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The asphalt is blisteringly hot under Eddie’s knees.
Kneeling like this he can feel every raised bump of the ground pressing into the rips in his jeans, pressing little indentation marks into the pale skin there and so hot it’s probably going to leave red marks. Probably going to break skin. Either way, he’s not leaving here without a mark.
He can’t hide the hitch in his breath at that thought and the hand on his neck tugs sharply.
“If you choke, I’m not stopping,” Billy warns, eyes flicking down to meet Eddie’s for the briefest moment, before they’re hidden again behind his sunglasses.
Eddie doesn't respond. Billy doesn’t like him talking, especially not here, and anyway his mouth is kinda occupied. Billy tugs again, pushing Eddie further onto his cock as if choking is a requirement now rather than something to be avoided, and Eddie leans into the movement, leans into the pain in his knees, the burning in his throat, and swallows him down.
There’s roaring in his ears that isn’t the screaming kids in the pool yards away, a flush on his cheeks he can’t attribute to the blazing sun overhead. To be honest, Eddie doesn’t know how to explain any of this. It’s the middle of July and rather than rocking out with his boys in Gareth’s parents’ garage, smoking his way through his summer supply and masterminding Hellfire’s next, epic, campaign, Eddie’s tucked between two dumpsters behind the Hawkin’s Community Pool, knees scraped and jaw aching, because Billy Hargrove jerked his head at him from behind the chain link fence and Eddie followed him like some little bitch without needing to be told twice.
It’s not a thing. That’s been made bitingly clear. Eddie’s mouth gets him in trouble more times than it doesn’t, but he learnt sharpish that they don’t talk about this.
Still, Eddie knows Billy’s shifts now. And he’s there five minutes to the hour, every day, out of sight, to linger by the back gate until Billy and Heather switch out on tower duty. Sometimes Billy walks past him to where the Camaro is parked, in the shade, windows rolled down, and Eddie gets pushed into the cramped back seat so hard his skin turns pink and blotchy with the heat of the leather. Othertimes Billy doesn’t want to waste time with the walk - or so Eddie assumes since Billy isn’t exactly Mr Chatty Cathy over here - and shoves him into whichever hiding place he’s scoped out this week.
Eddie kind of has to trust that Billy knows the places they’re not going to get caught. If he gets too squirrelly about being seen, it tends to rev Billy up more. Eddie shouldn’t like the vicious twist of Billy’s smirk, the tight hold he gets in Eddie’s hair as he hauls him around by his curls and tells him that if Billy wanted to fuck him bare on of the pool-side sunloungers at peak time Eddie would let him and thank him nicely afterwards, but Eddie’s dick doesn’t agree.
Billy never showers first so Eddie’s dick is also starting to have a fucking pavlovian reaction to the smell of sunscreen, chlorine and sweat. It’s goddamn inconvenient in a town suddenly obsessed with the latest latex swimsuits and bronzed skin that Eddie’s raising a tent every time the wind blows wrong, but with the coconut-bleach smell thick in his nose, just as heavy on his tongue until the taste washes away to just spit and salt, he couldn’t give less of a fuck.
In fact, a moan slips through his stretched mouthful and the hand that had moved up from the nape of his neck to scratch lazy, indulgent circles across his scalp with blunt nails tightens again.
He doesn’t know how to tell Billy that adding more pain into the equation won’t do jack shit to shut Eddie up, but he thinks Billy knows.
He thinks Billy fucking loves it.
“Shut the fuck up,” Billy says lazily, almost pleasantly, before he starts rummaging for something on top of one of the dumpsters they’re wedged between. Eddie thinks he has enough presence of mind left that if Billy dumps some fucking trash on his head he’ll probably be able to make himself walk away. He thinks.
It’s not trash. It’s nothing to do with him. Over the wet sucking sounds - and Billy likes those noises, they’re easily hidden beneath the splashing noises of the pool but make Eddie’s cheeks burn with the unmistakable sound of sucking off - that Eddie’s making, he can hear a rustle, a slide, and then the whirr of a lighter wheel.
When he looks up, sunlight nearly blinding him, Billy’s got a cigarette pack and lighter in one hand and a cigarette tucked between his lips, end red and burning. He abandons the pack and lighter back on the dumpster before taking a slow drag. Then he tilts his head back to expel the smoke into the air, punctuating the movement with an indolent thrust into Eddie’s mouth. The sun winks off the whistle hanging around his neck.
It’s the absolute fucking rudest thing Eddie’s ever had done to him, and he’s suddenly so hard it hurts.
Billy’s cock slips from Eddie’s mouth as he stares, speechless.
“Fuck you doing?” Billy asks, as if he’s not entirely aware of what a fucking asshole he’s being, as if he doesn’t know what it does to Eddie. “I tell you to stop?”
The hand that isn’t holding his cigarette fits to the hinge of Eddie’s jaw, wide across his cheek, and Eddie lets his mouth be opened wide, wider, before he’s held entirely in place. He shudders as Billy rocks his hips forward, movement small enough that just the red head of his dick pushes past Eddie’s lips. Salt explodes on Eddie’s tongue again and he chases it. As much as he can with Billy’s hand holding him still. He manages to suck at what little he gets in his mouth and Billy hisses.
“Fuck yeah,” He breathes, teeth back around his cigarette. “Just like that.”
It’s not praise, it’s a fucking demand, but Eddie still has to bite back another moan. He doesn’t think he’s successful, but Billy generously lets this one slide. Probably because he’s too busy cupping Eddie’s head in his hands, cigarette still slid between two of his fingers - Eddie can hear its sizzle, feel the wet heat of the tip from where it’s been between Billy’s teeth - to fuck his mouth onto his cock quicker, rougher, just the way Billy likes it.
Eddie loses his grip on the gravel of the floor. He’s pulled up a little too high, coming up off the comfortable position he found on his knees, and his fingers don’t reach the floor anymore. The tips scrape at the ground, searching for balance. He knows better than to grab Billy for support but he can’t help it. His fingers scrabble at the warm backs of Billy’s knees, too wide for his hands to fit around, but Billy must be in a generous mood today because he doesn’t shake him off. Instead he angles Eddie’s head so the next slide of his cock pushes deep into Eddie’s throat.
Then, he holds it there, just long enough for Eddie’s gag reflex to spasm and his eyes to water - Billy just a blur above him - before pulling out.
He allows Eddie to suck in a sharp, spluttering breath, before he slams back in again.
Fuck Eddie wishes he had a hand free to be able to palm himself through his jeans right now. Billy doesn’t give a fuck about him touching himself - unless he’s in one of his vindictive moods, unless he wants to hear Eddie beg - so long as it doesn’t interfere with the crucial process of getting Billy off.
Billy doesn’t often touch Eddie. It’s one of the rules they would have if this was a Thing, along with no talking about it and no kissing. But since it isn’t, sometimes Billy gets a bit power-drunk and likes to hold Eddie in the big palm of his hand, not moving, basically restraining Eddie in some fucking man-made cock-cage like some kind of fucking sadist - oh, how Eddie dearly wishes - and likes to watch him squirm.
Billy only ever really touches him when he fucks him, and even that is only to keep his balance on Eddie’s shitty put-me-up bed, to push Eddie’s thigh higher than he thinks it’s possible to go, hold his cheek down into the pillow as Billy fucks him from behind.
(He’s almost gentle with the handcuffs. After. When he finally lets Eddie out.)
But it’s shit like this, the way he’s holding Eddie’s head so tight he’s gonna have bruises under his head for days, that makes Eddie know that this thing that isn’t a Thing works.
Cause Eddie defies any of the pretty blonde girls he’s seen Billy with at school, even the trashier ones, the ones just like Eddie if they ever dared to admit it, to do this. None of them will suck Billy off in between lifeguard shifts on their knees in the Hawkins dirt. He imagines Billy still has to pick them up, take them somewhere nice and private, fool around a little and get them wet for him before he uses those wide hands to cup their heads and bring them to where he wants them.
Not Eddie. No. Eddie’s so desperate for cock he’ll take it whenever Billy wants it, wherever he wants it.
Eddie’ ears are still burning from Billy saying that. Billy’s not chatty but he’s got a filthy fucking mouth, especially when he’s close.
Billy doesn't have to hold back with Eddie, is the thing. Eddie’s not gonna break. Eddie likes it weird and he likes it rough and he can bend all the way to touch his ankles, but he’s made of stronger fucking stuff. If Hawkins, Indiana didn’t break him, Billy Hargrove won’t.
And it’s not like there’s anyone else lining up to kiss him goodnight at the door, fetch him a glass of water when he’s fucked out, clean him up and put him away when they’re done with him. At least sometimes Billy sticks around to smoke a joint after, sometimes flicks through Eddie’s tapes and doesn’t insult all of them. At least Billy leaves marks to last days.
“Gonna come down your fucking throat,” Billy says, summer-syrupy laziness edged with need as his hips piston, knocking against Eddie’s chin, and Eddie can feel the pulse of him just before he does so. His jaw aches. He stops moving his tongue, stops hollowing his cheeks, just keeps himself lax and open as Billy’s thrusts stutter. “That’s it, fucking take it.”
Warmth floods through Eddie’s throat. It contracts, making Billy groan a laugh above him, and it’s only through so much practise that spunk doesn’t end up in Eddie’s fucking nose. Billy doesn’t do the courteous thing and pull out, why would he? Instead he thrusts shallowly through the orgasm, lets Eddie’s complaining throat pull the last of it from him, and just when Eddie thinks the blackening edges of his vision are about to drag him under - and what a way to go - Billy pulls back.
Lets him go.
Heart hammering, Eddie catches himself before he hits the ground. His palms sear in the heat. Usually he can swallow before he starts coughing, but distracted by the sudden drop he splutters a few times before he manages. As he wipes his eyes he sees Billy do a quick scan that his fucking amateur-hour performance didn’t attract any attention, but when he sinks back against the red brick of the locker-room wall without alarm, Eddie feels safe enough to get out a hoarse, “Fuck,” which makes Billy chuckle.
He’s nicer, after coming, Eddie’s found. Not nice, but in a good enough mood to let Eddie get away with some shit for a couple minutes.
Eddie decides to push his luck, because he always decides to push his luck, and holds up a hand for the cigarette Billy’s nearly smoked to the cherry. “I think after that performance I deserve a smoke?” He has cigarettes in his van. Better ones than Billy’s. He wants Billys.
Billy eyes him for a moment, smoking a long, clearly satisfied drag, then says, “I know what you deserve.” Instead of handing it over, steps forward to press his fucking foot against the front of Eddie’s jeans. His fucking flip flop which has been standing in the back between the dumpsters, been walking through the locker rooms, through fucking split-over pool water, presses against Eddie’s cock and Eddie fucking lets him.
Then Billy’s eyebrows jump up in a moment of genuine surprise. He doesn’t move his foot, even as Eddie shudders from the hot overstimulation, and they both come to the same realization.
Eddie already came. Somewhere between being choked out and used as a goddamn glory hole, Eddie fucking came.
“Fuck me.” Billy presses again, harder, and Eddie makes an embarrassing whine that he’ll later deny in court. Then he lifts his foot. “You’re really something else, Munson.”
He slides the cigarette into Eddie’s unresisting fingers with a laugh that feels part interest and part condescending. The way it always does with Billy. Eddie brings it to his pink and puffy lips as Billy tucks himself back into those bright red shorts, an even more smug gait to his movements.
He does, at least, give Eddie a hand up.
“Later, Munson,” He throws over his shoulder, already bringing that damn whistle to his lips - Eddie’s gonna start getting hard to the sound of third period bell too if he’s not careful - and heads back to his plastic throne. He should look ridiculous, king of the Hawkins Pool, but he doesn’t.
There’s indents in the backs of his shoulders, the pattern of the brick wall, and if Eddie looks close enough he can imagine he can see the half-moon crescents of his nails in the backs of Billy’s calves.
Eddie finishes the rest of Billy’s cigarette and grinds it under his shoe, like a marker of what just happened here, then leaves the pool as quickly as he came.