rafecswhore

[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

[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]

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]

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]

SUPPRISEEE !!!

the following characters i do from obx are...

-rafe cameron

-jj maybank

happy requesting luvs

SWEET P'S MASSIVE SUMMER REQS

throughout having this account and showcasing my stories on the different charecters we all love; this has brought me closure from so many kinds of pain in my own life & now i want to gift something to my followers/ veiwers in this page too 🎀

to thank you back for the support i have been provided as a luxury with i would like to announce my "SWEET P'S MASSIVE SUMMER REQS ". me and @rafecswhore will both be doing this tgt to honor our long hiatus from tumblr !! WHAT IS "SWEET P'S MASSIVE SUMMER REQS " this allows you to request anything from th@rafecswhore and my published works !!. this can include smut, nsfw, something truamatic, fluff legit anything. you can even request series from both of us and can ask for anything no limits what so ever. however with this being said, please keep in mind the following fandomsme and @rafecswhore do !!

@rafecswhore - anyone from obx au and i do hotd & hjp !!

CHARECTERS I DO HOUSE OF DRAGONS rhaeneyra x daemon targaryen fanfics daemon targaryen aemond targaryen & jacaerys targaryen

HARRY POTTER

all the slytherin boys and harry potter himself !! happy requesting - from the sweet p's

[rafecswhore]

intro of kook!reader &!millitaryrafe

“it wasn’t supposed to be a big deal.”

he said it like that. like it was just a hiccup. a bruise on a perfect day. but it was more than that.

rafe had been spiraling for weeks—jittery, paranoid, snapping at the dumbest shit. coke made his mood unpredictable, but the pressure made it worse. ward breathing down his neck. sarah acting like she was better than him. and then there was the boat—the one rafe wasn’t supposed to be near. but he heard john b’s name and something inside him snapped. again.

he went down to the docks drunk. coked up. you had begged him to stay. tugged at his arm, pouty and confused and so sure he’d listen. but he didn’t. he shoved a marina worker—hard. screamed at some kooks who made a joke. left a guy bleeding on the ground with his head split on a piling. they said rafe could’ve killed him. ward paid off who he could, but it was too public. too messy. he couldn’t bury it.

you found out when rafe came home with blood still under his fingernails. you sat on the edge of his bed in your rhinestone hoodie, hands twisting in your lap. “are they gonna, like, arrest you?” he scoffed. “no. my dad’s handling it.”and he did. by shipping him out three days later.

military school. some facility out of state. “discipline,” ward said. “structure.” but all you heard was gone. rafe. gone. and all he said was, “don’t make this harder than it is.” like you were the problem. like you were the weight. like your heart wasn’t breaking quietly in front of him.

you didn’t even get to say goodbye properly. just a rushed hug in the driveway. his cologne still on your sweatshirt. his voice still echoing— “i’ll be back. don’t go stupid on me while i’m gone.” and you promised, even if you didn’t fully get what he meant. even if part of you still thought he’d come back that night.

a/n: this is basically kind of like the backstory of kook!reader and military!rafe. i kinda wanted to give some backstory/intro of how rafe got into this millitary plot and how the story kind of plays off !!

[rafecswhore]

missing dad!rafe and mom!reader hours

most importantly, missing you :(((

hoping you're fine, wherever you are

sweetest thing I've read in a while, sorry for the hiatus; i just finished my examss and im backk. gonna start some military! rafe x reader content for you guys this summer stay toonedd