#greye writes

[grey-sides]

On a Monday morning, Steve's dad frowns at his paper and throws Steve a sidelong glance. On the entertainment page is a black and white photo of Bruce Springsteen kissing Clarence Clemons.

Steve swallows his toast and shifts in his seat. But his father doesn't say a thing and Steve doesn't know where to begin. He's not asked to get rid of his Springsteen tapes. But he does find the paper later, tossed on the pile to go in the trash and clips out the picture.

It's not the first time he's seen this exact scenario with Bruce Springsteen. But it is the first time in a long time he's been interested in doing it himself.

He tucks the paper clipping away in a book under his bed. And he thinks about the cash he has saved up and how much longer Robin has to be in school for.

On a Friday evening, he fixes his hair and kisses his mom's cheek on his way out the door. The newspaper clipping under his bed is delicately frayed already, the thin paper worn thinner by his eager fingers.

He picks Robin up, waves to her mom and drives them just outside of town. Eddie's van is already there, quiet and dark because he and his band are already inside.

On a Friday night, Steve tucks into a beer and looks up at the stage. He smiles despite himself and thinks of Bruce and Clarence when Eddie and Jeff lean into the microphone together.

His palms sweat and he presses them to his bottle. The edges of the label are peeling like the newspaper clipping. He taps his toe to the music and smiles wider when a woman takes Robin by the hand to show her how to rock out.

On an early Saturday morning, so early Steve would call it late, he helps Eddie put the instruments away in the back of the van. He watches as Eddie stacks each piece carefully and curses when a cymbal crashes against an amp.

And he thinks about his newspaper and the judgement in his dad's eyes. He twirls his keyring around his finger and thinks of another life where he kept up with his piano lessons instead of baseball.

On an early Saturday morning, Steve closes the van doors just enough to block people from seeing them and he pulls Eddie close. And he wonders what it would be like to do on a stage.

And Eddie is not Clarence Clemons and he is not Bruce Springsteen. But his heart still races and his palms still sweat, and he knows he could bellow out of his lungs with joy if he was standing in front of a crowd.

And later still on that early Saturday morning, Steve feels the calluses of Eddie's guitar worn fingers on his cheek. And he listens to his halfway to hoarse voice tell a story. And he tastes cheap beer and song lyrics on his lips. And he thinks next Saturday, he might join Robin dancing in the dark of the bar.

[grey-sides]

@imsodonewiththissite reblogged "you've heard of missionary, now get ready for mercenary position" and pleaded with the vigilmaker authors to make it happen.

so. here's something smutty and silly

~1.3K words, no major warnings other than anal sex and like mild knife play, swear it's all consensual

Chris breathed out, breathed in, took a moment to center himself. This guy was fucking slippery, but they would get him yet. 

He curled his fingers around the hilt of his knife and held his breath for a moment. He took a step forward, boots soft on the floor in front of him. He was practically special ops, this was really light work. 

Chris shouldered his way through the door, eyes scanning the room in front of him. He narrowed them, watching for any signs of movement, ears trained for boots on the ground. He stepped slowly around a set of boxes, swinging his head back and forth. 

“AH!” 

Chris turned quickly, striking out with the hand not holding the knife. He collided with a solid shoulder and used his momentum to shove the body he found against the nearest wall. 

“Fuck!” he guy hissed. He dropped his head, one arm pinned to the wall beside it. 

“Got you,” Chris muttered. He swung the knife around, sliding the very edge of it under the hood the guy was wearing. 

He had pinned him chest first into the wall, which wasn't ideal to keep him in place, but it was what he had. He wedged a leg between the guy's thighs and gritted his teeth. 

“Yeah? Gonna slit my throat now?” the guy taunted. Vigilante. A tough target, but not tough enough for someone like Peacemaker.

“Maybe,” Chris grunted. He pushed the edge of the hood up so a pale neck was revealed. 

Vigilante was strong, but lean, not like Chris. His neck was thick enough to stop a bullet, Vig would bleed out in seconds if Chris pressed the knife a little too close. 

“You want me to?” he asked. 

Vig shivered under his firm press, tilting his head back so his neck pressed a little more against the knife. He also rocked his hips back, ass pressing into Chris’ dick. 

“Maybe,” Vig whispered. His fingers against the wall curled and his free hand curled around Chris’ wrist, as far as they would touch. 

Chris shifted his hips again, pressing into Vig more. “Gonna try to throw me off?”

Vig shook his head slowly, careful not to let the blade drag over his skin. “Nope, I think I wanna know a little more about what's hiding in your pants.”

“And I wanna know who’s hiding under this mask,” Chris replied. He pushed the knife a little further against Vig’s throat. “Don’t think you’re getting my secret identity that easily,” Vig warned. He slid his free hand further between them, reaching to try and get at Chris’ fly. Chris shivered, but let him, keeping the knife close. Vigilante got his fly open enough to slide a hand into his pants, along his length. Of course he was already hard, the thrill of the chase had just gotten to him. He moaned quietly, dropping his head to Vigilante’s shoulder for just a moment. 

His grip on the knife didn’t change, though it was a near thing. “Think about killing me a lot?” Vig whispered, stroking his gloved hand along Chris. 

“Can’t imagine you’re not ready to go too,” Chris muttered. 

Vigilante huffed a half laugh and let go of Chris. He immediately mourned the loss, but knew it meant Vig was going to tug down his pants next. 

He looked between them, pale ass, hairy legs, exposed just enough that they would be able to do this. His palms were sweating in his gloves and he shifted the knife a touch away from Vigilante’s neck. 

“Damn, think it’s gonna fit?” Vig muttered, shifting his hips. He spread his legs wider, feet planted firmly on the floor. 

Chris had to let go of his hand pinned to the wall for a moment, so he could grab his cock. This was an opening for Vigilante to escape, but he didn’t make a move for that. Instead, he shifted and got the knife closer to his neck still. 

One wrong move and this would be an absolute mess to clean up, but Chris was focused on one thing only. He shifted his hips and gripped his dick, pushing up into Vigilante’s waiting heat. 

Vig groaned quietly, reaching back to grab hold of Chris’ hip. He dropped his head back, which pushed the knife against his adam’s apple. 

“Fuck yeah,” he breathed. 

Chris grunted in agreement, settling back into his heels so he could begin to move. At least the knife gave him something else to hold onto while he found a rhythm. 

He groaned, listening to the slick slide of their bodies together. Vigilante’s right hand found Chris’ right hand and curled around his wrist. He dragged the knife a little higher, pressing against the edge of his jaw. 

“You gonna do it right when you come? Finally rid the streets of Vigilante?” he teased. 

Chris looked at where he was sliding in and out of Vig and grunted. It would be easy. Fucked up, but easy to do it then. He already had the upper hand. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he replied instead because he didn’t know what to say. This had dragged on too long already. 

Vig chuckled, rolling his hips. He took another moment to move the knife again, pressing it against the side of his neck. Chris was just letting him, giving him whatever he wanted. 

“Fuck,” Chris hissed. He rocked in closer, taking a shaky breath while he moved. 

“Close already?” Vig breathed. His left hand must have found his cock because it was gone from Chris’ hip. 

Chris bit his lower lip, taking a moment to ground himself. This guy could be so fucking annoying, that was the whole reason Chris was here anyway. 

Vig tightened his grip on Chris’ wrist and huffed out a breath. “Come on, give it to me good.”

Chris grabbed his hip, pulling him in closer and pushing him away. There was only so much room against the wall, but it was enough. It kept up the rhythm, gave him something to focus on other than the soft skin of Vigilante’s neck under his bowie knife. 

“Oh fuck,” Vig huffed. His head dropped which shifted the positioning of the knife. Still not quite enough to cut, but a near thing. 

Chris groaned again, focused on the way his body was responding. His balls tightened up against him, his dick was wet and nearly too warm from Adrian. He moaned quietly, and then louder as he got closer. 

It happened fast, his orgasm gripped him and he grunted. His hand slipped too and all at once, there was blood, just a tiny nick on the side of Vig’s neck. 

“Fuck!” Vig hissed, but it was clear he had been too close to stop it too. The wall in front of them streaked with come while Chris hurriedly pulled out. 

“Dude! You fucking nicked me!” Vigilante whined. He shoved back, elbow into Chris’ gut. 

“I told you it was a bad idea!” Chris replied. He stowed the knife away and tried to find anything on his person to clean the blood up. 

Adrian was already yanking off his mask and fumbling a tissue out of his utility belt. He pressed it to his neck and made a face. 

“It was hot though, right?”

Chris nodded solemnly, replacing Adrian’s fingers on his neck. “Super hot.”

“Let’s do it with a gun next time.”

“Absolutely fucking not. Come on, let’s get out of this warehouse before it opens.”

Adrian looked at him with sad eyes. “What if I bleed to death?”

“You don’t even need stitches, I’ll suck your dick when we get home.”

Adrian grinned and took over holding the tissue against his neck. He was practically skipping on their way out the door, wound completely forgotten. 

[grey-sides]

The year they get together, sometime in November, Billy starts to get irritable. He perks up for Steve's birthday and briefly for Christmas, but it lasts well into the new year.

He's usually cranky early in the mornings or when Steve makes him stay up too late. But it seems like he's easily set off, angry at anyone and everyone who tries to talk to him.

Steve does his best to keep Billy level and learns to walk away when it gets to be too much. And Billy will find him and curl around his back with an apology. An explanation about how he's feeling off and tired, even when he gets enough sleep.

Steve assumes it's a cycle, kisses his cheek, promises to close the bathroom door quieter in the morning.

Daylight Savings comes and Steve starts to moan. He hates losing an hour, feels like he doesn't make up for it for a week.

But the days get longer, the mornings brighter, the evenings more pleasant. March into April and Billy relaxes. Begins to unwind his shoulders. The air warms up, the trees start to flower and Billy softens.

"Sunflower," Steve coos. He's laying on a picnic blanket in the backyard. Billy's tanning beside him, arms outstretched.

"Fuck you call me?" he grumbles but there's no heat.

"My sunflower," Steve replies. "You just need a little sunlight and you feel better."

It's hard to tell through his shades and the sheen of sweat on Billy's skin, but Steve's pretty sure he's blushing.

Maybe next winter they can take a trip down South, where it might be a little warmer, where Billy might be able to loosen up a little more.

[grey-sides]

Steve's stiff as a board for their first kiss. He's into it, but Billy can tell he has no idea where to put his hands.

He's nervous, unsure when Billy leans in for another kiss. It's chaste and Billy was expecting heat and Steve being overbearing. And here he is, hands practically glued to his sides.

Billy pulls back and Steve does chase him, so he'll give him a couple of points. But he's still looking nervous.

"C'mere," Billy mutters. He sits down heavily on Steve's loveseat and pats his lap.

Steve's eyes go wide and his tongue darts out to lick his lips. But Billy curls a hand over his wrist and tugs on him until he stumbles down beside him.

Steve doesn't plant himself in his lap, he waits, staring at Billy before grabbing at his opposite wrist. They're locked in a tussle now, both tugging and both not.

"You come here," Steve mutters, staring at Billy.

Billy stares back, but down here, Steve seems more confident. So Billy goes. Climbs into Steve's lap, swings a leg over either hip.

Steve's hands slide down, down, down to cradle Billy's hips. Maybe it's the change of position or the low light or something else.

But Steve leans in and he kisses Billy like he's a starving man. His hands don't fly, but they do start to knead and pull.

And Billy becomes putty in his hands. He's slow, lazy, each kiss more bruising than the last. And he moans against Steve and it's better.

Grinding against each other and Steve's hands up the back of his shirt. Steve drags one around to fondle what Billy knows he thinks might be a tit, even though it's not.

But Billy lets him and runs his fingers through his hair. And together they learn.

[grey-sides]

Hargrove- Billy- the new keg king has lines from Steve's blazer on his cheek.

He probably has beer in his hair too and all down his sticky, sweaty front. His leather jacket is tossed over the back of Steve's desk chair, waiting for him to slide back into it and bulk it up.

Steve has red, itchy eyes. He's tired and thirsty and his heart is aching in his chest.

His back hurts too from hauling Hargrove up his stairs. And his head hurts when he considers why he even did it.

Because he was lonely.

Because he was worried about Hargrove. Too drunk to drive home, too drunk to stand straight at the end, too drunk to shove Steve off.

He snores. Steve wonders if he snores too, but Nancy never stayed the night, she always went home.

He licks his lips and pushes himself off the floor. He gave the guy his bed for christ's sake, when he has a perfectly good couch downstairs and a guest room to boot.

Steve sighs, picks up his pillow and chucks it at Hargrove.

He snorts and rolls onto his side, waits, groans. Moans. Covers his eyes with one hand.

"-fuck m'I?" he mutters, sitting up and looking around.

He spies Steve, looking annoyed, feeling annoyed. His blazer is probably covered in spit and beer and snot.

"Harrington?"

Steve stares at him. "Glad you didn't die in your sleep."

Hargrove narrows his eyes at him. "What the fuck am I doing here?"

Steve shrugs, turns to go to the kitchen so he can make coffee. Bacon. Eggs. Maybe some toast.

"Harrington!" Hargrove snaps, clambering off the bed to pound after him. "What the fuck?"

Steve half turns and glances at him. "You would have choked on your puke, asshole."

Hargrove shoves him in the back, eyes ablaze. "What the fuck?"

Steve has a hickie on his neck, sucked under his jaw from Hargrove. He had been handsy. Complimentary. Steve had been scared. Had hauled him to bed and set him down and told him No.

"Your car's still at the house," Steve mutters, tosses his keys to him.

Hargrove's eyes zero in on the hickie and he pales. He takes a step back and then a step forward, shoves a finger in Steve's chest. "You tell anyone-"

Steve catches his wrist, squeezes it once. "I'll be dead too," he replies.

He waits a moment, to see if Hargrove is going to haul off and punch him. Another.

Steve looks at the kitchen. "You want breakfast?"

And Billy pulls his hand back slowly and nods. "Thanks for keeping me alive, I guess," he mumbles.

He ambles into the kitchen and washes his face at the sink. And Steve pokes the hickie and turns on the stove.

[grey-sides]

Lonely, Steve thinks. And then thinks, dumbass.

He’s twenty, he’s had four dates over the past two weeks and gotten laid twice. He still hangs out with Robin, between shifts at work, and Dustin had talked his ear off three nights ago about a project for school.

Still, the lonely lingers in the back of his mind. He tells Robin stuff, all his thoughts and feelings, and she does take them seriously. But she’s busy too, flirting and sneaking off with Heather. And Steve is…lonely.

He feels like he hasn’t had anyone to talk to since Nancy. Which is dumb and lame because half the time she wasn’t listening. But it was easier with her. Easy to tell her what he thought when she would sit in front of him, working on something for the school newspaper.

He’s tired of being lonely. He could call Dustin, but that’s a new low, even for him. They’re friends, but they’re not those kind of friends. And Dustin will probably ask why he’s not out with some girl.

The girls are nice, pretty, and they usually listen. But Steve hasn’t clicked with any of them. He’s been unfair, comparing them to Nancy and Robin. But those are his bars and it takes a lot to cross them.

He swings his keys around his finger a couple of times, standing halfway between the living room and the garage door. He could go out, try and pick someone up or take a drive.

All this freedom and nowhere to go. Plenty of guys his age would kill to have this kind of freedom. Steve would just kill to have someone to talk to, with the lights off, the room cozy around them.

He sighs, flicks off the living room light on his way out. It’s only eight, but it’s dark out, so he turns on his headlights when he climbs in his car.

Steve doesn’t have a direction, like he’s spent so much of his life living. He just starts driving, down back roads and around curves that he knows like the back of his hand.

Hawkins is familiar and seeing it’s lights dims the loneliness in his heart some. He wants to travel, but he’s afraid that if he leaves, he won’t recognize the town anymore when he comes back.

People move on, they change, and the shops change, and Steve feels like he doesn’t change with it. And if he leaves, it’ll really highlight how stagnant he’s become.

He turns onto the dirt road that leads out to the quarry. Once upon a time, Hopper tried to keep it cordoned off so the local teenagers would stay the hell away. But he gave up awhile ago when the county kept telling him the fence budget was too high.

Steve leaves his car at the treeline, parked off to the side and starts to walk out to the quarry. It’s pretty out here at night, quiet save for the bugs and the owls. And the sky is clear, so when he lays back to look up at it, the stars shine bright.

He does just that, towards the edge, spread eagle across the ground. Maybe he should learn about astronomy- that could be a nice date, show a girl that he knows all the cosmos.

He lays there for what feels like hours until he hears a car pull up. Steve gets to his feet so he doesn’t get run over, tugs his keys out so he can leave. It’s probably someone coming to park, he doesn’t need to get in the way.

“Harrington?” a familiar voice calls out when Steve stands up and faces the car.

Billy Hargrove, back from the dead, and less mean than ever. He’s still hanging around Hawkins and Steve can only assume that has a helluva lot to do with Max. He looks well, from what Steve can see of him. He has seen him, a handful of times. They nod, more comfortably than they did before the Mindflayer.

“Hargrove,” Steve greets, stops in his tracks. The Camaro is gone, but Billy has a nice GTO now that Steve swears he’s not jealous of.

“You doing anything tonight?”

Steve gestures to the still air around him and shakes his head. “Just looking at the stars.”

Billy nods, shuts his door and stomps over to stand in front of Steve. He’s still loud, his presence is still commanding, but he doesn’t seem to crave the attention like he used to. Like he got too much attention all at once and he’s good for another few years.

Steve cracks a half smile at him and sticks his hands in his pockets. “Nice night, huh?”

Billy looks bored by the conversation already and he grabs the collar of Steve’s jacket to tug on it. Maybe…well, maybe he still wants some attention.

“Sure, weather’s fucking peachy,” Billy scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You bring anything fun to do out here?”

Steve gestures upwards, looking up at the sky. “The stars!”

Billy heaves a great big sigh and walks around Steve to flop onto the ground. He stretches his arms out and looks up at the sky. “Alright, tell me about the stars then.”

Steve flushes and he’s grateful for the relative dark because Billy probably can’t see it across his face. “Well, they’re uh…in the sky.”

Billy snorts, wraps his arms around his middle and starts to full belly laugh. And the sound is…nice, not like his mean snickers when he would tease Steve in the showers.

“They sure are, Steve,” Billy replies when he gets his giggles under control. His cheeks are split wide and Steve can see the white of his teeth.

Steve sits down heavily beside Billy and shoves him lightly. Hargrove still has fast reflexes though, so he snatches at Steve’s hand and pins it under his back. He wiggles a bit to settle and points upwards.

“Pretty sure that’s the North Star.”

Steve blinks and raises his brows. He lays back slowly so he doesn’t twist his shoulder, but doesn’t try to pull his hand back. It feels…nice under Billy’s warm back.

“Really?”

Billy laughs again and shakes his head. “Nah, I’m making shit up. You wanna make up shit too?”

Fuck yeah Steve does. He points with his free hand at the sky, over five stars. “See those five?” When he feels Billy nod, he continues. “That is Bigus Dickus.”

Billy laughs again, rolling onto his side so more of Steve’s arm is pinned. He shoves at Steve’s chest and shakes his head. “Yeah like you’d know.”

Steve’s cheeks flame up again and he glances side long at Billy. “Guess I would, wouldn’t I?”

Because he knows what he’s working with and apparently Billy does too. Makes sense, they’ve been naked in the showers before.

“I mean, I get it now- why you’ve been on so many dates. Long as you know how to use it.”

And Billy says it in a way that suggests he might want to know if Steve knows how to use it. The thought doesn’t immediately disgust Steve either, which is…new. But not unwelcome.

He clears his throat and stretches his feet out in his shoes, taking a deep breath. He can’t think of anything clever to say, so he just turns his hand to tickle Billy’s back.

Billy laughs and grabs his hand out from underneath him. This time, he holds Steve’s wiggling fingers between both of his and they settle down to stargaze.

“Hey, Billy?” Steve asks, eyes still trained on the world above them.

“Mmhm?”

“Why didn’t you go back to California?”

Billy is quiet for a long time, but his hands keep clenching and relaxing around Steve’s.

“Thought maybe there was more for me here, right now.”

Steve nods and turns his head to study Billy’s profile in the dark, lit up by the moon and the stars. He licks his lips and turns away.

“Maybe there is,” he murmurs. He doesn’t take his hand back and the voice, the lonely in the back of his mind, finally quiets and settles.

[grey-sides]

Steve knows he's supposed to be mature, above it all and ready to turn his nose away from Billy. Let him goad and act like he can get under Steve's skin.

And well, he can is the thing because Steve keeps letting him. He lets his eyes wander, tries to find a weak point. A place he can slam his shoulder into Billy's and smirk when Hargrove snaps back.

Steve told Nancy he didn't care what kind of car Hargrove drove or how he likes to act. But he does care. Steve cares a lot.

Their first fight, at the Byers' when he was playing it cool, it lights the fire. He hurts, sure, but he's ready for the next one.

This time out by the quarry, Billy whooping while Steve laughs. He wins that one, but there are no plates around.

Another in the junkyard, using cars as a makeshift ring. Steve watches the moon glint off Billy's eyes and licks the blood from his upper lip.

Later, the last of the first, in Steve's own backyard. When a punch drags him in instead of pushing him out. When he tastes Billy's sweat and adrenaline, the iron of his blood against his lips.

Steve feels like it's all mixed together, his rage and excitement. His desire, his eagerness to get Billy closer.

The next time is different. More playful, less painful, rolling around until someone is begging for a different kind of mercy.

And he is above it. And under it. And wrapped around Billy.

[grey-sides]

For being a dorky ass guy who tosses dish towels over his shoulder and wears a belt with a proper buckle, Steve Harrington is confident.

Billy feels like he has to calculate every interaction, go over it in his head and get all the steps right to impress people. But Steve is just charisma, confidence, sex on legs, all the cliches.

They're playing a pickup game of baseball in the park's diamond because it's warming up. And Billy knows through the grapevine that Harrington used to play.

Billy's crouched behind the home plate, watching Charlie or Chuck or whoever that's pitching. His hands are loosely wrapped around the bat, though his fingers tighten a fraction.

Harrington smirks, drops his bat to tap on the base and flicks it back into his hands. He knows what he's doing up there. His wrist twists a bit and his toe digs into the sand.

Billy gets why he dances when they're playing basketball. Harrington plays basketball because it's the thing to do in Indiana but he plays baseball because he's good.

Chuck lifts his leg into the windup and meets Billy's eyes across the pitch. He drops his chin and Billy nods, though they never really worked out a system.

It doesn't matter what's coming Billy's way because Steve hits it- hard. Clear across the diamond and drops the bat as he charges for first base.

Billy nods as he levers up a bit to try and catch whatever shit the outfielders throw at him. It makes sense Harrington batted fourth because at least one guy is making it home if not the three before him.

The crack of the ball is still ringing in Billy's ears and he knows that if Harrington were to go Majors, he would probably snap the bat right in half.

Make all the ladies in the stadium cream their pants, Billy included.

He catches the ball and taps it on the plate as the second baseman makes it to third. They're two down now and Harrington is grinning at him all the way on second.

Billy pauses, calculates a response and lands on his finger pointed right at Harrington when he throws the ball back at their pitcher.

Steve bends his knees and eyes up third base. Confident, cool, collected.

Billy shakes his head and spits on the ground to hide himself adjusting his pants.