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aritany · 29 days

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On Identity: The Truth

Content warnings: homophobia, transphobia, references to self harm and suicide.

I’ve been keeping secrets my whole life.

I’m 10 and I’m listening to my dad at the dinner table, who I know to be the most trustworthy person in the world. He talks about the legalization of marriage between two people of the same sex and asks us to consider the implications. Where do we draw the line in the sand? Legalizing gay marriage paves the way for legalizing pedophilia, after all. If a union between two men or two women isn’t disrespecting the sanctity of marriage, what’s next? Marriage between men and animals?

I’m 11 the first time I hear it: “It doesn’t matter how low I set the bar for you, you still can’t reach it.”

I’m confused and afraid—I’m trying so hard—but I hear it then, and again, and again, spoken low in disappointment, shouted with a vein popping in her forehead, cold like a fact, and it sinks in, bone deep.

I’m 12 with my first crush on a girl. I’m not confused, I know that’s what it is—I want to kiss my friend, and I already know not to talk about it. Never to talk about it. It isn’t safe.

I’m 13 and doubting. I throw myself into fitting in. I pick the right boys to like and I go overboard, and I do like them, I do, I do, I want them to like me, I want to be their friend. I want to be their equal, but that’s not quite how the story goes, so I settle for trying to hold hands with somebody I desperately crave respect from, but that’s wrong too, I learn.

I’m 14 and convicted. How could this be wrong? I brush hands with a girl in choir and we meet eyes and I know. I watch a gay kiss on TV and I sob into my hands and I tell no one, no one, no one.

I’m 15 and I come out to my mom, haltingly, with the terminology that I have, because the thought of hiding forever—keeping quiet through one more dinner—kills me.

She tells me no. She tells me I’m wrong.

I look in her eyes and I understand: it’s not an option, and it never will be.

I’m 15 and I do my best to stop there.

It doesn’t work.

I’m 16 when I first hear my mom say that you can love someone and not approve of their lifestyle. I wonder what kind of love that is. I wonder how that kind of diluted, half-hearted, patronizing love can be enough for anyone. I wonder if she’s thought about how that feels, to be told that who you are—not by choice—is fundamentally wrong.

I’m 16 and a boyfriend is a shield. The right choice, so I make it, and it’s even almost fun. I love being his friend. I’m afraid of anything more.

I’m 17 and my youngest sibling whispers, “So am I.”

My heart breaks for the pain they’ll experience, as they too are taught, painstakingly, how to hate themself. Which parts of themself have to be kept hidden, which parts are shameful. They sit at that dinner table and hear the rhetoric that pushed me to the brink and over it, and I hope they’re stronger than I am.

They aren’t.

I’m 18 and my mom works at a college for the performing arts. I sit and curdle quietly while she talks about her genderqueer students. Misgenders them behind their backs. Deadnames used flippantly. She knows better, after all. She can be the expert on somebody else’s identity. They’re mentally ill, all of them. None of them are happy. They’re searching for something only God can provide.

I’m 19 and I come out as bisexual to the man I’m certain I’m going to marry, tearing the secret out like a bandage fused to skin. He tells me of course it’s fine, that he supports who I am. Of course people like me should have rights, of course. I laugh, relieved. Later, I find out this moment was almost a dealbreaker for him, and I wonder how much was ever real.

I’m 20 and I’m out. I’m 20 and I’m free. I’m 20 and I believe, because I’ve been told, that I am loved for who I am. All of who I am. I still flinch when I hear a car door slam.

I’m 21 and I’m searching for the connection to my womanhood. I’m searching for what makes a woman a woman. I’m reading gender theory and talking to friends around the world and wondering exactly what it is that I’m missing.

What does the rest of the world know that I don’t?

I’m 22 when my marriage ends because my body might not be attractive to my husband one day, and my parents email him in support and solidarity, expressing sympathy, and I’m not surprised.

I’m 22, and standing up for who I am has cost me everything. A spouse, two sets of parents, financial security, a city’s worth of community, more childhood friends than I can count. My parents tell me to go back in the closet so my ex-husband will love me. To them, his frustration is understandable, of course—by presenting androgynously, I’m betraying my marriage vows, after all.

I wonder, stunned into silence, where I promised to look like a woman.

I’m 23 when I come out to my parents for the third time; not as bisexual, not as trans, but as hurt.

I lay out the pain of the last decade as succinctly as I can, hoping they’ll hear. When I assert that yes, to be in relationship with me, use of my name and pronouns is a requirement, my mother jokes, “Well, we don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

It’s not a joke.

I see the flash in her eyes, the instant regret as she laughs it off like it’s funny, but it isn’t.

The kid sitting at the dinner table knows it’s not a joke. The kid who listened to countless lectures on the morality of queerness knows it’s not a joke. The kid who stood with shaking hands and tried to bleed out the bad knows it’s not a joke. Years of casual bigotry taught me how to hate myself, which parts of myself I should cross out and ignore, which parts of myself I should be ashamed of.

I’m 23, and I have finally unlearned shame, and when I ask my parents to see me, the joke is that I’m a terrorist. I’m unreasonable.

The shock of it becomes a balm, later on.

Some jokes aren’t funny.

Some jokes aren’t jokes at all.

I’m 24 and I’m learning that it’s scary to be alone. Bigotry made me an orphan and made us strangers, and knowing that it’s the right choice to stand up for myself doesn’t make it any easier. I’m learning the only way out is through, if you’re not squeamish:

Cut off the part of yourself that’s 7 years old standing outside of their bedroom because the nightmare had teeth and claws and they are the heroes that will hold you close and make it warm again.

Amputate.

Cauterize.

Don’t let them see you bleed.

I’m learning that the wound takes a long, long time to close.

I’m 25 as I write this, and I am proud of who I am, even if I’m still bleeding. All of who I am. It’s taken a long time for me to let that person see the sun, but here we are, basking in the glow. Those wounds are healing. I am visible for everyone else who whispers, “So am I.”

Your sunshine will come. Your sunshine will come.

Your sunshine will come.

#long post #alex talks #tw transphobia #trans day of visibility #international transgender day of visibility #tw homophobia #tw suicide #tw self harm

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sister-lucifer · 26 days

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Sorry but I NEED to hear the elaboration for tim x puppyboy reader in heat and the collage au toby x reader please if you can cuz I'm already dying to hear a snippet of it 😭

aww the puppyboy reader one is cute

poor baby reader is in heat when tim is at work, the first real job he’s had in a while, and they can’t take it. they call tim and beg him to come home, unable to take the need anymore despite knowing how important this job is. tim rushes home without hesitation, and he finds his puppyboy whining and begging to be touched and of course tim has to help them. reader is just so needy, pulling him to the bed while profusely apologizing for being such a bad puppy, pulling him away from work like a bad, bad dog.

tim shushes his puppyboy gently and assures him it’s okay, that they matter to him so much more that any silly job. now they just have to sit back and let him take care of them.

the college au toby x reader is the exact opposite.

reader is a sheltered, repressed christian boy who refuses to acknowledge all the gay thoughts he has. he has to room with toby in his dorm, and toby is not quiet about his queerness. he brings guys home and shamelessly flirts with reader, and reader can’t stand how much they like it!

they snap at him, saying he’s nothing but a sinning homosexual, a dirty, horrible man and that’s it!

toby corners them against the wall, leaning in close and whispering to them.

“if i’m a dirty, horrible man, then you’re going to be absolutely filthy when i’m done with you.”

and when he’s done and they’re both laying on the floor, reader tired and dazed, he acts like he’s about to lean in for a kiss. he pulls away at the last second, leaving reader floundering and confused.

“what?” toby snickers, “i didn’t think you’d want a kiss from a dirty homosexual like me. get yourself cleaned up, faggot.”

[if you wanna see more ideas like this you can find the list here]

#tw internalized homophobia #tw homophobia #i’ve got mail!#fic idea #fic ideas #ticci toby smut #creepypasta #ticci toby x reader smut #male reader #ticci toby x reader #marble hornets #tim wright #tim wright x reader

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weird-an · 1 year

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Billy is straight. Steve is... just a phase. He's confused. Hawkins is wearing him down and he's finally fucking losing it.

Steve isn't Billy's boyfriend. They are just fucking. Billy doesn't miss him when he lies awake at night. Billy doesn't think of him every day.

But Billy's heart cracks a little when he sees Steve in the hallway, laughing at something Nancy Wheeler said. Suddenly jealousy is sitting sour and heavy on his chest.

A boy meets a girl and they fall in love. That's how the story is supposed to go. Billy has listened to it so many times. He just doesn't get why he can't see himself in there. But it will pass, for sure.

He hides under the bleachers, smoking a cigarette for lunch and maybe also avoiding Steve.

He finds him anyway. He always does. When Billy is running from himself, when Billy is trying not to be seen - Steve always sees him.

"Here you are," Steve says, looking behind him. The bell rings. They should go back to class. "I was looking for you."

"Were you?" Billy asks, tone as bitter as he feels.

He shouldn't be worked up about this. Steve's going to find a girl like Nancy again, because Billy and him aren't anything.

Billy isn't in love. Billy can't be in love, because if he is, he's fucked.

"Of course." The words sound so easy. Like it's the most natural thing for Steve to come looking for Billy.

"I missed you," Steve says. "I wanted to find you, but then Nancy.."

He stops. Mid sentence. Billy wonders what he sees in his eyes.

"You don't have to be jealous, Billy." Steve cups his face. "I'm not seeing anyone else."

What is Steve trying to say? There's nothing between them.

"You're not my -" Billy stops when Steve raises his brow.

"I'm not your what?" he asks, a smug smile ghosting over his lips.

Billy swallows dryly, heart fluttering. "Are you... my boyfriend?"

Steve grins at him, bright and happy.

"I have been for a while, Billy."

Happiness, Billy decides, is Steve's arms around him and his laugh in his ear. This isn't just a phase. He hopes it will last.

#i know i know billy in denial #i just love it i can't stop myself #harringrove #billy x steve #harringrove ficlet #billy hargrove #tw internalized homophobia #billy hargrove needs a hug

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suspiciouslackofclowns · 8 months

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Maybe instead of getting better after Starcourt, instead of healing and mending that which has been broken, Billy just gets worse.

There’s no more playful grins behind cigarettes or keg stands held in good fun. No more speeding down empty backroads or engines revving in parking lots. He gets quiet, and that’s the scary part.

Because as soon as someone presses him to talk, he gets mean.

He outright says no when he’s asked to keep an eye on Max, because there are no repercussions anymore — his wounds from the “fire” haven’t healed just yet, and if he shows up in the hospital with new bruises over freshly cracked ribs, the doctors will suspect something.

So the most he gets is a glare from Neil and a stern do it or else.

And Billy, a believer of malicious compliance, picks himself up a walkie-talkie. Does whatever the fuck he wants while the thing sits on his dresser.

If any voices come through, he shuts it off, or at the very least tunes it to a channel that only he and Max use.

She knows better than to use it.

Things between them aren’t any less tense than before, but it’s different now. Now he knows.

So the playing field is even.

He doesn’t meddle in Max’s business, who she hangs around, and Max doesn’t burden him with asking for rides and things alike. Not that he could really do much with his car sitting in the junkyard — Harrington has taken over the task of chauffeur anyway.

Harrington, who apparently also picked himself up a walkie-talkie.

And who somehow managed to learn about Billy and Max’s private channel.

“Hargrove? You there?”

The voice is staticky over the radio, but not out of range. After the brief moment of shock passes, Billy rolls his eyes at the thought of Harrington parked down the block, sitting behind the wheel of his Beamer listening intently for a response.

Rather than reach over to his nightstand, Billy rolls over to face the wall.

His sheets have become more of a nest as of late. Gathered around him in piles because he prefers the chill on his skin to sweating beneath scratchy blankets.

He hasn’t changed the bedding in weeks. Hasn’t opened the blinds or really even left his room at all this summer — the pool has likely already filled his position. Not that he’d be going back any sooner than a year or two from now.

If he ever feels comfortable taking his shirt off again.

“Billy? Look, I know you’re there, man. Max said that this was the channel to reach you on, and—“

Billy snatches the walkie-talkie and holds the button down.

“Go fuck yourself. Over.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then static pours through. Likely the air conditioning in Harrington’s car.

“Touchy,” he tuts. Exhales a heavy sigh and blows a raspberry. “Don’t always have to be such a dick, y’know.”

“Being a dick isn’t something all of us have to try at, rich boy, so put your shit in gear and get off my block.”

There’s another brief pause.

“How’d you know I was in your neighborhood?”

“Walkies don’t work out-of-range, fuckhead.”

“Damn, okay,” Harrington huffs. “Sue me for wondering how you were doing.”

Wondering how I’m doing?

“Wondering how I’m doing?” Billy repeats.

He stares up at the ceiling, brows pinched together.

“Yeah? Y’know, like checking up on you?”

“Why?”

For months, Billy has done nothing but rot in his bed. Too sore to move, too short-fused to bother talking about it.

Too guilty to open any of the get-well-soon cards that he’s received.

Among the poorly-addressed ones with crayon scribbles from his former swimming students, he recalls one almost equally as poorly-addressed dawning the signature Steve Harrington at the bottom.

It was the only envelope he’d bothered to open. Practically had to rip it up with his teeth because of the lack of dexterity in his fingers, though, he never worked up the nerve to dial the number scrawled at the bottom.

Harrington scoffs over the channel.

“It’s like you’ve died or something, man. It’s worrying.”

Disregarding the flush spreading across his cheeks, Billy rolls his eyes and spreads out more atop his comforter.

“If you’re so worried, why didn’t you just ask Max?”

“If she answered my questions, do you think I’d be on this channel right now?”

Billy presses his lips into a line.

He knows he hasn’t been the best brother. Quite the opposite, actually.

But it still aches to learn that Max apparently refuses to so much as talk about him. Makes his limbs sink deeper into the mattress like gravity has doubled down on him.

Makes him want to shut his walkie off and never turn it back on.

“Well, you’re a few months too late on your check-up, Harrington,” Billy rasps. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head at the sound of his own voice coming out so wet and pathetic. “Walking corpse at this point.”

A beat of silence persists. Then the static comes through again.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“I have a therapist that already doesn’t help, thank you.”

“Well, if you change your mind…” Harrington trails off. He holds the talk button down for a long beat, absently tapping his fingers against the door panel in his car. Then, he sighs. “Is it okay if I use this channel again?”

Billy’s vision blurs and he sniffles. Thankful that it can’t be heard by anyone but himself.

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice shakes with it.

And that’s how Billy’s radio goes from being dead silent to constantly filling his room with chatter.

It helps and it hinders all at once.

Billy smiles for what feels like the first time in over a year, and laughs, even. But each time Harrington tells a little joke or giggles over the channel, Billy’s heart starts to ache more deeply.

It opens up old wounds.

He feels like Neil knows, somehow, when they’re both in the kitchen together. Accompanied by nothing but silence.

Neil asks if he can babysit for the weekend, and Billy drops the mug that was in his hand with a shaky wrist, fearing an entirely different question that doesn’t even get asked.

When Neil would normally berate him, he simply watches the way that Billy flexes his fingers. The way that he makes a weak fist, unable to straighten his fingers completely once he relaxes them, and his brows pinch in mild worry.

“Still havin’ trouble?” Neil asks.

His voice is gentle enough that Billy’s eyes well with tears as he nods. Bites his lip to keep it from wobbling.

Neil pulls him into a hug and Billy sobs into his shoulder. Not because of the pain or disability, but because he thinks he’s let a hint of love creep back into his life after all this time.

Which should be a good thing.

For once, Billy agrees to watching Max, if only because he doesn’t have the energy to snark back right now. Neil pats his shoulder and gives it a squeeze. Asks if he’s sure, like it’d be no issue at all for him and Susan to cancel their weekend plans.

Billy can’t help that he huffs a laugh. Can’t help that it comes out sounding closer to a scoff.

Why be accommodating now, after a lifetime of neglect and maltreatment? He shakes his head to himself, and his expression must give his thoughts away.

Neil digs his thumb hard into his shoulder, earning a stifled whimper and another influx of tears.

Billy cleans up the broken mug and wipes the liquid away from the floor by himself, knelt on his achy knees while he’s watched like a hawk from the doorway. Like he might shove the glass under the counter if he’s left unsupervised for even a second.

Over the weekend while their folks are away, Billy takes Max out to pick up a couple of movies and get a few snacks with Susan’s car.

Since he so scarcely leaves the house, he turns a few heads when people recognize him.

None so much as Harrington, who gawks at him from behind the fucking desk at Family Video. Billy glares hard at Max when she smirks at him before disappearing to the horror section.

The brunet is a bit more rugged than Billy recalls. Has a stronger jawline and more hair. Lots more hair.

It makes Billy feel especially pathetic, draped in a t-shirt that used to fit his figure well, but now swallows him more than anything.

That heavy feeling droops his shoulders down. He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks away nonchalantly when Harrington abandons his station, leaving Buckley behind the counter floundering at the register.

“Look who’s out ‘n about,” Harrington chuckles. He has no issue reaching out and setting his hands on Billy’s biceps, moving close as if to inspect him. “Have I always been this much taller than you?”

Billy flushes red and straightens his posture. Brings himself back up to eye-level, which spurs a dull pain in his spine. He must not do well in terms of hiding it, because the brunet’s brows furrow.

“Do you wanna sit down?”

Rather than respond right away, Billy huffs and waves Harrington off of him. Shoots Max another glare when he spies her watching the exchange from behind a shelf.

“All I fuckin’ do is sit,” Billy grumbles. “If I knew I was gonna get a pity parade I would’a just sent the shitbird in.”

Harrington nods to himself. Takes half a step back and smiles.

“Alright with standing, then. Got it.” He tilts his head to the side. Eyes never leaving Billy for even a second. “Your hair’s grown out a lot.”

His gaze is a fond one. Like they aren’t in public right now. Like Billy is his damn girlfriend on prom night, and he’s seeing the gown for the first time.

Billy shrugs. Absently toys with one of the curls that dangles over his collar bone.

That weird pit is back in his stomach. The one that leaves him crying in the dark when Harrington signs off after hours of chatting about everything and nothing at once.

Billy wonders where he parks his car when they talk for that long. If he’s right outside or in the deep quiet of the woods, where the stars can really be seen and the train shakes the ground.

He’d rather Steve just climb through his window.

“I like it,” Steve adds. Nudges Billy’s elbow with his own. “It’s a soft look. Fits you really well.”

“Are you this nice to all the girls that come in here, or just the ones you wanna pork?” Billy teases.

Steve laughs, and it sounds so much better in person. Billy wants nothing more than to bottle it up and keep it forever.

Before the brunet can come back with a snide little joke of his own, Max meanders up to them. Holds up a few tapes for Billy to approve. Without really looking them over, he hands her the cash, and they all move back to the register together.

Steve rings them up. Max pays. Everything is so much slower than it should be going, like he’s trying to prolong the encounter as much as he can.

Billy understands the feeling.

When Steve slides Max the receipt, he’s less smiley. Billy turns to face the door, but doesn’t miss the way that Max nabs a pen and scrawls something on the slip of paper before sliding it back towards Steve.

Billy decides not to pry. Fears that if he asks, he’ll find that it’s some secret nerd shit that he can’t be privy to.

Fears that the heavy feeling will bear down on him again.

He doesn’t have to ask, turns out. The phone rings later that night, and Billy’s blood pressure spikes when Steve’s voice pours over the line.

“You should come out more often,” he says easily. “Really need some sun.”

Billy just tsks. They wind up sitting on the line for a little under half an hour. Billy wishes it lasted longer.

But he’d rather not explain the minutes away when his father shows him the phone bill.

Just before they hang up, after giggling at each other nearly the entire time, Billy barks out, “Don’t call here again.”

Then he hangs up.

Steve, naturally, gets on the radio not a few seconds later. Giggles and says, “Okay, dick. You can call me from now on.”

They stay up for practically the rest of the night talking.

Billy stares up at the ceiling and wonders how long this little thing between them will last.

He starts to question it more when Steve actually, by some miracle, convinces him to come out a handful of times.

The brunet is really touchy. Always has an arm around Billy’s shoulders or a hand on his back, and constantly bumps their knees together when they’re sitting down. Billy feels stupid for wanting more.

Why, he doesn’t know, because he’s fairly certain that he could ask for anything at this point.

Steve never calls again and that’s okay.

Billy prefers hearing whispers over the radio anyway.

It’s one evening in particular that Max is out of the house for the night, away at the Chief’s place for a sleepover, that the pit in Billy’s stomach turns into a black hole.

Steve has been ranting about his manager for the last half hour, only stopping to mention how a movie cover reminded him of Billy. How he couldn’t even wait to get home before he turned his radio on and pressed to talk to him.

The black hole consumes Billy before he can catch the words leaving his mouth.

“Do you like me?” he hears himself ask.

His voice gets choked up, and the second he lifts his finger off of the button, he rolls over and screams into his pillow. Quiet enough that Neil and Susan won’t hear, but hard enough to let a fraction of the tension out.

“Obviously,” Steve says. “Why else would I be friends with you?”

Billy presses his face harder into the pillow.

He can feel the pressure building behind his eyes. Feel the blistering heat of fresh tears and the throb in his temples as he huffs a strangled sigh into the pillow. Before he can even decide between turning the walkie off or fabricating a response, static pours through.

“Jesus Christ, Steve, he means do you have feelings for him,” Max groans.

There’s a beat of silence.

“What? Rea—“

“What the fuck are you doing on this channel?” Billy interrupts.

He can feel the veins in his neck straining from how hard he’s clenching his jaw. Can practically see red when giggles pour through the radio.

A red hot flush of shame paints Billy’s face when he realizes that Eleven is listening in too.

“What are you still doing on this channel? If you didn’t want us to eavesdrop, you should’ve switched forever ago.”

“How long have you been listening to us talk?” There’s a beat of silence. Billy huffs. “Max. How long?”

“How long have you and Steve been talking?” Max asks.

Her rhetorical question is accompanied by giggles that are cut off when she lifts her finger from the button.

There’s nothing but silence for a moment. Then two.

Billy’s vision blurs as he sets his walkie down on his nightstand. The cold fingers of embarrassment wrap around him and drag him down, lower than he’s ever been drug before.

He’s ruined everything.

His sister not only hates him, but she knows about him now, and the only guy he’s ever let himself truly like is going to want nothing more to do with him after this.

Not for the first time since Starcourt, he wishes that monster had killed him.

“Billy?” Steve asks gently. When there’s no response, he sighs. “Look, we can figure out the channel thing some other time, but… was she right? Is that what you were trying to ask me?”

Silence. Then, giggles.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I’m right,” Max teases.

“Radio silence,” Steve snaps. “Now.”

His tone is stern. Brotherly in a way that should be surprising, but isn’t, really.

“Signing off…” Max says dejectedly.

Astonishingly, the channel falls silent. Billy sniffles as he reaches over to paw at his nightstand, curling his fingers weakly around the radio.

He doesn’t press the button. Tries to swallow his silent sobs in a failed attempt to compose himself first.

“Billy?” Steve coos, voice much softer now. “If you don’t wanna talk over the radio, that’s fine, but—“

“Yes,” Billy rasps.

A beat of silence.

“Yes?”

“She was right.”

Billy winces at how broken his voice sounds. A whistle pours through the radio.

“Oh, man,” Steve chuckles, and Billy’s heart sinks. “The boy of my dreams wants to know if I have feelings for him? Are you dense?”

There’s a crisp millisecond of confusion before Billy presses the button.

“What?”

“Of course I like you, dude.”

Billy inhales like he just resurfaced for air for the first time in years.

“Why?” he breathes.

“You’re funny, smart, surprisingly sweet, and pretty easy on the eyes. Just for starters.”

If his heart was thumping fast before, it’s going light-speed now. All he can do for a few beats is focus on controlling his breathing.

“You don’t like me,” he murmurs. “Trust me, Steve, I’m fucked up.”

“You aren’t the only one who’s a little fucked up.” Steve hums a laugh to himself. “And I do like you. You’re not gonna be changing my mind about it anytime soon.”

“What if I told you to go fuck yourself?”

“I’d tell you that you don’t always have to be such a dick.”

A tiny hint of a smile creeps its way onto Billy’s face when he hears Steve chuckle.

His eyes are dry. The pool of dread in his belly has begun to drain, and he feels the slightest bit hopeful.

“If you’re so sure, then I guess picking me up for dinner and a movie sometime won’t be difficult for you, will it?”

Steve sighs fondly at the notion.

“Are you asking me out?”

“Are you accepting?”

There’s a brief pause. Billy’s unable to keep from smiling giddily to himself.

“Depends,” Steve lilts. “Gonna open your window?”

There’s a light tap on the glass. Billy pushes himself up and draws the blinds, revealing a grinning brunet standing about a foot below, holding his walkie-talkie.

Billy tosses his on the bed before he opens the window and leans his elbows against the ledge.

“Is this the part where you ask me to let down my hair?” he teases.

Steve chuckles, but furrows his brows as he steps closer to the house.

“Were you crying?”

Taken aback by the question, Billy wipes his eyes with the heel of his palm. Shrugs nonchalantly, which doesn’t seem to be the answer that Steve was looking for.

“I was expecting things to go a bit differently,” Billy admits.

Steve frowns, and the expression doesn’t look right on him. He reaches up. Settles his hand on Billy’s forearm, smoothing his thumb back and forth against his skin until Billy shifts to dangle his arm out the window.

The pads of Steve’s fingers are soft where he holds Billy’s hand, clasped and suspended in the air together.

Billy really does feel like Rapunzel for a moment.

“I can be a little thick-skulled sometimes,” Steve says softly. “You’re always talking about yourself like you’re some unsalvageable disaster, so when you asked me if I liked you, my mind instantly went there. I wanted to make you sure you knew for certain that I do.”

He gives a little half smile. Billy squeezes his hand gently. Hopes that Steve doesn’t notice how weak his grip is.

“It’s not like I really gave you any context clues.”

“True. You didn’t.”

“I am a bit of a disaster, though. Feels like I’m only good at messing things up sometimes,” Billy sighs. “Max already hates me, and when I thought for a second that you might too, everything felt so lost.”

Steve makes a face.

“I would never, and I’d like to point out that Max doesn’t either.”

Billy blinks. Huffs amusedly, and as always, it comes out sounding closer to a scoff.

“Pretty sure she does. You’ve said yourself that she wouldn’t even talk when you asked about me.”

After thinking on it for a brief moment, Steve laughs.

“Yeah, man, ‘cause she bites the head off of anyone who asks about you. Definitely told me to mind my fucking business more than once.”

Again, Billy just blinks.

He never considered that maybe it was a protective thing and not a shame thing. The revelation has a surprising amount of weight lifting off of his shoulders.

“Definitely sounds like her,” he says.

They share a chuckle. Billy flattens his other forearm against the windowsill and rests his chin against it.

“Thanks for trying to lift me up earlier?” he muses. “Didn’t really work in the moment, but still.”

Steve softly swings their hands from side to side and sighs.

“I can tell. Your eyes are all puffy.”

“Should’a seen me the other night.”

The brunet cocks his head to the side in mild confusion.

“What happened the other night?” he asks. “Didn’t mention anything while we were talking.”

“It was, ah… after we signed off for the night. It’s no big deal, really. I cry after most of our talks.”

Billy looks away. Steve squeezes his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“‘S okay,” Billy rasps.

His eyes prick with tears again and Steve steps closer. Drops his walkie-talkie in the grass and reaches up with his free hand to cup Billy’s cheek.

“Oh, you’re just a big crybaby, huh?” he coos. Billy chuckles sadly and leans into his touch. “If I’d known, I would’ve snuck over here sooner.”

“My old man checks in on me sometimes, so it’s probably better that you stay in your car.”

“Well, do you have a curfew? I’d love to steal you away every now and again and kiss your cute, stuffy nose.”

Billy sniffles, and chuckles again. Wipes his eyes with his free hand and shrugs.

“Haven’t really had anywhere to go ‘till now,” he says.

Steve nods.

“You eaten yet?”

A smile cracks across Billy’s face. Steve mirrors the expression.

“You buying?”

“I’ll spend my entire paycheck on burgers and fries if it gets you outta this fuckin’ room. I swear sometimes it’s like pulling teeth.”

They share a chuckle, and Billy sits up. Flushes red when Steve presses a kiss to his knuckles.

“Gimme a sec.”

Again, Steve nods. He’s slow to release the blond when he pulls away, and Billy can’t help that he’s grinning like an idiot as he opens the door and pads out of his room.

He finds Neil and Susan in the living room watching tv. Makes up some lie about a few friends having a kickback. Even goes as far as to apologize for the short notice.

His folks share a look. Susan spreads a big smile and sets her hand on Billy’s bicep.

“No worries, sweetheart. Go ahead,” she says. “Have fun, alright?”

“Will you be coming back tonight?” Neil asks.

Billy stays quiet for a moment. Then two, just processing, and eventually shakes his head.

“It’ll probably be too late,” he says, and clears his throat. “I have somewhere else lined up, though.”

He winces at his own words, regret beading on his skin like a cold sheen of sweat.

Neil nods. Turns his attention back to the tv.

“Just stay outta trouble.”

And that’s it.

Nothing more is said, but Billy still stands there like he’s waiting for something else to happen.

When nothing does, he nods curtly and pads back down the hallway to his room, deciding not to press his luck by letting them think too hard on it. Once he has the door shut behind him, he’s immediately leaning out the window again.

Steve has his walkie back in his hands, rocking back and forth patiently on the balls of his feet while he waits. He smiles when he notices that the blond has reappeared.

“What’d they say?”

“Go get your car, I’ll be ready by the time you pull up.”

Billy leans back. Grabs the window and shuts it just as Steve nods enthusiastically. Turns on his heel and jogs off of the lawn and back towards the street.

Giddy, warm feelings pool and buzz in Billy’s stomach as he digs through his drawers for jeans that he hasn’t worn in forever. Already has a date-worthy outfit in mind as he unfolds a pair.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when static pours through the radio still sitting idly on his bed.

“Update?” Max asks.

Billy rolls his eyes. Moves to grab it when another voice comes through.

“We’re goin’ steady,” Steve informs, out of breath.

“Yes!” Max shouts.

Then, a third voice comes through.

“Finally! Jesus,” Dustin huffs.

There’s a beat of silence, followed by Steve panting when he presses the talk button.

“How many of you dickheads are on this channel?”

“Just two?” Mike says. “Technically, since we’re only using two walkie’s.”

There’s laughter over the radio, and Billy rolls his eyes. Can’t really find it in himself to be mad right now with all of the butterflies swirling in his tummy.

“You’re all banned from the front seat of my car,” Steve huffs. “And the wedding, when it happens.”

“No! I wanted to be the flower girl!” Eleven whines.

“I was gonna walk you down the aisle,” Dustin adds.

“Good luck finding another officiant, then, I guess,” Lucas says with a scoff.

More laughter is had. Max and Mike chime in with various jokes about ring-bearers and bridesmaids, but they’re cut off when Steve presses to talk again.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I highly recommend switching channels.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” Max muses.

Billy can practically hear the smirk in Steve’s voice when he speaks next.

“‘Cause I’m gonna start using this one for sex stuff, and it’s gonna get real weird real fast, so be warned.”

Multiple groans and sounds of disgust pour through the radio.

“Yuck,” Max says. “Switching channels.”

“Ditto,” Dustin adds.

Then silence. True silence.

Billy grabs his walkie.

“We really gonna have phone sex over the radio?” he muses.

Steve laughs. The subtle rumble of the engine is audible from the street as his car pulls up to the curb.

“Not if you hurry up and get your ass out here already.”

The blond bites his lip. Can’t believe for the life of him how light he feels. How, for once, he feels better for having survived car wrecks and slimy monsters in the dark.

Feels like letting someone new into his life won’t cause him grief this time around.

“On my way, pretty boy.”

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #max mayfield #billy & max #the party stranger things #disabled billy hargrove #fluff and angst #tw abuse #internalized homophobia #it’s important to me that Neil is shown being more than a two dimensional mma fighter when it comes to his relationship w Billy #so I wrote him a little differently based on my own personal experiences with abusive parents #also mainly wrote this to show that Billy deserves love and compassion even if he doesn’t start making steps towards bettering himself #because healing begins with support!!#ficlet #my writing #unedited #billy antis dni

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cotidianoseeder · 5 months

Text

My mental state now.

#positivity #transgender #trans christian #trans positivity #positive #internalized homophobia #internalized queerphobia #religious trauma #lgbtq #relatable memes #trans memes #lgbt christian #i need therapy #tw religious themes #anxitey

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withacapitalp · 1 year

Text

Trust Me

Read it on AO3 instead here. Special thanks to @riality-check for betaing for me!!! I love me some genderfluid Steve Harrington, and writing this was so much fun!! TW: internalized homophobia, internalized transphobia, and a couple f slurs

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It started with the long navy skirt that Carol’s mother got her for her thirteenth birthday.

Well, maybe it started a lot earlier. Maybe it started with Steve being both Tommy and Carol’s first kiss, or maybe it started with Steve always wanting to play house, or maybe it never really ‘started’ in the first place. Maybe this was just always who he was.

But Carol thinks it really started with that long navy skirt.

It wasn’t really Carol’s style. It was floor length and just a bit too long. When she tried it on, the bottom pooled around her on the floor like a rushing river. Her mom promised to get it tailored and told her to hang it up in her closet.

Carol, in a hurry to get dressed before Steve and Tommy, left it on her desk instead.

Her thirteenth birthday was perfect. Just her and her boys doing whatever she wanted. They went to Enzo’s for a fancy Italian dinner, watched a romance movie that Tommy pretended to hate, and got two scoops of cotton candy ice cream afterward to split. Her parents even let the boys sleep over in her bedroom as long as they all promised that Tommy and Steve were going to stay on the floor.

They broke that promise pretty much the second the door was shut, but what her mom and dad didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

Carol fell asleep squished between her two favorite people, snuggled in warm and safe.

She woke up half cold.

Tommy was still curled up on her left side, snoring and dead to the world, but her right side was chilly, and when she spread her fingers out searching, only the blankets greeted her.

Steve wasn’t there.

Carol cracked one eye open, looking past the empty bed and towards the clock on her bedside table. 3:48 am.

Way too early to be awake, even for an early bird like their Stevie. If it was Tommy, she would’ve just rolled over and went back to bed, assuming he was just getting up to pee or something. That was probably what Steve was doing. Carol didn’t need to worry.

But…but it was Steve, and Steve had a tendency to get himself into trouble. The little voice in the back of Carol’s head that sounded like her mother was nagging at her, telling her to check on him, telling her to make sure, just make sure.

So, with a heaving sigh, Carol untangled herself from Tommy’s octopus grip and pushed herself out of bed, shivering slightly when her bare feet touched the freezing cold floor. She scurried over to where her slippers were, jamming them on and walking out the door yawning.

She was too busy rubbing at her sleep filled eyes to notice the skirt that had been on her desk was missing.

Light spilled into the hallway from down the stairs, directing Carol to where she would find her missing boy. She decided to slide down the banister to avoid the creaky steps, smothering a giggle and keeping quiet. Steve was probably just getting a midnight snack and watching one of her VHS tapes. Maybe she would join him, and they could watch Robin Hood or Mary Poppins and fall asleep on the couch together like they did sometimes.

But when Carol finally peeked into the living room, she stopped short.

Steve wasn’t sitting on the couch munching on chips or drinking a soda, and the television was dark. He wasn’t sitting at all, actually. Stevie was standing by the big accent mirror her mother put in the corner of the room, looking at his reflection as he idly twirled back and forth.

That wasn’t the part that made Carol freeze in place.

She froze because he was wearing her new skirt.

It looked like it fit him wonderfully, actually. Steve had shot up like a weed last year, growing practically a foot in height, so the maxi length reached almost exactly halfway down his calves. His waist, which had always been tiny, looked positively perfect. If it was another girl trying it on, Carol would already be gushing about how cute it was.

But it wasn’t another girl.

It was Steve.

Her Steve. One of her boys. One of her boys was wearing a skirt, and it was a definitive fact that boys did not wear skirts. She would’ve figured it was just a joke, something stupid to make her and Tommy laugh, but then why would Steve do this in the middle of the night when they wouldn’t be awake to tease him? Why would he come downstairs when everyone else was asleep?

Why did Steve look like he was about to cry?

Any thoughts Carol had about poking fun at him disappeared. Steve never cried. Never ever. She hadn’t even seen him cry when he broke his wrist falling out of the tree in his backyard. The only time she had ever seen Steve cry was the first time his parents had missed one of his basketball games, and she hadn’t even ‘seen’ that, just heard it through his locked bedroom door.

(She didn’t like to remember that day. He had been crying so loudly it carried through his whole house. Carol guessed Steve never learned how to do that quietly, considering there was no need. His parents weren’t there.)

Sure, they liked to mess with each other, and Carol was never afraid of saying something that other people might be too sensitive about because she knew Steve could take it, but something about this just felt…different.

“Stevie?” Carol called, stepping into the room. He immediately stiffened up, the soft slope of his shoulders growing rigid with fear. Steve looked at her from the reflection of the mirror, not turning to face her properly.

He looked completely terrified, and that just wouldn’t do. She didn’t know what to say or think about a boy wearing a skirt, but she did know how to deal with Steve.

“It looks pretty,” Carol said with false lightness, walking into the room and standing behind Steve in the mirror. She tried to catch his eye and give him one of her sweetest smiles, but it fell when Steve avoided her gaze.

“It doesn’t,” Steve muttered, curling in on himself and grabbing at the hem of the old t-shirt he was wearing as pajamas, “I look silly.”

“I think it’s pretty,” she argued back.

Yes, he did look kind of silly, but she couldn’t stand seeing him make himself small like that. Steve did that whenever he was talking to his mom and dad, he would hide himself away and try to take up less space, but he never did that with her and Tommy. Carol wasn’t going to let him start now. Not because of this.

“It is really pretty, Stevie,” Carol added on, reaching out to put her hand on his shoulder, “The cut is nice, and it makes your waist look so small. I wish mine looked like that! Plus the color compliments your-”

“I look ridiculous, Carrie,” Steve interrupted harshly, jerking away from her before she could touch him and squeezing his eyes shut tight, “Like a fag, a sick freak.”

Carol left her hand hovering in the air, her stomach disappearing. Those weren’t Steve’s words. Steve would never say something that mean.

Carol knew she could be mean sometimes, and she knew Tommy could be even meaner other times, but that was only to people who deserved it. Steve was never mean, even to people who deserved it. He was a total sweetheart, soft and gentle, and he needed her and Tommy to protect those soft gentle parts of him.

The parts that would hurt if he heard things like that. The parts that would hold onto words like those, waiting for the perfect moment to turn them inward and hurt himself.

He had gotten those words from somewhere, and Carol was pretty sure she knew where. But no matter who had said them or about what, she knew she needed to make them go away.

Somehow.

“Well, it does look a little weird,” Carol started, quickly continuing when she saw Steve’s lip starting to wobble, “But not because it’s you wearing it! Just… that skirt really doesn’t work with your PJs. Wait, wait right here, I have an idea. Trust me.”

She scampered up the stairs, practically flying into her room and rooting around in her closet, throwing things left and right. When she found what she was looking for she gasped in delight, a sound that was just loud enough to make Tommy snuffle slightly away.

“Go back to sleep,” Carol said in a soft sing-song voice, pausing briefly in her mission to skip over and press a quick kiss to Tommy’s cheek.

She loved Tommy, and she knew Steve loved Tommy, and she knew that Tommy loved both of them, but this still didn’t feel like something that they needed to share with him. At least, not just yet.

Luckily, Tommy hummed happily and turned over, going back to his snoring. She chuckled quietly to herself and began to walk out, grabbing the big jewelry box from the top of her dresser as an afterthought.

Steve was still standing exactly where she had left him, looking out of place and uncomfortable in his body. The words ‘sick freak’ were still burning in her chest, and she could see them written on his features.

The other word was there too, but Carol couldn’t think about that word. She used it, and Tommy used it, but never for real. Steve had said it for real, stamping himself with a label that didn’t fit right.

Yeah, he and Tommy had kissed a couple times, but Steve had also kissed her a few times, and she kissed Tommy all the time. It was just something they had as friends, practice for when they got real boyfriends and girlfriends. That didn’t make them fags. That just…it made her boys her boys. That was all.

No matter what, Steve wasn’t a freak, and he definitely wasn’t sick. He was the coolest boy in school, her very best friend. He was soft and gentle where she and Tommy were hard and biting, and the three of them worked perfectly. Everyone looked up to them, everyone wanted to be them. Anything he wanted to do was right.

So if Steve wanted to wear something pretty, then Carol was going to make sure it was absolutely perfect.

“Here,” Carol said, handing over the sweater she had been looking for.

It was cashmere, soft and buttery to the touch, with a cream and dark blue striped pattern. Her uncle had gotten it for her in Paris, but he always got things way too big. It was ‘so she could grow into it’, but Carol really hoped she would never grow into an extra extra large.

Steve took the sweater from here, but didn’t move to put it on. He just held it, rubbing his thumb along the fabric and staring down at it with a strange longing.

“Go on. It’ll match way better,” Carol urged, nudging his shoulder with her own and stepping back. He stayed still.

“Trust me,” Carol repeated, keeping her face open and honest.

Steve tossed her an unsure look but did as he was told, hesitantly pulling his t-shirt off and slipping into the sweater. Without the pajamas clashing, the skirt looked even better, and Steve was even starting to cautiously admire his reflection again.

“Now let’s tuck it in,” Carol said, pushing away any lingering confusion and moving straight into business mode. She didn't have to think about whether it was right for Steve to want to wear a skirt, she just had to make sure that it looked good.

She pulled Steve so he was back directly in front of the mirror, standing behind him and reaching around. She tucked the bottom of the sweater into his skirt, fussing for a second to make sure it wasn’t bunched up anywhere and smoothing down the creases where his broad shoulders didn’t quite match up to the way the sweater was cut.

“Give me a twirl,” Carol ordered, spinning her finger the way her mother always did when she had Carol try on something new.

“Twirl?” Steve questioned, standing awkwardly.

Carol nodded eagerly, sitting on the coffee table and putting her jewelry box down next to her. She never really liked it when her mom made her do this, but it was enjoyable to watch someone else. Carol had always wanted a sister to play dress up with, and while this wasn’t exactly the same, it was still pretty fun.

Now that she was getting into it, it didn’t really seem all that strange to her, and the longer she looked at Steve in her clothes, the more normal it all seemed. It was just dress up, just something fun to do with her very best friend. Didn’t best friends try on each other’s clothes all the time? Tommy and Steve practically shared one wardrobe.

This wasn’t that weird. Just dress up.

Steve continued to just stand there for a minute before taking a deep breath and spinning in the smallest fastest circle she had ever seen. His face was beet red and he was staring down at his feet, but Carol could see the smile starting to grow on his face.

She made another teasing circle with her finger and Steve twirled around for her again, bigger this time. She giggled, and he answered with his own quiet laugh. The air in the room was growing bright and warm and Carol hopped up from her spot, grabbing Steve’s hand and tugging him over to the couch.

“Time for accessories,” She declared, dragging her box over and opening it. It was stuffed to the bursting with tons of different bits and baubles, and Carol began to root through it, picking out a few things she thought would match.

“Do I need these?” Steve wondered aloud, looking wide eyed at all the different options.

“Accessories make an outfit, Stevie,” Carol said, parroting the words her mother always said to her.

She put a bunch of her silver bangles around one of his wrists, and her favorite blue and white polka dot scrunchie around the other. None of her rings would fit Steve’s fingers, and his hair was too short for his hair was too short for any of her ribbons or to make a braid, but she did find a few star and moon barrettes to clip in that looked nice.

Carol pulled back to look at the whole outfit, tapping her lip with the tip of her finger. There was still something missing, something not quite right.

“Oh!” Carol said, realizing what was wrong. She reached up behind her own head, undoing the clasp and reaching up to put it around Steve’s neck instead.

“Wait, what are you-”

“Trust me,” Carol crooned, continuing to put the necklace around Steve’s neck. When the clasp was locked in place, she fixed the chain, arranging it exactly as she wanted.

“There, that’s better,” She said with a satisfied smile.

The locket was gold, which didn’t exactly match what she was trying to do with his ensemble, but it was the thing that was missing. Steve and Tommy had gotten it for her for her tenth birthday, and both of their pictures were inside, along with one of her baby teeth.

It was cheap, and her mother didn’t like it very much, but they had saved all of their pocket money to get it for her, and it was Carol’s prized possession. She never let anyone else touch it, and the only time she took it off was to take a bath or grab a shower.

She could feel its absence now, the lack of weight that was usually there on her neck, but the sensation didn’t fill her with the usual anxiety it caused. She knew it was in safe hands.

Out of the three of them, Steve was always the gentlest.

Steve looked lost again, reaching up to touch the locket in silent wonder. The bracelets around his wrist jangled against each other, and he almost startled at the sound, unused to wearing any jewelry. She snickered, opening up one of the other drawers in her box.

“Do you want some makeup?” Carol whispered conspiratorially, pulling out her secret eyeshadow and mascara, “My mom doesn’t know I have these, but I swiped them from the department store a couple months ago,”

Steve quickly shook his head, staying uncharacteristically silent. Carol could tell he wanted to say yes, and she really wanted to try and see if she could do a better job on him than she did on herself when she tried to put it on, but she held back. Steve was brand new to pretty clothes, and doing too much at once would probably be overwhelming.

He already looked pretty shocked as it was.

“Okay. Now let’s look properly,” Carol said, clapping her hands and pulling them both out of their thoughts.

She held out her hand and Steve took it, interlocking their fingers. Carol passively thought about different nail polish colors she could try on Steve as she walked them both towards the mirror. He probably wouldn’t like pink, but maybe baby blue? Or white with little stickers. That could look nice.

Or maybe this was a one time thing. Maybe Steve would look at his reflection and totally hate it and never want to try again.

That’s what Carol should want, right? It wasn’t normal for boys to want to put on pretty clothes, and it would be better if Steve decided he didn’t like it.

So why was she so hopeful that Steve would like how he looked as much as she did?

“How do you feel?” Carol asked as they reached the mirror, looking anxiously at their reflections.

Steve looked like himself still, but changed, evolved. It was like those soft parts of him- the gentle ones he kept hidden just for Tommy and Carol- were finally on full display, and the result was gorgeous.

The lean muscles that were starting to develop on Steve’s arms from swimming practice were hidden under cashmere stripes, and the barely there baby fat that was starting to fade made her want to squeeze his cheeks. He had a sweet smile on his face and he kept glancing shyly from the mirror down to his hands and back up to the mirror. It was like he was scared to see himself, but couldn’t look away.

“Pretty,” He whispered, his voice filled with awe, making Carol’s chest brim with light, “I feel pretty.”

“No,” She whispered back, leaning her head against his upper arm and beaming, “Trust me. You’re beautiful.”

“Beautiful,” He repeated, holding the word reverently on his tongue. Carol stood on her tip toes and kissed Steve’s cheek, wrapping her arms around his bicep and going back to looking at their reflections.

Carol’s mom never ended up getting that navy skirt tailored, because she never saw it again. When she asked her daughter, Carol played dumb, telling her it was in the laundry or missing somewhere in the house.

Her mother never found out that the skirt and the sweater that had never fit Carol now lived in the back of Steve Harrington’s closet, hidden inside a fabric bag behind a box of old baby clothes.

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