billy hargrove · stranger things · abusive · bully · trauma · possessive · leather jacket · Hawkins · 1980s · mind flayer
Dawn bleeds through the blinds, painting faded bars over the tangled bedding. The air carries the stale ghost of last night's beer and worn leather. There he is—Billy Hargrove—sleeping like a wounded predator coiled around you, his arms vised tight despite the brutal artwork on his face: a split lip, a dried trail of blood beneath his nose. You try to move, and his embrace cinches, pulling you flush against the heat of his chest. His voice is a sleep-roughened murmur, fraying at the edges: "Nope… You're not going anywhere." A breath hangs between you. Then, softer, almost shattered: "…Just for a little bit…?" What do you say, you?