#man fuck you you big pink wrinkle sponge

[the-maddened-hatter]

Man, depression really is like the "WhY arE yOu hiTtinG YoUrSelF?" of mental illness

[mcmansionhell]

Underground, Part 1

[Author’s Note: A year ago, when waiting for the DC Metro, I came up with an idea for a short story involving two realtors and the infamous Las Vegas Underground House, typed up an outline, and shoved it away in my documents where it sat neglected until this month. The house recently resurfaced on Twitter, and combined with almost a year of quarantine, the story quickly materialized. Though I rarely write fiction, I decided I’d give it a shot as a kind of novelty McMansion Hell post. I’ve peppered the story with photos from the house to break up the walls of text. Hopefully you find it entertaining. I look forward to returning next month with the second installment of this as well as our regularly scheduled McMansion content. Happy New Year!

Warning: there’s lots of swearing in this.]

Underground

Back in 1997, Mathieu Rino, the son of two Finnish mechanical engineers who may or may not have worked intimately with the US State Department, changed his name to Jay Renault in order to sell more houses. It worked wonders.

He gets out of the car, shuts the door harder than he should. Renault wrinkles his nose. It’s a miserable Las Vegas afternoon - a sizzling, dry heat pools in ripples above the asphalt. The desert is a place that is full of interesting and diverse forms of life, but Jay’s the kind of American who sees it all as empty square-footage. He frowns at the dirt dusting up his alligator-skin loafers but then remembers that every lot, after all, has potential. Renault wipes the sweat from his leathery face, slicks back his stringy blond hair and adjusts the aviators on the bridge of his nose. The Breitling diving watch crowding his wrist looks especially big in the afternoon glare. He glances at it.

“Shit,” he says. The door on the other side of the car closes, as though in response. 

If Jay Renault is the consummate rich, out-of-touch Gen-Xer trying to sell houses to other rich, out-of-touch Gen-Xers, then Robert Little is his millennial counterpart. Both are very good at their jobs. Robert adjusts his tie in the reflection of the Porsche window, purses his lips. He’s Vegas-showman attractive, with dark hair, a decent tan, and a too-bright smile - the kind of attractive that ruins marriages but makes for an excellent divorcee. Mildly sleazy.

“Help me with these platters, will you?” Renault gestures, popping the trunk. Robert does not want to sweat too much before an open house, but he obliges anyway. They’re both wearing suits. The heat is unbearable. A spread of charcuterie in one hand, Jay double-checks his pockets for the house keys, presses the button that locks his car. 

Both men sigh, and their eyes slowly trail up to the little stucco house sitting smack dab in the center of an enormous lot, a sea of gravel punctuated by a few sickly palms. The house has the distinct appearance of being made of cardboard, ticky-tacky, a show prop. Burnt orange awnings don its narrow windows, which somehow makes it look even more fake. 

“Here we go again,” Jay mutters, fishing the keys out of his pocket. He jiggles them until the splintered plywood door opens with a croak, revealing a dark and drab interior – dusty, even though the cleaners were here yesterday. Robert kicks the door shut with his foot behind him.

 “Christ,” he swears, eyes trailing over the terrible ecru sponge paint adorning the walls. “This shit is so bleak.”

The surface-level house is mostly empty. There’s nothing for them to see or attend to there, and so the men step through a narrow hallway at the end of which is an elevator. They could take the stairs, but don’t want to risk it with the platters. After all, they were quite expensive. Renault elbows the button and the doors part. 

“Let’s just get this over with,” he says as they step inside. The fluorescent lights above them buzz something awful. A cheery metal sign welcomes them to “Tex’s Hideaway.” Beneath it is an eldritch image of a cave, foreboding. Robert’s stomach’s in knots. Ever since the company assigned him to this property, he’s been terrified of it. He tells himself that the house is, in fact, creepy, that it is completely normal for him to be ill at ease. The elevator’s ding is harsh and mechanical. They step out. Jay flips a switch and the basement is flooded with eerie light. 

It’s famous, this house - The Las Vegas Underground House. The two realtors refer to it simply as “the bunker.” Built by an eccentric millionaire at the height of Cold War hysteria, it’s six-thousand square feet of paranoid, aspirational fantasy. The first thing anyone notices is the carpet – too-green, meant to resemble grass, sprawling out lawn-like, bookmarked by fake trees, each a front for a steel beam. Nothing can grow here. It imitates life, unable to sustain it. The leaves of the ficuses seem particularly plastic.

Bistro sets scatter the ‘yard’ (if one can call it that), and there’s plenty of outdoor activities – a parquet dance floor complete with pole and disco ball, a putt putt course, an outdoor grill made to look like it’s nestled in a rock, but in reality better resembles a baked potato. The pool and hot tub, both sculpted in concrete and fiberglass mimicking a natural rock formation, are less Playboy grotto and more Fred Flintstone. It’s a very seventies idea of fun.

Then, of course, there’s the house. That fucking house. 

A house built underground in 1978 was always meant to be a mansard – the mansard roof was a historical inevitability. The only other option was International Style modernism, but the millionaire and his wife were red-blooded anti-Communists. Hence, the mansard. Robert thinks the house looks like a fast-food restaurant. Jay thinks it looks like a lawn and tennis club he once attended as a child where he took badminton lessons from a swarthy Czech man named Jan. It’s drab and squat, made more open by big floor-to-ceiling windows nestled under fresh-looking cedar shingles. There’s no weather down here to shrivel them up.

“Shall we?” Jay drawls. The two make their way into the kitchen and set the platters down on the white tile countertop. Robert leans up against the island, careful of the oversized hood looming over the electric stovetop. He eyes the white cabinets, accented with Barbie pink trim. The matching linoleum floor squeaks under his Italian loafers. 

“I don’t understand why we bother doing this,” Robert complains. “Nobody’s seriously going to buy this shit, and the company’s out a hundred bucks for party platters.”

“It’s the same every time,” Renault agrees. “The only people who show up are Instagram kids and the crazies - you know, the same kind of freaks who’d pay money to see Chernobyl.” 

“Dark tourism, they call it.”

Jay checks his watch again. Being in here makes him nervous.

“Still an hour until open house,” he mutters. “I wish we could get drunk.”

Robert exhales deeply. He also wishes he could get drunk, but still, a job’s a job.

“I guess we should check to see if everything’s good to go.”

The men head into the living room. The beamed, slanted ceiling gives it a mid-century vibe, but the staging muddles the aura. Jay remembers making the call to the staging company. “Give us your spares,” he told them, “Whatever it is you’re not gonna miss. Nobody’ll ever buy this house anyway.” 

The result is eclectic – a mix of office furniture, neo-Tuscan McMansion garb, and stuffy waiting-room lamps, all scattered atop popcorn-butter shag carpeting. Hideous, Robert thinks. Then there’s the ‘entertaining’ room, which is a particular pain in the ass to them, because the carpet was so disgusting, they had to replace it with that fake wood floor just to be able to stand being in there for more than five minutes. There’s a heady stone fireplace on one wall, the kind they don’t make anymore, a hearth. Next to it, equally hedonistic, a full bar. Through some doors, a red-painted room with a pool table and paintings of girls in fedoras on the wall. It’s all so cheap, really. Jay pulls out a folded piece of paper out of his jacket pocket along with a pen. He ticks some boxes and moves on.

The dining room’s the worst to Robert. Somehow the ugly floral pattern on the curtains stretches up in bloomer-like into a frilly cornice, carried through to the wallpaper and the ceiling, inescapable, suffocating. It smells like mothballs and old fabric. The whole house smells like that. 

The master bedroom’s the most normal – if anything in this house could be called normal. Mismatched art and staging furniture crowd blank walls. When someone comes into a house, Jay told Robert all those years ago, they should be able to picture themselves living in it. That’s the goal of staging. 

There’s two more bedrooms. The men go through them quickly. The first isn’t so bad – claustrophobic, but acceptable – but the saccharine pink tuille wallpaper of the second gives Renault a sympathetic toothache. The pair return to the kitchen to wait.

Both men are itching to check their phones, but there’s no point – there’s no signal in here, none whatsoever. Renault, cynical to the core, thinks about marketing the house to the anti-5G people. It’s unsettlingly quiet. The two men have no choice but to entertain themselves the old-fashioned way, through small talk.

“It’s really fucked up, when you think about it,” Renault muses.

“What is?”

“The house, Bob.”

Robert hates being called Bob. He’s told Jay that hundreds of times, and yet…

“Yeah,” Robert mutters, annoyed.

“No, really. Like, imagine. You’re rich, you founded a major multinational company marketing hairbrushes to stay-at-home moms, and what do you decide to do with your money? Move to Vegas and build a fucking bunker. Like, imagine thinking the end of the world is just around the corner, forcing your poor wife to live there for ten, fifteen years, and then dying, a paranoid old man.” Renault finds the whole thing rather poetic. 

“The Russkies really got to poor ol’ Henderson, didn’t they?” Robert snickers.

“The wife’s more tragic if you ask me,” Renault drawls. “The second that batshit old coot died, she called a guy to build a front house on top of this one, since she already owned the lot. Poor woman probably hadn’t seen sunlight in God knows how long.”

“Surely they had to get groceries.”

Jay frowns. Robert has no sense of drama, he thinks. Bad trait for a realtor.

“Still,” he murmurs. “It’s sad.”

“I would have gotten a divorce, if I were her,” the younger man says, as though it were obvious. It’s Jay’s turn to laugh.

“I’ve had three of those, and trust me, it’s not as easy as you think.”

“You’re seeing some new girl now, aren’t you?” Robert doesn’t really care, he just knows Jay likes to talk about himself, and talking fills the time.  

“Yeah. Casino girl. Twenty-six.”

“And how old are you again?”

“None of your business.”

“Did you see the renderings I emailed to you?” Robert asks briskly, not wanting to discuss Jay’s sex life any further.

“What renderings?”

“Of this house, what it could look like.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Jay has not seen the renderings.

“If it were rezoned,” Robert continues, feeling very smart, “It could be a tourist attraction - put a nice visitor’s center on the lot, make it sleek and modern. Sell trinkets. It’s a nice parcel, close to the Strip - some clever investor could make it into a Museum of Ice Cream-type thing, you know?”

“Museum of Ice Cream?”

“In New York. It’s, not, like, educational or anything. Really, it’s just a bunch of colorful rooms where kids come to take pictures of themselves.”

“Instagram,” Jay mutters. “You know, I just sold a penthouse the other week to an Instagram influencer. Takes pictures of herself on the beach to sell face cream or some shit. Eight-point-two million dollars.”

“Jesus,” Robert whistles. “Fat commission.”

“You’re telling me. My oldest daughter turns sixteen this year. She’s getting a Mazda for Christmas.”

“You ever see that show, My Super Sweet Sixteen? On MTV? Where rich kids got, like, rappers to perform at their birthday parties? Every time at the end, some guy would pull up in, like, an Escalade with a big pink bow on it and all the kids would scream.”

“Sounds stupid,” Jay says.

“It was stupid.”

It’s Robert’s turn to check his watch, a dainty gold Rolex.

“Fuck, still thirty minutes.”

“Time really does stand still in here, doesn’t it?” Jay remarks.

“We should have left the office a little later,” Robert complains. “The charcuterie is going to get –“

A deafening sound roars through the house and a violent, explosive tremor throws both men on the ground, shakes the walls and everything between them. The power’s out for a few seconds before there’s a flicker, and light fills the room again. Two backup generators, reads Jay’s description in the listing - an appeal to the prepper demographic, which trends higher in income than non-preppers. For a moment, the only things either are conscious of are the harsh flourescent lighting and the ringing in their ears. Time slows, everything seems muted and too bright. Robert rubs the side of his face, pulls back his hand and sees blood.

“Christ,” he chokes out. “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know,” Jay breathes, looking at his hands, trying to determine if he’s got a concussion. The results are inconclusive – everything’s slow and fuzzy, but after a moment, he thinks it might just be shock.

“It sounded like a fucking 747 just nosedived on top of us.” 

“Yeah, Jesus.” Jay’s still staring at his fingers in a daze. “You okay?”

“I think so,” Robert grumbles. Jay gives him a cursory examination.

“Nothing that needs stitches,” he reports bluntly. Robert’s relieved. His face sells a lot of houses to a lot of lonely women and a few lonely men. There’s a muffled whine, which the two men soon recognize as a throng of sirens. Both of them try to calm the panic rising in their chests, to no avail.

“Whatever the fuck happened,” Jay says, trying to make light of the situation, “At least we’re in here. The bunker.”

Fear forms in the whites of Robert’s eyes.

“What if we’re stuck in here,” he whispers, afraid to speak such a thing into the world. The fear spreads to his companion.

“Try the elevator,” Jay urges, and Robert gets up, wobbles a little as his head sorts itself out, and leaves. A moment later, Jay hears him swear a blue streak, and from the kitchen window, sees him standing before the closed metal doors, staring at his feet. His pulse racing, Renault jogs out to see for himself.

“It’s dead,” Robert murmurs. 

“Whatever happened,” Jay says cautiously, rubbing the back of his still-sore neck, “It must have been pretty bad. Like, I don’t think we should go up yet. Besides, surely the office knows we’re still down here.”

“Right, right,” the younger man breathes, trying to reassure himself.

“Let’s just wait it out. I’m sure everything’s fine.” The way Jay says it does not make Robert feel any better. 

“Okay,” the younger man grumbles. “I’m getting a fucking drink, though.”

“Yeah, Jesus. That’s the best idea you’ve had all day.” Renault shoves his hands in his suit pocket to keep them from trembling.  

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[slasherholic]

synopsis: Your pleasant Christmas dinner at the sorority house is ruined when Billy, ever the horny little shit, decides to make a call.

Concerning the Man in the Attic | Billy Lenz x Reader | NSFW

(Author’s note: this is a -slight- AU where Billy hasn’t actually begun his murder spree yet. All the sorority sisters are still alive and thriving.)

“A slice of ham for you, dear?”

You shake off your daze and blink up at Mrs. Mac from your already full-to-bursting plate. She holds a slender knife to her steaming Christmas ham and looks down at you with an expectant smile, a rosy glow pinkening her plump cheeks, jolliness shining like candlelight in her wrinkled eyes. You can smell the alcohol on her from where you sit.

“Oh, no, that’s alright.” You put on your cheeriest face. “Thank you though Mrs. Mac—maybe a bit later. I wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”

You don’t miss the way the portly woman’s grin falters. She exhales through her nose.

“Later, then.” Says Mrs. Mac, her smile just a bit more shallow than it had been before, and moves on down the table to ask the same question to Jess. You drop your eyes back to the glob of mashed potatoes crowded on your plate and think, Nicely done. Now you’re on her shit-list.

Except you probably would have made it on Mrs. Mac’s shit-list regardless, because unless you want to puke it right back up all over that stupid Christmas ham, your food is already as good as wasted; your appetite is well and truly gone, and it isn’t coming back.

All because you can’t stop thinking about the calls. 

Today the moaner phoned not once, but twice.

Jess and Phyllis, and Barb especially, her wine glass filled nearly to spilling in her hand, already seem to have forgotten the ordeal. Jess sweeps her dark hair out of her eyes and prods at her asparagus with her fork. Phyllis cups her mug in her slender hands and takes dainty sips. And Barb, sprawled out across the couch with her feet propped on the armrest, knocks back another tall glass of Sauvignon Blanc. She’d popped open her first bottle at 4:00 and has showed no signs of slowing down since.

Whatever thoughts might be preoccupying your sister’s minds you’re confident that they do not concern the man behind those awful calls. The other residents of the house consider the moaner akin to a barking dog—as long as he remains a disembodied ruckus in the neighbor’s yard, why should they fear being bitten? And so they forget him as quickly as the line goes dead.

But not you. Forgetting is off the table for you. Because the reality of the situation—and it is so painfully clear—the reality of the situation is that the dog was never in the neighbor’s yard.

All this time it has been curled up somewhere nice and cozy in yours, and has pissed all over Mrs. Mac’s petunias for good measure, and nobody seems to be batting an eye at the stench. Nobody but you.

But you’ve grown used to covering your nose with your sleeve and pretending you can’t smell it, either.

After the first obscene phone call back at the start of December you could never shake the feeling that something in the house had changed, had soured, had become just not right. There was the case of the missing food from the cabinets; and at night, no shortage of strange creaking and grinding sounds from the attic above; and yes, it was a big old house, but you can’t say you’ve ever heard a rusty pipe squeal like a suckling pig before.

And so you suspect the worst; that the truth behind the moaner is far more sinister than your sisters, than Mrs. Mac, than anyone seems to realize. 

And yet, you wouldn’t dare to bring it up. You wouldn’t dare.

That pervert living in the house somewhere? What a joke. You had no hard evidence to show for it, just a gut-wrenching feeling. The claim would sound paranoid at best.

So here you are, resigned to gritting your teeth; and covering your nose; and bearing the stink.

You tune out most of the chatter as Christmas dinner carries on. Barb chatters to Phyllis—Phyllis lends an ear, sipping lazily from her cocoa with a snide smile plastered across her face. Barb chatters to Jess—Jess doesn’t bite. There’s something eating at her, you think. Mrs. Mac interjects occasionally with chatter of her own.

When the phone rings, the chatter stops. So does your heart.

Your eyes race to where the receiver rests on its stand in the adjoining living room. 

“Rrrring. Rrrring.”

The shrill note carries through the cavernous hallways of Mrs. Mac’s grand old house. Once, twice, three times. 

Barb is on the scene in seconds. She springs upright from her place on the couch, wobbling dangerously when her feet hit the floor—only to regain her precarious balance with the very next step. You chew your lip as she lifts the receiver and presses it to her cheek. 

An ear-to-ear grin sprawls across her face. She sticks the phone out for all to hear.

“Tasty cunt.” Comes the garbled voice over the phone. “I can smell it, I can smell your ripe wet cunt.”

The room must drop by ten degrees because you start to shiver. It’s him again; the moaner.

“Maybe you’re smelling your own breath, pal.” Barb quips.

“Oh Barb, just hang up.” Pleads Jess, worry written across her pale face.

“I’m gonna eat it—ooh, I’m gonna come and eat it, I’ll stick my face in it, let me smell it, let me eat your dripping pussy, I know how wet you are…” 

The phone crackles with manic snickering.

“I watched you stick your fingers up your cunt… I watched you rub and rub and ruin your pretty pinky panties…” 

Your heart drops. Your face burns. You cross your legs beneath the table. You have a pair of panties which might fit that bill. Panties which—perhaps not-so-coincidentally—have been missing for three days.

The man on the phone squeals like a hungry pig. The squeals peter into grunting, shallow and hasty, and Barb, covering her hand with her mouth, has never looked so amused. 

When the line goes dead the living room erupts with hooting laughter.

“The poor guy didn’t even last twenty seconds that time!” Barb barks. She plants the phone back on its stand and slumps onto the couch, her chest heaving.

“No rest for the wicked I guess.” Phyllis suggests. “Not even on Christmas.”

The chatter resumes; you try your absolute hardest to focus on your mashed potatoes and on your green beans and not, for the love of god, on what the moaner is doing with your underwear.

You volunteer to clean up after dinner. Luckily, Mrs. Mac had been too many drinks in to remember that you hadn’t touched a single bite of her hard work (No no, don’t worry yourself, I’ve got it, dinner was splendid, you’ve outdone yourself, really, you deserve a lie down. Merry Christmas to you too Mrs. Mac) and the woman had given you a dull smile, and toddled off to bed.

You scrub at the dried cranberry sauce caked on a plate and try your hardest not to think about the man in the attic. You know you should go to the police. That’s what any rational person would do, right? You can picture the conversation now;

Yes hello officer, there’s a strange man in our house and nobody knows he’s there except me. How do I know? Well it’s simple, you see, I know because he watched me finger-fuck myself and then stole my panties and then called over dinner to gloat about it.

You furrow your brow and scrub harder.

Yeah; fat chance.

If you’re going to do this you need to be certain. You need irrefutable evidence that there is, in fact, some creep squatting in your house. You need to wait for him to slip up—to make a mistake—to show himself.

You huff and drop the sponge into the sink, bending to load the plate into the washer.

“Hugnhh—”

The abrupt sound is a grunt; almost animalistic. It comes from somewhere behind you.

You straighten up like a springboard and turn on your heel, planting your hands on the kitchen sink, your frantic eyes sweeping the room.

The grunting stops as abruptly as it began—but you weren’t imagining it. You couldn’t have been. No way in hell. 

All the hairs on your arms stand on end as you peer out into the dining room. It is silent; silent and still. You hold your breath. You eyeball Mrs. Mac’s beautiful lace cloth; it is draped across the dining room table, nearly touching the floor.

Your grip on the kitchen sink turns your knuckles white.

There’s something underneath the table, screams a voice inside your head.

“Claude?” You whisper to nobody but yourself.

It must be Claude—Claude is on the prowl, and he’s licking at some table scraps. That must be it.

“Come out of there, you silly fat cat.” Your voice wavers that time. As you let go of the sink you approach the table as if it were a living thing, about to rear up on its hind legs and charge you down like an angry bull.

It’s just the cat. Just that stupid fat cat. In a second I’ll feel like a total idiot.

You tell yourself these things as you sink to your knees on the cold wooden floor and grab a fistful of tablecloth. The cloth is silky and cold in your fingers. Your heart pounds as you lift it, peering into the unknown beneath.

For a moment, you forget how to scream.

A dark silhouette is hunched over like a gargoyle beneath the table. 

It is a man, you realize; a man with wild hair and wild eyes. His pants are unzipped. Pearly teeth flash as he gawks at you, a horrible grin sprawling across his face. He pumps a piece of fabric furiously back and forth around his member.

“Pretty—mphh—pinky—ungh—panties…” The voice is instantly recognizable.

You drop the tablecloth and scramble backwards.

The man lunges from beneath the table like a rabid animal. Cold hands scrabble for a grip on your wrists; his momentum topples you. Your back meets the hardwood floor. He pins you with his weight.

You whip your head back and forth as fingers grapple at your jaw and pull on your nose and wrench your mouth wide open. The pink fabric is stuffed in, muffling your scream before it can leave your throat. 

The man clamps a cold, slender hand over your mouth. The grin he wears is manic. Your pulse thuds as hard and as fast as a runaway train in your neck, and as he leans in close you turn your head away from him. The wool of his turtleneck is scratchy against your clavicle. He reeks of mold and dust and cat food.

“Shhh-shush-shush-shushhh…” 

His mouth is inches from your own, sour breath hot against your cheek. 

It’s him. The man from the attic.

The tears come streaming down your face. You think you might die from the shock of it all alone, if the moaner doesn’t kill you first.

“Noisy. Noisy little pig. Trying to run away; trying to run away and tell on Billy.” He strokes your hair like a young girl fawning over a coveted doll.

“You’re not gonna tell, though.” The sound of his snickering is even worse in person. “No-no-no-no. You won’t do it. You won’t.” 

You recoil when his cold fingers graze your cheek, your whine stifled by the gag; your own panties. The taste of Billy’s seed on the fabric is salty and bitter. He’s been using them.

“Greedy greedy little piggy~” Billy’s garble is a sing-songy whisper.

“You think about Billy, you like Billy’s calls, you want to know how Billy tastes, you want his fat cock in your pretty lips so you can suck it, suck it, suck it-suck it-suck it.”

“Nnng-unnh—” You whine at him. A pang of anger flares in your belly.

No. No, no, no. That is just plain wrong. Those calls were vulgar. They were disgusting. Obscene; the very definition of the word. You were most certainly not rubbing one out to the thought of this vile man—to the thought of Billy—with all his classless promises of what he would do to your sisters, if given the chance, and of what he might do to you, in particular…

Above you, Billy snorts.

“Liar. You lying bitch-pig. You’re wet; you’re dripping. I can smell your ripe wet pussy.”

Suddenly those cold, roving fingers are dipping down below your waistline, burrowing beneath your pants. A finger hooks into your cunt up to the knuckle. You writhe, bucking your hips like a mare in heat and trying desperately to throw him off, but Billy’s weight is more than enough to keep you pinned.

Billy looks downright giddy; like he’s about to blow his load then and there. He flashes his lop-sided grin at you and his finger retreats from your warmth, only to be shoved hand-deep into your mouth. You taste your body’s own excitement.

“Soaking! Soaking wet! Nasty pig, filthy pig!” Billy squeals.

I don’t want it, you think, as Billy shifts his weight on top of you, facing your undeniably dripping cunt, planting his knees on either side of your head. His unzipped member dangles inches from your face. You kick your legs, but he is quick with the zipper of your jeans, and shucks them down your thighs with ease, offering your panties the same rough treatment. You squeak into your gag when he gropes starving handfuls of your ass, squeezing and kneading, as if enamoured with your curves; mesmerized.

It’s like he’s never touched a woman before. You suspect you’re not far from the truth.

You can do nothing but watch as Billy’s head dips down between your legs, dark hair tickling the flesh of your thighs. You whine; and that hot, wet, filthy tongue licks a long, sloppy stripe down your bare cunt—from your clit to your ass.

Billy mewls.

“Nasty, nasty nasty nasty—”

His erection bobs in your face, strained and swollen. You suppose you could spit out the gag at this point if you were determined enough. You could scream for Mrs. Mac and Barb and Jess and surely the neighbors would hear, too, and this pervert, this fucking creep, would be thrown back into whatever institution he crawled out of.

But then, the warmth of Billy’s mouth returns to suck and suck and suck at your clit.

You heave a muffled moan and thrash beneath him, no longer trying to dismount him—just because you can’t take it. 

You tremble when Billy’s hot tongue probes at your opening. It is a full-body tremble, a horrible shiver, and you feel that you are both burning up and freezing to death at the same time, a terrible hot-cold sensation. His tongue delves in as far as it can reach; he laps you up greedily. He grunts and moans and squeals all the while, and his member drags across your cheek, and you are not surprised when he plants his elbow on your chest and takes himself in his fist, pumping his cock furiously; back and forth, back and forth.

Billy grunts like an animal when he comes. Hot ropes of his seed spurt out on to your face, coating your lips and your cheeks and your nose.

“You won’t tell them…” Comes Billy’s pitchy whine. It is almost desperate. “You want more of Billy, so much more, so much more…”

You shudder, because you think he’s right.

[bombshellbois]

Sticking Points

Rating: T

Summary: The summer of 1986 doesn’t look much different to Billy than the summer of 1985 did, when it started. Few more scars, few more burned bridges, but not much else has changed. He’s still working at the pool, and still giving swimming lessons to bratty kids. Today the bratty kid is Holly Wheeler.

It’s funny the things that stick in life. Billy has found himself thinking that a lot lately. His days are eerily similar to last summer, right down to the weight of the lifeguard whistle against his chest. Sure, there was the brush with actual fucking monsters (not really a brush so much as a head-on collision) but… he didn’t have any better ideas once summer came around again, really. It’s been long enough that he can drown out the memory of that voice that screamed inside his head that the sun would kill him. He still needs a job, still misses the beaches of California, and the best Hawkins can offer is this goddamn pool so… 

It’s not like he has any more bad memories of this place than he does of anywhere else. 

Sitting on the corner of the pool beside him, dangling her legs into the shallows, is Holly Wheeler. She’s got goggles on her head that look too big for her, with worn blue rubber around the lenses. The neon fish on her swimsuit with the tail the trails on and on reminds Billy vaguely of album art. He’d compliment her taste if he thought she did it on purpose. 

Talk about things that stick. Billy’s not sure if Karen has regrets one year later, or if she’s still hanging onto some kind of guilt, but she was insistent that Billy had to give Holly swimming lessons. The size of the tip she gave him and the fact that she gave it to him up front suggests guilt. 

“I already know how to swim,” Holly tells him matter-of-factly. She’s staring at him with the same huge dark eyes that her brother and sister both have. She’s blond as fuck, though. Where the hell did that come from? Karen must have used so much peroxide when she was knocked up that it soaked into the womb or something. 

“I know.”

“I was here every day last summer,” Holly persists. “Swimming.”

“I know,” Billy repeats. “I was the lifeguard last summer.”

She squints at him, like she’s trying to remember if that’s true, probably stretching the limits of her 6-year-old memory span. 

“So you already know I’m a good swimmer,” she says. Billy does know. She knows most of what he’s supposed to teach kids her age, but that’s her problem for having a mom who runs too wet for the pretty ones. 

“I’m gonna make you a better swimmer,” he says. “Your form is shit.”

“You can’t say that!” she gasps. “Steve said I’m really good!”

Billy expected her to say he can’t say ‘shit’ because kids believe in rules like that. She doesn’t, probably because she has to hear worse than that from her brother. The Steve thing… Billy isn’t expecting it, but it isn’t a surprise, either. Hawkins’ Golden Boy is gunning for mother of the year. And hey, in this town where his competition is mostly the Karens and the Susans, he just might get it.

“Steve is a nice person.” That’s not Billy’s favorite thing to admit. Makes him feel guilty too easily. “But he’s also a liar.”

And Billy would know. 

***

Steve has been to the hospital room a handful of times. Billy suspects he’s been to the parking lot way more often because Neil and Susan sure as hell aren’t bringing Max by as often as she’s here. He just sits there and makes chit-chat every time. He’s good at that, at talking and saying nothing at all. Billy can’t decide if it’s because that’s what silver spooners learn or if Steve is just actually a dumbass. 

“You know I don’t actually care, right?” Billy finally says, cutting off Steve’s intense re-telling of his debate with Keith about whether or not Teen Wolf belongs in the horror section.

“You could tell me what you do care about and then I can talk about that,” Steve offers, not missing a beat. Billy rolls his eyes and falls back into the silence he’s lived in for most of Steve’s visits. 

Steve groans. 

“Billy. Come on, talk to me. I’m not still mad about last year, you know. We can just… start over.”

There are no free passes in life. Billy knows that for a fact. Which means Steve is just saying the right thing you’re supposed to say when someone is in the hospital. He’s a fucking liar, is what he is.

***

“Steve is not a liar,” Holly huffs. “He was a swimmer. He knows when people are good.”

“Steve’s sport was basketball.” Billy grabs the pink boogie board from the side of the pool and drops it into the water. “He just happens to have a pool in his backyard.” 

“He was a swimmer when he was dating my sister.” Holly wrinkles her nose at the board and kicks it, making it float off further into the pool. “I’ve seen other swimming lessons. You want me to hold onto that and kick, but I already know how to kick.”

Billy… sort of believes that because Steve was never all that great at basketball, but he did have a jock reputation before Billy came to town. And he’s already kind of wondered sometimes why the guy always brings his pack of kids to the public pool instead of just using his back yard. But then Holly decides to be a massive pain in the ass and he decides he still doesn’t care about any mystery involving Steve Harrington. 

He has to handle the Wheeler brat instead.

“Look.” Billy drops his elbow to his knee so his hunched posture puts him on eye-level with Holly. “I know you know how to kick. But we have to go through the lessons, got it?” She’s pursing her lips like she’s about to start bitching again, so Billy just brings out the big guns. “And if I tick off all the little boxes of shit you know how to do, you get a whistle at the end of the week.”

That gets her attention. Bribing always works with kids, but he’s pretty sure Holly knows it’s a bribe. She understands checking off boxes that might be pointless in exchange for a reward. Billy would bet anything her limp-dick dad uses that technique all the time. 

“I want the whistle,” she says, pulling her goggles down over her eyes. They slide down her nose, the band way too big on her head to form anything closed to a seal. 

“Those are too big for you,” Billy says, holding out his hand. “I’ll hold ‘em. Go get the board.”

Holly pulls them off and hands them to him. “I want them back,” she warns. “Steve gave them to me for my swimming class. He won a trophy once with them and said they’ll bring me good luck.”

Billy doesn’t believe in luck, and personally thinks there would have been more use in Steve just getting Holly a pair of goggles that fit right. But people like stories and sentiments like that. And Steve likes giving people shit.

***

There’s  hairspray on the table beside Billy’s bed. Not the right kind, mainly because it’s the expensive shit, where the can is muted chrome, and the logo is in thick, flowy letters. Max sure as hell didn’t buy it. There’s not a long list of people visiting him in the hospital, but there’s only one who would think doing his hair would make him feel better. 

Someone (meaning Max) must have shared with Steve that Billy’s latest ‘milestone’ (because every single fucking thing counts as a milestone if your injuries fuck you up enough) is being allowed to shower on his own. He’s happy about that, don’t get him wrong. The nurses around here are not the stuff of wet dreams, and being sponged by a 60-something who talks about her collapsed uterus was pretty much hell. But seriously, he didn’t need that shared with Harrington. That guy is being weird enough about this already. 

Billy hates that he kind of wants to. Wants to wash his hair, which feels grimy and flat from being slept on so much. Wants to pick it with a comb while it’s damp, give it some lift, rub it dry with a t-shirt so it won’t frizz… and yeah, maybe spray it in place a little. And he really fucking hates that the town pretty boy, with his head of brunette fluff and nothing else, understands that so well. 

He dumps the can in the trash and makes sure Steve can see it in there.

***

Holly retrieves the board and kicks her way back over with it. Billy mentally checks off that box in his head. Yeah, he’ll probably make her do it some more just so she’s quiet for longer. He’s gonna milk the promise of that graduation whistle for as long as he can. But the kid can clearly already kick. 

“Don’t scuff them,” she reminds him when he must run a thumb over the rim of the goggles in the wrong way or something. Billy sighs internally. Clearly Harrington’s next generation of kids are already forming their attachments to him. Which means Billy is going to have to see him shuttling kids to and from the pool well after his current bunch gets their licenses. 

“I’m not scuffing Steve’s shitty goggles, kid,” he snaps.

“They’re my goggles now,” she says, the imperious tone grating in the same way her brother’s does. And her sister’s. Fucking Wheelers, man. “And you should be nicer to Steve.”

“Steve isn’t even here. Why does it matter?” Billy sets the goggles on the side of the pool so the kid can stop glowering at him. 

“Because he said I should be nice to you,” she says,  tossing the boogie board up onto the poolside where it turns the stones darker with a splatter of water. 

God Billy wants a fucking cigarette. “Can’t imagine why he did that. We’re not friends.”

***

“We’re not buddies, Harrington.” There’s venom in Billy’s voice, but Steve just looks tired. And kind of frustrated, like he knows he opened his mouth too wide and can’t take it back now. 

“I didn’t say we were. Or that we were going to be.”

He didn’t. But ‘I can help with your PT if you want’ isn’t exactly something to say to the guy you had a fistfight with a few months ago. It’s a nice offer and it’s coming after too many goddamn nice things, and Billy… Billy is over it. Harrington just keeps showing up and talking and trying to act like he and Billy are just gonna be nice to each other. Like that’s a thing that happens in real life. 

“I don’t want your fucking help.”

“I know.” And Steve sounds like he does know. Maybe he knows exactly how much Billy hates every second he insists on sitting in that plastic chair, hates every chipper word out of his mouth. And still keeps coming like a sadist. Or a masochist. Or both in one fucking punching bag of a package. 

“So fuck off! Stop showing up to visit me, stop leaving shit around my room life a fucking creeper! Get on with your shitty life, maybe go collect some more kids to need you!” Billy is sure some of that wounds. If Steve’s fall from grace in his senior year was a Greek tragedy, his languishing in a humiliating job while everyone else went off to college was some depressing Dickens shit. The kind where everyone knows, and everyone judges and tuts about it. But other than a little tightening in the jaw, Steve doesn’t react. 

Billy’s stomach does. Turns sour and roils and wants to take it all back as badly as Steve wanted to take back his offer to help. But the words are out and it’s full steam ahead, and he’s slapping his palm repeatedly against the button to call the nurse before Steve can do something stupid like apologize, like he’s the one who did something wrong. 

Steve doesn’t visit again. He can’t. Billy tells the nurses he doesn’t want him in there, and never asks if he tries to come back.

***

“You know, if you’re not nice to people, then no one will by nice to you,” Holly tells him, breaking Billy out of his reverie. The wisdom of a 6-year-old. “But if you’re nice, like to Steve, then maybe you can be friends.”

“Wow, is that how friends work?” Billy rolls his eyes, but it’s probably lost on Holly since he has sunglasses on. “Consider me fuckin’ schooled.”

Holly grasps at the lip of the pool a few times , trying to pull herself out. It doesn’t work, so she just waves a hand at Billy’s arm until he obliges and holds it out to her. She grabs it and pull herself out of the water, planting her butt back on the corner of the pool.

“Thank you,” she says. “Now you say ‘you’re welcome’ to me.”

“Trying to improve my manners, kid?”

“Yes. Good manners make it easier to make friends.”

Billy sighs and hands her back her goggles. His brain hurts, and his chest feels a little tight from too much thinking. Too many memories that are still fresh enough to sting. A cursory glance at the row of moms confirms that no, Karen didn’t stick around. Definitely a guilt thing.

“Tell you what. Why don’t we skip the rest of the baby lessons today and I buy your silence with a popsicle from the staff freezer?”

Holly, like all smart kids, knows when she’s got a good offer on the table. She nods immediately, fitting Steve’s goggles back on her head. “Deal.”

Billy stands up and heads for the staff office, with small, wet footsteps slapping the ground behind him. Holly might be okay. She’s a quick kid, and not quite as annoying as her siblings. Yet. She might even be right about a few things too. 

And with any luck, as long as there’s a decent stash of flavors to barter with in the freezer, she might even be useful in figuring out how Steve likes people to be nice to him.