Hi everyone! I am making this a (kind of) role playing blog. Mostly I will be reblogging things and may not post a lot of my work, but I am always looking for new people to write with because I enjoy collaborating with ideas, talking OOC about our characters, meme sharing, shit posting, and creating playlists that coincide with our plots. I am semi-literate to novella as a writer, and I have been writing and growing my writing for the last 14 years. I love writing dead dove, and prefer an angst to romance ratio of about 60-40. I love characters that shouldn’t be together at all and I personally love putting my characters through the wringer to the point they shouldn’t be able to get back up but somehow do. I ask for 19+ writers because I am an adult. I live in CST time zone, and I can get out multiple responses a day depending on how long our threads are. I usually limit my responses to somewhere around 600-2000 words, but anything longer than that gets exhausting to read and then having to reply to it as well? 🙂↔️ Most of the time, I will adapt to what my writing partner gives me as far as responses go. I will include a writing sample below just to show the workings of my writings, but again, I am a semi-lit to novella writer and I would prefer sticking around 600-2000 words. The writing sample is multiple responses combined into one, two part story. Enjoy, and if you would like to write, please like this post or message me.
My fandoms, you ask? () Includes who I write in that fandom.
- Stranger Things (Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove)
-Resident Evil
—> would love to cross over RE + ST
-Hannibal (Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter)
-Marvel
—> Specifically X-Men, Spider-Man, (Venom), (Deadpool)
WRITING SAMPLE.
this is a compression of four pieces of roleplay response into two parts of a ‘chapter’ of a storyline. Stranger Things x Marvel Crossover. Billy Hargrove being ‘infected’ with the VNM-252 symbiote (Venom).
𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐅 ——
𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐋𝐘𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐑
𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚒𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚚 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚝. 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝙽𝚎𝚒𝚕 𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎.
It was an 𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦 thing. The way his brain shifted into something that felt weighted down by the presence of everything. Steve’s kiss. The sand underneath his feet. The water lapping at his ankles. The sun that felt too bright, too hot all of a sudden. Billy was hit with a wave of heat that started in his toes and shot up his calves, his thighs, along his pelvis and into his core, spreading upward and outward into his fingertips, his shoulders, his biceps, and finally along his face. Billy grunted softly against Steve’s lips at the shift of everything, figuring it was just 𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘵 spiking throughout his body like it had before, enhanced and stupified by having Steve here in his personal environment. California had always felt like it had been crafted specifically to hold Billy Hargrove inside of it. Wide state lines that were far from the coastlines and other states. Open ocean that he could spend hours in that never ended as far as he swam out into it before fatigue brought him back. Waves that barricaded Billy from floating out too far when he had decided that life needed to stop if only for him to float along the waves instead of being dragged underneath him. There was plenty of room to run, plenty of room to live. And unlike Hawkins, California made Billy feel alive in ways he hadn’t really registered until Steve leaned into him like he was his own personal lifeline amidst the waves crashing against the shore.
It made everything feel more intense.
Billy tilted his head to deepen the kiss as Steve’s hands slid up to his shoulders, carefully navigating them backwards into deeper waters. His hands slid down to rest against his hips, squeezing and pulling him inward towards the pit that craved every inch of Steve. Mind, body, soul— Billy wanted all of it, and always had. The waves splashed up against him, soaking through his shorts and crashing against his solid frame. The water cooled him off immediately, all the nerve that was spiking within his body slowly dwindling into something more manageable. Warmth was replaced with coolness, and Billy’s thoughts cleared as much as they possibly could with Steve’s mouth on his own. The kiss broke, eventually, as it usually did when Steve needed a breath— and Steve inched backwards, out of Billy’s space, into the depths of the crystalline blue waters that matched the aquamarine shades that danced around in Billy’s hues. He smiled slightly as he watched Steve drift off into the ocean just a few feet ahead, his face soaking in all of the salt, the sunlight, water shining on his features like it had been there all his life. Steve looked gorgeous like this— bright and alive, happy and free. He deserved this far sooner. He deserved the trips around the world that his parents had slacked on. He deserved this life, where he could be happy and carefree and just. . . 𝘌𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵.
Something blocked Billy’s thoughts from shifting further ahead. He squinted slightly, struggling to focus his gaze on Steve as he floated in the water. Heat came back again. 𝘍𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘺. It started in the crown of his head and shot back down all those familiar places on its way back to his feet, the water suddenly feeling like it was broiling around him. Billy shook it off, lifting a hand up to rub at his eyes, attempting to clear his vision. He huffed in frustration when pressing his fingers against his eyelids only resulted in stars but didn’t help clear up 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. Not until Steve drifted closer to him, fingers lightly brushing against the knuckles of his left hand. It felt like a headache was starting to creep into the confines of his skull. Slow, meticulous, starting at the base of his skull and sliding upwards and around behind his eyes. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 was what made him nauseous. Not the heat. Not the waves that sloshed against him, inviting him to tread deeper into the water that would consume him whole. His features twitched slightly, eyebrows slowly knitting together as he rubbed at his face in attempts to make 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 go away. The nausea. The headache. The warmth that felt like too much, blossoming in his chest and scouring through his muscles. His hand moved away from his face, and he blinked quickly to try to clear out the stars in his vision, making out the shape of Steve floating in the water in front of him but unable to make out the 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘴.
“𝘠𝘦𝘢𝘩. . .” Billy muttered in response, half-able to process what Steve said. The roar of the ocean felt too loud. Too much noise. All of it cramming into Billy’s skull like the entire Pacific Ocean existed inside his head instead of stretching out for nautical miles in front of him. He grimaced slightly, hues latching onto empty space in the waves, attempting to squint and blink his way to clarity with something that was moving. 𝘉𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢. Billy breathed out a low, rugged whine when his stomach churned into oblivion, eyes squeezing shut again after glaring up at the clouds, mentally cursing the sun for being 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩. Maybe he was out of touch with California after two years. Maybe the direct sunlight was too much for him after spending days alternating between driving and being knocked out on painkillers. “𝘚𝘵-𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦, 𝘐 . . . 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥,” Billy managed to get out, despite the words feeling like they were scraping through sandpaper as they left his throat, tangling on his tongue and coming out slurred despite not having a drop of alcohol in his system. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘵. The realization came suddenly, cruelly. Billy felt like he was going to throw up right then and there. 𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.
Steve swam closer to him, but Billy hardly registered it. The world was closing in fast around him. Flashes of bright white light followed periods of brief darkness when he blinked, but Billy’s hues couldn’t focus on anything whether it was yards away or right up in front of him. His shoulders curved inward like they typically did when they were bracing for impact. When he was bracing for 𝘕𝘦𝘪𝘭. Steve had always been a slow and pleasant weight pressed onto his shoulders, and he hadn’t flinched in 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 when Steve came near him— but the flinch this time was more than involuntary. More than bracing for Neil. Billy was bracing for the entire universe to come rocking into him all at once, only he didn’t even know it. Steve’s voice distorted as it came into his senses, all twisted syllables and slurred vowels. Billy attempted to furrow his eyebrows together again, attempted to comprehend what was said; but it was all lost. Lost in the crashing of the waves in his skull. Lost in the heat that burned his skin. Lost in the fever that spiked throughout his body.
𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘦𝘴. The thought was the only constant thing that raveled around in Billy’s head as Steve struggled to pull him back towards the shore. His legs refused to cooperate in tandem with Steve’s as they trekked up the beach. Another wave of nausea hit Billy, and he collapsed against the bench that Steve had set him down on. Seconds blurred into hours, it felt like, and when Steve hoisted him to his feet again— despite broken ribs, despite the strain that had to have been ripping through his body— Billy just grunted, leaning all of his weight into Steve like it was a personal lever that dragged him through the sand. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘦𝘴. Billy winced when he was tugged into the hotel lobby, air conditioning blasting him right in the face, chilling the ocean-soaked clothes on his body right to the bone. He leaned into Steve for support, hues dancing frantically around the hotel lobby that suddenly seemed unfamiliar. Like a threat. Steve’s voice sounded miles away, and by the time his words got to Billy, they might as well have been in a foreign language. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘦𝘴. They were in the hotel room, but Billy couldn’t focus on anything around him. Steve’s fingers grazed against his body as he changed him out of his soaked clothes, but it felt numb— like a whisper of a touch, and Billy whined at it when the mild heat of Steve’s hands left him curled over in the bed of the hotel. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘦𝘴. Pills slid down his throat, but Billy didn’t feel them. Didn’t register that it was the painkillers prescribed to aid in the healing process of the bones that Neil had broken during his assault seven days ago. All Billy registered was the warmth of the hotel sheets as his eyes slid shut, body going stock-still on top of the mattress, curled tightly around Steve’s frame as his body gave up entirely to the narcotics. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘦𝘴. Sleep.
——————
Lightening shot through the sky. Bright. Red. Dangerous. Color flooded through his dream, crimson and deep violet. The house. Billy’s house. The Hargrove house, back in Hawkins. Billy was stood in front of it, the thunder rumbling in the distance so hard that he could feel it trembling in his bones. His Camaro was cranked and running beside the house, headlights shining through intricate vines that nearly blocked off the glow of the headlamps. Billy breathed in slowly, smelling nothing but rot. Decay. Lightening cracked through the sky again, the front door of the house swinging open slowly. A creak crackling through the neighborhood like a gunshot, an ominous red glow inviting Billy forward, inward. His feet shuffled slowly, like he was being pushed without his consent, against his permission towards the door. Billy blinked, looking around, waiting for the rain to fall from the sky. The air felt thick with it. Humidity with no wetness. Dryness creeping through his throat, unable to be swallowed down with his nerves. Billy’s feet picked up the pace, guiding him into the house.
The floorboards of the foyer squeaked underneath his boots, and Billy looked down at them, seeing black streaks scraped across the floor like a large monster had dragged its claws straight through the floorboard. It didn’t shift when Billy brushed his boot over it, but instead smudged away. The living room was too dark when he crossed into it, though the sun seemed to be shining in from the window by the entry way. Billy had just been outside and knew that wasn’t the case. The overhead light flickered on, and he turned right when he heard the floorboards shuffle again underneath weight that was not his own. Neil stood there, a beer bottle gripped tightly in his hand. Tight enough that his knuckles were white. Tight enough that Billy could see the veins popping out in his hands— smudged black, just like the smears on the floor. Just like the vines that covered his Camaro outside, choking out the purr of its motor. Billy squinted slightly, tilting his head to the side as he caught Neil’s face— only it wasn’t Neil’s 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦, merely just a smudge of it. Like someone had pressed a paintbrush against his features and swiped quickly to the side, creating a disorienting splotch that should have been where Neil’s face was.
“𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦. 𝘈𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.”
Billy flinched slightly, shoulders drawing in on themselves. Tension crept up his spine, fear sliding down it, the two meeting in the middle with a piercing knot that made it feel like a knife had been dug into his back.
“I. . . Got caught up at the quarry. I didn’t mean to be late. I didn’t know how long the drive would be—“
“𝘐 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦. 𝘐 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘴𝘰𝘯. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘺 𝘮𝘦, 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯? 𝘙𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝗳𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴?”
Billy’s nostrils flared, heat spiking in his chest only to disappear again with that same chill that rocked through his core. Everything felt too cold. Too instantly. Like he had been plunged down into an ice bath against his will, shards of cold slicing through his skin and stabbing into all of his vital organs. Billy let out a breath, the very gust of it coming out in a fog once it left his lips. So it wasn’t just Billy that was cold— the room itself was cold, in the dead of summer, while a storm brewed right outside the front door.
In his sleep, his breaths grew shorter. More rapid. Chest heaving hard, sweat starting to form on his forehead. Lungs overworking themselves until he started hyperventilating.
The tension coiled tight around his gut, painfully so, making him wince and lead forward in an attempt to double over in pain. Neil didn’t move. He just stared. Like a hawk. Watching whatever was swarming within Billy tear him apart.
“𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺.”
The words sliced through the air like daggers, Billy’s eyes going wide as they detonated in his chest. They took the breath out of him. Tears sprung in his eyes almost immediately as he fought to use his voice. “𝘕𝘰!” He screamed, but the noise came out cracked, fragile, buried underneath the sand and unable to be heard from the surface.
“𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘴𝘰𝘯.”
Billy’s right eye twitched, a sharp pulse hitting him like a warning jab right behind his eye. His fingers twitched towards his temple, but something forced them down. Billy let out a sharp gasp, squeezing his eyes shut as if he could will the pain of it away.
A scream left his throat, loud and vibrant in the hotel room. Not in the dream. But echoing out of Billy’s throat, physical and real, piercing through the silence of the room.
“𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘯. 𝘊𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘩. 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘯? 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯’ 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘪𝘬𝘦?”
The pressure in Billy’s skull grew more unbearable— like a headache, sprawling all over his scalp, pressure pressing hard enough against his eyes that he feared they would pop out. “St-Stop. . .” He whimpered, jaw clenching so tight that his teeth hurt.
Billy’s body shook violently beside Steve in the room. The pain broke through the barriers of the dream, aching physically in his body. A migraine that felt like he had been shot point-blank to the head. Muscles tensed so hard that his veins became visible.
“𝘐 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘔𝘢𝘹𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘺 𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘯𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦.” Thunder boomed outside of the window again, shaking the walls of the house, the windows rattling stubbornly in response.
Other voices started to swirl around in his perception. Neil’s. Susan’s. Max’s. Robin’s. Eddie Munson. Tommy Hagan. 𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘰𝘯.
“𝘗𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘣𝘰𝘺, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘐 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵. 𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩.” “𝘉𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘦? 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘻𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦? 𝘜𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦?”
“𝘉𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘨𝘰 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘮! 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝗵𝘂𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗲!”
“𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶.”
“𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘭 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹 𝘢𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘵 𝘧𝘶𝘯?”
“𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦!”
“𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯. 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥. 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘥. 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦, 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦.”
.
.
.
…
.
..
..
.
…..
..
…
.
.
…
“𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦.”
“𝗜 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲.”
“𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶”
“ι ∂ση'т ℓσνє уσυ αηумσяє.”
“𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘴𝘰𝘯.”
“𝙄 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚.”
“.ʎɐʇs ʇ,upıp ɹǝɥʇoɯ ɹnoʎ ʎɥʍ sı sıɥ⊥”
“вιℓℓу уσυ'яє нυятιηg мє!”
“𝒟𝒾𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁 𝒶𝒹𝓊𝓁𝓉 𝒻𝓊𝓃?”
“Ｉ ｄｏｎ＇ｔ ｌｏｖｅ ｙｏｕ ａｎｙｍｏｒｅ . . .”
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
“𝗕𝗶𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗛𝗮𝗿𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘃𝗲. . .”
A voice that wasn’t Neil’s shrouded inside Billy’s head, placing a veil between Billy and the outside world— or what part of it existed in his dream. It was deep. Confident. Rough around the edges, gruff in its core. One that Billy didn’t recognize nor want to know the person it belonged to.
“𝗔𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗻. . .
𝗔𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗺𝗶𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘆. . .
𝗪𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝗴𝗼 𝗮𝘄𝗮𝘆, 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗮 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗲. . .”
The pain in Billy’s head capsized, blooming down his body and rocking throughout his limbs. His knees buckled outward, bending, sending him down to the floor where his hands braced himself against the vines. And 𝘎𝘰𝘥, he broke. He broke because it was easy. He broke because it was a simple remedy. “𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦. . .”
In the real world, Billy’s hands had curled tight into his hair, pulling, pulling hard, like he was attempting to rip the pain right out of his skull with all his might.
“𝗕𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗶𝗺 𝘁𝗼 𝘂𝘀. . .” “𝘕𝘖 !” Billy shot up directly in the bed, eyes flying open and frantically shooting around the room. His heart was beating ninety miles a minute, sweat coating his body, his shirt sticking to a wet spot against his skin. He felt hot all over, like he had been sweating out a fever; pupils expanded wide enough to let in all the blinding light of the measly bedside lamp. He scrambled back towards the headboard, tucking his knees to his chest and hugging them tightly against his ribs— so tight that it made the fractures ache, so tight that his arm 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 at the misuse of broken bone. Billy’s eyes caught Steve in a millisecond too late, an ugly sob ripping out of his chest as tears spilled down his face. The realization hit. 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭. None of it was real. Wasn’t it? No one was in the room with them. Neil, Susan, Max, Eddie, Tommy, Robin— all gone within the blink of an eye, and all that remained was Steve, who hovered restlessly near him, the worry etched on his face lost in the darkness that came when Billy pressed his face into his knees hard enough to block out 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.
𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦.
He let out a broken whimper, his body shaking with the force of the sob. 𝘐𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭. All of it. Real enough that Billy could still feel the jabs behind his eyes. Real enough that he could still hear the voices circling around in his head. Real enough that the heat of Neil’s hands felt real around his throat even though Neil 𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 in the dream. Real enough that the heat spread everywhere, rough and raw and nauseating all at once. Billy’s stomach churned harshly, his face going pale almost immediately. Steve said something to him but it didn’t register because Billy was rushing to his feet, to the bathroom, chest heaving with heat and what Billy could only describe as agony. Pain. Fear. Vibrating under his skin, shaking underneath his ribs, his heartbeat so loud and frantic that it burned into the way he coiled over the toilet in the bathroom with a sharp wheeze, dry heaving. Attempting to cough it out. Whatever it was. The dream. The voices. The twisting agony that sprouted in his chest and made him feel disoriented. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴.
———————
𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐎𝐅 ——
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐕𝐄
Billy felt hot. Abnormally hot. Like the Californian sun had injected itself directly into his veins, withering him away from the inside out. All of his senses had gone haywire: his skin was burning up, but Billy felt chills crash through his insides like a cold front moving in throughout him; the lights were too bright, too disorienting, blinding and callous to the way that his head pounded; Billy could hear everything all at once. The waves crashing on the shoreline. The TV from the next room, and the room across from that, and an argument stemming from the hotel two blocks down the street. His body curled over the toilet, hands squeezing tightly around the porcelain in a way that made his knuckles too tight, too white, skin splitting around the injuries that came from fighting with Neil, with Tommy. Old wounds resurfacing. Reopening. Billy whined sharply into the bowl of the toilet between retches of his diaphragm, jaw clenching so tightly he swore he could hear his teeth cracking in two. Everything that was going on was agonizing. Sight, sensation, even the distortion of sound made his head pound like his skull was about to split wide open. Steve was there. A warmth in the center of his back. Between his shoulders. Traveling into his head via his ears, soft murmurs and concern all the more disorienting as Billy stared blindly at the wall behind the toilet. Trying to follow his voice. Trying to find him when all else failed. His safe place. His lover. His fiancé. His home. But Billy was still stuck in some unknown space between dream and reality, had to be, another scream howling through his body before it lurched forward into another round of dry heaves.
I don’t love you anymore.
The thought went off like an explosion in Billy’s head, and his hands gripped so tight around the porcelain of the toilet that it snapped in his grip. A groan ripped through his chest, all agony and heartbreak as he coughed up blood into the toilet. It spattered against the white ceramic and strangely enough, nothing else came up out of Billy’s stomach. Just blood. His head lulled forward, forehead pressing hard against the lip of the toilet. Too heavy to keep up. And Billy was far too exhausted already to fight against it. His cries grew weaker as his body curved in on itself. “𝘗𝘭-𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦. . .” He choked out amidst his gasps for air, spine straightening again as his body lurched forward again, another heave, more agony, more nothing coming up into the toilet. It was like every hangover he had ever had in his life had multiplied itself by a hundred, wrecking through his body without remorse. And Billy truly would have believed that if it wasn’t for the fire that shot through his veins. Twisting around the tunnels of them, penetrating through bone and tissue like something was alive underneath his skin. I don’t love you anymore. Steve’s voice ricocheted in his head, bouncing around at a velocity that brought a pain that Billy was so sure was about to kill him. His body shuddered viciously. Fingers squeezed and released around the toilet. His hair had become so damp with sweat that it frizzed where it wasn’t sticking desperately to his forehead and the nape of his neck. Steve spoke again, but Billy growled at him this time— low, reverent, not at all in a way that sounded playful or flirty like it usually did. This one came out more pointed and sharp like that of a tiger honing in on its prey.
“𝘚𝘩𝘶𝘵 𝘶𝘱— 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘶𝘱—” Billy spoke, clear and concise, the tones of his voice swept up by rugged baritones and harsh monotones. Not at all his voice. But what was his voice was the whimper that left him shortly after, his body trembling as he leaned back against the heat of Steve’s body. Billy’s head fell back uselessly against his shoulder, pulse jumping wildly in slickened black streaks that popped up throughout his throat, traveling down his throat and branching into his biceps. Slithering through his veins. The lights were too bright. His eyes opened slowly, all bloodshot and wrecked. Oceanic hues flashed briefly. His pupils split in two. An eerie, blinding shade of white coated his pupils and irises before shifting into darker shades of blue, then red, then black before Billy squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head to plant his face against Steve’s chest. And then. . . The pain slowly receded. For a single moment, Billy felt like he had full control of his body again. His hands trembled as they reached for Steve’s shirt. His fingers curled tightly in the fabric, an exhausted wheeze leaving his diaphragm. It hurt. Everywhere. “I’m sss-sorry—” he whispered, like if he spoke any louder that. . . Thing would come back for him. The thing in his dreams. The thing in his veins. The thing he didn’t quite have a name for. Billy only knew it as pain. Exhausting, demanding agony that had crushed him down into bits of raw, vulnerable pieces. Billy’s body shook with the same violence that it had in the bed, only it was more controlled now. Muscles tensing and flexing before returning to normal again.
The worst of it seemed to be over.
Billy slowly started to drift off to sleep. In and out.
It was too much for him to process. The bulk of it all. The pain of it all.
Thirty minutes passed, and he focused tiredly on his breathing. The rapid rise and fall of his chest. The way he panted against Steve’s chest. An hour. An hour and a half. Two hours. Wasted in the bathroom floor, alternating between fighting against staying awake to brace for impact and giving into whatever it was that was wrecking through his body.
And right when he lulled into the first few stages of deeper sleep, the pins and needles of it struck up again. The floor felt too hard underneath him at first. Steve’s body felt too hot at all the points of contact. His heartbeat was too loud in Billy’s ears. Billy whined as nausea slowly crept back in, his fingers tightening enough in Steve’s shirt to tear through the fabric. His heart rate picked up. His chest heaved. Billy’s eyes rolled, his head lurching backwards as another agonizing wave ripped through him, a cracked howl scraping through his throat as he sobbed through it. Steve’s heart was too loud. His presence too close. His warmth too hot. Billy was too much. The floor was too hard. The lights were too bright. The pain jabbed sharply behind his eyes again, and Billy sobbed out in response to it, skin flushing dark all over for a millisecond before reverting back to the cherry hue that radiated from his heated skin. His clothes stuck to his sweaty skin like glue, and Billy’s hands fought weakly in attempts to peel his shirt off. Too many layers. Steve’s heartbeat was too loud. His heat was too hot. The floor was too hard.
The room was spinning.
Billy shot up again, teeth grit together as he leaned over the toilet again. Hands gripping the porcelain tightly. Arms hugging the bowl of the toilet. Desperate for anything that would cool him off. “𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘵,” Billy moaned, his voice entirely wrecked from the screams. Wrecked from fighting against whatever was trying to take over his body. It felt like an out of body experience entirely. Like he was supposed to be asleep in the bed, but instead he was in the bathroom, watching himself deteriorate.
Time warped itself in and around inside of Billy’s head. Memories flooded through like they were files being picked through, one by one, from his earliest memories of being on the beach with his mother to traveling to California. Like something was trying to flick through them and figure out what was important and what wasn’t. Billy groaned into the bend of his elbow as it brought slow waves of pain with it— not like what was spiraling through his veins like a scorching fire, but something more similar to a slow, docile wave pattern. Controlled. Intricate. Meticulous. Billy thought he was 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨. Because that was what happened, right? Narrowing light at the end of a long, dark tunnel, the entirety of his life playing behind his closed eyelids. California beaches. The death of his mother. Meeting Max and meeting Susan. Detesting them both because he was only fourteen, rebellious, and not ready to move on from his mother’s death in the ways that his father was. Because four years was not long enough for him to get used to the cycle of abuse when there was no one else there to shield him from it. When bruised cheeks turned into broken skin, and when broken skin turned into that first broken bone. 𝘏𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘪𝘤𝘺𝘤𝘭𝘦. The echo of Neil’s lie in his head made his stomach turn again, and Billy retched forward harshly against the bowl of the toilet. So hard that he lost conciousness, if only for a brief few seconds.
Because when, whatever it was that was carving its way through Billy’s system was done with his memories, the pressure shifted lower. Sliding down behind his eyes, the stabbing behind them so wildly intense that it woke Billy up 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 right when Steve had worked his arms underneath his body to hoist him up. Billy groaned weakly at the staggering environment, the room spinning around him when he attempted to crack his eyes open to see. Everything was blurred. Twos, threes, fours— Billy saw what four people would see if all of their vision was lined up side by side. His eyes squeezed shut again when Steve placed him down in the bathtub, the ceramic of it hardly enough to cool the fever spiked in his skin. There were voices. Muffled, but there. Steve. Max. The distant sound of other people talking, arguing, concern in tone that stretched through the light in the bathroom. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯? 𝘋𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘸𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘦? Billy grunted, his eyes rolling slow behind his closed eyelids. Cold water surged around him, and it turned to boiling almost immediately, steam rising in the air like someone had just thrown smelted iron into the bathtub to cool it off. Bubbles raised from underneath his body. Billy didn’t have it in him to fight. Didn’t have it in him to surge out of the bathtub like the water had personally offended him with its cold spiking into heat at a rate so fast it made his head spin. All he did was 𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘴, the noise coming out distorted and snake-like.
The ice bath did nothing to stop his fever from desecrating through his body. Steve and Max dumped in bucketfuls of ice that splashed around Billy’s frame, melting too quick in between trips to the ice machine and back. They eventually caught up, however, and ice started to float around Billy. Drifting in the water like it was on a wave itself. Everything suddenly got quiet. 𝘛𝘰𝘰 quiet. Billy whimpered at that, unable to trust the silence. Unable to trust the light when he opened his eyes. Unable to trust 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.
And all too suddenly, within the blink of an eye, the pressure came back again. Hard. Sharp. Resilient. It didn’t start slow. It 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘥, the tearing in his gumline a pain so intense that Billy’s screams pierced through the air, cold and merciless as they scraped through his wrecked throat. His voice was shredded. Raw. Cracking around the edges as blood pooled in his mouth, pouring down his chin. Serrated edges pierced through his gums on the front side of his teeth. Slicing through the delicate tissue. 𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱. Billy’s tongue caught against one of them, the jagged edge of it slicing a thin line into his tongue while his hands reached up to cradle his mouth. It was like his entire jaw was reworking itself for a whole new set of teeth to grow in, and every second of it was agonizing torment. Blood cascaded down from his mouth, hot and sticky between his fingers as each shark-like tooth poked through his gumline, one by one, forming in front of his inciscors and edging through the tissue all the way back to his molars. Billy squeezed his eyes shut so tightly all he could see was white light. And suddenly, all of the broken bones didn’t matter anymore. All of the trauma he had endured didn’t matter. 𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 except the pain, raw and searing and distorting everything that Billy knew.
His pulse jumped wildly underneath his skin, blackened veins throbbing with new life. Billy heard a noise in his head that was distinct from the pressure. Distinct from the pain. Distinct from the sound of his heart pounding. Distinct from the rearranging of his teeth and whatever the hell it was cutting through skin and reshaping itself a new home. 𝘈 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘭. Coming from 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥. A hefty purr that seemed to echo down his throat and vibrate between his ribs. Whatever was inside him was 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 off of him. Soaking in the blood as it pooled in Billy’s mouth, preventing more of it from sliding down his face and dripping into the water where it diluted into something nonconsumable. Billy’s body gave up the fight. Gave in to the pain that capsized everything he knew, erased every bit of narcotic that his stomach had started to digest. His vision went black, and his body went slack, sinking into the ice water.
Everything was cold for a while. Peaceful. Billy didn’t feel anything anymore when he succumbed to the darkness. His heart still thudded sporadically, blood and ooze coursing through his veins like they were a race track. Whatever was inside him was making a 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦. Tearing down the ceiling and knocking down the walls to make Billy’s body a suitable living condition. Billy didn’t register it. He didn’t register anything, from the sound of Max’s voice and Steve’s sobs to the continuous pops of his gumline as teeth continued to push through, blood soaked right back up into his gumline. They pushed. And pushed. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥. Billy’s jaw visibly grew wider from the outside, just briefly— because as soon as the last serrated fang popped through the surface of his gums, they all receded right back up into his gumline, leaving him bare and vulnerable all over again. Except for a set of two, up front, incisors remaining sharped. Prime. Ready. Inevitably hungry and ready to tear into flesh and bone alike. The heat from the burning clothes seared into Billy’s skin, and the blackness underneath his flesh reacted _violently_, quickly moving to the point of damage to repair the skin as rapidly as it burned. Whatever was inside of him, it screamed— buried underneath the surface, echoing 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 in Billy’s head, informing him of danger that he couldn’t see. Billy was blind to the world. Unconscious. Seemingly dead.
Dead in the ways his body went slack in Steve’s arms. Dead in the way he fell with gravity when Steve lunged over him to put out the fire that licked up his calves. Dead in the way that made him oblivious to the way that Max screamed when Steve struck her, all frantic and panicked and 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨. Billy felt death curl around his insides. Cold and intense but warm and inviting all at the same time. But he didn’t react violently. Not to the death. Not to Steve wrapping around him like his own personal shield. Not to Max, who fought with fire and scalding hot water that burned through his flesh. Because the 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 recognized both of the individuals in the room with its habitat. Memories flooded by; of Steve, of Max, and the pitch darkness that resided itself in Billy’s veins recognized them as friends instead of foes. Family. People that Billy put his life on the line to protect. Faces that it recognized from filtering through Billy’s memories. Constant faces. The two more than anyone else, especially in the last few days. It ignored the methods Max used to try to destroy its vessel and kept working. Because it 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 . It knew that Steve would sacrifice if it meant keeping the host safe. It cataloged the way that Steve’s heart beat in his chest from Billy’s memory alone. 𝘚𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴. Attached to each other so intensely that even the explosion of the stars would not erase their bond. It was a connection more intense than its previous host had. It would leave them alone.
Something twitched in Billy’s features, life becoming evident due to the brief break in pain when the thing settled. Just enough for his eyes to roll slightly behind his eyelids again. He made a noise.
A whisper.
A breath.
A small, fragile noise.
A single syllable.
“𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦. . .”
It came out in a broken wheeze, his voice destroyed around the edges, following a twitch of his eyebrows before his features went stoic again. Billy’s breathing steadied into something shallow, barely noticeable. He slipped back under, the inhabitant of his body gracing him consciousness just long enough to make this 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 for Billy’s mate. Because Billy’s eyes fluttered slightly, double-pupils and shiny hues focusing in the light for just a second before they flashed a solid white again and slid shut. And that was the way the next few hours went. A slow cycle of bones shifting and popping underneath the skin, raising abnormally in places that were carved with hard muscle and straight lines into sharp points before sinking back into place again firmly. A veil had been placed over Billy’s subconscious during this, severing his neurotransmitters from the rest of his central nervous system. 𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. He didn’t feel the way the bones in his broken arm cracked more severely before a sickly snap echoed in the air as the blackness in his veins popped the bone back into place. Billy didn’t scream. Didn’t gasp. Didn’t even budge when the bone shifted and rotated back into its normal position.
It was the same for the fractures in his ribs. Something moved underneath his skin like it was alive, soaking its way around the splits in bone and settling down until the fragments fuzed back together. The substance went throughout his body, mending and healing affected areas that Billy didn’t even know existed anymore. A hairline fracture in his jaw from a childhood fight. A chip in the bone of his shoulder where Neil had shoved him into the wall hard enough to break the drywall. All the tears and splits in his knuckles from fighting throughout his life just to have the upper hand in 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 — the ooze healed it all, piece by piece, targeting all two hundred and six bones that Billy had. Bruises disappeared from his sun-kissed skin like they had never existed there in the first place. Deep lacerations that existed underneath the surface of his skin from where Neil had shoved him down the stairs at Steve’s house sealing back together in an impossible rate, something abnormal, something inhuman. A heavy sigh would occasionally leave Billy’s diaphragm as his skin distorted in impossible angles while the inspection of his insides unfolded. And it finally stopped— all of it, the growing of teeth, the swarming underneath Billy’s skin, the way his eyes would roll in different shades of aquamarines and crimsons and whites— all of it 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥. Sudden and certain.
Billy woke up 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴 later, a pounding ache in his head like he had tripped and fallen directly onto it. His body felt stiff from where he had been laying in the bathtub for most of the night; legs cramped up awkwardly underneath Steve’s frame. The boy rested against his chest, features scrunched together tight with worry despite clearly being out of it. His face was splotchy like he had been crying— like he’d been fighting for his life, or perhaps for someone else’s. Billy’s senses were 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱: he smelled first, the scorched dermis layer of skin that was somewhere near him, somewhere close. His hues tracked the way that Steve’s pulse thrummed slowly and calmly while he slept; but it wasn’t visible before, when Billy would just 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 at him. Now? Billy could see the slightest murmur in his pulse. He could 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 it, amidst the conversations happening in the hotel rooms around them, the TVs that were cranked up loud enough to be heard over the early morning Santa Monica traffic. Billy grunted softly, swallowing down the rasp in his throat as he lifted his hand up to rub at his face. “𝘔𝘮𝘯𝘨𝘩. . .” He moaned, low and shaky, blinking as his vision shifted to the environment around him.
The bathroom. Blood on the floor. On the wall. In the shower. Painted on his chest and staining Steve’s shirt. The broken toilet. The sunlight that peeked in through the crack between the bathroom door and the doorframe. Too bright to look at directly, like Billy had just woken up after a decade’s worth of sleep. He lifted his hand up to rest against Steve’s back, between his shoulders, noting that there was no tug or strain in his forearm anymore. Billy’s hues shifted to where he knew the bruises from the break in his bone were 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 to be, and he was extremely confused to find that his skin was clear. No bruises. No awkward bumps where broken bone threatened to push out. He squinted slightly, entirely confused. It didn’t make sense. Why the hell were they sleeping in the bathtub? Why was there blood everywhere? Why did Billy smell a million different things at once? 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘮? What happened to the bathroom? What happened to 𝗦𝘁𝗲𝘃𝗲? “𝘚𝘵-𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦,” Billy started, his voice cracking slightly from the misuse of it. He shifted to sit up, waking Steve in the process, planting his face against the curve of Steve’s shoulder in attempts to block out part of his senses. 𝘛𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩. 𝘛𝘰𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘛𝘰𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥. “I’m so fucking hungover,” Billy muttered, exhaling shakily.
