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The back of Rafe's neck is sunburnt to fucking shit and as he makes his way to the trailer - as he makes his way home - all he can think about is how Barry is going to give him proper shit for it.
"Ain't ya fuckin kooks ever heard of skin cancer?" Barry will demand as he rubs aloe none too gently into the burn while he rants about UV rays and sunscreen.
And then because Barry is Barry and Rafe is Rafe, Barry will grip the back of Rafe's neck and show him exactly where he wants Rafe's mouth.
It's become a regular occurrence since Rafe started working at the wharf cleaning boats and hauling nets and crates and whatever the fuck else he got yelled at to do. He'd needed money, which meant he needed a job but when he'd asked Barry if he could do runs for him, Barry had laughed hard enough he'd nearly choked on his beer. Barry had some friends down at the docks, which is how Rafe got the shitty job that resulted in near constant sun burns and aching muscles and in Barry starting to call him yacht club.
One was much worse than the other.
Rafe settles his bike beside Barry's and takes a moment to survey the overgrown yard and threadbare couch sitting there before shouldering open the door with a sigh of relief.
The trailer, after only a few months, feels more like home than Tannyhill did after twenty fucking years.
Barry feels more like home than Tannyhill ever did.
"Ayy, welcome home yacht club." Barry's drawl hits Rafe just as hard the millionth time as it did the first and he focuses on getting off his boots instead of the reaction in his cock at the sound of Barry's voice. When he does finally look up and at Barry, he stumbles over his own damn feet and tries to catch himself on the wall, casually crossing his arms in a poor imitation of the man across the room from him.
It’s rather clear from the shit-eating grin on Barry’s face that it does not work and Rafe flushes beneath Barry’s examination. Rafe wears a pair of cargo shorts that he fucking hates but he can’t wear anything he actually likes down to the wharf without the assholes he works with calling him Abercrombie or Hollister or some combination of both. He’s also wearing an old t-shirt of a band he’s never heard of, an old t-shirt that belongs to Barry; and just as Rafe knows he’s going to get shit for the sunburn, he knows how much Barry likes to see him in his clothes.
The first time he’d done it had been an accident, reaching in the darkness for a pair of pants when he’d woken up in the dead of night and found his skin too tight and his ribs trying to break and his brain full of bees and needing to get outside. Barry had found him a few minutes later – not having bothered to find clothes- and though he’d waited until Rafe had returned to his body before fucking him senseless, Rafe had seen the look in his eyes at the sight of his clothes on Rafe’s body.
Without much thought, Rafe strides for Barry, his hands reaching to tangle in the fabric of Barry’s shirt as their mouths collide. Barry will notice the burn soon enough, but until then, Rafe can chase after the drunkenness that comes off Barry’s mouth.
Barry’s hands slip under the hem of his shirt and Rafe expects the calluses and the heat of his palms, and he wouldn’t have been surprised to feel a bandage or two, but he is surprised to feel bandages on either side of his ribs – on both of Barry’s hands.
“What the fuck?” Rafe demands as he pulls his mouth from Barry’s and jerks his hair out of Barry’s grasp. He grips Barry’s wrists in a way he would not have dared to even think about six months ago, and brings his hands up. All four fingers on Barry’s right hand are wrapped in bandages, and only his pinkie is left unwrapped on his left. “What the fuck happened?”
“Aw, ain’t that sweet pretty boy,” Barry croons as he tries to take back his hands, but Rafe keeps his grip firm. “Ya worried bout me country club?”
Anger thrashes around in Rafe’s chest, white hot and coiled like a snack, ready to strike. He meets Barry’s eyes and that anger only increases when he sees the weariness there. His voice is ice cold, and it frightens him a little, but not as much as the thought of something happening to Barry does.
“Did someone hurt you, Barry?”
“Shit country club, come on.” Barry again tries to take back his hands but Rafe won’t let him. He can’t. Not when blood is beginning to seep through one of the bandages and now that he’s looking, he can see a bruise darkening the underside of Barry’s jaw. “It ain’t matter.”
“It does fucking matter!” Rafe nearly shouts because of course Barry would think whatever happened didn’t matter, he never fucking thought anything bad that happened to him ever did. “Who did this? Tell me Barry, tell me right the fuck now and I swear to god I’ll fucking –“
Barry, clearly having seen the sunburn already, latches his hand around the back of Rafe’s neck and one more draws their mouths together. Barry digs his fingers into Rafe’s skin while he drags his tongue across his bottom lip and he whimpers at the pleasure pain. When Rafe can hardly breathe, Barry pulls away and strides for the kitchen. “I said it ain’t matter.”
It takes Rafe a moment of blinking to clear his mind enough to storm after Barry, who merely cracks open a beer, takes a swig and leans against the counter. He lifts his brows, daring Rafe to argue and Rafe, a goddamn glutton for punishment and a fucking fool for this man, does just that. “It does matter Barry. It matters to me.”
Barry’s eyes flash and he takes a long swallow of his beer. “Shut up pretty boy.”
“Barry, come on –“
“I can fuckin handle it, ight Rafe?”
Rafe manages to take a long breath before he approaches Barry, and helps himself to his beer. Barry smacks him on the ass in response but Rafe just finishes it before chucking the empty bottle in the sink. “I know you can handle it Barry, but just because you can doesn’t mean you always have to.”
A thousand things flare again in Barry’s vision and he clenches his jaw and his fists before he replies. “You’d best shut that pretty fuckin mouth o’ yours boy.”
Rafe always lets Barry win, because they both like it that way, but this time, just this once Rafe thinks, he isn’t going to let Barry have it. He steps, carefully, even closer to Barry and presses his mouth ever so gently against the forming bruise on his jaw. “Let me take care of you Barry.”
There’s a sharp intake of air and then Rafe finds his back slamming into the edge of the counter and Barry’s mouth claiming his with blissful intensity. They quickly become a whirlwind of hands and teeth, of tongues and groaning and clothes dropping to the linoleum tile. Rafe is still going to rebandage Barry’s hands, but if he needs this first well, Rafe certainly isn’t going to argue that.
“You wanna run that mouth?” Barry growls against his throat, fingers tight in Rafe’s hair and bruising against his hip. “Why don’t ya be a good boy an’ put that pretty thing to good use.”
Normally Rafe would take his time, would trail his tongue across the planes of Barry’s chest and across the scars that dot his abdomen and thighs, but not this time. This time he hits his knees with an almost jarring force, acknowledges that he will definitely need to make sure his shorts cover the bruises so his coworkers don’t say shit, and then Barry’s hands are around his jaw and Barry is against his tongue and Rafe knows peace as he wraps his lips around the head of Barry’s cock.
Barry gives him just enough time to adjust to having his cock filling his throat and then he wraps those goddamned bandaged fingers into Rafe’s air and pulls.
The pitiful and needy little sounds Rafe makes as Barry uses his mouth and tongue and teeth might have embarrassed him at first, but now he knows that Barry loves those noises, knows that he loves to see Rafe come undone, so he does just that.
When Rafe gazes up at Barry, eyes brimming and cheeks red, Barry strokes his thumb across Rafe’s jaw. “God damn it country club, look at ya.” Rafe whimpers and pushes Barry’s cock even deeper into this throat, marvelling at the way he swears and gasps. “So good, you’re so good pretty boy.”
Rafe nearly comes just at those words and it must be evident on his face as Barry shakes his head and jerks his hair. “Not yet country club.”
Barry fucks his mouth until Rafe can think of nothing but the taste of him, the feel of him and the smell of his skin. His head spins and his heartbeat sounds a fuck of a lot like Barry’s name as he desperately pumps Barry with his fist and swirls his tongue again and again.
Suddenly, Barry’s cock is gone and in its place are two of his bandaged fingers and Rafe, frantic for something in his mouth, is only too happy to drag those between his teeth. Barry hauls him up off the floor and bends him roughly over the countertop. Barry bites down the length of Rafe’s spine and one hand wraps around Rafe’s waist and grips his cock. He gasps Barry’s name and Barry chuckles darkly in response as he nudges Rafe’s thighs open and slots his hips behind Rafe.
He keeps his hand around Rafe’s cock as he slips a finger inside Rafe and leans to whisper in his ear. “Am I takin’ good care of you, country club?” Rafe nods and Barry tuts. “Use your words boy.”
“Yes!” Rafe gasps as a second finger joins the first and Barry’s grip tightens. “Fuck, Barry, yes you take good care of me.”
“That’s what I thought.” Barry’s hand is off his cock and slapping his ass in a single blink and Rafe cries out Barry fucks him with his fingers and slaps his ass until his eyes are nearly rolling. Just when Rafe is once more about to come undone, Barry’s fingers are gone and then –
“Fuuuuuuuck.” Rafe groans from somewhere low in his throat as Barry’s cock replaces his fingers and Barry is moving deeper, deeper, deeper, until Rafe can feel his hipbones against his ass and everything but the points of contact between their bodies is gone.
Barry’s hands are somehow everything all at once; gripping Rafe’s hair and the back of his neck, dragging down his spine and bruising his thighs in their grip, around his cock and in his mouth and Rafe is pretty sure this is more worship than he’d ever experienced in all the years he was forced into church services. The way Barry fucks him is reverent and vile, the way he says his name is holy and foul and the whole of it, of this and of them, is more than Rafe could have ever fucking imagined.
When he knows he can’t wait much longer, Rafe twists to look at Barry over his shoulder. The first time he’d asked Barry if he could come, it had been on some twisted and delightful little instinct and the way Barry had shuddered and called him ‘pretty boy and his good boy’ had told Rafe all he needed to know. And he does it now, he turns to look at Barry and though his throat is tight and his words are shaky, he asks. “Can I?”
“Can ya’ what yacht club?” Barry drawls with a feral grin and Rafe fights against the tightening in his core and the aching in his cock.
“Can I come? Please?”
“I dunno country club, can ya?”
Rafe groans and his hands grip the counter and he pushes desperately against back against Barry and curses the fact that his boyfriend is so fucking awful. But he’s near feral with and wild and really can’t think about anything beyond how hard Barry is fucking him and how badly he needs to come. “May I?” He gasps as Barry reaches around him once more and wraps his hand firmly around the base of his cock. “Can, fuck, please Barry, am I allowed to come, please?”
Again, Barry laughs and Rafe swears. And then the world stills as Barry’s weight presses against the entirety of Rafe’s back and he presses his mouth, hot and wet and perfect, to the spot where Rafe’s jaw meets his throat. “Ya been so good for me baby boy, go ahead, you can come.”
Rafe does, Barry’s name wrenching from his throat, head thrown back, toes grinding into the tile and hands holding on for dear life on the counter. Barry follows him a moment later, one hand around his waist and the other in his hair, and then they are a boneless heap of limbs on the cool kitchen floor.
“Jesus Christ.” Rafe gasps, head thudding against the cabinet as he struggles to breathe.
“Nah country club,” Barry laughs from his spot beside him and Rafe turns his head slowly to look at him; eyes mischievous and hair tousled and mouth swollen; his. “Just me.”
“Shut up.” The two of them are quiet for a few minutes, allowing their lungs and heart and blood to begin to work at a normal pace once more. Eventually, Rafe shoves to his feet and pulls on Barry’s sweats before ambling for the bathroom. Barry calls after him, but Rafe ignores him as he gathers what he needs and makes his way back to the kitchen, back to Barry.
Rafe drops back down to the floor beside Barry and Barry doesn’t argue when Rafe takes one hand in his and begins to unravel the bandage. His voice is quiet and soft and tender when he finally asks. “Whatcha’ doin yacht club?”
“Taking care of you for a damn change.”
And Barry lets him.