two can play
[nsfw/smut. remember that post i made about preppy s1 steve knowing how much billy wants to suck his cock but he teases him by only letting him put his mouth on it over his jeans? well. here ya go!]
Billy's mouth is on fire.
Dicks are made to be sucked on. Denim isn't. That fact doesn't seem to sway Harrington into popping open the front of his jeans and sliding his cock out; doesn't seem to sway the guy into making this even halfway easy for Billy.
Asshole, Billy thinks, and that may be true, but Harrington's cock is big and it's hard beneath the rough layer of denim - beneath the heat of Billy's mouth - and Billy keeps his lips on it, anyway. Asshole or not, Billy is here for a reason. It's stupid and it's wrong and it's reckless, but Billy knows what he wants, and what he wants is right in front of him, trapped beneath a fastened button and a closed zipper.
"This what you wanted, Hargrove?" Harrington's eyes are dark, eyelids heavy as he stares down at Billy with a crooked smile. "You don't have to answer that one. I already know."
Arrogant fuck.
Arrogant fuck with pretty eyes, silk-soft hair and a nice, big cock.
Billy can feel the size of it. He can see the size of it, too, but. There's something more satisfying in feeling it. He slides his sore mouth along the thick line of Harrington's dick, briefly pausing just to run his tongue along his lower lip. It doesn't quite ease the glide - he's lapping up denim, for fuck's sake - but it's surely better than a mouth that's completely dry.
Harrington's cock is straining against the denim it's caught in; nudging right up against Billy's mouth like it's fighting to get out. Billy wishes it fucking would. Wishes it had a mind of its own, because Harrington seems intent on teasing the hell out of Billy, making him wait when all he wants to do is wrap his tongue around his cock and taste him. All he can taste is warm denim and fucking laundry detergent. It isn't even close to what he wants to be tasting, and it's not nearly enough.
Until now, Billy has kept his hands to himself, but he's spurred on, now, by the swell of arousal in his own jeans and just the sheer fucking frustration of not being able to use his mouth to the best of its abilities. Spurred on to reach out in front of him, fingers grappling with the button of Harrington's jeans. Billy is rewarded with a short, blunt smack to the wrist.
"Did I say you could?" Harrington asks, face tipped down to stare at Billy, and his hair is a brunette wave, falling over his brow.
Billy growls against Harrington's cock, and Harrington just smiles. Billy doesn't want to speak, isn't in the mood for words, but he resigns himself to it anyway and says, "S'pose you didn't, no."
"That's right," Harrington praises. "So hands off."
The hell of it is, Billy does let his hand drop away, heavy and rejected, and completely obedient to Harrington's words. He's easy for the cock that's in front of him, and Billy fucking hates it. Hates that Harrington's clocking on to just how easy he is, too.
Because Harrington had coaxed Billy over to his car with a nod of his head and he'd followed the gesture until he was sitting in Harrington's passenger seat. Harrington had lured Billy upstairs, and Billy had put up no fight. Hadn't protested, either, when Harrington had enticed Billy to the floor with the promise of something nice in return.
If Billy had known that Harrington expected him to suck his cock through his goddamn jeans, then Billy wouldn't have dropped to the floor.
Bullshit.
Of course he would've.
It's why he's still here, after all, face abused by the rough material that's keeping Harrington's dick out of reach. It's frustrating and, no matter what Billy does, he can't get any closer to it; can't get a fucking taste of it, but he still tries like he has some kind of chance. Still rubs his mouth up against the bulge in the front of Harrington's pants, mouth parting around the the hard, hot shape of him, allowing his denim-clad cock to fit between his lips - even if it's all pointless.
Clearly, it's a game. Harrington's hard and, if he had any sense, he'd nudge himself out of his jeans and slide into Billy's wet, eager mouth, but. He isn't doing that. It's a game to him. He's getting some kind of kick out of this, and Billy's just letting him get away with it - too far gone to think about clinging onto any remaining shred of dignity. It had all been stripped from him the second he followed Harrington into his car, anyway. Billy has nothing left to lose.
"Was that noise for me?" Harrington asks, and Billy's only just realising that he's let out a distressed whimper; something entirely impatient and fucking upset. That crooked smile has never left Harrington's face. "It's okay, baby," he soothes, voice softened up and tone so condescending, so patronising, that Billy's cock gives a violent kick against the seam of his pants, leaving him wondering what the actual hell is wrong with him. Harrington keeps talking, says: "I'm letting you have it, baby. It's okay."
"You're not," Billy grumbles, words muffled where his mouth is still fighting to get at what Harrington's keeping from him.
Harrington laughs. "I am. C'mon, baby. Get it."
His hand dips into Billy's hair and tugs, and Billy fucking moans. Above him, Harrington laughs again. Long fingers twine themselves into sweat-dampened curls, and with this new grip, Harrington keeps Billy's face flush against his stiff cock.
"Get it, honey," Harrington repeats, tone a touch less arrogant and a little more dazed.
Billy gets it.
Gets it as much as he can, anyway, considering there's an obstacle of washed denim in the way. Kisses the shape of Steve's cock with damp, raw lips. Pushes his nose where he can get it and inhales deeply.
Harrington rewards Billy with a low groan. "Use your tongue," he advises - or orders.
It isn't going to be pleasant, but Billy sticks his tongue out anyway, lapping at Harrington's erection over his jeans. His tongue works with enthusiasm; hungrily licks Harrington up, as though he might be able to work him out of his pants if he laps hard enough. That release never comes, though. Billy never tastes salt, or sweat, or skin, or fire. It's frustrating, but he doesn't give up. He keeps at it, like Harrington might change his mind if he sees how much Billy wants it. How he needs it.
"Fuck." Words are falling out of Harrington's mouth and raining down on Billy. "Fuck, Hargrove. Keep going. C'mon, baby."
He wants to draw back, look Harrington in the eye and kindly explain that this could be so much better for the both of them if he'd just unzip his fucking fly and let Billy have him, but. Harrington's fingers are tight in Billy's hair, keeping him close, and. It's good. This is good. It's not enough, but it's still good, and it's still more than he thought he'd ever have. Harrington's playing a game, and Billy's quickly learning the rules. He wants to play.
Harrington groans again, and the noise sounds distant, almost - like he might have his head tipped back, throat bared, shooting the sounds towards his bedroom ceiling. Billy moans against the solid heat that he's trying to wrap his lips around. His eyes are closed and there are tiny, crystal-beads of sweat gathering at his temples. Billy is aching in his jeans, desperate for some kind of friction to roll his hips into. He surrenders to the urge and dips his hand between his thighs, cupping himself and inhaling sharply at the jolt of pleasure that shoots up his spine.
"That's it, baby. Touch yourself," Harrington tells him, moving his fingers through dirty-blonde curls. "Bet you're gonna come for me, huh?"
Billy nods. The front of Harrington's jeans are soaked through with spit - maybe with pre, too - and it wets Billy's face.
He palms desperately at his cock. Squeezes roughly. Strokes. With his face buried in Harrington's crotch, it isn't going to take long. Harrington is encouraging; tugs at Billy's hair and sends tiny bolts of lightning down his spine. Uses the grip to force Billy forward, impossibly close, and the denim scratches at his nose and his mouth, and. Shit. Billy can hardly breathe and it doesn't even matter. He doesn't need to. He just needs this. Needs to suck Harrington into his lungs, instead.
"Honey," Harrington chokes out. "Keep touching yourself."
Billy does.
"Keep going. That's good. So good for me, aren't you?"
It's filthy-sweet praise and it works. Billy's grabbing and squeezing and massaging and kneading, and then something gives.
The wave breaks. Billy comes with his mouth splayed open against Harrington's cock, spilling into the front of his jeans. His eyelashes flutter and his hand drops away. Billy finishes without the pressure of his hand. He doesn't need it, anyway. All he needs is to be pushed up against Harrington's dick, denim grating against his mouth and his tongue and his nose, fucking dizzy from lack of oxygen.
He comes and he's still riding that wave, still trembling through the aftershocks, when Harrington takes a hasty step back, putting distance between them. Oceans of space.
Billy knows, quite suddenly and quite certainly, that Harrington isn't going to get off in front of him. He isn't going to dip a hand in his pants and jerk it - isn't going to let Billy watch or help. Harrington's mouth is quirked up into a smile, and he thinks he has won this game.
Maybe he has, but.
Later on, when Billy gets home and he watches the sun drain out of his bedroom until the ceiling turns black, his mouth will be on fire and his tongue will be raw, and he'll feel Harrington on every cigarette he smokes and every smile he allows himself, and his face will still feel rough by the morning, and that - that feels like winning.
