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oc is named nicola (goes by nic) and she owns a coffee shop. cameron comes in, seeking refuge from a torrential downpour. they spend the afternoon together, waiting out the storm, getting to know each other.
i slept with the guy from open mic night and all i got was emotionally attached
cameron cassmore x female reader
words: 2145
fluff, coffee and cinnamon rolls, aftermath of what was supposed to be a one night stand, reader meets tova, mentions of sex but nothing graphic, no y/n, one-shot
Cameron leans into your ear and whispers, “Why aren’t you wearing pants?”
“I don’t know,” you whisper back, “why didn’t you tell me your roommate is eighty?”
read on ao3 or below:
It’s kind of the last thing you expected.
This week was supposed to be about soup and board games and helping your aunt clear out her garage. It was supposed to be about sourdough starters and running errands.
It was not supposed to be about open mic nights at bars and hot strangers with guitars.
And voices that tickle your spine until you have goosebumps all over.
And blue eyes you could sink into and drown like you never learned how to swim.
It was not supposed to be about one night stands.
But, alas.
The blue eyes are closed. He’s still sleeping.
Cameron.
That’s his name.
Cameron.
You can still remember last night in flashes. His voice through the microphone. The scrape of his thumb over guitar strings.
The way he looked at you across the crowded bar like he already knew how the night would end.
And maybe you did too.
You remember his hands around your waist in the kitchen while you laughed into his shoulder. Remember him kissing you slow enough to make you yearn for more.
Yearn.
For a man you’d met less than three hours ago.
You remember thinking: oh, this is trouble.
Now he sleeps beside you completely unaware of the damage he’s done.
Mouth slightly open.
Hair a mess.
One hand curled loosely against your waist.
You should leave now, probably. Before you turn this into something it isn’t.
Instead you stay exactly where you are.
Cameron shifts in his sleep. Closer. His arm against you tightens.
Half-asleep, he murmurs against your neck, “Morning.”
“Good morning,” you whisper, trying to sound like you haven’t been awake for the better part of an hour just staring at his face. You gather the sheet over yourself, suddenly very aware of your own naked body.
He opens his eyes, barely, looking at you like somehow he didn’t expect you to reply. Like he wasn’t sure you weren’t just a dream.
His voice is rough with sleep. “You’re very pretty.”
You snort with laughter.
His brow furrows. “What?”
“Is that your go-to?”
“My go-to?” he repeats, visibly offended.
“Yeah. Your morning-after line.”
“You say that like I have a system.”
“You don’t?”
He shakes his head. “This doesn’t happen to me often.”
“Uh-huh,” you say. “I bet I can predict your next move, though.”
“There are no moves.”
“Right. So you’re not going to get me a cinnamon roll for breakfast?”
“No, I’m not—” He pauses abruptly. “Wait, what? How did you—”
“Last night, I told you I’m new to town and you said…”
Your voice trails off. That’s enough to spark his memory.
“That you should try the cinnamon rolls from the bakery,” he concludes.
“And you specifically said they make a great breakfast.”
His face shifts. Like he’s just now putting two and two together.
“But that’s not a move,” he says.
“No?”
“That’s just—”
“Yes?”
“Information that could improve your quality of life.”
“It’s that good?”
He nods.
You consider him for a moment. He seems sincere, and even if it is a move, like some sort of thank you for the sex, have a cinnamon roll and don’t be mad if I never call you scheme, what is really the worst thing that could happen?
That you leave here with two orgasms and a sugar high?
There are worse fates.
“Then I guess we’re having cinnamon rolls,” you say.
“Give me thirty minutes.”
He gets dressed like he’s already late for something—and for a moment you think he’s freaking out that you might not be here if it takes him a minute longer than he’s promised. You shrug off that thought as quickly as it comes.
Before he’s out the door, you realize that while last night has left you happy and satisfied and relaxed beyond measure, it has also left you icky. Dried sweat. Remnants of perfume. Whatever is left of your makeup.
“Uh, Cameron?”
He turns quickly. “Yeah?”
“Can I take a shower?”
“Sure. Through there,” he says, pointing to a door in the hallway. “Extra towels in the cabinet.”
You nod.
He leaves.
Thirty minutes doesn’t leave you with a lot of snooping time—not that you would, anyway, but you do glance around as you head to the shower, making a few accidentally-on-purpose stops along your way. The house is nice, well built, with a lot of wood and knickknacks that don’t really scream Cameron, but you just met the guy so what do you know? Maybe the little horses have a story behind them. Maybe the framed cross-stitch pieces were passed down to him. Maybe he got the place furnished and hasn’t had time to redecorate anything besides his room.
Maybe—
Maybe it’s been fifteen minutes and you still haven’t gotten to the shower.
The water pressure is bad. Like, really bad. And he doesn’t have nice products, but other than that it’s a fairly uneventful shower until—
The front door slams shut.
And just before you have a chance to call out his name, someone else does it for you.
“Cameron?”
It’s a woman’s voice.
A chill runs through your body.
You don’t reply.
You run through the possibilities in your head. This isn’t his house. He’s house sitting. Or he’s a burglar. A scammer. A real estate agent with boundary issues.
Or—
He’s married.
You don’t like any of the options.
Not because of him—God, no. If he’s a liar or cheater or whatever, good riddance. You do not care.
But simply because now you’re complicit. And naked. In a stranger’s house.
That’s the kind of thing that gets people shot.
“Your car isn’t out front,” the woman calls out.
The voice sounds frail, a little hesitant too. And it’s getting closer.
You turn off the shower. She knocks on the door. Your heart jumps and your eyes flick to the handle.
Locked. Thank God you had some sense.
“Cameron, are you in there? Is everything okay?” the woman asks.
“No, sorry, wrong person,” you blurt out, because you have to say something.
There’s a long pause.
“Who’s in my shower?”
“Funny story. I thought this was Cameron’s shower and not, um—I’m sorry, who are you?”
“I’m his grandmother.”
He lives with his grandmother?
Weird.
And sweet.
And—
Oh, for fucks sake. Get out of the bathroom.
You look around frantically only to discover that your clothes are exactly where you left them.
On Cameron’s floor.
The only thing you have is panties. Skanky panties.
That’s what your aunt had called them when you were unpacking. Then she’d laughed and said you would not be needing such things in Sowell Bay.
Joke’s on her.
You toss them on and reach for a towel, starting to wrap it around your chest before it hits you.
Modesty, maybe.
Or just the possibility of getting shot, which is still very real, and if that happens you do not want to be wearing skanky panties and a towel and end up the star of the most unfortunate crime scene photos.
Because the woman outside the door may very well be Cameron’s grandmother and she may be sweet and understanding to naked strangers and not shoot you—but what if the man you met isn’t Cameron at all?
What if the real Cameron is dead and stuffed in a closet somewhere and you were just a bit of entertainment for Scameron while he waited for grandma to come back so he could finish what he—
Oh, God. You have to stop listening to true crime podcasts.
And you can not go out there in a freaking towel.
There’s another knock at the door.
“Whoever you are, will you please come out?”
A quick glance around the bathroom proves most unhelpful to your current predicament—until you spot something hanging from a hook on the back of the door. A shapeless lump of dark fabric.
A sweatshirt.
Cameron’s, most likely. Unless his grandma is secretly an oversized sweatshirt kind of baddie.
You snatch the sweatshirt off the hook. It’s soft, probably from years of washing. Still warm, somehow, from the shower steam.
And before you can stop yourself, you bring it up to your face.
Big mistake.
It smells like him.
Not gross, sweaty boy smell. Just—him. Faint detergent, subtle woodsy cologne and skin.
Your stomach flips immediately.
“Oh, you are pathetic,” you whisper to yourself.
Cameron’s grandma clears her throat outside the door.
You pull the sweatshirt on quickly and then, carefully, crack the bathroom door open.
The woman waiting outside is about five feet tall with silver hair, a cozy cardigan and practical shoes. Her eyes glaze over you—bare legs, Cameron’s sweatshirt, wet hair—and for a moment you expect a scolding.
But then, she simply tilts her head to the side and mutters, “Oh, dear.”
“I’m sorry, I—” you stammer, but the rest of the words fail to materialize.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she says. “I’m not even supposed to be back yet.”
She starts walking down the hall, gesturing for you to follow. You do.
“I’m Tova,” she says.
You reach the kitchen. Tova starts putting on a pot of coffee.
You stand there awkwardly.
“And you, dear?” she asks. “What’s your name?”
“Oh, I’m—”
The front door opens. Both of you turn to look.
Cameron walks in carrying a stack of two white bakery boxes.
He’s smiling. Actually smiling. Hair damp from the rain, cheeks flushed from the cold.
“Okay,” he starts, “I was just gonna get cinnamon, but they were doing something new with pistachios, so I—”
He freezes.
You and Tova stare at him from the kitchen.
He walks over, eyes peeled on you and your bare legs and the whole situation at hand, and sets down what he’s brought on the counter.
“Uh, so, uh—”
“Relax, Cameron, we’re all adults here,” Tova says and begins unpacking the contents of the bakery boxes onto a decorative plate.
He rubs the back of his neck. “You said you wouldn’t be back until tonight.”
“Margaret’s husband developed chest pain, so we all came back early.”
“Oh.”
“He’s fine.”
“Great. Awesome. Fantastic for him.”
Tova walks over to the cupboard to grab coffee mugs.
Cameron leans into your ear and whispers, “Why aren’t you wearing pants?”
“I don’t know,” you whisper back, “why didn’t you tell me your roommate is eighty?”
“Fair point.”
“I haven’t seen you around Sowell Bay before,” Tova says, gesturing for both of you to sit down, and you feel obligated to obey.
“I’m just visiting.”
“Mm,” she says, pouring coffee into three mismatched mugs. “Sowell Bay has a habit of keeping people who need keeping.”
Cameron looks at her like she’s practically arranging a marriage.
You laugh.
“I’m going to take my coffee outside,” Tova says. “You two can pretend I’m not even here.”
“It’s raining,” Cameron tries to argue.
“There’s a roof over the deck,” Tova replies. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
And then, wearing another cardigan on top of the other one, she goes out into the cold misty air where rain is still falling and disappears from view.
Cameron nudges the plate of baked goods closer to you. You grab a cinnamon roll and take a big bite. It is exactly as good as he has described it to be.
He watches you and the way your lips can’t help but curl into a smile. You wash the bite down with coffee.
“She seems really nice,” you say, nodding your head towards the window. “Did you grow up here?”
He shakes his head. “We only met about six months ago.”
“Oh?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I have time.”
“You do?”
“I mean, my aunt is expecting me to go list all her Beanie Babies on Facebook Marketplace,” you say, unable to hide the hint of amused disdain in your voice. “But I think that can wait.”
“Alright.”
“Unless you’re scared, of course,” you add quickly.
He looks into your eyes from over the rim of his coffee mug. “Scared of what, exactly?”
“I don’t know. The longer I spend here, the more I like it,” you say. Then, you bite your lip. “I might fall in love with Sowell Bay and never leave.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Good cinnamon rolls.”
“Can’t argue.”
“Nice scenery.”
He shrugs. “When you can see it through the fog.”
“Friendly people,” you say.
Your cheeks are burning. He can see it, you know he can. He’s staring, now, and you don’t know if you’re supposed to break the silence or—
He clears his throat.
“Friendly octopuses, too,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
“Like I said,” he says. “It’s a long story.”
“Well?” you ask.
“Well what?”
“Go on, then.”
Cameron smiles.
This week was not supposed to be about cinnamon rolls, grandmothers and blue-eyed boys with stories to tell.
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all you new fandom members need to QUIET DOWN oh my god you're going to get us KILLED. we're happy to have you but if you keep talking about BULLSHIT like PUBLISHING fanfic for MONEY, Anne Rice is going to come back from the dead to KILL US. looking at YOU, maurauders fans, heated rivalry fans, byler fans...out here giving out interviews to news channels SHUT UP. we're going to have to start setting off firecrackers to keep the rent down.
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Well now I need savor with Rhett and mayor's daughter please 👀👀
Ask and you shall receive 🫶
rhett is a yearner and he's in his feels, but he also fucks. 18+/minors dni.
Rhett fucks like he rides bulls, hard and fast.
The goal is to get off, then leave as quickly as possible. No lingering, no cuddling, and certainly no exchanging of phone numbers or promises to call. Sex helps him blow off steam. It’s nothing more than a means to an end.
Until her.
He carried her into the bedroom, fully intending to fuck like normal. Quick and dirty. But he couldn’t. Not with their history or the feelings that have been driving him insane for the past couple of weeks. Simply kissing her nearly sent him over the edge, for God’s sake.
So, here they are. She’s under him, taking all of him as if she’s made for him, and she’s so beautiful like this. Head thrown back in pleasure, unabashedly cursing and clawing at his back. Heat licks his spine, and he knows he’s close, but he’s not ready for this to be over yet.
That, and he needs her to come first. It’s never mattered before, but he does the impossible. He slows down.
Her eyes pop open as his rhythm changes, and she looks as wrecked as he feels. His cock glides in and out of her tight heat in fluid strokes, his thrusts deeper and more deliberate than before.
“Rhett...” she gasps, breathy and desperate.
He leans down and kisses her soft lips, swallowing the sound of her moans, feeling her slick pussy clamp down around him as she goes over the edge. The look on her face as she orgasms is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. She’s a work of art.
“That’s it,” he mutters, strokes still slow as he guides her through it. “So good for me.” Heat rushes through him, and he’s right on the precipice, but he doesn’t go faster.
It’s different with her because it means something. As if sensing his thoughts, her eyes open again, and she raises her hands, gripping the sides of his face. She keeps her eyes trained on his, a sated smile on her face, hissing with sensitivity.
“Come inside,” she whispers, and he all but snaps. He picks the pace back up, slamming into her, chasing his high, but his eyes never waver from hers. She’s all he sees, all he feels, and when he comes, he explodes.
She shouts his name as she milks him for all he’s worth, and when he can finally catch a breath, he knows he’ll never go back to mindless fucks again.
“I’m not sharing you with anybody. You’re mine, and mine only, and I’m going to make you remember that.”
“That’s sweet and all but do they touch you the way I touch you? Fuck you the way I fuck you? Mm, yeah, didn’t think so.”
A softly spoken, “Want you to fuck me like you mean it.”
“Let me take care of you, yeah? I’ll do the work.”
“Gonna fuck you until the only word you remember is my name.”
“Can I… can I touch you?”
“My God, you’re so fucking gorgeous like this.”
“Can I— can I please touch myself?”
“Wanna see how you look when you come undone under me.”
“I’ll make you feel good, I promise. Just trust me.”
“You sound/taste/feel/look so fucking good.”
“Oh God, you feel amazing, baby.”
A whispered “Please” slipping out of kiss bitten lips.
“Mine. All mine.”
“You drive me so insane, you don’t even know.”
“I love getting to know you like this.”
“You. Me. Bed. Clothes off. Now.”
“Is this okay?”
“How much do you want this?”
“Doing so good for me, sweetheart.”
“Shh, just a little more…”
“You’re taking me so well, baby.”
“Say please.”
“I want you in all the ways you’ll let me have you.”
“Tell me how you want me.”
Soft whines and whimpers; held back noises because they don’t want anyone else hearing them; a plea for more without the use of words.
“Oh, I can think of many ways to shut you up right now.”
“Wanna hear you beg for it, yeah?”
“Where do you want me to touch you?” “I don’t know and I don’t care — I just want your hands on me. Please.”
“P-please just”—a sob—“I just need you to fuck me.”
“Need/want you in me.”
“Beg and maybe I’ll think about it.”
“Not so fast, bun.”
“So… You touch yourself to the thought of me? I’d like to see that in action.”
“Want your fingers in me.”
“Now, why don’t we teach you a lesson?”
“Touch yourself for me.”
“Tell me how you like/want/need it.”
“I wanna taste you on my lips again.”
It’s the gentle and soft touches which send shivers skittering down their spine.
“Rough or gentle?”
“Fuck, look at you right now…”
“You’re really messing with my head here.”
“Fuck, just touch me already! Just— just do something!” “Not so fast. We’ve still got the whole night/day ahead of us.”
“Wanna feel you against me.”
“Don’t wanna come until I feel you in me.”
“Clothes on or clothes off?”
“All yours. Only yours.”
“How about we put that pretty mouth of yours into good use, hm?”
“Fuck, I need/want you so bad.”
“I want you to say my name like that again.”
“Aren’t you desperate?”
“Only I get to ruin you like this, you hear me?”
“Only I get to touch you like this, okay?”
“Patience, love. We’re getting there.”
“Look at your reflection. Look at how gorgeous you are. So fucking gorgeous when I’m fucking you like this. So pretty for me, and only for me.”
“Be good for me.”
“You want to come?” “Y-yes, I— please—” “Hm, but do you really deserve to?”
“You like that, don’t you?”
“Let’s make your thoughts a reality, yeah?”
“Imagine how amazing you’d sound when I’m fucking you senseless.”
“I’ll fuck you so good, I promise.”
“I can taste myself on your lips and it’s messing me up real bad.”
“You look like a mess and I love it, because I’m the one who made you like this.”
“You’ve got me all hot and bothered.”
“You don’t get to touch yourself until I say so.”
“Always so needy for me, aren’t you? Can’t help yourself, can you?”
“Please let me come.”
“I-I promise I’ll be good.”
“How are you feeling?”
“God, you feel so good around me.”
“So wet/hard for me already, huh?”
“You good?”
“Mm, always so impatient for me, aren’t you?”
“Do I turn you on that much?” “You don’t even fucking know.”
“You wanna take control?”
“Let me ride you.”
“Behave.”
“F-Fuck, I don’t think I’m gonna last long if you keep doing that.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted someone more.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Stop fucking teasing me and get to it already.”
“Oh, the things I’d do to you if we were alone right now…”
“Th-There are people outside this door—” “Well, this isn’t about them, is it?”
“Look at you, squirming under me, all flushed and pretty looking. Can’t even take a little teasing, can you?”
“Yeah, but they don’t fuck you the way you deserved to be fucked, do they?”
“Might I remind you that these walls aren’t sound proof.”
A softly exhaled, “I don’t think I can ever get enough of you.”
“Do you know how much I love seeing you like this?”
“How do you want me to touch you?”
“Let me show you how much I mean what I say.”
“Gonna make sure you don’t forget about tonight.”
Whispered praises against the other’s lips, which are met with soft whimpers and moans.
“Need me to remind you on what happened last night?”
“Oh, sensitive there, aren’t we?”
In a hoarse whisper, “Fuck, you’re killing me here.”
“But you think about me when they’re fucking you, don’t you?” “I… That’s not true.”
“Try not to be so noisy, yeah?”
“Tell me if it hurts, okay?”
“Lift your hips up for me.”
“Fuck, you’re so hot when you’re bossy.”
“Look at you, coming undone before I’ve even started touching you.”
“Stop glaring at me like you don’t enjoy me teasing you.”
“I want to be the one fucking you this time.”
“Sweetheart, you’re so responsive to my touch.”
“I think you’d look even better under me.”
“And I think you’d look fucking hot when you’re on top of me.”
“Want you to ruin me.”
“Do whatever you want with me.”
“Just sit on my fucking face already.”
“Who gave you permission to touch yourself?”
“What did I just say?”
“You feel so fucking good in me.”
“You can have all of me if that’s what you want.”
“Baby—shit—I don’t think I’m gonna make it to the bed like this.”
“Tell me if it becomes too much, okay?” “Okay.”
“S-Stop leaving marks on my neck. I have a presentation first thing in the morning.” “Then I get to leave marks anywhere below the neck?”
“Let me make you feel good this time?”
“You only get to watch.” “B-but—” “No buts, sweetheart.”
“I’d fuck you right here, right now, if I could.”
“Let’s take it back to my place.”
“Are we— are we really going to do this here?”
“Turn around.”
“You look so cute like this, you know?” “Shut the fuck up and just fuck me already.”
“Why’d you stop?” “Because you sounded too fucking good and so I had like, a moment.”
“I don’t like people touching what’s mine.”
“Eyes on me at all times, sweetheart.”
“I wanna eat you out so fucking bad.” “Then why don’t you?”
“Spread your legs for me.” … “Spread them wider.”
Hands firm on their thighs, keeping them from snapping them shut.
“I’m not done with you yet.”
A whispered, “Then come for me,” right next to their ear after they beg for release through tears and soft whimpers, because they’ve been edged for way too long.
“Admit it — you want this as much as I do.”
“I’ll be honest: I get off to the thought of you.”
“No one does it like you.”
“Christ, I wanna fuck you so bad.” “You’ll get to do that once we get home.”
“I want you in the most sinful ways possible.”
“Need a hand?”
“Aww, how eager can you get?”
“I want you to touch me like I’m the only thing you could ever want.”
“Can’t— can’t you go faster than this?”
“You like messing with my head, don’t you?” “Only because it clearly turns you on.”
“B-But what about you?” “We can worry about me later. It’s all about you right now.”
“Shit, I’m so fucking hooked on you it’s not even funny.”
“You’d sound so good begging for it.”
“Fuck, you have such a tight hold on me, you don’t even know.”
“Don’t make too many noises or we’ll get caught.” “That’s part of the thrill.”
“I don’t care, I just need these clothes off so I can fully feel you against me.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
