Pierre & Ozzy

"Well, what would you like to do?"

I groan and cover my face with my hands.

"I don't know. Sleep. Die. Fuck? Kill? I'm a fucking roulette wheel."

In unison:

"Kill?" Heather asks, amused.

"Fuck?" Oswald asks, eyes narrowing.

Precious boy. Trying to figure out his odds.

They're good, he just doesn't know it yet.

The fan is spinning overhead, plastic blades whirring just audibly in a hypnotizing circle against the yellowed ceiling. The mattress is paper-thin, and every spring creaks and stabs into the small of my back when I shift around into a comfortable position.

I could use a good, noisy, cheap-mattress fuck, if Oz's up for it.

"Yes," I say. I shoot a look at Ozzy and cock an eyebrow.

He scowls at me.

"Who would you kill?" Heather asks, glancing over her shoulder. The ancient terminal casts a sickly-blue hue over her skin. Her shoulders remain hunched up, fingers only briefly paused above the keyboard.

"Me," Oz says with a laugh. I wink at him.

"No," Heather says. "Not you..."

She's click-clacking over the keyboard again.

"I'm going out for a smoke," Oz announces suddenly. He motions for me.

"Smoking's bad for you," Heather says.

Oz huffs.

"Heather-"

"Because if I smell it I'll kill you."

Oz sticks his tongue out at her and I can't help but snicker at them.

Closest thing to family, really, even with the new developments between Ozzy and me.

I follow behind Oz as he pushes through the cheap, white-paneled door into the yellow-green light in the stairwell. Cheap cermaic tile on the floor, rough, paneled tiles on the ceiling. We march noisily, footfalls sharp and echoing the cement stairwell, up to the roof. I keep my hand on the metal rail, distracted by the lumpy texture of the black paint.

Oz pushes through the roof exit with a bang and holds the brown-painted metal door open for me.

"Thanks," I say automatically, because it's him.

He grins.

"Need a smoke?" he asks, pulling his own pack out.

I shake my head.

"I'll take a hit of yours."

The packed brown gravel on the rooftop garden crunches softly like unbroken snow beneath our feet as we make our way to the low wall and the hundred foot plunge to Fifth Street.

I like this garden: the city smell, the air, the privacy...

I like Oz, even.

We stop by the low wall, looking down to the traffic below on Fifth Street. The constant movement of unending pedestrians, the cars honking and rushing by, people talking into phones or to each other. Above, blotted out stars never bothered to appear. All the light is down there, on the street, where the noise is.

In between nothing and everything else, that's where Oz and I are.

Oz lights his cigarette and takes a quick, unceremonious drag deep into his lungs. He coughs and spits.

"Gross."

"You'll fuck me anyway," he says.

I scowl at him.

"Maybe not, after that."

He laughs at me, soft and dark.

"Pierre," he chides softly. His voice is so condescending and amused.

He offers me the cigarette.

I take a soft drag, filling my lungs.

I hand it back to him as I blow out.

It goes back into his mouth, where it dangles from his lips.

I watch it for a moment, trailing smoke while he watches the city. He brings his hand up to the cigarette and takes another drag, then plucks it from his lips and rests his hand on the low rooftop wall. His lips make a little 'o' and he blows. The neon light catches the smoke and gives it a red glow.

He meets my gaze.

"What?" he asks with a laugh.

I cock my head to the side and shrug.

He holds his arm out.

I glance at the rooftop door and sidle next to him, under his arm.

He hugs me around the shoulder, then his hand softly grips my arm, massaging it.

I lean my head against his neck.

"Wanna fuck?" he asks.

"You're a poet," I say dryly.

He laughs that dark laugh, like everything is funny, or nothing is.

"But, yeah," I say. "I wanna."

Really bad.

"Where? Heather's going to be at that computer all night."

I shrug.

"I wanted to get railed on that mattress," I admit, crossing my arms. I mimic the sound of squeaky springs.

Oz laughs, genuinely.

"Maybe we can send her out for groceries and pull a quickie while she's gone."

I nod.

"Good plan," I say.

If any of us had money for groceries, anyway.

We watch the city.

My eyes trail a woman in a gray pantsuit, yelling into her phone. Her short blonde hair is pulled in a small ponytail. She looks fucking mad.

"What are you thinking about?" Oz asks.

I shrug.

"I, uh..."

I watch her, yelling, telling someone off.

It's expensive, to have an opinion.

You have to have the money for it.

"I'm just people-watching," I say. I look up at him.

He squeezes my shoulder, like he's comforting me. I smile, despite myself.

Why is Oz so funny?

I look down to the strip club across the street, pink neon signs buzzing, and black painted windows so no one can get a free show.

Candi walks out with a john. She's got this crazy red dress and matching lipstick on. She's teetering around like she's drunk, but half the time, she's just acting. She says if they're handsy when she's drunk, she won't go to the hotel.

"They gotta know consent, Peep," she says. "If they're handsy when they're being watched, they're rapey when they're not."

I don't know if Candi knows my real name, or that Peep is just what Heather and Oz call me. But, then again, I don't know Candi's real name, either.

She plays it close to the chest.

I like her.

"You're killing me," Oz says with a laugh. He sticks the cigarette between his lips, over half-gone, and puts his hand on my chin, forcing me to face him.

"Tell me," he says, and the grip of his fingers subtly tightens around my chin.

A rush of excitement fills my throat..

I suck my lips in and shake my head. His hand stays on my chin. I can feel my heartbeat pick up at his prolonged touch.

"Tell meeeee," he whines, smiling through the cigarette. He shakes my head playfully back and forth, his fingers firmly around my chin. Another squeeze, more demanding.

Fuck.

I cross my arms and feel the blood rushing into my dick.

I shake my head again, trying a coy smile on him, something like girls in movies do.

He smiles back and pulls the cigarette out of his mouth.

"Well, now," he says softly. He eyes me up and down. His hand drops from my chin and his arm wraps around my waist.

I lean against him and lace my hands behind his neck.

I can feel my shirt hike up a little under my jacket, and with Oz's hand on my back, I feel exposed.

Vulnerable.

He extinguishes the cigarette against the low wall and flicks it into the void, to the far street below.

His hand begins sliding back and forth over my lower back. He sticks his pinkie into the waistband of my jeans and, then slips it under my briefs. He moves it back and forth over the little blonde hairs above my ass.

I nuzzle into his neck.

"Right here?" I whisper, half-daring, half-incredulous.

He shakes his head.

"Where then?" I whine.

I don't mean to whine. I'm just turned on all of a sudden. And when it's him it feels urgent. It feels like something I have to do; not something I feel forced to do, or even expected to do. It's something I have to do, like drinking water or breathing. Something that hurts when you need it and can't get it.

He snickers at my childishness.

"Peep," he whispers, condescending.

I meet his gaze.

He leans forward and kisses me.

I press my lips against his and pull my arms back, finding his waist with my eyes closed.

I'm almost familiar with him.

His lips part and I part mine to accept him.

His breath is so warm; my lips slip over the slickness and the warmth in his mouth.

I push, breathing into him, feeling the urgency and my breath rising.

His tongue presses into my mouth, against my inner cheek. I tilt my head and lick his lips.

We make out for a minute, quiet, only the occasional, soft smacks of our lips, as we meet and part, again and again.

He catches my lower lip in his teeth. Sharp pain, just enough to feel it. A chill runs up my neck.

His hand slides back and forth across my lower back, teasing me.

His teeth release my lip. I grip his waist, feeling the faint, defined 'v' under his shirt.

And then, his entire hand disappears into the back of my waistband, fingers electrifying every nerve, standing the peach fuzz on my ass straight up. My cock throbs, fully erect now.

I inhale slowly, deeply.

Fuck.

He cups my whole ass in one hand and jiggles it a little.

"If you don't stop, we are going to fuck on this roof," I warn softly against his lips, a sense of panic and lust starting to rise.

What if Heather...?

What if anyone...?

He laughs in that dark way and kisses me more passionately; he slides his other hand up my shirt, hiking it far up. My breath catches at the sudden cold. My whole back prickles and I press against him for the heat. He starts rubbing the skin between my shoulders with his fingertips and squeezing my ass with the other, clenching and unclenching his hand. Like a command. Like he's holding me in place.

God, Ozzy.

I grind my throbbing cock against his. I can feel it through the jeans. It's small, barely a handful, even for me... I lose my train of thought at the tactile memory of his cock in my hands, warm and throbbing-

I slip my hand into the front of his jeans and fumble blindly while we kiss.

Tops are lucky. You just clap your whole paw around the ass cheek and you've hit gold.

Bottoms gotta go dick-digging down the front of your pants, hoping they don't bump anything too hard and kill the mood. Plus, I can never remember which way his bends and I don't want to yank it out the wrong way and hurt him...

My fingertips brush against the base through the tangle of black pubic hair.

I grope down the shaft until I find the head, where a thick wet dribble of precum sticks to my fingertips. I can feel his heartbeat in my hand.

He exhales slowly as my fingers wrap around his head.

He holds me against him and grinds his hips into me: I let the motion slide his cock through my curled fingers.

His grip on my ass shifts, his middle finger probing the center; he finds my asshole and I tense up as he brushes it, tests it.

He presses into it and wiggles.

Thrills and chills, my god.

I pull away. I do a quick, worried look around.

"Over there," I say, nodding. "Quick."

He pulls his hand out of my jeans and lifts me, resting my ass on his forearm. I wrap my legs around his waist, kissing him. I cup his head in my hands.

He pins me up against the wall and I hear his belt buckle rattling.

I brace my shoulders against the wall and desperately try with one hand to wiggle my pants and briefs down far enough. My other hand clings to his flexing bicep, holding me up.

His pants fall to his ankles with the clatter of his belt buckle.

Going commando, Ozzy?

I feel the heat of his dick against my asshole.

"Fuck," I whisper, rocking my head back, scraping it against the brick, holding on to him for dear life.

He laughs again, that dark laugh.

"If Heather knew what a little slut you were, Pierre," he says.

He presses me into the wall, kissing me. I wrap my arms around his neck and tighten my legs around his waist. My back scrapes against the pale brown brick.

His hand guides his dick into position and I can feel it slide over my taint to the sensitive pink skin. I can feel his precum rubbing onto me as he grinds: wet on wet, heat on heat.

I whimper.

"Ozzy, fuck me," I say as softly as I can.

He pauses, readjusts, and I can feel it, pressure, real, ready, threatening.

He pushes more carefully, more deliberately, and I begin breathing quickly.

More pressure.

My fingers curl around his hair, taking a handful.

It slips in.

I gasp.

He pumps slowly but with hard, skin-clapping-skin thrusts.

Someone could hear...

"Fuck," I whine, screwing my eyes shut.

It hurts, at first, but my cock is rock solid and throbbing.

"Do you like that?" Oz demands softly, a little breathless.

"Yes," I whisper back.

Blood rushes across my chest, warming me deeply.

He pauses and readjusts again, sliding me up the wall and angling his dick.

It forces upward and in, the whole shaft, and a sharp breath escapes from between my teeth.

He stops, nervous.

I wriggle my hips, slowly, and concentrate on the pressure in me...

Ozzy's inside me.

I clench my asshole around his cock, arcing my back, scraping my shoulders against the wall.

He grunts and starts thrusting again, more forcefully.

I 'hmmm' quietly and tilt my head back.

He kisses my neck.

"Slut," he teases.

"Fag," I shoot back.

He growls.

His thrusts are angry now, desperate.

We're quiet as he fucks me, only the wet slapping sounds and my uneven breathing...

My fingers pick through his hair idly, massaging his scalp, playing with the curls.

I feel it building, just below my stomach.

I open my eyes and meet his gaze.

"Oz, I'm close," I whisper. "I'm close."

He looks shocked for a second, dazed or something.

"Fuck, you're hot," he says, and his eyes squeeze shut and he shoots his load into me.

I feel it, hot and dense, and it fills me. I hear it slapping wetly between my ass and his stomach.

He keeps thrusting, for me, for himself...

A dribble of warm cum slips out of me in between his strokes. It races over the chilly skin of my exposed ass, subtly tugging on the little blonde hairs. My whole focus goes there, the liquid warmth, where it hangs on the curve of my ass, threatening to fall.

It drips off my skin.

A shudder of unexpected pleasure shakes my whole body.

"Fuck!" I moan, and grab my mouth.

My cock jumps and my asshole squeezes around Oz's dick as white cum pumps out of me.

I gasp through my fingers in time to the pulsing orgasm.

He thrusts a few more times, disorienting me, delirious me, and I blindly roll my hips around his shaft, drawing out anything left over in him.

We're both panting.

Then we're still, only our heavy breathing...

He slumps against the wall, pressing heavily into me, trapping me.

Holding me.

His head rests against my shoulder.

His dick slips out.

"Oh!"

I wince.

Cum falls wetly onto the gravel at our feet.

Goosebumps on my arms.

"Oh," I say again, more softly. My face relaxes. My arms relax.

He lifts his head and kisses me on the lips.

"Thanks," he says, lips brushing against my lips.

"Don't mention it," I say softly.

He kisses me again.

"I think I came on you," I say. I crane my neck to see.

He laughs, his genuine laugh.

He kisses me again.

I wiggle out of his arms, dropping to the ground. I check the inside of my pants as Oz bends over to pull his own pants back up.

Evidence of our quickie stains the inside of my briefs. Well, at least the mess is contained. Wish it had just fallen to the ground, though. Still, better than it getting on the outside of our clothes and giving us away.

I brush my hair with my fingers and half smile.

"I'll take you up on that cigarette now."