Steve’s inside a tiny pop up bar, hastily designed and constructed in a warehouse as if that made it more dangerous than anyother bar. They were becoming a thing in the 90’s he supposed, like oversized suit jackets or spiked-collars. And he liked them just fine. It was even deeper underground than most seedy gay clubs.
The people who drink here don’t mind that he's a hybrid.
They don’t mind his triangle-shaped ears atop his messy, brown hair, or the long fur-covered tail that relays every emotion he’s feeling out loud for the world to see. Even the bad ones.
Like right now— seeing a ghost from his past again out of the blue, just a few seats down the bar, has got his tail flicking against his stool legs. A ringing metallic flick-flick-flick.
Steve digs his claw into the bar top, leaving a deep crescent mark.
Since Steve’s seen him last, he’s doing well. He’s smiling and glowing and he’s put on a few healthy pounds. He looks like he could lift Steve up over his head if he wanted to.
The ice in Steve’s drink melts and breaks apart with a soft noise. Another man at the bar tries to flirt with him, a hot, whispered breath right into the sensitive fur of his ears, but… Steve makes no moves to actually listen.
Because Steve isn’t at the bar anymore. He’s sinking into golden quicksand— California beach scalding.
Steve doesn’t even realize he’s staring until his pretty ghost turns around.
“Harrington?” His breathy voice asks. Just as boyish and melodic as ever.
“Harrington,” he repeats in a hiss, “back to last names? Should I be insulted, Hargrove?”
“Sorry, Stevie.” Billy chuckles as he leans over the bar. Up close, Steve can see he’s got a strawberry blond beard defining his jawline.
“I’ve got to say, I’m surprised to see you in a place like this.” He sings.
Steve can’t say he disagrees. His lips quirk up. Playful, it’s in his nature. “I come to these all the time, Billy. I like the atmosphere. And the art. It’s very new-age-industrial.”
Billy watches him for a moment with curious eyes, scanning over his expression. And, like so many years ago, Billy’s sea foam green eyes can read Steve’s face line for line like a damn book: “Bullshit.”
“I’m here to try and get laid!” Steve gives up the ruse with a laugh. It makes Billy’s own laughter come out, just as pretty as the rest of him. Steve takes a long swig of his drink while he allows Billy to laugh at him. Then slowly licks the sour taste from his lips.
Can’t help but notice Billy’s eyes track that movement as well.
“Is that what you want to hear?” Steve pushes.
Billy shrugs. He swipes back a lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. “Yeah, sure. I believe that before Steve Harrington: indie art scene groupie.”
Steve rolls his eyes at being called a groupie. It’s not the worst thing, by far. “Sort of unfair you asked me what I was doing here, when I should ask the same. I thought you were splitting town? Running away from your old man?”
Billy watches Steve, his eyes widening as their last conversation resurfaces. As it floats to the top of Steve’s crappy mixed drink as buoyant as an olive.
“Figured you’d be sunburnt in Santa Carla by now?” Steve asks.
He asks and really means it.
That daydream had helped him repair his broken heart, his bruised and bloody ego, his tail between his legs. He told himself it wasn’t really about him, it was Billy’s father who ran him out of town. It was Billy’s father who planted and watered all the anger. The fact Steve was a hybrid was just a convenient excuse. Low hanging fruit. Even if the words never left his mind.
Even if the words sat on the edge of his bed every night to remind him of his unwantedness.
Steve imagines it was worth it, in some way, to get Billy to a safer place. Yet, he’s turned up here. Only a day’s drive from Steve’s hometown. In a pretentious pop-up bar. Glowing, and radiant, and blushing.
Billy lifts one hand to scrub at his beard. He’s got an open beer bottle pinched between his fingers. Effortlessly calm and suave. He takes a long swig before answering.
“Funny thing about Santa Carla… it’s a long drive out there for nowhere to stay.”
Billy’s searching his face, his body, as if it holds the answers. His electric-blue eyes settled finally on his tail.
Steve’s got to turn and order another drink. His fur starts standing on end from all the wonderful attention, preening from it.
“So you gave up?” Steve asks, uncaring.
“Something like that. I got a job here, an apartment. It was temporary ‘till I got some money, but you know. I just. Never left.”
Billy swallows thickly next to him. Shuffling as he gets closer. His hand is right beside Steve’s own as it lays on the bar.
Billy’s got ink all up and down his arms, on his chest and neck. He’s even got pretty things on the back of his hand. A red rose with brilliant green leaves curling over the edges of his palm.
Steve’s own hand itches to touch. To feel the tattoo’s raised scars, and Billy’s hot pulse under them. He wants to trace each one as if he were playing with lines of sunlight across the carpet on a sunny afternoon.
Steve reaches for his new drink, instead. He shivers as he drinks it down.
“Chicago’s not like Hawkins, then, huh? Where you just had to get out, just had to run—or, what?” Steve can taste the hatred in his own words. Stuck in his throat like a hair ball.
He was simply ‘Harrington’ to him across the bar now, only that. Billy’s hands were red, alright, but it wasn’t from his fucking tattoo. It was from Steve’s heart still beating inside of them.
“Steve,” Billy insists, “you know why I had to—.”
“I know.” Steve’s voice shakes with a whimper. His tail finally stops and curls closer to his feet, hiding away.
Steve blinks his swelling eyes down to Billy’s neck. The ink there is pretty too. Under the collar of the soft band t-shirt Billy’s wearing, Steve can see the wings of a flying sparrow.
“It was nice to see you again, Billy.”
Steve stands from the bar, finishing his drink before dropping a bill in one swift move, expecting to run away. He’s expecting to leave, to try and forget. Again. Just like last time.
But he doesn’t expect the hand that reaches for his elbow.
He doesn’t mean to shake the hand and keep walking. He’s on autopilot, he thinks. Blackout.
Feeling injured and lonely, Steve’s ears flatten to the top of his head and his tail hides between his legs. It had started raining while he was in the bar. The sidewalks are darker now, louder, from the onslaught.
And that’s just fine. The raindrops are fat and slow and they remind him of himself. He gasps for breath in the rain, and gets a mouthful.
“Oh, great, I’m drunk.” He mutters to himself.
Steve closes his eyes though a wave of nausea, stumbling further into the night, and when he opens them it’s like opening them up to a dream.
Blond curls turning dark in the rain, flattening to lay around Billy’s face in a pretty frame. His skin, pink and flushed from the cold, illuminates the freckles on his face like stars in the sky.
“Trying to make us even?” Billy yells over the rainfall.
Steve eyes him wary at first, hesitant he’s real at all.
“Making us even would be me calling you a freak!” He hissed.
Billy’s face falls. “Suppose so,” he calls. “You have every right to.”
Then he opens his arms. Holding them out as if waiting for a hug. Or a bullet. His shirts totally lost in the rain, turning the well loved gray to a solid black color that clings to Billy’s every curve. His abdomen is very welcoming, cozy, Steve wishes it could be his to run into.
He wished he could be the bullet. That he could hit Billy’s chest right there. Right there. In the same place his wound still bleeds.
But Steve was drunk. And cold. And wet. And his tail and ears hung so very heavy on his body.
He stayed quiet, watching blissfully as Billy got wetter and wetter. Until he wasn’t angry anymore.
“I was so mad at you for so long.” Forcing the words one by one, Steve’s voice trembles.
He closes his eyes and lets his silly, love-sick heart surge up into his throat.
“After us, I’ve spent my whole life trying to find someone that fits just like you, but… you’re different, Billy. You made me feel safe. Content. Warm.”
Billy scoffs, his hands dropping to his sides with a wet slap. “Bullshit.”
“Is it?” Steve meows a laugh.
Billy’s face creases in disgust, in confusion. Water falls from his long lashes as he blinks them rapidly.
“Cool it, kitty. I’m not some damn PRINCE CHARMING! I break everything I touch!” He yells over the rain. Over the base of the music they could still hear from the bar. Billy’s louder than any of that.
“Then why don’t you try fixing me!” Steve yells back. He’s desperate and mostly drunk as he steps closer.
And suddenly, Steve notices how Billy still radiates heat. The years of time between them tick down to nothingness. Steve shakes his head, pointed ears flicking water, his eyes a mix of tears and rain, and Billy opens his mouth like he’s about to ruin it.
But then, Steve’s pawing at that strawberry blond beard growth that wasn’t there years ago. And he pulls Billy’s head down with a light gasp that gets captured by Steve’s eager lips.
It’s a sad excuse for a kiss, it’s messy and it tastes like chilled beer. But Billy’s lips are hot, familiar, it makes Steve let out a whimpering, shameful moan.
Steve’s hands grip Billy’s shirt. Now he’s the one holding on— now he’s the one chasing. His claws rip the fabric with the want he has for Billy to stay so terribly bad.
“I never meant to hurt you.” Billy admits in a whisper.
He reaches down to cradle Steve’s arms. Slowly lifting the claws from his chest. Steve would let him do whatever he pleased, he’s already a trained house cat for Billy.
Their fingers laced together, as if pieces slotting back into place. With their hands like this, it brings back happy memories. On Steve’s teenage bed, in the early hours of the mornings before the world around them woke up. When Steve’s tail would wrap euphorically around Billy’s legs. When his ears were flattened by the force of his happy purring.
Then, Billy’s moving. Pulling him through the rain until Billy leads them to, truly, a tiny and shitty apartment. The red brick building was painted but beginning to flake off. Billy held his hand as they took the steps, and into the hallway, before begrudgingly letting go to fish his keys.
He turns over his shoulder to watch Steve. Key in the door. Steve is shivering, hugging his skinny frame, his sopping sweater. He doesn’t know what Billy could be looking at, but he smiles.
Billy opens the door and leads Steve inside. They settle in their underpants with towels around their heads on the couch. Their shoes and outer-clothes drip drying by the radiator.
Steve feels so content and warm he doesn’t even realize he’s purring.
“Woah, I really, really missed that.” Billy drawls. His hand finally reaches Steve’s tail, gently petting the tussled fur as if he spent years longing for this exact moment.
Steve can’t help but to kiss him again.
((My entry into the @harringrovezine Kings of Nowhere. I loved making Harringrove older and slightly down on their luck and lonely, so when I heard the prompt I jumped at making some sappy reunion scene. Of course I’ve got to make this pretty kitty Steven go through it a little bit before he becomes the King of Billy’s shitty apartment. And his whole life, I’m sure 😽😽. Thank you so much for letting me write on this amazing zine, make sure to check them out for other fic and art. Harringrove always and forever!!!))
Steve doesn't let anyone touch his tail. Even when he was dating Nancy, she knew that his tail was off limits. Everyone in Hawkins knew: you don't touch Steve Harrington's tail. Tommy had, once, and he has a nice scar on his right arm to show for his efforts, and they'd been beat friends their whole lives.
So it's hot gossip when Tammy Thompson catches Billy and Steve under the bleachers one day over lunch, Billy's hand wrapped mindlessly around Steve's tail as the two smoked and laughed together.
okok, and what about a ‘hiding together in hopper's cabin’ catboy!steve au, three months into forced reclusion because they’re both the result of their own government illegal experimentation now, billy back from the dead with powers he still can’t properly control and steve out of the ‘completely human’ side of things and there's barely anything to do in the middle of the dark and quiet hawkins' woods except laying on the couch and watch the one and a half channels caught by the old tv and sleep. so steve kinda develops this habit of napping with his head on billy's lap on the boring, lazy afternoons. and billy kinda develops this habit of absently scratching steve's head, petting at his ears, letting his hands get caught on the motion of caressing his back, because steve is so tactile now, doesn't even bother pretending he’s paying any attention to the tv anymore, when they’re like this. what he does instead is tune up his whole body to the contact. turn around until his nose is pressed against billy’s belly, nuzzling at the fabric of his shirt and letting out a low, rumbling growl when billy’s fingers stop moving to reclaim back his attention, demanding and insatiable as he has become. or maybe this is just the way he’s always been and the only difference is that he can’t hold it back now, this hunger for being touched.
and their lives are a big fucking mess right now but it’s easier than it should, to forget about it for a while when the old clock over the kitchen table click-click-clicks into the hour of their favorite show and steve stretches and groans and falls over billy like a soft, burning hot blanket of fluffy hair and dotted skin, claiming his spot on billy’s lap and the monopoly of his hands on him. easier than it should, to forget about it when steve allows billy to touch him like this, half-asleep and with his mouth half-open, his light breath dampening the fabric of billy's shirt. and sometimes, those clawed fingers he has now find their way to billy’s skin, nails retracted but still sharp enough to leave behind a trail of barely on the threshold of sensation kind of pain as he lifts billy's shirt up just enough to bury his face in that thin line of exposed flesh, mumbling something about how “good. you smell so fucking good. i don't want to smell anything else ever again. god, billy” and it's easier too, the first times it happens, billy barely moving, worried he could scare steve off, never get to have him like this again if he does something wrong. easier but not really easy at all, control the way his body reacts to steve when he gets like this, pliant and trustful and lewd, nuzzling at billy’s exposed belly, white canines shoving on the side of his full lips.
can’t control it because it’s been one whole week of this irresistible kind of torture when he realizes maybe steve can’t control it, either, the need of having billy like this. because he lets out a defeated, resigned thing of a sight as he sticks his tongue out this time, rachel rolling her eyes at monica on the decimononic tube tv as he draws it flat and rough over the sensitive skin under billy’s navel, his voice growing a cutting edge when he says “so, so good, billy. bet you taste even better” and he’s purring, purring warm and low, the sound rolling out of his throat and straight to the warmth growing between billy’s legs, getting louder as billy loses it completely, that last tiny pretense of self-control, his cock filling in thick in a rush of heat and arousal as steve’s dark, dark eyes look up at him, as he rubs his cheek against the throbbing shape of billy’s erection, making it even harder “steve—” he gasps, fingers closing tight around the threads of his hair as steve tugs down at the waist of his sweatpants, lowers them just enough to let slide out the head of billy’s dick, tongue running over those full lips, the pearl white of his teeth, eyes focused and playfully curious “why did you stop? keep on touching me” and billy does, his hand following the shape of steve's back as it curves up out of pure undiluted pleasure when he leans in, lapping in careful, feather-like tiny licks at the wetness leaking out of billy’s dick, his fluffy tail swishing from side to side, point curling up with contempt. “steve, what are you doing?” billy pants out, breathless, the sensation curling at the tip of his toes when steve gives another long, slow lick at his cock, looks up at him, grins, eyes wild wild wild, eating up the light, melting with heat. “i’m trying to get to the cream”.
My house of stone, your Ivy grows (and now I’m covered in you), teen, 5k, completed
Steve ducked into a small cafe across the street from the book store to find Billy. He walks immediately to the sunny window seats, when he pauses right before. There, sitting next to his husband with her red-head reaching up to his shoulder, is the same girl from his book signing event.
Billy glances over his shoulder and notices Steve staring, greeting him with one of those fantastic smiles. “Darling,” he drawls. Standing up from the table. Holding out a chair for Steve. “How was all that signin’? Your hand hurt?”
Steve breaths out a laugh as he settles in the offered chair. “A bit, my love, but nothing you couldn’t kiss better.”
Billy laughs, but the girl next to him scoffs loudly.
“Steve, let me introduce you to Max,” Billy’s hand slides across Steve’s shoulders as he sits down. His palm tracing Steve’s pressed dress shirt down to his thin wrist. Steve lets their fingers interlace as he bites his lips against Max’s pointedly annoyed look.
“My step-sister.”
(Harringrove for Ukraine donation fic for @withoneheadlight thank you again so so much for donating!! And requesting me to continue in my favorite all time AU!!! Check out some more kitty content in the link above😽🖤)
Cry me a river (‘Cause I’ve cried a river over you) - (12k words, Mature, completed.)
Steve stretched out on the god awful metal chair they called porch furniture. It was painted pastel pink and shaped like a flower. The legs were bent inwards and they rocked as Steve stuck out his leg as far as it could go. He felt his ears flatten out on his head and his tail curl up as he let out a long yawn.
From the bottom of the steps, Billy looked up at him. His blue eyes wide as they seem to take in Steve’s pink tongue as it sticks out, as his eyes flutter tiredly open and closed, as his tiny fangs flash over his plush lip only for a moment.
Billy gulped down. Glancing down the street, his wandering eyes settled on Mr. Hans down the street collecting his mail in his bathrobe.
Steve lifted his coffee mug to his lips. Leaning forward in his chair to gulp down the mostly milk and a splash of black coffee. It was sweet with a bitter aftertaste. And the flavor made him lick across his lips to chase that sweet high.
“Billy,” Steve calls softly. Just for the man in front of him.
Billy finally turns back to look at him, and his face is so broken open by the act Steve lifts a hand to trail across his chin to make sure he hasn’t split any of his milk.
“Yes, Mr. Smith?” He finally nods respectfully.
And Steve’s told him his name a thousand times. And he feels like he’s going to have to tell him a thousand more before the delivery man gives him what he wants. “You’re allowed to call me by my name; it’s Steve.”
“Of course, Mr. Smith, so sorry.” Billy sheepishly blinks back at him, his coy grin so playful even in the early morning sunlight. It makes Steve’s cheeks flush with the want of it.
(Yes! All together now in one handy posting. My 1950’s cat boy Steve and milk man Billy Au! This is a story that has grown very precious to me. I love it so much, and I hope y’all can enjoy it too 🖤🖤🖤)
Part 8!!! Cat boy house husband Steve and his gorgeous milk man billy au!!!! Just one more part left ahhhhhh how the turns have tabled 😼😼 previous parts link: cat boy and milk man au
Tag list @withoneheadlight @spreckle @harringrovetrashh @magellan-88 thanks🖤🖤
You’re nobody ‘till somebody loves you
***
Steve thought about that lost look in Billy’s eyes as he walked away and kept thinking about it as he stumbled inside his living room. Their living room.
Looking around at the pastel colored walls, decorated across the hallway with their wedding photos in mirror finished silver frames, it never felt like home. It always felt like he was pretending and settling. Like a house cat with a polished silver bell on his collar.
He was tired of his husband knowing his every move. The little bell around his neck glinting in the low sunlight every afternoon as Mr. Smith came home.
Steve would sit at attention. Wag his tail like a dog. Let his husband touch him anywhere, do anything he ever wanted.
Acidic bile rose up in his throat just thinking about it. Thinking how he’s spent a whole year wasting his life away sitting at attention wishing, just fucking wishing, that Mr. Smith would throw him a bone.
That he would revert back to the gentleman facade he used to buy Steve in the first place.
But now Steve knew. With Billy’s blood still under his claws. He knew it was a crumbling shell of a life.
Steve lumbered over to his writing desk, his robe shifting and spilling all around him dramatically. The feline part of him really enjoyed the way it draped across the floor as he spilled into his bamboo-back chair. His bare legs kicked out, as well as his long tail, and it almost made him giggle.
Steve reached into the pockets of his robe and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. Withdrew another one, lit it, and held it to his lips like a starving cat.
“What the hell are you doing?” His husband asked from the emptiest area of their living room. Empty along with his hollow heart.
“Killing myself,” Steve said. The cigarette bobbing in his lips. And laughed slightly.
Mr. Smith was wearing his sleeping pants hung low on his hips. His white t-shirt was wrinkled. It made Steve think about all the times Billy and his silly looking milk man uniform was so well pressed.
Just like the white shaft between Steve’s lips as he lifts it to press there. In his most softest parts, in the wet places of him. His lips still feel raw from the intrusion of Billy’s mouth there. He lingers dragging the filter against the sore inside of his lips, the taste of any spit not his own.
He savors it. Licking across the filter of his smoke the same way he licks across the edge of his morning coffee to savor the milk there.
“Is this some sort of joke?” Mr. Smith asks, bewildered.
Steve had halfway forgotten about him. “Does this look like a joke?” Steve asks back. The cigarette jumping in his pouting lips. He reaches into his pocket and finds the pack of matches, the single remaining match. It strikes as good as any. Leaves his fingertips burning as he lifts it to the tobacco. “Am I laughing?” He giggles again slightly, before holding his breath so the ash may better coat his lungs.
Mr. Smith watches with a perplexed look on his face as Steve exhales the smoke.
His name is Richard, Steve thinks vaguely about how he used to call him by his name. Not just a shadow of what his name used to be. What a man he used to be.
“I had no idea you’ve been smoking?” Mr. Smith grits out.
“I’ve been doing a lot of things you don’t know about.” Steve feels like the end of a line on his typewriter. Loud and unstoppable. Even if he’s never touched Billy beyond his fully capable fingertips before tonight, his husband doesn’t need to know that.
And in his dreams, in the ink he writes while safely asleep, he’s been with Billy many times.
“That’s for damn sure, Honey.” Mr. Smith crosses his arms over his chest. Puffs himself up nicely.
It makes Steve’s whole insides flip in fear, in such a familiar way. I’m a way he’s be taught to fear that pose and everything that follows it. He sucks down a harsh breath to try and control the way every part of him is afraid at such a stupid, little motion.
Steve’s arm is shaking as he holds the cigarette with his entire open hand. His fingers opened up like flower petals and protected his shivering face. His trembling lips, bitten raw with kisses. Bitten raw with being treated well for the first time in what felt like forever.
Looking down at the match book sitting on his writing desk, now empty; he remembers when he promised Richard forever.
Is this going to be what he has to settle for, forever?
“I should be the one who’s getting angry, getting irrational,” Mr. Smith says as he walks closer. Arms still crossed. “I should be the one raising my voice. But I’m not. I’m going to stay calm. And do you know why, darling?”
Steve bobbed his head, then noticed vaguely as his cigarette ashes across the table top. It felt foreign to him. Just as that question felt answerless.
Without waiting for a reply, Mr. Smith cupped his hand around Steve’s jaw. Lifting his head so that they can meet eye to eye. He’s nothing particular to look at. Not bright and blue and warm. No ocean water to dive into. To feel safely wrapping around his body.
Steve’s ears flatten down across the top of his head as he waits.
“Because I know that you know what you did was wrong.” Mr. Smith clarifies. “And I know how to train a spoiled house cat when it urinates on the carpet. With patience. So I will allow you to apologize. Tell me: it will never happen again.”
Steve’s tears pricked at the side with tears. The cigarette left burning without a place to go was creating a cloud of smoke around his face. The twirling circles felt like his own life, gone in a gust not of his own control. He couldn’t turn his head. The grip on his jaw was far too hard. He tried, growling slowly and flashing his fangs, but the hand did not let up.
“Tell me,” his husband ordered, “say it.”
Steve opened his mouth… and then closed it.
He thought of a bundle of paper all wrapped up in twine. Brought back carefully folded in the same way it was lent out. Still warm with body heat. He thought of the way those pages felt pressed against his lips. How they were nothing compared to actually kissing the man of his dreams.
Steve opened his mouth and said: “No.”
Mr. Smith’s hand dropped in a stuttering question. His eyes blinked a couple times. And Steve wanted to take another drag. But the hand around his throat was still so heavy. Weighing him down like an iron collar.
He sucked in a deep breath that tasted like smoke and salt water and Billy, and closed his eyes.
