i love being a girl i love shopping i love doing my hair i love doing my makeup i love wearing dresses i love wearing skirts i hate trump i hate ice i love being woke

CRIMINAL LOVE PART 1

♥︎ masterlist ♥︎

SOCIAL MEDIA AU AND IRL, 18+ MDNI

warnings: mentions of stabbing, mentions of drugs

summary: With your last semester of grad school breezing by, you felt like you could sleep through the next couple of months and still graduate at the top of your class. You only had to get through 3 more months until you walked across the stage and rightfully earned your Master in Criminal Justice degree. All your hard work would finally be paid off. Until your professor hits you with one last assignment that will make you question everything. The assignment? Prisoner Penpals from the State of North Carolina Correctional Facility. Your penpal? Rafe Cameron. His sentence? Life without parole. His crime? First degree murder.

Part 2

it’s been a year since i started this story 🫣

In your 20s, you'll feel like you're losing the race. It's important to understand that there is no race.

You never sleep well your first night back on the ranch.

Too quiet.

Too dark.

Too many ghosts.

You flew in late, long after the boys had gone down to the bunkhouse and before sunrise could give you away. Your dad met you at the airport, drove with the windows down and the radio too loud. Just like he always does when he’s trying not to say I missed you.

Now it’s morning, the sun melting slowly over the fields, and he’s already out at the barn before the coffee even finishes brewing. Same routine, different decade. You’re alone in the main house in a silky maroon robe, nothing underneath, hair still mussed from sleep.

Your suitcase is half-unpacked on the bed, your phone is already buzzing with New York emails, and you ignore every one of them because—fuck that—you’re home for a reason.

And then—

Bootsteps on the front porch.

Slow, heavy, familiar.

Your heart has the audacity to trip.

No one knows you’re here. No one except your father. Which means there’s only one man who’d come sauntering up to the main house without warning.

Rafe Cameron.

Ranch foreman.

Family favorite..

And the only man you’ve ever let close enough to hurt you.

You don’t go to the door. You don’t fix your hair. You don’t even tighten your robe.

Let him see.

Let him choke on it.

The screen door creaks, hinges whining their familiar complaint. Then a voice—lower than you remember, worn with dust and work and two years of growing up.

“Sir?” he calls. “You up here? We gotta talk about that new batch of heifers.”

You smirk.

Of course he does.

He steps fully inside, his boots thudding against the wood floors, and you take three slow steps toward the foyer—lining the moment up like a shot you’ve been planning for years.

The second he turns the corner and sees you, he stops dead.

Just—stillness.

Still as the land outside.

His hat’s tipped back, blond hair longer than you remember, jaw sharper, shoulders broader beneath his flannel. He looks carved from the ranch itself, dust still on his jeans, sweat drying on his throat.

And his eyes?

They go wide. Then dark.

“…Well” you purr, dragging a fingernail down the open seam of your robe, “look what the cat dragged in.”

His throat bobs.

His lashes lower.

But he doesn’t look away.

“Hi” he breathes, voice warm enough to melt metal. “Good to see you, Trouble.”

He always called you that.

Because you were.

Because he liked it.

You roll your eyes, pretended boredom wrapping tight around the spike in your pulse. “Didn’t expect you to come barging in at—” you glance to the clock, “—eight-fucking-thirty in the morning.”

“Didn’t expect you to be standing in the foyer in…” His gaze travels slowly down your body, lingering on the line of your thigh peeking through the robe’s slit. “…that.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “Oh? Is this a problem?”

He exhales through his nose. A slow, measured sound—like he’s holding himself together at the seams.

“A surprise” he murmurs. “Haven’t seen you in two years.”

You smile like it doesn’t ache.

“Well. Maybe you should’ve looked harder.”

That gets him—just a flicker, a soft huff of a laugh.

“Still got that bite” he says, stepping closer. “Good to know some things don’t change.”

You shrug, lifting your chin. “Better a bite than being boring.”

He’s close enough now that you smell the mix of hay and cedar on his skin. Close enough that your body remembers him before your mind does—every barn, every truck bed, every stolen breath in the dark.

“Rafe” you say softly, challenging. “You staring or thinking?”

He wets his lips.

“Thinking I missed that smart mouth.”

Your breath halts.

He doesn’t let it sit long.

“And thinking…” he adds, voice dropping, “you didn’t dress like that on accident.”

Your smile is sharp. “Please. If I wanted your attention, Cameron, I’d actually try.”

“Sweetheart” he says, tone husky-sweet, “you walk in wearing nothing but silk and sarcasm, and you think I won’t notice?”

Your chest tightens.

He’s different.

Older.

More sure of himself.

But his eyes—blue and heated—are the same ones that saw you fall apart the first time he touched you.

You turn, heading toward the kitchen, pretending calm while your pulse pounds.

“Dad’s down at the barn” you call over your shoulder. “If you came to talk cows, go talk cows.”

You expect him to leave.

You hope he doesn’t.

He doesn’t.

His boots follow, slow and steady, and by the time you reach the counter, his hand slips around your waist not pulling, just resting.

Firm. Warm.

Familiar.

“Two years” he says behind you, voice brushing the shell of your ear. “You left without a word.”

You swallow.

“If you wanted a goodbye,” you whisper, “you should’ve asked for one.”

“I did.”

Your breath catches.

“You said” he murmurs, lips so close to your neck it burns, “‘Don’t get soft on me.’ And then you got in that car.”

Your fingers clench the edge of the counter.

You shouldn’t feel guilty.

You don’t feel guilty.

You feel—

“Turn around” he says quietly.

You don’t.

Not until he eases his hand from your waist to your hip, fingers sliding slowly across silk and bare skin.

“Trouble” he rasps, “please.”

Please.

That does it.

You turn.

And he looks at you like he’s starving.

“Jesus” he whispers. “You’re really back.”

You swallow the tightening in your chest with a smirk. “Don’t sound so sentimental, cowboy.”

His jaw flexes.

“You always did hate when I cared.”

“I don’t hate it.” you murmur. “I just don’t need it.”

He steps closer, chest brushing yours. “And what do you need?”

You answer with the truth you’d never say aloud:

“You.”

His eyes flash.

And then his hands grab your hips, tugging you forward, pressing you against him—hard, hot, unmistakably ready.

“Rafe—”

“Two years” he growls against your mouth. “Two years thinkin’ about you. Wondering if you ever thought about me.”

“I didn’t,” you lie.

He chuckles, low and disbelieving. “Funny. You’re shaking.”

Fuck.

You are.

He walks you backward until your ass hits the edge of the dresser in the hall, solid wood, cold against your skin. You open your mouth to make another snarky comment, but he grips the front of your robe and pulls.

Silk parts.

Air hits your bare skin.

Your nipples harden instantly.

His breath stutters.

“Jesus Christ” he murmurs. “You’re… you’re not wearin’—”

“Nope.” You smirk, lifting your chin. “Problem?”

He shakes his head, dazed. “No. God, no.”

His hands slide up your thighs, rough palms dragging sparks along your skin.

“I should be talkin’ to your dad right now” he mutters, voice wrecked. “And instead I’m about to—”

“Don’t act like you’re conflicted” you snap, breath hitching as his thumb brushes the inside of your thigh. “You’ve been waiting for this since the second you walked in.”

He looks up at you, eyes molten.

“Yeah” he admits. “I have.”

Then he grabs your hips and lifts you onto the dresser like you weigh nothing.

Your breath leaves you in a gasp.

He steps between your thighs, spreading them, dragging you forward.

Silk falls off your shoulders.

You’re completely exposed.

His pupils blow wide.

“Fuck” he whispers. “You’re beautiful.”

Your chest tightens—too raw, too honest—so you scoff.

“Shut up and do something about it, Cameron.”

He smirks.

Then he does.

His mouth crashes to yours, hot and hungry, his hands gripping your thighs so tight you’ll bruise. You kiss him back with the same desperation. Two years of want, of anger, of things unsaid spilling into the heat.

He pulls back first, panting.

“Still taste like trouble” he mutters before kissing down your neck, biting at the collarbone that used to undo him.

You fist his hair, tugging hard.

He groans.

“You’re wearing too many clothes” you growl.

He grins against your skin. “Working on it.”

He shoves his flannel off, then his shirt. You run your hands over his chest—harder than before, broader, all work and sweat and years you missed.

He unbuttons his jeans with one hand, the other dragging two fingers through your slick center.

You jolt.

His eyes go dark.

“So wet already” he murmurs. “You miss me, sweetheart?”

“Don’t flatter yourself—”

He slides a finger into you.

Your breath breaks.

He smirks. “Say that again.”

“H—hardly” you gasp as he curls the finger just right. “You’re… you’re out of practice.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

He adds a second finger.

You moan, biting down onto your bottom lip.

“That’s it” he rasps. “Let me hear you.”

Too intimate.

Too close.

You grab his wrist. “Rafe. Just fuck me.”

He freezes.

Not in hesitation—in hunger.

“Yeah” he breathes. “Okay.”

He pulls his fingers from you, slick and glistening, and you barely have time to register the loss before he drags his cock through your folds—slow, deliberate, coating himself in you.

You choke on a breath.

“You ready, Trouble?”

“Are you?” you shoot back.

His grin is pure sin.

“Oh, I’ve been ready for two god damn years.”

He thrusts in.

Your gasp is sharp—pain and pleasure and memory colliding all at once as he stretches you open, inch by inch, deeper than you remembered, deeper than anyone else ever could be.

“Fuck” you hiss, nails clawing his shoulders. “Rafe—”

His forehead falls to yours, breath ragged.

“Still so tight.” he groans. “Still perfect.”

You bite back a whimper. “Move.”

He does.

Slow at first.

Measured.

Letting you feel every inch of him.

Then faster when your hips lift to meet his, when your fingers grip his hair, when your breath stutters with every thrust.

“Goddamn” he pants, driving into you, dresser shaking with each snap of his hips. “You… fuck, you feel the same.”

“Liar.” you gasp. “I’m better.”

He laughs—breathy, destroyed. “Yeah. You are.”

His hand slips to your throat not squeezing, just holding, grounding.

Your eyes meet.

The world goes silent.

For a moment, you aren’t Trouble.

You aren’t running.

You aren’t hiding.

You’re just the girl he touched first.

The girl he never forgot.

That’s what breaks you.

Your body tightens, pleasure cresting hard and fast. “Rafe—”

His grip tightens on your hip. “Come for me.”

“I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” he growls, thrusts growing rougher, deeper, desperate. “Give it to me. Right now.”

The command shatters you.

You come with a choked cry, nails dragging down his back, thighs clenching around him so tight he groans your name like a prayer.

He keeps fucking you through it, jaw clenched, breath shaking. “Jesus—fuck—sweetheart, I’m—”

You pull him closer, lips to his ear.

“Come inside me.”

He swears—loud and filthy—before burying himself deep, spilling into you with a broken moan, forehead pressed to your neck, whole body trembling.

It’s messy.

Hot.

Desperate.

Everything you wanted.

Everything you swore you didn’t.

When he finally stills, panting, he doesn’t pull away. His hand slides to your cheek, thumb brushing along your jaw.

“Been thinkin’ about that for a long time.” he whispers.

You try for snark.

You fail.

“Well,” you murmur, “consider it… nostalgia.”

He laughs softly, kissing your cheek. “Sure. If that’s what you wanna call it.”

You shove his shoulder lightly. “Shut up.”

He nudges your nose with his. “Missed you.”

Your breath catches.

You won’t say it back.

You can’t.

But you let your forehead rest against his anyway.

And for Rafe Cameron?

That’s enough.

For now.

a/n: two fics in two days??? who am I 😭 anyway first cowboy rafe fic is DONE and yeah… we’re starting with a reunion because nothing screams “welcome home” like two years of unresolved tension and a silk robe. enjoy the chaos, angels 🤠🔥

♥️ lani

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ohhhhhh i love cowboy!rafe already. i am so excited to read more about them 🥵

Moondustbaby Presents…

Rafe has been working on the ranch since he was sixteen, taken in by Reader’s father without ceremony or questions. He was given a job, a bed in the bunkhouse, and the expectation that he would pull his weight and he never stopped proving that he belonged there. He lives simply, sharing the bunk room with the other ranch hands, everything he owns fitting neatly into one duffel bag. Old boots by the door. Worn hands. A life built around work.

He isn’t loud about his loyalty, but it runs deep. He’s the first one up and the last one in, handling things before they ever become problems. The other hands respect him without him asking for it — not because he demands authority, but because he earns it every single day. When something needs to be dealt with quietly, he’s the one they send. He doesn’t threaten. He doesn’t explain. He just remembers.

He’s always been protective of the family, especially Reader’s father, standing close when tensions rise, watching without making a show of it. He understands restraint. He understands patience. He understands that some things are better handled without witnesses.

He’s known Reader since they were kids, dirt under their nails, late nights sneaking into the barn just to talk, something unspoken always sitting between them. Whatever they shared never had a name, never needed one. It was in the lingering looks, the pauses, the moments that lasted too long. When she left for New York, he didn’t stop her. He never would. Some people are meant to go.

So he stayed. He always does. Even years later, when her name comes up, his jaw tightens just slightly, like some things never really leave you. He doesn’t expect her to come back. Hope is dangerous. But the ranch still feels like hers. And in ways he doesn’t say out loud, so does he.

They’ve called her Trouble for as long as she can remember. She never bothered correcting anyone. Trouble implies chaos, recklessness, emotion and she is none and all of those things. She’s precise. Calculated. Intelligent in a way that makes people shift uncomfortably in their seats. She doesn’t waste time being likable, doesn’t soften her tone to make others feel at ease. If she’s speaking, it’s because she has something to say, and she expects to be listened to.

New York made her powerful, but she arrived there already sharp. She turned herself into a business mogul through sheer force of will, navigating boardrooms the same way she learned to survive growing up—by never showing weakness and never letting anyone see how much she cared. She is blunt to the point of cruelty, loyal to the point of destruction. Family is the only line she will never cross. As her father’s only daughter, she learned early how to protect what was hers, how to sit at tables she wasn’t invited to and take control anyway.

She rarely goes back to the ranch. Not because she hates it but because it holds too many ghosts. Her mother’s death carved something hollow into her, a wound she refuses to acknowledge out loud. She drinks bourbon or vodka straight, lets the burn replace the things she won’t talk about. Grief hardened her. Survival sharpened her. Love makes her uneasy. Vulnerability feels dangerous.

So when her father calls her home, needing help with the family business, she doesn’t hesitate even if it means facing everything she left behind. The land still knows her. The ranch still remembers. And somewhere between the wide skies and the dust and the quiet, there’s a past she never truly escaped no matter how far she ran.

more coming soon…

a/n: it’s happening 🤎 cowboy!rafe is officially here. i’m so excited to start developing this au and really settle into this world. yes, there are definitely yellowstone vibes, but i want this to be its own universe with its own history, dynamics, and tension. taglist for cowboy!rafe is officially open, so let me know if you’d like to be added!

♥️ lani

i’ll continue to post them 🫶🏻 love that yall are enjoying this little au ive made! im enjoying all the asks and requests 💕