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theladycarpathia · 1 year

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Celebration

Prompt: Steve Harrington’s childhood tree-house

Billy begins to laugh as he sees where they’re headed.

“Seriously, Harrington?” he asks, somewhat gleefully, tipping his head back to stare upwards into the trees. “This is where we’re going?”

Steve heaves the basket up and tries not to slip on the damp grass in the dark. It’s fucking heavy and as the birthday boy, Billy’s carrying nothing but lube and an open can of beer. Steve’s lucky that they managed to skirt around the pool without falling in head first. Or Billy pushing him in.

“I know it’s not exactly where you thought for your eighteenth,” Steve says hesitantly, because it’s not what Steve had fucking planned either. But his parents were home, and even though they’re out for dinner right now, it would be just Steve’s luck to be balls deep just as they arrive through the front door.

So plan B - Steve’s old tree-house, with a picnic basket, a thick blanket, and some lights. He’s going to give his boyfriend some romance on his fucking birthday if it’s the last thing he does.

“But with my folks home, I had to find another option. And the quarry isn’t that special and I know we can't really go out given…” Steve trails off, not wanting to even mention Neil’s name on Billy’s day. But Billy just grins, an eerie flash of white in the bright moonlight.

“It’s cool, Harrington,” he drawls and Robin asked once if it was weird that Billy often calls him that. But it’s not. It’s just Billy and something about the way that Billy says it, all low and hungry, makes Steve’s stomach dip every time.

He didn’t tell her that he prefers it this way. It makes the lines easier for when they have to pretend that they don’t mean what they are to each other. That Billy only uses his name in quiet, dark spaces, pressed into Steve’s bare skin. When Steve’s name is less like a tease and more like a prayer.

“Just wondering how you can call this a tree-house,” Billy continues and Steve flushes.

“You think my old man was going to let me have some shitty thing put together in a weekend?” he asks, even though that’s what he thought he’d get when he was a kid. Something that they’d put together and maybe Steve’s dad would have to spend time together with him for once.

But no. Men came and built something more akin to a wooden fortress up in the oak right at the back of the Harrington’s yard. Steve’s dad didn’t even look at it when it was done.

Steve is going to fuck Billy in that tree-house and it brings him more than a little satisfaction.

“Your dad is a dick,” Billy comments, before he bounds the last few feet to the base of the tree and the faintly swinging rope ladder. Steve nudges him out of the way before he can begin to climb.

“I know it’s your birthday but can I go first?” he says, getting a good grip on the basket. Thank God he put the blanket and shit up there earlier because slipping and breaking something is not the cool move he’s trying to make.

Billy dramatically bows and takes a step back.

Billy has no fucking patience because he’s right behind Steve up the ladder. Steve only just has time to drop the basket down and flick on the Christmas lights he’d strung up earlier. He’s just beginning to light the assorted candles with the lighter when Billy’s head appears through the hatch.

It’s worth it to see the look on his face.

“Okay, I take it back,” Billy says, staring around. Because it’s a fucking Harrington effort, it’s suitably furnished as well - beanbags that are a little musty, a table in the corner, a small shelf of Steve’s old games. Billy picks up one of the toy cars on the table and flicks it’s wheels. “This is cool.”

Steve grins, setting down the candle. There’s a suitably atmospheric glow now, the flickering warmth of the candles, the twinkles of the old Christmas lights. There’s the big red picnic blanket that Steve stole out of the attic and it must have been one of his mom’s random purchases, because they’ve never been for a picnic. He padded it out with a few strewn cushions, and a blanket from his room. It’s too cold to stay here all night but Steve doesn’t want cold air on his bare ass after.

Steve pulls up the ladder - his parents barely come into the garden but better safe than sorry - and closes the hatch. They’re locked away in their own private world for a few hours.

Billy drops down onto the blanket and there’s something strange about his expression. They’ve only been dating six months but Steve knows that look. So he just opens up the basket and begins pulling out the food: tiny sausages, potato salad, fancy cheeses…you know. Stuff that won’t matter so much if they get distracted halfway through. Billy’s predictable. They never usually make it the whole evening before they fool around.

Steve digs out the two plastic glasses and the bottle of champagne with a flourish. His parents probably won’t notice it missing from their cabinet. If they haven’t yet noticed the vodka that he replaced with water, they sure as hell won’t notice this.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Billy says quietly, as Steve carefully tugs at the cork. Steve winces as the sound echoes through the night and he licks the foam from his hand before he begins to pour.

“You only turn eighteen once,” he says, because he knows how hard this is for Billy. It’s not like anyone really makes an effort in the Hargrove house, although Max tries. But she’s only thirteen and her birthday contribution was a cupcake and a mix-tape.

Steve doesn’t feel like he’s doing enough anyway. It’s pilfered champagne and a set of new candles, borrowed rugs and lights, an impromptu picnic in the middle of March. Honestly, the only bit where Steve feels like he’s really contributing is later, when he can carefully take Billy apart piece by piece.

He hands Billy a glass and holds his own up. “Happy birthday,” he says, gently clicking their glasses together. He desperately wants to say more but he keeps it in for now. Billy’s always better at taking compliments in the afterglow.

Billy offers him a wavering smile before tipping the glass back.

“Shit,” Billy mutters, staring at the half empty glass like he’s had some sort of religious experience. Steve hides his smile.

They eat, while Steve frequently tops up the champagne. Billy is gorgeous in the dim light and it makes it hard to focus when Billy licks mayonnaise off his bottom lip. When he sucks on a carrot stick is the moment that Steve knows that he’s doing it on purpose.

“Okay, do you want to have sex now?” Steve sighs, unable to ignore the heat in his belly or the way that Billy’s eyes carefully flick up every so often to make sure that Steve has noticed.

Billy grins, all teeth and impatience, and shoves the paper plate aside.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he says lasciviously and tugs off his shirt. He doesn’t even wait for Steve to take his sweater off before he’s kissing him, pressing Steve down into the rug.

Steve lets him, willingly pinned under Billy’s body while they kiss. He can feel the hard line in Billy’s jeans already and he wonders what has Billy so keyed up. It can’t be down to frustration - they saw each other only yesterday, parking the Camaro up by the quarry, their go to space when Steve’s house isn’t safe. Steve had shucked his jeans and climbed into the backseat, letting Billy sit over him. Actually fucking in the backseat isn’t that comfortable so Steve had brought lube, dribbled it over his hand and their dicks, sliding them both together, while Billy held onto Steve’s shoulders with his eyes closed. It had been perfect, watching every flutter of his eyelashes, the desperate little pants from his parted lips. Billy was so gorgeous and Steve had dragged it out, every slow flick of his wrist, his free hand digging half-moon imprints into Billy’s hip. They don’t often do this and the novel experience of just rubbing against each other made everything seem heightened and hazy.

The memory of Billy’s groan as he came over Steve’s fingers is enough to have Steve flip Billy over. He bends over to kiss the annoyed look from Billy’s face, his hands quickly working the buttons on Billy’s jeans.

“It’s your birthday,” Steve reminds him, tugging down the denim and Billy’s boxers in one easy motion. Billy looks a little stunned to be lying there in his socks, before a pleased grin comes across his face and he hurries to strip those too.

When he’s lounging back, fully naked on the blanket, one arm tucked under his head, Steve sits back on his heels to admire him. His angular wrists. The firm planes of his stomach. Dick flushed a pretty red against miles of beautiful golden skin.

Billy makes him feel breathless every single time.

And Billy knows it too, because he smirks and widens the spread of his legs. An open invitation.

“Like you said, it’s my birthday,” Billy says smugly. “Hop to it, babe.”

But Steve doesn’t. Not this time. He traces the lines of Billy’s hips and stomach muscles with his tongue. He presses his mouth to the flesh of Billy’s thigh. He runs his hands across every bit of skin he can reach while he swallows down around Billy’s dick. He wants Billy to be overwhelmed and rapturous and loved.

When he reaches the lube, Billy is already flushed and on the verge of begging. Steve slicks up his fingers, nothing with amusement that he’s still half dressed. He slides in his fingers slowly, pushing Billy to the absolute limit as he fucks him. Billy scrabbles for purchase on the rug, his back arching as Steve hits just the right angle.

“Baby, please,” Billy whispers, sound completely fucked out. Steve’s been very careful to make sure that Billy doesn’t get too close to coming- no sense in the fun being over too early.

Steve stills his hand, leaving his fingers buried inside while he stares at Billy. The tension is razor tight, confusion and lust flickering over Billy’s face. Steve gets it - he’s never been like this before. This devoted, this intense, this kind of focus purely on Billy. He’s barely even noticed the strain against his own jeans which is probably a good thing.

Steve carefully removes his fingers, his dick twitching at the desperate little whimper that Billy makes as he does so. He removes his clothes slowly, making sure that Billy watches every step as he shrugs off his t-shirt, his jeans, and hooking his fingers into his underwear. The feel of his lube-slick hand around his dick nearly does him in and it’s only the look in Billy’s eyes - and the promise that something more pleasurable is on offer - that keeps him going.

Neither of them make a sound when Steve slides in - it’s almost too intense for that. Billy winds his arms around Steve’s back and Steve captures his open mouth for a kiss. He doesn’t move, not just yet. He would freeze time like this, if he could. It’s so completely perfect that Steve feels like he’s being crushed with the weight of it. The pressure, the expectations, are always there and the thought that at some point he’s going to fuck it up is like a constant specter at his back. That he’s going to say something stupid or insensitive, or Billy will need support in a way that he doesn’t know how to give and Steve will lose the best thing he has.

And the worst future is one where Billy just…leaves. Steve knows that he’s bound to Hawkins in a way that Billy just isn’t. That Steve won’t be reason enough to stay.

Billy’s eyelashes flutter every time Steve thrusts in, his mouth open in a helpless pant. Steve hates that Billy’s quiet in bed, too many years of having to train himself to keep silent. Every little moan or broken sound of Steve’s name feels like a triumph and Steve longs for the day where Billy can scream all he wants.

Normally Billy’s a greedy fuck, rocking back against Steve like a demanding brat, but today he lets Steve set the pace. And Steve does, deep and slow, determined to drag out every last second. He wants to keep this feeling going, the taste of Billy’s mouth, the pull of Billy’s body around him, the drag of Billy’s leaking dick against his belly.

But the end is inevitable and when Billy finally sighs his name into his skin, Steve is helpless against following him.

They lie on the rug, sweat and come cooling on their skin until they start to shiver. Steve reaches past Billy’s head for the blanket he had prepared and tugs it over them. Billy’s eyes are closed, breathing slowly and Steve curls up against him. He wonders if Billy’s falling asleep until an arm winds around his back to tug him even closer.

“Thanks,” Billy murmurs sleepily against his hair. Steve presses a kiss to Billy’s salty cheek. It’s not like it was hard. As far as he’s concerned, Billy deserves the world.

“Happy birthday,” Steve says, because he’s not quite ready for the words yet, no matter how much he feels them. Billy’s not ready for them yet either, despite his warm eyes, the gentle stroking against Steve’s hip.

But when Billy shifts in Steve’s arms to pull the cupcakes out of the basket, gleefully shoving half of one straight into his mouth, Steve feels like maybe this will be the first birthday of many that they spend together.

#harringrove #harringroveweek #billy's birthday bonanza #it's billy's birthday!#ending on a happy one #steve harrington #billy hargrove #I need to add these to ao3

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bamsara · 2 months

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I think that one thing people fail to understand is that unsolicited literary criticism coming from an online stranger who is reading with no knowledge of what the authors intended goal is, is not going to be received the same as say: the authors beta reader or friends who know what the authors intended goal and has the sufficient knowledge and input to help the author reach that desired outcome.

"But I'm only trying to be helpful" How do I know you have the knowledge and literary skill for you to be able to actaully do that when we don't know each other and you are essentially a stranger to me? Are you applying this criticism based out of personal biased experience and desire to see the story or characterization be driven in another direction or tweaked, or do you know the author's intentions for the character? If the story is incomplete, are you basing your criticism of a character on the incomplete narration with only partial information available of them or are you building up a report until the story's completion? Did the author provide you with the information needed to make a fully informed criticism?

Have you discussed with the author what their plans are or are you assuming them based off the narration, especially if the narration is proven or implied to be unreliable or missing key points of the plot? Are you unbiased enough to help them reach their desired outcome for the characters and story regardless of your personal feelings towards the characters/antagonists and setting? Can you handle being told your specific input isn't wanted because you're a reader and/or have no written anything relating to their genre or topic? Do you understand and respect that the author's personal experiences might influence their writing and make it different than how you would have done it personally? Do you understand if an author only wants input from a specific demographic relating to their story?

If it's for fanfiction or other hobby media, are you holding a free hobby to a professional standard? Are you trying to give criticism because you feel like the author has produced 'subpar job performance' of their fic? Are you viewing their work as a personal intimate outlet or something that must conform with mass media? Are you applying rules and guidelines when the fic is shared for simple sharing sake? Is your criticism worded appropriately and focused on the parts where the author has requested input on rather than a general dismissal and or disapproval?

Have you put yourself in a place where you assumed you have the input needed for the story to evolve better, or have you asked what the author needs and what they're having trouble with? Can you handle having your criticism rejected if the author decides their story doesn't need the change and not take it as a personal offense against your character? Are you crossing that boundary because you think you are doing the author a favor? Are you trying to be helpful, or do you just want to be?

I think sometimes when people hear authors go 'please don't give me unsolicited writing advice or criticism' they automatically chalk it up to 'this author doesn't want ANY constructive feedback on their stuff at all' and not "i already have trusted individuals who will help me with my writing goals and- hey i don't know you like that, please stop acting so overly familiar with me'

#small rant brought to you by: listened to my younger sibling's friend be very upset today because an original story she wrote gets bashed #the story itself is fine maybe a little fast paced but overall she was happy with it's progress #and there is this one dude who keeps trying to tell her that her story needs to go another direction to 'make sense' and it changes the end #after she's repeatedly explained she's happy with the outcome and does not want to expand on that plot point any further #dude says she's 'unreceptive to criticism' no dude you're just being a dick #constructive criticism helps the AUTHOR reach THEIR intended goal #not steer the story in the direction a reader wants to see it go #sara shush #pls don't reblog with any 'but i take unsolicited criticism all the time' this isnt about you. your boundary is not other people's boundary

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