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It wasn’t necessarily that Stebbins had changed him.
No, Richard was born again when he threw his first punch at 12 years old and passed out from the euphoria of it all. There’s something beautiful about power, about salvation from bullying and getting your ass beat. He’d always believed that the pen was mightier than the sword, and that belief hadn’t wavered.
But maybe an addendum was due: sometimes the pen should carve its claims into something with more fight than paper, spell out its message a little less literally.
Although turning this man’s face into mangled flesh, Richard thinks, is pretty literal. There is nothing more solid, more straightforward than spilling blood. He understands his fiancee a little better now. It feels good to protect him like this, with his fists instead of his words. Blood thrums deliciously through his veins, watching someone else’s wash over his knuckles, over the S that Stebbins was so, so grateful to see there.
The shiver is more from the memory of Billy than the harsh Boston winter, skin hot against the whipping winds. The fucker gasping beneath him really thought he could get away with it, dragging Stebbins’ into whatever his little game was, pushing Richard out here to some forest on the edge of town.
Richard Harkness knew how to throw a punch since he was 12 years old. Now, though, he knew how to defend someone else.
He missed Billy. He really did.
It was wrong of him to not return his calls, but he’d never been good at lying to Stebbins and Billy would’ve tried to stop him from…taking care of this. The problem was that Billy would do anything for him: about that, he had no doubt.
When the first letters had arrived at his doorstep, he assumed they were little bits of Billy’s love, some new way he found to bridge the impossible distance between them over these months. The sight of the first one brought him to tears: Billy really meant it. He really, really loved him, wore his initial and everything.
The letters weren’t from Billy.
My dearest Richard,
I’ve tried with little success to make your acquaintance this NFL season. It occurs to me that I have failed in these efforts because you are preoccupied.
As a fellow football professional, I imagine you, too, would be saddened by the end of William Stebbins’ career. Are you aware that several past teammates have made claims of aggravated assault by Mr. Stebbins? Perhaps you are. After all, you witnessed his gruesome attack during the Preseason Combine.
It would be a shame if his agent or team management were to find news of this, as well. I’m sure Mr. Mark Haija at 4Q Sports Management Group, LLC in Dallas, TX would agree.
I look forward to seeing you at the Superbowl press conference, Richard, and trust that you will be free of distraction by then.
Ever Yours,
ECK
For all his words, Richard could not give shape to his rage. This emotion evades his description, inscrutable and amorphous, taunting him always at the edges of his being.
What was it that his mom used to say, about knights in shining armor fighting no battles? Stebbins kept him pristine, safe and untouched by every terrible thing. But love, the real, bloody thing, couldn’t exist from a pedestal. He had to walk next to him, fight beside him, fight for him.
More letters came after the first, haunting his every heartbeat, and he’d finally accepted the invitation that arrived at his doorstep. A conversation, the note promised.
A chance for them to finally get to know one another.
Harkness knows now that there is something inherently intimate about bringing someone to the brink of death. Maybe that’s why Billy enjoyed it; ancient, forgotten connection exists in dissecting viscera with violence and finally seeing the beating heart of a thing.
“Richard?”
There, silhouette strung between his car’s hazy yellow headlights, an earthbound angel.
William Stebbins looked softer out here, smaller in the grey snow of a Boston evening. 7 months of distance stood between them, muse and maker. There were essays to pen about the muscle he piled on, the new nervous shift in his posture, the delicious, familiar ache as he eyed Richie’s bloodied body.
Richard was greedy. He wanted it all, Billy and the world, and was going to have them, earn them with his bloody fists and smart mouth. But this wasn’t where Stebbins was meant to be. He was supposed to be in Dallas training for the Superbowl, that’s why Harkness had done…this. He shouldn’t be here.
Richard scrambles to cover the body below him, a child found with their hand in the cookie jar. “Stebbins, you need to leave.”
Billy’s moving, stalking forward, taller with every step. “You weren’t answering my calls.”
Richard gives himself a moment to push up his glasses, letting the man on the ground groan as he leans away from his dirty work. Even in the dark forest of this clandestine meeting place, Stebbins eyes never leave Richard. There was no way around it. The truth, then.
“Right. That’s because of…this is, uh, that guy from Twitter. ESPNClarkKent? Apparently, he’s a freelance sports writer, too. He, uh, started sending letters and threatening to–.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You KNEW?” Richard’s waning adrenaline flares, bloody hands slicking to fists. What the fuck had this guy been doing to Steb–
“I came here to deal with him,” Stebbins sighs, as though this is a banal exchange of breakfast recipes and not an admission of premeditated murder. The grimy snow slushes under his heavy footfalls as he circles Harkness.
Richard can’t help but remember the first time Billy orbited him like this, that night that he made Harkness think that he’d been toying with him for years and not, as it turned out, desperately, pathetically in love. He’d been worried then, full of shame and disappointment and betrayal.
Now, though. Now he feels his stomach warm as he stands to his full height, letting Stebbins get a real good look at him.
“You did?”
“Of course, Richie,” and Stebbins is drawing closer, eyes narrowed in on the only thing he’s ever really hunted for, “He was trying to hurt you. I can’t let him go around threatening my fiancee, can I?”
“No, that’s not what happened,” Richard begins, shifting his weight and ignoring the places his blood rushes to, “He was trying to hurt you.”
Stebbins blinks.
“No, the letters talked about your editor and our relationship. He,” and Stebbins allows himself a single, desperate kick to the man’s ribs, leaning down to his mangled face, “tried to end our engagement. What sort of stupid lamb leads itself to the slaughter?”
Richard chides himself for not realizing it sooner. Of course, this fucker was playing dirty–playing them against each other.
“He…he probably thought you’d leave me to save my career, and he thought I'd do the same. So he sent us different letters.”
It takes a moment, but Stebbins nods, staring down at the groaning pile of flesh between them. A steel toed boot prods at the body on the ground; appraising, judging, tenderizing. For a second, Harkness worries Billy will drive the rubber soles directly into the man’s skull, stamping out the grey matter that terrorized them both for months.
The idea makes him woozy.
“You didn’t break off our engagement, though, did you,” Stebbins says. It’s not phrased as a question and it never was one, not to Richard.
“Of course I didn’t,” his heart is screaming against his ribcage, thundering with blood and fear and lust. He can be honest with himself about that, at least. Billy’s looking at him like he’s the sweetest sin, the loveliest boy, even with blood all over him.
“You protected me,” Billy’s testing the idea on his tongue, unfurling it with the warm smoke of his breath. His eyes have left the half dead man, locked only on Richard.
Harkness can’t begin to guess how many people have lain before Billy like this, vulnerable and bloodied and bent to protect their fragile, tender being. Stebbins probably knew dozens in this ferocious, intimate way.
No one knew him like Richard does.
“Of course I did.”
He remembers the world before Richie how you recall a nightmare; blurry flashes of emotions thrown like shadows against the walls of memory. 18 years of life and he doesn’t care for any of them, not since god took his momma and left him in military school with his father’s dozens of other bastards.
Once, months before the darkness came, his momma had demonstrated how to safely observe the solar eclipse through a shoddily constructed shoe box contraption. With loving hands, she’d shown him how to peek through one of the cardboard tubes to witness the reflection.
“You’ll want to look at the real thing, Billy, but you can’t. It’ll hurt you something awful,” she’d warned, voice serious but still so impossibly tender.
Even then, he could not deny himself the light.
He looked. For one breathtaking moment, Billy witnessed the primordial dance, the cosmic ritual that creates one ancient, harmonious image. Imperfect and divine, the celestial bodies nestled together like his momma’s thrifted spoons.
The moment didn’t last. He’d burned his retina and paid a steep price for it. For months and months, the solar effulgence kept him company, warping straight lines and producing blurred sight that had little to do with her funeral and his tears.
Alone at night with nothing but the scars etched into his vision, he’d close his eyes and imagine a love that could save him. Someone gentle, someone strong, someone fiery enough to sear themselves into everything he ever saw.
18 years of sunsets and solstices and springs and not a single one mattered before Richard. He’d inspired a divine ache like daybreak always does, radiance ricocheting off the only good thing on earth. Stebbins is not a religious man, hasn’t been since the lord took his momma on his 11th birthday, but Richard makes him reconsider.
There must be divinity if there is Richard Harkness.
There must be a loving, merciful god who knows his sins and accepts him anyway if there is an angel tugging him into their apartment, licking into his mouth, burrowing in his soul.
For perhaps the first time in his entire life, Stebbins feels small.
Richie has him down on their bed, Stebbins’ legs spread to welcome Richard’s hips on his own, back home where he can hold and feel and worship. The whole room smells like Richie, like ink and bergamot and coffee, and Stebbins can feel his brain going cotton-soft and fuzzy as his heart races, as he begins to sweat against the body he begged for.
Laid out like this, his feet can press firmly against the soft mattress and grant the leverage needed to rut up, hard and filthy and desperate. He chases Richie’s heat through their clothes, unwilling to separate for the second it would take to truly grind up with any sort of finesse.
What hope did distance have in the face of their desire? None, none at all. Nothing would keep them apart—he knows, now, that Richie wouldn’t allow it.
His left hand (no, Richie’s hand, he reminds himself, the R inked into his skin marking him as such) can’t seem to stop. It trails first to thumb at Richie’s jaw, and then—no that’s not right, he needs him closer, needs Richie to pour his soul down his throat and let Stebbins keep it safe in his bloodstream. Desperately, the hand holding Richie’s ring and initial threads back into its owners soft, bloodied hair, begging their atoms to coalesce.
Stebbins breaths, nosing desperately across Harkness’ face and leaving a wake of humid, eager kisses. God, Richie almost killed that guy. Richie would’ve killed that guy, he knows it. Stebbins found him like a goring deer, the sharpest parts of him shredding at someone else’s flesh.
Beautiful.
“Richie, I need…” and Stebbins reaches for one of Harkness’s bloodied hands, drawing it to his windpipe. He needs air, needs to breathe if he wants to please Richie, but fuck, he wants that pressure, the solid weight of who he’s breathing for.
The other tuts at him, tender tongue against teeth, as he tugs at Stebbins instead. “No, you’re gonna use my hand and do it for me, aren’t you?”
Harkness grasps the Stebbins’ left hand, raising it to Billy’s own throat. The grip is awkward, calloused skin not half as sweet as Richie’s, but Stebbins ends that thought in an instant. This is Richie’s hand. He’d claimed it, put his ring, his initial on it. It’s Richie’s hand around his throat.
“Good,” Harkness hums, sounding pleased as he dots his kiss along the sweat-soaked collar of Stebbins’ shirt, “Being so good, Billy.”
It’s unfair to pair sinful words with the heavenly roll of his hips, drowning him in the sweet almost of pleasure. If Stebbins had any will left, he’d have torn those fucking pants off him, desperately pressed his flesh against Richie’s to finally, finally be home. That would require parting from Richie, taking the hand that Richie owned off his neck, and that was unthinkable.
No, he’d do only what Richie wanted, and Richie wanted…fuck, Richie wanted him to be good.
“‘M good?” Stebbins blinks, glassy-eyed and adoring, at the angel on his hips. He’s rewarded with a dangerous smile, the leonine curl of Richard’s mouth as he drinks him in.
“Always so good, Billy. Letting me take care of you, taking care of me,” the sentence is broken by kisses, Stebbins latching on to his lips between his own mewls, “Fuck, look at you, Billy.” Harkness glances down where his clothed cock rubs desperately against Billy’s heaving belly. He’s heavier now, packed with soft flesh that absorbs tackles and cradles the heady drag of Richard, hard and dripping even through his pants.
Stebbins can’t look at himself, not when Harkness is taking his pleasure above him, dried riverbeds of blood cracking as he rocks in his lap. Eyes screwed shut and head lilting back, the golden column of his throat erected only for this moment. Untold empires rose and fell like the sun solely to bring Richie’s supple skin to his lips.
“Richie, fuck, look at you. Back where I’m supposed to be, huh?” But Richie’s nod isn’t enough confirmation. Stebbins is ravenous for his approval, his returned devotion, even as Harkness drives his hips down and delivers pleasure like answered prayers.
“This where I belong, Richie? Right under my pretty fucking husband?”
“Fuck, Billy,” his eyes open, lids still heavy with lust as he tries to meet Stebbins’ gaze. Like always, no matter where he is or what he’s doing, Stebbins never looks away from Richie.
Richie, who still has yet to give him a coherent answer. It pains Billy to dig into his fiancée’s flesh and still his movements, but he has to. Richie’s gotta answer him.
“C’mon,” he whimpers, lifting Richard’s hand from his chest and up to his waiting lips. Soft kisses sound over Harkness’ whines, top teeth gnawing at the callous where Richard’s pen normally lays. He’d abandoned his pen today, taken up arms instead.
“Please, Richie, please answer me.”
“Good boys are patient, Billy,” he answers, drawing an immediate groan from Stebbins, desperate and low in his throat as his eyes squeeze shut, hips stuttering, “take my hand off your throat and be patient.”
He does as he’s told.
Has he ever wanted anything so much as being good? Surely not. Months or years ago, he wanted to deliver pleasure on a silver platter, watch Richie lap it from his fingers. But that was so silly. Once Richie knew pleasure, he fed it expertly to Stebbins instead, brought a ferocious thing to heel with his wit and hips and eager tongue.
Richie knew best, would give him whatever he needed. He just had to be good.
“Okay, Richie, ‘m sorry, wanna be good.” Billy wants to be sure that his fiancee, his husband, knows it.
Harkness hums, hips starting a slow, deliberate grind again. He was hard, so fucking hard against Billy’s stomach, but he’s sitting up now, dragging the gentle plush of his ass along Stebbins cock. The movement is focused, intentional, meant to optimize the feeling for Billy. An unbidden worry rises; he should be the one providing pleasure, giving every ounce of his strength for Richie’s enjoyment, even as he chases the rhythm with eager hips.
But above him, Richie is smirking, eyes half-lidded and cheeks pink beneath bloody freckles. “That’s it. Just feel it, Billy. Feels nice, huh?”
Stebbins nods furiously, hands closing in desperate fists. He’s not been given permission to touch, no matter how much he yearns for golden skin. Instead, he contents himself with the feeling of Harkness’ hands firm on his chest, supporting the roll of his lower body. Soft, giving flesh presses, insistent, along his cock.
Richard, in his infinite mercy, takes both of Billy’s palms and places them on his hips. The groan falls from his lips immediately, loud and unashamed. A familiar thrill of pride in his chest returns; everyone in the building could hear it, now, how wanton an almost virginal press of flesh made him.
“Hear how he owns me?,” Stebbins thinks, “Can you hear what Richard has made of me?”
And the thoughts continue: how he found Richie tonight, beating the shit out of their blackmailer, how Richie risked life and limb for their careers, how Richie had groped at Billy with hands still bloody.
Here in their bed – theirs – he’s angelic, haloed by the amber table lamp and eclipsing Stebbins. “Like how you look under me, Billy,” Harkness is almost bashful, a glaring contrast to the lewd sounds of a squeaking mattress.
“Love how you look on top of me,” he answers, reverent. The press of their lips lacks finesse but Stebbins gorges himself on it, gets drunk on their shared air and all the unsaid things between them.
The sunrise, his Richie, picks up his pace. He’s leaning down again, rutting his own cock against Stebbins’ and his soft stomach. There’s almost a shiver at the end of his rhythm, his strokes, like Harkness’ body is wringing every drop of pleasure out of every second. Like…like he’s fucking something. Like he’s fucking Stebbins.
Oh god, what if…what if Richie was inside him right now? He’s not, Stebbins feels the very real weight of his pretty dick against his own, but Jesus. Fuck, wouldn’t that be something, Richie inside him? And he can almost imagine it, with Harkness making love to his midriff right now, can imagine the weight, the throb, the fullness of him inside.
And then Richie’s trapping Stebbins’ cock against the unrelenting heat of his ass, and then…and then he can imagine Richie not inside, but on top of him, the wet hot clutch of him around his dick, taking his pleasure from Stebbins’ body as he pleases.
“Richie,” he asks, begs; delirious, “please, please, wanna feel you inside me, or maybe, maybe let me be inside you. Wanna make you feel good, Richie, please let me.”
Behind his glasses, Harkness’ eyes darken, lids already low. “Not tonight, Billy, need more time to open you up,” and he drags the velvet of his tongue along Stebbins’ neck, teeth coming to nip at his hammering pulse. “But good to know that you’ve been thinking about me inside of you. Hah, fuck, know you’d look good taking it, Billy.”
When he surges forward for a kiss, it’s ferocious, all-consuming; Stebbins can only whimper, try and show Richie how good he takes it. He lets Richie get his hands in his hair, tugging him even closer to the impossible heat of his mouth, yearning to be nothing more than a vessel for Richard Harkness’ desires.
Yes, Richie, move me however. I’ll be anything you want. I’ll be so good, Richie, let me show you how good I can be for you.
Some part of his racing thoughts must’ve fallen from his lips into Richie’s because he’s groaning, ducking his head down against Stebbins’ collarbone as Billy drives his own hips up, up, up.
“Jesus, Billy, missed you so much, fuck,” Harkness voice cracks, and when he lifts his head, Stebbins can see the beginnings of tears in his pretty eyes. But Richie isn’t stopping, even when Billy asks him if he needs it, and instead he’s rolling his hips down harder and letting his pretty mouth run away with him, words mingling with tears.
“Missed you, Billy, fuck, oh my god–yes, just like that–needed you so bad,” he whimpers, licking along Stebbins’ collarbone and pressing a hand ever so softly against his throat. Richie can whine and writhe and still have all the control, every bit of Stebbins wrapped around his pretty fingers.
“I,” and he gasps, absorbing the force of Stebbins’ filthy grind, “never would’ve let that asshole hurt you. You’re mine, okay?” Billy can only nod, made stupid by the feeling of Richie’s cock against his, even through layers of stupid fucking clothes. Richard protected him. Richard gave him pleasure. Richie, Richie, Richie. The thought makes him loopy, orgasm beginning to bloom in his gut. Richard wanted him, Richard loved him.
“‘M yours,” he says, bringing his left hand from his fiancee’s hips and laying it over the one on his neck, covering Harkness’ with the one that bore his initial.
That seems to please Richie something terrible, because there’s something close to a growl that breaks through his sobs. Eyes wide and teary, mouth agape, he bears down, rutting relentlessly against Stebbins’ cock.
“Course you are, my good boy, my fucking husband.”
The release feels comically large, absurd in its totality.
There is only pleasure, only Richie. It’s the same as the day he first saw him, his fucking tie and his denim vest and the blinding, all-consuming light of the sun, scarring everything he saw with his warmth. There was no world without Richard, no healing the thing he left in his vision. Nothing else mattered.
Gasping, shuddering, Stebbins brings both hands down to Richard’s ass and forces his hips forward against his softening cock.
“Richie, please, need you to cum, wanna see my husband cum for me,” he’s not too good to beg; never has been when it comes to Richard. Harkness, to his credit, is trying valiantly to stop him, murmuring about Stebbins being too sensitive, but–
“No, you can use me, it’s okay. Please, Richie,” and there are tears now, Stebbins knows they’re his this time, but they’re happy ones. Richard Harkness almost killed someone to protect him. Richard Harkness, with his words and flannel pajamas and childhood pet hamster, let him love him, gave him everything. Fuck. Fuck.
Harkness collapses on top of him, wrapping both arms around his softened torso and rutting down with a sob. Stebbins takes it all, grateful, awed; Richie’s licking at his ear, murmuring about how good Stebbins is, such a good boy, Billy, gonna protect you forever, okay? Fuck, feel so good under me, always so good, love you, love you, love you and it’s enough to send his brain somewhere only Richie had ever brought him.
Richie’s orgasm rips moan after moan from him, watery and tired against Stebbins’ neck. He’s whining, little hnggg sounds that are so pretty and soft as his hips twitch, as Billy’s hands guide him towards every possible bit of pleasure. Stebbins isn’t here, not entirely, head fuzzy and soft, only aware of the warmth, the glow of Richie in his arms.
There must be divinity if there is Richard Harkness. They’ll be married soon and Richie will love him for the rest of his life and maybe after that, too, if Stebbins’ luck holds.
In another universe, he is dreaming of this moment, this salvation.
In other monstrous realities, he loves and loses Richie, never meets him, is too afraid to ever love him at all. He can’t decide which is most cruel, only that he is grateful for this one, with blood and bone and the love he knows he would dream of in every life.