English is not my first language, if I make I mistake please correct me but always with respect 💗
themes that I’m familiar with;
• arcane (my favorite)
• the umbrella academy
• house of the dragon
request are open!! (but I don’t make them very quick)
read before you do a request!!!
- I usually write about everything but there are some things that I rather not to
- English is not my first language so if I make I mistake with your order o you can give as much as detail as you can it makes my writing easier
- I’m not fast at doing request (I have to study)
- smut (not good at it)
- I don’t feel comfortable writing boyxboy (but I can do a reader without pronouns) , just because I’m not very used to it, neither butch4butch (same thing) and things like asking me to make the reader have autism or some specific stuff, I don’t now about many of this subjects and I rather not to write about them so I don’t make anybody uncomfortable (hope everybody understands this)
- sex no consensual, r4pe, ped0, discrimination, incest etc.. immediately banned
Thinking about writing a story where you are a
secret elite assassin at the Hazbin Hotel.
You work for an organization that operates against Hell‘s hierarchy like Overlords.
But then you get into a (slowburn) relationship with Alastor.
Alastor who would be more of a target than a love interest..
word count: 6359 // masterlist | inbox (please request ! ) | WIP list
summary: after a year long relationship that yielded nothing more than a few pathetic pecks on the lips, you venture out to get kissed. It's a stroke of cosmic luck that the man who chooses to kiss you is one of Hawkins's hottest.
Contents/Warnings: afab!reader, smut (18+), kissing, makeouts, fingering, brief oral sex (m receiving), brief mentions of virginity/virgin kink
A/N: this is special for many occassions! first, because I actually started and finished something that i haven't had sitting in my drafts for two years! second, because i'm finally back into the swing of things with stranger things and billy to boot. and third, because i hit 1K!!!!!! thank you so so much for helping me hit this milestone, it feels insane and i'm so ready to celebrate! i'm planning on a little writing event to celebrate even more but for now enjoy 6.3K of nasty billy smut <3
reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)
You feel like an imposter in the middle of this party. On the surface you know what you’re doing- you’ve got on a bra that pushes your chest up, and a top that plunges so low that you’re nearly showing nipple. It’s riding up your stomach, too, a strip of fabric that’s eager to reveal all of the parts you’re supposed to be showing, considering it’s Halloween and everyone’s costumes are thinly veiled excuses to get naked.
But beyond that-? Beyond dressing the part, beyond wearing the right bra with the right top and smearing glittery eyeshadow over your lids, you’re at a complete loss. Because the bra and top and makeup are supposed to get you laid, and you’ve never done that before.
You’re woefully under-touched, under-kissed, even, but enough time has passed since the end of your last relationship that you’re looking to get back out there again. The problem with that one had been that it was simply… boring. It feels mean to say that, because the boy was nice and respectful- maybe too respectful. A year and a half’s worth of dating had garnered only quick pecks on the lips, and you were starting to wonder who was less interested in physicality with the other person by the end of it. It had felt more like you’d been friends for the year, and had dipped your toes into awkward hellos and goodbyes on the mouth. It was a relationship by name only- and you’re ready for the real thing.
You’re nervous, but you’ve been thinking that you might need something hot and heavy to get you comfortable in the dating scene. After all, as much as you’d resented your last relationship’s lack of spice, boys are hardly ever that hands-off. You suspect anyone else you try going steady with will have their hands all over you by the third date, and the thought makes your stomach flip. It’s a little trepidatious, a little excited, which is why you’re testing the waters tonight, and aiming to get kissed before going home.
It feels too perfect that the man whose eye you catch is Billy Hargrove. You’ve been subtly gazing at him for months now, because he’s easy on the eyes and his rebellious attitude only sweetens the deal. He sits behind you in history, too, and you admittedly relish the shenanigans he comes up with to both keep himself occupied, and irritate your teacher. You’ve caught yourself smothering a laugh at a few of his snarky comments, or leaning to your left to cover up the sight of him smoking from the front of the class. On occasion he asks you for a pencil, and the last time he’d returned it he’d flashed one of those dazzling smiles at you, reaching out to tug at a lock of your hair before sauntering out. You wish you could say you’re smart enough not to fall for such childish antics, but you’re not, and you’ll happily get schmoozed by the school’s bad boy instead of going home un-kissed.
“Hey,” He offers you a salacious grin, his dusty blonde curls spilling over his shoulders in ringlets you’re jealous of. He’s either going as the Terminator or as a half-naked man, and honestly, the second option sounds more like him than Arnold Schwarzenegger does. He’s got a leather jacket on, one that he hasn’t even attempted to zip up to cover his tanned chest below. He’s thick, muscled and stocky, but you try keeping your eyes on his own as he crowds you against the wall of the hallway you’re both standing in. You’re the only people in the narrow space, but the party rages on just through the doorway, so you’re not completely removed. He has to raise his voice just a smidge to talk to you, but you can hear him and his gruff voice sends a chill up your spine. It’s dark, and your stomach does another one of those flips as you realize you’re nose-to-nose with one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen.
You shrink backwards against your volition- what you wouldn’t give for the courage to lean closer - and smile, a curve of your lips accompanied by a flush to your cheeks, “Hi.”
“You look nice,” He comments, “I’ve never seen you dressed like this before.”
“I don’t usually wear it to class,” You glance down at your chest, then back up at him to find that his eyes dart upwards at the same time. Your cheeks heat more, and your stomach writhes below your heart, “It’s a little… much.”
“It’s perfect,” He grins, blinking lazily at you and tilting his head further down, one of his arms coming up to brace against the wall behind you, “You’re kind of the last person I thought would be here, though.”
“I’m not that bad, am I?” You ask, nearly cringing. But he laughs, and you’re really berating yourself for falling so easily now, because your knees nearly give at the sound. It’s rich, warm, and practiced, you’re sure, but it doesn’t matter in this moment, because Billy Hargrove is paying attention to you, and it looks like the only item on your bucket list is about to be checked off pretty soon.
“Not bad. Just quiet. You seem to have a good head on your shoulders. And that’s not really something you see at these types of parties. You drink?”
“Not really,” You shake your head, peering down at your underfilled cup of something, barely two sips taken from it, “I only took it because someone handed it to me, and I didn’t know how to say no.”
He takes it from you without another word, his fingers brushing your own as he grips the cup in his gloved hand, lips stretching wide around the rim to down the thing in one go. He blinks afterwards, shaking his head briefly as the taste stings his tongue, but his eyes are brighter when they open again, and he drops the empty cup onto the hallway floor without a second thought.
“How much have you had?” You ask, not wary, but curious, and he laughs again.
“None of that. I’ve only had beer so far. That’s gross,” He licks his lips, his tongue so bright pink it’s almost red, his lips now coated in a glossy sheen of saliva, “They just put whatever they could find in there.”
“Is it strong?” You ask, remembering the way your throat had burned in taking only a few sips.
“Nah,” He shakes his head, his curls flying and his eyes gleaming, “Not unless you’re a lightweight.”
You shrug haphazardly, then realize all too late that you’re not good at flirting. Perhaps this is why you’d gone a year and a half without a proper kiss- what do you say now? He’s inches from your face, liquor wafting off of his tongue and cologne off of his bare chest. What could the right thing to say possibly be in this scenario?
Billy seems to realize he needs to do the talking, because he dips closer, his face now achingly close to yours, “So, do you like it here?”
“At the party?” You ask, and he doesn’t point out your stupid question. He just nods, one of his curls falling and tickling your cheek where you’re looking up at him.
“It’s okay,” You hum, casting a wary glance towards the crowd mere feet away, “It’s a little loud, though!”
Your voice is semi-raised to prove your point, and he breathes out a laugh that makes his teeth gleam in the dull light of the hallway. He gets impossibly closer, his chest pressing against yours for a split second before his hands find your waist and nudge you backwards, to your left.
“What-” You stammer, but your feet soon find a doorway instead of solid wall, and he backs you into a dark bathroom off the hallway, further removed from the noise of the party.
“There,” He hums, flicking on a light and shutting the door behind him, planting his feet against it and leaning back, “Is that quieter for you?”
You feel the breeze coming through the window, and the soft lights of the bathroom are actually pleasant compared to the lingering darkness of the hallway or the stark white lights of the main room. You turn to face the window, peering out over the lawn that’s lit only by streetlamps. There’s no partygoers on the lawn yet, but there’s no police either, so maybe that’s for the best. It really is quieter in here, not silent but better, and you nod thoughtfully.
“Yeah. Thanks.” You turn, finding Billy mere inches from your face. He licks his lips, his tongue glistening and dark pink, obscene as it coats his lower lip in a layer of saliva you want to taste. It’s a bold thought, considering you’ve never done more than a press of lips-on-lips, but you can smell his breath and even the beer on it doesn’t discourage you from thoughts of kissing him for real.
“Anytime,” He winks, he actually winks, a ludicrous gesture that you appreciate for its obviousness. You’re so nervous that you need over-the-top, you need him to lead so that you don’t fumble around in the dark and lose your shot. If he wants to kiss you, he’ll have to kiss you, and from the way he’s breathing against your face you presume he’s about to.
“So,” He hums, one of his hands finding your waist. Your tight shorts mold right to your skin, not boxy or baggy or anything that would prevent his fingertips from pressing against your every curve, “‘Thought I heard you broke up with your boyfriend this summer.”
“I did,” You nod obediently, head bobbing up and down while your lashes flutter involuntarily. You don’t necessarily mean to act like a lovesick child, but he’s so close and warm and electric in the small space of the secluded bathroom that you’re uncontrollably fawning over him. It’s difficult to look him in the eyes so you do it upwards from a bowed head, pupils surely eclipsing your irises by now.
“So you’re mingling,” Billy nods slowly in understanding, his lips pursed in thought before they spread into a grin so dripping with charisma that you’re surprised it’s not forming a puddle on the floor. “That’s good. You need to let loose and have some fun.”
“I guess so,” You laugh, quietly, primly, nervously. You wonder if he can tell that you’re thrumming with equal parts excitement and terror. You won’t go back on your mission for the night but now that it’s plausible you’re getting clammy-palmed and weak-kneed. You hope when he does it- if he does it, he won’t laugh when you collapse afterwards.
“You seem nervous.” He notes, and your stomach drops to your feet. Okay, so he can tell. But he doesn’t back off- on the contrary, his hand strokes gently over your waist, rubbing in one soothing, slow circle before cementing itself against your side again.
“I’m sorry,” You blink, glancing down at the floor in search of sanctuary from those icy blue eyes, another gentle laugh spilling from your lips like it’ll shield you from the moves he’s putting on you, “I’m really- I don’t usually do this. I’ve never done this before.”
The admission comes out before you can really think about it, and when you do, you cringe.
The mission of the night was to get kissed, not to admit you’d never been before. And sure, it could still happen. But if word ever gets out that Billy Hargrove was your first kiss, your first real kiss despite your year-long relationship, you’d never show your face outside again.
He rears his head backwards, genuine shock taking over his face before he schools it back into that delightfully-forward grin of his. You’re drinking in how sleazy he’s being, because for once you want to feel like a man can’t keep his hands off of you, not that you’re dreading the moments before you have to see him because you’ll have to peck at his lips like a shy bird. Perhaps tomorrow will be the day you decide greaseballs aren’t for you, but tonight, you’ll let this one win.
“Y/N,” He practically sings, his voice low like a cat’s purr and twice as sensuous, “You’re kidding. He never kissed you?”
“No, I’m not,” You breathe, nearly sobbing despite your lack of tears, “I don’t- I just never… no one’s ever-”
“How could anyone resist?” He asks, and your heart pounds in your ears.
“That guy-” Billy’s brows scrunch, his curls dangling over the sides of his face as he leans closer to you, “Michael-? Bradley-? Tom-?”
It’s none of those, but you’re not eager to utter his name at the moment. You stay silent, aware that you could press yourself backwards against the wall behind you but pointedly staying in place, silently begging for Billy to close the gap between his lips and yours. It’s a painfully small thing, and a 5 degree lift in the angle of your head would fix it. But you’re frozen, basking in the way his eyes shine as he leans over you.
“How could he not kiss you?” Billy asks, and he leans in, he’s leaning in, he’s doing it, he’s closing the gap and-
Your entire world shifts on its axis.
At first, it’s just like it was with your ex, but longer. It’s a press of lips to lips, but Billy’s are soft and they taste a little bit like nicotine and a whole lot like beer. Then he breaks away and before your brain can even register that he’s done it, there’s a soft smacking sound and he goes back in for more. This one, this one is a killer. You feel his tongue, warm and wet and smooth, peek out of his mouth and brush upwards against the apex of your bottom lip. It makes you shudder, a full body thing that Billy feels against his palm. He breathes through his nose, probably a laugh but not a cruel one, and when his lips briefly part from yours again, barely backing off a milimeter, they brush against your own mouth when he speaks.
“He never did that?” Billy asks, his voice husky and low. He moves in for another kiss, and this time, at the prodding of his tongue against the seam of your lips you part them, nervous and excited and everything all at once as his tongue blots at the soft skin lining the inside of your mouth, spit-soaked and barely missing your teeth. He doesn’t break apart this time, though, he breathes through his nose and you feel the cool rush of air against your philtrum. It means his lips don’t have to separate from yours, and you barely hold back a moan as his lips advance further on yours, slotted with your own and gently pulling at them, urging your own mouth to mesh further with his. His hand on your waist begins tugging, dragging you closer to him as he pries his mouth off of yours, panting softly while his spit-soaked lips press a wet kiss against the skin just at the corner of your mouth.
“How did he never do that? Shit,” He breathes, long and low as he goes in for another kiss. He’s bolder this time, his tongue spilling out of his own lips and into your mouth, brushing against your own in a gesture that whites out your vision. It’s electric, it’s hazy and it stirs something squirmy beneath your gut as his tongue slides over your own, rolling his spit over yours and combining them in a substance you want to swallow. You don’t have much choice, because it drips close to your throat and you nearly choke on it, but his tongue retreats and your throat bobs as you chase after it. You do moan this time, nothing obscene but audible in the small, closed-off bathroom. Billy grunts at it, a low, gruff sound that makes the feeling beneath your stomach more intense, and you realize your hands have come up to grip against the sides of his leather jacket without your consent.
“How’d he stop himself, huh?” Billy asks, his voice husky. It sends a shiver down your spine but it follows through to your core, and you feel yourself begin to throb dully, “How’d he resist? I can’t fuckin’ stop. I can’t stop.” He grunts, pressing kiss after hot, sucking kiss to your lips, “How’d he stop himself from doing this 24/7, babe?”
You hang off of him desperately, whining lowly, but he’s so good of a kisser that you’re not embarrassed about it. It’s justified- you’re almost mourning the fact that this is your first kiss and not your forever kiss. There’s a good chance he’ll never look at you again after tonight, and you can only hope to find someone half as good at this as he is.
He moans, nose smashing against yours as he drags himself off of you, “He never did this? How ‘bout this,” He ducks down again, this time kissing against the side of your jaw and veering towards your ear, “Did he do that?”
“No,” You whimper, putty in his hands.
“Why not?” He asks, trailing towards your mouth again, “Why didn’t he kiss you, babe?”
“I don’t know,” You breathe, the response as true as it is embarrassing.
But he doesn’t seem to be mocking you- no, he goes in for another round of mouth-to-mouth, mumbling against yours, “He’s a fuckin’ idiot, that’s why. Can’t believe he never gave you what you deserve.”
He licks into your mouth again, tongue snaking in and out as he swipes it against your molars. It’s so far in your mouth that you’re surprised you haven’t swallowed it yet, but you valiantly try to, your lips closing around it as you suckle it and slide off of it with a wet smack.
“Motherfucker,” He groans, a choppy, broken sound that comes out like a laugh as he grips your face, preventing you from chasing after his mouth. He’s breathing heavily, and you realize you are, too, partially exposed chest heaving against his own bare one. You hadn’t realized how dazed you were until the bathroom light spills back into your eyes from where Billy’s forehead and curls had been blocking it, and he stares at you with a half-grin and twinkling eyes.
“You sure you’ve never kissed anyone before? That was a good move,” He licks excess spit off of his bottom lip, eyes staring harder at your lips than your own gaze, “Fuck, I can’t believe that loser could keep his hands off of you. Jesus, f’you were my girl,” He stops short, words half-choked as he cups your face in a large, rough hand. You stare up at him, dazzled, eyes flitting over the boy’s unfairly charming grin and movie-star handsome features, “I’d never stop kissing you.”
“Billy,” You whine, a desperate mewl while he holds your face in his large palm. It’s dizzying, and you feel drunk off of the kiss instead of whatever jungle juice you’d been reluctantly sipping only minutes before. Not only have you been kissed, you’ve been frenched, properly wooed and sweet-talked until your limbs began melting. He seems to sense that you’re not steady on your feet, and his nose scrunches for a flash of a second before it smooths out with his widening grin.
“Come with me,” He slides his hand from your waist to your back, then lower beneath your ass. It’s not necessarily lewd, but it’s not chaste either, and you yelp until you realize he’s trying to get you to jump into his arms.
“Come on, up,” He instructs, tugging again at the plush of your ass through your shorts, and you clamor to wrap your arms around his neck, hiking your waist up to wrap your legs around his own.
He grins, wolfish and toothy, “Good.” Then he’s off, arms slung beneath your ass as he hauls you out of the bathroom. Instead of turning back towards the party he heads for the stairs, and your stomach jumps with nerves as he starts to take them at a jog.
“Billy!” You shriek, arms clasped tight around his neck, “Don’t- you’ll drop me.”
“Relax. I work out,” He huffs, half-scoff, half-laugh, “Whatever you weigh, I can lift more.”
He proves his point by maintaining his grip on you the entire way up, but as soon as he starts beelining for a bedroom your gut twists again.
“Billy,” You repeat, your voice embarrassingly nervous. Are you ready for this? You’d like to be. It’s a fantasy, really, being swept off of your feet by him and sharing your first time with the man who’s surely the best lay in Indiana. But you’ve just had your first kiss, should you really be moving so quickly? “I don’t- I- I’m sorry, but I don’t know-”
“Seriously,” Billy grunts, throwing a hand out to slam the door shut behind the two of you as he hefts you onto the bed, “Relax.”
You bounce on the mattress, watching as he stops in front of you in all of his leather-clad glory. His chest is still bared, his jacket more of an accessory than an article of clothing. His curls are beginning to frizz, springing wildly this way and that, and his breathing matches your own despite hauling you up a flight of stairs mere seconds ago. He jams his hands into his pockets, a lighter in one and a squished carton of cigarettes in the other. He strikes his thumb against the lighter, burning the end of a cig until it glows, and you watch him take a deep drag through the same lips he’d just pressed all over your own.
“I’m not gonna fuck you,” He says, after smoke billows from his mouth, “Not yet, if you’re not into it. But you can’t go home without a real kiss,” He grins doggedly, offering you his cigarette, “You smoke?”
“No,” You shake your head, and he snickers.
“Didn’t think so. Wanna try?”
“No,” You repeat, squirming on the bed, “So you’re not gonna- we’re not-?”
“Not now,” He rolls his eyes, but there’s another charming smile on his face, like he’s endeared by the way your fingers twiddle together, “You need a makeout. It’s good shit,” He sniffs, taking another drag from his cigarette and pinching it between his fingers as he advances towards the bed, “Move.”
You scoot backwards, nearly too far, and he leans himself against the pillows. He eyes you expectantly, then grabs your bicep to usher you over his lap, “C’mon, like this. There you go,” He nods encouragingly as you straddle his waist, and he wastes no time before reaching for your face again, this time curling his hand around the back of your neck and yanking you in.
It’s less slow this time. You don’t mind it- he smashes his lips to yours and his tongue fills your mouth before you can process being kissed at all, licking hot, fat stripes against your own and swiping over your teeth. The appreciative hum that he lets out when your tongue licks a careful, tentative line against his own vibrates through your mouth, transferring into a full-body shudder that shakes you against his lap. He snickers into your mouth, and it’s an odd sensation, one that leaves you reeling when he tears himself away for another inhale at the end of his cigarette.
“You’re learning,” He notes, smoke filling the air in a hazy cloud not unlike the one covering your brain with the taste of Billy’s saliva on your tongue, “You’re so shy. Still can’t believe that guy never touched you,” He scoffs, his free hand regaining its spot on your waist and molding to its curve as he sucks in another lungful of smoke, “His fuckin’ loss. Lemme fix it, though.” He eyes you, ducking his head so that his eyes bore into your own, “We don’t have to do anything tonight. But when you feel like it,” He reasons, his voice dripping with warm, enticing charm, “Give me a call. Anyday, babe, I’ll be there. You don’t deserve some two-pump chump that’s gonna waste your time. Call me,” He knocks his forehead into your own, less gentle than an embrace but tender all the same as he steals another kiss from your spit-slicked, puffy lips, “And I’ll pick you up.”
“Billy,” You breathe, stars in your eyes. It’s an offer you wouldn’t refuse in a million years, and despite knowing that you’re not ready for sex yet, you’ve got a dull ache between your legs that refuses to go away, and an embarrassing amount of wetness between your thighs for someone who’s only been kissed. He leans back in with that shit-eating grin to press it to your mouth again, and you happily let yourself get sucked back into another sloppy, languid kiss. You suck on his tongue again- he liked that the first time, and you feel his stomach muscles tense where your fingertips splay out over his bare abdomen beneath you.
The more you swap spit, the more you feel Billy get hard beneath you. You wouldn’t have flattered yourself before now and assumed that sitting on a man’s lap would get him hard like this, but the feeling of his cock hardening beneath you is undeniable. You pant when he breaks away to take one last drag of his cigarette before smashing it onto the nightstand, barely hitting an ashtray. He’s hard and you’re throbbing, and the pressure between your legs is too intense to ignore when Billy’s mouth trails spit down from your mouth to your neck. He starts mouthing at the skin just beneath your jawbone, juts towards your ear, then migrates back over to your throat. He tongues messily at the skin there, then sucks so that a sharp pain begins blooming on the surface, your skin beginning to raw.
“Never got a hickey either?” He guesses, the words tongued into your skin. You shake your head, and he feels it when your hips begin to rock unconsciously against his.
“Jesus, slow down,” He bites against your neck, breaking through your brain fog and holding you still by your hips, “Thought you didn’t want anything crazy.”
“I don’t,” You whimper helplessly, “But- but I need something, this- this feels really good.”
“Alright, easy,” He pats your hip twice, sharp smacks against the hem of your jeans, “How ‘bout I finger you? That’s all, just my hand. Won’t even look if you don’t want me to.”
“I-” You falter, thinking it over, “I can keep my shorts on?”
“S’fine,” Billy shrugs, raising his head to press his nose against yours and mouth at your lips again, “Doesn’t matter to me.”
“But you,” Your hands fall to his lap, braced against his thighs and pointedly avoiding the bulge between them, “That’s not fair.”
“I’ll jack off,” He grunts against your mouth, “Good?”
“Yeah.” You make the split-second decision, stomach aflutter as you try dismounting his lap. But he doesn’t let you, the leather of his jacket creaking as he holds you firmly in place.
“No, here,” He insists, and despite the awkward angle, manages to fit his hand into one leg of your shorts. He drags his fingers across your clothed core, but as soon as he feels the wetness seeping through it his eyes flash darker.
“Jesus, you’re fuckin’ soaked. It’s a shame that fucker never kissed you.” His eyes gleam and so do his teeth as he grins, “You clearly like it.”
The only answer you’re capable of giving him is a wanton moan, feeling the pads of Billy’s fingers drag tantalizingly slowly across the pad of your panties. You’re sure they’re stained entirely by now, and once Billy gets you used to the feeling of someone touching your cunt he hooks his fingers in the elastic band and stretches them to the side.
“You sure?” He asks, his mouth still infuriatingly distracting as it slots over yours, time and time again. He’s a voracious kisser and you revel in every second of it, nearly forgetting to nod affirmatively.
He needs no further prompting.
His fingers touch your pussy, bare this time instead of clothed. It’s an odd sensation, mildly alarming that you have to quell by reminding yourself that you want this. And you do- you really do, you want Billy’s fingers to push past the slit of your cunt and press against the sensitive spots inside. You’ve experimented with yourself, felt your body and figured out what makes it feel good. What places to stroke, what places to push, what places to tease. But Billy’s fingers are bigger than yours, and it’s an entirely different sensation to have someone do it for you than to use your own hand.
It’s thrilling, and you melt against Billy’s lap. You realize your kiss has gone weak from the sensation of Billy’s fingers stroking up and down your cunt, giving you all the warning in the world before putting any pressure there. When he finally slips two fingers inside your slit and catches the wetness gushing out your jaw goes slack, tongue doing nothing but pooling spit around your teeth while Billy’s swipes over it.
“Fuck,” He grunts against your teeth, his free hand pawing at your jaw to tilt your head backwards slightly. It allows his tongue to go deeper towards your throat and you nearly gag, your own tongue rising to clash with it. Once you reengage you can’t stop, and you’re not sure you ever want to considering the way this feels right now.
His fingers stroke in and out, back and forth, up and down, and the tight pressure your shorts put on his wrist keeps it pressed firmly against your clit. It’s a heavenly feeling and you’re close already, the kiss having stirred you up more than you’d like to admit. You’re worried about leaking against his jeans but Billy takes it in stride, fingers pumping in and out of your wet cunt so skillfully that there’s wetness beginning to slide down towards his wrist.
You’re caught between mortification and bliss, but a long, forceful roll of Billy’s tongue over yours cements you in the latter.
“You’re almost there,” He notes the way your thighs clench around his wrist, feeling the pulsing of your sex as his fingers slide smoothly in and out, “Come on, babe,” He speaks across your tongue, lips pressing ravenously to your own, “Come on, lemme have it. Come on, give it to me, your first time. I wanna feel it, lemme feel you lose it on my fingers.”
“Oh my god,” You whimper, hips ticking forwards as Billy mumbles filthy hot utterances into your mouth. You drink them, sucking against his tongue again and feeling your chest begin to shudder with choppy breaths. The feeling that’s been plaguing you between your thighs all night is beginning to crest, and one deliberate nudge of Billy’s thumb against your already-aching clit is all you need to begin trembling on his thighs.
“Oh- oh my god, oh- aah!” You cry, Billy’s mouth colliding with yours and muffling your words. He licks them out of your mouth, teeth scraping against your lower lip and stinging the skin there. You roll your hips against his hand, unknowingly but helpfully, and he lets you ride out your orgasm to its end before he begins clamoring for his jeans with still-sticky fingers.
“Oh- lemme,” You start, hands flying for his zipper, but they hover there uselessly while he stares up at you. You can tell he’s agitated, pent-up energy making his eyes wild. You feel bad for the guy- he’s honestly generous to offer to get you off and take care of himself. But this is so far out of your wheelhouse that you’re afraid you’ll do it wrong, and you’d be embarrassed to no end if you couldn’t get a man off when he’s already this hard.
“You don’t have to.” He repeats, continuing to fumble for his cock until he can wrestle it free from his boxers. It’s large, you’d say, though you have nothing to base it against, and it’s an almost pretty color at the tip, flushed and pink. It’s oozing with wetness the same way you were, and Billy presses a flat palm to your mouth instead of his own.
“Lick it,” He instructs you, unable to tear his other hand away from his aching cock even though it’s dry, “Get it wet.”
You feel ridiculous dragging your tongue up his palm but you do it anyways, and he slams it onto his cock so roughly it looks like it’d hurt. But he starts tugging at it, palm sliding up and down its length almost viciously. You wonder if it does hurt, but there’s enough lubrication from your spit and your slick alike for his palm to glide instead of catch. You watch in almost-fascination as he jacks himself off, grunting and lunging forwards to draw you into another kiss, his tongue smearing messily over your lips before prodding between them.
As much as he’d teased you for getting off on kissing, he seems to be doing the same. He pumps his fist up and down the length of his cock but he’s grunting and groaning into your kiss, tongue fighting against yours when you’re brave enough to use it. The next time you remember to suckle at the tip of his tongue he heaves, his muscles tightening beneath your palms as he nears his own climax.
Wordlessly, without even breaking your kiss, you fumble for his cock. You remember to dip your hands between your own legs first to gather the leftover slickness there, and you’re by no means experienced, but you find its mushroom tip with your fingers and curl them around it. His own hand stutters, then stops, and you slide your fist down his length, stopping when you press against his balls. You pick up your pace, but try doing it gently in case you’re somehow doing it wrong, and he slings his arms around you waist to crash your bodies together even closer.
“Fuck,” He pants into your mouth, hot and heavy and gruff, “Fuck, you’re dirty.”
You squeeze experimentally, at the very base of his dick, and he bites your lip. It’s rough, and you’re almost convinced he’s drawn blood, but you know now that squeezing works, so you work your way up and down his cock, peppering in there and there until his chest is heaving against yours.
“Good, keep going, keep going,” He chants, the words spilling messily over your mouth, “I’m gonna- I’m gonna fucking-”
You part from the kiss, keeping one hand on his cock as the other flies to the mattress. You haul yourself off of his lap and flatten yourself over his thighs, knees bent as you fit your mouth over the head of his cock.
He cums.
You don’t know why you did it- it’s not like you’ve ever done it before. But you know it’s what you’re supposed to do, and you’re pretty sure you did it right if the mouthful of cum shot at the back of your throat is any indication. You nearly choke on it, cheeks briefly bulging until you can manage to swallow what doesn't stick to your tongue and cheeks.
“Aagh, what- what the fuck,” He groans, aggressive, nearly a roar as his hips buck. It presses his cock further into your mouth, nearly down his throat, and you steel yourself against gagging as he fucks out his orgasm into your mouth.
“Fucking hell,” He pants, grabbing you by the hair and tugging you off of him. He pulls you back into his lap and dives in for a kiss that lets him taste his own release on your tongue. It nearly makes him hard again, and he has to push you off before he goes back on his earlier promise to take things relatively slow with you.
“You’re fucking crazy,” He accuses, eyes hooded as he stares scrutinizingly at you, “You’ve never done any of that before?”
“No,” You breathe, shaking your head dazedly as you regather your surroundings. You feel the mattress beneath your fingers, the burn from having your knees bent for so long, “No, I- I don’t know, I just did what felt right.”
“Felt fuckin’ amazing,” He tosses his head back against the pillows and watches you swallow the contents of your mouth, part your spit, part his, part cum.
“You,” He starts laughing again, a breathless shudder of his chest, “You’re better than you think you are. Now I’m really not letting some loser fuck your virgin pussy,” He rolls his head sideways to look at you, and you nearly squirm under the intensity of his gaze, “Swear you’ll call me?”
“I swear.” You nod akin to a bobblehead, “Are- can we…? Stay here?”
“I need a minute,” He admits, nodding, his brows raised as he fumbles for another cigarette. You tentatively stretch out beside him, but you don’t close the gap until he does. His large palm grabs the side of your head and mashes it into his chest, playfully smearing at your hair until you’re sure it loses its shape.
“You bombshell.” He laughs, letting you curl into his side on the bed. You plant a hand on his chest, and something happy and squirmy happens in your chest, “You tricked me.”
“It’s my first time!” You insist through a proud, growing grin, and he drags his hand down your back, nails scratching there and eliciting a shiver that bleeds down your spine, “I swear.”
“I believe you. But you’re hot.” He insists, breathing heavily as he exhales smoke, a rare contentness seeping through his body as he recuperates beside you, “Can’t wait to see what you do when I finally get inside you.”
reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ summary: “Own your threats, Hargrove. You’re boring me.” A spark in his stare, quick and dark. “Don’t tempt me.”
⊹ ࣪ ˖ pairing: billy hargrove x f!reader
⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc: 6.8k+
⊹ ࣪ ˖ warnings: they're putting ENEMIES into enemies to lovers, which is to say, asshole!billy this chapter
⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: I enjoyed writing this chapter far too much, they're both such assholes. hope you enjoy part 3, and thank you so so so much to everyone who has liked/reblogged/commented so far!
read on ao3. ⊹ series masterlist.
Two weeks is just enough time for Hawkins High to rearrange itself around a new sun.
The first week, it’s simple curiosity.
“Who’s the new guy with the shiny Camaro?”
“Have you seen his hair?”
“He’s from California, did you hear—”
It all comes to you in scattered fragments: in the bathroom while the hand dryers roar, in the lunch line beside Eddie while the mash slops wetly onto your tray, in the crackle of whispers at the back of the homeroom. The teachers eye Billy warily for a day, then file him under behavioural problems, let the guidance counsellor deal with this one and move on. The boys in your school watch him like you would watch a dog thrown into a yard full of other dogs, waiting to see who will snap and show their teeth first.
Billy Hargrove doesn’t bite. Not right away.
He grins often, lazy and knowing, knife-sharp. He leans against his locker just so. Girls orbit close, some brave enough to reach out, most just buzzing around the edges of his new gravity. He permits it, as if he’s practised at letting people want things he’ll never give.
“The serial killer charm truly works wonders,” Eddie voices from beside you one morning, watching Billy chatting with yet another girl across the hall. He sniffs. “Is it the hair? My hair is better.”
You slam your English Lit homework into your locker with more force than necessary and say nothing.
You see him up close once, third day in, down by the practice field after school. You’re cutting across the grass to save yourself the slog around the building, backpack heavy, brain an overworked mush. Suddenly, he’s there behind the bleachers with a junior you recognise in the same way everyone in a small town recognises each other—big, fluffy hair, bigger earrings, gum snapping between her teeth every time you’ve glimpsed her in the halls.
Gravity seems to pin your attention to him despite your best attempt not to look. Movement catches your peripheral vision, overriding your brain: his hand, ring-clad and self-assured, slipping into the back pocket of her jeans, her laugh pitched high and breathless. There’s a brief, stupidly cinematic press of his mouth to her throat, the way her fingers scramble at his broad shoulders when his hand slips loosely around the column of her throat, like she’s not sure where to hold on.
Your gaze tears away.
By the second week, it’s not curiosity anymore. It’s a fact. Billy is the new king.
Steve Harrington—still glossy and pretty in his own right, still orbiting with his own cluster of friends but now with new shadows behind his once cocky gaze you recognise all too well—has been not-so-gently shouldered out of the centre of the circle. It’s clear in the way people steer in the halls: how clusters slither towards the Camaro each morning like oil towards a flame, how conversation drops by a decibel when he walks past.
It’s not like he did anything special to earn it.
He just showed up, and somehow the whole shaky structure of Hawkins High social hierarchy looked at him and collectively said, Oh.
You don’t talk to him. Not really.
You share space, that’s pretty much unavoidable. Sometimes you pass close enough to smell whatever he puts in his hair, to catch the ghost of smoke on his jacket. Your paths cut perpendicular like badly-drawn lines on a map. He always seems to be surrounded, the center of a storm with girls hanging off his arm and boys hanging off his every word. Other times, he’s a missile, cutting through the crowd, jaw set, eyes blazing, late for a fight you sincerely hope he loses.
You get good at pretending you don’t see him. You get good at looking just past his shoulder, at the noticeboards or the inspirational posters telling you to REACH FOR THE STARS! like any star ever hung over Forest Hills kids.
Once, towards the end of the second week, you feel his eyes on you before you spot him.
You’re at your locker after the fourth period, wrestling with a jammed trig textbook, the metal biting into your fingers. Eddie is leaning against his locker beside you, running a monologue about his new campaign and how the sophrome he roped in last week is both his greatest creation and the bane of his very existence.
“He made a bard,” Eddie repeats for the third time, scandalised, “and then didn’t give him a tragic backstory. What am I supposed to do with that? Trauma is the spice of life—”
It’s then that you feel it. A prickle along your spine, that low, unnatural awareness you’ve seemingly gained around only one man.
You flick your eyes over Eddie’s shoulder.
There he is.
Halfway down the corridor, leaning against some random locker like it's his property. One ankle crossed over the other, arms folded over his chest. There’s a girl in front of him—a different girl, you realise, though it’s becoming hard to keep track—with her hand on his chest, fingers inching down, laughing up at him. He’s not looking at her.
He’s looking at you.
The hallway blurs around the edges, colours smearing. Everything turns into background sound, from the clang of lockers, chatter dropping to a dull hum under the high, fine drumming of your own pulse.
You hold his gaze. If he thinks you’ll give him the satisfaction of a reaction, he’s wrong. You instead let your face go flat, bored, like his attention is just another morning annoyance. Nothing more than a gum stuck under your worn shoe.
Billy tilts his head, almost imperceptibly. There’s something like an acknowledgement in it. Like he remembers every word from that first morning and is slotting this moment next to it.
Then some jock slaps him on the shoulder; he breaks eye contact, straightens, and laughs at whatever dumb joke gets made. The moment folds itself up and slides into the back of your brain.
Eddie follows your line of sight like he already knows what he’ll find, then snorts. “Ah. The prince of pissy.”
“Don’t call him that,” you say automatically.
Eddie’s eyebrows climb up, disappearing behind his shaggy fringe. “Why, in the name of Satan’s left testicle, would you defend him?”
Your locker slams shut harder than you intended. “I’m not defending him, Ed. I just don’t want him thinking we waste breath giving him nicknames.”
“Be still my beating heart.” Eddie presses a hand to his chest, eyes twinkling. “There she is. Knew I’d find your soft, gooey underbelly one day.”
You shove his shoulder, but he absorbs the impact with a grin, eyebrows wiggling.
“I will launch you into the sun.”
“Nah. You’d miss me far, far too much.”
He grins, big and bright, and the world feels right again, just for a moment.
Two weeks of casual avoidance doesn’t mean you don’t notice things about him.
You learn, for example, that he likes rock—real rock, not whatever some guys try to pass for rock to appear edgier than they actually are. You hear the muffled thud of it from the Camaro in the mornings: Zeppelin, Sabbath, AC/DC. Sometimes you catch a snatch of something else—Motorhead, Van Halen—blaring as he pulls out of the lot, the guitar solos trailing behind him like exhaust fume.
You learn he’s almost always late to first period, but never quite late enough to get marked down for it. He walks into the homeroom just as the bell rings, every time, shrugging out of his jacket with the easy confidence of someone who truly doesn’t give a shit. O’Donnell eyes him over her glasses, weary in a way that betrays how many Bill Hargrove-adjacent pupils she’s dealt with in her long career. He smiles back, all teeth, half-charm, half-malice, though only you seem to pick up on the latter. You’re half surprised he doesn’t wink at her.
You learn he chews gum frequently, jaw working overtime, like he’s trying to grind his own teeth down from the inside.
You also learn that he doesn’t eat much during lunch. You’ve spied him there maybe twice. Both times, he’s leaned back in his seat, always with his back to the wall, apple untouched on his tray, soda weeping condensation in his hand, talking as the people around him lap every word up like cream.
Most days, he’s simply… gone.
You spot the Camaro idling at the edge of the lot once, right as lunch starts—your presence more so an accident than any design on your part. Cafeteria noise is doing that thing in your head, the crash-crash-crash of trays and voices making your skull buzz unpleasantly. You slip outside, leaning against the rough brick, and breathe in the cooling air through your nose.
He’s in the driver’s seat, seatbelt off, fingers drumming on the wheel. The engine purrs in such a delicious way that your fingers practically itch with the need to pop the hood and examine every inch of that engine, properly this time. Billy stares straight ahead at nothing, unblinking.
You watch him in the reflection of the glass door, not willing to turn your head and give yourself away.
After what feels like a small forever, Billy jolts, waking up from his stupor. He slams the heel of his hand against the steering wheel with such force his entire upper body and the car jerk in unison. Then he throws the car into gear and peels out, tyres squealing, lunch period rules be damned.
You go back inside when you can no longer feel your fingertips, your thoughts buzzing. Small things, all connecting into a pattern.
You definitely don’t think about the fact that the hollows under his eyes are deeper than they were when he first arrived. Nor do you think about the fact that when someone drops something behind him, he flinches. Tiny, controlled, like something bit him, but he’s not allowed to react. He recovers in less than a second every time, turns it into an annoyed roll of eyes or shoulders, but you notice.
You’re annoyingly observant, Dustin told you once. It’s becoming a bit of a curse.
Friday night, the whole town smells like overcooked hot dogs and spilt soda, sticky and sweet from the sun.
There’s a game tonight, so everyone with a pulse and a spare five bucks has crammed into the bleachers to scream themselves hoarse at teenage boys throwing around a ball. When the wind hits just right, you can hear the dull roar of it from Forest Hills: the announcer’s croaky commentary, the horns and the cheering, the rise and fall of the home crowd like a living animal.
You’re not there.
You’re elbow-deep in your own engine instead.
The portable work light you borrowed from the shop hangs over the open hood, swinging slightly in the faint autumn breeze. Cool enough to require a light coat, but not so brisk that it stops you from working outside. Not like it would anyway. The gleam of light throws the insides of your car into harsh contrast: belts and hoses, the dull gleam of old metal, the faint sheen of oil. Your fingers are numb with cold and grease; the night air sneaks under your jacket, finding a gap between your jeans and your boots, sinking its teeth in.
But you won’t trade this peace for anything.
Forest Hills is quieter on game nights. Half the usual screaming is siphoned off to the high school. Some people still linger behind—old guys watching TV, a couple arguing several trailers down, the same baby wailing somewhere even further down—but the air isn’t as dense. Not as stuffed with the quiet misery of poverty and hardship people around here wear like a coat.
Coaxing a stubborn bolt free, you swear under your breath and feel the sharp, grim satisfaction when it finally obeys. The engine ticks as you work, heat bleeding into the cool night air.
You could have left this until morning. Really, you should have.
After school, a full shift at the shop, and a marathon session of DnD planning with Eddie, you could have stayed indoors. But instead, you came straight out here because the ticking noise you’ve been half-hearing for days finally tripped from “fix when you have money” to “fix now before it explodes with you in it.”
It’s not really urgent. You know as much. You’re at least ninety percent sure it’s just a loose bracket or a worn bushing. But the thought of it going wrong at the wrong time, at the wrong place, miles from home, itches at you like ants. You could never sleep with a noise like that in your head.
So you’re here. Midnight mechanic in your own driveway, breath smoking in the cooling air, neighbours’ windows lit up in flickerings of blue from their thrifted TVs.
Being a world away, mind and hands busy, you don’t hear the Camaro at first.
It seeps towards you gradually, like a wave closing in. A low, distant rumble under the repetitive clink of your socket wrench, under the squawk of someone’s ancient, rusting swing set. Your brain registers it as just another car on the road. Until it doesn’t. Until the engine note deepens as it turns, angles, and enters the park in an unhurried prowl.
Your hands fall still, clinching the oil filter between your fingers. Light buzzes above your head, swinging gently, the only sound beside your own breathing.
Then you hear it properly. The growl upshifts, the hiss of tyres over gravel, the way the sound bounces off trailer walls and ricochets down the narrow lanes. He’s not driving slowly anymore. He’s taking corners too fast for this tight little maze of boxes, as if he wants to see how close he can swing without hitting a porch or a trash can.
Your spine pops as you straighten unhurriedly, wiping your hands on a rag, peering over the raised hood.
Billy cruises past the first row of trailers, headlights cutting cones through the darkening lot. His radio is up loud enough that you can make out the loose shape of whatever song he’s listening to—something jagged and angry like him. The park lights paint his car in patches: bright, then shadow, then bright again. He shouldn’t even be here.
You know he lives a street across the park. You’ve seen him go in and out of his normal house on his normal street most mornings, a younger redhead a few steps behind him like a reluctant, furious shadow. His younger sister, or so Eddie told you.
Billy doesn’t cut across the park to get to Cherry Lane faster. He circles.
The Camaro cruises down your row, idling even slower this time, a predator that’s decided to take its time on a hunt. Engine noise settles in your chest, under your ribs, vibrating from within.
He’s not looking at the trailers. He’s looking at you.
You feel it close in—before the beams of his headlights rake over your figure, before the car glides to a stop half in front of your own. You squint against the glare as it blinks out, leaving afterimages behind your eyelids you force away.
The door swings open with a creak. He steps out. But he looks… wrong.
Not wrong as in not himself. Wrong like someone took him and dialled up the contrast too high. Everything about him is over-bright and over-sharp, from his hair to his eyes and the rigid clamp of his jaw. And underneath that, you spy the places where the careful edges don’t line up.
He’s still donning his game-night attire. No jersey, but you can tell from the faint green and gold paint smudges across his forearm that he was playing. The collar of his shirt is damp, darkened with sweat, his hair curling more than usual around his temples. There’s a cut on his cheekbone, a thin red line that’s clearly fresh. One of his knuckles catches your eye, skin raw and shiny.
Those stormy blue depths flick from your face to the exposed guts of your car and then back again.
“Jesus,” he says, his voice rough around the edges. “You ever not have your hands in something with an engine?”
Adjusting your weight, you rest your forearm on the edge of the hood, keeping your posture loose. “You ever not drive like you’re trying to outrun your own reflection, Hargrove?”
He huffs out something that could be a laugh, or close enough for someone like him.
“Cute,” he mutters. “You practice that one in the mirror in case you ever saw me again?”
“Please.” You reach back blindly, snagging the rag from where you left it, wiping each finger one at a time. Your mouth twists into an unimpressed frown, eyeing him suspiciously. “You’re not special. I save my good material for people who tip.”
He ventures closer, boots crunching on gravel with each step. The sound tiptoes down your spine, but you keep your face a flat expanse of disinterest. The portable light casts a harsh halo around you both, catching the ends of his curls, painting his cheekbones with harsh shadows. The blue of his eyes seems to glow as he examines you.
“No tip for the girl who saved my car? Harsh.”
“You paid the bill.”
“Doesn’t count,” he says, licking over his bottom lip absently. You’re unsure why he looks… relieved as he talks. As if he’s found exactly what he's been looking for: a fight. “That was just extortion.”
Twisting the rag around your thumb, you meet his stormy stare. “You agreed to the rate, if I remember correctly, which I do. Always.”
He searches for a response around you before locking back onto you. “I was under duress.”
“You were under the shitty handiwork of some Cali asshole who likes to leave a job unfinished, making sure you come back and pay him twice,” you state calmly, enjoying the peeved twitch of his mouth. “If anything, I undercharged you. That belt would have caused you to wrap around the nearest tree if left unattended.”
Billy makes a quiet, grated sound at the back of his throat. From him, you suppose, it’s as close to agreement as you will get. His gaze slides past you, to the open hood, the tangle of components you could list in your sleep. His attention lingers there for a while.
“You always work on it yourself?” he asks.
You ignore the change in the subject, shrugging. “Yeah. Can’t afford to let anyone else fuck it up.”
His mouth does a twitchy half-smile that gives you the impression he’s going to remember this. “Right.” He examines your arms, your hands, roaming over the smears of oil and grit on your skin as if none of this makes sense. “How very self-sufficient of you.”
You arch your brows. “Is that an insult where you’re from or something?”
He snorts, glancing sideways, towards the direction of Cherry Lane. “Just an observation.”
“Put it in your little notebook,” you tell him, mimicking taking an order with your invisible pen and paper. “Right next to ‘girl at the shop told me the truth once and it wounded my delicate ego.’”
You expect those words to bounce off him. They don’t.
Something tightens between his eyebrows, invisible to anyone who hasn’t spent the last two weeks watching him a little too closely. Billy’s jaw clenches once, twice. His hand drifts to his pocket—cigarettes, you think immediately—but he doesn’t make it there. He pauses mid-motion, his knuckles clenching against his thigh.
He shifts his weight instead, the soft leather of his jacket creaking with the motion.
“You heard about the game?” he asks abruptly.
Have you heard about whiplash? Because you’re kinda giving me one, you think, biting your tongue to stop yourself from speaking. And yet. There’s something off about him tonight, and your damned curiosity won’t leave it alone.
So, against your better judgment, you let the abrupt cuts in your conversation slide, eyeing the wound-up way he stands, playing at casual, but not quite managing.
“Hard not to,” you say slowly, searching his body for more clues. “Half the park is empty. The other half is yelling through their TVs.”
He tilts his head towards the faint roar you can still hear in the distance, the low rumble slicing through the wind. “Came from that.” A click of his tongue. “Needed some air.”
“I’m sure fresh air is hard to come by for an athlete,” you point out, half-sarcasm, half-genuine confusion.
He shrugs, jerky, eyes cutting sideways to the dark strip of scrubland beyond your trailer again, where his home lights are only a distant smear. His shoulders are set in a tight clench, like someone wound him up and forgot to let go.
“Better than what’s waiting inside,” he mutters under his breath.
You catch it anyway, following his gaze towards the shadows and muted lights of Hawkins beyond. All those normal, suburban families playing at house when they’re just as fucked up as people in the trailer park, only with enough money to hide it better. At least the people who live around here are honest about the reality of their lives: no picket fences, just raw, honest living. Sometimes you see more life, more humanity in them, than men like Neil Hargrove.
You’ve never met Billy’s father, but you don’t need to. The image in your mind is developing rapidly, small details slotting neatly into place one by one.
“Don’t like watching yourself on the local channel?” you ask lightly, dropping your rag in its previous spot. “I’m sure they said your name a hundred times. Hargrove with the pass. Hargrove with the assist. You could’ve sat there and basked in all the fawning.”
His mouth twists, not in smugness, his attention hooking back on you.
“I get enough of his play-by-play in real life,” he says, eyes returning to the darkness beyond.
His.
The word hangs like smoke between you—another detail to file away.
You should stop. Every sensible nerve and instinct in you has perked up, little warning flags snapping in the cool night. You’re alone in a half-lit row of trailers with a boy who hits on girls behind bleachers and comes home with split knuckles and a look in his eyes like he’s waiting for the next blow. One he knows with absolute certainty is coming.
The sensible thing to do would be to nod, make some throwaway joke, pack up your tools, go inside, lock the door and not look back. Let him orbit alone, away from you, create distance between you and his damage radius.
Instead, stupidly, you find yourself prodding.
“Do you always drive laps around the park when you don’t want to go home?” you wonder, folding your arms loosely over your chest. “Or am I just lucky enough to be on your route?”
He looks at you properly again. The light catches in his irises, ice gleaming under glass.
“Why?” He matches your conversational tone. “You feeling special, princess?”
A sound bubbles up in your mouth, escaping. “If I wanted to feel special,” you begin, amusement dripping from every word, “I’d go stand in the school parking lot and watch half the female population throw themselves at you. Seems to be working for them.”
The corner of his mouth twitches up, lazy and a little dirty. “Don’t be jealous.”
“I’m not interested in catching whatever you’re handing out, thanks.”
Billy bares his teeth; his grin is more like a knife, sharp, ready to cut. “Ouch. You wound me, mechanic.”
“You’ll live,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “Plenty of cheerleaders around to patch you up.”
His grin tilts, changing shape and intention, more obscene. “They do more than patch me up.”
Scoffing, you roll your eyes again, even as something sour curdles in your gut. “Yeah, I’ve heard. Hallways talk, you know.”
“Hm?” He leans against the side of your car, mirroring your position, palm flat on the metal. It’s weirdly possessive and casual all at once. It makes your teeth grind. “What have you heard?”
“That you can’t remember half their names,” you say, voice thinning into something harsher. “That you keep score.”
His brows rise along with his shoulders, nonchalant and unbothered. “So?”
“So,” you repeat, even sharper, tilting your head to study him, “for someone who walks around like he owns the place, you spend a lot of time proving it to people who won’t remember you in five years.”
Each word comes out smoother than you expect. A knife honed on truth no one paying attention could deny.
Billy goes still. Really, really still.
The breeze abruptly changes direction, carrying over the distant sound of a dog barking, high and repetitive. There’s only the hum of the light and the awful gravity of his focus falling on you again. The air between you thickens, every molecule in the air charging up for an explosion you subconsciously brace for.
“What did you just say?” he asks, very softly.
This is a point where you should back down, you know that. The moment in which you shrug, brush it off as a joke, mean-spirited but made in jest, just like the ones he makes. But you don’t. There’s something about this man that rips a hole in you, loosens your tongue in a way you’re well aware is unwise.
“You heard me,” you say, equally as softly, watching the words sink in one by one. “This place? It’s temporary. A hundred years from now, nobody’s gonna know who the fuck ‘king of Hawkins High’ was. Hell, five years from now, they’ll all be too busy working dead-end jobs and popping out kids to remember who they drooled over in the locker room.” You gesture vaguely towards the direction of the high school, the stadium, the big, wide world beyond. “You’re killing yourself trying to impress people who are gonna forget your face the second their own lives get busy.”
The muscle in his jaw rolls under his skin like it wants out.
“You think you got me all figured out, huh?” His tongue roves over his clenched teeth, aggression barely leashed. “From what exactly? One visit to a garage and a couple of hallway sightings?”
“Not my fault you’re not exactly subtle, Hargrove,” you shoot back. “The car, the hair, the girls—there’s a pattern with you.”
He pushes off the car.
The switch from leaning to looming is tiny in terms of actual distance, but it feels seismic when he closes in. One second, he’s a couple of feet away, close enough to talk normally. Next, he’s half a step closer, and seemingly the whole world has retreated to make room for his presence.
“You really think I’m doing this for them?” he asks, but it’s more of a hiss. The laugh that spills out of him is ugly, sharp-edged. “You think I give a shit what Rick-from-math-class thinks of me?”
Snorting, you shrug, opening up your arms as you say, “Are you waiting for me to say no? Because the way you strut around kinda screams ‘please validate me’.”
His eyes flash, live lightning bottled up. There it is—the nerve. You can almost see the moment you hit it. The flicker behind his gaze, snapping and sparking like frayed wire. It isn’t just anger. That would be too clean, too simple. No, this is something layered, older, more exhausted and wounded. And far, far more dangerous than you first realised.
He pushes into your space, an invisible magnet dragging him closer, two storms clashing against one another.
“Listen,” he begins.
He’s close enough now that you can see the pores in his skin, the faint sheen of sweat on the hollow of his throat, the way his pupils blow a little in the low light. There’s a scar at the edge of his eyebrow you hadn’t noticed before. Up close, he looks less like a magazine ad boy and more like a person, cracked and dangerous.
Your feet dig into the gravel beneath your soles, anchoring you to the earth below.
“No,” you cut him off, your voice low, “you listen.”
He freezes mid-word, full mouth parted around whatever words he was going to lash you with. His brows shoot up again, as if he can’t believe you’ve interrupted him.
“You come here,” you begin, still low, almost icy, trying to keep steady, “acting like you’re some big bad wolf, when really you’re just a kid who doesn’t want to go home.”
His jaw clenches so tight your heartbeat almost stops, too.
“You drive laps around the park instead of going home,” you continue, rushing your words. “You hang around people you don’t even like just so you don’t have to sit alone and hear your own thoughts. You stick your tongue down girls’ throats like it’s gonna plug the hole somewhere inside you, and then you get bored and do it again with someone else, because surprise, it doesn’t.”
His nostrils flare. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
But because you’re an idiot with a death wish, as Eddie would no doubt tell you, you blurt out, “I know that you flinch every time someone drops something behind you.” You suck in a breath at the way his entire face stutters at those words. “And that you always sit with your back to the wall. I know your little sister looks at you like you might throw her off a cliff, and I know you keep circling this place like if you go inside, something bad’s gonna happen to you.”
The words spill out before you can catch them, pull them back and keep them behind your teeth. Your ears ring, your pulse hammering at the base of your throat. You realise, distantly, that you’ve crossed a line. From harmless observation to intrusion. From tentative prodding to yanking the skin back and pointing at the muscle underneath.
The silence that follows tastes metallic, the tension humming along your chilled skin. Billy’s eyes are wide—shock, raw and naked, burning there as if a match struck. Then it’s gone. Just like that, in a single blink.
His face shutters so fast it leaves you almost dizzy. Whatever you thought you saw, whatever fleeting wounded thing it was, gets buried under a slick layer of something else. Something cold and cruel. Well practiced in a mirror every day.
Billy’s head tips back, a laugh spilling from him. A horrible, cutting sound. Too loud for the quiet row, too mocking. It bounces off the trailers and comes back, thinner and more sinister around the edges.
“You've been spying on me, princess?” he mocks, teeth bared. “Is that why you’re always lurking around the edges? You're that hard up for entertainment, you gotta make up little stories about my life, huh?”
You try to swallow over the dry thickness in your mouth. “I don’t have to make anything up. As I said, you’re not exactly subtle.”
“And you’re nowhere near as smart as you think you are,” he snaps back, leaning in even closer.
Your back hits the edge of the open hood, the metal biting into your shoulder blades. The work light swings above, throwing shadows across Billy’s face in jagged, ugly stripes.
He plants his palm next to your head, caging you in without quite touching you. His other hand lands on the hood on the other side, your car suddenly acting as a wall as much as a shield. He’s taller than you by more than you remembered. Or maybe it’s simply the angle at which you’re standing. Whichever might be the case, he’s using it without hesitation.
A hot breath ghosts over your face. Smoke and cheap beer, and whatever cologne he put on hours ago, dulled now by sweat and adrenaline.
“You don’t know shit about me,” he says, each word a gentle, dangerous caress. The lazy drawl is gone. Whatever’s left is harder, something that sounds more like his real register, a warning scraped free. “You don’t know where I’ve been, what I’ve done, what I have to go home to. You see a couple of things, and suddenly you think you’re some kind of fucking mind reader.”
You keep your chin stubbornly up.
“You do realise,” you begin calmly, because your self-preservation instinct seems to vanish with his presence, “that trying this whole big bad act in front of my own house kind of proves my point in the first place.”
His eyes narrow into slits, the ocean blue freezing over. “Point being?”
“That you’re just picking targets you think you can scare into submission,” you explain, a little flare of triumph lighting up beneath your breast when you see how his mouth tightens. “Cheerleaders who’ll giggle and say yes because you’re pretty. Freshmen who don’t know any better. Me, because I’m the girl from the trailer park with oil under her nails and no dad to storm over and tell you to back off.”
The words land between you like thrown grenades.
Billy’s pupils dilate, the skin around his eyes clenching tightly. He leans in. For one idiotic moment, you think he’s going to kiss you.
The thought is wild and stupid and makes your stomach coil in a way you refuse to examine. But his face is right there, his mouth inches from yours, his gaze flicking down and back up in one quick, unconscious sweep.
Then his hand snaps up.
Hot fingers wrap around your jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge just enough to make you feel the pressure. Not enough to bruise, not yet, but enough to tell you he could.
You go very, very still.
“Listen to me, grease money,” he says, soft in that terrifying way that’s so much worse than outright shouting. “You keep my name out of your mouth at school. You don’t talk about me, you don’t talk about my family, and you sure as hell don’t go poking your nose into things that aren’t your business.”
You swallow around his grip, your pulse battering your skin.
“Or what?”
Billy smiles. It’s small and nasty and utterly humourless. “Or I’ll make sure this little setup you got here gets… complicated.” He glances over your shoulder, to the open hood, to the trailer behind you. “Cars break down. Rents go up. Bosses decide they can’t have some mouthy bitch scaring off customers. Funny how life works that way.”
Your blood boils, heat spilling out, filling you up. You wrench his hand away from your face with such force, surprise blooms across his expression before he folds it away. Everyone always underestimates how years of hard labour, lifting and moving and fixing complex engines and machines, make your hands exceptionally strong.
“Wow,” you breathe mockingly. “Threatening a girl’s job and home. Real big man of you.”
“Big enough,” he whispers. “For a place like this.”
There’s a brief second, then, as you glare at each other, breathing hard, where something cracks across his face. A fleeting, small thing you don’t dare to call regret, because a better man won’t be making such threats to begin with.
“You’re scared of people seeing you.” The realisation strikes you like a wrench falling onto your head, sudden and dizzying. Your eyes roam over him greedily, knowingly. “Of someone looking too close and figuring out you’re just as trapped here as the rest of us.”
His façade cracks and creaks before you. That raw, ugly thing appears again, rising up from somewhere deep inside him. It twists his mouth, hollows his eyes, makes him look older and younger at once. The boy who drives like he can outrun his own shadow slammed up against the reality of this town and a father he clearly fears.
His flinch is tiny. Just a twitch at the corner of his eye, but you see it all the same. Then he steps back.
It’s abrupt, two long strides back, cold wind replacing his body heat and scent. He forces distance between you as if standing close physically pains him. The light above you steadies, the night air rushing into the gap he leaves behind, cold and thin around you. Your fingers curl around the edge of the hood to keep them from shaking.
He stares at you, breathing hard enough for his chest to rise and fall with each puff of oxygen, stretching the thin fabric of his shirt. There’s colour high on his tanned cheekbones, flushing the skin around the thin cut, pupils dilated and glazed.
“You talk too much,” he rasps after a beat. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
This is so ridiculous, so impossibly idiotic, you want to laugh. Cackle till you’re wheezing, then keep going. What the hell are you doing? Nothing about this makes sense, but your blood sings, and by the looks of him, Billy Hargrove is the same. Near drunk on whatever magnetic, explosive thing rests snug between you.
“Every day,” you admit hoarsely. “Usually from people who don’t like what they’re hearing.”
He huffs, not quite a laugh but close enough for your eyebrows to lift mockingly. “You keep poking at things, you’re gonna get hurt.”
“You mean you’re gonna hurt me,” you cut in flatly. “Own your threats, Hargrove. You’re boring me.”
A spark in his stare, quick and dark. “Don’t tempt me.”
“That supposed to scare me?”
His smile reappears, but it’s different. Smaller, somehow realer. There’s something reluctant in it, crooked in a shape almost like respect.
“You’re either brave or stupid,” he muses thoughtfully, searching your face. “Haven’t decided which yet.”
“Bit of both,” you admit reluctantly. “Makes life more interesting.”
Tension fades, deflating all around you, simmering into something else. The aftermath is skewed, no less electric, and you visualise both smashing his pretty teeth in and getting in his face again, gripping his jaw and seeing how he likes it. There’s a storm brewing over the dips and hollows of Billy’s face, like he can read your thoughts and is goading you to act on them.
“You missed a bolt.”
Your thoughts stutter to a halt. “What?”
He jerks his chin at the bracket you were tightening when he first arrived. “There. The one you were glaring at. It’s not seated right. You leave it like that, it’ll come loose in a week.”
Against your better judgment, you follow his gaze. Damnit. He’s right.
You see it now, with your focus dragged back to where you were, to the physical, mechanical world you know better. The bracket is slightly angled, the bolt sitting at a crooked angle just enough to vibrate loose over time. You must’ve been more rattled than you thought.
You turn back to face him. “I know my car.”
"Apparently not tonight,” he drawls knowingly. “Good thing you got someone around who knows their shit.”
Your annoyance flares brightly, blessedly familiar in your veins. “Oh, fuck off. You came to me with an engine noise you couldn’t even identify yourself.”
“You’ll thank me when your front end doesn’t rattle itself to death on Route 13.”
He starts back towards his car without another word, his movement looser now, like the storm in him has diverted elsewhere for the moment. Halfway there, he pauses, turning back.
“Hey, mechanic?” he calls out.
You look up from reaching for your wrench. You assumed whatever this is between you was over when he set off towards his car.
“If you’re gonna keep running your mouth about me,” he says, voice lazy again—but you can hear the steel under it now— “maybe do it when I can’t hear you. For both our sakes.”
You stand in silence, staring at each other in the dark. “Maybe I will,” you say eventually. “For both our sakes.”
He grins again, all teeth.
“Night night, princess,” he calls out.
“Night, asshole,” you shoot back.
Billy laughs, a sound so much closer to the one you heard that first morning—hoarse, unwilling, almost delighted. You try to wrap your head around how confusing everything between you is, how you can go from war and threats to banter in a sentence and vice versa.
He climbs into the Camaro and starts it up. The engine roars to life in the quiet lot, purring under the insults you lob at it and its owner in your head. He backs out, spins the wheel, and points the nose of the car towards the opposite side of the park, towards Cherry Lane.
This time, he doesn’t take the long way back. He's simply gone.
His palm-print still tingles phantom-warmth on your jaw when you bend over your engine again. Gritting your teeth, you scrub along your jaw to get rid of the sensation, but it doesn’t work.
Not quite.
an: thank you for readingggg bestiesss! thoughts? should mechanic put billy in a headlock next? let me know :D
Billy didn’t say a word when he found you after school.
He didn’t have to — the look in his eyes said everything.
That guy touching your arm, leaning too close, making you laugh?
Billy had been seething since it happened.
The moment the hallway emptied, he grabbed your wrist — not rough, just firm, like he couldn’t trust himself not to break something. He dragged you into the locker room and kicked the door shut behind you.
His chest rose and fell, eyes sharp, jaw clenched tight enough to ache.
“You really let him put his hands on you,” he said, voice low and shaking with anger he was barely keeping down. “Right in front of me.”
“Billy, you’re overreacting—”
He stalked forward until your back hit the lockers, palms slamming on either side of your head, caging you in place.
His face hovered inches from yours, breath hot against your lips.
“Don’t tell me I’m overreacting,” he growled. “You have no idea what it does to me. Watching you smile at him like that.”
You opened your mouth to argue.
He didn’t give you the chance.
He kissed you like he was starving.
Rough. Hot. Possessive.
His hands slid to your waist, gripping, dragging you against him like you were something he needed to survive. His lips crushed against yours, moving with a hunger that made your knees weak.
Your fingers buried themselves in his hair, pulling hard — and Billy shuddered, a broken sound tearing from his throat.
“Don’t—” he whispered against your lips, kissing you again, slower but no less intense, “—let anyone else touch you like that. I can’t take it.”
He kissed down your jaw, your neck, his mouth hot and desperate against your skin.
Your breath hitched.
He smirked when he felt it.
“Yeah,” he murmured, “that’s what I want. That’s for me.”
His thigh slid between yours, slow and deliberate.
You gasped — and Billy’s head snapped up, eyes blown wide, dark with something hungry and barely controlled.
“You feel that?” he whispered, leaning in until his forehead touched yours. “That’s what you do to me.”
Your hips brushed his thigh — just barely — but enough to make him groan into your mouth when he kissed you again, deeper this time, almost tender under all the heat.
His hands slipped to your lower back, pulling you tighter against him, guiding you with slow, intoxicating pressure.
“Keep doing that,” he rasped, “and I’m not letting you walk out of here.”
You tugged his hair again — teasing — and his knees nearly buckled.
He buried his face in your neck for a second, breathing hard.
“You drive me insane,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “But God, sweetheart… I only ever get like this with you.”
He lifted your chin with two fingers, kissing you again — slow, possessive, claiming.
When he finally pulled back, his lips were swollen, breathing uneven, eyes softer than he meant them to be.
“You’re mine,” he whispered against your mouth. Not threatening. Not demanding.
Just honest.
Raw.
Then he kissed you again — deeper, hungrier — like he didn’t care about anything else in the world except the way you felt in his arms.
this came to me in a vision. i need to be stopped. anyway, strap in and strap-on for this joyride of christmas themed fics, each one inspired by a different track off of sabrina's christmas EP, fruitcake + 1 extra special surprise fic <3
𝜗𝜚₊ ˙ santa doesn’t know you like i do.
⤷ ft. (ex)stepdad!bucky barnes, (ex)stepcest, age gap.
you’ve made a nasty habit out of calling bucky barnes whenever you find yourself one drink too deep to drive. maybe the habit wouldn’t be so nasty if he wasn’t your mother’s ex-husband.
𝜗𝜚₊ ˙ title unavailable! | 9th of december.
⤷ ft. bucky barnes, [redacted], fic exchange.
[this is part of a secret santa fic exchange event! out of fear of revealing who this fic is meant to be a gift for before i post it, i'll not be adding the description until after it's posted <3]
𝜗𝜚₊ ˙ cindy lou who. | 15th of december
⤷ ft. bff!clark kent, friends to lovers, miscommunication.
you and clark grew up attached at the hip, never one without the other, until life got in the way and soft-hearted clark traded smallvile for the big city. when the opportunity arises for you to spend the most wonderful time of the year by clark’s side in the city, it feels like the greatest gift... there’s only two, small issues: 1) you’ve been in love with him ever since he stole your first kiss, and 2) now that you’ve finally found the courage to tell him, clark’s gone and fallen in love with lois lane.
𝜗𝜚₊ ˙ white xmas. | 22nd of december
⤷ ft. the winter soldier, soulmate au, ‘first snow’.
mission report winter 1999: two hydra assets infiltrate a quiet town in norway under the guise of being newly weds. one hydra asset returns. http-error-403 — the assets fall in love.
𝜗𝜚₊ ˙ a nonsense naughty christmas.| 25th of december
⤷ ft. husband!bucky barnes, manchild au, breeding kink.
after an evening of rocking around the wilson’s christmas tree, bucky finds himself yearning for the one thing he’s been missing: a baby. santa might not be able to gift him that, but maybe you could...
𝜗𝜚₊ ˙ buy me presents. | 28th of december
⤷ ft. sugar-daddy!bucky barnes, yearning, mile-high club.
a technical error and a cancelled flight leave you hopeless and stranded in LAX, just in time to ruin the proposal you know awaits you at home. who better to save the day than bucky barnes, the man who used buy your presents and your presence before your fiance-to-be entered the picture?
𝜗𝜚₊ ˙ is it new years yet? | 31st of december
⤷ ft. ex!clark kent, exes to lovers, red sun exposure.
no one wants to be single during the holiday season; you sure as hell never planned to be! until the daily planet’s overly cheery, superhumanly tall journalist, clark kent, dumped you with everybody’s least favourite phrase: it's not you, it's me.
31 days, that’s all you have to make it through before a new year can equal a new, less-heartbroken you... too bad an idiot in a red cape crashes right through your festive-season survival plans.
౨ৎ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: before Hawkins High crowned him “King Steve,” Steve Harrington was your best friend. the boy you biked home with after school, the boy who knew all your secrets, the boy who swore he’d never change. then freshman year happened. his new friends didn’t like that he hung around someone so “pathetic”, and Steve didn’t defend you when they cornered you. one stupid moment of betrayal was all it took to end years of friendship. You hardened yourself, dropped the girl he once knew, and built a life where Steve Harrington no longer existed. but when Will Byers goes missing and your little brother Dustin starts acting suspicious, Hawkins becomes anything but normal. you start noticing strange lights, weird noises in the woods, and a mysterious girl hiding in the Wheeler's basement, and suddenly, Steve is everywhere again. you don’t want anything to do with him, but the world is falling apart, Dustin is in danger, and Steve keeps proving he isn’t the same coward who let you down years ago. as monsters crawl out of the dark and secrets unravel, old wounds reopen and so does the possibility that maybe Steve Harrington was never meant to stay out of your life.
౨ৎ 𝐓𝐖: bullying, verbal harassment, language, violence, past betrayal, alcohol, parties, drugs, toxic relationships, abuse, manipulation, aggression, trauma, jealousy, possessive behavior, angst, canon character death, smut scenes (18+/skippable), normal stranger things stuff, (lmk if I missed anything!)
SYNOPSIS: You finally got your own place -a tiny apartment! However, you live across a woman who doesn't seem to be appreciative of your efforts to become friends.
It doesn't take long before a little 'rivalry' occurs between you two due to your differences.
WARNINGS: enemies to lovers trope, pure fluff, modern au, slight age gap (reader is early-mid 20's and Sevika is just her canon age), reader loves gift giving (this is relevant trust me)
WORD COUNT: 3.2k
A/N: I based this off of a reel I saw...
You've finally moved out of your parents' house.
After spending the past two or three years looking for an apartment - since it was the only thing you could afford - you've finally found one. One that's affordable and in a great area. What's even better is that you're now even closer to your workplace.
It seemed like everything was working out in your favour.
The day you moved in to apartment 203, was a day you considered a new chapter in your life.
You spent the day unpacking the abundant amount of boxes that you had brought with you, placing them in their designated spots. You had finished earlier than you thought you would, and you thought that maybe you'd spend the rest of your time meeting your neighbours - who you'd hope could be some new friends of yours.
You hadn't wanted to intrude on any of them without anything, as it would've felt embarrassing for you. So, you decided to rummage through one of your boxes that you titled "miscellaneous." Knowing that you had some unused candles that you had bought not so long ago, during your short-lived candle obsession.
You carefully placed the candles in a little tote bag that you had already unpacked - making sure not to break them. As you walked out of your apartment, you had decided to start with the two people that live on either side of your door.
Apartment 201.
You knocked on the door, a smile on your face and hope in your mind that you weren't disrupting anything important. As the brown wooden door opened, there stood a short light blue haired girl with braids in her hair. Next to her, stood an even shorter girl with similarly coloured blue highlights in her hair.
"Hi," you say, still smiling.
"Who are you?" The taller girl asks, her phone in hand.
"I just moved in," you say, "I just wanted to meet the people that live here and give them-"
You were cut off by the girl, "I don't live here."
Suddenly, the girl disappeared into the apartment - the smaller girl following closely She left the door ever so cracked open. It wasn't enough for you to look into the apartment, but it was enough for you to hear her call out for someone named 'Vi.'
It didn't take long before a woman that was noticeably taller than the previous girl with dark pink-red hair appeared in the crack of the door. As she opened it wider, there stood a woman with dark blue hair.
You noticed the matching wedding rings on their ring fingers - which allowed for you to infer that they were together.
"Hi," you repeated yourself again, "I already introduced myself, sorta, to your daughter but-"
You had been cut off by the woman with dark pink hair, "that's my sister." She didn't seem offended by it, she seemed to have found your assumption funny as she chuckled ever so slightly.
You blinked at her for a bit.
Before thinking that it made sense since the girl had mentioned that she doesn't even live there; you also thought about how obvious the relation between them was, since it seems they had a habit of cutting people off mid-sentence.
You chuckled with embarrassment, before apologizing.
"Anyway," you smile, "I just moved in and as a little way of saying 'hi' I wanted to give you this!"
You pulled out a candle from your tote bag. One that was iris and white tea scented, as you felt it fit the aesthetic of the woman with dark blue hair.
She smiled as she grabbed the candle, opening it and taking a small sniff of it, before introducing herself as 'Caitlyn.' Her British accent catching you a bit off guard as she spoke.
"So," you turn to the woman that you presumed to be 'Vi', "you're Vi then?"
"Yeah," she says.
"Would you like to come inside for tea or coffee maybe?" Caitlyn asks. However, you shake your head 'no.'
"I want to meet the other neighbours first," you smile, "but, I'd love to some other time!"
"Ok," she smiles at you, "have fun, dear." She said as she disappeared into their well-decorated apartment; you could tell that Caitlyn had taken the duty of decorating.
Before you leave, Vi tells you to avoid apartment 202 - the room across from yours.
"She's just not the most welcoming," she says before you can ask why. You don't say anything, you simply turn your body to face the apartment door.
You sigh, "thank you."
She smiles and waves goodbye as she softly closes and locks the door. You decide to heed her little warning . Despite you thinking that she couldn't be that bad, before walking to apartment 205, the apartment that's to the right of yours.
You knocked on the wooden door that looked identical to your own.
As the door opened, there stood an average height guy who looked close in age to you. His thick white locks contrasted with his dark brown skin, and his brown eyes had surprise on them as he saw you.
"Hi!" You smiled at him, "I just moved in next door, apartment 203."
"Hey," he smiles back, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. You - nosily - look into the apartment, noticing the matching mugs and double-sets of almost everything; which allows for you to infer that at least two people live here.
"Anyway," you begin to open up your tote bag, planning to hand him a candle. "I wanted to-"
"It's you again," you heard a familiar raspy voice from behind you. As you turned around you saw the girl with blue braids, as well as the shorter girl that was hiding behind her legs.
"Hi!" You smile, "do you live here?" You say as you point towards the door.
She smiles and nods proudly as if it's an achievement - which it kind of is considering how expensive everything is nowadays. The little girl continues to hide behind her legs, as if she's too shy to face you. You crouch down to her eye level, still smiling.
"What's your name?" You ask.
However, the girl doesn't answer, and instead you hear someone respond from slightly above you. "That's Isha, and I'm Jinx." You stand back up to your normal height, now facing Jinx again.
"Then that's Ekko," Jinx says as she points to the white haired boy. "He's not important," she jokes.
"Are we gonna forget that I pay more than half of the rent?" He replies, chuckling softly. Jinx quickly steps towards him, leaving Isha standing alone in front of you for a moment, before covering his mouth in a silly manner.
"Don't listen to him," she smiles widely.
You giggle at her playfulness, before remembering what you originally were supposed to be doing.
"Oh right," you rummage through your tote bag, not realizing that Jinx is nosily peering into it as you look through it. "Here you go!"
You smile as you hand them a candle - one that smelled of burnt sugar, raspberry and a hint of lime. Before Jinx could get her hands on it, Ekko grabbed it gently from your hand.
"Thank you," he said, smiling.
"Me and Isha are hungry," Jinx says, "we're gonna go make something, c'mon Isha." Jinx calls for the little girl, before entering the apartment.
Ekko sighs and looks at you, "thank you again for the candle, have a nice day." He shuts the door after you provide him with a simple 'mhm.'
You decide whether or not you should knock on apartment 202.
Vi said you shouldn't, and clearly she had been living here for quite a long time. So, you had decided to heed her warning, and if you ever met the resident then maybe it's fate for you to meet her.
You walk back into your newly-decorated apartment that's not entirely organized, but it's cozy and that's all that matters. You checked your phone - which is slightly cracked due to you dropping a box atop it earlier as you unpacks - 11:01 PM.
You decided that it'd be a perfect time to go to bed now, considering how early you had work the next day, much to your dismay. You took a shower - hoping that the people you had just met hadn't picked up the hints of sweat after overexerting your energy while unpacking earlier.
Then you lazily proceeded with brushing your teeth and then doing your skincare routine. Before, finally plopping onto your make-shift bed, that was just a mattress as you hadn't bought a bed frame just yet; maybe you'll do that after your shift tomorrow.
Meep Meep Meep
You annoyingly turned off your obnoxious alarm, groaning as you realized how early you had to get up.
5:30 AM.
Begrudgingly, you got up to get ready for work. As you brushed your teeth, your mind wandered to who the resident of apartment 202 was. Why did Vi even feel the need to practically 'warn' you about her?
She could just be one of those grouchy neighbours.
The type that hates everyone and constantly reports people to the landlord, hoping to get them kicked out.
6:02 AM.
You finished up faster than you thought you would, so you thought you'd spend this time maybe just scrolling through your phone. However, you hadn't realized that you completely forgot to even set your wifi up last night.
You couldn't do it now, so you just decided to do it later tonight after you - hopefully - find a bed frame that won't hurt your wallet. As you stepped out your apartment, you noticed the door to apartment 202 being ever so slightly ajar.
The slight smell of smoke and coffee entered your nose, which gave you the sense as to who could possibly be living there.
Maybe it's just one of those trashy-older women that always blame their problems on everyone else. You hadn't taken much time to dwell on it, as you swiftly began to walk towards the elevator so you wouldn't be late for work.
However, before the elevator doors shut together, you heard the sound of the door to 202 being shut - rather aggressively - from the inside.
Ding
The elevator notified you as you made it to the main floor.
7:34 PM.
You were finally home.
You were so exhausted.
You spent nearly two hours looking for a bed frame, until you finally found one that was both affordable and somewhat pleasing to the eyes.
Having to set up your wifi seemed so daunting right now, so you had decided on just connecting your phone to a wired speaker to listen to music as you built your bed frame.
Knowing how thin the walls were, you knew it’d be better for everyone if you had the volume lower than you’d like it to be.
You shuffle your playlist, After Midnight by Chappell Roan beginning to play as you begrudgingly begin to grab the power tools your father had forced you to bring.
After an hour of pure frustration and tears, you slowly were able to make the basic foundation of the bed frame.
After another hour of reliance on the instructions and a changing of the playlist you were listening to, you finally finished the bed frame. Meaning, you now had to set up your wifi.
It took way less time than you had originally thought it’d be.
After a few calls - two of those being with your parents as you were confused - you finally figured it out.
You didn’t want to name your wifi anything weird, so you just named it “apartment 203” similar to everyone else’s. However, there was a name that stuck out due to its difference.
“APT203YoureSoLoud (202)”
Each apartment was mandated to have their designated room numbers inputted into the name of their wifi, so you already knew who it was. You felt embarrassed, you had hoped that you wouldn’t disturb people with the sounds of both your music and handiwork.
As an apology - and as well as a way to introduce yourself - you decided to visit her and give her a candle, despite Vi’s warnings. It took you awhile to figure out what candle to give her, but you thought about the smell of her apartment that escaped into the hallway earlier this morning.
Smoke.
Coffee.
Mahogany.
Maybe something bitter or stronger?
Nothing elegant like what you had given Caitlyn and Vi. And not something sweet. like you had given both Ekko and Jinx.
Maybe something with a more woody or aromatic scent? Something like cedar-wood, sage or rosemary?
After much consideration, you chose a candle that you were sure would work and would show your remorse. A candle with stronger scents of sage, rainwater, and oak-moss; with more minimal scents of ginger, smoke, and cedar-wood.
You stepped out of your apartment.
You could hear the distant sounds of Ekko and Jinx laughing in their apartment, and the sounds of Vi and Caitlyn presumably cooking some late-night dinner. You sighed before knocking on the door.
You felt intimidated as you heard heavy footsteps walk towards the door. Your anxiety hadn’t gone down after the door opened and revealed a muscular woman you assumed to be well over 185 cm.
She looked down at you, before speaking with her deep voice that caught you off guard. “Who the hell are you?” She asked, seeming annoyed at the sight of you.
“Hi,” you nervously smile, “I just moved into apartment 202 and-“
You got cut off by her scoffing, “so you’re the one making all that noise?” You sigh and nod remorsefully, attempting to offer the candle in your hands as a little peace offering.
“… what’s that for?” She asks, looking ever so slightly disturbed as if she’s never gotten a gift before.
“It’s to apologize,” you sigh.
She doesn’t say anything, she just looks at you and used her metallic prosthetic arm to grab it. She doesn’t say thank you, she just stares at you. As if giving her a gift is against some weird law.
You hear a door behind you open.
It’s Jinx’s and Ekko’s front door.
“Sevika,” Jinx says. Her tone as playful as the one she used with you the day prior.
“Hey,” she says, rolling her eyes ever so slightly.
Jinx walked towards you two, her hands on her hips and her smile as wide as ever.
“Are you playing nice?” She teases, giggling after her little joke escapes her lips. Sevika groans and shuts the door.
Jinx giggles as the door shuts, clearly proud in completing to annoy Sevika. You blink at her, and she looks at you.
“Don’t mind her,” she says, “she’s just an old grouch.”
Before you can say anything Jinx retreats back into her apartment, clearly only coming out to tease Sevika. You follow quickly after, retreating into your own apartment.
It’s late at night, so you decide it’s time to ready up for the night and plop onto your bed. Before being fatally woken up to your annoying alarm.
Meep Meep Meep
You groan loudly, pushing a pillow onto your face to muffle your groans and the alarm rings through your room.
You brush your teeth, do your hair, change into your clothes, and exit out of your apartment. When you step out, you see Sevika. It seemed like she was taking out the trash in her apartment as it was trash day.
“Hey ‘Vika!” You exclaim, smiling.
She doesn’t respond, just grumbles.
You sigh, thinking that your friendliness would've broken some ice between you two.
"Have a good day then," you say, disappearing into the hallway and walking towards the elevator just as you did yesterday.
You had gotten home earlier than you did yesterday, but you were still exhausted. You walked through the hallways, desperately forcing your eyes to stay pried open. All you could think about was plopping yourself onto your bed and sleeping until your alarm wakes you up the next morning.
However, your thoughts of your restful slumber are cut short as you suddenly bump into something rather sturdy and large. Assuming it was a wall or pillar that you hadn't seen, you hadn't bothered to apologize.
Your assumption was quickly shut down as you heard Sevika's gruff voice from above your head.
"Not even gonna apologize?" She retorted, seeming annoyed.
"Oh my god," you gasp, your face turning red from embarrassment. "Sevika, hi, I'm so sorry."
She doesn't say anything. She just scoffs and walks down the hallway and into the elevator.
Oh God.
How are you supposed to get along with her?
It seems like she already hates you and she barely even knows a thing about you. You defeatedly walk towards your apartment door and unlock it with your bare key, that you're planning to get keychains for.
You realize your embarrassment seems to have overpowered your exhaustion as you don't feel as tired anymore. You simply just walk into your room, and change into something more comfortable.
Despite it being still early in the day, you decide to get a bit of a head start with your dinner preparations so you can hopefully sleep early tonight.
You decide to cook something simple - mac and cheese. It's definitely easy, especially if it's straight out of the box. However, your exhaustion comes back and you fall asleep as soon as you dump the boxed macaroni into the boiling water.
You only wake up once you hear the sizzle, after the overly-boiled water spills out of the pot and onto the lit-up fire on the stove.
You quickly turn off the stove.
However, somehow the fire alarm goes off. You aren't even sure how. But the panic causes for you to accidentally knock down the pot that had your macaroni in it. Causing for boiling water to pour all over your floor.
You panic to quiet down the sound, waving your towel aggressively at the fire alarm that's placed on your ceiling.
Once the beeping calms down, you take a few breathes, not knowing what to do now.
That's when you hear loud knocking at your door.
You hope - pray - that it's not Sevika, as you don't want her to have any other reason to possibly hate you more. However, of course it had to be her at the door.
"What are you doing?" She scoffs, more annoyed than she was earlier.
"Wow," you sigh, "not even asking if I'm ok?" You attempt to joke, hoping that it'll lessen the possible berating that she'll give you.
"I don't care what happens to you," she says, crossing her arms.
Hearing her say that makes something click in your brain.
What does it matter if she likes you.
Why not just stoop to her level.
"Y'know what," you snapped, "I give up."
Sevika looks at you, confused as to what you're saying. Before she can ask for any clarification, you slammed the door in her face. Similarly to the way she had previously slammed her door this morning.
You begrudgingly cleaned up the boiling water - once it cooled down - and the macaroni that was on your floor.
You just angrily cleaned up, not knowing why you were so riled up about what Sevika said.
But, you knew that you refuse to even acknowledge her if she's going to be like this.
Thinking about Zayne coming home after a long shift at the hospital, exhausted from standing relentlessly for hours. He notified you beforehand that he'll be working overtime, but all he could think of while performing surgery on a patient, was coming back to you. So when he catches the sight of your peaceful form sleeping under the covers, he can't help but slip into the bathroom for a quick shower.
He follows his usual night routine before joining you in bed, where your warmth gives him a sense of comfort. He carefully embraces you from behind, mindful to not wake you up from your slumber. He lets out a tired sigh against your shoulder, relieved to be home with you. Nuzzling his face against your neck, he pecks your cheek gently.
"Good night, my love." He whispers softly in your ear, hoping you might hear him in your dreams as he drifts into his own.
author's note: I really wanted to write some zayne fluff so I hope you guys like it 🥹
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