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Billy Hargrove, 20

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[otherbitches]

[ Inside. Inside. That thrums in Billy, makes his guts tremble, make his spent dick kick almost painfully. He's laid out in the bed, eyes blown and cast on the ceiling when he thinks about it, about how it would have felt if he'd been facing the other way on the X cross, Iggy nudging between his cheeks.

Here though, he's already on his back, and he hitches his thigh up, hand trailing down to rub over his hole again. He hasn't bottomed much. Not really. But he thinks he'd let Iggy. ]

Come on, Melville. Want you to fuck me. Think you can handle it?

[dead_tongue]

Oh, I can.

[Perfect confidence. A few months ago he'd have hesitated a little more, but he's been absolutely destroying Jesse Pinkman among others on the regular, so he's sure of his topping abilities now.

He thinks, focusing on crafting the most detailed image he can:

Billy, open and wanting. Entering him slow, torturously slow, getting every hot inch of his dick sink in.

He can see every bead of sweat on Billy's back. Can feel Billy's hair knotted in his fist.

He sends these images, and then on the heels of that: him fucking Billy hard and fast.]

[otherbitches]

Jesus Christ. [ It's more than he expects, and the mental images feel real. Feels more real when his finger dips into his hole. It's not the heavy press of a cock, but it is stimulus as Iggy mentally mimes fucking him.

He slides another finger in. Groaning even with his spent dick heavy on his thigh. ] Iggy, yes, fucking— fuck, pull my hair.

[dead_tongue]

Happily.

[He's so fucking hard, and he's barely touched himself. Iggy sighs and grips his cock firmly, stroking it as he imagines Billy below him. He thinks about his pretty curls, thinks about exactly how hard he should yank on them to cause just the right amount of pain.

Like filthy Polaroids, these images are passed from his mind directly to Billy's, along with the phantom sense of touch.]

Fuck. Billy. God, you're beautiful.

[otherbitches]

[ He is, isn't he? Billy thinks so, though he never thought 'beautiful' while staring at himself in his own mirror. He thought hot and sexy. His dad knew what it was, staring at himself like some faggot. He's heard that in a million variations over the years. Over and over.

He likes being rendered by Iggy. Maybe it's his artist eye, the polaroids equally filthy and chic.

He feels the phantom touch, more importantly feels the— warmth of Iggy's attention, his pure affection. It junks up in Billy's chest, makes him moan and crook his fingers, feels the phantom touch of his scalp tingling. ]

You look like a fucking angel. Come on, baby. Come in me.

[dead_tongue]

[As if there was ever a chance of disobeying that particular instruction. But he pictures it first, vividly: the tight heat of Billy's body and how it would feel to pump him full--]

Oh fuck.

[He comes hard, the feeling transmitted a moment after the visual.]

[otherbitches]

[ Billy's fingers crook when Iggy comes, pressing deeper to mime the feeling, aided by Iggy's sizable imagination of his body, his cock, the sensation of spilling cum up inside Billy, painting up his insides, filling him up. That's all a newer fantasy (reality), not quite the gay shit Billy had pictured furtively at home. Or at least, not in that detail.

Iggy comes and Billy's fingers slip away, he lays on their bed, staring up with glassy eyes at the ceiling for a beat, then two. Says lazily: ] You're good at that.

[dead_tongue]

[Iggy has to take a moment to collect himself before moving to clean up.]

I've got a very active imagination. And lots of practice.

So! I get to eat your ass, snowball your blood, and braid your mullet?

[otherbitches]

[ Billy laughs, a little rough before it smooths, then loud and clear as a bell. ]

Yeah, I'll fuck you and Munson. You can do whatever you want [ probably ] because I like you so much.

[dead_tongue]

You already know I love you to bits, you awful creature.

🥹🎀

[otherbitches]

Never mind. You're just alright. [ A terribly warm 'alright.' ]