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darleenjade · 8 days ago

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Little Armor - Chapter 3

Billy’s stomach gave a loud, violent growl, sharp enough to rattle through the silent hum of the Camaro’s engine. It almost embarrassed him, but he didn’t let it show. Hands locked on the wheel, knuckles pale, he kept his eyes on the stretch of road ahead. Beside him, Max sat cross-legged, earbuds dangling from her lap, gaze sliding toward him without moving her head.

She noticed everything.

“God, Billy,” she said finally, voice soft but tinged with that little bite she always had. “When’s the last time you even ate? Or slept? At all?”

Billy didn’t turn. Didn’t blink. Just pressed his foot harder on the gas, watching the numbers on the speedometer climb like it mattered.

“Shut the fuck up, shitbird,” he snapped, his voice ragged, raw around the edges. “Take care of your own life.”

Max flinched but didn’t back down, stubborn as always. She opened her mouth like she might say something else, but one sharp glance from Billy shut her right up.

Silence settled between them, heavy as the sticky heat trapped in the Camaro. Outside, the early morning sun bled through the windshield, hitting Billy square in the eyes. He squinted, jaw flexing, but didn’t reach for the sunglasses shoved in the console. His eyes were bloodshot, the soft rims of pink betraying just how many hours had passed since he’d even tried to sleep.

The truth was, he didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to hear Max’s worried voice, didn’t want the guilt, didn’t want anyone to look at him like he was something fragile.

But worse than that—he didn’t want to admit how badly he was breaking.

His throat felt dry, tongue heavy, like every word was scraping the inside of him raw. His stomach twisted and clenched again, sharp and painful, but he ignored it the way he’d trained himself to ignore everything else. Hunger was good. Hunger meant control. Hunger meant skinny and praises.

He liked the way it burned.

The lack of sleep, too—the endless nights pacing his room until his legs ached, lights off, window cracked just enough to let the cold bite at his skin. He liked pushing himself until his muscles trembled and his bones begged him to rest, because there was a point—this perfect, delicate point—where his body would finally give up on him.

And when it did?

He won.

Billy thrived on that. The power of it. Waking up sprawled across his bed or passed out over the floor, throat dry and limbs dead weight, but with his head clear—no buzzing, no racing thoughts, no screaming inside. Just silence.

He adored the silence.

He craved that control, that small, pathetic victory: he could hold back until his body quit on him. He could deny himself until there was nothing left to deny. And in those few short hours after waking, before everything came rushing back—the shouting, the fists, the pressure in his chest—he felt lighter. Untouchable.

He wasn’t weak.

At least, that’s what he told himself when he looked at his reflection and didn’t recognize the hollow-cheeked, red-eyed boy staring back.

Max shifted in her seat, twisting one of the frayed strings on her hoodie between her fingers. Her voice, when it came, was quiet.

“You know you’re gonna crash, right?”

Billy didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

The Camaro roared louder as he pushed it harder, burning through the empty stretch of Hawkins roads like he could outrun the weight pressing down on his chest.

Because if he slowed down—if he stopped—he’d have to feel it all.:

And Billy Hargrove wasn’t built for falling apart. He couldn’t fall. He wouldn’t give up.

“Those who committed suicide will be sent to hell.”

The words echo inside his skull like a sermon carved into bone, sharp and cruel. He remembers the way people used to say it—cold, sanctimonious, as if punishment was the only thing waiting for people like him, suicidal. But he also remembers the name behind the whispers. Leah Clearwater.

Leah.

She was sunlight once—golden and untouchable. An omega, brighter, braver than Billy could ever be, with a laugh that used to make the hallways feel warmer. She ruled San Diego High with Sam Uley, her alpha, their names murmured like a promise of forever. They said an alpha’s mark meant infinite love. Until forever turned into betrayal. Sam cheated—with Emily Young, Leah’s cousin.

Billy remembers the way Leah dimmed. How her light slipped through the cracks in her ribs until nothing was left but shadow. He remembers seeing her shoulders fold inward, her eyes lose their spark, remembers the day her parents came to school, faces pale, screaming and sobbing because their daughter had jumped from the tallest building in San Diego.

Gone.

Billy remembers the scars on Leah’s arms, on her neck, where Sam’s mark was rotting. Thin, angry, and screaming for someone to notice. They were the same as his, carved in places no one was meant to see, under layers after layers of clothes. Leah was the first person he ever showed them to, the first person who didn’t look away, the first who understood.

He remembers one lunch, both of them sitting on the farthest bench in the schoolyard where no one bothered to look. She had picked at her food, silent until he asked.

“Why, Leah… why would you jump?”

She smiled, small and sad, like someone who already knew the ending to her story.

“For the same reason as you, B,” she whispered, voice barely louder than the breeze. “I wish to fly. Fly far away from here and never come back.”

She jumped two days later.

Billy still sees it—the soft sneakers dangling above broken pavement, the way they said she didn’t scream on the way down. Brave. Leah was brave in the way he wasn’t. She reached for freedom while he was still trapped inside a body that felt too heavy, inside a life that wasn’t his.

He wishes he had her courage, wishes it would grow inside his ribs like something wild and untamed. He wishes he could stand on the edge and not look down, wishes he could leap without wondering if the fire waiting below was hotter than the hell he already lived in.

But Billy can’t. Not yet.

Because he’s still haunted by the doubt.

By the sermons.

By the sharp-edged warning that people like him—people who dream of flight, people who want out—are damned before they even jump.

And God, some nights, he wishes he didn’t care.

Some nights, he wishes he’d climb anyway.

Don’t Jump by Tokio Hotel came to its final notes as Billy’s self-deprecating spiral wound down, his thoughts slowly quieting as the school loomed closer in the distance. He could already make out his usual parking spot, the one he always claimed like clockwork, and his grip on the steering wheel tightened briefly before relaxing.

He pulled in smoothly, the song still playing faintly through the speakers, the fading melody wrapping around him like an old, familiar ache. The engine hummed low for a moment before cutting off, leaving a heavy silence behind.

Max was already moving, grabbing her bag in one swift motion, her skateboard tucked under her arm like it was an extension of herself. Without a word, she shoved the door open and jumped out, boots hitting the pavement with a muted thud. She didn’t look back. She never did.

Billy watched her go, his jaw ticking, fingers drumming against the steering wheel in time with the last lingering chords. Alone now, he sat there for a moment, just breathing in the quiet car, the air faintly smelling of smoke, leather, and stale cologne.

The lights will not guide you through, they are deceiving you… don’t jump.

The lyric echoed as the song faded out completely, leaving nothing but the buzz of his thoughts.

“Thanks, Bill,” Billy muttered under his breath, the bitterness curling in his tone like smoke. “I think I prefer to be deceived.”

With that, he shoved the door open, stepping out into the morning air, slamming it shut behind him, and walked toward the school without looking back.

His day would be better—so much better—if he could just walk into school, head down, go to his locker, grab his books, and disappear into class without anyone talking to him. If he could handle his own shit the way he’s always done, locked up tight and away from anyone’s reach. If he could deal with the gnawing hunger, the hollow exhaustion, and the endless self-deprecation alone.

But God acts in mysterious ways—or maybe it’s the devil already cashing in his dues, making Billy pay for every damn thing he’s ever done wrong, ever thought.

“Hey, Bee. Good morning.”

Steve Harrington’s voice cuts through the noise of the hallway, warm and obnoxiously cheerful, like honey melting in sunlight. Billy doesn’t even have to turn around to know it’s him—the stupid perfect hair, the blinding smile, the way his presence fills the damn space like he owns it.

Billy doesn’t comment on the way Steve stretches the B too long, soft and sweet, making it sound like bee , the insect, like it’s some stupid little nickname. He doesn’t comment on the way that single word feels like it’s been stitched into his skin. He doesn’t comment on the warmth that spreads through his chest like wildfire just from hearing his voice.

He doesn’t admit any of it.

He will never admit that Steve Harrington’s attention plants a dangerous little spark of hope in him—a hope Billy Hargrove cannot afford. He doesn’t admit how his head goes dizzy when Steve’s too close, how his instincts—the ones he’s buried for years—start clawing up from the dark, screaming at him to give in, just this once.

Just for Steve.

Just for his Daddy.

“Morning, Harrington.” Billy forces the words out flatly, tone bored, deliberately twisting the syllables to sound disinterested as he yanks open his locker.

“No, no,” Steve tuts, stepping closer, that infuriating grin on his lips. “What have we talked about?”

Billy’s jaw tightens. He wants to tell him to shove it, to back off, to stop playing this game, but instead, he rolls his eyes so hard it hurts and mutters, “Morning, Steve.”

Steve beams. “That’s it, Bee. Good boy.”

And then his hand is in Billy’s curls, ruffling them softly before trailing down just enough to linger. Billy freezes, pulse hammering in his ears, pretending it doesn’t make his chest ache in the most dangerous way. Pretending it doesn’t make his little whine quietly behind the locked door of his headspace, begging for more.

But his body betrays him. His stomach growls—loud, desperate, and humiliating.

Steve’s hand stills for just a moment before sliding into Billy’s hair again, gentle now, soothing in a way that makes Billy want to punch something.

“God, honeybee,” Steve sighs, soft and concerned in that way that makes Billy’s throat burn. “We’ve gotta get some food in you right now. C’mon, let’s hit the cafeteria. Maybe you can even take a nap. We’ll just skip first period—I’ll look after you.”

Steve’s thumb brushes against his curls, his hand still on him, grounding, steadying.

Billy wants to scream.

It’s been like this for a week now—ever since that day. Ever since he’d shown up at Steve Harrington’s door, red-eyed and shaking, Max hovering awkwardly behind him, too small and too scared to be the buffer she usually tries to be. Ever since Billy had cried in Steve’s driveway like the pathetic little fuckup he is.

Ever since then, Steve hasn’t stopped.

The coddling. The pet names. The constant watching.

It’s exhausting. It’s confusing. It makes Billy feel like he’s drowning, but it also makes him… happy. And that’s the problem. Because Billy Hargrove doesn’t get to have this. He doesn’t get to be taken care of. He doesn’t want to want it—doesn’t want to feel his walls cracking every time Steve smiles like that, every time he calls him Bee, every time his stupid soft hands end up in his hair.

And the worst part? Nobody else thinks it’s weird.

“Don’t worry about it, Billy,” Tommy H. had told him yesterday when he complained. “It’s just his caregiver. He does this sometimes. He likes taking care of people. You just happen to be the youngest outta the group, that’s all.”

Billy had stared at him like he’d grown another head. Tommy was so whipped for Harrington it was disgusting. That had to be it. Because no one else seemed to see how wrong this was.

Steve started this without asking. He decided to care. He decided to invade Billy’s life, his space, his everything, without permission.

And Billy doesn’t know how to handle it—because people don’t care for him. Not without wanting something in return.

And Steve… Steve’s giving too much. Steve’s caring too much.

And Billy doesn’t know if he can afford the price tag attached to that kind of kindness.

“Okay, Harrington,” Billy finally snaps, his voice sharp, cracking through the tension like glass shattering. “I’m gonna stop you right there. I’m not a fucking baby. Don’t treat me like one.”

Before Steve can reply, the bell shrieks overhead, cutting the air in half.

Billy slams his locker shut, his heart pounding, and starts walking without another word.

“Bye, Harrington.”

And he doesn’t look back.

The classroom hums faintly with the sounds of pencils scratching, pages flipping, and the occasional cough—but Billy hears none of it. He stares blankly at the notebook in front of him, the words on the board blurring into an indistinguishable smear of chalk and white. His hand is locked around his pen, knuckles white, his entire body wound up like a wire about to snap.

And thank fuck he doesn’t share this class with Harrington. Because if Steve were here—if Billy had to see his face, the disappointment, the confusion, the quiet ache behind those damn brown eyes—he knows he’d break.

He almost already has.

He can’t think about Steve right now. Can’t think about that soft “good boy,” the hand in his curls, the warmth that lingers when he’s gone. He can’t carry it—not right now, not when everything else is splitting open inside him.

His chest feels too tight, like someone’s pulling him apart from the inside. Breath comes in sharp, uneven little gasps, too fast, too shallow, and he tries to clamp his jaw shut so nobody notices. His stomach flips violently, an empty pit gnawing at him, dragging all his organs with it like they’re tangled in barbed wire.

His head spins. His throat burns. And his eyes—God, his eyes are on fire.

Billy Hargrove is going to collapse. He knows it.

Or maybe—if he’s unlucky—he’ll drop. Not physically, not on the shitty linoleum floor, but into his headspace, somewhere small, somewhere quiet, where the static can finally cut out for a second. And he would have to change cities again.

Or, if the universe is feeling really generous, maybe he’ll just die right here at his desk.

But he needs something.

His fingers twitch before his brain even processes the decision, sliding beneath the cuff of his long-sleeved henley. He curls them tight, nails biting into skin until they find familiar grooves, old raised lines hidden beneath thin fabric. And he digs.

Just a little. Just enough.

The sting blooms sharp, electric. Perfect.

Pain floods his system fast, adrenaline surging hot through his veins, masking everything else—hunger, dizziness, exhaustion—until there’s only this. Until there’s only control.

He presses harder, feels the skin give under his nails. The warmth follows instantly, wet and slick, soaking into the fabric before he even processes it. A single drop splashes to the floor, dark and tiny and insignificant, except it isn’t.

Black spots bloom in his vision, edges creeping in, but God, it’s delicious. Perfect. He feels light. He feels real.

And then—

“Billy… Billy.”

A hand clamps down on his shoulder, jolting him back into his body like a punch to the chest.

He blinks, sluggish, pupils blown wide as his surroundings sharpen into focus. The basketball poster, the teacher’s back, the rows of bored faces. And right next to him—Patrick, one of the older guys from the team, baseline, kind eyes creased in concern.

“Dude, you’re bleeding.”

Billy’s gaze drops automatically, following Patrick’s to the damp patch spreading on his sleeve.

Shit.

“I…” His throat locks up. He wants to confess, wants to say it all—how his head’s a storm, how he can’t breathe, how the pain is the only thing keeping him from completely unraveling. He wants to scream for help, to trust someone, anyone.

He wants to be brave like Leah had been before she jumped. Wants to be the kind of person who could open his mouth and let someone catch him.

But he isn’t brave. He isn’t built for flying.

So he swallows it all down, forces the words past the lump in his throat, and lies.

“It’s okay,” Billy mutters, voice flat, controlled. “I’ll just go to the bathroom and patch this up. Must’ve… must’ve scraped it on something.”

Patrick hesitates, frowning. “You sure? I can come with you, man.”

It hits Billy then—the softness of it. The way Patrick’s looking at him like he actually matters, like he’s not just some angry asshole on the team. They all do this, the older guys—joking with him, calling him their “smartass junior,” treating him like some annoying little brother they’ve decided to keep around anyway.

It should make Billy sneer, should make him bite back, but instead… it softens something deep in him, something fragile he doesn’t let anyone touch.

He forces a smirk, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Nah, man. I’m alright. Just embarrassed I didn’t notice it before.”

Patrick nods slowly, still watching him like he’s trying to see through him, but eventually lets it go.

Billy mutters something about needing the hall pass and strides up to the teacher’s desk, tossing out some half-ass excuse about a nosebleed. He’s granted permission, and he’s gone before anyone else can stop him.

The bathroom tiles are cold under his sneakers, the overhead lights buzzing faintly, and for a moment, Billy just stands there, staring at the sink, his pulse loud in his ears.

It’s worse when he’s alone.

Because alone feels safe. And safe means his head whispers drop, drop, drop .

But he knows better. He knows better.

He shoves his sleeves up, biting down on the inside of his cheek when the fresh gashes sting from the movement. The scars are a mess, layered and tangled over each other, some faded, some raw, some bleeding freely.

For a second, he just stares. Watches the way the red spreads, fast and quiet, turning his skin sticky. And then he looks up—right into the mirror.

And there he is. Billy Hargrove, in all his fucked-up glory.

The bruises, the dark circles, the dullness in his own eyes. The jagged little reminders carved into his arms, proof that he can’t get it together, proof that he’s wrong, that he’s broken, that he’ll never be what anyone wants him to be.

His chest heaves once, twice, and then the sob rips out of him silent and violent, shoulders shaking, tears slipping hot down his cheeks.

He tips his head back, presses his fingers into one of the open cuts until the pain spikes bright, grounding him. He sucks in a shuddering breath and bites it down, swallows it whole, choking on the taste of copper in the back of his throat.

For one wild, fleeting second, he wishes his father were here. Wishes Neil would storm in and rip him apart, beat this “fairy shit” out of him, force him into something that makes sense.

But he’s alone. And the silence is deafening.

Until it isn’t. Until a sharp gasp cuts through the haze, and hands—soft but insistent—wrap around his wrists, tugging him back from the edge. Just stop harming yourself, Jesus, the voice pleads, trembling, urgent. But he can’t. He can’t stop. The blood won’t vanish. The tears won’t fucking disappear. And the hands—the gentle, relentless hands—won’t leave him alone.

“Billy… It’s okay. I’m Robin, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

It’s not. He wants to scream it, to shout that nothing will ever be okay. He’s too broken to return to anything resembling normal. His chest heaves, his fingers tremble, and his eyes meet hers—shining, vulnerable, just like his own—and the floodgates break. More tears fall, stinging and hot, and he collapses, dropping to the cold tile in the middle of the bathroom. The world tilts around him, and he lets himself fall, letting go of control, letting go of the fight, letting himself be small and shattered for the first time in what feels like forever.

“Oh, baby… it’s okay. Robin is here, big sis is here, it’s all going to be okay.”

And she hugs him, tight and grounding, and it’s so good that he finally, utterly gives up. He lets her pull at his hands, guides them beneath the running water. The sting bites at his skin, the pain shoots through him, and yet, somehow, it’s dizzying, overwhelming, and—fucking—blissful. His tears fall freely, turning into soft sniffles, and he just… lets himself be.

Paper towels press against the open cuts, soaking up blood, and another damp one wipes away the tears and the sorrow streaked across his face. Above him, a calm, pretty face looks down, steady and reassuring. A girl making him feel safe, protected, cared for, calling herself his big sister. “Calm down, baby. Big sis is here. It’s going to be alright.”

For the first time in a long while, Billy relaxes. He allows himself to breathe, to soften, to be held. He lets himself be cared for without fighting it.

But it all fades too quickly. The drop, the safety, the fleeting warmth—it slips away like water through his fingers. Panic flares, sharp and sudden, and fear coils in his chest. Billy pushes her hands away gently, takes a deep, shaky breath, and steels himself, ready to speak.

“Don’t start,” she murmurs, voice low but hardening, “I know what it is about.”

And of course, Robin knew. She was a little like him—she dropped, she understood the way it felt to be trapped in a storm of emotions, to carry scars both visible and hidden. She would know why his arms were marked, why people still assumed he was nothing more than a baseline, ordinary and replaceable. She knew because the school had done its job in raising awareness, teaching students to recognize abuse, to understand its weight and its signs. And she was smart—sharp, attentive, intuitive. Of course she knew. And Billy knew it too, what abuse looks like, what it feels like. But he isn’t brave. He wishes he was. “You can’t tell anyone.” Billy forces his voice to come out, hardening his eyes. Robin opens his mouth with an angry grimace. “You can’t tell. He will kill me. Or I will kill myself. If you tell someone I’ll be dead and it’ll be your fault.” Robin eyes widens with tears and her mouth trembles as she forces it back into her eyes. Don’t drop, don’t fucking drop. “I… I promise, I won’t tell anyone.” And then he lets her tend to his injuries again. God he is such an asshole.

Looking for co-creators.

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darleenjade · 12 days ago

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That is very true

We named ours Apollo and Chevy

a pit bull is like a cinder block that loves you

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darleenjade · 17 days ago

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Happy D-Day to Mr. Billiam on this here July 4th.

RIP trashboy of my heart.

redbubble///twitter///commissions

+ close up~

Keep reading

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darleenjade · 19 days ago

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He folds a blanket in half twice and sets it over his bedside table before settling down into bed.

It’s a nightly ritual at this point: brush his teeth, wash his face, shut his door tight, and throw the blanket over his table.

It’s been nearly two weeks since the first night.

And that night was a bad one, because Neil had heard his phone ringing after midnight and Billy wasn’t allowed phone calls after 10pm.

He’d walked to school the next day.

So, the blanket.

And now he waits.

It’s probably stupid. He knows it’s dumb, and yet.

He lies down and pulls his blanket up to his chin, brows furrowing as he listens to the sound of nothing buzzing in his ears. If he really focuses, he can hear the clock in the kitchen ticking.

A soft little gasp catches in his throat as he hears the muffled ringing next to him, his hand darting under the blanket and pulling the phone off the hook, bringing it to his ear just as he pulls his blanket over his head.

In the dark of his room, hidden under his bedding, he murmurs, “Hello?”

“Hi, baby,” Steve’s voice hums into his ear.

Billy can hear the lazy smile on his face.

“Hi,” he smiles small, secretly, knowing no one can see it and judge him for it.

“Just calling to say goodnight,” Steve huffs a quiet laugh, like he can’t believe himself, too whipped to go to bed without a goodnight from Billy.

“Goodnight,” Billy mumbles, gripping the plastic of the phone in his palm, “You sleepy?”

“Mm, not yet,” Steve groans, probably stretching out on his bed, where Billy wishes he was right now. He’d not let Steve out of his grasp for the rest of the night.

“You wanna talk a bit?” Billy asks gently, knowing the answer already.

“Yeah,” Steve hums, going quiet for a moment as he thinks of a topic before huffing, “I wanna talk about what the fuck Dustin thinks he’s doing, talking to his mom the way he does.”

“He’s an ungrateful little shit,” Billy grumbles, frowning, remembering the scene that had played out earlier. Dustin was a teenager now, yeah, and he’s always had a mouth on him, but to Claudia? “I was ready to get out of the car and beat his ass.”

“I know you were, I stopped you,” Steve chuckles, “Although, I did see her hide her smile when you yelled at Dustin from the car.”

He’d rolled down his window and told Dustin off, who pouted all the way down to the car. They were picking him up and taking him to his Hellfire Club meeting or whatever it was.

“Good,” Billy mumbles, tangling his fingers in the phone cord, “She gives me leftover lasagna, it’s the least I can do.”

Best lasagna in town.

He smiles to himself again as he listens to Steve laugh, letting his pretty boy change the subject again and again, that mind going a mile a minute, until Steve yawns.

It makes Billy yawn, too, and they know it’s time.

“Go to sleep,” Steve hums, “Have sweet dreams of me, okay?”

Billy’s eyes are closed as he smirks, mutters, “If I dream of you, it’s not gonna be sweet…”

“Well, I wouldn’t be mad at that,” Steve chuckles, “As long as you tell me about it.”

“You trying to have phone sex over a dream I haven’t had yet?” Billy grins, opening his eyes slowly, lazily.

“I’ve gotten off to less,” Steve teases, probably smiling.

God, Billy wishes he were there. He’d bury his face in Steve’s neck and sleep like that.

“Goodnight, baby,” Steve hums, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, can’t wait,” Billy murmurs, “Goodnight, peanut…”

There’s a moment of silence, of hesitation.

Billy breaks it with a quiet, barely audible, “Love you,” that almost gets stuck in his throat.

“Love you, too,” Steve whispers, so sweet, “Goodnight.”

They could go in circles, saying goodnight to each other for an hour, but Billy murmurs a final goodnight before Steve hangs up first, the dial tone buzzing in his ear.

He sets his phone back onto the receiver, under the blanket, before turning onto his side with a sigh, imagining of the warmth of Steve’s body and the scent of his hair in his nose as he drifts off to sleep.

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darleenjade · 19 days ago

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Wasn't sure if I wanted to say any more to the topic but when I read people being mad at Dacre now or disappointed.... Because of the one sentence he threw into the conversation...

We don't know the whole negotiation, what was part of the deal, what he was comfortable with or not... fact is, he came back for season 4, even if only for a cameo... fact is: we don't know if he would return for season 5 and if not.. did not ruin Billy and Max's story because it was his decision... Sure, we all wanted more Billy and yes it feels like a slap in the face at first hearing that from him but please keep in mind it's been what? 8 years? Maybe things have changed within him filming season 2 and 3.. I mean he returned in s4, he did not entirely walk away.

I admit it feels very much like he won't return. Which is a big bummer. I had hopes and those pretty much died but not entirely.

Because we all know that the way Billy's arc is written, there are ways to make him still alive in the upside down. Like the clone theory. So what if the writers/producers wrote him a little loophole on purpose. That it works both ways in the end, with or without Billy. And Billy is a very present part of Max's arc still and it would make little to no sense to not somehow bring him back. And maybe they offered him this option to come back if he was available and wants to. Please keep in mind it is a lot of work to be prepared to jump back into this character, it's not just showing up on set for 5 minutes and go home.

Maybe he wasn't ready to sign a contract that would tie him to a character for the next 10 years when he signed it. But maybe, if offered, he took a last chance to be part of this show and be this character again if it fit his vision of the character. And if not, he is not to blame if any character arc feels without closure. 'Dear Billy' could be the closure, 'I'm sorry' could be the closure. If Billy was still around, we have no idea how his character would have developed. Maybe he would be a stoner with Jonathan now instead of Argyle, with no impact on the overall plot. Maybe he would be the Jason, starting a witch hunt against Eddie because he was never flayed and he still has no idea about the upside down. We don't know. All we know is that for the time we got Billy, Dacre created this character with love and passion for the character. And what we got was the damn best character of the entire show.

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darleenjade · 22 days ago

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington Characters: Billy Hargrove, Steve Harrington Additional Tags: Harringrove Summer Bingo 2025 (Stranger Things), short hair! billy Series: Part 2 of Harringrove Summer Bingo 2025 Summary:

Maybe he should kiss Billy on the hood of the Camaro more often.

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darleenjade · 25 days ago

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billy’s dragging his feet up the trail, sweat sticking his shirt to his back, breath coming in short, annoyed huffs.

“this is not romantic,” he grumbles. “this is cardio. i didn’t sign up for cardio steve.”

steve’s a few steps ahead, practically glowing with smugness, turning around just to walk backwards and flash a grin.

“i thought you were supposed to be the fit one,” he teases. “all those muscles and no stamina?”

billy flips him off without looking up.

“these muscles are for looking at, harrington. not for climbing a fucking mountain!”

steve laughs, “this is not a mountain!” he jogs back down to him, reaching out and lacing their fingers together.

“but okay, okay,” he says, tugging gently. “we’ll take a break. come on, drama queen.”

they sit on a flat rock, steve pulling out a water bottle from his backpack and handing it over. billy gulps it down like he’s been stranded in a desert, then leans his head on steve’s shoulder, eyes closed.

“you better be taking me somewhere worth all this,” he mutters.

steve just smiles and kisses the top of his head.

“trust me.”

they hike the rest of the way slower, hand in hand, steve pointing out weird shaped trees as billy makes sarcastic commentary.

then, finally, they reach the top of the hill.

billy stops in his tracks…..“oh.”

they’re high up with the whole of hawkins stretched out below them, quiet and small. lights twinkle beneath them like someone scattered glitter across the ground and the sky above is dark and endless, stars spread out like in a painting.

steve drops his backpack and pulls out a blanket, spreading it on the grass.

“come here,” he says, flopping down and patting the spot next to him. “this is a comfy spot!”

billy lies down beside him, still catching his breath, eyes wide and soft.

“i haven’t seen stars like this since i was a kid,” he says quietly. “used to go to the beach with my mom late sometimes…before she left.”

steve doesn’t say anything right away. he just reaches over, slow and steady, taking billy’s hand in his. his thumb brushes over his knuckles gently.

“i remember,” he says quietly. “you told me. few nights ago in my room. we were half asleep, but maybe you thought i was already out.”

billy turns to look at him, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat.

that was months ago.

“you remember that?”

steve nods, smiling soft. “of course i do. you said your mom used to make up constellations for you, right?”

billy stares at him, something warm and aching blooming in his chest.

he hadn’t expected steve to hold onto it. it was late, and he’d barely whispered the words. his voice was heavy with sleep as he curled up in steve’s bed. he remembers how they slipped out, quiet and unsure, and the way steve shifted beside him, just slightly, like he’d heard. but neither of them said anything after that. they were already drifting, wrapped in silence and the warmth between them.

but now, here they were.

steve turns his gaze upward, eyes scanning the sky.

“apparently this is one of the best nights of the year to see the stars like this,” he says, voice low and gentle. “clear skies, no moon. it’s like-”

billy doesn’t let him finish.

he leans in and kisses him. it’s soft and slow, full of everything he’s been holding back for months. his hand curls around the back of steve’s neck, his fingers trembling a little. steve kisses him back without hesitation, one hand settling gently over billy’s chest, right where his heart is racing as he hovered over him. he tilts his head up, deepening the kiss with a quiet, breathy sound that slips out before he can stop it. his teeth catch billy’s lower lip, not rough, just enough to make billy’s breath hitch.

when billy finally pulls back, his voice is rough, barely more than a whisper. he cradles steve’s face with both hands now, thumbs brushing gently over his cheeks, eyes locked onto steve’s like he’s trying to memorise every shade of brown. his expression is open in a way it rarely is, love-struck and unguarded. like the walls have finally dropped.

“i love you,” he says, like it’s the only truth that’s ever mattered.

steve blinks, stunned for a second, then smiles like the sun’s rising behind his eyes.

“you really mean that?”

billy nods, eyes shining, heart thudding so loud he’s sure steve can hear it.

“i knew for a while,” he says. “just... didn’t know how to say it. and it’s okay if you don-”

steve cut him off by pulling him in again, kissing him even deeper this time, arms wrapping tightly around billy’s torso.

“i love you too, billy,” he whispers against his lips, and it feels like the world exhales around them. “so fucking much.”

billy lets out a shaky laugh, forehead resting against steve’s as they linger in the quiet. his hands stay on steve’s face, like he’s afraid to let go, like the moment might vanish if he moves too fast.

“you have no idea how long i’ve wanted this,” he says, voice low, almost reverent.

steve smiles again, softer this time. “i think i do,” he says. “i was waiting too.”

billy lies back beside him on the blanket, curling in close. they tangle together easily, drawn to each other like instinct. as close as they can get, limbs brushing, breath shared with the stars stretched out above them and hawkins glowing faintly below

billy’s chest feels light in a way it hasn’t in years.

he remembers being a kid, lying on the sand next to his mom, her voice soft as she pointed at the sky and made up stories about the stars. he remembers how safe he felt then. and now, with steve’s arm around him and the night wrapped around them, he feels it again. he presses another kiss to steve’s lips softly, shifting closer.

“I love you steve harrington”

steve smiles, eyes staring at the stars as he traces lazy circles on billy’s arm. “and I love you billy hargrove.”

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darleenjade · 26 days ago

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billy stayed the night.

he’d never stayed the night before. not properly. not like this.

there’ll be no sneaking out at 3am or half-dressed goodbyes in the dark tonight, cos neil’s out of town for the weekend! so billy showed up at steve’s house with a duffel bag, six-pack and a flirty grin.

they fell asleep tangled, limbs everywhere, billy’s arm heavy across steve’s chest, breath warm on his neck. steve didn’t sleep much. just kept looking at him, watching the way his face softened in sleep, how the tension melted from his shoulders. billy didn’t stir, just stayed curled up, blanket half-kicked off, hair a mess of curls on the pillow.

when it’s morning, steve yawns, stretches and kisses billy’s temple before slipping out of bed. he moves through the quiet house, brushing his teeth, getting dressed for work and starts on the coffee downstairs.

billy wakes slow. he brushes his teeth, washes his face and stares at himself in the mirror for a long time. he looks different here. softer. like he’s not waiting for something to go wrong.

when he steps out, he sees the bed.

messy. sheets twisted, pillows everywhere, blanket half on the floor.

his chest tightens.

he doesn’t think. just moves. pulls the sheets tight, tucks the corners sharp, folds the blanket just so. hospital corners. crisp lines. the way neil taught him- no, drilled into him, every morning since he was five.

make the bed. make it right….or else.

his hands move automatically, a quiet blend of muscle memory stitched into habit, stitched into survival.

when it’s done, he stands there for a second. staring. then shakes it off and heads downstairs.

steve’s on the couch, legs stretched out, mugs in hand. he grins when billy walks in, eyes crinkling.

“morning, sunshine.”

billy snorts and flops down beside him, taking the mug. they sit chattering about their day to come, sipping coffee, knees touching. it’s easy. warm. safe.

later, after yet another day of sticky floors, screaming kids and too much ice cream. steve comes home alone. billy’s still at the pool, probably yelling at kids and pretending not to care.

steve’s exhausted. kicks off his shoes and heads upstairs, ready to collapse.

he opens the door and stops.

the bed’s made.

perfectly.

he blinks, stares then smiles, slow and soft.

billy.

he runs a hand through his hair, his heart doing something weird in his chest…something tender, something warm, something that feels a little like falling in…?

a little breathless, steve climbs in wearing boxers and one of billy’s faded tees. he’s careful not to mess it up too much but untucks the corners a little. he lies there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about billy’s hands smoothing the sheets.

the sun sets and the room darkens. but around ten, the window finally creaks.

billy climbs through, smelling like chlorine and mint. exhausted with shoulders heavy and eyes half-lidded, he drops his bag, peels off his shirt, and crawls into bed beside steve without hesitation.

“miss me?” he murmurs, voice low and teasing.

steve turns fully toward him, smiling. “what, you need me to say it?” he whispers. “always.”

billy smiles, eyes soft, and leans in, kissing him gentle and unhurried, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like he’s been thinking about it all day.

steve, wraps an arm around him as billy melts into it further then tired, he buries his face into steve’s neck with a soft sigh, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt.

they lie there, quiet.

until…. “you don’t have to make the bed, you know.”

billy goes still.

steve keeps going, gently threading his fingers through billy’s curls. “not here. not with me. it’s okay if it’s messy.”

billy doesn’t answer right away. just breathes, slow and shaky.

then, muffled against steve’s skin, “i know.”

but he’ll still do it. because it’s habit. because it’s safety. because it’s the one thing he can control.

steve doesn’t push, just holds him tighter.

“i like it when you’re here,” he says softly.

“me too.”

the quiet settles again. they’re both drifting, wrapped up in each other.

“at least we get to mess up the sheets together,” steve mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

billy laughs, quiet and fond, brushing his fingers under steve’s shirt, tracing lazy lines along his sides.

“tomorrow, pretty boy,” he breathes, voice barely a whisper. he presses a soft kiss over steve’s shirt, right where his heart beats steady beneath the fabric. “just sleep now.”

then he curls in close, letting the quiet wrap around them again as steve holds him tight and safe.

in the morning, the bed’s made again….but this time, steve helps.

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darleenjade · 26 days ago

Text

intimacy prompts: 9. watching movies / tv shows (stranger things - metal sandwich)

"Ugh," Eddie groaned as he got home, fleeing the oppressive Indiana summer heat. He tossed his keys into the bowl and could hear sports commentators on the TV. He sighed, heavy and put upon, like he was a 16-year old theater kid and not a 33-year old full-time mechanic. "Sports? You two are so boring."

Billy flipped him off from the couch, where he was sitting shirtless, an arm over a similarly under-dressed Steve. Steve was in a tank and indecently tiny shorts, so Eddie couldn't be that mad.

"It's wrestling," Steve told him, face scrunched in cute confusion, like that made it any better.

"You should watch," Billy said coolly, glancing Eddie over in his pseudo-dismissive way.

Eddie glanced at the screen: two oiled up guys in briefs were going at it. He snorted. "Let me know when you two start wrestling, and I'll come watch. Until then," he said and wandered off to take his post-work shower.

Toweling his hair off after, Eddie passed by the TV again on his way to the kitchen to grab a beer. He saw something out of the corner of his eye and stopped dead.

"Who's that?" he asked, eyes wide on the screen.

"That's Mankind," Billy said, voice smug.

"Mankind?" Eddie repeated, because how cool was that? This weirdo guy in a fucked up mask and disheveled button-down and tie was lurching out, holding a steel chair, walking toward some giant cage around the ring. "What's he doing?"

"It's a Hell in a Cell match," Steve said.

Eddie's head snapped toward Steve. "Hell in a Cell?" he mugged. That didn't sound like sport. That sounded kind of metal. He looked back at the screen. "Holy shit, is he climbing the cage?"

"I guess so," Billy said, readjusting to let Steve sit up. Steve tended to want to sit up and lean forward when he was getting into something on TV, and Eddie glanced back to watch him with affection.

There was a bell tolling on the TV, and when Eddie looked back over, he nearly dropped his beer can. The lights were out, and the crowd was screaming. "Who is that?" he asked.

"That's The Undertaker," Billy laughed.

"Stop blocking the TV and sit down, dude!" Steve called, patting the spot next to him.

"Is he getting on top of the cage too?" Eddie asked, voice going a little high. He scrambled to get next to Steve. "Are they gonna fight on top of the cage, over the ring?"

"We're definitely about to find out," Billy said, and he gave one of Eddie's curls a teasing tug once he was settled. Eddie swatted his hand away without even looking.

Maybe wrestling wasn't so bad.

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darleenjade · 27 days ago

Text

The Hookup | chapter 1 / 8

This is my entry to @harringrovesummerbingo 2025, prompt A1: cold shivers. No warnings. Tags: lemons, lots of lemons, exhibitionism, frotting. Words: 2,803

Summary: On nights like these, Steve was always on the lookout for something in particular. Sometimes it was more this and sometimes it was more that or something in between, always depending on how bad it had been at work lately. Tonight he had a very specific, long list of things he wanted—and he wouldn’t slip from it.

Read on AO3 >>

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Steve had been here before, standing outside the club called Sin. Yes, several times. Just like he was doing now. He should’ve just walked in. He knew he wanted to; he needed to, yet he hesitated.

He’d done it before, hooked up with guys when he needed a quick release. But never here in San Diego, where he could run into a colleague or worse, his boss. But he hadn’t been traveling to New York or LA for a while, where he usually looked for the kind of connection he needed tonight.

And he was under a lot of pressure, both metaphorically and physically. He needed to get off.

A blond guy leaning against the brick wall a few feet away clocked his indecisiveness and walked to him. “Hey, handsome, you looking for some fun?”

On nights like these, Steve was always on the lookout for something in particular. Sometimes it was more this and sometimes it was more that or something in between, always depending on how bad it had been at work lately. Tonight he had a very specific, long list of things he wanted—and he wouldn’t slip from it.

He gave the guy a quick once-over. Too lanky. Steve didn’t even have to go to his list to cut this guy out. He was desperate, but not that desperate. “Sorry, not tonight,” he said and angled towards the door of the club. The longer he lingered here on the pavement and didn’t go in, the more likely more hookers and anyone he didn’t want to see him actually seeing him became.

The first thing that hit him was the bass—strong enough to punch a hole through his chest. Next thing was the heat—muggy, tinged with sweat and the tang of spilled drinks. He pressed forward, blinking away the afterimages from neon lasers that, for all he knew, were set to epileptic. The club’s main room heaved, a sea of writhing bodies in every stage of undress.

He moved toward the bar, dodging two different elbows and one blue angel (instead of thanking him, the person holding the drink threw a deadly glare at him as if he’d been the one trying to steal the drink and not them shoving it into his chest).

He made it to the counter and leaned in. “Gin and tonic,” he shouted at the bartender, who got to work. He let himself breathe for a moment, scanning the dance floor that was a storming sea under strobing lights, enjoying the view. The week had been bad in epic proportions, and he’d decided to reward himself for surviving it with a blond head of hair, wide shoulders and a well-built frame—and he was certain this would be the place to find one.

The bartender set down his drink, ice cubes clinking on the glass, as Steve slid a bill across. He turned to lean against the bar and watched the crowd, sipped his drink, and waited to see something he liked.

Three sips in, he saw it.

Posted up against the far wall, arms crossed, holding a beer bottle from its neck with three fingers and scanning the crowd slowly with shark-like sharpness: waiting to find a suitable prey, ready to bite the moment he saw it.

Steve went through his list quickly.

Dirty blonde, sun-bleached in a way you couldn’t fake, pulled back behind his shoulder, revealing a tattoo on his neck—check.

Nice face—check.

Wide shoulders—check.

Nice rack. The white tank top left nothing to the imagination. This guy had definitely not missed an upper-body day at the gym. Very much check.

Nice waist—check. The jeans were clinging to his shape so tight they were threatening to void any warranties. Steve wondered briefly what the guy’s ass looked like. Those jeans were way too tight for him not to have some cake to show, if anything could be concluded from the way he had his pecs on show.

So far, so good.

He let his gaze linger on the blonde’s features for a while—the sharp eyebrows, the edge of his jaw. He was still too far to see his face in more detail, but the guy kept licking his lips, and Steve was certain they were as kissable up close as they looked like from afar.

For a moment he wondered if the guy would even notice someone like him—a blazer, a polo and slacks with a haircut that screamed executive floor and a country club membership (Steve still liked his hair longer than his boss, though, and no, he didn’t have one). Probably not, unless he wanted to make fun of someone.

It didn’t mean Steve wasn’t willing to give it a try.

He drank from his glass and let the gin burn his throat. He tried to look away, not willing to make his mind just yet on who to pursue tonight. But the guy was like a magnet, pulling his eyes back time after time. Even if his mind maybe hadn’t yet decided what it wanted, his dick clearly had.

The guy must’ve felt the stare because he turned his head, slowly and deliberately, and aimed his gaze at Steve.

Steve thought he was just being sized up and soon dismissed, but the guy’s mouth curved, just a little. The kind of smile that said I see you, and I see you seeing me. Steve grinned back.

The song changed, and people went wilder on the dance floor, throwing arms in the air, skin shining under the lights.

Steve turned back to the bar just enough to set his now empty glass down, then looked back to see if the guy was still watching.

He was.

Game on.

For the next five minutes, they just measured each other.

Steve tried to play it cool—which was difficult, considering that the blonde was steaming hot and Steve wanted to have his hands on those pecks and to bury his face between them now—and he leaned against the bar, every so often catching the guy’s eyes and shooting back a smirk of his own.

Across the room, the guy did the same—never lingering too long, but always circling his gaze back like a great white shark, closing in, preparing for attack. He shot dazzling smiles at Steve, all teeth, and licked his lips like he was salivating, ready to eat him alive.

Steve tried to think of a plan. Should he wait for an opening, let the guy come to him? Though, patience had never really been his strong suit. He straightened his shirt, ran his fingers through his hair, and started making his way through the crowd.

He caught a glimpse of the guy, now closer, clearly having the same idea as Steve, because he was coming towards him straight ahead. Steve pretended not to notice the way people parted just a little for the guy’s swagger. He definitely was something else.

Unfortunately, it looked like they would meet on the dance floor instead of on the side of it. Steve hadn’t danced in public since the winter ball in high school, a long time ago. But as the blonde got closer, Steve felt the pressure leaving him. He was here for one reason only, and with the way the guy devoured him with his eyes, he was sure he could manage some dancing.

The sea of slick bodies and hands up in the air, swaying in the thick beat of the bass like kelp in the ocean, invited them in. The music was so loud you could only talk by leaning in close enough to breathe into the other person’s ear. Steve didn’t bother when the blonde didn’t either, which told Steve that neither of them was here to chat and they were after the same thing.

They moved in sync, more or less, the blonde in the lead, Steve following. Every time the blonde spun away, he came back closer until there was barely a breath of air between their bodies.

Steve felt the layers of his self-consciousness peel away, replaced by something electric. This was what he’d come here for—to be seen and wanted, and to want someone in return.

Billy wasn’t sure how many songs had passed—maybe one, maybe five—they all blended into each other with the same pulse. At some point, his hands had found pretty boy’s hips and hadn’t let go since. The man was now loose and pliant, fever-hot in his grip, no longer as stuck up as he’d seemed at first, starting from his clothes that totally gave strong suburban dad vibes (hey everyone needed to let loose, Billy didn’t judge). But pretty boy had a strong jawline, totally kissable lips, beauty marks all over, and the most gorgeous brown eyes Billy had ever seen. All of it had made him curious earlier about why the man was here in the first place: was he here just to dance or for the same reason Billy was?

You never really knew with these types. If they were just dipping their feet into the water to see if it was too cold for them or if they were seasoned swimmers. Billy wasn’t looking for a rookie tonight.

But here, in close proximity, it was clear that they were indeed after the same thing.

They didn’t so much dance as orbit. Billy gripped pretty boy’s waist, pulled him tight, then let him get away just enough for the air between them to cool before reeling him back. The first few times they collided were awkward, a little desperate, but soon the guy caught the rhythm and pressed in, chest to chest, face close enough that Billy could taste the alcohol in his breath. The dark hair bounced with every movement, always perfect.

Billy wanted to run his hands through it and ruin it for good.

Next time Billy pulled him against him, pretty boy slid his arms around Billy’s waist, and for a beat Billy thought he was going to pull him into a kiss right there. But pretty boy just hovered, nose brushing Billy’s cheek, lips ghosting over his ear.

“You know,” Billy said now that he was close enough, “you’re a lot more fun than you look.”

Pretty boy grinned. “I’m full of surprises.” He slid his hand from Billy’s waist down and over the curve of his ass and squeezed, hard enough to make Billy suck in a startled breath.

Billy didn’t pull away. He ground his thigh up between pretty boy’s legs, and when he felt the guy’s cock harden against his own, his body lit up, heat and pressure throbbing all over. He took pretty boy’s hand and pulled him off the dance floor to the club’s shadowy back.

It was painted with black light murals of naked men and demons and things that looked everything in between. The music was a dull roar back here, less physical, more background noise.

They crashed against a pillar, and Billy wasted no time, pinning pretty boy to it. The collision was messy, all lips and teeth and heat. The guy opened to him instantly, curling his tongue around Billy’s the moment they touched.

Pretty boy tangled both his hands in Billy’s hair, pulling him even closer and locking their lips together. His mouth tasted like cheap gin, but the aftershave on his stubbled skin was definitely expensive.

Billy slid his hand under the pretty boy’s shirt, making him arch in response. The friction was electric, and the guy responded in kind, hands exploring every angle of Billy’s body.

They broke apart, just enough to breathe.

Pretty boy’s eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, and his cheeks were flushed a dangerous red. “You’re something else,” he said, almost reverently.

Billy’s response was to bite his jaw, not enough to hurt, just to make him stifle a breath. “You wouldn’t be here if I were anything else, would you?” he murmured, lips still pressed to the guy’s skin.

“No,” pretty boy said, and then pulled Billy’s face up to another kiss, slower but no less greedy.

Billy could feel the solid line of pretty boy’s dick straining against him, could feel his own doing the same. He ground down, rolling his hips with intent, making both of them moan.

Pretty boy’s hands sneaked around to cup Billy’s ass, fingers digging in with urgency.

Billy hooked a finger into pretty boy’s belt loop and started to drag him further back in the space. The guy resisted a little, making Billy look back and grin when he met the teasing smirk on the guy’s face. He found a corner, one of the several nooks behind a beaded curtain.

It was barely big enough for two. Billy pushed pretty boy inside, pressing him against the wall with his own body. He licked his neck, feeling his heartbeat, wild and rapid, on his tongue, feeling his hands on his hips, dipping underneath the waistband of Billy’s jeans, reaching for the button.

Billy hurried pretty boy’s belt open and the zipper down, and pushed his hand inside, palming through soft briefs, feeling a wet spot already there. His eyes widened as he felt the size of what he was holding.

Pretty boy hissed, teeth clenched. “Fuck,” he muttered, breath hitching. His hand was under Billy’s tank, squeezing his pec, the tender nipple between his fingers. The other hand was working Billy’s jeans open in a hurry, releasing Billy’s dick that was painfully throbbing. He didn’t waste time but lined their dicks up and closed his hand around them both.

“Oh, fuck,” Billy hissed.

The words were barely out before pretty boy started stroking, making Billy shudder and grab pretty boy’s shoulder for support. Their hips rolled into his grip, both of them rutting shamelessly.

It was perfect.

Both of them were hungry and greedy, chasing the same high with fervor, and Billy could feel the familiar stir in his abdomen, heat gathering that preceded the inevitable.

Pretty boy’s body was tensing, breath coming in short, sharp gasps, his ruts becoming more urgent. “I’m, ah, fuck—” he choked on the words.

“Yeah,” Billy said, placing his hand around pretty boy’s on their dicks and urging him to stroke faster. “Yeah, me too.”

It didn’t take long for Billy to come, hard and fast, groaning and spilling himself over both of their fists. Pretty boy followed a moment later, biting down on Billy’s shoulder to stifle a moan.

They stood there for a while, locked together, breathing hard.

“You’re a…big boy,” Billy said, voice soft.

“That’s usually said before,” pretty boy chuckled.

“I never do things like they’re usually done.”

Pretty boy hummed as he let go. “I like that. Breaking the rules.”

Billy let go and leaned back a little, wiped his hand on the hem of his tank and tucked himself back into his jeans. “What if there are no rules to begin with?” To his surprise, pretty boy had dug a napkin from somewhere and was wiping his hand and dick with it before getting himself back in his briefs and slacks. “You always come prepared?” he asked, amused.

Pretty boy looked at him with a slow smile. “Nights like this, always.”

Billy just watched him for a while. He wasn’t looking for anything more than what had just happened; he didn’t have the time or the mental space for something like a serious relationship. Business took up all his time right now, with too many projects happening all at once. If he would’ve had the time…then, maybe. But definitely not now.

Even though the encounter was well over, Steve didn’t want it to end. So he lingered, trying to prolong it as he leaned against the wall, still catching his breath as he looked at the blonde. There was something about him that made him intrigued. To his surprise he wished that work wouldn’t have been so hectic right now. His working all day every day didn’t really leave any space for anything serious.

He was just about to say that this was all they could have when the blonde spoke.

“Thanks for the…dance,” he said with a grin and winked before he slipped back into the chaos of the club, disappearing instantly, as if he’d never been there at all.

Steve stood alone there for a moment, processing the last fifteen minutes—scratch that, the last hour. He’d had encounters like this so, so many times, yet this one…The blonde had been perfect, filling each and every box on his list. Steve realized that he had also created a few new ones, probably making it impossible for anyone else to complete the list.

Fuck.

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