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robthegoodfellow · 7 months

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No Romeo, But He’s My Loving One-Man Show

Mirror Sex, Roleplaying for Days 9/10 of @harringrovekinktober additional incidental praise kink, edging, fledgling D/s dynamic, cum play, slight feminization

(roommates, kink experimentation, billy is a femme fatale but really just a very good boy, nsfw)

Handy Links to Previous Chapters: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Steve had expected Robin to have some pointed feedback after coming over for dinner and a horror movie—a longstanding tradition Billy had inducted himself into a couple days post move-in by rescuing the pizza from a crispy demise because someone forgot to set a timer—but when Steve met her for coffee later that week, all she talked about was the mirrors.

Why are there so many? Why are there more every time I visit? Do you know how many years of bad luck you’re risking? That old one with the fancy frame is definitely cursed—I saw something moving in it. No, it wasn’t us—something else. Like, out of the corner of my eye. It’s haunted, Steve—you should get rid of it. Don’t break it, though, whatever you do.

Finally, after much redirection and pointed questioning, she’d given her assessment on the Billy situation, specifically how Billy seemed to feel about Steve, from an outside perspective.

Mostly you both seemed normal, aside from sneaking looks at each other constantly. But even that’s normal, in a way. Her eyes narrowed. Is that why so many mirrors? More opportunity for sneaky looks?

Which—what? No. That wasn’t why—though he’d be lying if he said he’d never… But what did she even mean, that even that’s normal?

Well, like when we watch movies and something funny happens, you always look at Billy to see his reaction. And when the special effects are corny, he always looks at you and rolls his eyes. And when we’re all three hanging out, half the time it’s you and me trading knowing looks from inside jokes, and half the time it’s you and him. So, like—the looking isn’t new, I just caught you guys doing it without the other realizing it. Like a bunch of times.

Rather than deny it, Steve found himself asking, pathetically, how Billy looked. When Billy looked at him.

Like this, Robin said, and made the biggest, dopiest cow eyes, complete with dreamy sigh, reverent tilt of the chin.

Steve told her to fuck off, but couldn’t repress the grin splitting his idiot face, and Robin cackled.

Ask the haunted mirror, if you don’t believe me! It’ll totally back me up.

It’s not like they’d planned to make the apartment a fun-house mirror maze, but after the divorce, Steve’s mom went a little nuts selling off stuff from the Hawkins place, all of which was apparently unsuitable for her townhouse in Chicago, and when his dad made a stink about her disposing of hideous heirlooms intended for Steve, she’d promised to forward their son the remainder.

Which was how he ended up with the couch, complete with decorative throw pillows, and… about six ornate mirrors of varying unreasonable size. And sure, he could’ve sold them himself, because his dad didn’t actually give a shit, but then he’d sorta grown used to them, and Billy had never complained, so… yeah. Made the place feel bigger, or whatever.

Over time, the arrangement had shifted here and there—except for the one in Steve’s room over the dresser, the one in the bathroom over the sink—anyway, however it happened, Steve had noticed, one day, that he’d subconsciously mastered where to position himself throughout the sitting room to see a reflection of the kitchen, the bathroom corridor, and… Billy’s room, if the door was open—and, these days, it usually was.

Did he feel like a creep? Well, yes and no. Yes in that he was aware he should feel like a creep, and therefore did, and no in that he was almost certain Billy knew he was watching and didn’t care. Not only didn’t care, but… liked it.

After his conversation with Robin, though, he threw all subtly to the wind, staring fixedly at Billy’s reflection as he puttered around in the kitchen, as he left the bathroom, as he lounged in bed reading a book… silently daring Billy to call him out on it, until Billy did.

“Feel like a bug under glass,” he called, turning a page. “You gonna pin me down?”

Humming, Steve resettled against the arm of the couch, didn’t bother turning—just kept admiring him in the mirror leaning against the wall, almost floor to ceiling. The bedside lamp cast warm shadows, limning his hair in gold. Steve wondered if Billy got tired, holding the book above his face like that.

“I was thinking more like a spy tailing a mark.”

Billy laughed—a short bark of sound. One of Steve’s favorites. “Be dead so fast—made in seconds.”

“You saying I’m more Get Smart than Napoleon Solo?”

“Dunno,” Billy mused, thoughtful. Rolling, he made a pillow of his arms, crossed over the closed book. Leveled Steve a filthy smirk. “If you were 007, I could be your Bond Girl.”

That got Steve to turn around, meet his gaze direct, then cooed, all sympathy: “You wanna be tied up, babe, just ask.”

Billy bit the inside of his cheek, unwillingly amused, so Steve dialed up the cheesy charm.

“C’mon, that was good—Bond Girl? Like bond—”

“I got it,” Billy drawled, levering himself up only to flop against his piled pillows in supposed disgust, book cast aside. “Just call me Pussy Galore.”

“Dick Galore.”

Billy frowned. “Randy Galore?”

“A Bond Boy would have to be Randy Something,” Steve acknowledged. “Or… Something Hancock.”

They paused, then, in unison: “Randy Hancock.”

“And I, James Bondage, am tailing you,” Steve went on, as Billy snickered. “And haven’t been made, because I’m an experienced, accomplished spy—”

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” With a final snort, Billy folded his arms behind his head, semi-reclined, and pondered the ceiling, unfocused. “What next?”

Steve mimicked him, only on the couch, back to watching Billy’s reflection. “I use my handy spy-glass to peer around corners, and I catch you unawares—getting ready for bed.” Billy hummed, polite interest, and waited for more. So Steve gave him more, mind whirring, pulse already on the rise. “I watch you take off your shirt.”

Absently, only shifting enough to complete the action, Billy peeled his shirt off. Dropped it on the floor.

“Then your jeans.”

Those required a more aggressive shimmy, but soon they joined the discarded shirt.

“And then I can’t stop—can’t look away. Like I’m glued to the sight.” Steve’s throat clicked as he swallowed, trailing his palm down his stomach—indulged in a firm rub. “So pretty, spread out on the bed.”

On cue, Billy spread, thighs parting to reveal white briefs, the cotton worn thin, pink showing through where his bulge stretched the fabric. Sighing, a lazy hand skated south, fingers brushing the waistband. Slipped under, but no further. The fingers seemed to press—stalling the hips, an aborted twitch.

“Shit.” Steve wagged his head, corralling what remained of his wits. “I—uh, I figure…” He chuckled, let one heel drop off the couch to rest on the floor, his hand working a steady rhythm. “Figure I’ll learn what you like, use it to seduce you later. Learn how you like to touch yourself—”

Billy grunted, lashes stuttering as he shoved past the elastic, made a fist around the handful. Spoke soft, musing: “Haven’t, you know.”

“What?”

“Haven’t been—touching myself.” Eyes still on the ceiling, Billy’s lips quirked, just as soft. “Not without permission.”

That landed like a punch, loosing a long, meandering moan: “Baby.”

And the baby blues drifted down, met a reverent stare in the mirror. “Yeah?” So innocent, solicitous.

Steve rolled his hips into his palm, arching clear off the cushion. “I like that.”

Billy’s head lolled sideways, downcast—bashful as he squirmed, bulky knuckles straining the front of his briefs.

“My good boy,” Steve murmured. And he meant it with every fiber of his being: “Show me what feels good.”

His eyes fluttered closed. The hand slowed. “You.”

Simultaneous hits—to the heart and the heat low in his gut. A vicious press brought himself back under control.

“God—killing me.” Could barely huff it, all of him locked on the hand that had tugged free of clinging briefs to caress the red weeping cock, featherlight, through damp cotton. Steve’s pulse pounded so loud in his ears he more saw it than heard it—pink lips shaping You. You. You.

As though hypnotized, clumsy because he was so hard it fucking hurt, even sweatpants chafing awful against skin throbbing tender, Steve stumbled to the bedroom door—caught himself on the frame, panting, light-headed from the sudden vertical, essential bloodflow coursing elsewhere.

Billy choked off a whine, fisted the coverlet to either side, legs splayed as his spine bowed, sank back. “Please.”

In a blink, Steve was at the foot of the bed, crawling to him, over him, hips forcing Billy’s legs wide. “I got you.” Long, dragging grind, the rub exquisite. “I got you.”

The moan vibrated through Billy’s flushed chest. He hadn’t let go of the bedding—wouldn’t, Steve realized, winded anew. He wouldn’t let go unless Steve told him to.

“How long?” Steve panted, reaching down to rub Billy with the flat of his palm through the briefs, this jerking, gentle pressure that worked him piecemeal to the peak, a maddening build. “How long you been waiting for permission, baby?”

“Luh—” Billy coughed, swallowing spit. “Long.”

“So good,” Steve crooned. “I think you’ve earned a reward, don’t you?”

The flush had spread up his neck to his cheeks, temples pulsing red. He was nodding, mindless. “‘Kay.”

“All right.” Steve brushed the bulbous crown with a teasing thumb. “Tummy or panties?”

Muffled throaty sound—like he’d been stabbed. Delivered on a whimper: “Panties.”

Steve resumed his kneading rub, coaxing, fine tremors wracking the body at his mercy. “One day I’m gonna get you a nice pair. Maybe something with lace?”

Billy gulped, trembling nod.

“Lace for your pretty cock, a thong for that pretty ass?”

Half-lidded, head craned back, lip bitten raw between his teeth, Billy shivered.

“Make a mess in your panties,” Steve whispered, bending low. “And I’ll make a mess in them, too.”

A burst of guttural gasps, almost hiccups, borderline sob, and he convulsed beneath Steve’s hand, sticky wet seeping through the fabric.

Steve dropped a good boy with every kiss—on cheek, neck, sternum. Lifting up on his knees, he brought out his own cock, stripping it with a loose fist.

Half-boneless, Billy hooked lazy fingers in the back of his briefs, tugging them past the curve of his butt, the front pulled snug against his spent dick, and rolled onto his stomach. Arched, presenting himself, bare ass exposed, and Steve found his groove between plush cheeks, rutting with enough force that he could feel his cockhead rub against that tight hole.

It didn’t take long—short pumps, short of breath—brutish grunt as he finished, coating the pert cheeks in ropes of slick, deploying one hand to catch runaway drips, pet the clenching hole with wet fingertips, tease the entrance.

Billy cut off a whine, squirming, grinding into his own mess, pushing into the pressure behind.

“Soon,” Steve promised. “I’ll give it to you soon.”

An unspooling sigh, and Billy went limp, face turned away.

Planting a kiss at the base of a shoulder blade, Steve drew up the back of Billy’s briefs, smoothing a hand over the sodden fabric—with a wave of heat, imagined the trail of his come oozing toward the taint.

Shifting, Steve curled up along Billy’s side, nose to nose, arm looped around his sloping back.

Billy blinked, placid, as Steve drew a lock of hair away from his eyes.

“Ruined it,” he mumbled, mouth quirked. “The spy scene.”

“Nah,” Steve said. “A good spy knows when to change plans on the fly—switch it up.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Warming to the idea: “What happened was—I realized I could offer you what you needed. In exchange for what I needed.”

Billy’s gaze was lulling as a lake in moonlight. “What did I need?”

Steve let a smile twitch, nerves singing. “Me.”

An echoing twitch. Lids lowered, a hitch in his tone: “And… what did you need?”

Steve dipped near, heart in his throat. “You.”

Billy hummed, a short burst trapped behind teeth. He nudged close, and Steve’s eyes slid shut.

Press of lips, lingering soft, on the edge of his chin.