This is a piece of fiction written for myself and intended for mature readers only. Minors do not interact.
Summary: This scene takes place in season 3 when Rafe is having the party at Tannyhill after his father's unexpected return, shortly after his conversation with Barry. Rafe is in the master bedroom with Sofia and tries to make out with her but he can't get it up.
His breath was shaky as he rolled off her, rolled his body to the other side of the bed and quickly got up.
“What’s wrong?” He heard her voice and could feel her big brown eyes boring into the back of his head.
Rafe didn’t turn, he pressed his eyes shut, lifted a hand. “Nothing,” he said, tonelessly, and that lump in his throat was making it impossible to swallow the words that were about to come out. So, he pressed his mouth shut.
He heard the shuffling of bedding behind him and realized that he was still standing in the middle of the room. He already felt her getting up and getting close.
“Just give me a minute,” he said and rushed into the adjoining bathroom, locking the door behind himself.
He walked over to the sink, heat was rushing through his body, so he turned on the faucet and splashed some cold water into his face. The water didn’t do anything; his mind wouldn’t come clear. His vision stayed blurry as he looked at himself in the mirror. He frowned and blinked, but he still felt that prickling sensation at the back of his skull. Like rough whispering voices scratching.
He sniffled and the urge to snort a line was growing. But he didn’t do that anymore. And it wouldn’t help, though he missed that sharp feeling. Everything was sharper then. Unlike now. The booze made him drowsy. Made everything dull. He was used to drinking a lot. So he needed a lot to get that numbing feeling that helped to silence the scratching.
His hands rested on the sides of the sink, arms stretched, he looked down, taking a deep breath. His hard stomach muscles flexing. He lowered his gaze further. He only saw the waistband of his boxers. He didn’t have to see more.
He’d been making out with the girl in the bed on the other side of the bathroom door, and it’d been nice and going well – until it wasn’t. He needed to get his head clear to get back into it. But those damn words kept crawling into his mind. “It’s you or him.”
He pressed the ball of his hand against the side of his skull.
“No, no, no, no.” He shook his head. “I’m the man now. This is my house.” Rafe glared at his own reflection in the mirror.
“You’re not a man. Just a boy. A little boy.”
The voice was so close, it made him flinch and turn. But there was no one there.
He pressed both his hands to his ears with such force that he drowned the humming bass coming from the party still going on downstairs, and all he heard was the pulsing beat of his own blood. He felt the world spinning and had to grab the sink for support. Panting he opened his eyes again, and lifting his head he saw himself in the mirror.
He just got out of the shower. His hair longer, the wet bangs clinging to his face. His face too boyish. Too pretty. His arms and legs too thin, too long. He grabbed a towel to dry his lanky body.
“I’d thought you’d grown into a man by now, but you’re still a little boy.”
Rafe dropped the towel. The voice of his father in the bathroom startled him.
“I – I didn’t hear you come in,” he stammered an excuse as he bent down to pick up the towel from the floor. But his father had already reached it before he could. Rafe’s gaze moved up at the man standing in front of him. His father was fully closed, wearing jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, showing his bare veiny arms. One of his hands held the towel. Rafe hesitated, then moved his own hand to reach for it, but his father kept holding it close to his body. So Rafe lowered his hand. His gaze moved up to look into the man’s face. He didn’t have to look up, they were the same height, he still felt like he had to put his head back as he looked into his father’s face. He tried to read in his expression, tried to figure out what the furrowed brows and widened pupils meant. His father’s eyes didn’t meet Rafe’s. Ward looked at his son’s naked body in front of him. Noticing his own nakedness and the lack of anything to cover it, Rafe was about to turn, when his father’s voice stopped him.
“It still hasn’t grown.”
Rafe felt the disappointment in his father’s voice, felt the reproach. Looking down at himself, looking at his flaccid dick and his shriveled balls, he opened his mouth, started to come up with an excuse, an explanation, as he felt that he owed him such.
“But it has. I swear it has. It’s bigger than those of most of the guys on the team.”
“You been looking at your teammates’ dicks?” Another voice, mocking and amused. Rafe shook his head. No, he hadn’t. He’d only been comparing. He had to compare to know, because the only other dick he’d ever seen was his father’s.
“Big? Do you hear yourself, Rafe? You’ll never be a man.”
“But I – it – I—” Pointless stammer left his mouth as he looked up at his father who stepped closer, and Rafe heard the clinking of the belt buckle, and he flinched at that familiar sound, drawing up his shoulders, attempting to stumble backwards, but his father caught his arm and his attention.
“This is what a man looks like. – Look at it.” Ward didn’t yell, he only raised his voice just a bit, enough to make Rafe follow his command. And he looked. And he saw his father’s hard cock sprung free from his pants. It was huge as it stood upright menacingly. It was thick and its veins were showing. It was an awe-inspiring sight. It was a frightening sight.
Rafe turned away, his whole body shivering. A terrifying sensation crawling beneath his skin. His hip bone hit the sink’s edge. And when he looked up, he saw his face in the mirror. Blue eyes brimming with tears. His lips trembling.
“Oh, boo-hoo! You crying like a little baby cause you’re afraid of Daddy’s big dick – or cause you want it?”
Rafe’s eyes moved to his left side, and he frowned at the face that grinned at him through the mirror, showing a gold tooth.
“What now? You want me to cuddle you and coo you and tell you, no need to be afraid of Daddy now you’re a man?” A dark chuckle. “He’s still inside your head.” Barry’s index finger poked against Rafe’s head, touched his close-cropped hair. “Always will be.”
“No, no, no, no, no.” Rafe violently shook his head and had to close his eyes as the world was spinning again.
When he opened them, the image of Barry was gone from the mirror. He breathed in through his nose. Closed his eyes and let the tears roll down his cheeks. Warm fingers caught them from his chin.
“It’s okay. I know you’re trying, son. You’re just not built for it. But I’m here. I’m here for you, son.”
Rafe’s lips parted, he felt the wetness on them, panting. A hand clasped around his shaft. Moving up and down in a terribly delightful rhythm as something pushed against his ass, parted the cheeks and pushed against the tense muscle. He gasped for air and with it a whiny noise left his mouth as his own finger pushed roughly inside him.
“This is it, my boy. You’re good, son.”
He was growing hard, and soon he could return and perform and act like a man. And fuck the girl in his father’s house. In his father’s bed. In his father’s sheets. And be the man.
a/n: I know this is a controversial theme, but if you've read this far, feel free to leave a comment. Reblogs are welcome. - I'm unsure whether to post this on ao3, maybe do some editing first. But I wanted to get this out now.
I sometimes wonder if Sarah believes that Rafe is bad and therefore deserves the things their father does to him. Or if she's just glad that it's him and not her.
when rafe tells ward that he got a "crew" now, and then it's just him and his drug dealer slash lover.... uwu he's so pathetic. i love how desperately he's yearning for his father's approval
Ward taught Rafe how to shave, everywhere. He taught his son how important it was to keep clean. And he used to check to make sure that Rafe washed himself, everywhere. As Rafe was uncut, it was really important to keep himself clean, his father told him.
just found this gem on ao3. very moving. very unsettling. very real. I highly recommend reading it, but make sure you read the warnings and tags beforehand.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
thinking about writing a smutty riara (or is it kiarafe?) fic that shippers will hate (and probably everyone else lol) but I feel inspired. kiara would still be a lesbian but a girl can have fun, right?
probably I'll never write it anyway because I have zero energy thanks to life being life and my brain being my brain, but it’s nice to be thinking about the potential for five seconds.
