#cherrywriterrr

[cherrywriterrr]

haunted

bodyguard!rafe x reader

warnings:18+ mdni!!!mentions of rape,abuse, cheating, manipulation, self worth issues, self-blame, grief,self loathing, intrusive thoughts?? drug abuse, violence, family issues, mental health struggles, sexual thoughts.

nine ten eleven

okay, maybe you’re wondering what rafe’s backstory is. fair enough, i’d too.

you see… when he got to your mansion the first time for his bodyguard job, it wasn’t because he liked or even wanted to do it—no way—it was because he needed the money and the free roof over his head.

why a bodyguard for the senator’s daughter? because he knew how to fight, very well, that’s all he knew.

it all started in his teens years, smaller fights transforming into blood being spilled. it wasn’t because he liked it—at least not at first— it was because he felt like he needed to fight to keep up the appearances.

being ward’s son meant being tough, intelligent, always two steps ahead. so what did he do to keep that reputation? he started being a menace.

those fights transformed into reckless drinking, every day even, just to feel something more than just anger and sadness. didn’t take much for the drinking to transform into drinking and smoking weed, wich to be honest, wasn’t that bad. i mean we all did it at some point, right?

whatever, then the smoking and drinking became coke. just at parties, to feel more sure of himself. better. more powerful.

that didn’t have the best outcome though, because, doing lines to forget about his daddy issues quickly turned into doing lines every single day. after any small inconvenience, even after just waking up.

one night, about a year or so ago, before he came here. that’s when it happened. the night he couldn’t forgive himself for.

the night he came home spun out, heart racing so hard it felt like a fucking hammer in his chest. sarah was waiting up, scared out of her mind. asking where he’d been. what he’d taken. if he was okay.

and rafe—god, rafe didn’t even hear her.

he just snapped.

slapped her. once. not hard. not hard—but enough to make her cry.

and the second he saw her tears, he sobered the fuck up.

he fell to the floor. begged. held her knees and cried like he hadn’t cried since he was a kid. she said she was okay. she said she knew he didn’t mean it. she said she forgave him.

but she told ward anyway. and that was it.

no second chances. no rehab. no “get better soon.” just you’re an embarrassment, you’re not my son, get the fuck out and don’t come back.

and that was that.

rafe lived out of a hotel for a week before the card stopped working. credit lines frozen. voicemail full. the coke ran out quick, and the withdrawals came like fucking hellfire.

he thought about dying. not in a poetic way. not in a “leave behind a note” kind of way.

just… going out and picking a fight he couldn’t win

but then your dad called. said he needed a bodyguard for his daughter. rich girl. high security. good money. full room and board. just for six months.

and rafe thought, fuck it.

he’d play guard dog.

he didn’t expect you.

he didn’t expect the way your laugh would echo in his chest for hours after you’d walked away. he didn’t expect how you’d yell at him when he got too protective, but still come back to patch up his bruises anyway. he didn’t expect to fall for the way you whispered his name like it meant something holy.

but mostly… he didn’t expect you to be the first person since sarah who made him feel worth saving.

and now here rafe is.

in his room. in your mansion. lying flat on a bed that isn’t his, in a house that doesn’t belong to him, bruised all to hell, stitched and aching, and somehow… still hurting worse in places no doctor can reach.

after he just told you he couldn’t do this.

this, as in—you.

you and him. whatever the hell that kiss-almost-was, whatever those middle-of-the-night confessions were. whatever he felt in his fucking chest when you held him like he was yours.

he told you no. like a fucking idiot.

and now he wants to punch himself in the face.

he stares at the ceiling with his jaw clenched, stomach twisted, fists curled so tight his knuckles go white even under the bruises. one stitched hand throbbed like hell. the other still smelled like your skin from when you kissed it.

he could still feel it. your lips. soft. forgiving.

and he just let you walk away.

jesus christ, he thinks. you’re a fucking coward.

he wants you. of course he fucking does. how could he not?

you’re all he thinks about. all he dreams about. even now, the scent of you still lingers on his shirt, that little jasmine perfume you wear, the kind that makes his lungs tighten and his eyes sting with everything he doesn’t deserve.

but he can’t do it. he won’t.

because what if he breaks again?

what if one night the wrong word leaves your mouth and he snaps like he did with sarah?

what if the rage comes back? what if you flinch?

he could never live with that. he doesn’t trust himself.

he’s been clean. yes. for months now. he hasn’t touched a line. hasn’t so much as smelled a drink. but that doesn’t erase the monster inside him. it just locks it in a prettier fucking box.

you deserve more than that. you deserve soft. stable. someone who could love you out loud without the risk of spiraling.

not someone who almost kissed you with busted ribs and stitched-up arms, only to pull away like he hadn’t just wanted you for years.

he grits his teeth.

“fucking pussy,” he mutters to himself. “fucking coward.”

he turns onto his side, slowly, painfully, dragging the blanket higher even though he’s burning under it. his body’s wrecked. his thoughts are worse. every muscle aches, but nothing hurts like the hollow spot in his chest where your presence used to be.

you kissed his goddamn hand. and he let you walk away.

and still, deep down, some stupid part of him hopes—maybe tomorrow. maybe you’ll come back.

maybe you’ll still look at him like that.

maybe, if he’s careful… he won’t break it. won’t break you.

he runs a hand down his face.

slow. rough. stitched knuckles grazing old scars.

his jaw clenches again as he sinks deeper into the mattress like it might eat him whole. like maybe that’d be easier. like maybe vanishing would be better than feeling this—this gaping hole in his ribs. the one that opens wider every time he thinks of you and what he can’t let himself want.

and still, the thoughts spiral. like they always do when the room gets too quiet.

his mind drifts…to the past. to another reason he can’t do this. not just the anger, not just the coke, not just ward or the senator or the rules.

cora.

fuck.her.

she was the only girl he ever let in before you.

he thought she was different. he was good to her. hell—perfect.

he brought her flowers. remembered the shit she liked on her coffee. let her sleep on his chest every night and never once pushed for more when she wasn’t in the mood. he listened to her music. drove her to her fucking hair appointments. skipped parties with his boys to stay in and hold her.

he did everything right. and still—she cheated.

not once. not even just a slip-up.

she cheated. over weeks. maybe months. he still didn’t know how long.

and her excuse? “you couldn’t say it back.”

what?

“i love you,” she said. “you never said it back.”

like that was enough reason to fucking ruin him.

like he was the broken one.

like she didn’t understand that he was raised in a fucking house where hugs were saved for public image, where “i love you” meant nothing unless it was on a goddamn Christmas card for a photo op.

he never even heard ward say it. so how the fuck was he supposed to learn it?

how the fuck was he supposed to say it out loud when it sat like lead in his throat? when it burned his tongue? when no one ever said it to him unless they wanted something?

and now, now he’s ruined.

cora did that.

she carved into the last of what was tender in him and ripped it out just because he couldn’t say three words he wasn’t taught to believe in.

so now, every time you look at him like you could love him, it makes him ache.

not because he doesn’t want you. but because he’s scared he’ll ruin it again.

that he’ll fuck it up like he always does.

and he’d rather break his own heart a thousand times than let you look at him the way cora did—like he’s a disappointment.

so yeah.

he told you no, he let you walk away.

because he’d rather keep you safe from him than get another taste of love he’ll never be brave enough to keep.

he turns over. pillow pressed hard against his side. eyes wet. breathing sharp.

he whispers it into the dark room.

“you’d hate me if you really knew.”

and the worst part is—you probably wouldn’t. and that’s what makes him hate himself even more.

okay, i can’t lie… you aren’t better than him right now. your ego is fucking shredded after what rafe said.

“can’t do this.”

like—what? what the fuck does that even mean?

who does he think he is?

you’ve been through hell. actual hell.

you’ve been raped. abused. torn apart and stitched back together with shaking hands.

your mom fucking died and you still got up the next day. you still smiled at your dad.you still fought

and somehow—somehow you thought maybe… maybe the universe owed you something back.

something warm. something good. like maybe rafe.

but no. no, of course not.

because apparently rafe cameron is too broken to want you. or maybe—maybe you’re too broken for him.

god. you don’t know. you wish you did.

but all you can think about is how fast your heart shattered in your chest when he said it. when his voice was all guilty and distant, like he was scared of even being seen near you.

and fuck… maybe it is your fault.

maybe you’re too loud. too opinionated. too fucking much. you talk back too much. you always have something to prove. you argue about dumb shit—just to feel like you’re not being stepped on. you say you’re independent but you crave closeness like it’s your goddamn drug. you can’t blame him, not really.

you keep telling yourself you can, that you should, but it just circles back into that pit in your chest that says: maybe no one will ever really want you. not in the way you want to be wanted.

and that’s not his fault. it’s yours, right?

for being fucked up. for surviving. for still hoping.

your eyes sting but you blink fast, not letting them fall. not here. not now. not when you’re still wearing yesterday’s mascara and you look like a ghost.

you walk to the mirror and stare. your lip’s a little chapped. your eyeliner’s smudged. your eyes are hollow in a way you don’t even try to hide anymore.

you trace the line of your jaw.

the faint outline of your medusa tattoo is visible through your shirt on the back.

you’re a war survivor. a riot. a goddamn volcano.

you’re not weak.

so why the fuck does it hurt so bad that he doesn’t want you?

you sigh. hard. angry. “fuck him,” you mumble to yourself.

then softer“no, fuck me for caring.”

you sit on the edge of your bed and bury your face in your hands.

and god, it’s so quiet. so quiet you almost think you can hear him, thinking about you too.

okay, if i’m gonna be realll honest… this isn’t the first time someone told you you weren’t enough. or too much.

you remember the first time it all went wrong.

you were sixteen. young. stupid. full of love and too desperate to be held by someone.

his name doesn’t matter now. just that he was older. smoother. had a car and a voice that made you forget your gut instincts.

he was sweet at first.

texted good morning and bought you your favorite candy and said you were different.

but then… he started calling you dramatic. needy. annoying.

told you your laugh was too loud. that you were embarrassing when you cried. that no one would want you if he didn’t.

and then came the hands. the bruises. the choking. the tears you wiped away in bathroom stalls with trembling fingers, telling yourself

he just had a bad day.

you just said the wrong thing.

it’s not abuse if he apologizes, right?

but it was. he raped you. multiple times.

called it “fixing your attitude.”

called it “love.”

and you… you believed him.

because what else do you call it when someone stays? even if it’s with bloody knuckles and cruel words. even if it makes you feel small, and scared, and cold inside.

you forgave him. over and over.

because that’s what love was to you. forgiving. hurting. pretending.

and it wasn’t even you who left.

he did. after all the breaking, after the rape, after the blood and silence—he cheated.

cheated.

and said you were too boring.

that you didn’t make him feel anything anymore. like you were a toy he’d broken and got tired of.

and that… that destroyed something in you.

you didn’t cry that night. you just stared at the wall and whispered “okay.” like that word could glue all your shattered pieces back together.

and after that? you just stopped letting people in. you kissed strangers at parties.laughed too loud. drank too much. said you don’t believe in love like it was a fact.

and then came him.

rafe cameron.

all bruised knuckles and heavy eye contact.with those eyes that look at you like you’re something holy and untouchable—and that’s the problem, isn’t it?

because you’re not. you’re not clean. you’re not soft. you’re not new.

you’re made of trauma and scars and screams swallowed at seventeen.

and maybe that’s why it hurts so bad when rafe says “we can’t.”

because for once—just once-you wanted someone to choose you.

not out of pity. not out of obligation. but because they saw you. and still wanted you.

but even he doesn’t. he’d rather suffer than hold you.

and you’re tired. so fucking tired of being too much for people who were never enough for you.

you remember the first time you saw him.

standing by the marble columns like he didn’t want to be there, arms crossed, chest rising and falling slow and bored and arrogant.

black t-shirt, sleeves tight on his biceps, veins on full display. aviator sunglasses pushed halfway into his hair. a faint bruise still healing near his jaw like it belonged there.

you were in pajamas. just a tank top and some shorts you didn’t expect anyone outside your house staff to see.

your dad gestured at him and said, “that’s your new bodyguard.”

and you—staring, dumbstruck, mouth a little parted—laughed and said “haha. very funny. where’s the real one?”

not because he didn’t look strong. not because he didn’t look capable.

but because he was hot. jaw-dropping hot.

arms of a fighter, eyes of a villain, mouth of a sinner. hot in the kind of way that made your thighs clench without warning.

hot in the kind of way that made your brain short-circuit with one look. hot in the fuck-me-right-now-against-the-wall kind of way.

and he didn’t even try.he just blinked at you, annoyed, and said in that gravel-thick voice“i am the real one.”

and you had to physically turn your face away so he wouldn’t see how red you got. or how your legs shifted because your core was fucking throbbing.

it was embarrassing. it still is. you’ve never wanted someone so instantly. so helplessly.

and not just sexually—though, god, yeah that too.

there was something about his anger. his quiet.

his brooding silence, like he was trying to keep the whole world from falling apart and failing.

and now here you are. in the same house. months later.

still aching. still wanting. still remembering that stupid moment, in your stupid shorts, with your stupid flushed cheeks—when you looked at rafe cameron and thought:

i’m in so much fucking trouble. my dad will kill me.

you hate that you’re still thinking about it.

the way he looked when he said no. bruised and stitched and too fucking beautiful to be real.

you keep pacing in your room, every corner filled with the tension of it. he had no right to say that and still look like that

no right to whisper that he meant it—every word of it—and then follow it up with we can’t.

you want to scream. you want to cry.

you want to slap him across the face and then straddle him like nothing ever happened.

because the thing is…you still want him. of course you do.

you want that fucking mouth on yours.

you want those hands—scarred and calloused and always clenched—to grab you by the waist and pull.

you want to feel the rough press of his bruised chest against your back, his voice thick in your ear saying you don’t know what you do to me.

you want to find out what he sounds like when he’s losing control.

when he’s inside you, saying your name over and over, breathless and deep.

when he’s fucking you like he doesn’t care if it ruins everything.

and the fucked-up part is, you wouldn’t stop him. you wouldn’t even hesitate.

you’d let him ruin you. you’d thank him for it.

you hate how much you want him. you hate how soaked your panties are just from the memory of him in your bed, stitched and shirtless, voice raw from trying not to fall apart.

he rejected you. he said it couldn’t happen.

and now he’s probably on the other side of the mansion wall, pretending it meant nothing.

well, good for him. must be nice to have control.

you yank open your dresser, pull out another pair of shorts and throw them across the room.

why does he get to look like that?

why does he get to touch your hand, say he meant it, and then still walk away?

why does he get to be the one with all the power?

you sit down on the edge of your bed, fists clenched, chest rising like you’re mid-argument with no one.

and then, click. you freeze.

your door.the handle turns. slow. too slow.

your breath catches in your throat as the door creaks open, the light from the hallway spilling in, golden and tense.

your heart jumps straight into your mouth, blood rushing low and hot as you lift your eyes— and all you manage to say, through clenched teeth, flushed cheeks, and shaky breath is“…fuck me.” not annoyed. not angry. just absolutely, completely flustered.

previous<< ->next taglist masterlist

a/n-> please please tell me if you don’t want to be tagged anymore OR if you do want to get tagged from now on!!! also interact with this if you want to still get tagged, i want to keep the taglist for this active babies !!!!!

tags:🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @kys4-20 @pluviophilis @cherryhoneybabe @blissfulbutterfliess @meetmeintheemeraldpool @k4yr14 @iconiccolo @devoutedlover @viqtoria @vaelyann @qversazex @scorpiosolar @hunzzzzz @sc05 @t0x1cfaerie @purplerose291 @mrspuffdriving @sfoiasturn @silkylovey @xoxorafe @kieeslove @toterry @rcwhore @lmnop00 @rafescloudie @reesereadsalot

[maybankslover]

rec's list (i hope i don't repeat things i included in the last rec list)

before he goes dad!rafe @rafesgreasycurtainbangs fluff

got you dad!rafe fluff rafesgreasycurtainbangs

isn't she lovely dad!rafe angst to fluff @whytheylosttheirmindss

you knock me out, i fall apart dad!rafe fluff whytheylosttheirminds

toxic toxic!rafe/toxic!reader @urmum-lovesme

helping you breath bf!rafe smut @s0lidar1ty

leave me on read, i dare you bf!rafe smut @rafes-slut

promise dilf!rafe x teacher!reader fluff @iiluvtaylorrussell

sugar coated chains older!rafe series @cameronsbabydoll

ex husband rafe series cameronsbabydoll

reach or try bf!drew angst @rafedarling

natural state bf!rafe smut @houseofblve

preteen strugle dad!rafe angst to fluff @mariespen

holy fire bf!rafe @lazysoulwriter

birthdays jj maybank x maybank!sister angst urmum-lovesme

twin flames dad!rafe series @maybejj

bunny rafe cameron x maybank!reader mature/angst urmum-lovesme

going through his phone bf!rafe angst to fluff @rafeysafterglow

elope husband!rafe @calypso-rt

have you ever tried this one? bf!rafe suggestive rafeysafterglow

at your feet bf!rafe fluff @lazysoulwriter

hidden vows drew starkey x secret!fiance series @psformybss

tall!gf @rowdydevs

safest place dad!drew rafedarling

playing the part under the sicilian sun fake!bf!rafe series @salem-s

golden chain rafe cameron smut @rafesbabygirlx

i'd run away and hide with you rafe cameron @rafescolors

co-star chemestry drew starkey @stvrkeysgal

good mom rafe cameron @rafeslittlepup

satisfied & burn jj maybank angst @loveharlow

where love lives rafe cameron @sargeant-bxrnes

promise ring rafe cameron @rafesangelita

if it was real, why did it hurt? frat!rafe psformybss

silver springs rafe cameron sargeant-bxrnes

single!dad!rafe @dollyfiles

casual college!drew series @chleem

come home blue!collar!rafe @moondustbaby

the black dog rafe cameron @autumnscribbles

single!dad!rafe x nanny!reader moondustbaby

babysit rafe cameron @crushpunky

some protector rafe cameron series @darlingstarkey

rafe cameron x nurse!fiance @drewfilms

confessions under sheets that smell like you rafe cameron salem-s

chocking rafe cameron smut @grapejuice32

witchy!reader rafe cameron @bubblesgarden

handmade gift rafe cameron @dollyfiles

i won't sleep no more rafe cameron @memoirofasparklemuff1n

injured/blurbfest rafe cameron @zyafics

i love you i'm sorry / part two rafe cameron angst/smut rowdydevs

single!dad rafe @dollyfiles

doctor!rafe @torturedtypewritersdept

comfort drew starkey chleem

sweetheart syndrome rafe cameron @hearts4hughes

interviewer drew starkey mini series (it has four parts i think) @er1nne

the power play college/hocker!player!rafe x tutor!reader finished series @nadvs

wash me good mechanic!rafe @cherrywriterrr

strawberry wine jj maybank au @featherandferns

party 4 you bff!rafe @cherrywriterrr

clumsy!reader rafe cameron @sunsetmade

pediatrician!rafe mini series @rafeslvbug

before you notices husband!rafe angst series cameronsbabydoll

note: please don't feel bad if i didn't add you to it. sometimes I read them, reblog them and forget to add them but i try to reblog every fic i read and for my readers this is some kind of saying sorry because i don't how long it's been since I've written something <3

[favefandomimagines]

Bless Your Heart (d.s)

Summary: Y/N lives rent free in Odessa’s head and Drew does something about it

Drew Starkey x country singer!reader, smau! Megan Moroney face claim

Am I Okay?

I Know You

Hell of a Show

Indifferent

Taglist: @maybankslover @letstryagaintomorrow @cherrywriterrr @cokewithcameron

AN: this is a break in the main drama that isn’t needed but i thought it would be fun to get sassy Y/N

Liked by y/nusername, drewstarkey, joeyb_9, madelyncline, ellalangelymusic and 435 others

y/nupdates: our girl goes home to Nashville in three days!!!! Y/N is playing two shows in Nashville after her week off and I am SO excited to see her!

235 Comments

username: EEEEKK so excited!!!

username: I wonder who all will be there

username: Joe Burrow and Madelyn Cline are definitely going to be there

username: do we think Drew will show up?

username: doubt it…why would he want to go to his ex girlfriends show after he cheated on her?

username: she’s on tour 24/7 so I don’t blame him for realizing he wanted to be with someone he can see more often…

‘odessaazion liked this comment’

username: are you for real??? when you decide to be in a relationship with someone you stay faithful to them no matter what. and if you’re unhappy, you break up. you don’t cheat on them and humiliate them publicly

username: I think Odessa is more his type anyways. Drew never came off as a dude who likes bottle blonde singers

‘odessaazion liked this comment’

username: not Odessa liking these shady ass comments

Liked by y/nusername, lahjay_10, madelyncline, killatrav, jjettas2 and 783 others

joeyb_9: Nashville, let’s get it ✌🏻

tagged: y/nusername

899 Comments

username: even if they aren’t dating they’re so fucking cute

username: they’re totally together

username: don’t understand how she’s pulling all these hot guys

username: seriously!!! she’s like a copy and paste of every generic southern chick

username: for real, there’s not really anything special about her. She just runs around in a tutu trying to be like Dolly

‘odessaazion liked these comments’

Texts between Mads and Drew

Mads: tell your little “friend” that she needs to stop being weird and liking rude comments about Y/N. It’s getting old and creepy. What is she trying to prove by liking comments on a Y/N fan account and on Joes post?

Drew: I didn’t know she was doing that…

Mads: do you see some of the stuff they’re saying? Like she deserved to get cheated on and they don’t know how anyone as hot as you and Joe would want to be with her? It’s gross, Drew.

Mads: this needs to stop

Read 11:15am

Texts between Drew and Odessa

Drew: enough with the hate comments, Odessa.

Odessa: idk what you’re talking about

Drew: seriously? Because my phone is blowing up with all of my friends sending SCREENSHOTS of you liking hate comments about Y/N.

Odessa: oh come on, it’s a joke. Is she really that sensitive?

Drew; it’s not a joke. Nothing about what you’re liking is a joke. Especially when you go out of your way to like them on fan accounts and Joe Burrow’s instagram. You don’t even follow Joe Burrow

Drew: I knew I should’ve set the record straight the second those pictures were posted

Odessa: you’re not entirely innocent in all of this either. You could’ve told Y/N the truth and you didn’t. What does that say about you?

Liked by joeyb_9, kelseaballerini, hichasestokes, killatrav, drewstarkey, laineywilson and 922 others

y/nusername: I’m kinda busy playing shows, being pretty 😘

Have all that hatred behind a screen but won’t say anything to my face

877 Comments

username: YES Y/N

madelyncline: that’s queen shit right there

joeyb_9: 👀

username: we love sassy y/n

username: she did that

hichasestokes: go off

madisonbaileybabe: YES BITCH

[rafesbabygirlx]

AFTER THE FIGHT

✧ 𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚡 𝙱𝚂𝙵!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 - 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚋

✧ 𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎'𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚐 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗.

✧ 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 - 𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚛.

✧ 𝚁𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

✧ 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃 | 𝚃𝙰𝙶𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃

You're in the locker room with Rafe. The buzz of his win has finally calmed down. Him and his crew are finally done celebrating and now you can focus on him and the scrapes that will be left behind from his success tonight.

He's sitting on the bench in front of you and you're knelt down in between his legs, apply an antiseptic to cuts on his hip. Rafe hissed at first contact but then he relaxed. He kept focus, too much focus on you.

You follow his eye line down and to your chest. You were wearing a cropped button down top with the first few buttons undone. At some point helping him, you widened open a bit more that you would like. He was so hypnotized he didn't notice you noticed.

You push the pad of alcohol harshly into his side. He winces at the pain, jolting up, bringing him back to the moment. "What the fuck, Rafe?!"

"What the hell I do?" He yells back obliviously just shocked from the pain and yelling.

"Were you staring at my chest?"

He throws his arm up like he's offended. "The fuck, no? I wasn't staring at your tits.”

"Yes you were. I saw you."

"Ok fine I was. Sue me."

You stand up and adjust your top attempting to get them out of his view. "Would you like me to write you eulogy now?"

"I mean, they're great to look at 'n it's really hard when they just in my face like, babe."

You huff at him in frustration. You've been friends for so long, you didn't think he'd ever look at you that way. Was it strange? Yes. Did you mind? No, not really.

You moved back over to where he was sitting on the bench. Hovering over him looking at him and his eyes didn't hesitate to look directly back at yours.

His fingers traced up your arm and he yanked you by your forearm to straddle his lap. You mold perfectly together. Your arms wrap around his neck instinctively. This felt so natural to you. Before you know it, his arm snakes up you back and pulls you in. His lips smash into yours and your tongues move in sync.

You sit back up dazed, "let me finish cleaning you up so we can get out of here."

to whoever requested I hope you dont mind the fluff at the end. I can't help myself.

tags + some moots:

@rafestoothbrush @weluvwbb @itsforeverandalwayz @butterfly-ibuki @megiiite @siredbtches @bigenergy777 @aupernatural-teenwolflover @rafegf-real @skywalker0809 @snowtargaryen @kieeslove @leather-n-velvet @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @diasnohibng @slurpdew @alphabetically-deranged @runawayrafetrain @currentresidentinhell @slut-4-rafey @akobx @laniirackssss @jjmaybankmylovee @slut4you @larema121 @sc05 @k4yr14 @chromeheartsbaby @jennieonline @littlelamy @nemesyaaa @rafesfavegf @cherrywriterrr @writingroom21 @rafesteddy @maybankslover

[rafesfavegf]

warnings - cheating, best friends boyfriend, piv, fingering, unprotected sex, dirty talk

a/n - my first tumblr post, still figuring out the app lol

"The other woman"

It was never meant to happen, not like this. Sofia was your best friend, a nice girl who would've done everything for you. But Rafe was your first love.

Yes, it may be a dumb thing to say because you were only fourteen, and it was seven years ago when the crush started. You guys never dated, but it was that teenage crush, the one you can never let go of, even though you guys never even touched.

Until now.

His hands were all over your body, like he was trying to memorize every curve.

"Mine." He said claiming your body with his touch. His lips trailing over your neck down to your chest.

You knew it was wrong, but it felt so right. He was yours. You both knew that. The bed he shared with her, was now a holder of a secret, dirty sinful secret.

"Fuck, you're so perfect, all mine." He murmurs between kisses. His hands slides down to your thong and he just pushes it aside, brushing his fingertips against your opening.

"Rafe, please." You moan out desperately. Begging your best friends, soon-to-be husband to fuck you.

He doesn't waste time, his fingers plunge inside you, his gaze focused on your face, looking at the way you whimper and shut your eyes.

"That's it baby, gonna make you fall apart on my fingers first." He adds a third finger, stimulating your clit with his free hand.

Your eyes roll back and you forget about anything else, besides him and his fingers and the feeling taking over you.

"Cum for me baby."

That does it. You cum so hard it felt like your body reached another dimensions, and just with his fingers.

"Fuck, you're so responsive to me." He licks his fingers and brings his lips to yours, making you taste your own arousal.

Without warning he pulls away, spreading your legs and admiring your pussy.

Shrugging his pants off he wastes no time plunging inside you, hard and fast. You cry out, arching your back to him, clawing at his chest.

Claiming him.

The bed rattles and shakes, filling the room with grunts and moans.

"Gonna fill you up so nicely, you'll be dripping for days." All you could do was gasp and moan at his hard and fast pace.

He was claiming you, punishing you for making him cheat on his sweet fiancé.

"You like this don't you slut? Leading me on like this, ruining my perfect relationship." He wraps his hand around your neck, making you struggle to breathe, your face going red, ears buzzing.

And just when you thought you're loosing consciousness, he releases. His finger grazing your cheek softly, while looking deep into your eyes.

This is all you ever wanted, him loving you, claiming you as his.

He quickens his pace more, hitting your cervix every time, you moan and gasp, but still pulling him closer.

Rafe grunts, forehead dropping to yours and he cums deep inside you.

Pulling out, he quickly adjusts himself,

"Oh, and Sofia will be sending wedding invitations tomorrow"

@cherrywriterrr @rafesbabygirlx

[kieeslove]

guys yall have to read haunted by @cherrywriterrr its so good🙏

[rafesbabygirlx]

Me when you

@cherrywriterrr

[cherrywriterrr]

haunted (chapter 3)

bodyguard!rafe x reader

strong language, smut (18+ explicit content), graphic violence, blood/injury, captivity, emotional manipulation, talking about death, trauma responses, unhealthy relationship dynamics, age gap (consensual, adult) ,mentions of sexual assault (not between main characters), sexual tension (consensual, but intense), dark themes overall.

readers discretion is strongly advised. mdni. 18+ only.

two three four

you’re still in the stupid party dress. heels biting into the back of your feet. lashes heavy. lipstick smudged.

you didn’t even take off the jewelry. you sat at the long dining table in your mansion, quiet and glowing under the dimmed lights, eating slowly, like nothing happened. like your bodyguard didn’t just lie to a minister and half the damn elite industry that you’re married to him.

you hear the door click closed behind you and a sigh heavy with attitude.

“so,” rafe’s voice rings through the open room, cocky and low as always, “you gon’ tell daddy to fire me now?”

you don’t look up.

you don’t say anything. you just keep chewing.

rafe laughs under his breath. “wow,” he mutters, leaning on the doorframe. “you’re finally fuckin’ quiet.”

he steps forward, boots heavy on the marble.

“i’m glad, really. peaceful.”

you don’t flinch. don’t even breathe different. just slice a piece of roasted chicken and chew. slowly. deliberately. like he doesn’t exist.

rafe paces behind you once. twice. then he stops near the table and watches you.

he clicks his tongue. then — softer — he mutters, “that good?”

you still don’t speak.

but you grab another plate.

scoop food onto it. chicken. roasted vegetables. a little rice.

and slide it toward the empty seat across from you.

rafe raises a brow. you don’t look at him.

you just keep eating.

his jaw clenches. he walks over. sits down across from you in silence.

“so you are mad,” he mumbles, grabbing a fork. “figured.”

you ignore him. again. but your eyes meet his for a second too long.

and his smirk fades — just slightly.

“you know,” he says slowly, watching you now instead of his food, “you’re cute when you’re pissed. all pouty. like a little wife i came home late to.”

you stab your fork into your food harder than you should.

and his smirk returns. “see?” he leans back in his chair. “still mad. but still fed me.”

he tilts his head. “guess i am your husband now, huh, baby?”

you don’t speak. but your glare says enough.

and rafe — arrogant, smug, dangerous rafe — finally looks like he might shut the hell up.

he eats slowly at first. like he’s waiting for a trap to go off. but when the first bite hits his tongue, his brows raise just slightly.

“damn,” he mutters, chewing. “this is actually really good.”

you still say nothing.

he looks at you over the rim of his glass as he sips water. “you made this?”

you nod once. mechanical. no change in your expression. no sarcasm, no pride.

just that same silent treatment that’s been suffocating him since the car ride.

he cuts another piece of chicken, watching you from under his lashes. “you really gonna do this all night?”

nothing.

“what, not even a you’re welcome, babe?”

you keep chewing, ignoring him completely.

he lets out a short laugh, a little breathless. not cocky anymore — almost like he’s nervous. like he’s not sure how to break the ice now that he’s realized you’re serious.

“you mad at me for the marriage comment or just everything about me in general?” he asks, trying again.

no answer.

he sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“alright,” he mumbles under his breath, poking at his food, “you win. i fold. i’m the asshole.”

still silence.

“…but i’m an asshole eating the best damn meal i’ve had in months, so i guess i’ll suffer through it.”

you glance at him once. just a flicker.

he sees it.

his lips twitch like he’s about to smile — but doesn’t.

instead, he shifts in his seat, voice dropping just a little.

“look,” he says, more careful now, “i know i push your buttons, alright? i do it on purpose, half the time. but that whole married thing — it wasn’t a lie to screw you over. i just…”

he pauses.

you lift your glass and sip. he stares.

“…didn’t like the way he touched you. that’s all.”

your jaw clenches — the first emotion you’ve shown all night.

he sees that too. and he doesn’t look so smug anymore.

you don’t say a word, but the silence makes him fidget.

he cuts another piece of food, but doesn’t lift his fork. just shifts in his seat, eyes flickering over to you.

“that old minister?” he starts again, jaw tight, voice lower now. “he wasn’t good news.”

you slowly blink at your plate. don’t answer.

rafe leans forward a little, elbow on the table, his voice now just above a murmur. “guys like that — power makes ‘em feel invincible. makes ‘em think they can touch whatever they want, talk however they want. and you… walk around like you’re untouchable, but you’re not. not to people like him.”

your fingers curl loosely around your fork.

“so yeah,” he keeps going, “i lied. figured saying you’re mine would keep his hands off you. it was either that or shooting his brains out and losing my job entirely.”

he chews the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowing just slightly. “you think i wanted to say that shit for fun?”

you stare at him now, finally. just your eyes.

and he looks back, serious. softer — but still him.

“didn’t mean to piss you off,” he adds. “just meant to protect you.”

and for once… he’s not cocky. not smug. just honest. sort of. in his own way.

“talk to me,” he says again, a little rougher this time. almost soft — like there’s a please trapped somewhere between his teeth, but he bites it back before it slips.

you don’t even glance at him.

just calmly finish your plate, not rushing a single bite. the silver clinks gently against the porcelain. he watches, jaw flexing, annoyed at how calm you look while completely freezing him out.

once you’re done, you rise gracefully from your chair — heels still on, dress still perfect — and carry your dish to the sink. rinse. dishwasher. click. not a single word.

he exhales through his nose, leans back in the chair, fingers tapping against his thigh.

but then you start walking off.

and that’s when he moves — swift and sure — fingers wrapping around your arm before you can disappear down the hall.

“talk to me, princess.”

his voice is low now, hovering close to your ear, that nickname twisted with tension. not teasing this time — coaxing. demanding. desperate underneath.

you yank your arm out of his grip, sharp and fast, stepping back just enough to look him in the eye — and it burns.

“what do you want me to say, hm?” your voice cuts like glass. “i told you everything, rafe. i want you fired.”

you say it so coldly, so effortlessly, like it doesn’t make his stomach twist.

your lipstick is still on. your heels still echo across the kitchen tile. you look like the party never ended for you — like it didn’t wreck you the way it wrecked him.

he blinks once. twice. clenches his jaw so hard it ticks.

“right,” he mutters, voice flat. “guess i should start packing then.”

you scoff, arms crossing tight against your chest. “no more biting? no more fighting? wow. finally turned into a gentleman, huh?”

rafe doesn’t even flinch. just watches you, slower now, like he’s scared he might say the wrong thing again.

“i shouldn’t be your bodyguard,” he says, quieter. “not if i make you feel uncomfortable.”

and that—ugh. that lands somewhere in your stomach. hot and guilty.

you look away first.

his eyes are still on you, heavy. knowing. he saw it—the guilt. the softness you didn’t mean to show.

you press your lips together, suddenly more tired than angry. “you pushed my buttons,” you mutter, voice lower now. “last night. asking about my back.”

silence hangs. heavy, almost fragile.

rafe shifts, jaw tight. “it can’t be that bad,” he mutters. “i mean, c’mon now. you have everything. what could you possibly be hiding on your back?”

you let out a bitter laugh, short and sharp. “everything, huh?” you toss him a glance, venom in your smile. “tell that to the mother i don’t have. or the father that’s never home unless there’s a camera around.”

the words hit the floor like glass shattering, and for once, rafe doesn’t bite back. doesn’t roll his eyes or throw it back in your face.

instead, his shoulders drop a little. his mouth parts, then closes again before he speaks—quieter this time, almost like it’s not meant to be heard.

“…i don’t have a mom either.”

you blink. freeze.

he shrugs, eyes on the marble counter like it’ll give him something better to look at. “she died when i was ten. i don’t really talk about it.” his voice cracks faintly around the edges, like he’s keeping something in check. “so yeah. i get it. the whole… pretending thing.”

for a second, there’s no noise but the soft hum of the kitchen lights.

and you don’t know what’s worse—that he said it, or that he meant it.

rafe scoffs before you can even form a response.

“don’t pity me,” he mutters, jaw clenching as he leans back against the counter. “i don’t need that shit.”

you say nothing, just watch him carefully, unsure of where this version of him came from.

he runs a hand through his hair, gaze distant. “i’m just telling you,” he continues, voice low now. “i know how it is to pretend. to act like everything’s fine when you’re really just—” he exhales sharply, nostrils flaring. “—just trying to fucking breathe.”

he doesn’t look at you, but the silence between you feels full. not tense—just… heavy. like the space finally shifted. like he’s not just the guy who’s always two steps behind you with a gun under his shirt.

he’s something else. something broken. something familiar.

you blink, the heaviness pressing down, and quietly say, “oh—i… i’m sorry.”

he shrugs, voice low and calm, “nah, it’s fine, really.”

you cross your arms, eyes sharp, “i’m still mad about your lie, y’know.”

he smirks, unfazed, “you’ll get over it. or you’ll fire me. either way, you’ll be fine.”

you glare at him, crossing your arms tighter. “i—look, i don’t want you fired. you annoy the hell out of me and i can’t stand you most days, but you do your job good. the whole protecting thing, y’know.”

he leans back, a crooked smile creeping up. “yeah, right. well, what if i don’t wanna work for you anymore? what if i got sick of your spoiled ass?”

you hold his gaze, electric and sharp, the silence thick between you. the air shifts—something charged, almost sexual.

then you smirk, voice low, “then you’re free to go, rafe.”

his chest tightens, and for a beat, you see it—something raw flicker in his eyes.

you never call him rafe. only cam, or cameron. and that’s why it hits harder than he lets on.

he leans in closer, voice low and relentless, pushing every boundary. “you think you’re so untouchable, huh? actin’ like you don’t need me. but i’m the only one who’s here, really here, not just pretending.”

you bite back the growing heat in your chest, fists clenched at your sides. then, finally, you snap—eyes flashing, voice sharp as a whip.

“y’know what, rafe? fucking leave then. leave. if you can’t stand my annoying, spoiled ass, then just fucking go. i don’t need you.”

➽──────────────❥

tags 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @rafesfavegf @st8rkey

@rafestoothbrush @pluviophilis @cherryhoneybabe

pls tell me if I forgot to tag you🩷

[cherrywriterrr]

haunted

bodyguard!rafe x reader

warnings: graphic violence, blood, torture, emotional distress, language, fear, obsession, captivity, mdni 18+

seven eight nine

“you two aren’t dying.” he shrugs, like this whole thing was just a minor inconvenience. “unfortunately.”

you don’t even have the strength to react. you just blink at him, confused, trembling, your arms tightening around rafe’s body.

“your daddy came with a whole fucking army,” he goes on, eyes cutting toward you. “millions of dollars, helicopters, tactical gear. the whole damn operation. all for you and loverboy over here.”

rafe groans softly under you. he’s still alive. still here. you burst into tears.

loud, ugly sobs that rip from your throat before you can even stop them. you bury your face into rafe’s neck, holding him tighter, your voice breaking.

“god,” you cry. “i told you, rafe. i told you we were getting saved.”

he doesn’t say anything at first, just leans into you with the little strength he has left, his hand twitching slightly against your back. his blood is still warm.

you both stay like that on the floor, ruined, shaking, covered in each other’s pain, but for the first time since you woke up here…

you barely hear them storm in. it’s all a blur, armed men flooding the room, shouting in voices that don’t sound threatening anymore but safe. protective. the kind of voices that know how to kill and how to protect.

your dad is the first one you recognize.

he looks older than you remember. frantic. pale and trembling as he drops to his knees beside you, his expensive shoes sinking into the blood on the concrete.

“baby,” his voice cracks. “are you hurt? where are you hurt?”

but you’re not listening. your hands are on rafe, shaking him gently, sobbing too hard to speak right. “get him to a hospital,” you whisper, voice ragged. “dad, please, you need to get him help! he’s—he’s bleeding so much, please—”

“no,” rafe croaks, barely audible. he pushes weakly at your arms, eyes fluttering half-shut. “i’m not going anywhere.”

“yes you are,” you cry, pulling him back to you like that could anchor him in this world. “rafe, please—”

but your dad gently grabs your face and forces you to look at him. “we’re taking him, okay?” he says. “but not to a hospital.”

you stare at him like he’s lost his mind.

“i’ll pay for a doctor,” he adds, “discreet. we’ll take care of him at the house. no records, no police. no risk. we’re not losing him. i promise.”

you sob again, nodding before you even know what you’re agreeing to, and the men are already lifting rafe, carefully but quickly. he groans as they carry him, his head lolling weakly to the side.

you follow them like you’re possessed, barefoot and bruised, gripping your dad’s coat like a child.

“keep him alive,” you whisper over and over. “keep him alive. please.”

he doesn’t let go of your hand.

you sit beside the couch, your knees digging into the soft rug your mother picked out—before she left, before the campaign, before the kidnappings, before all of this.

before rafe became your entire world.

his blood is soaking into your palms, but you don’t care. your hand is wrapped tightly around his, your other clutching at the hem of his shirt as if that might stop the bleeding.

“you need to move,” the doctor says softly, crouched beside him. “i need to stitch this one.”

“no,” you breathe, tightening your grip. “i’m not letting go.”

rafe groans lowly, head rolling to the side. “s’okay,” he mumbles, half-asleep from blood loss or maybe painkillers. “let her… stay.”

you don’t think you’ve blinked once since they carried him in.

you watch everything. the needle slipping through his skin, the trembling of his jaw when he tries to be quiet for you. the way his chest rises and falls unevenly, proof that he’s still breathing.

your voice is shaking, guilt flooding every word. “i’m sorry,” you whisper, over and over, to the air, to the blood, to him. “i’m so sorry, rafe. i should’ve-i should’ve stopped them, i should’ve—”

“hey.” his hand squeezes yours, weak but sure. “you didn’t do this.”

“but you got hurt for me—”

“i’d do it again,” he rasps, his eyes fluttering open. they’re half-lidded, dazed, but they find you anyway. “don’t you get it by now? i’d get tortured a thousand fucking times if it means you walk out alive.”

you shake your head, hot tears slipping down your cheeks.

“you can’t say shit like that while you’re bleeding out on my living room couch,” you whisper brokenly. “it’s not fair. you can’t care about me more than yourself, rafe.”

he smiles, barely there. smug and stubborn and yours.

“you think i started caring about myself when i met you?”

you sniffle, and lean your forehead gently against his temple. the doctor keeps working, but you pretend the world is quiet now. just the two of you. your fingers stroking his bruised knuckles, his voice humming weakly in your ear.

“it’s you,” he murmurs, almost inaudible. “always you.”

you don’t say anything. you just squeeze his hand again, like a prayer.

you let out a breathless laugh, bitter, wet, trembling as hell.

you pull your face slightly away from his so you can look at him, his eyelids fluttering, his jaw slack with exhaustion, the dried blood trailing down his neck where the doctor hasn’t reached yet.

“it’s the painkillers talking, cameron,” you whisper shakily, trying to joke but sounding more like you’re breaking in slow motion. “you’ll get back to hating me tomorrow, i promise.”

his head turns toward you, barely, and the look he gives you cuts deeper than anything those men could’ve done.

like you’ve said the worst thing in the world.

“don’t say that,” he mutters, voice cracked. “not even as a joke. i couldn’t hate you if i tried.”

“you sure about that?” you murmur, brushing the hair off his forehead carefully, scared of hurting him more.

he opens his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to say some messy, stubborn confession about how he’s only alive because of you. but the doctor speaks first.

“he needs to rest,” the man says gently. “he’s stable, but he’s gonna be out of it for a while. try to keep him calm. no more talking if possible.”

you nod quietly, and then look down at him, your rafe. bruised and broken, stitched together by trembling hands, bleeding and still trying to protect you with his last breath.

he’s fading fast now, eyelids heavier.

you lean in and whisper into his ear, hand brushing his temple like something sacred. “just breathe, rafe. i’ll be right here, okay? i’m not going anywhere.”

he doesn’t answer. but his grip tightens around your fingers—barely, but enough.

you press a kiss to the back of his hand.

then stay there, holding him through the night, just in case he needs to hear you breathing too.

you don’t sleep.

you sit curled up in the corner of your bed, knees hugged to your chest, watching the faint sunlight bleed through your blackout curtains. your room still smells like smoke and your wrists are bruised and raw and your lips still taste like blood even though you scrubbed your mouth raw.

you left the room before he woke up.

you waited until he finally passed out on the couch. then you peeled his hand off yours, even though he had a death grip on your fingers all night.

you waited until his breathing evened out. until he stopped mumbling your name in his sleep.

then you left.

because if you stayed…

if he looked at you with those same eyes from last night—those you’re my entire fucking world eyes—you don’t know what you would’ve done.

it didn’t mean anything. it couldn’t.

“we were gonna die,” you whisper to yourself, voice thin and cracking. “that’s the only reason.”

the way he said i’ve never hated you.

the way he bled all over your clothes and still tried to make you feel better.

the way he cradled your body even while his own was falling apart.

the almost kiss.

your hand in his.

the way he looked at your back like it broke him.

none of it was real.

people say shit when they think they’re gonna die. people get scared. people do things they don’t mean.

your throat burns. your arms ache.

and you fucking hate yourself for wishing—just for a second—that maybe he meant it.

that maybe he wasn’t scared. maybe he was honest.

but no. rafe cameron is your bodyguard. your father’s hired shadow. a man who’s been trained to protect you, keep you safe at all costs. and when you were both locked in that room, bleeding and chained, his brain switched into survival mode.

that’s all it was.

you squeeze your eyes shut and whisper, “you only said it ‘cause we were dying.”

but a small, sick part of you whispers back:

what if he didn’t?

what if it was the only time he ever told you the truth?

you try to distract yourself.

god, you really try.

you open a book. you scroll on your phone. you attempt to watch something stupid and forgettable. but every time you blink, it’s his face.

his busted lip. his blood-stained teeth. the way he smiled at you even while he was breaking. the way he held you like he’d never let go again.

you throw your phone across the bed and groan, pressing your fists into your eyes “no. nope. shut up. i hate him.”

you say it out loud like it’ll stick. like the more you say it, the more you’ll believe it.

“he’s mean,” you whisper to the empty room.

“he’s so fucking sarcastic. and smug. and—”

your mind drifts.

his face flickers behind your eyelids.

the way his eyes drop to your lips when you speak sometimes.

the way he stood between you and the barrel of a gun like it was nothing.

the way he called you baby, the way he breathed your name like it was his last word.

your breath hitches. “he looks kissable,” you mumble before you can stop yourself.

then you shake your head hard. “nope. scratch that. absolutely the fuck not.”

you sit up straighter, heart thudding like you’re about to run a marathon.

“he’s annoying,” you say firmly, trying to sound like a girl who didn’t cry into his neck hours ago.

“he’s just a hired gun who thinks he’s god’s gift to women because he can fight. he hates me. he always has.”

you think back to every snide comment, every dry laugh, every time he rolled his eyes at you like you were nothing more than a spoiled brat.

“he hates me,” you say again, quieter.

but the voice in your head doesn’t let up.

then why did he call you baby?

why did he whisper your name like a prayer?

why did he beg them to take him instead?

you press your palms to your face and scream silently. because it doesn’t matter.

whatever last night was, it’s gone.

he’s probably awake by now, pretending nothing happened. probably letting your father’s guards patch him up, back to that cold, impassive bastard who only exists to follow orders and collect a paycheck.

and you—you were just the job.

nothing more.

you pull the blanket over your head and lie down, eyes wide open, heart nowhere near calm.

you pretend the ache in your chest is just exhaustion.

you pretend you didn’t want him to kiss you.

and you definitely are not waiting for him to come find you.

rafe wakes up on the fucking couch.

his back screams. his face throbs. his ribs feel like a bunch of glass shards trying to cut their way out every time he breathes.

he blinks at the ceiling. he’s warm. not dead. not chained.

he’s home. but you’re not.

he groans quietly, pushing himself up with a wince and looking around the room.

you were here.

he remembers—your face above his, your voice shaking, your hands trembling as you pressed them to his wounds, your body in his arms.

he looks down at the bloodstained shirt sticking to his chest and wonders if it was real. if you actually meant it. if you actually wanted him that close.

he swings his legs off the couch and mutters a low “fuck” under his breath as the pain stabs back into him.

she’s gone.

his hands twitch.

of course she’s gone.

he’s such a fucking idiot.

what kind of psycho confesses in the middle of a hostage situation? what kind of dumbass says i’ve always cared about you while coughing up blood and scaring her half to death?

she probably woke up, saw his busted face, remembered how broken he really is, and got the fuck away from him.

and honestly? he can’t even blame you.

he limps his way down the hall, one hand pressed to the fresh stitches in his side, ignoring every bodyguard and housekeeper he passes. his head’s pounding too hard, heart twisting too tight.

he stops outside his room. the door next to it—your room—closed. silent.

he stares at it.

then he mutters, “fucking loser,” to himself under his breath and pushes into his room, locking the door behind him.

the sheets are still undone from when the doctor cleaned him up last night. he sinks onto the edge of the bed, letting out a bitter exhale.

he shuts his eyes.

she didn’t mean it. none of it.

she was scared. she needed comfort. you were the only one there.

she held you like that because she thought you were gonna die.

you almost kissed her because you thought you were gonna die.

he drags a hand through his hair and digs his nails into the back of his neck,

“so stupid,” he whispers.

he should’ve just kept his mouth shut. stayed quiet. stayed the bodyguard. the shadow. not the fucking wreck bleeding on her and calling her baby like she was his.

he hates her. he should hate her. she’s a spoiled, stubborn brat. always bossing him around, always testing him, always touching everyone except him, he swallows.

except when she did touch him.

when her hands were shaking and she was whispering please be alive, please breathe, like his heartbeat was the only thing keeping her sane.

his chest tightens.

he clenches his jaw and lets his head fall forward into his hands.

he hates how she says his name when she’s crying.

he hates how soft her skin felt when he held her.

he hates that she makes him feel anything at all.

but what he hates more—what he can’t fucking stand—is the fact that she’s not here now.

not even a knock. not even a word. like it never happened.

his eyes snap to the wall separating their rooms.

he stays still.

if she meant any of it, she’d come find him, right?

…right?

taglist masterlist next>>

tags: 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @vaelyann @qversazex @iconiccolo @scorpiosolar @devoutedlover @viqtoria @hunzzzzz @sc05 @k4yr14 @t0x1cfaerie @purplerose291 @cherryhoneybabe @kieeslove @toterry @rcwhore @blissfulbutterfliess

[cherrywriterrr]

deliver us from temptation

priest!rafe x reader

warnings: suggestive content, implied lust, and inner turmoil, Age gap (reader is 23, Rafe is 43), religious guilt, judgmental secondary characters, tension-laced desire, strong language

disclaimer: This is a fictional, stylistic work of drama. It is not intended to mock or diminish any religious beliefs or institutions. MDNI.

It was supposed to be a fresh start.

A quiet Sunday morning. Golden light streaming through the stained glass, the scent of old wood and incense clinging to the air. Redemption. Peace. Clean slates.

Instead, your thoughts were anything but pure.

You’d slipped into the back pew, black dress clinging to your waist in all the wrong ways, collarbone bare, lip bitten red raw. A voice in your head kept whispering that you didn’t belong here. That the past didn’t just melt away because you walked into a church.

But you weren’t prepared for him.

Father Rafe Cameron.

Broad shoulders draped in soft clerical black, sleeves pushed just high enough to see veined forearms. Golden hair a little disheveled like he’d run his hands through it too many times before stepping up to the pulpit. And his voice—low, slow, gravel-touched —like sin wrapped in scripture.

You should’ve looked away. You didn’t.

And the second his eyes met yours mid-sermon, you knew he noticed.

They flickered. A small pause in his words, subtle to everyone else, but you caught it. Like a crack in holy armor.

“Even the lost sheep,” he was saying, “can be led home by faith.”

You shifted in your seat, the wood suddenly too hard, the air too still. His gaze slid over you once more, from the exposed line of your neck to the curve of your legs. Then back up. Then quickly away.

The older woman beside you leaned over, clutching her pearls as if they could protect her from you.

“Young lady,” she whispered sharply, “this isn’t a nightclub.”

You turned slowly, lips parting in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

She looked you over like you were dirt on the marble floor. “Modesty is a virtue. You’re a distraction.”

Your jaw tensed. You could’ve said something sharp, something cruel — but instead, you turned back toward the altar with a bitter smile.

Distraction, huh? If only she knew what Father Rafe was thinking when he looked at you like that.

The congregation drifted out like smoke, soft murmurs, polite nods, slow footsteps echoing between the pews.

You lingered in the shade just outside the old stone archway, arms crossed over your chest, heart pounding like you’d committed some unspoken crime. A cigarette sat between your fingers, lit but forgotten, the ash running long.

Maybe you shouldn’t be here. Maybe the old lady was right.

Maybe you were the devil in lipstick and heels.

But then the heavy church doors creaked open, and there he was,

Father Rafe.

He stepped out alone, sleeves rolled now, collar undone — as if he’d already started shedding the role of shepherd. His eyes scanned the golden path of morning until they landed on you.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t look surprised. He just… looked.

You blinked once, hard. “So you are real.”

He stopped a few steps from you. The scent of incense still clung to him—or maybe it was just him. Clean. Warm. Steady.

“I could say the same,” he murmured. “Didn’t think I’d see you waiting.”

You looked away for a second. Took a slow drag of the cigarette. “I don’t know why I stayed. I guess I just wanted to feel something.”

A pause.

“To feel good about myself. About… anything, really.” The words fell out too easily. You hated how honest they sounded.

Rafe’s gaze didn’t waver. He stepped closer, folding his hands in front of him the way someone did when they were about to say something they shouldn’t.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to feel good,” he said, voice low, controlled. “It’s just… sometimes we go looking for it in the wrong places.”

You raised a brow. “And this—” you gestured to the crumbling chapel behind him, “this is the right place?”

“Depends what you’re hoping to find.”

You stared at him then. Hard. As if the answer was supposed to be written across his face.

And maybe it was. There was something there in his eyes, that flicker you’d seen during his sermon. Interest. Curiosity. Restraint tied up so tightly it was almost painful.

You dropped the cigarette, crushing it beneath your heel. “You’re not like the others.”

A beat.

He smiled — faint, humorless. “I hear that a lot. Doesn’t mean it’s a compliment.”

“It wasn’t,” you said softly.

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taglist: 🏷️ @viqtoria @rafesbabygirlx @devoutedlover @iconiccolo

[rafesbabygirlx]

Why is my whole fyp about you tonight? @cherrywriterrr

y’all ever read a fanfic that you cannot believe an author just wrote for free?? what an honor it is to read a piece of someone’s soul they shared out of nothing but love for a piece of media. what a privilege it is to be allowed their talent because you share an interest!!

[cherrywriterrr]

...this is it?

exbf!rafe x reader

warnings: emotional angst, heavy yearning, alcohol, cursing, nostalgic atmosphere, sensual undertones. MDNI.

the lights are orange and red—

like old film burned at the edges.

and the bass thuds somewhere in your ribs like a second heart.

this party’s too loud. too warm. too full of people who know your name but don’t know anything else about you.

you shouldn’t have come. you shouldn’t have worn that dress.

because he’s here. of course he’s here.

leaning against the wall like he owns the damn air. jaw tight. glass in hand. his white tee clinging to his arms like it was tailored just to piss you off. and his eyes—

god, his eyes catch yours the second you walk in.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t smile.

but he sees you.

and you? you look away. pretend you’re fine. pretend your heart didn’t skip, pretend the song playing doesn’t remind you of how he once sung to you she’s my collar in the car, tapping the wheel, smiling like a boy and not like the man who would shatter you later.

you weave through the bodies. someone hands you a drink. you smile. it’s fake.

he doesn’t follow you. but his stare does.

═════════

an hour later, you’re sitting on the old porch, smoke in the air, legs crossed, scrolling your phone like you’re not waiting.

he shows up anyway. you knew he would.

“…this is it?” his voice is low, rough like gravel. “this how you’re gonna pretend we never existed?”

you don’t look at him. “you shouldn’t be out here. party’s inside.”

“yeah, and you’re out here. which is funny, ‘cause you threw this party.”

you take a sip. “wasn’t for you.”

“could’ve fooled me.”

you finally look up. his hair’s longer. scruffier. his eyes bloodshot but awake. you want to slap him. you want to kiss him.

you do neither.

he laughs bitterly, looking down at your shoes. “you look good.”

“you always say that when you’re about to ruin something.”

“i’m not trying to ruin anything.”

you raise an eyebrow. “no? then what do you want, Rafe? you want me to cry? you want me to beg? you want me to be the girl who used to sleep in your shirt and wait for your calls at 2am and pretend i wasn’t breaking?”

his jaw ticks. “i want you to know i never stopped.”

“…stopped what?”

“coming back to you. even when i didn’t mean to. even when i tried not to. every girl i touched—” his voice breaks, slightly “it was you. it was always you.”

your throat burns. you should tell him to leave. you should tell him to go to hell.

but you don’t. because part of you wants to believe it.

“…you were dancing with her,” you say quietly. “inside.”

he doesn’t lie. “i only danced with her after i saw you with him.”

you swallow. “so this is jealousy now? possession?”

“this is me being a fucking idiot who’s in love with a girl who hates his guts.”

you’re quiet. the red light flickers from inside. people laugh. the music is louder now.

“If I could take her down and run, then I’d call her…”

“i’m not coming back to you,” you whisper.

he steps closer. “i know.”

you look up. your eyes lock. the air shifts. thicker. heavier.

you could kiss him right now. you could end it all. or start it again.

you don’t. instead, you say, “go home, rafe.”

he doesn’t move. just stares at you like you’re the only thing left alive on earth. “…this is it, huh?”

you nod, heart cracking behind your ribs.

“yeah. this is it.”

but neither of you really mean it.

═════════

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tags: 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @k4yr14 @iconiccolo @devoutedlover @viqtoria @qversazex

[cherrywriterrr]

psych 203 five

college!rafe x pinkhaired!oc

warnings: 18+ mdni, cursing, mentions of alcohol, emotional vulnerability, suggestive language, soft!rafe moments, slutty!nova chaos, fluff with hints of deeper angst, college setting

four five six

“novaaaaa. get your ass up. it’s nine.”

nova groaned into her pillow like it personally offended her. head pounding. mouth dry as hell. mascara smeared. boobs almost out. vibes? not found.

“what the fuck, sarah,” she mumbled. “what do i have at nine—”

pause.

then came the memory: her body draped over rafe in the hallway, calling him baby girl, asking if he’d kiss her. the fucking party. the film camera. the mac and cheese. the almost cuddling.

“oh no,” nova whispered, sitting up with wide eyes.

sarah tossed a water bottle at her. “you have psych. with rafe. in like five hours.”

“where is he?” nova snapped.

“gone. left around three,” sarah said, climbing onto her bed. “i got back with john b and he was still here. sitting on your floor. just… watching you sleep.”

nova stared, mouth parted. “watching me?!”

“not in a serial killer way,” sarah rolled her eyes. “it was actually kinda cute. he kept tucking you in like every five minutes. you’d kick the blanket off and he’d tuck it back.”

nova’s jaw dropped. “no.”

“yes,” sarah smirked.

“nooooo.”

“yes. and he was talking to you.”

“talking to me?!” nova clutched her head. “what the actual fuck?”

sarah mimicked him in a low dramatic tone, grinning: “oh pinkie… who hurt you this bad, hm?”

nova gasped. loud. offended. hand over chest like she was about to faint. “he was sweet talking me in my sleep?!”

“yup.”

“that’s so— that’s so illegal. i need to die now.”

sarah just laughed. “i told you. he has a crush on you.”

“no the fuck he doesn’t,” nova snapped. “we don’t even know each other.”

“yet,” sarah sing-songed.

“what the hell does that mean?”

“you still have class with him later.”

nova collapsed backward, face-down into her pillow. “fuck. my. life.”

sarah reached for nova’s hairbrush, casually untangling the pink mess as nova grumbled into her pillow.

“oh c’mon,” sarah said, “y’all would be cute together.”

nova shot up from the bed, offended. “fuck no.”

“what?” sarah blinked. “he stayed with you all night. tucked you in. called you pinkie.”

“he was with layla last night,” nova snapped. “fucking layla, sarah. she’s blonde. blonde.” she gestured violently at her own head. “my hair is pink, sarah. pink. you think a guy who kisses blonde girls named layla wants a chaotic slut with commitment issues and a film camera?”

sarah raised an eyebrow. “you’re romanticizing your trauma again.”

“he told me i look like i’m diagnosed!” nova shrieked. “his exact words were, ‘you look like you got ten psychological diagnoses.’”

“well,” sarah bit back a smile, “was he wrong?”

nova glared.

“i’m just saying,” sarah said, standing up and dodging a pillow nova chucked her way. “he might like pink after all.”

nova groaned, grabbing her vape off the nightstand. “i need therapy.”

“you need to go to class.”

sarah laughed as she dodged another pillow nova flung at her. “get your ass up, we have class in like thirty.”

nova dramatically flopped back onto the bed, half-buried in a blanket. “i don’t need class,” she groaned.

“what do you need then, smartass?” sarah crossed her arms.

nova peeked out from under the covers, deadpan.

“a shot.”

sarah blinked.

“of alcohol, back shots, or a shot in my frontal lobe. i’m not picky.”

sarah let out a loud snort. “you’re not okay.”

nova sat up, hair sticking in seventeen different directions. “never claimed i was, bestie.”

“you need to flirt less and sleep more.”

nova lit her vape. “you need to mind your business, but here we are.”

sarah grabbed nova’s jacket and tossed it at her face. “psych 203 is waiting for you and your ten psychological diagnoses, let’s go.”

“fine,” nova muttered, dragging herself out of bed like a feral goblin. “but if rafe baldwin says one more thing about my hair i’m committing a felony.”

sarah just grinned. “i’ll bring bail money.”

nova stood in the hallway outside the lecture hall, back against the wall, one boot propped up as she scrolled through her instagram. her vape dangled lazily between her fingers, smoke curling around her face. her feed was a chaotic blend of party pics, memes, and thirst traps she’d forgotten she even posted.

she was in the middle of stalking a girl’s page—some hot psych major who dressed like she hated men—when she bumped hard into someone.

“shit,” she muttered, steadying herself. she looked up and met marcus’s smug face.

“hey baby,” marcus said, that same cocky grin plastered across his face. “what happened last night? you literally disappeared after topper dragged you away.”

nova smirked, tucking her vape into her bra. “you sound disappointed, marcus.”

“i am,” he said. “i thought we were about to have a real good night.”

nova leaned in just enough for her perfume to hit. “we were. blame pony boy.”

marcus laughed under his breath. “topper cockblocked me?”

nova winked. “hard.”

he shook his head, looking her up and down. “you still owe me, hart.”

she blew a slow puff of vapor past his cheek. “stand in line, baby.”

from the end of the hallway, a familiar buzzcut head appeared—rafe, locking eyes with her as he approached the classroom.

nova looked away first, heart thumping like a warning bell.

marcus didn’t notice. “text me later?”

“maybe,” nova said, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “if i don’t forget your name again.”

she walked toward the class with a smirk, hips swaying like she meant to be followed. and rafe, oh he definitely was watching.

they reached the classroom door at the same time, shoulders brushing like fate was playing a long, annoying game with them. rafe reached for the handle, but nova didn’t slow down either.

“marcus, huh?” rafe said, not looking at her as he pulled the door open. “we box together.”

nova stepped in first, flashing him a saccharine smile over her shoulder. “layla, huh?” she said sweetly. “we had the same dick in us.”

rafe paused in the doorway, lips twitching into the smallest grin like he wanted to laugh but knew better. “jesus.”

“mm,” nova hummed, sliding into the seat beside his. “he’s not involved.”

rafe sat next to her slowly. “you always this charming before noon?”

“only when men talk to me first,” she said, pulling out her pink highlighter and clicking it like a weapon.

rafe leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching her with that unreadable expression. “you’re insane.”

“diagnosed,” nova said without missing a beat, eyes on her notebook. “by you, apparently.”

he huffed out a quiet laugh. “yeah, well. you do look like a walking red flag.”

nova turned her head slowly, grin stretching across her face. “good thing you’ve got a history of ignoring those.”

“morning, psychos,” the professor said casually, tossing a folder on the desk. “hope you’re all ready to ruin each other’s gpas.”

he clicked his remote and the projector blinked to life behind him.

“about the semester project,” he continued, “partners were locked based on seat placements. there will be no switching. no seat-hopping. and no partner trades for the rest of the year. if your partner drops the class, you fail solo. i don’t make the rules.”

“you literally do,” nova muttered, dropping her head to her desk. “fuck my life.”

rafe leaned in, voice low and way too amused. “what, baby? can’t handle me for a year?”

nova didn’t even lift her head. “i hope you get expelled.”

“by your daddy?” rafe teased, letting the words drag. “no way. he got me into the football team.”

nova slowly turned her head and glared at him with the most deadpan expression she could muster. “you’re such a bitch.”

“a lovable one,” rafe whispered, giving her that crooked smile that was going to be a real problem for her sanity.

nova scoffed under her breath, still half-sunk in her chair.

“yeah, well,” she muttered, turning to rafe, “my dad loves anything that has nothing to do with me, so don’t feel flattered.”

rafe blinked.

the smirk faded just slightly from his face as he studied her. she wasn’t joking this time. it was a quiet stab—wrapped in sarcasm, but sharp as hell.

he didn’t say anything for a second.

then “noted, pinkie,” he said softer this time, voice lower.

nova leaned back in her seat, popped her gum, and stared at the projector like she hadn’t just laid that emotional landmine right in front of him.

rafe just looked at her.

rafe leaned a little closer, elbow on the shared desk, eyes flicking over to her with that half-cocky, half-serious look he always wore when he was testing the water.

“coffee tomorrow?” he asked casually, like it was nothing. like he wasn’t lowkey sweating under his hoodie.

nova didn’t even glance at him. “i’m not going on a date with you, bald head.”

he huffed a laugh. “not a date, pinkie. it’s for the project.”

she finally turned to him with a slow smile, eyes glittering with mischief. “mm. you sure you can focus on psychology and not my boobs?”

“i’ll try,” he said. “no promises.”

nova smirked, shooting back, “hey, you got pretty nice boobs yourself, don’t act like you don’t notice.”

rafe shot back, smirking, “at least i don’t need a damn neon sign on my scalp.”

they kept trading barbs, voices rising little by little, until the professor’s sharp voice cut through the chatter.

“miss nova, we’ve already had this conversation. keep your voice down.”

nova’s grin only widened. “sorry, professor, i’m just trying to help everyone stay awake.”

that got a few dirty stares from around the room—mostly from serious students and a few amused looks from others, but the professor was not having it. “this is a classroom, not a comedy club.”

rafe chuckled, shaking his head. “nice one, pinkie. no one can stand you.”

nova’s smile faltered for a second, her eyes darkening just a bit. inside, a familiar sting hit her, she’d always felt weird as fuck, like she didn’t quite fit. since she was a kid, she’d talked too much, laughed too loud, been too much for people, and every time, they made her feel bad for it. for a long time, she just stopped trying. went quiet. shrank herself to fit the mold.

now, sitting there, hearing rafe say it so casually, it cut deeper than she wanted to admit. she just went silent, staring down at her desk.

rafe noticed the sudden shift. his smile faded, and he glanced at her, concern flickering in his eyes. “hey, you okay?”

nova snapped her gaze back up, eyes icy. “why do you care, bald head? don’t pretend like you give a shit.”

her voice was sharp, cutting through any trace of concern. she folded her arms, leaning back, daring him to say more.

nova’s pen scratched frantically across the page, but her mind wasn’t on the lecture. the professor’s voice droned in the background, words about deadlines and projects fading into white noise. instead, flashes of something dark and heavy flickered in her head—like a bad premonition she couldn’t shake.

her handwriting grew messy, almost frantic, as she scribbled down random words, symbols, little doodles that made no sense but captured the chaos inside her: fall

break

shattered

don’t trust

it’s coming

she swallowed hard, heart racing, eyes flicking up nervously at the professor, then back down, trying to force herself to focus—but the feeling clawed at her, suffocating and urgent.

rafe’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts, gentle but firm. “hey pinkie, i didn’t mean to make you mad with that comment about your father.”

nova scoffed, rolling her eyes like she was used to this kind of shit. “i don’t give a fuck about that comment, rafe. you’re free to say whatever,i mean, you know better what daddy issues feel like.”

her words hung in the air, sharp but soaked in a kind of bitter honesty.

nova was heading toward her dorm, hoodie thrown over her tank top, vape in one hand, notebook shoved under her arm. her brain was still fried, half in a fog from the shit that had just gone down in class.

“nova!”

she heard topper before she saw him. he jogged to catch up, sweatshirt half-off his shoulder, a little too concerned for this early in the day.

“hey,” he said, catching her by the arm lightly. “what the hell did you say to rafe?”

nova rolled her eyes. “good morning to you too, ponyboy.”

“don’t ‘ponyboy’ me right now.” his voice wasn’t playful. “seriously. he walked out of class like someone drop-kicked his soul. i asked what happened, and he just said, ‘fuck it, that girl’s something else.’”

she blinked at him, then shrugged. “nothing. just a little family bonding moment. daddy issues, you know how it is.”

topper froze. “what?”

“i said,” she repeated dryly, “daddy. issues. he brought up my dad. i returned the favor. it’s called equality, topper.”

he dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated. “why the fuck would you do that, nova?”

“because he said something first!” she snapped, stopping in her tracks. “he told me no one can stand me. and sure, whatever, that’s probably true. but it’s not like i pulled that shit out of nowhere.”

topper exhaled slowly. “you really don’t know how to deescalate, do you?”

nova tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “what, you want me to roll over and apologize because the golden boy got his feelings hurt? he was making fun of me. i’ve dealt with people treating me like a fucking freak my whole life. i’m tired, topper.”

“rafe’s not like that,” topper muttered, looking away. “not completely. and you hit a nerve. his thing with his dad? it’s not small shit. you know that.”

“and mine is?” she asked, quieter now.

topper didn’t have an answer.

nova huffed out a breath and turned to walk again. “whatever. he can think whatever he wants about me. everyone already does.”

“nova—”

“don’t,” she said without turning around. “i already feel like shit. i don’t need a fucking lecture.”

and with that, she kept walking, fingers tightening around her notebook, heart pounding harder than she wanted to admit.

topper didn’t let her get far. he jogged again, falling back into step beside her with a frustrated sigh.

“hey!c’mon. nova. you know i didn’t mean it like that.”

she stopped walking, again, this time turning so fast her notebook almost slipped from her grip.

“like what, topper?” her voice cracked slightly. “what exactly didn’t you mean ‘like that’? when somebody else has a problem, it’s all oh poor them, protect their peace, be kind. but when it’s me, suddenly it’s what the fuck is wrong with nova? why would you say that, nova?”

topper opened his mouth to respond, but she kept going, her words spilling out fast and jagged.

“i mean, seriously. was it nice for him to say that no one can stand me?” she demanded, eyes sharp, wide, almost glassy. “was it sweet? did it make him feel better about himself? because it sure made me feel like i was thirteen again, getting told by my science teacher that i talked too much and needed to learn how to shut up if i ever wanted friends.”

topper blinked, caught off guard by that.

nova laughed bitterly. “and now i’ve got fucking rafe cameron, mister ‘i’m emotionally damaged but hot about it,’ sitting next to me in class and telling me i’m unbearable. and everyone’s like, poor rafe. he’s been through shit. so have i, topper.”

“i know you have,” he said, softer now.

“do you?” she asked, voice low. “or do you just know the parts i let slip when i’m wasted?”

he hesitated. “nova…”

“don’t,” she said, wiping at her eye with the sleeve of her hoodie like it was just something in her eye. “i’m not doing the whole heart-to-heart on the quad. i just want to get to my room and pretend i’m not one wrong word away from spiraling today.”

topper looked at her like he wanted to fix it, like he wished he hadn’t followed her at all.

but nova was already walking again, hoodie pulled up, leaving him behind with nothing but her words echoing back at him.

nova walked with her hoodie pulled up, eyes hidden behind her oversized sunglasses, camera slung across her chest. she snapped pictures as she moved—leaves, shadows on brick walls, people laughing. a peace sign here, a blurry tongue-out selfie there. documenting everything and nothing, trying to fill the silence inside her chest.

her phone buzzed. she ignored it.

she was halfway through campus, heading toward the art building, when she saw it.

froze.

there he was. him.

that ex.

the one who said she was too much, too loud, too intense, too queer, too pink.

the one who cheated on her. with layla.

and there she was, hanging on his arm like some stupid accessory, giggling with her perfectly blown-out blonde hair and manicured claws that nova knew were fake because she remembered layla biting them down to the quick when they used to be fake friends.

layla.

the girl who didn’t just take her boyfriend—no, she took everything.

her spot in the art elective? gone.

layla had whispered to the professor that nova’s projects were “a little derivative.”

her place on the cheerleading team? stolen.

layla had laughed with her glossy lips and said, “i mean, come on… pink hair? that’s just so cringe, right?”

nova stood across the lawn, camera gripped tightly in her hands, too tight. the strap dug into her neck.

she felt it boil up—rage, sadness, all the names layla had called her. slut. freak. try-hard.

you would’ve kept him if you weren’t such a freak.

you scare people off.

no one actually wants to date the manic pixie dream girl. they just want to fuck her.

nova lifted her camera, hands trembling slightly, and snapped a picture

not of them. of a nearby tree. of some shadow. of anything but the sight in front of her.

“fuck this shit,” she muttered, yanking her hoodie back down tighter around her face.

then, with her jaw set and her teeth clenched, she turned and walked in the opposite direction.

layla might’ve taken pieces of her—but she would never take the whole fucking nova hart.

nova’s boots hit the pavement in a fast, angry rhythm. each step echoing louder than the one before it. she wasn’t sure where she was going, just away.

away from the sight of him and her.

away from the ghost of her old self still standing in that cheer uniform, pink hair pulled back in a high ponytail and hope blooming stupidly in her chest.

but suddenly, as she turned a corner and slowed near a bench, her thoughts drifted. not to layla. not to him.

to sarah. sarah fucking cameron.

from day one—literally day one—she’d been there.

sat beside her in psych 101 when everyone else left an empty chair next to nova because her hair was pink and her nails were chipped and she smelled like cigarettes and vanilla.

laughed at nova’s dumb jokes. held her hand when she got her first tattoo.

never once told her to tone it down or be less weird or more palatable.

sarah always got her. always saw her.

sweet, beautiful, golden-hearted sarah.

she never flinched when nova spiraled, never made her feel like she was too much.

she was the calm when nova’s head felt like static.

and she was everything nova needed, even when nova didn’t know she needed anything.

nova felt her throat tighten as she sat down heavily on the bench, the camera thudding against her chest. she dragged her knees up, wrapping her arms around them.

and then it hit her.

rafe.

rafe fucking cameron.

her dumbass bickering partner, her project partner, the boy who stayed with her while she was passed out drunk and said “oh pinkie, who hurt you this bad, hm?”

the one she clowned and called bald-headed and stupid and mean, but who had also looked at her like he was trying to understand her.

she’d said that shit about his dad. daddy issues.

like it was a joke. like it didn’t matter.

but it did matter.

she remembered sarah’s voice, soft one night on the floor of nova’s dorm, whispering about how ward used to scream at rafe.

how he once didn’t talk to rafe for months.

how everything rafe did, every sport he played, every A he got, every rehab stint he survived—never made that man proud.

nova’s stomach twisted.

“fuck,” she muttered, dragging a hand over her face.

for once, she didn’t feel loud or weird or wild.

she just felt… wrong. and heavy. and guilty.

because maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t the only one walking around feeling like a disappointment.

nova was curled up on luca’s bed, her bare feet brushing against ivory’s legs as she flipped through the film camera in her lap. ivory was sitting criss-cross on the floor, lip-gloss in one hand and her phone in the other, deep into a hate spiral of layla’s instagram.

“bitch still posts edits of herself in high school cheer uniform,” ivory muttered, screen glaring against her freshly painted nails. “like babe, give it up. you’re pushing twenty-two and clinging to a pyramid stunt from 2021.”

luca snorted from where he was sprawled in his desk chair. “she only made cheer ‘cause she told coach nova’s hair was ‘too alt girl cringe’ and not family-friendly enough.”

“and the coach believed her!” ivory gasped. “i still can’t believe she got you kicked off the team. who even uses ‘pink’ as an insult?”

“layla does,” nova muttered, eyes not leaving the camera screen as she scrolled through blurry images from last night. marcus grinning, sarah dancing on a table, topper pretending to DJ, and in one frame—rafe, blurry but smiling. she didn’t remember taking that one. her stomach twisted.

“and now she’s just recycling boyfriends,” ivory huffed. “like really—eli and then rafe? is there a layla pipeline no one told us about?”

nova didn’t speak. she stayed silent, shoulders stiff, still pretending to be focused on her camera. but her jaw ticked slightly at the mention of eli. her ex. the first boy she ever trusted, who cheated on her with layla during junior year. who left nova for the girl that called her a freak.

“remember when eli posted that paragraph about how nova was ‘too emotionally intense’ for him?” luca said, tone mocking as he flopped back dramatically. “he literally quoted a therapy blog. meanwhile layla was in his comments like ‘healing is hot <3.’”

“healing is hot,” ivory mimicked in a high-pitched voice, then gagged. “babe you’re not healing, you’re just in your villain arc with a boob job.”

luca laughed, and nova tried to match it. she forced a smile, eyes still on the photos. she couldn’t admit that the second layla started dating eli, she also took her spot in art class. that she went to the professor saying nova was distracting with her constant fidgeting and “oversharing.” that layla—perfect, blonde, rule-following layla—slowly stripped nova of everything she loved. even her name on a campus mural had been painted over.

“and did you see rafe last night?” luca said suddenly, sitting up again. “he was literally following layla around like her puppy. it was giving… sad golden retriever energy.”

ivory snorted. “he probably wants her. didn’t they used to fuck?”

nova didn’t say a word. she stayed still, too still.

because in her head, she was replaying last night. not just the flash of layla and eli. but the way rafe had looked at her, carried her, tucked her in like she was breakable. how he called her pinkie like it wasn’t an insult, but something soft instead.

and all her friends could do was talk about how he was following layla like a lost dog.

nova swallowed the lump in her throat and stayed silent.

nova finally broke her silence, flicking her thumb over the lens cap of her film camera before muttering,

“he isn’t that bad.”

luca’s head snapped up. “what?”

nova didn’t look at them. “i was too drunk to walk and—he carried me to my dorm. that’s it.”

luca immediately choked on his coke, the can slipping slightly in his grip as he hacked out a cough.

“he did what now?!?”

ivory’s head whipped around so fast it made nova flinch. “he carried you?” she repeated, slowly, her lip gloss forgotten in her lap. “baby… do you even know him like that?”

nova finally glanced at them, expression unreadable. “i didn’t exactly ask for it. he just, did it.”

ivory stood up, crossing the room like a storm cloud. “did he try something? swear to god, nova, if he did anything—”

“he didn’t.” nova cut her off, sharper than she meant to. “i would’ve kicked his ass if he did.”

ivory stopped mid-step, still visibly tense but trying to breathe through it. luca was staring at nova like she’d just grown horns.

“okay but like… rafe cameron?” he said, voice full of disbelief. “he’s literally the walking red flag. tall, angry, quiet, and he boxes for fun.”

nova shrugged, eyes back on her camera. “yeah. well. he also says weird shit when you’re asleep. calls you pinkie and whispers like he’s a sad boy in a lana del rey song.”

ivory blinked. “wait, what?”

nova didn’t answer. not really. but the flush on her cheeks said enough.

nova’s phone buzzed violently on the floor beside the beanbag she was half-melted into, vibrating against the hardwood like it had something life-changing to say.

she ignored it at first—half-lost in thought, still chewing on the ghost of rafe’s voice saying pinkie in the dark,but ivory’s dramatic gasp pulled her attention.

“your phone,” ivory deadpanned, one perfectly manicured finger pointing at the screen, “is about to combust.”

nova groaned and picked it up lazily, thumb swiping over the lock screen. her eyes narrowed at the incoming message.

sarah 🍼💖:

please come to our dorm my baby little slut. URGENT.

nova blinked. then blinked again. her heart did a weird somersault. “I, uhh, I have to go. It’s urgent.”

previous taglist ->next more work from me

tags: 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @k4yr14 @viqtoria @devoutedlover @qversazex @sc05 @nymphetartie @iconiccolo @t0x1cfaerie @ijustwanttoreadlols @certifiedlovergirl112 @faithlyn444 @purplerose291 @chillgal135 @silkylovey @cherryhoneybabe @mrspuffdriving

[rafesbabygirlx]

Thanks for the tags angels @rowdydevs @littlelamy

ᝰ.ᐟ last song: spring breakers - charli xcx

ᝰ.ᐟ favorite color: pink

ᝰ.ᐟ last film: a streetcar named desire (hello young Brando)

ᝰ.ᐟ last show: the rookie

ᝰ.ᐟ sweet/spicy/savory: never make me pick

ᝰ.ᐟ last google search: restaurants to eat at near Central Park after my graduation 👩🏻‍🎓

@maybankslover @rafesheaven @ivysprophecy @akobx @nemesyaaa @whytheylosttheirminds @itneverendshere @inthelibrarybtw @moondustbaby @papercranesandinkstains @cherrywriterrr @rafesfavegf @starkeygirlposts @starkeynation @leather-n-velvet @rafeysvenicebitch @rafesgreasycurtainbangs

Thanks for the tag @winnie1emon

ᝰ.ᐟ last song: 9 crimes

ᝰ.ᐟ favorite color: pink

ᝰ.ᐟ last film: sinners

ᝰ.ᐟ last show: you

ᝰ.ᐟ sweet/spicy/savory: sweeeeet

ᝰ.ᐟ last google search: air canada cos to yqb

🏷️ @rafesthroatbaby @nottsangel @rafesheaven @littlelamy @nemesyaaa @hearts4hughes @rafesbabygirlx

[cherrywriterrr]

⭑ comment here to get tagged ⭑

bluecollar!rafe->✨ cowboy!rafe->⚡️

bsf!rafe->⭐️ priest!rafe->🌚

farmer!rafe->🪐 dealer!rafe-> 🌝

exbf!rafe->🌞 dad!rafe->👀

bfd!rafe->🍭

haunted series->🌙 psych 203 series->🩷

everything->🍒

Taglist Reminder

hey, loves! just a quick reminder — if you ever want me to stop tagging you, please don’t hesitate to let me know. no hard feelings at all! also, if you’re not interacting with the posts, I’ll assume you’re no longer interested and might remove you from the taglist to keep it active. appreciate you all 💋

[cherrywriterrr]

“i love your writi-“ bend over rn