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never gets old

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It's not often that Billy has some time to himself. Not with the life he lives. Sure, it’s glamorous and flashy and generally fun as hell -- but it’s relentless. He’s constantly on the move, flying from job to job. Between his work phone (blowing up with calls from his agent, from notifications on his insta, from offers coming in through his professional email) and his personal cell (which fields equally as many calls from his agent, his sister constantly on his back, and randos trying to hit him up after he lets his number slip after one too many drinks at parties) he doesn’t get to rest. Not even a little bit. He doesn’t get the time.

But when he does, he eats it up, greedy for it. Unwilling to bend, or to give it up. Absolutely unyielding about it.

He spends his time relaxing. He can’t afford to let the stress show on his face.

The only problem is that his version of relaxing isn’t sitting poolside, sipping fancy smoothies from a glass straw. It’s not ordering a masseuse to come by and work out the kinks in his back. It’s not hot yoga or running or any of the usual physical practices some of his co-workers and peers might be into.

Instead, it’s surfing web pages a lot like this one. Ones with lewd ads in the corners and that he has to make sure his laptops on mute before he opens.

At least until he finds Sweet Secrets-- a premium website set up for discerning individuals who value their privacy. Or, at least, that’s what the page claims. Billy’s pleased to note that it’s not nearly as trashy as some of the other sites he’s been on; clean lines, crisp formatting, no ads. It makes him feel like less of a creep when he starts browsing.

It's also how he finds the stream.

It's how he meets KingSteve.

The first thing he notices isn’t even his thumbnail-- something he later goes back to appreciate, rather thoroughly-- a close-up of a pretty, pink mouth, lips parted, fingertips dragging his lower lip down in pure provocation. Instead, the first thing Billy registered when he saw one of KingSteve’s streams for the very first time was the music he had playing during the stream-- a frankly ingenious little addition the webpage added at the bottom of every Streaming Now tab-- and he noticed it was “Love in an Elevator” by Aerosmith.

He’d been quick to click in after that.

Really, every site like this is laid out in a similar fashion. It doesn’t take long to get his bearings. He does have to pay to get into the room, which is a little different -- but this website promises instant gratification in the way that others don’t; Billy isn’t joining a room just to watch someone chill out for hours, no -- the second he pays and gets in, he’s treated to an actual show.

He really means to get the lay of the land before he starts watching, he does. Even though he doesn’t need to. He just likes seeing what people are saying in the chat, likes to figure out where the tip button is, always figures it’s good to know where the buy a private party option is.

But he doesn’t.

He gets stuck on the pretty picture on the screen, attention rapt, focus held.

He’s seen plenty of beautiful people-- hell, he gets paid to be one. He works with them. But he doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone who makes his gut pull taut, who makes his breath catch a little, just at a first glance.

Sitting back against a plush chair, a bed in the background, and stroking himself off for the camera is the prettiest goddamn guy he’s ever seen.

His hair is dark, his eyes darker, mouth open as he pants. His skin is pale, though there’s a flush on his face bleeding down his neck, and his camera is good quality because Billy can make out the scattering of beauty marks-- or maybe moles-- across his body.

He’s naked and jerking off, cock big and long in a strong but delicate looking hand, hips arching up off the seat as he moans. He’s fucking breathtaking.

Billy can’t get his hand into his pants fast enough.

He’s at home, for once, so he doesn’t feel bad about clicking the volume on after he gets a hand on his cock. Once he does, he’s treated to the pretty little sounds of KingSteve’s moans and the dirty, wet sound of his hand on his cock. There’s a rush of heat as Billy jerks himself to the picture in front of him, captivated by the sight of some guy he’s never met, never even seen before.

KingSteve has got one leg slung over the armrest of his chair, so his thighs are splayed open, so Billy can really get the full view, his body resting back in the opposite corner. The foot half in frame is flexing and pointing, toes curling, as he twists his grip over his dick-- like he’s genuinely enjoying it, stroking off like this, in front of a camera. Then, he’s reaching between his legs with his other hand-- the one that was clutching at the cushion beneath him-- and he cups his sac with a groan.

There are pings from the chat. Donations-- pretty big ones-- trickling in as KingSteve arches and hisses out a breath.

“Fuck, you guys are gonna make me come like this, aren’t you?” he asks, half laughing, head lulling back as his hips lurch up; smiling like he’s expected it, like this is normal, like he’s used to getting off for a crowd, at least once, before anyone pays enough to go private.

Billy feels like he's gonna come now. He feels the spike of it, the hot wave of desire and heat -- but he wants to savor this like the treat that it is. He wants to draw it out for himself.

So, he slows down his own strokes.

He even tears his eyes off KingSteve and glances at the chat, where patrons are begging Steve to come, and pleading for him to get a finger in himself, or a toy.

KingSteve only chuckles, though it comes out breathy, caught up in a moan. “If you wanna see that, baby, you can pay for private,” he says, like a brat.

Billy falls a little bit in love.

And while Steve isn’t going to give them exactly what they want, he doesn’t stop stroking. Doesn’t stop touching himself, pace steady and sure, cock shiny and slick with lube as he pumps over himself. And while he doesn’t sink his fingers into his ass like the chat is salivating for, he does bring his hand up to his mouth and slide two fingers past his lips. Hollows his cheeks and sucks.

Like a promise.

Moans, too. Cock weeping at the tip. Like he really likes it, jerking off and sucking on his own fingers.

The chat explodes for half a second.

Billy doesn't join in. He makes it a habit never to type in those things. But he does agree privately, that Steve is hot shit with his cock dripping and his lips parted with something between them.

Steve groans, hips arching up and off of his chair, like he's searching for more, like he needs it. Billy can't stop himself from wishing he could give Steve what he wanted, because he knows he could. He could play Steve's body like an instrument, could worship him better than anyone. It's devastating, just how much Billy wants him.

His rhythm falters a little, when Steve starts to tremble. When he sees the way the muscles under his skin draw taut-- toes curling again, knees pulling up a bit-- as his hand gets faster. Billy feels his breath grow heavy at the way Steve’s broadcasting just how close he is, without saying a damn word, just groaning around his fingers and letting his eyes flutter and then roll back.

And then Steve is coming, spilling out in white, hot stripes in his hand and against his own stomach. Straining through it and ripping his fingers from his mouth so he can reach back and clutch at the head of the chair, knuckles bleaching with how hard he has to hold on, as he gasps with his jaw hanging loose

He’s a piece of art.

Billy's never been more fucking attracted to someone. Never more turned on. It's a realization that hits like a punch to the gut.

But it doesn't stop him. It only fuels his fire, getting his hand moving a little faster again as he watches Steve stroke himself through it, as he dips his fucking fingers into his own come and brings them back to his dick, to mix with the lube there. Never stopping.

It's hot as sin.

Steve’s hand slows, sure, but he does keep up an idle motion as he comes back down. As his cock softens a little, in his grip, until he’s twitching and hissing-- oversensitive-- and still touching himself. Playing with himself.

His head lulls over, and he smiles dopily at the camera, chest rising and falling at a steadier pace now. “Was it good for you?” he asks, and laughs.

Billy groans, eyes caught on Steve's dick -- and then on his face.

He's so goddamn cute when he says: “Because shit, it was so good for me.”

Steve licks his lips, pink tongue darting out playfully as he huffs out an oversensitive noise, fingers still light over his cock.

Billy's orgasm hits him fast and hard. It leaves him with hot, sticky ropes of come painting his tee, leaves him gasping out for breath. He slumps in his chair, staring dazedly at the screen as Steve wiggles a little, like he might be trying to get away from his own hand. It’s so hot it makes Billy’s spent cock give a painful little kick.

The sound of a bell ringing, like someone at the front door, brings him out of it.

On the screen, Steve perks. He leans up a bit and grins, bright and lopsided, and winks at the camera.

“Sorry, fellas, ladies,” Steve says. “Looks like I’m bought and paid for, this evening.”

He leans forward, toward the camera and what must be a desktop, because Billy hears the sound of keys being struck. Then, Steve uses the hand still sticky with come to blow a kiss to his audience.

“Catch you guys next time,” he says. “You know where to find me.”

And then the screen goes dark; a big, bold Private Mode at the center.

Billy looks at the screen, then down at himself. He’s disgusting. He wants more.

He sighs.

Then, he subscribes to KingSteve’s feed, turns on fucking notifications, closes the window, and then clears his browser history.

He knows he’ll be back.

--

When Billy gets the next alert that KingSteve is streaming, he’s coming back from the gym after a long day. He’s exhausted, sweaty, and coiled too tight. He’d tried to work off some of his excess energy at the gym, but he still feels a bit like clawing out of his skin, even though he’s exhausted to the core.

He knows, in comparison to some of his more female counterparts, he doesn't have quite as many standards to meet. Not as many hoops to jump through. But the dieting and gym routines get old after a while.

So the alert comes as a pleasant surprise. It starts a fire in his gut and has him picking up the pace-- taking the stairs up to his bedroom two at a time despite the strain in his legs.

He knows it’s stupid to be so excited about something, but he can’t help the way his cock starts to chub in his shorts or the way his heartbeat kicks up in his chest. He flops down in front of the computer in record time, kicking off his shorts as he pulls his laptop to the bed, stretching out with the screen next to him. It doesn’t take too long to log back onto the website -- and when he does, KingSteve’s stream is right there on his main page, because Billy didn’t subscribe to anyone else.

When he clicks in, he’s greeted by the pretty sight of KingSteve tugging off his shirt real slow, grinning at the camera as the viewers come in. His hair is a mess but the polo he tosses aside looks pressed. His khakis, too.

Jesus, KingSteve is preppy.

"Hey, everybody," he says, pushing his hair back from his face. "Is it hot in here, or is it just me?"

Fuck, he's cheesy, too.

Billy feels weak in the fucking knees, even though he’s lying down. Jesus, he’s got it bad.

He tips $20 (or the on-site equivalent of tokens) because he’s a fucking loser.

“Oh shit, already?” Steve says, leaning forward to look at his computer. When he smiles, it’s big and bright and Billy goes all loose. “Thanks, LikeAHurricane. Someone’s happy to see me.”

He pulls back from the screen after that, thumbing his fly open easily with deft fingers. He winks.

"I think I've got just the thing for you," he says.

Then, he's pulling out his phone, tapping over the screen for a second. In the next, Scorpions starts playing over his speakers. The guitar riff is loud and Steve winces a little before turning the volume down.

"Not my usual taste," Steve admits with a little shrug. "But I can make an exception."

Billy’s definitely in love.

Hand on his dick, he tips another $20 as a thank you. He doesn’t say anything in the chat, though -- that shit’s for chumps.

The chat explodes as Steve laughs and blows a kiss to the screen. There's message after message telling Steve to strip, telling him he's beautiful, telling him they want to see all of him.

"Alright, alright," Steve waves a hand, but he's still grinning. "You know, usually I'd make you buy me dinner first."

But he's backing up so they can all see. So they can watch as he starts pushing his pants down, slow, like a tease. He's bobbing his head a little to the song, swaying a little, and then he's stepping out of his pants and standing there in nothing but dark blue boxerbriefs.

He's already half hard. Billy can tell, just from the way the outline of his cock presses against the material.

Billy's breath catches when Steve bites at his lower lip, like he's suddenly shy, and he palms himself. Pumping over his dick without reaching past the material. Then, he does a slow turn, and all Billy can think about is peeling his underwear down over that perfect ass and bending him over. Steve glances over his shoulder, smiling like he knows, and hooks his fingers into the waistband, pulling his underwear down just enough to get a few small tips pouring in.

"Looks like everyone is happy to see me," he says, and then he's facing them, fully erect, the head of his cock peeking out of the waistband.

Billy's already rock hard, eyes glued to the screen. He thumbs over his head, smearing the precome gathering there until he's glossy, wet.

“Fuck yeah,” Billy breathes out, as he watches Steve palm himself again.

The chat is flooded again. Billy's surprised no one has bought Steve up for the night, yet.

Maybe he shouldn't be. It seems like Steve is happy to give them a show, anyway, and his audience seems to know that.

"So, today is kind of a special occasion for me," Steve says, voice already breathy as his hand moves over himself, the other drifting up his stomach, the muscles flexing under his skin. "And I thought I might do something special for you to celebrate."

Billy’s desperate to know.

Luckily, so is the entire chat.

Questions come flooding in, which is cute. Clearly these people aren’t just fan’s of KingSteve’s body, they’re fans of his shining personality. And Billy can’t blame them -- that’s what has him hooked, now. Just like all these other suckers.

Billy wants to know. But he isn’t going to deign to ask.

Instead, he tips another $20, and sends one single emoji: the party-popper one.

Steve pauses long enough to read the chats coming through, though his hand doesn't stop its idle motion. He laughs a little, cheek dimpling.

"You're not far off, Hurricane." Steve says. "It's my birthday. Which is why I'm on in the middle of the day-- I've got plans tonight."

Another influx of tips come through. A few people ask if Steve's legal, now.

Steve laughs. "I've been legal for a while, you perverse little shits. Jesus, get outta here with that."

The amazing thing, though, is that none of them leave. None of them are even a little offended.

"But the point is," Steve says. "Is that I bought myself a little present. Do you wanna see?"

The chat goes ballistic with yes’s. The sound of coins dropping into a bucket signals that the tips have started to roll in.

Billy kind of wants to buy KingSteve out. Wants to take him away from everyone else.

He debates it. Heavily.

The song changes over in Steve's room. He must have left it on shuffle after adding Rock You like a Hurricane because the tone is completely different. Some low beat; sultry and slow.

Steve's dragging down his underwear and stepping out of them. His cock bobs free, already slick at the tip. He pumps his fist over it a few times and lets out a breathy chuckle.

"Well, since you asked so nicely," he says, and then turns back around and braces a hand on the edge of the bed as he bends over to let them see the plug nestled inside of him.

That’s it.

Billy breaks. His cock throbs in his hand and he slams his hand down on the buy private button. He confirms when the site asks if he’s sure he wants to pay $200 to go private with KingSteve, like that’s some sort of actual question, and then he’s in. The screen switches and Billy’s left with a larger video screen of just Steve, and a little chat box they can share.

On the screen, Steve straightens out and frowns over his shoulder when the sound of a doorbell goes off.

"That was quick," he mutters and then he's flashing a smile as he pads over, closer to the camera. "Sorry, guys. Guess someone wants to celebrate with me alone. Catch you next time."

Billy hears the sound of a mouse clicking, and then Steve's dragging that plush chair from the first time over and settling in it with a crooked little grin and a soft intake of breath-- the plug probably shifting inside of him. There's a little wrinkle between his brows and a tilt to his head; curiosity blatant on his face.

"Hey, there," he says. "Don't think anyone's ever bought me so fast, Hurricane."

Billy smirks. For a moment, he fears he’s being watched, but he remembers that he doesn’t have his webcam turned on, and he has a little piece of tape stuck over it. It’s just weird, is all -- Steve, talking to him like they’re facetiming or skyping -- but Billy being just a black screen to Steve.

Summoning some willpower, Billy gets his hand off his dick and types:

what can i say, i’m a sucker for a pretty face

Steve's cheeks flood with a little color, like he's genuinely flattered, but he plays it up with a bat of his lashes.

"Oh, you think I'm pretty?" Steve asks. "I'd return the compliment, but I'm guessing you're shy."

i wouldn’t want to distract you from celebrating

God, but KingSteve is cute as fuck. He knows he’s hot shit, but he’s still affected by a compliment from a stranger online. Even if it is all a show, it’s a good one, and Billy appreciates the effort.

you going to show me your new toy again, baby? Billy asks. or am i gonna have to ask nicely?

Steve huffs a little, mouth curving up, amused. "I mean, saying please never hurt anybody."

Normally, Billy is the one who makes people beg. It doesn't feel so bad to be on the other side of it, though. Not when it's KingSteve, not when it's for someone so hot.

pretty please?

Steve's smile goes wide. "Sure thing, babe."

He twists over on the chair without another word, without any teasing. Gives Billy exactly what he wants, knees spread on the seat, bent over, and reaching back to spread himself-- letting Billy see the red base of the toy, the rest pressed inside of him.

shit that's hot, Billy types, one handed.

His other hand is back on his cock, stroking over it slowly as he watches Steve sway a little back and forth on the screen.

Billy doesn't know how this works. He's never cared enough to buy a private show with anyone before. But he's never going to fess up to that. Billy always does his best work when he's pressed for it.

give that a little tug for me, baby. pretty please.

Steve laughs a little as he rests forward. "You don't play around, do you, killer?"

His fingers grip the base of the toy and he pulls-- steady but light-- so that Billy can see the way the thick end of it stretches Steve out a little. He's tight, clenching down, Billy can tell, and he moans at the same time that Steve does.

It's so fucking hot, Billy feels warm all over. There's something intimate about this, about Steve putting on a show just for him. Teasing himself, just for Billy.

just like that. you gonna touch yourself too, or do i gotta do all the work?

"Jesus," Steve breathes.

But as he pulls and presses at the base of the plug, hips rocking back a little, he reaches over to get lube on his hand somewhere off screen and then dips it between his legs and starts pumping. Stroking steadily but not quickly, already letting out these lovely, breathless sounds.

Billy groans with it, unashamed to be loud in the privacy of his own place. No one is here to hear him -- not even Steve, though there's heat to the idea of Steve being able to hear him, even with how loud he's being.

such pretty noises, Billy tells him. are they all for me, pretty boy?

Steve moans, his head hanging forward a little, his skin growing flush. "Uh huh," he breathes, twisting the base of the toy and shuddering. "All for you, baby."

Billy knows it's a line. But his dick doesn't.

fuck yourself with it baby, pretty please.

He wants to see Steve's hole stretched wide, wants to imagine its on his own dick. He wants to see Steve’s ass swallow that toy up, eager and ready, warm and hungry.

He hears Steve curse. Hears him groan.

Then, he's shifting his grip. Pulling until the bulbous end of the plug is stretching his rim, slick and pink, and his feet kick up a little as it slides free. Steve makes the best sound when it does, the tapered length easing out of him as his toes curl-- and then he's shoving it back in with a little cry.

"Oh, fuck me," Steve says, and then he's doing it again.

It's a slow start, but Billy understands why. The plug is pretty long for what it is, and the base is thick. It must burn a little when he pulls it free and presses it in, spreading him wide each time.

Billy wants to tell Steve that he'd fuck him better. But even Billy knows where the line between flirt and creep is. And he's sure Steve gets a hundred of those a day. Billy doesn't want to be one of those hundred creeps -- he wants to be something special.

what a pretty picture, Billy taps out.

He slicks up his own dick with lube, just because he can, not that he needs it to be any better than it already is. Watching Steve fuck himself so slowly on this toy? Yeah, it's hot fucking shit. Billy feels honored to get to see it.

Steve's laugh is low and rough. "Careful, killer. You keep calling me pretty and I'll start to think you wanna fuck me."

But he's picking up the pace a little. His body adjusting, so goddamn well, to the toy he's got moving in and out of him.

Steve's hand gets a little faster on his cock. Billy can hear the slick sound of it. The obscene slide of skin on skin and of the plug fucking in and out of Steve's ass. It's so goddamn hot.

What's hotter, though, is the way Steve's rocking with it. Hips rolling back to meet the inward thrust. The way his mouth falls open as he pants, breath tinged with sweet little keens and whines.

"Bet you'd feel so good in me," Steve says, on a gasp. "Bet you'd fuck me better than this, wouldn't you, baby?"

course i would, how is that even a question?

Basically, Billy thinks, Steve is his dream guy. He’s pretty, he's hot, he's cute as shit, and he's got a mouth on him that could get him into so much trouble.

Billy pumps his cock. He thinks about those pretty lips sliding over the head of it. He thinks about pushing Steve down in that chair, easing that plug out of him, and licking into him. Billy wants, so badly that it burns him up inside.

Steve's moaning. Billy can see the way his thighs are trembling, the way his toes are curling up. He's panting, bucking into his own fist, making the best sounds.

"Fuck, I'm close," he says.

Billy feels the rush of it, too. Building, building, hot and electric underneath the surface of his skin. He needs it, but he needs Steve to get off, too. Wants to help him get there.

come for me, baby. wanna hear how pretty you are when you lose yourself for me. pretty please?

Steve's voice pitches blissfully high. Breathless as his entire body tightens up. He pumps over himself desperately, pressing the toy into himself, riding back. Billy can see how bad he wants to come. How goddamn close he is.

And then he's spilling out. He's bucking sharply and crying out as his spine curves down and he slams the toy into himself.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck--" he's gasping.

Billy imagines how tight Steve gets, imagines that hole fluttering and clenching around him as Steve sings out so pretty from his lap.

He spills into his hand with a low, broken groan, coming so hard he sees stars.

It takes him a second to catch his breath, but he wipes his hand off with a tissue and hisses at how sensitive he is, how wrung out he feels just from this. It's a testament to how hot Steve is, that he can get to Billy like this.

Billy reaches for the keyboard as Steve's still panting on screen and collecting himself.

was it as good for you as it was for me, baby?

Steve's slumped in his chair, breathing heavy. He gives a dopey grin and a thumbs up. Like a dweeb.

He fumbles over to the side and there's a rustle of fabric and then he's got a towel that he lays down under him. He relaxes back in the chair, legs sprawled, groaning as he puts weight back on the toy still inside of him. He's covered in sweat and come.

"That was great, baby." Steve says, words lazy. "I'm dizzy."

Billy knows that it's mostly for show, the way Steve talks. The way he plays it all up. But that doesn't mean Billy doesn't eat it up anyway.

Billy grins, despite himself.

thanks a bunch, pretty boy. love your new toy.

Steve goes red in the face, again, and grins so wide his eyes wrinkle at the corners. "Yeah, me too. Especially after that. Thanks for a good time, killer."

Billy tips another twenty, because he's got the cash to blow, leaves a kissing-face emoji in the chat, and then he closes the window.

He's not about to linger around after an orgasm to make the whole situation worse. He's already got it bad enough.

--

Billy misses KingSteve’s next stream because he's at a shoot for some cologne that has him kneeling in the ocean, sand grinding into his knees.

He misses the one after that because he's meeting with some international agent, and trying hard not to sneak looks at his phone when he feels the buzz of a new alert.

He misses the one after that because he's asleep, passed out cold on his couch after too many vodka tonics after a long, long week.

So, when Billy gets the alert that KingSteve is streaming again when he's at home, he drops literally everything just to tune in. He hangs up the call with his manager, turns off his phones, and grabs his laptop and settles down on the couch.

It's morning, which is kind of an odd time to stream, but there's a surprising amount of people already in the chat. He guesses they're probably in different timezones, because who would be jacking off at 9am?

Other than him, anyway.

Steve's not on screen when it pulls up. There's no music, but there is the sound of shuffling, off to the side. There’s light bleeding in through the curtains over the windows, painting Steve’s room in gold. He’s got the window propped open, a breeze rolling through, and when he pads into frame he’s in nothing but a pair of boxers and a t-shirt that’s too big on him.

He’s got a cup of coffee in hand and a sleepy smile. “Morning,” he says, settling into his chair, legs crossing underneath him. “My AC is out. So, I’m officially dying.”

The chat fills with sad faces, dripping emojis, and flames. Billy wants to send a heart, but he doesn't. He's a little too shook by how sleepy Steve looks, sweaty and like he just rolled out of bed. Billy wants to take him and press him back down into the covers, wants to curl up with him and go back to sleep.

He tips $20 and sends a single message to the group chat:

get it fixed then u doofus

Steve laughs, cradling his coffee close to his chest. "I already have someone coming this afternoon. But between noon and 6pm isn't all that reassuring."

Then, he's taking a sip of coffee, and setting his cup down. He pulls his shirt up over his head and tosses it aside, fanning himself with a hand.

"But fuck it's hot," Steve says. "This heat wave is killing me."

drink iced coffee, Billy supplies.

He wants to savor Steve like this. Sure, he's already palming himself, turned on by the sheer thought of Steve and now all that skin -- but still. He wants this. More of this. And that's dangerous, he thinks.

What's worse is that Billy's pretty sure there's a heatwave where he is, too. And that sends a thrill through him, right to his gut, at the thought that Steve could be close. He could live across town or even down the fucking street.

But Steve's shifting in his seat, uncurling his legs, and he's hard in his boxers. Billy's focus quickly narrows in on that as Steve palms himself, hips arching toward his touch.

"Well, I figured I'd work some of the heat off with you guys."

There's a chorus of thank you's from the chat. As a whole, KingSteve's viewers seem rather nice, though the chat occasionally gets kind of crude. People calling Steve slut or whore or any other equally demeaning thing.

Billy pulls himself out of his briefs and tugs himself to full hardness -- it doesn't take long at all.

"You guys like that idea?" Steve grins.

A trickle of tips come in and Steve hums as he trails his hands over the bare skin of his chest and his stomach. He stretches, idle, putting on a show.

"But how will I cool down?" he asks.

ice ice baby, Billy types out, while there's a chorus of people begging KingSteve to heat things up.

Steve pauses, squinting at the screen. He still looks sleepy, like maybe reading is still a little too hard, but then he bursts into laughter.

His head falls back and he holds his stomach as he does. Bright. Genuine.

"Hold on," he wheezes a little, still chuckling, climbing out of the chair. "I'll be right back."

Billy grins to himself, feeling pleased -- but more importantly, noticed.

When Steve comes back into screen, holding a bowl of ice, someone in the chat shouts BLATANT FAVORITISM.

Billy fucking cackles.

"Well, if any of you had good ideas, maybe I'd give you a little love, too." Steve says, prim as can be, and then he's sitting down and plucking up an ice cube-- holding it in his hand until it starts to melt a little in his palm, water running down his wrist.

He tilts his head over, baring his neck, and presses the ice there. He hisses, eyes falling shut, and drags the ice cube down the line of his neck, across his collar bone, dipping it into the hollow of his throat as he swallows thick.

Billy wants to trace that line with his tongue.

"Fuck, that's perfect," Steve says.

Billy swallows, too.

He tips his usual $20, because he can. As a thank you, without saying anything.

He debates going private, but there's something thrilling about sharing this, about lording it over all of these suckers that Steve chose his idea.

Steve shudders as he pulls the ice across his skin. He spreads his legs, so they can see how hard he already is without seeing his cock. So they can watch as it kicks a little when Steve drags the ice cube over one of his nipples. So they can watch as he squirms while teasing himself.

Billy wants to chase that trial of wetness with his mouth, his lips, his teeth, his tongue.

He breathes out a curse and gets his cock back in his hand, jerking off lazily as he watches Steve tease his nipples to full hardess, until they're red and angry looking, so cold.

He imagines how Steve would react to the contrast-- to feel the burning heat of Billy's mouth on him afterward. If he would whine and arch. If he would clutch at Billy or try to get away.

On the screen, Steve's wiggling out of his boxers, kicking them away gracelessly. He reaches into the bowl and grabs another ice cube.

"I've never actually tried this," he admits, sort of rueful, and then he's grasping the base of his dick with one hand and trailing the ice cube up his length with the other.

He spasms, head falling back, eyes wide and mouth open as he gasps. His cock weeps from the tip.

"Oh, shit, that's--" his voice cracks.

Billy’s cock jerks in his fist. The sound of Steve's pleasure has heat racing through him -- what was once lazy jerking off quickly dissolves into something way more heated, way more urgent. Billy feels caught by it, like the tide -- unable to stop.

Steve's knees draw in, like he's trying to shy away from his own touch. He swirls the ice cube around the head of his cock and breathes out a long, sweet whine. Trembles a little. Bucks.

There's sweat rolling down his temple. He stares down at his lap, at his own cock, wrapped up in his own pleasure. His own sensation. Like he's forgotten he's on camera.

It feels more intimate, somehow. More intense. Especially with the way his eyes grow darker and he takes another ice cube into his hand so that when he fists his cock, there's multiple points of sensation. His free hand flies to the armrest and clutches at it. He fucks up into his own hand, mouth hanging open, breath growing short.

It doesn't take much. Just another high, keening moan from Steve, and Billy's coming all over his fist. It's a shock, just how fast it snuck up on him, how easily the sounds of Steve's pleasure get to him, but -- jesus it was good.

Billy takes a second to breathe, wiping his hand off with his dirty shirt, and just zones out on the screen.

He can't bring himself to close the window, can't bring himself to tear his eyes away from Steve.

Not with the way his face twists up. Not with how he keeps making those desperate sounds. Not with the way he squirms, like it's all too much.

It probably is. Probably has Steve feeling overstimulated already-- with the heat of his hand and the ice dragging over his skin.

"Fuck," Steve hisses. "Fucking christ--"

He's focused on himself. On his own body's reactions. Totally and completely. It's like watching someone without them knowing.

Billy wants desperately to be the one teasing him. Wants to be the one to coax him so gently through his orgasm, bringing him over the edge. Wants, like he's never wanted anything before, to be the one to wrap him up afterwards and hold him through the shuddering quakes.

Shit, he thinks, as Steve makes another keening noise through Billy's computer speakers. This really is bad.

--

Things slow down a little after that. He’s got a show coming up-- though he’s not usually on the runway, he was selected by the hottest new designer to rep a new suit-- but it’s local. It doesn’t require much more than upkeep and a rehearsal.

He gets to watch a few more of Steve’s shows. He hates to admit it might be obsessive, but he watches whenever he sees that Steve is on. Even if he’s just idle with it.

He gets a weird notification that wakes him up out of a dead sleep on a Monday. He'd taken the day off before, not feeling well, and now, he's pretty sure he feels worse. Head foggy, mouth dry, brain absolutely gone. It's the middle of the afternoon, and he's slept all day.

The notification says something like bidding war and Billy doesn't care what that means, he just pulls up his laptop, wraps himself up in his duvet, and clicks into Steve's room.

He feels crummy, and feverish, and all he can figure is that, judging by the words on the screen, bidding for Steve’s time this afternoon is all the way up at $350. $350 and climbing.

That's kinda steep.

Billy's got no idea what it is that's happening. Just that it says Steve's up for sale, tonight. That the winner gets the whole night with almost no limits.

It seems kind of like a dream.

It might actually be one, with the way Billy's head is swimming.

Billy bids $370, then $395, keeping up with the bets as they come. It hits $450, before it starts to slow down. Billy, annoyed and feverish and honestly so tired, puts down $700 and the offers stop coming.

There's a countdown. About two minutes remaining. Nothing else comes in.

His screen explodes with little digital confetti poppers once it hits zero. Billy slumps back in his bed, bundling the blanket around him. A little screen pops up-- it asks him "do you have any special requests, this evening?"

There's a checklist. Kinks and fetishes. Clothing options.

It's all a little much.

Billy just sighs, head swimming and aching and types: dealer’s choice. surprise me.

It's stupid. But he can't think of anything better. He just wants to see Steve's face -- he feels so shitty, he just wants something bright to look at.

Once he submits his special requests, the screen shifts. It says KingSteve will be with you momentarily. Probably to give the performer time to set up if he needs.

But there is no waiting for Billy. Steve is just there. Sitting in his chair, staring at the camera.

"Dealer's choice?" he asks. "You paid 700 dollars."

He sounds skeptical. Like his time being worth that much is absurd.

Billy grunts. He pulls the duvet a little more tightly around himself.

i'm into the surprise, he types, and hopes that lands.

Honestly, it's kind of nice just seeing Steve's face.

Steve's nose scrunches up. He tilts his head, brows furrowing, but he nods.

"Okay," Steve says, a little slow. "Want me to get started?"

obviously, Billy types out. want to watch you.

He knows he's not up to his usual muster but he can't really bring himself to care. He slumps sideways on the bed and keeps his eyes on Steve's face. His floppy hair. His beautiful eyes.

"Right," Steve says, blushing a second. "Stupid question."

Then, he's holding up a finger, telling Billy to give him a second, and he's walking off screen. The sad thing is, Billy misses him when he's gone.

When he comes back, it's with a towel, a bottle of lube, and a long, curved toy. It's black and a little intimidating to look at-- mostly because there's a ring on one end that Billy knows is going to go around Steve's cock.

"Dealer's choice, right?" He asks, stripping down. "You get to decide when I come. How's that sound?"

Billy blinks. He's a little dizzied by all that skin. He wants, but in a passive way. There's nothing more amazing than being in a private chat with KingSteve, where Billy has full reign, and right now, Billy's wasting it, not even interested in touching his cock. He just wants to look at Steve's face.

He sends a thumbs up emoji.

Steve's face does something funny when he sees it. He fidgets, which is unusual, but then he's shifting and prepping toy with an obscene amount of lube.

He stands, propping a foot up on the seat of the chair where he laid the towel and bracing a hand on the back of it as he bends over. There's no ceremony, no build up, just Steve working the curved toy into himself with soft little huffs and hitches-- like Billy isn't even there.

shit yeah, Billy types out.

He wants to watch the toy, because there’s nothing more that he loves than too much lube -- and that’s coupled with the fact that that too much lube is now sliding into KingSteve. But. But. Billy’s eyes drift to Steve’s face, to the softness of his hair, to the way his eyelashes rest on his cheeks. He’s just so pretty. Billy can’t get enough of his face.

He zones like that for a while, laying sideways on his bed, duvet pillowed around him, just watching the way Steve’s lips twitch, the way his eyelids flutter.

By the time his focus draws back to what Steve’s actually doing, Steve has the toy nestled inside of him and he’s fastening the ring around his shaft, low, behind his sac. He’s hard already, and flush. His lower lip is red from biting into it.

He settles on the chair, breath catching, lashes fluttering and he grips at the armrests for a couple of seconds before grabbing something off the desk.

“It’s got a bunch of settings,” Steve tells him. “It should keep me from coming, until I release the ring. But it’s a prostate massager, so there’s always a good chance I’ll orgasm without ejaculating anyway.”

He waggles the remote for him, like an enticement.

“There’s speeds and different cadences,” Steve says. “Where do you want me to start, baby?”

Billy is -- half paying attention.

Steve’s voice floats in through one ear and out the other.

All Billy wants to do is pull him in under the blanket with him and curl up with him, warm and content. He wants to press his face into the crevice of Steve’s neck, wants to breathe him in.

Idly, and belatedly, he realizes Steve is waiting for him.

ur so hot, Billy types, one-handed, curling a bit more into feathery softness.

Steve frowns. He stares, for a long second, at what must be his computer monitor.

Then, he huffs and sets the remote down.

“Okay, look,” Steve says, crossing his arms and bringing his knees up, like he’s suddenly conscious of how naked he is. “I’m not dumb. You just paid a lot of money for me, but you don’t seem all that invested. I’m happy to refund you if you’re bored.”

That gets Billy’s heart racing. He’s paying attention now.

Fuck, he thinks. The frown on Steve’s lips makes him feel bad. Worse than he already feels.

im sick, Billy types.

sry i just wanted

He pauses. What did he want? It all happened so quickly that he wasn’t even really thinking about it, he just went, desperate for Steve in a feverish haze.

idk

Steve’s frown softens a little. He shifts in his seat, wetting his lips, and wraps his arms over his knees.

“What, you just wanted to see my pretty face?” he asks, like it’s a joke, and not way too true.

Billy’s heart thuds in his chest, loud enough to pound in his ears.

yeah, he types, too sick to play it cool, to think it’s not a good idea to be truthful.

“Oh,” Steve breathes; Billy can see the line of his shoulders go a little easy, even as the tips of his ears go red. “Um. I don’t, uh… Do you have anybody there with you? To take care of you?”

no i live alone

Billy shifts a little, cozies up even more in the blanket. He yawns. Then -- coughs.

dont let me stop u if u want to keep going

“Yeah, but, like-- you’re not exactly in any state to enjoy it,” Steve says. “It’s not fun if you’re not enjoying it.”

He reaches off to the side-- there must be a table there, Billy’s seen him reach over enough in his streams to grab something-- and pulls a soft looking robe toward himself. Fluffy and bright yellow. Wiggles and shifts and wraps himself up in it. Sits there, legs folded under himself like he’s in grade school, and cinches the sash at the waist.

He’s still half hard, but it seems his interest is gone, too.

“Are you staying hydrated?” Steve asks. “I live alone, too. Sometimes I forget stuff like that-- drinking enough water. Eating food.”

“Not hungry,” Billy says.

When Steve doesn’t reply, he groans. He doesn’t want to type, he just wants to talk. He wants to stretch out in bed and not move at all.

ugh can i

call u? voice chat?

Steve blinks and then nods. “Yeah, go for it. There’s a button, I think, in the top right of the chat box.”

Billy hits it.

His heart pounds. He’s nervous, more so than he ever has been for any casting or calls or anything. But he’s sick, too. So he cares less. He just doesn’t want to be alone.

“Not really hungry,” he says. “Also -- hey.”

He curls up, a tight S-curve on the bed, so much better now that he can just relax.

“Hey, there, killer.” Steve smiles a little, tucking back into his chair. “You sound good. Congested. But good.”

Billy huffs out a laugh. “My head feels like a fucking balloon.”

He keeps his eyes on Steve and that soft robe, even though occasionally they drift closed, tired.

Steve makes a soft, consolatory noise, resting his chin on the tops of his knees. “That sucks. Have you taken anything? Tea? I hear tea is good.”

“Donno,” Billy says. He coughs. “Just came home yesterday and fell asleep. Just woke up, basically.”

“Poor thing,” Steve says, half sympathetic, half teasing. “Sounds like you need someone to nurse you back to health. You have anyone you can call?”

Billy wants to laugh -- but he coughs instead. He’s got no one to call, except for his manager. Sure, his sister lives in the area, and they get lunch sometimes, but they’re not close enough that Billy can call her when he’s sick.

“I called you, didn’t I? Nurse Steve.”

“Yeah, but I can’t bring you water or wipe the sweat off your brow,” Steve grins, crooked, pleased. “All I can do is talk to you. Or get off. Or both. It’s really not helpful when you’re sick, as a general rule.”

Billy hums. “Talking’s good. Makes me feel better.”

Which -- it does. He feels better than he did when he woke up. Less lonely, less adrift.

“Well, what do you want me to talk about, then?” Steve asks. “Want me to tell you my favorite color?”

“Yeah,” Billy says, shifting the blankets, eyes zoning out on Steve’s face. “Favorite color, favorite book, favorite store. Talk to me, pretty boy.”

Steve laughs a little. “Blue. I like blue. And I don’t read all the much-- if you couldn’t tell by my choice of livelihood, I’m not exactly a paragon of education. But I like poetry, sometimes. And I like short stories. My attention span is too garbage for novels.”

He fidgets with the end of the sash at his waist. Picks at it a little.

“I don’t think I have a favorite store,” he adds, a little soft. “But I walk around Walmart and Target a lot, at night. People watching.”

Billy wonders, idly, if Steve’s ever seen a picture of him at a store. If his eyes have ever glanced across a poster or a billboard or sign that Billy has been splayed across.

He hums. “People watching’s the best. Especially late at night. You ever been to a laundromat at, like 3 am?”

Billy doesn’t have to go laundromats anymore, but he wasn’t always so well off. His career wasn’t always so lucrative.

“A few times, yeah.” Steve laughs again. “But my apartment complex has its own, now. Makes life a little easier.”

“Yeah, schlepping your laundry around sucks,” Billy says. He yawns. “Don’t gotta do that anymore.”

“Ah, but you used to,” Steve says. “What about you? What’s your favorite color?”

“Red,” Billy says after a little while. Not because he’s thinking, but because he’s tired. Half asleep. Comfortable with Steve here. “Makes my eyes pop.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve asks. “What color are your eyes, killer?”

Steve’s totally relaxed in frame. He’s got his elbow on the armrest, his cheek against his knuckles, his feet tucked up under himself.

Even his smile seems easy. Soft. A little kind and maybe a little coaxing.

He looks pretty, sitting there in his dumb fluffy robe. His hair a mess. His dark eyes big; focused.

“Killer?” Steve asks. He peers at the screen, like maybe he can see Billy, like maybe he’s concerned that Billy fell asleep.

“Oh,” Billy says. He zoned a little bit, there. “My eyes, they’re blue.”

“That’s a good color,” Steve tells him. “I bet they’re nice. You sound tired, baby.”

“Yeah, but I’m talkin’ to a real pretty guy,” Billy murmurs into his blanket.

Steve’s smile is bright when he huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, but you’re sick, killer. You should rest.”

He hesitates a second. Billy watches, thought plain on his face, even if Billy doesn’t know exactly what he’s thinking.

“Do you want me to read to you?” he asks. “It might help.”

Billy hums out a happy noise, a smile on his face that he knows translates to sound. “Gonna read me poetry, baby?”

Steve flusters; it’s so unlike when he’s giving a show. It’s so raw, talking to him like this.

Later, Billy will hate himself for not being in his right mind enough to take advantage.

“I mean, if you want me to,” Steve says. “I have a few different poets sitting around here.”

Billy nods. Then, when he realizes Steve can't see him, he says “Please.”

He doesn't know when he falls asleep. He just knows that Steve’s voice is steady, soft, kind-- words left ringing in his head-- tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us-- as he drifts there. He just knows that when he wakes up, the video screen is blank, his laptop battery is at 50%, and there's a message from Steve waiting for him.

Sleep well, killer.

--

The next time Billy logs in to see Steve he’s thankfully not sick.

It’s been a week, though. Of being busy and missing notifications. Steve streams almost daily-- on Saturday, he even pops on a couple of times-- and Billy’s reminded that this is Steve’s job. That he gets paid to be pretty and touch himself on screen for greedy eyes. That Billy has paid him for it.

It sets something uncomfortable and green rolling in his belly. He wonders how many times Steve’s been bought for the night since he last talked to him, feverish and dizzy, Steve reading to him until he fell asleep.

But it’s Tuesday when Billy gets the next notification that he can log in for. He settles at his desk, instead of on his bed, and opens up his laptop. His fingers tremble a little. He’s excited.

When Steve’s screen comes up, though, Steve looks tired. He’s hunkered in his chair, not saying anything, and Billy can hear some indie shit playing under the sound of Steve’s fingers flying over the keyboard and the clicking of a mouse.

“Sorry, guys,” Steve says, with a brittle grin. “Narrowing my restrictions tonight. I’ll open ‘em back up… some other time.”

Billy doesn’t really know what he means until he sees people in the chat getting banned. Getting booted.

Billy doesn't know what to do. Or what to say. He just sits and watches it all go down. Watches the room clear out and the chat slow to a chatter as Steve works.

When he’s done, he sits back and sighs. Drags a hand over his face. Smiles for the camera.

Billy feels it like a punch to the gut. How fucking fake it is.

“Well, now that that’s done,” Steve says. “How is everyone, tonight?”

Yeah, Billy's not standing for it. He hits the “go private” button as fast as he can, shelling out to have Steve to himself for the next hour. A doorbell rings. The chat explodes. The screen goes blank.

He's not hard, he doesn't want something freaky. He just wants Steve to stop having to smile like that.

As the window consumes his entire screen, Steve sits there, brows up and head tilted. He says his usual goodbyes, clicks something, and then his focus is all on Billy.

“Hey, killer,” he says, bringing a knee up to his chest and draping his arms around it; he’s in a worn cotton tee and striped pajama pants; he winces a little when he moves. “What’s up?”

It hurts, a little, to see Steve like this. Billy knows he shouldn't care, but he does. He's way past the point of no return, now. Steve is pretty much the only thing he looks forward to these days, his only bright spot in days of stress and chaos.

Billy wants to say he missed Steve. He wants to say thank you. He also wants to ask him if he's fine, or even ok, but Billy knows he's just as much a stranger as all those assholes in the chat that Steve was banning. It wouldn't be welcome. And he doesn't want to come off as a creep.

i had a long day, Billy says, instead. is it a crime to want to see a pretty face to make it all better?

Steve huffs a little, like a laugh that he’s too tired to fully commit to. “Not a crime. How can I make it better, baby?”

Billy wants to run his palms over Steve's arms, his back. Wants to work the tension that's so clearly evident out of him.

love your voice. talk to me, baby. tell me about the best meal you had this week.

Steve snorts. “That’s a new one. But uh… I went to this Korean fusion place with some friends on Sunday. Had pork belly and ate, like, way too much. But it was the best thing I think I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

really?

Billy laughs.

think you might wanna reconsider your dirty talk, steve. the right answer there is “cock” -- even i know that.

unless it was really good korean fusion in which case you either need to have better sex or they need to franchise.

Steve laughs outright at that, head lulling back against the back of his plush chair. “Yeah, well. Maybe both are true. They need to franchise and I need to have better sex. To be totally fair, though, it’s hard to bring people over to my sex dungeon of a room. I think it intimidates them.”

i think they're probably just intimidated by your pretty face but ok.

Billy finds himself leaning on the desk, head in his palm, grinning like a lovesick lunatic. Steve looks better now with an actual smile, even though he still looks just as tired. Billy wishes he could do something about that, too. But it's not like he can request Steve take a nap while Billy watches.

Steve hums. He uncurls himself-- less defensive, Billy realizes-- and props his head up on a hand, elbow on the armrest.

“I don’t think you’ve seen my impressive range of sextoys,” Steve says. “There’s shit in my house that I haven’t even used. People send it to my P.O. Box and, like, people are crazy.”

The P.O. Box is news to Billy. He wonders if it’s posted somewhere or if he needs to ask for it.

He wonders if it's healthy that he's already considering sending Steve snacks and books on poetry, and, like, fancy face masks.

yeah? what's the weirdest shit you've gotten? like, so weird you threw it away immediately.

“Jizz,” Steve says, without any hesitation, and then laughs. “Like, some dude straight up sent me a cup of his jizz. I shit you not.”

wtfffffff

Billy isn't sure if he should laugh or gag. He settles for something in between.

you deserve a medal, pretty boy.

“You’re damn right I do,” he says, then sighs a little, blinking and shaking his head ruefully. “Like, at least one.”

Billy doesn’t know what he’s thinking about, what he’s remembering, but it must not be great because he purses his lips up and drums his fingers.

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked, yet.” Steve says.

Billy already shelled out $200 just for this time. But that doesn't stop him from tipping $20 and adding a gold medal emoji to the comment of it.

i paid for a private show, not to pry into somewhere i'm not welcome.

please, steve, i'm clearly a creep, but i'm not that much of a dick.

most of the time, anyway.

Steve’s eyes crease at the corners as he offers Billy his brightest smile yet.

“You can ask, if you want.” Steve says. “I don’t mind-- not if it’s you, killer. Mostly because you’re not that much of a dick.”

only if you want to share.

if it helps you can call me dr. killer.

Steve giggles. Snorts and then straight up giggles. It’s the fucking cutest thing he’s ever goddamn heard.

Steve lets himself collapse over onto his side on the chair. Curls up in it, still smiling, feet dangling off the edge. He looks too tall to fit into it all the way.

“Alright, doc,” Steve says, cheek smooshed a little against the armrest. “You’ll see a few of the bruises anyway, once I strip down. Last night was just… rough. Not that I didn’t enjoy it at the time, but--”

Steve falters a little, like he’s not sure if he should share this part. Like he’s not sure if he should open up this much to Billy.

Billy gets it, but he wants Steve to. He won’t pressure him. But he wants it.

“But you guys don’t generally stick around for after,” Steve shrugs. “Sometimes that’s hard to deal with alone.”

Billy's heart aches for Steve. It shouldn't -- because Steve's a persona, mostly. But right now he's a little more real than usual.

shit what a dick, Billy types.

the least he could've done was hang around until you're fine. told you it was good. made you drink a glass of fucking water.

“My friend said the same thing,” Steve says. “It’s why I was restricting things, tonight. Can’t handle anything rough. If somebody asked me to wear a gag, I might’ve lost it.”

Steve sighs a little. He picks at a hole in the knee of his pants.

“It’s not that I don’t like that, sometimes, but… yeah. It was just a shitty ending to an intense night.”

you need a bouncer, Billy says.

He thinks of the security he has with him sometimes. The security he needs more and more often now.

Just yesterday, he went to Chipotle with a fucking hat on (and hats do nothing for him, okay?) and tried to order, but the person in line behind him clearly recognized him and wouldn't leave him alone. When he finally gave up and retreated to the parking lot without food, they fucking followed him.

So much for the dream of becoming a popular model.

Whatever. The UberEats fees are worth it.

you should go put on something more comfortable, Billy says.

When Steve looks up, a little surprised, because he's wearing pajama pants and a tee. And it's kind of a weird time for Billy to ask him to put on something sexy -- but it's probably not an unheard of request for him, regardless.

you look cold. bet you'd look cute in a sweatshirt.

Steve stares for a long moment. "You… want me to put on a sweatshirt."

did i stutter?

Billy chuckles and watches Steve's face to something real cute and confused.

Steve hesitates. Then, he nods a little slow and says "okay."

Climbing to his feet, he ambles out of his chair and off screen. There's the sound of hinges squeaking-- a door opening-- and then Steve's walking back, shrugging a big blue sweatshirt on with worn, gold lettering across the chest-- UCLA in cursive.

"Better?"

much, Billy types, even though his eyes are caught on the sweatshirt.

It would be real creepy to ask if Steve went to UCLA or goes there now. It's just that -- well, Billy's in LA. Right now. And the thought that Steve could be only a couple miles away is a heady one, dizzying.

gonna make myself tea, you should too.

Steve's grinning but his brows draw together. "Is this some kind of new kink I don't know about?"

totally. it's called taking care of a pretty boy you should try it some time ;)

Steve blinks his eyes, all comically wide. "But where will I ever find someone as pretty as me?"

me, obviously, keep up baby.

Billy waits to catch the smile on Steve's face before he pushes back from his desk to grab his favorite mug, some hot water and a tea bag.

When he comes back, he sets the tea down, takes a quick pic of it next to his computer, Steve's stream in the background (no Steve to be seen), and debates the merits of sending it.

When Steve comes back, though, his own mug in hand, Billy bites his lip, shares the photo to his computer, and then sends it as a file for Steve to accept.

Steve tucks his legs up, cradling a chipped and lopsided mug in one hand-- like something a kid would make in a shop or pottery class. He frowns at something, then clicks, then grins.

"Gotta say, way better than a dick pic," he says.

i know, what can i say, i'm a charmer.

Billy finds himself grinning, too. He doesn't even feel stupid about it, he'll save that for later.

"Careful, I'm susceptible to charm."

Billy’s gut heats. He knows, he knows that this is what Steve does for a living. He's supposed to flirt and allure and get people to love him, to get people to think there's a connection. Lonely people who don't know any better. Billy's lonely and he does know better, but that doesn't seem to help any.

He takes a long sip of his too-warm tea. It burns on the way down.

is that your kink then, pretty boy? being charmed?

“One of them,” Steve says, a little sly, wiggling up into his seat. “But it’s pretty much my favorite, right now.”

It's a game and Billy's losing. Badly. But like hell if he's gonna fold.

Instead, he grins over the lip of his mug, takes another sip, and types.

good thing i'm so good at it, then.

“Very,” Steve says, gaze warm, as he idly sips his own tea.

They go back and forth like that for a while. Quipping back and forth, flirting, talking-- like it’s a date. Like it’s a genuine conversation. Steve’s responses come quicker, maybe a little wittier, but Billy’s grateful that he has the excuse of typing time to think about what he wants to say.

It’s a nice buffer.

Billy learns that Steve prefers black tea over herbal. He finds out that Steve’s got insomnia-- which is why he spends time people watching late at night. That Steve has an eclectic taste in music, because some weird Russian pop song comes on his playlist while they’re talking. He finds that the mug in Steve’s hand was made by a kid he used to babysit.

He learns a lot, to be honest. And Steve learns a little bit about him, too.

They’re sitting there, laughing at something Steve’s just said, when an alarm goes off.

Steve blinks, lips parting, shoulders slumping. “Oh,” he says.

Billy understands why in the next second when an alert pops up, saying their hour is over.

thanks for indulging my kinks, Billy says, trying to type fast and beat the timer that's ticking down, starting to grey out his screen.

Steve smiles, a little sad and slow. “Thanks for talking to me, killer. I guess I’ll catch you another time?”

It sounds a little hopeful.

obviously. you're not the only one charmed.

It feels not too ridiculous to say. Because obviously Billy is charmed for Steve. He keeps coming back and back and back.

Steve’s smile turns genuine; bright.

“I’m flattered,” he says. “See you soon, killer.”

And then, unfortunately, the timer runs out.