Neil refused to pay for a haircut, but he also complained about how much like a sissy Billy looked with his hair long.
With his mom already out of the picture and him not trusting anyone with his precious hair, he took a pair of kitchen scissors and tried his luck.
He only wanted to give it a trim. Just to get Neil off his back. But one uneven cut led to another, and before he knew it, he’d hacked off so much that the whole front barely came down to his ears anymore.
Close to tears, he stood in the bathroom back in Cali, stared at his reflection in the mirror and cursed a blue streak.
That's how Susan found him when she entered the bath to change the towels.
"Oh, Billy, what happened to your hair?"
"I don't know; what does it look like to you, Susan?" he snapped and shot her an angry glare.
Usually, Susan would cower, lower her eyes and flee, and Billy hated her for it. He hated her because he knew she knew. She knew, and she never said a thing.
He remembered the first time Neil slapped him after they had moved in with Susan and Max. He had been kinda hopeful. Susan was standing right there. Surely, she would say something. She would reprimand his dad for raising a hand against his child.
But she just lowered her eyes, looking deeply uncomfortable, turned around, and left the room.
That night had really driven it home once and for all. He could rely on no one. He could trust no one. No one but himself.
Ever since, Billy had felt nothing but disgust for his so-called stepmother. And he had no qualms letting her feel it. At least, when Neil wasn't around. His dad didn't take kindly to Billy being disrespectful to his new wife.
This time, she didn't cower, though. Instead, she stepped closer and raised her hand to feel Billy's hair.
It was a shock. At first, mostly because she dared to touch him at all. But even worse than that was how overwhelmingly good it felt.
Billy hadn't been touched in anything but violence in a very long time. And he had to lock his jaw so the sobs couldn't spill over his lips and humiliate him even further.
"Do you want me to fix it for you, Billy?"
Billy frowned. He caught Susan's gaze in the mirror. She looked nervous but genuine. Was it just another try to endear herself to him? She had tried in the beginning, before the slap. But Billy had shut her down at every corner. She wasn't his mom. He'd had a mom, and look where it got him.
Susan gave her attempts up after the slap. Probably figured it wasn't worth the effort. Why would she try to make Billy like her when it was clear as day that Neil hated him.
No skin off Billy's back.
It made her offer even more surprising, though.
His first impulse was to push her away. But the problem of his unevenly chopped-off hair remained. He didn't want anyone to see him like this, least of all Neil, who would just use this perfect opportunity to mock and humiliate him.
So, eventually, he nodded.
"Okay," Susan whispered. She opened the top drawer of the bathroom cabinet and rummaged in it until she pulled out proper hair clippers and a brush with a little noise of triumph. "Could you wet your hair for me, please?"
Billy turned on the tap and bent down so he could hold his head under the lukewarm running water.
Susan offered him a towel, and he rubbed his hair with it.
"Sit on the edge of the tub, will you?"
Billy climbed into the tub and sat with his back to Susan. He startled when she began to run the brush through his tangled locks, but it didn't take long for him to relax. He couldn't deny that it felt good. Great even. The soft pressure, the repetitive motion. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to sink into the feeling. Susan couldn't see, so she would be none the wiser.
"How would you like me to cut it, Billy? Short?"
His heart sank. He knew it was stupid to be so hung up on hair of all things. But he loved the way it looked. He didn't want to get rid of it. And he didn't want to give Neil the satisfaction of getting what he wanted all along.
"Can …" He swallowed hard. "Can you keep it longer? Shoulder length, maybe?"
Susan hesitated. "They're shorter than that at the front, but in the back it's long enough. Hm … I could give you one of these shags like this one actor has. What was his name again? Rob Something?"
"Rob Lowe?"
"That's the one! Would you like that, Billy? I think it would make you look very handsome."
Billy felt the blush rising on his cheeks and was once more thankful that Susan couldn't see his face. He liked Rob Lowe's hair. He liked Rob Lowe, if he wanted to be perfectly honest (which he did not). But would Susan really be able to pull this cut off?
He had seen her cut the shitbird's hair a couple of times, but that was only trimming the lengths, nothing more. He chewed on his bottom lip, thinking. Eventually, he came to the conclusion that he really had nothing to lose. If Susan messed up, she could always cut it shorter, just like his dad would prefer. But this? This was a chance. A chance to do it his way. To actually get a cut that he'd like.
He shrugged, a lot more nonchalantly than he felt. "Sure, why not?"
The next twenty minutes were nerve-wracking. There was the rhythmic snip-snip of the clippers and the feather-light feeling of hair falling onto his shoulders. His head was full of what-ifs. What if Susan fucked up so bad that he would have to shear his hair off? What if it turned out uneven and ugly? What if? What if? What if?
Nervously, he bounced his knee up and down. Waiting and growing more agitated by the minute.
He was about to abort this fuckery when Susan said, "There. All done."
Billy's heart thudded painfully against his ribs when he climbed out of the tub. He wasn't sure he actually wanted to see the result.
Susan smiled encouragingly when he turned around. She raised her hand to fluff up his curls. He allowed it for now. She better not get used to it, though.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped in front of the mirror.
He looked up and breathed out slowly.
A smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
"You like it?" Susan asked.
"It's not bad," he said, which, for him, was a ringing endorsement. And Susan seemed to get it, since her smile got even wider.
He didn't thank her. He couldn't have gotten the words out, even if he wanted to. Which he decidedly did not.
Nothing had changed between them. She still was the stepmom who chose to look away. Who pretended her new husband wasn't a monster.
But maybe, just maybe, she was afraid too. Which didn't make him like her any better. But it didn't make him hate her any more either.
Robin: I’m about to go out and see how Steve’s date goes
Billy: Harrington got a date? Which unfortunate girl got set up with him now?
Robin: Someone in class. I’m just there in case he needs rescue, if it’s a horrible date
Billy: Alright, you want a ride?
Robin: …you want to give me a ride to go see Steve?
Billy: Sure
Billy: And then maybe I can stay to watch Harrington with you too. Clearly, just in case his date is too persistent and I gotta work my charms on her to save Harrington’s ass
Hopper's Home for Spunky Little Shits With Bad Dads
"Hopper's Home for Spunky Little Shits with Bad Dads," the man mutters, opening the car door with ceremony.
Its a shithole of a cabin. The tiny excuse of a third room is now El's, because Billy's bigger and Billy's got an oxygen tank and Billy's not gonna be sweet on the little cot that fits there by the skin of its rickety old legs.
Eyes somewhere between vacant and baleful peer out at the wood-rotted porch, the overgrown grass and the fucked attempt at a swing Eleven tried to build a few months ago.
"Real five star place," Billy Hargrove rasps. His voice has been the ghost of driveway grit and sandpaper since he woke up, vocal chords as torn apart and jig-sawed back together as the rest of him.
Jim bites back the retort about if Billy'd rather be back at house Hargrove. Not that the balding, kid-beating bastard is there anymore, but Jim knows well enough four walls can have more ghosts than a graveyard.
Instead he stoops, turns his grip as gentle as his rough-worn hands know to go to help Hargrove out of the car. Its a bit like trying to lever up an old horse but they get there in the end, Hargrove leaning unsteadily back against the car, wheezing like Jonathan Byer's clapped out truck.
Being down almost a full lung between the two'll do it, Jim supposes.
He knows better than to offer the chair, though. Hargrove's more broken than he is put together but he still took out a nurse's shins when she'd wheeled the thing to his bedside.
Slowly the wheeze dies down to hissing puffs like Hargrove's a leaking gas line and then Jim leans past him, drags out the tank, begins the slow haul of both of them across the dewy grass.
El's with the others for the week, rotating between houses to let Billy settle in without someone seeing his thoughts like they're on a damn billboard and truthfully, Jim's grateful he doesn't have to try dealing with them both at once.
Hargrove's practically burning with humiliation by the time they make it up the steps. Really the kid outta be in with the white coats for another three months at least, PT and observation and healing under their microscopic gaze but Hargrove's a spitfire full of piss and vinegar that's like to take off your eyebrows if you lean too close to the heat, so here they are.
Because apparently he's a soft fucking touch that can't stop adopting screwed up kids with the world's worst fathers.
And because somewhere down the line Steve Harrington and Billy Hargrove wound around each other's pinky fingers so tightly they're a fucking ouroboros. Jim can't make heads nor tails of it; last he knew they were gunning to kill each other any way they could.
Now...
They're not friends, not really, but Harrington's batting for the kid like he does the other rugrats, full blown protector placing himself between Billy and any sniff of danger. Billy doesn't seem to know what to do with it either, coiling tighter and tighter, the threat of striking without the intent, like a snake out of venom.
They make it to the door and Jim opens it before Billy can decide he's got enough left in him to make a break for it.
Hargrove's things are in neat boxes in his new room, only the bare essentials like clothing, hygiene products and his bedding set out. Hopper'll take the fall for it when the kid goes nuclear over it but truth be told that was Harrington too.
("Don't look in that box, Hop. Not if you ever wanna look him in the eyes again.")
Inside the cabin is just as sparse and worn down but in a homier way. Jim waits for the sour trashing but it never comes; Hargrove just sways on the spot, eyes vacant.
Doesn't matter. He knows what's on a loop in his head anyway.
Another crappy place to try and call home, another father figure he's a joint outta loop with, another box he feels out of place and unwelcome in.
He bullies Hargrove onto the couch; better to let him acclimate like a dog, one room at a time. That and from the car to the couch is about all Hargrove's legs look fit to get him.
He'd got skinnier, there in his white bed. Body consuming itself to heal. He's not like Harrington, lean and bone, but his cheeks are a little hollow and most of his bulk is in the grey hoodie they'd bundled him into.
Standard issue for leavers, apparently. White t-shirt, grey hoodie, white cotton pants. Hargrove almost looks like a ghost on the ratty patchwork of his two-seater.
He's weaned back onto solids, though, and he's still a red-blood boy so Jim knows a few weeks of the best microwave dinners Ferdo's Grocer has to offer and there'll be some meat on him again.
(And this time no monsters to bite it straight back off.)
For now he cracks a can of soup, leaves it to heat and fetches the other two tanks from the trunk. They'd let Maxine pick the strips that stick the cannula to his cheekbones while Hargrove was out of it and she'd picked pink butterflies.
Nobody's said a damn word yet. Jim's highly looking forward to the moment Hargrove realizes.
He serves the soup, sits at the table and considers the fact that he's gonna need a bigger cabin. A grown man, a semi-feral teen boy and a superpowered pre-teen girl packed in a cabin just more modest than a garden shed isn't gonna work for the long run.
When he looks up again, Hargrove's asleep in his soup.
He'd heard somewhere that wild animals only sleep when they feel safe, and the thought makes him clench his jaw a little. Somehow; he doubts naps on the couch were ever a thing in the Hargrove household.
"You sleep on that damn couch as much as you like," he informs the boy's sleep-soft snuffles. "Not during class hours, once you're back there, but any other time. You can sleep there and nobody's gonna do a damn thing to you for it."
Because Jim's not a perfect man, and after the loss of his little sunshine he wasn't sure he was ever supposed to be a father, but if there's one thing he does know its that any kid under his roof is a safe kid.
i wrote 1400 words of trans billy jerking off i hope yall enjoy him being horny and gross lmfao
**
Billy’s never been very good at resisting temptation, especially when it comes to his big stupid crush on Steve.
He refuses to call it that, but that’s what it is. If it wasn’t he wouldn’t fucking be here, in Steve’s room, creeping on all his shit while Steve makes a beer run.
Not reading his diary or anything like that—mostly because he couldn’t find one—he’s just. Looking.
He fiddles with the knickknacks strewn around on the simple pine dresser. Sneaks a peek in the top drawer. It’s full of row upon row of tighty-whities, not a secret to be found amongst them. He shuts it again with a sigh and moves on. To the dusty stack of magazines on the desk. There’s uncapped pens tucked next to it. The magazines are all boring. The ones with pretty girls on the covers are at the top of the pile, and the ones at the bottom are all finance mags with words crossed out and doodled over.
He drops them haphazardly, and wanders over to the bed, perching on the edge of it.
And sitting there on the bedside table, tucked behind the clunky lamp, is a half-empty tub of Vaseline that Billy spends several minutes staring at while his brain shorts out.
Okay. So. He knew he was probably gonna find something like that, he was kind of looking for something like that. And yet he still wasn’t prepared for real, tangible evidence that Steve Harrington lays on this very bed and touches himself. With those long fingers, slicked up and grasping desperately, lips bitten red and parted as he gasps, moans, not bothering to keep quiet when he’s all alone in the house…
Billy is both too buzzed and not buzzed enough to be doing this.
He runs his hand over the wrinkled pillowcase beside him. It’s some fancy high thread count shit, gotta be, it feels fine and delicate under his palm, soft as a summer breeze. Bet it smells just as sweet too. Like honey and clover and Steve.
It takes him all of three seconds to throw dignity out the window—that ship pretty much sailed when he made a beeline for Steve’s room the second the front door closed behind him anyways—and lean down to bury his face in the scent. It’s everything he’s filed away under spank bank material over the years and more. All the whiffs of Steve’s shampoo he got in the locker room, the faintly lingering scent of hairspray and expensive leather, the overwhelmingly alluring musk clinging to him after basketball practice, when the collar of his shirt was askew and stuck to his damp chest, soaked with trickles of sweat that Billy wanted to chase with his tongue.
His pillow smells like every wet dream Billy’s had since he moved to Hawkins. And all his stupid guilty fantasies about waking up next to Steve, all sunshine dappled and sleepy-eyed, gentle and domestic. Soft.
Billy shifts a little. His briefs are damp, sticky, clinging to him in uncomfortable places, and he can’t help grinding his hips in a slow circle as heat builds low in his gut.
He’s been pent up all goddamn afternoon. Watching Steve’s long fingers as he rolled a joint, his pretty lips pursed and pink and looking so, so soft. Having to act like he wasn’t losing his fucking mind staring at the bit of chest hair peeking out of the unbuttoned collar of Steve’s stupid meticulously ironed polo shirt. And all the while, Steve had no fucking idea, sat there tapping Billy’s thigh with his socked foot, throwing a leg over his lap when Billy tried to bat him away, grinning oh-so-innocently with his dumb gorgeous face all lit up with mirth.
Being that close to him always drives Billy fucking insane, and they spent hours like that, in each others’ space, brushing fingers when they passed the joint, Steve rubbing Billy’s hip with his heel occasionally, absently, like petting a cat you’re only half paying attention to.
Fucking maddening.
Frustrating.
God—
Billy turns, mussing the comforter as he moves his leg to part his knees and plant his ass right in the middle of the bed. He grips the pillow, toying with its seam, staring down at it, imagining Steve laying beneath him, his hair splayed against his pillowcase, eyes dark, his sides soft between Billy’s thighs.
He’d slide back just a little and feel the hard bulge straining against Steve’s jeans. Rub up against him ‘til Steve begged him for more, ‘til they’re both soaking through their briefs and desperate for it.
Billy presses into the mattress til his cock throbs and his breath hitches.
He slides a hand under his shirt, up his own stomach, his chest, huffs a sigh when he hits smooth fabric pulled tight across. Rubbing the hard nub of his nipple through three layers of nylon and spandex is an exercise in frustration and a fucking tease. There’s a dull burn, a familiar building coil of heat, but it’s not enough.
If he was smart he’d stay mostly clothed in case Steve gets back earlier than expected, but he’s not exactly thinking with his brain right now. He strips off his shirt in one fluid motion, tossing it behind him without looking to see where it lands, already halfway to stripping his makeshift binder off when he hears the soft thud of it hitting the floor.
The last half is a lot of undignified wiggling to get the final sweaty layer off, but it’s worth it for the sweet bolt of pleasure that lances through him when he digs his nails into the soft skin around his nipple, and he bites his lip to stifle a groan.
He wonders if Steve would be rough with him. Hurt him if he asked.
Maybe he wouldn’t have to ask.
Maybe he’d sit up, his hands on Billy’s hips, pulling him closer, pressing his plush lips to Billy’s neck, his collarbone, his grip bruising but his kisses gentle, making his way down to the soft swell of Billy’s chest. And then he’d sink his teeth in. Biting, only where Billy’s always covered. Where he can’t show anybody for fear of discovery. Somewhere he can leave his own secrets safely.
Billy scrapes his blunt nails over his skin, eyes falling shut as he tries to imagine, tries to convince himself Steve’s really here, would want to touch him like this.
He ruts against the mattress, it’s an awkward angle, hurts his knees to press so far down, but his breathing stutters every time he gets it just right.
With Steve’s scent all around him it’s almost, almost…
He grasps clumsily for the pillow, and shoves it between his legs.
Would Steve go just as easily if Billy straddled him, framed his flushed face with muscular thighs and bore down on his waiting mouth, riding him ‘til he’s slick from nose to chin, messy and red-lipped and more than happy to stay between Billy’s trembling legs.
Too many layers of fabric rub against each other as Billy moves, and he disentangles himself from his shorts, tossing them on the floor too.
The backs of his knees are sweating, and his chest heaves with labored breaths. Hot, liquid pleasure buzzes in his veins, something possessive flaring in his chest when his bare skin brushes Steve’s pillowcase, blue cotton whispering against the softness of the inside of his thighs. He can smell his own sex, soaking through his briefs, his scent blending with Steve’s and making his head spin.
He rolls the hard nub of his nipple between his fingers, pinching tight, moaning low in his throat.
With one final, shuddering thrust, he comes, lips parted but breathless, wordless, eyes squeezed shut as it hits him in waves.
He blinks.
The duvet is askew, as much as he smooths his hands over the corners of it he’s not sure he can put it back the way it was. He definitely can’t put the pillow back the way it was. He pulls it gingerly from it’s rumpled place between his knees, and eyes the wet patch he left right down the middle.
It should make him nervous. Fearful of discovery.
It doesn’t.
He strokes a finger through the mess he left, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He’s still seated, catching his breath, sweaty and flushed in the afterglow, when he hears the front door open.
It's not that Billy isn't grateful that the bastard sprung him out of the secret government lab he'd woken up in and subsequently spent weeks or maybe months being poked and prodded.
But out of all the closeted queers in Indiana that could have taken Billy under their wing, Murray goddamn Bauman is probably the last one that should legally be allowed to care for another human being. On the flip side, he may have single-handedly convinced Billy that heaven must be real, if only because Murray has most certainly dragged Billy to some version of hell. A better hell than he'd come from, but hell all the same.
Billy's starting to really hate classical music.
The fact that he's still bedbound doesn't help the situation any. If he could walk he'd smash that damn sound system with his bare hands or just fucking leave. But walking isn't an option while his body tries to heal, so if Murray doesn't soon turn off the 9th repeat of that Bach-Rachmaninov-Mozart bullshit he's blasting throughout the bunker-like structure Billy has been forced to call home for the past two weeks, he's going to strangle himself to death with the IV tube still lodged in his arm. Hopefully he'll shit himself after the fact and Murray will be forced to clean that up too.
"Turn that crap off or take me back to Hawkins you balding piece of shit! At least my dad only beat me!" Billy roars at the water stained concrete ceiling and grits his teeth against the pain when the move pulls on what feels like all the stitches in his body.
Murray glides into his field of vision like an unwashed spectre and throws himself onto the couch opposite the one Billy's lying on, still dressed in that same ratty bathrobe that probably hasn't been on the laundry pile in years, smiling that maniacal smile that Billy is less and less convinced is put-on by the day.
"Self degrading humor to mask the pain. You'll fit in here just fine." Murray sing-songs before getting back up and scuttling his way out of the room like the cockroach he is and into what Billy thinks might be the kitchen. Doesn't exactly know the layout of the hovel they're in, being bed-bound and all that.
The music cuts out and all the muscles in Billy's body slowly unwind as he breathes a sigh of relief.
Murray comes back with a flask of something foreign and pours a generous glass before handing it off to him, either unaware that Billy probably shouldn't be mixing alcohol with the cocktail of drugs he's still on or, more likely, doesn't give a shit. Billy downs it before the man can even open his mouth, too quick to really appreciate how it goes down smoother than water.
"You fucking philistine. That's good Stolichnaya." Murray grins before downing his own helping straight from the bottle.
"You a commie?" Billy asks, such a carbon copy of Neil he can almost feel the man's hand up his ass directing his words like a fucking puppet and he bites his tongue hard enough to hurt. Not that Billy's a big fan of the commies or the government or Neil or anyone really, but he's fairly sure they're the worse guys if this whole situation were a contest.
"Nice ideology, poor execution. No, but I'm gonna teach you how to speak like one Billy-boy!" Murray says, snatching away Billy's empty glass and filling it for him once again. "No one learns Russian well when they're sober though, so drink your heart out. It's gonna be a long year."
Billy stares.
"The fuck am I learning Russian for?"
Murray grins.
"Gotta go save a bigger Bastard than you or I."
"And why the fuck would I do that?"
Murray throws his hands out wide, "For the greater good, Billy. And maybe Steve Harrington will touch your dick about it, who knows."
Drugs really have a way of loosening Billy's tongue as it turns out, and it had taken a good day and a half for the worst of the effects to wear off after Murray had gotten him out. The Bastard hadn't let the opportunity to pry slip by him though, that's for fucking sure.
Billy scowls.
Besides, Steve Harrington doesn't even know that Billy's still alive. No one does. And even if he did… well.
The greater good will have to be enough, he supposes.
Decided to try my hand at some Harringrove (okay, okay, technically it’s pre-Harringrove, but, y’know, semantics) and fully forgot to mention that over here on the ol’ Tumbo.
Trigger warning for the aftermath and very minor on-screen mention of very major child abuse, as is Billy Hargrove’s lot in life, I suppose.
Anyway, here’s a snippet! (Sorry for the wonky formatting, Tumblr mobile is a piece of shit.)
“Hey, asshole!”
Billy, who was almost certainly concussed on top of all his other festering injuries and thus not up for their usual exchange of pithy repartee, grunted in response and raised his good hand high enough to waggle his fingers.
“Your sister called me,” Harrington explained, all tight and waspish.
He probably had his hands stuffed into his pockets, like he always did when he was pissed. Billy could hear his shoes crunching in the gravel as he circled around the front of the Beamer. He didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t want to know what kind of picture King Steve thought he made, sprawled out across the Camaro with his face looking like ground chuck.
“She was all freaked out,” Harrington continued, coming closer, “said you ran out on dinner and asked me if I could come up here and look for you. I thought that was pretty fucking hysterical. Y’know, because you were supposed to meet me at my place like an hour ago? Or did you - ” Harrington stopped with a scuff and sucked a low, sharp breath. He sounded near enough that Billy ought to be able to reach out and touch him without straining, not that he was going to, no matter how tempting it may be.
There was a long, frozen moment of silence, then Harrington breathed, “Jesus, Billy. What the fuck happened to you?”
This is low-key... like bad lol. But I have written in so long, and I just wanted to post something for y’all
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“Steve! Come look at this!” He heard Robin call for him from the front of the store. He finished rewinding the tape he was on and walked to the front. Robin was smiling brightly, talking to Billy, who he hadn’t seen in… 2 months? Yeah. At least. He noticed the leash in Billy’s hand and his breath hitched. He prepared himself for what he was about to see. He kept the smile on his face but it slowly shifted into more of a nervous grimace.
“This is Wallace!” Robin said joyfully, pointing down at the Saint Bernard who was lying quietly on the floor. Wallace perked up at Steve as he was a new person, he stood up and bounced quickly towards Steve. “Haha… Hey Wallace. How’s it going?” He asked the dog nervously. Billy who hadn’t said anything to Steve this whole time shook his head, “Is that really how you talk to dogs, Pretty Boy? You gotta work on that.” He laughed. Steve let out a nervous noise that kind of resembled a laugh, and Robin looked at him weirdly. He bent down to pet Wallace and repeated a mantra in his head, “He’s just a dog, nothing to be afraid of. He won’t hurt me.”
Wallace perked up even more at the sight of Steve’s hand reaching for him, he jumped up, his front legs landing on Steve’s chest, knocking him down. Wallace landed on Steve with an “oof” and began licking Steve’s face. While this was a cute sight for everyone else, Steve was in his own personal hell. He froze, and tried to keep his breathing at bay, trying to keep the tears in his eyes. His mind was racing with flashbacks of those tunnels, and the demon dogs, or whatever Dustin calls them, running at him. He could hear Robin and Billy laughing, thinking it was funny and cute, Wallace still licking his face excitedly.
After a couple of seconds Robin noticed something was off, “Hey, Billy, can you get Wallace off of Steve? I think something’s wrong.” Billy called Wallace off and noticed the tears streaming down Steve’s face and the subtle whispers he was muttering. Steve still had his eyes shut tight, “It's just a dog. It’s just a dog. It’s just a d-dog…” At this point he was whimpering in fear, and didn’t even notice the dog was no longer sitting on his chest. Robin gently touched his shoulder, “Steve?” She had never seen someone flinch so hard before.
Steve finally came back to reality and sat up, a shakely scooted back, so his back was against the counter. He ran a hand through his hair, and wiped the tears from his face. He noticed Robin and Billy staring at him. “Steve… Dingus… What?” Robin questioned. He looked up at them, “Before the Mall Russians… There were these monsters. The demogorgon had like… Mutant dogs o-or something. I can’t really handle dogs… Or lizards.” He explained. Billy shook his head, “I’m so sorry Steve. I didn’t know he would do that. And I didn't know about your fear. He’s still in training… He’s supposed to be a therapy dog, for my um. Nightmares.” Billy laughed nervously at the end. Steve shook his head, “It’s not really something I talk about. Legally I’m not really allowed to but since you guys were there for the mall…”
Robin looked shocked, “I didn’t know you had problems with this stuff before the mall?” She asked. Steve nodded “Yeah that’s why I’m friends and a chauffeur for all those kids.” Robin laughed, “That makes sense. Well, next time a customer brings a dog in, I won’t call you to come look.” Steve smiled at her, and Billy. And he even did a little wave towards Wallace, who just blinked at him.
hi!! u asked for prompts!! how about experiment!steve nd the party and billy finding out? u chose his abilities:-)
Hey nonny!! I had SO MUCH fun writing this, thank you so much for the awesome prompt. I hope you like it :)
Also putting in a cut bc this is like over 3k
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Nancy and Jonathan-
Steve was so, so tired as he rolled up to the Byer’s house. The entire three hours he had spent erasing that stupid ass graffiti, he had thought about how to make it up to Nancy. He realized that the first move had to be apologizing to Byers. Besides that, what he had said really was fucked up, no matter how much Nancy had hurt him. It definitely wasn’t his place to say anyone else’s family is screwed up either, not with his history.
With a huff, he clambered out of his car and hustled up to the front door. Something didn’t feel right, but he shrugged that off to the fact that it was so dark outside. He reached the front door, and began pounding.
“Jonathan! Are you there man? It’s… It’s Steve! Listen, I just wanna talk.” He heard some shuffling as he continued to pound on the door, but pulled his fist away as he heard the chain lock being pulled.
“Nancy?” This was going to be so much harder if she was here, shit.
“Steve. You need to leave.”
“No, no I’m not trying to start shit, okay?”
“That’s not important Steve. I don’t care.” Fuck, he really fucked up didn’t he?
Nancy began to close the door, and with it he saw any chance of apologizing and making up for his actions disappearing.
“No, no, no, Nanc, please, I-” He pounded on the door both in frustration and to try and get her to stop closing it. “I messed up, okay? I messed up, and- and I’m sorry. I just want to make things right.” He took a deep breath and looked up into Nancy’s eyes. All he saw there was sadness and anxiety though, and he quickly looked away.
And noticed the thick Ace bandage wrapped around her hand.
“Wh-what happened to your hand?” He reached to grab it, but she pulled away.
“Nothing! It was an accident,” she tried to explain, but Steve had been with her long enough to recognize when she was lying. A terrible thought dawned on him
“Did he do this to you? Nance, let me,” he began pushing on the door, “let me in, Nancy.” She tried to fight, but with one final push he barged into the darkened living room of the Byers’ house. The only thing he noticed was a fucking baseball bat with nails, and then Jonathan was in his face, yelling about how he needed to leave. They were in the middle of scuffling when he heard a click, and Nancy pointed a gun in his face.
“Steve, get out,” she said, tone deadly serious.
All of his instincts were screaming to run, but he couldn’t just leave Nancy behind, he loved her.
“Thi- this is a joke right? Nance, put the gun down.”
“You have five seconds to leave. I’m doing this for you,” and then his instincts really began going haywire. She was counting down slowly, Jonathan was screaming at her, and the fucking christmas lights began flickering. It was as if they were some sort of signal, as Nancy stopped counting and Jonathan dove for the baseball bat. They were looking for something, but all there was were the damn lights.
“Hello, will someone please explain what the fu-” Before he could finish demanding answers, a thing straight out of nightmares began bursting through the ceiling, and Nancy and Jonathan were booking it down the hallway. There was nothing he could do but run after them.
They all piled into a bedroom at the end of the hall, but there still were no answers as Nancy and Jonathan stared at the door waiting for that thing to burst through.
But then the flashing lights stopped and the house went silent.
For the first time since he burst through the front door, Steve said nothing as they all crept out of the bedroom into the dark hallway. They made it all the way back out to the living room, but the house was empty except for them.
“This is crazy,” Steve whispered at first, but continued to repeat with more franticness in his voice as he lunged for the phone he saw hanging on the wall. He had just managed to dial 9-1-1 when Nancy ripped it out of his hands and threw it away from them.
“It’s going to come back,” she shouted. “So you need to leave. Right. Now.” Steve took a deep breath and looked between the two of them.
“No,” he said, trying to hide the shakiness of his voice. All he got for his defiance though was the two of them physically pushing him out the front door. Not wanting to be caught outside in the dark with that monster, he booked it to his car, but just as he was climbing into the front seat, he saw the lights in the house begin to flicker again.
It was coming back.
He charged back towards the house without a second thought, but as he ran, he felt something stirring within him. A feeling he had long ago pushed away, ever since the Harringtons decided to buy him from the lab.
Between one step and the next, he found himself shifting. By the time he burst through the front door, he was no longer human, but rather a lion acting on instinct to protect his pride.
It seemed that he had arrived just in time too, as Jonathan lay prone on the ground and Nancy was backed into a corner. Acting on the howling demands of his hindbrain, Steve lept at the monster, bearing his teeth in a fearsome growl, and knocked it away from her. He tumbled with it to the ground and began blindly swiping at it with his claws. He forced it down the hallway, where he vaguely remembered a bear trap lay waiting, and with one final leap, pushed it into the jaws of the trap. He turned back and growled at the two people standing behind him, looking confused and scared, but a fearsome scream from the monster kicked Jonathan back into motion as he rushed forward and chucked the lighter at the gas puddle by the monster’s feet. All three of them watched in awe for a moment as the thing burst into flames, and then Jonathan was running to grab a fire extinguisher and the ball of flames was doused with a cloud of chemicals that irritated Steve’s sensitive nose. The house was filled with coughing and panting as they tried to look through the fog and see if the monster had been defeated.
All that remained was a pile of bubbling ooze coating the closed bear trap.
All three of them breathed a sigh of relief at the sight. It was over. They had won.
With the danger gone, Steve felt the same sensation roll over him and then he was once again standing on two feet. He winced as he heard two shocked inhales behind him and turned to face the two other teens.
“Tada,” he said weakly.
“What. The actual. Fuck.” Jonathan panted, but Nancy simply stared at him with her mouth agape.
Steve shifted awkwardly on the balls of his feet, still trying to readjust to the sudden shift after five years of trying to push that part of him away, and then realized he was naked.
“Could I- uh, could I borrow some sweats?” He asked Jonathan.
The Party-
“Nance, I’m still not sure about this. They all hate me.”
“Steve,” Nancy sighed. They had been having this argument all morning. “They don’t hate you. They don’t know you, there’s a difference. But you helped us defeat that demogorgon and that makes you part of the group.”
“But Nanc-”
“No but Nance. Now c’mon, we’re gonna be late.” They both piled into Steve’s BMW and headed to the other side of town, where the Byers lived, and where the party decided to hold a little Christmas party.
They got out, and Steve offered to grab the presents out of the backseat while Nancy went ahead to say hi to everyone. She agreed reluctantly, shooting him a look.
He opened the backseat and took a shaky breath. He couldn’t believe he let Nancy talk him into this, but once she found out that he would spend the holidays alone because his parents decided that a beach resort in Aruba was a better choice, she wouldn’t budge. Everyone would be there, she had promised as if that would make him feel less nervous. Even the girl who Mike had apparently been hiding in his basement.
After taking a few breaths and grabbing the basket they had decided to put everyone’s gifts in, he headed into the Byers, still feeling his stomach roil with nerves.
The first person he was bombarded with was a short kid with wild curly hair and a wide smile.
“I heard you helped Jonathan and Nancy take out a demogorgon! They said you were wicked killed with a baseball bat.” Steve looked up and made eye contact with Nancy. That’s the story they went with?
“Yep,” he chuckled. “That- uh, that’s me.” The curly haired boy’s eyes widened.
“That’s awesome!” He crowed, turning back around to run and tell the other children gathered around the coffee table. He recognized Nancy’s little brother, Mike, and he had a vague recollection of the other two younger boys, but then he saw the only girl in the middle of the boys. That must be the girl Mike had been hiding. She looked up at the curly-haired boy as he went charging over, but Steve couldn’t get a good look at her as he was pulled away by Nancy into the kitchen. He dutifully followed her in to meet Joyce Byers and Chief Hopper. Joyce then pulled him into helping her finish up the dinner as she rambled about helping to save their house and how thankful she was that he had shown up to help Nancy and Jonathan.
Eventually, dinner was finished, and he was tasked with gathering the children as Joyce and Chief Hopper set the small kitchen table. He walked back over to the living room, and was finally able to see the girl’s face.
Not only was it a face he recognized, but one that haunted his nightmares almost every night. Granted he hadn’t seen her in the five years he had been free, but he would always remember the wide, brown eyes that had stared up at him with so much innocence and youth, so exotic within the labs.
Eleven. The girl he had considered a younger sister, only to have abandoned when she needed him most. Of course, it hadn't been his choice, but the guilt of leaving her alone in that place had weighed on him for years.
Memories flashed before his eyes, shared meals and playtime, big trusting eyes looking up at him as he soothed her after a particularly terrible nightmare, the screams as she was dragged down that damn sterile hallways towards whatever hellish trial they decided to put her through that day. All of these and so many more terrible memories flooded the forefront of his mind and he started to cry. Fell to his knees and spread his arms wide. Feeling El throw her thin too thin body at him only made him cry that much harder, but it also felt as if a weight had been lifted from his chest. His sister was safe.
After a few minutes he finally calmed down enough to register the fact that El was running her small hand through his hair and murmuring happy little cries of “Six, you’re here. I found you.”
It was another few moments before he realized he was whispering back, broken apologies and platitudes as he squeezed her as tight as he could, as if when he let go she would disappear.
Finally, after what had felt like seconds and centuries all in one, he loosened his hold and pulled back. He first looked at El and took a second to wipe a stray tear from her cheek, before looking up around the room.
Nancy and Jonathan, seeming to have put two and two together, stood looking heartbroken for the two, while everyone else gathered in the ruined living room of the Byers house looked confused and mildly concerned.
Hopper, who had appeared when Steve had first begun crying, was the first person to step forward. He cleared his throat before speaking.
“I- uh- I think I’m missing something here, but I think I also speak for all of us when I sa-”
“What the fuck is happening?” the curly-haired boy from before interjected. Hopper glared at the boy, but then turned back to stare at Steve. Before he could figure out what to say, El stood up from his loose embrace and turned towards the group.
“Six,” she said determinedly, “big brother.” Then, as if that solved everything, she turned back around and sat back in his lap.
If anything though, her three word explanation brough even further scrutiny from the people surrounding them, so Steve cleared his throat.
“So, um, five years ago the Harringtons decided they wanted a kid, an heir to the business dynasty or some sh- thing, but Mrs. Harringrove didn’t want to go through pregnancy. Mr. Hargrove happened to hear whisperings of ‘special children’ and after some heavy lawyering, they ended up with yours truly. Then of course, they found out that ‘special’ meant ‘lab-rats’ and wanted nothing to do with me.”
As he finished the quick and easy version of events that drastically changed his life, silence swallowed the living room and made Steve feel like he was suffocating. And then it was broken by a loud yell of “We have two superhero friends?”
As if a spell had been broken, life flooded back into the house as the kids surrounded Steve until Joyce called out that it was dinner time.
Dinner was a small, casual affair. All of the kids were too busy inhaling the food to ask more questions, and the adults seemed to be biting their tongues. After the food had been cleared away, Steve excused himself, and stumbled out the front door to sit on the patio and have a smoke.
He was halfway through his cigarette when he heard the heavy wooden door swing open and thick boots trudge up behind him. Hopper was then sitting next to him.
“Not the best habit there.”
“Yeah,” Steve agreed, offering nothing else. Hopper sighed.
“Listen, kid,” he started before sighing again, and doing something Steve never would have expected in a million years.
He pulled him into a hug. A short one for sure, but still a hug.
“You’ll be okay.”
Maybe he would be, maybe he wouldn’t, but finally, Steve felt that maybe, just maybe, he had finally found a family.
Billy-
Steve was five seconds away from screaming.
Not only was he stuck in a house with four middle schoolers who were just as anxious as him, but he also had to ignore the fact that El was in imminent danger. She was out there risking her life to save the world, and he was stuck on babysitter duty. Of course, it had made sense when they were all brainstorming a plan of attack, but the reality of what it would mean hadn’t set in until El and Hopper were already far away.
He had been in the kitchen, trying to prepare a snack to hopefully relieve some of the anxiety when he heard Lucas.
“Mike, would you just stop already?”
“You weren’t in there. That lab is swarming with hundreds of those dogs.” Steve tried to ignore the way his heart raced at the reminder of where El was headed and stepped into the living room to diffuse the mounting tension.
“Listen, dude, a coach calls a play in a game, bottom line, you execute it, right?” He tried to reason.
“Okay, first of all this isn’t some stupid sports game,” as if he needed a reminder of the absolute shit situation they were all in, “and second of all, we’re not even in the game. We’re on the bench.”
Steve tried to rebound, but what do you say to that? How do you comfort a small gaggle of preteens?
“Right, we’re on the bench, so there’s nothing we can do,” he tried, feeling it fall flat even as he said it.
“Actually,” Dustin chimed in, “That’s not entirely true.” Then they all gathered again to plan a hair-brained scheme that would end with them all dying, and Steve couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
“Hey! Hey! This is not happening,” he said, putting every ounce of authority he could muster in his voice. Once he finally had all of their attention, he continued. “This is so not happening. I promised to keep you shitheads safe, and that’s exactly what I plan on.” Mike just rolled his eyes and continued planning, but Dustin turned to Steve.
“Steve, buddy, don’t you want to help El?” Steve winced, and at the sign of weakness, Dustin went for the jugular. “We could save her. You promised to protect her. So, protect her.”
He opened his mouth, unable to put together an argument, when they all heard the loud roar of an engine revving outside.
The new girl, Max, ran to the front window in a panic, muttering about how ‘he can’t find us here, he’ll kill us.’ Well, shit.
Steve pushed his way to the front of the window and watched as a blue camaro pulled in next to his BMW. This night couldn’t get any worse.
He pushed the kids out of the window and went to confront the biggest douche in Hawkins.
“Am I dreaming, or is that you Harrington?” Billy smirked as he blew out a big cloud of smoke.
“Yeah, it’s me. Don’t cream your pants.” They squabled back and forth, Billy waving his cigarette around obnoxiously, and then he saw his sister in the window and all hell broke loose.
He charged forward, pushing Steve out of the way and charging through the front door. Steve scrambled up after him, and followed hot on his heels. For some reason, Billy targeted Lucas, and Steve saw red.
“You’re dead Sinclaire.”
“No, you are,” Steve said from behind him and then swung. He felt his knuckles connect with the hard bone of Billy’s cheek. He came back up, laughing like a maniac.
“You got some fire in you after all! I’ve been waiting to meet this King Steve everyone’s been telling me so much about,” Billy sneered, blood pouring out of his nose.
But then they heard an ungodly squelching sound, followed by snarling.
A demodog burst through the open front door and lunged for the huddle of kids by the door, and without a thought as to how Billy would react, Steve yelled at the kids to duck, and then shifted. He leapt over the group and landed on four golden paws.
With a mighty roar, Steve charged the demodog and began to fight it, scratching and biting blindly as he tried to kill it. He felt its own claws dig into his side, leaving dark, deep gashes. They were a pretty even match, every attack met with an equally feral response, and Steve could feel himself wearing out. He needed this to end, soon.
As if she had read his mind, suddenly Max was standing next to him and trying to swing the nail bat at the fucker. Steve managed to disengage long enough for her to raise the bat and bring it swiftly down on the monster’s head without himself getting smashed too. Black blood splattered everywhere, matting Steve’s fur and Max’s hair.
It felt as if everyone held their breath as they waited for the demodog to rise again. Moments passed in complete silence until finally, Billy felt safe enough to call out.
“So King Steve is also king of the jungle?”
----
tag team: @lostnoise @gideongrace @stevefuckingharrington @a-magey @trashmouth-hargrove @catharrington @trashycatarcade @myboyfriendsteve @thesummerof84 @lightsupinthenorth (lmk if you would like to be added/removed from the list!)
