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robthegoodfellow · 7 months

Text

You Know You Gotta Understand

Bondage, Distracted Sex for Day 7/8 of @harringrovekinktober additional incidental Edging/Orgasm Denial, Praise Kink, Cock-Warming, Dom/Sub Dynamic

(roommates, kink experimentation, fledgling power dynamic negotiation, billy needs a binky, nsfw, immediately follows Let's Give the Boy a Hand)

After his bombshell revelation, Robin had wolfed the rest of her cone in under a minute, all the while prodding him down the sidewalk toward the cemetery—not because his life was over, but because it offered isolated benches, ideal for unburdening the soul.

Which is what he did, to an extent. Didn’t quite have the wherewithal to loop her in on the stuff he barely had the words for, himself—the… obedience stuff, the possessive stuff, the game they’d been playing, making the rules up as they went along.

No, he mainly focused on the basics: how, under the gruff exterior, Billy was pretty great—funny, and considerate, and talented, and smart and—and actually, the gruffness had its own appeal, too, you know?

To her credit, Robin listened without judgment, nodding in apparent agreement, until he’d wrapped up his treatise on the wonders of Billy Hargrove with so we started hooking up a few weeks ago and she’d nearly fallen off the bench.

It’s not like we’ve—like, fucked, he clarified, assuming that had been the source of the tsunami. We’ve only—well, actually, we haven’t really kissed, now that I think about it. Not like full-on kissing. Mostly it’s been hand stuff and mouth stuff and like—uhm, cuddling?

Robin was blinking hard, still recalibrating. And… now you—love him?

Well, when she said it like that, it sounded stupid. Although, on reflection, I’m in love with him sounded even stupider. But he didn’t know how to put it into words. Listing it off—how he couldn’t stop thinking about Billy and constantly wanted to be near him and touch him—it just sounded like typical Lovestruck Steve, which was actually Infatuated Steve. Steve with a crush. Most of the time, a passing crush.

Maybe this time around just felt different because his crush was a guy? Like—the novelty made it more intense? Or—the other stuff? The game? The weirdly entrancing dynamic they were toying with?

Who could say?

I don’t know, he said, finally, and sounded so glum, so lost, that Robin patted his arm, brows arched in sympathy, and told him it would be all right.

When he got home, the couch had been scrubbed clean of every stain, the wake of Billy’s swipes still embedded in the grain of the fabric. Billy himself was fast asleep in his room, damp hair from a recent shower coiled on bronze shoulders, his arms folded under the pillow. The fan spun lazy overhead, affording a faint breeze through the rumpled sheet.

Steve knew with certainty he was buck naked under that sheet, the fabric draping his ass and upper thighs in a way that made him envy the cotton.

Every vestige of ice cream and Robin and emotional upheaval vanished the moment Billy murmured, “Hey,” and Steve jerked his gaze to meet sleepy blue. A come-hither blue, so Steve stepped inside, shut the door behind him, his pulse already skyrocketing at the shocky tension in the air.

Stopping by the bedside, he swept an appreciative stare down the length of the body he was coming to learn so well. Swept back up, but only got halfway—arrested by that ass. Because what an ass.

Obliging, Billy spread his thighs, arched his spine, and that was invitation enough. Steve perched on the edge of the bed, cupped the back of one thigh and smoothed upward, over the asscheek, fingertips tracing his crack.

Billy shivered, hips flexing under the sheet, thighs parting wider. Steve let out a rumbling hum, speculative, and kneaded the round swell of flesh, first one side, then the other, taking care to tease along the crevice with fingers and thumb.

“Let me see you,” Steve said, quiet, and Billy gulped, nodding against the pillow, lifted his hips to feel the drag as Steve drew the sheet down to the backs of his knees. “Wider.” And the knees inched further, so wide, his cheeks so parted Steve could see the furl of his hole, twitching as he clenched. “I can touch you there?”

“Yeah,” Billy gasped, burying his face in the pillow. “Yeah, yeah—”

Heart throbbing since the moment he sat down, it now hammered in his throat, his temples. A harsh exhale as the pads of his fingers drifted up an inner thigh, caressed the rise of his ass. Watched his thumb sweep to the fluttering hole, and press. Brush back and forth, learning the texture.

Steve heard himself start to ask, “You ever—?”

“No.” The whimper was muffled, desperate.

It was like he’d slipped into a trace, hypnotized by his own touch—or the effect it was having. The thundering heartbeat was somehow distant. “Would you want that?”

The whimper slipped to a sob. “Yes.” A hiss, turned just enough, expression pinched in torment. “Yes. Now?”

“No.” Ignoring the whine, Steve stretched out alongside, hand coasting up his panting back. He nosed at Billy’s ruddy cheek—the one on his face. “Not now. But I want that, too.”

Before Billy could reply beyond a mouth lax in relief, Steve pushed him onto his back, leaning over him. Noted how his arms, formerly crossed beneath the pillow, were now arched above his head like a ballerina, fists gripping the upright slats of the bedframe.

“Keep your hands there,” Steve said. Throwing a leg over Billy’s waist, he sat astride his stomach. Propped himself on generous pecs, and indulged in a long, luxurious grind, rolling his hips to relieve the mounting want. “I realized earlier—we haven’t kissed much.”

Distracted, it took a moment for the words to sink in. A furrowed brow, then: “Oh.”

Unsure how to interpret that reaction, Steve revised his initial plan to plow Billy’s mouth with his tongue. “Just an observation,” he said, mild, dragging gentle hands down the pecs as he straightened. He looked down, tracking where he brushed the backs of his fingers along the sloping skin beneath pert dusky nipples. “And we’ve kinda been—checking in before we do stuff. New stuff.”

“Yeah,” Billy acknowledged, eyes downcast when Steve flicked his up. “Kissing’s fine.”

The tone was distinctly unenthused.

“It’s okay if it’s not fine,” Steve said, hushed like it was a secret. “If you don’t like it as much. Or at all.” Curious, he stroked Billy’s temple, down to his cheek. His chin. “Did you like it when I kissed you here?”

Billy squirmed beneath him. Nuzzled into a raised arm, abashed. “Yeah.”

Steve bent, ghosting his lips along a scratchy chin, shivering at the rough against thin skin. “Then I’ll keep doing that.” He trailed to his cheek, barely pressing, then bussed the edge of an eyebrow, a fluttering eyelid. “When you’re good.”

Burrowing into his upper arm again, a breathy sigh. “Was I?”

Steve made a thoughtful sound. “You cleaned the couch.”

“And the blanket,” Billy mumbled.

“And your arms are still where I want them.”

The fists tightened around the wooden spokes, voice likewise tight: “I like it.”

“Orders?” Steve asked, and kept his lips waltzing along the bristly chin.

“That, and—” It was like Steve could feel the blood rushing, heating his skin. A swallow, and Billy went on: “And not being able to—move. Much.”

The words hit like a punch, and Steve pressed his forehead to Billy’s brow, staving off the driving need to—well, drive into the body below him. Instead, he fumbled to undo his belt.

“What else do you like, baby?” Clumsy fingers struggled with his button, zip.

Another whine, faint and thready. “My... mouth? Want my mouth—full. Things in my mouth. Like—” He cut himself off, frustrated, and Steve shushed him, hand a blur on his stiffie, so hard it hurt. With his remaining brain cells, delegated his other hand to cup Billy’s face, smear gasping lips with a thumb, and Billy opened for it, eyes rolling closed as he sucked.

The sight alone, nevermind the wet suctioning heat—Steve grunted, ropes of come streaking the flushed heaving chest. And Billy kept sucking, lost in it, as Steve raked blunt fingers through his mess, then flattened his palm, rubbing it in.

“Let go, babe,” Steve whispered, winded, and his thumb was free—wet and shining. He put himself away, did up his pants, left the belt gaping. As expected, when he flopped to his original position stretched out alongside, he saw Billy’s poor neglected cock, rigid, flushed a deep rose, drooling on his belly. Tsking in sympathy, Steve settled his hand where Billy wanted it—then didn’t move. “You want to come right now, or be patient?”

Billy groaned, teeth bared in a grimace. A couple wheezing breaths, then: “Patient.”

“Okay.” He paused, toying with the sticky tip of the crown, smearing precome, a plan taking shape in his twisted, randy little mind. He was seriously turning into some kind of sex genius. Craning to Billy’s ear, he said, softly, “Here’s what I’m thinking…”

When Steve emerged from his own bedroom with the tie he’d worn to work earlier that week, Billy was kneeling in front of the couch, eyes a bit glazed, hands already clasped behind his back. Rather than go to him, Steve detoured to the TV, fiddling with the controls—sports and more sports this time of day on a weekend. NBA would do. Appropriate, given this all started from a casual chat during a basketball game.

He pushed aside the coffee table, making room enough for him to crouch behind Billy and tie his wrists—not too tight. “Tell me if it gets uncomfortable,” he said, and Billy nodded.

Now he’d made it to this point in the plan, his thrumming pulse kicked up a notch, stomach pitching in anticipation. Stacking the throw pillows that had come with the couch, he made a cozy seat for himself, back against the pillows, placing him near enough the edge that Billy could reach him without straining, nestled between Steve’s legs.

You ready? he was about to ask, but one glance at Billy’s face and all language left him—as it had for Billy, clearly. The blue eyes were unfocused yet fixed, half-lidded, on Steve’s bulge, plush mouth parted, jaw hanging loose.

Steve pressed the heel of his palm to the base of his trapped cock, teeth clenched, lungs shocky. He had to last—this whole thing hinged on his lasting. Should’ve put on a movie, something more riveting than fucking basketball.

Wresting back control, he forced himself to go slow—unbutton his jeans almost absent-minded, take his time with the zipper. Fish his dick from his briefs, unrushed, eyes on the TV screen. Breathing even.

It was seven minutes into the first quarter, according to the announcer.

He gripped himself midshaft, held it steady, and waited. Couldn’t help his eyes slipping shut when blazing heat encased the tip, a swirling lick round the head. Blindly, he grasped for Billy’s curls, something to hold onto, and threaded his fingers deep, cradling the scalp. Coaxed him forward a bit, let him adjust, spit gathering at the lips, then slid further in, his cock gliding on a bed of tongue.

Sank as deep he could go—deep as Billy could take and breathe—and there Billy rested, warming the cock in his mouth, not sucking so much as… suckling? Was there a difference?

There was. Like this gentle, undulating pull, not enough to tug him over the cliff but enough to keep him balanced on the edge, drugged on it.

Steve was fast approaching mindless, buzzing blur between the ears, gaze locked on the television with every ounce of his willpower even as every sense registered the salty musk of their sweat and leaking spunk, the rasp of air through Billy’s nose, the sopping glove of his mouth snug and hot and perfect.

“Halftime?” Steve said, voice rough, shattered, when the whistle blew on the quarter. He had no idea the score—or even who was playing. The important thing was that he followed the bouncing ball back and forth down the court. “Halftime,” he decided.

Billy exhaled long, so long, the gust buffeting the base of Steve’s dick, his pubes, and his head tilted, cheek resting on Steve’s thigh with the air of someone settling in for a nap. Finally, Steve risked a glance down, and his stomach clenched, the banked heat flaring in his gut.

Those eyelashes looked so long, brushing his cheeks like that, his brows relaxed but for the faint furrowed line that appeared when he swallowed down the gathered spit and precome Steve knew he was oozing like a loose faucet.

Was it weird to think someone looked beautiful with your cock in their mouth? Because Billy did. He really did.

Breaths shaky all over again, Steve pet hair away from Billy’s face, softly as he could. Smoothed a thumb from temple to jaw, to the corner of his mouth, where his lips stretched around the intrusion. His lashes fluttered, and then dreamy blue stared up at him.

“Like you were made for me,” Steve said, wondering. “Made for this.”

A shudder, deep inhale, and Billy sank lower, skewering himself, plugging his throat.

“Ah,” Steve gasped, cradling the skull between his thighs. God, he wanted to drive deep, grab hold and just drill into him, but didn’t—didn’t. “Ah-ah.” Reproving, that time. “Be good.”

The pressure let up as Billy shifted back, contrite. Resumed his resting position.

“Halftime,” Steve reminded him, and Billy hummed, the vibrations skittering down every nerve ending. “Shh.” Stroked Billy’s hair, clinging to composure. “Shh.”

Over the next eon, Steve perfected the illusion that he was just… floating in a hot bath, maybe a jacuzzi with jets, to account for the waves of pleasure…

These fucking refs, though. Just let them play, for Christ’s sake. Every whistle stabbed, the knife twisting the closer they crept to Steve’s self-inflicted finish line. And all these fucking commercials—

“Deep breath,” he said, with a minute left to go. Please God, no fouls. Just a sprint to the buzzer. He heard Billy inhale, and then Steve plunged, ground into the seizing inferno, holding him there, hips hitching, compulsive. He drew back, let Billy recover, then let it roll, jackhammering into him, feet planted on the floor, holding his head steady, drool dripping down his balls.

Seconds left, and Steve looked down again. Shaft sliding, gleaming spit, into lips swollen red, cheeks hollow as a starving man.

“Hungry, baby?” he said, and Billy’s moan rippled from his belly to his throat—shook Steve apart. Gulped him down.

Steve levered himself to the floor, and despite limbs loose as a rag doll, summoned the coordination to reach around, untie Billy’s wrists. “Sit, sit,” he babbled, lowering him to the carpet. “Lay back.”

Billy sprawled, dopey smile hitched crooked, his lashes wet. Didn’t seem to notice as Steve clambered half on top of him, though he hissed when fingers danced across his dick.

“You did so good,” Steve said, words hushed, and didn’t know why he kept his touch soft, a gentle rub where Billy’s cock lolled against his stomach. “So good. My good boy.”

A halting gasp, blinking at the ceiling, tear dripping down his temple into his hair.

“Billy.” Steve leaned forward, nuzzling his cheek. “Come for me. Be good and—”

Sharp inhale, and a full-body twitch wracked his frame, coating Steve’s hand in his release.

“Good.” He repeated it—good, good, good—wrapping Billy in his arms, smearing come between them. Rolled back, hauling Billy to lie draped over him, cradling his head to Steve’s shoulder.

Billy was quiet so long, save for his labored breaths, that worry sprouted in Steve’s chest. He’d been onboard with the plan, but maybe it’d been—too much?

“Baby,” Steve began, hands calming—and stopped, words caught in his throat.

His throat, which Billy was kissing, light, lingering presses, lips buzzing with something barely audible. Like a purr.

Now with following chapter: No Romeo, But He's My Loving One-Man Show

#harringrove #harringrovekinktober2k23 #billy hargrove #sub billy hargrove #dom steve harrington #yeah this is a series now i guess #hello welcome as i air my kinks to the world #roommates in love #steve is natural born dom #billy is subby down to his soul

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