summary ᰋ you help max get ready for the snowball.
includes ꕀ billy hargrove ﾒ fem!reader. established relationship. reader is steve to max's dustin. see request here.
MAX HAD ALREADY DECLARED YOU AS COOL THE MOMENT SHE SAW YOU.
You've always had this effortless coolness about you that draws people in, and Max has been hooked ever since she first laid eyes on you. She's been your shadow lately, especially now that you're dating her brother Billy.
Tonight, as you're lounging in Billy's room, laying on your stomach on his bed. Hands busy wiping off the old polish as your beloved smokes malboro reds by the window. Before Billy can even react, Max's voice pipes up from the hallway, muffled but insistent. "Billy? Is she in there? I know she's with you. Open up!"
Billy groans, rolling his eyes as he hauls himself off the windowsill. He cracks the door just enough to peer out, his broad frame blocking the view. "Max, seriously? Can't you bug someone else for once? We're busy."
You catch the edge of her scowl through the gap, her dark hair falling over one eye. She pushes at the door, but Billy holds it firm. "Busy doing what? Being annoying? Let me in—I need to talk to her."
You can't help but chuckle at their bickering. With a dramatic eye roll, you stand up and saunter over, gently nudging Billy aside. "Oh, come on, let the kid in," you say, swinging the door wide open.
Max's face lights up the second she sees you, but she shoots Billy a death glare first. Without missing a beat, she flips him off. Billy snorts and returns the gesture, his smirk full of that classic sibling mischief. "Fuck you too, shithead," he mutters, stepping back to let her in.
"Hey," Max says to you, ignoring him completely as she brushes past. Her energy is buzzing, a mix of nerves and excitement. "Will you help me get ready for the ball? Please? I have no idea what I'm doing, and you're... you know, super cool at this stuff." You smile, touched by her admiration. "Of course I will." There was different type of adoration in your eyes. Adoring the girlhood that still belonged to younger girl, the girlhood that hadn’t been snatched away by responsibilities yet.
Max reminded you of younger self. You remember being her age and fascinated by older girls. You remember when you were her age, you attempted the same makeup you saw your neighbor's eldest daughter used to wear before she left for college.
Billy watches from the doorway, arms crossed, but there's a flicker of something softer in his eyes—maybe amusement, maybe a hint of protectiveness—as you lead Max out of the room and toward hers.
By the time the ball rolls around, the two of you dive into prep mode. The day before you forced Billy to drive you and Max to radio shop, letting the redhead pick out a favorite track for herself. "A good makeover always start with a good track," you told her, you could see your boyfriend rolling his eyes — fondly – from your peripheral view. You could practically gleam dance in her eyes as she picked out Layla by Eric Clapton.
She sat at your dressing table as you curled her hair into loose waves, and dabbing on some subtle makeup to highlight her sharp cheekbones. Max chatters away, but as you blend eyeshadow, she goes quiet for a moment, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt.
"So… Lucas invited me as his 'date' to the ball," she says. "Do you think I should make the first move? Or like… be a lady and let him?" she asks, casual but not really. You pause just long enough to think, then keep working. 'I think whoever feels something should say something. "But isn’t that like… not his job?" she frowns.
"Feelings don’t have jobs. Knowing what you feel and being brave enough to say it—that’s not masculine or feminine. That’s just being honest," you smile softly, applying mascara onto her lashes. Max goes quiet. Really quiet.
You pause, setting down the brush, and turn to face her fully. You take her hands in yours, your tone gentle and reassuring. "Listen, Max—there's nothing un-lady-like about going after what you want. And honestly, it's not about masculinity or waiting for someone else to step up. Confessing your feelings, owning them that's brave for anyone. It shows strength, not weakness. Everyone—guys, girls, whoever—should feel safe expressing how they really feel. If you like Lucas, tell him. The right person will appreciate that honesty, not judge it."
Her eyes widen, soaking in your words like they're gospel. A shy smile creeps across her face, and she nods, squeezing your hands. "You're right. Thanks... you're the best."
From the cracked door behind you, Billy leans against the frame, unnoticed at first. He's been hovering, probably out of habit, and catches the tail end of your pep talk. He doesn't say anything, just watches with a quiet nod of approval before slipping away.
Later, you and Billy pile into the car with Max in the back, the ( sorry billy — step ) sibling rivalry kicks up almost immediately—Billy teases her about her nervous fidgeting, calling her "shitbird" in that mocking drawl, and she fires back by poking his shoulder and accusing him of being a "grumpy old man" at twenty-something. "If you crash this car because you're too busy glaring at me, I'm blaming you forever," Max snaps. "Keep dreaming, shitbird. I'd drop you off at the curb first."
Through it all, Max turns to you with genuine warmth, thanking you again for the help and gushing about how excited she is. "You're coming to pick me up later, right? Don't let this idiot drive without you." You laugh, promising you will, and the car pulls up to the glittering entrance. She hugs you tightly before dashing inside, leaving you and Billy exchanging amused glances.
Hours later, Max stumbles back through the door, alive with post-dance and "i just kissed my crush and he kissed be back so now we're dating" energy—hair tousled, cheeks pink, a smudge of mascara under one eye. You steer her to the bathroom, grabbing a makeup wipe to gently clean her up as she chatters nonstop — the awkward-sweet moments with Lucas, the thump of the music, how she went for it and kissed his lips during a slow song.
"You did great tonight," you murmur, dabbing carefully at her under-eyes. She yawns, leaning into your touch like a tired puppy.
Billy, ever the restless type, mutters something about needing a smoke and heads outside, the door clicking shut behind him. You finish up with Max, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, and she mumbles a sleepy thank you before shuffling off not to her own room, but to Billy's where you were headed — following you like a baby duckling follows it's mother.
You wander back to the his room, you lay on his bed as your arms snaked around Max's shoulder. Idly, you inspect your nails, chipping at the edges of the deep red polish. What color next? Something bolder, maybe electric blue to match Billy's wild energy? Or soft pink for these quieter moments? The wait for him stretches, but it's comfortable, the house settling into a peaceful hush.
The front door creaks open, and Billy steps back in, the faint scent of smoke clinging to his jacket. He spots you on the couch and pauses, his usual smirk softening into something warmer. Shrugging off his coat, he drops down beside you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours.
"She crashed in my room?" he asks, voice low and shock, knowing the rough relationship him and max sported. You nod, glancing towards, the young girl who was curled up against you. "Yup. Curled up right next to me—stole my tshirt and passed out in seconds." He chuckles, rubbing a hand over his face as he jumps in his own bed next to you. "Figures. Kid's got no boundaries." But his eyes linger on you, appreciative. "You were great with her tonight. That talk about Lucas... she needed that. Hell, we all do sometimes."
You lean your head on his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. "You two really need that, gosh you two fight like cats and dogs but you're so similar in certain ways." Billy wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer. His fingers trace lazy circles on your arm, the touch light and affectionate.
"Fuck off, she's just stolen my personality." He presses a soft kiss to your temple, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Sure Billy, sure," you roll your eyes at him. "Please, you fell for this personality!"
OMG HIII!!!! I just have to say BQ has become my new hyperfixation!!! Your writing is so incredibly detailed, engaging and immersive! I'm absolutely in love with your interpretation of not only Billy but all of the characters in BQ! It's a privilege to be able to read your work FOR FREEEEEE!!!!!
I'm so obsessed with Mechanic and her relationships with the party, Billy, Eddie, and now Henry??? 👀 If it's not too much to ask, would it be okay if we could get a little glimpse into Henry/Mechanic? Maybe a teaser of what to expect from their future interactions? If not, that's totally okay and I completely understand!!! And again, THANK YOU SO MUCH for writing BQ, it's amazing and so are you!!! 💕
-Disco 🕺
⊹ ࣪ ˖ pairing: henry creel x f!reader (in a manner of speaking)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc: 4.2k (oops)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ contains: manipulative!henry, horror elements, good old fashioned enemies having a snappy back and forth <3
⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: thank you for your lovely words! Part 10 of BQ is coming along so well, I decided to go on a lil side quest (no one is surprised because i'm playing with my favourite lego set aka Billy's brain), so hope you enjoy this! apparently writing plot without writing plot is a lot harder than I first envisioned lmao. there's a lot of clues here but I tried to still keep them as vague as possible. i'm sure this is gonna make you guys speculate anyway (good heheheheheheee). see ya all on friday! (❁´◡`❁)
series masterlist.
Only you… can make all this world seem right…
The first thing you notice is the song.
Faint at first, like someone humming down the hall, just a thread of sound tugging at the edge of sleep. You drag your face out of the pillow, grimacing at the damp patch you’ve drooled into. Your clock reads 2:47 AM in sickly red digits. The trailer is dark, cold air tickling over your face and arm. It’s kind of quiet that makes your ears ring, settling somewhere deep in your gut. The song keeps going, high and sweet and old, in a way that worn clothes are familiar and safe.
Only you… can make the darkness bright…
You shift towards the radio on your dresser. It’s off. The dial turned all the way down. You remember doing it before bed, fingers numb, brain fried from too many schematics. Unplugged, even. The cord hangs like a dead snake on the floor.
The music shouldn’t be there.
You lie completely still, heartbeat picking up in your throat, and listen. It feels like the sound is coming from everywhere at once. From inside the walls. Under the floor. Inside your head.
You know the song. Of course you do. Your mom plays the same handful of records when she cleans, when money isn’t terrible, and she’s trying to pretend the few square metres you call home are more than they are. You’ve slow-danced with a wrench in your hand to this stupid thing, humming under your breath as you tightened bolts on a Chevy that wasn’t worth the parts you were putting into it.
But your mother’s record player is in the living room. Not here. And the song doesn’t sound like it's from vinyl anymore. It’s too clean and too wrong, no scratch, no pop, like someone traced it in your skull instead.
You swing your legs out of bed. Pain flares in your arm, a low, familiar ache. Not sharp enough to make you gasp. Just there, like background radiation. You stand up anyway. The trailer’s hallway looks longer in the dark. Shadows stretch around you, unsettling and withering. The single bulb on the ceiling flickers when you step under it, then steadies, not quite the same yellow you know.
Only you… and you alone…
You move toward the living room on bare feet, toes curling against the cold linoleum. Your hand brushes the wall as you go, fingertips skimming over the cheap panelling, the little dents you recognise—here, where you dropped a wrench; there, where your mother’s coffee mug slipped out of her hand once.
The song gets louder.
You expect the glow of the streetlamp through the thin curtain. The shape of your couch shoved into one corner, sagging and sad but yours. Or the clutter of bills and magazines on the coffee table.
You don’t expect the wallpaper. You stop dead in the mouth of the hallway. The trailer is gone.
The room beyond you is too big, for starters—high ceiling, not low; wide, not narrow. The walls are papered in a pattern of pale flowers and faded green vines, peeling at the corners. There’s a bay window with heavy drapes instead of the cheap two-pane you’re used to. Where your mother’s TV should be is a wooden record cabinet, lid open. A black disc spins lazily on the turntable, the needle gliding over the groove.
Only you… can thrill me like you do…
You know, with a bone-deep certainty, that if you look back over your shoulder, the hallway won’t lead to your bedroom anymore. So you don’t. You step into the room instead.
The air smells like old dust and a faint undercurrent of something metallic, like pennies held too long in a wet palm. The light comes from a single, shaded lamp perched on an end table. The bulb inside hums faintly, like your kitchen one at three in the morning when it’s about to die.
Someone is lying on the carpet.
Not sprawled, not collapsed. Just… stretched out. On their side, one arm tucked under their head, like they lay down to listen better. Bare feet. Dark trousers. A buttoned shirt that looks wrong in this room, out of time—yellow, striped, collar a little too stiff at the edges. He’s all angles. Long shins, sharp knees, narrow wrists. Pale; pale skin, veins like shadows under tissue paper. Hair a light, indistinct colour in the lamplight—might be blonde, might be brown, cut in that old-fashioned way you’ve only seen in yearbooks and those creepy family portraits some people keep in their overstuffed houses.
He’s watching the record spin.
No, you realise. He’s watching the needle. Following its slow progress with that unnerving, razor-edged focus you recognise from mirrors and from late nights at the shop when you’re three wiring diagrams deep and one sleepy mistake away from catastrophe.
He speaks without looking at you.
“Took you long enough.”
Your throat dries. “I was enjoying the hallucination from my bed,” you respond slowly. “Thought I’d let it play out.”
He huffs the faintest breath of laughter. “You always have to see how things work up close, though, don’t you?”
He rolls onto his back, then up onto his elbows in one fluid movement, like gravity is just a suggestion to him. His eyes find yours.
They’re… wrong. Too light; a pale, washed-out grey-blue that should look harmless but doesn’t. Too steady, too old. There’s no childish uncertainty in them, no softness, despite the youthfulness of his face. His gaze lands on you and stays, like a pin going through an insect. You feel that look all the way to the soles of your feet.
“Hello,” he says.
You swallow. “You’ve upgraded.”
Last time, he came as something less defined. A smear at the corner of your vision. A voice behind your teeth during lab tests, a nightmare shape, little more than a horrific dark shadow, just a breath behind you, reaching for you. No clear shape, just pressure.
This is worse, much worse, because it’s human. He smiles slowly as if he can read that thought on your face. It doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I thought this might be… easier.” His eyes flick over you: oversized T-shirt, sleep-mussed hair, bare legs. No staring, no leering. Just cataloguing. “Faces are comforting, or so I’m told.”
“You failed at the comforting part.”
“You’re difficult.” He sounds almost pleased. “You don’t comfort easily.”
You cross your arms over your chest, like that will do anything here, where the rules of physics clearly belong to him instead.
Only you… can make all this change in me…
The record doesn’t wobble. The song loops back around to a verse you’re sure you’ve heard already, the needle not moving nearly as far as it should for the time that’s passed.
“Where are we?” you ask.
He tilts his head. “You don’t recognise it?”
You look around, taking in the space properly this time. The wallpaper, the heavy drapes, the ornate ceiling rose. The record cabinet in one corner, the pattern of the carpet beneath your feet. None of it is yours. But there’s something… familiar in the layout, in the way the room opens onto a hallway, in the distant echo of stairs.
You’ve seen this place before.
In photographs, maybe in your nightmares. In the blurry, static-laced flashes that sneak into your head when your arm aches too much.
“Ah,” he exhales softly, watching your face. “There. You do.”
You grit your teeth. “That’s not an answer.”
He pushes himself to his feet without using his hands, like someone lifting a puppet by invisible strings. When he stands to his full height, you realise he’s taller than you thought. Tall but thin, as if someone drew him in pencil and then stretched the lines out.
“It’s a house,” he answers, annoyingly vague. “A memory. A pattern. Does it matter?”
You bite back a snort. “You dragged me into your nostalgia trip at three in the morning. I think I deserve at least a location.”
His mouth quirks. “You’re in your bed,” he says lightly. “You never moved.”
The record skips. You feel the shift in your stomach more than you hear it. The song stutters, jumps, then carries on without missing a syllable. You force yourself to take a breath, because this, at least, you can control.
“You could have just sent a postcard,” you say dryly, tapping your fingers across your bicep. “You don’t have to redecorate my head every time you want a chat.”
“This is… more efficient.” He gestures around, hand hanging in the air like he’s not entirely used to it. “Refined. Besides.” His gaze drifts lazily up and down. “You’re difficult to catch awake. You work until you fall over.”
You bristle. “Some of us have to, you know.”
“I know.”
The words land heavier than you expect; not mocking, not sympathetic, either. Just… factual. Like he’s stating that the sky is blue, and you’re not entirely sure what to do with that, so you say nothing.
“You’re very busy,” he continues, looking around the room with vague disinterest. “Always restoring what shouldn’t be restored. Engines that should have been left to rust. Homes that don’t deserve the effort you put into keeping them from falling down.” His head tilts, just a little. “People who should have died.”
You feel that telltale pulse roll through your arm, a dull, inward throb, like a muscle clenching. You glance down without meaning to. For a breath, the skin there looks normal. Then black threads crawl under the surface, spiderwebbing out from an old, crescent-shaped mark. They shiver in time with the music.
Only you… and you alone…
You curl your fingers into your palm until your nails bite.
“Get out,” you articulate deliberately, each word a bite.
He watches you for what feels like too long. There’s something like consideration in his face. Not pity. Not cruelty, exactly. An interest that’s too intense to ever be comfortable.
“That’s not how this works,” he replies eventually. “You opened the door.”
“I did not invite—”
“You did,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “Every time you push past what your body is screaming at you to stop. Every time you peel yourself open to fit just one more impossible problem inside your head. You told the world you were available.”
He steps closer. Up close, you can see the details that make him too real, too human for your liking. The way his shirt doesn’t quite sit right on his shoulders, like it was meant for a smaller boy. The faint smudge of old dirt under his nails. The pale line of a scar along his knuckle. His eyes, clear and unblinking, reflecting you in miniature.
“You see it, don’t you?” he whispers. “The trap. The way they built everything around you to hold you in this place.”
You want to say no on principle. Instead, your mouth betrays you, “What trap?”
His smile deepens, slow and pleased, because denial would have been predictable and boring. “This town. The way it loops.” He lifts a hand, fingers sketching a little circle in the air. The room hums, the lamp flickering in the some rhythm you can’t hear. For a second, you smell the shop instead: oil and rubber and hot metal. Then your kitchen: cheap coffee and damp. Then the school hallway at lunchtime, bleach and sweat and too many voices.
“Every path,” he goes on, painfully knowing, “leads you back to the same suffocating centre. The same cracked pavement. The same fluorescent lights buzzing over your head. They tell you there are choices, but every road bends back to them.”
“You rehearsing that in the mirror or something?” you ask, voice thin.
He ignores the jab. “You saw it early.” There’s something almost appreciative in his tone. “You watched your father walk out and knew, then… the whole structure is rotten. It doesn’t matter how straight you build your life on top of it. It sinks all the same.”
You flinch. He notices, his head tilting.
“It’s… admirable how you fight it. How you claw and build and fix.” His eyes slide to your arm again. “How you bleed for it.”
“You say that like it’s stupid.”
“Oh, it is,” he reassures calmly. “But that’s also what makes it… beautiful.”
The record clicks. The song warps, the singer’s voice stretching out on one word like taffy, then snapping back.
Only you—
He takes another step until he’s close enough that you can hear the almost-sound of him breathing. It doesn’t quite sync up with the rise and fall of his chest.
“I know how it feels,” he murmurs gently, sympathetically. “To be the one who sees. To stand in a room full of people and see every crack in the walls, every fault in the foundations, and realise they’re all content to live under a ceiling that will eventually collapse on their heads.”
“Maybe they don’t see,” you counter quietly.
“They don’t want to,” he corrects. “They like it. The cage is familiar. The bars are comforting. They call it home.”
His lips curl upwards slightly. “And you?” he asks, searching your face. “Do you?”
You think about your mother’s soft humming in the kitchen. The way the trailer walls shake in a storm, and you always think this is it, this is where I die, this is how I die, amounting to nothing. The constant calculus of money, time, and favours. You think about the shop, the town, the arcade, the endless churn of the same old faces, the same old problems. A cycle, a path you have to walk obediently, or you’re ostracised.
You find your voice again, something cold reverberating through your words this time. “I don’t like cages.”
“Exactly.” He brightens, almost. “You see.”
“There’s a difference between seeing the bars and burning the whole thing down.” Your head tilts back to face him, staring him down. “Some of us will still be inside when it goes.”
“There will always be casualties,” he agrees with a sigh. “You know that. You’ve run the numbers.”
You have. He sees that on your fac,e too.
“It bothers you,” he notes thoughtfully, eyes narrowing slightly. “The casualties. That’s the part that trips you up.”
“Yeah,” you say. “It does.”
He smiles again, and there’s something colder about it now, a glint you recognise as amusement. “You’re sentimental.”
“Says the guy playing a love song in my brain.”
His gaze flicks toward the record player. For the first time, his expression shifts into something almost… puzzled.
“You don’t like it?” he wonders idly.
“I didn’t say that.”
You grew up on these songs. They’re stitched into your bones. Only You means your mother at the sink, bare feet on linoleum, humming under her breath. It means the shop radio crackling when Frank forgets to change the station again. It means late nights with weird little snippets of happiness caught in the static.
You hate that he picked this one because he knows it means something to you.
“It’s simple,” he goes on, as if you haven’t answered. “Focused. The world is a noise. This is… one voice. One point. Only you.” His eyes find yours again. “Selection. Intention. It’s efficient. I figured you, of all people, would value that.”
“That’s not what that song is about,” you point out with a scoff.
He shrugs, a small roll of narrow shoulders. “Everything is about what you make it.”
He moves closer, just slightly, a blink in which you seem to lose sight of him altogether, then he’s closer.
“You choose well. What to give your time to. Who to bleed for. You act like you don’t. Like you’re dragged.” The corner of his mouth tips, curling upwards. “You aren’t. You’re selective. Like me.”
Your arms untangle, and this time, you do laugh; a sharp bark of sound, ripping through the jovial music. “You think we’re alike.”
“I know we are.”
A breath hisses through your teeth, your amusement fading with the certainty of his tone. “Big talk for a parasite.”
He actually laughs at that. It’s not a pleasant sound, but it’s real, short and sharp, like a bark that got strangled halfway out.
“Parasite,” he repeats. “Interesting choice of words.”
You roll your eyes. “Tell me it doesn’t fit.”
His head tilts. “I prefer symbiotic,” he explains casually, a faint smile lingering. It makes you want to ram your fist into his face and keep going. “You have something I want. I have something you… need.”
“I don’t need anything from you.”
“You need someone who sees the whole board.” His voice drops, low and sure in a way that makes your shoulders tense. “They’ll ask you to play pieces. To run their errands, do their calculations, fix their messes. They’ll never take your hand off the pawn for long. I won’t make that mistake.”
“And what?” you pose, a mocking laugh caught in your throat, rumbling free. “No, wait, let me guess. You’ll make me a queen?”
“Don’t be so small,” he chides, gentle as a knife sliding under your ribs. “We’re beyond their little games or titles. This isn’t a board, it’s a structure. A machine. They think the gears can’t be moved. We know better.” His pale eyes catch the lamplight, momentarily too deep and piercing. “We could break it. Rebuild it fresh. Rip out the rotting beams and lay something new over the bones. A queen is a pretty prop, you could be an Architect of a new world, that’s godhood.”
There it is, then. The sales pitch. He dresses it up nicer than you would have expected him to, but it’s the same script underneath. Still same need to control you, to use you for his own ends. You feel something ugly and true flicker in your chest anyway.
“You’ve thought about it,” he says, lower now, and he’s closer again, head angled as he watches you. “Don’t lie. You’ve imagined what would happen if you stopped patching leaks and let it all… flood. If you stopped holding your hand over the crack in the dam and stepped back.”
You stare at him. He’s right. Of course he’s right. There are nights when your arm hurts, and your head is full of other people’s disasters, and you’re bone-sick of being barely an adult and scared all the time, caught between fear of leaving and fear of staying, when you lie awake at night, burning, and think: let it all break, they’ll never accept me anyway.
You don’t say that out loud.
His expression is mild, too patient. “You’re very controlled,” he observes, and you hear the approval there, like that in particular pleases him. “You compartmentalise. You file every nightmare away in its proper drawer and label it something safe. You’re going to run out of space soon.”
Your nostrils flare. “I’ll build more drawers.”
“You’ll break,” he counters, quite cheerfully, too. Asshole. “And then someone else will decide what to do with the pieces.”
“You volunteering?”
“I’d make better use of you than they will, or ever could.”
The record reaches the end of the groove with a soft, circular hiss. The needle doesn’t lift. It just keeps turning, stuck in that hollow sound, the ghost of music. You realise, with a cold little pang, that you’ve stopped looking for a way out of this house.
“You don’t get to win,” you tell him.
He regards you for a quiet moment. “Winning is a strange concept,” he replies eventually. “You and I measure it differently. They call survival a victory. We know better.” His voice softens again, almost lulling. “You’re thinking in terms of them. Their lives. Their rules. That’s… charming. But it will limit you.”
You take a step back toward the hall anyway. It seems further away now, stretched out in a way it wasn’t before. The doorframe looks narrower now, too. But you’ve had enough of him haunting you, telling you shit you already know.
“If you’re trying to recruit me, you should know I’m a terrible employee,” you call out jokingly, going for mocking. You lift your hand, ticking down one finger at a time. “Bad attitude. Chronic authority issues. You’d hate having me on your team.”
“On the contrary.” He folds his hands behind his back in an almost prim, practised gesture. “I think you’d be extraordinary.”
The word shouldn’t warm anything in you, but the way he says it—it hits the same place as a teacher’s rare, reluctant praises did over the years, when you were small and starved for someone to see your mind as an asset, not a thing you should hide away. The same place as a “you’re the only one who can do this” tossed to you as a liferaft, as a purpose.
He sees that, too.
“You’re used to being the cleverest person in the room,” he drawls. “It bores you. Tires you. No one else sees what you see. No one else understands.”
“That’s not true.”
He doesn’t contradict you. He just gazes at you, quiet and too knowing, too seeing.
“You’re lonely,” he states matter-of-factly, and it’s almost tender, the way he says it. “In a way they can’t fix.”
It’s like he’s tossed a stone into the depths of your mind, disturbing the water there, making it spill over and ripple with uncertainty, an ache. You force yourself, desperately, to recall memories of Eddie, of the boys and El, of Max, Billy’s mouth against the curve of your neck. Mom, Frank, Hopper and Joyce, even Steve’s idiotic pretty-boy face. Memories of people who care for you.
“You’re not the solution,” you say, when you can finally speak again.
“Of course not,” he agrees mildly, and you don’t know if that’s honesty or just another layer of the trap. “I’m an opportunity. A… perspective.”
“Of what?”
“Of what happens if you stop pretending empathy is the only way to be good. Of what happens if you acknowledge what you are.”
“And what am I?” you snap, more bitter than you wanted to show him.
He smiles. And again, it’s almost gentle.
“An anomaly,” he answers quietly. “A crack. A necessary failure in their design.”
He steps aside. For the first time, you see past him into the hallway. It stretches, impossibly long and oversaturated, door after door after door. Some are open a crack, others are shut tight. All of them breathe that faint, sourceless music. And there, at the very end of the hallway, a different kind of door. Ornate, bolted closed with intricate mechanisms you recognise because you’re the one who put them there, sealed shut, but with a crack running through the middle, and a sinking, horrible realisation penetrates.
It’s a doorway to you, your mind, from his side of the line.
Only you…
“You’ll come back,” he says, matter-of-fact again. “You’ll have questions.”
“You’re awfully sure of yourself.”
“I’ve been right before.” His eyes go to your arm again. “I was right about you.”
“I’ll fix it,” you say instead. You don’t know which part. You just know you mean all of it. “Without you.”
He studies you. The sharpness in his gaze softens into something almost… contemplative. Not human. But not entirely inhuman, either.
“You remind me,” he says slowly, “of someone I once knew.”
“Let me guess,” you say flatly. “She died.”
“Everyone dies,” he replies emptily. “That’s not the interesting part.”
The song swells, sudden and too loud, pressing at your eardrums. You turn away from him. Your bare feet sink into the carpet like it’s mud at first, then firm up with each step forward. The hallway doesn’t actually get shorter, but the doorway at the end gets clearer.
“Am I supposed to thank you?” you ask, without looking back.
“For what?” he calls out.
“For the nightmare.”
He considers that. “You’re welcome.”
You snort, half a breath, and step through the last door.
. . .
You jerk awake with your heart hammering so hard it hurts inside your chest.
Your room is exactly as you left it. Mess of clothes on the chair, faded polaroids of the boys, of Max and El, and you with Eddie taped to the wall. Notebook open on the floor where it fell from your hand. The radio rests on the dresser, unplugged, dial turned down.
The clock displays 2:47 AM.
Your arm throbs, cold and deep, like someone left an icepack under the skin. You lie there shaking, your breath fogging in the faint strip of streetlamp light through the blind.
It’s quiet, too quiet. You stare at the radio for a solid minute, waiting. But nothing happens, not a whisper of sound other than your own ragged breathing. You tell yourself you’re being stupid, overworked and stressed. You swing your legs out of bed. Your feet find paper, making you look down.
There’s a page torn from your notebook on the floor. You don’t remember doing it. The pen marks are messy, gouged hard enough that the ink bleeds. In the middle of the page, in your handwriting, are three words:
BREAK THE STRUCTURE.
an: just a girl and her friendly brain parasite! (●'◡'●)
noticing a lot of parallels between ST 5 fandom and arcane s2 fandom when it comes to overanalyzing 0.001second facial expressions to convince themselves the writers had a proper plan and it’ll get better in the finale like no. you can either consistently write good episodes, compelling characters that have clear thoughts and motivations (I’m talking about you lack of Mike pov) , realistic dialogue, and not fuck up your themes or you cannot. one episode cannot fix that buddios. the show was marvelified even last season, just like arcane s2 and this is still not as bad as that quality drop.
also we literally know that the show was only supposed to be a miniseries. it only changed cuz it became a massive hit. but obviously there was no long term plan if it was originally just supposed to be one season. so idk why were are theorizing sm. if you need to watch the show at 0.5fps to understand then it is just not written well.
very glad I lived through arcane s2 before this. nothing can phase me after that.
but also the show still technically isn’t over yet and so I will try to not make my mind up until it’s fully over and I’ve fully seen the fully finished vision.
summary ᰋ the last thing you expected on halloween was to be drunkenly making out with the newest transferee.
includes ꕀ billy hargrove ﾒ hopper!fem!reader. drunk teenagers. set in second episode of season two. reader sneaks out el for trick or treating and keeps the child back home before coming to the party, like responsible older sister. very, very steamy. part two.
THE PARTY IS LOUD —OBNOXIOUSLY LOUD.
The kind of loud that rattles windows and good sense alike, where bass thuds through the floorboards and cheap Halloween decorations tremble like they regret being hung up at all.
Rowdy highschoolers packed the old Hawkins house, unsupervised alcohol sloshing from red cups, bodies grinding to the pounding bass that rattled the walls.
It was fall 1984, Halloween night, and the air hummed with chaos—slutty costumes clinging to sweat-slick skin, laughter slicing through the haze of smoke and spilled beer. Fake cobwebs draped the corners, jack-o'-lanterns flickering with candlelight, the scent of pumpkin spice mixing with the sharp tang of booze and desire.
Bodies press together in slutty costumes and borrowed confidence. There’s unsupervised alcohol, sticky floors, laughter pitched just a little too sharp. Everyone acting like it’s the first time freedom has ever tasted this sweet.
You didn't come here on your own. Your guilt and fear of your father walked you to here. In the morning, hopper promised to get back home early but to nobody's surprise ( atleast not to yours ) he wasn’t. You had snuck out eleven — the same ghost blanket from morning thrown haphazardly over the kid.
You two snuck out ( more like you kidnapped a child but hey! eleven agreed to go plus you two were sisters at this point so it wasn’t exactly kidnapping ) to go trick or treating. Eleven houses exactly before you snuck her back into the house before Hopper came back.
Your heart ached for the little girl when she saw her friends, and mike in that ghost busters outfit but couldn't go to them or with them.
You came to the party out of guilt not for Billy Hargrove.
You didn’t come here for the boy from California import who barreled into Hawkins like a storm, all golden hair and a glare that dared the world to fuck with him. Loudmouth. Asshole. He'd revved through town in that beautiful Camaro, picking fights and breaking hearts without a second thought. You wrote him off from day one—too brash, too broken for the quiet grind of this nowhere place.
But now, the upstairs bathroom door was locked, the fluorescent light humming like a heartbeat, casting harsh shadows on the grimy tiles. Billy's lips smashed against yours, fierce and demanding, tongues sliding hot and wet as if tomorrow didn't exist. Whiskey burned on his breath, stench cigarettes hung over his shoulders, mingling with the perfume on your skin, his stubble rasping your chin raw.
He pulled back just enough to sink onto the closed toilet seat, the porcelain creaking under his weight. Strong hands clamped your hips, dragging you down to straddle him, your thighs spreading wide over his lap, black leather mini skirt riding up to expose your thighs.
Pressed tight, you felt the hard ridge of his cock straining against his jeans, throbbing through the denim as your core ground against it instinctively.
Up close, he reeked of trouble—beer and tequila swirling with the acrid bite of cigarettes, undercut by that raw, masculine musk that made your head spin. His callused palms slipped under your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh, yanking you impossibly closer until your breasts crushed against his chest, pulsing core dragging against his dick.
Heat coiled low in your belly as you rock forward just a little, pressing against the growing hardness in his lap, and he hisses, breaking the kiss to nip at your earlobe. "Fuck, you're killing me," he mutters, voice thick. His free hand cups your ass, squeezing through the fabric of your skirt, urging you closer. It's reckless, yeah—the door's thin, anyone could bang on it again—but that's the thrill, isn't it? Hawkins' rebel and you, stealing this pocket of time like thieves.
You shift in his lap, feeling the heat of him through his jeans, the way his body responds without him even trying. Your hands slide into his hair, tugging lightly at the curls damp with sweat, pulling him in for another kiss.
This one's deeper, tongues brushing slow and teasing, his stubble scraping your chin as he angles his head to take more. He groans softly into your mouth, one hand slipping under your shirt to palm the bare skin of your back, fingers splaying wide like he can't get enough contact.
But you broke away, panting, forehead to his. "No wait," you gasped, the vodka ( jesus christ, only god knows how many different kind of alcohol was mixed into that bowl ) haze making your voice thick. "Too drunk for more." Billy froze, then his blue eyes locked on yours—soft, almost reverent, like you were a fever dream in this dead-end town.
No cocky grin, just raw want tempered with something tender. His thumb traced your jaw, gentle, before you both dissolved into laughter, sloppy and shared, the sound echoing off the walls.
Steamy kisses turned playful, a peck on the cheeks, jokes about this shithole of a town, his hand crading through your open hairs. You giggled lowly about something he said, tip of your nose brushing against his cheek. Billy found himself chuckling too after hearing you giggle.
You lean back, just enough to meet his gaze, drunk mind ignoring his dreamy blue eyes, before you lean down to kiss his lips again. Slow kisses then turned scorching—lips brushing, nipping, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth until you opened for him.
He hooked a finger in your top's neckline, tugging it low to bare your collarbone, the cool air hitting your flushed skin. You arched into it, whispering permission, and his hot mouth descended, teeth grazing your neck, sucking hard enough to bloom a bruise, tongue flicking the pulse point that made you whimper.
His hands roamed bolder under your denim jacket, shoving up your shirt to palm the bare curve of your waist, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. Calluses scraped deliciously, sending sparks straight to your core. He paused, fishing the lip gloss from your pocket with a smirk. "This for me?"
You snatched it, twisting the cap with a buzzed grin, swiping the glossy pink over your lips slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving his. The vanilla scent bloomed, sweet and sticky. "Maybe. What're you gonna do about it?" You mumbled sarcastically, layering the shimmery pink and golden gloss over your kiss bruised lips.
Leaning in, you dotted kisses along his cheeks leaving wet, smearing trails of your gloss. Every mark lighter than the other. Then captured his lips, sucking the full bottom one between your teeth. Down to his jaw, nipping the sharp edge, feeling him tense and groan low. He tossed away his already open jean jacket.
"Might as well mark your territory properly if you plan to," he murmured, voice gravelly, eyes dark with lust.
The gloss tube felt cool in your grip as you dragged it across his bare pec — right where his heart was. Pink and golden letters gleaming and uneven on the firm muscle, your free hand splaying over his neck, feeling the rushing blood hammering under your palm. Ten sealed it with your mouth—lips pressing hot and open above the glossy ink.
Billy's breath stuttered, a growl rumbling in his throat. He grabbed the gloss from your hands and smeared it all over your lips himself with unsteady fingers — rough, possessive strokes that left your core glistening. Then he hauled you in, crashing his mouth to yours in a kiss that ignited everything.
Tongue plunged deep, stroking yours with filthy intent, teeth clashing as he bit your lip hard, drawing a gasp that he swallowed. You bit back, tasting the faint copper tang, hands tangling in his mullet to yank him closer.
His hips bucked up, grinding his thick erection against your soaked folds, the pressure building friction that had you moaning into his mouth. Palms squeezed your ass, pulling you down harder, bodies slick with sweat in the steamy confines.
The party thundering was oblivious.
"Fuck, I gotta go," you mumble against his lips. His grip on you tighten, instinctively. Yet, Billy walked out of that party alone. Jacket thrown in back of his Camaro, mind racing for that one girl. Her perfume all over him and her name — now a little messy, not that he let anyone touch it — on his chest.
˖ ࣪⭑ difference between mom and dad ˖ ࣪⭑
summary ᰋ you come across an edit of yours with cherry picked clips.
includes ꕀ jamie campbell bower ﾒ fem!reader. established relationship. ten year age gap. honestly not my best work because not really used to writing these fast paced 'clips' / scenes changing fics. i feel like the idea is there but problem was execution. anybody interested who would like to take their version of this fic is free to just credit and tag me, i'd like to see your version.
THE NIGHT WORE YOU TWO DOWN AFTER A WHOLE DAY OF DOING PRESS.
Hotel room lighting is that soft, yellowish glow. You’re is sprawled on the bed, hoodie stolen from Jamie, legs tangled in the sheets, half-dissociating while scrolling TikTok on his phone with one eye open. thumb on autopilot. Brain empty.
In the bathroom, Jamie’s brushing his teeth. You can hear it. Aggressively. Like he’s fighting the concept of plaque. The mirror light is on, door cracked open, steam starting to fog the glass. You were scrolling mindlessly through tiktok on his phone ( why did you come across five edits of you in the span of last ten minutes ? ). You're mid-scroll when the text hits you, "Difference between mom and dad."
The younger cast such as Finn, Gaten, and Caleb were already calling you and Jamie mom & dad purely to annoy you. Given you weren’t much older than Caleb. However, here the text was used in context for Jake. The newest entry who played Derek Turnbow.
The first clip of the tiktok was from your appearance on The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon. There you were, laughing as you recounted the stunt gone wrong. "So, we're filming this scene where Jake's character is at the top of the barn, and he has to throw dirt down like it's part of the chaos. But it accidentally went right in my eyes! Shooting halted for like the next 40 minutes—we had to get it out, redo my hair and makeup, clean my clothes. And this poor kid, this absolute angel child, comes up to me all teary-eyed and says, "Miss, I'm so sorry about that. I really didn't mean to hurt you, but it's just that I got a little excited doing my own stunts and accidentally hurted you. Please forgive me." I mean, how do you stay mad at that face?"
The edit cut sharply to Jamie in an interview, talking about his first encounter with Jake. "I remember meeting Jake for the first time. He said hi, but I didn't say anything back because I had my headphones," Jamie laughed maniacally in the clip.
You burt out laughing at the stark difference illustrated by insane cherry picked clips. The video rolled on to the second pair of clips. First, Jake in his own interview, beaming as he gushed about you. "She's been amazing. She gave me all these tips on how to stay in character even when the camera's not on you—like, really immerse yourself. And red carpet stuff too! How to pose, what to say. She's like the big sister I never knew I needed."
It contrasted with a behind-the-scenes clip from set, where Jamie's character—Henry/Vecna—catches Derek lost in the woods with a map. The scene played out intensely — Jamie lunging forward, pinning Jake down in the dirt with surprising force. Jake's voiceover from a later interview cut in. "I wasn’t expecting him to get on top of me. I just expected him to kneel softly in me, but he really went in—he really went in for the grab."
The third clip shifted to Stranger Things social media content, those fun golf cart rides around the lot. You were driving, wind in your hair, when Jake flagged you down, hopping on the back. "So, quick question—do you think the Duffer brothers should kill off your character?" He paused, then added with wide eyes, "I hope not, because your character's literally my favorite. She's so badass."
The contrast was Jake doing the same to Jamie's cart. "Jamie! Should the Duffers kill off your character," Jake grinned mischievously. "I really hope so they do."
Finally, the fourth clip was of Jake on Jimmy Fallon, tasked with writing a question for a Stranger Things cast member who were yet to appear on the show He scribbled quickly and handed it over. You opened the letter Jake left you when you went on Jimmy's show. "If Stranger Things was real, would you protect Derek first or save the world?" The audience aww'd. "Aww, of Jake I'll save you first. I think you're enough to defeat Vecna by yoursefl," You chuckled thinking about the scene where Derek gave Henry attitude — knowing Henry was the monster himself.
Cut to Jamie in a solo interview, opening fan mail on camera. He unfolded a letter with a chuckle. "Dear Jamie, how does decapitation feel? Love, Jake," Jamie's deadpanned at the camera.
The video looped back, but you paused it, still wheezing. Jamie, who heard your laughs, entered the room. Jamie pulled you fully into his lap, wrapping his arms around your waist. "What’s got us laughing so loud?" he asked, resting his chin on your shoulder. "Jake," you mumbled, melting against him. "The one who nearly blinded you with dirt?" He chuckled, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.
You simply hummed passing the phone to him, letting him see the edit. Just like that, the night faded into more laughter, cuddles, and whispers of inside jokes from set—your little world, perfectly and yours alone.
