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normal-rabbit · 3 months

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Bunny Rabbits in My Head

Henry reached out, allowing his fingers to gently ghost over William’s. He traced over the crease lines in his friend’s hands, up to his knuckles, and slotted tentatively into the crevices between each finger. It was soft, and a little nervous, and William couldn’t hide the effect it had on him.

So little. It took so little. How pathetic. How sweet.

Nothing happens but some weird obsessive freak behavior. You know how it is.

Originally posted on AO3 ->

So little. It took so little. How pathetic. How sweet.

The air was sharp in his lungs when he remembered to breathe again.

The sound of air returning to his lungs caught Henry’s attention, his eyes shifting to meet the other’s. Something like doubt settled into his expression. William detested that look. He’d seen it before. Too many times before. Stupid man. Was he even aware of himself? Of the way his expressions reached in and twisted all of the disgusting things inside of William’s gut like a butterfly knife in an alleyway? Maybe he knew. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he liked seeing William like this, oh, he would, wouldn’t he? Why else would he tease him so?

Henry had been like this in their university days, too. William had been perfectly fine with his lot, there was nothing wrong with him. Maybe he’d have been able to be normal. Maybe. No way to be sure. But then Henry had kissed him, and William’s world shifted. Their relationship had never had an official title, but it was a precious, fragile little thing that Will kept tucked into his pockets, the breast of his button down, the inside of his suit jacket, the back of his trousers. Until that woman came along.

Suddenly Henry had a chance at a normal life. William could not think of something he detested more. But how could it be helped? Reagan had the whole country in a panic. It was too dangerous. And Henry wanted - ugh - a family. William couldn’t provide that. Their silly little restaurant plan could only take them so far. And he couldn’t deny the safety it lended. As much as it twisted and festered deep in his gut, a sensation that rose like bile into his throat until he wanted to scream, he swallowed it, choked it down. He could do this. He was fine. It’s fine. He’s FINE. He would just… create a family of his own! Sure! Yes! Look, Henry, look at how well I can play along. We’re in this game together, right?

And then Henry got divorced. And the way he felt about the loss of his marriage bit at that dark place William tried to keep down. Oh, sure, their relationship hadn’t been worth the tears, apparently. But this woman was. Of course. Of course! No matter that she never could and never had cared about him as much as William did, that she wasn’t there to pick him up and hold him together. It was fine. Henry knew better now. That’s why he had come to him, right?

Henry’s voice pulled him back to the present.

“Is this okay?”

What a stupid question.

William averted his gaze. He didn’t want to look at him anymore.

“It’s fine,” he nodded curtly.

And then his hands were being pulled, brought up, led gently to soft skin, coarse facial hair brushing against William’s knuckles. He snapped his head back towards him.

“You can… if you want…” Henry’s face was tinted pink.

William’s head felt light as his mind blanked. He felt as if the room around him was spinning. He froze, stock still, save for his hands that trembled and fidgeted in the other’s grasp. And then his thoughts began to swim as the pieces fell into place.

He moved slowly, unsure at first, reaching forward to wrap his hands around Henry’s throat. He sat there a moment, felt as Henry - his Henry - swallowed nervously. He felt his breath, the pulse of veins as his blood began to rush. William bit his lip and gave an experimental squeeze. Henry sounded in response, his voice soft and beautiful and perfect and echoing around the chamber of William’s head, bouncing and reverberating and sending a chill down his spine that made his fingers jerk and shake and tremble and oh, god, he needed to hear more. He squeezed again, and was rewarded with another whimper. The corner of his mouth twitched up. He squeezed a third time, a little harder than the last. This time, Henry whimpered louder, almost a moan.

William couldn’t help the wicked laugh that escaped him. Henry looked at him, puzzled, but the expression was replaced with surprise as William removed his hands to shove him onto his back. William wasted little time - before Henry could register what was happening, he was on top of him, straddling his waist as his hands returned to their place on his throat.

Who could have known? Who would have thought that the very thing William had been holding himself back from doing would elicit such a wonderful sound? How come no one told him until now? His heart pounded in his chest. He squeezed again, harder, longer. Henry responded predictably louder, and his fingers dug into William’s arms, his hands searching for purpose as he lay helplessly, splayed underneath his friend.

William’s breathing was labored. An adrenaline rushed through him, his excitement uncontainable. He couldn’t help the wild expression that burst onto his face. He knew he looked deranged, he knew his pupils must be blown wide. He smiled, exposing his teeth, licking them, predatory and hungry. He felt his harmless, bunny rabbit persona fall away as the wolf underneath was exposed, ugly and starving. The darkness heating up inside of him had reached its limit, and had boiled over, violent and angry, to reveal the hideous beast.

It wasn’t a conscious decision that led him to truly choke him. He couldn’t help it! How could he resist? When Henry made such lovely sounds, louder and louder and louder - why wouldn’t he wrap his hands around that throat of his and wring every last little sound out of him? When Henry’s nails dug deeper into him the harder he squeezed - why wouldn’t he see how deep he could make those pretty little half-moons in his wrists? Henry was so kind, so beautiful, so giving, how did he know exactly what William wanted? How did he know he wanted to hear his voice tremble, and choke, and beg? William felt like his heart would burst, the thud thud thud against his chest propelling his frenzy. He was hesitant to blink, for fear of missing even a second of the sight underneath him. Henry was so pretty like this. Such a sweet sight was worth savoring. And he sought to savor it, for as long as he was in control.

And how easy it was to stay in control of such an exquisitely pitiful man.

#henry emily #william afton #willry #helliam #choking #mildly dubious consent #deciding to report here for the tumblrinas #… repost #i proofread it back when i wrote it but its been a minute #sorry if its rough!

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wangxianficrecs · 1 year

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Playing Nice by deliciousblizzardshark

Playing Nice

by deliciousblizzardshark

T, 11k, wangxian

Summary: Trying to play nice during the banquet after the Phoenix Mountain hunt, Lan Wangji drinks the cup of wine Jin Zixun offers him and drunkenly demonstrates his love for Wei Wuxian in front of the entire cultivation world.

My comments: In which lwj gets a little soused, loses all his inhibitions, and gets exactly what he wants. The other chapters are from the viewpoints of wwx, jc and lqr.

Excerpt: “It did not miss my attention that there was some kind of secret Lan sect ribbon nonsense happening as well,” Jiang Cheng continued. “Or that my brother has been in your brother’s rooms all night. Poor Jiejie wept herself to sleep thinking of what abuses your brother might be laying on our poor, defenseless Xianxian.” “Actually, I slept fine,” Jiejie said. Zewu-jun’s fake smile slipped into a real one. Cute, Jiang Cheng tried really hard not to think. “Defenseless?” he asked. “Wei-gongzi? On the contrary, I think that if any two people have ever been evenly matched it is Wei-gongzi and my brother, who was, I might remind you, falling down drunk last night; hardly in a position to take advantage of a cultivator who netted over a third of the prey in yesterday’s hunt single-handedly.”

canon-divergence, love confessions, first kiss, mildly dubious consent, drunk lan zhan, phoenic mountain, the wens are fine, public display of affection, soft wangxian, fluff and crack, pov alternating, @deliciousblizzardshark

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

#Wangxian Fic Rec #The Untamed #wangxian #MDZS #Mojo's Rec #pov alternating #canon-divergence #love confessions #fluff and crack #first kiss #mildly dubious consent #drunk lwj #deliciousblizzardshark #Playing Nice #short fic < 15k #teen

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amchara · 11 months

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A Darkly Lit Path (Mal/Alina/Nikolai, M)

Pairing: Mal Oretsev/Alina Starkov/Nikolai Lantsov

Wordcount: 2,458 words

Summary: Alina and Nikolai regret their decision to let Mal leave to live a new life as Sturmhond. A second chance to convince him to stay emerges when a broken engine returns Mal to the Grand Palace just ahead of the Coronation…

Notes:

For @ryoryeonggu for the Grishaverse Rarepair Exchange!

Their request: Mal/Alina/Nikolai: AU fix-it for season 2 ending - "You and your Lantsov prince happily ever after? Your faithful tracker curled up at the foot of your throne?" What if alina and nikolai were more determined that they wanted Mal to stay? (preferably dark and possessive! alina and/or nikolai, possibly depressive/self-deprecating/suicidal!mal and THRONE SEX?).

I think I've incorporated most of your requests - hope you enjoy! ;)

(please do mind the tags on this fic)

#shadow and bone #nikolina #malkolina #nikolai lantsov #alina starkov #mal oretsev #grishapairexchange #possessive!sex #mildly dubious consent #canon divergent au

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evilwriter-originals · 11 months

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Power Struggle

Rated: explicit

Warnings: hate sex, mildly dubious consent

Pairings: Sol/Dyon

Word Count: 2,218

Summary: Dyon suggests a battle plan that leaves Sol furious. The two realize there's another way to solve this argument.

A/N: For my wonderful friend @lashlamb13!

"That's a convenient way to get everyone under you killed!" Sol couldn't keep himself from shouting. Dyon's suggestion was ludicrous. Putting new recruits on the front lines as bait so another army could attack from the side? It was horrible! It would work, but the method was not doable. Not to Sol, at least.

"It'll work!" Dyon shouted right back, rising from his chair. They were in Sol's study, just the two of them meeting to discuss plans in their war against Hakur. "You know it will!"

"That doesn't mean that it's the right thing to do!" Sol stood as well, spreading his golden wings wide as an act of intimidation. He didn't know if it would work though. Not much could intimidate the king of Aborsken.

"Right?! Wrong?!" Dyon was furious. "Who gives a damn?! What we need is victory!"

"You know, you can take that victory and shove it…!" Sol paused. What he'd been about to say wasn't very kingly. Yes, it was just the two of them here, but he wanted to remain proper.

"Shove it where, might I ask?" Dyon asked. There was a challenge in his dark gray eyes.

Sol, for some ridiculous reason, decided to take that challenge. "Up your ass, Your Majesty."

For a moment, the only sound was their heavy breathing, and then suddenly, Dyon was moving. Sol didn't know what to expect. He almost called for his guards, began opening his mouth to, but Dyon's mouth slammed into his before he knew what was happening. Sol made a sound of surprise, nearly flailed and struggled, but kept his footing with a small flap of his wings.

Sol was absolutely startled by this, even as he began to feel himself kiss back. He hadn't kissed anyone since the death of his wife, Lathae.

The kiss was heated, absolutely filled with anger. Grunting, Sol found himself grabbing Dyon by the throat. Oh, he'd wanted to do that since meeting the man months ago. He was truly horrible sometimes, someone he couldn't see eye to eye with. This argument--or, whatever it was now--was a clear sign of that.

He didn't squeeze though. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Dyon and make him withdraw his alliance with him. As much as Sol hated to admit it, he needed his support and his military strength.

He thought of all this as Dyon grabbed him firmly by the waist with one hand, the other going to the back of his head, gripping so hard it could leave bruises.

They pulled apart to breathe... And to start tearing at each other's clothes. Sol didn't quite know what was happening or why. Why had anger resulted in such a lust for the human king?

Sol gasped as Dyon shoved at him, using his surprise and unwillingness to hurt him to shove him back against one of the bookshelves. Books fell, pages fluttering and bending. At the moment, Sol didn't care.

He was about to shove back at Dyon, then thought better of it and instead reached for his belt, using his grip on it to pull his hips towards him. There was a clear bulge in Dyon's leather pants, and that excited Sol. He'd had sex with a man before, but that had been decades ago, before his marriage, before any of these troubles. He wondered if Dyon had ever indulged in such pleasures before.

Their mouths came back together as they grabbed at each other's belts and began to undo the buckles. They would pull away every once in a while to gasp and pant.

Sol nearly purred as Dyon moved his mouth to his neck, and he found himself tilting his head for him, even as he felt the grazing of Dyon's teeth. He'd have to wear something with a high collar for a little while, it appeared.

His feathers puffed out as he spread his wings back against the bookshelf. He couldn't help the moan that left him as Dyon yanked his pants down and shoved his hand between his legs.

The other king was rough with him, even here, but Sol found that that was just what he wanted. They needed to relieve this pressure between them somehow, and rough, hateful sex could be the way to do it.

Feeling a little vicious, Sol grabbed Dyon by the shoulders and shoved him away from him and towards the table. The other man's cock was free from his pants, and Sol was pleased to see that his own cock was just slightly bigger than Dyon's.

Sol swept up against Dyon before he could move, trapping him with his wings, feathers still fluffy.

Dyon smirked. "You're enjoying this."

Sol gave Dyon's cock a tug, making him gasp.

"You are too."

Sol was the one to initiate the kiss this time, and he was far from gentle with it. He could leave marks on Dyon if Dyon was going to leave marks on him. Though, he knew he was going too far when he tasted the slightest tang of blood.

He pulled out of the kiss, rutting his cock against Dyon's, and the other man let out a guttural moan. It hurt a little, given that they had no lubricant, but Sol kept doing it, needed to relieve the ache between his legs and the anger he felt at this man.

"Oil," Dyon gasped out.

"I have some in my chambers," Sol responded, just as breathless.

Dyon scoffed. "We are not stopping so you can go to your chambers and--"

He didn't get to finish speaking, as Sol had wrapped him up in his arms and wings, and had teleported them directly into his bedchamber. Teleportation was extremely difficult, and Sol had sweat breaking out on his temples from the exertion.

He let go of Dyon, who stumbled backwards, nearly tumbling right down onto the large bed.

"Never..." He stopped to swallow. "Never do that again."

"My apologies." There was venom in Sol's words. This man didn't deserve an apology for anything.

Sol finished undressing, and Dyon took the hint to do the same. Then they were back on each other, grappling with each other to gain control. With a strong flap of his wings, Sol wrestled Dyon down onto the bed. He could overpower this man much more easily if he wanted to, use his magic, but he wasn't going to. Even with this, he didn't want to break his trust.

Dyon seemed to sense Sol's caution returning, and was able to gain the upper hand, rolling the Nessari king onto his stomach on the bed and kneeling over him, a hand placed firmly between his wings to keep him down and in place.

"Where's the oil?" Dyon demanded.

"Nightstand," Sol got out. "Top drawer."

Sol let Dyon stretch over him to get what they needed. He had to admit that he'd wanted to be the one doing the penetration, but he supposed he was fine with Dyon doing it. He'd done both before and didn't usually have a preference.

But this wasn't exactly about sex.

It was about power.

And right now, Dyon had the power over Sol. He had to come up with a way to take that power back, even while underneath him like this.

Dyon returned to his original position, sat back on his heels, and a sweet scent filled the space as he uncorked the crystal jar that Sol kept his oil in. It was expensive stuff--both the oil, and the jar.

Sol gasped as Dyon began to explore. He ran oiled fingers down over his spine, making Sol hum and arch. Then he was using his other hand to push aside one cheek of his ass to bare his rim. Sol was panting and tingling in anticipation.

Dyon wasn't as rough as he had been while handling him here, but he was still rough enough to cause some pain. Sol hoped he could return the favor at some point.

"Ever fucked a man before?" Dyon asked as he played inside him with two fingers.

"A long time ago," Sol answered honestly. "You?"

"Plenty of times."

Sol waited, tense, as Dyon pulled his fingers out, and he felt the head of his cock at his rim. There was intense pressure, and then he pushed in with a painful thrust. Sol couldn't find his breath for a moment, and he almost wanted to make Dyon stop as the pain just grew.

But he didn't.

He'd look weak in front of this man if he did, and he'd never fulfill his rage.

Sol made himself relax into the sensation, tell himself that it could be pleasurable if he just eased up his tensed muscles.

And he was right. The instant he stopped clamping around Dyon to keep him out, he felt pleasure, hot and intense, traveling through him and up into his core.

"Fuck," Sol muttered, gripping at the pillows.

Then he figured out how to take his power back from Dyon. If he didn't make much noise during this, he would show him his power.

It was like Dyon could read his mind. He started thrusting fast and hard, not giving Sol much time to adjust. He flapped his wings, bit at his lower lip to keep in a cry. There was a strangled sound in his throat, but that was all.

However, the thrusting of Dyon's cock soon began to feel good despite the roughness of his movements. He had one hand on Sol's lower back, the other sneaking fingers into his feathers. It made Sol's wings twitch. Never had he had a human touch him here, and he hadn't given Dyon, a human king, permission to do so.

Growling, Sol fluttered his wings, trying to get rid of Dyon's touch there.

Dyon laughed, letting his hand leave his wings to fall to his hip instead.

"My apologies, Your Majesty." His tone said anything but an apology. He was amused by Sol's discomfort.

"Just fuck me!" Sol snapped. "My wings are my own!"

"Fine."

Dyon gripped him by both his hips, and drove him down into the mattress with his own, pounding him hard, the sounds of their grunts and flesh slapping flesh filling the room.

Sol only allowed certain sounds to leave him. Grunts and growls were okay, but anything else would be a sign of weakness.

Though, he yelled when Dyon slid right over his prostate. He hadn't expected the way pleasure burst through him. It had been a very long time since that little bundle of nerves had been stimulated.

"There we go," Dyon growled.

"So... my plan," Dyon said after some time of just the two of them grunting and gasping. "Will you allow it?"

"No," Sol told him firmly. "I'm not letting you... letting you kill your own soldiers."

"They'll die anyway."

Sol ground his teeth together. How could he make Dyon see reason?

"Have you not sacrificed others for your cause?" Dyon asked, accusing, once Sol hadn't spoken for a time.

"It's not a noble thing to do."

"Oh, of course not. Why would the Nessari King want to get his pretty hands dirty?"

Dyon's thrusts became a little uneven. The man was nearing orgasm.

"But people have died because of you, Sol. And they will continue to unless we win this war."

Sol hardly had time to ponder his words, as Dyon's orgasm came, and with a shout, the man released into him. Sol's body copied his, his back arching and his wings stretching out as far as they could. He bit his lip till he tasted blood.

Then it was over, and Dyon was leaning back on his heels, gasping for breath. Sol rolled out from under him as soon as he could, even with bliss making him weak and shaky. He moved sweaty hair out of his face.

"I'm not going to enact your plan," Sol said, voice as firm as steel. "And I won't let you do it either."

Dyon clenched his jaw hard.

"We have to work together on this."

"Well..." Dyon took a deep breath, seemingly trying to calm himself. He looked down at Sol, at the mess on his stomach. "We did meet our mutual end."

Sol hmphed. "And that was what it took to get you to cooperate? A good fuck?"

"Sometimes it's all you need." Dyon got off the bed, reaching for his clothes.

Sol decided he wasn't going to dress, that he'd ask his servants to run a bath for him. Dyon would be leaving his rooms with marks to show for what they'd done. Sol hoped he'd be leaving feeling a little bit humbled and put in his place. Though, surely Dyon was thinking the same of him.

But this was Sol's palace, Sol's country, Sol's war. Despite how Dyon had held him down and fucked him, he had the power here.

He had all the power.

Sol was pleased when Dyon left and the door closed behind him. He himself would probably have a limp to show for this, but Sol had drawn blood from the other king.

What he didn't know was that that would not be the only drop of blood he'd spill from the King of Aborsken, and that their power struggle was far from over.

#smut #nsft #mildly dubious consent #sol/dyon #sol #dyon #original writing #original characters #OCs #fantasy #fiction #writing

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 5 months

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Yellow City chapter three - a Malevolent AU

A continuation of Cloud City, because some people (@flamdoodles @thescentofwhiteroses) wouldn't stop inspiring me.

Mind the tags.

Three or however many years of this, of drifting, of cases that didn’t exist… right here was something real. It mattered, for other Faroes and their Arthurs who hadn’t fucked everything up. If he never came back to sanity again (drowned) for the rest of his godsdamned life, this moment mattered.

AO3

———-

Hastur took him home. Filled his mind and his sight until Hastur was all there was.

Hastur soothed him. Gave him treats, juice-filled fruit that spilled all over his chin and was somehow alcoholic.

Hastur sang. Rubbed him down while he did, crooned to him in a voice lower than train-rumbles, and it was good.

It was good.

Arthur rested. He could trust his partner. He also couldn’t recall why he’d been so upset, though his body kept telling him he’d been—the little trembles, the way his stomach wasn’t quite settled, the tiredness behind his eyes. He knew the signs; he’d been pushing too hard, or running for his life, or something.

Something.

Whatever it was, they’d obviously dealt with it, and he was okay. Warm, limp as overcooked noodles, he slept.

Arthur woke, knew he was mad, and kept his eyes tightly shut.

He lay horizontal against warm, firm flesh, against fine, silky material he knew was bright yellow, and he could feel the strangely syncopated engines of Hastur’s hearts.

There were voices all around not speaking any language he knew, talking, laughing. Hastur rumbled right along with them, and that voice tremored through him, under his skin, pleasant and terrible, and he screwed his eyes shut even more tightly and hid his face against that massive chest.

He couldn’t tell how many tentacles were around him. Couldn’t tell if he were hidden from sight. He hoped he was. He didn’t want to be seen right now.

Hastur knew he was awake, and stroked down his back with one (familiar) (hated) (needed) tentacle. A tingle of magic followed, and suddenly, Arthur could understand.

“—not at all like the rest. Quite frankly, I think you see our point, oh Golden God of Maddened Herds.”

“Perhaps,” rumbled Hastur, limbs shifting around Arthur (who still couldn’t tell if he were unseen). “I readily admit I found a rare specimen, but that doesn’t really mean the rest are beneath notice. His parents, after all, were unremarkable, yet look what they produced!”

There was laughter at that. Why was there laughter at that? What were they talking about?

Arthur shifted a little and realized he was naked, wrapped in what might be a towel. And his hair was wet. And he was wet. Oh, what the fuck…

“Arthur.”

And Arthur refused to look, because he knew the moment he did, he’d—

“Now, Arthur,” Hastur rumbled, stroking his damp hair. “The least you can do is say hello to the criminal you ran down.”

What in fuck was he talking about? “No.”

“Look at me.”

Arthur could not say no.

On their own, his eyes opened, and on its own, his head rose, and on his own, he turned his face toward his god, and his thoughts shattered.

It only hurt for a moment.

“You did very well,” rumbled his partner, which was all that mattered.

“Yeah,” said Arthur. “We got him.”

“You did. What do you have to say to him?”

Arthur rolled over in Hastur’s arms to look at the (enormous many-limbed thousand-eyed tar-fleshed thing) big, red-nosed, rough-fisted drunkard Callahan, who glared defiantly in spite of the cuffs keeping those fists at bay.

Callahan gave Hastur such a look. “Really?”

Hastur laughed, low and mean, and his tentacles slid over each other, self-pleasing and pleased.

“That’s what you get for leaving kids to drown,” said Arthur.

“To… to drown?” blurted Callahan. “They weren’t children! They were—”

“Shhh, shh-shh-shh,” said Hastur. “Or are you saying my pet is mistaken?”

“Your pet is…” Callahan seemed to think better of his statement. “Unique,” he muttered.

Child-killer. “Murderer!” Arthur shouted.

“He didn’t quite manage,” said Hastur. “You saved them all. Don’t you remember?”

And he remembered.

The kids were… missing?

Had to find them, or they’d… drown. That’s it. They’d drown, because they were sinking, and the person in charge had abandoned their ship, and when he found the guy who did that, he’d need to hide the body after or turn himself in.

“How long are we all going to be subjected to this?” said Callahan.

“As long as I find him pleasing,” said Hastur.

There! Right there, almost fucking in reach, but the water was getting deep, and he struggled to move forward. He’d never learned to swim. How could he? When? Where? Cloud City didn’t have water safe to enter, and… and that…

It all wavered for a moment, becoming something else, something lush and tropical, with things along the shore cheering him on or hooting in derision, but he shook his head and only saw the kids on the sinking boat who were crying and scared, and he plunged into that cold water toward them.

The bottom dropped under his feet, and he sank like a stone.

He flailed, bubbles rising, the surface contorted, the light growing dim—and an enormous tentacle (his partner’s arm) grabbed him around the waist and lifted him, coughing, out of the water.

Arthur gasped and stopped flailing, recalling the feeling, recalling…

Frogs. He’d had frogs in his arms, clutched to his chest along with the lilypads they’d sat on, and he’d released them with a cry.

Even in this condition, Arthur hoped he hadn’t hurt them. He panted, clinging to whatever part of Hastur was nearest.

“Lovely,” said Hastur.

“I admit he’s pleasing,” said Callahan. “That’s why I think you’ll come around in the end. Especially now that the last original witch is gone.”

“If you think I’m going to agree with Y'golonac….” Hastur said.

“I think you should,” said Callahan (and Arthur could taste that nasty water, taste the pee of fish). “They’ll give you your pick, of course. Cultists for everybody, to breed however you like. It’s not like he’d hoard them.”

“The answer is no. I believe if we tried this, we’d breed out whatever spark occasionally arises to make them special. No.”

And Arthur could… wait, what were they talking about?

Callahan wavered, warped, twisted for a moment into some horrible bubbling surging lung that didn’t follow the laws of physics or faith or fairness, and then shrank back down to an angry, red-nosed man. “You’re going to be outvoted.”

Hastur shrugged. “We’ll see.”

And Callahan bowed (that was weird), his beer-belly bulging over his belt, and walked away.

Arthur’s breath hitched. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t quite piece together what was happening. “The children…”

A thin tentacle slid gently over his eyes, shuttering all the horrors out, calming the boiling, churning water in his brain. Arthur moaned. He hated the dark. Remembered his fear of it in Cloud City, of losing his eyes to Hastur, and his tears slicked Hastur’s smooth, black hide. “The… the…”

“There aren’t any children, Arthur,” soothed Hastur. “All is well.”

Nothing was well. “There are children somewhere,” Arthur said to be defiant.

Hastur turned him like a doll so he could hide his face again (and Arthur hated that it was comforting). “No, Arthur. Very few humans live here anymore. Once, there were cities, enclaves, and more; but since your world nearly destroyed itself and we had to go to such effort to fix it… well. It is less popular to have humans around, and all native populations have been ravaged.”

“Ravaged?” said Arthur, high and quiet.

“Yes. Fed upon. Stolen for entertainment. Bred until they died. The usual.”

“Oh, gods,” Arthur moaned. “Hell.”

“Dreamlands,” Hastur corrected. “Some of it is very pleasant.”

“Sure. Fuck you.”

“If you like,” rumbled Hastur with too much amusement, one tentacle-tip wriggling against his nipple.

Arthur fought like a badger, twisting and biting and clawing with blunt nails, and Hastur laughed—

(Arthur remembered the pleasure, the trust, the joy of losing himself so thoroughly that there was no more him, but he didn’t want that now, didn’t deserve that now.)

—and tightened his grip until Arthur could barely move.

But sanity had finally returned, seeping like oil between the sharp edges of his cracked mind, slicking the teeth of madness. “What was that guy talking about?”

“T’kppa? Nothing you need be concerned about.”

Arthur didn’t know much. He felt he didn’t remember much, either, but he was sure this was something to be concerned about. “I want to know.”

“You don’t need to know,” rumbled Hastur, stroking his hair.

This mattered, oh, gods, it mattered. “Just…” Arthur clenched his teeth. “Please.”

“Please! Well. That is a change,” Hastur purred, that rumble utterly separate from breath or voice. “All you need know is my foolish sibling is so upset that he lost his bet—because of you—that he’s attempting a petty coup.”

Arthur knew.

It was cold water in his skull. It was clarity, brief, shocking. “If he can’t have it, nobody can. He’s trying to talk you all into ending Earth.”

“Into harvesting Earth. Hardly the same thing.”

He was stunned silent.

After everything he’d done.

After all he’d paid.

After Asenath, and Parker, and this terrible cost…

Was it all for nothing?

Arthur wept, softly.

Hastur tightened his grip again, calming.

It was expertly done. Arthur felt safe, and could breath just fine. “How can you… do this?” he whispered. “Live like this. Day after day…”

“Day after day? Every day is different,” said Hastur. “Nearly four years, and you have yet to repeat a case. You’re wonderful, Arthur.”

Earth was going to end. All of it. Everything. “I’m just a fucking toy to you,” Arthur said, voice rough.

“No.” Hastur said. “You’re my pet. A favored pet, at that—pampered and spoiled, but a pet, nonetheless.”

“I was good to you,” Arthur whispered. “I treated you like my partner. I trusted you!”

“And you intentionally cut me off from your last, mad scheme,” said Hastur evenly. “However… I’ve decided I understand why. I forgive you for that.”

“Oh, go to hell,” Arthur moaned.

“You are not tortured. I give you your way. Keep you well, fed, healthy. Am I not good?”

Something about his tone…

Arthur almost had it. Almost. “You…” There! The thought, caught like a bug: “That hurt your feelings,” he blurted.

Hastur was silent.

Little shivers ran up and down Arthur’s limbs like some weird train route. “When I did what I did. At the end. I hurt your feelings.”

“You insulted me,” Hastur warned, and this rumble was a growl, not a purr. “After all I did for you, all my graciousness to you… you locked me out.”

Arthur’s grip tightened. It was difficult to hang on to cogent thought, to find his real memories—but the ones in Cloud City were easier to exhume. “I remember you in the beginning.”

“Do you,” said Hastur with that challenging question that was never a question.

“I do. You didn’t know how things worked. Not really. How… how it felt to be human, how…” The most delicate of threads, this web, and if he pulled too hard, it would break. “I remember. You… it was all black and white, almost a child-like morality.”

“Child-like?” said Hastur, sharp.

“No. I know. I know. You’re not a child. I’m saying… I didn’t take into account how… you were clever and tricky, you were…” It wanted to slip away, and he had to take a moment to reestablish his thought, to let it settle like sediment.

Hastur let him, maybe curious where he was going, stroking his damp hair.

“I hurt your feelings when I cut you out,” said Arthur. “You’re… fuck, your mind is a rabbit warren. You’re brilliant. But your right and wrong meter’s only got two switches.”

“What strange conclusions you’ve come to today,” said Hastur, which didn’t mean anything.

But it did, because, because…

Something about what that guy had said. About the Defiler.

Arthur grit his teeth. Three or however many years of this, of drifting, of cases that didn’t exist… right here was something real. It mattered, for other Faroes and their Arthurs who hadn’t fucked everything up. If he never came back to sanity again (drowned) for the rest of his godsdamned life, this moment mattered, because…

One thought at a time. He could do that. “I’m still upset about Faroe.”

“Mm,” said Hastur noncommittally, like he didn’t care.

But Arthur had known Hastur for five years while he was still sane, and knew that he did. “I understand why you did it. You were right. I couldn’t handle it. I would’ve blown up everything if I knew. So I forgive you, too.”

A pause.

Hastur’s laughter hurt, a stab between the lobes of his brain like cruelty and madness forged, and Arthur gasped and clung to his remaining thought (make nice to him or he won’t work with you) with every ounce of will he had.

“You! Forgiving me!” The laughter came again, thunder-crashing, the roar of oceans and birthing stars. “Rich!”

“I do, though,” Arthur managed, an unheard squeak in the cogs of the universe. “Though it’s hard to do.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Hastur said, back to rumbling and pleased, and his tentacles slid all over, fond and freakishly affectionate. “You never cease to surprise me.”

And Arthur knew he’d won. He couldn’t quite remember what (oh, it would come back, like mold in the walls too deep to ever purge), but he’d won. “Yeah, well,” he said, voice breaking along with his thoughts. “Gotta do something to earn my keep around here.” And slowly, he pressed a kiss to the tentacle near his head, parted his lips, teased the warm, smooth skin with his tongue.

Hastur lifted him to eye-level (so many behind that mask) and let the towel fall away. “You please me.”

Then there was—

Then came the—

Screaming until he tasted blood, writhing with absolute torment-agony-glory, seeing only him and yellow skies and black stars, twisting (were those tentacle tips wrapped around each rib?) in bliss as Hastur took him again and again and and he forgot himself again and again and again.

Arthur let it happen, went with the flow, hung on for dear life in current too fast to navigate, and did not drown only because he did not fight. It took his breath and gave him more, and he came so hard he hurt.

And after, sewn together, soothed together, healed and cleaned and pleasure-throbbing, he remembered one clear thought like a signpost sunk deep: the gods were going to vote on keeping or ending the world, and Hastur was among them.

Arthur had to make a difference. Somehow. He knew he could. Somehow.

And to do that, he had to get over himself. (That wasn’t it, that wasn’t the ego-acrobatic required, but it was all his post-fucked brain had to offer, so he flowed with that, too, and let his intended meaning carry him.)

Hastur was taking him somewhere (had they done this in public?) all wrapped, hidden, as if now, after all of that, some protectiveness had been triggered. Arthur felt safe. Maybe a lie. It didn’t matter if it was. That truth (if otherwise) would not set him free.

He lay limp in the tangle of Hastur’s always moving limbs, and drifted, and then woke with a start because Hastur came to a sudden halt.

A displeased rumble. “Watch it, slave.”

And Parker’s voice

“Sorry. Lord of whatever. Got a delivery.”

Parker said

“Still haven’t learned respect after all this time?” Hastur said, followed by the sharp, papered sound of a scroll snapped open.

And Parker

“Wouldn’t matter if I did, would it?”

Parker’s voice, uneven with bitterness, but strong, as casual as Asenath’s but wounded—

“Not with the master you chose,” said Hastur, lofty, cool.

“Didn’t choose this.” Parker, like scraped steel on rough stone. “Didn’t fucking choose this.”

“You did,” said Hastur. “Invitation received. Go.”

“I have to have a damn answer,” said Parker.

“Oh? You think I care if he punishes your further failure?” Hastur said, and Arthur couldn’t wait.

Not another second, not one more, and didn’t dare risk Hastur stopping him and hiding him and covering his face, but twisted as violently as he could away from that torso to see—

It was Parker, standing there, seeming so far below. Parker, in some fancy but horrible green clothes, somehow seeming moldy, which fit because half his face was ruined, and his right hand was bone, and his defiance came salted with visible pain that tightened the exposed muscles of his jaw.

“Parker?” Arthur said like he’d never spoken before.

Parker’s eye locked onto him.

He said nothing. No one said anything.

“Fuck this,” said Parker like going to his death (again) and turned away.

“Please,” said Arthur, heart beating like a piston, pleading for he did not know what, clutching Hastur’s arm.

“Tell your master I will come,” said Hastur.

Parker froze. His shoulders slumped, a relieved motion rather than taut misery. “Thanks.” And he walked away.

Arthur’s short, fast breath matched his racing heart. “Hastur?”

“Be calm. Forget him,” said Hastur (jealous he’d been jealous he was still jealous), and slid tentacles all around and maybe through him, possessive and distracting, and before that touch did its thing and that will had its way and he blacked out in the familiar grip of his god…

Arthur understood he’d helped Parker by asking please, by saying what he’d said, by choosing to make a difference.

And then it was gone, a note on paper stolen by the wind and missing, and he groaned lightly as the sore (good) parts of him knew Hastur’s touch again just in a familiar and comforting way.

“There,” Hastur was saying as they moved again. “Only think of me. I am all you need consider.”

And that was patently not true, but if he flowed with this current—

(Knowing the truth, holding the facts like a prison key tucked beside his teeth)

—he could weather this, and maybe make a difference, and not lose another three years to… to… whatever… it was. “We did it? They’re okay?” he double-checked.

“Yes,” said his partner with great amusement.

They’d saved those kids (like helpless frogs, and what a weird thought to have), and none had died, and Callahan (Carnegie? Dullahan?) went up the river, and they’d made a difference, and all those pesky thoughts were written down in notes in his desk and nothing was lost. it was good. It was good.

It was very good.

#Malevolent au #mildly dubious consent #arthur Lester #the king in yellow #king hastur #king in yellow/arthur lester #Insanity #cosmic horror #cw: gore

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kookminlibrary · 3 months

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Seeds of a Broken Heart by annie_vi

Vorfreude (noun): a feeling of joyful anticipation for something pleasurable or something desired in the future.

OR: In the midst of training to audition for a selective and prestigious dance company, Jeon Jeongguk meets an enigmatic, big-mouthed, experienced dancer with the same passion and the same endgame – or so he thinks.

#bts #fanfic #jikook #jimin #jungkook #top jungkook #bottom jimin #angst #fluff #smut #ansgt with a happy ending #romance #strangers to lovers #denial of feelings #Park Jimin is Bad At Feelings #Emotional Manipulation #Mildly Dubious Consent #over 50k #mature (m)

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caleism-1 · 10 months

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Universe 3

In this universe, the entire human population is Yandere to some degree. Upon reaching adulthood, Yoo Joonghyuk, who has been relentlessly searching for Kim Dokja after regaining his the memories of his past lives at the age of three, finds out that he has a stalker. And what luck, his stalker is Kim Dokja himself.

#orv #yjh #kdj #universe 3 is just #….omg #I can’t #*buries head in pillow*#omg #Tge world of yanderes #stalking #kidnapping #breaking an entering #Mildly Dubious Consent #Kim Dokja #Yoo Joonghyuk

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screaming--lamb · 4 months

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You'll be down on your knees and you'll cry

09 GhostSoapRoach

Summary: Gary whimpered as Simon bottomed out in one quick motion, cursing. “Johnny said no…” He murmurs, too tired to push Simon off or fight him. “Johnny isn’t fucking here.” Simon growls

Content warnings: mild dubcon, chastity, ownership, (sorta) forced sex, puppy play

Word count: 2,048

Roach didn’t really know how he ended up in a relationship with two of his superiors. All he knew was that it worked out, and he finally fit somewhere. He had known something was going on with his Captain and his Lieutenant for a long time, often wishing he could have something like they had, never expecting them to invite him to join. Never expecting to become their regular fuck buddy, and then the latest addition to their relationship.

Johnny has always been in charge—that’s how he’s always liked it—it just makes sense that that would translate into the bedroom. But Simon hates not being in charge, hates not knowing what’ll come next. He’s the person Gary would least expect to be submissive in the bedroom, and, surprisingly, even outside the bedroom when it’s just the three of them. It was easy finding his place in the relationship, Gary had always liked letting go, submitting to someone for a little and just floating. Forgetting everything outside of the moment. Johnny liked having another man to take care of, in and outside of bed, and Simon never minded having a…playmate as Johnny would so often call it. The term degrading in such an intoxicating way.

Simon is constantly surprising him. Every time Gary turns around, Simon is doing something he never expects.

Simon fucks like a rabbit. Gary is convinced Simon has the highest sex drive out of the three of them, constantly wanting to get off. It’s no wonder Johnny calls him bunny and mutt. The man would stoop as low as humping someones leg if they ordered him to, which has happened but that’s a story for another day.

Simon and Gary both wear collars, Simon’s a little more worn from use, but they’re both worn incredibly frequently, both a rich black leather, thin with an o-ring on the fronts of them. The only difference being the tags attached. Both of theirs have the words Property Of J.M inscribed on the backs of the tags, but on the fronts it’s completely different, the words put there specially by Johnny. On Gary’s, it reads, Good Boy. And on Simon’s, Needy Toy.

Their most frequently used nicknames.

It’s always getting Simon in trouble. Johnny has rules for the two of them, and one of the big ones is neither of them cum unless Johnny says so. As long as they’re not in trouble, they’re aloud to fuck as much as they want, but they aren’t aloud to cum. This is the main rule that gets Simon in trouble.

Just like now.

About four days ago Gary had been with Johnny in his office, leaving Simon by himself in their shared room. When they had eventually walked back to their room, as they opened the door they were met with the sight of Simon, laying on the bed as he came down from an orgasm, sweating and breathing heavily, skin flushed a pretty pink and his own spend covering his hand, dread washing over his expression when he noticed the two of them—mainly Johnny—in the doorway.

Ever since then, Simon’s been forced to wear a cock ring, never allowed to take it off. And it’s made him a whiny bitch. Complaining every hour of every day. It was surprising when on the first day of Simon’s punishment, Johnny called both of them into his office, ordering Simon to sit in a chair and then taking Gary’s hand, guiding him to bend over the desk, right in front of the chair Johnny sits in, making him look into Simon’s eyes the entire time. He squealed when Johnny roughly tugged his pants down, listening as he grabbed a bottle of lube from a drawer, quickly slicking up two of his fingers and unceremoniously shoving them in his hole. Gary gasped, clutching the edge of the desk and started protesting, only calming when Johnny paused for a minute, rubbing a soothing hand over the small of Gary’s back and shushing him gently.

Gary watched as Simon tugs off his balaclava, eyes wide with arousal as Johnny continues pumping his fingers, quickly working his way up the three. Johnny beckoned Simon over to the other side of the desk, to stand behind Gary. Ordering him to drop his pants, and taking the pleasure of slicking up Simon’s cock for him, guiding it to Gary’s loose hole. Johnny positioned Simon behind Gary, in between his own legs where he remained seated and gripped his waist tightly with insanely large hands. Gary and Simon had moaned in tandem when Johnny had pushed Simon’s hips, sliding his cock into Gary slowly, still wearing his cock ring, then pulling it out again. Simon had tried jerking his hips, tried to set his own pace and take what he wanted, but all that had earned him was a harsh slap to his ass and another teasingly slow push of his hips.

It’s only when Gary whined and shifted in displeasure that Johnny picked up the pace, shushing him gently and forcing Simon to move faster. He gripped Simon’s waist harder and pushed and pulled him by his hips, making him fuck Gary proper. Simon had practically collapsed in pleasure, useless if not for Johnny controlling his movements. His forehead rests on the small of Gary’s back as he ran his hands up and down his flank, groaning with each rough thrust, panting the entire time. Gary was brought to the edge quicker than normal, clenching tightly around Simon’s cock as he came, grunting and moaning desperately as Johnny praised him in the background.

The hot feeling of Simon cumming inside him had never come, because Johnny had pulled him out before he could. Simon had protested, pathetic little noises and ‘nos’ falling from his lips as Johnny forcefully pulled his pants back up, fastening them and leaving Simon’s cock straining in his pants, spanking him once more when his hand had automatically moved down to palm at his erection. Johnny made Simon kneel, ignored him as tears started to fall, instead focusing on Gary, cleaning him up and pampering him, murmuring sweet nothings the whole time, telling him how good he had done.

Simon had practically thrown a fit that night. Had silently cried out of frustration, and forced Gary to hold him while the three of them slept, eventually having to be pulled off of him by Johnny and made to sleep on the floor with just a blanket as punishment when he couldn’t stop rutting against Gary’s hip in desperation.

Ought to get you a cage for when you get like this, fuckin’ mutt. Johnny had growled out when he crawled back into bed to wrap around Gary and kiss him sweetly before both of them drifted off to sleep with Simon’s low little whines in the background.

And that’s how it’s been for the past four days. Johnny approaching both of them, forcing them to fuck as he controls the pace, giving Gary his release and denying Simon of his as Simon’s punishment.

Today though, Simon’s been extra needy. Gary had been denying him all day because Johnny wasn’t there, he wasn’t going to be back until tomorrow. So the two had been left by themselves. It was maybe 10 when Gary was almost asleep and was jostled by Simon climbing onto the bed jerkily. Gary closed his eyes again, assuming Simon was just coming to bed, but opened them once more when Simon tugged down his pants and briefs. He turns around, hissing out Simon’s name.

“Stop that! Do you want to be punished further?”

Simon bats his hands away when he tries to pull his pants back up, mumbling something he can’t make out. He ruthlessly shoves two fingers in Gary’s ass, making sure he’s stretched, before pulling them out and replacing them with his length.

Gary whimpered as Simon bottomed out in one quick motion, cursing. Both of their collars jingle in unison, the tags shaking gently.

“Johnny said no…” He murmurs, too tired to push Simon off or fight him.

“Johnny isn’t fucking here.” Simon growls roughly, pulling out and tugging off his cock ring and sinking back into Gary, not going slow but immediately pounding into him, gripping his hips hard enough to bruise. He growls and grunts the entire time like the dog he is, trying to quickly cum before Johnny gets home.

Suddenly, he’s ripped away from Gary and thrown to the ground from the bed with a sharp yip. Gary keens highly, raising himself a little to look over his shoulder, eyes widening when he finds Johnny standing over Simon, boot heavy on Simon’s cock and a snarl residing on his face.

“What did I tell you?” Johnny grits out, gripping Simon’s collar and pulling him closer by it. “I told you you didn’t get to cum. Right?”

Simon nods jerkily, whimpering lightly as Johnny pulls him closer, the collar tight around his neck.

“I’d tell you to use your words but mutts don’t speak.” Johnny pushes him to the ground again and walks over to the closet, where they keep the toy box. Simon looks at Gary with pleading eyes and Gary looks back at him with sympathy. Simon tries to stand and make his way to the bed, uncomfortable on the floor.

“Sit.” He crumples back onto the floor when Johnny’s voice rings out, not wanting to piss him off further. Johnny turns around, carrying a cock cage and something Gary didn’t recognize.

“Since the ring didn’t work,” Johnny kneels, grasping Simon’s cock and squeezing his balls, softening him up. “We’ll have to use this.”

He puts the cage on him, locking it up and reaching for the second object. A muzzle. Simon whines immediately when he sees it, pushing himself away from Johnny who simply rolls his eyes, grabbing Simon’s ankle and pulling him back.

“Relax.” He commands while fitting the muzzle onto him, locking it and making sure it’s not too tight. He stands up once more, walking back to the closet and grabbing a few blankets and a leash. He pulls the chair out from under the desk they keep in the room, and lays the blankets under the desk before walking back over to a confused Simon. Gary had to admit, he’s a little confused too, Johnny very rarely introduces a new toy this way, and he’s being meaner than usual. He clips the leash onto Simon’s collar, pulling him over to the desk. Simon goes to stand up and Johnny immediately stops him.

“Dogs don’t walk on two legs. Unless you’re trying to do a trick for me?” He looks Simon up and down until he lowers back down onto his hands and knees, crawling towards where Johnny directs him. “This’ll do until we get you a proper crate.” He mutters, tying Simon’s leash to a table leg and walking back over to Gary who watches him with wide eyes. He undresses, taking his underwear off too, and climbs into bed behind Gary, pulling the covers up over them.

Simon is quiet for once.

“Hi, bug.” Johnny purrs, wrapping his arms around Gary’s waist and pressing little kisses to his jaw. Gary whimpers, scared of what Johnny’ll do to him. Johnny replies as if he knows exactly what Gary is thinking.

“It’s alright bug,” Johnny shushes him softly, confusing Gary with the soft tone of his voice. “Simon’s just a needy little thing. It’s alright.”

Gary relaxes into the larger man, calmed by his words. He sighs happily, glad he’ll finally be able to get some rest. It’s unsurprising when Johnny slowly slides his cock into Gary from behind, cockwarming being a common thing between the three men. Johnny is much gentler than Simon was, and Gary is grateful for that. He grunts as he slides in, but is otherwise mostly silent as he slowly fucks Gary to sleep. He stops when light snores start to emit from the others mouth, knowing if he continued and came inside, Gary would most likely have a stomach ache in the morning.

“One week in the cage.” Johnny rasps out, knowing Simon is still awake.

A reedy whine tapers off as Johnny falls asleep, snug inside of Gary.

#eonwrites #ghostsoaproach #mildly dubious consent #puppy pl@y #knawing at the bars of my enclosure #as i write this

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billyharringson · 1 year

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So I've written the first chapter of a new multi-chaptered fic because apparently I'm not stressed enough with all of my unfinished fics. On the plus side this is a fill for both the @harringroveson-bingo and the @billyhargrovebingo

Square(s): C3 - Poker Night, A3 - Pirate AU

Rating: explicit

Ship: Harringroveson

Additional tags: Alternate Universe, Pirates, Pirate AU, Stripping, Strip Poker, Knife Play, kind of, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Blood and Injury, Aged-Up Character(s), Age Difference, Mildly Dubious Consent, Branding, Light Dom/sub, Possessive Steve Harrington, Possessive Eddie Munson, Top Steve Harrington, Top Eddie Munson, Bottom Billy Hargrove, Bottom Eddie Munson, Ownership, Pirate Captain Steve Harrington, First Mate Eddie Munson

Summary: William Hargrove was drafted into one the most notorious pirate crews on the seven seas after his father sold him to settle his debts. He had been prepared for his captain 'King Stephen' to either kill him or sell him on but instead he was accepted into the crew without question. Now he's rethinking whether or not that was a good thing when he is invited to the Captains chambers for an 'unusual' game.

AO3:

#billy hargrove #stranger things #fanfic #steve harrington #harringrove #eddie munson #mungrove #harringroveson bingo #harringroveson #billy hargrove bingo #implied/referenced child abuse #implied/referenced unseen character death #blood and injury #knives #age difference #mildly dubious consent #branding

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chrisbitchtree · 2 years

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Pinch Me - Chapter 8

Chapter 1 here

Chapter 2 here

Chapter 3 here

Chapter 4 here

Chapter 5 here

Chapter 6 here

Chapter 7 here

Warning - Steve slightly forces himself on Billy, but Billy reciprocates and assures him it was ok.

***

For the next few days, Billy keeps his distance. They still talk at work, sometimes taking their smoke break together, but Billy always seems to have something to do the second he’s off work, and when they do talk, it’s never about anything of any substance. It’s tearing Steve apart, but he still trie to remain respectful of Billy, even after he almost breaks down in tears when Billy tries to discuss the fucking weather with him.

Robin asks him what had happened between him and Billy that night in his living room, but he doesn’t know what to say, partially because it isn’t up to Steve to disclose Billy’s sexuality to anyone, and partially because Steve himself still isn’t sure what had happened that night. He’d only wanted to help, and it hurts to have Billy push him away like that.

On the third day, Steve can’t take it anymore. He’s been done for hours, but knows Billy is closing that night, so he works up the courage to head back to Whamburger and confront Billy. The other man isn’t going to have a chance to make up an excuse this time. He smoke a joint to calm his nerves, then heads out.

He takes a deep breath as he sees Billy exit the restaurant, garbage bag in hand. He doesn’t seem to notice Steve as he walks towards the dumpster, but his eyes momentarily go wide after he tosses in the trash and turns to walk to his car.

“Uh, hey Steve, what’s up?” he asks, looking at everything but Steve.

“Why don’t you tell me, Billy?”, Steve says, an edge to his voice. “You spend all your free time with me, you hold my hand, you stroke my thigh, and I know you were getting hard when we were making out, then poof, one wrong question, and I’m pushed away.”

Billy sighs. “It’s nothing personal, pretty boy. I just don’t think we’re right for each other. It was fun to try it out, but I’m just not into guys. Sorry.” He moves to push past Steve and get into his car.

“Bullshit,” says Steve, flipping their positions so Billy’s between Steve and the car. He presses his lips to Billy’s, forcefully shoving his tongue in the other boy’s mouth. “Tell me you don’t want this with me.” He grinds his dick into Billy’s thigh and tangles his hands in his hair. “Tell me this doesn’t feel good, Billy.”

“Is this what you want, pretty boy?” Billy asks, kissing him back, just as roughly, but it makes Steve sick to his stomach. This is nothing like the other night when they’d made out on his couch. It feels forced, and like Billy’s giving him what he wants just to get it over with and get rid of Steve faster.

Steve pulls back. “I’m sorry, Billy. Fuck, I’m so sorry. What I just did was inexcusable.” He feels like he’s going to cry or maybe puke.

Billy raises his hand to stop Steve. “It’s ok, Steve. Don’t worry about it, we can forget this happened.”

Steve sighs in relief. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Billy didn’t forgive him. “Thank you, Billy. Thank you,” he replies, his voice shaking.

Billy gives him a small smile. “Any interest in a milkshake? I’m treating.” Steve nods. “You need someone to treat you right, princess,” Billy says in a voice so small that Steve thinks he must have imagined it.

***

They sit in a booth in the back of the diner, and Steve had a hard time being so close to Billy and not touching him at all. Usually, at the very least, their feet are pressed against each other. Now though, Billy sits with his arms crossed, guarded. Steve aches to reach out and grab his arm.

They order milkshakes and a plate of fries to share, and they talk. Steve is relieved to find that even though Billy’s made it clear that nothing can happen between them, their friendship can survive. They talk about almost anything and everything, just like usual, and Steve lets out a sigh of relief.

After they’ve finished their food and drinks and paid the bill, they stand outside the Camaro and smoke before Billy drives him back to his car in the Whamburger parking lot. While he doesn’t feel great, Steve does find that he sleeps a little easier, a bit of the massive weight lifted off his chest.

***

Things go back to normal after that, like their fight never happened. Billy resumes hanging out with Steve, Robin, and Heather after work, and they get back to exploring the world outside of Hawkins on their days off. They don’t talk about the times that Billy shows up, visibly in pain, sometimes so fully wrapped in layers of clothing that Steve’s scared of what might lie beneath.

He’s deduced by now that it has to be Billy’s dad doing this to him, but he’s still unsure of what to do. He’s made a couple more attempts to get Billy to admit the truth to him, but it just keeps resulting in Billy freezing up and insisting that nothing’s going on, so Steve leaves it. He leaves it until the day he’s working the front counter and looks up from grabbing refills for the condiment packets to find a redheaded girl staring at him.

He doesn’t know what to do, so he gives his usual spiel. “Welcome to Whamburger! What can I get you today?”

She gives him a dead-eyed stare in return. “You and I need to talk, idiot. But while we’re at it, I’ll take an orange soda. It’s on the house, right? Special manager’s sister discount?”

There’s clearly no such discount, but after returning her stare for a moment, he pours them each an orange soda and tells Robin he’s going to take his break.

They walk outside and around the back of the restaurant, and Steve is thankful that Billy isn’t around today. He said he had an errand to run out of town, but Steve thinks maybe that’s why his sister has chosen now to show up here. There’s no chance that Billy will catch them together.

He hands her one of the sodas. “Ok, you wanted to talk, so talk.”

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #billy x steve #my fic #harringrove fic #chrisbitchtree writes #90s au #enemies to friends to lovers slow burn #enemies to friends to lovers #slow burn #summer romance #pining #mutual pining #mildly dubious consent

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