One more Hard Core Logo story
May. 28th, 2006 04:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
exeterlindenPairing: Joe/Billy
Rating: NC-17
Author's notes: Many, many thanks to
secret_garden and bohemian__storm for beta and over-all greatness :) “… In the early years, before Hard Core Logo took off... It was just Billy [and me]… we took care of each other, you know, before the band made any kind of money… when our fucking parents had kicked us out for not going to college and we were living in a fucking rented room on the Downtown Eastside [Vancouver ghetto area, ed.]…“
- Joe Dick, in a 1990 Now interview
Teenage Kicks
He was waiting for Billy when he came home, sitting in their only armchair with his black hat on.
Billy kicked the door open and stepped inside. He had a grocery bag in each hand, a cigarette stub dangling from his lips. He still had his work uniform on, with his employee cap placed firmly on his head, like he had promised his boss it would be. Joe had laughed himself sick the first time he’d seen Billy in that dumbass uniform, but privately he was also pretty damn impressed. Billy could be a charming cat when he chose to; getting a job in customer services when you were sporting a Travis Bickle Mohawk was no mean feat. He’d held that job for three months now, and in the meantime Joe had switched jobs three - soon to be four - times.
Billy kicked the door shut and turned around. He barely acknowledged Joe sitting in the chair before heading for what passed as the kitchen in this dump. Joe listened to Billy putting away the groceries, relieved to hear the clinking of glass, before Billy came back into the room with a beer for each of them. He pressed the sweating, cold bottle into Joe’s hand.
“Why are you home already?”
“Got fired again.”
“Huh.”
Joe grinned. This was why Billy was the fucking coolest. He tipped the bottle back and took a swig. Watched the stretch of pale, clean shaven throat as Billy did the same. Billy had looked so fucking preppie ever since he got that job. Except for the hair cut, of course; that hadn’t changed. He might shave and shower every morning, but at least he hadn’t stopped shaving his head as well.
“You steal the beer?”
Billy kicked off his shoes and sat down on the edge of his bed. “Yeah, got us some food as well, and a bottle,” he loosened his tie and pulled off his cap one-handedly. His Mohawk was squashed flat underneath it, but Billy used his fingers to spike it up some. “I think Walldorf’s getting suspicious, though; might have to stop soon.”
Billy leaned back on his elbows on the bed and looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time. His eyes narrowed. Joe took another long drink, hiding his grin.
“Joe?”
“Uh huh.”
“Joe?”
“Yeah?”
“Take off the hat.”
He made a show of tipping the bottle up to vertical and finishing the beer before taking the hat off and shaking his head like he was the model in some skanky shampoo commercial. He ran his hands over the naked scalp on each side of his head.
Billy shot up off the bed, sloshing beer on the sheets, letting out an agonized howl. “Fuck you! You stole my fucking hair cut! What the fuck, Joe?”
He’d done it right after he came home, while there had still been a little light to see by in the bathroom. It had been a real bitch to do, as well, with their only pair of scissors dull as fuck and no way to see if he’d gotten it right in the back. But Christ, it was worth it to see Billy throw a fucking hissy fit.
He leaned back in his chair, pleased with himself as Billy did a demented dance of frustration in front of him, throwing his beer bottle and kicking their small dining table over with a crash, before shaking it off and coming back over to look at Joe with disbelief.
“I can’t fucking believe you stole my fucking hair cut!”
They both ignored the indignant thumping from their downstairs neighbor. Joe leaned forward in his seat, mock sincere. “But William, I did it out of love. For you.” He fluttered his eyelids. While Billy might be the fucking charmer in this duo when it came to dealing with the rest of the world, it seemed that the only thing that worked on Billy himself was Joe’s very own, home grown, twisted brand of charm.
Billy didn’t quite smile. “Asshole. The Mohawk’s my trade mark.”
“What? ‘You talking to me?'” he imitated Billy like he’d seen him a thousand times in holey tube socks and washed out boxers in front of their bathroom mirror.
Billy did smile, then. “Fuck you.” He came over and grabbed Joe by what was left of his hair, twisting his head around, inspecting the cut. “It’s a crappy job as well, the back’s all fucked up,” Billy said, running a hand through the hair from neck to forehead.
“Well, if you’d share the money you earn in your fucking high position, I could have afforded to get it done at a place, instead of doing it myself,” Joe looked down into his own lap, then closed his eyes. Billy’s hand kept petting down his hair like he’d forgotten he was doing it.
Billy didn’t want to share his wages, but since he got their groceries and their booze and cigarettes most of the time anyway, Joe didn’t really mind. It wasn’t exactly buddies; but since Joe was only getting half a months pay most of the time, and then used it up in half a week, Billy always ended up supplying him with what he needed, anyway. And most of the time he didn’t even bitch about it.
Billy moved his hands, stepped away, “Where’d you put the scissors?”
“Why?”
“You look like some dumbass wannabe. I have to fix the back.”
“Retardo!” Joe shouted after him, but he remained seated when Billy returned from the bathroom with the scissors and a razor.
“So what happened?” Billy moved behind him and started hacking at his hair with the scissors.
“Don’t cut it all off or I’m gonna fucking kill you,” Joe warned, before leaning back a little. “You know the manager I told you about, Mr. Crane?”
He found his packet of cigarettes and got two out, put one in his mouth and held the other up above his head. Billy took it with his lips, his fingers still working at the back of Joe’s neck. Joe held up the lighter as well, listening to Billy first inhaling, and then exhaling contentedly, before moving his hand down to light his own.
“He knocked up a girl when he was very young, sixteen, something like that. He didn‘t want anything to do with it, denied everything, so the girl gave the kid away.” He paused to take a long drag of the smoke. Billy was combing the hair down with his fingers, pulling it a little.
“Back then he didn’t give a fuck, but now he’s a born-again Christian, and the thought of this lost son is just killing him, you know, this lost lamb out there in the big bad fucking world, God knows what happened to him.”
Billy was ah’ing and oh’ing at the right places, but clearly his attention was elsewhere. Joe could feel him exhaling smoke into his hair, on the sensitive skin on his head.
“Other than that he’s pretty fucking pleased with himself, though, so he tries to forget about it; leading his petty fucking life, walking around in rubber boots all day, making sure other people do their job, cutting fucking gills out of stupid fucking trout on an assembly line.”
Billy's fingers were calloused as they brushed against his scalp. Not from working at lumber yards, junk yards, fish packing plants - because Billy was a fucking people person - but from playing his guitar. He played most of his waking hours. Sometimes they’d sit up whole nights, him and Billy, and drink and smoke. Billy’d play the guitar and Joe’d sing and they’d go through almost every song they knew.
“And then one day, as he’s walking the assembly line, he sees this kid,”
“You,” Billy interjected, mumbling around his smoke. Joe ignored him.
“And this kid looks like the fucking Antichrist to him: dyed black hair, ripped shirt, safety pin through one ear, the deal. He watches this kid every day, and every day he hates him a little more. He imagines that he’s one of those Satan worshippers.”
He reached up to finger the safety pin in his left earlobe. Billy brushed the small hairs off the top of his head, he could feel a few of them falling on his face, tickling.
“And then one day, he realizes that this kid’s the same age his son would be now. And as soon as that thought hits him, he suddenly imagines that this, this devil-spawn, looks like him - he looks at the mouth and the nose and imagines he sees some resemblance. And he’s fucking horrified that this thing could be his son, and years of guilt comes back to plague him.”
Joe tapped his ash out on the floor. Billy was using the razor now, he could feel it rasping against his scalp. He'd tell Bill to be careful, except he knew he didn't need to. He slid down in the chair a little, running a casual hand across his crotch.
“He twists in his bed at night, he has horrible nightmares about this kid turning towards him and the kid has his face, and his eyes are all black and he’s laughing, and then everybody at the assembly line turn towards him and they’re all laughing, and he knows deep in his god-fearing heart that this is the devil mocking him, that he is being punished for what he did. And he can’t bear it.”
Billy moved in front of him, looking at his hair assessingly. He took a final drag of his cigarette, dropped it on the floor and stepped on it, “So he makes up some bullshit story to have you fired, so he can forget about it and have some peace?”
“Exactly.”
“Huh. That is some freaky shit.”
And right there was another reason why Billy was the fucking coolest. In reality the manager had caught Joe throwing a butt into the fish grinder. But Billy didn’t give a fuck about that. He would go along with whichever story Joe dished out, coolly, with some amusement. Sometimes he’d make up stories himself, although they were never as elaborate. Sometimes he’d refer to something Joe had said as if it was factual (“Which one? The one who liked little boys, or the one who had fantasies about being eaten?”), and freak out John or Pipe or whoever was around. It was their way of fucking with the rest of the world.
Billy stepped in close once more, close enough that Joe could rest his forehead against his stomach as Billy inspected the back one final time. “Okay, you’re done.”
Billy stepped away again. His uniform consisted of a pair of horrible fucking nylon pants, a white shirt, a red tie, and a name tag that said “Hi my name is:” William, with dark smudged pencil letters, “How may I help you?” Well, Joe was half hard from Billy’s fingers in his hair, Billy’s breath on his scalp, the smell of him. He had a pretty good idea to how Billy could help him.
He pulled his shirt tails slightly apart and spread his legs. Billy’s eyes went down, then flashed back up, “Fuck no, fuck you!”
“Come on, Boisy, you know you want to.”
Billy was susceptible to Joe because Joe had pretty much figured out how to handle him. Billy was a hesitant fuck, a tactician. He needed being pushed about, manhandled, forced to do things before he had a chance to consider. So Joe pushed him about some, dragged him into stuff with Billy straining against the leash. Most of the time he’d come to heel. Most of the time he’d like it, too.
“Fuck no,“ Billy repeated, but less convincingly this time. He was already stepping forward, moving closer. Joe scooted down in the chair, and began unbuttoning his jeans, “I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine…”
And that was all it took; Billy was getting down on his knees in front of him, pushing his fingers away to take care of the rest of the buttons. Joe was wearing a pair of Billy’s boxers because they didn’t have enough of anything not to share. He looked down at Billy’s hands as he carefully edged the elastic band down under his balls. Billy pushed his shirt out of the way, and then cupped him in a big warm hand, grabbed hold of the shaft and jacked him experimentally a few times before leaning in, mouth open.
Billy wasn’t very good at giving head. Yet (if Joe had anything to say about it). It was mostly dry lips awkwardly covering sharp teeth, reluctant tongue lapping out too briefly. But it didn’t need to be particularly good for Joe to get off on Billy sucking him. Especially not when Billy licked his palm and jerked him at the same time. Sometimes he wet a finger and stroked it back and forth from Joe's asshole to his balls while his head bobbed clumsily up and down, out of rhythm.
It was like Billy hadn’t really figured out yet whether he liked it, or maybe whether he was okay with liking it. No matter, Joe had patience. When it came to Billy, Joe had fucking oceans of it. He ran his fingers over the hot skin on the crown of Billy’s head, over the slight, soft stubble of hair.
Sometimes (most of the time) he wanted more, more, more. He wanted Billy’s skinny ass. He wanted to lock them up somewhere private and dark, and touch, kiss, suck, fuck. He clamped down hard on that, though, and not without some perverse pleasure. He only let himself think about it when he was looking down at Billy giving him head, or when he was gasping into his pillow with Billy’s hand wrapped around his cock. Made it even better, made it fucking mind-blowing.
It had started out almost too rough, too dry, but it didn’t take long for Joe to start leaking a little and Billy let go to lick his palm again, adding more wet and jerking him faster now, his hand sliding easily around Joe’s cock.
Joe closed his eyes and remembered Billy walking across the room stark naked except for socks, Billy dripping wet just out of the shower. Billy first thing in the morning, sitting on the edge of his bed sucking on a cigarette, morning wood tenting out his boxers.
He came quickly, spurting come unto his own stomach as Billy pressed his dick down, cupping a hand over his cockhead.
He sprawled out in the chair for as long as Billy let him before kicking him impatiently. He opened his eyes to Billy’s crotch directly in his line of sight, one hand inside his pants, knuckles obvious through the thin material.
“Pig.” Joe took his time gathering himself, mopping up, smoothing down and zipping up.
Billy ignored that, “Time to pay your dues, Joe.”
“All right, but get on the bed. I’m not doing it kneeling on the floor,” Billy might think it was fucking punk to give head on his knees, but when and if it was possible Joe wanted to be comfortable, to have free access. “ - and take off those stupid pants.”
Billy relented, wordlessly dropping the pants and boxers, unfastening the tie, unbuttoning the shirt but leaving it on. He walked over to his bed and let himself fall backwards across the width of it. Joe kicked off his boots before crawling onto the mattress perpendicular to Billy.
He hoisted himself up on his elbows and gave himself a moment to take it in: Billy’s pale torso, ribcage and sunken white stomach. One brown hand cupping himself, the pink shaft of his dick hardening in his loose grasp. Joe realized that he was humming under his breath (“I need excitement, though, I need it bad…”) and made himself stop. He liked giving Billy head, but Billy didn’t need to know that. He cast a sideways glance upwards and Billy was watching him passively, waiting.
All right, then. He batted Billy’s hand away and got to work. Licked up and down the shaft of Billy’s cock, sucked the head in briefly, before turning his attentions to licking wet stripes up and down the underside, closing his mouth around it and flicking his tongue back and forth. None of that dry-lipped stuff, not that this was a competition (anymore than everything else they did, which, yeah, meant that it was).
Joe liked blowing Billy. Joe liked blowing Billy messily: he didn’t care about looking cool or collected, he didn’t give a fuck about any of that porn star shit.
He was drooling and after a little while Billy’s dick was drooling, too, and soon Joe had it like he wanted it: wet and sloppy, spit running down Billy’s cock, spit smeared across Joe’s lips and cooling on his cheeks. He closed his eyes and started giving head in earnest, sucking in the head, then swallowing down as much as he could, gagging, and swallowing again. He pulled back to drag Billy’s cock across his closed mouth and spit-slicked cheeks. He combed his fingers through Billy’s thick, wiry pubic hair, slid his hand up to jack him a couple times as he turned his head and gasped in air.
Above him Billy was finally making some noise. Cursing him, Joe noted gleefully. He leaned back in and went back to work. Unlike Billy, Joe was never straining at the leash.
The whole thing was slippery and messy; tasted and smelled like saliva and come and sweat. And Joe fucking liked it. Billy might not be sure whether he wanted to give it, but there was no way he could run from how much he loved to get it. He might dream about making it big, being a rock star and fucking models, but he was still getting off on sloppy blow-jobs in an Eastside rat hole.
So Joe kept going, eyes closed, his senses narrowed down to his own mouth and the slick, hot skin of Billy’s dick, until suddenly he felt Billy’s fingers run over his face, over his lips, along the jaw line, dipping into the soft skin behind his ears. They lingered there before continuing upwards, ghosting over the naked skin of his head and then settling in what remained of his hair, tugging at it, weakly at first and then more persistent; pulling him away as Billy reached down with his other hand and jerked himself tightly. Joe watched fascinated as Billy squeezed out two, three spurts of watery, almost clear come.
And then it seemed like his other senses tuned back in, and he could hear Billy sighing shakily, sounding released, and he was aware of Billy’s hand still on his head, clutching his hair painfully until his fingers started stretching out, jerkily like Billy had forgotten how to let go. Joe looked up, but Billy had let his head fall back and all he could see was his throat and chin, his Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively as Billy swallowed over and over.
“God.” He finally let go of Joe’s hair, but let his hand slide back, pressed his fingers in between the two tendons at the nape of Joe’s neck. Let them rest there, before running his hand through the length of Joe’s Mohawk and then, right on cue, hitting him in the forehead with the heel of his hand. Before it came too close to a caress, perhaps to remind both of them that they were punks, not fucking fags. So typically fucking Billy.
“Freak. I still can’t believe you stole my fucking hair cut.”
Joe made a noncommittal sound.
“You realize I have to grow mine out, now?”
“Why?” Joe still wasn’t really paying attention, he leaned his forehead against the sharp edge of Billy’s hipbone, thinking shower, jerk off, then maybe dinner.
Billy twisted away from under him, sat up on the edge of the bed, “Well, we can’t both have a fucking Mohawk.” He said it like that was obvious, “and I like it on you.”
Joe raised his head but Billy was already pushing off the bed, finding his boxers. “I got us some eggs today, you want eggs?” Joe groaned into the mattress before swinging his legs down and sitting up, “Yeah, but I want a shower first,”
Billy was walking towards the kitchen, scratching his balls. “Hurry up then, you prissy fuck.”
- Joe Dick, in a 1990 Now interview
Teenage Kicks
He was waiting for Billy when he came home, sitting in their only armchair with his black hat on.
Billy kicked the door open and stepped inside. He had a grocery bag in each hand, a cigarette stub dangling from his lips. He still had his work uniform on, with his employee cap placed firmly on his head, like he had promised his boss it would be. Joe had laughed himself sick the first time he’d seen Billy in that dumbass uniform, but privately he was also pretty damn impressed. Billy could be a charming cat when he chose to; getting a job in customer services when you were sporting a Travis Bickle Mohawk was no mean feat. He’d held that job for three months now, and in the meantime Joe had switched jobs three - soon to be four - times.
Billy kicked the door shut and turned around. He barely acknowledged Joe sitting in the chair before heading for what passed as the kitchen in this dump. Joe listened to Billy putting away the groceries, relieved to hear the clinking of glass, before Billy came back into the room with a beer for each of them. He pressed the sweating, cold bottle into Joe’s hand.
“Why are you home already?”
“Got fired again.”
“Huh.”
Joe grinned. This was why Billy was the fucking coolest. He tipped the bottle back and took a swig. Watched the stretch of pale, clean shaven throat as Billy did the same. Billy had looked so fucking preppie ever since he got that job. Except for the hair cut, of course; that hadn’t changed. He might shave and shower every morning, but at least he hadn’t stopped shaving his head as well.
“You steal the beer?”
Billy kicked off his shoes and sat down on the edge of his bed. “Yeah, got us some food as well, and a bottle,” he loosened his tie and pulled off his cap one-handedly. His Mohawk was squashed flat underneath it, but Billy used his fingers to spike it up some. “I think Walldorf’s getting suspicious, though; might have to stop soon.”
Billy leaned back on his elbows on the bed and looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time. His eyes narrowed. Joe took another long drink, hiding his grin.
“Joe?”
“Uh huh.”
“Joe?”
“Yeah?”
“Take off the hat.”
He made a show of tipping the bottle up to vertical and finishing the beer before taking the hat off and shaking his head like he was the model in some skanky shampoo commercial. He ran his hands over the naked scalp on each side of his head.
Billy shot up off the bed, sloshing beer on the sheets, letting out an agonized howl. “Fuck you! You stole my fucking hair cut! What the fuck, Joe?”
He’d done it right after he came home, while there had still been a little light to see by in the bathroom. It had been a real bitch to do, as well, with their only pair of scissors dull as fuck and no way to see if he’d gotten it right in the back. But Christ, it was worth it to see Billy throw a fucking hissy fit.
He leaned back in his chair, pleased with himself as Billy did a demented dance of frustration in front of him, throwing his beer bottle and kicking their small dining table over with a crash, before shaking it off and coming back over to look at Joe with disbelief.
“I can’t fucking believe you stole my fucking hair cut!”
They both ignored the indignant thumping from their downstairs neighbor. Joe leaned forward in his seat, mock sincere. “But William, I did it out of love. For you.” He fluttered his eyelids. While Billy might be the fucking charmer in this duo when it came to dealing with the rest of the world, it seemed that the only thing that worked on Billy himself was Joe’s very own, home grown, twisted brand of charm.
Billy didn’t quite smile. “Asshole. The Mohawk’s my trade mark.”
“What? ‘You talking to me?'” he imitated Billy like he’d seen him a thousand times in holey tube socks and washed out boxers in front of their bathroom mirror.
Billy did smile, then. “Fuck you.” He came over and grabbed Joe by what was left of his hair, twisting his head around, inspecting the cut. “It’s a crappy job as well, the back’s all fucked up,” Billy said, running a hand through the hair from neck to forehead.
“Well, if you’d share the money you earn in your fucking high position, I could have afforded to get it done at a place, instead of doing it myself,” Joe looked down into his own lap, then closed his eyes. Billy’s hand kept petting down his hair like he’d forgotten he was doing it.
Billy didn’t want to share his wages, but since he got their groceries and their booze and cigarettes most of the time anyway, Joe didn’t really mind. It wasn’t exactly buddies; but since Joe was only getting half a months pay most of the time, and then used it up in half a week, Billy always ended up supplying him with what he needed, anyway. And most of the time he didn’t even bitch about it.
Billy moved his hands, stepped away, “Where’d you put the scissors?”
“Why?”
“You look like some dumbass wannabe. I have to fix the back.”
“Retardo!” Joe shouted after him, but he remained seated when Billy returned from the bathroom with the scissors and a razor.
“So what happened?” Billy moved behind him and started hacking at his hair with the scissors.
“Don’t cut it all off or I’m gonna fucking kill you,” Joe warned, before leaning back a little. “You know the manager I told you about, Mr. Crane?”
He found his packet of cigarettes and got two out, put one in his mouth and held the other up above his head. Billy took it with his lips, his fingers still working at the back of Joe’s neck. Joe held up the lighter as well, listening to Billy first inhaling, and then exhaling contentedly, before moving his hand down to light his own.
“He knocked up a girl when he was very young, sixteen, something like that. He didn‘t want anything to do with it, denied everything, so the girl gave the kid away.” He paused to take a long drag of the smoke. Billy was combing the hair down with his fingers, pulling it a little.
“Back then he didn’t give a fuck, but now he’s a born-again Christian, and the thought of this lost son is just killing him, you know, this lost lamb out there in the big bad fucking world, God knows what happened to him.”
Billy was ah’ing and oh’ing at the right places, but clearly his attention was elsewhere. Joe could feel him exhaling smoke into his hair, on the sensitive skin on his head.
“Other than that he’s pretty fucking pleased with himself, though, so he tries to forget about it; leading his petty fucking life, walking around in rubber boots all day, making sure other people do their job, cutting fucking gills out of stupid fucking trout on an assembly line.”
Billy's fingers were calloused as they brushed against his scalp. Not from working at lumber yards, junk yards, fish packing plants - because Billy was a fucking people person - but from playing his guitar. He played most of his waking hours. Sometimes they’d sit up whole nights, him and Billy, and drink and smoke. Billy’d play the guitar and Joe’d sing and they’d go through almost every song they knew.
“And then one day, as he’s walking the assembly line, he sees this kid,”
“You,” Billy interjected, mumbling around his smoke. Joe ignored him.
“And this kid looks like the fucking Antichrist to him: dyed black hair, ripped shirt, safety pin through one ear, the deal. He watches this kid every day, and every day he hates him a little more. He imagines that he’s one of those Satan worshippers.”
He reached up to finger the safety pin in his left earlobe. Billy brushed the small hairs off the top of his head, he could feel a few of them falling on his face, tickling.
“And then one day, he realizes that this kid’s the same age his son would be now. And as soon as that thought hits him, he suddenly imagines that this, this devil-spawn, looks like him - he looks at the mouth and the nose and imagines he sees some resemblance. And he’s fucking horrified that this thing could be his son, and years of guilt comes back to plague him.”
Joe tapped his ash out on the floor. Billy was using the razor now, he could feel it rasping against his scalp. He'd tell Bill to be careful, except he knew he didn't need to. He slid down in the chair a little, running a casual hand across his crotch.
“He twists in his bed at night, he has horrible nightmares about this kid turning towards him and the kid has his face, and his eyes are all black and he’s laughing, and then everybody at the assembly line turn towards him and they’re all laughing, and he knows deep in his god-fearing heart that this is the devil mocking him, that he is being punished for what he did. And he can’t bear it.”
Billy moved in front of him, looking at his hair assessingly. He took a final drag of his cigarette, dropped it on the floor and stepped on it, “So he makes up some bullshit story to have you fired, so he can forget about it and have some peace?”
“Exactly.”
“Huh. That is some freaky shit.”
And right there was another reason why Billy was the fucking coolest. In reality the manager had caught Joe throwing a butt into the fish grinder. But Billy didn’t give a fuck about that. He would go along with whichever story Joe dished out, coolly, with some amusement. Sometimes he’d make up stories himself, although they were never as elaborate. Sometimes he’d refer to something Joe had said as if it was factual (“Which one? The one who liked little boys, or the one who had fantasies about being eaten?”), and freak out John or Pipe or whoever was around. It was their way of fucking with the rest of the world.
Billy stepped in close once more, close enough that Joe could rest his forehead against his stomach as Billy inspected the back one final time. “Okay, you’re done.”
Billy stepped away again. His uniform consisted of a pair of horrible fucking nylon pants, a white shirt, a red tie, and a name tag that said “Hi my name is:” William, with dark smudged pencil letters, “How may I help you?” Well, Joe was half hard from Billy’s fingers in his hair, Billy’s breath on his scalp, the smell of him. He had a pretty good idea to how Billy could help him.
He pulled his shirt tails slightly apart and spread his legs. Billy’s eyes went down, then flashed back up, “Fuck no, fuck you!”
“Come on, Boisy, you know you want to.”
Billy was susceptible to Joe because Joe had pretty much figured out how to handle him. Billy was a hesitant fuck, a tactician. He needed being pushed about, manhandled, forced to do things before he had a chance to consider. So Joe pushed him about some, dragged him into stuff with Billy straining against the leash. Most of the time he’d come to heel. Most of the time he’d like it, too.
“Fuck no,“ Billy repeated, but less convincingly this time. He was already stepping forward, moving closer. Joe scooted down in the chair, and began unbuttoning his jeans, “I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine…”
And that was all it took; Billy was getting down on his knees in front of him, pushing his fingers away to take care of the rest of the buttons. Joe was wearing a pair of Billy’s boxers because they didn’t have enough of anything not to share. He looked down at Billy’s hands as he carefully edged the elastic band down under his balls. Billy pushed his shirt out of the way, and then cupped him in a big warm hand, grabbed hold of the shaft and jacked him experimentally a few times before leaning in, mouth open.
Billy wasn’t very good at giving head. Yet (if Joe had anything to say about it). It was mostly dry lips awkwardly covering sharp teeth, reluctant tongue lapping out too briefly. But it didn’t need to be particularly good for Joe to get off on Billy sucking him. Especially not when Billy licked his palm and jerked him at the same time. Sometimes he wet a finger and stroked it back and forth from Joe's asshole to his balls while his head bobbed clumsily up and down, out of rhythm.
It was like Billy hadn’t really figured out yet whether he liked it, or maybe whether he was okay with liking it. No matter, Joe had patience. When it came to Billy, Joe had fucking oceans of it. He ran his fingers over the hot skin on the crown of Billy’s head, over the slight, soft stubble of hair.
Sometimes (most of the time) he wanted more, more, more. He wanted Billy’s skinny ass. He wanted to lock them up somewhere private and dark, and touch, kiss, suck, fuck. He clamped down hard on that, though, and not without some perverse pleasure. He only let himself think about it when he was looking down at Billy giving him head, or when he was gasping into his pillow with Billy’s hand wrapped around his cock. Made it even better, made it fucking mind-blowing.
It had started out almost too rough, too dry, but it didn’t take long for Joe to start leaking a little and Billy let go to lick his palm again, adding more wet and jerking him faster now, his hand sliding easily around Joe’s cock.
Joe closed his eyes and remembered Billy walking across the room stark naked except for socks, Billy dripping wet just out of the shower. Billy first thing in the morning, sitting on the edge of his bed sucking on a cigarette, morning wood tenting out his boxers.
He came quickly, spurting come unto his own stomach as Billy pressed his dick down, cupping a hand over his cockhead.
He sprawled out in the chair for as long as Billy let him before kicking him impatiently. He opened his eyes to Billy’s crotch directly in his line of sight, one hand inside his pants, knuckles obvious through the thin material.
“Pig.” Joe took his time gathering himself, mopping up, smoothing down and zipping up.
Billy ignored that, “Time to pay your dues, Joe.”
“All right, but get on the bed. I’m not doing it kneeling on the floor,” Billy might think it was fucking punk to give head on his knees, but when and if it was possible Joe wanted to be comfortable, to have free access. “ - and take off those stupid pants.”
Billy relented, wordlessly dropping the pants and boxers, unfastening the tie, unbuttoning the shirt but leaving it on. He walked over to his bed and let himself fall backwards across the width of it. Joe kicked off his boots before crawling onto the mattress perpendicular to Billy.
He hoisted himself up on his elbows and gave himself a moment to take it in: Billy’s pale torso, ribcage and sunken white stomach. One brown hand cupping himself, the pink shaft of his dick hardening in his loose grasp. Joe realized that he was humming under his breath (“I need excitement, though, I need it bad…”) and made himself stop. He liked giving Billy head, but Billy didn’t need to know that. He cast a sideways glance upwards and Billy was watching him passively, waiting.
All right, then. He batted Billy’s hand away and got to work. Licked up and down the shaft of Billy’s cock, sucked the head in briefly, before turning his attentions to licking wet stripes up and down the underside, closing his mouth around it and flicking his tongue back and forth. None of that dry-lipped stuff, not that this was a competition (anymore than everything else they did, which, yeah, meant that it was).
Joe liked blowing Billy. Joe liked blowing Billy messily: he didn’t care about looking cool or collected, he didn’t give a fuck about any of that porn star shit.
He was drooling and after a little while Billy’s dick was drooling, too, and soon Joe had it like he wanted it: wet and sloppy, spit running down Billy’s cock, spit smeared across Joe’s lips and cooling on his cheeks. He closed his eyes and started giving head in earnest, sucking in the head, then swallowing down as much as he could, gagging, and swallowing again. He pulled back to drag Billy’s cock across his closed mouth and spit-slicked cheeks. He combed his fingers through Billy’s thick, wiry pubic hair, slid his hand up to jack him a couple times as he turned his head and gasped in air.
Above him Billy was finally making some noise. Cursing him, Joe noted gleefully. He leaned back in and went back to work. Unlike Billy, Joe was never straining at the leash.
The whole thing was slippery and messy; tasted and smelled like saliva and come and sweat. And Joe fucking liked it. Billy might not be sure whether he wanted to give it, but there was no way he could run from how much he loved to get it. He might dream about making it big, being a rock star and fucking models, but he was still getting off on sloppy blow-jobs in an Eastside rat hole.
So Joe kept going, eyes closed, his senses narrowed down to his own mouth and the slick, hot skin of Billy’s dick, until suddenly he felt Billy’s fingers run over his face, over his lips, along the jaw line, dipping into the soft skin behind his ears. They lingered there before continuing upwards, ghosting over the naked skin of his head and then settling in what remained of his hair, tugging at it, weakly at first and then more persistent; pulling him away as Billy reached down with his other hand and jerked himself tightly. Joe watched fascinated as Billy squeezed out two, three spurts of watery, almost clear come.
And then it seemed like his other senses tuned back in, and he could hear Billy sighing shakily, sounding released, and he was aware of Billy’s hand still on his head, clutching his hair painfully until his fingers started stretching out, jerkily like Billy had forgotten how to let go. Joe looked up, but Billy had let his head fall back and all he could see was his throat and chin, his Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively as Billy swallowed over and over.
“God.” He finally let go of Joe’s hair, but let his hand slide back, pressed his fingers in between the two tendons at the nape of Joe’s neck. Let them rest there, before running his hand through the length of Joe’s Mohawk and then, right on cue, hitting him in the forehead with the heel of his hand. Before it came too close to a caress, perhaps to remind both of them that they were punks, not fucking fags. So typically fucking Billy.
“Freak. I still can’t believe you stole my fucking hair cut.”
Joe made a noncommittal sound.
“You realize I have to grow mine out, now?”
“Why?” Joe still wasn’t really paying attention, he leaned his forehead against the sharp edge of Billy’s hipbone, thinking shower, jerk off, then maybe dinner.
Billy twisted away from under him, sat up on the edge of the bed, “Well, we can’t both have a fucking Mohawk.” He said it like that was obvious, “and I like it on you.”
Joe raised his head but Billy was already pushing off the bed, finding his boxers. “I got us some eggs today, you want eggs?” Joe groaned into the mattress before swinging his legs down and sitting up, “Yeah, but I want a shower first,”
Billy was walking towards the kitchen, scratching his balls. “Hurry up then, you prissy fuck.”
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