PENITENCE COMPUNCTION

By BetweenTownleys

(Alternate working title: There Is a Fucking Problem Here)

Notes: Trevor is total trash. This story contains lots of offensive and potentially triggering things like harsh language, mentions of incest, molestation, blood, gore, poop, drug abuse, bestiality and all kinds of other stuff Trevor is all about. So WATCH OUT! …For that. If that doesn't bother you, welcome to this disgusting trikey romance, you sick fuck. This is part 1 of a bunch of chapters, so get your boners ready. OK, thanks.

As with most things in Trevor's life, it was undeniable that he was in this situation dick-deep.

In this particular case, it happened to be a literal interpretation. (Another common occurrence.) With the dragging groan of a tortured sow, the meth-addled reprobate released his load into the shivering juggalo beneath him. Bright white lights flashed like fire, then were gone. For long moments afterward Trevor stiffly kneaded the bony hips under his hands, eyelids clenched tight, his softening cock pulsing unsympathetically as it slid out from the battered hole. Wetness registered across his thighs, and the lowlife at length cracked an eye open. Between Trevor's palms was about what he had expected… glorious carnage. The angry red swell of abused meat and, of course, his own greasy baby batter. It was… everywhere. Fuck. When had that happened? Sometime between fucking on the kitchen counter, and fucking on the table by the busted television? (Or was it when they were UNDER the table? There was cum on the floorboards.) But back to the ass in his hands. That was what was important, here. It radiated heat like a goddamn coal furnace. Most likely because it was a nasty slurry of maltreated human garbage. Kinda sticky. Definitely messy… and..? Yep, bloody. Shit. No going back into that hole anytime in the next 20 minutes.

And then the other thing registered; the thing Trevor hated most. The muffled whimpers of Wade Hebert as he bit into the couch like some little baby bitch. He was crying. Or at least TRYING not to cry. And failing. Again.

"For FUCKSAKE, Wade!" the balding man growled, shoving the other body forcefully away from himself. "WHAT did I tell you about the goddamn crying?!"

Trevor couldn't tolerate the blubbering which always seemed to come hand-in-hand with the aftermath of enjoying what at one point had been a reasonably average heterosexual human poop chute. This one, though resilient enough by his usual standards, suddenly seemed to Trevor as if it had seen better days. Or was that kinder days? It didn't matter in the long run, considering Trevor Philips fucked whatever the fuck Trevor Philips wanted to fuck, WHEN he wanted to fuck it. But even some assholes had their limits.

"…sorry Trevor," the quivering boy groveled, meekly peeking over his shoulder with a ruddy face. "you… you ain't gonna make me do that dance again, is you?"

A murderous look silenced Wade and the boy clambered up off the couch and onto shaky legs, before he shuffled away awkwardly for the bathroom. Trevor watched him cross the floor of his trailer, already feeling the familiar ache again in the pit of his balls. Slowly, it coiled like a snake.

Trevor Philips was angry. And he was horny. GOD, FUCK, was he horny. But mostly he was angry. Obviously the meth did it's fair share in the hearty encouragement of these things, but Trevor liked to reason that if he'd been living the saintly life of a monk in a pastoral farming monastery, he STILL would have been angry and horny enough right now to fuck a good third of the livestock to death. It wasn't a bad fantasy to entertain. Actually, sometimes he entertained the thought of fucking animals to death when he was alone in the morning. Or when he was watching Ashley getting hammered in the ass by her faggot biker boyfriend. Or when a stoplight was taking too long.

But… It was just…. the thing was….

….it just…

It hurt. It hurt.

What? But, what was that? What, exactly, hurt? A preposterous line of queries, repeat offenders Trevor mulled over every time he caught a glance of his mildewing face in the back of a spoon, a car window, a pool of blood.

The answer was simple. And yet… too…. fucking…. COMPLEX…. for even Trevor's mental aptitudes to really fully encompass, despite how smart he tried to convince himself he actually was. It was just… Everything.

Everything hurt.

Everything? But how could EVERYTHING hurt? The middle-aged man keened the same lonely questions over again to himself, and ran a callused hand up over his bald spot to wipe some of the sweat away. Over the past few months, the thoughts had been dogging him constantly. More than they ever had. It was absurd. 'Everything' covered a fucking TON of subject material, after all.

Everything was the first cup of coffee in the morning. It was the hard flat pack of his fist making contact with flesh. It was orgasms, and pissing on daffodils and burning a hole in your pants after falling asleep with a cigarette dangling on your lip. It was twitching out and huffing gasoline and vomiting blood. It was model airplanes. It was being 30,000 feet in the air on a clear blue day. But it did hurt. Maybe not every time, but always sometimes. Everything. Trevor knew, from the tips of his toes to the top of his skull. He just… fucking… KNEW. That nothing in his life was ever gonna be right again. COULD NEVER be right again.

Not since Yankton. Not when it had been so right before. And now it wasn't. la vie dure.

The couch under his fingers felt wet with grease and dirt. Trevor regarded his naked thighs with a dead stare, noting the green tinge his skin took under the neon sign hung above his fridge. His teeth hurt. A feverish glance brought the ex-pilot's eyes up to scour the room. The bowl was there, on the floor beneath the counter, and yet somehow unbroken. A bag of crystal laid several feet away, upturned but sealed in a plastic ziplock bag. Trevor had no memory of shoving it off the counter, but immediately understood that he must have done so. He would hit Wade about it later. A fine sheen of sweat broke out across his palms as he crouched forward.

Sure, there had been plenty of time between North Yankton and now. Nine years, actually. But it had been nine years of dwelling. Nine years of playing the bitter widow. He'd tried to move on. The time had even given him a few opportunities… starting his little family and seeding thoughts for his enterprise, for example. And time for other things. To periodically go back up north and stomp around in the snowy mud and piss on tombstones in the graveyard he hated so much, to pretend it was because he was only furious. Anger he could use now to blow fire on anyone who came too close. And time even after that to develop a truly righteous drug regiment to fill up all the leftover empty spaces. Not too shabby, all around. The only problem was, when you bury enough corpses in the same area, eventually you start digging up old ones.

A crumpled letter from Brad sat shoved to the far end of the counter, weighted down by a figurine of Impotent Rage. It had too many words like 'back then' and 'I wish' or 'do you remember' for Trevor to stomach reading it again.

So it hurt. Everything. And on nights like this one, sometimes it felt like there was barely a point in holding anything together at all.

Barely.

"You got any morea that, uh, gosh, I guess dish soap?"

Wade's lisp sounded through the muffled bathroom door just as Trevor hit the bowl in his hand. He slowly let out an acrid white breath as he pictured the expendable juggalo scooping cum out of his now cavernous back entrance. He chose not to reply, instead leering off into the distance as a surge of vibratory anger prickled his flesh with goosebumps. On a second impulse, he set the bowl down and leaned back against his couch. A dirty hand ran up beneath the grubby white shirt he wore, pausing to flick over the nub of his left nipple. Miserable and naked from the waist down, Trevor ground his teeth together and relented to the inevitable hunger focused in and around the area of his cock. With a frustrated snarl, he wrapped his fingers around its rock-solid mass and started pumping.

"Didja hear what I- oh," Wade's face went from blank to crestfallen as he peered back out into the main part of the trailer. "Heck, Trevor, you got more wood than a forest fulla dang trees!"

"Get over here, princess," the criminal grit through a clamped jaw. "God didn't give you a tongue so you could fucking talk to me with it!"

A look of trepidation crossed Wade's face, even as he took a halting step forward. "I thought you said we was gonna smoke after we-"

"Oh, oh, please, be my guest!" The suddenly syrupy tone of friendliness should have been a tip-off.

Trevor gestured with the suspicious good manners of a talk show hostess to the bowl sitting on the couch at his side. Wade moved in immediately. When he was in close range, Trevor looped his free hand around the back of Wade's neck and slammed his skull backwards into the wall of the trailer. It left a loud dent, but then again, the trailer certainly had more pressing problems than a few bloody craters. On the ground by Trevor's erection, Wade sat moaning with his head clamped in his hands. Red dribbled through a few of his knuckles.

And then, what was that? Was he crying? Again?

AGAIN again?

"GOD DAMN IT WADE WHAT DID I SAY TO YOU ABOUT THE FUCKING CRYING?"

"I'm SORRY TREVOR, I'm soooorrrry!" the druggie wailed from between his fingers, clearly no longer capable of containing the unquenchable well of tears that now spurt from his face, along with jet streams of blood.

A long, frustrated groan cut across the sound of crying.

"Would you just SHUT UP already!?" Patience finally snapped, Trevor jerked Wade's head forward and roughly pushed him down onto what was now his exceedingly, supremely hard erection. The boy's tears cut off in a sudden 'ulp!' of surprise, then, silence.

Then, the slow, resigned sucking noise of someone who knows they have been defeated.

At last, the cruelty in Trevor's hands melted away a little. Instead, after a moment, he smoothed his palm out over the back of Wade's dreadlocks. It was almost tender.

"Hmmmmmm, yeah baby…. yeahhhh… just like that."

Wade took the dick down his throat with the resigned dedication of a martyr. His ass was still on fire, blood was trickling down his nose and getting all mixed up with the dick taste, and his right knee felt a pang he assumed was broken glass from under the couch, but he'd had worse. He was used to swallowing things. If it was a cock, a lie, or a tall, icy glass of Faygo, it seemed not to matter. (Secret: Wade preferred the Faygo.)

It was hard to say how many times this exact pattern had repeated itself in the past. However, it was an undeniable fact that with Trevor, his desire to fuck whatever hole Wade currently didn't have his hand over went in ebbs and flows. Sometimes he could go weeks without throwing the juggalo so much as an annoyed side-eye. Occasionally, he would even buy them ice cream, handing the cone over with a disconcertingly fatherly expression of both amusement and love. Wade obviously wondered about it, as far as he was able to do so. He had always assumed that in the end the weird behavior was on account of the fact that Trevor was so smart. Smarter than Ron. Smarter than a lot of folks. And smart people had agendas he was just not ever gonna be able to understand. But Wade never wondered quite as hard about the inconsistencies as when they were in the middle of an act itself. It was always scary, but sometimes, it could be really confusing too. Wade was accustomed to being confused, but Trevor's brand of confusing was an entirely different venue altogether.

With light fingers, Trevor dug beneath Wade's dreadlocks and settled his hand at the nape of his neck, eyes closed, clearly in a distant fantasy. The callused hand felt out the bobbing motions with tense enjoyment. Wade had once made the mistake of attempting to ask a question before Trevor had come, and the black eye he had gotten as a result was bad enough that Ron had complained about it for a week. Yet still, on a different occasion, Wade recalled Trevor's fingers tracing the sides of his face with remarkable delicacy. The hands had moved under to brush his chin, just before the con man had muttered the words 'God, I love you so much' in a tone which Wade assumed must have come from watching one-too-many daytime TV soaps. Trevor Philips somehow had the ability to be both tremendously kind, and tremendously cruel.

So. Knowing all this, even a complete moron like Wade knew his chances were at their best if he just dutifully sucked Trevor off without a single word. Uncle Thoroughgood had taught him that. (Or had it been Kush-Chronic?) Anyway, it was a task to which he now applied himself thoroughly.

Something about Trevor recently, though… definitely something with him was a little squirrely. Kinda funny. A little… off. The problem was just that in Trevor's case, even being just a little 'off' could be disastrous. Once, when Trevor was feeling a little off (he'd said, 'Wade, I'm feeling a little off today') he'd gotten a burnt bag of french fries from a Burger Shot then driven a Ford Escape through the front window. But at the moment, Wade just wondered at the gentle hands on the back of his head. He wondered at them, and was briefly thankful that Trevor wearing no pants also meant that Trevor's guns were at least 5 feet away. Small blessings.

Soft groans sloughed like loose gravel through the quiet trailer, a low, long bass to Wade's sucking staccato. The dick in his mouth was as hard as granite, and deceptively silky. But when Wade allowed himself a peek of Trevor's sweating face, it gave no hint of the fantasy passing behind his closed eyes. Thick eyebrows drawn together into a serious line, Trevor panted heavily through clenched teeth and parted lips.

"… God, I love you… I fucking love you…." the surprising words revealed themselves unexpectedly yet again, and Wade paused, a momentary glitch, if out of nothing else other than shock. The pause was met with a rough growl, and suddenly Trevor's hands were violent again. Taking hold of Wade's hair in a tight fist, Trevor thrust sharply up into his throat, shoving down simultaneously from above. The boy audibly gagged, his hands flapping uselessly like a baby bird's wings in pathetic protest. A few more thrusts and Wade managed to grip back onto Trevor's knees again. Together they worked like that, Trevor's hips bucking violently up against the head in his grip, and Wade anchoring himself like a ship at port during a storm.

Whatever was wrong with Trevor, Wade certainly didn't suspect an explanation would be presented to him plainly. He certainly didn't expect nuggets of knowledge to fall on him like mana while Trevor skull fucked his mouth hole for all it was worth (visa vis their pre established agreement about drugs and the group consumption thereof.) And yet Wade suddenly found himself once again, supposedly, in the right place at the right time. With a final rasping growl Trevor thrust forward and shoved Wade's head harshly into his lap as he came, a single name forcing itself desperately through his clenched teeth.

When Trevor was done, he sat back with a huff which might have been exhaustion, and might have been frustration. Most likely it was a sweaty combination of both, Wade thought as he swallowed what had to be a quart of cum. He grimaced at the taste, but knew better than to spit the load out anywhere he could be seen.

Trevor sighed heavily once, licked his lips a few times, wiped some slime off the side of his thigh, and then finally did a double take at Wade who he realized then was staring at him.

"...What?"

Wade looked stumped. That is to say, he looked more stumped than he usually did on any given day. Mild autism would be a lucky diagnosis for Wade's laundry list of problems. Not to mention that time with the shovel and his ex-step-brother Nelson back in 1997.

"…Well you had said, uh…"

Trevor waited a beat, his legs still hanging wide open. "…What? I said what?"

Did he not realize he'd said that name out loud? A fart-like expression of consternation overtook Wade, and Trevor rolled his eyes.

"What is it? I don't have all fucking day, débile bouché, what the fuck do you want?"

"….uh…" weighing his options in this situation, Wade opted then to listen to the flat lining noise his brain was currently making. In the name of personal safety, he would go with the always-solid reply of total silence.

Another minute was spent staring at each other. Trevor clearly perplexed, snorted once and cuffed Wade across the right ear. "You, my friend, are a waste of human space and resources, let me tell ya."

The man on the couch observed the blood smeared across his favorite toy's face, and the subject shifted again.

"…Does Wadey want an ice-cream?"

Was that even a question? Was Trevor not mad anymore? The smile that lit Wade's face almost completely obliterated the thought he had been perched on the edge of until that moment. But as Trevor moved off, his slick and mercifully limp dick swinging as he went, the question doubled back around one last time.

Who the HECK was Michael?