#Harringrove week of love

[runraerun]

@stervrucht I’m blaming you for this.

[mangywayway]

Gently reminder that the Maid Cafè season is still in its full swing at @harringrove-cafe and the boys are ready to serve you, all dressed up 🤭💖

(and also to fashionably kick some rude customers' asses if needed)

[psychdelia]

wildflower by billie eilish except it’s post s3/4 billy feeling guilty and undeserving of steve, and almost bad for nancy? a weird sense of guilt because when he first moved to hawkins he would watch them when he thought no one was looking, lonely and yearning. wanted steve to touch him like that, treat him like that, love him like he loved her. but anytime he was caught, he panicked and spewed hate. anger was safe, anger protected him. a gay teen from california in hawkins? he didn’t have anything else to resort to. but now he’s too tired to be angry at the world and too in love with steve to ever feel how he did before nearly dying. but he never quite made amends with nancy. nancy, who he wonders if steve is thinking about every time he kisses billy. who he’s been too afraid to approach and talk to. who he feels hates him, and knows he doesn’t deserve steve. he knows she broke his heart, but he also knows steve pictured a life, a family with this woman. he doesn’t know if he can give steve that. billy wonders if he thinks about nancy more than steve does, too scared to ask. scared all his crazy thoughts will be confirmed. he knows she’s with jonathan, but he also knows that she was his first true love. she’s with jonathan, but he swears he feels her eyes on them whenever steve hugs, touches, kisses him. swears she’s giving them the same almost sad, wanting look he had to fight when he used to look at them.

[yikesharringrove]

hi i've missed you!

can we do something soft and just cute like going for drives and getting fast food and just talking?

“I’m picking you up,” came the crackling voice from the walkie talkie on the nightstand. “Meet me at the spot in ten. Over.”

“No, you freakazoid,” Steve barely moved from his blanket cocoon, only reaching one arm out to press the button on the side. “I’m asleep.”

“Clearly not. I’m on my way, Shithead. Over and out.”

Steve rolled his eyes, and contemplated going back to sleep for all of five seconds before he sighed, and heaved himself to standing.

Curse Billy for stealing that walkie from Max, for suggesting they stay on their own channel, different than the ones the kids use. Curse Billy for his insomnia and his late night drives. Curse Billy for the way he keeps on hand on Steve’s thigh while they go and always stops at the nearest drive-thru to get Steve a milkshake and wolf down a double cheeseburger (because his dad slapped him and sent him to his room without dinner. Again.)

Steve trudged around the side of his house, crashing through the well-worn path through the sparse trees to the road on the other side.

They both agreed that Billy’s car shouldn’t be spotted outside of Steve’s house, even if they were publicly friends now.

The Camaro was rumbling up the street, and Steve could practically feel the road of the engine shake in his chest before he could even spot the headlights.

Doesn’t matter how many speeding tickets Officer Callahan gives him, Billy’s never gonna be a sensible driver.

He stops in front of Steve, and he grins as Steve joins him in the car, leaning over the center console and burying his left hand in thick, dark brown hair to kiss Steve in a way that steals the breath from his lungs.

“You owe me.”

“Yeah, yeah, Princess. I’ll get you a damn milkshake.”

The car lurched forward, and they flew down the service roads, flipping off the Leaving Hawkins sign as they went past, on their way to a different little town.

A different little slice of life.

[robthegoodfellow]

I Just Wanna Cheer

Crying, Creampie, Virginity Kink for Days 21/22/23 of @harringrovekinktober additional incidental use of sex toys, praise kink, orgasm denial, dom/sub dynamic, role playing, you know the drill—now with emerging feminization kink

(roommates in love, kink experimentation, billy gets boinked, nsfw)

Handy Links to Previous Chapters: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7 (kill me)

.

It was his own fault for trying to cancel on Robin again—having assumed, now that she knew about his and Billy’s fledgling thing, that she’d be more understanding of his needs.

But no.

Eyeroll audible over the phone, Robin had offered a different option. Just bring your boy toy along if it’s that much of a burden to leave his side. There was a loaded pause during which Steve scrambled to recall whether he’d told her that particular part of their fledgling thing, then she continued, blithe and cavalier. That is, if you can stand to keep your hands off each other’s dicks for a couple hours. Speaking over Steve’s choked bluster: It’ll be a struggle, I know. But I believe in you. Stay strong.

So he’d called Billy up after, risking Madam Manager’s ire for lingering too long on his lunch break, and caught him right before he left for class. Billy had gone quiet, digesting Steve’s rushed explanation—drinks at the Taproom around eight; you, me, and Robin—and then cleared his throat. Like, us all hanging out as friends? he asked. Or…? And Steve froze, wrongfooted. What—uh, whatever you want, he said, clumsy. She knows. I mean, not everything—just that we’re… uhm. Sorry? he added, wincing, and Billy mercifully jumped in, put him out of his misery. It’s fine. I’ve been talking to Heather about us. I needed someone to… He trailed off, and Steve breathed a sigh, grinning with relief as he nodded. Yeah. Me, too.

Billy had already showered and eaten when Steve got home—tilted his cheek for a drive-by kiss as Steve passed him huddled in the corner of the couch, psych notes open on his lap. Hadn’t moved even after Steve had finished stuffing his face, washing up. What should I wear? Steve called as he emerged from the bathroom, towel around his waist, and Billy glanced over—locked on Steve’s hand, the fisted terrycloth at his hip. Understandably, it took Steve a moment to absorb Billy’s reply: I was gonna ask you the same question.

And Billy—never asked Steve for fashion advice. Which meant he had something else in mind.

They were late meeting Robin.

.

“You live literally down the road,” she exclaimed when they arrived at the Taproom, flushed from power walking and also other things. Steve’s buttons were misaligned on his shirt, and Billy’s hair gave off the distinct impression of having just rolled out of bed. Distinct and—accurate.

“Couldn’t find my wallet,” Steve lied, gentle arm at Billy’s waist to guide him into a chair. 

Billy sat. Carefully.

“Well, I hope it turned up,” Robin said, unconvinced and unimpressed. “Because first round’s on you.”

“Everyone’s usual?” He stooped, arms looped around Billy from behind, and—lightly pressed on his abdomen, encouraging him to lean against the chairback, relax from his prim perch. “Okay?” he asked, when his boy swallowed a whimper, red flooding his cheeks. Billy nodded, and Steve kissed his neck, the skin feverish under his lips. “Good.”

They explained away Billy’s spacey distraction easily enough—big psych test on Monday—but by the second round, with Billy shifting every minute, rocking in his seat ever so slightly, his eyes glassy, lips parted, Robin was growing concerned.

“You sure you feel alright?” she checked, then squinted. “Or feeling too alright?”

Steve cut in, scooched his chair alongside Billy’s, their legs flush under the table.

“He hasn’t been sleeping well,” he said, drawing Billy to slump against him, corralling with the comforting palm on his shoulder. “You need to go home, babe?”

Billy huffed, hearing the subtle taunt. You give up? Give in?

“M’good,” he insisted, wagging his head. Unseeing, unblinking, he fumbled for his glass. Tossed back the rest, ice cascading toward his mouth. He slouched into Steve’s touch, crunching cold loud between his molars. Hidden, insinuated a hand around Steve’s thigh and underneath—cinching him close. If he traced upward not too far, he’d bump the bulge straining Steve’s zipper. One glance at Billy’s lap revealed he was in even worse shape: a patch of wet seeping through pale blue denim. “Robin’s turn to buy.”

.

Lucky for them, Robin caught the eye of the Gina Gershon type behind the bar—got her number, the promise of a good time after her shift—and around the fourth round, Robin went to fetch tequila shots and never came back. 

Sloppy steps to the exit, clinging to each other’s waists, and the muggy summer night welcomed them to the sidewalk, chatter and cheesy pop muffled beyond the door. 

They cut a crooked path toward the apartment, breathy silence broken by the odd chuckle or hum, speech smothered by the pulsing weight of expectation that had settled all around.

They were going home, and Steve was gonna fuck him. Shove inside, push to the root and hammer his hips until he spilled, until the swollen hole oozed white, until he—

Billy was whining in short throaty bursts by the time they reached the stairwell, stumbling now and then, relying on Steve to half-haul him up the last flight. Please he mumbled, the moment their door clicked, and Steve wasn’t sure where the surge of macho muscle came from, but next thing he knew he’d hefted a clinging koala into his arms, gripping just below the ass, striding to his bedroom, wet lips mouthing Steve’s neck with every step.

Part of him wanted to throw Billy down, watch him bounce on the mattress, but he didn’t—or he would, but not now, not when his good boy had been squirming for so long, desperate to wring some relief from the toy wedged snug. No, he lowered him gentle onto his back, lovely legs hugging Steve’s hips, dangling off the bed—Billy’s hips lifting the moment fingers fumbled at his button, tugged at his zip.

The lube was within reach, right where they’d left it, when they’d overindulged before rushing out the door, Steve slicking up the small plug and working it in, pulling a new pair of pale pink panties up long, bronzed legs, then selecting a pair of jeans, a tank cut so low around the neck, hanging loose about the ribs, that it barely covered his nipples. 

Steve had taken it upon himself to carefully tuck the front of the tank into the waist of his jeans, the way Billy liked, and now took it upon himself to untuck, pushing the tank up as he yanked the jeans down, fingers hooked in a back pocket. 

He left the jeans balled below Billy’s knees, allowing them to part wide and meanwhile keep his ankles tied. Bending low, Steve ran his nose along the obscene jut of cock beneath sticky satin, breathed heat through the fabric—pressed his face into Billy’s crotch when he writhed, moaning.

“Here’s what I want,” Steve said, peering up—a strange vantage point: the heaving hills and valleys of Billy’s abs, his pecs, the underside of a tilted chin, the shifting rise of biceps, arms flung above his head. “I want to pull down the back of your panties. Check my good boy is ready for me.”

“Ready,” Billy panted, hardly more than a wheeze. “M’ready, ready. Please.”

“Haven’t gone past the middle plug,” Steve told him, all regret—as though breaking it to him gently, and Billy sobbed. “But,” he went on, shushing, sneaking to fondle the base of the plug through silky smooth pink, cup the shivering curves of his ass. “You promise to tell me if you want to stop, and I’ll fuck you now. Fill you up. And if it’ll make my good boy happy, we’ll plug him up after. No leaking.” Billy was begging under his breath, babbling yes, please—please, yes. “Promise?” Steve prompted, reaching for the lube as he sat up, propped against the edge of the mattress.

Billy promised, tears already eeking down his temples, wetting his hair. Steve watched them drip as he slicked his fingers—used his dry hand to inch the panties down, the front drawn taut as the back pulled, clearing the rise of Billy’s ass to sit bunched below.

He didn’t tease his boy too much: traced up to stroke the stiff heat straining satin, brush the twitching length with his thumb, then drifted back down to caress the protruding flat of glass. One mild tug, and it slipped free on a gasp. He let it thunk on the carpet at his feet.

The hole that kissed blind fingertips was still fluttering from the sudden loss—seemed to suck him in, inflamed greed, taking two easy, then three. Billy’s face was twisted, eyes closed, his lashes wet, hips grinding into the touch as though searching, feeling his way in the dark. A whine puffed past slack lips, desperate—almost forlorn.

“Okay,” Steve breathed. Withdrew, grappling clumsy for the lube, slicking his cock where it bobbed by the bedspread, trailing drool. “Okay, baby.”

His forearm hooked shaking thighs, dragged Billy closer, ass almost hanging off the bed. Steve gripped himself mid-shaft, thumbing the crown, and nudged forward, catching on the rim that still seemed too small, impossibly small.

Billy sighed, set one hand on Steve’s forearm, the cross bar holding him steady—coasted down the arm to link their hands, and Steve bowed his head, suddenly swamped. Just—overwhelmed.

He pushed, steady pressure, and it was like with the plug, where resistance caved to a gobbling grip. Pushed and the slicked crown was swallowed up by clenching heat. Paused to breathe, a returning squeeze to their linked hands, then sank further—this stuttering plow that deepened with the duet of stuttering breaths.

Steve was lost in it, so consumed by the sensory influx—the salty musk of sweat and precome, the lungs bellowing in his ears, the thundering throb of his pulse where they were joined, where they were holding on, nerves alight, a smolder about to catch and roar—so consumed that when he bottomed out, flush with Billy’s ass, he kept going, rocking into him, lifting, Billy’s knees curling toward his chest, where the flimsy tank still lay, askew.

“Good?” Steve asked, throaty, and Billy’s eyes rolled in his head as he laughed, weak, lips barely hitched. Slowing, Steve circled the rim that clutched him, as though measuring—assessing. Feathered his touch from thin skin smooth and slick to the peach fuzz of Billy’s ass check, tickling, and grunted as the convulsive clench. “Fast or slow?”

His boy didn’t answer with words—maybe couldn’t—just a bobblehead, like Fast? Yes. Slow? Yes. Yes. Yes. So Steve gave him both, grinding into him torturous slow, adjusting until he nailed the spot that made Billy squirm and mewl, then let loose. Jackhammered, and when Billy's blushing wet cockhead peeked from the pink frilly waistband, smearing his abs, Steve smirked, mindless except for one driving thought: I want to feel him come on my cock.

Reaching down, unsteady, Steve tucked him back out of sight. Stroked him lightly as he said it: “Cream your panties for me, Billy.”

And god, Steve loved to watch him lose it beneath him, give in, crack open, but to feel it from inside...

Milking me, he thought, jaw slack, launched into sweet blue nothing. Fucking milking me.

Barely caught himself from faceplanting with an arm made of noodle, panting fit to die. The sweet blue nothing blinked at him—so pretty, heavy-lidded.

All Steve could do for the moment was blink back.

.

You knew you had it good when waking life was indistinguishable from a wet dream. The hazy cloud of ecstasy that lured Steve from sleep in the wee hours of the morning resolved into recent memory as he squinted, absorbing the smells of Billy embedded in the sheets—registering the absence of Billy’s sounds. His warmth. Steve pawed at his eyes, unsure whether the emerging snapshots, burning to the touch, were real or fantasy.

…Billy, after Steve had emptied into him, placidly rolling onto his stomach, presenting his ass for inspection upon request—humming long and low at the probing touch where he was swollen, pucker red and shining. A more insistent prod, and a pearl of white bloomed.

Distantly, he heard water running in the pipes. Billy—in the bathroom?

Middle of the bed, Steve had murmured. Lay on your tummy. And Billy army-crawled to obey, his ankles shackled by the mess of denim. Steve opted to leave them for the time being.

Billy had dropped flat with a whooshing sigh, head fenced by sprawling arms, legs akimbo, and Steve crawled to lie alongside, propped on an elbow. For a while, he just studied that face—the rosy cheeks, the pink lips gently curled in blissed satisfaction, eyelashes dark and clumped from tears. 

Need anything? Steve asked, quietly mesmerized, brushing back a lock of tawny hair. Or want? One blue eye had cracked open, bleary, exhausted. And yet—his hips twitched, bare ass still exposed, satin shoved low. He wanted Steve to keep his promise: no leaking. 

Steve’s bedroom door creaked open, and moments later the mattress dipped under a heavy form, blankets shifting as Billy settled.

“You okay?” Steve asked, voice scratchy. Half-awake, he rolled, slinging his arm around Billy’s back.

Billy yawned an incoherent confirmation. “Took care of business.”

Steve traced to the base of his spine, absently curious, and ran a finger down his crack. No plug. “All clean?”

“Mhmm.” Arching, Billy pressed into his touch, then resettled with a tired chuckle. “So you can mess me up again.”

Steve snorted—gripped an asscheek, meaning to claim a squeeze before he withdrew. But then… he forgot to do that last part. Drifted off still fondling Billy’s butt.

.

To make up for the delayed festivities due to socializing the night before, they’d resolved to shack up all of Saturday. A few hours of drinks sets us back, what—three or four orgasms? Steve estimated, and Billy had scoffed, let out a loud Hah! For you, maybe. At which Steve had swooped in, herding him against the wall to nip at his throat. I’m sorry—was that a complaint? Shivering, tilting his chin for more, Billy clung to his ribs. No. No complaints.

Which is why Steve was a little put out to realize he’d slept until nine—that Billy had let him, moreover, because the rest of the bed was cold and empty.

And then the buttery cinnamon sugar hit him upside the head, beckoned him upright, nose in the air. Heard the telltale clinks and thunks of Billy puttering at the stove, and couldn’t help but smile. 

Smiled while he pulled on some sweatpants, a worn tee. Smiled as he brushed his teeth, took a piss. Washed his hands. Smiled as he wandered to the kitchen, itching to wrap his good boy up tight, kiss his neck, his cheeks—

The smile didn’t slip, but it… froze solid, along with the rest of him, at the vision that greeted him: Billy halted in front of the fridge, limned in morning sunlight.

Billy with his hair piled atop his head in a messy bun, wearing one of those close-fitting crop tops that he knew drove Steve crazy. His gaze dropped to the rumpled tube socks, trailed up the bronzed curves of his calves, his thighs—to the green pleated hem. Of the skirt.

The cheerleading skirt. The cheerleading skirt that Billy was wearing, in the kitchen. That he had worn while baking cinnamon buns. And making coffee.

Steve had completely flatlined, but all it took was a puff of sound—a nervous muffled squeak of a thing—and his attention swung to Billy’s face. To Billy’s bottom lip, drawn between his teeth. To Billy’s big blue eyes, slanted brows. Hopeful, but—uncertain.

“What—?” Steve tried, shaking his head, and at least tacked a grin to his bafflement. “How…?”

“Borrowed it,” Billy said, fidgeting. Cautious smile. “From Heather.”

Bless Heather for all eternity. Forever and ever. Amen. 

“You look—” He couldn’t seem to move, but that was fine. Billy was coming to him—a certain slink to his stride. Steve rallied. “You look—so good. So, so, so—”

Billy set his hands on Steve’s waist, toying with the thin cotton. “I was thinking we could play… like we did that time with the spies? Only…”

His good, good, genius boy.

“Only… jock and cheerleader?” Steve finished, and Billy ducked, bashful—except not his usual bashful, but extra bashful, like he was putting on a show, like he was… a blushing, bashful, virginal little—

Billy leaned up. Kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and sweet. Instinctive, Steve palmed the back of his head, fingers buried in blond, and pulled him flush.

“You wanna be my good girl today?” he whispered, lips brushing Billy’s cheek—pressed a kiss there when Billy nodded. “Whatcha wearing under that skirt, babe?”

Billy giggled—quiet and flirty. “Breakfast first.”

Steve nipped his ear. “And then a snack?”

“Down, boy,” Billy scolded, swatting his arm. He turned and walked away—the sway deliberate, as confirmed by the cheeky wink thrown over his shoulder.

.

Now with next chapter: He Loves Me, Loves Me, Loves Me

[thediktatortot]

Hiatus is not over, I'm just happy to share something my writing partner @enobytheexperiment and I are working on. A Reno/Vincent piece set 3 months after Geostigma has been cured.

The world is on the mend, and Vincent Valentine needs a job. Luckily, the Turks are offering. Less luckily, he’s saddled with Reno. The job description includes traveling all over Gaia facing down a new anti-Shinra military power with no allies, and no supplies. Vincent could learn a thing or two about how the Turks run now. And Reno could learn a thing or two about redemption. [Tags will be updated as chapters are posted.]

Join the Vincent Valentine community while you're at it! <3

[theladycarpathia]

burn

Max is late. Again. 

Billy flicks the lighter open and shut again and again, half considering giving into his impulse to burn everything down. He never thinks about it too seriously, but it's always there in the back of his mind. A flickering ember, just waiting. 

The only question is what will come first - getting out of this town, or when he finally gives into it.

But for today he clicks the lighter shut and stows it away in the glove-box. It’s just one of the shitty ones he buys at the gas station, of no actual value if Neil decides to search his car. He learned a long time ago that even the Camaro isn’t safe.

He thinks briefly about leaving her to skate home. He’s done it before, and it usually works well enough that she doesn’t pull the same stunt too often. He promised to keep out of her business and away from her friends. He’s followed through with that. But if he’s giving her a ride, he expects her to be on time. 

And if they’re back late, it’ll be his head on the chopping block. 

A familiar flash of red catches his eye and he grinds his teeth. Fucking finally.

She’s not alone, four boys trailing his stepsister like puppy dogs. He recognises them, half knows some of their names. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t even attempt to get out of the car, not since last November. He’s kept his promise. 

If Neil ever catches Max with them, that’s her own problem. 

One of the boys with dark hair says something that makes Max laugh. Another dramatically clutches his hands to his chest and staggers backwards and Max affectionately slaps him on the arm. Something about the easy, casual way they all walk in sync together makes bile rise in Billy’s throat. It seems that Billy’s the only one suffering in this town. For all of Max’s initial griping, she appears to actually like Hawkins.

He shouldn’t want her to be as miserable as he is. He just doesn’t want to be the only one drowning in it.

He doesn’t get why the boys are coming over to the high school until someone behind him leans on the horn. That’s when he spots the BMW.

That’s another promise he’s kept.

He’d woken in the Byers house, bloodied, sore and alone. The bitch had taken his car and when they’d returned, Billy had snatched the keys, grabbed Max, and driven off without a word. They were all dressed weirdly, with gloves, goggles and scarves wrapped around their faces. Max had strange dark smudges on her skin and her clothes reeked of smoke until laundry day. But she never once told him what they’d been doing and Billy decided that he didn’t want to know. Whatever fucked up shit she was involved in, he just didn’t care anymore. It was entirely up to her to explain to Neil and Susan, because he wasn’t about to cover for her.

But she’d told them something, and Neil hadn’t come into Billy’s room looking for an apology so Billy had left it. He’d cleaned the blood from his face and his knuckles, and he hasn’t looked too closely at what happened at the Byers’ since then.

Nor has he spoken to Harrington. He’d looked at the bruises on his face with some pleasure, and what the hell does it say about him that he wants to ruin something that pretty? Much to his annoyance, it had only made it worse: the cut on Steve’s bottom lip, the dark marks across his cheekbones.

The wounds eventually faded but Billy’s desire to make a mess of Steve did not.

Harrington climbs out of the front seat, clad in that same clingy green sweater that he’d worn to school today. It’s fucking insane that the former king of Hawkins High dresses like some golf-playing middle aged parent. Polo shirts, jumpers, khakis…every single item of Steve’s clothing makes Billy want to rip every single stitch.

Billy’s not been spotted. He slinks down in his seat, eyes focused on the rear-view mirror at Steve’s long body as he shouts for the kids to move their asses. Max waves at Steve, who returns the gesture. The boys shout their goodbyes to Max, scurrying across the concrete to their waiting babysitter. Billy doesn’t miss the expression on Max’s face as she watches them go.

Max climbs in and slams the door, even though he’s told her a thousand times not to. He watches her dump her bag at her feet, skateboard pulled onto her lap.

“You’re late,” he says, even though they could have peeled out of the parking lot by now. With Neil waiting, he probably should have. He’s still watching the rear-view mirror, watching Harrington in a sea of kids. 

“I forgot about the time,” she snaps back, but she’s picking at one of the stickers on her board. 

“Sure,” he drawls. The kids are piling into the BMW, but Steve is still standing, poking around in the trunk. One of the boys’ backpacks is wedged in, preventing the trunk from closing.

“We were talking and I just forgot,” she says defensively. “The others didn’t have to meet Steve until later and I just forgot.”

“You didn’t want to go with them?” Billy asks. She shrugs.

“They’re just going to play that stupid game,” she mutters, but she’s watching the rear-view mirror too. “El’s not even going to be there so it’s not like I’d have anything to do.”

It hurts a little sometimes, how alike they are. Maybe in another life, it would have made them good siblings.

But Neil made sure that was never an option. 

“We can’t be late,” Billy reminds her and her mouth twists. She’s starting to learn now and that frightens him. Neil’s rules are made to be obeyed and she’s no longer exempt. 

“I know, that’s what I said!” she bites out. There’s a curtain of red hair half-hiding her face. “Steve’s taking them all. There’s no space for me anyway.”

In the mirror, Steve stops and straightens up. He slams the trunk shut and looks around the nearly empty lot, tugging out a pair of sunglasses. Billy watches the light glint off the glass as Steve slides them onto his nose. There’s something so elegant about the easy way that he does it. King Steve never quite faded away, even after the fall from power. For some people it’s just built in: the delicate curve of his throat, the flick of a tongue across a bottom lip, the confidence in every movement.

“Good old Steve,” Billy says bitterly and Max shoots him a look.

“Shouldn’t we be going?” she says pointedly and Billy takes one last look at Harrington climbing into the front seat of the BMW. 

“We’re going,” he says, turning the key in the ignition. He grabs his own sunglasses from his pocket and then shifts into reverse. Billy swings the car around so he beats King Steve to the punch, effectively blocking the BMW in. 

“You’re being an ass,” Max says, her voice dangerously low. Billy gives her a grin, and takes his sweet time shifting into gear. He knows what lines he can cross. 

He catches sight of a few middle fingers as they pull off, and the move does little to stifle the itch under his skin. Nothing ever does these days.

Max stares out of the window as they pull away, dark clouds swirling around her bright little head. Billy dares one last look in the rear-view, watching the BMW reverse, allowing him one last look at Steve.

All he ever does is want to burn pretty things down.

[strangerthingsfanworkrecs]

Artist Highlight: Stervrucht

This week, we're highlighting @stervrucht! All recs this week will be for her work, both fics and arts. @stervrucht writes, and draws for the Stranger Things Fandom for Harringrove and Steddie. We're highlighting Ster for her digital art pieces with expressive faces and dreamy, almost water-colory brush strokes, and her visceral Harringrove fics.

You should check out her ongoing fic, There's a gap where we meet for some incredibly poetic feral wet cat depictions of Billy, and check out her Ster draws st tag for her art.

She answered some questions about her work under the cut

Why Stranger Things?

I've always drifted between fandoms. I started reading Harringrove back when season 2-3 aired, left, came back and discovered Steddie, left again until I picked up writing and drawing in 2024. The ST fandom had been extremely welcoming and met many wonderful people.

What's your favorite ship (platonic or romantic) to create for?

I love many ships and what I create for largely depends on what a story or artwork is trying to convey. Each pairing has its own vibe and I try to flow with that. I think if I had to pick just one, it would be Harringrove.

What's your typical writing process like?

Get a hot drink and a blanket and settle on the sofa. I have playlists for each fic so I put that on. I don't really plan my stories thoroughly, but I generally have some events I'm working towards. Other than that I let the characters' emotions guide me.

What's your typical drawing process like?

I seek out references, draw a crude sketch, put down rough colours, and then paint over top. I especially enjoy doing speedpaints because they force you to capture the raw essentials and embrace imperfection.

Do you have a favorite tool or brush set for your drawings?

I use Krita with its default brushes. My favourite brushes are Bristles-4 glaze and Chalk-soft

What has been your favorite project so far? Why?

Writing 'There's a Gap where we meet' has been lovely. I enjoy writing Billy's voice. It's very different from Steve or Eddie.

What has been your hardest project so far? Why?

That's probably 'The Graveyard Shift' and my Big Bang fic. There's a lot of plot and world-building. I've never tackled a project like that before.

Have you ever had a creative block? How did you get over it?

Just do something else. If I can't draw, I write and vice versa. If neither is working, I read.

Is there a big source of inspiration for you? Books? Art? Games?

I have a lot of love for Anne Rice's writing, both stylistically and thematically. Art-wise I love impressionist painters like Monet and van Gogh.

Is there an upcoming project you're particularly excited about?

I have so many things brewing and I'm equally excited about all of them.

[intothedysphoria]

In every universe harringrove either have the longest slow burn and are constantly fighting until they get together in their 30s or they’re married in a week. And I love that for them.

[fizzigigsimmer]

Oooh. ugh I have zero time to write this but the idea is SO GOOD. Asfj. Maybe I will put it up for adoption if folks want it. But Harringrove Reaper Au - one of the boys (Billy or Steve) is a reaper, meaning they go unseen by mortals until their time of death. They ferry the souls of the dead. You get the gist. But witchy humans can sometimes see them on special nights like hollows eve when the veil is thin. There is also a spell they can cast to bind a reaper for a short period of time. Legend has it that reapers have been known to make deals with humans either for the return of a soul or the taking of a specific one.

The catch being of course that someone else always has to die just to cast the spell. So super risky. Super taboo. Dark magic to be avoided AT ALL COSTS young witches, but for those desperate to kill someone “untouchable” maybe worth it.

Anyway, imagine Witch!Billy witnessing an accident one night when the veil is thin and encountering a mysterious boy in the woods. Steve curiously knows little about the town and is eager to hear about Billy’s life. Billy thinks Steve is another witch like him, and doesn’t even realize he’s not human until he literally disappears just before sunrise. Billy thinks Steve is just your run of the mill spirit, dead boy with unfinished business, but he can’t stop thinking about him. Somehow or another he meets Steve again and realizes the truth - maybe a desperate Billy learns about the spell to bind the reaper and decides to do away with Neil. Imagine Billy’s surprise when Steve shows up. Steve’s livid because Billy is playing with magic he doesn’t understand, it demands a death and unless Billy pays that price and speaks a name the death will be his.

He makes Billy promise never to do it again and they spend another night together. Steve promises to come to collect Billy personally when it’s his time to die and that first time, everything turns out better than it could have. No one is upset that Neil took a surprise early retirement to the afterlife, and Billy is finally safe at home. But he can’t deal with the fact that he’ll only see Steve again when he’s a dying old man, or if he’s just randomly lucky enough to be nearby on the right kind of night when Steve is collecting another soul.

But Steve is the love of his life and Billy’s not about to give up; so naturally his only course of action is to drive himself to near death. It works. But Steve does the voodoo whoodoo version of bitch slapping him and rejects his application to the afterlife. 😆 The crazy part is Billy’s more upset that he and Steve barely got to speak before Steve curb stomped him back into his mortal body.

Eventually he finally comes up with the perfect plan that allows him and Steve to be together - anytime the veil is week enough. Billy keeps calendars. Tracks the lunar cycles. Has it down to a science. He also tracks the news. Becomes a people watcher. Keeps lists of names of people he thinks the world could do without. People he knows his soft hearted reaper can forgive him for going back on their deal. Steve knows what he’s doing of course but Steve loves him too - too much. Another list Billy keeps is all the things Steve has said he wants to experience of the mortal life, because there are only so many hours in a night, only so many nights they’ll have in his lifetime, and Billy wants to give him each one.

If he lives suspiciously longer than he should as a mortal witch, neither he nor his lover comment on it.

[runraerun]

Chapter 4 of Easy as 123 is LIVE! 📺

And look! More wonderful art from @racketti <3 He really understood the assignment (commission) and brought Mr. H to life! 🥹♥️ I’m so obsessed. Thank you again, my friend!!

[dragonflylady77]

The Stolen MerPrince

Rating: T | harringrove | 16,419 words | mermaid!Billy x mermaid!Steve

Welcome to the labour of love that is this fic I wrote for @billybigbang2024!

I started with the idea for a couple of scenes then had to weave the rest of the plot around it. I created the banner (below the cut) really early on, before my fic had even been claimed.

Then @akichania made the banner above for promo week. I love both so you get both!

The talented @akichania also made a wonderful piece of the two mermaid boyfriends that you can find here. 🥰

I am currently in France visiting my family so there will be only one post with the link.

Read on Ao3

Summary:

Billy is pissed. There aren’t many places to stretch his tail in Hawkins, and he misses the ocean. One day, he overhears his father talking about Steve Harrington and uncovers some shocking truths about the mermaid prince his mother used to tell him stories about. Now Billy needs to convince Steve that mermaids are real and take him back to California.

Chapter 1 - a beautiful baby boy

“Mama?”

Billy flicked his tail and watched the bubbles come up to break the surface. They were floating on the bull kelp canopy, Billy’s head resting on Mama’s belly, the sun shining down on them.

“What is it, Billy Blue?” Mama asked, running her fingers through his curls. Spending time in the ocean with Mama was Billy’s favorite thing to do in the whole world. They’d found a small cove away from the tourist areas and it was their secret spot. There, they could let out their tails and forget about the human world for a bit. 

Sometimes—when they had more time because Billy's dad was away for work—they would swim down to the city under the sea, where they met merfolk like them and Mama would show him the history of their people, painted on large murals in the library.

Billy knew Mama used to work at the palace, but then something bad happened and Mama left her job. They didn't talk about it. The people they met in the deep of the ocean didn’t mention it either, but they were always happy to see Mama and Billy. 

They didn’t seem to like Billy’s dad very much, though. Billy wondered if it was because his dad was human, and sometimes not very nice. He felt bad thinking such things, but he’d heard tales about humans who did horrible things to merfolks. Mama said that was why they needed to hide the truth about their tails.

Billy flicked his tail a few more times. He liked how the sun reflected on his scales. Mama had told him the colors of his tail would change as he aged, going darker. He hoped his tail would look like hers, dark red and gold, with spots of black. Mama’s tail was so pretty.

“Can you tell me about the stolen prince?”

“Again?” Mama said with a laugh.

“Please, Mama.”

“Alright,” she said, dipping her fingers in the water and letting the drops fall on Billy’s cheek. “It was a bit over a year before you were born. After years of trying and hoping, Queen Titania finally had a child. A beautiful baby boy—”

“Like me!” Billy exclaimed with glee.

“Yes, my darling, like you.” Mama smiled and picked up Billy’s hand to give it a kiss. She kept it as she continued the story. “He had big brown eyes, and equally brown hair, and he was named Stephanos. The whole queendom rejoiced and merfolks came from all over the ocean to see the little prince. There was enchanting music and endless dinners with fancy foods, and a lot of dancing. It was such a happy time.”

“Then the bad men came…”

“That’s right. When Prince Stephanos was a few months old, two men sneaked into the palace and stole the baby. The palace guards looked everywhere but they couldn’t find the men or the little prince. The queen was so heartbroken that she refused to leave her chambers for a long time.”

“Poor lady.” Billy didn’t like that part. He had seen the queen a couple of times when Mama had taken him to the underwater city, and she had looked so sad. He hoped Mama and him were never separated like the queen and her baby had been.

“The high council sent the royal secret service to look for the prince everywhere, even on land. But it’s been over ten years, and they still haven’t found him. A few weeks after the prince was taken, I found out I was pregnant with you, so I left my job at the palace to be with your father, up here.”

Mama stopped talking then, and Billy looked up at her. She looked sad, a bit like the queen. He wondered why, since he was still there with her.

“I love you, Mama. I always want to be with you.”

Mama smiled down at him, but he could see the tears in her eyes, even if they didn’t fall. “I love you, too, Billy. No matter what happens, you will always be my precious boy.”

Shortly after, Mama decided it was time to go home. They swam to shore where she waited on the sand for him to focus enough to switch to two legs. He was still learning how to control the transformation, finding, like many other merchildren, that going from two legs to a tail was easier than the reverse. 

“It’s too hard, Mama. I can’t,” Billy said, frustrated and tired. Mama shushed him, her soft hand brushing his cheek as she kissed his forehead.

“It’s okay, baby, it takes time. It will come to you with more practice. Here,” she handed him the enchanted necklace that prevented merfolk transformations on land. Billy would need to use it when bathing and swimming around humans, until he could control his tail.

[...]

Read the rest on Ao3

[shieldofiron]

Pretty Boy Live in Santa Fe, 1977

Part 1/3 Also on Ao3 here

For @harringrove-relay-race. Very happy with how part 1 turned out, and there will be more to come. Thanks to @foxxtastic for the intro and next up will be something stunning from our fearless Relay Race leader @half-oz-eddie

Rated M / 5k words / Part 1/3

Part 1: Into Hades

Rolling Stone Magazine - May 2002

Billy Hargrove arrived after I did, in his lovingly maintained blue Camaro, the subject of his song, “Lady Blue.” “Lady Blue” was recently named #93 on Rolling Stone’s Top Love Songs of the Century.

“I wrote, ‘She’s the wind in my hair, the rumble in my soul.’ I thought it was so obvious,” He laughed, his blue eyes still boyish. “My niece made it her wedding song, I said ‘Really? It’s about a fuckin’ car!’”

He showed me several pictures of his niece, the supermodel Tyler Sinclair. It seems good looks run in the family. He suggested the diner and he ordered waffles, winking when I mentioned that we’ll be here a long time.

The decades have been kind to him, maybe a few more lines. It’s not hard to imagine him stepping right back onto the stage, as if no time has passed at all.

“A little extra glitter on the eyes,” He said with a smile, “to hide my crows feet. That’s all I need.”

I ask what he’s going to wear to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ceremony for Kaleidoscope's induction and his smile dims only for a moment.

“I think I should pull out some old costumes. You know, the butterfly still fits.”

He was referring, of course, to the sheer butterfly cape costume that nearly had him thrown off the stage in Houston Texas in December 1976. He caved to putting on a pair of silvery shorts rather than the nude underwear it was designed with. He later wore it with the nude underwear on the inside cover of Kaleidoscope, the album that will be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in just a few short weeks. Kaleidoscope was his last album with the iconic Glam Rock band Pretty Boy, which famously broke up at the height of their career while touring for the album, onstage.

It’s not often that a band is inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and there’s a question if all of them will even show up.

“I’ll be there,” Hargrove said, fiddling with the silver band on his middle finger. “I have no problem with seeing him.”

The him is, of course, the lead guitarist and other lead singer of Pretty Boy, Steve Harrington.

Steve Harrington invites me to his oceanfront house in Malibu later that afternoon.

“I haven’t decided if I’m going to go,” He said thoughtfully, his brown eyes darting around the room.

When I mention that Billy is going to go, he seems surprised.

“He didn’t say he was going to punch me, did he?” Harrington smiled, but it doesn’t seem like much of a joke.

For one of the most famous rock stars of the 70s, Harrington is shockingly low key. He wears a t-shirt and slouchy linen pants, and he jokes that he ought to have shaved when I take out my camera. The house is stunning but empty, with miles of blank white walls and overstuffed white furniture.

“I’m looking for a little peace,” He shrugs, “I used to have all these pictures up, all this furniture… It was too much.”

It was hard not to see him as an artist without a muse. He drifted listlessly, picking things up and putting them down as we talked. So it was a surprise to me to hear that he’s been recording.

“I may never release it but… Yeah,” He laughed, “Music. After all this time. Bet you didn’t know.”

He picks up a rare photo from the piano. It’s from the early days of Pretty Boy, before Billy Hargrove. Harrington has his arm around his bandmate, Eddie Munson. Their drummer Chrissy Cunningham is balanced precariously across their shoulders, laughing and cringing at the same time. Bassist Robin Buckley smirks from the corner of the frame, messy bangs in her eyes.

“Who knew, right?” He asked no one, shaking the frame a little.

There are no pictures of Billy Hargrove.

“That’s a… a long story,” He said, when I asked.

But I have time. I tell him Rolling Stone will pay for it. At least that makes him laugh.

It was just by chance that Pretty Boy’s last concert was filmed.

“We were meant to just film in Vegas,” The director, Argyle Molina-Zapata, sat down with me after a private screening of Pretty Boy Live in Santa Fe, 1977, “But there was a freak rainstorm, and I couldn’t get my camera’s out of the back. The crowd was digging it, refused to leave. I remember when Billy hit the high note for ‘Mother Make Me,’ there was this lightning crack… brilliant.”

Molina-Zapata shook his head, “But the footage, what I got of it, was awful. Awful! So I begged Murray to let me come with them to Santa Fe.”

Murray was Murray Bauman, famed tour manager, who handled the Boys, later Pretty Boy from their first album Starfire, all the way to Kaleidoscope.

“And I was lucky,” Argyle nodded, “They had that extra tour bus.”

The tour busses are featured in the first few minutes of the film. They roll around the corner, one reading Billy Blue (Billy’s original stage name was  Billy Blue before he dropped the Blue), and the other, Steve’s Six (Named after Steve’s best friends from his hometown.)

“They were nightmares,” Murray Bauman’s voice crackled over the phone, “Nightmares on tour. Separate buses. Separate hotels. Fuck me, I swear to god at one point they wanted separate stages. And the label caved on almost all of it. Fucking nightmare.”

It’s almost impossible to imagine it when you see them on stage together. There’s something electric that passed between Billy Hargrove and Steve Harrington, something that drove crowds wild. They gravitate towards each other on the stage, orbiting like planets until they can share the same mic. They can’t seem to stay apart.

It’s hard to see exactly what happened that night.

“I’ve watched it a million times,” Argyle laughed, “But the only two people who can really say what happened are Billy and Steve.”

What you can see is this: Steve tearing into “Pride & Prejudice”, the lead off Kaleidoscope and the last song of the night.

Billy was trembling, visibly shaking as he sang and Steve harmonized along.

What can I say, if you ask me to walk away?

Baby, there’s no words for you.

Baby. I don’t know what to do.

Billy danced closer, joining Steve, his handheld mic loose at his side.

Can you ever put away your pride?

Is it worth it to not have me at your side?

I guess it must be, because I’m yours,

Regretfully,

Baby.

Billy leans in, sharing Steve’s mic for the bridge.

Is it really a mystery?

What I mean to you, and you mean to me?

Is it really, baby?

Billy shook his head, curls bouncing. He looked into Steve's eyes. He smiled. Steve looks at Billy, and Billy looks at him. It almost looks like Billy mouths something, but bootleg footage also has appeared where it looks like Billy just nodded. Steve goes a little shell shocked, hand freezing on his guitar, falling out of sync.

And then Steve turned away and left the stage, handing his guitar to a stagehand. Billy turned to the crowd, his expression strangely triumphant. He was always magnetic on stage, but this moment transcends that. It somehow feels like he’s getting everything he wants.

So I guess I’m losing you,

You promised me you would and it’s true.

Baby, there’s no words for you.

Baby. I don’t know what to do.

Steve Harrington hasn’t performed in public since 1977.

“None of us knew what was going to happen that night,” Chrissy Cunningham curled up next to her husband, Eddie Munson, on the large white couch of their Seattle home.

They’re a handsome couple still, draped in rock and roll finery. He toyed with the edge of her scarf, and she curled his long hair around her long fingers.

“We had some of our own shit going on at the time so…” Munson shrugged, “Maybe we were distracted.”

Their living room was crowded and verdant, every spare flat surface covered in plants. Their partner, former record executive Jason Carver, puttered in the kitchen in an apron that read Plant Papa.

“Yeah,” Chrissy smiled, “We had some stuff going on at the same time. But still… It seemed like they were getting better. Didn’t it seem like they were getting better?”

Munson shrugged, “The thing about Billy and Steve… they were soulmates. You don’t write music like that and not… it was like they had a second language, just for them. They were soulmates, I really believe that. Everything they did, everything that happened… they could only hurt each other that badly if… yeah.”

When I ask what they did to each other, Eddie and Chrissy just scooted closer together, like teenagers in a slasher, hiding from the killer. She laid a hand over his leg, her two stone diamond ring catching the sunlight.

“Steve never wanted Billy to be in the band,” Eddie shook his head, “but Jim had a soft spot for Billy. And Steve had… I mean Jim was…”

“Jim was like a father. To all of us.” Chrissy’s knee jiggled.

“We were this little tiny band from Nowhere, Indiana,” Eddie nodded, “And Jim believed in us.”

“I was just a junior exec at the time. I was put on the Kaleidoscope tour in case of catastrophic failure, which by the way it was,” Jason Carver is making risotto while we speak, the steam curling the lock of hair that falls over his face. “But it wasn’t my fault although I was high as hell on coke half the time. I guess I deserved to get fired. But Jim was the real deal. Gold records out the ass, best wife in the world, and his daughter, I mean… she was something else.”

They’re referring, of course, to Jim Hopper, producer on Kaleidoscope as well as Billy Blue and The Boys’ records, and the father of pop superstar Eleven aka Jane Hopper.

“Jim was…” Steve Harrington’s eyes always got a little misty talking about Jim, staring out over the ocean. “Yeah, I guess he was a little like my dad. My own parents were always gone. Which is like… I grew up so privileged so like I’m not saying… I just mean I grew up mostly by myself. And we were just so lucky he even agreed to listen to us when we got to LA.”

“I remember that night,” Joyce Hopper’s voice was raspy, cigarette-y in the way only old movie stars are. She’s a gorgeous woman in jeans and a gardening hat, speaking to me while she tends to her garden at her home in Castellammare. “He came home and said, ‘I have the next ones, the next big ones. Fuck, Joyce, they’re brilliant. Unpolished, but brilliant.’”

When I ask about when Jim discovered Billy Hargrove she just laughed.

“If Steve and the rest of The Boys were unpolished, Billy Hargrove was a fucking ten carat diamond,” She said. “But Steve’s band was Jim’s, and he could polish them up how he wanted. And then when he thought they were just right for it… he set the diamond.”

Jim Hopper was a big man, larger than life both in appearance and in personality. His fingerprints are all over some of the best hits of the decade.

Watching him on old interviews, there’s an immediacy to his presence that leaps off the screen.

“My daughter is the one who really found him. She snuck out with her sister and wandered God knows where. And she just… found him. Called me the next morning, saying ‘Dad, you have to hear this guy.’ He was playing in this… terrible club,” Jim said, tapping his cigar on the table of Merv Griffin’s set. “Absolute shithole, pardon my french. And he’s got a great voice, you’ve heard his voice, right?”

“I have,” Merv said.

“I had to get him out of there. He was a star.”

Billy Hargrove was a teenage runaway from San Diego when he came to LA in 1971.

“I had a girl’s backpack from my stepsister, eight dollars, and an extra pair of underwear. By the end of the next week? I had two more dollars,” Billy laughed. “But I got lucky. I met Heather.”

Heather Holloway was a showgirl at Wildwoods, a nightly revue. She found Billy at the backdoor, and took him to her apartment.

“She saved me,” He frowned. “Whenever I needed her most.”

Heather Holloway, Billy Hargrove’s first and only wife, died in 1979. 

“I got a job singing at Sugar, this great gay club downtown. It was in the late afternoons, so I had a crowd of about… two. But those two brought two more,” Billy smiled, “Heather would talk me up to all the promoters. He’s a singer, he’s great, you’ll love him, he’s so cute.”

“He was an instant hit,” Sugar’s manager, Bob Newby, tells me by phone as well. “I did have to keep a couple of creeps off him, when he just started he was only nineteen. But even if you closed your eyes… he was a hit.”

“Guys used to think that because I was a part of the entertainment, I was fair game. And let me tell you, the novelty of that wears off mighty quick,” Billy shakes his head.

He shares a diary entry from his late wife of a night in April 1972. He came to her home with blood all over his face.

“Some guy thought because I was a fag…” Billy’s mouth twisted, but he went on, cradling the little marble notebook in his hand. “He could do whatever he wanted to me. When I fought back… he cracked a bottle over my head.”

He’s not just a piece of meat. He’s a person. I don’t understand these people. I just don’t understand, Heather Holloway wrote. I cleaned him up and he’s sleeping now.

The next diary entry is from a day later. April 12. Billy and I drove to Vegas and got married. When we spoke in the morning he said he was afraid for me too, even though I’m careful with the girls. He’s afraid of the cops trying to bust up the Wildwoods and picking me up. At least this way, he says. He and I can come home to each other. Look out for each other. Always. The groom wore band aids and his great velvet pants. The bride wore lavender. It was perfect.

“And lucky too. Because within a month… I met Jim,” Billy smiled. “And my whole life changed.”

Upside Down Records signed Billy Blue, unagented, in1972 and he spent the next year working on his debut album with Jim Hopper.

“I didn’t even realize, when it happened,” Billy shook his head. “A couple of girls came by after a show, wanting to talk to me, wanting to meet me. That wasn’t that unusual. But they were young, far too young to get into the club. And the little one, she was asking all these weird questions. Did I have an agent? Did I know if I had enough songs for an album? Weird fuckin’ questions. And then she said I have to meet someone. To be honest, I thought she was coked out of her mind when she said, ‘You have to meet my dad.’”

“I was not,” Eleven promised me, “coked out of my mind. But that’s just Billy.”

Eleven aka Jane Hopper, meets me backstage at one of her shows. She’s dressed in slouchy leather pants, to match her sister and drummer Kali Hopper.

“I knew he was something special. My dad was always talking about the IT factor. That thing that made a person something special. But I didn’t get it until I saw Billy Blue singing on that tiny stage,” She smiled. “He didn’t just have the IT factor. He was IT.”

It’s odd then, that Billy Blue’s first album had a surprisingly tepid response. His first single, in 1973, “Let Alone,” came in at only 26th for the month of April on the pop charts.

“People liked it,” Billy shrugs, “But I don’t think they knew what to do with it. You have my songs, these like… little pop love songs and ballads. I wasn’t that strong of a writer at the time. It was like half my songs, half covers. And so they’d book me, expecting fucking… Peter Frampton. And here comes this big queer with glitter on his nipples.”

But the lyrics of “Let Alone” would hint at his later songs, a hallmark simplicity that shone off his raw voice and poetry that hinted at a troubled past.

And if you were meant to care for me

You would, and that’s how it has to be

You said I couldn’t go on without you

Ha, look at me, looking brand new

At the same time, The Boys’ song “Paper Girl,” penned by Harrington, was number one.

She’s my paper girl

She’s my paper girl

Wakes me up every morning, right on time

She got me smiling, got my head in a whirl

Picture perfect, paper girl

“Billy didn’t have much commercial appeal. Sex appeal, yes,” Jason laughed, toying with Chrissy’s hair. “But for sales? That’s where The Boys came in.”

“I hated that name,” Eddie said, “To start with we were half girls.”

The Boys had already had a somewhat successful tour under their belt by the time Jim suggested a collaboration with Billy Hargrove.

“It was a nice, short tour,” Steve Harrington glances away when I ask about the first tour.

“It was a nightmare. Balls to the wall nightmare,” Robin Buckley’s voice is a warm crackle over the phone. “Steve went on like thirty overlapping benders at once.”

Her partner, soap actress Vickie Carmichael cackles behind her, at their home in Salt Lake City.

“The thing about Steve is… well… he’s never found a good way of coping with himself,” Robin huffs. “Music was about as close as he ever got. But in those early days, he just kept looking for more and more.”

“You don’t think it was about-” Vickie asked, just barely into the phone.

“No.”

“It was about Nancy,” Eddie said confidently when I mentioned their first tour. “Nancy, Nancy, Nancy.”

The Boys got their start in the late sixties, beginning with Eddie and Steve. Eddie gave Steve guitar lessons, which turned into some talent show performances. They used to practice at Eddie’s Uncle’s trailer.

“That’s where we got the name,” Eddie nodded, “My uncle used to just call us that, and it stuck.”

“I don’t even remember,” Chrissy said.

“That’s not how we got the name,” Steve shook his head, when I mention Eddie. “It was our first gig, after we got Chrissy and Robin. Robin put it down after the headliner kept asking when ‘you boys’ would go on, and kept addressing it to Chrissy’s chest. She blew him out of the fucking water.”

Nancy Wheeler was there that night, writing about local bands for a tiny column in the school paper.

“She was beautiful. Smart. So smart. Could hear her talk forever,” Steve said, eyes falling.

Steve Harrington and Nancy Wheeler were married in 1972 after they graduated high school.

“Steve made his own choices,” Chrissy shook her head.

That summer, the Boys plus one drove to LA and Nancy Wheeler took a job at Women’s Day Magazine and later, Rolling Stone. Steve Harrington and The Boys got a “steady gig” at La Bonita Rosa on the strip, playing for drunks every night from seven to eight.

“I really liked playing at La Bonita,” Steve said. “The audience, right there. You could smell the sweat. You could see on their faces if you were bombing. And we used to bomb. A lot. But it was a great place to try things. Experiment. We played there for about a year but… it felt too short.”

Within the year they had met Jim Hopper, who got them into the recording studio and sold their demo nearly on the spot to Upside Down Records.

“They had a great sound. They had got this way of playing. Smooth like a polished stone. Everything sounds good sitting in a frame like that,” Jim said in an interview with Rolling Stone in 1981. “Their songs were… catchy, but basic. But they had the sound.”

Upside Down records set the Boys on a US tour after “Paper Girl,” and “Joy to Love You,” both charted.

“It was like… overnight. One day we’re in a studio, messing around. Kid stuff. I was nineteen,” Steve Harrington shookhis head. “But…”

“That tour,” Chrissy trails off, playing with her ring again.

“I…” Steve Harrington scratched his nose. “I was losing it. Majorly losing it. It felt like we had just moved to LA and we were already neck deep. I mean, I had a number one fucking song. And for some reason I got it in my head to call my mom. She told the maid she wasn’t home. And I could hear her over the phone. My mom. So yeah. I lost it. Lost about half my damn mind on that tour. And people will say it was because of Nancy, because we got married just out of high school, and she wasn’t supportive… but that wasn’t true. Nancy saved me.”

“Nancy never wanted him to be in the band. But… she also didn’t seem to care that much either,” Eddie shook his head, “It’s… complicated. Love is supposed to be. Simple. Like the chords of a song. 1-3-5.”

Jason Carver rolled his eyes at that, “Then what are we?”

Eddie grinned, “We’re a band.”

Nancy Wheeler met me on a Thursday in New York City, slim sunglasses dominating her small porcelain face. We get lunch at her favorite deli shop, and she perches at the counter, loafers dangling. She’s an editor at The New Yorker now, but she still has a soft spot for rock and roll, as evidenced by the Grateful Dead t-shirt under her blazer.

“That tour. I didn’t even know anything was wrong. He just came home with a funny look on his face, saying, ‘We’re headlining.’ So I said, ‘That’s great, Steve.’ He just kept… saying it. It was starting to piss me off, if I’m being honest,” She shook her head. “I should have known something was wrong.”

“I wish she had stopped me. But how could you know right? Hindsight is always 2020,” Steve Harrington said. “I mean, she was my wife. How could she not want me home? But that’s just… sorry. That’s not fair to put on her. I chose to go.”

“I flew out to meet them when they were in Indianapolis, visited my family, and I came a day early to see him,” She smiled warmly, and then it fell. “He was… Well, first, Eddie Munson tried to intercept me at the hotel, so I wouldn’t see him. I told him, ‘I’m here to see my fucking husband.’”

Steve Harrington didn’t add any more details about the tour, just shrugged when I asked.

“He was coked up like you wouldn’t believe,” Robin scoffed. “She walked in on him with two girls and coke all over his… well.”

“I just asked him. Do you want to come home? Do you want to get help? Or not?” She purses her lips. “And so he came home and we found a rehab place near Hawkins.”

“The tour kind of… fell apart. Obviously. We had lost our lead singer and guitarist to fucking… Hawkins, Indiana,” 

Everything stopped for the Boys. Upside Down offered to let them out of their two album contract, but Steve couldn’t afford to pay it down.

“Rehab,” He shrugged. “Is expensive.”

Right as it seemed that everything would be over for the Boys, things were looking up for Billy Blue.

“Jim was always saying, ‘the record is selling alright, the songs are getting there but he needs a… push,’” Joyce said. “‘He’s so close. So close. He’s a star.’”

“He always believed in me,” Billy smiled, toying with his ring again. “Always. Even when I threw a jug of milk at his head.”

Joyce laughed when I asked about that moment, “He came home saying, ‘He milked me, Joyce. But he’ll fix the song tonight.’”

“And I did,” Billy said. “And the album was going alright. I did a little tour, socal and the southwest. And then one night, Jim brings me this song. He said, ‘I want you to tell me what’s missing from this.’”

The song was, of course, the Boys’ biggest hit, “Hades.” Steve Harrington’s first version was called, “To Orpheus” and the chorus goes:

Don’t turn back don’t look behind you baby

I’m close, I’m right behind

The future's so bright, and I want you to take me

Wanna be holding your hand when I make it across the line.

“It was fine, but just kind of… nothing. It was supposed to be about Eurydice, but it was so… nothing. She just loved Orpheus and that was it. There were no insides to her. She was going to follow him to her doom,” Billy shook his head. “That’s not right.”

This was not the version that made it to the recording booth, of course. The Boys’ single, “Hades featuring Billy Blue,” came out in 1975. The actual chorus goes: 

Turn back on me and I won’t forgive you baby

Don’t want you to see me like this

Up ahead is bright, and I want you to take me

If you’re strong enough to cross that finish line

“‘Hades,’ was a real step forward for the Boys. Gone were the teenybopper tunes,” Steve Harrington’s biographer and personal friend Dustin Henderson wrote in his book The Pretty Boy. “Their first album got the kids dancing. But the second proved that they actually had something to say.”

“Still hate it,” Steve Harrington said. “I wrote that song in rehab. It was deeply, deeply personal to me.”

“He came out, all ready. He wanted to start recording right away,” Robin sighed. “Like I mean the next day. All these songs, just pouring out of him. But the label had lost faith in us. And they certainly weren’t going to let us start recording with a guy who had only just earned his thirty day sober chip.”

“The song wasn’t ready,” Billy shook his head. “But I guess he was. Jim said he needed this. So Jim asked if I would come and like… pitch some stuff as a personal favor. Songwriting credit, that’s all it was supposed to be. Get the songs moving, get them going.”

Steve Harrington takes a long time to continue speaking about it. 

“I felt it, writing for that album. I felt proud of those songs. They didn’t belong to anyone else but me,” He toyed with some piano keys while we talked, and then finally sat down and began to play something tuneless and half formed.

“That album was all about Nancy,” Chrissy said. “I mean. I know it. You know it. Nancy knew it. And she kind of hated it. But-”

“You can’t leave your husband right as he gets out of rehab,” Nancy said to me, toying with her wedding ring. “When he writes all these songs about how you’re the only thing… Steve was always like that. Heart wide open. That’s why when he met Billy. I almost thought… it would all be okay. That sounds fucked up but. I thought they could save each other. That the music could save him.”

“It was just a songwriting credit,” Billy raised his hands. “Jim swore up and down. I was just gonna come in there and sit down with this guy Steve. But when I walk into the studio, there’s two mics set up.”

“I was the Boys’ only singer,” Steve Harrington shook his head. “And to be absolutely honest, I was kind of a jackass about it. So to have some guy come in and say he’s gonna sing me my song… well…”

“Steve was the only one who would ever argue with Jim, And he let him have it that day,” Eddie laughed. “He called him the most low down, dirty, rat bitten bastard in California, and that he would die rather than give up his band to someone else.”

“I did not want his band. I did not know his band. And I did not care. And his song sucked. And I told him so. And then I sang it. Better.” Billy smiled.

“Billy was…” Chrissy shook her head. “Incredible.”

I ask Steve what Billy was like that first day in the studio.

“He was,” Something passed over his face. “Alright. He has a great voice, alright.”

“I was good. Better. Best.” Billy smiled.

“But he didn’t understand the song. He wanted Eurydice to… doubt. To think she wasn’t going to get out,” Steve slammed his hands on the keys. “It’s been… almost twenty years. I still don’t understand it.”

I asked why he let Billy stay. But Steve doesn’t have an answer.

“They were like oil and water, right away,” Chrissy said.

“Yeah, but oil on the water can catch fire,” Eddie shrugged.

“Jim asked me to stay,” Billy looked away from me, down at his waffles. “It was a favor to the label.”

“If Billy said louder, Steve said mute,” Robin snickered. “It was kind of great, actually. Finally someone called King Steve on his shit. One day I came in and they were arguing over how close the microphone should be to your throat. Almost got in a physical fight over a fucking microphone. I mean, I love Steve. But he always thinks he’s like… the babysitter. It’s his job to do everything for everybody.”

“Like who was this guy? Really? He came into my studio with no shirt on, most of the time still half smashed from the night before, and he thinks he can make all these changes. But Jim keeps telling me it’s just business, the label thinks it’s good business.” Steve frowned, and then smiled, and then frowned again.

“Yeah, I never wore shirts back then. Or underwear,” Billy said with a grin. “I was a rockstar!”

“Steve fought for every song on that album,” Nancy Wheeler patted her lips primly with a napkin. “He only lost on one.”

“Billy Hargove has songwriting credit and lead vocals on “Hades.” Dustin Henderson wrote.

“Billy was all over that album. He’d make some minor suggestion, maybe this chord instead of that, this word is better. And Steve would flip out, yell at him, yell at Jim, threaten to storm out… and then two days later quietly tell me to change the chord, he’d start singing the new words. Billy was there with us about every single day,” Eddie said.

“Of course, it was our biggest hit,” Chrissy laughed. “Everything but that song, Steve did what he wanted. Oh we had Billy in the studio, making suggestions. But Steve did what he wanted except for ‘Hades.’ Jim said that song is the album, and he wouldn’t cut it.”

“Jim was always right,” Steve closed the piano. “The bastard.”

Hades exploded onto the radio in late 1975. They didn’t have the same distribution as their first record, but the Boys had another hit.

“Billy had this way of singing it. Still does. He broke four mics when we recorded it. Singing so loud I had to keep an eye on the cymbals to stop them from shaking. You can feel him, right in your chest.” Chrissy giggled. “Like he was trying to wake all the dead from Hades. If anyone could, he could.”

“It’s a really, really great song,” Robin said.

This song belongs to Billy Blue, Rolling Stone wrote in 1976. The only question now is, what will The Boys do next?

“I remember that article. Fucking… Harrington said that he basically wrote the whole song. But he said, ‘the label thought bringing Billy in was a good idea,’” Billy gets tense for the first time. “I’m not saying I was like… I just mean. It would have been nice. To treat me like an equal. I’m more than just a singer. I’m not just… a piece of meat.”

“Billy was really pissed about that article. I remember, the day after the article came out, we were getting breakfast at this tiny place off La Cienega. Steve had this car back then, a big maroon BMW, and Eddie had got him a vanity plate when he bought it. Stupid thing it said, ‘BIGBOY.’ Anyway, We’re having breakfast, and we hear this screech outside, like an accident,” Robin Buckley gets uncharacteristically quiet as she goes on through this story. “Billy’s car is parked halfway out of the parking lot, and he comes in like a bull in a charge. Billy… he wasn’t some wimpy guy. He was small, but he was strong as hell… He came right over and grabbed Steve by his collar and lifted him right off the counter. And he said, I’ll never forget it because Steve used to recite it from memory, yell it at me, ‘Tell me I’m not dreaming. Is that Steve fucking Harrington? The lead singer of the Boys. Hey man, I love your song ‘Hades.’ How’d you get your voice to sound halfway decent for once?’”

“I don’t remember that,” Steve Harrington said flatly when I asked.

“And Steve used to be a fucking dick in high school. So he starts getting real bitchy, shoving Billy off him, asking what his problem is, why he’s such a dick all the fucking time, when it’s not even his band. And Billy said something like, ‘No one wants your shit band. Not with you in it,’” Robin paused for a moment. “And they just. Stare at each other. Like… daring each other to do something.”

Billy just shrugs when I ask, “I was pissed. I gave this guy a number one hit, and he still wanted to treat me like some… airhead singer the label brought in as a stunt. I’m not just a singer. I’m not a piece of meat. I’m a person.”

When I ask Steve about that day he’s pretty quiet, deflated at his piano. He only wants to talk about the song. The music. Can’t seem to talk about Billy any other way.

“He sang it like he not only knows Orpheus can’t save him, but that he won’t. It was supposed to be hopeful. A happy ending.” Steve said.

“So you still hate the song?” I asked.

“No, I don’t. It’s brilliant. And that’s the whole problem.”

To be continued...

Next up is Half-Oz-Eddie's piece at 7:00 pm. GET HYPE!

[oopsiedaisiesbaby]

I think we all need a harringrove Xmas fic inspired by wham!’s last Christmas ….

Quick little drabble that I’m not sure fits what you were looking for and is more of a stream of thoughts than an actual fic but… unedited angst to fluff Christmas drabble below the cut 🎄

Steve thought being invited to someone’s house for Christmas something.

Being allowed to wrap his arm around them while wearing dorky Christmas sweaters. Having Christmas dinner with their family. Exchanging presents, kissing under the mistletoe, sharing a hot chocolate… it all meant something to Steve.

Not Nancy though.

No.

Nancy admittedly looked a little caught out when Steve asked her to be his girlfriend. He figured it was the fact that he asked on Christmas evening.

Then, she had come over to his house the very next day to admit that she didn’t feel the same. All of it had been friendly and she hadn’t meant to lead Steve on, she thought he knew she had her eyes on Jonathan.

Steve realized the only reason he got an invite to the Wheeler family Christmas was that they felt bad about him being alone on a major holiday.

It was like Steve had his heart ripped out and thrown on the ground. Stomped all over by Nancy, himself, and her wretched, fake family. He was going to die alone if not even the magic of Christmas could make someone want to stay with him.

Months went by of Steve walking around with a perpetual rain cloud over his head. In fact, he made it 10 months in his dour mood. Dustin was worried about him, but that little shit was always worried about something. He felt worse about how worried Claudia was.

Then Billy Hargrove came screaming into town in that stupid blue Camaro that was actually kind of cool. He needled at Steve, pushing and pushing, grating, frustrating, infuriating, until Steve broke.

He shoved Billy up against the lockers, ready to fight. Billy grabbed him by the hair and kissed Steve so intensely that he narrowly avoided melting only because Billy caught him around the waist.

Dating Billy Hargrove was like closing your eyes and titling your face up to the sun the day of the first snow melt. It was like watching the entire town go dark before being lit up by all of the Christmas lights the day after Thanksgiving.

Billy was everything Nancy wasn’t. Whenever he pushed Steve it never felt like he was trying to make Steve into the version he wanted but more like the version he knew Steve wanted to be. He even liked strolling around Hawkins looking at Christmas lights for him.

Whenever Steve asked to hang out every day one week when he felt especially alone, there were never excuses about studying, he just brought his homework over to Steve’s. Billy loved creating increasingly wild hot chocolate recipes to share with Steve as they giggled and kiss while sipping from the horrible concoction.

If Steve leaned against Billy or held his hand during a movie, there was no tensing or weary sigh, just a soft kiss to the top of his head before Billy reciprocated. Billy also took every opportunity to kiss Steve filthily under any mistletoe they could find.

Billy was excited to help him decorate for Christmas, even if he bitched with a smirk the entire time, constantly smacking and grabbing Steve’s ass. He smiled and rolled his eyes before eagerly pulling on the matching ugly Christmas sweaters.

Billy laughed while decorating lewdly shaped sugar cookies in Christmas colors with Steve before smearing the icing on his cheek and licking it off all in one go. He twirled Steve around the kitchen to Christmas music without a single complaint. He did it all with a small, secret smile, and like he would rather be there with Steve than anywhere else in the world.

Best of all, when Steve asked him to be his boyfriend that Christmas, he easily responded, “Thought we already were. At least our anniversary will be easy to remember now.”

[sadhours]

Harringrove at Tina’s party pleaseeeeee. Steve is a sobbing mess over nancy and just wants to forget and who better than to assist him with that than Billy???? Also Billy just leaving Steve covered in his cum and crying over his new conflicted feelings like ughhhh

Hi I love you. This was fun to write. It uh, gets a lil sad at the end.

Cw: 18+ minors dni, Billy using Steve. Some degradation. Smut and angst?

Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit.

The words repeated heavy in Steve’s head, over and over and over until his stomach churned with dread and disgust. Nancy thought they were bullshit? While Steve thought they were what? In love? He feels like a fool but what the fuck else is new. The eyes on him as he stalked after her and her stupid punch stained shirt tell him he’s gonna hear about this all week at school. Guaranteed to be blame of the punch spill anyways.

He had fully intended to stay relatively sober at this party when he arrived but now the slice in his heart needs mending and ya know what, that bottle of Jack he earlier denied is calling his name. So he goes to find it, eyes scanning the crowd until it falls on that annoying man, pecks peeking out behind a leather jacket and of course, the stupid fingerless gloves he’s wearing are wrapped around that bottle of whiskey Steve is suddenly desperate for. Fuck it. He’s King Steve, this beautiful asshole called him that earlier, when he puffed his chest and glared into Steve’s soul. He can fucking take the whiskey from him. In fact, he has to. Pushing through the crowd, Steve gets his fingers around the neck of the bottle and tugs. Hargrove raises his eyebrows, lips turning up into a smirk but he doesn’t give, grips the shaft of the bottle tighter.

“Need something, King Steve?” his honeyed voice purrs and it boils Steve’s blood.

With a curl of his upper lip, he growls back, “Yeah, fork it over, prick.”

“Oh,” Billy cackles, “Yes, your majesty. Here.”

Steve rips the bottle from Billy’s hand and takes a dangerous swig of it, the amber liquid burning down his throat. He doesn’t tear his eyes away from the blue ones glued to his face, something insidious behind them. Steve doesn’t care, chokes down another fiery swig and exhales, his stomach swirling with heat from the booze. Hargrove keeps eying him with intrigue, a playful tilt to his smirk that makes Steve weary. He goes to stomp off, then fingers are wrapping around his wrist.

“Something bothering you?” Billy asks with a duck of his head, shining teeth bared in a smile Steve doesn’t exactly trust.

“Yeah, you.”

“Feisty, nice. I’ve heard that about you,” Hargrove beams, keeps his grip firm on Steve’s wrist and tugs him into the bathroom he’d just been told he was bullshit in.

He locks the door behind him, leans against the door and looks at Steve differently. Almost hungry?

“What’s this about? Let me out,” Steve seethes and moves for the doorknob but Billy blocks him.

“C’mon,” he pouts, “something’s bothering you, what is it?” Hargrove tilts his head, “Something to do with your stuck up girlfriend?”

“Shut up,” Steve hates the way his eyes well up with tears, hates the way his stomach drops at the mention of Nancy.

“She dump you in here?” Billy asks with this shit eating grin that makes Steve’s skin crawl.

“Get the fuck out of my way,” Steve tries, ashamed of the way his voice cracks when he says it.

Hargrove pouts again, snatches the bottle from Steve’s grip and swallows some down before setting it on the counter, “C’mon, you’re King Steve, right? Bitches come and go.”

“Stop,” Steve whimpers out, bringing his hands up to his face in shame as the tears trickle down his cheeks.

Billy crowds him then, presses the small of his back against the counter and gets real close to his face. It’s threatening at first but something about Billy’s whiskey and nicotine tinged breath on his face is… hot? Oh, god. What the fuck is wrong with him? It’s the whiskey, even though he hasn’t really had much. It’s the rejection doing it. He’s not even into guys. Why the hell is Billy Hargrove of all people making his dick twitch? It makes such little sense that he’s full on crying now, sobbing into the minuscule space between them. And Hargrove’s hands grip his waist, and then he… he fucking licks the tears off of Steve’s cheek and Jesus Christ, he’s hard in his jeans from it. Steve chokes out another pathetic sob before he shoves Billy back, glaring down at him fiercely.

“The fuck is wrong with you, faggot?” Steve seethes out, pushing down another sob.

Billy scoffs, raises a brow and moves his hand to cup Steve through his jeans, “I’m not often wrong. And I’m not wrong this time, faggot.”

Steve closes his eyes as he whimpers, the warmth and firmness of Billy’s palm against his pulsing erection confirms it for the both of ‘em. Steve likes this. He actually fucking likes this. And it’s definitely because the whiskey and Nancy breaking his heart and not actually because he’s attracted to Hargrove. He thinks for a brief moment before he’s reaching back for the bottle of Jack and downs some more. He sets it back down and rolls his hips into Billy’s hand, letting another slew of tears escape his eyes. Hargrove presses into his strained erection and licks his cheek again. And it’s the oddest thing. Steve feels heat pooling in his stomach from it. Maybe it’s the whiskey. The safer thing to think is it’s from the whiskey and not from the weird, gay degradation happening.

“Poor King Steve,” Hargrove whispers in his ear, “Crying over some mediocre pussy.”

Steve can’t even fight back anymore, he’s over the fight and all he can is welcome the pleasure erupting over his body from Hargrove fondling his cock and balls over his jeans. It’s pathetic, he knows that but it feels too good and he wants more. No, he needs more. Tells Billy as much with a whimper and another roll of his hips.

“I’ll make you cry like a bitch, too,” Hargrove mumbles into the shell of his ear before dipping down to bite his lobe and tug.

The cries turn into moans as Billy bites down Steve’s neck and undoes his jeans, shoving them down his thighs and wrapping his fingers around Steve’s aching cock. The leather from the gloves is an interesting sensation, Steve likes it a lot. It’s obvious by the way he’s thrusting up into Billy’s fist and whining.

“God, you’re whiny,” Billy observes, jerking Steve’s cock dry in his palm, “That why the princess dumped you? She get fed up with how much of a bitch you are?”

“Shut up,” Steve says behind gritted teeth, fingers moving to grip the counter behind him.

“I haven’t even done anything,” Billy comments? pulling back as he scoops the precum bubbling from Steve’s dick on his fingertip and brings it up eye level, “Even your dick is weeping.”

Billy apparently thinks he’s hilarious by the way he cackles, but then he’s licking the slick from his finger and Steve’s knees almost buckle from the sight. He thinks this might be the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him, and that’s alarming but something for him to consider after he’s blown his load. Hargrove drops to his knees and squeezes the base of Steve’s cock, looking up at him under thick lashes. He’s so pretty, Steve wants to touch his face, drag his thumb along Billy’s cheekbone but he doesn’t let himself. His leaking, pulsing hard on is proof enough he thinks Billy is pretty, doesn’t need to push his luck anyway. He thinks Hargrove might bite his fingers if he does so, or maybe worse, his dick.

Plush, pink lips circle the head of Steve’s cock and he’s letting out a gasp, shocked by just how much he likes the sight. He wants so desperately to touch the boy before him but he won’t let himself, no matter how much those dirty blonde curls are begging to have Steve’s fingers in them. Hargrove’s mouth is so warm and so wet as he takes Steve down. Better than any hole he’s ever been in and that’s… another thought for later. His cock twitches in Billy’s mouth, and he smirks around it, letting Steve know he felt it.

“Fuuuck,” he whines out, lips parting in ecstasy. The arousal he feels now is white hot, intoxicating more than any swig of whiskey. If he’s not careful, he’s libel to fall in love with Billy Hargrove this instant and nobody needs that. Pupils blown, Billy looks into Steve’s eyes while he sucks him down deep, so deep. Steve can feel his tip hitting the back of Hargrove’s throat and the fucker swallows. Steve’s seeing stars for a second, forgetting that he was trying not to touch Billy as he slips his fingers into that dumb fucking mullet. Tugs while he moans lowly, earning another smile around his cock. God damn, this idiot is pretty and Steve hates him and loves him all at once. Wants to punch his dumb face and kiss it at the same time.

Hargrove moves a hand up and cradles Steve’s balls in his palm, bobbing his head up and down like he was fucking born to do this. How did he get so good at sucking cock? Steve suddenly feels excited at the prospect of knowing this secret about Billy, maybe he can use this against him. But then again, it’s his dick down Hargrove’s throat. One of these might be gayer but Steve can’t even finish these thoughts because Billy’s giving him the blowjob of a lifetime and Steve’s pathetically on the brink of orgasm. Can’t even warn Billy before he’s shooting down his throat.

“Christ,” he chokes out, bucking his hips into Billy’s face as he chases the pleasure and this guy is a champ. Billy grabs a hold of Steve’s thighs and takes the face fucking, then leans back on his haunches as he grins up at him.

Steve’s panting against the counter, coming back down to earth when Billy opens the cabinet to the left of his leg and starts rifling through it.

“What are you doing?” Steve wonders, voice wrecked.

“Said I was gonna make you cry like a bitch, didn’t I?” Billy quips around a dangerous smirk, holding up a bottle of baby oil.

“What?” Steve asks, eyes wide. What the hell is Hargrove gonna do with that oil?

“Turn around,” Billy rises to his feet, eyebrow lifted like he dares Steve to disobey.

“Dude— no,” Steve gapes, “I—“

“Pretty boy, I said turn around,” Billy levels, eyes dark and Steve does, in spite of everything telling him not to. Hargrove’s lips are on his ear, “Lemme show you something that priss never could.”

Suddenly, there’s a slickness pressing to his asshole and Steve chokes out a gasp, looks at himself in the mirror and his face shows the shock he feels. Billy hooks his chin over Steve’s shoulder and meets his eyes in the mirror as his fingers rub circles against Steve’s hole. It feels nice despite the panic rising in his chest, and Steve doesn’t tear his eyes away from the reflection of Billy’s.

“I’m gonna make you feel better than that bitch ever could,” Billy tells him, voice low and raspy which causes another stir to Steve’s softening cock. Then Billy’s finger pushes past the tight ring of Steve’s asshole and it’s a sharp pain but at the same time it’s overwhelmingly pleasant. Punches a moan out of Steve’s throat and he drops his head, eyes on the sink but immediately, Billy’s hands on his throat and urging his head upright again.

“Look at yourself,” he insists, curling his finger and then bites Steve’s jaw. “Such a pretty boy.”

Steve whines, not recognizing himself in the mirror. Billy’s sliding in another finger as his tongue soothes the tender skin his teeth assaulted, eyes trained on Steve’s flushed face. Billy’s fingers twist and prod until they hit a spot inside of Steve he didn’t know existed and he cries out, vision blurring as Billy continuously rubs at the spot. The stupidly gorgeous face he sees in the mirror looks smug, but Steve’s a little too preoccupied to be mad at it. Hell, he barely notices when Billy’s adding a third digit to his hole. Steve whimpers out, knuckles turning white where he’s gripping tightly onto the countertop.

Hargrove bites at his jaw again, thrusting his fingers in quick succession and each time they poke Steve’s prostate he moans, feeling his eyes cross as his cock springs back to life. He scissors his fingers, stretching Steve’s hole as he groans lowly and rolls his hips.

“Think you’re ready?” Billy asks, voice teetering on desperation and it’s really nice to hear. Steve’s nodding his head, all the panic from before evaporated at this point.

Billy pulls his fingers out and Steve fucking whines, more pathetic than he’s sounded all night. It’s short lived, Billy’s quick with slathering his cock in the oil and pressing his head to Steve’s eager hole. Obviously, his cock is thicker than his fingers and Steve’s feeling that panic return but Billy pushes the head through and Steve cries out, tears prickling his eyes at the sensation because it is painful but his balls tighten from it and his eyes roll back. It’s painful in the delicious kind of way. He couldn’t even remember Nancy’s name in this moment if he tried. Heads empty, nobodies home. Just clouds of God, that’s nice and oh, wow there’s a cock in my ass. Billy’s hand meets his throat again and he purrs in Steve’s ear, “Look at me.”

Steve didn’t even realize he’d closed his eyes, but he opens them and his vision is flooded with the reflection of himself, Billy’s face pressed next to his and that leather clad hand around his neck. He looks to Billy’s eyes in the mirror, a little upset with how much it makes his heart swell. Steve’s easy. Billy saw he was upset and did something to make him forget about it. Fuck, he might be in love. Nope. Steve, stop it.

Billy sinks in a little deeper, draining the air of Steve’s lungs as he does so, “Fuck!”

“I was right, huh?” Billy says, breathless as his face contorts in pleasure.

“Uh huh,” Steve breathes, would agree with anything the blonde says at this point. His heads all warm and fuzzy and Billy’s really pretty. The angles of his face irritated Steve before, got a hint of jealousy in his gut but now he just wants to touch them.

Hargrove groans, digging his nails into Steve’s hips as he drives deeper into the brunette, “So fucking tight.”

And then the head of his cock meets with Steve’s prostate and Steve’s eye roll back in his head. He would’ve collapsed to the floor if it wasn’t for the grip Billy has on him. Doesn’t realize he’s crying again until Billy licks his cheeks again, hips still as he allows Steve to adjust to his length. Hargrove’s breath is heavy on his face, fanning across his sticky cheek in waves. Billy starts rolling his hips, languid and deep and each stroke makes Steve feel like he’s floating higher and higher away. His reflection looks as fucked out as he feels, his eyes glazed over and wide, lips parted in an O and his cheeks are wildly flushed. But this sensation is fucking otherworldly and his cocks at full attention, begging to be touched even though he just came. His chest feels tight while he spews out these breathless and high pitched moans. Hargrove looks as smug as can be, cheek pressed against Steve’s with this fucking grin on his face, like he’s so proud of himself.

“When I heard about you,” Billy grunts, “I didn’t think you’d be this fucking easy.” He punctuates the last word with a particularly rough thrust that’s got Steve’s toes curling in his shoes.

Steve couldn’t talk if he tried, brains too fuzzy with euphoria and fuck, is he drooling? Yep, he is. A string of saliva drips from his lips down onto the bathroom counter but he can’t be bothered to wipe his face, he can’t fucking move at all besides his hips. They keep pushing back to meet Billy’s thrusts.

Hargrove wraps his fingers around Steve’s cock and strokes him at the same pace he’s drilling into him. And fuck, fuck, oh fuck. Steve cries out, eyes squeezing shut as he spills spunk all over Billy’s fist. He’s never cum that quick in his life. He’s out to lunch, man. Seeing stars, seeing God. When he’s coming back to earth, Hargrove’s laughing, clearly pleased with himself. He bends Steve over the counter and hammers into him, hard and quick. The roughness of his hips slamming into the counter launch sharp pain down his legs and he’s crying out again, gripping onto the counter for dear fucking life. And then a totally new sensation has him babbling and moaning as Billy fills him with spunk, a guttural grunt falling on Steve’s ears. But as quick as he feels it, it’s gone. Billy’s pulling out of him and he feels a little pat on his head before he hears the door open and close. Steve sinks down to the floor, curling up in the fetal position as he processes what the fuck just happened. And he’s sobbing some more, his heart twisting with a pain he’s never felt before. His thighs are slick and sticky and his ass is fucking sore but worse than that, he’s alone. Steve feels used up, stupid and more confused than he’s ever been.

[harringrove-flip-reverse-it]

Welcome to Harringrove Flip Reverse It 2024!

Are you the sort of person who likes to be nifty with your fan creations? Do you enjoy subverting prompts? Does the thought of a challenge fill you with glee?

This is the event for you!

Harringrove Flip Reverse It is an event taking place the first week of July (Monday 1st - Sunday 7th). It’s very easy (and fun) to play!

Every day during that week, you’ll be given five prompts: fluff, angst, nsfw, sfw and trope subversion. Sounds simple? Well, it is… but there’s a catch!

For each prompt you decide to fill, you’ll be expected to Flip Reverse It! In other words, you must make your fluff prompts angsty, and your angst prompts fluffy. Your nsfw prompts should be safe for work, and as for your sfw prompts… enough said ;)

The trope subversion prompts will give you a very common, possibly even overused prompt… and it’s your job to subvert it, in any way you want. Interpret the prompt any way you like, except the traditional one.

You can do as many or as few prompts as you like, no sign-up required! Make sure you tag @harringrove-flip-reverse-it in your prompt fill so we can reblog it here too.

Want to find some cool people to talk about your ideas? Come and join us in the Heebie Jeebies discord server to find a ready-made community of likeminded lovely people, now featuring a dedicated channel just for discussion of Harringrove Flip Reverse It!

For more details on the prompt categories, read on…

Fluff:  Take the traditional tooth-rotting fluff… and make it angsty! We’re talking days at the beach that end in disaster, hot chocolate with marshmallows that turn out to be poisoned, sweet little moments that break our goddamn hearts.

Angst:  It looks like it should hurt, but it doesn’t! These prompts may seem dark and whumpy, but they should fill the heart with joy and delight, no angst allowed!

NSFW: These prompts may look filthy, but in fact they could be read by the most innocent of angels with nary a blush!

SFW:  By contrast… somehow these gentle ideas have become sullied by porn, and there’s no turning back!

Trope Subversion:  These tropes may be overused, but it’s your job to interpret them in a non-traditional way. Maybe they share a bed, but not with each other! Maybe their first kiss was with someone else! It can be anything EXCEPT the usual way of interpreting the prompt.

Interested in taking part? Reblog this post, check out all the nitty gritty details and then get working on some prompts!