Eddie loves taking long walks during chilly autumn nights.
One of his favorite places to walk is Lover’s Lake. The quietness of the forest and the fog coming from the lake are the rare few things that he enjoys. That makes him calm.
But Lover’s Lake is not a place to come during the spring or summer if you want to be alone. It’s full of drunk screaming teenagers with their little parties and get-togethers with their so-called ’best friends’ that they’re gonna leave once they go to college.
Eddie didn’t give a shit about any of that.
Sure, he went to parties, couple of times, but even when he still wasn’t called Eddie ’The Freak’ Munson, no one cared about him. They still thought he was weird, unfitting. Maybe it was the clothes he wore or the buzzcut, but Eddie always knew even if he looked like them, he would never be accepted.
After that, he just stopped caring at all. He kept to himself and went on these stupid little walks that actually ended up making him somehow feel better.
He’d usually take a couple beers with him so he could sit on his favorite spot, a rock right next to the lake where he sometimes dips his feet even if it’s freezing.
That was the plan for tonight as well.
Eddie was about to arrive at his usual spot, smoking his third cigarette when he spotted something unusual.
A car. And not just any car. Billy’s Hargrove’s blue fucking camaro that the guy drives around like a damn maniac.
Eddie let out a frustrated sigh.
No way Billy had brought some girl here to fuck with. Out of everywhere, to Eddie’s spot.
This was just his fucking luck. Of course Billy out of everyone would choose this place just to fuck with him.
Sure… the other man didn’t know this was his spot, but fuck did it still annoy Eddie. Now he had to leave and forget his relaxing night just because Billy Hargrove wanted to get his dick wet with some random girl.
Eddie dropped his finished cigarette to the ground and stepped on it, cracking his neck a little before turning around and starting to walk off.
But then he heard it. A little muffled, but still clear.
”Stop fucking around, Harrington. No one’s gonna find us.”
Eddie quickly turned back around and tried to think if what he had just heard was right.
”Harrington?” He whispered.
”Ah, but— but someone could be taking a w-walk or something. I can’t be too lou- FUCK!”
”Sorry, Pretty Boy.”
Eddie heard deep laughing after that. And he knew whose it was.
It was Billy Hargrove’s.
A knot was forming in his stomach. He didn’t want to think what he was thinking, but something in Eddie knew he had to go and look, just in case. He had to know what was going on, even if it was wrong.
So, he took a small step. Careful not to stupidly step on a branch and expose himself slowly walking to the clearing from the forest walls.
He walked closer to the camaro, slowly creeping next to it, the sounds becoming louder and louder of the other two as he finally made it.
Eddie heard deep moans and grunts. A noise of something hitting something repeatedly and a small but clear sound of the radio playing from the camaros open window.
Eddie cursed at himself a couple of times before building the courage to slowly peek from behind the camaro.
He felt his heart skip a beat when he finally saw the source of the ongoing noises and who were the people making them.
There they were.
Billy Hargrove on his back on top of a raggy looking blanket with… Steve Harrington.
Steve Harrington who was riding the other man, head thrown back and making loud little ah ah ah’s with every hard thrust Billy was meeting him with.
The blond man looked smitten by the other. Moving his hands up and down Steve’s waist, thighs, ass that Eddie only had the side view of. He sometimes even pinched the other’s nipples that had gotten hard from the cold weather.
Billy was saying something to Steve, something that made the brunette laugh before letting out a moan again when he moved his hips just right.
Eddie could swear he had somehow died, because this couldn’t be real.
The whole view was out of a dirty porn he had once watched that he stole from his dealer's house. Something to do with the bad boy fucking the town’s good girl or some cliché like that. But that shit never actually happens.
Eddie had to pinch himself to try and wake the hell up, but nothing happened. Here he still was, dumbfoundedly staring as Billy pushed Steve down and quickly put himself between the other’s thighs.
Eddie knew the moment he pushed his cock back inside Steve because that’s when the brunette whined loudly and started to beg for more.
And shit… did Hargrove go fucking fast.
When the moans got more obscene and when he finally saw the other two kiss, that’s when Eddie bolted.
He ran as fast as he could, his heart in his throat and once he reached his van, he jumped in and drove off, breaking a couple of laws while he was at it.
When he got back to his trailer and to his room after quietly walking past Wayne who had fallen asleep on the couch he quickly took his shoes off and went straight to bed with his clothes on.
He didn’t sleep that night, not really.
He didn’t sleep the whole weekend. He couldn’t, with all the things going through his head.
When Monday came along and it was school again, he got himself up and was at school earlier than usual.
He went about his day as usual. Did the things he always did.
Except maybe he focused more on other things now.
Like how Billy Hargrove and Steve Harrington looked at each other during lunch when they thought no one was watching. Or when they were both leaving at the same time and saw each other at the school’s parking lot while Billy pretended to flirt with a girl.
When Steve drives off with his car, leaving Billy to look after him with a frown.
And maybe… maybe when Steve finally looked at Eddie during their shared class that week, Eddie looked at him differently.
Maybe now he didn’t give him his usual glare. Maybe he just stared at him, telling him that he knew.
Knew that that chaste kiss they shared during the 1980 summer camp wasn’t just ’stupid mistake’ and ’wrong’ like Steve had said the next morning.
That it had meant something to that small and big eyed boy that had been giggling at everything Eddie had joked about during those days.
That those small touches and when he held Eddie’s hand when they kissed wasn’t just because he thought it would be a mistake.
No.
He had meant it.
”What are you staring at, man?” Steve had said to him, giving him that small pout Eddie honestly wanted to kiss off of him.
”Nothing. Don’t worry your little head, Pretty Boy.” Eddie had said mockingly, making Gareth laugh next to him.
But Steve didn't laugh. Eddie loved watching his pout turn into a small shock and just as he was about to ask something, the bell rang.
He gave Steve a wink, making the other blush and that’s when had taken off, leaving confused and nervous Steve Harrington behind.
Sure, maybe he got some angry looks from Hargrove after that and maybe the stronger man sometimes pushed him a little harder on the cramped school halls, making him stumble, but they never mentioned it.
Never said anything.
Maybe that’s how it was supposed to be. Maybe it was better this way.
But Eddie still couldn’t get the image of Steve off his head.
And how he sometimes wishes to have been Billy then. Been the one to make Steve feel that way.
I am once again plagued with thoughts that aren't 100% coherent so imma just ramble for a bit, pls gather 'round for some stuff about Billy and body image issues cuz I'm in my feels rn.
Billy spends a lot of time staring at Nancy.
Enough that Tommy's noticed and he starts ribbing him about it. "That's one thing of Steve's you might want to stay away from," bitter and pointed. Enough that Jonathan Byers gives him the stink eye whenever he's within glaring distance. Enough that a handful of the more desperate chicks still high off the fumes of his New Kid smell have started dressing like fucking librarians in hopes of catching his eye.
He doesn't give a shit about any of it, if anything the rumour mill is helping him out for once. Less work involved in keeping up appearances if everyone just assumes he isn't sleeping around because he's too busy sniffing Wheeler's granny panties.
As long as no one guesses the real reason, it's fine. It's fucking peachy. It's one silver lining in this shitstorm of a situation.
He's so tired of his eyes inevitably being drawn to her barely-there tits and tiny waist. Every time he's bored at lunch, his gaze wanders. When he's in the library pretending to study, there she fucking is, even smaller when she's hunched over a pile of cue cards.
The longer he looks at her the more sure he is that Steve will never really want him.
Steve's slept with plenty of girls. A variety of girls. He probably couldn't afford to be too picky in this shitty little town. But he's only fallen in love once. One time. The only time it mattered what he was sticking his dick in was when it was in Nancy Wheeler.
And Billy...will never be her. Not even close.
He'll only ever be a warm mouth and a convenient hand, he'll never matter.
She's flat, and thin. Willowy, narrow-shouldered. Petite. Inches shorter than him and nearly half as broad. Thin fingers and delicate wrists. She fit comfortably under Steve's arm, she could nestle safely into his side.
And it was all so fucking easy for her. She never had to try.
She never had to piss off her dad so she'd be forced to skip meals. She never did laps around her neighbourhood until she was lightheaded and doubled over, dry-heaving in someone's hedge. She was never forced to sign up for baseball as a child, poked and prodded and guilted into it because a couple shirts were starting to get tight across the stomach, and being a momma's boy was bad enough, being a fat, lazy piece of shit too was unacceptable.
He used to think he'd done well, maintaining the physique he has. He's worked hard for it. Scraping together his savings for a weight set and keeping careful track of his calorie intake and never skipping a single fucking day of exercise, hangovers and broken bones be damned. And it's fucking useful, truth be told. More than keeping away the echo of old insults bouncing around in his head, it's made flirting that much easier.
But the more he looks at Nancy Wheeler, the more he hates the things he can't change. It gets into his head. Digs in deep, leaving scars on its way down.
He thinks Steve might've noticed.
He knows Steve has heard the stupid rumours about Wheeler, and probably chalked it up to Billy being an asshole, as usual. But it's harder to explain away his sudden tendency to go extremely still whenever Steve puts his hands anywhere on his torso. A palm pressed to his chest, slipped under his shirt, or fingertips digging into his back, or a casual fucking pat on the shoulder—whatever it is, he can't help freezing up, if only for a second, a sick feeling twisting his stomach, cold and shameful and clawing at his lungs.
And then, eventually, they argue.
It's over nothing. And everything. Billy can't explain what his fucking damage is, and Steve can't stop needling in the wrong places. They scream at each other until their throats are raw and Billy leaves when his knuckles start to itch.
He cries all the way home and doesn't eat for four days. Not on purpose. Not consciously. He's just. Fucking. Busy. He's busy. He's always gotta drive Max somewhere or dodge Neil's thinly veiled threats or lock himself in his room when bile starts to bubble up in the back of his throat and his head pounds and he doesn't think about why he's snapping at everyone constantly, he just pounds back a couple beers and goes to sleep. And then it's four days later, and he's flying off the handle at Neil, too sluggish and lightheaded to see the hit coming, and...
Steve comes to see him at the hospital. He hasn't told anyone anything but they've got him hooked up to a banana bag and the nurses keep making sad eyes at him when they come to check his stitches.
He hates it, sitting around doing nothing, being closely monitored every fucking second, it make his skin crawl, and he hates it even more when Steve's standing in the doorway looking at him.
Not for the first time, he's overwhelmed wondering what exactly Steve sees.
He's a fucking mess right now. Greasy hair tangled at the back, bruises peeking out from under the collar of his gross papery hospital gown, one eye swollen shut and a dark tangle of thread holding his eyebrow together. It feels stupid to get stressed about all the shit that usually bothers him when there's so many other things to worry about, but he still finds himself shifting in place, hunching his shoulders, hiding his hands in the crooks of his elbows.
It's sort of a disaster. Worse than last time they saw each other. Billy's not in the mood for Steve's apologies and Steve's at a loss for what else to say.
They don't see each other again for months. Steve graduates. Billy avoids anywhere he thinks Steve might be, and lies awake at night haunted by stolen touches.
He catches a glimpse of Steve through the red haze of storm clouds and cold lightning, tears blurring his vision, the Mind Flayer wearing him like a suit. Their cars collide, and everything whites out for a second.
He's in the hospital again when they finally talk. Billy rolls his eyes at "We've gotta stop meeting like this," and tries not to think about last time he was here. Steve seems more than willing to ignore it. Move forward. Guess demonic possession puts some things into a different perspective.
When Billy's released from the hospital he's seventeen pounds heavier than he was a few months ago. Every time the nurses did their check-ups and put him on the scale they'd pat his elbow, smiling encouragingly, telling him how good he was doing while he watched his stomach get softer, his biceps get less defined, watched himself disappear beneath a layer of fat.
The first thing he does when he gets home is throw up.
He doesn't make it happen. It just happens. And he blames it on the meds they have him on. It's a plausible enough reason, and it means he doesn't have to interrogate the tiny spark of satisfaction he got from losing his lunch.
His second day back home Neil asks him when he's going to start exercising again. His expression is pinched. Cold. His eyes are ice chips freezing Billy's skin wherever they touch, lingering on the softness under his chin, and where the hem of his sleeve pinches his skin.
He pushes his dinner away and grits out an answer from between clenched teeth.
He doesn't need the reminder that he's gotten weak while he was trapped in a hospital bed, but Neil gives it to him anyways. Tells him all about everything he should do to get things back to normal. Push past the pain. Work harder. He tunes it out after a while, and watches grease congeal on his meatloaf.
Eddie Munson is the first person to bring up the things Billy's never known how to talk about.
They started hanging out after Billy's most recent brush with death. Billy's not sure exactly how the got here, from buying the occasional painkiller and letting the guy wax poetic about his dumb band, to spending weekends getting high together at the trailer park. But as weird things in his life go, it's barely worth questioning.
This particular conversation starts with Chrissy Cunningham.
Specifically, Eddie's massive boner for her.
Billy's been noticing it for a while. He hasn't been letting it bother him.
He hasn't.
Maybe he likes the way Eddie smiles at him when they pass a joint back and forth, lazily stretched out and wearing three less layers than usual, and maybe he thinks about closing the distance between them when Eddie offers to shotgun, but it doesn't fucking matter. Just like it doesn't matter that Steve hasn't touched him since before the Mind Flayer and things are fucking weird now that they're on speaking terms again. None of it matters, he's just a fucking idiot.
Because Steve and his new best friend Robin are attached at the hip lately and everyone can see where that's going, and Eddie won't stop talking about tiny, pretty, perfect fucking Chrissy and her stupid ponytail.
And Billy...Billy gets winded walking up the porch steps at his house now. And he pulled a muscle in his back trying to lift half the weight he used to press. And last week he burned three pairs of jeans in the backyard because he kept grabbing them out of his laundry pile, not realizing they don't fit anymore until he was struggling to pull them up past his knees.
He's lost the one thing people used to actually like about him. Never the people he wanted, he was never enough for that, but it was something. Now he's just...
Now he's just listening to a guy he likes talk about some goddamn cheerleader like she personally hung the moon just for him.
And he's drunk. They're both drunk. Eddie in a soppy, embarrassing way, with a sparkle in his eye and a flush on his cheeks, an arm across the back of the couch, outstretched far enough that the tips of his fingers almost brush Billy's shoulder.
He wants to move closer. Thinks about shuffling into Eddie's space, curling into the warmth at his side. But it twists in his guts, sours, sickens—he couldn't, he can't. And he hates himself for wanting to.
"What do you see in her?" spills out of his mouth, bitter on his tongue and sharpened by anger he has no right to feel.
She's pretty. He expects it. She's pretty, she's perfect. She's a fucking angel even though her and Eddie only know each other because she buys drugs off of him. But she can do no wrong because she looks like a little china doll with sad eyes and everyone would be devastated if a single hair on her tiny delicate head was harmed.
Eddie only looks thrown off for a second. A moment. But he shrugs it off, leans his head back against the couch cushions and grins at the ceiling. "She likes my music."
Since fucking when.
"So, what, it's just an ego stroking thing then."
"Nah, man. I mean. Like. She's got this whole good-girl thing going on, but you should see her when I pull out my guitar, it's fuckin'...magic. When she lets herself just. Live." He wiggles his fingers in the air, arms spread, then drops them back down.
Billy's heart clenches, squeezes. It hurts and he doesn't know why. "Bullshit."
"Nah, nah. Seriously. The guy she's dating is a fucking asshole. And her mom..." he trails off, and rubs his eye. "She's just got all this pressure to be perfect, act a certain way, look a certain way, be a certain way, and I hate seeing what it does to her, man. I hate it. No one should have to deal with all that. So. I dunno. I like helping her cut loose. Sorta, find herself, I guess." He cracks a crooked smile, casting a glance in Billy's direction.
And his smile drops.
"Billy?" He sits up, cautious, eyebrows up and his eyes wide.
Billy turns away, shocked into motion, wiping at his face with his sleeve. "I'm fine. Fuck off."
He didn't notice he was crying until Eddie looked at him like he'd seen a ghost.
"Yeah, obviously."
"Fuck you."
Eddie doesn't get much more out of him that night. But he starts watching Billy like a hawk after that. Checking in on him at random. Calling if they haven't seen each other in a few days. It should be irritating as fuck, and he acts like it is, but he still basks in the attention.
Doesn't hurt that it seems to annoy Steve to no end.
Especially doesn't hurt when, in a fit of apparent jealousy, Steve shoves Billy into a wall and kisses him like his life depends on it.
The hurt comes when Steve starts to unbutton Billy's shirt and Billy reflexively shoves him away, when he wants to keep going but wants it to stop and can't tell Steve either of those things because he doesn't have the words.
So he gets angry. At Steve, for pushing it, crossing lines he can't even see. But mostly at himself, because it might be easier than standing there heartbroken but he knows it's the worst thing he could do.
And at Steve, again, when the he doesn't respond the way he should. Doesn't punish Billy for doing the wrong thing, reacting wrong, being wrong. He doesn't withdraw and save himself, he tries to understand, tries to talk it out, like this is something Billy can just say out loud and it'll all be fixed.
He doesn't explain. Not that day. But he lets Steve hold him while he cries, ugly gasping sobs into the front of Steve's shirt, curled up in his lap, collapsed on the floor and tangled together. Because despite everything he's told himself, he does fit comfortably in Steve's arms.
💜tag list ppl💜 @spreckle @growup-thatbeautiful @prettyboy-like-you @suddenlyinlove
The only character I’ll accept as possibly being able to beat billy is Jonathan because in s3 we see him thrown around like a RAG DOLL by that flayed grown man and he’s still somewhat ok.
In the end I think they would just share a bloody kiss too and I would like to see it.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
I ... *dramatic pause* ... have finished a fic!
(And I'm gonna brag about it.)
It's the longest fic I've written so far, at 93K. I started in February of 2019, so it only took me, oh, four and a half years, give or take (insert Baymax gif: 'I am not fast'). Microsoft Word tells me I've had the document open for little over 383 hours. That's ... almost 16 days, around the clock. Half a month, if one worked 24 hours a day. (Again: not fast).
But I did it, I finished it, and I'm so proud of myself for it!
93K of Harringrove bodyswap fic. I'm gonna print it and shove it in my bookcase. Well done me!
I can’t remember if it’s exactly harringrove. The main part of it I remember is a Billy and Robin friendship. It has robin finding out about Billy’s home life and her and her dad help him out. He stays with them in their apartment for a bit and robin and billy become friends. If anyone remembers it please help!!
people who can graciously hide that they don’t like people are so terrifying. last year while working on tech for a play i asked my friend how he became friends with another guy on the crew and he got quiet, looked straight into my soul and said “he’s not my friend. i fucking hate him.” i lost 5 years of my life
The universe loves irony. That's all Eddie can think right now. This whole situation is like some cosmic fucking prank, and it might even be funny if he wasn't almost sure he won't survive the night.
He just had to take refuge in a closet, of all places.
In this closet.
Coming to this stupid party was a bad idea. The first bad idea that spawned many other bad ideas that would end with him in the dark, crouched amid a pile of shoeboxes, his knee cramping and his heart in his mouth.
He needed a little extra spending money and the rich kids that throw these shitty ragers are usually willing to pocket a dime bag or two. He made a tidy profit tonight, so there's that. He did what he came here to do. But he just couldn't keep his fucking mouth shut long enough to get out unscathed.
So many idiots in this town. And all the beer sloshing around seems to make them testier than usual.
He's not proud of the fact that he straight up fled after one of Carver's buddies started throwing punches, but he sure as shit wasn't gonna stick around to get ganged up on by a bunch of angry hicks. Verbal sparring is more his speciality.
If he was as smart as he likes to pretend he is he would've left the building entirely and gone to his van, but no, he had to skitter upstairs and find himself cornered in a guest bedroom, listening to frantic footsteps in the hallway. And then lock himself in the fucking closet.
He hadn't even had time to catch his breath when the bedroom door slammed open, clicked shut, and he started hearing…things. Happening. Things he definitely shouldn't be listening to because they're none of his business.
Bodies moving around the room, crashing into furniture, heavy booted footsteps and shallow gasps getting closer and closer to his hiding place.
He thought at first they were fighting. Thought maybe the commotion downstairs had started a chain reaction and people all around the house were getting into fist fights. There was certainly enough grunting and running into shit to make it sound like an altercation instead of…what's actually happening.
It didn't take long for the pair to slam into the wall next to the closet door, rattling its hinges, a thud and the scrape of someone sliding against drywall echoing in his tiny hiding place.
And that's when he heard. Moaning. A tiny whine, muffled. The wet smack of lips colliding.
Worst of all,
"Fuck," a voice, low, urgent, "Fuck, hurry up."
Billy Hargrove's voice.
Billy fucking Hargrove is getting it on right outside Eddie's hiding place and if he makes a single noise this will be how he dies.
Billy is a goddamn menace and everyone knows it. He saw what Billy did to Steve Harrington's face. He's noticed how often Billy comes to school bruised up, with split knuckles. He is the last person Eddie would want to piss off, and Eddie doesn't consider many people off limits when it comes to that. Most people are fair game, as far as he's concerned. Carver and his sycophants might get rowdy once in a while but they think they're better than taking it further than that.
Whereas Hargrove makes a habit of taking things further than that.
Eddie's only dealt with him directly a few times, sold him a handful of painkillers here and there, and he kept things as civil as possible.
But the thing is…Billy is also extremely pretty.
Which makes this situation that much worse.
'Cause if it was any other meathead Eddie could just plug his ears and wait it out, but…
Nooo. Nope. He's not thinking about. Anything. Nothing.
He's concentrating on how much his knee hurts. And how sweaty his palms are. He's focusing on breathing quietly, and trying to become one with the shadowy pile of coats to his right and the panelled wall at his back.
A belt buckle clinks. Rattles. Someone's scrabbling at Billy's zipper with clumsy fingers.
Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, like that'll help.
An image forms, crystal clear in his mind. Blond curls tousled by desperate hands, red lips parted around a debauched groan, Billy leaning his head back against the wall he's pressed to, eyes half-lidded, eyelashes dark and heavy, pupils blown. He wets his bottom lip, watching Eddie fall to his knees—
Oh. No. This is bad.
This is very bad.
Billy makes a soft breathy noise, and Eddie feels it like a punch in the gut.
Fuck. Jesus Christ.
He stares at the ceiling. Resolutely ignoring the way his stomach tightens, heat coiling low in his abdomen. A flush spreads up his chest. His t-shirt is starting to stick to his back.
He bites his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth.
Then some very distinct noises start up on the other side of the door. Damp. Sucking noises. Billy's breathing goes ragged.
The low burn simmering in Eddie's gut flares up in a burst of sparks tingling through his veins.
He never thought watching people get off was his thing, but suddenly he wants to peek outside so badly it fucking hurts. Aches. Tugs at his chest. His jeans feel too tight and he has to stuff his hands into his armpits to pin them to his sides.
Jerking off right now would be weird and creepy and a terrible idea.
He's made enough stupid decisions tonight, and he didn't narrowly escape getting his ass kicked for being mouthy only to get a beatdown for something infinitely worse. Everyone in Hawkins already thinks he's a freak, he doesn't need to prove them any more right.
There's a limit to what kind of reputation he can have before people stop being willing to do business with him.
If he gets caught in here he's gonna be stuck wringing pennies out of Jonathan Byers' broke ass for the rest of his life.
And that's best-case scenario.
Worst-case scenario the rest of his life is the ten minutes it'll take for him to bleed out after Hargrove rips his dick off.
That thought is not as much of a boner-killer as it needed to be.
Who's out there with him, Eddie wonders. It could be…literally any girl at this party. Maybe Eddie will get lucky and it'll turn out Billy's getting blown by someone's girlfriend. At least then he'd have leverage. Mutually assured destruction.
Or maybe it would just guarantee he gets the shit kicked out of him. Putting someone in a coma would be a surefire way to keep them quiet.
Christ, he's so fucked.
Billy grunts again, not quite drowning out the sound of someone's gag reflex acting up. There's a muffled cough. And—
"Jesus, be more careful," Steven goddamn Harrington says, his voice hoarse but scolding.
Eddie slaps a hand over his mouth so fast he nearly loses his balance, wobbling in place and catching himself by leaning heavily against the back wall. His breath stutters against his palm, and his heartbeat is roaring in his ears.
There's nothing in his brain but static. He can't have heard that right. He's missing something here.
"Don't be such a pussy," Billy croons, his tone dripping with condescension.
There's a quiet snort. "Whatever, dude. We can't all be professional cocksuckers."
Eddie swallows the hysterical laugh bubbling up in his throat.
"Fuck you."
"Be nicer, or I'm leaving you to take care of this yourself."
They're flirting. This is them flirting. Suddenly all the stories he's heard about them getting into fights all over school take on a very different meaning. They're always at each other's throats, sweet-talking their way out of detention after they nearly killed each other on the basketball court or disrupted class with an unrelated argument.
And apparently that was all foreplay for them.
Somehow it makes perfect sense but it's also so out of left field he can't wrap his head around it.
"Aw, don't be like that, pretty boy. I'm on my best behaviour."
"Sure you are."
If Eddie didn't know any better he'd think Steve sounded fond. Which is almost more mind-boggling than the sex.
"C'mon, hurry it up, we've already been up here too long."
Steve mumbles something Eddie can't hear. Something that makes Billy snicker.
When they start up again it's so much harder to ignore.
It was one thing when it was Billy and some hypothetical girl. Half a fantasy that was miles out of reach despite only being a few inches of drywall away. As much as he was achingly curious and wetting himself over the idea of what was happening outside, he was able to keep that bit of distance that kept him quiet and seated.
But now…now he's been swept out to sea. He's lost in it. The tingling warmth in his veins, pooling in his gut, under his jaw, the base of his spine, he's floating in it, struggling to breathe. The hand he's kept pressed to his mouth trembles. Twitches. He brushes the pads of his index and middle fingers along his bottom lip.
Billy curses quietly, choked out and damn near reverent. Broken little syllables tumbling out of him with none of the bravado he usually cloaks himself in. It squeezes Eddie's whole chest, desire and something softer, something gentler but just as potent.
He wraps his lips around his fingers experimentally, eyes falling shut, a nervous sort of tension thrumming through his stiff muscles.
Liquid heat jolts through him when a tentative swipe of his tongue just so happens to coincide with a low groan on the other side of the door.
Billy's always carried himself with an alluring sort of confidence. Like interaction is a challenge. Like he knows exactly how hot he is and how much he can get away with because of it.
And Eddie's always wondered what it would take to bring those walls down. Not to see what's underneath but just to prove it can be done. There's always been a part of him that's wanted to pick up that gauntlet Billy throws down every time he walks into a room. Everything about Billy and his stupid ostentatious persona made Eddie itch. Made him want to one-up him in some way, somehow.
So there's something uniquely satisfying about hearing him whimper. Just once. A tiny, helpless little sound as he falls apart at the seams, undone by the touch of another man. There's something about it that lodges itself in Eddie's brain, burrowing into dark little corners.
One fleeting moment and he's hooked. He wants to see it happen. He wants to make it happen. He wants to be the one putting Harrington on his knees and telling him exactly how to take Billy apart, piece by piece, leave him speechless and quivering, blue eyes hazy, pupils dark, sweat glistening on his chest.
Eddie's free hand wanders downward to palm the front of his jeans. He shifts to press against it, just enough pressure to make his lungs catch and shudder.
"I'm—fuck, Steve, I—" Billy's voice is barely more than a whisper, desperate and breathless and heartwrenchingly intimate. With one final half-swallowed groan the noises stop.
Holy shit, he finished.
…Why is it so hot that it was that easy to make Billy Hargrove cum.
Has he ever drawn it out, Eddie wonders. Has he ever had the time, the space. Been with someone who wouldn't give him everything he wanted right away. Made him beg for it instead.
"I gotta go," Steve says softly. There's the muted sound of a kiss pressed to bare skin.
Billy hums. "Yeah."
Neither of them want to leave, it's obvious even without seeing their faces. But lingering could be dangerous. The vibrations from shitty music turned up too loud downstairs still rattles the walls, voices blend together into unintelligible noise. The party would've drowned them out unless someone had their ear to the door. But there's always the chance some other drunk, horny idiots would try to use the guest room. The longer they stay the more likely it is they'll get caught.
Eddie exhales slowly through his nose, tucking his hands back into his armpits.
Shame prickles at him, settling sick and heavy in his stomach. Masturbater's remorse before he even had the chance to get off.
They wanted a private moment alone. Something they likely don't get often. Eddie didn't have any right to his weird fantasies of involving himself in a relationship that isn't any of his business.
He curls in on himself, resting his forehead on his knees. And waits.
They don't speak again. Eddie listens to the rustle of clothing, a zipper being pulled, and slow, almost hesitant footsteps. Minutes pass. All the tension and heat that kept his attention has bled away, leaving him with nothing to distract from how much his legs hurt, and the ache starting to press between his shoulderblades.
Finally, the door creaks, and their footsteps fade into the background noise.
He counts out sixty seconds before daring to move, nudging the closet open just enough to peek out into the empty room.
His knees protest when he tries to stand, and he has to try a second time, slower.
How long was he even in there, goddamn.
The only hurdle left is pushing his way out the door somehow. Last time he was downstairs the crowd was too much and he had to book it up here instead.
He's planning his escape route when he steps out into the hallway, rubbing a sore spot on his shoulder, only to freeze with one foot still in the guest room.
They're not downstairs.
They're right goddamn there.
Steve and Billy and some random fucking guy are standing at the top of the stairs, chatting the night away. Billy's leaning on the banister oh-so-casually, like he wasn't just getting his dick sucked, like there isn't a pink spot under his jaw that'll probably be a bruise tomorrow, like Steve isn't standing there with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, eyes wandering Billy's face, bottom lip between his teeth, not a single subtle bone in his fucking body, oh god—
Billy locks eyes with Eddie, and all the colour drains from his face. He's never seen genuine fear on Billy Hargrove before. Wide-eyed, tense-shouldered, deer-in-the-headlights terror. He blinks and Billy's schooled his features into something resembling neutrality, but the image has already branded itself on the inside of his eyelids. It takes a couple seconds for his heart to start beating again, tripping all over itself in its panic.
Steve saw it too, no doubt. Suddenly he's glancing between Billy and Eddie and his expression is so locked down Eddie can't tell what he's thinking but it's definitely not good.
And random basketball guy doesn't notice a goddamn thing. He just keeps waving his solo cup around, 'cause he has no idea he's standing in the blast zone of a fucking timebomb.
He'll have to walk past them to leave.
This is the worst moment of his fucking life. And that's a high bar.
He manages to get his legs working again. Somehow. Walking has never felt so unnatural. Jerky, awkward movements propelling him forward. He's not sure what to do with his hands. Or his face. How many times has he blinked since he started walking? Why do his shoulders factor into this whole process? What are they supposed to be doing?
He's a couple steps away from slipping past them when random guy notices him, and his brow furrows. "Hey!" He turns to yell over the landing's railing, at the party at large, "Hey, the freak's up here!"
Fuck.
Time to run.
**
He wakes up the next day with a headache.
Turns out it is difficult to outrun people who actually exercise regularly. So not only did he leave the party more broke than he was when he went in, but the only thing he had to show for the whole ordeal was a split lip and a bigger target on his back.
Fucking assholes. Can't take a joke.
Thankfully, Uncle Wayne wasn't around when he stumbled in at 3am, he doesn't want to have to explain how he got the shit kicked out of him. Again. The old man's dealing with enough as it is. And he always gets this fucking sad look on his face that hurts worse than the bruises.
He buries his face in his pillow and groans.
The front door rattles as someone slams their fist into it. Repeatedly.
What the fuck.
Is that what woke him up?
Does the basketball team make house calls now? He can't think of any reason why someone would be knocking on his door right now. The shitheads he sells to on the regular know not to come to the trailer park looking for anything, and his bandmates don't wake up this early on Saturdays.
He's contemplating whether to get up or not when the knocking stops. Guess that answers that.
Only thirty seconds of blissful quiet later it starts up again. At the back door. Which is way closer to his bedroom and way more fucking annoying.
He drags himself out of bed, scratching his thigh only to realize he's still wearing his jeans from last night. Gross. Whatever.
He flicks the blinds open to check who's out there only to yelp and jump back like they burned him.
It's Billy.
Billy is at his place. Looking angry.
"I can fucking see you, asshole, open the door."
Shit.
Shit.
"What's in it for me?" He winces as the words come out of his mouth. That…feels like the wrong thing to say.
Eddie rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. They're still dry and gummy with sleep, he's maybe not operating at peak efficiency right now.
"You open the door and I don't bust your windows, how's that."
"...Alright, fair enough."
Fuck, now he kinda regrets not seeing Wayne last night. He wants to tell his uncle he loves him one more time before he fucking dies.
The lock sticks, like it always does, and he has to ram the door with his shoulder a couple times to wiggle it loose.
Billy crosses his arms, shoving past Eddie the second the door squeaks open.
It's weird having him in the trailer. Being stuck in the cramped hallway, shoulders brushing the walls, with no choice but to be in each other's space. He never really noticed that Billy's a couple inches shorter than him. Or that he has tiny, faded freckles on his nose.
Really not the time.
Eddie clears his throat and turns away to hip-check the door closed, leaning into it with two hands on the latch just to make sure it stays put. And to look busy for an extra couple seconds.
"So, uhh." Eddie tries to run his fingers through his hair but his getting caught on tangles. Gnarly bedhead is the least of his worries right now, but it's on his mind anyways. "What brings you here?"
He sneaks a glance at Billy when he doesn't get a response. Billy chews on the inside of his cheek, adjusting his elbows til his arms are folded so tightly it looks uncomfortable.
Jesus Christ, is he nervous?
Why wouldn't he be, right, Eddie knows something that could ruin his entire life. But it's still…weird. He seemed so fired up when he was outside but now that they're face to face Eddie can see the cracks in his mask.
"You know why I'm here," he says eventually, unexpectedly quiet.
"Actually I was pretty sure you were here to murder me, but now I'm starting to have doubts."
Billy blinks at him. Just once, thrown off balance for a split second before he huffs, frustrated. "I should, you know. I should just fucking kill you and be done with it. I don't need this shit, not…" he trails off, his expression pinched.
When Billy reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket, Eddie thinks for one stupid, terrifying moment that he's gonna pull out a weapon and actually murder him.
But instead he produces a wad of bills, stuck together with a paperclip, and flicks it at Eddie's chest. He just barely catches it, fumbling for an embarrassing few seconds while Billy watches, unimpressed.
"Are you…" Eddie squints at the money clutched in his fist, and starts again with an incredulous laugh, "Are you trying to buy my silence?"
A muscle in Billy's jaw twitches. He jerks his chin towards the cash. "Took it from Andy after you ran off."
What.
He looks a little closer, flipping through tens, wrinkled singles, that one twenty Chance drew tits on. It's…all the money he made last night. All of it. Every dollar those assholes shook out of his pockets while he was bleeding on the ground.
Holy shit.
Wait, this is definitely a bribe.
Which, if he's being honest, wouldn't normally bother him, but in this situation just feels wrong. Giving the money back isn't an option—it was his in the first place—but taking it still makes his stomach twist.
Eddie runs his free hand down his face, stopping to rub his mouth. The scab crusted on his chin throbs a little.
"Thanks," he says slowly.
Billy doesn't react.
Okay.
Eddie lets out a tiny breath to ground himself. "I didn't mean to, uh. Overhear. You two." Off to a bad start, Billy's posture goes rigid. But he presses on, hoping that clearing the air will help in the long run. And not get him punched in the short term. "I didn't, it was just. Wrong place, wrong time. And honestly, man, my plan was to just pretend I was never there in the first place, I swear."
He shrugs helplessly. "You guys don't have anything to worry about. Not from me."
There's a very long, awkward pause. Billy hardly moves, and doesn't look away for a second, pinning him in place with narrowed eyes. "I don't know you, Munson. Why should I trust you."
Christ, he really didn't want it to come to this. But he's floundering trying to come up with anything else to say. He rubs the back of his neck, and sighs. "Communal solidarity?"
"What."
"'Cause I'm also a flaming queer." Well. At least it was slightly more delicate than how he came out to his uncle.
Billy rocks back on his heels, eyebrows shooting up. "Oh."
He looks genuinely disarmed, and this time it doesn't go away the second Eddie blinks.
God, he is fucking cute isn't he.
"So, are you and Harrington, like." Eddie taps two fingers together. "An official thing, orr…?"
Billy flushes pink. A pretty, pretty pink, in adorable little splotches across his nose and cheeks. It's way too fun to see him like this, Eddie almost doesn't care if he's already dating someone. "I…" He rubs his cheek, like he's trying to scrub away the blush. "Don't know," he mumbles.
Well. That's interesting.
"Maybe, uh. Lemme know when you figure it out."
Billy snorts, a flicker of a real smile brightening his face. "Yeah. Maybe."
He can work with that.
~~tag list 💕 @spreckle @growup-thatbeautiful @prettyboy-like-you @suddenlyinlove
I know where some people stand on Billy being one grade below Steve, but I just think it's cute okay? Billy with the balls to harass a senior, winning him over instead... Steve stays in Hawkins until Billy graduates... It's just cute!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
SLEEPYTIME THEO
Summary:
Liam keeps falling asleep every time Theo shows up for pack meetings… usually on him. At first, they all think that Theo must be the comfiest chimera to ever live but it soon starts to get suspicious.
Or, five times Liam falls asleep on Theo and one time Theo falls asleep on Liam.
Chapters: 1/1 (7K)
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Liam Dunbar/Theo Raeken
Characters: Liam Dunbar, Theo Raeken, Mason Hewitt, Corey Bryant (Teen Wolf), Alec (Teen Wolf), Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Stiles Stilinski, Alan Deaton, Malia Tate, Lydia Martin, Brett Talbot
Additional Tags: Thiam, sleepy Liam, Theo Raeken is Liam Dunbar’s Anchor, Liam Dunbar is Theo Raeken’s Anchor, they just don’t know it, OS, Fluff, Falling asleep against someone as love language, Theo’s eyes glow blue fight me, Sharing a Bed, Hurt/Comfort, but just a little bit
Billy had nominally joined the basketball team. Back in that first week, when it seemed for a split-second like he could maybe eke out a win in Indiana, because being good at basketball mattered here. He was never one for organized sports (not since little league turned into a fucking nightmare), but pickup games were a dime a dozen on the cracked public courts back home, so Billy is, in fact, pretty good at basketball.
But between the freeze out from the in crowd and an extreme case of just not giving a fuck, it had been easy to drop it.
Unfortunately that means he’s got nothing to do but wait while Max tools around in AV club of all fucking things two days a week after the final bell. He could probably come up with something at least marginally better than sitting on the hood of his car smoking, especially in December, but he’s made his choice and he’s sticking to it.
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