#history of camaro

[bigredcamaro]

Rebuilding Big Red - A 1969 Camaro’s Journey to Speed Excellence

Undertaking a thorough rebuild after nearly 20 years of racing, the team behind the Big Red Camaro committed to a complete overhaul of the vintage 1969 Camaro. This meticulous vintage car restoration aimed to push the limits of speed, transforming the red old Camaro into one of the fastest Camaros ever. Documenting every step, the rebuild honored the history of Camaro and exceeded all expectations in automotive excellence.

[eroticlamb]

Tammy Morgan posing with her Chevrolet Camaro, 1975.

[rabbitcruiser]

Chevrolet officially entered the automobile market on November 3, 1911, in competition with the Ford Model T.  

[nickysfacts]

I honestly like the Camaro look on him more, just fits him better in my opinion!🐝

💛🖤💛

[talentos]

La Leyenda del ’67 Camaro: De las Calles a las Colecciones El Chevrolet Camaro de 1967 es un ícono del automovilismo estadounidense. Presentado como la respuesta de Chevrolet al Ford Mustang, el ’67 Camaro combinó un diseño elegante y agresivo con un rendimiento impresionante. Equipado con una variedad de opciones de motor y un chasis ágil, este modelo rápidamente se ganó el corazón de los…

[killj0y616]

This week we learn about the insane lengths Helge Meyer went to help starving kids in the Yugoslav Wars and the CIA/ Chinese Nationalist Party ties of acclaimed Sci-Fi writer Cordwainer Smith. A listener email explains why King Tut was particularly stiff when mummified.

[groundbreakingdot872]

the tags roasting that old man in dragon fire ! Lol

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again

21st century Merlin is an absolutely horrific driver. The worst.

[dazedandconfused-15]

Heaven's in your eyes (Part 3)

If you guys like it, I would greatly appreciate a reblog, it helps spread this fanfic around🫶

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Female Reader

Summary: Life in Hawkins is dull and lonely, especially after your mom abandoned your family, leaving you even more isolated amidst school rumors. Already shy and with few friends, you find solace in your solitude—until Billy Hargrove, the intriguing new boy from California, comes into the picture. To your surprise, Billy seems to seek you out, finding ways to talk to you despite the odds. Never in a million years would you have imagined forming such an unexpected bond with someone.

Link to: Part 1, Part 2 and Part 4

@tatumrileyslover @littlenosoul @nocturnest Part 3 is here!!

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You weren't sure how things would go with Billy after that night. Technically, you still owe him for the day at the museum, There are parts of Hawkins he hadn’t seen yet. Plus, you hadn’t talked about when or if you’d see each other again outside of school. So, it's a surprise when the following week, as you're grabbing books from your locker, you feel a presence behind you—the warmth of someone's body lightly brushing against your back. You look up and see a hand resting on your locker. Turning around, you met his curious and slightly amused eyes. 

"Oh! Hey, you scared me…”

"I saw that," he replies. "Am I that ugly?"

You stay still, feeling the cold metal of the locker against your back, aware that some students are probably watching you. But Billy doesn't seem bothered by this; if anything, he seems indifferent. He's wearing the same black leather jacket he lent you the other night, over a partially unbuttoned black shirt. He knows he’s not ugly, and you know he’s teasing you. But his closeness throws you off, and you can’t find the words to play along. You stumble over a nonsensical and incomplete sentence. Meanwhile, he takes the books from your hands and moves his hand away from the locker, finally giving you space, and it feels like you can breathe again.

"Physics?" he asks, looking at the first book on the pile in his hands.

"Uh, yeah." You turn to close your locker, taking the opportunity to pull yourself together. "It's my first class, actually."

"Sweet. I'll walk you there."

"Oh, okay. Thanks." You struggle to hide your astonishment as you walk toward the classroom with him beside you.

And during the following days, he does the same. He makes it seem so natural that it slowly becomes routine for you. In history class, he sits next to you. During lunch break, you sit at the table at the back of the cafeteria. He always sits at a table next to Jason Carver, Chrissy Cunningham, and other popular jocks, but between bites of food, he always gives you a look. Eventually, at the end of the meal, he always gets up from their table and comes over to sit beside you. In history class, he always sits next to you. Strangely, Tommy Hagan makes no comment. After the first few times, the rest of the class seems to get used to it.

When the history teacher assigns the paired presentation on "The Role of Propaganda in World War II," the teacher lets you choose your partner. Billy and you are already sitting next to each other, so it’s automatic that you’ll work together. Part of you doubt he would choose to work with you if he wasn’t sitting next to you, but you decide not to think about it too much. You don’t mind the idea of working with him on the project. He offers to work on it at his place the following Saturday, as his dad and stepmom are in California for family matters.

It takes you twenty minutes to reach Cherry Lane. Billy’s house is about halfway there. His navy blue Camaro is parked out front, and as you approach, you see him on the opposite side of the car, rubbing a sponge against the back window. It’s warmer than usual, and he’s wearing a white tank top with basketball shorts. He notices you approaching and greets you with a nod, a cigarette clutched between his lips.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you greet back. You see a young red-haired girl walking past Billy. She has a skateboard under her arm, baggy jeans, and a short-sleeved T-shirt. She sees you, momentarily startled, and slows down, her blue eyes scanning you with detachment. Billy walks in the open garage, leaving you alone with her. You greet her with a hesitant wave of your hand, introducing yourself.

“I’m Max,” she replies. She must be Billy’s stepsister. He mentioned her a couple of times.

“Did you bring the books?” Billy returns with a bucket of water, setting it down beside the car.

You lift your linen shoulder bag slightly, indicating that your books are in there.

You feel Max’s eyes on you. Her blue eyes soften slightly, and she seems to recognize something. “You’re the girl who called last week, right?”

"Yes, that's me," you nod with a small smile. 

Max nods in acknowledgment, silently. She then sets the skater down on the ground. “You’re the first one who comes over to actually study.” 

An embarrassed smile breaks out on your face at her innuendo and you look away, feeling your cheeks heat up. The image of Billy with a girl while...no, you can't think about it.

“Piss off, Max,” Billy grumbles around his cigarette as he squeezes the sponge over the bucket, then jostles it twice to get rid of the water before scrubbing the windshield. 

Max rolls her eyes, but steps on her skateboard. She gives you a small smile. “See you.”

“Bye, Max.” you watch her skate away along the road.

“And don’t go too far,” Billy calls over the roof of the Camaro.

For a moment you get lost watching how the muscles of his back move under the tank top as he rubs the side of the car sponge.

“Almost done.” he calls over his shoulder. 

“You’re taking good care of it.” you observe as you approach the car, your hands tucked into your back pockets.

“You bet your sweet life I do. This baby cost me a good amount of money.” 

“When did you buy it?” you lean against the tree near the uneven stone steps leading up to the entrance of his house.

Billy takes the cigarette from between his lips, puffing some smoke into the air. “I was sixteen. Worked at a garage near my house for a couple of years before that. The owner found her after being on the hunt for months. She had roughly 10,000 miles on her already and was a little banged up. So, I had to use my savings and kept working there for a few months to pay for the repairs.”

He puts the cigarette back between his lips and pours the bucket of water over the car, washing off the soap. Then he takes a few steps backward until he’s next to you as he takes in the newly washed car.

“Not bad, huh?” 

“She’s really pretty.” you confirm with a nod. 

You've never been particularly enthused with cars, but you must admit that Billy's Camaro stands out in Hawkins. Moreover, the care he takes of it only enhances its shiny navy blue colour.

“Just like you.” 

You turn toward him, caught by surprise by his comment. As you do, he’s just taking the cigarette from his mouth after another drag, his eyes revealing a faint warmth that’s hard to perceive, blurred by the seemingly bored look his long lashes give him. But you see it. Even if for a second, you see it. The smoke curls lazily around him.

He luckily saves you from any clumsy answer, jerking his chin toward the house. “Come on, let’s get inside.”  

You hum while nodding in obligement, walking toward the house so he can avoid your flustered expression. Billy follows closely behind you, resting his hand on the back of your neck as you walk up the stone steps. He’s been doing that quite a few times. It’s nothing crazy, not an open hug or anything, but to you, his touch makes your heart glow and fills you with a comforting warmth. The house has a front screened porch, where two plants in a pot rest on the floor. You spot a grey rocking chair on the right side. 

“I like it.” you say. You wish you had a porch.

“Yeah, sometimes Max sits over there to read.” 

It’s a simple house, you notice, with modest furnishings. You both walk into Billy’s room, and you take in your surroundings. It’s a simple room. Apart from his bed, a few pieces of furniture, a mirror, and a wardrobe, there are things distinctly him that give the room character and warmth. Hanging on the wall are posters of bands like Metallica and Mötley Crüe. You also notice a stereo with two speakers. On the fireplace, there are some books.

“You brought it with you?” you ask with a smile, pointing to a yellow surfboard fading to green, leaning against the wall.

Billy sits on the bed, leaning his back against the wall. “Yes. It was out of the question for me to leave it in Cali.” with a wave of his hand, he invites you to come and sit next to him. 

You sit gingerly on the bed, books on your lap as he pops a piece of chewing gum into his mouth and offers you one. You take it, thanking him. Sitting so close, the warmth of his body seems to transfer directly from his thigh to yours.

“Are you gonna go back?” you ask, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. You pull your pencil case and a notepad out of your bag.

Billy snorts. “Hell yeah. I’m not staying here.”

It shouldn’t, but his statement stings a little. At the end of the school year, he will leave. After all, it was a foregone conclusion. There’s nothing to keep him here; his home is in California. He never told you specifically why he moved here. You had asked, jokingly, if his parents wanted "a change of air," and he had replied, ‘Something like that,’ without adding any explanation. So you had not pressed the issue any further. You learned that about certain things, Billy did not feel like talking. He clams up even more. If he wants to, you decide, he will open up to you.

“Yeah, I get it.” 

“Might work during the summer to save some money, though.” 

“There’s a garage downtown.” you offer, remembering what he said earlier.

“I was thinking more about the pool. Heard they pay very well.”

“Oh really?” 

“Yeah. Heather works there during summers,” he says, grabbing the history book from his bedside table and putting it on his lap.

“Heather Holloway?”’ you ask, your finger lingering along the edge of your notepad. 

There is only one Heather at school. Billy must be talking about her. She’s a pretty girl who comes from a good family. Her dad owns the Hawkins Post. She’s got it all.

“Yeah, you know her?”

“Oh, not directly. But yes, I know her. Her dad is pretty respected in town.” you bite your lip, fighting the urge to ask how he knows her. Are they friends? Did he date her? Is he still dating her?

You conclude it's none of your business, and thinking about it makes you feel weird. So you change the subject, finally opening the book and proposing to start working on the project. In between, you see Max walking past his room from the open door, her skateboard under her arm. After an hour of working, Billy stretches and a yawn escapes you. He lights a cigarette, inspiring a long puff of smoke, and titls his head up, looking at the ceiling. When he exhales, he also seems to sigh with relief. You realize how much smoking seems to be a way for him to relax, a need. 

“When did you start smoking?” you ask before you can stop yourself. Then immediately rush on adding “If you don’t mind me asking”.

“Must’ve been fourteen.” he says, “A friend of mine, Wayne, had been smoking for a year or so. Tried from his cig’ once, never went a day without smoking from there.” 

You hum pensively. 

Billy lolls his head to the side, a lazy smile plastered on his face. “You must think I’m fucking up my health, huh?”

“No, no.” you shake your head. Then you reconsider. “I mean…yes,” at which Billy starts laughing, a low gravelly laugh. “But, I know it must be hard to stop too, once you start. I can’t know, I’ve never tried.”

A second later, his cigarette appears in front of your eyes. He arches an eyebrow at you, looking at you expectantly. 

“Oh, I’m fine, thank you.” 

“Ah, come on. It’s not like you’re gonna get addicted after one drag. Live a little.” he gently nudges your thigh with his. 

You look at the cigarette with a mix of curiosity and hesitation. You've always wanted to try it, not because you want to start smoking, but just to confirm if it tastes bad so you can put the thought to rest.

“Okay. Just once, though.” you gingerly take the cigarette from between his fingers, holding it awkwardly and feeling as if it might fall off any second. You bring it to your lips, feeling his eyes on you. 

“Take it slow.”

It’s easier said than done. As soon as you breathe in the smoke, the end of the cigarette burning bright orange wildly, your lungs get filled with an unbearably burning sensation. You feel on fire. You can’t breathe. You start coughing non-repeatedly, your vision going blurred. 

Billy laughs again, taking the cigarette from your fingers as you try to fill your lungs with air. “Jesus, I said to take it slow.” 

Your face turns red from the effort, and your eyes water. You can't help but glare at him briefly as tears escape, your nose scrunching in disgust. He reaches out with his other hand, cups the side of your face, and gently brushes your tears away with his thumb.

“Breathe, now,” he says between chuckles.

“I don’t like it. It’s gross.” 

You say it both because you mean it and because it keeps you grounded under his touch. When he settles back against the wall, your heart keeps hammering against your ribcage.

"You're cute," he says before taking a drag, as if he's talking about the weather, and it only makes your flush an impossibly darker shade of red.

After he finishes his cigarette, Billy asks if you're hungry. You both head into the kitchen, and you sit at the table while he makes tuna sandwiches. He tells you it was the first thing he learned to make for himself when he was younger, back when his father used to work late before marrying Max's mother. He had to fend for himself. Over time, he learned to cook more dishes, especially when his father and stepmother were away for the weekend or running errands. A few years ago, he started weightlifting, which motivated him to learn even more about cooking. Despite all that, he still enjoys tuna sandwiches. Billy puts the sandwiches in the toaster and serves them to you on plates. As you take a bite, the taste of pickles and mayonnaise gives it an extra kick. It's delicious.

“Hey, can you make me one too?” Max emerges from the hallway, leaning against the kitchen doorway. 

Billy looks up from the cutting board he’s chopping pickles on as he makes his own sandwich, scowling at her. “Make it yourself.”

“Come on, you know I’m not good at this.”

“Well, you better learn how to make it. It’s a fucking tuna sandwich, not rocket science.” 

Max sighs, almost exasperated. "Fine, you stubborn ass. I’ll make it myself, but don’t cry to me when your precious pickles are all gone."

Billy looks up, irritation flickering in his eyes. "Hey! Language," he chides, pointing the knife in her direction, as if he hadn't sworn himself just a moment ago. He then gestures toward the empty chair beside you. "And sit down, if you want me to do it.”

Max quietly sits down next to you, a cheeky smile plastered on her face. Billy mutters under his breath, resuming chopping down the pickles. 

“With loads of mayo, please.” 

You’ve never seen Billy in a step-brother role before, and the dynamic between them is intriguing. You're suddenly curious about their relationship and how it has evolved since they first met.

“You’re lucky I’m even making this for you,” he grumbles, spreading the mayo generously on the bread.

“This is really good.” you say, pointing at your sandwich. 

“Yeah, Billy’s tuna sandwiches are rad.” Maxine approves. Then she shrugs. “He's an asshole, but if there's one thing he's good at, it's cooking.”

“Woah, thanks Maxine.” he ironically says. “Really portraying me well here.” 

You chuckle softly under your breath as Max ignores him, carrying on. “Can I go to Family Video later? I need to give back the movies.”

“Later when?” he asks as he assembles her sandwich. “We gotta work on the school project.”

“Like, in an hour?” 

“You’ll have to wait ‘till I drop her home.” 

Max huffs. “C’mon, Billy. I can skate there, it’s mid afternoon.”

“Ain’t no way I’m letting you go there on your own. It’s on my ass that Neil will be then.”

“I’ll be back before they’re home!” she tries again. “And I’ll bring back some good stuff.” 

You watch as Billy sighs heavily, walking in silence over to the table and setting Max’s dish in front of her. Then he points his finger at her, looking at her hard. “I’m warning you. If you’re not back here by four we’re gonna have a serious problem.”

Max mutters something along the lines of “Yeah, jeez, okay” as Billy walks back toward the counter.

He shoots a mildly warning look over his shoulder, his eyes glinting sharply. “And you better bring back some good stuff this time.”

Max gasps in outragement. “It wasn’t that bad!”

“It was crap.” 

Max turns toward you. “Have you watched Children of the Corn?”

“I don’t think I have.” you say. “What’s it about?”

“It’s a horror movie.”  

“Oh. I don’t really watch horror movies.” you smile sheepishly.  “Too scary, I can’t sleep for months then. I’m more into comedies or romances.”

“Those aren’t bad once in a while.” Max agrees. “We mostly watch horrors, but sometimes we happen to watch romances too.”

“You watch rom-coms,” Billy stresses out, as he adds the tuna-mayonnaise mix to his toast. 

“Please. How many times did you stay on the couch until the end?

“That’s because the NBA played later at night.” 

Max arches an eyebrow in disbelief. “Oh, really? And what about all those times you pretended to get a snack from the fridge, and I caught you hanging around in the hallway, peeking at the screen?"

“Are you eating or not?” Billy cuts her, “Tic tac, shitbird. You better hurry to the videostore before I change my mind.”

It’s hard for you to hold your laugh. You look down at your plate at your half-eaten sandwich, hearing him approaching with his plate.

Max huffs loudly, standing and grabbing her plate. “Whatever. See you.”

She waves at you before disappearing in the hallway. 

“See you, Max.”

Billy sits down beside you with a sigh, taking the spot where Max was just sitting. He immediately starts eating his sandwich, and you notice he eats much faster than you. You try not to let your eyes linger on his biceps as he leans forward to take another big bite, crumbs falling onto his plate. You repeat to him that his sandwich is really good, mentioning that when you make it at home, it’s usually dry and tasteless. You just don’t know how to combine the right things, and it gets boring.

“She seems to care about you a lot,” you observe as you both finish eating, referring to Max.

Billy rubs the back of his neck, a sigh leaving his lips. Then he leans back on the chair. “Yeah. Things weren’t, ah…things are better now.”

“You didn’t get along at first?” you tentatively ask.   

“Yeah, not really. Moving together was tough. But I was a dick back then.”

“You?”

You can kind of see it, but the person he’s shown to you is the opposite of what he’s describing. 

“Believe me, sweetheart.” he shakes his head, a rueful smirk on his face. "I'm no saint now, but you're lucky we didn't meet when I was younger.”

“I’m sure you didn’t have it easy.” you offer. 

“Well, Max didn’t either. Her dad doesn’t give a crap about her, her mom only dated assholes before my old man. Then she meets him, thinks she hit the jackpot, turns out he can compete against all of the previous ones together. They really found each other.”

“Is she bad?”

Billy shrugs. “Nah, just weak. And Neil has his way easy with weak people. He found the right woman to mold between his hands like he wants to.”

You listen to him attentively, your hand supporting your head as you rest your elbow on the table, facing him. Neil must be his dad. There’s always some distance, and coldness in the way he speaks about him. He never once referred to him as his dad. 

“It must’ve been hard for her…” you recognize. “Especially being that young.”

Billy stands, grabbing the three dishes as he grimaces. “Yeah, I was so wrapped up in my own anger that I completely overlooked that,” he says as he drops them in the sink, and then starts washing them. You stand up and bring him the two empty glasses. “Just didn’t want any of that crap. Moving in with these people I’ve barely seen a couple of times and act like a happy little family. Fuck that.” 

“Then the move…” you supply. 

"Then the move. Blamed her for all of it. Especially for the move, when in reality the whole thing was my fault. But yeah." 

Your eyes fall on his hand, noticing the harsh way he’s scrubbing the glasses with the sponge. You wonder what happened. What caused the move? What could Billy have done? You don’t want to press on it further, realizing how you could easily touch a sensitive nerve.

“Well, you seem to take good care of her. And I see how she looks at you.”

You could swear for a moment he's caught off guard, almost uncomfortable. Then he sniffs, drying his hands with a towel, his eyes wandering outside the kitchen window. "Yeah, trying to make up for all of it. It’s best to stick together in this crazy house."

There is something about all of this that puts you on edge, makes your skin prickle. Something unsettling is happening in this family. There are subtle but numerous hints you pick up on in your interactions with Billy. It's a month later that you uncover the ugly truth.

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A couple of weeks later May finally arrives, bringing longer days and warmer weather. You can already breathe in the summer air. The trailer park seems a little less gloomy now, with trees in bloom and green grass. In the evening, you hear crickets singing from the open hayloft in the kitchen or your room. On clear, sunny weekends, you and Billy go to Lovers Lake. It's not warm enough to swim yet, but you lie on the shore or on one of the deserted docks. You often do your homework or read while Billy smokes a cigarette or dozes. Your relationship has progressed; you feel much more comfortable around him. Though you don't know each other completely yet, you've gone out enough times to welcome the occasional silence, which no longer frightens you. Slowly, you feel yourself shedding layers of your shell. You think you can consider yourselves friends.

You were supposed to hang out that morning. He was meant to come over to study at your place before heading to Lovers Lake as planned. However, today, the familiar rumble of the Camaro doesn't show up. After a few hours of hesitation, you try calling his house. A man answers, presumably Billy's dad, and informs you that Billy is not home. The rest of the day passes in anxious waiting, but Billy never arrives. You try to push away thoughts of the worst-case scenario, but as the hours drag on, those fears keep creeping back. By Sunday, still no word from him. Billy has always been the opposite of what you expected—he never ignored you at school, never stood you up. Yet now, your fear seems to be materializing. Perhaps he's grown tired of you and found more captivating company. You wonder what you could possibly offer him. You're not as interesting or outgoing as his basketball team friends, nor do you provide the same entertainment as the high school girls he's dated, or might still be dating. Perhaps he's realized that after delving beneath the surface, there's nothing particularly captivating about you.

At dinner, your dad notices something is bothering you and asks what's wrong. You barely touch your plate, feeling like an amoeba. But he's dead tired from his factory shift, and you don't want to burden him with your worries, so you lie and tell him that you're not feeling well. Later, he rises from the sofa, gives you a kiss on the head, and advises you not to stay up too late before retiring to his room. Despite the sound of the TV in the background, you feel lonelier than ever, and the resignation settling over you is almost worse than the whirlwind of emotions you've experienced all day. Hours pass, and you start to doze off curled up on the sofa, the movie you started barely catching your attention. Then, you're jolted awake by the roar of a familiar engine outside the trailer. It's as if a shot of adrenaline has pierced through your lethargy. You sit up abruptly, heart racing, straining your ears to confirm what you've heard. The noise ceases, prompting you to hurry to the door, moving slowly to avoid disturbing your sleeping dad. Your heart skips a beat when, through the window, you spot Billy's familiar silhouette in the dim light cast by the bulb outside.

When you open the door, Billy seems momentarily surprised to see you. As if he didn't expect you to open it so promptly. But then that expression is washed away by his usual smirk.

“You sure were waiting for me, huh?”

You stifle a gasp of horror at the sight of his bruised and battered face, instinctively bringing your hands to your mouth to muffle any sound that might wake your father. To say he's in a bad state would be an understatement.

"Oh my God, Billy."

Closing the front door softly behind you, you step out into the night air, standing in front of him, your concern palpable.

"Good to see you too," he jokes, but his playful expression fades as he realizes his attempt to lighten the mood isn't working.

"Oh God..."

You draw closer, taking in his state. There’s an angry bruise around his left eye, dark purple and almost black, with hints of red and blue around the edges, swollen and puffy. Traces of dried blood linger around his nostrils, and his nose is swollen, the bridge as purple as the area under his eye.

"It's fine," he says.

"Sorry... can I just..." setting aside your shyness, you gently take his face in your hands, tilting his head slightly backward. You won’t fail to notice his small wince as you do so. His lip is cut and swollen. "Does it hurt a lot?"

“Nah. It’s okay.”

"What happened?" you ask softly as you brush his chin with your thumb, almost afraid of causing him further pain.

Billy doesn't seem concerned at all, contrasting with your likely alarmed expression. He looks almost unfazed, the corners of his eyes crinkling into his usual amused expression.

"Got into a fight with a guy. He was just drunk, and I was there."

You frown in confusion. "Were you... at a bar or something?"

"Yeah, I uh...at the pub downtown. Just happened to cross paths with him. He thought I was looking at his girl or something."

"A major dick," you mutter under your breath, your eyes still scanning his cut. It looks deep, like the blood struggled to stop flowing. There's still some dried blood on his chin.

Billy chuckles, then after a moment, he speaks quietly, "Yeah, a major dick. Got him good, though."

“You didn’t clean it. It’s going to get infected, I’ll quickly get…”

“S’fine, really.” while exhaling a sigh through his nose, his hand encircles your wrists, prying yours gently away. 

You lower your gaze to his hands to examine the damage there. But that’s when you notice it. His knuckles are completely fine. There isn’t a single cut on them.

“Billy…” you hold his hands, then look at him.

He seems to pick up on what you’re thinking because he pulls his hands away, scratching his nose with his knuckles, acting as nonchalant as ever. You notice how his hands seem to twitch, like he’s got this nervousness he can’t shake off. As if he’s itching for something. Itching for a smoke. 

“I’m gonna clean it when I get home. Wanna go to the quarry? I’ve got some sweets Max forgot in the car earlier,” he suggests, nodding towards the Camaro parked behind him at the beginning of the trailer park. It's likely he didn’t want to wake anyone, especially your dad, given how late it is.

“But…”

“Sweetheart. Please,” he cuts you off. You freeze in place at the harsher tone of his last word. Billy sighs, running a hand through his curls. “M’sorry. Can we just not talk about it?” he looks tired, but not physically tired—mentally tired. You can sense the exhaustion in his gaze, a silent plea underlying his question.

A twist forms in your stomach as the reality sinks in. It confirms that something very wrong, something dark, is happening in his life. You begin to reflect on how you might have overlooked the signs. You feel the urge to ask him if the person causing him harm is who you suspect. You want to help him. But you push down those thoughts and emotions.

“Okay. Okay, of course,” you softly say. “Can I just go and grab the first-aid kit before we leave? Please.”

Billy clenches his jaw and looks away. You can see how hard this must be for him, and the last thing you want is for him to feel like he can't be vulnerable around you. 

“All right.” he finally says.

After quietly retrieving the first aid kit, you get into the car with Billy. You’re not too worried about your father waking up since he sleeps like a rock, and it’s a Friday night after all. The car ride to the quarry is unusually silent. You try to break the ice by asking Billy how the basketball game went a few days ago or how Max liked the movie you recommended the last time you saw her. However, Billy responds with noncommittal short answers, clearly not fully present in the moment. Something must be weighing heavily on his mind. Sensing his mood, you decide to fill the silence by sharing what you’ve been up to lately. You mention that your father's co-worker, Wayne Munson, who lives in the trailer right across the street, came over for coffee the other day. Wayne has a son who’s a year or two older than you. You’ve never really talked to him, as he tends to keep to himself, but he seems nice enough. Now that the weather is warmer, you often see him sitting on the porch of his trailer, either smoking or reading a book. He always greets you when you walk by or take out the trash. You know he struggled in school, having flunked twice in his senior year, but he graduated last year and now works as a mechanic downtown. Talking about the mechanic job seems to catch Billy’s interest. You remind him of the conversation you had a while back when he mentioned wanting to work as a mechanic during the summer. Billy starts to loosen up and tells you that he plans to stop by the car shop in the next few days.

On this warm night, the air is balmy and filled with the earthy scent of blooming wildflowers and fresh foliage. As he has a couple of times before, Billy parks the car near the edge of the quarry, just where the thick line of trees begins. Gravel crunches softly under the tires, the only sound of the quiet evening.

The towering trees cast shadows blurred in the moonlight, their leaves rustling softly in the warm breeze. Before he can say anything, you open the first-aid kit on your lap and gently shush him when he objects. As you gently clean the dried blood around his nostrils and the cut on his lip with an antiseptic wipe, Billy winces slightly but doesn’t pull away. You then apply a bit of the antibiotic ointment to the wounds to prevent infection. Finally, you use a gauze pad to gently dab at the bruised areas, careful not to press too hard. Throughout the process, Billy remains mostly silent, his eyes closed, occasionally taking a deep breath. The temperature feels good outside, so once you’re finished you both get out of the car. Billy rounds the car and sits on the ground with a wince, resting his back against the side of the car. So you do the same. You stand in front of the quarry. Under the pale light of the crescent moon, the quarry walls loom like ancient sentinels, their rough surfaces casting long, mysterious shadows. The water at the bottom of the quarry is a dark, mirror-like expanse, reflecting the twinkling stars above.

"Here," Billy says, holding up some green candy canes along with a pack of cigarettes. It looks different from his usual pack of Marlboro Reds, but you don’t think much of it initially.

"What flavor is it?" you ask, taking one of the candies from the packet.

"Must be sour apple."

As you begin to chew, the taste of apple indeed invades your taste buds. From the corner of your eye, you see Billy pull a cigarette out of the pack, then hear him swear.

"Shit." Billy curses. "That's a candy. Didn’t even notice it."

You see the candy cigarette between Billy's fingers and an amused chuckle escapes your lips.

"Don't worry, it's an easy mistake. Guess even tough guys can mix up their vices sometimes."

That makes him snort a quiet laugh, and even if it’s without a real smile and it’s short-lived, you managed to make him laugh a bit.

Billy leans his head against the metal of the Camaro, his hand holding the lighter dropping to his thigh. "They must be in the car."

He must be referring to his cigarettes. You remain silent for a few seconds, contemplating whether to offer to go get them for him. You look at his tired profile: eyes closed, head resting against the car, throat exposed, Adam's apple slightly prominent. Looking at his bruised face makes your stomach twist with concern, your heart sinking. At least his wounds are clean now. You feel the urge to reach out and brush aside the curl that falls over his eye. But you don’t. Instead, your gaze shifts to the quarry.

“You’ve been really smoking a lot, Billy.” 

Your words slip out quietly, as if afraid of disrupting the fragile balance of the evening. You’ve observed Billy smoking ever since you met him. Lately, though, you’ve noticed how his fingers are more often occupied by a cigarette than free of it. You’ve seen his nervous fidgeting in class—how he jitters his knee, taps the rubber end of his pencil on the desk, scratches his stubble with his knuckles, and frequently shifts position in his chair. And now, whenever you’re together, he’s pulling one out from his pack at least once.

Billy opens his eyes slightly, glancing at you. He sighs and looks away, his expression hardening a bit. "Yeah, well, it helps," he says gruffly, but there's a hint of something softer in his voice. "Don't worry about it. I'll cut back... someday."

He sees the probably worried look on your face. He’s so young, and he smokes already this much. You don’t even realize how you’re worrying at your lip. 

“I’ll try and slow down, alright?” 

You nod hesitantly as he offers you a cigarette candy that you take. 

“Just ‘cause you can't stand the smell of smoke.” he teases you, his eyes sleepy and slightly amused. 

“What? I…that wasn’t…” you stutter, feeling embarrassed he caught you. “That’s not why I think you should stop! It’s for your health…”

“But it bothers you too,” a grin forms on his face as he reaches out, and before you can stop you he pinches right above your knee, making you jump and squeal in surprise. He’s learned how ticklish he makes you, and he’s never stopped teasing you with it ever since. l “I know you do.”

“Stop! Stop it!” 

“You alway scrunch up your nose like it’s the most disgusting thing in the world.”

“Stop it, okay!” you try to free your leg with a high-pitched laugh as he tries to pinch you again. “You’re right, I hate it! Hands off, now.”  

You push his hand away as he finally relents, trying to catch your breath. Billy shakes his head in amusement. He tugs at his candy stick with his teeth.

“Knew it,” he says. 

You simply take another candy from his hands, avoiding his gaze as he chews on his. You’re hyper-aware of how flushed you are now, embarrassed that he noticed. You didn't want him to realize that his smoking bothered you.

“I haven’t even realized I do that…” you then say, breaking through the quiet.

“It’s kinda cute.”

His comment makes your heart race and your face flush even more. You glance down, fiddling with the wrapper of the candy in your hand. “Thanks”, you mumble softly, barely audible.

“You sure as hell would make a good nurse.” he mumbles then, shifting his position, wincing a bit and you notice how he brushes his hand over his left side. “All caring and everything. You took care of my wounds pretty well.”

If it wasn’t for what he just said, you would ask him if he got hurt there as well. You try to mask your embarrassment with a casual shrug. "I don't think I'd like being a nurse," you say, managing to keep your voice steady. "Too much pressure and responsibility."

Billy nods, taking your words in stride. "Fair enough," he says. "Then what would you like to be?”

You let out a soft sigh, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the question. "I don't know," you admit, staring down at your hands. "It's hard to figure out."

"Tell you what, it’s pretty simple," Billy says. "What do you like?”

You lift your eyes from your hands, a bit surprised by his question. “What do you mean?”

Billy pops another candy in his mouth. “See, I like cars and I’m pretty good at working on them. So, I know I’m gonna be a mechanic.” he lazily gestures at himself, then at you. “What do you like?”

You ponder his question for a moment, thinking about the things that bring you joy. "I like to take pictures," you say finally. "Especially portraits of people. Capturing their expressions, their emotions... it feels special."

"Then you should be a photographer," he says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. 

You smile at his straightforwardness, feeling a warmth spread through you. "Maybe," you say, considering the possibility.

Billy leans his head back against the car. "You know, the guy I was working for in San Diego once told me something," he says. "He said that at the end of the day, it's simple. You need to find something you like and you're really good at, then make it your job. That's how you'll make it in life."

His words resonate with you, and you find yourself nodding in agreement. "That makes sense," you say softly. 

Photography has always been your favorite hobby. Until recent dramatic events, you used to do it a lot. You have a lot of pictures in the drawer of your desk. Billy tells you he wants you to show them to him sometime. He also says it’s a shame you stopped and that you should start doing it again. You haven’t spoken specifically about your mom leaving yet. You’ve noticed he’s very sensitive about it, careful not to push your boundaries. He’s never asked questions. However, tonight he simply tells you that if photography makes you happy, it’s important to not give up on it, as passions have a way of pulling us through hard times.  You realize how Billy has a way of making things simpler, of helping you see what's important. And in that moment, you feel a deep sense of gratitude for his presence in your life.

You stay at the quarry until two am, and it’s when you start yawning repeatedly that Billy says it’s time to go. Sitting in the car, despite the warm weather, feels good as the night has gotten chilly. You feel sleepy, but nonetheless, you continue to think about the current situation. You don’t want Billy to go home, there’s something that makes you feel on the edge, you want to talk about it with him so bad but don’t even know how to approach the subject. Despite that, sleep starts to take over you, but once halfway through the ride to the trailer park, a brownish silhouette crosses the road in front of you.

“The fuck.” Billy floors both the clutch and the brakes, and you’re thankful for having your seatbelt on. Your body slams forward and back again, and you hit your head against the headrest for the impact. 

A deer, froze into place a few seconds before, rushes toward the the other side of the road, running wildly and disappearing through the trees.

“Ouch.” 

Billy heaves a loud sigh. “God…frickin’ stupid forest.” 

Your heartbeats slow down as you recover from the surprise, your hand feeling the back of your head. 

“Yeah, we have lots of them here,” you mumble. 

“Jesus.” he looks then at you. “You alright?” 

His hand comes up, touching yours so you drop it. He gently rests it on the back of your head where it still throbs. It’s warm and big. He literally could crush you if he wanted to. But his touch is soft. 

“It’s fine.” you squeak, the sudden touch making you burn. 

“Hurts a lot?” he mutters’, his thumb petting the skin at the nape of your neck. 

“A little bit. It’s gonna pass.”

“Alright.” he relents after a few seconds, then pushes on the gas again. 

The remainder of the car journey passes in silence. Billy stops exactly where he had stopped before, the headlights briefly illuminating the 'Forest Hills' panel before he switches off the engine. Darkness envelops you, blending with the night's silence and the quiet of the car. You're not quite sure what to say. You're uncertain how to bid him farewell. Truth be told, you have no desire to say goodbye to him. The last thing you want is to let him go, sensing that he will likely return to danger as soon as you step into the house. 

"I'm sorry," he says, breaking through the quiet.

You turn toward him, confusion and surprise evident in your expression. "For what?"

"For standing you up."

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

“It’s not though.” you can see him shake his head from the corner of your eye. “That was a dick move. Could’ve at least called you.” 

Turning your whole body towards him, you lean against the passenger seat. Now that a couple of hours have passed, his eye is swollen and darker.

"Billy, it's okay. Really. I know you..." you hesitate, then look down at your hands, feeling the weight of his gaze on you. You try to find the right words, careful not to touch the subject again, especially not to delve into details. "I know you weren't at the pub earlier."

At these words, Billy turns his head and looks away, towards the window. Sensing his discomfort, you hurriedly continue speaking. "And that's alright. I don't need you to explain yourself to me. I get it. I just want you to know that I know. 

Tentatively, you extend your hand towards his, resting on the shift gear. Holding your breath, you anticipate a possible rejection. 

“And I understand."

Billy doesn't shoo you away but remains as still as a statue, his elbow resting against the window, his knuckles against his mouth. Your heart tightens as you imagine the pain hidden beneath the shield he wears, the horrors he must have endured so far. Just as you begin to release the pressure on his hand, preparing to withdraw, Billy sighs and turns his hand palm up, slipping his fingers between yours and squeezing. His touch is warm, sending an electric signal throughout your body, causing your heart to leap. Reassured by his welcoming touch, your thumb caresses the back of his hand.

“I know we haven’t known each other for long,” you say softly, careful not to disrupt the fragile connection between you. “But I care about you. And I’m here for you. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

Billy rests his head against the headrest, his eyes closed. He squeezes your hand. “Thanks, sweetheart.” his voice is low and gravelly, as quiet as yours.

You stay like this for a moment, perhaps him relishing in the weight lifted by your confession, and you in his acceptance of your attempt to bridge the gap between you.

“I should go now.” you whisper, glancing at the house, though that’s the last thing you want to do. 

Billy releases his hand from your grip and then reaches for his pack of cigarettes in the center console, his gaze avoiding. “Yeah, it’s late.”

“Will you be okay?” you ask him. 

“Yeah, don’t sweat it.”

Even as you look at him, Billy avoids making eye contact with you. He takes a cigarette, lighting it up, the flame piercing through the darkness and briefly illuminating his bruised face. It's as if he's peeled back one layer too many for his liking. You understand this, though it leaves you feeling distant from him. You miss the warmth he usually radiates. Quietly accepting the situation, you purse your lips and reach for the door handle. 

You glance back at him, failing to lock eyes with him as he exhales the smoke whilst tilting his head back. “Try to rest. And…uhm, call me if you need it. Please.”

Billy merely nods. “Yeah. Night.”

As you walk toward your house, the chilly night air envelops you, and you try to shake off the feeling of helplessness and emptiness that grips you. You're still trying to wrap your head around it, to accept the extent of his condition. It's kind of a shock.

As you hear his car door slam, you turn back to him.

"Did you forget something?" you ask, keeping your voice low as he approaches, the cigarette dangling between his fingers.

You don't understand his actions as he draws closer and closer, and for a second your body tenses, until he reaches out and pulls you toward him. It’s only when you’re pressed against his body that you realize he has his arms wrapped around you. Speechless, you allow your arms to encircle his neck, his face nuzzling into your neck, his breath mingling with your hair. You can sense the weight of unspoken words in the fierceness of his embrace, his forearms pressing against your back. Standing on your tiptoes to meet him, you ease the strain as he's slightly bent over you due to his height. But it doesn’t last long, so you simply allow yourself to be engulfed by his tall figure. You hope he can't feel how fast your heart is pounding against your chest, but at the same time, you find yourself not caring. Relief washes over you as the distance he had put between you earlier dissipates into the night air. And it feels good. You could easily get used to all of this. The butterflies in your stomach, the profound happiness as he’s everywhere, around you, against you. You realize that you could stay like this forever, and the thought scares you.

After what feels like an eternity, yet somehow not enough, he finally pulls away. Your hair is tangled with his, and with a gentle touch, he first separates his from yours. Then, with the same hand, he carefully sweeps your hair behind one of your shoulders. With his other arm releasing you, he taps the cigarette with his finger to release the ashes. His eyes carry a sleepy gaze, and this time you're certain they're sleepy in every sense of the word. Nonetheless, they bore into yours with the same overwhelming intensity.

“You sleep tight, okay?” 

You nod a couple of times, still speechless and unable to function by his proximity. 

As you watch his retreating form and assured stride, you feel your heartstrings pulling more strongly towards him with each step he takes, as if he's carrying your heart with him.

[issdisgrace]

THE START OF BILLY HARGROVE AND HIS METAL HEAD BF RELATIONSHIP

WARNINGS: Use of the word fag, nothing else​

A/N: There will be a part 2 in the future eventually.​

You and Billy officially met when you two were paired together for a History project. Both of you hated the idea of having to work with each other because why wouldn’t you.

You two were complete opposites. You were a 6’2 metal head that wore corpse paint, band tees, and arguably way to many rings. While Billy was a 5’10 blonde hair blue eyed fuck boy that drove a loud ass car.

So it was no surprise that you both asked the teacher if there was anyway to get a different partner.

Unfortunately or rather fortunately the two of you couldn’t get out of doing the project together. While neither of you really cared all that much for your grades you both needed to pass the class and the project would count as 50% of your grade. So you both had to do it whether you liked it or not.

Anyway you begrudgingly both shared your information with one another and planned to meet up at your place that Friday to work on the project together.

Eventually Friday rolled around and Billy showed up late as always in his blue 1979 Chevrolet Camaro.

To say Billy didn’t want to be there was an understatement. Fortunately for him you had all the information the two of you would need to put together the project.

So things went smoothly and you two talked back and forth as you worked getting to know each other.

Which was when you both found out that you shared a genuine love of cars. This definitely helped your guys acquaintanceship and made the project go by quicker.

Anyway in the end the project only took you guys 3 hours which was less than what you both expected it to take. After you guys finished Billy left your place and that Monday you guys presented to the class before you both went back to strangers.

You two stayed strangers again for 2 months until Billy had a problem with his Camaro and didn’t want someone he didn’t know touching his baby so instead of taking it to a mechanic and knowing you worked on cars, he showed up at your house asking for you to look at.

You were of course surprised by this visit and even more surprised when he asked you to take a look at his Camaro. You of course agreed and took a look. It ended up being something real easy to fix so you.

So you took off your rings and handed them to Billy for safe keeping. As you bent over the Camaro fixing the problem.

Billy quietly watched you from the side as you worked on the Camaro. He took note of everything about you from your height and build to your clothes and corpse paint.

As he watched you he felt something grow in his chest. Something all too familiar. Something that he frankly hated. Something he wished to ignore specifically being in this shit hole of a town.

This town wasn’t all to found of people like him. People that liked same gender. But Billy would never call himself a fag sure he liked men but he also liked women. He had no clue what he was but he knew he liked you.

Maybe it was the fact you were so openly yourself and didn’t care what others thought of you or maybe was it the way you held yourself and talked. Who knows because Billy certainly didn’t.

As you were finish up Billy realized he needed to pay you for your work somehow. He wondered if you were gay and would go out on a date with him as payment.

“You’re all set. Your baby should be working at 100% again.”

“Thanks……Um would you maybe want to go out on a date with me. It’s all on me, I just want to um pay you back for your work.”

“Sure that’s fine with me. I’m free this Saturday if that good with you.”

“Yeah that works for me.”

“Well it’s a date then.”

[finelinepie]

"On The Field"

PART TWO:

Footballrry / Reader

Plot: Dating the football star is not what you pictured happening your sophomore year of college, but it's happening, and you have to keep calm...how does one keep calm when he looks like...that?

Word count: 3.51K

Warnings: a swift kick in the ass. JK, just a punch or two.

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

3 MONTHS AGO

“I cannot believe we are even having this discussion right now. You promised you would be there.” Isla whined at me.

“Isla, I am still going. I am just going to be late.” I tried to reason with her. 

“Y/N, I can’t go out there without you?!” She yelled, throwing herself on her dorm bed, I rolled my eyes sitting on my bed across the room.

“Isla, you won’t be on the field for the first 20 minutes anyways, I am going to be there for you. I just need to turn in these essays to my professor so I can get this class over with, and since she has meetings tonight in the class room with other students, she is allowing me to drop them off. Also, it is dead ass across the street, please stop being dramatic.” I chuckle, watching my best friend throw her arms down on the bed. 

“Okay, the dramatics are done. But I am letting you know that if I embarrass myself in those 20 minutes that my good luck charm isn’t there, that’s on you, Y/N!” She sighed loudly.

“I will take the fall, you have my word. I love you, I’ll see you soon.” I promised and grabbed my bag before racing out. Hurrying down the two sets of stairs and out the door, I make my way across the street to the vehicle that puts a smile on my face everytime I see it. 

My 1967 Chevy Camaro. My parents were tuners growing up. They met at an illegal street race back when they were both 18, the grand prize? A dark teal 1967 Chevy Camaro Z28, but not just any ‘67 Chevy. MY ‘67 Chevy. They tied that race and agreed to split the time between them and the car.. That is not how races go, but my parents wouldn’t take no for an answer and the rest was history for them. She is a thing of beauty. With the bold, blacked out grille that has a Z28 badge in the middle, she stands alone in a crowd so beautiful as the white pin stripes make her stand out wherever she goes. She has 15-inch Rally wheels, which are iconic to the Z28, wrapped in Goodyear Wide Tread GT tires. She is perfect and I wouldn’t trade her for anything. 

Hopping into the driver seat I push the key into the ignition and listen to my girl come to life. The smooth revving of her engine fills my ears as I pull out of the parking spot I am in. I slowly released the accelerator as I came up to a stop sign, I texted my professor on the group forum that we have that I was on my way and quickly set my phone down. Looking both ways before driving, I pressed on the gas to get to campus. 

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

Pulling into a parking spot, I swiftly turn my car off before grabbing my bag from the backseat, hauling ass inside the building my professor's room is in. I have time. I shouldn’t be rushing, but Isla’s dramatic ass has me worried she’ll purposefully fall just to spite me. She is dramatic AND petty like that. The hallway is quiet and nearly empty as I walk towards her Office. I gently knock on her door, not wanting to interrupt the study session she is currently in. “Come in!” I hear her soft voice speak up. Opening the door, I see the students all sitting in their usual lecture hall spots as she has a powerpoint pulled up on the board. I walked down the steps at a leisurely pace and smiled at her as I made eye contact.

“OH! Y/N! Welcome in, do you have the essays for me?” Mrs. Portello asked with a smile.

“Yes, thank you again for allowing me to barge in here and hand them in. I also want to say thank you for allowing me time on that last essay.You are the best, seriously.” I smiled back while handing her my folder with both essays inside.

“Oh nonsense! Things happen, no need to dwell on it. I am glad you were able to go home for the week and be with your family. I will read these over tonight and your last official grade will be posted tomorrow before noon.” She patted my shoulder before setting my folder on her keyboard. Front and center so she doesn’t forget. “Now, Go enjoy the game, and tell Isla I am rooting for her.” She winked. I laughed loudly before nodding. She must have told the professor something dramatic.

Zipping up my bag I walk up the step towards the door. Opening the door as quietly as I can I am just as gentle closing it, careful to not disturb the students and Professor Portello once more. Making my way out of the building across to the parking lot, I climb into my Camero. Glancing at my phone, I see I have a text from Isla.

Isla ☼ : Hurry up, we have 10 minutes until Kick off!

Y/N: On my way, see you soon drama queen.

I fire up the engine again, listening in pure bliss over the purr she gives me and as the sound fills the air, I am making my way to the stadium.

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

Pulling into the stadium parking lot, I can already see the lights of the field glowling brightly against the night sky. I find a spot before making my way inside, showing them my photographer badge, I make my way in front of the bleachers next to the cheerleaders. Isla is front and center, giving her team guidance and confidence boosts like she does every game.

The excitement of the game, seeing everything come together for both the cheerleaders, and the footballers and also the prospect of seeing all the students and fans fill the stands lifting my spirits, making me quickly forget about the essays I handed in to Portello that decide my fate.

Isla spots me immediately and waves at me and motions me towards her.

“You made it!” She exclaims, throwing her arms around me.

“Ofcourse I did. I told you it would be quick. Now get out there and show them what you got.” I winked and swatted her leg. She squealed out a giggle and hopped over to her team and then quickly made her way out to the track to cheer for our college.

“You are the best, Y/N!” She yelled to me, but quickly let the smile leave her lips as she got ready to count the girls in. I watch as she stands with the rest of the cheer squad, feeling a sense a pride and anticipation. Grabbing my camera out of the camera back, I am quick to capture her stance, before moving to the left and then the right to capture the other girls in their ready stances.

Isla puts her poms together over her head before shouting loud to the crowd,

“R-O-W-D-I-E, that’s the way we get rowdie, ROWDIE. let’s get rowdie.” and claps three times. This time her teams joins in before they yell for the Badgers. “LET’S GO BADGERS!”

The crowd does as they say and starts stomping lowdly, smiling at the enthusiasm, I lift my camera one more time and capture the crowd in their moment of pure choas.

Co cheer captain Danielle waves her palms before starting the wisconsin cheer.

“U, RA RA, U RA RA.” She shouts and the stadium is quick to shout back. “WIIIISCONSIN.”

Isla is next, “U, RA RA, U RA RA.” And ofcourse we all follow suit. “WISCONSIN.” Everyone joins in for the 3rd and 4th round and says it quickly.

“Alright Wisconsin!” The announcers voice comes. “Let’s give it up to the team that brings us to victory everytime, the WIIIISCONSINN BAAADGERRRRS.” He exclaims, and I am quick to capture the crowd before swiftly turning around and getting the star player smasking through the paper banner.

Harry Styles. Star player, golden boy, most beloved, and smart as a wip. He closes his fists together pumping them outward and roars for the crowd as he runs to the center of the field. *click* What a man.

He puts his arms in the air and screams. “Let’s fucking go!” *click* With his arms still up he makes eye contact with me before forming the goal post with his arms, eyes squeezing closed with his tongue sticking out. *click* What that tongue do. wtf is wrong with me.

With a wink to my lense, and a finally *click* I am quick to pan to over to where the once put together banner was and got flicker shots of the rest of the team coming out. The chilly-ness in the air tonight making it look cool as you can see their breath as they shout and run out towards their captain on the field.

“Tonight, we play Idiana University, The Purdue Boilmakers!” The annoucer says, and that moment the opposing team, Purdue is quick to make their exit under the tunnel and the loud crowd on the opposite side of the field is shouting for them as well.

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

WISCONSIN: 22 VS PURDUE: 13

Looking up at the scores never gets old, even almost two years in I get excited to see our team kick the opposing teams ass and it is a rush everytime. Hearing the cheers of the squad and the crowds, I am quick to continue flicker shots of my camera.

With time counting down, We are all in suspense as the Center, Ryder, snaps the ball to Harry, who immediately drops back to pass. The offensive line holds their blocks well, creating a solid pocket.

Harry has three choices for this pass, the wide reciever, the slot reciever, or the outside reciever. After seeing his options, he notices the linebackers biting on the drag, and the cornerback on the outside reciever giving him a bit of cushion. Harry reads the defense with precision, he delivers a high pass over the line backers and just ahead of the safeties.

Our teams tight end makes and athletic leap, catching the ball at its highest point, securing it with both hands. He lands in the endzone, securing the touchdown. The crowd erupts as the Badgers take the lead.

Harry shakes his tight ends shoulders with pride before getting bumped by Purdue’s captain, the surprise attack coming out of nowhere has harry knocking into his team mate. The visible anger is enough for the other Badgers to step in to help hold harry back.

“What the hell dude?” Harry’s deep voice snaps at the captain.

“Oh, my apologies, I didnt know my opposing captain was such a pussy.” The footballer snickered. I rolled my eyes. What a comeback dude.

“Harry!” The Badgers coach shouted across the field. “He ain’t worth it son.” He shouted once more. Harry’s team grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him toward their bench.

“I might not be worth it, but you know who is?” He patronizes. “Your cheer team. They look like a fun time.” He digs deep.

Our football team shake their heads in unison, still walking away without confronting the situation any longer. The announcer noticed the tention on the field before saying you cut it with a knife. I picked my camera up and pressed the capture button. Proud of our boys for taking the high road, documenting the moment, the click was like a pin dropping.

“Or maybe your little photographer. She looks like fun.” He chuckled. Um, ew?

“In your dreams, dude.” I scoffed, but my luck has never been the best, because what I thought was under my breath actually wasn’t.

“What the fuck did you just say?” He snapped. Choosing to ignore him, I am staring down at my camera, looking at him through the screen that is angled up at me. I pretend to click the non touch screen, trying not to add to the attention I have created for myself. He has angled his body my way before making his way towards me. Having the inkling to press record, I do, and my god this next part is cinema. “That’s what I thought, stupid bit-” He is cut off by a flying fist hitting him square in the jaw. Moving my camera quickly you can see Harry’s arm before he is on top of the rival captain and punching him once more in the jaw before getting up. Please god tell me I got that all on camera. Looking down and playing back the video, I see I did infact get it and cannot wait to show Harry later.

“Don’t EVER talk about a lady like that.” Harry barked. Officially walking away, and straight to the coach to get repremanded. My legs are metaphorically spread.

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

WISCONSIN: 37 VS PURDUE: 17

The crowd roared to life as the final touchdown was played. The Wisconsin Badgers beat the Purdue Boilmakers for the second time this season and with how halftime went, no one on our side is complaining. Infact, they are cheering and chanting the only four words that matter whenever we win a game.

“EAT SHIT. FUCK YOU.” Over and over until the last fan of the rival team is off benches and off our field. I have just captured the last photo of the night and while I am putting my camera down to hang around my neck I am looking every which way for my trusty hero.

I won’t pretend that Harry and I are friends, because that is not the case. He is nice and stands apart from the typical college guys who are either rude or just looking for a hookup. Harry parties hard, but he’s also incredibly smart and priorities his grades and football over being the campus’ biggest jerk. It’s this balance that make him Intriguing.

Our paths crossed often enough- shared classes, mutual friends, the occasional study group- but we’ve never had a deep conversation. Still, there’s a mutual respect there. He is the kind of guy who will hold the door open for you, offer a polite nod in the hallway, and never push boundaries.

So when Isla dragged me to yet another party at the frat house where Harry lives, I didn’t mind as much. The house was loud and choatic, filled with music and mingling voices. Isla was immediately swallowed by the crowd and I found a nice quiet corner to people watch and sip on my jack and coke.

As the night went on, I noticed Harry moving around the crowd, talking to everyone, yet never staying in one place for too long. He had this effortless way of making people feel at ease, and it was clear why he was well-liked. When our eyes met, he gave me a small knowing smile and raised his cup in acknowledgement.

I smiled back, feeling a strange mix of comfort and curiosity. It was clear that Harry had layers, and while I wasn’t looking to peel them back, it was nice to know that not everyone at this college fit into the same mold. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to him than meets the eye. And maybe, just maybe, i’d find out some day.

But until then, Let’s find him so we can watch this video in slow motion and watch the football captain of Purdue get his shit rocked.

“Hey, Y/N!” I hear my name get called. Turning around I see Isla walking over with the one I was looking for. He has an iceback on his fist and he is looking straight at me. I smile at them both and wave.

“Isla!” I screamed, “I got that whole thing on video and I need you both to watch it ASAP.” I giggled. Isla squeeled and agreed while Harry groaned.

“I can’t believe I let my anger get the best of me.” He sighed loudly.

“But it made for great cinema Harry.” I winked. Pulling my camera up I went to the video and played it. “I’ll send you a copy. BAM. Bitch went down.” I rewind and played it one more time in slow motion.

“You did not just quote Tatum from Scream because I punched someone?” Harry laughed loudly.

“OFCOURSE I qouted the second queen of scream. Thank you for doing that by the way, it means alot.” I smiled. He shook his head and waved me off. Lowering my camera, I looked down to the screen. I felt Isla put her arm around my shoulder.

“Well, I am off. I really do want a copy of that. Our own personal superhero, I want a keepsake.” Isla giggled when Harry rolled his eyes and shook his head.

When Isla walked away Harry kept his gaze on her, not once looking down, still focused on her head. When she turned left at the field gate to walk to the parking lot, Harry looked down at his cleats before inhaling a deep breath

“So, you’re a Scream fan, huh?” I can just hear the smirk in his voice, and when I looked up I was right, tucking some hair behind my ear I nodded. Stop smirking at me, I’m feeling things.

“It is a guilty pleasure for sure.” I blushed. Keeping my eyes locked on his I could see a glint of adoration in his eyes, why? I couldn’t tell you. I felt the shyness creeping up and I quickly dropped my head to look at my camera.

I heard is quiet laughter and then soon after felt his knuckle under my chin. Making eye contact once more, He smiles softly at me. “Maybe we could watch them together.” He whispered.

My eyes widen, “Like a date?” I whispered back. abort abort abort abort.

“Woah woah woah, take me out to dinner first.” He pulled away and smirked, resulting in me slapping him lightly on the arm and giggling causing him to howl out a cackle.

“I would love to have a scream marathon with you, Harry.” I smiled up at him.

After a few minutes of just staring at eachother, we quietly exchanged phone numbers and headed our seperate ways for the night. This is fine. I’m fine.

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

Taglist: @namoreno

[bigredcamaro]

Big Red Camaro - Charting the Camaro Timeline

Explore the rich history of Camaro through the iconic Big Red Camaro, driven by RJ Gottlieb since 1987. Celebrated globally for its raw power and relentless pursuit of victory, this legendary red rocket embodies the essence of Camaro's evolution. Delve into the Camaro timeline, trace back to the 1969 roots, and discover why it stands among the most iconic muscle cars and fastest Camaros ever built. Discover its significance as a classic car Camaro and its enduring legacy in automotive history.

[rabbitcruiser]

Chevrolet Camaro went on sale on September 29, 1966, for the 1967 model year and was designed as a competing model to the Ford Mustang.

[intothedysphoria]

He practically lived in the laundromat.

Steve saw him frequently. Not in like a creepy way. In a sad and lonely way. Because that’s what Steve was. Sad and lonely.

He wore denim and leather and drove an electric blue Camaro and an ornate cross hung from his neck and he was very obviously gay.

The surname was something Steve couldn’t pronounce. Irish. Not anglicised. It had used to be Hargrove apparently. It wasn’t anymore.

The first name was so ordinary though. William. Billy.

Steve sometimes said hello to him, in between watching Rick and Morty on Netflix. Billy would say hello back. Fairly uninterested but polite.

The conversations were usually limited to complaining about professors or the industrial washing machines.

“Alright man?”

“Yeah I’m ok. That new history assignment is a bitch to complete.”

“Damn. See you in next weeks seminar.”

If Steve had half the balls he had in high school, he’d ask him out for a drink. Beer, coffee, hot chocolate. Anything really.

Instead, he gave an awkward thumbs up as that perfectly tanned back walked into the distance.

The next time they met, Billy’s bag split.

There was a significant hole, books struggling to escape as Billy stood, looking crestfallen. And Steve had an idea.

“I could fix it for you. If you want.”

The look on Billy’s face said that Steve could have personally hung each and every star.

The benefits of being a drag queen.

It wasn’t a hard fix at the end of the day but it really was a charming satchel. Pins of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Pokémon sat proudly at the top. He really was a fucking nerd.

Billy hugged him when Steve handed the bag back. It felt soft and warm and genuinely affectionate. None of those things were about to be complained about.

He turned up at Steve’s next drag show. A gay bar Billy never frequented. He was usually at the one which was full to the brim of guys who really liked leather. Not Steve’s one with its terrible 80s night and constant inter club bickering.

Billy told him he liked the show afterwards. The one where Steve had done a cheer routine to Teenagers by My Chemical Romance. He’d make sure to visit again with what Steve thought might have been a wink.

Maybe. He wasn’t 100 sure. Maybe he just had a severe squint.

Billy would now come to sit right next to Steve in seminars. Notebook filled with calligraphy and tiny doodles. Steve’s hopelessly dyslexic handwriting felt exceedingly ugly in comparison. Billy just told him it was unique.

That was one way of putting it. Billy was very kind. And probably went after guys like McKinney or Munson or Tommy. Not Steve.

It didn’t stop Steve from giggling like a schoolgirl whenever Billy gave him a compliment. Which hopefully Billy had chosen to ignore.

Robin set him up on a date after Steve came over with an entire pint of strawberry milkshake and cried on her sofa. Given the amount of time Steve had been on testosterone, he could not just blame it on his period. His period had ended for good like last year.

Jonathan was funny. He was a bit of a nerd, loved old horror films and in any other circumstance, Steve would be enamoured. This was not any other circumstance.

Not when Steve was thinking about Billy being on a date with any other guy. Someone who wasn’t him.

Steve ditched the date halfway through then spent the rest of the evening thinking about how he was a horrible person. Surprisingly, that didn’t help his situation.

Billy asked if he was ok. Of course Steve was ok. Why wouldn’t he be. Nothing wrong here.

Carol asked if he wanted a live laugh love mug and a pink sweater. Steve took the hint.

Telling Billy in theory was easy. Telling Billy in practice was fairly difficult.

He told Billy in the laundromat. Painfully unromantic. Just asked him out for drinks. But Billy was grinning like a six year old.

“Sure. It’s a date.”

Was Billy bouncing on his feet?

When Billy immediately started signing off their texts with hearts and kisses, Steve thought it was.

It is pretty much my two year fandom anniversary give or take a few days and this fic is for @shieldofiron @dragonflylady77 @thatgirlwithasquid @oopsiedaisiesbaby @robthegoodfellow @bigdumbbambieyes @thissortofsorcery and @harringroveobsessed for putting up with the incessant messaging and asks and random brainworms I get at like 5AM

[seat-safety-switch]

How many times have you been thrown out of the Toto toilet museum in Fukuoka? I don't mean the showroom in Tokyo, any loud-mouthed moron can get pitched out on their ass by piping off to the salesman. It takes a true artisan to annoy the Glorious History of Pooping people enough that they decide to put you on the curb.

Usually, back home, this sort of thing would be accomplished with a poorly-maintained car. I'd roll up to the parking lot, and start arguing about some part that has dual purposes while my shitbox automobile diesels away in the parking lot. We'd bitch as the car slowly fills the air with blue as it stains the store's windows with the multitude of petrochemicals that used to – and still should – line the inside of the engine block. Eventually, the pressure of the argument would get to the person, and they'd deck me, or (better yet) call their manager to come and deck me.

Not so in Japan. They're much more polite, but realistically it's because I don't have my Volare with me. Why? They don't run so well underwater, internal combustion cars, and even the nastiest farm beater in this country is still in better shape than my finest automobile. Sure, there's a couple chickens living in this Honda Acty I found half-crushed underneath a decades-old mudslide, but they're busy eating the hornet nests in the back, so it all balances out. No, I got kicked out entirely on my own accord: by asking why the American Standard Champion Four can suck down an entire bucket of golf balls, but the $15,000 Toto Neorest 750H can't offer the same shit-devouring performance.

Bench racing, in my home country, is taken as sort of a laughable, joking kind of thing. You make fun of the other dude's Mustang, he shit-talks your Camaro, you both know in your heart that if you raced it would be pretty close. Then you can make excuses afterward. The sun was in my eyes. The shifter on these models is designed for comfort, not performance.

This kind of thing has not transferred to Japanese toilet manufacturing, let me tell you that. No sooner did I complete my insult of their Lamborghini-grade ultra-luxury toilet than a dude in a suit about twice my size picked me up with one hand, and carried me out of the museum and all the way to the airport without saying a word. I hope I haven't gotten banned from re-entry. I kind of liked that little van I was driving. Named all the chickens.

[yikesharringrove]

@thediktatortot sent me some song recommendations with specific harringrove-coded lyrics and I decided I wanted to write something for as many different ones as I have the juice, because I was genuinely inspired and thank you thank you friend for the recommends!

-

First Song: Lemon Boy by Cavetown

“It’s actually pretty easy being nice to a bitter boy like him, so I got myself a citrus friend.”

-

Here’s the thing about Billy Hargrove:

He’s simple. 

Everyone (all the girls) think he’s this complicated thing. This person with a million different layers and a million different faces. And, Steve guesses, that’s sorta true. 

But really, he’s kinda easy to understand. 

He needs kindness. 

There’s not much more to it than that. 

And sure, maybe the why is where the layers come in. He needs kindness because he never gets any blah, blah, blah. 

But at the end of the day, a few nice things, and he’s loyal forever. 

Steve figured it out kind of accidentally. 

Because Billy forgot his textbook in American History, and they sit alphabetically by last name in that class, and so, Steve kinda nudged his book over so that Billy could look on and wouldn’t lose any participation points that day for not being able to answer questions and read when the teacher asked, and so, it was one tiny nice thing. 

Okay, maybe it was more than one tiny nice thing. 

Because it was a chain of tiny nice things. 

Starting with the textbook, and finishing with Steve sucking Billy off in the backseat of the Camaro to “blow off some steam”.

After the textbook, came the apology. 

Half-assed, for sure, and written in scribbly, smudgy handwriting. Not signed, but clear who it’s from. 

Sorry for messing you up like that.

Steve returned it with his own note, dropped pointedly on Billy’s desk in class. 

Sorry for being weird. I promise nothing shady was going on with your sister. I get it though. No hard feelings.

Billy glanced at Steve through his lashes, and Steve was a little disappointed that Billy hadn’t forgotten his history textbook. 

The next nice thing was a coffee. 

Because Steve made himself coffee and a breakfast sandwich on the mornings he decided he didn’t care if he was late to school. 

He was driving to school, listening to an old mixtape he found at the bottom of his glovebox, and he saw Billy. Head bent low, walking along the side of the road. 

HIs hands were in his pockets, and the line of his shoulders was tense. He was all but stomping, and the clear aura of pissed off somehow didn’t deter Steve from pulling along next to him, reaching over to roll down the passenger side window. 

“Hargrove! You want a ride.”

The stomping stopped, but Billy gave no other indication that he had heard Steve. 

The BMW’s engine idled. 

“C’mon, man. It’s like three more miles to school. Lemme drive you.”

When Billy turned to get into the car, Steve was why he was keeping his head down and his shoulders around his ears. 

He had a big black shiner, a bruise covering his whole left eye. 

He sat low in the passenger seat, cranking the window back up. 

“Looks nasty.”

Billy only grunted in response.

“Car in the shop?”

Billy snorted. 

“My dad took my keys.”

Ah. 

Probably clocked him in the face, too. 

Steve’s no stranger to it, even if his dad’s more of a smacker than a puncher. He also had a weird realization that Billy’s dad must be left-handed, like Billy himself. 

Steve took his coffee out of the cup holder, passing it to Billy. 

“You look like you need this more than I do.”

The next nice thing was kinda the one that pushed them over the line. 

Over the line from acquaintances that once beat each other up to actual sort of friends. 

It was also not a nice thing Steve did.

It was one Billy did.

And Steve wasn't even there to witness it.

All he saw was the blue green bruising on Tommy H.'s jaw.

"When are you gonna learn, Tommy. Don't pick fights you can't win."

Tommy nearly snarled at Steve from the bleachers, catching himself last minute before he made a seen in front of the entire P.E. class.

Steve only smirked, and took his seat in front of Tommy.

The coach stood in front of the bored class, explaining that they'd be running laps today.

It's what they did whenever he was too hungover to actually make them so anything.

But it's fine. Steve's always been a good runner, and it means he doesn't have to think about anything or talk to anyone while he went.

He tensed when he felt Tommy lean forward behind him, getting in close to murmur in Steve's ear.

"Found yourself a new attack dog, huh, Stevie? Hargrove nearly knocked my teeth out when I called you a pussy. You givin' it up for him, too?"

"Careful, Buddy. You sound jealous."

Tommy snorted and leaned back, but Steve's gut was rolling.

Billy had taken down Tommy for saying something shitty behind Steve's back.

It made Steve's face hot.

Billy showed up twenty minutes late to P.E. He gave Coach a note, and started his laps with the rest of the class.

Steve slowed his pace to get next to him.

Billy's knuckled were a little bruised, and he had a scratch mark on his neck.

Tommy did always fight dirty.

"Heard you gave it to Tommy."

"He deserved it." Billy kept his eyes forward, his pace steady.

"Yeah. He's a toolbag."

They jogged in silence.

Steve opened his mouth to ask something, when Billy piped up.

"Are we, like, friends?"

"I think so. Unless you make a habit of beating the shit out of people for calling your non-friends pussies."

Steve caught Billy's eye and grinned. Billy's smile was reluctant and small, but Steve liked it.

"Last to finish ten laps owes the winner a milkshake." Steve clapped Billy on the back, and took off, easily weaving through the gaggle of junior girls walking in front of them.

"Harrington, you bastard!"

[pimento-playing-hopscotch]

WIP Wednesday

Thank you for the tag, @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut 💝

This... is not from my TK and Sophie fic, but something that was inspired by a mutual's fan art on here -

“Please be careful,” Carlos said, handing the keys over. “What is my car?” “Not half as pretty as the man who owns it,” TK said, batting his eyelashes flirtatiously.

Carlos crossed his arms. “TK…”

“Fine”. TK sighed dramatically. “Your car is an eight-year-old piece of heavy machinery in good condition with good tire pressure, two windshield wipers and you expect it to come home tonight the same way”.

“TK, have you still not replaced the wiper that flew off your car?” Carlos exclaimed. “Baby, we’re talking about your car,” TK said, taking his husband’s hands and squeezing them. “And remember, my car is being fixed right now”.

“That storm was almost a month ago!” his husband exclaimed. “You drove around with only one windshield wiper for almost a month?” “Maybe,” TK said as he looked away. “But,” he added brightly, “no storms are projected for today, so we should be good. I’ll text you when I get to her place”. He planned to peck Carlos on the cheek and dash out the door, but his husband saw this coming a mile away and wrapped his arms around TK’s waist.

“Not so fast, you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to TK’s temple. “What is something you’re not going to do in the Camaro today?”

“Eat Cheetos,” TK answered. Carlos nodded expectantly. “Or…?” “Or nachos”. TK added. “Yes”. Carlos nodded again. “Or tacos. Or tater tots, or anything that you would eat and then wipe your hands on the seats”. “Not like it’s a super common occurrence”. TK muttered mutinously as he headed for the door. “But one snackcident, and I’m marked for life”. “Yes, I want you to text me when you get there”. Carlos said, opening and leaning on the door frame. “And no, snackcident is not a word”. TK whirled around the in the doorway. “If Jake Peralta says it, then it is”. “If Captain Holt would call him on it, then no, it isn’t”. Carlos replied.

No pressure tagging - I tag @nancys-braids @anewkindofme @carlos-in-glasses @heartstringsduet

@lemonlyman-dotcom @kiankiwi @actualalligator @thisbuildinghasfeelings

@welcometololaland @honeybee-taskforce @chicgeekgirl89 @bonheur-cafe

@liminalmemories21 @paperstorm @chaotictarlos @literateowl

@goodways @captain-gillian @carlos-tk @herefortarlos

@firstprince-history-huh @reyestrandd @terramous

@alrightbuckaroo @meditating-honey-badger @fallout-mars

@theghostofashton @snowviolettwhite @lochnesswriter

@the-flaming-nightmare @eclectic-sassycoweyes @ladytessa74

@lightningboltreader @freneticfloetry @jesuisici33 @doublel27

@mikibwrites @basilsunrise @rmd-writes @safeaswrites

@thebumblecee @celeritas2997 @sugdenlovesdingle

@birdclowns @she-walked-away @mooshkat and anyone else who wants to do it - open tag 🫶