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Quarterdecked

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Quarterdeck – Marines-specific punishment. A special place in the barracks where soldiers are sent to do an extreme amount of physical exercises, all under the direct supervision of a drill instructor.


It’s whatever, you know. 

Fuches probably does know what’s best for him, what he needs. After all, he was the only person who actually managed to get Barry out of his funk when he came home. 

A lot of times when people think of soldiers returning from overseas, they picture those viral videos that pop up on Twitter and Ellen. Someone’s dad popping out of a Christmas present or running onto the field during a baseball game, their kid or wife immediately bursting into tears. Everyone hugs, everyone claps, everyone shares the video with a bunch of heart emojis. 

Getting off the plane at Hopkins and immediately collapsing into bed for a month is not the kind of thing they put on Ellen. Neither is forgetting to shower, letting take-out boxes pile up around him, and staying up all night because he can’t sleep when it’s dark out. He finally ignores one too many phone calls from his mom – your father would be so ashamed to see you acting like this – and she sends Fuches after him. He breaks into his apartment (Barry may have just left the front door unlocked for easier pizza delivery access) and starts fucking with all the blinds, letting scorching daylight into his bedroom. 

“Okay, get up, kid,” He says loudly, and Barry just curls into a tighter ball under his comforter. Fuches rips it off him, and Barry sits up indignant, suddenly freezing in boxers and a t-shirt. “Time to stop being sick.” 

“The fuck you want,” he mumbles. Fuches grabs a pair of jeans and throws them at Barry’s face with more force than is really necessary. 

“Get up. We’re going to the gun range. That’ll be fun, right?”

It doesn’t feel good, exactly, getting dragged down to the same gun range in Cuyahoga Heights his dad and Fuches used to take him to when he was a teenager, firing off a few rounds. But it feels like something. Even if it’s just muscle memory that gets him a bulls-eye every single time, it's a change to smell powder residue and metal instead of the stale air in his apartment, his own sweat.

“You’re good, see?” Fuches says triumphantly, running up behind and squeezing Barry’s waist as he drops the handgun on the counter, pushing his yellow safety glasses up in his hair. “You’re gonna be fine. Just need someone to give you a little discipline.”

And he’s right, he thinks. He did get out of bed that day, and the next. Takes a shower and eats something that’s not from McDonald’s. And Fuches is there, telling him all about how he doesn’t have to go back to school and learn a trade, doesn't have to work at a fro-yo shop and try to survive on minimum wage and his military stipend. 

“You don’t have to change a single thing about who you are,” he says, grinning, and Barry can see his gold tooth glinting in the dim light of his apartment.

So he goes along with it. The new job, the hits, spending forty-five weeks of the year in motels and on planes. It’s always somewhere remote, cold and nowhere. He gets better at sleeping at night, even if he wakes up a few times, only calming back down when he hears Fuches' wheezy breath across the room. He wishes he had someone's hand to hold in the dark.

There’s a problem at a job a few months in. It's in Keystone, eighty miles outside of Denver. They get the wrong intel on when the mark is coming home, and Barry comes gun-to-face with his wife instead. There is screaming and running and the police catch up with Barry six miles down the road. With a few well placed, badly-accented phone calls from Fuches, they manage to convince the local PD Barry has just come from lunch with co-workers in the opposite direction, and look, he had no weapons on him. Nice white guy, just walking down the side of the highway. They let him go.

When he gets back to the hotel, Fuches is spitting mad. 

“This isn’t going to work if you make stupid mistakes like this!” He said, slamming one of the burner phones down on the counter.

“You gave me bad fucking info! Isn’t making sure I don’t take out someone’s goddamn wife supposed to be your job? The only part of your job?” Barry is exhausted and his nerves are frayed from being interrogated and he pushes Fuches a little, something he's usually too timid to do. It’s barely at 5% of his actual strength, and Fuches doesn't even stumble backwards. It shouldn’t do anything, but as he turns to stalk away, Fuches catches his wrist.

“Don’t fucking speak to me like that,” he growls. Barry doesn’t turn around, tries to breathe in and out, tries to resist the urge to snap Fuches’ arm back like a twig. “You’re gonna fucking behave or we’re going to have a problem, you little shit.”

He smacks Barry’s ass hard and Barry lets out an involuntary little noise, a verbal wince. It’s not a whimper. He’s a Marine, Marines don’t whimper. 

Fuches notices, because he is nothing if not observant. He twists Barry around to face him by tugging on his wrist, and he does, face already going pink. Fuches grins that gold smile again, a cat who ate the killer canary. “Not so tough now, huh? Okay, smartass, are you going to shut up and do your job?”

“Yes,” Barry sighs, looking down at his feet.

“Ah-ah, what was that?”

Barry shifts his jaw, grinding his molars together. “Yes, sir. ” 

“Good,” Fuches nods, and rests his free hand, the one he'd just used to spank him, on the back of Barry’s neck. Not closed around it, just stroking the skin with his calloused fingers. He's strong enough to do it, if he wanted to. Barry's strong enough to break every bone in his hand, if he wanted to. But neither of them do. They just stand there, inches apart, staring. “That’s my good boy.”

Before anyone can think about how to get out of this, he’s pushed Barry flat on his back on the hotel’s mattress, fumbling with the buttons Barry’s jeans, then the belt on his own slacks. Barry feels dizzy, but not sure if that’s a good reaction or a bad symptom or maybe just surprise.

It’s been a long, long time since he’d slept with anyone, since he was on two days leave, almost three years ago. Rosa. She’d been an embedded reporter for the Washington Post in Sanjin, and as soon as the pillow talk started, she asked what exactly his unit was doing in the area. What he did. Her tone was pointed and her eyes were sharp. He slipped out of her bed before she could double-check what his name was. 

He didn’t think anyone would want to touch him like this, anymore. After what he’d done. But someone did. So what if it's just Fuches?

“There you go, fuck. Take it,” Fuches gasps, and Barry wraps his legs around his midsection a little tighter, letting Fuches inside of him more deeply, lets him suck a hard red spot onto his neck. “Who do you answer to? Who's taking care of you?”

There’s that feeling again, the second cousin of good. Of being useful, of having a purpose.

“You, sir,” he manages, and Fuches’ puts a hand on his thigh to brace himself. It’s a strange, almost gentle gesture. A soft touch. It isn’t long before he’s coming down the front of his own legs.

And so he starts sleeping with his dad’s old friend. Well, not sleeping. Fucking. It would make his father furious, which is a little gem he can toss into the meager pile of PROS he has in a life weighed down by a mountain of CONS. Berkman’s son getting on his hands and knees in hotel rooms across the country. Your father would be so ashamed to see you acting like this. At least he's acting.

They don’t talk about what they’re doing. It’s not like it happens every time Fuches goes with him on a hit. Only if one of them is agitated. Even if nothing goes wrong, sometimes the weather is shitty, or the client wasn’t quick enough to pay, or sometimes Fuches had a headache and Barry was feeling more despondent than usual. 

There was almost always a fight beforehand, sometimes it got physical. Barry knew two guys in his unit like that. Walker and Martinez, who shoved and swore at each other more than anybody else, but Albert was convinced they were fucking whenever they got a room alone. 

“I know you’re some innocent Ohio farm boy–” He said, waving his arms around the way he always did when he was in Conspiracy Theory mode.

“Fuck you,” Barry laughed, eyes still scanning the perimeter through his scope.

“But I’m from New York, okay? I’m fucking sophisticated, and I can tell you? That shit’s some messed up foreplay,” Albert said, lighting a cigarette, and Barry had rolled his eyes. 

If Albert could see him now, punching Fuches in the jaw and then getting shoved up the wall and spanked for his troubles, before they tore towards the bed like a tornado. The thought makes him burn. 

“Don’t give me that bashful school girl shit,” Fuches said, thrusting into him. He had tried to pin Barry’s wrists to the mattress, but that hadn’t gone well. Barry could still see the glistening red marks where his teeth had sunk into Fuches’ shoulder, knows it matches the red handprints on his thighs he got in response. 

“Sorry, sir.” He doesn’t call him Sir unless they’re in bed (and one humiliating time in front of a desk clerk, when Fuches put a hand on his lower back and told him to pick up the bags) but when he does it comes out automatically, natural as blinking. This is who I answer to.

He tries to stop thinking about Albert or any other military buddies seeing him like this, practically with his legs up over Fuches' shoulders. Tries to focus on the pleasure, the rhythm and fullness of getting fucked. There is pleasure, even though he’s mortified by it. If Marines don’t whimper, they definitely don’t get off to getting treated like someone’s bitch. 

“Who's your daddy?”

Okay, so he’s past mortification. So far past he can’t even see mortification in the rearview mirror. His own cock is filling out and he feels himself yielding to Fuches’, hitting that spot in side of him. The mattress is creaking loudly underneath him. His eyes go blurry for a second and he manages, squirming under a waiting gaze, “you are, sir.”

Fuches laughs. “I’m what? Use your words, kid."

Fuck, it’s disgusting, Barry’s disgusting for wanting this, for liking this.

“You’re my daddy,” he gets out through gritted teeth.

Fuches groans and squeezes his hips hard, manhandling him and throwing his weight to the side, so they both rolled over, Barry on top, in his lap and on his cock. Barry reflexively straightens his back. What? If the United States Armed Forces gave him anything, it’s very good posture. 

“Doing a little cowgirl, huh? Fuck, you’re a mess,” Fuches says, and Barry’s sure he is, face and eyes all red, hair fucked up. He reaches up and holds the side of Barry's face in that warm hand, cups his jaw. “Good boy. Come on. Do a good job for Daddy.”

Barry presses his fists against Fuches’ chest and rocks forward, getting used to the push and pull as he fucks himself down onto Fuches' cock. His core in taunt from the exertion, and half his body is sore, from fighting a mark down and getting punished and the general weight of all the days piling up on top of each other. He feels Fuches’ hips snapping up, close to coming inside of him. Barry tightens around him, screws his eyes shut, tries to keep up, no, fuck that, tries to win, win sex, can feel a release rising inside him 

“The fuck, Barry!” Fuches hisses. “You got jizz in my fucking eye!”

“Okay,” he says blandly. Doesn't open his eyes. Fuches grabs his waist, holding him in place while he finishes too. A reminder. A warning. Barry grimaces. "Okay, Daddy."

Fuches shudders and comes, and Barry rolls off him, makes himself stand and put on boxers, even though he feels like jelly, even though if he was in a normal relationship he’d just lie there and cuddle whoever he’d just had sex with. 

But he doesn’t have that. He probably doesn’t deserve that. He’s lucky he’s getting off regularly at all.

“You gonna go smoke?” Fuches asks, catching his breath. “Don’t stay out there too long, you’ll get a cold. Don’t want you missing any work.”

Barry doesn’t smoke, but if he explained his “staring into space” thing, Fuches would laugh in his face. He goes out onto the balcony of the hotel, looks out at the flat, unimpressive skyline of some ghost down in the Oklahoma panhandle. Tries to breathe in the crisp fall air. 

This is what he needs. It’s good. It’s fine. It’s whatever.