Steve's mattress is a jar of marshmallow fluff pressing and knotting itself into Billy's hair. The sheets will probably be silk like a coffin, the quilt draping over them until all possibility of resurrection vanishes beneath a thin layer of patchwork.
It might as well be fresh earth.
Billy's fingers dig into the bulk of it. Steve gets Billy's pants around his ankles, but they won't slip off because of his boots. Steve snorts, impatient, and says, "Why are you always wearing these fuckin' things," and the thread spores of the quilt spread like grass under Billy's fingertips.
He scratches at them. Preparing himself.
"I dunno," Billy says, swallowing. Or. Trying to swallow.
He wishes the overhead light was on. Wishes he could stare into it, as if it were the sun, until he goes blind so he won't see the pained, nervous brown that suddenly springs like calla-lilies from the earth, appearing over the edge of the mattress.
"Don't fucking look at me like that," Billy says. He thunks his head on the mattress, a little bit pissed off that it doesn't. Hurt.
"What's wrong," Steve asks quietly. He's got the laces of one boot wrapped tightly in his hand. He's trying to get the boot off. He's trying to push this forward.
"Nothing," Billy tells the ceiling. It's dark, like nightfall. Popcorn stucco sharp as the Milky Way swirling overhead.
Billy tries to take a deep breath but his lungs have closed shop, and.
A lot of pushing is about to happen. Pants down, boots off, underwear--
Billy blinks at the ceiling and wonders, distantly, if Harrington's the kind of guy who pushes fruit of the looms off or just to the side. If he's ever seen boxers on another guy, like this. Tented and blooming wet. If he's ever done this before.
Steve lets go of him all at once.
Billy doesn't like that. He pushes onto his elbows, "What's your problem, Harrington?"
Steve shrugs. "You don't seem like you're having fun."
"It's fine."
"Sex isn't supposed to be 'fine,' it's supposed to be--"
"What?" Billy spits, "Perfect? Magical? You gonna take my panties off and open me up real nice, baby? Soft and sweet until I'm begging for you?"
"Well. Yeah?" Steve's cheeks are red. They look sunburned and then he smiles, bright and barely there.
Billy hates what it does to him. "Fuck you," He says, and.
Steve chuckles brightly. "You're a brat."
"And you're a rich bitch pain in the goddamn ass--"
"Now there's an idea," Steve. Fucking grins. Like a wolf. "Let me. I think it could be fun."
Billy's stomach swoops. "Fun."
"Yeah. Special."
Billy snorts. "I'm not a virgin."
"Neither am I."
"Then you know after a couple of notches, shit stops being special and just starts being sex."
Steve falters. Grows serious. "Nobody ever treat you right before, Blondie?" When Billy doesn't say anything, doesn't even breathe, Harrington smirks. "Maybe you just bite their hands off before they can get too close."
Billy.
Lays flat on his back, throat working around that annoyingly stubborn lump that springs fresh whenever Harrington's big brown eyes are in the room.
"Please touch me," Billy says, and it feels like an exorcism. Blood letting.
Tension hangs all around. Pushing on Billy's chest. Steve hovers, skin so warm Billy can feel it through the quilt. "You're sure?"
It's achingly earnest. Sweet.
This is bullshit. Steve is bullshit--
"Yes."
Steve palms slowly up Billy's thigh, nails tugging at the hem of his boxers, and. You'd think they were connected to his dick somehow. And his heart, beyond that.
Billy hates this.
He resists the urge to bare his teeth and snarl at Steve's pretty, soft gaze. "Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like. You want to carry my books in the hallway and pull my chair out at lunch--"
"You could do with a little romance, Hargrove. Might make you more likeable," Steve says. There's no heat. He toys idly with the lace of Billy's left boot, palm still rubbing over his right thigh. He's looking at Billy like this means something, and this.
This is fucking ridiculous.
Billy feels ridiculous. Still trapped in his jeans at the ankle and hard as a rock and doing what he can to spoil the moment. His eyes sting. He swallows, says, "No."
Steve tsks, "No what, baby?"
Billy swallows, tugging sharply at the quilt. "Nobody's ever taken care of me."
"That's done, after tonight," Steve says firmly. His fingers are soft and warmer than Billy ever imagined they'd be when they slip into his boxers. "Tell me you don't want this and I'll stop right now, Billy. I swear."
Billy swallows. His throat clicks. He says, "I want you. Want. Your fingers."
Steve's fingers, they. They wrap--
Billy arches off the mattress in shock, "Ah, Steve--"
"Got nice legs, Malibu," Steve says thoughtfully, like he's never considered it before and it's a surprise. The brown of his eyes shine, somehow, in the dark. He swipes a thumb over Billy's cockhead, smearing precum as he demands, "Say it again," so softly that Billy's not sure he heard it right.
"I don't--"
"My name, baby. Say it again." Steve drops Billy's dick, fingers nudging at one thigh.
Billy spreads them, slowly, hair catching a little on the quilt underneath. "Steve--"
"I want to take care of you," Steve murmurs. It's honey-sweet and earnest.
This bullshit. So Billy groans and says, "This is bullshit. I dream about your cock for months and you finally get me in your bed and you want it to be special when you could just--"
"I want to fuck you until you can't walk right, Billy." Steve says.
His voice.
It's gravel and old whiskey. Ancient. Burning, low and intense. Contained.
Billy's done this enough times to know what's gonna come next. "My," He gulps, dizzy with need so wild that the ceiling blinks out of focus, "My boxers--"
"Gotta take your boots off first."
"So take them off, already," Billy snaps, "Thought you wanted to fuck me until I can't walk?"
Steve does as he's told, pushing and pulling until cold air hits everything south of Billy's t-shirt. It's silent and awkward, and--
"Jesus Christ," Steve's not touching him anymore.
Fear settles in Billy's bones. He tears his eyes away from the ceiling, propped on his elbows to figure out what's wrong, but.
"You," Steve tries, "You're lovely." Steve's cock trains his boxers, tenting painfully, and Billy has never seen anyone so earnest. So sweet.
His heart cracks open, "Come here," Billy says, "C'mon I want--"
"Anything," Steve says. The mattress dips under his weight. His fingers push at the hem of Billy's t-shirt.
Billy braces himself for something familiar. A warm puff of air on his neck, lips closing around the swell of his breastbone, but instead Steve grips the back of each knee and folds him in half, pushing--
Always pushing--
Until Billy's body catches up with his heart and makes room.
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Trick or Treat~!
Pairing: Che'nya x Floyd (could be read platonically or romantically)
Summary: It's finally Halloween night, but Floyd is in a bit of a slump. However, the arrival of a curious companion may just make the Halloween party a bit more interesting for him.
Notes: This is my first attempt at something following a prompt - specifically, "Trick or Treat" for the 2023 TWST Rarepair Halloween event. I'm trying to get more comfortable/practiced with writing prose (which is why this wasn't posted on the 30th... oops), and only vaguely ended up following the prompt. I'm fairly happy with how this little piece turned out, though!
Tags: @dove-da-birb, @azulashengrottospiano, @inkybloom-luv, @eynnwwyjth, @officialdaydreamer00 (please let me know if you'd like to be included or excluded from future writing of mine, or only want to be included in specific types of creations)
Floyd wanted to take a break.
It was Halloween, and all he had done the entire week was work, work, work. Getting costumes ready, decorating, helping with their dorm's presentation, plus cooking and serving at the Lounge, all on top of normal classes?
Sure, it was fun, especially getting to show off Octavinelle's cool setup, and 'taking care of' those misbehaving visitors. But now? Everything felt draining and boring, and Floyd simply wanted to leave, which sucked because the actual Halloween party had just started!
Maybe he should just ditch and go back to his dorm; being in a funk when everyone else is having fun around you is not enjoyable. He slumped down on a bench and unwrapped a sweet he had picked up earlier, before wrapping it up again. Ugh, not even in the mood for that candy he wanted only a few minutes ago.
As he shoved the sweet back into his pocket and was about to get up from the bench to leave, Floyd heard a rustle behind him. Someone was quietly humming, and… laughing? The sound gradually moved to his side, towards the empty side of the bench.
“Trick or treat~”
Floyd turned to face the voice. "Listen, man, I'm not in the mood to—” he froze, staring at the figure beside him. “Hang on a second, where's your body!?"
A toothy smile came to the face of the head that currently floated beside Floyd. "Oh, it's here.... or maybe it's there." A pair of hands materialized on either side of this boy's head, followed by the rest of his body.
“I'm just kidding. Mind if I take a seat? I’d like to rest up before I keep purrowling around and startling people.”
Floyd blinked, then raised an eyebrow. “Uh, go for it.”
This guy was... weird, and it was hard to tell if he'd be annoying, or interesting. "You don't go here, do ya? At least, I’ve never seen you before. And you’re no ghost, either.”
The cat-like boy shook his head, his jewellery jingling softly. "I'm just passing through for the festivities and collecting treats. Scaring some people, too. That’s loads of fun. And it's always nice to see my friends let loose."
Floyd had a vague memory surface. "Ohh... you must be that RSA boy who's friends with Sea Turtle and Goldfishie."
"'Sea Turtle' and 'Goldfishie', hey? Those are good names for my green and red friends. Cats are known for liking fish." He leaned forward, his grin growing. “Artemiy Artemiyevich Pinker. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Floyd nodded, “Floyd Leech. It's nice to meet you, too.” He looked curiously at the boy beside him, taking in his shaggy hair, piercings, and impish smile.
"You're not what I expected.” Floyd smiled, "But you seem fun, Catfish. I didn't think Goldfishie would get along with someone so... interesting."
Che'nya's eyes lit up slightly. "Catfish? Heh heh heh, most people call me Che'nya, but I guess that works. And I’ve heard some… interesting stories about you, too."
He stretched his legs out in front of him, leaning back with his arms behind his head as he sighed. "But yeah, I don't think Riddle could shake me if he tried."
"I'm almost jealous." Floyd tipped his head slightly. "Most of the time, Goldfishie likes to swim away before I can play with him."
Che'nya laughed, "Well, if you're wondering, he 'swam off' that way." He pointed off to the side. “Just don’t be rough with him. I don’t like people mistreating my friends.”
Floyd looked off into the crowd where he had pointed, and let out a small laugh. “Alright, good to know. Maybe I’ll find him later, if I feel like it”, he smiled and sat back. “And Goldfishie’s stronger than he looks, but I guess you’d know that.”
Che’nya nodded, then leaned closer with a mischievous glint in his eye. "You know, I bet we could do something that would really surprise him.”
Floyd turned slightly towards Che’nya, and flashed a smile. “Yeah, we probably could. I think we should talk more in the future, Catfish. You seem pretty fun.”
Che’nya grinned, “You seem pretty fun, too.”
"Well,” he stretched his arms above his head. “I think I’m going to go and find some more treats… and play some more tricks tonight. I'll catch you around, Floyd."
With a haunting giggle echoing in his ears, Floyd watched as the boy beside him faded into nothingness, just the same way he had arrived.
What a weird guy.
Floyd unwrapped the candy he had pocketed earlier, then popped it into his mouth. Maybe this party was worth staying at after all.
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