#wardrafe

[laviender]

[brother-father]

𝑫 𝑨 𝑫 𝑫 𝒀 ' 𝑺 𝑮 𝑰 𝑹 𝑳

burn and shine ch. 1/? explicit; rafe cameron/ward cameron; parent/child incest, blow jobs, feminization, daddy issues

In a desperate attempt to win his father's favor, Rafe steals a dress from his perfect sister's closet.

read on ao3

It’s late enough that Ward’s eyes are crossing as he fiddles at his desk, combing through papers and writing notes to himself for his meetings the next morning. He always preferred writing with a pen over keyboard, needing the tactile sensation of ink against paper to better commit things to memory. His office is mostly dark save for the warm yellow glow of his desk lamp, illuminating just enough for him to see across his desk. Rose is likely already asleep in bed, two Klonopin and a glass of wine escorting her to dreamland. Soon, Ward would follow his wife and crawl into their Merino wool and silk sheets, dyed a color he could never remember the name of that Rose just had to have. It is the feeling of his memory foam pillow beneath his ear that Ward is craving as he jots down a few more memos.

The creek of the door creeping open breaks the silence of the room. Ward doesn’t look up from his notes, seeing a flash of baby pink in his periphery and filling in the image of Rose’s satin robe. “I know, I know. I’ll be up to bed soon,” Ward says with a wave of his hand, imagining his wife’s chastising grin. Chardonnay always made her clingy if the pills didn’t knock her out first. Ward has a smile on his face as he looks up, that handsome grin of his that said he was a man that had it all together.

What greets him instead of his wife is Rafe.

Wearing a dress Ward almost certainly bought his daughter last year for her birthday party.

Ward’s son stands six-foot-two with long limbs that always reminded him of a lemur, his skin tan from being out doing God knows what every day. He’s pressed up against the back of the door with his hands folded behind his back, staring at his father with an expression Ward can only make out as maudlin in the dim light. The thin straps of Sarah’s dress are biting into the meat of his shoulders and the damn bodice barely stretches over his ribcage. The skirt is a pale pink gossamer, tulle maybe, and cuts off just above Rafe’s knees. The sight of him ignites disgust within Ward’s chest, but beyond that is searing disappointment. The kid had been a failure since birth and with age had only gotten more unpredictable. Cross-dressing in his sister’s clothes was par for the course, apparently.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ward asks with a grimace, pushing back from his desk before sighing heavily. He checks his clock before rubbing his brow. “I don’t have time for this, Rafe. Get the fuck out and go to bed.”

He casts a glance at Rafe that turns into a stare when he sees his son hasn’t moved an inch. Leaning onto his desk, he counters Rafe with a look that means business. But Rafe doesn’t move. He’s just standing there with that puppy-look that makes Ward sick to his stomach. “Sarah’ll kill you if you rip that dress,” Ward says with a low warning, giving the boy one last chance to get in line or suffer the consequences.

Like a gunshot Rafe pushes from the door, crossing the room in two unsteady strides before he’s around the desk and landing on his knees with heavy thunks that undoubtedly penetrate through the floor to the level below. He grabs at Ward’s knee and uses the leverage to turn Ward in his desk chair to face him. Bathed in yellow, Ward can see that Rafe’s eyes are all pupil, two black orbs staring up at him like dolls’ eyes. The effect is heightened by the long lashes that circle his eyes, thickened with mascara. There is rouge on his cheeks too, some kind of shimmery blush he no doubt stole from Sarah as well. Most obscene is the lipstick, a bright red smeared across Rafe’s lips.

“Jesus Christ, son.” Ward winces as he grabs Rafe by the jaw, turning his face into the light to examine the damage done. His lips curl in disgust as he looks away, blinking past the humiliation bubbling in his gut. He prays that this is just some bad trip, that Rafe mixed coke with something he shouldn’t and would forget all of this like a bad hangover, but then he feels hands running up his calves. Ward looks down, his eyes meeting Rafe’s, and past the high he sees ugly determination.

“Please, Dad. Just let me,” Rafe begs, his voice quiet and trembling as badly as his hands as they work their way up his father’s legs. Ward freezes, confusion and shock turning him rigid until finally his hands catch up with his brain. The urge to kick the kid like a hyper dog is ever present, but Ward opts to seize Rafe by his biceps and haul him up instead.

“The hell are you doing?” He asks through his teeth, his eyes nearly bulging as he tries to see his son past the haze of whatever he took and that goddamn makeup. Abomination. The word cuts like a blade through his mind, carving itself into whatever gland was meant to produce affection. “This isn’t funny, Rafe. Say something!” Ward shakes his son, recalling all the nights he had held the boy as a baby and sang to him until his squealing finally subsided and he could get back to sleep. All that effort, wasted on an ungrateful, thoughtless child.

But Rafe doesn’t stop. His hands are on Ward’s thighs now, grasping at the meat of his legs like he wishes to claw out chunks of his flesh through the fabric of his pants. The boy is shaking, his wide eyes wet with tears that smear the clumps of black stuck to his lashes. “Please, Daddy,” He gasps, and Ward flinches at the word. Only Sarah calls him that still. Rafe had grown out of it by the time his mother died. “I’ll be good. I promise to be good for you.”

The words shock Ward to his core and his breath hitches, escaping his lungs in a stuttering exhale. Slowly he releases his grip on Rafe’s arms, trying and failing to make sense of this. The kid’s sweating, he realizes, the scent of spun sugar heavy in the air. And crying. Rafe is crying as he looks up at his father, his hands now on Ward’s belt. The full grain leather slips from the buckle with ease, accompanied by the tinkling sound of metal. It’s not his son he sees before him, but for a moment it's her. Rafe always shared his mother’s coloring, that dark honey hair and eyes the color of sea glass. After it happened, during that short while Ward was alone, he had barely been able to look at his son. All he saw was what he had lost. That resentment had never been scrubbed away, even after Rose swept into his life and made Ward whole again. Why did Rafe get to live when he squandered every chance he was given? When he was nothing but a pitiful fuck-up, destined for prison or worse?

The thoughts send Ward grasping Rafe by the hair and bending forward to get in his face as he wrenches Rafe’s head back. “You disgust me.” Ward spits the words like venom. He smells vodka on Rafe’s breath, heady enough for Ward to feel buzzed as he shoves his son away. Rafe isn’t deterred, going now for the button and zip of his father’s pants. It’s happening. There’s no denying what Rafe intends to do as he slides down the pull of the zipper with a shaking hand.

“Good. I’ll be good,” Rafe whispers to himself, and Ward can’t tell if the boy is psyching himself up or still trying to convince his father not to intervene.

Rafe is all hands, running his fingers over Ward’s legs in massage-like circles. Ward’s curiosity is beginning to outweigh his shock as his own hands find the arms of the chair, gripping the cushioned rests until his own trembling subsides. How much is Rafe really like his mother? How far is he willing to go? Rafe was a coward as much as a fuck up, and Ward intended to win this game of chicken like he won at everything in life. “You want it? Take it,” Ward orders, waiting for his son to turn tail and run.

Ward isn’t aware that he’s half hard until Rafe pulls him out. The kid bends forward between Ward’s spread legs and licks him from root to tip, one long stripe on the underside that makes Ward hiss. He grows against Rafe’s tongue and forces his breathing to remain even as Rafe circles his hand around the base of him. Rafe's mouth is hot and wet as he pops the head into his mouth. Ward can feel every bump and groove of Rafe’s tongue and his stomach lurches, every logical neuron in his brain shooting sparks of pure terror.

This is happening. And it feels good.

Rafe is swirling his tongue around the head, flicking his tongue against the slit in a way that has Ward’s back arching as he braces himself with his iron grip on the arm rests. He lowers his head, taking Ward into his mouth inch by inch until Ward can see that Sarah’s dress is open in the back. Rafe hadn’t been able to do up the zipper and the fabric flaps like wings as his bird-like shoulder blades jut out. With every inch Rafe takes, he’s sucking harder, his hand twisting around the base like he wants to rip Ward from the root. The boy’s got a mouth like a hoover and Ward shuts his eyes, seeing her and smelling Sarah’s perfume. Rafe’s tongue is too much, too hot, and Ward releases one of the arm rests. He opens his eyes to stare down at his son as he takes him by the jaw, feeling his mouth work as he begins to bob back and forth, sucking Ward’s cock like he had been trained for it. He wipes away the drool that escapes Rafe’s plush lips before slipping his thumb inside, stretching his mouth to the side until he sees teeth.

Rafe opens his eyes and meets his father’s gaze, his lipstick smeared across his face. He looks filthy, like some back alley whore Ward found in the Cut. He expects to see hatred or fear in Rafe’s eyes, but all he sees is a half-lidded look of desire. Humiliation returns with a vengeance and Ward leans back in his seat, unable to meet the boy’s eyes any longer.

He wants to shove Rafe away, but he’s harder than he’s ever been for Rose inside that slick mouth. It would be one thing if Rafe wasn’t enjoying it, if this was just a punishment like all the other times Ward had cut him with words or taken away privileges that Ward had worked hard day and night tirelessly for. But this wasn’t a punishment; this was desperation.

“So fucking needy,” Ward groans, his thumb slipping out of Rafe’s mouth before snatching his hair again. He pushes Rafe forward, forces him to take it all until he feels himself smacking the back of Rafe’s throat. Rafe begins to gag, choking and sputtering against Ward’s crotch. His hands scatter to grip Ward’s legs again, tugging on his pants and digging his nails into the muscle. “You like this, don’t you? So, take it.” Ward bucks his hips into Rafe’s mouth, his breath heavy as his body warms, tightens. “Fucking take it.”

Rafe resists a moment longer before he breathes through his nose and his throat relaxes. He swallows down the head, allowing Ward to penetrate his throat to the hilt. Naturally, it takes a dick in his mouth for the boy to follow orders. Ward doesn’t have the ability to feel pride, too busy fucking up into that ruined mouth. It lasts for hours or seconds, Ward can’t tell, but then he’s shooting off and Rafe is drinking every thick drop that exploded against his tongue.

Ward’s orgasm rolls through him in waves, leaving him trembling and gasping for air. No sooner does he release his hold on Rafe’s hair than his son is pushing himself away, his chest heaving like he had been drowning. Ward looks down at him and is overtaken with the sense that he has spoiled the boy, that this is just one more mistake in a sea of regret. Reaching out, Ward wipes a smear of lipstick and cum from Rafe’s bottom lip before shoving hard at his shoulder.

“Get yourself cleaned up.”

~

It’s the morning and Ward is freshly showered. He trims his beard in the mirror and styles his damp hair, checks the corner of his eyes for the deepening of crow’s feet. He turns to the hamper, intending to throw in his towel, but stops just before it. Sitting atop the pile are the khaki pants he had worn the night before. Ward picks up the item and unfurls it until he exposes the crotch. There, slathered across the zipper and the surrounding fabric, are sticky streaks of red lipstick. Ward drags his thumb across the blotches, feels the pigment stick to his skin. Worthless little asshole, he thinks and shoves the pants into the trash bin under the sink.

[umathurwin]

wardrafe body swapping cw: domestic violence, incest 18+

***

He knows something is wrong before he even opens his eyes. He never sleeps on his back. 

His jaw is hung open, frozen in the middle of a snore, and he feels scruff when he reaches up to scratch his cheek. Nothing he could ever grow himself. 

The silk sheets are empty on the other half. Moonlight seeps in through the thick shutters, the fan lazily spins around. He couldn’t possibly sleep in a room this fucking cold and goosebumps erupt down his hirsute arms. 

It isn’t the gilded frame of a family portrait on the nightstand that gives it away. It’s not the maroon curtains Rose picked out that caused the dumbest fucking argument some years ago. It’s not even the gleaming stack of tasteful rings and watches on the nightstand accrued over years of birthdays, Father’s Days; the echoing weight of guilt that nestles behind his sternum could have only come from Ward. And now it’s in his own chest. 

Getting out of bed is a labor he couldn’t have possibly expected; his father is an older man, but he’s not old. His lower back is tight, shoulders sore until he rolls them out. Rafe stretches into the folds of his father’s body, assuming every limb and corner years before he thought he’d have to. He ignores how natural it feels. 

He moves like the undead down the hall— one leg in front of the other, all cerebellum, guiding him to the door he retreated behind hours ago. He knows the knob will turn smoothly; he’s never been allowed to have a lock. 

Rafe stares down at his own body, in his own bed. Lithe, sculpted along the mattress and clinging a pillow to his chest. His face is pressed so hard into the sheets that it smushes his mouth into a funny position, each soft breath out catching his lip. Ward must have the opposite problem occupying his son’s bedroom— the duvet has been kicked off the bed entirely. Exposed. 

Revenge fantasies are old friends of Rafe’s. They’re just typically on the defense: running away, stealing as much as he can from the safe before he leaves, escaping the unwanted touch once and for all. Never reciprocation. The day he’d outgrow his father always felt further away than the day he’d forgive him. He was not weak, he was just weaker. Not anymore. 

His fingers slide through the auburn hair so easily, slotting into their rightful space. Ward stirs, unfamiliar with the claiming touch, at least after so long. He blinks twice, lids swollen with dreams, and is clearly horrified to be woken up by his own figure hovering over the bed. 

Ward tries to scramble away, digging for traction on the polyester sheets and getting nothing, especially with the grip on his scalp. 

“What the f—?” he squeaks, kicking up and landing a small blow on Rafe’s— Ward’s torso. It’s nothing to him. A bunny thump. 

“Hi, Dad.” It claws out, a phrase unpracticed by the older man’s throat and sand-smooth upon delivery. Realization ivy-creeps on Ward’s face— where he is, who he is. Who’s holding him by the follicles and bloodthirsty. 

A hand too used to holding the rod doesn’t remember how to hide from one. 

The first few blows are fucking ecstasy. He hardly knows where to start, opting for an open palm at first and striking his own face on each side until a surge of anger inspires him to use his knuckles. The sound is dense, flesh on flesh, carving holes in his stomach quickly replaced by rage until it’s all he can taste. His father can’t predict where the next hit will come from, and each lands at full power on his now-delicate face. Bone crunches against the soft of his nose cartilage, and Rafe allows Ward to tumble backwards onto the bed. Streams of blood leak from his nostrils, down his t-shirt and over his linens. 

That’s my fucking shirt! he thinks before remembering the obvious. That’s my body. If this— when this is fixed, when he lies down and closes his eyes again and reawakens in his own body, he will have to face the damage his ire creates. Temporary suffering for Ward, scarring for himself. How typical. 

Rafe stalks back over to the bed, grabs the soiled shirt by the collar and yanks Ward up. He smears the blood away with his thumb, wipes it on his father’s trousers. New plan. 

“Take your clothes off.” My clothes. Should be an order he’s used to. 

The color drains from his angular face, only remaining in the tip of his nose and his shiny lips where his tongue darts out. “You gonna fuck me?” Ward hisses, eyes dragging up and down his body. Chest heaving. It’s delicious to see him so afraid. 

“No,” Rafe growls, pulling at the string of the dark flannel pants he woke up in. Of course his father hasn’t picked up his drift yet. “You’re going to fuck me.”

There’s a beat of processing, an empty room cut only by the gentle hum of the AC. For a brief moment, Rafe fears he’s about to be laughed at, mocked out of the room for the demand. Ward’s got a better grasp of the situation. 

“What?” His voice hasn’t cracked like that since middle school. He must struggle with the new frame. 

“You heard me. You’re gonna feel what I feel. Tomorrow.”

The swapped roles meant they’d already made a departure from the typical song and dance. Fully undressing Rafe was another. His father values speed, efficiency, clandestinity more than exposure. Intimacy. A saving grace for his dignity normally, but his father deserves no such reprieve. The patterned blue boxers hit the carpet last. 

Maybe it’s the body itself that hemorrhages confidence. Ward refuses eye contact. His hands tremble. He gnaws on his lip when Rafe lies on his back and rucks his own trousers down, just enough to expose his lack of underwear and lift his legs. 

He looks so young. 

He’s lined up his near-flaccid cock and about to enter him when Rafe suddenly feels like he’s going to vomit. He can’t— he can’t do this—

“Stop. Stop!” he snaps before shoving his father off him and back onto the mattress. Something he’s always wanted to do but lacked the sinew. “Get off me!”

Ward is quiet, only landing with a soft oof and scowling, always so disappointed in his boy. The judgment is no less painful through his own face and ire surges through him; how dare he forget the pecking order?

They’re collectively half-dressed when Rafe drags him across the room, fingers ripping through hair again and lifting until his body is forced to obey the direction. Ward’s frail hips meet the edge of his dresser, stained oak digging into his bones, and Rafe bends him forward. He holds his skull in place, nose close enough to the mirror that his father fogs up the glass. He tries to squeeze his eyes shut, but finally relents when Rafe threatens to hold his lips open. 

“Look at me. LOOK! How could you do this to me? I’m your son!” he roars in his father’s voice, and he can’t help but spit. 

His fingers are nowhere near Ward’s mouth— the stiff jaw is his own choice. 

There are tears in his pretty blue eyes. Not that that’s ever stopped Ward before. He pulls him back from the mirror and quickly nestles his palm against his Adam’s apple, crushing down on the windpipe and silencing any protests before they start. Rafe squeezes, easily ignoring the way his father claws at his hand, and he’d bet money his feet are barely touching the ground. So much for not hurting his own body. 

“If I kill you like this, and go back to sleep…” Rafe asks, feeling the corded tendons and muscles warp under his grip, “who do you think will wake up in this body?”

If his eyes weren’t already wide as saucers from the pressure on his brain, they are now. Ward’s mouth falls open, mouths out something close to a please, and Rafe relents. He drops him to the floor, crumpled like a worn shirt. Ward coughs and wheezes, struggling to pull in air again. Once he can pull in a single gasp without hacking, he scurries back, never turning away but dragging himself to the sheets he’s marred so many times before. Now he finds comfort in them. 

Rafe turns to the mirror and rolls his shoulders back once more. Admires his new physique, new prowess. He’s never held such a command over a room before, likes the way he wears it so well already.

“I could get used to this,” he announces, turns back to his naked self, slack jawed and dazed. Ward hasn’t taken his eyes off him once. “Could you?”

[brother-father]

𝐵𝐿𝐼𝑆𝑇𝐸𝑅, 𝑃𝐿𝐸𝐴𝑆𝐸

burn and shine ch. 16/? explicit; angst; rafe cameron x ward cameron; drug use, drug relapse, father/son incest, intrusive thoughts, psychosis, implied brainwashing, childhood sexual abuse

After Ward rescues him during a relapse, Rafe must earn his father's forgiveness.

read on ao3

Daddy, please hear this song that I sing In your heart, there’s a spark that just screams For a lover to bring A child to your chest that could lay as you sleep And love all you have left, like your boy used to be Long ago, wrapped in sheets warm and wet

Rafe flinches as the door shuts behind him, the sound bouncing off the walls of the foyer and reverberating through the entryway like yelling into the mouth of a cave. He turns, stops, loses his way. It’s home, but he can’t find the right path, can’t settle on how best to make his way upstairs. There’s too many steps, the staircase as daunting as climbing up a mountain without rope. When did home get so big? Rafe feels like a child lost in a supermarket, staring wide eyed at the fixtures he’s always known but now can’t parse. He’s dementia-possessed, some very significant lobe in his brain a loose gem in its setting. Reaching for Dad, his savior, his North Star, Rafe grabs the meat of his arm.

“Dad, wait-”

Ward spins to grab his mistake by the back of the neck, fragile vertebrae grinding together under the sudden compression of his grip. Burden. Fuck-up. Worthless. The urge to go limp drags Rafe’s feet into the foundation, but before he can turn liquid Dad’s guiding him forward, moving so fast and so firmly that his son has no choice but to follow the invisible path laid out before him.

“Don’t say a fucking word,” Orders his father as he sends the boy up the stairs, his voice a deep hiss in Rafe’s ear. There’s fear there, beneath the anger that’s made him all solid and mighty, so much anger that he’s vibrating Rafe’s spinal cord. Can’t wake Sarah and Wheezie. Can’t let them see you like this. Sarah already hates you. Dad’s fearsome expression is so striking as to dissolve Rafe into nothingness, so he can’t look at him straight. He’s been wearing that face since he pulled his son out of Barry’s trailer and shoved him into the truck, ignoring the dealer’s jeers.

He didn’t mean to get high.

Rafe tries to speak, to work his tongue along his teeth and carve out the words, but his jaw won’t stop grinding. The repeated motion hurts, but Rafe can’t stop it, like his body isn’t his but a too-tight plastic bag he’s stuck in. There’s no air, no room to move, just tight elasticity warping his bones. It didn’t used to feel like this. Coke used to spread out his thoughts and make him feel invincible, like he was a young god on the verge of immortality. It used to feel good, but now he’s just sick like his head’s screwed on wrong and nothing makes sense. Sarah’s perfect, that’s why Dad loves her more. You’re ruined. Ruinedruinedruinedruinedruined. Why can’t I feel my feet?

The hall rug turns slick and Rafe trips, but Dad’s arm swoops in and captures his waist, holds him steady against the tide that threatens to swallow him whole. He doesn’t deserve it, this endless mercy, but God, does he need it. It’s the only thing Rafe can cling to, that constant hope that Ward won’t give up on him.

“Th’nk you …” Rafe mumbles against his father as his feet settle and he finds the floor sturdy, no longer a rippling ribbon. Selfish. He used to be perfect, now he can’t even walk. Somehow along the way he turned into this useless thing, leaning on Ward so he doesn’t collapse. The shame of it makes him want to vomit apologies until his throat bleeds, until Dad stops looking like he regrets ever bringing Rafe into the world.

Better off dead after all you’ve put him through. You won’t get better, there’s no use in trying. You can’t function in the real world.

There’s more shuffling, forced to be quiet under the threat of the girls waking. Rafe is turned inside out, his guts hanging from his hands. Fuck, he’s cold. He’s so cold and Dad’s warm. Warm and unyielding, a rock Rafe can dig his fingers into.

“Off. Off. Rafe, Christ-” Dad untangles himself and Rafe loses his footing, falls like a pile of sticks onto his bed. The plush mattress is cool and his sheets stink of lavender detergent, the fragrance making his stomach turn. He groans as he tries to push himself up, but his elbows keep giving out. It’s like trying to pull himself out of quicksand, only his bones keep chattering and his skin itches. How can he sweat when he’s so fucking cold?

There’s a click as Ward shuts the door, the sound of his accompanying sigh like a strike to the face. He hates you and it’s all your fault. You’ve gone too far this time, or are you too stupid to figure it out? Rafe looks over at his father and sees it, that disgust that had Rafe chasing line after line tonight. Once he started, he had to keep going, had to outrun the reality he’s faced with now.

“Dad, I- I know I fucked up,” Rafe says, finally on his back and shoving himself upright like a toppled beatle. Dad’s still prone against the door, hands on his hips as he waits for the excuses to come. There’s so much Rafe could say, a million reasons for why he went to Barry’s tonight, why he let himself slip, but none of them matter right now, not when he can feel his father’s revulsion like poison in his stomach. All your fault. “But I got- I’ve got it under control.”

“How exactly is this under control?” Ward counters, his face turning to the ceiling like there’s an answer up there. He raises his hand to rub at his brow and Rafe curls into himself, hands in his hair because his father is too far away. He needs him close, needs him so badly it hurts.

Please. Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease.

“You don’t-” Rafe shakes his head because he can’t cry, he can’t fall apart like this. He knows better. Goddammit, he knows better. Why did he let this happen? Why did he ruin everything? Releasing his hair, Rafe holds out his hands as if steadying himself and takes a gulp of air, then another. “It’s just a backslide, okay?” He points to himself, to the heart that won’t stop hammering, ricocheting against his sternum and taking his breath away. “I’m good. I’m good, Dad. This doesn’t change anything.”

Dad just shakes his head and Rafe can’t stand it, can’t let him think his son is broken for good.

“We’ll talk in the morn-”

“No, no, no, no, it can’t wait,” Rafe insists, straining to speak past his shivering. He shakes his head again and again, his father blurring in the short distance. It’s not tears, it can’t be tears because Dad always hates that, can’t stand to see Rafe blubber like a little kid. “Don’t leave. Please don’t leave, Dad.”

Seconds tick and Ward stands like a judge deliberating his sentence. Rafe can’t breathe, too focused on holding himself steady beneath the weight of that all-knowing gaze. He’ll be good. He’ll be good if Dad just gives him the chance. It’s all Rafe wants, to carve himself open in the hope that there will be something pleasing there, something worth all the trouble.

Rafe doesn’t know when Dad moves, but he does. He’s sitting on the bed when he comes into focus. Come closer. He’s hunched, slightly, his hand on his beard as he regards his son like a stranger, like some bug found scuttling along the wall. Touch me, tell me I’m real. It’s worse than judgement and Rafe looks away, embarrassed to his core. He knows how he looks, how this looks.

Don’t look at me like that. Please, I can’t take this anymore. Why can’t you love me how I want?

“You can’t keep doing this, Rafe,” Dad says, that stern edge to his voice like chipped glass.

What do you want?

Rafe reaches for his father, takes that disappointed face between his trembling hands. He can’t listen to it anymore, can’t stand under that magnifying glass and get burned alive. “It’s under control,” He says with a nod, his words slow and deliberate but still his tongue catches on his teeth. He runs his fingers through Ward’s hair, marveling at the softness. The greys catch the moonlight filtering in through Rafe’s curtains, strands of silver gleaming like diamonds. Why can’t I look like him? I just look like Mom. What would Mom do? Rafe smoothes away the crease between Ward’s brows with his thumb, traces the outline of his restrained frown and gets a relieved sigh in return. When his eyes fall shut, Rafe tries not to weaken from the satisfaction. “It’s just a slip up. I can fix it.”

 I can be good. I can be good and make you love me again. You taught me how.

“You have to be an adult,” Dad says, his voice a low grumble, but Rafe’s not listening. He’s suspended in air, soaking up warmth as his hands venture lower and he drags his twitching fingers over his father’s shoulders, under the collar of his shirt. That steady pulse pulls Rafe in, somewhat calming his own erratic heartbeat. “I could look away from this when you were sixteen, but it’s time to man up. How else am I supposed to trust you?”

Rafe stills, his head falling to press his forehead to Ward’s shoulder because it’s not working. Do you want it to work? He digs in, shaking his head, and tries to swallow around the lump in his throat. His thoughts keep talking over each other, the fragments of intelligence too jumbled to digest. Dad has to forgive him, because Rafe won’t abide living as a discarded toy. Why won’t he touch me back?

Dropping his hand, Rafe cups his father through the fabric of his pants. “You trust me with this,” Rafe says as he pulls back just enough to see surprise seep into Ward’s gaze. He moves his hand down and back in a slow seduction that’s both teasing and vulgar until he feels his father begin to stiffen beneath the oscillation of his wrist. There’s Rafe’s purpose, his path to redemption. He knows what needs to be done, knows how to soothe his father’s worry and bleed away the shame lacerating his veins.

It’s never going to stop.

Ward kisses him and it’s like swallowing sunshine, like Rafe is a real, human boy when his father breathes life into his mouth. The noise ebbs away until it’s only his father’s tongue against his own and the sigh of buttons slipped through their holes. Rafe’s chest hurts, but it’s okay because he needs this. He needs this and Dad needs him. Nothing else matters. It's love. It's love and it burns. Oh, god, does it burn.

I don’t want it to stop.

Knowing better than to let this chance slip through his fingers, Rafe pulls himself closer to straddle Ward’s lap. He’s still quivering, his muscles strained from the taut trembling, so he’s gripping onto Ward like he’s afraid of falling off him. It hurts, his body one big cramp, but it becomes easier to bear when his father buries his face in Rafe’s neck to leave scorching kisses beneath his jaw. Rafe’s making himself busy by shoving away clothes as Ward’s fingers slip beneath the sweat-drenched t-shirt he’s wearing to trace the knots of his spine, the ridges of his shoulder blades that stick out like malformed wings trapped beneath his skin. Dizzying want sends Rafe’s head back as he grinds down against his father’s crotch, eyes squeezed tight against the desperate, aching need threatening to split him in two.

Aren’t you tired of this?

It’s a quiet ecstasy when Ward grabs Rafe by the waist and shoves him down on the mattress. That sickly lavender perfume fills his nose as his face meets his pillow and it makes his stomach lurch. Don’t throw up. Breathe through your nose. Keep swallowing. He can’t breathe, can’t find his balance, but there’s a hand on the back of his head. It’s just Dad, so he won’t let Rafe suffocate, but the lack of oxygen is turning his thoughts into jelly.

What choice do I have?

“We’ll get you through this,” Dad says as he begins to tug down Rafe’s shorts with one hand, his body draped over his son. This is what I want. He’s heavy, a weight Rafe wasn’t prepared for and his chest can’t expand beneath him. It’s like being buried alive, the pressure and heat a heavy fog pinning Rafe down. He clutches his pillow as a chill rolls over his skin once he’s naked from the waist down, his scrawny legs pried apart. “Just relax, Rafe. I’ll make it better, then we’ll go to bed. Good boy, that’s it.”

Rafe cries out against the sudden invasion and inhales a mouthful of cotton as the noise gets muffled by his pillow. Heat swells inside him, scalding and thick until he feels as raw as a wound, weeping with infection. He needs this, the bombardment of his senses, because he can’t stand to feel it. The more his father fucks him, the less pain there is and the quieter the voices get. It’s Rafe’s anchor, that starvation of understanding. Ward doesn’t touch him, except for the hand in his hair and the grip on his hip, and Rafe’s indebted to him for it. He doesn’t want to think about his dick, a limp specimen trapped beneath his pelvis.

He knows he won’t be able to come, too fucked from the coke still buzzing through his veins, but this isn’t about him anyway. It’s enough that Dad’s inside him, stretching him open until Rafe feels peeled apart, ripened to the point of rot. It’s enough to hear his name said like a prayer, like he’s the answer to every problem his father has ever had.

It’s enough. It’s enough. It’s enough. I’m enough.

By the time it’s over, Rafe has stopped shaking. He can’t remember how it ended, but the sun’s coming up and he’s alone in his bed. When did Dad leave? The sheets are wet beneath him, but Rafe can’t move to clean himself, his muscles throbbing and festering with exhaustion. Peroxide for blood. Cold water and detergent for semen. There’s a numbing clarity slowly overtaking his awareness as the coke seeps from his marrow and out his pores. Rafe sniffles through the congestion obstructing his abused nasal passages and crushes his palms to his ears, hopeless to suppress the swell of too many voices carving their opinions into his cerebral cortex. He just wants to sleep, but it’s too soon for that, the last dregs of his high still present enough to keep him treacherously alert.

Don’t you feel better now?

[brother-father]

𝑁𝑂𝑇 𝑊𝐼𝑇𝐻 𝑌𝑂𝑈, 𝐵𝑈𝑇 𝑂𝐹 𝑌𝑂𝑈

burn and shine ch. 10/? angst; jj maybank x rafe cameron; jj maybank x luke maybank; rafe cameron x ward cameron; hurt/comfort, PTSD, drug addiction, drug relapse, night terrors, implied childhood sexual abuse

JJ dreams of his father. Rafe struggles to stay clean.

read on ao3

JJ wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand before resuming his attack upon the floor. He’s in his bedroom on his hands and knees, his mattress currently leaning up against the far wall like a prone corpse as he slams his hammer down again and again and again. He’s using the claw to rip at the warped, moldering boards, lifting them from their nails and throwing the decayed hunks aside as fast as he can. He doesn’t know if he’s looking for something under the rotting parquet or simply doing some spring cleaning, but the motive doesn’t matter, doesn’t change his need for destruction. Chunks of wood fly through the air and JJ tilts his head back and to the side, narrowly avoiding getting blinded. His hands are bloody, the blisters long since formed and popped with how tightly he grips the tool in his hand. The hammer is practically useless; better to go with his hands. It’s sweltering in the house, so much the wallpaper is beginning to peel, but JJ’s too old for airplanes anyway. Splinters drive through the underside of his nails as he begins to wrench the boards up and off in frenzied succession, but he doesn’t feel it. He can’t feel anything except the dire ache to ruin. Jagged spears of pine slash through his forearms like butter, but he can’t stop. He has to keep going. Any second Dad’ll be home. He’ll come home and JJ will need his bed again. He has to go faster, because Dad’ll kill him if he finds the house tore up like this. He’ll find JJ and he’ll-

Dad’s hands grab at JJ, shaking him like a ragdoll. The impulse to fight back is innate and JJ thrashes, swinging his fists wildly before he even opens his eyes. He’s only half aware, still submerged in the dream though his heart is beating out his chest and his punches keep landing into a hard, heavy body. Dad’s pressing down on him, pinning him with his knees, but JJ won’t make it easy for him. Come and get me, you bastard, put the work in.

“Fuck, dude! JJ, stop! It’s me! JJ, it’s me!”

Not Dad.

JJ goes still at the voice, his chest heaving as finally opens his eyes. It’s John B on top of him, his fingers gripping JJ’s wrists to hold him off. He’s panting too and his cheek is red, soon to be purple, from catching one of JJ’s right hooks. Guilt bleeds over the fear currently zapping JJ’s nervous system, especially when John B pulls back to rub the sore spot on his face. A million apologies trip over JJ’s tongue, but he can’t get the words out.

If anyone knows not to wake up JJ when he’s having one of his Freddy Kruger moments, it’s John B. JJ’s liable to tear apart whomever tries, and he’s been on the receiving end plenty of times before. JJ rubs at his chest as he tries to shake off the sticky webs of his dream, thinking of sleepwalkers and heart attacks. One day he’ll keel over from this, he knows it. “How many times have I told you not to-”

“Not to what?” John B harshly interrupts while clambering off JJ. He swats at JJ’s legs to move over before plopping down on the sofa beside him. JJ pulls back the blanket to make room and notices the couch beneath him and his blanket are damp. Thankfully, he realizes after a subtle sniff that it’s just sweat, not piss. “I had to do something! Someone could call the cops if they heard you screaming like that.”

The sharp tone of John B’s voice makes JJ look away, the memory of his father still too fresh to take being chastised. It doesn’t matter that the look John B is giving him is all worry, JJ still feels like shit for hitting him. And for screaming. He still remembers how mad Luke used to get when he was woken up in the middle of the night by JJ’s night terrors. Over the years, the nightmares come and go, but this latest batch has stuck around since that day with Rafe saw … more than he should have.

During a resurgence, if JJ gets stoned -- massively stoned, kill-your-grandma-stoned -- before sleeping, he doesn’t get the heavy dreams. Last night, however, he and John B had stayed up late playing video games and JJ had ended up too tired to think and went to sleep practically sober. Sober for him, at least.

He thought going back home one last time and leaving Dad for good would put an end to it, but it’s only gotten worse. Even seeing Rafe again on a semi-regular basis isn’t helping, except for the one night with him at the hotel. JJ doesn’t have an explanation for that, or a lot of what happened that night. “I didn’t mean to kick your ass,” JJ mumbles as he takes the ashtray from the coffee table. After scavenging his unfinished joint from the night before, he sparks it up. 

John B lets out a snort and kicks his feet up on the table. “You didn’t kick my ass. You barely love-tapped me.” Still, JJ can’t look at him or the forming bruise. Defending himself is something JJ does just for the hell of it, the law of the jungle and all that, but that wasn’t this. This was just needless violence and it’s got him all antsy. Sucking on the remainder of his joint, he checks his hands, still expecting to find slivers of wood embedded in his skin.

John B gets that awkward hunch of his shoulders and JJ knows a question is coming. His friends are usually pretty good about keeping their mouths shut about shit like this. Not even John B knows the full story with Luke; JJ’s bruises and nightmares and penchant for raising hell offering enough explanation. Since the night terrors came back around the time JJ had the big blow out with his father and left home, no one’s tried to pry. It’s an easy story to swallow. Kid gets slapped around a couple times and suddenly people have a hard time looking at you. No need for further examination.

Until now.

“You, um, you said something weird, man.”

JJ swallows and chews on his nail, fiddles with his bracelet. He’s itchy all over and he doesn’t want to talk about Dad, doesn’t want to tell John B of all people what went on before he left. The way his best friend looks at him would change and that’s too much to stomach. “What was it this time?” He asks, forcing a jovial edge to his voice as his chest begins to throb. “Your mother sucks cocks in hell?”

John B shakes his head at the lame joke, his brows drawing together. He always says JJ gets twitchy and weird like Regan from The Exorcist when he freaks, but all the humor’s gone from the room. “You were just mumbling at first, kinda squirming around and groaning, that’s when I came in here. I wasn’t even going to wake you up, but you got louder. You started yelling like somebody was attacking you, so I pounced.”

Sparing a glance at John B, JJ finishes off his joint. “So, what did I say?” He asks, mouth unbearably dry and head pounding in time with his heart. He’s praying to every god he can think of, promising never to smoke or jack off or steal again if that’s what it takes.

Please let it be anything but Dad.

“It sounded like … Rafe? Like, Sarah’s brother? But we haven’t even crossed paths with the guy since Midsummers, right? Sarah doesn’t even really talk about him, except that her family’s worried about him and he’s been acting … weirder than usual, I guess.”

JJ’s up in an instant, throwing on his shirt swiped from the floor. This can’t be happening. It hasn’t exactly been fun having to sneak around and go behind his friends’ back, but he didn’t have a choice. Now that things between him and Rafe were back to their regularly scheduled programming, it sure as shit isn’t the time to blow everything up. His lungs are filled with smoke, stripping the air around him as he frantically moves about the living room. He can’t be here, can’t do this with John B.

Crying out for his father would have been nothing, just a shitty reminder of what JJ left behind.

But Rafe? Why the fuck did he do that?

“Are we beefing with him again?” John B asks, but JJ’s too busy getting dressed. His hands won’t stop shaking, so he stuffs his feet into his boots without tying them. “Seriously, if him and those Kook assholes are trying to start shit, tell me, dude.” John B’s gotten up, keeps reaching for JJ who shirks from his touch. Or flinches, one of the two. “Sarah’s on our side, as long as you don’t kill him, she won’t care. Where are you going?”

JJ grabs his shit, stuffs it all into his pockets. His heart hurts, billowing fire through his veins, and he can barely see through his headache. John B’s grating, insistent voice isn’t helping.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

“What’s going on?”

Sarah’s voice, but JJ doesn’t stop. They’ve got him cornered, so he uses the coffee table and walks right over it, sending empty cans and chip bags in every direction. He charges at the door, untied boots flopping with every step. Why Rafe? Why would he cry for Rafe? It doesn’t make sense, can’t make sense.

Throwing the door open, JJ heads for his bike. His precious chariot will take him away from here, from reality. He’ll let the wind clear his head. He’ll drive straight to Xcalak, forget his friends who will want nothing to do with him anyway once they weasel the truth out of him. Fuck it all. Nothing good lasts for Maybanks anyway.

“JJ!”

The panic in Sarah’s voice is what makes him stop, keys in one hand and his hat in the other. He doesn’t turn, won’t look at that doe face of hers, that nose that’s the mirror image of Rafe’s. It’s hard to look at Sarah sometimes, the truth of her father coating his tongue with acid. Fuck, his chest hurts. Everything hurts. Dirt and dead leaves crunch under Sarah’s feet as she ventures closer, but blessedly she stops before getting within arm’s reach. He could kiss her for that.

“I know, okay? About you and Rafe.”

JJ’s dying. His heart is giving out and any second he’ll meet his maker. Everything below his neck is numb and tingling, one final blast of adrenaline before it’s all over.

“How?” JJ manages to say, his teeth clenched tight enough for his eyes to ache. Rafe wouldn’t have told anyone, would have died before letting their … whatever it is, be made public knowledge. Especially to family. If JJ didn’t know the guy so well, he’d be offended.

“A few months ago Wheezie saw some of your texts when Rafe left his phone out. No one but us knows, I promise.”

JJ grips his cap and tries not to consider the possibility that a twelve year old saw his dick. “Months? You’ve known for months?” The pot’s got his throat dry no matter how many times he swallows and his fucking hands won’t stop trembling. He’s wobbly all over and who the fuck knows how he’ll drive like this, but crashing sounds like a better alternative than staying here.

More crunching and JJ turns his head to the side. It’s not enough to see more than a blur of Sarah’s long hair, but it stops her in place.

“He was doing better then. Him and Dad weren’t fighting and he was hanging out with Wheezie more. I didn’t know why, but when she told me what she saw, it just … made sense. You make sense for him, JJ.”

Something snaps behind JJ’s ribs, a deep cracking that makes him shudder. He flies for his bike and swings his leg over, kicks the kickstand away. His gaze lifts and his eyes meet Sarah’s, but she doesn’t look disgusted or angry or confused. She looks sad, regretful even. JJ can’t examine that before she rushes up to him and he jerks back on reflex, nearly falling right off his seat.

“Something happened, right? You moved in with John B and Rafe got really bad around then. My stepmom even started trying to convince Dad to send him somewhere and Wheezie was freaked out because he’d come home high and talking to himself and trashing things, but then …” Sarah’s hand lifts, but she just brushes a flyaway hair from her face. “She says he’s been better lately. When she sees him, at least. He’s not home much.”

No, he wouldn’t be. He’s crashing with Topper or wherever he can and comes home just enough to please Ward. It won’t last forever, JJ knows that dance from years of experience. Something’s gotta give eventually.

“You’re taking care of my brother. That’s why I haven’t said any-”

JJ doesn’t hear the last of Sarah’s words over the roar of his bike.

~~

Rafe’s out with Wheezie. She doesn’t know it, but she keeps him honest. The thing about real life is that it’s fucking boring without drugs, so hanging around someone else makes it easier to stay clean. Rose, the demented bitch, has suggested rehab, but Dad with his endless mercy has turned her down every time. It makes Ward’s disappointment in him easier to swallow.

Besides, the worst is over. Withdrawal was hell -- a puke-filled, confusing, gruesome hell -- but Rafe had given Barry a fat stack of cash to lock him down in his trailer until the sickness wore off. Barry feigned grief over losing his “best customer,” but then made some quip about how everyone comes back eventually. Rafe knows he’s right, knows he’ll use again. It’s not a matter of if, but when.

So, proactive person that he is, Rafe is trying to put off that eventuality however long he can.

Today, it’s the aquarium. He never really saw the point of it, since they lived on the ocean, but the sharks are kind of cool. Wheezie’s going on about stingrays when his phone buzzes and he lets his little sister wander off while he checks it.

JJ: need tp meet up

JJ: NOW

Rafe glances over at Wheezie before returning his attention to his phone, the corner of his mouth drawn up in a lazy smile. Often, JJ gets excited and types too fast, leading to mistakes that Rafe has to decipher. Hopefully some delayed gratification will pay off and the little bastard will devour him like a starved dog when they see each other tonight.

Rafe: Busy.

Rafe: Jerk off and try me later.

Turning his phone on Do Not Disturb, Rafe pockets it and jogs back over to Wheezie. She picks up where they left off, pointing out jellyfish. The gelatinous blobs have always freaked him out. He knows about their stinging tendrils, had even been zapped by one as a kid, but it never seemed like adequate defense. The creatures look so vulnerable, without shells or spikes or teeth to protect them. Even their tentacles lack the intimidation of a squid’s, with its suckers and boa constrictor-like movements. It must be why they hang out in groups, safety among numbers.

Rafe never really had numbers. Just family.

And JJ, who keeps coming back for reasons Rafe will never understand.

He thought by now he would’ve figured it out, why Rafe can’t stop seeing JJ, why he thinks about him all the time. It’s getting annoying at this point, like a fissure on the roof of his mouth he can’t stop tonguing. Rafe works his jaw, runs his tongue along his teeth. The truth feels close, enough that he can taste it. It’s right-

“Earth to Rafe,” Wheezie chirps, pulling Rafe from his thoughts. It takes Rafe a second to register and he looks at her, slow to comprehend her uneasy expression. “You’ve been staring at the jellyfish for like, ten minutes.”

Rafe tries to force a smile as he sucks back a sigh and rubs his temple. He hates spacing out in public, knows how it makes him look. “Was I talking to myself again?”

Wheezie moves from foot to foot, her hip cocked as she plays with her fingers. “Yeah, but I don’t think anyone noticed.”

They walk together to the next exhibit, but Rafe’s mood’s gone sour. He thought getting clean would make him better and rewire his brain, but he still gets lost in his own head, still freaks out. And the freak outs make him want to use, which makes him freak out even more. It’s why he hasn’t been home much, wanting to limit the number of witnesses.

And it has nothing to do with Dad, who has taken to talking to Rafe like he’s a child. It’s like when Mom died all over again, and Ward wouldn’t let his son out of his sight. Always consoling. Always asking questions. Always wanting to help.

It’s everything Rafe’s ever wanted, that constant drip-fed attention, but it’s not without its price.

Nothing’s ever easy.

They’re at a bistro across the street now. Wheezie has a huge shark plushie occupying the seat next to her and Rafe’s picking at his salad. Everything still tastes like ashes and heavy meals leave him rushing for the bathroom. His body is still adjusting, but it’s fine. It’ll pass.

“Are you staying home tonight?”

Rafe looks away, pretending to consider it for her sake. “No, I have plans after I drop you off.”

Wheezie’s eyes grow in size behind her glasses, something like hope brightening her face. “A friend?”

“Jesus, Wheeze. I’m not seven. Yes, a friend.”

Wheezie munches on a few mouthfuls of pasta before continuing. “You should have friends. It’s like, normal,” She says, but Rafe’s not really listening. He’s trying, but the buzzing in his head is getting louder by the minute. Thoughts like slippery fish keep escaping his grasp. “What about Sarah’s friends? You could hang out with them.”

Rafe’s blood stops, solidifies in his veins. The buzzing’s just one high pitched whine now, drowning out the ambient chatter of the bistro. He stabs his fork into his salad hard enough to make the metal tines scrape against the porcelain. The jarring noise makes his spine squirm.

It’s just a coincidence. Stop being paranoid. She doesn’t know. How could she know?

“Not a good idea,” Rafe says, forcing out each syllable as he waves his fork in a left-right motion, like shaking his head. His little sister doesn’t need to know about the business with Pope, how Rafe had rearranged his face for little reason. It had felt right at the time, but that defense won’t hold up under scrutiny. “They don’t have anything in common with us.”

“Sarah’s always posting them on her story. They’re pretty cool. Especially JJ, he’s funny.”

Rafe’s silent the whole drive home.

~~

The second he sees the car, JJ knows.

He’s been at the beach all day, ignoring his impulse to run to Mexico and procrastinating his inevitable return to the Chateau. He hasn’t talked to anyone, aside from his failed attempt to reach out to Rafe earlier. Some waves, some sun, and some sticky icky are enough to clear his head a little, but that pit in his stomach only grows as the sky darkens. John B would need an explanation, and JJ doesn’t know who he is more willing to betray.

The friends he’s known his entire life?

Or Rafe?

He’s in the midst of that mind-melting argument with himself when his phone chimes, and one look at the text has him getting on his bike and heading for Figure Eight. There’s a certain satisfaction that comes from being right, but JJ only feels remorse.

Because Rafe’s message was just a location pin, a silent beacon for help.

It’s how he ends up at a park smack-dab in the middle of the residential Kook neighborhood, a place that feels like hallowed ground no matter how many jobs JJ takes over here for yard work or boat maintenance, staring at Rafe’s car currently occupying two parking spaces at a diagonal angle.

Dad passed out behind the wheel, his car parked in the middle of the lawn with the engine still running. JJ has to drag him from the car and spray him with the garden hose to wake him up. He’s twelve, too small to carry his father inside.

JJ blinks away the memory as he steps closer to the vehicle. The park’s deserted this time of night, and for that he’s thankful. The back passenger door is ajar and there’s a puddle of vomit on the ground that JJ has to step over to get inside. There’s no blood in it, from what JJ can see in the dim light before leaning into the open car.

Rafe’s huddled in the far right of the backseat, knees to his chest and shuddering with so much force he’s groaning from it. His eyes are flicking back and forth and his jaw is working overtime, grinding away those pearly white teeth of his. This isn’t a mental break, but a bad high, brought on by Barry’s poorly cut shit and low tolerance.

Shutting the door behind him, JJ climbs inside the car. He tries to say Rafe’s name, but before he’s got one syllable out Rafe’s turning, reaching for him. His hands are vibrating when they grasp at JJ’s shirt, the sound of his grinding teeth making JJ’s bones twitch. “Rafe?” He says, keeping his tone calm, even. He feels sick, the sight of Rafe like this so wrong as to invoke inhumanity. It feels like one of his night terrors, like any second he’ll wake up on John B’s couch. “What happened? What did you take?”

A strangled little whimper comes out of Rafe as he falls forward, his forehead pressed to JJ’s sternum. JJ puts his hands on Rafe’s back, slipping beneath his shirt to run his fingers up and down Rafe’s spine. He feels cold to the touch, but he’s drenched in sweat.

“Emergency … st-st-stash …” Rafe manages before pulling back just enough to look at JJ. Try to look, at least. His eyes are still everywhere, lollying back and forth in his skull. “Speed … Just a little … enough- just enough. My Dad- My Dad-”

Good boy, Jay. Takin’ care of yer Daddy. Now- Now hand me that- that bottle there.

Rafe’s rambling is setting JJ on edge and he chews on his cheek, trying to piece together the confused tangents. “Rafe,” He says again, taking the boy’s face in his hands. For a second, Rafe seems to focus his gaze on him, but the connection is gone just as quick. “What did Ward do?”

Rafe sucks back a breath, his nails starting to scratch from how firmly he’s got JJ’s shirt gripped in his fists. He’s breathing quick, too quick, his heart pulsing loud enough that JJ can almost hear it. “You weren’t there. I needed you and you- you weren’t there.”

The suckerpunch of Rafe’s words go straight to his guts and JJ looks away, gritting his teeth against the irony. Rafe didn’t mean it as a guilt-trip, merely stating a simple truth, and the pain in his voice nearly breaks JJ open.

“I’m here now,” JJ says, because he can, because Rafe is so fucked up he could do naked handstands and Rafe wouldn’t remember. There’s a freedom in that, a removable of responsibility that JJ can’t resist. He runs a hand across Rafe’s cheek, his other still making slow movements up and down his back. “I know what to do, okay? Dr. JJ’s got what you need, Sparky. We just gotta wait it out and you’ll be your same asshole self by morning. I promise.”

There’s a slight moment of hesitation before Rafe’s control seems to give and he all but falls atop JJ. With how much he’s shaking, it’s hard to get a hold of them, but eventually the two shift in just the right spot in the backseat. Rafe ends up in JJ’s arms, his face pressed to JJ’s throat. JJ can barely breathe from the vibrations, his heart struggling to keep normal pace when pressed against the cage of a rabid organ desperate to escape its confinement. Still, he doesn’t let go. It’s just like Dad, on the bad nights when he’d take too much and JJ would have to care for him, back when JJ was still young enough to worry whether his father would die from the pills and yucky brown juice he drank.

Seven years old. Dad’s head in JJ’s lap, drooling on JJ’s Superman pajama bottoms. His father’s head is heavy, but he can’t move, convinced that if he takes his eyes off his father for a second that he’ll breathe his last breath.

“I was gonna be better,” Rafe chokes, holding onto JJ like he’s the only thing keeping him from falling off the edge of the world. “I was- I was planning on getting clean.”

JJ winces. Rafe’s guilt is too much, a knife carving into his middle and twisting into his organs. There’s junksick and there’s this, just a teenage boy falling apart in the backseat of a half a million dollar car. “I know,” JJ says, his voice steady and quiet despite the tears in his eyes. He shuts his eyes against the wetness, refusing to fall apart.

Somehow, Rafe digs himself even closer to JJ, crushing his bones from how tight he’s gripping him. “N-N-No, I know you don’t … believe me.”

JJ’s got his fingers in Rafe’s hair, carding through the soft, sweaty strands the way Dad always liked. He massages Rafe’s scalp with his blunt nails, feels when some of the tension releases from Rafe’s tightly-wound body. He does believe Rafe, all the way to his core. Rafe tried to stay clean, and this backslide isn’t the end. He’ll try again, and again, and again, and JJ will never fault him for failing. He wants to be here, putting Rafe back together. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

“You al-always come when I … call you,” Rafe says, his jaw still rutting against itself. That grinding sound never stops, not for a second. “I need you, JJ. I always need you.”

JJ squeezes his eyes tight and buries his face in Rafe’s hair. He could kill Rafe for this, for being so fucked up that nothing he says matters. Rafe isn’t being honest, he’s just vomiting up methamphetamine-soaked nonsense. It’s not true. None of it is.

Rafe tilts his head and his lips are on JJ’s jugular, his buzzing mouth pressed to JJ’s thudding pulse. “Don’t ever leave me,” He whispers, and JJ feels his chest burst open, ribs shattering against the impact. “You’re all I have.”

Don’t ever leave me, Jay. It’s just you and me. We’re all we’ve got.

[brother-father]

𝑆𝑂𝐹𝑇𝐸𝑅, 𝐻𝐴𝑅𝐷𝐸𝑅, 𝐼𝑁 𝐵𝐸𝑇𝑊𝐸𝐸𝑁

burn and shine ch. 8/? mature; angst; jj maybank/rafe cameron; rafe cameron/ward cameron; parent/child incest, PTSD, self harm, hurt/comfort

When Rafe denies his father, there is only one person he can turn to.

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Luke hasn’t twitched in a while, but Rafe can’t stop. He’s lost count of how many times he’s brought the crowbar down onto that wrinkled, sun damaged face, but by now it’s no longer a face at all. The mound of gore stares back at him as Rafe lets his arm swing down, down, down. The bones stopped crunching some time ago, so the only sound is Rafe’s whacking and the slimy squelch as iron thrashes brain. Snail-like trails of silver mix in with maroon, reminding Rafe of the Jackson Pollock paintings he was shown in high school art class. He doesn’t know if it’s him or JJ that’s screaming, but he tastes copper. Maybe that means something. Rafe … says the heap of blood and meat … Rafe, wake up … He ignores it and keeps striking, though he can’t feel his arms anymore … Rafe, son, wake up!

Rafe wakes up choking, his chest heaving as he sucks in great gulps of air between sputtering attacks. He shoots up and meets his father’s chest and strong arms wrap around him. Still more than a little fucked up from the night before, Ward’s embrace makes him think of an anaconda, some great yellow bastard wrapping around his body to squeeze the life out of him.

“It’s alright, honey. Hey, now, it’s alright,” Dad’s saying, using that soft and gentle voice Rafe hasn’t heard in a long time. He’s got his hand in Rafe’s hair, cradling the back of his skull to keep him close.

Rafe’s still trying to find his breath, his whole body trembling. He’s sweaty, he realizes, absolutely soaking through his shirt. It must have been the speedball last night, Barry’s treat for being such a loyal customer lately. He can still feel it, thrumming through him despite the couple hours he managed to sleep. Pulling back to look at his father feels like a death sentence, sure that the instant he does, Ward will be able to tell he’s loaded.

Biting the bullet, once he’s finally got a handle on his breathing, Rafe makes space. He scrapes his fingers through his hair, taming it from a night of fitful sleep. Ward’s hand is on his thigh now, over the covers, a solid weight grounding his son.

“You were having a nightmare,” Dad says, and he’s got that look again. He’s been wearing it whenever Rafe manages to make an appearance at home. He doesn’t ask where his son’s been, doesn’t ask why Rafe’s bank account keeps emptying as quickly as Ward can put his allowance in. He doesn’t ask why Rafe’s not eating, why it seems like he’s had the flu for weeks now. He’s a good father that way. “I could hear you crying. Jesus, you haven’t been like this since …”

Ward looks away. They don’t talk about Mom.

Shaking his head, Rafe takes a deep breath and steels himself. It’s nothing. It’s not the fact that JJ hasn’t texted him since all that shit went down with Luke. It’s not the fact that the little asshole isn’t even dead -- Rafe’s seen him around enough times to confirm -- but flat out ignoring him. It’s not the fact that Rafe can’t force himself to text JJ first either, too dependent on his dignity to lose their game of chicken. It’s not the fact that he had nearly bludgeoned Luke to death, or that his nightmare isn’t from guilt of what he almost did, but regret that he hadn’t gone through with it.

“It’s nothing, Dad. Y’know how I get sometimes,” Rafe says, his voice quiet as he speaks with his hands, shaping the air around his head. Ward’s rubbing his leg now, slow and easy like calming down a horse. It’s nice, it really is. “I’m sorry I made you wake up.”

Now it’s Ward’s turn to shake his head. “No, it’s okay, really. You just scared me, that’s all. I thought the worst before I came in here,” He says, using that honied voice that Rafe has missed so terribly. He’s missed home, but he’s needed to be away. He doesn’t want to get fucked up around Dad and Wheezie, and getting fucked up is non-negotiable right now. It’s addicting to have his father like this, the sweet side of him so intoxicating. It’s only when Rafe’s on the verge of imploding that Ward turns warm and syrupy with him. “I know you’re going through something-”

“Dad-”

“No, Rafe,” Ward objects, his tone firmer now in a way that has Rafe straightening to attention. “Now, I haven’t said anything, but I’m worried about you. You’re never home, and when you are …” Ward pauses and Rafe suffocates on guilt, his chest heaving with it like something’s pressing down on his ribs. “I was young once too, y’know? You’re an adult, I won’t tell you not to have a little fun, but it’s not a good example for your sisters.”

“I have a handle on it.” Rafe swallows thickly around dry mouth. What he wouldn’t give for cheap beer and some of JJ’s pot to mellow out with. It’s better than the ragweed Topper gets. Raising his gaze to meet his father’s eyes, Rafe gives him as honest an answer as he can. “I’m working something out of my system. It’s not … good right now. In my head.”

The words make Rafe feel sick. Showing any kind of weakness around his father makes him want to fall to his knees in contrition. It feels wrong to drop any of his bullshit in Ward’s lap, but the dregs of last night’s decisions has his tongue looser than normal. Besides, it’s hard to lie when Ward’s giving him his full attention. Rafe’s too eager to bask in the glow of it.

Dad’s hand is under Rafe’s shirt now, tracing the ridges of his ribs. It tickles, but Rafe doesn’t dare move. His breath hitches, eyes fixed to the wall behind his father. Rafe’s room is bare, so different from JJ’s. There is barely anything here except for clothes and a handful of personal bullshit. It’s like a hotel room, sterile and cold.

“I know how to get you back to sleep,” Dad says, his hand shifting to Rafe’s chest before he presses Rafe down against the blankets. Rafe lets him, his stomach doing flips as he forces his heart to ease its suddenly rapid pace. Blankets are shifted and gentle hands help Rafe out of his clothes. In seconds or maybe hours he’s naked, shivering. He’s like a livewire all over, tense and needy. He hasn’t been touched since JJ blew up whatever it was they had, and Ward is being so kind with him, taking his time to rub the ache from Rafe’s muscles. It’s overwhelming, and Rafe feels bloodsick from it.

Ward’s over him now, a sturdy weight in an old college t-shirt and boxers. He always looks so striking in pajamas to Rafe. He’s not Ward Cameron like this, but Dad, with his greying beard and uncombed hair, with hands that should be soft, but instead are calloused from his Pogue upbringing.

Rafe feels a kiss pressed to his shoulder and has to bite his tongue to keep from screaming. The affection burns his skin and each subsequent kiss leaves Rafe twitchy. He shuts his eyes, forces breath into his lungs and out his nose. Ward’s everywhere, touching him all over until every inch of Rafe feels like a raw nerve his father won’t stop tonguing. It shouldn’t be Ward coming to him like this, all sweet-mouthed and helpful. That’s not how they do things. It’s always Rafe that goes to him, eager to ease his father’s burdens. Ward has so much stress, and only his son knows how to snuff it out like candlelight. He is practiced and rehearsed, having memorized every way to please his father.

Now it’s all wrong, and Rafe can’t do it. He must be taking advantage of his father, greedily sucking more attention than he deserves. He can’t make himself wrap his arms around Ward and pull him close, doesn’t yield to Ward’s touch or his incessant kisses. Rafe lays there prone as a corpse, face turned away and pinched with nausea. Breathe in, out. In, out. If this is what Dad wants, he’ll do it, he’s a good son that way, but the wrongness of it all is scorching Rafe from the inside out.

He tries to think about JJ when Ward takes Rafe by the shoulders and turns him over. Face buried in his pillow, Rafe breathes in the scent of his sweat and imagines threadbare sheets littered with burn holes and faded stains. It’s not Dad on top of him now, running warm hands down his back, over the curve of his ass. It’s JJ, all seawater and sunshine and dirty jokes. Rafe’s heard them all; even in bed JJ’s funny. Especially.

Stomach threatening to lurch from out his throat, Rafe grips the pillow beneath him. Ward’s hands are too large, his body too heavy. He feels ensnared, like he’s tied to the bedpost though his hands are free. He can’t move, but he has to. He has to sever the chord or he’ll die in this house. JJ knew that, he always talked about riding a wave to somewhere far away and never looking back. He has a future, a grand, wild life stretched before him that Rafe will never understand. The truth of it feels so close, and Rafe tries desperately to grasp at it.

“Jesus Christ-”

A chill runs over Rafe’s back when Dad leaps off him, making the notches of his spine tingle. He lifts his head from the pillow and sees his arms, stretched out towards the wall. Rafe’s left arm is covered in rabid scratches, the flesh swollen and scarlett. There are gouges, deeper cuts like Rafe had been trying to dig beneath the skin. His hands are shaking, but he can’t feel it. He can’t feel anything.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t- I-” Rafe slowly pushes back onto his knees, resting on his calves as he stares dumbly at his arms. His words are slurred and hurried all at once and Dad’s got that look again. “I gotta- S’okay.”

Everything tilts as Rafe gets off the bed, his chest so tight he wants to break his own ribs just to breathe. Arms reach for him and Rafe shoves at a hard body, needing space. There’s no air in the room, sucked out through a vacuum. He can’t look at Dad, can’t see those watery eyes or he’ll really lose it. Dad says something about a doctor and Rafe shakes his head so vigorously he has to hold the wall to catch his balance. Clothes. Where are his fucking clothes? Everything Rafe touches falls out of his useless fingers.

It’s not until Rafe hears the click of the door shut that he can breathe again. Out. He has to get out, has to cling to this moment of clarity before Dad comes back. Frantically Rafe shoves on the sweats and old t-shirt Ward had taken off him, the fabric still grimy with sweat. He forgets shoes, too preoccupied with finding his keys and phone. Dad’s yelling at Rose, but Rafe is walking too quickly to catch any words. His legs move without his permission until he’s sprinting through the house to the garage, throwing himself behind the wheel of his car like something is chasing him. The acrid stench of burnt rubber permeates the interior as he reverses out the driveway at the same speed. JJ is at John B’s, Rafe feels it. He wouldn’t have gone back home, not after last time.

He’s not that fucking stupid.

Morning is breaking through the clouds by the time Rafe pulls up to the Chateau. He got here by miracle alone, the streets mostly vacant at this time greatly reducing the possibility of vehicular manslaughter. He shuts off the engine and takes his phone from his pocket with trembling fingers, muttering to himself as he does. After counting to ten, he pulls up JJ’s contact. This is a bad idea and he knows it, but he can’t go to anyone else. He can count his friends on one hand, and none of them know shit about him. He had wanted it that way, but JJ had somehow wormed his way to the truth. Staring at the screen, Rafe calculates the risk in losing what remains of his dignity. He’s not bleeding anymore and his head’s cleared a little, but everything still feels mixed up. It made sense coming here, but now it doesn’t.

“What’s with you and screwing with my beauty sleep? I’m starting to think it’s jealousy, Cameron.”

Rafe releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding, phone pressed to his ear as his free hand grips the wheel. “I’m outside. I know- I know we’re not talking and I fucked everything up, but I-I-” Rafe twists his fist over the wheel and the leather squeaks beneath his palm. He’s on the verge of exploding, something terrible and ugly smoldering beneath his ribs. He can’t breathe again, his lungs smothered beneath the weight of everything he feels. “You’re you. You’re you and that’s- that’s important right now.”

JJ doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing but shuffling on the other end of the call. Rafe grits his teeth and throws his phone across the car into the passenger seat. He falls forward, digging his forehead into the wheel as he slams the sides of his fists against his thighs. It’s too complicated. Too ruined. JJ will ignore him like he’s been for weeks and Rafe will have to go back home. He can’t couch surf forever. He’ll have to go back and beg Dad for forgiveness, show him that he’s still his good son, that this was just a setback. He’ll get clean and he-

The sound of a door clattering closed makes Rafe snap to attention. He stares ahead out the windshield as JJ shambles out the Chateau, looking like he recently went twelve rounds with a semi-truck. Rafe’s out the car before he can blink, marching across the damp grass in bare feet to meet JJ half-way. His face is swollen and bruised, smeared with brown and yellow. He’s itching at his ribs, and one look at the scabby state of JJ’s knuckles has Rafe gasping. “You went back,” Rafe says through grit teeth, his shock switching lightning-quick to fury, and shoves at JJ before he can stop himself. He’ll kill Luke for this. He’ll kill that fucking trailer trash bastard like he should have weeks ago. He’ll kick in his head and smash his brains into the moldy hardwood. “You fucking idiot.”

JJ grimaces from being shoved, but recovers quickly to take Rafe by the shoulders. He’s taller than JJ, but it still feels like he’s looking up at the kid. “Down boy,” JJ says, his eyes flicking back and forth as he searches Rafe’s gaze for something. “He got what was comin’ to him, alright? No need to go all attack dog on my behalf. I can handle my own shit, thank you very much.” Rafe clenches his jaw, but doesn’t argue. “Now, why are you here after the radio silence, Cameron? You look like steam-rolled caca and I was in the middle of catching waves in dreamland.”

“I’m not high,” Rafe says, unsure why he needs JJ to know that, but he does.

JJ leans in closer and scrunches up his nose. “Yeah, well, you don’t smell too pretty either, dude.” Rafe catches the moment JJ’s gaze falls to Rafe’s arm and JJ flinches, releasing Rafe’s shoulders to snatch the injured limb. Rafe doesn’t jerk from the contact, welcoming the pain of JJ’s clumsy, hyper fingers digging into his muscles. It’s nothing like Dad’s controlled touch, always careful not to leave a mark. “What happened? It’s like you tried to fist-fuck a cheese grater.”

“I did it,” Rafe says, that burning in his chest beginning to ebb, shift. He raises his free hand and stares at the dried blood under his nails, wiggles his fingers. His hand feels alien; the only spot of flesh he has any connection to is where JJ’s touching him. “I don’t remember. I’m a little fucked up still.”

JJ raises an eyebrow before letting go. The loss of contact makes Rafe want to whine and he has to clench his teeth to keep quiet. “Stay out here,” JJ says, then thinks better of it. “Actually, go around back. John B’s sleeping and this is a nice neighborhood. Can’t have you bringing down the rental value by bleeding all over the place.” Clutching his middle with one hand, JJ jogs back inside.

Rafe watches him go before doing as instructed and walking around the house. He rubs at his eye with the heel of his hand, counting his steps in some vain way to stay present. Dad’s good at this, at bringing him down, but thinking like him isn’t helping. His thoughts feel like scurrying rats, like barking dogs. Either way, it’s all too loud and too quick. He tries to take in the scenery around him as he sits at the fire pit, but it’s distant, watery. And it’s hard to pay attention to the misty morning air or the burgeoning rays of gold filtering through the trees above him when his feet are caked with mud.

JJ comes back eventually, holding a first aid kit, and carefully sits down on the log next to Rafe. They both shift to face each other, and Rafe focuses on the boy in front of him. Though he’s seen him around busting tables at the country club, it’s been a while since he’s seen him up close. Aside from the bruising and minimal swelling that remains, he’s still how Rafe remembers him. Floppy blond hair and farmer’s tan. Faded clothes full of holes. It’s only been a little over a month, and yet Rafe feels the urge to catalogue every detail of him to memory.

“You gonna tell me why you went all Freddy Kruger on your arm,” JJ asks as he opens up the box and begins to riffle through its contents. He sets aside what he needs on the open lid. “Or are you going to keep being all cryptic and weird?”

Rafe considers the question, his sight fixed to the craggy scratches. It’s like an allergic reaction, his skin pulsing and warm. “You first,” He says. His tongue feels less like marbles the more he talks, but it’s hard to get his brain to connect to his jaw. “Why’d you go back?

JJ lifts his head to look at Rafe like he’s an idiot before turning back to his work of opening up plastic packets. If Rafe wasn’t used to it from him, he’d be offended. “Because fuck you for telling me not to, that’s why,” He says with a little grin. “I wanted to prove a point.”

It takes Rafe a few seconds to process what JJ said, but then he huffs a small laugh. “How’d that work out?”

“You’re de-flect-ing,” JJ says in a singsong voice, and takes Rafe’s arm, tugging it over to his lap. He gets that pinched little look of his as he concentrates, his lips puckered as he bites inside his mouth. Rafe remembers what it feels like in there, how the small ridges of scar tissue would brush against his tongue. It wasn’t as unpleasant as it sounds.

“And you stopped texting me- ah, fuck!” The alcohol wipe JJ’s got burns like a motherfucker as he cleans the punctures and scrapes. Every swipe and dab’s got the inside of Rafe’s forearm tingling like he struck his funny bone, leaving him more than a little nauseous.

“You did try to kill my dad. Pardon me for thinking we’d hit a wall.”

Rafe draws his brows together, trying to figure out when exactly they became a we. The burning subsides, but JJ’s still toiling away. He won’t look up from Rafe’s arm, but Rafe can still make out his annoyed frown. “You wanted me to do it, I could tell,” Rafe says, exhaling the words in a slow, tired whoosh. The hold JJ’s got on him and the constant stimulation from the cleaning is overwhelming Rafe’s senses, bringing him back to his body quicker than he’d like. It’s giving him the spins, like any second he’ll fall off the log he’s sitting on and go tumbling down, down, down. “You’re a … bad … liar.”

JJ snaps in front of Rafe’s face, making him recoil as if struck. “Stay with me, Cameron,” He says, and Rafe manages to nod. He’s exhausted and wobbly all over, his thoughts still circling to the point of blur.

“I dream about it, that day at your house,” Rafe blurts out, watching as JJ gets out a roll of bandages and begins winding it around Rafe’s arm. JJ pauses at his words, but swiftly continues on. “That’s what happened. I was freaking out in my sleep, I guess. Dad came to check on me.”

JJ lets Rafe’s arm go, closes up the kit, and sets it aside. Rafe runs his finger tips along his bandaged forearm, trying to remember what happened and when. In his memory, Rafe is killing Luke one second and naked the next. It all feels very far away, like something that happened to someone else.

“I thought you had … an arrangement,” JJ says before Rafe can settle his mind. His gut reaction is to think JJ’s mocking him, but the edge to his voice doesn’t match his face. He doesn’t look confused, but unsettled. Rafe’s not sure why. “You nearly drowned me last time I pointed out it doesn’t seem all quiet on the Cameron front.”

Rafe hunches over and lets his head fall into his hands. Every word out his mouth feels like blasphemy. Or sacrilege. One of the two. He’s choking on the things he wants to say, but he can’t claw the words out. “Make this easy for me,” Rafe whines as he drags his fingers over his scalp. The rasp of his nails helps keep him settled, but it’s not enough. He claws at his hair, gripping the strands.

JJ’s hands wrap around his wrists and gently tug until Rafe releases his hair. He lowers Rafe’s arms, but keeps his fingers curled around Rafe’s wrists. It’s a little like holding hands and Rafe closes his palms, squeezing his fists as tight as he can. “You fucked him again.”

Rafe shakes his head and works his jaw, trying to physically force the words out. “He wanted me. He wanted to help me,” He finally manages, his voice dry and cracked. Rafe blinks and feels wetness on his cheek, but that can’t be right. They must be caught in a morning shower. “And I couldn’t do it. He was giving me a gift and I threw it back in his face. When I did this,” Rafe raises his mummified arm. “He freaked out and I drove here.”

A fog of disquiet shadows JJ features, making him look older, almost angry. The dark circles beneath his eyes from his severed sleep worsen the effect. It’s giving Rafe major deja-vu. A distant part of him feels guilty too, but his conscience has always been easy to ignore, so he continues on.

“All I could think about was how he didn’t feel like you.”

JJ doesn’t flinch, but a tremor goes through him, some subtle current that Rafe only catches because JJ’s currently his only anchor to reality. Rafe can’t stop now, his mind finally latching on a stray thought and digging its teeth in. He doesn’t fully understand it, but he claims it.

“It was like I was there again, watching you and Luke, only it wasn’t you I was watching, but me. My dad was over me and I wasn’t even there, I was across the room and he-” Rafe can’t breathe again, his words accelerated by each shallow breath he manages to gulp. The rain keeps barreling down on them; never mind that JJ’s dry as a bone. “I can’t do it anymore. I don’t know what else to do, what else I’m supposed to do. He leads me. As long as I do what he says, I know I’ll be okay, but I can’t let him touch me again. If he does-” Rafe swallows thickly and grinds the heels of his hands into the log’s bark. JJ’s grip on his wrists doesn’t waver. In Rafe’s vision, it’s the nightmare all over again, but this time Ward’s on the ground instead of Luke. The fantasy doesn’t scare Rafe as much as he knows it should, and that freaks him out more than anything. “I’ll do something unforgivable.”

Rafe knows he can’t throw away his whole life. Without Dad and Cameron Development he’s nothing. No college, no skills, no prospects beyond what knowledge his father’s passed on and endless nights spent scrolling on Reddit. He can’t hack it in the real world like JJ, who will always land on his feet. He thinks he’s destined for prison like Luke, but that’s horseshit. JJ’s got everything he needs, while Rafe has nothing concrete.

Except for JJ, holding him down not to restrain, but to keep him tethered.

Rafe looks up at JJ, but he can’t make out his expression. Whatever he’s thinking, Rafe is too quickly running out of energy to decipher. Rafe either needs to go to bed or do a line, and neither option is at his current disposal. He’s getting closer to screwing his head on straight, but then it all bubbles up again and he veers off course.

Releasing Rafe’s arms, JJ pulls back to scratch at his ribs beneath his shirt. Only a sliver of his belly peaks from the lifted hem, but still Rafe catches the edge of his bruises like ink stains across his skin. “When’s the last time you ate?”

Something clicks into place and Rafe draws his brows together. A knot in his stomach gives as he tries to think back to the day before. “I don’t-”

“Yeah, I figured. C’mon,” JJ claps Rafe by the shoulder, giving his trapezius a squeeze. “Right up the road there’s an all-night diner, yeah? Breakfast burritos bigger than your head. I can’t hack family psychodrama on an empty stomach -- gives me heartburn.”

Rafe can’t stop himself from gawking. They’ve never done that, hung out in a way not tied to fucking. The fact that they’ll be seen together in public only worsens Rafe’s paranoia, since there’s no doubt Ward is currently prowling Figure Eight in search of his only son. If someone sees them, sees them together, word could get back and Ward will know everything. He’ll know and he-

Again, JJ snaps in front of Rafe’s face, slamming him back into reality.

JJ leans in close, his free hand raised to pat Rafe’s cheek. “If you think a bunch of middle aged dock workers give a shit if we’re chowing down together, you’re more cracked than I’d given you credit for,” He says with that smile of his, like Rafe’s some lost duckling he found in the middle of the road. “Unless you start sucking me off right there in the booth, we’ll be golden.”

Too exhausted to really argue, Rafe just shrugs.

After JJ jogs back inside for his keys and wallet, he brings Rafe to the garden hose and helps him clean off his feet. What Rafe really needs is a shower, but this would have to do for now. JJ’s giggling the whole time, making cracks about Rafe looking full Pogue. Any other time, Rafe would hate being seen like this, but JJ looks just as rough as he does. They fit together.

Leaving Rafe’s car behind, they walk the few blocks to the diner without speaking. It’s comfortable instead of awkward, as silence always is between them. JJ let Rafe borrow a pair of shoes, which are just small enough to pinch, but the discomfort helps keep the fog away.

As expected, the diner is half-full with old men sipping coffee and reading the paper. They’re the youngest patrons by decades, and Rafe breathes a sigh of relief and they scootch into their booth. “See? You gotta learn to trust me, Cameron,” JJ tuts.

Rafe looks at the kid and realizes that he’s the only person in all of Kildare he does trust.

After the shared breakfast burritos, which JJ wolfed down and Rafe picked at, JJ pays the bill. Rafe promises to pay him back, but he just waves him off and makes some joke about being Rafe’s sugar daddy. It shouldn’t be funny, but it is.

They end up back at Rafe’s car, sitting on the hood. The sun’s fully out now, keeping Rafe warm despite the look JJ’s wearing. He’s twiddling with his rings, a habit Rafe always assumed was a nervous one. “You’re going home, then.”

It’s not a question, but Rafe can tell JJ wants it to be. Rafe does too. “He’s already lost Sarah. I can’t leave too, it’ll break him. Besides, Wheezie’d be all alone.”

JJ gives him a look, but lets it go without comment. He could kiss JJ for that.

Rubbing the back of his neck, JJ considers him. “I believe you. When you said you’d do something unforgivable,” He says, his words quiet, concerned. It makes Rafe itchy all over. “You know it’s only a matter of time, right? It doesn’t stop until you make it stop.”

Rafe looks up at the sky and thinks about what’s waiting for him back home. He’ll lie and tell his father he went to the doctor himself, JJ’s first-aid tidy enough to be believable. Maybe because of what happened, he’ll lay off Rafe a while, give him space. Maybe he won’t. Either way, Rafe’s got nowhere else to go, no other family to fall back on. JJ’s a Pogue, but he’s so much richer than Rafe will ever be.

“Yeah.” Rafe says with a nod. “I know.”

[brother-father]

𝐼 𝐿𝑂𝑉𝐸 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑆𝐼𝐶𝐾 𝐵𝐸𝐶𝐴𝑈𝑆𝐸 𝐼 𝐻𝐴𝑉𝐸 𝑇𝑂

burn and shine ch. 7/? explicit; angst; jj maybank/rafe cameron; jj maybank/luke maybank; rafe cameron/ward cameron; daddy issues, sexual assault, child abuse, father/son incest

JJ just wants to spend some time with Rafe, but Luke has other plans.

read on ao3

Rafe’s sweat tastes like cedar wood and sugar. Addicts crave sugar, desperate for anything that lights up those tricky receptors. If they can’t get a fix, they get a bag of Nerds Gummy Clusters. JJ loved it as a kid, his home always stocked with teeth-rotting confections for those rare weeks Luke tried to kick his habit. It makes JJ sickeningly nostalgic as he mouths at Rafe’s flesh, breathing in the scent of him that’s both masculine and manufactured. He put on too much cologne before coming here, the acrid after taste sticking to JJ’s tongue.

Nobody’s perfect.

They don’t do it like this often, with JJ on his knees and Rafe laid back -- a beautiful sight all whimpering and squirmy -- but it’s not Rafe that’s in control. No matter what they do, whether he gives or receives, JJ’s always got the upper hand. He feels it as he devastates Rafe with just a few licks, turning the boy inside out with the power of his fist and mouth. He’s got his free hand on Rafe’s chest, feeling that hummingbird heart and the vibrations of his groans bash against his palm. JJ’s skin is on fire, sweaty and hot with need and aggravated by the brain-numbing hold Rafe’s got on his hair. No matter how many times they do this, JJ always gets so worked up he feels like he could burst from his own body and splatter the walls with gore Toxic Avenger style.

It’d be more colorful than the faded, torn posters and smoke stains that currently act as wall dressing in his dismal bedroom.

JJ fucking hates this room. Hates this house. It’s a shit box filled with junk, the epitome of the Cut. There’s no shame in being a Pogue, no shame in fighting tooth and nail against a system designed to ass-fuck you on the daily, but there is shame in the Maybank House. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t convenient. Word got back to JJ a few days ago that Luke had been arrested again and the Chateau was as prohibido for hookups as can get, so this house with its peeling paint and decayed wood finally has a purpose other than a cage to lock JJ in.

JJ likes keeping his eyes open when he gives head. The best part is seeing what he can do to Rafe, how overwhelmed and flushed he can get. Back arched and the flat, stretched out planes of his body on display, JJ wishes he could capture this moment forever. He knows Rafe has some complex about his looks, always fixing his hair and checking himself in every reflective surface he comes across, but the guy’s got no idea he’s a walking Venus. JJ wants to tell him, but he shows him instead.

He’s got Rafe right where he wants him, panting and shuddering and just on the verge of bliss when the front door slams shut.

JJ jerks back and smacks his hand over Rafe’s mouth as the Cameron boy’s come splatters across his own belly. JJ’s gaze snaps to his shut bedroom door, his eyes shifting left and right. He tries to think through the blind panic suddenly skyrocketing through his already fucked nervous system, but it doesn’t make sense. Dad’s supposed to be in jail. No Maybank ever got arrested without seeing iron bars for at least six months. It could be a burglar, but there was nothing here of value to take. Rafe is frozen beneath him; the walls hold their breath.

“JJ? You here?” Luke’s voice doesn’t so much as echo through the house but ricochet off the walls, making JJ flinch. It hits him like a bullet, settling in the meat of his heart. There’s a way out of this, an escape route somewhere, JJ just has to find it.

“Window,” Rafe says, and JJ finally looks at him. He’s flushed and panting for entirely different reasons than before and instead of terror, he’s got that blank look that’s all survival instinct. JJ’s relieved by it, anchors himself to that calculating stare.

Shaking his head, JJ swallows thickly, the taste of Rafe still heady on his tongue. “Nailed shut,” He says in a hushed voice. “My bike’s out front. He knows I’m here.”

A crash makes them both jump like surprised cats.

“JJ! Come the fuck out! Your dad’s a free man!” Luke calls down the hall, followed by a laugh like out of tune piano keys. JJ jolts back on his heels and stands. He knows better than to make his father wait. The longer they hide in here, the higher the likelihood of Luke coming to search for his son. Frantically grappling on the floor for fabric he recognizes, he finds his clothes and hurls Rafe’s at him. After throwing on his shirt, JJ runs his hands through his tousled hair. “I got a plan,” He says while Rafe dresses, his words as rapid as his breathing. He rubs at his chest to will his heart to calm the fuck down, but the damn thing ain’t listening. “The back door’s busted -- he’ll hear it. Just- Just let me go out there and distract him. If I get him into the kitchen, you can go out the front.” Rafe’s barely got his shirt on when JJ takes him by the shoulders and hauls him to his feet. “Tell me you’re listening, Cameron.”

Despite Rafe’s blank look, he’s trembling. JJ can smell his fear, as much as he’s trying to hide it, but the nod he gives him is response enough..

“Five minutes,” JJ assures him with a squeeze of his shoulders. He turns then and forces his features into a bored expression before opening his bedroom door. He’s lied to Luke before, pretended to be straight when he was blazed out of his mind, skirted around flunked classes and calls from school. He can do this. Easy peasy.

The hallway’s thankfully vacant. JJ hears movement from the living room and puts one foot before the other, following the noise. Luke must be on the couch, JJ can hear the springs whine under sturdy weight as he ventures closer to the living room. He passes dusty picture frames, askew where they hang on the wall from Luke’s hand shooting out to steady himself. JJ’s found him face down in this very hall more times than he can count. Turning the corner, JJ is face to face with his father.

Luke hasn’t shaved in a few days, his cheeks dusted with that greying bristle. He looks to be in a good mood, and history tells JJ to be on guard. The worst ideas Luke had ever had always came consequent to that rare excitement. He knows he should say something, but he can’t make the words out. It’s not about Rafe anymore, but the smile his father is wearing. Stretched thin, hungry.

Luke pats the seat next to him. “My boy! Get over here, spend some time with your old man. Need a bit of normalcy,” He says, and JJ’s chest starts buzzing again. Light is streaming through the thin yellow curtains, painting the living room the color of nicotine and highlighting the microscopic flurries in the air. Dust and dead skin float about like powdered sugar. “You would not believe what happened to me.”

JJ moves towards the kitchen, praying Luke gets his ass off the couch soon. He can’t look back down the hall to see if Rafe’s still in the bedroom, his eyes glued to his father out of habit. “Yeah, about that,” JJ says. He leans against the entryway to the kitchen, grips the chipped wood trim. His thumb nail scratches at the paint, digging in. “Heard you got picked up.” Luke laughs, but there’s a shadow in his eyes that makes JJ’s hackles rise. The urge to run is as innate as breathing, but JJ manages to shove it down. “Dumb fucks didn’t have a thing on me. They just held me for a few days while they tried to find something to pin on me. Your Dad’s as clean as a whistle,” Luke says as he stretches out on the couch, his arm resting on the back of it. He looks at his son, and JJ sees the moment that excitement veers straight into disappointment. “That’s why you’re here, huh? ‘Cause I’m not supposed to be? That hurts, kid. That hurts.”

JJ looks away, clenching his jaw against the wave of guilt that wraps itself around his chest. Why the fuck would he want to be here, surrounded by useless crap and a life unlived? But Dad’s been here alone, like he has all his life. A sad man in a sad house, both decomposing at the same rate. JJ chews on the inside of his cheek, bracing himself against warring emotions. He wants to beg Luke for forgiveness as much as he wants to leap across the cluttered coffee table and attack him. “I’ll make something to eat, yeah?” He manages to croak. “Come pop a seat at la mesa.”

Luke doesn’t move. He’s smiling again, and somehow that’s worse. “Nah, nothin’ in there anyway,” He says, and pats the space beside him again. “C’mere, JJ. Give your old man some time.”

JJ has to dig his nails into the skin of his palm to keep from looking back down the hallway. Dad’s on the side of the couch facing the hall, which means if JJ can just make sure Luke’s front stays turned towards him, he won’t see Rafe leaving out the front door. It’s an imperfect, risky plan more likely to fail than succeed, but he can tell Luke’s offer isn’t a request.

It’s a demand.

The walk to the sofa takes hours and seconds all at once. JJ blinks and he’s there, being pulled down onto his seat by Luke who puts his arm around his son’s shoulders. It should be nice, JJ knows it should, but his skin itches all over. Dad smells like cigarettes and heat and his hand is dry and calloused where he’s gripped JJ’s bicep. The couch is small and low, forcing them to sit hip-to-hip. No matter how much he tries to lean to the side and make space, his father’s hold is unforgiving.

“You’re still a kid, JJ. You’re still my kid.”

JJ’s staring at the bottle of pills on the table, toppled over on its side. He knows if he examined the label, it wouldn’t be Luke’s name he’d find. What a way to celebrate.

“I’ve been thinking about you. Not much else to do when you’re packed like sardines in a cell,” Luke says, turning inwardly to press his forehead to JJ’s temple. His hand raises to JJ’s head, rugged fingers threading through his wild thicket of hair. “When’s the day gonna come that you leave me for good, huh?

“Dad, don’t-”

“That’s what you do, kid. You’re a leaver, a runner. All my effort raisin’ you for nothin’.”

JJ grimaces and feels his heart lurch. He can’t do this, can’t breathe. Every word his father speaks settles on his skin like coarse wool in the middle of summer. He wants to wipe at his face, lift the accusations from his skin, but he can’t move.

“I’m not going anywhere, Dad,” JJ says, staring at his hands in his lap. He toys with the ratty strings that hang from his woven bracelets, twisting them around his finger until the bone aches and his skin turns purple. “I’ve just been with-”

“I know who you’ve been with.”

JJ seizes up, but his trepidation melts into noxious consolidation as his father continues.

“Those friends of yours,” Luke grumbles, digging his forehead into JJ’s temple. His nose is against JJ’s cheek, making JJ break a sweat. Can he smell Rafe’s cologne on his skin, sniff out the acts that had been so unfairly interrupted? “Useless little street rats, just like you.” It’s an old argument, one that JJ really isn’t in the mood to revisit. “Dad, I-”

Luke tightens his hold in JJ’s hair and yanks his head back. JJ can just barely shift his gaze to look at his father and sees a blur of fury. “Don’t talk back to me, JJ,” Luke warns, his voice low. “You’re ruining my good time.”

It takes a beat, but Luke finally releases his grip. JJ’s head falls forward with a wince, a pounding ache already forming behind his eyes. His skin feels tight, suffocating. There’s no air in the room, just Luke’s breath and his free hand, all over JJ now like he’s trying to rub life back into him. It makes sense when Luke takes hold of JJ’s wrist and moves the boy’s hand to his crotch. JJ goes limp and tense all at once as he calculates the risk in resisting. He hasn’t moved his hand and Luke’s grip tightens, dirty nails boring into his skin. His father must be tired of their foreplay.

“Make it up to me, kid. Show me why I haven’t kicked you to the curb yet.”

“I can’t,” JJ wheezes and attempts to jerk away, but Luke’s got his hand in a vice grip. In a flash the hand in JJ’s hair is now an arm around his throat, cutting off air.

“Do it, boy,” Luke orders through grit teeth. The headlock’s got JJ’s head swimming as he tries to suck in air. His cheeks feel as hot as an iron, the rest of his body numb. “I won’t ask twice.”

Tears leak from the corner of JJ’s eyes as he blinks, his jaw clenched tight. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before and nothing he won’t do again. His hands are shaking as he reaches for his father’s belt, clumsily unbuckling it. The zipper is easier, but it still feels like he’s moving in slow motion, like he’s swimming through honey.

Breathe in. Out. In. Out.

Dad’s arm relaxes just a fraction as JJ pulls out his dick. Half hard and swelling quick, the prick is massive in his hand and slightly purple in hue. It pulses against his palm with Luke’s heartbeat, giving the illusion that it’s some disconnected organ with its own sentience, a naked critter JJ had found in the backyard and brought inside for inspection.

It doesn’t take effort to move his hand how his father likes it, twisting his wrists on the upstroke. The motion is practiced, hardwired. He could do this blind. Luke leans back against the couch, his head turned towards his son and rewards the boy with groans of approval. It’s the closest thing to appreciation JJ will ever get.

JJ’s got his bottom lip between his teeth, ripping away skin as he keeps his attention on his hand, up and twist and down, up and twist and down. Luke’s breathing is fast and hot, trembling beside him and gripping his hand. JJ’s not good at much, but he’s good at this.

Luke’s arm around his neck relaxes a fraction more, and JJ heaves great gasping breaths through his teeth as air whooshes down his windpipe. The blur clears from his eyes, and in trying to focus he raises his gaze. The front door’s still shut. The living room is still in clunky disarray. Rafe is standing at the mouth of the hallway.

Rafe.

JJ doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there, staring at them, and he doesn’t want to. Bile rises up his throat, making him choke around his father’s headlock. He keeps moving his hand, squeezing and stroking the way he’s been trained. And Rafe keeps staring. He looks like a mannequin, stiff and expressionless, but even from across the room JJ can see his eyes.

Dead.

JJ searches for rage or disgust in that handsome face, but all he’s met with is Rafe’s unfeeling gaze. It rips JJ open more than anything, more than the knowledge that Rafe has been given front row tickets to JJ’s deepest shame. Everyone knows about the beatings and broken bones, but no one knows about this. Now Rafe has the reason for JJ’s interest, the missing piece that has been hanging over their hookups since the beginning.

JJ could smell Ward on him, and now Rafe will forever smell Luke on JJ.

Luke is close, JJ can tell by the way his father’s got his face buried in JJ’s hair and gasping. He sounds pained and JJ moves his hand faster, harder, praying his heart gives out and this can be over with. JJ tries to motion to the front door with his eyes, urging Rafe to get the fuck out while he can, but Rafe isn’t moving.

When he finally does step out from the shadows, JJ sees the crowbar in his hand. He must have picked it up in the hall, left by Luke at some point along with everything else. Step by step, Rafe nears the couch, those porcelain doll eyes of his never once wavering from the scene before him. Panic and need surge through JJ like rolling lightning, making him pant from the intensity of it. It would be so easy to let Rafe smash in his father’s skull. JJ can already feel the blood splatter across his face, taste brain matter. One swing and none of this will matter anymore. One swing and JJ will never have to do this again.

But this is his father. Luke had raised him, taught him to walk and ride a bike, saved him from closet monsters and left candy under his pillow after every lost tooth. He’s not some inhuman thing to exterminate, but a sad, angry man. He is JJ’s blood, his only blood. Rafe’s got family and money and a future, but all JJ has is this house of flies and regret.

Shaking his head as subtly as he can, JJ blinks back tears as he mouths the word No, and finally an emotion cracks through Rafe’s mask. JJ watches as he stops in the middle of the living room, his brow furrowed in confusion. He watches as that confusion shifts, transforms into a rage far more chilling than the numb void he had first encountered.

Luke’s moaning now, gripping JJ as hard as he can as his hips buck up against his son’s hand, and for a split second JJ knows Rafe won’t listen. He’s expecting the crowbar to come slicing through the air, for his father’s pleasure to be his final memory of him, but then Rafe turns. He’s out the door as quickly and silently as possible, the click of the latch silenced by the sound of Luke’s orgasm.

In a splash of white, it’s over.

JJ wipes his hand on the stained upholstery and yanks himself out of his father’s grip. He’s bolting as fast as he can; now that his duty is done, Luke doesn’t try to stop him. Skull pounding with every step, JJ’s out the door before he can blink. He needs to get away, make as much space between him and Dad as fast as he can. He starts walking without direction, figuring he’ll end up at the Chateau eventually. He’s too fucked in the head to turn back for his bike, but John B can pick it up later. Every inch of JJ is on fire and he tugs at his hair, still chewing on his lip like a teething infant. It feels like he’s at the top of a rollercoaster and any second he’ll come barreling down.

But the drop doesn’t come, just that horrible anticipation of being suspended in air.

*

Rafe starts running the second he shuts the door behind him, throwing the crowbar in the dead grass. He can’t get the images out of his head no matter how fast he sprints away from the Maybank house. All he sees is JJ, crying as he jerks off Luke, his red, puffy face trapped in Luke’s arm. The need to turn back and kill the fucker is still present and Rafe has to bash the impulse away with every step. He doesn’t get why JJ stopped him. He doesn’t get why he listened.

He doesn’t get how Luke can do that to his own son.

It wasn’t like Ward, who Rafe came to first, who had to be convinced. It wasn’t careful and quiet and consoling. It was forced. Brutal.

After two or so blocks, Rafe stops to vomit into someone’s weed-infested lawn, uncaring if the homeowner comes out to scold him. He doesn’t have a handle on himself, can’t make sense of his own thoughts. In his left ear is Luke’s revolting groans of pleasure, in his right is endless screaming.

It isn’t until his retching stops that Rafe realizes the screaming was him. Spitting one last time into the grass, Rafe straightens and wipes his mouth, his eyes. He didn’t think about the consequences when he saw JJ like that. He didn’t think about a dead body he would have to get rid of or blood he would have to clean. He hadn’t thought anything at all, except that JJ was being hurt and he had to stop it.

The realization hits Rafe like a brick to the face and he rubs at his brow, desperate to calm his erratic emotions. Man up, his father would say. It doesn’t matter that you nearly killed a man in his own home. It doesn’t matter that JJ’s been his dad’s bitch for who knows how long. Just get to the car and go home, forget it ever happened. Forget it ever happened. Forget it ever happened. Forget it ever happened.

Rafe spots JJ and all that bullshit goes out the window.

JJ passes him, but Rafe’s on his ass in two strides. He snatches JJ by the shoulder and yanks him back to face him. In an instant they’re nearly chest-to-chest and Rafe’s stomach drops to his knees. JJ’s is still red-faced and puffy, his eyes swollen from fighting tears. His mouth is pinched, his bottom lip bloody from how much skin he’s bitten off. And his neck. That soft neck that Rafe has kissed and bitten and buried his face in has become a graveyard of dark, irritated bruises.

The sight makes Rafe want to vomit all over again.

JJ jerks his shoulder in Rafe’s grip. “Get the fuck off me!” He barks, shoving Rafe away.

But Rafe doesn’t budge, unable to take his eyes off the mass of still-forming bruises that encircle JJ’s neck. “Why did you make me stop?” He snaps, his anger mounting all over again. Instead of hot he feels cold, like his whole body is numb. Like he’s capable of anything. “You have a problem and I could've fixed it! One fucking swing and you're a free man!”

JJ steps forward and shoves Rafe again, this time hard enough to make him stumble back. JJ’s not crying anymore, but he's still shaking. Even his words come out wobbly. Rafe feels dizzy from it, caught off balance. “How about I pay Big Daddy a visit instead?” JJ says, his tone mocking. “One swing and you're a free man, yeah?”

Rafe surges forward and grabs JJ by the jaw. JJ doesn’t even flinch, just stares him down, and Rafe hates him for it. “Shut your goddamn mouth,” Rafe threatens, his hold on JJ's mandible tightening. Finally the Pogue squirms, and Rafe releases him in turn.

“What's the difference, Rafe?” JJ asks as he rubs the ache from his face. Rafe backs up, not liking that look in JJ's eyes. It's too knowing, too intimate. He feels naked under that gaze, like JJ can see right through him. “What's the difference between what you saw back there and what Ward does to you?”

Rafe doesn’t have an answer for him.

Against his better judgement, Rafe drives JJ to John B's place. Other than giving directions, the ride is silent. He runs a red-light at some point, nearly swerves into a passing car. Everything still feels scattered and Rafe can't quite catch up. When he sneaks a glance at JJ, the kid looks … gone. He's always so annoyingly hyper, so goofy even when they fuck, that it's weird to see him subdued. It's irritating, like an itch Rafe can't reach.

It all feels like a bad acid trip by the time Rafe is pulling into the driveway of what JJ bizarrely referred to as The Chateau. He's vaguely worried about whomever might be inside spotting him, but not enough to throw JJ out the car and drive off. The human thing would be to apologize, Rafe's pretty sure, but he doesn't feel guilty for what he almost did. What he wanted very, very badly to do.

Rafe puts his car in park and tenses his fingers around the wheel, squeezes the leather until his knuckles turn white. “Don't go back there,” He says, and looks over at John B's house. “You could live here, couldn't you?”

JJ sighs and Rafe catches him rubbing at his neck in his periphery. “You're a lot of things, Cameron, but you're not dumb,” He says, his words heavy in a way that makes Rafe want to rip him apart and put him back together until he resembles the boy Rafe remembers. He sighs again, exaggerating this time. “Fine, how about we make a deal. I'll leave when you do.”

JJ gets out of the car then, slamming the door shut behind him. Against his better judgement, Rafe watches him go up the driveway and disappear into the Chateau before taking off for Tannyhill.

It’s the most tempting offer Rafe’s ever been given.

[brother-father]

𝑊𝐻𝐸𝑅𝐸 𝑂𝑈𝑅 𝑆𝐸𝐶𝑅𝐸𝑇𝑆 𝐺𝑂

burn and shine ch. 9/? explicit; jj maybank x rafe cameron; implied/referenced childhood sexual abuse, implied/referenced drug addiction, implied/referenced eating disorders, anal sex, praise kink, first time bottoming, sharing a bed

The hotel room is below freezing, but Rafe’s skin is on fire.

read on ao3

Pick your pockets full of sorrow And run away with me tomorrow June We'll try and ease the pain But somehow we'll feel the same Well, no one knows Where our secrets go

The hotel room is below freezing, but Rafe’s skin is on fire. JJ can barely cool him down, his lips and tongue working overtime to keep him from boiling over. JJ’s suspected for a while that Rafe’s trying to kick his habit, and his up and down temperature, all around shitty mood, and stomach problems are just some of the signs JJ’s noticed. He doesn’t intend to talk to him about it, knowing from experience how poking that bear even encouragingly could lead to a backslide.

But they are talking again.

And fucking again.

And JJ can’t get enough of him.

Since returning to their regularly scheduled hookups, they’re like cats in heat. JJ knows it’s likely a distraction technique on Rafe’s part, and he’ll gleefully take advantage. Besides, how could he deny Rafe at all? Especially when he bought them a hotel room for the night. Not a shitbox pay-by-the-hour room on the Cut, but a decent hotel with a ruffles on the sheets and a bathroom full of little shampoos and soaps that JJ pocketed as soon as they got here. It’s a classy move, and JJ wants to repay him however he can.

He’s got Rafe pressed down against the mattress, his soft, freckled skin slick with sweat and JJ’s spit from the feverish, open-mouthed kisses JJ’s making. It took a little longer than normal to get Rafe hard, so JJ’s still got his hand on him, working him until Rafe’s a gasping mess clawing at the stainless sheets beneath him. JJ brought what Rafe requested, the bottle of lube standing unceremoniously on the nightstand. He’s going slow, which for JJ is near torture, but he knows this is what Rafe needs. The guy’s still twisted up in knots, tense and clenching.

“This was your idea, you know,” JJ says as he pulls back to study his handiwork. Rafe looks absolutely devoured, all flush-faced and covered in red, fiery marks left by JJ’s teeth. He keeps stroking Rafe lazily with one hand as his other cards through Rafe’s hair, pushing the fallen strands from his eyes. “You gotta relax. No heavy vibes, remember?”

JJ’s a little breathless and painfully hard at this point, his cock dripping where it’s resting on Rafe’s thigh, but he won’t give up how badly he wants it. Rafe doesn’t get to have that, doesn’t get to know just how crazy he makes JJ feel.

“Not … helping …” Rafe manages to groan out, though it gets a little garbled when JJ leans forward again to circle his tongue around Rafe’s nipple.

“Oh, I’m supposed to be helping?” JJ teases, blinking his eyes up at Rafe as he runs his thumb along Rafe’s slit. The gasp that shoots out of him and the way he arches his back goes straight to JJ’s dick. “You never said anything about helping.”

Rafe’s hand lifts, goes to JJ’s face. JJ doesn’t mean to lean into the touch, but he does, his eyes falling shut as Rafe’s palm travels over his cheek. A second later he’s gripping JJ’s hair and drawing him in, smashing their lips together. It’s messy and Rafe keeps sucking JJ’s bottom lip like he wants to rip it off, but fuck if it hasn’t got JJ riled up and grinding against Rafe’s hip. They stay like that a while, so Rafe won’t notice that JJ’s got an arm extended, grappling blindly for the lube. When he finally grasps it, he makes quick work with deft digits. Undoubtedly he makes a mess on the table trying to slick his fingers with one hand, but the job gets done.

Rafe’s whimpering from the loss of contact, but all that goes away the second JJ slips his hand down between his legs. JJ sighs, his forehead pressed to Rafe’s as he spreads Rafe apart and teasingly traces his opening. There’s that shaky inhale every time the guy breathes, that tremble that tells JJ that Rafe’s thinking of Ward. It’s another thing they don’t talk about, but the shadow hangs around in the background whenever they’re together.

JJ had it easy, because Luke never fucked him. Only his mouth and hands are unclean.

“Breathe,” JJ instructs, and Rafe gives him a little nod. Rafe’s hands are gripping JJ’s sides, holding onto his skin with enough force to bruise. He looks so determined, his brows knotted together at the center. JJ can’t help but feel a little proud.

JJ goes slow -- agonizingly, horrifically slow -- at such odds with the blistering, hurried way they usually consume each other, but eventually something begins to loosen inside Rafe. The tension in his long lemur limbs ebbs away little by little until he’s putty in JJ’s masterful hand. He’s milking Rafe just for the fun of it now, fascinated by the pained, needy noises dribbling past his lips every time JJ’s fingers brush his prostate.

Still, that little worm keeps inching across the walls of JJ’s brain. Has Ward ever seen his son like this? Has he ever taken the time? Was he ever gentle? Loving?

Batting the thoughts away like sticky cobwebs, JJ focuses back on Rafe before he loses his hard on. Rafe’s ribs are catching the light as he sprawls out, his arms raised as he fists his own hair. He’s lost weight, a decent amount, but JJ’s not disgusted by it. Quite the opposite, the flat planes of him look lithe, seductive. He looks breakable, and JJ’s eager to test the limits.

Working his hand faster, deeper, JJ builds up to a punishing rhythm that’s got Rafe squirming and shaking beneath him. It’s the hottest thing JJ’s ever seen and he doesn’t care about getting off anymore, just wants to stay in this moment forever and lose himself in Rafe’s nubile anatomy.

“There you go, take it,” JJ pants as the last of Rafe’s resistance bleeds out. Rafe’s eyes finally open, the blue of his irises swallowed by his pupils. It’s JJ’s favorite look on him, high with pleasure. “Good boy.”

Rafe shudders and throws his head back. It takes a second, but once he’s got control over himself again he pushes himself up on unsteady elbows and snatches JJ by the back of his neck. That pretty face of his is twisted into a lustsick scowl and JJ feels warm all over at the sight. “Shut up and fuck me already,” He spits, urgent and demanding in that junkie way of his.

JJ pulls out his fingers and Rafe hisses at the loss, falling back against the mattress. JJ grabs the lube and slicks himself, unable to hold back his smirk at the way Rafe stares at him with equal amounts of terror and hunger.

Wiping his hands on the sheets, JJ takes Rafe by his legs and lifts them, presses his knees towards his chest. He’s gotta be open and relaxed to take what’s being offered, JJ’s size not to be underestimated. But before he’s got Rafe’s heels on his shoulders Rafe jerks.

“Wait, fuck, stop stop stop!” Rafe gasps and clutches his hamstrings. JJ’s eyes go wide and releases Rafe in an instant, his hands held out in surrender. “It’s my knees,” Rafe says, and carefully stretches out his stick-bug limbs until his legs are where JJ wants them. “Careful with my joints, asshole. I’m not a Barbie doll.”

JJ quirks an eyebrow, pausing to run his gaze over the length of Rafe. It’s a conversation for another day, so JJ lets it slide. “Debatable,” He quips, and lines himself up.

When their bodies finally come together, when JJ plunges into the warm depth of Rafe’s body, time stops. It’s an old cliche, but JJ feels it to the core of him. Inch by inch, Rafe accepts everything JJ gives until he’s bottomed out, enveloped in slick warmth. It’s miraculous and mundane all at once, their bodies just … fit.

Rafe’s not fighting anymore, but he’s not gone all dead fish either. He’s working JJ as much as JJ’s working him, pushing his hips to meet each of JJ’s thrusts with his hand on JJ’s ass to keep him close. Waves of pleasure crash through JJ, his neglected and oversensitive cock finding its retirement home in Rafe’s tight, perfect ass.

And then Rafe’s kissing him, his slender arms knotted around JJ’s neck. All JJ can move is his hips, rocking in and out of Rafe like the tide, but he doesn’t feel suffocated. He feels free, more than he ever has before.

“Oh, fuck,” JJ blurts out, already feeling that tingling under his skin, like someone’s set his nerves alight. He lets out a laugh, but it blurs into a moan when Rafe shifts just right. “Fuck, you’re good at this.”

The breathless chuckle Rafe manages in reply becomes JJ’s new favorite sound.

~~

In the morning, JJ doesn’t know where he is at first. He blinks up blearily at a ceiling he doesn’t recognize as his brain chugs along to catch up to the waking world. Surprisingly, he slept like the dead, no bad dreams or anything. No dreams at all, actually. When his senses finally click into place, JJ registers sound and the warmth of a body beside him and turns his head.

Oh.

Rafe’s sleeping on his stomach with his cheek smushed into the pillow. That deviated septum of his makes him snore, but graciously it's not too loud to be grating. He looks like a kid with his arms tucked under his pillow and JJ knows he probably shouldn’t, but he snags his phone and takes a picture of Rafe anyway. He’s allowed a memento, surely.

By the time he’s settled back against the mattress, the plush sheets and Rafe’s rhythmic snoring is like a siren’s call JJ can’t resist. He shuts his eyes and lets himself drift off again, distantly aware of the fact he hasn’t slept beside anyone since he and John B got too big to share a twin bed.

It’s kind of nice.