rafe cameron [smut collection]

[ x barry ] fool me twice

4228 words

There's always been a certain kind of beauty in destruction to Rafe, he enjoys things broken, and more like him, makes him feel just a little less wrong in this world.

Melting that precious cross and destroying something hundred year old hands have put together with such profound dedication and hours upon hours of hard work is even more thrilling. It's these moments he feels most powerful, although he's tired by the time that fire burns down. Shows in his arms and the heavy weight they carry over to his car, his share of diy gold bars wrapped into old towels and duct tape. Him and Barry have been up for hours melting, cooling, processing. It's hard work, and makes all of this feel just a little more deserved.

He cuts through the grass back to Barry, just done cutting shapes into the foam of an old gun case, placing their nicest gems inside and getting them ready to sell tomorrow. Something peaceful about them both quiet and exhausted, the hardest part of their deal done and through and Rafe picks up the bottle they shared through the hours of labor, taking a celebratory sip, has had many.

"Now, Rafe", Barry says. "I think it's time we talk some truth, don't ya?"

Even just the use of his name suggests it's some serious shit and Rafe tenses up, looks over at the other man. He hates few things this much. Pogues, bell peppers and the truth, and Barry knows all of them.

"This a lotta money", he notes, vaguely gesturing around. "And outta all people, you want me to have it"

Packing all of it up, and feeling the sheer weight of their gems sure put all this into perspective. Barry's been skeptical of Rafe's deal from the get go, still senses some kind of trap around the corner, still watches his back, still waits for Ward Cameron's boot back in his guts.

"You got the job done, right", Rafe argues. Always likes to paint himself as quite the rational man, who cares about money, his own gain, and nothing else in particular. And Barry did get the job done, and he did it well, but so would've any other guy, maybe even one who hadn't sold his head before. There's always been something wrong with the kook, but rewarding the man who stabbed him in the back seems twisted even for him.

Barry wants to talk truth, and the truth has nothing to do with traps, or revenge, or Ward Cameron's kicks.

"Missed my cock?", he asks and lifts his chin, and Rafe hates truth more than pogues, or anything.

He flinched at Barry's words and damns himself for it the second after. Barry always laughs when he does so at a raised hand. I ain't gone hit you, Babyboy, a mocking chuckle. Unless you want me, that is. This time Barry doesn't laugh. Cause he asked a serious question and he wants some serious answers and Rafe blushing is almost close to one.

He still remembers the last time clear as day, replayed it in his head a million times and more, messy, and somewhat urgent, right after his father had said his goodbyes at Barry's trailer.

"You really leaving, Country Club?", Barry had asked, while Rafe stuffed his few personal belongings into a backpack.

"Not much of a choice", he had mumbled back. Gasped, when Barry rocked into his body from behind, pulling him in by the hips.

"So this is goodbye, huh?", he'd breathed warm into the back of Rafe's neck and Rafe had stood frozen for only just a second, blue eyes wide, before hastily grasping for the fabric of his shirt, stripping his clothes in a hurry.

Rafe turned every detail of it over. Had the time for it, the hours he spent in jail. And couldn't think about his sentence, his future, death row, or prison. He thought of Barry and his hands digging bruises into his flesh, of his deep groans and sweaty skin moist against his, if he'd already called, thrusting hard into Rafe, if he'd decided by then, throbbing inside of him, if he'd already known.