Patrick is playing with a lighter on his front porch, making sure the neighbourhood kids remember why they shouldn’t make too much noise around his house, when Henry’s car pulls up. It’s a bit of a surprise. He’s already hung out with Henry today — well, traded handjobs, what’s the difference — so he hadn’t expected to see him until next week or so, when his desire to be slapped around and given orgasms overrides his self-hatred at his sexual preferences.
When Henry parks and gets out of the car, Patrick gets it.
Even from this distance, at night, he can see the bruises. The streetlight over his head casts his face in sickly yellow light, washing out the purple and black blossoming around his eyes. In the night, the blood running from his nose and dripping onto his shirt looks almost black.
“Talked back to your dad?” Patrick calls, because he knows the answer, and he’s getting really fucking sick of it.
Henry slams the door of the car and locks it, and comes up the path and onto the porch. This close, Patrick can see far more marks on him: what looks like roadburn on one arm, bruises all down both. The front of his shirt is ripped and splattered in blood. His nose is still dripping like a slow faucet, a drop every few seconds, splashing down onto his half-bare chest, his jeans, Patrick’s porch.
It’s disgusting. It’s exactly what Patrick loves to see, but not like this, and he’s getting really goddamn tired of Butch fucking Bowers being the one to make Henry bleed.
“Come on,” he says, because he knows why Henry is here. He shoves the lighter in his pocket and goes inside, Henry following like an obedient dog.
The upstairs is his, and that means the bathroom is untouched by his useless fucking parents, who are probably asleep in their downstairs bedroom at this 9:30 on a Friday night. It means he doesn’t worry at all about telling Henry to strip as he finds his first aid kit.
Henry had been surprised the first time he pulled it out. “ Thought you liked inflicting the pain, Hockstetter, not fixing it ,” Henry had said.
“ I like to stay alive long enough to inflict it again the next day ,” he’d replied. What he hadn’t told Henry back then was that sometimes he likes to inflict the pain on himself. Or get others to do it for him
Henry had learned, in time.
When he’s gotten the first aid kit ready, Henry has taken off his shirt and jeans and socks, and is sitting on the toilet lid in his boxers. In the harsh light of the bathroom, his face looks like even more of a mess. Butch usually fucks it up, but not this badly.
“I’m fucking telling you, man,” Patrick says as he rips open an alcohol wipe and tosses the package, “you’ve gotta fucking kill him. How long are you going to let him do this?”
At the word kill , a shudder runs through Henry’s whole body. He closes his eyes as Patrick approaches with the alcohol wipes, and winces soundlessly as Patrick starts to wipe at his face with it, making no attempt to be gentle. For the bloody nose, Patrick mops it up with a tissue. It’s not broken, at least. As far as he can tell, Butch knows better than to leave permanent damage. He tosses the tissue and first alcohol wipe, and grabs another one for Henry’s arm.
“I’m not going to kill him,” Henry says as Patrick turns him slightly and starts to scrub at the road rash, or whatever it is. It looked like Butch threw him out a car door. He doesn’t know and doesn’t really care, except that Butch has made Henry less functional, and he’s not a fan of that. Henry is only useful to him when he has a working mouth and hand.
“So let me do it,” Patrick says, and a shudder runs through Henry’s body again. It wouldn’t be especially notable, but Patrick happens to glance down at Henry’s boxers, and — “Wow, Bowers, is that getting you hard ? I knew you were a psycho, but not that much of one.”
“Fuck you,” Henry grits out through his clenched teeth. Patrick finishes cleaning up his arm, and a quick glance doesn’t show him anything else to clean. He grins as he grabs some gauze to wrap Henry’s arm. It’s always great when he finds something else to hold over Henry’s head.
“So, does the thought of me bashing your old man’s head in do it for you? What would you do if I came to you covered in his blood? Would you suck my cock while I told you how I did it?”
Henry is shaking a little, with rage or cold or both, and he’s definitely hard, now. Patrick finishes wrapping the gauze and, after a moment of consideration, drops to his knees in front of Henry.
“What the fuck,” Henry says, blinking down at him. He looks almost delirious from how swollen his eyes are.
“You know what to do,” Patrick says, fishing a knife out of his pocket and handing it to Henry. He’s pretty sure Henry is too fucked up to cut him right now, which is a shame, because this might be the hottest thing he’s done in recent memory, but it’ll have to be good enough without the additional pain. He pulls off his shirt and tosses it aside, and then pulls Henry’s boxers down to his ankles. Henry is fully hard, like he was earlier today. This is a cock Patrick’s had in his mouth, in his ass, in his hand too many times to count. None of which are actually acknowledged by Henry.
Patrick thinks Henry might have some issues.
Skipping the foreplay, Patrick takes Henry’s cock into his mouth, opening his throat and going all the way down. Henry thrusts up a little into his throat, a choking feeling that’s almost too good. One of Henry’s hands grips his hair, and he lets himself be guided on Henry’s cock. This is, theoretically, for him.
A couple minutes in, there’s a sharp spark of pain on Patrick’s shoulder, the tip of the knife digging into the flesh over the side of his collarbone. He was already half-hard, just from having a cock in his mouth, but the pain lighting up his nerves, the coppery smell of blood going from background to overwhelming, the feeling of it dripping down his arm — it’s enough to get him fully hard in moments. He sucks Henry’s cock for a few moments longer, and then pulls off, taking it into his hand and pumping it.
“Are you thinking about it?”
“What?” Henry frowns down at him.
“Me killing your dad,” Patrick says, and he’s sure he’s not imagining the way Henry’s cock jumps in his hand, a few drops of precome oozing out. “I’d do it for you. I’d never get caught and we could do whatever we want. I’d get him hammered and take a sledgehammer and smash his fucking skull in, let his brains paint his fancy fucking police car—”
Henry grunts, thrusts a couple of times into Patrick’s hand, and comes with a deep groan, his come splattering Patrick’s face and chest. His hand jerks and the knife goes deeper into Patrick’s shoulder as he comes, and Patrick presses a hand over his cock through his jeans, relieving some of the pressure.
“Fuck, Bowers,” he groans. “Come on.” Patrick grabs the knife from Henry’s limp fingers and stands up. He’s covered in blood and come and Henry is covered in wounds, his softening cock still out. Seems fitting for them, really. He grabs tight around Henry’s wrist and half-drags him into his bedroom.
Post-orgasm Henry is always loose and compliant. As loose and compliant as Henry ever gets, at least. It means that Patrick doesn’t encounter much resistance as he shoves Henry onto his bed and pulls his boxers off his ankle to toss them aside. He peels off his own clothes at record speed and joins Henry on the bed, kneeling between his spread legs.
They don’t do this often, but last time was only a week or so ago, so Henry isn’t as tight as he sometimes is when Patrick works a finger inside him. He doesn’t bother lubing Henry up, just his own cock, a couple squirts into his hand that he spreads down the shaft. Henry’s head lolls on his shoulders, dizzy from pain or post-orgasm, as Patrick hitches up one leg and slides inside in one motion.
Henry grunts in something like pain as Patrick buries himself to the hilt. He’s never gentle, and he’s not going to start now, so he doesn’t wait for Henry to adjust to him, just starts thrusting. Henry’s cock, still splattered in his own come, starts to wake up again, and Henry’s eyes flutter as he starts to move with Patrick, his hips in sync with Patrick’s.
It’s these moments, when Henry shuts up and isn’t pretending that there’s nothing gay about them fucking, that Patrick likes the best.
Patrick’s not going to last, he knows — the blood still running down his shoulder, Henry’s come on his face, and the fantasies of violence have ensured that. As he speeds up, he leans in close to Henry’s ear, and says, “Are you imagining it?”
Henry blinks at him, eyes hazy beneath the bruises. “What?”
“Me killing him,” he says, and he’s definitely not imagining the way Henry clenches around him. Fuck . “How would you want me to do it? I could shoot him, but that’s not personal enough. Maybe a spiked baseball bat, crushing his skull against the concrete. Or choking him with my bare hands and watching him die.”
Henry tries, weakly, to push him away. Patrick bats his hand away and fucks him harder, deeper, until his eyes roll back in his head and his cock brushes Patrick’s stomach, hard again. Blood and gore are all Patrick can think of. A mutilated corpse in a flaming car, blood on his hand and knife.
“Would you watch me?” Patrick whispers when he’s on the edge, so close he can taste it. Henry whimpers. Patrick didn’t even realize Henry could do that. “Do you wanna see what his brains look like on the gravel? Wanna keep a piece of his skull and wear it as a necklace? Do you want him to beg you for mercy in your last moments before I detach his head from his body?”
Henry cries out and comes dry, clenching painfully hard around Patrick inside him, and it sets Patrick off too, burying himself inside and coming so hard he nearly collapses on top of Henry as his arms go weak. His arms shake as he holds himself up, one of Henry’s legs wrapped around his back and holding him close, the last waves of pleasure wrung out of him by Henry’s tightness. He pulls out when he feels sure his arms will hold him, and reaches down to pull Henry’s cheeks apart, watching his come ooze out. Henry lightly slaps him away after a moment, and he rolls his eyes as he moves to lie down on the bed next to him.
Henry seems to get over his fuck-drunkenness relatively quickly, and doesn’t look at Patrick as he gets dressed, ignoring the come dripping down his leg. Patrick reaches for a cigarette and the lighter in his pants pocket it as Henry adjusts his bandages and gets ready to leave. There’s no thank you for patching him up, and Patrick didn’t expect one.
“See you,” he says as Henry goes to leave, mostly focused on lighting his cigarette, not expecting a response. Henry pauses at the door. He speaks without looking back.
“I’ll tell you when,” he says, and vanishes.
Patrick releases the lighter flame and lets the smoke seep into his lungs, curl into the air. He bites the cigarette filter tight between his teeth, and grins wide.