Archive of Our Own

There’s something to be said for Billy’s perseverance.

If anything, the boy’s got enough bullheaded stamina in him to rival the best. Jim should know, he’s been at the forefront of Billy’s persistence for nearly a year, now. It’s not flattering, maybe, the way he and Billy have fallen into this cat and mouse game of Billy barely telling him what he wants and Jim piecing it together enough to give it to him.

Less flattering that he always gives it to him.

And honestly, Jim can interrogate information out of grown men with ease, can beat the submission into just about anyone, but Billy fuckin’ Hargrove makes him soft in the worst ways. He’s got a group of kids who make him soft. He’s raising a teenage girl who could have him showing his soft underbelly in an instant, but–

But Billy pulls something else out of him entirely. Billy has him actually soft, tutting into dirty blonde curls about how sweet his boy is, how pretty, while he works three slick fingers into his already fucked-out hole, making promises he knows he’s going to keep. All because Billy cries and begs and says things like, “C’mon, Daddy, give it to me. Let me have it.”

Billy is persistent. Billy begs like Jim’s never heard anyone do before, mewls when Jim presses into him with his cock for the second time in one night, like it’s the first time he’s ever done this. He asks for things Jim’s already told him no to, like if he does a good enough job, he’ll change his mind. If he’s pretty and sweet enough, Jim will give them to him anyway.

He won’t put his hands on Billy, not the way he wants. He’ll leave bruises in other ways– his mouth along Billy’s ribs, teeth sinking into the soft skin inside his thighs, his hands kneading at the thick of his center– but he won’t hit him. Once, when he got Billy across his lap, bare ass in the air, body trembling in anticipation of Hopper’s hand coming down across peach-fuzzed skin, Billy had sobbed and scrambled away from Jim in embarrassment when it was too much, after just two. Too much for a kid whose dad has been tossing him around since he was too young to know that isn’t love.

Too much for someone who’d once said, “Hugs are for bitches and old people, Hop,” when Jim had a few fingers of whiskey one night and wanted the closeness. (He’d held Billy to him for hours that night, refused to fuck him because Billy needed to know that he cared, okay? You hug to show you care, Billy.)

And Billy has asked. Over and over and over, Billy has said things like, “Just hit me, Hop. C’mon, I wanna see what those big hands can do. Bet you can really do some damage. Just one time, come on.”

That’s his hard no, though. He won’t hit Billy. But he’ll grab him too tight, instead. He’ll dig his fingers into warm skin, wrap his arms around Billy’ center so tightly it takes his breath away sometimes. He tugs on Billy’s hair, too, just to hear the way he purrs when Hop does it.

But he lets Billy ask, mostly because of the way he gets when Hopper tells him no. He always gets so touchy, so clingy, like it’s not really that he wants to get hit, but more that he wants Hopper’s attention. Billy always wants Hopper’s attention.

It’s intoxicating, a little bit. Better than any drink Jim’s ever had, and certainly better than any fuck he’s ever had. The way he grabs at Jim, melts into the touches he gets in return. Fuck, the way Jim can get him to sob, to cry just by dragging the slick head of his cock over Billy’s hole, teasing and barely pressing and not even touching him anywhere else.

So when Billy starts asking to be spanked again, Jim just eyes him, avoids the question altogether the first couple times Billy brings it up, all sweet and syrupy, fucking himself back onto Jim's fingers so he can chase the feeling of being full. But Billy is persistent. Frustratingly so.

Agonizingly so.

“You should get me over your knee again,” he says one night, when it's just them and it's quiet enough in the cabin that he can mumble the words out without real conviction. “Promise I won't bitch out this time.”

“No,” Jim says, flat and honest, shaking his head with the finality of his answer. Absolutely not. He won't be doing that again.

“Aw, c'mom, Hop,” Billy starts, and Jim can see the pink of his tongue lick at his bottom lip, heart-beat quick like he's chasing the taste of the words after he's said them. “I really want it, this time. Been thinking about it.”

“Yeah? Great, you can jerk off to the thought of it, and I don't have to watch you spiral right back into your childhood trauma again.” Because, truly, Jim could do without ever having to hold Billy together like that again. Sure, he likes to watch Billy cry when he's so overwhelmed by hands and tongue and cock that he can't do anything else, gets a real rush from it, but the heaving sobs of a battered boy really ruin the mood.

Billy's cheeks turn pink and he furrows his brow in that fake bravado he lets guide him along sometimes. His scowl is offended, and he bites off a mean, “Fuckin’ pussy,” that lands somewhere at Hopper's feet like an offering.

His bait for the taking, if he so chooses.

He does not.

Instead, he chuckles and shakes his head, tells Billy, “I'm not hitting you again, Billy. We've talked about this. You want me to punish you some other way, fine. We can get creative. But I won't be hitting you.”

“‘S not really hitting,” Billy murmurs, shoving a cigarette in his mouth from the crumpled up carton he snatches from the coffee table. When he lights it and doesn’t offer Hopper the pack, there’s a beat where Jim thinks he might be actually angry. But then he’s reaching out to put his warm hand on Hopper’s thigh, too high up to be casual. His fingers squeeze at him while he inhales, reaches over to put the damp filter of the cigarette into Jim’s mouth at the same time that he swings his body over to straddle Jim.

And then he’s slotting their mouths together as soon as Jim exhales around his drag, licking into Jim’s mouth like he’s dying for it. He says, “Touch me,” as if Hopper was planning on anything else, as soon as he put their shared smoke back between Billy’s lips. He watches Billy inhale, gets his hands on Billy’s hips and tugs him forward in a lewd attempt at getting his cock closer to his own.

“Touch me,” Billy says again, rocking his own hips forward.

“‘M touching you,” Jim murmurs, but moves his hands all the same, to Billy’s tits instead, cupping over them more tenderly than Billy was expecting, he bets. If the flinch is anything to go by.

Around his smoky exhale, Billy says, “Hate when you do that. You’re not touching me enough.”

“Give me some pointers, then,” Jim teases. “Since you know what you want so much better than I do.”

But Billy just scoffs, rolls his eyes. Rocks his hips forward again. It’s enough to have Jim’s fingers trailing down Billy’s torso, up under his shirt. His skin is warm, nearly hot to the touch, and the muscles of his abs tremble under Hopper’s touch. When he leans over to stub the last bit of the cigarette out on the ashtray on the side table, Hopper takes the opportunity to suck Billy’s nipple into his mouth, through the thin fabric of his shirt. When Billy moans thickly in the back of his throat, sits back enough for Hopper to get his hands on him again, he squeezes hard enough to have him whining with it.

He tells Billy, “Best set of tits in Hawkins, right here.”

It has Billy’s hips stuttering forward, cock already hard in his jeans. Jim can feel it now, pressing against his own half-interested one. It’s kind of Billy when he gives Jim exactly what he wants from him and tugs his own shirt up and over his head, tossing it behind him without caring where it lands. His fingers circle around both of Jim’s wrists and tug until he’s getting Jim’s hands on his ass, making sure his fingers are splayed wide.

“I already told you what I want, old man,” Billy says, but there's no heat behind it, not really. He isn't playing, either, though. And Jim knows he's serious, but he still won't–

“Look,” he starts, and Billy makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat, gets his hands on Jim's shoulders and uses the leverage to scoot himself even closer, pressing his cock right against the small of Jim's belly.

“Last time,” Billy says, voice a little shaky, “I- it was the last time I talked to my– to him,” and it surges through Jim meanly that he won't call Neil anything else, now. “I shouldn't have,” and he pauses, pulls back enough to look Jim in the eyes, honest and real.

Jim rewards him by dipping three long fingers down the back of his jeans, under the band of his underwear.

“I shouldn't have kept that from you,” Billy says. “And I shouldn't have tried to get you to do something I wasn't–”

“Hey,” Jim interrupts, gentle and soft as Billy always makes him, “It's alright, yeah? I accept your apology, Billy.”

And when Billy leans forward to kiss him, his eyes are glistening and his lips are shaky with his inhale.

“But,” Jim says against his mouth, and Billy chokes on a sob, body going lax in defeat. “But you have to stop asking me for things this way. Understand?”

Billy's furrowed brows are genuine, and Jim realizes that no. No, Billy does not understand. So Jim reaches around and unbuttons Billy's jeans with a chiding tut, slides the zipper down at the same time that he's shoving the hand still down Billy's pants even further down with the space provided now, slipping dry fingers over his hole.

He clarifies, “We ask for things like grown-ups when we want them, yeah?” The very tip of his index finger slips just barely inside, and Billy's gasp is honey sweet. “And when we're told no, we move on. We don't try to convince. We don't barter. We accept and we move on.”

“But–”

“Nuh-uh,” Jim stops him, but he's reaching inside the front of Billy’s jeans, now, taking up all the space that's left in them. “Shut up. Tell me why you want me to spank you so bad.”

As he's wrapping his fist around Billy's cock– already wet at the head and Jesus that doesn't get old– Billy stutters through a, “Y-you won't hit me.”

“Why do you want me to hit you, Billy?” He rewards the honesty preemptively with a thumb over the head of slick pooling at the tip.

“Fuck,” Billy sobs. His hips buck. “Fuuuck, I–. I don't know, Hop. Please, just. I want it.”

His mouth is wet, his cock is wet, his eyes are wet, and Jim chuckles cruelly. Tightens his grip on him. “Billy,” he sing-songs lowly, barely a sound beyond a groan himself.

“Your hands,” Billy gasps. “They're fuckin’ huge. A-and I want–”

For emphasis, Jim presses his finger in a little further, too dry but evidently still good enough to have Billy trembling in his arms. He's looking at him, drinking in the sight of him falling apart like this already. Jim's own cock is hard now, pressed insistently into the seam of his jeans. He'll worry about it later.

For now, “Tell me what you want, Billy. I might give it to you. You know I'll probably give it to you, if you ask me the right way.”

“‘s not fair,” Billy groans, and it's hot and wet and sweet. “Just give it to me.”

“No,” Jim says again. “And if you tell me to do it one more time instead of asking like I want you to, then it's a permanent no.”

Billy's body heaves with his frustration, and Jim sees his face shifting with it, too. He bites his lower lip, shows Jim his teeth around a snarl. And then he softens around the edges a little when Jim hooks the finger inside him, chases what he knows is there, jerks his cock the best he can for him, dragging it out a bit. It's all too dry to really feel all that good, but Jim knows Billy well enough to know he likes that it doesn't feel all that good. He likes that it kind of hurts, kind of drags through him meanly.

He likes when Jim is mean.

“You– you take care of me,” Billy says, and it doesn't really make sense until he's choking around the rest, “you give me a place to crash, and you say all this nice shit about me all the time--fuck, and you– you touch me like you can't stop touching me. Like, like this is the best you've ever had. And I want you to be mean to me sometimes so that you can be nice to me again after.”

And Jim does reward him this time, slips his finger back out of Billy so that he can get his own hand to his mouth, spit in his palm and slide the slick of it down two fingers. Billy's whole body presses into it when he slips inside with both of them at once, careful as he can, hand around his cock flexing just enough to have Billy crying out against it.

“Good boy,” Jim husks, almost drowned out by Billy's groans, almost muffled into the thick of his chest when Billy arches up and forward like he's trying to cradle Jim's face to him. His whole body goes taught, for just a beat before he's relaxing into the press of Jim's hands on him. “Good boy, baby. See? See what happens when you tell me what you want? See how nice I can be when you're good for me?”

The next crook of his fingers and cramped twist of his wrist, weak jerk of Billy's cock, has him coming with a cry that he tries to press into Jim's hair but mostly just gets it right in Jim's ear instead. It's music, the most precious sound he's ever heard, and Billy's trembling as Jim works him through it all.

They stay pressed together like that, with Billy's thighs shaking where they're squeezed tight around Jim's waist and his open mouth panting hot breath along Jim's face. But before Jim can shift them even a fraction, Billy is doing it for him, like he's been electrocuted, like he's on fire all of a sudden, moving and getting up and off of Jim and down on his knees in front of him, his shaking hands trying and failing to get Jim's belt undone.

So Jim takes pity on him, pushes Billy's hands out of the way and says, “Alright, baby. Alright, I know what you want.” He watches Billy's face go slack, his hair sticking to his forehead from sweat as he spreads his shaking hands across Jim's thighs instead, waiting patiently. And Hop's cock is hard and just as wet as Billy's was, now, as he feeds it straight from his pants to Billy's open mouth, groaning at the feel of slick and hot.

Billy always drools so much when he gives head. He drools a lot when they fuck in general, but god. When he's got Hopper's cock down his throat, it's so much worse. It's like he can't help it, like the weight on his tongue is enough to have him slobbering. And this is no different. Jim watches the line of spit as it dribbles down the length of him, feels it drip down to his balls. Billy's whole mouth is wet, a mess all the way to his chin.

It's when he gags, just a little, that Jim's hips twitch and his guts flutter.

“Yeah,” he groans. “Yeah, let me hear you gag for it, Billy. C'mon, baby.”

He gets his hands in Billy's hair, groans when he shivers at the feeling, sinks further down and gags again. Just for him, as pretty as can be with his tears tracking down his cheeks, bright blue eyes rimmed in red. Hopper tells him as much, murmurs the words so lowly, he isn’t sure Billy hears him at all, especially over the obscene sounds of his cock in the back of Billy’s throat.

But he’s louder when he tells him, “Make me come so I can finger you until you cry for me some more.”

It’s only when Billy’s closing his eyes and moaning around the thick of him that Hop is coming, hips stuttering forward and Billy’s hands holding his thighs in place while he sucks and swallows around him. It’s boiling heat all down his spine, tingles all the way down to the tips of his fingers as he comes down Billy’s throat.

And as soon as his heartbeat slows enough to have his brain back in place, Hopper is tugging at Billy’s hair until he gets the point, surges up and forward so Jim can slot their mouths together, lick the taste of himself out of Billy's mouth. It's sickly sweet when Billy moans, fingers flexing on Jim's thighs, and lets his whole body go lax enough that he's all but collapsing against Jim.

“Good boy,” Jim murmurs against his mouth, licks into his mouth again. “So fucking good for me, baby.”

He only pulls away when Billy does, presses a couple quick, dry kisses to Hopper's lips before he falls back on his haunches. He's panting just enough to look disheveled, hair a bit of a mess from Hopper's hands tugging at him. The way he's looking at Hopper, though– eyes lazy and sated, mouth red and wet– it's enough to have Hopper asking, “Want me to make good on my promise or are you done for right now?”

Billy snorts, rubs palms down his thighs. He sniffs a little, and looks up at Hopper when he tells him, “My ass is sore. Save it for later, Hop,” and pats him on the belly as he stands, using Hopper’s thighs as leverage.

Hopper huffs a laugh, and watches Billy make his way to the fridge to grab a beer while he gets his dick back in his pants.

This thing with Billy is–

It's good, is the thing. And it's fun, and Jim hasn't wanted someone the way he wants Billy for as long as he can fucking remember. Above all of that, though, it's comfortable. They don't use any sort of emotional language with each other, have never said they love each other, but it's there in the way Billy hands Jim his own beer. It's in the shared cigarette at the beginning of this.

And it's there in the way Billy sighs, says, “I get why you're so against it, by the way.”

Jim eyes him carefully while he pops the top on his beer. He makes a noise in the back of his throat for Billy to continue, waiting patiently.

“‘s fucking stupid, but I get it,” Billt continues. “You're not him. Hitting me won't make you–”

“It would to me,” Jim cuts him off. And Billy opens his mouth to talk again, but Jim stops him with a, “I need you to listen to me when I say this, yeah?”

Billy's eyes are wide, and his jaw is set in that way that he gets when he feels like he shouldn't say anything, but wants to. And if Jim was a stupider man, he'd point it out as evidence for what he's about to tell Billy. As it is, Billy nods curtly, takes a big, long sip of his beer and pointedly doesn't look at Hopper.

“Doing this kind of shit can bring up feelings we don't realize are still there. There are…names for the things you're asking me for, and we can talk about them later if you want. But if we do, there are rules that come along with it all,” he starts, figuring it's a safe way of wording this. “And sometimes I tell you no because it would be bad for me too, not just you.”

“How the fuck would bending me over your knee be bad for you, Chief? ‘S it really that much of a chore looking at my ass?” and he’s picking at his nails, still not looking at Hopper. The deflection is all an act, and Jim knows it is, but it doesn’t stop it from being irritating enough that Jim just waits silently, inhaling and closing his eyes while Billy lets his own thoughts flounder in his head.

Jim can practically see the cogs turning in Billy’s head, the panic rising up through him as he realizes he’s not listening. In his past, not listening has only gotten Billy hurt. It’s not that Jim doesn’t catch the way Billy’s body instinctively flinches just the slightest little bit when he shifts as he exhales heavily, but he chooses to ignore it for the sake of letting Billy figure this shit out for himself.

When Billy gets quiet again, brow furrowed, mouth working through another long sip of beer, Jim clears his throat a little and continues, “Making you cry is only fun when it’s fun. When it’s because I’ve got you too strung out to do anything else, and not because you’re remembering the terrible shit that was done to you. I know I’m not him, but I also don’t want to make you feel the way he made you feel, even accidentally. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, sir,” Billy says, but it’s too fast, and Jim just gives him a low hum of his name in warning. This time, Billy inhales heavily, “Yeah. Yeah, Jim, it makes sense. Sorry.”

On his shaky exhale, Jim gets a hand on Billy’s thigh and squeezes, lets the apology settle between them.

—

When Jim was younger, when him and his ex-wife were still in the honeymoon phase of things, he used to buy her flowers just so she’d have something pretty to look at. Then, when they’d die, he’d watch her press them between the pages of her journals. Ones she wrote poetry in, pretty little things she only let him read a couple of times, but he snuck looks at them often enough that he knew which flowers went with which poems. So he’d buy her baby’s breath most often, because she wrote about having children with him when he did.

She used to always tell him he paid attention, and it was nice. The attention to detail, she told him once, meant that he cared enough to notice.

When Sarah was a baby, Jim would stay up all night, just looking at the two of them, often with Sarah sleeping in his arms while Diane slept next to him. How in the world did he deserve this? Them? They were perfect, and he got to be a part of them, caught in the way they lit up the whole world around them.

And then when Sarah was gone and Diane couldn’t look at him anymore, Jim wondered how he could ever find peace again. He spent years convinced there was nothing good left for him anymore. There was only violence and anger and fruitless, stupid fighting. Sure, booze and pills kept him numb enough that it mostly didn’t matter, but there were nights where he’d sob like a child, alone in his trailer after long days at work.

There were nights where he could feel it all sitting in the center of him, filling the gaping hole that usually sat there instead, filling it with something heavy and dark and thick. Viscous. Ugly.

Jim knows the gnawing weight of grief like he knows an empty bottle of Valium.

On nights where Billy wakes him up screaming, he wonders what Billy’s grief is. Jim knows the wailing, is familiar with the sound. He’s almost asked, a couple of times, but stops himself short every time to soothe instead of interrogate, and Billy always melts into him like all he needed was a gentle hand and a soft voice, someone to remind him he’s good, he’s okay, he’s taken care of.

And maybe Jim needed to be that person for someone again.

Billy’s not going to press dying flowers in a journal filled with personal poetry, but he will cook Jim and Eleven dinner every night. He’ll toss Jim a new pack of cigarettes because he noticed he was down to the last two. He’ll stay up late with Jim on nights when Eleven is having nightmares, just so that he doesn’t have to do it alone.

He’ll drive Eleven to Max, face Neil Hargrove again just so that Eleven can hang out with her friends when Jim is at work. He always comes home, even on nights when he goes out and gets too drunk to drive himself, will radio Jim to ask him in a slurred voice to come pick him up, usually with some sort of disgusting comment about Jim’s dick or how wet Billy’s pussy is, Daddy.

Billy doesn’t tell Jim he loves him, and Jim doesn’t say it to Billy, either, but they don’t need to.

Instead, Jim comes home after work, finds Billy alone in the cabin making the two of them dinner, and gets a, “Fuck me, but that dumb cop uniform fuckin’ works on you somehow.”

Jim’s putting his hat down on the coffee table, unzipping his jacket with a grin when he hears it. “I’ll take it as a compliment, coming from you.”

“You should take everything I say as a compliment,” he says, smile wide and toothy, predatory. He even licks his lips when Jim starts unbuttoning his shirt, and it would be over-the-top if he wasn’t Billy, the same boy that let Jim finger him for two hours to make up for his promise from the other day. The same boy that can come just from Jim letting him hump his leg while he whispers filth into his head, for Christ’s sake.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jim teases, tosses his shirt over the back of one of the dining room chairs. “Maybe when you stop making everything sound like an insult.”

Billy just laughs, shows Jim his teeth again, goes back to stirring whatever it is he's cooking.

Jim is pressing his luck when he sidles up behind Billy, gets his big hands on his hips and tugs him towards him just enough to be able to feel him pressed close. The warmth that radiates from him, the way his body goes tense for half a beat before it catches up to the fact that he's safe, he's safe, he's safe. And then he's melting into Jim, going so lax he almost drops the spoon he's holding, humming in content.

When Jim presses a kiss to the top of his head, he huffs a little, rocks his hips back against Jim to test the waters. But Hopper grunts, holds him in place instead.

“Just this, come on,” Jim hums into the side of his head.

Billy isn't good at this. At soft. At gentle or kind or quiet. He's never been given the chance to try, really, and Jim knows that. But he is good at giving Jim what he wants, so even though his shoulders tense again, and he snorts indelicately at the request, he lets himself be held. He even lets Jim wind his arms around his middle, hug him like that while he cooks. Hum low little things about his day in Billy's ear.

It's nice, Jim thinks, to come home and have this.

Even nicer, later, after he helps clean up from dinner, takes a hot shower, and sits on the couch with Billy next to him, crowding in close. He leans against Jim, and lets himself be pulled closer. Two beers on the coffee table, Jim's feet kicked up and his boy tucked under his arm, warm and safe and happy.

It's a good way to end a day.

Better still, when Billy starts creeping a hand up Jim's thigh, fingers sure and firm even when they slip under the waistband of the sweats he's wearing, nothing underneath. He isn't hard, but that always seems to excite Billy further, if he's honest.

Jim doesn't make a noise when Billy gets his hand on his cock, just spreads his legs wider to accommodate. And Billy gets this coy look on his face that makes Jim's stomach flutter, this sweet look that means he's about to say or do something that's going to fuck him up in the sweetest way possible.

Sure enough, Billy looks over at him and says, “I've never done this before, you know?” and even goes so far as to make his breathing a little shallow, a little desperate. Like he's nervous. His touch is gentle, curious, to match the facade.

“That right?” Jim asks, shifts his hips so he can spread his legs impossibly further apart. He watches Billy bite his bottom lip and widen his eyes through his peripheral, nod his head like he's shy or something. So Jim reaches down to grab Billy's wrist, forces his hand out so he can bring Billy's hand to his mouth, lick at his palm and get it just as wet as Jim likes it. And he's saying, “‘s alright, sweetheart. I'll show you what to do,” while he's guiding that hand right back around his cock, low around the base where Billy's fingers just barely touch around the girth of him.

“Will you, uh,” and he swallows thickly, “Will you come if I touch you like this?”

Jim swears he's going straight to Hell, the way that makes his cock start to swell, the way his guts hook and pull all the way down to his balls. He's looking at Billy now, reaching behind him to get one hand on the back of his neck so he can get his fingers in the hair at the very base of his skull, just so he can watch Billy's shoulders drop in contentment at the feeling. He isn't sure if it's the contact or the way that Jim rocks his hips up just slightly into Billy's touch that has him making a small sound in the back of his throat, breaking character for a fraction of a second, but Jim smiles into it all the same.

“You do a good enough job for me, yeah. Yeah, I'll come, then,” Jim tells him.

Billy looks at him through thick, pretty eyelashes, and asks, “Can you teach me how to…do it?”

His fingers squeeze just a little, not enough to feel particularly good. It's like he's actually nervous, like he's unsure of what to do. As if he hasn't had Jim's cock in his hand every morning for months. As if Jim's not letting him gag on it any chance he gets, stuffing him as full as he wants whenever he wants. Jim thinks, briefly, that Billy should go into acting and put his talents to good use.

“Daddy?” Billy asks, quiet and sweet and too good for Jim not to groan around the sound. “What do I do next?”

His fingers flex again, and Jim says shakily, “Just like you do to yourself, baby.”

And Billy is such a good listener sometimes. When he's like this, when he wants to play like this, he's such a good fucking listener. All sweet and good, and Jim tries so hard to keep his hips still, to let Billy do this and not just take what he wants from him. If he's honest, it's better when he stays still, plays along.

Even still, “Lean over and spit on it, Billy. Get Daddy nice and wet, yeah?”

With wide eyes and pink tinging his cheeks, Billy looks at him and asks, “Spit on it? But that's disrespectful.”

“Oh my god,” Jim groans quietly.

“And I can't, um– I don't want to be disrespectful,” Billy tells him, his voice low. “Daddy will punish me if I'm disrespectful, right?”

Oh. It clicks into place, now. There's a certain heat licking down Jim's spine at his words, a recognition of what this is for Billy. Of what he wants from him.

Of what he's trying to get from him, at least.

“‘m asking you to,” Jim tells him, teeth just the barest bit gritted so he can settle himself into this. “It's okay if Daddy's asking you to.”

And when Billy hesitates, hand almost coming off of his cock and everything, looking over at Jim with wide eyes, Jim says, “Go ahead. It's alright.”

Jim does the hard work of tugging his sweats down enough to get his cock exposed, hard and already leaking.

His eyes are glued to his boy when Billy leans over him, body language timid, eyes wide, and purses his lips to let a big glob of spit pool and fall right onto the weeping head of Jim's cock. The shock of warm and wet on his sensitive skin has Jim groaning, and Billy looks at him with alarm.

The hand Jim has on Billy's neck squeezes just slightly, and Jim says, “Fuck, Billy.”

This is where Billy breaks, just a bit, because he's all teeth when he smiles now, all heat when he says, “You're fuckin' gross, you know that?”

With a snort, Jim squeezes his neck meanly now, reveling in the grunt Billy lets out when he does. “Yeah, whatever. You're the one starting all this shit.”

When Billy laughs this time, he's already leaning down to slurp his own spit off of Jim's cock, obscene and disgusting and enough to have Jim hot all over. The slurping noises he makes when he pushes the spit back out of his lips, pressed right to the head of Jim's cock are going to be following Jim all the way to hell, when he dies.

When Billy inevitably sucks the soul right out of his cock with pouty lips and a snarl.

“You gonna actually suck me off or just make a fuckin’ mess?”

And Billy tilts his head to the side, looks up at him while he sinks a little further down, cock pushing hard into the meat of his cheek, bulging out of the side of his face. Jim reaches down to pass fond fingers right there, feeling where he's filling Billy up.

“Jesus,” Jim breathes. “C'mon, baby, thought you wanted to make me come.”

Billy pulls off of him with a wet sound, uses his hand to guide Jim's cock as he licks a wet stripe up the mess he's made of him.

“Wanted you to show me,” he mumbles against Jim's skin. “Don't know what I'm doing, remember?”

“Yeah,” Jim says. “Yeah, I remember. You wanna use your mouth or your hand?”

Billy hums wickedly, and he's moving, shifting, sliding himself a little closer to Jim, wet hand still wrapped around the base of his cock exactly where Jim had put it.

“Hand,” Billy tells him. “Want you to kiss me.”

So Jim leans forward without hesitation, presses their mouths together sweetly, and oh does Billy open up under him, then. Mouth wet and hot, tongue licking into Jim's mouth.

Billy's gotten much better at kissing, just lets Jim take control now. And one of his favorite things is when Jim sucks at his tongue, his body going lax into it, throat working around a high sound, hand going tighter around Jim's cock like he wants Jim to feel it, too, the way he feels too good to keep it to himself.

So Jim does it again, his own slick tongue dragging slow and sweet along Billy's.

When he pulls away, its to say, “Jerk me off, Billy. Nice and slow, yeah?” Then, when Billy hesitates, Jim reaches down to wrap his own fingers around Billy's, guides it to move how he wants. “Just like you do to yourself when you think I'm not paying attention.”

Billy's gasp is almost too real, and it has Jim chuckling lowly against his lips when he surges forward for a kiss.

“You know I can hear you, right?” Jim asks. “Know I can hear those pretty noises you make? Late at night, after you think I went to sleep? Can hear you saying my name.”

Billy's breathing picks up, his body arches into Jim's side. Jim uses Billy's hand to jerk himself off, a little faster than before, squeezes a little bit tighter. And my god is it perfect. It's perfect.

Exactly how he wants it.

When Billy kisses him again, it's desperate and wet, and Jim has to slow it down, has to murmur a gentle warning against Billy's mouth.

Billy is soft and sweet when he says, “Sorry, Daddy,” all breathy against Jim's mouth.

He doesn't skip a beat, then, hand working under Jim's own, dragging them both through the motions. It's so fucking good, and Jim finds his hips rocking up, up, up, in gentle motions that chase the feeling of Billy's hand tight and wet on him. He lets Jim guide their kissing, lets him hold his chin with his other hand and angle him how he wants, suck his plush bottom lip between his own, lick into his mouth like he's dying for it.

“So fucking good for me, baby,” he murmurs hotly, listening to Billy's whimpering like he's never been more desperate in his life.

He loves Billy like this, loves him pliant and so sweet for him. He loves the way he gets so lost in Jim's lips against his own that he forgets what he's doing, has to be reminded with a gentle urge of Jim's own hand. He loves how lax and pliant Billy is, how it feels like he's a teenager making out on someone's couch when their parents aren't around.

“Want you to come, Daddy,” Billy sighs. “Want you to come for me, please.”

“Oh, look at you with your manners,” Jim chuckles hotly, hips twitching up. “Told you to do a good job and I'll come.”

“I'm doing a good job,” Billy complains, whining just a little bit, and Jim knows it's genuine. He's heard it enough to know.

Somehow, that's better and hotter down his spine, heat pooling and cooling in his guts.

“Do a better job.” Because Jim's close, but he wants to know how far he can push Billy. What he'll be able to pull from Billy like this.

Billy huffs, but he ducks his head down again all the same, licks over the head of Jim's cock first, then dips his tongue into the slit. It's got Jim groaning, head falling back and thighs tensing. When he does it again, Jim's biting out a heavy, “Fuck.”

“Will you eat my pussy after this, Daddy?” Billy asks, and god does this always get to Jim. The way Billy talks, how unabashedly he says shit like this, whether it's for the shock factor or because he knows Jim is into it. Jim's groan is just fuel for the fire. “Always feels so good when you eat me out. Get my pussy so fucking wet for you. Wetter than anyone ever has, Hop.”

He's grinning so wide, Jim can count most of his teeth. So pleased with himself, he sucks Jim's cock back into his mouth, eyes still trained on Jim, obviously waiting for an answer. Jim's hand has fallen off of Billy's around his cock, settling in his hair instead, and the game must be over, because he starts jerking Jim off in earnest.

It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for Jim to come, then, not even bothering to try and stifle his groan or the way his hips buck up enough to have Billy gagging around him.The rush of drool from the back of Billy's throat adds to it, and Jim pets through Billy's hair with a, “Fuck, baby. Goddamnit, baby boy. Jesus.”

He's cradling Billy's skull in his palm while Billy sucks his come down, swallows with a smile. His face is cracked wide open when Jim tugs him up with a grip on his hair so that he can lick the taste of himself out of Billy's mouth, suck the remnants off his tongue because he's fuckin’ gross, as Billy likes to remind him.

This time, though, Billy just groans into it. He shifts against Hopper so that he can straddle his waist, thighs tight around his hips. And he's almost desperate with it, pulling at Jim physically until Jim's hands are on his ass, fingers splayed wide and it's the least fucking subtle Billy has ever been in his life.

So Jim gives him a little bit. He squeezes first, listens for the hitch in Billy's breath, and then he's running gentle thumbs along the curve. Billy's still letting him press desperate kisses into his mouth, letting him drag this along in a way that's as syrupy and sweet as the blood coursing through Jim's lazy limbs right now.

After a bit of this, of stringing him along, Billy's hips start moving, full-on humping in that way he always does, trying for more, more, more.

It's the whine that makes its way out of him that bookends Jim's hand lifting and coming right back down, hard enough to jolt Billy forward with the force of it. It echoes between them for a beat, and then Billy is gasping and biting at his bottom lip so hard Jim worries it'll bleed.

And Billy is stumbling face first into him, forehead on Jim's shoulder while he trembles against him, and–

“You just come?”

The groan he gets in response is enough, and Jim doesn't laugh, but he's chuckling in disbelief. Still, after months of seeing how little it takes to set Billy off, he's still shocked occasionally.

“Holy shit, baby boy,” Jim chuckles, patting Billy's ass with both hands for good measure. Billy is still trembling a little, scooting closer to Hopper in little shifts of his hips. “You really do want it, don't you?”

“Told you,” is what Billy murmurs, body still trying to piece itself back together in Jim's lap. “Want the fuckin’ bruises. Your bruises.”

“‘S that what this is about?” Jim asks, finally. It's something that's been on his mind, on the tip of his tongue since this conversation started. It wasn't his job to bring it up, though. He needed Billy to trust him enough to say the words so they could figure out how to give him what he wants so badly. “You trying to cover up your old man's bruises with mine so they hurt less?”

He hears Billy sniff, first. Feels the wet heat of tears after.

And he says something, but it's too wet and too buried in Jim's shoulder for him to really hear it, so he nudges Billy's head gently with his shoulder. Again, when Billy doesn't repeat himself.

There's another sniff, louder this time, harder, and then a watery, “He's not my old man.”

“No,” Jim agrees, wrapping his arms around Billy's middle and pulling him closer, tucking his face into the crook of Jim's neck. “No, that's me, isn't it, baby?”

He stands when he feels Billy nod, pulling them both up so he can walk them to their bedroom instead of doing this on the couch all night.

“Yeah,” Billy breathes, tensing his arms around Jim's shoulders, legs going around his waist. He wonders if Billy's ever been held like this, even as a child. If his–

If Neil Hargrove ever put a kind hand on his son.

“C'mon,” Jim murmurs into the side of Billy's head. “Think you asked me to eat your little pussy out, yeah?”

—

“Are you and Billy in love?”

Jim chokes on the glass of water he's chugging and feels Eleven's hand patting his back as he coughs it right back into the sink.

“What?” he coughs, looking at her while he wipes at the mess with the back of his hand.

And she's looking at him so confused, eyebrows furrowed, mouth slightly frowning. “You…and Billy. Are you in love?”

“What, uh, what makes you think that?”

“Max says you are kissing each other and doing things that people who are in love do with each other,” and she's looking at him like she won't believe him if he denies anything.

So instead he says, “I think it's more complicated than that, kid.”

“More complicated?”

“Uh, look, it's–”

And of course Billy chooses that moment to walk in from taking his morning shower. Of course he does, and of course Eleven turns to him instead and says, “Billy, are you and Hopper in love? Max says that you are.”

Billy laughs, something loud and playful, and Jim shoots him a look of warning at the fucking sheen in his eyes. “Oh yeah? And what does that little shitbird know about love?”

He's grinning with a full set of teeth over at Jim while he pops a couple of grapes in his mouth. There's a look in his eyes and a comment stuck in his throat, Jim knows it.

“Max and Lucas are in love,” El says with confidence, and Billy laughs a little less meanly this time.

“Thought she broke up with him?” and he's pouring two cups of orange juice, handing one to El.

It's always a little bit jarring, seeing them interact like this, so casual and kind. Comparing the oil and water they were before, the way Eleven said Billy interrupts, it's night and day now. Jim nearly laughs at the absurdity of Eleven's face shifting to something resembling every teenage girl Hopper has ever known who's exasperated with a friend's relationship troubles.

“They are taking a break,” she says, clearly mimicking Max with a roll of her eyes. Billy huffs a laugh and passes Eleven her juice, cheers-ing with her when she motions for it. She looks between the two of them when she sips. Then, “So are you in love or not?”

“Yeah,” Billy says immediately. He doesn't look at Jim, focused solely on Eleven when he says, “Yeah, El. Max was right.”

It sort of knocks the ground out from under Jim's feet, and he has to go to work so he doesn't have the time to pull Billy aside and talk about this. Eleven doesn't even need him for this conversation anymore, either, if the way she just smiles at Billy, giggles, and finishes her juice before announcing she was going to Mike's house so they could all hang out for the day is any indication.

But the conversation doesn't leave Jim, sticks to him all day, hangs onto his clothes and gets stuck between his teeth. There's a levity, maybe, and a couple people comment on it, but he brushes them off with a scoff.

“Max was right.”

Jim knows the kids know something. They know Billy lives with them, at the very least. They know Billy has changed, too, because they all sort of try inviting him to do things with them occasionally. Billy's even made amends with the Harrington boy. The two of them don't hang out, but they've both somehow become the world's most unlikely babysitters to the kids sometimes. Harrington hangs out with Dustin, and Billy has Max and El.

So they know something.

But Jim doesn't need any of this getting out, being spread around town that the Chief of Police is hooking up with a barely legal teenage boy in his secret cabin in the woods where he's also housing a government-sized liability. Jim is keeping a lot of secrets for Hawkins, Indiana. He needs Billy and all of the kids to keep this one for him.

He's pretty sure that Eleven doesn't know what he and Billy get up to. They've worked hard at keeping her at a distance from this. Billy stays on the couch until they know she's asleep and then crawls into bed with Jim, waking up before sunrise so he can get back on the couch. They don't fuck if she's in the house because Billy can't keep his fucking mouth shut. And there's only been small gestures that may suggest something, a few times where Jim has grabbed Billy's hand or run a hand down his spine.

Never anything truly damning.

Which is why, maybe, he ends up pulling into the Wheelers' driveway, knocking on their front door, and convincing them to let him talk to the kids as a group.

He'd told them it was in reference to some reports of bullying at Hawkin's High. And he tells the kids, “I need all of you to stop talking about what may or may not be going on with me and Billy, yeah? These kinds of rumors can be really dangerous in a small town.”

And it hadn't taken much more than that for them to all agree, for more than one of them to express that they kept secrets for the party or whatever. Jim doesn't feel much better after all of it is said and done, but it's something, at least.

Billy, when he mentions it to him that night while they're standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the kitchen says, “Byers kid's a homo.”

Jim shoots him a furrowed brow, because–

“I'm serious,” Billy doubles down.

“Johnathan and Nancy–”

“The other Byers kid, Hop,” Billy argues, rolling his eyes. “Will, or whatever.” He waves a hand in Hopper's direction and tosses a handful of peanuts into his mouth.

Jim's brain stops for a second, because he remembers asking Joyce a question along this vein, right at the beginning of this. She said Lonnie used to call him names, used to insist, and maybe that useless fuck got one thing right in his entire life. It makes a lot of sense, if he thinks about it. He's heard all the other kids mention pairing off with each other, but never Will.

“Huh,” Jim hums. “How'd you figure that?”

Billy laughs, “Takes one to know one, I guess.”

The snort Jim lets out is met with Billy's opinion of, “I think you'd fuck any pretty little thing you can get your hands on, Chief– you don't count.”

“You calling me some sort of slut or something?” Jim teases, stealing a fistful of nuts from the bowl Billy has them in.

And Billy laughs loudly at that, tosses his head back and all, looks Jim in the face and says, “Some of the guys at Hawkins High used to say the only cougar ass around here was Hopper's sloppy seconds.”

“Forgot you had a thing for moms,” Hopper bemuses, glosses over the rest of that statement for fear of realizing some things about himself. It's maybe more true than he wants to admit, but in his defense, he–

Well, he really doesn't have a defense, he guesses. Not one that doesn't make him come off worse than just a womanizer.

“You ever seen Mrs. Wheeler?” and Billy makes a low noise, licks his lips, and shakes his head like he's remembering something. “Her boring as fuck husband is probably a one-and-done piece of shit who thinks pussy tastes bad.”

“Alright,” Jim groans.

“You had a thing for Joyce,” Billy says. Not a question. “Or have?”

“I have a thing for you,” Jim deflects. He's not wrong but Jim's not about to give him that satisfaction.

But Billy just cuts him eyes and says, “You can have a thing for more than one person. I'm not the jealous type.”

“Lucky me,” Jim deadpans, then reaches to pull Billy in for a kiss. “Thought we were in love, baby.”

He swears Billy's whole face turns pink. Hopper watches the way Billy's brows furrow, how he shifts and goes just a little tense.

Right against Hopper's mouth, he says, “Yeah, well. Figured that was an easier answer than what we're really doing.” Then, “Or did you want your daughter to know how good you are with–”

“Alright,” Hopper says again. He knows Billy's just fucking with him. He knows Billy isn't good with stuff like this. What he says is, “Ought to spank you for lying, you know,” and doesn't clarify which time.

Billy's mouth curls up into a coy smile. “‘s that all it's gonna take?”

“Think that's for me to decide, don't you?”

They don't have time for anything, so Hopper doesn't bite when Billy says, “I bet I could convince you,” showing his teeth.

What he does is pull Billy in for another kiss, lets it linger a little longer than it should for El being brought home any minute now. Hopper licks into Billy's mouth and gives him just a little bit of attention while he can.

—

Jim does love Billy, is the thing. Most things about him. The good, the bad, the in-between. He loves the time they get to spend together and misses him when they're apart. At the very least, it's the closest approximation of love that Hopper's felt in this new life he's lived since coming back to Hawkins.

At the very least, he trusts Billy with–

Well, with all of this, really.

“You're kind of a little bitch,” Billy tells him one night, when Jim is holding him again. It's just the two of them tonight, Eleven over at Max's for a sleepover. And Jim has been, admittedly, a little mushy, maybe. There's just been so much lately that's got him feeling softer and softer with Billy.

Moreso now that he's got an idea of where Billy's head has been these days.

And Jim decides to test the waters a little bit here, squeezes his arms around Billy a little harder, presses a kiss to the side of his head. He says, “Nah, just love you is all.”

Billy doesn't scoff, but he does tense in Jim's hold, so it's a win, honestly. He half expected Billy to swing on him or pick a fight or push him away. Instead, Billy chokes on a noise and tucks his face into Hopper's neck, wraps his arms around Jim's middle instead of just placing his hands there. His shoulders are so tense, Jim sort of doesn't know what to do.

But he tries.

He says, “It's alright. You're alright, yeah?”

“Fuck,” Billy breathes, sniffles. “Fuckin’ bitch.”

“Yeah, maybe. Still love you, though,” Jim says, and Billy's shoulders start shaking. He knows there are tears, but he doesn't comment on them. He doesn't do anything but rub soothing hands down Billy's arms and hum quiet shushing noises into his hair. “You're good, Billy. ‘s alright.”

“I'm such a–,” and he sobs, here, catches his breath, “--fuckin’ pussy.”

“No you're not,” Jim promises. “When's the last time someone told you they loved you?”

Another sniff, then, “Last time I fucked a girl.”

“Sure, Casanova,” Jim teases. “But that doesn't count.”

For a beat, Billy seems to actually think about it, but then he's just shrugging and it breaks Jim's heart just a little bit. The way he goes a bit lax in Jim's arms makes him appear so defeated. It's never a chore to hold Billy together when he gets like this.

“You don't have to love me back,” Jim tells him. “But I do love you. Not just because we're sleeping together, yeah? I just love you.”

And Jim does. He loves all of the kids, loves Joyce, loves every single godforsaken one of them. Billy is included in that.

He loves Billy differently than them, too, though, he thinks. It's hard not to, the way they've been living, been doing this. The way he's been watching him interact with Eleven. The way Billy has changed in this home that Jim has been able to provide for him, regardless of how meager an offering it appears to be. He's not humble or stupid enough not to know Billy's growth has been a direct result of being away from a situation that had him living on edge, living in fear of failing no matter what option he took. Jim is glad he's been able to give Billy somewhere to prove he is good enough, worthy, just by being himself.

He doesn't have to prove anything here or live within a certain set of parameters, just needs to treat the cabin and those within it with respect. And there hasn't been an issue with that, not from the minute Billy walked through the front door that first night.

Billy is quiet, sniffling, and then he wipes his nose on Jim's shirt, just to be a little shit about things.

The honesty in his tone when he says, “Last time I talked to my mom,” sort of knocks the wind out of Hopper. “Was the last time.”

“When was that?”

And Billy huffs a wet, mean laugh. “I dunno, I was– maybe eight or nine.”

On instinct, Hopper squeezes his arms tighter around Billy, presses his lips to the side of Billy's head. “Jesus, kid,” Hopper breathes.

“Yeah, I don't– Look,” and he's trying to wriggle out of Jim's hold, the tension flooding him again, but Jim just tightens his grip again.

Into the side of Billy's head, he says, “I don't pity you, Billy. That's not what this is. I'm just trying to make sure you know I care, yeah?”

And Billy sniffs again, hard and pressing his wet face more firmly into Hopper's chest. “Whatever,” he mumbles.

There's a pause, then, and Jim just rubs soothing hands down the expanse of Billy's back while Billy gets his breathing under control.

And then, “I don't– Me too, you know? I can't–”

“‘s alright,” Jim promises. “You don't have to. I know.”

—

Billy is different, after that conversation.

Maybe Jim is a little different, too. Maybe Jim touches him more casually, softer and sweeter and with no intention of doing anything but touching him. And maybe he wakes up every morning and presses his mouth to Billy's just to feel it.

And maybe Billy lets him. Stretches out in Jim's bed like a lazy house cat, revels in the way Jim's hands and mouth feel on him.

He's softer around the edges, too. Occasionally, he's the one reaching out, wanting to touch, leaning in just for the contact. It took long enough for him to be comfortable kissing Jim without expecting sex, so the first time Billy touches him with hands that aren't hungry for more than pressure, Jim is caught off guard.

He says sweet things now, too. Says things like, “You work too fuckin’ hard to come home and do more shit,” after he's fixed the sink in the bathroom that wasn't draining right.

Or, “You can have things you want too, you know. Doesn't just have to be me getting the fucked up shit I'm into,” after he agrees to let Jim piss on him in the shower one night.

What's not different is how he gets.

And honestly, it's a relief, because Jim's favorite thing about Billy is how he gets. When he's in the mood to pick and dig and let Jim break him down to the sum of his parts, and god. It's fucked up, how much Jim looks forward to it. How much he wants Billy giving him eyes, pushing against where Jim is pulling.

How he wants it when Billy says, “Want you to finger my pussy open, Daddy,” while Jim is trying to get his skin-tight jeans down his thighs for him.

“Want,” and Billy hiccups around the word, “Want you to get me so fucking wet like you always do, spread me open for you.”

“Yeah?” Jim says, just to say something, his tongue clumsy with the way Billy is touching him, hands kneading at Jim's middle.

“Fuck, yeah,” Billy breathes. “Yeah, get me– Just fuckin’ get me so fucked out before you even get your cock inside me. I can always feel you so much deeper if you make me come first. Feels so full, so big. God, your cock is fucking huge, Hop.”

He's just rambling, and Jim is just letting him, because it's good for both of them. It's searing hot, while Jim gets Billy naked and on his bed, on his back. When he reaches down to jerk himself off, Jim slaps his hand away, and Billy makes a sweet, gasping sound.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, will you– Can you, tonight? I fuckin’ want it, Daddy, please,” and he's already slurring a little bit, so hard he's leaking against his stomach.

Jim knows what he's asking for, but he still says, “Ask for it properly, Billy. Can't give you something if I don't know what you want.”

And Billy reaches for his cock again, chokes on a sob when Jim slaps at him harder this time, hard enough for the sting of it to stay behind, flushed pink across the back of his hand.

“Want you to spank me, Hop,” Billy murmurs. “Please. Please, Daddy, c'mon.”

Jim, to test the waters, slips himself between Billy's legs, crawls further up the bed and guides Billy higher and higher up right along with him. His hands land somewhere on Billy's inner thighs, gently rubbing closer and closer to the hard line of his cock. Billy is still rambling, making heavy noises in the back of his throat while Jim settles the both of them. It's just nonsense that he's saying, just a steady stream of pleas while Jim touches too gently to be enough for him.

“You're a good boy, Billy,” Jim tells him, rubs his palms firmly into the muscles on the outside of Billy's thighs. He leans forward to slot their mouths together, too, slides his wet tongue along Billy's to feel him moan into it. “So good and sweet,” he presses into Billy's mouth. “Such a sweet boy for me.”

Billy's trembling a bit, pressing up into Jim's hands. He says, “Deserve a reward then,” a little too boldly, too sure of himself.

Jim pinches him, on the sensitive inside of his left thigh. Just once, just to see Billy squirm, hear him hiss. Through a low noise of his own, he tells Billy, “A reward, huh? My cock not enough for you, baby?” And to tease, he grabs one of Billy's hands, presses it where he's hard already. “‘s pretty big, isn't it? I think a cock this big for a sweet little thing like you is a pretty good reward.”

And Billy groans, gets his hands on Jim's waist, presses his fingers in while he tosses his head back. Jim can't help but lean down and get his mouth on the long line of Billy's neck, noses into the jut of his jaw so he can suck a hickey right into the hollow of his throat. It's not really something he does, not on Billy's neck at least.

No, he prefers to leave marks where no one will see them– on the delicate insides of Billy's thighs, the dip of his hips, the crease right below his ass cheek. Places Billy will let him press into later, dig big thumbs into tender bruises left by Hopper's greedy mouth.

But Billy looks too fucking good like this. He looks like the sun across the bed in the morning, beautiful and warm and scattered with glittering gold flecks. He's even better now, purpled and tender and slick with Jim's spit. A perfect juxtaposition to the pitiful noises he’s making and the way he wriggles around, trying to get more from Jim.

And Billy had said he wanted Jim's bruises, so he'll give them to him how he wants. He'll give them to him in ways they can both look at later and feel good about.

Billy, finding his voice, says, “Please. Please, Hop, I– God, if you don't give me something, I'll fuckin’ die, I think.”

It's got Jim chuckling, got him pressing a thumb into the mark he just left on Billy's skin, got him pressing his hips against Billy's ass so he can feel the line of his dick there, too. It's got him shifting down the bed, lifting Billy's legs up and bending them back so his ears are by his knees and Hopper can get at his hole, can watch the way Billy squeezes around nothing, just from the anticipation.

“Oh fuck,” Billy breathes. “Fuck, you gonna eat me out? Yeah, get your tongue in my ass, Daddy, please.” Hands scramble to his own chest to rub over his nipples, the way he likes for Jim to do it.

Jim knows this is Billy's favorite. He knows the exact sound Billy will make as soon as he gets his tongue to Billy's hole, knows the little punched-out groan he's going to make and the way he'll arch into it before he goes completely lax, reaches down to grab behind his own knees to hold himself open for Jim's mouth. He knows Billy will start slurring through more filth, after just a few minutes, will make promises of not coming for much longer than he'll actually be able to hold out for, and will come the second Jim lets him touch himself. He knows Billy will hold his breath for the first press of Jim's tongue inside.

So this is how he gets Billy, except he moves Billy's hands first, tells him, “Hold yourself open. Show me that pretty pussy, baby.”

And Billy chokes on a little sob while he listens, gets his wrists under his knees. He says, “Talk to me. Fuckin’ love– love when you say dirty shit, too.”

Jim presses his smile into the back of Billy's thigh, nose not quite brushing against his balls. “Yeah?” he asks, teasing. “You like hearing your old man talk about how much he loves eating your little pussy out for you?”

And Jim rubs his palms down Billy's thighs, gets them warm from the heat of his own hands. He waits for Billy to shiver, to moan thinly. The ruffle of sheets says he's nodding.

“How sometimes, I jerk this big, fat cock you love so much to the thought of watching my own come leaking out of you? Think about how you let me fuck it right back into you with as many fingers as your fucked-out asshole can take, even when you're sore,” and Jim trails two of his dry fingers over Billy's hole just for emphasis.

“Fuck,” Billy sobs. “Let you do whatever you want to me, Daddy.”

Chuckling sweetly, Jim nods his head and says, “I know you do, baby. ‘s cause you're such a good fucking boy for me.”

And he reaches up to Billy's mouth the same time that he presses the flat of his tongue to Billy's fluttering hole, stuffs his gasping mouth full of two of his fingers. Billy groans so loudly that Jim thinks he might go hoarse with it, and it has heat licking up his spine while he works Billy open from two ends.

He fucks his tongue into him while he fucks his fingers past his gag reflex, sucks at the rim of Billy's hole while he presses down on his tongue. Billy rocks his hips against Jim's face and Jim lets him so he can focus on how wet his hand is getting, on opening Billy up on his tongue. When he pulls away just long enough to spit into Billy's asshole, to watch him clench so Jim can lick at him again, press his own spit into Billy with the tip of his tongue, he slips his fingers from Billy's mouth.

“Fuck me,” Billy gasps. “Oh my god, Hop. F-fuck.”

Jim uses his free hand to readjust Billy where his grip on his knees has gone a little slack, hums against Billy's ass while he works.

Billy's throat works around another garbled jumble of words at the same time as Jim lifts his hand slick with Billy's spit and brings it down onto one cheek.

Billy doesn't quite scream, but the noise he makes is close, like Jim has ripped all of the air from his lungs. He's heaving in huge breaths, spread open and being eaten out as sweet and good as Jim can give it to him.

“Please,” he breathes. “Oh, oh, Daddy, please. Do it again, please.”

Jim hums a noise he hopes translates as, “Thank you for asking so nicely.”

And he trails wet fingers over warm skin before giving Billy another, a little harder this time. Hard enough for Billy to heave a sob with it, clench down so hard Jim can't get his tongue back inside.

“Th-thank you, Daddy,” Billy slurs, head lolling. Jim watches him lick slick lips before he asks, “Can– can I come? ‘m gonna come if–”

Jim gives him another before he can get the rest out, and two more quickly after that for good measure, spits on Billy's hole again before he's telling him, “Not yet. Not done giving you your reward, baby.”

Billy moans, and it's whiny on the ends like he didn't want to make that noise at all.”I can come again, after. I can–please, Daddy. Please, you gotta let me–”

His face is wet with spit and those tears he can never seem to stop, and Jim thinks he's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

When he brings his hand down again it's with a, “Don't want you to come yet. Not til I've got my cock inside of you.”

“Gonna– fuck, Hop, I can't–,” he sobs, and Jim almost takes pity on him. He almost gives in, but instead he sits up, wipes his mouth on his shoulder before he reaches under the pillow Billy's laying on for the lube.

“Here's what's gonna happen, Billy,” Jim starts, and punctuates it with another spank, lighter this time, more across Billy's thighs than anything. “I'm gonna get you on your stomach so I can finger you open, then I'm gonna feed my cock so far inside of you that you can feel it in your throat. And I'm going to give you what you've been begging me for as much or as little as I want while I do it.”

Jim's got his fingers slick, is looking Billy in the eyes the whole time he talks, watching the way his bottom lip trembles, the way his eyes go wider. And Billy goes when he guides him, lays on his stomach with his hips up under a pillow, braced on his elbows.

“And you,” Jim tells him, clean hand coming down across Billy's ass just to watch him squirm, “are going to come when I let you.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Billy gasps. Jim gives him two more while he's pressing inside with two fingers, watches the way he goes tense, how he squeezes his eyes shut and his mouth falls open around another heavy moan. He tries humping the pillow beneath him, but Jim holds his hips still. “C'mon,” he whines, “Hop, fuckin’-- let me. Give it to me, fuck me, please.”

“Greedy,” Hopper murmurs, presses in with a third finger probably too fast, too much all at once, but Billy just makes an ungodly noise and Jim watches the line of spit fall from his open mouth. “Fuckin’ filthy boy, drooling all over my pillow.”

And Billy doesn't even think before he's leaning down and licking the mess right up. It's disgusting and Jim says as much, brings his hand down over Billy's ass hard enough to actually hurt, and feels his stomach swoop when Billy sobs and noisily slurps another line of drool threatening to fall back into his mouth before it can.

Jim gets his free hand in Billy's hair, pulls hard enough to bow his neck just to see the way Billy gets red when he does, to see the pretty line of him go all taut. See the hickey he'd put there matching the coloring heating his ass.

“You're all covered in my bruises now, Billy,” he tells him. His heart swells when Billy's eyes flutter shut and his throat works around a sweet little sound, like he's content now. Like things have slotted into place for him, finally.

And maybe they have. Maybe he really did need this to move on from shit.

It comes out shaky and slurred and tight when he tells Hopper, “Love you,” but God, if it isn't the sweetest thing Jim's ever heard.

His boy, already so fucked out, pulled tight by hands and mouth that love him right back. He hasn't even gotten his cock inside of Billy yet, and his boy is already so lost in this.

So Jim tells him, “Love you, too, Billy,” and lets go of the grip he's got on Billy's head. It drops with a grunt from Billy, and Jim rubs a soothing hand all the way down Billy's spine while he eases his fingers out.

He doesn't need to– Billy is certainly wet enough– but he still spreads him open just enough so that he can let a line of spit fall directly on his hole, can watch the way it makes Billy shudder. He holds him open while he lines his cock up, too, one hand around the base of himself and the other pulling Billy’s cheeks apart.

“Want it?” he asks, cruel and teasing while he rubs the head of his cock over Billy’s slick hole.

There’s a nod and a groan and a rocking of Billy’s hips, but Jim wants to hear him. So he makes a questioning noise, presses in with the slightest bit of pressure before pulling away again. A whine, this time, and an annoyed sound that Jim tsks in response to.

“I want it,” Billy slurs. “I want it, I want– I want it, Hop. Please, I want it.”

“Want what? Tell me,” he teases. It’s so good, getting Billy like this. On the tip of his dick, begging so sweetly for Jim to fuck him.

And it’s even better when Billy chokes out, “Want you to– want you to feed your cock so deep inside me I can feet it in my throat,” just to be a brat about it. “Put that big cock inside me, Hop. C’mon, Daddy. Bet it feels so fuckin’ good in there.”

“Wettest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had, baby,” Jim says while he sinks inside.

“God,” Billy sobs. And when Jim bottoms out in one smooth motion, Billy says, “So fuckin’ full, Daddy. Can feel it– feel it fucking everywhere.”

Jim gets his hand in Billy’s hair again, but this time it’s to shove his face into the pillow and get him to shut up so he doesn’t blow his load less than a minute after finally getting inside him. He can hear Billy laughing, feels him clench around him cruelly, and Jim gives him the first genuinely hard spank, then. No cupping, no follow-through, just a firm, hard smack across his ass, and Billy stops laughing.

But his hips work down and his body goes taut, and for a second Jim thinks he’s come. But when he lets up on his grip on Billy’s hair, Billy’s slurring out a stream of, “Can I come? Can I come, please? Please, please, please, can I– Oh my god, Hop, can I–”

So Jim tells him, “You can come, but I’m going to fuck you through it. You can come. Come on. “

It takes one more spank, one full thrust inside of Billy, and he’s coming untouched, choking on a sob and going so tight around Jim’s cock that he almost embarrasses himself. Billy’s face is wet again, and he’s biting at the pillow to muffle his cries, and Jim lets him so that he can focus on fucking himself into Billy.

He’s lost in it before he realizes that Billy is humping against the bed, rocking up into Jim’s thrusts. It’s no doubt a lot, maybe too much, and Billy is saying, “Thank you. God, thank you, Daddy. Feels so fuckin’ good. Jesus Christ.”

But it’s when Billy turns his face so that Jim can see him while he slurs through a, “Want to feel you come inside me, Hop. Fill my little pussy up, yeah?” that Jim comes.

His fingers dig into the meat of Billy’s ass, and he keeps a steady pump of his hips into him, grunting heavily when he does. Billy moans so loudly, Jim would swear he came a second time if it wasn’t actually impossible.

“Fuckin’ filthy,” Jim tells him, spready his ass open again so he can watch while he pulls out, catch Billy clench to try and hold Jim’s come inside him as long as he can.

“Think it’ll take?” Billy teases, and Jim breathes a, “Jesus.”

Billy cackles while he turns over, and it’s Jim’s turn to laugh when Billy winces at the pressure on his sore ass.

He’ll be fine– Jim didn’t hit him that hard. The bruises probably won’t even last a full day. He’ll just be pink and sore for a little while.

Jim still gets up and gets a cool damp washcloth to clean Billy with, rubbing it over abused skin while Billy hisses and tries to shive at him. But Jim shoves back and says, “You’ll thank me later if you let me do this now.”

“‘S fucking cold,” Billy whines.

Jim just rolls his eyes and finishes what he was doing so he can light them both a cigarette and get Billy all close to him again, warm and solid at his side.

As Billy is exhaling a thick cloud of smoke, he says, “Thanks. For that. It was good.”

And Jim would scoff if it were anyone else, because he’s pretty sure it was better than good for Billy, but.

But it’s Billy, and sincerity is hard for him, still. So he takes the compliment with a hum and a heavy pat to Billy’s thigh. “Course,” he says. “Was good for me, too.”

There’s a beat where they’re both quiet, and Jim feels his eyes getting heavier, goes to stub out the half a cigarette he has left so he can smoke it later, when he inevitably wakes up in the middle of the night. He feels Billy shift next to him, imagines he’s doing the same thing, and they both settle, together. It’s so comfortable, so familiar, that Jim almost stops in his tracks at the realization.

“Hey,” he says, tired and sated and getting a hand on Billy’s thigh, again. When Billy turns to look at him, brows furrowed, hair a mess, he tells him, “I love you.”

Billy’s face goes soft, and there’s a flash of something like an ache across his features before he’s surging forward to slot his mouth to Jim’s. It’s sweet, no heat behind it, no searching for more. Just the press of their mouths together like they’ve done a thousand times before this.

“Love you, too.”

Jim doesn’t know how they ended up here, really, but he’s glad they did.

It feels like home.