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Beams from the Camaro's headlights bounce off the trees that surround the road leading away from the Byers' house. They create winding shadows; like monsters lying in wait. Steve clenches his right hand into a fist to keep himself still. For all he knows, there are still monsters lurking somewhere out there. Just because the demo-whatevers ran away from the junkyard doesn't mean they're all gone.
Hargrove looks loose, relaxed, as they drive further into the woods.
"Let's not do this in front of the kids, huh, Harrington?" he'd said after catching sight of Max in the window. His tone had been honeyed; his eyes wide and palms held up in front of him. Entirely unlike the guy Steve is used to dealing with since he moved here.
Now Steve is in Hargrove's car with no idea where they're headed and realizing he probably made a mistake.
He thinks about the kids, about the fear on Max's face when she realized who was out front, and relaxes his fist. Hargrove hadn't sounded like he was rearing for a fight, but who knew how quickly that would have changed if Steve hadn't agreed to go with him? The kids are smart. Now that they know what to prepare for, they'll do what they need to in order to lock down the house. He hopes. Please don't let them go running off into those goddamn tunnels before he gets back to put a stop to it.
The longer they drive, the more uneasy Steve becomes. If they do end up fighting out here, it's going to take him forever to walk back.
Finally, Billy turns onto a dirt road. The street behind them gradually fades from view. If anyone else comes driving through, not that they've passed any cars the entire way here, they won't be able to even make out any taillights.
Once the car is in park, Steve pulls the handle and ignores his own surprise at the way his hand stays steady. The door doesn't give. He swallows thickly and tries again. It's not a surprise when it doesn't open the second time. Is he sweating? The car feels too warm all of a sudden, stuffy, despite the November chill seeping in from outside.
Fingers still curled around the handle, Steve turns his head towards the driver's seat. Hargrove doesn't meet his eyes right away. They're focused lower on Steve's face; he almost wipes at his mouth despite the fact that he hasn't eaten in hours. But that would mean lifting his arm (exposing his stomach) or letting go of the door. Neither option is particularly appealing. Bracing himself for whatever's coming (a punch to his face would be his guess) he straightens his back, whole body tensing up. If he isn't careful, he's going to end up with his head cracking against the window.
"Are we going to — woah, hey." Steve lets go of the door and jerks his head back, almost knocking it into the window himself. Hands out in front of him, he waits for Hargrove to lower his own arm back down, but that doesn't happen. It hovers in the air between them, steady and unmoving and far too close to Steve's head for comfort. "What are you — "
"I see this going a couple ways, Harrington." Hargrove sounds more like himself than he had at the Byers'. Rough and amused. Calm. The hair on Steve's arm stands up. Danger, he hears in the back of his mind, danger. When Hargrove speaks, the words come out slow, closer to the honeyed tone from earlier. "I'll unlock your door, we'll get out. I'll kick your ass." — Steve's stomach drops — "Tommy told me all about Byers beating your face in last year. I'll win. Hell, I'll fuck up your world so bad you'll be limping for weeks."
Steve clenches his jaw and hates, hates, that it's true. Fighting doesn't come easy to him; not unless it's a monster and he's got his nail bat. What he wouldn't give to have it with him now, even though he knows he wouldn't be able to use it.
Hargrove lowers his hand; Steve does the same warily, still braced for the attack he's sure is coming. The car is even warmer now, or maybe it's just the adrenaline rushing through him, so much like that moment he'd turned around in the junkyard to find three more monsters than they had prepared for.
"Then I'll drag Maxine out of that house by her goddamn hair if I have to. And, well," he laughs, "those friends of hers will know better than to get in my way, right?"
Max seems like the new girl in their group, but Steve has no doubt the rest of them — Lucas, in particular — will jump to her defense if her stepbrother shoves his way in. He hopes they've locked themselves down as well as they can, but even if they have. If Hargrove is that hell bent on getting her out of there, Steve doubts he'll feel any hesitation at breaking through a window.
"Or?" Steve bites out. The way Hargrove's lips curve up in what might be generously labeled a smile sends ice down his spine.
Just as steady as before, Hargrove lifts his hand. There's a hardness in his eyes that holds Steve in place even when he reaches out and traces his thumb across Steve's bottom lip. Breath caught somewhere between his throat and his lungs, Steve freezes. His skin crawls at the touch, but he can't make himself move.
"Or, you can put this" — Hargrove's tongue peeks out, wetting his lips as he puts some pressure on Steve's — "pretty mouth to work for a few minutes. I'll drive you back to the house and fuck off for a few hours, until Max comes back home on her own."
An awful whining squeak sounds in his ears. His teeth, he realizes, grinding together. It's the only thing he can hear besides his heartbeat; he can't hear the wind rustling through the trees outside anymore. He was fighting monsters an hour ago (petal faced mouths of teeth with claws to match) but this moment, right here, is the most scared he's felt in a year.
Hargrove stops touching his mouth. It leaves behind an uncomfortable tingling that Steve has to fight not to lick away. Goosebumps erupt down his neck when fingertips graze his ear before running through his hair.
"What's it gonna be?"
If he fights Hargrove and loses (and chances are, that's exactly what will happen) the best case scenario is that Steve will be stuck out in the middle of the woods. Miles from the Byers' house. That would be a hell of a walk without injuries hampering him. And if he. Steve digs his fingers against his thigh. If they fight and Steve loses, how does he know Hargrove won't just force him anyway?
He can't, Steve can't let this guy near those kids again. Especially not all riled up from a fight and still angry about his stepsister being out when she's not supposed to be. Not now that he knows Hargrove can sound like he's commenting on the weather when he's —
Steve's throat is so dry that it clicks when he tries to swallow. He looks at the windshield out of the corner of his eye when he nods.
"Ow, wha — " A sharp stab of pain shoots across his scalp. Steve curves his neck and back, trying to get out, away, but Hargrove doesn't budge. "Shit." His grip is like steel, unyielding, when Steve tries to pry him off. Hargrove doesn't let up until Steve, still bent in an attempt to relieve the pressure, meets his eyes. It's enough for Steve to straighten out, just a bit, but even then, Hargrove doesn't entirely let go.
"That's better," Hargrove says in a surprisingly easy voice, scratching just behind the top of Steve's ear with his thumb. "Now let's try this again."
He watches Steve, face as easy as his voice. Like he has all the time in the world (but then, he doesn't know it could be ending tonight).
Fuck.
As much as Steve wants to look away, he holds Hargrove's gaze. Doesn't blink even though the urge is creeping in on him the longer he keeps them open. "I'll do it."
More tingling, around his scalp now, as he's let go. He scratches over it himself to get rid of the feeling. It doesn't help. The smile on Hargrove's face looks real this time. Steve wishes he could do something to wipe that look off of it. Then he'd be right back at Option A, though, wouldn't he? He remembers, when the guy got in his face at practice, thinking that Hargrove would probably fight dirty, if they ever got to that point. Now Steve wonders if he'd even survive a fistfight with him.
Hargrove sits back, spreading his legs as far as the confined space will allow. For a second, Steve thinks he's waiting — that he's going to make Steve undo his pants for him. With the way his hands have started shaking (not just his hands, he feels like he's going to vibrate through his goddamn skin) he doesn't think it will end well if he tries. But, eyes still fixed on Steve's, Hargrove unbuttons his jeans. Blood is still rushing through Steve's ears; he can't hear the zipper give. His eyes, however, work just fine and his breath catches in his throat when he finally glances down.
He doesn't let himself focus on it; the way Hargrove is half hard already, and only getting harder, like the situation alone is enough to get him there. If he focuses on any of that for too long, he won't be able to go through with it. So he's not. Thinking about it. Or about how, sometimes, in the dark of his room late at night, he'd thought about what it would be like to — with someone else. How he's always pictured Byers after last year. How it was always supposed to stay just a thought because he loves Nancy. Had planned to spend the rest of his life with her.
Movement draws him out of his not-thoughts. Hargrove reaches for him again, cupping the back of his head. His fingers curl in; not painful like before. He doesn't yank Steve down. More like a reminder.
It's awkward. Not just because Steve's never done this before (or maybe that's exactly why), but because he isn't sure how to angle himself to start. The Camaro doesn't seem like it was built with this in mind. Hargrove doesn't seem to care, giving a gentle, continuous tug until Steve is bent over him. His knee ends up jammed uncomfortably against the center console. His left arm ends up caught, too, between that and Steve's chest. Steve finds himself almost more hesitant to rest his other hand on Hargrove's thigh than he is about what he's supposed to be doing.
The cologne Hargrove uses is stronger up close like this. Worse than every time he's shoved into Steve's space since moving here. Like with everything else, Steve tries to ignore it as much as possible.
"Come on, sweetheart," Hargrove says, soft and coaxing. The tone turns Steve's stomach more than anything else has so far.
After a shallow breath, Steve shifts for some semblance of balance on the arm under his chest. Breathing out slowly, he slides his other hand from Hargrove's thigh to wrap around his dick. Doesn't think about how strange it is, how different — and not — it feels from his own. Steve does think about the blow jobs he's received to figure out how the hell he's supposed to start. Hargrove makes a sound when Steve moves his hand, a little sigh, and he pushes against Steve's head just that little bit harder. Closing the last shred of space — not that there's much further to go — Steve thinks, fuck it, and runs the flat of his tongue just under the head.
It's weird, but more in how it's only skin than anything else. He knew that, he knows that. But something in how not awful it is, given how he ended up here in the first place, makes him uneasy. Still, he does it again. His gums ache, mouth flooding with water the way it does when he's sick and he has to swallow back the sudden nausea. Hargrove shifts like he's trying to spread even farther, but there's no room to manage it. Hell, there isn't enough room for any of this.
When Hargrove takes his hand out of Steve's hair, Steve has to fight the urge to push himself up; to get away. He wouldn't have gotten far if he tried. Fingers cup the nape of his neck and he feels a brief squeeze, a thumb pressing in a soft spot just below his ear. Ignores the involuntary shiver he makes at the touch.
Hargrove says, "Open your mouth," and when Steve hesitates, digs his thumb harder into Steve's neck.
"Sorry," he gasps in a rush, "Okay, okay — "
He can do this. Steve sighs out through his nose, breathes in (hardly notices the cologne this time) and does what he's told. Closing his eyes, Steve wraps his lips around the head of Hargroves dick. Unused to it, it feels almost too big for his mouth; he's aware of his teeth in a way he doesn't think he's ever been before. His first instinct is to pull up and off, ease into it a little more, but the hand on his neck prevents him from being able to.
Hargrove groans. It's loud in the otherwise quiet car; no sounds but the wind through the trees and the awkward, wet noises that he's doing his best to block out. Hargrove rubs tiny circles against his neck before sliding his fingers up the back of Steve's head. Steve presses his eyes even harder closed at the goosebumps that sends down his neck. Nails scratching across his scalp, fingers in his hair, they're all things he usually loves — can't get enough of. He hates (hates, hates, hates) that it feels good now when he wishes he was anywhere but here; wishes he was back at the Byers'. Wishes he'd never opened the goddamn door.
Wishes he'd stayed home.
"That's — " Hargrove starts to say, words cutting off into a moan as Steve tries moving his hand along what he can't fit into his mouth. He's clumsy, clumsier than usual; uncoordinated, like the first time he'd tried to pat his head and rub his stomach at the same time as a kid. Something about it seems to be working, though.
Steve's jaw is already starting to ache. Even though it feels like it's been forever, he can't have been at it long. Pulling off to rest — hell, to open it wider, stretch his jaw out, anything to make it easier — isn't an option. Hoping to help speed things up (let him be done, please) Steve sucks a little harder. Hargrove's hips jerk up and Steve chokes.
He just has the wherewithal not to squeeze Hargrove any tighter; doesn't want to imagine what he'd do if Steve hurt him. Instead, he lets go and claws at the denim covered thigh, trying to scramble up and off. His eyes open wide when he tries to sit up, get away, catch his breath — and Hargrove holds him in place. A second hand joins the first on his head; one keeping him still and the other petting through his hair while Hargroves makes quiet shushing noises.
"Easy, sweetheart," he says, gentle but with a thread of breathless amusement underneath, "you're okay. Breathe through your nose."
Steve closes his eyes and something wet slides down his cheeks. Shit, he can't make it stop. His heart beats so fast, he's surprised it doesn't give out. With no other options, he tries to calm down enough to do what Hargrove says.
"That's a good boy," he says when Steve stops clawing at his leg. Hargrove keeps up the petting for a few seconds, the rest of him keeping still. Too quick, and far too loud, Steve breathes and breathes and breathes until, gradually, he feels the air in his lungs. "Better now?"
How the hell does Hargrove expect him to? Steve blinks more tears from his eyes. They fall shut in defeat when he realizes exactly how Hargrove expects him to answer. It's not like he can nod. Steve makes a sound somewhere between a hum and a moan. Hargrove's thigh tenses under his hand, thankfully keeping his hips from moving again.
Calmer now, as calm as he can possibly be given where he is, he focuses on continuing to breathe and starts sliding his hand back across Hargrove's lap. Before he gets it around Hargrove's dick, the hands in his hair get tighter. Steve grunts, trying not to freak out again at the way he can't move.
His head is guided ever so slightly up and for a split second relief floods through him — Hargrove is going to let him — he's going to get a break. Just for a second. But that doesn't happen. He doesn't get that far before there's gentle pressure pushing him back down. Hargrove continues to guide him up and down and all Steve can do is dig his fingers in and let him.
Steve makes a sound (not a whimper, that would be) when Hargrove begins to move his hips. Small thrusts up as he guides Steve down and forces himself in just that little bit further, fucking his mouth. His jaw is on fire and cramped; feels like it's going to be stuck in this position forever even if (when, when) this finally ends.
Please let it end soon.
"Fuck." Hargrove's movements get quicker, less careful, and it's all Steve can do to let him; not to tear himself away the closer Hargrove finally seems to be getting. Just a little longer now, he's sure.
Hesitantly, afraid after what happened before, but prepared for the reaction he might get this time, Steve tries hollowing out his cheeks and sucks in again. Hargrove groans, jerks up a little harder. Steve squeezes Hargrove's thigh and manages not to choke. He hums, longer and louder than the sound he'd made earlier.
His scalp aches nearly as much as his jaw from how his hair is being pulled as he's moved. There's still a thread of something good in it that he's trying not to think about, not to feel, because it's — he doesn't want to feel anything good about what's happening to him.
There's no warning beyond the hands pushing and keeping his head down before Hargrove comes. Steve pushes against Hargrove's thigh again, but there's nothing he can do. It's warm and gross — fuck, no wonder his girlfriends finished him off with their hands instead. He's never considered what the texture would be like in his mouth, gelatinous and bitter and awful. He tries, tries, to do what Hargrove obviously wants. To swallow what he can despite the surprise, but what feels like a lot of it seeps out from his lips in a mess.
The pressure on his head subsides as Hargrove lets him go. Steve doesn't think twice before sitting up, coughing and wincing at how sore his jaw and scalp and arm are. He bends forward at the waist, covering his stomach with his aching arm. Presses as close as he can to the passenger side door.
"Well, shit, Harrington," Hargrove pants. There's a lazy grin on his face when Steve looks. He's facing Steve, leaning against the headrest, all loose and easy. "Bit'a practice, you could earn yourself a living with that mouth."
Face going warm, Steve swipes one of his sleeves across his mouth. Fuck, his lips are hot and swollen. He crosses his arms over his chest; wants to ask if they're done now, if they can leave. The words refuse to come. He wants to blame it on how his throat is as sore as the rest of him. His stomach churns and he swears he can feel the way Hargrove's — feel it sitting uncomfortably in his gut.
"Hey."
Steve reluctantly meets Hargrove's eyes. He swallows painfully when Hargrove reaches for him, sure he's going to get another fistful of Steve's hair — he said a few minutes, is he going to make Steve — but he only rubs his thumb across the bottom of Steve's swollen lips. "There. Don't want the kids to see any of that, right?"
Clenching his jaw, Steve grinds his teeth together. His nails dig into his arms and he holds them even tighter against his chest. When Hargrove raises his eyebrows expectantly, Steve bites out a, "Thanks," that tastes like acid coming out.
"Any time."
Steve's stomach drops, but Hargrove finally stops looking at him to get his pants done back up. Thank God the guy doesn't seem concerned at all about cleaning up before heading back.
Steve wants to go.
The shadows outside no longer take the form of monsters. They're just shadows, created by the headlights of a car. A car Steve is going to have to see in the parking lot of school every day for the rest of the goddamn year. Balling his hands into fists is the only thing that keeps them from shaking, even bundled into his elbows like they are.
Steve stays tense as the Byers' house comes into view. A head of curls appears in the window as the headlights streak across the house. Slowly, Steve lets his arms drop to his sides. There's a moment when, heart speeding up, he expects the handle not to give, but the door pops open easily. He shoves it open and tries his best not to worry the kids by jumping out the way he wants to.
Before he gets it shut behind him, he catches a glimpse of Hargrove. He's got his arm stretched out across the top of the passenger seat. Lips curved into a smirk that tightens Steve's stomach, he leans forward. "See you around, sweetheart."
Steve slams the door shut.
Dustin's voice sounds far away as it calls Steve's name. Something, someone tugs on the sleeve of his jacket, but that feels far away, too.
He doesn't move again until the taillights disappear from view.