Archive of Our Own

It’s been more than a week.

Most of the marker hasn’t gone away completely; his hands are pretty clear, but his arms, chest, stomach, and legs still bear faded black like a whispered secret.

He has two more art classes in that time, and in both, Henry stares at him. Richard knows he's been careful to wear long sleeves and pants, Henry couldn't possibly know how his touch has lingered, but Henry stares at him like he does, like he can see right through his clothes, like Richard is the one naked and posing in the middle of the room instead of the okay-looking chick with nice tits.

This time, when Henry starts following him home after class, Richard ignores him. They both know he’s there, they both know how distinctly aware of each other they are, but Henry stays half a block behind him and neither acknowledges the other.

Henry only catches up when Richard hesitates at his apartment door, taking his time unlocking it, and Henry crowds behind him.

Richard could say something. So could Henry.

Neither does.

Richard lets them both in and tosses his keys aside.

“So,” he finally says, turning around to face Henry. “What do you want this time?”

Henry licks his lips and hesitates. He steps closer, reaching out, and Richard lets him.

Richard wore a black thermal under his shirt today, and Henry takes his hand and slowly pushes the bottom of his sleeve up. The marker on his hands faded after a few days, each wash of his hands taking a little more ink, but he’s only scrubbed at the rest in showers.

Henry takes a shaky breath as more lines appear the higher the sleeve goes.

“Yeah, you may as well have tattooed me,” Richard scoffs, ignoring the way his stomach flips hearing Henry blatantly affected by the sight of his own work. “Shit won’t come off.”

“Did you want it to?” Henry asks, glancing up from his arm just long enough to make eye contact before returning his gaze to the remains of swirls.

Richard doesn’t answer that.

Instead, he steps closer into Henry’s space.

“What do you want?” he asks again. It’s not aggressive — not mean, anyway. It’s as genuine as Richard gets.

“Just you,” Henry hums. “If I’m allowed.”

Richard smirks.

“Yeah?” he asks. “You like me too much.”

Henry shrugs, a tiny smile making its way onto his face.

“I like you enough,” he corrects, and Richard smiles back, too.

Asshole.

Richard brings him in first — he brings up the hand that isn’t in Henry’s and wraps it around the back of his neck, like he had when they were in bed together, and pulls him close for a kiss.

It’s almost sweet, at first, slow and cautious, and then Henry is the one to escalate things when he tilts his head more, makes them slot together better and deeper. He makes a soft noise into Richard’s mouth that makes Richard see red, like a deep, almost-purple red, and he digs his nails into the back of Henry’s neck just like last time.

It scores him another quiet moan and Richard pulls back to laugh at him.

“You like pain too much,” he smirks.

“I like it enough,” Henry corrects.

He doesn’t give Richard any more room to tease, though — he drops his hand and sleeve in favor of slipping fingers under the hems of his shirt and thermal, and sliding up in question.

Richard does him one better and takes both off at once, pulled over his head quickly and easily.

Henry struggles for another breath as Richard reveals himself. His arms have been scrubbed the most, they’re the easiest to see, but the lines on his torso have been much better preserved.

Henry runs his fingers over the lines that remain, his left half accentuated with detail lines and his right half crawling with creatures and spirals, and Richard stands there and lets him admire his work again.

“You, too,” Richard says, and Henry looks up, lost, with a confused face. “You, too; take your shirt off,” Richard clarifies.

Henry hesitates again.

“What if I said I didn't want to?” he asks, and Richard frowns.

“I'd ask why not,” Richard says.

Henry shrugs.

“I'd say I'm self-conscious,” Henry says, which... Sounds like part of the truth, but not all of it.

Richard is still frowning.

“Okay,” he says.

He considers, for a long moment, how well they know each other. Not well at all — they've spoken very little outside of Richard's bedroom. Richard knows Henry responds well to pain, though.

“What if I made you?” Richard asks, as close to cautious as he gets.

“What do you mean?”

Richard walks slowly but purposefully to the small kitchen hidden behind a bar counter, and opens a drawer.

He pulls out a meat knife, long and sharp and made to cut into flesh.

“What if I told you to go to my bedroom, now,” he says, “or else?”

He returns to Henry just as slowly as he'd left, but this time, his stance is different; he grips the knife tightly and moves like a taut spring, like he could lunge for him at any moment.

Henry's eyes sparkle with something that is not fear.

“I guess I'd have to,” Henry says. He sidesteps to avoid Richard and his knife, backing away and toward Richard's bedroom without ever turning his back on him.

Richard smiles.

“Good boy,” he huffs.

He follows Henry, being sure to leave plenty of space between them as they make their way to Richard's room. He wouldn't actually attack him. Not like this, anyway.

Eventually, Henry sits on the edge of Richard's bed.

“Shirt,” Richard says, gesturing with the knife. “Unless you want me to cut the buttons off for you.”

“I like this shirt,” Henry politely declines. Damn.

His hands don't shake any more than normal as he undoes his dark gray button-down, shrugging it off and letting it fall to the floor beside the bed.

He's more damaged than Richard realized — he's got cigarette burns and what are probably other self-harm scars, yeah, but there's also tiny scabs smattered like freckles across his torso. There's a hair-thin wound down his ribs with ugly little dark spots on the sides — a surgical opening with mostly-healed stitching? — and one side of his chest and most of his arm is dark with healing, like his whole side was scraped with a cheese grater or something.

“Car crash,” Henry says, as Richard's eyes linger too long on him.

“Damn,” Richard says. “Anyone die?”

Something in the room shifts, but Richard can't tell what.

“Yeah,” Henry says.

Richard gives him the space to elaborate, but he doesn't.

Fine.

“Get on the bed,” he says, holding the knife loosely in his direction.

“I'm already on the bed,” Henry smiles.

Richard smiles too. He smiles while his free hand grabs Henry by his greasy hair and shoves him down onto the blanket, putting him flat on his back and knocking a rush of air out of him.

He’s still smiling as he straddles Henry’s thighs and makes himself comfortable. The knife in his hand is good, it feels great, and he grips the handle harder to try to hide the tremble in his fingers as he runs the cold flat of the blade over Henry’s chest.

“Wait,” Henry croaks, and swallows dryly.

“What?” Richard scoffs. “You chickening out?”

Henry shakes his head ‘no’.

“Nowhere I can’t cover,” he says. “My therapist would throw a fit again.”

Richard snorts.

“‘Again’,” he repeats, knowingly. Of course Henry’s been caught before, for his self-harm habits, hasn’t he? He’s not subtle at all, especially with the burn marks on his wrist.

Which, to Richard’s surprise, seem to have only faded since the last time they were here together. No new ones. Huh.

“Sure,” Richard agrees.

Richard turns the knife so the blade presses to his skin and drags it harder, and Henry tenses with a caught noise in his throat. The trail the knife leaves rises red, blood surfacing in a perfect line.

Richard wants to taste it. He wants to suck the blood off his skin like ripe fruit, revel in the flavor like some people savor wine. He thinks of bleeding Henry into a glass and drinking it that way, how the blood would cling to his upper lip and coagulate into disgusting thickness if he didn’t drink it fast enough.

“Where are you?” Henry asks.

Richard has been hovering with the knife for too long, lost in his thoughts.

“I’m right here, baby,” he croons, and drags another line down Henry’s chest.

This time, he leans down when the blood wells up, running his tongue flat over the wound and catching the coppery taste on his tongue. It feels fucking divine to take this from someone, and Richard mouths and tongues at the parallel wounds like he can push his tongue in under the skin if he kisses and licks enough.

“You’re going to give me an infection,” Henry mutters, annoyed, but he doesn’t stop him. In fact, one hand comes up to hold Richard’s head close, like he wants more.

Richard laughs into his skin.

The next stripe of the knife comes in under his pec, like Richard might cut a breast off for dinner. Henry hisses at that one, though Richard is quick and the pain is brief. It bleeds more than the other two — Richard laps it up and swallows more than once.

“I want to fuck you like this,” Richard growls, biting over a nipple while he's on his chest and making Henry inhale sharply. “Stab you in the chest and fuck the wound.”

Henry laughs, and so does Richard.

“I'd let you,” Henry hums.

He moves the knife lower, tracing over the hints of Henry's abs. He doesn't have real abs, he's kind of skinny and weak, but he's kind of got those malnourished abs where they show because there's nothing to block them.

Richard presses the tip of the knife at the center of his torso, just under his sternum. When he pulls down this time, Henry arches under him and Richard cuts half a millimeter deeper than he intends.

Henry's pained noise is sharp and agonized and hot, blood pooling so fast it becomes dripping baubles before Richard can stop it.

Richard's free hand comes to Henry's belly to thumb at the wound, a couple inches long and oozing. He's not careful when he drags the pads of his fingers over the line and gathers blood on them, smearing it over Henry's belly like bright paint.

Henry watches to the best of his ability, chin tucked down so he can see Richard's hands toying with him.

“You're sick. You like this way too much,” Richard scoffs, rubbing his fingers together. The blood is only liquid for a second, then sticky-tacky then dry, and when he rubs it between his fingers it crusts and balls up and flakes down onto the bed. It's gross. He definitely prefers swallowing it.

“You're one to talk,” Henry scoffs back, but it's weak, turned on, helpless.

Richard has an idea.

He raises his hand high beside his head, ready to plunge the knife down and sink into Henry's soft heart.

Henry doesn't flinch.

He doesn't flinch, he doesn't look away, he doesn't do anything — all he does is take another shuddering breath and wait for what Richard is going to do.

“You're actually sick,” Richard laughs.

He brings the knife down slowly, points it under Henry's chin and presses until Henry winces from the prick of pain.

“You're, like, suicidal? For real suicidal?”

“Do we have to talk about that?” Henry frowns.

“I guess not,” Richard says.

He drags the knife down Henry's throat, turned flat so it's the scrape of the point getting him rather than the blade.

“Would you fight back if I tried to kill you?” Richard asks, dragging the knife down until it's right over his heart, skin denting and coming back red as he goes.

Richard's own heart is pounding so hard he worries Henry might be able to hear it, or see his pulse throbbing in time under his skin, but Henry remains unnaturally calm.

“Don't know,” he admits. “Do you want to try?”

Richard licks his lips. He considers it; Henry came here on his own terms, so no signs of a struggle. They don't interact in class, so the chance of them being connected is low. The blood would be a pain, he'd have to dump the mattress and the sheets and the blankets and the body, but he'd get the sweet satisfaction of watching Henry's life end.

He shouldn't. They barely got away with it last time, and that was with him and Justin both planning it. He shouldn't.

God, his teeth itch, though.

“Maybe another time,” Richard says, and Henry hums. He almost sounds disappointed.

Richard brings the knife across his collarbone. It's edging into dangerous territory — a casual enough cut of shirt could expose the slice Richard leaves between the hollow of his throat and his shoulder — but Henry doesn't chastise him for it.

He leans down and licks along it, much more shallow than the last cut but still bleeding enough to bubble.

This time, before he swallows the copper on his tongue, he turns and gives Henry a kiss.

Henry freezes.

Richard shoves his tongue between Henry's lips, forcing the taste of his own blood onto him, and Henry gets a full-body shiver and lets him.

Richard smiles so hard it interferes with kissing Henry stupid. It's tough to take control of a kiss when you're smiling so wide you can't close your mouth, but Henry doesn't seem to mind at all.

He kisses him for too long. It's almost getting sweet by the time Richard pulls back, and he pulls away entirely to look at Henry from above again.

The new cuts Richard has given him are almost nothing compared to his healing car crash wounds, but they're brighter than the rest. Fresher. And Richard put them there.

Best of all, Henry’s hard. He’s so hard Richard can see a perfect outline of his cock trapped in his pants, and, even better, there’s a wet spot at the end where Henry has obviously been enjoying this too much.

God, fuck, Richard wants to eat him alive.

“You're pathetic,” Richard pants, hurriedly undoing Henry's button and zipper. “Getting off on this.”

“You're getting off on it, too,” Henry points out, helping Richard by arching up as he pulls his slacks off.

He's not wearing underwear. Score.

There's less scarring below the belt, but not by much. Richard can see it — no seat belt, launched through the windshield, scraped on the road with his torso taking the most damage. He thinks of crime scene reconstructionists and collision experts, the people that can take one look at someone and read their wounds like a book. He thinks, in another life, he might have liked to be something like that.

“You’re judging me, huh?” Richard asks, scratching his nails down one of Henry's thighs just to cause something quick, just to accent his words.

“I don't think either of us has the space to judge,” Henry says, in that tone that makes Richard think he's missing something important.

Doesn't matter too much, though; he switches the knife to his off-hand and takes Henry's cock in it instead, bringing precum down to slick him.

Henry sighs, shuts his eyes. Relaxes.

Can't have that.

Richard digs the tip of the knife into the junction where his leg meets his pelvis, nice and sensitive, and Henry jumps.

“Watch me when I do things to you,” Richard says lowly. It's supposed to be a joke and a threat, but it almost sounds like pleading — a want to be witnessed, to be seen, as he's in his element as a sadist and a bastard and a lover.

Henry nods. He doesn't shut his eyes again.

He watches as Richard leans down to spit over his cock. He watches as Richard starts to stroke him properly, genuinely, with the intent of making Henry feel good.

His eyes flutter, but they do not shut.

Richard brings the knife to his less-marred thigh, where the road rash is less prominent.

He turns the knife sideways in his hand and sets it into Henry's skin.

“Remember when you called me beautiful?” Richard asks, sliding the knife agonizingly slow over his thigh.

Henry nods.

Richard's had it on his mind, that word. Beautiful. He's been called plenty of things, ‘beautiful’ included, but the way Henry had said it was so... Real. So genuine and honest, like calling Richard anything but beautiful would be an injustice.

“You're beautiful too, you know,” he says.

Henry huffs and rolls his eyes, looking away from Richard's hands and looking up at the ceiling instead. He doesn't believe him.

“You are,” Richard repeats. “You're interesting, and hot,” he says. He lets up on the knife, and after a few moments, he's only jerking Henry off slow and steady while it rests on his skin. “Isn't that ‘beautiful’?”

“You don't know me,” Henry deflects.

“Not any more than you know me,” Richard returns.

Henry considers it.

He sighs.

“I won't tell you not to call me what you want,” he decides. “I don't have to agree with you.”

“You don't,” Richard hums.

Richard speeds up his hand; another pearl of precum is incorporated into the slickness coating him and Richard focuses on the head of his cock, rubbing his thumb at the underside where he knows it's most sensitive. Henry responds in turn; he struggles to keep his eyes open, watching again, and struggles with his hips moving against his will.

“You're beautiful,” Richard repeats, stroking him faster.

He bites his own tongue to keep from moaning at how Henry looks, arching into his hand and clinging at the blankets, alternating between almost letting his head fall back and watching in awe as Richard's hands inflict pleasure instead of pain.

“Cut me again,” he asks, sounding desperate.

“No,” Richard grins.

“Please.”

“No.”

The knife still hovers close like a threat, but Richard's attention is on getting Henry to the edge as fast as possible.

Henry moans quiet, incoherent things, things Richard doesn't know if he's supposed to hear or not.

“How long ago was the crash?” Richard asks, suddenly overwhelmingly curious.

Henry makes a hurt noise and Richard can't help the little laugh that bubbles up.

“Two months,” Henry hiccups, between shallow breaths and reedy moans.

“It fucked you up a little, huh?” Richard teases.

“You have no idea,” Henry breathes. “Are you going to finish me off?”

Richard's grin widens at the double entendre. What a choice to have: end his life, or make him cum.

Richard stops stroking him just as suddenly as he'd started. Henry groans and pushes his hips up uselessly, but all it does is catch the blade of the knife on his skin again.

“Not yet,” he croons, like he's comforting him. “I figure I owe you for the shit you pulled last time.”

At least that makes Henry laugh.

Richard gets up off the bed and gets his jeans off, kicking them and his underwear aside. He grabs his bottle of lube from the bedside table (with noticeably less of its contents than the last time Henry was here) and gets back on the bed, shoving and bullying between Henry's legs.

“I'd turn you over, but I don't want bloodstains on my bed,” he sneers. “You ready?”

Henry nods, eyes half-lidded but refusing to take his gaze off of Richard after he'd told him not to. He looks between Richard's hands, his eyes, and his cock, all just as beautiful as the last.

Richard sets the knife aside for now, opting to use both hands for something this delicate. One hand holds Henry open by shoving his thigh to the side, and the other pours lube directly over his ass. Henry twitches from the cold, but says nothing, so Richard pops the cap closed and tosses the lube away.

He lines two fingers up like Henry had started him, and is surprised when they sink in easier than he expected them to.

“Jesus, you already get fucked today?” Richard mutters. Something hot and angry flares in him at the idea of being someone's sloppy seconds, but Henry scoffs lightly.

“It's called ‘relaxing’,” he says. “You should try it sometime.”

“Nah,” Richard hums back.

He fucks his fingers into Henry without a shred of mercy, all brutal efficiency; he finds his prostate and focuses on it, zeroing in on how Henry shudders and writhes and squirms. Henry pushes his hips against Richard's fingers and finds himself making higher and higher noises, getting closer and closer, and Richard just hovers over him the whole time, smiling.

Richard pushes and pokes and prods until Henry is right at the edge, cock leaking steadily and breath coming fast, then pulls his fingers out.

Henry bites his lip to hold back the swearing he wants to do — fuck, fuck you, you little shit — and shuts his eyes instead.

“Need more lube,” Richard says nonchalantly.

“Asshole,” Henry mutters.

Henry keeps his eyes shut while Richard gets more lube onto his fingers. Just to be a shit, though, Richard doesn’t touch him again until Henry opens his eyes and looks at him, propped up on his elbows.

Richard smiles at him and presses three fingers into him at once.

Henry’s breath catches, but he doesn’t react much otherwise. Richard wants him to whimper, to squirm and moan, but Henry seems to play hard to get when it comes to reactions.

That’s fine. He’s fun enough; Richard will put in the effort.

This time, Richard moves slower; he takes his time exploring Henry and feeling over his prostate, making sure he gets pressure as well as the slide of friction over it on each movement in and out. It makes Henry huff and pant, writhe — it makes him grab at the blankets with white knuckles and bite his lip.

It makes Richard want him so bad he thinks he could explode.

He doesn't know if Henry is ready or not, he just knows he's dying to be inside him. Richard pulls his fingers out and wipes them off on Henry's intact thigh, then hikes Henry's legs up over his hips.

Richard's cock brushes at the inside of Henry's thigh and he juts his hips up a bit, chases the brush of friction on hot skin. It's good, but nowhere near as good as it's going to be.

He pours lube onto himself, then sets it aside and picks up the knife again.

For now, he only holds it in his hand, the handle pressing against Henry's hip when Richard pulls him in closer and lines himself up with Henry's hole.

Richard leans down to kiss Henry as he pushes in.

He swallows the gasp, the sound of Henry's whole body tensing, and smiles. He swallows the moan Henry breathes into his mouth when Richard bottoms out, pressed fully into him after a few long, slow moments pushing in.

He wants to swallow Henry whole, and that's its own thought worth considering — Richard has rarely put himself on his knees, but he might enjoy doing that for Henry. Henry might properly appreciate it.

“Move,” Henry groans, half needy and half annoyed.

Richard does, snapping his hips back and in once just to comply, and it knocks the air out of Henry again.

“What do you want?” Richard asks, quietly, against his mouth. “What can I give you?”

Henry swallows and hesitates to answer, even when Richard fucks another noise out of him.

“Give me your worst,” Henry finally answers, after too long. “I want it.”

Richard kisses him again to seal the deal.

He can do that. He can give Henry his worst.

He holds the knife up to Henry's throat, higher than he should; the blade lines under his jaw and the tip rests just behind his ear.

“You're going to stay real still for me, got it?” Richard breathes. The blade is against his skin but not cutting, not yet — the threat is obvious.

“You thought about this much?” Henry asks, both teasing and genuinely curious.

“Not really,” Richard admits. “Don't usually hunt my prey like this.”

He's considered a knife in play before, but he'd always imagined being asked for it. Not like this, with Henry theoretically at his mercy. Not like this, with someone so willing to be taken apart with no promise that they'll be put back together.

Richard props himself up carefully on one elbow, hovering over Henry with just enough pressure at his throat that there’s no chance of him forgetting what’s pressed there.

“C’mon,” Henry goads, flexing his hips up against Richard’s.

Richard gives him what he needs, what he’s asked for: he fucks into Henry again, and again, each thrust jostling the knife against his throat.

“Not so high,” Henry reminds him.

“Shut up,” Richard says, and kisses him again.

Compared to their previous kisses, this one is almost sweet. Richard fucks him slower while their mouths are together, clasping and un-locking and coming back together over and over.

After a few long minutes like that, Henry has to turn his head away from it to breathe, overwhelmed.

Richard picks up the pace into something quick and dirty and selfish, like he’s only concerned with his own pleasure. The knife doesn't quite draw blood from Henry's neck, but it's neither comfortable nor painless, making shallow red marks that overlap in the same space over and over as Richard moves.

Henry lets it happen. He keeps his face turned against the bed but still keeps his eye on Richard — they'll both tell themselves it's distrust, Henry waiting for Richard to hurt him worse and Richard waiting for his moment to strike, but they both know why Henry refuses to take his eyes off him.

Watch me when I do things to you.

Henry hisses when Richard adjusts the knife against him and the point prods behind his ear. It's hidden enough, but it hurts.

Changing the angle again draws the first blood in too long, and Henry knows it even without feeling it drip based on how Richard's eyes go wide and wild.

On cue, he removes the knife and ducks down to kiss over the scratched-up portion of his neck. He licks up the thin line of blood that's come up and keeps kissing, Henry's focus slowly going distant and hazy without Richard's face to focus on.

Richard bites, sharp wet teeth scraping over warm, broken skin, and Henry grunts in mixed pain and pleasure under him.

“Fuck, you’re hot,” Richard whines, and bites again. Henry's cock pulses precum onto his stomach, not that either of them notice in the moment — if Richard had noticed, he'd be biting a lot harder.

Richard brings the knife up to Henry's collarbone again and makes another long line across it, his mouth following so close as it splits skin that his mouth touches metal more than once. For every inch of pink turned red, Richard shoves himself into Henry again, his hips moving on animal instinct and his hand moving with sadistic precision.

Henry threads his fingers into Richard's hair as he kisses and sucks at the new wound across his collarbone, and tightens his fingers into a tugging fist when Richard moves his mouth back up to the flurry of shallow scrapes on his neck.

“Nowhere I can't cover,” Henry says for the second time, but Richard laughs.

“Yeah?” he asks against his throat. “Like the ink you left on my hands?”

This is much different and they both know it — this game has higher stakes than a few errant doodles.

Henry huffs, but doesn't say anything else.

“Should have fucked you with the knife,” Richard growls, pressing it to the other side of Henry's throat. He's going to look like he has gills if Richard's not careful. “Bet you'd like it though, huh?”

Henry groans as Richard fucks him harder, and faster, and he doesn't confirm or deny anything.

“Maybe next time I'll get some razors, yeah? Really make you bleed.”

Henry groans again. He's squirming under him, his legs twitching and flexing around him and the rest of him trembling with the effort not to move and cut himself on Richard's knife again.

Richard realizes Henry really, really is getting off on this. Christ.

“You think you deserve to cum?” Richard asks, grinning like a madman and panting like one, too. He’s been looking forward to turning this around on Henry since he asked Richard the same question.

“No,” Henry moans.

...Wait, what?

He's not supposed to say that. He's supposed to beg.

“Please, I don't want to,” Henry adds, and for the first time, Richard notices his eyes are... Kind of wet?

Shit, he really is fucked up.

“Too bad,” Richard hums. “I'm going to make you.”

His knife hand presses harder against Henry's throat, and Richard's hips stutter. If Henry's close, he's even closer, the power and tight heat and the taste of blood all going to his head.

“You're gonna cum just from being cut and fucked, aren't you?” Richard asks.

Henry shakes his head ‘no’ and, finally, shuts his eyes.

Richard leans into his knife hand and the response is immediate — Henry chokes on a hurt noise, his blood wells up over the blade, and Richard feels himself twitch closer to cumming.

Henry keeps his eyes shut.

Richard mashes his mouth against Henry's, brutal and mean and careless.

“Look at me,” he growls, “or I cut your fucking eyes out.”

Henry makes a sound like a sob and re-opens his eyes as much as he can manage, half-lidded and pupils blown and tears forming at the corners.

He's beautiful.

Richard cums so hard he sees stars. He always thought that was just an expression, but, no, there they are, sparkling at the edges of his vision the same as when Henry had choked him in this same bed.

He cums so hard his control slips and the knife digs deeper into Henry's throat, gathering enough blood for it to drip down the back of his neck and into his hair, and all Henry does is moan a broken oh, fuck as Richard keeps spilling inside him and dragging out one of the best fucks of his life.

Richard nearly collapses on top of Henry when he's finally done for, spent and exhausted. All that stops him is the shock of red at Henry's throat.

“Shit,” he mutters, and gently takes the knife away.

Henry flinches as it comes out, dug deep enough into his skin it pulls at his flesh despite Richard's best effort to get it out quickly and without doing any more damage.

Richard leaves the knife beside them and brings his hand up to hold Henry's neck, instead, palm to the wound. It hasn't hit anything more than capillaries, but Richard doesn't want any more blood on his bed than necessary.

They stay like that for a long moment; Richard cradles Henry by his neck and Henry looks up at him with wet eyes like the world revolves around Richard.

It's sickening. Richard kisses him again as he pulls out, cum dripping between his legs.

He uses the same hand covered in blood to reach down and gather some of the mess onto his fingers, and Henry's whole body twitches when Richard wraps those fingers around his cock.

“I told you I'd make you,” he says, jerking Henry off quick and efficient and rough, blood getting sticky and fighting with cum and lube as Richard's hand moves.

Henry bucks his hips up without thinking and without control over his own body. All he can do is cling to Richard with the hand still in his hair and the hand that crawls up Richard's side and curls, nails digging into the small of his back so hard they're going to leave marks.

“Stop,” Henry gasps, begs, but Richard just smiles and keeps stroking him.

Henry shuts his eyes again.

Henry's body arches when he cums, shooting between them so violently that Richard feels it hit his chest before dripping back down onto Henry's.

“It's okay,” Richard soothes, still smiling. “It's already over.”

Life bleeds from Henry's body as he keeps cumming, Richard jerking him through it until there's nothing left. Henry lies collapsed, gasping for breath, and Richard watches a tear slip from the outer corners of each eye as he lays there recuperating.

Richard relaxes onto the side where the knife doesn't lay bloody on top of his blanket, head propped up on his hand as he watches Henry come down.

He has marks all over him, his chest and ribs and thigh and neck, all still red and obvious. The last wound seems to have stopped bleeding, but Richard is sure it'll need some kind of bandage to keep it from re-opening and bleeding more. Cum blurs the edges of injuries both old and new.

Richard can't stop smiling.

He's never felt so smug in his life.

Eventually, Henry opens his eyes again.

First, he stares at the ceiling, but he can't do that forever. When he finally turns his head to look at Richard, he winces at the way it makes the cuts on his neck tug, but he doesn't shy away from Richard's gaze on him.

Henry smiles a little, too.

“You're an asshole,” he finally says, quiet and resigned.

Richard laughs.

“You earned it,” he shrugs. He can't get the smile off his face — he tries, but it just won't go away.

It feels wrong, somehow, not to lean forward and kiss Henry again. He tastes a little like blood, and a little like something sated, and a little like a vanquished evil.

“You enjoy yourself?” Henry asks against Richard's lips, and Richard hums.

“Yeah,” he says. He does not admit that might be the most fun he's ever had in bed. “You?”

Henry nods. It makes his nose brush against Richard's, like he's nuzzling toward him, and Richard, surprisingly, doesn't mind it.

He's the first to sit up, and Henry frowns until Richard hops off the bed.

“You need first aid,” he says, obviously amused and obviously full of himself.

Henry sits up, too, and waits patiently as Richard gathers supplies from his bathroom.

Coming back, Richard realizes there was more blood than he thought, and he smirks to himself before he starts patching Henry up.

In the end, Henry borrows a turtleneck.