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“Sit.”
The fortune teller’s command snaps through the tent as her creepy, long fingernails point at the seats in front of them.
Stu drops into the chair immediately, and the witchy junk scattered across the table starts rattling to the rhythm of his bouncing knees. Billy lingers behind for a moment, crossing and uncrossing his arms before slumping down next to him with a sigh. His knee bumps Stu’s under the table and Stu finally stills as he rests against it, denim on warm denim.
The old woman‘s gaze flicks between them. Before her sits a milky crystal ball that she keeps circling with her fingers like she’s spinning a web. Some gauzy fabric hangs from the ceiling, the same stuff that brushed Stu’s head when he dragged a squirming Billy inside the tent. He couldn’t help but stop and stare at the Mommy Fortuna sign – its looping, hand-painted letters had sucked him in like a whirlpool.
“You come with a question?” Mommy Fortuna asks, tapping her nails against the crystal. There’s a mischievous look behind her green eyes, and Stu thinks there’s no way she doesn’t get baked before her shifts.
He glances at Billy, who’s still scowling at the tent walls and what he had so beautifully called a bullshit quack cash grab.
But Stu already loves everything about this. He doesn’t even need to think about his question, it’s basically been on his mind since he first watched Halloween as a kid. “Okay, okay– Uhm– So… how will I die?”
Billy’s head snaps toward him and Stu shrugs, grinning. “What? I’m curious.”
The fortune teller hums softly, then reaches across the table to grab Stu’s hand. Her grip’s cold as fuck and surprisingly strong. Stu clears his throat as incense smoke coils its way into his lungs.
“You ask about endings,” she says. “Most boys your age ask about girls, or money.”
Stu shrugs. “Seems a bit predictable.”
“You’re predictable,” Billy mutters, and Stu snorts, pushing his leg against Billy’s. You wish.
Mommy Fortuna clicks her tongue and turns Stu’s palm over. With one cracked nail she traces the longest line there, which sends an uneasy shiver down his spine. She better not give him an infection or something.
“You won’t see it coming,” she rasps, and Billy scoffs.
“‘Course not.”
Muttering something unintelligible, Billy settles deeper into his chair. Stu doesn’t know if he wants to give him shit for it or pull him into a tight hug.
“There will be blood,” the fortune teller continues, ignoring Billy, and Stu almost breaks out into a laugh. Maybe she really is legit. “And it will spill where people come to be happy.”
Okay… that sounds like a challenge, right?
It’s not like Stu really believes in this stuff but there’s something about her words that makes his pulse spike unexpectedly. Beside him, Billy pushes his chair back an inch, the scrape almost jolting in this small, smoke-muffled space. Seems like he feels the same way.
There’s a brief moment where no one says anything. It’s just breath and the fair noises thudding faintly through the canvas walls, and Stu is about to ask another question when the woman’s eyes lift up to meet his.
“You laugh at it,” she says. “Whatever it is, you think it’s a game. But… it won’t feel like one.”
Her nail presses harder into Stu’s palm, and he curls his fingers in response.
“And you,” she hums, tilting her chin at Billy, who’s gone completely rigid by now. “You think you can outrun it. But his blood will be on your hands.”
She leans back in her chair and lifts a cigarette to her pursed lips.
“That’ll be ten dollars, boys.”
Damn, she’s good.
Billy stands so abruptly his chair tips backward, and Stu barely has time to pay and throw a sloppy wave over his shoulder as he’s dragged out into the flood of shrill organ music and flickering lights.
“Dude,” Stu starts, stumbling after him. “What’s gotten you so riled up–”
Billy stops dead and turns on him. “That was bullshit,” he grits. “Fucking waste of time. Don’t ever drag me into one of these again.” His voice has got an edge to it that makes Stu wonder just how spooked he really got.
“Okay, yeah, sure.”
Billy’s eyes flicker between Stu‘s for a second before he lets his shoulders drop. “And don’t ask stupid questions like that,” he mutters.
Ohh, okay, so that’s what this is about. For someone who has no issues snuffing people Billy sure is a little softie.
Stu flashes him a wide grin. “Relax,” he says, warmth spreading through his chest. “I’m not planning on going anywhere.”
With one arm slung around Billy’s shoulders he pulls him tight.
“Seriously though, blood will spill where people come to be happy? That’s like, the tropiest shit ever.”
Billy says nothing, but Stu catches the little twitch in his mouth.
“Hey, let’s make a bet,” Stu says then, angling his head so his lips brush Billy‘s ear. It’s actually insane how easy it is to make that boy blush. Stu wants to lick him.
“What are you talking about?” Billy scowls, still glaring into the distance while Stu contemplates if it’s worth the risk sticking his tongue in his ear.
“A bet,” he repeats, opting for restraint. “See how much blood we can spill.”
If Billy was a cat, his ears would surely have pricked up at that. Instead, he angles his head away from Stu’s mouth, side-eyeing him. “You ever heard of quality over quantity?” he mutters.
Stu tips his head back, blowing a raspberry. “You ever heard of fun?”
As if on cue, a rollercoaster thunders past them, the people inside screaming for their lives.
“How many?” Billy asks then, scanning the crowd.
Stu’s grin widens, but he hums, pretends to mull it over. “Doesn’t matter,” he says finally. “Whoever gets more heads wins.”
“I don’t even wanna know what your sick brain thinks the stake is,” Billy sighs, and a laugh pours out of Stu.
“Three guesses,” he says, wiggling his brows while flicking Billy’s bite-sized earlobe. I think we both know the stakes at this point. “Let’s just say I win either way.”
Billy rolls his eyes at that but, sure enough, there’s a smile on his face.
“Ok, dipshit,” he says, “but if I win, you’re kissing my boots.”
“Like I said, it’s a winning bet,” Stu chuckles. He kinda hopes he loses, if only to see those cocky brown eyes get swallowed by diluted pupils when he ends up licking the dirt off Billy’s soles.
Billy shrugs him off, chortling, probably just realizing that yeah, he also really wants Stu to lick his boots. “You’re fucking gross, Macher.”
“Yeah, that’s not what your dick thinks,” Stu snickers, and bolts before Billy can kick him in the balls. He decides to make a run for the crowd, twisting his hips to slalom through warm, sticky bodies. Someone yells as he shoulder-checks past them, and Stu’s laughing, breath already coming fast.
“Sorry,” he calls at no one in particular, absolutely not sorry at all.
He veers left – ahh shit, wrong move – and almost plows into a balloon dart booth, then swerves and nearly eats it over a stroller wheel. A cluster of giggling teenage girls scatters as he stumbles through; one shrieks and drops her soda, and it explodes against Stu’s shoe. He doesn’t even turn his head, knows that Billy is trailing him, striding through the chaos with calculated ease. Cue “The Shape Stalks”. Fuck, man. It makes Stu shiver and grin like an idiot.
After another near miss with an angry barker, he slips behind a ride operator booth and presses himself flat against the metal siding of a trailer to catch his breath. Chest heaving, he waits like that for a while, but he can’t hear anything besides the operator’s wacky announcements, and so he risks a peek around the corner. That’s when Billy lunges and slams him against the trailer. Stu lets out a grunt as Billy’s hands close around his throat. Fuck yeah.
“You got slow,” Billy snickers, tightening his grip. “And sloppy,” he adds. “Left a fucking trail behind you.”
“Just– ungghh–” Stu swallows against Billy’s palm, his head tipped back against the wall. “Just wanted to make sure you don’t get lost,” he croaks, pressing his hips forward as Billy’s fingers dig deeper into his jugular.
To no one’s surprise, Stu’s dick strains against his briefs, so fucking eager and throbbing in sync with his restrained arteries. Who can blame him, when Billy looks at him like that, all smug and hungry, his upper arm twitching as he lets go of Stu’s throat to pat him on the cheek.
“You better work on that if you wanna win your bet.”
There’s a scrape in Stu’s lungs as air forces its way back down his windpipe, but he chuckles through the burn. “God, you’re such a tease.”
Good thing he’s already used to Billy’s little power games, otherwise he’d be worried about the semi he’s just popped and, worse, about not being able to do anything about it.
He takes another deep breath before following Billy back out into the midway and towards the haunted house looming up ahead. Oh, it’s on, baby.
“Bet time, Billy boy,” Stu says, ruffling Billy’s hair and chuckling at the murderous glare directed toward him.
“You’re really pushing your luck today.”
Stu laughs and hops back, narrowly dodging a kick aimed at his thigh. “Fortune favors the bold. Ask Mommy Fortuna.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s what she said, you dumbnut,” Billy mutters as he slides a bill over the ticket counter. “Two, please.”
It’s a school night, so it doesn’t take long to line up, and there’s no one behind them when they slip through the entrance. Stu’s eyes flick up to meet Billy’s gaze, and by god, the way he cocks his eyebrow before putting his mask on makes Stu want to drop down on his knees.
As soon as the eerie soundscape crashes in on him, though, Stu’s hunting instincts kick into gear, and he pulls his own mask from the waist bag slung across his shoulder. There’s chains rattling above him, mechanic screams carrying through the thick fog. He feels a familiar tingle in his fingertips as his right hand reaches for the knife attached to the back of his belt.
Billy is already two steps ahead of him, stalking through the haze towards two giant, red eyes glowering down from the wall. “Welcome to hell,” an eldritch voice booms through the speakers, and Stu feels right at home.
He charges. Past Billy, who’s already got his hands on some poor asshole’s throat, and into a grimy slaughterhouse set. He pushes past a teen reaching for a dangling meat hook – “Oops, sorry!” – and catches him just as he stumbles. The knife slides into the kid’s side like fish filet, once, twice, his scream muffled by Stu’s other hand pressed against his mouth. No real struggle there, he’s too stunned, and Stu drops him into a puddle of fake blood, behind a stained plastic curtain.
“My family’s always been in meat,” he chuckles, bopping a papier-mâché pig’s nose as he saunters off.
One down.
Next, Dracula’s castle, two goth chicks leaning over a coffin waiting for the jump scare. Two for one. He yanks one aside, both their eyes widening in horror when he impales the taller girl with his Bowie.
Isn’t that what you wanted? Go sleep with your animatronic lover.
He heaves her into the coffin, doesn’t have to take care of the other one screaming in tune with the vampire’s hissing sounds. Billy’s got her already. Stu wipes his knife, tilts his head. Thanks, babe.
He only takes a second to appreciate Billy’s ass as he rolls the corpse under a fake dinner table cloth – god, how did he get so lucky? – and then he’s off, half crawling through a slanted wooden corridor. Time to catch a breath, adjust the mask.
Huh, is that a surveillance camera blinking up there in the corner? Stu’s pretty sure they don’t have that kind of budget for a random state fair attraction, but he flips the bird at the ceiling anyway, grinning under the mask.
Kiss my ass.
No, actually, kiss Billy’s ass. Fuck. Billy better let him suck his dick later–
“Shit!”
He yelps as something clamps around his ankle, yanks him backwards with a tight grip. There’s a loud thump as Stu lands on all fours, and shit, almost slices himself as the blade skitters from his grip and goes spinning across the floor.
He turns just in time to see the body under the Ghostface mask – that’s what the Top Story newscaster had called it the other day – tower over him and drive a fist into his stomach. Stu curses, gasping for air as he doubles over to protect himself from further injury. The nausea sets in almost immediately.
“Goddamnit, Billy!” he croaks, swiping at Billy’s back as he scrambles past and into the next room. That boy really doesn’t fuck around when he wants to win, and Stu can’t help but love him for it. He’d lick his boots even without this stupid bet, anytime.
But now he’s lying there, curled in on himself and half hard again because of course he is, stupid horny for getting his ass kicked, and so he almost shrieks when someone touches his arm.
“Fuck man, are you alright? I think, uh, I think there’s someone injured back there and needs help…”
Stu looks up.
The man towering above him is broad-shouldered, tall, built like a fucking football player. A security guy? Shit, that’s just his luck. But the guy looks scared, his eyes widening when he sees the mask staring back at him. “Hey,” he says again, taking a step back, uncertain.
That’s when Stu moves.
His hand shoots for the Bowie, but the bastard spots it too, and lunges for it at the same time Stu does.
Oh, hell no.
Stu grabs for the guy’s ankle and yanks, but he’s fast, vicious, driving his heel backward and into Stu’s sternum, only missing his face by inches.
Stu lets out a broken curse as the impact explodes across his chest. Everything goes white, and it’s enough time for the asshole to dive forward and snatch up the knife. Stu’s stomach drops. He scrambles backward, slams into the wall behind him, his palms scraping over plywood as he forces himself upright.
For a heartbeat, the world narrows to the blade hovering between them, both their chests heaving while distorted screams echo from the speakers above.
The guy doesn’t even know how to hold the Bowie properly, but he lunges anyway, swinging wildly, panicked. Stu jerks sideways. The blade catches on the fabric of his shirt and slices right through near his ribs, barely grazing his skin.
Fuck, that was close.
But he’s not about to let some amateur carve him open. Fuck no.
With a furious snarl, Stu drives forward, tackling the guy so hard they crash into the wall and go down in a tangle of limbs and splinters. The knife clatters loose again, skidding somewhere out of sight.
Stu straddles him, cursing as knuckles connect with his jaw through the mask, the taste of iron now stinging in his mouth, but he manages to get his hand around the guy’s throat and slams his head back against the floor, once, twice, until he slackens.
Stu’s ears are ringing, his body is aching like hell, and everything feels fucking off-balance–
The knife. Where’s the fucking knife?
Stu drops off the body and scrambles forward on all fours, fingers sliding through splintered wood until–
Got it. Thank fuck.
Behind him, there’s a ragged inhale, a sudden movement, and Stu twists – knife gripped tight and the handle propped against his chest – just as the guy barrels into him again.
Stu squeezes his eyes shut under the mask as the impact knocks his breath loose. This is it, he thinks, a strange, terrifying moment, but then something warm and viscous gushes over his hand, and the guy’s head thumps against his mask. His body spasms on top of Stu as he grips onto his last seconds of life, but Stu got him in the throat, messy, and it doesn’t take long for the wet gurgling to turn into quiet hissing.
Jeez, talk about a jumpscare.
For a moment, Stu just lies there under the weight of him, his heartbeat thundering in his ears, and he draws a few shaky breaths under his dampening mask before he can lift his clammy hands and roll the body off to the side. It’s heavy, deadweight and uncooperative, and Stu lets out a strained grunt.
He has the feeling that he doesn’t have much time to hide the body this time, so he tries to jump back on his feet and beat it. It’s as if the blood has turned the floor into a soap-coated shower floor though, so he slips, arms pinwheeling to fight for balance. He’s sure he’s going down again, but he catches himself on the wall, smearing blood across the wooden panels.
Fuck, there’s so much blood now. Stu’s drenched in it, his ripped shirt clinging wetly to his chest, and maybe a few splatters wouldn’t have been so bad, but how the fuck is he supposed to walk out of here without getting himself arrested on the spot?
To the new soundtrack of static ringing in his ears, he stumbles forward, past screeching animatronic witches and glowing spider webs.
Where’s Billy? Is he outside already, pissed that Stu’s taking too long? Why is it so empty in here? Shit, has Billy wiped out every single person in this place? Has the staff cleared it out?
Stu’s pulse quickens. Did something happen?
His mind spirals, half-electrified at the thought of Billy clearing the path like a lethal tempest, half-panicked that someone caught Billy and he’s injured, already in handcuffs, face pressed into the dirt–
A green strobe light flickers through the heavy fog, and Stu‘s blood freezes when one of the witches starts cackling again. Suddenly, the heat and stuffiness of the mask is too oppressive. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple and he feels like he can’t fucking see or breathe through the dark fabric, so he rips it off and tosses it on the ground. Fuck it. He drags in a deep breath. Just keep moving, man.
He turns a corner to find himself in some kind of croc-infested swamp – where’s the god damn exit? – his feet squelching on the spongey floor beneath him, and nearly jumps when something growls to his left.
Stu turns and there’s a crocodile, mechanical jaws chomping lazily as it jerks its head side to side. Something dangles from its mouth, and it takes Stu a second to realize what it is.
Limbs.
Are those real?
They sway as the croc thrashes, and a surprised snort punches out of Stu, his chest twingeing painfully. Yep, they’re real.
“Jesus, Billy,” he mumbles to himself. “What is this, some Eaten Alive reboot?”
How’d you even manage that?
He’d really like to stay and admire Billy’s Hooper homage, but he forces himself to move and–
A hand grabs his shoulder from behind.
Stu whirls around, knife already up–
“Fuck, Billy!” he shrieks, lowering his arm.
Billy stands there smirking. His face flashes green under the strobe light, and wet strands of hair cling to his forehead, flattened from the mask.
“Did you fall asleep back there?” he asks.
Without thinking, Stu throws his arms around him and presses his face into the crook where shoulder meets neck, which has Billy huffing.
“Shit, I– I thought–” Stu stammers, squeezing Billy tighter. God, he loves him so much. Stu takes in the tension of his muscles, the scent of salt and iron, the way he squirms underneath his hug…
Then Stu chuckles. What the fuck was he thinking? That stupid fortune teller must have gotten to him after all, making him spiral and stutter like some kind of pussy…
He shudders and steps back, reluctantly letting go of Billy. “I’m covered in blood,” he says dumbly, his chuckle spilling over into shaky laughter. Holy shit. What a ride!
Billy studies him, eyes dragging over the torn shirt and his throbbing jaw. “No shit, dumbass. You done losing your mind or should I come back later?”
“Yeah, no, I’m–” Stu chokes, trying to stifle another chortle. “I’m good, man. Let’s get the hell outta here.”
Billy’s frown lingers a second longer, then he holds out a checkered flannel. “Put this on first.”
“Where–”
“You can thank croc-snack,” Billy cuts in dryly.
Stu snorts and peels off his stiff, blood-crusted shirt. When his face emerges, he doesn’t even pretend not to notice the way Billy’s eyes trail over his stomach.
“Like what you’re seeing?” he says smugly, tossing his shirt under the growling croc and grabbing the flannel, threading his arms through the soft sleeves. It’s a bit snug around the shoulders, but it’ll do.
Billy’s eyes snap up. “Nah. Just thinking you deserved another punch in the gut,” he says, then adds, “You almost get yourself killed?”
Stu just about stops himself from flinching before rolling his shoulders. “Dude,” he scoffs. “I’m fucking invincible, okay?” The knotty scars mapping his skin tell a different story, but he’s not going to fucking dwell on that. Nevermind his aching bones.
Billy’s eyebrow twitches, and he looks like he’s about to say something seriously unfun, but then he sighs and cocks his head. “Jesus Christ. Okay. Can we go now?”
As they make their way toward the exit, Stu tries his best to ignore the mix of dread and exhilaration swirling in his stomach, and he’s still struggling with the buttons of his new shirt by the time they finally stumble out of the haunted house.
The cool night air sends a shiver up his arms, and he draws in a deep, grateful breath. His stomach starts growling as soon as the smell of roasted nuts and hot dogs hits him. What? He basically just ran a marathon, he’s worked up an appetite.
Which actually makes slowing down their steps so much harder, but they force it, despite being all squirrelly and sweat-soaked. Shoulders loose, pace casual. Just two guys leaving a cheap thrill ride. Wow man, did you see the crocodile? Crazy special effects.
They saunter past the half-dozing ticket booth operator and are just out of earshot when Stu starts talking again.
“So,” he says, tugging at the collar of his flannel in an attempt to stretch it out. “It’s a draw, right?”
Billy shushes him, brows knotted. “Can you wait til we’re in the car?”
“Why, what’s gonna happen in the car?” Stu asks, fluttering his lashes. He sucks his lower lip between his teeth, just for good measure.
“Shut up,” Billy hisses, eyes darting from Stu’s mouth to the people around them. “They’re gonna start freaking out soon and as much as I’d like to stay for the afterparty I think we should get out of here.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I did. Now shut your face.”
Stu jogs a half-step to stay in front of Billy, walking backwards now. “Three each.” He holds up both hands, wiggling three fingers each like makeshift pistols. “That’s tied. Which m–”
“Stu, I’m warning you–”
“Which means,” Stu presses on, delighted, “the bet’s still on.”
Billy grabs his sleeve and pulls him close so they don’t drift into foot traffic. Then he lowers his voice to a gruff snarl. “You really are desperate, aren’t you? You wanna suck my dick that bad?”
Stu pockets his hands, as if that could stop the blood rushing south. Is that a genuine question?
“What, you good with a draw?” he asks, super casual, nevermind the grin threatening to split his face.
Billy’s jaw tightens in response. That’s what I thought.
Emboldened, Stu‘s face cracks into a wide smile. “C’mon. I think we deserve a bonus round.”
Billy rolls his eyes. “You deserve a concussion.”
“Pretty sure I already got one,” Stu says brightly, letting his eyes drift down below Billy’s beltline. “I’m still gonna win.”
Billy’s mouth twitches, aaaand we’re back on. “Yeah, you must’ve hit your head pretty hard if you think you can–”
His words get swallowed by a sharp burst of static.
… kshhhht… unit three to… kssshh… inside the haunted house…
Stu freezes and looks at Billy, who’s already scanning their surroundings with narrowed eyes, trying to locate the source of the sound. Stu follows his gaze and–
There. A few steps away, near the Ferris wheel, a security guy stands with a hand pressed to his radio, brows furrowed as more static crackles through.
… possible disturbance… kssshh… check it out…
An electric current zips straight down Stu’s spine when the man’s eyes land on them. Ohh, they’re in trouble. He runs his tongue over his teeth, readying himself.
“Keep walking,” Billy mutters under his breath, already tugging at his wrist. But it’s too late now. The security guy lowers the radio and, as expected, steps forward, blinding them with a flashlight – like they’re the ones being hunted.
“Evening fellas,” he calls out, running the torch light over both their faces. “You two just come outta the haunted house?”
“No, sir,” – Stu almost cracks up at that – “and we were just on our way out…” Billy says, a hint of defiance in his voice as he clears his throat and starts toward the exit.
The flashlight beam flickers across Stu’s shoulder, past his too-tight flannel and down to his shoes.
“Hold up. What’s that on your shoe?” the man says, taking a step toward him.
“Just mud, sir,” he says, deliberately not looking at Billy as he drags the word out. “Spent too much time admiring the livestock.” Stu shrugs, flashing a mocking grin that might pass as apologetic if you’re stupid enough. From the corner of his eye, he sees Billy shooting him daggers, and Stu winks at him.
It’s then that the beam flickers back up in his face, and he raises a hand to shield his eyes.
“Don’t look like mud to me.” The guard takes another step, but then his radio crackles again and he looks down, reaching for it while keeping his flashlight fixed on Stu’s face.
Again, Stu looks over at Billy, who shakes his head like a warning, hand already hovering near the back of his belt, but then Stu smiles, grabs his Bowie, and closes the distance before the guy has time to look up.
The first stab is quick and low, folding the man in on himself with a shocked grunt. The second drives him backward into the shadows beneath a humming generator. Stu shoves him harder into darkness, teeth bared, and grandpa lands on his ass with a loud thump. Stu senses Billy shuffling behind him, and then he steps above the groaning man clutching at his middle.
Stu drives a sharp kick to the side of his head – oopsie – and slides down behind him so he faces Billy. Hauling the man upright to prop his back against his chest, he snakes an arm around his throat, holding him there and draining the air from his lungs. God, he wishes he could break his neck Michael Myers style, like in the movies. Billy would be all over him.
Meanwhile, the security guy’s still thrashing his feet, his fingers clawing uselessly at Stu’s arm while at the same time trying to press a hand against the gashing wounds in his stomach and wheezing for air. Even if he screamed, the sound would be swallowed by the calliope tunes and metallic grind of the Ferris wheel above them.
When Stu looks up, he’s overwhelmed by a current of heat flooding his veins. Billy is standing between them and the midway, his face half-illuminated by undulating lights, arms hanging loose at his side. No knife in sight. He’s just looking at them, unblinking, and Stu can see him wetting his lips, feels like he can read his god damn mind right now. Fuck, there’s no better feeling than this, when Billy‘s fully tuned into him, waiting.
Watch this.
Stu grabs a handful of what’s left of the guard’s thinning hair and yanks his head back to expose his throat. The man drags in a sharp, greedy breath, and Stu gives him a second to think he has any chance of survival, just the slightest moment of recovery. Then, holding Billy’s gaze, he draws the blade across his throat in one slow, deliberate line that has the man sputtering and gurgling like a drain pipe.
Billy’s brows are knotted into a deep furrow, eyes flitting between Stu’s and the blood spurting before him, which makes Stu’s heart feel like it’s about to jump up his throat. The vein on his temple throbs violently as he yanks the guy’s head back even further, waiting for him to slowly choke on his own blood, and it’s not until the gasping finally fades that he lets go of the guard’s hair and shoves him to the side. As much as he wouldn’t mind, he takes extra care not to get covered in blood this time.
He then wipes his knife on the dead man’s jacket before cautiously sliding it back into the holster attached to his belt. Billy keeps turning his head to check for passersby, discreetly, so as not to call attention to himself or to Stu dragging the body further into the dark.
When Stu finally steps back into the light, he’s face to face with Billy, and it takes him all his willpower not to grab him and rail him against the whirring generator. Instead, they’re just frozen in this silent, heated face-off that they both know Stu’s going to lose.
He lets his eyes drag from Billy’s dark, piercing eyes along the tight line of his jaw down to his lips, and fuck, there’s way too much heat pooling down below his navel to think straight… Stu can smell him, too, a mix of fading cologne and sweat and blood that makes him go absolutely stir-crazy. When their eyes meet again, he smiles.
“Guess that settles it,” he gloats, but huffs out in surprise when Billy hooks a finger into his collar and pulls him close.
“Yeah,” Billy husks, looking up at him through his lashes. “You win, mutt.” The nickname alone nearly does him in, but Stu just about loses his mind when Billy’s fingers slide up to rake through his hair, and he adds, “But you look like you’re about to pass out, so let’s go put something in your mouth.”
A choked laugh pushes out of him – first at Billy’s shameless, glorious baiting, then at the way his hand trails down over his temple, along the side of his neck… settling at his throat. Just enough pressure to make Stu’s pulse jump violently against his palm.
Three skipped heartbeats later, Billy’s hand drops away, and before he can stop it, Stu lets out a frustrated whine at the loss.
“I’ve got one more bet for you,” Billy says, as if to pacify him. His eyes flick up to the Ferris wheel grinding above them.
Stu follows his gaze and– No way.
“Five minutes,” Billy says. “Think you can manage that?”
Holy motherfucking shit.
Stu doesn’t even care that Billy might just be messing with him, nevermind that they should really beat it before the cops arrive, but he’s already barrelling past him and dragging him towards the ticket booth.
The ride operator barely looks up when Stu slaps cash onto the counter. “Last run,” he yawns, and slides them two tokens. They’re probably not the kind of pair someone like him would expect at this time of night, so Stu keeps his mouth shut for once. He grabs Billy’s arm again, dragging him toward one of the swaying cabins just as it creaks past.
They stumble inside, sliding onto the two narrow benches facing each other. The plexiglass walls are scratched to hell and wobble when the door slams shut behind them. The moment the floor jerks beneath their feet, Stu has to bite down a smile at the sight of Billy grabbing the side rail to steady himself.
“Shut up,” Billy hisses, a shudder coursing through him as the cabin starts swaying.
The only other riders Stu noticed going in were a few cabins halfway up. Otherwise, it’s just them.
Since Billy’s question, Stu’s pulse has been jackhammering non-stop, and it’s only getting worse now that they’re close enough to breathe each other’s air. Billy spreads his knees as he leans back, trying to look casual even though Stu knows he’s shitscared of heights.
Outside, the noise is growing distant as the cabin climbs higher, slowly rocking back and forth.
Bracing his boot against the bench between Stu’s legs, Billy clears his throat. “Tik tok, Stu.”
Stu doesn’t need to be reminded twice. He scoots forward and slides a hand along Billy’s calf up to his thigh. A desperate groan escapes his throat as he presses himself against Billy’s foot and Billy pushes his heel forward in response.
“Down,” Billy husks, and Stu shivers, wetting his lips in anticipation.
He slides Billy’s foot to the side and drops down on his knees before him, cabin swaying as he runs both hands up his thighs towards his waistline. He swallows hard, jittery fingers fumbling with the buttonfly and brushing Billy’s erection straining against the denim.
Billy lifts his hips enough for Stu to pull down his pants, and drags in a sharp breath when Stu presses his nose against the fabric of his briefs, just briefly, before tugging back the waistband and pulling out his pulsating dick.
Maybe it’s the height or Billy or the blood still drying under his nails, but Stu‘s head feels light, woozy, and all he can do is moan as he trails his tongue along Billy’s shaft before fully taking him in. The familiar, salty taste of him burns on his tongue, and his own dick twitches in desperation.
“Fuck, Stu,” Billy moans, his favorite sound in the whole damn world.
He puffs his cheeks as he takes him in more, slowly sliding up and down, up and down, tracing every little vein with the tip of his tongue while his fingers slide around the base to stroke where his mouth can’t reach.
Stu’s eyelids flutter as Billy’s nails drag over his scalp down to the base of his neck and back again, before pressing him down, greedy for more.
Both make a choked sound as he hits the back of Stu’s throat, presses against it again and again until tears prick the corner of Stu’s eyes and he pops off with a slick sound. His hand never stops stroking when he snaps for air, and the moment his lips close back around Billy’s dick he can taste the precum mixing with saliva, and it’s all he needs to keep sucking, stroking, huffing sharp puffs of air against the hair on Billy’s base.
“Yeah, god, keep going,” Billy pants, rocking into him in a slow, steady rhythm. Stu is more than happy to keep going. What else would he be doing, there’s just this, just them, and–
Stu nearly yelps when Billy slides a foot back between his leg, but he gratefully grinds against it, against the firm leather of his boot, and the friction is almost too much to bear. He’s been wired all fucking day, and it almost sends him over the edge when he looks up and sees Billy slamming his head against the wall, his throat exposed.
A dark blush colors his neck and cheeks, and Stu thinks he might be pretty close himself. He‘d better be, since Stu assumes they’re already at the top of the wheel and probably on their way down soon. And he sure isn’t going to lose this bet, either.
So he keeps grinding, keeps looking at the boy he loves while swirling his tongue around the wet tip of his dick and humming against it.
“Fuck, fuck–” Billy pants, his eyes darting between Stu’s swollen lips and wet eyes, and he grimaces, and Stu knows it’s game over. “So good, you’re so– unghh– fuck–”
Billy’s hips stutter as he shoots straight down Stu’s throat, hot and thick, and Stu swallows it, tries to make as little mess as possible while still grinding against Billy’s leg and moaning around his pulsing cock. He swallows again as he pops off, licking his lips to savor every last drop, and then Billy hooks a thumb under his chin to angle his head up.
“Look at me,” he whispers, a low, throaty command as he strokes his thumb along Stu’s now quivering lips. “Keep going.”
The words send a blazing shiver up his spine.
“Fuck, Billy–”
He’s hot and cold, doing as he’s told, keeping his gaze glued to Billy’s fluttering lashes as he rocks against him, hands wrapped around his waist.
“C`mon mutt, almost there…”
Billy‘s leg presses forward as he leans over close enough that Stu feels the warmth of his breath against his lips. As he tries to close the gap, Stu’s brows pull into a trembling line, but Billy stops him short.
“Such a fucking good boy,” he whispers, and stifles Stu’s moan with a kiss as he cums into his pants. So much for not making a mess.
Billy’s tongue finds its way into Stu’s mouth like he’s trying to suck out his last breath of air, and hums in tune with his broken whine as he grinds it out in a slow, shuddering wave. Stu huffs out a sigh when their lips part, but they barely have time to wipe their mouths and button up Billy’s jeans before they reach the bottom of the ride.
When they stumble off the platform, both bracing themselves against the railing like they just got off a rollercoaster, Stu can no longer bite down the manic giggle crawling up his throat.
Seems like Mommy Fortuna was right about one thing in the end. Billy was going to be the death of him.