Unhinged shipper

YOU WILL HAVE TO DRAG BILLY HARGROVE AWAY FROM JOE KEERY’S COLD DEAD HANDS, that man has been on the frontline since 2017, watch the antis trying to cancel him again now LMAOOO

so imagine billy finding out (thank you tommy) when it is, turning up at steve’s house the night before and telling him to get his ass in the car

doesn’t tell him why, just waits for steve to get in because they both know he will

and he drives them to the quarry, pulls out a six pack and a joint and they lie on the hood of the camaro, looking at the stars

as soon as the sun starts to rise, billy pulls out something small, rectangular and wrapped in paper

he shoves it at steve, who looks at him, confused, before unwrapping it, and-

“you uh… you made me a mixtape?”

“told you before, pretty boy, your taste in music is shit”

billy tilts the can he’s holding, enough to knock it against steve’s

Harringrove Commission for @letshargroovetonight ! Once again it’s for Harringrove for Australia !!

Thanks for your donation \o/ They wanted Billy being shy ‘cause of Steve smooching him!

I'm sure somethingl like this has been done before. Let me humbly offer this up for your viewing pleasure anyway.

–

Billy imagines that the Harrington’s bank account is a two story room, nestled far in the chrome-finished backdrop of the brick and mortar building on Park street where all the money in Hawkins lives.

And Billy imagines that when Mr. and Mrs. Harrington need to pay land taxes or dip into the Christmas Gift Fund, they have to make a call to a telephone that beeps red with urgency, and whoever answers has to be shot as soon as the instructions are given:

Two grand for Christmas this year, Jeeves, Steven raised his Chemistry grade from a C- to a C+.

The secret room that holds the Harrington family’s never-ending supply of fifty dollar bills is Wonka-esque, in Billy’s mind. A glittering hideaway that can only be reached by secret agents who wear dust gloves. 

It’s an ordeal to retrieve money from the bank and yet Steve never seems strapped. Whatever they want to do, anywhere they want to go and anything Billy looks twice at while they’re walking, Steve somehow gets his hands on.

Stuffed animals, cassette tapes, leather-bound journals, flowers in brightly colored pots, and Jewelry.

So much jewelry that Billy never notices Steve ordering from Cartier, but.

Steve’s sneaky. Somehow hides those precious gifts in the glovebox of Billy’s Camaro, folded into the pocket of his leather coat, or wrapped neatly in bright gold paper labeled “Billy,” under the Harrington Family Tree that first Christmas when they knew but couldn’t say I Love You.

Steve, saying, “Ooh, there’s one last gift to give,” and ducking under the foliage only to pull away with big brown eyes and jacked shoulders, grinning as Billy picks at the taped-down edges. Tries to save the wrapping. Steve says, “I don’t know where the jewelry box came from,” When Billy holds the new earring awkwardly in one hand. “Musta been Santa.”

Bills drip from Steve’s fingertips like crystalized honey, coating Billy’s skin in a sticky sweet show of love, and it takes him a while to recognize it.

What it means, at the ooey-gooey center.

That when Steve gets Billy a stuffed bear to keep over at his place because Billy can’t risk unshelling Mr. Sandman from his hiding spot with Neil breathing down his neck, or when Steve orders the entire Ender’s Game series, signed from the author himself, and especially when he offers to put Billy’s new earring in for him, kissing the lobe and pulling back to smile with a pleased, warm blush blooming across his face–

That’s how Steve says I Love You.

Billy never relaxes into it.

–

“I can buy things for myself,” Billy says. 

Steve startles on the couch next to him, sock feet tensing a little as he blinks himself awake. “Huh?”

“I have my own job,” Billy says.

His finger is stuck in the hole by Mr. Reginald Sandman’s ear. Billy worries at it, wondering what Reginald’s husband would say if he saw him now, sitting in Billy’s lap in a mansion, high on the hill. 

Steve rubs a hand over his eyes, sitting up a little straighter. “Baby, what are you–”

“At the swimming pool. I have my own job.”

Steve nods. He’s still not fully awake. His hair is a mess from working such long hours to pay for California, and Billy wants to run his fingers through it, wondering if it smells like chocolate chip ice cream. If the texture’s a little slippery and soft like it gets when it needs to be shampooed. 

He doesn’t, through, because Steve is frowning, the collar of his shirt rumpled from falling asleep in front of Wheel of Fortune. 

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Billy clarifies after a long, languid pause.

Steve waits for more. Gives the thought acreage to take root. Waits so patiently, pink lips soft and expectant, that Billy feels bad for stalling in the speech he had prepared with Max for a moment just like this one. 

“I’m not worried about you, baby,” Steve says gently, cast in liquid silver from the light of the t.v. “I’m never worried about you, you’re stronger than I am.”

“This isn’t about who’s better at carrying heavy things.”

When Billy doesn’t continue, distracted by the hole in Mrs. Reginald Sandman’s ear, Steve frowns. “What is this about?”

Billy fiddles with Mr. Reginald Sandman’s other ear. Takes a deep breath. 

“It’s about me being able to take care of myself,” Billy admits. When Steve doesn’t interrupt him, he shrugs. “I know how to do a lot of things. I can change the oil in any car produced from 1934-1987, and I can count by tens all the way to 1,450,330 in under five minutes, and I can save money to buy the things I want to.”

“I know you can, Billy.”

“Then why do you buy me everything? Why do you never let me figure out how to do it myself?”

Steve sits up straight, then, eyebrows lumped together in confusion.

He looks upset. Hurt.

Billy clutches tighter at Mr. Reginald Sandman, not liking that he’s the cause of this. “I like the presents,” Billy says. 

Steve shakes his head and tells him, “It’s okay if you don’t.”

“But I do, though.”

“So, wait.” Steve sits up straighter. Mutes the television. “You do or you don’t like when I take care of you?”

“I like it. No one does it better.”

“But you want me to stop?”

Billy frowns at the stuffed bear in his hands, realizing that maybe he didn’t stick to the script Max had given him. He pokes Mr. Reginald Sandman’s eye, and thinks he can apologize for that later. 

“I don’t want you to stop, I just.” Billy takes a deep, steadying breath. “I don’t understand why you want to spend your money on me. You work so hard for it, and you should use it to get a new T.V. or–”

“I’m spending my money exactly how I want to,” Steve tells him. He sets the remote on the coffee table, then, leaning forward until his knee his pressed into Billy’s side. “Will you please look at me, baby?”

Billy does.

As always, he’s blinded by what he finds. The beauty on his lover’s face. The devotion that shines clear as the summer sun over the sleepy town where the two crashed together. 

Steve smiles. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

Billy nods. 

Steve’s hand, when it curls around Billy’s jaw, is warm. Just like the rest of him. Chocolate sprinkled, fresh from the oven, made from scratch warm that lights Billy up inside. 

“I’m spending my money exactly how I want to. On the man I love.”

“Steve–”

“No, it’s okay.”  Steve’s thumb rubs circles on his cheekbone. Tethers him in the truth when Steve says, “You make me so happy, Bill. Everyday you give me something to look forward to. You make me feel like Saturday morning and spring break and Christmas rolled into one dough-ball that annoys the shit out of Robin because I never stop talking about you–”

Billy laughs, thick and wet. 

Steve’s eyes are amber waves Billy could get lost in. Drown. 

Steve would never let that happen. 

Steve pulls him close and says, “I like taking care of you.”

dont worry, you're in safe hands now

I've been working on demosteve rescuing Bluto and Bambi earlier and wanted to share this piece finally 🥲

Then, in the summer of ‘86, they hopped in Billy’s Camaro and drove to the golden state, straight to the coast; blasting Iron Maiden, Metallica, and every other heavy metal cassette they could jam in there on the trip down. When they finally got to the beach, Billy got right to teaching Eddie how to swim in the ocean—and even how to surf.

Stalker!Jonathan Byers x M!Reader

Notes: Jonathan Byers is a stalker, Mlm, Jonathan loved to take photos of Reader, Perv!Jonathan, Jonathan is a sub, Top!Reader, Reader finds Jonathans photo collection, Anal/Slight ass eating (did I write it right?), Unprotected pina, Creampie, Camera play, Reader has a bigger dick. (Your anon emoji is 📷) this was a request from my form <3

Word count: 1832

It was late as hell, but Jonathan couldnt care less. He had to see you tonight since you were finally back home from summer camp. He kept adjusting his camera till it focused on your open bedroom window, watching through the lens as you started stripping. "Oh god…" He kept the camera going, the shutter noise the only signal that was letting him now it was taking snaps of you. "Fuck." Jonathan groaned weakly, already getting hard as he got a full body shot. He had always thought of you as the typical 'Hot Popular Nerd' that everyone loved, but he never really got the chance to actually talk to you personally. Sadly, Jonathan would've most likely made a mockery of himself with you. There went your boxers… Holy shit, you had a big dick. He should've known, should've already fantasized about it but big and slightly thick? That wasn't fair at all! It didnt take long till his hand was in his pants, stroking lazily as he watched you do your nightly routine….Wait was that a magazine and some type of oil? Oh god oh god oh god. Jonathan adjusted, making sure to keep the camera taking photos as he matched your stroke pace, biting his bottom lip harshly so he wouldn't be loud. He'd watch you finish then go back home like nothing happened, really he shouldn't have been here in the first place but that stupid fucking summer camp job made you stay away from Hawkins longer than Jonathan had liked. His fist pumped his aching cock in perfect sync with yours, eyes glued to the lens where your thick shaft glistened with oil, veins bulging as you twisted your wrist at the head. You sped up through the viewfinder, hips bucking slightly off the bed, balls drawing tight. Jonathan mirrored it desperately, breath ragged, free hand clutching the camera steady. "Yes, cum for me," he whispered to himself, imagining your hot load. Your abs clenched, cockhead flaring—and then you erupted. Thick ropes of cum shot across your chest, splattering your pecs, one strand hitting your chin. The sight undid him. Jonathan's strokes turned frantic, balls tightening as he watched every pulse through the lens. His own release hit hard, cum spilling over his knuckles, soaking his boxers as he whimpered your name, body shuddering in the bushes outside your window.

The next day at school, Jonathan could barely focus. His mind kept replaying the images he'd captured—your toned body glistening under the dim light of your room, the way your thick cock had filled your hand as you pumped it slowly, oil slicking every inch, ending in that explosive finish he'd matched perfectly. He shifted in his seat during history class, his own dick twitching at the memory. That's when the teacher announced the group projects: pairs assigned for a photography and storytelling assignment. Of course, fate or whatever cruel joke the universe was playing put him with you. You caught his eye across the room, flashing a casual grin that made Jonathan's stomach flip. "Hey, man, looks like we're partners," you said after class, slinging your backpack over your shoulder. Your voice was deep, confident, and Jonathan nodded too quickly, mumbling something about meeting at his place that weekend. His house was empty most of the time anyways. Will was with friends, his mom at work so it was perfect or terrifying. He wasn't sure. Saturday afternoon rolled around, and there you were, knocking on his door with that easy smile. Jonathan let you in, his heart pounding as he led you to the lived-in living room. You could spot a couple of the camera equipment he was sure to be using, random D&D things from his little brother. It was a nice change for you, your own home was a little too perfect. Mom hated messes and so did Dad. "We can work on the storyboard here," he said, voice shaky, avoiding your gaze. You nodded, spreading out notebooks and sketches on the coffee table. Jonathan was a sweet shy guy in your opinion, you didn't get why Steve wasn't in favor of him, but it wasn't your business either. Half an hour in, Jonathan brought up snacks and drinks which you easily agreed to. "I'll go get 'em." He mumbled, ears pink as he escaped the tension he was making all on his own. There was no way you were curious enough to stick your hand under the couch. Okay, maybe his hiding spot was a little weird and obvious but the couch hadn't moved for the last ten years! Plus, Will loved to be a little shit and go into his room and move shit around, Jonathan had no other choice. You were not one to sit idle, just his luck. While Jonathan rummaged for snacks, you wandered around. First peeking into his room just to see before stepping back to the living room to look at the shelves of old photos, books, and random items that had been collected. You glanced back toward the kitchen, hearing Jonathan curse under his breath as a bag tore. You sat back down against the couch, on the opposite side before your fingers brushed against something under it. With a smirk, you slid it out, revealing an old rusted lunch box.

With a smirk you opened it quietly before freezing. It was you, all the photos were you. Candid shots from school, but then... closer ones. You stripping in your room, your hand wrapped around your cock, mid-stroke, oil dripping down your shaft. Another of you bending over to pick something up, your ass flexing. And holy fuck, one where you'd cum, thick ropes splattering your abs, captured in perfect detail—right as Jonathan must have blown his load outside. Your pulse quickened, but not in anger. No, something twisted and hot uncoiled in your gut. This perv—Jonathan Byers, quiet, awkward Jonathan—had been watching you, jerking off to you, cumming with you through his lens. And instead of revulsion, you felt a rush of power, arousal flooding your veins. Your dick hardened in your jeans as you flipped through more: you showering through a window, water cascading over your muscles; you sleeping, sheet barely covering your morning wood. "Fuck," you muttered, palming yourself through the fabric. Oddly, you loved it. Loved that he wanted you this badly, that he'd documented every inch of you like you were his personal porn star—and synced his orgasm to yours. By the time Jonathan returned with a bowl of chips, you were back in the living room, photos slipped into your pocket, face neutral while the lunch box was shoved back under the couch.

The project dragged on, but tension simmered under every word. You caught him staring at your hands, your mouth, your crotch. Finally, as the sun dipped low, you set your pencil down. "Jonathan," you said, voice low. He froze, eyes wide. "I saw your collection." His face drained of color. "I—it's not—please, don't—" You stood, closing the distance, towering over him. "Relax. I like it." His breath hitched as you grabbed his wrist, pulling him up. "You like watching me? Taking pictures of my cock, my ass? Cumming when I do? Makes you hard, doesn't it?" Jonathan nodded, whimpering, as he looked anywhere but you. "Y-yes. God, yes. I'm sorry, I just... you're so..." You shoved him against the wall, crashing your mouth to his in a bruising kiss. He melted into it, tongue tentative until you demanded more, sucking on it hard. Your hands roamed, yanking his shirt up to pinch his nipples, making him gasp. "Show me," you growled, breaking the kiss. "Get your camera. I want to take photos of this. Just like you did." Trembling, he obeyed, grabbing his Polaroid and a tripod from his room. You stripped him first, peeling off his clothes to reveal his slim body, his cock already leaking pre-cum, smaller than yours but throbbing desperately. "On your knees," you ordered, and he dropped, eyes locked on the bulge in your jeans. You unzipped, pulling out your thick dick—bigger, just like he knew—and slapped it against his cheek. "Suck it. Show the camera how much you want this." He leaned in, lips wrapping around the head, tongue swirling over the slit to taste your pre-cum. You groaned, threading fingers through his hair, guiding him deeper. He gagged as you hit the back of his throat, but didn't pull away, hollowing his cheeks and bobbing eagerly. The shutter clicked, capturing his mouth stretched around your shaft, saliva dripping down his chin. At least you knew how to use a camera, so there was no angle not being used. "Good boy," you praised, thrusting shallowly. He moaned around you, vibrations shooting straight to your balls. You face-fucked him steadily, watching his eyes water, his hand sneaking to stroke himself. Pulling out with a wet pop, you hauled him to the couch, bending him over the armrest. His ass was pale, tight—virgin territory, you guessed. You spread his cheeks, spitting on his hole before diving in with your tongue. He yelped, pushing back as you licked broad stripes over his pucker, then speared inside, fucking him with your tongue. "Oh fuck, please," he begged, voice breaking. You added fingers, scissoring him open, curling to hit his prostate. He sobbed, cock leaking onto the cushions. The camera whirred, snapping shots of your tongue buried in his ass, his hole clenching around your digits.

dont worry, you're in safe hands now

I've been working on demosteve rescuing Bluto and Bambi earlier and wanted to share this piece finally 🥲