Fandom: Durham County
Pairing: Mike Sweeney/Ray Prager (set pre-series, Mike and Ray are about 19 years old)
Warnings: knifeplay, bondage, bloodplay (cutting), breathplay, rough sex.
Summary: Ray Prager comes home to Durham, and he burns like the summer sun.
AN: My thanks to snoopypez, waltzforanight and inlovewithnight for reading this over! (My run-on sentences need three betas, what.) This is a snippet (lolsnippet) from a larger backstory fic for these two that I am writing endcredits for her help_haiti donation! As today is her birthday and that fic is still not done because it's looooong, I wanted to give her some Mike/Ray Prager for a gift!fic! This takes place when Prager returns to Durham for a season break from the junior league hockey team (the St. John's Leafs, who became the Toronto Marlies in 2005), which I have him playing on in said larger fic which will, someday soon, be finished.
Fic comes with bonus!music download: Hatefuck, by The Bravery. It is from this song from which the title comes, and also I listened to it on repeat while writing this. It's totally my Mike/Prager song now. Much <3 to waltzforanight for sending me this one. *grins*
Ray draws the flat of the knife over his throat, and Mike thinks about telling him to stop and get the fuck off of him. But Mike has never once said that to Ray, no matter what fucked up thing Ray happens to be doing to him, and he's not about to start now. Besides, Ray's never said it either; he tends to say more and don't stop and please, Mike, instead. Ray once told him that his dad said you need to forget the word "lose" ever existed, son, like you can't remember how to make your mouth form the word. Maybe stop is the same kind of thing with Ray; he doesn't know how to say it, and he doesn't know how to recognize it when said, either.
Mike's not sure what thought bothers him more--saying it or having Ray ignore him if he does. He tries to settle down and forget about, tries to tell himself he's not going to kill you, you're the only person he really loves, but that thought isn't really a comfort when he's got Ray smiling down at him, eyes all blurry-wild and dark, knife-edge caressing Mike's throat. Maybe Ray won't kill him, sure, but that doesn't mean he won't make Mike hurt.
After all, it's a really fucking sharp knife. Ray's not wasting time with some stupid dull-edged piece of shit.
Only the best for you, Mikey.
The thought almost makes Mike laugh, but he's afraid if he does, he'll slice his goddamned artery on the blade and bleed death just like this. Shirtless in a pair of jeans, lying on the floor of an abandoned farmhouse with his hands tied at the wrists above his head, shackled to a metal grate with rough-hewn rope. Mike has never told a single person about this thing he does with Ray, this thing that was born one night in violence and terror and ended up in lust. He's not sure he could explain it even if he wanted to. It's like his friendship with Ray boiled right down to the essentials; love and hate, violence and want.
You're my soulmate, Mike. Brother. Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.
"I want to cut you so bad," Ray breathes, distracting Mike, the point of the knife resting in the hollow of Mike's throat. "It would hurt, Mikey. It would hurt."
"Yeah," Mike says, and his voice sounds ripped and raw like he swallowed the goddamned knife. He's sweating and he can't look away, pulling at his wrists a little and feeling the coarse rope rub hot against his skin. "Yeah, it would."
"That's all you're going to say?" Ray doesn't have on a shirt, either, and he's got a black eye and a busted lip that looks like it's still bleeding.
Mike Sweeney doesn't end up on his back for anyone without a goddamn fight.
"You want me to beg you not to do it?" Mike asks, tilting up his chin as much as he can, trying for a sneer. "Fuck you."
"Mikey, Mikey," Ray breathes, drawing some kind of pattern over and over again with the tip of the knife on Mike's chest. He scoots lower on Mike's body, and Mike turns his head away for a moment to stifle a moan. Ray is hard; Mike can feel his dick pressed against his leg, and Mike's hips push up a little and fuck, this is crazy, it's always been crazy, they're crazy. "I'm the one with the knife. I'm the one in charge, big guy." Ray lifts his head and sucks on his bleeding lip, draws the knife down Mike's chest to his stomach.
Mike stares at him, breathing quick and light as Ray lays the blade flat on his stomach. Despite the fact Ray is in the peak of his physical health from playing grueling junior league hockey for the St. John's Leafs all season, Mike's a big guy and he's been working construction the last year while waiting for Claire to graduate. There is no way Mike would be on his back if Ray hadn't pulled a knife on him. They walked into the decrepit old farmhouse and Ray was all over him, saying I want you on your goddamned back for once and trying to shove Mike down with his hands on Mike's shoulders. Mike resisted, told him no, fuck, we're done with that shit. Come on, Ray, let's just get fucked up and you can tell me how you're better than Number 99, and how you're gonna let me drink Blue out of the Stanley Cup when you win it for the Leafs.
If Ray is anything, though, he's persistent. Once he gets something he wants in his head, he goes after it and he's fucking relentless until he gets it. And what he wanted is exactly what he's got; Mike prone on the dirt floor, wrists immobile but legs free, unable to do anything because he's not actually certain Ray won't cut him if he tries something. And it's not like Mike isn't just as hard as Ray, as much as he hates himself for it--there is some darkness inside him that lies dormant around everyone else but Ray. Oh, he's a moody bastard, he knows that, but this goes beyond a bad temper and a tendency to punch walls and shout when he's pissed off.
This is the dark thrill Mike feels when when he shoves Ray to his knees, hands tied behind his back with Mike's belt, and fucks Ray's mouth with his cock until Ray chokes so hard it makes him cry. The way Ray looks up at him when it's over, face tear-streaked but peaceful, eyes shining like some penitent given absolution through pain and degradation. Mike has never seen anyone look like that before, and it scares the shit out of him that it's Ray, but he can't deny the heat that flares in his blood every time it happens. Ray annoys the fuck out of him, he always has, ever since they were kids. Ray's loud and obnoxious and insecure and probably fucking demented, but that's not really what bothers Mike so much about him.
It's that Ray consumes things, like fire swallowing kindling and leaving nothing left but ash in his wake. His poor dead mother. All the girls he brought up to the Farm before he left town, the ones who missed school for a few days and then showed back up quiet and bruised and broken. Ray likes Mike because Mike doesn't falter under the weight of Ray's attentions, doesn't turn to cinder beneath the blaze of his personality. But Mike is getting tired of being the only thing Ray Prager can't destroy, the only thing in Ray's life that doesn't burn.
Part of Mike wishes Ray would have left Durham and never come back. When he parked the Mustang at the Farm, Ray had been standing in front of the house with his hands at his side and his face turned up towards the setting sun, like some fallen angel happy to be back in heaven just so he could turn around and fall all over again. Mike stood still, watched Ray's silent unholy communion and wanted nothing more than to turn around and leave. Let Ray think he'd never shown up all, let the barbed vines of their friendship wither and die from neglect.
Ray wouldn't have allowed that, though. Ray never would allow that. And Mike felt like he was strangling beneath that knowledge of you will never be free, ever; he will always be here, he will always come back. The sun set with one last hot flare of red across the sky as dusk fell over the Farm, bringing an impending sense of doom along with it. Mike tried to shove the feeling aside and hope for the best, because Ray had been away from Durham (and his father) for almost a year, and there was already talk of a pro-contract sometime after his second season. Maybe this was enough to give Ray some sense of self, to calm him down and temper that fire in him that never could be controlled. But Mike looked in Ray's drowsy eyes, saw the last light from the sun caught inside the darkness there, and knew it wasn't enough and never would be.
Ray is murmuring something, far gone to the madness this fucking town breeds into its sons like poison, and he's pressing the knife hard enough that Mike can see thin red lines appear on his skin. Ray is doing this on his stomach so he can see the lines he's leaving, since Mike's chest is too hairy for that. "You want to cut pretty pictures on me like a girl, Prager, why don't you do it on my back?"
Ray looks up and smiles, and there it is again, that cold chill moving up his spine, the one that means you are not going to like where this will end. "Because then I can't see your eyes," he murmurs, his voice reverent, almost a sigh. "I'm going to make you bleed, Mike."
Mike swallows hard, pushing his hips up a little because he can't help himself. This has never made sense, ever, but it turns him on in a way that Claire--sweet, beautiful, innocent Claire--can't. Claire, she can't know about this, she can't see this part of him. Fuck, her goddamned name means light, she can't--"Fuck!" Mike hisses, sucking in a breath and going tense as Ray pushes the knife in harder, Jesus fucking Christ, and a thin line of blood appears on his skin as Ray cuts him.
"You're here with me," Ray tells him, as if he knows Mike what--who--Mike was thinking about. Ray's eyes are narrowed and his mouth twists, and that charming and happy mask he shows to the world is stripped away, laying bare what is really underneath--meanness, cruelty, desperation, insecurity. He cuts harder, sharper, and the pain makes Mike pull hard on the ropes and arch up off the dirt floor. He's struggling not to buck Ray off, not to kick him and free himself and get the fuck out of here, but why he's fighting that he has no idea. "Tell me you missed me," Ray demands, lifting the knife up threateningly, like he's going to plunge it in Mike's stomach if he doesn't go along with this.
For some reason, this makes Mike laughs. "All you need is a fucking hockey mask," he says, grinning at Ray. "Jason Vorhees."
Ray lowers the knife, some of that madness seeping out of his eyes. "You're such a fucking moron, Sweeney. Or else you're just fucked in the head. Stupid or crazy. Take your fucking pick. Or not. You can be both." Ray is using the knife again, but he's done cutting. Now he's tracing Mike's abdomen, the muscles in his chest, back up to his collar and his throat.
"I'll take stupid," Mike says, voice a little wild. "You're already crazy enough for the both of us."
Ray's face shuts down at that. "Shut up," he snarls, and backhands Mike across the face. It hurts like a bitch, but it just makes Mike want it more. "I'm not crazy. I'm not."
"Like mother, like son," Mike taunts, because apparently, he really is stupid.
Ray makes a sound like a wounded animal and holds the knife edge up to Mike's throat. "I could gut you, you stupid motherfucker."
"Yeah," Mike tosses back, voice shaky but refusing to back down because he doesn't do that, not for Ray fucking Prager, not for anyone. "You could. But you--fuck, you--you won't, Prager, I know you won't. I'm your soulmate."
"You can be my soulmate dead, Sweeney. I'll visit your goddamned grave. Pretend like I'm sad, pretend like I didn't kill you. I'm good at that." He is using the knife on Mike's face, tracing his jaw, his mouth. "Pretending."
Mike meets his eyes and nods. "I know you are." He opens his mouth wider, sticks his tongue out, and starts licking the flat of the knife.
Ray groans, shifts to a position where he can rub against Mike's dick and rub his own against Mike's jean-covered thigh. "I want to make your mouth bleed. Like you did to me."
"Yeah, because I hit you," Mike points out softly. His wrists hurt, his fingers beginning to tingle and go numb from lack of circulation, but Mike could care less. "You want mine to bleed, make me. Like a man."
"I want to do it like this," Ray says stubbornly, pressing the edge of the knife against Mike's lower lip and running it back and forth slowly. It feels shivery-good and terrifying at the same time, fear and lust crashing through Mike like thunder. "I'll cut your fucking tongue off while I'm at it, so you'll shut up."
Mike responds to that by sticking his tongue out and saying, "Go ahead." His words are distorted but clear enough.
"You know why I like you, you goddamned crazy bastard?" Ray says with a wide grin, eyes shining. "You are just as fucking crazy as I am."
No, I'm not, Mike thinks in a moment of sudden sobriety, but then Ray tosses the knife aside and kisses him and the thought falls away unspoken. Ray's mouth is hot, his tongue slick. Mike closes his eyes and lets the darkness rise, opens his mouth, and kisses Ray back.
Ray does get Mike's mouth to bleed eventually with his teeth, bites hard until the skin breaks and their kiss is tinged with the taste of copper. Ray pulls back, smirking all bloody and wild, and slowly draws the back of his hand across his mouth. "Blood of my blood..." He rubs his hand over Mike's heart, smearing his dark chest hair with blood. Ray leans down and kisses him there gently.
When he sits back up, he starts taking off his belt, cursing, and Mike can see his fingers shaking.
Mike starts taunting him when he sees that. "C'mon, Prager, you've never had trouble getting your pants off in here before. So I hear, anyway."
"Fuck you, Sweeney, you've been here. With me. Always with me, you are, always--" Ray looks up sharply from where he's been fighting with his belt. "Do you come here without me?" he demands, hitting Mike's stomach with his open palm, and that--ow, fuck, that hurt, Mike almost forgot he was bleeding and that Ray had cut his stomach.
"No," Mike says honestly. "I haven't."
"Don't you lie to me--" Ray starts, voice rising, but Mike knows how to deal with this brand of Ray's crazy, he's used to it by now. He knows how to make his voice flat and cold, how to go still, pin Ray with his gaze.
"I said no, Ray. I haven't." Mike meets his gaze, doesn't look away. "I haven't."
Ray calms, nods once. "Good."
Mike, being Mike, doesn't leave it there. "The others, you know, don't know what they've been up to. Glen--"
"I don't give a shit about any of them. I never have." Ray leans down and kisses him again. "Just you, Mike. Just you."
Mike hears himself say it before he can stop himself. "I missed you. Ray. I missed you." He lifts his legs up and slings them over Ray's back, using his boots on Ray's lower back to pull Ray down and kiss him again. There is nothing in the world that makes less sense than this. He's not sure if he means what he just said or if he's saying it so they can finish this and Ray will untie him, but it feels like the truth either way.
They're both panting, hot for it, and Mike finally drops his legs and lets Ray sit up, lets him finish taking off his belt. Ray pulls the leather through his belt loops and wraps it around Mike's neck, buckling it tight. Mike shudders and gasps in sudden excitement because they've done this before and Mike likes it, a lot, it's a thrill and it's fucking scary and he's never been able to ask for this with anyone else and he's too freaked out to do it to himself. Ray kisses him one more time, murmuring something against his mouth that Mike doesn't really hear because of the sudden rush of blood pounding in his ears, like he's been dragged under the surf and is drowning and that's sort of how he feels. Ray sits up again and puts the leather end of the belt in his mouth so he can hold it between his teeth.
Mike tugs hard on his wrists and moans, arches up and says, "Yeah, fuck," while Ray undoes the buttons of Mike's jeans. Ray doesn't even tease, just gets his hand inside and on Mike's cock in record time, then starts jacking him hard. He doesn't wait for Mike to catch his breath, either, before he jerks his head back sharply and pulls the belt tighter against Mike's throat. Mike should be worried about this, maybe. Ray has cut his stomach and threatened to kill him and they are not friends, they are beyond friends, maybe they're soulmates but that means Ray Prager is all the dark parts of himself that Mike hates and he's not really inclined to be happy about that.
Ray tries talking around the length of leather in his mouth, saying something like no one will ever be you, Mike, ever, never be me, it's just us, want you so fucking bad. Mike gasps out, "Shut up, Jesus, you want to use your mouth so bad, put it on my dick," and Ray gives one last hard tug on the leather and takes the lead of the belt in his hand. He leans down and slides his mouth over Mike's cock, warm and wet.
And there's Ray, sucking him off and choking Mike with the belt while he does it, but he looks up and there it is again--that look, so goddamned desperate, the please love me and please want me one. What makes Mike like this so goddamned much is not that look, but the fact Mike is bound and on his back and he's still in control. Ray is just that fucking needy, and Jesus--that makes Mike thrust up hard and choke Ray with his cock, over and over, because Ray will take it, Ray wants to take it, that's all Ray fucking wants. Ray does take it, but he also yanks hard on the belt and doesn't let go this time, pulls tighter and tighter until the roaring in Mike's ears rushes over him and he can't breathe, he's drowning and little bursts of white fall like snow over his vision as it darkens into nothing.
The leather constricting him loosens as air rushes into his lungs, and Mike comes with a sharp, breathless cry and God, it feels so fucking good. All that darkness he keeps in check rushes over him, washes through him in waves, and he's not drowning anymore, it's all right, he stopped fighting and that's what it wants, what Ray wants, what Mike wants. At least for now.
When he opens his eyes, it's to a sight Mike never thought he'd want to see; his best friend sprawled next to him, bare-chested and bloody-mouthed and messy-haired, legs spread, jeans shoved down and fucking his own fist, eyes fixed unblinking on Mike. Mike swallows and his voice is scratchy. It hurts to talk, but he does it anyway. "Come here," he says, tugging his hands, fuck, Ray tied them too tight and Mike is going to have to explain this again, show Ray how to do it right. "Let me--come on, Ray," he coaxes, because this is weird, this isn't--Ray got him off, Mike will get him off, that's how it goes. Mike needs his equilibrium back and that means making Ray break for him, not staying helpless and bound while Ray does it himself.
Ray just shakes his head, though, staring at him with that wide, glassy-eyed stare, like Mike's not even there. And that unease dances over him, over nerves already oversensitive, and Mike just wants him to stop. "Get up here, straddle me," Mike tells him, thinking hard for something he might not ordinarily allow. Letting Ray fuck his mouth like this, yeah, that definitely qualifies. "My throat hurts, you can fuck my mouth, come on, Ray."
Ray doesn't move, doesn't shake his head, nothing. His hand is moving over his cock fast and quick, twisting the head, and Mike's done the get Ray Prager off thing enough to know that he's rushing, hurrying towards the finish line but Mike has no idea why. "My mouth is bloody," Mike tells him, still trying to tempt Ray. Mike sucks on his bottom lip, eyes hot, but Ray just looks at him and doesn't register that he heard Mike say anything at all. His gaze shifts and he gives a sharp, breathless cry and moves his hand faster, eyes fixated on Mike's stomach.
Mike looks down, finally noticing what Ray cut in his skin. His temper flares hot as he sees the R Ray cut into his stomach. No. No. What the fuck. Mike looks back and now Ray is watching him, waiting for Mike to react, still jerking himself off and obviously wanting to come from Mike's reaction. And Mike has a hard time keeping his temper in check, but he will be goddamned if Ray fucking Prager gets off from it. So Mike just bares his teeth at Ray in a feral grin, then swings his legs over and hooks them around Ray's hips, crossing his ankles behind Ray's back and pulling. It knocks Ray off balance and he curses, glaring at Mike, and this is--God, stupid, Mike's body twisted and an uncomfortable angle and Ray sprawled on the floor with his dick out, red-faced and panting.
Mike laughs, a real laugh, he can't help it. "Get over here, brother," he drawls, tugging with his boots again. "I'll suck you off. Welcome home for the summer present. Don't act like you don't want it. Or, go ahead, and the next time you ask me all pretty to suck your fucking cock, I'll just tell you to get one of those fourteen year old junior high girls you used to like so much to do it."
"Used to?" Ray manages, mouth twisted in a smile that comes very close to cruel. "Who says I still don't?"
"Fucking psycho, that was bad enough when you were seventeen. Get over here, this offer expires in about two fucking seconds, Prager." Mike doesn't want to know if Ray's telling the truth or not--he hopes not, fuck, they're both nineteen and there are plenty of girls around who aren't going to land Ray in jail if he needs his dick sucked that bad, Jesus.
Ray climbs up and straddles Mike again, but he doesn't do it where he can fuck Mike's mouth--instead, he stretches out and rubs his cock against Mike's stomach, over and over, face buried in Mike's shoulder and panting hard while he thrusts hard and fast against Mike's sweat-and-blood-slick skin. Mike still has the belt around his neck and Ray reaches up and curls his fingers around the leather while he works himself closer and closer, chest sliding against Mike's, breath hot.
"Wanted--you--fuck, you were supposed to be angry. I marked you, mine, and you're--why weren't you angry, Mike, fuck you, why? Scares you when you're angry, s'why I want it so bad--"
Mike has no idea what this means, but suddenly he's sore and tired and whatever made this seem like a good idea is fading fast with every passing second. This has descended right back into that game they play, the one where Mike won't let Ray have everything he is even though that is all Ray wants, has always been what he wanted from Mike from the very first time they met. "You didn't cut me very deep, Ray," Mike tells him, raising one booted foot to press on Ray's back, give him more pressure and help him get off so this can be over. "It's going to fade away pretty fast."
Ray lifts his head, staring hard at Mike, his eyes lit with cruelty and love. "One day," he pants, moving faster as he gets closer, voice dissolving into breathy, desperate pants. "One day, Mikey, I--oh--one day--" Ray cries out, shuddering hard, and comes wet and warm all over Mike's stomach. It burns the cuts Ray's knife left, but Mike resolutely turns his face away and doesn't make a sound. He lays there in the dirt and the darkness, Ray shaking on top of him, spent, trying to catch his breath. Mike is just about to say something like can you get off me? or maybe even my fucking wrists are going to fall off, asshole, take the ropes off already when Ray speaks again. His voice is drowsy, soft, in stark comparison to the words he murmurs against Mike's skin.
"One day, I'm going to find a way to cut you so it lasts, Mike." Ray kisses Mike below his ear, right on his pulse. "Forever."