Honey

Succession

Kendall Roy

Lukas Mattson

Outerbanks

Rafe Cameron

Save me (Bsf!Rafe x Thornton OFC)

OBX TWEETS (SMAU Rafe x reader x John b)

Rafe looked like he was fighting a war within himself, his face contorting with a horrifying blend of fury and profound shock. 

His hand trembled violently, the gun shaking in his grip, wavering between your eyes and the floor. 

Then, with a shuddering breath, he finally pulled it away, letting it clatter to the ground with a deafening clang that echoed in the small, stone room.

"You're carrying my child..." he said aloud, the words a disbelieving murmur, as he ran his hands through his greasy bangs, his gaze distant, lost in a sudden, impossible reality.

"Yes," you swallowed hard, committing fully to the bit, every ounce of your being focused on the performance of a lifetime. 

You needed to buy yourself time, just a few precious seconds.

"Baby," he whispered, his voice incredibly soft now, broken, as he sank to his knees in front of you. His hand reached out, cupping your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "How long?" 

Rafe wasn't sure how he felt. Was he too young to be a father? Hell yes. Was he fit to provide for a child right now, with everything going on, with Peterkin's blood still fresh on his hands? Absolutely not. But was he going to try his damn best to step up and mold himself into that role? Hell yeah.

He’d always told himself that when he became a father, he would do things differently. He would be better than Ward. He would provide endless love to his children, a love that wasn't transactional, a love that wasn't withheld as punishment or granted as reward. He would give them the unconditional love he never received, the kind he craved more than anything.

He stared into your eyes, searching for any hint of deceit, any flicker of a lie. But he couldn't find it. All he could see, all he could feel, was his own overwhelming, terrifying joy.

Sure, if it were up to him, he wouldn't have planned for a child right now. He knew he was careless with you, often forgetting condoms in the heat of the moment. And he knew you were careless too, often forgetting to take your birth control on time. Despite all the recklessness, he still hadn't truly expected it to happen.

But now that it was done, now that you were pregnant, there was no changing the past. He was going to give this child everything he had in him, a silent vow he made to himself, staring into your tear-streaked face. This child would be his redemption, his chance to finally be truly loved.

"I was late, so I took a pregnancy test," you sputtered, your mouth moving faster than your terrified mind, scrambling for a logical reason, anything to delay the inevitable.

"When?" 

"A week ago."

His eyes hardened again, the dangerous shift in his mood almost instantaneous. "You've been keeping this from me for a week? Been lying to me this whole time?"

Your heart sank. You were so close, so agonizingly close to freedom, and now this.

"I was scared." You sniffled, tears springing to your eyes, genuinely fueled by the sheer terror of your predicament. "I was scared that—that if I told you, you'd make me get rid of it."

The tears were real, but the reasoning behind them was a desperate lie. Because even if he believed you, by some miracle, what then? What were you supposed to do next? 

How were you going to "grow" a child inside your womb? What if he asked for proof, a doctor's visit, another pregnancy test? At most, this lie would buy you a few days, maybe even less, until he realized your deception. You had to get away from him.

Rafe pulled out a gleaming pocket knife, and your breath hitched. This was it. This was the end, for real this time. 

But instead of the expected, chilling plunge, he used the blade to swiftly cut the ropes binding your wrists and ankles. 

"I would never," he whispered, his voice thick with what sounded like genuine emotion as he took your raw, chafed hands in his. "Would never do that to you. I love you."

You didn't believe him. Not for a second. He'd been moments away from pulling the trigger, his finger on the release, his eyes cold and empty.

"That why you ran?" he asked, his voice softening, yet his fingers deliberately brushed over your raw, tender wrists. You couldn't help but hiss, a sharp intake of breath as pain flared. "You were scared?"

You nodded, “I’m sorry,” you offered another lie. You weren’t sorry, you were only sorry that you got caught.

"Don't ever do that again." he mumbled, his voice low and soothing, yet his fingers pressed harder into your bruised skin, a subtle, agonizing pressure that made you wince. It was a silent punishment. 

Then, he lifted your wrists, one after the other, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to each reddened, tender spot. The kiss was a chilling promise, a wordless warning that clawed at your insides.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled, looking down at your lap, "I'm so sorry, Rafe."

A sob tore from your throat, and he immediately pulled you into his arms, holding the back of your head, pressing your face into the crook of his neck.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

The past couple of days had been a terrifying tightrope walk. Rafe had become incredibly, unnervingly soft, a stark contrast to the manic rage that had gripped him in the basement. Meanwhile, every nerve ending in your body was on edge, terrified that he would somehow catch on to your desperate lie.

He'd massage the raw bruises on your ankles and wrists, gently working in aloe vera, his hands painfully tender. 

In bed, he held you impossibly close, spooning you from behind, his hand resting protectively on your womb, a constant, heavy presence that made your skin crawl. He'd open doors for you with an almost chivalrous flourish, and his eyes, though softer, were always on you, tracking your every move.

His touch, once so readily given, now became strangely restrained, even reverent. No matter how hard he was, or how much your ass brushed back against him, he’d grab your hips with a firm, almost clinical grip and mutter a tense: “We need to be careful now. Gotta wait till the doctor gives us the clear."

One afternoon, you'd tried to reach a bowl from the very top kitchen cupboard, grabbing a step stool. Before you could even climb the first rung, Rafe was there, his voice a sharp, scolding bark that made you flinch. 

"What the hell are you doing? You could fall!" He lifted you  from the stool, firmly placing you back on the ground as if you were made of glass. "Don't you dare do that again.”

Rose had been close by in the kitchen and caught it. She gave you a questioning glance but you avoided her gaze. 

This new, doting Rafe was almost more terrifying than the one with the gun, for he held you captive not with ropes, but with a horrifying, possessive tenderness.

One morning, the facade threatened to crumble completely. Rafe flashed a pregnancy test in front of you, and with a firm hand on your back, ushered you into the bathroom. 

Your stomach clenched. This was it. The act was surely up.

You followed the instructions mechanically, your hands trembling as you took the test. 

The agonizing wait for the lines to appear felt like an eternity. When the result finally showed itself – a stark, undeniable negative – your heart slammed against your ribs. You braced yourself for the inevitable explosion, for the furious accusations.

But Rafe’s expression didn't change. Not even a flicker. He simply glanced at the stick, a dismissive shrug of his shoulders. 

"Probably a false negative," he murmured, his voice utterly calm, as if this was a common occurrence. He tossed the test carelessly into the bin, already moving on.

You were off the hook for now. Relief, hot and dizzying, washed over you for a split second.

"Don’t worry, I got a doctor's appointment booked for next week." 

Your entire body went cold. A doctor’s appointment. That would certainly pull the plug on your lie, there would be no faking a growing belly, no explaining away the truth when a professional was involved. 

This wasn't just a threat to your carefully constructed illusion; it was a ticking clock– ticking down to the absolute end.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

"Did you not like my food?" 

You'd been so lost in your own spiraling thoughts that you hadn't realized Rose was right there, watching you scrape your half-eaten plate into the bin.

"Huh?" You turned, caught off guard.

"You barely touched your plate," she clarified, gesturing towards it. She took it gently from your hand, moving to the sink.

"Uh, no, no, not at all. Sorry, I just don't have a big appetite," you clarified, forcing an apologetic smile. Your anxiety had rendered you physically unable to stomach a single bite.

"Morning sickness?" Rose asked, her voice a low, almost conspiratorial hush, without turning from the sink. 

Rafe, Ward, and Wheezie were still dispersed in the adjacent dining room, their voices a distant murmur.

You froze, the blood draining from your face. You weren't sure if you'd heard her right. Morning sickness?

She turned the tap off, the sudden silence deafening, and faced you. Her gaze, usually so placid, now held a deep, knowing look that sent a shiver down your spine. 

"How far along are you?"

You stared at her in disbelief, your mind reeling. You always knew Ward and Rafe kept a terrifyingly close eye on you, always assumed Rose was just a silent observer, a background character in this lavish, suffocating drama. It had never occurred to you that she might be listening in too.

Rose sighed, a sound heavy with resignation, and slowly placed the dish towel down on the counter. Her gaze, however, remained fixed on you, a mixture of concern and a disturbing kind of knowing. 

"Do you know what you're getting yourself into?" Her eyebrows were slightly raised, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"I really don't," you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose.

"You're young. Rafe's young," she continued, pushing the point. "Is this what you want your life to be? Tied to this… this situation?" Her head tilted slightly, an unspoken question hanging in the air.

You looked away from her, wiping frantically at your suddenly glossy eyes. The words caught in your throat, a choked whisper. 

"You don't understand." You couldn't tell her everything. “I’m not pregnant….. and that’s the problem.”

Rose didn't say anything for a moment, her gaze dropping from your face to your wrists. Her eyes lingered on the raw, chafed skin where the ropes had bitten deep. 

Before you could react, she inched closer, her hand taking your wrist, turning it over to inspect the tender marks. For some reason, you let her, too tired to fight.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper, "How did this happen?" 

"It was Rafe," another voice spoke up, startling you. 

You turned to see Wheezie standing at the kitchen entrance, her young face pale, her eyes wide with a knowing sadness that made your stomach clench. "Wasn't it?"

You didn't deny it. Your hands, still in Rose's gentle grip, trembled uncontrollably.

"What?" Rose's voice was a sharp intake of breath, her brows shooting up, her head snapping towards Wheezie.

"I heard screaming from the basement a couple days ago," Wheezie continued, her gaze fixed on your wrists, then flickering to your face. "And... and I saw him with the rope."

"Wheezie, go to your room. Now." Rose's voice was stern, a command, but you felt a slight tremble in it. 

Wheezie, uncharacteristically, left without arguing, disappearing from the doorway.

"Rafe did this?"

You nodded mutely. You didn't exactly know how much you could trust her, confide in her. You couldn't count on anyone in this family, because at the end of the day, they would do anything to protect the Cameron name, to protect Rafe. Their sympathy, however genuine it might seem, felt like another trap.

"I'm gonna talk to Ward about this. I'll deal with Rafe—" Rose began, her voice firming with a resolve that, under different circumstances, might have been comforting.

"No!" The word burst from you, raw and desperate. 

The last thing you needed was to get Ward involved, to expose your near encounter with the police. You had no idea what his reaction would be if Rafe told him, and you certainly didn't want to find out. 

"Please don't say anything to Ward or Rafe," you pleaded, eyes wide and terrified. "It'll only make things worse. Please."

Rose's lips pursed, her brow furrowing with concern. Her gaze softened, but held a trace of frustration. "Then how can I help?" 

"You can't." 

"Listen to me," Rose insisted, her grip firm on your shoulder, her fingers digging in slightly. "Let me help you. I can—"

"What are you two whispering about?" Rafe appeared in the kitchen, his empty plate in hand, sauntering over to where you and Rose stood.

You shot a frantic glance at Rose, a silent plea passing between you: the conversation is over. Don't say a word.

"Just girl talk," you muttered, feigning a nonchalance that your rapidly beating heart absolutely did not feel. Your voice was a little too quick, a little too high.

"Why so secretive, hmm?" He leaned on the counter next to you, invading your personal space, his shoulder brushing yours. "Period talk?" His smirk was wide, his eyes sharp.

"Rafe!" Rose snapped, picking up the dishrag and swatting him with it. "It's not your business, stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

But Rafe wasn't easily deterred. His smirk didn't falter, if anything, it widened.  

"Oh, come on, what's so top secret that's got my girlfriend and stepmom whispering together in the corner like a couple of Pogue spies?" 

His tone was teasing, almost playful, but his eyes, sharp as obsidian, burned into the side of your face as you desperately avoided them. You could feel their intensity, even without looking. He knew. Or at least, he suspected.

"Just girl problems, don't worry 'bout it," you mumbled, brushing past him, desperate to escape the suffocating interrogation. Every nerve screamed for you to run.

You didn't make it far down the hallway. Just as you picked up speed, a strong hand clamped around your arm, yanking you backward into the dim quiet of the library. 

The brutal force spun you around, shoving you hard against the closed door, the wood thudding against your spine, rattling your teeth. 

Rafe's eyes, no longer playful, were dark and narrowed, pinning you in place.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded, pressing his body against yours, trapping you, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

"It was nothing—" you began, trying to twist away.

"Liar!" he hissed, fist slamming into the doorframe right beside your head, the impact vibrating through the wood and into your skull.

You flinched, eyes pressed shut, a strangled sound catching in your throat. Your hands instinctively gripped his shoulders, a futile attempt to create distance.

"Wanna try that again?" He gripped your jaw, his fingers digging in, forcing your chin up, forcing your eyes open to meet his searing gaze.

Terror seized you, cold and absolute. Your mind scrambled, frantically searching for any plausible lie, anything to defuse the volatile rage simmering beneath his thin veneer of control. 

"Nothing! Just—" you stammered, the words tumbling out. 

"I was... I was asking her about a burning sensation I've been having. When I pee." The lie felt clumsy, desperate, yet somehow, sickeningly plausible. “Thought it might be a UTI.”

Rafe stared at you for a long, agonizing moment. The silence stretched, taut and suffocating. 

Then, slowly, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease, almost imperceptibly. A breath, long and shuddering, escaped his lips, a sudden exhalation that released a fraction of the pressure. 

"God, baby," he sighed, managing a strained, almost tender smile, the one that used to make your stomach flutter, but now only made it clench. 

"Now, was that so hard?" He released your jaw, but his hand lingered on your cheek for a moment, a soft caress that felt more like a warning. 

"Just tell me the truth next time, alright? No secrets between us. No more lies." 

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

You were napping in the afternoon, your nightmares had become more vivid, more real. 

True rest escaped you; you'd toss and turn in Rafe's arms all night, the gagged edges of your subconscious fighting against his presence until he'd gently wake you, rocking you back to a restless half-sleep. 

But you'd lie awake, rigid in his embrace, counting down the hours until the sun rose again. In his arms, you felt the unsafest, his skin prickling you like thorns, and you were counting down the days until the dreaded doctor’s appointment.

Rafe watched you nap. You were curled into yourself, a small, frightened ball under the duvet, bathing yourself in complete darkness. He quietly drew the curtains forward, and sat down on the bed beside you, careful not to jostle the mattress. He reached out, slowly, gently, pulling the duvet back down to your chest, revealing your face.

Your features were soft, relaxed in sleep, God, he missed seeing you like this. 

He hated how you trembled like a leaf in his arms, how the raw panic flared in your eyes when he entered the same space as you. He hated how you tensed, visibly recoiling, when he moved closer to hold you, how you flinched at sudden movements. 

It wasn't always like this.

And that day in the basement... he thanked whatever unseen forces existed that had stopped him from doing anything rash.  

This baby, this sudden, unexpected bundle of cells, was a blessing in disguise for him. It had pulled him back from the brink, stopped him from making a decision he didn't know if he could have lived with.

It wasn't just the betrayal of you threatening to tell the police everything that had gotten to him in that basement. It was the raw, undeniable fact that you were willing to lose him, willing to see him locked up, to cut him out of your life forever. That was what truly broke his heart.

But he didn't want to lose you. He couldn't imagine a world where you weren't there, where you weren't his. This unexpected pregnancy had brought you back to him, cemented you to him in a way he hadn't known how to achieve before.

Even in sleep, your body could sense the danger that radiated from him. You shifted, eyes peeling open to the dim light of the room. And then you saw him, sitting by the bedside, watching you. Startled, you scrambled backward, shuffling against the headboard, pulling your knees up to your chest, a frightened animal cornered.

"Hey, hey. It's just me," he whispered, his voice soft, placing his hands gently on your knees.

That did little to calm your erratic heartbeat. 

"How'd you sleep?" he asked, his finger lifting your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his.

"Fine." 

You hated his kindness more than his psychotic rage. When he was like this, so tender and solicitous, it was impossibly hard to remember the version of him deep down, the real him—the killer.

"You've been pretty tired lately, hmm?" He pulled your legs down in front of you, stretching them out, his hands beginning to massage your calves. "It's okay, we'll ask the doctor about it. Get you some good prenatal vitamins."

Your eyebrows knit together at the thought, every muscle in your body tensing. 

"You're so tense all the time," he scolded you. "All this stress isn't good for the baby." He reminded you, his gaze dropping pointedly to your belly.

And you're not sure why, but that was when you finally snapped. "You wanna know why I'm always stressed?" you bit out, making him stop his movements, his hands freezing on your calves. "It's you."

“The fuck?"

"You're the reason I'm like this!" you snapped, your voice rising, "An emotional, sleep-deprived mess. Because of you!" You pointed a trembling finger at him, the accusation heavy in the air. "You made me into this."

His face fell, creases forming on his forehead as he stared at you, genuinely taken aback.

"I can't sleep, I can't eat, I— I— I can't breathe after what I saw–  what you did," you choked out. "And the worst part is, you don't even care about me! You don’t love me. You just keep me close, because I’m a loose end to what really happened at the airstrip!"

“Uh-huh,” Rafe muttered, his jaw clenching impossibly tight, “And what exactly happened huh?”

“You killed Peterkin–”

“Stop with this bullshit,” he cut you off, his eyes burning through yours.

But you weren’t backing down this time, “You shot her!” 

He stood up, beginning to pace around the room, "You know what your problem is?" he sneered, his voice dangerously low, then rising to a shout. 

"You're fucking ungrateful! I saved you! You were miserable, suffocating in that house, with your mom who couldn't even look at you without resentment, and your dad who acted like you were a ghost!"

He jabbed a finger at you, his eyes blazing. "I gave you everything! I pulled you out of that hell. I gave a shit about you when nobody else did! I loved you, knowing damn well nobody else could, or would!" 

"You were born a mistake, you've never been loved before in your entire godamn life! I showed you that! I gave you that!" he pointed his finger at his chest with some twisted sense of pride.

His words, sharp and poisoned, found that last tender part of your soul, the deepest insecurity you'd ever confided in him, and sunk their teeth in. 

He'd used your own whispered fears, the vulnerabilities shared under the moonlight against you, twisting them into weapons. He knew exactly where to strike to make you doubt your own worth, to make you believe that his toxic hold was the only love you'd ever deserve.

He stopped pacing, looming over you, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper that pierced through you. "Nobody will ever love you like I do. Nobody will ever tolerate you, because you make it so damn hard to love you!"

"I can't believe I ever thought I loved you," you whispered, shaking your head, not at him, but at your own past naivety.

His face, previously contorted in rage, softened into a peculiar, almost mournful expression. "What's that?" he asked, his voice low, as if he hadn't quite heard you, or couldn't quite believe it.

"You're rotten, Rafe. From the inside out. You kill everything you touch. You're poison."

A slow, unsettling smile spread across his face, cold and unsettling as winter ice. He leaned in close, his breath ghosting across your lips. "And you," he whispered, the words a tender, terrifying promise, "you're my perfect apple."

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

The next day, you stirred awake relieved to find an empty bed. You slipped out of the room, your senses on high alert. Downstairs, you found Rose in the kitchen, humming softly as she prepared coffee. She let you know that: "Ward and Rafe went to the mainland for some business. Early flight."

You didn't wait for her to finish her sentence, racing back to the bedroom, heart hammering. You didn't take anything – just slipped on your shoes and headed out. 

This was it. This was your chance. 

The cool morning air hit your face like a blessing as you stepped outside. You didn't know where to go exactly. The police station was the last place on your mind. Your only goal was to disappear, to vanish without a trace. 

You walked, and walked, and walked, the unfamiliar streets slowly morphing into something distantly recognizable. Your feet carried you, almost against your will, until you found yourself standing before the last place you expected, the very last place you ever thought you'd seek refuge…..

Home.

You had nothing on you: no phone, no keys, no car–  they had been confiscated by Rafe. 

You rang your own doorbell and prayed. Prayed your parents were home and not away on one of their frequent, distant trips. For the first time in your life, you actually wanted to see them. 

You wanted to cry in your mother's arms, wanted her to hold you, to tell you everything was going to be okay – a desperate, childlike yearning you hadn't realized you still possessed.

You were a body that would always host the parasite of yearning. 

Ringing the doorbell proved useless. With a sigh, you went around the back, and just as you guessed, with a pang of bittersweet irony at your mom’s characteristic carelessness, the back door was left unlocked. 

You slipped inside, calling out, your voice tentative, then louder, but only silence answered. You searched every room, every familiar space, but came up empty. 

Nobody was home.

You sat at the bottom of the grand staircase, until the sun began to dip below the horizon. 

Finally, the mahogany front door swung open, revealing your mother. She sauntered in, heels clutched in one hand, her expensive gown shimmering. 

She didn't smile, didn't offer a hug, her expression a mask of indifference at the sight of you after a whole 2 months.

"Finally decided to grace us with your presence," she drawled, rolling her eyes, already walking deeper into the house, towards the kitchen. 

"Don't tell me where you've been. I don't need the worry." She didn't even bother to glance back to see if you were following.

She filled a crystal wine glass, red liquid sloshing carelessly onto the white marble counter. She gulped it down in one go, then turned to you, her gaze dismissive. 

"What have you made of yourself? You look terrible." She shook her head, one hand on her hip, squinting as she looked you up and down disapprovingly. 

You were dressed in Rafe's battered sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt, a stark contrast to her polished dress she had worn to whatever Gala she had been at.

"Do you have any idea where I've been the past month? What's been going on with me?" 

You’re not sure why you even asked.

You should have expected this, you knew you should have. You'd been too hopeful, too desperate, coming back home. The least you expected was a hug, or perhaps even a flicker of concern. 

But your mother never cared about you, and she never would— she’d go to great lengths to prove it to you, over and over again 

"Oh, please." She refilled her glass, tossing the empty wine bottle into the trash with a clatter. "I've heard whispers that you've been living at the Cameron house." Her voice was flat, devoid of curiosity or alarm.

You had dreams of her asking you better questions. Her desire to know more made you feel full. Then you opened your eyes and she was never as curious as you wanted.

Your greatest pain was that your mother never got to know you and never wanted to know you.

"You could've called, you could've checked up on me," the words ached in your chest. 

You weren't exactly sure what you wanted her to say. Maybe you just wanted to hurt yourself even more, because one thing your mother never did was hold back from spitting venom at you.

"It's a two-way street, darling," was all she offered, already reaching for another bottle from the wine fridge.

"I'm your daughter!" you exclaimed, throwing your hands up in a gesture of pure frustration. "I shouldn't have to beg you to give a shit about me! I didn't have my phone—"

"Of course," her smile was more of a smirk, cold and knowing. "You always come back when you need something. So you broke your phone, and now you're back because Daddy will buy you a new one?"

"No, Mom!" Hot, angry tears pricked at your eyes. "I came back... I came back because..." you stuttered, trying to find the words.

The airstrip. Peterkin. Ward. The police station. Rafe holding you hostage. 

The bruises around your wrists that she hadn't noticed, or maybe she did but simply didn't care enough to comment on. 

It was too much to articulate, too horrific for someone who already saw you as a burden.

"You came here because you needed... what?" she pressed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You always need something from us. Tell me I'm wrong?"

"I came back because I need help," you admitted, the truth tearing at your pride, leaving it wounded in the dirt. "Because I need you, Mom. I need you." You choked out, "Can't you see that?"

"You don’t need me, you treat this house like a hotel, come back when you want, leave when you want. And your father? He’s just your personal ATM ” she scoffed bitterly. 

“You make your own decisions, you make your own mess, you clean it up," she said sharply, her eyes cold as ice. "Think you're all grown up? Act like it then."

"I didn't have a choice! I had to grow up because you never stepped into the role of a mother!"

"Oh, of course, pin this on me too! You've always been like this... ungrateful."

"I'm standing here in front of you, asking you for some understanding, begging you– and you're— you don't even care!" A stray tear traced a path down your cheek.

"Stop with the screaming," she scolded, clutching her temple with one hand. "You're gonna give me a headache."

"Where's Dad?" you asked, the last, desperate flicker of hope.

"Smoking Cubans with Judge Holden," she muttered, refilling yet another glass of wine, her gaze distant, already bored.

You took a deep, shuddering breath, "Okay Mom, please, I need to leave the country."

"Then leave," she said simply shrugging. 

She didn't ask for an explanation, didn't plead with you to stay. 

"You've never asked for my permission to do anything. You just do what you want, whenever you want."

"No, mom, you don't understand," you pulled at your hair at the scalp in frustration and desperation. "I have to. I have to leave because I can't stay here. I can't be on this island, it’s not safe—“

You didn't have time to tell her all the excruciating details; surely Rafe was back from the mainland now, and it was only a matter of time before he would sniff you out somehow.

"Of course…. why would you stay here?" she drawled, her voice laced with bitter cynicism. "Why would you stay here with the family that's given you everything?”

"Mom..." you whispered, heartbroken plea, the last ember of hope flickering out.

Just as you thought you were running out of time, on cue, you heard tires crunching on the gravel outside. You had a sickening gut feeling that it wasn’t your father returning home.

Your mom's head tilted, her brows raised in mock curiosity, and she gave you a dismissive wave towards the door. "I guess it's time for you to go."

The doorbell rang, and she moved to open it without a moment's hesitation. You stood frozen behind her, a statue. Rafe stood on the porch, illuminated by the fading light.

"Ah, right on time," your mom chirped, her voice light, as if exchanging pleasantries at a garden party. She gestured towards you with a casual flick of her hand. "She was getting angsty anyway."

Rafe's gaze swept past your mother, over her shoulder, settling on you. There was a knowing look in his eyes, a flicker of something almost like pity. You looked away, quickly wiping at the tears that still tracked down your face.

"I'll wait by the car," he was surprisingly subdued. He wasn't angry, not like you expected him to be. He almost seemed sad for you.

Rafe hadn't even been stressed when he saw your location at your parents' house, because he knew with a certainty in his bones that nothing good ever came of you speaking to your mom. It was something he had gotten well-equipped to, over the summer, predicting your patterns of despair. 

How had he known you were here so quickly? He had put a tracking chip in you, ofcourse. While you were passed out and tied up, unconscious, he had made a small incision, a tiny stitch placed at the back of your neck, one you still hadn't noticed.

"Well, don't keep him waiting then." Your mom's voice cut through your thoughts, utterly unbothered by the conversation you'd just had, by the tears you hadn't bothered to hide. 

She huffed, already walking up the grand staircase, leaving you stranded. No goodbye, no offer to stay, no flicker of maternal concern. Just an ushering out the door, back into the lion's den.

Your heart sank. You had come home looking for help, for protection, and were met only with the stone-cold indifference of your mother.

Rafe was waiting by the passenger door, already open. His lips pressed into a thin line.

You were calm and quiet, but there were things inside you. And he would see them, hiding in your eyes, so you looked at the ground instead.

He helped you into the truck, hand heavy on your back. The car ride was silent. He didn't say a word, his gaze fixed on the road, yet you could feel his awareness of your every tremor, every hitch in your breath. He didn't say anything when you went for a shower, the water doing little to wash away the feeling of utter abandonment. 

He didn't say anything when you finally slipped under the covers, curling into yourself, exhausted and broken. And when he heard the muffled sobs you couldn't stifle, burrowing into the pillow. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tight against him, your back pressed against his chest.

"Sshhhh," he whispered against the skin of your neck, his breath warm and unsettling. "Shouldn't have gone there in the first place, baby."

You sobbed even harder, a bitter, broken sound, because he was right. Everytime you stepped foot in that house, you always felt a little emptier afterwards. You can't make homes out of human beings. Someone should have already told you that.

" 'Tsokay, I'm here," he muttered, his hands, so recently capable of violence, now settling with a disturbing tenderness on your belly. "I'll always be here." His words were a promise, a threat, a tightening of the invisible chains.

One of his hands began to trail upwards, sliding beneath your shirt, his fingers kneading gently at your breast. The other hand slipped beneath your cotton shorts, hooking your leg back around his side, pulling your body flush against his.

"I've got you," he breathed, his fingers, precise and deliberate, slipped inside you, one by one. You didn't stop crying; if anything, the tears flowed harder. But when a third finger slowly, painfully stretched you out, a sharp gasp tore from your throat, drowning out the sobs. 

It was his twisted comfort, his brutal reassurance that he was the only one who truly understood how to mend you, how to make you forget, even for a moment, the broken pieces of yourself.

"I know what you need, baby," he breathed, his voice a low, confident murmur. He always knew how to "fix" you. 

He could feel your walls clenching around his fingers, a silent response to his ministrations. Your back arched involuntarily away from his chest, your head pressing back into his shoulder.

But it wasn't enough for him. He needed to see your face, to witness your surrender. He moved from behind you, sitting up on the bed, tearing your shorts and panties off with ease. He then grabbed your ankles, pulling you further down the bed until your ass cheeks were perfectly slotted onto his knees, spreading your legs open.

You felt the cool air against your wetness, making you shiver, and you made a weak attempt to close your legs. But he pressed his hands flat against your inner thighs, keeping them wide.

"Uh-uh," he murmured, his eyes fixed on your pink, glistening lips with hunger. "I wanna see," his fingers trailed down your slit, parting your puffy slick lips, "wanna see this pretty pussy make a mess."

He lowered his head, his lips hovering just above you, a tantalizing torment. A string of his saliva dripped down, landing on your pearl, and his thumb followed, smearing it down, rubbing you in slow, deliberate circles, like he was rubbing a lamp, hoping for a genie to come out and grant his dark desires. You fisted the bedsheets, your eyes rolling back..

"Yeah, just like that. Relax for me, baby," his voice a low, gravelly hum, a dark command. His thumb stayed, burning against your sensitive, swollen nub, a relentless friction. His other hand pumped three fingers in and out of you, a relentless rhythm.

The only sounds in the room were the wet slickness of his movements, your broken breaths, and the desperate whimpers of his name tearing from your throat.

Your juices splashed onto his thighs with every flick of his wrist. Then, he curled his fingers just so, hitting a spot that sent a jolt through you, and you cried out, your hands clawing at his knees now, anything to ground yourself in the overwhelming sensations.

"Look at you, letting me take care of you, huh?" He watched you, a possessive admiration in his gaze. 

Your eyes were half-lidded, barely able to focus on him, your cheeks flushed a deep, vibrant pink, lips parted as you whined and mewled, completely at his mercy.

"I'm the only one who makes you feel like this, yeah?" His fingers picked up their pace, his thumb pressing down harder, a sweet, agonizing pressure. "I'm the only one that can fix you. That can love you. I can give you everything." 

You weren't even listening to whatever he was blabbering on about. Your thighs trembled against him, still spread wide, pinned by his knees.

You threw your head back, hair tangled and pressed against your damp forehead, fingers digging into his thighs, drawing tiny crescents of blood. Your toes curled, your body tensed, a building storm, and he could feel you coming even before you did.

"Yeah, good girl," he purred, his fingers never stopping, relentless in their pursuit of your climax. "So good for me, aren't you?"

You finally came crashing back to earth, gasping for air. "You're mine to keep," he whispered, his eyes piercing yours, his thumb burning against your sensitive bundle of nerves, a brand. "Mine."

"Please, it hurts.” You cried out, grabbing his hands, desperate to stop the overwhelming hypersensitivity. 

"Say it," he demanded, applying a firm, unyielding pressure, placing a firm, heavy hand on your sternum to keep you down. "Say it, baby. Tell me."

"I'm yours," you winced, the words a final, complete surrender.

Perhaps he was destined for you. As a punishment.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

You sat on the crinkling paper of the examination table. Rafe, of course, had forced himself into the room with you, despite your wishes. He had pulled a chair up beside the examination table, his hand clamped firmly around your thigh, as if you were a flight risk even now. 

You could feel the tremor in your own leg, counting the seconds until your lie would unravel. The silence in the room was deafening, amplified by the frantic thump of your own heart. 

Your eyes were glued to the ceiling, but your brain was doing somersaults, listing every single thing you'd miss out on if Rafe found out the truth. Basically, your entire life. 

How would your parents even react when they found your body at the bottom of some creek? You actually wondered if your mom would cry, or if, in some dark, twisted part of her, she'd just feel relieved. Finally, that burden's gone.

No 21st birthday. No legally drinking a ridiculously sugary cocktail with your friends. That was a real bummer. You hadn't seen them in months, their faces now just hazy memories. If you'd known that last "see ya" was going to be it, you would've hugged them tighter, held on longer, etched their warmth into your damn soul.

And all those travel dreams? Gone. No backpacking through Europe with a backpack double the size of you and a map you'd probably lose. No trying authentic pasta in Italy or seeing the Eiffel Tower sparkle at night. No volunteering with sea turtles in Costa Rica, no climbing some huge mountain, no dancing under the Northern Lights.

You'd never get to finish college, to pursue that obscure major you were passionate about, or find a job that felt like more than just a means to an end. You'd never live in your own small apartment, decorating it just how you liked, without anyone watching or controlling.

You'd never adopt a stray cat, or learn to play the guitar, or finally read all those classic novels sitting unread on your shelf.

You'd never meet your soulmate. 

You actually thought you had back in summer. What a clown. You really thought Rafe was him, your other half, your person. You truly believed you were done going to bars to meet guys, because you had found the one person who saw who you truly were, despite everything, all your flaws. 

There was a little girl in your head and she screamed "unloved! unloved! unloved!" every moment of your life.

You were always hungry for love. Just once, you wanted to know what it was like to get your fill of it, to be fed so much love you couldn't take any more. 

Just once.

So you let Rafe touch you, let him love you, because he was the only one who ever offered it to you. It was a pathetic attempt to fill the hollow ache in your chest.

You truly did fall in love with the false image you had of him when you first met him. You were still in love with that version of him. But he wasn't real, just a made-up fantasy.

The phantom sensation of his gun, cold and hard against your temple, was a constant, chilling reminder of his true nature. His version of "love" was seriously fucked up, twisted, and terrifying, and you definitely didn't want it anymore.

You just wanted to live.

"Okay," the doctor's voice broke you from your morbid thoughts, as she entered the room with your test results.

You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable, for the quiet pronouncement that would seal your fate.

"I've got your test results back and congratulations, you’re expecting."

The words, gentle and clear, punched through the ringing in your ears. Your eyes flew open, staring blankly at the ceiling. 

Expecting? 

Relief should have flooded you, a tidal wave of sweet, intoxicating survival. But it was anything but that. Instead, a wave of profound, crushing dread washed over you, heavier than any fear of death. 

You were pregnant. With Rafe's child…..

Tears, hot and unstoppable, burned in your eyes. You weren't saved; you were bound. Bound to him, to his madness, to a life you never wanted. This wasn't a reprieve; it was a life sentence.

Rafe's smile was blinding, stretching from ear to ear as he squeezed your hand, intertwining your fingers with his. He leaned over, placing a soft, chaste kiss on your forehead.

“Hey, come on now. I've got you, baby." he muttered, his voice thick with overwhelming joy. “I've got you both.”

And that was the worst part. He did have you now. He had you for life.

"Okay, we need to get you started on some prenatal vitamins." 

The doctor scribbled a list of supplements and vitamins, some prescribed, some over-the-counter. You were moving, nodding, feigning comprehension, but you hadn't processed a single word. 

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