#pbly writes

[prettyboy-like-you]

sub!billy. wet-eyed, goosed-bumped, lip-trembling, hands-tied, dick-stuffed, soft-moans, best-boy sub!billy.

[prettyboy-like-you]

HOUNDS OF LOVE

2276 words, EXPLICIT, POV billy, period-typical homophobia/slurs, past promiscuity, angst, emotional hurt/comfort, car sex, billy hargrove cries during sex, steve harrington is a sweetheart, boys in love.

written as a gift for lyd my beloved <3 @stevewhoreington

.

Running never made a lick of difference. It was still there, looming. Biding its time. Always lurking like a trench coat-creeper just around the next corner, no matter how far he ran. Breathing heavy, waiting. Because unlike Billy, it could be patient. So very patient. It was his personal stalker, The Longing. The murderous type. Some sorta desire cannibal—and Billy was its prey. No matter what, it always came looking. Would seek Billy out, no matter where he hid or however many times he would run from it, it followed. Hunted Billy down for sport, it seemed

Billy Boy Blue, dirty little fag, sweet-still-not-sixteen and always wanting what you shouldn't.

So, Billy The Wretch, he played his part in the stomach-turning game and he ran. Sprinted so fast he could've won a damn medal. Oh, because Billy, he wanted what The Longing had on offer. Wanted it more than 'most anything. Billy wanted so much it hurt his insides. Like chewing and trying to digest crystalline glass. Like if he could just breathe in deep enough he'd be able to smell its heady scent, if he only licked his lips X amount of times he'd taste it pricking like spice on the tip of his tongue. Didn't even know why he wanted so bad, not really. Why it was he craved that kind of touch, why he needed the way he did. Only knew it was the same sort of deal as his body needing food or water or oxygen; a biology that just was.

Girls didn't take the edge off. Nowhere close. It was wild. And it got so much, being taunted, being wanted by The Longing, too much, an angry need, and Billy just couldn't take it any longer, having only the emptiness to keep him company every minute of every hour of every day. The nothingness being the only one to ever wrap arms around him. Ghost-dead arms. He just got so fucking tired of it. So, so much more tired than any kid should be, so tired that in the end he caved, giving in to it just to fucking survive.

Billy knew a lot about survival. 

When he slowed down enough to allow that fucker to find him, is when Billy had the revelation: there'd never really been a thing as hopeful as choice, not for him. And in knowing he hadn't had a chance, never granted so much as a fair crack at a game he'd never even asked to play, Billy then swan-dived into it so drastically that the thing was forced to consume him fully, absolutely. It chugged him down and swallowed him whole—and Billy was gonna make sure it fucking choked on him. Billy Hargrove was nothing if not flush with spite. 

That's how he found himself wide open and hiding in plain sight in the not-so-loving arms of those hot, hot Cali nights; shirtless and high and strung out like filthy ripped-denim bunting strewn around the streets of downtown San Diego. Ushered into a lonely playpark after sundown. Shushed and pushed down dirty alleyways. In the shadows, that's where he’d wait for them; Men. Never other boys. Never anyone his own age. Nobody who would want anything more. No, he'd wait for men twice his age, thrice his size and almost as desperate as he was, just as his queerboy nature had waited for Billy Boy Blue to succumb to it. And those men—so many men—they always came for Billy. 

These days when he hears the siren song Billy answers without quite so much thought. Call and response. Day-O. Not that there ain't still a fight just underneath the surface of his skin. There's always that. But as much as it might surprise him, and it does, maybe it was inevitable, him clinging to this. To being wanted by other guys—no. No, being used, is what it is. Honestly. It's being used up and spat back out. No change given, no receipt.

And at once, in the here and now, it's dawning on Billy like dead flowers in the morning sun: if ever he'd taken the time to look at the thing, to really look at it, he'd have seen he knew the truth all along.

There is nothing else for him.

Now here he is in Hicksville, Indiana, not-quite eighteen and knowing his garbage existence is spiralling even further down Life-with-a-capital-L's disposal drain. So. The things Billy finds himself clinging to even tighter than the things he's not supposed to want? Pain. Rage. As if they're gonna be the knights in shining armour to save his damsel-ass in this shitty story of his that no self-respecting cunt would wanna read. From all of this. From himself.

Billy has always been a coward. Ever since—ever since Her. Since she did the double-up on him. Since she switched off and let her light go out of his life forever by taking off and leaving Billy Boy Blue's sorry ass behind. 

Harrington doesn’t know any of this though. Nobody does. Nobody will. And nobody should anyways because Billy, he shouldn't be so pathetic. He’s supposed to suck it up and shut the fuck up not moon over it, not be a little pussy while he's getting his boy-pussy railed. And he certainly shouldn't be moaning through this feral fucking need of his like some frilly pink-pantied cheerleader, hell.

Never did know what was good for you, boy.

But Steve, he’s gripping Billy’s hips like sex is going out of fashion, fingers bruising into Billy’s freckled flesh as his own hips snap forward again, stuffing Billy full of long, thick cock. His tongue, it's in Billy’s ear, licking it out, fucking it and sucking it into his warm, wet mouth.

“You like that, huh baby?” he mumbles around a mouthful of lobe, saying shit he shouldn't be saying.

You love it, whore.

Breaks the spell.  

Billy reaches behind himself and, finding what he’s feeling around for, shoves three fingers into Steve’s runaway mouth until the King is almost gagging on them.

“Shut up and fuck me, Harrington. And not the way you fucked her, neither. Fuck me like a goddamn man.” As if this is the first time they’ve screwed around, ha. The King and Wheeler have been split for half the school year now.

There you go again.

As if Steve and Billy are anything like Steve and Nancy. As if. There is no Steve and Billy. 

Then Steve's man-handling him, all tough-guy and that's—that's absolutely not what Billy was expecting.

Shoving Billy down, rough, Steve pulls out of him abruptly and before Billy can even begin to mourn the sudden emptiness of his gaping asshole he’s being flipped over, bare shoulder blades hitting the expensive blood-red leather seats of Steve’s Beamer with a loud slap. Billy loves it, actually, because of course he does—dick leaping and leaking for it—yet he also instantly regrets asking for it because now flat on his back they’re face-to-face and. Yeah, no. Billy’s not ready for that. Will never be ready for that. But roomy as the backseat is, Billy is still wedged in pretty tight between that and the front seats; having Steve’s full weight now bearing down on him means there’s no real means of escape. 

Like you really want one.

“Wanna turn back over,” Billy lies.

“No. You don’t,” Steve informs him and why the fuck does fucking Harrington have to know exactly what it is Billy wants?

Billy can’t deal with this. He struggles to move, but Steve. He knows Billy's heart isn’t in it.

Because the boy above you is holding your glass heart oh-so-gently in his pretty cupped hands like it's something precious, even as it pumps away uselessly.

Steve says, “You wanted me to fuck you like a man, you said so. So, missionary it is,” and then Steve’s pressing his lips together and sliding home again and Billy, instead of fighting like he should, he's opening his legs wide as the space he’s crammed into will allow and gasping loudly as his body goes slack, that frilly pink whore once again.

Now it’s his own mouth he’s shoving fingers into. Ramming his whole fucking fist in there. Fists are all Billy deserves. Not this. 

Fucking coward.

Steve, bolstering himself with one hand by holding the headrest of the driver's seat, takes his other hand and reaches down and then Billy’s actually fucking letting him remove that fist from where it's trying to silence his pathetic grateful moans. Gripping at Billy’s wrist, Steve now stretches their arms above the both of them as his cock stretches out Billy’s ass again, and then he’s pinning Billy’s hand to the bodyheat-wet window underneath his own. Spreads and links their fingers like he's hoping they'll draw heart shapes in the condensation, like Billy's his fucking girl or some shit.

“Fuck you,” Billy snarls, even as he’s nestling a thumb into to the gorgeous cavern below one of Steve’s hip bones.

“No, actually. I’m gonna love you, Billy. Because it’s what you want.”

Before Viper Billy can spit his self-hatred and shame at Mr and Mrs Harrington's perfect little rich-boy, Steve steadies himself as he lowers his top-half, hand leaving the headrest and snaking around the back of Billy’s neck until it’s cradling his thick skull, long fingers threading through the damp curls and fisting a handful. Pulling, just enough.

Billy shivers as his chin is forced upwards and feels his eyes pricking with salt, and ohhhh. He’s going to wail on Harrington for this. Going to fucking kill him for it.

Later. He will. Later. 

Later because right now, Steve is doing things Billy wants too, too much. Off-limit things that are off-limit for good fucking reason. Things the guy should not be doing because Billy told him no right from the start. Because they're the things Billy’s not allowed. Things dirty little sluts like Billy Hargrove should never even dream of wanting.

Liar. Coward.

Steve is running the tip of his nose along Billy’s jaw, under his chin, while fucking into Billy but going slow—so, so slow—inching into him, carefully, as if Billy’s really something to be taken care of.

Billy squirms some more. Roars. Aches so good. Squeezes his eyes shut tight and winces at that pacific seawater gathering in the corners. 

“Fuck you,” he breathes again but it’s a whisper now. A plea, this time.

Don’t let me go.

Steve hears it. He leans in even closer, filling Billy to the very hilt, trapping Billy’s dick between them both and it’s now not just leaking but practically gushing with pre-come, exquisitely swollen.

Steve’s plush lips are then feathery against Billy’s as he says, “I want you, Billy.”

Billy arches up violently, the angle nudging Steve’s cock into that sweet-spot. He calls out as the tears threaten to fall from his stupid, stupid eyes, fucking traitors.

“Hold me down.” Billy begs.

Don’t let me go.

And Steve is there.

Leaning heavy on the arm where a hand is wrapped around the back of Billy’s neck, Steve releases his grip on his other hand, the one linked with Billy's. Then he lays that arm parallel to the other with his weight on both forearms and, using his elbows for leverage, his hands are now free to frame Billy’s face and they do, thumbs finding cheekbones and stroking softly. So soft Billy wants to scream.

Rocking in and out of Billy, still so slow, he says, “I’m going to kiss you.”

Love me, love me, love me.

And then Billy is being kissed by a boy and he isn't hiding from it. He's being kissed by Steve Harrington and he's kissing Steve Harrington back so needy and with such urgency it should hurt but it doesn't and he's not a coward or a liar anymore because Billy wants this boy who’s kissing him, and this boy wants Billy back.

“Hey, open your eyes, Billy,” and he’s kissing the words right into Billy’s mouth.

Billy dares himself. “Steve.” He utters it, a tiny one-word prayer as he sees, that briney water now escaping his eyes and streaming down his temples and Steve must know it’s the first time—probably the first time a boy’s kissed Billy, definitely the first time Billy’s called Steve Steve outloud, and honestly the first time Billy has let go.

Shit, and Steve’s fucking Billy like… like…

“I love you, Billy.”

…like that.

They're staring at each other and Billy’s gonna come. He’s gonna come and he knows that Steve can feel it and so Steve’s then telling Billy he’s gonna come too and yeah. Billy knows that because Billy, he can feel everything.

And Steve, he gets it. What Billy wants. Knows what Billy needs.

So he tells Billy he loves him again. Tells him again and again till Billy is crying and spilling all those old tears, new tears, and his milky come all over the both of them while Steve smiles and groans and comes too, filling Billy up to the brim and right fucking over it with that sweet, sweet love of his.

 

A little later, when all they can hear are the cricket calls reverberating off the quarry walls and each other's slowing breaths and heartbeats, Steve says, “I know what’s good for you, Bills. Even if you wanna pretend to the both of us that you don’t," and, "It'll be okay," and, "I got you." 

Hold me down among the hounds of love.

And yeah. Billy might not be able to say it, not yet, but he knows he's done running.

.

[prettyboy-like-you]

Jim sees himself in Billy. How could he not?

Hop, he fought against anything and everything as a young man. Especially himself. He broke the law. Plenty. He definitely raged against the world, in all manner of ways. Difference between him and this kid though—the reason Jim didn’t end up lashing out specifically at those around him—he always had people looking out for him who gave a half-damn.

Unlike the Hargrove kid. He had nobody. Has nobody.

Well, not anymore.

Nowadays, Billy lives with Hopper and El in their weird little world. Jim, he put that scurge on humanity, Neil Hargrove, behind bars where his kind belongs.

So.

Billy isn’t an outsider looking in anymore. He isn't alone. He’s accepted, warts and all. Billy is shown he can change the ways he interacts with the world around him, if he wants to—and he does. He’s allowed to explore who he his; allowed to make mistakes and learn from them; he's allowed to try.

And he soon finds out he’s loved for it, actually. Billy is loved just for being Billy, because, as it happens, in a sort of strange (it's not really) turn of events, the kid is kind of a sweetheart.

Hop does attempt to uphold the three-inch gap rule whenever the Harrington kid comes over at first... But yeah, no. That ain’t happening. And honestly, fair play to them. Because Billy's not a kid anymore, he’s eighteen years old. And Hop? Well, he gets it. Just like he now gets his teen daughter El deserves her correct amount of privacy, too. Boundaries, Joyce calls it. So, yeah, Jim knows that Billy’s a man now, a man with a right to set his own boundaries, and hell, Hop can respect that.

But.

If he hears so much as a peep—anything at all that he and Joyce or El don’t need to be hearing? It’ll be sleepovers at the Harrington residence only.

Billy, he says, “Fairs fair,” when Hop tells him that. And also, a little quiter, says, “Thanks, man. Really.”

And the three of them? (Well, seven, if you're counting Joyce and Steve and Mike and Max when any or all of them are over at the cabin), they’re doin' okay.

Better than okay, actually. They're pretty damn great. 

[prettyboy-like-you]

First time they get it on, Steve is so sure Billy's gonna be tough with him. Thinks he's gonna get bossed about and tossed around and maybe even roughed-housed a little. So it goes without saying that he’s more than a little taken aback when—after leaning in close, cupping the bulge in Billy's jeans and breathing, "Give it to me," into Billy's ear—Billy instantly drops to his knees, looks up at Steve as if praying, and honest to God fucking whimpers.

[prettyboy-like-you]

There weren't moments. It wasn't like that. There was no shifting of grey clouds. No first blush. Nothing like waiting for the sun to come up in the sky as it does the morning after the night before. None of that creeping, hazy first light growing steadily brighter, bit by infinitesimal bit. No slow breach of my dark horizon. No sneaking up on me in my dimmed down little world.

There was no dawn. Because it wasn't a thing that grew, it was a Quickening.

It was daytime unleashed, the flicking on of a switch I couldn't turn off again because the stupid mechanism broke off in my stupid hand. I was bleached. Aglow. All ablaze, all at once, drenched in the brightest of lights and soaked in a fluorescence there was no escaping from. No shade. No shadow. Only forever burning, now, beneath your God-like rays, alight with all of you.

Luminous, radiant fucking you.

.

[prettyboy-like-you]

(harringrove, EXPLICIT)

Billy hargrove knows how to use his mouth.

That silver tongue of his could sweet talk the habit off a nun. Or, in turn, just as easily spit pure vitriol, taking your ego downtown in a surefire gutterball of flames.

His lips, they—man, they should come with a goddamn warning sound. Or a sign—something. They're two plump, freshly washed summer ripe cherries. They're red with a capital R and permanently glistening, thanks to that silver tongue being obsessed with laving over them, licking at them, making them forever-moist and inviting and just so there. Daring you to look at them. Ha, like you actually have a choice. He sucks them into his mouth and teases them and you by biting at them and into them and chewing on them likes he's permanently starving, with those sparkly-white shark teeth of his, Jesus.

But the cherry-flavoured icing on the cake for Steve is the first time they curve into that filthy, filthy grin. The one that's just for him. Just for Steve. And then they're enveloping his aching cock like it's. Shit, like it's their very purpose in life. The thing they were designed for; some sort of divine creation made solely for the purpose of sucking Steve down into that long, sinewy throat, a white-hot feeling that scorches Steve, rendering him completely helpless to that mouth, a slave to it, like it's existence is the only thing on earth that actually matters and it's like nothing else he knows or has known or ever will know, Jesus fucking Christ.

Yeah. Billy Hargrove knows how to use his mouth alright.

.

for ana @lovebillyhargrove bc 1) we are obviously totally obsessed and bc 2) she is my hero and made THIS

[prettyboy-like-you]

(harringrove, EXPLICIT)

Steve is getting hairy. Like, real hairy.

Billy, he can't get enough of it. Fucking loves it, actually. He nuzzles into it. Makes a den there. Calls Stevie Ape Man, attempting to bite the dark hairs between his teeth and pull—and having to duck fast when Steve takes a swing at him. He's obsessed with the soft fuzz that now permanently sprouts out the top of whatever Steve's wearing because man, there's just so much of it now and it's manly as fuck and hot as fucking fuck, and the new combination of hairy truck driver and that pretty face just. Hell, it really fucking does it for Billy. And it always smells just like Steve, too. So, so good. Billy can almost taste how good. Like fancy-ass shower gel and that subtle but delicious sixty dollar cologne he wears; vanilla and almonds and something woody. Smells fucking lush, to Billy. Smells like home... until he goes about making it his business to dirty it up. But then that kinda smells like home too, when it smells not just like Steve, but like them.

Like when they're screwing around playing mommies and daddies, toying idly with each other—too tired or too stoned for full-on sex—Billy will take both their cocks in his hand and slowly but intentionally begin to stroke them, to get them both off, inhaling all Steve's little gasps and moans via his mouth covering Steve's, tongue teasing, logging all the specific noises he makes and exactly when and what Billy is doing when he makes them, filing them all away in a special little nook of his mind.

He'll talk sleezy, because he knows Steve fucking loves it, the dirtbag. Call him a pretty little whore and growl all beastly. Then Billy will spit his saliva down onto them both, letting it dangle from his lips to coat their cock-ends, slicking them up further, making them wetter, slippier, filthier. And when he can tell Steve is close, he'll line them up so their pricks are aiming at Steve's chest and he'll slip a ninja spit-soaked middle finger under Steve's ass and find his hole waiting to be filled and man, he gladly fills it with that finger and come-hithers it once, twice, three times, and sometimes that's all it takes and then Billy's pretty, prettyboy's mouth is dropping open and his ass is clenching around Billy's finger like he's claiming it as his own and fuck, Steve can have it, can have it forever because Steve's then coming and the feel of it and sight of it makes Billy feral and then he's coming too and they're suddenly both jizzing all over Steve—right onto and into that soft, fuzzy chest hair, making such a beautiful fucking mess of gloopy geometric jizz-webs and oh, shit. Billy, he love love loves it.

Steve will groan in weak protest afterwards and Billy will just nuzzle more, burying his nose in that chest hair and smooshing his mouth in the jizz and grinning big. Then he'll try kissing Steve, sloppy and sticky and Steve will try pushing Billy away but he's always grinning big too.

So yeah. Billy, he one-hundred percent approves of his new Ape Man Stevie.

.

another one for ana @lovebillyhargrove bc of THIS (more gorgeous edits and ideas)

[prettyboy-like-you]

READ ON AO3 HERE (explicit)