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“What’s the matter, Hargrove? You gonna pussy out on us?”

In front of him, Steve is dark-eyed, grinning, drunk. Next to him is Tommy fucking Hill, most obnoxious piece of shit Billy’s ever met, spread out half-naked on King Steve’s bed, like he owns the place. Steve’s letting him, like they’re friends, like Steve doesn't know that Tommy talks behind his back about how soft Steve has gotten, like he doesn’t get under Steve’s skin at every possible opportunity. He’s just laying there, draped over Steve’s navy blue quilt, shirt off, thigh pressing up against Steve’s back like it’s fine, like it’s not weird to be so touchy-feely with someone you make it a personality trait to hate. Like Billy’s the odd one out, here.

Billy’s not drunk enough for this small-town posturing shit.

“Gimme some of that,” Billy says, gesturing for the top-shelf whiskey in Steve’s hand that must’ve come out of daddy’s liquor cabinet. It’s real pretty stuff, amber and dark. The label makes it look like it’s worth more than Billy’s blood. It probably is.

“What, this?” Steve asks, giving the bottle a little shake from where it dangles between his legs like some thinly veiled metaphor.

“Obviously,” Billy bites out.

“You gotta pay to play, Hargrove,” Tommy says on a stretch, showing off all his absurdly freckled skin, propping himself up on an arm. “You don’t look like you’re ready to party.”

And the thing is -- Billy came here to party. Tommy had invited him and so Billy had schlepped all the way out to Harrington’s house for some fucking exclusive party where he was going to get trashed, only to find Steve Harrington and Tommy Hill and no one else.

“I’m always ready,” Billy says. “You hicks just don’t know how to party.”

He’d been planning on leaving, after showing up to this. But that was before Steve saw he was ready to turn tail and then asked if Billy was gonna pussy out.

Billy shifts, squaring up his shoulders, chest tight with an anger that’s been with him all day. He’d hoped getting trashed, maybe even getting laid, would help -- he really doesn’t have the patience to deal with mind games right now.

“Oh, we know how to party,” Tommy says with a cackle.

Billy wants to deck him right in the freckled face.

“Say please,” Steve says.

Like a bitch.

And because he wants booze -- no, because he needs booze to be able to deal with these two: “Please,” Billy says, with all the acidic sarcasm he can muster.

Also like a bitch.

“C’mere,” Steve says, uncorking the bottle with a pop. He pats the spot on the bed next to him.

Billy sits.

He reaches for the bottle, but Steve wrenches it away. Out of Billy’s reach.

Behind them on the bed, Tommy flops onto his back and cackles.

“Open wide,” Steve says, and holds the bottle up.

“Hell no,” Billy says.

“Don't you trust me?”

Hell no, Billy’s head echoes.

Instead, he rolls his eyes. The worst Steve can do is waste his daddy’s liquor by pouring too much down Billy’s throat. Or, he could waste it by missing and soaking Billy’s shirt. But if he does the latter, they both know Billy’s gonna slug him for it, so.

“Show me your worst,” Billy says.

He eyes Steve for a second, then tips his head back, eyes on the eggshell white of the ceiling. He almost jolts when Steve grabs him by the chin, fingers warm and grip steady. It's different from how Billy thought Steve might touch him -- not that he's given that much consideration. But before he can flinch, before he can fuss, before he can think more about Steve touching him, there's a bottle above his face and room-temperature liquid hitting his tongue, slow, but steady.

The whiskey burns as it goes down, but Billy swallows like it's beer.

Like it's just another keg and he's the king.

Eventually, Steve tilts the bottle up, lets go of his chin, and gives Billy a chance to breathe.

He's dizzy when his eyes settle back on Steve again, whiskey sitting heavy in his gut. It's a pity, because Harrington’s smiling, all big and bright, and that seems like the kind of thing that should be in technicolor, in high definition. Billy blinks and swallows, and chases the taste of money from his lips.

“Swallowed it all down,” Tommy says. “Jesus, Hargrove, who knew you were so good at just taking it.”

Billy nearly rounds on Tommy, but Steve’s fingers are around his wrist before he can even try. Steve holds him hard, almost mean. Like he knows the kind of strength he needs to start out with to restrain someone like Billy. Like maybe he's had to do it before, with someone like Tommy, someone who seems like they could get a little mean when they drink, a little pushy, a little testy.

“Don't sweat him, Hargrove. He's easier to tolerate once you're drunk,” Steve says.

Even though Steve doesn't seem all that drunk.

“This what you do in this shithole town?” Billy asks.

“We pass the time,” Steve says.

He passes the bottle behind him to Tommy without a word. Like it's a song and dance they've memorized, but Billy’s so new that he doesn't even know the tune, yet.

“Yeah? By throwing shitty parties and stealing daddy’s booze?”

“What, you've never played truth or dare before?” Tommy asks, tone like Billy’s twelve, like Billy hasn’t already nailed more hot chicks that Hawkins has to offer than Tommy, who’s been here his entire life. And sure, Tommy’s clearly sleeping around on Carol, but it’s not like he can get that much more, when he’s already got a pussy to fill on a regular basis.

Yeah, when there's hot chicks around,” Billy scoffs.

Truth or dare is for babies, or for getting your dick sucked in a closet by some broad with glasses who’s too shy to do it in the light, too repressed to do it without the heat of a dare. But here? Billy doesn’t see any babies, and he definitely doesn’t see any prude-until-pressed Hawkins cows.

“I think he’s a pussy, Steve,” Tommy says, fucking conversationally.

“I think maybe you’re right,” Steve says with a half smile, never taking his eyes off Billy.

Never taking his fucking fingers from Billy’s wrist, either.

Billy feels too warm, so he yanks his hand back and clenches his fingers into a fist, like that’s gonna get his blood flowing again. Like that’s the problem.

“I’m not a fucking pussy,” Billy says. “Fine, you wanna play truth or dare like babies? We’ll play truth or dare like babies.”

“There he is,” Tommy says.

Steve’s got the bottle again, so Billy says, “But I’m gonna need some more of that,” gesturing to the booze.

He’s sure Harrington is gonna grab him by the chin again, gonna tilt Billy’s head back and pour the shit straight down Billy’s throat -- but he doesn't. He just passes the bottle over with something that looks halfways like a smile and then stretches up, lazy, until his shirt skims up and over his abs, exposing a line of midwestern pale-skin to the yellow light of the room.

Billy drinks maybe more than he would have if Harrington were feeding it to him. It’s not the same, doesn’t have the same rush to it, but it’s not like Billy’s missing the rough grip on his chin or the inability to easily say uncle. He doesn’t like being caged in, he doesn’t want that. It’s easier to drink himself, to pull slugs into his mouth just to feel them burn as he swallows.

By the time he passes the bottle back, he’s actually starting to feel the effects of the liquor.

“Jesus, that’s the good stuff,” Billy says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“It better be,” Steve says. “I didn’t break into my dad’s liquor cabinet for nothing.”

Like Steve’s even gonna get in trouble for that. Jesus.

“So, Hargrove. Truth or dare?” Tommy asks.

And Billy’s not a pussy, so he says, “Dare.”

Without missing a beat, Tommy says, “Take your shirt off. Really join the party.”

“Don’t be a fucking queer,” Billy says.

“Don’t be a fucking pussy,” Tommy counters.

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll take my shirt off, too,” Steve says. Like he wasn’t planning on doing that anyway.

Without waiting a beat, Steve strips his shirt off and tosses it to the floor. Then, he turns his gaze back on Billy, dark eyes piercing, gaze a little wobbly with alcohol. And then he waits. Expectant.

So, Billy, with his eyes on the pale expanse of Steve’s mole-dotted stomach, pulls his own shirt over his head. He’s much more cut than Steve or Tommy, because he cares more about his appearance. Because, back in California, going without a shirt was commonplace and you had to look nice. Here in Indiana, it’s too cold most of the time, wind whipping too brutally over flat land. Here in Indiana, no one gives a shit what’s underneath your clothes.

Tommy whistles. Because apparently he’s queer enough to be the outlier who gives a shit. Maybe, instead of putting his dick in some girl’s pussy instead of Carol’s for a breather, he’s actually going down to the truck stop off Route 74, the one everyone talks about with hushed whispers, and bending over for some bored trucker who doesn’t give a shit who he’s fucking as long as he’s putting his junk into something warm.

Billy whacks him in the back of the head, but Tommy just laughs and tells him it’s his turn.

“Fine. Truth or dare, Hill,” Billy says.

He wants to ask Steve, Steve who hasn’t taken his eyes off Billy since he got here, but he doesn’t. He knows better.

He’s not fucking stupid.

“Truth,” Tommy says, because only pussies choose truth, and Tommy’s a pussy.

“Ever had a threesome?” Billy asks, waiting to smirk when Tommy says no.

But he doesn’t get to, because Tommy just grins and says “yeah,” like it’s no biggie.

“What the fuck, with who?” Billy asks, wanting to know which fucking broad is loose enough to sleep with Tommy and Carol at the same time. No one’s that big a slut.

“You didn’t ask with who,” Steve tells Billy.

Billy briefly entertains the thought, the momentary guilty fantasy, that maybe, maybe it was with Steve. Last week, Billy had heard a rumor that Steve slept with Wheeler and Byers at the same time. He had written it off, then, thinking it was a little far-fetched, the product of bored Hawkins teens jealous of Steve’s position at the top of the food chain. Now -- well, now, Billy’s not a hundred-percent sure.

“Truth or dare, Harrington,” Tommy says, before Billy can argue. Before Billy can keep thinking about Steve with two other people, one of whom who has a dick in either scenario.

So.

Steve calls Nancy and tells her that he misses the taste of her cunt. Steve retaliates and makes Tommy call Carol and tell her that he misses the taste of her ass. Tommy makes Billy steal some of Steve’s mother’s lipstick and put it on. He obeys, because he’s not a pussy, but he wipes it off after a minute with Tommy’s shirt afterwards, leaving his lips red and swollen and tasting strange.

He retaliates by making Tommy go fetch them another bottle of liquor from Steve’s dad’s liquor cabinet.

“You having fun?” Steve asks Billy once Tommy’s out of the room, swinging his legs up onto the bed, pushing one of his bare feet out until it hits Billy’s thigh.

Billy doesn’t pull away. It’s weird, being in the same room as just Steve. Alone with him. Billy doesn’t think it’s ever been the case before. He would’ve noticed, with the way the air’s gone all thick, with how his chest has gone all tight.

“It’s not the worst,” Billy says. “Normally parties involve more hot chicks.”

“Hawkins girls are boring,” Steve says with an exaggerated sigh.

“Yeah?”

“They’re fucking prudes,” Steve says. “Sure, they’re fine for a little while, but -- you get bored, you know?”

And yeah, okay, Billy gets that. But he’s put his dick in plenty of these cows and he’s not really bored yet. Not any more than normal, anyway. Getting off feels good, and it sure as hell beats sitting at home on the couch. And as long as he’s had an orgasm by the end of the night, he doesn’t really care.

Steve sure seems to, though. So, Billy says: “Yeah, boring as hell.”

“My man,” Steve says, shoving his foot even more up against Billy’s thigh.

Billy can’t help but suddenly feel the alcohol hit him, making him warm and dizzy all at once. The spot where Steve’s toes are touching him is burning, even through Billy’s jeans.

Tommy comes back with two more bottles, lips already wrapped around one, tongue lapping at whatever’s lingering around the rim.

“Ugh. That’s my dad’s goldschläger,” Steve says, like it's a bad choice. Then, after eyeing the way Tommy’s making a spectacle of getting his lips around it: “Dare you to give it better head than that.”

Tommy sits down on the bed and, without missing a beat, does just that. He gets real enthusiastic about it, too, like the mouth of the bottle’s a real cockhead, tonguing underneath the rim where it’ll be the most sensitive, before dipping down to practically deepthroat the bottle. It’s fucking depraved and disgusting and dedicated -- and Billy can’t help but watch, a little bit in awe.

When he tears his eyes away and looks at Steve to gauge his reaction, to see what he thinks of Tommy’s little show, Steve’s not looking at Tommy. He’s watching Billy, instead. It makes Billy’s stomach twist up and go sideways.

It’s not Billy’s turn, but it wasn’t Steve’s turn either, so Billy blurts out: “I dare you to kiss Tommy,” a little mean, a little heated, because Steve just won’t stop fucking staring at him. Because maybe it’ll make him stop.

And because maybe, just maybe, Steve has done it before.

Steve laughs and takes a slug of the whiskey before passing the bottle to Billy to hold.

With zero hesitation, Steve crawls over -- on his hands and fucking knees -- and gets up in Tommy’s face. Billy feels the bed dip with the change in weight as Steve gets closer to him. Tommy doesn’t even flinch when Steve leans in, he just licks his lips and grins.

Billy wants to say stop, wants to say I didn’t think you’d actually fucking do it, fag, but he can’t. The words die in his mouth the second Steve’s pink lips meet Tommy’s grin. They both fold into the kiss like it’s easy, like they’ve done it before. Billy’s watched a lot of people kiss for the first time, at stupid moments just like this, and he knows what this isn’t. He burns with it, with the idea that this isn’t the first time Steve and Tommy have locked lips, isn’t the first time they’ve sat in Steve’s bed like this, Steve practically straddling Tommy’s thighs.

It’s shame, it’s disgust, it’s fear that creeps up inside him, all mixing together like vinegar on baking soda, bubbling up until he tastes bile in the back of his throat. It twists and warps as he stares at them, watching the slide of Steve’s tongue into Tommy’s mouth, Billy’s fists clenched, gut burning, until he tastes want there too, sharp and bitter.

The kiss is deep and messy, probably the product of too much alcohol and not enough finesse -- but it makes heat pool in Billy’s gut, regardless.

When Steve pulls back, his lips are kiss-bitten and swollen, slick with spit. Tommy’s grinning like a hyena and they’re both staring right at Billy. Sizing him up. Maybe a little careful, too. They know Billy’s got a short fuse -- everyone knows that. Steve and Tommy have both been on the wrong sides of his fists, at one point or another.

“Good enough for you, Hargrove?” Tommy asks.

They both probably taste like cinnamon, now. Bright, like the goldschläger Tommy had been slugging. Warm, like the whiskey Steve had just swallowed.

Billy runs his tongue along his lower lip and tastes nothing.

He knows what he should say, what he’s been programmed and beaten and conditioned to say. He knows how to bite out a slur, how to excuse himself from something that’s disgusting and depraved and sinful. He knows how to save himself. How to ruin them.

But he also knows that if he does, there’s no returning. There’s no being invited back to Steve’s warm room and his comfortable bed. There’s no seeing Steve lounging around in his space, easy and carefree, in bare feet, hair messy at the end of the day. There’s no chance Steve will grab him by the chin and pour something warm and alcoholic down his throat with such a strange amount of care.

“Not much of a show. Tommy kisses like a prude,” Billy says.

Tommy barks out a laugh.

“Dare you to kiss Tommy, then,” Steve says. “Show him how it’s done.”

Billy wants to argue that he could better show Tommy how it’s done by kissing Steve and letting Tommy watch, but the thought of having Steve’s eyes on him does make him burn a little hotter. Like, maybe it’ll be worth it, just a little.

So, doesn’t really want to kiss Tommy, but he also doesn’t want to back out like a pussy, so Billy grabs Hill by the hair and pulls him close. It’s not too hard to pretend that Tommy’s the hot chick in Billy’s Chemistry class, the one with the cherry red lips and the tits for days, the one that Billy’s been staring at for half a year now. Tommy’s lips are fuller than Steve’s, so it’s really not all that different than kissing a girl, except there’s no sugary hint of lip gloss and no gentle submission under Billy’s attention. Tommy kisses back like an animal, all heat and aggression and teeth and tongue. Immediately, Billy grunts out in annoyance and tightens his fist in Tommy’s hair, yanking him back, reeling him in. Billy takes over the kiss, makes it better, makes it hotter. Actually puts the fucking effort into it -- mostly because he can feel the warmth of Steve next to him, because he can hear the way Steve sucks in a breath and goes, ‘fuck.’

It’s all the motivation Billy needs to deepen the kiss, like he would if he were trying to get into a slut’s panties, if he was trying to get her hot and bothered enough that she’d be begging to sit on his dick. He leaves Tommy panting when he finally pulls back, mouth open, eyes a little glazed.

He can’t help but feel a bit prideful. A bit fucking pleased with himself.

That’s how it’s done,” Billy says.

“It definitely is,” Steve says. His eyes are dark and a little glassy.

“You ever kissed a guy before?” Tommy asks Billy.

It should be Billy’s turn to ask, but he just rolls his eyes and says, “I didn’t pick truth, Hill.”

“Answer it anyway.”

“No,” Billy says. “I’m not a queer. Back in California, there were enough hot girls to go around.”

Tommy just laughs. “Yeah, well. We’re not queer either, but this is Hawkins, Hargrove. You gotta make your fun where you can find it.”

Which -- is a lot of information to take in.

“C’mon, you’ve seriously never?” Tommy continues. “I didn’t think you were such a prude.”

“It bother you, Billy?” Steve asks, and his eyes are a little brighter now, playful in a sharp and taunting kind of way. Like Steve’s trying to edge underneath his skin and needle him until he flinches.

Billy should say yes. God, he should say yes and also a fucking prayer, but instead he just shrugs.

“It’s whatever.”

“You hear that, Stevie? It’s whatever.” Tommy then cackles.

“Jesus,” Billy says, and takes another slug of whiskey to wash the growing taste of embarrassment from his mouth.

“Don’t be mean, Tommy,” Steve says. “It’s not like he’s a total prude. Maybe he just never had the opportunity before, never had to make do. Right, Billy?”

Billy doesn’t know how it makes him a prude exactly, because he’s not. He’s just not a fag. Just because he’s not gonna resort to getting some from another guy when he can’t get any from a girl doesn’t make him a prude. Back in California, that would make Billy normal. But -- things in Hawkins are strange. Maybe in Hawkins it does make him a prude.

He doesn’t want Steve looking at him like he’s lesser, like he’s smaller. So Billy just nods.

“Yeah?” Tommy says. “Well, I don’t see any girls here, so I guess you’re gonna have to make do.” He slaps Billy on the back and lets his hand linger there for a second, fingers warm. Billy instinctually wants to shift away from him, but he doesn’t. It doesn’t feel bad, exactly, just kind of strange. Girls don’t touch him with that much force and guys don’t let their hands linger. “Truth or dare,” Tommy prompts.

“Dare,” Billy says, even though he knows its a bad idea.

And, because God isn’t kind or good, his suspicions are confirmed immediately.

“I dare you to suck Steve’s dick,” Tommy says.

What?” Billy says.

“Jesus, Tommy,” Steve says. “He just said he’d never kissed a guy and you want him to suck my dick?”

“Oh, sorry,” Tommy says. “I thought Hargrove wasn’t a pussy.”

“I’m not a fucking pussy,” Billy bites out. “But I’m not a fucking fag, either.”

“No one’s saying you are,” Harrington says. “I’m not a fag. Are you a fag, Tommy?”

“Nope,” Tommy says, the word popping in his mouth like bubblegum.

“So, none of us are queer,” Steve says. Like that decides something for Billy.

“You can’t back out of the dare, Hargrove. But I can make it easier, if it’s feeling like a little too much for you. We all know that Steve’s already a little intimidating,” Tommy says.

“Yeah, and that would be what?” Billy asks, mouth going dry.

“Just kiss it.”

Steve laughs.

“What?” Billy says.

“Just a little kiss on the tip. That should be easy enough for you.”

“You don’t have to,” Steve tells him, suddenly all close to Billy, sliding his arm around Billy’s shoulders like they’re that kinda friendly. “I get it, if you’re too scared. It’s a lot, if you’ve never done anything like that before.”

“Fuck you,” Billy bites out. “I’m not a pussy.”

He twists out from underneath Steve’s arm and gestures at Steve’s crotch.

“Get it out,” Billy says.

“You gotta get on your knees, Hargrove. The dare was to suck him off. You gotta at least play the part if you’re gonna wuss out halfway.”

Billy’s dizzy as he pushes himself up from the bed, landing on his knees a little harder than he aimed for. But Steve’s carpet is plush and thick, and it doesn’t hurt as bad as when Billy falls against the floor of his own room, which is just thin carpeting over straight-up concrete. When Billy refocuses, Steve’s right in front of him, sitting on the edge of the bed again, bare feet on the floor, legs splayed.

Billy gets to watch, in what feels like fucking technicolor, as Steve unzips his Levis, as he shoves his boxers down past his balls, as he gets his fingers around his cock. And yeah, Billy’s seen Steve in the locker room, has hazarded a look at his junk to see how he measured up -- he knows Steve is huge, knows that he’s packing a monster in his pants. But it’s one thing to know, one thing to have snuck a couple glances and wondered -- but it’s a whole other thing to see him now, held casually in Steve’s hand. He’s fucking huge, and he’s still kind of soft, kind of floppy as Steve strokes himself.

Jesus, Billy thinks.

“C’mere,” Steve says, reaching out to push his fingers into Billy’s hair.

No one touches Billy’s hair. No one. Billy could punch him for it. He should.

Instead, he lets Steve guide him forward with almost gentle fingers, lets him coax Billy closer like a fucking kicked puppy as Billy’s stomach climbs right into his throat.

Billy can’t take his eyes off Steve’s cock. It’s right in front of his face, thick and meaty in Steve’s hand, and getting harder by the second. Billy can smell him, too. The thick, musty smell of sweat and heat, mixed with a trace of expensive cologne. Like maybe Steve does the same thing that Billy does and slaps some down there to get the girls all wet, to keep them from complaining. Here, on his knees in front of Steve, breathing hard, he doesn’t know what they’d complain about. The smell of Steve alone is enough to make Billy’s mouth water, to make his head spin.

“Harrington’s fucking hung, right?” Tommy says. And shit, Billy nearly forgot he was there.

“Fucking hell -- let’s just get this over with,” Billy bites out.

He doesn’t reach out to touch Steve’s dick, because he shouldn’t. But he also doesn’t want to just leave it all up to Steve, doesn’t want to give him the control -- so, Billy puts one hand on the bed on the other side of Steve’s leg, and one hand on the inside of Steve’s thigh, against the soft, worn fabric of his jeans. Like he’s balancing, steadying himself. Like he’s ready to have someone just grab his hair and yank him forward.

“You’ve got it,” Harrington says, above Billy. “It’s not so bad.”

His hand is holding his cock still, now. It’s fat and thick and leaking at the tip. Which means -- it means Billy’s gonna come away from this with spunk on his lips. He’s gonna have to wipe it off with the back of his hand so he doesn’t have to taste it. He wonders, though, if Steve’s bitter or salty, if he’s sour or musky. He wonders if the taste would linger on his tongue.

“C’mon, baby,” Steve says, stroking his fingers over the back of Billy’s skull, like he’s some bitch. “You’ve got it.”

Steve coaxes him the extra inch he needs.

His heartbeat is hammering in his chest, near deafening in his ears, but Billy bites down on his fear, puckers up, and lays one on Steve. Steve’s dick is warm as it meets Billy’s lips, a little wet from where Billy’s lips grazed the tip of him, smearing the precome as he pushed forward.

“Yeah, like that,” Steve says, his voice all low, all full of praise. “Knew you could do it.”

“It’s not that hard,” Billy hears Tommy scoff.

When Billy thinks he’s pressed his lips against Steve’s dick for long enough, when he tries to ease his head back a little, he meets a little resistance. And yeah, he could push back against it, he could use the leverage he gave himself -- but he doesn’t.

“C’mon, you’re not done, are you, Billy?” Steve croons above him. “That’s barely a kiss.”

“Really lay one on him, Hargrove,” Tommy encourages. “Use a little tongue. I know you can.”

Billy shouldn’t. But Steve’s hand is stroking over the back of his head, pressing a little bit, like he’s urging Billy forward, even though Billy doesn’t have really anywhere to go -- other than down Steve’s dick. Which -- Billy’s not gonna do.

But he does open his mouth just a little bit. He lets the head of Steve’s cock slip just a little bit between his lips. And he wants to wipe off Steve’s cock so that he doesn’t have to taste his come, but he doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want to pull off and hear Tommy laugh. He also doesn’t want Steve to be disappointed, or to think Billy is scared.

So, he breathes in the smell of Steve and swipes his tongue over the head of Steve’s cock. Surprisingly, he doesn’t taste bad -- a little bitter, a little salty. Above him, Steve hisses in a breath and Billy’s stomach twists, all of him going real hot at once.

“Yeah, baby, just like that,” Steve says.

“Hell yeah,” Tommy says. Billy imagines he’s sitting near Steve, looking down at Billy over Steve’s shoulder. The image makes shame flicker inside him, but it’s hard to focus on when he’s this drunk. When Steve’s talking like that, making noises like Billy’s little kitten-lick is the best thing since sliced bread.

Steve pushes Billy a little further and Billy lets him, until the whole head of Steve’s cock pops between his lips. It’s not as bad as Billy would have imagined, and the noise Steve makes is worth it. So -- Billy drags his tongue over the head of Steve’s cock, just how Billy likes when girls do it, and makes Steve do it again. He kisses the tip of Steve’s dick like he’s frenching it, mouthing at it until he thinks it’s enough.

And then, Billy goes to push himself back.

“Billy, Billy,” Steve murmurs, fingers smoothing over Billy’s hair with both hands now. He doesn’t have to hold his cock steady. He’s hard enough that he’s upright, and with Billy’s mouth around him, he’s not going anywhere. “Just a little bit more, please. Feels so good. You get it, right?”

And yeah, Billy gets it. Getting your dick sucked is pretty much the best thing ever.

But.

Billy’s barely even sucking Steve. And he’s not gay, so he’s not gonna suck Steve. And even if he did, Steve’s a fucking monster. There’s no way Billy could do it.

It’s just too fucking big.

“Don’t pussy out, Hargrove,” Tommy says from above him.

“Please, baby,” Steve says.

Billy grunts.

He tongues over the head of Steve again and sucks, because that’s what he’s supposed to do, right? Create a little suction, a little friction. Get Steve’s dick all nice and slick.

Steve groans. “Fuck yeah,” he murmurs, dragging his nails down the back of Billy’s scalp. And that feels good, like little shots of electricity straight zipping down his spine. Better than the way any girl has ever grabbed his hair.

It’s surprising how loud Steve is, how enthusiastic. Billy never makes a sound during sex, has always figured that girls were supposed to be the loud ones, that guys were supposed to be silent. But Steve’s loud as fuck, and he gets the feeling that Tommy would be loud, too.

“Can you take a little bit more?” Steve’s asking. “Just a little bit more. I know you can, you’re so good.”

Lips wrapped around Steve’s cock, Billy nods. He takes Steve just a little deeper and is rewarded by another noise of pleasure.

He can hear a zipper nearby, the sound of rustling. Another, different moan, tells him that Tommy’s on the bed next to Steve, jacking himself off now. Billy doesn’t open his eyes to confirm -- he doesn’t need to know.

Steve’s cock is thick and fat on his tongue. It stretches his lips out wide, but Billy doesn’t wuss out, doesn’t let that stop him. He bobs a little on the length that he’s taken, even though he’s rather firmly aware of Steve’s hands in his hair, pressing down and down and down with each bob, until Billy’s mouth feels full, so fucking full that he has to stop. Has to take a breather.

It’s hard to breathe, though, with his mouth so full. Like his throat is a little constricted, too. But Steve’s hands smooth over his hair, gentle. Reassuring. Like he wouldn’t make Billy take any more than he could handle.

“God, I knew you’d be good at this,” Steve tells him, after Billy starts to move again when Steve tugs on his hair, urging him up and down again, back into a rhythm. “You’re so perfect for this.”

It should be shameful, that Steve’s pictured this before. That he thinks Billy’s perfect for sucking cock. Instead, it just makes Billy’s head swim with pride, with heat, with desire. He can’t ignore, even though he probably should, that his own cock is sitting hard and heavy in his own jeans, straining against them with each shift of his hips. It should be even more humiliating that he’s getting off on this, on sucking another guy’s dick, but it’s just physiological. It’s just about pleasure, about the human body and different outlets and responses to external stimuli.

It’s normal. It’s natural.

What’s not natural is the way that Billy nearly chokes on Steve’s dick because there’s suddenly a hand palming Billy’s cock through his jeans.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, sweetheart” Steve’s saying, as Billy’s trying not to panic and trying not to gag. “It’s just Tommy. He’s helping you out.”

And sure enough, when Billy opens his eyes because he has to, he can see that Tommy’s no longer on the bed next to Steve. He’s not in Billy’s range of view at all. And there’s a hand working him over through his jeans. And then, another one on his hip, like maybe Tommy’s just telling Billy he’s there.

And it is helping. Because it feels good, and because, for whatever reason, it’s easier to blow Steve when his body’s sparking electric with pleasure. Like it’s a fucking reward.

And Billy’s all about rewards.

He’s also all about Steve telling him he’s perfect.

He’s not really about the way that Tommy pops the button on his jeans and undoes the zip, and slowly starts easing Billy’s jeans down his hips, though.

“Can’t believe you can take me,” Steve’s saying, while Billy’s trying not to panic at the feeling of his jeans sliding down his bare thighs.

He’s not wearing underwear, never does, so he’s just suddenly fucking naked, with Tommy’s warm fingers wrapping around his cock, rough and thick, such a contrast to the cool air of the room around them.

It should feel bad, should make Billy recoil in shame, but instead he just groans around Steve’s cock and takes him deeper.

“Fuck yeah,” Steve says. “None of the other bitches we tried this with could take it.”

And Billy’s world tips a little sideways at that, but Steve’s hips press up, fucking deeper into Billy’s mouth before he can think too much about the words.

“Such a fucking whore,” Tommy says.

And then he spits.

Billy can hear the sound of it as it happens, and he expects something wet to land on his back, or the back of his head, or something -- but instead, he feels it, warm and wet, dripping down his fucking ass.

He flinches. He can’t help it.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Steve tells him, cooing at him and petting his hair like he’s a scared fucking dog. “Promise you’ll like it. You’re up for it, right?”

Billy doesn’t want to ask what it is.

Because he knows, without asking, without clarification, the true depths of the game he’s started playing. He knows what Tommy’s after.

Billy nods anyway, head bobbing on Steve’s dick, lips still wrapped around the heat of him. Because Billy’s not a quitter. Because Steve’s still combing his fingers through Billy’s hair, cooing at him all sweet and sugary.

Tommy brushes a hand over Billy’s flank. “Good man,” he says, and then spits again. This time, Billy can feel it slide right over the seam of him, right over his hole.

He shudders, but he barely has a chance to breathe before he feels the press of Tommy’s thumb against him. Pressing. Teasing.

Billy goes still. Out of what feels like pure instinct, he stops moving entirely, breathing heavy with Steve’s cock pressing against his tongue, holding it down against his soft palate and his teeth.

“I got you,” Steve says. “I got you, baby.”

He brings a hand down and brushes over Billy’s cheek, his jaw, his throat. Smoothing over his skin like that’s somehow going to help Billy loosen up, like it’s going to distract him from the invasion of Tommy’s thumb. Which is fucking absurd. There’s nothing that could distract him from that.

Except. It kind of does.

Billy must be real fucked up, because Steve talking pretty at him, cooing at him like he’s something special, is somehow more distracting than Tommy pressing his thumb into Billy’s asshole. He knows it’s bad, knows he should be pushing away, should be throwing punches and breaking things. But instead, Billy’s eating up the way Steve’s whispering in his ear, the way he’s touching Billy, all light and gentle and soft, while Billy’s suckling at his dick like a bitch who’s parched.

Tommy’s still jacking him, but his touch is slower now, like he’s teasing. Like he knows what he’s doing, and he knows how to touch Billy just enough to make it feel good, but also not quite enough to keep him from getting anywhere with it.

It takes Billy a moment to realize that Tommy’s no longer playing with him around the pucker of his rim, but is pressing in, slow and steady.

He nearly panics, though the alcohol in his system slows his reflexes, makes his body heavy, keeps his heart from pounding straight out of his chest. He stills and Steve immediately starts soothing him, petting over his hair again, drawing a hand down his neck. He coos and Billy tries not to think about the invading press of Tommy’s thumb, the way it feels so foreign and strange.

“So tight. Like a virgin, huh? I bet you are,” Tommy says. “Bet no one’s ever had this ass before. This your first time, Hargrove? Having something up your ass like this?”

Billy nods around Steve’s dick, mouth half open, panting out breaths around the weight of the cock on his tongue. Steve doesn’t seem to mind, though. He spends his time touching Billy, comforting him.

It’s not -- totally a lie.

No one’s ever touched Billy there before.

Except for Billy.

And it’s not like he’s done it often -- but he’s gotten curious before.

It’s not like he’s gay.

It’s not like he’s ever thought about someone fucking him, about someone filling him up.

But it feels good when he touches himself there. He’s never blown a load faster or harder than when he’s got two or three fingers in himself, dirty shame making his orgasm all the more gut-wrenching, all the more explosive.

So -- he’s a virgin, but he’s not exactly a stranger to a finger or two in his ass, even if it’s just his own.

It’s a fucking relief, though, that Tommy says he’s tight. He can’t even imagine what he’d feel like if Tommy said otherwise. He might just die of fucking embarrassment on impact.

“God, look at that,” Tommy says, and Billy feels full. Tommy’s thumb must be plugging him up. He can barely even imagine the way he looks right now, lips around Steve’s cock, Tommy’s thumb in his ass and his hand on Billy’s cock. “See, Hargrove? This is way better than the fun you can have with chicks.”

Billy wishes Tommy would shut the fuck up. He wishes that he wasn’t here. But at the same time, if Tommy wasn’t here, Billy wouldn’t be, either. He’d never have this with just Harrington. He’d never have the excuse.

Also.

Also, it feels good.

Sure, it feels strangely good to have his lips around Steve’s cock, like it’s satisfying, or something -- but it feels sinfully good to have Tommy touching him like this.

Even as Tommy pops out his thumb, spits again, and then starts pushing what feels like two fingers into Billy’s ass before stopping.

“Toss me the lube, would you, Stevie?”

Steve runs a hand through Billy’s hair, then leans and shifts, presumably digging through his bedside table for something that he tosses to Tommy that’s caught with a soft thunk. For lack of anything better to do with his mouth, Billy goes back to sucking, to working over Steve’s cock with his tongue. A distraction.

Because lube means more. But it also means that the press of Tommy’s fingers will be slicker, easier. It’ll feel even better.

Abstractly, he wonders how much more of this they’re going to give him. How much longer before they switch up positions. Before one of them comes, begs off, and excuses themselves to go clean up and not stick around in the moment after the fun’s done. He wonders if they’ll stay and drink, after. Or if they’ll pretend it didn’t happen and just go home.

He wonders if Tommy’ll go home to Carol and stick his fingers in her cunt after they’ve been in Billy’s ass.

When Tommy finally pushes two slick fingers into Billy’s ass, Billy has to bite back the groan that threatens to break his careful silence. It feels shamefully good, better than anything he’s ever given himself before. The angle’s better and the foreign press of someone else’s digits is so much better than his familiar own. He tries not to shift back on it, though, because he’s not a whore, he doesn’t like this, specifically. Doesn’t need it. He can’t help that it feels good, can’t help that there’s nerves there that are reacting, that his body wants and wants with no consultation from his conscience.

“You’re doing so good,” Steve tells him. “God, if you could see yourself right now, baby.”

Billy doesn’t want to see himself.

He definitely doesn’t want to see himself as Tommy works in a third finger, stretching him out as Billy holds his goddamn breath. Tommy jacks him through the hard part, though, and the pinch and ache of the stretch isn’t as bad as it could be. It still feels good, though, especially once they’re all the way in. Especially as Tommy starts pushing at his rim, playing with him. Trying to make it kind of good, maybe.

It’s not what Billy expected.

Then again, if the whole hting hurt, if it wasn’t good for him, Billy would be way more likely to throw fists and up and leave. There’s no incentive to being a bitch when Billy could take out both of these two, easy. When they know he could beat them both bloody.

Still.

Steve’s gentle words aren’t expected. Neither is the way Tommy plays with him, his ass and his cock.

He wonders, though, if it’s to keep Billy from flinching as Tommy then pulls his fingers out and pushes in with something blunter. Something slick with lube. Something unyielding.

This time, Billy half groans. A surprised noise, body going tense and tight. He tries to pull off Steve’s cock, and this time, Steve lets him. But before Billy can go very far, Steve just presses Billy’s head against his upper thigh and gets his fingers tangled in Billy’s hair, so Billy’s panting out wet, hot breaths over the skin of Steve’s thigh, face nestled up close to the heat of him.

“I’ve got you,” Steve says. “It’s gonna feel so good. I promise, Billy. I’ve got you.”

Steve pets over his hair, his neck, his shoulders, as Tommy slides his dick inside. He’s not slow about it, but he doesn’t fuck right in, either. He eases in, steady and relentless, not giving Billy a chance to back out. Not like Billy would, though. He’s not going to pussy out now, now that he’s gotten so far, now that it feels like this, so base and overwhelming. So goddamn depraved.

And Billy wants more.

He grunts again as Tommy bottoms out. Hill isn’t a big guy, so the way his dick fills Billy isn’t really overwhelming once Billy’s body gets used to the feeling. It’s not bad, just a little surprising, like Billy thought it’d feel more impressive. More earth-shattering, given all the lead-up. All the pinching pain of being stretched.

The more he wants is finally given, as Steve gets a hand back on his dick and starts feeding it into Billy’s mouth again, pressing the tip up against Billy’s lips before he slips back inside.

There’s an odd comfort to it, having something in his mouth to suck at, to work at, while Tommy starts fucking into him, slow and lazy.

Billy gets messy with it, not bothering to keep the spit from dripping out the corners of his mouth, not caring that he can feel it dripping down his chin. He goes harder, because the more he tries, the louder Steve gets. The more he praises Billy. It feels good, the praise -- and it mixes and combines and spikes with feeling so full on both ends, with the way Tommy jerks him, too, pace a little unsteady, too distracted by his own pleasure.

Billy even chokes with it, as Steve’s hips shift and snap up, dick hitting the back of Billy’s throat. He doesn’t mind gagging, though, because Steve’s fist tightens in his hair every time it happens.

“So good,” Steve says, after a little while, after his breath starts to get a little short, a little labored. “I think you can take a little more, can’t you?”

Billy nods. Hell fucking yeah. He’ll take anything Steve Harrington’ll give him.

But he doesn’t expect Steve to pull off, leaving Billy gasping hoarse breaths into the silence of the room, mouth suddenly empty.

He doesn’t expect Steve to get up from the bed, leaving Billy on his hands and fucking knees, staring at the navy of Steve’s quilt, wondering where he’s going.

Steve kicks off his jeans and leaves them next to Billy in a heap, along with his briefs.

“Such a pretty view,” he hears Steve say, from roughly where Tommy is, behind Billy, somewhere where Billy can’t see him. Billy wonders if he’s standing, or if he’s kneeling like Tommy must be.

“Right?” Tommy says.

Billy can hear the wet, sick sounds of Tommy fucking into him, quicker now that Steve’s watching, like he’s trying to show off. He drops Billy’s dick and gets both hands on Billy’s hips, which is frustrating, but it’s also fine, because at this point, it all feels good and it’s not like Billy’s gonna say anything about it. He’s not stupid enough to complain.

“Hey, slow down a little,” Steve says, after a few moments of presumably admiring. Maybe of touching himself, too. “Yeah, that’s it,” he says, as Tommy slows to something torturously slow.

He nearly jumps when, as Tommy pushes all the way in and stops, there’s suddenly something else. Another sensation: a finger, slick with lube, toying at his stretched rim.

Billy grunts and flinches. Because no. They can’t possibly -- even though Tommy’s small, Billy’s already pretty fucking full. This is way more than he’s ever taken. There’s no way.

“S’okay, Billy, I’ve got you. This is gonna feel so good, I promise,” Steve says, voice all low, all sickly sweet. “I’ve got you.”

And then, Billy feels the stretch as Steve presses his finger in, alongside Tommy’s cock.

Billy gasps. He can’t help it. It’s so much. It feels so fucking good. His breaths suddenly go all wet and ragged, almost embarrassing in how vocal they are, like there’s a whine threatening to escape his throat at any goddamn moment. Like maybe it’s escaping already, and Billy just refuses to hear it.

“Yeah, baby, you’ve got it,” Steve’s saying.

Steve takes it slower than Tommy did, more careful. Maybe that’s because it’s harder, maybe Steve just likes to take his time. Or, maybe, he doesn’t wanna break Billy -- he wants it to feel good for Billy, too.

Which it does. Sinfully so.

It shouldn’t. There’s no reason on God’s green earth that it should feel good to have someone’s finger in him alongside someone else’s cock -- but it does. It does. It feels better than any orgasm Billy’s ever had, better than the prettiest girl’s lips around his cock.

And Steve, cooing at him all saccharine sweet, feels better than the salvation he should probably be seeking.

It feels strange, once Steve works his finger all the way in, but Billy feels full and oddly accomplished once it’s there. It feels even better, once Steve rests a hand on Billy’s lower back. It feels stranger, as Tommy starts shifting his hips, slowly starting to fuck in against the friction of Steve’s digit. Another finger plays with Billy’s rim, and he wonders, wonders what Steve’s gonna do with it, but he doesn’t get the chance to find out.

“My knees are fucking killing me,” Tommy says.

“Yeah, okay,” Steve says.

And then Billy’s suddenly empty. Lacking Tommy’s cock and Steve’s finger. He’s a little cold, too, his body covered in sweat from exertion. From stress and from pleasure. He blinks, and then Steve’s in his face, right in front of him, hands warm on Billy’s shoulders.

“Hey, c’mon up to the bed, sweetheart,” Steve says.

Billy lets Steve help him up and lead him to the bed. He feels numb, dizzy. His knees are sore, but at the same time he can barely feel them at all. His jaw hurts and his throat feels raw. He goes where Steve puts him, which is: on top of Tommy, who’s laying on his back, naked now, except for his fucking socks. Billy would make fun of him for it, but he doesn’t trust his voice. Doesn’t want his words to come out as raw as his throat feels, so he stays quiet and just straddles Tommy, trying not to feel strange as Tommy’s big hands splay over his thighs.

At some point, Billy lost his own jeans.

“You’re so fucking cut, Hargrove,” Tommy says, eyes tracking appreciatively over Billy’s abs. It makes him feel hot, admired, even if it’s coming from Tommy, the freckled nightmare.

“Right?” Steve says, suddenly behind Billy, arms wrapping around him like a hug from behind.

Steve’s hands touch over Billy’s muscles, over his happy trail, and then down to his dick. He gives Billy’s cock a couple pulls, his other hand warm and steady over Billy’s ribs. He feels grounded, yet electric. He can’t help but groan, just a little, at the attention, at the pleasure.

“Yeah?” Steve says. “You ready for some more? We’re not done yet. You can take a little more, right?”

And Steve’s hand is on Billy’s dick, giving him exactly what he wants, so how’s he supposed to do anything other than nod?

Steve guides him down and down, until Tommy’s cock is spearing him open again, sliding in with the most vulgar of pops.

Somehow, like this, it feels even more brutal. Even more degrading. Maybe because Billy can’t help but look down at Tommy and see the pleasure written across his face. There’s a little power in it too, though, knowing that he’s the reason Tommy’s making that expression. But it’s hard to overlook the shame, impossible not to face his own actions, his own current reality.

There’s no detaching himself from the moment and simply reveling in the pleasure.

In a way, though, it’s easier like this. He feels more in control. It also feels better, Tommy’s cock thrusting inside in a different way, in a way that brings him more pleasure.

Tommy fucks into him harder, faster than before, but just for a little while. Not long enough to let Billy get into the rhythm of it.

Behind him, Steve presses down on the small of Billy’s back, urging him to bend forward a little. Billy goes, falling forward until his arms are steadying himself over, palms pressed into the mattress by Tommy’s shoulders.

It’s a blissful rush when Tommy slows and Billy feels the press of Steve’s finger into him again, dripping with lube. It goes in too easily, sliding in next to Tommy’s cock. This time, Billy allows himself to groan.

“Yeah?” Steve says, his free hand pumping Billy’s cock. “You like that?” His tone is like a reward, something sweet, somehow even better than the pleasure he’s getting from the way Steve’s jerking him.

Billy just nods, groaning again when Steve moves his finger a little, as he pushes out, stretching Billy’s rim. It doesn’t even hurt, just pulls in such a foreign, fantastic way that Billy sees stars.

“Give him another, Steve,” Tommy says, his tone making the words practically a plea. “He can take it, can’t you, Hargrove?”

“You want it?” Steve asks. “You think you can take it?”

Billy nods, but Steve doesn’t give it to him.

“Say please, Billy. Do that for me? Say please, baby.” Steve’s voice is so sweet, so laced with honey. Billy wishes he could lick the words right from his lips, wishes he could taste the way they drip with endearments.

“Please,” Billy says, and his voice is as raw and rough as he feared, but he doesn't care. Can’t bring himself to. “Please.”

“Well,” Steve chuckles, “since you asked so nicely, sweetheart.”

Billy feels Steve’s finger slide out as Tommy stills, likely giving Steve as much space as he needs, before Billy feels the press of more. Of two fingers, sliding in, slick against Tommy’s cock. He gasps, wet and shocked at the feeling, at the fullness, as his ass swallows up two of Steve’s fingers and Tommy’s dick.

Billy feels the press of Steve’s lips at the back of his neck, the heat of Steve leaning on top of him as Tommy starts moving, starts fucking into Billy against the pressure.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” Tommy tells him.

“Knew you could take it,” Steve says. “Knew you’d be so good. God, you’re so good, aren’t you?”

Billy eats it up, vision swimming white as his body revels in the stretch, in the sensation. It’s so much. So good. He can’t control his breathing, and he should be embarrassed, but he doesn’t care that he’s panting like a dog, gasping loud and heavy over Tommy. He keeps his eyes closed, because he can’t bear to open them right now, can’t bear to add more to the stimulus.

The stretch of two fingers eases after a little while and Billy just revels in it.

Until Steve starts pressing in a third.

He’s never felt so full. Never felt so pushed to his limits.

It’s impossible, he thinks. But he can’t find the words to say it. Doesn’t want to.

He wants more of Steve inside him, wants everything Steve’s willing to give him.

“Please,” Billy begs, when Steve stills to spread more lube over his fingers.

Fuck,” Steve breathes out, reverent. “You’re a fucking dream.”

No, Steve’s the dream, Billy thinks, but he doesn’t say it, can’t, especially as Steve eases three fingers inside him next to Tommy’s cock.

Steve’s stopped jacking him at some point, but Billy didn’t even notice. How could he, with the way he feels?

“God,” Tommy says underneath Billy. He’s touching up Billy’s abs, but it doesn’t feel bad or even strange, it just adds to all of the sensations, all of the everything that’s happening in the darkness surrounding Billy. “You can’t even imagine how good you feel, Hargrove.”

“You’re perfect for this,” Steve’s telling him. “So perfect.”

And maybe Billy doesn’t want to be perfect for this, but he wants Steve to call him perfect, wants to hear that all the goddamn time. Wants to be perfect for Steve.

They fuck him like that for a little while, until Billy feels like he’s leaking, dripping onto Tommy’s stomach, until he feels like he’s only a little ways away from breaking, if only someone would get a hand on him. He doesn’t even care who.

“I think you can take more,” Steve says, his lips so close to Billy’s ear. “I think you can take more for us, can’t you?”

There’s no more space inside Billy. He feels full to the brim, practically bursting.

But it’s Steve, so he wants.

“Please,” he says, without knowing what he’s asking for. “Please,” he says, begging Steve to grace him with anything he wants. “Please,” he says, just wanting Steve, so badly and truly that he feels like he’s going to shatter with it.

Steve’s fingers slide out of him and Billy whines. He can’t stop himself. Even though Tommy takes that opportunity to fuck into him once, twice, hard -- it’s not enough. He feels practically empty now, with just Tommy’s fucking inadequate dick inside him. He wants to be stuffed full, wants Steve’s fingers filling him again. Doesn’t understand why Steve would make him beg and then take something away.

But then.

Then --

He feels Steve shift.

Feels the blunt, unyielding press of something else against his rim.

Billy freezes, his whole body going hot. Ears ringing. Stomach dropping.

There’s no way.

He can’t.

“‘S too big,” Billy slurs, dropping onto his elbows because he can’t bear to hold himself up anymore, face buried somewhere near Tommy’s neck. Tommy’s still now, other than the way he’s smoothing his fingers over Billy’s ribs.

“Yeah, but you can take it, can’t you? I know you can,” Steve’s saying, smoothing a hand down Billy’s spine. Soothing. Cooing at him.

Billy whines, sick and twisted. He hungers for it, all of his skin white hot with desire, with fear, with anticipation.

“You can do it, Hargrove,” Tommy says.

“You want it, right?” Steve asks.

Billy wants Steve. Wants him so fucking badly.

He nods.

“Say please, sweetheart,” Steve says.

Billy wants Steve so badly.

“Please,” he says.

Yeah,” Steve whispers. “Fuck yeah, you want it.”

He nearly faints as Steve starts pushing. It’s a hard pressure, terrifying. And Billy doesn’t think his body’s gonna let it happen. Doesn’t think it’s gonna work. But Steve doesn’t let up. He doesn’t stop. He just keeps pressing forward, unrelenting.

Until Billy’s body starts to yield.

To surrender.

He feels the impossible way his body opens up, the way he starts stretching as Steve’s head starts slipping inside along Tommy’s length.

Billy nearly screams. He bites down on Tommy’s skin, instead. The meat of his shoulder. He barely even registers the way Tommy curses, the way he hisses. It’s hard not to focus entirely, completely, on the way Steve is slowly pushing his way inside. Invading Billy’s body with his heat, with his everything. There’s a bite of pain, the ache of the brutal stretch -- but there’s the pleasure, too.

Billy feels like he’s gonna burn up from the inside out, skin searing, all of his nerves buzzing hot like live wires. Sparking. Catching.

“You’ve got it,” Steve’s telling him, murmuring at him with a hushed, reverent kind of voice. “You’re so good, baby. You’re doing so good, you’re taking it so well.”

It’s impossible.

Steve’s fucking huge. He’s a goddamn monster.

It burns so much. Aches so bad.

But he doesn’t stop. He just keeps pressing and pressing, until Billy feels like he’s gonna split open at the seams. Until he’s fully seated inside Billy, length filling Billy better than Tommy’s ever could.

“Holy shit,” Steve’s saying, folding until he’s overtop of Billy, his torso a line of heat over Billy’s spine, pressing his lips to the back of Billy’s neck, breath making Billy shiver. “Holy shit, Billy. You feel so fucking good. Knew you’d feel so good for me.”

It’s so much.

It’s even more, when Steve starts to rock his hips, testing the waters. Fucking into Billy in little baby spurts, like he’s afraid of breaking him. Like anything could break Billy at this point, two cocks in him and stretched impossibly full.

“Please,” Billy manages, words wet and sloppy against Tommy’s skin. He tastes like sweat. Maybe a little bit like tears. “Please.”

Steve don’t need any more encouragement.

It’s not easy for the two of them to move, to actually fuck into Billy at the same time, so Steve does most of the thrusting, Tommy staying mostly still underneath Billy. He can’t really blame Tommy -- it must feel amazing, having your dick in something so tight, so warm, having the slide of someone else against you, doing all the work. He can’t blame Tommy for cursing, for holding onto Billy’s ribs with desperation as Steve works up from shallow little thrusts into something more forceful, more ardent.

More passionate.

Little things slip out of Steve’s mouth, peppering Billy’s skin like kisses. Curses. Little bits of praise. Different terms of endearment and Billy’s name, too.

All of it is so much. It feels so good. So impossible. So perfect.

Tommy starts cursing louder underneath him, fingernails going tight, digging into skin.

“Fuck, fuck,” he says. “God, you’re such a fucking whore for it, you feel so fucking good,” he says as his hips jerk, fucking up and into Billy as he comes.

He can’t feel the heat of Tommy’s release inside him, but he can hear the way Steve swears. He can feel the way his ass gets even more slick and wet as Steve fucks into him. It’s perverse. It’s gross. The sound of Steve’s thrusts gets loud and sloppy, and Billy can feel the way Tommy’s come starts to drip out of his ass, pushed out with every one of Steve’s thrusts.

It’s sick.

It’s the hottest goddamn thing Billy can even imagine.

It washes over him, overwhelming, as Steve picks up his pace.

Fuck, you feel so good. You’re perfect for this, made for it, made for me,” Steve says.

His breath is wet and ragged in Billy’s ear. His chest is sweaty, where it sits heavy against Billy’s back, sliding against him with each thrust of his hips. The whole moment is tight and close and hot, overpowering in its sensations. And yet, it’s still a rush when Steve presses his lips up against the side of Billy’s neck, when he sinks his teeth into the flesh. It’s so much more intimate than the brief brushes of his lips before. It feels so much better.

Billy whines with it, wanting more of Steve’s lips. Steve mouths at his skin and Billy practically drools for it, gasping, open-mouthed, wishing desperately he could twist and turn and catch Steve’s lips in his own. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted something more, so desperately that it hurt, so painfully that he burns with it.

“Please,” Billy pants, knowing what he’s asking for, but absolutely unable to bring himself to say it.

“Yeah?” Steve says, nipping, biting at Billy’s skin. Tonguing at the sweat. “You need this, don’t you? God, so good at taking my dick. Built for it.”

Billy nods, fervent and feverish. “Please,” he begs, wanting the taste of cinnamon and whiskey that Steve’s lips would bring.

“What do you want, baby? Give you everything. Everything you need,” Steve says.

There’s no way Billy’s gonna say he wants a kiss, so he just groans instead, as Steve’s hips snap into him with wet squelch. Tommy groans and hisses again, his cock growing soft and sensitive inside Billy. Each thrust of Steve’s is probably exquisite torture, but he stays like that for a little while anyway, just panting underneath Billy, until he finally slaps at Steve’s ribs and finally pulls out.

Leaving Steve the only one inside Billy.

He’s still so big, so monstrous, that Billy doesn’t feel even emptier. Steve’s perfect. Filling him up just right.

He’s greedy for the way Steve starts to fuck into him, faster and harder now that he’s not trying to keep such a precarious balance of two cocks stuffed inside such a tight place. He has the ability to move, the ability to give Billy all he’s worth.

Billy grunts and moans and pleads into Tommy’s shoulder. It feels blissful, so good, so perfect. And Steve’s not even touching him, but it still feels like he could spurt off at any moment, like he could shatter at the drop of a hat.

“You want more? We can give you more,” Steve says.

Steve promises.

He fucks into Billy hard, punishing, as he gets a fist in Billy’s hair and pulls him up and up, until Billy’s gasping, face sweaty and tear-streaked and exposed. Tommy kisses him, then, licking into his mouth, messy and greedy, eating up all of Billy’s air. He gives Billy what he wanted, even though it’s not quite right. Because Tommy tastes like cinnamon and whiskey and like Steve, desperately like Steve -- but, in the end, Billy does, too. Because Tommy kisses the taste of Steve’s dick out of Billy’s mouth, licking it away from his lips like a thirsty slut.

Billy gasps as he suddenly feels fuller, more stuffed up. It takes a second to realize that Tommy has shifted below him while distracting Billy with kisses, has gotten his fingers up and under, so that he can press two fingers alongside Steve’s cock, in place of his own. Fingers slick with come. Pulling at Billy’s rim, stretching him wide.

Billy sees stars.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Steve’s telling him, voice in Billy’s ear as Billy breathes heavy into Tommy’s mouth. “Come for me, baby.”

No one’s touching Billy’s dick, but he doesn’t think he needs that. Not with Steve thrusting into him like that, with Tommy’s fingers pushing wet and slick into him, fucking his come back into Billy alongside Steve’s cock.

But really, all he needs is Steve whispering please and baby and Billy in his ear.

When he shoots off, it’s like an explosion. Like a tidal wave, pulling him under.

He’s never felt anything quite like it before.

It’s hot and electric, reverberating throughout his body like a current, like he’s a closed circuit and the pleasure just builds and builds with every thrust. Exponential. Nuclear.

Steve goes harder when Billy shouts, when Billy spills himself onto Tommy’s stomach and Tommy curses, low and reverent, like Billy’s done something right. Billy’s vision goes white and his world swims and folds over into something that feels like static, like everything all at once. There’s nothing, nothing, nothing -- and then all of it, as Billy comes back to himself, Steve still fucking into him and Tommy playing with his rim.

He nearly fucking screams.

Billy barely notices Steve’s rhythm falter, barely notices the way Tommy’s fingers get even wetter as Steve’s hips snap erratic little thrusts into Billy. He just falls, head into the pillow next to Tommy’s head, whining and panting and absolutely fucked out, Steve’s moans echoing in his ears.

He doesn’t remember Steve pulling out, doesn’t remember Tommy smearing his come-covered fingers over Billy’s ribs. He doesn’t remember Tommy pushing him to the side so that Billy thunks down against the mattress on useless, numb arms, breathing heavy and hard and wet against a pillow that smells too much like Steve.

Billy’s barely aware when Tommy kisses into his mouth, long and slow, tongue tasting almost overpoweringly like cinnamon, like he took another slug of liquor before going in for something lazy. When Tommy’s done he pulls back, laughing slow, presumably at the expression on Billy’s face, at the way his lips are swollen and slick with spit. Laughing at the way he’s left Billy.

So fucked out and useless he can barely remember his name.

He should care, but he doesn’t. He can’t summon an ounce of shame, a modicum of decency.

It’s gone.

Tommy goes somewhere, too. The bed dips and then it’s just Billy against the pillows, staring up at eggshell white while he tries to catch his breath.

Billy’s barely coming back into himself when someone kisses him again. Well -- not so much kisses, as just leans in, licks into his mouth, and then sucks at his tongue. It’s wet and obscene, and Billy’s dick twitches with the feeling of it.

It’s only when they pull back that Billy realizes it’s Steve.

He whines, low and slow, and reaches out with a clumsy hand to paw at Steve’s hair, to tangle his fingers there to keep Steve from pulling away.

“Hey, tiger,” Steve says, grin bright and lazy on his face. Not at all dulled by alcohol. Like he worked it all out of his system while it all settled right into Billy’s bones, right next to his exhaustion.

“Hey,” Billy says, voice just as rough as before.

He wants to lean up, to kiss Steve properly. But he doesn’t have the energy. Doesn’t have the courage, either.

Steve just grins and touches Billy’s bottom lip, thumbing over it and tugging it away from his teeth. He lets it snap back, laughing a little as Billy’s eyes try to focus on Steve’s pretty face.

Then, Steve leans in, ghosting his lips over Billy’s lips, like he’s stealing the breath right out of Billy’s mouth. Like he’s pretending to give Billy something, while actually taking it away.

Steve opens his mouth, tongue darting out to taste while Billy stays still like prey, fearful of even the slightest movement. He thinks maybe, maybe Steve’ll give him what he so desperately wants if he just stays still. If he acts like he doesn’t expect much. He’s earned it, right? He gave Steve everything, all at once.

He gave Steve all of himself. Nearly bent himself in two, just for an ounce of Steve’s attention. Anything he’d give.

Steve leans in again.

He breathes in, then pulls back.

His eyes are bright. Technicolor. High-def.

“Truth or dare?” Steve asks.