rafe/luke 18+ (cw: everyone is high, rafe implied to be a virgin?)
a/n: americans don't participate in eurovision this ficlet is for anyone who wants to read it :-)
*
Rafe doesn’t fit into his own body.
He hasn’t felt comfortable with his vessel since Field Day in the fifth grade when, between kickball runs with his classmates, his gym coach lazily looked him up and down, noted his knotted elbows and slim thighs and the way he had to keep pulling his shirt down like it had shrunk in the wash, and muttered boy, you’re all limbs. A glass-shattering realization, a glance through someone else’s eyes devastatingly informing him that other people could see him exist and do it wrong. By adulthood, the only time he doesn’t want to rip out his hair and bruise his own forearms and throw brushes every mirror in the house is when he’s totally fucked up.
Naturally, he finds himself at Barry’s a lot. All things considered, he’s a pretty generous plug. Rafe sits on his couch, one foot kicked up on his coffee table with a lukewarm Coke in hand, bowl still cherried, and he’s not even with him. Most guys on the island won’t turn their backs for even a blink, won’t risk some sandaled jerk nosing through their shit or robbing them, but Rafe figures the three consistent months he’s been buying from him is enough goodwill to be here alone (and it’s not like Barry doesn’t know where to find him).
Of course, he still ranks lower than the veteran customers.
The door of the trailer slams open aggressively enough that Rafe’s first instinct is to hide the bong— where, moron, up your ass?— before remembering that even the dumbest cops had the decency to knock and announce their business before storming in. He can’t wipe the guilty doe-eyed look off his face quick enough, though, so the look he gives Luke Maybank strolling into the trailer has to be damp and pitiful.
JJ’s the spitting image of his old man. Forget the rumors that Luke has been fathering some other man’s kid all these years; the rough hands, grin-wrinkled blue eyes and self-important demeanor confirmed they were real kin. If the kid didn’t have any friends of his own, he’d probably come trailing in after him, an uncanny time-reversed duplicate of the man. But Luke is alone.
The corner of his mouth tugs up when he lays eyes on Rafe. No judgment, no snarky comment about how lanky he is sprawled out on the couch, just absorbing the boy he hadn’t expected to find. His stubble is overgrown, daring to be too long for whatever labor job he lands for the week. Skin worn by the sun, clothes worn by the sand, he easily blends into the trailer where Rafe sticks out. Typical.
“Where’s he at?” Luke asks, tugging up where his cargo shorts were starting to sag. He snorts, looks around for a place to spit, and settles on a half-finished bottle of water on the coffee table that he carefully holds up to his lips.
Rafe shrugs. Barry had been in a hell of a hurry to meet up with someone, and didn’t exactly leave a memo with his secretary on the way out. Rafe likes to imagine Barry has some secret life with a lover kept sub rosa, anything more interesting than the bum he gets his product from, but he’s probably just reupping with the creep on the mainland he always bitches about.
“Mind if I join?” Luke tries again, already eyeing the spot next to him on the couch. Rafe’s too stoned to be sure if yes or no is the right thing to say when really he wants to say I don’t care, so he gestures towards the spot and rolls the flint of the lighter like a fidget toy.
He squeezes next to Rafe in blatant disregard of the cushion-and-a-half on the other side of his thigh, forcing Rafe’s knees to knock together docilely. Luke leans forward for the grinder, and glances back at the rapt attention he’s caught.
“Do you talk?” he asks, still playful, just dragging his teeth across the skin.
Rafe sits up on the sofa, using the man’s torso as leverage to straighten his spine. “Sometimes.”
Luke smirks again and twists the lid off the grinder. “Smart ass. You hang around my kid?” The question couldn’t be less loaded if he tried, but Rafe’s eyes still widen, and he spits out a no sir like a teen boy caught by his girlfriend’s father. He makes a noise, a little hmph laced with disappointment. “Don’t blame you. He’s a shit.”
Look at me. Do I look like I spend time with that punk? flickers through his mind as a retort finally fucking supplies itself, but Luke’s thinning cologne and sweat hits Rafe’s nose and his mind wipes.
The older man empties Rafe’s half-finished bowl without asking and repacks it with the dexterous ease of someone who hasn’t passed a piss test since the 90s. Luke pulls milky smoke up the bong that desperately needs 99% isopropyl and some rock salt, and clears the entire thing in one go.
Damn. Okay.
When Luke sits back on the couch, he absently stretches an arm behind Rafe’s shoulders, caging him from behind. One of his thumbs ghosts over the hemline of his t-shirt, a test, easily passed when Rafe doesn’t flinch or shy away.
“He didn’t say how long he’d be gone, did he now?”
*
Small island. Word moves fast. Word that your son is being kicked and beaten around by a rich twat who never tasted any kind of consequence moves particularly fast. Luke’s not an idiot either, so no chance he isn’t aware of the harassment inflicted on his own kind by the boy he’s thumbing the jawline of. Nonetheless, Barry’s trailer is a vacuum; nothing else comes in, nothing leaves. Just them.
Luke palms over the zipper of his shorts roughly and flicks his eyes to the floor in a well? fashion. Rafe doesn’t even need to be told once; he obeys by limply sliding to the floor, dirty carpet abrading his knees, hazy air skewing his equilibrium. He has to stabilize himself on Luke’s thighs for a moment before he can paw at the brass button.
He spits at the son. He kneels for the father.
Luke’s callused hand cups the back of his skull with a jarring tenderness, allowing Rafe to control the rhythm and only reminding him of his presence. He doesn't know what he expected, but every time his nose presses against the silvery blonde hairs at the base of his cock, he’s glad he isn’t being held down.
Even if the man’s head wasn’t slumped back on the sofa, eyes squeezed shut to focus on the warmth around him, Luke’s praise snuffs out any trace of insecurity Rafe might have about his performance. Christ, son, you feel like fuckin’ heaven. Oh, fuck yeah, just like that— God, you know exactly what you’re doin’... Free from judgment or disappointment, unlike the comment from all those years ago. His coach had seen him, known he’d never grow into that star running back or short stop or whatever he figured was most useful that season, and dismissed him. Luke does the opposite; Rafe decides he likes it.
He lets Luke bend him over the arm of the couch, head dangling with one of his shoulders. He’s rougher than he was during the blowjob, but still behaving better than Rafe would probably tolerate. He’s glad Luke knows what he’s doing, how to open him up quickly without hurting him, how to fuck into him and remind him to breathe. He’s lost otherwise. Feels like he always has been, until now.
Luke only pulled Rafe’s shorts down enough to expose his ass, letting him leak pre into his boxers as he was stretched open first with Luke’s fingers and then with his cock. The tip presses against his prostate and his eyes roll back— what the hell was that— and a few more dirty, half-lubricated strokes have him finishing right into his shorts. It’s embarrassing, but not as embarrassing as having to give a slippery explanation to Barry and then clean his own spend off the upholstery. When Luke cums, he buries his face into Rafe’s neck and groans into it.
Rafe doesn’t fit into his own body. But maybe someone else can.
