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"Hey, man, load up the presentation? The- the one with the plan?” Fiddling with the camcorder, Andre’s leaned up against the wall opposite Cal. He’s tucked right up to the cove of his closet-slash-supply-depot, legs crossed criss-cross-apple-sauce in his grass stained cargos. There’s the click-schhk-click of popping the batteries out and slotting them back in.
Cal, rocking on the wooden desk chair, nods. He fiddles blindly for the power button.
He’s always preferred Andre’s house to his own. Maybe it’s the tall windows that open up to a sun-soaked backyard in the summertime, or the constant smell of Andre’s mom cooking downstairs. She always makes Cal’s favorite dishes when he comes over, serves them up on a snoopy plate with a glass of milk or orange soda.
Or maybe, it’s the semblance of privacy: Andre’s the younger of two brothers, so there’s no little siblings hanging off their ankles. Andre’s also a clean-freak, so his mom’s never nagging him to do the laundry like Cal’s mom is. Instead, Andre’s house sits in a perpetual quiet that is equal parts respite and unease.
“Is it just called ‘presentation’ or something?” Cal gnaws on his lip. He consults the sticky note tacked to the desk for Andre’s login details, typing it letter-by-letter with his pointer finger. He’s not as adept as Andre, maybe, who has his own computer in his room to use whenever he pleases. At Cal’s house, the family computer is tucked away in his dad’s office – not exactly the prime location for browsing rotten.com or porn sites.
Andre hums in assent, still fiddling with the camcorder.
Once the desktop is loaded up, Cal squints. He scans the start screen for the little icon or filename. There’s a slew of files here – he recognises the icons of a few games Andre likes to talk about (DOOM, Wolfenstein, Tomb Raider). Folders named School, Music, Pics .
“Tomb Raider is so gay, dude,” Cal snipes absently as he leans in to squint, “You literally play as a chick. A hot one.”
“It’s not gay,” Andre huffs back, “She’s not even hot. She’s polygons.”
“Yeah, half of those polygons are her spiky rack,” Cal rolls his eyes, “Where’s your porn on this thing anyway?”
Andre chokes.
“What?” Andre asks, and even facing away, Cal knows Andre’s staring holes into his back, “Why would I- what makes you think I-?”
Double-clicking on the presentation file, Cal swivels around in the chair. He rests his chin on the wooden back, surveying Andre. He’s already starting to pink at the ears. The midday sun casts bars of light that span across the room, cutting Andre’s figures in an illuminated barcode. Where the sun hits, his tan skin and brown hair turns gold, and in the shadow he seems to sink and bleed into the wall behind him.
“Come on, ‘Dre.” Cal snickers, “It’s completely natural. Nothing to be ashamed about. You’re a growing boy. You have urges.”
Andre’s cheeks blossom red.
“Shut up.” He grumbles, “You’re such a dick.”
Even in the slivers of light, Cal can see that Andre’s entire face has pinked delightfully, bleeding like an ink stain down his neck, over the planes of slight stubble and down to his Adam's apple. He can’t meet Cal’s eyes, either, which means Cal is on the right track.
And- well, yeah. There’s no way he doesn’t have porn on this thing, Cal’s sure of it. Cal knows that if he had a personal hard-drive that his parents didn’t check, he’d be loading that thing up until his computer crashed. Andre, it seemed, had little appreciation for the finer things in life.
“What is it, then?” He can’t help but press – it wouldn’t be right to resist such a prime opportunity, handed right to him. He’d be doing Andre a disservice as a friend, really, “Hot librarian? Feet?”
Andre’s abandoned the camcorder entirely now, slumped up against the wall. He runs a hand over his face, no doubt feeling the heat radiating from his flushed cheeks against his palm. The white-hot summer may have faded out as they petered into September, but the freckles on Andre’s cheeks hadn’t. Cal was still nursing a cruel sunburn across the nape of his neck that itched every time his overgrown hair brushed over it.
“Oh my god,” Andre groans, “No. No. No.”
Cal’s lips curl.
“Oh, oh, is it bondage? ”
Andre’s uptight, he’s gotta have some sort of dirty secret. Some outlet, some way to get all of that repressed emotion out. High School is stressful enough, not even accounting for the whole looming presence of Zero Day over their heads. When every day might be last, there’s gotta be some way to get all of that pent up tension out. Andre, impossibly, burns darker.
“You’re such a fag, man,” he grumbles, uncrossing his legs and stretching them out in front of him, the soles of his grubby white socks facing Cal now, “Why do you care about my- my- my jerking off habits anyway? What are you, gay?”
Cal tilts his head. His chin presses hard into the wood back of the chair, and he squeezes his knees as they flank the seat.
“Sure I am,” he suggests, voice casual - it’s not completely untrue, “Maybe you’re projecting.”
Andre huffs, crosses his arms like a tantrum-bound toddler.
“You’re such a freak.”
“You love me,” Cal grins, before turning back to the powerpoint. It’s loaded fully now. Yellow classified-font text on a dark background, just as perfunctory as he’d expected from Andre. He’s always been one to trim off the fat. He clicks forward a few slides, eyes skimming over the text for anything that seems obviously offbase, but when he doesn’t find anything, he instead turns back to Andre.
“Camera’s ready?”
“Mhm.” Andre nods, shuffles to his feet with some effort, the camcorder in hand. “Got a new tape loaded in. You’re presenting or me?”
Cal glances at the powerpoint. Andre’s always been better with the more informative, mission-led tape segments. Cal’s more of a one-on-one, rambling type. That sort of thing’s better done alone.
“You,” he says decisively.
Socked feet against hardwood, Andre pads across the bedroom. The thin stripes of sunlight bounce against the blue walls, casting his tan skin in a bluish glow from the sides that makes every plane of his face that much more pronounced. Cal stands, reaches for the blinds as Andre situates himself in the desk chair.
“Ready?” Cal asks, hand slipping into the handhold of the camcorder as he takes it from Andre. Andre nods. Drums his fingers on the desk. Overhead, framed photos of Andre’s family peer down at them.
“Ready.”
It takes a half hour of filming and refilming segments - Andre’s neighbor has decided that right now is the prime time to mow his lawn, of course - before they’re satisfied. If you asked Cal, he thought the powerpoint was pretty good. The plan would be easy enough to execute in practice, and he felt so ready for it now that his nerves felt like a constant live wire, waiting for a spark to jump him into action. It was just a waiting game now.
Andre groans, falling back onto his unmade bed and rubbing his face. The midday sun is high overhead now, casting a harsh rectangle of light into the room that cuts Andre right through the mid-calf. Neck to knee is engulfed in warm light that makes his tan skin look tanner - he’s got freckles and moles all over his bare arms, Cal notes, and the last dredges of a farmer’s tan at his shirtsleeves and where his watch stripes around his wrist. Cal’s got no clue why Andre even needs one. They’re not exactly running on a tight schedule now.
From where he’s still standing by the desk, Cal picks up the camcorder.
“Can I take this? To do my own tape?” He asks, fiddling with some of the buttons, “I’ll be careful with it.”
“Sure,” Andre says amiably, blinking against the bright light, “I need to get more tapes.”
Humming in assent, Cal sets the camcorder back down. He’s already thinking about what he might say in his piece - something about being ready, now. Because he is: whenever it comes, he’ll be prepared. All of the planning and dirty work is done now, and all that matters is that he’s there , standing right where he needs to be for everything to fall in place perfectly around him. Whatever happens, he’s going to go through with this, and Andre will be there with him, through to the end. There’s some invisible string, he thinks, that’s bound them through to this point. Unseverable. Wherever one goes, the other follows in quick succession.
A knock on the door.
“Andre?” Mrs Kriegman asks through the door, though she - thankfully - doesn’t try the lock. Cal quickly minimizes the presentation window.
“Yeah, mom?” Andre calls, a little louder than necessary, sitting up, “What’s up?”
“Will you come help me load the trunk?” She asks, a biting frustration in her voice, “You know my back is-”
Andre mimes a frustrated groan, rubbing his jaw fiercely, smooth palm bristling against the day-old stubble on his jaw. He’s trying so valiantly to grow some semblance of facial hair, Cal almost finds it cute. Andre’d never admit it, but Cal knows he’s jealous of the wispy mustache Cal’d managed to muster up before senior year, even if it’s too blonde to even notice.
“Yeah, sure, mom,” He grumbles as he pads towards the bedroom door, unlocking it. The door swings open. In the corridor, Andre’s mom stands with her arms crossed, a head shorter than Andre and her glasses pushed up onto the top of her head. She’s got the same dark hair as Andre, though hers is streaked with gray, the same angular nose and downturned mouth. Her gaze flickers up at Andre, first, before shifting to Cal at the far end of the room.
He smiles politely, waves.
“Hi, Mrs Kriegman.”
“Hi, Calvin,” she smiles politely, but briskly. It’s perhaps the best way Cal can think to describe the Kriegman bloodline: no dawdling. If only Andre had inherited her cooking skills, too, “I hope Andre is being a good host.”
“Always room to improve,” Cal quips, grins wolfishly. Even facing away from him, Cal can tell that Andre’s biting back a scowl.
“So, mom- loading the trunk?” He interrupts before the Andre-slander can progress any further. Cal and Mrs Kriegman have always been kindred spirits in this way: they love to gossip. With a quick nod, she leads Andre down the hall, leaving Cal blissfully alone.
This is… way too much power than he should be allowed, is the first thing Cal thinks when he registers that he’s completely alone in Andre’s bedroom.
A brief catalog of the room tells him nothing he doesn’t already know. Namely, that Andre is a huge fucking nerd . The star wars poster on his closet is a dead tell, but there are subtler hints: game magazines on his bedside and stickers tacked to the side of his computer case for the various bands Andre’s never admit he likes out loud. Dashboard Confessional, Goo goo Dolls… he’s always had a weakness for whiny, indie-rock. Cal’s been trying for months now to ease him into something a little more tolerable and a little less self-pitying, but getting Andre to change is like drawing water from a stone.
But… Cal grins, sliding into the desk chair and retyping the password.
Closing powerpoint, he immediately surveys the desktop with an intensity he hadn’t given it previously. Games icons, folders - school, music, pics. He eyes the folder named school , and hums. Double click.
Subfolders: Algebra, CompSci, English Lit, SocStudies. Alphabetised, of course. Chewing his lip, Cal double clicks on Algebra, and blinks when the folder comes up empty. CompSci, too, turns up blank. Huh. SocStudies contains a subfolder, Unit 1 , which is just as empty as the rest, but there’s at least an intent there that Cal can’t help but grin at. Andre tries so hard, it’s almost as if he expects to see the end of senior year.
Cal squints at the final folder, English Lit. He was pretty sure Andre wasn’t taking social studies this year, but maybe he was wrong. Their timetables weren’t lined up perfectly, seeing as Cal had picked Creative Writing and Philosophy as his electives. He wasn’t entirely sure what Andre had picked - tech, maybe. Woodworking. He seemed like a woodworking guy.
Double click. Jackpot.
It’s a rookie error on Andre’s part, to hide his hardcore porn stash in a folder labeled English Lit . Cal knows full well that Andre hasn’t cared about reading since sixth grade. So, really, this is Andre’s fault.
Grinning, Cal leans back in the desk chair. He teeters it on the back legs, eyes scanning the files as they load.
It takes way too fucking long to load, because, as it turns out – Andre is fucking voracious when it comes to his porn stash. He has to blink back his surprise, brushing his blonde hair from his eyes to make sure he’s seeing this right. The folder’s footer informs him that there’s 89 items. Dirty secret, nail hit right on the head.
Endless grids of video clips labeled vaguely, giving little away towards their actual contents. The thumbnails are tiny, small enough that Cal can’t even begin to determine their contents. Flashes of darkness and shades of flesh-tone. Andre must remember his favorites by name, then. It’s no wonder everything on here runs at a snail pace.
He waves the mouse pointer at random, double clicks on the first thing he lands on. MOV_29284 is a beautiful, poignant title, he thinks.
After thirty seconds of Andre’s computer fan whirring suspiciously loud, the clip buffers enough for him to press play. A grainy, shaky camera comes into view: a dim-dark room, silhouettes of bodies. Amateur. Andre, apparently, likes his porn authentic.
Cal squints, tugs the blinds down when the midday sun hits the screen and grays it out. The contrast in this video is awful , but he can just about discern the silhouettes of two bodies. It’s a side view, maybe, the camera still enough that it must be propped up on a bedside table somewhere. He leans forward, tries to separate the shadows into separate entities, distinguish where bodies begin and end.
And then the audio decides to finally fucking load in. Panting breath overtured by static, low and masculine, the creak of a bed - Cal practically leaps forward to dial down the volume, all the way down to mute. Christ. He slams the pause button as the top figure rocks forward. Presumably, into the girl on the bottom.
Okay, no. Clicking onto the next clip, this one’s a little brighter, but the shaky cam immediately tells Cal that this is another homemade video.
A pan up from the waist - thin hips, low rise jeans, a bulge, no tits in sight. Up along a skinny torso and a chain necklace resting on the guy’s collarbones. The camera pans high enough to finally show the guy’s blurry face, grinning, dimpled. Brunette. He looks, Cal thinks.. Cute. When the camera turns and there's another (much buffer) guy behind the lens, it clicks into place.
And well.. Andre likes Dashboard Confessional and uses orange blossom shampoo. The notion that Andre might also like guys isn’t exactly a huge cognitive leap.
The brunette guy says something, college-boy grin plastered onto his face, a silent movie now that Cal’s dialed the volume down. He pushes his overgrown hair out of his face and steps back, sitting on the hotel bed with his knees spread a little too wide.
Cal hovers the pointer over the red X button, but finds that he hesitates.
He can’t help it, he wants to know just what sort of stuff Andre likes. What makes him tick, what gets him off. He’s always wanted a full-throttle friendship like that: to swallow someone whole, to become them, to be consumed in himself.
College boy’s hand hovers over the buttons of his jeans, and he glances up at the cameraman - still standing - through dark eyelashes. He lip syncs something, pops the button, pushes the jeans down his hips just enough to expose jutting hip bones and plaid-pattern boxers. He says something again - maybe I’m nervous, I’ve never done this before, how do you want me? Cal imagines Andre’s into that sort of thing, the faux-innocence of a straight guy’s first time experimenting.
College boy palms his cock through the fabric, grins that sheepish dimpled smile, strips of whitened teeth with the canines a little too sharp. He slides down the edge of the bed to kneel. He’s young: the right side of eighteen, barely just.
Oh. Point-of-view, okay. Cal supposes he can appreciate the directorial vision.
He leans back as College boy gets the camera man’s cock out. Average length, maybe, but thick - it’s the only part of him that’s not got an obnoxiously orange spray tan, so it gets extra points in Cal’s book. He chews his open lips as College boy parts his, taking the head gently into his mouth. His pink lips stretch wide around the length, and he looks up again to make eye contact with the camera, with the viewer, with Cal, with Andre . Because Andre’s watched this. Beat off to it. Liked it so much, it seems, that he’d saved it to his hard drive.
College boy is eager, no doubt, sucking off the camera guy with voracious intent. Maybe he’s really enjoying himself. Cal can’t help but imagine what it might feel like: the tight, wet heat of a mouth on him. Swollen lips, his hips jerking forward into the cradle of it like he’s fucking some girl’s cunt instead. The sounds, too, that wet, spitty glcck-glck, the boy choking, throat finally opening up and relaxing.
Backdropped by tacky hotel carpet and a white bedspread, College boy pulls off. If the video were clearer, maybe there’d be a string of spit connecting his rosy lips to the head of the cock he’d been sucking. Says something; You taste so good, you’re so big, did I do okay? He hazards to guess. Something cliché, innocent. There’s always a fantasy to sell.
A hand comes forward, egregiously tanned, pets College boy’s cheek like praising a puppy. The grin College boy gives is surprisingly genuine.
Cal bites his lips, closes the window.
Cal’s… well, Cal’s mostly straight, he thinks, but he’s- he’s definitely dabbled. More than Andre has, at least, since he’s pretty sure Andre’s never gone beyond first base let alone gotten anywhere close to reenacting any of these clips.
There’s been a few guys. Nameless, faceless, half of the time, friends of friends that Cal bumps into at house parties. Once, there was a guy who offered Cal ten bucks and a six pack for a blowjob. One of Chris’ distant acquaintances, a good few years older and a head taller. He’d drunk it all in Andre’s basement and spent the cash on weed. He’s never been one to shy away from experimenting.
It’s not like Cal was searching out for it.
Most of the clips Cal had expected to find on Andre’s hard drive were of the scripted shit, with the sleazy music and the girls in skimpy clothing that gets Cal’s dick hard but makes his skin crawl, makes him feel a little dirty all over.
When Cal flickers through them- yep. It’s all guys. There’s not a single pair of tits in sight, nor a pussy, nothing that Cal expects to find. No skimpy lingerie or high heels or lipgloss-smeared mouths, the kind of shit that gets Cal’s blood rushing right to the surface of his skin and his nerves sparking alight. He can’t help it, he loves pretty girls, wants to keep them like pinned butterfly prizes.
He can’t help but wonder- would Andre be terrified to know that Cal knows? What would he expect Cal to do, has he considered it before, has the urge to just come clean lingered right on the tip of Andre’s tongue in all those moments where conversation quelled between them, slowed to that disquieting pace where they both have so much to say but none of the spine to say it? Andre’s spine’s been receding for weeks now, Cal thinks, every inch lost is one that Cal offers up to him in turn.
Lip chewed raw, Cal glances at the bedroom door. He can hear the sounds of Andre and his mom loading things up into the car through the open window, and chances another clip.
The video buffers after a moment, opening on some logo screen Cal can’t quite make out, too blurry. But when it fades out into the opening scene, there are two guys in frame. Both of them are in military fatigues, painfully on-brand for Andre. The room around them is stripped bare, nothing but white-plaster walls and a metal frame bunk bed. Authenticity or just a ploy at it, Cal couldn’t even say. He’s never dabbled in the medium enough to learn the tells. Andre, he suspects, has.
He’s tempted to skip through the video when it’s just muted talking, pixelated mouths curving around words Cal can’t distinguish. His gaze flickers between the two guys, a guessing game of top and bottom. The taller guy, broader shoulders and a tattoo on his bicep: that’s who Cal thinks might top. The suspect-bottom is shorter, lean, brunette hair crew-cut close to the scalp. Cal’s guess is proved right when the brunette starts to undress, sliding down his ACU pants around his knees. His briefs go next, and it’s not long before he’s getting pinned up against the bed frame.
With a soft sigh, Cal leans back, spreads his knees another inch wider. He reaches down and palms the semi steadily chubbing up in his jean shorts. It’s a natural reaction, to seeing that sort of thing.
Indulging in a light squeeze, Cal lets out another soft sigh, watching as the buff guy rolls on a condom. He’s always preferred guys a little taller, a little more muscle on their bones than him. It’s better that way: more satisfying to put them in their place. His breath hitches.
Maybe it’s wrong, to touch himself like this in his best friend’s bedroom, to his best friend’s porn stash. But he’s dedicated, now, to committing everything about Andre to memory. Planning a mass murder is surely more intimate.
Arousal curls at the base of his spine, something dark, scuttling up over vertebrae like a centipede. There is a thrill, somewhere, in doing what you shouldn’t.
Buff guy slides in. He’s not too big, but the brunette groans like he is, like the sheer intrusion is splitting him in half. He grips one of the railings of the bunk bed, fingers coiling so tight around it that Cal can see the tension even through the static fuzz of the low quality footage. Maybe it’s too painful, maybe it’s too good, maybe a bit of both. The two tend to feed into each other.
It’s a good video, he concedes, even if it’s not quite his style. He’s always preferred the slightly rougher stuff: girls tied up pretty, ropes around their ankles and wrists and between the valleys of their tits. Scared, like an animal about to be dissected. He likes them afraid and trembling and screaming if he can help it, likes when they get hit or slapped or flogged, reminded of their place. He likes leather and latex and blood. Cal’s blood sings at the thought.
But the buff guy thrusts forward like he’s aiming to hurt, to punish , and it really does look like the brunette’s struggling to take it, and Cal squeezes his cock a little harder over his jean shorts. He wishes he could hear it, could hear the soft, wounded noises the brunette guy’s no doubt making with every thrust in, hear the creak of the bedframe, hear the slap of skin to skin. It looks like the buff guy’s talking, but he can’t be sure. What would he be saying- sweet or cruel? Taking it so well, or do you like that? Like me fucking you like some whore? Some dirty fag?
And then, buff guy’s hand slides up the front of the bottom’s tan shirt, coasting over lean pectorals and cotton before curling around his throat. With a firm tug, he yanks the brunette’s head back, webbing of his thumb and forefinger arcing over the jugular perfectly and pressing . Cal can see the moment the airflow cuts off, the way the brunette boy’s eyes widen and his hand, clasped firm around the metal bar, starts to scrabble helplessly.
Cal exhales harshly through his nose.
It feels impossible to tear his eyes from the screen, but he does, just for a moment. He watches his fingers curl over the bulge in his jeans. The teeth of his zipper are digging in even through the jersey of his boxers, biting just enough to make his blood rush. He angles his hand, lets the bulge rest under the arced webbing of his thumb and forefinger.
So, this is the stuff Andre likes?
Does Andre want to give it hard, deep, unrelenting? Wants to find some guy to bear into, to fuck all of his rage and anger and dread into, hands curling over their throats. Does he want power? It’s a thrilling thought, one that slots perfectly into what he knows of Andre already. Andre’s always hated to feel helpless, to feel demeaned. He wonders if this taste for violence had always been there, or if it’s another thing they’ve stolen from each other, fed into until simple curiosity grew into something concrete, real, to be desired.
It’s a mammoth image, Andre touching himself: the moment Cal sees it, he can’t scrub the thought from his mind. Like turning a diary page, seeing the imprint of the words before. Andre, on his back. Or maybe he’d jerk off in the shower. He’s practical like that. Would he be naked? Or maybe he’d just reach under his boxers, a tight fist circled around his cock. Would he use spit? Lotion? Maybe he’d get wet enough to spread beads of precum over himself, wince a little as his fingers brush over the crown.
Would he be just as perfunctory, no-nonsense, militaristic? Or would he get into it, body lax, let his body guide each motion, slim hips canting up desperately and back arching? Biting his lap to muffle any sounds, head arched back on the pillow and beads of sweat rolling down his neck. Eyes closed, clandestine images burned into the undersides of his eyelids, just as this image is burned into Cal’s mind now.
He hisses through his teeth, popping the button of his shorts open.
Cal scrolls down, clicks at random. There’s gotta be something more extreme here. There’s no way Andre got just a taste of what sex could be like, of how perfectly you could weave pain and pleasure together, and not want more.
This video starts out with an overhead shot. The guy in the frame is lithe, dark haired. Pseudo-military, again. He’s got dark eyes that stare up desperately at the camera. Want, maybe. Maybe fear. His camo overshirt is unbuttoned, pushed aside, but not off completely. As if he’s been caught in the middle of undressing, hadn’t expected company.
And- oh, yeah- he really hadn’t , Cal thinks with a grin as the camera pans out to expose the guy’s hands bound under him, behind his back. Cuffed, or tied, Cal can’t be sure, but the effect is still the same. Pinned like a butterfly. This is the stuff he loves the most, the pseudo-unwanting, the thrill of taking something you know you haven’t been given, but instead you are owed. Of conquering.
The guy is pretty. His hair is longer than the military guys’, overgrown so his bangs flop over his forehead. Like the bottom in the video before, he’s lean with wiry muscle, no doubt athletic, but not too thin: there’s a slight indent at the waistband of his ACU pants where the soft swell of his stomach peeks out, all baby fat. His lips are permanently downturned at the corners as he says something to the camera that Cal can’t quite lipread, and gets a firm backhand for the trouble.
Cal grins, slides his hands under his jeans, teases his fingers at the waistband of his boxers. He’s fully hard, now. It would be easier to just deal with it than try to calm himself down. Andre would be back soon.
The lights are a little too bright for Cal’s tastes, in this clip, but at least it means he can see everything . The dull, cavernous room. The pistol on the side table. The way the guy’s strained against his jeans, doing his best to squirm against his restraints. There’s no payoff to restraint without some resistance, Cal thinks, hates when they just lie there .
The clip cuts to a side angle now. It’s the perfect view to see the dark haired get straddled by another thin, young guy - this one’s dishwater blonde, that in-between shade, dressed in military pants and a tan colored tee that exposes skinny, pale arms. Right in the edge of the frame, he can see they’re both wearing combat boots. He reaches down, palms the boner in the sub’s jeans, grins all wolfish as he squeezes. Cal copies the motion, squeezing his own hard cock over the fabric of his boxers.
The tied up guy squirms, tries to buck the blonde off, gets another harsh slap for it. His cheek, the one more visible to the camera, is already starting to bruise. Blonde guy’s knees squeeze around his sides as he slowly, slowly, tugs his pants down.
It’s a couple minutes more of undressing, teasing, the dark haired guy taking a slap each time he resists. On one notable occasion, he says something that earns him a firm hand around the throat. That shuts him up.
Cal runs his thumb over the head of his cock through his boxers, feeling the dampening fabric where he’s leaked through. He bites back a hiss,
Dark haired guy gets his legs lifted, knees hooked over the blonde’s shoulders before they’re pressed firmly to his chest. It’s the perfect angle, Cal thinks, to remind someone of their place. To make them small, demeaned. He has to wonder about the power dynamic here: does one of them outrank the other in this equation? Is this the rending of punishment or the reaping of revenge?
The blonde slips his own pants down. His cock is a little larger than the bottom’s, not as achingly hard, the right kind of thick where Cal knows it must hurt, must leave you sore for days. He moves to push in, and the brunette attempts to buck away again, mouth caught open in a cry of protest.
The blonde’s fist slams hard into his nose, and even with the audio muted, Cal can practically hear the crack of bone snapping. He almost comes in his boxers.
Another punch, against the hard plane of the boy’s cheek, mottled already with forming bruises. It’s a thing of beauty, Cal thinks, as he finally slides his hand under the jersey and groans, fingers curling around his aching cock. He’s so hard it almost hurts, the sudden contact, electricity jolting right at the surface of his skin. The need unfurls in his gut, heady, and he knows now he’s started he won’t be able to stop.
He shoves his jeans further down. He needs more room to work with, hand pumping slowly for a few strokes before settling into a steady pace. The wiry down of hair scratches like sandpaper across his fingers.
Blonde boy slides in, one full-bodied stroke, burying himself to the hilt.
Cal knows it must ache something awful, all the better for it, that feeling of your body giving way. The thrill of intrusion, of making space for yourself in someone else’s body, the mirrored pleasure of just taking it, allowing yourself to be claimed. His hips twitch forward into his tight fist.
The dark haired guy is just so good , he observes as his hand works faster over his cock, takes everything given to him despite his protest. Cal watches his hands clench and unclench where they’re tied to the headboard, straining against his helplessness. He must hate it, Cal thinks, must hate having all of his power stripped away.
The moment the pieces slot into place in Cal’s mind, everything freezes to a sudden halt.
It’s like a bucket of ice water right over his head. From the sun kissed halo of his skull all the way down to the tips of his toes, crawling over each hill of his spine until his skin clamped tight over muscle over bone.
Because, well- does Andre want to be fucked like that?
He’s kind of assumed that Andre would imagine himself the perpetrator here: the one enacting punishment, the one with the power to strip away and demean and destroy. That’s always been what Andre’s craved, right? That’s the foundation of this entire plan, to push everyone else down in order to become something great.
Cal squints at the videoclip. It can’t be a coincidence, all of these guys, wiry bodies and dark hair, young, malleable. Someone you could swallow whole. He flickers his gaze over the blonde guy as he fucks, hard, into the brunette. Another piece slots into place.
The idea that Andre might want him is surprisingly easy to swallow. They’re already so close, he figures, this is just another boundary to overstep until they’re blurring where Andre ends and Cal begins. It’s a hunger that demands attention, insists upon change, finds Cal swallowing his own tail. Planning a mass murder is surely more intimate, his mind repeats. What more is this?
Yeah, Cal can do that. He can put Andre down if that’s what Andre wants. If Andre wants to be degraded, who is Cal to stand in the way of that? He could get Andre down on his knees, or pinned down on the mattress, just like in the clip, fucked like a girl. Yeah , that would work.
He can be nice, when he wants to be. Oh, he would be so nice. Open Andre up all gentle, lube instead of the spit he uses when he’s jerking off at home. His hand tightens over his cock, thumb spreading the bead of precum down over the length. He could get Andre all relaxed and needy, practically begging for it. Something hot and sinister coils in his gut.
Andre’s got a nice waist, tapered like a chick’s. Cal could curl a strong hand over it, use it as leverage to fuck into him from behind, feel the way Andre’s muscles quiver and tense. He could trail his hand down right under Andre’s navel, feel the bristle of a treasure trail, grin right into the crook of Andre’s neck. Would Andre be vocal, or would Cal have to pry the sounds out of him? Desperate, wounded, would he beg? Would he cry?
He’d take it so well, Cal just knows. And even if he couldn’t, Cal could teach him to.
He groans as the dark-haired guy on screen takes it, his own hand stripping his cock faster. It’s an overwhelming sensation, right there, right on the edge of too-much, like the first time he’d come in his jeans watching I Spit On Your Grave and choked on the mix of wrong-wrong-right. For all the hundreds, maybe thousands of times he’s touched himself like this, it feels entirely new. Like touching a raw, gaping wound and- oh, oh, what a thought.
The blonde guy seems to angle his hips right, and the dark-haired boy shudders, full body, like it’s been wrenched right out of him. In his haste to press backspace, to watch it again, savor the ripple of muscle, Cal hits the wrong key and fast forwards, landing somewhere in the middle of the video.
And- oh- oh- what little blood was pumping through Cal’s veins rushes entirely south.
He’d completely forgotten about the pistol on the side table. Assumed it was just another prop to feed into the fantasy they’ve constructed with the military gear and the ropes. He follows the arc of the blonde guy’s body, curled over the sub, one skinny arm outstretched to press the muzzle of the pistol right to the sub’s temple.
Cal bites his lip so hard he feels copper flood his mouth immediately. The taste, hot and tangy and right, does nothing to quell the sudden, aching desperation that’s risen right under the palm of his clenched fist. If anything, it makes it worse.
He can imagine it: Andre’s skull right under the barrel, the way he would quiver like a taut string pulled. Sweat would bead over his forehead, his mouth caught open in a permanent gasp, stammering for breath. Maybe Cal’s the bigger adrenaline junkie between the two of them, but he knows Andre’s got a tooth for danger that’s only gonna end up getting him in trouble.
The blonde guy thumbs the trigger, says something low and dangerous. His hips piston forward, hard, hipbones slamming against the backs of the brunette’s thighs. Cal wonders what might have been said, implants his own scenarios, what he might say to soothe or taunt Andre.
It would be over so soon, he would say, the words pushing to the forefront of his mind like it’s really him holding the pistol, cradling Andre’s fate in his hands, You wouldn’t hurt anyone ever again. The hard edge of metal against skin.
Was Andre always into this shit? Did he work his way up to it, from vanilla to light bondage, escalating further and further until he was knee-deep in depravity? What was next - what else was there? Maybe Cal could help him chart that territory.
What would Andre smell like? Orange shampoo and sweat? Would the air around him tang with adrenaline? He could push the sweaty hair right out of Andre’s face, see him in all his broken-down glory. Feel the soft flesh of his thighs, corded muscle under flesh, bite into them.
There’s a lot of people here who’d love to see your brains blown outta your skull, he could say, I’d be doing you a favor.
Andre’s dark, pleading eyes staring up at him. Begging him to stop, maybe, or begging him to go further, harder, to pull the trigger. His hips jerk up, hard, chasing the tight-hot friction of his hand. Maybe he’d put the muzzle right under the curve of Andre’s soft jaw, bristling right against the beginnings of that boyish stubble, shoot the youth right out of him before it has time to grow.
Right against Andre’s pulsepoint. Fluttering, rapid, a cornered animal recognising its end. Cal would want to memorize the staccato, burn the metronome into the beats of his own heart until they were one and the same, fully synchronized, perfectly symmetrical.
And Andre- maybe Andre would fight it. But maybe, just maybe, he would nod. Say something in turn. His voice would be raspy, Cal was sure, most of the breath choked out of him. Maybe he’d tell Cal to do it, pull the trigger, do it, do it, do it-
Cal’s vision whites out as he spills into his fist, hard, hips canting up hard to follow the sensation through in its entirety. His entire body shudders with the force of it. A low, wounded noise escapes him.
Burned against his eyelids, he sees the red-hot of blood, feels its metallic sting on his tongue where he’d chewed his lip raw, imagines the way Andre’s skull might fragment into shards of bone and flesh, his body pinned like a butterfly against the mattress. Maybe Cal could turn the pistol on himself, then. Blast his own teeth up through his skull, until his blood and brain matter flowed into Andre’s.
Two silhouettes. No one would be able to distinguish them, tell where one ended and the other began.