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This was probably the best idea either of them had had in a long, long damn time.

Together, they stalked the residential streets of Derry past midnight, Belch and Vic at home in bed. A baseball bat in Patrick’s hand and a cherry bomb in Henry’s.

They came to the sleepiest street they’d seen so far. No lights on in windows, no cars pulling down the street. It was perfect.

“Shall we?” asked Patrick, giving Henry that Cheshire cat grin.

Henry smiled back, then held out a hand for the bat. They traded weapons of minor destruction, and Henry got ready. Stood at the plate — just to the side of a mailbox — and swung.

It was glorious, how the thing dented in. With another swing, he had the whole thing going sideways, and with another, the box was hanging on by a thread.

One by one, they worked their way down the neighborhood and back up again, trading off on each mailbox. Patrick was a little more sloppy, but still a sight to see.

Then they came to one in particular. One mailbox, the letters on the side spelling out little less than destiny.

BOWIE, it read.

So this was where Gretta lived.

Silently, Henry pointed to the name. And Patrick looked, and he smiled, and pulled out his lighter.

“We’ll have to leave after this one,” he said.

“I know,” said Henry. “Get ready to book it.”

And he opened the mailbox, and he took the cherry bomb from Patrick, and he lit it. Then he slammed the mailbox closed again, grabbed Patrick by the sleeve of his jacket, and ran.

They ran and ran, to the end of the neighborhood, before they heard the bomb go off. They looked behind them and saw fire and sparks and looked at each other and grinned. Then lights started turning on in the Bowie house, and they picked up running again.

They ran for what seemed like an eternity, but was really only a few minutes. They were far enough away from the site of the explosion to push away suspicion, though, so Henry stopped them, bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing hard.

And Patrick grinned at him.

“What’s the big deal, farm boy?” Patrick asked. “Smoke too many Reds?”

“Fuck off, Hockstetter,” Henry wheezed.

He didn’t get it. Sometimes, he could run all over the place to get his pigs back in their sty, but if he was running away from trouble, his body betrayed him.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Patrick. “We’re far enough away.”

And then he pulled out one of his menthols and lit up.

“I’m not worried,” said Henry, finally pushing up to stand straight. “Not worried at all.”

“Good,” Patrick said, blowing the smoke in Henry’s face.

It took all Henry had to not bat the smoke away from himself. He just glared.

“Wanna go eat somewhere?” he asked.

Patrick thought about it for the barest moment.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Let’s go.”

They walked briskly to the only 24-hour diner in town, getting themselves a booth in the corner where you were still allowed to smoke. They both lit up, Henry with his Reds, Patrick with his menthols, and relaxed into their seats. The baseball bat laid on the seat next to Henry’s hip, and he looked down at it and grinned.

“Vicky and Belch are gonna be so pissed they missed out on this,” Henry said.

“Mm,” said Patrick.

In that single sound, there was a solid argument. In that single sound, he said it was better, just the two of them. Belch would have been against bombing Gretta’s mailbox. Vic would have wanted to go home halfway through.

It was better, just the two of them.

“Nah, you’re right,” said Henry.

“When am I not?”

Henry shot him a look, and then laughed, helpless peals of it falling out of him. With that, he found he was still riding the high of their vandalism, like a wave. Like a horse. Like something much more powerful than himself, but in riding it, he became something more than himself.

Henry was at his most powerful when he was causing trouble. Always was, always had been.

And he looked at Patrick, and he could tell he was also riding the high. But he sat on top of it like he was on a throne. Like he was royalty. Like he ruled over everything he saw.

Now, where did that thought come from?

Henry shook it away as their exhausted waitress finally came to the table and took their orders.

Patrick didn’t eat much. Never had. High metabolism and a love of nicotine meant that he had an appetite, but it was largely suppressed.

He ordered pie. Two slices. Henry ordered a burger, knowing the night cook was fond of grease.

They smoked in silence as they waited for their food.

See, this is what Henry loved about Patrick. The guy could shut his fucking mouth.

Loved? No, wait. Liked. Just liked.

Henry twitched his nose in annoyance at the thought that he could love anything about Patrick. He liked the guy, that was enough. He was part of his crew. His right-hand man. His partner in crime.

That was enough.

Still, said a small voice at the back of his head, still. What an awfully pretty boy.

No, thank you, thought Henry in response. Fuck off, please and fucking thank you.

It was Patrick’s fault, Henry decided. For keeping his hair long like a girl’s and swaying his hips and licking his lips all the time. Even the most red-blooded guy would notice.

“You’re being awfully quiet, Hank,” said Patrick, pulling out that nickname that Henry secretly loved, if only in times like this. “What’s going on in that pretty little head?”

“You should cut your fuckin’ hair,” Henry said without a moment’s thought. “You look like a damn chick.”

Patrick tilted his head to the side and smiled.

“You always say that. None of the chicks I fuck have any complaints, though,” he said.

Henry made a noise that meant they should.

Patrick laughed.

“They don’t, though,” he insisted. “They like having something to hold onto.”

“What about the guys you fuck?” Henry asked.

It was mostly a jab about Patrick fucking anything that breathed.

But also, a very, very small part was pure curiosity.

As soon as he said it, he regretted it.

“I keep telling you, it’s all the same,” Patrick said. “Everybody likes something to pull.”

Henry rolled his eyes.

And then their food arrived.

They ate in silence, Patrick reaching over at one point to steal a fry from Henry’s plate. Henry slapped at his hand, but he still got that fry and bit off half, giving him a shit-eating grin. He chewed slowly, as if relishing every taste.

Henry shook his head, and kept eating.

“Wanna stay over at mine?” Patrick asked.

“Mm,” Henry hummed.

He thought about it. He had a change of clothes still at Patrick’s from a month ago, when they’d done almost exactly what they’d done tonight. No mailboxes, no cherry bombs. But trouble, and lots of it, late at night.

“Sure,” he said. “Sure.”

Patrick grinned, then, and it struck a little match of fear inside Henry. He knew that smile — it meant Patrick was getting something he wanted.

But what Patrick could possibly want so desperately about Henry staying over was beyond Henry.

And he hated that.

Henry liked things he understood completely. Cars, girls who just wanted to fuck and nothing else, guys who stood by you no matter what.

Patrick was on thin fucking ice, being so happy about something so small.

But Henry, feeling good after the night’s events, let it slide. He wouldn’t ask questions, and he wouldn’t push things. He would just go with it, and see where it led him.

They began the short walk to Patrick’s house thirty minutes later, having talked about nothing important for the last part of their midnight meal. They smoked as they walked in silence. Neither of them looked at each other.

When they arrived at Patrick’s house, letting themselves in first to the side gate and then the always-unlocked back door, they climbed the stairs to Patrick’s room.

Patrick never turned on the light at night. Drove Henry fucking insane. He didn’t see why he couldn’t just… put on the side lamp or something.

But no, they had to stumble around in the dark, getting rid of their boots and pants, climbing into Patrick’s bed in their boxers and shirts.

Even in the dark, Henry knew Patrick was looking at him. Patrick slept on his back or his stomach — when he slept, the poor bastard — so rolling onto his side, towards Henry, meant only one thing.

Sighing, Henry rolled over and looked at Patrick looking at him. There was a little light coming in through the window, spare moonlight and a yellowish glow from the single streetlight on the street.

“What?” he asked.

“You ever thought about fucking around with a guy?” Patrick asked.

“No,” Henry lied.

But it wasn’t his fault that he had. It wasn’t his fucking fault, okay? Didn’t mean he was fucking gay for listening when Patrick talked about tight ass and hard dick.

Didn’t mean he was fucking gay for wondering if it was as good as Patrick made it sound all the time.

“Liar,” Patrick sighed.

“Fuck you, Pat,” Henry said, pushing his head deeper into the pillow so his voice was muffled, even to him. “Goodnight.”

“I’m not done talking to you.”

“That’s too bad. Good fuckin’ night.”

Henry rolled so his back was to Patrick, and did his best to fall asleep fast.

When he dreamt, it was of Patrick. He and Patrick were kings, ruling a kingdom together. They wore their normal clothes, but also had crowns. Henry’s sat tall and light on his head, all gold and enough jewels that if he pawned it, he’d never need to see his old man ever again.

Patrick’s wasn’t a real crown, where everything goes up. His dipped down in a V over his forehead, all silver and diamonds.

It suited him. It was oddly beautiful.

When he woke up, one of Patrick’s arms and one of his legs were thrown over Henry’s body.

Henry groaned, feeling Patrick’s morning wood pressed into his hip. His own dick, hard as it was, was a problem, considering.

He rolled away from Patrick, getting out of bed. He didn’t care that he’d obviously just woke him up as he walked away, going to the bathroom.

Over the toilet, he stripped his dick, fast and efficient, thinking about some girl he’d fucked a week ago, some girl from two towns over he’d met at a party. She was cute, pretty and small. Red hair and a shy smile.

She didn’t know shit about who he was, and he liked it that way.

Girls tended to run away when they knew about him.

The ones who didn’t were too nasty to be believed.

He finished and washed the cum off his hands, pissing and flushing the toilet. Then he went back to Patrick’s room. Patrick was up, messing with his phone, looking for the right music to start the day with. He chose Deftones and went to his closet.

Henry wrinkled his nose. It smelled like sex in the room, which meant that Patrick and he had jerked off at the same time.

He wondered, a little bit, what Patrick had thought about. Girl, or guy? Pussy, or dick? Or ass, he guessed. Or ass.

“Jesus, Hockstetter,” he bitched. “You rub one out while I was gone?”

“Acting like you didn’t,” Patrick said, easy as you please.

Henry grunted and went to the closet, standing next to Patrick. He held out a hand and, in a moment, Patrick had put his clothes in it. Henry put them to his nose and took a whiff. Good enough.

He stepped away and pulled his shirt off, pulling the other on, then the jeans he’d been missing all this time. Carefully, he tucked his boxers in them, pulling them down where the jeans were getting a little tight.

Damn. He’d have to save up for a new pair soon.

Making sure Patrick wasn’t watching first, he felt up his own ass, wondering how it looked in the tight jeans. He’d been told before that his ass looked damn good in a pair of jeans. He wondered how true it was.

Patrick turned and Henry slowly moved his hands away from his ass, pulling his shirt down straight.

Patrick got dressed, all black, a leather jacket going on last, his menthols and phone stuffed into the pockets.

They ate breakfast — well, Henry ate. Patrick had coffee, stole a bite of Henry’s toast and Henry bitched him out for it. Patrick just rolled his eyes and walked away.

Henry rushed after him. He didn’t like being alone in someone else’s house unless there was a party going on. But with a party, alone didn’t count. How alone could you be, surrounded by countless of your closest friends and bitterest enemies?

Patrick went out to the curb and sat down, long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, his boots scuffed, tough looking.

Another thing Henry liked about Patrick: he played a specific role, and he dressed the part. Crazy motherfucker, through and through. Outside to in.

There was a certain artful way Patrick spun his silver lighter in one hand, not watching it turn, his eyes on his phone as he texted the guys, telling them not to bother going to Henry’s place.

Grace. That was the word Henry was looking for.

And he wondered where that came from.

Didn’t have much time to wonder, though, as Patrick said without looking up from his phone, “so, how’d you sleep?”

Henry snorted.

“Like you care, fuckface.”

“I’m trying this new thing where I pretend to care,” said Patrick.

Grunting, Henry dug his cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and pulled one out, lighting up.

“They comin’?”


Finally, Patrick lit his own cigarette, smoking it like it was an afterthought — if it was possible to do so while also looking like this was the best thing he’d ever experienced, sex be damned.

Sometimes, Henry wondered, though he wished he didn’t, what it would like to be kissed by Patrick.

This was one of those times, watching Patrick put his lips loosely around the filter of the cigarette.

Henry hated it. He hated it, how he had a good idea of what it would be like. Patrick was a sloppy and involved kisser, hands in hair and tongue over teeth.

“Take a picture or something, Hen. It’ll last longer,” said Patrick.

Henry scowled at him and looked out onto the street in front of them.

They both finished their cigarettes just as Henry heard the Trans Am rumble down the street. He stood, Patrick mirroring him, and they waited.

Belch pulled the Trans Am up to the curb, parked it and grinned at them.

Henry got in the front, rolled the window down, and Patrick hauled himself in through the window, immediately lighting another menthol.

“So,” said Vic, chewing on one of his nails, the sound of his voice muffled and careless, “what did you get into last night?”

“Oh, that?” asked Patrick. “Mm. Wouldn’t you love to know.”

“Yes, I would,” Vic said, giving Patrick a sharp elbow to the side. “That’s why I asked, asshole.”

“Hands and feet inside the vehicle, princess,” Patrick said.

Then he took a drag and blew a smoke ring that floated up past Henry’s face.

God, that was cool. Henry had never gotten the hang of blowing smoke rings, and tried not to let the jealousy get to him. He could do plenty of stuff that Patrick couldn’t.

Not that he could think of any at the moment, but still. He knew it was true.

Belch put the car in drive and they peeled away from Patrick’s neighborhood with a scream, each of them whooping, ready for the day.

“So, what was it?” Belch asked.

Henry grunted and pulled out a Red, holding his hand back behind him for Patrick’s lighter. Henry’s own was a piece of shit that didn’t light nine times out of ten, and besides that, he much preferred the weight of Patrick’s in his hand.

Patrick handed him the lighter, his fingers brushing the heel of Henry’s hand, light and feathery.

For some reason, it made Henry shiver. He pretended to twist and pop his back to hide the quake from the boys.

Then he lit his smoke, taking a deep drag and then exhaling it all in a quick cloud.

“Why d’ya ask?” he said, giving Belch a look.

“You slept over with him. Musta been up to some shit last night.”

Henry turned and grinned at Patrick. Patrick didn’t smile, just lifted his eyebrows and blew another smoke ring.

“Busted up some mailboxes,” Henry said.

“Bombed Bowie’s,” Patrick supplied.

Patrick,” Belch said, reproaching.


“Tell me she doesn’t deserve it,” said Henry. “Gimme one reason why we shouldn’t’a done that shit.”

Belch grumbled, but said nothing, and Henry grinned. Henry slapped him on the knee and reached over, cranking up the music. Van Halen. Perfect.

They arrived with a roar at school, piling out of the car, leaning against it in a row, arms crossed. Watching.

It had been two days since they caused any trouble — part of the reason for his and Patrick’s midnight adventure — and all of them were getting antsy.

Then they spotted them. That little group of losers. The new kid and Beverly were holding hands, and wasn’t that just sweet?

“Look,” Vic said, pointing, as yet unseen by the losers. “Someone’s finally hitting that full-time.”

Henry grunted and pushed off the car, Patrick following him in less than a heartbeat. As a group, they stalked up to the group of underclassmen with varying levels of terrifying power. Henry, strong and silent. Vic, with a slick smile. Belch, with his thumbs in his front pockets, nonchalant and unassuming unless you knew what he could do.

Patrick, sleek and smooth. Licking his lips, no doubt, ready for some action.

The boys were behind him, but Henry knew. He just knew. They were his crew, knew them like the back of his damn hand. He knew what they used to make others quake in fear.

“Beverly,” Eddie hissed, the first to spot Henry. “Beverly — shit.”

Before they had a chance to turn and face him, Henry slapped a hand down on the new kid’s shoulder.

It had been years, yeah, since the new kid was new. But it wasn’t like Derry was crawling with people eagerly moving in. And Henry’d be damned if he fucking learned the fatass’s name.

“Would you look at that,” he said slowly, his voice little more than a growl. “You decide to stop whoring around, Beverly?”

She turned to look at him, dropping the new kid’s hand, nothing but fire in her eyes.

She raised a hand and slapped him, quick like a snake striking. But there was little power behind it, and it just made Henry smile, the edges of his vision going red, heat blooming in his chest like every time he was hit.

He ran his tongue along his top teeth and grabbed the hand she hit him with and yanked her up against him as the new kid reached out with both hands, trying and failing to pull her away from him.

“I bet,” he said, voice low, his breath coming out hard on her face, “I bet you think about me when you’re fucking him, isn’t that right, sweetheart? Bet you miss me.”

The truth was, it had never happened. And the losers probably knew that. And Patrick knew that.

Vic and Belch, though, were in the dark, and they laughed, all cruelty, at what he’d said.

“Sh-sh-sh-he doesn’t miss sh-hit about y-you, B-b-bowers,” Stuttering Bill spat.

“Y’know, Henry,” said Vic, “I’d bet my right arm she’s fucking all of them. Even that freak, there.”

Belch chuckled.

Henry let out a slow grin, shaking his head.

Beverly squeezed her eyes closed for a second, then opened them. There was a tint of fear in them, now.

Faintly, Henry wondered what it was that scared her. The rumors they could start, or being pressed up against Henry?

Either way, he was pleased.

“Beverly would never,” Eddie said. “She’s… she loves us, but —”

“Ooh, keep digging that hole, Eddie-boy,” Patrick crooned. “Please tell us how much she loves you.”

“Fucker,” Beverly spat.

“Oh, baby,” Henry laughed. “Love it when you talk all nasty to me. Keep going, might get me hard for you.”

Finally, he loosened his grip on her, and unknowing, the new kid pulled on her with all his force, pulling her back so hard they both fell to the soundtrack of Henry’s guys laughing.

Beverly hurried to stand and pull her dress down, but not before everyone got an eyeful of her long legs and her white underwear.

“Beverly, I’m so sorry, are you okay?” the new kid asked quietly.

“Yeah, babe,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“God, that’s so sweet, Tits,” said Patrick, licking his lips. “You’re gonna make me sick.”

“Good,” said Trashmouth Tozier. “I hope you get so sick it comes out your fucking nose, ballsack.”

Patrick and Henry looked at each other.

Another thing Henry appreciated about Patrick: he waited for the word go.

Henry nodded, and Patrick flew at the kid.

“Shit!” Trashmouth yelled, stumbling away.

Patrick put him in a headlock while Vic and Belch advanced on the other kids. Laughing, Belch put a hand on Eddie’s head as Eddie swung at him, missing terribly each time. Vic went after Stuttering Bill, pulling his hands behind his back and watching him squirm. The new kid and Beverly were left for Henry, and he stalked towards them.

And then the bell rang. Looking at each other and rolling their eyes, each of Henry’s guys stepped away from their victims as one by one, they ran off.

Last to leave was Trashmouth, who flipped them all off with both hands, knowing he was safe for now.

“You should blow Hockstetter, Bowers. See if that gets out some of that restless energy,” he shouted, and then walked away, straightening his backpack on both shoulders.

Henry growled and took a step towards him. Belch put a hand on his shoulder, holding him back. Henry turned his scowl towards Belch, but said nothing, making no moves.

Finally, he said, “c’mon. Time to smoke.”

So they did, trekking across campus to the football field, gathering under the bleachers and smoking until, around second period, a teacher came by and gathered them, herding them to the office, to be written up for skipping class and violating the no-tobacco policy.

Whatever. They’d had worse, all of them.

At lunch, they stood around the car, passing around what little food they’d been given or filched from home. Two sandwiches from Belch, courtesy of his mama, a container of beans from Henry — that he refused to touch — some chips from Vic, and menthols from Patrick, if anyone wanted one.

Patrick didn’t mind sharing at lunch. Meant he didn’t have to think about bringing food. Smokes were enough.

A perky group of their classmates approached. Henry spotted them before they’d even gotten halfway to them, enough time to stop eating and light a cigarette.

In the front, leading the pack, was Gretta Bowie. Looking like she hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night. Poor baby.

“Bowers!” she yelled across the front lawn of the school campus. “Hey! Fucker!”

Patrick laughed, high and wild. He was ready. Henry could feel it in his posture beside him. He could taste it in the air.

Finally, she arrived. At least, as close as she wanted to get, treating them like they had some infectious disease.

“You bomb my fuckin’ mailbox last night?” she asked, her boyfriend-of-the-week’s arm around her shoulders.

“Now, what makes you think I’d do a thing like that?” Henry asked, ashing his cigarette.

“I know it was you, asshole,” she sniped.

“Then why you asking?”

“’Cause she’s too dumb to realize what she’s doing,” Patrick put in.

Henry nodded.

“What’d you say about my girl?” asked the boyfriend-of-the-week. Toby. Or Tony. Or Cody, or something.

Gretta rolled her eyes.

“I said she’s dumb. You must be, too, if you need clarification.”

God, but Patrick had a way with words when he wanted to. Henry could never think of real good shit to say.

Jesus, Henry, chill. It’s not like he said the smartest shit possible.

“You better watch your mouth,” said the boyfriend.

“Oh, honestly, Toby,” said Gretta.

Toby. Huh.

“Yeah, Toby,” said Vic.

Suddenly, Henry remembered. This Toby guy, he and Patrick had history. Fucking around at a party history. Choking on each other’s dicks history.

“Just wondering, Toby, but does Gretta know you like guys?” he asked.

Toby blanched, then recovered with more bravado than was necessary.

“Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, but you better shut your mouth,” said Toby.

Then Patrick slid into a decent impression of the guy, grunting and moaning and rubbing his crotch. Fuck, Patrick, yeah, like that, don’t tell my girlfriend.

Henry chuckled, watching Gretta’s eyes grow wide. And then she turned and looked at Toby.

“Babe,” she said softly. “What the fuck?”

“Baby, they’re lying,” he said.

He gripped her tighter to him, trying to show her how wrong Patrick was. Not succeeding.

She rolled her eyes again.

“Whatever,” she said. “I’m done here. You guys are freaks.”

Toby smiled and pulled her even closer. She pushed him away.

“We’ll talk,” she snapped at him.

Then she turned tail and walked away.

After school, Henry had Belch take him straight home. He knew he’d have a few hours alone before his old man arrived, and he intended to use them.

He went to bed, pulling down his jeans and taking his dick in one hand, slowly stroking it, thinking about Beverly. Sweet little innocent Beverly.

And then Tozier came to mind. Disgusted, Henry’s hand slowed until he thought about what the smartass had said.

You should blow Hockstetter, Bowers.

Sighing, Henry tried to push it from his mind.

But he couldn’t. Soon, his mind was flooded with images of him kneeling at Patrick’s feet, Patrick’s hands in his hair while Henry went down on him. Patrick moaning. Grunting. Smiling down at him, heated and wicked.

Obviously, he’d never given a blow job before. But he was pretty sure he knew how, since he’d gotten a lot. Little licks here, hollowed out cheeks there. Taking it all and then pulling off.

The worst part was that he knew what Patrick’s fucking dick looked like. They’d gone skinny dipping a handful of times, and now, Henry flinched to think of the fact that he’d looked, curious.

Patrick was longer than he was, but not as thick.

Then he thought about Toby. What was it that Patrick saw in him, enough to fool around with him? Guys like him were nothing. A dime a dozen or worse.

He’d be better, for Patrick. They understood each other, at least. Always had each other’s backs.

He imagined Patrick’s mouth on him, wet and hot. His nose pressed to Henry’s stomach, short breath puffing out of his nose.

He came on his hand, eyes screwed up tight, wondering what it’d be like to see Patrick swallow his cum.

Then, he got up and washed his hand off, putting his dick away and going back to his room.

Sighing, he picked up his Magic 8-Ball and turned it over in his hands, thoughtful. Then he shook it viciously and turned it so the little window faced him.

Does this make me gay for Patrick? he thought.

Signs point to yes, it said.

“God fucking damn it,” he said, shaking it again and again until it said no.

When Butch came home, Henry could tell by the way he shut the front door that shit was up. He waited to be called.

“Boy!” his father yelled. “You come here, right now.”

He did.

Butch was in his easy chair, the TV turned on, sound down low.


“Where the hell were you last night? You can’t just sneak out and think I didn’t hear you.”

Henry’s face bloomed red, he was sure.

“I — sir, I —”

“Stand up straight and answer me like a man. Where. Were. You.”

“I was with Patrick, sir.”

“You were with Patrick.”


“Boy, how many times do I have to tell you to stay away from that queer?”

Henry shut his eyes and let out a shaky breath.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“You’re sorry. Oh, you’re sorry? Sorry ain’t gonna cut it. I tell you to do something, you do it. Go get me a beer.’’


Henry got him a beer, opening it himself before he handed it over.

“Now, I’m only gonna ask you this once. You have anything to do with the Bowies’ mailbox blowing up last night?”

“N-no, sir.”

“That’s a damn lie if I ever heard one,” Butch said as he stood.

Henry felt the color leave his face as his father reached for the buckle of his belt.

“Take your shirt off. Now.”

Thirty minutes later saw Henry shirtless, out by the pig sty. Sitting on the fence, looking down at Bip and Bop, thinking.

A whipping was worth bombing Gretta’s mailbox, right? A whipping was worth keeping his best friend around, no matter what his father thought of him. Right?

Henry wasn’t so sure.

Today’s beating had been slow. His old man must have been exhausted, to take so fucking long finishing it.

Henry preferred it when it happened faster than he could think about it.

The heat in his chest was slowly fading, replaced by the pain on his back.

His phone went off in his pocket, and he pulled it out to check who it was.

4:57pm. From: Hockstetter

Bored. Come over.

Huffing, Henry put his phone back into his pocket.

It wasn’t an option.

His old man was still around, was probably in for the night. And if Henry went somewhere, Butch would be able to guess in one where he was headed.

He walked back into the house to get his pain cream, to put it on his back as best as he could. There was a big patch in the middle he couldn’t reach, never could. There was this thing he’d seen in the store, though, that was made for people who needed to put lotion on their backs, who didn’t have anyone to help them.

He wanted one, but he also didn’t.

He just tried harder and harder to reach the middle patch. He got part of it, but put his hand too firmly down on his skin and pulled it away, wincing.

Finally, he texted Patrick back.

5:24pm. To: Hockstetter

Can’t. Chores

Then he started in on the little homework he had that he didn’t feel too stupid for. Math. He didn’t like English, and Science was just math with English lessons thrown in, so he could kinda do that if he tried. But he didn’t try, not today.

Then he went to bed. It was still early, the sun not yet set on that spring evening, but he didn’t mind. He watched the sun slowly slide down from its station in the sky through his bedroom window, bare-chested in bed.

His phone went off again. He could hear it, dimly, over the noise of his father watching TV in the next room.

He picked it up, first turning it down to vibration only, then checking his messages.

8:36pm. From: Hockstetter

You fucking done being your old man’s slave yet?

Huffing, he hit the button that made his phone call Patrick.

It rang four times before Patrick picked it up. There was silence, in which Henry was sure Patrick was exhaling a cloud of some kind of smoke. And then, finally:


“Hey, fuckface.”

Henry kept his voice low. Didn’t want his old man to know.

It felt… strange. To try to keep his… anything with Patrick a secret.

“What are you wearing?” said Patrick.

Henry cracked up.

“Fuck you,” he said. “Don’t be gay.”

“You know, they’ve proven that it’s not a choice or anything. To be gay. It’s real.”

“That’s fascinating, Patrick. Please, tell me more about being gay.”

Patrick snorted.

“So, you remember Toby, huh?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah, don’t think I could forget your fuckin’ description of him choking on your dick if I tried,” said Henry.

“I thought you would. Didn’t seem like you recognized him for a minute, there.”

“Yeah. Glad I did, though. Must be nice for Gretta to know her boyfriend’s gay as fuck.”

“He’s as gay as I am,” Patrick said, dismissively.

“So he’s gay as fuck but sometimes likes pussy?”

“You got it.”

Henry dropped his phone on the pillow and rolled over onto his side so his face was pressed up against the phone.

“What do you even like about dick?” he asked.

He was wondering what this made him, jerking off to the thought of another guy going down on him.

He was wondering what it made him, liking it.

“’S familiar,” said Patrick. “With pussy, you gotta learn how it works for every girl. For dick, it’s the same every time. Maybe little differences, but mostly the same.”

Then he paused.

“Why?” he asked.

“Just wondering.”



“Fine, don’t tell me. Keep secrets from your best friend.”

Henry snorted.

“I keep plenty’a secrets from you,” he said.

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

Henry opened his mouth to tell him his old man didn’t want them hanging out anymore, hadn’t wanted it for a long time.

Then he laughed.

“If I tell you, it won’t be a secret, asshole.”

“Aw, I almost had you,” said Patrick.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Didn’t I?”

“I guess I just wonder what the appeal is. Dick. What’s there?”

“What you’re wondering,” said Patrick, pausing for effect in the middle, probably taking a drag on his cigarette, “is what it is about my dick that makes perfect boys nasty.”

Henry blushed from his chest to his ears.

He wasn’t a perfect boy. He was just a straight boy, wondering.

“I guess.”

“It’s a good dick, that’s all. I gotta good dick.”

Henry made himself snort as though he didn’t believe it.

“Sure, man. Sure.”

“You sure you can’t come hang out?” Patrick asked.

“I’m sure,” Henry said. “The old man found out that I snuck out last night. Can’t do it again too soon.”

“Your dad…”



“Now who’s keeping secrets?”

“Silence isn’t a secret. It’s just silence.”

Henry thought about that.

Silence could save him, he decided.

The problem was, Henry wasn’t that good at keeping his trap shut.

“I’ll talk to you later,” he said.

“Aw. Cute.”

“Don’t be gay.”

“Too late.”

“G’night, fag.”

Patrick laughed, loud and long.

“Goodnight, asshole,” he said, chuckling.

They hung up.

As soon as they did, Henry found himself missing Patrick. Wishing they were still on the line together, just sitting in silence.

He loved being quiet with Patrick. It was different than being quiet with Belch or Vic. There was more understanding there.

He knew that Belch was ultimately loyal to him, that Vic would do anything for him. But Patrick. Patrick was different.

Patrick was interesting.

Henry fell asleep thinking about him, and ended up dreaming about him, too.

Fucking him from behind, but things were off. He figured it was because he had no experience with this, but Patrick had a cunt in the dream.

He woke up painfully hard, rolling over onto his stomach, rutting up against his hand and the mattress, coming quick and hard.

And shameful.

He got up and got ready for school. It was a Friday, thank god. There was a party tonight that he and the guys were going to crash. It was gonna be a good day.

And it was, if a little uneventful.

After school, him and the boys got together to pregame. Going to each of their houses in turn, smoking a joint at Patrick’s, drinking vodka at Vic’s, beer at Belch’s, smoking cigarettes at Henry’s. At each house, the respective boy got dressed.

They liked dressing up for parties. Not their best, of course. But something that said they were tough and also worth fucking, if at least once.

Then they rode to the party, blaring Metallica as they went.

The party was loud and raucous, just like Henry liked it.

Gretta Bowie was in the kitchen, glaring knives and razors at him and the boys as they all got drinks and decided where they were going to set up shop. Vic and Belch wanted to play beer pong, and Patrick wanted to get high.

Henry decided he was going to go with Patrick and get baked. Patrick agreed to it, and they went to the garage, where groups and singles sat and stood around, smoking cigarettes and pipes and joints.

Henry and Patrick stood staring at two stoners until they got the fucking message and stood up. Then they took their seats.

They passed a joint back and forth, slowly getting more fucked up than they already were.

Henry wanted to ask Patrick more about dick. More about what it felt like. What it tasted like, even, but. But he couldn’t. Even high, he knew that was a bad idea in a room full of people who were eager for a string to pull to unravel the gang with.

Every single person around them either loathed them outright or stayed out of their way, scared shitless.

And Henry knew he deserved it. He’d worked hard for it, after all.

About three quarters through the joint, Henry stood up, lifting his arms until his shoulders popped.

“Gonna get something to drink,” he said. “Want something?”

“Punch,” Patrick said, lifting the joint to his lips. “With extra vodka poured in.”

Henry nodded.

“Yeah, I know what you like,” he said.

“You sure do, sweetheart,” Patrick drawled, then took a drag off the joint.

Henry rolled his eyes for show, grateful that the garage was lit so dimly. He was blushing, god only knew why.

Henry knew why. Henry knew why. Henry knew.

He left Patrick there, going to get two cups of punch. He hunted down a bottle of vodka, almost empty, and poured the rest into one cup.

Then he went back to the garage, only to find his seat taken by some guy he’d seen once or twice, at parties like this. Henry had a thing for faces, and he knew. He knew.

The guy was flirting with Patrick. And Patrick was returning the favor, leaning in so his knee was pressed up against the other guy’s, one of his hands pushing back part of the guy’s floppy fucking hair.

And Henry? Henry saw red.

“Move, fag,” he spat.

The guy looked up at him, surprised something was taking him away from Patrick. And then he looked back at Patrick.

“You gonna let him talk to me like that?” the guy asked.

Patrick laughed, slow and almost luxurious.

“Technically, he’s right. You’re a fag, and you’re in his seat.”

“Whatever, this was clearly a mistake,” the guy said, standing.

“You’re damn right it was,” said Henry, squaring up his shoulders.

“I don’t want a fight,” the guy said.

“Too bad,” said Henry.

And then he sucker punched the guy in the nose, hearing it crunch and watching blood spurt out. Some girl screamed. Patrick watched, lifting the joint to his lips, as the guy tried and failed to duck before Henry boxed his ears, then brought his face down to knee him in the nose, getting blood on his jeans and not caring even a little bit.

That brought the guy down to his knees, and Henry laughed. And he stepped in to Patrick, holding out a hand. Blowing out a billow of smoke, Patrick handed him the joint, and he watched, taking a puff, as the guy slowly and shakily got to his feet.

“I — I didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” the guy said to Patrick.

And then he all but ran away.

Henry tilted his head to the side, thinking about that, his chest going hot like he’d taken a hit.

Then he looked at the joint. It was only still alive by the grace of god, all smoked down. Now, the makeshift filter was burning, and Henry wasn’t interested. He dropped it into an empty beer can near him and hauled Patrick to his feet, pulling him through the door of the garage that led to the back yard.

The back yard, which was entirely dark and quiet and empty.

“Not that I wasn’t entertained,” said Patrick, “but what the fuck?”

Henry grunted but didn’t answer, turning on Patrick and pushing him up against the wall of the house. Like this, he could barely see Patrick, spare moonlight being the only thing lighting his face and body.

And Henry. Henry wanted to be all over him. That body he’d dreamt of, had jerked off thinking about, had seen countless times in enumerable situations and thought nothing of, but now, could think of little else.

So he did the only thing that came to mind. He kissed him, his hands going to his best friend’s hips and pulling them flush with his own as his lips came down on Patrick’s. He kissed him, and he kissed him, and he slid his tongue into his mouth and Patrick put his arms over his shoulders, letting his hands hang, until Henry got impatient and put a hand in Patrick’s hair and pulled. Patrick let out a low moan.

When he pulled back to breathe, Patrick grinned at him.

“Damn, Hank,” he said. “You got it bad for me, or something?”

“Fuck you,” Henry growled. “Blow me.”

Then, Patrick giggled. That high, nasally thing he only really did when he was fucked up.

“I could,” he said. “But kiss me again first.”

“You want that? You want me to fucking kiss you, fag?”

“Hey,” said Patrick, putting his hand in the back of Henry’s hair and pulling, hard. “You want me to blow you. You kissed me. You’re a fag, too, Henry. You’re a fag, too.”

Henry sighed, letting it turn to a growl deep in his chest. Then he crashed his mouth to Patrick’s, biting down on his bottom lip, letting out a groan when Patrick pulled on his hair again. They tangled their tongues together, they pressed even closer to each other, Henry put his hands on Patrick’s ass and squeezed.

Then he pulled away from the kiss.

“Blow me,” he commanded. “Now.”

“Ooh, yes sir,” Patrick snarked.

Then he got to his knees, a sight Henry couldn’t believe he’d waited for so long to see.

Patrick was honestly pretty like this, pushing up the bottom of Henry’s shirt so he could get to the button on his jeans, opening his pants and pushing his hand inside to stroke at Henry’s dick, still covered by his boxers.

Henry hissed at the gentle pressure, then put both hands in Patrick’s long hair and yanked on it.

“Fucking get to it,” he grunted.

“I’m going to do exactly what I want, and you’re going to thank me for it,” said Patrick.

“Fuck you.”

“You could.”

“I might,” Henry agreed.

“Good,” Patrick purred.

Then he reached inside Henry’s boxers and pulled out his dick, giving a little lick to the head. Henry hissed, his hands tightening in Patrick’s hair. Then Patrick licked a fat stripe from the base to the head, pushing Henry’s boxers down to get to his balls, gently cradling them in one hand as he pumped Henry’s dick in the other. He looked up at Henry and grinned, high as all hell and a little hazy.

But Henry wouldn’t have it any other way, especially not as Patrick held his dick up out of the way to suck one of his balls into his mouth, gently tonguing at it. Henry sighed and closed his eyes, tugging on Patrick’s hair. Then Patrick switched to the other. Then he pulled off, leaning up and pressing a hard kiss to Henry’s core, before going back to licking at his dick. He licked at it, flicking his tongue over the slit and swirling it around the head before he finally, finally took it into his mouth and pushed down so his nose was pressed to Henry’s stomach.

With Henry’s dick in his throat, he swallowed, the muscles tightening and loosening around him. Henry let out the smallest moan, then bucked his hips forward. He growled as Patrick pulled off him, stroking his dick with one hand, the other going down to palm at the front of his black jeans.

“You should fuck my face,” Patrick said, voice low.

“Oh, yeah?” Henry asked. “Want me to choke you with my dick, fag?”

“Yes,” Patrick hissed.

“Fine. But don’t touch yourself. I’ll get to you.”

Patrick huffed, but his hand left his crotch. Then, he opened his mouth wide, wrapping his lips around his teeth.

Henry took his dick from Patrick’s hand, rubbing the head along his bottom lip. Patrick was so pretty sometimes that it killed Henry, and this was one of those times.

He pushed his dick into Patrick’s mouth, all the way in in one short thrust. Then he put both of his hands in Patrick’s hair and set to fucking his mouth, hard and fast. Short thrusts, hearing Patrick choke and sputter as again and again, he hit the back of his throat and pushed further down.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck, Patrick. So fucking good. Fuck.”

His stomach grew tight, and he pushed all the way in, Patrick’s breath through his nose puffing out onto his stomach as he came down Patrick’s throat. Again, Patrick swallowed, the muscles tightening around him, milking him for all he was worth. He grunted, and then groaned as he pulled out.

Patrick stuck out his tongue, showing him how it was empty. Henry had told him countless times how he loved it when a girl swallowed his cum, showed him her empty mouth after. He let out a short groan and got to his knees in front of Patrick, pulling him into a kiss that tasted like cum. Salty and heavy, and. And fuck. Fuck, he’d just fucked Patrick fucking Hockstetter’s face, and it was really, really good.

“C’mon,” said Patrick when the kiss was over. “I’m gonna go find an empty room. Find me in five minutes.”

“Okay,” said Henry, a little weak.

Then he cleared his throat and tried again.

“Okay,” he said, his voice where it should have been to begin with.

Patrick pulled him in for another kiss, biting down on his bottom lip, then swiping over it with his tongue.

Then the kiss broke, and Patrick stood, brushing grass off his knees, and left.

Henry put his dick back in his pants, shaking his head, and stayed there, his forehead pressed to the brick wall of the house. Breathing, just breathing.

What had he just done?

What he wanted to do.

But there would be consequences. There almost always were.

He was so, so fucked.


It was times like these that Patrick wondered if Henry Bowers was real.

See, he had a running bet with himself about how long it would take Henry to break down and just do it. Break down and finally let himself want more from Patrick than just friendship. To let himself want his cock in Patrick’s throat, his cock in Patrick’s ass.

Patrick had honestly thought it would be a while longer. Sure, it had taken something like seven years to get to it, but Patrick had all the time in the world when it came to getting what he wanted.

He had played it so carefully, too. Little looks and smiles, teasing him and tantalizing him with stories of the many boys he’d fucked. He’d even stopped giving details about the girls long ago, letting the details of hard cock and sweet, soft ass take over Henry’s mind.

But Henry… Henry, he supposed, was weaker than he’d thought.

So, real? Probably not.

Patrick stalked into the house through the back door, getting himself a new cup of that punch and hunting down a bottle of vodka, pouring just a moment’s worth of it into the punch, spiking the already noxious drink even further.

Then he downed it in a few seconds.

The world wasn’t spinning. Patrick had control, still.

He only let go of control when he was alone and wanted it. When he wanted to lose everything, just so that getting it back would be sweet, succulent almost. Luxurious.

He wanted to find the boy he’d been flirting with, the one Henry had gotten jealous of and fucked up. He wanted to thank him. What a good little toy he’d been. What a nice little pawn.

But he didn’t. Instead, he set down the now empty cup and stalked through the house, watching as crowd of his classmates and strangers from other schools parted like the Red Sea for him. As they should.

But they didn’t know what he was, not in the front of their minds. Gods hardly ever got the recognition they deserved.

Instead, what he got was fear. In the front of their minds, they saw a dangerous boy. But deep, deep inside, they knew him as something more powerful than any boy could ever be.

A small girl from another school couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. He gave her a grin, and she flinched and finally looked away as her friend put an arm around her shoulder, attempting to shield the girl from him.

His grin only grew.

He tested the bedroom door on the bottom floor. Locked. He pressed an ear to the door and listened, intent.

Two boys, groaning. One of them moaning like a porn star, not knowing he could be genuine.

Patrick rolled his eyes and left the door behind, stomping up the stairs past a gaggle of girls who pressed themselves to the banister in an attempt to not be poisoned by him. He smiled to himself.

He tried the door on the left. Locked, again. But no noises came from inside, and he knew, he just knew, that no one was inside. This was a room saved from the party by the girl throwing it. Undoubtedly, it was her own room.

He pulled two tools from his back pocket, easily picking the lock and going inside.

He pulled out his shattered phone and shot off a message to Henry.

11:38pm. To: Henry

Upstairs. On the left.

Then he smiled. Henry. His favorite toy, finally coming around.

If luck had anything to do with it, he’d feel lucky.

But it wasn’t luck. It was hard damn work, if sometimes carelessly played.

He slowly took off his clothes, draping them over the chair that sat at the girl’s desk, looking around the room. It was a mess, the way Patrick kept his own room. Dirty clothes in piles here and there, the bed unmade, the desk littered with homework and trash.

He went to the bed, pulling the blanket and top sheet off and throwing them to the floor.

Then he laid on the bed, on his back, slowly stroking his hard cock, making sure it didn’t give up interest before Henry got there.

It took Henry a few minutes to finally show. He walked in the room, one hand pushing through his hair. A nervous tic that only Patrick knew enough to notice.

“Hey,” Henry said, because he, doubtless, could think of nothing else to say.

“There’s lube in the pocket of my jeans,” said Patrick. “Get it. You’ll need it.”

He watched as Henry blushed from his neck to his ears. Patrick grinned, his hand still slowly moving on his cock.

Obedient, good boy, Henry went to where Patrick’s clothes hung over the chair and dug around until he found the packet of lube and brought it back to Patrick, tossing it onto the bed next to Patrick’s head.

“Want me to fuck you?” Henry asked.

Patrick held back rolling his eyes. Sometimes, Henry needed to be talked through things.

So, real? No.

But interesting? Undoubtedly.

“Yes, Henry. I want you to fuck me. Take off your clothes.”

Henry did as he was told, unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging it off his shoulders, tossing it to the floor. Then he bent down and pulled off his boots, then his socks, then stood and undid his pants, pushing them down with his boxers.

Patrick watched, licking his lips, the same old hunger he saved just for Henry stirring inside him.

There was little he wanted more in this moment than for Henry to be inside him. But they’d get to that. First, delightfully, he’d have to show Henry the ropes.

When Henry finished getting undressed, he stood there, completely bare and red faced for a moment. Then Patrick held out a hand, beckoning him forward.

Henry crawled onto the bed beside him, then on top of him. He bent down and kissed him, hesitant and almost shy. Patrick chuckled into the kiss.

When it had ended, Patrick said, “sweetheart, it’s just me.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Patrick tilted his head to the side, pretending to care.

“What do you want me to call you?”

Henry’s blush deepened. Patrick grinned, seeing something in Henry’s eyes.

Then, he knew. Something Henry had told him only once and swore him to secrecy, all things considered.

He pushed up, giving Henry a small and sweet kiss, so carefully calculated. Henry needed something soft for right now. He needed to be coddled. And Patrick, just for Henry, would do it.

“Do you want me to call you Daddy, Henry?” he asked when the short kiss was over.

Bright red, Henry closed his eyes.

“Shut up,” he said, little power behind it.

“No. Do you want me to call you Daddy? Because I’ll do it.”

“Shut. Up,” Henry growled, opening his eyes.

“You want to fuck your little boy, Daddy? Wanna fuck me and make me shut up?”

Henry snarled and pulled him in for a hard kiss, one hand going to Patrick’s hair and yanking on it, hard. Patrick let himself moan into the kiss.

Daddy,” he groaned when the kiss was over and Henry continued pulling on his hair.

Then he sighed. Sighed, like it felt so good.

Which it did.

He had no doubts that whatever Henry did with him would feel good.

“You’re such a fuckin’ whore,” Henry growled. “You want that, huh? You want me to be your daddy?”

Patrick nodded, letting his eyes get big, letting himself look innocent and eager.

“How do you want Daddy to fuck you, little boy?” Henry asked.

“Eat me out first,” Patrick said.

Henry wrinkled his nose.

Patrick let out a small laugh.

“I keep myself clean,” he said. “Especially when I’m going to a party.”

It was unsaid, that he got laid at every party he went to. Boy or girl, it didn’t matter. He kept himself clean.

“Fine, you fucking slut,” Henry said. “I’ll eat you out like a fucking girl.”

Then he pushed up and away from Patrick, grabbing Patrick by the knees and forcing them up to Patrick’s chest. Then he shook his head. And he hauled Patrick onto his stomach.

“Ass up, head down,” he said.

Patrick grinned into the bedspread. He knew from their many talks on the subject that this was one of Henry’s favorite positions on girls.

He wondered what Henry’s favorite positions on him would be.

As Henry spread his ass and gave a tentative lick over his hole, Patrick groaned and wiggled his ass in his hands, hoping that this would be one.

“Really go for it,” Patrick commanded. “C’mon, fucking eat me out.”

Henry slapped his ass. Patrick, unsurprised, gasped anyway. Then he wiggled his ass again, looking over his shoulder at him.

“Do that again,” he said.

“You like that?” asked Henry. “’F course you do. Like being fucking spanked, little whore.”

He slapped Patrick’s ass again, and Patrick found himself glad Henry was fucked up. Running his mouth so sweet and nasty — getting ready to fuck Patrick — he wouldn’t be doing it if he were stone cold sober.

Patrick grinned and then sighed as Henry laid into him, using both hands to spank both sides of his ass. The burn was so good, and Patrick thanked himself for his hard work. Everyone was too scared to spank him. But Henry? Henry wasn’t afraid of him, not really.

He should be, but one of his best qualities was a lack of fear where another man would have an abundance.

“Please,” he begged, sounding as desperate as he could. “Please, Daddy, please eat me out.”

“Sound so good begging, you little slut,” Henry grunted.

“I’ll beg for you all you want,” Patrick promised.

“You better,” Henry said.

And then he bent down and went to eating Patrick out, flicking his tongue over his hole and then, carefully, pressing it in.

And Patrick sighed, and he moaned, and he felt Henry’s hands tighten on his ass, pulling him farther apart so he could really get at him. Patrick reached back with one hand, putting it in Henry’s hair and pulling as he moaned.

And then Henry moaned up against him.

Patrick knew how much Henry loved to eat pussy. He was a little sorry he didn’t have one to indulge Henry with, but this would have to do.

Henry would learn to love eating ass if it was one of the last things Patrick ever did.

After a few minutes of that, of Henry pushing his tongue into Patrick’s ass and pulling out to just lick at it, Patrick had had enough.

“Daddy,” he whined. “Daddy, please fuck me. Please.”

Henry pulled wetly away from his hole, chuckling.

“So nasty, begging for it,” he said. “You want my dick, little boy?”

Patrick was so proud. Henry was really adjusting fast.

Henry was so much more gay than he thought he was.

“Please,” Patrick begged. “You have to finger me first, though. Stretch me out.”

Henry reached up and forced two fingers into Patrick’s mouth. Moaning, Patrick licked at them like they were a cock.

In the list of things he loved in his mouth, fingers came after cock but before pussy. There was something so nasty about it, and he could feel his cock growing even harder as he licked at Henry’s fingers.

Then Henry pulled them away, slick with saliva, and pushed one, curiously, into Patrick’s asshole. Patrick took it easily. It was only one fucking finger, after all. Then Henry added the second finger and pumped them, hard, into him, and Patrick groaned.

“Fuck,” Henry muttered. “Fuck, look at this hungry ass.”

Patrick grinned, and then moaned as Henry added another finger. The third finger was dry, making it burn a little bit, the stretch more intense.

“Fuck, Daddy. I need lube. Please,” he begged.

“Fuck,” Henry groaned.

Then he pulled his fingers from Patrick’s ass and fumbled around for the packet of lube, tearing it open with his teeth and spreading some on his fingers. Then, as Patrick watched over his shoulder, Henry spread the rest on his quickly hardening cock. Patrick grinned to see that. Henry was catching on fast.

Henry went back to fingering his ass, pushing them far in, brushing Patrick’s prostate, making him gasp.

“Fuck, fuck, Daddy, right there. Oh my god,” Patrick said, wiggling his ass against Henry’s hand.

“That feel good, little boy?” Henry asked.

“Yeah, oh my god,” said Patrick as Henry pushed in harder, faster, deeper.

“You ready for me to fuck your ass, little boy?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, gasping, making himself sound desperate, almost as desperate as he actually was. “Please.”

“Good,” Henry growled. “Fucking good.”

Then he pulled his fingers from Patrick’s ass and pushed just the head of his cock into Patrick’s ass. Henry was thicker than three fingers, and Patrick closed his eyes, just enjoying the stretch.

Then Henry pushed in all the way, letting out a surprised gasp.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck, ass. Ass is different.”

“I know, Daddy,” Patrick crooned. “Don’t I feel good wrapped around your dick?”

“Fuck yeah, little boy. Feel so good on me.”

He moved slowly, watching intently as he slid in and out of Patrick’s ass.

“Harder,” Patrick whined.

“You want your daddy to fuck you harder, you little fucking whore?” Henry asked, the last word turning to a growl in his chest.

“Please?” Patrick asked.

It was mostly an act.


But there was a part of him, small as it was, that wanted Henry to try and destroy him.

Henry picked up the pace until he was slamming into Patrick, grunting with every thrust, then moaning as he finally let himself go, his sweet sounds mixing with Patrick’s in the air between them. His hips pressed into Patrick’s ass with each thrust, slapping against him, and that was one of Patrick’s favorite sounds, made all the more delicious by the boy fucking him.

With a short shout, Henry came inside Patrick, his grip on his hips turning to iron. Patrick groaned as he pulled out, feeling the cum follow Henry’s cock, trickling down his thighs. Henry swiped some up and forced it into Patrick’s mouth, Patrick moaning around his fingers.

When Henry pulled his fingers out of his mouth, Patrick said, “fuck, Daddy. Fuck me so good.”

Henry chuckled, then laughed, then flopped down on the bed beside Patrick.

“Fucking fag,” he laughed. “I can’t believe you got me to fuck you.”

Daddy,” Patrick said, sweet and soft. “You fucked me ‘cause you wanted to.”

Then he laid down, half on Henry, letting his hard cock dig into Henry’s hip, reminding him silently that he hadn’t come yet.

“Yeah, maybe,” Henry allowed.

Then Patrick shifted his hips as he went up and kissed Henry, slow and nasty. One of Henry’s hands went to Patrick’s hair, holding him still as he slid his tongue into Patrick’s mouth.

Into the kiss, Patrick whined, “Daddy. Daddy, please, I want to come.”

“You want to come, little boy?” Henry asked, looking over Patrick’s face with interest.

“Please,” Patrick begged.

“I guess I could blow you,” Henry said, thoughtful.

“Can I — can I fuck your face, Daddy?” Patrick asked, like he was hesitant.

Like he’d ever hesitate when it came to Henry.

Henry grinned.

There it was.

“Sure, little boy. C’mere.”

Patrick smiled the smile that he had specifically to mirror Henry, and got to his knees above him. And then he walked up until he was kneeling over Henry’s face. He ran his thumb over Henry’s bottom lip.

“Open up for your little boy’s cock, Daddy,” he said.

Henry did what he was told. Good boy.

Patrick slid his cock into Henry’s mouth, fucking into it slow and tantalizing. Then Henry’s hands went to his ass, pulling him deeper into his mouth, one fingertip going to slide over Patrick’s cum-covered hole, and Patrick sighed.

“Daddy,” he said, low and sweet. “Yeah, Daddy, play with my fucking ass.”

He fucked deeper and harder into Henry’s mouth, feeling the head of his cock press into his throat.

Henry swallowed around him, and he came down his throat. And Henry swallowed again, taking every bit of his cum like a good little bitch.

“Fuck, Daddy,” Patrick breathed. “Yeah, just like that. Show me. You swallow it all?”

He pulled out of Henry’s mouth, and Henry stuck his tongue out obediently. It was empty.

“Daddy?” Patrick asked sweetly.


“Will you please eat your cum out of my ass?”

Henry groaned. And then he nodded, eager, making Patrick grin down at him.

Then he turned and sat down on Henry’s waiting tongue, feeling as he pushed in and pulled out. Hearing him swallow his own cum.

“Push it out, bitch,” Henry growled, lips brushing up against Patrick.

“Yes, Daddy,” Patrick said, doing as he was told.

It took a minute until there was no cum left. But what a wonderful minute it was.

When he was done, Henry slapped Patrick’s ass. Patrick climbed off of him, then laid down, draping himself over Henry and kissing him, deep, tasting cum in Henry’s mouth, groaning.

It occurred to him then that he’d got what he’d always wanted. And entirely on his own terms, as it should be.

Henry was his favorite toy, and finally, finally, he’d gotten to really play with him.

“We gotta get back to the party,” Henry said, coming back to himself.


Patrick was good at arguing with no words.

“What, you got something better to do?”

“I got another joint in my pants pocket. Let’s smoke out.”

“What, inside?”

Patrick laughed.

“Yes, Daddy. Inside.”

Henry grimaced.

“We’re not fucking anymore. Don’t call me that.”

“You only want it when we’re fucking?” Patrick asked, getting off the bed and going to where his clothes were draped over the chair, getting the slightly crushed joint from his pocket, finding his lighter, bringing them both back to the bed.

“Yeah,” said Henry.

“Mm. I’ll call you that whenever you want me to.”

“So if I wanna hear it when we’re alone, and we’re not fucking…?” Henry asked, voice slow.

“Whatever you want, Daddy.”

“You’re so fucking nasty, Hockstetter,” Henry said, snorting.

“You love it.”


Patrick lit the joint, took his two hits, and handed it to Henry. Henry took a hit, and gestured for Patrick to lean in. Grinning, Patrick did it, exhaling. And then Henry shotgunned the hit to him, ending in a sloppy kiss.

They smoked, they kissed, they talked.

All was right as it should be.

And Patrick was deliriously happy.


With the joint smoked down, Henry got up without a word to get dressed, feeling Patrick’s eyes on him.

When he was done, and Patrick still sat on the bed, completely bare, Henry held out a hand for him. Patrick stood and took the hand offered him. Henry pulled him close, then kissed him, hard. Patrick whined into it, and vaguely, Henry knew it was an act. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be pleased with it.

When the kiss had ended, he pushed Patrick’s hair off his sweaty forehead.

Then, he asked, “you gonna be good and let Daddy keep fucking you whenever I want?”

Patrick grinned, licking his lips.

“Whatever you want, Daddy.”

Henry looked away from him.

“Okay. Get dressed. I’m hungry. Gonna get Belch to take us out.”

“Cool,” said Patrick, splitting from him and getting dressed.

As Patrick laced his boots back up, the last thing to be put on, Henry said, “you can’t tell the guys.”

“They’ll guess, eventually.”

Henry snorted at that.

“Belch’s dumb as fuck. He’s not gonna guess shit.”

Patrick snorted back.

“Vic’s not. He’ll guess and tell him.”

Henry rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll tell the guys. But if anyone else finds out, I swear to god, Hockstetter.”

If anyone else found out, the grapevine would lead word to his father. Butch finding out… it just couldn’t happen.

When Patrick finished his boots, he stood and pushed himself into Henry’s space, kissing him. Unbuttoning the top done-up button of Henry’s shirt and sucking a hickey into his skin.

“You belong to me, now,” said Patrick.

“Mm. I’ll fuck who I want to. You, and a chick sometimes, got it?”

Patrick narrowed his eyes, then a slow grin split his face.

“We should find a chick to fuck together,” he said. “Sound good?”


“Wanna tie me up, next time?”

Henry laughed.

“Sure. C’mon.”

Henry redid that one button, then pulled away from Patrick, opening the door and stomping out onto the empty landing, grateful no one was there to see Patrick and him come out of the same room.

Rooms at a party were for one thing only. Sure, they’d smoked. But they’d fucked, too, and anyone halfway sober or not would guess at that.

He knew what people said about his gang. A four-boy circle jerk. No steady girlfriends ‘cause they had each other, and that was enough.

At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped and straightened his shoulders. Then he turned, without checking to see if Patrick was following, because Patrick was always right behind him, and walked through the crowded hall, to the kitchen, where Vic and Belch were playing beer pong still. They were winning, by a long fucking shot, and Henry grinned. He got a beer and watched them finish.

Then he stepped in and put a hand on Belch’s shoulder.

“Let’s go, man,” he said. “I’m high and hungry as hell.”

Belch let out a rumbling laugh, nodding.

Then they left the party, all together, stalking across the lawn and down the street to where their car waited for them.

Then they got in, cranked up the music, and drove away.