Blue Porcelain
summary: You were porcelain, he always said. But even porcelain can shatter. characters: rafe cameron.soft! reader warnings: Age gap (reader is 18+ but young), drug use (implied), controlling behavior, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, mature themes. word count: 1.5k
The house groaned around you like it was tired of keeping his secrets.
Thin light leaked through the slats of the blinds, striping the wooden floor in gold and shadow. The scent of cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and stale whiskey clung to the air - thick, almost syrupy. It curled around your hair like hands.
You sat still on the edge of Rafe’s lap, spine straight, knees together, hands folded like you were waiting for a blessing instead of holding your breath under the weight of him.
He was beneath you, sprawled in a velvet armchair like a king on a throne of terrible things, long legs spread, head tilted back. One arm lazily draped around your waist, the other holding a cigarette he’d forgotten to smoke, ash clinging to the end like it knew better than to fall.
His pupils were blown wide, eyes glassy and unfocused - but somehow still locked on you like a target. Or a lifeline.
“You look like porcelain,” he muttered, voice rough like gravel dragged across silk.
“Always lookin' like you’re about to cry,” he murmured, lips brushing your neck. “Like a little doll someone left in the rain.”
You swallowed, not trusting your voice. You never really talked when he got like this.
He liked you best when you were quiet.
Your dress stuck to the back of your thighs, sweat prickling your skin from the heat in the room - or maybe from the tension in the way he held you, his fingers slowly drawing shapes on the inside of your knee like he was thinking about how easy it would be to snap you in half.
“I bet your mama braided your hair every morning,” he said, eyes fluttering half-shut, a ghost of a grin playing on his lips. “Taught you how to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and walk with your chin down like a good little girl.”
You flinched - not visibly. Not enough for him to catch. But your fingers tensed in your lap.
“And now look at you,” he murmured, dragging his nose along your collarbone. “Sitting in my lap like a prayer. You don’t even know how dirty I am, do you?”
You did. You knew more than he thought.
You knew about the pills and the coke and the screaming matches that ended with broken glass on the porch. You knew the bruises on his knuckles didn’t come from punching walls. You knew the way he could go from laughing to breaking things in the time it took you to blink.
But he touched you like he was trying to stay alive. And that terrified you more than anything else.
Then Rafe stopped blinking as much. Stopped smiling with his eyes. He stared more -long, heavy, unreadable stares that settled on you like storm clouds. Like he was watching you for signs of cracks. Like he was waiting for you to fail him.
And then came the shaking. Subtle at first. The way his leg bounced under yours when he hadn’t taken anything in too long. The way he chewed the inside of his cheek raw when you didn’t answer fast enough. The way his jaw ticked when you said you were going home to sleep instead of staying the night.
“Do you not like being with me anymore?” he’d ask, voice soft, dangerous. “I give you everything, baby. You forgetting that?”
And you lie. You smile. You kiss him and say, “Of course not, Rafe.” Because you had learned, quickly and deeply, that it was better to be adored by him than abandoned by him. Or worse.
He turned your chin with two fingers, forcing your eyes to meet his. His gaze was burning, stormy, pupils so wide they nearly swallowed the blue.
“You’re mine,” he whispered. “You get that, don’t you, baby?”
You nodded.
Because what else could you do?
Because he looked at you like you were the last clean thing in his world - and he was determined to drag you down with him before he let you go.
He kissed you then, fast and hard, tasting like smoke and static and something bleeding beneath the surface. You barely moved. Not because you didn’t want to - but because you weren’t sure if wanting had anything to do with this anymore.
When he pulled back, his breath hitched like he might cry. Like there was still something human buried under all that fire and ruin.
“You make me better,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t know why. I just… you do.”
And you sat there, trembling, sunlight slashing across your knees and the shadows swallowing your back - the perfect picture of a saint painted into a scene she never asked to be part of.
You stayed quiet.
Because that was what he loved about you most.
The night it all truly started to unravel was a party at the beach house. One of his father’s. A Kildare kind of night - too much money, too many secrets, and too little light.
You didn’t want to go. The air had felt wrong since you woke up. Heavy. Like walking through honey that had turned bitter.
But Rafe had come into your room, eyes a little too bright, body a little too sharp. His grin was stretched tight across his face as he picked up your white sundress from the chair, tossing it in your lap.
“Put this on,” he said, eyes trailing over you. “You look innocent in white. Like you don’t know what I do to you.”
You swallowed. Nodded. Slipped the dress over your head with trembling fingers.
The party was a blur of glass and music and shadows. The air was thick with perfume and sweat, with the wet salt of the sea clinging to your skin. Bodies danced, laughed, clinked champagne glasses. It was loud, luxurious, and hollow.
Rafe kept a hand at the small of your back, fingers hooked into the fabric like a warning. Every time someone looked at you too long, his grip tightened. Every time you smiled too softly at someone else, he leaned down and murmured in your ear, “Do I need to remind them whose girl you are?”
But the moment he disappeared - mumbling something about a “pickup,” eyes already buzzing with need - the spell broke.
You stepped away from the crowd. Out onto the porch. The cold night air kissed your cheeks, and for the first time in hours, you could breathe.
That’s when you saw it.
Rafe. At the edge of the driveway, lit by the harsh white headlights of a black SUV. His back was to you, but his posture was coiled - spine straight, fists clenched, shoulders hunched like a panther ready to pounce.
And the voice that came out of him wasn’t the one that whispered sweet things to you in the dark.
It was low. Acidic. Deadly calm.
“You think you can play me?” he said. “You think I won’t find out?”
You saw the man he was speaking to - maybe a dealer, maybe worse - lift his hands in defense. His mouth moved. You couldn’t hear the words. You didn’t need to.
Because Rafe punched him.
Once. Twice. Fast. Brutal. It was all muscle and fury and sound. The man hit the gravel hard, a sick crunch echoing through the night, and Rafe didn’t flinch. He stood over him, chest heaving, fists dripping red and shining under the moonlight.
You didn’t know how long you stood there, frozen. Breath held. Nails digging into your palms.
When he came back inside, the blood was wiped from his hands, but not from under his nails. He found you instantly, like a wolf scenting his doe, and pulled you close.
“Miss me?” he asked, his voice syrup-sweet.
Your gaze drifted to his knuckles. Red. Bruised. Torn open.
“What happened to your hand?”
He kissed your forehead, eyes glittering. “Just business, baby. Nothing for you to worry that pretty little head about.”
That night, lying beside him in his room - the ceiling fan casting slow, sickle-shaped shadows - you watched him sleep. His mouth slightly open, brows still furrowed even in dreams.
You reached for his hand, slowly, gently.
The skin was rough and swollen. Purple-blue bruises bloomed across the bones like dark roses. You traced them with your fingertip, wondering how long you could keep pretending this was normal. That you were normal. That this didn’t feel like drowning in a lake made of lace and blood.
You were porcelain, he always said.
But even porcelain can shatter.
And you were starting to hear the cracks.
