Work Text:
Hutch Mansell liked pain.
No, that was a lie, Hutch Mansell….loved pain.
At least he used to.
What with the whole having a family thing he didn't get to indulge anymore in speaking the language he spoke best, kicking ass.
That was until he and his family was robbed.
Here it was, the sign that he needed, from god probably, he thought. The sign that told him that he'd soon find his knuckles slick again with fresh blood. His own, and others.
Oh, it had been a little harder than in the past to win against his enemies, but Hutch just counted that as added flavor. Why shouldn't his first fight after so long test him a little?
That being said, the room was quiet now save only for the quiet rhythmic tapping from the busted sink in the kitchen, where numerous bodies now lay lifeless.
Hutch sat on the couch and surveyed the damage. All around him was the smell and smut of a freshly won home warfare. Lashings of blood coated every wall, violent sprays that to Hutch, looked like beautiful paintings. He was quite the artist that way.
A foot or two in from it him lay a man with a long slice along his neck, up to one of his eyes. He watched the man stir but only for a moment, groaning out quietly what was probably his last breath.
Hutch smirked to himself. God he was hard.
Hutch pallmed himself through his blood soaked jeans, his hot cock straining through the fabric that was quickly becoming cold and sticky. Ahh the thrill of it all. He'd missed it.
It didn't surprise him, his yearning erection. Something that was talked about and seemed to hold true was that someone who ended up working as an assassin did it for one of two reasons, either because they were a psycho, or a pervert.
"Maybe I'm both…" Hutch thought to himself, his mind turning slowly to his family who was still downsstairs in the basement safe room.
Hutch looked down at his crotch and slowly began to undo his fly that was stuck, choking on another man's blood.
He couldn't very well go down and meet his family with a raging hard on, that wouldn't do, so he set to solve this problem like he had done so many times in the past.
Once more for old times sake huh?
Freeing himself from his jeans and finding his boxers soaked through and died red made his nostrils flare excitedly. Finally exposed to the cold air, he gasped. How many times had he done this?
In the business he'd been in, they'd said it was good for morale, that it helped let off steam. Hutch wouldn't lie to himself though. He did it because it brought him the most pleasure. Soaking in the destruction that came by his own hand, it was more erotic than anything else. It was also the most primal act. To assert dominance, to gain pleasure and ego from a job well done.
He looked down at his erection and conjured up a mixture of blood and saliva, spit it unceremoniously onto the head of his cock. God he felt alive. Felt like himself for once.
Taking his cock in his hand, wrapping his blood encrusted fingers around his girth, he gave a quick pump that slicked his length in the mixture of bodily fluids. His cock looked so good like this, dyed in red, the color of violence, the color of pain….
He began to stroke himself faster, rubbing his thumb over the head of his engorgement, blood slick and wild in his palms.
Fuck.
He had just killed and brutally mutilated what, 6 guys?
'You've still got it Hutch!' he mused. 'All those years and you thought you'd gone soft, thought the domestic life had beaten the real you right out with the frequently missed trash. But no, here you are, master of your albeit bullet ridden domain.
Testosterone and adrenaline surged through him, a heady mixture in Hutch's head. He was breathing heavily now, his grip on his cock vice like. He liked it that way, he wanted it to hurt. Pain meant something to him. It was like water and Hutch felt like he had just crawled through the desert for years to get some.
"Ah, fuck."
He was close. The smell of gunpowder strong in his nose he could feel his climax coming. Pain was a powerful drug and his addiction to it would never truly cease. He'd never fully forget how it felt to hurt people and to be hurt. He was a man, that's what men did, they got shit done. And Hutch? Well Hutch had surely just got shit done, for himself and for his family.
His family…. Hutch thought of his beautiful wife, his beautiful children. Thought of his hands soaked in viscera and rage. God, he fucking loved them.
He came white and hot, thick spurts of hot cum rocketed out of him and he grunted hard, growled even, to feel the explosion of release that took over both his body and his mind. He was powerful, in control. He was a family man and he would make sure everyone knew that, from now on.
Hutch collected himself when he finally came down from the high. He was filthy, sticky, his jeans now splattered with fresh semen.
He sighed and buttoned himself back up before sauntering into his bedroom to find clothes that hopeful hadn't been riddled with bullet holes. He quietly changed, ego and machismo still ever coursing through his veins.
He looked into the shards of broken mirror next to the closet.
"You don't fuck….with Hutch" he said, and smiled to no one but himself.
Now it was time to go fetch his beloved family.