The apartment never went quiet anymore.
That was the first thing I learned about Petrov. Not his name on the lease. Not the fact that he’d transferred in from another school and taken the empty room like it had been waiting for him. The noise. Call of Duty at one in the morning. Call of Duty at four. The same barked Russian under his breath, the same chair slamming back every time he died on the game, the same Monster cans stacking up on the desk until the whole place smelled like sugar and sweat and energy drinks.
I used to bring guys home almost every night.
Grindr was easy for me. I don’t do the shy thing. I don’t do the I’m just looking for friends thing. I like sucking dick. I’m good at it. I’ve been good at it since I figured out what my mouth was for, and I don’t get embarrassed saying that in my own house. A lot of guys in this city will come over at midnight if you tell them you know how to take it to the base and you swallow. They used to. Then Petrov moved in and started treating the apartment like a locker room with a Wi-Fi connection, and half the profiles that used to say on my way started saying nah, too loud or your roommate’s still up?
I was sick of it.
I was twenty-two, horny, and going on three days without a cock in my mouth, which for me is a long time, like really long. Petrov was twenty-two too, and he didn’t give a shit. He was the reason I was starving.
He came from another university. Engineering, on paper. He went to class the way some people go to church — rarely, and only when someone made him. His dad was Russian. That was the part you noticed even before he opened his mouth. Compact, beefy, not tall. Maybe five-ten if he stood up straight. Square jaw. Blond hair buzzed almost to the skin. Blue eyes that looked pissed off even when he was winning. He wasn’t hairy the way some of the guys I sucked were hairy. Pink-white skin. A little scruff he hadn’t really grown into yet. Blond fuzz on his thick thighs. Blond in his pits when he lifted his arms. The kind of body that looked like it had been built for hitting people and then got redirected into a chair and a headset.
He lived in a white basketball tank and blue Nike shorts. That was the uniform. The tank was always a little see-through when he sweated. The shorts sat low. He didn’t wear underwear if he could help it. I knew that because I did the laundry once and there was nothing in his basket except those shorts and a pile of white tanks that smelled like a gym bag left in a car.
His room smelled like a locker room on purpose. Jock. Foot. Monster. The sour-sweet of a guy who showers after the gym and then sits in the same clothes for six hours with a pair of balls and too much testosterone. I could smell him from the hallway.
That night I didn’t knock like a roommate.
I walked in.
He was already in the chair, headset half on, one foot on the desk, slamming keys with his whole arm. Sleeveless white jersey. Blue Nikes. The blond hair on his thighs catching the monitor light. A Monster can in the cup holder. The webcam light was still off, which meant I had a window.
“Petrov.”
He didn’t look at me. He killed somebody. Then he looked.
“What, Kay.”
His English was good. The accent sat under it like a bruise. He said my name like it was a joke he hadn’t decided to laugh at yet.
“Your game’s loud,” I said. “Again. And the shooting. And the chair. I’ve had three guys cancel on me this week because they can hear you through the window.”
He paused the game. Not because he cared. Because he wanted to look at me while he said whatever stupid thing was about to come out of his mouth.
He dragged the headset down around his neck and grinned. It was a mean little grin. Bro-dumb. The kind of guy who thinks faggot is just punctuation.
“Ah,” he said. “The fucking pidor is hungry.”
He said it in Russian first. Pidor. Then, like he was being generous, he translated it with his eyebrows.
“You miss your little cocks, Kay? This is a tragedy. Very sad for you.”
“I’m not asking you to be quiet forever,” I said.
“I’m asking you to not scream at a monitor while I’m trying to get my mouth on somebody. This was my sacred place before you arrived. Petrov.”
He laughed. He had a laugh like he’d just won a fight he didn’t have to try at. He leaned back in the chair and the tank pulled up enough that I got a strip of pink stomach, tight, a faint blond line going down.
The room hit me all at once. Sweat. Feet. The damp heat coming off him. His pits were wet. I could see it from the door. Dark circles on the white fabric. The blond hair there was stuck down.
He noticed me noticing. Of course he did. He wasn’t smart. He wasn’t blind.
“You staring at my arms, pidor? Or you staring at something else.” Pidor means faggot, I google it already.
“I’m staring at the reason I haven’t had dick in three days. I told I was gay and that I had constant visits before you decided to move.”
He thought that was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. He slapped the desk once, hard, and the Monster can jumped.
“Blyat. And you say this to my face.”
“I live here,” I said. “I’m not going to pretend I’m a monk because you moved in and started treating the apartment like a Twitch party every fucking night.”
He looked me over the way straight guys look at you when they’ve already decided what you are. Not curious. Inventory. Gay roommate. Cockslut. Problem. Possible solution.
He scratched his stomach. The tank rode higher.
“Live starts in five minutes,” he said. “PetrovTheKillah’s show. Two, three thousand people waiting to watch me ruin losers in Call of Dutty.”
“I know and I honestly don’t care if you’re PetrovTheKillah or the Holy Pope.”
“And you come here to cry about Grindr.”
“I came here to tell you you’re costing me fun and dick.”
He thought about that. You could watch him think. It took a second. He’s kinda slow, I guess. Then the grin came back, wider, stupider, meaner.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay, Kay. You have a problem. No cock. I have one—” he grabbed his bulge through the blue shorts, casual, like he was adjusting a phone in his pocket “—joystick. You want it, you can suck it while I play. For my fans. Under the desk. They don’t see you. I don’t lose my account or get flagged for sexual shit. You get what you want. I get—” he shrugged “—a better game, maybe. Quiet mouth on my dick instead of you whining like a girl.”
I should have told him to go fuck himself.
I didn’t.
I looked at the desk. Cheap, black, the kind you buy in a box. Enough space underneath if I folded up. His knees were already spread. The shorts were thin. I could see the shape of him. Heavy. Hanging left. No underwear.
“Are you fucking serious?” I asked tired of his games and bro jokes.
“I am Russian,” he said. “I don’t do jokes about this. We’re serious. You want to be useful, be useful. You don’t want, go to your room and spend the whole night looking for gay cock like a loser. Live is in four minutes. You get under now or you get out, your decision Kay.”
I got under. I seriously hate the guy, he’s so loud and annoying but I was hungry for cock and cum. Starving.
I am not a shy person. I have been on my knees in worse places than a gamer’s smelly bedroom. I have sucked guys who didn’t know my name in club bathrooms. I have sucked guys who talked about their girlfriends while I did it. This was just a straight himbo who smelled like a locker and thought he was doing me a favor.
I was going to do him a favor. Then I was going to make him pay for three days of noise.
The carpet under the desk was disgusting. Pringle crumps. A white sock. The sour of his feet. I folded in between his spread knees and my face was suddenly level with the Nike shorts and the thick blond thighs and the heat coming off his crotch like a radiator. Up close he smelled worse and better. Sweat. Balls. Musky as fuck. A small hint of the clothe’s detergent he didn’t use enough of. A little Monster on his breath when he leaned forward to click something.
He looked down once. Blue eyes. Pink mouth. That square jaw.
“You stay there,” he said. “You don’t make loud explicit noises. You don’t come up. You don’t make me cum, cuz I’m load when I cum. If chat sees a head blowing me, I lose everything. You understand, Kay? My account is valuable, bro, so behave.”
“I understand.”
“Good pidor.”
He said it almost fond. Then he pulled the headset back on, sat up straight, and hit the stream.
The light on the webcam went white.
His voice changed. It always did. Broader. Louder. The PetrovTheKillah voice. A show man.
“Yo. We are live. PetrovTheKillah in the building. Don’t skip the intro, you animals. Tonight we finish this campaign like it owes me money. Drink your Monsters. Don’t be nasty in chat. Okay, be nasty. I don’t care.”
Chat started crawling. I couldn’t see it. I could hear him react.
“Yes, I am late. I was talking to my annoying roommate. No, you don’t get to meet him. He’s busy. He says we’re too loud, like we fucking care!”
A little laugh. His knee bumped my ear.
“Okay. We drop. Don’t tell me how to play. I have two thousand hours. Your mom has two thousand pounds.”
I put my hands on his thighs.
They were thick and hard. Blond hair, damp, warm. He didn’t flinch. He kept talking. I dragged my palms up, slow, under the hem of the shorts, and the muscle jumped once and then went still, like he’d decided the only way to win this was to pretend I was a headset stand.
I pulled the shorts down.
He had to lift his hips a half inch. He did it while he was saying something about a loadout. The shorts caught on his cock and then it came free and hung there in my face. Long. Porn-thick, like thick enough to make my jaw hurt. A downward curve that made it stupidly easy to feed into a mouth. Uncut. The hidden head very pink, already starting to show, a little wet. Veins, blue, purple, green. Blond hair trimmed down, not gone. His balls were the thing, though. Heavy. Low. The kind you feel in your palm before you even get your mouth on them. They sat on the chair between his thighs like they had their own gravity. Musky bro balls.
I didn’t waste time being poetic about it.
I was hungry.
I took the head first. Warm. The skin smelled like him — salt, crotch, that locker-room sweetness, small hint of piss. I got the foreskin back with my lips and sucked, not gentle, and Petrov’s sentence died in the middle.
“—and then we push the— the—”
He coughed.
“Sorry. Monster. These drinks are shit.”
I went deeper, it was my first Russian cock and I was curious.
The curve helped. It slid over my tongue and pointed down my throat like it had been built for this. I don’t gag unless I want to. I wanted him to feel the want. I wanted him to understand that the gay roommate he’d been cockblocking was not some shy kid who’d lick the tip and say thank you. I’m a fucking professional. I took him to the base on the second try and stayed there, nose in the blond hair, the smell of him punching straight into my head.
“Fuck,” he said, very small.
Then, louder, for the mic:
“Okay. Chat. We are entering the mission. Don’t spam. I need— I need to concentrate.”
His thigh was stone under my hand.
I started moving. Slow at first, because I wanted him to last long enough to suffer. Wet. A lot of spit. I let it run down to his balls and used my hand there, rolling them, not squeezing yet. He was already leaking. Straight guys always do when they think they’re just getting a favor. The head swelled against my tongue.
He tried to play.
I could hear the keys. I could hear the mouse. I could hear his breathing change and then get forced back into the PetrovTheKillah cadence.
“We take left. No, I said left, you illiterate— yes, I see the guy. I see him.”
I pulled off, dragged my tongue up the underside, and took a ball into my mouth.
That one got him.
His hips jerked. The chair creaked. Above me, out of sight of the camera, his mouth opened and nothing came out.
“Blyat,” he whispered.
Then, into the mic, too fast:
“Lag. I have lag. Don’t clip that.”
I sucked his balls the way I suck guys who think they’re doing me a charity. Thorough. Wet. I went back to the cock and took it deep again, faster. Revenge. Three days of noise. Three days without my daily dose of cum. I hollowed my cheeks and made it sloppy on purpose, the sound I knew he could hear in his own skull even if the mic didn’t catch it.
He put a hand on my head.
Not petting. Steering. Pushing me down and then, when it got too good, shoving me back so he wouldn’t blow in the first five minutes like a teenager.
“Easy,” he muttered, off-mic. “Easy, Kay. I have to— fuck — I have to talk.”
I looked up.
From under the desk I could see him. The underside of the jaw. The pink flush climbing his neck. The way his mouth went tight when I took him deep and then tried to smile for two thousand people. His eyes kept dropping toward his lap and then snapping back to the monitor like the monitor could save him.
He was already having a bad time holding it.
Good.
“Chat is asking why I am sweating,” he said, and laughed too high. “Because I am a professional athlete of sitting. Because this mission is bullshit. Because I drank four Monsters and my heart is doing a little dance. That is why.”
I took him all the way down and swallowed around him.
The sound he made wasn’t a word.
He covered it by slamming a key and yelling at the game.
“ARE YOU SERIOUS. ARE YOU— okay. Okay. It’s fine. We are fine. Revive. I got you.”
His cock was harder than it had been when I started. Thicker. The pink head was fully out now, wet, leaking onto my tongue every time I pulled back. I could taste him. Not a lot yet. Enough. I used my hand on the spit-slick shaft when I needed air and kept my mouth on the head, sucking in a rhythm that had nothing to do with being nice.
He shoved me off again. His balls were drawn up. He was close already and he hated it.
“Suka,” he hissed, looking down at me. His face was wrecked in a way the camera was not allowed to see. Red. Jaw clenched. Eyes a little wide. “You try to make me lose my account, pidor? You suck like you want me banned.” I guess he needed to turn off the mic to tell me off.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and smiled at him from between his knees.
“You offered.”
“I offered a joystick. Not a— not this.”
“This is a blowjob, Petrov. This is what it feels like when you’re not the loudest thing in the apartment.”
He stared at me. Then he grabbed my hair and put me back on it, not gentle, and his voice went live again like he’d flipped a switch.
“We push. We push now. I don’t care if you are not ready. I am ready.”
He was not ready.
I could feel it in the way his cock jumped every time I took him past the soft part of my throat. I could see it in the way his stomach tightened, that pink strip of skin above the shorts, the muscles jumping. I could hear it in the sentences that started as PetrovTheKillah and ended as a guy getting his soul sucked out under a desk.
“The objective is— the objective is on the— on the roof. We go up. We don’t— we don’t die like last time, please, I am begging—”
Chat, from the way he reacted, was not buying it.
“No, I am not dying. I am breathing. This is called cardio, chat. This is called I am locked in.”
That was when he stopped playing and started surviving.
I could see it from under the desk better than the camera ever would. The monitor painted his throat. His jaw kept locking and unlocking like he was chewing something that wasn’t there. Every time I took him to the base, his mouth fell open and he had to invent a reason to have it open. I was sucking his dick for revenge.
“We— we hold this corner,” he told the stream. The first we was PetrovTheKillah. The second one broke. “We hold this— fuck—”
He slammed it into a cough.
“Sorry. Dry throat. Chat, I am fine. I am so fine I could do this mission with my eyes closed.”
I didn’t let him have eyes closed. I sucked him slow and mean, then fast, then slow again, the way you do when you want a straight boy to understand he’s not in charge of his own dick. His cock was leaking so much it was easy. Slippery. The downward curve kept feeding itself into my throat. I stayed there and swallowed once, just once, and his whole body tried to fold in half.
The chair screamed.
Both of his knees jumped up and then he forced them down, a full-body flinch he turned into leaning toward the keyboard.
“I did not die,” he said, too loud. “That was a tactical lean. You wouldn’t understand.”
His stomach was jumping. I had a hand on it, under the tank, pink skin hot, the muscle kicking every time I hollowed my cheeks. He grabbed my wrist like he was going to throw it off. He didn’t. He just held it there, crushing, while his other hand mashed keys that probably weren’t even the right keys.
A grunt got out of him. Low. Animal. He bit it in half.
“Nnh— no. No, that was the— the explosion. In the game. There are explosions.”
Chat was not stupid. I could hear it in the way he started answering questions nobody in a campaign should be asking.
“Why am I breathing like this? Because I am locked in, that’s why. Why is my face red. Because this map is a crime. Why did I go quiet. Because I am—hnh—because I am clutching.”
I pulled off him just enough to lick the underside, base to the pink head, and look up.
His face was a disaster. Eyebrows up. Eyes wet at the corners. That square jaw trembling. He looked down at me like he wanted to kill me and like he would cum if I smiled.
I smiled.
“Don’t,” he mouthed.
I took him deep anyway.
The sound he made wasn’t language. It was a punched-out groan that started in his chest and tried to become a roar and got strangled into his teeth. His hips punched up off the chair. The headset slipped. For one second his mouth was just open, pink, stupid, and then he remembered two thousand people and turned the whole thing into a yell at the screen.
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME. ARE YOU—blyat—ARE YOU PEEKING RIGHT NOW.”
He was not yelling at the peek.
He was yelling because I had his balls in my hand and his cock in my throat and the orgasm was sitting right there, right behind his teeth, and he could not let it out.
He shoved my forehead back. Hard. His cock slapped his stomach, wet, jumping, one pulse away. He sat there with both hands on the desk, arms locked, head down, breathing like he’d been sprinting.
“Raz,” he whispered. “Dva. Tri. Chetyre. Okay. Okay. Okay.”
He didn’t look okay. His thighs were shaking. The blond hair on them was stuck down with sweat. A drop ran from his pit down the inside of the tank. His stomach kept twitching like the flex was trying to happen without him.
“I need a second,” he told the stream, and his voice was wrecked. “I need— water. I need water and I need this helicopter to die.”
He did not get water.
He looked down at me, eyes blown, mouth shiny where he’d been biting it, and he grabbed my hair and put me back on his cock like the water was in my mouth.
“Don’t you fucking make me cum,” he whispered, off-mic, the accent thicker now. “You hear me, fag. I will ruin your dates. I will—nngh—I will throw you out of my room. Just. Hold. Still.” Mic was off again. This has to be the strangest stream yet for his so called “fans”. I was enjoying it so so much.
I didn’t hold still.
I made it sloppier. Louder in his lap, quiet for the mic. Spit on the shaft. Both hands. One on his balls, rolling them, not gentle, the other stroking what I couldn’t keep in my throat. He tried to sit like a pro streamer. Spine straight. Shoulders down. Face neutral.
His body would not do it.
His back arched. Just a little. Then more. The cheap chair went as far as it could and he had to grab the edge of the desk with both hands, knuckles white, while his hips kept making these tiny helpless fucks up into my mouth that he could not stop. Each one came with a sound.
A grunt.
A swallowed roar.
A broken “fuck—” that he tried to turn into “focus.”
“Chat says I sound like I’m getting my soul sucked out.” He laughed and the laugh cracked down the middle. “Very funny. I am getting my— my K/D sucked out. That is different.”
I hummed around him.
His head snapped back. The tendons in his neck stood out. For a second he was just a mouth, open, no words, the kind of face you make when you come — except he wasn’t allowed to come. I was edging him with my professional suckhole. A long, shredded noise tore out of him and he slammed it into the mic as a war cry.
“LET’S GO. LET’S—hh—LET’S GO. PUSH. PUSH. I SAID PUSH.”
He was pushing into my throat.
I could see everything from down here. The way his lips peeled off his teeth. The way his eyes rolled and then fought their way back to the monitor. The blush all the way down his chest, disappearing under the white tank. His nipples were hard through the fabric. His left foot had come off the floor and was hovering, toes clenched, like that would keep the load in his balls.
It wasn’t going to keep the load in his balls.
He yanked me off again. This time he had to do it with both hands, like my mouth was a problem he needed two arms for. He held my head there, two inches from his cock, and the cock just stood between us, jumping, leaking. He stared at it. He stared at me. He looked like he might cry or laugh or come untouched.
“Suka,” he breathed. “Suka blyat. What is wrong with your mouth.”
“Nothing,” I said. “That’s the problem. You’re not used to a proper blowjob, you spend too much time streaming instead of feeding a cocksucker’s mouth.”
He actually whimpered. A short, shocked sound, then rage at himself for making it.
On the stream, he had to cover it.
“That was me. I sat on my headset cable. I am a professional.”
His thick white thighs were shaking so hard the chair rattled. He wiped his face with the tank, which only made it worse — a flash of pink stomach, a gold think crucifix on his chest, the blond line, the wet patch under his arm. He dropped the fabric and tried to sit like a man who was not about to dump a load into his roommate throat.
“Okay. Final stretch. I am calm. I am ice. PetrovTheKillah does not choke.”
I put my mouth on him and choked him anyway.
Not his throat. His control. I went down and stayed down and let my throat work him in little swallows, and his composure left the room. His whole torso twisted to the side, away from the camera, a full contortion, one shoulder up, the other collapsing, like he could hide the orgasm in his armpit. His mouth opened against his own bicep. He bit the tank.
The roar came out through the cotton.
“Mmh—fuck—FUCK—”
He ripped his face away from his own arm and remembered the red light.
“I AM FINE,” he shouted, and it was almost a scream. “I AM SO FINE. THIS LEVEL IS MESSING WITH MY HEAD. I AM GOING TO—”
His cock swelled against my tongue. The tell. The one I know in my sleep. He was there. He was there.
He made a noise I don’t have a word for. Not a grunt. Not a moan. A broken, furious, helpless sound, like a guy getting dragged over a cliff and still trying to give callouts.
“Don’t you—don’t you fucking dare.”
I didn’t come off.
He had to choose.
He chose the game. He chose the win. He chose to roar at the screen with his whole chest because if he didn’t put the sound somewhere the microphone would know exactly what it was.
“I’M GONNA FUCKING WIN THIS SHIT, BROS.”
The objective went. The flex started — both arms, tank stretching, the himbo victory pose — and his cock kicked so hard in my throat I felt it in my own neck. He came like he’d been holding it with his entire body. Pulse after pulse, thick, a lot of it, his hips locked, his head thrown back out of frame, the flex shaking because his arms weren’t flexing anymore, they were just seized. A last ruined groan ripped out of him and he turned it, barely, into a laugh for the fans.
“We did it. We—hh—we did it. I told you. Built different.”
He wasn’t built different.
He was sitting in a wet chair with his shorts around his thighs and his roommate’s mouth still on him, trying to remember how to be his persona on a live stream.
His hands were still in my hair.
They weren’t pushing me off.
Not yet.
He held it until the last twitch left him. Then he reached down, out of the shot, and pushed my forehead off his dick with two fingers. Not mean. Done. His cock lay wet against his thigh, pink, used, sloppy. I stayed under the desk and licked the corner of my mouth and looked up at him.
He looked down.
For a second there was no PetrovTheKillah. There was just a flushed American-Russian himbo with his shorts around his thighs and his roommate on the floor.
He pointed at the camera, then at his own face, then mouthed, very clearly:
Stay.
He pulled the shorts up. Winced. Sat forward like a man who had not just come his brains out.
“Okay. I am going to piss and get another Monster. Don’t go anywhere. We run it back. PetrovTheKillah does not end on one win.”
The webcam light stayed on, I guess he was using some screensaver or something. I never used Twitch in my life. This was the closest I was from watching a live game stream.
He muted, I think. Or he didn’t. He shoved the chair back anyway, enough that I had to crawl out from under so he didn’t run me over. He stood. The tank was soaked at the pits. The roam was smelling of college locker rooms. His thighs were wet from my spit. He looked at me standing there with my mouth shiny and he shook his head once, like he could not believe he’d done it and like he was already going to do it again.
“You,” he said, quiet. “You are a problem.”
“You’re louder when you come than when you die,” I said.
He almost smiled. Then he remembered the red light.
“Next game,” he muttered. “You wait in the hall until I say. If you make me lose this account I will throw your Grindr out the window.”
“You’re going to need me if you keep screaming at that campaign.”
“Blyat,” he said, and it sounded like a yes.
He grabbed a Monster from the floor, cracked it, and sat back down like nothing had happened. The PetrovTheKillah voice came back on, a little wrecked around the edges.
“I am back bros. I am hydrated and energized. I am unstoppable. Chat, stop asking if I am okay. I have never been better.”
I went to the door.
I could still taste him.
In the hallway the apartment was the same apartment. His noise. My room. Three days of nothing, solved in twenty minutes under a desk.
I didn’t feel used. I felt my call of duty mission was accomplished and I don’t even game. I genuinely hate the stupid game ads that interrupt my conversations on Grindr.
I felt like I was going to be under that desk again before the week was over. I just unlocked a new skin on PetrovTheKillah, I was 100% sure.
And I was already thinking about how much worse I could make it for him the next time the light went red.
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