Work Header

Like It's the Only Thing I'll Ever Do

Work Text:

The waves that crash onto the beach aren't exactly soothing. The sky is gray with the threat of an oncoming storm, and anyone with sense would be packing up and leaving, heading for shelter before the skies open up and start pouring on them. 

The truth is, though, that Billy's never been one for sense. He usually relies on Steve to be the smart one of the two of them, and Steve's falling down on the job here. Maybe that's Billy's fault - it's Billy's hands, after all, that are keeping Steve's shoulders pressed to the blanket below them, Billy's teeth latched onto the skin of Steve's shoulder to worry a mark there to soothe later, Billy's hips grinding slow into Steve's on a stormy beach far away from Hawkins. 

So yeah, Steve's usually the sensible one, the one who makes the good, smart decisions, but Billy's pretty damn good at talking him out of them. 

"It's gonna rain, we should go." Steve's voice sounds like he's swallowed some of the sand that's all around them, or maybe gargled some of the ocean water that they haven't swam in yet. 

Steve's saying one thing, but his hands are gripping onto Billy's sides like he never wants to let go, fingers curled tightly through the white shirt that's long-unbuttoned and nearly see-through with the moisture in the air. If Steve really wanted to go, he’d shove Billy off of him - he’s not shy, but he sure likes to pretend he is. Billy’s so good at talking him out of the smart decisions because Steve wants to do the crazy shit that Billy comes up with.

Like fucking on a beach where anyone could see, if it weren’t for the storm rolling in to make sure not a single person does.

"We can go in a minute," Billy replies, and bites a little higher on Steve's neck, revels in the gasp it gets him. It's a testament to how far gone Steve already is that he's not bitching about visible hickeys - he'll bitch later, Billy knows, complain while he's pressing a finger to it to make it sting again. "Just want a minute , Stevie."

When Billy had pictured this, it had been different. He'd been thinking of a sunny day, for starters, with Steve a little pink with sunburn and warm from the summer sun, maybe salty from swimming in the ocean. In his mind's eye, Steve would be wearing swim shorts and so would he, there'd be an umbrella and sunscreen, Steve napping on a towel while Billy watched and thought about how fucking lucky he was.

And Billy has to admit - this is almost better. The rain is beginning to fall on his back in cold little pinpricks that heighten the sensation, make him aware of how warm Steve is beneath him. There's the distant sound of thunder and the crash of the waves, angry in the way only nature can be. When Billy pulls back from leaving that mark on Steve's neck, he can drink his fill of Steve, disheveled and wanting, pink with arousal but not sunburn, hair starting to flatten and stick to his head with the damp of the sea air and the beginnings of the rain. He's hard underneath Billy's hips, and his t-shirt's been shoved up by Billy's wandering hands. The part that really catches Billy, though, is the way Steve’s big brown eyes are bright when they find Billy's, one hand lifting from where he's been clutching at Billy's shirt to reach for Billy's face. 

Billy lets himself be drawn back down into a kiss. Steve tastes like ocean salt and the Coca-Cola he'd been drinking on the drive, and the way that he goes pliant under Billy's mouth goes straight to Billy's head. 

"We rented a room," Steve says, breathless, when Billy breaks the kiss to nip his way down Steve's neck again. "There's a bed in it. We have it for three days, there's room service, we don't have to leave for the whole time if we don't want to."

Billy's working his way down Steve's chest, shoves his t-shirt up even farther until it's bunched a little too high to be comfortable but plenty high to give Billy some room to mouth at one of Steve's nipples. "That's no fun," he says, looks at Steve from under his lashes so that he doesn't really have to lift his mouth from Steve's skin. "I remember telling you I was going to blow you on the beach, baby. Let me keep my promise, then we’ll go check in."

His lips glance over Steve's navel, fingers finding the waistline of Steve's shorts, and he feels the muscles jump beneath his mouth and his hands. Billy loves how responsive Steve is, has told him so many times in a variety of filthy ways, has made it clear to Steve that he will never get bored of this as long as he lives. 

"You told me there would be sun ," Steve says, petulant but grinning, his hands are curling in Billy's hair as Billy works the button on his ridiculous pastel striped shorts open. "We're going to get wet , Billy."

How is Billy supposed to resist an opening like that? He lifts his head to look at Steve again, at the raindrops falling over the blush on his cheeks, just as he gets the zipper of the shorts down and gets his hand inside. "Oh, sweetheart," he says, gets his hand around where Steve has apparently been going commando for the whole drive. It’s probably best he hadn’t told Billy, they both know that Billy would have absolutely used that to his advantage and they never would have made it to the beach. "It feels like you're already wet."

And he is, just like Billy had known he’d be when he was sitting on Steve’s lap and grinding his own hips down, but saying it has the effect that Billy wants. Steve goes from pink flush to red, mouth falling open as Billy strokes him, slow and unhurried, like they’re not on the very cusp of getting soaked in a storm on the beach. They really should go back to the room. They’re probably going to get struck by lightning or something, but Billy can’t wait another moment to have this : Steve, blushing and aroused, with his big hands tangled in the mess that the weather has made of Billy’s hair, and his cock heavy in Billy’s fingers, jutting out from the fly of his shorts. 

An empty, deserted beach in the middle of a storm is a compromise of sorts for himself, an agreement that Billy can come to when he’s constantly torn between wanting to show Steve off for everyone to see and hide him away to keep Steve all to himself. 

“Christ,” Billy says, and kind of wishes he could just sit back with a cigarette and watch Steve get himself off. He can do that later, when they’re warm in their rented room, can sit back in the armchair and tell Steve exactly what, when, and how to do it. “You’re so fucking beautiful, baby.”

Steve’s hands leave Billy’s hair to cover his face instead, which Billy lets happen because he’s got an ace up his sleeve here and he knows it - he leans down and tongues the head of Steve’s cock, sucks and looks up at Steve’s face to see Steve looking back , all of his attention on Billy and only Billy, hands pulled away but frozen. Not where Billy wants them.

So he ups the ante, takes more of Steve in and swallows, keeps going until his eyes are watering. Steve finally gets the hint, drops his hands from his face to tangle them in Billy’s hair, groan lost in the sudden roll of thunder, close enough that it should be startling. There’s something poetic, though, in the way that Steve rolls his hips with it, slow up into Billy’s mouth. He’s not small, far from it, thick and hot on Billy’s tongue, stretches his jaw wide with a delicious ache that Billy craves over and over, but his hands are gentle even as they tug and pull Billy into a languid rhythm.

The sky opens and pours , but Billy barely notices. Steve’s hands keep his hair out of his eyes as Billy breathes through his nose and takes Steve’s cock into his throat, revels in the way that Steve gasps his name - “ Billy , fuck!” - like it’s the first time he’s ever done it instead of the thousandth, thrills in how Steve says it again , trails it off into a groan.

The wind picks up, and if it weren’t for their weight on the blanket, it would be tumbling away, blown down the beach. Billy feels like he can relate, really, like if it weren’t for the warmth of Steve, if it weren’t for Steve’s hands and Steve’s skin and Steve’s cock, Billy would go blowing away across the sand in the storm, too. 

“Fuck,” Steve says, and he’s insistent now, a little more ragged in all the ways that Billy likes to hear. “Billy, babe, I’m gonna come, you gotta let me know if-”

Billy’s answer is to tighten his fingers on Steve’s hips and press them to the blanket, stop that rhythm Steve started so that he can pull back and tongue just under the head. Steve’s strong but he’s not stronger than Billy, so even as his hips buck against Billy’s hands, he stays right where Billy wants him, and Billy does it again, and again, and again , tongue against the ridge until Steve is pulling at Billy’s hair and gasping Billy’s name, spilling into Billy’s mouth.

Billy swallows, tastes salt and Steve, and maybe keeps his mouth on Steve for a little longer than he should with the way that Steve goes from petting him and breathing hard to tugging at Billy’s hair and whining.

The thunder rolls, and they’re soaked. Billy’s white shirt has gone from damp and kind of see-through to translucent, and Steve’s hair is plastered down to his head. Billy can imagine his own hair is a mess too, but he can’t help the grin that’s on his face, can’t help the way that he hovers over Steve like he’s threatening to go down on him again , weather be damned. Steve kind of looks like he’d let Billy, too, an answering awe on his face that speaks louder than words ever could.

Billy sits up. “Come on, princess,” he says over the sound of the storm, climbs off of Steve like he’s not so hard it hurts a little. “I don’t want to hear you bitch ‘cause you caught a cold out here.”

Steve blinks, and it’s like he’s just noticed that it’s raining, that he’s soaked to the bone, that the sound of thunder and waves is near-deafening. He tucks himself away and takes the hand Billy offers him, then helps Billy get the probably-unsalvageable blanket bundled up despite the wind and the rain and the sand.

Steve steps close, drags Billy into a heated kiss, swipes his tongue across Billy’s like he’s chasing the taste of himself because he knows what it fucking does to Billy. He breaks the kiss and leans in close, uses that whole inch of height he’s got on Billy to his advantage. Hot breath ghosts over skin that’s starting to chill with the rain and the ocean wind.

“I’ll let you fuck me in the car, if you wanna,” Steve says, like it’s a secret he’s got to whisper, even with no one around, like they haven’t fucked in the backseat of the Camaro a hundred times already, like Billy’s not going to be down for it here and now, too.

Then Steve’s gone, darts away into the rain, running for the car and laughing over his shoulder. At this rate, they’ll never make it to the room, where Billy’s secretly got champagne and rose petals and a ring in his suitcase with Steve’s name on it.

Whatever. They’ve got time, Billy decides, and drops the blanket in favor of chasing after Steve.