He strolls up the driveway, no car, no bag, just his phone in his back pocket and a squished ball of tin foil in the front. JJ is out on the porch, cracked vinyl of the outdoor couch scraping his thighs, and he hears the whistling from the street. He stands to attention. 

“I bring gifts,” he announces, pulling out the loot and waving it proudly, as if he needs a reason to be welcomed. 

It’s a synchronized routine from there. Rafe crushes the bud between his fingers and wipes the sticky dust on his jeans, then slides the tray over. JJ packs it in the resin-caked pipe and scrambles to find a single lighter on the table that still functions. The goods can only come from one shop, a rusted trailer with a door that doesn’t latch properly and a scuffed and seasoned owner. He thought he could smell the obnoxious cologne on his Lacoste.

JJ passes the unlit bowl to his guest politely. Obediently. The flame casts a yellow glow over Rafe’s face; the tip of his nose is illuminated, just like his soft lashes and the hollows of his cheeks as he pulls. Just like the purpling mark above his collarbone, peeking up above the hem of his shirt. 

So maybe they never put a label on it. He’s simply too bohemian for a partner, too flighty and claustrophobic for anything but the most tenuous of ties, and he waved away the conversation when Rafe brought it up. JJ regrets it now, of course; he forgot the kid’s petty streak. But come on. 

“You fucked Barry?” JJ asks, wants to spit it out with anger but it wavers. Slippery. It pisses him off all over again. 

Rafe shakes his head and presses his lips together in a lazy smile. “Nope.” Then he blows out the smoke.

It should’ve granted some relief, should’ve loosened the tightness in his chest. But he didn’t ask the right question, did he?

“You fucker—” JJ snaps and reaches back, like he’s gonna hit him, but Rafe holds his wrist in midair. 

“Not quite right.” He needs only one free arm to flip them both around, to slam JJ’s back against his couch with an oof. He finishes taking the hit and blows it out the side of his mouth. “He made me a good offer. Sorry.”

He doesn’t even try to actually sound it. Rafe straddles his thighs, so he leans down to kiss him, but JJ twists his head away and it lands on his cheek. 

“Aww, you’re sweet. Lemme get the other side.” JJ accidentally allows this when he thrashes around and provides access, then tries to spit on him but only a fine mist comes out. Damn cottonmouth. 

He finally has something to say, at least. “He made you a good offer? You’re a slut.”

JJ’s used the forbidden s-word around his friends before and rightfully received a hand up the back of his head for it, and he instinctively flinches as soon as it leaves his mouth. Fortunately Rafe has a much better sense of humor than his sister and just grins. 

“Guilty as charged,” he hums, drops down again to neck him. “C’mon, you know Barry’s shit ain’t free.”

A moan slips out of him when Rafe’s teeth catch his ear, and when he wriggles again to escape, Rafe sinks lower to slot their legs together even more snugly. “Ugh. You’ve got fuckin’ money.”

“I do have fuckin’ money,” he chuckles into JJ’s skin. “And it was still a good deal. What are you gonna do about it?”

His eyes flicker to the pipe in Rafe’s hand, to the delicate stream of smoke that rose from the cherry. “I won’t smoke your weed.”

Rafe laughs again, leaves the tiniest nibble on his throat. “My blood weed? Fine. I’ll smoke it for you.”

Duh, that’s what I said, JJ thinks, until he watches him light the bowl again and take a thick pull before bending down. Rafe plants his lips onto JJ’s, squeezes his jaw with his free hand, and forces his mouth open to blow into his mouth. It’s citrous, it’s sweet and rich, but it’s poker-hot and JJ has to suck in to keep his palate from burning. They seal together, Rafe pushing his tongue past his lips and licking out the taste. 

JJ whines in protest, muffled against Rafe’s face, and he finally pulls off. The silver wisps he exhales are an insult. “I hate you,” he bites, pretty lips covered in a sheen. 

“Mm, I bet,” Rafe hums and grinds down to press their cocks together. The pressure is enough to get his back arching, craving what he’s been waiting patiently for all day. Even if he throws a fit first. “You can hate me. But I’m not going anywhere.”

The bowl is abandoned on the table, only two hits deep, and Rafe always takes the easy way out when it comes to clothes. He keeps him pressed against the couch, yanks down his shorts, doesn’t even lift his t-shirt before making him ride his fingers. Every step is interrupted by JJ’s coyish denials, his squirming and insisting he wants him to go home. Neither of them have time for it.

Rafe spits on his cock, strokes up and down to halfway lube himself up, and makes a flicker of eye contact that gives him one final chance to say no. For real. JJ nods imperceptibly. 

His knees press against his chest, a stretch that’s nothing compared to Rafe inside him. He’s fast, slamming down hard enough for the couch legs to squeak and the porch to occasionally harmonize. He would be embarrassed, if his old man stuck around long enough to hear their trysts through the thin walls. 

“You’re not mad at me for taking the deal,” Rafe tells him, thumb caressing his cheek so incongruous with his relentless fucking. 

How presumptuous. “Yes I a—ah!” he tries to argue, words dying when Rafe bottoms out again. And again, and again. 

“Shut up,” Rafe orders with no aggression. “You would’ve taken it, too. You wanna call me a slut?” He actually slows, makes JJ open his eyes and face him. “Yeah. Barry told me all about your arrangement with him.”

Fuck. It had been months. And he never—

“He never fucked me.”

Hand to God, he hadn’t. JJ might have taken a swing, in theory, but Barry never offered anything other than for him to sink to his knees and pay for his share with his mouth. Didn’t take a lot of convincing, either, just an alternative for when he couldn’t scrape together enough for a quad. His stomach sinks a little at the idea of their conversation earlier today, what led up to Rafe’s special treatment, but it’s really Barry’s that makes him sick. 

“Mhm. S’what I thought it was about,” Rafe hums. He rolls his hips forward until they hit JJ’s ass, cock milking his prostate, and he reaches out to dig his nails into Rafe’s forearm for stability. “You’re just mad I let him fuck me.”

They’d never discussed it, damn their shared haste. JJ keeps an open mind, he’ll play however his partner likes, but Rafe only ever liked it one way. Perhaps it’s all fair in the end; JJ only ever let Rafe have pieces of him, and now it’s mutual, but hearing who gets the rest of those pieces stings. He rubs salt in the wound, too.

“He’s good at it. You’d like it,” he notes. “Rough and dirty. Likes to leave marks, but you probably figured that out.”

He doesn’t want to think about that. He doesn’t want to imagine someone else getting to feel Rafe clench around him when he’s never gotten a taste himself. JJ musters the strength to choke out two words: “Fuck you.”

“Have you earned it?”

And goddamnit, that makes him moan. He throws his head back, digs his skull against the couch like he can get away from the pleasure, and Rafe keeps driving into him. Driving him back where he belongs, caged under him.

“No,” he admits, then cums all over his chest in spasming waves. He’s so loud, he hates himself, and tears pool in his eyes by the time he stops shaking. Rafe hasn’t finished yet, only just started; his thumb swipes away at the droplet that falls down the side of his face. JJ has a long night ahead of him.

“You haven’t,” Rafe agrees, slides out, back in until he cries. “But I think Barry and I can come up with some ways for you to get closer.”