Loserville

He fishes his phone out from where it’s wedged between the couch cushions, thumb already moving toward your messages. Nothing. It’s not surprising; he knows you’re working tonight. Still, his thumb lingers over your contact for a long moment. He imagines your voice answering all rough with exhaustion, distracted by some customer bothering you over cigarettes. Maybe irritated he called during work. You’re always so sweet to him, but he likes it when you stand your ground. 

Before he can think better of it, he hits dial.

By the third ring, his free hand drops to his belt, fingers making quick work of the buckle. He’s already half hard when he reaches into his underwear and grasps himself, a sigh escaping his lips as his eyes slip shut and his head tips back against the couch.

“Mad Dog Convenience,” Lane says lazily. “Home of devastating snack prices.”

Something ugly settles in his chest. What the fuck is Lane doing answering your phone? And beneath that, against every reasonable instinct in his body, he feels his stomach twist pleasantly at the sound of Lane’s voice curling through the receiver.

Lane laughs a little under his breath. Fluorescent lights buzz loud enough to hear through the line. A cooler door slams shut somewhere in the background. He can picture him too easily: feet kicked up behind the counter, smirk stretched across his stupid face.

“Well?” Lane says. “You forget how phones work?”

He tightens his grip on the phone.

“Put them on.”

“Ooh,” Lane drawls. “Bossy tonight.”

There’s a sharp crackle of static, probably Lane shifting the phone against his shoulder. He can hear him chewing something.

“They’re busy.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Course you will,” Lane sighs dramatically. There’s the sound of a register drawer slamming shut in the background. Somebody says something muffled to him and Lane answers automatically before coming back to the phone. “Why do you even have their number anyway?”

His thumb drags along the edge of his phone.“Well,” he says slowly, “usually when somebody likes a person—”

“Oh my god,” Lane cuts in immediately. “Don’t tell me you think this is mutual.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth despite himself. “They gave it to me,” he says. “They wanted me to have it.”

“Sure they did,” he snorts. The amusement drains out of Lane’s voice so suddenly it makes heat flare low in his stomach. 

“They like me.” 

“Christ,” Lane mutters. “You’re delusional too.”

He’s fully hard now, pulse heavy beneath his grip as he strokes himself faster. He doesn’t know how long Lane will indulge him in whatever the fuck this is.

Lane clicks his tongue. “Lemme guess. They smiled at you once and now you think you’re soulmates.”

“They smile at me a lot more than they do at you.”

“Yeah?” Lane lets out a short laugh. “How the fuck would you know that, stalker? You watching me now too?”

“You want that?” He hopes the hitch in his voice isn’t noticeable as his fingertips tease the head of his cock before tightly pumping down once again. “You want me to watch you too?”

“What the fuck?”

Something clatters loudly against the counter in the background. “You have some fucking nerve, you know that? You call their phone acting insane and then start saying weird shit to me?”

He can only make a low noise in response that he hopes passes for agreement instead of the intense pleasure rippling through his body.

“Answer me when I’m talking to you,” Lane snaps. “Jesus Christ. Every time you go quiet like this it gets creepier.”

“Yes…. ah, yes…” He has to pull the phone away from his mouth for a second, swallowing hard before bringing it back to his ear.

“You’re seriously fucked in the head, biker boy.”

Heat strikes through his core at the nickname. His hand pumps faster, hips jerking in time with the motion, the sound of flesh slicking against his palm ringing in his ears just as loud as Lane’s voice while he keeps talking over him, annoyed and oblivious.

“No, seriously,” he says. “What's your damage? Every time I think you can’t get any weirder, you somehow manage it.”

He bites hard on the inside of his cheek to keep quiet.

“Whatever,” Lane says after a moment. “I’m hanging up.”

“N-No. Wait… I…” His voice drops rough around the edges, nearly swallowing the sigh threatening to slip out with Lane’s name. His jaw falls open as a moan almost rips from him. He can almost see it – Lane’s flushed angry face, sharp eyes glaring at him in annoyance. How he’d love to smother his words by thrusting his hard cock into the man’s mouth, sliding past his lips and driving deeper until he's gagging on his dick, his pretty voice ringing out protests before being cut off again.

“You sound insane,” Lane continues. “Like genuinely. Do you hear yourself when you talk?”

He can't form words anymore. He's so close, he can feel the tightness in his muscles, can feel his cock throbbing in his hand. Just a little more.

“Following people around. Calling them in the middle of the night. Sitting there breathing all heavy like some serial killer.”

Another sharp laugh crackles through the receiver.

"You're sick, biker boy. Fucking pathetic."

He cums hard, teeth clenched, and hips rutting as his hand jerks swiftly up and down to milk every last drop of cum from his cock onto his fingers and jeans. His breathing turns harsh, no longer caring to hold the phone away from him. Waves of pleasure course through him, his hips and thighs tensing and jerking, hand falling limply in his lap.

“I’m done with you, fucking creep.” 

“Me too.”