Archive of Our Own

Billy wakes up because he knows somebody is watching him.

It’s one of those annoying survival instincts that he’s sure could come in handy eventually— like if somebody were to break into his house, or maybe stalk him through his windows like Michael Myers. As of now, though, the only person stalking him is in his bed. As he always is, the god damn voyeur. 

Stu is staring at him with his face engulfed by shadow, only visible features being his blue eyes— wide in the face of the darkness, his pupils large and blown. He’s sitting upright, straight as an arrow, as if he jolted out of sleep. Billy notices a barely visible sheen of sweat on his face as his own eyes adjust to the darkness. He’s sure Stu would look scary right now to somebody who hasn’t seen him on his back crying like a hurt dog. Scary to a victim, maybe— but no good killer shows their face to their prey, so what business would they have seeing him like this in the first place? He thinks of Stu with his mask pulled to the side, smiling with all his teeth and his sea-blue eyes swallowed by black holes. He thinks of all the destruction and consumption that’s occurred by their hands. Blood coagulating on skin. Knives sinking into soft flesh. Snakes and mice.

That is to say, all of these thoughts leapfrog off of each other within the span of five or ten seconds, leaving him staring at Stu’s increasingly more uncomfortable frame in silence for a bit longer than he should. Sometimes it feels like his mind is catching up on all the thoughts it missed out on thinking while he slept, the way it runs off with itself when he wakes. He figures that’s why he gets weird and poetic in the mornings, thinks himself into frenzies, even though it can’t quite be called that right now; the clock says it’s only two and the moon is still high in the sky. 

He doesn’t move from his spot. It’s like they’re playing chicken. “Need a camera to make it last longer?” He asks, snark amplified by the sleep coating the edges of his voice. He has to think of some pretty awful stuff to stop himself from smiling at the embarrassment he can see on Stu’s face, even in the darkness. Moonlight bounces off the edges of his body, outlining him in white light; he’s pretty like this, though Billy would rather be hanged than state that to his face. 

“Sorry,” Stu says, obviously sheepish, maybe nervous, “I woke up and I guess I was thinkin’ without paying attention to what I was looking at.” His bare shoulders (Stu never sleeps with a shirt, says he gets hot in his sleep, Billy always keeps his on) have ridden up a little, he’s obviously tense. 

“Or you’re just a creep.” He gives up on his efforts and lets a small smile come to his face, it sneaking up on him without him meaning it to. Banter and tease, go in for the kill, push and prod at that bruise until submission. “You stare at the chicks you fuck after they fall asleep, too?” 

Stu huffs, “Man, you’re mean,” but doesn’t deny it. If Billy wasn’t paying attention, he wouldn’t notice just how preoccupied he seems— but he’s always been too observant for his own good. Maybe a little too curious, as well. But this is good for Stu, probably, and he always gives in easy. The guy can’t keep anything in his head. He’s not much of a fighter— not like Billy is. He likes to submit to Billy without a fight, likes making Billy happy. It would be really annoying if it wasn’t sexy as fuck to have a 6’3 man reduced to tears below him. 

Right. He’s getting distracted. Go in for the kill. “What is it,” he says, a question without the tone of a question, because he knows Stu has something on his mind that he wants to say without saying. He wants to make Stu ashamed for bothering him, even if he’s not that mad. It’s all about appearances. There are two varying forces in his brain, trying to determine how Stu should be treated, an angel and devil on his shoulder determining his cruelty. 

He watches Stu rub the back of his neck, listens to him laugh softly. “Just had a dream, ya know?” How predictable, he thinks, ready to make his educated guess on what sort of dream could possibly have him sweating and laughing, so restless, like a man horribly guilty. 

It’s not a surprise when his eyes drift to roughly where Stu’s dick would be to see a subtle rise in the blanket. “Yeah? About?” 

“Don’t remember. Must not have been anything special.”

Of course he’s lying through his teeth, but he can’t lie to Billy like he thinks he can, and it kind of pisses him off that he’s trying. “You think so?” He sits up, then, tone disbelieving. 

“Yeap,” Stu says, brings his eyes away from Billy’s. 

Billy rolls his eyes and stretches his arms over his head casually, purposefully lets his shirt ride up just a touch, something he’s learned to do from Stu, the fucking slut. He resigns tracking Stu with his gaze from out of the corners of his eyes, like he isn’t even worth the time. “I’m sure you’re a great liar to somebody who doesn’t spend practically every day with you.” It comes out snide and shitty, just as he planned.

Stu fidgets with the blanket like a pet caught tearing up the sofa. It’s a funny sight. “Whatever, dude— why’s it matter, huh?“

Billy scoffs. “Don’t pick up that tone with me, asshole, you’re the one having wet dreams next to me.” It’s strange for Stu to be ashamed like this, he’s usually so unabashed about his sexual conquests. Maybe he really does feel bad. The Devil on Billy’s shoulder laughs in his ear. 

“I can’t help it! A man’s got needs!” Stu may as well be pouting. It invokes some strangely wrathful feeling in Billy, urged to tear him apart for no real reason. He’s so fucking pathetic right now, pitiful and easy to destroy. “You wanna give me a quickie or what?”

“You’re such a pervert,” He murmurs, ‘cause Stu really is quite the brute— he’s lucky to have Billy because he can’t think of a woman who would want to be with the guy for very long, not to mention satisfying his ravenous appetite. He doesn’t want to think about the implications of that thought, what that makes him for staying with Stu and fucking him every other day (at least), cursing his subconscious. 

He watches the whites of Stu’s teeth as he smiles. “Just how you like me, baby.” 

It’s the same self-assured tone he always has right before they start fucking, he can pinpoint it from hearing it in bathroom stalls, behind the bleachers like some fucking cheerleader, in this very room—

It happens in what feels like the span of a second— suddenly Stu is on him and he’s on Stu and they’re kissing and he couldn’t for the life of him tell you who initiated it. He’d like to believe it wasn’t him for his own peace of mind. 

Stu pulls Billy onto his lap far easier than he should be able to, and fuck, maybe Billy’s the pervert because he’s already hardening in his boxers.

He’ll always make note of Stu’s long fucking tongue when they kiss like this. It’s not not sexy, it’s just kind of strange to have the freaky thing all in his mouth. Hell, Stu may as well be showing it down his throat, the freak. 

He wouldn’t call Stu an aggressive kisser by any means— in fact, he always kisses like he’s holding himself back from something, like he’s trying his best to be delicate— but he’s definitely intense. He doesn’t waste any time trying to feel out Billy’s entire mouth, no matter how many times they do this. Over the teeth, under the tongue, even trying to feel the ridges of the roof of his mouth; it’s kind of a pattern. Billy tries not to be as forthright with it all, he would hate to look too eager— though he does fall victim to laving over Stu’s canines every once in a while, liking to map out the sharp points. He bites Stu’s lip in the way he likes, relishing in the little noise he makes into his mouth. 

Billy puts his hand on Stu’s shoulder, coasting his thumb over the area between neck and blade. He recalls the way it felt to put his teeth there, feels the ghost of indents in the shape of his mouth. 

He doesn’t realize he hasn’t been breathing until Stu pulls away with force, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The spit string that connects their mouth glistens in the light and it’s frankly obscene. His cock twitches and he feels especially like a high schooler on prom night for getting worked up over something so silly. “Fuck, man,” Stu pants, starting to laugh again. Everything’s funny to him, and Billy wishes he could see what’s so hilarious. He guesses it’s knee-jerk— he bets Stu doesn’t even think about it. He’s sure Stu doesn’t think about a lot of the things he does, and that must be a privileged existence. Or maybe he doesn’t know as much about Stu as he thinks he does, and he has to shut down that thought before it makes him sick.  He yearns to crack his head open against the wall and read his thoughts forever, sort through them like little files. Life could never be this easy, though, especially not for him, so fuck it. 

He grinds his hips against Stu’s just to get a reaction out of him, listens to him gasp against his cheek. Their faces are so close and he’s just looking, looking, trained on the single freckle forming on Stu’s face from his time in the sun. He’s a pretty boy, objectively, has all the right features and not a bad dick to match. That’s probably how girls get past the personality. 

“Why do I let you keep doing this?” He sighs, rolls his hips again, has no real bite in his voice. 

Stu makes a choked out little sound and tips his head back, exposes his neck like the submission of an animal. Billy has to wage war with himself to stop himself from biting the expanse of skin. “Dunno,” he sighs, smile apparent in his voice.

Billy reaches between their bodies and puts a hand over Stu’s neck in warning, not squeezing, just a subtle pressure. He likes to feel the veins jump and throb under his palm, a soothing rhythm. “Shut up, let’s get this going.” 

“You love my foreplay, babe,” Stu giggles, teasing. “I’m a gentleman!” He turns his head back down and Billy lets up on his throat, sliding that hand down to his chest.

Billy scoffs. “Yeah, right. Let’s ask that to all the girls you’ve slept with.” He would list a name, but he couldn’t remember them with a gun to his head. They don’t matter to him. He just likes to bring them up as a point against Stu— it has nothing to do with any possible jealousy, like one would assume. He has everything he could want right here.

Stu fake-frowns, shaking his head. “Low blow, man.” 

“Would you start doing something before I lose my boner?” 

“Impatient, impatient, jeez!” Stu huffs. “Whatever you ask, your majesty— get off me so I can grab the lube, would ya?” 

Billy reluctantly clambers off him, thinking about taking his shirt or maybe his boxers off— then decides he’ll let Stu do it for him. He thinks Stu likes doing this kind of stuff for him, or maybe he just likes to do it because he knows Billy does. It doesn’t really matter. 

Stu clicks his tongue at the same time he pops open the container of lube— the one he got from the sex shop, the day he made a point out of telling a story about how the cashier was hitting on him. Billy had him bent over with a cut along the expanse of his back that day. Stu would probably quit provoking him if he didn’t like it, but he’s some sort of sick pervert who can’t help himself, Billy guesses.

Stu glances over at Billy, raises his eyebrows, and pops the container closed again. He goes ahead and sets it next to Billy, scooting forward and tugging at his waistband for him. Billy lifts his hips and tries not to make a face at the feeling of his erection hitting the open air. Stu takes his shirt off for him next, tossing it off to the side somewhere. He leans back against the headboard and pretends to be unbothered, wishing Stu would take himself out of those ratty ass sweats so they could be equal. He hands Stu the lube again and focuses on a point slightly over his shoulder. He always gets a little nervous right around this point, and he can feel the cold hitting every inch of his skin. Stu loves to keep it chilly as hell in his huge fucking house, Billy can’t imagine their heating bill. 

Stu leans in and presses a little kiss to his jaw while he slicks up his fingers, Billy opening his legs a little wider. His face is burning up and he can only hope it’s not visible in the dark. No matter how many times they do this, it’ll never get less embarrassing. Stu pushes the first finger in, and as always, it’s just kind of strange. It’s also strange being entirely naked during sex, it’s been a while since they’ve done that. The headboard is cold against his bare back, but Stu’s fingers are pleasantly warm— which is good, because last time he put them in cold Billy didn’t let him live it down for a week.

Stu’s not one to waste time, never has been, so he’s quick to hit that sweet little button that makes Billy grit his teeth to avoid making an embarrassing noise. He actually checked out a book about male anatomy a while back— learned it was called the /prostate/. He couldn’t tell you what it does currently, not with Stu shoving a second finger into him, but he knows it’s important somehow and you can get cancer in it. Pretty embarrassing to get ass cancer, he thinks, and has to will himself not to start grinning. It’s something Stu would find hilarious; he’ll tell him in the morning. Things stop being funny really fast when Stu takes two fingers to his prostate and one to his cock, cupping his balls and giving them a squeeze. He huffs out a hot breath through his teeth and throws his head back against the headboard with a thunk. 

“Quit that shit,” he growls. “Ah— I don’t need you fucking around.” He can admit when he’s being a little harsh, but his cock is hard against his stomach and smearing precum over his abdomen and that’s mortifying in its own way. 

“Soooorry Billy,” Stu drags out, but it’s so obvious he doesn’t mean it, because he’s smiling. He adds a third finger, and it’s all a little fast, but that’s how Billy likes it. The undertone of pain is wonderfully grounding, stops him from freaking himself out and keeps his mind from wandering. Pain has always been a too-satisfying thing for him, maybe he’s a masochist or maybe he’s some fucked up mental person. It’s probably both. It’s neither here nor there. Stu drags his fingers lovingly over his prostate one more time before pulling them out. 

Billy isn’t a fan of the noise that comes out of his mouth, even while it’s closed. It’s an involuntary thing, like shivering at the loss of a fire in the cold. “Yeah, baby, I know,” Stu says, moving backwards a little. “Lie down against the pillows?” He asks, and Billy doesn’t need to be told twice, pushing himself forward a little more to lie down. Stu makes his way on top of him, sort of shuffling around awkwardly for a minute— it would be decidedly unsexy if they weren’t so used to this kind of stuff. Nobody ever tells you how awkward trying to get into position is when it’s not a “heat-of-the-moment” thing. 

Stu braces both of his elbows against the bed next to Billy’s shoulders, sloppily kissing his neck— more like a dog happy to see its owner than a tangible kiss. “Oh, good ol’ missionary, huh? What am I, your mormon wife?” Billy asks, snickering under his breath. 

“Too old for that, buddy.” 

“That’s fucked up, quit it, you’re gonna kill my boner.” He scoffs, wrapping his arms around Stu to feel the bumps of his spine before dropping them again.

Stu laughs hot against his throat. “You started it.” 

“Would you hurry it up? It’s getting late. I’m already gonna have to pound a Jolt in the morning because of you.” 

“I’m gonna pound you in a sec.” Stu retorts, grin obvious in his voice. 

Billy rolls his eyes and tries to shrug off his blush. “God, I hope so.” He knows he sounds impatient, and that’s because he is getting impatient. He’s been sitting here with his dick out getting into missionary like a loving wife and having to listen to Stu’s sass for what feels like hours. Though, one thing is bothering him about these logistics:

“You forgot to take your pants off.” Billy says. Stu pauses for a second. “I was waiting for you to notice.” 

He awkwardly leans back, switching to kneeling, and clears his throat. “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” 

For a second or two, they’re just looking at each other in silence. Then, a smile comes to Stu’s face slowly, and he’s laughing and Billy is laughing and it’s so stupid. “How do you forget that, man?” He asks, too fond for his own good. 

“I’unno, okay?! Yo, I’m tired!” Stu yells, and Billy sits up to halfheartedly punch his arm while he awkwardly shuffles out of his leftover clothing. For a brief moment, they’re normal teenagers. They’re not sodomizing psychos, but they’re highschoolers bumbling around and staying up late. Billy can almost forget about everything troubling him, and it makes him scared. He’s overcome with the strange urge to run, to make this difficult, not give it up like a bitch, make Stu regret this—

Stu reaches into the drawer, moves something to the nightstand, and he guesses it’s the lube, hears Stu slick his cock up, and Billy is thinking: wait, didn’t he already have the lube next to him? 

He doesn’t have time to think about what Stu grabbed, because he’s pushing Billy down into a laying position by his chest and pushing his cock into his ass at the same time. It forces all the air out of him and has him gasping through his teeth in an attempt to remedy that. “Stu—“ he croaks, grabbing onto the headboard behind him. He doesn’t know when Stu got back into position, but they’re chest to chest and he’s burying himself to the hilt way too fucking fast. “Hah— oh, fuck—!” The sweet tendrils of pain twist into the pleasure, inseparable. He slams his fist into the headboard behind him. 

Stu is looking into his eyes but he isn’t registering it, not registering much of anything past vague shapes. His brain goes to static for a second like a TV with the antennas switched the wrong way, using one of his hands to scrabble at Stu’s arm. He’s saying something, but Billy isn’t listening, just listening to his heart pumping in his ears; he feels Stu pulse inside him and convinces himself that he’s hearing Stu’s blood, too. Each cycle of his aorta closing and opening brings a new wave of subtle pain, ‘cause Stu definitely didn’t stretch him out enough— but Billy rushed him for a reason. 

An outsider would be concerned for him, the way he’s hissing and white-knuckling whatever he can get his hands on, but there’s a good reason why outsiders don’t sit and watch people have sex. Really, Billy loves this, even if he’ll hate himself in the morning. He’ll make up for it. He’ll scamper off for a few days. It doesn’t matter right now. He needs Stu impossibly deeper inside of him, even if he’s already way too deep, even if Billy feels fucking impaled. He chokes on nothing when Stu pulls out only to slam back in, arching his back to the point he hears something in his spine crack. 

Thank fucking god Stu’s parents are never home, because if it wasn’t for any of the other noise, the steady thunk, thunk, thunk of the headboard against the wall as Stu establishes a rhythm would raise some eyebrows. “Fuck— pup’s eager, huh?” He mocks once he stops seeing Stu through spots. The pain is subsiding, and he starts to miss it before it’s even gone— but the fullness doesn’t go away. 

“You have no idea,” Stu laughs, makes a point to lock eyes with him. Billy can’t breathe. 

He settles on closing his eyes tight so he doesn’t have to watch Stu’s picture perfect fucking face above him. He’s really the kind of guy they would make paintings about in medieval wherever-the-fuck, which in today’s terms means he would be a perfect subject for a film, really. 

Something swells in his chest, big and warm and threatening to close his throat up, so he lifts his hips a little to force Stu to hit that special little spot— because he needs to stop thinking about it. It’s a strain on his legs, and it’s close, but it’s just shy of enough. It’s still worth it every time Stu rolls his hips forward and sends electric shocks right up to his brain. Maybe one day it’ll totally fucking fry him and he won’t have to worry about anything anymore. It would be a lot more appealing if he didn’t have a job to do. His thoughts are coming in bursts between each thrust, stopping and starting in succession, but he kind of wishes they would stop coming all together. He’s really, really close to getting to that point, he just needs a little more. 

Before he can reach for his own twitching cock, Stu entirely pulls out of him. “What the fuck are you doing?” He asks, eyes snapping open, and he sounds insanely pathetic. Stu isn’t directly above him anymore, (which might be a blessing, looking into Stu’s eyes kept making his stomach flip) instead on his knees between Billy’s spread legs.

“I don’t think I’m hitting it like this,” Stu whines, and yeah, he’s right, but god damnit. “I got an idea, anyway,” he says, hiking one of Billy’s legs up over his shoulder. Billy wishes the guy would stop throwing him around tonight, it’s a quick way to get his ass beat later. 

“Jesus christ, what a kind lover you are.” He huffs, pretty sure Stu’s just trying to hold off on being a prejac.

Stu clicks his tongue. “I’m tryna help you out here, man.” 

“Whatever, you’re just scared of being a quick sh—ot—“ His sentence gets clipped at the end, and fuck, a warning would be nice, or at least the decency to wait for him to finish his sentence. “God damnit, Stu—!” He yells, getting no time to acclimate, and it’s entirely too much, which ends up being just enough. Stu clutches at his hips to bring them up a little, and at this angle he’s smacking his prostate head on. His head hits the pillow hard enough to make an audible noise, and he has to throw an arm over his mouth to muffle the sound that tumbles out of his mouth. He can’t keep still, hand moving from Stu’s arm to the headboard to the sheets rapidly. The grip on his hip Stu has is probably going to fucking bruise, god damnit. 

Stu laugh-moans, other hand scrambling to reach something— what he put on the nightstand earlier— and Billy pries his eyes open just in time to catch a glimpse of something shiny before the cold press of metal hits his neck. “What the fuck?” He growls, because there’s no way Stu has a fucking knife to his neck, he has to be imagining things. 

Stu just grins, all teeth. “Don’t move,” he says, breathy— a warning. On second thought, he’s sure Stu is thinking about what he’s doing. This is a real Chekov’s Gun moment, right? He can’t even appreciate the foreshadowing of the whole moment, too distracted by the snapping of Stu’s hips forcing his mind into the moment.

“You fucking bitch,” he says, shifting up the bed a little with each of Stu’s violent thrusts. He knew he was wrong to let this happen, give him an inch and he takes a mile and all of that, but he’s so out of his head, focusing on being still, not twitching, trying not to get his throat cut open, he can’t think about being angry for too long. Even worse, the thought of Stu slipping and severing his carotid artery has his cock twitching against his stomach. It doesn’t help that he’s hitting the bullseye every time, digging his blunt nails into the sensitive spot behind his knee, overwhelming him with sensations. Through his fluttering eyelashes, he can see that Stu is really sweating now, gasping and moaning through his manic laughter. “You’re such— a, hah, fuck— a dick,” he snarls. 

“Not a nice thing to say to the guy holding the knife, baby!” Stu shouts, full of energy now, all pretenses from earlier dropped. 

It dawns on him: he’s been playing right into Stu’s hand this whole fucking time. He doesn’t even know if Stu knows that. 

“Fucking psycho,” Billy pants, glaring as hard as possible at Stu. There’s anger bubbling and boiling under his skin with nowhere to go, he’s so restless with nowhere to move. He can’t believe the freak has the balls to pull this off. Stu just presses the edge of the blade into his skin harder— a silent threat. Billy tenses his jaw. He just has to take it. Fuck, that shouldn’t be so hot.

“I could bring a whole new meaning to fucking your throat right now, right?” He takes his hand off Billy’s leg, trusts it to stay hooked over his shoulder, and yanks Billy’s hair to force his head back a little further. This is surely not good for his neck, he can feel it scream at him from the extension, but he doesn’t really care, back arching off the bed entirely. “Fuck, such a pretty boy, just wanna saw you open and make a new hole to fuck,” he babbles, crazed. It’s positively filthy, shit Stu only says when he gets in one of his moods, but usually Billy can sense when one of those are coming on and plan a way to still feel in control— this is so out of left field it has him feeling entirely helpless.

And worst of all, with this now-warm knife to his neck, this ache from the effort of being so tense, the burning of his scalp from the vice grip on his hair, and the pure bliss running up and down his spine— he really can’t say he hates it. This is what he wanted— an entirely blank mind, out of control, kicked into survival mode where the only thought is the same as a deer in headlights: don’t move. 

He barely even swallows, afraid of his adam’s apple bobbing too hard and catching the knife. “Shit, you like that, don’t you?” Stu laughs when he sees Billy’s dick twitch again, unmistakable hunger lacing his tone. He’s lost his fucking mind, and Billy thinks he isn’t far behind. Every harsh push of his hips makes Billy’s fingers twitch, gripping onto the pillow with one hand and the headboard with the other. His soft, bickering act from earlier is entirely replaced by what they really are: Sodomizing murderers, just full of teenage hormones. 

He doesn’t even want to try and touch himself when Stu’s acting like a fucking maniac, but he needs more. He really can’t help it, he feels like a chick trying to baby trap her boyfriend when he wraps his free leg around Stu to try and get him deeper, closer, just to reach that peak. There’s nothing left to do but give in. Every part of his body is impossibly tight, coiling and coiling like a spring ready to release its energy, he just has to get there.

Not expecting it, Stu jolts forward a little, grip loosening on Billy’s hair. “Oh, shit—!” He yelps, non-knife wielding hand scrambling to grab his leg before it falls off his shoulder, and Billy feels it— the slightest breach of his skin, like a cat scratch. It would probably sting more if it wasn’t for the adrenaline coursing through him, but it’s there. It can’t be deeper than a bit of the dermis, obviously nothing serious, but oh fuck if it isn’t the most enticing danger he’s ever held with his two hands. It’s pure primal fear. The knife clatters down somewhere.

The sharp pain, the shock, and the pure intensity of Stu’s cock hitting that sweet spot over and over is a combination that turns his orgasm from a gradual build to being hit-by-a-bus sudden. His jaw goes slack but he makes no noise, calf muscles starting to cramp from being so taut, and he grabs the back of Stu’s head to force him into a sloppy kiss so he can have something to do with his mouth, though it’s more like teeth clacking and tongues scrambling to touch each other than anything. They’re inhaling each other’s every exhale, entirely intwined in every sense, no end and beginning to separate them, perfect pain and pleasure and nothing, nothing, nothing. 

Stu stills and erratically pumps into him an amount of times Billy couldn’t count with a gun to his head, ‘cause that’s beyond him, and spills thick and hot inside him. He just feels warmth, softness, and the concept of light, somehow, engulfing his body.

His cells are starting to all screech at him from over sensitivity right as Stu winds down. Perfect timing. He sort of starfishes out, eyes closing with a sigh as he’s forced back into his body. 

Some aftershocks are still spreading through his body, radiating from his crotch to the rest of his pelvis. His lips are slick with spit (he really hopes he wasn’t drooling), his muscles all ache, and he’s feeling that tiny cut across his neck. On third thought, he thinks Stu can only think of what he’s doing in the moment— too impulsive and way too horny to think about any future consequences, like how Billy’s gonna cover this up. Fuck. He’s gonna look like such a queer in a turtleneck. 

“You’re such an asshole,” he says between big breaths, opening his eyes back up to look at Stu’s shit-eating grin. He flicks him in the forehead. “Bad dog.”

Stu sighs, pulling out of Billy in a way that seems reluctant. Billy grimaces at the feeling, because he always does. “Yeah, but you like your boys bad, clearly.” It’s so corny he has to turn his nose up. What is he, an 80’s romance love interest? As if. Stu gets to his feet, sighing as he looks over Billy’s exhausted form. He looks sad to have to part from him. “Towel, be back.” 

Billy thinks he’s really gonna kill him. His mind is still fuzzy around the edges, and he’s aware he’s meant to be super fucking pissed right now, but he’s so tired and he’s achy and it’s so much work to be mad. He’s finding it hard to keep his eyes open as much as he wants to, and he’s drifting in and out of sleep even while Stu comes in with his big puppy eyes and wipes him off. 

“‘M sorry I cut you,” he says, really sounding remorseful. “I was just trying to scare you a little.” 

Billy scoffs. “Whatever. It is what it is.” He didn’t hate the danger, admittedly, but fuck, the consequences. “But if you do it again, I swear to god, they’ll find you hung up on a tree with your guts around your neck.” 

That’s more like it.

“Aye aye, captain— hey, but you liked it, right?” Stu nudges him, always pushing his luck.

Billy’s face goes red, and he settles for turning over and staring at the wall. “Hand me my boxers, freak.” In these moments, he wishes they were both immortal, just to see what kind of shit Stu could get up to. “Wanna saw you open and make a new hole to fuck,” rings in his mind. Even if he’s really annoying sometimes, Stu really is the only person who could match him. So maybe in his post-orgasmic state he can forgive him for almost slicing his throat open. 

“You were ballsy as hell for that.” He grabs the knife Stu panic-dropped on the floor. “I’m gonna really have to fuck you up for this, you know that, right?” He warns, looking at Stu through his bangs. 

Stu tosses his boxers onto his lap. “Yeah, I know. Looking forward to it, baby.” He stretches his arms over his head before sliding his own boxers on. “Plus, it would be worth it even if you killed me.” 

“I told you to quit saying shit like that.” His nostrils flare as he puts the knife on the nightstand. He imagines stabbing Stu with it right now, right under his ribs, off to the right

“If being honest’s a crime, you can lock me up and throw away the key.” Stu has this bad habit of laughing at his own jokes, and it’s on full display as he croak-laughs at his shitty remark. Billy reaches over and punches him in the arm. “Hey, ow!” 

“Stupid,” Billy sighs and rolls over to give Stu more space to lie next to him. Stu leans back and snuggles up to Billy, putting his arms around his waist. 

Billy is calm. It’s a good feeling, overall. Sure, he’s still aching a little and tomorrow is going to totally suck, but tomorrow Billy can be mad about all of that. For now, he’ll enjoy the sounds of the crickets outside, and he’ll enjoy how soft Stu’s pillows are.

“I was dreaming about you,” Stu says, breaking the silence Billy was ready to sleep in. 

He opens his eyes, rolling over awkwardly to meet Stu’s. “Well, yeah, I could’ve guessed that.” His curiosity outweighs his need to sleep.

“No, man— I mean—“ He stops, starts to laugh again, as if troubled by the absurdity of his own thoughts. “I got some weird dreams.” 

“Yeah?” Billy asks, leaving the metaphorical door open, curiosity piqued. He’s awake again now. 

Stu takes a second that Billy thinks is going to be him backing out, but he keeps speaking, which is an obvious choice in hindsight. Billy doesn’t think the guy can feel shame. He thinks all of the humiliation that he appeared to feel earlier may have just been another one of his performances. Really, great actor potential. “Like, real violent ones— y’know?” He smiles, even though he sounds anxious. “Sometimes I die, sometimes someone else dies, like my parents or some chick or your parents, and sometimes—“ He swallows. Billy has a feeling he knows the next word that’s going to come out of his mouth. “A lot of the time, now—“ Billy thinks he can hear the musical sting crescendoing. “It’s you.” 

He’s not surprised, but he wants to keep Stu talking, the sick bastard, so he asks: “What?” In that quiet, tense voice he likes to put on for show, forces his eyes a little wider. 

“Yeah— I mean—“ Stu reaches a hand up and scratches right behind his own ear, pulls at his lobe, nervous, nervous, nervous. Vulnerable from the afterglow and the late hour, saying things that he could only ever say to Billy— only now, in the dark. “I’m in one of our matching costumes, too, and I’m right outside your house.” 

Billy is listening far more adamantly than he should be. “Yeah?” He lets the mask fall a little, more enthralled than scared; he curses himself for his stupidity but doesn’t change anything. He’s not acting like he should be, he knows, he should be cursing Stu for daring to leave marks on his body, he should be pissed that Stu is having wet dreams about killing him, he should be pissed about so much and he isn’t.

“And I come up your stairs, and I wait behind the door,” his voice has taken on a different tone to it, like the one he uses over the phone with the voice modulator, strangely seductive, “‘n’ I pounce.” 

Billy’s breath is bated as he listens, not wanting to talk, not wanting to interrupt any of it. 

“I have a a little fun, course, some cuts here and there, your side ‘n’ your shoulder, places you love to cut me,” he speaks fondly, now, clearly remembering their little scuffles. “I always cut you open in the same way—“ His hand reaches down, makes the muscles in Billy’s stomach jump as he traces his index up past his abdomen  right up to the end of his sternum. “Groin to sternum, baby. Let all your guts spill out while you’re still breathing.”

Billy doesn’t realize how shallow his breathing has become until he feels the rising and falling of his chest reflected under Stu’s finger. “You can never push me off, between the blood loss and the fact I’m just too strong for you in the moment, no matter how hard you claw— little kitty’s not fierce enough for ol’ Stu. Too weak. Too sad.” He’s getting ahead of himself and Billy should be kicking his ass, but he feels paralyzed where he lies, reflected in the dark holes of Stu’s dilated eyes.

“I can never make it last, y’know, all that stuff about gratification and impulsivity you say about me is true. I know you deserve better, don’t be mad, ‘kay?” He takes his hand away to put his thumb against Billy’s throat, pulse jumping in his arteries. “But, then to end it all off, I slit your throat,” he traces over the sensitive and inflamed scratch already starting to heal over his bobbing adam’s apple, “but I make sure you’re looking me in my eyes while I do.” His voice has dropped down to a whisper, giddy excitement threatening to bubble out from the surface. There’s a joke here somewhere about Freddy Krueger, but he can’t open his worthless mouth to say anything. He wishes he understood how Stu manages to get back into character like this, he should be fucking beat. 

Billy’s hard again, damn his fucking stamina, he wants to jump Stu right here and tear his throat out with his teeth. Fuck, maybe let it be the other way around— he can’t think about it, shame fills him and he’s ten times more aroused. “‘N’ you’re so scared,” Stu says at Billy’s silence, “hear it in your voice— wish you could see your own face, ‘cause you look fuckin’ terrified. But I don’t feel bad.” He’s not sure when their faces got so close, but Stu’s breath is hot against his face. “‘Cause I fucking love it.” There’s this feral growl underlining his tone that Billy only ever hears when they’re killing, and he wonders if Stu looks like this when he kills, smile wide and sharp, pupils blown wide like a coke addict, getting off on the fear of their victims like prey, fucking insane—

They’re breathing hard against each other’s mouths in silence for a moment. Fuck his aching body, he’s going for another round. Billy closes the gap and captures his mouth in a kiss, starving all over again. He’s so screwed, dizzy with arousal and losing his fucking mind, ‘cause he can’t stop what he just started, can’t close Pandora’s box, and he can’t stop thinking about that fucking knife against his neck in this new context. Letting Stu have this power is so fucking stupid, he shouldn’t be encouraging this behavior, but it feels like all the blood meant to be in his brain has rerouted itself to his dick. He’s so tired and he’s tired of being in control, okay? Is that a crime? You know what else is a crime? Murder. He just wants his head quiet for a second, he’ll make up for it all tomorrow. 

He wants Stu inside him again but exhaustion is already seeping into his bones, so he settles with placing his thigh between Stu’s legs, lets him hump against it like a dog while Billy halfheartedly ruts his clothed cock against what’s probably Stu’s lower thigh. Stu moans into his mouth, sloppy, spit shining around his lips because he’s drooling on himself like a puppy. 

Billy wonders if he looks about the same, convinced he tastes blood blooming in his mouth — he doesn’t know whose it is and he doesn’t care, he’s so carried away, doesn’t even know who bit who hard enough to draw blood. He’s not focused on their kiss, it’s all happening on auto-pilot, all he’s thinking of is chasing that great big release for the second time. It shouldn’t take long. It’s fine to be a quick shot if it’s your second orgasm of the night, right? He’s sensitive. 

“Oh, fuck, Billy,” Stu says between breaths when he pulls away, hands roaming all over his back. He feels like he’s being pumped with electricity over and over, about to short circuit, veins fizzling and popping. 

Billy is going “ah, ah, ah,” under his breath like a slut with every thrust of his hips, but he’s barely registering it. Stu hooks fingers under his knee and forces his leg a little further upwards so he can get more pressure, and it makes him feel so crazy he has to throw the blanket off, watching Stu erratically fuck into his leg with his eyes forced shut. His face is wet, like he’s started crying, and fuck, if that doesn’t do something far worse to him. He tenses his leg just to feel the pain course back through it, moaning through his teeth. He isn’t exactly thinking about the consequences of cumming in his boxers, and he doesn’t think Stu is either, because he makes a visceral noise deep in his throat and spills in his boxers. Billy can tell because he can feel his boxers go damp under his thigh. 

It’s enough for him to stop limiting himself. As he rushes towards his own climax, he gets these visions— Stu cracking his head against the wall to stop his struggling, blood pooling under his abdomen from where the soft skin of his stomach has been split, the cold metal of a knife against his neck, choking, choking on his own blood— 

He grits his teeth as to not make any more noise (it doesn’t stop him from hissing out an “oh, fuck”) and sloppily thrusts a few more times before he hurtles over that beautiful, beautiful ledge. His brain folds in on itself like some shitty origami, bliss pumping through his veins, and his ears fill with the thrumming of his own heartbeat.

He can’t pinpoint how long it goes on, but it feels too long and too short at the same time. He slowly brings his movements to a stop, trying to catch his breath. 

The first thing he does is peel his sticky boxers off and toss them to what he can only hope is Stu’s hamper. Stu follows suit. 

“Worry about it tomorrow?” Stu asks, groggy. 

Billy is too tired to do more than make a little noise he hopes comes off as affirmative. He puts his arms around Stu, melts into him, noses into his shoulder.

It’s gonna hurt when I lose this, he thinks while he absorbs Stu’s warmth.

He forces his exhausted arm to grab the blanket and pull it up over them both. “Yeah, whatever. ‘M still gonna kick your ass for this later.” 

“I’ll mark it on my calendar.” Stu says, sleepy and very obviously sated.

Billy’s pretty satisfied, himself. He’s going to be fucking exhausted in the morning. “Whatever.” 

They lay in silence for a little, with Billy listening to Stu’s breathing and feeling it against his chest. Sleeping entirely naked would usually bother him, but the only thing on his mind right now is how warm he is and how nice it is to have his eyes closed.

“Love ya, Billy.” Stu murmurs. 

If Billy nuzzles into his neck and hums something with the same amount of syllables of “I love you too,” it doesn’t mean anything. 

A little plausible deniability never hurt anyone.