I don’t care if it hurts (i wanna have control)
Read on AO3 here!
Billy staggers out of the house and down the front porch, the cool night air hitting him like a slap in the face. It takes him a few moments to notice what's wrong with the view and realize his car isn’t parked out front – and that his keys are now missing from his front pocket.
“FUCK!”
He howls the word, swinging around and punching the nearest porch beam. But as quickly as the anger comes, it stutters out and dies, leaving him feeling hollowed out and with one more injury to add to his tally.
His father's orders had been clear. Find Max, or don't bother coming back. The consequences didn’t bear thinking about.
-
Set post-S2, exploring Billy’s character and potential for redemption since I’m a simp for complicated assholes.
Had this sitting in my drafts since 2019 after binging ST S2 and have been obsessed with Billy ever since. What can I say, I like my characters with some ✨trauma✨
This fic was born out of my wanting to explore Billy's character and possible redemption. There might be some Steve/Billy in the future (because I ship those two so bad).
Here is an extended teaser for ya'll:
---
Billy wakes to find himself sprawled on the floor, body aching and head pounding relentlessly with every heartbeat.
He blinks up at the ceiling, vision fuzzy, half expecting to find the silhouette of his father standing over him, having taken a ‘lesson’ one hit too far. But when he looks around, he is alone, and somewhere he doesn’t recognize.
The place is trashed, with paper tacked up on the walls and scattered across the floor. It is fucking creepy, and Billy has no recollection of how he ended up there, passed out on the floor.
Sitting up, Billy groans at the stretch of abused muscles. He brings a hand up to rub his face, wincing at the feeling of bruised flesh under his fingers and the tacky texture of drying blood.
He can taste it in his mouth, too, along with the sting of a cut lip.
There is blood on his knuckles as well, and he flexes his hands, feeling the familiar ache in them that comes after a good brawl. One that he evidently lost.
He stands, slipping on loose pieces of paper, and stumbles to the wall, leaning heavily against it when a sudden wave of nausea hits him. His stomach rolls, but Billy breathes through it until it recedes. He doesn’t remember drinking, but this feels like one hell of a hangover.
He pushes away from the wall and looks around again, hoping to find a clue to his current location. He is in a living room with shabby, well-worn furniture. It might have been a nice, homey sort of space if it hadn’t been for all the bits of paper on the walls, scribbled on with black crayons and pieced together in some giant, disturbing mural.
He steps more into the living area and feels something crunch under his heavy boot. He lifts his foot and looks down, seeing the crushed remains of a syringe. The sight of it brings back fragmented memories of the evening.
He remembers his father’s threats—the humiliating sting of a slap against his cheek and the orders that followed.
He remembers his frenzied search over town for a step-sister he couldn’t give two shits about. Playing nice with all the parents of that nerdy bunch of friends before Mrs. Wheeler finally gave him the information that led him to the Byers's house, where Steve fucking Harrington had barred his way, having the gall to lie to his face while Max watched from the window with the same fucking kids he had warned her away from.
And he remembers the fight that followed, the rush of anger that had consumed him at Harrington’s dispassionate demand for him to get out like he had the authority over what Billy could or couldn’t do. But Billy already had his orders. He wasn’t going to leave without Max, so he started a fight, laughing as the follow-up punches connected, tasting blood on his tongue but unable to stop fucking laughing because this time he could fight back. He could make Harrington hurt in the same way without fear of retribution.
And it had been glorious – the control he had at that moment – the feel of skin splitting under his knuckles before a sharp prick in his neck had pulled him from his own bloodlust. Then his vision blurring, and his body going heavy. A fleeting image of Max standing over him yelling before darkness.
Billy stomps down on the syringe, grinding the crushed remains into the floor as anger flares up in his, hot and quick.
His fucking bitch of a step-sister had drugged him.
He clenches his fists, wishing he had something to hit right now. He spins around, and his eyes catch on a spot on the floor, where splatters of dried blood can be seen. They are barely noticeable, but Billy is more than used to cleaning his own blood off the ground to miss it.
—Harrington staggers back as Billy smashes the plate across his head. Billy takes advantage of the other boy's distraction to throw him to the floor—
—Harrington sprawled out on the floor below him, beaten and bloody. Billy pulls his hand back for another punch, and another, and another—
The flashes of memory are so vivid that Billy feels sick all over again, but this time it's at his own actions. He’s been in plenty of fights over the years, but none of them have gone so far.
Because he knows, with sudden, cold certainty, that if Max hadn’t intervened, he would have kept on punching, kept pouring out his anger on Harrington until he was spent – perhaps even killing Harrington in the process.
And he may be an asshole, but he has never wanted to be a murderer.
Eager for a distraction from the direction of his thoughts, Billy staggers out of the house and down the front porch, the cool night air hitting him like a slap in the face. It takes him a few moments to notice what's wrong with the view and realize his car isn’t parked out front - and that his keys are now missing from his front pocket.
“FUCK!”
He howls the word, swinging around and punching the nearest porch beam. But as quickly as the anger comes, it stutters out and dies, leaving him feeling hollowed out and with one more injury to add to his tally.
And now he is doubly screwed. No Max, no car, and still half fucked from the drugs in his system.
His father's orders had been clear. Find Max, or don't bother coming back. The second half had gone unspoken, but the dangerous glint in his father's eyes had told him enough of the punishment he would get for failure.
The consequences didn’t bear thinking about.
---
Read the rest on AO3!
“Dad, let me explain,” Billy starts, hating how meek he sounds. But sometimes Neil will stop sooner if Billy sounds contrite and grovels enough.
“By all means.” Neil's voice is hard and unforgiving. “Explain to me about how you got into a fight and got arrested when all I asked you to do was get your sister.”
It is a trap, and Billy knows it. No excuses or apologies will save him from his father's wrath. The silence stretches out too long.
I don’t care if it hurts (i wanna have control)
Read on AO3 here!
Billy staggers out of the house and down the front porch, the cool night air hitting him like a slap in the face. It takes him a few moments to notice what's wrong with the view and realize his car isn’t parked out front – and that his keys are now missing from his front pocket.
“FUCK!”
He howls the word, swinging around and punching the nearest porch beam. But as quickly as the anger comes, it stutters out and dies, leaving him feeling hollowed out and with one more injury to add to his tally.
His father's orders had been clear. Find Max, or don't bother coming back. The consequences didn’t bear thinking about.
-
Set post-S2, exploring Billy’s character and potential for redemption since I’m a simp for complicated assholes.
Had this sitting in my drafts since 2019 after binging ST S2 and have been obsessed with Billy ever since. What can I say, I like my characters with some ✨trauma✨
This fic was born out of my wanting to explore Billy's character and possible redemption. There might be some Steve/Billy in the future (because I ship those two so bad).
Here is an extended teaser for ya'll:
---
Billy wakes to find himself sprawled on the floor, body aching and head pounding relentlessly with every heartbeat.
He blinks up at the ceiling, vision fuzzy, half expecting to find the silhouette of his father standing over him, having taken a ‘lesson’ one hit too far. But when he looks around, he is alone, and somewhere he doesn’t recognize.
The place is trashed, with paper tacked up on the walls and scattered across the floor. It is fucking creepy, and Billy has no recollection of how he ended up there, passed out on the floor.
Sitting up, Billy groans at the stretch of abused muscles. He brings a hand up to rub his face, wincing at the feeling of bruised flesh under his fingers and the tacky texture of drying blood.
He can taste it in his mouth, too, along with the sting of a cut lip.
There is blood on his knuckles as well, and he flexes his hands, feeling the familiar ache in them that comes after a good brawl. One that he evidently lost.
He stands, slipping on loose pieces of paper, and stumbles to the wall, leaning heavily against it when a sudden wave of nausea hits him. His stomach rolls, but Billy breathes through it until it recedes. He doesn’t remember drinking, but this feels like one hell of a hangover.
He pushes away from the wall and looks around again, hoping to find a clue to his current location. He is in a living room with shabby, well-worn furniture. It might have been a nice, homey sort of space if it hadn’t been for all the bits of paper on the walls, scribbled on with black crayons and pieced together in some giant, disturbing mural.
He steps more into the living area and feels something crunch under his heavy boot. He lifts his foot and looks down, seeing the crushed remains of a syringe. The sight of it brings back fragmented memories of the evening.
He remembers his father’s threats—the humiliating sting of a slap against his cheek and the orders that followed.
He remembers his frenzied search over town for a step-sister he couldn’t give two shits about. Playing nice with all the parents of that nerdy bunch of friends before Mrs. Wheeler finally gave him the information that led him to the Byers's house, where Steve fucking Harrington had barred his way, having the gall to lie to his face while Max watched from the window with the same fucking kids he had warned her away from.
And he remembers the fight that followed, the rush of anger that had consumed him at Harrington’s dispassionate demand for him to get out like he had the authority over what Billy could or couldn’t do. But Billy already had his orders. He wasn’t going to leave without Max, so he started a fight, laughing as the follow-up punches connected, tasting blood on his tongue but unable to stop fucking laughing because this time he could fight back. He could make Harrington hurt in the same way without fear of retribution.
And it had been glorious – the control he had at that moment – the feel of skin splitting under his knuckles before a sharp prick in his neck had pulled him from his own bloodlust. Then his vision blurring, and his body going heavy. A fleeting image of Max standing over him yelling before darkness.
Billy stomps down on the syringe, grinding the crushed remains into the floor as anger flares up in his, hot and quick.
His fucking bitch of a step-sister had drugged him.
He clenches his fists, wishing he had something to hit right now. He spins around, and his eyes catch on a spot on the floor, where splatters of dried blood can be seen. They are barely noticeable, but Billy is more than used to cleaning his own blood off the ground to miss it.
—Harrington staggers back as Billy smashes the plate across his head. Billy takes advantage of the other boy's distraction to throw him to the floor—
—Harrington sprawled out on the floor below him, beaten and bloody. Billy pulls his hand back for another punch, and another, and another—
The flashes of memory are so vivid that Billy feels sick all over again, but this time it's at his own actions. He’s been in plenty of fights over the years, but none of them have gone so far.
Because he knows, with sudden, cold certainty, that if Max hadn’t intervened, he would have kept on punching, kept pouring out his anger on Harrington until he was spent – perhaps even killing Harrington in the process.
And he may be an asshole, but he has never wanted to be a murderer.
Eager for a distraction from the direction of his thoughts, Billy staggers out of the house and down the front porch, the cool night air hitting him like a slap in the face. It takes him a few moments to notice what's wrong with the view and realize his car isn’t parked out front - and that his keys are now missing from his front pocket.
“FUCK!”
He howls the word, swinging around and punching the nearest porch beam. But as quickly as the anger comes, it stutters out and dies, leaving him feeling hollowed out and with one more injury to add to his tally.
And now he is doubly screwed. No Max, no car, and still half fucked from the drugs in his system.
His father's orders had been clear. Find Max, or don't bother coming back. The second half had gone unspoken, but the dangerous glint in his father's eyes had told him enough of the punishment he would get for failure.
The consequences didn’t bear thinking about.
---
Read the rest on AO3!
how do you think Silco reacts to Powder and Ekko dating in the au? honest if I was Ekko I’d be TERRIFIED everyday of my life knowing who my gf’s parents are. I also think we need more fanfiction about this
I think Ekko is one of the few people who are safe from the "scary dads" thanks to being Benzo's kid. Also, Ekko knows how soft they really are.
I've got to know, was this done intentionally? The complimentary covers with Aziraphale and Crowley, your names in different orders?
It was intentional, yes. It was so that whether you looked on the P shelf or the G shelf you would still find a copy of Good Omens. Also Terry wanted the black cover because he felt it would be cooler.
Modern day Lan Zhan. Yep, he still has long hair, there is a reason. Find out in my Wangxian story. A meet cute at a tea shop with heaps of fluff, mutual pining, and A-Yuan adorableness galore!
This is how I pictured Lan Zhan when Wei YIng first sees him.
Check out my Wangxian stories on AO3 HERE
More random art on Instagram: @bluemorphos8
#illustration#the untamed#lan zhan#mdzs au#mdzs wwx#mdzs fic#wangxian#digitalpainting#mdzs modern day au#fanart#untamed fic#mdzs fanart#wang yibo#lan wangji
Modern day Wei Ying, rocking an undercut and red streaks (courtesy of his best friend, Nie Huaisang).
Drawn to accompany my soon to be published Wangxian story. A meet cute at a tea shop with heaps of fluff, mutual pining, and A-Yuan adorableness galore!
This is how I pictured Wei Ying when Lan Zhan first sees him.
Modern day Lan Zhan. Yep, he still has long hair and he's just blue because...
Drawn to accompany my soon to be published Wangxian story. A meet cute at a tea shop with heaps of fluff, mutual pining, and A-Yuan adorableness galore!
This is how I pictured Lan Zhan when Wei YIng first sees him.
