#obx au

[maverist]

MARRIAGE MATERIAL Chapter 11

MM Minilist & Main Masterlist

warnings! fem!reader, psychology inaccuracies, evil sister, strong language & fluff... lots of it

The next morning, the air felt heavy, almost thick with the realisation that everything had changed.

Rafe woke up before you, naturally. Years of habit, training, time zones, and muscle memory had carved early mornings into his bones. But the first thing he felt wasn't the sun or the stiffness in his shoulders.

It was you.

Your weight pressed against him, one arm slung over his ribs, one leg hooked around his thigh, holding him there like you'd anchored yourself to him in your sleep. He lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the quiet in his chest.

He wasn't used to the quiet.

Rafe stepped out onto the balcony, letting the morning sun warm his face, trying to breathe through the feeling that something had shifted in a way he couldn't undo. And when you wandered in, hair messy, drowning in one of his shirts, he froze for half a second before he manually rebooted with a soft, "Morning."

You blinked at him like you were finally sure he was real.

He didn't comment on it.

He didn't trust himself to.

You didn't talk about that night, and perhaps you didn't need to, but something had settled between you, and it grew. Neither of you dared touch it directly, darting around it like a scared animal. But it touched everything else.

You called him more, and he'd answer on the first ring. And you hate phone calls. But hearing his voice, seeing his face when he facetimed you, that made it worth it. He was worth it.

When you were together, his hand found your waist without thought. He'd lean in to whisper in your ear and you'd throw your head back in laughter, unguarded in a way you hadn't been in years. It never mattered what he'd say, the fact was, it was him. And that was enough to make you smile.

Everyone noticed the shift. And soon enough, the media caught on. Endless reels collaging moments where his eyes would subconsciously search for you in every room, and ones where your eyes would lock and visibly soften, his baby blues melting all your worries away. You were the it couple, not even Tom Holland and Zendaya could come close.

Unfortunately, that made one particular doctor very unhappy indeed.

Her office was the same cold, quiet and clinical it's always been. And her clipped British accent hadn't changed since the first day you'd met. Observant in ways that made you feel like you were being dissected. But as the fairy tales would have you believe, love truly does conquer all.

She looked at the two of you the same way she always did, but even she couldn't deny the change. "Closer," she said simply.

"Sorry?"

"You seem closer," she repeated.

"Uh, I suppose we've been spending more time together," Rafe replied, voice steady and confident.

She hummed, adding: "Among other things, I'm sure." You coughed at the insinuation, Rafe's hand instantly finding your back, rubbing soothing circles into your skin, as she clicked her pen twice, completely unbothered. But you both knew she saw everything.

She even saw your sister's intentions from a moon away when they arranged to meet for brunch later that week. But that can't have been too hard, Sofia practically slept cocooned in a blaring red flag, with steam blowing out of her nostrils like a fucking cartoon character to match during the day. How her husband managed, only God knew. Poor guy.

Ten minutes in, longer than your scary therapist had predicted she'd last, Sofia finally leaned forward, stirring her decaf, no sugar, oat milk latte.

"So..." she started, voice syrupy and fake. "How are my darling sister and Rafe doing?"

The therapist didn't bother looking up from the medical journal article she was reading on her phone. "I can't discuss that."

"Not even if I had a genuine concern?"

The pout was tragic. And utterly useless. She was one eye roll away from blurting out that Sofia never had a bloody care or concern for anyone in her life.

"They are a happy, engaged couple."

"But...?"

A sigh, followed by a slow rub of the temple. Then she lifted her gaze just enough to peer over the rim of her glasses, the kind of look that could flatten a grown man.

"You do understand the meaning of patient confidentiality, don't you?"

Sofia opened her mouth, but the therapist cut her off with a raised finger.

"That was rhetorical."

Poor Sofia looked like a fish out of water, gasping, struggling to breathe in the sheer audacity. How dare she take that tone and return to her fucking scrolling as if she was bored?! Sofia huffed, loud and theatrical. She really did look like a cartoon character now.

The therapist didn't even blink. "You look like you could use an appointment yourself. I'd be happy to recommend." Sofia shot out of her chair so fast the table rattled, muttered something furious under her breath, and stormed off, leaving the therapist unbothered, unruffled, and sipping casually on her lemon water.

© credits to ZYA8TRACKS/ZYAFICS for the layout

DREW'S NOTES... wasn't quite sure if i would return to writing this, but thank you to @ilocuras24 for planting the lil seed in my head & apologies for the incredibly long wait, i've been on my off campus streak!... a short-ish filler chapter before we ramp the angst up!

If you'd like to be added to the taglist, please let me know. And, if you want to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts, which includes commenting &/ reblogging (credits to @zyafics).

TAGLIST FOR MM... @severedlamb, @zya8tracks , @drewsephrry , @nellyboosworld , @glame , @romanticiz3 , @gigigreens , @usseraloo , @sunkissed-soullll , @run-for-the-hills , @midnight-and-books , @xoxosblogsblog , @toterry , @raevyng

[rafeysvenicebitch]

ᗷO᙭Eᖇ!ᖇᗩᖴE ᙭ ᖴO᙭Y!ᖇEᗩᗪEᖇ

Some people meet the love of their life in a more graceful and poised way. Some people meet theirs at a crowded bar. Some people meet theirs at work, or college.

Well..

You meet yours at a Taco Bell, at 11 pm.

You’re all vintage glamour and old Hollywood charm—crimson lipstick, poised, thrifted clothing, and a smile that could make a grown adult weak at the knees. Rafe’s a professional boxer built like a freight train, he’s covered in scars, tattoos, and enough distrust in the world to keep everyone at arms length.

You two never spoke. Not the night at Taco Bell. Not the day after at Whole Foods. Not even when he started following your boutique’s page on instagram.

The more you two ran into each other, the more you couldn’t stop thinking of the other. That turned into something very impossible to ignore. Two people who were from very different worlds begin rethinking every assumption you’ve both ever made about love, trust, and each other.

A/n: uhh so this is like a series but not a series kinda. Blurbs r kinda hard to think of rn. But I’ll defs come up with smth!!! Enjoy

🥊 ᕼOᗯ TᕼEY ᗰEET

| 2

🥊SᕼOᑭᑭIᑎG ᗯITᕼ ᗷO᙭Eᖇ!ᖇᗩᖴE

🥊 ᑕᗩᒪᒪIᑎG ᖇᗩᖴE Sᗰᗩᒪᒪ ᗩᖴTEᖇ TᕼE GYᗰ

[ss4phire]

LEGENDARY LOVERS

˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ Zombie apocalypse au

WARNINGS .ᐟ very detailed gore, smut, SA, violence, smoking, drinking, death, abuse, drugs

cw: stockholmsyndrome!user, mean!rafe (not the abuser), mentions of guns/weapons, mentions of really detailed gore/death, mentions of drug and alcohol abuse.

masterlist

taglist

CHAPTER ONE

SMACK.

The loud noise echoed through the halls while a sharp pain immediately met your cheek. You didn’t even have time to process it when you felt a hand tangle in your hair. “What did I say about my beer, huh?”

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry, I’ll go get it.” You held desperately onto his wrist, fingers curling tight around it even as your scalp burned. You hated how small your voice sounded, but you couldn’t stop it. He was all you had.

He released your hair with a rough shove, sending you stumbling back against the wall of the old beach house you grew up in. “Fucking useless little shit. Hurry up, don’t take all night about it.”

You nodded quickly, eyes stinging as you hurried toward the kitchen as he mumbled while kicking the already worn coffee table. The power had been flickering on and off for the past two days and the news on the TV in the living room kept cutting out with emergency alerts that no one seemed to fully understand—something about a virus or riots on the mainland or people acting… violent? Your dad said it was just media bullshit, that it would blow over like every other panic.

You pulled open the fridge, the cool air hitting your flushed face. Only two beers left. You grabbed one, twisted the cap off, and wiped at your cheek where it still throbbed and obviously bruising. It wasn’t that bad. He was just stressed.

The storm last week had knocked out half the island’s power, tourists were gone, and he’d been drinking more than usual. But he kept you safe. He always had—ever since Mom died. He was hard on you because he cared. That’s what he always said.

You walked back into the living room, keeping your steps light. He was slumped in his usual armchair, shotgun resting against the side table like it had been since the first weird news reports.

“Here you go, daddy. ‘s still cold…” You held the beer to him with both hands around it like a peace offering.

He took it without looking at you at first, but after a long swig his hand came down to rest heavily on your head, fingers threading through your hair. Not gentle, exactly, but not yanking either. Your shoulders relaxed almost instantly at the contact. See? He didn’t really mean it. He just got frustrated sometimes.

“You’re a good girl when you listen,” he muttered, eyes on the staticky TV. “Don’t make me remind you again.”

“I won’t,” you whispered, leaning slightly into his touch. That sick, warm pull in your chest bloomed—the one that always told you this was normal. This was love.

The only kind you’d ever known.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⋆˚꩜｡ —

The next morning, you stood nervously in the kitchen doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, the faint bruise on your cheek carefully covered with whatever old makeup you could find in your moms old vanity. Your dad sat at the table, nursing a beer even though the sun had barely risen, shotgun still propped against his chair.

You approached slowly, “Also, daddy… I… I—uh—got a job with the Camerons,” you said softly, sugarcoating every word, eyes fixed on the floor. “Ward called after the storm. They need help cleaning up tannyhill. It pays really good, and money’s been tight recently. I thought… I thought it could help us. I’ll be back before dark, I promise.”

He stared at you for a long moment, jaw tight. Then his hand shot out, grabbing your wrist hard enough that you winced. He yanked you closer until you were standing between his spread knees, his grip bruising.

“You think you’re better than this house now?” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “Going over to those rich Kooks, letting them look down on you? On us?” His free hand came up to grip your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his. The pressure made the hidden bruise throb again. “You’re my fucking daughter, mine. You don’t go anywhere unless I say so. I kept you safe through every fucking storm this island ever threw at us. And this is how you repay me?”

Tears pricked your eyes, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned into his painful hold, your free hand coming up to rest tentatively on his forearm, stroking it like you could soothe the monster you knew so well. He’s just scared, you always told yourself.

He loves me.

This is how he shows it.

Without him, I’d be nothing.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I won’t let them treat me like trash. I’m doing it for us. For you. Please?”

He held your gaze another beat, then shoved you back roughly. You stumbled but caught yourself, relief spread when he finally grunted in reluctant approval. “Be back before dark,” he muttered, taking a long pull from his beer. “And if any of those Camerons touch you, I’ll kill them myself. You hear me?”

“Yes, Daddy.” You nodded quickly, a twisted sense of comfort settling in your chest despite the fresh ache in your wrist. He cared. He always cared in his own way.

Before you opened the door, he drunkly called out. “Why’d y’have to look s’much like your mom?” Before you flinched when the beer bottle shattered hard against the wall.

You sighed and twisted the doorknob, he’s been like this ever since your mom died. He would be better if stupid cancer didn’t get to your mom… if you worked harder to pay for her treatment.

You shook the thoughts away and kept walking.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⋆˚꩜｡ —

Music blasted in your earphones as you worked on the pool full of fallen leaves and fallen branches the storm had left behind, dragging the long net through the water until a small movement in the water caught your eye. A honeybee was struggling desperately near the edge, wings soaked and twitching weakly as it tried not to drown. “Poor little thing.” you whispered under your breath.

You took out your phone from your pocket to pause your music and pulled your earphones off before crouching down at the pools edge and gently scooping the tiny creature out with your hands, setting it on the warm stone to dry.

You watched it for a second before—“Who told y’to listen t’music while working?”

You jumped, whipping around so fast you nearly lost your balance on the wet tile. He was leaning casually against the nearby wall, arms crossed, that smirk you’ve seen one to many times playing on his lips as he looked down at you crouched there.

“Jesus, Rafe—” you breathed, heart racing from the scare, brushing your hands on the back of your shorts.

He chuckled, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. “Easy, princess. Didn’t mean to make you drop your little rescue mission.”

He pushed himself off of the wall and grabbed one of the chairs outside before heading back inside, muttering “do your fuckin’ job…” under his breath.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⋆˚꩜｡ —

Hours later with your headphones back in and music blasting once again, you moved inside to clean the mansion hoping Ward would give you a tip if he was feeling generous.

Until—

You swear you heard a blood curdling scream in the distance but when you paused the music, everything was… silent? Probably just your imagination, you told yourself. Dad’s been paranoid about the mainland news which made you paranoid too. It’s nothing.

You continued to the master suite, pushing the ajar door open while wiping the sweat on your forehead. “Mrs. Cameron?”

The horror slammed into you instantly.

Rose lay sprawled on the blood-soaked rug beside the bed. Her throat was torn open in ragged, meaty chunks, like something had bitten and ripped through flesh and artery. Her stomach was shredded open, intestines pulled out and partially devoured, glistening wetly across the floor. Chunks of her face were missing—cheek, nose, one eye completely gouged and hanging by threads. Bloody handprints smeared the walls where she’d tried to drag herself away. The metallic stench of blood and bowels filled the room.

Holy fucking shit.

Your hand shot up to cover your mouth, a scream already working in your throat.

next

Tell me what you guys think!

Im a very big fan of the walking dead so this was such a fun write, sorry for the detailed gore… i just had to :3

Anyways, please reblog and i love all of you!

[stayoutofthemarsh]

a Sofia kitty as requested by @lostsyren . I didn’t know what color to make the background so I put her in the backrooms. Hope she gets out ❤️

Jokes aside she is very colorpoint cat coded to me

[crushpunky]

ares!rafe cameron x athena!reader moodboard

masterlist

long story short: the head counselors of the two rival cabins don't get along... or do they? (thank you to @spideysquake for suggesting this percy jackson inspired au <3)

taglist: @ladyatwalmart @lilfreakjez @starkeyslutzz @maiya-16 @wolfcin04 @sophiesmovingcastle5 @blushmimi @awrad2 @brunettebqby @kaiparkerwifes @starkeyjoseph @defnotayonna @gf4lwt @taliescapes @ethanthequeefqueen @drewstarkeybroughtmehere @lukewearingbeanies @vittoriaxcx @spideysquake @ethanthequeefqueen

[brat2die]

You made it feel like home: a bones and all! au

Am I making you feel sick?

or…the first time you ate someone.

w.c: 1.1k (before rewrite)

a/n: this is part of my bones and all! au, you can find the masterlist with reader’s and rafe’s intro here. also, you can find rafe’s version of his first time as an eater here!!

You remembered the horror on your mother’s face when you first took a bite of the raw meat she was preparing when you were only five years old. It wasn’t cooked at all, not even rare, just raw and disgusting, the blood still oozing out of it if you poked at the flesh. It was seasoned, with nothing more than pepper and salt, but that was only a side to the real meal. You bit the meat hard, as if it was cooked and edible, swallowing like it was the best food out there, naive to the disgusting action you had just completed, simply gnawing on the flesh with n. Your mother didn’t yell, she never did, she was always gentle. She just cleaned your face off, despite her trembling hand and the vigilant fear in her eyes—as if scared her flesh would be your meal—then sent you off to your room to play while she cooked the meat. But you were insatiable. Since that day, you wanted—craved—more. Dead cow meat didn’t satisfy your hunger. In fact, it only made you ravenous, yearning for something animal skin couldn’t provide. You didn’t understand it then, but looking back, you had always been different from everyone else.

It wasn’t too long after that you committed such a violent act again. You were only seven years old, two years after the discovery of just how delicious raw, cold, bloody meat could be. You’d been playing on the swings in your backyard with the babysitter, with your parents out on a date after a busy week at work. It was getting late and the sun was setting, but with how cloudy the sky was, it seemed as if the sun has been setting since the morning. Dark, gloomy weather had always been your favorite, finding odd comfort in the gentle breeze that sang a peaceful lullaby. The patter of the rain against the gutter, harmonizing with the wind's swooshes, always soothed all your worries. Your babysitter, Emilie—you still remembered her name and her smile so bright, it reminded you of the prettiest stars—urged for the two of you to head inside, the wind getting stronger and the sky getting darker, signifying a thunderstorm was headed your way. But ever so in awe by the distant roaring in sky, you refused. You refused and refused until she practically had to drag you back inside, and even there, she wasn’t rough like other babysitters had been with you before. She was gentle like your mother. In fact, her caring nature reminded you a lot of your mom, and though you had seen her in the morning , too much time had passed and you missed your mother. And maybe that’s what fueled your desire: it was the comfort Emilie provided.

You remember sitting at the kitchen counter, eating cookies and waiting for your parents to come home, with Emilie by your side, when you suddenly bit her.

Like any child, you had your own weird habits, and you were a biter. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, and sure, maybe you were getting older and it was getting odd, but you knew better, and it was always playfully. Except for this time. You remember how your teeth sank in her flesh, reminiscent of a furious dog, desperate to protect and stay safe, biting anyone that reeked of danger. But Emilie wasn’t danger, she was safe. She was sweet like the cookies you enjoyed, and she was caring just like your mother. And now, you had your teeth sunk into her shoulder, biting hard as the metallic taste of blood filled cookie crumb covered lips. You savored the taste of her flesh, even the chemical taste of her perfume—smelling like roses and lavender—was appealing to you, awfully delicious despite the depravity of eating human tissue. It didn’t bother you, this was the one thing you didn’t want clean. Oddly, the taste of her perfume added to the moment, it was familiar, reminding you of the coppery scent of the uncooked meat you ate two years back. It was comforting, and as she yelled at your violence, it only encouraged you to give in to your hunger, eating away at her flesh like a young gluttonous zombie who hadn’t eaten in days—and in a way, you hadn’t.

The uneasiness of what you just did hadn’t hit you until your parents got home from work. The filthy, feral, cannibalistic act of eating someone else was shameful. Your mother screamed at the sight, but your father shushed her, yet their horror was the same. You had never seen your father looked so terrified before, and it made you nauseous to think that you were the reason he was scared. The carpet was bloody and the bones were left as proof of your carnage. You didn’t eat her bones, just her flesh, and even then, the little fat of her body that you left was unrecognizable, now stained with the deep maroon color of her own blood and your saliva—coated with greed for more and subconscious guilt.

Though you were young, you quickly caught on that what you did was wrong, punishable even. But you didn’t get punished. Your father ushered you upstairs to your bedroom, reassuring that he’d clean the mess. But on your way up, your mother’s sobs from your parents room taunted you for the unredeemable cruelty you had taken apart of, the unforgivable sin you commited. That night, you got on your knees and prayed, hard and desperate, borderline begging to the god above, the one your parents had been so eager to bring you up on, for forgiveness. You prayed and prayed until your knees were bruised, your mother’s sobs and then your father’s hushed whispering motivating you to keep asking for redemption, apologizing over and over again and wanting nothing more than to wash away the sin. You promised to never do it again, childishly sticking up your pinky to the sky as proof that you meant it, only to be meant with the loud crack of the thundering sky, a sharp denial of what you begged for and the sound you once found comforting mocking your rotten ways.

a/n: i hope you guys enjoyed this and please feel free to send me some asks/requests on what’d you like to read abt this au or anything else! also divider credits: @suupersonic

[brat2die]

You made it feel like home: a bones and all! au

Am I making you feel sick?

or…the first time rafe ate someone, bones and all.

w.c.: 1.2k

a/n: this is part of my bones and all! au, you can find more here!! this is rafe’s version but you can find readers here! also, divider creds: @suupersonic

“Man up.”

The words echoed though his mind like a loud noise in a cave, dizzying him as his hands trembled when cutting up the cocaine. It seemed to be all he was good for nowadays. He had never been his father’s pride, that was his sister, Sarah’s—and even sometimes Wheezie’s—job. That was her role in this family while he was nothing more than different in his father’s eyes. No matter how hard he tried, he wasn’t enough, he wasn’t good. He was no good, he was destined to be the fucked up child, the black sheep of the family even, filled with such anger and spite for his relatives, it shouldn’t have been a surprise when he finally snapped at his father.

Perhaps snapped wasn’t the most appropriate word. He’s yelled at his father before when arguments got too heated, he’s taken hits and he’s fought back as he got older. So, he’s snapped before, but he never snapped in a way that was so feral and bizarre to human kind before. So animalistic. It was like he was infected with some disease that made him more irrational than he usually was. He couldn’t blame drugs or alcohol for the incident, he was completely sober when it happened.

But even sober, there was nothing normal about his erratic behavior. He knew there was something wrong with him, he remembers being young, about 10 years old, two years after his mother died, hearing his step mom—if he could even call a woman he despised—voicing concerns over his mentality to Ward. He knew there was something wrong, of course he did, but it felt weird, shameful, even to hear other people assume that there was something wrong with him.

Coming back to reality as he caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror, he finally took note of the blood staining his face, the disgusting red against his skin made him feel sick, a mockery to the high class image he presented himself to be. It was just a reminder of what a mess he was. If his mother could see what an atrocity he just committed, he was sure that was when he’d finally feel guilt for what he did to his father.

As far he now knows, this wasn’t the first time he was this animalistic. At least not according to the man now lying dead and disemboweled in his own office. It serves him right for prioritizing work over his own son. Of course, Rafe knew what he did was wrong, that doesn’t mean he felt bad for the bastard of a father he was dealt. Yet, he couldn’t help but wonder what made him this way.

According to Ward, the first time he “ate” someone was when he was eight years old, back when his mother was still alive. Rafa had been helping her bake some cookies, it was one of the few cherished memories he had of his childhood, the rest was a blur. All he truly remembers was that his mother was dead shortly after, and that his hands that had once been cold from the cookie dough were now warm with a foreign substance. He doesn’t remember what happened, just read in the kitchen and the taste of something raw, maybe cookie dough, maybe flesh, in his mouth. However, he does remember Ward coming home from a business trip—he was always away—and how he stumbled upon the sight of his then wife bloody and lifeless, cold like how Tannyhill would soon become.

That was the first time Ward told him to man up. Like any son realizing his mother was gone, he had been crying, unaware of how much it was all his fault, and his father wasn’t having it. Angry and irritated from a flight home, that was the first time Ward hit him, and it wasn’t anywhere near the last. He remembers going to the bathroom, tending to his bruises and injuries after washing the blood off his hands with cold water, thankful that Sarah was spending the night at a friend’s and didn’t have to witness the horrific sight.

For years on after that, he never knew what truly happened, but many assumptions came to mind. Maybe she cut herself with a knife, maybe it was a suicide, or maybe he killed her. All those thoughts crossed his mind, leaving him frustrated each time that he couldn’t vividly remember what exactly went down. But never once had the thought that he ate his mother, ate her like a human eats a steak, savoring on her flesh as if he got it confused with the cookie dough.

When his father told him that after another one of their fights, he snapped, calling him a liar, an asshole, and any other vulgarity that came to him in his fit of rage. But deep down, Rafe knew Ward must’ve been right. It made sense, he couldn’t remember anything else. Maybe he had blocked it and he did feast in his own blood just like he did in his father.

Angry and offended at the sheer accusation that he would do something so inhumane, Rafe threatened his father, saying he’d do the same to him as punches were thrown and blood went flying through the room. Before he knew it—and even then, he still wasn’t too sure how it escalated to that point, he was over his father, for once having the upper hand, and eating him, bones and all, as if he had been starved his whole life.

But no, Rafe didn’t feel guilty. He didn’t cry, he was a man. Men didn’t cry, his father taught him that the day his mother passed, and he wasn’t going to change that now that Ward was gone too. He felt confused. He didn’t know why he was like this and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. All he knew was that it was wrong, but it surely wouldn’t be the last time it happened. He had always been insatiable, wanting more than he had, and with this newfound desire for human flesh, he wanted more and more until he was satisfied.

Looking back at himself, he ignored the coke, a miracle in its own and likely the only one left in his life, and washed his hands clean, using cold water like he had 11 years ago, scrubbing away all sin.

The discovery that he was responsible for not only his mothers death, but now his fathers too, was unsettling and overwhelming, and he planned to leave this stupid, good for nothing town behind.

It’d be easy too, all he had to do was pack a bag, grab some cash—which he had plenty of—and skip town. There was nothing holding him back. Family was nothing to him. His parents were dead, Sarah hated him, and wheezie, poor wheezie, was stuck with Rose. So he’d leave first thing in the morning, he needed some rest tonight, and only sleep, he didn’t need to be reminded of what he just did. He promised himself to never speak upon it either, he’d take it to his grave no matter how quick or late it came. He’d have time to think of what he’d done as he drove far away from this place, he’d call it a road trip to make it seem more normal, so he’d feel normal. But as he cleaned his hands, ridding them of any evidence of the crime against nature he just committed, Rafe knew that there was something very, very wrong with him.

[stayoutofthemarsh]

Actual pic of Rafe getting judged at the cat show (and about to win obv)