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There’s a truce between them. Billy and Harrington.
There had to be one, because Billy is forced to be Max’s driver all summer, and Harrington is just there, always there, kids herded around him as if he’s their leader, or the one that needs guidance, Billy isn’t so sure about it sometimes. And the whole existing in each others' space and insulting each other thing, while that big, bloody elephant of their fight at the Byers stood in the room with them, fully ignored, just wasn’t working out anymore.
So Harrington walked up to the Camaro one evening, when Billy was waiting for Max in front of the arcade, smoking outside of his car because that little piece of shit was always complaining about the smell of smoke on the seats, and for some godforsaken reason, Billy had started to give a shit, and said: “Cut it out, Hargrove”, and that had pretty much been it.
They didn’t talk. Billy didn’t apologize, and Harrington didn’t ask, didn’t even seem to care. There was nothing new between them, except for the mutual agreement of not busting each other’s faces anytime soon.
So yeah. A Truce. But just because there is one, just because Billy agreed to not traumatize these kids more than they probably already are, doesn’t mean he has to like Harrington. Doesn’t mean he has to stop wanting to bust his face, to fight him.
And he doesn’t. Doesn’t like Harrington, can’t stand a single fucking thing about him, and doesn’t stop wanting to fight him either.
It’s a familiar sentiment, one he had gotten used to, an ever-present companion since the first time he saw King fucking Steve. It’s been simmering inside of him, somewhere at the bottom of his stomach. It’s the need to fight, to hurt, Billy thinks, no, Billy knows, because everything he feels always comes out as violence. It’s a fact.
And the temperature is rising, now that he sees Harrington everywhere. At parties, at the pool, and wherever the kids need to be dropped off or picked up at—always there when Billy is.. And while the bruises on his face, the ones that Billy put there, slowly fade over the weeks, Billy starts to boil.
There’s just something about Harrington that riles him up in a different way, a more intense one, something that turns this feeling from an itch he can scratch with a couple of venomous words, to a need, a desire. An ache for more.
Sometimes, Billy isn’t sure what exactly he’s aching for. He tells himself it’s a fight, a punch to Harrington’s perfect teeth, a kick to his stomach. And it’s probably true, because Billy always wants a fight, and a couple of loose teeth is always a good place to start. But there’s something else, something he’s desperately trying to put his finger on whenever he’s watching Harrington. Glaring at him, really.
So, when Harrington pulls him into a room at a party, at somebody’s house, someone that Billy hasn’t bothered learning the name of, and says “Get it over with”, and Billy says “What?”, and Harrington says “Kick me! Punch me! Knock some of my teeth loose, whatever, you clearly need it! Fight me!”, it comes naturally to grab him by the collar of that stupid shirt he’s wearing and slot their mouths together.
Billy hadn’t thought about this before; he really, truly hadn’t. It didn’t even cross his mind, not once, but the second their lips (and it’s more teeth than lips, really) clash, it feels like a piece falling into place. The way things do when you’ve had a couple of beers and a couple more heated glances across a stranger’s living room.
There’s nothing gentle about it, not a single thing. He moves against Harrington’s mouth as if he wants to devour him, and maybe, just maybe, (probably not), he would’ve stopped if the other pulled back, if he gave any sign of not being totally on board with this, but he doesn’t. Harrington’s hand finds Billy’s hip in an instant, like he’s been aching to touch it, nails digging deep into tanned skin, and his mouth, his lips, his teeth, move back in the same, feral way Billy’s do.
He lets Billy bite his lip, hard, and bites back in return, harder, and when Billy wants to push his tongue in, wants to lick inside his mouth, explore the whole entire depth of it, Harrington’s tongue is there first, already finding his way to the back of his teeth, to the roof of his mouth, and Billy shouldn’t like it, because he never really did, but it feels like a fight Harrington’s ready to take on, and so he does.
And he isn’t the only one, if the hard length against his thigh is anything to go by.
“Looks like someone is about to cream their pants,” Billy drawls when he pulls back for a second—an obvious play on Harrington’s words during that night, the night that’s probably responsible for bringing them here in the first place, the one that left him aching for more of the same and something else altogether.
Harrington doesn’t say anything, not a single word, just raises an eyebrow and slots a thigh between Billy’s legs, clearly as far from unaware of the hardness that rests there as can be. Billy doesn’t moan, doesn’t groan, doesn’t whine, but it’s a close call, too close, so he transforms the noise that crawls out of his throat, turns it into a growl instead. Something that makes it seem, just for a moment, as if he’s in perfect control of himself, not affected by the situation at all, as if he has the upper hand, even though he doesn’t. Neither of them has. They’re fighting for it.
Billy drops to his knees, without contemplating, without hesitation, his fingers finding Harrington’s fly in the same motion. He’s always been efficient, especially when he’s trying to be in charge, even more so when someone fights him for it. And that much has been clear the second he stepped through that door, guided by Harrington’s hand around his wrist, like a dog that’s eager to follow its owner.
He doesn’t ask if it’s okay, partly because he has enough trust (it feels like a wrong, dirty, traitorous word to use) in the royal blood of King fucking Steve to tell him to fuck off if he doesn’t want Billy’s lips wrapped around him, and partly because he isn’t sure he’d care if Harrington didn’t want to. Billy wants, and Billy takes what he wants, always, in every aspect of life that allows him to do so without consequences.
So, he pulls Harrington’s dick free, thick and gorgeous, like he expected it, but didn’t want it to be. Of course, that guy gets everything: girls, money, a huge house to himself, parents who don’t hate him but don’t care too much either, kids who adore him, and a perfect fucking dick on top.
The only natural reaction, the only logical thing to do—at least in the small, focused space that’s the only occupied place in Billy’s drunk mind right now—is to lick up the entire length of it, to watch, to feel Harrington shiver under the attention.
“Fuck,” Harrington breathes when Billy wraps his lips around the tip and sucks. His hand finds Billy’s hair when he takes him deeper, tangles in the curls. Not in that Holding On for The Ride kind of way that most of the guys Billy sucked off tended to go down. It’s not desperate enough for that, not gone enough, and all too demanding instead. Harrington pulls him off, just a bit, his hips snapping forward instead, and normally, Billy would’ve been totally into that, would choke on dick and let his partner fuck his face because he loves it, but not from Harrington.
It’s a fight, nothing more, and Billy isn’t going to lose, not again, not to Harrington.
He gets his hands on the other’s hips, presses him back against the door, in the way he knows will make his back hurt because the door knob is right there, but doesn’t give a shit, gets more turned on by the thought of the marks it’s gonna leave on Harrington’s perfect fucking skin, if anything.
He takes him deeper, not enough to make himself gag, not ready to give Harrington that satisfaction, but deep enough to make it obvious that he could. He hollows his cheeks and swallows around him and swipes his tongue along his shaft, taking mental note of all the little and not-so-little noises it coaxes out of Harrington, storing them away for… whenever. For the next time, when Billy drops to his knees instead of burying them in Harrington’s stomach, maybe.
But. Only one fight at a time.
So Billy sucks and licks like he owns that cock, and Harrington pulls his hair and guides Billy like he owns him, and it’s about the hottest and most infuriating thing he’s ever experienced. It’s intoxicating. Almost. Entirely. That heavy, full feeling of Harrington’s cock on his tongue, that possibiltíty of being able to do whatever he wants with it, right there in front of him, almost close enough to grasp, always kept out of his reach by strong fingers in his hair.
Harrington doesn’t tell Billy he’s close, doesn’t give him the slightest chance to pull off, not the littlest indicator that he wouldn’t come down his throat if Billy didn’t want him to. He still knows when Harrington’s about to come, because his gasps and groans become louder and impossibly more desperate, like he’s choking on them. Because his fingers grip Billy’s hair impossibly tighter, like he wants to make his scalp bleed. Because he pushes Billy impossibly closer like he wants to suffocate him on his dick, and for once, Billy lets him without any struggles.
It feels like a loss, giving in the to pull of Harrington’s fingers, taking him as deep as he can, moaning around him and working him through it, but Billy swallows it all, catches the final drops with his tongue after Harrington lets go of him, and keeps licking and sucking until Harrington slurs “Stop”, voice all rough and overstimulated, and then doesn’t stop until Harrington’s fingers find his hair again and pull him up with so much force that Billy can’t help but rise on his knees and groan in pain. He grins up at Harrington, though, all his shiny teeth on display, like a shark, and Harrington’s panting, every visible inch of his skin flushed like he spent a little too much time in the sun, and suddenly, it all feels like a win.
“Jesus Christ, Hargrove,” Harrington rasps, and holy shit, yes, definitely a win. “Get up here.”
Billy doesn’t need to be told twice, and he sure as hell doesn’t need to be pulled up by his hair again, but Harrington does, and Billy goes with it, rising to his feet as fluently as possible. He doesn’t give Harrington another second to catch his breath, doesn’t give the other a chance to lean in himself, just jolts forward and kisses him again, hard and possessive. Too much tongue, too much spit, anything to make Harrington taste himself in Billy’s mouth, to savor the proof of what Billy did to him.
Billy doesn’t get lost in it. He’s perfectly aware of the way Harrington kisses back, all messy and sinful, of the way he moans when Billy’s hand sneaks around his neck, pressing their faces impossibly closer, of the way his fingers never stop messing with Billy’s hair, of the way his hips buck again when Billy bites his lip, not quite hard enough to draw blood.
Billy’s also aware he’s still painfully hard in his jeans, slowly rutting against Harrington’s thigh. Not in a needy way, he tells himself. Billy Hargrove isn’t needy, especially not for Steve Harrington of all people. Billy Hargrove doesn’t lose a fight (not another). Billy Hagrove takes what he wants, and right now, what he wants is to rub off against Harrington’s thigh, and that’s fine.
Harrington seems to have other plans, though, and maybe Billy does get lost in it, just a little, because when long fingers—colder than they should be considering the heat of the room, of the moment, of Billy—pop the button of his jeans without a warning, it comes as a surprise.
“Fuck,” Billy breathes when Harrington’s fingers close around his dick—his lack of underwear making the task easier than it should’ve bee. It doesn’t come out as a whine, it doesn’t, because Billy Hargrove doesn’t fucking whine into Steve Harrington’s mouth. He doesn’t.
Harrington gives his cock a few strokes, slow and tedious and too fucking good. It makes sense for Billy to be as easy as he is; a good fight always tends to rile him up—and this is just like a fight, with fists tangled in hair instead of knocking out teeth.
And no matter how good Harrington’s fingers on his dick feel, no matter how much it makes him shiver whenever he tightens his grip on Billy’s curls, Billy’s not giving up yet. He gives his moans teeth, biting kisses alongside Harrington’s collarbone. Harrington sucks in air through his teeth, sharply, every time Billy’s connect with his skin. He seems to like it, until he doesn’t, until he pulls Billy off of him. His hand is still stroking him slowly, and it’s good, so good, coaxing out noises inch by tedious inch, but it’s not enough to get him off, Billy knows, and Harrington does as well, if the shiteating grin on his face is anything to go by.
His pupils are dilated to hell and back, though—if still or again, Billy isn’t sure, but it does wonders for his ego.
What isn’t doing shit for him is that excruciating pace.
“What’s there to smile about?” He asks with a smirk of his own as he covers Harrington’s hand with his, guiding the other’s movements on his cock. Not so much showing him how Billy likes it, as simply taking what he wants, what he deserves. He speeds up, makes Harrington speed up, and for one blissful moment, Harrington lets him, let's Billy coax a moan out of himself, before batting his hand away, far from gently.
And okay, Billy can do that. This is a fight, but it's also a game, in the way that every fight is just a game, if you break it down to its core. Just a series of moves, beat after beat, with the sole purpose of bringing you to victory.
It’s a game, a violent one, and it’s Billy’s turn now. He unbuttons Harrington’s shirt, lets his hand wander up his chest, and flicks one of his nipples. A sharp inhale.
Harrington’s turn; he leans forward, catches Billy’s mouth in a kiss before moving to his jaw, sucking there, his hand speeding up just the tiniest bit, but twisting in a way that makes Billy moan, loudly, out in the open.
Billy’s turn, so he brings one hand—the one that isn't still toying with Harrington’s nipples—and fists it in Harrington’s hair. For a split second, he’s focused on how soft it is, part genetics, part very, very expensive products, if Billy had to guess. Then his focus shifts to his move, to how he tilts Harrington’s head back, makes him expose his neck so he can suck bruises into his skin, mark him up.
Harrington’s turn. He groans, tilts his head even farther back, giving Billy access, and oh, isn’t that a gorgeous sight.
Billy’s turn, and he snaps his hips forward, fucking into the tight circle of Harrington’s hand, because clearly, he isn’t paying Billy’s dick nearly enough attention. “Focus, pretty boy,” he drawls, breathy words on sweaty skin, but they’re accompanied by another hard buck of his hips and followed by teeth, so it’s fine.
Harrington’s turn. He doesn’t reply, and he doesn’t speed up; in fact, he stops moving his hand altogether. Makes Billy get whatever he needs for himself instead. His fingers in Billy’s hair loosen up for a moment before coming back full force. This time, he doesn’t use them to guide Billy, to pull him off or whatever, just fists them in his curls, harder than before, and keeps them there, and an ever-present, painful sensation on his scalp.
And it’s Billy’s turn now, he knows, but he’s out of moves. His fingers are on Harrington’s chest, in Harrington’s hair, his cock is in Harrington’s hand, and his teeth on his neck. He knows he could do something, anything, because Harrington’s half-hard again and panting somewhere next to Billy’s ear, but there’s heat pooling at the bottom of his stomach, and Harrington’s fingers in his curls, his sharp nails on his scalp, might have just lit that final spark. So really, there’s nothing Billy can do except for stifling another groan into Harrington’s neck—something he doesn’t do a very good job at, there’s just so much noise his teeth and the other’s skin can absorb—and spill all over Harrington’s hand, Harrington’s stomach, Harrington’s pants, Harrington’s godawful, half opened button-down.
“Jesus fuck,” He groans into Harrington’s shoulder, during that one moment of post orgasmic haze he can’t stop himself from allowing.
But Harrington pulls him off, his fingers still tangled in Billy’s hair (and really, is he ever going to let go again?), and says “Open up”. And Billy hasn’t closed his mouth yet, moans still caught in his throat, so there really isn’t any need for it. He has no other choice but to close his lips around the fingers Harrington pushes inside.
And it’s kind of unfair because you would think they’d take turns when it comes to this, not willing to let the other one-up them. But he can taste himself on Harrington’s skin, and at this point, what would a winner do? Pull away, spit it out, admit defeat, show weakness? Or do it well? The answer’s easy, so Billy sucks on the digits in his mouth, gets it all off, grabs Harrington’s wrist, pulls him off, and licks his hand clean as well. Stares him down as he does it. Watches the way his eyes grow even darker, the way his breath hitches..
He drops Harrington’s hand when he’s done and steps closer for another messy kiss, making him taste Billy on his tongue, marking him up inside and out.
Billy moves his thigh, just an inch to where he knows it needs to be, and Harrington gasps. He’s still half hard between them, and Billy grins into the kiss before backing off and losing every point of contact.
“Fuck you,” Harrington breathes.
Billy grins, pulling up his pants. “Don't think I’m the one in need of that.”
Harrington doesn’t reply, just lets his head drop back against the door for a second, hair a mess even though Billy knows his own looks worse. “Jesus fuck,” He tells the ceiling, and a small part of Billy, a part that can shut up right the fuck now, agrees.
Then Harrington pulls up his pants as well, buttons up his shirt, and tugs it into his jeans, an unsuccessful attempt at hiding most of the stains.
“I won,” Billy says over the faint noises of music playing and people partying. Because he can, because he has to.
Harrington just rolls his eyes. “This wasn’t a fight.”
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, pretty boy.”
He doesn’t roll his eyes this time, just looks at Billy. Assessing. Knowing. “I don't think I’m the one telling myself things.”
And Billy—Billy feels himself go hot all over again. Is it arousal or anger? He can’t tell, not when they’re apparently one and the same around Harrington. Does he want to punch him in the face or drop to his knees again? Doesn’t matter, he can’t do either. Because this was a fight, and a damn good one as well, and Billy won, he did, and getting riled up now, giving in to those words, would diminish that win in an instant.
So, he doesn't do anything, just keeps grinning, all his teeth on perfect display, says “Whatever helps you sleep at night”, doesn't bother with buttoning up his shirt because it wasn’t to begin with, pushes Harrington to the side to open the door, makes sure to jostle him hard on his way out and says “See you, King Steve”.
And when he does see Harrington again that night, from across the room, in the kitchen, in the backyard, smoking on the porch, he sees the marks he left on him. No one else seems to notice, because it's dark and people are drunk and, frankly, because Hawkins doesn't seem to care about its dethroned king all that much anymore, but Billy sees them. Knows they're there. Bites and bruises on his neck, come on his shirt, dents on his hip from where the doorknob buried itself into his skin.
And that desire is there again, burning now, and Billy knows it won’t be long until he goes looking for another fight.