PWP - Slow Swirl Spin 'verse
Billy lives his life day-to-day, with every intention to move on and never look back, never revisit shit, never think ‘what-if’, because all that does is, it messes with a body’s head.
So he’s a little surprised to run face-to-chest into Sam, four years after a protracted two-week-stand. The kids looks fine, better. Not high, which, hey, kudos. Still eight feet tall, hair longer, wilder, shoulders held broad and hands turned fists at his side. Shin dipped low, eyes glittering with something like amusement.
“Oh, hey,” Billy says, and forces a laugh, the one for interviews and contract-execs. “Sam, right?”
Sam’s giant hand closes high on Billy’s arm, almost on the shoulder, and he smiles, or sneers, or smirks - something, something unholy.
Sam pulls, nearly picks Billy up when he digs his heels in, steers him right off the streets of… wherever the fuck they are. Right off the streets and into an alley, except this isn’t the kind of town with dark alleys, so it’s really just a gap between buildings.
And Billy’s really not tracking on this one.
Before he can do anything, start to protest or anything, Sam’s knocking Billy’s sunglasses off and pushing Billy down and back until Billy’s shoulders rest flat against bricks and a zzzzipper and then, oh, hello, cock.
Billy’s not an idiot; he’s been with Joe with guys that were strung out on shit, chasing the fucking dragon or some shit, not thinking, couldn’t control themselves. And the thing about guys on drugs is, they don’t consider the other person, so if they stick their cock down your throat you’re on your own, so don’t fucking choke.
So, Billy’s got his lips around Sam’s cock and he’s working, working to open up and not choke. Seriously, he thought Sam looked sober? Billy’s drug-o-meter, which is an important tool in a rockstar’s life, is fucked, or something, if Sam’s jacked up in broad daylight enough for this…
And then Sam thrusts, and Jesus, thing’s bigger than Billy remembers, and he tries to back off of it a little, but the bricks are right there at the back of his skull and Sam’s still pushing, pushing. Billy opens his throat enough to take it, all of it, and he can’t breathe, and Sam just waits, too far in, no air.
Sam’s strong fingers find the place at the top of Billy’s neck and hold, almost careful except so so very not, and he backs off, sudden, against muscles used to things only going only direction in there. Too quickly, he’s back in, deep, and it slams Billy’s head into the bricks and Billy sees black for a second.
When Sam pulls back again, Billy holds his head against the wall and waits for Sam to come to him, so to avoid a fucking concussion.
Sam settles into a pattern, sometimes speeding up to catch Billy offguard and choke him, or slowing down and air, air, air.
Billy digs his fingernails into his jeans and just holds on.
When he woke up today, Billy didn’t foresee himself on his knees in a cheerfully-lit alley where anyone can see. With a cock in his mouth.
Yeah, not on his to-do.
It doesn’t take long, not ridiculously long, before Sam’s just coming and coming, no warning, slick and too warm slipping out the corners of Billy’s lips and he holds a hand beneath his chin to keep the mess off his jacket.
Sam backs all the way off, tucks himself in. Billy meets his eyes, breathing hard, and coughs, “Jesus Christ.”
Sam’s eyes flood foul beetle black and he bodily flinches, and he stalks away.
And Billy picks himself up, dusts himself off, wipes the cum from his face for God’s sake.
And just. What the fuck was that?
So he’s a little surprised to run face-to-chest into Sam, four years after a protracted two-week-stand. The kids looks fine, better. Not high, which, hey, kudos. Still eight feet tall, hair longer, wilder, shoulders held broad and hands turned fists at his side. Shin dipped low, eyes glittering with something like amusement.
“Oh, hey,” Billy says, and forces a laugh, the one for interviews and contract-execs. “Sam, right?”
Sam’s giant hand closes high on Billy’s arm, almost on the shoulder, and he smiles, or sneers, or smirks - something, something unholy.
Sam pulls, nearly picks Billy up when he digs his heels in, steers him right off the streets of… wherever the fuck they are. Right off the streets and into an alley, except this isn’t the kind of town with dark alleys, so it’s really just a gap between buildings.
And Billy’s really not tracking on this one.
Before he can do anything, start to protest or anything, Sam’s knocking Billy’s sunglasses off and pushing Billy down and back until Billy’s shoulders rest flat against bricks and a zzzzipper and then, oh, hello, cock.
Billy’s not an idiot; he’s been with Joe with guys that were strung out on shit, chasing the fucking dragon or some shit, not thinking, couldn’t control themselves. And the thing about guys on drugs is, they don’t consider the other person, so if they stick their cock down your throat you’re on your own, so don’t fucking choke.
So, Billy’s got his lips around Sam’s cock and he’s working, working to open up and not choke. Seriously, he thought Sam looked sober? Billy’s drug-o-meter, which is an important tool in a rockstar’s life, is fucked, or something, if Sam’s jacked up in broad daylight enough for this…
And then Sam thrusts, and Jesus, thing’s bigger than Billy remembers, and he tries to back off of it a little, but the bricks are right there at the back of his skull and Sam’s still pushing, pushing. Billy opens his throat enough to take it, all of it, and he can’t breathe, and Sam just waits, too far in, no air.
Sam’s strong fingers find the place at the top of Billy’s neck and hold, almost careful except so so very not, and he backs off, sudden, against muscles used to things only going only direction in there. Too quickly, he’s back in, deep, and it slams Billy’s head into the bricks and Billy sees black for a second.
When Sam pulls back again, Billy holds his head against the wall and waits for Sam to come to him, so to avoid a fucking concussion.
Sam settles into a pattern, sometimes speeding up to catch Billy offguard and choke him, or slowing down and air, air, air.
Billy digs his fingernails into his jeans and just holds on.
When he woke up today, Billy didn’t foresee himself on his knees in a cheerfully-lit alley where anyone can see. With a cock in his mouth.
Yeah, not on his to-do.
It doesn’t take long, not ridiculously long, before Sam’s just coming and coming, no warning, slick and too warm slipping out the corners of Billy’s lips and he holds a hand beneath his chin to keep the mess off his jacket.
Sam backs all the way off, tucks himself in. Billy meets his eyes, breathing hard, and coughs, “Jesus Christ.”
Sam’s eyes flood foul beetle black and he bodily flinches, and he stalks away.
And Billy picks himself up, dusts himself off, wipes the cum from his face for God’s sake.
And just. What the fuck was that?