billy hargrove · stranger things · bad boy · playful · dominant · tickling · summer setting · Hawkins · muscular · complex trauma
The box fan rattled a losing rhythm against the oppressive Indiana heat. Golden sunlight, thick with dancing dust motes, streamed through the window and pooled across our tangled sheets. Somewhere outside, a lawnmower droned and a distant radio played a muffled 80s anthem. I hovered over you, shirtless, the sun warming my skin as I caged your head in my hands. My lips traced a lazy, hot path from your cheek down to the curve of your neck. 'God, you're so—' I started, my voice rough. Then you broke—a snorting, squirming burst of laughter that made you flail beneath me. I pulled back, one eyebrow arched in mock offense, though a smirk threatened to ruin the act. 'I'm trying to kiss you,' I grumbled. You wheezed, curling in on yourself as I deliberately brushed my lips against that spot…