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yikesharringrove · 3 years

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Earn It

My contribution to the @harringroveholidayexchange for @confettibites 💕

Read on ao3

This is a bit different to how I usually write the boys, I hope you enjoy!

(there’s some smut)

“Hey! Harrington!”

Steve rolled his shoulders back, steeling himself for whatever nightmare this was about to be.

Billy Hargrove was walking briskly over to him, crossing the gym in long strides.

“Let’s talk, man.” He yanked Steve’s elbow, pulling him out the door and into the November cold.

Billy had left him alone during practice, had actually played on the shirts scrimmage team with Steve instead of trying his very best to climb inside Steve’s skin in the name of defense.

He only stopped when they were well down the alleyway between the gym and the science department.

“What the fuck do you want?”

Steve was already really over today.

He had to come into school, already had a failing grade in his history course from skipping so many boring lectures.

And everyone had been staring, staring at his face and whispering about who beat up King Steve.

And that who was standing right in front of him, staring him down like an animal, not saying anything.

Steve just sat in one hip, putting his hands on his hips.

“You got something to say, Hargrove?”

“It was fucked up.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“You shouldn’t’ve lied to me.”

Steve’s stomach dropped.

No fucking way was this asshole blaming him for what had gone down. Blaming him for beating Steve until he was fucking unconscious.

“You’re fucking insane.” And maybe Steve should’ve seen it earlier, should’ve seen it that first night when Billy climbed over furniture to glower at him up close. Really should’ve seen it last night when Billy slammed a plate over his head and made his world spin for a few hours. “You’re absolutely crazy.”

Billy huffed, rolling his eyes and digging in his pockets.

He brought out a crumpled back of Marlboro reds, lighting one and sucking on it harshly.

He blew the smoke in Steve’s face.

“I’m not good at this.”

“Clearly.”

Billy huffed again.

“You shouldn’t’ve lied to me. That shit, it makes me fuckin’ mad. And I, I didn’t even fuckin’ see you. Just, just kept swingin’.”

“Real interesting how you couldn’t see me when every hit seemed to land so nicely on my face.”

Steve was seriously over this conversation. He just wanted to go home.

“I didn’t say couldn’t, Dumbshit. I meant didn’t. It wasn’t you, that I was-” he cut himself off with another long drag on his cigarette. “Just don’t pull that shit again, and we’ll be square.”

“See, Hargrove, I don’t even know what shit I pulled. All I was doing was stopping you from murdering a child.”

“Wasn’t gonna do nothin’ to the kid.” Steve rolled his eyes. “Really. Just had to, prove a point, I guess.”

“What point was that? That you’re a racist sack of shit?”

Billy glared at Steve.

Steve glared back.

This asshole didn’t scare him.

Billy broke eye contact first.

“No. The point, Harrington, is more nuanced than I could ever expect your little pea brain to understand.”

“Man, this is the worst fuckin’ apology I’ve ever fuckin’ heard.”

“You think this is an apology?”

“I think it’s a shitty one.”

“This isn’t an apology. I don’t give a flying fuck what you think about me, Harrington. This is a warning. Not to stick your big ugly nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“You brought my big ugly nose into it when you tried to break it last night.”

“Oh, please. If I was aiming to do any real damage, you’d be fuckin’ obliterated right now.”

“Almost was.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re shit at fighting.”

And for some reason, some unknown heinous reason Steve didn’t want to understand, he had to fight back a smile at that one.

“Just ‘cause I don’t fight dirty. Breaking fucking plates and shit.”

“That’s not fighting dirty, that’s fighting smart.”

And again, Steve was almost smiling at this crazy asshole while they talked about the way he nearly caved Steve’s face in last night.

Billy blew out some more smoke, flicking his cigarette to the ground and grinding it out with the toe of his sneaker.

“I’m not gonna get on my knees and beg your forgiveness, ‘cause like I said, Harrington; I don’t give a shit what you think of me.” Steve switched his weight, sitting in his other hip, hands still on his hips. Billy looked up at the sky, the grey clouds hanging low over them. “It was kinda fucked up of me to rearrange your pretty face like that.”

The way Billy spoke sometimes knocked the wind out of Steve.

The way he said pretty face wasn’t in a mocking way.

He said it like he meant it.

“Maybe you should get on your knees.”

Billy’s eyes snapped to look at him, one of those thick eyebrows raising.

Steve tested the waters.

“I think you should get on your knees. Beg for my forgiveness.”

Billy’s tongue made an appearance, just the tip prodding out to slide over his bottom lip. Steve doesn’t even think he knows he was doing it.

“What’re you goin’ on about, Harrington?”

Steve took a step forward.

He reached up, tugging once on Billy’s jacket collar.

“Don’t know how many more times I can say it, Hargrove.” He leaned in, let his breath puff over Billy’s ear. “I think, that you should get on your knees, and beg for my forgiveness.”

Billy shivered.

Steve grinned.

And then Billy stepped back, and took a deep breath, his gaze sharp enough to slice Steve open, and he sunk to his knees.

His hands came up, sliding up Steve’s thighs, resting on his hips.

And Billy looked, unsure, like somehow, Steve hadn’t made this clear enough.

So Steve decided he’d help him out a bit.

“Open your mouth.”

And Billy,

he did.

Opened his mouth, stuck his tongue out, ready and waiting.

Steve couldn’t get his belt open fast enough.

Billy watched, blue eyes heavy, while Steve wrenched down his zipper, pulling out his half hard cock, giving himself a few perfunctory strokes.

He placed the head on Billy’s tongue.

“Go on. Earn my forgiveness.”

And Billy closed his lips, surging forward to take as much of Steve as he could.

And Billy, he’s done this before. Had a cock in his throat.

Steve could tell by the way he moved his tongue along the bottom, by the way he took care to breathe through his nose while he pushed himself down Steve’s cock, until he could feel the softness of the back of Billy’s throat bump against him.

“Fuck, think this is the only thing you should use your mouth for. Can’t fucking talk when you’ve got a dick in your throat.” Steve bucked his hips a little, both hands sinking into Billy’s hair, still a little damp from the showers.

Billy choked when Steve bucked again, looking up to glare at him, spit running down his chin.

Steve panted, giving him an open-mouthed smile.

“Hold on, Baby.” And Billy’s hands tightened where they held onto Steve’s hips, his jaw going soft.

Steve curled both hands more forcefully in Billy’s hair, using it as leverage to properly fuck Billy’s face.

Billy’s eyes fluttered closed as Steve set a steady pace, thrusting into Billy’s soft mouth.

“Feel fuckin’ good. Don’t know why we weren’t doing this last night. Woulda let you take Max home if I knew you could suck dick this good.”

Billy furrowed his brow, wrenching himself back off of Steve’s cock, a line of spit still connecting him to Billy’s pink bottom lip.

The air was cold against his spit-slicked flesh, and he wanted back in.

“It’d do wonders for me if you didn’t talk about my fuckin’ step sister right now.”

And when Steve looked down, sure enough, Billy’s jeans were tented.

“Yeah, sure, just fucking-” Billy rolled his eyes, opening his mouth for Steve once more.

There was a fire in Steve’s gut as he found the same brutal pace.

Billy closed his eyes again, gagging as Steve’s dick pressed further and further down his throat with each thrust.

He let go of Steve’s hip with his left hand, dropping it down to palm at himself through his jeans, fumbling to get the button undone.

He reached inside, found his cock already stick with pre, sliding his fist over himself with the same rough pace Steve had set in his mouth.

He could taste Steve’s own precum dripping steadily onto his tongue, swallowed it down as best as he could.

“I, I’m close. You gonna swallow it all? Take my fucking cum?” Billy moaned around him, jerking himself faster, eyes squeezing closed.

Steve was breathing heavily, slammed himself deep into Billy’s throat, shooting his load, his cock pulsing against Billy’s tongue.

And Billy gave an embarrassing whimper, cumming in his jeans, all over his own hand.

Steve pulled out, spit and cum dripping down Billy’s lip, that pink tongue coming out to lap it up.

Steve tucked himself away as Billy stood up, lighting another cigarette.

“I earn your forgiveness?” Billy’s voice was hoarse, shot completely to hell. It made Steve’s gut burn.

“Thought you said you didn’t care what I think.”

And Steve was off, crossing the field to get back to the parking lot, leaving Billy in the alleyway with his jeans still unbuttoned.

#lemons #steve harrington #billy hargrove #harringrove #yikes writes

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lockedstuck · 3 years

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sorrow that you keep

March 2021 - Sollux Captor

“Vitals!” Dirk announces, rapping on your door with his knuckles. “C’mon, let’s get this over with so I can serve breakfast!”

When you walk out of your room, there’s already a line leading out of the treatment room. The person in front of you, a dark-skinned kid with an Angela Davis-style afro - Karkat, you think his name is - curses up a blue streak while he waits in line.

“I don’t see why I had to get a prissy fucking bastard with insomnia as my goddamn roommate. I didn’t ask for any of this fucking shit. Fucking involuntary status, fucking dumbshit Eridan, I hope this fucking hospital burns down.”

It’s too early to put up with this guy, especially with the migraine you woke up with.

“Not tryna piss you off or anything but do you think you could keep it down with your tirade?”

If looks could kill, the glare Karkat shoots you would have rendered you to a pile of smoldering ash.

“I haven’t had a cigarette in six days, it’s seven oh fuck in the morning, my roommate wakes up seventeen times a night, and I might be losing my job because my shithead brother signed me into this fucking place, so you can go straight the fuck to hell,” Karkat replies.

“Are you this obnoxious later in the day, or did they just forget to give you your ativan last night?”

“I don’t even take ativan, dumbfuck.” He squares up. Maybe if he weren’t five foot one, you’d actually be afraid. “I’ll knock you out if you keep talking, though.”

Behind you, a guy with eyes so dark that they might be violet moves to plant a hand on Karkat’s shoulder. It’s your roommate, Gamzee Makara, who appears to sleep for fifteen hours a day. Karkat surprisingly refrains from flinching or scowling. You probably wouldn’t scowl at this guy if you had the opportunity either; he’s easily six foot four, his hair curling around his ears and sticking out worse than Karkat’s.

“Now there’s no reason to get up an’ motherfucking truculent with the new guy so early in the morning.”

Karkat rolls his eyes. “Makara, if you tell me to calm down and wait for the morning miracles, I’ll kill you too.”

“There’s no need to wait, Karbro. The sunrise is a miracle in and of itself. When I looked at the ceiling in my room, I saw miracles. Everywhere.”

“They need to put you on haldol, man.”

“I don’t need no helldogs telling me what to do. I just go with the flow.”

“Of course,” Karkat says, almost fondly. “You and your motherfucking miracles.”

When it’s nearly Karkat’s turn for vitals, Dirk escorts Roxy over to the nurses’ station. She blows a kiss at Karkat, who raises his hand in half-salute. Ignacio walks out of the charting room and takes a look at her.

“Miss Lalonde, I have medication for you. This’ll help with the shakes, hypertension, and sweating.”

Roxy puts her hands on her hips and winks at him. “Again, cutiepie?”

Ignacio rolls his eyes at her and shakes his head, his mohawk moving slightly with the motion. He hands her a medication cup and a paper cup of water. She swallows her medication down fluidly, without drinking any of the water. That has to be an xbox achievement.

During breakfast, as Eridan continues to scowl and bitch about his lack of breakfast (he has ECT today), and Karkat tells him to stop being an overdramatic fuckass before he stabs him with a fork, Dr. Vandayar pulls you aside for one of his “no big deal” discussions.

Otherwise known as morning check-in.

Truth be told, you rather like Dr. V, or Krishna, which is what he told you that you could call him, even though he has a doctorate.

He got you access to sharps, your body wash, and your clothes. He means well, and aside from when he checks in every morning, he doesn’t force you to talk if you don’t want to.

“How are you doing today, Mr. Captor?” he asks.

You shrug. “I’m okay, I guess. Pretty much the same as yesterday.”

Then come the “one to tens”, as you’ve come to think of them. Krishna has his little clipboard balanced on his thigh.

“Urges to hurt other people, one to ten?”

You think of Karkat Vantas and that smug fucking look on his face.

“Two.” It’s always less than three. Maybe that’s why he starts with it.

“Urges to hurt yourself, one to ten?”

You contemplate yesterday’s DBT handout, Roxy’s outburst about self-destruction, and its many varying connotations.

“Eight,” you reply.

“Suicidal thoughts, one to ten?”

“Nine.”

“Active or passive?”

“Passive, mostly. Fleetingly active. I don’t want to live if I’m going to burden people, the usual.”

“Do you have any plans to seriously harm yourself on the unit?”

“No. Not here,” you say. “Everything I’d want to do would require me to be outside.”

“I see,” Krishna says. “Have you been seeing or hearing things that aren’t really there?”

“No.”

“What about feeling like people are out to get you, or sending you special messages?”

“No. Nothing like that. I get enough of that shit at home.”

Dr. V does not laugh at your attempt to joke about your chaotic home life.

If you were to be completely honest, you’re wondering when your medications are going to start working, or if they’re going to start working. Talking to the other patients has been a double-edged sword. So many of them have been on a million different drugs without relief.

Logically, you know that it’ll probably take whatever you’re on more than a week to cure you, but… You’re scared. You’re not in full control and it scares you. There’s a reason you slit your throat. There’s a reason you’re here.

You’re scared the melancholy will wrap itself around you like a shroud, and never relinquish its hold. You’re scared you’ll hate yourself and this life forever.

“I thank you for your honesty, Sollux,” Dr. V says, once he makes his notes. “Any uses of target behaviors that I should be aware of?”

“I cut myself with a plastic knife on Friday evening. Not deep enough to need medical attention, though.”

You scan his expression for evidence of emotion, but he has the mother of all poker faces. All he does is write your answers down in his incomprehensible shorthand,

“How did that make you feel?” he asks. “Remember, it didn’t necessarily have to make you feel anything.”

You shrug. “It helped relieve the tension in the moment, I guess.”

“But it also made me feel disappointed later on,” you go on. “Disappointed at myself. I’m such a fucking idiot for relapsing.”

Dr. V jots this down as well, and shuffles through his papers.

“I wouldn’t use that language to describe yourself. Ridding yourself of maladaptive coping mechanisms can be quite difficult, especially if they have worked for you in the past,” he says. “Nevertheless, do you think you need to be on one-to-one for a few days? So that you stop hurting yourself while you’re here?"

You shake your head vehemently. “Absolutely not. I won’t do what I did again.”

“That is reassuring to hear. I’ll refrain from filling out the paperwork that would put you on constant observation for self-injury. That said, though, there is something you also need to do to prevent that.”

You roll your eyes a little. “You want me to contract for safety, don’t you? Like, filling out one of those sheets that says I’ll grab someone else before I decide to hurt myself. Otherwise I end up on one-to-one, right?”

Dr. V nods at you, before going on. “Yes, that is the general idea. You may either fill it out with me later on in the afternoon, or with a member of the staff with whom you are more comfortable.”

“I’d rather fill it out with you, to be perfectly honest. I trust you.”

He smiles. “I am very glad to hear that, Sollux. I don’t have any further questions for the moment.”’

You get out of your conference with Krishna, and walk into the dayroom.

Gamzee sits there, watching Good Morning America. He’s got a small smile on his face, and a faraway look in his eye, like he’s both here and not. You call his name to get his attention. It works, his dark eyes trained on you.

“You mind if I sit down?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Naw, it’s cool. You can even change the channel if that’s somethin’ you wanna do.”

He’s built like a linebacker, all broad shoulders and muscles. He could probably snap you in half if he wanted to. You take the seat next to him and he smiles serenely at you.

“So what’s up?” he asks.

“Nothing, man. Just got outta session with Dr. V. He wanted to make sure I didn’t want to hurt myself.”

Gamzee looks thoughtful. He pulls a red paper flower out of his shorts and hands it to you.

“I folded that a couple days ago. You can have it, if you want.”

“For what?”

“For when you need to up an fuckin’ remember the miracles. Like we talked about last night.”

Last night, Gamzee harangued you at length about the Mirthful Messiahs, and the Dark Carnival, and with a practiced skill you have learned from your sibling’s rants about the NYPD following them, you tuned him out utterly. You really hope he doesn’t count you as a believer in his weird ass faith, which seems like some kind of psychotic juggalo cult.

He’s a nice guy, though. You know he’s not utterly harmless, but he seems easygoing enough. You fiddle around with and tear at a piece of paper until you have a square, which you then use to make a paper crane.

“Hey, Gamzee,” you say. He glances up at you.

“Yeah?”

You hand him the paper crane. “You know, the Japanese believe if you fold a thousand of these, you get a wish. I’m not folding a thousand cranes, but this is for you.”

“I will cherish it every day of my motherfucking life.”

You think he means it, too.

Art group is at 11. Katya herds everyone who wants to show up into the art room. So far, that’s you, Roxy, Karkat, June, Gamzee, Calliope, and Porrim. Karkat nods his head at you, and then inclines it toward the door. He wants to talk to you one-on-one. Whatever the fuck about?

He looks like he’s swallowed a lemon before he deigns to speak to you, all pursed lips and narrowed eyes. You’re tempted to ask him what the fuck’s eating him, and then he speaks.

“Listen. I want to apologize about earlier this morning,” he says. “I was in a foul fucking mood, and I need to work on not taking that shit out on other people.”

Wait, seriously? He can’t actually think you’re still upset about that; you get cursed out worse by your sibling on a daily basis, and that’s when they’re in a good mood.

“Accepted,” you reply. “Don’t worry about it, man.”

Faint relief breaks out on Karkat’s features.

Katya has all of you gather around before she constructs a box out of a weirdly shaped piece of cardboard that looks as if it’s been cut so that a small briefcase sized box could be constructed.

“These are what I like to call coping boxes. You make the box, and then you decorate it. You can put anything in here. Things that make you feel good, or that make you think, or handouts you get during other groups. Whatefur you want!”

She hands a box to each of you, after she puts out tempera and acrylic paint, colored markers, gel pens, and colored pencils.

You weren’t planning to keep any of your distress tolerance handouts in the box, but maybe you should. Gamzee’s staring at you while he paints, and that’s kind of weird, at least until you get a good look at how he’s decorating his coping box.

He’s painting halfway decent pictures of you, Roxy, Karkat, Calliope and Eridan on the front part of the box, with the word “friends”, in purple cursive.

He counts you as a friend even though the only thing you’ve really had to do with him was vaguely listen while he spouted his weird theories about the mirthful messiahs?

You have to hand it to him, though. Kid’s a real artist, probably - no, definitely - good enough to paint portraits for money over in Washington Square Park or something. Karkat gets a decent look at what Gamzee’s painting and blushes.

“Oh, come on, you didn’t have to put me on the damn box,” he says.

“But you are my best friend in the whole wide motherfucking universe,” Gamzee replies.

Karkat splutters something and looks like he’d like to object, then just sighs, and tells him to make sure he gets Karkat’s good side.

“Hey, Gamzee!” Roxy calls.

“Yes, Roxybro?”

“Does painting that mean you’re gonna paint me like one ‘a’ your French girls one of these days?”

Gamzee gives this a good half-minute of thought.

“I ain’t up an’ got any motherfuckin’ French girls.”

Meanwhile, you focus on your tree. It looks like a lollipop with antennae, but whatever, that’s going to be as good as it gets. You ask Katya if you can get a piece of paper to paint on, she “of course”s you and hands you a piece of printer paper.

What will you paint today, Sollux Captor? More trees?

Tears spring to your eyes, and just when you think the worst is over, they start trailing down your face. Roxy recoils and apologizes to you, thinking she’s done something, and all you do is cry harder, you fuckup. You can’t do a goddamn thing right. Only things you’re good for are fixing computers and having nervous breakdowns.

Katya looks up from praising Calliope and Gamzee’s collaboration, and walks up to you.

“Hey - no, it’s okay, mew don’t have to cover your face - what’s wrong?”

She crouches so that she’s eye level with you as you sit in your chair. It somehow makes you feel even worse, like you’re some small child that can’t control their emotional outbursts. Come to think of it, you were like this as a kid, too. Tuna was the outgoing twin who made all the friends, and you were the twin who would start crying if you accidentally colored outside the lines.

“It’s alright. If you don’t want to paint, maybe you’d like to go for a walk?” she asks. You shake your head emphatically.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “It’s just that I’ve never really been good at artistic stuff. Sorry I suck so bad.”

“Art group is not about being good or bad stylistically,” Katya says. “It’s about expressing yourself. As long as you’re doing that, you’re fine. I like your tree. You and Roxy are both excellent at trees.”

Roxy, who has been sitting next to you, using highlighters to draw what looks either like a really bad tree or a neon colored mushroom cloud, gives you a small little smile.

“Wanna draw with me?” she asks.

At first, you assume she’s found some oblique way to hit on you the way she does everyone else, but then she hands you the bottle of black tempera paint and a couple of colored markers. You don’t know what she expects you to do with them. Your tree sucks way more than hers.

“If you can’t think of anything to draw, why not try making patterns?” Katya asks.

You guess you can do that. You start drawing red and blue circles on your piece of paper, clustering them closer and closer together.

Apropos of nothing, you remember the time in undergrad where you and Ray couldn’t get back to campus in time to beat the blizzard. You and she slept overnight in your car, parked in a gas station. Outside, nothing but a vast, enveloping white, what you imagine death or infinity must look like. The whole world rendered down to the slope and curve of dunes and valleys.

If you think hard enough, you can feel the wind rocking the car, can imagine the sound of Ray’s teeth chattering, or the occasional slip of her hands as she does a tarot reading. Another one. Another one down, another one down, another one bites the dust, Queen playing through your radio speakers. She sits in the front passenger seat, one leg bent beneath her.

“You think we’re ever gonna get out of here?” she asks.

At this moment, you ask yourself that same question. It’s a little different, now.

You wish you could take your seven eighths of a computer engineering degree and come up with a way out of this, but you can’t. That’s your problem. You’re only you, and you’ve never been good at managing your emotions.

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skeletonscribbles · 6 years

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I love your writing. Here's a Reddie prompt for you if you have a sec: "wow Eds, you have no idea how much I think about you at night." Do with that what you will ;)

Thank you anon - you’re too kind! This prompt turned into something decidedly less R rated than at least I was anticipating - I hope you enjoy my little blip of a jealous Richie piece anyway!

GreenWord Count - ~1700

Richie Tozier wasn’t quite sure what he was feeling.

He liked to think that he was a pretty agreeable fellow, all in all - always reliable for a couple of good chucks by way of sex jokes (not that he had any experience with sex itself; in fact, thinking about it for too long made him feel sort of hot and funny, so usually he elected just to laugh it off and move on)…

…so when he saw Eddie Kaspbrak climb on to Bill Denbrough’s shoulders to play chicken down at the quarry, why didn’t he feel like cracking wise?

He wasn’t angry about Eddie and Bill teaming up, per se. The other six people splashing around in the water with him were his best friends in the whole world; he loved them wholly and unconditionally and would never be angry with any of them, ever…even if Eddie had refused to partner with him for chicken earlier on, citing “germs”. No, he wasn’t mad about that. He couldn’t even blame him - it had probably been like two and a half days since his last shower. (He considered himself above such things - and besides, it wasn’t like he was the only unwashed miscreant at the arcade every day.)

He wasn’t sad, either. He knew sad pretty well - it washed over him every so often like an ocean wave, without purpose or form. His mother said that he’d inherited it from her, that she had it too…and that it always passed, no matter how bad it got. So far, she’d been right…but this wasn’t that. It was too sharp a feeling to be that.

His best guess for the feeling was ‘uncomfortable’. He wasn’t uncomfortable very often, but sometimes when Eddie looked at him, his skin vibrated with…something like what he was feeling now, so it was probably safe to chalk the whole thing up to discomfort.

But why the hell would he feel like that about a perfectly normal chicken fight? He hadn’t felt weird when Stan had climbed up on Bill’s shoulders earlier. He’d felt other things: the look on Bill’s ruby red face had been good for a laugh, and Stan’s ultimate loss to Beverly on Ben’s shoulders had been incredibly satisfying, but this…this was…

Richie was ripped from his reverie by a shriek and a splash; Bev had triumphed again. Eddie had been knocked backwards into the water. Bill was quick to try and help him back up, and Eddie clung to him, gasping for breath in a way that indicated that he’d need his inhaler soon.

Sure enough, as soon as Eddie was situated enough to control his motor functions, he was out of the water like a shot, wheezing exaggeratedly. Bill followed, hot on his heels, and the gross feeling in Richie’s chest grew more pronounced. He watched them walk away, feeling confused and disoriented.

“Earth to Idiot.” Stan came out of the blue, rolling his eyes and shoving Richie’s arm roughly. “You’re too quiet. What are you plotting?”

“Who, me?” Richie put on his best nonchalant face. “Just thinking about Eddie’s mom.”

“His mom, huh?” Stan was, as always, unimpressed. He looked at Richie with an expression that suggested that Richie was missing some big important point.

“Or yours, whichever, take your pick.” Richie laughed nervously. “I’ve been through ‘em all.”

Stan tutted, shaking his head. “Your birth was the first and last time you’re ever going to touch a vagina, dumbshit.

That statement made Richie nervous for reasons he didn’t understand. “What kind of blasphemy–”

“Richie.” Stan’s face was completely serious, and Richie couldn’t help but shiver in looking back at him. “I’ve known you for fuck knows how long…too long, definitely. Believe me when I say that I know you better than you know yourself.”

“Stanley, old chap, you’re not making a lick of sense,” Richie tried, breaking out his trusty British accent and feeling very small.

Stan looked away. “Okay, maybe you still don’t know, whatever. Just…don’t wallow. Go talk to Eddie.”

Richie blinked back at Stan. “What?”

“Go. Talk. To. Eddie.” Stan shoved his arm one more time, and then turned and started pushing towards where Mike was waiting by the shore. “And stop staring at Bill like he killed your dog. Jesus.”

“You’re Jewish,” Richie pointed out.

“Jesus was a Jew,” Stan retorted neatly, not looking back.

Richie weighed his options. On the one hand, he kind of wanted to piss off Stan by doing the exact opposite of the thing that Stan had suggested. (It was a frequent strategy of Richie’s, and for good reason - it got a rise out of Stan every time.) On the other…well, he wanted this fucking feeling to go away, didn’t he?

He pushed his way out of the water and on to the shore, where Bill was holding an aspirator to Eddie’s mouth.

Richie frowned at the sight of Bill kneeling by Eddie. It didn’t seem fair that Bill got to monopolize all of Eddie’s time and space. The two of them were seemingly attached at the hip. Eddie’s love for Bill was obvious and all-consuming; he followed their ginger beanpole of a leader around like a puppy. If he didn’t know better, Richie would say that Eddie was in love with Bill.

An image surfaced in Richie’s mind, unbidden, of Eddie and Bill engaged in a kiss. He pushed it out as quickly as it came, disgusted at himself for thinking it…and upset that it had made the feeling in his chest increase tenfold. Eddie and Big Bill could do what they wanted - it wasn’t any of Richie’s business or concern.

(Except that…it kind of felt like it was.)

“You okay, Eds?” Richie asked, swallowing his negative thoughts and strolling over to Eddie’s crouched form.

Eddie sat up stiffly. “Just peachy. Obviously.”

Richie put up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Just a concerned pal here, Eddie my love. No need to go all she-wolf on me.”

“Fuck off,” Eddie mumbled, looking as if he wanted nothing more than to disappear.

Bill looked between the two of them with the same knowing expression that Stan had worn earlier. “Yeah, I’m g-gonna go…Richie, make sure Eddie keeps b-b-breathing?”

“You can count on me,” Richie saluted, feeling a strange sort of relief at the thought of Bill leaving. Eddie, strangely, did not protest Bill’s departure - he just slumped back down, clutching his inhaler weakly.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Bill said, getting to his feet and heading in the direction of Ben, who had procured a picnic basket and was handing out sandwiches to their other friends. “I’m stuh-starved.”

As soon as Bill left, Richie found himself wanting him back. Without Bill, the energy between he and Eddie had turned…strange.

“What is he leaving us to?” Eddie asked after a minute, looking nervous.

“I’m sure he just wanted to give me a minute alone with my dear Spaghetti,” Richie said, reaching out to pinch Eddie’s cheeks out of habit. “Since he’s usually the one who gets you, I’d say it’s only fair.”

Eddie ducked out of reach of Richie’s offending hands, scowling. “What do you mean, he gets me?”

Richie shrugged, trying not to let the bitter feeling he was harboring seep into his words. “You and Big Bill are like…Bert and Ernie or some shit. Always together.”

Eddie stared back at him. “Bill’s my best friend.”

“And mine,” Richie agreed, “but the difference is that I don’t have an obvious boner for him.”

As soon as the words left Richie’s mouth, he wished that he could take them back…but it was too, too late for that. Eddie’s eyes had gone huge, and his face was on its way to turning bright tomato red.

“Excuse me?”

Richie pressed on, despite the fact that he could all but feel himself digging his own grave. “Oh, you know…when he does something cool, and you give him the face like you’re hoping that he’s gonna bust out a ‘wow, Eds, you have no idea how much I think about you at night’–”

“Bill doesn’t call me Eds,” Eddie cut in, and of all the things Richie was expecting him to say, that definitely didn’t crack the top ten.

“So what?” Richie asked, shaken and a little embarrassed. “Isn’t that more of a reason for you to fuck him?”

The thought of Bill and Eddie being…intimate together was a pervasive and terrible one. Richie felt the impact of it in his stomach, and bit down on his lip in an attempt to distract himself from whatever bullshit was going on in his midsection.

Eddie wrinkled his nose. “Gross. Bill’s like my big brother.”

And just like that, like air coming out of a balloon, the monster in Richie’s chest retreated, and he could breathe again.

“Good,” he said unthinkingly. “Good.”

“Good?” Eddie quirked an eyebrow, amused.

“Uh.” Richie, for once, was at a loss for words. “Uh. Because then, my, uh, relationship with your mom…”

“Cut the crap, Richie,” Eddie said, a little half-smile on his face. He was beautiful that way, Richie thought. He was beautiful every way.

Richie realized in that moment that the monster that had been clawing its way through his chest was distinctively green-eyed.

“Have you been thinking about me at night?” Eddie continued, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Richie shook his head in abject shock. “Eddie, if you could shut the fuck up for like five seconds please, this is a lot to process–”

Eddie laughed happily and reached out to tug at Richie’s wrist. He urged him down a little closer, and placed a sweet, soft kiss just to the left of Richie’s mouth.

There was a new feeling in Richie’s chest, now - something warm and explosive.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Eddie whispered, and slid past him to join their friends in eating.

Richie followed, cataloguing the warmth pooling in his stomach to try and identify later .

—-

(It turned out to be joy.)

#reddie #reddie fanfic #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #bill denbrough #stanley uris #beverly marsh #ben hanscom #mike hanlon #it 2017 #it movie #stephen king's it #i love jealous richie okay bye #ask

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rickstexaschick · 6 years

Text

Rick and Harley, Part 3

This was originally posted on AO3 at: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15708732/chapters/37514018

Please read Parts 1 and 2 before reading this.

https://rickstexaschick.tumblr.com/post/178047050561/rick-and-harley-chapter-1

https://rickstexaschick.tumblr.com/post/178428705851/rick-and-harley-part-2

Walking through the portal for the first time was an experience. The brief swirl of greens obscuring his vision, the sizzle of electricity on his skin and buzzing in his ears, the tang of ozone burning his nostrils... None of it lasted for more than a microsecond, to be sure, but by the same token it seemed to last a lifetime. He knew he’d never have that same experience again.

He stepped through into the den of an older house. It looked to be out in the country, if the trees and fields visible through the windows were any indication. It was late afternoon, and the setting sun sent golden fingers of sunlight stabbing through the trees. He turned around to see Harley stepping through behind him, then the swirling green portal closed. He wondered if there was a way to set it on some sort of timer, or delay...

”Have a seat. I’ll get some glasses.” Harley set the pizza box down on the coffee table then left the room.

Now Rick was beginning to feel uncomfortable with this decision. In the middle of the night, back at his house — his dimension, he reminded himself — their physical attraction and kissing had seemed kind of...spontaneous and under wraps. Now that he’d made the deliberate decision to carry it further, and here it was mostly broad daylight...

Harley reappeared with a roll of paper towels and two tumblers full of ice. If he thought anything about Rick still standing in the middle of the room, instead of sitting down on the couch, he didn’t say anything. He handed Rick a glass, and set his down on the table along with the paper towels. Then he took off his leather jacket and lazily tossed it over onto a nearby recliner. He sat down on the couch, just left of center, on one side of the pizza box. Rick followed suit and sat on the other side. He poured out two healthy measures of scotch while Harley flipped open the lid of the box.

They began eating, and Harley reached for the tv remote and turned it on.

Speaking around a mouthful of pizza, “Man, wait ‘til you get yourself set up with interdimensional cable. There’s some seriously goofy shit out there.”

He flipped the channels around until he came to a show that looked like it was a knock-off of “The A Team” but with something that looked like an alligator for one character, and one Mr. T kind of dude who, instead of a Mohawk, had his Afro pulled into two huge ponytail balls on top of his head.

“Aw, man. I love this — this show’s great. This is it’s first season.” He sat back with a pizza slice in one hand, his legs sprawled open in a comfortable man-spread, and rested his glass on his thigh. Rick sat back and soon found himself engrossed in the program, and laughing along with Harley at the commercials in-between.

After it ended Harley found a show that pit a car against a man, inside an over-sized boxing ring. They watched the cars win 9 times out of every 10, laughing at the idiots who had their mutilated bodies hauled away when they lost.

Harley produced a blunt the size of a small cigar and lit it, taking a deep drag and handing it over to Rick.

”This here’s from this planet...” he began, holding the smoke in as long as a possible. “...their entire...whole economy is based on pot...” He exhaled the smoke and took a ragged breath. “This shit’s like droppin’ acid and getting stoned without — there’re no bad trips...”

Rick accepted the joint and took an equally deep drag, then coughed slightly, expelling some of the smoke. He handed it back with a sheepish grin. “Been awhile...” he managed, without letting any more smoke escape.

The level of the scotch in the bottle quickly went down and half the blunt was gone. Rick felt hazy and stoned, pleasantly drunk, and, yes, like he was trippin’ on some kind of good acid. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent an evening just kickin’ back, drinking with another guy and watching mindless shit on tv. Most men — most people — annoyed the fuck out of him. Diane had long ago stopped inviting other couples over for dinner because Rick would either piss off or get pissed off by her friend’s husband. They were all dumbshits, in his opinion, and he couldn’t be bothered to waste his time with them.

He felt a connection with Harley, a kinship, like some kind of brotherhood — with a hefty dose of sexual desire thrown in for good measure.

Harley flipped through the channels and found something that, based on the cheesy music and grunting and groaning from the characters, looked like it was some kind of alien porn. Which Harley told him it was.

”Christ, man, I think I’m too drunk to fuck...” Laughing, Harley let his head drop back onto the back of the couch and closed his eyes.

”Shit...I could never be too drunk...” And he slid closer to Harley and stroked his cheek, causing the other man to open his eyes and lift his head to look at Rick.

Rick leaned in and kissed him, stroking his tongue across Harley’s lips, taking his lower lip in his teeth and pulling gently. Harley groaned, opening his mouth, and Rick slipped his tongue inside. Their tongues slid across each other, fighting for dominance, then Rick yielded. Harley, it turned out, was a fucking good kisser. He kissed and nipped his way down Rick’s throat, then sucked and licked his neck. Rick’s hands gripped Harley by the arms as he reveled in these new sensations. The feel of Harley’s unshaven skin scrapping against his own, the man’s lips and tongue assaulting his mouth, his neck. He wondered if this is was how it felt for Diane...He pushed her out of his head.

They kissed and tongued each other, each exploring the novelty of kissing another man. The stubbled skin over the strong jaw, the taste in their mouths of the whiskey and spices from the pizza. The more aggressive style of kissing than what any woman would have. Harley held Rick’s head in his large hands, holding him in place while he sucked and nibbled his lips, then opened his mouth and gave him another ball-jangling deep ass kiss, rolling his tongue around Rick’s mouth.

”Fuck...you’re fuckin’...you know what you’re doing, I’ll say that.” Rick finally pulled away to catch a breath.

”Yeah, I kind of had to..I have to take my time with the ladies...most chicks can’t handle — can’t take me otherwise...” Harley was equally breathless.

This comment intrigued Rick. He was big, too. When he and a Diane first met and started fucking, she couldn’t take all of him at once. Had to cum a few times by Rick’s hand or mouth, or both, and even then she could still take only about three quarters of his dick. He’d hoped that things would change after she had Beth, but there were complications during the delivery and Beth had to be delivered by emergency C-section. They were advised against having any more children, and after some discussion Rick got a vasectomy.

His erection had been straining uncomfortably against his pants, causing them to tent. Now was as good a time as any...He sat back and unbuttoned and unzipped his pants and freed his erection. His was already dripping with precum.

Harley did the same and Rick’s eyebrow went up slightly at the impressive erection that jutted out, deep red and shiny with precum collecting around the head and running down the shaft.

“I can see where — how some chicks may have a problem with that...” Spontaneously, he leaned down and licked the precum running down the side with a long sweep of his tongue which brought him to the tip.

Rick took the head in his mouth and sucked, tonguing the slit and swirling it around. He knew it would taste salty - he’d tasted his own before, out of curiosity. But this was different — there was also a muskiness, a sort of manliness. It was arousing, stimulating, and sent a jolt straight into his cock.

“Man, you don’t have to...” Harley had begun, then interrupted himself with a deep groan of pleasure. His hips jerked forward and he reached down and threaded his hands into Rick’s hair. “Christ...aw fuck...” His closed his eyes and dropped his head onto the back of the couch. He gasped and groaned while Rick took his time blowing him.

Rick tongued and sucked him off, pumping his hand along the shaft and twisting as he came up. With his other hand he fondled Harley’s balls, then with one finger he stroked the sensitive skin between his ass and the base of his sack. For a man who said he’d never fucked another guy before, Rick gave head better than any woman Harley’d ever had — paid or otherwise.

”Jesus...fuck...” With effort Harley made himself pull Rick’s head up to make him stop, and Rick released his mouth with a soft pop that drew another gasp of pleasure from Harley’s mouth. “Man, I’m gonna cum if you keep doin’ that...”

Licking his lips and wiping his chin, Rick laid back against the couch. He lifted his hips and pulled his pants down to his thighs to expose more of his genitals. “Trade off, then.”

Harley took a deep swig of scotch — Dutch courage?, wetting his whistle? — then he bent over Rick’s crotch and engulfed his cock in his mouth without hesitation. Rick reflexively bumped his hips up. Whether intentional or not, the coolness left behind by that drink of whiskey combined with the warmth of Harley’s mouth was an incredible sensation. He’d have to remember to do that when it was his turn again. Harley’s head bobbed up and down while he stroked around Rick’s shaft. He cupped Rick’s balls, stroking and massaging them. Rick reached down and grasped Harley’s head to guide him while fighting the urge not to thrust his hips up into his face.

”Stop...stop...” Rick finally managed in between groans. “You’re making me — I’m gettin’ ready to blow my load and I don’t want to cum just yet.”

”Round two in the bedroom, then?”

”Yeah, yeah...let’s go...” They both stood up and pulled their pants up slightly, then Harley led the way to the back of his house where the bedroom was. "Actually, if you count my house, this would be round three..."

Harley laughed.

tbc

#Rick Sanchez #Rickcest #Rick/Harley #OC Ricks #Rickdicted #Rick's Texas Chick

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yikesharringrove · 4 years

Note

Hi there! Can I get something with #13 and #39 with lots of hurt!Billy?, please friend?

Thank you for your request!

13: “Does it hurt?”

39: Stranded with a broken-down car

Prompts!

This got very long, and very angsty although I tried to throw some sweetness around. I hope you enjoy! I have included a lot of my own headcanons about Billy’s mom and his early life soooo. I was also thinking this takes place after season 2, maybe late April? idk.

There isn’t all that much hurt Billy, more Billy’s hurt leads him to word vomiting at Steve and them bonding 🤷‍♀️ I really hope you like it though!

Steve was fucked.

The engine of the BMW was cold. It wouldn’t even try to turn over when he turned the key in the ignition. No sound came from the under the hood.

Steve was on the edge of Hawkins, he had been at the quarry, wiling away some time while he couldn’t sleep. It was probably close to four in the morning now, so he said fuck it, got out of the car, and started walking home. He would hopefully make it with enough time for a shower and some coffee before walking to school. Maybe his old ten-speed was in the garage still...

Headlights blared at him from around the corner, sweeping over and past him before the car stopped and reversed, pulling up with the passenger door at Steve’s elbow.

“Harrington, what the fuck are you doing here?”

Billy Hargrove, his knight in shining denim was speaking through the window, near shouting over the loud purr of the engine and the screaming of some metal band Steve didn’t bother to know the name of.

“I’m walking.”

“I see that, dumbshit. Why are you walking down the fucking highway at four-thirty in the fucking morning?”

“Car broke down by the quarry. Figured I would walk home.” Steve shuffled his feet, looking down. “I, uh, couldn’t sleep. So. Went for a drive.”

“Get in.” He almost didn’t hear Billy’s command, but Steve knew not to look a gift horse in the mouth. So, he got in.

“Thanks, man.” Billy just nodded slightly, his face mostly hidden by the darkness of the night. He floored the car, speeding along away from Hawkins. “Um, you know my house is-it’s the other way.” Steve took in how tense Billy was, his jaw clamped and his shoulders raised. His grip on the steering wheel was nothing like the lazy one-hand her usually kept.

“You ever just need to escape? Even for a little bit?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I really do.” Steve settled in his seat. He was not opposed to taking a drive with Billy, who seemed to relax a bit. Steve was always good at reading other people. Sometimes he ignored his gut feelings in favor of something he so desperately wanted (the whole Nancy situation was example enough for that), but he could tell when something was wrong. And something was really fuckin wrong with Billy Hargrove tonight.

They drove in silence, flying down the main highway, past the Leaving Hawkins sign.

Steve turned down the music a fraction. “You wanna go get breakfast? I know a good all diner in Indianapolis. They’ll probably be open by the time we get there. My treat.”

Billy just shrugged, but he didn’t turn the music back up, and Steve called that a win.

It was nearly two hours to the city, longer if the person driving you wasn’t a speed demon, so the sun was rising by the time fields began to give way into suburbs, suburbs blooming into urbanism.

Steve sat up, ready to direct Billy to the diner on the corner of Shelby and Norton when he caught sight of Billy in the weak morning sun.

“Jesus fucking Christ. Billy, what happened?” His left eye was puffy, the cheekbone below it swollen and purple, a cut right on the high point. His jaw had long bruises on either side, as though, well it looked as though someone had grabbed him by it.

Steve thinks the worst thing were Billy’s hands.

His knuckles were white, his grip a vice on the steering wheel, but they were free of any bruising, any splits. Steve had been on the receiving end of those fights. He knew Billy fought back, and well, so if he didn’t.

Maybe he couldn’t.

The thought sent a chill down Steve’s spine.

“Can it Harrington. I’m fucking fine.”

“You’re obviously not ‘fucking fine’, Billy. What happened? Who did this?”

“Look, Princess. I’m not one of your fucking kids, so just shut your fucking mouth and leave it the fuck alone or I will make you get out of my fucking car and WALK back to shithole Hawkins. Give me directions, or get out.”

Steve sighed and led Billy along, only speaking when absolutely necessary.

They pulled up in front of Joe’s Shelby Street Diner just as a kind looking waitress with a round face and a gray ponytail was flipping the sign from closed to open.

“Welcome in boys. Take a seat anywhere you like and I’ll be by with some menus.” She blinked at Billy’s face. “And some coffee.” Steve just nodded at her and led Billy to a corner both against the windows.

“My parents used to take me here.” Steve was staring down at his hands on the table, not knowing where to look. “When I was little my dad opened a branch in the city and got an apartment out here. He would only come home on weekends so every Tuesday my mom would pick me up from school, and we’d drive out here together, and meet my dad for dinner.” He doesn’t know why he’s telling billy all of this.

“My mom worked at a joint like this. I would come and hang out after school. She would sneak me rootbeer floats and help me with my homework on her breaks.” He was smiling bitterly. Steve had never heard Billy say anything about his mother before.

“What was she like?”

Billy took a breath, his own hands nervously tugging on the sleeves of his jacket. The denim one. Steve liked it.

“She had me real young, dropped outta high school when she got pregnant at fifteen kinda young. My dad was in Vietnam when I was born. Married her when he came back. I was six. She was a total hippie, she got kicked outta her house when she got knocked up, and lived on a commune with a buncha people until my dad came back. I think she only married him so she could have a place to sleep that wasn’t a tent in a field. I don’t remember a lotta that. didn’t eat any meat until I was, like eight years old. And she fuckin’ named me after William Pester, this like hippie leader who was real famous or something. ”

Billy took a break from his story when the kind waitress returned to get their orders, both boys loading up on breakfast. Steve tried not to speak so loud, afraid of breaking this spell he had created in this booth with Billy.

“Once my dad was back in the picture, it was pretty different. He’s an asshole. Made her change everything about herself. She was always real Catholic, but kind of a free spirit. Only listened to the parts of The Bible that were nice and said to love everyone, but my dad said pickin’ and choosin’ from The Bible was just pussyfooting around religion. She didn’t like that.

“He was a piece of shit from the jump. Married her because ‘a good man supports his family’ or some garbage. Good man my ass. He would yell at her about how she was raisin’ me. Said he left to defend our country, and here she was making sure his only son grew up to be a fuckin’, well. He has a few choice words about me.”

Their food was set down before them, Steve absolutely enraptured by everything Billy was saying. They ate in silence for a minute.

“Do you mind if, I mean, did she pass away?” Steve wanted Billy to keep talking. He liked learning more about him. Every word he said only softened the edges, made him so much more human.

“Nah. She left. Packed her shit one night and was just, gone. She called me a few weeks later and I fuckin’ BEGGED her to take me with her, but she wouldn't come back. I think she went back to her commune or something. I haven’t seen her since I was ten.”

“So, you’ve been with your dad ever since?”

“Yeah. He’s not jazzed about it. Always likes to remind me that I’m a bastard. He’s the one that fucked a fifteen-year-old. He was like, twenty when he did that.”Billy rolled his eyes, shoving a piece of toast into his mouth.

“Did he, do,, that?” Steve asked the question slowly, carefully. Billy snapped his eyes up to meet him.

“So what if he did?”

“I mean-I just, does it hurt?” Billy just stared.

“Are you stupid?” Steve recoiled. “Of course it fucking hurts. He got me real good this time. He’s been especially bitter since we moved here.”

“I’m sorry. That was a stupid, stupid question.” Steve pushed around the scrambled egg on his plate. “Why did you guys move here?”

“You want Neil’s fake answer, or do you want the real one?” Billy leaned in conspiratorily. Steve mirrored him without even meaning to. “Can you keep a secret, Pretty Boy?”

Images of tunnels, of monsters, of staring death in the face and charging it with a spiked bat, dreams of hard, muscular masculine bodies flashed through his mind.

“Yeah. I’m good at secrets.”

“So Neil likes to say it’s to get a fresh start. Move somewhere where nobody knows us. We can have a clean slate as a family.” He spat the last few words out. “But the real story is, he wanted to get my gay ass outta liberal, free lovin’ California, to a shitty hick town where I would be the victim of a fuckin’ hate crime if I let my impulses run wild. He caught me with a guy. We weren’t even doing anything good, just makin’ out. Dad went apeshit though. Threw me down some stairs.” He rolled his eyes and casually kept eating like he hadn’t just dropped this enormous fucking bomb on Steve.

“I’m so sorry, Bill.”

“Why are you sorry? You didn’t hit me. It wasn’t the first time, sure as shit wasn’t the last.”

“Is that why your mom left?”

“Yeah, she was gettin’ it pretty bad there. I mean, so was I, so I don’t get why she left me there with him. Sometimes I really hate her for it.”

“I’m sor-” Steve cut himself off when Billy gave him a sharp look. “You don’t deserve that, is all.”

“I don’t get you, Harrington. You sit there, after I dumped all this shit on you, gave you some incriminating facts about me, and you just tell me I don’t deserve to get hit by my old man. I beat the shit outta you, remember?”

“Yeah, but honestly, I was being super shady that night. I shouldn’t have lied to you about Max.” Steve shrugged.

“That wasn’t all you, Harrington. I had gotten into it with my dad about her, how she’s my responsibility and all that, and then Mrs. fuckin’ Wheeler was all over me when I went there-I mean, don’t get me wrong. I definitely flirted a little to get some information from her, but all I really did was like, stand there. I think I ate a cookie. Usually, older women just get a little flustered, but she was, like, into it. So, I was runnin’ pretty hot by the time I met you.”

“Oh my GOD, Karen used to flirt with me all the time! I would just sit and awkwardly smile and be like, yes hello, I am here to see your teenage daughter, since I am her teenage boyfriend.” Billy laughed at that, a real boisterous laugh Steve had never heard from him before. Steve decided he liked it.

“That’s fucking disgusting. Just because she’s unhappy with her life, doesn’t mean she gets to throw her cat at teenage boys.” Steve choked on his pop, trying not to spew it all over the table.

“Please never say that again,” he coughed out as Billy threw his head back and laughed. He slowly regained himself. “And, you know, I mean what I said. I’m good at secrets. I won’t, I’m not gonna tell anybody.” Billy smiled at him.

“Yeah? King Steve got some secrets? Any you’d like to share with the class? You know, so we’re on even turf here.” Billy winked. Steve’s face went hot.

“Well, I mean, you and I may have some things in, uh, in common.”

“What, like shitty dads?”

“No. Well, I mean yes, but other things.”

“Mommy issues?”

“Oh, definitely, but like, OTHER stuff, too.” He willed Billy to understand. He didn’t know if he’d be able to say it out loud.

Luckily Billy got it. A look of pure shock spread over his face, followed by a huge grin.

“No fuckin’ way. No fuckin’ way you’re gay too, Harrington.”

“Well, I mean. I don’t know.”

Billy’s face fell.

“You don’t know?”

“I mean, like, I like girls. A lot. Like I love girls and everything about them, but there’s also, there’s also guys. And I-there’s definite interest, is what I’m saying.”

Billy smiled again, a softer one this time.

“That’s okay. Y’know some people are into both. Bisexual, is the word. David Bowie is bisexual. For some people, it’s more about the personality of the person, less the, bits I guess.”

“There’s-I mean-Bowie? Sorry, I just mean, like, there are people like that?”

“Yeah, the whole thing doesn’t have to be black and white if that’s not what you feel.”

“Fuck. That was-thanks man.” Steve mulled the word around in his head. Bisexual. It made sense. It felt, good. “Bisexual.” Billy smiled at him again. He returned it.

Billy checked his watch, yawning like a huge cat.

“Fuck, Pretty Boy. We should probably head back. If we go fast we could probably only be a little bit late for class.

“I mean, or we could say fuck it.”

Billy’s eyes lit up.

“Yeah? What do you suggest we do?”

“I don’t even care man, but it’s been way too long since I’ve been in the city, and I feel like we could both use a break from fucking Hawkins. Plus, I don’t know. I like hanging out with you.”

Steve ducked his head, studying the patch of table by Billy’s left elbow, face hot and undoubtedly red.

“I could go for a nice day of playing hooky with you.” Steve beamed at Billy, throwing some bills down on the table.

“Then lets fucking go then.” He bounded back to the Camaro, Billy’s sweet laugh ringing through the diner.

Oh yeah, Steve could definitely get used to this.

#yikes writes #harringrove #steve harrington #steve harrington x billy hargrove #billy hargrove x steve harrington #billy hargrove #prompt fic #prompt fill #harringrove prompts #Harringrove Prompts list #harringrove fic

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