Steve gets his nipples pierced and Billy’s staring at him in the shower a lot weirder than usual and Steve’s like dude wtf -not a prompt or anything just a thought
When Steve gets back from spring break, his nipples and the pinkish skin of his areola are still incredibly tender. Walking around at school all day, he’d been squirming and pulling at the loosest damn shirt he could find, tugging it away from his chest and wincing every time he forgot and moved the wrong way. He’s not sure how Jonathan managed to convince him to get one done– let alone two.
But he’d wanted to do something, some form or act of rebellion to match Jonathan’s fancy stud in his ear, at one of the least grimy places they could find on the streets of Chicago before the summer heat could genuinely set in, but not one that people could necessarily, well, see.
Steve may have forgotten to factor in the fact that he has gym until the end of May.
He’s brutally reminded of it by the time class is over. He’s sweaty, he’s irritated, and his chest hurts like a bitch from the amount of times he got checked during the scrimmage the coach had insisted on, claiming the JV boys only had a couple more months to learn from Indiana’s finest before Steve and the other seniors graduating in the first week of June left them in the dust, and the necessary evil of practicing during gym was just logical considering basketball season was over– the fancy gold trophy sitting in the display case in the hallway attesting to that. It didn’t matter that Steve had tried to hang back, tried to let the other boys take point, Billy was on him the entire time, like the week away had renewed some animosity that had dwindled in the months between November and spring.
So when he finally gets to the lockers, the distant thought of not wanting anyone to see or know about the new addition he’d added to his body is gone in favor of getting a long ten minutes under the quaking, needle prick heat of the locker room’s shitty showers. He strips his shirt over his head on the way through the rows, hissing all the while, and throws it down as Tommy jeers at his back; they’d lost the scrimmage to Billy’s side. Badly.
“Eat dick, Tommy.” Steve says, yanking his locker open, shoving his things in there and snagging up his towel and his soap.
Tommy snorts. “What crawled up your ass, Stevie? Spend spring break home alone?”
Steve ignores him. Has to, otherwise he’ll start a fight he doesn’t have the energy to finish.
Doesn’t bother telling him no. Doesn’t say I went to Chicago with Nancy and Jonathan, like we used to talk about, asshole. Doesn’t say I had the best time of my life, even if I made a stupid, ridiculous mistake while I was there.
He supposes, at least, the piercings are better than a tattoo. That had been his other option.
He ends up the first in the showers, the first under the spray, the water hot and heavy on his head and his shoulders as he dips his head under it. The pipes groan and sputter a bit, and the water comes down harsh, but the muscles in Steve’s back go lax.
Halfway through washing his hair, he finally opens his eyes. A few of the guys have already come and gone, rinsed off and took off, but there are a few lingering. Billy Hargrove included.
And he’s staring right at Steve. Jaw tight, eyes burning, gaze dropped to Steve’s chest.
Steve’s half expecting some ridiculous comment. Maybe the word fag to echo around and off the tile walls. It never does.
“When’d you get that done?” Billy asks, instead, standing two shower heads over, lathering up as he stares.
“Beginning of break,” Steve says, scrubbing his fingers and the suds out of his hair, tipping his head back and letting it wash away.
Billy makes a sound, something from the back of his throat, something considering. “No wonder you played like such a bitch, today. They hurt, don’t they?”
“I’m fine,” Steve says, and thinks that’s the end of it.
Steve and Billy don’t talk much. Steve spends a lot of time avoiding him, and Billy doesn’t seem to mind that much. They give each other a pretty wide berth, these days, despite a lingering look here or a barbed word there.
It isn’t, it turns out, the end of it. Especially not after they finish showering, after everyone else has already headed out to loiter before lunch, and Steve is half dressed and hesitating to pull his shirt over his head.
“You should get some numbing cream,” Billy says, startling Steve into turning around, and Billy is still looking at him, taking his sweet time sliding his on his rings as he does.
“Numbing cream,” Billy huffs, with a shrug of his shoulder, and Steve has to fight the urge to cover his chest for the decency of it– considering Billy won’t pull his own eyes away. “If they’re bothering you that much. Had a friend in California who… well. Lost all feeling in one, cuz they did it wrong, but the other bugged ‘em for months.”
“Months,” Steve hisses under his breath, turns away to finish buttoning up his jeans, and he’s half a second away from just knocking his head against the cool metal of the locker door and whining like a big baby. “Thanks for the advice, I guess.”
“Sure thing, Harrington.” Billy says, and Steve hears the clip of his boots against the floor as he draws close, shoulders drawing up, and he feels Billy more than he sees him– the heat of him against the bare skin of his back as he leans forward, crowds into Steve’s space, hand splayed flat next to Steve’s open locker door. “You’d look better with gold rings, by the way. Instead of the barbells.”
Steve’s throat works; he’s not sure what that means. Not sure why it matters.
“I didn’t ask,” Steve says, turns his head just enough to meet Billy’s eyes, sees that grin on his face that promises something wicked, something mean, and it just goes wider at Steve’s reply–
And then Billy is reaching out with his free hand, gaze dropping, and he presses his thumb to the swollen, pinkened skin around Steve’s nipple. Steve jerks back, spitting a curse, and smacks his hand away.
“What the fuck, Hargrove?”
“Make sure you keep ‘em clean, too.” Billy says, like he hadn’t just casually groped Steve in the locker room. “Would hate to see something like that get infected.”
“Yes, thank you, I know.” Steve says, jerking his shirt on over his head and regretting it instantly– wants to rub at them, but knows better, and arches away from the fabric of his own shirt. “Anything else, Dr. Hargrove? Or are we fucking done here?”
“Ice helps. In moderation.” Billy says, and his eyes are hot on Steve’s red face, then. “Other things, too.”
“Other things?” Steve spits, agitated and practically vibrating out of his skin with it.
Billy lifts a dry brow. “I could show you.”
It’s a question. Billy seems to take it as permission.
Because he’s shoving Steve back against the lockers in the next breath, pulling the hem of Steve’s shirt up to his collar, and dipping his head down as he crowds in close again. Steve doesn’t expect the heat of Billy’s mouth on his skin, but when his tongue presses flat and sure and hot against Steve’s left nipple, his entire body jolts.
It’s a searing sensation. Scalding over skin that is too sensitive, too tender for it, but as much as there is pain– there’s a rush of heady, overwhelming pleasure quick on its heels.
Then, Billy’s lips wrap around it, tongue pressing steady against the metal and hot skin, and Steve arches, hands scrambling for purchase. He fists his fingers into the back of Billy’s shirt, into the damp mess of his curls, and gasps out a sound he didn’t even know he could make. His head is a scramble of sensation, words gone from his tongue, because one second it’s heatheatheat– and the next, Billy is sucking.
Steve cries out, can’t help it, tries to squirm away because it’s too much. But Billy loops his arm around Steve’s waist, reels him in closer, and Steve’s head knocks back against the lockers as Billy’s tongue works over his nipple firm and unyielding– and when their hips meet, Steve is hard, but Billy is hard, too.
“Fuck,” Steve gasps, bucks, and Billy groans against his skin and grinds forward as Steve’s knees go weak. “Billy– What–?”
He ruts forward, against Steve’s hip, as Steve’s spine curves back. The rough drag of Billy’s tongue makes him shudder, makes him tremble, and then Billy is pulling back, pulling off– and Steve whimpers at the sudden rush of cold, cold air.
But wildly, strangely, it doesn’t hurt as much anymore. He slumps back against the lockers, Billy’s arm still around his waist, Billy’s nose pressing to his cheek, Billy’s breath heavy in his ear. He lets Steve shirt drop back into place, and Steve winces, but when Billy pulls back to meet his wide eyes, his gaze is dark and full of promise.
“See? Other things,” he says. “Just gotta find someone willing to make you squirm a bit first.”
And then he’s pulling away, stepping back, like he isn’t half hard in his jeans. Like he hadn’t just accosted Steve against the lockers. Like he didn’t just–
“Have a good rest of your day, Harrington.” Billy says, ballsy enough to wink at him, cheek dimpling as he grins; there’s a hint of tongue, too, and Steve shivers with a phantom sensation. “And think about the rings. You’d look better in gold.”
And Steve stands there, breathless and throbbing, as Billy walks away.
