Work Text:
It was a stupid bet, all things considered.
It was a stupid bet, and Steve was stupid for accepting it, and he’s even stupider for fucking losing. God, he’s never going to hear the end of it, not with the way Carol is grinning at him, with the tip of her tongue stuck between her teeth and her eyes kinda manic as she uncaps the lipstick with a plop and twists the bottom until the slanted tip peeks from the plastic.
Canary, meet cat.
Steve furrows his brows, leans his head back when Carol comes closer, brandishing the lipstick in her hand like a tiny knife.
“Hold still, Stevie,” she says and reaches for his chin with her free hand, “or do you want me to mess this up?”
“Yes?” Steve says, because that would be less embarrassing, he thinks? It’s bad enough that he’s going through with it, everyone’s going to see him like this, but it would be even worse if they thought he let them do it to him willingly.
Tina’s hand tightens in his hair and he can hear the bubble of her gum pop above him. “Don’t be stupid, Steve. It’ll look like you frenched someone, what will Wheeler think?”
Steve frowns, tilts his head back over the backrest of the chair to look upside-down at her face. “I’m not stupid. This is stupid.” He gestures in the approximate direction of the lipstick, at the round brush in Tina’s hand, like, see. Then he crosses his arms over his chest.
What he doesn’t say is that this is so stupid, it’s, like, in the top three of Stupid Things Steve Harrington Has Done. He hasn’t decided yet if it takes second place or third, but it’s definitely beneath the all-time number one: falling in love with Nancy Wheeler.
He’s still debating if fighting monsters from another dimension with a gaggle of middle schoolers as backup should be runner-up, because, let’s be honest, that’s like peak stupid. But then again, he’s been somewhat accepted into the dweeb squad since then, has become an honorary member of sorts, and Dustin won’t shut up about how goddamn awesome Steve looked taking on those demon-dogs or whatever, so.
Steve decides domo-dog fighting takes third place, because he gets nothing out of this but a rash from the damn pantyhose.
Speaking of which–Steve grabs the crotch of the stupid thing through the fabric of the skirt and pulls it back, gives himself some breathing room down there. It works for all of two seconds, then the mesh slips from between his fingers and snaps back in place against his gonads. Ouch.
“Ouch,” Steve says.
Carol cackles and Tina snorts. Steve would very much like to be drunk for this, not just tipsy, but Carol told him he can’t get sloppy, or else he’ll look like a tramp. So, no more punch for good ol’ Steve, apparently.
“Poor Stevie,” Carol coos and straddles his lap, and Steve says, “woah, hey.”
He throws up his hands, keeps them away from Carol, because this is a very compromising position, and he doesn’t want Tommy to walk in and catch him looking like he’s fondling his girlfriend, or something. He’s been beat up by other guys enough times to last him a lifetime, thank you.
“Relax,” Carol says, and pinches his chin between her thumb and forefinger, tilts his head back half an inch. “Be a good girl and this will all be over soon.”
Steve feels his face flush, because some parts of that sentence don’t sit right with him, or shouldn’t, at least. The right corner of Carol’s mouth ticks up, and Steve doesn’t like the look in her eyes when she glances at his cheeks, but can’t put his finger on why.
“Open up,” she tells him, and Steve figures he might as well. Carol’s right, the better he behaves, the sooner this will be over and he can make his round of the party as was asked, and then he can slink off again, get out of this ridiculous get-up and bow out with at least some of his dignity still intact. He’s done worse.
Probably.
Steve opens his mouth. Carol straight-up laughs at him.
“What!”
She shakes her head, her nose scrunched, because that’s what happens when she really laughs, and Steve hasn’t seen that in ages, so he smiles a bit, too. Despite the angry flush burning at his throat, despite the fact that he knows she’s laughing at him because she thinks he’s an idiot.
“Not like that,” Carol says and pats his cheek. Smiles. “Just. Relax your chin a bit and part your lips. Kinda like you’re going in for a kiss.”
Steve frowns, rolls that around his head for a bit, because he’s got no idea how he looks when he goes in for a kiss. It’s not like he makes a habit of kissing mirrors, or something. He’s not that conceited.
“Like,” he gestures to his face in general and then imagines he’s about to go in for a kiss. He thinks he’s not supposed to let his eyelids slip halfway shut, too, but whatever, Carol asked, so Carol gets.
Carol is back to grinning, and her face is very close. He can smell the punch on her breath, sweet and a bit biting. “Just like that, don’t move.”
She grabs his chin again and tilts his face back towards the lights, and then she touches the tip of the lipstick to his bottom lip. It feels weird. Thicker than chapstick, heavier somehow, chalkier, too, and he guesses that’s the pigment.
Carol drags the lipstick over his mouth, and he can feel it pull at his too-dry skin. Carol’s brows are furrowed in concentration, and she sucks her bottom lip into her mouth when she gets to the corner of Steve’s mouth, like she’s really trying to not mess this up.
Steve wants to tell her it’s a lost cause, but he doesn’t think she’d appreciate him talking right now. So he sits and lets her paint his lips, and he grabs the edge of the chair only a little bit too hard.
Tina has gravitated towards Carol’s side. She’s chewing her gum, has her elbow propped up on the arm she’s wrapped around her waist, and she bounces the round brush on her shoulder while she watches. He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to like the appreciation on her face or be worried by it.
“Open up a bit more,” Carol says, pushes the pad of her thumb into his chin until he does. She drags the lipstick over the very edge of the inside of his lips, where the skin gets all soft and slick and sensitive. Steve shudders a bit, because that, yeah, freaking weird.
“Now do this.” She points at her own mouth and folds her lips inward, moves them back and forth over one another, then side to side. Steve tries to mirror it, thinks he might be doing alright, if her nod’s anything to go by. Carol plucks a paper tissue from her collar, folds it in half and holds it out to him with two hands. “Now close your lips around this.”
Steve sticks out his tongue when he’s done that, too, and plucks tiny tissue fibers from the tip of his tongue. Yuck.
Carol puts the cap back on the lipstick, then claps her hands awkwardly together, lipstick tube clenched between thumb and forefinger. “Alright, Stevie, you’re all done!”
She gets off his lap, regards him for a moment like Steve imagines an artist would regard their latest creation, tilts her head from side to side and looks him up and down. Then she grins. Very wide and very sharp. Steve fights the urge to swallow and loses.
Tina blows a bubble and lets it pop. “Lookin’ good, Steve.”
“Ha ha,” Steve says, voice flat.
“Wanna take a look?” Carol holds out her hands, and Steve leaves his own curled around the edge of his seat.
“Not really?”
She stares him down, makes grabby-hands at him. “Don’t be a sourpuss, Stevie. You gotta at least appreciate my work.” She cocks her head, gives him a lop-sided grin. “You’ve never looked so pretty.”
“Alright, fine,” Steve says, because the less he drags his feet, the sooner he can fucking leave. He still rolls his eyes before peeling his hands off the chair and grabbing Carol’s. It’s fortunate he didn’t try to stand up on his own, though, because he wobbles on his heels, says, “woah.”
“Don’t be dramatic, they’re only kitten heels,” Tina says, as if that’s supposed to mean something. Steve shoots her a glare and then Carol drags him over to the large mirror beside the vanity, and how the hell do women work in these shoes, hell, if he manages to survive the evening without twisting both of his ankles, Steve’s the fucking man.
Or woman, he guesses.
Carol straightens him with her hands on his shoulders, and then she reaches up to his hair, pulls a stray strand back in place, and Steve wonders how it even got de-placed with the amount of hairspray Tina dumped onto it. He’d almost choked on the fumes, and he swears he can still taste the tacky, synthetic, poor-excuse-for-floral fragrance somewhere between his molars.
“Alright, Stevie, try not to swoon,” Carol says and steps aside with a flourish to let him look at his reflection.
Steve stares. Blinks.
The very tall, very flat-chested and narrow-hipped woman in the mirror blinks back at him.
“Holy shit,” Steve says, wobbles on the damn heels, catches himself with a hand on the vanity. He inches a bit closer, sways forward. Touches his cheek, his jaw. He curls a finger beneath his mouth, pulls his bottom lip down. His teeth are very white between very, very red lips.
It’s. He doesn’t know what it is. It's–an experience?
His jaw is still angular, still somewhat male, but the powdery blush softens the line of his cheekbones, makes his cheeks rounder, somehow. His lips are fire-engine red and look full, glossy. There’s glittery, soft pink powder on his eyelids, going all the way up to his brows, and a bit of kohl behind his painted lashes, and he thinks of Bambi, or Bette Davis.
He looks soft. Feminine.
Tina’s blown out his hair so it curls around his face in big, sweeping waves, over his forehead and along one side. The hair at his temple on the other side is tucked back behind his ear, fastened with a small black bow. It shows off the round clip earring at his earlobe.
Steve looks away from his face, follows the line of his throat, catches the jut of his Adam’s apple–still somehow there, he almost expected it to be gone–trails his gaze over his bare shoulders, down to the straight cleavage of the dress running horizontally across his chest and continuing around his biceps. The dress is very tight all the way to where it ends just at his knees. There’s a broad black belt wrapped around his middle, to give him at least the illusion of a waist, or so Tina said when she pulled it so tight he’d suddenly had the urge to say sorry to every woman of the 18-hundreds, because they must’ve been goddamn miserable.
“What’cha think, Sandy,” Tina says. “Like your makeover?”
Steve catches her eyes over the shoulder of his reflection. He’ll never be able to watch Grease again, ever. Steve makes a face. He goddamn loves that movie, man. “Very funny.”
Tina cocks one brow. “Think Danny’ll like it, too?”
“Jesus Christ, Tina.” Steve raises his hands to his face to hide, but then he remembers he’s got make-up on, and Carol’s right there, so he goes for his hair instead, means to run his fingers through it in frustration, but it’s all stiff and tacky, and he gets his fingers, like, maybe half an inch inside before he’s caught and has to pull back his hands again. He grimaces. “Shit.”
Because he’s got nothing else he can do, he wraps his arms around his middle and stares at the woman in the mirror. She looks just as unsure as he feels.
The knock on the door startles him hard enough he wobbles again, and Carol grabs his elbow, squeezes.
“Girls,” Tommy calls through the door, snickers like he just made the greatest joke of the decade, because he's a dick and Steve hates him so much, “are you done? You’ve been in there for, like, an hour already. Don’t tell me Stevie got cold feet. We’ve all been waiting to finally see her.” He snickers again.
“Shut up, Tommy,” Carol snaps back. “Beauty takes time, asshole. Anyway, we’re almost done.”
Tommy raps his knuckles against the door again. “Hurry the fuck up, or half the people down there will be too fucking drunk to see Stevie in a skirt.”
Carol turns back to Steve, pats his arm. She smiles up at him, and her eyes glint a bit, like she’s proud, or maybe that’s just the lighting. “Ignore him. You look good. Own it and they’ll choke on their laughter.”
Steve doesn’t know what to say, can only swallow against the lump in his throat and nod.
“Well, that won’t do.” Carol sighs like he’s disappointed her, and, hey, unfair. She steps around him towards the vanity, picks up some of the bottles artfully displayed there on tiny silver trays until, “Aha!”
She holds up the square flacon and shakes it from side to side in her palm. Steve’s seen it before, on his mother’s vanity, recognizes the black writing on the small white label.
Carol turns towards him, uncaps the perfume and thrusts it under his nose. Her eyes are positively sparking now. Steve’s gonna catch fire if he doesn’t watch out. “Smell that, Stevie? That’s the smell of a sexy, independent, successful woman.”
“What?” Steve says, voice a bit reedy, a bit breathless, but Carol doesn’t hear him, or, more likely, doesn’t care. She reaches up, tips his head to the side with a finger on his chin, spritzes a bit of the perfume behind the hinge of his jaw, then on the other side, on the hollow of his throat, both his wrists.
Then she recaps the bottle, drops it on the vanity without bothering to return it to its rightful place, and flaps her hands up towards his face. “Breathe it in, Stevie, find that sexy, independent, successful woman inside you.”
“What,” Steve says, like a broken record. All he smells is Chanel No. 5, and that doesn’t make him feel sexy, it just reminds him of his mom.
Carol huffs, grabs his wrist and pulls him to the door. “Alright, I tried. You’re on your own.”
Steve stumbles after her. His feet are already smarting like a bitch, because Carol’s mom might have big feet for a woman, but the shoes are still, like, ten sizes too small. But he didn’t say that when Tina shoved them on his feet, because he had to think of that freaky European version of Cinderella, and he wasn’t completely sure Carol wouldn’t go as far as cutting off his toes so she could quote, unquote, realize her vision.
Yeah, she’s fucking insane.
Carol pulls the door open, and the sounds of the party downstairs crash over Steve like a wave. The bass is thundering in his ears, the air is heavy with smoke, booze and teenage sweat. It’s a disgusting, heady mix, and Steve can’t completely blame it on the heels when he steadies himself against the wall beside the door.
Carol flings the door shut, doesn’t bother locking it because all of Hawkins High knows what befalls them should they dare enter Mommy and Daddy Perkins’ bedroom, and it isn’t pretty. There’s a reason Carol’s been voted Prom Queen every year. And it’s not because she’s nice.
“Keep an eye on him so he doesn’t run off,” she tells Tina as she herds Steve down the hallway and towards the edge of the staircase.
There, she turns to Steve, cups his cheeks in her palms, touch feather-light to avoid smudging her work. “Remember, Stevie, I’m doing this for you,” she says, gaze boring into his eyes. Steve blinks, because that’s a bit much, and she pats his cheek, sighs like the overworked but loving single mother in those romance movies Ma H. likes to watch. “Wait for your cue.”
Then she glides down the stairs, all Queen Carol, hostess of the best high school parties in all of Hawkins, her smile wide and perfect, and kinda mean.
Steve slumps back against the wall, wraps his arms around himself and taps his fingers against his elbow in a senseless beat. Tina leans her shoulder against the wall next to him, twists a finger into the curly strand at her ear and chews her gum.
Steve looks at the stupid pointy shoes and waits for his stupid cue.
For a long moment, there’s nothing. The party sounds like every other party; music loud enough to make the speakers scratch, jeering guys and laughing girls, a group of people telling someone to chug, chug, chug, someone yelling someone else’s name to get their attention over all that noise.
The music stops, right in the middle of a building guitar solo. Steve snaps his head up. Aw, fuck. He’d hoped whatever Carol’d planned would’ve been too silent to carry over the din so he could claim ignorance. He would’ve gone down eventually and kept his head low, mixed into the crowd and stopped by the people who needed to see him long enough to pay his debt, and then he would’ve gotten the hell out of Dodge.
Yeah, not gonna happen now.
Because Carol fucking loves drama, and this must feel like she hit the goddamn jackpot.
Downstairs, people boo, and Steve agrees.
“Turn the music back on,” someone calls, but then a hush falls over the room. Someone giggles, too loud in the sudden silence of the Queen holding court. Steve grinds his teeth, tugs hard on the strand of hair falling across his forehead.
“Ladies, gentlemen,” Carol says, and Steve can see her in his mind, standing on the couch table with solo cups and half-empty snack bowls around her feet, her arms spread, smile edged. “Assorted weirdos. Yeah, I see you, Byers. Get that camera ready, because,” a dramatic pause–god, that girl’s infuriating, “I give you Stevie!”
There are cheers, of all the fucking things, and applause. Someone starts up a chant of his name, Ste-vie, Ste-vie, and Steve would bet the fucking Beamer it’s Tommy, and then the room’s full of it, and Steve’s gotta go make his way down these stairs without stumbling and landing ass over head at the bottom. Easy.
Tina pops her gum, nudges his shoulder. “Make ‘em choke, Sandy.”
And for her, that’s as good as a ringing endorsement, so Steve steels himself with a deep breath, wraps a hand around the banister, and descends to do the second stupidest thing he’s ever done in his life.
He keeps a deathgrip on the banister, because although falling down the fucking stairs in a dress would still not be stupid enough to take first place on his little list, it would be cutting very close, and he does want to keep the little bit of dignity he still has left, thanks ever so much.
As soon as his legs and the edge of his skirt come into view, there’s whistles, some laughter. That chant’s still going, urging him on.
Steve’s about ready to bolt.
Be a good girl and this will all be over soon, Carol’s voice reminds him in his head, and he can almost feel a tiny version of her sitting on his shoulder, dressed like a devil, poking at him with her miniature red trident. God, he needs some alcohol, like, last week.
“Yeah, Stevie, give us a show,” someone yells, and someone sounds suspiciously like Tommy. Steve’s gonna strangle him with the goddamn pantyhose. “Get down here!”
By the grace of a higher power, or sheer dumb luck, Steve makes it all the way down towards the L-bent leading into the living room without stumbling, and then he stands there for a moment as the cheering grows even louder, and people are whistling, still fucking chanting his name.
He blinks at the crowd in front of him, sees Carol standing on the couch table, just like he’d thought she would. She cups her hands in front of her mouth, shouts, “lookin’ good, Stevie,” and in that moment he loves her a little bit. Because this feels like old times. This is the kind of shit they would get up to before Nancy, when it was the three of them, Tommy, Carol and Steve against the world, sticking it to their parents with booze and weed and parties just like this.
Just, with less chafing pantyhoses and too-tight skirts for Steve.
Whatever, he feels a bit like his old self in that moment, like Keg King Steve, the life of the fucking party with all eyes on him. It doesn’t feel bad, feels like an old favorite jacket across his shoulders, and he thinks he can wear that for tonight. Until he wakes up tomorrow and goes to pick up the geek squad to take them to do nerd shit, at least.
Steve grins, lets go of the banister, shifts one foot in front of the other, spreads his arms wide, and curtsies.
The crowd goes wild. Someone throws a cup of punch across the room, and Steve laughs at the shrieks, pumps his fist into the air and listens to the applause raining down on him. A camera flashes.
“Let’s fucking party,” Carol yells, and then the music is back on, bass pulsing, guitar riffs grating, some hair metal vocalist screaming his heart out through a scratchy throat. The crowd moves and undulates with no sense of rhythm or grace as cliques form again and people stumble across the room to refill their cups, get outside for a breath of fresh air or to ralph on Mommy Perkins' petunias.
Someone pushes a cup at Steve, and he takes it, doesn’t even sniff it before taking a large gulp, fuck looking like a tramp. There are still two steps in front of him leading down into the living room and the mass of bodies, and Steve steps down the first one, ducks a wayward flying chip and laughs. He’s getting the hang of these heels, he thinks.
Of course, that’s when he slips.
There’s like, no tread to speak of on these shoes, and he miscalculated the width of the bottom step, puts the ball of his foot not far enough ahead, slides off the ledge, and the damn kitten heel catches in the carpet, there’s nothing but air beneath most of his foot, and he’s tilting forward before he can even think oh shit.
His empty hand shoots out, finds someone’s shoulder, fingers clenching in slick satin and digging into muscle. But he’s still tilting forward, the ground hurtling up towards his face, shit–
An arm wraps around his middle, large palm cupping the dip of his waist, and he’s pulled to the side and against a hard chest with an ease that’s almost insulting, or, well, enviable. Steve blinks and gets his feet back under himself, huffs a laugh.
“Thanks, man,” he says while he disentangles his fingers from the shirt of whatever convenient He-Man-kinda-guy he’s been lucky enough to grab onto, and pats the broad shoulder. “Appreciate it.”
“Anytime, princess,” He-Man drawls around the filter of a smoke, and Steve wishes he’d just taken the fucking dive and knocked himself out on the hardwood. Fuck.
“Hargrove,” he says, like an accusation.
“Harrington,” Hargrove says, cheerful, with the unlit cigarette bouncing between his teeth. He looks fucking delighted, even though he has to tilt his head up at Steve like this–ha, suck on it, Hargrove–and Steve narrows his eyes down at him. Hargrove goes on, “seems it’s true what they say; girls do keep throwing themselves at me.”
He’s still got his arm around Steve’s waist, so Steve reaches over and pinches the back of his hand. Hargrove doesn’t let go, but his fingers tighten, and his nostrils flare, and his smirk gains a bit of an edge.
Steve narrows his eyes even further, until Hargrove blurs a bit around the edges. “I didn’t throw myself at you. I fell.”
Hargrove licks at his teeth, which he does a lot, come to think of it. It’s not like Steve wanted to notice that, but it’s kinda hard not to when Hargrove keeps tonguing at his lips and teeth every fucking five minutes like he’s perpetually licking the remains of his favorite dessert from his mouth. It’s kinda disgusting, really. It is.
Hargrove’s grin gets even wider and Steve didn't think that was even possible.
“Did you now,” he says, purrs, like some kinda large cat, and Steve feels like an especially tasty cut of meat, somehow.
“I’m not a girl,” Steve says, because he feels like he has to.
Hargrove chuckles, and Steve hates him so, so much.
“You sure about that, princess?” His arm tightens around Steve’s waist, and he has to push his hand against Hargrove’s shoulder to keep some distance between them.
Steve is getting kinda warm, and he hopes the powder blush covers the flush he can feel spreading on his cheeks. Hargrove’s a fucking furnace, okay? And the silky shirt he’s wearing is not very thick, and it’s not like it’d matter anyway if it was, because apparently, Hargrove has an aversion to fucking buttons, or, not like buttons themselves, but actually buttoning them. It makes Steve wonder if there’s some kinda, like, illness, where you can’t have your chest covered above the navel or you’ll literally die. There’s really no other reason Hargrove would dress like that.
“Yeah, pretty fucking sure.”
“Stevie,” Tommy says, all long Es and extra-Is and up-and-down singsong voice right by Steve’s ear, and then Steve’s got an arm slung around his neck and Tommy’s hand dangling somewhere at his chest. “Always knew you could pull off a skirt.”
“Shut up,” Steve says and tries to shrug off Tommy’s arm. He’s getting, like, really hot, and he doesn’t think Carol’ll appreciate her hard work dripping off his face in sweaty rivulets just because both Tommy and Hargrove’ve suddenly decided they’re in the mood for a Steve-Sandwich. “Leave some room for Jesus, man.”
Tommy laughs, and his hand paws at Steve’s chest with booze-loose fingers. His breath smells like the whole goddamn punch bowl. “I’m just being friendly, man, don’t get your panties in a twist. Besides,” he arches his brows, “didn’t hear you complain to Hargrove here.”
Steve chokes on his spit, coughs.
Hargrove’s eyes light up like a freaking Christmas tree. “What’s with that reaction, Harrington?” he asks, leans in, and his stupid tongue’s peeking out between his teeth again, “don’t tell me you’re actually wearing panties?”
“What,” Steve coughs, and shit, no amount of blush in the world would be able to cover up the red that must be spreading all over his face, because Steve feels like someone’s dumped a cup of hot coffee over his head. “No! What the fuck, Hargrove,” he wheezes, “‘course I’m not wearing fucking panties.”
“Harrington, Harrington, Harrington,” Hargrove tuts. “Your momma never taught you not to lie?”
His hand inches down, towards Steve’s hip, as if he’s seeking out the lines of a lacy waistband through the fabric of the dress. Steve squirms. He brings up his other hand, the cup with the punch crinkling between his fingers as he pushes his knuckles against Hargrove’s other shoulder and leans back as far as he can. Which is not much, with Tommy still plastered to his side like some kinda sweaty, boozy ragdoll.
“I know I said you’d have to dress like a girl for the night,” Hargrove says, and his fingers drag over the jut of Steve’s hipbone, and Steve thinks no one should be forced to wear clothes this thin, because he could swear he can feel every callus on Hargrove’s fingertips as if he’s wearing nothing at all, and that’s concerning. “But I didn’t think you’d go all the way.”
Steve grimaces. “Don’t be weird, man.” He pushes at Hargrove’s shoulders. It’s as effective as pushing at a brick wall. Goddamn off-brand Conan, man. This is ridiculous. “It’s not like I handed my dick in, or something.”
“Coulda fooled me,” Tommy says. “Thought Wheeler keeps it locked in a box in her bedroom, or something.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Steve says, and twists around, sways, steadies himself with a hand around Hargrove’s, which has relocated to Steve’s belly, which, weird, but whatever. He peels one finger off the cup he’s still fucking holding, and stabs it at Tommy’s face until he goes cross-eyed. “I’m still, like, the second-manliest guy here, Hagan, even in a skirt.”
Tommy’s nostrils flare, and he glares at Steve over the mouth of the cup. “Yeah? So who’s the manliest?”
Steve sucks in a breath, opens his mouth. Hargrove’s chuckle is a hot burst of air against his neck, and Steve can feel it trickle down his spine to settle at the end and spread, warm and itchy, at the small of his back. Damnit.
Hargrove hooks his chin over Steve’s shoulder. His stupid hair tickles Steve’s cheek and the side of his neck. Steve already thought of Hargrove as a meathead, but that might actually, literally, be true, because Hargrove’s head is fucking heavy, and his chin is digging into Steve’s collarbone, and his stubble is scratchy, and his skin feels like a million degrees.
The thumb at Steve’s belly moves up, up, towards the edge of the belt, pushing beneath it, and Steve leans backwards a bit, like he can escape the small point of pressure like that. But all that does is bring him closer to Hargrove’s chest, and this might actually be The Stupidest Thing Steve Harrington has ever done, fuck falling in love with Nancy.
“Your mom,” Steve says, because Tommy’s still staring at him, and Steve really wants to keep it that way. “Obviously.”
It’s lame, Steve knows it is, his delivery is all off, just on the other side of breathless, but Hargrove still laughs, and Steve feels it in his back, feels it bounce around his own chest right beneath his sternum.
“Careful, Hagan,” Hargrove says, all lazy and deep, like bass strings in Steve’s belly. “Kitten’s got claws.”
Steve bites down on his cheek, because the first thing his stupid brain came up with at that was that weird noise Henderson keeps making, and what the fuck, he’s not that drunk, but he is something alright. Being cooked, maybe, with Hargrove draped over his back like that.
“Yeah,” Tommy sneers, “real feisty, that one.”
Hargrove flicks his lighter open, finally lights that stupid cigarette. “Nothing wrong with feisty,” he says, and his hand pushes down on Steve’s abdomen, pulls him that bit closer against Hargrove’s front, Jesus. “Gives a man a bit of a challenge.”
“Christ,” Steve spits, “you two dickwads actually know I’m not a girl, do you?”
“Whatever you say, babygirl.” The words are accompanied by a cloud of smoke, and Steve chokes on it, blinks a few times. Of course it’s the smoke, but.
Babygirl.
What?
Steve sucks down a breath. It shudders all the way down into his lungs, and he’s surprised he can’t hear his ribs clinking together like glassware during an earthquake, because that’s how brittle he feels. Like his bones are hollow all of a sudden, like there’s nothing but air and bone-china in the cavern of his chest.
Babygirl, Billy Hargrove says, and it drops into the empty space of Steve’s ribcage, down, down, down, into his gut, and there it bursts, spreads, hot and hungry, through his body. Seeps into his skin and beneath, makes his fingertips prickle with pinpricks, like when they’ve fallen asleep and now the blood’s rushing back in, and it’s too much, Billy’s still got his chin hooked over Steve’s shoulder and his hand on Steve’s belly, and his chest pressed against Steve’s back, and fuck.
“Fuck,” Steve chokes out, and his hand spasms, clenches, his joints cracking and popping–
But no, that’s the solo cup actually, thin plastic bending and carving and crinkling beneath his curled fingers, and the red punch inside rises towards the rim, and rises, until the first drops spill over the white edge and onto Steve’s fingers.
“Ah, fuck,” Steve says again, louder this time, and loosens his grip, and honestly, this is all fucking Hargrove’s fault.
It happens in slow motion, but Steve’s overcooked brain is still unable to kick him into action. And so he watches with the same kind of dazed wonder he’d watched Johnathan’s fist cut through the air towards him ages ago, knowing what’s going to happen and still unable to stop it.
So the cup slides from his fingers, and of course it doesn’t tip towards Tommy, because nothing ever happens like Steve wants it to, really, and then he’s got punch all over his chest, lukewarm and sticky, and just, yeah, perfect. Fucking perfect.
Tommy shakes his head and snorts. “You’re such a clutz, Stevie.”
Steve wants to tell him to fuck off.
“Carol’s gonna kill me,” is what he says instead.
He grimaces, pulls the front of the dress away from his chest with pinched fingers, shudders at the way it peels back from his skin. At least Hargrove’s finally backed off, so. Small blessings, and all that.
Steve lets go of the dress and wipes his hands on the skirt with moderate success. “I’ll just,” he says and flaps his hand towards the stairs, “yeah.”
He steps around Hargrove, feels their shoulders bumping together, but doesn’t react. He feels fucking disgusting, and he’s just finding out that punch and pantyhoses don’t mix well, at all, and he really, really needs a shower.
Steve stomps upstairs as quickly as the heels will allow, because falling up the stairs would just be the fucking cherry on top of the shitpile this evening has turned into since that stupid bet, and of course it’s only when he’s made it all the way up to the second floor that he realizes that he could’ve taken off the stupid shoes, and yeah, that’s why people think he’s dumb. Because actually, he is. Sometimes.
Steve kicks off the shoes and watches them slide across the floor. Then he feels bad, because Carol’s mom has nothing to do with this and Steve only has himself to blame. His feet slip over the polished parquet flooring as he shuffles his way down the hallway towards the master bedroom, picks up the shoes on the way and then ducks through the door.
He sags against the door at his back, breathes. The party’s still raging downstairs, but the solid wood muffles the noise enough, the bass line of whatever pop song playing nothing but a quiet hum shuddering through the door. The Perkins’ seem to like their privacy, Steve can appreciate that.
He lets the back of his head drop against the door with a thud and closes his eyes. “Stupid,” he says, and then, “stupid, stupid, stupid.”
Every word is accompanied by another thud of his skull against wood. Steve wonders if he’ll pass out if he does it long enough, because, honestly, he’s so fucking ready for this night to end.
Just for good measure, he clunks his head against the door for a last time and then pushes away to slink off to the en suite.
He blinks against the brightness when he flips on the light, then catches his face in the large mirror above the sink and wishes he’d just not bothered.
He looks, well. Like someone dumped a drink on him, for a start. The stretch of skin from his collarbones to his chest is stained pink, the dress is dark red with moisture across his whole front, all the way down to his thighs. His face, while thankfully punch-less, doesn’t look that much better. The mascara has left feathery swipes of black on his eyelids and the sweat along his hairline and above his mouth has smudged the makeup. Even his hair has lost some of its volume, hanging all droopy over his forehead.
The only thing still somewhat untouched is the lipstick. Some of it has come off along the part of his lips, and Steve thinks of the crumpled cup downstairs and the red imprint of lips along its rim. There’s a bit of red beneath his bottom lip, just a tiny streak, and he rubs at it, then wonders why he even bothers and shakes his head.
“Fuck this,” he tells the woman in the mirror and her smudged makeup. Her eyes are glinting. With anger, Steve decides.
He crouches down and digs through the cabinet beneath the sink for a washcloth, then turns on the water. He holds the cloth beneath the stream and then just kinda stares at it, watches the fabric turn dark with moisture and his skin turn pink with the heat.
“What happened, babygirl,” Hargrove asks, “spilled something?”
Steve flinches so hard he bumps his knee into the cabinet door, curses. He jerks the tap closed and drops the cloth into the sink. Looks at Hargrove’s reflection in the mirror.
“You were there, asshole,” he says. His hands wrap around the raised edge of the sink, the porcelain cool against his clammy palms. Steve takes a deep breath that scratches at his too-dry throat.
“C’mon, darlin’, don’t be like that,” Hargrove says. He’s leaning against the door frame, his chin tilted up, another cigarette between his lips. His thumbs are hooked into his belt loops, and his shirt’s gaping open, pulling to the side, and there’s the tiniest curve of a dusty shadow at the edge of the red fabric, and.
Steve drags his gaze away, swallows. His fingertips dig into the sink until they turn white, bloodless. “Leave me alone, man. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit.”
Hargrove sighs, long-suffering and kinda put-on. Steve snaps his gaze back to Hargrove’s reflection, watches him peel himself off the doorframe and step into the bathroom. He kicks the door shut behind him, reaches for the lock without looking. The latch slides into place with a soft snick.
Steve furrows his brows, opens his mouth and then snaps it shut again when Hargrove takes another step towards him. The bathroom’s not that big to begin with, but now it feels tiny, crowded by Hargrove’s ego alone. Steve feels kinda breathless, clears his throat.
Hargrove draws closer still, steps right up into Steve’s personal space, until his chest is almost against Steve’s back, and for a moment, Steve tries to work out the success rate of clambering onto the counter without braining himself. He sucks at math, but even Steve knows that his chances aren’t great with a skirt that tight. Shit.
The edge of the counter digs into Steve’s hips. He licks his bottom lip, like that’ll help get out the words lodged in his throat. His voice is still reedy, the words come halting and mangled, “what are you doing?”
Hargrove shushes him, reaches up and pinches the cigarette with forefinger and thumb. The cherry at its end glows bright, Hargrove’s chest expands until Steve can feel it brush his back, just for a second, and then Hargrove exhales, plucks the smoke from his mouth and drills the butt into the counter. The embers hiss a dying breath in the small puddle by the edge of the sink.
His hands wrap around the counter by Steve’s hips, arms bracketing his sides, corralling him against hard marble. Steve thinks about climbing the sink again, thinks he might take his chances, and then Hargrove’s thumb drags along the jut of his hipbone.
Steve makes a tiny noise, a hiccup of choked breath, and then clamps his mouth shut, mortified. Hargrove’s smile is knife-sharp above his shoulder, and he holds Steve’s gaze in the mirror even when he turns his head towards Steve’s neck.
“Look at you,” Hargrove says, every syllable a hot puff of breath against Steve’s earlobe, “all dolled up for me.”
Steve’s losing his mind. Or, or, Hargrove is. There must’ve been something in the punch, there’s no other explanation. Some kinda mind-altering drug, that, he doesn’t know, fucks with your perception, makes you all loopy, and, and.
Hargrove’s eyes are dark in the mirror, two black pits rimmed by a sliver of summer-sky. Steve can see Hargrove’s nostrils flare, hears his inhale, thinks he can feel it, against his neck, like a feather-brush of fingertips. Against his back, the press of firm muscle at his shoulder blades.
A shiver makes its way down Steve’s spine, languid as a pair of fingers walking down the length of raised bones.
Steve doesn’t dare move. Feels like a sheep with a wolf at its back, caught between marble and Billy’s chest, literally a rock and a fucking hard place, and fuck. He makes a noise that’s almost a laugh, almost a strangled whine, and it sounds nothing like him.
The woman in the mirror stares back at him, eyes wide, kinda wild, pupils dilated and eating away at the iris. Her mouth is parted, lips so red and shiny, and her face is flushed, pink all over, dipping past her angular jaw, bleeding over her throat to her collarbones.
Steve looks away from her, back at Hargrove’s reflection without wanting to, but doing it all the same, because he can’t not, is pulled in, compass needle to true north, even while the rest of him is reeling.
Hargrove’s nose nudges at the hinge of Steve’s jaw, where the skin feels paper-thin, and Steve’s heart’s in his throat, beating against his skin like it wants to break through.
Hargrove’s thumb moves up, towards Steve’s waist, and the rest of the hand follows, cups his hip, fingertips like brands through the flimsy fabric, burning right through to his skin. Steve bites down on his lip, jerks forward against the counter. His fingers curl against the porcelain until his knuckles ache.
“Shh,” Hargrove says against the curve of Steve’s neck, chapped lips dragging against his heartbeat, “you’re a mess, babygirl. Lemme take care of you.”
He might’ve as well hit Steve straight in the chest. Steve’s heart gives a throb that jolts through his whole body, turns his bones to jelly, and Steve sags against the counter, all of the air leaving his mouth in a rush that makes him dizzy, and Hargrove’s hands are around him, one splayed over his belly, the other at his chest, holding him up, pulling him in against the furnace at his back.
Steve feels drunk, kinda. Loopy and dazed, breathless. Hargrove’s hands move over his body with a lazy confidence Steve’s not familiar with. Those hands are so wide, strong, sure of themselves. Steve watches Hargrove’s right move along the dip of a red-covered waist, towards the thick belt. He sees the woman in the mirror shudder when Hargrove’s fingers slide the tongue of the belt through the buckle, feels the belt pull tight around his waist, pushing out that last bit of air left in his lungs. Her head drops back onto a broad shoulder. Her eyes are almost black beneath half-closed eyelids and the painted fan of lashes.
“Good girl,” Hargrove purrs and the pressure of the belt eases. The buckle clatters against the tiles. “So good for me.”
Steve hums in the back of his throat and Hargrove’s hands twitch, splay, push down onto skin and muscle like he wants to dip inside, wants to leave imprints of his fingers and palms. Heat seeps into Steve wherever Hargrove is touching him, and it gathers in the pit of his stomach, hot and hungry and needy.
“Gonna take good care of you, babygirl.” Hargrove’s voice is deep and silky smooth, slides along his skin like molasses. “Gonna make you feel so good.”
The woman in the mirror nods, yes, please. Her lips part around a tiny gasp, and her tongue flicks out to lick at her red, red lips. Steve’s burning up, caught in the wildfire at his back and wrapped around him. Hargrove drags his fingers over his chest, and Steve looks for the black lines of soot and burned fabric in their wake, but the dress looks the same it did before.
He feels strange, pulled apart towards two places, caught between his body and the image in the mirror, that woman who wears his face but isn’t anything like him. Who lets Billy Hargrove touch her like she likes it, wants it, who shudders and gasps and gets called babygirl. She moves so prettily in Hargrove’s arms, all loose limbs and willowy body trembling apart, putty beneath the broad hands holding her together.
Steve worries at his bottom lip, feels the sting of his teeth. Hargrove’s right hand moves down his thigh, fingers curl around the seam of the skirt, tug it up and out of the way. Hargrove’s hand wraps around his thigh, fingernails scratch with a hiss over mesh as his hand makes its way up, up, up, towards the sensitive crease where thigh meets hip.
Hargrove chuckles. Steve feels it in his chest, rolling through the gaps between his bones like a big cat’s purr. He shudders, blinks.
“Well, look at that,” Hargrove says, “aren’t you eager, baby.”
Steve follows his line of sight in the mirror, and shame burns hot in his cheeks when he realizes what Hargrove’s looking at. He makes a strangled little noise in the back of his throat, hands finally letting go of the sink and flying up to his face, but Hargrove stops him, grabs his wrists and pulls his hands away.
“No, no, babygirl, don’t be embarrassed.”
Steve swallows, looks down at his reflection, the red skirt stretching over the hard line at his crotch. It’s, fuck, it’s obscene.
“Fuck,” Steve gasps, squeezes his eyes closed against the sight of his fucking hard-on pressing against the fabric of the skirt. He feels, shit, he feels so fucking strange right now. Embarrassed like he’s never been before, but also. Also, turned on, burning up, the shame amplifying everything to the nth degree, ramping up every drag of Hargrove’s fingers, every shifting inch of fabric over his straining cock.
Hargrove hums into the curve of Steve’s neck, teeth grazing skin in a sharp little nip, then a hot, wet tongue soothes the sting, and Steve chokes on his spit, jerks in his hold. Hargrove’s hand tightens around his hip til it hurts, fingers digging in, and then he pushes forward against Steve just as he pulls him back against him, and, oh. Oh fuck.
Steve’s never felt that before, but he sure as shit knows what it is.
Hargrove’s hard, just as hard as Steve, his cock a firm, hot line burning through layers of jeans and mesh, pressing against the curve of Steve’s asscheeks. Steve’s pushing back, grinding down against Billy’s crotch before he even realizes what he’s doing.
“Shit,” Billy says, and his teeth clamp down on Steve’s shoulder, fuck. The pain lances through Steve, white-hot and delicious, and he gasps, groans, doesn’t know what to do with himself, caught between the need to grind back against Billy and forward against the hard edge of the counter to get some friction on his straining cock, fuck.
Billy tears his mouth away from Steve’s shoulder, takes a deep breath. “Fuck, baby,” he says, and his voice is rough, hoarse, kinda wrecked. Steve likes how it sounds, likes it so much he pushes back again, rolls his hips with deliberate pressure. Billy’s fingers tighten on Steve’s hip until he thinks he’ll leave a bruise, or fucking, like, break Steve’s bones, but Steve’s never cared less about something as he does right now.
He wants. Fuck, he wants so bad.
“Billy.” Two syllables drop from red lips, and there are a thousand words wrapped into them, a million wants and pleas that he can’t quite pronounce, can’t name, but Billy hears it all the same. He nods, rolls his hips against Steve’s ass, pushes him into the counter.
“Yeah, baby, I got you,” he says, a rush of words almost stumbling over one another in their haste to get out. “I got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”
Steve nods hard enough his head might come off. “Yes. Yes, please.”
“I got you,” Billy says, “gonna fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before, babygirl.”
And fuck, Steve believes him. Not, like, because he’s never been fucked by a guy before, and what the fuck, actually, that thought should freak him out and have him run screaming from the room, but. But fuck, he can’t, he needs. This. This feeling of being held, taken, of opening up beneath unyielding pressure, of giving in, of being taken apart inch by inch until he loses it all.
He’s so tired of fighting, he just wants someone else to make the decisions right now, wants someone else to tell him what to do, where to go.
Wants to be taken care of.
The thought burns in his cheeks, somewhat shameful, because that’s not something a man should want, but.
Steve looks at the mirror, looks at his reflection, looks at her, with her molten eyes and rosy cheeks, her hungry mouth, and decides that tonight that’s who he’ll be.
“That’s it,” Billy says, as if he can read Steve’s mind, and his cock’s still rutting against Steve’s ass, hot and hard and relentless. “That’s it, baby.”
Steve watches himself stir in the mirror, watches his hands pull out of Billy’s hold. His right finds Billy’s at his hip, palm slotting over the back and fingers sliding between Billy’s. He’s entranced by the tan-white-tan pattern, the similarities and differences, because Billy’s dark and thick and wide where Steve’s pale and slim and long. It makes him feel almost delicate, and that makes him swallow, makes his heart jolt and stumble and stutter.
Steve twists his head to the side, catches Billy’s gaze over his shoulder. Billy’s still grinning, but there’s an edge to it, so sharp and hungry Steve thinks he might cut himself on in, can feel it like a knife at his ribs, sliding through skin and muscle between bone, deep, deep inside, to his jackrabbit-heart.
Steve’s empty hand reaches up, behind him, finds the back of Billy’s head, tugs. Billy huffs out a breath, pushes impossibly closer, pressed from head to toe to Steve’s back. His forehead knocks into Steve’s temple. His breath comes in hard, hot puffs against Steve’s cheek and the corner of his mouth. Steve tongue flicks out, chases the phantom-taste of smoke and beer against his lips. Billy’s hand curls into his hip, teases a gasp from Steve’s throat.
His eyes are so fucking dark. Steve wants to get lost in them.
Billy drags his mouth along Steve’s jaw, nips at his ear, then licks the sting away. “Gonna take care of you, baby.”
“Please,” Steve says again.
“Shit.” Billy’s hands fumble with the edge of the skirt, ruck it up over Steve’s hips with urgency and popping seams, and then there’s a hand digging roughly beneath the waistline of the pantyhose, the elastic of his briefs, and.
“Ngh,” Steve says, because Billy’s hand is rough and hot and callused and not at all shy as it wraps around his cock and squeezes.
“Shit, you’re so wet already,” Billy says, right in Steve’s ear, words like molten metal dripping straight into Steve’s brain. Billy thumbs at Steve’s cockhead, smears the precome around to drive home his point. “Wet for me, right, baby?”
“Yeah,” Steve says, all breathy and desperate, “for you.”
“Good girl,” Billy says and jerks Steve’s cock as hard and fast as the confines of the clothes will allow. Which isn’t much, and not even close to enough for Steve. He arches his back, whines, his head thrown back over Billy’s shoulder, baring his throat. Billy latches onto it like a starved vampire, all teeth and tongue and hungry mouth closing over his pulse.
“More,” Steve whimpers, hands scrabbling over the skirt, Billy’s arm, nails digging into hard cords of muscle.
“Fuck,” Billy says, and bites down, hard. Steve feels like he can count every fucking tooth digging into his skin. His breath catches in his throat, punches past his Adam’s apple in a groan that smacks of greedy desperation. Billy sucks at his neck, and Steve knows there’ll be a mark tomorrow, a purple bruise cradled by teeth marks, and the thought makes his dick twitch, makes his blood rush south.
Billy laughs against his neck, almost a little mean. He pulls back, brushes a kiss against the mark. “You’re fucking perfect, baby.”
He’s back at Steve’s jaw, nipping and biting and licking, and Steve lets him, lets him maul his face, would let him eat him up, only so he doesn’t stop. Steve’s hips jerk and roll, seeking friction, the tight clench of Billy’s fist around his cock, chasing the blinding high as his arousal roils and gathers and rises in his gut.
“Nuh uh uh,” Billy says and stops jerking him, squeezes the base of his cock until Steve hisses in pain. Steve blinks at the blurry light above him, digs his fingertips into Billy’s forearm. His hips stutter, but Billy wraps his other arm around them, holds him in place and thrusts against Steve’s ass, once, pointed. “Not yet, babygirl. You’re gonna come on my dick or not at all.”
Steve’s mouth falls open and the groan that claws its way out of it sounds like nothing he’s ever heard before. It’s, fuck, embarrassing how needy it is, almost primal, like he’s hurting with it, begging and wretched.
“Fuck,” Billy says, and his hips jerk, graceless, urgent, against Steve’s ass, hipbones digging into his cheeks, hard line of his cock digging into the crease. “Do you even hear yourself?”
Steve’s head lolls to the side and he smushes his face into the crook of Billy’s neck, drags his lips over the straining tendons and the throb of his pulse, breathes deep. Feels like he’s choking on the smoke-booze-spice-musk of Billy.
Billy chokes out half a curse, and something that sounds like Steve’s name, but that must’ve been his addled brain playing tricks on him, because Steve doesn’t get this, this is babygirl’s, and it doesn’t matter anyway, because then Billy’s got a hand in Steve’s hair, and he’s jerking his head up, makes Steve groan, mouth falling open, and then Billy smashes their lips together.
It’s too rough, too hard, too hungry. Their teeth click together. Steve tastes lipstick and beer and smoke, and Billy’s tongue is thick and hot and pushing past his teeth, pushing deep, like he wants Steve to choke on it. Steve will, if Billy wants him to. He sucks on Billy’s tongue, curls his own around it. He can feel spit drooling from the corner of his mouth, and it should be disgusting, but he doesn’t have it in him to care, only wants more.
Billy pulls his head back by his hair, makes Steve’s scalp prickle and sting in the most amazing way. Steve whines, and Billy laughs, all breathless and amused, and his eyes roam Steve’s face, every inch, like he wants to drink it all in and commit it to memory. His grin is all canines, hungry-wolf before the kill, lipstick like streaks of blood smeared over his mouth and the grown-out stubble above his upper lip.
“I’m gonna eat you up, baby,” Billy growls, and Steve looks at his eyes and thinks of black maelstroms in sapphire seas, wants to jump in head first and let himself be pulled down into the darkness.
Steve nods. “Whatever,” he says, licks his lips. His voice sounds like someone else’s, but it’s him that says, “whatever you want.”
Billy stiffens for half a second, eyes widening, and Steve has a moment of elation where his chest is full of air and his body feels weightless, because he made Billy react like that, he put that startled wonder on his face, it was him. Steve.
His heart is a hundred times too big for his chest. He’s going to burst.
Billy catches himself, and his grin is just this side of mean, but his eyes are wild, fever-glassy when he says, “gonna regret that, baby.”
Steve shakes his head, but Billy doesn’t even notice, too busy manhandling Steve until he’s folded in half over the counter and the sink, one of Billy’s hands around the back of his neck, pressing his face into the cool marble. The other hand is pushing and pulling up the skirt until it’s bunched around Steve’s waist, and then there’s the sound of popping, tearing mesh, the death throes of the pantyhose, and Steve feels a rush of cold air against his naked ass when Billy jerks the elastic of his briefs down. He shudders against the sensation, but then Billy’s hand is on his ass, kneading and pinching and pulling, fingertips digging roughly into muscle. “Fuck, yes.”
Steve’s chest floods with warmth, his cheeks are hot, and Billy leans in, drapes himself over Steve’s back, brings his mouth close to Steve’s ear.
“Gonna fuck you now, baby,” he says, and his thumb slides between Steve’s asscheeks, makes Steve’s flinch, caught between the instinct to crawl away from the foreign sensation and the want to push back against it, spear himself open on the thick digit. “Gonna get your pussy nice and went for my dick and fuck you so hard they’ll hear you downstairs.”
Heat rushes to Steve’s head. It feels like he’s drowning in boiling wine, drunk on Billy’s words, the thought of him fucking screams out of Steve loud enough to be heard over the hubbub downstairs fills him with as much shame as arousal. It’s a heady mix, far more potent than any punch Carol could ever dream to mix up. Steve groans, shudders. Billy brushes a kiss to the corner of his eye that feels almost tender, and it’s so at odds with everything else that Steve’s eyes are burning.
Billy pulls back, lets go of Steve’s nape and drags his fingers down his back, along his spine, counting every knob of bone on the way, dipping into the dimples above the curve of his ass. “So goddamn pretty,” Billy breathes, low enough that it feels like a confession not meant for Steve’s ears. It makes a soft warmth spread beneath Steve’s sternum, and his back arches, his legs straighten, and his ass pushes up into the air, and if he wasn’t so out of it, he’d be disgusted at himself.
As it is, he preens at the sound of Billy’s groan, his bit-off curse, and then there’s a hand on each of his ass cheeks, pulling them apart, and the blunt, dry tip of a thumb swiping the puckered muscle of his hole. Steve jerks, stops himself from climbing the counter the rest of the way to get away. He wrangles down a deep breath, squeezes his eyes shut. Billy’s finger doesn’t leave, keeps rubbing and stroking, and each brush sends jolts of electricity straight to Steve’s gut.
“You a virgin, baby?” Billy says, and the hunger turning his voice rough drips like a physical thing onto the small of Steve’s back, sinks through his skin into his belly. Steve blinks his eyes open, sucks down a breath.
“No,” he says, but it sounds like a question.
Billy stills. Then he shifts, fits the hard line of his cock between Steve’s asscheeks. The denim is rough against Steve’s skin, but it feels fucking amazing still when Billy’s words are each accompanied by a rough jerk of his hips. “Did anyone ever fuck your pussy, sweetheart.”
Steve shakes his head so hard he almost knocks himself out on the counter. “No!”
“Good,” Billy says with a last thrust, and then Steve’s got two fingers nudging at his lips. “Suck. Make ‘em nice and wet.”
Steve opens his mouth, tastes salt and nicotine and booze, feels calluses against his tongue. He sucks and laves at Billy’s fingers, pushes his tongue between them, wraps it around them until there’s spit gathering at the corners of his mouth. There’s a wet pop when Billy pulls his fingers out.
“Relax,” Billy says, and that’s all Steve gets before there’s a finger pushing inside him.
Steve almost bends himself in half the wrong way. His back arches, his fingers scrabble and scratch over the marble and his head snaps back, his mouth falls open on a keen. His socked feet slip and slide across the tiles and his hips knock hard into the edge of the counter.
It hurts, fuck does it hurt.
“Hurts!”
Billy stops. Steve slumps onto the counter, the marble a shock of cold against his burning skin. His cheeks are wet. He hopes it’s only sweat.
Their breath is loud in the sudden silence. Billy sounds like he’s just run a fucking marathon. His hand is clenching and twitching around Steve’s asscheek. Steve grimaces. Billy’s finger feels fucking huge inside him, like it’s tearing him apart, too rough, too dry, too much. He can actually feel his heartbeat in his asshole and that’s so fucking weird he wants to laugh. He chokes on it, though, because the laughter makes his whole body shake, and that moves Billy’s finger inside him, and fuck.
“Fuck!”
“Easy,” Billy says, and pushes his free hand to the small of Steve’s back, “lemme just.”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, just curses and shifts behind Steve. Steve whines, because every little bit Billy’s finger moves inside him burns like a freaking wall of fire through his body. His dick’s limp between his thighs. His skin feels tacky. Cold, horrible reality spreads like ice in his insides.
The assorted tubes and bottles on the counter teeter and clatter as Billy sorts through them, his movements growing more and more jerky and urgent as he looks for something, his brows furrowed, his mouth pinched.
“Shit,” he says, “shit shit shit.”
He finally picks up a small bottle, holds it up. He huffs out a breath that sounds relieved and Steve feels himself relax a bit. The cap clicks open. Steve flinches at the first touch of something cold and oily, and Billy hushes him, spreads whatever he’s found around Steve’s hole and along his finger.
Even with the oil, the first little wiggle of the finger inside him burns. Steve bites down hard on his bottom lip, breathes through his nose.
“Relax, baby,” Billy says. “C’mon, relax.”
Steve nods, doesn’t trust himself to speak. He breathes deep, wills his muscles to unclench bit by bit until he feels himself sink further onto the counter. The burn eases, the pressure lessens.
“That’s it. Doing so good, baby. So fucking good.”
Steve hums. Billy’s fucking his finger in and out in a steady rhythm by now, every thrust chipping away at the resistance of Steve’s body, until finally, finally, finally, something like pleasure settles back into his middle, spreading along his limbs until they’re loose and pliant.
Steve groans, and Billy huffs a breathless laugh, kneads Steve’s asscheek with his free hand before letting go again. The finger pulls out and Steve gasps, but then there’s two fingers working their way inside him, pushing and pushing and pushing. The burn is back, but it feels better now, almost good, and Steve can’t stop himself from rolling his hips back against Billy’s fingers.
“Greedy,” Billy laughs above him. Steve nods.
That drunk feeling’s back, making quick work of his filters and inhibitions and all sense of propriety. All he can think about is the feel of Billy’s fingers inside him, their relentless chase for pleasure, the way they take and take and take, split him open to make room for more.
A third finger and Steve’s gasping with every thrust. His cock’s back in the game, standing at attention, weeping precome and smearing it all over the cabinet doors. Steve can hear Billy’s fingers move, the wet squelch as they push inside and pull back out, and it sounds dirty, forbidden, and so goddamn, insanely amazing he wants to fucking cry with it.
“Billy,” he says, all breathy and prayer-like, and Billy stops. His fingers twitch inside Steve and he keens, pushes back to get them deeper, fuck himself open.
“Shit,” Billy hisses, and then his hand’s back on Steve’s tailbone, pushing him into the counter to still him. “You ready, baby?”
He sounds wrecked, and it’s Steve’s fault. It makes him giddy.
“Yeah, c’mon,” he says. “Please.”
Billy pulls out his fingers, a little too quick, a little too rough, but Steve doesn’t care when he hears the sound of Billy unbuckling his belt, pulling down his zipper, the scratch of denim against denim. He bites his lip, raises his head to look at Billy’s reflection in the mirror.
Billy’s shirt is unbuttoned all the way down, baring his abs and chest. There’s a shimmer of sweat between his pecs, a flush around his collarbones. Steve looks his fill, gaze catching on the roll of Billy’s shoulder. He can’t see Billy’s cock past the curve of his own ass, but with the way Billy’s arm is jerking back and forth, he’s got a pretty good idea what’s happening.
Billy catches his gaze in the mirror, grins. His tongue pokes out between his teeth, licks over his lipstick-stained mouth. He takes a step to the side, and Steve’s eyes drop down, follow the line between his abs towards the trail of copper hair beneath his navel, down, down, down to the open front of Billy’s jeans.
Steve makes a small noise in his throat, watches the head of Billy’s cock pop through the ring of his fingers as Billy fucks his fist. Billy twists his hips to the side, strokes his fingers down to the base of his cock and gives him a full view of himself, a little show just for Steve. “Like what you see, baby?”
Steve nods, and he’s actually fucking salivating over another guy’s dick. Shit, he’ll never be able to shower in the gym after practice again.
Billy’s cock is thick and dark, with a slight curve towards the left. It’s long, above average, Steve’d say, and it’s no fucking mystery at all why Billy’s so fucking popular with the girls, because fuck.
Steve feels kinda dazed, all other thoughts fleeing from his mind when he imagines Billy pushing inside him, splitting him open on that fucking gorgeous cock, and that’s a combination of words he’d never thought possible, but it’s nothing but the fucking truth.
Billy steps back behind Steve, grips Steve’s hip with one hand. He clicks his tongue. “Look at me.”
Steve does, snaps his eyes up to Billy’s face in the mirror, their gazes locking, and then there’s blunt pressure at his hole, thick and hot and unyielding, and Steve’s mouth falls open, his eyes widen, and Billy slides home with one bruising, punishing, merciless thrust.
Steve jolts off the counter, claws at the marble, pants misty breaths onto the mirror. Billy’s eyes are dark, dark, dark, and they won’t let go of Steve’s gaze, relentless like the way he spears Steve on his cock, drives deeper and deeper and deeper until he bottoms out.
Billy’s patience has run out, it seems, because he barely gives Steve a second to breathe before he fists a hand in his hair, holds him down and pulls back, thrusts in, fingers bruising around Steve’s hip, hand clenching in Steve’s hair until his head bends back. His pace is hard and sharp and drives Steve’s hips into the marble edge, and he knows there will be bruises tomorrow, purple and black against his skin.
He’s watching Steve the whole time, eyes unblinking and greedy, teeth bared in a snarl and Steve can’t look away, even when the burn makes his eyes water, even when his breath comes in small hiccups that barely provide enough air. Everything goes kinda blurry, the world reduced to Billy’s face above him, the feel of Billy’s cock pounding into him, deep and brutal, and fuck, so, so good.
Steve groans, shudders, pushes his palms flat against the counter for leverage. He rolls his hips back into Billy’s thrusts, and the noises coming from his throat are high and keening and wanton.
“Shit,” Billy chokes out and slams his hips into Steve’s ass, sucks down a breath, pulls on Steve’s hair until he can’t do anything but follow, push himself up on trembling arms. Billy tugs him back against his chest, wraps a broad arm around his middle and holds him as he fucks and fucks and fucks inside Steve, takes and takes and takes as much as he can and wants.
“Fuck, baby,” he says, voice rough and deep and breathless, “take me so well I’d think you were made to take cock. You were, weren’t you.”
Steve can’t answer this. His lips are parted, too loose to form any words, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and all that finds its way through his throat are needy groans punched from his lungs by every thrust of Billy’s cock.
“You love it, don’t you, baby,” Billy goes on, “love a thick cock pounding your virgin pussy. You’re so fucking tight.”
Steve fumbles for Billy’s hip, dips his fingers beneath the denim and digs his nails into the hard planes of muscle and bone. Pulls Billy in, deeper, harder, on every thrust.
Billy’s hand slides from his hair, over his neck, over his throat. Steve swallows, feels his throat bob against Billy’s palm. Billy’s fingers twitch, but then he slides his hand deeper, hooks his fingers around the edge of the dress and pulls it down Steve’s chest, bares his tits. He rakes his nails through the bit of hair between Steve’s pecks, down over one nipple, pinches it between his fingers until Steve whines and struggles to get away, but Billy’s chest is still at his back, his arm around his waist, and there’s nowhere to go. All he can do is take it.
Billy lets go of his nipple, cups Steve’s tit instead and squeezes until it stings.
“Look at yourself, Stevie,” he says.
Steve tears his eyes away from Billy’s face, gasps.
His face is a mess, makeup smudged with tears and sweat, black lines of mascara streaking down his cheeks. His lipstick’s smeared around his mouth. His neck is a mess of red marks, the biggest, darkest one framed by crescents. His chest is bare but for the hand Billy’s still got around his tit, squeezing until the flesh curves between his fingers and it almost looks like he actually has breasts. The skirt’s slid down over his cock, bunched at the base, and it’s bobbing up and down with every thrust as Billy drives his own cock into Steve’s ass.
Steve looks depraved. Perverse. Obscene. Dirty.
He looks like a slut.
“Beautiful,” Billy says by his ear and Steve shudders, lets his eyes fall halfway shut. He doesn’t look away from himself, but watches instead, tries to see what Billy sees, to see what made him sound so reverent.
Maybe it’s Steve’s eyes, their blown pupils, the dark streaks of mascara making them look bigger and rounder. Or his mouth, open and pliant and spit-shiny, lips puffy and abused, looking so inviting. Or his body, marked and flushed and arching back against Billy, hips rolling, begging for more.
“C’mon, baby,” Billy says, “want you to come on my cock.”
His hand slides down Steve’s body, tugs the skirt out of the way and wraps his fist around Steve’s cock. His fingers are still slick from the oil, and Steve’s cock is drooling precome like it’s its job. The slide of Billy’s hand is delicious, the squeeze of his fingers so tight it’s edging on painful. Steve gasps, fucks his cock into Billy’s fist and his ass back onto Billy’s cock, and fuck, it feels so good, so, so good.
“C’mon,” Billy says, “c’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”
His thrusts are getting erratic, pounding Steve into the counter, and he has to put his palms against the mirror, lock his elbows so he doesn’t smash his face against the glass, and Billy curses, hooks his hand over Steve’s shoulder, holds him down, hips speeding up.
Steve stops moving, plants his feet and lets himself be fucked, every thrust driving his own cock into Billy’s fist. The heat in his gut curls tighter and tighter, sparks chase down his spine. He’s close, so close, can feel his toes curl, his abs clench.
“Look at me,” Billy begs, and Steve does, and then he’s coming.
His whole body seizes, every muscle going taut as his cock spills over Billy’s fist and the counter, all the way up to the mirror. His back arches, his ass presses back and Billy curses, jerks him through it a few more times and then he lets go, wraps his hand around Steve’s hip, holds him in place, buries himself as deep as he can.
He bites down on Steve’s shoulder, and the pain makes Steve jerk against him just as he feels Billy go rigid behind him, and then there’s wet heat inside him. Billy’s cock jerks inside Steve, he groans into Steve’s shoulder, long and drawn out, but the pressure of his teeth doesn’t lessen until Steve hisses.
Billy slumps against him, tucks his face against the back of Steve’s neck. Steve holds them up with his arms propped against the mirror, even though his whole body is screaming. His legs are shaking. He can feel Billy’s cock go soft inside him, can feel a trickle of spunk make its way down the inside of his thigh, sticky and warm.
He can feel Billy’s breath against his nape, short, hot bursts of air. Steve licks his lips, takes a breath.
“Billy,” he says.
Billy flinches, raises his head to look at Steve’s reflection over his shoulder. His pupils are still blown, but his face is blank, gaze flitting back and forth between Steve’s eyes, searching. Steve swallows.
Billy leans back, pulls out. Steve’s knees buckle, and he catches himself, hard, against the counter with his last strength, a whine lodged in his throat at the sensation.
Billy’s hands grab his shoulders, twist him around until they’re face to face, and then he curls his hands around the back of Steve’s thighs, hoists him up onto the counter and steps between his spread legs. Steve holds his breath, sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. He blinks a few times, unsure now that he’s coming down from his high. His body feels loose and warm, his skin tingling all over, the last bit of heat curling in his stomach.
But he doesn’t know how to go on from this, doesn’t know what Hargrove will do, now that they’re done. Bastard’s moody on the best of days, fucking volatile, really. There’s no telling what’ll set him off, and Steve thinks even Billy’s spunk drying between his legs won’t shield him from his anger.
Hargrove snorts and Steve looks at him, the sharp line of his grin.
“Don’t look like that, baby,” Billy says and digs his hand into his pocket, pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He puts one between his lips, lights it. Steve watches, wrinkles his nose when Billy blows a cloud of smoke at him. “‘M not gonna hurt you, pretty boy,” he says around the filter. Then he narrows his eyes. “As long as you keep your mouth shut ‘bout this.”
Steve snorts, leans back until his shoulderblades rest against the mirror. He reaches out and plucks the cigarette from Billy’s lips, slots it between his own and takes a long drag. “I’m not that stupid, man. My ass is on the line just as much as yours.”
Billy’s grin widens. He lays his tongue flat over his incisors. “Would be a shame if anything happened to an ass like that, too.”
Steve rolls his eyes, but there’s something warm and bubbly behind his sternum. Still, “you suck.”
Hargrove huffs a laugh, leans in until Steve goes cross-eyed over the cigarette, says, “bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”
Steve’s eyes flick down to Billy’s mouth, he just can’t help himself. The thought drops with his heart into his gut, makes him squirm a bit as he thinks of pink lips stretched around his cock, the scratch of Billy’s growing mustache at the base of his cock, shit. Billy laughs, deep and nasty. His hand pats Steve’s cheek, leaves something sticky there. Steve grimaces.
“Dude, gross,” he hisses.
Billy puts a finger of that same hand across Steve’s mouth, hushes him, steals the cigarette back from his lips. Steve glares at him, opens his mouth wide enough to lick at the finger, tastes salt and something bitter.
Billy watches him. His nostrils flare, much like his pupils.
“You’re something else,” Billy says, and his voice comes from deep down, all gravely and rough. Steve flicks his tongue against the pad of his finger until Billy pushes it between his lips, past his teeth, drags it over his tongue. Steve’s cock gives a little twitch as he shudders, eyes falling shut.
Billy blows out a breath, pulls his fingers from Steve’s mouth with a wet pop. Steve opens his eyes, finds Billy only a few inches from his face, and then his hand is on Steve’s jaw, his lips on Steve’s, tongue pushing into his mouth and licking the salty-bitter taste from it with all of the air in Steve’s lungs.
Steve groans, fists his hands in Billy’s open shirt and pulls him closer. Billy’s tongue is insistent, and Steve lets it in easily, gladly. Billy’s fingers flex against his jaw. He pulls back, nips at Steve’s lip, and then steps back.
He wipes his hand on the towel by the sink, puts the smoke back between his lips and tucks his cock back into his jeans. Runs a hand through his hair and checks his reflection.
Then he looks at Steve, grin sharp around his smoke. Winks.
“See you next time, baby,” he says and then he swaggers out of the room.
Steve stares until the door falls shut behind Billy, then a bit longer. And a bit longer still.
Then he heaves a deep sigh, looks down at himself. With a grimace, he plucks at the ruined dress, the torn pantyhose.
“Carol’s definitely gonna kill me,” he mumbles and slides off the counter.
He doesn’t really care, though.
Next time, Billy said.
Steve grins.