14 Works by celoica
Listing Works
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"There's blood on your face," Steve said numbly. He touched his own mouth. His fingers came back dark and slick with blood.
Billy threw back his head and laughed. Red stained his teeth. "You gonna still kiss me, darling?"
(Or: The one where Steve and Billy find something in each other they couldn't find in anyone else.)
Series
- Part 1 of perfect places
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A collection of prompts and drabbles I've written on Tumblr.
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they know god (but i know you) by celoica for abaddxns
Fandoms: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
15 Oct 2020
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Steve swallowed so loudly it was a wonder the rednecks at the bar didn’t hear it. “I kissed you. In the locker room. It was right after the fight at Jonathan’s place. You were standing in the locker room and I tried to talk to you, but you wouldn’t even look at me. Your face was all fucked up. I don’t think I did all of it.
“And you just looked at me and I just wanted to know what you’d seen. I wanted to know if you knew what we did, but you just looked and you were so close, and I just—”
Steve closed his eyes, screwed them shut like he could block out a memory Billy didn’t remember. He licked his lips and said, “You were standing so close to me and it felt like something I should do. And you kissed me back. Billy, you kissed me back. And then you just walked away.”
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Billy had been finding God inside boys’ mouths long before Steve Harrington.
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It was all Nancy Drew’s fault—or whatever her fucking name was.
Billy was certain. He was more than certain. He was more certain than he was about the sun setting and rising every day, and the neighbour above him faking her orgasms at a pitch meant for dolphins every Friday night, eight on the dot. He was certain enough that he’d gamble his entire paycheck on it.
Nancy Whatever-the-fuck-her-name-was was to blame for this.
This being Steve Harrington, eyes hollow and mouth dry, banging on his door and asking for Adderall like every other cookie cutter, using-daddy’s-credit-card college student in Oakland.
“Dude,” Billy said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
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“The connection. To—to everything.” He laughed, an edge of hysteria to it. “She was in the seat and she was screaming and bleeding and I was touching her when she stopped—“
He cut himself off, bit his tongue. Explaining it was like trying to explain the act of breathing. He didn’t know the mechanics, only that it just was.
Billy shuffled close. He kept his hands to himself. “Stopped what?”
“Being. Existing. Her soul or whatever just stopped.” He rubbed at his eyes until they hurt. “You ever feel someone die? It’s Hell.”
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"I loved you," Steve said thickly. "Once."
"Once, huh? What happened to forever?"
"You left."
Billy didn't say anything for a long time. He turned the paintbrush over in his hand, calloused fingers dancing over the handle, flicking over the cheap bristles. "You didn't tell me to stay," he said, soft, tortured.
(In which Steve is a Deputy Sheriff, Billy is a struggling artist and The Gate is open once again.)
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If someone had told him months ago that he would end up in Billy Hargrove’s bedroom, Steve wouldn’t have believed them, much less the way he got there. He would have laughed, nervous, and asked if they were okay, if they had fallen recently, or swallowed any black slugs that took control.
Billy wasn’t his friend. He wasn’t his anything.
But Billy stood over the body, blood leaking a pool on the floor from the splintering of Neil’s skull, eyes wide and wet and horrified. His shirt was soaked red, hands shaking. He trembled like a leaf, like the jitters had infected him. He shook like he was scared.
“What did you do?” Billy asked, strangled and thick, clogged in his throat like old pipes. "Steve, what did you do?”
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Steve had never been his friend. A challenge to accept, maybe. A mountain to climb, sure. Never a friend. Steve hadn’t wanted Billy like that, or at all.
But Steve wasn’t Steve Harrington, Golden Son of Hawkins High, in Amsterdam or Ghent or Compiègne or a hotel room in Paris. He was just Steve, the one with a sick sense of humour and a hollow look in his eye, the one who swallowed little white capsules every morning from a bottle with lithium scratched off the label. He was just Steve, the guy who pushed Billy into bed every night, sucked his cock in a train bathroom and fucked him over the edge of a fountain in the middle of the day.
For seven months.
Seven months.
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He was clean, unmarred by the passing of time, by the sharp edges of knives and swords and brutal fists. Cut from virgin cloth, swathed in it.
The Outsider paused. That wasn't right. There, in the eyes, dark and heavy from above the black mask obscuring his nose and eyes. There, in the slope of his shoulders, the crouched position he took on the top of the bell tower, the tight scrape of his hair pulled back from his face.
There, on the scar blotting his left hand, a shape the Outsider was intimately familiar with.
The boy raised his head, moonlight cutting across his face. He slipped two fingers under the fabric across his face, pulling it free. It settled around his throat like a collar.
The Outsider wondered what sort of god possessed the kind of power to give a man like Corvo Attano a second life.
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Instead of blowing up, Billy gets blown.
In which the following occurs: Steve gets a fear boner, Billy gets his dick sucked and a Demodog comes out of the fridge.
Series
- Part 1 of bjs at byers
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It had been his idea. Everything had been his idea. From the day Billy Hargrove had rolled up in his vintage car to the day Steve had walked into school with a fresh bite on his neck, proudly scabbed over and on display for his entire class to see, it had been all Steve’s idea.
Billy did something witchy to his blood, thickening it under his skin and making it hard for him to think about anything else. At first, he’d thought maybe an incubus, something demonic and lust-driven and so out of place in tiny Hawkins, Indiana, until Laurie had leaned over and whispered about the new kid being a werewolf.
The last time they’d had one of those in Roane County had been before Steve had been born.
Even without the full moon to influence him, Billy was everything Steve had imagined a werewolf to be; aggressive and larger than life, in tune with the people who watched him with curious eyes, charming until it made Steve’s stomach clench in jealousy when his attention was on anyone but him.
Witchy. To him. The witch.
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“This doesn’t have anything to do with anything, Mr Hargrove.”
Billy’s tongue touched his upper lip. Steve stared harder, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “I’m asking.”
Steve cleared his throat. “No and no. Can we get back to the questions?”
“We can if you let me suck your cock.”
“What.”
“Let me suck your cock and I’ll answer all the questions you want.”
(Subtitled: Steve makes really bad life choices. In which unstable teenage boys and thirty-something lawyers mix, and things get out of hand, fast.)
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"I don't want Tommy. I want you."
Steve sucked in a breath, sharp and low, catching his lower lip between his teeth. Billy was moving closer, edging an inch or two or five closer, until he was a hairsbreadth away. Steve swallowed, plastering himself up against the car door, handle digging into the small of his back.
"What about Tina?" he suggested, a squeak in his voice. "Tina's got a crush on you, y'know, she's very obvious about it, you have to know, and she's really good at doing this thing with her tong—"
"Steve," Billy said, and it struck Steve so hard it knocked the breath out of his lungs, "shut up."