rafe cameron [smut collection]

[ x barry ] officially his bitch | non con

[non-consensual!! === meaning rape]

[season 1/2]

I have so many versions of Rafe and Barry in my head and sometimes I wanna try out different dynamics or visit different universes. You don't have to follow me into each one, just pick the ones that align with your view of them, and stay out of this if it doesn't, you're missing out on nothing.

With Sarah gone in the storm and Ward on his way back from the makeshift police station by the port, it's fucking time for Rafe to leave the house, go anywhere, just not stay around for his fathers rage and grief.

He hides away in some rundown bar at the cut, toasting to freedom and a dead sister.

People down here still know who he is, but at least it isn't his face up on the screen in the corner. He didn't come to escape the chatter anyways, just hear a different one. Here, people call the dead women a cunt, carve acab into the wood under their beer glasses and talk about what she's done to them, which loved ones she arrested. Kinda makes Rafe feel like a fucking hero, who left his mask and cape to stay undercover for the night.

There's only one person who knows him with and without the mask. He looks just as beat up as Rafe, walking into that stupid bar and Rafe sighs, turning to look forward at the shelf of liquor in front of him, studying bottle after bottle.

Out of the people Rafe can't fucking deal with today, Barry's fucking high on the list.

He spots him anyways, and strolls over. Rafe's stupid polo shirts just don't belong down here, stick out like a target on his back.

"Buy me a drink?", Barry asks, his eyebrows raised in a way that makes you wanna paint the eyes beneath black. Might've at least gotten rid of the spark Rafe catches in between the amber. It could be sadistic joy, or maybe, something Rafe isn't so familiar with.

Rafe downs his whiskey at once, slamming the glas onto the counter and gifting Barry a thin lipped smiled as he gets up. "Nah, I'm good", he says.

Barry chuckles, nodding towards the barstool Rafe just slipped from. "Sit down and buy me a fucking drink", he says.

Rafe sees it right on Barrys lips—like tint from sipping red wine—the words he already said earlier today, threatening to tumble right off. Certainly, Barry enjoys the taste of them. I own you.

Rafe nods ever so slowly, biting into a soft cheek and he sits back down, before Barry gets to use them.

"Good boy", Barry mocks, his teeth showing in a way that makes you wanna stomp them out with the heel of your boot.

Rafe has the utmost urge to hurt him, but those anger management sessions in 7th grade had to be good for something. Or maybe the threat of an electric chair, a needle in his arm or gas in his lungs is anger management enough, cause realistically, those sessions didn't do shit.

"What do you want?", Rafe mumbles around the hand he rests into, elbow set at the counter.
Barry could just name his price. Rafe would get the message to his father, who was already paying off that pilot anyways.

"Two whiskey on the rocks for me and this little bitch here", Barry says to the bartender instead, before shifting his attention back to Rafe.

"Hey, what's with the sad face, Country Club?", he asks, cutting a grimace. "You sister and her little boyfriend are dead, bro, come on now, cheer up. Who's gonna tell the police now?"

It's like watching Dora the explorer, except it's Barry the asshole and he's got the same stupid smile. Rafe could score another good boy, if he said the right answer, but he'd rather not hear it again, not ever.