#when steve looks up you can see the dark circles under his eyes 😭

[meidui]

excuse me sirs but the world is in crisis

[cranberrymoons]

spooky scary skeletons

prompt: "I'd still know you." notes: happy spooky season!!!! i went in.... an entirely different direction with this than most people 😭

Steve inhales sharply as he rounds a corner, clinging tightly to the back of Robin’s shirt to make sure he doesn’t lose her on the path. It helps that Eddie’s bracketed up behind him too, one hand holding him tight by the hip as they make their way through the damp hallway, and Steve –

He hears a rustle to his left, and his head snaps over, eyes wide in the dim room as his pulse climbs up the back of his throat to thrum in the roof of his mouth. There’s a pair of eyes on him somewhere, he’s sure of it. He can feel the awareness of it creeping up his spine, cold and prickling, but it’s too dark in here, everything too obscured by fog and mist and –

Another sound on his right, and he jumps, crashing back against Eddie’s chest and dragging Robin with him. She lets out a surprised squawk, which draws the attention of the evil clown that had been lurking, ominous and obstructed, in the corner. 

It starts toward them, dragging the blade of a chainsaw on the ground as it goes, and Steve – without even meaning to or thinking about it, swings.

The clown dodges out of the way with a shout, and Steve feels Eddie catch him around the waist, holding him back with a breath of laughter in his ear.

“Whoa!” the clown yells, voice muffled from under the mountain of latex demon makeup glued to its face. “Watch the face, dude.”

Steve, heart in his throat, freezes. Robin’s laughing now too, and Steve blinks, trying hard to see through the darkness. His brain's halfway there, and he frowns in confusion even as his pulse continues to race, and –

“Dustin?”

The clown takes another step back. 

“What?” it asks. “I mean…” It clears its throat, dropping back into an evil voice. “Who dares enter my –”

“Henderson, if that’s you under there, I swear to –” He forces himself to take a deep breath. “What the hell, man?”

Clown-Dustin holds out his hands, chainsaw and all. His posture slumps. 

“How did you know it was me?”

“Because most evil clowns don’t call people ‘dude’,” Steve says. “Besides, I’d still know you even if you hadn’t immediately broken character.”

“You literally didn’t until I did, though,” Dustin says. “So.”

Steve opens his mouth to respond, then closes it, then – Eddie’s petting soothing circles into his hip where he’s still got him around the waist, and he tries hard to focus his attention there instead of on the overwhelming need to take another swing at the stupid clown and his stupid clown face.

“Were you waiting there for us this whole time?” Eddie asks. “Not cool, man.”

“What?” Dustin asks. He looks around. “No, this is my job.”

Robin makes a face. “Since when do you have a job?”

“Since three weeks ago when this haunted house opened?” Dustin says, as if it’s obvious – which. Okay. “Now can you please go away? There’s more people coming up behind you. You’re going to blow my cover.”

And Steve is tempted to stick around just to keep giving him a hard time, but also… a chain-creaking sound effect groans overhead, and there's an ominous red glow looming in his periphery, and he really really wants to get the fuck out of here.

“Fine,” he says. "But I’m kicking your ass for this later.”

[also on ao3]

[rigginsstreet]

The car can't be saved.

Steve feels just as guilty about that as he does hitting the car in the first place—spur of the moment thinking has never been his strong suit, and the guilt of almost killing Billy rivals closely with the guilt of destroying the lone constant Billy's ever had.

The lone freedom, sense of self, sense of autonomy. The lone source of happy memories.

They stand together over the crippled, warped hulk of her body, and its the first time Steve sees Billy cry.

Its nothing more than hot, clear tears sliding down his cheeks. Fists clenched at his side, lower lip trembling a little. There's no sound; and he tries hard not to think about why, anger aside, the rest of Billy's emotions are silent.

So Billy sells the car for scrap. There's nothing else to do; not unless he wants to spend his life carting around this monument of loss, this ode to death. Old Lonny from the scrapyard hands over the cash and takes the car and Billy turns on his heel and disappears.

He won't be back for awhile, Steve knows. He disappears and he processes and he unleashes everything far from the range of fists and barbed words, and Steve doesn't know where he goes but he does know Billy always comes back, and so...

And so he can't sleep regardless. And so he's at the scrapyard before Old Lonny's even unlocked the gates, killing time with his legs out of the car window until Old Lonny leans in through it and asks what the hell's going on in his head, and Steve sits up so fast he headbutts the inside of the Beemer.

"How good are you at cutting circles?" he asks.

Very good is the apparent answer. Because when Billy drags himself back into Steve's bedroom in the early morning hours of the next day, when its still dark and crisp and silent and slides under the sheets, Steve rolls over, finds Billy's eyes in the moonlight, and slowly cups his hands, letting the thin gold chain slide through his fingers and into Billy's palm.

The disc is round, edges filed smooth. One side is a deep oil-slick blue, the other dirty silver and mottled. The size of a large arcade token, it sits featherlight in Billy's hand, body-warm and already dull with fingerprints.

The car couldn't be saved. And Steve can't ever make up for the fact that nobody really tried to save Billy, either, but he can make sure that changes. He can make sure that even if the car couldn't be saved a perfect circle cut-out from the bonnet could. That even if Billy no longer has the car he still, in some small way, can keep the memories. The feel of the smooth metal under his fingertips. The reason to keep on keeping on, for that something better.

When he looks up from where Billy's fingers curl around it, rings clinking softly against the painted alloy, Billy is crying again.

"Asshole," he says. And Steve smiles. Because he listens when Billy talks, he knows how to speak Billy's language, and as he helps Billy slide the chain over his messy curls he thinks; yeah. I love you too.

THIS IS SO!!!!!!! what the fuck i love their love 😭

[luveline]

reader sees how much steve does for other people, how happy he feels when other people are happy, how kind he is, how selfless, and is determined to spoil HIM for the night 😏 tonight’s not about me baby boy it’s your turn…

baby he deserves EVERYTHING and I wanna give it to him 😭 CW: SMUT 18+ ONLY Steve gets head ♡ gn!reader | 1.1k words

He's kissing you like he always kisses you. Slow, careful, but with enough love stored in each palm that you feel it through your skin. His touch is warm and his body hovering over yours is warmer as he slides his hand down the length of your side. You shiver as he pushes his fingers slowly under your shirt, worshipping the skin of your hip as his thumb stretches out to stroke half circles into the soft slope of your tummy. 

You feel unabashedly adored. It gets you thinking. 

Steve slows his kissing to look down at you, blinking open eyes that have been closed for more than a few minutes with the starts of a frown pulling at his pretty lips. "Baby? Are you okay?" 

You make your mind up the second he closes his mouth. "Steve," you start, bringing your hand up to caress his cheek. "I love you, you know that?" 

His cheeks are already pinked by your heavy kisses, but you fool yourself into thinking his blush grows. "I know. I love you, too." 

"Can I go down on you?" you ask.

He grins. "You first."

"No, you first," you say. "Y'always putting everyone before you." You push your fingertips into his hair and give him the fondest look you can muster. "I can feel how excited you are." 

He doesn't look embarrassed about that. "My baby's real fucking pretty," he says smugly. 

And that's exactly why you wanna do this. He doesn't get half as much loving as he deserves but doles it out in abundance.

You pout at him and pull his face close to yours, lips barely parted as your murmur, "I can feel you rubbing up against me, Stevie. Feel how hard you are. Don't you ever just… wanna go first?" 

He says your name, a weak reproach.

You pull your knee up where it's slotted between his legs and grind your thigh against the bulge in his pants. "I love you, Steve. Let me show you how much?" you ask hopefully. Then, smaller, softer, "Please." 

He squeezes your waist gently. "Are you sure?" 

"I'm sure," you say confidently. "Are you?" 

He chuckles and there's something desperate to it, his eyes narrowed amorously. "Fuck, are you kidding? Of course I am." 

Which is how you end up between his legs. He lies on his back with his arms behind his head, hair mussed up and his lips red from kissing. 

You palm the length of his cock through the restrictive denim of his jeans and let your head rest on his stomach. He reaches down with one hand to stroke behind your ear, his fingertips trembling as you push the meat of your palm up his length and drag. 

You pull down the zipper fast and his boxers slow. His cock quickly springs up towards his stomach and your eyes widen, both excited and nervous.

Featherlight, you trail the pad of your index finger up the length of him and watch as he twitches. 

Hand braced on his hip you push yourself towards his cock and lift your head enough to give the tip a little kiss in greeting. His big hand lands on your upper arm and starts to stroke, almost in tandem with you as you curl your fingers around his fat girth and give him a tug. 

"Shit," he mutters. 

You nudge his shirt up with your head and kiss his stomach, the skin just outside of his happy trail and then a little further down.

Dark curls tickle your chin and cheek as you kiss the base of his cock. He breathes out hard as you press the flat of your tongue over a vein and mouth lazily, all the while your fingers probe delicately around the head. You push your thumb into the precum beading from the slit and massage it around, feeling as his abdomen tenses beneath you. 

"Fuck, you're a dream," he groans.

You shush him, the sound vibrating into his cock and pulling another awful sigh from him. You squeeze your thighs together and kiss up and up and up, pushing yourself on elbows to free up your second hand. 

You let a little bit of dribble drip over your bottom lip and it catches on the side of his shaft. Careful, you spread it around and pump the entire length, smiling to yourself. 

"What?" he asks at your expression. 

"You got a pretty dick, baby," you tell him, locking eyes with him as you lower your mouth to the tip for some kitten licks and tiny kisses. His precum is salty on your tongue. 

He stares with his eyes half-lidded, head lifted, the column of his lovely throat bared and smattered in red kiss marks. 

You take him into your mouth real slow, one hand cupping the heavy weight of his sack and fondling gently as the other holds his cock in place. 

His breathing kicks up as you go. The more you touch the louder he becomes. You rub the head into the stretchy wall of your cheek and when he sounds decidedly very happy, every exhale warped by the rough colour of his voice, hips moving under your hands, you pull away. Spit glosses your lips and you lick them dry, meeting his reassuring smile with a wet one. 

"You're doing so good," he murmurs, voice rasping. 

You kiss the tip again. "Gonna make you feel so good, Stevie, I swear." 

"You already are." 

"Make you feel amazing," you amend, opening your mouth wide. You're careful not to scratch him as you work down. When the tip of his cock brushes the back of your mouth you gag but don't pull away, breathing hard through your nose and spreading your fingers against the crush of pubes under your hand. 

"Babe-" He starts to try to comfort you. You're already diving back down, bathing his cock in spit as the tip taps your throat. 

You choke on it and have to pull away, a mess of dribble running in hot rivulets down his cock. You spread it with your hand and pump his shaft as you gasp for air, leaning your cheek lightly against the tip as you take him in. 

His forehead shines with sweat and his lashes look heavy with dampness. "Was that good?" you ask worriedly. 

Steve cups your face and lifts your head, chin up as he looks you over. His thumb rubs over your cheek and you let your eyes flutter closed. 

"Fucking amazing. Always so good for me," he says quietly. Then, a little more stern, "Gonna keep being good for me and take it again?" 

You smile to yourself. He doesn't have a clue.