"your Violence Is Just A Silent Cry For Love"

A Night At Arkham

Crossover dp x dc. So I've got this time line in mind, for my crossover AU and this is a snippet of it. Will post more of it; will make a master post soon.

The bats received word, that Crane escaped Arkham a few days back. Apparently he used the commotion of new hires being shown around and getting all the attention, to get out. -He was the one who slipped through the seams! Sorry

As Batman returned him, Nightwing only left his side to see what's with these "new hires", that they not only seem to have gained the trust of the head doctor, but also to see if they got a hold on things...

Batman and Nightwing were already being expected by Dr. Arkham himself, security and two new faces. Usually it's more of a closed off team in the high security ward, so it took the bats by surprise to see two new faces amongst them, this suddenly.

A young red-headed doctor, seems about his age. Definitely a woman with whom Nightwing can't shake the mental image of the young dr. Harleen, except the glasses are missing and again, red-head- although she did have two streaks of blond at the front.

And a young, tall, larger man with black somewhat scruffy hair, bound into a white ponytail, in security. Somehow in general reminding him an awful lot of his younger brother Jason. Huh.

The barely conscious Crane was handed over to the guards keeping bound, as they headed back to his cell. The new doctor wrote something onto a clipboard probably recording everything from date, to time, to who- it's standard.

"Batman. ..and Nightwing too, fancy seeing you bring someone else around." Dr. Arkham greeted the duo. Batman hummed in response, as he did.

"Yeah... We located him in Bludhaven. He really thought, he could hide there." Nightwing chuckled, smiling friendly.

"But the bats will always keep a close eye on Gotham, I see?" Dr. Arkham smiled himself; of course it's not the first time he had met any of the Bat's protégés. It was always delightful to meet them.

"ha... hAH!! THAT IT IS!! THE TRUEST ART!!!-" Crane seemed to have regained his consciousness, as he called out. "So, so mesmerizing. So-" his breath hitched and he stocked. Before the two bats could do something, the new security guy grabbed him and something on Cranes face changed. The yet again patient locked eyes with the guy and his eyes filled with absolute terror, before he began to scream, yet the man dragged him off, with a little huff. What was it that the new guy did, that terrified the Scarecrow...?

"He'll be fine, please don't worry." The new doctor spoke softly, almost as if cooing false safety...

"Oh right," the head doctor spoke up and cleared his throat. "This is Dr. Nightingale. Fresh from college and highly capable, if I'm allowed to attest to her wit." He introduced his new protégé, as she smiled oh so sweetly and held out her hand.

"Thank you for your service and all that you do, to keep Gotham and her people safe." Batman took her hand, shaking it firmly.

"Pleasure meeting someone Dr Arkham deems worthy enough to be around such important situations..." The big bat offered. "Well, Crane has arrived safely. Sadly I must head off, still have certain things to do." As Batman turned away, his gaze met Nightwing's, who understood the next mission immediately: get more information about her, whatever way. They nodded.

"Yes, of course! Dr Nightingale, I trust you will be able to handle the rest? I would head back to my studies, then." The head doctor turned to his new protégé, she nodded and waved him off with a smile before turning back to the vigilante.

"So, you mentioned that you found him in Bludhaven, correct? Would you mind telling me, if dr. Crane was working on something specifically?" The young doctor asked, something that is not in the protocol. Nightwing felt the suspicion rise but played it down on the outside, instead he offered one of his more charming smiles. Yet before he could open his mouth, dr Nightingale spoke up. "Oh, excuse me. I would like to know, to maybe better understand and get into his head. It's a good way to connect with patients, when you show or at least pretend a common interest." She explained, apparently this right here redhead is just as smart and witty as, well... She does look good- objectively! Of course. ...

"Ah, I see. So the doctor really seemed have picked a good one!" The raven smiled and cursed himself on the inside. That is the most painful small talk he has ever had! -and he survived awkward small talk with both Jason and Damian... Okay, the later got better at it, as he grew. Fine then make it Jason and Bruce! "I mean, you really seem to want to help and believe in a chance for them. That is very good to know." Dick, you absolute moron... Then he heard an angel sing, as she giggled. Oh, he so had a typ- wait... Is that why B left him alone? This damned-

"Haha! Well I try to do my best, as do you I believe." She offered an out. Thankfully.

"He's back in his room. Made sure of it." A much deeper voice grumbled and next to the doctor stood the new security guard. When...? How, without...? Nightingale raised an eyebrow at him, suspiciously until the man sighs. "Don't worry, I didn't do anything." So they know each other, are probably even close. Now that they stand together, Nightwing can see that their eyes are fairly similar,as well as the shade of electric blue and- wow. Suddenly he realises, that this blue is no ordinary blue, even a little more vibrant than a Kryptonians eyes... Has B noticed it already?

"Sorry, while I don't intend on interrupting you two, but..." He meant to interlude, maybe he'll get a clue to their relationship-

"Oh, don't worry. My brother doesn't bite, even if he looks like he wants to." She giggled at the taller man's grumbling. Bingo. Maybe a last hook...?

"Well, in that case," Nightwing held out his hand, that the young doctor intended to take and shake, yet gently he grasped her fingers and guided her hand up. With a slight bow and his most charming of smiles, the vigilante gave her hand a kiss. "It was an absolute pleasure meeting you. We'll meet again eventually, miss...?" Aim, fire and-

The woman's cheeks turned a slight shade of pink, while he just completely ignored the big guy growling at him. "O-oh..." She giggled again, seemingly enjoying the attention, giving her brother a small glare, as she took her hand back. "Still Dr Nightingale, but I sure do hope to see you around sir Nightwing." The way she said it, it sent shivers down Dick's spine and he grined a little goofy before turning away.

But he missed. A full name would have been good, but he's sure to get that information through Arkham's website. She's not alone, both strangers go together as brother and sister, so he's looking for at least two Nightingale's. Could there be more? Will there be less? She's got a PhD, so she must be registered in some university, as well as checking the meta register. Something about this terror-inducing stare the brother got going, that even Crane got scared, the way she somehow knew what he was feeling and reacting according... The bright electric blue was just, the tip of the iceberg.

While on his way back to the cave he stopped and looked over his shoulder.

Oh boy... He really hoped, that her brother got an eye on his sister. If she's in the high security ward, chances are, she'll meet-... That bastard who took his brother. And he wouldn't want to wish onto her, what that asshole did to Harley...

He couldn't just let it go. Of course not! That is exactly why Dick was on his way, in his nightwing suit, after his patrol, a few days later, just to check in and make sure...

With the information he had, he'd found out that The young woman was dr Jasmine Nightingale, the security guard her younger brother Dante Nightingale. In addition there are two more siblings; Daniel, Dante's twin and Eliza, the youngest Nightingale. All are indeed registered as metas- which is why he didn't say anything to Bruce yet, even if they seem like civilians. Even if their parents seem to not exist, with mostly black hair and blue eyes, with which they fall into prime adoption bait territory. Just to be sure, you know?

Now he's finding his way around the asylum; not to get in, of course. For that he could've just taken the front entrance. No, Nightwing just wanted to catch a sneak peek, see if the new faces are settling in well. Okay, fine, maybe to also catch a glimpse at the nice, new and redheaded doctor-

His thoughts were unfortunately interrupted by sounds of shouting, barking commands and the firing of guns. Nightwing tensed up immediately, ready to get into action and help, as he was about to give Barbara the call on deck for another tried outbreak, yet the noices fell silent quickly again.

The vigilante was already on his heels to head inside, through a high up ceiling window and what he saw made his heart stop... -but not in a bad way!

The new recruit, this Dante Nightingale, was tying up about six unconscious goons in clown masks, together with another guy; the Joker? Also knocked out, just a few feet from his open cell door- he certainly did not get far this time, Nightwing thought. When they were done, with the guns out of reach, Dante wanted to get up, presumably to get the clown prince back into his confined, little castle of solitude. The raven in a domino watched incredulously in the whole situation, as his colleague made him sit down: he seemed to have gotten injured.

Just as the cell door closed, two more security guards came to, one with an aid kit the other from another direction, that should be somewhere in administrations if Dick can trust his memories. They talked about something he didn't hear, due to the distance and the fact of the thick and tempered glass between them. From his lipreading skills, he could only make out some keywords- god damnit, he really should ask Cass about teaching him properly!

But something about the police coming and save now and EMTs. Dante nodded in apparition, at one of his colleagues having aided him and bandaged him up. Just shortly after, he could hear the sirens growing louder...

Standing in the shadows of the building, in an alley near the gates to the asylum, Nightwing stood still, waiting patiently. It's been a few hours since it happened. Dante Nightingale walked out of the gate and Nightwing moved,

"I know you're standing there, you don't need to hide." The Badger haired man called out, needless to say, the vigilante was surprised, but hey if he's that good, maybe more of them will stay locked up. Nightwing chuckled softly, trying to show that he means no harm.

"Am I getting bad at hiding or are you just good at it?" Of course he couldn't help himself, it's also a nice icebreaker, "You were also the guy who got the Scarecrow save to his cell, a few nights back right?"

"Yeah, and you're the hero who shamelessly flirted and got dumped by my sister. I remember." Ouch, but fair. Despite his deadpan tone, the trained eyes of the bird can see that the man in front of him, indeed, loosed up. And hey, that jab at his ego, made the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. "So what you doing here? As far as I've read up on you lot, you are usually up in Bludhaven."

"Oh, yes. I just needed to head to a meetup and heard the gunshots. Did something happen? Are you okay?" Nightwing asked, still concerned about the wound this man is just seemingly walking off.

"Eh... 'm fine." Nightingale shrugged his shoulders. Lier. Nightwing could see the outlines of the bandages underneath his shirts and- wait a minute... This man is wearing nothing but a simple black sweatshirt and light blue, slightly ripped jeans, well and his bag with work gear probably- "But,..." his attention was captured again by the other man, "...this Joker guy has many hidden hands around. A few days ago I cut his secret ways of communications, which is why a little raid happened. Those poor bastards thought it was their sign. Maybe keep an eye open, would be nice." Dante Nightingale said then, as he fixed his back and turned to leave.

"Wait... Wait!" The words finally registered with Nightwing and the man stood still again, waiting for any words, looking down at the vigilante.

"What."

"...how will I know to trust you?" It came from the other suddenly.

"You don't. Neither do I. But I respect that you seem to do an at least half-descent job, so there's that." With that he simply turned back around and left Nightwing all to himself. After he crossed the road, a lonesome car drove by and in an instant the man was gone.

Nightwing stared perplexed, how did he do that? But... He's right. Plus, these two seem to do equally well a good job, yet something's just itching in the back of his mind. Clawing at him, that somehow, in some way, something seems... Different about them. But yet again, that could also just be one of their meta abilities.

Just one thing is for certain; oh he's so going to accompany Batman again, if a rogue gets out, because wow... Incredible to admit, but both have uhhh... Certain appeals. Oh boy, he's definitely looking forward to having a reason to swing by so long one of them is there!

@georgiefreddie0829 @shirasorin

Not so Fun Anymore

Gotham is good for a lot of reasons. Excessive amounts of death leading to a lot of ambient ectoplasm, a (mostly) quiet ghost population, and enough problems that Danny could have his slice of the Obsession with protection cake and eat it, too.

There's also Red Hood.

He's not exactly sure what the man is yet. Excessively Liminal or Revenant or some kind of halfa, but that is, admittedly, part of the attraction. Red Hood finds him when he's flying close to the roof tops of Crime Alley-- one moment Phantom is flying through the air, the next there's a hand around his wrist that slams him down into the concrete. Pinning him beneath a body that's got more bulk than his little undead body will ever have.

And... he's a halfa. In that moment, he is strictly more ghost than human, and what Red Hood just did? It's an invitation. An open house opportunity to have some tussles, communicate with the undead like he's used to. So he phases out from underneath the man, chuckling quietly to himself, and pins him right back.

This escalates. This escalates drastically.

Because Red Hood seems to have it out for him now. It takes Phantom far too long to realize that they aren't playing the same game, and by the time he does the Not A Game has culminated into being shot at and grabbed and pinned down the second Red Hood registers him in the vicinity.

He doesn't mind that part. He doesn't mind being held down with another man panting heavily into his ear, and he doesn't think Red Hood is protesting that, either.

But Red Hood seems to find him no matter where he is, these days. And it's still escalating. They're starting to fall off rooftops, several storeys at a time. And though the bullets are honestly useless, there's something... not good, when Red Hood solely aims for places that would likely down a human and stop them from getting back up.

It starts to become worrying. Then, it stops being fun. It stops being fun the day Red Hood comes across him in his human form.

At least he genuinely seems freaked out about the blood staining Danny's shirt, thanks to the bullet he just put in his shoulder.

BEGONE

THOT

Yes, yes I know and I hear you. Vampire!Eddie and Werewolf!Billy having fun with little, puny, cute human plaything named Steve. It's funny. It's hot. Yes.

BUT!! WHAT IF- Steve is a demon, a fallen guardian angel, assigned to watch over Hawkins. He fell to protect in any way necessary, at any cost...

-So of course he's not gonna blow his cover for little, puny, cute paranormal mortals who just have some fun and a nice friendship! Until of course shit goes down and the upsidedown happens. Then Billy and Eddie are just absolutely confused and shocked and one of them drops "are angels and demons even real!?? How!??" - "wait.. does that mean, you actively, deliberately lost against us. Every time??"

"What's so wrong about letting you guys have your fun, if I don't mind?"

Thank you for coming to my Ted talk!

sometimes I wonder if sam raimi gave franco any stage direction or just said “harry is irrevocably in love with peter”

Harry's first thoughts when he founds out Peter is Spider-Man in Spider-Man 2

reblog if you’re somewhere on the ace and/or aro spectrum, respect people on the ace and/or aro spectrum, or are tired of exclusionists gatekeeping the LGBTQ+ community

And yes, let's be real there is NO Reality in which Harry Osborn is ANYTHING REMOTELY close to straight and ONLY feels platonic for his "Best Friend"!

Convince me otherwise! You can't!

Overtime

insp: Overtime - Rainbow Kitten Surprise

Overtime (5874 words) by flayedintheUSA Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington Characters: Billy Hargrove, Steve Harrington Additional Tags: Getting Together, together but not together, and then they are, they're working it out, Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, slight mentions of explicit content but not really, Steve Harrington is Not Stupid Summary: Steve’s willing to cross well-defined lines, willing to take what he can get waiting for Billy to realize they’re not as well-defined as he thinks.

When Steve had called him, he wasn’t even sure what he was going to say yet. It felt stupid, but he was good at stupid; somehow always able to play it off as some goofy charming charisma when he was actually brashly unthinking and a bit dense. Thinking caused overthinking, caused inaction, and he needed action. And that’s what Billy promises: action.

Whenever this thing started, he doesn’t really know. Granted, he doesn’t think about it. He’s pretty sure they were both beyond tipsy and unaware of the others’ preferences. Steve wasn’t even completely aware of his own, until Billy. A denim-on-denim, shirts-versus-skins dream that haunted his synapses, the way he lingered in his imagination. The things he thought in his daydreams. They never would’ve come to fruition if it weren’t for that night. Shots, touch, body, feeling, blazing and burning from the inside out. His imagination fell way short.

It was purely situational. Nothing special. The equivalent of a favor it seemed, sometimes. Steve was lonely and hiding and Billy was hidden away and alone and they were both lacking much options in the podunk town they were stuck in. (Steve wouldn’t ever admit that he’d somehow hit the jackpot of that lack of options. Of all people to also be keen to suck dick in Hawkins, he’d found Billy Hargrove. Denim-on-denim, shirts-versus-skins dream. What a powerhouse; fucks like he’s built to.)

“What?” Billy’s voice comes gruffly over the phone, slightly irritated. He must’ve been pumping.

“What’s up?”

There’s a pause. Steve surveys his mental arsenal of lines. They never have the desired effect with Billy, yet the desired outcome always ensues. For that he can’t claim inefficiency.

“I was thinking about you,” he says with a small smile. There’s the sound of rustling and quick movements. He hears a door slam shut.

“What’s wrong with you?” Billy snaps, all riled. “Talkin’ faggy on my goddamn landline, Harrington?”

Steve snorts, leans back against the wood paneling of the kitchen wall. “When we were at the lake,” he continues as if Billy hadn’t said anything, “and you had your fingers so far up in me your rings were pullin’ at my ri—“

“Jesus fucking Christ, Harrington,” he hisses. He sounds winded. Steve wants to hear it’s because of him.

“You should come over,” he says boldly. If he can be anything, it’s bold. “I’m all alone in my big empty house. Thinking about you.”

It’s like the phone goes dead, it’s so quiet. He’s stubborn enough to say ‘fuck off’ and leave Steve hanging for three days before showing up unannounced at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday night. He’s like that. He would, just to prove he can. Because he can; Steve lets him, every time. In the time this strange dynamic has developed, he’s become a bit of a pushover for Billy. A bit desperate for any time he can steal. Any touches he can assuredly say are solely his. Because Billy could have anyone, and he definitely has Steve. Steve wants to call him ‘baby’, call him ‘love’, just to see what happens. But he knows what would happen. Knows it would come back to bite him. Because Billy can’t give himself like that, can’t take the leap, can’t let himself. Won’t. Steve can only hold on while he’s on the ride, and Billy is a wild ride. He can only hope it doesn’t end too soon. Hope that, when it does, the crashing and burning is something he can handle.

“You’re fucking pathetic, Harrington,” Billy says sharply, and hangs up.

The Camaro is in his driveway by 10:48.

The hum of the television, abandoned of attention and blearily playing Johnny Carson, starts to reach his ears again. He can hardly hear it over his own breath as he tries to catch it, huffs a bit indignantly when Billy’s weight settles on top of him on the too-small couch. His hand falls to rest on the taut muscles of the slightly shorter boy’s back, the other unfurling from the bottom lip of the sewed cushion armrest.

They don’t often fuck in the living room. And Steve doesn’t often top. Billy was eager. Or maybe eager for a distraction; whatever Steve might be to him isn’t his business.

He learned quickly it would never be his business. Billy was good at laying clear lines. And Steve tripped toward them almost every time, every time shoved back, never to cross. Because you know what this is, Harrington. And don’t make this something it’s not. It’s better, this way; once graduation date hits the top of the morning paper, Hargrove’s peeling out with his fixed-up Camaro and hard earned-and-hidden cash stash and leaving Hawkins in the rearview. Never to be seen again.

It’s shit.

Because Steve is a softy, and it sucks. People call him golden-boy like that’s something to be proud of. He wishes he were steely, hardened and rusted at the edges, so he could do things like watch Billy take him to the hilt and moan like he’s starved and not want to tell him how fucking beautiful he is and how lucky he’s made Steve feel.

He slips out of the other boy when he stands on semi-shaky legs, and Steve leans up onto his elbows to watch as he pulls his jeans back on.

“Hot date or something?” Steve says with a shallow smirk. Can’t quite make it all the way.

Billy doesn’t look at him. “That’s your business because…?”

The warm, sedate feeling of his high turns sour about his nerves. Nerves that were just peaked because of the boy who no one can hold. Won’t let anyone close enough to try. Steve is getting tired of trying.

“It could be my business,” he shrugs. No big deal.

Billy laughs, harsh and loud, one quick bark. Still doesn’t look at him. “Right,” he drawls. “And we could cuddle up and get all cozy and be the head-honcho homos of Hawkins. Gimme a break.”

“Calm down, man, it’s just a night,” Steve sighs, feeling distinctly rejected. Again and again. Always all over again.

Billy turns to him, his features dark. He’s always more touchy when he’s the one that gets fucked. Steve has tried to learn the proper way to handle his lashes, the right way to ease them. There isn’t one. “It’s not shit, Harrington. I’m not your bitch, stop calling me.”

As if when he calls is the only time he ends up with a bed full of Hargrove.

“You want me to stop calling you?”

He pulls on his boots. He doesn’t answer. He’s lying, always so good about how he lies. How he thinks it’s just the truth and the truth hurts other people because other people are pussies. And Steve Harrington is his bitch, and he likes it that way. He doesn’t want him to stop calling. But he won’t be Steve’s, and that’s not a lie, and that’s what Steve’s afraid of.

He leaves, quietly. His presence was so loud it made Steve forget how lonely it is here. Just for a moment.

The line is hauntingly quiet when it clicks, as if someone had picked up. Steve’s ear rings with the buzz of electricity powering it, straining to hear for something, anything.

It took him too long to get the guts to dial. Started thinking. Overthinking. There wasn’t time to overthink, to create inaction, not after what he’d seen. His grip makes the plastic squeak in protest and he takes a quick, gathering breath.

“Billy?”

Quiet. He waits for it to go dead, like a timed-out answering machine. Only the sound of his own name to be heard if Billy checks it. Something rustles softly. Steve’s ears catch it, fine-tuned as they are to his line.

“Harrington.”

It’s hollow. Like the emptiness of the quiet. Like they came from the same lineage, carrying nothing and still bating Steve’s breath.

Steve’s eyes shift around the bare fridge, traces magnets that hold nothing up. “What happened?”

Steve knows what happened. Maybe not the full extent, but he can infer. Things like yelling and screaming and crashing, followed by as dramatic an exit one can make while obviously limping with blood staining their front, are easy to draw conclusions from.

And Billy had seen his car, parked on the other side of the road from the False-Smile he lived in on Cherry Lane. His shoulders drew high and his fists clenched, probably wondering why problems weren’t legislatively constrained to being dealt one at a time. He burnt rubber on the driveway as he peeled out, and Steve let him. Didn’t chase him. No matter how badly he wanted to. Because just as he runs from his dad, he’s running from Steve, too.

After the last time, in Billy’s car parked at a shady corner of the quarry, Steve was reminded that not planning— that being brash— could also be a horrible, terribly bad thing.

He hadn’t meant to say it. It slipped out. Steve was leaned over the other boy, hands in his hair, lost in the curl of it and the curl of his tongue and the cut of his jaw. His knees dug painfully into the tight sides of the crammed Camaro, driver’s seat not designed to make straddling hot Californians and making out until he was hot and breathless comfortable. He pressed all of his weight into him to readjust his knees, Billy had groaned— a spectacular, wonderful sound— and held his hips down. And Steve felt him— felt buzzed on the taste of his mouth and the soundtrack of his arousal and the feeling of them pressing together between layers of clothes— and, well, kind of whined. Billy’s face morphed like the sound pained him, hips jolting up against Steve’s hardness, and clenched his teeth on the words. “Fuck, love it when you make that sound— love—“

And he froze like there was a gun pressed to the window. Because Steve knows Billy’s never let himself claim to love anything, not after finding out it was always a lie. Always a lie for him. Would never, ever get close enough to Steve to even let him try to prove otherwise.

Steve, unfortunately, felt ignited. Felt alight. Felt hope. Which is terrible. Awful.

So when he said, “You can love it. You’re allowed. I love yours, too.” he should have known the solution would be to open the driver side door and shove Steve out onto his ass, pain shooting up his spine as Billy gunned it out of there.

And, obviously, after that, he didn’t want to see Steve. Didn’t want Steve to see him, especially like that. Hurt and wounded and fleeing. Always hurt and wounded. Always fleeing.

“Nothing,” he says after too long. He sounds tired. Like he’s taken something for sleep and is fighting it.

“Are you ok?”

Another sigh, heavier. “Man, what the fuck do you want?”

Steve shifts against the wall. He hates this. Hates how he feels right now. Hates how he feels for Billy and hates that he won’t ever not be pushing him away, like it’s a waste of time.

“I dunno, man, I wanted to know if you’re ok. That’s like, why I asked.”

“Well I’m just great, pr— Harrington.”

He wants to know what it was going to be. Pretty boy? Princess?

“I know you’re not, and that’s ok,” Steve insists, sliding down the wall a bit. “You can talk to m—“

“You don’t know shit, and it’s not ok,” he hisses suddenly. “Get your head outta your ass Harrington. This is pathetic.”

“Sure,” Steve sighs, waving his hand a bit and sliding a bit further. “This is pathetic.”

“What the fuck do you think you’re saying?” he growls into the receiver. Out of the speaker, it sounds just as hollow. Hollow threats from a hollow boy Steve thought he could fill. You can’t fill other people. You can only help people fill themselves. And Billy is determined to remove himself by the shovel full and all Steve has is his hands. He’s ill-equipped.

“You can say it. That you like things, love things. Even me. I know what you wanted to say.”

“Fuck you, Harrington.” Billy’s rage is evident. Steve hopes he’s safe. But safe people don’t have such unsafe coping mechanisms.

“I’m not it,” Steve continues, slides even further and his tailbone hits the cold tile of his empty kitchen. Empty save for the presence of a hollow boy, of Billy, even just his voice. “I’m not the one, that’s fine. But one day you’re going to make it out and you’re going to be ok and you’re going to let yourself love things and maybe you’ll realize what this was.”

It’s quiet again. The empty silence pierces him further. He’ll realize too late, and that’s what he’s afraid of.

“You done?”

Steve’s head tilts back against the wall. He lets the phone drop and bounce on its cord.

Yeah. He’s done.

Billy’s angry. Always angry, seems like.

The air around him is suffocating, everywhere. At home. At school. On the court. In Hawkins. It’s all fucking terrible. And now, his favorite pass-time (driving too fast on roads too small) is even tainted. The air of his car is suffocating, thinking about the last time Steve was here. Snuffing out the suffocation and making him feel like he could breathe. Straddling his lap like an all-American dream. Making those sounds that make him feel like the furnace constantly swallowing him whole is suddenly in him, lighting him up everywhere.

He pushes the pedal down harder. His engine roars. So does he.

Because he fucking snapped. It finally happened. He knew it would— knew it was a fluke that pretty boy, King Steve, Hawkins High’s very own royal princess, would stoop to Billy’s level. He knew the whole time it was doomed to fail, but from the first moment he was drunk on the blip of that suffocation. It was like gasping for breath, breathing in Steve. It was made to break, but it was only a matter of time before he wasn’t hooked on feeling like he could breathe, feeling like he was unrestrained, feeling like he was himself again. No, he was hooked on Steve. And that’s much, much worse.

His teeth slam together as he thinks about the floppy-haired brunette. The fucking dork. He drives kids around for fun. Likes The Goonies and Bryan Adams. He’s got a complex out the ass. Thinks he’s better than everyone. Always so brash with his words. Acts like everything is always going to be ok. Has this stupid need to make Billy feel good and safe. Has these dimples that suck him in like the beach break. Has these stupid moles decorating his skin like constellations. Has this voice that shatters his nerves when he’s falling apart in, around, on top of him.

And, for some god forsaken reason, Steve was up for it all. Up for everything he knew Billy was going to do to him. Because Billy made it clear— made it painstaking obvious that Shoot to Thrill was all this was. And still— still— Steve Harrington has the audacity to make him feel like Billy was worth it.

He should hate Billy’s guts; he should be punching him in the face. He knows Steve is hurting, can feel it in the way he avoids his eyes, in the way he stays far off, in the way he takes the long way to class, in the way he walks to his car like no one’s watching when Billy’s pretending he isn’t, in he way he doesn’t call.

He takes a curve too sharp, the furnace he exists in burning his skin.

He deserves this.

He doesn’t deserve whatever Steve said: getting out, getting ok with himself, loving things. He doesn’t love things. Things don’t love him. People don’t love him. Love is lies. Even the ones who are supposed to, don’t. They lie. They leave. The ones that don’t, they’re the ones that stick around. Make you pay for being a fool.

His heart kicks at the starting drum of the next song from the local radio station. He’d left in a fervor, his throat closing on feelings he said— he promised— wouldn’t happen. He’d swiped his tapes from the car to drown out the sound of memories, of feelings. When buzzing ears didn’t feel enough like buzzing gravel through speeding floorboards, he jerked his jacket off the hook and left before Neil could say shit about him going out so late. He’ll bare the consequences he deserves later; pretend they’re the fists of the person who’s supposed to be beating him to a pulp to justify it.

And the sound of that drum is engrained in his memory. He could name the song off the first .5 seconds. Because it’s Bryan Adams. It’s Steve’s favorite right now— his number one top pick of the best song out. Which is just disrespectful and Billy doesn’t know how he said it with a straight face. And then he’d sung along to it, eating drive-thru burgers on the hood at the quarry. Mumbled lyrics as it played through his bedroom stereo in the Harrington Castle as he sunk down onto Billy, brow tight and neck strained, chest struck red and cheeks flushed. God he was fucking pretty—

Billy slams the radio off. The vibrating interior and the hum of the road swallows him whole. He thinks of Steve’s face, pouting as he mocked the soloist for posing to get into the Top 10, for being a trashy girly-pop idol, for being Canadian. He’d crossed his arms and muttered about how he played the guitar since he was ten and had a good voice. And Billy sighed and slapped the radio on again and pretended not to find Steve’s obvious feeling of victory cute as he smiled around softly singing along.

“Fuck!” Billy swears, his foot easing off the gas. His hand falls over his face, drags roughly on his jaw. “Fuck.”

He stares out the windshield as the blur of the treetops start to ease back into steady forms. He presses the FM button again.

And that's when I met you, yeah

Standin' on your mama's porch

You told me that you'd wait forever

It’s awful, this suffocation. He’s felt it as long as he’s been alive, it feels like. It’s even worse now that he knows what it’s like to not suffocate. To take the burning and use it. To feel it inside instead of all around— instead of something that steals his oxygen.

It’s terribly, awfully bad. Because he’s good at fighting. He’s good at winning. And he can’t fight for this. He can’t win this.

Steve doesn’t know what he’s got, being saved from him.

Oh, and when you held my hand

I knew that it was now or never

Billy turns it up. Pretends he can’t hear Bryan Adams. Pretends he can hear Steve. Pretends he’s out of here. That he’s ok and he loves things and he wasn’t too late.

Those were the best days of my life

It might be his favorite, too.

He buries himself.

He doesn’t really have a choice; if he doesn’t step up his proverbial academic game, he doesn’t stand a chance at graduating. Nancy’s taken pity on him, helping out with his English and History assignments. He finally finished the conclusion to his English paper on The Catcher in the Rye and is moving swiftly to WWII flash cards with too many names and dates to stick.

He should have paid her for this, seriously. He knows she feels badly about how they ended, but pity won’t buy you and your boyfriend tickets to the drive in.

He jolts awake with the ‘Battle of the Bulge’ index card stuck to his face when the doorbell chimes through the house obnoxiously. It’s 10:32 at night. He hangs his head and contemplates not answering. It’s crash-course week. Cramming o’clock. Brain-hemorrhaging-knowledge integration time. He doesn’t need this.

Even still, he’s not strong enough to say no. Hasn’t been, for the past four days.

He walks down the stairs like it’s tedious, because it it. He’s busy. He runs a hand through his falling hair, the product in it having reached its life expectancy, and thinks maybe it was intentional that he didn’t pull a shirt on. It’s unusually hot in Hawkins for end of spring, and he’s wearing his loose grey sweats. He’s comfortable. It doesn’t matter.

He opens the door to Billy, his hand in one pocket and the other holding Steve’s anatomy notebook.

“What’d you find now?” he asks, as if he doesn’t already know. He only looks at Billy’s face, and even that hurts. He knows he’s wearing that navy shirt, unbuttoned too far. His pendant is always framed by it perfectly. And he looks like he doesn’t care, like this is a chore, but the first night— Sunday— it had been a pair of shorts from his car. Last night it had been his Three Dog Night album Steve had him take because he’d ‘never heard of ‘em’ (yeah, ok. Sure).

Billy flips the notebook in front of him, between his palms. “Thought you’d need it since you’ve suddenly got a boner for learning.”

Steve huffs a bit at that. He’s not sure if Billy’s trying to torture him with this sudden, strange break in their routine. Not really sure what it’s about. He’s not going to hope for anything about it, because hope is dangerous and he hasn’t been given any warnings to ignore this time. At least last time, there were rules— rules he actively chose not to follow, but still rules. And entertaining a rule-less Hargrove is about as deadly as playing with a safety-less gun.

“Yeah, well,” he sighs, reaching a hand out for it. “Some of us also plan on leaving at some point. Most colleges like GEDs.”

Billy’s fingers play along the edge, run over the bound black spine holding the composition notebook together. His chin jerks up a bit. “Oh, yeah? Where you escapin’ to that you think daddy won’t pay for?”

Steve feels his jaw tense. He steps back a bit, hand tightening on the doorknob. Something swift and hardly noticeable flashes over Billy’s eyes. Steve likes to imagine he doesn’t see it. It’s hard not to, after having seen all the parts of him he hides away.

“Don’t know,” he says stiffly. “Don’t care as long as it’s not here, y’know.”

And Steve knows he does; Billy wrote that script. Steve bought it, plans on producing and staring in it all on his own without his fucking dad looming over him. He just has to get through next weekend to prove to the man that he’s serious about a future, whether or not it’s with the family business.

“Yeah,” Billy says, eyes finally breaking from Steve’s. They rest somewhere around his chest before falling to the floor.

“Yeah,” Steve repeats. He lets go of his death grip on the doorknob, sliding his hands into his pockets. Whatever stockpile he has of Steve’s shit that he’s passing off one at a time, it’s not going to work. Maybe he didn’t make it clear enough. Maybe he needs to be upfront. Something about not having Billy come on his own volition, without incentive, just because, it’s hard to give up. The past couple days, he’s found himself wondering, waiting, for this exact moment. When Billy might show up. Might linger, like he wants Steve to invite him in. Like he wants to know he wants Billy to stay. He does. He won’t. They’re out of time. Time to escape the hollow, instead of finding a way to bare it.

He clears his throat, watching as Billy still holds his notebook too close to his abdomen. Like he’s not ready to offer it. Not ready to have no reason to stay. “Listen, if you find any more of my stuff, you can leave it with Nance or in the mailbox,” he shrugs. Hargrove’s knuckles tighten around the cover. “I’ll be outta town tomorrow night ‘til Saturday. Gotta get the grand tour of the New York office before I can tell ‘im to stick it, y’know,” he chuckles. It’s empty. He overshared.

He had before, to take the obvious overhang of Neil off of Billy’s mind. He talked about his own dad, how sometimes absence and expectations held a different kind of pain, different kind of trauma. He can see it in the way Billy’s arms tense, the way his jaw firms around words he won’t say, floating around a brain Steve always wants to pick, always not allowed to. His eyes fall to the floor, he mumbles ‘So…’ and tries not to feel so fucking small. “I’ll be back on the first, if you wanna drop anything off then, too,” he says, just trying to fill the silence. His heart feels too big. Like he’s burning with the secrets he’d shared that he shouldn’t have. If he keeps lingering, Steve might actually give him what he wants just to make this feeling stop.

“You good?”

It’s tight. Too many words crammed only into two. Steve shrugs, doesn’t look at him.

“Yeah,” he answers. “Whatever.”

He wants him to touch him. To put his always too-hot hands, like he caries California sun in his skin, on him and loosen his muscles. To look at him with those unmasked blue eyes, like he takes the ocean wherever he goes, and make him feel stagnant. To kiss him with those lips, always seemingly shifting like beach sand but really as sure as redwoods, and make him feel steady again. Like he can hope for this. Like there’s more than the hollow.

“Ok,” he says suddenly. It comes out heavy. He can’t hold the door open any more; it feels like staring through the veil of desire— death to the touch. Billy doesn’t want this. He wants to know that he was wanted— that he still is. That’s what Steve reminds himself. He holds out his hand for the notebook. “Thanks.”

God forbid, Billy put the stack of notes in his palm.

No, higher powers always make Steve eat his words.

Billy’s hand is in his before he can really register it; is pulling him through the veil before he knows what’s happening. His notebook is on the floor, his lips on Billy’s, before he even finds his footing.

And it’s terrible. Awful. Bad. Because he’s tried so hard. Done so good. And it’s all for nothing. The second he gets the contact he pretends not to crave, he’s melting into the kiss.

He’s said it before, and it rings true: he’s ill-equipped. Steve’s not capable of thinking properly with Billy invading all his senses, and he bares down with a goddamn platoon, this invasion. Like all those words he can’t say are being spoken through his frantic lips, every word pushed right into Steve’s mouth. The smell of his cologne, of quick wind from fast driving and bad-habit cigarette smoke floods his olfactory. A smell that’s trained him like a dog to let in the intruder. His hands find Steve’s bare skin like they’re hungry for it, starving from the absence of touch, and move over his body with selfish, greedy palms.

Steve’s helpless. He’s weak for it. He lets Billy back him up, back into the house, and turns him to press into the wall beside the door. It slams shut when he kicks it closed. He should have known the thing that would get Billy back into his house would be force, not request.

Steve’s never been one to back down, especially in the wake of Billy. He pushes back against his lips, teeth clicking together, sucks Billy’s tongue into his mouth as his hands slide up his semi-bare chest and over his collar bones, around his neck. It’s like a cheat code, the way Billy’s body falls against his. Slumps, like his touch makes him just as weak. Steve feels crushed, between the weight of him and the hard of the wall.

He bites into Billy’s lip, like he knows drives him a little bit wild, also knows he likes to do that first, and pushes his hands into the tight skin of his chest and shoves. Billy staggers a bit with no more Steve to hold on to. His dark eyes fall on the older boy like a challenge, and Steve’s own chest puffs a bit, fists curling.

“Go home, Billy,” he advises firmly. He should really get an award for it.

He cocks his head to the side a bit, advancing a step and smirking surely. “Oh, you want me to go home? That’s what that was?”

Steve simmers under his skin. His head spins, still drunk on his smell. His touch. The feeling of feeling him. “No. And you know that. It’s fucking cruel and unusual punishment, whatever you’re doing.”

His brow sharpens, eyes suddenly wary of connecting with his. He must not have been prepared for an up-front answer. He doesn’t usually get any, his life like a riddle he’s been unable to crack. Solve.

“What do you think I’m doing?”

Steve scoffs and opens the door, swiping the anatomy notebook off the ground. “I don’t know, Billy. It’s not like you’re exactly easy.”

Billy’s struck by that, the confirmation of that thing he’s always wanted. To be hard to read and unknowable, because all of the things that have known him have left. It feels scarily fraudulent here, to be confirmed by Steve. To realize that maybe Steve is one of the only people he might actually want to know him. Like he won’t leave. Because he didn’t. He let Billy push him away, but he didn’t leave.

He decides to take it in stride. Lean into it. Because, what’s there to lose? They graduate in a week. Nothings promised. And that could be nothing, a big nothing. But it could also be something. A big something.

“I’m here because you’re here,” he says. He wants to say and that’s where I want to be, because that’s what he feels. But it’s hard to say that. To admit those things that leave him feeling stripped and vulnerable and flayed open, able to be crushed and hurt all over again.

Steve rolls his eyes. His body is angled toward the door, like he’s ready for Billy to walk out, to flee, because that’s all he’s ever done. “Of course I’m here. I live here.” It’s weak at best.

Billy steps into his space, puts a hand on the edge of the door and pulls it closed slowly until Steve’s forced to come back inside. Forced into Billy’s space. Forced to look at him. Billy takes a steadying breath. “I’m here because you’re here,” he repeats. He tries to be open, like Steve. To force his mask off.

Steve visibly flinches, his nose twitching with his lip as he takes advantage of the door behind him as a steadying surface. “Don’t do that.”

“You want me to swear on something?”

“Billy—“

He can hear the plea in it. Billy won’t break him. He’d break himself in the process, choosing to suffocate instead of breathe. Being honest is suddenly not as difficult as he thought. That goody-two-shoes, scouts-honor, cringe shit feeling suddenly like, instead of being stupidly vulnerable and delicate, it could help him get the only thing he’s ever wanted badly enough to almost ask for a beating.

“Steve,” he says, soft and sure. “I turned up Bryan Adams.”

Steve sinks against the door. It looks like it hurts. “You hate Bryan Adams,” he says. It sounds like a last ditch effort. Like to anyone else it would mean nothing. But Billy knows what it means. He’s cracked the riddle. He doesn’t need it anymore.

“I love when you sing it.”

He wants to cry. He’s not sure if it’s because, for some reason, the heart mending can feel almost exactly as painful as the breaking when sprung upon like this. He wasn’t prepared for it. For Billy to come here and break him open just so he can nestle inside and tell him he’s ok with it, he’s learning to love things. Maybe it’s not too late.

“We’re graduating. We’re out of time.”

“We’re graduating,” Billy shrugs, let’s his lips tilt a bit. “We might have all the time in the world. Overtime exists, y’know.”

Steve wants to laugh. His whole deficit is suddenly pumped full, though, and he’s afraid. “You don’t know that.”

He seems to readily take the leap. Like he was expecting it. “I know I want you.”

“That’s bold,” he says before he can help it. Because that’s usually his thing. Being brash. Being brave.

The blonde’s hands slide against his waist, the band of his sweats. He tilts his nose up against Steve’s, his proximity drowning out his better judgement. Steve may always be ill-equipped, no matter what. Especially when it comes to Billy.

“I know what this is.” His fingers dig harder into Steve’s skin, like he meant it. It’s the final blow. The last straw, is what it is. He’s glad Billy’s holding onto him, or he’d probably do something stupid like exalt. “I know. It’s not easy, but I know.”

And it’s not an apology; Steve knows better than to expect that. Once upon a time, knowing what ‘this’ is was not a comfort. It was a definition. Lines drawn in sand. And Steve knew, too; agreed and never really meant it. Never really wanted whatever it was to be all it was. He never thought he’d get to watch Billy trip to cross the line instead, and he’s not going to shove him back. Billy better know that.

He wants to say easy was never part of the plan. Wants to say that Billy’s worth not easy. Wants to say he’s known and been ok with it and been happy to love and lose and hurt if it meant he had the chance. But things like that have their place, their time, and Steve has a feeling it’ll come like a wave at dusk, quiet and easy, to wash away all those sand-carved lines.

So, instead, he buckles down. Buckles in. He can be bold, can help Billy be bold. “Do you want to stay?”

When the other boy smiles, it’s like everything before flattens. Crushed under the weight of this new agreement. The timeline is collapsed; it’s dead and gone and past is past and he’ll happily hand Steve the shovel if what he wants to do is fill him. He’s got time for pretty boy to smooth his edges, if he really wants to try. He’s got time to breathe, to be ok, maybe even to love. Maybe he even already does.

He’s got time to not be too late, to not be out of time.

He’s got time for overtime.