otherbitches | IC Inbox [ RUBI ]

Jim's hand is harsh on his face and Billy sucks in a sharp breath of air. Feels like little shards of ice down his throat, before he gasps out pulpy fire.

Jim doesn't hit him, and Billy's hardly paying attention to what he's saying. Maybe that's what makes Danny special: he sinks in, makes everyone around him worse, makes Billy want to yowl and cry and feel what a knife feels like when it punctures flesh. It makes him spitting mad, almost as mad as Jim dropping him, Jim's—

eyes flicking. Like he's not fully here. Billy needs him fully here.

"Are you—" he snickers a little, a little breathless. "Talking to him?" There go Jem, Jim, Eddie, maybe even Murphy. No one knows where Murphy is. But Danny's everywhere. "Fuck you. I need you." He slides from the counter, bare feet padding closer, animal quiet. "Hit me." His palm comes up, pushes against Jim's chest. He says it again, louder: "Hit me."

Edited 2024-01-08 17:51 (UTC)

Jim flinches like Billy's hit him. He says: "Stop that," at the first hit me. It overshadows his guilt, for a moment. Stops his communication with Danny dead, has grabbing Billy's wrist to hiss: "I said stop, I'm not going to fucking hit you."

He's expecting a fight: expecting Billy to push, to shove, to call him a pussy. He's expecting it because Jim's been here, screaming hit me you fucking pussy, at his own old man, each time he held his fists back. A rare occurrence; Jim knew the taste of fathers fist, the back of his palm, the taste of his belt, more than he knew the sweetness of his praise. That was just how it was in those days, though: Jim was never a well behaved child.

He looks at Billy's big, watery eyes; takes in his fury, his rage, his hurt. It's like looking into a terrible mirror, like staring at himself twenty years before now.

He wavers, pulls Billy into his chest, wraps an arm around him tight. He says, softer: "I'm not going to hit you. Stop it, breathe."

Billy says it again, and then he says it louder, face tipped up to Jim's and so obstinately furious... if it weren't for the sorrow, the glassy way his eyes gleam at Jim, lashes gathering wetly when he tries to hit him again, but his wrist is gripped too tight in the circle of Jim's hand.

He's still talking, saying bullshit like, "Fuck you!" and "I told you to fucking hit me!" and gun-to-head he doesn't know what he wants, just that he's off the rails, and maybe he craves the familiar, wants Jim to treat him like his old man did, because that's the only goddamn way he's getting sent to bed, no dinner. Maybe that's it, Billy was too bad to deserve Jim's hands on him, and he'll take them anyway he can get them.

Jim never hits him, and Billy's tirade gets breathless. He pulls his hand back again, to try thumping his fist on Jim's heart when he's pulled in tight, tight, and he's rigid, a rabbit in a snare before he takes a long shuddering breath.

And sobs. His head tips against Jim's chest, forehead grinding against his collarbone when his hands scrabble against him, his clothes, all of him, anything Billy can get. "I can't fucking—" think. "I don't know what—" happened. "Jim, help."

Jim knows this. This is familiar; this feeling, this rage, this uncertainty, it's just like grief. Jim knows grief, knows how to hold it, how to understand it. He cradles the back of Billy's head and soothes him with a shoosh, soft-toned in the same way he used to hold Sarah when it got real bad, near the end. He coos and holds Billy firm, keeps him pressed against his chest, says, just as soft: "I've got you. I've got you."

Quentin's in his head; Danny's in his head. Jim's got his own, newly forming grief settling deep in his chest. For all he doesn't trust, he doesn't think Danny Johnson has ever lied to him. Not really. He trusts Quentin; the truth of it sits between himself and Billy. No one is really safe, in the end. Not them, not Steve, not Nancy, not Jonathan.

He murmurs: "Keep breathing. That's it. I've got you."

Maybe this is all he can do; use his useless hands to hold Billy steady, keep his face buried in his chest so he can't look outwards. Keep him distracted so he can't think. Is that cruel? Is that mercy? His own cheeks feel wet, and when he blinks his eyes sting. He ducks his head down, buries his face in Billy's hair. He says: "We're okay."

It rattles through him harshly, heavy hitching sobs that are equal parts anguish and fury. Jim's hands stay steady, hold him tight, but don't grab. They don't dig in to hurt, don't wrench him away, throw him against a wall, back into a door knob. Billy breaks apart, and its childish, something to be embarrassed by, but Jim brushes his lips over the crown of Billy's head and hustles in him closer, held securely, and Jim's so— big.

Billy's always been a crybaby, ~~pussy, bitch, faggot~~, so, he cries until his chest feels empty, his breath is ragged, and Jem and Danny and Eddie and Murphy are dampened echoes of their real ache, until Steve and Jonathan and Nancy are buried deep in an unmarked grave in his chest.

He's so tired. He's so fucked up in the head. His arms go up, around Jim's neck dragging him down as Billy's head tilts up, pressing their foreheads together. Billy breathes, looking at Jim through pupil-wide eyes, watery and lost. It's hard to reconcile this man, this Jim, with police Chief Hopper. This man is his.

He knocks their mouths together, shallow kisses that slowly turn deeper. "Need you," he mumbles, "Need you... keep me grounded."

He can do this. Maybe he shouldn't; maybe the catch of Billy's mouth, the slip of his tongue, maybe they're not helpful. It's just pure distraction, but distraction is better than the dwelling, isn't it? Distraction is better than the thinking.

He cups Billy's face with both hands and kisses him deep, kisses him long, murmuring: "I've got you."

He smooths his thumbs over Billy's cheeks, wipes away stray wetness. He pecks at his mouth, says: "You want to go to back bed?" Distraction, distraction, distraction.

Hop's facial hair is growing back. It scratches against Billy's lip, against his chin when his head turns, pushing himself further into Jim's steadfast warmth. Jim's hands are on his face, and there's still that specter inside Billy that wants to sneer; he can't kill it, that specter. Not really. But his fire's burning low, and he doesn't tip his head up and tell Hop how he's going to strangle Danny Johnson. How he'll try to kill him if he gets the chance.

Billy doesn't say that, just reaches up to wrap his fingers around Hop's big wrist, turns it, move to press his mouth against the pulse point, against his hot, pounding blood, that Billy tasted. His first memory upon waking..

Then he tugs him toward the bedroom.

Jim goes where Billy leads; the simmering anger in both their guts has quietened, for now. Jim's still tired, he's still roiling with disappointment, still terribly frustrated and quietly afraid of Billy's venom, his tone. When they're inside the small room, Jim drags Billy in by the hand, drags him down to the bed and bullies his full weight on top of him, kisses him slow, long.

He kisses Billy until he needs to breathe, needs a moment to press his forehead to his, and sighs: "How do you need me, baby?"

Baby is for here, between them. These walls, this bed. It's for moments like this, intimate and quiet.

Tension fills his body, for just a moment, muscles tensed, shoulders stiff, then he loosens, going slack and going where Jim puts him. Billy reorients, tilts his head to breathe into the kiss. Jim is kissing him, Billy's breathing back into his mouth, lips trying to sink into a rhythm. He's fucked up.

Baby filters in and Billy's breath catches in his throat, dry and hurting and he makes a wretched noise.

Jim's so fucking heavy, which is good, it means Billy won't float away, won't slip away oil slick to be a creature snapping at Danny Johnson's heels. Billy gulps in air and it's that same wretched noise. Billy presses back, forehead against forehead, screws his brilliant blue eyes shut so he can't see Jim's mirroring back.

"If I keep thinking..." he trails off, hisses. He reaches for Jim's hand, drags it close, sets it on his throat, tightens his grip around Jim's fingers, tightening his grip over his own skin.

His hand feels so heavy at the end of wrist, placed so delicately against Billy's throat, constricting with every curl of Billy's fingers over his own. He doesn't flinch from this and perhaps that should scare him. He thinks he understands; Jim couldn't hit Billy, couldn't hurt, no matter how much Billy goads or acts up. But he can do this, he thinks. This is controlled. This is -

"Okay," he says, so very fondly, and allows himself a moment to close his eyes. "Okay. Let's stop you thinking, then."

His other hand gently tucks more of that hair behind Billy's ear. When the light hits just right, Billy looks almost like he has a soft, golden halo. Angelic, with Jim's hand around his throat and his thighs split and splayed over Jim. "But if you want this, we do it right," he says, after a moment of basking in the soft glow that is Billy. He catches Billy's mouth with his again, kisses him so sweet it might as well be spun-sugar on his lips. "Touch yourself," he says, before he licks in, before it becomes filthy. "Get yourself ready for me," and then he squeezes just so.

Jim goes for it, and Billy cracks apart in a good way, in a good, good fucking way. His breath catches on his exhale, relief evident when he looks up at Jim with something soft and breakable in his eyes. Love, maybe, but it feels bigger and more terrible, maybe trust.

"Always ready for you," he rasps, breath sucking in when Jim's fingers pulse around his neck. Billy's hands drop now, push at his soft sleep pants before one hand wraps around chubbed-up dick, tip dragging against Jim's belly. "Want you to fuck me while you choke me."

He licks back into Jim's mouth, says into his mouth: "Please, daddy."

"I know you do." He means this to be reassuring, he means this to be a I know what you need, and I'm going to give it to you. His thumb grazes over Billy's chin, over his bottom lip, and he looks like a wet dream come. His very own pin-up centre piece splayed out under him, all his, sweet as sin. He kisses him over his own thumb, and then starts the work of undoing Billy Hargrove completely.

He starts with his fingers, oiled up, one, two, then three - fucks him slow with his palm heavy against Billy's neck. He doesn't squeeze, he doesn't push - he lets it sit there like a promise while he works him open, while he slicks up his own fat cock in the aftermath and lines himself up to ease in. He always has to resist the urge to fuck right into the hilt, but this time he doesn't - this time he pushes in hard, fast and then squeezes Billy's neck so slow, bends down till they're forehead to forehead, hip to hip, Billy's dick grazing Jim's stomach. "Good boy," he says, ragged, harsh. "Knew you'd be able to take me on the first go, good fucking boy." He holds still, squeezes a little tighter and then releases, eases his hips back, snaps forward fast, hard.

It's fucking surreal, giving himself up like this, the steady firm palm against his throat. Jim's weight bearing down on him. It's moments like this that solidify the different ways he perceives Jim, how differently he's come to see him. There's the sheriff, there's Hop, and there's Jim, sometimes daddy, but Jim is nearly an entire person in his mind's eye, not a half-formed figure, not just a mark of authority.

"Yes. Yeah, god— please," puffed out and muttered as those thick fingers fuck into his body. "Fuck" gasped out when Jim slides home, filling Billy up, pushing out thoughts, his baggage, the crazy shit Billy's got living like chaos in his brain, how much he wants to kill Danny. He sucks in a breath when Jim bottoms out, puts them forehead to forehead, hip to hip, the tip of Billy's dick dragging against Jim's belly.

Good fucking boy. Billy keens. It sounds wet and weak and angry. Billy's arms rise and loop around Jim's neck, holding on as his calf hooks around Jim's ass, heel digging in when he grinds down to meet his thrusts, gasping around the hand on his throat. He's eager to take it, eager to take what he's given, an active fucking participant until Jim's rolling hips become overwhelming, tightness blooming hot inside Billy until he's forced just to take, his blue eyes hot and molten and so fucking loving as they go hazy between each roll of Jim's hips and each pulse of his palm. "Love it," he gasps stupid as he's plowed. "Love," you, "it, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me—"

Fucking Billy comes a second nature now. It’s the hand on the throat that’s new; this is what Jim has to focus on with more care, to co-ordinate with his thrusts. He squeezes tighter each time he fucks in, and releases on the draw back - at first. He squeezes a little longer the more he gets into it, the more he watches and tests Billy’s limits and reactions.

He imagines it’s a heavy weight, imagines it must be bruising. His cock kicks inside Billy, his hips stutter, he feels utterly drunk with power with Billy under him, telling him how much he loves ~~him~~ it, and how much he wants ~~him~~ it. “That’s it, baby, you take it so good for me,” he says, along with, “so fucking tight for me, Billy,” and, “look at you, so damn perfect,” on a croon.

He thinks he might come soon - thinks, a little selfishly, that he wants to see Billy come first, hands on Jim’s shoulders, cock stimulated by Jim’s gut and happy-trail only. He leans in, kisses him wet, full of spit, and croons again: “Come for me, Billy, come on, right here on us both.”

The grip on his throat loosens and Billy sucks in a sweet, gasping breath of air, just enough to babble sugary sweet nothings on the exhale like, "Yours," and "Use me." And he is, isn't he? How couldn't he be when Jim's calling him perfect, his good fucking boy?

The words cut off when Jim's palm settles again, heavy, grounding, almost too much. He thinks he loves it. As much as he loves fucking Jim. As much as he loves Jim.

Jim kisses him before he has his breath back, and Billy's a bug on a board, a toy at his mercy. He feels like he's coming before he comes, cockhead dragging against Jim's belly, Billy's own body tense and pulsing, his eyes wanting to roll, his chest constricting, it's almost too much, it's—

He can breath, suddenly, and he gasps, his body twitching and shuddering, cock jumping, ass bearing down on Jim when he cries as he comes, a plaintive wail that digs his nails into Jim's shoulders. It's a big one and he keeps shuddering even after his dick is spent, little phantom spasms clenching down on Jim, coaxing him to follow. "Come in me," Billy tries to say, but mostly slurs, nails still hooked into Jim as his cum coats both of them. "Don't leave."

"Yeah, that's it - that's it," comes in a harsh, rough voice. He fucks a little harder, a little faster, squeezes down on Billy's throat through the whole orgasm, until he's done coating Jim's happy trail and both their chests in cum.

It doesn't take long for him to come, either. First he pulls his hand back, gives Billy's throat some relief from the unrelenting pressure. Maybe it's the blooming red there that drives him over the edge, or maybe it's planting his hand beside Billy's head, kissing him, and thinking of course, of course he's not leaving, of course he's coming inside. He does - grunts as his hips jerk hard, tongue halfway down Billy's throat. It's sloppy, it's full of spit, full of need.

He doesn't pull out. He rocks in, pushes his own seed in, in, in, and settles, ass to pelvis. He barely holds himself up in the aftermath; manages it long enough to kiss Billy's forehead. To catch his breath, to thumb away the wetness on Billy's cheeks. "I've got you," he says, repeats. "I'm not going anywhere."

It's too much, he feels the orgasm in his guts, his toes, his jaw, traveling through his pores and making him feel electric. He feel perfectly manipulated under Jim's hands, and it feels good, amazing even to have done so good by Jim. It was Jim who told him to come from a cock in his ass and a hand on his throat, his own cock desperate for any spared touch.

He never has time to breathe, not really. He takes a renewed shuddering gasp of breath but then it's all Jim again, all Jim, hand planted near his head and tongue down his throat, his stomach dragging against the cum on Billy's. Billy whines, he thinks, chasing Jim's mouth with clumsy open mouthed presses. Breathes so hard he moans when Jim only presses his cock in deeper, plugging all that cum inside him.

He feels too hot all over, when Jim mutters assurances, thumbing away moisture while Billy... drifts. It's too much: Danny, the new uncertainty with Jem and Eddie, but Jim's a heavy present weight, strong enough that Billy won't crumble like ash in the wind.

"I— you know I—" he tries, mouth too clumsy, tongue too thick, "Jim." Husband. Protector. Darling. Chief. Sheriff. Buzzkill. Lover. "You know that I— right? You know?" Hysteria is bleeding in, he knows— he has to, even if Billy can't say it, that he loves him, that it's the worst thing in the world, but Billy can't stop grasping for it.

He almost thinks he won't answer. That he'll kiss Billy till he's quiet; that he'll keep kissing him until he's too tired to think, or speak, or ask. He could be cruel, he could be evasive. He's buried deep inside Billy Hargrove, and nearly half a year ago he found him naked in the woods and did something terrible. He'll never forget the taste of Billy's blood on his tongue; he'll never forget the way Billy came for him that first time.

He'll never forget a life in a quiet little suburban house. That he was in love, and loved, and that they had such a normal, mundane life.

He says: "I know," very softly, very quietly. "I know, Billy, I know." Three times. He knows. He kisses him again. He smooths his wild hair, kisses his brow. "Me too," he says, and means it as much as he can. He'd do anything for Billy. He'd do anything to keep him safe, happy, cared for. That's love - that's love as he's always known it.

"Me too."

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cw: ref to previous physical abuse

cw: ref to previous physical abuse / description of past abuse

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