Work Text:
Sampo finds himself becoming an admirer again.
This is a habit he has, he's done it his whole life. Some spark of enjoyment he finds, and chases, and cradles until it threatens to burn his hands. To burn someone else.
In many respects he's a normal man — work by day, play by night. He enjoys his work, but when he's by himself, at night, that's when his mask slips away and he can stoke the fire. It's normal, of course, to want to seek pleasure. To engage in hobbies. His hobby, his current admiration, is an amateur camboy.
But Sampo can't seem to enjoy himself normally.
From what he can gather — from seeking as much of his online presence as he can — it started out as a hobby for him, as well. For the thrill of it, or the exhibition of it. Sampo won't turn down a free meal, of course, but this is one he doesn't mind paying for.
The online name of his new meal is laceratingfist, but with some careful digging in his free time, Sampo is able to find out a lot about him. Not just his real name, but his day job, his city, other hobbies, and how long it would take to drive to his house. Or, more likely, apartment. And, in reality, previous job.
Luka Strongarm, a sweet redhead living just a few hours away in a neighboring city. He'd previously been an amateur boxer and had worked at a local mechanic shop, but not anymore. A year or so ago, he'd lost his right arm, and had to quit both. But even with such an awful, traumatic event, he still had a cheerful demeanor and often a smile on his face.
Sampo was smitten with him. He was obsessed with him. Even at work, he couldn't stop thinking about him.
What started as a way to unwind in the darkness turned to an all-encompassing blaze.
It was going to hurt someone.
✦
Luka's usual content was pictures of himself post-workout, or lounging in lingerie, videos of groping himself, grinding against toys that look too large to fit — all the usual, appealing and sexy things to entice someone into paying for more. Most of the time his face was out of frame, but Sampo was the kind of desperate man to be paying for everything he could.
He couldn't help it. The way Luka took photos of himself, the way the camera framed him, it felt so intimate and personal. Like it was just for him and his eyes only. Like he meant it that way. It was all exactly what drove him crazy.
Knowing what city Luka lived in, it wasn't hard to figure out his favorite haunts — his usual restaurant, convenience store, the gym he still went to, his favorite park. Sampo would be ashamed to admit he'd spent multiple weekends wandering the city, hoping to see his darling, if he had anyone to talk to about it. But Sampo hadn't had any close friends in years, and even if he did, he knew better than to let the mask down for anyone.
✦
With his premium tier subscription, Sampo had access to exclusive videos of Luka undressed, undone, and wet. Sweaty and flushed, sweet moans coming through the phone speaker as Sampo stroked himself to shameful conclusion. He didn't care how much money it was. He lived alone, he'd cut back on his hobbies that don't pay, he'd pull more hours, get a side job, anything if Luka would keep doing what he did.
After a few months, he'd spent so much that Luka knew him by username. It didn't matter how many other viewers were in the livestream chat, as long as MisterColdFeet was at the top of the donation list, jealousy wouldn't grip him. This was his new routine, his little fireplace. Luka would start the stream, mostly dressed, and Sampo would say hello by unzipping his pants and his wallet.
He'd admire the scars criss-crossing Luka's thighs and arm and across his chest, the hint of a happy trail up his stomach. Pawing at himself through his briefs the same moment Luka would himself. To pretend. Groaning out when Luka breathes in sharply, dripping lube over himself and spreading his cunt open for Sampo's eyes and his eyes only. If only he were there to take over, pumping his fingers in and out of his pussy when Luka's arm gets sore. He'd do everything for him if he could. Lay him down on the bed and ravish him, kiss him til he can't breathe, fuck him til he screams to stop.
From off screen, Luka grabs his favorite toy, larger and longer than average but close enough to Sampo's reality he can imagine it's his own, pressing in and filling Luka until he whimpers, hips shaking with need but denying movement just to tease. Sampo squeezes his cock, stalling his movement and breathing heavily. He'll move when Luka wants him to. He'll pay whatever it takes. He'll do anything.
After they both cum, Luka sleepily thanks all the top donors, out of breath and giggling at everyone's usernames. He tries to sound professional, but Sampo knows that he'd only thank MisterColdFeet every time if he could get away with it.
✦
A few days later he's back in the city, early in the morning for a regular, normal day in the park. If he gets lucky, he'll see someone jogging a few laps around the greenery. Someone with pretty red hair tied back, someone who'll think nothing of the tall, blue-haired man minding his own business.
He sits and watches Luka, tracing his body with his eyes and wondering what he'd say if he'd stop to catch his breath at the same bench he's sitting on. If he'd mind that Sampo is smoking and bouncing his leg, jacket on despite the heat. If he'd let Sampo cajole him into free lunch. He finishes his cigarette and keeps his hands in his jacket pockets, mind wandering to the way Luka's thighs shake as his feet hit the pavement. His shorts are just short enough to see some of those pretty scars in real life, close enough to touch as Luka goes jogging by. He's burning under his collar.
✦
laceratingfist: Hi, MisterColdFeet! I want to thank you so much for all of your kind donations, it really means a lot to me to have such a dedicated fan. Is there any sort of custom content you'd like to see? It'll be just for you <3
Sampo is sitting in the diner, nursing a coffee and a plate of all-day pancakes. When his phone buzzes with that message, it's right after Luka puts his own phone down and turns to gaze out the window, chin on his hand. Sampo is sitting in the booth behind him, and can see the faint hint of a blush coloring his cheeks on an otherwise neutral expression.
Heart pounding in his chest, a thousand things to say rush through his head. Confess his real name, tell the truth, ask for the chance to take him out, ask how far he's willing to go for a sadist. Ask the story of the scars littering his body, tell it to him on video, undressed, touch yourself at the same time. Meet up in real life.
Tell me everything, how it felt, where you got the blade from, were you ashamed? Are you still? Do you still want to do it? Will you? For me? Finger yourself and tell me how much it hurt. Tell me where you were when you cut the deepest, what you punished yourself for. Punish yourself again for me. Let me feel how wet you are from it. Cum with my name on your lips.
Sampo feels sick.
The day was still bright, shining, light reflecting off the mask he hides behind. He leaves the message alone, resolving to sneak back to it under the cover of darkness. In front of him, Luka finishes off his sandwich and gets up to pay his tab. In his mind, Luka's legs drip blood down to soak through his pretty white socks and sneakers. In his mind, he smears it as he wrenches his legs apart, sliding and staining his shorts as he takes him in the bathroom. Lifted and pressed against the wall, silencing any cry of pain or pleasure with a tongue down his throat.
He feels sick, and orders a refill on his coffee just so he doesn't have to stand up so soon.
✦
Despite his better judgement, that night, Sampo rents a motel room at the outskirts of the city. He doesn't want to leave, yet, feeling like he'd be leaving Luka on his lonesome. Especially since the poor boy was still waiting for an answer — what did he want?
What didn't Sampo want from him?
He wants to follow him home and force his way in the door. He wants to see the fear on Luka's face as he realizes just who this is, and how careless he was with himself. He wants to lock the door and rip Luka's clothes off, pin him to the floor and duct tape his mouth shut so he won't scream. He wants to see Luka cry as this strange man rapes him within an inch of his life, chokes him, threatens to impregnate him, then takes him to the bath to wash him off.
Sampo cums in the shower and watches shamefully as it disappears down the drain, unfulfilled and tense under the low water pressure. He has work tomorrow. He can't call in sick. He'll need to get up early to drive back to his hometown in time.
MisterColdFeet: You're very welcome. Do you have any sort of boundaries around requests?
It takes a lot of willpower not to call him by name, or any sort of pet name. Darling, love, kiddo, are all bitten back by fear of scaring Luka off. He doesn't want to hurt him.
✦
He makes it to work on time, spurring himself on by the thought of sending more money to Luka. He wonders how he's doing, if he's able to make rent comfortably. If he can buy the name-brand groceries, if he's comfortable. He hopes so. A dark little voice whispers that Luka wouldn't need to make rent if I'd just take him home with me, and Sampo clenches his fists at his desk. Breathe in, breathe out. Just thinking about it won't make it true, but that doesn't change the want burning through him.
If he could, he would.
During his lunch break, Sampo lurks on Luka's social media accounts, suddenly worried he's caught on to the new blue-haired weirdo hanging around his usual spots. Nothing, just a few posts about music he's been listening to, local boxing matches he's been to, and a recent masochistic urge he'd been feeling.
Five minutes after he's back at his desk, he takes his smoke break, unable to stop thinking about the concept — not just fantasy, but a possible reality.
laceratingfist: Why, do you have something a little out there in mind?
MisterColdFeet: How comfortable are you with knife and blood play?
He lights another cigarette after the first is done.
✦
Sampo is a normal, upstanding man. He's a hard worker, kind and polite. He doesn't like hurting other people. He doesn't, he swears. On purpose or on accident, he dislikes violence. All his previous lovers would say so, would swear so.
So he hates himself when Luka, his darling Luka, sends him a video — truly this time, a video filmed for him and his eyes only. On display and laid bare, vulnerable, soft, and panting. All for Sampo's enjoyment. All on Sampo's request. All on Sampo's dime.
Luka steadies himself on his bed, gives a bashful smile to the camera. It's angled low, focused on his thighs. There's a boxcutter in his hand. He's wearing nothing but white, lacey panties.
"It's been a while since I did this," he murmurs, face flushed as the boxcutter blade traces up and down his already-scarred thigh. "It's such a thrill every time, though."
Almost too quick, Luka slices into his thigh. The gasp of breath after is sweet honey to Sampo's ears. Blood has already started collecting, pooling, bubbling up between the edges of his skin. Not too deep, not too shallow to do anything. Perfect.
"It doesn't hurt that much," Luka laughs, "it just stings. It's cold, then warm."
He makes another incision, a little unsteady and barely parallel to the first. It starts to weep blood faster, and Luka, too, picks up his pace. Another, and another, and another, and his hand brushes against the little globules of congealing blood and smears them, the cuts now free to weep down the side of his thigh. All through it, little gasps and moans echo out through Sampo's phone speaker, and he, unthinkingly, strokes himself through his pants. It's alright. It's dark out, it's only Sampo and the sweet siren in his phone for company. Blood is collecting in a pool, gathering between Luka's thighs. He wants to lick it up. He wants to use it to fuck them.
He can't help himself. The bigger a mess Luka makes of his thighs, cutting and flinching and moaning like the whore he is when he slices too deep, the faster Sampo strokes himself. The cuts slow down and Sampo speeds up, hoping one day to have his precious darling woozy from blood loss and shock in his arms. Cock hot and twitching in his hand, he imagines Luka is cradled on his lap, wounds weeping blood and soaking the sheets. Fingers digging into the cuts, scratching them, tearing them open. Blood between his fingers and under his nails and buried to the hilt in his cunt. Tears in his eyes and begging to stop.
On the screen, Luka abandons the boxcutter and, hand bloodied, stains those brilliant white panties as he begins to tease himself through the fabric.
With a whimper, Sampo cums, narrowly missing his stomach only to stain the shirt he didn't bother to take off.
Immediately he locks his phone, tossing it to the end of the bed. Lust abandons him for shame, and he covers his eyes. He doubles over. Shame. For shame. For shame! How dare he? He's pathetic, and he knows it. Tainted and vile. There were several more minutes of video, but he doesn't deserve it. It's hard to breathe, but why should he even bother?
He stands in the shower, water cold, stares at the wall. Body tense so he won't shiver. He doesn't deserve even that. He'll send more money to Luka tomorrow. As an apology, of course, a thank-you for putting up with him. As penance.
✦
From his third-storey apartment, Luka has a good view of the complex's courtyard. It's nothing special, but on holidays he can see fireworks across the city from it, or the window balcony. It's small, and a bit cramped, but it's cheap, relatively speaking. Maybe someday he'll move to another city, but he has doubts he'll be able to save up enough with his current income streams. For right now, though, he's content where he is.
As he draws the curtains for the night, he catches a glimpse of a tall man in a leather jacket smoking under one of the trees. He pays no mind to it. It's a common sight.