Damn Psycho

Andy was sobering up as fast he could, because no normal person throws him down the fucking basement steps and he needed his brain to work completely to help him handle whatever bull was going down.

Of course he wasn't one hundred percent fine, his vision blurred a tad bit and he felt slightly like he was swimming through syrup or something, but he certainly wasn't in the mood for fucking Ricky anymore. Being thrown hurt. And he was soaking wet. And fuck.

He rubbed his eyes and made it to his feet, somewhat stumbling once he was standing up. He looked around for the light switch, knowing he wasn't far enough in his right mind to walk up concrete steps in the pitch black. He ran his hand across the wall for what felt like ages, running the other hand through his hair — dripping wet and recently cut to his shoulders — as he wondered how the night was going to end. It was already going so well.

Finally, he found the light switch, flicked it on, and oh. His heart kind of stopped for a moment.

He refused to believe there were bodies — were those bodies, shit — and his eyes almost didn't catch the poor soul chained up to a table. Was Ricky fucking insane? He had to be insane. He didn't want to think this was happening, but it was and he had to suck it up, because something was telling him that pissing himself in fear and walking around in denial was not going to save him.

Andy looked to the boy chained up and made his way over, biting his lip harder with each step. His fists tightened and he knelt down, his sluggish mind wondering if the boy was some sort of animal. That would justify him being tied to a table, right? Wouldn't it?

The boy's head was lowered, eyes closed. His skin was splattered with blood and there was another boy with a mess of chocolate curls lying face down beside him. Andy cringed; were they dead? The one in chains seemed to be breathing, though. His chest rose and fell weakly, but it was moving. That was reassuring or something.

Andy reached out a shaky hand and brushed his fingers against the boy's cheek. The blood on it was dry. He didn't move, didn't wake up, just kept breathing slow and intimidating Andy by sleeping or whatever he was doing. He stood there, crouched down in front of the boy for what felt like far too long.

He looked over at the curly boy next, not feeling so great about his fate. Still, he nudged and nudge until he turns the body over and fuck, he was covered in dried blood and he had so many cuts and his throat had a large gash across it and he yelped, dropped on his ass and scooted back and felt sick immediately. "Fuck, God, no, no, no."

Ricky had to have done this, too.

When the hell did he develop feelings for such a. . .a. . .?

High school was an interesting time, sure, but he had to fall for a murderer? Of course, he knew nothing about this little hobby of Ricky's, nothing about how long he'd been doing it or why, but still. Really? He was far away from high school by this time, bordering on twenty, and dammit, he was hooked on a boy from back then. Rest assured that feeling was on its way to fading away.

The dead boy, he looked so young, and Andy could only imagine the horror he had went through, the pain he suffered and the ear-splitting screams he had probably produced. Poor kid.

The one in chains, he began to stir a bit, eyelids lifting slow to reveal hazy blue eyes. Andy held his breath as those eyes began to focus on him, his heart going wild as the boy's head lolled forward a bit. The moment he truly came to. . .

Then the boy snapped back, his eyes wide, and he looked as though he was going to scream or cry. Andy moved back as well, held his hands up to show he meant no harm.

"I'm not gonna hurt you!" he exclaimed, his head pounding with the oncoming hangover.

The boy looked him up and down, his face a mixture of fear and suspicion. He muttered, "Who're you?" and his voice was hoarse and sad. Pity flooded through Andy's veins instantly; what had this boy been through? He looked as though he had pushed to the edge, and no one had bothered to pull him back.

"I'm Andy," he responded, watching the boy for any reaction. "Who're you?"

The boy mulled over what to say — either that or whether or not he should even trust Andy — while shifting lightly in his chains. Andy stared at the bruises on his cheek, blending into the streams of dried blood, as he awaited an answer.

"M'name's Louis."

He had an accent, Andy noted, a British one, and Andy could only wonder what the fuck his impression of this country was at that point. Louis looked down at the dead one and swallowed thickly, blinking fast but showing no tears. He said, "This is Harry. He's my boyfriend."

'But. He's dead.'

Andy nearly said it, too. What a jackass. At least he caught himself.

"Oh. Um."

"He was killed, you see?" Louis continued, eyes locked on his deceased lover. Andy watched with a strong sense of sorrow building in his chest. Poor thing. "I thought I was gonna save him, but." Then Louis' head snapped up, his face one of surprise or shock or something. Andy couldn't really tell. "Can you get me out of here? The-the chains, can you untie them? We can get out together, yeah? Help me. Please, please."

Andy went to the chains without hesitation.



Officers.

Fuck to the highest degree, that was the point Ricky was at.

He could see them through the peephole, and he couldn't pretend he wasn't home, the light was on. Shit. Shit fuck shit.

He took a breath or two to compose himself, shaking his head and running his fingers through his hair. He glanced at the basement door — closed, good — and wondered if Andy was having fun before opening the front door, putting on his most convincing "innocent" mask.

"Hello, may I help you?" he asked, voice timid while his blood boiled within. Nosy, nosy, always butting into others' business. That was what brought the first two officers to their end, not to mention little Harry and it's what got Louis into his position, as well. Why did no one learn? What was wrong with the world?

The officers glanced at each other — oh, cute, they thought Ricky didn't know them in casual wear and it was so sad that they didn't know that Ricky did his research. He's seen these two around. Hell, he knew all the fucking officers in the city. He was never going to get caught off-guard. He was too ahead of the game to fall behind.

"Hi!" the slightly taller of the two chirped, putting forth a smile. "Uh, our car broke down and our phones are dead and we're pretty much screwed. Can we step in and use your phone, please?"

"Sure. Come in," and he stepped back, allowed them to enter his home. They were wet with rain but he couldn't really care less because all he needed was them down or them out. "So, car's down, you said?"

"Yeah," murmured the shorter, pushing softly against his partner. He walked into Ricky's house with his gaze alive, eyes scanning the living room with an obvious suspicion. His partner was a tad more conspicuous, walking in with his smile intact.

"Would you like a drink?" Ricky asked in false hospitality.

'Just take the drink. Make this shit easy.'

The two exchanged quick, but not unnoticeable glances with each other before one of them said, "Oh, no thank you."

"Okay. May I ask your names, then?"

Again with the exchanged looks. Ricky rolled his eyes while theirs weren't on him, walking towards the kitchen door to give them a sense of security.

"I'm Quinn," said the taller. Quinn pointed to his partner adding, "That's Vincent." Ricky smirked when his head turned and said, "The phone's there," with a wave of his hand toward the house phone, which they had yet to know had been disconnected for nearly three years. What they don't know, right?

Quinn made his way to the phone, Vincent looking around still. He hadn't said much, taking it all in. He was looking for evidence, he was against Ricky and so was Quinn, his little friend, his little partner in crime. Ricky could strangle him now.

But there was no fun in that.

Vincent turned his back on Ricky to look up the staircase, and that was when Ricky took his chance and attacked. He walked not slow, but not suspiciously fast, while Quinn pretended to play with the phone, swiping the vase on the coffee table. Without a moment of hesitation, he swung it down on Vincent's head, causing his knees to buckle, legs to give out, and his head to smack a stair. He was out cold.

Quinn dropped the phone, tearing the gun off of his waistband and aiming it at Ricky immediately.

"Don't move," he snarled, black hair falling in his suddenly vicious eyes.

Quinn looked like a kid playing Cops and Robbers in that oversized t-shirt and those skintight jeans. He was a baby. Ricky snorted, waving off that joke of a cop and reaching down to retrieve a shard of glass. Quinn's gun followed his motions, his finger on the trigger.

"Shoot me."

Quinn fired instantly, but Ricky, expecting it, jumped out of the way quick enough and it resulted in only his calf getting grazed. He fell, however, playing it up so Quinn would let down his guard. Of course he did, he fell for it immediately, and dropped the phone to tend to Vincent. That was the problem, Ricky saw, with near all of his victims. They gave far too much of a shit about other people.

Sad things.

With Quinn's back turned, the same mistake Vincent had made, Ricky was able to get back up and slip behind him. He still held the shard of glass tight in his hand, jabbed it into Quinn's side and slammed him against the wall while he was caught off-guard. Quinn, having been some sort of trained, fought back, but with the glass painting him and slowing him down, he was easy to take down. Head against the wall, head against the wall, some kicks and scratches and a few good punches on Quinn's part, head against the wall, done.

Satisfied, Ricky took Quinn's gun (and Victor's concealed one), dragged them to the basement stairs, kicked them down, wondered why Andy wasn't causing much hassle (he was probably drunk out of his mind, that pretty fuck), and made his way down himself.

Then he saw that pretty fuck trying to free his traumatized toy and he could've killed him then, but no. No, no, no.

No fun.



Andy knew he was in deep shit the moment he heard something tumble down the steps.

Two new bodies, shit, and then there were footsteps and.

Ricky.

Ricky who did not look very happy.

Louis didn't bother looking Ricky's way, just kept staring at the floor or Andy or at his dead boyfriend - really anywhere but Ricky's direction. Andy's hands slid from the chains tying the boy up — he felt he was halfway there, could've freed him if he had a little more time — and he stared at Ricky in fear and dammit, what a night this was turning out to be.

"Get away from him," Ricky snapped, and Andy, with a sad look to Louis, obeyed. He murmured an apology and scooched back, making a path for Ricky. And to think he thought that boy was so damned hot in high school, to think he had a crush. Wild.

"Did you ask him to help you escape?" He was gripping Louis' messy hair, practically snarling at him. Andy couldn't look, but he did. "Did you fucking ask him? You're not happy with the fact I let you live, huh?"

And he heard Louis mumble, "You should've killed me," and he knew something was going down.

"You," Ricky turned on Andy, "you fucking sit there. Alright? One wrong move and I'm putting a bullet through your head."

Andy didn't doubt him in the slightest, so he zipped his lips and closed his eyes, not at all wanting to know what sick act Ricky was about to perform.

The disaster of a young man turned back to his experiment and gripped his face tight, nails digging into bruised cheeks. "Look," he said, "you run your mouth a fucking lot. That's what killed your boyfriend, right?" Met with silence, he sneered and continued. "You're gonna put your mouth to good use, got it?" Still no response. Louis just looked up with dead eyes and wished he could get out of here. He would take Harry and take the blue-eyed boy — Andy, was it? — and run. Harry would be able to be out to rest respectfully, peacefully, and he could move away, far, far away, but somehow come to visit Harry every hour and-and maybe he could help put those other people to rest, too, and escape with Andy, who was brand new and still alive but—

Ricky was unbuckling his pants and murmured something about a headcase being good at blowjobs.

He was calling someone else a nutcase?

How fucking.

He was presenting Louis with his dick, wow, and he said, in such a sickly sweet tone, "You wanna be free, don't you?" Louis was far past gone, didn't know what to do, didn't know what to believe. His mind was warped, twisted; would he really be set free? Would sucking off that shithead actually grant him freedom?

"Would Harry be free, too?"

His voice cracked with too much hope.

"Not sure what you'd do with a dead body, not sure I want to know, but yeah. Whatever. Take him. If you're free, he's free."

Louis nodded, swallowed, screwed his eyes shut. He wondered if Andy was watching, maybe trying to slip away, but with that gun wrapped in Ricky's hand, aimed at his head, Louis assumed he probably wasn't.

"Alright."

Ricky finally, finally released his grip on Louis' matted hair and glared down at the boy he had broken as he leaned forward, taking in as much as he could into his mouth. Tears were already coming to the surface; Louis felt like he was cheating. Harry would be disgusted with him when he saw him again, he would. How could he not be.

But this was the only way.

He kept his eyes closed, pretended it was Harry, ran his tongue down the underside and shaking all the while. Ricky was completely silent, which was odd in its own right, but Ricky was odd, period. He was deranged and staying quiet while having his dick sucked was certainly not the strangest thing he had done in his life.

Seriously.

Louis bobbed his head lightly, careful not to choke himself as he took in just a little bit more. He leaned in as much as possible, still restrained and held to the table, but found slight relief in sitting back. The less of Ricky he held between his lips, the better. He tounged the tip, a few tears escaping his eyes, no longer pretending it was Harry because his hair was being yanked again and it hurt and Harry wouldn't hurt him like that.

Now Ricky made slight sounds of pleasure or whatever that sick fuck was feeling, and it sickened Louis deeply, but what could he do? He just had to keep it up. With more tears came a whimper, a whine, a vibration that hit Ricky in the core. That was what he needed. Fuck.

He tugged Louis' hair up, as if he was preparing to tear it off of his scalp. He moaned a bit more, pushing himself forward and his toy back. The whines increased, spreading warmth and that fucking vibration throughout his entire body.

"Keep it up, kid, don't you just wanna be free?"

Louis nodded, shifting the heat around and god it was amazing.

He would undo the chains so the boy could use his hands to further the pleasure, but it wasn't worth the risk of something else happening. So he kept Louis chained and moved his hips a bit, not wanting to choke the kid because he needed this to end right.

Louis was praying for the end to come or Ricky to burst into flames or something, anything, but he went to the underside again, a stripe up, before returning to the tip but there was no warning and his tongue met the head and Ricky came right in Louis' mouth and he had no fucking choice but to swallow because clearly the sick fuck wasn't moving until he did.

It took ages to do so due to hesitation and the fear of what Harry would think and the pure disgust but he did it, he finally did it. He sobbed, "I'm done now. Let us go," and Ricky sneered again, no.

"You should've made me promise."

"What? N-No, that's not-that's not. . .no. No."

And Louis was back in his sad little traumatized trance.

Andy kept his eyes on the ground in complete horror. What the hell was happening? How—how could that have happened?

How could someone be so sick?