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(i want that) heavy metal lovin’

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Steve hates Metallica.

"Did you hear that rift? Holy shit. Fuckin’ sick, man, it’s goddamn sick.” Billy says as giddy as the first time he’d heard those intro strums. Braces his hands on Steve’s chest, fingers sliding through dark chest hair to grip at his shoulders.

Robin’s at some lunch with her mom. Steve doesn’t have a shift today. Billy’s—Billy’s just here. In Steve’s bed making a mess of his flannel sheets. The house is empty except for Steve and Billy and Metallica. It’s not the threesome Steve thought he would experience one day, but, like, he didn’t think he’d ever be balls deep inside Billy Hargrove either.

Life’s funny like that. The twists. The turns. The not-so-slow realizations of boys are kinda hot and sucking dick’s pretty fun it turns out.

Steve sighs. Pinches at Billy’s bare thighs to make him twitch. He’s got dark leg hair for a blond. Steve’s close to coming and there’s forty more minutes on the album. Billy’s gonna wring him dry today.

“Doesn’t it make you wanna bust a fuck's nose, Steve?” Billy says with Steve’s name coming out on a moan.

Billy grinds his ass back against Steve’s hips, thighs spread wide straddling Steve, slicked up with sweat from the strain of fucking himself and lube from Steve’s handsy escapades of trying to touch every inch of Billy he can. Billy pushes Steve’s dick just that much further inside him and his lashes do this fluttering thing that makes Steve flutter too.

Steve’s not complaining. He’s got a good thing going here. Getting laid daily is more than what Robin’s got or Keith or even Tommy since the Weekend Long Break Up that led to Tommy barricading himself in the Family Video employees only bathroom.

Steve’s never seen Billy so damn happy. Then Master of Puppets dropped and—

It’s not a real question.

Steve figured that out when Billy stuffed Steve’s own bottom-of-the-pile underwear into Steve’s mouth after he asked tongue-firmly-in-cheek if the Buggles counted as metal because, hey, an electric guitar is an electric guitar.

Billy’s taught him the key facts when it comes to metal.

One, Kiss doesn’t get the joke.

Two, there’s no joking about Metallica.

You don’t get it, pretty boy. You’re too much of a preppy fuck.

Billy throws Steve’s Billy Joel and ABBA and Cyndi Lauper albums in his face every chance he gets, as though Time After Time doesn’t hit him in the heart like every other human being in the literal universe.

Steve’s smoked. He’s done the mushroom’s Robin’s cousin swears by. Billy’s even shared some of his opiates. Steve’s gotten sick on a bad trip with molly trying to wrap his head around Metallica and get into the mood to enjoy the noise.

Steve doesn’t get it. No arguing. At all. He doesn’t care that he doesn’t get it anymore. Billy’s got a tight ass and fat thighs and a mouth that knows how to work his cock to paradise and makes the best pancakes for dinner any son of a bitch would drool over and be lucky to eat on a semi-regular basis. Why would he care about the ins and outs of Metallica?

Steve’s not judging because he’s above that and he’s grown and matured and he has his own place and a job and possibly, maybe, if he were to put a label on it—if he had to—a long-term adult relationship that features dates and anniversaries and spontaneous gifts to concerts he’s now rethinking for his own sanity—but Billy’s a freak.

The freakiest freak.

The freak of all freaks.

Definitely at least the King of Freaks when it comes to the midwest in a town full of monsters and super-powered real-life mutants and skeevy government officials circling the block in suspicious cable company vans, scheming and suspicious and obvious.

Billy’s alive after that.

He thought Risky Business was a yawn.

Says gloves are for chumps and straws are for fairies.

Calls Steve twinkletoes for showering every day.

Likes to take it up the ass.

Puts on red lipstick and tells Steve to spank him and call him fag. Or bitch. Or sometimes baby

—he doesn’t so much ask for that one.

Steve picks up on the breadcrumbs Billy leaves when his upper lip goes stiff and his eyes stick to the carpeting instead of glowing wild and sparking with electricity and damn close to manic, digging up Steve’s insides and making knots out of not-so-buried feelings with a look. Like how Billy’s got this keen sense to call Steve daddy in that gut-deep rumbling whisper that sounds like Billy really, from the bottom of his freak heart, loves his daddy’s dick just that much and gets Steve busting the biggest load of his life for his sweet baby boy.

Billy’s the weirdest, freakiest freak and Steve, from the bottom of his, admittedly sort of freaky—but not that freaky—heart, hates Metallica as much as Billy loves them and if he has to listen to the same album again, Steve might drive one of Robin’s bobby pins into his ears and pop those drums like the birthday balloon of a kid he hates.

Master of Puppets just isn’t Steve’s jam.

For Billy, it’s the only thing that exists since it dropped a month ago and he made Steve’s turntable it’s permanent home with the declaration Steve’s gonna have his mind and his dick blown once he gets a whiff of what Metallica’s been up to.

Steve’s pretty sure Billy’s been listening to it all day, even when Steve’s not here. The house is a rental. The nearest neighbor isn’t close enough to get pissed at Billy blasting his music at every hour. Robin basically lives with her headphones on and her walkman clipped to her belt, purposefully ignoring Steve’s pain.

Billy rolls his hips, finds that angle that has him leaking, dripping a mess of come onto Steve’s stomach, cheeks turning ruddy to blistering, ratty curls bouncing as Billy closes his eyes and matches up with the beat, shouts out MASTER to sing along, ramping up to the finale and Steve thinks about dropping his stereo out the window.

The two-story drop would put an end to it. Billy wouldn’t be able to fix the busted up scraps of metal. Steve could get his dick wet in the golden silence he misses so much. He’d be able to hear those cute punched-out noises Billy makes when Steve eats him out sloppy and the wet squelch of his cock when he finally pushes in. Those happy-Billy-sighs when Billy’s full because it’s Steve and not that fucker Hetfield with the dumb guitar.

Or Steve could just snap the record in two.

Pull out the tape from the cassette and shred it.

Find Metallica, lure them into Hawkins, and let the Mind Flayer or whatever the hell else might be out there wipe them out.

Billy won’t fuck to anything else.

In the car. In the house. Billy’s really blowing James Hetfield. Stops mid-suck to headbang and play air-guitar.

Steve’s about ready to start getting frisky in the middle of the woods. The monsters can catch an eyeful if they want. That’s their business.

Billy’s dad threw out all his music. Said it was too intense. Didn’t want Billy to strain himself. Doctor’s orders. Found the perfect excuse. Ever since, Billy’s found his way onto Steve’s and Robin’s second-hand couch and then into Steve’s bed.

Billy squeezes tight around him. Clenches up. Come spurts out of him. He gets so wet. Gushes a steady river of salty white that dries sticky and gross in Steve’s hair. Later Billy will pick at it and rub himself on it since he’s a nasty freak. Steve thinks Billy likes the way Steve smells covered in his jizz.

Steve might think the same thing about Billy.

Billy’s dick curves up from underneath the hem of his shirt. All delicate and pink with a fat head. He’s cut. Steve likes the look of his cock compared to his own. Billy thinks foreskin’s the shit. Makes a big deal when he’s taking his time lapping lazy at Steve to get his tongue underneath it and turn Steve stupider than he already is.

Billy keeps his shirt on when they have sex. Tits bouncing under a tight black tee with his nipples about to rip right through. He never takes it off. He definitely showers with a shirt on. He lets Steve slip his hands underneath it now. Took a while to be able to grope at his chest without Billy biting him bloody and cussing him out for being some queer dipshit loony bin motherfucker.

The scars peak out. Run low. Some of the ones on his side stagger out like lightning to his hips. They’ve got a different feel to them than the rest of Billy’s California-gold skin. Steve tries not to linger. Doesn’t want Billy to notice he’s noticed.

“Billy. Fucking fuck.” Steve moans out. Head tilted back into his pillow, nails digging, scratching down Billy’s thighs. He’s gonna come and Billy’s gonna pout. Couldn’t you wait until Orion.?

He’s such a douchebag.

An annoying irritating asshole freak.

Billy leans down. Kisses Steve and licks at his lips, the side of his face. Covers Steve with his spit and Steve shoots off, quick and unexpected and sees some stars sparkle that may just be the sparks going off in Billy’s baby blue eyes.

“You better get it up again before Sanitarium.” Billy bites Steve’s jaw. Nibbles rough at Steve’s ear. Tugs at Steve’s hair. Rolls them over so Steve is on top, gazing down at the man who blew him the first day he got back. He still had IV bruises on the insides of his arms and smelled like a hospital. Told Steve regrets are for posers and kissed him.

Back then, Steve had felt bad for the guy. Then he’d felt a whole lot more. Billy has that way about him. Shoves Steve through doors he didn’t even know were there let alone open with his fuck you grin and middle fingers raised to anyone and everyone looking to give him an inch of grief for who he is.

The Upside Down didn’t take his attitude away from him. Just sharpened it.

Steve pulls out of Billy. Billy grunts, scrunches up his nose and glares haughty at Steve. Steamed. Put out. Bucks his hips up to try and grind his still-hard dripping pretty prick against Steve and whines between curses when Steve won’t let him.

“Would you be real pissed if I said—if—if I have to listen to this album one more time I might jump out the window? Into a bus? A school bus full of little asshole kids.” Billy stares flatly at Steve. “It makes me wanna get run over by eight wheels. One right after the other. All eight of’m.”

Billy closes his eyes. Steve can still see him rolling those Sinatra blues. “A lot of kids would get freaked from that.”

“Yeah. But, like, I wouldn’t care. ‘Cause I’d be a flapjack.”

“And dead.”

And dead.”

Billy cups Steve’s cheeks. He has scars on his palms. Billy likes to say he’s Jesus. Steve’s the only one who laughs when he pulls out the stigmata card. No one else wants to jump on board Billy’s sense of humor and none of the nerds want to be the one to explain the bible to El.

“You’re stupid.” Billy says with his hand soft on Steve’s cheek. Gentle. Warm. Loving, if Steve had to put a label on it. It’s nice. Being pet’s definitely Steve’s jam.

“Agreed.” Steve nods.

“Real fuckin’ pretty and real flip-floppin’ stupid.”


“I was enjoying getting railed before you started blabbing.”

“You’re so weird.”

“No shit, princess.” Steve makes a face and Billy squishes his cheeks together. Rolls Steve’s molars with his palms. “Remember the first time you heard Purple Rain?

Steve had played hooky for three days. Had himself a five day weekend to get high and listen to Prince on a loop.

Those first few days, Steve loved watching Billy beam while he listened to this album that injected him with relentless, contagious happiness and got him amped to fuck non-stop.

Maybe Steve will buy Billy his own walkman. His birthday’s coming up and it’ll make the concert tickets possibly survivable.

“Do I really gotta explain myself to you?” Billy cocks his head, grungy curls fanned out around him on Steve’s pillow.

Steve makes this noise that gets Billy grinning asshole-like. Noses at Billy’s neck, feels the hop-skip of his pulse and is struck by how Billy smells rank and just like him.

Steve flops on top of Billy. Laughs when Billy oofs.

“I still really, like, really-really, like, super really hate Metallica.”

“It’s okay. Having bad taste in music isn’t that big a sin. God’ll forgive ya.” Billy scrapes his teeth against Steve’s ear. Rubs circles between his shoulders. Wraps his legs up around Steve’s waist and locks his ankles and Steve’s dick is hard again. Can’t not be when Billy’s smelling like that, looking like that, feeling like this, warm and plush and hard lines with a cock waiting to go off and fucked open just for Steve.

Billy’s set to wipe him out at this rate.

“That mean you hate me?”

Steve shakes his head. Mutters out, “Used to.”

Billy cracks up. Starts laughing mean from deep in his chest. His legs loosen around Steve.

“Yeah, you did. Had a big fat hard stick up your ass. Couldn’t handle anyone matching King Steve’s fire, could ya?” Billy tugs Steve up with a fist in his hair to sparkle and glitz his way into Steve’s everything with his sweaty face and wagging tongue. He pinches Steve’s nose. “This is the best album of all time. That’s why I listen to it with you, dumbass.”

Steve’s eyes bug out. He brightens. Heart skips a beat and everything. The sound of Armageddon doesn’t sound as annoying as it just five seconds ago.

“Oh my god, was that—are you being nice to me, Billy Hargrove? Are you sweet on me?” Steve gasps, plays it up in neon lights. "Do you like me, Billie Jean?"

“Just being practical. Shut your mouth.” Billy huffs. Goes a little shy with how quick he’s rolling out from under Steve and out of bed. Steve’s spunk runs down the inside of Billy’s thigh. His greasy golden curls catch the afternoon light. He resets the needle back to the beginning, eyes sliding shut when those first strums start up. Same as the first time.

Billy climbs back onto Steve’s lap. Steve slaps his ass. Slips his hands up Billy's shirt and feels the rigid lines of scars he'll see one day. Slips two fingers inside of him easy and watches Billy’s blissed-out blush darken his freckles and spread and disappear under his shirt.

“You’re a freak.” Steve tells him honestly and—if he had to say—maybe a couple miles lost for this California boy.

Billy smiles. Definitely sweet on Steve.

“And you’re a freak fucker. You’re way worse. Like, what the fuck is your deal, Harrington? What’s that make you?”

“A sap with two tickets to the best show I’ll hate every minute of.”

Billy freezes, stares wide-eyed then pushes Steve flat on the bed and they nearly break the mattress.

Steve doesn’t really get Metallica. What the appeal is. Sounds like a bunch of angry guitars and guys who need to chill. This one album isn't any different from the others Steve’s been made to listen to before. He’s not gonna get it and that’s fine. He’ll just stick cotton in his ears. Concentrate instead on Billy shining brighter than he has in months. Steve can appreciate that.

Steve still hates Metallica though.