haebaragies

[haebaragies]

— AM I MAKING YOU FEEL SICK?

fawn!reader x rafe cameron

summary: the camerons were new to town, but your father had sworn you away from rafe. only when your compulsions grow to hard to ignore during your father's service one sunday, do you finally meet the real rafe cameron

cw .ᐟ cannibalism, blood, gore, mentions of murder, religious themes, mentions of vomit

02. — AM I MAKING YOU FEEL SICK?

he scared you more than anything ever had. more than your own compulsions, more than your own terrible acts. you'd been scared your whole life, of being caught, being discovered as you lived. but nothing could have prepared you for the fear you felt of him.

from the day you fed on him, unaware of the terror you were putting yourself in. a quiet girl forced to teach him the ways of eating, a lonely girl put into a position of want. but despite his desperate kisses, you were still unsure of his true desires.

rafe wanted an escape, a reason to be the way he was. you were giving him that. you were giving him an excuse to kill. if he could become like you, an eater, he could live with his want. he could learn to feel no guilt, though it was rare he ever did.

your true compulsions weren't to be learnt, impossible to be taught. to you, they were a birthright. a behaviour you could not unlearn or go without. you were unable to go hungry, couldn't live without feeding. it was more than an addiction, more than life itself. your life was ran by god, and your compulsions. like food and water.

it became an almost partnership. rafe did the dirty work, and you ate. in some ways, it worked. you fed without guilt of murder, like a child being given it's meal without work. he provided for you in that way, and asked your teaching in return.

you tried, to teach him. but how do you teach something that comes so natural? how do you teach a bird without wings to fly?

rafe was more committed than you. he ate, and ate, until he made himself sick. sometimes he couldn't even watch you, sometimes instinct kicked in and he'd puke at just the sight of you feeding. those days were hardest on you.

he let you continue your rituals, lay your wildflowers, bathe in the lake. started driving you out of town of a night, when the need became too strong. found victims worth killing, by his standards.

rafe never cried when he killed. but he sobbed every time he ate.

like a child, he sobbed. into your blood stained clothes, inhaling the scent of you and the blood of whom you just ate. clutching at the fabric around your body like he'd die if you let go of him.

you grew to like rafe. in those moments. when he was vulnerable. you laid in bed at night, after praying for forgiveness, dreaming of a life with him. thinking how it would look, without your compulsions, without his perversions.

within a few months, rafe's kill count had jumped from three to seven. the amount you were eating was increasing, only forcing your hunger to grow stronger between meals.

he could tell somehow, when you were. always knew to pick you up that night and drive you out of town. he was learning not only your compulsions, but you. how to be you, how to know you, how to love you.

the metallic smell lingers on your clothes, the white dress stained from the chest down. the droplets sticking to his mouth, cigarette between his teeth as he continues the drive back to town. the radio on low, the tension louder than anything else.

"am i making you feel sick?"

his heartbeat races at your question. he wants to lie. wants to make you feel better. he doesn't want you to tell him that you have to stop. he can't tell you the truth, you'll leave.

"no." he whispers, hand draping out the window as he flicks the ash from the cigarette. the lie creeps in the air, bites at you more than the cold wind. the scar on his shoulder peaks out below his tank, the constant reminder of who you are. how this started. what you could do. "you're not."

© 222col. do not steal or repost my work without permission.

꒰ taglist ꒱ @khartalks @funkycoloured @bluestrd @appleaali @donteventry-itdude @gublerstylesobrien1238 @peachyparkerr @stanart4clearskin @lvve-talks @shahabaqsa0310 @imperishablereverie @pinkpantheressluver @sweetestfaiszts @cokewithcameron @h3nt41sarchive @dumbbandpoetic @pittsick ( to be added )

[haebaragies]

— AM I MAKING YOU FEEL SICK?

fawn!reader x rafe cameron

summary: the camerons were new to town, but your father had sworn you away from rafe. only when your compulsions grow to hard to ignore during your fathers service one sunday, do you finally meet the real rafe cameron

cw .ᐟ cannibalism, blood, gore, mentions of murder, religious themes

01. — AM I MAKING YOU FEEL SICK?

your daddy had warned you away. warned you away from most, but him in particular. the cameron's were fairly new to town, a different breed of family compared to what you were used to. must have come from a place where people knew their name.

you never knew why they arrived here, but they did. started coming to church, wheezie joined the youth group you helped your mother run, sarah apart of the older girls that joined you on camping trips in the forest behind the church. but him? he was another entity completely.

rafe was a puzzle you couldn't solve. you knew you shouldn't even want to. a stern shake of the head from your father the first time you attempted to introduce yourself to him was enough to force you to keep your distance.

with the secrets you kept, you weren't in a place to judge. that would go against your teachings, too. but his eyes looked to hide a multitude of horrors. you could only hope your own didn't show the world the torture you were forced to endure. the crimes you couldn't stop yourself from commiting, the nightmare you were living in.

he was the closest you had felt to someone like you. being near him was the nearest you'd felt to comfort in the acts you'd carried out. somehow, he felt like you, in another body.

you had no proof, of course. that rafe was an eater. but something about his eyes, the clench of his jaw, the crack of his neck, he was hiding horrors— you knew it.

he was an outsider in town, never interacted with the locals. he was barely seen outside his house, only in church when his father forced him on a sunday. they looked like they were playing house. playing happy families.

running quickly out of the church, the smell of sweat and the cut on your brothers knee flooding your senses. a look of disapproval from your father, as you mumble a sorry through your retches. breathing erratic, trying to calm your senses.

the cigarette sat between his teeth, hand guarding the flame as he lit the stick. foot resting against the wood, the hymns sung within the walls muffled as rafe exhales the smoke. "fucks up with you?" he mumbles, his voice making you jump.

you swear you can hear his heartbeat, eyes blown as you look up to him. you can't speak, near enough drooling as his scent hits your nose. must look a mad-woman, eyes daring to roll back into your head.

"look like you wanna eat me, or somethin'," he grumbles, smirk threatening his features. the cigarette meets his lips again, as your eyes meet his. "god, i do." you breathe out, unable to lie in the state you were in.

you hadn't eaten in weeks, could be months. and he was everything you'd been sworn away from. his flesh looked like heaven, with enough meat to keep you fed for months. he was no longer a boy, no longer a human in your vision, but your next meal.

too close. everyone you knew, everyone you loved were too close. the battered, rotting walls of your father's church were the only distance between you and them. but you couldn't stop. couldn't draw yourself away from compulsion. you were lunging before you could halt.

the material of his shirt pulled, shoulder exposed as your teeth bit into the flesh. blood dripping down onto the white cotton, collar stained with his own fluid.

he didn't scream. didn't shout. barely pushed you away. rafe almost let you. a piece of him within you before he stopped you. his pupils as blown as your own, he wasn't scared. but in that moment you realised, he wasn't one of you, either.

that's what scared you. he wasn't an eater. but he let you eat.

his hands stayed clutching your shoulders, creating the space between you, but keeping you there. he wasn't letting you run, wasn't running himself. he looked almost envious.

you had a reason to kill, to feed, to take what you needed. he could sense it within you, this wasn't a choice, but a compulsion— a part of you, you were born with his need. rafe wasn't so lucky.

when he killed, it wasn't for substance. wasn't to eat, to take what he needed. no, rafe killed to take away. he killed for want, to watch the life drain, to feel the power of choosing who lived and who died. he got to play god.

his compulsions weren't biological in the way yours were, weren't a case of saving himself by eating. his impulses were purely psychological, egotistical even.

his eyes cast down to his shoulder, still bleeding, missing flesh. the idea of it all made his blood run hot, excited him, in some fucked up way. rafe looks back to you, to the blood dripping from your mouth, his blood upon your lips.

"teach me." he whispers, the words repeated like a mantra. mumbles of 'teach me, teach me' fall from his lips until they meet yours. he's not soft, not gentle. his tongue slides over your lips, not asking for entry, but tasting himself.

you can still taste his flesh on your tongue as he kisses you, unable to stop yourself kissing him back. adrenaline too high to rationalise. "teach me how to be like you." he mumbles, words escaping him like a prayer.

you should tell him no, take off running into the forest and never look back. leave your town, leave the church and learn to fend for yourself. but he's here, before you, begging for acceptance. for an excuse, a reason to give into his impulses.

and you were before him, a devil in disguise willing to give him just that.

© 222col. do not steal or repost my work without permission.

꒰ taglist ꒱ @khartalks @funkycoloured @bluestrd @appleaali @donteventry-itdude @gublerstylesobrien1238 @peachyparkerr @stanart4clearskin @lvve-talks @soft-starr @shahabaqsa0310 @imperishablereverie @pinkpantheressluver @sweetestfaiszts @cokewithcameron @h3nt41sarchive ( to be added )

[haebaragies]

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

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

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

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

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

28,000 rubles for the boat’s fuel pump

15,000 for last month’s utilities

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

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

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

Another job, he thought.

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

Not because he wanted to. God, no.

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

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

But then... a sound.

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

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

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

Rafe’s heart kicked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[haebaragies]

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

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

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

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

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

28,000 rubles for the boat’s fuel pump

15,000 for last month’s utilities

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

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

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

Another job, he thought.

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

Not because he wanted to. God, no.

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

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

But then... a sound.

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

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

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

Rafe’s heart kicked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[haebaragies]

──── SUGAR-COATED CHAINS ────

A series made by © cameronsbabydoll

Rafe Cameron never intended to keep her around for long. A man like him—ruthless, self-made, and cold to the core—doesn’t do attachments. He learned long ago that love is just a transaction, and for the right price, anything can be bought, even companionship. That’s why he agreed to the arrangement: he’d cover her expenses, spoil her with luxury, and in return, she’d be his—no strings, no complications.

But she’s young. Too young. Too soft, too idealistic, too… clingy. Rafe can see it in the way she looks at him, like he’s more than just the man funding her lifestyle, like he’s someone she could actually fall for. And that’s a problem.

She doesn’t understand that this is just an exchange. When she curls into his side after long nights, whispering that she misses him, he stiffens. When she pouts over his coldness, his absence, the way he keeps her at arm’s length, he almost wants to tell her the truth—that this was never meant to be real. But he doesn’t. Because she still comes back, no matter how much he pushes her away.

The angst is relentless. She wants more than he’s willing to give, and he resents her for it. He tells himself she’ll learn eventually, that she’ll stop expecting something deeper, that she’ll finally understand this is temporary. But the problem is… she never does. And maybe, just maybe, a small part of him doesn’t want her to.

Because despite everything, despite the way he claims she’s just a naive girl playing pretend in his world, he still lets her stay. And that means something—even if he refuses to admit it.

— ⟢ CHAPTERS

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

chapter fifteen

chapter sixteen

chapter seventeen

chapter eighteen

chapter nineteen

chapter twenty

epilogue

epilogue part two

rafe after retirement

— ⟢ EXTRAS

texts between them

over analysis on the line “he doesn’t know what those things mean to you, to your life. to your childhood.”

more texts between them

how would rafe react to her asking to get a job

how would rafe react if she wanted to go to college

hugs before work

breakfast with rafe

rafe and u meeting up with an older friend

princess movies

friendship problems

plushie introduction

introducing rafe to pinterest

birthday

how would rafe react to her not wanting kids

what kind of father is rafe

style evolution

what happened to her bsf?

does rafe genuinely care for her feelings?

is rafe religious in sugar-coated chains?

what would happen if rafe was distant with their kids? would she fight back?

rafe coming home late and not answering her phone calls

reader comparing rafe to ward and her father

does the reader ever cross the line?

her being interested in someone else

part two — confrontation

their sex life

how each of the kids were made

family distant

no one greeting rafe when he gets home

rafe reacting to the changes from her pregnancy

how their kids react to the type of husband rafe is

how does she retaliate?

reader being stubborn

what is sugar-coated chains rafe’s lockscreen?

how did scc!reader act when she was pregnant for the first time?

rafes reaction to their kids bonding with their mom as a person not just as their mom

get to know their kids

part two

cute moments

scc!reader and her youngest son

rafe reacting to scc!reader not being in the mood

more texts between them!

does rafe ever apologize to scc!reader for how he treated her early into their relationship?

do the kids have a good relationship with rafe once they’ve grown up and moved out?

scc!rafe acting clingy whilst being sick

pregnancy cravings

financially dependency

shopping day with retired!rafe

timeline

“you don’t deserve her, she deserves so much better than you”

emotion suppression + memory loss

scc!rafe getting jealous of his kids

scc!reader bumping into her ex

scc!reader hearing her sons friends call her a milf

tea party

cheating rumors

devil in disguise

“you’d probably treat my mom better”

nothing else but yours

wine + reality tv

scc!reader comforting her daughter when she gets her period for the first time

what would they know

retired!scc!rafe and scc!reader having sleepy sex on vacation

[haebaragies]

My heart couldn't take another pilot in the potato field.

MASTERS OF THE AIR Part Four

[haebaragies]

[haebaragies]

My heart couldn't take another pilot in the potato field.

MASTERS OF THE AIR Part Four

[haebaragies]

i miss bucky egan and his stupid squinty eye smile and his stupid little forehead curl and his stupid round belly and his stupid reckless disposition and his stupid round teeth and his stupid blue eyes and his stupid cheeky smile and his stupid big nose and his stupid dog-like demeanour and his stupid need for approval and his stupid insatiable lust for blonds and

[haebaragies]

Again The time where RL Paddy Mayne hurt me even more than the series did

For me one of the best the most painful and the GAYEST scene in SAS rouge heroes was when David told Paddy

" You need to forget about Eoin Mcgonigal"

That Knife David pulled obviously cut Paddy deep, so hurt he couldn't hide his shaky voice.

But in Real life (Based on Book by Ben Macintyre)

That situation was even more deeper, to men open up about their true feelings

I will let yall read it by yourself

Ahhhhhhhhhhh

[haebaragies]

That ex!rafe fic about reader calling him was so sad🥹🥹☹️ can we get a blurb where the reader calls him to hook up again because she misses him. Even though she leaves as always in the end, she’s soft during the hook up when he’s trying to be rough with her to not get too attached, like he’s so rough and pounding into her and then she’s giving him soft little kisses and caressing him.

warnings: emotionally complicated sex, rough sex w soft moments, unprotected sex, possessive!rafe, crying during sex, 18+

he doesn’t pick up the first time or the second. but the third time, when your name lights up his screen again at 12:47am., he answers like he’s been standing by the phone all night.

“where are you?” he murmurs into the phone. his voice is lazy. he runs a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. you don’t say it, but he already knows. he trudges towards the window, pulling the curtains back to see the porch light illuminating your silhouette. he sighs and stomps down the stairs like he’s on a borrowed time.

you don’t kiss when you come in. you don’t say anything when he shoves the door closed behind you and cages you against it, breathing hard through his nose like he might be angry. he isn’t, not really. just something worse.

your back hits the wood. he fists a hand in your hair like it’s a leash, tilts your head back and stares at your mouth like it’s both a promise and a curse. “you gonna leave right after again?” he asks, voice hoarse. “or you sticking around long enough to pretend you still care?”

you say nothing and he doesn’t wait. he tears off your clothes like a man starved. he fucks you like he wants to forget. like if he splits you open just right, he’ll finally stop dreaming about you. you’re still in the dress you wore to whatever thing you left early to come here, and he pulls your panties down to your knees and bends you over the back of the couch like he doesn’t even want to see your face.

he doesn’t kiss you and doesn’t talk. just grits his teeth and pounds into you like you’re a stranger he’s trying to ruin. and you let him. until, you glance over your shoulder. water builds at your waterline. you begin blinking through tears, desperately reaching back to thread your fingers through his.

“hey,” you whisper, like you’re waking him up. like none of this has to be so mean. even if your motives are. “rafe…”

he freezes because your voice is soft and your touch is softer. when you twist toward him, legs trembling from the pace he set, you look so fucking pretty like this—lips parted, mascara smudged, trying to kiss him when he doesn’t deserve it.

he doesn’t get it. he doesn’t understand you. “why’re you being like that?” he mutters, grabbing your hips harder. “don’t-don’t do that.”

but you’re already kissing his jaw, reaching up to cradle the back of his neck, eyes fluttering shut like you’re just happy to be close. “i missed you,” you murmur. his rhythm falters. he swears. the noise is low and guttural. he nearly pulls out like he’s punishing himself now.

“fuck, don’t say that,” he snaps. “you don’t mean it.”

“i do.” you pull him closer. lips brushing his cheek, his temple, the edge of his mouth like it’s something tender and holy and not wrecked. “just…for right now.”

he kisses you then. it’s sloppy, angry, hungery. he knows it’s borrowed time and he’s furious at how much he still wants you. your legs wrap around his waist as he picks you up, fucks into you deeper, harder, chasing the high and hating it. but you’re still soft with him. still tracing your fingertips over his shoulders. still kissing the corner of his mouth between broken gasps.

finally, he breaks. he doesn’t finish inside you until you’re both crying. the room is filled with quiet and breathless gasps. you’re against each other like it means something again.

you leave an hour later, like always. but this time, his shirt’s still clutched in your hand. when the door shuts, he doesn’t move. he just stares at the dent your body left in the couch and tries not to call you back.

again.

again.

again.

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 @sydneysslove

[haebaragies]

Ex!Rafe with a reader who only hits him up when they want to get laid would be chef’s kiss 🧑‍🍳 💋

ʳᵃᶠᵉ’ˢ ᵃ ˡᵒˢᵉʳ ˡⁱᵏᵉ ᵗʰᵃᵗ

warnings: explicit sexual content / smut (18+), exes with unresolved feelings, emotionally manipulative dynamic, rafe being a desperate, lovesick mess, reader using sex as a weapon, rough sex, breeding kink undertones

his hands shake when he opens the door. not enough that you notice, but enough that he does. he chews his cheek until copper paints his tongue. he hates how easy you can unravel him.

you’re staring at him with your dangerously pretty eyes, oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder. it’s his, obviously. from before. back when he was still yours and didn’t have to wonder if you were showing up to make him feel better or to make him worse.

“hey,” you say, not bothering to pretend it’s a social visit. you push by him and enter his house. when he turns around, you’re already pulling the sweatshirt over your head and revealing your lace bralette.

he leans against the doorframe like that’ll protect him. it won’t, not from you. “and i was almost starting to think that you just wanted to see me.” he murmurs under his breath, eyes raking up and down your body. he envies the time when sex was something sacred and loving. he envies the time when you would call to say hi or just to hear his voice, not just to use him.

“i do want to see you,” you blink up at him, syrup-sweet. you walk towards him in your low sweatpants and bare body. your hands go under his shirt, nails scratching up and down his abs. “you didn’t answer my texts last week.”

rafe laughs. it’s a low, bitter sound. his smile looks more like a flinch. “yeah, well. i was trying this new thing where i don’t let you ruin me.” he shrugs, arms still crossed over his chest like your touch doesn’t send sparks through his blood. he swallows harshly as you stare up, all doe and sweet. like a devil in disguise as an angel.

your bottom lip juts out in some sort of faux pout before it curls into a devious smirk. you grab the front of his t-shirt like it’s some kind of leash, and pull him flush against you. “looks like you failed.”

he breathes you in—vanilla and violence, warm skin and that undertow of perfume he still keeps on his pillowcase like a freak. “you can’t keep doing this,” he murmurs. but his hands are already on your waist.

your hands are on him before he blinks. mouth hot, nails biting down into his shoulders like maybe if you scratch deep enough, you’ll dig out whatever part of him still believes this means something. and he lets you.

“you can’t keep doing this,” he murmurs. but his hands are already on your waist. already dragging you closer like his body doesn’t care how bad this ends, as long as it starts.

you hum, low and teasing. “sure i can.” your nails sink into the line of his abs like punctuation. his breath stutters. you can feel the tension coiled under his skin, muscles tight like he’s at war with himself, and losing.

you tilt your head, eyes flicking to his mouth. “unless you don’t want me anymore…”

he scoffs. it’s dark, guttural, wounded. “fuck off.” he’s already kissing you. and god, rafe kisses like it hurts him. tongue messy, teeth catching your bottom lip, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. like he wants to brand you, like maybe that’ll make you stay this time.

your back hits the wall and he crowds you there, hips grinding into yours like punishment. like he resents how much he still wants you. you gasp against his mouth, hips rolling up to meet his, and his hands slip under your sweatpants, down to where you’re already soaked through your panties.

“fuck,” he mutters, voice cracking. “you’re already wet?”

“mhmm,” you murmur, taunting. “was thinking about you all day.” you kiss the corner of his mouth, just to be cruel. “your hands. your mouth. the way you beg.”

he grabs your jaw, eyes blown wide, feral. “i don’t beg.”

you smile, slow and poisonous. you grind your hips harder, more precise. he bites back that high pitched noise that tries to slip past his lips. “you do. last time you were whimpering,” you laugh, tipping your head back. “you were all like, please don’t stop—”

he spins you around before you can finish, pressing you chest first against the wall. your cheek meets the cold drywall, and your sweatpants are yanked down in one rough tug.

“say that shit again,” he rasps behind you, dragging your panties down next. “and i’ll make you scream it.”

you laugh, breathless. “that supposed to scare me?”

but then he’s inside you, fast and thick and all at once, and the sound you make isn’t teasing, it’s wrecked. he doesn’t move at first. just buries himself to the hilt and exhales like he’s finally home.

you twist your head to look at him, eyes glassy. “rafe…”

he starts to move, slow and punishing. “you don’t get to moan my name like that,” he grits. “not when you only call when you’re lonely. not when you don’t mean it.”

but his hands say otherwise. they’re gentle, splayed over your stomach and under your bralette, tugging at your nipples until you’re arching into him, panting against the wall.

his hips grind deeper, angle brutal, and you’re choking on his name now. “you’re mine,” he whispers into your neck, like he believes it. “even if you don’t say it. even if you leave.” you don’t respond, you can’t, with the way he’s fucking you so deep your legs start to shake. “you’re mine,” he says again, harder this time.

his hand slides up to your throat, not tight, just enough to make you feel it. to make sure you know who you belong to.“say it,” he breathes. “just once.”

your pride nearly chokes you. but the orgasm sneaks up too fast, white, hot and ruinous. you cry out, fingers clawing at the wall, back arching as you come around him like a confession.“…fuck,” you whimper, the word dissolving into a sob. “i’m yours.”

he groans, low and broken, and spills inside you a second later. his head buried in your neck like he’s hiding from the aftermath. like if he just holds you close enough, you won’t slip through his fingers again.

you stay there, bodies tangled and breath catching. and for a second, he lets himself believe you mean it. even if you’re already reaching for your hoodie again.

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