Lots of people, bunches of alcohol, and loud music are Billy's thing. He's probably had more than six by now, not to mention the mixtures with other drinks that make a strange sensation in his throat and stomach. Not that it's pleasant in the short or long term, far from it, but it makes him feel something, which is enough. That's why he went to this sh*tty party in the first place: to feel something other than the agony of boredom or his dad's wrath.
His head is already spinning a little when he locks himself and the Harrington boy in a bathroom for some reason he can't remember very much. The racket sounds muffled, a little more distant, and that's perfect for what he needs right now. A little more shouting, a little more voices talking over each other, a little more noise entering his ears and he'd go mad.
Harrington's presence there, with his knees on the floor, his sunglasses resting on the collar of his shirt and his head rubbing against Billy's crotch is the only thing that makes going to this party, which had everything to be forgettable like all the others, worthwhile—at least while he's keeping his mouth shut. It's still a mystery to Billy why he didn't just punch the boy in the face as soon as he saw him, just because. In a normal, sober condition, he would just avoid any proximity to him, or provoke him at the first opportunity to revel in the irritation visible on his handsome face.
Only an idiot wouldn't admit that Harrington has such a handsome face. Maybe that's the reason he didn't turn him into a punching bag at the first buzz of alcohol when the drink came down hard and made him feel even hotter inside. Maybe that's the reason they're now locked in that tacky bathroom, the boy on all fours to feel Billy's erection in the middle of a cubicle with flowery wallpaper and the mirror right behind them to show the ridiculousness of the whole situation. Maybe that's it, mixed with the drunkenness of both of them.
Billy closes his eyes and grunts as he puts a hand through his hair, his head going back as he pulses inside his pants as if to indicate that he's all set to go. He knows his co*ck isn't going to suck itself, and he definitely doesn't have the patience to wait for the boy to stop rubbing himself like a puss* in heat and start sucking him, so he unbuckles his belt, unzips his pants, and pulls down the zipper to show the hardness in his underwear. Harrington isn't as lazy or dumb as he thinks; he pulls down the briefs and almost immediately starts working those pretty, sweet pink lips and that wet tongue around his co*ck and balls.
Maybe that's also the result of the alcohol, but goddamn how he looks even more gorgeous. Just so f*cking gorgeous like that. His skin is so fresh, shiny, with those soft strands of hair messed up everywhere, those huge eyes that make Billy feel something down there, and that damn mouth that tasted so good against his even though it tasted of booze and smoke.
It must be a mirage, a crazy fantasy, because Billy finds himself moaning with the massage of his already wet balls and the sensation of that same mouth swallowing his co*ck like it was a candy bar, his tongue having fun there. He goes deeper and keeps it in his throat for a few quick seconds, and Billy's breathing becomes more difficult with how good it feels.
“Christ, Harrington,” Billy murmurs, even though he's aware that as loud as the music is, it's unlikely that anyone eavesdropping would be able to hear anything on the other side of the door. He runs one hand through his hair and uses the other to hold that pretty boy's head steady, forcing him to have his whole throat filled for a slightly longer time; he chokes, pushes his hand away with a head movement, and removes Billy's co*ck completely from his mouth, the wet trail of saliva going from his co*ck to his mouth adding an even more obscene air to the whole situation.
“If I can't breathe I'm going to die here, you f*ckin' asshole,” he mutters a little angrily as one hand rubs against his crotch and the other jerks a bit of Billy's co*ck. His eyes are shining, watering.
“It's not like your throat isn't already getting used to my size, pretty boy.”
He grunts at the taunt. “Don't flatter yourself,” he snorts back but keeps going. His tongue wanders from the head to the entire length, until his head is once again practically buried between Billy's legs, who lets a throaty moan escape and strokes that damn brown hair with both hands.
A little more, another half hour of this, perhaps more sessions in locked bathrooms or, who knows, in their bedrooms, and Billy could find himself saying that he's enjoying this too much—he's enjoying too much the feeling of being inside Harrington, deep in that throat. Maybe it's the alcohol. It's just a one-off experience, a result of a tease he vaguely remembers giving him just before they locked themselves in the bathroom. And Billy's first impression of that boy is how a piece of sh*t he must be, albeit very handsome. It's certainly a one-off that will never be talked about again between both of them. But goddammit, it feels so good.
It feels so good, but deep down he feels maybe there's something more.
Billy looks down at him, and that good feeling is too pleasant to be true. Harrington is just… too handsome to be true. He has his eyes closed, one hand still on Billy's co*ck as he licks and kisses the head periodically. At some point that Billy didn't see, he removed his jacket and shirt and left them on the floor, because now he has that body exposed and geez. He seems at peace, relaxed, savoring every inch and clearly getting off on it; who knows how long it's been since he's gotten laid, or had a co*ck in his mouth judging by the position he's in now. It certainly has to do with his current state of mind, needy and lonely and horny and drunk because Billy can't imagine that the greatest symbol of heterosexuality in Hawkins, Indiana was that desperate to get a co*ck into his pretty little mouth at the first opportunity.
Receiving a blowj*b isn't something new for Billy; it's how good he feels right now. It's how good it feels to feel the warmth of Harrington's mouth and his head moving up and down from his groin.
He looks so ethereal that perhaps that, among other details, is why he was considered a king in Hawkins. Billy can visualize a crown on the top of his head, with those sparkling gems and all those fancy details. It fits him perfectly, to be honest. And the image makes him so much hotter that Billy wants to grab that brown hair every day and only let go when Harrington's face is red with tears and spit and cum everywhere.
Billy's getting so close, and the rhythm of the head below him shows that Harrington is aware of it too. It's as if he has sucked all the grumpiness, the buzz from the alcohol, and a small headache out, because Billy is now feeling much better, and he hasn't even come yet. What triggers Billy is the sensation of his hand moving up his stomach to his chest. He caresses, and squeezes, and circles a finger around a nipple, and then Billy loses it. He holds Harrington's head in place on the spot, not giving a sh*t about warning him verbally first.
In the first shot, Billy feels as if he's exploding, his eyes closing tightly and his breathing weak as his heartbeat falters. In the second, reason slips his mind and he feels like proposing right there to share the Harrington surname, his house and his children, unceremoniously. In the third, his touch is more delicate and weaker on that hair. He wants to drag that pretty boy to the first bed he finds and f*ck him raw in the most intense and noisy obscene sex ever witnessed in the history of Hawkins until they are passed out in sweat, crumpled blankets, cum, and a broken bed. In the fourth, he's already exhausted and just wants to be invited to his house to make love quietly with caresses and sweet words.
And it goes like this with each throbbing inside that mouth, one thought more nonsensical than the next until Billy is done and opens his eyes to find him pulling it out of his mouth. He's breathing deeply too, although less agitated than Billy, and licks the corner of his mouth before putting his clothes back on and looking him in the eye. The music coming from outside is different; others have probably been playing in the meantime and many people have already left—and they're still locked in the bathroom, staring at each other, their breathing gradually returning to normal and Billy already missing being inside Harrington's mouth.
“What?” he asks. His voice is so well-composed for someone who just a few seconds ago was very probably having his throat hurting from swallowing his hot cum it isn't fair.
“You didn't cum. Lemme help you out,” Billy starts, a hand ready to touch and open his zipper, but he steps back. The handle turns and the door rattles for a moment, then again, until it stops. Someone grunts something, and suddenly the doorknob returns to its untouched position.
Billy turns his attention to the boy, who is still motionless. Without waiting for him to say or do anything, probably for fear of attracting the attention of the person who might still be on the other side, Billy just puts his hand down his pants and squeezes to see what reaction he'll get. He doesn't push him, hit him, or punch him, which is good—although a strong grip on his hair and being pressed against the wall with their faces touching could be better. He could pull down Billy's pants and f*ck him unannounced, in retaliation, and Billy wouldn't dare complain. Considering how long they must have been there, it wouldn't make any more difference.
“I bet none of these bitches dared to touch here like it was their property, am I right, Harrington?”
“Shut the f*ck up.”
He unzips earnestly and this could be Billy's turn to return the blowj*b in kind; instead, he puts him in front of the mirror and positions himself right behind him, his body discreetly rubbing against his ass covered in that black jeans and his hand invading his boxer to put it out and help him relieve himself as well. He's already hard, and the pre-cum is enough to lubricate the whole thing. And, f*ck, what a whole thing.
Though drunk and with the fact that all this will be nothing more than a hazy memory tomorrow, Billy still finds the act of noticing the way he is another guy's dick a bit shameful, no matter how big and, of course, beautiful it is. But that shame doesn't matter much, really. He was just stuffing his mouth and admiring his pretty face, and he's now feeling hard again in his pants. If Harrington notices, he decides not to care, just closes his eyes and lets Billy work his co*ck.
The texture feels good, as good as jerking his own co*ck, and Billy can't deny that he doesn't enjoy it, his hips rubbing against Harrington's covered ass in a slow back and forth. He also can't help his mind wandering to a silly competition over his big little friend in his hand. It's thick, heavy, the same shade of color as his pretty lips, and gorgeous. Not that Billy thinks he's the opposite of that—the idea alone of such a self-depreciation repulses him to the brim—but it's different. A good, very good, very good different that deserves to be enjoyed just for one night.
Maybe it's because it's so good, or the fact that he's already been hard for minutes now, but it only takes a short time of quick stroking that runs along his entire length for Harrington to cum and get a bit of spurt all over the mirror, the sink and even Billy's hand in a rough grunt and strong, involuntary throbs. Billy waits a few seconds until the boy has finished before pulling away and bringing his cum-stained hand up to his mouth to swallow it shamelessly. It's revoltingly tasty, if not a little less bitter than Billy's, which he's tasted once only to never again. He just puts it back in his boxers and unzips his pants, possibly not realizing that Billy is enjoying the taste of him.
“What a mess you made there, boy.”
He turns on the tap and wets his neck as he says, “How is it possible that you never shut the f*ck up?”
Billy smiles. He should be angry, perhaps, and tuck a hand on Harrington's hair so he'll never dare to talk to him like this again. But whatever.
“If I do shut up, will I at least see a smile on that face?”
He turns to Billy, but he doesn't answer. From the pause and awkward silence, that's definitely a no; but suddenly he kisses Billy again, much longer than earlier, when they locked themselves in the bathroom. It still tastes of alcohol, of smoke, and now of co*ck.
“To see if you'll stop talking for f*ck's sake,” he says and then quickly unlocks the door and walks away, leaving Billy there alone.
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