Quentin's pretty alright. Bit of a dickhead, but most of the guys Billy spends time with are. Being his roommate doesn't really change that - their friendship is about as skin deep as all the others - but it does come with some perks. There's always coffee and drugs in the apartment, and a good party is never far away. The place is small, but their bills are paid. For the most part, Quentin minds his own goddamn business, and so does Billy. And after living with his dad his whole life? That's a huge fucking blessing.
For one, Billy can bring hookups home whenever he wants. Sure, he could be a little more courteous or considerate about it, but they're both adults. He doesn't complain when Quentin's got some goth bitch in his room yowling like a cat in heat, he just puts on headphones. So far, Quentin hasn't been stupid enough to complain about Billy's houseguests either. Simple solutions.
That being said, Billy's been a little more cautious about bringing his newest fuck buddy around their place. Deputy Gator Tillman isn't exactly one to follow the exact letter of the law, but that doesn't mean he wants to bring him into an apartment full of illegal narcotics, either. Gator's got a mean streak - to put it lightly - and if things go sour between them, the last thing Billy needs is for Gator to have incriminating dirt on either of them. And largely, that’s been easy - Gator’s not opposed to fucking in the back seat of his truck, or his patrol SUV, or Billy’s car. And when that won’t do, a bar bathroom, a back alley, out in the woods - they’ve got options.
But Quentin’s supposed to be out today, all day, and Billy wants to get fucked good and hard in his own bed. And, well, that was his intention, but they made it to the couch first, and Billy's not about to say no to Gator when he's so eager to get on his knees right now.
“Fuck, daddy, that’s good,” Billy groans, gripping a fistful of Gator’s hair as he rolls his hips up to meet the wet heat of his mouth. His other arm is stretched out over the back of the couch, muscular thighs splayed wide, gym shorts abandoned near his feet.
He thinks he hears something, but ignores it. The walls in this place are like tissue paper - he could practically recite some of their neighbors’ nightly arguments by heart. So Billy ignores it, at first. It’s when he hears Quentin rummaging around that Billy rolls his eyes, but he’s not about to ruin a good thing. He could easily, easily just grab his shit and go - but of course that isn’t the case. He’s gotta yap his ear off, gotta tell Billy his whole fuckin’ life story --
Oh shit. Oh… shit. Billy finally makes eye contact with Quentin from across the room, glaring daggers without so much as moving his hand from Gator’s head.
“Are you fuckin’ done yet? Huh? Jesus Christ, will you shut the fuck up and get out already? Read the goddamn room, shithead.”
Let me suck your fuckin' dick. That's all it took, really, for Billy to take his gym shorts down. His cock is perfect - thick, already drooling. The head is damp, and Gator licks his bottom lip, leaning in to gently tug at him. He leans down, chin lowered as he takes it into his mouth. A groan echoes from his throat, sending a vibration up Billy's cock. Gator grips Billy's thighs as his pelvis begins to roll, and Gator can't help the need he has. He massages Billy's balls, taking one into his mouth as he begins to tug at him faster with his free hand.
It's so good - Gator stiff in his uniform, his hips grinding gently against Billy's leg. He knows that Billy will feel how hard he is, so he moans again, precome drooling over his tongue. He wants Billy to come, so he spits the precome onto his fingers, sliding them against Billy's hole. He breaks from his dick, coming up for air.
"Just wait, baby, I'm going to tear that pussy up like it owes me money." Always vulgar, always too much, Gator grins, saliva connecting his mouth to Billy's cock. His hand is in his hair, loose and falling across his brow. That's when he hears it - a voice. It's fucking annoying, and Gator snatches his hand away from teasing Billy's opening to whip his head around. Some asshole is digging around in the closet, then going to the kitchen. Gator looks up at Billy from under his lashes, and the look on his face is evident that he isn't happy about this.
Oh... shit.
Gator whips his head around, looking up at that piece of shit that cuffed him and stole a fuckton of drugs. He stands, slowly, erection completely gone as he lunges forward. He pushes him backwards, hitting the wall, hand at his throat. His teeth are on edge, frame tense as he squeezes. His eyes are dark, wild, dangerous. Inside, he feels like a furnace of rage, flames licking upward as red, red, red overtakes his mind. It's anger, pure and simple. He squeezes harder.
"You ever heard of fuckin' privacy, shitbird? Or are you here to cuff me again and steal my shit?" He's pissed, more than pissed, before he lets him go. He then rears back with his hand and backhands him, twice, three times. He backs off, boots heavy against the floor. He takes in a deep breath, then shakes his head, an airy laugh escaping his lungs, but there's no mirth in it.
"Motherfuckin' piece of shit, you know that? You fuckin' waste. I should haul you the fuck in." He leans down, flexing his fingers, Billy forgotten. Gator tilts his head, narrowing his eyes.
"Or maybe I'll just beat your ass and put you in the fuckin' ICU."
The interloper turns cinematically slow, and his brain drops back to that night, so many months ago that it might as well be a lifetime if it's a day. It's been a little over a year, in truth, and Quentin's list of things to say if he got caught spring helpfully to mind: help! this cop came onto me! I'm just a good person in a bad place! Haven't you ever been in a tough spot before, man? In the couple of marching steps between him and the couch, Quentin plays over the night: the nip in the air, the stretch of his spine, the juice and spit taste off Gator's mouth and the deeply satisfying rage in his eyes when Quentin tossed his keys just out of reach before leaving. Â
Gator knocks the thoughts--excuses, memories, smugness and all--out of his head and onto the floor. When he heaves in a breath, all Quentin can think of is his roommate (not friends, but aren't they friends?) getting the same treatment. Guys like this--fucking guys like this--Â
"Hey," Quentin coughs up, rickety grin aching where his lip is broken. One hand lifts between them, a meek white flag. "It wasn't you, okay? It was me. You were great." And when Gator opens his mouth to respond, he gets a frying pan pulled from the counter swung at his head. Whether it lands or not, Quentin follows up with a knee driving between his legs, yelping over the counter, "Billy, get out!"Â
One moment, Billy's getting some of the best damn head of his life - about to get some of the best damn dick of his life - and the next, this little apartment's turned into a war zone. It takes him a second to even parse what's happening, his cock twitching at the loss of contact, then he's watching Gator shove Quentin up against the wall. Billy's felt that hand around his own throat before, loved and hated it both, depending on the day. But he can look out for himself. What he wants to know is why Gator's choking Quentin when he should be choking on him. Their conversation immediately gives him a few clues, but it's no less annoying on either of their parts.
And they're trying to kill each other in his kitchen, which he can't tolerate.
Billy, get out! His nostrils flare as he pushes off of the couch, ducking down to hike up his shorts, his erection thick and tenting the fabric.
"Hey. Hey!" he growls. Then he's crossing the room to get between the two of them, arms spread wide to try and at least block them from hitting each other. "You want me to get out, asshole? Are you fucking kidding me?" Billy snorts, eyes wild as he stares Quentin down. Then he whips his head around to look at Gator, huffing. "And what the fuck is all this about? 'Cuff you again?' 'Steal your shit'? Can one of you please fuckin' explain?"
The frying pan didn't land, it falling to the floor with a loud clank. A knee between his legs, though, does hit. Pussy shit, girl shit. Gator's winded by it, bending over, but his eyes shine with violence. He's pissed - beyond pissed, so angry he could suck the marrow from this little fucker's bones. He lunges forward with a wry laugh, but that's when Billy comes and stands between them. Gator immediately wants to flinch, he's not used to Billy yelling at him like this, and with all of the commotion - he's suddenly very aware of himself. He was talked to about the evidence room, was beaten pretty good for it happening. As far as Gator is concerned, this streak of nothing trying to save Billy is at fault.
Can one of you please fuckin' explain?
Gator's jaw clenches, hard, staring at this little pile of puke from across Billy. He's about as tall as all of them, but there's something about Gator - his anger is what makes him appear larger. He wants to break his legs one by one, leave him somewhere half-buried, see if the coyotes get him first. He rolls his tongue around his mouth, pre-come and spit still at the tip of it. He was going to fuck Billy, and he was interrupted.
"He cuffed me, stole a bunch of shit from the evidence room."
His words are dark, but they're calm. His hand on his chest reminds him of his father, so Gator's venom-clenched teeth release. He leans his head, unable to look at Billy first. He should be allowed to kill his roommate - it's unfair, in his mind, that this shithead is still walking around on two legs after what he did in Tillman Country.
"We were gonna hook up. Fuckin' bitch took about everythin'." Gator glances at him, and he's still so fucking angry on top of being a kicked dog. He looks at Billy, finally, large eyes not here or there. "Just let me at him, baby. I promise it won't take too fuckin' long." He reaches out, hand on Billy's arm. "It ain't like he means nothin', right?"
And for a second, Quentin expects he's going to catch the wad of spit that Gator scrapes around his mouth. The way this guy pivots from nearly frothing at the mouth to relaying his version of the story coldly to breathing out entreaties like he's asking Billy for a handy turns his stomach over each time it goes sideways.Â
Quentin inches back, attention darting between Gator's dead-eyed look, his hand wrapping Billy's arm, and the counter where there should be a knife somewhere--ah. The dishwasher swings open with a clatter, and he grabs the kitchen knife out for good measure. It's dull, but it's a fucking kitchen knife, how wrong can you go? "We were never gonna hook up, I needed supply. Dude, don't let him talk to you like he's a kid with a cookie jar, let's go."Â
Honestly? Billy's surprised that this is enough to hold Gator back - at least for now. He's so quick to dominate every aspect of their little fling, takes so much pleasure in showing Billy his place. The only reason he doesn't push back harder against him is the fear Gator instills in him: like it or not, Gator has power. Make you disappear power, never find the damn body power. It's not a great situation to be in, but it is what it is.
Gator's side of the story comes first, then the plea to just let him do what he wants. Just let him at him! What's the big deal? Quentin's expendable. Everyone's expendable once they piss him off.
God, is it his turn next? Billy's stomach twists.
And then Quentin's firing right back at him, taunting the goddamn bull. Billy's nostrils flare as he sighs, eyes rolling back in irritation. He keeps his hand firmly planted against Gator's chest, shaking his head before turning to look at Quentin again.
"For fuck's sake -- Q, put the fuckin' knife down before you get yourself shot." Seriously. Rule number-fucking-one of dealing with cops? Don't give them a reason to get trigger-happy. Billy's focusing on taking slow, steady breaths, trying to choose his words carefully here. If he's being honest - and he is not going to be honest right now - they're both being fucking stupid and irritating, but only one of them has a gun and the ability to have them both dead or jailed by the end of this conversation.
He hopes the look that he shoots Quentin says what it needs to say, namely - shut the fuck up and let me handle this. Somehow he doubts that'll work out the way he wants it to. Turning back toward Gator, he lets out another sigh, offering him a smile.
"C'mon, daddy. Don't waste your time on him." His tongue flicks out over his lips, and he tilts his head to the side. "There's gotta be something I can do to clear all this up, right? To give him a fresh start. For me."
This is not going to fucking work, he thinks, feeling his heartbeat thudding in his throat. But he can't just throw Quentin to the wolves, either.
Gator's rage is finely-tuned after years of living on the Tillman ranch. Being beaten into submission is one way that always works - people listen, on their backs, bleeding, two steps from making it to the other side. In his mind, Quentin is next for a good, old-fashioned, tire iron of a beating. A boot up his ass and kicked against his face. The fucker has the nerve to show up, interrupt, then act like it's his fault that he robbed the evidence room. In all, Gator feels righteous in his anger, but he never has had a doubt about that, anyway. He's always angry for a reason, and Quentin is about to find out what it's like when he's cagey.
The knife comes into play and Gator immediately takes out the gun - the glock is raised, the safety clicked off, the hammer back. If Quentin believes in anything, he best start praying to it. Billy stands in the middle, but if he wants to stand in Gator's way, well. That's easily remedied with a swift, hard backhand. Gator figures that he's going to get what he wants, regardless of the damage.
"You're callin' me a psycho while wavin' a fuckin' knife." It's said through his teeth, dark eyes narrowing and trained so carefully on Quentin. His free hand is still on Billy's arm, and he'll drag him out of the way if he needs to. He's strong, stronger than he looks, and more violent than either of them understand. It's a classic case of underestimating what's happening, and criminals usually do that, to Gator's amusement. This is different, however, and Gator wants nothing more than to kill Quentin where he stands, then bring him to the compound to be buried.
"Listen, baby." He turns to Billy, almost sweet, stroking his wrist with his fingers. "I know he's your fuckin' roommate and everythin', but he stole from the law. That ain't good, now is it?"
He's talking to Billy, but he's looking at Quentin, gun still raised and unwavering. "He stole from me. Think of all that shit we could be doin' - coke, you know? Remember? Think of that. He took it. That was fun we were gonna have."
He freezes. That's really his only option here, because he can out-squirm, out-claw, and outsmart plenty of guys bigger and stronger than him, but he's got nothing to counter a gun in a small space. Quentin freezes, angled around the corner in case he needs a chance to bolt--but his eyes still nearly roll out of his head.Â
The knife clangs to the floor, and he raises his hands to chest-height, tries to flatten the snarl out of his upper lip. "Like you couldn't be doing coke right now."
Smart-mouthed, angry, but it's plain in his eyes that he's well aware of the danger he's in. They tick between Gator, Billy and the door, blown so wide from adrenaline that anyone could see the gear turning behind them.Â
Billy's heartbeat thuds in his ears, trying, if nothing else, to stay calm - or at least look it. He keeps his focus on Gator, afraid that if he looks away he'll take the opportunity to shoot. There's no guarantee that he won't just do it anyway, but he has to try.
Gator's fingers find his wrist, so Billy shifts to interlace their fingers, giving his hand a squeeze as he stares at him, wide-eyed.
"C'mon, daddy, there'll always be more coke. We just did some the other day," he pleads, thumb circling over the back of Gator's hand. Never mind that technically, Gator's stealing from the law, too. But helping yourself to the contents of the evidence locker is just another privilege that comes with being the sheriff's son. As is being able to put someone in the ground.
Behind him somewhere, Billy hears the knife hit the floor, sighing with relief. This isn't over yet, but Quentin not holding a weapon - useless as it would be here - is a start.
"How about -- our friend here gives us some blow and gets lost, then we can have some real fun and forget any of this ever happened." Yeah, right. Billy's not going to forget about this for a long time.
Billy laces his fingers with Gator's and it's all he can feel for a moment. Palm to palm warmth, so locked and sweet and strange that Gator snatches his hand away, snakebit. He doesn't like that fucking softness - it reminds him of his mother, of what it felt like to have someone who didn't hate him. He supposes Nadine made a close second, wherever the fuck she is. He looks at Billy, confused for a moment, then his face twists with something that's dangerous. His eyes are glassy, and as he pushes past Billy, gun lowering, he grabs Quentin by the back of the neck.
"Get on your knees. Open that mouth." He places the gun to Quentin's head, tapping the end of the barrel against his temple. Once, twice. His stiff against his uniform again, inseam bulging, as he turns back to Billy. He smirks, then nods for him to come over. "C'mon, baby. I know what we need. Let's fuck him. Then he'll learn."
He strokes Quentin's hair before he yanks his head back, looking down into his eyes. "I said open your fuckin' mouth." He taps Quentin's lips with the barrel of the gun. "And you fuckin' do somethin' stupid like try to bite me? And I'll blow your fuckin' brains out. It don't matter to me. Somethin's gettin' sucked."
No knife, but he's ready to claw his way out of here--but Gator is too quick in his step, too strong in his wrist and thumb dug against the base of Quentin's skull. It had been hot enough way back when, being handled, being rocked like a storm. Now, all he feels in the pit of his gut is sourness.Â
All that frenetic movement burns down to flinching, twitching in his eyebrow or lips to inch away from the cool of the gun. Still a snarl in his mouth, even if his eyes start to water and his voice frays. "You're fucking kidding me. Billy, tell me he's fucking kidding."Â
Gator jerks his hand away from him like he's touched a hot stove, and Billy winces, expecting a backhand. Instead, he just gets a look like he's the one being irrational here. He's the one being unreasonable when he's the only one here who hasn't pointed a weapon at anybody. His stomach twists as he takes a half-step backward to let Gator pass, eyes wide as he takes in the sight of what happens next.
Billy's been in Quentin's place before, felt that same gun clacking against his teeth, tasted it on his tongue. But he didn't learn his lesson, kept playing with fire, and now? Now everybody's getting burned.
And it's sick, truly sick, how under all of that fear and dread, there's something jealous buried in him seeing Gator do this to Quentin. It's not fair, not fucking fair, how Gator can hold him on such a tight leash when it's not like he's his boyfriend but as soon as Gator wants someone else, he's supposed to just go with it. Billy knows full well that this isn't about that, this is about power, about punishment and humiliation, but the feeling lingers anyway.
"Put the gun down, Gator. Please." Billy swallows as he creeps closer, trying to keep his voice steady. "C'mon. I don't wanna fuck him, you don't wanna fuck him." There have been a few times, both of them strung out on the couch at sunrise, shooting the shit, where Billy thought about crossing that line. But he didn't. Don't shit where you eat - don't fuck your roommate. Duh. Right now, the idea just makes him feel nauseated, especially when Quentin speaks up - tell me he's fucking kidding, and Billy wishes he could.
"Will you leave him alone after this?" he asks, brows knitting together. "I'm talking fresh start, clean slate."
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For one, Billy can bring hookups home whenever he wants. Sure, he could be a little more courteous or considerate about it, but they're both adults. He doesn't complain when Quentin's got some goth bitch in his room yowling like a cat in heat, he just puts on headphones. So far, Quentin hasn't been stupid enough to complain about Billy's houseguests either. Simple solutions.
That being said, Billy's been a little more cautious about bringing his newest fuck buddy around their place. Deputy Gator Tillman isn't exactly one to follow the exact letter of the law, but that doesn't mean he wants to bring him into an apartment full of illegal narcotics, either. Gator's got a mean streak - to put it lightly - and if things go sour between them, the last thing Billy needs is for Gator to have incriminating dirt on either of them. And largely, that’s been easy - Gator’s not opposed to fucking in the back seat of his truck, or his patrol SUV, or Billy’s car. And when that won’t do, a bar bathroom, a back alley, out in the woods - they’ve got options.
But Quentin’s supposed to be out today, all day, and Billy wants to get fucked good and hard in his own bed. And, well, that was his intention, but they made it to the couch first, and Billy's not about to say no to Gator when he's so eager to get on his knees right now.
“Fuck, daddy, that’s good,” Billy groans, gripping a fistful of Gator’s hair as he rolls his hips up to meet the wet heat of his mouth. His other arm is stretched out over the back of the couch, muscular thighs splayed wide, gym shorts abandoned near his feet.
He thinks he hears something, but ignores it. The walls in this place are like tissue paper - he could practically recite some of their neighbors’ nightly arguments by heart. So Billy ignores it, at first. It’s when he hears Quentin rummaging around that Billy rolls his eyes, but he’s not about to ruin a good thing. He could easily, easily just grab his shit and go - but of course that isn’t the case. He’s gotta yap his ear off, gotta tell Billy his whole fuckin’ life story --
Oh shit. Oh… shit. Billy finally makes eye contact with Quentin from across the room, glaring daggers without so much as moving his hand from Gator’s head.
“Are you fuckin’ done yet? Huh? Jesus Christ, will you shut the fuck up and get out already? Read the goddamn room, shithead.”
oh shit, daddy's mad.
It's so good - Gator stiff in his uniform, his hips grinding gently against Billy's leg. He knows that Billy will feel how hard he is, so he moans again, precome drooling over his tongue. He wants Billy to come, so he spits the precome onto his fingers, sliding them against Billy's hole. He breaks from his dick, coming up for air.
"Just wait, baby, I'm going to tear that pussy up like it owes me money." Always vulgar, always too much, Gator grins, saliva connecting his mouth to Billy's cock. His hand is in his hair, loose and falling across his brow. That's when he hears it - a voice. It's fucking annoying, and Gator snatches his hand away from teasing Billy's opening to whip his head around. Some asshole is digging around in the closet, then going to the kitchen. Gator looks up at Billy from under his lashes, and the look on his face is evident that he isn't happy about this.
Oh... shit.
Gator whips his head around, looking up at that piece of shit that cuffed him and stole a fuckton of drugs. He stands, slowly, erection completely gone as he lunges forward. He pushes him backwards, hitting the wall, hand at his throat. His teeth are on edge, frame tense as he squeezes. His eyes are dark, wild, dangerous. Inside, he feels like a furnace of rage, flames licking upward as red, red, red overtakes his mind. It's anger, pure and simple. He squeezes harder.
"You ever heard of fuckin' privacy, shitbird? Or are you here to cuff me again and steal my shit?" He's pissed, more than pissed, before he lets him go. He then rears back with his hand and backhands him, twice, three times. He backs off, boots heavy against the floor. He takes in a deep breath, then shakes his head, an airy laugh escaping his lungs, but there's no mirth in it.
"Motherfuckin' piece of shit, you know that? You fuckin' waste. I should haul you the fuck in." He leans down, flexing his fingers, Billy forgotten. Gator tilts his head, narrowing his eyes.
"Or maybe I'll just beat your ass and put you in the fuckin' ICU."
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Gator knocks the thoughts--excuses, memories, smugness and all--out of his head and onto the floor. When he heaves in a breath, all Quentin can think of is his roommate (not friends, but aren't they friends?) getting the same treatment. Guys like this--fucking guys like this--Â
"Hey," Quentin coughs up, rickety grin aching where his lip is broken. One hand lifts between them, a meek white flag. "It wasn't you, okay? It was me. You were great." And when Gator opens his mouth to respond, he gets a frying pan pulled from the counter swung at his head. Whether it lands or not, Quentin follows up with a knee driving between his legs, yelping over the counter, "Billy, get out!"Â
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And they're trying to kill each other in his kitchen, which he can't tolerate.
Billy, get out! His nostrils flare as he pushes off of the couch, ducking down to hike up his shorts, his erection thick and tenting the fabric.
"Hey. Hey!" he growls. Then he's crossing the room to get between the two of them, arms spread wide to try and at least block them from hitting each other. "You want me to get out, asshole? Are you fucking kidding me?" Billy snorts, eyes wild as he stares Quentin down. Then he whips his head around to look at Gator, huffing. "And what the fuck is all this about? 'Cuff you again?' 'Steal your shit'? Can one of you please fuckin' explain?"
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Can one of you please fuckin' explain?
Gator's jaw clenches, hard, staring at this little pile of puke from across Billy. He's about as tall as all of them, but there's something about Gator - his anger is what makes him appear larger. He wants to break his legs one by one, leave him somewhere half-buried, see if the coyotes get him first. He rolls his tongue around his mouth, pre-come and spit still at the tip of it. He was going to fuck Billy, and he was interrupted.
"He cuffed me, stole a bunch of shit from the evidence room."
His words are dark, but they're calm. His hand on his chest reminds him of his father, so Gator's venom-clenched teeth release. He leans his head, unable to look at Billy first. He should be allowed to kill his roommate - it's unfair, in his mind, that this shithead is still walking around on two legs after what he did in Tillman Country.
"We were gonna hook up. Fuckin' bitch took about everythin'." Gator glances at him, and he's still so fucking angry on top of being a kicked dog. He looks at Billy, finally, large eyes not here or there. "Just let me at him, baby. I promise it won't take too fuckin' long." He reaches out, hand on Billy's arm. "It ain't like he means nothin', right?"
no subject
And for a second, Quentin expects he's going to catch the wad of spit that Gator scrapes around his mouth. The way this guy pivots from nearly frothing at the mouth to relaying his version of the story coldly to breathing out entreaties like he's asking Billy for a handy turns his stomach over each time it goes sideways.Â
Quentin inches back, attention darting between Gator's dead-eyed look, his hand wrapping Billy's arm, and the counter where there should be a knife somewhere--ah. The dishwasher swings open with a clatter, and he grabs the kitchen knife out for good measure. It's dull, but it's a fucking kitchen knife, how wrong can you go? "We were never gonna hook up, I needed supply. Dude, don't let him talk to you like he's a kid with a cookie jar, let's go."Â
no subject
Gator's side of the story comes first, then the plea to just let him do what he wants. Just let him at him! What's the big deal? Quentin's expendable. Everyone's expendable once they piss him off.
God, is it his turn next? Billy's stomach twists.
And then Quentin's firing right back at him, taunting the goddamn bull. Billy's nostrils flare as he sighs, eyes rolling back in irritation. He keeps his hand firmly planted against Gator's chest, shaking his head before turning to look at Quentin again.
"For fuck's sake -- Q, put the fuckin' knife down before you get yourself shot." Seriously. Rule number-fucking-one of dealing with cops? Don't give them a reason to get trigger-happy. Billy's focusing on taking slow, steady breaths, trying to choose his words carefully here. If he's being honest - and he is not going to be honest right now - they're both being fucking stupid and irritating, but only one of them has a gun and the ability to have them both dead or jailed by the end of this conversation.
He hopes the look that he shoots Quentin says what it needs to say, namely - shut the fuck up and let me handle this. Somehow he doubts that'll work out the way he wants it to. Turning back toward Gator, he lets out another sigh, offering him a smile.
"C'mon, daddy. Don't waste your time on him." His tongue flicks out over his lips, and he tilts his head to the side. "There's gotta be something I can do to clear all this up, right? To give him a fresh start. For me."
This is not going to fucking work, he thinks, feeling his heartbeat thudding in his throat. But he can't just throw Quentin to the wolves, either.
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The knife comes into play and Gator immediately takes out the gun - the glock is raised, the safety clicked off, the hammer back. If Quentin believes in anything, he best start praying to it. Billy stands in the middle, but if he wants to stand in Gator's way, well. That's easily remedied with a swift, hard backhand. Gator figures that he's going to get what he wants, regardless of the damage.
"You're callin' me a psycho while wavin' a fuckin' knife." It's said through his teeth, dark eyes narrowing and trained so carefully on Quentin. His free hand is still on Billy's arm, and he'll drag him out of the way if he needs to. He's strong, stronger than he looks, and more violent than either of them understand. It's a classic case of underestimating what's happening, and criminals usually do that, to Gator's amusement. This is different, however, and Gator wants nothing more than to kill Quentin where he stands, then bring him to the compound to be buried.
"Listen, baby." He turns to Billy, almost sweet, stroking his wrist with his fingers. "I know he's your fuckin' roommate and everythin', but he stole from the law. That ain't good, now is it?"
He's talking to Billy, but he's looking at Quentin, gun still raised and unwavering. "He stole from me. Think of all that shit we could be doin' - coke, you know? Remember? Think of that. He took it. That was fun we were gonna have."
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The knife clangs to the floor, and he raises his hands to chest-height, tries to flatten the snarl out of his upper lip. "Like you couldn't be doing coke right now."
Smart-mouthed, angry, but it's plain in his eyes that he's well aware of the danger he's in. They tick between Gator, Billy and the door, blown so wide from adrenaline that anyone could see the gear turning behind them.Â
no subject
Gator's fingers find his wrist, so Billy shifts to interlace their fingers, giving his hand a squeeze as he stares at him, wide-eyed.
"C'mon, daddy, there'll always be more coke. We just did some the other day," he pleads, thumb circling over the back of Gator's hand. Never mind that technically, Gator's stealing from the law, too. But helping yourself to the contents of the evidence locker is just another privilege that comes with being the sheriff's son. As is being able to put someone in the ground.
Behind him somewhere, Billy hears the knife hit the floor, sighing with relief. This isn't over yet, but Quentin not holding a weapon - useless as it would be here - is a start.
"How about -- our friend here gives us some blow and gets lost, then we can have some real fun and forget any of this ever happened." Yeah, right. Billy's not going to forget about this for a long time.
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"Get on your knees. Open that mouth." He places the gun to Quentin's head, tapping the end of the barrel against his temple. Once, twice. His stiff against his uniform again, inseam bulging, as he turns back to Billy. He smirks, then nods for him to come over. "C'mon, baby. I know what we need. Let's fuck him. Then he'll learn."
He strokes Quentin's hair before he yanks his head back, looking down into his eyes. "I said open your fuckin' mouth." He taps Quentin's lips with the barrel of the gun. "And you fuckin' do somethin' stupid like try to bite me? And I'll blow your fuckin' brains out. It don't matter to me. Somethin's gettin' sucked."
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All that frenetic movement burns down to flinching, twitching in his eyebrow or lips to inch away from the cool of the gun. Still a snarl in his mouth, even if his eyes start to water and his voice frays. "You're fucking kidding me. Billy, tell me he's fucking kidding."Â
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Billy's been in Quentin's place before, felt that same gun clacking against his teeth, tasted it on his tongue. But he didn't learn his lesson, kept playing with fire, and now? Now everybody's getting burned.
And it's sick, truly sick, how under all of that fear and dread, there's something jealous buried in him seeing Gator do this to Quentin. It's not fair, not fucking fair, how Gator can hold him on such a tight leash when it's not like he's his boyfriend but as soon as Gator wants someone else, he's supposed to just go with it. Billy knows full well that this isn't about that, this is about power, about punishment and humiliation, but the feeling lingers anyway.
"Put the gun down, Gator. Please." Billy swallows as he creeps closer, trying to keep his voice steady. "C'mon. I don't wanna fuck him, you don't wanna fuck him." There have been a few times, both of them strung out on the couch at sunrise, shooting the shit, where Billy thought about crossing that line. But he didn't. Don't shit where you eat - don't fuck your roommate. Duh. Right now, the idea just makes him feel nauseated, especially when Quentin speaks up - tell me he's fucking kidding, and Billy wishes he could.
"Will you leave him alone after this?" he asks, brows knitting together. "I'm talking fresh start, clean slate."