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my tongue is tied to tonsils

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“Billy?” --

 

-- a voice says.

Billy thinks maybe he might’ve been sleeping, before that.

 

Then -- there’s nothing, nothing, nothing. And --

 

Then: “Billy? Hey, c’mon man.”

Billy thinks, maybe, he might have fallen asleep again. But this time there’s a hand on his shoulder, shaking him a little, words cutting through the thick darkness of his thoughts.

Mmph,” Billy says, because he’s so tired. He likes the place he’s at, likes the soft, dark space behind his eyelids, likes not having to think. With his eyes closed, his head doesn’t spin. His ribcage doesn’t ache. Time just --

 

-- stops.

 

“Jeez, are you kidding me?” the voice says, and it sounds so familiar, like it’s coming directly from Billy’s dreams. But that’s not right -- because Billy’s dreams are this way, and the voice is coming from all the way over there.

The voice is real. Real in the same way that the hand shaking his shoulder is, real in the way that the pain when he breathes in too deep is, too.

And in reality? Billy knows that voice. Knows that disgruntled, huffy, hoity tone.

And Billy’s gotta see this, because it’s an impossible dream that the owner of that voice would go out of his way to find Billy at a house party, that the owner of that voice would stop whatever fun he’s having to seek Billy out, instead. It’s impossible. But Billy opens his eyes and tries to blink Steve fucking Harrington into focus, anyway.

The room is pretty dark, which is nice, because Billy’s not ready for glaring halogen bulbs right now, not ready to really face the harsh brightness of reality.

Steve’s face is right there, blinking at him with those pretty doe eyes. They look a little darker than normal in this light, more mysterious, more enigmatic. And god, he looks good. Which is why, probably, Billy’s apparently already touching his face before he can even register the desire -- but not as gently as he wants to, because his hands aren’t really responding the way they should. But Steve doesn’t flinch when Billy basically slaps him in the side of the jaw, so it’s fine. And he doesn’t shy away when Billy’s hand lingers and his thumb pushes roughly over stubbled skin.

“Billy?” Steve says, like he’s trying to wake Billy up again.

God, Steve’s so fucking dumb. Billy’s clearly awake. Steve was the one who dragged him into the unpleasantness of consciousness -- the least he can do is recognize the fact that Billy’s eyes are open and his ribs hurt.

“Yeah, baby?” Billy asks, thumb clumsily pulling over Steve’s lips. He watches the way they part, the red of Steve’s gums still evident in the darkness. His mouth is so dark, like the yawning void, like a nightmare waiting to happen. He watches the way those lips twist into a frown when Billy’s done.

“Billy, you’re really drunk,” Steve says.

It’s, like, painful how dumb Steve Harrington is.

Billy just laughs and says “Yeah,” because he’s kinda in love with the stupid look on Steve’s face, the way he looks lost. And then a little hurt, at Billy’s tone.

But honestly, Steve always looks lost. And Billy would know -- he spends way too much of his time staring at Steve, mapping out the angles of his face and all those little microexpressions. But the way he always looks lost? It’s Billy’s favorite. It’s cute as fuck. Endearing as hell.

If Steve were a girl, with that same bratty pout and that same cut jawline, Billy would be able to be all over her, would never give her a chance to step away. But Steve’s not a girl, and that’s the problem.

Billy knows it’s the problem, knows why it’s a problem.

Because if Steve Harrington were a girl, Billy probably would never have looked twice at her.

So maybe -- maybe -- Steve’s not really the problem after all. Maybe it’s just Billy.

But that feels an awful lot like Billy’s shouldering too much of the blame, here. Steve should take some of it. It’s not Billy’s fault he can’t stop thinking about Steve.

Billy’s not the one who found Steve at a party, asleep in a spare room. And he’s not the one crouched in front of Billy, trying to wake him up, not the one who crawled out of Billy’s dreams like some kind of incubus, just to personally fuck with him.

Billy’s not even lying down, just propped up against the headboard of someone’s unmade bed (it’s gross, really. People probably fucked in here before Billy flung himself down -- but he was too drunk to care before, and he’s too tired to care now). 3Oh!3 is pumping through the thin walls, filtering in from speakers downstairs. Volume cranked up too high, bass boosted bad enough to damage eardrums. It’s muffled and distorted, rattling frames on the walls, but it’s still hitting the part inside Billy’s chest that fucking loves this album.

Billy,” Steve says, a little harsher than before.

Billy opens his eyes again. God, he’s so tired. The darkness behind his eyelids is so much better than being awake. The version of Steve there, the one that that blinks slowly back at him with those big eyes, the one that smiles like he means it when Billy touches him the way he dreams of -- that one’s better. This version just looks lost.

What?” Billy snaps, but it doesn’t come out as mean as he wants, not nearly as nasty. He can hear the fatigue in his voice, the raspiness of sleep, the slur of alcohol. He drank too much, he knows. But that’s his problem, not Steve’s.

He touches Steve’s face again, his lips, when Steve starts to frown at him.

And Billy’s got the best thing to say. All the girls love it, really. Of all the guys in the frat, Billy’s the one who always gets all the pussy. Even if he doesn’t necessarily want it.

Baby,” Billy says, rehearsed like a line in a play he’s walked through hundreds of times. “No, don’t frown. Real pretty when you smile.” The words all kinda blur together, like they’re smudged on the back of his hand.

Steve laughs then, the corners of his lips turning up into a smile. Billy can feel the breath of it against his fingers. It feels good, feels nice, so Billy makes a noise in his throat and pushes his fingers a little rougher against Steve’s lips. Watches them part. Feels them depress underneath his touch.

So quick, Steve’s hands are around Billy’s wrists, Steve’s grip keeping Billy’s hands from moving away from his mouth. Hands held hostage. Billy’s not even sure when that happened. His thigh is flush up against Billy’s from where he’s kneeling right next to him. So close. So warm.

“The fuck?” Billy says, but he doesn’t push Steve off. Maybe couldn’t, even if he wanted to. Which -- god -- he doesn’t want to. It feels good: Steve’s fingers are hot brands around his wrists, scalding enough that they send a curl of heat to his gut, even though his head is spinning. Steve’s breath is warm and humid on his fingers, coming out in little puffs, faster than before.

“You’re really drunk,” Steve says, but he doesn’t sound mad. Doesn’t sound disappointed. “How many drinks have you had, Billy?”

The way ‘Billy’ slips out of Steve’s mouth sounds an awful lot like the way ‘baby’ comes out of Billy’s.

“You worried about me, baby?” Billy asks, baby baby baby ringing in his head.

 

-- and then there’s a moment of darkness because his eyes must slip closed. And that’s fine, because the world is better that way. Easier.

Smoother. Softer.

Safer.

“Hey,” Steve’s voice says, through the swirls of color behind his eyes. “Hey, Billy, wake up.” He feels a couple taps against his cheek. And then, a little softer: “C’mon, sweetheart. Open up your eyes for me.”

What a goddamn dream.

How’s Billy supposed to say no to that?

Hey,” Steve says, when Billy blinks at him, trying to get his eyes to focus. And Steve’s smiling, which is nice. “You gotta stay awake for me, sweetheart.”

But Billy doesn’t have to do that. It’s not really important that he stays awake.

Billy just hums and closes his eyes again.

When he blinks them open again, Steve’s hand is on his face and Steve is calling him sweetheart again, thumbing over his jaw, his cheek, his skin. It feels nice, but he doesn’t really get it. Like, he’s gotta be dreaming, but it keeps happening when he opens his eyes instead of closing them, which is confusing. He doesn’t know how to stay here, in this moment. The one with the Steve from his dreams, the one that keeps smiling and touching him, the one that looks like the King Steve Billy’s always imagined.

It’s really hard to keep track of all these Steves. Hard to tell which ones which.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Steve says, and Billy could swear he pulls one of his fingers over Billy’s lower lip, so Billy lets his tongue loll out of his mouth a bit. Lets it wet his lip. Lets it roll over Steve's finger. It tastes like booze, like sweat.

It's gross.

But it's kinda hot, too. Real hot. Mouth-wateringly hot. He's not sure he can really articulate that, though.

Because he's really drunk. Steve wasn't wrong.

“Hey,” Steve says. His thumb lands on Billy’s lower lip. Just presses, like Billy wanted to do earlier. It makes Billy hold his mouth open. Makes him pant. “You doing okay?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” Billy breathes out hot against Steve’s finger. How couldn’t he be, with Steve so close, touching him? Of course he's okay. He’s practically gagging with it, mouth watering like he’s starving, like Steve’s some kinda piece of meat.

“I don't think you're gonna remember this tomorrow, Billy,” Steve says, kinda slow, like he's thinking about something. Like he's dwelling.

Billy barely manages to shrug, because nothing’s really working right now. Not his mouth, not his shoulders, not his arms. He longs to touch, to pull Steve closer, to -- something -- but he can’t.

It’s frustrating as hell.

It’s --

 

Steve slaps his face again. Billy opens his eyes. It hurts, a little bit. The sting of the collision of palm against skin. Billy gasps and thinks of red stars, of pale skin, of digging his fingers into the dirt, getting grime and grit underneath his nails.

Billy,” Steve says, and it’s a little louder. A little harsh. A little biting. “You gotta stay awake for me.” It’s such an order that Billy’s eyes stay open, because he’s used to orders, used to following them. And they’ve never been prettier, than they are flowing out of Steve’s mouth.

“King Steve,” Billy slurs. Because it is. It’s true. Finally. He’s dreaming, and this is the King Steve he was promised, the one he’s entitled to. The one he can’t stop fantasizing about.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” King Steve says, smiling like he does in all of Billy’s other dreams. “It’s me. How’re you feeling?”

Billy thinks there’s a hand in his hair, pushing it back from his face. He can feel the nails dig into his scalp and he follows the motion, tipping his head back, groaning. Trying to get more.

“So good,” Billy says. “God, you’re so fucking --”

“Yeah?” Steve says, even though Billy’s not sure he even finished that thought, just that he trailed off into something slurred and stupid. “That right?” Steve asks, his touch alternating between gentle and rough. Sometimes stroking through Billy’s hair, sometimes pulling at it when Billy’s eyes start to droop.

“You want me to take you home?” Steve asks, slow.

“Yeah,” Billy breathes out. Then, on another breath, “No.”

He can’t walk. Can’t move. Doesn’t want to wake up. Doesn’t want this to stop. Doesn’t want Steve to go anywhere. Doesn’t think he can take not being anywhere that’s not right here, right now. If he moves, this all stops. If he moves, he loses King Steve pressed up against his thigh, he loses the hands tangled in his hair.

“Yeah, you wanna stay here? You’re looking pretty comfy, babe,” Steve says. He sounds so sweet, like he’s swallowed a spoonful of sugar and the granules of it are lingering on his tongue. Billy knows that syrupy tone. He’s used it on so many drunk girls before, too many to count. It’s familiar and it’s awful, but he can’t stop the way it makes his gut twist.

Billy leans into the hand at his cheek. Steve’s palm is so warm, it’s like fire. Makes him want to strip out of his shirt, his pants. Billy shifts a little, just thinking about it.

“Wanna,” Billy starts.

Somehow, his hand ends up fisted in Steve’s shirt. He pulls. Steve comes tumbling forward, laughing, nearly ending up in Billy’s lap. Nearly straddling him to compensate.

“Careful, sweetheart,” Steve says. “Wouldn’t want you getting hurt. I promise I’m gonna take real good care of you tonight.”

Billy hums, tongue a little too big for his mouth. “Th’ real King Steve treatment?” he slurs. His fingers bunch in the cotton of Steve’s shirt, pulling, tugging, even though there’s nowhere for Steve to go.

But he’s not moving away, which is really all that matters. He’s not even trying.

Instead, he seems to be making himself kind of comfortable, finally straddling Billy’s legs for good. Pressing him down into the mattress with a warm, heavy weight. Grounding, like Steve knows Billy's the live wire he is. Like he knows how explosive, how fragile, the thing he's dealing with is.

Or maybe he doesn't know. Maybe he’s not thinking. Maybe he's just doing.

Sober, Billy wouldn't let Steve do this. Sober, he wouldn't even let Steve this close.

Drunk, and it's not even possibly close enough.

Billy rolls his hips upward and Steve laughs, low and short, like there’s a joke Billy’s not getting. He should be mad about that, probably, but he loses the thread of irritation the second he finds it, dropping it in favor of clumsily shoving his hands up the back of Steve’s shirt to get at the warm skin underneath.

“Easy, killer,” Steve says, still sugar-sweet. But he doesn’t make Billy stop. Just arches his back under Billy’s touch.

Billy wonders if his lips taste as honeyed as his words, so he goes for Steve’s mouth. Steve pulls back at the last second and Billy’s lips end up on Steve’s neck. It’s not a bad alternative, but Steve’s skin is salty when Billy licks down on it, even if the sound Steve makes is saccharine. He bites, ungainly, teeth snagging against flesh. Steve lets him. Even moves his neck to give Billy more.

It’s hard, after that first lick, to wring noises out of Steve. Like once he’s not surprised or caught off guard, Steve’s just along for the ride. It makes Billy burn, makes something go tight in his gut. Like he has to try harder, even though he’s already trying so hard just to keep his eyes open.

He can tell he starts to slip, when he starts to get real lazy and dreamy about it, when Steve pulls back and gets his hand on Billy’s jaw, steadying his head and leaning in real close.

“You with me, sweetheart?” Steve asks.

Billy nods.

He’s always with Steve, even in his dreams.

Because when he closes his eyes, Steve’s still there staring back at him, those fingers going a little rougher on his chin, holding Billy tight, keeping him anchored.

The Steve behind his eyelids leans forward until his breath is hot and damp against Billy’s lips, until Billy can smell the vodka and cigarettes on him. The Steve of his dreams doesn’t hesitate, he just savors, leaning in to lick at Billy’s bottom lip like he’s teasing, like he’s testing the temperature of the waters before diving in.

Billy pants with need, blood boiling in his veins. He arches up against the weight pressing him down, finding resistance, finding something to buck against.

But Steve doesn’t kiss him yet. Doesn’t give Billy what he needs. He just draws his tongue over Billy’s lower lip again, wet and messy. And when Billy sticks his tongue out, wanting more, Steve gives deigns to give that to him, licking a wet stripe down Billy’s tongue. The slick slide of it has Billy groaning, has him breathing hard, a fire building inside his chest.

“Yeah?” King Steve asks, hand slipping until he’s holding Billy by the neck, too, fingers around his throat. “You like that, sweetheart?”

Billy just nods. He can feel the unreal, molasses movement of it, the kind that only happens in his dreams.

“You want more?” Steve asks.

Billy nods into the grip of Steve’s hands.

“Jesus, you’re so sweet like this. Don’t think you’d ever admit this sober.”

Steve tilts Billy’s head back. The ceiling of the room is boring, flat white. But it swirls in Billy’s dreams.

“Stick out your tongue for me, baby,” Steve says.

Billy’s real good about following orders.

He nearly whines when Steve stands up on his knees, because it means that he’s no longer pressing Billy down against the mattress, but the change in position gives him height.

Gives him leverage.

It lets him spit directly into Billy’s mouth, saliva dripping, caught by Billy’s tongue. It’s wet and warm and gross as hell.

Billy groans.

“So good,” Steve says. “Jesus, you’re so good.”

Billy closes his eyes, which is funny, because he’s pretty sure they were already closed -- and when he opens again, Steve is kissing him, which is brutally and painfully unfair, because Billy missed it. He missed it happening, and now, suddenly, Steve’s just licking into Billy’s mouth like he’s been doing it for hours, for days, for years. It’s as good as it always is in Billy’s dreams and when he kisses back, it’s lazy and messy, movements slowed by alcohol, reflexes shot to hell.

But it’s wet and gross, just like Billy likes.

Just like Steve seems to like, too. Because Steve is breathing heavy, even if he’s not making all that much noise. Like he’s into it, but like he’s trying to be quiet, too. Like Billy maybe can’t know how into it he is.

That’s fine. Billy can make noise for the both of them.

He grunts and groans, and fists his fingers around Steve’s hips to pull him down rough, so that he’s back somewhere Billy can grind his dick, so that his heat keeps pressing Billy down and down. Because Billy’s greedy for it, needy as hell. It’s better than any sex he’s ever had, and isn’t that telling, that his dick isn’t even in anyone yet.

It’s sad, maybe. But he’s drunk enough that it doesn’t matter. That he doesn’t care that his life is a fucking nightmare comedy.

Because Steve’s tongue is down his throat and Steve’s fingers are around his neck and Steve’s hand is underneath Billy’s shirt, fingers playing with his nipples like Billy’s some fucking girl.

He sounds like a girl, with the way Harrington’s pulling sounds out of him. Thumbing over his nipples and playing Billy like a goddamn instrument.

And the guy’s got nice hands. Billy can never tear his eyes off them for too long. At the gym, on the court, at every party he and Steve both show up at. Since high school, Billy’s been looking at him, admiring those hands, imagining -- in his weaker moments -- what they’d feel like against Billy’s skin. Since forever, he’s been feeling them in his dreams, marring up his subconscious, leaving invisible scrapes and scars to haunt Billy when he wakes.

“You with me, sweetheart?” King Steve says.

Billy blinks at him with drooping eyelids.

Steve’s hand’s gone from his neck, cold nothingness replacing it. It takes a second to realize why it’s gone, that Steve’s working at Billy’s zipper with drunk hands.

“So hard for me,” Steve’s saying. It sounds foggy, like it’s all echoing inside Billy’s skull. Like a memory.

He lets his head loll back against the headboard, lets his eyes close just so he can concentrate on the sensation. On the feeling of Steve’s warm fingers working Billy’s cock out of his boxer briefs, on the way Steve spits on his dick and then wraps his fingers around, tugging slow, easy.

Billy moans. The sound of it fills up the dead silence of the room. Steve breathes out a quiet little “yeah,” like he’s proud of himself.

“You like that?” Steve asks him, like he’s encouraging Billy to be louder, to give him more.

Another moan, breathier, because it’s easier than nodding, easier than saying fuck yeah. Because Steve shouldn’t have to ask, because obviously Billy likes it, he’s hard as a fucking rock and he sounds like a goddamn whore. It’s embarrassing, but Steve doesn’t give him too much room to dwell on it, because soon he’s licking into Billy’s mouth and jerking him at the same time.

“Love you like this,” Steve says. “So lose, so easy for me. So much less of a dick.”

Billy grunts.

“Like, jesus, you’re so hot when you want it,” Steve tells him, mouth so close to Billy’s lips he’s practically feeding Billy the words. Sliding them onto Billy’s tongue and coaxing him to swallow. “Love the noises you make,” Steve says. “Why don’t you make some more for me, huh? Show me you like my hand on your cock.”

Steve’s fingers brush over his length while his thumb teases at Billy’s cockhead, smuding precome over his tip, getting Billy shuddering, squirming, and moaning. Trapped between Steve’s thighs, trapped in the space behind his closed eyes.

“So hot for me,” Steve says, while Billy’s tongue feels like lead in his mouth. Too fat, too thick to get any words past.

But Steve kisses him again, so he doesn’t have to talk, doesn’t have to tell Steve how good it feels to have those fingers around him. He can just relax into the sensation.

He can just --

 

When Billy blinks his eyes open again, his legs are cold. And splayed. Almost painfully wide. With Steve kneeling in between them.

“Oh,” Billy says, because when he looks down, his jeans are gone. His boxer briefs are gone, too. He’s just buck naked and bare from the waist down, spread out on rumbled sheets, goosebumps dotting his thighs.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Steve says, and he’s still got a hand on Billy’s dick, which is -- something, considering Billy doesn’t make a habit to sleep through hand jobs, usually.

But it looks like he didn’t miss the party too much.

“Hi,” Billy breathes out. His tongue doesn’t feel quite as fat anymore, but his eyelids are hella fucking droopy.

But King Steve’s always there, always haunting Billy. In his dreams or in real life, so it’s not like Billy can really miss out. Even if he misses one, he’s always got the other.

He watches, lazy, as Steve sucks on a couple of his own fingers. He watches as Steve catches Billy looking and then grins -- and slips those fingers between Billy’s waiting lips. Billy opens up for him, tongue lolling out so that he can welcome Steve’s thick fingers into his mouth. They taste gross, metallic and like alcohol, like cigarettes and a bit like hairspray. Still, it’s the best goddamn thing Billy’s ever hand in his mouth. He drools for it, can feel it dripping down the sides of his mouth, salivating like he’s starving, whining like Steve’s not giving him enough.

“Fuck you,” Billy says, when Steve pulls his fingers out of Billy’s mouth, like he did something wrong. Like he’s taking something away.

And Billy’s been so good.

Steve’s laughing.

He’s about to complain again, before he realizes that Steve’s not taking his hand away, he’s bringing it down, down, down, between Billy’s legs.

And holy shit.

Steve’s other hand drops Billy’s dick and gets him by the hips, sliding him a little further down on the bed so his hips are up, his as is -- oh god, his ass is right there -- with Steve pushing Billy’s legs wider. And wider.

And wider still, until Steve’s fingers are pressing against him and pushing, pushing inside.

He’s spit slick, but Billy’s dry and tight, and he’s never -- never --

“Fuck,” Billy groans out, his voice edging close to panic.

“That’s the idea,” Steve says. But when Billy whines, Steve’s tone goes all sweet again, all sugary. “Aw, sweetheart,” Steve says. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

After a few seconds, Steve spits on his fingers again, and then again, and then when he pushes them back into Billy, it’s a little easier. It hurts less, the first bite of pain fading into something foreign, something unknown. It’s a hot sort of pressure, a weird feeling -- but one that makes his cock jump. One that makes him harder than he ever thought possible.

“Uh,” Billy grunts.

“You like that?” Steve says, as his fingers ease Billy open, as they pry him wide enough for one finger, and then two.

Billy nods, a curt little thing. Like he’s not sure.

Because he isn’t.

It’s new.

It’s strange.

It’s a lot, opening up for Steve like this, tilting his hips up, letting Steve stuff him what feels like impossibly full.

“Can’t believe this is happening,” Steve says. “Can’t believe you’re so easy. You’re so hard for me -- god, you like this so much.”

Steve gets his other hand around Billy’s cock and tugs it while pushing his fingers in and in. The slide of split has worn away a bit, leaving Steve’s thrusts a little dry, a little tight. Billy’s voice gets caught in his throat, rough as he pushes his hips up, gasping, grunting at the swirling sensations. The pressure is unrelenting.

The room around them spins, darkness shimmering on the fringes of it all.

There’s a bite as Steve pulls out and spits on his fingers again. Another bite as Steve pushes them back in, a third finger teasing at Billy’s rim and then stretching him, shoving inside along with the other two. Billy arches with a gasp, head falling back with a clunk to the headboard he barely even registers, because it hurts, it hurts -- but underneath the pain, underneath the impossible stretch, there’s pleasure, too. There’s Steve tugging at Billy’s dick, there’s Steve leaning in to drink long kisses out from Billy’s lips.

There’s Steve, shoving three fingers into him, knuckle deep, until Billy’s keening, gasping -- back arching off the bed.

There's Billy, sounding like a fucking whore, begging for it and blitzed out of his mind, in some stranger’s bed at a party he doesn't even remember getting to.

But he's here, now, with Steve fucking Harrington’s pretty face above him. Steve Harrington what feels like fist deep inside him and spreading him wider.

And maybe Billy should tell him to slow down, to stop, should tell him he's never done this before -- but Billy's no quitter. Even drunk, even stupid for Steve like this. He's not giving in to Steve. Not gonna show weakness.

“You want it so bad, sweetheart,” Steve's saying against his lips. “You're always looking at me, always getting hard when you watch me in the showers at the gym. Think I don't see you, but I do, baby,” he's saying.

Billy goes hot, a wave of nausea washing over him.

“No, I don't -- I --” he chokes out, before Steve's sucking on his lower lip and twisting his fingers inside Billy, curling them, pressing up.

Billy doesn't come, but something jolts in him, and his dick drips.

The sound it pulls out of him is embarrassing: confused, horny, needy as hell.

“You do, sweetheart, it's okay,” Steve's saying. “You want me so bad, and I'm gonna take care of you. Gonna make you feel so good.”

And Billy already feels good. He feels too much, even.

But then Steve's pulling his fingers out, and it's rough, and it stings, so Billy pants and gasps into Steve's mouth, clinging at the sweaty back of his shirt, nails clawing, grasping, grabbing.

“S’okay,” Steve says, pressing lips to Billy's cheek, like Billy’s some kind of chick that needs cajoling or comforting.

“Fuck you,” Billy bites out, but Steve just laughs.

“Yeah, not quite,” Steve says.

And then he's grabbing Billy by the hips, bony fingers digging into skin. Suddenly Billy’s world goes sideways and the room spins around him, wavering into and out of darkness for a moment, blurry, all off-kilter until it lands with him face-down, ass-up. He’s got a mouthful of dirty sheets and the smell of sweat in his face, cold air on his ass from Steve flipping him over. So fucking exposed. And then Billy feels --

God, he feels --

Steve parting Billy’s ass and --

“Can’t,” Billy says, pulling at cotton, scrambling to get away, clumsy and slow with alcohol. “It's,” he whines, breath coming out in gasps. “It’s--”

It’s too much, too soon. It’s too new. And he’s never --

“I want,” Billy says, words all misshapen and ugly and foreign in his mouth. Like cotton. Like he stuffed the dirty sheets into his mouth so he wouldn’t be able to talk. “I can’t, I shouldn’t -- Steve,” he says. And then, because his heart is pounding in his ears and he feels so fucking empty, “Please, god, I --”

Steve grunts, pressing the head of his cock inside Billy, spreading him with his bluntness. And Billy, panic making his thoughts go dizzy, sharp, can only feel how fat he is, how thick. Harrington is a monster; it's way too much. It's never gonna happen, it's --

“You're right,” Steve says, pulling out to rummage in some stranger’s bedside drawer. “Way too dry.”

And Billy’s way too high on the rush of relief to pay attention to what Steve's doing. Way too dizzy with all the electric rush of thank god, the loose threads of reality too much for him to process all at once.

King Steve catches him in a kiss that smells like roses. He breathes in a heavy breath of air thick with vanilla and jasmine as Steve licks into his mouth.

He barely has a chance to breathe when he realizes that Steve's pushing the tip inside him again -- but this time it's -- god, it’s so wet, so slick, so much easier as it pops inside.

But even then, Billy can't help but gasp at the feeling, so new, so foreign.

Everything smells like a fantasy rose garden. Floral, overpowering, feminine. Like a fucking princess nightmare.

It takes way too long to realize that Steve's hand, slimy slick fingers now pushing down at the small of Billy’s back, is now coated with lotion. Whatever he fished out of the bedside table.

It's degrading, is what it is, smelling so girly and floral -- and Billy opens his mouth to complain, but then -- Steve rocks his hips forward, pressing in more, and splits Billy open at the seams.

“You feel so good for me,” Steve's saying, as Billy forgets how to breathe.

He can barely suck enough air into his lungs to keep from passing out, to get him through the sensations of Steve tearing him apart like this, stuffing him full to bursting.

Steve eases him through it, cooing at him, praising him, until Billy's making disgusted little noises as Steve's hips push flush against his thighs. And god, he's so goddamn big. Billy's seen him before, watched that dick in the locker room like Steve's said, and he knows it's big -- but it's a whole other thing to have all that inside him. To feel it. It feels ten times bigger. Fifty.

“God, baby,” Steve says, lips up against Billy's ear. “So fucking tight for me. Like you're a goddamn virgin.”

Billy just whines. Eyes squeezed shut until the Harrington behind his eyelids smiles all pretty at him and kisses his neck, telling him it's fine, that he's good, that Steve is gonna take care of him.

“Like I'm popping your fucking cherry,” Steve says.

And then he snaps his hips at the same time as he pushes Billy's back down so his cock drags against the sheets underneath him. Steve’s dick hits something inside of him as Billy’s hips roll and --

Billy nearly fucking screams.

He can't even make words, though he's pretty damn sure he's babbling Steve's name into soft cotton, whining and groaning like some bitch on Steve's dick as he's getting railed.

It’s degrading.

It’s humiliating.

It’s the best sex Billy’s ever had in his fucking life, and he’s barely even participating. He’s drunk in a stranger’s bed, fingers scrambling at dirty sheets, drifting in and out of consciousness, with his old high school rival pounding into him, floral fucking lotion as lube. It should be, by all measures in the entire fucking universe, the worst.

But it’s so fucking good.

Steve’s good at this, good at keeping his rhythm and his pacing, even though he’s plastered, too. He keeps driving into Billy, hitting that spot that makes Billy see fucking stars, and he’s got a good way of running his mouth, of saying shit that makes Billy shiver and groan.

“Yeah, you’ve been waiting for my dick,” Steve tells him. And he’s not wrong, Billy has.

He groans and nods, and Steve’s fingers fist into Billy’s hair. They pull, hard. And Billy arches up and grinds his dick down against the mattress like a slut.

“So tight. So fucking perfect,” Steve says, fingers splaying over Billy’s spine, holding him down. Billy’s letting him have this, obviously -- but it’s still kinda nice, the feeling of someone holding him down, like they’ve got him. Like they’re keeping Billy from floating away.

Steve’s pace picks up and Billy zones a little into the sensations. It feels like he’s plummeting headfirst into bliss, free-falling into nothingness. With each thrust, Billy’s own cock rocks against the sheets, and it shouldn’t be enough -- he’s not some teenager humping his mattress just to get off anymore -- but it feels so good. So fucking awful and sinful, like something he can’t have. Like something he knows better than to let himself get a taste of.

But Steve took that decision out of his hands. Sure, Billy said please and said I want and touched Steve’s mouth and kissed him fucking back, but Steve, he -- he’s a fucking asshole who always thinks he knows better than everyone.

Always thinks he knows better than Billy.

“You with me, sweetheart?” Steve’s saying, leaning down, voice in Billy’s ear.

Billy grunts.

He rolls his hips and Steve moans, short and quiet, but right in Billy’s ear nonetheless.

Finally.

The sound and the satisfaction go straight to Billy’s cock.

Billy groans with it, does it again. Until Steve’s making pretty little noises, the kind girls should make, the kind Billy should love that girls make, but they sound better out of Steve’s mouth. Hotter. Fuller.

It’s too much. Billy’s head is spinning, fire burning bright underneath his skin.

Steve pounds in and in and in, relentless, until his hips jerk and he groans, loud and desperate -- like Billy just punched him in the gut. And maybe he did, because Steve’s spilling himself, filling Billy up with heat.

His own orgasm hits him like a rush, sliding underneath his skin, coating him in pleasure like he just dunked his head under the waves. His own hips stutter until he’s spent, but he bites his tongue the whole way, so caught up in how good it felt that he could barely even breathe.

When Steve catches his breath, he pulls out, leaving Billy empty. Dripping.

“Baby, god,” Steve’s saying, breathing hot and heavy in Billy’s ear. Pressing kisses along the lobe, into that sensitive spot right underneath, by his jaw. “God, you were so good. Lemme,” Steve’s going, “lemme.”

His hands coax Billy over and onto his back, flipping him until he’s staring up at the white ceiling again, vision filled with static, head spinning from the change in position.

“God, you came?” Steve says, and then he’s fucking palming Billy’s dick, through the warm mess of his come, like he’s mystified. Like he’s never seen spunk before.

Billy can’t help but laugh. He barely has the energy to keep his eyes open, but he finds the energy to laugh. Because in the end, Harrington’s so fucking dumb, it’s hilarious.

Steve doesn’t seem to care though. He just slides his fingers through Billy’s spunk and then he --

 

-- when Billy blinks and looks down, Steve’s mess of hair is bobbing at Billy’s groin. And his tongue is lapping at Billy’s skin. Like he’s cleaning him up. Like he’s a fucking whore.

Billy laughs again and gets his fingers in Steve’s hair. Slaps him in the back of the head because his coordination is shot, but Steve doesn’t flinch, he barely even groans when Billy tightens his fingers and keeps Steve down there, next to Billy’s softening cock. It’s a pretty sight, Billy thinks, when Steve looks back up at Billy with those big fucking eyes, pink little tongue licking at his lips like he can’t waste a drop.

Billy wishes he had his phone. Wishes he could take a picture.

Save it for his spank bank forever.

Except.

Except Billy can’t.

He’s not -- he can’t be -- it’s not him, he wouldn’t ever --

Everything’s black.

Even King Steve isn’t behind his eyelids anymore, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his neck. There’s no one to tell him that he’s good, that he’s fine.

Just nothingness. And --

 

Something hits him in the face.

Soft. Cotton. Smells like old spice and his own laundry detergent. 

When Billy opens his eyes and blinks away the spots, Steve’s tugging his shirt back on. It’s too tight on him, but it looks good. Makes him look taller, stronger. More cut.

“Get up. I’m not leaving you in Nathalie Foreman’s room for her to find later,” Steve says.

Billy doesn’t even know who that is.

But his shirt is on his stomach, so Billy puts it on with clumsy limbs while Steve waits by the door.

“I know you’re probably not going to remember this tomorrow,” Steve says, as Billy’s struggling back into his jeans. “But I’m not gonna say shit to anyone. I know you’ve got a fucking complex, or whatever,”

“I don’t have a fucking complex.”

Steve laughs. Loud. Loud as hell. So loud it almost hurts Billy’s ears.

“Yeah? You want me to tell everyone you moan like a whore when there’s a cock in your ass?”

“Fuck you,” Billy says.

He falls out of the bed and stumbles forward, legs like jelly, until he gets his hands on Steve’s shirt. He steadies himself and jerks Steve forward, fire in his veins, acid in his stomach. Steve barely even budges.

“You don’t fucking tell anyone,” Billy hisses. “Or I’ll kill you. I’ll fuck you up.”

“Yeah, Hargrove, you’ll fuck me up,” Steve echoes. “Did you drive here?”

Billy nods. His fingers tighten in Steve’s shirt. He tips forward a little and Steve sighs, arm going around Billy’s back.

Steve fishes around in his pocket for his phone while Billy closes his eyes.

He doesn’t remember the walk downstairs.

The walk outside.

He remembers sitting in the car, one that smells like cigarettes and patchouli. It’s raining a little, droplets of water catching light on the windows as everything passes in a blur.

“We’re going to yours, first. So I know you made it home,” Steve says.

Billy lets himself slump to the side until he stops, Steve’s body holding him up. Billy’s fingers hook onto Steve’s thigh, the denim rough underneath his fingertips, but he can’t stop touching.

“No, we’re going to yours,” Billy says.

Steve waits a beat, then nods. “Yeah, okay, we’re going to mine.”