suspiciouslackofclowns - Tumblr blog

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And as we wind on down the road Our shadows taller than our soul There walks a lady we all know Who shines white light and wants to show How everything still turns to gold And if you listen very hard The tune will come to you at last When all are one, and one is all To be a rock and not to roll

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This has probably already been said, but it’s usually because your mind is used to the formatting + you tend to skip over mistakes because you subconsciously already know what words are supposed to be there. So you only notice the mistakes when the formatting changes somehow.

You can do things like read it backwards, or if you’re lazy like me, you can change the font/font size/color and do a final read through. It forces your eyes to not skip over the mistakes so you’ll be less likely to overlook the same little typo a hundred times.

writers when they’re proofreading their works for the 34th time *find zero mistakes, there’s no typo, no grammatical error. everything looks good. hit the post button*

writers when they’re reading said works after they’ve been published like proud parents *find 52 mistakes at first glance, 38 typos and 14 grammatical errors with a bunch of inconsistencies and plot holes*

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some lovey dovey calicheer stuff that i wasnt going to post but here it is now :]

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I had to

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Donation request form @adeityofchaos for #HarringroveForPalestine

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i still think the funniest stranger things fandom moment will always be when billys scene in season 4 aired and we were all like "somethings up... thats not his ass..."

only to have it later confirmed it was in fact a body double because dacre couldnt be on set with sadie

cia should hire us

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Pretty boy getting a ride 🩼🚙💨

Purely self indulgent thing. I broke my leg recently and was told I should draw Steve in a cast too, not to feel so lonely and I did 🤭

🔪🔪🔪 в вк не репостить🔪🔪🔪  

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He doesn't talk anymore.

It was a jarring switch, and everyone still isn't used to Steve's persistent silence.

Because before, he was nearly as chatty as Dustin. Always trying to make the kids laugh, yelling at them and calling them shitheads (albeit lovingly).

He doesn't even laugh anymore.

His windpipe had been badly crushed by the demobat's tail wrapped snugly around his neck.

He had needed surgery.

Surgery that had only added to the lacerations and the keloid scars around on his neck.

And really, it's not that he can't talk.

He couldn't for awhile, and it still hurts sometimes.

But he doesn't fucking want to.

He has nothing left to say.

Because he had made peace with death.

Several times, actually. Throwing the burning bottles, being choked in a dried-out lake by a creature straight from his nightmares.

In fact, he had been mostly ready to venture into the sweet beyond since last summer.

His leg shook under the table, and he was staring at the silver ring on his thumb, spinning it around, and around.

He didn't really like when Robin left him alone at their donation table, she was much better at talking to the people that stopped by, bringing more clothes they didn't need, or coming to pick up something to replace what's been lost.

But Robin was doing her best to move on. Chatting up Vickie in some corner, somewhere.

A small cough got Steve's attention.

It was Susan. Hargrove. Mayfield? Did she go back to her previous name after her abusive husband left her with the corpse of his son?

"I found another box. I guess Maxine had been-" her eyes welled up, and Steve's hands stopped spinning the ring around his thumb. "Well, I think she kept some things of his."

Steve's hands shook as he stood up.

He knew Billy and Max had been much closer than they let on.

He knew Max missed Billy more than she could really express.

He opened the box.

Right on top.

It was that fucking jacket.

The brown leather one. The one that was older and softer, more worn than anything else Billy owned.

Because he loved it. Because he took care of it. Because it was his favorite.

And something in Steve broke a little, and he raised the jacket to his face, and he breathed in deeply. He didn't care who saw. He didn't care that Susan's face had gone pale and her tears had started falling for real.

"Oh."

He barely heard her voice over the blood rushing in his ears, the smell and the memories and don't fucking cry, Steven!

Susan closed the box up carefully. Steve finally lowered the jacket.

"I can put this in your car. So you can keep them. You deserve to-" she glanced down at his hands, and the silver ring, tarnished and glinting on his thumb. "keep them."

Steve brought his hand up to his wobbling chin, touching his fingertips gently under his lip, bringing his hand back down, palm up.

Thank you.

He hoped she got it. Understood the way she understood his tears.

She took his hand briefly.

"I wish we had met differently. I wish-well. I'm sure you wish the same thing."

Steve nodded. His leg had started shaking again, making his whole body tremble. He felt unsteady on his feet.

He fished his keys out of his pocket, handing them to Susan so she could take the box and tuck it in his trunk.

"You take care, then. You, you remember him well."

Steve nodded again, hot tears dripping off his chin.

Yes, ma'am. He wanted to say. I'll never forget him.

But,

he doesn't talk anymore.

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“He wouldn’t bottom” okay but I profiled him Will Graham style and I cannot imagine him topping, so what now?

‘billy hargrove wouldn’t bottom’ i know him better than you

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Billy Hargrove's wearing his jacket.

The denim one, the oversized one Steve bought because he thought the three-sizes-too-big look was A Look, the one that fits near perfectly around Billy's broad shoulders and toned arms, just a little long at the sleeve cuffs.

His shirt's open, his tits are out, he's in Steve's fucking jacket in the middle of school.

The bastard won't even kiss him but he'll steal his clothes. He'll let Steve burn for him. He'll watch Steve with dark eyes and an under-the-lashes smoulder as girls fondle him up and whisper in his ear and—

And Steve's about four fucking seconds from launching at him like some kind of rabid animal.

Its been this way ever since Billy saved their asses. He's bigger and badder, somehow, but also... Different. Like he's teething for a fuck not a fight more than anything. Vixen in shoddy leather and eyeliner, all yoga girl curls and lips Steve wants to bite.

The energy and dynamic between them is different, too. Before Billy was feral, always at his throat, thought of Steve like shit on his shoe he couldn't scrape off. Now Billy's like a cat in heat, always purring, aloof but sultry and one second away from going cunt up if only Steve could just get his hands on Billy for longer than four fucking seconds.

It started once Billy was on his feet again. He'd prowled into the school, leather jacket and shades, headed straight past Steve and he'd braced himself for the typical shoulder barge, but when Billy brushed past him it was just that.

A slide of their bodies, a gentle nudge as if to say I'm here, and then Billy was gone. In basketball Billy went from attacking to being the one in front, steady, pliant as Steve shadowed him. Kitten-minx glances over his shoulder, plush mouth curved into a smirk as Steve folded over his back, used the inch and a half he had on Billy to his advantage.

The touching grew bolder. Billy would slouch in his seat in class, legs spreading, knee pressing into Steve's thigh as he doodled in his books, because Billy Hargrove was a straight A student who somehow never wrote an actual fucking word in class ever.

At the lockers when Steve was talking to Tommy Billy would lean back or sideways against him, as if Steve was just another inanimate blue locker, never once looking at him but always a burning hot weight against him, the coconut scent of his shampoo lodged in his lungs.

Billy would suck on pencils while staring straight at him. Billy would arch his back and run his hands down his hips in the showers with Steve less than three feet away. Billy would prowl through the halls, hips swaying, coming to heel at Steve's looks or motions like a leashed pet.

Eventually; Billy would straddle his thighs behind the old caretaker's shed, would blow smoke into his mouth with less than an inch between their lips or pour shitty vodka down his throat between classes, because around the kids he's still Pack Mom Steve but around Billy he's something else.

They're a wildfire, a temporary flash of all-consuming heat and danger and then they'll snuff out, burnt to ash and char and smoke.

Eventually; Billy would sprawl out in Steve's bed, ocean eyes hazy, syrupy drawl making fun of Steve's posters and music and closet while Steve lay beside him, always always thinking of rolling over, stealing the smoke-sour breath right out of his lungs.

They're.

They're not a couple.

Not nothing, just...

Something.

Because Billy will let Steve crowd him back against the Camaro now; pressed ankle to chest, mouths inches apart, will look up at him sugar-sweet under his lashes, vicious smirk, lazy drawl until Steve's forced to back away because if he doesn't their first time is gonna be Billy bent over the hood in the school fucking lot, and not once does Billy threaten him, or bite at him, or kill him in broad daylight.

Because Billy's wearing a jacket Steve doesn't ever remember giving him the opportunity to take, and its a primal sort of claim that has Steve vibrating on the damn spot, itching to know if it still smells like him, if Billy's walking around with Steve's scent saturating his soft skin.

Tommy's too busy sucking Carol's tongue right out of her throat to notice so Steve gives in to the baser urge, lopes through the hallway to slide an arm around Billy's tiny little waist, fingers curling in the familiar washed-soft fabric. Billy automatically leans back, like he knows exactly which idiot is brave enough to just grab at him like this.

Like there's only one idiot who actually has permission to.

The jacket still smells like him.

"I like your new style," he murmurs, husky-low, the voice that used to bribe Nancy out of her conservative sweaters and button-up skirts. "It suits you."

Billy shifts, slide of Steve's hip against the back of his, then they're side by side and just two dudes in a hallway again, maybe a little too close but hey, nobody's hands are in pants, so.

It drives him insane all day. They don't have classes together but Billy's suddenly everywhere Steve looks, in his jacket, and his thighs ache with the memory of Billy's weight on them, wonders if one day Billy'd let him fuck him in nothing but that faded denim and silver.

He'd make him bounce on it, leave the jacket open so the denim slid over his chest, scraped and sparked where he was sensitive.

And because they're doing this all ass-backwards maybe Billy will even let him hold his hand after.

After school, waiting for the kids, Steve crowds Billy back against the Beemer, boxes him in, traces where the hem of the jacket rides a half-inch above the hem of Billy's jeans with his thumb.

"Somethin' to say, pretty boy?" Billy purrs, low-smoke whiskey and gravel, cants his hips forwards Its indecent. Its risky. Dangerous.

Everything Steve drools over, burns for in his veins like his next fix when it comes to Billy Hargrove.

"When you let me," he rasps, voice wavering, because in the wild the she-wolf chooses to go cunt up for the stud, makes him prove himself first, "when you let me fuck you, wear this? Wear it please?" he begs.

Billy just smiles, saccharine slow. Thick syrup Steve will drown in.

(Later, two weeks later, Steve will buy a jacket in New York when his parents drag him there for a company dinner. Its butter-supple, somewhere between smoke ash and dark chocolate. Costs his whole shopping allowance for the trip but its worth it because Billy steals it the first chance he gets and Billy lets him kiss him for the first time with his hands fisted in the lapels and Billy switches it out for the denim jacket, winks at Steve in the hallway three weeks later and Steve knows.)

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a very unfortunate sketch. YES, guys, I love these injured angels, they deserved better

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I saw this on twitter and... I mean, you know... you understand me right

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And then what? I like to catch snowflakes with my mouth. Native port number 777. We slept with friends under the bridge. (I was going through my old unfinished sketches and decided now to redraw and finish one of them.)

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Are we ever gonna talk about the fact that Billy straight up lied to Neil and Susan about Max's whereabouts, even though he knew full well she was off somewhere with Lucas?

He literally told Karen he went to Lucas's house first because he thought she was there. But he lied to Neil and said he didn't know where she went, even though he had a good idea of where she would be.

Susan's child is missing, she's clearly worried, and he deliberately withheld information.

This is the face of man who is about to lie.

"I'm sure she just, I dunno, went to the arcade or something. I'm sure she's fine."

You know where she is. And you're covering it up.

And he wasn't even concerned. He only got mad because it caused him problems.

I'm sure he was protecting himself and Max at that moment, Not only did he withhold information, he didn't bother to cooperate with Neil and Susan in any way that would help them find Max either.

Why do you think that is

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Dacre Montgomery - Politix Fall 2024

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Everytime I'm reminded that Billy really could have had the most raw complex interesting gay storyline in the history of media, but the Duffers are shit writers...

Like could you imagine how great this would have been. A gay character that's allowed to be problematic. Complex. Rageful. His story isn't fluffy. It isn't cute.

It's unapologetically a raw story of a gay teen in the 80s with rage issues, an abusive father, an absent mother and no support system.

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They're being chased by a monster and yet their first instinct at hearing Dustin singing on the radio is to judge him. I love them so much.