Back in California you had your pick of the local weed and the quality was stratospheric but the nearest coke hookup was always some guy with a rattail who wanted you to sit on his couch and look at naked polaroids of his cum-freak girlfriend. In Buttfuck, Indiana the pot is nothing but stems and seeds, real honest-to-God outlaw ditch weed and there’s only one man in town to get all your goodies from.

“Always a pleasure doing business with you,” Eddie says, tucking the tight-folded $100 bill into his pack of cigarettes. Munson has the biggest shittiest grin on his face and briefly Billy considers hitting him, if it wouldn’t significantly decrease the chances of getting his dick sucked.

“Pleasure’s all mine. Are you going to blow me now, or what?”

Munson swings his legs over the center divider, sliding in to straddle him against the driver’s seat of the Camaro — he moves like a pile of knees and elbows, Billy had seen him earlier camped out by the speakers and pretending to dance, making the girls laugh. None of these Indiana farm fucks know the joke’s on them. Eddie’s not from around here either, not really — his old man’s from Kentucky and if the gossip’s true he’s still there, cooling his heels in the state pen for armed robbery. People around Hawkins High say a lot of things about Eddie Munson, and some of it is true.

“Don’t you boys have to save all your juice for the big game? I thought you were only into playing with balls.” He grabs at Billy’s dick for emphasis and they scuffle a little in the too-tight space of the driver’s seat. The friction from being straddled is killing him, and when he kisses him it’s more like biting him, catching Eddie’s mouth with his own just to shut him up. There’s a little blow left there on his upper lip, and it makes Billy’s own lips tingle.

Billy shoves his hand down between them, jerking his belt loose, and Eddie opens his mouth against him in half a moan and half a laugh — he’s already so hard in his jeans just from the closeness of him, and the smell of his body drives Billy crazy, sweat and Old Spice and the woodsmoke from the bonfire caught in his hair. Something about Eddie just wakes him up inside, and while he wishes it was just about anybody else in town, at least the freak puts out.

“You’re such a slut,” Billy hisses against his mouth, biting at Eddie’s lower lip.

Eddie liberates his own dick from those tight shredded jeans — he wears ragged plaid boxers, yanked down past the soft swell of his lower belly to reveal his hard flushed cock, and his belt buckle has one of those fucked-up five-pointed stars on it. People in Hawkins think you’ve sold your soul to the devil if you have halfway decent taste in music.

Eddie’s eyes are half-lidded, dark and mean. “Don’t I know it, shit. Oh, I want to fuck you so bad. You gotta let me. You’re going to come like a fucking fire hose.”

Maybe one of these days he’ll let him do it, just to see what it feels like. Or he’ll give it to Eddie and make him squirm and sweat and shoot his load without even touching his dick. Munson’s got nothing to be ashamed of in the dick department — looks like getting held back did him some favors, if he didn’t act like such a schizo all the time maybe he could make it through the locker room without getting his ass beat. Their cocks slide together in their clasped hands, skin against hot skin, and the way Eddie hisses and pants with pleasure has him hard as a fucking rock and trailing fat ropes of come.

If they keep going like this, Eddie riding against his lap and breathing hard against Billy’s cheek, he’s going to shoot his load all over those pretty silver rings. Billy gropes at him with his free hand, trying to find somewhere to grab beneath the ledge of that flat ass and settling for grabbing a fistful of the back of his shirt.

Eddie’s studded belt flops loose, knocking against Billy’s busily-working arm — he knows how he likes it, quick fast jerks with a punishing grip, and if Eddie can’t take it then that’s on him. His tee shirt is rucked up to show a sliver of his quaking belly, the little bit of softness there over the tight surging muscle and the track of dark hair. The smell of him is smoke and salt and grime, like pure sex, and Billy wants to drink it down. He wants to taste him. Billy bows his head, just as Eddie leans in to kiss his neck, and this is the wrong choice.

Their skulls knock together; Billy grunts at the sudden jolt of pain, and Eddie reels backward. “Shit! His ass rocks back against the steering column, and the horn gives a single ear-splitting blast.

Eddie topples forward against him in a panic, even as Billy’s reaching for the car door handle. The last thing either of them wants to do is to attract the attention of anyone passing by — shit, he’d even turned the headlights off, just to make sure no shit-eating State Trooper mistook the Camaro for a mini van full of stranded kids or something.

Sensing an opportunity, Billy tries to shove his tongue in Eddie’s mouth, but Eddie hauls him out of the driver’s seat and tosses him back against the driver’s side door of the Camaro.

Billy protests but it’s hard to cuss him out with a hard dick. “Scratch my car and I’ll fucking kill you!”

“Relax, stud.” Eddie reaches down and squeezes his balls in a way that is not remotely reassuring, just hard enough to kind of hurt. He sinks down his chest, breathing him in and mouthing against Billy’s collarbone in an implied threat: I’m going to leave a mark on you. I’m going to make sure everybody knows it’s me who’s fucking you. I’m going to make sure everybody knows you’re mine. Billy might like that, actually.

Billy grinds against him, trying to catch an edge of friction between their bodies and catching a rough thrill off the rub of denim against his own flushed and sensitive cock. Eddie tugs at Billy’s nipple through his shirt, making him huff with disgust and bite back at him — Billy captures his bottom lip with his teeth and presses until Eddie moans with pain, grinding in closer against him. Rubbing together, skin on skin and denim on denim — if Munson shoots his load on him where anybody can see it they’re going to have bigger problems.

Eddie sinks down to his knees.

Billy backs up against the driver’s side door of the Camaro, with his jeans-clad ass right up against the paint — the night air licks against his face and he feels really, heart-poundingly alive for the first time since they left California. Shit, maybe it’s the coke. Eddie mouths tauntingly against his cock, rubbing his spitty tongue over the head of it — the texture is too much and too rough and the way he’s teasing at the tight little piss-slit there makes Billy’s vision start to white out around the edges, makes him start to moan out loud. Knees locked, he grabs at Eddie’s head to steady himself, only for Eddie to look up at him in a flash of mocking reproach:

“Come on, Billy, baby, say please.”

“Fuck you, freak. I’m not going to beg you.”

This is their whole thing — just because they’re screwing with each other doesn’t mean they like each other. Doesn’t mean Billy Hargrove would be caught dead within fifty feet of the biggest blood-drinking devil-worshiping freak fag in Indiana if he wasn’t so goddamn sexy.

Eddie looks up at him from on his knees, gripping Billy’s hips with both hands, and his brown eyes look huge and insolent. “Come on and say it and I’ll throw in another dime bag on the house. I’m the best you’ll ever have, baby. It’s worth it.”

Is he going to shoot just from blowing a guy? Does he like sucking cock? Nobody likes sucking cock, that’s why guys are so obsessed with it. No girl actually likes slobbering on a dick. But if burnout Munson wants to get his rocks off that way, let him. Billy’s going to let him.

“Please shut the fuck up and suck my cock, all right? Jesus, you’re such a bitch”

“There’s a good boy.” Munson’s grin is infuriatingly filthy, but then he wets his lips and does something else with his mouth that’s so good it almost makes Billy forgive him.

He drops down to catch at his balls with the broad rough pad of his tongue, teasing at them until Billy can’t stand it — Eddie’s teeth catch on the skin of his shaved ballsack, just enough to hurt, just enough to make Billy hiss in pain and to guarantee his cock is harder than it’s ever been in his entire life.

Eddie sucks and mouths at his balls until his mouth is wet and sloppy, until Billy’s so pent-up he’s pretty sure he’s going to die — saying stuff like his own mouth is running on autopilot, really dirty filthy stuff interspersed with pleas and profanities and the kind of shit he’s never said to a guy before — fuck, he’s pretty sure he even says I love you, because the volcanic intensity of what’s coiling up inside of him has short-circuited his entire brain.

This must be what Eddie’s waiting for, he’s such a fucking tease — it’s then that he swallows down Billy’s cock, with his mouth hollowing into a tight sheath. The wet circle of his mouth tugs up and down in strokes, drawing back to the very tip and teasingly exposing the slick and flushed head of Billy’s cock to the cold night air.

Billy grabs a big handful of Eddie’s hair and tries to guide him down onto his erection, but Eddie doesn’t need the encouragement — soon the spit is spilling out of his mouth, down onto his chin, and the sloppy vacuum has Billy about ready to shoot his load already. He drives himself down and down again, fucking into his own mouth with a roughness that makes his cheeks flush and lips go raw-red — shit, but that mouth makes such a sloppy-tight hole that Billy’s on the edge of spilling into it and losing himself entirely.

Billy can’t stop himself — he thrusts deeper into his mouth, grinding convulsively, but Eddie’s fingers are hooked through his belt loops and he’s working his own mouth over Billy’s cock in deep, wet strokes.

Billy’s legs are shaking, and only fear for the car’s paintjob keeps him from bracing himself against the door handle instead of just grabbing at Munson’s bobbing head. “Fuck, I’m gonna—“

But the shuddering uncoiling sensation of climax is already tearing its way out of him, and he’s coming so hard that colored lights dance at the edges of his vision. For a long minute it’s like he’s ceased to exist, and there’s nothing in the world but one hard solitary jolt of pleasure, shattering him like lightning.

Eddie pulls back, grinning, and in the weird white moonlight his cheeks and chin are painted with streaks of Billy’s load. “How was that?”

“You came just from blowing me,” Billy says, critically. His sneaker presses into the crotch of Munson’s ragged jeans, where the wetness has left his light blue boxers conspicuously dark. It would be easy to apply some pressure — maybe he’d even like that, the freak. Knowing he gets off making Billy come, knowing what he's like... they've got to keep doing this.

“Yeah.” Munson scuffs at his mouth with his sleeve, red tongue chasing the smear of wetness around. “I could stand to go again, though. Gimme five minutes.”