"Sure thing," Steve hears himself say. They have reached the stage where they make plans and intentionally meet for non-sex-related activities, apparently. They're, for all intents and purposes, dating. That word rattles around his brain like a misplaced cup trying to find its saucer, dissonant and awkward.
Seriously, how is Steve supposed to wrap his head around this?
Billy drove him home that night, windows down on the Camaro, trying to air out the car on the drive over, Steve's Beamer left parked out front from the garage for Joey to find the following morning.
The stereo played Mötley Crüe, Shout at the Devil and half of Looks That Kill, before Billy switched it to radio for some more of the hair metal the guy exclusively listens to. It sounded like early AC/DC, actually, Bon Scott giving it his everything.
The radio crackled off and on every few minutes, oddly synchronised to the rattling dashboard and the pounding of Steve's blood. All things considered, he was less jittery than he'd expected to be. His skin was settled neatly over his bones now; he hadn't noticed it hadn't been before. It was still only Monday. They didn't talk at all on the drive to Steve's.
The lights were off at his house, the driveway empty, and Steve was as glad as he'd ever been to once more not find his parents home. It was edging closer to ten than nine, though, and, unless he wanted to explain Billy's very existence and his unlikely presence at chez Harrington, much less why the guy was driving him home from Steve's job well after sundown, he needed to get him the fuck out as soon as possible.
Instead, they made out in the front seat of the Camaro for about twenty minutes with the car's overhead lights turned off and the radio crooning in the background on a Motown station.
Midway through, Steve tried to back off and end it, but Billy simply pulled him back in with a gentle hand at the back of the neck, blunt nails scritching through the fine hairs at the base of the skull. It didn't last as long before Billy tried to back off a little, maybe move away completely, but Steve was really getting it going, and, besides, the hand at the back of the neck trick worked both ways, although it was maybe riskier than it was worth for just another few minutes of sucking on Billy's tongue in the dark.
It was just the right amount of risk for the taste of Billy's mouth, though.
Now, Steve says, "Sure thing," and little pins needle at his fingertips waiting for Billy's reaction.
The Camaro's headlights splash the Harrington driveway. They stand in the pool of light just beyond the car.
"Seven o'clock sharp, pretty boy. Don't stand me up." And he smirks as if he knows Steve would never, and he's not wrong in the slightest.
Then he backs away to get in his car and drive away in a cloud of exhaust and gravel, leaving Steve staring after him like a dumbass.
Tomorrow's a Tuesday, and it's the third day he's spending actual time with Billy Hargrove, human disaster and ticking time bomb. He's maybe in capital-T Trouble.
It's raining heavily when Steve wakes with a start at about half past four. It's pitch dark outside.
By the time he drags himself out of bed at nearly five, the rain might have stopped, but tattered clouds float overhead still.
He goes for a run shortly after, and outruns the twilight into daybreak, getting back in a little after seven. He doesn't make it down for breakfast.
His face feels clammy, and for an instant he thinks his dream is real, the bed too solid, his room too familiar, substantial in a way real life isn't.
Hargrove is crouched above him.
Hargrove is too wild, trembling lips which grow white around a snarl either going to bite bite chomp or about to let out a howling, wet cry. Either prospect is equally terrifying.
Steve reaches out, not to block hits he can't really feel, but to feel his face, to brush off the clamminess. It's too moist, then it's too much like an oily layer, suffocating his skin. Hargrove's pupils are too big, engorged almost beyond the hold of his irises. Steve's face reflects darkly in them, splattered with drying blood, which just turns out to be stale sleep sweat. His bedroom is too bright.
His dick is painfully hard when he adjusts it, the tip swollen and leaking and poking at the waistband of his running shorts.
So that's how it's going to be, huh? Steve muses.
Billy doesn't do or propose anything stupid, such as picking Steve up on his front porch and driving them to the cinema like the very obvious date this so very obviously is. Steve drives his Beamer and Billy shows up in the Camaro, totally normal, not at all suspicious.
Steve almost wishes the day would suddenly cloud up for an excuse, however flimsy. Next instant wishes he weren't such a coward, even in his own head.
There's an actual line to buy tickets. He starts sweating at the implication of standing in line next to Billy Hargrove in Hawkins, Indiana, both seemingly date-less, to go watch Back to the Future not for the first time and not for the first time together.
He parks with no small amount of trepidation and walks over to the cinema doors. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the Camaro pulling up. He pointedly doesn't try to make eye contact or recognise anyone in the waiting crowd.
In no time at all Billy reaches him, and Steve makes to go stand in line, too, but Billy touches at his elbow to stop him. Casually. Like a buddy.
"Where you going, princess?" he asks mockingly. It lacks a certain bite, though.
He reveals two tickets, right-hand aisle, back row, same seats as last time, it seems. Steve remembers being crowded in in that dark cinema and gulps as Billy hands over one of the tickets, the little numbers printed on it mocking Steve in his trepidation.
"After you, baby." It's not overly loud, and Billy is a creep and an asshole an a daily basis anyway, but Steve feels the baby in the general area of his midsection.
No one gives a shit they're there together, or even seem to notice that fact. They're the only people in their aisle, and way too in the back to get noticed, Steve figures, unless someone's out to spot them.
Five minutes into the movie, Billy's right palm presses into Steve's inseam. Apparently, it might just want to stay there for the next almost two hours. The weight of it is heavy in Steve's gut, and he can't find it in himself to protest.
About the time Marty McFly is meeting his dad's younger self, Billy's palm starts wandering.
At first, Steve doesn't get it. He's been half-hard in a comfortable sort of way since the moment Billy touched him. He figures it out when Billy's hand lifts from his thigh and returns to grip his belt buckle, palm comfortably settled over the metal ridges. He dips his fingers below the waistband of Steve's nice date jeans, along the curve of Steve's lower belly, barely fingering the skin underneath.
Steve chokes a little on nothing, or simply on his own breaths. He manages to unglue his eyes from the screen to stare at the side of Billy's head, who looks the picture of unconcerned and totally engrossed in the plot of the movie, the asshole.
"Don't be a douchebag, man," he wheezes. Billy ignores him, but the corner of his mouth twitches and his palm crawls downwards to grip comfortably at the crotch of his jeans. There's a nervous giggle tickling the back of Steve's throat, which he bites back in at the last moment.
His face snaps back towards the screen to preserve appearances or some shit. How he's supposed to keep quiet in a crowded cinema with some motherfucker going to second base with him in the dark is beyond what his brain is currently capable of processing.
His cock is fully hard now, because of course it is. He sinks lower in his seat as if that'll help in any way whatsoever to make it feel less like the skin covering his entire body is on fire. If anything, it hides what they're doing even better, and it probably makes it look as if he's encouraging this shit. Steve's not about to tell him outright no, either, so. That's where they stand.
For the sake of whatever dignity he has left when faced with Billy Hargrove fondling him enthusiastically, Steve tries for a token protest, which promptly dies in his throat when Billy sinks his face in Steve's hair to nuzzle at his neck.
Next thing Steve knows, the guy's switching hands to better drag his fingers up and down the length of Steve's dick, pressing in right where the tip is leaking inside his boxers. The nuzzling has turned into Billy licking and biting up the column of Steve's neck roughly, like he wants to chomp down and take a big bite right out.
The throbbing, eager thing inside Steve which only ever makes itself known around Billy is pulsating wildly.
"Fucking fuck," he whispers all breathy. He reaches a hand out to cling to Billy's own working at his cock. The skin over his knuckles is shockingly soft and the hand is warm, inviting.
"Yeah?" Billy sighs against the fragile skin of his neck.
Steve wants to laugh. He chuckles weakly instead, and says, "Yeah." He barely swallows the moan which wants to follow.
He might be imagining it, but he thinks maybe Billy smiles wide, just for an instant, right against the too thin skin, before biting down hard and sucking what's going to be a big blood bruise right on the side of his neck. Steve bites his own tongue to stifle another too loud sound.
That little kick of need he's been feeling each time they do this is becoming a drumming beat inside his guts.
He guides Billy's hand to jack him off through his jeans while he pretends to be watching Marty McFly set his parents up.
Steve has cooling come in his jeans again.
It's becoming a weird habit. Just shit he does with his good buddy.
Steve would be laughing hysterically if he weren't panting his lungs out, still coming down.
Billy had fondled his balls all tight and sweet for what seemed like a long time right before the end. The fly of Steve's jeans had dug in too roughly, but Steve could take it if Billy kept panting fuck, princess in his ear every few beats. He'd come so hard on that last twist of Billy's palm against the engorged tip of his cock he'd felt it in his toes and all along his spine and fluttering his hole until his breathing had turned into big, heavy gulps of air.
They then go from Billy nipping at the hinge of his jaw to licking into each other's mouth before too long. Steve's bottom lip is already raw from biting into it to keep quiet, but Billy's merciless. The bittersweet pain of it makes Steve's sensitive cocktip trickle weakly, just another spurt to add to the mess.
It's much too soon to get hard again, but Billy's kissing him as if he knows it won't take too long to get Steve going again, and his nails rake up and down Steve's inseam like a promise of more. Steve circles Billy's wrist tightly and digs his own nails into fragile skin.
About the time Biff Tannen's getting his lights knocked out, Steve's fingers are inching their way up one thick tight. Billy's other hand stops them so abruptly when they're so close, Steve breaks the kiss out of shock.
It's too dark to see clearly, but the shadows on Steve's face must spell out something, because Billy has a glint in his eye Steve could make out down a mineshaft during an eclipse if need be.
"Don't worry, princess. You'll make it up to me later."
He says it so sweet Steve can't help looking forward to it.
They leave during the credits to avoid prying eyes where the crotch of Steve's jeans is concerned. It's a boring Tuesday night and just after dark, so they're lucky all around.
Billy walks Steve to his car. It's the weirdest shit.
They don't talk at all, walking almost companionably, then they're by the driver's side and Billy asks, "When are you gonna be alone in that big house of yours again?"
Steve's father has an early East Coast brunch meeting on Friday, so Thursday evening at the latest, most likely Thursday noon.
He says so.
Billy smirks and walks away with a departing wink.
So Steve's thinking it was probably not a date. Like, they didn't actually watch the movie. He and Nancy used to always watch the movie.
Making plans to intentionally meet for sex-related activities is not dating. It probably has a name, something which doesn't include the word "date". They'd probably know about it in fucking California.
The bruise is at about equal distance between the moles at the base of his throat and the ones just below his jaw. It aches in a way which has Steve's spine curling when he fingers it too roughly, which he finds himself absently doing every waking hour or so. The blood pulses right at the surface, a stark reminder of the day before and likely to make him cream his pants at breakfast if he keeps it up. It fucking figures.
Wednesdays in mid-July are fucking boring as all get out, it turns out. Steve's learning that the hard way. It's so slow that Joey voices out how maybe Steve should go enjoy the nice weather they're having. Steve would rather bang his head against the steering wheel of the Beamer repeatedly than go fucking home. Not even. Joey takes one look at his face and says he's leaving, and for Steve to lock up tight. So that's that.
Steve needs to take a chill pill, probably. Like, yesterday. And if that's on the table, he'd like to jump in a time machine to last Friday and, whatever, walk out and leave Billy standing there or something.
A part of him must believe Billy's gonna show up to annoy the fuck out of him that afternoon as well, though, because the disappointment is a lead weight in his temples by the time he's driving himself home.
It's another fucking dream.
It's fucking bullshit.
He wakes up with a start while humping the bed sheets, which seem to have shuffled into a big pile underneath him. He tastes his own sweat on his lips and tongue. He must have forgotten to crack the window, the air all soupy, the room too hot.
Underneath the prickle of his skin, the bruise is pulsing wildly on his neck. With one trembling hand he reaches up to thumb against it and with the other he grips his headboard tightly. He humps his hips against his sheets and comes in a few short thrusts with a groan bitten into his pillow.
He falls back asleep instantly and wakes up to his mother calling up the stairs that they're leaving to drive themselves to the airport.
Joey's on his lunch break when Billy shows up again.
As his luck would have it, Steve's had to battle two oil changes, three batteries leaking fluid, and one truly bizarre paint-related incident, and it's barely two. He was late that morning, which meant Joey had to wait to break for lunch. Hence the grunt work and Steve's work clothes looking like he'd decided to run headlong through a hardware store.
The Camaro parks on a half-turn as Steve turns around from staring intently at a failing strut assembly on one of the work benches.
His pulse picks up in his neck, a rising drumming beat, sending a heavy blush across the skin of his collarbones and up the column of his throat. Suddenly, Steve is a little bit angry and a whole lot of confused, which basically leaves him slightly lightheaded. He stays his expression to neutral when the driver's door pops open and Billy jumps out casually, dropping a still-smoking butt on the gravel.
"Busy, princess?" Sunlight glints off his earring and the Virgin Mary medallion. His grin is quick and knife-sharp.
Steve shifts his weight from foot to foot. "You know I'm not a girl, right?"
Billy licks his lower lip into his mouth. It pops out glistening. "Fully aware." He slides his tongue between the edges of his teeth and looks Steve up and down critically. "What'd you do, mug a clown?"
"You've found me out, Hargrove. I'm going off to join the circus."
Billy snorts and then looks like he hadn't meant to. Like he wanted to pretend he doesn't think Steve's funny, but couldn't help himself in the end. Looks caught out. Steve feels that way, too, lately.
The little flare of anger is gone just as quickly as it came. It almost deflates him where he stands.
"What's up?" Steve says. He likes playing it safe.
Billy considers him, eyes roaming quickly. A smile's ghosting over his face, barely there, but nonetheless something solid Steve can latch onto.
"We still on for later?"
Steve hesitates. He must do so for too long because that ghost of a smile's gone, replaced by something with more intent behind it. Steve tilts his head curiously when Billy starts walking over, the pace almost hesitant, as if it's intentionally slow so as not to spook him, only to stop when he's all up close. Too close. Steve stands his ground.
They breathe each other's air for far too long, their heads cocked to the side, lips just a little parted. It's heady in a way which makes Steve sway where he stands. Billy's got that look, like he's gonna make Steve shake for it later, his eyes at half-mast and tongue peeking out of his mouth obscenely. It goes straight to Steve's knees.
"Yeah, we're on for later," he finally says. He sounds breathless.
Oddly enough, Billy doesn't look like he won, which Steve would have bet good money on. Instead, he seems as if he's biding his time until he gets his real prize. It feels less and less like they're competing for something.
He steps away to say, "Seven o'clock sharp." Then walks to the Camaro, turns around, adds, "Don't stand me up, princess." It's not accompanied by a smirk this time around.
He drives off at top speed shortly after, all pedal to the metal, leaving Steve feeling wrong-footed and more than a little confused, mostly about his own shit.
He takes a too long shower and pointedly doesn't jack off. Mostly, he wants to bang his head against the shower tiles.
By the time he gets out, it's closer to seven than six, and Steve's questioning what the fuck he's actually doing here. Not in his house, but more like with anything which even remotely has to do with Billy Hargrove. He's in definite trouble here.
He walks from room to room, switching on all the lights. The house must be a surreal beacon in the darkness of Hawkins.
Billy had said "make it up to me later," which, at the time, Steve had taken to mean more dry humping in the back of the Camaro. Or Billy dropping by for a swim and dry humping afterwards by the pool. Steve would rather take on a few more demonic abominations with a spiked bat than try to figure this shit out.
The doorbell is definitely too loud when so much bullshit is crowding around Steve's brain. Briefly, he considers not answering the door. But only briefly. He might have immeasurable talent when it comes to shooting himself in the foot, but he's vaguely afraid the asshole might try to jump the fence or knock the door down or something if Steve doesn't answer.
Billy's wearing another crop top underneath his denim jacket, the braided tie is back, snug right at the base of his throat, and he's wearing the tightest pair of jeans Steve's seen him in yet. Compared to him, Steve feels like the type of country bumpkin he's heard Billy complain about before, probably since the moment his family started the move from California to Hawkins. He pointedly doesn't look down at the rip in the hem of his shirt. He also knows for a fact he should have thrown out the pair of running shorts he's sporting, like, last summer.
When he speaks he has to clear his throat, his voice low and hoarse for no reason. "Hi," is all he manages. Like a moron.
"Yeah," he says blankly. Then pushes his way in and throws the door closed behind him. It rattles in its hinges.
He shoulders out of that denim jacket of his, and Steve watches it slide to the floor, before pushing his way into Steve's space. Toes out of his speakers without losing step. Reaches out for the nape of Steve's neck and for his back at the same time, pulls Steve in until they're back to where they were earlier in the day, just sharing breath.
His palm is hot and large over the snobs of his spine and the small of his back, and the grip he has on his hair is tight, like it might hurt more than a little if Steve tries to get loose. Steve scrambles to grip at the roundness of Billy's shoulders as if that's what he's wanted all along. Billy clutches even tighter at his hair and lips at the side of his mouth, puffs air against his cheek. It's another beat before they're kissing.
It's been two days since the last time, Steve realises with a start, but that's patently false because he can't even imagine doing anything else tonight but catching up on all the kissing which hasn't been happening. Two days minus all the time spent eating, sleeping, working, all that bullshit, can't possibly amount to that much missed kissing. Billy is biting at his lower lip and tonguing it better on a loop, and Steve knows in his gut it won't ever really be enough. That realisation drifts dreamily around him, through his blood, too much to think about.
Licking into Billy's mouth is heady in and of itself. Steve feels as if he's panting disgustingly into the guy's mouth, mostly out of sheer desperation to get more more more, as if it's not enough to have it happening finally. His fingers spasm on Billy's shoulders, and the hand on his back is dragging deliciously lower the harder Billy sucks on his tongue. He thrusts his hips forward to get some friction, get rid of the edge of desperation.
Later, he thinks he could grind his dick hard on Billy's thick thigh with sharp little hip rolls. Thinks Billy will let him do it again and again if they take care of him first and find a horizontal surface. He thrusts forward again and brushes his hard dick against Billy's, feels it down his spine like electricity in a thunderstorm.
They should find a horizontal surface now.
He tries to communicate this non-verbally, but Billy is alternating sucking on his tongue and licking the backs of his teeth, so Steve's a little distracted. Good thing Billy's backing him through the house of his own free will, heading in the direction of the stairs. While he's walking them there, his palm manages to drift down to Steve's ass and lower still, to the back of his thigh right underneath where his shorts end, then back up beneath them in order to grab the meat of Steve's left asscheek. Steve mewls into the kiss, and the fingers threaded through his hair grip him harder, almost at the root.
They then make a detour at a wall in order for Billy to push him into it and have him ride his thigh with rough, heavy grinds he's guiding with the hand on Steve's ass. Steve goes from clutching at his shoulders to raking his short nails down the back of his neck and upper back through the stupid crop top.
It's occurring to him this is enough to make him come if they keep going as they are just as Billy moves them along and up the stairs and into Steve's room. They seemingly bump into every bit of furniture in Steve's house along the way there, but that doesn't deter Billy from fondling his ass up to the crack under his shorts or stop their making out.
Steve feels sore already all through his body, and they haven't been at it for long at all, Jesus Christ. The bittersweet hurt starts at his lips and trickles down to every other body part. Jesus, his lips; they're starting to throb with a dull hurt. They'll probably puff up by the end of this. Just then Billy nips at his Cupid's bow and tongues it better, so, actually, Steve doesn't really care how much of a mess he'll look later, or how the hurt will pulse with every other breath. They bump Steve's bedroom door open somehow and Billy kicks it closed once they're inside.
Without any warning at all, he disengages from Steve in order to push and trip him backwards onto his bed. The stomach plunge heat of it is almost too much, but Billy's on top of him in the blink of an eye, there to catch his lips, to press hard all along his body.
It almost knocks the breath out of Steve when Billy presses his weight heavy on him. It makes his cock twitch and leak in his shorts, messing up the fabric on the inside, another pair of dirtied clothing to add to the pile.
In just a few quick movements Steve manages to wriggle his legs from underneath Billy to wrap them around his hips, ankles crossed. Grinds his cockhead through the shorts right up against the naked strip of skin underneath the crop top, then into the hardness of his buckle, until finally it's the hard ridge of Billy's cock. Billy's hot palm finds his ass beneath the shorts again and rocks Steve's hips into his own with a harsh groan.
It's all too heavy with Steve pulling Billy closer with both his legs and arms around him, too much to process all at once. The fleeting touch of fingers has become more insistent, is becoming something else. Steve cants his hips into Billy's lap with a whine. This is trouble right here.
They should talk. It's too fast and too much, as in Steve is considering pressing harder into those fingers. As in, he could press harder if he just used his left leg as leverage and his hips to turn slightly in Billy's arms.
In an academic sort of way, if that's what it's called, because it's not as if he intends to do anything to encourage the pressure there. His hole flutters just thinking about it. Billy must feel the muscles shift what with the grip he's got there.
That turns out to probably be true as he inhales sharply through his nose and immediately lets Steve's lips go to hover over him balanced on his free hand. The shock of cold air down Steve's front is sudden and unpleasant.
"What?" His voice cracks oddly on the single word. Billy's lips are red and glistening. It's distracting.
"Gonna let me take these off, sweetheart?"
He knows he means Steve's shorts. It's hard to think straight with those Hargrove bedroom eyes fixed on him. He focuses on the necklace dangling loosely between them to muster up an answer.
A summer wind is jiggling the leaves on a tree outside. Steve can hear the faint ruffle, like a caress.
"What if we don't do this?" He looks to the side and then back. His mouth feels funny and the thin skin around his eyes and in the hollows of his temples throbs for an instant, but the ember of eagerness is still in him, waiting.
Billy squints down at him, gets that look in this eyes. It gets Steve feeling all hot and trembly. In the next instant it shifts to that patented Hargrove blankness, the calm before the storm.
"What?" It's doesn't have the inflection of a question.
Steve can't tell what emotion's squirming right beneath the surface, whether there is any. He marshals through on gut feeling alone.
"What if we stop and I ask you to leave?"
"Then we stop and I leave." Beat. "It's not that complicated, Stevie boy."
It's probably the first time Billy's called him by his name, but it sounds too much like Tommy yelling after him in a parking lot.
God, that's too depressing to think about.
Whatever look's on his face, it must be awfully confusing to decipher, because Billy actually looks annoyed now rather than blank, his default reaction when something's beyond his understanding.
"What, Harrington?" he snaps.
"Aren't you gonna tell me it's bullshit?"
"Tell you what's bullshit?" Genuine confusion now along with the annoyance.
It comes out without much input from his brain, but has an immediate impact.
With less grace than he's ever seen him show, Billy backs off until he's sitting on his haunches between Steve's legs. Steve follows him up, slowly pushing up on his arms.
"Just ask me to leave if you're going to, King Steve." It comes out uncertain and perplexed, hardly the sneer it was probably meant to be.
It's a standoff.
Quietly, "I'm not holding you to anything." Too quiet for Billy Hargrove.
Steve thinks, I'm in such deep shit.
He says, "Yeah, I'm pretty much a sure thing, amigo," and, if there's a note of self-deprecation in his voice, he hopes Billy won't pick up on it.
Billy looks at him. Steve's heartbeat is a steady humming presence, making his skin tingle almost feverishly, still waiting. Readies for his bones to start a whimper.
It happens so suddenly he thinks the storm is hitting, the calm utterly gone, blown away completely by Steve's words.
Instead, Billy shuffles forward, pushes in hip to hip and muscles his shoulders underneath Steve's legs, nearly bends him in half on a harsh press. Steve's head hits the bed with a soft bounce.
This close the storm is a fever.
Steve's jaw drops and his chest turns a warm red. Heat prickles the bridge of his nose and crawls down to his cheeks, further down into the collar of his ratty shirt, radiating off him in waves.
This close, it feels like too much.
Billy's tongue slides around the edges of his teeth and licks at his bottom lip almost absently. "Yeah?" His eyes are too clear, too focused.
The California tan he had when he first moved to Hawkins is pretty much gone, and Steve can see the freckles underneath, delicate like a revealed secret. Billy brackets him in tighter, palms either side of his head.
"Gonna let me have my way, princess?" Whispers it, like they might be overheard.
That little hesitation Steve's feeling, stalling on touching when the tension from earlier still lingers, dissipates with a blink of an eye. Billy's eyes are a clear, intense blue. Steve reaches out to push fingers into blond, unruly hair. Clears his throat and snags the swinging medallion between them with his other hand, fingers the delicate chain, uses it as a lead.
"You're all talk, Hargrove, you know that?" He says it all jovial, though no less quietly. Billy watches his lips, almost transfixed.
The air has shifted subtly around them.
Steve can feel the movement of Billy's legs, knees digging deeper into the bedding. Then the shift forward, sudden and harsh and hard between Steve's spread legs. Humps in him like he's gonna make him take cock through two layers of clothes. The backs of Steve's thighs ache with the strain and his hole flutters again on nothing. Like this, he can't take in enough air.
After a long, considering pause, Billy lets up, backs off him enough to let his legs hit the mattress with a soft thud. Gets both hands on Steve's hips, steadies him, then tightens his grip to hitch him up. Thrusts up into the cradle of his hips, once, twice. Third time he stutters, a harsh press lower, his coackhead poking at the underside of his balls through their clothes.
Steve's breath stalls. He pulls harshly at Billy's curls, sinks his fingers into them, tightens his hold on the chain and feels the shiver that runs down from the top of his spine. It gives him a moment to regroup, get his head on straight.
This tension where he doesn't know whether to kick out or run or spew senseless words got Steve's dick to soften. There's very little that's hot about sort of getting almost rejected in his own bedroom. Didn't manage to get completely soft, though, because he had Billy Hargrove between his legs the entire time.
Now the blood's rushing back down, heart pounding hard enough it echoes in his temples, in his ears. He gets so hard so quickly he's a little giddy with it for a moment, his shorts stretched out obscenely, the fabric distended and shifting deliciously over him with each minute movement. He takes a choking breath when Billy's cock twitches and gets harder after another thrust which brushes Steve's balls.
He feels it thickening back up against the inside of his thigh. It's almost as if Steve's body is coaxing it out of him. It's dizzying. Makes him jolt where he lies. Lick dry lips because he's panting now.
"Don't worry, baby. I know what you need," Billy says, squeezing Steve's hip bones tightly. Swipes his tongue across his teeth. Beneath the dirty look on his face, he looks vaguely dazed, as if they'd been smoking up all evening again.
It should sound ridiculous and mocking. Billy objectively sounds like a fucking asshole. He's smirking around the words, and maybe Steve should want to hit him in the face just because, but it turns out to be sorta hot.
Especially when he follows it up by lifting Steve's legs and flipping them to the side in two quick movements, then drags his old running shorts up over his dick and down his legs to throw them casually over to the other side of the bedroom. Steve loses his grip on him in all of this and grabs at the sheets instead.
He then swings Steve's right leg right over so he's snuggled up in the vee of his thighs again, only this time Steve's naked from the waist down, which is when he realises Billy's only seen him naked in the showers after gym, when he was definitely not hard and leaking all over himself.
It's a little late to get self-conscious, though, even when Billy's eyes focus in on his junk and his tongue teases the edges of his teeth almost unconsciously, which just has Steve's cock twitching and jumping on his belly. The room's too bright all of a sudden, everything too sharp.
Billy drags his fingers up and down the insides of Steve's thighs. It tickles like a flame, scorching skin and muscle down to the bone. It gets Steve even hotter, staggeringly enough, his muscles stringing tight.
"What I need is for you to get naked, too," he says, all guts and sass, like Billy was asking for a comeback. "Even the playing field." Bites his lip against saying more. I'd just turn into Steve drooling over getting to see Billy's hard cock again up close and personal.
"You're not naked yet, baby. Tit for tat," Billy answers back. And he leers like a big creep. Steve should not be into this.
For a beat, he thinks Billy might push for Steve to show more skin first, really get him naked. Instead, he takes his hot hands off Steve's body to unbuckle, unbutton and unzip lazily. As if he's in no hurry at all. Leaves his jeans on, just shuffles them down enough to take himself out gingerly.
It strains against his palm, a heavy weight. Steve watches, transfixed. Billy's cock is completely hard, the head a deep blood-red, the shaft rosy. He strokes it once, breath hissing between his teeth, and holds it loosely in his left hand, palming at Steve's thigh roughly with the other.
"Where do you keep your slick, pretty boy? I know you've got some. Healthy boy like you." He licks his lips once and hooks a hand under the meat of each bare thigh, which doesn't help with, like, anything. His cock bobs crudely in the air between them with each movement. That helps even less.
"Jesus, asshole. Top drawer," Steve relents. Feels himself blushing because this is going to be embarrassing for sure.
Billy leans over and rummages around until he finds the little tub at the back of the drawer. And, sure enough, he smirks obnoxiously when he does.
"Vaseline? And here I was expecting top-shelf stuff."
"Shut up," Steve says, but his lips twitch just a little with a smile. Needs must and all that.
After that, it doesn't seem to bother Billy in the slightest what he's working with, though, as long as there's something to slick the way, and Steve's never had a single thing to complain about.
Billy unscrews the cap and scoops out a bit on his fingertips, rubs it around to coat the first three fingers liberally. He drops the tub and cap on Steve's nightstand and rubs little circles on his right hip bone. With his other hand he pushes Steve's left leg to the side until his knee's touching the bed sheets and Steve feels completely exposed. There doesn't seem to be enough blood left near his face to make him blush harder, so Steve's thankful for that, at least.
Now Billy's eyes flick from the dark place between Steve's legs to Steve's eyes, leaning forward subtly, unconsciously. For a moment there, Steve thinks he's going to get kissed again. His lips tingle, as if they're priming for another touch.
Fingers graze his balls before going further down, the pad of a thumb touching briefly at the edge of Steve's hole. Makes Steve contract suddenly, and he swallows down a mewl, sighs instead, but it turns into a series of panting breaths when the tip of Billy's thumb breaches him, barely half an inch, probably less, but it's the most ever that Steve's had. Steve gets a quick peck on the lips when Billy leans on his hip bone to reach him. It's scorching.
The rest of Billy's fingers brush the edges of his hole over and over, and that's too much. He's too sensitive there in a way he's never known before. His cock drools on his belly from it, like Billy's fingers are milking it out of him. He clenches at the thought, and mewls outright, a ragged sound torn out of his chest.
The tip of that thumb leaves him, circles his hole once and then once more, before Billy thumbs him open and feeds in more, almost an inch. It breaches him to the root in a slow press in.
Steve feels it in his gut. Drags Billy down down down to kiss him, and Billy's tongue is instantly in his mouth, as if he can't get enough of getting all of himself inside Steve. He starts a slow thrust then, in and out, followed by another, until he's fucking Steve with it. It's nothing like Steve thought getting fingered like a girl would be like, if he'd ever given it enough thought.
He feels strung out, coiled too tight around his insides, like a live wire almost. It's a searing, white-hot heat. Wildly, he thinks he could take more, another finger, but also like this is enough, this is enough to make it sweet when he comes.
He thinks, I could take his cock if he wanted to give it to me, and that's a kick to the chest right there. Like, fucking's on the table now, if Billy wanted it.
Billy's brushing against all the sensitive spots inside him he never knew existed, because why would he, this is the epitome of a fucking first time. They're panting into each other's mouth now, and Steve's nails are digging into Billy's right bicep and the nape of his neck, but he doesn't seem bothered. If anything, it seems to be urging him on each time Steve forgets himself and drags his nails down into skin.
Steve shudders when Billy just fucking curls over Steve's body to nose at his neck and bite down, opposite side than last time, then scrape his teeth in gentle pulls. Makes Steve feel all sweaty and the coil inside him gets tight tight tight, like a pulsing ache.
"That's it, baby. You're doing fine," Billy pants. Near enough he might as well be whispering it in Steve's ear.
Steve laughs harshly. Fine can't really describe it.
"So fucking fine," Billy goes on. "Come on, take this off, come on," and paws at the hem of Steve's shirt. He goes to take it off while Billy watches greedily. Throws it over the side of the bed and basks in that look.
"Billy, fuck, fuck." The noises he's making, the way he sounds, should be embarrassing. He sounds as if he's breaking into jagged little pieces all over the place. He sounds so fucking eager for more of this. Shudders with it in Billy's hands.
"Yeah, this is good. Gonna make it better for you, OK?"
Steve blinks at him, eyes too damn big in his head. "Jesus fuck," he moans.
Billy stares and sort of chokes on his own breath for a moment there. "Bambi, fuck. Makes me wanna… Oh, shit."
He pushes into Steve, over and over, thumbs into his tight little hole. Steve can feel how it stretches and gapes to make room for Billy. It feels like a gut punch. It feel like he might break apart at the seams if he doesn't come soon. When Billy focuses suddenly on just the one spot Steve almost yells. It's too much and just what he needed to make it fucking better.
A hard press against his sweet spot makes him sob, his cock pushing out a thick tear of pre-come onto his belly. Steve kisses him messily, mouths at him wet and sloppy now. Digs his fingers into broad shoulders and hangs on desperately.
Billy drags over that spot over and over, making Steve feel as if he's burning up, like he might crawl out of his own skin with it. He squirms and bites at his own lip and grinds his teeth, but it's relentless. He bites at Billy's lips, too. Wants them to ache like he's aching.
He really is burning up, red all over from the neck down. Tentatively, he drags his neat nails down his own chest, over one nipple, understandably hesitant, all of it too new. He quakes briefly at the sensation. Billy's eyes zero in on him, and with nimble movements manages to keep fingering him ruthlessly while reaching for Steve's cock to start jacking him off. Steve still clutches at him with his other hand, feels the rapid movement through his shoulder.
Steve's head snaps back. Opens his mouth wide around heavy pants and a ragged moan. On the next hard press of Billy's fingers his body feels as if it's spring-loaded, almost ready to careen towards too much and clear off the bed.
"Baby," Billy whispers between them. Almost too quiet. Coaxing. And Steve. Steve just.
Steve quakes through his orgasm, forehead knocking into Billy's shoulder. Sobs through it as Billy's hand pumps him empty, come streaking all across his chest, hitting his chin. It's the best fucking mess.
He comes down in a daze, head hitting the bed hard, thoughts a mile a minute. Billy Hargrove is a solid wall of muscle hovering above him. It must say something about Steve that it settles something inside him just looking up at him like that. Billy drags the edges of the sheets between them to clean Steve off, then lowers himself slowly, plasters himself all down Steve's front to mouth sweetly at his jaw, and that's even better.
With as much gentleness as Steve can probably expect in the circumstances, Billy's thumb withdraws. It drags out of him as if Steve's hole's still clutching at it, refusing to let it go.
"Shh, baby," Billy says. Gives him a peck on the lips. His dick pokes at Steve's lower stomach, still hard as a rock between them.
Steve's really not sure whether fucking's on the table, and his hole feels a little raw just now anyway. He might be losing his mind a little, but he wants Billy to put it in, so he can see what it's like. Wants to know whether it'll feel sweet like a peck on the lips.
Kind of wants to do a lot more here. Maybe put his mouth on it. He's aware enough to know he's been near drooling for it twice now.
It'll make him choke. The realisation pounds the blood around in his veins. His breath heaves just thinking about it.
Billy notices. Arches an eyebrow. Probably about to go full asshole again. Steve shuffles them around quickly between aftershocks. He's trying not to lose his nerve, and Billy actually speaking words won't be helpful in the least.
Next thing Billy knows, Steve's got him on his back. He looks confused for the moment before Steve backs away without really leaving his space. He figures it out enough to reach out and cup his skull with one tentative hand as Steve crawls backwards down his body.
It's a lot up close. It's thick, and Steve's mouth waters a little. He kisses just under the head and watches pre trickle out right at the tip from an inch away. Billy swallows compulsively, gaze hot, hands trembly where they linger around Steve's head, not touching anymore, just hovering tentatively.
That hot look's all up in his head when he licks the pre-come away.
"Yeah, here you go. Take it." Still so quiet. More of a suggestion. He's not the pushy douchebag Steve thought he'd be.
Emboldened, Steve grabs one of his hands and places it at his temple. The message has to be clear enough. Billy's right hand yanks at the bed sheets beneath them when Steve goes down the first inch.
He grips Steve's jaw and gives a half-thrust forward, not enough to make him choke, just enough to make his mouth feel full, his lips wide and wet around his cock. Billy moans from deep inside his chest.
He goes further down of his own accord. He chokes on it until he starts to gurgle. And it should be disgusting or something, but it's really not. He looks up at Billy and he definitely looks the opposite of disgusted. His mouth is all open and panting wetly.
It presses against the inside of his mouth on the next drag out, the blunt head distending the cheek, digging into the soft meat.
Saliva leaks out of his mouth around the shaft, and now he really is drooling for it. Billy pulls out to push it around his lips, then shifts his hips back to get some of his breath back, apparently.
Steve's not gonna sit up to chase it, he tells himself, except he most definitely is.
He's never done this before, obviously, so it's unclear whether he goes down too quickly to get his mouth full of Billy again. He's definitely too excited for it. None of the girls who have ever done this for him have been this excited, and that's sure to freak Billy out. Steve is graceless in how much he needs it, though, so it's likely he'll choke himself unconscious before he has to see any of the patented mocking Hargrove looks.
He peeks up just to see where he stands with that, but Billy has that dazed look again. He catches Steve looking, mumbles, "Princess," on a soft sigh, then closes his eyes tight, skin creasing at the corners.
He fucks up into Steve's mouth on a harsh thrust and keeps it going until tears leak out of Steve's eyes, the eyelashes clustered together. He lets him back up by tugging at the back of his neck and hair. Steve's head is filled with choking wet noises which even his heavy, panting breaths can't drown out.
"You like that? Taste good?" Billy whispers. Steve looks up while he's mouthing at the head again. Billy looks starved.
He drags his lips back down to the root in lieu of answering. Billy smells musky here, like a combination of clean sweat, his signature cologne and whatever scent his skin naturally carries.
Steve noses back up to the head, then mouths at it shallowly. "Tastes good," he whispers, like he's sharing a secret. Says, "I can take it." Blinks a couple of times in quick succession to clear up the tears. Keeps eye contact when he goes back down on it.
Somewhere along the way he clutches at Billy's hips while his cockhead flirts with going down his throat. Steve can feel it dragging around the opening to his throat, but never dipping in. It's a heady thought, having Billy that deep in him.
Billy must think so, too, because it barely lasts half a minute after that. Billy pants, gonna, gonna and baby, fuck, Steve before clutching at Steve's jaw with rough fingers. Steve tries to open his mouth, his throat, his everything up for it.
When it comes, it almost chokes him again. He swallows as much as he can right up front, then moves back to catch the rest in his mouth. A little dribbles on his chin, but he pushes it back in and swallows his mouthful.
His ragged pants are too damn loud, but he hardly cares. He's just getting his breath back to a regular rhythm when Billy sits up to drag him with him by his armpits. Steve ends up plastered half-way up his torso.
"I'm a sure thing, too," Billy says against his jawbone. Steve shifts back to stare into his face, which bears an expression with a level of intensity Billy usually reserves for pounding someone into the floor with his fists.
Oh. OK. It's maybe more shocking than surprising, and Steve is oddly OK with being that person for Billy Hargrove.
"All right," he replies. Then, "This was a date, right?"
The bones and angles shift so suddenly on Billy's face Steve loses track of what's happening. Then he spurts out a laugh, all sudden and fluttery. "Yeah, Harrington. Third date, third base. Gotta love the classics."
It doesn't make a lot of sense.
Steve doesn't really care.
Next moment, Billy drags him up roughly to straddle his hips, zipper digging into sensitive skin, and lips at Steve's mouth until it turns heavy again between them. Steve kisses back hot and wet and like he can't get enough, even though they both got off and his mouth's raw.
Sometime in the middle of making out Steve feels Billy lean over and scramble around, then the lights go out in his bedroom with a soft click.
He probably fell asleep from one yawn to the next right next to Billy, whose warm body is nestled tight around his now, having managed to cross the little distance which existed between them during waking hours.
He won't be awake for long, though. The dream is already pulling him back in. Billy's naked body, jeans and shirt and everything but his jewellery long discarded, is pulling him back in, back under.
Briefly, in the last few desperately fleeting moments of wakefulness, he thinks, I want this one thing to be easy now.
He thinks, Like stupid teenagers. And he sleeps in the beacon of darkness in a lighted, empty house.