#look its harringrove if you fucking squint
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Three Rings
Rating: General
Word Count: 1771
Ship(s): Harringroveson, Mungrove, Steddie
For @harringroveson-bingo Square: B1 Eddie's many rings
Tags: Fluff, First Meetings, AU - Canon Divergence, AU - Everyone Lives No One Dies, Alcohol Mention, Religion Mention
Summary: Ficlet explaining how Eddie got his main 3 rings (boar, cross, skull) and what they mean.
READ ON AO3
#harringroveson bingo#ok to rb#just kinda gross mushy stuff idk!! not my normal style#harringroveson#mungrove#steddie#stilldie#steddilly#look its harringrove if you fucking squint#eddie munson#eddie munson x steve harrington#eddie munson x billy hargrove#steve x eddie x billy#eddie munson centric#eddie munson fan fiction#eddie munson rings#is that enough tags 🥴#harringroveson fanfic
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You’re just another boy caught in the rye. (Explicit, 15k finished)
Click here to see the totally amazing art by @blackmoonspell
A few days pass and Billy only sees the pretty boy in passing. He sees Steve milling around with Hopper, gives him lingering looks in the workroom as he eats his lunch, spots him crouching to pet one of the sheepdogs, smile bright and radiant as he scratches under its chin. It makes some kind of want swirl in his stomach, but Billy just looks away. Steve Harrington is a bad decision waiting to happen.
And Billy’s made plenty of bad decisions before, but even he’s not that dumb.
Besides, winter may mean shorter workdays, but there’s plenty to do around the property. Especially when Hopper gave him the task of training Mike Wheeler on every fucking thing.
He’s a beer and a half in after a long day, freshly showered with his feet propped up in his cozy cabin when a rustling outside catches his attention. Billy dismisses it as the wind at first, but then it happens again, close to his porch. Billy sighs and stretches a bit as he stands. Hop had mentioned there had been some coyotes spotted a few miles out. That or one of the sheepdogs got out and came sniffing around to beg for scraps.
He walks to the front of the house, grabbing his airsoft rifle on the way, and carefully opens the door. A noise to his left has him aiming the gun swiftly, cocking it as he squints out into the darkness.
“Ah, wait! It’s just me!” A voice says before a head of floppy brown hair comes into view. Steve puts his hands up with an expectant smile on his face. Billy blinks at him and then turns the BB gun the opposite direction and fires into bushes and dirt lining the porch. Steve jumps at the sound, but Billy just shakes his head.
“Sneaking around the property at this time of night is a good way to get shot,” He grumbles. Steve just shoots him a cocky grin and slowly walks up the porch steps.
“Technically, it’s my property” He drawls, watching as Billy just grunts and then ducks back into the house to stow the gun back in the closet.
“Figured I’d take the chance,” Steve adds when Billy steps back out, letting the screen door bang behind him.
“You know, this is a bit much, even when it’s me,” Billy says, condescending smile on his face, “Are you that desperate or just too stupid to take a hint?” Steve freezes and, for a split second, Billy is sure he’s about to get decked, but then Steve lets out a forced laugh, shaking his head.
“Don’t give yourself that much credit. I’m bored, ” He informs Billy, stepping closer and poking him in the chest. “S’not my fault you’re the only attractive person in miles ” He opens his arms wide, gesturing as he says it, and sways a bit. Billy’s eyes narrow.
“You drunk?”
((And I’m cutting it there because this fic is really good and totally page turning so I want you all to read it!!! Another moodboard for the Harringrove Big Bang 2021 @harringrovebigbang 🖤 made for the amazing @peachypunk22 and their great fic!! If you love Billy in work boots and enemies to lovers set around class dynamics and cute farm animals, please click though!))
#harringrove#billy hargrove#steve harrington#harringrove fic#steve/billy#harringrove fanfic#harringrove moodboard#my moodboards#harringrove big bang 2021#harringrove big bang
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Cthulian Stargazing
Day 6 for the Harringrove April Prompts! Steve’s dad is an evil cultist, but Steve’s just there to run errands.
The folks at the Hawkins Lab were just too newfangled, from what Steve’s dad said. It was no wonder the monster had gotten out—you had to tie down your sacrifices for one thing, and draw containment pentagrams, for another, or actual Hell would break loose.
Steve basically agreed, having attended the seminars—mostly to lurk around and eat free bagels—and having heard the “Whoopsie, I smeared it—” from somebody dipping a paintbrush into a bunch of blood in a jar. That tended to be followed by the lashing of a huge tentacle, and the flapping of robes as the screaming, incompetent novice was scooped into what his dad called the “Nether Dimension.”
Given his grade in Geometry, Steve wanted nothing to do with anything that required diagramming, so he stayed politely back fetching bottled water, or grabbing strewn pages of spells as they scattered in a fell and poisonous wind. He tried to ignore the occasional pained shrieking—they’d all assembled to summon Elder Gods, after all, and even if all thirteen hooded figures hoped the tentacles snagged somebody else’s ankle, it stood to reason it had to grab somebody. They couldn’t always count on somebody answering their “Revenge! Wanted: Willing Sacrifice to Demonic Powers” ads, after all, no matter how many times Steve’s dad had him change the font to be more eye catching.
It was a summer job, was all, until the day they brought in Billy Hargrove.
“He was poking around the Steelworks,” one of the hooded figures said. “Fell through a portal.”
Billy squirmed in the duct tape they’d cocooned him in, spluttering and growling around his gag, and Steve winced behind his mask. “Uh, ah,” he whispered to his father. “He hasn’t signed the waiver, has he?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” his father hissed back. “As if anyone would look for him here.”
The other twelve’s robes fluttered as they bounced in excited agreement, and Billy gave a muffled yell, kicking like a beached trout.
“Um,” Steve said, grimacing, and wishing his father wasn’t evil. He envied Tommy Hagen, who had a normal dad, who sold tires. “Uhhhh, what if he’s been, like, drinking Everclear? He could...poison it? Or something?”
“Don’t be an imbecile,” his father shot back. “Cthulhu’s not going to get indigestion.”
“I should get the duct tape off him, at least,” Steve tried. “It, um. Might be like eating sticky peanut butter, you know?” To that, his dad agreed, patting his shoulder approvingly.
Billy thrashed like a homicidal mermaid some more, snarling as Steve drug him into the bathroom by his ankles. “They’re mostly at the sacrificial site,” Steve whispered, tearing the duct tape away from Billy’s denim-carpeted hide. “There’s just me and my dad and his dad here, lemme get a look outside before you—” try to sneak away, he’d meant to say, but Billy beaned him from behind as he peered out the bathroom door, clonking Steve’s head into the wall, and Steve didn’t even get the chance to say “Wait until my dad isn’t right outside.”
Billy shrieked insults as they drug him into the elevator, and Steve groaned, rubbing the back of his head, and sighed heavily. He staggered over to the altar—his father’s sect didn’t believe in bookshelves, only altars—and poked at the books with a rubber glove he’d found in the janitor’s closet. He was fairly sure they were written on human skin, in blood, and he wasn’t touching that, so he flipped through clumsily with the huge yellow rubber gloves until he found a familiar diagram. He fished his cell phone out and took pictures of the text, and then sighed again, and called Nancy.
She stared around at everything, asking “Wait, a what now, a cult?!” as Steve shrugged, grimaced, and rubbed the back of his head. At his embarrassed silence, she shook herself—still side-eyeing him—and had him help her steal bags of flour from the cafeteria, rig up molotov cocktails with the liquor in his dad’s office, and blow every window of his dad’s building out in explosions of fire.
“Are you gonna be okay,” she asked, staring at him still, as they stood in the parking lot, and ashes fell around them like snow.
“Just a couple things left to do,” he said, sighing, as they listened to the fire trucks approach. “Can, uh, can you talk to Hopper? I have to go, um, they’re, y’know, sacrificing somebody.”
“Holy shit,” she breathed, nodding, and shoving him towards his car, and he coughed his way through the smoke. With the light of the burning building, it was harder to see how the stars were aligned overhead, bright and ominous.
He parked a ways away from the hill with the sacrificial altar, and pulled on his robe and mask. He could hear high-pitched screaming, and he grimaced as he climbed, and elbowed his way through the circle of chanting cultists.
“Is that you, Fletcher?!” Steve’s dad asked, and Steve nodded, waving as he tromped up the hill, his robes flapping in the ominous wind. “Dammit,” his dad said, “—can’t you ever be on time?”
“Mmnm,” Steve said, not wanting to blow his cover. They’d gotten Billy into a white shift, and between his curls and his long lashes, he looked the part, except for the smear of blood over his face where he had some of a cultist’s fingers in his teeth. He had another one by the hair as she tried to cuff his wrist to the table.
The bitten cultist was the one screaming, and Steve grinned to himself, shaking his head as he surreptitiously checked the diagrams, hiding his phone in his sleeve. He paced around the blood-drawn circle—his dad had told him long ago that they could use chicken or pork blood, so he was fairly sure the blood wasn’t Billy’s—though it might be the screaming cultist’s, Steve thought with satisfaction, watching red drip off the side of the altar.
“Allow me,” he said, to the one trying to get her hair loose from Billy’s fist, and she let Steve grab her hair, and yank her loose. Billy grabbed for his face, and Steve jerked back, glancing up to see the stars pulsing faintly as the chanting heightened, and the circle lit around them.
He stepped away to Billy’s ankle, glad his dad was too archaic-minded for locks, and fiddled with the clasp. “This isn’t even done up right,” he said loudly, unhitching it so Billy could move, and then pushing Billy’s foot back down. Billy’d gone still, his eyes narrowed at Steve’s mask. “He could have kicked it open,” Steve said, squeezing Billy’s ankle, hard. “I better check the others,” he said meaningfully, digging his fingers in so Billy couldn’t move, “—so he doesn’t get away.”
Billy must have gotten the message, because he didn’t move, aside from biting down harder. The cultist’s screams turned to gibbering shrieks, and Steve stepped around to unclasp Billy’s other ankle, as Steve’s dad started to chant. The circle lit from below, its beam meeting the light of the aligned stars overhead, and Steve ran to shove the bitten cultist away, and unclasp Billy’s cuffed wrist as his body arched, glowing form within, and he yelled FUCK at the top of his lungs.
“Come on,” Steve hissed, yanking Billy off the table. He fell in a pile, shuddering, as Steve’s dad yelled, and Steve shoved Billy as hard as he could through the line of cultists—they shouted and grumbled, like a flock of crows—and down the hill, so he fell and rolled. Steve dropped to a crouch in the confusion to lick the edge of his robe and scrub it hard at the inner circle of blood, and as the line scrubbed away, the ground cracked. A chasm opened as Steve scrambled back, and he could hear the dude Billy had bitten screaming more as he fell. The rest of the crowd fell with him, shrieking.
Steve stumbled and fell down the hill, grabbing for the white shift that was all he could see in the shifting, malevolent light of the burning stars, and the red light flickering as tentacles rose from the depths of the earth. He could hear his dad yelling at him as he staggered away, his arm around Billy, before his dad’s voice suddenly cut off.
“What the fuck,” Billy was panting, “—what the fuck, what in the fucking fuck—”, which was fair. He stumbled against Steve, staggering through the woods, probably barefoot, now Steve thought about it. He grimaced, as the earth shook again, and the roar of the creature they’d summoned blew the leaves up around them. It had probably hit the outer containment circle, Steve thought, from the way its cries shook the earth.
“Here,” he said, yanking Billy’s arm over his shoulder, and pulling him up onto his back. “Hang on,” Steve shouted, over the cacophony.
“What the fuck,” Billy yelled into his shoulder, clinging like a koala, and Steve took a few steps under the considerable weight of Billy Hargove, weightlifter, and regretted many of his life decisions. “The fuck did you do,” Billy shouted, and Steve hefted him up higher, staggering along as the stars burned like suns, lighting their path.
“Just smudged it some,” Steve hollered back, forcing himself along until he got to his car, and he could tip Billy back into the passenger seat.
“Smudged what,” Billy shouted, nearly overbalancing Steve to stare back at the stars. “What was that?!” The massive tentacles lashed nearly up to the sky in the flickering, rising greenish light, and Steve shrugged, walked around the car, and climbed in. He turned the key.
“Should clear up in a couple hours,” he said hopefully, and Billy stared over at him. Steve handed over his phone. “What’s it say?”
Billy squinted at the photos, his eyes wide and horrified, as Steve flung his mask and robe into the backseat, and hit the gas. “...looks like the portal will close,” Billy said, and Steve nodded.
“Okay,” he said, white-knuckling it as the ground shook. “Okay.”
“Are there more of those assholes?” Billy asked, staring back through the window, and scrubbing his hand against the blood drying on his chin.
“Yeah, there are,” Steve sighed, then bit back a grin, and glanced over. “...you wanna blow up their headquarters?”
“You had me at ‘blow up,’ Billy said, crossing his legs on the dash, and smirking up at the too-brightly shimmering stars.
He had blood on his teeth.
The other Harringrove April prompts I’ve done
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I've gotta harringrove request if you are still doing those? I do this all the time and thought it would be hilarious for steve and billy but where they are in class (science, english whatever) and fixate on this phrase that is in no one funny but just can't stop laughing and repeating it to each other until they are both kicked out of class together.
OH MY GOD THIS TOOK ME SO LONG.
I really liked this prompt, because I know this, I’ve done this, but GOD did the right scenario elude me. I didn’t want it to be super forced. Wanted it to be simple and cute and funny.
So I wrote this dumbass shit because it makes me laugh, and I could not stop thinking about this once I started. It’s a Modern AU, btw.
A thank you and a shout out to my talented friend and coworker, @astrangefolk, for the inspiration. Thank you to the internet for giving him the nickname Snail. (Fic below the cut)
–
Billy collapsed onto the stool next to Steve, huffing in annoyance when Steve didn’t immediately look up from whatever he was doodling in his notebook.
“What are you even up to, pretty boy?” Billy asked, annoyed that he wanted attention and annoyed Steve wasn’t giving it to him. Steve looked up, almost like he hadn’t noticed Billy arrive, before smiling and pushing his notebook over a little. Billy leaned over to look and frowned. “A snail?” He squinted and frowned more. “Is it wearing… shoes?”
“He’s wearing snoos!” Steve exclaimed happily. Billy looked at him expectantly, because what the fuck. “Snail shoes!”
“Snail shoe–!” Billy choked off a surprised laugh. Steve pouted slightly, puffing his cheeks.
“Yeah so he can go on his snalk.”
“And that’s?”
“Snail walk,” Steve replied with a grin. Billy put his head in his hands, shoulders shaking with laughter.
“Okay where the fuck did you hear about this, what fucking site did Freckles show you now–”
“I’ll have you know it was Heather who showed me this–”
“Yeah, and where do you think she found out about it–”
“How can you be mad about a snail–”
“Gentlemen.” Billy and Steve froze, eyes snapping to their teacher. Mrs. Morton stood with her arms crossed, her eyes sharp as she looked down her nose at them, glasses perched on the tip. “Are you done bickering or may I start the class now?” Billy gave her a cheeky grin and licked his top teeth, getting an eye roll, while Steve flushed in embarrassment. When they kept quiet, she nodded and went back to the front. “Alright, now if you would open your books to page 74…” Billy immediately blocked out her voice and looked at Steve. His bangs were falling into his face as he kept doodling in his notebook, science book open next to him, unread. His long fingers gripped the pencil and Steve’s soft, pink tongue poked out from between his teeth as he concentrated. Billy felt his neck getting hot and decided that he didn’t particularly care about science today.
“Hey Harrington,” he whispered. He got a quiet hum in response as Steve tilted his head towards Billy, not taking his eyes off his drawings. “Can I borrow your snotes?” That got him a snicker. “What? Don’t wanna help out your snoyfriend?” Steve’s shoulders shook and he shot Billy a look.
“Shut up,” Steve hissed, a giggle making its way out. Billy licked his lips. He wanted to hear that again. He nudged Steve’s knee with his.
“Can I come over to your snouse later?” Silence. “We could snudy.” Steve bit his bottom lip. “Or snake out.” Billy grinned as Steve’s cheeks turned red. “Or–”
“Mr. Hargrove,” Mrs. Morton snapped. “Are you done distracting Mr. Harrington?” Billy flushed slightly but shrugged it off and made a show of opening his book and turning to the correct page. She stared him down, eyes narrowed, and he smiled at her, all teeth. Finally, she went back to teaching.
“Looks like someone got in snouble,” Steve whispered, making Billy bite his bottom lip painfully and clench his fingers into his jeans. He shot him a look and regretted it. Steve was smiling, sly and smug, but so happy, and it made Billy’s heart clench. Steve went back to doodling, though not before sending Billy a wink. It didn’t take long for Billy to try again.
“Well?” He whispered. “You didn’t answer me.”
“I gotta take Dustin home,” Steve mumbled. “But I don’t have any plans for dinner.”
“Well, I have an idea for dinner,” Billy said slowly, his hand slipping onto Steve’s thigh. He inhaled sharply and his eyes snapped to Billy’s quickly, then back to his notebook. He didn’t stop him. Billy leaned in, smirking. “And a plan for dessert.” Mrs. Morton had her back turned, and they were in the back, so Billy leaned in farther, lips drawing close to Steve’s ear as his hand slid up, resting in the crevice between Steve’s thigh and his groin. He was tense beneath Billy’s hand and he whispered into Steve’s ear, voice hushed and throaty, just the way Steve liked, “I want to snuck your snock.”
Steve let out an aborted squawk and Billy pulled back, innocent look on his face, as Mrs. Morton turned around, eyes fiery.
“Gentlemen!” She snapped. Steve was still struggling to stop laughing, but Billy just held up his hands in mock defense. “Is class not entertaining enough for you?” Steve just covered his mouth, looking down. Billy gave his best hangdog look, which was entirely ineffective. “One more outburst and you will lose the privilege of getting to learn today!”
“Yes, ma’am,” they replied, Steve’s voice airy and stressed as he reigned in his giggles. Billy didn’t wait long this time, leaning over and whispering,
“Then you can snuck me in the snass.” Steve let out a choked peal of laughter that sounded like a car engine grinding, covering his head with his hands as he pressed his face into the desk. Mrs. Morton slammed her book on her desk, face twisted with fury.
“That’s it!” She yelled. “Out of my classroom! Both of you!” The class watched, tittering with laughter and whispers as they gathered their stuff and left, Steve still letting out little chirps of laughter that made Billy want to kiss him. His cheeks were red and his smile was so wide and bright, eyes watery from laughing so hard, and Billy licked his lips, shooting Mrs. Morton a wink as they walked out. She just frowned deeper and pointed at the door. Steve punched his shoulder after a few steps, though he was still smiling.
“Fuck you, Billy!”
“What? Couldn’t snake it?”
“Oh my god! You’re so obnoxious, you sutpid turd.” Steve rolled his eyes but laced his fingers with Billy’s and pulled him to the bleachers. They went to their spot under them, a nice hidden place, and Billy lit a cigarette. Steve watched him smoke, occasionally stealing the cig for a puff. Billy couldn’t help the small smile on his face, breathlessly happy. He felt Steve watching him and when he looked up his heart started to pound. Steve was staring at him, an awed look on his face.
“What?” Billy asked.
“I… I snove you,” Steve stammered out. He flushed, face scrunched in embarrassment, and Billy tried to process the fact that his boyfriend had just said ‘I love you’ for the first time.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice more even than he had expected it to be. “Did you just say you loved me for the first time by putting snail in front of it?”
“No?”
“I snove you too, baby.”
#harringrove#steve harrington#billy hargrove#fluff#silly#ficlet#modern au#this is the dumbest thing i've ever written and i love it#if you hate it that's fine but i'm sorry u don't get art#ask#anon
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A harringrove fluff prompt with a combo of: “I know it smells bad, but you’ll feel better, trust me” and “I’m not going to yell at you”
hot to the touch(fic requests open)
Steve Harrington does not get sick.
Sure, there was a bought of ear infections in the second grade, but who didn’t go through that? And in the third grade there was the chicken pox so bad he still has little pockmarked scars speckling his sides. And, yeah, okay, there was the Great Strep Throat Fiasco of 1976, three weeks that will live in infamy. But outside of his pre-adolescent pink eye and the week of relentless bronchitis in freshman year, Steve Harrington does. not. get. sick.
Except, of course, when he does.
It starts as a tickle in his throat. He chalks it up to hay fever, pops an allergy pill from his mother’s medicine cabinet, and heads to school. By the end of first period, the tickle has become a cough that reaches deeper and deeper into his chest as the day goes on. He wears his letterman jacket to third period to ward off the chill he swears is coming from the draft, even if Carol swears she can’t feel a thing and Nicole points out he’s not even near a vent. By lunch, Tommy has to catch him before he face-plants into his meatloaf. The resulting clamor catches Billy’s attention, as Steve shoves Tommy away from him and Carol starts to berate him for refusing Tommy’s help.
“The hell’s wrong with you?” Billy asks, one brow raised as Steve stumbles toward the door.
“Nothing,” Steve says a bit too aggressively. Billy holds up a hand in mock-defense.
“Shit,” he says. “Fine. Sorry I fucking asked.”
“It’s not,” Steve starts, then says, “I didn’t mean-” and then, “I’m fine.”
“Keep lying,” Billy shrugs. “Fuck if I care.”
But he can’t keep his eyes off of Steve as Steve retreats down the hall, slipping into the boy’s room where he will take up a stall for the remainder of the day. Billy thinks about going after him, but they’ve set rules for a reason: at school, it’s business as usual. No public displays, no cause for suspicion. They avoid each other when they can, and when they can’t, it’s the same old song and dance. So far, it seems to be working, and Billy’s not about to fuck it up for them both.
Max, though, is an observant kid. She knows that something’s wrong when she slams the car door shut and the Camaro is still in park. They’r not speeding away. Billy has an unlit cigarette pinched between his fingers and his drumming his fingers to a beat that isn’t there because he hasn’t switched the radio on.
“Dustin said Steve looked sick yesterday,” she says casually.
“Why would I care?” Billy snaps.
“Was he at school?” Max asks.
“Yeah,” Billy says. He doesn’t look at Max at all, and Max cranes her neck to see over the dashboard. She points to the red Beemer idling by itself in the high school parking lot.
“Isn’t that Steve’s car?” she asks.
“How the fuck should I know?”
“Because he’s driven you home in it, dumbass.”
“The fuck did you just call me?”
“He’s in the car,” Max says. “I think. It looks like he is.”
“You obsessed with Harrington now?”
“You are.”
“You’re a real shit, Max, you know that?”
“Just go check on your boyfriend.”
“Max!” Billy slams his palm hard against the steering wheel, hard enough to shake the dash and loud enough to get Max to jump back in her seat. She shrinks back for a moment, her eyes wide, as Billy rounds on her- nostrils flared and eyes hot. She swallows thickly, then juts her chin out towards him.
“No one’s even here,” she says. “No one’s gonna see you.”
Billy half-sighs, half-growls as he sags back against his seat. He scans the parking lot- which is, as Max pointed out, empty. Then he glares back at Max.
“You say anything about this to anyone, you’re dead.”
“Who am I gonna tell?”
“Just shut up and stay in the car.”
Before Max can answer him, Billy flings open his door. He strides across the boundary between Hawkins Middle School and Hawkins High School and makes his way to Steve’s car, which has been parked but running since fifteen minutes after the final bell. Billy ducks down as he approaches, squinting into the car. Steve is in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, eyes half-closed. Billy hovers, waiting to be noticed, and when Steve doesn’t look at him he raps his knuckles against the window.
Steve jolts awake, scrambling frantically to roll down the window and looking dazed as his wide eyes met Billy’s. “I don’t-” he starts, then stammers, “I can-”, and then he starts to say something else but Billy holds up a hand to stop him.
“Easy,” he says. Steve blinks rapidly, and his flushed cheeks turn redder as he registers who he’s look at it. As Steve is connecting dots, Billy is opening his car door and reaching down to unbuckle his seatbelt.
“Woah, woah, woah, I thought we said-”
“Do you know what time it is?” Billy asks. “Everyone’s gone. Let’s go.”
“I don’t-”
“Out of the car, Harrington.”
“I have to-”
“-not fucking drive, is what you have to do.”
“Billy, I-” But Billy has slipped a hand beneath Steve’s arm and is hauling him to his feet. Steve stumbles out of the car, falling hard against Billy as he tries to find his footing. His blush deepens further and he tries to push himself off, mumbling apologies.
“Relax,” Billy tells him, already beginning to guide him back to the Camaro. “I’m not gonna yell at you.” He opens the back door of the Camaro, giving Max a pointed look as he helps Steve into the back seat. “Lay down, Harrington. You look like shit.”
“S’not nice,” Steve grumbles, but he does fall against the back bench of the car. Billy falls heavily into the driver’s seat and tells Max to turn around. She rolls her eyes, but does as he says, and she says nothing as Billy drives right past Cherry Lane and makes the sharp left turn onto Steve’s street. His parents are out for the week- Max knows this because Billy had spending nights at Steve’s, something that Dustin asked her about when he stopped by to borrow something and saw Billy’s car parked around the corner.
With no parents home, Billy parks in the driveway. He secures Steve’s arm around his shoulders and instructs Max to take Steve’s keys. She uses the house key to open the front door, and then Billy tells her not to break anything.
“I’m not five, asshole.”
“Shut up and sit down, shitbird.”
Max settles herself in the living room as Billy hauls Steve up the stairs, Steve protesting the whole way up, swearing up and down that he can walk on his own and he doesn’t need help and he’s not sick, Billy, stop saying that because Steve Harrington does not get sick.
“Get in the fucking bed,” says Billy once they make it to Steve’s room.
“Oh, that’s how this is gonna go?” Steve hums with a sly grin, but his charm is hindered by the hacking cough that breaks up his words. Billy takes a pair of sweatpants from Steve’s drawer, then a t-shirt from another.
“No way in hell,” Billy says. “I’m not catching that shit.”
“How many times do I have to tell you?” Steve says. “I don’t get sick.”
“Whatever, Harrington,” Billy says. He tosses the clothes at Steve. “You look like road kill.”
“You’re a real dick, you know that?”
“Yeah,” Billy says. “I’ve heard. Get changed. I’ll be right back.”
Billy leaves Steve in a bundle of blankets and gym clothes and retreats down the stairs. Max, who had been in the living room flipping through channels on a television she thinks is probably bigger than Mike’s and Dustin’s combined, abandons her search when she hears Billy start to rummage through the kitchen. She watches from the doorway as he pulls a bottle of apple cider vinegar from Mrs. Harrington’s cupboard. He pulls little spice bottles from a rack on the counter and starts to shake them all into a cup: onion powder, garlic, ginger. He even cuts a lemon in half and squeezes the juice in. Just the thought of that combination makes Max wrinkle her nose.
“Are you gonna poison him or something?”
“What did I tell you?” Billy snaps.
“I mean, that shit is rank.”
“Max,” Billy warns.
“Whatever,” Max sighs. “Just try not to kill him with that shit. I like Steve.”
“I’m not gonna kill him,” Billy says. He uses a spoon to mix the possibly-not-poison, then grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator and pushes past Max to get back upstairs. He stops off in the bathroom and raids the medicine cabinet, shaking some Tylenol from its bottle before returning to Steve, who is half-dozing and half-dressed when Billy arrives. “Oh, yeah,” Billy says. “You’re not sick at all.”
“Shut up,” Steve mumbles. Billy sets his haul on the nightstand. He reaches for Steve, who squirms and ducks away from him until Billy’s palm lands against his forehead.
“Shit, Harrington,” Billy says. His tone softens and he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed. He moves his hand from Steve’s forehead and gentle brushes Steve’s hair out of his face. “C’mere,” he says. “Sit up.” He piles pillows behind Steve’s head as Steve pushes himself upright.
“It’s nothing,” Steve says. “I’m fine,”
“Uh-huh,” Billy says. He grabs the concoction he’d made downstairs and offers the cup to Steve. “Drink this.”
“What the fuck is that?” Steve asks, turning his head away from the cup and raising one hand to push it away.
“Yeah, I know,” Billy says. “It smells like shit. But you’ll feel better, trust me.” Steve looks warily at Billy and reluctantly takes his offering. He takes one sip, then coughs and tries to hand it back to Billy, but Billy opens his palm so he can’t take it back. “Nope,” he says. “Whole thing. Come on. Chug it.”
Steve groans, but he tips his head back and downs the rest of the offending drink. Billy takes the empty glass, then offers Steve the Tylenol and water, which he downs like a chaser.
“What the hell kind of poison was that?” Steve asks.
“Something my mom used to give me,” Billy says, “when I was a kid. I got these really nasty colds, and she was all into natural remedies. Most of it sounded like bullshit, but this shit works.”
“You swear?” Steve asks. “Because I think it made everything on my inside want to be on my outside.”
“It’ll settle down,” Billy says. As they talk, Steve slips further down on the pillows and seems to move closer and closer to Billy. Billy sets the water bottle on the nightstand and settles his now-freed hand against Steve’s back as Steve drops his head onto Billy’s lap.
“Hey, Billy?” Steve mumbles sleepily. Billy rubs his thumb against the back of the Steve’s neck, and Steve’s breathing begins to slowly even out, every few breaths punctuated with a tiny cough.
“Yeah?” Billy says.“I think I’m sick,” Steve says.
“No shit,” Billy says. “How’re you feeling now?”
“Um,” Steve says. “Okay. I think. Your mom’s weird poison thing is kind of working.”
“You want me to go?” Billy asks. “You should get some sleep.”
“I can sleep with you here,” Steve says.
Billy listens to the muffled sound of the television downstairs, thinks of the distance between himself and Max and Neil, feels the comforting weight and Steve settled sleepily in his lap and says, “Then I guess I’m staying.”
#harringrove#harringrove fic#stranger things fic#st fanfic#billy hargrove#steve harrington#lex writes fics#anon#answered#sorry this took so long!!
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for the three harringrove prompts if they're still open!! steve and billy in matching sets of lingerie?? 🙏
characters → billy hargrove/steve harrington
rating → explicit
tags → setting - house party, panty kink, rimming, dirty talk, overstimulation
notes → not quite matching, but close enough. did i write this instead of studying for a midterm? absolutely.
He ended up in Nancy’s closet, crammed up against her spring formal dress and winter coat, a pink-dotted umbrella digging into his ass while Billy sucked on his tongue somehow.
Somehow. Somehow.
He knew there was an order of events that led him there, from fixing his hair in the mirror to grabbing his keys, to being abandoned by Nancy when Jonathan brought out the dope, to Billy finding him in the basement and bullying him into a game of beer pong. He had ended up with his hands on Billy’s ass, thumbs pressing into the line of muscle leading into his thigh, somehow, but it didn’t make sense.
Billy tasted like bad intentions and tequila, mouth wet and slick and sliding across Steve’s until he felt weak in the knees and his dick pressed up against his fly, uncomfortable. Aching for it since Billy had taken his hand, cigarette tucked between his lips, and asked to kiss him. Aching for it before, when he’d been pretending like it didn’t get his heart twisted into knots when Billy touched him in the showers, had smirked at him at graduation and called him Steve for the first time.
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Steve mumbled against Billy’s mouth. Billy ignored him. He sucked on Steve’s lip, bit it until it hurt, and snuck both hands under his shirt, hands possessive across his skin.
“Billy,” he whined, admitted it to himself and then did it again. The tequila had been hard on his throat but made everything softer, made Billy feel like heaven when he dropped his head to suck a mark into Steve’s neck until he whined again, high and reedy, and pushed onto his toes to rock against Billy’s thigh, press the line of his dick against harder muscle.
He rode against him, desperate, wanting, and Billy kissed his throat and chin, slanted his lips across Steve’s mouth and kissed him like he meant to steal his breath.
When he reached for Billy’s belt, Billy twitched, jerked away and broke the kiss with a messy noise. He smacked Steve’s hand away
Dazed, Steve blinked. “Uh,” he said.
Billy stared at him, cheeks flushed even in the dark, lips slick and red from Steve’s stubble. He stared like he was lost and then shook himself, clearing his throat and reaching for the doorknob.
Steve slapped his hand away. “What the fuck?”
“What the fuck what?”
“I’m trying to touch your dick,” Steve said, like it was obvious, like the way he had been reading to blow in his jeans wasn’t enough, “so what the fuck was that?”
Billy scowled, shoved Steve’s hand away and opened the door. Light flooded the closet. Steve squinted against the brightness, stepped into the room and marched across the floor, grabbing onto Billy’s retreating shoulder and yanked him back.
Billy turned sharply and knocked Steve back three steps with three hard shoves to his chest.
“I’ll choke you out if you do that again,” he spat, grabbing onto Steve’s shoulders, squeezing hard enough to hurt.
Steadying himself, Steve swallowed, chest throbbing. His heart wormed its way into his throat, begging him to back away. He licked his lips and tasted Billy.
“What was that?”
Billy’s fingers tightened. Steve winced, nose wrinkling, prying himself away from Billy’s grip. “Billy! Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
Hands shaking, Billy let them drop to his sides, fingers curling into his palms. He glared at the floor.
“Nothing,” he bit off, blunt like a wall.
Steve breathed through his nose and closed his eyes, wiped his mouth. He should cut his losses. Tie up this little experiment with a neat little bow and end it here, now. Pretend it didn’t happen. Blame it on the liquor.
When he opened his eyes, Billy was still staring at the floor, shoulders hunched and breathing hard.
“What is it, man? Is it—I mean, it’s not that I’m a dude, right?”
It took so long for him to answer that Steve about leaving twice more. Billy sighed through his nose, rubbed a hand over his face and said, “It’s not that. That’s what I fucking like, alright?”
“Okay. What is it?”
“It’s not…you. It’s me. It’s so fucking me.”
“Are you drunk?”
“What?” Billy jerked his head up, eyes narrowed. “I’m not fucking drunk. It’s just—you won’t get it. It’s nothing. Forget it.”
And he thought about doing it, too. Steve thought about walking out, going home because he felt too old for this already. Nineteen didn’t mean shit until you realized all your friends were still in school. He hadn’t started feeling like the loser who hadn’t gotten into college until after Christmas, when Tommy left for his backpacking adventure with Lane and he’d been left with no one.
And then there’d been Billy, who’d cornered him and poked at him, got him a drink and held his fucking hand until they found somewhere with a locked door to kiss him.
He didn’t feel like a loser when Billy kissed him.
It was like a light switch. He was still Steve fucking Harrington.
He sucked in a breath and crowded in close to Billy, touched his fingers over his bare arm, toying with the hem of his T-shirt. Billy frowned at him, eyes flicking between his face and his fingers.
“What’s so bad, huh?” Steve asked, soft and a little breathless. His dick ached a little, the want there still, heating his blood. “You can tell me. I wanna make you feel good.”
Billy’s eyes narrowed again, burring holes into Steve’s skull like he could see his thoughts.
“It’s not—”
“Not what?”
Billy bit off a curse and, in what Steve would call an impressive display of drama, turned to shove Nancy’s dresser in front of the door. Wood protested on carpet, and he watched with raised eyes as Billy shouldered it across the floor. The lamp vibrated to the edge and Billy pushed it back into place, hands pulling on his belt.
His eyebrows had nowhere to go when Billy shoved down his jeans to his thighs, still sporting a semi beneath satin and lace.
“Well,” Steve said, and blinked, head tilting. “That’s—”
“What?” Billy barked. He looked furious suddenly, a blunt line between his face and what he was wearing. “That’s what?”
“Fine,” Steve breathed, and then grinned, bright. He bit his lip, looked over Billy and took in his fill. “This is fine. I can work with this.”
Billy looked confused, a red flush spread across his throat that probably tasted like embarrassment. Still grinning, Steve pulled off his shirt and let it fall to the floor. “C’mere. I want to touch you.”
He stared, lips parted. Steve quirked a brow, cocked his head, nodded to the bed. “Come on. I’ll make it good. Promise.”
The struggle on Billy’s face was painful to watch. His eyes flicked between Steve and the door, Steve and the bed, the window like he could throw himself through it and no one would notice. Steve waited, patient, head tilted toward the bed.
Fucking someone in his ex’s bed was probably crass, he realized when Billy kicked off his jeans and pressed him into the Nancy’s bedspread, but when Billy licked into his mouth and pinned his hands above his head he couldn’t find it in himself to care.
They kissed and touched, and Steve petted over Billy’s ass, slipped his fingers beneath the elastic of Billy’s panties. Billy kissed like a dream, straddling Steve’s thigh to grind down against him. When he pulled back there was a damp patch against the black, dick straining underneath too-tight fabric. Steve licked his throat, shoved his shirt up to mouth at Billy’s nipple while he petted his dick, stroked over smooth fabric and felt Billy’s dick twitch. When he tugged down them down to lick at the head, it was wet. He stroked the shaft, squeezed until a clear drop welled at the tip and dripped over the fat, and then licked that, too.
“Who the fuck have you been doing this with?” Billy asked, grunting and twisting his hands in Steve’s hair when Steve sucked him down, tongue tracing the flared tip, the soft give of foreskin.
He pulled off with a pop and grinned. “Tommy.”
“Tommy,” Billy breathed. He choked on a laugh. “Fucking Tommy.”
“Fucking you,” Steve said back, fitting his cock back into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed while he swallowed him down. Tasting salt and skin, Steve let the tip touch the back of his tongue, let saliva pool in his mouth and spill from the corners of his stretched lips into the fabric tucked beneath Billy’s balls.
Steve cupped them, he rolled them over his fingers, pressed his thumb between them to rub until they tightened up and heat and bitter salt dripped over his tongue and down his throat.
Billy panted, eyes heavy as he tugged Steve up. He cupped his face and kissed him, chased the taste of his own spunk into Steve’s mouth and licked it out.
“You freak,” Steve laughed, spreading his thighs over Billy’s chest and kissing the corner of his mouth. He sat up. He rocked down, rode against his abs, squirmed to get the right pressure on his dick.
Billy grinned, wicked, and popped the button of Steve’s jeans. “You like it,” he said, sure, and tugged down Steve’s zipper, diving under denim.
His hand frozen, mouth going slack, eyes wide. Steve swallowed, arousal burning in his belly as Billy’s fingers traced the elastic line, dipped down over downy-soft cotton.
“Fucking really?” he murmured, eyes half-lidded as they dropped to stare at Steve’s crotch. There was little to see, jeans too tight to see much, but Billy still plucked at the edge of the panties, fingers flicking over delicate skin.
Unabashed, Steve smiled, caught his tongue between his teeth. He flashed the kind of smile that always got him what he wanted.
“They always white, sweetheart, or is this just for me?” Billy asked, low, rough, tracing the sensitive skin below Steve’s belly. He scratched his nails across it.
Steve shivered. “You,” he lied, eyes closing. It didn’t feel like lying to play the part. “I wanted to look pretty for you.”
They didn’t talk as Billy turned Steve over, dragged his jeans off and situated him on the bed on his knees, thighs together and chest down. They didn’t talk when Billy pulled the panties down, leaving them tight around his thighs, trapping them close. They didn’t talk as Billy licked him open, spit on his hole to press his fingers inside Steve until he begged, biting the edge of Nancy’s pillow when Billy fed his cock, hot and hard and branding him, inside, slow and sweet, the edge of pain throbbing in Steve’s dick.
He sobbed, muffled, arching into the press of Billy’s dick, each inch riding the edge of too much and not enough. He sobbed, damp against the pillow, when he tried to spread his legs, get a better grip of his dick, and sobbed, louder, when Billy pulled his hands behind his back and held them there, used them to anchor Steve into each thrust.
Steve came like that, thighs trapped together by white panties, Billy’s thighs kissing his ass, desperate fingers rubbing over the head of his own dick.
Moaning when Billy rolled them onto their sides, dick shifting inside. He felt deeper, bigger, like he was taking up too much space. Billy wrapped an arm around his waist and thrust, hard, and Steve let out a gasp, head knocking back into Billy’s shoulder.
Billy slapped a hand over his mouth, lips to Steve’s ear. Each thrust felt like a brand, a claim. Each thrust was heavy, jarring, and Steve pressed into them, muffled noises behind Billy’s palm.
“Quiet,” he breathed against Steve’s ear. He punctuated the word with a particularly sharp thrust, hips screwing into Steve in tiny circles that left him choking on his own spit. “You want them to come in and see this? Want Wheeler seeing you like this, huh? Byers? Getting fucked like a whore?”
Steve nodded, frantic, moaning behind Billy’s hand. He clutched at his arm, held on for dear life. Billy’s hand slipped between his thighs, cupping his half-hard cock, and he choked on his breath, scratched at Billy’s skin while Billy played with the head, caught between each jarring thrust and too much across his dick.
His body went tight, clenched, and Billy let off just enough to have him relax, just to roll his thumb over the cockhead to get him to moan and tighten up again.
Biting the back of his neck, Billy came, nails digging into Steve’s belly. Caught, pinned, Steve whined, eyes screwed shut as he twitched back into the cradle of Billy’s hips. He grunted, released his teeth from Steve’s neck and stroked his fingers over the nail marks.
Steve closed his eyes, let his head fall, shivering until Billy’s breath started to even, fingers slowing over Steve’s cock until they just rested there. Billy nuzzled the back of his neck, nosing at his hairline. He kissed the top of Steve’s spine.
“Jesus.”
Billy laughed, breathless, and kissed his skin again.
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Rollerskates
For the Harringrove April prompt month! What if someone else encountered the mindflayer...I don’t know what this is, have some silly horror I guess
Hawkins was the worst. Billy knew this--he’d known from the time they drove through the two-street town, he’d guessed when his dad praised the damn place and its down home American values--but he’d never guessed some sludgemonster would try to drag him into the ironworks, and he’d definitely never guessed whatever the fuck it was, it would send spies.
He glowered over from his lifeguard station at the row of rats outside the chainlink fence of the pool. They were brave, knowing, somehow, that he couldn’t take his eyes off the pool for more than a few seconds to hose them down. Billy glared back at them every few seconds--these huge rats, lined up like bowling pins, staring. He’d started carrying a notebook to jot things down, not because he thought a goddamned soul would believe him, but to check that at least if he was hallucinating, it was consistent.
A kid hollered, splashing, and he yanked his gaze back to the pool.
Sometimes they switched, he was fairly sure, watching them with binoculars. There was a light grey one that hadn’t been there before, and a really fat one he was sure he’d have remembered. He counted them, and made a note. They were spying on him in shifts, because it was goddamn Hawkins, and the rats--and the steelworks, apparently--were possessed.
He was vaguely tempted to go back, or ask around town if the old factory was haunted, but every time he thought about it, he broke out in a cold sweat.
Every time he left the pool--every time he went anywhere--he could hear the soft squeaks of the mice, and the dragging sound of their piper. She looked younger than Max, with overalls and rattling dark braids, but she swooped around on her rollerskates, playing her recorder, and the rats obeyed her.
Billy’d tried chasing her, once, but he could hardly catch up to rollerskates, and she skated backwards away, staring him in the eye. He chased her two blocks, then rolled after her in his car, as she looped through driveways and through garages, an endless maze of shortcuts where he couldn’t follow, and he finally realized she was leading him back to the Steelworks. He spun the wheel, leaving skid marks on the road as he sped back home, and laid awake, with his pillow over his head, listening to the rats in the walls.
After a week of the dragging sound of rollerskates in the street outside at night, the sounds of the off-key recorder warbling over the fence at the pool, and the gnawing rats in the walls, he tried cornering Max. She just squinted at him, blinking slowly with huge dark circles under her eyes, and suggested blearily that he stop leaving food in his room.
“They’re not normal rats,” he hissed at her, and she stopped, glared at him, and then shook her head and walked off.
It wasn’t just Billy, either. The front page of the Sunday paper--read in Neil Hargrove’s voice, because he wasn’t letting anybody else read it, even though he was taking forever settling himself--was about a guy running around Main Street with a shotgun, screaming about rats and rollerskates. He’d finally tried to shoot the cops trying to get him to drop the gun, and been hit by a car, and when it revealed he was already under investigation for burning crosses in a local family’s yard, even Neil hissed. His autopsy revealed his toes and fingers had been gnawed on by rats.
“What a nice town,” Max said dryly.
There was an interview on TV with a guy’s wife--she’d called the police because her husband had stormed out in the middle of the night, screaming about rats. She had bruises all up the left side of her face, and something deep in Billy shivered as he wondered about the darkness around her wrists, whether her husband had left bruises there too. She flinched away from the reporter every time he moved, and he lowered his voice, grimacing.
“We’d been fighting,” she whispered, and Susan put her hands over her mouth, glancing at Billy. “We kept hearing rollerskates,” said the woman on he news, crying. “I-I hope he didn’t hurt that little girl.”
Neil Hargrove stared out the window for hours that night, between glaring at Billy, and putting out poison for the rats.
Billy went to get in his car that night, and there were rats, rats on his seats and dashboard, and he yelled, slammed the door, and walked out to where there were people, stalking as fast as he could down the street. He realized he was walking away from home, but he didn’t want to stop, so he just headed wherever he saw a group of people. He elbowed his way into a crowd of people loitering around the drug store, and came face to face with Steve Harrington and his loud, curly-haired shadow.
They stared at him, their mouths sucked in on soda straws, but Billy was on his last nerve. “You fucking grew up here,” he hissed, stepping closer, “--right? What the fuck, Harrington. What the shit is with these goddamn rats?! Why do they want me to go to the Steelworks--who the goddamn is the shitbird on roller skates—”
Harrington just blinked his big stupid cow eyes and frowned, but his sidekick said “Wait, what? The Steelworks?”
“The fucking Steelworks,” Billy repeated, his eyes flicking between them as they exchanged an obvious glance.
“That makes sense,” the kid said, digging out a map, and Billy growled.
“What fucking makes sense,” he asked, through his teeth, as Harrington leaned in to see the map, slurping his soda.
“Lot of sightings around there,” the kid said, glaring up at Billy.
“Sightings of what,” Billy hissed, and Harrington shot him a glower.
They didn’t really answer, but they let him follow them to a payphone, and Harrington called the sheriff.
“You can’t call the police on rats,” Billy bit out, feeling like a moron, kind of, for not trying it himself.
“Shut your face,” Harrington told him, and then proceeded to ask for the sheriff himself, and Billy couldn’t help himself, craning over Steve’s shoulder.
“My car’s full of rats, my walls’re full of rats, I never stop hearing the roller skates—” he yelled at the phone, and Harrington elbowed him off.
“Maybe you shouldn’t’ve been such a shithead to Lucas Sinclair,” the kid said, sounding pleased.
“Fuck you,” Billy spat back, pretending his voice hadn’t cracked. “Who the fuck even is Lucas Sinclair?!”
“Sir,” Harrington said. “Uh, Hopper. Billy Hargrove thinks it’s out at the Steelworks. Yeah. Oh, um.” He turned to frown at Billy. “Are you sure you don’t need--we can help, we’ve—” he sighed. “...I guess we can keep an eye on him.”
“I mean, do we need to?” the kid asked. “The rats can have him, far as I’m—”
“We’ll make sure nothing happens to him,” Harrington gritted out. “As long as he lets us.”
Billy snarled at him, but he let them bundle him into Harrington’s car, and curled up on Harrington’s couch, while Harrington himself stalked around his house shooting the occasional glare in Billy’s direction.
“...was Lucas Sinclair the kid...that night,” Billy asked hoarsely. “Max’s friend.”
“Yeah,” Harrington said, sarcastically. “Nice how it only goes after the shittiest people, right?”
“Fuck,” Billy whispered, swallowing. “Fuck.”
After a while, Harrington sank down on the couch next to him, and Billy flinched, then tried to pretend he hadn’t, growling. “They’ll take care of it tonight,” Steve told him, sighing. “With flamethrowers.”
“Holy shit,” Billy said, staring at him.
It was true--Billy woke up the next morning on Harrington’s couch, thanked him awkwardly, and went home to find his father had left during the night, chasing a girl on roller skates.
He didn’t return.
But, as Harrington had said, there were no more rats. Billy still saw the girl, occasionally, her glare pointed, but she didn’t come near. He considered trying to apologize to Lucas Sinclair, and finally asked Max, reluctantly, whether she thought the kid would even want to hear it.
“What,” she said, flatly.
“Maybe I should just stay away,” Billy muttered, as they maneuvered around each other, doing the dishes. Billy couldn’t quite get over the thought that everybody had acted like the three people taken hadn’t deserved to live, and the rats had not been outside Billy’s house for his father. Neil had deserved better, Billy couldn’t help thinking--he’d been right about Billy, after all--but on the other hand, he’d definitely charged out trying to murder a little girl on roller skates with his bare hands, so Billy felt a little bit vindicated, after all the things he’d muttered about his dad.
When he saw the little girl again, he yelled out, “D’you think your brother would want me to say sorry?!”, and she skated to a stop, turning to glare at him.
“Would you mean it?” she hollered back, her hands cupped, and Billy nodded.
“I’ll tell him,” she shouted back, and skated off.
Max started bringing Lucas around, after that, and Billy always got them whatever takeout they wanted, and stayed the hell away. Lucas nodded to him, after a while, and Billy’s spine loosened.
Billy nodded to Harrington, too, when he saw him, and after a while, Harrington started nodding back, until Billy let the uneasy squirm in his guts every time they met eyes guilt him into saying, “Sorry.”
“What,” said Harrington, looking weirded out. The mall was barely open, and he glanced around, like he might need backup.
“Sorry for that night,” Billy said. “And--and for...helping me. Sorry I ended up your problem.”
Harrington just stared back at him. He laughed, though, when he found Billy in his driveway, grimly cleaning rat shit out of every surface of his Camaro.
The little girl just made him buy her ice cream, which he was fine with--she’d hop in his car, and they’d drive over to buy ice cream from Steve Harrington.
“I wasn’t possessed, god,” she groaned. “I was doing God’s work.”
“It promised you ice cream, didn’t it,” Steve asked, raising his eyebrows, and she sighed.
“I was possessed by capitalism,” she sighed dramatically.
After Steve got off work, he climbed in Billy’s car, and they’d drive out to the quarry and talk. Billy watched him the way he had at first--stupid Steve Harrington, with his stupid hair, and his stupid fucking smile--until he’d realize Harrington was talking again, and Billy was missing it, again.
“The hell d’you keep staring at,” Steve asked, laughing, and Billy groaned, rubbing his face, but Harrington didn’t seem pissed, so Billy just kept running up whenever he saw him, and Harrington started putting an arm aorund his shoulders. The like, sixteenth time Billy almost forgot himself and kissed him, watching Steve’s lips from inches away, Steve smiled, a little crookedly, and pulled him back as he stepped away. They stared at each other, and then Billy scrambled away, swearing and kicking at rocks.
Billy had his first gay kiss in the ice cream shop, with the scary little rollerskater wolf-whistling, and Harrington’s chocolate-sticky fingers in his hair. It tasted like waffle cones.
The other Harringrove April prompts I’ve done
#Harringrove#harringrove april#Erica Sinclair does not get mind-flayed#She's a vigilante for justice#On roller skates
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