rafe cameron [smut collection]

[ x barry ] daddy issues

[not really smut! Just smutty]
2100 words

Barry'd never ever admit he was glad, or even just okay, with the kind of father Rafe grew up with.

After all, he was the one who had to deal with all the minor mental problems his upbringing brought along, had to deal with Rafes insecurities and his breakdowns, with anger issues and the never ending duality of sharp superiority and insufferable inferiority switching places ever so quickly; leaving Rafe an unpredictable—meaning explosive—mess.

But he couldn't deny that Wards rougher style of parenting had left Rafe with...one or two convenient traits Barry couldn't say he never took advantage off.

For one, Wards habit of breadcrumbing Rafe with praise at ever so inappropriate moments—murder, attempted or actual, and the like—had left the boy desperate to hear a sweet praising word, and ready to bend his back, in the most literal sense of the word, just to get a 'good boy' or moaned approval from Barry's lips. "You doing so good, Babyboy. You're so good for me"

In a way, that word—good—became addicting, almost, and only one of the many obsessions Rafe clinged to, to escape the unbearable pain of himself. He knew he wasn't good. Not a good person, not a good son, or brother, or friend, or even good at business, or good at golf, or anything; never had been (his father had known, and made him know, for quite a while). And he sure as fucking hell wasn't 'good inside' either. He was bad. Bad inside, bad outside, bad Rafe Cameron.

Sometimes though, when Barry called him good with just the right taste of sarcasm on his tongue, covering affection that would've otherwise been overwhelming—crushing, and repulsive; sometimes then, Rafe believed in that thin tone between mockery and praise, even if it was just for Barry buried deep inside of him, or stretching out his throat, he was good, then, for a short fleeting moment.

"I'm so proud of you", Barry'd say, wiping drool and just a little bit of cum off Rafes lips with his shirt, after fucking the brains out of his face, and Rafe would start sweetly smiling then, as Barry held his face with the other hand, too exhausted to hold up his head by himself.

He told him the first time they did it, and Rafe hadn't never had nothing up his ass before, had needed literal weeks of dry humping, of hand jobs and blowing each other, as well as a good gram of coke to get him there, despite the nervousness, and he cried, taking him after a good two hours of prep, but the blush on Rafes cheeks when Barry told him how proud he was, had been worth while.

The reverse, on the other hand, did not work, or should be avoided anyways. Barry had once made the mistake to say, upon being really disappointed with Rafe, that he was, in fact, disappointed. That was all he said, and he'd meant it, after Rafe woke up in the sheets next to him the night after another kook party with a hickey on his neck Barry sure as hell didn't leave him with.

Once the dooming word fell, Rafe managed to turn the thing around pretty fucking quickly with a mental breakdown Barry needed literal hours to calm him down from.

I'm a failure. I've always been. I disappoint everyone. Come on. I hate myself. Get off the bike, Rafe. I'm the worst. You're not driving like that. I know, im a disappointment. Okay, just put your helmet on, Babyboy.

Barry made sure to never ever fucking say shit like that again. Instead, now, when he was disappointed, he said pissed, or mad, or angry, and Rafe found comfort in those emotions and knew how to respond to them, although Barry kept that card up his sleeve, in case he'd ever need it. In case, Rafe'd ever really disappoint, beyond cheating and murder and stealing.

The best thing, no doubt, and Barry felt a sense of guilt overwhelm him everytime Rafe dropped to his knees or bend over the nearest surface, was the obedience Ward beat into him. He listened well, if you hit the right tone of voice, eager to comply with every command, a strain of hope and fear in his blue eyes every time he did so.