There is a fragility to him now that he does not like, but can’t bring himself to hate. It’s the connection; the unfiltered access to each of his wretched little feelings, all the terrible doubts and thoughts that make up Billy’s patchwork psyche. He tries to keep the worst of it from Eddie’s mind; in turn, he tries his best to stay out of it, too. It’s not always easy; when the emotion is strong, Billy finds himself drifting behind those eyes, finds himself riding the warmth of love, of want, of desire. Sometimes he forgets himself and projects it, too.
It’s becoming a problem, though, because it had been one thing to share their attraction to Steve and make a running joke out of Billy’s crush. Now? Now it’s twice-fold, all guilt ridden and fills him with a wretched kind of longing that aches. And Steve keeps flirting, and so does Eddie, he thinks, and he’s trying so fucking hard to be good.
So he runs away for a couple of days. Says he’s going to do some work on the studio space (he does), says he’s going to make a schedule, make things more streamlined. He does all of this, sure. He also gets high and doesn’t actually film until the third day hits and he’s alone, wearing the most recent shirt he’s stolen from Eddie, staring at the fucking sweater Steve gave him to film with and that stupid, stupid Scoops Ahoy shirt that he kept because he’s nothing if not a glutton for punishment.
He starts the video while on his second joint: it’s a low-level kind of miserable, mostly horny kind of mood that has him setting up, the blunt clutched between his lips as he focuses the camera and then sits back on the bed, running his hand through his hair, sighing. He remembers Steve saying people wanted it to be authentic, if he jacked off with their shirts. The irony is not fucking lost on him.
“You ever just -” he starts, the blunt between his fingers as he blows smoke out. Pauses. Laughs, weak. “You ever just fucking miss someone so bad?”
He leans back on his elbows, let’s the camera get a good view of his thighs; of the curve of his cock through his boxers; the way the shirt rides up over his abs. “Like you smell them and you just - fuck - you wanna be with them so bad?” He tilts his head up, runs that tongue over his teeth and the joint is gonna be a problem if he doesn’t finish it - so he takes another hit, blows upwards, throat constricting on a swallow. “I’m wearing his shirt, you know? Smells like weed, smells like that cheap as shit soap he uses. If I close my eyes I can see him.”
The other hand fingers over the hem of it, drags the fabric up in a twist as he tilts his head down, watches the way his dick twitches in his boxers through the viewfinder screen. He takes another hit, groans low, pathetically needy. “How is it fucking fair that it has to be two of them?”
He puts the joint out after a final hit, reaches up to the side to slide it on his bedside cabinet and then reaches for the sailor shirt, holds it close in a fist and bends to bury his nose in it; the pained look isn’t really acting, because fuck, it does smell like Steve’s cologne and sweat. He can remember vividly the skin to skin, the heat of his back on him. “Do you even know what you do to me?” he asks, soft, like it’s to himself, like he’s forgotten the camera’s even there. He’s lazy moving back onto an elbow; face buried in the fabric, one hand trailing across his stomach, fingertips dragging his shirt up and up to thumb over a nipple, pinching until he tilts his head back on a sigh, wetting his lips, hips canting up.
He knows the wet patch is visible across his boxers; knows how hard he is so fucking obvious. Can’t even pretend to be embarrassed that the smell of them is all it’s taken, really, to get him leaking out and aching. It’s easy to conjure a fantasy; to imagine it’s Eddie’s mouth on his chest, to picture Steve’s breath against his ear. It’s so fucking easy to pretend it’s either one of their hands moving across his skin, down, down, down to palm over his dick. He thinks Steve; can hear Eddie so clearly telling Steve how to make Billy go stupid with sensation. He chokes on a groan, wonders if they’d let him be impatient or if they’d drag this out of him until he begged.
He knows what his audience likes, though, and that’s watching him edge himself over and over. It’s not difficult to picture Eddie might like that too, that Steve might watch him utterly rapt in the way Billy gets desperate, gets loud with the need to come. So he goes slow: keeps the shirt on, keeps Steve’s in a fist as he teases over his boxers, squeezes and palms until his breath is stuttering. Even when he tugs the waist band down and spits into his own hand he’s slow about it: teases the head, thumb over the slit. Tastes his own precome with his eyelashes fluttering. When he’s close the first time, he squeezes the base of his cock tight, back arching in a snap as he cries out a soft pleasepleaseplease.
It’s a cycle; by the fourth, his eyes are wet, cheeks damp as he presses his nose into the blue shirt, hand working faster until he comes hard, hips upupup, sobbing with it.
The black shirt and his stomach is a mess; thighs twitching, hands shaking as he wheezes into the shirt. His dick twitches against his pelvis, like maybe - maybe he could again. He probably could, given fifteen minutes - but he feels wrecked. His face is soaked when he finally sits up, swallowing hard. The video ends with a quiet fuck, then goes black.
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30 / 08 / 22 - VIDEO UPLOAD
It’s becoming a problem, though, because it had been one thing to share their attraction to Steve and make a running joke out of Billy’s crush. Now? Now it’s twice-fold, all guilt ridden and fills him with a wretched kind of longing that aches. And Steve keeps flirting, and so does Eddie, he thinks, and he’s trying so fucking hard to be good.
So he runs away for a couple of days. Says he’s going to do some work on the studio space (he does), says he’s going to make a schedule, make things more streamlined. He does all of this, sure. He also gets high and doesn’t actually film until the third day hits and he’s alone, wearing the most recent shirt he’s stolen from Eddie, staring at the fucking sweater Steve gave him to film with and that stupid, stupid Scoops Ahoy shirt that he kept because he’s nothing if not a glutton for punishment.
He starts the video while on his second joint: it’s a low-level kind of miserable, mostly horny kind of mood that has him setting up, the blunt clutched between his lips as he focuses the camera and then sits back on the bed, running his hand through his hair, sighing. He remembers Steve saying people wanted it to be authentic, if he jacked off with their shirts. The irony is not fucking lost on him.
“You ever just -” he starts, the blunt between his fingers as he blows smoke out. Pauses. Laughs, weak. “You ever just fucking miss someone so bad?”
He leans back on his elbows, let’s the camera get a good view of his thighs; of the curve of his cock through his boxers; the way the shirt rides up over his abs. “Like you smell them and you just - fuck - you wanna be with them so bad?” He tilts his head up, runs that tongue over his teeth and the joint is gonna be a problem if he doesn’t finish it - so he takes another hit, blows upwards, throat constricting on a swallow. “I’m wearing his shirt, you know? Smells like weed, smells like that cheap as shit soap he uses. If I close my eyes I can see him.”
The other hand fingers over the hem of it, drags the fabric up in a twist as he tilts his head down, watches the way his dick twitches in his boxers through the viewfinder screen. He takes another hit, groans low, pathetically needy. “How is it fucking fair that it has to be two of them?”
He puts the joint out after a final hit, reaches up to the side to slide it on his bedside cabinet and then reaches for the sailor shirt, holds it close in a fist and bends to bury his nose in it; the pained look isn’t really acting, because fuck, it does smell like Steve’s cologne and sweat. He can remember vividly the skin to skin, the heat of his back on him. “Do you even know what you do to me?” he asks, soft, like it’s to himself, like he’s forgotten the camera’s even there. He’s lazy moving back onto an elbow; face buried in the fabric, one hand trailing across his stomach, fingertips dragging his shirt up and up to thumb over a nipple, pinching until he tilts his head back on a sigh, wetting his lips, hips canting up.
He knows the wet patch is visible across his boxers; knows how hard he is so fucking obvious. Can’t even pretend to be embarrassed that the smell of them is all it’s taken, really, to get him leaking out and aching. It’s easy to conjure a fantasy; to imagine it’s Eddie’s mouth on his chest, to picture Steve’s breath against his ear. It’s so fucking easy to pretend it’s either one of their hands moving across his skin, down, down, down to palm over his dick. He thinks Steve; can hear Eddie so clearly telling Steve how to make Billy go stupid with sensation. He chokes on a groan, wonders if they’d let him be impatient or if they’d drag this out of him until he begged.
He knows what his audience likes, though, and that’s watching him edge himself over and over. It’s not difficult to picture Eddie might like that too, that Steve might watch him utterly rapt in the way Billy gets desperate, gets loud with the need to come. So he goes slow: keeps the shirt on, keeps Steve’s in a fist as he teases over his boxers, squeezes and palms until his breath is stuttering. Even when he tugs the waist band down and spits into his own hand he’s slow about it: teases the head, thumb over the slit. Tastes his own precome with his eyelashes fluttering. When he’s close the first time, he squeezes the base of his cock tight, back arching in a snap as he cries out a soft pleasepleaseplease.
It’s a cycle; by the fourth, his eyes are wet, cheeks damp as he presses his nose into the blue shirt, hand working faster until he comes hard, hips upupup, sobbing with it.
The black shirt and his stomach is a mess; thighs twitching, hands shaking as he wheezes into the shirt. His dick twitches against his pelvis, like maybe - maybe he could again. He probably could, given fifteen minutes - but he feels wrecked. His face is soaked when he finally sits up, swallowing hard. The video ends with a quiet fuck, then goes black.