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Sell Your Body to the Night

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Technically Stiles did lose his virginity to a guy who bought him dinner first. Any self-respect he might have gained from that fact was pretty much obliterated by the fact that dinner included a job offer and the virginity-losing was basically orientation.

He gave Frank a blowjob, which tasted like latex and was accompanied by a lecture on avoiding teeth but otherwise, "Keep that, keep the awkwardness. That can be your thing." Then he got a lecture on why it was better to rinse with Listerine than to brush his teeth before and after.

He got fucked, too, which was sort of dizzyingly weird and a little painful. It was occasionally incidentally vaguely sexy, except that all possible sexiness was drained from it by the continuing lecture on Ass Hygiene and How To Tell If Your Ass Is Really Hurt or Just Kinda Hurt. (Blood, mostly, which Stiles probably could have figured out but would definitely have nightmares about forever, now.)

Right at the end, though, Frank said, "Good work, kid. You want me to jerk you off now?"

Stiles had turned down the offer of booze or drugs. He had insisted he could find his own place to live. But right then, sore and sweaty and despite all the gross details kind of turned on because, hello, this was his virginity getting lost, he nodded. Frank smiled at him in the bathroom mirror and then turned him around and closed his hand on Stiles's dick. Stiles shut his eyes and enjoyed the sensation and the total lack of boner-killing soundtrack for the few minutes it lasted, and for just a few seconds, when he came, he didn't think about anything at all.

When he opened his eyes again, Frank said, "So, you ready to let me help you make some easy money?"

Stiles nodded, and that was that. He was a prostitute, and he had a pimp. It was all way less dramatic than he would have imagined.


It stayed pretty easy, too. Frank gave him a cheap cell phone and a couple more lectures--what to wear, when to make eye contact (when spoken to), when to touch customers in a way they didn't specifically request (never)--and assigned Stiles a work schedule. From eleven at night to four in the morning, Thursday through Sunday ("Starting Thursday, into Friday, ending Monday morning, smartass,") he was on the job.

"The rest of the time I don't care what the hell you do," Frank said. "You can go right back to scamming tourists out of bus fare, you're not bad at that."

Stiles was, he thought, actually pretty good at it, except he hated lying to nice people who just wanted to help a lost kid get home. He also risked getting beaten up or having the cops called on him by people who realized he was scamming. He was sixteen, he was on his own, and there was no way he could get a legitimate job with no address, no work permit, and no adults involved. He really didn't want to call any kind of official attention down on himself. Working for Frank seemed like a pretty reasonable course of action. Like he said, it was easy money. Who wouldn't want to get paid to have sex?

"You just answer your phone when I call, do what you're told when you're working for me, and give me my cut of the cash, and we're all good," Frank told him.

"Yeah," Stiles said. "Hey, when you said you could get me stuff to take the edge off..."

Frank raised his eyebrows.

"I could really use some Adderall," Stiles shrugged. "And whiskey, maybe? Jack--no. Anything that's not Jack."

Frank shrugged, genuinely bored where Stiles was struggling to be nonchalant. "Sure. Comes out of your cut, like I said."

Stiles nodded. This wasn't like accepting coke or meth or something. This was just stuff he already knew he could handle; he even knew approximately how much it cost and could argue if Frank charged him too much for it. This wasn't the start of some downward spiral; Stiles was just looking after himself.

No one else was going to, after all. Not ever again.


Frank had him working mostly tourists and businessmen; after the first night Stiles realized that he was being cast as The Kid Who Doesn't Usually Do This Kind of Thing, and was being used by guys who liked to think they didn't do this kind of thing either. They were closeted, or in denial, the kinds of guys who slunk off to have their little gay slice of The San Francisco Experience down here on Shotwell instead of venturing into the Tenderloin. They got their guilty rocks off in a motel room or the back of a rental car with some awkward kid who called himself Billy, who wore tight t-shirts and tight jeans and insisted on rolling on a condom before he went down.

None of them wanted anything very elaborate--none of them wanted him to take his clothes off, or wanted to take more of their own clothes off than they had to to get their dick sucked. Stiles never saw any of them more than once, but he started to feel like they were familiar anyway: the dad in a rental SUV or minivan wearing a souvenir sweatshirt, the business traveler wearing khakis and a polo shirt and driving a mid-sized sedan, scooting his briefcase out of the way to let Stiles take a seat.

They muttered different things, liked different little tricks, got grabby at different moments, but they were all basically the same five or six guys, and they all handed over the same crisp-from-the-ATM twenties to pay for his services before they dropped him off within a block or two of where they'd picked him up.

It wasn't too close to where he slept, in an SRO up in SOMA; he liked the feeling of separateness, knowing that there was a bus or train ride or longish walk between work and not-work. He spent his nights sitting out the time between tricks, if he had any time to speak of, in a late-night taqueria a little way off Shotwell, a couple of blocks from his usual pick-up point.

He took a cheap used paperback in with him, and left the book on the table when Frank texted him to go meet a car on the corner. By the third night the taqueristas--who never seemed to mind that he only ever bought sodas--had taken to picking up the book and keeping it behind the counter for him. After that he dropped it off with them when he left, and made sure to drop more money into the tip jar than he had before.


Stiles didn't get fucked on the job until his second week. He'd dutifully prepped himself every night he worked, and ever since he accepted Frank's offer he'd been on the carefully regimented schedule of eating and shitting required to be sure his ass was available for professional purposes from eleven to four every night. Even on his first Monday-to-Wednesday "weekend" he'd kept to the pattern, since it made sense to stay in practice.

He'd even prepped his ass around two in the morning on Tuesday night, telling himself it was just to keep in practice or keep his ass limber or whatever. But actually he'd wound up jerking off like that, fingers in his ass, chasing down the part of it that felt good while desperately avoiding thinking about any of the dicks he'd been up close and personal with in the last week, or any of the circumstances under which he was likely to have a dick up his ass in the foreseeable future.

Coming felt as good as ever--better, maybe. He somehow never felt like jerking off on workdays, so he hadn't gotten off in a while. Afterward, because it seemed like the thing to do and he didn't want to start thinking, he opened up the bottle of Wild Turkey Frank had given him along with his Adderall.

He had one drink, enough to make him feel a little more floaty and sleepy than he already had from coming. He crawled back into bed and let his hand drift down, rubbing at his slick asshole and then at his dick, and jerked off again slowly, one arm over his eyes, still not thinking of anything or anyone. This time when he was done he slipped easily into sleep.

But his second week on the job started up soon enough, and a few hours into Thursday night he got a slightly different text than he ever had before: Blue Corolla. Wants a fuck.

His body went cold and then hot, and Stiles realized that he'd been kind of dreading this, and that Frank had been easing him in gently, letting him not do this for a week. (Or, Stiles thought, possibly just making sure that he had time to get on the eating-and-shitting schedule properly. He'd given Stiles very specific advice on that, back during Stiles's orientation fuck.) But now the gloves were off. So to speak.

Stiles walked up to the counter and handed his book over to Kristina without quite meeting her eyes, and hurried out to the corner where he would meet the blue Corolla.

It wasn't so bad, really. A familiar type of guy in a familiar type of car took him to a familiar type of motel room. This time he had to take his clothes off and lie down and open his legs. He'd prepped himself before his shift, so it didn't hurt that bad, even though the guy barely bothered to check whether he was ready and definitely wasn't as patient as Frank had been. He didn't last as long as Frank had, either, and at least he didn't talk about ass hygiene the whole time.

Stiles carefully didn't listen to what the guy did talk about.

He paid at the end, with a tip and everything, and he let Stiles go and clean up in the bathroom and get dressed in private before driving him back to his usual corner. Stiles went back to the taqueria, washed his hands thoroughly and picked up his book from Kristina before he settled gingerly into a seat in the corner.

It wasn't that bad, really.

Stiles got through the rest of the night's work on autopilot--funny how easy and simple blowjobs seemed now; he could get through one and barely think about what he was doing. The bus ride home sucked--was shitty--was mildly painful and deeply aggravating. Stiles took a shower when he was locked safely in his own room, washed everywhere, and did the night's last thorough Listerine rinse.

Then he poured himself out a double of Wild Turkey.

"No drinking every night," he said to the glass, because he knew these things and they needed to be said. "No getting drunk every time you drink. But tonight--yes. Tonight."

He got very drunk, and then he slept, and the next night he went back to work.


On Saturday, around two--he'd already been fucked twice and was kind of sore and had firmly decided to do some research over his weekend on exactly what poppers were and whether to ask Frank for them, because ow--he got a perfectly ordinary text.

Black Camaro, northeast corner.

Frank didn't always specify beyond which car Stiles was supposed to get into and where; he warned Stiles if it was a fuck, and a few times he'd specified how much a guy was supposed to pay. Stiles had noticed that if the car was really nice, Frank sometimes charged them more; that seemed only fair, and Stiles got to keep his usual proportion of the price.

He didn't think he'd ever been picked up by a Camaro before. Stiles wondered idly whether it was new or vintage as he took the last sip of his water and handed his book over to Kevin behind the counter before he went out into the night.

The black Camaro pulled up just as Stiles reached the designated corner; it was shiny-new and pristine, so probably a rental for somebody's mid-life crisis vacation. No wife waiting back at the hotel, probably. Maybe the guy would take his time and get Stiles close enough to quitting time that Frank would come get him to settle up after this and then send him home.

Stiles looked in as he opened the door and stopped dead.

Black Camaro was nowhere near a mid-life crisis. He was wearing aviators at night, and he had a chiseled jaw covered in stubble and a black leather jacket that seemed to melt right into the black leather of the car's interior. There was a weird kind of relaxation in his body, like he owned this place--the car, the corner, and probably Stiles. This was no furtive closeted businessman, no tourist hiding from his real life. This was definitely nobody who had to pay for sex.

Stiles forgot every single thing Frank had taught him and said, "Are you a cop?"

"No," Black Camaro said, flexing his hands on the steering wheel and not deigning to actually look at Stiles.

Stiles stared, mouth hanging open. "That's it? No?"

"No," he repeated impatiently. "I'm not a cop. I'm someone who wants to exchange my money for your sexual services. I was told you were in that line of work."

"I, uh, yeah, sorry," Stiles said. He glanced around again and then up--the full moon was almost directly overhead. Just one of those nights, maybe. "Yeah, I am. I do that."

"So get in the car," Black Camaro directed, still without looking over at Stiles.

Stiles got in.

The car, new as it was, had a scent to it--not bad, but personal, a long way from the sanitized rental car smell that usually accompanied this moment. Stiles took a breath as he put his seatbelt on, trying to get back into a more normal on-the-job headspace as Black Camaro pulled away from the curb.

"So wh--"

Black Camaro took a sharp turn at the end of the block and took one hand off the wheel, flicking open the button of his jeans.

"What," Stiles demanded, going straight off script again.

"Blowjob," Black Camaro said flatly. "I already negotiated this with your boss."

"Not in a fucking moving vehicle you didn't," Stiles replied, because Frank was pretty clear on how inconvenient it would be for him if Stiles got arrested or killed.

"I want to drive fast and get my dick sucked," Black Camaro replied, swerving around a couple of slower-moving cars and taking another quick turn through the next intersection. "I will pay extra if it costs extra."

Stiles opened his mouth meaning to say no and instead, as the inevitable calculations went on in the back of his head--fast food instead of ramen, maybe some comic books, a little more money to squirrel away for later--he heard himself say, "A hundred bucks."

"Fine," Black Camaro said, and tugged down the zipper of his jeans. "Now get over here."

"Um," Stiles said, eyeing the center console. "I'm a safety boy--"

"Condom's fine," Black Camaro agreed, wriggling his hips to push his jeans down, and Stiles was momentarily distracted by the sight of his dick straining against his underwear in the gap, and how very obvious it was that he was ready to have his dick sucked right now. This was probably going to be easy, except for the not-dying-in-a-car-accident part.

"No, I mean, seatbelt," Stiles insisted.

Black Camaro huffed annoyance and accelerated in a not at all reassuring manner--where had he even found a street this empty in San Francisco? "I have excellent reflexes. And I can hold on to you if you feel unsteady. Now get over here or I'm leaving you on the side of the road."

Stiles glanced outside, trying to guess how to navigate back to either the taqueria or a bus stop, and couldn't begin to tell from the buildings whipping by at distinctly freeway-like speeds. Black Camaro swerved around a couple of slower drivers like he was doing a slalom; he really did seem to have good reflexes.

"Okay, fine," Stiles said, and turned to climb half over the console without taking his seatbelt off. It wound up mostly around his knees and thighs, but that was probably still very slightly better than nothing, right?

Black Camaro grunted in satisfaction as Stiles settled with the console under his ribs and helped him peel his jeans and jockeys down a crucial couple of inches, getting his dick out. Stiles pulled a condom from his pocket and got through the process of rolling it on--Black Camaro was uncut, which was a first for Stiles, but the distinction was probably going to be kind of lost under the condom. He didn't hit his head on the steering wheel or elbow Black Camaro and the car hadn't crashed by the time he got the condom fully in place. So far, so good.

Stiles curled his left hand around the base of Black Camaro's dick, steadying it and making sure the condom didn't slip all at the same time, and braced his right hand on the dash. He closed his eyes and got down to business.

This part was just like any other night at work, although the extra skin turned out to be different even through a condom, and he spent a little time mouthing curiously around the head, getting the hang of it. After the second or third hard suck, Black Camaro's hand clamped down on Stiles's hip, bracing him through what felt like another high-speed car-slalom and then a hard turn. Stiles was sort of glad he couldn't see the road. It was better if you couldn't see a crash coming, wasn't it?

Stiles went down farther, falling into a familiar rhythm despite the disorienting circumstances. Black Camaro's grip on Stiles's hip tightened and loosened spasmodically but always kept him steady through the turns, and he didn't start trying to fuck Stiles's mouth, didn't even call him names or babble at him. Maybe that meant he was focusing on driving. Stiles hoped so, for both their sakes, and tried to figure out how to do his small repertoire of interesting tongue moves when he was bent sideways over a dude's lap instead of going head on. So to speak.

It worked well enough, apparently, because before Stiles had had a chance to get motion sickness from the sudden turns and accelerations or even a sore jaw, Black Camaro grunted again, sounding startled this time, and his hand closed painfully hard on Stiles's hip. Stiles sucked harder, working him over a little more with his hand, and pretty soon Black Camaro's hips were twitching up in little helpless thrusts, and Stiles could feel the swell and throb of his cock as he came. He relaxed his mouth and waited it out until Black Camaro's grip on him released entirely, and then he lifted his head.

"Uh," Stiles said, and then paused to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand and swallow saliva, resisting the impolite urge to cough. "Sorry, usually I'm not in a moving car when I have to deal with condom disposal."

"In the console," Black Camaro said, sounding a little breathless himself.

Stiles sat up further and figured out how to open the console, and there were indeed all sorts of random supplies, including hand sanitizer and wet wipes and those little plastic bags you were supposed to use to throw out a dog's crap. Stiles opened one and got the condom off Black Camaro--he was driving slower now, Stiles noticed--and then cleaned him up with a wet wipe and tucked him back into his pants. He stuffed the wipe into the bag with the condom before he tied it off and then sanitized the hell out of his hands.

"There are mints, too," Black Camaro said, tugging his own jeans back up. "Help yourself."

"Oh," Stiles said. He considered the possibility of drugs or something, then realized how completely redundant it was when he was already in the dude's car and had already gone down on him, and helped himself to an Altoid. "Thanks."

"No, thank you," Black Camaro replied, weirdly solemn and not visibly much more relaxed than he had been when he picked Stiles up. He reached into his pocket and came up with a few folded bills--not in his wallet, already prepared--and tucked them into Stiles's jeans pocket without looking, which reminded Stiles to slide back down into his seat and get his seatbelt on the right way.

He got settled just in time for Black Camaro to turn back onto the block where he'd picked Stiles up. He pulled up to the curb and came to a perfectly gentle stop, as if he'd never broken a traffic law in his life.

"Right," Stiles said, and remembered that he was not supposed to count money in front of johns no matter what. Now was not the time to check whether Black Camaro had actually given him the hundred he demanded. Stiles got out of the car without another word, and walked away before Black Camaro pulled back into the street. That had been quick, at least.

When he got back into the taqueria he slipped into the bathroom to check the contents of his pocket, and stared blankly at the four fifties folded together.

"No," he said, grinning in bafflement. "Thank you."


Frank came by to settle up at quitting time, after three more blowjobs, all standard work for standard prices. Stiles had squirreled away half of Black Camaro's money in his shoe with his other tips, but he had the rest ready to hand over as he counted out that night's jobs, rattling them off by vehicle.

But when he got to Black Camaro in the list, holding out two fifties, Frank shook his head--although his eyes narrowed at the bills, way more than what Stiles would normally collect just for a blowjob. "I'm not taking his money. Keep that."

"He paid extra for--wait, what?"

"I don't do business with that guy," Frank said, weirdly definite, like it was a matter of principle. Stiles was pretty sure Frank's only principle was not to have any because they got in the way of making money: case in point, pimping out teenagers.

"You want to take his money, from now on you do it on your own time. This was a one-time-only arrangement."

"But he," Stiles said, and then shut his mouth, because that was an extra full hundred to keep, all his own. "Is he dangerous?"

Frank snorted. "Not to you, kid. Not yet. Like I said, you can make up your own mind what you want to do with him, but keep it on your own time. I am not doing business with him."

"Oh... kay," Stiles said finally.

It was only after he was back at his own place, laying out his night's earnings, that he noticed the other interesting thing about the fifties, beyond the fact that there were four of them and he still had them all. They each had some letters written in block capitals on one end, and numbers on the other. If he put the letter ends in order, they spelled out BLACK CAMARO.

If he lined up the opposite ends in the same order, they made a phone number.

Stiles squinted long enough to memorize the number and then split the bills up among their various uses and hiding places--two for the rent stash, two for the long-term stash. Combined with the usual share of the night's normal proceeds, that left him with some extra money in the emergency stash and some bonus walking-around money, too.

The next day he spent hours turning over the possibilities: the extra money, the extra risk, that Not yet of Frank's when Stiles asked if Black Camaro was dangerous. In the middle of the afternoon, Stiles gave up and programmed the number into his phone. He hadn't gotten a bad vibe from the guy, and if things went south--well, he could go south, too. He knew there was a chance he wasn't going to be able to stay in San Francisco in the long run. That was one of his contingency plans. For now it was a gamble worth taking, Stiles was pretty sure.

He touched his hip as he thought about it; he couldn't forget the way Black Camaro had held him absolutely steady, no matter how fast he drove or how hard he took the turns. Stiles remembered the mints, too, and the hand sanitizer, and somehow that stuck in his head even more than the two hundred bucks.

He spent several minutes composing the text message before he sent it: If you want to take another drive, I'm available Mon-Wed, 11pm-4am. 1 hour notice required. Weird stuff costs extra.

Stiles hesitated at that point. On the one hand, Black Camaro probably had not given his phone number to unlimited numbers of hookers last night; on the other hand, for all Stiles knew, he could have, and he obviously didn't have Stiles's phone number or any less direct way to get in touch than writing on money. There was also the fact that Stiles didn't actually know if Black Camaro knew his name--his work name, anyway. They hadn't had that part of the usual conversation, and Black Camaro hadn't used it at the times when johns usually did.

Stiles had told Frank that his name was Will. His first name got butchered to Will or William pretty regularly by teachers when they tried to read it, grabbed the first consonants they recognized and guessing wildly. Stiles had figured that the instinctive that's not my name but I know you mean me reaction he always had to it was just right for this job. Frank had adjusted his name to Billy for johns, which gave him another layer of differentiation, and Stiles knew enough about true and false and chosen and assumed names to like that.

But none of that told him what Frank had called him to Black Camaro, or if Black Camaro remembered it. Still, it wouldn't hurt to draw the line himself--now that he was, apparently, going into the unmediated-hustling sideline as well as getting pimped out. Stiles added --billy to the end of the text message and hit send.

He didn't get an answer until he was on his way to work that night. When the phone vibrated he expected a text from Frank telling him he was going to have a john waiting as soon as he came on-shift. When he saw it was from Black Camaro, Stiles was startled into a smile.

Requesting a reservation for Tuesday night, 2AM. Will pay the same as last time.

Before Stiles could respond--shit, another two hundred just for a blowjob?--another message came through, suggesting an intersection well north of where Stiles usually worked--halfway back to his SRO, in fact. It was also about a block from the freeway.

Stiles smiled wider, and texted back quickly, Sure you don't want to just slow down on the on-ramp and let me jump in?

Only a minute passed before Black Camaro replied. That kind of coordination takes practice. Not this time.

Stiles snorted and texted back a confirmation of the time and place of their appointment, more businesslike than the stupid grin on his face. Black Camaro's text back was just a terse agreement, but Stiles felt weirdly accomplished and pleased with himself for having arranged all by himself to have sex with somebody for (a lot of) money. It kept him in a good mood all the way through the night's work.


When Stiles woke up it was Monday. He counted over the money he'd divvied up again, and thought about the extra money he could pull down from Black Camaro, and then he took the long-term stash and headed out for the daytime part of his day, which started around two in the afternoon. He converted the cash to a money order at the nearest check cashing place, and then took two buses up to the Marina to send it safely off in the mail to his savings account; he'd be able to get at it if he really, really needed it, but this way the money wasn't around for anyone to steal from him.

If anybody thought to monitor a savings account at the Beacon County Credit Union that didn't even have a debit card attached to it, he supposed it would be proof of life, if not much use in tracking him down. He sure wasn't hanging out anywhere near where it would be postmarked; the Marina was like a foreign country, the pretty-shiny San Francisco of postcards and TV shows and the big-city fantasies of Beacon Hills kids.

He got straight on a bus back to the part of the city that felt like his own, and turned aside from his SRO to duck into the library, now that it was definitely late enough in the afternoon for him to be out of school. He couldn't risk drawing attention to himself by getting a card, but he could grab a GED study book and hole up in a quiet corner for a few hours. The big main library offered a variety of corners. He got antsy and had to get up and move around every twenty minutes, usually just migrating to a new place to sit with the book, sometimes pacing around the library while he mentally shuffled through what he'd been reading. He passed the computers about a dozen times, and just the sight of them gnawed at him.

He'd left his phone with the Jeep outside Sacramento. He'd had it turned off since he left; he'd sent Scott a quick text of reassurance when he took off, but he hadn't been in touch at all since. If he could get on the computers he could let Scott know he was okay--just a quick email--

But if he had access to a computer he knew what he would do first. Just a quick Google search. His fingers twitched over the search terms just thinking about it.

But then he would see it, and it would be real, and that was the whole reason Stiles had run away in the first place. There was no point in being here--in doing what he was doing--if he was going to look back now.

Stiles turned his back on the computers and went to sit by the rack of Westerns while he reviewed Chemistry.


Tuesday night, standing on the agreed-upon street corner at ten minutes to two, it suddenly occurred to Stiles to wonder if Black Camaro had meant twenty-four hours ago, which had technically been Tuesday, while it was now technically Wednesday. But wouldn't Black Camaro have texted him to complain? Or maybe he'd blown it off--maybe it made no fucking difference to Black Camaro. Why should it mean anything? He'd probably been relieved not to be stuck overpaying for a blowjob--and if he did show up there was nothing to say that he would pay that much. Or at all. No one knew Stiles was even out here, not even Frank would notice if he never came back--

Stiles made himself breathe, because no one else was going to remind him; he'd gotten about two deep breaths into it when the Black Camaro squealed to a halt next to him.

Stiles blinked--he hadn't noticed the car approaching, which wasn't really surprising when he'd been that close to a panic attack, but it still felt like the car had just materialized out of nowhere in response to his fear. He took another deep breath, and the window rolled down.

"Do I have to convince you to get in again?" Black Camaro demanded.

He kind of sounded like he would if Stiles said yes, or at least would stay and argue rather than drive off. Stiles grinned, remembering that he'd been glad to do this, and opened the door. "I think we can take all of that as read."

"Good," Black Camaro grunted, and pulled away from the curb, rolling Stiles's window up for him as he headed toward the freeway.

"Oh, that reminds me, though," Stiles said. "Frank said he doesn't do business with you, what the hell did you do? Are you sure you're not a cop?"

Black Camaro was wearing sunglasses again, but he shook his head in a way that made it pretty obvious he was rolling his eyes. "Didn't you just say we were taking that as read?"

"Come on, I'm curious, it was weird. He didn't want to take your money, and he sounded pretty freaked. I should probably know if you're secretly a mob hitman or--uh, wait, no, I probably don't want to know that at all."

"I'm not a hitman," Black Camaro said flatly, but Stiles thought he detected a smile at the corner of his mouth. "And he's not scared of me. He's scared of my sister. She objects to some of his business practices."

"Oh," Stiles said, trying to process the fact that his john had a sister who knew his pimp. "Wait, is your sister a cop?"

"Closer," Black Camaro said, heading down the on-ramp. "But no. And you're done talking now."

"Oh, come on, you're not going to say it? Come on, tell me to put my mouth to better--"

Black Camaro grabbed him by the back of the neck and tugged him down, and the console punched him in the chest hard enough to make him huff out a startled breath. The engine roared as Black Camaro accelerated, and Stiles shook his head and twisted around to face down, reaching for Black Camaro's fly.

Black Camaro's hand moved from the back of his neck to his hip, holding him steady, and Stiles pulled a condom from his pocket and got to work. He realized as he pulled the zipper down that Black Camaro wasn't hard. He was getting there, a nice plump semi that pushed out into Stiles's hand once he got those ridiculously tight jeans open, but still distinctly floppy.

Stiles had already learned that the thing to do in this situation was not notice. And he did have the advantage of knowing that Black Camaro was capable of getting it up and getting off--he even had an idea of what Black Camaro liked him to do--so he wasn't too worried about anything but condom mishaps. But he got the thing rolled on, and even that much handling was obviously making Black Camaro's dick rise.

It was still a little soft as Stiles closed his mouth around it, tonguing the reservoir tip of the condom to be sure it was positioned correctly. He actually kind of liked feeling a dick swell and harden in his mouth. Black Camaro's felt like it was changing shape as the foreskin pulled back; it was a weirdly fascinating sensation, and Stiles took his time with it.

Black Camaro didn't seem to mind him going slow; he pushed up into Stiles's mouth in tiny twitches. He was driving pretty fast, Stiles thought, but it was smoother on the freeway, a weightless swing instead of a series of sharp turns, so Stiles could concentrate on Black Camaro's dick. When it was at the fully-hard proportions Stiles remembered he got down to business, his tongue falling into the twists he'd figured out the last time to get the sweet spots from this sideways angle.

Black Camaro shifted under him and the little twitches up got sharper and more regular. His hand tightened hard on Stiles's hip, and he swerved over a couple of lanes and let the car coast as Stiles sucked hard at the head. Stiles slipped his hand down into the scant space available in Black Camaro's unzipped jeans to try stroking his balls, and that was it. Black Camaro's dick jerked as he came, seeming to swell a little more in Stiles's mouth.

Stiles waited through it, and when Black Camaro's grip on his hip relaxed, he sat up and went straight for the center console, digging out a baggie and wet wipes to clean Black Camaro up. Then the hand sanitizer, then a mint. By the time he had that all sorted out they were only a couple of exits from where Black Camaro had picked him up, and he was driving, if anything, faster than he had while Stiles was sucking his dick.

Stiles supposed that was probably for the best, safety-wise.

As they rolled up the exit ramp, Black Camaro shifted in his seat again and pulled out some bills already folded together.

"Same as last time," he said, handing it over.

Stiles pocketed the money without looking, but before he could remember not to talk about the money with the john while he was still in the fucking moving car, he popped out with, "Is there a secret message again, too?"

Black Camaro just snorted. "Next time I want to send you a message I'll text you. Next week, same time?"

"Same bat channel, same bat station," Stiles agreed, without even considering the decision. Fuck, if it actually was the same as Black Camaro had given him last time, it was going to be the easiest money he ever made. And if he could depend on it being a regular thing...

Black Camaro pulled up to the curb and Stiles was out of the car and watching him speed off before he realized that he wasn't on the corner where Black Camaro had picked him up. He was at the stop for the northbound bus that would take him back to his SRO.


The next day, Stiles took the bus to the address on the bag of assorted condoms Frank had given him at the start of the week and signed in for a free STD test. He kept expecting someone to ask him how old he was, or where he lived, or where his parents were--or at least to try to talk to him about his life choices--but they focused on taking his blood and lecturing him about using condoms every time.

After half an hour of fidgeting he got another lecture--this one about how stuff like HIV didn't always turn up right away--and then his results: negative for everything on the test sheet. So far, so good. He probably hadn't done himself any permanent damage yet.

When he went to the library, after, it was even harder to ignore the computers. It kept rocketing around his brain, the idea that he wasn't sick and that meant he could walk away. He had Black Camaro's money on hand; it was more than enough for a bus ticket back to Beacon Hills. Whatever happened to him there, it wouldn't be this, it wouldn't be blowjobs and fucks for money. Scott would be there.

He felt suddenly sick at the idea that Scott being there would make it okay, that anything could make it okay. He turned on his heel and walked out without going anywhere near the computers or the GED books, reasoning that it was his day off and he'd held it together really well so far and it was after five PM, never mind that he'd only been awake for four hours.

The next twenty-four hours were a dizzy, and then sick, blur, but nobody cared if he had a headache as long as he gave them a blowjob anyway.

The week that followed sucked, pun in-fucking-tended. Nothing terrible happened, except for the thing where Stiles had sex with an endless succession of guys for money, where he had dicks in his mouth or in his ass every hour of the night, one night after another. The novelty had entirely worn off, now, and it was just a gross, aggravating job. The guys were pathetic and mean in little ways that Stiles probably hadn't noticed three weeks ago, and every time one of them called him Billy it hit the same irritated nerve from first-day-of-school roll calls--except he couldn't correct them and they were never going to get it right.

On Saturday night, after settling up with Frank, Frank handed him a brown paper bag and said, "That's what you're wearing tomorrow. Don't say I never gave you nothing."

Stiles thought vaguely that maybe it was something warmer than his usual Frank-mandated tight jeans and tight, thin t-shirt. It was getting colder as October wore on, so it would be nice to have something extra to wear. He muttered a vague, "Thanks, man," and didn't even look into the bag until the next day.

It was a brand new and possibly child-sized Batman t-shirt--he just barely managed to get the thing on without busting a seam, and it showed a strip of skin above his jeans no matter how he tried to tug it down--plus a black domino mask. Even then Stiles almost didn't get it, but he tried the mask on, trying to figure out if it would impede any of his slowly-developing repertoire of blowjob moves, and he suddenly remembered testing Halloween masks for ease of eating candy through them with Scott. That made him actually think of the date, and then the realization smashed into him.

Today was Halloween. This was his Halloween costume, and he was going to wear it to get in cars with strange men and have sex with them for money.

Stiles stared at his masked reflection for a while and then made the executive decision that it was okay to pre-party for work on holidays.


After all of that, his Tuesday appointment with Black Camaro was weirdly normal. He wore the Batman t-shirt again, because dudes had seemed to like it on Sunday and there was no point throwing out a free t-shirt.

Black Camaro raised his eyebrows high enough that they emerged entirely from behind his aviators. "I think maybe you've outgrown that."

"See, and it's funny because the shirt is too small for me and superheroes are for kids," Stiles agreed, getting into the car.

"Can you even move in that? If you had to run you'd pop a seam the first time you took a deep breath."

"If I had to run I would probably castrate myself in these jeans way before I had to worry about Hulking out of my t-shirt," Stiles pointed out. "Nothing about this outfit is optimized for running."

Black Camaro made a dubious noise and shifted in his seat, and Stiles said brightly, "And speaking of somebody's balls being uncomfortably constricted in their jeans--" and leaned over to get down to work as they pulled onto the freeway.

Black Camaro was once again not all the way hard to begin with, and it gave Stiles a funny little warm feeling to know that this was a thing about Black Camaro, that he wasn't always hard when they started and would let Stiles get him there without trying to defend his condition. Stiles put his best effort into it, but after a few seconds he got suddenly, startlingly distracted by the bracing hand on his hip, which landed on the strip of bare skin exposed between the tiny t-shirt and his jeans.

Stiles only realized he'd stopped working when Black Camaro started to move his hand, and then Stiles hurriedly got back to it, sucking a little harder than he meant to. Black Camaro made a tiny startled noise, barely more than a sharp exhalation, but he didn't take his hand all the way away. When Stiles had gotten a rhythm going again Black Camaro's hand tightened firmly on his hip, two fingers and his thumb on bare skin. Stiles had never been more aware of the skin of his hip, and had never made more of an effort to hold his hips absolutely still.

He didn't know if Black Camaro was driving faster, or if he was failing to sway with the motion like he normally did, or what, but he felt way less steady than usual. Black Camaro's grip tightened hard in the process of keeping him in place. Stiles sucked harder in turn, making the blowjob an exercise in speed and intensity, dialing everything up higher. Black Camaro's grip didn't relax at all--at the moment he came, Stiles could have sworn he felt the scratch of fingernails against his skin for just an instant before Black Camaro's fingers flexed and the sensation vanished. When Black Camaro finally took his hand away so Stiles could move, the spot where he'd been holding on throbbed with a deep ache, and Stiles made himself not look down or rub his bare skin, even after he'd cleaned Black Camaro up and settled back into the passenger seat.

He focused on going through the normal motions, sanitizing his hands and then reaching for the tin of mints--but his hand encountered something else in that spot. Stiles pulled out an individually wrapped Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, which had been set on top of the mints.

"That's for you," Black Camaro said, voice sounding perfectly even, and Stiles looked from the candy to the stubbled jaw and sunglasses that told him, as usual, absolutely nothing.

"I figured you might have missed trick-or-treating," Black Camaro added. "Probably had to work, right? I had some candy left over. That's for you."

Stiles looked down at the peanut butter cup again and then set it carefully on top of his knee and reached down to take a mint. He wasn't supposed to eat anything during work hours, and he shouldn't take candy from--whatever Black Camaro was. Not completely a stranger, maybe. Wasn't the whole point of Halloween that it was okay to take candy from strangers sometimes?

Stiles tucked the mint between his teeth and his cheek, focusing on the almost antiseptic burn of it against his gums instead of any other sensation anywhere in his body. After a couple of seconds he managed to say, "Did you seriously give out candy? Did you dress up--wait, no, you totally just dressed like this, right? Who needs a Halloween costume when you're a man of mystery all the time?"

"I thought about adding a nametag that said God," Black Camaro said blandly, changing lanes without looking around. "But I figured it would be overkill."

Stiles turned his head and stared. "Did you just--you just made a Buffy reference. You just made a joke about Oz."

"If that makes me your favorite customer, I'm truly touched," Black Camaro said, as he reached into his pocket and handed over the usual little rectangle of folded bills. Stiles pocketed the money without even being tempted to look and rested his palm lightly over the peanut butter cup for the rest of the ride.


Stiles didn't eat the peanut butter cup that night, even when it was time for his usual snack before bed. He didn't eat it the next day, either. He left it tucked in next to one of his cash stashes when he went out to the library and to get another STD test--at a different clinic, this time, in case they thought it was weird that he wanted to get tested all the time. They gave him the same spiel as the other clinic had but didn't take any more interest in him.

It wasn't until he caught sight of a nurse's curly hair out of the corner of his eye that he finally realized he was expecting the nurses to treat him the way Scott's mom did. After that he had to spend a few minutes driving his fingernails into his palms and counting the dots in the ceiling tiles until he could stop thinking at all.

He didn't eat the peanut butter cup that night when he got home, but he did take it out and look at it. He didn't sniff it, but he held it in his hand and let himself think about Black Camaro specifically bringing it for him. He'd set it where Stiles would find it after his hands were clean. He'd made a Buffy joke.

Stiles peeled down his jeans to confirm that there was just the faintest shadow of a reddish bruise where Black Camaro's first two fingers had dug into his bare skin, and then he jerked off left-handed while he pressed his fingers down into those marks. He tried not to think about anything at all, but fuck, if somebody was going to pay to get off on him, it was only fair if he got off on them, right? And if it was his hand and a piece of candy that kept coming back to Stiles instead of a face he'd never really seen or a dick that was just his job to deal with, well, whatever.

It was nowhere near his bedtime after that, and he couldn't lie there and let his thoughts wander. Stiles turned on the TV for background noise to drown out his brain while he made up Geometry problems for himself.