#hit me up harringrove peeps

[lomlhargrove]

hey all of you lovely people !! my name is mollee, i’m 26 y/o and i’m in the market for some friends to roleplay harringrove (billy hargrove x steve harrington) with! it’s my main fixation right now and i’m absolutely in the deep end with them, so i need some 18+ peeps to feed me some of the good stuff. i can play either billy or steve so i’m not picky, i can rp whoever you don’t feel comfy doing. length isn’t an issue, i typically try to match my partner but sometimes my replies can get long when i’m inspired or extra chatty! umm lets see, i’m fine with nsfw (i love it), and i’m cool with angst, drama, hurt/comfort, fluff-- i love putting my characters through pain haha.  so if anyone 18+ is down to roleplay some harringrove with me like this post or hit me up and i’ll get back to you! We can exchange discords after some talking. this is also a sideblog to talldarknsalty, so i may message you from there too but its me! 

[theaxisofidiocy]

Yo this is not an informational post. This is an emotional rant based on things Ive heard and not confirmed. Just a psa

So I love stranger things two and the more I think about it the more I love Billy Hargrove and want to see his character broken down and put through some interesting development in future. Trouble is, this simple desire is apparently highly controversial on the tungl dot come because of the demand for  ideological purity and teenagers with no dissociation between fiction and reality being given an anonymous internet megaphone to broadcast their frustration with the world. I’m no stranger to such anti fandom discourse, I tend to like dark characters and ship dark ships (where dark = problematic) so Im used to the whole “ew gross these people are horrible bigoted nazi pedo[hile abusive dog shit lumps because arbitrary fiction opinion” thing though I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me at all. I’m a pretty sensitive person so yea sometimes it hurts but whatever that’s my problem rationally I know that none of this matters. love isn’t real. death is certain. embrace the void.

 So anyway Billy. Oh Billy. My dear sweet sweet self destructive asshole trainwreck of a baby boy. Important to note is that I did not love him immediately. At first  I hated him. He seemed really obnoxious and pointless. Then the last episode happened. We’ll talk more about that later.

I started to get into the Billy and harringrove fandom subset a bit and let myself hope for character development. Then I heard that apparently the creators of the show have confirmed that they’re not going anywhere with Billy’s character because he’s just the new villain. um....ok....what

(i haven’t actually been able to find the source for this but hey im a pessimist so lets just assume it’s true while staying open to it being false. wow what a concept. mental flexibility.)

And I know there are a lot of fans who would like this as well, for Billy to just be the one dimensional villain and hopefully be brutally killed off as soon as possible.

And I gotta tell you guys...that is just terrible writing.

Like I said I hated him at first. He was mean and obnoxious and had a stupid mullet and did nothing of value and why was he even here? Apart from obviously being meant to contrast with Steve to prove how much better he is now which...cmon...did we really need that? Do we not have eyeballs? It felt stupid and condescending and I was truly annoyed everytime he came on screen. Gradually I became intrigued by just how fixated on Steve billy seemed to be. That was weird. Didn’t know what to make of it. Then episode 9 happened.

so hey any writers out there, if you want me to all out hate and not care about a character who you only meant to be a one dimensional villain, here’s what you dont do; you dont contextualize his behavior in a relatable and sympathetic way. Revealing his father’s abuse made soooo many things about Billy suddenly make sense. It even painted some in a new light as I looked back and realized just how self destructive most of his actions are. A lot of people also began reading him as gay, which Im not so sure of since tv loooves to queerbait, but I do agree it’s a perfectly logical interpretation of what we’ve seen. The whole scene was a giant “ooooooohhhhh” moment. With that little piece of context as to Billy’s perspective on his family (that he fears his father, that he is responsible for Max under threat of violence and thus resents her, etc) his character suddenly became...an actual character. An interesting character, that I want to see more of.

I cant for the life of me think why they decided to add this scene if they intended Billy to be a flat villain that we’re not supposed to care about. It utterly baffles me. Why? Why would you do that? This show is full of amazing, complex characters whose entire appeal is that they feel real and have flaws. So why would you add another one, but tell us that he’s not supposed to be complex or real and we’re just supposed to hate him and accept him as the dull bully villain?

I hope to god that these things Ive heard aren’t true because if they are I have a sinking feeling that the writing in this show is about to take a nosedive.

[biillyhargroves]

Hi! I have a fic request! :) Post season 3 Harringrove. Billy is home from the hospital and still recovering from his injuries. Steve is terrified of losing Billy and he is struggling. He feels like every time he looks at Billy he can't help but relive it all. He's trying to be there for Billy as much as he can but one day he just can't cope with it and just breaks down. Billy sees how much Steve is suffering and tries to assure him that he's not going anywhere and that he didn't lose him.

twisting heartache into fine(fic requests open)

Steve keeps a running list of things he cannot allow Billy to know:

(1) that he watches Billy sleep - not in a creepy way, of course, but rather to make sure that Billy is still alive, still breathing; (2) that sometimes the gap between Billy’s inhales and exhales stretch a second too long and Steve’s heart jumps up in his throat, and on more than one occasion he has held his hands over Billy’s chest, fully prepared to do compressions, only to feel the air softly ease from Billy’s lungs at the very last second; (3) that he cannot look at the scars across Billy’s back and shoulders, carved into his chest, sliced through his sides and snaking over his belly, without seeing them open and bleeding and smeared with black sludge; (4) that he cannot sleep without seeing Billy, pale and sickly, on the tiled floor of the mall - small in a hospital bed - weak on shaky legs, gripping door jabs and walls and Steve’s hands for support; (5) that there are fault lines running through him, spreading like spiderwebs all around his heart and cracking through every inch of his being, and that they spread every time Billy winces or curses in pain, every time Billy’s cheeks flush with embarrassment when he asks for Steve’s help, every time Billy wakes with an agonized cry; (6) that Steve thinks those cracks might soon split - that he might, himself, be breaking.

“I can do that,” Billy insists. His voice is soft and rasping, his throat still raw from the tubes that had done most of his breathing in the first weeks since Starcourt. He holds out his hand. Steve shakes his head. 

“No,” he says. “I got it.” 

Billy does not fight him. This, too, fractures Steve’s waning resolve. Billy has always been fierce, stubborn, arrogant. He has always been pushy, has always shoved back against offerings of help, has always demanded his independence. Steve remembers, once, when Billy had been laid up with the flu. Everything had been a fight, from taking Billy’s temperature to getting food in him. Billy couldn’t seem to do anything without resistance. Steve remembers, too, being endlessly frustrated by Billy’s bullheadedness. He even remembers cursing him for it, telling Billy to get over himself. He remembers the satisfaction Billy had gotten when Steve’s voice tightened and tense, remembers being relieved when Billy had finally asleep, because it had meant that the fighting would stop awhile, that Billy would finally be quiet.

Now, Billy is quiet. He is compliant. Steve would give anything to hear Billy call him a shithead and tell him to fuck off just one damn time. Instead, with his throat still hurting too much to talk, Billy’s words are short and clipped and sparing. His energy is spent keeping himself awake, holding himself upright, and he rarely has enough leftover to even try to push Steve’s buttons. 

Where he otherwise may have swiped the damp washcloth from Steve’s hands, now he only peels his shirt from his own back. He thumbs at the gummy medical tape holding his surgical dressings down and, when he struggles to get it off, he lets Steve do it for him. He hangs his head in resignation. He doesn’t fight when Steve dabs around his stitches, doesn’t twist away when Steve hits a tender spot, doesn’t berate Steve or tease him, doesn’t even make a single snide, flirtatious remark when Steve lowers the waistband of Billy’s pants to reach the tail end of the scars that stretch down past his hips. 

Steve avoids looking him in the eye. He works quickly, and mutters quiet apologizes when he knows he’s pressed too hard or is edging too close to a sensitive spot. Billy says nothing. Not a peep, not a single word. Steve squeezes a thick white cream from a prescription tube and rubs it onto Billy’s scars. His fingers dance around the thick knots of his stitches. 

“Leave it,” Steve says when Billy pokes at some cream not quite soaked in on his chest. He listens, dropping his hand and not even chiding Steve for treating him like a child. Steve can hear the words he should be saying: Come on, Harrington, Billy might have sighed, or I’m not fucking five. Those fissures inside Steve broaden to valleys. Steve’s throat tightens. His cheeks feel hot. He thinks that they must be red, and he tries not to let Billy see. “I’m almost done,” he says, hoping that Billy won’t hear the tension in his voice, hoping that Billy is too tired to notice the tear that he can’t hold back. 

“Steve?” Billy says in that new, quiet, raspy way of his. 

“Just a few more minutes,” Steve says. “I promise.”

“Steve,” Billy says again, no longer questioning. Steve sets the tube down and tears open a blue and white package of gauze. He starts to unravel the roll when a heavy hand stops him. There are scares on Billy’s fingers, too, some of them fresh and others long faded. Steve has never noticed so much detail there before. 

“Just-” Steve starts, and then he tries, “I need-”

He sighs. There is heat in his throat and burning all up his neck. He can feel his heart pounding. He blinks and he swipes at his cheeks in a desperate attempt to ward off the tears he can no longer keep from falling. 

“Give me a minute,” Steve says all too quickly. He sets the gauze on the bed and he rises to his feet. He turns his back to Billy in the hopes that Billy will not see his ever-growing distress. “I just need a minute,” he repeats. The words come out a jumbled mess, each one crash-landing into the next, and he is already moving before he finishes. Billy’s hand catches his wrist; Steve slips through his grasp, but Billy tightens his hold before Steve can get his fingers free. 

“Steve,” he says again, and he almost sounds desperate, and this is the metaphorical straw that breaks the camels back. Steve can hear the sob he is trying to surpress come out when he speaks.

“Billy, just- just give me a second, okay, I just-”

Just what? Steve doesn’t quite know himself. Maybe that is why he stands there, why he doesn’t tear his hand away, why- when Billy tugs on him -he lets himself fall back against the bed. He still won’t look at Billy, but he does let Billy thread their fingers together. He almost flinches when Billy’s raises his free hand, and a shiver ripples down Steve’s spine when Billy’s thumb brushes his jaw. 

At this gentle touch, Steve finally raises his eyes, and the sorrow in Billy’s makes him wish that he hadn’t. He looks hurt, and this hurts Steve more, and Steve would turn away against if Billy’s hand were not cupping his cheek. Billy looks like he wants to say something, but no words come out. Instead, he leans forward until their foreheads are touching. Steve’s tears are falling freely now, and he doesn't know how to make them stop.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “This is stupid.”

Billy’s hand comes to the back of Steve’s head. He can feel Billy’s fingers in his hair. Steve squeezes his eyes shut. Billy shakes his head.

“It’s not stupid,” he says.

“You don’t need this,” Steve says.

“I don’t care,” Billy says.

“I just-” Steve starts, and then he shakes his head. Billy holds him more firmly.

“Tell me,” he says. Steve lets out a long sigh. 

“I keep thinking about what you looked like,” he says, “that night. I can’t get it out of my head. The scars- they- I keep- I keep seeing them the way they were, and I keep thinking that- I just don’t- I don’t want to lose you.” 

His head comes to rest on Billy’s shoulder now, and Billy wraps both arms around him. He rubs circles against Steve’s back and this makes Steve cry more. He cries because Billy is so very gentle with him, cries because Billy should not have to be so gentle, because Billy should not have to comfort him. But here he is, all his wounds exposed and still awaiting fresh dressings, rocking Steve and letting Steve sob against his shoulder. 

“Shh,” he whispers, and Steve all but shatters. 

“This is bullshit,” Steve says, voice shaky and soaked with tears, and Billy tucks Steve’s head beneath his chin. Steve can feel him shaking his head. 

“No,” Billy tells him. “It’s not.” 

“I’m fine,” Steve lies. He tries to pull away, but Billy has Steve pinned against him and will not let him go. “I just need to-” Steve starts, but Billy cuts him off. 

“I’m fine,” Billy tells him. “I’m fine, too. I’m not going anywhere.” 

“I should be-” Steve starts, and again Billy cuts him off.

“It’s okay,” he tells him. He holds him even tighter and against his better judgment, against everything in his heart that tells him that he needs to pull himself together, that Billy should not have to take care of him, that he needs to finish taking care of Billy, that this is simply not the time to fall apart, he curls closer to Billy. Billy lets him - even encourages him. He whispers, “Shh.” and he holds Steve against his shoulder until Steve calms himself, until Steve sags against him. Even then, when Steve knows he should compose himself, should set back to work on helping Billy, he lets Billy hold him. He lets himself listen to the strong beat of Billy’s heart, to the steady rhythm of his breathing, to Billy’s voice as he murmurs gentle reassurances against Steve’s hair. 

“It’s okay,” Billy promises. “It’s okay.”