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“It just seems overly complicated to me. Can’t you make like, brownies or something? I’d rather eat my drugs.”
Argyle sits between your legs on the floor, a green pipe with scattered burn marks on the glass in his lap, “No can do, my friend, not unless I want the Byers’ kitchen to smell rank for a week.”
You tug a little too hard on the brush in your hand, catching a knot at the back of his head, but he doesn’t give sign of irritation or even acknowledgement. You comb your fingers through the strands where the knot was, a little pang of guilt in your chest. If he felt the pull, he would’ve ignored it anyway.
Argyle was the first guy in your life to even let you touch his hair, much less take a pair of scissors to it. Steve would run screaming, Eddie wanted his wild and unkempt, nothing but soap and water allowed, and you wouldn’t dare try to undermine Joyce’s home haircuts, no matter how dated they were becoming.
No, he was the first, and it’d become so commonplace that he felt comfortable enough spinning out of his mind on his west coast weed while you held sharp scissors to his hair.
You’re spinning out on your own right now, butterflies thumping in your stomach as he sits against you, an arm thrown over your knee. That was another thing about him, the touch. The puritanical culture of Hawkins—with hands by your side and prayers to stave off temptation—was antithetical to Argyle’s whole deal. He didn’t think twice about wrapping an arm around your shoulder, or pressing his palms into your cheeks during an anxious tirade. It was hard not to take it for something more than what it was, your heart in your throat every time he made contact.
“I’m telling you I literally can’t do it, then.” You say, smoothing your hand over his hair, trailing the brush as it breaks through what few knots he has, “I always forget to move my finger or hold my breath too long or inhale an ember and have a full breakdown because I think there’s a hole burned in my throat. I just like, can’t use a fucking bong or pipe or anything.”
You set the brush down, letting out a frustrated sigh, and he pats the side of your knee, “Hey, no worries, I got you.”
He leans down and takes a long pull from the pipe, twisting around to face you, his hand coming to the back of your head, bringing you close. Without conscious effort, your jaw drops and he leans in just enough to blow the smoke into your mouth, his bottom lip grazing yours as he turns away. As if that’s the most normal thing in the world. As if you can’t feel the heat from his mouth still on your lips. As if you aren’t frozen in place while your nerves shake more from the intoxication of Argyle’s lips than the effects of the smoke.
Several minutes pass in silence, his head resting on your inner thigh, thumb scraping at the loose threads of torn denim on your knee. You grab the brush and start combing his hair out again, shaking off the moment, reorienting yourself in friendship. You can deal with the longing and the butterflies, maybe, probably.
At the very least, you can survive as long as things stay at the same level as they've been. Your hands on his hair, him comfortable between your legs.
“You want more?” He asks after several more minutes of calm silence, and you consider saying no, but there’s a light buzz under your skin that makes you say, “Yeah, uh, yeah, totally.”
You brace yourself this time, squeezing the brush handle tight in your fingers, mouth open a little wider, hopefully a failsafe against his lips touching yours.
When he brings you down this time, though, you don’t keep them open. You close them for a kiss.
It’s a small peck, barely there, but he stares at you with surprise, and the smoke escapes when his lips fall open, a quiet ‘woah’ in the air between you. You watch his eyes flick up, can almost actually see the gears turning in his brain, and just as you’re leaning back away from him, he starts to smile.
It turns into a full grin, his eyes glassy and shining, staring blatantly at your lips.
You both slip into the next moments with ease, leaning down to kiss him again, mouth warm and bitter and soft. He kicks over the bong as you slide into his lap, murky water and gray ashes spilling onto your carpet.
“Shit, sorry, dude,” He tries to break from you to clean it up, but you pull a dirty shirt from behind you on the floor and throw it over the mess.
“Literally don’t care.” You speak against his mouth, leaving space between kisses for him to relax back into it.
“You sure?” He asks, his eyes still fixed on the lump under the shirt.
“Mhm.” You kiss the corner of his mouth, his cheek, the soft curve of his jaw, and finally you feel him melt into you.
His hand rests over your thigh, fingers pressing into the jeans, and he slides down to the crook of your knee, pulling you closer in his lap. He isn’t firm with his touch, more a guiding hand than a driving force, but you curl entirely into him, your arms slung around his neck.
It’s quickly apparent that he’s content to follow your lead, his tongue only slipping into your mouth after you’ve pushed yours into his, his hand only running over your breast once you’ve put it there.
You pull back, “Argyle.”
His lips are plump and red, and he’s surprised to break away from the kiss, his voice full of air, “Huh, yeah, what?”
“You sure you’re in the right headspace for this?” You ask, running your hand down his arm.
“Y—yeah, no, I’m—I’m—” He starts nodding, his eyes wide, hands pressing firmer against you. There’s nothing to read off him but enthusiasm, and he welcomes you back to his mouth with a full, open mouthed kiss. It’s sloppy and wet, and you want more. You both fall into a sloven, messy rhythm, your mouths too busy to care what your hands are doing until the clothes on your body become restrictive.
Your shirt is the first to go, breasts dropping from under the oversized tee, and Argyle’s hands come quickly over them. He palms them like dough, runs his knuckles over your nipples until they’re taut, the focus that was on your mouth centers instead on your breasts. You don’t know that anyone has marveled at you like this before.
“Unreal,” He whispers, interrupted by a giggle as you slip your hands under his shirt.
You smile at him as you take the layers off, “Ticklish?”
He holds back a laugh, pursing his lips and tilting his head up at you, “I may very well be.” He says, fingertips make their way over your skin until it’s you that can’t help giggling.
“Oh, ticklish?” He mocks, and you wrap your arms around his bare chest, bringing him back for another kiss.
The heat of his chest on yours is unbearable, and it’s not long before you’re both down to your underwear.
You straddle him on the floor, one hand grabbing at the warm flesh of his biceps as his arms lay flat beside his head. You lean over him on one elbow, fingers knotted at the top of his hair, sucking hickeys into his neck. His moans are loud sighs rather than palpable noises, breath shaking and uneven. The firm print of his dick under his boxers grows against your pelvis, and you press down into him, backing away to watch how his features shift. The slow grind of your hips has him grabbing at your breasts again, and he pulls you up to his mouth, sucking kisses around the flesh before his lips close over your nipple.
He swirls his tongue over the pebbled skin, flicking back and forth, a quiet hum vibrating over your skin from the back of his throat. His hands come down to your ass, and he pulls back from you, licking his bottom lip, and almost lifting you up to his face.
“Ope, wait, shit,” You topple over as he tries to bring you closer, catching yourself with a hand on his shoulder. He offers a lopsided smile, and an earnest, “Woah, my bad,” his fingers tapping along your inner thigh.
You stand up beside him and slide the panties off, swallowing hard before you kneel back down over him. This isn’t something you know about from anything other than the jeering ‘hey, sit on my face, sweetheart!’ comments you’d gotten from boys growing up. They felt more like a mockery than a genuine proposition, but Argyle’s hands rest delicate atop the front of your thighs, and he encourages you to settle down against his mouth.
His tongue slips between your lips, flat over the wet stripe of skin, just nicking the top of your clit. Almost immediately, the pressure is insurmountable, and you let your weight drop a little more. He starts slow, with lazy licks up and down, side to side, just slicking you up with spit.
You lean back and rest your hands on either side of his stomach, fingers firm in the plush skin, letting your head fall as he works you. He tilts his head forward, prodding the tip of his tongue against your clit, quick circles around the bundle of nerves, a kiss here and there. His touch is intentional, if a bit hesitant, but you can feel his confidence grow as you push harder into him, almost forgetting to care if you’re suffocating him.
Sharp spikes flock up your body as the pressure mounts, and you lean forward to grind on his face, firm tongue laid flat over your cunt. Again, he’s ready to let you take the lead, but a few well placed licks send you careening into your orgasm, hips sputtering on top of him. He nuzzles his face deeper between your legs as you ride through it, shaking his head back and forth, and you squirm over him trying to get away.
It’s now that he holds you, arms wrapping around your thighs, not letting up until he can hear you trying to catch your breath.
You fall backwards, your head at his waist, hands rubbing over your face with exasperated groans.
“You good?” He asks, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice. Any nerves he’d had coming into this were well on their way out.
“Yeah, fuck, good.” Lifting your hand in the air, you shoot him a thumbs up before rolling off onto the floor, the carpet colder than your bare stomach. You fold your arms in front of you and tilt your head to look at him, catching sight of the wet patch on his underwear.
“I—uh, well,” He clears his throat and watches you push up onto your knees.
“Are you all good?” You ask, slipping two fingers under the waistband of his boxers and sliding them down to release his softening erection.
“Totally, super good,” His voice catches in his throat when you drag your tongue over his dick. It twitches while you continue to lap up the sticky, salty cum that’s dribbled down the tip, and Argyle lets his head fall back with a thud! before combing a hand through his hair.
You take him entirely in your mouth, surprised at his length, but willing to choke on it for whatever residual bit of pleasure you’re giving him. His fingers play at the back of your head, wanting but not willing to push you down. He threads them instead between strands of hair, quiet, airy moans and involuntary spasms spurring you on.
More than content on your knees, content with the feeling of his hand grazing down your skull, you decide to yourself that the only stopping point here is when his dick starts to soften. You squeeze at his inner thighs with one hand, breaking your lips away to kiss marks that’ll be visible when he wears shorts. You don’t feel entitled to claim him as yours, there’s weed and adrenaline running through you both, but it doesn’t feel like a one-off. Wrapping your lips around him again, you press your tongue to his underside as you bob up and down, moist suction sending tangible shivers through his body.
He taps at your shoulder, and you look up to see him staring slack jawed at the ceiling.
“Yeah?” You mutter, wiping your mouth.
“Maybe I’m not in the right headspace anymore,” His voice is flat, eyes wide, breathing heavy, “Think I’m like, way far out beyond any headspace.”
You laugh, and drag a blanket from your bed, throwing it over your bare bodies.
He slides a hand under you, still staring blankly at the ceiling as you curl up to him.
“Argyle?” You tilt your head to look at him, and he hums.
“That was like…okay, right?”
The question breaks him from his stupor, and he looks at you with gaping awe, blinking a few times before he speaks, “That was so far past okay, I don’t know how I lived without it, know what I mean.”
You press a kiss to his jaw, and settle into him, “Yeah, absolutely I do.”