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After the con, Pete wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Still riding that high, that ego trip ranting about how Bill should give him a cut for emotional damages or some shit, considering his dad trashed his collection because of him. Bill told him to fuck off. Pete called him broke.
So Bill shoved him.
Pete punched him in the gut.
Fair enough.
What wasn’t fair, what made Bill’s brain short-circuit was when Pete grabbed him by the collar and kissed him. Not some soft, curious shit. No. It was teeth and spite and tang of blood from him knocking his teeth.
Must’ve been the adrenaline, because Bill kissed him back. Hard. Messy. Like they were still fighting. Pete bit his lip. Bill grabbed a fistful of his stupid ripped shirt. They knocked into the wall.
“You faggot,” Bill muttered against his mouth.
Pete laughed, low and mean. “I ain’t no faggot.” Then he grabbed Bill’s hip, fingers digging in like a threat. “But I do think we could work this out better in the sheets.”
It was such a fucking corny line that Bill actually laughed. Like, genuinely. Should’ve pissed Pete off. But he laughed too, nose bloodied, lip split, eyes wild.
Once they caught their breath bill thought he would back off, leave like it was one big joke but he asked “so you wanna fuck or what?”
Bill was bi. He’d known that since well. Since awhile . Didn’t matter when. (Since Jerry. But he wouldn’t say he cared. Wouldn’t say he liked fucking Jerry. Just that it happened.)
But Pete?
Pete smelled like beef jerky and cigarettes. He talked like a /r9k thread. Not to mention he was short. He wasn’t Bill’s type. Not by a long shot
That’s what Bill told himself.
So how the fuck did he end up checking into a Super 8 next door?
The room was shit. Of course it was. Scratchy sheets. Faint mildew. Thin walls.
Bill was still standing by the door, halfway unsure if he was about to make the worst decision of his life. He hadn’t done this in years and—oh. Pete was already stripping.
Shameless.
Like this was a clock-in, clock-out gig.
“You want me to fuck you with your clothes on?” Pete asked, already down to his boxers, like he was offering him a courtesy . “Because I can work with that.”
Bill rolled his eyes but didn’t say no.
Didn’t leave either.
Pete was sprawled on the bed like he owned the place. Like Bill should be so lucky to be here.
Bill undressed himself, then got on the bed. He was still on his knees when Pete reached out, yanking him up to straddle his lap. His knees bracketed Pete’s thighs, mouth already caught in another filthy kiss, all tongue and teeth and zero finesse.
Pete’s hand slid over his shoulder, fingers tracing the waves of scarred skin without hesitation. Bill bit his lip, hard, drawing a groan from Pete’s throat.
Then Pete ducked his head and, like some kind of fucking dog , licked across his chest. Tongue dragging slowly over the thick, raised skin.
“Fuck, your skin feels so soft,” Pete muttered, breath hot.
Bill rolled his eyes. “Should’ve known you had a burn kink.”
Pete didn’t answer. Just latched onto his nipple instead, swirling his tongue, then flicking over it like he knew just where to touch.
A soft sound escaped Bill’s mouth before he could bite it back.
Embarrassing.
Pete’s hand drifted lower, ghosting down to his cock, just brushing.
“Fuck,” Bill hissed through his teeth. Even that little contact had him twitching. It’d been too long. Way too long.
And fuck, fuck , he better not cum fast. If Pete even thought he’d folded under his touch that quick, he’d die of embarrassment right there. Last thing Bill needed was feeding Pete’s already unhinged ego
Finally, Pete touched him slow, deliberately. His fingers traced the underside of Bill’s shaft, still to light for his liking. Bill hated the way his hips twitched, chasing the contact like a needy bitch. Pete noticed, of course. A shit-eating grin spread across his face.
“You’re such an eager whore, huh?” he mumbled against his skin
Bill scoffed, trying not to sound too breathless. “Not into the whole degrading thing. Keep that up, I’ll go soft.”
Pete didn’t answer. Just wrapped his hand around Bill’s clothed cock and started stroking him, firm and practiced. Bill’s moan slipped out before he could bite it back.
After three slow passes, Pete pulled his hand away.
“Sit back. I’ll give you head,” he said blunt, too casual, like he was offering him a soda.
Bill wasn’t about to argue. He shifted beside him, shoving his boxers down so his cock ; flushed, aching, way too slick with pre cum slapped up against his stomach. Pete scooted down, propping himself on his side. One hand curled around the base as his tongue dragged a long, wet stripe from the base to the head.
Bill hissed, fingers tangling in Pete’s (what he had left of it) hair on instinct. “Fuck.”
Pete was fast about it, mercifully. No drawn out, no teasing bullshit Bill couldn’t take that right now. He’d crumble.
That tongue, fuck, that tongue worked the head expertly, the press of the metal barbell sliding right over the slit. Bill’s hips jerked up automatically. Pete shut that down real fast, slapping a hand over his thigh to hold him still.
“Nuh uh,” Pete muttered, mouth already full. “Stay the fuck down.”
He kept up the pace, Pete’s throat clenching around him with every bob. His tongue traced the underside of bill’s cock, and all Bill could do was pant, fighting the urge to cum. He knew he should tell him to stop but he also didn’t want to look like some touchless no-game loser who busts after five minutes of head.
His trembling thighs gave him away.
Pete pulled off, a strand of spit still connecting them, eyes half-lidded. If Bill were actually into Pete, this would’ve been hot. Honestly, it still kinda was. Not that he’d admit that.
Pete wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You ever bottomed before?” he asked, already moving off the bed towards his jeans.
“Fuck no. You’re not fucking me,” Bill scoffed.
Pete didn’t even look at him, just fished out his wallet.
“Hey, if you don’t want me to fuck you, that’s fine. I get play every other day.”
He grabbed a condom, held his gaze, one brow raised.
“Doesn’t matter to me if we cut it here.”
Fuck this faggot , Bill thought. No way he was letting this smug asshole punk him out like that.
Ten minutes later, he was in the bathroom, cleaning himself out with a water bottle. The cold, awkward gush made him grimace. How the hell do twinks do this all the time? He was practically soft by the time he finished.
He came back out to find Pete on the bed, scrolling through his phone.
“Done?” Pete asked, setting it aside.
“Yeah.”
“You sure? I don’t want ass water on my dick.”
Bill flipped him off and flopped onto the bed. “You gonna do this or keep running your mouth?”
Pete just chuckled, grabbing the forgotten condom off the nightstand.
“I don’t have lube, so it’s gonna be tight.”
Oh shit, Bill realized he forgot about that part. Before he could say anything, Pete was already circling his asshole with his fingers. Then he pushed in.
Bill groaned, caught between pain and heat. It burned not a lot, but enough. Pete wasn’t gentle, just stretched him open, not even trying to finger him properly.
After a minute or two, he lined up and pressed in slow.
Bill’s head dropped when Pete bottomed out.
“Jesus,” Pete muttered, voice low. “You’re fucking tight.”
Pete, for some reason, goes slow. Bill figures it’s more for him than for Bill, but he takes it anyway. It burns like hell at first, but after a few thrusts, it’s… manageable. Not great, not awful. Just enough.
Pete’s hands find his hips, gripping tight, tight enough to bruise.
“Fuck, that’s it.” His pace picks up. “Fucking pathetic. You like this, huh? Getting railed like the useless little cunt you are.”
Bill’s about to snap back with something sharp, but fuck. His cock twitches.
“Dumb fucking cunt,” Pete growls, slamming in harder. The insult lands with another thrust, and Bill should shove him off, should tell him to eat shit.
But it’s doing it for him. God help him, it is.
He really hopes he’s having some brain aneurysm, and it’s not, like, a legitimate kink.
Pete’s hand slides around and gets a grip on his cock, giving it a rough stroke. Bill moans. Pete angles up, hitting his spot just right, and Jesus fucking Christ his skin feels like it’s on fire.
A few more deep thrusts, and Pete pulled out abruptly, dropping beside him.
“Get on top.”
Bill rolled his eyes.
“Don’t be a pillow princess. If you wanna cum, work for it, baby.”
“Don’t call me that,” Pete mutters, but he’s already getting up.
He grabs Pete’s dick, angling it to line up. Then sinks down, biting his lip. Pete reaches for his ass, but Bill pushes his hands to his thighs instead. The new position’s tighter fuck, way tighter.
Pete taps his hip. “Well? Get on with it, cowboy.”
Bill only glares down at him. But he lifts up slow, shallow just enough to drag a moan out of his own throat. A few more jerky movements like that, him lightly grinding up.
Pete rolls his eyes. Without warning, he digs his fingers into Bill’s hips and thrusts up, hard, snapping into him.
“Fuck—” Bill yelps, voice cracking. Shit. That was too good.
Pete starts fucking into him full-on now. Brutal. Unrelenting.
He grabs Bill’s hands from where they’d been splayed on his chest and drags them to his throat.
“Choke me.”
Bill raises an eyebrow, but obliges. Hands tighten.
“Come on,” Pete growls, slamming into him again. “Choke me like you mean it.”
Bill put his weight down, leaning forward. A choked gasp followed by a moan slipped from Pete’s lips. “That’s it,” he whispered, voice hoarse from the pressure on his throat. Pete kept up his rhythm, with Bill coming apart at the seams, his dick slamming into his g spot over and over.
Pulling a hand away from Pete’s throat, he gripped his own twitching cock. It only took a single pump before he was cumming, thick ropes landing across Pete’s chest.
Pete surged up, Bill’s hand slipping from his neck. He kissed him again messy, all tongue, their mouths a tangle of moans and groans as Pete fucked him through his orgasm.
It was bordering on overstimulation, Pete thrusting in so hard and forcefully. Thank fuck it didn’t take long before he came too, twitching deep inside Bill. It felt filthy and disgusting.
Pete motioned, and Bill rolled off to the side. Without a word, Pete got up and headed to the bathroom. Bill heard the faucet run, probably cleaning up. He just laid there, letting the warm haze settle over him.
But it turned hollow fast.
God, this was a new low.
Pete came back around the bed, fishing out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and slipping one between his lips. Bill turned his head at the flick of the lighter.
“Hey, asshole. My card’s on file don’t fucking smoke in here.”
Pete just shrugged and slid the cigarette back into the pack without a word.
Bill sat up now, watching Pete fumble with his pants. Still too slumped to bother moving. What was there to say? The sex was fine. Not bad, even. But at the end of the day, it was still Pete; gross, dickheaded, insufferable fuck Pete.
“Gimme your arm,” Pete said, pulling his hoodie on.
Bill raised an eyebrow. “Are you about to spit on me or something?”
“Jesus, just give me your fucking hand.”
Bill signed and held it out. Pete grabbed it, fished a Sharpie out of his pocket, and started scribbling.
“You seriously drawing a dick on my hand right now?”
Pete finished with a flourish. Bill looked down. There was a dick, but underneath it, Pete had scrawled:
“@CountOrlok69 – this wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be. Hit me up for a decent dicking, Dickey.”
Pete wiggled his eyebrows. “My insta, Marketing, baby.”
“Yeah,” Bill scoffed. “Right after Galactus and Jesus start a podcast.”
Pete just shrugged. “Suit yourself,” and slipped the Sharpie back in his pocket. He should’ve left then. But he didn’t.
There was a beat of silence. Long. Weird. Pete didn’t move.
“And Bill,” he said, suddenly serious, putting a hand on his shoulder, “you’ll get over Jerry one day.”
A hot churn twisted in Bill’s gut. He slapped Pete’s hand away. “Fuck you. I don’t give two flying fucks about Jerry.”
But Pete was already walking toward the door, shoes half on, not listening. “Whatever you say,” he mumbled, pulling the door shut behind him.
FUCK HIM.
Bill wanted to scream it. Wanted to run after him, grab him by the collar, and scream: You suck dick like a goddamn Roomba and you’re still a piece of shit who knows jack-fucking-shit about me.
But all he heard was the mini fridge humming and the couple next door screaming about laundry.
He sank back down onto the bed.
Eight goddamn years without a lay. And his first time back in the saddle? Fucking Pete. And somehow he was the one who felt cheap.
He didn’t care.
And he certainly didn’t give two fucks about Jerry.
Didn’t care that Jerry was probably curled up with that bitch right now. That bitch who definitely pegs him, yeah, bet she does.
He shouldn’t have pictured it.
Shouldn’t have pictured Jerry, flushed and open-mouthed, looking up like those soft eyes fucking eyes. Reaching out for her like he used to reach out for him.
He didn’t care.
That’s what he told himself as the coldness crept up his ribs and settled in his chest.
But then the first tear hit.
Then another.
He curled in on himself, heels of his hands pressing into his eyes, trying to hold them back. His glasses pinched the bridge of his nose, he ripped them off, threw them across the room.
CRACK.
“Fuck.”
He fell back to the bed. Curled himself tighter. Arms around his shoulders. Pressing down like he could hold himself together.
He didn’t care.
He told himself again and again. He didn’t care.
But he could see it, in the dark of the room: Jerry’s face, soft and close and warm. His hand reached out to hold his face, thumb brushing against his cheek bone.
Then he pulls her into his arms.
Holding her just like how he held him.