jxstsxgx

[jxstsxgx]

𝙸 𝙰𝙼? | 𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚅𝙴 𝙷𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚃𝙾𝙽

Pairings: Drunk! Steve x Reader

Word Count: 2, 272 words

Summary: Steve drinks himself into a dramatic spiral over his unrequited love for his best friend, you. You’re absolutely no help. Mostly because you’re too busy laughing at his dramatic little love confession meltdown.

Contains: Hangover recovery, mentions of drunk behavior, soft teasing, reader absolutely clowning Steve for his antics, Steve being the most dramatic sap ever, sweet kisses and fluffy ending.

A/N: Honestly just wanted to write hungover Steve being confused and needy, lmao.

masterlist |

Steve Harrington was, by all accounts, tragically wasted.

He had his face half-buried into Robin’s hoodie, one shoe missing, and was currently narrating his heartbreak like a sad poet with too much lip gloss on his mouth.

“She doesn’t love me,” he mumbled.

Robin exhaled slowly. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do! She’s too perfect for me. Too sunshiney. Too good.” He sniffed loudly. “She needs a guy with a jawline and like... a motorcycle.”

Eddie sat cross legged across the room, lazily flipping through a magazine and sipping a beer. “You have a jawline.”

“Not a good one,” Steve said dramatically. “Not a jawline she’d marry.”

Robin leaned her head back against the couch and mouthed, I’m going to scream.

Steve, for his part, kept rambling. “She’s probably out right now. With that guy. You know, the one. The guy with the forearms.”

“Steve,” Robin said slowly. “She’s not seeing anyone else.”

“She better not be,” he said, very seriously. “Because I’d duel him. Like swords. Or nunchucks. Do people still do that?”

Eddie blinked. “Have you ever held a sword?”

“Metaphorically, yes.”

Robin sat forward. “Okay. Steve. Listen. She's-”

“I mean, we’re best friends, right? But like best best friends. Like, if we were in a movie, it’d be the part where I stare at her in the rain and whisper something dumb like, ‘It’s always been you,’ and she forgives me for being a total dumbass and then we make out.”

Eddie snorted. “Jesus Christ.”

Robin tried again. “Steve. Let me just say-”

“I can’t tell her, okay?” he shouted, as if someone had objected. “It would ruin everything. She’d laugh or... or worse. She’d pity me. And she deserves someone who’s, like, emotionally stable and... doesn’t cry at the end of The Neverending Story."

Eddie opened his mouth. “Dude, you’re-”

“I know!” Steve wailed. “I’m her idiot best friend. Her go to guy. The guy who shows up with fries and lets her rant about her stupid coworker and doesn’t kiss her even when he really, really wants to.”

Robin slapped her hands on her knees. “Steve. Shut up for two seconds-”

“She doesn’t need to know I’m in love with her. Okay? She’s got a good thing going. Probably dating some art history major who reads poetry in French. I’ll just stay out of it.”

Eddie looked at Robin.

Robin looked at Eddie.

Both of them looked at Steve.

Then they got up, dragged and forced him into Eddie’s van.

You opened your door in a tank top and pajama pants, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “Steve?”

He blinked at you like you were a hallucination. “You’re home.”

“Yeah? It’s midnight. What’s going on?”

Robin shoved him gently forward. “Go on, Romeo.”

Steve stumbled inside, dazed. You reached for his hand instinctively. He gripped it like a lifeline.

“I came to say,” he began, very seriously, “that I love you.”

You paused. “Okay…”

“I know you’re taken,” he sighed. “And that’s fine. You deserve that. You deserve flowers and matching playlists and forehead kisses.”

“Steve-”

“No, it’s okay. I just had to say it once. So I don’t die with it inside me.”

You blinked.

Behind him, Robin and Eddie silently waved at you. Robin gestured wildly to say something. Eddie mimed a heart and pointed between the two of you.

“Steve,” you said softly. “Look at me.”

He did, watery eyed and flushed.

“You’re my boyfriend, dummy.”

He blinked.

Then blinked again.

“…Oh,” he said.

You smiled. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“I am?” he asked, voice cracking with confusion and wonder.

“You’ve been my boyfriend for like, six months.”

He looked behind him slowly at Robin and Eddie, who both gave simultaneous we tried shrugs.

Steve turned back to you, face flushed red and stunned into silence.

"I am." He says, sheepishly and now giggling.

Steve woke up with the grace of a corpse dragged from the lake.

Groaning, he blinked into your ceiling, one arm flopped over his face, one leg shoved halfway off the bed, your pillow missing entirely from under his head.

“Kill me,” he rasped.

You were already up. In the kitchen, making coffee, humming something cheerful. Too cheerful.

He frowned into the sunlight slanting through your curtains.

Why were you humming?

You were never that happy before 10 a.m.

His stomach dropped.

You walked into the room holding a mug, your sleep shirt oversized and your smile borderline evil.

“Good morning, Romeo.”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “Why do you look like you’re up to something?”

You sat beside him on the edge of the bed, handed him the coffee like you hadn’t been waiting to destroy him with it.

“No reason. Just wanted to see how my boyfriend’s head was doing.”

Steve winced, sipping carefully. “Feels like there’s a demon in it. One with a tiny drum set.”

You patted his hair. “Well, at least you weren’t dramatic or anything.”

“Don’t mess with me right now. My brain is literal soup.”

You shrugged. “Sure. I mean, Robin and Eddie dragged you to me like you were Frodo with the One Ring. And you did tell me you’d duel my imaginary boyfriend with nunchucks.”

Steve slowly turned to look at you, mortified. “...What.”

“Oh, and when they left, you cried. A little. About how I needed a man with a motorcycle.”

His face hit the pillow. “No.”

“And about your jawline.”

Steve groaned into the sheets. “Stop. Please. I’m too fragile.”

“I wish I recorded it,” you said, sighing. “Steve Harrington, prince of hair, heartbreaker of Hawkins sobbed because he thought he was ‘just the fries guy.’”

He peeked out from the blanket. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I earned this,” you said smugly. “Six months of going on dates, flirting, romantic drives, and homemade cookies, and my boyfriend forgot we were dating.”

“I was drunk!”

“You thought I had another boyfriend!”

“You said someone at work had nice forearms!”

“I was talking about a golden retriever named Max!”

Steve slumped, face pressed into your thigh. “I hate myself.”

You giggled, running your fingers through his hair. “It was kind of cute. You were very sincere. You said I deserved forehead kisses and little dates.”

He groaned again.

“And then you called me your sunshine girl and threatened to write a mixtape about your pain.”

“Okay,” Steve said, sitting up and wincing dramatically. “That’s enough. I’m cutting you off.”

You grinned, leaning in until your forehead touched his. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Steve huffed, cheeks pink. “Yeah. Lucky is one word for it.”

You kissed his cheek. Then the tip of his nose. Then his lips, soft and smiling.

And even with a hangover from hell, Steve smiled back.

“…Wait. Did I really say I’d use nunchucks?”

“Yup.”

“I don’t even own nunchucks…I take it back. I regret nothing.”

You laughed so hard, you nearly dropped your mug.

[jxstsxgx]

𝙱𝙾𝚂𝚂𝚈? 𝙷𝙾𝚃 | 𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚅𝙴 𝙷𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚃𝙾𝙽

Pairings: Est. Steve Harrington x bossy!Reader

Word Count: 1, 032 words

Summary: Steve Harrington is totally, helplessly whipped and he doesn’t even mind. You run the show with a bossy glare and perfectly folded sock standards, and he’s just happy to be along for the ride (preferably holding your purse). Cuddles, chaos, and one golden retriever boyfriend incoming.

Contains: banter, fluff, established relationship, bossy/domestic reader, sap!Steve, cuddles, minor chaos, whipped behavior

A/N: I got sick so I haven't posted in a few days. Still sick at the moment and the fever is making the letters swirl right in front of my eyes, lol. Buuut I managed to finish this short one I was working on and was supposed to post a few days back, so here it is. I hope y'all enjoy!

masterlist |

Steve Harrington doesn’t mind being told what to do. He minds forgetting to do what you told him.

There’s a difference.

“Steve! You left the dryer door open again!”

“I swear I was gonna go back and do it.”

“You never go back!”

He’s halfway through brushing his teeth when you yell at him from the laundry room. Toothpaste foam clings to his lip like a rabid dog and he's already shrugging sheepishly even though you’re in a completely different part of the house.

You march in holding a single sock and a look of betrayal.

“You’re folding these inside out again.”

Steve spits into the sink. “Babe, they’re just socks.”

You raise one brow, a move so lethal Steve swears it could end a war.

“They’re my socks. Fold them right or don’t touch them at all.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And don’t call me ma’am.””

He watches as you leave the bathroom in all your fuming, perfect glory and mutters under his breath,

“So scary. But so hot.”

You boss him around like it’s your second job and he’s never once complained. Not when you tell him how to make your coffee. Not when you rearrange his closet by color again. Not even when you slap the back of his hand because he’s trying to eat raw cookie dough with a soup spoon.

“Steve,” you say, glaring at him from the kitchen counter, “that is not what the spoon is for.”

Steve, caught mid bite freezes like a kid stealing snacks before dinner.

“You’re gonna get salmonella.”

“But it’s got the little chocolate chips in it.”

“And your grave will be chocolate chip flavored. Congratulations.”

He huffs dramatically and puts the spoon down, sulking.

“Don’t pout. You can lick the bowl later.”

“You’re gonna let me lick the bowl?” he perks up.

“Like a dog.”

“Hot.”

You throw a dish towel at him.

He does your Target runs. He knows your favorite shampoo brand by heart. He keeps extra scrunchies in his glove compartment just for you.

When you say “Steve, I swear to god, if you put that flannel in the dryer it’s gonna shrink again,” he immediately drops it like it burned him.

When you say “Go warm up the car, it’s freezing out,” he doesn’t hesitate even if it means slipping on mismatched socks and rushing outside in the middle of January.

When you say “Hold my purse,” he grabs it like a sacred relic and guards it with his life.

And when you say “Steve,” in that voice, the one that sounds all serious but also a little fond, he always, always, answers,

“Yes, boss?” And he receives the infamous death glare.

You end up at a flea market on a Sunday. He buys you matching rings even though they turn both your fingers green.

You scold him for trying to haggle with a six year old selling probably his dad's Raybans. He insists he was just asking if those are real or dupes. You drag him away by the hand, muttering under your breath about grown men fighting with kids.

He carries all the bags.

You hold the list.

You’re trying to find a new lamp.

He keeps suggesting ugly ones on purpose just to hear you say, “Absolutely not, Steve.”

“Babe, look at this one. It’s got, like, horses on it.”

You glance at it. “Steve. That’s a nightmare.”

“It’s majestic. I feel like we could name them. This one looks like a Trevor.”

You fix him with a long, patient look.

“No horses. No Trevor. No lamp that looks like it was cursed by a cowboy ghost.”

He sighs, dream destroyed. “You're no fun.”

You walk three steps ahead. “And yet you follow me everywhere like a puppy.”

“Because I love you,” he calls after you.

He lets you pick the movie even when you pretend to ask for his opinion.

“Do you want action or drama?”

Steve shrugs. “Whatever you want, baby.”

“So, you’re saying Sixteen Candles again?”

“…Yes.”

You curl up beside him, legs over his lap. He doesn’t even flinch when you steal half his popcorn and all of his blanket.

Halfway through, you feel him watching you instead of the screen.

“What?” you ask, not looking away from the screen.

He just shakes his head, smiling like a dork. “Nothing. You’re just, like, really cute when you get all bossy.”

You elbow him lightly.

You fall asleep on top of him. You’re always the one bossing him around when you're awake, but when you sleep, you drool a little and cling like a koala. He loves it. He will never tell you.

He brushes the hair out of your face and whispers, “You’re such a menace.”

You snuggle deeper into his chest.

His arms wrap around you tight. Protective. Soft.

“Best menace in the world,” he adds, quieter now.

And before he drifts off too, he kisses the top of your head and mumbles:

“I’d do literally anything you tell me to.”

[jxstsxgx]

𝙶𝙾𝙻𝙳𝙴𝙽 𝙱𝙾𝚈, 𝙾𝙽 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙺𝙽𝙴𝙴𝚂 | 𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚅𝙴 𝙷𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚃𝙾𝙽

Pairings: Steve Harrington x gf!Reader

Word Count: 4, 367 words

Summary: Everyone thinks Steve’s the one in charge, all charm and confidence. But behind closed doors, it’s her he’s on his knees for. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Contains: 18+ only! MDNI! dom!fem reader / sub!Steve, public/private power switch, heavy teasing soft dom behavior (praise, aftercare, gentle control) whiny!Steve, begging, overstimulation (in later parts). (Let me know what I missed.)

A/N: I did not know how to properly end it so, there you go, he just dozed off, lmao.

masterlist |

There were exactly three things people knew about your relationship with Steve Harrington:

He adored you. He took care of everything. He always, always had a hand on you.

Whether it was draped over your shoulders at the coffee shop, resting warm on your thigh during drives, or hooked around your waist as you leaned into him at parties, Steve made it abundantly clear: you were his. And he liked the whole damn world knowing it.

“You cold, baby?” he asked, pulling off his varsity-style jacket before you could even answer, draping it over your shoulders like it was instinct.

You blinked up at him with wide, grateful eyes. “Thanks, Stevie.”

He smirked, the smug little flicker of pride shining bright across his face as he kissed your forehead. “My girl doesn’t shiver on my watch.”

You both stood in line at the food truck outside the skating rink, stars overhead, music drifting faintly from nearby speakers. He looked like a golden boy straight out of a teen movie, all fluffy hair and tight jeans and protectiveness, and you? You looked like a damn dream in his jacket, your lips glossy and your fingers laced through his like they belonged there.

“I can order, babe,” you offered gently, reaching into your purse.

Steve just laughed. “You think I’m letting you pay for your own fries?” His nose scrunched in that way that made your heart do a cartwheel. “What kind of boyfriend would I be?”

You pouted playfully. “A modern one?”

“Nope.” He stepped closer, nosing at your cheek. “I’m a classic.”

He ordered for both of you, shot you a wink when he added your favorite drink without asking, and even made sure they salted the fries the way you liked. Prince Charming, all smirks and ease, tossing out confident nods and soft touches like it was second nature.

And you, all sunshine and 'thank you baby' and 'kiss on the cheek, played your part perfectly.

Because that was what everyone saw. Steve Harrington, confident and in charge. And you, his sweet, adoring girl who smiled pretty and let him dote on you.

But no one saw what happened when the door shut behind you at home.

Later that night, you were curled up on the couch in his lap, half a milkshake forgotten on the table, fries cold in the bag. Steve’s hand rubbed slow circles into your thigh, his face nuzzled against your neck.

“Can’t believe you wore that little skirt tonight,” he murmured, voice still low and cocky. “You trying to kill me or something?”

You hummed softly, fingers in his hair. “You liked it.”

“Liked it?” He groaned. “Almost had to drag you behind the truck."

Your fingers tugged, just slightly, at the back of his hair. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to signal something else.

He froze.

The shift was immediate.

You sat up slowly, slipping off his lap and smoothing your skirt with a quiet finality that made his chest rise a little faster.

You didn’t say a word.

Just looked at him.

And suddenly the cocky golden boy from earlier? Gone.

Steve sat straighter, like the air had shifted and he felt it deep in his spine. He followed you with his eyes like a dog waiting for a command. Breath catching. Hands twitching.

You tilted your head. “Something wrong, baby?”

His tongue darted out to wet his lips. “No, I just… you looked at me like...”

“Like what?”

He swallowed. “Like you want something.”

You let the silence hang there, watching the flush crawl up his neck.

And then, slow and deliberate, you slipped off your cardigan. Tossed it to the side. Walked toward the bedroom without looking back.

You didn’t need to.

You heard him follow.

Behind closed doors, Steve was yours.

Not the charming prince.

Not the confident caretaker.

Not the cool guy with all the right words.

Just Steve.

Whiny. Overheated. Desperate to please.

He was all breathy *“please”*s and soft moans when you pushed him down onto the bed and climbed into his lap, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“You take care of me all day,” you whispered, voice low and sugary against his jaw. “You spoil me, show me off, open all my doors like a gentleman…”

Steve exhaled shakily. “S’what you deserve.”

“And what do you deserve, sweetheart?”

He looked up at you with wide, begging eyes, chest heaving a little. “Whatever you give me.”

You smiled. Slow. Dangerous.

“You’re such a good boy for me, Stevie,” you said, kissing just beneath his ear. “So strong for everyone else. And so soft for me.”

A soft sound left his throat, something between a whimper and a sigh and his hands clenched in the sheets behind him like he didn’t trust himself to touch without permission.

“You want me to take care of you tonight?”

He nodded frantically. “Yes, yes, please.”

“Take off your shirt.”

It came off in a flash.

You trailed your fingers down his chest, watched the muscles twitch under your touch, relished the way his breath stuttered like every inch of skin you traced was lit up.

And when you kissed him, slow and deep and full of promise, he melted into it, arms loose at his sides, letting you guide everything.

You weren’t just his girl.

You were his anchor. His undoing. The only person who knew the exact sound he made when he begged softly into your mouth, the exact way his thighs trembled when you praised him, the exact look he got when he came apart from your hands and voice alone.

And then it all went downhill when he tried to take the lead.

His hands braced beside your head. His mouth hot on your neck. His tone all cocky smirks and low, gravelly confidence.

“I’m in charge tonight,” he muttered, voice tight with want as he nosed at your jawline. “Got you all worked up in that cute little outfit. You’re mine tonight, baby.”

You smiled, soft, syrupy, because he was trying so hard.

“Yeah?” you asked sweetly, batting your lashes.

Steve groaned, rolling his hips into yours. “Fuck yeah.”

And for about four minutes, it almost worked.

He kissed you hard. Pinned your wrists above your head. Told you, voice rough and shaky, “You gonna be good and let me take care of you tonight?”

You didn’t move.

Just tilted your chin slightly, eyes meeting his, all soft and knowing.

“I always let you take care of me, Stevie,” you said, breath brushing his lips. “But you forget something.”

He swallowed. “What?”

“You like it more when I’m the one in charge.”

His grip faltered.

You pulled one hand free easily and let your fingers trail slowly down the front of his chest. Down to his belt.

Steve’s breath hitched.

“You like pretending you’re in control,” you whispered. “But look at you.”

Your fingers toyed with his belt, not undoing it yet, just brushing the edge, barely teasing him. “You’re already getting hard and I haven’t even touched you.”

“I—” he faltered, and you watched the bravado crack.

The way he bit his lip.

The flush rising to his ears.

The telltale tremble in his fingers as he tried to keep his grip firm on your waist.

It only took one slow push, a gentle reversal of your positions, and he let you turn him, press him back against the bed instead.

And now?

Now Steve was breathless.

Whiny.

Back against the mattress with you kissing down his neck, slow and possessive.

“You gonna be a good boy and let me touch you?” you murmured into his throat.

He nodded, already pliant, already shaking.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, fuck please, please touch me.”

You had him half-undressed before his head even cleared. Shirt gone, belt undone, breath ragged.

Steve Harrington, who looked like the guy everyone fell for, who everyone fell for, was clinging to you like he’d fall apart if you stopped touching him.

“Thought you were gonna take charge tonight?” you teased, lips brushing the edge of his jaw.

He whimpered, literally whimpered, and let his head fall back against the soft foam.

“Fuck, I tried,” he groaned. “I thought I could, I wanted to, but you... fuck, you always get me like this.”

Your hand trailed lower, palming him over his boxers, and he gasped, bucking into your touch.

“Like what, baby?” you asked sweetly. “On edge? Needy? Desperate for me to take over?”

He made a choked sound. “Yes, yes, that...exactly that.”

You stroked him through the fabric, slow and firm, watching the way his knees started to buckle.

“Poor thing,” you cooed. “Just wanted to be the big strong boyfriend. And now look at you.”

He was moaning into your mouth, trying to kiss you and breathe at the same time, hands fisting helplessly at your hips. You didn’t even bother guiding them anywhere he couldn’t focus long enough to grab you right, not like this.

“Please let me come,” he gasped, and you smiled.

“You’re already close?”

He nodded frantically, face pink and ruined. “Mhm, m’always close with yo. Just please, I’ll be so good.”

You pulled back just a little.

Met his eyes.

“Take your pants off.”

He obeyed instantly.

Not a trace of hesitation.

Just his flushed, wrecked body obeying with a whispered, “Yes, ma’am,” and a soft whimper when you told him to get on the bed and wait.

And he did. On his back, thighs spread, eyes blown wide and mouth open like he was starving for you.

Your good, golden boy.

You spent the next stretch of time dragging him through exactly what he thought he could handle earlier.

Telling him what to do.

Making him beg.

Letting him think he’d get to finish then pulling back, whispering all the filth you knew would make his thighs shake.

By the time you finally let him come, he was wrung out and babbling.

Head tipped back.

Voice broken.

Hands useless at his sides.

Just your boy, dripping sweat and praise, body trembling as you stroked him through the aftershocks, whispering, “That’s it, baby. You did so good for me. Such a good boy.”

Steve could barely breathe.

Could barely talk.

Only managed a slurred, “Tried so hard to be in charge,” before he melted under your hands again.

You kissed his temple. Let him press into your chest, all soft and pliant.

“I know,” you whispered. “But you’re better like this.”

He nodded, humming sleepily.

Too blissed out to argue.

And in the quiet afterward, when your fingers brushed through his damp hair and you whispered every sweet thing you could think of he swore he could fall in love with you all over again.

Even if you’d just completely ruined him.

Then Steve hadn’t moved for at least five minutes.

Flat on his back. Hair a mess. Skin flushed pink and damp all over. His hand was barely clinging to your wrist, like if he let go, he'd float away completely.

“You okay?” you whispered, lips brushing his temple.

He nodded slowly.

Then again, firmer.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good." He let out a tired, shaky breath. “You wrecked me.”

You smiled, kissed his cheek. “You loved it.”

“Mhm.” He let his head tip toward your shoulder, eyes fluttering shut again. “So good, baby."

Your fingers traced down his stomach. Light. Barely a brush.

Steve shuddered.

You felt his cock twitch, not hard again yet, but not exactly soft either.

He flinched and gasped softly. “Wait...what’re you doing?”

“I’m not finished,” you murmured against his throat. “Are you?”

Steve’s eyes flew open.

You didn’t wait for an answer. Just slid your fingers slowly, torturously, between his thighs. Right over the sensitive, spit-slick skin, teasing him back toward hardness.

His hips twitched violently.

He groaned, not quite a moan this time, more like a broken plea. “Oh my god...wait, wait, I just came, baby.”

You kissed down his jaw.

“You can take it.”

His voice cracked. “I can’t, fuck, it’s too much!”

Your hand wrapped around him.

Just once.

Just barely enough.

Steve screamed into your shoulder, hips jerking up, the kind of desperate movement that came from reflex, not thought. His thighs were trembling. His eyes wide and panicked but so wet, glassy and wrecked.

You slowed your touch immediately, whispering sweet nothings to calm him. “Shhh. I’ve got you."

Steve panted like he’d run a marathon.

His voice was ragged. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled, kissing the sweat at his temple.

“No,” you said. “Just ruin you a little more.”

The next ten minutes were a blur of ragged breath and muffled moans. You took your time.

Stroking him back to hardness.

Letting him squirm and twitch and beg, voice cracking with every whisper of “please” and “I don’t know if I can” and “fuckfuckfuck, I’m gonna...”

You didn’t even have to say much.

Just looked down at him with that soft, steady gaze and let your fingers work slowly over his oversensitive cock, gentle and relentless.

Steve was gasping by the time he was close again.

He gripped the sheets like a lifeline, head tossing side to side. “Can’t, can’t,baby, please, I c-can’t!”

“You will,” you said, low and firm. “For me.”

His whole body arched when he came again.

It wasn’t clean or controlled! it was messy, whiny, broken. A sound clawed out of his throat like a sob, and his thighs shook so hard you thought he might actually fall apart.

And even then, you didn’t let go.

You kept going. Soft strokes. Bare pressure. Just enough to keep him whimpering.

Steve was babbling now.

“Please please please, ohmygod, baby, please..”

He was crying a little, not from pain, just from too much, from giving you everything he had.

From being so loved, so wanted, so completely undone by you that he didn’t know how to ask you to stop. Or if he even wanted you to.

You slowed, at last.

Held his face gently, kissing his forehead.

“You okay?” you whispered, thumb stroking his cheek.

Steve blinked up at you, dazed and teary and completely gone. He looked like he didn’t even remember his name. Only managed to say, soft as a breath:

“You’re gonna kill me. I’m serious.”

You grinned. “Still think you’re the dominant one, Harrington?”

He let out a weak, wrecked laugh. “Shut up.”

You kissed his swollen mouth and pulled the blanket over both of you.

Later, when you helped him into clean boxers and curled up around him, Steve let out a soft sigh.

“Y’know,” he said sleepily, “I had this whole plan earlier.”

“Oh?”

He nuzzled your collarbone.

“Yeah. I was gonna tie you up, make you beg.”

You stroked his hair gently. “And what happened?”

Steve groaned into your skin. “You happened. And now I can’t feel my legs.”

You laughed softly, pressing your lips to his curls.

He was quiet for a beat. Then, quietly, almost bashful:

“Can we do it again tomorrow?”

You smiled against his hair.

“Anything you want, pretty boy.”

And he fell asleep like that, smiling, safe, and completely yours.

[jxstsxgx]

𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙾𝙽𝙶 𝚆𝙰𝚈 𝙰𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳 |𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚅𝙴 𝙷𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚁𝚃𝙾𝙽

Pairings: Steve Harrington x bsf!Reader

Word Count: 3,123 words

Summary: Two best friends. One long, slow, ridiculous build-up. Nobody confesses, but everybody knows. It’s not a love story...yet.

Contains: Fluff, mutual pining, best friends being dumb, close physical proximity, blushing, awkward tension, emotional honesty disguised as jokes. (Let me know if I missed some)

A/N: I haven't posted in a few days so here's a long one, post-S4, Hawkins isn’t on fire for once. Miracles do happen. Lol.

masterlist |

The first time Steve “accidentally” held your hand was during a horror movie night.

It wasn’t even a scary part. Just the opening credits. The room was dark, popcorn was being passed around, and your fingers brushed, lingering a beat too long. He didn’t move. You didn’t either. And then Robin fake coughed something that sounded suspiciously like “hand stuff” and Steve practically threw the popcorn at her.

Neither of you mentioned it.

That’s how it always was with you and Steve. Hovering. Orbiting. A little too close, but never close enough to call it what it was.

You’d known each other since high school, though you weren’t part of his crowd back then. He was all hairspray and popularity contests. You were not. But now? Now you were best friends. He drove you to work sometimes. You brought him cookies shaped like bats for Halloween. He called you “trouble” with this stupid soft smirk that made your insides do jazz hands.

It was infuriating.

Because Steve Harrington was good at a lot of things hair flips, babysitting, putting his foot in his mouth but he was absolutely awful at feelings. And to be fair, so were you.

So, instead of talking about it like healthy adults, you did what any emotionally stunted duo would do:

You leaned hard into the bit.

“Morning, wifey,” you’d greet him when he brought you a coffee at Family Video.

“My favorite girl,” he’d reply, handing it over like it wasn’t slowly killing him that you weren’t actually his.

You called him ‘lover boy’ when you climbed into his car, and he played your favorite mixtape without being asked.

Sometimes, you’d steal his hoodie and he’d steal your hair clips which he’d try to pass off as “for the bit” until Robin found him sitting on the counter, spinning one around his finger and sighing.

One Saturday, you dragged him to the flea market outside town. You made him try on a too-small corduroy jacket and he made you wear round sunglasses and pretend to be celebrities on the run from a secret government agency.

“You’re Donna Stardust,” he told you, striking a ridiculous pose behind a table full of broken action figures. “And I’m your bodyguard slash secret lover.”

“Secret lover?” you snorted. “Bold of you to assume Donna doesn’t have standards.”

“Ouch.”

He looked so fake-offended that you kissed his cheek without thinking.

And then froze.

You both did.

“Oh,” you said.

He blinked. “Yeah.”

Neither of you brought it up again.

Instead, you talked about alien conspiracies the whole ride home and made waffles at your place while carefully not touching at all.

The pining got worse after that.

He’d stare at you too long when you weren’t looking. You’d mess with his hair just to see the way he shivered. He’d let you put glittery nail polish on one pinky finger “as a social experiment.” You’d pretend not to notice the way his gaze dropped to your mouth every time you licked frosting off your finger.

Robin knew. Dustin knew. Probably the entire Midwest knew.

But not you two.

Because every time you got too close, the fear kicked in. What if you ruined it? What if the friendship was all you got? What if he only liked the version of you that made him laugh and didn’t admit she stared at his stupid perfect mouth during movies?

And so it went. Days and nights filled with soft touches and stupid dares. With Steve sighing too loudly when you walked into a room. With you doodling little hearts next to his name in your notebook like you were 13 again.

Then, one rainy Thursday, you crashed on his couch after a movie marathon. You were halfway asleep, tucked under a blanket, and Steve was sitting on the floor beside you, your fingers tangled loosely in his hair.

“I don’t get it,” he said softly, more to himself than to you.

You hummed, eyes closed. “Don’t get what?”

“How I got so lucky. With you.”

Your heart stuttered.

You opened your eyes slowly.

He was still looking ahead, like he hadn’t realized he said it out loud.

You almost said something. Almost leaned forward. Almost ruined everything.

Instead, you just smiled. “Me neither.”

And he leaned back against the couch, right where your knees curled up behind him, letting your fingers slip gently back into his hair.

Neither of you said a word.

But his hand found your ankle under the blanket, and your thumb brushed the shell of his ear, and that was enough. For now.

Because yeah. Somebody was in love.

Two somebodies, actually.

And maybe someday, one of you would be brave enough to say it.

But for now, the bit was still good.

And neither of you wanted the story to end.

And then came the camping trip.

Dustin had this grand idea to get “everyone together for a bonding weekend,” and against all logic, you agreed. Even more surprising: Steve didn’t back out either.

You ended up in the same tent. Obviously.

Robin made a spreadsheet for sleeping arrangements, claimed it was randomized. (It absolutely wasn’t. She winked at you when she handed it over.)

“I snore,” you told Steve, holding up your sleeping bag.

“I sleep with one sock on,” he said, completely serious.

You blinked. “Psychopath.”

He grinned. “You love it.”

And that was that.

The first night, you played card games by the fire and watched Steve roast three marshmallows for you because you claimed his had the “golden brown touch.” When your fingers brushed as he handed one over, it was nothing. Except it wasn’t.

Later, in the tent, you lay side by side in your sleeping bags, talking softly about stupid stuff bad dates, favorite cereal mascots, which Muppet each of you would be.

“I’d be Gonzo,” you said.

“Why?”

“He’s a disaster but deeply romantic.”

Steve made a soft sound. “Yeah, that tracks.”

You turned your head. He was already watching you.

Your breath caught.

“I think you’d be Kermit,” you whispered.

He huffed a laugh. “Why’s that?”

“Because you care too much. And you keep getting dragged into chaos. And you have a cute voice.”

“A cute voice?”

“Shut up.”

He didn’t shut up. But he also didn’t move. Just lay there, close enough that you could count the little freckles on his nose. The tent was too warm. Or maybe it was you. Or maybe it was him.

The next morning, Robin found you sitting side by side, half-asleep, sharing a hoodie and a single cup of lukewarm coffee like it was a ritual.

“You two are disgusting,” she announced.

Steve just handed you the cup again, his fingers curling around yours a second longer than necessary. “She started it.”

You bumped his knee. “Did not.”

“Did too.”

It wasn’t love. Not technically. Because nobody said anything.

But it also kind of was.

Because later, when you got sunburned on your nose, Steve smeared aloe on with two fingers and said, “You’re still cute,” like it was nothing. And when he scraped his elbow trying to help set up the hammock, you kissed it better and pretended not to see the way his entire soul short circuited.

When the trip ended, he drove you home. You slept in the passenger seat, mouth half open, sunburnt and soft and safe. And he looked over at you like he was watching a movie he never wanted to end.

“Still not gonna say it?” Robin asked him the next day.

Steve just shook his head. “Not yet.”

Because maybe the thing about love, real love, is that you know it’s there, even if you don’t say it out loud.

Maybe someday. But not just yet.

It had been a month since the camping trip.

Since the half-asleep tent conversations. Since the burned marshmallows and the almost-kisses and the way you’d fallen asleep in the car with your head on Steve’s shoulder and drooled on his jacket, which he hadn’t even minded.

You were still best friends.

Still not kissing. Still not saying anything.

But the air between you? It was like living inside a slow song stuck on repeat. All yearning. All build-up. No release.

Every touch lingered.

Every joke felt like flirting.

Every shared look held a little too long made your breath catch like it might never come back.

You started noticing things. Stupid things. Like how Steve always stood between you and traffic, how he tied your shoes once without thinking, how he bit the inside of his cheek when you put on lipstick and acted like he wasn’t staring at your mouth the whole time.

You caught him doing it three times in one week.

“I’m going to kill you,” Robin muttered to him at Family Video one Thursday, arms crossed. “If you don’t kiss her soon, I’m gonna do it for you.”

Steve just groaned. “I can’t.”

“You can, Harrington. You’re choosing not to.”

“She’s… She’s everything, Robin.”

“Then maybe try saying that instead of channeling your sexual tension into alphabetizing the horror section.”

Meanwhile, you were suffering.

You were halfway through shaving your legs one Friday night when Steve called to ask if you wanted to watch The Princess Bride and eat curly fries. You stared at your mirror for five whole minutes trying to decide if this was a date or just Steve being Steve.

It wasn’t a date.

Of course it wasn’t.

But he put his arm behind you on the couch. And you leaned into it. And by the time the credits rolled, his fingers were in your hair and your legs were in his lap and your heart was somewhere in your throat.

Still. Nothing.

You were going to implode.

The crack came on a Tuesday.

You had a nightmare. A dumb on, too much coffee and too many horror movies and too little sleep. You called Steve at 1:23 a.m., not expecting him to pick up.

“I’m fine,” you said, "Just can't sleep."

He didn’t even pause. “I’m coming over.”

He showed up in a hoodie and pajama pants, hair a mess, looking exactly like someone who had run out the door without thinking twice. He brought Pop Tarts. Sat on your floor. Talked to you about anything but what you both wanted to say.

Then, as the silence stretched out, your legs touching under the blanket you’d dragged off the couch, something shifted.

“I think I’m in love with you,” you whispered, not meaning to say it. Not like that.

Steve blinked.

He blinked again.

And then?

He cracked.

Not gently. Not sweetly.

He surged forward and kissed you like he’d been holding back for years. Like he’d been dying to do it. Like every second since the moment he met you had been building to this.

It was messy. You bumped noses. You laughed into his mouth. He cupped your face with both hands and kept kissing you like he was making up for lost time.

“You’re in love with me?” he asked between kisses, slightly dazed.

You nodded, breathless. “You’re surprised?”

“I just thought… I thought you were waiting for me to say it.”

“Well, I was.”

Steve kissed you again. This time it was slower. Sweeter. Still a little wild.

“I love you,” he said into your neck. “God, I love you so much I think I’m actually stupid.”

“You are stupid.”

“You’re literally in love with me.”

“...Touché.”

Later, you lay tangled together on your couch, both of you in total shock that you’d finally said it. Finally kissed. Finally cracked.

“I feel like we were emotionally edging for months,” you said.

Steve groaned into your shoulder. “Please never say ‘emotionally edging’ again.”

“But that’s what it was.”

“…Okay, yeah. It was exactly that.”

You both laughed so hard you nearly fell off the couch.

And when he kissed you again, forehead, cheek, lips, you swore you could actually feel your heart exhale.

Because the thing about love? It’s terrifying. It’s messy.

But sometimes, it’s just your best friend showing up at 1 a.m. with Pop Tarts and finally, finally kissing you stupid.

[jxstsxgx]

𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝙸𝚃 | 𝙴𝙳𝙳𝙸𝙴 𝙼𝚄𝙽𝚂𝙾𝙽

Pairings : Est. Eddie Munson x gf!Reader

Word Count: 1, 439 words

Summary: Eddie’s been teasing you all week, talking a big game, until movie night turns into a game of who can push who further. Eddie thinks he’s teasing you, until you get in his lap and make him lose his damn mind.

Contains: SMUT 18+ MDNI!, pwp, unprotected p in v, mutual teasing, lap sitting, bratty!Reader, oral (f!receiving and m!receiving), dry humping, begging, dirty talk, playful humiliation, switch energy, pure filth. (let me know if I missed any)

A/N: This is one of the few fics I was going to post initially, when I was starting, but I got scared when I got the content label warning thing so I took it down immediately because it was my first fic and I did not know it was gonna do reviews and content label shit, lmao 🙈😭. Here it is, I am going to be posting them finally, just editing and proofreading the other ones.

masterlist |

You’d been on Eddie’s nerves all week.

Short skirts in the middle of winter. Leaning over his lunch tray with lip gloss on. Whispering “does this look slutty?” while spinning in his trailer like you were clueless.

But you weren’t clueless.

You knew exactly what you were doing because Eddie was also being a goddamn tease, not learning from his past mistakes that you're petty.

He had also been teasing you before you did too. Whispering pure filth even when you're out in public, getting handsy, and you know, the pervy Eddie habits.

So you teased him too. And by the time Friday movie night rolled around, Eddie had reached the end of his rope.

“You are such a tease,” he groaned, head falling back against the couch as you dropped down next to him, legs bare, hair up, lip gloss glossy.

You looked at him innocently. “Me?”

“Yes, you, you evil little thing.”

You grinned. “Thought you liked that. Weren't you the one who started all of this?"

He groaned again and threw a pillow at you.

But the thing is, he did like it.

So much that he couldn’t stop looking at you. So much that every time you shifted, crossed your legs, leaned forward to grab popcorn his hands twitched in his lap and he had to adjust his pants like a teenage boy.

He tried to keep it light. Teased you back. Called you a brat under his breath, bit his lip when you smirked like you knew exactly what you were doing.

You did.

So you took it further.

Halfway through the movie, you climbed into his lap. “Nowhere else to sit,” you said sweetly, like there wasn’t a whole couch.

Eddie looked at you like he was about to combust. “You’re killing me.”

“Mm,” you said, shifting just right. “You’ll live.”

Then you started moving. Not obviously. Just a little, hips rocking gently, just enough to make him clench his jaw.

“You’re evil,” he whispered, gripping your waist.

You turned and leaned in close. “You like it.”

And then you really went for it, slow grinding, lips brushing his ear, letting little gasps slip out like you weren’t even trying to make him lose it.

Eddie was breathing hard. Hands twitching like he didn’t know where to put them.

“You gonna do something about it, Munson?” you whispered, bratty smile on your face.

He blinked. “W-what?”

You grabbed his hand and slid it up your bare thigh, underneath your skirt.

“No panties,” you said sweetly. “Thought that might help.”

Eddie whimpered.

You pulled back just to watch his face.

“You okay?”

“I’m going to die,” he whispered.

You giggled and rolled your hips again, letting his fingers brush right where you wanted them. He gasped.

“Fuck. Please. Let me taste you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What happened to all that teasing, Munson?”

He was practically panting now. “It was a joke. You win. You win, okay? Just... please, get on my face or I’m gonna fucking explode.”

And you did win.

Because two minutes later, Eddie was flat on his back on the couch, moaning like a sinner in church with your thighs around his face, hands gripping your hips like a lifeline, tongue desperate to make you fall apart.

And when you did, when you tugged his hair and rode it out and laughed through your high, he looked wrecked underneath you.

You kissed his nose. “Still breathing?”

“Barely,” he rasped.

You kissed his lips and smirked. “Good. Because we’re not done.”

Eddie groaned. “I’m never teasing you again.”

You grinned. “Liar.”

Eddie was panting beneath you.

Sweaty, glassy,eyed, lips shiny with your slick and totally fucked out, despite still being fully clothed.

You were sitting on his chest, grinning, his hair stuck to his face like he’d just survived something cataclysmic.

Which, in a way, he had.

You leaned forward, slowly. Let your thighs squeeze his ribs, your hands press into his chest.

“You okay, baby?” you teased, voice sugary-sweet. “Need a second?”

He blinked up at you. “I think I saw God.”

You giggled and dragged your nails over his stomach through his shirt. “That wasn’t God, sweetheart. That was me.”

He let out a breathless groan, head flopping back.

You tilted your head. “You hard?”

He nodded. Dumbly. Pathetically.

You slid down between his legs and cupped him through his jeans... oh, still rock solid.

He twitched in your palm.

You smiled. “Want some help with that?”

“Yes. Please. Jesus Christ.”

“Beg nicer.”

He whined. Literally whined, and you unzipped him anyway, just to be merciful.

His cock sprang out, flushed and leaking, twitching like it had a mind of its own.

You stared. “You’re so hard it’s sad, Munson.”

Eddie’s breath hitched. “Then do something about it,” he whispered.

You raised an eyebrow. “Still giving orders?”

He swallowed hard.

Then you spit right on the head and wrapped your hand around the base. Slow strokes, twisting just enough to make him moan. His hips bucked and you slapped them back down.

“Uh-uh,” you said. “Be good.”

“Fuck... baby, please, I can’t—”

You leaned in and licked a stripe up the side of him. “Thought you could take it. You were talking all that shit before.”

“I was joking,” he gasped.

“You were cocky,” you purred. “You thought you were in charge.”

You wrapped your lips around the tip and sucked, just once and watched his eyes roll back like you’d knocked him unconscious.

“Oh my God,” he whined.

You pulled off with a pop. “That good already?”

“I’m gonna come if you keep looking at me like that.”

You smirked. “You don’t get to come yet.” You said as you gave him a short sloppy blowjob and then you climbed up and sat on him again, not his face this time.

You sank down on his cock, slow, thick stretch, inch by inch, until he was buried inside and shaking.

He let out a broken moan. “Oh my fuck!”

You leaned forward, nails in his chest, hips circling slow and cruel.

“You like that?” you whispered.

“Yes. God. Fuck, yes. You’re so tight... shit—”

You clenched around him and he whimpered.

And you just grinned.

Started rolling your hips in slow, grinding motions, letting him feel everything.

And you were mean with it.

Pushed his shirt up to scratch down his stomach. Bit his neck. Tugged his hair and told him how pretty he looked falling apart.

“You’re drooling, baby,” you cooed. “Didn’t know I’d break you this fast.”

Eddie gasped. “Please, baby... Let me cum..”

“Nope.”

You clamped down and froze, holding him there.

He screamed.

“Don’t be a brat,” you whispered. “Be good and I’ll let you come.”

“I’ll be good! I’ll be so fucking good, just please, I need it, I’ll do anything!”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

You rocked your hips once, hard, and his whole body jerked.

Then again.

Then again.

Faster now. Rougher. Until the sound of skin slapping and wet moaning filled the room, filthy and wild and perfect.

He was begging, sobbing almost. “Fuck! Please—”

And then you let him.

You kissed him and clenched around him and whispered “come for me, baby” into his mouth and he did.

Hard.

Like he’d been waiting his whole life.

Came with a cry, arms wrapped around you like you were going to disappear, hips stuttering as he pulsed inside you.

You held him through it. Slowed down. Stroked his hair.

Let him breathe.

Let him fall apart.

Then you leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Still think I’m the tease?” you whispered.

Eddie just stared at the ceiling.

Totally dazed. Completely spent.

And then he grinned.

“…Holy shit.”

[jxstsxgx]

𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝙶𝙸𝚁𝙻𝚂...?! | 𝚁𝙾𝙱𝙸𝙽 𝙱𝚄𝙲𝙺𝙻𝙴𝚈

Pairings: Robin Buckley x fem!Reader

Word Count: 1,069 words

Summary: Robin has a crush. A huge one. On Hawkins High’s walking sunbeam and part time diner waitress. But Robin’s convinced she’s into Steve. Until one shift at Family Video turns into the cutest kind of freakout.

Contains: Fluff, WLW mutual pining, soft chaos, emotional panic, sunshine x awkward

masterlist |

The bell over the Family Video door jingled, and Robin didn’t even look up at first.

She was behind the counter, chewing on the end of her pen, half-reading a return log and half-listening to Steve ramble about some girl who smiled at him at the gas station.

Until you walked in.

Soft pink scrunchie in your hair. White sneakers. A pastel sundress that swished when you moved. Like the damn sun had decided to take human form and wander into her workplace.

Steve straightened instantly. “Okay, hold up. Now that’s a chick.”

Robin’s head snapped up even though she'd already clocked the sound of your walk, the exact shape of your silhouette in the glass, the way her heart always sped up just a little too fast when you were near.

She tried to play it cool. Really, she did.

“Oh. Yeah.” She shrugged like it meant nothing. “I know her.”

Steve turned to her, brows lifted. “You know her?”

Robin cleared her throat. “I mean… not really. Just... we’re in the same biology class. She’s the one who brings those glitter pens and always has, like, fruit-scented highlighters. And she knows all the answers but never makes you feel stupid. And she smells like strawberry shampoo and once she lent me a pencil when I forgot mine and said—” She stopped, color rushing to her cheeks. “I’ve seen her around.”

Steve blinked.

Robin turned back to the return log. Her ears were bright red.

You walked up to the counter and gave them both a polite, cheerful smile that made Robin’s knees feel like they could go rogue at any second.

“Hi! Do you guys have Heathers in?”

“Yup, sure do!” Steve was already halfway around the counter. “Robin, check the binder?”

She didn’t need to. She knew it was in. She’d shelved it herself two days ago. Still, she flipped through for show, fingers a little shaky.

“One copy,” she said, disappearing into the back to grab it.

When she returned and handed it to you, your fingers brushed, and your smile was even warmer than the weather outside.

“Thanks, Robin.”

She barely managed a “no problem” before you turned and walked out.

She watched until the door closed.

You came back the next day.

And the next. Each time, Steve greeted you like he was ready to date you yesterday.

And each time, Robin shrunk a little more behind the counter.

You always smiled at her, though.

Always lingered, just a second longer than necessary.

But that had to mean nothing, right? You were like that with everyone. Robin had seen you be just as kind to the postman, to the kid who ran the photo booth at the mall. You were sunshine. Friendly and open and... probably not into girls. And definitely not into her.

Each time with a movie in mind, or a question about release dates, or just to browse and chat about whatever tape Robin happened to be shelving. Steve tried his luck a couple times, always leaning on the counter, trying to be charming, but you always talked to Robin, too. Always said her name. Always gave her a smile that felt like it was just for her.

Still, Robin wasn’t stupid.

You were sweet with everyone. Friendly, warm, sunshine in a dress. You probably smiled at your mailman like that, too. It didn’t mean anything.

And besides, you were probably into Steve. Everyone was into Steve.

So she stayed quiet. Watched from behind the counter. Wrote dumb little notes in the margins of her bio notebook about covalent bonds and girls with cherry lip balm.

Then one Thursday, Steve was late.

Robin had opened the store by herself, cranky about it but trying not to let it show. She was rearranging the comedy shelf when the door jingled again.

You walked in, hair twisted up with a claw clip, jean jacket over your dress, a tote bag slung over one shoulder.

“Steve’s not here yet?” you asked, your eyes scanning the counter.

Robin shook her head. “He’s running late.” You're definitely into Steve. She thought.

You nodded but didn’t move to leave.

Instead, you stepped a little closer, resting your arms on the edge of the counter. “That’s okay. I actually, um… kinda came to see you anyway.”

Robin blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah.” You smiled, eyes bright but nervous. “I, uh... I’ve got closing shift at the diner tonight. We stop serving around nine. And I was wondering…”

She swore her heart skipped three beats.

“…If you maybe wanted to come by? I could make you a shake? Or, like, fries? Or… I don’t know, if you’re not busy.”

Robin stared at you like you’d just asked her to marry you.

“You want me to?” she started.

“Yeah.” You tucked your hair behind your ear, clearly flustered. “I mean, I’ve been meaning to ask. I just… figured this is easier for our biology project.”

Oh, sure. The darned biology project.

Robin blinked. Then blinked again.

“I’d love that,” she said, barely managing not to squeak.

You grinned. “Then it is. Nine, okay?" And with a little wave, you turned and walked out the door.

Robin stood frozen, replaying the entire interaction on a loop, heart pounding so loud it was dizzying.

Five minutes later, Steve burst in, keys jangling, clearly out of breath.

“Sorry, sorry. I overslept. What’d I miss?”

Robin turned to him, eyes wild.

“She asked me out,” she whispered.

Steve blinked. “What?”

“She asked me out.”

Steve looked like he was shocked. “No way."

“She’s not... I mean it's for a project..” Robin shook her head, overwhelmed.

But like the idiots they were, Steve and Robin convinced themselves it meant something else. “She likes girls. She asked me. Out.”

Steve just clapped her on the back.

Robin was still standing there ten minutes later, shocked and smiling like an idiot.

Because biology class and highlighters and strawberry shampoo aside, you liked her. Or so she thinks so.

And she was absolutely, hopelessly, she was head over Converse for you.

[jxstsxgx]

𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝚄𝚂 | 𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚅𝙴 𝙷𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚃𝙾𝙽

Pairings: Steve Harrington x gf!Reader

Word Count: 1,220 words

Summary: You walked away thinking you were second best. Steve let you. Two months later, he finally proves you weren’t. (This is part two of Hard To Love!)

Contains: Angst Turned Fluff, Reconciliation, Marriage, Domestic Future, Past Angst, Cheesy Reconciliation, Established Relationship, References to Marriage & Family Life

A/N: Based on this ask by @keerygal. I'm sooo sorry it took a while, I got sidetracked (fought with kids in online games) lmao. But here it is, hope y'all enjoy! 🩵

PS. I suck at looking up pictures so please bear with it. 😭

masterlist | part one

The spring gave way to summer without ceremony. The days got warmer. Hawkins got quieter. The cracks in your heart stayed the same.

You didn’t see Steve.

Not really.

You saw him in passing. In crowded spaces where the gang still hung out, though more carefully now. Like everyone could feel the shift but no one knew how to name it.

You stopped sitting next to each other. Your jokes didn’t land the same. You didn’t bring up movies anymore, and he didn’t offer to drive you home. The silence wasn’t angry, it was worse than that. It was resigned.

It wasn’t one big fight that broke you.

It was the echo.

That moment on the porch. The sound of Steve’s voice saying words meant for someone else. Words about a life you’d never be a part of, because he hadn’t pictured you in it.

And you’d been doing all the picturing.

God, that was the thing that hurt the most. You were all in. You’d imagined road trips, sharing apartments, staying up late and watching bad TV. You imagined watching him hold your kids. Watching him grow old.

You gave him every piece of your future.

And in the quiet of that pool party, you learned you’d never been part of his.

Steve felt it too.

Felt it in the way your name sat heavy in his throat, like it didn’t belong to him anymore. In the way he still saw your ghost in his car, in his house, in the songs you used to hum under your breath.

He hadn’t meant to hurt you.

But he had.

Not with malice. Not even with carelessness.

Just with honesty.

Because that version of the future he talked about? With Nancy? It wasn’t real. It was just a leftover dream he didn’t know how to stop carrying.

He didn’t want Nancy back.

But he wanted something simple. Something linear. Something familiar enough to not be scary.

And you were none of those things.

You were chaos and challenge and realness. You looked at him like you saw all his worst parts ,and still held out his hand. And he didn’t know how to let someone love him like that. Not fully.

So he’d held back.

And you’d noticed.

And now?

Now there was nothing to hold at all.

Robin asked about you once.

“Have you called her?”

Steve shook his head. “No point.”

“She didn’t ask for space, Steve. She asked for more. And you didn’t give it to her.”

“I didn’t know how.”

Robin frowned. “Then maybe she was right.”

Steve didn’t answer. Just swallowed hard and walked out the back door.

Your room felt different without him.

It wasn’t like you lived together, but his presence had seeped into everything. His sweaters were still in your drawer. His stupid tube socks were in your laundry. The corner of your mattress still dipped where he used to sit and pull off his sneakers.

He’d kissed you there once, soft and slow. Whispered something like “I think I could love you forever” into your neck.

You wished he hadn’t said it.

You wished you didn’t still believe it.

Two months later, Steve knocked on your door at 1:12 a.m.

It was raining, of course it was raining, and he looked like something out of a bad rom-com with his hair flat, shirt sticking to his chest, breathless like he’d run the whole way.

You opened the door before you even knew why.

And he said, “I can’t do this.”

You blinked, heart thudding. “What?”

“I can’t keep pretending like I didn’t screw everything up,” he said. “I can’t keep trying to go through my days like there isn’t this giant, gaping hole where you are supposed to be.”

You stared at him.

He took a shaky breath. “I was scared, okay? You were too good. Too real. You made me want things I thought I wasn’t allowed to have anymore. And I ruined it.”

You didn’t speak. Not yet.

“I said something stupid to Nancy. Something I didn’t even mean in the way it sounded. And if you heard it, and it made you feel like I didn’t see a future with you, then I failed. Because all I do is picture you. Us. A dog we both forget to feed on time. Kids that have your laugh and my hair and leave socks in the microwave or something stupid like that.”

You blinked, lips twitching despite yourself.

Steve stepped closer. “I don’t want that life with anyone else. Not anymore. Not even in my imagination. It’s you. It’s always been you, and I didn’t say it when it mattered. So I’m saying it now.”

“And if you never want to see me again, I’ll walk away,” he said, voice shaking now. “But if there’s even the smallest part of you that still loves me, I’m begging you...”

You didn’t let him finish.

You grabbed the front of his stupid soaked shirt and kissed him like you were starving.

Because you were.

And he kissed you back like he’d been drowning.

Three years later, you now stood in the backyard of a small two bedroom house just outside Hawkins.

The baby monitor sat on the patio table beside two half-finished drinks. The pool was quiet. The fairy lights Steve insisted on stringing every spring blinked lazily in the dark.

“Remember the last time we were at a pool party?” you teased, curling into his side.

He groaned. “Don’t remind me. Worst night of my life.”

“Could’ve been the last.”

“Was almost the last,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Glad it wasn’t.”

The baby monitor crackled softly.

You smiled.

Inside, your daughter, the little girl with Steve’s sleepy eyes, a head full of hair and your stubborn scowl turned over in her crib and sighed.

Steve glanced down at you.

“You know I still picture a future sometimes,” he said.

You raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But it’s not a dream anymore. It’s real. You, me, her. Maybe another one. A backyard. A swing set. You threatening to murder me if I forget to take the chicken out of the freezer again.”

You laughed, heart aching in the best way.

He squeezed your hand. “I know I was hard to love. But you did it anyway. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be worth it.”

You kissed him, soft and slow.

“I already think you are.”

And under the string lights, with your daughter safe inside and Steve holding you like a promise, the future you once thought you'd lost bloomed around you, not a perfect one, not the one he once imagined with someone else.

But the one you built together.

The only one that ever truly fit.

[jxstsxgx]

Would post a Steve Harrington fic (pt. 2) and a Robin Buckley one once I finish beefing with these kids on Dress to Impress, lol.

[jxstsxgx]

he’s so goddamn cute i’m gonna throw up and cry

[jxstsxgx]

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍒ɞ˚‧｡⋆

[jxstsxgx]

Look at this man. I want this man. 😭❤️

[jxstsxgx]

Hi I just read hard to love with steve Harrington and was wondering if you could maybe do a part 2 where steve does end up wanting to create new memories with reader and does whatever he can to win her back and they get back together and fluff at the end where they do create new memories (and eventually get married and have babies) 🤍 (if not thats totally okay and I still love hard to love)

omg yeess!! currently working on it nowww 🩵🩵

[jxstsxgx]

Sorry fam can’t spend Thanksgiving or Christmas or New Years with you I gotta watch a stupid show on Netflix that I’m obsessed with for whatever reason

[jxstsxgx]

𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙳 𝚃𝙾 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴 | 𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚅𝙴 𝙷𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚃𝙾𝙽

Pairings: Steve Harrington x gf!Reader

Word Count: 1,613 words

Summary: A late night pool party at Harrington's residence with the rest of the gang and you overhear Steve reminiscing with Nancy about a future that doesn’t include you. It’s not cheating. It’s not betrayal. It’s something worse: the kind of honesty that unravels everything.

Contains: Angst, emotional miscommunication, overheard confessions, lingering history between Steve/Nancy, and heartbreak. (Let me know if I missed something else)

A/N: I was watching a Stranger Things reaction video on youtube and it was that episode where they stole the RV and Steve was talking to Nancy about having a big family with six kids and going on a trip or something and that inspired me to write this one. Like why not make it angsty. Hope you enjoy..or cry with me or whatever, lol.

masterlist | part two

The water glittered under the porch lights like a hundred tiny suns.

Someone had put music on, something low and easy, half drowned under the splashes and soft laughter. It should’ve felt nice. Safe. After everything you’d been through with the Upside Down, this kind of peace was rare. A backyard pool, cheap plastic chairs, towels strewn across the grass. The whole gang, together. Breathing. Living.

You were perched at the edge of the deep end, legs dangling in, beer untouched beside you. Robin and Dustin were mid-cannonball war. Max and Lucas bickered lazily over pool noodles. Nancy had just walked back from the house with a refill for herself and one for Steve.

Steve, your boyfriend, technically.

Except tonight, something was off.

He hadn’t touched you once. Not even a passing squeeze on your shoulder or a graze of your hand. Not cold, not distant. Just… quiet. Thoughtful.

And Nancy had been near him more than usual. Laughing at something he said. Sitting next to him on the pool steps. It was nothing. It had to be nothing. Everyone knows you and Steve are together, Nancy's in a lond distance relationship with Jonathan, and she's nice to you.

Still, your gut twisted.

You weren’t jealous. Not exactly. Not insecure, either. You knew Steve loved you. He told you often. Held you like it was sacred. But there was always that thing, that little thread that hadn’t quite snapped between him and Nancy Wheeler.

And that’s when you heard it.

You’d wandered inside for a towel, your own still soaked. Passing the sliding glass door, you paused. Not intentionally. Just long enough to hear Steve’s voice.

They were alone on the porch steps. Nancy and Steve, bathed in string light shadows.

“I used to think this would be our life,” Steve was saying. “You and me. Backyards. Pools. Maybe a couple kids running around with floaties and juice boxes…”

You froze. The towel slipped from your arms.

Nancy didn’t say anything.

Steve kept going. “Sometimes I still think about it. Like… maybe if things were different.”

You couldn’t breathe.

The conversation shifted after that. Lightened, turned casual. Nancy brushed it off with a joke. Steve laughed. The music grew louder. Someone shouted for more chips.

And you?

You walked straight back into the yard, dropped the towel, and dove into the pool.

Not to cool off.

To drown it all out.

Like your skin wasn’t burning. Like your stomach hadn’t dropped straight into the concrete below you.

And you smiled when Steve caught your eye across the pool minutes later. When he handed you a drink. When he sat close and made some cheesy joke.

You laughed. You played along.

But you didn’t forget.

You didn’t sleep that night.

You hadn’t confronted him. Not that night. Not the next day.

You hadn’t said anything at all. That pool party. The echo of his voice around the corner of the house, talking about white-picket futures and poolside kids… with Nancy.

But you felt it, the way something inside you cracked open, quiet and sharp.

The worst part was that Steve didn’t even know what he’d broken.

It’d been days since the party. Since the moment your chest hollowed out and you didn’t know what part of your relationship was real anymore.

Now you sat in the passenger seat of his car, the windows fogging slightly from your takeout bags and the heater blowing half-heartedly. The air between you was too quiet. Even the music on the radio felt like it was holding its breath.

You weren’t fighting.

Not yet.

But you were unraveling.

And Steve was oblivious.

“I was thinking,” he said casually, shifting gears as the road curved through the woods. “We should take a weekend trip somewhere. Just get out of Hawkins. Like, I dunno, Chicago or something.”

You hummed.

That was all.

He glanced at you. “You good?”

You nodded. But your fingers were clenched in your lap. Your jaw was tight.

Steve frowned. “You’ve been weird all week. Did I do something?”

“No,” you said, then hesitated. “I mean, maybe. I don’t know.”

“Okay, well… if I did something, just tell me.”

You stared out the window, the trees blurring past like they were fleeing from something.

“I think I’m starting to feel like I don’t know where I stand with you,” you said softly.

Steve blinked. “What?”

“I mean, I’m here, yeah. I’m your girlfriend. We go on dates. You hold my hand. But sometimes it feels like you’re… somewhere else. Like part of you is always still chasing something that doesn’t involve me.”

Steve frowned. “Where is this coming from?”

You finally looked at him, eyes stinging. “Do you ever think about being with her again?”

His hands tightened on the wheel. “Who?”

“You know who.”

He didn’t answer right away. Which was already enough of one.

“I’m not still in love with her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But you miss her,” you said, voice cracking. “You miss what you had with her.”

Steve exhaled sharply. “I don't…”

“You talk about the future like you already imagined it with someone else first. Like I’m just trying to fill a blueprint that doesn’t even belong to me.”

“That’s not fair,” he said, pulling the car over suddenly onto a dirt patch off the road. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

You turned to him, voice trembling. “Do you love me, Steve? Or am I just convenient? Because I can’t keep pretending this is okay when I feel like I’m always standing in someone else’s shadow.”

He was quiet. Too quiet.

“I care about you,” he said finally, but it didn’t sound like a promise. It sounded like a confession. A limitation.

You felt something inside you fold in on itself.

“I need more than that,” you whispered.

He looked at you, really looked like he was trying to summon the right thing to say but all he had were half-truths and memories that didn’t belong to you.

“You make it hard to be loved sometimes, you know?” you murmured. “Because you leave the door open. Just wide enough that people think they can reach you, but never wide enough to actually come in.”

Steve flinched, his jaw tightening.

“You act like you're all in,” you continued, “but you’re still holding a piece of yourself back and I don’t think you even realize it.”

He stared ahead, eyes fixed on the dashboard. “You think I don’t want to be this person. That I choose to fuck it all up. But I don't know how else to be.”

And there it was.

The truth. Sharp. Exhausted. Bare.

You nodded slowly, feeling everything and nothing all at once.

“I’m tired of competing with ghosts, Steve,” you said, reaching for the door handle.

He didn’t stop you.

You stepped out into the quiet night. The wind was cold, but it didn’t cut nearly as deep as his silence did.

He watched you walk away.

And still, he didn’t follow.

You’d been gone for five days. Not out of Hawkins, just out of him. Like the version of you that had been wrapped up in his warmth, in his hand holding, movie watching, ride giving affection, that person had vanished the second you stepped out of the car that night.

And the worst part?

He hadn’t gone after you.

He told himself it was because he needed to respect your space. That it wasn’t fair to chase someone when you couldn’t promise anything back. But really? Deep down?

But weeks passed.

Just silence.

And then the silence turned to distance.

He still found your things.

A sweater in the back of his car. Half used cherry lip balm in the glove compartment. One of your earrings under the passenger seat. Small, forgotten parts of you that felt like landmines now.

He thought about the pool party sometimes.

How dumb it was, how reckless to say something like that out loud. To Nancy.

Not because he was still in love with her. He wasn’t. He hadn’t been for a long time. But there was a version of his life he used to cling to like a stupid dream, the white picket fence, six kids, backyard summer version of himself he thought he’d grow into.

And somehow, Nancy had always been the placeholder in that dream. Because she was safe. Familiar. The first heartbreak. The one that left a blueprint in his chest.

But then you came along.

And you weren’t safe. You were real.

You didn’t fall for the Steve Harrington charm package. You didn’t get wrapped up in the story, you wanted to write a new one with him.

And he couldn’t give it to you.

Because he was still holding onto a memory instead of making new ones.

[jxstsxgx]

i’ve died

[jxstsxgx]

I’ve been seeing this meme a lot felt like doing one for Steve and Eddie

[jxstsxgx]

𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚂𝙰𝚈 𝙷𝙰𝚃𝙴, 𝙸 𝚂𝙰𝚈 𝙲𝙷𝙴𝙼𝙸𝚂𝚃𝚁𝚈 | 𝙴𝙳𝙳𝙸𝙴 𝙼𝚄𝙽𝚂𝙾𝙽

Pairings: Eddie Munson x Cheerleader!Reader

Word Count: 1,040 words

Summary: After your intense confrontation with Eddie Munson over Chrissy’s questionable choices, you start noticing him everywhere. (This is part 2 of this fic. Go check it out.♡)

Contains: Comedy, Fluff, Slow Burn Potential, Enemies to Lovers Vibes, Goofy Shenanigans

A/N: Special mention for @sheneedsrocknroll92 , I didn't really think about making another part but when I saw your comment I was like suuureee because it's a bit slow burn potential and I am so invested in banters with Eddie, we need some more!

I kinda rushed this so, hope y'all like it. ♡ | masterlist

You weren’t planning on seeing Eddie Munson again. Not after your confrontation.

After you stormed off from his van, completely done with his dramatics and smugness, you had fully expected him to stay in his lane, aka the back row of senior math and the Hellfire table in the cafeteria.

But of course, that wasn’t how Eddie Munson worked.

It started with the hallway.

You were on your way to third period, clutching your history notes and trying to ignore the sophomore whose hairspray cloud had nearly blinded you by the lockers. Everything was going fine, until you heard a gasp. Loud. Theatrical.

"Oh no," someone said behind you, like they’d just seen a ghost. "There she is."

You turned, slowly.

There stood Eddie Munson. One hand to his chest like he was catching his breath, the other pointing dramatically at you like you’d just descended from a cloud.

You blinked. "...What?"

"I didn’t know angels walked among the cursed halls of Hawkins High," he said, feigning shock. "Do they let you keep the halo during gym or do you have to check it at the door with your pompoms?"

You stared at him, unimpressed. "Are you seriously doing this right now?"

"What? I’m just saying," he said with a shrug, "for someone who thinks I’m the worst thing to ever happen to Hawkins, you sure look radiant for a nemesis."

You turned on your heel and walked away. Fast.

Behind you, he called, "Try your best to ignore me! But I’m very loud!"

You didn’t look back.

You were in the middle of choosing between a soggy cafeteria cookie or a bruised banana when you heard it.

The unmistakable, theatrical voice of one Edward Munson echoing from across the lunch line.

“Ah, the fates bless me yet again!”

You didn’t even have to turn around.

“I was but a humble peasant searching for sustenance,” he continued, “and lo and ehold, what do I find before me but the radiant visage of Hawkins High’s most valiant crusader!”

You sighed, shoulders slumping. You’d only wanted a snack. Maybe ten minutes of peace before fourth period. But no. Of course not.

“Please tell me you’re not talking to me,” you said flatly, not looking at him as you reached for a milk carton.

“Who else would inspire such poetry?” Eddie replied, dramatically sliding onto the bench beside you at the cafeteria table, despite you clearly being mid exit. He plopped his own tray down.

You blinked slowly. “Are you always this insufferable, or is this just a special show for me?”

“Oh, it’s always this bad,” Gareth called from a nearby table, where his Hellfire buddies were, biting into a grilled cheese. “But it’s worse around girls who don’t like him back.”

“Traitor!” Eddie shouted over his shoulder before turning back to you with a grin. “Ignore the peanut gallery. They don’t understand chemistry when they see it.”

You gathered your tray, thoroughly unimpressed. “We have no chemistry. We have… fumes. From whatever you’re on.”

And with that, you stood and walked off.

Eddie, undeterred, slumped dramatically across the cafeteria table, clutching his chest.

“Wounded! By her words again!” he declared to no one. “And yet… she walks away like a goddess of war, leaving devastation in her wake.”

From across the room, Gareth threw a crumpled napkin at him. “Dude, chill.”

But Eddie didn’t. Couldn’t.

Because when it came to you? He was already a goner.

The next day, in the cafeteria, again, you pretended not to notice when he walked by your table and dramatically fake swooned into the nearest chair. You also pretended not to hear Gareth ask him why he was so weird lately and Eddie say, "It’s complicated."

Chrissy gave you a look. You ignored it.

You told yourself he was just messing with you. You were the girl who told him off. A novelty. Something to keep him entertained in the endless loop of high school.

He wasn’t interested. Obviously.

He was annoying. Chaotic. Loud.

You kept telling yourself that.

Even when you caught him glancing at you from across the room.

Even when your stomach fluttered like a traitor.

Even when he mouthed, "Buzzkill," and winked.

You rolled your eyes.

Hard.

But your cheeks warmed anyway.

You’d already built the walls.

You knew who you were: Chrissy’s friend. Responsible. Collected. You wore pink lip gloss and knew your angles. You had plans.

And Eddie Munson?

He was a chaotic, guitar-slinging, snack-vending, poetry-reciting whirlwind in a denim vest and a Hellfire tee.

The wrong kind of trouble.

So why did you keep finding yourself looking for him?

Why did your days feel different when you didn’t see him?

Why did he always look at you like he was three seconds away from quoting Romeo and Juliet with a mouth full of gummy worms?

He was ridiculous.

He was relentless.

And worse?

He wasn’t going anywhere.

You caught him again by the bleachers when you were early for cheer practice, on a rainy Thursday. He was sitting on the bottom step, sketching something in a notebook.

He looked up as you passed.

"Hey, Prissy Princess. Want to see something cursed?"

"No."

"Too bad," he said, and held up the notebook.

It was a pencil sketch of a unicorn. Except it had fangs. And was breathing fire. And was wearing a tiara.

You stared, face scrunched. "What… is that?"

"Our future," he said gravely. "Majestic. Chaotic. Slightly violent. But fabulous."

You didn’t laugh.

You absolutely did not laugh.

You might have smirked. Barely.

"You’re insane," you muttered.

"You keep saying that," he said, tucking the notebook away. "Yet here we are. Meeting again. Almost like fate."

"Or a nightmare."

He grinned then started to walk away.

And like always, he waited until he was just far enough to pretend you couldn’t hear him before shouting,

"SEE YOU IN MY DREAMS, LADY JUDGMENT!"

You didn’t look back , but your smile lingered all the way for the rest of the day.