A bad fuck is one thing — a bad fuck when you hadn't been fucked like that, when it something secret that you wanted, but not like that, well, then it's more than a bad fuck. And maybe all that could have been massaged, if he'd ever seen a little more, whatever Jem and Eddie saw, before everything went to hell.

Billy seethes. He didn't give a shit, he wants to tell Eddie, but that's getting in the weeds, tangled thoughts where Billy can't tell if there's anything in Danny save for a need for tools and stimulus. How do you tell two people you love that they may just be tools and stimulus? Billy's thoughts are wilder than that, less centered, bucking, they gravitate toward: Is he even a person? Or does he just like sucking marrow out of bone?

He's sucked plenty out of Billy; a feast. Billy doesn't talk, he thinks he'd spit poison, say something to the two of them that he'd regret eventually. He doesn't say anything, but his hands grip them, agitated as his memories surface, pass from him to them. It's Danny's emotionless mental voice, but cold, cold. Ghostface.

There's who was your favorite? wheeler or harrington? and i'm as hollow as i left harrington the last time i saw him and it's too embarrassing to end on, really, but the memories are a rush until: but until then, i'll still be fucking your girl.

He's on the bottom of this configuration. He can't push them off, but his nails dig in.