“ swallowing a sloppy mess of saliva that waved over his tongue.

in one swift motion, he took two fistfuls of your button up and tore it back — loud and deafening, you couldn’t react quick enough. rafe unfastened the safety straps, spun you around, and unzipped your mini-printed pencil skirt. the professional attire crumbled at your heeled feet .. again, he twirled you back and giving you zero time to adjust, lifted you up into the air — as if you weighed nothing, his strength an effortless vigor you couldn’t ignore.

for a second, everything stopped .. the world quieted. you were so caught in the moment, so heated and so caught up in him .. you didn’t hear what he had said. yeah, you saw his lips move .. but no sound was produced.

“put it in .. need you t’do it.” a sweet whisper. a whisper too good, you hadn’t thought twice.

#nali’s ᡣ𐭩 #black writers #black reader #black women #drew starkey #rafe cameron #rafe x black reader #rafe cameron x black!reader #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron!president’s son x crisis manager!black!fem!reader #rafe cameron!the president’s son

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