rafecswhore

[rafecswhore]

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.”

[rafecswhore]

DO SOMETHING BABY, SAY SOMETHING - kook!bully!rafe x sweetheart!kook reader

you don’t even knock. you never have to.

sarah’s sweater is folded neatly in your arms, the one she left at your place last weekend, and you promised you’d bring it by today. you didn’t expect to stay. you didn’t expect to talk to rafe.

you definitely didn’t expect him to already be standing there when the door opened.

leaning against the staircase. arms crossed. jaw tight. that familiar mix of arrogance and something deeper, darker, sitting right behind his eyes.

you don’t say hi.

you don’t look at him.

just walk past, like he’s air. like you didn’t cry yourself to sleep last night over the words he said.

you hand the sweater to sarah and give her a soft little smile. “told you i’d bring it by.”

she squints. “you okay?”

“yeah,” you lie gently. “just tired.”

you feel him staring. you always feel it. it burns in the back of your neck, across your shoulders, deep in your chest.

but you don’t turn around.

“you’re seriously not gonna say anything to me?” rafe says behind you, sharp. annoyed. like you’re the one being dramatic.

you pretend not to hear him.

sarah opens her mouth, probably to tell him to shut up, but you beat her to it. “i’m just gonna head out. i have homework.”

you turn toward the door.

you don’t even make it two steps before rafe grabs your wrist.

“jesus—” you hiss softly, caught off guard. “rafe, let go—”

but he’s already dragging you down the hall, muttering something under his breath, jaw locked so tight it looks painful. he doesn’t stop until he’s pushed open his bedroom door, yanks you inside, and slams it shut.

the click of the lock is louder than anything.

you just stare at him, breath shallow.

“really?” you say. “you’re locking me in your room now?”

“you’re not gonna keep doing this,” he snaps, pacing. “you think you can just come in here and walk past me like i’m nothing?”

you blink. “i didn’t come to see you.”

“yeah, i figured that out,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “but you still came. you knew i’d be here.”

you cross your arms, voice calm. “and i ignored you. because i didn’t want to fight.”

“so you’re ignoring me now?” he throws back. “that’s mature.”

you don’t flinch. “you called me pathetic, rafe.”

he freezes.

his jaw clenches. he looks away.

you swallow. “you said i cling to people because i’m scared of being alone. that i only help people because i want to be liked.”

your voice stays soft. too soft for how bad it hurt. but you don’t yell. you never yell.

“i was pissed,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “you were defending that idiot again, and i lost it.”

“he didn’t deserve what you said to him.”

“he’s a loser.”

“and i still asked you not to say anything,” you say quietly. “i asked you. because i know you. and you did it anyway.”

he doesn’t have anything to say to that.

you sit on the edge of his bed and stare down at your hands. “you say things like that, and then you expect me to smile at you the next day like nothing happened.”

rafe doesn’t move.

“i’m tired, rafe.”

his voice finally cracks. “you don’t get to do this.”

“do what?”

“pull away from me like that.” his chest rises, unsteady. “you don’t get to look at me like i don’t exist. not you.”

you lift your gaze.

“you say i’m too soft,” you whisper. “you say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“i don’t mean it like that.”

“i know,” you say. “but sometimes… it still hurts.”

he steps forward. then stops. then steps back.

“you always forgive me,” he mutters. “you’re the only person who ever fucking forgives me.”

you give him a small, tired smile. “maybe that’s the problem.”

he walks to the door. presses his forehead against it like it might keep him from exploding. “i hate this.”

“i know.”

“i’m not good at this,” he says, voice cracking. “i don’t know how to say the right thing. i just… i don’t want you to stop talking to me.”

your voice is barely a breath. “then stop giving me reasons to.”

he turns.

his face is flushed. tired. raw in a way you don’t usually get to see.

“i’m trying,” he says.

you nod slowly. “then try harder.”

and finally — finally — he walks over. kneels in front of you, hands gentle on your knees, like he’s afraid if he touches you wrong you’ll slip through his fingers for good.

“don’t shut me out like that again,” he says. “please.”

you look at him. and for a second, he looks like the same boy you saw something good in all those months ago.

so you uncross your arms. reach down. take his hand.

“then don’t make me feel like i have to.”

and it’s not a kiss. it’s not some big dramatic apology. but you squeeze his hand, and you don’t let go.

and for rafe, that’s enough to start.

[rafecswhore]

THE TURNING POINT - S. SALVATORE X F!READER

summary : you sleep with stefan for the first time and come across a picture of katherine. setting: s1, ep 10 (the turning point) word count: 1.3k~

you were curled up against his chest, skin still buzzing, wearing nothing but his shirt — soft, a little too big, smelling like him. stefan’s fingers brushed along your spine, slow and grounding, like he couldn’t believe you were real. you felt him press a kiss to your temple.

“you’re probably thirsty,” he said, voice low and gentle. you smiled sleepily. “yeah, what about you?” he laughed under his breath. “yeah.” a beat passed. “right,” you said softly, pulling the shirt tighter around you as he slid out of bed, shirtless, still looking at you like you hung the moon.

the door clicked shut behind him, and you sat up, eyes roaming the room — the bookshelf, the journals, the quiet. you wandered over to his dresser, fingertips grazing the wood. that’s when you saw it — a photograph, partly tucked away beneath a notebook. you picked it up. and everything stopped. a girl smiled up at you. soft eyes. brown hair. elena gilbert.

but you didn’t know that. you thought it was katherine — the mysterious ex he told you about in fragments and warnings. the girl who broke him. the girl who looked like you. your stomach twisted. the picture felt too new, too close, and suddenly everything from the past hour — his hands, his eyes, his lips — felt like they belonged to someone else. you didn’t hear him return until his voice broke the silence behind you. “here.” you turned. he was holding a glass of water. his smile faltered the moment he saw what you were holding.

“you kept a picture of her?” you asked, voice quieter than you meant. he hesitated. “yeah.” “katherine?” another pause. “yeah.” you stared at the girl in the frame, then back at him, feeling something shift and shatter. “she looks exactly like elena.” “i know,” he said, too quickly. you nodded, blinking hard. “you should’ve told me,” you said, gently placing the photo down like it could break too. then you brushed past him, his shirt still clinging to your body, his water untouched in his hand. “right,” you said again, but this time it didn’t mean anything at all.

[rafecswhore]

where’s ur masterlist

hi !! I don't have a master list yet as I don't have enough fics to make one (imo) but once I do I'll share it again !!

[rafecswhore]

OMGGGG @hjpsdiary our two worlds collide 😁😁

hi! loving your rafe cameron who thingy at the moment it’s so good and i love all the different fandoms and ideas! i was wondering if you’d ever consider writing a slytherin rafe x hufflepuff reader one?

love you work <33

# HOGWARTS — slytherin!rafe who . . .

main masterlist | series masterlist

glances at you the first time during second year when you trip over your robes in the hallway and instead of laughing like his friends, he just keeps walking, but his gaze lingers half a second too long.

bumps into you on purpose one afternoon, knocking your bag to the ground, just to see if you’d cry or snap, and when you glare at him like you’re not scared at all, he grins for the first time in days.

scoffs when a professor partners him with you for a magical creatures project, muttering “great, a puff. this’ll be fun,” but still does every part of the work because he refuses to be outdone.

sends a jinx your way during third year dueling club, smirks when you fall, then just stares when you laugh and get right back up like you weren’t humiliated at all.

stays behind after class when you drop your quill and actually hands it back instead of kicking it like he used to. he doesn’t smile, but doesn’t look away from your eyes either.

starts watching you more during fourth year, arms crossed, jaw tight, trying to decide when exactly you stopped being annoying and started being interesting.

sighs dramatically when he’s paired with you again in potions but doesn’t argue this time, just lets you lead and mutters “guess you're not just sunshine and stupid after all.”

glares when you wave at him across the great hall, but still nods back.

tosses a sugar quill on your desk after snapping at you in front of the whole class, then walks off before you can thank him.

gets weirdly quiet in fifth year when someone calls you “just a puff” under their breath. he doesn’t say anything until after class when he meets that kid’s eyes and hexes their ink bottle to explode mid-essay.

starts sitting next to you in electives without being asked, and when someone points it out, he just shrugs like “we’ve partnered before. might as well.”

starts watching your quidditch matches, always near the back, arms crossed and scowl tight maybe, but he still never misses a game.

lets you wear his scarf during a snowy sixth year hogsmeade trip with a sigh, muttering “don’t stretch it out.”

fights with you in the courtyard after you catch him hexing someone again, and when you shove him, he grabs your wrist and kisses you, like he’s been waiting since second year.

doesn’t tell anyone about the kiss, but he doesn’t need to. everyone sees the way he stands beside you now.

still teases you in front of others, still rolls his eyes, still calls you “too soft,” but starts doing it while holding your hand under the table.

starts waiting for you outside your common room, hands in his pockets, pretending he’s “just walking by” even though it’s across the damn castle LMAO

pulls you aside before every quidditch match now, lifts your chin, says “don’t get distracted. and don’t die.”

listens when you talk about what you’ll do after hogwarts, doesn’t say his own plans, but quietly shifts his to be closer to yours.

says “you’re not allowed to fall in love with anyone else” on a late walk after curfew, and you realize it’s the closest he’s ever come to saying he loves you.

walks beside you on the last day of seventh year like it’s just another morning. he doesn’t kiss you goodbye just yet. he just says “you were the best thing i got out of this place.”

me when i write them a happy ending idc i dont wanna ruin them id probably cry

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[rafecswhore]

gumdrop!reader reacting to fratboy!rafe shirtless…

“manwhore the new look, cameron?” you call out, hands cupped around your mouth from across the road. his head whips your way, and you cross your arms over your tight pink tank, tapping the sole of your boots against the pavement.

“huh..i don’t know is mismatched freak the look for today?” rafe retorted, crossing the road over to you and ditching his friends on the other side.

shirtless - rafe cameron was walking around the island shirtless. girls making 180 degree angles to try and catch him as he walks by. and while there were times where you would have never dreamed nor cared about a shirtless rafe, things had changed..sort of. now, you could openly mock him over it. before, you didn’t know him.

“mismatched freak is always the look, rafe,” you shake your head, lifting yourself up onto the wooden railing separating the road and the beach. his hand trails up your dangling leg, nearly making it to the underside of your thigh before you kick it away. he only grabs ahold again.

he was about to open his mouth, probably to quip something in return to your earlier comment..then mumbled, “right well i’m not a manwhore.”

“debatable,” you snorted, eyes trailing down his chest to his stomach.

“what are you doin’?” he grins, catching your gaze slipping down him, tutting before he lightly taps your chin upwards. “no, you can’t do that, see, ‘cause of what you called me, so..” he holds his hands up, then crosses his arms over his chest as if to hide it from you.

“well fine, then,” you huff, hopping down, covering his eyes with your hand when it drops down to your legs. “you can’t look at that either! you said i looked like a freak!” you point out, slightly triumphant with the frown that crosses his face in place of the smug smile. letting out a contemplative hum, you look around, before saying, “i wonder which guy here wouldn’t mind a mismatched freak..”

you let out a chuckle as some wandering eyes glance your way in passing. something rafe must have a sixth sense for because he’s quick to swat your hand away, one arm coming around your shoulders, another roughly hooking around your thighs, pulling you into his bare chest. “never said i minded,” he grunts into your ear, nearly crushing you in his grip as if he’s hiding you from every other man.

and he is, something confirmed when he snarls a, “the fuck are you lookin’ at?” at some boy in the same year as you guys.

“wait who’s looking?” you pipe up, trying to crane your neck out of his grip only for him to smush you back into him, hauling you away with long strides.

“no one,” rafe grumbles, crowding your vision with his arms.

“where’re we going?” you giggle, wrapping your arms around his torso as he continues to drag you away.

“my car, princess. got everyone’s damn attention, now i gotta fuckin’ hide you,” he chuckles whenever you mumble something into his stomach, letting out a small ‘hm?’ when your voice is smothered by his skin.

“i said: are u hiding me? or am i hiding you?” you ask, mouthing the word ‘manwhore’ to him, before returning back to covering his shirtless self with your hands and body.

and rafe knows, he’s been played. and you’ve won.

[rafecswhore]

ೃ࿔:･ making rafe sleep on the couch

it started with something dumb. a harmless comment that hit the wrong nerve. the way he asked if you were really going to wear that top to dinner with his family, or the fact that he left every dish in the sink like you were his maid. nothing huge, just a spark. but it was the kind that lands in dry grass. you bit back, he bit harder, and suddenly you were both yelling over absolutely nothing.

his tone sharpens and yours stiffens. the air gets thick enough to choke. “i just asked a question,” he says, hands lifted like you’ve pulled a knife on him.

“no, you didn’t. you made a comment.” you snap, throwing your book onto the coffee table with a smack. your stomach tightens as you try to focus on the crackle of the red candle across the room.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, dragging a palm down his face. “are we really doing this?” he stares at your eyes. then at your lips. you avoid eye contact like the plague.

finally your eyes cut across the room, staring right through him. “you’re the one who started-”

“and you’re the one blowing it out of proportion.” he raises his voice an inch louder. silence fills the room like an elephant. you can hear the hum of the air conditioner and the distant chattering of the radio.

that’s it. your blood heats up like water on a stove. you scoff and storm down the hallway, steam pouring from your ears. the heels of your feet slam the floor harder than necessary. you throw the bedroom door open and it smashes against the wall.

he’s already close behind you, voice raised. “you’re being ridiculous.” his throat runs dry, hands balling into fists besides him. he bites down on his cheek hard enough to draw the taste of copper.

you don’t say anything. just rip his favorite pillows out from under the white comforter and throw them onto the ground. they plop onto the hard wood. you turn on your heels, arms crossed, and eyes absent of their usual spark.

“what the hell are you doing?” his voice snaps through the doorway, low and biting. he already knows the answer but wants to hear you say it anyway. he’s standing there with his jaw locked, shirt half unbuttoned. his eyes drop to the pillows on the floor, then back to you. “oh my fucking-”

you glare at him, pointing to the pillows. “you’re sleeping on the couch.”

his eyebrows shoot up, borderline laughing, but you’re too pissed to care. “you’re not serious right? there’s no way i’m sleeping on the-”

“no,” you cut in, cold and flat. there’s no room for debate. “i don’t want to sleep next to you. i don’t even want to look at you.” you turn away from him, eyes filling with salty tears.

the silence is thick and ugly. he opens his mouth but only swallows. he looks at the pillows on the ground like they betrayed him.

“fine,” he says eventually, voice low and bitter. “fucking fine.” he trudges across the room and grabs the pillows. he curses under his breath as he leaves. before he crosses the doorway, he looks back one last time. he imagines you running towards him and saying you didn’t mean it, but his eyes are met with your back as you face away from him.

the bedroom door clicks shut behind him.

~

you stare at the ceiling and flip the pillow. you curl tighter under the blanket, breathe in and out, slow, and force your eyes closed. but your body knows what it’s missing. it’s his heat, his weight, the way his hand always finds your waist even when you’re turned away. the soft, unconscious sigh he lets out just before he falls asleep.

every creak in the house feels louder. on the couch, rafe’s not feeling much different. he’s shifted his position, changed couches, and even hugged his pillow, yet nothing could replicate the feeling of comfort you gave him.

you hear him walk to the kitchen and back. he mutters something to himself under his breath. then the door creaks open. you don’t look.

he slips in like a ghost, like maybe if he moves quietly enough you won’t kick him out again. the bed dips under his weight, tentative. his hand grazes your arm. it’s light, careful, and everything the last few hours weren’t.

“i can’t sleep,” he says, voice raw. “not without you.” you still don’t face him. but your breathing stutters. he leans in anyway, presses his forehead to the back of your neck. “i’m sorry,” he murmurs, and this time it sticks. not an afterthought, not a truce…just the truth.

you shift, just barely, and he takes that as a hint. his strong arm scopes your figure and presses you against his warm chest. he wraps both of his arms around you and kisses the nook of your neck. and this time, you both sleep.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister

[rafecswhore]

NOT MEANT TO SEE - rafe cameron x bunny!reader

you step out just a second too late.

the shot’s already gone off. there’s someone on the ground. rafe’s standing there like he doesn’t even notice the way blood’s blooming into the dirt. like his finger didn’t just pull the trigger.

you stop short, your whole body going still. hands shaking just a little. you’re not sure what you’re looking at. not sure what’s supposed to come next.

rafe turns. sees you. jaw clenched. voice low.

“you should’ve stayed in the car.”

“i heard yelling,” you say, barely louder than a whisper. “i just wanted to—”

“yeah?” he cuts in, walking toward you. “you wanted to what, bunny? see that?” he gestures behind him without looking. “that what you came out here for?”

you flinch. hug your arms tight around yourself. “i didn’t know you were gonna—”

“that’s the fuckin’ point,” he snaps, and then he sighs, running a hand down his face. “you weren’t supposed to see that. you weren’t supposed to be out here.”

your voice wobbles. “is he—did you—rafe, there’s blood.”

“he was talkin’ about you.” rafe’s voice is flatter now. cold. like the softness drained out the second he saw your face go pale. “askin’ who you were. sayin’ shit.”

you blink at him. your lip trembles. “but… you didn’t have to—”

“yes, i did.”

he’s in front of you now. closer than you realized. his hands come up and frame your face, tilting it toward his.

“you think he was gonna just walk away?” his voice drops lower. “you think he was gonna let me walk back to the car and leave with you like nothin’ happened?”

you try to say something, but he shakes his head.

“you don’t get it. you don’t see people like i do. you see the good shit. the soft shit. i see what they’re gonna do before they even get close.”

you swallow hard. “i just got scared…”

his tone softens, just a bit. not all the way. but enough.

“i know, baby. i know.” he leans in, presses his forehead to yours. “but next time you hear somethin’? you stay in the damn car. understand me?”

you nod. slow. shaky.

he wraps his arms around you and pulls you in tight, one hand still holding the back of your head.

“i got you,” he mutters, voice in your hair. “always.”

[rafecswhore]

MID SUMMERS with rafe cameron x fanta!reader

she sees him before he sees her. or maybe he’s already looking and pretending not to. it’s mid-summers, after all. everything feels dipped in honey and champagne, like nothing bad can happen under a sky full of fairy lights.

he’s standing near the terrace with a drink in hand, pale blue suit pressed within an inch of its life, hair slicked back like someone told him to behave. but that’s never worked on him before. not with the way he’s watching her now—like her bare shoulders are an insult, like the gold lace dripping off her hips is a dare.

fanta lifts her chin, squares her shoulders, and lets some guy with perfect teeth pour her another drink. she doesn’t look at rafe again until the guy leans in too close, laughs too loud at something she barely said.

and when she does look back?

rafe’s already halfway to her.

“you got bored quick,” she says before he even opens his mouth, her voice airy like a joke, but her eyes don’t meet his for long.

“you always make me wanna drink faster,” he mutters, setting his glass down without looking. “figured if i didn’t come over now, you were gonna start giving out your number like it’s a damn raffle ticket.”

she rolls her eyes, lips sticky with strawberry gloss. “i didn’t know we were playing the possession game again.”

he huffs. “didn’t know we ever stopped.”

her jaw tightens at that, just for a second. “you didn’t say hi.”

“you didn’t wait.”

“you didn’t want me to.”

he steps in closer, eyes dragging down her dress. “you wore that knowing i was gonna be here?”

her smile tilts. “you think this is about you?”

“it’s always about me when you’re dressed like a fucking dream and letting bradley-whatever run his mouth at you.”

she leans in, the gold of her dress catching against his knuckles. “you jealous?”

“i should be,” he says. “but mostly i’m just tired of pretending you don’t do this on purpose.”

“you looked real cozy with miss blue dress and platform heels earlier,” she fires back, brows raised.

rafe smirks, slow and sharp. “that bother you, baby?”

she doesn’t answer. just sips her drink and says, too soft, “you didn’t even look at me when i walked in.”

he exhales through his nose, eyes still on hers. “i couldn’t,” he admits. “you looked like trouble i was gonna say yes to.”

and maybe that’s the thing with them—always pretending they’re not looking, not wanting, not waiting for the other one to crack first.

she hands him her glass. “if you’re done being an asshole, walk me back inside.”

he doesn’t ask questions. just takes it, slides his hand into hers like he never let it go in the first place.

[rafecswhore]

MID SUMMERS with rafe cameron x fanta!reader

she sees him before he sees her. or maybe he’s already looking and pretending not to. it’s mid-summers, after all. everything feels dipped in honey and champagne, like nothing bad can happen under a sky full of fairy lights.

he’s standing near the terrace with a drink in hand, pale blue suit pressed within an inch of its life, hair slicked back like someone told him to behave. but that’s never worked on him before. not with the way he’s watching her now—like her bare shoulders are an insult, like the gold lace dripping off her hips is a dare.

fanta lifts her chin, squares her shoulders, and lets some guy with perfect teeth pour her another drink. she doesn’t look at rafe again until the guy leans in too close, laughs too loud at something she barely said.

and when she does look back?

rafe’s already halfway to her.

“you got bored quick,” she says before he even opens his mouth, her voice airy like a joke, but her eyes don’t meet his for long.

“you always make me wanna drink faster,” he mutters, setting his glass down without looking. “figured if i didn’t come over now, you were gonna start giving out your number like it’s a damn raffle ticket.”

she rolls her eyes, lips sticky with strawberry gloss. “i didn’t know we were playing the possession game again.”

he huffs. “didn’t know we ever stopped.”

her jaw tightens at that, just for a second. “you didn’t say hi.”

“you didn’t wait.”

“you didn’t want me to.”

he steps in closer, eyes dragging down her dress. “you wore that knowing i was gonna be here?”

her smile tilts. “you think this is about you?”

“it’s always about me when you’re dressed like a fucking dream and letting bradley-whatever run his mouth at you.”

she leans in, the gold of her dress catching against his knuckles. “you jealous?”

“i should be,” he says. “but mostly i’m just tired of pretending you don’t do this on purpose.”

“you looked real cozy with miss blue dress and platform heels earlier,” she fires back, brows raised.

rafe smirks, slow and sharp. “that bother you, baby?”

she doesn’t answer. just sips her drink and says, too soft, “you didn’t even look at me when i walked in.”

he exhales through his nose, eyes still on hers. “i couldn’t,” he admits. “you looked like trouble i was gonna say yes to.”

and maybe that’s the thing with them—always pretending they’re not looking, not wanting, not waiting for the other one to crack first.

she hands him her glass. “if you’re done being an asshole, walk me back inside.”

he doesn’t ask questions. just takes it, slides his hand into hers like he never let it go in the first place.

[rafecswhore]

NOT MEANT TO SEE - rafe cameron x bunny!reader

you step out just a second too late.

the shot’s already gone off. there’s someone on the ground. rafe’s standing there like he doesn’t even notice the way blood’s blooming into the dirt. like his finger didn’t just pull the trigger.

you stop short, your whole body going still. hands shaking just a little. you’re not sure what you’re looking at. not sure what’s supposed to come next.

rafe turns. sees you. jaw clenched. voice low.

“you should’ve stayed in the car.”

“i heard yelling,” you say, barely louder than a whisper. “i just wanted to—”

“yeah?” he cuts in, walking toward you. “you wanted to what, bunny? see that?” he gestures behind him without looking. “that what you came out here for?”

you flinch. hug your arms tight around yourself. “i didn’t know you were gonna—”

“that’s the fuckin’ point,” he snaps, and then he sighs, running a hand down his face. “you weren’t supposed to see that. you weren’t supposed to be out here.”

your voice wobbles. “is he—did you—rafe, there’s blood.”

“he was talkin’ about you.” rafe’s voice is flatter now. cold. like the softness drained out the second he saw your face go pale. “askin’ who you were. sayin’ shit.”

you blink at him. your lip trembles. “but… you didn’t have to—”

“yes, i did.”

he’s in front of you now. closer than you realized. his hands come up and frame your face, tilting it toward his.

“you think he was gonna just walk away?” his voice drops lower. “you think he was gonna let me walk back to the car and leave with you like nothin’ happened?”

you try to say something, but he shakes his head.

“you don’t get it. you don’t see people like i do. you see the good shit. the soft shit. i see what they’re gonna do before they even get close.”

you swallow hard. “i just got scared…”

his tone softens, just a bit. not all the way. but enough.

“i know, baby. i know.” he leans in, presses his forehead to yours. “but next time you hear somethin’? you stay in the damn car. understand me?”

you nod. slow. shaky.

he wraps his arms around you and pulls you in tight, one hand still holding the back of your head.

“i got you,” he mutters, voice in your hair. “always.”

[rafecswhore]

Eid mubarak babies

[rafecswhore]

YOU ACTIN' LIKE I LEFT YOU — rafe cameron x bunny!reader

you’re curled up in your bed like the world ended, wearing the strawberry pajama set he always teased you for. mascara’s smudged. your nose is pink. your heart feels like it’s cracking in half over something that shouldn’t matter this much. but it does. pancake is gone.

he’s been missing since this morning and you’ve checked everywhere—under the bed, in the hamper, behind the bookshelf, even the kitchen trash in a brief moment of unhinged panic. you can’t sleep without him. you can barely breathe without him.

so when rafe finally walks through the bedroom door, soaking wet from running through the rain, flashlight in hand and irritation in his voice, you don’t even lift your head. you just sniff, quietly, dramatically, like a disney princess having a breakdown in the third act.

“you’re seriously cryin’ over this thing?” he says, and his voice isn’t cruel, just confused. like he doesn’t get it but he also kind of does. you peek up from your blanket cocoon and whisper, “he’s gone, rafe.”

he stares at you. the wet hair. the little pout. the glitter-covered lighter still sitting on your nightstand. and he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “you’re actin’ like i died.”

“he smells like you,” you say, soft and wrecked. “and the sheets. and when you used to sleep here every night. and now i don’t know where he is and i feel like… like someone unplugged me.”

he doesn’t say anything for a second. then he walks over slow, like you might bite. sits down at the edge of the bed and just watches you. not judging. not rolling his eyes. just… watching.

“you lost your bear,” he says finally, voice lower now, “and you’re actin’ like i left you."

you shrug. your lip trembles. “feels like the same thing.”

and something in him shifts.

he doesn’t laugh. doesn’t tease. just slides his arms around you, tugs you into his chest, and rests his chin on top of your head.

“you could lose every stupid bear in the world,” he mutters, “and i’d still be here.”

“you promise?”

“yeah. i promise. i’ll rub my hoodie on a new one and call it pancake two or somethin’. make it smell like me. yell at it a little so it’s accurate.”

you laugh into his t-shirt. it’s not that funny. but it kind of is. because it’s him.

and for the first time all day, you feel like maybe you can sleep again. even if pancake’s still missing. even if everything’s not fixed.

because rafe didn’t leave.

and that’s what matters

[rafecswhore]

౨ৎ | RAFE FINDING OUT BUNNY DIDNT USE HIS CARD

you were just trying to be cute.

and then rafe saw the email.

and now he’s just… standing there. in the doorway. arms crossed. brows drawn. watching you spin around in the dress he didn’t buy.

you freeze mid-twirl. blink.

“ohmygosh—you scared me! were you there the whole time??”

he doesn’t move. doesn’t blink. doesn’t say hi.

he just says:

“you didn’t use my card.”

you blink again. big doe eyes. “huh?”

“the order confirmation. it came through. not mine. yours.”

you smile nervously, holding the hem of the dress between your fingers. “yeahhh… surprise! i was gonna show you later with confetti and a cupcake but—um—you kinda ruined that part—”

“bunny.”

his voice cuts through your sentence like a knife wrapped in velvet.

you tilt your head. “i didn’t wanna bother you, baby. you already paid for my nails and that really expensive shampoo and the stuffed animal that sings and my nail glue and—”

“and i wanted to.”

his voice is quiet now. but rough. like he’s trying not to feel it too much.

“you think i don’t want to be the one takin’ care of you?”

you blink. confused and slightly flustered.

“i was just tryin’ to be helpful,” you whisper. “like, girlboss? y’know?”

he moves closer. slowly. until you’re looking up at him like a guilty cupcake.

“you’re not supposed to buy your own things,” he mutters, hand coming up to rest on your cheek. “you’re supposed to send me the damn link and let me do it.”

you frown, softly. “i didn’t wanna be annoying…”

“you are,” he says, brushing your hair behind your ear, “but you’re my annoying.”

you beam. instantly.

he sighs, kisses your forehead, and gently bops your nose.

“next time you wanna surprise me? lemme spoil you. that’s the whole surprise.”

you lean into him like a sleepy bunny and whisper, “can i still get the glitter heels that match this?”

“you’re not paying for ‘em.”

“okay but like… if i accidentally do, will you be mad?”

“no,” he grumbles. “just emotionally devastated.”

you giggle. “that’s so dramatic. you’re like… the sexy dark prince of financial trauma.”

he blinks. “what.”

“nothing.”

and he doesn’t bring it up again.

but later that night, there’s a new notification on your phone:

delivery scheduled—paid by: rafe cameron.

item: glitter heels. one pair. excessive sparkle. no receipt included.

because next time?

he’s already one step ahead.

[rafecswhore]

introducing... fanta!reader

fanta!reader... who chews on sour belts like they’re thinking gum and keeps extra ones in their hoodie pocket “for emergencies.”

fanta!reader... who smells like coconut sunscreen, cheap body glitter, and something citrusy you can’t place. like if chaos had a signature scent.

fanta!reader... who still uses an old iPhone 4 with 653 blurry photos and a cracked screen. no SIM. no shame. takes selfies with flower crowns and tells people “this one’s for the gods.”

fanta!reader... who doesn’t carry a bag, just tucks her whole personality into the waistband of her bikini—lighter, cash, strawberry vape, pink gloss, and a cinnamon stick she swears is “for protection.”

fanta!reader... who thinks the moon is flirting with her and told three people she’s in a situationship with it.

fanta!reader... who makes everyone friendship bracelets but they’re cursed and color-coded based on what crime she thinks they’d commit.

fanta!reader... who keeps a list of her dreams in a diary labeled “classified FBI files” and will physically tackle anyone who tries to read it.

fanta!reader... who says “you guys ever think reality’s just, like, a giant slushie machine?” and then sips fanta like she made a point.

fanta!reader... who writes love notes to herself on her mirror, drinks soda like it’s holy water, and treats every day like a photoshoot even if no one’s watching.

fanta!reader... who can roll a joint with one hand and apply lip gloss with the other, while playing her random house music playlist from spotify which have the best underground house music no ones ever heard of. she only breaks concentration to wink at strangers.

fanta!reader is paired best with boxer!rafe

boxer!rafe…who fights like his fists are the only language he was ever taught. who sees red before the bell even rings—and sees orange when she shows up in a towel skirt and bikini top, sipping Fanta like it’s sacred.

boxer!rafe…who keeps his headphones in before every match, head down, breath steady—until she plugs her phone into the aux and blasts house music through the gym like it’s a rave and not fight prep.

boxer!rafe…who doesn’t like people touching him after a fight—but lets fanta!reader smear glittery under-eye gel on his bruises while “Midnight City” plays from her cracked phone.

boxer!rafe…who finds her pink sunglasses in his glove box, half-melted gum in his hoodie pocket, and a playlist called “rafe’s rage rave” on his Spotify now. he listens to it. alone. in full.

boxer!rafe…who doesn’t smile often, but almost cracks one when she tapes a ring pop to his locker with a note that says: “eat this or I’m telling everyone you cried at the club.”

boxer!rafe…who says he hates parties but shows up if she’s there. leans against the wall watching her dance like the music is stitched into her skin. doesn’t move. doesn’t leave.

boxer!rafe…who lets her draw tiny symbols on his boxing tape with pink marker and says “they’re protection runes.” he shrugs. fights harder.

boxer!rafe…who kisses like he fights—rough, fast, no warning—but lets her take his face in both hands and say, “stop. let me feel you,” like that isn’t the scariest thing anyone’s ever said to him.

boxer!rafe…who almost threw a punch when someone called her “a lot.” didn’t even look angry, just said “watch your mouth.” voice flat. dangerous.

boxer!rafe…who tucks her Fanta bottle cap into his fight bag and doesn’t talk about it. just taps it once before every match, like it means something. maybe it does.

[rafecswhore]

the nazis created fanta this is triggering to ppl who were victims of them

respectfully (but firmly), this take is wildly oversimplified and misleading. no—“the nazis didn’t create fanta.” fanta was developed in nazi germany, yes, but it was created by coca-cola’s german division after the company was cut off from coca-cola syrup due to wartime trade restrictions. they made do with what they had—fruit pulp, whey, etc.—and named it “fanta,” short for fantasie. it wasn’t a nazi invention, it wasn’t propaganda, and it wasn’t designed or endorsed by the regime. it was a corporate workaround to survive wartime logistics. does the context matter historically? sure. but using fanta in a character trope or modern aesthetic isn’t “triggering” or offensive unless someone is deliberately invoking that history—which isn’t happening here. it’s orange soda. it’s campy, colorful, and fun. nobody’s glorifying fascism by referencing a sugary drink. let’s not weaponize misinformation over aesthetics.

[rafecswhore]

guys i really want a new name for fanta!reader but idk what.... help