#butimagine

It’s four am. Four. Steve wanted a glass of water. Only, a glass of water. Not an eyeful of,

“Jesus, Hargrove. Can’t you. Can’t you fucking please put something on when you get out of your den?”

Billy’s ass. Up in the air. Back bowed, bent down to the open fridge. Cock hanging between his thighs. Rummaging for something.

Ignoring Steve about going completely naked around the apartment for about the millionth time.

“I was hungry. Wanted one of— yeah! Found it! One of these”

He turns. Turns and for the love of God. Steve has an important test tomorrow.

“Are you hungry? There’s another one left”

Billy is, dipping his tongue in one of those cherry flavored yogurts he eats aaaall the time. Squeezes at the pot so the yogurt spurts out of it and if Steve’s throat felt dry before now feels like a goddamn desert.

“No. Thank you. Did you even hear what I said about clothes”

“Uh-hum” Billy sticks his fingers in the pot, uses them to scrape what’s left of that purplish thickness and takes them to his mouth to do something that surpasses the realm of mere sucking to enter headfirst into what can be more accurately described as deepthroating.

He moans and all. A low, lewd thing. And Steve knew sharing an apartment with Billy Hargrove would come paired with some kind of torture but this wasn’t certainly the kind he was thinking of.

Not the one that makes his cock kick inside his pants, throb until is full.

And Billy. Doesn’t even wash his hand. Just laves it clean. Right there. In front of him. Humming in content.  Skin gosebumping in front of the misty whiff of cold coming out from the fridge. Makes it look like a feast. Makes Steve stain his pants in a jerky, sudden leak.

And then— pads his way to him. Short curls whirlpooling over his forehead. Lips cherry-red from the scrap of his teeth. Freshly licked.

“You look hungry, though” he drawls, grins. Brushes his knuckles over the curve of Steve’s belly, makes his shirt hitch and then looks down, blatantly unabashed, right at Steve’s dick “You know where I am if you need that fed, pretty boy"

And with that. He heads away. Doesn’t even close the fridge. The open door just hanging in there. Letting the cold roll down to Steve’s feet. Feels like a burn when it creeps up his thighs, licks at the heat in between.

It’s four am. He’s got a test tomorrow. Needs to sleep. But when he makes his way to his bedroom, Billy’s door is open, bare ass popping out of white rumbled sheets and. Well. Steve might have have been lying to both of them.

and then billy pops out of nowhere, scaring the shit out of him. leaning his elbows on the edge of the window. letting his eyes roam, up and down steve. and he's grinning, one of those i'm-chewing-on-something-and-i-wish-it-was-you, grins of his. licking his lips and 'my, my, pretty boy. are you wearing it for me? my favorite color?' and steve snorts and rolls his eyes and says 'yeah, in another of those dreams of yours' and billy gets serious, his eyes a killer kind of blue, fixed and heavy. says 'in my dreams. you let me have this dance'. says it holding out his hand, for steve, and steve— can't help but bite, at the side of his lower lip, try to trap the smile sneaking out of him. 'cause c'mon, isn't that just smug. but he likes it. suddenly. violently. he likes it. even more so when billy bats those dark, dark lashes at him and, when steve lets it go, billy's eyes cut down to that lip, as if, in another dream, he would just lean in, and catch it. so steve says, 'well. guess tonight's the perfect night to make a dream come true' reaching for the handle.

and so they slow-dance. wrapped in the blue-silver glow coming down from the high windows. wrapped in time after time and that way it has of making you feel like something, something is gonna happen.

(and maybe, just maybe, billy tries his luck at getting another dream come true that night)

mechanic!billy rich-boy!steve au moodboard

. . .

| n s f w |

[It starts with an argument.

About the car. About the price. About Steve’s “Spoiled rich-boy shitty manners” leaving “too much to be desired”. About how it’s “Not my fault if you didn’t fix it, Hargrove. I’m not paying you for the same thing a fucking third time”

It starts with an argument about the car, about the price, about,

“Those porcelain hands of yours, King Steve. Maybe, if you’d ever put them to good use, you’d appreciate how much work it takes, to repair the things you keep on leaving behind in shatters"

about,

"But it's your daddy who pays, isn't he?” 

It starts the same as it always does between them, the fight. With Steve’s Spoiled rich-boy shitty manners getting the best of him. With Steve lowering himself to Billy Hargrove’s level.

“Wanna know what I think, Hargrove? I think you’re way too interested in what use I put my hands to. I think that maybe your problem is that it bothers you, uh? That I don't put them in good use with you”

It starts with an argument.

About the car. About the price. About whatever.

It starts with Steve finally crossing that last unspoken line, even if he knows he shouldn’t. Starts with Billy setting things on fire just because he likes to watch them burn. 

“And what I think, King Steve, is that you'd look so pretty, bent over that gorgeous sports car of yours. I’d be glad, to teach you a lesson in good manners”

Lips widening in a carnivorous grin. Teeth sinking around the tender flesh of his toothpick. That unsettling oral fixation of his, Steve wants to paint it red, make a masterpiece out of the way his smile sharpens.

It starts with an argument.

About the car. About the price. About ‘Chicken who?’ and ‘Bet you don’t have the balls’  and ‘Dare you to say that again to my face, asshole'

Two one-track minds. Speeding to a crash. The last line and then, the fire.

“I’d love to see you try”

It starts,

With an itch on his fist. A hammer on his ribcage. Adrenaline tasting like metal as he licks it off his teeth.

And Billy Hargrove hurts like a motherfucker when Steve finally, finally kisses him. Hurts with every time Steve had to restrain himself and almost couldn’t. Hurts with every time he thought ‘You gotta be crazy, Steve. You gotta be crazy’. Hurts because his hands are warm and delicate as they get under the fabric of his shirt, as they lay him down over the backseat of his broken car, his mind set on this single idea, spinning around like a broken record, 

Turns out it’s true what they say about playing with fire.

It starts in Billy’s shitty garage, one cold afternoon at the end of May, hot palms caressing their way up his knees, that oral fixation buried between his thighs. 

A fight and a kiss and a kiss and a fight except―

It’s not the real beginning. Nor the real end.

Because,

It keeps on starting again.]

,

or: that future mechanic!billy dickhead-heir!steve i won't write but i think about constantly starring steve harrington's oral fixation on billy hargrove’s oral fixation and the guys fucking around in a vast variety of muscle cars waiting for reparation while slowly realizing that, on despite of themselves, what they’ve been really fighting against all this time is the way they both have fallen in love with the other.

[They find people. They’re the best at what they do.

Sometimes, they make people disappear.

One call. One work. Gunpowder stuck like dirt under the half-moons of their nails.

They drive. They keep on driving. They cross the dusty back roads of America like a cobweb, time consuming itself in a loop, a fast forward of sunrises and dusks, close your eyes one second and you’ve woken up into another Thursday.

They’re the best at what they do.

It’s the way of the heartless.

Billy doesn’t know shit about Steve (Coffee black. Two spoons of sugar. Grumpy in the morning. Hates cigarettes in bed. Has one big, ugly bite on his back from the “Only real monster I’ve ever put down”. Has lips like an ocean, but Billy would've to be blind not to know that. Would inevitably reach with his hand to touch them if he couldn’t see them).

Steve doesn’t want to know shit about him (But maybe, also inevitably, he does)

They drive. Talk shit. Chase some(one)thing. Kill some(one)thing. Billy wants to retire someday. All Steve wants is something to put him down.

It’s a no-where life. A no-one life.

They chase. They kill.

look i’m not gonna cry thinking this is

If you leave the light on (I'll leave the light on)