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The van smelled like old fast food wrappers and chemical sweat, the kind that clung to gym bags left too long in lockers. BloodyPainter tapped gloved fingers against the steering wheel, watching the neon sign flicker above the 24-hour fitness center parking lot. He hadn’t expected the place to be so brightly lit at this hour—should’ve scouted better—but the man inside was too perfect to pass up.
Through the glass, he could see the guy now, mid-squat in front of the mirrored wall, veins popping under skin stretched tight over muscle. Late fifties, maybe, but built like a brick shithouse. BP chewed his lip. Kidnapping wasn’t usually his thing—messy, unpredictable—but this wasn’t about ransom. The man’s shoulders alone were a canvas waiting to be ruined.
The latex gloves creaked as BloodyPainter flexed his fingers. He'd left his last project—what remained of her, anyway—wrapped in butcher paper inside the industrial freezer at his rented studio. Just the hands this time, delicate fingers preserved in formaldehyde like museum specimens. Art required curation, after all. But this? This would be different.
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as the man inside racked the barbell with a metallic clang. Those shoulders—broad enough to carry a fucking ox—twitched under the damp cotton of his tank top. BP's tongue darted out to wet his lips. He'd never worked with male musculature before, never cared for the way testosterone carved bodies into blunt angles instead of soft curves. But the raw power in those thick forearms, the way his traps strained against his skin when he lifted... Christ. He could already see the palette knife slicing through fascia, exposing crimson layers beneath the surface.
The gym doors swung open with a hydraulic hiss, and the man stepped out into the parking lot, wiping his neck with a sweat-darkened towel. BloodyPainter’s breath hitched—up close, he was even more massive, the kind of body that spoke of decades lifting not for show but for pure, brutal function. His salt-and-pepper chest hair curled damp against his collarbones, and BP’s fingers twitched with the urge to dig into it, to feel the heat of him under the latex.
"You lost, kid?" The man’s voice was gruff, amused, as he tossed the towel into a duffel slung over one shoulder. His eyes—sharp, assessing—scanned BP’s face, lingering a beat too long on the gloves. BP forced a laugh, leaning against the van’s side like he hadn’t just been fantasizing about flaying him alive. "Just admiring the view." He let his gaze drag down the man’s torso, slow, obvious. "You train here often?"
The man chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through the humid air between them. His biceps flexed unconsciously as he adjusted the strap of his duffel, the veins in his forearms standing out like topography. "Admiring, huh?" He tilted his head, the flickering neon casting shadows across the thick column of his throat. "You don’t look like the gym type." His gaze dropped pointedly to BP’s slender frame, the way his black turtleneck clung to narrow shoulders.
BP exhaled through his nose, lips quirking. "Maybe I’m looking for a personal trainer." He pushed off the van, stepping close enough to catch the musk of the man’s sweat—salt and something earthy, clinging to the damp hollows of his collarbones. The latex of his gloves squeaked faintly as he reached out, stopping just short of touching the man’s chest. "Someone experienced." His voice dropped, syrupy-slow. "Hands-on."
The man's laugh was a low, throaty thing that made BP's pulse stutter—not with fear, but with the kind of sharp-edged anticipation that came before sinking a blade into fresh meat. "Usually it's the young girls asking for training," he said, thumb hooking into the strap of his duffel. His bicep flexed, the muscle jumping under sweat-slick skin. "But I don't discriminate. Long as you're serious about putting in the work."
BP blinked. For a dizzying second, he wondered if the man was genuinely this dense—had he not noticed the way BP's tongue had darted over his lips when those thick fingers adjusted the duffel strap? The way his pupils had blown wide, black swallowing iris as he stared at the veins threading through the man's forearms? Then again, maybe that was the beauty of it. Predators often mistook him for prey.
The man—still nameless, still gloriously unaware of the filth spiraling through BP’s mind—merely shrugged and adjusted his duffel strap again. The motion made his pec twitch under the damp fabric of his tank, and BP’s throat went dry. "If you're serious," the man repeated, voice rough like gravel under tires, "I do consultations. First session’s free." He reached into his pocket—slow, casual—and pulled out a business card. The paper was slightly warped from sweat, the edges softened. BP took it between gloved fingers, careful not to let their skin brush.
M. Harkness. Strength & Conditioning. By appointment only.
The card between BP’s fingers smelled faintly of iron—probably from the man’s sweat, maybe from the ink—but BP inhaled anyway, committing the scent to memory. M. Harkness. He rolled the name around in his mind like a marble, testing its weight. It suited him: blunt, no-nonsense, the kind of name that belonged to a man who could bench press a Buick without breaking a sweat.
BP glanced up just in time to catch Harkness watching him, those sharp eyes tracking the way BP’s fingers traced the edges of the card. There was no leer, no sleazy once-over—just a steady, assessing gaze that made BP’s stomach tighten. Christ, was the man really this oblivious? Or was he playing dumb, letting BP think he had the upper hand? The thought sent a thrill down BP’s spine, his gloves creaking as his grip tightened around the card.
BP tucked the card into his glove with deliberate slowness, watching Harkness’s gaze follow the motion. "Consultations," he echoed, tilting his head. His tongue pressed against the back of his teeth. "Hands-on, you said?" He let the question hang, heavy with implication, but Harkness just smirked—broad and unbothered, like he’d heard this song before.
"Depends." Harkness shifted his weight, the concrete groaning faintly under his boots. His thighs strained against his sweatpants, the fabric gone thin at the inner seams. "You gonna flake after one session? ’Cause I don’t got time for tourists." His tone was gruff, but there was something underneath—a challenge, maybe. BP’s pulse jumped. Oh, he liked that.
The business card burned against BP’s palm through the latex glove all the way back to his studio. He’d laid it on the stainless-steel dissection table, staring at it between the jars of preserved fingers, the scalpels still crusted with last week’s work. By dawn, he’d memorized the phone number without needing to look.
His fingers hovered over the burner phone’s keypad. He’d planned to carve into Harkness tonight—had already sharpened his tools, laid out the plastic sheeting—but something in the man’s steady gaze had stayed his hand. BP exhaled sharply through his nose. Patience had never been his virtue, but the thought of Harkness’s thick neck arching under his blade willingly sent a shiver down his spine.
The phone rang twice before Harkness answered, voice rough like he’d been asleep. "Harkness."
BP’s tongue darted over his teeth. "You said first session’s free." He kept his tone light, teasing, but his free hand clenched around the scalpel handle.
A pause. Then a low chuckle. "Kid." Sheets rustled on the other end, followed by the creak of bedsprings. "It’s four in the fucking morning."
BP glanced at the clock—he hadn’t slept, hadn’t even noticed the time. The studio’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows over the dissection table where Harkness’s business card lay beside a row of formaldehyde jars. "Early bird special," he purred, tracing the card’s edge with his blade. "Thought you’d appreciate the dedication."
Another creak—Harkness sitting up, probably. His exhale crackled through the receiver. "You serious about training or just wasting my time?"
BP’s pulse jumped. He could almost see the man’s thick fingers gripping the phone, the way his forearm tendons would flex. "Dead serious."
A beat. Then: "Address. Be here at noon." The line went dead before BP could reply. He stared at the phone, lips parting in silent delight. His address. His territory. The scalpel slipped from BP’s fingers, clattering against stainless steel. He hadn’t planned this—hadn’t accounted for Harkness dictating the terms—but the thrill of it coiled hot in his gut. No plastic sheeting. No restraints prepped. Just raw improvisation.
By 11:45 AM, BP stood on a cracked concrete porch, gloved hands clasped behind his back. Harkness’s house was a squat brick thing, tucked between overgrown hedges. No neighbors close enough to hear screams. BP’s nostrils flared. The air smelled like damp earth and—faintly—motor oil. He rocked onto the balls of his feet. The duffel at his side held his tools, wrapped in towels like gym gear.
The door swung open before BP could knock, revealing Harkness in a threadbare tank top that clung to the valleys between his pecs. His salt-and-pepper chest hair was damp, like he’d just toweled off after a shower. BP’s gloves creaked as his fingers flexed—he could almost taste the sweat still evaporating from that thick neck.
"Early." Harkness’s voice was a gravel-road rasp. He didn’t step aside, just filled the doorway with his bulk, one forearm braced against the frame. The veins stood out like wiring under his skin. "Guess you weren’t kidding about dedication."
BP let his gaze linger on the vein pulsing in Harkness's forearm—just beneath the surface, so close he could trace its path with his tongue if given the chance. "Wouldn’t dream of wasting your time," he murmured, shifting the duffel strap higher on his shoulder. The tools inside clinked softly. Harkness's eyes flicked down to the bag, then back up, but he didn’t comment. Just stepped aside with a grunt, the door hinges protesting as he ushered BP into the dim hallway.
The house smelled like leather and iron—old-school masculinity soaked into the walls. BP inhaled deeply as he followed Harkness down the narrow corridor, watching the way the man’s sweatpants stretched taut over his thighs with each stride. No basement door in sight. No soundproofing foam either. Interesting. Either Harkness was sloppier than he looked, or he had a different kind of workshop in mind.
The hallway opened into a living room that looked like it had been frozen in 1985—brown leather couch, wood-paneled walls, a dusty trophy case filled with wrestling medals. BP’s gaze snagged on a framed photo above the mantel: Harkness, decades younger but just as massive, standing shirtless on a podium with a gold medal dangling between his pecs. His smile was different then—less guarded, almost boyish. BP’s gloves squeaked as his fingers twitched. He wanted to peel that grin off with a scalpel, see what lay beneath.
“Drop the bag.” Harkness’s voice cut through the quiet, closer than BP expected. He turned to find the man leaning against a doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. The tank top strained at the seams. “Weights are in the garage. You won’t need whatever’s in there.”
Harkness's gaze lingered on BP’s outfit—black jeans hugging narrow hips, a fitted t-shirt that looked more suited for a funeral than a workout—and one thick eyebrow arched. "That what you lift in?" His voice was dry as old leather, but there was something underneath, a note BP couldn’t quite place. Amusement? Disdain? Or maybe just the quiet confidence of a man who knew exactly how ridiculous BP looked standing in his living room with a duffel full of knives instead of dumbbells.
"Functional," BP murmured, rolling his shoulders in a deliberate stretch that made the fabric pull tight across his chest. He watched Harkness’s eyes track the movement, the way his pupils dilated just enough to betray interest. "Unless you’d prefer I strip down now." The words dripped with false innocence, but his gloves creaked as his fingers flexed—imagining the rasp of Harkness’s callouses against his bare skin.
Harkness snorted, pushing off the doorframe with a grunt. "Garage first. Then we’ll see about wardrobe adjustments." He turned, leading the way through a cramped kitchen that smelled of protein powder and stale coffee, his broad back blocking out the flickering fluorescent light overhead. BP followed close enough to catch the heat radiating off him, the way his sweatpants rode low on his hips with each stride, revealing the dimples at the base of his spine.
The garage door groaned open to reveal a space that looked more like a medieval torture chamber than a home gym—rusted barbells stacked against cinderblock walls, chains dangling from the ceiling, a bench press upholstered in cracked vinyl. Harkness jerked his chin toward a squat rack in the corner, the metal pitted with age. "Start with squats. See if those skinny legs can handle weight."
BP’s lips curled as he set the duffel down with deliberate slowness, the tools inside clinking faintly against each other. "Skinny legs," he echoed, rolling the words around like candy on his tongue. He stepped toward the squat rack, trailing gloved fingers along the rusted barbell. "And if they can't?"
Harkness crossed his arms, the movement making his biceps bulge against the stretched sleeves of his tank. "Then we adjust." His tone was neutral, but something flickered in his eyes—something darker, hungrier than BP had expected.
The barbell groaned under BP’s grip as he lifted it off the rack, the metal cold even through his gloves. Harkness didn’t offer to spot him—just leaned against the weight bench, arms crossed, watching with those predator’s eyes. BP exhaled sharply through his nose and sank into the squat, thighs trembling as the unfamiliar burn spread through his muscles. He’d expected Harkness to loom closer, to "correct his form" with those massive hands—but the man stayed put, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Three more," Harkness rumbled, nodding at the barbell. His voice was low, threaded with something BP couldn’t place—approval? Amusement? The chains overhead swayed faintly as BP gritted his teeth and pushed back up, his vision spotting at the edges. He barely registered the creak of Harkness’s boots on the concrete until the man was suddenly behind him, close enough that BP could feel the heat of his breath on the nape of his neck.
The breath hitched in BP’s throat as Harkness’s chest pressed flush against his back—solid, unyielding, like being sandwiched between two slabs of granite. He could feel the man’s heartbeat through his own spine, steady and unhurried, while his own hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Harkness’s hands hovered just above BP’s hips, not touching, but close enough that the heat of his palms seared through the latex gloves. "Form’s shit," he murmured, the words vibrating against BP’s shoulder blades. "You’re gonna blow out your knees."
BP exhaled sharply through his nose, thighs trembling as he sank into another squat. "Then fix it," he gritted out, tilting his head just enough to catch the scent of Harkness’s aftershave—something woodsy and sharp, undercut with sweat. The barbell dug into his shoulders, the metal groaning under his grip.
BP's breath stuttered—Harkness's palm pressed flat against his hipbone, fingers splayed wide enough to nearly span the entire width of his pelvis. The heat of it burned through the thin fabric of his jeans, searing into skin like a brand. He hadn't expected the contact, hadn't prepped for the way that single touch short-circuited his nerves, leaving his muscles locked mid-squat.
"Christ, kid." Harkness's chuckle vibrated against BP's spine as his other hand—broader, rougher—pressed between his shoulder blades, forcing his chest upright with terrifying ease. BP's gloved fingers squeaked against the barbell. The man wasn't just strong; he moved with the casual authority of someone who'd spent decades manhandling bodies into submission. "You're folding like a fucking lawn chair."
BP’s thighs trembled, the barbell’s weight suddenly unbearable as Harkness’s grip adjusted him—broad thumb pressing into the dip of his lower back, fingers spanning his ribs. The latex gloves squeaked against the metal. He could feel the man’s breath, warm and steady against his ear, the scrape of stubble as Harkness leaned in. "Arched spine," he murmured, voice gravel-low. "Tits up." The crude phrasing sent a jolt through BP’s gut, his pulse thudding in his throat as Harkness’s palm slid lower, cupping the curve of his ass to tilt his pelvis forward.
The barbell clattered to the concrete as BP’s grip failed, his fingers spasming. Harkness caught the bar one-handed before it could crush BP’s toes, muscles straining as he reracked it with a metallic clang. BP whirled—chest heaving, gloves clenched—only to freeze at the sight of Harkness’s smirk. The man wasn’t even winded, his bicep bulging where the tank sleeve had ripped at the seam.
BP’s gloves creaked as his fingers flexed, the scent of his own adrenaline sharp in his nostrils. Harkness stood close enough that BP could count the individual veins threading through his forearms—raised and rope-like under sweat-damp skin. "You—" BP started, but Harkness cut him off with a single raised eyebrow, the motion making the scar above his brow pull taut.
"Lesson one," Harkness rumbled, stepping forward until BP’s back hit the squat rack, the cold metal biting through his shirt. "Know your limits." His palm splayed across BP’s sternum, not pushing, just there—a solid, unmovable weight. BP’s breath hitched. The man’s thumb brushed the hollow of his throat, calloused and deliberate. "Or don’t. More fun that way."
BP's vision swam with red—not the crimson of fresh arterial spray, but the hot, pulsing fury of being *handled*. The latex gloves creaked as his fingers flexed, his breath coming in sharp bursts through his nose. He could feel the squat rack's cold metal digging into his shoulder blades, Harkness's palm still planted against his sternum like he was pinning a butterfly to a board. "Angry little fucker, aren't you?" Harkness murmured, his thumb stroking the hollow of BP's throat in a mockery of tenderness.
"Fuck you," BP spat, but the words lacked their usual bite—his lungs burned, his thighs trembled, and the scent of his own sweat mixed with the musk of Harkness's skin was dizzying. His knees buckled, just slightly, and Harkness's other hand shot out to grip his hip, steadying him with infuriating ease.
"Breathe," Harkness ordered, his voice low and unshakable. His palm pressed harder against BP's chest, as if he could physically force air into his lungs. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth." The command left no room for argument, his fingers splayed wide enough to span BP's entire ribcage. "Seen a hundred guys like you—all piss and vinegar till the weights laugh at 'em."
BP's lips peeled back from his teeth, but the oxygen deprivation made the snarl feel weak. He sucked in a ragged breath, the scent of Harkness—sweat and leather and something faintly medicinal—filling his nostrils. His gloves squeaked against the squat rack as he gripped it for balance, the latex straining at the seams.
Harkness stepped back, wiping his palms on his sweat-darkened tank top. "Stay put," he grunted, jerking his chin toward the rack. "Don't touch the weights without supervision." His boots scuffed against the concrete as he turned, the garage door groaning shut behind him with a finality that made BP's jaw clench.
Alone, BP flexed his fingers—still gloved, still uselessly pristine—and eyed the dumbbell rack across the room. The largest one sat at the end, rusted and flecked with old chalk, its weight etched into the side: 120 lbs. A laughable number for Harkness. A death sentence for anyone else. BP's nostrils flared as he stalked toward it, his thighs still trembling from the squats. The metal was cold under his gloves when he gripped it, the textured handle biting into his palms.
He braced his knees, exhaled sharply through his nose, and pulled.
The dumbbell didn't budge.
BP's lips peeled back from his teeth. He adjusted his stance, dug his heels into the concrete, and yanked again—this time with a grunt that scraped his throat raw. The dumbbell lifted maybe an inch before his forearms gave out, the weight crashing back down with a clang that reverberated through the garage. BP hissed a curse, shaking out his wrists. His reflection in the dusty mirror across the room looked absurd: black shirt damp with sweat, narrow shoulders hunched, face flushed with exertion and humiliation.
The sound of running water from inside the house cut off abruptly. BP's head snapped toward the door. He had maybe thirty seconds before Harkness returned. Thirty seconds to prove he wasn't just some twitchy kid playing at strength.
He crouched over the dumbbell again, wrapping both gloved hands around the ridged handle. His fingers ached immediately—not from the weight, but from the way the latex stretched thin over his knuckles, restricting blood flow. Stupid. He should've taken them off.
The garage door groaned open just as BP’s gloved fingers slipped off the dumbbell handle for the third time. Harkness stood in the doorway, a water bottle dangling from his fingers and an expression caught between exasperation and amusement. “Told you not to touch the weights,” he said, voice rough like gravel under tires.
BP straightened, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his glove. The latex left a damp streak. “And you expected me to listen?”
Harkness chuckled, low and throaty, the sound vibrating through the humid garage air. He tossed the water bottle—BP caught it one-handed, the plastic cool against his palm. “Nah. Knew you’d go for the 120.” He stepped closer, boots scuffing against the concrete. “Dumbass move.”
BP unscrewed the cap with his teeth, spitting it to the floor before taking a long swallow. The water tasted faintly of chlorine. “Why’s that?”
"Because," Harkness said, plucking the water bottle from BP's grip with infuriating ease, "you can't even lift half that." His calloused thumb brushed BP's gloved knuckles—deliberate, testing—before he took a slow sip, eyes never leaving BP's face. The condensation dripped down his stubbled chin. "So what's your name, kid? Or should I just call you 'Gloves'?"
BP flexed his fingers, the latex creaking. "Wouldn't you like to know," he murmured, watching Harkness's throat work as he swallowed. The man's pulse jumped under damp skin, right where BP's scalpel would slide in—
Harkness snorted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "And why the fuck you wear those in a gym?" He gestured at BP's hands with the bottle, droplets spattering the concrete between them. "You got some kinda skin condition, or just a germaphobe?"
BP tilted his head, slow, reptilian. "Or maybe I just like the way they feel," he purred, dragging a gloved fingertip down the dumbbell's rusted edge. The sound made Harkness's jaw tighten.
Harkness's grip tightened around the water bottle, the plastic crumpling with a sharp crackle. His gaze—sharp as a gutting knife—raked over BP's face, lingering on the way his lips curled around the word feel. "You're a weird little shit," he said, voice gruff but not unkind. The garage's single bulb flickered overhead, casting shadows that deepened the lines around his mouth.
BP's gloved fingers twitched toward his pocket—where the scalpel waited, nestled against his thigh—before he caught himself. "And you're an old man who smells like protein farts and regret," he shot back, tilting his chin up. "Why aren't you married? Too busy bench-pressing your loneliness?"
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Harkness's nostrils flared, his chest expanding under the stretched fabric of his tank top. For a heartbeat, BP thought he'd miscalculated—that the man would grab him by the throat and slam him into the cinderblock wall.
Then Harkness laughed—a deep, rolling sound that vibrated through BP's ribs. "Jesus Christ." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, shaking his head. "You got a death wish or just no fuckin' filter?"
Harkness’s laughter died into a low, considering hum as he stepped closer, crowding BP against the weight rack. The scent of his sweat—musky, edged with something metallic—filled BP’s nostrils. "Death wish," BP murmured, gloved fingers flexing near his thigh where the scalpel rested. "Definitely a death wish."
The older man’s gaze dropped to BP’s twitching hands, then back up, slow. "You keep reaching for something in your pocket," he observed, voice rough. His thumb hooked into the waistband of BP’s jeans, just shy of touching skin. "That a knife or you just happy to see me?"
BP’s breath hitched—part surprise, part thrill at the man’s audacity. The scalpel’s handle pressed cold against his leg through the fabric. "Why don’t you find out?" he challenged, tilting his hips forward just enough to make the threat palpable.
Harkness’s grip tightened, hauling BP flush against him with terrifying ease. His other hand clamped around BP’s wrist, yanking it up between them. "Latex tears easy," he rumbled, squeezing until BP’s fingers spasmed open. "You really wanna play stabby-stabby with a guy who bench-presses your bodyweight for warmups?"
The scalpel flashed between them—Harkness's thick fingers dwarfing the blade as he plucked it from BP's pocket with terrifying precision. BP's breath caught. He hadn't even seen the man move. Harkness turned the scalpel over in the dim garage light, the edge glinting against his calloused palm. "Sharp," he murmured, thumb testing the point. A bead of blood welled up, dark against his skin. BP's tongue darted out instinctively.
Harkness's eyes snapped to his face. "Last time," he said, voice low as a landslide. "Your name."
BP swallowed. The air between them crackled—not with fear, but with the electric thrill of being caught mid-pounce. He could lie. He should lie. But the way Harkness's thumb smeared his own blood across the scalpel's handle made his gloves feel suddenly suffocating.
"Helen," he breathed. The name tasted foreign—a childhood relic buried under layers of pseudonyms and bloodstains.
Harkness’s grip on his wrist didn’t loosen. "Bullshit," he said, but his thumb paused its slow drag along the scalpel’s edge. The blood smeared darker under the fluorescent light. "Try again."
BP exhaled through his nose, letting his body go lax in the older man’s grip—not submission, but strategy. "Helen," he repeated, softer this time, letting the vowels curl around his teeth like they belonged there. He watched Harkness’s pupils dilate, the way his throat worked around a swallow. "My mother had a thing for tragic names."
The scalpel twitched in Harkness’s grip, the blade catching the light as he turned it over once more. BP could see the moment the man decided to believe him—the subtle shift in his stance, the way his thumb stopped pressing quite so hard into BP’s pulse point. "Fuckin’ hell," Harkness muttered, shaking his head. "Parents should’ve named you Trouble."
BP grinned, sharp as the blade between them. "She considered it."
Harkness snorted and—Christ—tossed the scalpel onto the weight bench like it was nothing, like it wasn’t the same instrument BP had used to peel skin from bone last Thursday. His grip on BP’s wrist loosened, fingers sliding down to clasp his gloved palm instead. The latex squeaked under the man’s callouses. "Alright, Helen," he said, dragging out the name like he was tasting it. "You wanna play with knives? Fine. But we do it my way."
The garage door rattled shut with Harkness's bootheel, sealing them in the humid, oil-scented dark. BP's pulse kicked as the man crowded him backward—not toward the weights, but the rusted utility sink in the corner. Harkness's palm burned through his shirt, fingers spanning his ribs like a living straitjacket. "First lesson," Harkness murmured, breath hot against BP's temple. "Know your tools."
Harkness yanked the glove off BP's right hand with a single practiced pull. The latex tore at the seams, the sound obscenely loud in the cramped space. BP gasped—not from pain, but the sudden exposure, his pale fingers twitching bare in the damp air. Harkness's thumb stroked the delicate bones of his wrist. "Soft," he noted, voice gravel-low. "No calluses. You hold knives like a fucking surgeon, not a butcher."
BP's free hand crept toward his remaining glove. Harkness caught his wrist mid-motion, pinning it to the concrete wall with terrifying ease. "Ah-ah." His knee slid between BP's thighs, the rough fabric of his sweatpants catching on denim. "You watch first."
Harkness reached past him—biceps brushing BP's cheek—and grabbed the scalpel from the bench. His grip was all wrong; fingers wrapped around the handle like he was palming a dumbbell, not a precision blade. BP opened his mouth to correct him, but the words died as Harkness pressed the flat of the blade to BP's bare palm. The metal was warm from his touch.
The scalpel's warmth burned against BP's palm—Harkness's fingerprints etched into the steel like invisible brands. BP's breath hitched as the man dragged the flat of the blade up his wrist, the edge barely grazing skin. "Pressure," Harkness murmured, his knee pressing harder between BP's thighs. "Too much, you sever tendons. Too little—" He flipped the scalpel, the tip pricking the blue vein pulsing beneath BP's skin. A bead of blood welled, crimson against pale flesh. "—you just piss 'em off."
BP's throat went dry. He'd carved into a dozen bodies, but never like this—never with the blade angled toward his own thrumming pulse. Harkness's breath was hot against his temple, his chest a solid wall pinning BP to the cinderblock. The scalpel twisted, the edge catching the light as Harkness traced the delicate bones of BP's fingers. "Knife's only as good as the hand holding it," he growled, calloused thumb pressing into BP's palm. "And yours—" The blade flicked, slicing through air near BP's thumb. "—shake like a junkie's."
BP's free hand clenched—still gloved, still useless—against the wall. He should knee the man in the groin, slash his throat open with the scalpel still pressed to his palm. Instead, he exhaled sharply through his nose. "Adrenaline," he lied, flexing his fingers just to watch his own tendons shift under Harkness's blade. "And lactic acid. I'm not—" The scalpel bit deeper, a thin red line appearing above his pulse point. BP's breath hitched. "—shaky."
Harkness's chuckle vibrated through BP's ribs, warm and dark as aged whiskey. "Bullshit." His thumb pressed into BP's palm, spreading his fingers wide against the concrete. The scalpel flicked—once, twice—tracing phantom cuts along BP's lifeline. "You carve people up for fun, kid? Make pretty pictures with their insides?"
BP's pulse jumped under the blade. "Projects," he corrected, tilting his chin up. The garage light caught the sweat at his throat, the damp curls clinging to his temples. "Masterpieces."
The scalpel stilled. Harkness's eyes—dark as old blood—raked over BP's face, lingering on the fever-bright gleam in his pupils. "Government paid me to butcher bodies," he said at last, voice low. "Stacked 'em like cordwood in 'Stan. Never played with 'em like fuckin' Barbie dolls."
BP's lips curled. "Different skill sets."
Harkness exhaled sharply through his nose—almost a laugh—before flipping the scalpel and pressing the handle into BP's bare palm. His fingers closed around BP's wrist, guiding the blade toward his own throat. "Show me."
The moment stretched—BP's breath shallow, Harkness's carotid pulsing under the blade's edge. The man didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. BP's fingers trembled, the scalpel's weight suddenly unbearable. He'd dreamed of this exact angle, this precise pressure against Harkness's jugular, but now—
Harkness's free hand gripped BP's hip, hauling him flush against sweat-damp cotton. "Thought so," he murmured, lips brushing BP's ear. "All talk." His thumb stroked the scalpel handle, coaxing BP's grip tighter. "Here's lesson two—" He guided the blade downward, pressing it against the straining seam of his own tank top. The fabric parted like skin under a coroner's knife. "—real killers don't hesitate."
BP lunged—just as Harkness's knee jerked up into his ribs. The air left his lungs in a rush, the scalpel skittering across concrete as his spine hit the wall. Harkness's forearm pressed against his throat before he could suck in a breath, the pressure just shy of crushing his windpipe. "Lesson three," Harkness growled, sweat dripping from his chin onto BP's cheek. "Know your prey."
The garage lights flickered overhead, casting shadows that deepened the scars on Harkness's knuckles. BP's vision swam—not from lack of oxygen, but the sudden realization that the man's other hand was already palming the fallen scalpel. The blade glinted between Harkness's fingers, held backwards like a prison shiv. BP had seen that grip before—in mugshots from Leavenworth.
Harkness's breath hit his face, hot and ragged. "You clocked the wrestling trophies," he murmured, thumb pressing into BP's carotid. "Missed the dishonorable discharge paperwork framed behind 'em." The scalpel's tip traced BP's jugular, following the same path BP had mapped on a dozen victims. "Twenty years breaking insurgents who made you look like a fucking choirboy."
BP's gloved hand scrabbled at Harkness's wrist, the latex squeaking against sweat-slick skin. His remaining glove tore on the man's watch, exposing pale fingertips. Harkness snorted, adjusting his grip to pin both BP's wrists above his head with terrifying ease. The scalpel never wavered.
The scalpel's edge kissed BP's throat—not deep enough to draw blood, just enough to make his pulse hammer against the cold steel. Harkness's breath was ragged against his temple, sweat dripping from his stubble onto BP's collarbone. "Lesson four," he growled, pressing closer until BP could feel every ridge of the man's belt buckle through his jeans. "Know when you're outmatched."
BP's gloved fingers twitched against Harkness's grip, the torn latex peeling back to reveal crescent-moon indents where his nails had bitten into his own palms. The scent of his own adrenaline mixed with Harkness's sweat—musky and salt-sharp—filling his nostrils until his head spun. He'd fantasized about this exact scenario a hundred times, but never with the roles reversed.
Harkness's knee slid higher between his thighs, the rough fabric of sweatpants grinding against denim. The pressure made BP's breath hitch—not pain, not quite pleasure, but something electric in the space between. Harkness smirked, catching the reaction. "That why you really came here, Helen?" His thumb stroked the scalpel handle still pressed to BP's throat. "All that knife play just foreplay to you?"
BP's lips peeled back from his teeth. "Fuck you," he spat, but the words lacked venom—his hips jerked involuntarily against Harkness's thigh, the friction drawing a ragged gasp from his throat. The scalpel trembled in Harkness's grip, or maybe that was BP's own pulse distorting his perception.
BP's laughter bubbled up raw and jagged, his gloved fingers twitching against Harkness's grip. "Ever kill any of your clients?" he gasped out, hips jerking again as Harkness's thigh pressed harder between his legs. The scalpel's edge kissed his pulse point—not deep enough to bleed, just enough to make his breath stutter.
Harkness's thumb stroked his throat—mockingly gentle. "Thought about it," he admitted, voice gravel-low. His knee shifted, the rough fabric of his sweatpants catching on BP's zipper. "Had this one kid—rich fucker with daddy issues. Wouldn't shut up about his deadlift PRs." The scalpel tilted, catching the garage light. "Kept begging me to spot him on bench. One hand on the bar..." He mimed the motion, his free hand hovering over BP's sternum. "Easy to 'slip.'"
BP's breath hitched—part arousal, part recognition. He'd seen that look before in morgue photos; the cold calculation of a man who'd weighed the consequences and found them lacking. "Why didn't you?" he challenged, arching into the pressure of Harkness's thigh.
Harkness's chuckle vibrated through BP's ribs. "Too clean," he murmured, dragging the scalpel's flat side down BP's neck. "No struggle marks. Cops dig into personal trainers first." His grip tightened, yanking BP's wrists higher. The latex gloves creaked. "You? Garage's soundproofed. No neighbors for miles." The blade tapped BP's jugular—once, twice—like a metronome counting down. "And let's face it, Helen—nobody's looking for you."
The scalpel's edge bit deeper—just enough to break skin—and BP's body locked rigid against the wall. He couldn't die here. Not like this. Not by some washed-up jarhead's hand when he still had galleries to deface and coroners to fuck with. His pulse jackhammered against the blade, but his face remained smooth as polished bone—except for the traitorous hitch in his breath when Harkness's knee ground up against his zipper.
Harkness's nostrils flared at the sound. "There it is," he murmured, dragging the scalpel sideways to smear BP's blood along his jugular. The sting was sharp, antiseptic-clean compared to the throbbing heat between his legs. "Knew you weren't all teeth." His free hand slid down to palm BP's hip, fingers digging into the divot above his jeans. "Bet you make pretty noises when you're scared."
The scalpel's tip pressed just below BP's Adam's apple—not enough to puncture, just enough to make swallowing painful. Harkness's breath smelled like coffee and nicotine, his sweat-damp tank top clinging to ridges of scar tissue BP hadn't noticed before. Military ink peeked from the sleeve; faded numerals that might've been coordinates or a death count. BP's remaining glove tore completely as he twisted his wrist, the latex splitting open like a second skin.
Harkness's chuckle was dark, his knee shifting to grind harder against BP's crotch. "Still wanna play?" He tilted the scalpel, catching the light on its blood-smeared edge. "Or you ready to admit you're out of your depth?"
BP's pulse jumped under the blade, but his lips curled into something too sharp to be called a smile. "Depths are my specialty." His bare fingers flexed against Harkness's grip—pale, delicate things that had dissected cadavers with surgical precision. The contrast between them was obscene; Harkness's knuckles like weathered oak, BP's nails bitten to the quick.
The garage door rattled as wind hit it—a metallic shudder that echoed BP's own trembling thighs. Harkness didn't move, didn't blink, just watched him with those predator's eyes while sweat dripped from his temple onto BP's cheek. The salt of it burned in the shallow cut along BP's throat.
The scalpel clattered against the far wall, skittering into the shadows beneath the weight bench. Harkness released BP’s wrists with a shove that sent him stumbling back into the squat rack, the metal bars digging into his spine. Before BP could regain his footing, Harkness grabbed the hem of his own tank top and yanked it over his head in one brutal motion. The fabric tore at the seams, revealing a torso mapped with scars—puckered gunshot wounds, the jagged lightning bolt of a shrapnel strike, and older, finer lines that looked suspiciously like knife work.
BP’s breath caught. The man was a fucking battlefield.
Harkness tossed the ruined shirt aside, his chest heaving, the thicket of salt-and-pepper hair glistening with sweat. His belt buckle gleamed under the garage lights, the metal straining against the obvious bulge beneath his sweatpants. BP’s tongue darted out instinctively, his own arousal a hot, insistent pulse between his legs.
"Like what you see, Helen?" Harkness stepped closer, his voice rough as gravel under tires. He palmed himself through the fabric, watching BP’s pupils dilate. "Knife play gets me hard. So do pretty boys who think they’re predators." His thumb hooked into BP’s waistband, dragging him forward until their hips slammed together. "Guess which one you are."
BP's breath hitched—not from the pressure of Harkness's grip, but from the name dripping off the man's tongue like honey laced with arsenic. "Don't call me that," he snarled, twisting against the older man's hold. The torn glove flapped uselessly from his wrist, exposing fingers pale as bone. "I'm not some fucking—"
Harkness's laughter cut through the garage, deep and rolling, his thumb pressing harder into BP's hipbone. "Not some fucking what?" He leaned in, close enough that BP could count the individual stitches from whatever battlefield had left that jagged scar across his ribs. "Princess?"
BP lunged, teeth bared, but Harkness caught him by the throat with terrifying ease, slamming him back into the weight rack. The metal groaned under the impact. "Careful," Harkness murmured, his free hand sliding down to palm BP through his jeans. The rough drag of his callouses made BP's hips jerk involuntarily. "Wouldn't want you to chip a nail."
The latex glove split completely as BP clawed at Harkness's wrist, the sound obscenely loud in the humid air between them. "I'll carve your tongue out," he gasped, but the threat dissolved into a moan as Harkness's thumb circled the head of his cock through denim.
Harkness's grip tightened around BP's throat, not enough to cut off air—just enough to make the pulse flutter wild under his palm. "Last chance," he growled, the words vibrating through BP's ribs. "Green means go. Red means stop. Simple enough for your murder-happy brain?"
BP's laugh came out choked, his hips grinding forward into Harkness's thigh. "Fuck your—" He gasped as Harkness's thumb pressed harder against his windpipe. "—traffic light system."
The older man's eyes darkened. He leaned in until his lips brushed BP's ear, the scrape of his stubble raising goosebumps along BP's neck. "Tell me you want it." His knee pressed higher between BP's thighs, the pressure maddening. "Or I walk the fuck out."
BP's gloved hand spasmed against the wall. He should spit in the man's face, should knee him in the groin and retrieve the scalpel glinting under the bench. Instead, his hips bucked forward of their own accord, a traitorous sound escaping his throat. "Green," he hissed, the word clawing its way out like a confession.
Harkness exhaled sharply through his nose—half-laugh, half-groan—before hauling BP flush against him with terrifying ease. His palm burned through BP's ruined shirt, fingers spanning his ribs like a living straitjacket. "Atta boy," he murmured, lips dragging over BP's pulse point as he kicked the garage door shut with his bootheel. The latch clicked—final as a coffin lid.
BP gasped as Harkness's knee jerked higher, grinding against his trapped erection with brutal precision. The friction was exquisite—just shy of pain—and BP arched into it instinctively, his torn glove catching on the squat rack's rusted bolts. Harkness chuckled darkly, his free hand sliding down to unbuckle BP's belt with terrifying efficiency. The leather hissed through denim loops like a blade leaving its sheath.
Metal clinked as Harkness flicked the button open with his thumb. "Lesson five," he growled, dragging BP's zipper down. The sound made BP's hips jerk—his cock straining against damp boxers, the fabric clinging obscenely to every twitch. "Know your weaknesses." His palm scorched through the thin cotton, fingers wrapping around BP's length with casual ownership. BP's breath hitched, his knees buckling as Harkness squeezed—just shy of cruel. "And yours?" Harkness's thumb swiped over the leaking head, smearing precum across flushed skin. "Is getting manhandled by guys twice your size."
BP's snarl dissolved into a ragged moan as Harkness stroked him once—slow, deliberate—his callouses catching on oversensitive flesh. The garage lights flickered overhead, casting shadows that deepened the hollows of Harkness's collarbones. BP's bare fingers scrabbled at the older man's shoulders, nails biting into scar tissue as Harkness dropped to his knees with a grunt.
The concrete bit into BP's bare knees as Harkness dragged him down to the floor by his hair, forcing eye contact at cock-level. "So," Harkness rumbled, thumb tracing the welt he'd left on BP's throat, "this little ambush of yours." His other hand palmed BP through ruined boxers, the damp fabric stretching obscenely. "What was the endgame, Helen? Gonna mount my dick on your gallery wall?"
BP's laugh came out ragged, his hips jerking into the rough touch. "Wasn't your dick I wanted mounted," he gasped, licking blood off his split lip. "Had a whole shadowbox planned—ribcage splayed like angel wings, your medals melted down for framing." His gloved hand flexed against Harkness's thigh, latex peeling back from bitten nails. "Would've looked stunning under LED spotlights."
Harkness's grip tightened, twisting BP's boxers until the seam strained. "And how'd that work out for you?" He leaned in, the scent of gun oil and sweat thick between them. "Got my skin under your nails yet?"
BP bared his teeth—a silent snarl that turned into a choked moan as Harkness ripped the remaining fabric down his thighs. The hot garage air hit his flushed skin, his cock twitching against the sudden exposure. Harkness's knuckles brushed the inside of his knee, callouses catching on sensitive flesh as he spread BP's legs wider. "Fuck—" BP's voice cracked as Harkness's thumb pressed into the soft skin of his inner thigh, right where the femoral artery pulsed.
The scalpel glinted from its spot under the bench, forgotten as Harkness leaned forward, his breath hot against BP's leaking cock. "Lesson six," he murmured, tongue dragging a wet stripe up BP's shaft. The sensation was electric—rough and slick all at once, Harkness's stubble scraping the tender skin of BP's hips. "Know your fucking place."
BP's spine arched off the concrete as Harkness swallowed him down in one brutal motion, the wet heat stealing the air from his lungs. His hand scrabbled at the floor, as Harkness's throat worked around him. The vibrations of the man's dark chuckle traveled straight to BP's groin, his toes curling in his boots.
BP's fingers tangled in Harkness's hair—not to push him away, but to anchor himself as the older man took him deeper, his throat flexing around BP's cock with terrifying expertise. The garage lights flickered overhead, casting erratic shadows that made Harkness's scars gleam like old silver. BP's hips jerked involuntarily, his breath coming in sharp gasps as Harkness's tongue pressed against the underside of his shaft, rough and relentless.
"Fuck—" BP's voice shattered as Harkness pulled back just enough to scrape his teeth along the sensitive skin, the threat of pain making BP's stomach clench. Harkness's hands pinned his thighs to the concrete, callouses biting into tender flesh as BP squirmed. The older man laughed around him, the vibration wringing a broken moan from BP's throat.
Harkness pulled off with a wet pop, his lips glistening. "That all you got, Helen?" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark with amusement. "Thought you were gonna carve me up. Now you're just—" His thumb pressed into the base of BP's cock, drawing a whimper. "—melting in my mouth."
BP snarled, yanking Harkness's hair hard enough to make the man grunt. "Shut up and suck me like you mean it," he hissed, his hips lifting off the concrete.
Harkness's grip tightened around BP's thighs, his thumbs digging into the divots of muscle just above his knees. "Tell you what, Helen," he murmured, lips brushing the twitching head of BP's cock. His breath was hot, nicotine-rough—BP could feel the words vibrate through his skin. "I'm gonna fuck you so good you'll forget every corpse you've ever sketched." His teeth grazed the sensitive ridge beneath BP's crown, making his hips jerk. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else's hands."
BP's laugh came out strangled as Harkness swallowed him down again, the wet heat dragging a moan from his throat. His fingers spasmed in the older man's hair, latex glove hanging loose from one wrist. "Bullshit," he gasped, spine arching off the concrete. The garage lights flickered—Harkness's scars gleamed like old war medals in the erratic glow.
Harkness pulled off with a filthy sound, gripping BP's hips to keep him from rutting forward. "Bet you," he growled, calloused thumb smearing precum across BP's trembling stomach. "After tonight, you'll toss those fucked-up canvases in a dumpster." His palm slid higher, pressing over BP's frantic heartbeat. "Move into my spare room. Spend your days waiting for me to come home and wreck you."
BP's breath hitched—not at the promise, but at the way Harkness's eyes darkened when he said it, like he'd already decided BP's future. The scalpel glinted mockingly from under the bench, forgotten. "You think—" BP's voice broke as Harkness's fingers traced the crease of his thigh, too close to the femoral artery. "—one good fuck'll make me your kept artist?"
Harkness's chuckle was low and dangerous as he dragged BP upright by the hair, forcing their foreheads together with a dull thud. "Not one good fuck," he corrected, his free hand sliding down to cup BP's ass through torn denim. His fingers dug in, kneading the muscle like he was testing ripeness. "Every goddamn morning. And night." His teeth grazed BP's earlobe, the scrape sending sparks down BP's spine. "Till you forget what your own hand feels like."
BP's snarl dissolved into a gasp as Harkness spun him around, shoving his chest against the weight bench. The cold metal bit into his bare stomach, his cock trapped between the bench and his own trembling thighs. Behind him, Harkness's belt buckle clinked—a predator unsheathing its claws. BP's hand scrabbled at the bench's vinyl padding, latex catching on like a pathetic bracelet.
"Still green?" Harkness's palm landed on BP's ass with a crack that echoed off the garage walls. The sting bloomed hot, radiating through muscle and bone. BP's hips jerked forward instinctively, his cock twitching against the bench.
"Fuck you," BP spat, but his voice lacked conviction—his breath came in ragged pants, his thighs already spreading wider. Harkness's laugh was dark as he yanked BP's jeans down to his knees, the denim catching on his boots. The air was thick with sweat and motor oil, the scent of Harkness's arousal pressing against BP's back like a second skin.
The moment Harkness's cock pressed against him—hot, heavy, and relentless—BP's vision whited out at the edges. Not inside him yet, just grinding between his ass and the weight bench, trapped against BP's own leaking cock like some kind of depraved sandwich. The friction was obscene, the wet slide of skin on skin muffled by BP's ruined shirt and Harkness's sweat-slick stomach.
"Fuck—" BP's voice cracked as Harkness rocked forward, the thick ridge of his cockhead dragging against BP's perineum. The bench's vinyl padding squeaked under their combined weight, the scent of sex and rusted metal thick in BP's nostrils. Harkness's teeth found the nape of his neck, biting down just shy of breaking skin. BP's hips jerked back instinctively, seeking more pressure, more pain, more—
Harkness chuckled against his spine, one hand fisting in BP's hair to yank his head back. "Easy, girl," he growled, his other hand spreading BP's cheeks with casual ownership. The air hit his exposed hole, making him clench around nothing. "Gotta prep you first unless you wanna split open like a gutted deer."
BP's laugh came out ragged. "Thought you liked me bloody."
Harkness's breath hit the back of BP's neck—hot, whiskey-rough. "That what you want?" His thumb circled BP's rim, dry and deliberate, the callouses catching on sensitive skin. "Want me to split you open?" The pressure increased, just shy of breaching. "Make you bleed for me, Helen?"
BP's knuckles whitened against the weight bench, his hips pushing back into that maddening touch. "Stop *asking*," he snarled, the words cracking like old varnish. His cock ached where it was trapped against the vinyl, leaking onto the padded surface. "Just fucking take."
The silence stretched—long enough for BP to hear his own pulse in his ears—before Harkness's chuckle vibrated through his spine. "Atta girl." Something cold and slick pressed against BP's hole—not lube, the sharp chemical scent hitting his nostrils a second before the first finger breached him. Harkness's spit.
BP arched with a choked noise, the stretch burning in the best way. Harkness worked him open with ruthless efficiency, his other hand pinning BP's hips to the bench. No prep, no gentleness—just the relentless push of one thick finger, then two, scissoring him wide with a roughness that stole BP's breath. The drag of dry skin burned, the faint sting of friction making his thighs tremble.
Harkness's fingers twisted deep, knuckle-deep, the stretch bordering on pain as BP's nails scraped against the weight bench's padding. The latex glove finally gave way, fluttering to the concrete like a discarded skin. "Christ," Harkness muttered against his spine, "you're tight as a fucking fist." His thumb pressed against BP's perineum, massaging in counterpoint to the brutal scissoring of his fingers. The dual sensation wrenched a broken noise from BP's throat—half snarl, half sob.
The garage air was thick with the scent of sweat and metal, BP's cock leaking onto the bench in slick pulses. Harkness withdrew his fingers abruptly, leaving BP clenching around nothing, his hole twitching like a hungry mouth. Before he could protest, Harkness's palm cracked against his ass again—the impact sharp enough to make BP's thighs jerk. "Stay open," Harkness ordered, gripping his cheeks apart with calloused fingers. The cool air hit BP's exposed flesh, making him shudder.
A slick sound—Harkness spitting into his palm—then the thick head of his cock pressed against BP's entrance. No more prep, no hesitation. BP braced for the burn, but nothing could've prepared him for the brutal stretch as Harkness sheathed himself in one relentless thrust. BP's vision whited out, his scream dissolving into a ragged gasp as his body struggled to accommodate the invasion. Harkness didn't pause, didn't give him time to adjust—just buried himself to the hilt with a grunt that vibrated through BP's spine.
"Fuck—" BP's voice was wrecked, his fingers scrambling for purchase on the sweat-slick bench. Harkness's hands locked around his hips, thumbs digging into the dimples above his ass. The first pullout was agonizing, the drag of skin on skin sending sparks up BP's nerves. Then Harkness slammed back in, his balls hitting BP's taint with a wet smack.
The pain crested—sharp, blinding—then melted into white-hot pleasure as Harkness set a brutal pace, his hips pistoning with the precision of a drill press. BP's knees scraped against the concrete with every thrust, the sting blending into the overwhelming sensation of being split open. Harkness's breath hit his neck in ragged bursts, his teeth leaving crescent moons along BP's shoulder blade.
"Look at you," Harkness growled, dragging BP up by the hair until his back met the older man's sweat-slick chest. "Taking it like you were made for this." His hand slid down BP's stomach, callouses catching on trembling abs before wrapping around his leaking cock. The dual stimulation made BP's vision pulse—Harkness's thickness stretching him wide while those rough fingers worked him in tight strokes.
BP's head fell back against Harkness's shoulder, his lips parting around silent gasps. The garage spun around them—rusted tools swaying on pegboards, the flickering bulb casting their shadows monstrous against the cinderblock walls. Harkness's grip tightened on his cock, thumb swiping over the slick head in time with each punishing thrust.
"That's it," Harkness murmured against his ear, the words vibrating through BP's skull. "Come for me, Helen. Show me what pretty sounds you make when you break." His teeth closed around BP's earlobe, biting down just as his fingers twisted on the upstroke.
Harkness's fingers tightened around BP's throat as his hips stuttered, the rhythm fracturing into something desperate and jagged. BP's moan hitched higher—a broken, keening sound—and Harkness reacted instinctively, shoving two blood-smeared fingers between BP's teeth just as his body locked rigid. The metallic tang of his own blood filled BP's mouth, the coppery slickness coating his tongue as his back arched violently against Harkness's chest.
"Bite down," Harkness growled against his ear, the command rough with arousal. BP obeyed without thought—his teeth sinking into the calloused flesh hard enough to leave crescent indents as his orgasm ripped through him. The pain barely registered through the white-hot pleasure, Harkness's fingers pistoning in his mouth in time with the brutal thrusts that milked his climax.
BP's vision tunneled, his thighs trembling as come striped the weight bench in erratic bursts. Harkness didn't slow—if anything, his pace turned punishing, using BP's spasming body for his own pleasure. The overstimulation wrenched a sob from BP's throat, his teeth clamping harder on Harkness's fingers in reflexive protest. Blood welled fresh where his incisors broke skin, the salt-iron taste flooding his mouth.
"Good girl," Harkness panted, his free hand splaying across BP's heaving stomach to pin him in place. His hips snapped forward once, twice more—then stilled as he buried himself to the hilt with a guttural groan. BP could feel the hot pulse of him deep inside, the sensation dragging a weak shudder through his oversensitive body.
BP's laugh spilled out of him like shattered glass—sharp, glittering, and dangerous. He let his head loll back against Harkness's shoulder, still impaled on the man's cock, still dripping onto the weight bench. "Call me Helen again," he demanded, licking blood from his split lip. His voice was wrecked, but his grin was all teeth. "Wanna hear how fucking proud you sound saying it."
Harkness's hand tightened around BP's throat, not choking, just feeling the pulse jump under his fingers. "That a fact, Helen?" His thumb stroked the fresh bite marks on BP's shoulder—the ones that matched the crescents BP had left in his own palm earlier. The garage lights flickered overhead, catching the sweat on Harkness's collarbones. "Thought you hated that name."
BP rolled his hips lazily, relishing the way Harkness's cock twitched inside him. "Hated it when my mother said it like an apology." His fingers trailed down the older man's forearm, tracing the raised scar tissue there. "When my father said it like a funeral." He arched deliberately, grinding down until Harkness hissed through his teeth. "You say it like a fucking trophy."
Harkness's chuckle was dark, his free hand sliding down to palm BP's spent cock with rough affection. "That's 'cause you are one." His thumb pressed into the sensitive head, drawing a shiver from BP's overheated skin. "My little murder trophy."
BP's laugh was jagged at the edges, his teeth flashing in the dim light. He'd spent years scrubbing that name from hospital records, from school transcripts, from his own reflection—but here, pinned under Harkness's weight with the man's come leaking down his thighs, it felt less like a wound and more like a brand. A claim.
Harkness's fingers flexed around his throat. "Say it."
BP exhaled sharply through his nose, his pulse fluttering against Harkness's palm. The garage smelled like sex and motor oil, the concrete biting into his knees. "Helen," he murmured, tasting the syllables like they were something stolen. The name didn't taste like antiseptic and neglect anymore—it tasted like blood and sweat and Harkness's cock.
Harkness's grip tightened briefly before releasing him, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of BP's skull instead. "Atta girl." His lips brushed BP's temple, the gesture almost tender if not for the way his hips were already moving again, stirring the oversensitive mess between BP's legs. "Gonna make sure you never forget it this time."
BP twisted in his hold, hissing as the motion dragged Harkness's cock deeper inside him. His own spent cock twitched pathetically against his stomach, still slick with his release. "Try me," he challenged, his fingers digging into Harkness's thighs—his torn glove lost somewhere on the garage floor. The scars under his palms were rough as tree bark.
Harkness chuckled darkly, dragging BP upright by the hair until their foreheads pressed together. BP could see the exact moment his reflection distorted in the older man's pupils—the way his lips parted around a gasp as Harkness's hips snapped forward. "You're gonna wear this name like you own it," Harkness growled, his breath hot against BP's mouth. "Wear my fucking marks where everyone can see."
BP's laugh was breathless, his fingers scrabbling at Harkness's shoulders. "Gonna paint me pink next?" He rolled his hips back onto Harkness's cock with deliberate slowness, relishing the way the older man's jaw clenched. "Put bows in my hair?"
Harkness's palm cracked against his ass—the impact sharp enough to make BP's thighs jerk. "Nah." His fingers slid between BP's cheeks, spreading him obscenely around his cock. "Gonna let you pick the color." His thumb pressed against BP's fluttering rim, smearing the mess they'd made. "Long as you're dripping it when I get home."
"Blue," BP gasped against Harkness's fingers, the word scraping his throat raw. His pulse fluttered under Harkness's palm like a caged bird. "Favorite color."
Harkness's grin was a blade in the dim light. "That right?" His thumb stroked the column of BP's throat where his grip had left angry red streaks. "I'll buy you every shade of blue they make." His knee pressed higher between BP's thighs, nudging his oversensitive cock. "Turn your face a pretty blue one day." His fingers flexed—just enough to make BP's breath hitch—before releasing entirely. The blood rushed back under BP's skin in a dizzying wave, his pallor shifting from ashy to milky white like a bruise fading in reverse.
BP coughed, rolling his shoulders to ease the ache in his neck. His torn shirt clung to his ribs, damp with sweat and come. "Promises, promises," he muttered, but his fingers traced the fresh marks on his throat with something like reverence.
Harkness caught his wrist, turning BP's palm up to inspect the half-moon cuts where BP had clawed his own skin earlier. "Gonna need a bigger first aid kit," he mused, licking a stripe across the wounds. The sting made BP's fingers twitch, his breath catching at the casual ownership in the gesture.