don’t ya, steve?

♡ requests and asks are always open, and i reserve the right to choose if/when i answer. if i don’t answer your ask quickly, please understand that i’m trying my best to respond to everyone. if topics have shifted or the ask is no longer relevant to conversations, i will delete to free up inbox space.

♡ i will write for stranger things and most other roles that joe keery has played. basically, if i’ve watched it and posted about it, it’s fair game for requests. i do not write RPF fanfiction, do not ask me to.

♡ do not interact with my blog or contact me directly if you are under 18. this is a firm boundary for my own comfort and your safety.

♡ please be mindful of what you send in my inbox. i aim to keep this blog a safe place to open up about all manner of things (i.e., slumber party talk), but I’m also not a therapist or a healthcare professional. if your ask is icky or puts me in an uncomfortable position, i will not answer.

♡ i do not stand for racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia, or any form of bigotry. if you hold ideals opposed to these values, you are not welcome on this blog.

♡ be kind to others!

* indicates an external ao3 link

🩵 Steve Harrington x Reader

let's hear it for the boy! - 'Steve can't get hard' friends to lovers fic

for a good time call! - phone sex hotline fic

adult education i. ii. iii. - friends to lovers sex lessons fic

i think we’re alone now - steve solo fic

girls on film - sex tape fic

things can only get better - enemies to lovers coparenting fic + playlist + Steve’s WSQK broadcast (pt4 spoilers)

part one* + part two + part three + part four* + part five*

❤️ Eddie Munson x Reader

do you wanna touch me (oh yeah) - sex pollen fic*

💜 Steddie x Reader

bizarre love triangle - threesome fic*

🤍 Gator Tillman x Reader

fixation + infatuation - toxic situationship fic

You noticed. You would stir and turn over and put a lazy hand on his chest and mumble something about going back to sleep. And every time, that gentle reassurance, as mindless and instinctive as it may be, let him relax enough to fall asleep.

Steve wouldn’t talk about what had happened, save a few vague references. You knew that he had been tortured and then there was the monster in the mall that he fought, but that was all. But, sometimes, he’d slip up when a nightmare has its claws in him, and you’d hear more.

Frantic pleading, begging for it to all just stop. Desperate thrashing as he tried to escape whatever memory he got trapped in.

In the morning, you’d be a little gentler with him. You’d bring him coffee and tread lightly, pretending that you hadn’t heard it all. Steve didn’t seem to know that he talked in his sleep sometimes, and you wouldn’t break the allusion that he was better at holding himself together than he actually was.

“The kids want to come over and swim,” he said at breakfast. His appetite wasn’t all there, so he absently used his toast to soak up runny yolk without any indication that he was interested in taking a bite. “Do a cookout, or something.”

“You want to host?” You questioned. “We don’t have anything to cook out, baby.”

“I’ll just run to Bradley’s and figure something out,” he said with a sideways smile, the kind that he put on when he wanted you to stop worrying about something. “We’ll do hot dogs, or burgers, or something. Or I can make a mean grilled cheese if all else fails.”

You acquiesced, because Steve wanted to pretend it wasn’t bothering him and you wanted Steve to be happy.

And it was all fine until night fell. Until that first whistle and pop of a firework in the sky beyond the trees. You could see the flash of color behind the canopy of trees, blue and white sparkling against the inky sky. After that, it became a cacophony of booms and pops, a war in the sky.

Steve sat on the deck chair, his swimsuit more a decoration than something practical. Just like he had problems with the fourth, he had problems with the pool too. His spine was straight, like someone had pulled him taut on a string. And you watched his chest begin to heave with short, urgent breaths.

“Hey,” you said, settling in beside him. Your thighs slung over his lap, warm, comforting, heavy. “You wanna go inside?”

“No,” he insisted. “No, I’m fine.” But his hand shook where he had it wrapped around his Coke, making it slosh around in the glass. When you met his gaze again he frowned. “I’m fine, stop worrying.”

You nestled into his side and pressed your lips to his jaw. His pulse thrummed rapidly, too fast for anything like excitement. He didn’t want to admit it, you didn’t want to push.

When you weaved your fingers in with his, he squeezed your hand so hard it started to ache, but you swallowed it down and pushed through, just like he was.

After the kids were gone and you were nestled into bed, the fireworks kept on popping outside. He tossed and turned, until finally he just turned to watch you. His brown eyes scanning over your sleepy features until his brain started to feel normal again.

You blinked against the dark and stared right back. The scar on his lip, the one you would always kiss first… that was from the Russians. So was the bump on his nose where it had fractured and healed a little wrong. He didn’t have to tell you anything, you didn’t want him to have to relive it any more than his brain already forced him to.

You closed the gap of cold sheets between you and laid your head on his chest, where the rapid thump of his heartbeat thrummed, and slowed as you breathed with him.