OlderBF!Toji got sick of his bratty young ho girlfriend poking fun at him for being older, knowing damn well he can fuck the attitude right outta her if he wanted to.
w/c: 1.2k ✮⋆˙
𑣲Content Warnings: age gap (Reader: early/mid twenties, Toji: late thirties/early forties) implied marathon, overstimulation, breeding, slight dubcon if u squint and tilt ur head (barely), creampie, headlocks, dacryphilia, improper use of Heavenly Restriction(a lil), toji being mean but then being sweet again :3
Don't get it twisted,
Sex with Toji was good—Reeeeaaallly good. But you'd be lying if you said you didn't wonder what it would've been like to fuck him when he was younger, to have your beast of a man drill you with the kind of fervor that only comes from guys your age—or so you thought.
He was used to your antics, teasing the loud grunt he’d make when getting out of bed in the morning, how he couldn’t figure out how to pair his shitty old phone to the Bluetooth in his car, even his choice in emojis and TV shows. He always gave you the same reactions, shooting you a deadly glare, ruffling your hair or even landing a hard smack! to whichever ass cheek of yours is nearest.
But what he didn’t expect, was for you to bring the teasing into the bedroom.
He was grinding into you slow and deep, savouring the friction of each vein and ridge rubbing against your warm insides. You ground your hips back into him, shooting him a shit eating grin before hitting him with a quip you’d come to regret.
“Harder Ji, C’mon show me what that Heavenly Restriction can do,”
He chuckled deep, snapping his hips just a smidge harder, nudging his tip deeper into your cunt. “Careful what you wish for,” Another loud plap! of his pelvis smacked against your ass.
“Mmm, I get it,” you started
“Worried you gonna fracture your hip?”
You watched his face drop, a devilish smirk tugged at his lips.
“I’m gonna give you one last chance 'cause I really don’t think y’know what you’re gettin’ yourself into, girlie.”
You had him right where you wanted him, now for the last little push-
“Is that so, old man?”
"Aww baby, c'mon—haah—jus' one more hm? Can you do that f'me pretty girl? Just one more?"
You couldn't tell how long it had been. After round three he flipped you onto your back, sometime around round six you almost slipped off the bed entirely. At this point, you had changed positions so many times you began to wonder how much longer until you'd pass out from exhaustion—struggling to keep up with his seemingly infinite libido.
"Ngh—t-Toj, s'too much," you mewled, eyes bleary from depletion as you grasped desperately at the sheets. One more he said, a plea adorned with praise and flattery in an attempt to ease you into your next inevitable orgasm.
Your face was buried in his pillows, the scent of cigarettes and cologne overwhelming your senses as tears and drool soaked into the cushion. Large hand tracing up and down your spine, he pressed your already impossibly deep arch further, angling his hips to rut into your poor cunt even harder.
He reached down to grip your jaw, harshly pulling you up to meet his gaze. Dark eyes pierced into yours, primal and hungry. Your arms pathetically dangled in front of you till they found his veiny forearms, holding on for dear life as he used you like his own personal fuck-toy. Every pitiful whine that bubbled from your throat only egging him on further.
"Too much huh? Isn't this what you wanted? Ngh—for me to fuck you stupid?" His thumb smeared tears around your flushed cheeks, mascara running down your neck leaving pretty little streaks across the array of purple and red hickeys painting your throat.
"Yes... b-but-"
"Then fuckin' take it."
His already vicious tempo intensified ten-fold, his pelvis blushing bright red from each cruel thrust, wet sounds of your aching cunt filling the room.
"fuckin'' Plap!
"Take it" Plap!
Squeltch!
His hips stuttered from sensitivity, still bottoming out and fucking his nth load back into your dripping pussy. Every nudge of his thick cock head against your cervix forced your eyes to roll back into your head, jaw hanging open as spit ran down your chin.
Fucked stupid. Any word or thought that began to form in that cute little head of yours was immediately knocked out your ears by his brutish thrusts. Bruises from his rough grip decorated your thighs like abstract watercolour—dirtied from cum and slick.
He knocked an exceptionally puny sob out of you, causing his rhythm to falter slightly. "you alright, kid?" he probes, earning an eager and frantic nod as you bounced your hips back against him—meeting his sloppy thrusts halfway. "Mmm, atta girl."
He took the opportunity to snake his arm around your throat into a mean headlock, laying you back onto the bed as he pressed his weight down onto you—thick cock stirring your insides.
The new position was both suffocating and euphoric, allowing him access to that gooey spot that always had you gushing around him. He flexed his arm harshly, causing your cheeks to puff up around him as your drool and tears ran down his bicep.
Your already incoherent noises turned into straight babbling when he hiked your knee up with his own, rutting into you even deeper, cock fucking you to the hilt.
"Feel good doll? Y'feel so fuckin' good t'me—haahh"
That familiar pressure bubbled in your tummy, pleasure shooting through to each nerve as he nudged against your sweet spot over and over and over. You choked on another pathetic coo, whining and crying out muddled whimpers as you rode out another mind-numbing orgasm.
He felt the way you shifted beneath him, the tight squeeze of your walls a sign of your climax—but he didn't stop.
Instead, he snaked his free hand down to your gushing heat to rub harsh circles to your sensitive clit. You jerked and thrashed beneath him, nails digging into his strong arm, almost breaking skin.
Your incessant clenching and writhing brought him closer to yet another release, chasing the barely-there friction from your slippery cunt before spurting out another warm load. "F–fuck-" he groaned into your hair, his body limply softening around you, catching his breath.
He pulled out nice and slow, earning a gentle whine from you at the now unfamiliar emptiness. A warm gush! of your juices leaked out of your hole, running down and pooling into the bedsheets. He sat back on his heels, admiring your placid form melting into the pillows.
A warm hand palmed your ass, spreading you open enough for him to watch his cum drip out slowly, topping it off with a light smack against the cheek, massaging over the redness. You pushed against his palm, peering at him over your shoulder expecting to see those rapacious emerald eyes staring back. Instead, his gaze was soft—all love and delicacy.
Lips curled into a smile, his hand moved up to the small of your back to rub soothing circles into the skin.
"Y'did so good baby, so, so good." Praise falling from his lips as he massaged the soreness from your spent form, eventually slipping out of bed to fetch a warm rag and one of his shirts.
The night melted away slowly, nuzzled in the crook of his neck as he held you close, kisses peppering your forehead.
"Next time you run your mouth like that, I won't be so nice, got it?"
That was him being nice?
• Next on OlderBF!Toji>
A/N: HIIII i hope u enjoyed this lil drabble, it was very fun to write hihi <3 if u saw any grammar mistakes no u didnt lol shoutout dilf toji and dilf toji enthusiasts we are the backbone of society. Also has anyone seen wuthering heights yet? im scared to cuz im lowkey sick of jacob elordi and everyone in it has iphone face sooo we'll see. (sorry if that was mean) anywayss love u thanks for reading :33
Synopsis: In a frat AU, cocky Satoru Gojo and one sharp-tongued girl have spent years trading barbs and stolen glances. One rainy party night, tension explodes into a heated hookup that shatters their denial. What follows is messy pining, tender moments, and undeniable chemistry and they're each other's worst habit and best fix.
A/N: FRATJO C'MON HHEEERRREEE got back into jjk and anime in general having the time of my life. I forgot how much I love this man his figurine has lived in my room for a solid 2 years and will forever </3
She was the only person on this campus who could make him feel small.
He was the only person who made her feel anything at all.
They both hated that.
ONE — THE PROBLEM WITH HER EYES
She had a way of walking into a room that made it rearrange itself around her.
It wasn't the clothes though tonight's ensemble, a barely-there silk slip dress in deep burgundy, was doing things to the general population of Kappa Sigma's Thursday night kickback that should probably be illegal. It wasn't even the way her hair fell over one shoulder, or the gloss on her lips that caught the overhead light when she laughed. It was something else. Something that lived behind her eyes, warm and sharp all at once, like embers that knew exactly how hot they were burning.
Satoru Gojo knew, because he had been studying those eyes for two years, three months, and - not that he was counting - approximately sixteen days.
He was sprawled across the couch in the corner, long legs kicked up over the armrest, a red cup dangling from his fingers that he hadn't actually touched in forty minutes. Suguru sat beside him, halfway through a story Satoru had stopped hearing the moment she came through the door with Shoko at her side.
"- and then Nanami just looked at him and said -"
"Yeah, yeah."
Suguru paused. Looked at him. Followed his eyeline across the room.
A slow, insufferable smile spread across his face.
"You're doing it again."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're staring."
"I have eyes, Suguru. I'm looking at things. That's what eyes do."
Suguru leaned back and said nothing, which was worse. Suguru's silence always meant he was storing information for later.
Across the room, she accepted a drink from someone Satoru did not like on principle, laughed at something Shoko said, and then (because the universe enjoyed watching him suffer) turned and found him immediately. Like radar. Like she always knew exactly where he was standing in any given room.
Her expression cooled by two degrees. Not hostile. Just calibrated. The specific look she reserved for him, the one that said: I see you, I'm not impressed, try harder, also please don't.
He raised his cup at her.
She turned away.
"Smooth," said Suguru.
"I'm the smoothest person in this building."
"She literally just dismissed you with her posture."
"That's a love language."
Suguru made a noise that was either a laugh or a prayer.
She found him in the kitchen twenty minutes later, because of course she did, because their social geometry always eventually collapsed them into the same coordinates whether they wanted it to or not.
He was refilling his cup. She reached past him for the vodka. Their arms almost touched.
"Nice of you to finally move," she said, not looking at him. "You were blocking the entire left side of that couch."
"I was decorating it."
"You were decorating it with your ego."
"Same thing."
She finally looked at him then, and it hit him the way it always did, like stepping off a curb you didn't see. All that dark heat, pointed directly at him.
"Did you actually come over here to talk to me," she said, "or are you just orbiting me because you've run out of other options tonight?"
"Last I checked, you walked into my kitchen."
"Shoko's kitchen."
"Shoko's house that I pay rent at."
"Bold of you to call what you contribute rent."
He smiled. He couldn't help it. She was the only person who could do this to him, who could be this exhausting and this magnetic at the same time, who could make his blood feel like carbonation.
"You look good tonight," he said, and he meant it to come out casual, but it came out something else, quieter, more honest than he intended.
Something shifted in her expression. Just for a second. Like a window opening and closing too fast to see what was inside.
"I always look good," she said, and turned away.
He watched her walk back out into the party and thought: yeah. You really do.
TWO — WHAT SUGURU KNOWS
Suguru Geto had been watching these two destroy each other in slow motion for so long that it had become something like a hobby.
He'd been there when she first showed up in their orbit Shoko's girl, childhood best friend, brown eyes and sharp tongue and that particular quality of hers that made everyone in a room feel slightly outclassed. He'd been there when Satoru first tried to charm her and she'd looked at him with the patient contempt of someone watching a golden retriever attempt calculus.
He'd been there for every argument that went two degrees too hot. Every loaded silence. Every time one of them said something cutting and the other responded by going very, very still.
He'd watched Satoru - Satoru, who could not keep a secret, who wore every emotion on the outside of his skin, go carefully, deliberately quiet whenever she was mentioned.
He'd watched as she would tell Shoko, at 2am on a random Tuesday, that Gojo Satoru was the most infuriating person she had ever encountered and she wished he would transfer schools.
Shoko had said: uh huh.
She had said: I mean it.
Shoko had said: you literally tracked down his schedule last semester so you'd know when he was in the library.
There had been a very long silence.
"To avoid him," She said finally.
"Right," said Shoko.
Suguru knew all of this because Shoko told him everything and Shoko found the whole situation hilarious. He was inclined to agree. He was also inclined, as someone who genuinely loved both of them, to be a little worried. There was a specific kind of tension between those two - the kind that didn't stay tension forever. The kind that eventually had to go somewhere.
He just hoped they survived it.
THREE — THE NIGHT OF THE STORM
It was October when it finally happened.
There was a house party - bigger than usual, the kind with too many people and music that vibrated through the floor. She had come with Shoko. Satoru had been there first, already three drinks deep, already the centre of some loud and stupid story that had half the room laughing.
She had watched him from across the room and felt that familiar thing move through her chest, half irritation, half something she refused to name.
The stupid thing was, she wasn't actually blind to him. She had never been blind to him. Six feet something of disaster, white-blond hair that shouldn't work and somehow did, eyes so blue they looked like a special effect. And underneath all the bravado and the jokes and the maddening confidence, she had caught - over two years of being in the same spaces - glimpses of something else. Something that looked almost like shyness when the room was quieter. Something careful and wondering that appeared when he thought no one was watching.
She had locked that observation in a box and sat on the lid.
They had managed to avoid each other for most of the night. Then they ended up on the back porch at the same time, refugees from the noise, and the door swung shut behind her before she noticed he was already there.
Rain had started at some point. The air smelled like wet concrete and something colder.
"Great," she said flatly.
"Hey to you too."
She leaned against the railing and looked out at the rain. He stayed where he was, a few feet away, looking at her. She could feel it the way she always could that attention of his, weightless and heavy all at once.
"You never just-" she started, then stopped.
"Never just what?"
"Quit. You never just quit."
"Quit what?"
She turned to look at him then, and whatever was in her expression made something change in his. He straightened slowly. Stopped performing.
"Looking at me like that," she said. "Like you're waiting for something."
A beat. Two. The rain got louder.
"Maybe I am," he said. Very quiet. Very un-Gojo.
That was the thing. That was always the thing. She could handle the performative Gojo, the loud one, the obnoxious one. She had a whole system for that version. She did not have a system for this for the way he sometimes stripped all of it away and just looked at her like she was the only fixed point in a room full of moving things.
"Satoru-"
"Don't," he said. And then: "Actually, no. Don't don't. I'm tired of don't."
He crossed the distance between them in two steps and she didn't move back. She didn't move at all. She just tipped her chin up, and her eyes went dark and steady, and he stopped when he was close enough that she could feel the warmth of him cutting through the cold rain air.
"Tell me to go back inside," he said lowly, "and I will. I will actually do it. But you have to mean it."
She looked at him for a long, long moment.
"I hate you," she said, which was not the same as go back inside.
"I know."
"You're the most annoying person I have ever met."
"I know that too."
"And you think way too highly of yourself."
"What."
"Please."
It was the please that did it. She had never heard him say please like that, soft and stripped of everything, just a single honest syllable.
She closed the last inch between them.
His hands found her face first - both of them, thumbs brushing her cheekbones like she was something breakable, which she absolutely was not but somehow didn't mind, not right now, not when he was looking at her like the world had gone very quiet and she was the only sound in it.
The kiss started slow. She hadn't expected slow. She'd expected him to be brash about this the way he was brash about everything, but instead he kissed her like he'd been thinking about exactly this for a very long time and didn't want to waste a single second of it by going too fast.
She made a sound against his mouth that she would under no circumstances be acknowledging later.
He heard it, and something in him unravelled. His hands slid from her face into her hair, tilting her head back, and the kiss deepened into something that was less careful and more certain. She gripped the front of his shirt with both hands and pulled, and he responded by walking her back until her shoulders found the exterior wall of the house, and then he pressed forward, blocking out the rain and the cold and every reason she had ever told herself this was a bad idea.
"Okay," she breathed when they finally broke apart, "okay-"
"Yeah," he managed. His voice had gone rough at the edges, like something had happened to it.
They were both breathing a little too fast.
She looked up at him in the dark and the rain and felt the lid of that box she had been sitting on snap cleanly off.
"This is a terrible idea," she told him.
"Probably."
"We're going to be insufferable."
"We already are."
She laughed, which she hadn't meant to do, and he smiled at her in the dark and it was too much, that smile, the real one that didn't perform for anyone, the one she'd only seen in fragments before now.
"Come on," she said, and took his hand.
He followed her inside without a word, which was she would later tell Shoko the single most remarkable thing he had ever done.
The hallway was dim, party noise muffled behind closed doors as they climbed the stairs in a heated rush. His mouth found hers again the second his bedroom door shut, no more restraint, just pure want. Her back met the wall and she gasped as his hands skimmed down her sides, gripping her hips and pulling her tight against the hard line of his body so she could feel exactly how badly he needed her.
"Upstairs was too far," he muttered against her lips, already tugging the straps of her dress down her shoulders until the silk slid to the floor in a whisper. She laughed breathlessly, fingers working open his shirt buttons, shoving the fabric off his shoulders so she could run her palms over the warm, toned planes of his chest and stomach.
He lifted her like she weighed nothing, carrying her the last few steps to the bed and laying her down. His mouth followed hot, open kisses down her throat, across her collarbone, lower still until he closed his lips around one nipple through the lace of her bra, tongue teasing until she arched with a soft moan and threaded her fingers into his snow-white hair. His hand slipped between her thighs, pushing the last scrap of fabric aside, fingers stroking slick heat until her hips rolled into his touch and her breath came in broken little pants.
"Satoru," she whispered, wrecked and urgent.
That was all it took. He shed the rest of his clothes in seconds, settled between her thighs, and sank into her in one slow, deep thrust. They both groaned at the perfect stretch, the way she clenched around him like she'd been waiting years for this exact moment. He started moving deep, steady rolls of his hips that built into something faster, harder, the headboard knocking softly against the wall in time with her gasps and his low curses. Her nails dragged down his back, legs locked around his waist, urging him deeper until the pleasure coiled tight and snapped, her walls pulsing around him as she came with his name on her lips. He followed right after, burying his face in her neck with a shattered groan, hips stuttering through the aftershocks.
They collapsed together, sweaty and breathless and tangled in the sheets, the storm outside nothing compared to the one that had just broken between them. Sleep pulled them under almost immediately, her head on his chest, his arm curled possessively around her waist.
FOUR — AFTER
She woke up the next morning in his room.
This was information she processed in stages. The ceiling (unfamiliar). The light (too bright). The arm draped over her waist (warm, heavy, definitely not hers). The sound of breathing next to her ear (even, slow, peaceful in a way that Satoru Gojo almost never was).
She turned her head carefully.
He was asleep. White hair wrecked, one arm thrown over her, face entirely unguarded. No performance. No deflection. Just a person who was, she was forced to concede, looking at her like the universe had arranged him specifically for this moment even while unconscious.
She was going to get up. She had decided to get up. She was absolutely going to get up and find her shoes and go home and process this in private like a reasonable person.
She didn't get up.
She lay there and watched him sleep for four minutes, which was frankly embarrassing, and then he opened his eyes.
He looked at her immediately. Not around the room, not at the ceiling. Right at her, like he'd known exactly where she was.
"Hey," he said. Voice lower in the morning, slower.
"Hey."
A beat.
"You're still here."
"Don't read into it."
He smiled, slow and private. "I'm reading into it."
"Satoru-"
"I know, I know." He shifted, rolling to face her properly. His hand moved to push a strand of hair off her face, the gesture so natural and easy that she almost let it go without comment. Almost. "Can I read into it a little?"
She looked at him. Thought about the porch. The rain. The way he'd said please. The way he'd felt moving inside her.
"A little," she allowed.
His smile widened into something that looked almost like relief.
She told herself this changed nothing. She told herself this was a one-time deviation from their normal dynamic. She told herself a lot of things over the next ten minutes before he pulled her back and she stopped telling herself anything at all.
Two days later: Suguru's apartment, Sunday afternoon.
She arrived first, let herself in with her spare key, and dropped onto the couch next to him.
"So," said Suguru, without looking up from his book.
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
He put the book down. Looked at her with the infuriating patience of someone who had been waiting for this conversation for two years. "How is he?"
She stared at the ceiling. "Terrible. Perfect. Terrible."
"Classic."
"He texted me eight times yesterday."
"What did the texts say?"
She showed him her phone.
Suguru read through them, a string of memes, one voice memo she hadn't opened yet, a photo of a sunset with the caption: you would have said something mean about this but I think you would have liked it, and then, at the end, simply her name. Just her name.
No message after. Just her name, like he'd wanted to say it.
Suguru handed the phone back.
"What did you tell him?"
"I sent him a thumbs up."
"The thumbs up emoji."
"Yes."
"To the message where he just texted your name."
"I was flustered!"
Suguru pressed his lips together in the specific way that meant he was using everything he had not to laugh. "He's so gone for you."
"He's annoying."
"And gone for you."
She didn't argue with the second part.
The voice memo, she opened in the car on the way home. It was twenty-two seconds of Satoru's voice, slightly fumbling, saying: "I know you hate when I'm sincere so I'm going to do it really fast I've liked you for a very long time and it's extremely inconvenient and I just wanted you to know. Okay. That's it. Forget I sent this. Don't forget I sent this."
She sat in her car in the parking structure for six minutes.
Then she called him.
He picked up on the second ring.
"Did you listen to it."
"I listened to it."
Silence. Then his voice, stripped and waiting: "And?"
"And," she said slowly, "I have liked you for an extremely long time and it is also very inconvenient and I think you should take me to dinner."
The noise he made startled and luminous, almost a laugh but more than that was something she filed away and kept.
"Yeah?"
"Don't push it, Gojo."
"I'm going to push it so much."
"I know you are." She could hear his smile. She was almost certain she was smiling too. "Pick me up at seven."
FIVE — THE PART WHERE THEY'RE OBVIOUS
They were not subtle about it.
Satoru Gojo had never been subtle about anything in his life and he did not start now. He showed up to every hangout with his hand at the small of her back, or his chin on her shoulder, or simply the kind of pleased and settled look he usually reserved for naps and winning arguments. He looked at her the way and Shoko said this to her in the bathroom of a bar three weeks in the way people look at things they can't believe they get to have.
She was more subtle, which was to say: she was not subtle at all but her version looked different. She brought him coffee without being asked. She argued with him like always but now there was no ice behind it, just heat. She called him Satoru instead of Gojo and didn't seem to notice she'd switched. She had, on one notable occasion, reached over in the middle of a group dinner, taken his hand under the table, and continued her conversation with Shoko without breaking stride.
Satoru had not spoken for approximately thirty seconds.
Suguru had looked at the ceiling and thought: finally.
They still fought. That hadn't changed but it had just changed shape, become something with a floor under it, a thing you could argue hard and land safely from. She still called him a manwhore when he was being oblivious (he was not, she knew, she had always known, but it was a good weapon). He still said things that were too much and walked them back with a gesture instead of words, his hand finding her wrist or her knee, a small landing that said: I know. I know I went too far. Here.
They were, by every metric, each other's problem.
They were also, Suguru thought, watching them from across a room heads bent together, her laughing at something he said, him looking at her with that quiet undone thing in his expression that she had apparently decided to be solely responsible for.
They were also, pretty clearly, each other's answer.
She still told people he was stupid.
He still performed for every room except the ones with only her in them.
Neither of them would have it any other way.
Synopsis: (PART TWO) JJ Maybank's defiant little sister and Rafe Cameron are bitter enemies- constant barbs, loaded stares, and simmering tension from bonfires to Midsummers. One stormy night, Rafe finds her bruised and walking alone. He drives her away, they share vodka at a secluded boat ramp, hate ignites into raw, possessive passion.
Warnings: Smut, Piv, Unprotected, Porn with Plot, Mentions of abuse,
Word Count: 2.6k
A/N : Thank you for all the love on part one! I am glad people enjoy my ideas and writing but school is lowks making me so so lazy!! I am so behind on my economics work its wild </3
Link to Part 1: https://www.tumblr.com/lovvupiid/807377420137136128/vodka-and-sea-salt?source=share
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The drive to Taneyhill is quiet, but not the suffocating kind from earlier. The windows are cracked now, letting in the warm night air that smells like marsh and ocean and the faint burn of spilled vodka still clinging to both of them. Rafe keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift, fingers occasionally brushing the outside of her thigh not grabbing, not demanding, just there. Like he’s testing if she’ll flinch away.
She doesn’t.
She watches the dark shapes of palm trees whip past, the occasional streetlight painting gold streaks across her bare legs. Her shorts are zipped again, but crooked. Her tank top is twisted. She can still feel the ghost of his mouth between her thighs, the ache of it lingering like a bruise she doesn’t mind wearing.
When they pull through the gates of Figure Eight, the house looms ahead big, white, cold, lit only by a few security lights and the moon. Rafe kills the engine in the driveway instead of pulling into the garage. Like he wants the option to run if this suddenly feels like a mistake.
He doesn’t look at her right away. Just stares at the steering wheel, thumb tapping once, twice.
“You can still change your mind,” he says, low. “Door’s right there.”
She turns toward him slowly. Studies the sharp line of his jaw, the way a muscle jumps under the skin.
“You want me to?”
His laugh is short, rough. “Fuck no.”
“Then stop giving me outs.”
That gets his eyes on her dark, searching, a little surprised. Like he’s still waiting for the punchline, the insult, the moment she reminds him they’re supposed to hate each other.
She reaches over, hooks two fingers in the collar of his shirt, and tugs once. “Inside. Now.”
He moves fast after that.
They barely make it through the front door before he’s kissing her again but harder this time, hungrier, backing her against the closest wall with enough force that a picture frame rattles. Her hands are already under his shirt, nails scraping down the ridges of his stomach, feeling the way his muscles jump under her touch. He groans into her mouth when she drags them lower, palming him through his shorts.
“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to her shoulder for a second like he needs to regroup. “Bedroom. Upstairs. Before I take you right here.”
She smirks against his neck. “Thought you liked it dirty.”
“I do,” he growls, biting lightly at her pulse point, “but I’m not finishing this on the goddamn foyer floor.”
He scoops her up without warning hands under her thighs, lifting like she weighs nothing. Her legs lock around his waist on instinct, arms around his neck. She can feel every hard inch of him pressed against her as he carries her up the wide staircase, taking them two at a time.
They crash through his bedroom door. He kicks it shut. Doesn’t bother with lights. Moonlight spills through the big windows, silver and cool across the bed.
He drops her onto the mattress gentler than she expects. She bounces once, props herself on her elbows, watching him strip his shirt off in one impatient motion. The sight of him broad shoulders, lean muscle, the faint scars she’s never asked about makes her mouth go dry all over again.
He crawls over her, caging her with his arms, knee nudging her thighs apart.
“You’ve been driving me fucking insane for months,” he mutters, dragging his mouth along her jaw, down her throat. “Every time you smiled at some other guy. Every time you looked at me like I was nothing.”
She arches under him, fingers threading through his hair. “You were nothing.”
“Liar,” he says, and bites the spot just below her ear hard enough to sting. She gasps, hips rolling up against him.
He yanks her tank top over her head, tosses it somewhere. No bra underneath just the bikini top from earlier, strings still tied. He pulls those loose with his teeth, slow, deliberate, watching her face the whole time.
When the fabric falls away, he pauses. Just looks. Like he’s memorizing her, the scars, the bruises not taking away an ounce of beauty.
“Jesus,” he breathes.
She reaches for him, impatient. “Stop staring and do something.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
His mouth closes over one nipple hot, wet, sucking hard while his hand works the other, rolling and pinching until she’s whimpering, back bowing off the bed. He switches sides, giving the same ruthless attention, until she’s writhing, thighs squeezing around his hips.
“Rafe-”
He kisses down her stomach, hooks his fingers in her shorts and panties at the same time, drags them off in one rough pull. She’s bare now, still slick and swollen from earlier. He spreads her thighs wide with his shoulders, settles between them like he belongs there.
This time there’s no teasing slowness.
He licks into her again deep, filthy strokes of his tongue that have her crying out, hands fisting the sheets. Two fingers slide back inside her, curling, pumping, while his mouth works her clit in tight, relentless circles.
She comes faster this time shattering around his fingers with a broken moan of his name, thighs clamping around his head. He works her through it, licking lazily until she’s shaking, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his shoulders.
He rises up, kissing her deep so she can taste herself again. She reaches between them, fumbling with his belt, shoving his shorts and boxers down just enough.
He’s thick, hard, leaking against her thigh. She wraps her hand around him, stroking once, twice slowly, firm. His hips jerk, a low curse falling from his lips.
Then he’s lining up, nudging at her entrance, slow at first, letting her feel every inch as he pushes inside.
They both groan when he bottoms out.
“Fuck,” he hisses, forehead pressed to hers. “So tight.”
She clenches around him on purpose, just to watch his eyes roll back.
“Move,” she demands.
He does.
Hard. Deep. Relentless.
The headboard bangs against the wall with every thrust. Her nails rake down his back, hard enough to leave marks. He hooks one of her legs over his elbow, changing the angle, hitting deeper until she’s gasping, pleading, incoherent.
“Look at me,” he growls when her eyes start to flutter shut.
She forces them open. Meets his gaze—wild, possessive, something raw and unguarded flickering behind the lust.
“You’re mine tonight,” he says, voice rough. “Say it.”
She laughs breathlessly, defiant even now. “Make me.”
He angles his hips just right, grinds against her clit with every thrust until she’s trembling on the edge again.
“Say. It.”
“Yours,” she gasps, breaking. “Fuck- yours-”
That’s all he needs.
He drives into her harder, faster, chasing his own release now. She comes again, clenching around him so tight he swears, hips stuttering. He follows right after, burying himself deep, groaning her name like a prayer against her throat.
They collapse together, sweaty, panting, tangled.
For a long minute, neither moves.
Then he rolls off her carefully pulls her against his chest anyway. His arm bands around her waist like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he lets go.
She doesn’t pull away.
Instead, she traces lazy patterns on his chest, over the rapid thud of his heart.
“This doesn’t change anything,” she murmurs eventually.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Sure, it doesn’t.”
She tilts her head up. Finds him already watching her soft in a way she’s never seen.
“Still hate you,” she says.
“Yeah,” he replies, brushing hair off her face. “Still hate you too.”
But his thumb keeps stroking her cheek.
And neither of them moves to leave.
Outside, the night keeps moving waves crashing, wind in the palms, the rest of the island sleeping or fighting or running.
Inside Rafe Cameron’s bedroom, for the first time in a long time, the silence doesn’t feel like war.
It feels like something else.
Something neither of them is ready to name.
-
The aftermath doesn’t hit like a storm.
It creeps in slow, warm, and terrifyingly comfortable—like slipping into water you didn’t realize was deep until you’re already floating.
The first few weeks after that night are careful.
She leaves before dawn. He drops her off two streets over from the Chateau. They don’t text during the day unless it’s coded—random memes, song links, nothing that says *I’m thinking about your mouth on me at 3 a.m.* They meet in shadows: the old pier at midnight, the back booth at the Wreck after closing, his truck parked behind the dunes where no one looks twice.
But habits form fast when the pull is this strong.
Mornings starting with Rafe's arm slung heavy across your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck, the kind of lazy tangle that makes you forget why you ever fought it. Afternoons are stolen quick kisses behind the surf shop where you work, his hand slipping under your shirt while you pretend to count change for a customer. Nights are Taneyhill when Ward's away on business, or your place when the Pogues are out chasing waves or trouble. You tell yourself it's temporary. A phase. Something that'll burn out when the novelty wears off.
It doesn't.
You get comfortable. Too comfortable.
He starts leaving marks nothing blatant at first. A faint hickey under the collar of your shirt, a bruise from his grip on your hip that you cover with high-waisted shorts. You start wearing his hoodies when it's chilly, claiming you "found" them at the beach.
By month two she’s leaving a spare pair of earrings on his nightstand “just in case.” He starts keeping her favourite iced coffee creamer in the fridge even though no one else in the house drinks it. She falls asleep on his couch watching reruns and wakes up with his hoodie draped over her like a blanket he didn’t want to wake her to fix. He starts wearing the thin silver chain she gave him one random Tuesday (“It looks stupid on me,” he’d grumbled; she’d kissed his neck until he shut up and put it on). She wears his grey zip-up to bonfires when its chilly, sleeves swallowing her hands, and no one asks whose it is anymore because the answer is obvious.
They get lazy.
Too cozy.
Too real.
He stops parking blocks away. Starts pulling right up to the Cut when he picks her up late. She stops sneaking out the side gate at Taneyhill he just walks out the front door in his T-shirt, hair messy, kissing him goodbye on the porch like it’s normal.
He leaves voicemails when she’s working doubles at the Wreck: low, rough, “Miss your stupid laugh. Come over after.” She answers with selfies of her making faces in the break room mirror, caption: Miss your stupid face more.
The island starts whispering.
A blurry photo surfaces first; someone’s iPhone zoom from across the street at the gas station. Rafe leaning into the driver’s window of her Jeep, one hand braced on the roof, the other cupping her jaw while he kisses her slow and deep like no one’s watching. Her fingers curled in his shirt. His eyes closed. The kind of kiss that isn’t for show.
The photo spreads through private stories, then group chats, then the whole damn Outer Banks.
Kie texts the Pogues chat at 2:17 a.m.:
“y’all seeing this or am I hallucinating”
[photo attached]
Pope: “That’s… definitely them.”
John B: “Since when???”
JJ doesn’t reply.
He shows up at Taneyhill the next afternoon.
Rafe opens the door shirtless, hair damp from the shower, towel slung over his shoulder. Behind him the living room is soft-lit, TV paused on some action movie, her legs visible stretched across the couch in his sweats, one foot dangling off the armrest.
JJ’s face goes blank, dangerously blank.
“You’re shacked up here now?” His voice is flat. “Full domestic?”
She sits up slowly, pulling the blanket over her lap like it’ll hide anything. “JJ-”
“Don’t.” He steps inside uninvited. Looks around: her ChapStick on the coffee table, her sunglasses hooked on the lamp, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn with her lip balm print on the rim. “How long have you been playing house with Rafe fucking Cameron?”
Rafe doesn’t flinch. Just closes the door behind JJ. “Long enough that it’s not playing.”
JJ’s laugh is bitter. “You think this is cute? You think you get to take my little sister, turn her into some Figure Eight trophy, and I’m just supposed to…what? Clap?”
She stands. Barefoot. In Rafe’s clothes. Voice steady but thin. “I’m not a trophy. I’m not turning into anything. I’m just… here. Because I want to be.”
JJ’s eyes flick to the chain around her neck, the tiny wave pendant Rafe gave her months ago. Then to Rafe’s wrist, where the leather bracelet she made him still sits, faded from salt water and time.
“You love him?” JJ asks. It comes out cracked.
She doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I do.”
Silence stretches so tight it hurts.
JJ looks at Rafe, really looks. Sees the way he’s standing slightly in front of her, not possessive, just protective. Sees the faint tremor in his hands like he’s bracing for a punch he knows he deserves.
“If you ever-” JJ starts.
“I know,” Rafe cuts in quietly. “I know exactly what happens if I hurt her. And I’m not gonna.”
JJ exhales hard through his nose. Runs both hands through his hair. Looks at his sister again and sees the way her eyes are glassy but steady, the way she’s not flinching, not apologizing.
“You didn’t tell me,” He says, softer now. “Not a word.”
“I was scared you’d hate me,” she whispers. “Or hate him more. Or… do something stupid.”
“I still might.” But there’s no heat in it anymore. Just exhaustion. “But you look… happy. Like actually happy. Not faking it.”
She nods. Small. “I am.”
JJ swallows. Looks between them again. Then mutters, “Fuck.”
He turns toward the door. Pauses with his hand on the knob.
“Wreck. Next Friday. Both of you.” His voice is rough. “And if anyone says shit to her face, I’m breaking their jaw. Including you, Cameron.”
Rafe nods once. “Understood.”
JJ leaves without another word.
The door clicks shut.
She lets out a shaky breath. Rafe pulls her into his chest immediately, arms tight, chin resting on her head.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
She nods against him. “He didn’t hit you.”
“Progress.”
She laughs wet, half sob. “Yeah.”
He kisses her temple. Holds her until the trembling stops.
Outside, the rumours keep spinning, louder, meaner in places, softer in others. Someone calls her a ladder-climber. Someone else says Rafe’s “gone soft.” A few Pogues still side-eye her at the beach. But most people just… shrug. The island’s seen weirder.
Inside Taneyhill, they sink back onto the couch.
She curls into his side. He drapes an arm around her shoulders, thumb stroking her arm.
“No more hiding,” he says quietly.
“No more,” she agrees.
He presses a kiss to her hair. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The movie stays paused.
They don’t press play.
They just sit there, tangled, quiet, finally out in the open.
And for the first time in months, the weight of the secret is gone.
Synopsis: Steve Harrington. His rival per say or rather just deluded to mutual hate has an interesting external factor that lets say caught more than Billy Hargrove's eye.
Warning: Smut, piv, brief brief mentions of abuse, angst(?) if you squint
Word Count: 3.7k
A/N: I've been OBESSED with Naïve from the Kooks although this has no relation lol.
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The Harrington house was always empty.
Your parents were in Chicago, or New York, or wherever rich people went when they got bored of their kids. They'd call once a week, ask if you and Steve needed anything, wire more money into accounts that were already overflowing. You'd learned early that love and money weren't the same thing, even if your parents seemed to think a bigger allowance could substitute for actually being there.
Steve tried. He really did. After Nancy, after the Upside Down shit you weren't supposed to know about but did anyway, he'd gotten protective. Hovered. Treated you like you were made of glass instead of the same neglect and designer clothes he was.
Which was exactly why you hadn't told him about Billy Hargrove.
You met him at a party, some random Friday when Steve was working at Scoops Ahoy and you were bored in a house that echoed with emptiness. Tina had invited you, promised it would be fun. It was the same as every other party: too much beer, too loud music, too many people pretending they were having the time of their lives.
Then you'd seen him.
Billy Hargrove was leaning against the kitchen counter like he owned the place, all California tan and calculated danger. He was beautiful in a way that felt almost weaponized with a sharp jaw, sharper smile, eyes that tracked movement like a predator.
"Harrington," he'd said when he spotted you, something dark and amused in his voice. "Didn't know Steve had a sister."
"He does. And she has a name."
"Yeah?" He'd pushed off the counter, moving into your space with the kind of confidence that should've been annoying. "What is it?"
You'd told him, watching his smile widen.
"Pretty name for a pretty girl."
"That's the best you've got? I expected better from Hawkins' supposed manwhore."
Billy had laughed like actually laughed, surprised. "You always this much of a brat?"
"You always this predictable?"
"Ouch." But his eyes had been gleaming. He leaned in closer, "You know your brother hates me, right?"
"I know. He talks about you constantly. It's kind of pathetic, actually."
"And you're here talking to me anyway."
"Maybe I like making bad decisions."
His smile had turned dangerous. "Yeah? How bad?"
That's how it started. A dare, a challenge, something neither of you could walk away from.
-
The first time Billy climbed through your window, it was two in the morning on a school night.
You'd been lying in bed, unable to sleep in a house that was too big and too quiet, when you'd heard the tap on glass. Your room was on the second floor, which should've made it impossible, but Billy Hargrove didn't seem to believe in impossible.
He was perched on the roof outside your window, leather jacket and that infuriating smirk.
"You're insane," you'd said, opening the window. "How did you even-"
"Climbed the trellis. Your brother really should get that fixed. Security hazard."
"Steve's gonna kill you if he finds out."
"Then I guess we better keep quiet." Billy had climbed through, bringing the smell of cigarettes and night air with him. "Nice room. Very princess."
It was, all white furniture and soft bedding, a canopy bed that felt ridiculous for someone your age. The soft pink, silk robe you were wearing probably didn't help the image.
"What are you doing here, Billy?"
"Couldn't sleep. Thought maybe you couldn't either."
He was right, but you weren't about to admit it. "So you decided to break into my house?"
"You gave me the address." He'd moved closer, eyes dragging over you in a way that made heat pool in your stomach. "That's basically an invitation."
"That's breaking and entering."
"You gonna turn me in, princess?"
The nickname should've annoyed you. It didn't. "Maybe I should. Teach you a lesson about boundaries."
"I don't think you want me to learn about boundaries." His hand had come up to toy with the belt of your robe. "I think you like that I don't have any."
Your breath had caught. "You're awfully sure of yourself."
"Am I wrong?"
No. He wasn't wrong. There was something intoxicating about Billy Hargrove in your bedroom, all danger and dark eyes, everything your brother would lose his mind over.
You'd kissed him instead of answering, pulling him down by his jacket. He'd tasted like cigarettes and something darker, his hands finding your waist and pulling you flush against him.
"Your brother's gonna murder me," he'd muttered against your mouth.
"Then you better make it worth it."
His laugh had been low and wicked. "Yes, ma'am."
The kiss turned hungry fast.
Billy’s mouth was hot and demanding, tongue sliding against yours like he was claiming territory. One hand stayed fisted in the silk of your robe while the other slid down to grip your ass, hauling you up so your thighs had to wrap around his waist or risk falling. You did. The canopy bed creaked when he carried you the few steps and dropped you onto the mattress, following right after, knees bracketing your hips.
The robe belt came undone with one rough tug. Pink silk parted like water and Billy made a low, appreciative sound in his throat when he saw you had nothing on underneath.
“Fuck, princess,” he rasped, voice gravel-rough from cigarettes and want. “You always sleep like this or is this just for me?”
You arched a brow even as your cheeks burned. “Maybe I was hoping some delinquent would climb through my window tonight.”
“Lucky me.”
He shoved the robe off your shoulders completely, letting it pool around your elbows while his mouth dropped to your throat. Teeth grazed your pulse point—not quite biting, just enough pressure to make you gasp. His hands were everywhere: rough calluses dragging over your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, then finally cupping them, squeezing just hard enough that your back bowed off the bed.
You yanked at his jacket. Leather hit the floor with a soft thud. His shirt followed—some faded black Def Leppard tee that smelled faintly of motor oil and him. The silver chain around his neck caught the moonlight coming through the window as he leaned back over you, muscles shifting under tanned skin still carrying the faint red lines of last week’s lifeguard tan.
Billy’s eyes were dark, pupils blown. “You’re gonna have to be quiet,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “Wouldn’t want big brother Steve hearing his little sister getting railed by the guy he hates most in this shithole town.”
The words sent a fresh pulse of heat straight between your legs. You hooked a leg around his thigh and rolled your hips up, grinding against the hard ridge of him through his jeans.
“Then stop talking and do it already, Hargrove.”
That earned you a wicked grin. “Bossy. I like it.”
He sat back on his heels long enough to toe off his boots laces still half-tied and shove his jeans and briefs down in one impatient motion. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip. You swallowed hard. He caught you looking and smirked like he knew exactly what was running through your head.
“Like what you see?”
Instead of answering, you reached for him. Your fingers wrapped around hot, velvet skin and Billy hissed through his teeth, hips jerking forward into your grip.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he growled. “You keep that up and this is gonna be over before it starts.”
You stroked him once, slow and deliberate, thumb swiping over the slick head. “Then you better hurry up.”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
Billy shoved your thighs wider with his knees, settled between them, and dragged the blunt head of his cock through your folds. You were soaked had been since the second he climbed through the window and the wet sound of him sliding against you made you both groan.
He notched himself at your entrance, paused just long enough to meet your eyes.
“Last chance to kick me out,” he said, voice low, almost serious under the cocky edge.
You dug your nails into his shoulders. “Don’t you dare stop.”
He pushed in one long, slow slide.
Your head fell back against the pillows, mouth open on a silent cry. He was thick stretching you in a way that bordered on too much and the burn was perfect. Billy bottomed out with a guttural sound, hips flush to yours, and stayed there for a second, forehead pressed to your shoulder like he was trying to keep control.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he breathed against your skin. “So tight. So goddamn wet for me.”
You clenched around him on purpose just to hear him swear again.
Then he started moving.
Slow at first long, deliberate drags that let you feel every inch of him pulling out and sinking back in. The headboard tapped the wall once, twice; Billy cursed under his breath and braced one hand above you to hold it still.
“Quiet, remember?” he panted, even though his own voice was wrecked.
You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper, nodding frantically.
He picked up speed. Harder. Deeper. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, obscene in the middle-of-the-night silence. One of his hands slid between you, rough fingertips finding your clit and circling with just the right pressure, fast, filthy circles that made your thighs shake.
“Billy-” His name came out choked, barely a whisper.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he muttered, lips against your jaw. “Come on, princess. Let me feel you. Let me feel you come all over my cock while your brother’s asleep down the hall.”
The words tipped you over.
Pleasure snapped tight and broke. You came hard, back arching, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave marks he’d have to hide under his stupid Hawaiian shirts tomorrow. Billy fucked you through it, pace turning sloppy, desperate.
“Fuck- fuck- gonna-” His rhythm stuttered. He buried his face in your neck, teeth sinking into your shoulder to muffle the groan as he came, hips grinding deep, pulsing inside you.
For a long minute the only sound was both of you trying to catch your breath.
Billy finally lifted his head, hair mussed, eyes half-lidded and satisfied. That smirk crept back.
“Still gonna turn me in?”
You laughed shaky, breathless and shoved weakly at his chest. “Get off me, you animal. You’re heavy.”
He rolled to the side but kept one arm slung possessively across your waist, fingers tracing lazy patterns over the silk still tangled around your elbows.
“Worth it?” he asked, quieter now.
You turned your head, met his eyes in the dark.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Worth it.”
He leaned in and kissed you again slower this time, almost sweet.
Then he murmured against your mouth, “Good. Cause I’m not done with you yet, princess.”
Outside, the trellis creaked faintly in the night wind.
Down the hall, Steve slept on, oblivious.
For now.
-
It became routine after that. Billy would show up at random hours, climbing through your window like some twisted Romeo. You'd talk alternating conversations, some about his dad, about your parents, about feeling trapped in a town that was too small and lives that didn't quite fit. Other times you wouldn't talk at all, just lose yourselves in each other until the sun started creeping through the curtains and he'd have to sneak back out.
"You ever think about leaving?" you asked one night, lying in his arms while he smoked out your window.
"Hawkins? All the time."
"Where would you go?"
"Anywhere. California, maybe. Back to the ocean." He exhaled smoke into the night. "You?"
"I don't know. Somewhere that doesn't feel like a postcard. Somewhere real."
Billy looked at you then, something soft in his expression. "You're real."
"So are you. When you stop performing."
"Is that what I'm doing?"
"Isn't it? The whole bad boy thing. The swagger. It's a costume, just like my whole rich girl act."
He was quiet for a moment, then stubbed out his cigarette. "What's under the costume?"
"I don't know. Maybe nothing good."
"I doubt that." His hand found yours, fingers threading together. "You're better than this place. Better than me."
"Don't do that. Don't put me on some pedestal."
"I'm not. I'm just being honest." He pulled you closer. "You scare me a little, you know that?"
"I scare you? How?"
"Because you see me. Really see me. And you haven't run yet."
Your chest felt tight. "I'm not going to."
"You say that now."
"I mean it." You turned to face him fully. "I know what everyone thinks about you, Billy. I know about your temper, about your reputation. But I also know you drive Max to the arcade even though you pretend to hate it. I know you read more than you let on. I know you're not half as bad as you want everyone to believe."
He kissed you instead of responding, slow and deep and achingly tender. When he pulled back, his eyes were suspiciously bright.
"I love you," he said quietly. "I know it's fucked up and too soon and your brother's gonna have a stroke, but I do."
You'd known for weeks, if you were honest. Known from the way he looked at you, the way he held you like you were something precious, the way he kept coming back even though it would've been easier to walk away.
"I love you too," you whispered back.
Steve found out in the worst possible way.
You'd gotten careless, too comfortable. Billy's Camaro had been parked down the street enough times that neighbors had started to notice. And Steve, for all his obliviousness about most things, was still your brother.
He came home early from work one Saturday, walked into the house calling your name. You'd been in the kitchen in your robe, making coffee, when you'd heard his footsteps on the stairs.
Your stomach had dropped. Billy was still in your room.
"Hey, Steve-" you'd started, following him up the stairs, but it was too late.
Steve stood in your doorway, face white, staring at Billy Hargrove sitting on your bed pulling his shirt on.
The silence was deafening.
"Steve-" Billy started.
"Get the fuck out of my house."
"Steve, wait-" you tried.
"You." Steve pointed at you, hand shaking. "Downstairs. Now." Then to Billy: "Out. Before I call the cops."
Billy looked at you, conflicted. You nodded slightly. This was going to be bad enough without him here.
He grabbed his jacket, moved toward the door. Steve didn't move, forcing Billy to squeeze past him. At the doorway, Billy paused.
"For what it's worth, Harrington, I care about her. A lot."
"Get. Out."
You listened to Billy's footsteps down the stairs, the front door closing. Then Steve turned to you, and you'd never seen him look so betrayed.
"Billy Hargrove? Are you fucking kidding me?"
"Steve-"
"Of all the guys in Hawkins, you picked him? The guy who beat the shit out of me? Who treats people like garbage?"
"He's not like that with me!"
"Oh my god, you sound just like Nancy." Steve ran his hands through his hair, pacing. "How long?"
"A few months."
"A few months. Jesus Christ." He stopped, looked at you. "Do you have any idea how dangerous he is? His dad-"
"I know about Neil."
"Then you know what Billy's capable of! Violence, anger-"
"He's never hurt me. He would never hurt me."
"You don't know that!"
"Yes, I do!" You were yelling now too. "I know because I've seen him, Steve. Really seen him. Not the act he puts on, not the person everyone thinks he is. The real Billy. And he's- he's trying. He's trying to be better."
Steve laughed bitterly. "That's what they all say."
"That's not fair," Steve said.
"Isn't it? You're judging Billy for his worst moments, his father's mistakes. But we both know what it's like to have shitty parents. To feel like you're never good enough, like you're always performing." Your voice cracked. "He gets that. He gets me."
"I get you. I'm your brother."
"And you're trying to protect me, I know. But Steve, I don't need protection from Billy. I need you to trust me."
Steve sank onto your bed, head in his hands. "He's bad news."
"Maybe. But he's my bad news."
-
It took three days before Steve would even look at you properly. Another week before he agreed to talk to Billy. You made them meet at the house, neutral territory, even though the tension was thick enough to choke on.
"You've got five minutes," Steve said, arms crossed. "Convince me why I shouldn't beat your ass and ban you from ever seeing my sister again."
Billy, to his credit, didn't rise to the bait. He looked tired, less polished than usual. Like the fight had gone out of him.
"I can't," he said simply.
Steve blinked. "What?"
"I can't convince you. You're right I've done shitty things. I've got a temper, I've hurt people. I beat you up in front of those kids." Billy's jaw tightened. "But I'm trying to be better. For her. Because she makes me want to be better."
"That's not good enough."
"I know. But it's all I've got." Billy met Steve's eyes. "I love her. And I know you don't believe me, but I'd rather cut off my own arm than hurt her."
Steve studied him for a long moment. You held your breath.
"One chance," Steve finally said. "You get one chance. You hurt her, you make her cry, hell, you even make her slightly uncomfortable, and I will end you. I don't care if you're bigger than me. I will find a way."
Relief flooded through you. Billy nodded, serious. "Understood."
"And no more sneaking through her window like some kind of creep. You want to see her, you come through the front door like a normal person."
"Ofcourse, Harrington." The eyeroll being mandatory in response to anything Steve related.
Steve turned to you. "And you. No more lying. I get it, you're younger than me, but we're all each other has. Mom and Dad sure as hell aren't winning any awards. So we need to be honest with each other. Deal?"
You hugged him, fighting tears. "Deal."
-
Things were different after that. Better, in some ways. Billy could come over openly now, though Steve made a point of being home whenever he did, lurking in doorways and making pointed comments.
"Your brother is watching us through the kitchen door," Billy said one evening. You were on the couch, his arm around you, watching a movie.
"I know. He's been doing that for twenty minutes."
"It's creepy."
"He's protective."
"He's a pain in my ass." But Billy was smiling slightly.
"You like it. Admit it."
"I absolutely do not like being monitored by Steve Harrington."
"You like that he’s obsessing over you and specially making him sweat whenever you move closer to me. Specifically, when his face turns red.”
Billy was quiet for a moment. Then: "Maybe."
Later, after Billy left through the front door, as promised and Steve came into the living room.
"He really loves you, doesn't he?"
You looked up from the book you were reading. "Yeah. He does."
"And you love him."
"Yeah."
Steve sighed, sinking into the chair across from you. "I still don't like it. But I get it. The wanting someone who understands. Who sees past the bullshit."
"Like Nancy?"
"Like Nancy," he agreed. "Though that didn't exactly work out."
"This is different."
"How?"
"Because Billy and I, we're not trying to be something we're not. We're just... us. Fucked up rich kids and California burnouts trying to figure out how to be real with each other."
Steve smiled slightly. "That's very poetic."
"Shut up."
"I'm serious. It's good. You're good for him, I think. He's less of an asshole when you're around."
"High praise."
"It's true though." Steve stood, ruffled your hair like you were still ten. "Just be careful, okay? I know you're smart, I know you can handle yourself. But be careful anyway."
"I will. Promise."
-
Billy started staying over more often, in the guest room down the hall that Steve had grudgingly agreed to. Your parents called once, asked if everything was fine. Steve said yes, and they'd wired more money and hung up.
Some nights you'd sneak down the hall after Steve was asleep, slip into Billy's room in your silk robe and bare feet. He'd pull you into bed, wrap around you like he was afraid you'd disappear.
"Your brother's gonna catch us," he'd murmur against your hair.
"Probably."
"He's gonna murder me."
"Most likely."
"Worth it," Billy would say, and kiss you until you forgot why you were supposed to be quiet.
In the morning, you'd wake up in his arms, sunlight streaming through expensive curtains in a house that was finally starting to feel less empty. Steve would make pointed comments at breakfast about the guest room being occupied, but he'd also make extra coffee and set out three mugs instead of two.
It wasn't perfect. Billy still had bad days when his temper flared, when the weight of his father's expectations and his own demons got too heavy. You still felt the absence of your parents like a phantom limb, still wondered if love was supposed to feel so much like learning how to be enough for each other.
But it was real. Messy and complicated and real.
And when Billy pulled you close on the roof one night, sharing a cigarette and watching Hawkins sleep below, you knew this was what you'd been looking for. Not perfection. Not escape.
Just someone who saw you , like really saw you, and stayed anyway.
"I love you," you said into the night.
"I love you too, princess," Billy said back, and for once, the nickname didn't sound like a joke.
Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Maybank! Reader, Rafe Cameron x Fem!Reader
Synopsis: JJ Maybank's defiant little sister and Rafe Cameron are bitter enemies- constant barbs, loaded stares, and simmering tension from bonfires to Midsummers. One stormy night, Rafe finds her bruised and walking alone. He drives her away, they share vodka at a secluded boat ramp, hate ignites into raw, possessive passion.
Warnings: Smut, Porn with Plot, Mentions of abuse, Angst, possibly wordy not my best writing, JUST oral, maybe a cheeky pt 2 incoming!!
A/N: Love me some Drew Starkey, especially as Rafe Cameron! He's finnnneeeee and im really missing OBX currently so i have fallen into a Rafe Cameron trap
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She and Rafe Cameron never got along.
He was too much, too insane, too egotistical, and too stuck up… He was the one person she swore she wouldn’t even think of.
The first time he really clocks her is at a bonfire, months back, when she’s laughing too loud, barefoot in the sand, JJ’s little sister with a beer bottle in her hand and a boy leaning too close. Rafe watches from the other side of the fire, eyes narrowing.
“Careful,” he says when she passes him, not even looking at her. “Girls like you get the wrong idea.”
She stops. Turns. Smiles.
“About what?” she asks. “That you matter?”
His jaw tightens. “Watch your mouth.”
“You first.”
From then on, it’s constant. At a party on Figure Eight, he bumps her shoulder hard enough to slosh her drink.
“Oops,” he says flatly.
She looks down at the spill, then back up at him. “That your version of flirting?”
He laughs. Sharp, humourless. “You wish.”
She leans in anyway. “You think about me a lot for someone who hates Pogues.”
“Trust me,” he mutters, stepping closer than necessary. “I don’t think about you at all.”
She doesn’t believe him. Neither does he.
She makes it worse on purpose.
She flirts openly. With Kooks, mostly. Lets them touch her waist, her arm, her back. She catches Rafe watching once, twice noticing the way his hand tightens around his cup, the way he turns away like he’s disgusted with himself.
“Problem?” she asks when she sees him for the fifth time, catching him staring.
He scoffs. “Just wondering if you ever shut up.”
“Only when I’m bored.”
“Must be exhausting,” he says.
“Yeah,” she replies. “For you.”
Then Midsummers happens.
She wasn’t going to go. She swears she wasn’t, not even meant to be there… But her brother’s and John B’s stupid plan must go on.
So, Kiara shows up with a dress draped over her arm, eyes bright.
“Just try it on,” she says. “Please.”
It’s soft. Light. Not Pogue-coded at all. When she steps out, Kiara just stares.
“Oh my god,” she breathes. “You’re actually unfair.”
She feels wrong wearing it. Too fake. Too breakable. She wears it anyway.
Rafe sees her the second she walks onto the lawn.
He freezes just for a beat, before his face resets into that familiar smirk. But his eyes linger, dragging slowly, like he’s cataloguing every detail against his will. From the cinch of her waist to how the slit of that stupid, pink dress shows off her leg.
Later, voices rise. Security moves in. JJ’s arguing somewhere behind her when Rafe calls out.
“Maybank.”
JJ turns. Rafe doesn’t look at him. He looks at her.
“Didn’t think you’d clean up like that,” he says. “Guess Kiara worked a miracle.”
She scowls. “Didn’t think you’d say that out loud.”
Rafe’s mouth curves, sharp. “Still a Pogue.”
She shrugs. “Still staring.”
Security pulls JJ away. The music swells back up. The moment should end there.
She leaves first. All the Pogues running off the lawn, Pope leaving Mr. Heyward alone, Kiara leaving her parents who shook their heads, all watching the teens make a Pogue-centric exit as always, laughing despite the situation knowing at least John B got the clues he needed.
After that, whatever they had turns mean.
He snaps quicker. She doesn’t soften. At another bonfire, he tells her to get lost just because. She tells him he’s obsessed. He tells her she’s annoying. She tells him he keeps showing up.
At the Boneyard one night, he blocks her path.
“Stay away from me,” he says.
“You first,” she replies.
“You think this is funny?”
“I think you hate that I don’t care.”
Silence stretches. Hostile. Heavy.
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” he says.
She looks at him, unimpressed. “Then stop standing so close.”
He doesn’t move.
That’s when she realizes this isn’t just teasing.
It isn’t harmless.
It isn’t clean.
It’s built from too many looks held too long, too many arguments that don’t end, too much attention disguised as contempt.
And whatever this thing is between her and Rafe Cameron born out of bonfires, parties, and a dress she shouldn’t have worn and it’s already bigger than either of them wants to admit.
Rafe Cameron isn’t looking for her.
It’s late, the kind of night where the road blurs and his thoughts won’t shut up. He’s driving too fast, window cracked, radio off. Figure Eight behind him, Cut ahead — a mistake he realizes too late.
He slows when he sees movement on the side of the road.
At first, he thinks it’s nothing. A shadow. A drunk tourist. Then the headlights catch bare legs, those damn jean shorts, sun-kissed skin under the glare.
He brakes hard.
She’s walking like she’s done this before. Arms tight around herself, head down, hair a mess. A white tank top clings to her, thin enough that the bikini straps show underneath. Her feet are dirty. Her shoulder is red with fingerprints, maybe something darker along her arm.
Rafe swears under his breath.
He knows that walk. He’s seen JJ do it before, a one-off. But he knows exactly why people leave their houses at night and keep moving like if they stop, something worse will catch up.
He pulls over anyway. Engine still running.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters, more to himself than her.
She doesn’t look at the car. She just keeps walking.
Rafe leans out the window. “Hey.”
Nothing.
“Hey,” he says louder. “Maybank.”
She stops. Slowly, she turns. The headlights make her squint. When she recognizes the car, her face hardens instantly.
“Of course. Look, Rafe-”
Rafe exhales through his nose, cutting her off. “What are you doing out here?”
“Walking,” she says. “You done?”
He opens the door, steps out. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“So?” She shrugs, sharp and careless. It pulls the fabric across her shoulder, and she flinches before she can stop herself.
Rafe notices. His jaw tightens.
“Did he touch you?” he asks. He’s seen the bruises on both hers and JJ’s bodies before, bad at hiding or maybe he stared too hard.
Her eyes flash. “Don’t.”
“Answer the question.”
“You don’t get to ask me that.”
“Yeah,” he snaps, “I do when you’re bleeding on the side of the road.”
She laughs once, bitterly. “And to think you care so much?”
He steps closer. “I think you’re not making it home like this.”
“I always do.”
“Not tonight.”
She stares at him. Long. Hostile. Tired.
“Go back to Figure Eight,” she says. “This isn’t your problem.”
Rafe scoffs. “Everything’s my problem lately.”
He looks her over again, slower now. The tank top. The shaking hands. The way she’s standing like she’s braced for another hit even though no one’s there. And that red hue emerging across her neck.
“You walking to the Chateau?” he asks.
She doesn’t answer.
He nods once. “Get in the car.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
She steps back. “I’m not getting in your car.”
Rafe’s voice drops. “You want Luke to come find you instead?”
Her face goes still. That’s the wrong thing to say. He knows it the second it leaves his mouth.
She swallows. “Screw you.”
“Probably,” he says, not backing off. “But you’re still getting in.”
Silence stretches between them. The road is empty. Crickets loud. Her chest rises and falls too fast.
Finally, she moves. Not toward the car — just closer to him, so close she can smell that ridiculously expensive cologne on his body.
“If you tell anyone,” she says quietly, “I’ll never forgive you.”
Rafe meets her eyes. For once, there’s no smirk.
“I don’t talk,” he says. “You know that.”
She hesitates. Then she opens the passenger door and gets in.
Rafe drives.
Neither of them speaks.
But the hate between them feels different now heavier, tangled with something neither wants to name.
Neither of them spoke. But the hate between her and Rafe felt different now — heavier, tangled with something neither wanted to name. Rafe didn’t ask where she wanted to go. He just drove. The road curved away from the Cut, trees pressing in on both sides, headlights cutting narrow tunnels through the dark. She sat rigid in the passenger seat, arms crossed, staring straight ahead like if she didn’t look at him, this wasn’t happening.
“You shaking?” he asked after a minute.
“I’m cold,” she said.
He reached down, cranked the air off without looking at her. The silence settled again.
After a while, she realized where they were heading.
“You’re not taking me home,” she said.
“No,” he replied. “I figured.”
“Where, then?”
Rafe exhaled. “The old boat ramp. Past the marsh. No one goes there at night.”
She huffed a laugh. “That’s reassuring… totally not going to murder me.”
“You want to get out?” he asked, already slowing.
She didn’t answer.
The boat ramp was empty when he pulled in. Just dark water, wooden planks, and the faint smell of salt and rot. He killed the engine. The quiet was loud.
She undid her seatbelt first.
“You good?” he asked.
She ignored him, opening the door and getting out. She sat on the hood, arms wrapped around her knees. Rafe leaned against the driver’s side, far enough away to pretend he wasn’t hovering. The moon caught the bruising along her arm now that the headlights were gone. He noticed.
“Does JJ know?” he asked.
“What do you think?”
“Figures.”
She glared at him. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m just asking.”
“Well, don’t.”
Another pause. Then, unexpectedly, she spoke.
“You got anything to drink?”
Rafe raised a brow. “You serious?”
“Dead.”
“This is your idea of coping?”
She shrugged. “Walking didn’t work tonight.”
He considered her for a second, jaw tight. Then he reached into the backseat and pulled out a half-full bottle cheap vodka, label peeling.
She raised an eyebrow. “Classy. Very kook-ish.”
“Didn’t invite you,” he said, twisting the cap off.
He took a pull first. Long. Controlled. Then held it out to her.
She hesitated just long enough for him to notice.
“What,” he asked. “Scared?”
She snatched it. “Shut up.”
The vodka burned going down. She coughed, eyes watering, but didn’t hand it back right away. She took another sip. Smaller.
Rafe watched her like he was waiting for her to bolt.
“You’re bad at this,” he said.
“I didn’t ask for tips.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
She passed the bottle back. He drank again, longer this time. When he handed it back, their fingers brushed. Neither reacted. That almost made it worse.
Minutes passed. The edge dulled. Her shoulders dropped a fraction.
“This is a terrible idea,” Rafe said.
“Yeah,” she agreed. “That’s why it’s working.”
He let out a short laugh before he could stop himself. It surprised both of them.
She glanced at him. “Did you just laugh?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“You’re less annoying drunk,” she said.
“You’re still annoying,” he fired back, “just quieter.”
She smiled not sweet, not kind. Dangerous. The kind that had gotten her into trouble long before tonight.
“Careful, Cameron,” she said. “Hate looks weird on you when you’re worried.”
His expression shifted. Hardened.
“I’m not worried.”
“Sure,” she said, taking another sip. “That’s why you stopped.”
Silence stretched again, thicker now. The bottle passed back and forth, slow and deliberate, like neither wanted to be the one to end the night. Whatever this was the hate, the tension, the alcohol, it was sitting between them now. Charged. Waiting. And neither left.
The bottle passed back and forth, each sip dulling the edges of her anger just enough to make words easier, smirks sharper, glances heavier. The air smelled like salt and pine and vodka, and even the moonlight seemed too bright against her skin.
“You think you’re so funny,” she said, voice lower now, quieter, almost teasing.
“I am,” he replied, leaning a little closer, hands tucked in his pockets like he was pretending not to notice how close she was.
She lifted her chin, daring. “Funny and annoying. Couldn’t pick one?”
He snorted. “You’re the same way.”
She laughed, short and sharp, the sound bouncing off the water. He moved closer, not on purpose, not like he planned it just drawn.
“You’re not supposed to care,” she murmured, arms hugging her knees, “but you do. Admit it.”
“Not true,” he said, jaw tight. But he didn’t move away.
She shifted on the hood, letting her knees fall open slightly, leaning toward him. “Cameron, you’re a shit liar,” she said, clearly amused.
His hands clenched at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling. “I said I don’t care.”
“Then stop staring,” she teased, voice low, almost a challenge.
He didn’t. And that’s the thing he didn’t look away.
The distance between them shrank, almost imperceptibly at first. One moment, she was sitting on the hood, pretending to look at the water. The next, he leaned over the hood, close enough that she could feel the heat from his body, smell the faint cologne and leather and salt from the air.
“Aren’t you getting a bit close?... Move,” she whispered.
“Not moving,” he muttered, voice rougher now.
Her heart hammered. She hated him for this. For making it impossible to hate him completely. For making her skin burn just from being near him.
She lifted her chin again, eyes locked on his, those doe eyes provoking him. And he leaned down.
The first touch was accidental a brush of his hand against hers as he reached for balance on the hood. The second was deliberate, sly in that Rafe Cameron-sort-of way, and suddenly their faces were inches apart.
Their lips almost touched.
“You’re impossible,” she breathed.
He smirked, teeth grazing her bottom lip. “Takes one to know one.”
And then he kisses her.
It’s sharp, almost angry, like every insult you ever threw at him is wrapped up in it. Her hands come up on his chest, pulling, testing, and he presses harder. Everything she’s hated about him the arrogance, the teasing, the way he gets under her skin, the fact he’s a murderer and tried to kill Sarah…maybe it is all forgotten right now in the kiss.
She breaks apart for air, foreheads pressed together.
“You’re insane,” she says, heart pounding, voice harsh and broken.
“Yeah,” he says, lips twitching into a smirk. “But you like it.”
she shoves him back enough to breathe. “Don’t,” you warn. “Not here. Not like this.”
“Not like this?” he echoes, still too close, hand brushing your jaw. “You’ve been walking around, teasing me for months, daring me. Don’t tell me this isn’t what you wanted too.”
She swallows hard, her eyes betraying her as she leaned in again “You’re a dick”
That got a chuckle out of him as he went in for a kiss again, now between her legs as he moved in front of her, his hands settling down on her hips, tightly gripping, claiming, possessive.
His hands moving up and down slowly, as he deepens the kiss, her hands clutching that worn-out navy-blue shirt. His fingertips dancing around that skimpy tank top of hers… “God, you have no idea what you do to me” He mutters against her lips as she pulled him even closer.
Things escalate quickly, her hands tugging at his shirt as he fumbles with the zipper of her shorts, quickly pulling it down then forcing their lips to part, looking down at her with nothing but pure lust and admiration.
“You sure about this, Princess?” The nickname being almost mockingly as it escapes his mouth.
inner “You always talk this much?” Huffing, impatience coming off her in waves.
He chuckles, looking at her pulling her shorts off completely, her lilac panties being the only barrier between her core and his face, as he lowers himself down to be at level with her thigh.
He softly bit the inside of her thigh, earning a soft gasp from her parted lips, causing the corners of his mouth to twitch as his smirk widened.
Those damn blue eyes, looking back up at him as his fingers pulled her panties aside slowly, teasingly, daring her to try stop the noises or the heat rising to her cheeks.
“Rafe…” is all she could manage, her throat having gone dry at the mere sight of him between her legs, the thought of herself being all at his mercy being a bigger turn on than excepted.
One finger, slowly coming up to trade around her wetness, her legs spreading further on instinct for him and him alone.
“You’re so goddamn wet” Smugness dripping from his mouth as his eyes flickered from her warmth to her face, before leaning in and before leaning in and dragging his tongue flat against her, slow and deliberate, tasting every inch like he’d been starving for it.
She gasped sharp, involuntary her fingers flying to his hair, gripping hard enough to hurt. “Fuck- Rafe-”
He hummed against her, the vibration ripping another sound from her throat. One hand pinned her thigh wider, rough palm sliding up to hold her open while the other gripped her hip, keeping her exactly where he wanted. No escaping. No pretending this wasn’t happening.
His tongue circled her clit once, teasing, then flicked- quick, mean- drawing her hips off the hood in a jerk. He pulled back just enough to look up at her through dark lashes, lips glistening, smirk filthy.
“Still think I talk too much?” he rasped, voice wrecked already.
She tried to glare, but it melted into something desperate when he sucked her clit between his lips, hard. Her head fell back against the windshield with a soft thud, thighs trembling around his head.
“Shut- shut up,” she managed, but it came out broken, breathy. Her hips rolled instinctively, chasing his mouth.
He laughed low against her- dark, satisfied before diving back in. Two fingers slid inside her without warning, curling just right, pumping slow while his tongue worked relentless circles. The stretch burned sweet, and she clenched around him on instinct, drawing a groan from deep in his chest.
“Goddamn,” he muttered, pulling back to watch his fingers disappear into her, slick and shining. “Look at you. Taking it like you were made for it.”
“Rafe-” Her voice cracked on his name, half warning, half plea.
He didn’t let up. Fingers crooked deeper, thumb pressing firm on her clit now while his mouth returned sucking, licking, devouring. Her back arched, one hand scrabbling at the hood for purchase, the other yanking his hair harder, holding him there like she’d kill him if he stopped.
The coil in her stomach tightened fast too fast. Years of tension, every barbed word and loaded stare, every time she’d caught him watching her like he wanted to ruin her, it all snapped into this.
“I’m-” she choked out, thighs shaking violently. “Rafe, I’m gonna-”
“Do it,” he growled against her. “Come on my tongue, princess. Let me feel it.”
That did it.
She shattered loud, unfiltered, hips bucking against his face as waves crashed through her. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow kept licking her through it, drawing it out until she was whimpering, oversensitive, trying to push his head away and pull him closer at the same time.
When she finally collapsed back against the hood, chest heaving, he rose slowly. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes blown black with lust, looking every bit the predator who’d just won.
She stared up at him, dazed, lips parted, cheeks flushed. For once, she didn’t have a comeback ready.
He leaned over her again, caging her with his arms on either side of her head. His erection strained hard against his shorts, pressing insistently against her still-throbbing core through the thin fabric.
“You good?” he asked, voice rough, but there was something softer underneath like he actually needed to hear it.
She swallowed, nodded once. Then, because she couldn’t help herself “You’re still a dick.”
He smirked, but it didn’t reach the usual cruelty. “Yeah. And you just came all over my face because of it.”
She huffed a weak laugh, shoving at his chest half-heartedly. He caught her wrist, brought it to his mouth, pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss to the inside right over the fading bruise from earlier.
The gesture hit her harder than anything else tonight.
“Don’t,” she whispered, but she didn’t pull away.
He held her gaze. “I’m not telling anyone. Not about this. Not about the bruises. Not about why you were walking alone.”
She searched his face looking for the lie, the angle, the way he always twisted things. But all she saw was him raw, unguarded, still hard against her but waiting.
“Why?” she asked quietly.
Rafe exhaled, forehead dropping to rest against hers. “Because I’m tired of pretending, I don’t give a shit.”
The words hung heavy between them.
She didn’t know what to say to that. So she didn’t say anything. Just tilted her head and kissed him slow this time, tasting herself on his tongue, tasting the vodka and salt and something dangerously close to surrender.
He groaned into her mouth, hands sliding under her tank top, palms rough against her ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. She arched into him, legs wrapping loosely around his waist, pulling him flush.
When they broke apart again, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against hers once more.
“Not here,” he said, echoing her earlier words but this time it wasn’t rejection. It was promise. “Not on a fucking hood like animals.”
She raised a brow, lips curving. “Thought you liked it dirty, Cameron.”
“I do,” he admitted, voice low. “But you deserve better than a quick fuck on the side of the road after the night you’ve had.”
Her chest tightened unexpected, unwelcome. She shoved it down.
“Then where?”
He hesitated. Just a second. Then: “My place. No one’s home. Sarahs with your brother and the rest of them doing whatever dumb shit they’re up to.”
She should say no. Should demand he drive her to the Chateau, drop her off, pretend this never happened.
Instead, she whispered, “Okay.”
Rafe stilled like he hadn’t expected her to agree.
Then he kissed her again harder, claiming before helping her off the hood. He steadied her when her legs wobbled as she pulled her shorts back up, handed her the forgotten vodka bottle like some twisted peace offering.
She took a swig, passed it back.
He capped it, tossed it in the back seat, then opened the passenger door for her gentlemanly in a way that felt wrong and right at the same time.
As he slid behind the wheel and started the engine, the silence wasn’t hostile anymore.
Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Fem!Reader, Billy Hargrove x Wheeler!Reader
Summary: Where Nancy Wheeler's little sister (by a year) holding the title of the biggest bitch in Hawkins catches the attention of the one and only Billy Hargrove, putting them in a push and pull match.
Word count: 1.2k
Warnings: erm...I don't know, underage drinking, one year age gap?
A/N: Lowkey inspired by Maneater by Daryl Hall and John Oates! Very excited just craved a feral kind of Billy like in the very beginning...And I wanted the reader to feel like a character herself rather than just a narrator if that makes sense and I have never seen a fanfic where the reader is a Wheeler with Billy but hypothetically it would mean he and Karen never had that weird thing going on so a win is a win imo
BUT idk if it is worth letting the story go on or not </3
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Billy Hargrove loved a crowd.
That wasn’t a fresh discovery, he loved attention, bathed in it since he set foot into Hawkins high. Fresh meat for the girls, shamelessly loathing in their gazes as if he hung the moon and stars with those bis and tris.
He loved the noise; lockers slamming, the shouting, the looks people gave him as if he were trouble or a challenge. Most days he embraced it…hell leaned into it, loud laugh, sharp grin plastered across his face as if daring anyone to say something just for the thrill of a fight.
Today wasn’t any different
He was half listening to random bullshit spewing out of Tommy H. about the party at Tina’s, something about beer, music, costumes…when the hallway shifted. Not quieted. Shifted like the attention had been drawn all at once.
He knew what this meant, he turned his head, already smirking.
There she was.
Nancy Wheeler’s little sister, cheer uniform hugging her figure almost too perfectly. Lacquered, rose lips. Chin High. Strutting slowly and deliberately as if daring someone to stare to long, which they did. They always did.
Billy’s grin widened
As he pushed off the lockers and stepped right in front of her path like he owned the floor. “Well, if it isn’t Hawkins’ favourite problem”
She shot him a glare, stopping short, her eyes unimpressed.
“Move, Hargrove” she said. “You’re blocking the view”
He laughed, loud and easy, that shit eating grin plastered on his face as he leaned down into her space without asking. People nearby slowed. Billy loved that…loved that they were watching.
“Careful,” he said, mockingly. “Someone might think you’re talking to me”
She snorted. “Please. You are not that interesting.”
That was a lie, they both knew it.
Billy’s hand came up, not touching her, just bracketing her against the lockers as he tilted his head, his grin turning meaner. “Funny” his eyes travelling down her body, not caring who saw. “You keep stopping for someone who bores you, Princess”
She didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned closer…just enough to sharpen his smirk.
“Maybe I like gracing you with my presence.” She said sweetly. “It always gets a reaction out of you”
That did it for him.
He chuckled, his breath hot and adrenaline buzzing. “You going to Tina’s tonight?” he asked, like he already knew.
She shrugged, playing the edge of that damn jean jacket of his. “Depends. You gonna try fight Harrington again?”
“Only if he tries shit,” he said unapologetically “Which yeah he usually does.”
Her smile all teeth “Figures”
From down the hallway, Nancy Wheeler froze, watching the way her sister stood too close to Hargrove…Too fearless, smug and absolutely asking for trouble.
Her sister didn’t look back
She stepped past Billy and brushed her shoulder against his chest. “Try not to black out before you get there”
Billy watched her go, licking his teeth, pulse high, already wired.
“Jesus,” Tommy muttered “Ain’t she happy to see you”
“Nah,” shaking his head grinning wider “She’s having fun”
And that was the truth.
The music hit like a punch as Billy stepped into Tina’s living room. Lights swinging, shadows of kids in cheap Halloween costumes flashing across the walls, and everyone packed around the keg like it was the centre of the universe.
Billy didn’t bother with a costume. Why? He was already the show.
Leather jacket, tight jeans, hair messy in that perfect-not-perfect way. He sauntered up to the keg like he owned it and tonight, he was going to prove it.
Steve Harrington had held the Keg King title, but Billy wasn’t worried. He smirked at the jeers and cheers, then hoisted himself upside down for the keg stand. Legs in the air, hands gripping the edge, and the first pour went down like a damn trophy. Foam dripped, someone screamed, and the crowd went nuts.
Seconds ticked by. People counted out loud. Billy grinned through it, adrenaline and beer rushing, the cheers turning into a chant:
“Keg King! Keg King! Keg King!”
When he finally came down, upright and victorious, dripping, triumphant, the room erupted. Billy raised his arms like he owned the party because he did. Even though, Steve Harrington looked like he wanted to punch him.
And then he saw her.
Nancy Wheeler’s younger sister, standing by the kitchen counter like she wasn’t impressed except she was. Hair loose, dress perfect, red lipstick bold in the flashing lights. She smirked, cup in hand, watching him with that dangerous mix of amusement and challenge that made Billy’s grin grow even wider.
“King, huh?” she said, voice sharp, teasing. “I’ve been watching.”
Billy leaned against the counter next to her, chest still pumping. “Yeah,” he said, voice low, full of heat. “King of the world tonight, Princess.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Just don’t fall off your throne.”
He laughed, loud, reckless. “Too late for that.” And he smirked at the edge of her cup, brushing past her just enough to make a mark but not on her, just on the air around her. He owned that moment, that space, and she let him.
“You’re insane,” she said, grinning.
“Maybe,” Billy replied, leaning closer, voice thick with excitement. “But fun’s better that way.”
She raised her cup toward him. “I’ll drink to that.”
He clinked his beer against hers, eyes dark, reckless, and completely his own. The party roared around them. The keg had crowned its king. The chaos had a new centre. And Billy Hargrove? He had exactly what he wanted: her, laughing, untouchable, and completely aware of it.
“Told you I’m better than every damn loser in this shitty town” He said, smirking.
She smirked, eyebrow arched. “Yeah. Impressive. But don’t get cocky, Hargrove.”
“Cocky?” He leaned in close, brushing past her shoulder just enough to make the heat spike. “I’m not cocky. I’m fun. You like fun, right?”
She didn’t flinch. “Depends on what kind of fun.”
Billy laughed, loud and sharp, then grabbed a stray red cup and chugged half of it, splashing foam across the floor. “This kind,” he said, voice rough, “reckless, loud, dangerous… the kind you can’t walk away from.”
She tilted her head, daring him amused. “Oh? Dangerous, huh? You sure you can handle me?”
Billy’s grin went feral. “I already am.” He shoved a guy who tried to push past him into the wall, not even looking back, then spun on his heel to face her again. “And you? You’re trouble. I like that.”
She laughed, bold and wild, leaning into his space just enough to make his pulse spike. “Careful. I might be more than you can handle.”
Billy’s grin went feral “I already am, Sweetheart”
She laughed, bold and wild, leaning into his space just enough to make his pulse spike. “Careful. I might be more than you can handle.”
“Then I’ll just have to prove I can,” he said, stepping closer, chest brushing hers, voice low and dangerous over the bass of the music. “Starting now.”
a/n: very self indulgent fic! i’m in a similar situation to the reader’s in terms of the other guy, and i need someone like billy (at least, this version of him) to snap me out of it xD. also dirty dancing is one of my comfort movies, it’s a little past the right year of billy being a senior in high school, but oh well.
cw: mdni, smut with little plot, sex in a smoking hot camero outside of a halloween party, making out, fingering, piv, wrap it before you tap it (unlike them oops)… the usual
Plot: You had one reason, and one reason only, for showing up at Tommy’s Halloween rager. And that reason was a boy who wasn’t worth your time. Lucky for you, Billy Hargrove had a few good ideas on how to get your mind off of such unimportant things…
You regretted going to the party from the moment you stepped foot in the loud, crowded house. You were uncomfortable in your stupid Baby from Dirty Dancing costume, the tiny white crop top and the tiny jean shorts—it was cold outside, you were starting to feel like the crop top showed off too much skin, and you felt stupid with so much makeup and your hair teased so high.
You also felt stupid because the only reason you had came to the godforsaken party in the first place was staring you down from the other side of the room, refusing to make a move, but refusing to talk to anyone else, either.
Nick Jackson. Otherwise known as Nick the Dick, at least to you. One of Hawkins High’s star basketball players.
One minute he was calling you nonstop—late at night too, never giving you a second to let your head stop spinning.
The next minute he wasn’t saying a word to you, just staring you down, his jaw clenched. No rhyme or reason to it. You’d even asked him if there was an issue—apparently there wasn’t, but he hadn’t since talked to you. Just stared you down.
You knew he would be at this party. He always came to Tommy’s ragers.
Your friends couldn’t make it. Didn’t want to, really. Your group was more book smart. They wanted to spend the night watching old horror flicks and eating popcorn.
But not you. Not that Halloween. That Halloween you wanted to deal with whatever was going on between you and Nick, and be rid of it forever.
But as you stared back at him, white-knuckling your red solo cup filled with God-knows-what, you were beginning to realize that coming to that party had been a bad idea.
Suddenly, a lower voice approached you from behind, standing impossibly close. You could see a mess of blond curls in your periphery, but you didn’t dare turn around.
“Now what’s a cute little thing like you doing in a place like this?” asked the voice. You knew that voice from just about anywhere. Billy freaking Hargrove.
Billy had also tried to get into your pants, about a couple weeks before Nick started being a pain in your ass. He sat behind you in English, always messing with you one way or another or following you to the bathroom for “just a kiss.” Really, you had talked to Nick first hoping to get rid of Billy, not expecting that Nick would be so… much, that is, until he wasn’t.
You turned around, hands on your hips. Billy was gorgeous, by all definitions of the word. Tall, movie star handsome with big blue eyes and long eyelashes, plush pink lips, blond curls, and the physique to boot.
Looks wise, perfect. Reputation wise… well, in that moment, he was shamelessly looking right down your crop top. He was a skeezeball. So, you returned the favor, taking in his shitty excuse for a Terminator costume. An unzipped black leather jacket thinly veiled as an excuse to expose his toned muscle underneath. Really, you were just focused on the second part.
It was easier to ignore how beautiful he was under the fluorescente lighting of Hawkins High, but then? Under the dim lighting that so perfectly highlighted his best features, that made his smile look so genuine?
Suddenly, you didn’t want to ignore Billy Hargrove so much.
“Oh, come on, Billy. You’ve already tried this once,” you said coyly.
His gaze slowly trailed upwards to meet yours. You stared right back, your stance firm. “And who’s to say I can’t try again.”
Your gaze flicked back to Nick, who’s jaw was clenched, and back to Billy, who sported an easygoing smirk. His eyes followed yours, immediately catching who you were looking at.
“Really? Jackson? Still?”
You pursed your lips. “No.”
“Come on, y/n. Jackson ain’t shit.”
“I know,” you agreed, and maybe a bit sadly at that. Because really, you did agree. Nick Jackson wasn’t all that smart, nor was he anyone you’d ever date necessarily. You just liked the attention from a cute boy, and were confused as to why one day it just suddenly disappeared.
“Oh, y/n,” Billy tutted. “You’ve got all this,” he said, motioning to your figure, to you. “And you’re still worried about Nick the Dick?”
Wow. You thought you were the only one who called him that. You couldn’t keep Billy’s gaze, because you hated how he had a point. One of his big hands came up to your jaw, gently tipping your face up to his. Surprisingly, you didn’t mind the warmth.
“Y/n. Look. Pour your drink on me if I’m wrong, but let me ask you something.”
You cocked your head to the side slightly, the only indication that you wanted to hear what he had to say.
“Do you really wanna settle for the guy who’s only gonna eyefuck you from across the room?” he started, leaning down by your ear to whisper the second part. “Or do you want the guy who’s gonna treat you right, at least for a night, if you’ll give him the chance?”
Your jaw fell open with shock.
“C’mon, y/n,” he singsonged. “There’s no problem with wanting to feel good. No more of whatever this bullshit is.”
You thought about it for a moment. Billy Hargrove was known as the best lay in Hawkins. If anyone could get your mind off your obnoxious problem, it would be him.
“And besides,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Nobody puts Baby in the corner, right?”
That sold you. “Right,” you echoed, close to his lips, a happy smile playing at your lips.
“Attagirl,” he said with a wink. “I’m gonna kiss you now. Is that okay?”
You glanced in Nick’s direction, who had seemingly watched the entire interaction. You smiled back at Billy. “Yes.” It was time to be done. High time to move on.
Suddenly, Billy’s plush lips were pressed against yours, and you couldn’t find another thought in your mind. The kiss was deep, it was passionate, it was uniquely Billy. He kissed you until you could barely breath, until you needed him to support your waist.
“Wanna take this to a bed?”
You nodded dumbly.
“Already speechless, toots? This is gonna be a long night for you,” he tutted. Suddenly, you were way more turned on than you could even fathom. He promptly picked you up like you weighed nothing and threw you over his shoulder. You yelped with laughter, face to face with his perfect ass before shooting Nick one last smirk. He had spilled the drink he was holding on himself, and you couldn’t help but laugh with glee.
Billy effortlessly made his way up the stairs, rattling doorknob after doorknob to find a room in Tommy’s house. Each room was occupied with a different couple, but Billy assured you that none of them were having as good of a night as you were about to.
“To hell with it,” he cursed after the last occupied room. “We’re going to the Camaro.”
It was funny to you that he was so self-assured that he called his car the Camaro. You kind of liked it. At least he showed you exactly who he was.
“But it’s cold outside,” you complained. Your thermal leggings had done you no favors in getting here.
He set you down and peeled off his jacket. “Here, you little shit,” he said, holding it out for you to put on. You happily obliged, immediately enveloped with the warmth of his body temperature and the smell of cigarettes and whiskey. He threw you over his shoulder again, walking downstairs and out the door, ignoring the jeers and cheers from anyone who’d noticed.
He walked through the cold air, shirtless as the day he was born, like it was nothing, beelining for the Camaro before setting you down on the hood and stepping between your already parted thighs.
“Hi,” he said, giving you one of those Hollywood grins.
“Hi. You’re shirtless,” you observed, letting your hand come up to chase the broad, freckled expanse of his muscular shoulders.
“You don’t seem to mind,” he winked, before leaning in and kissing you once more. You loved the way he tasted. It was all excise and sin. Delicious, really. Intoxicating. Inebriating. And he had the softest, sweetest lips to juxtapose it.
You couldn’t believe the position you were in. You couldn’t believe the way Billy was rolling his hips into the space between your thighs, or how he was actively getting hard just from making out with you. You couldn’t believe that Billy Hargrove thought you were hot enough to make out with in the first place. And even more than any of that, you couldn’t believe that you were starting to see yourself from his perspective.
“God,” he mumbled, bringing his lips to the side of your neck and kissing a row down the column. “If it were up to me, I’d fuck you right here for all of them to see,” he said, biting the juncture of your neck and collarbone before you could respond.
“But I know better than that, toots,” he said, kissing the exposed tops of your breasts. “I wish I didn’t, but I do,” he left a hickey near where your heart was beating a mile a minute.
“Can we—can we take this inside the car?” you asked, blindly reaching down to palm him in his jeans. He grunted, and it was low and sexy, the perfect blend to make you want more. “Please?”
“Well, since you asked so nicely…” he hoisted his strong arms underneath your ass, carrying you off of the hood before opening the backseat to his car. He let you climb in first, shuck off his jacket and throw it to the side, before he quickly followed, slamming the door behind him.
“C’mere,” he said, pulling you into his lap. At that point you could feel everything. His muscles, his erection egregiously pressing against your core, all of it. And you loved it.
“This is…”
“What, toots. What is it?” he asked, cupping your jaw once more.
“So much better than I thought this night would be,” you finished, giving him a sheepish smile.
“Yeah?” he asked. You nodded. “I’d have to say the same,” he said, shooting you another wink before leaning in for a kiss. He was even tougher than before this time, his hand happily moving your jaw into his while the other roamed freely against the sides of your body. You loved the feeling of it—he was everywhere.
His lips fell down to your breasts quicker than before, revisiting the quickly developing hickey. You gasped as he kissed it, making him smirk.
“This top’s real cute, but it’s gotta go,” he said. You immediately obliged, pulling it straight over your head, exposing your breasts to him. There was no bra on Earth that would’ve fit underneath the shirt, so you were bare. Any insecurity you could’ve even begun to have completely dissipated at the absolutely ruined look he gave you.
“Holy fucking shit,” he said, cupping one in each hand. “You should’ve just came to the party topless.”
“What, like you did?” you teased, your lilting voice morphing into a moan as he began to kiss all over your chest.
That got a wry laugh out of him. “Yeah, exactly.”
Eventually you started getting antsy—you hadn’t expected Billy to take his time, nor be so attentive with you.
“Billy, I—,” he cut you off with a kiss. You ground your hips into his, and he groaned into your mouth.
“Alright toots, alright. What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to… to do something,” you gasped.
“Something like what?” he asked with mischief in his beautiful eyes. One of his hands snaked up one of your thighs, making you shudder. his own legs spread wider, forcing you to open up more for him, your knees barely reaching the leather seats.
“You know—,” you blushed.
“Do I?” his hand reached higher, almost to where you were aching for him, and then it stopped and squeezed your plush inner thigh.
“Billy!” you scolded.
“What?” he asked innocently, squeezing your inner thigh again. Without the barrier of the shorts you’d surely be dripping arousal down to his hand.
“Billy, touch me,” you said, spitting out the words.
“I am touching you, toots,” he said, squeezing once more.
A little moan escaped you. “No. I want you inside of me,” you said.
“Attagirl,” he said, finally satisfied. He undid the button of your shorts, trying to push his hand past the waistband, before getting stuck under the seam of your thermal tights.
“Fuck,” you cursed aloud. “Stupid tights.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, picking you up and laying you across his lap, yanking down your shorts and then setting you back down so you were straddling him. Him maneuvering you just how he wanted you turned you on so badly that you almost didn’t realize he forgot about your tights, until—
Billy ripped the tights down the middle, exposing white lace panties as he pulled them down on either side.
“Billy!” you scolded yet again.
“Oh come on,” he rolled his eyes. His hand came back to the waistline of your panties, and suddenly you didn’t care about anything. “You didn’t wear these for him, did you?” His blue eyes darned to a deep cerulean.
He touched the front of them, eliciting a moan instead of an answer. “Fuck. You’re soaked through ‘em. You wore them for him and now they’re soaked for me,” he said, and there was something possessive in his voice. “God. I’m gonna make you feel so good, I promise, sweet thing. You won’t even remember his name when I’m done with you.”
That you were sure of.
His rubbed lazy circles over the fabric, testing the waters, already leaving you a moaning mess.
“When was the last time..?”
“It’s been a while.”
“Oh, Baby,” he shook his head, moving the lace to the side. You whimpered as he began to run his fingers through your flick folds, ghosting over your clit. “How could anyone step away from this sweet cunt, huh?”
“I—I don’t know,” you said, moaning as two fingers began to prod your entrance.
“I don’t know if I’m gonna be able to,” he confessed, watching your expression intently. You didn’t have a second to ask what he meant before he plunged his two fingers into you up to his metal rings, the metal a cool contrast to his warm hand.
You bucked your hips, but his other hand came to hold you in place. “Relax,” he said lowly, breath warm against your ear as though he were telling you a secret. “Let me make you feel good.”
You rested your arms on his shoulders and nodded. He promptly began to finger you, massaging spots inside you that you had no idea could feel so good.
But it was too slow. “Billy…”
“Alright, alright,” he said, picking up the pace. Suddenly your small gasps were becoming fragmented moans of his name as he began to make you see stars with his fingers.
His lips came back to yours, heightening the experience as he pumped in and out of you, making your eyes roll back. Eventually you came with a wail of his name.
“Billy—,” you moaned when he didn’t stop fingering you even after you came. Your thighs tried to close, but it was futile.
“Oh no, keep those pretty thighs open. You’re getting another one, whether you like it or not. You’re gonna need it if you wanna take this big dick, I promise you.”
And the thought turned you on all the more, keeping you open for him as he quickly brought you to a. second release, making pleasure-filled tears fall from your doe eyes.
He cockily leaned in and kissed the tears away. “You alright?” he asked, knowing the answer.
“You’re a dick,” you said indignantly.
“Nah, but I’ve got a big one,” he said with a wink. You shoved his toned chest and he laughed. He looked into your eyes, and sobered a bit.
“You wanna keep going? It’s okay if you don’t.”
You furrowed your brow. “What part of any of this is giving you the impression that I don’t wanna keep going?”
His smile widened again wolfishly. “Alright, you little minx.”
Your hands moved down to the front of his jeans, fumbling for the metal zipper.
Billy gently bats your hands away. “Let me handle it. You can do whatever you want next time.”
Your heart skipped a beat at next time. “Okay.”
Before you knew it he was out of his jeans, raising your hips slightly so you were just above him.
“You ready, toots?” he asked, rubbing gentle circles against your hips.
“Mhm,” you hummed, grabbing the base of his dick. He groaned loudly, and the sound alone sent hot shockwaves through you. “Just… let me,” you said, slipping the tip inside of you. You both moaned, foreheads colliding at the sensation.
"Okay?" you asked, reaching up to cup his jaw. He leaned forward and kissed your nose.
"Yeah," he breathed. "You?"
"Yeah," you said, slowly lowering yourself down further. He groaned, and he looked so pretty, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple.
Eventually you were completely seated atop him, relishing in the feeling of being so full, so full of him.
“You’re so fucking cute, you know that?” he groans, head tilting back slightly, hands tightly gripping your hips, almost tightly enough to leave a bruise. “I’ve imagined this for so long. Your sweet dollface, these gorgeous tits, this tight, wet cunt… God, better than anything I ever could’ve dreamed.”
You couldn't help but smile, a lazy, fucked out expression. "Can... can I move?" you asked.
"Whatever you want, sweets. Whatever you want."
Slowly you began setting a pace, letting him fill you completely before nearly lifting yourself off of him. You quickly grew impatient, wanting more, bouncing your hips until you were both moaning, his lips ghosting over yours and his teeth over your collarbone.
Eventually your thighs began to burn. “Billy—Billy I can’t move anymore—,” you bounced helplessly, slowing down your help.
“Aw, you poor thing,” he mocked, condescension dripping from his kiss-bitten lips. “Need Billy to fuck you right?”
“Y-Yeah,” you said pitifully, your hips stopping of their own accord with you fully seated atop him.
His hands come to your hips, one sneaking back to slap your ass before they both hold you tightly. You barely had time to yelp at the stinging sensation before he was physically lifting you up and down on his dick. He moved as fast as he possibly could, his strong arms flexing as his jaw tightened.
“You’re gonna have to touch yourself, sweet thing,” he gritted out as you moaned out a pathetic whimper at each kiss of his head to your cervix. Your hand went down to your sensitive bundle of nerves, and you jolted at the sensation. "Attagirl. Come on. Come for me," he demanded, fucking you even harder.
You cried out his name, meeting your release.
"There she is," he said with an almost-laugh. "Messy little thing. Yeah. Come on. Make a mess all over me."
"Billy," you cried.
"Yeah?"
"Come inside," you gasped, kissing him.
"You don't have to tell me twice," he said, and it only took a few more thrusts before he was spilling his release inside of you with a groan.
You had never felt so full, nor half as ecstatic. The sex was... out of this world.
"How are you feeling, toots?" he asked, brushing your hair out of your face. It surprised you how tender he was.
"I'm good," you said with a small smile. "Full."
At the second part he grunted, and you felt him jerk inside of you. Your eyes rolled back.
"You gotta watch yourself, cute thing. Can't just say things like that," he said, voice strained. You blushed at the effect you had on him. "I'll tell you what. We could go back in there, enjoy the party, and find a room... or I could take you back to mine? And no matter what I'm buying you dinner one of these days." The last part he added as an afterthought, but there was an intense sincerity in his blue eyes.
That was too many options for your little fucked out brain. "...uh, how about the first one?"
He smacked your ass. "That's my girl," he laughed. "Let's fix ourselves up a little."
---
It wasn't long before you were swaying to the music back at Tommy's place with Billy, Nick staring you down as you did so. Except, you didn't even notice the other boy, not when it was Billy's eyes you were gazing into.
Not when it was Billy's lips ghosting yours.
Not when it was Billy's come leaking through your panties.
No, you had found exactly what you were looking for. You hadn't meant to, but you had.
All there was left was a matter of seeing if he was true to his word, if he really would take you out to dinner.
But that was tomorrow's problem.
That night, all that mattered was that Billy didn't put you in the corner. And you liked it. You liked him.
And Billy? He liked you too.
---
a/n: ahh let me know what you think! hopefully this one isn't too bad. thanks for sticking with me!
Summary: Escaping is what you thought you were doing, starting fresh, no one to tie you down or stunt your path...But ever since the first day in Hawkins trouble keeps you waiting.
Word count: 2.3k
Warnings: Mentions of abuse, Smut, Angst, Billy is a bit OOC, Mentions of past wounds
A/N: Billy Hargrove still has a choke hold on me </3, I actually wanted to write properly and if Billy is OOC that would be me hating writing dialogue lmao
Cow shit.
That is what Hawkins air smelt like…something you couldn’t feel more grateful for in the moment. It was nothing compared to wet Brooklyn air which soaked into every crevice and deep within the roots of your every hair. New start you told yourself…far away from everyone and everything you knew before.
Far away from the bruises.
The crashing plates.
Alcohol bottles scattered like momentous around a dingy apartment up the west side.
Every burn a relic pressed into soft skin.
Hawkins was ugly in every sense of the word. Too quiet. Too green. It didn’t hide behind towering buildings and neon open signs in the mid of night. Instead, it dared you too think you were safe…Dared you to pretend it was clean. A fresh slate. Total Bullshit.
Did you believe that?
No shot.
You kept your eyes down…minded your own business as your hand clung onto your suitcase dragging it through the broken pavement of Cherry Lane…Pathetic name for a pathetic town.
The houses on Cherry Lane were a perfect image of this shit town…neat little boxes pretending they didn’t have secrets. White picket fences with trimmed lawns the occasional wind chimes hanging from porches like a taunt. Left an open question of what these houses actually hid? Polite violence or a volatile mould behind their walls.
You’d learned a long time ago that nowhere was really safe.
You paused in front of a small, peeling house halfway down the street belonged to your aunt, technically, though she felt more like a stranger than family. The curtains twitched.
Great. Already being watched.
You rolled your shoulders back and kept moving, pretending as if you didn’t feel every invisible eye boring into you. Like you didn’t feel naked without the chaos of the city around you. Hawkins didn’t give you anywhere to hide. It just laid you out in the open and waited to see if you’d fall or fly.
That was when you heard it.
The engine.
Low. Gruff. Too loud for a street this quiet.
You didn’t look at first. You didn’t have to. You could feel the air shifting, the way something heavy and fast slid into the space around you. Tires crunching against gravel somewhere behind you.
Against your better judgment, you turned.
A blue Camaro sat at the curb, bright and obnoxious against the muted street. The driver’s door was already open, one long leg hanging out like he owned the place. Blonde hair caught the sunlight. Sunglasses hid his eyes, but you could feel them boring into you anyways.
He took you in like you were something interesting. Something breakable.
“Hawkins is not exactly tourist-friendly,” he said, voice lazy and sharp all at once. “You lost, or just slumming it, Princess?”
You didn’t answer right away. Your jaw clenching, set, defensive.
“Just passing through,” you lied.
The boy smiled like he didn’t believe you for a second.
“Yeah,” he said, hiding behind a bitter chuckle. “So was I.”
The Camaro idled in the back as if living
You turned fully this time, slow, measured, as if giving him the satisfaction of looking at you was already too much. The boy leaned against the open door, one arm resting on the roof, sunglasses tipped just low enough that you could see the flicker of his eyes behind them. Blue. Sharp. Assessing.
“Well,” he said, a grin curling like he just discovered a treasure, “if this is you passing through, Hawkins just got a fuck load more interesting.”
You scoffed, already regretting that you’d given him the satisfaction. “Do the Hawkins bitches find this charming?”
“Depends” he replied to his grin flickering with amusement, “Ya’ charmed yet?”
You turn your attention away, beginning to walk further down the walk away to the house. You knew the type of guy he was. Everything they said expecting to be gospel. As if the world was something they could lean on and have them hold them back up.
But the way he studied you…mesmerized…not by lust, far from affection but from mere curiosity that felt far too dangerous.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” you asked.
He chuckled, sharp, low and rough “Right now? No, not really.” His eyes trailing up and down your body, not subtle, he could see it all. The tired set of your shoulders, the tight hold onto the suitcase and the way you carried yourself as if you were ready to bolt. “You, though? You look like you could use a distraction.”
“I don’t need-”
“Relax,” he cut in, pushing himself upright. “I’m not trying to sell you anything. Just figured I’d welcome the new girl before Hawkins eats you alive.”
You rolled your eyes. “Is that what you do? Community service?”
“Nah,” he smirked. “I just know a lost cause when I see one.”
That stung more than it should have.
He took a step closer, boots crunching against the pavement, close enough now that you could smell his cologne - something sharp and expensive that didn’t belong in a town that smelled like cow shit.
“Billy,” he said, like the name was a challenge. “And you are…?”
You hesitated. Just for a second.
As if giving him your name was already letting him in too deep, eventually you relented…the word slipping off your tongue like poison.
Three months later, Billy Hargrove still didn’t knock
He never did. Never had to.
Your bedroom window was half open, the ivory curtains flowing hit by the weak gusts of warm summer air. That’s when you heard it, the familiar crunch of tires against gravel…The roar of the Camaro engraved into your mind as if it were to be your own heartbeat.
All too loud, too fast and impossible to ignore.
“You really can’t use the door like a normal person, Hargrove?” A small, amused grin twitching at your lips as he climbed through the window, all limbs and Demin and heat. Dragging the smell of cigarettes and leather with him.
“Hey, I’m keeping it thrilling.” He shot back, landing on the floor with a soft *thump*. Flashing you that crooked smile you knew all too well. “Besides your aunt hates me so think about it as a privilege.”
You snorted, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear “Uhuh, cause breaking and entering is a privilege?”
“Well, when it comes to you anyways it is.” His eyes dragging down your body in that tired, unapologetic way he always did, like he is mesmerized by every detail on your body. “You look a little less bitchy when you aren’t pretending to be fine.”
“Don’t patronize me”
“Not my fault you’re an open book”
“Not my fault you’re an open book”
You turned back toward the window, trying to hide the way his gaze made you feel too seen.
“You’re late,” you murmur.
Billy shrugged. “Got stuck.”
“Doing what?”
He hesitated - just a flicker - then smirked. “Missing you.”
You hated how fast your heart jumped. “Liar.”
“Yeah,” he agreed softly. “But you still let me in.”
Turning back to face him slowly, his body already looming over you like a habit etched into your souls. “Correction the window was just open”
He shakes his head, an amused grin flashing across his face only betrayed by the way his eyes take you in like his next meal. “You gonna keep being a smartass or finally put that mouth to good use?”
His calloused hands trailing down gripping your waist firmly, your mouths finding each other in a kiss that was anything but gentle; all heated fuelled by need and lust.
His spun you around, slowly leading both of you to your bed, as his hands started to roam down your back, under your shirt…goosebumps rising from your skin at sheer contact.
You didn’t break away even when he pushed you down, slowly coming to hover above you as you fingers ran through his blonde mullet.
He wastes no time, lifting your shirt up to your waist pulling away for a second to rip it off you…his blue eyes sharpening, when he takes in the scene beneath him, you sprawled out all needy in that damn red lace bra, your skin flushed…scars painted across your body, small dots…cigarette buds, not like he was any better.
Your hands slowly reaching up unbuttoning his burgundy shirt, your soft hands grazing over his shoulder as his shirt falls off before he just throws it away in a corner of your room. His mouth going straight to your collar bones, his hands fiddling with your bra this time...He left soft red marks behind as he nibbled softly from your collarbone up through the slope of your neck to your jaw.
“Cat got your tongue, Princess?” He mumbled against her soft skin as she let out a little gasp.
That red bra thrown across your room landing somewhere far less important than his rough hands cupping your tits hard and rough and possessive.
“Billy-” You breath hitched as his head lowered down taking one of your perky nipples in his mouth, sucking softly, his tongue slowly going in circles as his teeth grazes the tip as you let out another little whine.
Your hand trailing down tugging at the waist band of his jeans, before unbuttoning them and slowly grazing past the zipper.
Both of you locking eyes as his expression flickered a shade darker.
Your hand dragging down the zipper, wasting no time taking his hard cock out, stroking it slowly, eyes boring into his, needy and flushed. His hips moving forward on instinct as his Jaw clenched.
“Don’t you like to play, princess” his voice gruff, sharp with sarcasm. Finally snapping as he pulled your shorts followed by your underwear down in a haste, flipping you around, so you faced away, ass up head down. Just like always. Earning a yelp for you as he smacked your ass.
“Yeah...that’s what I fucking thought”
You were dripping for him. Your cunt so sore you were moaning just from the slow, teasing swipe of your pussy with his finger. “So goddamn wet…you’re such a slut for me” His cocky grin plastered on his face.
He let his jeans and boxers fall down to his ankles as he lined himself up with your entrance.
Sliding his cock between your wet folds with his tip, teasing you as you whined, “Please…fuck please Billy” going straight to his ego.
Without a warning he thrusted, hard and deep earning a loud moan from you. He thrusts again, nearly pulling it fully out before ramming deeply into you as a series of curses leave both your lips.
“Fuck, you are so goddamn tight, doll” He grunted as he picked up the pace his thrusts becoming merciless, his hands moving against every scar, every mole, every territory yet to be claimed.
His lips capturing every scar in a kiss, barely graving over your skin as you moaned, your breath becoming more ragged with each thrust.
“Oh god, billy” You moaned against your pillow, your hands clutching the duvet cover as your legs began to tremble. His hand travelling between your legs, spreading more slightly as he rubbed circles over your hot, sensitive clit.
Your little whimpers sending jolts straight to his core as he growled above you, his body slick with sweat that covered you both. Hot tears welling up in your eyes as you cum around him, drowning in pleasure as the release hits you in waves, his name being the only thing coming out your mouth before he leans over your back, sticking two fingers roughly in your mouth.
His thrusts losing control as he cursed under his breathe…his tip twitching inside you as he came…his hot cum spilling inside you coating every inch of your pussy.
Billy laid beside you for a moment, staring at the wall, chest rising and falling like he was trying to convince himself he was still in control of something.
Then he moved.
Not toward you but away.
He sat up, running a hand down his face. You watched him like you always did, waiting for something soft that never came.
“Stay” you murmured when he reached for his jeans.
“Stay?”
“Just this once”
He laughed quietly, not unkind, not kind either. “You act like I owe you something.”
The words settled between you, heavy.
“I don’t want you to owe me,” you said. “I just want…more”
“That’s not what this is,” he said, more to himself than to you.
“Then what is it?” you asked. “Because it feels like something when you’re here. And it feels like nothing when you leave.”
He pulled on his shirt too fast, like it was burning him. “You’re the one who keeps letting me in.”
“And you’re the one who keeps knocking.”
“Because it’s easy,” he snapped. “Because you don’t expect anything.”
“That’s a lie.”
Billy looked at you then - really looked - and for a second the cocky mask cracked. “If I give you what you want, I won’t have anything left.”
Your throat tightened. “You already take everything when you go.”
He didn’t know how to answer that.
So, he didn’t.
He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. You didn’t follow him this time. You stayed where you were, wrapped in the hollow space he left behind.
“Billy,” you said, just once.
He paused, hand on the doorknob.
“You don’t get to keep breaking me and calling it nothing.”
His jaw clenched, but he didn’t turn around.
The door shut.
And the worst part was knowing that when he came back - because he always did - a part of you would still be waiting.
Summary: Where you are literally just one of his girls but both are stuck in a never ending cycle of abuse; which is emphasised by the song Daddy Issues by The Neighbourhood
Word count: 522
Warnings: Smut, Porn little plot, Angst(?), Daddy Issues, brief mentions of physical wounds (IDK anything else)
A/N: I am sorry this isn't the picture of perfection but I felt very keen on trying to write again for the first time since I was 13 and currently I've been on my Billy grind but he has barely any fan fictions so I felt like I should aspire for the 2019 Wattpad vibe.
His rough, calloused hands gripping her waist like a vice with overflowing need, her sweet cherry lip gloss sticking to his lips, seeping in his mouth as his tongue attacked her own for dominance.
Ragged breathes exchanged between them as she tugged at the buttons of his wine-red shirt, each button coming undone in a haste as he shrugs it off, their lips broken by a slither as she feels his muscles tense beneath her soft hands.
You ask me what I'm thinking about I tell you that I'm thinking about Whatever you're thinking about Tell me something that I'll forget And you might have to tell me again It's crazy what you'll do for a friend
“You take it so well baby girl.” He grunts against her as his hands roam her back, her ass sliding down to her waist again with feverish desire. “so fuckin’ pretty doll, such a pretty slut for me aren’t ya”
His hand gripping her love handles with bruising force as her heated core clenches around him, her legs trembling beneath him as comes she undone around him with a sharp cry…
Go ahead and cry, little girl Nobody does it like you do I know how much it matters to you I know that you got daddy issues And if you were my little girl I'd do whatever I could do I'd run away and hide with you I know that you got daddy issues, and I do too
He kissed every bruise…every cut, every scar on her skin not missing one as he could feel himself come close…in a last attempt his rough fingers come around her waist searching lower rubbing soft circles on her clit to see just how far he can push her.
Her hands gripping his navy-blue bedsheets with tears streaming down her face from sheer overstimulation
“Billy! Billy! Billy!” his name tumbling out her mouth like a mantra making him lose his last bit of control as his hot cum splutters out inside her tight cunt.
I tried to write your name in the rain But the rain never came So I made with the sun The shade Always comes at the worst time
He fell beside her, his mind hazy, breathe ragged and skin flushed…the cold sheets touching his scolding hot skin that glistened with sweat in the pale moonlight carving him into something unreal, all sharp lines and heat-slicked skin, like a statue that had learned how to breathe.
“Get out” is all he musters the two words dripping out his mouth like venom.
Without any further push she sits up, her achingly slow motions a contrast to the rushed surge of emotion seconds prior. No words. No contact…her clothes clinging to her sweaty body as she leaves his room.
How it always was and how it will always be.
You ask me what I'm thinking about I tell you that I'm thinking about Whatever you're thinking about Tell me something that I'll forget And you might have to tell me again It's crazy what you'll do for a friend
baratheonpilled
origamiaround
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