h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

The Distance Between [B.H. x you]

Summary: The past really loves to remind Billy of what he’s lost, of who he longs for.

Inspiration: To Be In Your Eyes by The Church

Word Count: 1398 Warnings: angst.

Written Date: 3/7-30/2021 Posted Date: 4/1/2021

[MASTERLIST]

His blue irises reflect the steady stream of moonlight. The night sky and its many little crystals of light peak in on him through the foggy beads of dew and drizzle. The rain patters against glass in a steady melancholic drum; wind rattles the old pipes and wooden bones of the room like a lonesome dog begging to be let in. The windowpanes lead to nature’s own picture show in technicolor, but Billy’s mind wanders to the monochromatic.

To the past. To just that day’s passing period where fifth transitions to sixth. To when the stubborn clouds finally part their curtains to the sun in this drowsy, little northern town. The kids are just as muted in annoyance as the people Billy’s age are in excitement.

Shoes squeak on linoleum, and the hallways are filled with the rhythm of slamming lockers and melodramatic hushes of secret admirers. True love. Broken hearts. Longing…

The muscles of Billy’s cheek pull at the corner of his lip, yet his lips are dry, and the beginning hum of a cackle is yet to be resuscitated in his throat. This is just a residual reaction; Billy knows this somewhere in the back of his mind because it happens from time to time.

He was standing there, in that very hallway, with an arm leaning over a head of long blonde hair that reeked of hairspray and speckled green eyes. Or maybe they were a golden brown. He doesn’t know; the allure in them and the girl’s pretty smile was lost to him. The lockers were hard, and the metal was shooting pins and needles up his arm. Despite the cushion of a jacket, pain bloomed its thorns into the point of his elbow. Yet the pumping vessel beneath his chest bone was receiving the brunt of it.

Because you were there. Just feet away from him. With a dainty hand fiddling with the golden chain of a butterfly necklace—the one Billy had given you just months before—as a large smile was plastered on your face. It was genuine, Billy had noted, because it dared to shatter your complexion. Your wide eyes crinkled. Moisture stuck to your lashes—no, your lips didn’t dare to let go.

You were so happy. You were so goddamn happy, standing there with another man as the center of your focus, as the reflection in your eyes. The gloss of your irises captured better than film technology—how he brushed the stubborn baby hair away from your temple or how his lips spoke of words only you could understand—for it relayed your giggles and other quirks upon the entirety of your features.

 Billy’s tortured bone was sending distress signals to his brain, wanting a rest. Billy hadn’t listened to it. He wanted to snap that lanky brunet’s long, slender fingers. The ones that rested on the edge of your scalp were too chicken shit to run and grasp a bit of hair to be brought in for a velvet kiss and never let go until you’re both gasping for air.

Those hands have never worked a day in their life, Billy could tell. Never had to work summers in a humid garage or on somebody’s lawn for some spending money. No, Jimbo would never leave you breathless, but at least you’d be comfortable. Bored, but never worried, nonetheless. He’d give you what Billy never could.

Billy’s fingers mindlessly reach for that same elbow that now thrums in vague feeling. He rubs it, and the callus from handling tools is rough on his skin. God, he wants to laugh. He wants to cackle just as he wanted to cackle in that school hallway. Cackle like he’s got nothing to worry about too, like you meant nothing to him. Cackle because it was just too easy to forget all about you.

Instead, everything blurred, and everything became muffled, and not because he had been engulfed by your plush lips. You didn’t allow Billy the freedom of resuming his affair with this blonde girl, and yet her talking had continued. Going on and on about nail polish—or was it about Madonna’s newest hit? He doesn’t remember what she’d been so interested in, or why stubbornness persisted within her interest in him when Billy was so obviously under another girl’s spell.

You were there. Just a few feet away. With some brunet shorter and thinner than him. Playing with the butterfly necklace Billy had bought for you with the cash he earned, acting as a gardener for his next-door neighbors during spring break. And you were smiling, two months after you had found purple and red hickeys along Billy’s neck and torso for the second time since becoming official. You were now smiling after having screamed and sobbed and pounded on Billy’s bare chest with your fists and watched him turn defensive—listened to him tell you that you didn’t satisfy his needs, you didn’t put out enough, you just weren’t enough.

You walked out on him and became both deaf and blind. Never answered the incessant ringer of a house phone. Deleted voicemails before Billy’s voice could utter more than two syllables. Donated and hid some of the belongings he left behind in the back of your closet, like his worn Metallica’s Ride the Lightning record. And you never allowed your gaze to fall upon him for more than a couple seconds, no matter how much your eyes stung and begged to stare just a little bit longer.

And, ironically, Billy did too. His grades were worsening from assignments that were lost in the black hole of his backpack. Other girls were not as appealing as before, no matter how attractive they were and continue to be. Billy can pretend sometimes, however; he was pretending to like that blonde and he almost believed he did until you popped up into his peripheral. Most of the time, Billy couldn’t conjure an ounce of care when things weren’t about you. But he’d like to be quite deaf and blind to that fact too.

The hallway light suddenly flickers through the bottom crack of his bedroom door. Socked feet thread not-so-carefully down the wooden flooring. They forget about the creaky panels that tend to disturb the rest of the household. It’s Max, who has a habit of waking in the middle of the night to fill up on a refreshing glass of water. She must have forgotten to leave a filled cup on her bedside table, Billy thinks.

Billy’s throat itches, and he almost calls out to Max for a glass as well. Almost, before the memory of your eyes suck him back into the bottomless pit of nostalgia. Billy finds that he can’t do much these days except loosen up the tension in his muscles, give up the flailing, and just sink. Drown. His throat itches, and yet he will wait until morning, until he’s only got fifteen minutes to spare before the first bell.

A glass clinks as it lands in the metal sink. The same padded feet trek back into the hallway until the light no longer emits a glow beneath his door and another door down the hall clicks close.

For now, he stays, resting on his back, caught up in a web that enslaves him from sleep. He can kick off the blankets that are entangled with his legs, but, just like they don’t provide much warmth these days, it doesn’t do much in lessening the phantom grasp on him.

And the night grows colder as the rain pummels against his window now, and he wonders if, on the other side of town, the rain beats against your bedroom window as well. The moonlight striking on Billy’s face reflects the streams on the glass like tears upon his cheeks, but he cannot produce tears of his own. He simply stares into distance as his brain produces the same haunting images.

Of your smile. Of the silver butterfly necklace—how it still shines from a soft cleanser. Of how you looked exactly the same as the first day Billy met you, only except it wasn’t him who you were sharing intimacy with. It was some other guy who just wouldn’t stop touching you.

Sometimes Billy wishes he could do the simplest things, laugh and cry and get angry—anything to shake off the stranger he has become.

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

Will you be active on your other blog? Gonna miss you!

Yes, I’ll def be active on devintagekids !! Feel free to interact over there 💗💗 and I’ll still be checking this blog every once in a while.

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

Indefinite Hiatus

Hey, sorry I haven’t been active or writing requests/fics. At the moment, I just have my priorities elsewhere (school/personal works). I will be back someday.

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

You’re so sweet for tagging me ❤️❤️

Some of my faves from the top of my head are: @gutterdreams @slasherholic @hardyimagines @twdsunshine @crossbowking

Lets appreciate those fiction writers that keep us entertained during these tough times

Rule: tag 5-10 blogs that have been keeping you entertained during quarantine. If you have been tag spread the love by doing the same. Anyone can do it, you dont have to be tagged.

Thank you @winstonwhore @honeymoonwriting @fangirlings-things @be-patient-be-good @enfantlunaire @multi-fandom-iimagines @mikaelson-imagines @bill-skarsgard-owns-my-ass for keeping me entertainedwith your amazing writing 🙌🙌

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

Providing [B.H. x you]

Request:

Inspiration: The 15th by Wire

Word Count: 654 Warnings: FLUFF none.

Written Date: 4/5-6/2020 Posted Date: 4/6/2020

[MASTERLIST]

The green cotton of the couch scratched at your cheek while the rest of your bent limbs dug into its lumpy cushions. Your arms were wrapped around the heat of your throbbing midsection, barely paying attention to the laugh track of Three’s Company from the TV screen consume the quietness of your basement. Your knees scoot closer into your hunched form as Jack Tripper placed a lampshade over his head, eliciting another roar from the audience.

It’s one of your favorite scenes from one of your favorite shows, but under the influence of excessive pain you cannot laugh. Even just the colors that filtered through the television screen, draping a glowing blanket where you were huddled, keeps the interest of your blurred gaze longer. Sleep began to pull you into its hypnotizing clutches.

But then a light flickers by the doorway.

The door creaks in retaliation as the figure above the stairs struggles against its stubbornness―it liked to stay open, making harsh contact with the forehead of your caffeine-deprived father in the early mornings. The almost shapeless shadow nears the doorway as boots thud down the wooden steps. Plastic crinkles with every other step.

Safe.

Lazy lids seal shut your fading curiosity, and the pain settles into a low drum. Static laughter shrinks into a hum.

The plastic bag plops onto the ring-stained coffee table, and the material and the contents within sag. It resembles a cartoon frown. Your eyelids flutter open, eyelashes tickling the soft skin below the rims, and the shadow is no longer a shadow.

Calloused digits doused in the outdoor frost of midnight streets land on the plumpness of your cheek. Chills rumble in low vibration throughout your body as his fingers card through your hair, massaging the thumbs in circular motions on your scalp. A soft sigh passes through your lips and you half-way rise, your left shoulder shoving between the couch’s padding.

“Hey,” Billy breathes out.

A couple blinks pass before you realize that Three’s Company is no longer playing, but rather a man in a pressed suit with a file of papers in his hands follows with details about a recent disappearance. A yawn consumes you before speaking, “Where’d you go?”

“You fell asleep on my lap, so I slid out and got you some things,” Billy starts rummaging through the deflated grocery bag. “I know how much those cramps were kicking your ass.”

Reaching forth, your hands join his in their investigation of goods. Red Vine twists. Two cans of Arizona Tea. Family-sized nacho-flavored Doritos. And several of those miscellaneous gummies that the corner store by the movie theater sells for fifty-cents a pack. You didn’t know which snack to dig into first.

“They ran out of that salt-water taffy you like so much, though.”

Burrowing your bare toes in the ruffles of the carpet, you stand and wrap your sore arms around his ribs. Wild wisps from your crown tickle the tip of his nose as he tucked your head beneath his scratchy chin. He was a couple hours overdue for a shave, but that was something to worry about in the morning. Opting to focus on the heating pads of your arms as they slither just a little tighter around him, the cold melts away with the flush of your body.

His head lowers. Yours tips back with your inviting lips on display.

Slightly chapped lips settle over yours, gently grazing over the petal smoothness of yours. Billy’s hands roam to the dip of your waist, pulling you closer to his ministrations. The minty coolness of Billy’s mint chewing habit settles on the expanse of your tongue before you pull away from him for breath. Your content gaze peers up at him.

“Thanks, Billy.”

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

Touch [B.H. x you]

Request:

Inspiration: Hands Across The Sea by Modern English

Words: 1828 Warnings: none.

Written Date: 3/16-31/2020 Posted Date: 4/4/2020

[MASTERLIST]

Scratched up skateboard wheels rolling across the pavement fluttered through the three-inch crack of the front door as Billy sat at the kitchen table. He’ll be met with a stern lecture from a mustached lip if a fly managed to wander into the home like a tourist upon their first breath of the A.C. at a hotel lobby, but Billy had much more important business to intend to. Report cards were just around the corner and with his sweet talking skills, Billy’d convinced the math teacher into giving him a passing grade if he turned in 200 solved problems by the end of the week.

He had seven days. Seven whole days to answer some textbook questions that they’ve gone over in class. It should have been easy, except it wasn’t. Billy was failing the class for a reason. Day five only had two hours left of sunshine, yet Billy’s currently stuck on problem forty-six. With each tick of the clock mounted behind him, his frustration grew.

One of his temples rested in the cup of his left palm as he beat the eraser head on the other before tossing the pencil at the book pages. Words were merging into numbers and numbers were blurring into letters.

Fuck it, he thought, I’ll just ask for a tutor. Yet he knew if he kept this mindset he’d fail, receive a smack across the back of his head, and still wouldn’t seek out a tutor.

He could hear the skateboard’s wheels beat relentlessly against the cracked concrete while Max explained the footwork behind the technique to you, who was sitting on the grass with your white cane last he check. Jealousy picked at the nerves in his forehead as frustration clenched his eyebrows together.

His mind began running off of the book pages and onto the blue sports car in his driveway. Would he have enough for the wash and the wax. Would there be enough leftover for a tip? Billy was an asshole to a lot of things, but he knew what it was liked to be stiffed.

Page 267 was beginning to give him more trouble than it was worth, and those pointers the geek with the lisp in his class gave weren’t helping at all. The rim of one of Susan’s good glasses touched the plush of his bottom lip, the cool water streaming down the well of his parched throat―

A gasp bordering along a yelp burst through the door, clawing its way into his ear. He nearly choked on his drink; some loose water dribbled down his chin.

Pushing out of his chair and the table he was leaning on, not caring if the polished hardwood caught a couple scratches, he was out the front door in five seconds.

Under the shade of his palm, which he planted against his eyebrows to fend off the sun’s brightness, he scanned the situation for clues.

His step-sister’s skateboard lied planted on the other side of the street. Upside down. Wheels spinning lazily under the shade.

The little redheaded runt’s wide eyes met his. Laced with alarm. Her bottom lip wobbled in search for words. Her hands held out below her…toward you, who was slowly lifting yourself by the skin of your elbows.

Raw. Blood beginning to clot around the loose gravel that clung to the wounds.

Billy marched through the grass, nearly tripping over your forgotten cane. “Max, what’d you do?!”

Max took a deep breath, crouching down to you. Her small fingers brushed your palm before helping you to your feet. “I’m sorry.”

As soon as you were back on the safety pads of your feet, Max turned to face her fuming step-brother.”I didn’t mean―”

His hand landed on her slender shoulder, shaking her like an earthquake rattles a brick foundation. “No, of course you didn’t mean to, you little twerp.”

A couple specks of spit landed across her freckled cheeks and nose, prompting her to screw up her face in mild disgust. “She wanted―”

“How many times do I have to tell you? You need to be careful with her, she’s―”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here, Billy.” You dusted off the debris from your stinging cuts. “I’m blind, not fragile. How many times do I have to tell you?”

You would have walked off in the direction of his house if only you knew wherever the hell it was. Trying to land that kickflip Max had spent the last half hour explaining to you really messed with your sense of direction, but you weren’t about to tell them that. Your mother didn’t call you a stubborn mule for nothing plus you were getting really sick of Billy thinking you were weak, so you turned around and started stalking off without the aid device your parents payed for.

“Y/n, where are you going?” Billy called after you. “You can’t just leave.”

“Watch me!” You called over your shoulder, continuing your trek into the unknown.

Billy watched you walking down the street, and for once he appreciated living down such a long road miles away from the populated center of town. If it wasn’t one of his neighbors pulling into their cracked driveways after a long 9-to-5 shift or pulling away for a hearty meal at Benny’s Diner, cars rarely ever raced down this street.

Turning to Max, his grip loosened on her shoulder. “Grab your board and get inside.”

Max didn’t argue. Out of the two of them, Max had a more leveled head. She knew she could just check out the damage on your elbows and apologize again once Billy convinced you to come back into their comfy abode. Yanking away from her older step-brother, she ran for her precious skateboard.

“Babe, come on,” Billy tried to reason with you as his long legs neared you. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. You just―”

His warm hand gently latched onto your arm, turning you to face him. “I just what, Billy? You know people here either pity me or they stand feet apart from me like I’m made of glass,”the pressure in the center of your forehead begins to make itself known in the form of a headache, “I just thought things…here…were different.”

“They are, babe.” His chin bounced with quick little nods to reassure you. Sometimes he forgot that you couldn’t see these small actions. “Okay? They are. Max was teaching you one of her stupid tricks, and I just freaked, okay?”

Memories flicker through your mind, sounds and touch alike. When one of the mean girls at school had purposely stuck her foot out in front of you for taking “her man” away, you had bashed your head against a locker and were knocked out cold. You had woken up moments later in Billy’s arms as he carried you to the nurse’s office. You hadn’t bent over and died when the concussion symptoms came at you in full force; you had just taken the standard amount of sick days at home. Not any less and, definitely, not any more.

Other memories came at you, but none were as extreme as the concussion. Yet, with each scrape or nick that life threw at you, Billy reacted like blood was seeping through your clothing at an alarming rate or your lungs were restricting from lack of oxygen. Whatever it was, Billy acted like it was the end of the world for you.

“I didn’t cry when I fell off a tree branch and broke my arm in fourth grade, “ you began the recited verse you’ve told almost every member of your family, “so, I’m not gonna cry because of some stupid scuff marks on my elbows. I’m fine.”

“But, when I was sitting at the kitchen table, loss in thought, I heard it.” His thumbs were stroking the bones of your cheeks. “I heard you fall, Y/n. How was I supposed to know it wasn’t anything worse? When my dad first introduced me to Susan, Max walked around in crutches after a bad skateboard landing snapped her shin bone.”

You sighed, allowing his outlook on the situation widen the scope of your mind. Maybe you were being a little too harsh on him. After all, you couldn’t pour salt to the sizzle off the worry that ate you up inside whenever Billy decided to hang out with one of his pals. It would steal the sleep from you knowing he’d be driving around drunk. Him cradling you to the nurse’s office and you phoning him to make sure he made it to his bedroom safe were two sides of the same coin.

“I’m surprised Susan still lets her ride around on that thing.” His fingers carded through your hair. “I was just scared the same thing might of happened to you, or worse.”

“I understand, Billy.” You spoke so softly, Billy wasn’t entirely sure if it was just one of your breaths. A shuddering gasp forced its way out of your throat as you fought off the burning sensation of tears from the corner of your eyes. “I just get so frustrated sometimes.”

Your face met the soft cotton of his shirt as he brought you into the protection of his arms. “I know, baby,” He kissed the crown of your head. “I’m sorry I overreact sometimes.”

You sniffled a couple times before pulling away from him, “It’s okay.”

His lips brushed against the center of your forehead first then dipped his head to land another on your plump lips, but your fingers caught him. “You still have to apologize to Max first before you can kiss me.”

He took a deep breath. “Deal.”

Your fingers fumbled for his before before successfully latching on. You sighed as your palms melded together like ironworks as Billy led the way to his house.

As you both grew closer a loose thought struck you. “Wait. Don’t you still have homework to do?”

A/N: I hope I did alright in characterizing a blind reader.

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

He looks like the meanest college boyfriend you'll both love and regret.

Via Instagram | dacremontgomery

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

Poppies [B.H. x you]

Request:

Inspiration: It’s No Reason by The Church

Word Count: 2750  Warnings: reference of abuse and angst.

Written Date: 1/20-3/10/2020 Posted Date: 3/10/2020

[MASTERLIST]

August 12. Sunday. 11:56 a.m.

After a couple days of trailing after his father and his new little family in their Chevy truck, Billy pulled up in front of the place they’d now be calling home. Billy’s bones ached from sitting for a prolonged period of time and his eyelids had been heavy from the constant blare of the sun, and yet he thought their new humble abode was just about the ugliest thing he’d ever seen. With several window panes bordering a sun parlour and a low roof that suggested the lack of stairs inside, Billy knew it was totally Susan’s style and not something his father would have picked out had it just been him and his teenage son.

The sun parlour was meant for Susan’s obsession with lilies and begonias. There would soon be a wooden bench with flowered cushions just for her to perch on with one of her many melodramatic books about gossip and heartbreak. And with only one story to worry about, Susan would silence her chirps about stupid superstitions about staircases and ladders as if staircases and ladders were the same thing. Yes, he could see it all so clearly.

Billy felt drowsy, but he wasn’t blind. He knew all about the intentions his father had when purchasing this house, beside the new job opportunity, before reaching for the handle of his Camaro. The daintiness of the house, the seclusion of moving across country, was all just a ploy to keep another woman from slipping through his father’s aching embrace. His father couldn’t control Billy’s free spirited mother, so he chased after a much more timid woman who his ex-co-worker cheated on. Susan just so happened to already have a child his father hadn’t known about ‘til it was too late.

Walking up to the front door just a beat behind his father and the two redheads, and just about ready for a twelve-hour nap, Billy somehow picked up on the flutter of lavish curtains of lace and chintz from the house next door.

A peeping neighbor was curious about them, yet his father was much more interested in the plants rooted beneath the neighbor’s window.

“What the hell are those things?”

“I think they’re flowers,” Max threw in her two cents.

With a small, soft turn of her lips, Susan added, “I’m sure they’ll be absolutely beautiful once they bloom.”

Billy will already half-forgotten this exchange of meaningless words meant to fill in the silence and the curious shadow of his new neighbor until…

October 3. Wednesday. 2:31 a.m.

Sweat accumulated on his forehead as Billy awoke with a start. His sheets stuck against hist bare limbs as a hazy memory of an ocean wave toppling over him and a blurred smile clouded his vision. Yet, getting up, he managed to locate his lighter in the strewn jeans he’d worn the day before and place a fresh cigarette between his lips and another behind his ear before sneaking past dad and Susan’s bedroom.

His palms were clammy and chills prickled his arm hair as he stepped out into the night. Standing in the center of the cement path in sleep shorts and a T-shirt, he figured the cigarettes he planned on having would be enough to take his mind off the old breeze and old memories.

Except, he hadn’t planned on having an audience.

She was sitting on the steps of the next door porch. Knees jutted out in front of her, arms tucked across her midsection, and eyes already set on him.

Billy only knew a couple things about her. She and her grandparents were his neighbors, she went to school with him, and she flinched…embarrassingly a lot.

Stubbing out his half-burned cigarette, Billy retreated back inside away from the girl, but not before glancing at the plants his father wouldn’t quit pestering everyone about.

Nothing about them had changed. Still green and still very ugly.

October 16. Tuesday. 2:10 a.m.

Days snail by and the weather has remained stagnant, yet again Billy found himself venturing outside before the bird could sing. His mattress had felt too lumpy against the ridges of his spine and the sheets too tampered to find any peace. And there she was again for the fourth time in the past thirteen days, burning holes into the moisture of the patchy lawn before her.

The cold shoulder was a kick to the shin. Billy’d grown accustomed to the thought of having someone to share the cleansing breeze of sorrow they didn’t plan on speaking of. Billy had the idea that he couldn’t be the only one whose demons kept him from snuggling under the covers and drifting off until the alarm clock said so. No one in their right mind found peace in the shadows of orange street lamps without worse occurrences taking place behind doors…or the insides of skulls.

So, he found himself scrounging through the block of ice that’s never been broken through, not even after the welcoming block party. Not when this girl’s “papa” borrowed his father’s lawnmower. Not when Susan and “nana” swapped pot roast recipes. And, definitely not when she came over with a textbook held against her chest to tutor Max at their dining table.

“You make this a habit or something?”

Her delicate eyelids fluttered before she realized Billy’s figure stood in front of her, scuffing his sneakers at the gravel.

His eyes long adjusted to the dim glow of the street lamp, he studied the ribbon struggling to hold on to her hair and the oversized jacket that swallowed her frame. She was still wearing the same outfit from the day before. He only knew because she had been guiding Max through a couple practice problems while he was curling weights to MTV after school.

“You one of them ‘watch the sunrise’ type of gals or something?”

Hooking the stretched sleeves of her sweater over her thumbs, she responded, “Sometimes.”

Within the frame of a breath, Billy had taken a seat beside her on the steps while his hands rested in his pockets, resisting the urge to comment on the leap of her shoulders. It was easy, he managed to wire his lips shut last night when his father had halted her from walking out their front door without the ten dollars she earned from tutoring. Her chin had tucked into her chest with the flicker of her lids before the older Hargrove shoved the bill into her clammy palms.

“Isn’t it kind of early for that?”

She shrugged, failing to convince anyone, even herself, that there wasn’t a care in her bones.

“Do your grandparents know you come out here?” They reminded Billy of his own grandparents, the ones who’d welcomed him with warm biscuits and a spare bed just before his father tore him away from his last shred of contentment.

“Do your parents know you do the same?” she retorted.

“Touché.”

Billy stayed next to her, never brushing against her for fear of sending her running back into the house, for a few moments longer before getting back up.

Glancing down at her, he motioned towards his house. “I should go, you know, before my dad wakes and freaks.”

She nodded twice. “Okay.”

The weight of his shoulders dragged him down just a little bit more as he spared her another glance before shoving his hands in his pockets and trekking back home. He never stayed outside for long, usually only for the span of a burning cigarette or two. Never as long as her, who’d already be out there far before frost greets his skin and who’d remain out there long after he fell back in the abyss of his bed.

And right before he silently jiggled the pestilent doorknob, he noticed that those odd, not-yet-ready, flowers were beginning to crack open like the release of bubbles from clams.

October 18. Thursday. 3:47 a.m.

Another forty-eight hours passed, a full moon encompassed the dark sky and she was still wearing the same loose sweater he’d seen her in outside of fourth period. The flimsy material still threatened to slip off her shoulders and fall in a red pool around her feet. The bags beneath her downcast eyes contrasted further against the skin of her cheeks, yet she agreed to join him on a walk with him without much convincing.

It was just a stroll around their expansive block, and her top lip hardly separated from its thicker sister while twin arms remained crisscrossed around her ribs like Greek ancient pillars. Billy hadn’t expected anything more for she never really made attempt in being friendly with him nor he with her, not when the street lamps sat cold beneath the sun.

So, when her steps came to a close despite only having twenty-seven cement blocks to go before reaching their neighboring homes, muttering, “It’s not you,” Billy stumbled on his own feet. Yet, she fished forth, steadying him with the softness of her palms. and he gave her a simple nod, “I get it.”

The smile didn’t cut into the plush pillows of her cheeks, creating denudation, but the prudent glaze of her pupils softened. “Not a lot of people do.”

The stroll continued in silence, and skipping over his house Billy walked her to her porch. She climbed the three steps, with an appreciative set of eyes, about to twist the knob and enter the shadowed mass of her grandparents’ timely living room, but Billy spoke.

“Can I ask you something?”

Glancing over the red cotton of her shoulder, she responded, “What?”

His foot settled on the first step, “What’s keeping you?”

She fully faced him with her arms down her sides. “What do you mean?”

He ascended those steps with his hands in his pockets, always in his pockets around her vicinity. “You’re always out here. Cold, shivering, instead of in there,” he nodded towards her front door, “warm, maybe with a teddy bear or two. What’s keeping you from your bed?”

“Nothing in there, I love papa and nana.” She shrugged, lowering her head before settling on “It’s complicated.” She sucked in a deep breath between her teeth, “Thanks for walking me home, Billy,” and retreated, softly closing the door on him.

October 22. Monday. 4:03 a.m.

Billy wiped at the beaded moisture on his upper lip before resting his head on his hands. The dream itself vanished upon the flicker of his lids, leaving behind only fragments of images. A dazzling smile. A wave crashing over. But his semi-conscious brain grasped at the emotions the dream had stirred. It was the same thing over and over again.

Shrugging on a crumpled jacket from the floor and slipping on a pair of sneakers, Billy creeped down the hallway towards the front door with ease. After all the interrupted nights in this new house, he knew which floorboards creaked and strained under his stature. Anything that could give him an advantage around his father he took mental notes of.

He didn’t expect to find her sitting on the single step in front of his door or expect to see a bounce in her race to stand on her two feet when he made his appearance. The door softly clicked behind him.

“I was hoping you’d show up.” She spoke gently.

Even her expression wasn’t so pitiful or down in the dumps. Her jaw sat relaxed with parted lips. A sense of wonder had swept every unshed tear in her lashes and the caution that was so natural in her stare. Billy even took notice of her short tennis skirt and the slouch socks that accompanied her white sneakers and how she resembled a cheery teenaged girl for once, like a girl-next-door should be.

“What’s going on?” he asked her, glancing east and west end of the neighborhood.

“I have something to tell you,” she guided a confused Billy down the cement step and across their moist lawns until they stopped in front of the main window of her house. “Look. The poppies finally bloomed.”

And they did. Those ridiculous green bulbs that stuck out like a wallflower among a popular crowd were no longer that but…nice little flowers with graceful necks and blushing petals. Poppies, so that’s what these buggers were all along.

“See? They aren’t so ugly are they?” She glanced up at him with a playful expression. Her lips quirked and an eyebrow raised.

“I never said anything.” His muscular arms crossed against his chest.

A huff of quiet laughter released under her breath. “No, but I’ve heard your dad say a thing or two. He’s not very quiet.”

He stilled and the playful banter isn’t so fun anymore. “You can hear him?”

Her head dropped to her chest and the hair behind her ears fell free. “Sometimes.”

Fists fall to his sides, clenching, and he hides them in his pockets like he usually does around her. And, yet, embarrassment spread a fire across his face. It wasn’t her fault that these houses were so old their walls appeared paper thin. It wasn’t her fault his dad found a reason to express his disappointment in his son every chance he got nor raise his palms with quick ease. Life just freaking sucked sometimes.

But, he didn’t want her thinking he was angry at her or anything because she overheard a scuffle or two. By spending what little time with her after sunlight, he knew her more than any other person at their school did. He knew she couldn’t sleep without demons sinking their claws into her skin and dragging her through mud, like him. They were far past formalities.

Fingers tickled her palm before lacing together with her own, and she realized Billy was holding her hand.

“Poppies, you said?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“They’re,” he cleared imaginary lint from his throat, “nice.”

“I grew them myself,” she offered. “I found out the first bouquet papa gave to nana were poppies.”

“Really?” His soft gaze fell on her.

She nodded once more with a pull at her lip before returning the look.

One day she’d tell him about the anxiousness that gnawed on her scalp as the date of her father’s release draws near. She’d tell him how his own father’s forced acts of kindness reminded her of her own whenever one of his work pals would come over to watch the game. She’d tell him that she’d only been living with her grandparents for a little less than four years. She was originally from out of state, where the clouds didn’t hold the sky hostage. One day she’d tell him that there was a time when her papa and nana only knew what she looked like based on a photo in their album when she was only 13 months old. That her father was sent to prison after Coach Annie spotted a trail of blue smudges trailing towards her shoulder. How a scar from a scolding iron on her thigh was discovered after that.

Billy’s thumb brushed over her cold knuckles once more as he gazed upon the warm hues of the poppies, and she felt that one day she could tell him everything.

A/N: So sorry about the super long wait for this request! >.<

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

who is the person in your pfp?

Aimee Mann, the super talented bassist/vocalist of the 80s new wave band ‘Til Tuesday, who are most known for their 1985 single “Voice Carry” !!

*she also has a great solo singer/songwriter career that started in the early 90s*

P.S. their song “What About Love” was the inspiration for the second part of Without A Doubt

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

Loved part 4 of Without a Doubt! Couldn’t stop listening to the song/inspiration :)

omg!!!!!!!! I honestly thought no one actually listened to the music behind the fics. Enjoy the flavor to the dish 😇

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

Stand In Place [B.H. x you]

Series: part 4 of Without a Doubt

Summary: Billy offers you a proposal to leave the party with him.

Inspiration: Sea, Swallow Me by Cocteau Twins

Word Count: 1404 Warnings: none.

Written Date: 1/4-11/2020 Posted Date: 1/14/2020

Parts: [1] [2] [3] [4] [MASTERLIST]

“So, what’s this Cocteau Twins? I hear they’re like all the rage in our English class.”

Billy certainly wasn’t the only boy to glance at the heavy black outlines of her eyes or trace the shape of her soft lips with precise pupils and he certainly wasn’t the first to notice the emptiness beneath the blankness of her painted face, but he didn’t turn away like the rest. He stared straight on behind the guise of disinterest in the same fashion she did. Perhaps she never sought out the interests of her peers after her relationship with Steve, but Billy had come to her.

Billy’s interest in her led him to the wrap around porch, where her stray tears dripped onto the painted wood, if they weren’t mopped up by her sleeve. It led to another victory against his rival, but he found he didn’t care for that if it meant this connection with the dazed girl was shallow. It led to something more beneath the shadows of the night away from the pollutants of other gazes. It led to acceptance into her little bubble.

She was no longer trying to push him away with hollow laughter or with the front of her back.

“It’s written on your notebook,” He pressed for a reciprocation of words, in which the answer he’d been searching for would lie.

Heat rose into the supple of her cheeks, a contrast against the moisture clinging to her lashes, when she realized he was awaiting an answer and not just filling the silence with thoughtless matter. “They’re a band not really known around here,” her hands fidgeted in front of her.

His shoulder was now nearly pressing against hers. “How’d you hear about them then?”

Billy’s half-lidded eyes were soft, and she swore since he’d found her the smile on his lips lacked that usual air of arrogance. “Well,” she started, “I have this penpal from the U.K. and we often trade tapes. Been doing it for a couple years now actually.”

All those trips to the record stores resulted in more questions and an increase of mileage on his tank. One time he had to make 20 miles last a week because of the excessive driving and his allowance only came on Sundays, and that’s if his father deemed he was “good” enough to receive it. Hawkins’ may be the smallest town he’d ever step foot in, but even towards the end of that week he was sure he’d get stuck on the side of that long narrow road out in the woods with a brooding Max.

“You should let me hear them some time,” he said, his elbows resting on the railing and his hands clasped together.

“I don’t think you’ll like them,” she answered honestly.

The both of them turned to face the sliding of the house, toward the chanting of the crowd who was no doubt surrounding the keg stand in the backyard. They couldn’t see anything, but soon the crowd erupted in disappointment. No doubt whoever was trying to take down Billy’s score had lost terribly.

“Come on,” he faced her again, “you got me feeling like some curious cat over this foreign band. Surely I’ll like them better than this party.”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, still not sure whether to reveal such a part of herself to a guy she just met. The guy being Billy of all people.

“My whip’s got good speakers, ya know.” His grin looked sweeter than all those chocolates from those filled-to-the-brim pillow cases from her childhood.

“I have good speakers at home, too.”

“Surely not Rockford Fosgate good.”

“I’m not gonna stand here and pretend to know that brand, but I’m gonna take a guess and say those speakers are expensive.” She eyed him with a quirk of the brow. “You have rich parents or something?”

Billy’s grin faltered, slipping off his face as he thought of something to say, but eventually settled with: “Not really,” his voice trailed off into a pause.

The ring on his finger shone and he twisted it around. His brain was holding up a giant, red STOP sign, telling him to just shut the fuck up for a second. But, just like he runs red traffic lights and cuts off walking pedestrians, Billy doesn’t listen. For some reason, he trusted the girl beside him for she never seemed the stuck-up type nor the kind to spread gossip like wildfires. He only ever saw her speak to one person, and that was Samantha, another girl who didn’t strike him as some annoyance.

He cleared his throat and stared off into the neighborhood. “Actually, I bought them off a friend with some of my mom’s life insurance money.”

If there was ever one thing Y/n envied of Samantha was her relationship with her parents. They were fun, and though they were square they supported and encouraged Samantha’s expressionism in her choice of clothing and style of hair. On the other hand, it was obvious that Y/n’s parents had been brought up in strict Catholic homes by how her mother tried pushing for floral blouses and corduroy skirts in her wardrobe and how her father would glance her way and sigh. But even then, she knew her parents loved her and she couldn’t imagine any sort of life without her mother or her father.

But that was the boulder she learned that weighed on Billy’s spine.

“Oh my god,” she pressed a palm against her mouth, “I’m so sorry.”

He sniffled once. “Don’t be. It happened a long time ago. So uh,” he blinked a few times, “What do you say?”

She doesn’t know what propelled her to ditch the stupid party to go for a ride in Billy’s infamous Camaro. Maybe it was because of the pity she felt for his childhood without the nurture of a mother. Maybe she just really wanted to get away from Steve and the moment that took place by the staircase and he was her only window. Or, maybe it’s because Billy had shown vulnerability, a side to him she had had doubts of existing.

It didn’t matter. None of it did because the night breeze was swirling through her locks in different shades of blue, she imagined in the fashion of that Van Gogh painting in the school library she really liked. The leather seats she was situated in harbored her warmth as though it were an oven mitt and she the casserole that just got taken out to cool. And, Billy was right. His speakers, playing one of her tapes, only cemented the fantasy.

The streets of Hawkins was just a stage, and she was the star among the many worldly props. And, Billy…

 His hair was swept away from his own alluring features, like hers, by the the cooperation of Mother Earth’s natural fan and the rolled-down windows of Billy’s waxed Camaro. Gone was the glint of a glare and the stone of the scowl that marred his complexion, leaving behind a pliable expression just a shy away from a smile.

Cocteau Twins was proving itself to be too gloomy for his tastes, its notes striking something deep and morbidly beautiful in his core, but he didn’t mind it so much. This moment was delivering some of the most tranquility and purity since his mother could wiggle her bare toes in sand as she watched him catch a wave.

With every glance he shared with Y/n, his apathetic classmate, Billy had never seen such life ignite and burn in her. He couldn’t ask for anything closer to heaven.

@asheseiler @william-hargroves @emmalbg @gracieadorable @highvoltagefics @slytherinintj13 @xpanda-princessx​

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IS THERE ANYWAY YOU CAN TAG ME IN PART FOUR OF WITHOUT A DOUBT. I CANT FIND IT ON YOUR PAGE AND I JUST LOVE IT ITS GREAT. AHH. THANK YOU SO MUCH 😭😭😭🥵

Most definitely! I had impulsively posted it without revision (why? idk I do that sometimes because of excitement), so I took it down. I will be officially posting it some time today and will be adding you to the tag list :]]]

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

Can you give us any tips on writing? You are brilliant!!

Y’all don’ know how freakin’ flattered I was (still am!) receiving this!! Gosh… I wish I could you guys a step-by-step guide into my writing process but I honestly don’t have one, though I really wish I could help. Writing, for me, has just always sort of come naturally. Probably because I’ve always had a hyper-active imagination, which I began applying to writing in first grade (around age 6). I still have that first notebook I scribbled many little stories in as a child. I was daydreamin’ a whole lot back then and I’m still daydreamin’ now. It’s sort of ridiculous how much I miss out on because I practically live inside my head. It’s quite bad in some aspects. Anyways, I’ll try my best to give you some tips, even though I’m a horrible teacher!

1) Prep!!!! If you’re not already inspired by whatever thought or idea has been floating in your head, you need to beckon your mind into finding and holding on to that inspiration. Or, in the words of Troy Bolton, “Get’cha head in the game.”

Some things that help me:

Create playlists: Find music that you enjoy, but that doesn’t hold too many personal memories (though there could be exceptions). Playlists should stay consistent in tone (even when you don’t know what to write about yet), and overall consistent in ambience. Creating such playlists help to create another world in your head. A world in which you can visit and revisit in between writing projects. Wanna take a break from project #2 and return to project #1? No problem, just go back to its respective playlist and it’s like you never even left. It sounds crazy, but it works for me. You begin to associate everything about your story with the playlist you created for it, and your story will act like personal memories associated with that playlist. Don’t rush yourself in creating these playlists. Sometimes it literally take me days to craft the perfect jumbo of songs.

Revisit your past experiences: Think about the crazy things you’ve been through. The bad. The good. The ugly. All of it. But, don’t hurt yourself doing this. These memories often spark something in me, even if it’s just the tail end of some aspect of an idea (could be a certain tone for what you want to write, an object, a protagonist/antagonist or even just a minor character, or even a blurry situation—these are all things that your imagination will have to expand upon afterwards). Even if you don’t revisit your past, your brain will usually incorporate aspects of yourself and your experiences into your characters and story, and sometimes you won’t even realize it until much later. Trust me, I know.

Study strangers and people you know: Just, please, don’t be a creep about it lol. Well-played characters from movies and TV shows work perfectly fine as well. Study how people speak—or if your studying a film/show, study their lines. Study behavior, why people do the things they do, why people say the things they say, and so forth. By understanding behavioral patterns makes it easier to create genuine characters who feel real. There’s a lot of psychology at hand.

2) Write. Really. That’s it. Just do it. It’s such a blunt piece of advice, but it’s so true. You can’t get any writing down if you don’t just write. It may be complete crap, but it’s okay because a first draft is meant to be tweaked, revised, and polished. And, make as many drafts as you want to polish that sucker up.

Here’s a few things I like to do and things to keep in mind:

Take a break. After finishing that first draft, relax for a couple of hours or days, or weeks, to freshen your mind. When you return to make the second draft, you’re more keen to mistakes, such as grammar, phrasing, and disruptions of flow.

Details have to serve a purpose. When writing a story, almost everything in it has to have some sort of purpose (small, big, or somewhere in between). Whatever it is, does it enhance your character’s personality, their motives? Does it enhance the plot? Will it make it easier for your readers to empathize with said character? If you mention some thing about your character, make it serve a purpose even if it’s minor. Storytelling is like a puzzle for you to figure out.

Defamiliarize! One of my creative writing professors based her whole course around defamiliarizing clichés and it is honestly the best advice I’d ever learned from someone else. This challenges you and pushes your creativity further. Give your readers something they won’t really expect, and that will leave a lasting impression. However, this is not necessary whatsoever but it is great.

Show don’t tell. Gee, how many times have you hear that one? I heavily believe in this piece of advice, or rule of thumb if you will. However, remember to mix things up. Sometimes it’s okay to tell instead of show. Though, show ratio should outnumber the tell. Showing is great for building suspense and tension.

Include different sentence structures and rhetorical strategies; don’t always start with pronouns. You don’t want to have a robotic voice that makes it seem like an instructions manual. Metaphors and similes are fun strategies to include. Plus they always come from within your prowess.

Ever heard of method acting? Become a “method writer.” Immerse yourself in the world you built for your story. Become one with your protagonist (know that fucker well lmao). Feel what it is your characters are feeling. Act it out. Research the living hell of whatever it is you’re writing about. It makes it easier to have a genuine narrative. It also makes it easier to write it out.

Expand the world your narrative is set in. I love doing this, and I always receive positive feedback on the little details I include in my stories because it makes them feel authentic and realistic. The real world isn’t flat, and your story’s world shouldn’t be either.

Delete any subject pronouns feeling, seeing, hearing, etc. stuff. For example: He saw the bird flapping its wings. Change it to: The bird flapped its wings. Sometimes they can flow well within the narrative, but most of the time its highly unnecessary.

Don’t ramble. Don’t info-dump. I have trouble with this, and I usually have to reel myself away from doing this. It’s a habit, and just like how I love to hear myself talk, I love to see myself write. Rambling takes away what’s at hand in the story and info-dumping overwhelms the readers. Instead, slowly ease your reader into that important information. Sprinkle the knowledge throughout your writing like breadcrumbs.

And, most importantly…. Everyone’s writing style is different because everyone is influenced by different novels they read, different music they listen to, different films they watch, and the different lives they live. Don’t feel like you need to imitate someone else’s writing style to be considered “good.” Instead, stick with what feels natural to you but that doesn’t mean you can’t….

Experiment with styles! It’s fun and you can learn a little bit more about your own unique style through this.

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

State of Mind [B.H. x you]

Request: @lemonypink​

Inspiration: Rock Me by Great White

Word Count: 2253 Warnings: profanity.

Written Date: 12/27/19-1/1/20 Posted Date: 1/1/2020

[MASTERLIST]

Dating Billy was like dating one of the many attractive rockstars plastered on the pale walls of your bedroom, except only with slightly less screeching girls and more bloody knuckles. Billy hated when other men, many who are older, would try to propose to you some sort of midnight deal involving money and their hotel rooms and you hated when girls would reach up and twirl bits of his hair or rub the lapels of his jean jacket with their fingers every time you left to get more booze or for a quick bathroom break. 

This was the Sunset Strip, Hollywood’s most popular spot for metal musicians and whores with fishnets that run up the expanse of their thighs, and it was a dangerous combo when the two of you were thrown into the mix. Yet, it was a drug that provided cheap thrills, and you and Billy were just teenagers without a whole lot of money lining your pockets. This was your amusement park. This was where parts of your D.N.A laid to rest. Billy’s too.

They say one loses fifty to about a hundred strands a day and you cannot imagine any other area in Los Angeles, other than your home, that’s collected all 54,750 of your fallen hair since the age of fifteen. No other area’s collected your fingerprints as much or your littered cigarettes. No other venue outside of the Whisky A Go-Go have you and Billy carried out most of your sloppy quickies in the public restroom—usually because Billy dragged you after a guitarist or singer couldn’t keep their eyes off you.

Billy’s jealousy has gotten you guys into more trouble than sometimes it’s worth. You’ve gotten kicked out of clubs for smashing beer bottles against the wall just centimeters away from his target, a musician’s most precious asset—his pouty face. You were surprised that you could count all scuffles Billy’s gotten himself into with band members, some from bands you actually enjoyed watching, on one hand.

You still haven’t forgiven him for banning the two of you from ever attending an L.A. Guns gig again.

“This place blows.” Billy slams his glass on the counter in a huff and the bartender gives him a pointed look before shaking his head to himself.

His attitude tonight was wearing down your placid features faster than a clock counted minutes. And, he’s hardly glanced in your direction to at least make it easier for you to hear him among all the other noise that penetrated your ear drums. 

He slid off the stool and doesn’t apologize when his shoulder shoved into your chin. Sometimes you swore you could wrap your hands around his throat and strangle him.

All the trouble with security and other patrons you both been in hadn’t just been because of his loose tongue and quick fists. No, you were pretty sure you’ve been in more altercations that involved a split lip or black eye than he had. There were too many bimbos that rubbed you the wrong way and too many guys who thought they had a free pass to grope you just because you sometimes wore mini skirts and low-cut tops.

You knew Billy’s itching mood meant you had to turn down alcohol and provide the role of babysitter because if you didn’t, he’d do something that even he’d regret. But, you’ve never been one with much patience. It’s why you hardly knew the three-year-old stranger who lived under your parents’ roof and called you “sissy” in passing. You didn’t feel all that bad for the cold shoulder she often received, your mother and step-father provided plenty of warmth. They preferred her over you anyway.

“Wait up, jerk!” You called after your boyfriend, though he didn’t slow down. You weren’t doubtful that it was due to him ignoring you over simply just not hearing you.

The effort in teasing your hair and painting your face to near perfection had gone to waste so far, but you didn’t mind. The ever prideful girl in a leather skirt and jean jacket, though that alone couldn’t define you.

The bartender’s glare was glued to you, waiting for the payment of Billy’s whiskey glasses. You searched through your pockets, only finding a couple loose bills and some change of mostly pennies you knew wasn’t not nearly enough to cover the tap. You set it on the counter and chased after Billy’s direction before you could be flagged. Luckily some drunk was hassling the bartender for another serving and you caught the wisps of Billy’s dirty-blond locks leaving through the back exit.

Barging through the door, you found Billy already sucking on a Marlboro—your Marlboro.

You marched through the dirty alley. “Hey, stupid, I could’ve gotten arrested back there! I haven’t any money on me you know!” Just inches away from him, you continued, “He knows my freakin’ face.”

“Tough luck.” The smoke harbored in his mouth was blown into your face. 

You swiped at him, knocking his, well, your cigarette on the ground. “I’m so sick of your pointless attitude, Billy. Grow up!”

With a flared nose, Billy scoffed, “Everything’s fuckin’ pointless, babe. Don’t you get it?” The point of his burning finger touched the chilled skin of your chest, pushing you. “You’re pointless.”

“No,” you shook your head, “you don’t mean that.” Focusing on the golden pendant that’s hung around his neck, you could feel the suffocating heat of his blue irises. “Two years can’t just go by and not mean anything,” you mumbled. 

“Yeah? Well, it did!” A bit of his spit landed on your cheek as he puffed a breath down your face. 

You knew this act almost too well. Billy may be the biggest asshole who ever lived, though you knew you stood in a place well below a pedestal to look down upon him, but whenever this sudden bout of anger was directed at you, you knew it was displaced. Billy had a fishermen’s nest worth of loathing in the pit of his stomach, directed at his father and things that couldn’t be undone from the past. 

You’ve spent about 730 days together so far. You weren’t just some cheap date nor an easy lay. Billy’s shown you too much—given you more—to be able to take it back straight out of the blue. Damaged goods. That’s what the two of you were, and he found comfort in the thought that he wasn’t alone.

But, even when your brain knew better, your heart found it difficult to differentiate truth from impulse. And right now, the beating beneath your breast bone was thumping a very low, and foreboding note.

You tongued at the rim of your upper back molar, a nervous habit since preschool, before stating, “I don’t believe you.” 

“Just get out of here!” Billy pointed at the dark street as if you hadn’t rode here as his passenger for the millionth time. “Find your own way home.”

“The hell I’m not,” you ground between your teeth. Your palms met his chest a couple times before he snatched your wrists. 

But, when you glanced up at him, his face was turned into the deeper end of the alleyway. It’s almost too dark to see, but when you squinted you made out the shape of a figure, presumably a guy. And upon closer inspection, you noticed he was about your age. Maybe younger if going by the pudginess of his cheeks. You’d never seen him around before.

“Hey, asshole, what are you staring at?!” Billy’s voice rang in your ear like the beating of heavy church bells, or worse, thunder.

The lone boy looked stuck in a crossfire, and immediately you knew he was in fact younger by a few years based on the softness of his eyes despite the glow of a cigarette between two fingers. Hell, even at fourteen you’d been smoking for at least a year. 

His knee jittered, ready to bounce if Billy proved too big of a menace, but he stood at a dead end. He had no where to go. 

“Billy,” you warned, but Billy had already succumbed to the role of a predator. Tense muscle pulled out of your grasp as he stalked towards the wide-eyed deer. “Billy!”

“That’s it! I’m outta here!” But, this was what he wanted. If he couldn’t shoo you away like a pigeon picking at crumbs on a sidewalk, he’d ignore you like a lone cat skittering in the neighborhood. 

Making up your mind about hailing a cab and then raiding your step-father’s study to pay for the ride, you’re about to reach the sidewalk when suddenly your blood ran cold. You could recognize the clinking of the sheathing of a pocketknife, you’ve carried the same one you found just hours before the first day of fourth grade on you since. Right now, it fit snug inside your leather boot and it bumped against your ankle with every step. 

Which meant Billy somehow hadn’t slipped your knife in his pocket. 

Yelping, Billy fell against the bricks and slid down until he reached the littered ground of smokes and shards of glass. The boy had already been running away by the time you’d turned to watch, shoving past you with sweat beads above his brow. Some of the glint of the metal in his hand was obstructed by a thick, red consistency and the steady thumping in your chest stuttered.

Running after the boy was a lost cause, especially since the streets tended to be busier at night than in the daylight. Yet, by the time you knelt beside your fallen boyfriend, his breath released in puffs and the tear of his white T-shirt across his abdomen contained stained blots. The skin beneath raw and wet, but not deep at all. 

“Oh, thank God,” the breath swooshed out of your lungs, “It’s just a nick, Billy.”

“Fuck,” he chuckled as he inspected the cut. “Way to go world, just kick me when I’m already down!” 

Your shaped eyebrows knitted together. “Jesus, have you gone mad? You just got shanked and you’re laughing?!” Your hand hovered just inches away from his wound. “What should we do?”

While you’d been too worried, the pads of his fingers grazed the slice. He winced. “Tonight, I was supposed to be some pissy prick, not escape death from the hands of some scrawny freak.” 

“Does—Does it hurt?!”

“It’s not that bad, actually.” Yet, he grunted, “Little fucker,” under his breath as he got to his feet. You followed his lead, still shaken. “It just stings mostly. I’m more worried about the questions someone might ask when they see this,” he gestured to the gash of his ruined shirt, ”but we gotta clean it, babe.” 

“We?” Arms crossed beneath your chest, you remembered the things he’d said just moments ago. “Don’t pretend you didn’t just tell me that I’m pointless! Clean it yourself.”

“Hey. Hey,” Billy reached for your arms, gently uncrossing them until your hands were enveloped in his. Somehow even when it was just above fifty degrees, Billy’s body was a furnace that radiated heat. You think it was the anger he could never quite let go of. “I didn’t mean any of it.” 

You sheepishly glanced towards the side with puckered lips before you spoke. “You sure you didn’t mean it?”

“Never mean it.” He kissed at your hairline before pulling away.

“Then, why were you being so mean?” you questioned him, still a little insulted.

He sighed and brought you into his side, almost forgetting about the tenderness of his stomach but your were mindful. You knew this trick of his, tucking your head under his chin to hide the plain emotions he failed to bar behind a careless façade.  

“Because of my dad… He—uh,“ his adam’s apple bobbed against your temple. “We’re leaving. He’s moving us to Indiana.”

Just when you thought tonight couldn’t get any worse, Billy dropped a bomb on your head. 

A/N: You wanted chaotic and I couldn’t think of a more perfect place than 80’s Sunset Strip. Sorry it’s not 100% what you wanted, the story just seemed to go in this direction.

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

Fool [S.H. x you]

Request:

Inspiration: No More Blue Horizon by China Crisis

Word Count: 1564 Warnings: angst, and self-destructive behavior.

Written Date: 12/17-20/2019 Posted Date: 12/20/2019

[MASTERLIST]

Steve “The King” Harrington was nothing but a fraud who hid behind great hair, brand-named clothing, and, occasionally, tinted specs. But while he had everyone wrapped around his pinky, he was nothing more than a doormat in the middle of sleepless nights. Not because you often bumped shoes with him every time he welcomed you into his arms but because the only time you ever sought him out was after a nasty fight with your older boyfriend, and only in places no prying eyes could reach.

He hadn’t spoken more than a couple sentences to you in months―you have muttered even less to him―yet somehow the warmth between your heated skin had become well acquainted with his.

With your head on his chest and an arm around your waist, Steve’s bed had offered a fraction of the comfort after you decided to climbed into his window and sob unintelligibly against his shirt. Steve didn’t say anything when you flinched upon his fingers grazing over a bruise on your hip. This was the first time.

The clashing of teeth and swollen lips was the first kiss you had desperately bestowed upon him. The school’s boiler room had been too dark for him to see, and maybe that’s partially why the first kiss had been just a little too rough but somehow he had the feeling the brutal kiss was purposeful too.

The first time Steve had sex with you was on your bed of flowered bedding just fifteen minutes after the bell had released its students for the day. Your clammy hands hardly roamed his torso, opting to remain on his shoulders, while your thighs shook around his slim hips. You rode him, wanting Steve’s sweat to penetrate through your sheets and displace the scent of your boyfriend’s odor of whiskey. Meanwhile, Steve’s eyes took turns settling between your face screwed up in mild pleasure, your bouncing breasts, and the door.

Steve was somewhat of a douchebag, but he had a soft side. Your twenty-year-old boyfriend didn’t have a genuine latter. Those moments you stole from Steve were selfish yet they were the only occasion in which you could take control of.

This fucked up routine between the two of you was wrong. Steve had enough sense to understand that, but what else could he do? Steve had known you since your mother styled your hair in small pigtails with ever-changing ribbons.

Your mother used to bring you along for visits with Steve’s mother back when his home was actually a home lived in by a functional family and not just their neglected son. You used to run up the carpeted stairs in your classic Velcro shoes and barge into his room, demanding he’d stop hiding from underneath his bed and play with you.

As an eight-year-old who didn’t have siblings to share his toys with, he often wished to opt out of the presence of the free spirited and bossy girl, and hoped to avoid her. But, not wanting to disappoint the child of her dear friend, his own mother never covered for him with some made-up-on-the-spot lie as to why little Steve wasn’t available for a play-date. No matter how much he begged.

This childish stage was rather quick to pass, and the both of you managed to find some common ground that transformed into a stable friendship. As the years progressed, your oozing confident nature bathe him in a glow of his own.

But, the friendship didn’t last long. Once you hit the age of fourteen, your figure already developed, you met an attractive seventeen-year-old after you and one of your friends decided to crash her brother’s get-together. His name was Nathan, and he was already a high school dropout who sold drugs under the counter at his father’s liquor store. That didn’t matter; Nathan had a car, you liked him, and every girl in your grade wanted to be in your shoes.

Soon, your independence had run thin and every friendship you cherished was squandered under Nathan’s boots. Whatever you had with Steve was strained and peeling like an old coat of paint. It wasn’t obvious at first, but Nathan had been slowly molding you into his ideal twisted image of partnership. His father was controlling, so he figured he should be too.

The school began mailing home your borderline failing report cards and you sent them back with forged signatures. The discolored blotches that appeared on your skin from Nathan’s manhandling never had a chance to heal themselves before new ones appeared. Your arms and waist seemed to think it was some sort of game by collecting the most bruises he threw at you.

Your mother, who you’ve always had a close bond with, didn’t even recognize you anymore. No one did. Casual acquaintances drifted once the bubbles of your character popped while closer friends eventually gave up on you. But, not Steve. The separation of distance between Steve and yourself had always been on you. Your childhood pal spent afternoons knocking on your front door just to have your mother send him away with slouched shoulders. You spent less time at home and more time experimenting with other boys.

And once Nathan hands began twisting and turning your figure every time he so much as suspected you were out of line, Steve became an outlet for frustration. Steve never really spoke during the encounters―never even refused you―and in this perverted logic, you knew you could always count on him.

That is until tonight.

The air was thick from a random bout of humidity, even though summer is still several months away. Steve laid flat on his back, skin slick from moisture and hairline drenched, chest rising and falling in deep breaths. Your back facing him, you had already pulled on your panties and is now sitting on the side of his bed, picking up your fallen sweater.

One of your arms has just found the tunnel of a knitted sleeve when goosebumps pebbled the skin of your exposed spine. Your knotted hair dangles freely and you don’t move an inch.

Among the whirring of crickets chirping in the dead of night, Steve just confessed what he’s known since before puberty widened your hips and gave him armpit hair: “I love you.”

You suppose this knowledge had already been growing like a seed in the pit of your stomach, but hearing it is different. Hearing it so softly spoken sent a spray of acid rain into your tummy, destroying whatever progress was made of your garden. It made this hint of fantasy very real and very daunting.

You compose yourself rather quickly, though not because it’s easy, and slip your sweater on at double speed, eager to slip out of his unlatched window. The frumpy jeans you’d thrown on earlier are next in line for the picking, and once the zipper is zipped and the button is buttoned, you get up to slip on your sneakers.

But, you find you cannot because Steve’s fingers wrap around your wrist. “Y/n―”

“Stop.”

It’s forced between clenched teeth. Gratefulness envelops you when you notice that the curtains of your strands block your face from his view and you refuse to give him a passing of your eyes.

The pads of his fingers and palms stay shy of a caress, but they are softer and gentler than Nathan’s will ever be. And, you know that the gaze Steve has settled on you is nothing short of balmy and that his brown hues plead in a combination of honey and cacao while Nathan’s eyes are as deep as an ocean ready to drown you. Yet, none of these things keep you from shimmying your wrist out of Steve’s grasp.

It’s an easy tug and soon you are tying the laces of your sneakers and placing strands behind your ears, and throughout it, Steve lets you without another word.

No glances are spared as a leg slips through the opening of the window, and you don’t bid him a goodbye before disappearing―not that you ever do. 

His window stays open for the rest of the night just like his lids don’t drift him off to a dreamless sleep. His thoughts are on you; how you’re so quick to brush him off as if he was a piece of lint on a coat; the way you touch his body like he’s a mannequin yet attack his lips like a fierce fever, and he briefly thinks about how you behave with your boyfriend in such lustful positions. He wonders how you could be so desperate to find him and then twice as desperate to leave him.

Steve wishes he could be disgusted with you just as much as you self-loathe, but it doesn’t come naturally. He’s a doormat. A fool stuck in love.