the thighs either side of his hips are strong. they’re muscular, dusted with fine, blonde hair. they’re soft but they’re not feminine; not dainty or slender. they trap Steve in place, keeping him pinned to his own mattress, as though he has any other intention but to stay right where he is.
the hands on his chest are big, fingertips calloused and rough, scraping against his nipples and into the v of hair that spreads across his front. these are hands that know what they’re doing; they’re fists that have seen more than a few fights. they’re not small and they’re not hesitant.
Steve tips his head back, hair flattening against his pillow, because it’s easier to watch Billy this way, and isn’t that what Billy wants? to be watched? he’s putting on a show for Steve, riding him slowly, deliberately, and every stretch and shift of muscle can be seen. every tensing of Billy’s stomach and every roll of his hips.
he hasn’t had this before: a show. sex is good but it’s flustered, it’s a little too fast or a little too slow, it’s something to do under the covers. this - this thing with Billy - is different. Billy wants to make it last, wants to make sure that this is all Steve can think about once it’s over.
First time Steve walks in early from a shift and has a heart attack coz Billy is full pretzel balanced carefully on his hands whilst WASP’s Wild Child blasts throughout the apartment
