Chapter Text
17 November 20XX
Before he knows it, it’s Friday and their gig is that evening. Two had awoken that morning in a cold sweat, swaddled in his bed sheets. He thinks he had a panic attack. He’s been having a lot of those lately.
They’ve played shows before, little bar gigs and a couple of opening stints for local bands, but nothing like this. Nothing like their own show, just for them, where people are only coming because it’s Sleep Token that they want to see.
They’ve even sold tickets.
Seventy-five, to be exact, not including the ones they’d given away for free to family and friends. Vessel’s parents are coming. Two’s are not.
But Vic is bringing a big gaggle of her gal-pals. They actually brought tickets, though Two tried to talk her out of it. She’d waved him off, wouldn’t hear of it. Things have been weird between them lately. They haven’t had sex in a while, for one thing, and he knows she’s going to say something soon. It’s always the first sign that something isn’t right, isn’t it? That the sex grinds to a halt - no pun intended.
Maybe if Two could look at her and not be filled with the memories of Vessel’s lips pressed against his, he would be ok?
Pressing his forehead against the pole he’s clinging to as the tube rocks towards High Barnet, he tries to practice the deep breathing exercises that the anxiety people had taught him from the six free sessions of therapy he’d had when he was at uni. It’s your standard, in through the nose, out through the mouth shit, but it stops him from feeling like his world is going to implode.
The tube roars into Euston and he’s off the train, walking the distance to change to the Victoria Line to ride the one stop he needs to get to Kings Cross St Pancras. The church is a short walk away but each step fills him with a nervous anticipation that is only partially due to pre show jitters.
He hasn’t spoken to Vessel.
He doesn’t know where they stand. They keep repeating this same song, same dance, one of them says no, the other says yes, and then they end up kissing or sleeping in the same bed, or fingering another man’s cum inside the others arsehole- Jesus.
Two nearly trips on the curb and has to pause for a second to remind himself that he’s not actually dying, he merely missed a step.
They’re trapped in this depressive, horny vortex of wanting each other - this is why they say not to be friends with your ex, except Vessel has never really been an ex anything.
They’re like two halves of a whole, black and white, chalk and cheese. Vessel is the soothing balm to Two’s fiery personality, and Two is his beacon of light that keeps him from venturing too far into that dark place he can’t quite claw his way back from alone.
And it would be so easy to embrace that part of himself. The one that’s stamped in rainbows and says it loud and proud, the one that admits that the things he feels for Vessel run deeper than anything he’s ever felt for anyone before.
The one that makes him like him.
He can never be like him.
The church looms now, an omen on the skyline, and Two swallows the increased production of saliva that wets the inside of mouth in sickly anticipation.
There’s a white van parked in its court yard - the one they hired to move all their equipment that they’re going to need. That means that Vessel is here, and he’s not ready, he can’t face him.
“Hey!” It’s the guitarist, waving to him from the open doors of the van, pushing an amplifier. “Can you help me? This thing is fucking heavy.”
He springs into action, ready to help because if he gets stuck in straight away, he’s busy and that means he’s distracted. It means that Vessel can’t bother him or corner him when he’s vulnerable.
They stagger inside, to me, to you-ing. Two sets the amp down on the little stage, pretends that his wheezing breaths and hammering heart are from lugging heavy equipment around and not because he’s on the verge of another fucking panic attack.
The Priest wonders over. It’s a bit of a jump scare moment, because he’s wearing jeans. Two has never see a priest wear jeans in his life.
“It’s Two, right?”
“Hello, Father.”
“It’s good to see you again. Your friend over there and I were just discussing the church’s architectural history.” The Priest nods over to where Vessel and the keyboardist are having a murmured conversation on the other side of the church. They’re looking at the setlist, their voices hushed but intent.
Vessel looks up and sees Two looking. His eyes go wide, and Two looks away quickly, heat rising up his cheeks.
“How have you been?” the Priest asks him.
“I haven’t…um.” They’re still looking at each other. Vessel looks pale, with bags under his eyes. Two wonders if he’s also having a tricky time sleeping lately. Vessel murmurs something to the keyboard player, then he turns and walks away. Two’s chest and stomach aches. “…Not well, Father.” His eyes slide over to the booths reserved for confession. A sudden, strange, near manic impulse comes over him to absolve himself of his sins. “I, uh. Do you think I could…?”
The Priest follows his gaze and then nods sagely. “Of course. I won’t be a moment. Do you want to get yourself settled?”
Two scuttles awkwardly over to the booth. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, watching him. There’s only one person whose eyes truly matter, and he’s gone again. Taking a deep breath, he steps into the box.
Instantly, darkness envelops him. Despite this, he feels the calmest he has felt in a long time; the shadows shroud him, wrapping him in an inky protective comfort. Sinking down onto the bench, he rests his head back against the wall and looks into the blackness.
Not long after, he hears footsteps. The door perpendicular to his booth opens and shuts, and a small wooden slip opens beside him, a beam of light slinking into the small room, emphasising where his tattooed fingers are curled into fists.
“What brings you here, my child?” the Priest rumbles and Two swallows. The words come back to him, as easy as breathing, ingrained into his muscle memory no matter how deep within his brain he’s tried to bury them.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been…” How long since he found himself in this position? “A long time since my last confession.”
“May the Lord be in your heart and let you confess your sins with true sorrow,” the Priest recites, but his voice is without judgement. “What brought you here today?”
Two closes his eyes. There’s an unpleasant taste at the back of his mouth; it reminds him of when he used to get sick as a child. It’s like that feeling of knowing you’re going to vomit, not a question of if, but when.
He swallows.
Swallows again.
“I… have been selfish.” He squeezes his eyes tight. “I have coveted what is not mine to own. I…” He swallows a third time, the bile clagging up his throat. “I slept with a man. Many times. And I- I liked it.” A hopeless chuckle bubbles from his mouth. “I loved it…”
“I see,” the Priest says quietly. Two scrubs a hand through his hair, takes a shallow breath. Everything smells of incense. It’s bringing on a headache. “And your feelings, towards this man?”
Two gulps. “It’s…complicated,” he admits. “I can’t be with him, but I can’t stand to see him with anyone else.”
“I see. And why can’t you be with him?”
“It’s…dirty?” His voice pitches up. He sounds like his mother; the East-Anglian twang he developed living by the coast as a pre-teen always got stronger when he got upset. “It’s not…c-clean.”
He has to stop. He coughs, and it’s wet.
The Priest is quiet for a moment. “Is that what you truly believe?” he asks eventually. “Or what you believe is expected of you?”
His headache is rapidly worsening. “I don’t know, Father,” he confesses. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”
“It sounds like you do.”
“What the fuck would you know about it?!” Two snaps, snarls, neves frayed. He’s being so rude, but he can’t rein it back. Brat, bitch, nasty. It feels spitefully correct. “You think your bullshit religion is gonna save me? Save everyone?”
“The Lord says-”
“Whatever,” Two interrupts him. “This was a stupid idea anyway.”
The Priest is quiet for a moment. “If you’re not willing to listen, I can’t really help you, Son. I can’t force The Lord into your life.”
“Really?” Two asks sarcastically. “I thought there was nothing God couldn’t do?” He sighs heavily. “I think we’re done here, right? I’ll say my Hail Mary’s and go.”
“Two,” the Priest says, “Don’t do this. Don’t shut yourself off like this-”
“Three Hail Mary’s, was it?” Two interrupts him shakily, “And then I’m absolved of my sins?”
The Priest sighs. After a beat, he recites, “For your penance, please say three hail Mary’s and take a few moments to thank God for his forgiveness.”
He’s barely finished speaking before Two is ripping out of the booth, head down and cheeks flushed.
The church is empty, everyone having scarpered somewhere else. Two hears the sound of the Priest’s confessional door open and legs it; doesn’t know where he’s going but he’s got to get away. He heads deeper into the church, taking liberties with the access he’s been given on account of being in the band playing here tonight; too early into his career for all that don’t you know who I am shit but still.
He doesn’t encounter any of the other band members and turns right. Down a corridor to the offices; luminous lights and offensively bright green laminate flooring, such a contrast from the church’s ye olde splendour.
He takes another sharp turn and stops short. He’s in, what the industry would undoubtedly call, the green room. Redundant as the walls are a strange burnt terracotta colour. Anyway, that’s unimportant because Vessel is in here, and Two’s axis stop turning when it comes to Vessel.
He’s here, and he’s half naked.
Vessel pauses, chest bare for anyone’s perusing pleasure, jeans slung low enough to display the bumps of his skinny, scarred hips. He’s holding a paint brush in one hand and a tub of black face paint in the other, and is in the process of attempting to smear his torso with it.
It’s patchy, near translucent is some places, and he looks so sheepish at being caught that Two actually snorts. Vessel’s face twists up in hurt.
“Don’t laugh!” he scolds and Two holds his hands up in surrender.
“No, no, I’m not laughing,” he says quickly. Vessel scowls, puts the brush down awkwardly and crosses his arms across his skinny chest.
“I can’t reach,” he mumbles sullenly. Two blows out a heavy exhale.
“Yeah?”
“It’s not easy, alright? This was the cheapest thing they had on short notice.” He frowns, bottom lip pushed out sullenly.“Can you… Would you mind?”
Two gnaws on his lower lip. This feels like a sign; the devil, coming to offer sinful temptation. “Where’s Three? Can’t he help?”
“He went on a McDonald’s run with the others,” Vessel says, looking annoyed. “I asked him to get you nuggets, by the way, since you were busy.”
“Um… right,” Two mumbles.
“Well?” Vessel flushes, “Are you going to just stand there?”
“No,” Two says quickly. “I’ll help, I’ll do it.”
Vessel blows out a heavy breath. “Thank you,” he says, some of the fight leaving him. Two steps over and takes the body paint from him.
“Arms up,” he murmurs and Vessel reluctantly spreads his arms. There’s an awkward moment where he reminds Two of a someone on a cross, arms wide in penance. He shakes it off and begins to paint. Vessel’s sides tremble as Two runs the paintbrush over his skin. “Alright?”
“Tickles,” Vessel breathes.
“Sorry,” Two mutters, easing up the pressure of his strokes. They are quiet as Two works, Vessel’s gaze fixed firmly to a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling. Unspoken words sit heavily on Two’s tongue, apologies and curses and confessions and secrets. He looks intently at the paint in his palm.
“They said you went into the confession booth.”
Two clears his throat. His lips are sandpaper dry when he licks them. “Yeah,” he croaks.
“Been a while for you, right?”
Two looks up. Vessel has turned his gaze towards him now, watching him down the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t like it. “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately,” he says quietly. “Besides, it didn’t do anything anyway. It’s all bullshit.” Vessel’s throat dips as he swallows. Two brushes over his left nipple. It tightens, peaks under the gentle stimulation. “For what it’s worth, though, I’m sorry.”
Vessel doesn’t say anything. He’s looking at the cobweb again. Two pointedly doesn’t glance down at Vessel’s jeans. The air crackles between them with tension. It would be so easy to say fuck it, to kiss Vessel and lick into the heat of his mouth, to palm over the emerging bulge in his jeans because Vessel is always so damn hot for it, ready to go at the drop of a hat, a well timed stroke of a paintbrush.
He works in silence. It’s easier to convince himself that Vessel is a canvas, and he is the artist; each sweep of the bristles against goose pimpled flesh is just another steps towards making a masterpiece. He sinks into that headspace; the same one he goes into when he’s tattooing skin, where he can mellow out and float, clean and methodical.
Even this, smearing Vessel’s skin in paint brought from a costume shop, is purposeful, ritualistic. Starting from the left, over to the right. He takes extra care on Vessel’s arms; the paint clings to the grooves of his scars, reminding Two of tiger stripes.
It doesn’t take him long to finish, and he steps back, admiring his work. Vessel’s torso, lower arms and neck and now streaked in black. “What about your face?” he murmurs.
Vessel hums. His eyes look a bit glassy, like he’s been day dreaming. “Oh, I can do it,” he says sleepily, “After I’ve eaten. Thanks.” He leans forwards, flexes his blackened fingers in his reflection.
“You need to wait for it to dry,” Two reminds him throatily. His fingertips feel tingly.
“Mm,” Vessel says, swings his arms. Two can’t stop looking at his nipples. He swallows.
“Vessel-”
“Knock knock.” The keyboardist dances into the room, weighed down by crackly paper bags branded with the McDonald’s logo. “We come bearing gifts.”
The guitarist follows her in, carrying a cardboard drinks holder, and Three brings up the rear with a couple more bags of take out. He looks at Vessel’s shirtless form and snorts. “Jesus, Vess, you wanna put a shirt on? You could poke someone’s eye out with those things.”
Vessel glances down at himself, and up to where Three is grinning at him. Two’s fingers clench. “Nah, I’m good,” Vessel says, accepting the bag that the keyboardist gives him and instantly tucking into some soggy chips.
“Gay,” the guitarist mutters.
Three wonders over to Two and waves a bag in front of him. “Nuggets, your highness.” Two snatches the bag and doesn’t thank him. He retreats to the corner with the spider web in it, hunches over the cardboard box and chews miserably. Three seems unbothered. He’s sitting on the arm of the sofa that Vessel is perched on, long legs tucked up to his chest whilst he dips fries into a chocolate milkshake.
Two always knew he was a heathen.
Three points a chocolatey chip at Vessel’s chest. “I like this,” he observes and Vessel grins.
“Yeah? You don’t think it looks stupid?”
“I mean, you’ll need to paint your face as well, I reckon.”
“But only the bits that people can see, right?”
“Don’t forget to do your nose, that’s all I’ll say.” Three reaches out to poke Vessel’s nose with the rapidly drooping chocolate milk laden chip, and Vessel squirms, bats him away.
Two rolls his eyes and digs his phone out of his pocket for something to do. Vic has been posting on her stories; Friday afternoons, it’s a race to get out of school as quickly as possible. She’s in the pub with her teacher friends; there’s boomerangs of them cheer-sing with large glasses of Rosè. She’s going to be merry later, he can already see it in the way that the light is catching the dozy look in her eyes. She’s also wearing the dress he likes, the one that accentuates her cleavage; no doubt she’d back it in her work bag and changed when the kids had gone home. He texts her about it, coy and sleazy; nice fit, that for me, and knows that he’ll be getting laid later if he plays his cards right.
Instinctively, he looks up at Vessel, but the other man only has goo-goo eyes for Three. Three says something and Vessel throws his head back to laugh; it looks obscure, with his blackened out neck and chest, his pale arms painted from the elbow down. He’s got a proper chuckle, deep and melodic, like the rest of him.
Two sticks another nugget in his mouth petulantly.
The room smells faintly of greasy chicken. Two’s brushed his teeth twice and used mouth wash, and he still feels like he reeks of takeout. He’s changed into his outfit; nothing fancy - a long sleeved black top, black jogging bottoms and his trainers that he wore to work. He’s the height of sophistication, it seems.
Three looks down his nose at him. “No skinny jeans?” he asks.
“Fuck off.”
“Alright, I was only asking.” He picks up his rucksack, starts rooting around. Two can hear the clinking of bottles and he whips round to glare at him.
“Mate.”
“What?”
“Seriously?”
“What? Ah hah!” Three emerges from the depths of his bag with a near full bottle of Fireball.
“What’s that?” The keyboardist looks over from the other side of the room.
“A little good luck present from the guys at the bar.” Three grins, already unscrewing the cap. “Who wants a shot?”
“Me,” the keyboardist says, leaping to her feet. The guitarist also floats over, looking keen.
“Hold that,” Three says, thrusting the bottle at Two who takes it on instinct, and starts digging around in his bag again for some plastic shot glasses. Two is so baffled, he doesn’t know what to say.
“Do you just carry them around with you?” Vessel asks. It actually makes Two jump; he hadn’t heard him come in. Vessel is in his full stage outfit - i.e. skinny jeans, a black dressing gown and his black socks. Two can see the hem of his boxers peeking out over his jeans, for fucks sake.
“No, I nicked them from work especially,” Three says. “Thank you.” He plucks the bottle from Two’s slack fingers and marches over to the sink, where he lines up five shot glasses and begins to fill them liberally to the top with amber liquid. The smell of spicy cinnamon, combined with the left over takeout, turns Two’s stomach. “Come on, don’t be shy,” Three beckons to them. The others eagerly accept their glasses, Vessel included. Two wrings his hands.
“Vess.”
“Come on, are you having one?” Vessel asks him, passing his glass to Two.
“We shouldn’t,” Two grits out.
“Oh, relax, Two, have one,” Three says flippantly. “It’ll take the edge off.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Two scowls at him.
“Jesus, you need to get that stick out of your arse, man,” Three says and the guitarist snorts. Vessel nudges him with his elbow.
“Come on, man, it’s one drink.”
It’s never one drink.
“Vessel, do us a toast,” the keyboardist says.
“Me?” Vessel thinks for a moment. He raises his glass. “To a gig we’ll always remember.”
“And a night we’ll never forget, hell yeah, man, bring on the cliches!” Three cheers. Two wonders if this really is his first shot of the night. The four of them bump their glasses; Two stares at his numbly. The guitarist’s shot goes down the wrong way and he ends up choking, which Three and the keyboardist seem to find hilarious.
Two is still looking at his full glass, when suddenly, another one prods against his. He looks up to see Vessel watching him intently. “To Sleep Token?” he says hopefully and Two swallows.
At the end of the day, this is what it’s all about. He and his best friend, together on stage playing music, doing the thing that they love. It doesn’t matter the size of the audience. Ten, seventy-five, five hundred, two thousand; it’s not about that, and it never was. It’s about Vessel. It’s about him. It’s them against the world.
He touches Vessel’s drink with his own. “To Sleep Token,” he says, and throws back his drink.
The taste of artificial cinnamon is fiery and penetrative against his tongue; it makes his eyes water. Vessel doesn’t even flinch. “That’s the spirit,” Three grins. “Who wants another one?”
Lights that flash from red, to green, to blue, and back. A cavernous hall that feels like it swells and shrinks with the sound of a voice, powerful and strong like a wind of the seas.
Soulful, heart wrenching, impassioned and bold. A steady drum beat. The thrum of strings.
This is history in the making. This is the beginning of the journey.
This is Sleep Token.
Regardless of the size of the audience, the feeling when he walks off a stage is always the same.
Hyped up on adrenaline, slimy sweat soaking into the fabric of the mask that he rips off his face as soon as they’re out of the audience’s eyesight. Fingers and toes twitching in blood rushing anticipation for a climax that he doesn’t ever want to end.
Two pounds down to the dressing room when he’s snagged from behind by Vessel - equally sweaty, as high on endorphins as Two is - who wraps him up in a hug that reeks of salt and perspiration. And for a moment, it’s just the two of them. This is their baby, their brain child, resounding through the stone walls of a little church in North London.
“You were amazing,” Vessel says, voice hot against the shell of his ear and Two melts a little into his embrace, turns and curls around his best friend. It’s always been them. It’s always been him.
Energy thrums through his veins. Vessel is alive under his arms, skin and sweat and blood and matter. Here and real and solid, a living breathing body that understands him like no other.
Two wants him.
God he wants him. Arousal pulses in his gut, hot and squirming, twisting with that euphoric feeling of a show well played; he feels like he could fuck him forever, here in a house of God. He wants to bend Vessel over the nearest flat surface and have his wicked way with him, his soul be damned, to worship in his own right, the only way he knows how.
His skin feels itchy with it; lust and longing, as fingers that drip with shitty melted costume paint rub against his skin.
“Fuck yeah!” someone crows. It’s enough to shake him out of his cloud of desire, as the keyboardist runs up behind them and invites herself into the embrace. Vessel wraps a long arm around her, pulls her in further and then Two is trapped by another obscenely long body as Three joins the fray as well.
Suddenly he’s pressed between the two of them and he doesn’t like how that makes him feel. He starts squirming, trying to wriggle out of their crushing grasp; it’s Vessel he wants, no one else.
No one else compares.
“You were so fucking good, mate,” Three says. It’s for Vessel, it’s always for Vessel, but Two feels it in the back of his skull, worming its way down his own spine like the praise was meant for him. It makes him feel hot and cold all at once, a contradiction of too much and not enough waging war on his insides.
“You all killed it,” Vessel gushes but he’s blushing. He pats the keyboardist on her blonde head. “Nice vocals, blondie.”
“Jesus, I’m gonna start puking rainbows in a sec,” the guitarist sneers, not one to show compassion. Two shoots him a scowl from beneath Vessel’s armpit but, really, they’re all too wired to care. “Let’s get out of this place, go to the pub.”
No one argues with him; not even Two.
Changing is easy for him; back into his outfit he’d worn to work that morning. Cloth mask followed up neatly and stored in a bag to go in the wash later.
Vessel has a harder time of it; there’s no shower at the church, so the baby wipes will be working over time.
Two passes the dressing room to see Three helping him scrub his arms down as best they can while Vessel swigs from the bottle of Fireball, which they’re trading back and forth like its little more than water. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
To distract himself until everyone is ready, he starts to dismantle his drum kit, sets it back into the van. Whoever is the least hungover of them will pick it up tomorrow.
“That was a good show.”
Two doesn’t look up from the case he is bent over. “Thank you, Father.”
“Everyone has gone to the church hall next door, would you like to join them?”
Not really. Everyone’s brought someone. Vessel’s family are here somewhere. So are the keyboardist’s. Two thinks he spotted to guitarist’s daughter earlier with her mother, wearing a pair of oversized ear defenders that were far too big for her little head. Three’s got his friends from the bar - they’d cheered and whooped the loudest.
Two’s got Vic. Her friends. He despises the thought of going next door to socialise.
“I’m good here a bit longer.”
“At least let me help you.”
“I’m good, thank you.” Two isn’t good. The amps they use are pig heavy, a two man job really.
“Don’t be stubborn, son,” the Priest says, rolling up his sleeves. Two catches sight of a tattoo curling around his forearm and does a double take. The Priest notices him looking and grins. “I told you before, I knew how to get down in my youth.”
Dumbly, Two rises to his feet and together they lug the equipment out to the van. It’s hard work, but a lot faster with the two of them, and Two is almost mournful by the time it’s done. The Priest dusts his hands off.
“Will I be seeing you on Sunday?” he asks.
Two chews his lower lip. “Maybe,” he says and the Priest smiles.
“We’re always here when you need us, son.”
“Father!” Two says quickly when the Priest turns to leave. “About earlier, in the confession booth. I’m… I’m really sorry.”
The Priest nods. “It really was a great show, by the way,” he says, an olive branch, and Two smiles despite himself.
“Thanks.”
The dressing room is empty when he goes back; everyone has headed next door to find their family and friends.
His post stage high is rapidly drooping, tarnished by nervy anxiety that sets his toes curling in his trainers. Pushing open the door, he’s instantly swarmed by Vic, swooping in to press taupe coloured kisses against his cheek and neck. Someone’s set up a little table with plastic cups and jugs of water, but it’s been added to with bottles of wine and spirits and a £1.50 bottle of Coca Cola brought with a club card.
She’s tipsy; he can smell it on her, mixing with her perfume, and her friends are surrounding him, hurrying to introduce themselves, to tell him how awesome the show was, how good they all sounded.
He peers over their heads at the rest of the room. The guitarist is jiggling his little girl on his hip, her head resting on his shoulder and her thumb tucked sleepily in her mouth. It’s the softest Two has ever seen him. The keyboardist is engaged in an animated discussion with someone who Two thinks works with Three.
Three is chatting with some of his friends, hovering near Vessel, who’s got one of his long arms around his mum.
It’s been years since Two saw her.
He extradites himself from Vic’s death grip on his arm with a polite smile, walks over to where Vessel and his family are.
Vessel’s mother lights up when she sees him; pulls him in for a perfumed hug. She’s classically Italian; dark hair and a Roman nose. Vessel is a splitting image of his father, sandy haired and impossibly tall, who shakes Two’s hand warmly.
“Incredible work, boys,” he says, his eyes, Vessel’s eyes, creasing and twinkling in pride. They’ve always been his boys, ever since they were kids.
“Is your mother here, Two?” Vessel’s mum asks. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen her.”
“Uh, no, she couldn’t make it.” Two scrubs a hand awkwardly through his sweat dampened curls. “She would have loved to see you guys though.”
“Baby!” Vic calls him. She drifts over, threads their fingers. Two feels hot.
“You guys remember Vic, right?”
“It’s good to see you, Victoria,” Vessel’s mum says.
Vessel’s lips have thinned. “Mum, dad. Have you met Three.” He snags the bassist by his collar, tugs him and Three comes willingly.
“Whoa, hey, easy,” he says. His eyes look a little glazed already. “Mrs Vessel, Mr Vessel.”
“Honestly,” Vessel’s mum rolls her eyes and introduces them by name. “You’re new to the group?” she asks.
“What can I say, I was singing for scraps on the streets of London when Vessel picked me up.” Three scratches Vessel’s hair, who hides a flushing grin in the hem of his shirt. Vessel’s mum’s eyes dart between them calculatingly. Then she looks at Two and frowns a bit.
“We’re going to the pub in a bit,” Vessel explains to no one in particular. “If you want to come.”
“We need to get the train,” his dad explains, a gentle exit. “Mum’s got work in the morning. You’ll come over at the weekend, though?” Vessel nods, and his father claps him manfully on the shoulder. “You did good, son.”
Vessel’s mum tucks him under the chin. “Nonna would be very proud,” she says and Vessel’s eyes get moist. Three gives his shoulder a squeeze when he thinks no one is looking.
Two is always looking.
They stay in the hall for a little while longer, till the bottles of wine start to teeter on this side of empty and glasses become more spirit than mixer. Two can feel it when he drinks; his tolerance for alcohol has dropped as he’s got older - his prime drinking days wasted when he was underage and too young and stupid to know any better. Everything has sharpened around the edges, giving him a weird visual clarity that he associates with being tipsy, bordering on drunk.
Then it’s hugging goodbyes for those who need to depart - Vessel squeezes his parents extra tight. Two gets an another hug as well, and a gentle scolding from Vessel’s mum that he hasn’t been round to visit for a while.
Two can’t tell her that he hasn’t come over because he stopped shagging her son. He just smiles weakly and promises to be over soon. Vessel looks like he’s just sucked a lemon.
Three nips out with his friends from the bar for a cigarette. Judging by the sticky sweet smell eminating from the back alley, its ends up being something a little bit stronger than a ciggie that they’re smoking. Vic is outside vaping with her friends.
Vessel turns to Two. “You coming?” he asks.
“Someone needs to keep an eye on you.” Vessel has been swigging from the wine bottles all evening. There’s a sway to his step that wasn’t there earlier.
“I can handle myself.”
“Sure,” Two says.
Vessel squints at him. “Are you drunk yet?”
“I’m fine, mate,” Two grits out.
Vessel gets a toothy, spiteful grin on his face. “Bullshit, your eyes are going in two different directions.”
“Nah, that’s you, mate,” Two says snottily. He eyes up Vessel’s near empty glass. “This again?”
Vessel takes a purposeful swig from his cup. Two’s chest aches with longing for that euphoric feeling he had when they came off stage.
“I’m going home with Three tonight, by the way,” Vessel says suddenly. It’s meant to hurt him; Vessel watches for his reaction, limbs coiled tight like a spring.
“That so?” This is ugly, so fucking ugly.
Vessel folds his arms across his chest. There’s a smear of black beneath his jaw. Two kind of wants to lick it. He doesn’t though, just looks up when the door opens.
“Your bassist is smoking weed out there,” Vic announces loudly as she wonders back in. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright. She smells like artificial blueberries.
Two takes her hand, gives Vessel a pointed look. See, two can play at that game. Vessel’s eyes narrow in on their conjoined fingers and he snorts.
“Let’s go.”
They walk to the pub in a large cluster, taking up too much room on the pavement. The bouncer waves them in lazily, barely blinks twice as they pass, and then they’re inside a cozy bar, crowding around sticky tables that are far too small for the number of people trying to squeeze into chairs.
Vic ends up on Two’s lap while one of Three’s friends - Gigi or Gemma or something like that - goes for a round of jagerbombs.
“Have one,” Vic coaxes him when Two tries to decline. He’s scowling at Three and Vessel, tucked up next to each other at the bar. It looks like they’re ordering Sambuca shots - he fucking hates Sambuca - and Two knows he’s in for a rough night.
Reluctantly he reaches for the plastic cup of Redbull. The Jager sloshes inside it, septic and sweet, and he throws it back before he has time to think about it. The sugary slick energy drink, a fan favourite, combined with the herbal liquor has his tastebuds dripping, but he shakes it off, winds his arms around Vic’s curved waist and presses a kiss behind her ear.
He’s fucking horny, damn it, has spent the evening since he got off-stage with a simmering semi, and the feeling of a plump arse, warm through her dress, is turning him on.
He continues to look at Vessel and Three at the bar. They’re so damn long, both of them, having to lean down to press their elbows to the wood. Three cranes himself over, hooks one big hand around Vessel’s slender neck, and then shimmies in close to say something in Vessel’s ear. Whatever it is, it makes Vessel’s eyelashes flutter and he bites his lip, cheeks flushed.
Two scowls. He shifts his hands around Vic’s waist, slips them under her coat out of the eyesight of the others, and rubs the underside of her boob.
Vic’s breath stutters for just a second, her words catching, and then she resumes speaking to her friend, leaning across the table under the guise of hearing her better. In the process, she presses her rear to his crotch, subtly rolls her hips to wiggle against him.
He exhales slowly, flicks his thumb where she’s warm beneath her left tit. She’s always had a massive wrack - fuck, he fucking loves boobs, and God can shove that in his pipe and smoke it because rubbing up on his girlfriends breast has his cock twitching in his jeans.
Vessel and Three thump down into the seats opposite them, sloppy with drink, and Vessel’s glazed eyes focus in on how the two of them are cuddled up together.
“For you,” he says, pushing two shots filled to the brim with aniseed smelling liquid.
“Don’t want it,” Two replies, pushing it back with the hand not currently groping his girl beneath her coat. Vic is sucking on her bottom lip, eyes going lidded.
Vessel’s own dilated pupils flicker between them and he nudges the shot back. “Come on, mate, we brought it for you.”
Two glares at him. He pointedly hauls Vic back against him, lets her feel where he’s starting to stiffen in his jeans. Vic gasps softly. “Baby,” she murmurs in his ear, twisting on his lap to thread her fingers through the blonde curls at the base of his neck. “What are you doing?”
“He’s just being a pussy, Vess,” Three says, grinning so wide that it shows his crooked bottom teeth. “It’s ok if you can’t handle your drink, mate.”
Anger simmers beneath his skin. “Fuck you,” Two spits. Three continues to grin at him, and Two snatches up the shot glass. It stinks when he brings it to his lips, the smell already sending roils of unease through his stomach, but Two takes it like a champ when he downs the shot and doesn’t gag. Three’s eyes glitter with malicious satisfaction.
Vic has been watching the whole exchange with a frown on her face. Suddenly, she turns to Two and cups his face. “Hey,” she says, drawing his attention, and then she snogs him hard on the mouth.
And, like, it isn’t really what he thinks he wants right now, but then her tongue is teasing at his lips, and she’s licking into his mouth, and he thinks he can deal with this.
The kiss is brief but dirty, and when they part, Vic presses their foreheads together for a moment. When Two looks back across the table, Three is watching them with his arms folded, the smug smile wiped off his face. Vessel has gone back to the bar.
Something like guilt strums at Two’s chest but it’s too late to take it back now. He shifts Vic on his lap again, onto his knees this time, some of his manners minded.
“Arse,” Three mutters, audible enough for Two to hear, and he flushes pink. Three looks around, snags his friend who keeps ordering jagerbombs by the sleeve. “I’m going for a cigarette, you coming?”
A gaggle of them go outside to smoke; Two glares as Three touches Vessel’s hip on the way past. Vic turns and nuzzles against his throat. “You’re a bad boy,” she murmurs, cigarette husky, and Two shudders despite himself. “You can fuck me when we get home,” she says into his ear.
“Yeah?”
“Mm.” She slides into the vacated seat next to him, slips a hand up to touch his crotch under the table. “Do you know how much it turned me on, seeing you play?” She squeezes him once, over his jeans, and Two gulps.
“Fuck…”
“You want another drink?” she asks him and Two nods mutely. Vic kisses his cheek once, twice, and then rises with a daintiness noble of someone who’d been drinking since five PM. She totters over to the bar, leaned against it; the arch of her spine looks so damn sinful and - where’s Vessel?
Two sits up in his chair. He scans the length of the bar, but there is no sign of the lanky lead singer. In fact, there is no sign of Vessel in the pub at all. A couple of Vic’s friends try to engage him in conversation, but he so clearly isn’t listening that they soon stop wasting their energy.
Three’s friends from work wonder back over and sit down in the empty seats opposite him. Two signals to the short girl who’d brought the Jager for everyone.
“Have you seen Vessel or Three?”
“They were outside in the smoking area.” The girl gives him a dirty look. “Leave them be, yeah?”
“Huh?”
“If you’re just going to make trouble for them, you can fuck off. I’ve seen you glaring at them all evening, man, cut it out.”
“What the fuck?” Two’s hands curl into fists. “Who are you, sorry?” he demands. The girl just rolls her eyes and turns away from him.
Getting to his feet, Two shimmies past Vic’s friends. He stumbles out of the pub, doesn’t think to bring a jacket. He looks around, follows the smell of peach scented vape plumes and icky tobacco. He looks at the heads of everyone stood huddled and shivering in little congregated clumps, but there is no sign of Vessel, nor Three’s bleach-orange hair.
Sticking his hands beneath his armpits, Two starts to walk, thinking where they could have gone. He wonders if Vessel has actually been in the toilet this whole time, and is about to make a beeline back inside when he sees something out of the corner of his eye and pauses.
He’s standing in the mouth of an alley that runs next to the pub, where the green glass and large industrial recycling bins are kept. It’s dark, not very well lit unlike the street Two has paused on, but there is enough light for him to make out the shape of two people, their bodies pressed tightly together, lips attached in a hasty kiss.
It doesn’t take a detective to see that it is Vessel and Three. They’ve nestled themselves into a gap between a general waste bin and a recycling bin; Three’s arms are snug around Vessel’s waist whilst Vessel had looped his around Three’s neck, kissing him fiercely. His fingers, still stained a bit black with body paint, twist in the longer hair atop Three’s head, scratch bitten nails through his undercut, and the way Vessel leans back to accept Three’s melting kisses, it looks like he’s swooning.
And Two…
For a second, he’s fucking mesmerised. Vessel looks all subby and pliant beneath Three’s touch. His kisses lack the tenderness that Two always tried to bestow onto Vessel; how he tried to convey his feelings of forbidden longing and heartache through the connection of their mouths. Three and Vessel are kissing like they might die if they’re apart for too long; the air around them crackles with sexual chemistry, and Two feels like he should look away.
He should look away; instead, he’s standing here like some dirty old creeper, a voyeur getting off on witnessing two others unknowingly engaged in passion. That same churning arousal tugs at his guts, throbs behind his pubic bone. Vessel is so fucking hot, a siren call to the masses. Three is lapping it up the same way he tongues at Vessel’s jaw, horny and hot in the freezing cold.
It should have been him.
It should always have been him.
“Two!”
He hears Vic calling his name and steps out of sight of the alleyway before Three or Vessel can catch him. His heart is hammering. His palms feel sweaty, knees weak; he wants to deny, deny, deny, that he ever saw anything.
Vic totters over to him. She’s holding his coat in one hand, her bag in the other. “You left?” she asks.
“No,” Two says around a tongue that feels too big for his mouth, like he’s got hives. “J-just needed some air.” But it’s too late, and she’s peering over his shoulder. She slaps a hand on her mouth, eyes comically wide, and Two grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her out of the lamplight. “Holy shit, was that Vessel?” she hisses.
“Please, keep your voice down.”
“Was he kissing your bassist? Holy crap!” She laughs suddenly. The sound rakes down Two’s spine like nails on a chalkboard. “I had no idea he swung that way. Is he gay?”
“No!” Two says, too quickly. “I mean, I don’t know.”
“He’s not said anything to you?” Two shakes his head, and Vic digs around in her bag, looking for her mobile. “Oh my god, wait till I tell Emily.”
Two’s heart drops into his stomach. He surges forwards, grabs Vic by the arms and she actually looks worried for a moment at his sudden desperation. Unsure what else to do, Two backs her against the slimy wall of the pub and boxes her in, leans in and kisses her quiet despite her muffled protests.
Vic melts against the wall, puts her arms around his neck but it’s not the same. It lacks the passion, the urgency, the desperation that Two knows Vessel and Three were feeling, just around the corner. He knows it, because he used to feel it too.
He tears his mouth from Vic’s and tries not to look like he feels utterly disgusted by the situation he has found himself in, the person he has become. Small fingers encircle his wrist and Two looks up at her. She’s watching him with lust clouded eyes, her breasts heaving beneath her shirt. “Take me home, baby.”
There’s no sign of Vessel and Three still. He wonders if things have progressed even further between them, down and dirty by the dumpster. It sickens him. It sickens him how much the thought of it turns him on. The filth, the muck; how badly he wishes it was him in Three’s place.
Dirty.
Unclean.
Vic isn’t dirty. She’s a vision in a white dress from Urban Outfitters, knee high black boots and a gorgeous face. A killer body and a whip-smart brain. She’s everything that he should want.
He doesn’t want dirty.
He doesn’t want filth.
He wants, no - he needs clean.
Clean, clean, clean.
The routine is always the same.
Two digs out his phone and calls them an Uber.
Two remembers very little of the taxi ride back to his house - he just knows that it cost him an arm and a leg, and that if he hadn’t been as drunk, he’d never have paid it.
As it stands, he did pay it, and is reaping the rewards of his choices as he fumbles to get the key in the front door with Vic pressed against his back, her almond tipped acrylic nails scratching beneath the waistband of his boxers, nose pressed to the skin at the nape of his neck.
If the extortionate bill for an Uber from Kings Cross to Vauxhall wasn’t enough, Two had also added a hasty tip in the hopes that the driver wouldn’t give him a low passenger rating because Vic couldn’t keep her hands off him the whole journey back.
Two had uselessly pawed back at her, but in the warmth of the car his energy had started to fade fast.
This always happened when he drank too much; jaw cracking yawns and sleepy eyelids, his desire for sex wilting like the arousal he’d felt since walking off stage, his erection rapidly deflating in favour of the thought of clambering into a warm, clean bed.
He gets the door open, barely has time to toe his shoes off and then Vic is on him again, nudging him against the wall as she threads their fingers together and kisses him.
“Mm…Vic…” he mumbles thickly between licks at his mouth.
“Yeah?” she whispers, eases her coat off and drops it in the hallway; the door isn’t even locked, Jesus Christ, then, when he doesn’t move fast enough for her liking, she takes his hands and places them firmly against her backside, under the skirt, over the panties.
He feels thin fabric and lace, and it makes him groan in his throat, which makes her smile and sink her little teeth into his lower lip.
It makes him gasp softly, fingers squeezing the fleshy globes of her arse. She’s naturally thick, bum tightened by extensive squats and dedicated dead lifts, and she’s warm and she smells so good, but so is his bed.
“Baby,” he tries again. This time, Vic pulls away. Her eyes flicker over his, cataloguing the sleepy glaze to them.
“Don’t say you’re too tired,” she complains. Two feels sheepish and she groans, thunks her head against his shoulder. “Baby, please? Can we just try?” Little hands slide down his front, rest over the lump of his dick in his pants. “It’s been so long,” she says, rubs. “Let’s just try. We can kiss for a bit, see how you feel.”
Two swallows thickly. She looks disappointed, the corners of her plump lips ticked down in resigned frustration. She’s so gorgeous, she doesn’t deserve him.
“Ok,” he says, after a beat and a little bit of hope sparkles in her eyes. “We’ll try. Just let me wash up first, yeah?” Vic nods, leans in and kisses him again, softer, less heated.
“I’ll see you in the bedroom.”
Two drags himself to the upstairs bathroom, squinting against the pale yellow light when he turns it on. Pressing his palms to his eyes until he sees spots, he rests his hands against the sink and inspects his reflection.
He looks tired. A week of poor sleep has caused swollen bags to appear beneath his eyes. His cheeks are flushed, hair askew, freckles prominent from the redness of his hue.
Messy.
He brushes his teeth so hard that his gums bleed. He scratches at his face, smacks his cheeks, pulls his hair into a semblance of a shape.
He strips down to his boxers, looks down at where he’s soft and flaccid beneath the fabric and thinks there’s no way he’s going to be able to get it up.
Back in the bedroom, Vic waits. She’s on the bed, dark brown hair loose around her shoulders. She’s holding a pillow to her chest which she sets down when Two enters the room.
“Come here?” she asks him quietly. Slowly, he walks to the bed and sits down. Vic crawls over and sits beside him, holds his hand. She strokes her thumb against his, and Two looks down at their joined fingers. They look so small.
It’s not right.
“Vic, I don’t know if I can-”
“Ssshhh,” she murmurs, reaching up to stroke his cheek. She leans in and kisses him.
And, like, it’s nice. She’s soft and sweet and she smells so fucking good, like spearmint tooth paste and sticky date body spray. But it’s not what he wants.
Uninhibited, he thinks about Vessel. How earlier, he smelt of sweat and cheap grease paint. How the scent clung to behind his ears, beneath his pits. Raw, fresh, dirty.
Two grunts and sucks her bottom lip into his mouth. Vic’s hands move up to curl in his hair, whilst his own slide to her waist, shifting his hands up under her dress to where her smooth skin is burning hot.
“That’s nice,” she sighs happily, as Two rubs her stomach and kisses along her jaw. “Hey, sit back on the bed for me?”
Detaching his mouth, Two shifts back to rest against the pillows and Vic clambers onto his lap, straddling his hips.
She leans back to remove her dress; she’s naked underneath, bar her panties, black and lacy, and Two hums in approval. They press themselves together, chest to chest. Her breasts are soft and squishy against him, and he puts his hands on them, squeezing them and plucking at her nipples. It makes her gasp and whine into his mouth, her skin breaking out into aroused goosebumps under his careful ministrations.
“Does that feel good?” he asks her quietly and she nods, whimpering as Two ducks his head to slot his mouth over the stiff peak of her nipple. The areola is pebbled and bumpy from the cold; he lathes it with his tongue, listening to her happy whines as she grinds her clothes pussy against his dick.
His flaccid, floppy dick.
“Let me suck your cock,” she murmurs in his ear, and Two knows it’s bad because Vic is a self proclaimed blow job hater.
“You don’t have to,” he says.
“I want to,” she lies. “It was all I could think about watching you onstage.”
Bullshit.
Two lies back anyway; kicks his pants off and drops them beside the bed. He blushes as Vic looks intently at his soft cock. “Too much booze,” he says weakly, by way of explanation.
“Just relax,” Vic murmurs, crouching between his spread thighs. “Close your eyes, think happy thoughts.”
Two swallows thickly and then slips his eyes closed. He grunts when Vic slots her plump lips over the head of his shaft, kisses his helmet, lathing it with her tongue where he’s paper dry.
“Fuck…” he mutters, and Vic scrapes a hand down his tattooed sternum, tickles his balls with the other one. She slides more of his penis into her mouth, spits and slathers to get it wet.
Two squeezes his eyes shut, and swallows again. He’s panicking now, because he’s got this beautiful girl in his bed for the first time in weeks, and they haven’t been having sex and now his dick won’t get hard.
Vic keeps licking the tip; Two kind of wishes she’d take it out and spit on it again, the way Vessel used to do-
His cock twitches and Vic moans around her mouthful. “That’s it,” she says throatily, pulling off for just a second, “Good boy.”
“Ugh…” Two’s eyes squeeze shut tighter. Now that he’s started, he can’t stop thinking about Vessel. The way he used to crouch over Two like an oversized spider, snaking limbs and a sinful tongue. Vessel sucked cock like he was serving time and penance, gagged himself and deep throated like he couldn’t get enough. Some evenings, he would hum the latest song they were working on while Two’s dick was in his mouth, making him come apart on his tongue from the vibrations in his throat combined with his brilliant, brilliant brain.
Without meaning too, Two winds his fingers through Vic’s hair. It’s too long, too thick; not like Vessel’s fine ashy hair, but he still twists it around his fingers and imagines it’s Vessel sucking him off.
Thinking about his friend has him gently rocking his hips as his cock starts to harden more inside the warm cavern of her mouth. It feels good; soft and wet. Two exhales and it sounds like a moan.
She’s not as skilled as Vessel. She can’t take him all the way in, can’t nudge him into the back of her throat and swallow around him the same way he can.
But if he keeps his eyes closed, he can pretend, and pretending keeps him hard and wanting for more.
Fuck, he’s a bad man.
“Vic,” he groans. She pulls off of him with a wet slurp, knees her way up the bed to swing a leg over his. It presses the heat of her clothed pussy against him and they grind together, lips meeting in a frenzied kiss.
“You wanna fuck me?” she asks, as Two slips his hands down beneath her panties. He thumbs over her clit just to feel her shudder. She’s so fucking wet.
“Yeah,” he moans.
“How much?”
“So much, baby, I’ll fuck you so good.”
“Let me take these off,” she says, kisses him once more before climbing off the bed to slip her skimpy underwear down her legs.
Her cunt is smooth, hairless and freshly waxed. Vessel used to trim his pubes; wiry, darker blonde than the hair on his head, a thatch above his enormous cock and heavy balls that collected the smell of his musk through the day, that couldn’t help but have Two salivating shamefully.
Suddenly he wants something in his mouth.
“Fuck, come here,” he says, already leaning back and patting his chest. “Sit on my face, baby, let’s go.”
Vic climbs on top of him. She holds onto the headboard and squats over his face as Two licks up into her pussy. “Oh fuck,” she groans, tentatively rests a bit more of her weight against him. Two grabs two fistfuls of her plump arse and hauls her down so that her cunt is on and in his mouth. Instantly he starts to lap at her clit. She tastes tangy and clean; it lacks the smell of masculine sweat that he’s used to. He feels his erection wilt a little and let’s go of her bum with one hand to start to stroke his cock.
“Oh god,” Vic moans, humps his face, and Two groans eagerly as she finally starts to grind her pussy down onto his waiting mouth.
“That’s it,” he hums against her, delves into her sticky heat. “Mmm, Vee…”
Her whines are too feminine. Her hips are too fleshy, her chest too big and her waist too small.
Vessel used to like it on his knees, with Two’s hands knotted in his hair, twisting it up till it tugged on his scalp and fucking his face till Vessel could feel it in his throat.
Two slides the hand not touching himself beneath his girlfriend and fucks his thumb into her wet channel while Vic cramps up around him. Her moans hit a crescendo when he finger fucks her and licks his name into her clit; her back bows and her limbs shake as she shudders through her first orgasm.
“Oh fuck, fuck, ah-” she gasps, breathing heavy, twitching with oversensitivity as Two licks a wide strip up her cunt to taste where she’s moist and creamy.
“Alright?” he asks, his voice like gravel.
“J-just sensitive,” she wobbles, shuffling back to straddle his waist again. Two sits up and Vic kisses him. It’s so wet, a combination of saliva and sweat and lady cum, and she laps eagerly at his tongue to taste it all as she slides a hand down to touch his erection. She lets out a sigh when she finds that it’s hard and waiting, maybe one of relief. Two enjoys the way she touches him, the thought of Vessel’s big hands at the back of his mind keeping him eager and stiff.
“You want to put this in me?” she asks, rubbing lightly over his tip.
“Yeah,” he groans. She giggles, reaches for the bedside drawer where he keeps the condoms.
“Wait,” he says, catches her wrist. “I’m clean, can we-” Vic has the coil. She’s been asking him for unprotected sex for a while and Two has always said no.
She sits back, blinks at him. “You got tested?”
“Yeah, the other week.”
“Why?”
Shit. “I just…wanted to surprise you?” he says. She looks at him, and Two flushes under her gaze. Slowly, he leans in and noses along her jaw. “I wanted to surprise you, baby.” More sure this time. God, he’s awful. “Make you feel good.” He’s going to hell. “Fuck you bare.” He’s a terrible, horrible human being. “On your front?” he adds hopefully.
Vic frowns, but then Two starts playing with her nipple and it melts into a look of dazed pleasure. “Oh, shit, ok,” she moans throatily, slithers off him to assume the position.
Two stands behind her as she gets onto her front, chest pressed low to the bed, feet on the floor with her legs spread wide.
Her arse is juicy and tanned; Vessel was pale and pancake flat but Two always loved the feeling of sinking inside it regardless. A glob of pre leaks from his cock slit and he strokes himself to lubricate it. “There we go, stay just like that,” he says.
He runs his hands up her bum and slaps one of her pert cheeks, enjoying the way it jiggles. He does it again, harder; it leaves a faint red outline of his hand and he raises his palm till Vic says, “Actually, that- that kind of hurts, can you stop?”
Vessel always liked to be smacked around a bit during sex, and Two was happy to oblige him. He shakes it off, takes her hips in his hands and pushes his cock into her weeping cunt. They both curse at the same time; she’s fire hot around him and it feels good.
Two starts up a steady rhythm almost straight away. He’s a drummer, he should be able to maintain a beat to fuck to, but it isn’t long before his erection is wilting again.
His cock slips out and he tries to cram it back in; misses her hole and it slides up the crack of her arse. “Not there!” Vic shrieks.
“Sorry,” Two mutters. He pulls out, takes himself in hand and strokes himself desperately.
“I really think - if I was on my back-“
“Wait, just-” He spits in his hands, stroking harder, firmer, bordering on painful. Vic has turned over, is watching him but it’s with concern now. Two grits his teeth.
Absently, he wonders what Vessel is doing now. Undoubtedly getting fucked within an inch of his life by Three, if the way they were eating each other’s faces earlier was any indication.
His dick twitches and Two clings desperately to the thought. Were they doing it in Vessel bed? On the ratty couch? Over the kitchen counter?
No, Vessel said he was going home with Three tonight. Two can’t begin to imagine the kind of pigsty that Three lives in; his brain conjures an image of a messy bedroom, dirty clothes and drug paraphernalia everywhere, and he shudders in a way that has little to do with the tingling feeling slowly emanating from his crotch to make his whole body feel sluggish and good.
Would Three suck Vessel off again, the way Vessel had taunted him with before? Would he drop to his knees to let Vessel slide his dick into his mouth, to slobber and drool and gag over him?
Two had always had a hard time with it; not only because of the shame that always hit him following the times when he’d suck Vessel’s dick, but also because the other man was so damn big, and Two could only fit so much in his mouth at one time.
He knew Vessel felt bad because the other man loved getting head as much as he enjoyed giving it; perhaps Two could have stood to be willing to have a bit more practice.
Three looks like he’d have a big mouth - lots of chatter, needed a dick down his throat to shut him up.
The thought makes his hips fuck against his hand and Two moans in surprise. He opens his eyes, sees Vic staring at him still, and pounces.
She gasps as Two pulls her gently to the edge of the bed by her ankles, puts her legs up and over his shoulders, and rams himself back into her at a punishing pace.
“Oh god, oh fuck, oh god-” she moans, slapping her hands over her mouth to muffle her cries as Two slams into her brutally, the sound of his balls smacking against her wet pussy filling the room.
Two tries to block it out, but all he can think about now is Vessel and Three; both of them tall as trees, as intertwined as branches, fucking with the ferociousness that he’d seen them kissing with earlier. It’ll be filthy - sweaty and sticky and no doubt painfully raw. Two people, addicted to vice, seeking comfort from monsters only they could see.
Three might have Vessel now, but he can deal with the fact that he will always come after Two, can have his sloppy seconds, because god fucking damn it, he got there first-
“Ah, fuck!” Two groans through gritted teeth. He moves one of Vic’s legs around his waist, gets a knee on the bed to gain leverage and bends over her to slowly grind his prick into her cunt. “Take it, fucking take it.” Is this how they fuck? Face to face, panting into each others mouths, sharing air and penance? Is Three bent over Vessel right now, painting him from the inside out with spunk, sticky white and black greasepaint?
Or maybe they’ve switched it up? Vessel has never been picky (it was always Two’s problem; bottoming makes you a bitch, bottoming makes you gay - it’s not gay if nothing goes in your arsehole); and Three looks like he’d enjoy hanging off the end of a big prick. Is he on all fours right now, getting his prostate beaten like he personally insulted someone’s mother? Maybe he’s sitting on Vessel’s hips, lanky legs astride to ride him like a horse?
Perhaps if he got a good fuck, he wouldn’t be such an arrogant arsehole? Two thinks he would love to knock Three down a peg or two. Suddenly, he can’t stop it. His brain is flooded with the image of him in Vessel’s place; Three’s legs astride his hips as he rocked down onto Two’s cock. It’s so unexpectedly hot that Two actually groans aloud, deep and guttural, and presses his face to Vic’s neck. “Take it, you fucking bitch,” he moans quietly into the skin of her throat.
“Huh?” Vic pushes him back a second to look at him. “Did you say something?”
“No,” Two says quickly, leans down to kiss her. “You feel so good for me, baby.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm, so fucking wet.” He reaches down and thumbs her clit where she’s soppy and sticky, swallows her moan. “So hot.”
And she is. She’s so gorgeous, he should feel so lucky to have her. He just needs that little push to get him over the edge. He pushes his face back into the dark space between her jaw and shoulder, where he can disassociate the most, slip back into his fantasy. Now that he’s started, it’s like he can’t stop; he’s assaulted with a mixture of fantasies of both Vessel and Three; him fucking them, them fucking him. One of them, both of them; Vessel in the middle of them with spunk dripping from his nose and arsehole because they’ve both just come in him - fuck, him in the middle, dragged back against Vessel’s big meaty cock while Three jerks off on his face.
It’s one of these fantasies - one of Vessel curled around his back, holding his cock and stroking him off to come all over Three and his irritating smug face, Two painting him with cum; dominating, owning, controlling - that has his hips jerking, arse flexing, cock twitching. “Fuck, fuck, Vee, Ve-” He catches himself just in time, sinks his teeth into her shoulder before he says anything else incriminating.
Vic moans loudly, shakes around him, cunt clenching as she comes, nails scraping down his tattooed back. Two groans, the tension leaking out of his body as he shoots off into the tight clutch of her snatch, sweat dripping from his temple as his hips gradually slow to a stop.
“Jesus…” he grunts.
“Mm,” Vic hums. She strokes up his back to the nape of his neck, tugging his damp curls. “That was so good, baby.”
Two feels weird. He sits up and pulls out of her gently, holds the base of his dick so he doesn’t hurt her on the way out. “Stay there,” he says quietly, going to the bathroom to wet a flannel. He returns, cleans up between her legs and gives her the warm cloth so she can get inside herself.
“You ok?” Vic asks him, as she sits back on the bed. Two takes the flannel, stands up again.
“Just need to take a shower,” he says.
“Don’t take too long.”
“You want one?”
“In a bit. Kind of tired, really.”
Two nods. “I’ll be back in a second.” He leaves Vic in the bedroom, locks the door to the bathroom behind him and turns the temperature of the shower to the hottest temperature it can be.
It’s not until he looks at himself in the mirror that the shame hits.
He should have seen it coming - the routine is always the same. That voice at the back of his head that screams, dirty, filthy, wrong, rears its ugly head.
He can’t deny it: he’d got off to the thought of Vessel. He’d got off to the thought of being fucked by Vessel. He’d got off to the thought of being fucked by Vessel while face fucking Three.
He’s disgusting.
He’s dirty.
He’s wrong.
He retches suddenly, spits into the toilet, but nothing comes up. Then he reaches for his tooth brush and scrubs till the white foam turns red with blood.
He makes it under the spray before he breaks down and cries.