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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
summary: after falling off a boat during a storm, you'd given up adventuring with the pogues. and dating all together. but the nightmares and panic attacks stayed with you all these years. you beared it alone, until an unlikely kook keeps showing up when you need help.
wc: 3.0k
warnings: 18+ smut, oral fem receiving, p+v
a/n: SO SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT, THANK YOU FOR BEING SO PATIENT AND NICE I HOPE IT'S WORTH IT!!!
banner: @/rumbleonthemill
table of contents: PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8
The next day, your shift at the Wreck felt agonizingly slow. Part of it was your coworker noticing the hickey you’d failed to cover up completely. But the other part of it was last night kept replaying in your head. Every time you headed back to the kitchen to pick up a drink or a meal for a customer, you’d glance at the clock. Waiting for it to strike 3, so you could see Rafe.
Yesterday had been a whirlwind. Every high and low emotion had him right beside you. And now that you were away from him, you missed him more than you’d ever had. Not only that, you were excited to see him again.
Pulling up to Tannyhill, you grab your phone to text Rafe that you were here, only to see him head out the door already. He hops into the passenger seat, smirk ever-present.
“Glad to see ‘er running.” He nods at your engine, making you chuckle.
“Yup. Still good. For now.” You pull out of Tannyhill, a little more embarrassed of your old truck than usual. The cloth seats smelled like cigarettes from your aunt. The exterior rusted. It was already uncomfortable to drive through Figure Eight and get looks. But now Rafe was your passenger, in a crisp black polo and light shorts without a trace of a wrinkle. Smelling faintly of his citrus musky cologne. It felt like you were tainting him. Making him disgusted.
You’re relieved that the drive doesn’t feel as long, even though you spent most of it rambling about your shift while checking to see if Rafe still seemed on edge in the Cut. If he was, he didn’t show it. Kildare Creamery has its usual summer crowd. Families getting a break from the heat and kids looking for a place to hang out.
Inside, music played from the dated juke box in the corner. The white and black checkered floors popped against the brick walls. You ordered your usual favorite, but Rafe took a minute to decide.
“They don’t have black raspberry chip.” He pretends to be offended.
“Oh, God forbid.” You roll your eyes. He finally picks a flavor, refusing to let you pay for this one as well. “What d’you think?” You ask him as you sit in the bright red booth, the cushions torn from age.
“It tastes pretty good. Not as good as you taste, though.” His blue eyes are glinting at you again.
“Rafe,” You gasp dramatically to downplay your cheeks blushing. “This is a family establishment!”
“I don’t see anyone complaining.” He shrugs, looking around for good measure. The inside of the creamery had way too many people having their own conversations, combined with the oldies music coming from the jukebox. “Pretty damn good ice cream. Might be better than Figure Eight.”
“It’s definitely better.” You smirk, grabbing a peppermint from the little container by the napkins and tossing him one.
Rafe notices that you actually finish your ice cream this time. And that you have a little bit of it on the corner of your mouth. He doesn’t think. Just extends his thumb forward to wipe it off, brushing your lips. You blush, and he feels his heart pick up the pace.
He likes seeing you like that. Cheeks pink. Eyes shy. He likes how soft you feel, how gentle you are. Spending time with you this summer has felt like a dream. A sweet, hazy dream that was going by way too fast. Summer was almost over. He’d be back at UNC. If he hadn’t wasted so much of his fucking time-
“Dance with me.” You blurt out, making him blink.
“What?” He freezes, blue eyes widening.
“Dance with me,” You repeat more firmly, grabbing his hand.
“I’m not really a dancer…” He protests. Grounding himself, he pulls back on your hand a bit to keep you in place.
“Neither am I.” You shrug and give him an encouraging smile. Rafe feels himself hesitate. He’d never even really danced with girls at Midsummers. Or prom. It was always too cheesy. Too many people watching. Too much. Too intimate.
“No one else is dancing.” He mutters, shaking his head as you pull him forward and he lets you.
“They are.” You nod toward an elderly couple in a back corner. Probably your inspiration. The song Stand by Me sung by Ben E. King starts to drift out of the crappy jukebox speakers. Rafe feels his heart drop to his stomach. The song his mom used to always sing to him. Before she died.
A lump forms in his throat as he pulls you to him, one hand on your waist and the other intertwining with your fingers. He holds you close, savoring your warmth and your softness as memories of his mother wash over him. How she held him. Let him cry. Didn’t scold him. Said she was proud of him. Defended him, even to Ward. His eyes sting, and he fights it even though you’re flush against his chest and can’t see him.
Maybe that’s another part of why Mr. Brennan’s death hit him so hard. He saw his teacher’s widow and kids at the service. At the burial. Eyes red and vacant. The son looking just like the dad in a way that made Rafe physically ache. That was him a decade ago. No child deserved that. And he knew the road after wasn’t easy.
Life was marked by loss. He was powerless to stop it. And no matter how much it happened, life moved on anyway. The sun rose. People passed by without a care, without a clue. Oblivious to grief until it happened to them too. And he’d always pushed those closest to him away until he was so empty he had nothing left.
He didn’t want to lose you already. He couldn’t handle it. He shouldn’t have gotten this close. Cared this much. It happened without his control. Consumed him and embedded itself in his heart. Maybe, if he were stronger, he would have just stayed friends. Ensured he could have you for longer.
“Can’t believe summer’s almost over.” You murmur sadly as the song changes, snapping Rafe out of his thoughts.
“Yeah.” He agrees, voice and breath shaking. You grip him tighter like you can tell how he feels, still dancing as another oldies song played from the speakers. Kids ran past, screaming and playing. People talked and laughed at their tables. But it was like you both were in your own little bubble. Where only the two of you existed.
Slow-dancing with Rafe had felt like something out of a dream. You never had a homecoming date or prom date. Every single boy in your friend group fell for Kiara over the years but never you. Sarah was the Kook princess, the kind of girl every guy on the island wanted. You were just one of the boys. Background noise. Even more so after what happened on the boat. Now, you were broken.
And somehow, even as broken and unnoticeable as you were, you caught Rafe’s attention. He wanted you. He was being sweet to you. But naturally, you couldn’t help but wait for the other shoe to drop. For everything to get ruined. Maybe it would happen after you had sex. Maybe at the end of the summer. He’d go back to pretending you never existed. Your only hope would be if he wanted to have another fling next summer.
But when you pull up to your aunt’s trailer, you will yourself to just focus on tonight. And maybe try to enjoy it. Despite the fact that the trailer could use a good power-wash, the interior still smells faintly of cigs even though your aunt always smokes outside, and your room was the size of the pool bathroom at Tannyhill.
You lead Rafe inside, giving him a quick tour because, well, there’s not much to tour. Living room. Kitchen. Aunt’s room. Your room. Bathroom. But Rafe doesn’t look annoyed or disgusted. He has this look on his face like you’ve finally trusted him enough to share a little secret.
“Sorry for the mess.” You smile sheepishly at him as he towers in your room, tossing some clothes in your hamper.
“Please, this is so much nicer than any house I’ve seen on the Cut.” He promises, blue eyes only watching you.
“So, nicer than Barry’s?” You offer, raising a brow.
“Yeah. Way nicer than Barry’s.” He chuckles, finally glancing around your room. It feels so small with him in it. You’re not even sure he’d properly fit on your bed. “Who’s this?” He picks up your stuffed teddy bear, widening his eyes as he glances at you like you’ve failed as a host to introduce each other.
“My favorite teddy bear.” You say with a playful edge, letting him know he needed to be careful.
“He got a name?”
“Mr. Fuzzy. Five-year-old me was great at coming up with names.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Mr. Fuzzy.” Rafe says with exaggerated formalness, placing the bear gently back on the bed.
“You might want to put him on the nightstand.” You offer slyly, stepping closer.
“Hm, why’s that?” Rafe smirks, already knowing the answer as he does what you suggest.
“He doesn’t need to see this. Or get in the way.” You step even closer, bringing your lips to his. Rafe takes you into his arms like its instinct, and the kiss goes from soft and gentle to heated and hungry in seconds. He backs you into the bed, only breaking away long enough for you to lay back.
Rafe kisses his way down your neck, his lips leaving a fiery trail on your skin as he pulls off your dress. You tug at the hem of his polo, and he happily backs away to help you tug it over and toss it to the side. His chest is perfectly tanned and toned, almost unfairly attractive. You run your hands down him greedily, feeling heat flood to your core as he tenses and kisses you again with a groan.
He pulls your panties off without permission this time, quick to give you a replay of what he did yesterday. And it’s like he’s even learned from that, knowing the exact pace and pressure that you liked. It feels like you cum in seconds, and you’d almost be embarrassed if it wasn’t for the heated look of desire in his light blue eyes.
Everything feels like a dream, your body loose from your orgasm and your mind hazy with want. You reach for his pants, and he helps you pull them down. But that’s when your heart slams in your throat. He’s huge. In a way that’s both sexy and terrifying at the same time. You feel your body pull back in anticipation.
“Rafe,” His name tumbles out of you, shaking and stuttering, and that makes him freeze. You watch as his eyes widen and your breathing starts to go shallow.
“You good? Did I-” Rafe starts, swallowing so forcefully you can see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat.
“I’m sorry.” You whisper, curling into yourself. It was happen again, the same panic that flooded you with Gavin, except much earlier. Your eyes sting, and you hate this. Hate yourself. Hate that your mind does this when you know you want him so badly.
“We can stop,” He assures you, hands hanging at his sides like he’s not sure if it’s okay to touch you now. “Just tell me. We can stop.”
“I don’t want to stop.” You say firmly, trying to take a deep breath. “I really don’t. I’m sorry, my brain just freaks out. You didn’t…I want to…I-”
“Okay. That’s okay. We can take a minute.” He murmurs, sitting beside you in bed.
“I’m sorry.” You say again, like it’s the only thing you know how to do.
“You don’t have to apologize. Seriously.”
“It’s just embarrassing. I don’t want to ruin it but I always do. I’m scared it’ll hurt.” You ramble as you try to steady your breathing.
“Well, if you don’t want to that’s okay. Really. And if you do, just say the safe word. I don’t care if we have to stop. If you’re hurting and don’t like it, we should stop.” Rafe says each word slowly, like he’s trying to figure out the best thing to comfort you but has no idea what to say. You appreciate him anyway, leaning your head on his shoulder. He tentatively wraps an arm around you, and you relish the warmth as your breathing settles. He was already reacting better than Gavin, who’d been annoyed and yelled at you a little bit. And your body was already starting to feel safer.
“Okay,” You tell him, sliding back down. “I’ll try. Safe word if we need to stop.”
Rafe nods like you’ve just given him the most important mission of his life, and you almost want to laugh nervously at his expression. He lines up above you, stroking himself before grabbing his leather wallet and pulling out a condom. As he puts it on, you try to get your body to relax.
“Ready?” He asks, blue eyes boring into yours as you feel him press against your entrance.
“Yes.” You nod. He pushes in slowly, and you can feel the sting immediately as your body stretches to accommodate. You wince, a hiss sliding past your lips. He pauses, waiting for you to tell him to stop. But you’re determined now, nodding at him again.
He pushes further, inch by inch. But your heart is already beating so fast, the sharp stretch matching the sting behind your eyes. You don’t want this to be like it was with Gavin. You want it to be like before you were broken. You want it to be perfect. It has to be perfect. Or he’ll leave.
“Rafe,” You whimper this time, hating the way you sound. “I can’t.”
“You can.” He watches you so intently that you feel frozen. Entranced.
“I can’t.” The words tumble out of you again, without your control.
“You can. You can take it, angel.” He nearly whispers. The nickname makes your heart stutter. Your cheeks flush. His encouragement just like all those days at the pool. Again and again, he keeps you safe. You just have to trust him.
You reach behind him, pressing him closer to you, his warmth your safety net. He gets the hint, pushing deeper.
“Fuck.” He groans, and the sight of his eyes rolling back and the sound of his voice sends heat flooding through you again. The painful sting dissolves into a warm, pleasurable feeling of fullness. He pushes to the hilt. This time, you moan and Rafe lets out a breathy laugh. “That’s it. Good girl, taking me so damn well.”
You feel yourself smile, completely cock-drunk as he kisses you, all tongue and teeth and fervor. In this moment, you’re consumed by him. Drowning in him. In his citrus musky scent. The taste of mint on his tongue and the salt of his skin. The feeling of him completely inside you. His voice in your ear, praising you in a deep, raspy tone.
His thrusts hit that sweet spot inside you, his hand reaching down to touch your clit. Your pussy flutters around him, making him groan into your kiss. As sudden as the tide change in a storm, you want this to last forever. This feeling of warmth and desire and pleasure that’s somehow surpassed any time you’ve had sex before this. But your body never listens. Your orgasm hits you, your vision going white as you repeat his name like a prayer.
By the time you come back to earth, Rafe is still going, his thrusts getting sloppier by the second. He groans, kissing you briefly before exhaling your name as he finishes inside you. Collapsing on top of you, you can feel his heart thudding against his chest.
Both of you lay still for a while. Reality comes back slowly. You’d just had sex with Rafe Cameron, who was finally pulling out and cleaning you both up. Your mind was still reeling, thinking about how you wanted to do that again and again. But the doubts crept back in. How he could leave, never talk to you again, if that’s all he wanted. It’d happened before.
You doze off without meaning to, mind and body spent. In your dreams, you’re back on that boat. In the middle of the storm. The wind whips around you, rain pelting against you as the boat rocks from the huge waves. But instead of your friends, Rafe is with you. He looks scared, in a way that makes your heart clench.
One heave from a large wave and Rafe goes overboard. You scream his name, watching the ocean swallow him. You don’t even think. You just dive. The water is cold and dark, endless and ruthless below. And you can’t see him. You call out his name again and again. But there’s no answer. The ocean is empty.
You wake up gasping for air like you’d actually been drowning, finding yourself in your room. The lights are off, the bed is empty. Rafe’s gone. You try to breathe, staring at the empty space beside you like it was a hallucination. Another dream.
The sound of your bedroom door closing softly, shifts your gaze toward it. It’s Rafe, standing in the dark, slowly making his way back to bed. He hadn’t left after all.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you. Had to take a piss.” He whispers sheepishly, sliding into bed beside you. “You good?” His concerned tone almost breaks you, after thinking he left just like Gavin did. You feel the sting behind your eyes again, tears falling as you try to steady your breathing.
“Nightmare.” You admit, voice shaking.
“I’m sorry. C’mere.” He murmurs, taking you into his arms. Only then does your body start to still. Crammed into your bed that was much too small for Rafe Cameron, let alone both of you, you finally drift off back to sleep with the hope that he’d be there in the morning.
Comment if you want to be in the taglist, and let me know what you think! Love you all so much!
currently working on: staying with my shit together and not to keep thinking about my problems (or I'll probably have a burnout or lots anxiety attacks).... and, yeah, school projects
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current obsession: my OCs + project hail mary + riordanverse + art
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thank you for the tag!!
Last song: These Strange Times by Fleetwood Mac
Currently watching: again, nothing
Current obession: batman!
currently reading: nothing right now
currently working on: embroidery!
currently wearing: blue flannel and ink-stained jorts
last google search: "is savant derogatory" (context: was watching a video about an autistic character ((mel king from the pitt)) and heard the phrase "idiot savant" but only heard the "savant" part of it. "idiot savant" is derogatory and should not be used.)
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currently watching - not watching any shows but ive been getting more pretentious with movies. last thing i watched was 12 angry men which was really good
current obsession - car seat headrest album joe's story!!!!!
currently reading - nothing...
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go my faggot tags @wormsinmousetraps @beachweek idk who else im scared i just picked people id throw rocks at
currently watching - house and community,,, i love abed man
current obsession - idk homestuck?? csh?? nothing really atm
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taggots : @loveandobsession648 @hayleyw1lliams @the-colors-of-venus @tori-toledo @sixfootraven @spiderpuppy67 + open tagsss (sorry if i forgot you i still love yall)
currently watching- well i finished rewatching next to normal like twenty minuites ago (again) (i sobbed my guts out) (i love that musical so much) so like that i guessess
current obsessions - next to normal, leviticus, yspsfagsil, and the fact that i go to theatre camp tomorrow (!!!)
currently working on - packing for camp (i leave tommorow and am a notorious overpacker) also painting my backpack because i paint everything oops
currently wearing - dance studio pants and my sports bra ✌️ oh yea
holy shittt is this long lol 🤭 anyways tysm for tagging me @torturedshowgirldpt
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currently watching: bridgerton s1 (again bc it is the best season, i will not take no for an answer, bring daphne backkkkk), also a bonus: random dance moms clips on yt bc it is the most entertaining thing ever 🤭😭
current obsessions: rafe cameron (this is a given at any point in time), gracie abrams (also a given), about you by the 1975 (idk if that counts but that song is sooo good), daydreaming (i mean 😭), edited but DREW'S EYEBROW GAP #bringing awareness
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fav flower: red roses (ik ik im so boring but i feel like roses are so overrated in a way that no one really loves them anymore so im here to fix that), also like lotuses (idk how to spell the plural 😃)
omg thank you so much for the tag @rafesdaydream ! 💕💕💕
last song: anything but love by tate mcrae, i desperately need tm4
currently watching: the nanny (fran is such an icon), and rewatching tvd for the like hundredth time
currently obsessions: so close to what (deluxe), rafe (duh), lucky omg i can't wait for thursday, and i think my brain developed early cause i woke up the other day and realized how hot stefan salvatore is
currently working on: we should go there pt 4 I'm locking in today trust
currently wearing: spandex and an old beach tshirt
last search: rush outfit inspo (i'm doing that when school starts next month i'm super nervous)
fav flowers: lilies, baby's breath, daisies, and sunflowers
rafe turns obssesed for you when you let him drink your blood.
the first time rafe wanted to drink your blood, there’d been some hesitation. like a flicker of something human in those blue eyes. like he was fighting himself not to, but he needed blood, and he knew you’d be a good friend enough to let him.
but now?
oh, now he’s already grabbing your wrist before you even sit down. “you’re not saying no.” he says impatiently and you haven’t even answered yet. rafe’s fingers are wrapped around your wrist, thumb pressed right over your pulse like like he’s memorizing it. his grip isn’t painful, but it’s firm, and almost possessive.
“dude,” you warn, trying to pull back just a little, just enough to prove you can. but you can’t, he doesn’t even let you move an inch. his jaw tightens, eyes flicking up to yours, dark and glowing red. “don’t do that,” he mutters. “don’t, don’t pull away like that.”
“it’s my arm,” you shoot back, breath catching when his grip only tightens. “yeah,” he says immediately. “yeah, i know it is.” he agrees, “doesn’t mean i don’t need it.” your stomach flips at that, at how serious yet needy he sounds, so so desperate. “you’re fucking obssesed,” you annoyingly whisper.
something in the way he looks at you shifts. like he’s subconsciously confirming your statement, before he actually does. “i am,” he says quietly. “you did that. you made me like this.” and before you can respond, he pulls you forward so quickly you’re stumbling into him, landing halfway in his lap. his arm wraps around your waist instantly, locking you there like it’s second nature, like you belong there.
because to him you do, and you don’t even know it. “rafe.” you warn again. “stop talking,” he breathes, but it’s not harshly, it’s shaky, and frayed at the edges. “please just-” he starts with that pleading needy voice again. “just let me” he brings your wrist up again. his eyes don’t leave yours, searching your face like he’s waiting for you to stop him.
you don’t, because you never do, part of it is gratifying for you too. to know how much he needs you. the second you go still, he exhales with relief, like he’s been holding it in for too long, and his lips brush against your skin. your soft and floral scented skin. “say it,” he murmurs against your wrist. your brows knit, “say what?” you ask confused. “that i can tatse it again,” he says, his fingers flexing against your waist. “i need you to say it.”
“you already are,” you point out, breath uneven. his grip falters for half a second, just enough to show it hit something. “yeah,” he admits. “yeah, but i wanna hear it.” your pulse jumps under his mouth, and he makes this quiet, wrecked sound like he felt it more than you did.
“…you can,” you say finally. that’s all it takes before his control snaps. he pulls you impossibly closer, but he does it anyway, his other hand tightening around your arm as he presses his mouth to your skin, and the second the sharpness of his fangs pierce the skin on your wrist, he loses it completely.
he lets out a sharp inhale, like it shocks him every time, like it’s too much and not enough all at once. his fingers dig in, holding you there, grounding himself in you as his head tilts back slightly. “fuuuck” he groans out broken, barely there. it's like his whole body is convulsing.
his lashes flutter, then his eyes roll back completely, like he can’t hold onto anything, not himself but you. “rafe,” you breathe out, your voice breathy and filled with concern, but he doesn’t answer.
he can’t answer. his grip tightens instead, he leans back dragging you flush against him, like he needs your whole body there or he’s going to come apart. his breathing is uneven, shallow, lips still sucking your skin like he doesn’t know how to stop.
like he won’t. “don’t” he chokes out, barely coherent. “don’t move.” he demands. “i’m not.”
“don’t move,” he repeats, fingers flexing. “please.” please. you go still instantly. that word shouldn’t sound like that coming from him. after a few seconds, he finally pulls back, but not far. his lips are still brushing your skin, damp, lingering, like he’s not ready to lose contact yet.
his chest is rising and falling too fast. his mouth stained red with droplets of your blood leaking from the corners of his mouth. you tilt your head, trying to catch his gaze. “you okay?” he lets out a shaky laugh. “do i look okay to you?”
not at all. he looks so wrecked, and completely gone. his eyes finally meet yours, and there’s nothing steady in them anymore,just hunger, just need, just you. “you’re-” he starts, then stops, jaw tightening like he doesn’t even have the words. “you’re not real.”
“i’m literally right here.”
“i know,” he says quickly, almost frantic. “i know, i just-” his hand slides up your arm again, back to your wrist, like he can’t help it. “nobody should feel like this.”
“like what?”
“like i’d fuckin' lose my mind if you said no,” he answers immediately. “like i already did.” your breath catches. “rafe…”
“save it.” he cuts in, shaking his head, pulling you closer again until your foreheads almost touch. “don’t make it a thing. i don’t- i don’t care.”
“you don’t care that you’re addicted to me?” then he menacingly smiles, it’s unhinged. “addicted?” he repeats softly. “that’s a nice way of putting it.” his thumb presses against your pulse again, slower this time, almost thoughtful.
“i was thinking more like, i don’t function without you.” your heart stutters, your unspokedn feelings only enlarging. you subconciously squeeze your thighs from want and he feels it, fuck, he smells your arousal. forgetting you don't fully know how the bond between a human and a vampire works.
his entire expression darkens instantly, something greedy flashing across his face. “see?” he murmurs, already pulling your wrist back toward his mouth, already slipping again. “you do that and then expect me to just, what? sit here?”
“do, what? rafe, wait.”
“no,” he says sternly, breath hitching as his lips brush your skin again. “you said i could.”
“i said once-”
“doesn’t count,” he cuts in, eyes flicking up to yours, completely gone again. “doesn’t count anymore.”
“that’s not how that works.”
“it is for me.” and the way he looks at you when he says it, like nothing else matters. “tell me to stop,” he challenges suddenly, voice quieter now, almost dangerous in how calm it is. “go on, tell me.”
you open your mouth. nothing comes out. his lips twitch, just slightly, already pulling you closer. “you have no idea how thin the line is between wanting you, and fucking loosing myself in you.” and this time, when he presses his mouth to your skin again, he doesn’t even pretend he’s in control anymore.
and you're left with nothing but his venom, and the burning desire of wanting more of him.
based off this instagram video. something quick bc i've been nonexistent.
🩶 slavic!rafe who brings home a tiny street kitten for you…
he doesn’t tell you he’s coming with it, doesn’t act sentimental when he delivers it to you. he just walks into the apartment, boots heavy on the hardwood, the snow from outside melting slowly into his jacket, and sets a scrawny grey street kitten in your hands. his accent is harsh with the english, but it’s one of your favorite things about him.
“you wanted cat.” he says it with a shrug, like it’s nothing, even though he definitely spent twenty minutes coaxing it out from under a parked car. rafe’s gaze drifts to your face. he watches the way your expression melts into something tender and unbearably soft, the way your eyes go doe-like at the tiny bundle in your hands. something in him flickers, and it makes his ears flush pink and warm.
the kitten lets out a loud, squeaky meow. rafe snorts under his breath and reaches out, scratching its head gently with one finger, pretending the whole moment isn’t undoing him.
“pokhozha na tebya,” he murmurs. — looks like you. “small. loud. needs feeding.”
🕯️ slavic!rafe who bundles you up in blankets…
his favorite ritual after a long day of work. “come, solnyshko. sit with me.” little sun.
he bundles you up in blankets until only your head pokes out, and settles in a chair by the window where he sits you on his lap.
a cigarette dangles out his mouth, arm banded tight around your waist like you might slip away if he loosens his grip. he hears you let out a soft tender sigh as you rest your head on his chest.
the night is quiet, snow falls from the sky like sifted flour and coats the streets in white. he smokes slow, and when he exhales, you watch the grey ribbons float out of the window into the darkness. the kitten curls up beneath your feet, purring loudly. he loves that, too.
🥟 slavic!rafe who’s mouth twitches when you smile or laugh…
he doesn’t laugh often. he didn’t grow up in a house where laughter meant safety. but when you smile, when you laugh at something stupid he said without thinking?
something in his chest loosens.
your happiness slips through the cracks of the armor he was raised in like water from a warm bath. his mouth twitches. a rare, tiny, involuntary upward pull he tries to hide. he doesn’t understand it. he can’t help it. but he likes it.
🔪 slavic!rafe who gets cold and calculated when someone looks at you too long…
sometimes he likes to rest a hand on the small of your back to guide you, but he doesn’t touch you possessively in public. he doesn’t need to. his presence is enough.
if someone looks at you for a split second too long, he straightens up, hands clasped behind him like he’s waiting for orders. but he’ll dip his head down to your ear, enough for only you to hear him, eyes burning into whoever dared to lay their eyes on something so precious of his.
“yesli on yeshche raz posmotrit, ya yego ub'yu.” — if he looks again, i’ll kill him.
you don’t understand, but the tone is enough. you link your arm through his, hand grabbing onto his bicep to squeeze softly. he relaxes instantly.
💨 slavic!rafe who gets caught up in the heat of the moment…
when he’s turned on he forgets his own strength. his accent thickens, english mixing with russian as his breath grows ragged. his fingers grip your hips too hard, mouth traveling your neck with starving reverence. sometimes you gasp. it comes out soft, needy, but it makes him freeze immediately.
“prosti menya, malen'kaya kukolka,” — forgive me, little doll.
“you make me… excited.”
then he kisses you again, gentler this time, like he’s remembering your softness.
🥃 slavic!rafe who cleans his gun at the dining table…
it’s domestic in the strangest, most disarming way. something only he could create. the kitchen is warm, heavy with the smell of simmering stew and the metallic tang of gun oil. he sits at the head of table like he belongs there, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms tense as he lines up gun parts with a precision that borders something solemn. every piece is placed carefully, neatly, a quiet display of discipline he can’t turn off even at home.
you pour him a small glass of vodka, sliding it toward him with the ease of someone who’s done it a hundred times. he doesn’t look up at first, just exhales through his nose, a soft acknowledgement, then murmurs, “spasibo, solnyshko,” — thank you, sunshine.
you sink into the chair across from him and, after a moment, say you want him to teach you to shoot. the reaction is immediate. his head snaps up and his eyes sharpen, cutting through the haze of the kitchen light.
“no.”
you blink, almost startled by the quickness of it. “but-”
“you are… soft,” he interrupts, but there’s no insult in his tone. only truth delivered the way only he can, unbothered, but entirely certain. “khrupkaya. a gun does not belong in your hands.” — delicate. he taps his chest once, slow and steady, as if the gesture seals something in place. “you have me. that is enough.” he says it like a vow, something final carved into stone. and for him, it is.
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Drew is doing all this press for lucky but his name isn’t even in the opening credit sequence?????😭😭😭😭he’s also not listed in the cast & crew list on apple tv?????
Does he not gaf???? I would be pissed 😭 and it’s not like he’s a side character either like he is the reason lucky doesn’t have any money and is in trouble with HIS mama????? And they keep talking about him?????
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pairing – husband!rafe cameron x wife!reader
summary – rafe cameron becomes a father in pieces: scared at twenty-two, steadier at twenty-five, and still impossibly protective by the third baby.
warnings – pregnancy, pregnancy nausea, family conflict, disapproving parent, implied discussion of pregnancy options, toddler tantrums, parenting stress.
notes from me – i love rafe. i love rafe. i love rafe. as requested here!! x
word count – 3.5k
navigation – masterlist |
The first time she’s pregnant, they’re twenty-one and twenty-two and still living among boxes.
There are two unopened cartons of college textbooks in the spare room of the little rental near the marina, a saucepan in the kitchen that technically belongs to Kelce, and a pale rectangular patch above the couch where the previous tenants took their television mount and half the paint with it.
Rafe has been working for Cameron Development for four months and wearing collared shirts every morning like the stiffness might force him into becoming the sort of man who knows what an escrow account is without quietly Googling it beneath his desk.
She has a positive pregnancy test wrapped in toilet paper at the bottom of her handbag because she couldn’t bring herself to throw it out, and every time she remembers it’s there, something warm and frightened turns over beneath her ribs.
Ward asks them to come to Tannyhill for dinner. He doesn’t serve dinner.
Instead, they sit in his office while the late-afternoon sun falls in expensive gold strips across the rug, Ward behind his desk and Rafe beside her on the leather sofa, one knee bouncing so subtly she only notices because his hand is resting over hers and the movement travels through both of them.
She’s been nauseous since breakfast. The smell of Ward’s scotch isn’t helping. Neither is the way he keeps looking at her stomach despite the fact there’s nothing to see yet, only the soft fold of her dress when she sits and Rafe’s palm spread low against her thigh like he could physically keep the conversation from reaching her if he held on tightly enough.
“You’re both very young,” Ward says finally, voice arranged into something calm and reasonable. It’s the same tone he uses with contractors who have disappointed him and waiters he intends to have fired later. “You’ve only just finished school. Rafe’s barely started at the company.”
Rafe’s jaw moves. “I know how old I am.”
“I’m trying to be practical.”
“Then be practical.”
Ward’s eyes harden slightly. “There are options here. You don’t need to announce anything until you’ve had time to think clearly.”
Beside her, Rafe goes still. Still in the particular way he gets when anger has moved past heat and found somewhere colder to live, his thumb stopping against the side of her hand, his shoulders settling beneath the pale blue cotton of his shirt.
She feels her own fingers curl inward before she can stop them, nails pressing into her palm, and Ward notices. His gaze flicks toward her face with something almost sympathetic in it, which is somehow worse.
Rafe sees that too. “Don’t look at her like that,” he says.
Ward blinks. “Like what?”
“Like she– she did something to me.”
“Rafe–”
“She didn’t.” His voice stays low, but she can feel the pulse beginning to beat hard in his wrist beneath her fingertips. “We came here to tell you we’re having a baby. Not ask what you think we should do about it.”
“I’m your father. I’m allowed to be concerned about your future.”
“My future’s sitting right here.”
The words leave him before he can seem to decide whether he wants them exposed. For half a second, something young and naked moves through his face, the boy who’s spent most of his life waiting for Ward to approve of the next version of him and finding each one slightly wrong. Then Ward leans back in his chair, mouth thinning, and it disappears beneath Rafe’s anger.
“You need to understand what this looks like,” Ward says. “People are going to assume she–”
Rafe stands so quickly the leather cushion lifts behind him. She catches his hand before he can do anything else. She doesn’t think he’ll hit Ward. She doesn’t really know what she thinks he will do, and that uncertainty is the problem.
His fingers close around hers instantly, and when he looks down at her, the whole room seems to drop away from his attention.
“You feel sick?” he asks.
“A little,” she mumbles.
“We’re leaving.”
Ward says his name sharply, but Rafe has already bent to collect her handbag. He puts his hand at the small of her back and guides her toward the door with none of the usual uncertainty he carries through this house. Ward calls after him once more. Rafe doesn’t turn around.
His hands shake when they reach the car. Only slightly. Enough that the key scrapes once against the ignition, then again, and she covers his wrist before he can try a third time.
Through the windshield, Tannyhill sits huge and white against the water, every window catching the sun. Rafe stares at it with his mouth pulled tight, breathing through his nose like he’s run here instead of walked.
“You didn’t have to fight with him,” she says softly.
“Yeah, I did.”
“He’s shocked.”
“So am I.” His head turns toward her, eyes bright and furious and scared in a way he would hate anyone else for noticing. “But I’m not making you sit there while he talks about you like you trapped me.”
“I know I didn’t.”
“I know.” Rafe’s grip loosens beneath her hand. His thumb turns, dragging once over the inside of her wrist. “I was there. Very involved, actually.”
A laugh catches unexpectedly in her throat.
His mouth twitches, but the anger doesn’t leave his eyes. “Enthusiastic participant.”
“Rafe.”
“What? It’s an important distinction.”
She looks down at their hands and feels the nausea settle somewhere lower, becoming something else. Still fear. Still the enormous, impossible shape of a life arriving before they’ve bought a dining table. But Rafe lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses the centre of her palm with a tenderness that doesn’t suit the hard line of his jaw, and the fear no longer feels like hers alone.
“We’re not going back in there tonight,” he says.
“Okay.”
“Maybe not tomorrow either.”
“Okay.”
“Could be a while.”
She smiles faintly. “Start the car, baby.”
Rafe looks once more at his father’s house. Then he turns the key, puts the car into reverse, and takes her home.
Marlowe begins causing problems before she’s developed fingerprints. At twenty-five weeks, she’s turned her mother’s ribs into a private climbing wall, made the smell of coffee unbearable, and inspired Banks to completely reject the concept of sisterhood.
He’s two and a half, deeply suspicious of change, and has spent the past week responding to any mention of the baby by shouting no with the sombre conviction of a tiny, corrupt villain.
“No baby,” he says when they show him the painted nursery.
“No baby,” he says when Sarah brings over a bag of miniature dresses.
“No baby,” he says directly to her stomach one morning, then bursts into tears because Rafe tells him he cannot cover Mama’s belly with a couch cushion to make the problem go away.
That night, after Banks throws half his dinner onto the floor and kicks the bathroom door because she cannot physically fit beside him and the tub anymore, she leaves bedtime to Rafe.
Her back aches. Her ankles have begun disappearing by late afternoon. She stands beneath the shower until the water goes lukewarm, then pulls one of Rafe’s old shirts over her head and walks down the hallway with moisturiser still cooling against her legs.
Banks’s bedroom door is open by three inches. Through the gap, she can see Rafe sitting on the rug beside the toddler bed with his work trousers still on and his tie pulled loose around his neck.
He has one forearm resting across his raised knee, the other hand wrapped around Banks’s small bare foot where it sticks out from beneath the dinosaur quilt. Banks is lying on his stomach, cheeks swollen with the final remnants of a tantrum, glaring at his father with wet lashes and exhausted hostility.
“I don’t want her,” Banks mutters into the pillow.
Rafe rubs his thumb over the soft curve of his heel. “Yeah, you’ve made that pretty clear, buddy.”
“Baby takes Mama.”
“No.” Rafe’s voice loses its dry edge. “Nobody takes Mama.”
Banks turns his face enough to look at him. “She’s mine.”
Rafe’s mouth moves like he has to bite back the first response that occurs to him, probably because it’s difficult to explain marriage-based territoriality to someone who still eats bath bubbles. “She’s everybody’s,” he says after a second. “But she was mine first.”
From the hallway, she closes her eyes.
Banks considers this grave injustice. “No.”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
His little brows furrow. “No, Daddy.”
“Ask her. She’ll tell you.”
The mattress squeaks as Banks shifts, little fingers twisting into the quilt. “Mama likes me best.”
“Probably,” Rafe says, then lowers his voice to a whisper. “You’re shorter. People fall for that.”
But Banks doesn’t laugh. His mouth wobbles instead, and Rafe’s expression changes immediately. He leans closer, forearm sliding onto the edge of the mattress.
“Hey. Listen to me.” His voice is quieter now, shaped for the dark room and the boy inside it. “You’re allowed to be mad. New baby’s weird. She’s gonna cry, and she’s gonna take your stuff, and everybody’s gonna look at her all the time because babies can’t do anything for themselves.”
“I can do things,” Banks huffs.
“I know. You can put your own shoes on the wrong feet.”
Banks frowns, uncertain whether this is relevant. Rafe squeezes his foot once and continues before he can argue.
“But you don’t get to be mean to Mama because you’re mad. Mama’s making your sister right now. That’s hard work. Makes her tired. Makes her back hurt. Makes her cry when the grocery store doesn’t have the cereal she likes.”
“That was one time,” she whispers beneath her breath in the hallway.
“So we’re easy with her,” he says. “We help her. We don’t kick doors, and we don’t throw food, and we definitely don’t try to hide her stomach under couch pillows.”
Banks looks mildly ashamed. “Baby was gone.”
“Baby was still there.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” Rafe brushes Banks’s hair away from his forehead, awkwardly gentle in the way he still is sometimes with softness, like he knows what he wants his hands to do but has to think through every movement first. “You know how Daddy looks after Aunt Sarah and Aunt Wheezie?”
Banks nods.
“Even when they’re annoying?”
Another nod, more enthusiastic.
“That’s you now. You’re the big brother.” Rafe taps two fingers lightly against his chest. “We look after our girls. You look after your Mama, and when your sister gets here, you look after her too.”
Banks is quiet for long enough that her throat begins to ache.
“What if she’s mean?”
“Then you come get me.”
“What if she takes my truck?”
“You take it back.”
“Rafe,” she murmurs from the hallway.
His eyes flick toward the door. “Politely,” he adds.
Banks pushes himself up onto his elbows. “Can I hold her?”
“Yeah.”
He tilts his head. “She little?”
“Very.”
“Smaller than me?”
Rafe’s eyebrows lift. “For a while.”
That seems to satisfy something in him. Banks lies down again, turning onto his side this time, his face pointed toward Rafe. “I look after her.”
“Good man.”
“And Mama.”
“Especially Mama.”
Banks’s eyes begin to close. Rafe stays where he is, hand resting around his son’s ankle, until the soft resistance goes out of the small body beneath the quilt. When he finally rises and steps into the hallway, she’s leaning against the opposite wall with both hands folded beneath the curve of her stomach.
He takes one look at her face and exhales. “Don’t.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re crying.”
She sniffles. “I’m pregnant.”
“You’ve been using that one a lot.”
She laughs wetly and catches the front of his loosened tie, drawing him closer. Rafe puts both hands around her waist, careful of the belly between them, and bends his head until his forehead rests against hers.
“‘We look after our girls’?” she whispers.
His eyes move over her face, suddenly wary beneath the humour. “Too much?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Sounded better than telling him I’ll throw him off the dock if he makes you cry again.”
“He’s two.”
“Mm. He’ll bounce.”
Her laugh presses them closer. Rafe kisses the damp corner of her eye, then crouches without warning and puts his mouth against the stretched cotton over her belly.
“Your brother’s being difficult,” he tells the baby. “Don’t take it personally.”
She places her hand on the back of his head. “She’s a Cameron. She’ll make it everyone’s problem.”
Rafe smiles against her stomach. “That’s my girl.”
By the third pregnancy, protection has become an administrative position. There are vitamins in her handbag, the kitchen, Rafe’s truck and both upstairs bathrooms because he’s decided folic acid should be available at emergency exits.
There’s a standing grocery order every Tuesday, three numbers written beside the house phone even though everybody owns a mobile, and a family group chat called DO WHAT YOUR MOTHER SAYS that includes Sarah, Wheezie, ten-year-old Banks, six-year-old Marlowe, and, briefly, the plumber until Rafe notices and removes him without explanation.
The baby wasn’t planned. She had stood in their bathroom at thirty-one with the test in her hand and laughed once, sharply, because crying felt too obvious. Rafe had stared at the two pink lines, then at her, then back at the test as if one of them had committed accounting fraud.
After nearly a full minute, he said, “I thought you said that app was accurate,” and she threw a hand towel at his head.
Now she’s seven months pregnant, Rafe is in Charleston twice a week overseeing a development project that appears to require his physical presence whenever the universe senses she has slept badly, and the children have developed a coordinated ability to need separate, urgent things at the exact moment her pelvis begins to feel as though it’s been assembled incorrectly.
He gets home after ten on a Thursday night and finds her halfway up the stairs carrying a laundry basket against the underside of her stomach while Marlowe trails behind in fairy wings, explaining that tomorrow isn’t technically costume day, but could be if her teacher was flexible. Banks is calling from the kitchen that the dishwasher is making a noise. One of Rafe’s socks is stuck to the side of the basket by static.
He leaves his suitcase in the foyer. “What are you doing?”
She looks down at him over the towels. He’s still dressed for work, sleeves rolled, collar open, travel sitting beneath his eyes in dark, tired shadows. “Laundry.”
“I can see that. Why are you carrying it?”
“Because towels remain tragically unable to climb stairs.”
Rafe comes up three steps at a time and takes the basket from her before she can object, his jaw already tightening. “Banks!”
From the kitchen, their son calls, “What?”
“Get over here.”
Banks appears at the bottom of the stairs with the wary expression of someone summoned by his father’s business voice. He has Rafe’s height beginning in him already, all knees and shoulders and hair that refuses to lie flat. “What happened?”
Rafe hands him the basket. “New rule. Your mother doesn’t carry laundry upstairs.”
Banks looks at the towels, then at her stomach. “Okay.”
“And fix the dishwasher.”
Banks frowns. “I don’t know how.”
Rafe sighs. “Neither do I. Press buttons until it stops.”
“That’s not how appliances work,” she says.
“It’s worked for me so far.”
Marlowe pushes between them, wings scraping along the wall. “What’s my job?”
Rafe looks down at her. “Keep your mother’s water full.”
Marlowe’s face lights up with the dangerous purpose of a child newly granted jurisdiction. “Always?”
“No,” she says quickly.
“Yes,” Rafe says at the same time.
Marlowe runs downstairs.
“Rafe,” she sighs.
He puts a hand against her back and guides her up the remaining steps, slower now. “What?”
“I don’t need a household task force,” she grumbles.
“You were carrying a basket you couldn’t see over.”
“Also can’t see over my belly, why don’t you snatch that from me?”
“You nearly stepped on Marlowe.”
“She has wings. She should’ve flown.”
His mouth twitches, but the tension remains beneath it. In their bedroom, he sets his watch on the dresser and begins unbuttoning his cuffs with the short, irritated movements he uses when the anger isn’t really anger and both of them know it. She sits on the edge of the bed, pressing her fingers into the soft swelling above one ankle.
Rafe notices immediately. He drops into a crouch in front of her and takes her foot into his lap before she can pull it away. His thumbs press carefully along the arch, then circle the puffed skin beneath her ankle bone, his gaze fixed downward.
The buzz cut has grown out slightly around the crown. There’s a faint crease through his shirt from the plane seat and a missed call glowing on the phone beside him.
“I’m fine,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“I am.”
“I know.” His thumb moves along her heel. “You’re always fine.”
Something in the way he says it makes her stop. Not sarcastic. Frustrated by the word and everything she manages to hide inside it.
Rafe looks up. “Banks said you fell asleep at the table Tuesday.”
She groans and rolls her eyes. “He’s a snitch.”
“He’s ten.”
“He’s your son.”
“Exactly. No loyalty.”
She tries to smile, but his hands have gone still around her foot.
“I can move Charleston,” he says.
Her brows draw together. “You can’t move a city.”
“The meetings.”
“Rafe–”
“I don’t need to be there twice a week,” he mutters.
“The project’s yours.”
“So is this.”
His eyes drop briefly to her stomach, then travel around the room as though this means the house too: the costume wings abandoned against the doorframe, the pile of school forms on her nightstand, the laundry moving down the hallway in Banks’s arms, the life waiting for Rafe every time his plane lands and continuing, somehow, on the days it doesn’t.
She brushes her fingers over the back of his neck. “I’m not asking you to stop working.”
“I know.” His jaw shifts. “That’s not the same as me pretending none of this is work because you don’t send an invoice.”
At twenty-two, he would have needed an enemy – Ward, the world, somebody standing close enough to push back against. At thirty-two, he sits on the bedroom floor with her swollen foot in his lap and understands, slowly and unwillingly, that sometimes the thing wearing her down has his name on the travel itinerary.
His phone lights again. Rafe picks it up, opens the email containing his flight confirmation for the following Thursday, and presses cancel.
She watches him. “You’re going to make everyone hate me.”
“They already hate me. You’re safe.”
A small set of footsteps comes charging down the hallway. Marlowe appears with a water bottle filled so completely it spills over her hands and onto the carpet. “Mama! Water duty.”
Rafe nods approvingly. “Good job.”
She takes the bottle before their daughter can flood the room. “Thank you, baby.”
“Drink it.”
Her eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“Daddy said.”
Rafe looks down quickly, suddenly very interested in her ankle.
“Rafe.”
“What? She’s taking the position seriously.”
Marlowe stands over her until she drinks, then races away to report her success to Banks. Rafe’s shoulders begin to shake beneath her hand. She nudges his thigh with her foot, and he catches it before she can pull back, pressing his mouth to the inside of her ankle.
“You’re an idiot,” she says.
“Mhm.”
“And bossy.”
“Yeah.”
“And you cannot turn our children into your private surveillance network.”
He kisses her skin again, smiling now. “Already did.”
The baby moves beneath her ribs, a long, slow roll that makes her inhale and place one hand against the side of her stomach. Rafe’s palm leaves her foot and spreads over the movement, broad and warm, waiting until the small body shifts against him again.
“There she is,” he murmurs.
“She’s been there all day. On my bladder.”
“Missed me,” he grins.
“She doesn’t know you left.”
Rafe looks up at her. “Yeah, she does.”
She could argue. Usually would. Instead, she runs her fingers over the soft growth at the back of his head while his thumb moves absently over her stomach, his cancelled flight still open on the phone beside them and his suitcase untouched in the foyer downstairs.
Outside the bedroom, Banks tells Marlowe she’s giving Mama too much water. Marlowe tells him he’s not in charge of water duty. The dishwasher makes one final, miserable clunk and falls silent.
Rafe glances toward the hallway, then back at her. “See? Everything’s handled.”
“The dishwasher may be dead,” she sighs.
“I’ll buy another one.”
“You say that about everything.”
“Usually works.”
She smiles despite herself, and Rafe watches it happen with the same intent attention he has given her since they were teenagers, like every version of their life still begins with checking her face first.
Then he leans forward, rests his cheek against her stomach, and stays there while the house keeps moving around them.
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soft!reader who blushes over absolutely everything. rafe compliments your outfit? pink. he calls you pretty? pinker. he so much as looks at you for a second too long? suddenly you're hiding your face in his shoulder because you don't know what to do with yourself.
rafe thinks it's the cutest thing he's ever seen. "look at me."
"no."
"why?"
"you're smiling."
"that's usually how conversations work, sweetheart."
rafe who absolutely abuses the fact that you're shy. not in a cruel way. in a "i think watching you get flustered is the funniest thing on earth" way. he'll lean against the kitchen counter while you're making breakfast and just stare, not saying anything, just looking at you, until eventually you look over.
"...what?"
"nothin'."
"then why are you looking at me like that?"
"because you're pretty."
soft!reader who is ridiculously affectionate without even realizing it. you'll walk past him and automatically fix the collar of his shirt, brush invisible lint off his shoulder, absentmindedly tuck messy strands of hair behind his ear or straighten his necklace & smooth your thumb over his jaw.
they're all such tiny, unconscious acts of love. rafe notices every single one and every single one makes his chest feel strangely full.
rafe who starts finding excuses to be close to you because physical affection becomes his favorite language. one hand resting on your knee while he's driving, pulling your chair closer to his instead of moving himself. standing behind you while you're cooking just so he can wrap his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder. "what're you making?"
"you've asked me four times."
"forgot."
liar. he just likes hearing your voice.
soft!reader who gets overwhelmed in loud places like crowded parties, big family gatherings and especialyl too many conversations happening at once. eventually your smile starts fading, your hands fidget and you get quieter.
rafe notices before you even realize it yourself. "c'mon."
"where?"
"outside."
no questions. no attention drawn to you. he just quietly takes your hand and lets you breathe for a while.
rafe who secretly loves how excited you get over tiny things. ducks at the park, fresh flowers at the grocery store, dogs hanging their heads out car windows. even finding heart-shaped rocks on the beach.
you'll stop everything just to point them out. "look!"
and every single time... rafe looks. not at whatever you're pointing at. at you.
soft!reader who always falls asleep first during movie nights. it doesn't matter how invested you are. twenty minutes in and you're gone, curled up against his side, your breathing slow with the movie still playing quietly in the background.
rafe never wakes you. just turns the volume down, pulls a blanket over you and spends the rest of the movie absentmindedly running his fingers through your hair, not paying attention to the screen at all.
rafe who cannot handle it when you cry. genuinely. anger? he knows how to deal with anger. tears? absolutely not. he panics every single time.
"hey."
"hey, sweetheart."
"look at me."
"talk to me."
seeing you cry makes something deep inside him twist painfully. he'd rather take a punch than watch your heart break.
soft!reader who always reaches for his hand without thinking. crossing the street? hand. walking through a store? hand. standing in line? hand. watching fireworks? hand. it becomes so automatic that one day you reach beside you while distracted... and accidentally grab someone else's hand. you look up, horrified, and immediately let go. "i'm so sorry!"
the stranger laughs. rafe is bent over laughing so hard he can barely breathe. "baby..."
"don't."
rafe who absolutely melts when you're sleepy. sleepy you is somehow even softer. your words start slurring together, you get clingier. your eyes keep drifting shut while you're trying to stay awake.
"m'not tired."
"sweetheart."
"hm?"
"you're literally asleep."
"no'm not."
"...you answered three seconds late."
"did i?"
soft!reader who always believes the best in people. sometimes to a fault and rafe pretends it drives him insane. "he was probably just having a bad day."
"or he's just an idiot."
"rafe."
"what?"
"be nice."
"for you?" he sighs dramatically. "fine." only because if kindness matters to you he'll try. even if it doesn't come naturally to him.
rafe who starts becoming gentler without even noticing. his voice softens when he talks to you. he knocks before walking into rooms you're in. he catches himself lowering his volume when you're startled. he becomes more patient, more careful. loving someone as gentle as you makes him want to deserve your softness instead of overwhelming it.
soft!reader who has absolutely no idea how beautiful you are. you'll walk past mirrors without looking, shrug when people compliment you, genuinely believe they're just being polite. it drives rafe insane.
he looks at you and sees sunlight, sees kindness, sees every good thing he's convinced he doesn't deserve. somehow you still don't see what he sees. so he tells you. every single day. until one day, years later, you smile when he calls you beautiful instead of looking away and rafe quietly decides that might be his greatest accomplishment.
