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They’d been touring for months now, and in all that time they’d only killed three people. Patrick claimed it was because they had to be careful, that they couldn’t risk leaving an obvious trail of bodies to follow in case they incited a nationwide manhunt. Because then crossing state lines wouldn’t be enough to protect them, and it would only end up a matter of time before they were both in jail, or worse. Really, though, Henry thought it was because Patrick liked being in control.
It was frustrating enough to have to hide around corners to stop anyone from finding the lead singer and the drummer of their little band screwing, but to not be able to vent that pent up sexual frustration on the bloodstained temple of some Loser groupie? That was a special kind of torture.
He wasn’t an idiot. He knew it was a good thing that Patrick was so selective of who they inducted into their own personal rock and roll hall of fame. But the time between stolen kisses, the space between them unmarked by blood and violence, the lengths that seemed to stretch on between each illicit back alley blowjob? It was like a vice, winding him tighter and tighter by the second.
He was surprised no one could see him about to pop.
All he wanted was to see Patrick covered in blood, hands around the throat of some bitch, wringing the life from their chest. Was that so wrong? For him to want his breath stolen from him, along with someone else's? It had gotten to the point where he was considering braining Belch with the flat side of a symbol during a rehearsal just to get his blood pumping.
He wasn’t sure if Patrick loved him.
He didn’t think it mattered, really, so long as he got to keep having sex with him - got to keep killing. But if there was one thing Patrick definitely did love, it was the band. It was his express ticket out of their shithole town, and the single thing he treasured more than his electric guitar - and Henry. Without it, he might never have left Maine. Without it, Henry would never have been able to do what he loved either. At least, not without getting caught.
They’d been touring the east coast from Maine to Florida supporting a larger band, The Losers, for the last month, but the next place the tour was taking them was overseas. They’d be playing one last show in their home state, of all places, and then they’d be off to Europe for another month-long leg of the tour.
It was the perfect time to get their hands wet.
Just one more inductee and then they’d be gone from the states entirely. It was the perfect send-off.
He tried to bring it up to Patrick, to catch him alone after their tech rehearsal, but he’d been brushed off.
Only, it wasn’t in the way Patrick usually dismissed him when he got antsy about wanting to kill. It wasn’t as cold. It wasn’t definite. It wasn’t a “no”, it was a “not now”. Which to Henry, was as good as a “yes”.
So, he sat and watched from one of the dingy bars’ stools as Patrick finalised the setlist for the night. He sat and watched as Patrick took it to the stage manager, and they discussed it at length. Then he watched as Patrick stood and spoke to headliners, The Losers. All the while, he picked at the hang-nailed skin atop his blistered fingers, raw from weeks on end of broken drumsticks and too-little violence, and tried to lash out in impatience.
Doing something brash would only have Patrick renege his decision altogether, and that was something neither of them could afford.
He watched as the bespeckled guitarist Patrick spoke to muttered something to him. Something that was so funny it had the ripe Adam's apple located in the centre of his throat bobbing with laughter, hands on the other man's shoulder.
The sight made him itch all over. He had the dangerous desire to join them. To tear the thing from Patrick’s throat with his teeth. To spit it in the man’s face and ask if it was still funny, keeping him waiting when he was suffering in silence.
Instead he just sat and watched.
And never once did Patrick look back at him.
Henry knew that Patrick was aware of his watching him. He was surprised his clothes hadn’t burned off entirely from the intensity with which he was staring. But he never once let on that he knew. It was like he lived for the sole purpose of teasing Henry, of feigning ignorance or disdain enough to teeter him ever closer towards the edge of insanity, of insatiability. Like it could make Henry any hungrier.
He was already practically salivating.
If Patrick wanted him insatiable all he had to do was ask. The request alone would probably be enough to drive him to the edge of mania, he was so close as it was.
But that wasn’t Patrick’s way.
To Henry he was like nicotine. Intoxicating and alluring. All wiry muscle and long, dark hair. Determined to kill and sweet to the taste.
Addictive. Fatal. Beautiful.
It was the only reason Henry had ever even touched the drums to begin with - that and to let off some steam. All because Patrick had told him to - because if he hadn’t, Patrick would’ve found someone else to play it, and he would’ve forced his way out of Derry all the same, and Henry would’ve withered to nothing without him.
It was only a matter of time before he hurt the wrong person, or got caught skinning animals, or he finally snapped and put someone down in a way which meant they wouldn’t ever be getting back up. Then he would’ve ended up rotting in a prison cell, someone’s bitch. Or dead. Or wishing he was dead.
Instead, he was getting to spread his version of joy all across the US; soon, the world. All with Patrick to show him the way. It was like a gift from the Devil himself. Not that Henry believed in that sort of thing.
So, when the lanky prick finally made his way over - that slow saunter of his hips an invitation for something the antithesis of divine, but still just as sacred - and moved past him and out towards the greenroom, and then further into the alley… Henry didn’t need to think twice. He was already up and out of the rickety stool he’d found himself seated on, hearing it clatter to the ground behind him as he followed.
He was like a dog with a bone when it came to Patrick, and boning seemed to be exactly what he had in mind. Because he’d barely stepped into the cold, wet of the alleyway before he felt hands against his waist, pulling him flush against a slim torso, more bone than flesh.
Then there was the wall against his back, teeth on his neck, not hard enough to leave bruises but hard enough to hurt, and breathing just below his ear. Desperate fingers clawed at the curve of his ass, and he couldn’t help it, he had to bite his bottom lip just to stifle a moan.
It was like double-fisting livewires with Patrick, the way he set his skin ablaze. It was like every muscle in his body was trying to seize up at once, to force himself away, but also on, and in, and in, and in. Like he wanted Patrick to fill every pore of him, and for him to do the same. Like if he could just fill his senses with the man then everything would finally make sense and he would be settled.
“I could feel your eyes on me,” Patrick growled between bites, “Feel you begging for it like a slut.”
Henry couldn’t help the shiver that ran up his spine at the sound of his voice. He loved when Patrick spoke to him like that. It made him feel cheap, and filthy, as though spurned by the divine and then canonised all the same.
He was wrong to his core, anyone could see it, and yet every moment with Patrick felt like being sanctified.
So, he let himself be pulled behind the nearest dumpster. He let a hand twist in his hair, pulling it tight, exposing the flesh of his neck even further, another climbing into his jeans, a dumb finger skimming gently along the tender skin of his hole. He let himself be manhandled and abused, a knee pressed into his crotch interlaced with warm breath after warm breath distending into the afternoon air and catching their in glacial puffs, all the while too caught-up in the onslaught to do little else other than moan Patrick’s name like a prayer.
“I want to- to taste you-” He managed to gasp out, the words pitifully tender in a way he knew Patrick wouldn’t like.
But for once, Patrick too seemed to caught up in the moment to say much about it. Instead, he let the hand interwoven in Henry's hair catch there further, forcing the shorter man down and onto his knees as though ready to take communion for the first time.
To Henry he tasted like movement and music. Like sweat and cigarettes.
It made him want to suck his soul out through his dick.
There was a heaviness to Patrick that he really enjoyed. It was long and slender, and carried with it an awful weight that he couldn’t help but savour. He treasured the sensation of it as it sat on the flat of his tongue, the sight of Patrick’s black eyes, dark and dangerous staring down at him from overhead. The way in which the mushroomed tipped head glistened, wet and dripping with pre-cum in the stark afternoon overcast.
It was everything he could’ve asked for.
He could feel Patrick grow impatient, the muscles in his fingers twitching with lust, and he couldn’t help but swoon, wrapping his lips around the head of the thing and taking it into his mouth in full. Then again, and again - all the while at once longing for the bitter taste of release, and wishing it away so that the moment could stretch on forever.
It was halfway through choking down Patrick’s cock, stifling down another gag at the way it slid down his throat, the tip of it knocking against the back of his head time and time again like it was not already being permitted unfettered access; that he felt the hand in his hair stop it’s tugging and hold him there.
Just out of sight, on the other side of the dumpster, he heard the door they’d both come through swing open, and someone half-step out, only to stop short.
He wondered for a moment if they could see him, if they were at all bothered by the crowding of hands around Patrick’s waist, if they could make out the distinct sound of his breathing through his nose. If they could, they were silent about it.
Above him, Patrick spoke.
“What do you want, fatso, I’m trying to piss.”
So it was Belch, half out in the cold with them.
Henry couldn’t help but admire the steadiness of Patrick’s voice, even if he resented the way he had already begun to go soft in his mouth. He held a steady hand on the back of Henry’s head, not permitting him to move. But even so, he couldn’t help the way Henry’s tongue darted about, unwilling to let such hard work go to waste. With a flick of it, he could skim the underside of Patrick’s dick, and the vein that throbbed there, beating with the thrum of a dead heart.
“Have you seen Henry? I wanna go over something for later with him.” He heard Belch say.
It sounded distant. He supposed that the man had turned away somewhat, so as to avoid looking directly at Patrick. Which meant he either knew what was going on, or just didn’t want to watch Patrick ‘piss’.
Neither discouraged Henry’s efforts.
“He’s probably pulling the wings off of butterflies, or pushing kids into the harbour and waiting for them to stop kicking,” Patrick said, his voice steadier somehow, despite Henry’s best efforts, though laced with something cool and venomous. Still, for the way he filled out Henry's mouth again, he knew his efforts were not going entirely unnoticed.
“Yeah, but if you see him-”
“Christ, fatso! I’ll let him know how much you miss the feeling of his lips around your pinprick ok? Now fuck off, and leave me to piss in peace.”
And with that Henry heard the door close again, and felt the full length of Patrick slide home, knocking into the back of his throat like he was trying to impale him in punishment.
He expected the man to say something, to make some remark about punishing Henry, but instead he only let out a wet and broken “fuck” under his breath, the taste of him sweeter and saltier by the second.
“Look at me,” He said, and Henry did his best to meet the other man’s gaze all whilst devouring as much of him as he could, the obscene sound of suckling filling the air anew, “You’re going to swallow all of it? You hear? Don’t miss a single drop.”
He did his best to nod around Patrick, before hollowing out his throat and taking all of the other man into his mouth, far enough down that he felt the scratch of pubic hair brush against the tip of his nose. Then, he swallowed, first around just Patrick’s dick, his hands still resting at the other man's waist before slowly sliding back to cup his ass and force him forward as though there were any more of him to take. Then, he swallowed again, feeling the shuddering of Patrick’s knees as his orgasm rose to him like a spirit rising from the ground and taking hold of him. Then, one final time, as the first of Patrick began to spill into his mouth, over and over again until there was nothing left and he was certain he’d left Patrick slack-jawed and starry-eyed.
“Christ, Hen…” He breathed.
Henry kept swallowing around him, determined to drain him of every last morsel, just as he had been instructed.
Only when he was certain that there was nothing left, and Patrick began to once more wilt atop his tongue, did he release him, tucking the other man back into his trousers and standing, the air between them still thick with want.
“Come here,” the singer said to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him into a heady kiss.
It was Henry's favourite part, not that he didn’t enjoy all the rest. But, it didn’t change the fact that every time Patrick came, without fail, he’d pull Henry into a kiss. That it was the only time he did as much. That it was the only time they ever really kissed.
Not that it bothered him all that much. Certainly, he would never admit it did.
He used the opportunity to force his tongue, still bitter and acrid from the taste of the other man, into Patrick’s mouth, and was pleased to find it pliant and willing, another soft moan echoing from between his lips. Only when he felt the straining of flesh against him once more, his own hardness mirrored again, did he pull away, a wet string of something vulgar caught between their mouths for a moment.
“I’d better go see what Belch wants.” He said, his throat hoarse from its using.
Already the hand that had wound its way around his waist was loosening, dropping off entirely so that it looked almost like two friends talking lowly to one another, though both straining in their jeans.
He didn’t mind that he was still hard, that Patrick hadn’t touched him. It was part of the game they played. It was a build-up. Without any tension there could not be a release - and he was hoping that he’d be tense enough to release something big later.
As though aware of where his mind was already taking him, Patrick grabbed at his wrist as he made to move away, his grip there tight enough to discolour the skin, albeit just for the moment.
“Hey,” he said, voice still thick but now conspiratorial too, “about later…”
He glanced around, forever precautious on Henry’s behalf. When it was clear no one was around to listen, he spoke again, voice husky and dangerous. Exactly how Henry liked it.
“What kind are you thinking?”
Were Henry normal, he might’ve cried from joy. Then again, wanting to kill people wasn’t normal. Let alone the elation he felt at being given the honour of choosing who it would be. It was a privilege he was afforded so rarely.
If ever he doubted how much Patrick cared about him, it was proven then. Breathless, still clinging to him like a parasite, and wanting to fulfil him in the way only he could. It was romantic, almost.
“Something sweet.” He answered, unable to help the Cheshire grin that crept its way over his features, dangerous and longing.
Patrick nodded like he knew just the type, and then he let go.
For a moment, in the grey, late autumn gloom of an afternoon Maine, the soft glow of the bar light from inside eking out to them, it casting it’s tender tendrils over the feathered strands of Patrick’s hair, and over the torn and shredded flesh of his bitten lips, Henry thought he looked beautiful. It was a thought he’d not had before. Whilst he’d always lusted after Patrick, it had always been his animal sensibilities and wild eyes that attracted him - he’d certainly never thought of him as anything like the way in which he’d appeared then.
Like something sweet himself.
It gave Henry the idea to lace his hands over the man’s flesh himself. To tear at his clothes and his skin, to leave red scratch lines over all of it, bloodied and aching. To force Patrick down and take him, all of him, even if he screamed and fought the whole way. To bind him, steal him away in the night, secret him from the world and its harsh light. Make him something for him alone.
Instead, he just nodded in kind and pulled away, feeling the harsh grip of the other man slip away with the distance, disappearing back into the relative warmth of the building so that it was just Patrick, alone and in the already rapidly approaching dark, the storm clouds steadily brewing overhead.
After that the day seemed to crawl by with a languid fatigue that putrefied in Henry’s blood.
Another sound check, hurried practices and equipment checks, talking to the stage manager, talking to Belch and Vic, talking to anyone but Patrick- and all the while catching stolen glances and trying to ignore the sound of his blood boiling in his chest like a crucible. It was a molten thing, just begging to erupt from him in violent geysers, and the sight of that slender figure stalking about the place did nothing to soothe it. It longed to pour from him; from his mouth, his eyes, his fingertips, so that everyone else drowned in it and it was just him and Patrick again.
By the time they were actually getting ready to go on, he could feel it humming in his eardrums. It washed over his senses, drowning out the sound of the crowd, of Belches hurried whispers, of their final second instrument re-tunings. He wondered absently if he’d even be able to keep rhythm, but it was an airy thought, quickly replaced by the noise.
The stage was small, so small, when they stepped onto it - and the lights so bright. Looking out over the sea of faces crammed into the meagre venue it was impossible to tell if there was anyone there at all under all that light.
But then there was Patrick, silhouetted in front of him, the neck of his guitar choked in those knife-like, slender fingers that held so much promise.
Henry watched as the amber light caught in the fine dustings of hair on his chest, as it framed the outline of his narrow shoulders, was swallowed in the darkened pockets of his angular face. He watched as the crowd surged out towards him, pulled into his gravity like a dark star, their hands searching for him from the darkness. He watched as, like an angel sent to guide the unwashed masses in times of hardship, Patrick set himself to lead them in sermon.
Then Patrick looked back at him and smiled, all crooked teeth and wicked charm, and he could feel his grip growing tight around the drumsticks in his hands. In a flash they were a flurry of movement and noise, and never once in all of it did he take his eyes off of the man.
Even as the blood thrashed around in his skull, and the wood of his sticks splintered against the drums. He just grabbed a fresh set and kept going, muscles working and hair flying, eyes locked on him as he danced and moved. As he threw himself around on stage, even into the crowd.
Patrick was all he could see.
He was his guiding light.
His temptation.
And then, almost as soon as it had started, the set was over, and they were making their way offstage for the next act, the only reminder they’d performed at all the screaming of the crowd and the blisters on his hands.
Patrick didn’t come with them. Instead, he disappeared into the crowd proper, and Henry had to choke down the explosive excitement that came before a kill.
The blood in his ears still rang like a bell, though. With sore muscles and a weariness he couldn’t describe, it still shot through him like poison at the promise of more violence. It knotted itself in his capillaries, begging to explode out like a broken blood vessel and he was sure his eyes must’ve been bloodshot.
Restraining it was like trying to block sewage rising from a storm drain with both hands during a hurricane. He’d done a decent job so far, but the closer the storm got, the quicker it got to be too much. His hands were soaked with grime, and his jeans were wet. It was time to let it rise free before it swallowed him from the inside. It was enough to have him nearly tackling Criss just to get something started, but instead he settled for a hard shoulder check that had him staggering down the last of the steps coming away from the stage, half dragging Belch down with him for support.
Henry heard the man mutter the word ‘prick’ darkly under his breath, could hear Belch calling after him to ask what his problem was, but ignored them both in favour of stepping back out into the alleyway and taking a sharp breath of the cold, night air.
Only a few hours ago, he and Patrick had their rendezvous in the same spot he now sheltered from the pounding rain. Now though, he was alone, fumbling through the too-tight pockets of his jeans, back against the rough brick of the dive, scrounging amongst the lint and muck for his lighter.
This was always the worst part.
The waiting.
When he found it, a small zippo with a webbed design tucked just beneath his pocket knife, the one he’d taken from his father, he brought it to his lips with one of the cigarettes he stowed in another pocket for just the occasion. He tried to ignore the way the flame trembled in his hands, not exactly dressed for stormy weather, and took the first long drag of something sorely missed.
He didn’t smoke often, Certainly not as often as Patrick, but when he did it felt like the smoke laced its way directly into his bloodstream, hitting his lungs and intermingling with whatever blackened spots he was sure must’ve already lingered there. It tempered him. It was the closest thing to therapy he’d ever tried, and it beat waiting with numb fingers.
He smoked half of the packet before he saw Patrick ducking out into the rain and onto the quiet street, some small, trembling, waif of a thing tucked beneath the wing of a jacket that he hadn’t seen Patrick wearing before.
The sight of it stoked the fire that seemed to burn in the pit of his belly. It tugged and pulled at him as he watched the thing, round-faced and doe-eyed lace its hands around Patrick’s elbow like it belonged to them. He could see that it was wearing a band T-Shirt with The Losers logo on it, and Henry absently wondered how Patrick had convinced it to leave with him before they’d even performed.
He waited as they disappeared down the street, flicking his half-smoked cigarette after them and watching it be drowned by the rain. When the light finally blinked out amongst the graveyard of butts that he’d been amassing, he stepped out of the alleyway proper and into the storm.
Unprotected by the brick and mortar of the dive they’d been performing in, the wind seemed determined to tear through him like glass. It whistled through the empty street and after Patrick as he took a left around a corner and out of sight, the dainty thing still clinging to him like a baby bird to its mother. Henry moved quickly after them, determined to keep up.
Anticipation seemed to follow along with him, the inevitability of bloodshed on the air like entropy. It was a cold, rail thin thing, casting long shadows behind it under the streetlights, even in the rain. He clung to the scent of it like a bloodhound, catching the occasional shock of raven hair as it led him around corner after corner and closer to the salvation and sweet release he had been promised.
Eventually, he followed them to a small apartment building, just on the fringes of what he supposed classified as a town centre for a place so small. But, even there, the streets were desolate, devoid of anyone but him, Patrick, and the thing they took home with them.
It occurred to him that the show might’ve been more packed than he realised, and the idea sent a sinister chuckle, light and heady, trembling out from between his lips.
It almost made him miss the door.
It swung closed lightly on its hinges, rested against the lock instead of forced closed like it should’ve been, but struggling against the weight of the wind. He dashed forward, catching it on his foot and slipping inside as it clicked shut behind him.
The place was old, just like the town itself. It looked rundown and empty - too derelict for something so frail to live in comfortably he was sure - but perfect for what he intended.
There was no elevator, just an open lobby with doors to either side and stairs that sat against the far wall leading up. It meant exploring each one in search of the right place, but in a strange way Henry preferred that. It gave him time to savour the hunt.
So, he explored. Slowly.
Step by step, and floor by floor, he looked for the tell-tale sign that Patrick had trapped their prey. Each closed door was a bloodied smear, the way death passed over them in the night.
It was only as he reached the final floor - the top floor - that he found signs of the promised land, and the salvation that waited for him there. Even as he came up the stairs he heard it; vulgar whines and moans slithering out to greet him there upon the landing, tempting him into the place held open by the propping of a shoe.
Patrick’s shoe.
He pushed into the apartment, sliding the thing in with him, and the sounds came louder. He pressed the door closed after him, and they called and sang like something depraved.
A treasure trail of discarded clothes snaked their way down the long hallway and further into the dingy apartment, at the end of which he was sure came the grotesque and delicious sounds of little whimpers - along with something wet.
He followed the noise further into the building, stepping over articles of clothing as he went.
A shoe here, a shoe there. A mottled band T-shirt by the kitchenette. A pair of jeans, ripped and ill-fitting, by the bathroom. A pair of socks dashed just before the door, and then, right at the gates to heaven, a pair of baby-blue briefs. Not Patrick’s, though he’d know that even if he hadn’t seen what he had (or rather hadn’t) been wearing earlier. Just beyond them lay the half-cocked door to what he supposed was the bedroom.
The poor thing was so wrapped up in what Patrick was doing to him that he didn’t even notice Henry enter.
Up close he better understood why Patrick had chosen him. He was young, judging by the smooth, fair skin of his face, with long lashes and plump lips. All supple, pink flesh, curved and feminine, but so frail that the weight of Henry's hands alone looked like it would be enough to cave in his birdcage chest. There was a delectability to him that had his mouth watering.
Patrick had what looked like two fingers, though it was hard to tell from the angle - the pretty things legs splayed away from him, his head rolled back and eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy - in the thing's ass. The sound of suction, soaked and filthy, escaped his mouth, wrapped as it was around the pretty thing's cock. That, Henry could tell, was a pink, and dripping thing, tender by the sounds Patrick’s ministrations were eliciting from him.
He stepped into the room proper, the creak of the floorboards giving away his entrance, and was met with the fluttering of eyes as the thing tried to regain enough of its sense to understand what was going on. When the mist there seemed to depart enough for it to take in the stranger now in its home, it scrambled away, its cock sliding free of Patrick’s mouth with a popping sound as it did. It dragged itself back and over the sheets, clawing at them to cover its exposed indecency even as its back met the headboard with a soft thud.
“What-? Who are you?” It sputtered.
Patrick just wiped his mouth clean with the back of his hand, his open shirt slipping lower off his shoulders with the movement.
“I forgot to mention,” He said, standing from where he’d been kneeling at the far side of the bed, “I invited a friend. You don’t mind, do you?”
His voice was brimming with the sticky-sweet taste that came before climax; a honeyed concoction all of its own.
It did nothing to soothe the startled lamb back to pasture.
So, Henry made an effort to play along. If only for the joy of playing with his food before he ate it.
His fingers slipped down the length of his own waist, feathering over the wet, now skin-tight fabric, and then further down to the buckle of his belt. The thing watched him curiously, eyes still gilded with that coital haze as he toyed with it, splaying it open slowly, legs spread with the promise of more beneath.
“You know Henry,” Patrick continued, still trying to coax the thing forward with his words, “He’s in my band.”
But the thing wasn’t paying him any mind, instead transfixed by the broad shape of Henry’s body under all those clothes, and the way in which his belt popped open with a kiss. It licked at its bottom lip absently, eyelids heavy with want even as Henry’s jeans sprung open, sliding down just enough to reveal dustings of naval hair and the first peak of a thick, curved, cock, already hard from anticipation. It bounced free of the rough denim, pulled free of the ragged boxers that tried to restrain it by sheer arousal, and earned him a throaty gulp from the thing that now looked set to devour him whole.
With a hand, he stroked it leisurely, staring out at the thing from under dark hair that clouded his vision.
“You want to taste it-?” He stepped forward, just enough to be invitational, but not intimidating, and found that both sets of eyes rested on him hungrily.
Patrick wasn’t talking anymore.
“-Eddie,” The pretty thing finished for him, “My- The name’s Eddie.”
He nodded, stepping forward again, hand still slowly working over the shaft of patience, his shins coming to rest at the frame of the bed.
“Come on, Eddie. Make me feel good.”
And like that a dam broke. The thing, Eddie, began to crawl forward on all fours, his now soft cock exposed again and still glistening with wet between his legs.
“Come on,” he crooned again sweetly, as Eddie pulled him forward by the hips, the ghosting of his breath hot along the ridges of the tip of his dick.
Without waiting for permission, Henry laced his hands in the mousey brown locks of Eddie’s hair and pressed forward at the waist, pulling in tandem so that he had no choice but to allow him passage into the warm, wet confines of his throat. Not that he seemed inclined to protest. Already, Henry could see the way his penis swelled beneath him.
Unwilling to be left out, he watched as Patrick climbed on top of the bed and over Eddie, using both hands to pull apart the round globes of his ass cheeks so that he could lick long strips over the sensitive skin therein. It earned him a high whine that trembled along the length of Henry’s dick, lodged as it was firmly in the boy’s throat. But even as he did so, he never stopped looking at Henry, who watched as with lick after lick, Patrick elicited more of those dangerous sounds out of their quarry.
It was nearly enough to have Henry coming in hot streams down Eddie’s throat.
Instead, he steeled himself, determined to wait for the true point of release - the climax of the evening - the reason they had both come.
With both hands he pulled at the tangle of hair until the pretty thing slid off of his prick with a wet moan. Then, holding him there, he reached down and pinched together the cheeks of his face, his bottom lip moist and wanting, and - never taking his eyes off of Patrick - pushed spit out from between his teeth so that it dribbled out and down into Eddie’s waiting mouth.
Below him, Eddie swallowed breathlessly.
“Please…” he choked out, but Henry didn’t care about him. Not so much as in having something to toy with. Instead, he waited for Patrick’s nod of approval, watching as he probed his tongue into Eddie’s tight hole one final time before grabbing him by the thigh and pulling him onto his back.
The thing spun with a startled yelp, now on his back, as Henry stepped away, doing away with his jeans properly. He pulled them off from around his ankles and kicked them out under the bed, along with his shirt; careful to first secret the knife he stowed there into the bedframe and out of sight - but still within reach.
Henry circled the bed, swapping with Patrick, who also disrobed. He spoke with no consideration as to Eddie’s discomfort.
“I am going to fuck you,” he said, “and Patrick is going to fuck me.”
It was an order. A commandment sent from On High. Eddie need not give them his permission; they were not asking.
They never did.
Still, the sweet thing nodded along as though he had any choice in the matter, his eyes drifting back down the length of Henry’s ample stomach to his prick, now weightier and more intimidating at the revelation. Spit-slicked as it was, it was hard to see it as anything short of a thing of malice.
He pulled Eddie closer by the knees, pushing them up and away to further expose his rosebud.
With the movement came another squeak of protest and the clipped words, “Wait, you forgot about the condom-”, but Henry was already sliding home all the same, his eyes rolling into the back of his head at the sensation.
Below him, Eddie cried weakly, the air forced out of him. It was a choked, broken thing that served only to make Henry harder.
“S- Slow down-” He breathed, but Henry wasn’t listening. He forced himself deeper, and deeper, and when he had no further to go, deeper still - until only the weight of his balls kissing Eddie’s coccyx stopped him from crawling into the boy altogether.
Underneath Eddie, the sheets were slick with sweat. His face was red and he looked ruined; writhing and squirming, hands tangled in the fabric but seated on Henry nonetheless. It was a beautiful sight. A true testament to Patrick’s taste. Enough to have him ready to drive into the boy with reckless abandon.
But first, he felt a familiar pressure at his own entrance.
Patrick was wet naturally, and that sticky-sweetness pressed at him already, leaving slug trails along the length of his ass - but even so he was going in comparatively dry, which usually required some degree of patience.
Not Patrick, though. With both hands he spread Henry so that his hole was exposed to the humid air, windows to the room already thick with condensation from the sweat of exertion, and forced his way into the tight heat ahead. Had he not been so used to his roughness, Henry would’ve been a torn, bloody mess. As it was, his legs were trembling, only able to keep upright with the full strength of Patrick’s arms wrapped around his chest, still pushing forward until he too could press on no more.
By the time he had fully situated himself, the thing impaled on Henry was a mewling mess, hands clawing desperately at them both for some kind of movement.
So, Henry obliged.
He pulled free of that cavern that called to him, driving himself back onto the man behind him, before thrusting forward again.
It pulled free a sob. One that had the blood in his ears rising with the promise the sound held.
So, he did it again. And again. And again, each time watching as his prick disappeared into that puckered, pink hole, earning him some fresh new rapturous sound to join the growing choir of them.
Over his shoulder, he could feel Patrick watching too, his breath moist on the side of his neck, arms around him, holding him tight so that if they might be raptured they would go together in a carnal embrace of the truest sense.
And as the sound crescendoed, the pretty thing reached for him, face flush and eyes wet. It palmed at his chest, begging, and Henry had no choice but to claim it.
It tangled those hands in his hair, tried its best to wrap its legs around him only to find Patrick obfuscating it. It took his mouth in its and just breathed, as though pleading with him, until he forced his tongue down its throat until it was so stuffed with the thing and it could breathe no more.
“‘M close-” It whimpered, and Henry could feel it too.
The shallow thrusts. The way Patrick gripped his hips hard, but waning. The familiar warmth pooling in his pelvis.
He took its bottom lip in his teeth and pulled - teasingly at first. Then, when its eyes trailed down to meet the action, he bit hard, drawing blood, and released it as the first drops met him.
Eddie barely had time to mutter a rough curse before Henry reached over him, taking the knife from the place he’d stored it.
He barely had time to bring his own hand to his mouth, the shallow thrusts still drawing a strange kind of ecstasy from him now interlaced with fresh pain, before Henry pressed the blade free of its confines.
He barely had time to pull that hand away, now red with gore and broken skin, before Henry took that same blade and held it high above them with both hands.
He did not have time to cry out.
The blade met tender flesh, and then the room was flooded with a new kind of warmth. Streaked crimson and pale - it stole the air from Eddie’s chest - first only once, then over and over again until the pounding of blood stopped, and along with it, Eddie’s too-short life.
Henry managed to pull out in time to cum in his own hand, catching as much of the evidence as possible.
Behind him, Patrick came too with a soft grunt, though he made no attempt to catch himself instead using Henry’s hole. Then he fell away, letting the remnants of his time there dribble out and down the inside of Henry’s thigh.
They were both covered in blood.
“Satisfied?” Patrick asked, placing sharp teeth against the side of his neck.
“Yes.” He answered.
Patrick had given him what he’d asked for, and he couldn’t be more grateful.
He wiped the blood from his face and brought it once more to his mouth, sucking at it, still breathing heavily, never looking away from the sight before him. Now perfectly still, the pretty thing stared out at them both, doe-eyed, a new cavity where his chest should’ve been.
“Want to go again?” Patrick whispered, the graze of his canines no doubt leaving marks along his skin.
And who was Henry to deny himself something so holy?