It’s half past ten. The residential lights have dimmed where Steve can see them over the crest of the hill overlooking Hawkins. The summer night air is hot and heavy, making his hair lie flat against his forehead and turning his skin tacky with sweat.
Steve wonders, not for the first time, how he wound up here, bent over the hood of Billy Hargrove’s navy blue Camaro.
He’s got one foot braced on the front bumper and both hands scrambling for purchase, seeking something he can use as leverage to keep rocking his hips back, because Billy isn’t lifting a damn finger.
He’d been chewing the filter of an unlit cigarette, teeth bared in one of those shit-eating grins that had Steve’s fist itching, when he said, all matter-of-fact:
“You’re gonna work for it, tonight.”
It turned out ‘working for it’ meant Steve would be doing basically everything. Billy only went so far as whipping his dick out, oh-so-generously leaving Steve the task of fishing out lube from his back pocket and giving Billy a vaguely condescending handjob.
It wasn’t long before he was crowded against the Camaro. Billy gave him a perfunctory fingering with two thick, lube-slick fingers, and then Steve heard him lighting up, felt a gust of air as Billy blew smoke over his head.
“Go on, then,” Billy had said, sounding far too smug, like he thought he was hot shit and that Steve must think so, too.
Steve contemplated telling him to go to hell. Considered it long and hard. He imagined the face Billy would make — some twisted mix of fury and thrill at the challenge.
The mental image was nice.
Giving in felt nicer.
In the end, Steve had worked himself onto Billy’s cock. He braced himself against the car and pushed his hips back, all while grunting from the effort and the suffocating heat. The angle wasn’t easy or comfortable, but Steve had eventually found a rhythm that worked, rocking back and forth on the heel of one foot, his only encouragement the occasional grunts from behind him and the not-unpleasant stretch as he quite literally fucked himself.
At least Billy had been quiet for all that. Steve’s not sure why, but at some point, Billy decides he can’t keep his mouth shut any longer.
“Your pussy’s so tight, Harrington,” Billy purrs, voice gravelly from the smoke, and Steve can practically feel the sound reverberate through him and coil tightly in his gut. He’s turned on by Billy’s voice, not by what he’s saying. In fact, what he’s saying needles Steve. His pride stings. He grits his teeth and grunts in annoyance, and maybe it sounds more like a groan, because all it seems to do is encourage Billy to keep running his mouth.
“Gonna leave it nice and sloppy when I’m done with you. Leave you wet and loose,” he punctuates that promise with a sudden snap of his hips, and this time Steve really does groan, the sound escaping him before he can bite it back. He doesn’t need to see Billy’s face to know that the asshole’s smirking, now, like he thinks he’s won whatever game it is they’re both playing.
They never established its rules, much less its win conditions, but Steve refuses to lose; he refuses to let Billy get the idea in his head that Steve’s some kind of bitch. Billy Hargrove’s bitch.
“Such a cock-hungry little slut—”
The sound Steve makes is like a snarl, and he bucks back hard with an audible slap of skin-on-skin. He thrusts his elbow into Billy’s chest, jabbing him between the ribs, and is rewarded with the satisfying sound of Billy hissing through his teeth.
“Shut up, already,” Steve snaps over his shoulder, sick of hearing Billy say all that degrading shit. He usually knows better, only ever talks like that when he wants to get a rise out of Steve, or goad him into throwing a punch before they inevitably find themselves getting hot and heavy against a wall, or in the backseat of Billy’s Camaro. But he’s never said it mid-fuck.
Maybe Billy is getting too cocky. Maybe he wants an excuse to rough Steve up a little.
Whatever the case, Steve can’t be sure if its fury or thrill burning in Billy’s blue eyes when he cranes his neck back to meet them; all he can tell is that there’s something unmistakably wicked about the look Billy’s giving him.
Before Steve can react, the side of his face is shoved against the hood of the Camaro, and his arm is twisted around and pinned to the small of his back. The angle makes his shoulder sting, and his jaw hurts, because Billy’s got his palm pressed against his skull and is leaning his weight into it so that he can better leverage the force behind his thrusts. Steve can only lie there and take it, momentarily dazed.
“You’re such a prissy little bitch,” Billy is sneering meanly, voice a little muffled by his cigarette. Steve is sure he hears an undercurrent of amusement, too, like Billy is getting off on the power-trip or the struggle.
The worst part is, Steve’s cock is still hard and leaking against the polished blue paint of the Camaro. The change in angle means that Billy keeps hitting his sweet spot, rough and relentless. It’s infuriating how good that feels. Anger blooms in Steve’s chest, and he’s consumed by the urge to claw himself away, to fight and fuck back harder.
“Always fighting it, every damn step of the way,” Billy’s saying above him, leaning in close enough that his breath caresses Steve’s jaw. He smells like tobacco and the spice of his cologne. Steve hates it — he wants to hate it, but he can’t help but breathe Billy in, relishing the claustrophobic closeness of him.
“Just admit it, baby. You love it when I treat you like the whore you are.”
Steve presses his eyes shut tightly.
He won’t admit it, because it isn’t true. Billy’s just trying to get a rise out of him. He’s succeeding, too, but Steve can be stubborn when he’s agitated, so he bites his tongue and pushes down a moan and tries not to breathe in the smoke Billy’s still blowing in his face.
It doesn’t go over well. Billy’s twice as demanding as Steve is unyielding, and infinitely nastier.
“Tell me how much you want it.” Billy sounds like he thinks there’s authority behind his words, that Steve ought to be compelled to listen like the ‘cock-hungry little slut’ Billy thinks he is.
Thing is, there’s a small part of Steve that wonders what Billy might do if he played along, for once. He thinks it might break Billy’s brain.
He also thinks it would take Billy’s ego to an even more insufferable high.
So, he keeps his mouth shut, tongue stubbornly held between his teeth, nails digging crescents into his palms like Steve’s still tempted to reach back and clock him. The ensuing silence is brief, interrupted only by the chirp of crickets and the sound of fucking.
“Tell. Me,” Billy hisses, every syllable accompanied by a smack of slick skin against the backs of Steve’s thighs.
Steve clenches his teeth. Flexes his jaw. Decides he can’t keep his mouth shut any longer.
“I want—” he pushes the words through his teeth, his jaw tight, his breaths coming in sharp jolts that Billy is fucking out of him. “—you to stop talking.”
Billy yanks his hair so hard that Steve’s head jerks back, his chin tilted toward the starless sky, his eyes catching on Billy who looms like a shadow over him. He can’t tell if Billy’s angry, can’t quite make out the glint of his eyes through the darkness, but for a moment he’s sure that Billy is going to do something nasty purely to spite him.
The cherry red glow of Billy’s cigarette sizzles and brightens as he takes a long drag. A moment later, he lets go of Steve’s arm so that he can pluck the cigarette from between his lips and seal his mouth over Steve’s.
Smoke pools into his mouth. Steve can’t fight it, too shocked by the fact that Billy Hargrove just kissed him. They’ve never kissed, not once, as if avoiding that kind of intimacy is the one defined rule of this indefinable game of theirs. And surely it doesn’t count, because Billy is only doing it to piss him off.
The not-kiss lasts scarcely a moment before the smoke reaches Steve’s lungs and he starts coughing. His eyes sting and water, his muscles clench and spasm, and above him, he hears Billy’s barking laughter.
He can’t say it aloud; his voice is shot to shit from all the coughing. But he thinks it really hard, and makes an indignant sound as Billy shoves him face-first into the hood of his car again, his voice slurred against the cold metal. Billy just keeps on laughing as he continues fucking Steve at that same vicious pace as before.
“Did you say something, Harrington?” he asks, in a way that suggests he doesn’t really care what Steve has to say but is willing to humor him. Billy lets up his hand enough that Steve can unstick his face from the Camaro.
“I said,” Steve croaks, bracing one palm against the car and rubbing his sore jaw with the other; the ache has him seething. When he speaks, Steve times his words between the snaps of Billy’s hips so that they can’t force out any unintentional moans mid-sentence. Billy doesn’t deserve that satisfaction. “I said, you’re gonna have to do a lot better than this if you want me to beg for anything.”
Billy’s hips snap into him one more time and then stop, his hold on Steve’s wrist tightening nearly to the point of bruising. Steve kind of hopes he’s offended him, or that he’s at the very least knocked some of the wind from Billy’s sails.
Instead, he feels the hand securing his wrist relinquish, only to clamp around his neck. There’s a sudden pressure against his windpipe as Billy’s fingertips dig into his Adam’s apple, gripping tightly enough that Steve feels his breath catch in his throat. At the same time, Billy is grinding balls-deep against his ass, which feels so infuriatingly perfect when coupled with the headrush that’s building up from the lack of air that Steve can’t even muster his anger.
Like so many other things Billy does to him, Steve wants to hate it. He wants to hate this so badly, because it’s beyond fucked up that he could be into Billy’s hand squeezing around his throat.
Thing is, Steve can’t even pretend like he isn’t enjoying it; his head’s spinning and his body’s buzzing as if he’s still stoned, and Billy’s pounding into him so hard now that Steve’s pretty sure he’s going to fuck an orgasm out of him if he keeps it up. He can feel tears clinging to the corners of his eyes when he squeezes them shut again. They spill hot and angry down his cheeks, and humiliation burns across his skin as he imagines what Billy will say if he sees.
‘What’s wrong, baby? You getting dicked down so good you gotta cry about it?’
The words ring so clearly in Steve’s head that he wonders if maybe Billy really does say that. He can’t be certain; the world’s gone all hazy around the edges, reduced to the sensation of a hand around his neck, of Billy’s cock splitting him open, of the ache in his lungs and the distant jolt of animal panic as Steve’s brain belatedly realizes he can’t breathe.
It’s at that moment that the pressure on his throat lessens. Steve gasps harshly enough that he sees stars, and the simple act of breathing feels so unbelievably good that he can’t help but shove a hand between his thighs to desperately jerk himself off.
He’s a half-second from cumming when Billy yanks his arm away, and as furious as Steve is about it, when he tries to scream all that comes out is a pathetic-sounding sob.
“Shh, it’s alright,” Billy’s cooes against his ear as he gets a hand around his jaw, cups it fiercely, and forcibly cranes Steve’s head toward him. There’s no mistaking his tone for sweetness; the only affection Billy ever gives him is steeped in condescension. “What was that you were saying about not begging for it?”
Steve can’t take this right now. He’s on the precipice of an orgasm and all he needs is that final little push.
He’s not proud of the way he starts rutting against the hood of Billy’s car, chasing what little friction he can get against the sticky metal of the Camaro. He’s even less proud of the words falling out of his mouth, too broken down and desperate to stop them.
“Please,” Steve croaks, and he sounds so close to blubbering that it makes him want to curl up and die from embarrassment. Billy’s never going to let him live this one down. “Please, Billy. This is— Fuck, it feels good, alright? Just let me come.”
Steve’s not sure, but he swears he can hear Billy’s breath hitch as his hips stutter, like he’s been thrown off-kilter. It might have been a source of smugness if Steve could think about anything other than getting off, if he could want anything other than for Billy to give it to him.
Billy hasn’t said a damn word. It’s surreal, because Steve’s just given him so much to work with, so much dirt to rub his face in, and— nothing . Literal crickets, and the rhythmic slap of Billy’s hips against his ass.
So, he nearly jumps when Billy’s hand suddenly wraps around his cock, his grip tight — a little too tight — but Steve doesn’t care. He’s just so relieved to get something to fuck into that he’ll take anything Billy gives him.
And he does; he lies there and takes it , doesn’t even bite the hand that force feeds two fingers past his lips, hooks them behind his teeth, and pulls his jaw down so that Steve can’t quiet the reedy moan erupting from his throat. He doubts he would have had the willpower to hold it back, anyway, not with how Billy’s fucking into him with a vengeance and jerking him off with quick, rough strokes.
It only takes a few hasty pumps, a few sharp thrusts against his prostate, and he’s gone.
Steves cums into Billy’s fist with a sound gurgling in his throat that he can’t keep down, with a groan that rocks through his chest and might have left him burning with shame if Steve’s brain wasn’t short-circuiting. His entire body goes taut, and then releases — if not for the way Billy’s fish-hooking him against his chest, suspending him there, he’d be collapsing against the hood of the Camaro, knees weak and arms boneless.
Billy’s still pulling at his cock through his orgasm, hard and furious, and it feels good until suddenly it doesn’t. Steve winces, reaching down to grab at Billy’s wrist and tug his hand away while he tries to crawl forward to escape the overstimulation. It’s pointless, though, because Billy’s stronger, unrelenting. He just keeps holding Steve there as he fucks into him, pushes his tongue down with his fingers, and rubs at his spent dick until Steve’s left whimpering.
“Shh, baby, I got you,” Billy says, whispering it against Steve’s ear like a promise, and biting at Steve’s earlobe hard enough to make him wince. Steve tries to recoil away from the sting, only to get two fingers yanking roughly at his cheek, pulling him back. It’s too much, it hurts, and Steve’s on the cusp of thrashing against Billy to get away when suddenly Billy stops touching him.
He has all of a few seconds to wilt in relief before Billy’s pulling out, spinning him around, and kissing him again, wet and sloppy. As he is with most things, Billy isn’t tender or kind; he’s demanding, bullying his way into Steve’s mouth like he has a right to be there, biting Steve’s lip and tugging with his teeth because he can — because Steve just grunts and goes with it, ass dropping onto the hood of Billy’s car as he’s kissed until his lips feel sore and bruised.
He almost forgets that’s what this is: a kiss . Because it doesn’t feel like one, too rough and mean and toothy. Like it’s just another way for Billy to fuck him, to degrade him.
Slotted between his thighs as he is, it’s easy enough for Billy to drag him a little closer and sink his cock in again in one swift motion, immediately setting a carelessly rough pace like he thinks Steve’s worked open enough for it. Like Billy doesn’t care if he isn’t. Steve only manages to groan, grabbing blindly at Billy’s shoulders, scraping blunt nails across his nape to his scalp until Billy’s hissing.
God, it feels so filthy. Even filthier, now that Billy can mouth along Steve’s throat and scrape his teeth across his jaw. Billy is going to leave marks with how hard he’s biting, Steve thinks. He’s not supposed to. Neither of them are, at least not where anyone can see. It’s yet another unspoken rule of theirs.
But Steve can’t bring himself to protest. He’s insensate and oversensitized all at once. He’s too hot, between the muggy, oppressive heat and the way Billy’s body is draped over him, sticky with sweat. It’s almost a relief, the way that he’s grunting and biting and fucking , like he’s too close to the edge to spew any more of his derogatory bullshit.
Steve tilts his chin back, trying to breathe through the humidity. He grabs at Billy’s hair and yanks so hard that Billy shudders and his breath skips.
“You like that, huh?” Steve says, voice ragged, and rather than wait for Billy to confirm or deny it, he gives his hair another vengeful tug. “‘Course you do, you get off on being nasty.”
It’s the intensity of Billy’s reaction that takes him off-guard.
Because Steve knows he likes this; he knows Billy chases the pain as much as the pleasure, that he lusts for the violence of it, for the perpetual struggle, for the way Steve dishes it and takes it and never wholly gives him any ground.
But when he pulls Billy’s hair, it’s like Steve’s set something off. Like he’s turned him feral.
Billy’s snarling as he sinks his teeth into the juncture of Steve’s throat hard enough to make his head spin, and he’s fucking into him so roughly that Steve’s ass is sliding against the hood of the Camaro, until he has no choice but to grip at Billy’s back and hang on for dear life. It’s short-lived, because after a few deep thrusts Billy shudders with a low, muffled groan, and Steve can feel heat pool inside him.
They’re both panting heavily as Billy’s hips stutter and stop. Steve has his head bent back against the cool metal and is acutely aware of the dark hickey forming on his neck.
Billy doesn’t say a word. He just lingers there a moment, balanced on his arms, his body glistening with sweat and wracked with a few residual shivers. Eventually, finally, he pulls out and takes a half-step away.
Steve can feel heat trickling out of him. He makes a face and thinks about how he’s going to have to go home like this, with Billy’s cum leaking into his briefs.
Billy must have noticed his disgust, because as he tucks himself back into his pants and buckles his belt, he sneers:
“What’s that look about?”
Billy doesn’t wait for an answer; he’s already stepping forward again. Pressing two fingers between Steve’s cheeks, collecting the dribble of cum as it slides down his taint and pushing it back into his well-used hole.
“You mad I made a mess?” Billy taunts. “Poor little princess. Bet you want me to clean it up.”
Steve winces at the press of Billy’s fingers inside him. He tries to flinch away to no avail, then tries to summon his snark with little success.
“Didn’t think you knew how to do anything but make messes.”
Saying that was a mistake, probably, because Billy’s suddenly grinning so wide that Steve can see all his white teeth, dazzling and predatory. Before he can get another word in, Billy’s enthusiastically dropping onto his knees, like he’s been waiting for an excuse to.
“Wait, wha—” The words die in Steve’s throat, lost to a gasp as Billy tucks his head between his thighs and licks a stripe from his taint to the puffy rim of his hole. It’s sensitive and sore, but Billy’s tongue is wet and warm and insistent as it flicks against him. Billy licks the remnants of cum and lube away, then slowly pushes inside, where his fingers had been only moments ago.
Steve wishes he could say he’s more grossed out than enthralled. It’s all he can do not to moan, shoving a fist against his mouth and biting the knuckles, because now Billy’s wriggling his tongue, fucking it in and out slow and steady like he had been with his fingers, with his cock.
He presses his mouth there, against Steve’s hole, and curls his tongue back, like he’s trying to drag out every drop of cum and slick. The sounds he’s making — wet smacks of his tongue and lips, the ragged huffs of his breath — are so obscene that Steve wishes there was something else to drown out the noise. Like Billy’s voice, maybe, growling filth into his ear.
It’s saying something that Steve would prefer to hear that.
It’s saying something that Steve doesn’t stop him, either. That he doesn’t clamp his thighs shut. That he lets Billy keep them pried open with his hands, his callused fingertips digging into the soft skin of Steve’s inner thighs to keep him spread.
He feels exposed. He feels disgusting.
He feels so fucking good.
Steve grabs at Billy’s hair again. Tugs at it, until Billy lets out a quiet grunt. Until Billy’s fingers dig in deeper, leaving nail marks against his skin. Until Billy slurps, and the sound makes Steve’s face burn red and his spent cock give a futile, interested little twitch.
He doesn’t touch himself. Neither does Billy. Steve’s content to just ride this out, to let Billy lap at him, slow and indulgent, because neither of them is desperate to get off and because the fight’s all but vacated Steve. He can’t bring himself to do anything but lie back and let it happen, to let Billy clean up his mess — as if that’s what he’s doing. As if he isn’t just making Steve feel even more disgusting.
He’s not sure how long Billy’s down there, working his hole like it’s his goddamn job, lapping at Steve’s sensitive insides until his toes start to curl and his jaw tenses up as the overstimulation borders on painful. But he does stop, eventually, giving Steve one last, parting lick all the way to the underside of his soft dick.
Then Billy’s pushing to his feet and wiping his mouth with the back of his palm.
Steve manages to get a good look at him; Billy’s hair is disheveled, and his lips are the brightest shade of pink Steve’s ever seen. There’s saliva shining on his chin, some even darkening the collar of his white tank top, and it’s so— pornographic, Steve’s sluggish mind supplies. Billy looks like something out of one of those cheap magazines. Beautiful and dirty.
“Better, baby?” Billy catches him staring and throws Steve another toothy grin.
Steve rolls his eyes and tries to hide the way he winces as he finally sits up, struggling to pull up his pants and briefs from where they’ve been left hanging off one ankle.
“No,” he intones. He loses his balance a little as he hops on one foot to disentangle his pants. Billy watches him with an infuriatingly smug grin and a half-smoked cigarette hanging between his lips. “You better be driving me home.”
Billy chuckles — a low, throaty sound — and sparks up. He puffs smoke from his nose as he watches Steve struggle to redress himself a moment longer, like he’s thinking about it.
“Sure,” he agrees eventually. “But only because you were such a good little bitch tonight.”
Steve’s eyes snap up in time to catch Billy sliding into the driver’s seat. He’s tempted, so fucking tempted, to tell Billy to fuck off, to stomp away and walk himself home, instead. He stands there a moment, seriously considering it while he fumes and fumbles to zip up.
“Go to hell,” Steve tells him, but the punch of it is lost as he walks around to the passenger side and crawls into Billy’s car.
When they roll up to Steve's parent's house, Billy parks along the curb. A heavy silence falls over them. Steve isn't quite sure what to make of it, but the air feels charged, his skin electric. He doesn’t know what he's waiting for, exactly, but he’s tensed up and restless, the anticipation of the moment slowly building until Billy speaks.
"Want a kiss goodnight, princess?" he's asking, in that typical, mocking tone of his. He's got the nerve to lean over, grinning with equal parts charm and venom and wetting his pink lips with his tongue. Steve hates that tongue — hates how he couldn't stop thinking about it. Especially after what it did to him tonight. He wants to punch Billy in his stupid, smug face.
He kind of wants to kiss him again, too.
“Nah. I know where your mouth’s been,” Steve says instead, unbuckling his seatbelt and reaching for the door handle. He hears the lock click, which is probably another one of Billy’s tactics to annoy him, because Steve can just as easily pop it open again.
Still, he throws Billy a dirty look.
“Fuck off, Hargrove,” he says, but it lacks the appropriate amount of vitriol, like Steve’s too tired to bother putting in the effort. He hopes that pisses Billy off, if only a little.
Except Billy doesn’t look too cut up about it. He looks smug, like the proverbial cat that got the cream. Steve doesn’t get a chance to ask what he’s smirking about this time; in a blink, Billy is swooping in and planting a kiss on his mouth.
It isn’t kind or sweet — Billy never is — but there’s no teeth, no cigarette smoke, and not even a hint of tongue. Then, before Steve has a chance to react, Billy’s pulling away again and leaning back into the driver’s seat like that didn’t just happen, or like he’s waiting for Steve’s inevitable freak out.
It’s the third time Billy’s kissed him that night. It’s the third time Billy’s kissed him ever.
It doesn’t mean anything. Probably.
Steve doesn’t know how to react. He runs the back of his palm across his mouth, like he’s trying to wipe away a bad taste. Really, his lips just feel weird, tingling from where Billy kissed them. His mind’s still trying to catch up with how his body feels — warm all over, kind of heavy — when the passenger door lock pointedly clicks open again.
“You gonna keep on sitting there looking dumb and pretty all night?” Billy sneers. “Engine’s running, Harrington. Get the hell out of my car.”
Just like that, the moment’s over.
Steve whips off his seatbelt in a flurry and steps out of the car onto the curb. He’s angry again, pulse swelling in his throat. He wants to say something cutting before he leaves, something he knows Billy will seethe about the entire ride home, but he can’t seem to summon any of that anger into words.
He says instead: “Goodnight.”
With an air of finality, Steve slams the door — hard, because he knows it pisses Billy off — and stomps up the driveway to his house before Billy can stop him. Not that he ever tries to.
If Billy waits until Steve is through the front door before he revs his engine and screeches off into the night, Steve never brings it up.
It’s just another thing they don’t talk about.