Billy should’ve known better.
He should’ve recognized that dull headache pounding like a hammer against his temples and reverberating off his skull behind eyelids, and those straining aches in his lower back, his neck, the backs of his thighs. Should’ve known he’d woken up sweating through his sheets that morning for a damn good reason.
He could blame the meds but they’re not completely at fault. The warning signs are still blaring, flashing neon lights even now, when they’d came so unexpectedly and without a trackable pattern.
Despite the odds, Billy, well. He’s pretty fucking smart.
He knows how to work keggers and maintain a near fucking perfect GPA average at the same time. Knows how to charm his way between a girl’s soft thighs, how to make a lonely housewife flush from her cheeks to the tops of her breasts, how to have Max home before dinner and formulate a believable story that she wasn’t hanging out at The Palace with Lucas Sinclair, still sipping on a half-full Coke the kid bought her at the dining room table.
He also knows, out of the many things he does, that Neil tracks and counts the pills he takes every morning before he leaves for school, and that he has to make a show out of slipping the little pink spheres and white ovular pieces between his lips and following them with a mouthful of coffee, still steaming and black, while holding his father’s gaze.
Seeing as he’s kind of versed in being an omega and spending the past few months pretending he’s not, he doesn’t really understand how he missed this.
He knows it’s the new blockers and suppressants, the ones that come in the little orange bottles with the childproof lids. They’re the highest dosage on the market that’ve been approved but still illegal by way of California law because they’re fucking dangerous, and because its laws regarding secondary classification are progressive as shit compared to most other states, he’s never had to be on them before.
But not out here in Indiana, oh no. Everyone’s hopped up on some kind of blocker or suppressant, too fucking afraid to be in tune with their blood instincts, all the ticks and traits tattooed on their DNA. Like it’s unnatural.
The low dosage meds, the ones he was on back home, just regulate everything. Make it a little easier, take the edge off. Make it easy enough that you can calculate your next cycle by day and box it off in red pen on your calendar.
The high dosage shit pushes your heat or rut off until your body literally can’t take it anymore, all the warning signs of an upcoming cycle hitting last minute, a landslide of emotional outbursts, body aches, hot flashes.
And then when the actual heat or rut hits it’s a slap to the damn face, a shove off a cliff into icy water. Sudden and swift. It’s the sudden release of all the animalistic need, the fucking ache and anxiety, agitation, the desire and fever heat cooking your insides, all hitting tenfold.
The drugs make Billy feel like he’s been stuffed with cotton. His senses are blunt, dulled and muffled behind the filmy screen of medication. He barely smells like himself, his own brand of omega, under his daily misting of Aramis. He can barely smell anyone else too, which really pisses him the hell off, because he can’t scent out a potential fuck and isn’t going to risk going by personality traits.
This isn’t the fucking fifties.
Billy’s not stupid and he knows the only time secondary classification and class-typical personality even match up, contrary to what people like his father think, is during heats and ruts, because your body goes on autopilot while your hormones take the captain’s chair.
And he fucking hates it.
He actually wants to feel the shudder of arousal that comes from a whiff of a particularly good smelling alpha, the golden glint in their eyes when they can sniff him out in return. He likes the ones that smell like citrus, tangy and fresh, and the way the earth smells after it rains, or like the smokiness of crackling firewood and the spice of sandalwood.
He likes them warm and woodsy or crisp and fresh, but either way — always comforting.
But no, now he can’t smell anyone, not even himself. Not even the ones that would usually make him wrinkle his nose in disgust and snarl at in agitation, back the fuck off.
And he doesn’t know when his heat’s going to come - well, maybe now he does, with the telltale ache in his gut - so he doesn’t get to nest now, no time to gather the things he needs. That makes him even pissier. Like even if it really isn’t his favorite thing about an omega, the nesting is still comforting. It makes the buzz of anxiety that grips him between waves of arousal settle, makes him feel safe and blocked off, unable to be touched or bothered or even hurt.
And besides all that, all the nauseating pills and muffled senses, when it all lets up and the sudden onslaught of heat symptoms he’s been dealing with for years finally hits, he just ignores them. Pretends like he doesn’t know or something, like it’s all too good to be true and he’s just unwillingly fucking with himself.
He ignores it all like a fucking idiot, a lamb to the slaughter. Ignores the ache in his stomach and the static buzzing under his skin, the surge of blood crashing in his ears, the magnified itching that follows with each brush of his clothes.
It takes barely twenty-four hours to fully hit — nearly a third of the time it usually does.
Morning comes and Billy gets out of bed, aching and sweaty and sluggish, takes his pills like the good son his father tells him he isn’t, and chases them with some painkillers and hot coffee. Dresses for warm weather even though it’s fucking freezing outside with the grass on the lawn frosted and the prediction of snowfall that’s coming up during the weekend.
Like a goddamn moron he drives himself and Max to school. He figures maybe it won’t hit him until later in the day so he should be fine, possibly later. It’s just his fucking meds driving everything at ninety miles per hour, speeding up the process to a point that he can’t calculate. Leaving the house today is a goddamn gamble. Luckily everyone’s hopped up on so many suppressants they probably wouldn’t be able to differentiate the smell of an omega in preheat from some artificial perfumey shit anyway.
Billy’s head is pounding as he fumbles in the glove compartment for his sunglasses and keeps the stereo low. It’s still Whitesnake, okay, because he needs some kind of minute distraction that isn’t Max’s stupid alternative music that makes him want to brain himself on the steering wheel.
Max just watches him under pointed, bright blue-green eyes while a confused frown takes hold of her mouth. Irritated, he stares back just to try and break her gaze, but she’s an unrelenting little shit and Billy doesn’t have the energy to growl at her right now.
The way she watches him is careful and cautious and it makes his gut bubble hot with irritation.
It’s not like Max knows anyway. Neil definitely won’t tell her and Susan won’t do it without incurring Neil’s wrath, so she stays quiet. And Max hasn’t presented yet so she can’t really sniff him out, but she’s close to the age where she will.
Seeing her mom and real dad she’s probably destined to be a beta, an alpha if a twist of luck came into play. She could be an omega like him, too. It’s equally likely, an even third of the possible outcomes — classification is really just a gamble with a sprinkling of chance based on your genetics.
She’s got that spitfire, that protective nature and headstrong aggression that people should know isn’t strictly based on secondary gender at this point. She could be anything honestly, but Billy knows Neil is praying for her to present as alpha so he can showpony her around.
But yeah, Max doesn’t know he’s an omega unless she actually figured it out herself. Damn kid still calls him a “walking alpha stereotype” whenever he snaps at her to shut up, Maxine. And if she had already presented - or was starting to be able to scent, at least - she’d be covering her nose with her sweater and trying to get as far from his scent as possible, probably sticking her head out the window to gulp in fresh air like a dog because the brat’s so damn dramatic.
“What’s with you?” she asks as they’re rounding the corner to the school and good, she actually doesn’t know. She’s just shivering because both of the windows in the front seat are rolled down and that awful scratchy scarf Susan knit her is constricting her neck while she curls her arms around herself and her parka.
Meanwhile he’s still fucking boiling.
With the windows down, some of the burn in his skin recedes, and he can make out the harsh edges of everything now, too, scents magnified to a dizzying point — the artificial sweetness of Max’s strawberry shampoo, wet pavement and damp grass, then fried dough and sugar wafting out of that doughnut place on McMillan that makes a damn good bear claw.
And it’s not that the meds completely stifle his sense of smell, but they make him feel like someone’s stuffed cotton swabs or tissues up his nasal cavity and he can barely catch the edges of everyday scents. Like fucking allergies. Now he’s grateful, though, feels alive again, taking in everything he can while he’s got his senses back and isn’t confined to his mattress.
“Getting sick,” he says gruffly, fans himself, his denim jacket abandoned in the backseat with his knapsack, “’ve got a fucking fever or something.”
Max shivers again and pulls her legs up onto the seat, her fiery hair whipping her in the face. She clicks her tongue.
“Well then you should’ve stayed home. Exposing yourself to the thirty-seven degree weather is just going to make it worse. I’ve got friends that can take me to school if you’re like, dying or whatever. I mean, I could ask Steve — he takes Dustin home a lot.”
Billy rolls his eyes and somehow silences the sharp grumble rolling up in the back of his throat. He knows she’s barely spoken to him today, has caught onto that vibe he’s putting out - like he’s very acutely aware of that, thanks - but he’s so dizzy with hormones and antsy with sensation, just wishes she’d fucking be silent for once.
Even if their relationship isn’t as cat and dog as it once was and he can admittedly appreciate some of her smarter quips, the influx of hormones rushing his system like a burst pipe makes his temper flare more than usual.
He doesn’t give her a proper response, trying to keep his temper in check now and stays quiet, pulls into the bustling Hawkins High parking lot without his usual forewarning of a bass solo and a four-four drum beat.
There are flaky remnants of brown, dried leaves on the ground, strips of black ice crystallizing the outer corners of the asphalt near the aged, cracked sidewalk. Cigarette butts and a chewed, dried up rainbow assortment of gum litter the ground.
Some senior girls wave to him as they sit perched on the trunks of their cars and he ignores them. He doesn’t feel obligated or even alive enough to keep up appearances right now.
Getting out of the car, he nearly wipes out on some black ice. Seeing as ice has replaced any and every form of condensation outside, it’s a miracle it hasn’t snowed yet. The absence of chittering insects and chirping birds, all the shrubbery glittering under a sheen of frost while its struck by the golden morning sun say that winter’s already here.
He’s from California and has spent his whole life in an area where the air just outside the vicinity of the beach is dry heat in summer and a damp chill in the winter. He’s not used to this bullshit cold weather and the threat of snow.
And it would be a fucking miracle if he was just getting sick, although he’s really not. Pre-heat symptoms are scarily similar to those that accompany a flu. Billy’s just never been that lucky. He can pass off pretending to get sick, but he’s still tempting fate by walking into the lion’s den this close to his heat.
Even if everyone’s filled up on meds that dull out all their senses, an alpha could potentially sniff him out.
He convinces himself he doesn’t care, rather unconvincingly if he’s actually honest with himself, but will beat the potential alpha to a bloody, bruised pulp if they try anything. Will keep them quiet if he has to, by any means.
Max is still standing by the open passenger side door, watching him with the same way she had been in the car when he takes his knapsack out of the backseat. She’s got her board tucked under one arm and backpack slung over the opposite shoulder, the scarf still tight around her neck. It’s too damn slippery for the skateboard and she’s probably going to wipe out if she tries to use it but he doesn’t warn her.
Scowling and shivering, she pulls the top of the scarf down, asks, “Are you sure —”
“Go to class, Max,” he snaps back.
She shoots him one last skeptical look, like he would expect any less from her, before she skates off to the middle school without turning back. She gets halfway across the parking lot before she wobbles and nearly skids, then hops off and tucks the board back under one arm.
He’d laugh at her if only she was still looking, and saunters off to first period, trying not to claw out of his skin with each passing look he gets.
I’ll be fine, he thinks. It’ll be fucking peachy.
But then it hits him earlier than he thought. Hits him, honestly, at least a full day before it should.
Hits him right in the middle of fucking gym.
Maybe he should’ve told Coach he was under the weather or some shit, sat out or even ditched altogether. Then he’d at least catch a few z’s in the nurse’s office or even have the ancient, monotonous nurse check his temperature and send him home with a note that would maybe save his ass if Neil saw him home early without Max.
He’s already sweating before they do their starting laps and ends up using his abandoned gym shirt as a sweat rag. He’s constantly pausing to gulp down water too, ignoring the berating from Coach that he’s going to make himself sick if he keeps chugging like that, panting as he rubs salty droplets of sweat and cool fountain water from his upper lip.
Once they get into a warm up game, he thinks he can make it through the period. The slap of the ball against waxed hardwood gives him something to focus on and he works on playing defense for once, opting to guard so he doesn’t really have to touch anyone.
Especially not Harrington, whose wild brown eyes have been trained on him the whole class and are only fanning the flames, keeping him fever-hot and scalding to the touch.
Which is really, really not fucking fair, because Harrington’s face has healed nicely since their... altercation of sorts on Jonathan Byers’ kitchen floor.
He knows it was technically a fight because he nearly broke Harrington’s nose and totally concussed the guy, but he likes dressing it up in his head. Makes him feel less guilty.
Harrington has fascinated him for a ridiculous number of reasons since he came to town, one of those being that he’s an alpha, a good looking alpha, that once did the stereotypical run-around with a good handful of omega and beta girls and is now practically celibate, at least to his knowledge. For fuck’s sake, the guy was fucking societal royalty and now he babysits a bunch of middle schoolers and the only people he still really talks to at the high school are his bitchy ex and her creepy new squeeze.
That rumor, the one he’s pretty positive Tommy started, that he’s fucking both Byers and Wheeler, just doesn’t fit him. He’s too good for that, really, Billy’s sure. He’s probably a caring alpha, all roses and courtship— not some kinky fucker that needs two partners to dampen his sexual appetite. He might, god only fucking knows, but Billy would have to disagree.
Harrington probably knows how to fuck good and hard but Tommy’s full of bullshit and thinks the worst jab he can make at the guy is by essentially boosting his sexual prowess. Fucking idiot — he probably wants a taste of Harrington’s dick himself, and Billy doesn’t like that.
But Billy doesn’t really know Harrington, but he’s got some preconceived assumptions made. Some that make his lip curl in annoyance - rich fucking pretty boy, prince of righteousness - and some that have him wanting to inch closer - like how he bets Harrington smells real good, and he would gladly take a whiff if he didn’t feel so congested all the damn time - because his interest is so piqued.
The only thing now is that Harrington won’t stop fucking staring.
Billy thinks he should throw the ball at him or something for it, but his arms feel too heavy to do much more than pass and dribble today and everyone’s on his ass about it, especially Tommy, who he’d really like to elbow right in the mouth and have spit out a glob of bloody saliva, maybe a tooth.
And okay, Harrington looks fucking good right now. Better than he usually does. All panting and quick on his feet, because Billy can’t exactly kick him down today.
But then Harrington bumps into him, the guy’s damp, clothed back colliding with his bare chest.
That’s when he catches it, a chance whiff of something else under sweat and hair product, so very musky, smokey, a little citrusy. Like sandalwood and grapefruit. Absolutely alpha and better, more.
This is the first time he’s really smelled it on him — alpha. It’s delicious, mouth watering, and he immediately wants to bury his face in it, let it pour into his lungs on every inhale. It’s like he’s bound by it, Harrington’s scent winding around him and restraining him, keeping him steady and still.
And when Harrington knocks into him a second time, he just — he fucking goes down.
It’s like the ever-so-gentle collision of Harrington bumping into his chest was enough to shake the last dredges of his blockers off. Now he can smell everything just as strongly as he used to — all the salty, bitter sweat and the chemical-sweet, piney floorwax, the mixing of musky alpha and earthy beta pheromones and their various colognes both dizzying and nauseating.
He can smell himself now, too, cloying and herbal, and that’s terrifying as hell seeing where he’s stuck right now.
“Jesus, you okay?” Harrington suddenly asks, surprisingly putting a tentative hand out, “you look like shit, man.”
“‘m fucking fine,” he growls, tries deflecting, but he still, somehow, holds his own hand out weakly to grab onto the guy’s pale wrist, and waits to be pulled up.
The second Harrington's fingertips ghost over his skin, holding firm, his whole body tenses. There’s still the comforting, overwhelming tangy, smoldering scent of alpha circulating in his system, making it hard to stand, and when Harrington properly grips at him, their eyes lock.
Billy shudders. Immediately he feels it — the sticky dampness accumulating between his cheeks.
It’s just that, it’s never hit this fast before. He’s usually got a two to three day waiting period beforehand, with, y’know, actual warning signs, not this, this burst of everything all at once over the span of maybe a day.
But this is also the first heat he’s had where the new suppressants have completely hit. The last heat he had occurred before they moved - months ago - and wasn’t all that bad, the usual aches and pains, but now, fuck, he feels on fire.
And there’s nowhere for him to go.
Luckily he’s quick on his feet, makes a low gurgling sound in his throat that makes Harrington jump back and one of the guys behind him, Connor he thinks, mutter something lowly, goes, “ugh, fuckin’ gross.”
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Billy tries, voice going hoarse and he pitches forward, hunched over the floor for dramatic effect.
“Not on my court you’re not,” Coach snaps from the sidelines, “Christ Hargrove, I told you not to chug all that water. Harrington, get him to the nurse a-sap.”
He hears Harrington sigh above him, fuck, and hauls him up carefully, a tentative hand on his shoulder that quickly gets him across the gym and outside the double doors. Immediately the biting air hits him and Billy pitches forward, sighs in relief, tries to catch his breath as the winter air nips at his damp forehead, his exposed chest, his bare legs.
Harrington leaves him for a second, then returns with his gym tee, takes a step back and scrunches his nose up.
“If you’re gonna hurl, go over there or something, Christ,” he grimaces.
The guy’s got his arms crossed over his chest and he’s shivering a little. A loose piece of his bangs hangs in his eyes, dark with sweat, and one of his striped socks has fallen down his calf. Even now, looking irritated and standing there like a petulant child, shivering in the mid-November air, Harrington's still heavily permeating alpha out of every pore. Drips out of him like a leaky faucet.
“‘m not gonna hurl,” Billy growls, “god, what are you, five? In case you’re fucking blind, I’m sick — I got a fucking fever. I need to go home.”
Harrington doesn’t know, thank god.
Then he snatches his shirt from his grip and starts off toward the locker room, rounds the corner from the back entrance of the gym where they’re standing. Icy bits of condensation wet his bare legs as he achingly trudges through a patch of unmowed grass and back onto the pavement, and for some reason, Harrington's behind him.
The wind’s blowing east behind him, too, sending more heavy citrus and spice into his lungs, and it’s really not fucking fair, not in the slightest. He clenches up as minutely as he can.
“Why’re you going to the locker room then? Nurse’s office is that way.”
Billy's going to punch him or something. Harrington might smell like a goddamn five course meal and possibly taste even better, but that doesn’t mean Billy’s not going to give him a good shove or smack reminiscent to that a few weeks ago.
And though it sounds appealing in theory, he’s not going to bend over for the guy either, like pull his shorts down then and there and spread himself so he can get filled.
He’s riding the edge of desperate, but he’s still got some dignity, even with his slick already dangerously close to trickling passed his briefs and wetting his thighs, and the smell of Harrington clinging to each gust of wind. He can’t fucking risk this.
“So I can get my shit, get my damn note, and go the fuck home,” he grinds out, “fuck off already, Harrington, I’ll be fine.”
He doesn’t look back and trudges on.
Harrington continues to follow him though, right into the sanctuary of the locker room with that big fluorescent orange stripe encapsulating the walls and faded green-grey lockers. It smells like sweat and smoke, like unwashed gym uniforms and a godless concoction of cologne, pheromones and soap. The concrete is grimy and there’s definitely some grey mildew growing in the corner of the room above the back row of showers.
He’s getting dizzier with each step. He needs to lean up against the painted brick and dated stucco, slip one hand down between his legs and quickly rub one out. Needs to get the edge off so he can get home. Get safe.
But he can’t, because he’s still got fucking company.
Billy closes his eyes as he leans up against his locker and drops his sweat-drenched gym tee to the floor. He pants, presses his warm back to the cool metal, and opens his eyes again.
He’s going to break Harrington’s nose or something, because he’s still standing there, mere feet away, at the entrance to the row. Only difference now is, from what Billy can see through heavy, lust-clouded eyes, is Harrington’s big, kind eyes are nearly black, his pupils flooding out that honey brown, and he’s staring right at him like he fucking knows something.
And he does, just Billy’s fucking luck, because Harrington licks his lips and hoarsely goes, “I fucking knew it, fuck Hargrove, you’re in heat.”
He shudders as Harrington takes a step towards him. The tangy, warm scent of alpha has him struggling to stand upright, already slipping into the too far gone state and it’s fucking Harrington’s fault because he still won’t leave.
Better yet, he knows, he can smell the sweetness of omega, particularly herbal and saccharine like lavender and vanilla - Billy knows he smells like a girly little candle, okay - flooding the air between them. He could push Billy over and take him there, on the floor, push his face down onto the cracked, dusty concrete and fuck him stupid.
And Billy wants to defend himself, he really does, but he can barely manage a “fuck off, Harrington” right now. He’s weak for a touch — needs to get a hand around himself like, now.
What he manages to do instead of defending himself or getting the message out to Harrington that he has to go, is laugh a little maniacally, like he’s trying to taunt him, and says, “So what if I am, pretty boy, huh? You gonna do something about it?”
Because if Billy’s being perfectly honest with himself, he likes the playful twinkle in Harrington’s eye and the way he’d gone all flushed the second his taunt, his dare really, had been spit out.
And Harrington’s starting to strain in his shorts now, too; Billy can see the faint outline of his cock pressing against green cotton. His mouth waters, hungry for a taste. Harrington eyes his bottoms too, like he’s just finally realized the gravity of the situation at hand. He licks his lips and Billy’s knees buckle.
“I can,” Harrington says, eyes dark and mouth stained red, “if you want.”
Billy, stupefied really, doesn’t know how the fuck he’s supposed to answer.
And like sure, Harrington doesn’t have to fuck him or anything - and he’s not going to let him, thanks, or so he thinks - even though he’s seen the goddamn monster tucked in those little green shorts before, albeit nude and soft, and has had some rather unabashed fantasies about getting it in his mouth, rubbing it against his hole a few times before it just slips in like it’s found a new home inside him.
If the guy’s just offering to get him off once or twice to shove the edge off then yeah, sure, go fucking ahead.
Harrington’s hot, he really is, and he smells amazing. And yeah he smells like an alpha, has notes many alpha males share, but there’s somehow more.
There’s that headiness of smoke under the tang of citrus, all citrusy zest and amber, that he picked up in the gym earlier. It could be his cologne, reminiscent of tropical fruit and freshly cut wood, something a preppy rich boy like Harrington would wear.
Regardless, Billy can’t stop thinking about it and wants his sheets to reek of it.
Harrington speaks again, and his voice is rough and low, gritty. “Say yes and I’ll help you,” he says hoarsely, “say no and I’ll leave right now.” And Harrington takes a step closer, “This is just between us, I swear.”
Billy licks his lips, lets one hand trace over his damp, fevered torso before slipping over the waistband of his shorts and cupping a hand around himself through his pants. He gives a little stroke, feels his cock dribble a little against his hip, bites his lip.
“Gonna need a little more convincing than ‘I swear’, Harrington,” Billy chides, keeps his grin wicked and white even though it’s hard to do anything more than just breathe. “Why don’t you come over and show me just how much you promise you’re gonna keep your fucking mouth shut.”
His voice is going slow and rich like syrup — his words pour passed his lips.
He watches as Harrington hesitates for a minute, and if he’s too big for his britches that’s going to be disappointing as all hell, but then he moves quick, is suddenly up in Billy’s space.
Big brown eyes trace over his evident bulge, the spot of pre dampening his shorts, before they rake up his fevered frame to his face. Their eyes meet and the air is nearly punched from his lungs, something electrifying there and making his nerves buzz, cementing him in place.
Harrington’s hand gingerly comes to rest on his hip. Another jolt runs through his veins as the guy’s thumb strokes over the bone. It’s dizzying really, being this close to him, their pheromones crashing and mixing like waves.
He licks at his bottom lip, works it between his teeth briefly.
“Tell me what you want, Hargrove,” he breathes.
Billy tries to laugh but it just sounds like he’s panting.
Harrington’s hand remains planted on his hip and he swallows, watches those pink, slick lips raggedly whisper, “Tell me what you need, Hargrove,” in the lowest, fucking sexiest voice he’s ever heard.
It’s so damn hard for him to talk, to even nod his head, but he manages somehow. He nods quick like he’s twitching or something. Practically vibrating, his cock aches in his shorts and the backs of his thighs are damp with sweat, maybe a little slick because he’s close to leaking.
All because of Harrington, the prick.
“Hargrove,” Harrington repeats, and his voice drops even lower, goes rough like gravel, “answer me.”
Harrington never has an edge like this.
Usually their interactions are far and few outside of practice. It’s all confined to quick glances in the halls, a bump to the shoulder, that kind of shit. Petty. Just enough on Billy’s end to remind Harrington that he’s here. Harrington never gives much back in return, like he’s happy to ignore him.
But the Harrington in front of him now is the same Harrington that jabbed his bare chest with two calloused fingers, threatened him to get out of the Byers’ place. He’s got King motherfucking Steve here, pure sex and pure alpha.
Billy chews at his lip briefly, looks down between them. Harrington’s hand is barely pressed to his skin and a careful thumb works his hip, feather light and almost tentative. He just, he needs it now, needs Harrington as close as possible, doesn’t really care how far they get at this point.
He’s wound tight, a coiled spring, but wouldn’t be unobliged, not at this point at least, to let Harrington do whatever he wants. It’s a little shocking, he briefly realizes, his head cloudy with lust and fever and with Harrington so close, just how easily he’d let the alpha take him, here and now.
And just how, well, honestly thrilled he’d be about it, too.
So glassy eyed and slack jawed, he nods, almost afraid Harrington doesn’t see it, and follows it with a hoarse, “Just touch me.”
He’s surrendering, he knows, which he just doesn’t do, but he still bares his neck just so, wants to feel Harrington’s teeth press dangerously close to his scent gland and push, press into his body any way he sees fit.
And Billy, well — Billy’s going to let him.
Harrington’s the romantic type, that’s for fucking sure — probably bought Princess Wheeler flowers and carried her books and opened doors for her, that kind of shit. And proof of that comes in the way Harrington gives his chin gentle tilt, rubbing his plush bottom lip with one thumb before working over his stubbled jaw with open-mouthed sucks and drags of teeth.
The hand still settled on Billy’s hip is maddening. Harrington’s just keeping it there, not touching where he needs it right now so he has to wriggle a little, signify that he needs a little more than what he’s getting.
The drag of Harrington’s sweet mouth over his jaw and down his neck sends tiny sparks through his nerves, but it’s very quickly not enough and he takes his stationary hand in his own and moves it from his hip to the tented fabric of his gym shorts. He grinds forward, c’mon, c’mon, into the warm weight of the guy’s palm, but it’s pissing him off because Harrington’s too fucking polite about it.
Billy moves away to look at the guy and scowls, mouth twisted up all mean. “You’re supposed to be getting me off Harrington, not taking my fucking virginity on prom night —”
“Funny, I mean, coming from the same guy who couldn’t even talk a minute ago and then bared his neck the second I got close,” and Harrington palms him for real, thank fucking god, and he lets an unabashed little groan out as Harrington grins into the curve of his jaw, “that’s a goddamn riot.”
“I’m in heat you jackass,” Billy grits, and he tries to sound as mean and acidic as he usually does with Harrington, but he really just sounds all breathy and his words are stuck together, syrup slow, like a fucking whore, “everything’s fucking hard.”
“You’re a fucking idiot, did you know that? People think I’m stupid, but you’re the one who marched right onto campus on the day you started your heat.”
“It’s not like I knew it was gonna hit, the meds screw everything up. How the hell could you even smell me anyways, I thought all you uptight hicks were drugged to the fuckin’ max.”
Harrington licks his lips. “ I’m not on the heavy shit, I could smell you the second I saw you earlier. And yeah I thought I was hallucinating or something, like no way Billy Hargrove is an omega,” and Harrington kicks off his Nikes, his voice slipping into nonchalance, “but then the second it happened, I smelled the heat on you and I knew I couldn't be wrong.”
Harrington has prime blackmail material now but the threat of it turns him on even more, all his shame out the damn window, knowing that Harrington could just, hold this against him, use him up in exchange for his silence.
Billy swallows hard. “And you weren’t, so are you gonna keep gabbing or are you actually gonna do something about it?”
Harrington looks down between their bodies, then slowly brings his gaze up to catch Billy’s. Under warm hooded eyes, Harrington slips his shirt off and abandons it on the floor over his tennis shoes. He’s still in his shorts with his cock firmly pressed against the cotton, starting to wet the fabric against his hip.
Billy swallows, still dressed to the same level he was when he walked in. He knows that isn’t going to last though, not with the way Harrington’s looking at him, aching and starving. Wonders how long it’s been since Harrington got his dick wet.
“Be good for me and you’ll find out,” Harrington says.
Billy bites back a whimper, lets it die in his throat and tries to pass it off as a cough. He’s leaking for sure now, is probably staining the fabric darker the more worked up he gets. Harrington talking like the big man he was, could still be — it works him up more. If they don’t get busy like, now, though, he’s not leaving the locker room anytime soon.
And he won’t be getting home anytime soon, either.
“Fuckin’ get your hands on me, then.”
Harrington smirks, too smart and cocky. A look like that would usually make Billy want to knock it right the fuck off of his face, but now it’s endearing. He likes the way confidence looks on Harrington. Likes him to stand his ground and take fucking charge.
Plant his feet.
Billy lets him slide his shorts and briefs down and hastily steps out of them, braces his palms against the clammy metal of his locker. Careful fingertips trace over the head of his cock and he freely whimpers this time. Needs Harrington to know how badly he needs this, how badly he wants this.
Harrington’s sinking to his knees and Billy’s pretty fucking sure he’s going to get sucked off - oh, finally - until his dick is completely surpassed and Harrington goes to unlace his grimy Converse and slide his socks down. It’s intimate, uncomfortably so, and makes his skin feel like plastic wrap over his muscles and bones — tearable and stretched too thin.
He doesn’t do this. He usually gets his cock out and gets to fucking work, doesn’t play with pleasantries and fucking hand holding.
But then Harrington’s kissing up his thigh, careful hands holding him steady. And Billy, really, he has to momentarily admit that he privately devours any attention brought to his legs, especially his thighs. They’re so fucking sensitive, both the backs and insides of them. His nerves are alight with fire when a sharp kiss is pressed into the skin just right of his groin, a soft, sensitive spot strip along his inner thigh, and it tingles when Harrington’s teeth rake over it twice, three times.
Wandering fingers crawl under the curve of his ass. He presses his own fingernails into tousled brown hair, trying to be encouraging or something, maybe push Harrington down onto his cock. Do the kind of thing he used to do when he’d push all those sun-kissed alpha and beta boys onto their knees or backs for him, so he could tuck his cockhead into their warm, wet mouths and watch how their eyes would go lazy and unfocused when he’d start fucking their throats.
He doesn’t think about the few unfortunate hookups he’s had with girls since he’s come to town — doesn’t get the thrill out of pushing gloss smeared lips onto his shaft or whispering gentle encouragement while staring into mascara laden, eyeshadow smeared eyes. It doesn’t do anything for him other than help make his alpha facade more convincing to the general populous.
Each orgasm with them takes too long to achieve and is an exasperated gasp of relief that it’s over. Otherwise he feels nothing.
This, though, an alpha’s hands on his body, particularly Steve Harrington’s hands on his body, this definitely does something for him.
And like, it’s actually nice, Harrington’s silent appraisal of his body, of his drawn out seduction process. But Billy can’t fucking deal with this soft first time bullshit, not right now at least.
“Get in the shower, turn the water on, make it really hot.”
His brow furrows, his head too fuzzy with static and arousal to make sense of it. “What?”
“Just do it,” Harrington snarks, like he’s got the brass and the authority to ever talk to Billy like he’s stupid and petulant, “the steam helps cover up your scent and I can’t have you reeking like me on your way home.”
Billy forgives the tone for the moment and starts toward the row of showers. He’d honestly love to smell like Harrington throughout his heat, like the smoked tang of musk, of the soft tartness of orange pith. As endearing as it is, it’s not the best plan, so he simply obeys.
It’s a fucking miracle, really.
The handle on the shower screeches as it’s turned, steam filling the air gradually as the water slowly shifts from ice cold to scalding. Harrington is standing a few feet away, watching him with wide eyes as he gets the rest of his clothes off.
When his briefs drop, his cock springs up, heavy and hard and wet at the tip. Billy’s mouth nearly waters when Harrington walks over, hooded eyes cast down as he watches Harrington’s cock bob with each stride. His mouth feels empty as he watches and he needs the weight of it pressing down against his tongue, pushing to the back of his throat, making his jaw ache.
Harrington hesitates before stepping in the immediate vicinity of the shower. They’re mere inches apart, like, nearly toe to toe, but neither moves. Billy’s holding his breath, anticipating a nudge or a shove or even a manhandling so he’s pressed chest-first to the sweating stucco and tile.
Instead, Harrington crowds even closer, close enough to kiss, and emulates the same movement he’d done once before — two fingers pressing into the tender meat of one pectoral. This time Billy lets himself fall under the steamy spray, welcomes the palm that flattens to his chest and guides him under the water. His skin is scorching, fever-hot, and the boiling water does nothing but wet his hair and wash any lingering sweat down the drain.
All the steam between them is making him feel even fuzzier, like all his thoughts have fizzled out into white noise. Harrington’s scent clings to the back of his throat and makes it hard to focus on anything other than touch and sound. The feel of Harrington’s mouth on his thigh, the gentle splashing of their bare feet in standing water -
“Hey, Hargrove,” Harrington says loudly, “c’mon, the team’s gonna be in here before too late. What do you need?”
Harrington’s acting like he’s fucking got a bloody nose or something, like he’s just mildly inconvenienced and that he’s not absolute fucked sideways if anyone else walks in and finds out about his sordid little omega secret.
But he can’t get a feel for the words, can’t mouth his needs.
“ Billy .”
And oh, fuck, Billy’s never heard Harrington say his first name like that before. Hell, he never really says it in the first place and it rolls of his tongue so naturally, like he knows exactly what it’s supposed to feel like, taste in his mouth. He nearly rolls the ‘l’ sound and Billy just wants to hear Harrington say his name until he dies, melodramatic as all shit.
Harrington moves his hand back onto his shoulder and thumbs his way up to the sensitive spot right under his scent gland, where pressing into it even gently feels like agitating a bruise. It’s a dull ache, meant to remind him that getting bitten is the only thing that will really curb the throbbing in his veins, the pulsing under his skin.
“Just, Christ, do something,” Billy tries, dragging his eyes up to Harrington’s again, “I dunno, get your hand on my dick, jerk me off, put your fingers to good fucking use,” and Harrington’s free hand thumbs skates down the valley of his abdominals, “god, I’d even let you fuckin’ kiss me at this point.”
He’s just spouting bullshit, will take what he can get if he can just come. He’s whiny, agitated, horny as all fuck. Even with the water running in rivulets down his spine, washing away any sticky evidence of slick on the undersides of his thighs, he’s still wet. Just watching Harrington’s mouth has him getting soaked.
And thank fucking god, thank Mary and Joseph, because Harrington drags his fingers through the groomed thatch of curly brown hair at the base of his cock, skirts his fingers over his shaft until they fall further south, just grazing his leaky cockhead. Harrington’s careful hand momentarily cups his balls, rolls his thumb down the seam, and then pauses at his perineum.
The skin there is tacky with slick but it’s nothing compared to the mess around his hole. He bites back a whimper, his whole body going rigid, when Harrington’s - ring? middle? - finger rubs over his entrance, over his wetness. The slow circles he’s drawing are dizzying, so close to sliding inside and satisfying that hunger deep in his belly.
“Harrington, fuck, Steve -”
But Harrington, Steve moves before he can formally bitch, and he nearly whispers, “I got you, I got you,” with such sincerity that Billy’s bones ache hearing it.
It’s a tone that’s so private and intimate that it feels as though it’s been reserved just for him.
The hand resting under his pulse point, under his scent gland, comes to hold the back of his neck, dips his head to the side. Harrington’s staring at his mouth hungrily and keeps tonguing at his bottom lip. Makes Billy mimic the action and paw at Harrington’s shoulders.
“C’mon man, throw me a bone here,” he grits out.
Billy’s voice sounds too whiny, too pitchy and needy, to his own ears. But Harrington’s fingers are so close to where he needs them, just stroking and barely dipping in, it’s driving him fucking insane.
“Tell me where you want them,” Harrington tells him. “C’mon, lemme hear you.”
He strokes his fingers through the mess between Billy’s legs, wets the pads of them as he dips them in just so, and Billy’s just fucking gone. Just like that, with Harrington’s fingers barely breaching his hole, voice caught on a choked-off moan, Billy comes.
It catches him by surprise, a complete shock to the system. And with Harrington so close to him, the two pressed together flush, his come hits Harrington’s lower stomach and paints it milky white in an array of splatters.
It takes him a minute to catch his breath and through through hooded lids, eyes the mess he’s made on the alpha leaning over him.
“Fuck,” he manages hoarsely.
Even though he got to come, fucking finally, he’s still high strung and stretched taught. The edge that comes with the first day of heat has yet to leave him, unsatisfying as a sneeze that dies just before it hits, an itch that doesn’t go away when you scratch.
Harrington’s hand is still pressed between his legs when he finally speaks again, eyes blown all wide in disbelief. “Holy shit, I barely touched you and you just… Jesus. ”
But it wasn’t enough and Harrington needs to keep going or else they’re literally going to get caught wrapped up in each other like this.
So Billy swallows hard, difficult with the arousal thrumming in his veins and the steam choking them, and takes ahold of Harrington’s wrist while his eyes stay trained on the guy’s flush cheeks and glassy eyes.
“Keep going,” he pleads hoarsely, “make me come again.”
Harrington manages to nod a little jerkily in an attempt to try to keep his composure. God knows Billy is. Luckily Harrington doesn’t break the spell over them by talking and just crowds him up against the wall, out of the spray so it hits Harrington’s bare calves and the tips of Billy’s toes.
Those tricky fingers aren’t quite close enough, still. It’s frustrating, even when Harrington’s leaning in like he’s gonna work his neck with careful sucks, kisses and bites, just out of the immediate vicinity of his scent gland.
But Harrington doesn’t start necking him, no, he fucking positions himself so his free hand is no longer cupping the back of his neck.
Harrington ducks in and fucking kisses him. And Billy doesn’t protest for a goddamn second.
Kissing him right back, their mouths barely open so their lips, dry on wet, make sweet friction as they slide past each other. And it shouldn’t be sexy but it is, and Harrington’s immediately sinking sharp teeth into his bottom lip and giving it a tug.
He can’t stop the pathetic moan that he releases into Harrington’s welcoming mouth, not when the guy’s tongue expertly lines the seam of his lips before it dips in, licks and samples him.
Harrington slips a finger in while he’s distracted, just one, and almost growls, dangerous and low, when Billy has to dig his nails into Harrington’s bicep to stay steady, to stay standing even with all his weight pitched back against ceramic tiling.
Just as the one curls, experimental, a second finger joins, the two of them scissoring him open gently, knuckles catching on his rim. He’s starving for it, dripping hot down Harrington’s palm and wrist, can’t fucking breathe due to the bite, the fire behind each searing kiss traded between them, all the steam encapsulating them.
“Jesus, you’re so fucking hot,” Harrington says against his mouth, “so tight, so wet, wanna fuck you so bad.”
A third finger slips in effortlessly, curls right into Billy’s spot. His body feels like it’s carrying an electric current, feels lit up with sensation, like each drag of Harrington’s fingers deep inside him and each slide of his lips, his teeth, is going to get him to burst from overstimulation.
It’s like he’s suspended in the sensation.
It’s absolute heaven, really, Billy would gladly die this way, with his cock still hard and pinned between their bodies, sliding through the tacky mess branding Harrington’s toned, freckled abdomen in creamy white; with Harrington’s open, pink mouth trailing kisses from his lips down his jaw; with Harrington’s wicked, tricky fingers spreading him open and filling him up, prodding at his spot with clever accuracy and ease, like he’s been doing this his whole life.
And it’s not just Harrington’s touch and smell that has him hooked, it’s the amount of care he seemingly puts into each movement, making everything dangerously intimate. Anything with too much thought or care or affection — it usually sets him on-edge, gets him anxious and boiling under the surface.
It’s never felt like something he should or could have. He can’t be bound to it, by it.
It’s terrifying, how he’s so at ease with the care and how it pacifies all the aches his heat births in him. Headache gone, burning skin soothed, he’s caught up in the feeling of Harrington and everything he can offer. It’s calming, has him feeling safe to the point it starts to unsettle him but he shoves the thought away, dropkicks it to the back of his brain to dwell on later.
Harrington starts to suck a mark low on his neck when he’s snapped out of his thoughts.
“Don’t,” he huffs, oxygen starved, “just don’t leave marks. They can’t show up.”
And Harrington stills his fingers and stops working his neck to meet his eyes, even though he looks dopey and stupidly high on hormones - and maybe he’d laugh if he wasn’t so damn turned on - and nods, starts going softer. Harsh sucks become gentle, open-mouthed kisses and bites shift into slow drags and careful presses of sharp teeth.
“Sorry,” he says sheepishly.
“S’fine just like, keep going, everyone’s gonna be back soon.”
Harrington does just that. His movements restart and pleasure overtakes Billy again. Harrington’s fingers open and spread, stroke him from the inside. Each twitch and caress pools more heat in the pit of his stomach, has his spine tingling.
“Think you can take one more, baby?”
Baby, oh, he likes that. He really likes that. Loves how easily it rolls off Harrington’s tongue. Wants Harrington filling him to the brim with his thick cock, stretching him full with his knot and his come and holding his hips in a vice grip while he gasps out a mantra of baby baby baby in his ear like he’s reciting a prayer, begging for mercy.
Again, terrifying as it is enticing, like getting a taste of forbidden fruit, because he’s never actually let an alpha fuck him and he’s never been so quick to just throw his inhibitions away if Harrington just asked.
So Billy just licks his lips and nods stupidly. “Uh-huh.”
Harrington withdraws his fingers and he whines all pathetic and high in the back of his throat, really pathetic, but the desperate keen makes Harrington’s cock jump against his hip, a reminder that Harrington’s hard too, and he hasn’t come yet. His cock, thick and velvety against the slight dip of Billy’s hipbone, drools a few lazy beads of precome.
He really wants to butter Harrington up and ask him, sugar sweet, if he can just tuck his cock inside instead of his fingers, pretty please with a cherry on top .
Four blunt, wet fingertips then press back against his hole and he hooks one leg over Harrington’s hip as he presses down on his hand, warm and wet with slick. Billy’s soaking down his thighs and Harrington’s not helping the situation, is nearly pulling the slick out of him with each drag and sweep of his fingers.
“Wish you’d fuck me, like really fuck me,” he gasps, “want your cock in me so bad.”
“Billy, fuck -”
And he keeps going, can’t stop. “I want you to fill me up, want your fucking knot.”
Harrington just kisses him again, slow and languid, then coos at him all sweet, “Not now baby, gotta get you home.”
And there he is again with the baby and he doesn’t know how he’s going to handle it when he’s back on dangerously rocky footing with the alpha and never gets to hear that word leave his candy-coated mouth again.
“Fuck,” he nearly sobs, desperately pawing at the tense muscles in Harrington’s shoulders and arms, barely holding on for the ride.
Each movement of the fingers inside him sparks more heat to fill him, the ache in his joints and tendons subsiding to bearable. Harrington’s fingers work fast, deliberate, prying choked moans out of his throat. Just twists of his wrist, careful curls, deftly fucking inside like he would with his cock.
And the noises coming from where Harrington’s hand meets Billy’s entrance are obscene, slick and loud over the shower spray hitting the grimy tiled floor. He’s so wet, he can’t help it. Doesn’t think it’s ever been this bad. Harrington’s fingers are probably pruny with it.
It turns him on that much more though, the fact that Harrington has him this wrecked with just his fingers inside, kissing him all sweet and calling him baby. Usually he needs a hand on his throat, a thumb digging into his pulse point and nails carving his hips to get him within the vicinity of being turned on.
Maybe betas just can’t satisfy that itch.
Harrington grips his thigh then, holds him up so effortlessly with one hand as he starts fucking his fingers in even harder, knuckles catching on his stretched rim so it pulls, and he gasps, sharp. He feels it everywhere. His body knows they’re only fingers, not the thick, dripping alpha cock that would fill him perfectly and give him what he’s begging for, but with his spot getting rammed into so expertly, he just takes it.
Through the haze, Billy briefly wonders if Harrington did this when he was still with Princess Wheeler. Thinks about how he would probably get his hand up her skirt and kiss her neck, call her sweetheart and honey and ask her how good it felt as he curled his fingers into her spot, pressed into her clit with his thumb and worked her over dripping and wet.
Jealousy curls in his gut like magma and finally he frees himself from the last of his restraint, stops panting and openly keens into Harrington’s neck at one particularly sweet jab to his spot. His whole body tenses and he’s right there, toeing the edge.
“‘m gonna come again,” he bites out, and through hooded eyes he can see Harrington smirk, even as flushed and turned on he is, “just keep going, fuck.”
Harrington kisses him again, this time with a little more bite, and his fingers go in with more force. The wet smack smack of his knuckles on wet skin echoes out between them, heard over the spray of the water and the two of them breathing heavy.
Suddenly teeth scrape over the sharp curve of his jaw and tug at his ear lobe and the hard, thick cock pinned up against his own really starts drooling clear, getting his stomach and hip sticky with pre, and that’s it for him.
Billy whines out a, “Steve,” and clings to him, Harrington’s teeth on his skin and hands on, fingers in, as he comes. He’s practically shaking as a few milky spurts shoot up his abdomen, the rest dribbling in bursts out of his tip and down to the wet floor.
He’s quivering so hard that they have to stay like that for a few moments. Harrington’s fingers are still tucked inside of him but have since stilled, and he pulls them out slowly with a slick pop, gently lowers Billy’s leg from around his hip but doesn’t let go of him.
Harrington keeps his hand on his hips to keep him upright as he desperately tries to lower his rabbiting heart rate, takes in deeps gulps of steam as his eyes refocus. The sight in front of him is really something straight out of divinity — Harrington, Steve holding him up by his hips, cock hard and stained an angry red, panting and flushed from arousal and hot water. Fucking godlike.
Luckily Billy’s heat has temporarily been curbed, just enough that he can actually string sentences together without his brain feeling like molasses, his thoughts expanding to more than Harrington and come and breed.
He’s probably got enough time to get himself home, but only if he leaves in the next couple of minutes and drives a bit above the speed limit. He’s sated for the moment, still feels a little shaky and his muscles are spasming with the dregs of orgasm, but at least he’s not cramping and burning up at the moment.
And they don’t have the time for it now, but Harrington’s cock looks achingly hard and Billy still wants to get it in his mouth if he can, if anything to say thanks . But he also wants to get down on his knees and push Harrington up against the wall, suck his cock until he comes thickly down his throat, biting back moans while his dexterous fingers tangle themselves in Billy’s damp curls, because he can and he’s not going to waste this chance opportunity.
Without even realizing it Billy’s already sinking down. His knees hit cool, damp tile and he looks up at Harrington through long lashes and gets a hand on him before he can protest. But then Harrington cups his cheek, thumbs along his cheekbone all tender like before.
“We gotta get you home,” he strains, “I’ll be fine, seriously -”
Billy just thumbs a sticky glob of pre away and sucks it between his lips, thick and a tad salty. “Wanna suck your cock,” he says, maybe pouting a little, bratty. His dick might be temporarily softened and he’s got a gap of relief before his hormones have him incapacitated again, but he’s still got some slick drying between his legs and he still wants to feel Harrington’s come hit the back of his throat before the opportunity passes him. “I can be quick.”
Harrington whines, a note of impatience there, but moves his hips forward an inch and lowly says, “Quick.”
Not like the guy’s desperate at all now and Billy’s inner omega doesn’t preen at the fact that he’s got an alpha this worked up.
So Billy gets to it and sucks like a man who loves his work, one hand holding Harrington’s hip while the other squeezes around his base and works what little he can’t fit in. If he wasn’t so out of practice he could easily take the girth down his throat, but he hasn’t been able to really have this in fucking months and Harrington’s fucking big.
His tongue teases the slit while he sucks, hums around the thickness and swallows him down, bobs his head and eyes Harrington’s blissed out expression while pride swells in his chest. He gently squeezes his balls and gets a please growl to rumble out of Harrington’s chest.
The blowjob itself quick and messy and maybe not his best work because he’s got a mix of spit and precome running down his chin but he’s enthusiastic as shit about given the opportunity, along with the grounding weight of Harrington’s cock filling his mouth.
It barely takes any time at all but he can’t really hold that against Harrington, all high on the pheromones Billy’s giving off and they’re both in a fucking rush, the clock on the wall counting down their remaining time together. They’re down to under ten minutes until the bell rings and their teammates inevitably file into the locker room.
So when Harrington comes, Billy closes his eyes and savors it.
Harrington hisses through his teeth, one hand stilling in Billy’s hair while the muscles in his stomach quiver, and he releases heavy on the back of Billy’s tongue. He breathes heavy, freckled chest rising and falling rapidly, but then he takes a glance at the clock. Shit are they cutting it close.
Moving back, Harrington gently untucks his cock from Billy’s lips, does it nice and slow so a strand of spit ties them together. Billy swallows dreamily, nearly licks his lips at the taste, some salt and tang there, and beams upwards, using that cocky panty-dropper smile he pulls off scarily well. Beaming like he got away with murder.
And what does Harrington do? He gently tugs Billy upright and drags him into the water. It’s cooler now, a shock to the system, and Harrington gives him this look, all hesitant and doe eyed. Billy doesn’t get it for a second, just looks at him stupidly, but then Harrington’s hands are on him and oh, okay.
Quickly he goes about getting the dried come off of his stomach, slipping a careful hand between his legs and washing the sticky remnants of slick away with his fingers, trying to make as little contact as possible with the more sensitive areas. Billy has to mute a little moan in the back of his throat when his hole is ghosted over.
As quickly as he works, Harrington is tedious and careful. It’s as if he’s tending to wounds instead of getting rid of post-coital evidence. Like he actually fucking thumbs at a dab of come on Billy’s bottom lip and slips it sweetly into his mouth. Billy makes sure to drag his teeth around the digit as he sucks it off, grinning mean. He kind of wants to kiss the guy again and it might just be more hormones bubbling to the surface, but either way — he wants to and he thinks he’s allowed as long as they’re wrapped in this moment.
So he does — kiss Harrington, that is. Slow and sweet, water running over them in light rivers with flickering fluorescent lights hanging over them.
He bites at Harrington’s lip and gets a, “careful, I gotta get you home,” in response.
Billy nods because he’s right, exasperated but still, they can’t start something else here. Not now anyway. But Billy does let Harrington’s careful hands lather his body and massage his scalp with the provided soap and shampoo.
It’s just more intimacy that would usually have him agitated and curling away from any foreign touch. But honestly, Billy’s enjoying it, thoroughly. Lets himself be pampered, lets the omega be sated and soothed. With each slide of Harrington’s fingers over his skin, every careful look he gives him, something warm settles in his bones. It’s not hot and fizzing, electric like arousal, or the simmering heat of anger that he nearly always feels under his skin, no. It’s something grounding and comforting, a salve to his afflictions.
Jesus, he’s slipping into it so compliantly, so easy and submissive he’s nearly purring.
And that’s terrifying.
But then Harrington retracts his touch and gives him one last once over. “Do you think you can drive yourself home or do you need me to take you?”
It’s a splash of cold water. A wake up call back to reality.
As much as he’d like Harrington to drive him home, maybe play with fire a bit in the privacy of his locked bedroom with everyone away or park behind the house and get fingered again in the cramped backseat of the Camaro, but he’s possessive of his baby and doesn’t want to leave her behind, or have Harrington in the driver’s seat.
“I’ll be fine, pretty boy.”
Harrington doesn’t look sure but he keeps his mouth shut and nods. Purses his lips twice, looks towards the locker room entrance, turns the water off. “Okay. Take your stuff and get to your car quick. If you sneak around the band room, you can get to the parking lot faster. I can deal with the shit with the attendance office.”
Billy snorts, tries to be dismissive, a little terrified in this momentary clarity that Harrington’s going to deal with everything. The guy’s hot and he’s got some definitive physical talents outside of basketball, sure, but he’s sappy, cares too much. A heart on his sleeve type. Everything’s feather light and sealed with a kiss with him and Billy can’t really afford to let himself get pulled into that.
Just, Billy’s not here for feelings.
He’s not here to fall in love and become some stereotype where he gets bitten by the first alpha that looks in his direction with an inkling of kindness and ends up tethered to them forever, round with his pups on the off-chance they play their cards right. He’s not here to be charmed and romanced — Harrington’s hot and convenient, he tells himself. Just a tool to get him through this.
He just took the gentle touches because it came with the territory.
“Alright, alright, whatever,” he says and he waves Harrington off as he starts off to get a towel and get himself dressed fast enough that he can quickly sneak off to his car without the rest of the team seeing him.
He catches the lost look on Harrington’s face as he dresses, but he tries not to think about it. He just focuses on getting his clothes on before he’s really dry. His curls hang limply and drip down his neck but it doesn’t matter. The prickling in his fingertips is already returning and the bell’s going to ring in like, a minute so he’s got to book it now. But Harrington’s still there, has the water turned back on and is properly washing himself.
He’s turned to face the wall so all Billy can see is the pale expanse of his freckled back, his hair darkened with water and hitting the tips of his shoulders, and the solid muscles in his legs flexing with each minute moment. Not to mention his pale little ass with a small smudge-like birthmark high on one cheek, but that’s not what’s important or worth cataloging right now.
The bell rings and Billy is going to leave him without another word, go back to how things have been between them, but he pauses just outside the door. Cool air whips at his face and he sucks on his teeth.
“Steve,” he says, and Harrington turns toward him, eyes owlish and wide.
“I’m still going to kick your ass in if you tell anyone about this.”
Harrington actually smiles at that, like Billy won’t fucking do it, but also like he ever would say something about this. He just fucking smiles and something in Billy’s chest feels knotted up.
All he says is, “Don’t worry man, I believe you.”
And when Billy comes back on Monday, glowing post-heat and nearly mauled by various junior and senior girls babying him and asking if he’s feeling any better - and honestly he’s bone tired from spending three fucking days jerking off to memories of lithe, pale fingers and the drag of teeth on his skin - Harrington spots him from down the hallway and smiles knowingly while standing in front of his locker.
He’s got Wheeler babbling to the side of him but he still does it, clear as day, and despite the fawning crowd of girls around him, Billy smiles right back.