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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year

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Washed Up 1

Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, manipulation, mentions of death/loss, and other possible triggers. Warnings are not exhaustive and will not include plot devices/elements.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A mysterious man washes up on the shore.

Characters: Rafe Cameron

Note: Not me watching season 3 and going off.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like my dog loves cuddles. Take care. 💖

The mornings were hard before. Merely an extension of restless nights. Filled with the same tears and same futility. The absence beside you, in everything you did, marking the grief in what could be and what never was.

They're easier now. Still lonely, still without, but you have your peace. The little things. The smell of roasting beans, the rich scent mingling with the dewy tropical air, the sound of the waves on the shore, drawing you down to the sands, to sink your feet in as you stop to pluck up shells and pebbles, admiring each with the curiosity of a child. An echo of fleeting youth.

That morning brings more than scattered driftwood and scuttling crabs. You walk with china in hand, painted brilliant azure with a golden rod rim, half-drained of its nectar. A dribble tricks down your fingers from the brim and you swipe the moisture from your knuckles, blotting your mouth with the back of your hand.

It can't be. It's not real. You've finally gone mad from the isolation, from the years of seclusion. So afraid of another heartbreak that you would imprison yourself on this desolate isle. Lock yourself up in the memories.

You get closer, more uncertain yet more assured with each step, until you stand over the peculiar figure in the sand. You stare down dumbly as the bitter coffee dries on your tastebuds. What do you do?

The shallows roll up to dampen his loose button-up, half unbuttoned and soaked through, tailored linen pants in a similar state. He's tall, young, and unconscious. More importantly, he's a stranger.

You blow out a breath and raise the cup, pausing before you can take another sip. This isn’t a washed out log, you can't leave him, or a beached sea creature, you can't toss him back. You grew out of those tales of merpeople long ago.

You sigh and retreat. You set the cup in the crook of a peeling long, overturned across the sand. You face the man again, his chest rising and falling evenly, almost as if he just wandered down to take a nap. But where would he come from?

You look off into the horizon as you make your way back to him. His shaved head is speckled with droplets of seawater and grains of silt, his white shirt is stained, his pants streaked, a single shoe missing. You bend over him, holding your fingers in front of his nose to test his breath. He's real.

"Um," your voice creaks out and you gulp. What do you say? You can't even decide how to speak to an unconscious man. "Sir," you press your hand to his chest, pushing, jostling, "sir, wake up–"

He heaves in air and cough, batting you away as his head lolls, "fuck off, Rose."

His grumble leaves you perplexed. His fresh face makes you doubt he's married and you check his fingers just in case. No ring. You rub his shoulder gently, your heart pounding.

"Hey, wake up," you say louder, "you gotta– you can't stay here–"

"Fuck, Sarah," he snarls, "I told you stay out of my–"

His eyes flick open, pale blue irises dilating as the sun peeks out from behind the clouds. He snorts and waves you away, confusion wrinkling between his brows.

You step back and stand straight. He groans as he feels along his shirt and pats his pants pockets.

"You rob me, Pogue?" He growls as he plants his hands in the sand.

"Pogue?" You echo in confusion.

He sits up, blinking as he shields his face from the sun. You take another step away as you watch him. He turns to look out over the water then whips his head around to the beach.

"The fuck am I?" He asks as he bends his legs, "fucking talk to me Pogue."

"Sir, I… that– I don't know who Pogue is?"

"You–" his eyes meet yours hotly and he squints. He huffs and drops his head, rubbing his forehead as he grumbles, "shit."

He lifts his head and pulls his long fingers from his brow, "help me up."

He reaches out and you stare. His rude awakening hardly builds trust. You can't blame him, he's woken up on a strange beach with a strange woman. You can't say you'd be in better shape.

"Come on," he wiggles his hand impatiently.

You grab him and he wraps his fingers around yours. You grunt as you lean into your back foot and haul him up. He does most of the work, younger, bigger. Taller than he looked down in the sand.

He lets you go, slightly crooked as he favours his right leg.

"Who the f– who are you?" He asks as he claps the sand off his shirt, or tries too.

"I'm…" you hesitate but give your name, "I live here?"

"Better question," he raps as he tilts his head until his neck snaps, "where am I?"

"Little place called Buxille. Close to Martinique but–"

"Fuck," he snarls, "fuck–"

"Sir, do you know how… you got here?"

He pushes his large hands over his short hair and looks at you. He frowns and shakes his head, letting his hand falls as he sighs.

"Musta…" he looks around, wincing as he turns to gaze out at the ocean, "washed up. I… I'm a bit cloudy, I don't… remember."

"Who's Rose?" You ask.

His nostrils flare and he shrugs.

"Sarah?" You venture, the same answer.

His face contorts and he feels his side, just above his left hip, "you got a place then."

"Up the trail," you say, "bit of a walk."

"Well…" he turns, moving gingerly as he grasps his side, "don't got much choice, do I?"

You watch him. He’s right, you don't have much of a choice. You nod and turn away. You go back to the log and take your cup.

"This way," you call over your shoulder.

"Slow down, would ya?" He huffs, one foot thumping as the other only comes down lightly on the sand, "think I hurt myself."

"Sorry, I–"

"Coffee?" He nears, "got any more of it?"

"Up there," you gesture to the trees, "you mind oat milk? You can have the rest."

You offer the mug and he considers it. Then you. Almost as if he is seeing you for the first time. His eyes linger on you and he cautiously reaches out.

"Don't mind," he says, a slight pause as you hand over the cup, "thank you, miss."

You nod, not sure what else to say or do. He must be scared, so far away from wherever he came from. A thousand wild possibilities flash through your mind. He's young, a dare? A foolish drunken mistake?

He drains the cup sloppily, wiping away the remnants with his palm before shoving the cup towards you. You take it and peer up into the thick bush. He leans on his right leg and groans.

“Here, I’ll help,” you offer your arm.

He scoffs as you feel his gaze on you again, “sure.”

He leans on your shoulder as you begin up the shore. You lead him to the lush green that trims the sand and carry along the barely beaten path. On your own, it’s not so treacherous but with another, especially injured, it’s an unsteady and steep journey.

He grips your shoulder tight as he keeps a half step back, a stuttered gait. You feel his strength, his youth in his touch. A reminder of your age, a threat that you’ve not known for years. Men can be dangerous, especially those you don’t know, especially the young and the strong. But he’s hurt and in need. You let that worry float away.

You pause at the natural steps of the forest floor. You angle awkwardly with him, bending your arm as you hold his side and help him up. He grits his teeth as he strains to lift his left leg. You’re worried about that.

Finally, the ground begins to peter out and you come upon the edge of your property, the deck of the villa built into the rise of the ground beneath. The wooden steps greet you inhospitable and he uses the whitewashed railing to help himself up. You part from him to open the slatted wooden doors.

“This all yours?” He asks as he hobbles across the deck, his eyes scouring the façade.

“Yep,” you answer shortly as you step aside, “you wanna… use the mat.”

He looks down at the woven matter and kicks his single shoe off. He wipes his feet, “yes, ma’am.”

You wait as he takes a long look at the door frame before breaking the threshold. You follow him inside. Despite it all, the scent of his cologne still wafts beneath the dingy scent of the ocean. You direct him across the kitchen to one of the stools. He sits with a suppressed groan, still bracing his side.

“You want more coffee?” You offer as you place the cup down beside the sink.

“Won’t bitch for it,” he answers, “pardon, ma’am, I… I forget myself.”

“It’s fine, not like I haven’t heard it before,” you pour him a fresh cup and set it on the island before him, “milk, sugar?”

“Black,” he claims the cup, fingers brushing yours as he drags it over, “so, where’s…” his eyes travel around the kitchen, “your husband?”

You rest your fingers on the wood, trying not to fidget. You’re not used to the company and those few people you see inland, they don’t ask those questions. You pull your hand back to rub your neck. He notes the gesture.

“Dead,” you reply bluntly.

A small twitch flicker beside his lips but his reaction is almost nothing, “sorry ‘bout that,” he says before he takes a long draw off the brew.

“Happens,” you say flatly.

“Mm,” he grumbles and runs his hand over his hair.

“I suppose we could call into the mainland, get the coast guard out here. I got a boat but the waters are still choppy from the storm” you explain, “either way, I don’t think you’ll be out of here today.”

“Hope I ain’t imposin’,” he mutters.

“Well,” you breathe, “seems like you need the help and you won’t find much else around here.”

“Uh huh,” he nods, hovering the cup in front of his mouth, “so, you live here? Alone? Kinda… bleak.”

“My husband left me the place. I don’t mind being alone.”

“Makes sense,” he drones tepidly, “I guess.”

“So, where did you come from?” You ask pointedly.

He takes a gulp and clinks the cup down. He watches you and furrows his brows. He rubs his temple, a show of concentration as he dips his chin down. A low rattle rolls in his throat.

“I don’t…” he leans his head in his hand, “I don’t remember, exactly.”

“Family? Home?”

He sniffs and lets the air flow out through his nose as he lifts his head. His hand settles on the island, “I told you, I don’t know.”

“Rose? Sarah? You said their names.”

“I… I don’t know,” he shakes his head, “I told ya, it’s all a bit fuzzy.” He stops and hisses as he touches his hip, “fuck, you got anywhere I can lay back. I think I hurt myself pretty good.”

You suck your cheeks in and think. You stare at his tinged white collar and the sand along his neck.

“I got some of my husband’s old clothes around here. Hopin’ they fit,” you say, “I’ll grab you some and you can hang out on the sofa for now. You’re welcome to a shower too, the heat might help. But you gotta let me know, I’ll have to switch the second generator on for the boiler.”

His blue eyes search yours. You glance away shyly. You haven’t bothered much with men since Jerome. It’s not like that. He’s young, you’re an old widow. You’ve been alone too long, reading too many books, dreaming too many dreams.

“Thank you, ma’am, you’re very kind,” he says at last.

“It’s what they do around here, can’t say I haven’t needed help a few time myself,” you admit, “but please, don’t call me ma’am.”

“Sorry, I guess I didn’t forget my manners at least,” he smirks, “I think I’ll take you up on that shower.”

“Sure,” you push away from the counter, “I’ll, uh, get that generator on and find you some clothes.”

“Thanks again,” he swigs from his cup as he leans his elbows on the island.

“Oh, um, you remember your name? I don’t think I got that?”

His lips part and he quickly runs his tongue around them before snapping them shut. He shakes his head. His brows rise and he gives a helpless look, “I’m drawing a blank.”

#rafe cameron #dark rafe cameron #dark!rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #washed up #obx #the outer banks #au

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