#hawkins

Steve Harrington x pregnant!reader

Masterlist here.

Summary: 18 months after they kill vecna and destroy the upside down, you are your 4 best friends reminisce after a year and a half. You share with the group you and Steve are expecting.

Warning: SEASON 5 EPISODE 8 SPOILERS: pure fluff. Reader just found out she’s pregnant, happy tears🫶 not proof read.

wc: 1.8k

—౨ৎ—

The roof of the WSQK is still warm. Hawkins below is distant, quiet. Birds and chirping. It’s for the first time in years, peaceful.

Steve is sat next to you on a deck hair. He sunk low into the deck chair, one ankle hooked casually over the other, a beer resting loose in his hand like it belongs there. He’s dressed nicer than he used to be, but not like he’s trying, a soft, slightly rumpled suit jacket thrown over a white button down, collar open just enough to say the night is warm and he’s done pretending he’s tense.

There’s an ease to him now. The sharp edges are gone. In fact, there’s an ease with everyone.

Sat around you is your 4 best friends. Friends you’ve been through things with that anyone else couldn’t comprehend.

Nancy and Jonathan sit across from you while Robin the other side of you. They seem happy, genuinely happy.

You never thought you’d see the day, your all grown up. With their own lives, relationships. It was bittersweet when you left, you always thought you’d run at the opportunity to leave Hawkins the second you could.

But when Steve got the job offer for a coach position in Hawkins, it was a no brainer. It’s what he was destined to do, care for people, help them grow to their fullest potential.

And then, you got an offer at the elementary school just down the road from where you and Steve’s small, but comfortable home is. You took the opportunity.

And that’s what life has been like for the last 18 months. Just you and Steve settled. Finally, living a normal life.

Everyone is chatting, reminiscing. You just soak it all in.

“There’s actually a rad place in Forest Hill’s, we can’t quite afford it yet but we’re close,” Steve offers as he drops back into his deck chair. His hand finds your thigh immediately, thumb brushing slow, comforting circles like it’s second nature now. “And that’s on a coach & elementary teacher salary.”

“Don’t forget sex ed teacher,” Robin adds, tipping her chair back with a grin.

“That’s true,” Steve admits easily.

“They have you teacher sex ed?” Nancy asks, eyebrows lifting as she looks over at him.

“It’s a part of the gig,” Steve shrugs.

Laughter ripples through the group, easy and warm, carried off by the breeze rolling over the rooftop.

“If I had a question about an STD, you’d be the first person I’d come to,” Robin says without missing a beat.

“Thank you?” Steve blinks.

“no I love it. I love teaching these kids, you know? I get to teach them about the miracle of life, and how to not start it, accidentally.”

There’s something earnest in his voice now, pride creeping in beneath the humor. His hand presses a little more firmly against your thigh, grounding himself, or maybe grounding you.

“And I teach three year olds how to keep their shoes on the correct feet and why biting is not an acceptable form of communication.”

“So emotional regulation?” Robin tilts her head.

“Oh very basic emotional regulation,” you laugh. “I mean I also teach them how to share, and that crayons are for coloring and not eating.”

“These kids don’t know how good they got it having you as their teacher.” Steve turns toward you when he says it, expression softening completely. The sunset catches in his eyes, and the way he looks at you makes your chest warm.

“You’ve gotten very earnest.”

“What can I say? I’ve changed. I got a whistle now. That does things to a guy.” He says. I cheeky grin on his face.

“You’ve always liked helping the little ones, even when you pretended like you didn’t.” Your voice softens when you say it.

“Turns out I’m good at it, we both are.” He leans closer as he says it, shoulder brushing yours, like he wants the words to land only with you. The smell of his cologne, citrus and warm woods mixes with the fading heat of the day.

“There actually is something I miss about this place. I miss this.”

Robin’s voice drops, softer now.

“Just…us, hanging out.”

The quiet stretches. The sky deepens into gold and pink, and suddenly the moment feels heavier.

“I miss you guys.”

Steve’s jaw tightens. You feel it before you see it, the slight hitch in his breathing. You lace your fingers through his, squeezing gently, grounding him the way he always grounds you.

“I really like my new friends, but it’s—”

“Not the same.” Nancy says finishing her sentence.

“I don’t think it ever will be.” Jonathan follows.

The words stack on top of each other until everyone’s eyes are glassy.

“Okay Jesus. You’re killing me, man.” Steve stands up and faces his back to the group. Facing the sunset. “Let’s do something about it.” He exhales, swiping under his eyes before straightening a little.

“I don’t know, we could meet up once a month, here, you can even stay at our place, there’s enough room.” His thumb rubs over your knuckles when he says our, like the word matters.

“Yeah or, maybe somewhere else more neutral like…what’s a city between Hawkins and Massachusetts… New York?”

“Louisville.” Jonathan suggests.

The looks that follow say everything.

“Philly?” Steve offers.

“Philly! I have an uncle who lives in Philly, he’s weird but he’s got a really big house.” Robin explains.

“Does it have a basement?” Jonathan asks.

“Yeah.” Robin replies. Slightly confused. Slightly concerned.

“And a boiler room?”

“Yeah?” Now she’s even more confused and concerned.

“Oh my god, it’s perfect. You know… for the hideout. You know where she traps all the men and then burns their bodies.”

“The Consumer.” Nancy says, sharing Jonathan’s excitement.

“I thought you were trying to kill us,” you joke, leaning into Steve as you laugh.

He grins, tipping his head toward yours.

“Okay okay yeah, so we’ll meet at Robin’s weird uncle’s house and we’ll drink and we’ll reminisce and make Jonathan’s anti-capitalist cannibal movie, starting next month.” Nancy explains.

“Yeah, I’m in.” Robin says.

“Yeah, I’m in.” You say, your eyes burning, for the happiest reason.

“To nothing keeping us apart.” Steve lifts his glass, but his eyes flick to you first.

“Including overbearing significant others.” There’s a playfulness in robins voice.

“School.” Nancy adds.

“Mortgages.” Jonathan says.

“Sticky fingers, lost lunchboxes, and explaining for the hundredth time why glue is not food.” You finish.

Steve smiles like he’s already imagining it, the chaos, the love, the life.

“And kids.” She’s joking, half joking.

“Cheers.”

The glasses clink softly, and Steve’s hand stays in yours as the sun finally dips below the horizon.

Everyone clink glasses. Steve takes a drink. You lift yours too, Steve is the only one who notices you don’t take a sip. understanding quietly. His free hand finds yours thumb brushing gently over her knuckles. “I’m so proud of you” he whispers into your ear before kissing your forehead.

“Yeah, you guys… kids?” Nancy says, glancing between them. “Like, are we talking hypothetically, or…?”

You and Steve exchange a look. It’s quick, instinctive. The kind of look that already means we.

“Well,” Steve says gently, lacing your fingers together. “We were gonna wait. Y’know, it’s still early days.”

You squeeze his hand. “We didn’t want to make a big announcement yet.”

“But,” Steve adds, his voice thick with emotion, “we’re really happy.”

Nancy’s eyes widen. “Oh my god.”

“We’re pregnant,” you say, softly.

The reaction is immediate and chaotic.

Nancy is crying already, crossing the roof to pull you into a careful, loving hug. “I’m so happy for you.”

Robin lets out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “No. No. Absolutely not. Steve Harrington as a dad? You a mom? I’m emotionally unprepared.”

Jonathan grins, shaking his head. “That kid is gonna be so loved.”

Steve can’t stop smiling. He pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to her temple without thinking. “We already love them,” he says quietly. “So much.”

“He’s been talking to my stomach for, like, a week.”

Robin gasps. “You’re that guy?”

Steve shrugs, unapologetic. “What if they can hear me?”

Nancy laughs through her tears. “You two are disgusting. In the best way.”

Steve rests his forehead against yours for just a second, private and tender in the middle of the noise. “We’re really doing this,” he whispers.

You smile, brushing your nose against his. “Yeah. We are.”

Robin wipes at her face aggressively, sniffling. “Okay, hold on. I need a minute. Because I just watched Steve Harrington go from King of Hawkins High to full blown dad mode”.

Steve’s arm is fully around you now. His thumb tracing slow circles aroukd your side “Hey,” he says, smiling. “We’ve been through a lot. Monsters, portals, it changes you.”

Nancy lets out a soft laugh, eyes shining as she looks around the room at the same people who once stood bleeding and terrified in the dark. “When did this happen?”

Steve straightens immediately. “Oh, uh. Okay, so,” he starts, already gesturing. “It’s actually pretty simple. When two people really care about each other, and the world almost ends a couple times, and you’re pretty sure a vine monster is gonna eat you”

Robin freezes. “Steve.”

“And there’s hugging for comfort,” he continues, nodding like a teacher, “and then kissing for comfort, and then sometimes-”

“STEVE,” Robin yells.

Jonathan is laughing so hard he has to lean forward. “Dude. That’s not what she meant.”

Nancy’s face turns pink. “Oh my god, no. Definitely not what I meant. I meant when did we all grow up?”

Steve stops mid-sentence. There’s a pause.

“Oh,” he says. Then he looks down at you, who’s laughing quietly, eyes warm and bright.

Robin collapses into the couch. “I cannot listen to a sex ed talk about how you guys survived vecna”

Yo lean into Steve, still smiling. “To be fair,” you say gently, “we did skip a lot of normal life stages.”

Steve exhales a laugh and presses a kiss onto your temple. “Yeah. We went straight from fighting monsters to… this.”

Nancy’s voice softens. “We faced the Upside Down. We lost people. We thought we might not make it out.” She gestures around. “Yet here we are.”

Steve tightens his arm aroundb you. “When you’ve held someone’s hand thinking it might be the last time,” he says quietly, “you stop waiting to live.”

You squeeze his hand, your other hand resting instinctively on your stomach. “We kept choosing each other,” she says. “Even when everything was falling apart.”

The room goes quiet. not sad, just full of reminders of what almost was.

Robin lifts her glass, voice softer now. “To not dying horribly in another dimension.”

They laugh.

“And,” Robin adds, smiling at you and Steve. “to building something good after surviving something awful.”

Glasses clink.

Steve looks down at you, his forehead resting against tour for a brief and private moment. “I used to think the scariest thing was the Upside Down,” he murmurs. “Turns out it’s just loving something this much.”

You smile back at him. “You’re not scared?.”

He shakes his head. “Not anymore.”

Nancy wipes at her eyes. “I mean, can that kid get parents anymore badass? They’ll never hear the end of how their parents killed monsters and saved the world, more than once.”

Steve grins. “Yeah. But mostly they’re gonna hear how much they were wanted.”

You lean into him, safe. Even after the Demogorgons, after Vecna, after everything, this is what feels like winning.

For once, the world is quiet, and for once, the future doesn’t feel scary.

summary: it’s a game of push and pull between you and steve. he pushes, you pull, and nothing ever changes—not as long as impending doom hangs over hawkins. until one night, a burst of liquid courage is all you need to come crashing down steve’s door.

content warning: henderson!fem!reader, friends to lovers, alcohol use, drunk love confession, p in v, pet names, steve calls reader “baby”, slight angst, comfort, steve harrington is completely whipped, mdni smut. not proofread 3.7k words.

authors note: first time writing steve so kinda scary lol, if i wrote him horribly feel free to tell me ^^ here’s my masterlist if you wanna check out more of my works, also my emergency comms are always open :) - here’s my kofi tip jar!

You’ve known Steve Harrington your whole life.

Well—not really. You’d known of him.

Steve Harrington was untouchable. Stupidly popular. Perfect hair, easy smile, the kind of confidence that made teachers sigh and girls trip over their own feet. Every girl wanted him. Everyone wanted to be him.

You had accepted, quietly, that you’d never exist anywhere near his orbit.

Except on a Tuesday, at exactly twelve p.m., when Steve Harrington barreled through your front door and slammed straight into you.

That was when you met him.

He came crashing in like a storm, hair wild, eyes sharp with urgency, already halfway through your house before you could even process it. Only to find out He was looking for your loser little brother.

“Steve Harrington?” you asked, brow lifting despite yourself.

“That’s me,” he said automatically, the cocky charm there by instinct, then it faltered when he rushed on, words tumbling over each other. “Hey—where’s Dustin? Tell him it’s a code red.”

You felt like screaming.

Steve Harrington. In your house. Asking for your brother.

You swallowed your pride and yelled, “Dustin!” before muttering, softer but edged with disbelief, “This has to be a fucking prank.”

That was what did it.

Steve stopped.

Actually stopped. Looked up. Looked at you.

For a moment, he just took you in, like he’d been interrupted mid-thought and didn’t mind it at all. A small smirk tugged at his mouth, something curious flashing in his eyes.

And for the first time, Steve Harrington noticed you.

You were sure that would be the last of it.

Until a demodog tore straight through your house and Steve moved without thinking, stepping in front of you, shielding you, muttering something frantic about how this was what he’d been trying to warn Dustin about.

After that, you were pulled into your brother’s strange, terrifying world.

Two years later, and you were still fighting it.

Steve lingered. Persisted. Wove himself into your life in ways neither of you ever named. You weren’t together, but you weren’t not something, either.

Whatever it was, it lived in every glance held a second too long, every quiet moment where his presence settled you.

Being near him made your body loosen, like your bones remembered how to rest. Like your muscles unclenched without permission. He brought comfort without trying, without even knowing he was doing it.

He always smelled like faint nicotine from the cigarettes he swore he hated but secretly smoked, mixed with something warmer. Wood. Amber. A grounding scent that curled around you and stayed, hazing your senses long after he left.

And his touch. God, his touch.

Whenever his fingers brushed yours, it felt like molten lava beneath your skin. Like warmth spreading too fast, too bright. You used to think Steve Harrington was made of gold, and standing too close meant you’d melt.

Like that night.

Everything had gone wrong. Blood. Screaming. Panic blooming too fast to stop. It felt like the world was slipping through your fingers, like you’d lost the version of life that had ever been simple.

You couldn’t sleep.

Maybe Steve knew. Maybe it was the way your face twisted when it happened. Maybe seeing you like that lodged itself somewhere in his chest.

You heard a soft knock at your window.

When you opened it, Steve Harrington stood there, hair tousled, eyes tired and sad in that quiet way he never talked about, offering you a crooked smile that didn’t quite hide the worry underneath.

“Steve? What are you doing here?”

“I figured you couldn’t—” he started, then promptly nearly fell through the window.

You rushed forward, catching him.

He looked up at you, grinning sheepishly. “Wow. That was… embarrassing.”

Your smile softened despite yourself. “Just a bit.”

He sat on the edge of your bed, shoulders slumped, hands fidgeting like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I saw you,” he said quietly. “When it happened. The way you froze. And I just—fuck, this really isn't my specialty.”

“I thought everything was Steve Harrington’s specialty,” you teased gently.

He huffed a laugh. “No. Definitely not.” He sighed, fingers tightening in the blanket. “When this all started, I had really bad…”

“Nightmares,” you said softly.

He exhaled like the word had been sitting in his lungs for years. “Yeah.”

“I just wanted to check on you,” he added quickly. “I can go if you want, I just—”

“Stay.”

The word slipped out before you could stop it.

And Steve stayed.

He laid beside you on your plush, frilly pink bed, fingertips barely brushing yours. You drifted closer without meaning to. When the nightmares came, he held you—steady and warm, murmuring reassurances into your hair like he was anchoring you to the world. To him.

He didn’t say much.

He didn’t need to.

Somewhere along the way, Steve Harrington took your heart, locked it away, and never even realized it was his.

But as the years passed, as Vecna loomed closer, you learned how to close yourself off. Where Steve offered himself fully, you learned restraint. You were terrified to need him. Terrified that loving him would give the world something else to take.

So you never told him.

You locked your love away, buried it deep, like a diary with a key no one could ever find.

Until tonight.

Tonight crawled under your skin. Tonight felt wrong in a way you couldn’t name. Your thoughts were loud, your chest tight, your body aching for anything to drown it out.

Your parents’ liquor cabinet offered a solution.

You grabbed the bottle from the glass cabinet and tipped it back, wincing at the burn as it slid down. Your legs felt like jelly, your hands shaky, and a hiccup slipped out before you even realized it.

Through the drunken haze, all your body wanted was him.

Steve.

His voice. His warmth. His presence.

You stumbled along the familiar dirt road to his house, his face flickering through your mind like broken radio static. Brown curls. Soft hazel eyes, the same color of coffee when you stir creamer in. Hands that felt like heat, like safety, like something solid in a world that kept fracturing.

When his house came into view beneath the streetlight, your heart thudded so hard you swore it might run there without you.

You knocked once.

The door opened almost immediately.

Steve stood there, confused, until his eyes dropped to the bottle in your hand, your flushed cheeks, the exhaustion etched into your face.

“Y/n?” he said carefully.

You smiled lazily. “Thought you might need it after today’s mission. And, you know—who better to drink with than the guy who used to demolish kegs in high school?”

You paused, then added rather sadly, “Never went to your parties, but I heard you were a legend.”

He didn’t smile.

Instead, he gently grabbed your arm and pulled you inside, voice soft enough it settled under your ribs.

“Just—come inside.”

And you followed him upstairs, clumsy and buzzing, into Steve Harrington’s room.

You realized you’d never actually been inside Steve’s room. Crazy, right? You’d known him for two years and never once stepped past his doorstep.

He’d been inside yours constantly, of course—but Steve tended to avoid his own home. Unknowing parents, a dad he didn’t get along with… so the closest you’d ever gotten was the front step.

But now it’s nearly one in the morning, and here you are. His house. His room.

It’s surprisingly neat, tidy almost, and you pause. Sure, Steve had outgrown his meathead, jock persona years ago—but he was still Steve. Some part of you had doubted what you’d find here.

He holds your arm as you step fully inside, and when the door clicks shut behind you, his fingertips leave a slow, lingering trail along your skin. It burns. You swear it burns.

“Hey… you okay?” he asks, voice soft, low, almost unsure.

You ignore him and wander over, picking up pictures and knickknacks, running your fingers over the traces of his life.

Until you turn near his bedside table and see a photo of yourself—smiling.

Your breath falters. You decide to mask it with teasing. Holding up the picture like it’s a diploma, you smirk. “Sappy much?”

Steve’s face heats, almost red, and he snatches it from your hands. “Am I not allowed to have good taste?” he teases, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

And for some ridiculous, stupid reason… that’s when you break.

The back of your knees hit the bed, and you slide down, pulling your legs to your chest, bottle still in hand. Laughter bursts out of you—ugly, almost manic—tears streaking through it. You take another swig, alcohol burning down your throat as your chest heaves.

“God… I’m so fucking stupid,” you whisper through a sob.

Steve slides down beside you. “Hey… hey. What’s wrong?”

You sniffle and say nothing.

“Talk to me, please,” he nearly begs.

“You wouldn’t understand,” you slur, bitterness coating your words.

He tilts the bottle from your hand, taking a long swig himself, grimacing at the taste. “Try me.”

“You… you ever been in love?”

He goes quiet, then softly, “Yeah.”

“How many times?”

“Once,” he says immediately, locking eyes with you as he hands the bottle back.

Silence falls between you, broken only by the dull clink of glass. Alcohol slides lazily through your veins, making everything feel warm, dizzying.

Finally, Steve breaks it. “Why’d you come here?”

Your breath catches, the truth crawling toward your lips. “I… missed you.”

His hand shifts closer to yours, brushing fingertips in the kind of casual way that always makes your heart thrum.

“And to confess something… stupid,” you add, voice wavering, slurring slightly, hiccupping in between words without even realizing it.

“And ‘cause I’m… really sad, and you… you make me happy,” you admit, voice wavering, words tumbling over themselves.

He laughs softly, shaking his head. “Okay, now you’re drunk.”

“Am not!” you shoot back, swatting at him playfully—almost tipping sideways from the effort.

He chuckles, voice softening. “Do you want to tell me what’s so stupid about your confession?”

Your knees pull tighter to your chest, hand brushing his. 

“My whole life… I spent it watching this guy,” you slur slightly.

“Believing he’d never notice me… that it would never happen.”

“And then one day—he slams through my front door, spouting something so absurd, I swear I saw stars.”

Steve stays completely still, listening, hanging on your every word.

“And now he’s here. In my life. Baring himself to me like some knight in shining armor. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted. And I—I—I…” You choke, words tumbling over as the tears well again.

“I can’t do the same. I mean, I can. I want to. I know he’s seen me in countless situations, but if I fully let him in… if I let him see all of me… it could be taken away.”

You draw in short, shaky breaths. “I want to be with him. I know he feels the same—or I hope he does—but I don’t want our love to be what gets him killed.”

Outside, Hawkins was falling apart.

But here, in Steve’s room, it was just him.

Everything felt safe, like it always did with him.

His fingertips curl around yours, brown eyes holding yours as your gaze falters.

“Plus, knowing him,” he murmurs, “he’d probably get himself killed in the name of love or something.”

A soft, teasing smile from him. And somehow, the weight eases.

“No,” he adds softly, “you’re right. Very stupid confession.”

Your heart nearly stops at his words, but he leans close, voice brushing your skin. “Do you want my thoughts?”

“Shoot,” you whisper, unsure where this is heading.

“Well… for one, that guy’s stupid and a fucking douche. Should’ve noticed you sooner instead of keeping his nose stuck up his own ass.”

You laugh, and so does he, as you take another swig. “Very stupid,” you agree.

His grin softens, seriousness creeping in. “But I think the girl should open herself up. Let herself love—especially when the guy is so in love with her it makes his ribs ache, his head spin.”

You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, letting the courage and liquor flow through you. “What if the girl really… really wants to?”

He grins, lips brushing yours. “Then she should. The guy clearly wants her just as much.”

Then he kisses you. Hard liquor, salt, and mint on his lips. You’re addicted instantly, tipping your head, fingers tangling in his curls.

He pulls back just enough to let you gasp, whispering against your mouth. “Fuck, baby.”

The pet name rolls off his tongue, low and rough, and it makes something inside you beg.

You lunge for him again, lips colliding in a messy, perfect, desperate kiss that leaves nothing unsaid.

Your hands tangle in Steve’s shirt, and he laughs softly, pulling it off to reveal taut, tanned abs and the faint trail of hair leading into the waistband of his exposed boxers. 

You gasp into his mouth when his hand slips beneath your sweater, fingers ghosting over your pebbled nipple through the lace of your bra. It’s barely there, just a slight tease, yet it still makes your breath stutter.

His other hand grabs your jean-clad hips and lifts you easily, guiding you back as he pulls his hand away just long enough to cradle your head, laying you down on his grey sheets.

You sigh the second your back hits the bed, sinking into it, and before you can even blink, he’s already above you again.

His gaze locks with yours, and you swear you can see his pupils dilate as his eyes roam over every facial feature, drinking you in.

You watch his throat bob as he swallows, his fingertips tracing slow, absent paths over your exposed skin. He hooks his fingers into the hem of your sweater, tugging gently, silently asking.

You lift your arms for him.

You help him, letting him pull it off your body leaving you bare in your white lace bra. You let your head fall back onto the pillow, hair fanning out beneath you, and Steve pauses, only reverence painting his expression.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice suddenly careful. “You sure this is okay?”

You breathe out a quiet “yes.”

His head then drops into your shoulder immediately, curls brushing your collarbone as he exhales against your skin.

“Oh. Thank god,” he mutters. “That’s a relief.”

You giggle. “Idiot.”

He grins, lifting himself just enough to look at you, then pulls on a mock-serious face. Leaning down, lips barely brushing yours, he whispers, “But you gotta stay quiet. My parents are sleeping.”

Your mouth twitches into a slight smirk. “Yeah, Harrington. Whatever you say.”

Something about the way you said it makes his brain go haywire. He spreads wide before he kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue slipping in and tracing the roof of your mouth like he’s committing it to memory, tasting the longing that’s been building for years.

Your hands slide up his back, fingers following muscle as it flexes beneath your touch. You can’t help the sounds you make—soft gasps, little whines, yet steve swallows every one of them like he’s starving.

He could kiss you forever, he thinks. Could get off on just this alone.

His mouth drifts to your neck, lips barely grazing your skin, feather-light. And you’re already squirming. He notices instantly.

Ticklish.

Steve takes that information and uses it.

He takes his time after that, lips brushing your skin again and again until little sounds start spilling out of you, breathy and helpless. When he reaches the hollow of your neck, he starts with slow, teasing kisses and gentle nips, flicking his tongue over the sensitive spot, sucking until a pale purple mark blooms. Gradually, he grows bolder, messier, pressing harder, causing you to gasp his name far too loud.

Steve’s hand flies over your mouth.

He makes a sound that’s half laugh, half groan, eyes bright with amusement and something warm and needy as his forehead drops to your shoulder.

“I said be quiet,” he whispers, breathless. “What if my parents hear you?”

You squeak out a muffled, “Sorry,” and that’s all it takes. You both break into quiet, breathless giggles, that dance against your skin.

Steve’s laugh goes a little higher, alcohol still warming his veins, you just tipsy enough to match him.

It fades when he looks at you again.

He leans down slowly, eyelashes brushing your skin as he kisses your nose. Your cheek. Your eyebrow. The corner of your mouth. Your ear. Over and over, like he can’t help himself.

“You’re impossible, Henderson,” he murmurs, smiling into your skin.

And everything slows, bodies tangled together, sweat-slicked skin, hands in hair, clothes scattered across the floor, breathless moans mixing together like a shared confession.

When Steve has your legs locked around his waist, fingers interlaced with yours as he pins them against the pillow, feeling your hands flex again and again, he slowly pushes the tip in.

He’s quick to reassure, soft breaths against your neck as he coos, “S’okay, baby. It’s just the tip, see? You can take it.”

You suck in a breath as he pushes, letting half of him inside you. He groans, trying hard to restrain himself. “See… fuck—halfway there,” he says through moaned grunts.

He brushes a piece of sweaty hair from your forehead and kisses you before thrusting inside fully, making your hips shift and your legs lock, pulling him down as your hands leave crescent shaped marks embedded in his skin.

“You’re so tight,” he murmurs softly against you.

You squirm, breath hitching. “Shut up, Steve,” you murmur, your voice trembling at the edges, due to pleasure.

He laughs and kisses your cheek sloppily. “Yes, ma’am.”

You shift, and he swears your pussy grips him so hard it’s nearly mocking him to cum. He whines, head falling into your neck.

“Fuck… mm, be careful.”

You grin, realizing what you’re doing, and begin moving your hips slowly against him. His head bobs, Adam’s apple moving, and he’s trying so hard not to break.

Finally, he pins his hands over your thighs, spreading you open and locking you to the bed as he starts to thrust—slow and deep, deliberately cruel, dragging it out until it’s almost unbearable. Then he picks up the pace, hips snapping forward harder, rougher, until he’s fucking you into the mattress, the headboard slamming against the wall, the bed squeaking beneath your shared, sweat-slick bodies, coated in ecstasy.

You’re gasping his name in constant, breathless bursts. Every breath you take is used to say his name, and every time you do, he sinks deeper inside your needy cunt, nearly milking himself dry.

You’re getting louder, and Steve’s voice shakes with trembling need. “Baby… fuck, God… you sound so good.” He’s completely pussywhipped by you, and the way you moan his name like that makes his skin crawl with pleasure.

He struggles to keep you quiet, panic flickering at the edges of his mind at the thought of his parents walking in.

His hand flies to your mouth, pressing against your lips, a feeble attempt at silence, even as every nerve in him aches to hear your pretty moans.

But you’re desperate, needy, unable to hold back. His cock throbs inside you, nearly vibrating, and you gasp, biting down on his palm in a frantic effort to stay quiet. Your hands loop around the base of his  neck, fingers tangling in his brown locks , pulling him closer. Steve shudders the moment your mouth latches onto his skin, teeth leaving tiny marks in his palm, his body teetering on the edge as he fights to stay in control.

Your body hums from the sensation, a tingle spreading through every nerve, toes curling as moans spill out loosely without control.

Steve follows soon after, pulling out and letting himself spill onto your thighs, panting, messy hair sticking to sweaty skin.

But that doesn’t stop him. He crawls down, leaving kisses from your neck to your breasts, gently latching onto a nipple.

“So pretty.” he murmurs as he sucks and twists, your body wriggling, thighs clenching together, mixing your fluids. “Not fair.”

But your body betrays you. The harder he sucks, the more you gasp and claw at his skin, and the more he teases you, whispering how perfect your tits feel, the more it turns you on.

Steve realizes quickly—this is your sweet spot.

Something he remembers for later.

Eventually, the room stops spinning. Your body trembles as the alcohol ebbs away, and Steve rests his head against your knees, pressing a soft kiss to them.

“Hi,” you breathe once you regain some control.

He smiles, a boyish grin. “Hi.”

He’s completely undone, face flushed, hair messy, loose strands falling into his eyes. And you’re certain that if you were to die, this would be the moment you’d replay in your head over and over.

It’s surreal this moment. From years of waking breathlessly from dreams that always left you wanting more of Steve, to now, reality: lying naked with your heart on display, and Steve Harrington holding it with hands so gentle they ache.

He grabs a rag to wipe you down, leaving soft kisses in his wake.

It almost hurts to feel something so pure.

He crawls up to your side, wrapping his arms around you.

From summer nights and Slurpees, smoking weed in the Beamer, movie screens with ice cream, and Robin’s constant bantering, to hushed, secret moments like this.

As his body melts against yours, humming with electricity, his touch almost feels like a melody.

His heartbeat thumps against your chest, wild and insistent, nearly bringing you to your knees.

Through tangled kisses, you savor the sweetness of his breath, clinging with desperate urgency, bracing for the instant when it all slips away.

You’re not sure what Hawkins will be like a week from now, but right now, none of that matters.

In Steve’s bedroom, the curtains drawn and soft moonlight washing over you, you feel completely content, your heart almost singing.

All you can feel is him pressed against you, his arms wrapped protectively around you. As you drift off to sleep, you know as long as you have Steve, you’re okay. You're home.

C4 008 'Drowned by Sir Hawkins'

masterlist

Summary: Dustin Henderson always leaves Hellfire early to keep his older sister far away from Eddie Munson’s obvious crush, but one forgotten character sheet ruins everything and gives Eddie the perfect chance to finally charm her right in front of Dustin’s horrified eyes.

Word Count: 1.5k

There was a reason Dustin Henderson always left Hellfire Club five minutes early, and it wasn’t because he had to make it back for curfew.

It was because you, his older sister,  picked him up. 

And because Eddie Munson, Dungeon Master with a flair for dramatics, had developed a hopeless, obvious crush on you the first time he saw you waiting by your car, tapping your fingers on the steering wheel to whatever song was stuck in your head.

Dustin had caught the look instantly.

“Don’t even think about it,” he had warned Eddie that very first day, grabbing his backpack like it was a shield. “I’m serious, Eddie. She’s off-limits.”

Eddie had only grinned, popping the cap on his marker. “Off-limits? Henderson, she drove you here. She’s literally right there. In the parking lot. Breathing the same air as me.”

“Exactly the problem!”

And so a system was born—one Dustin upheld with military precision. Every campaign night: five minutes early. No exceptions. No stragglers. No chance for Eddie to “accidentally” walk out at the same time.

Until tonight.

Tonight, the dice betrayed him.

A natural 1.

Not in the game, oh no, Dustin had rolled a 20 for that, but in real life, fumbling for his bag and realising too late that he’d forgotten his character sheet somewhere in the mess of snack wrappers and graph paper.

By the time he sprinted back into the room, Eddie was already strolling toward the doors, humming something off-key, twirling his ringed keys around his finger.

And outside—right outside—you were leaning against the car, Hawkins’ sunset painting you in gold.

Dustin skidded to a halt. “No, no, no. Abort mission. Turn around. Eddie, don’t go out there!”

Eddie froze mid-step, eyes lighting up with the slow-building grin of a man who finally caught the monster he’d been chasing.

“Why’s that Henderson, you tryna hide something from me?”  Eddie looked ahead, over Dustin's shoulder, with a large grin on his face. “Ah, someone?”

Eddie didn’t wait for Dustin’s answer. He brushed past him with that maddening, self-satisfied swagger, boots thudding on the linoleum as he pushed open the doors. The warm evening light hit his face, and he squinted dramatically, as if he’d just stepped into some divine realm—your realm. You glanced up at the sound, lifting your head from whatever you’d been scribbling on a notepad, and your eyes met Eddie’s.

He nearly tripped.

“Hey,” he said, suddenly softer, suddenly shy, like someone had reached into his chest and squeezed. “Uh—hi. Didn’t know you were the designated Henderson chauffeur tonight.”

You gave him a small, amused smile. “I’m always the designated Henderson chauffeur.”

Behind Eddie, Dustin groaned loudly, breaking the air. “Oh my god. Y/N disengage, get in the car, and drive”

Eddie ignored him entirely. “Well, lucky us.”

You raised a brow. “‘Us’?”

Eddie cleared his throat. “Uh—me. Lucky me.”

Dustin threw his hands up. “No. Nope. Eddie, abort. Retreat. Go back inside and pretend this never happened—”

You tugged open the passenger door for your brother. “Dustin, it’s fine, get in the car. Let him talk. You never let me meet your friends”

Eddie visibly perked up whilst Dustin visibly died inside.

Eddie placed a hand over his heart, staggering back a step like he’d just been given divine permission to breathe.

“You hear that, Henderson?” he said, eyes shining with theatrical triumph. “Your sister wants to meet your friends. Specifically me. Mostly me.”

Dustin shoved his backpack into the car with a force that suggested he wished it were Eddie instead. “I hate this. I hate both of you. I’m telling Mom.”

“You do that,” you said, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure she’ll be devastated to hear that someone finds her daughter interesting.”

Eddie snorted, then tried to disguise it as a suave laugh. It absolutely failed.

You shut Dustin’s door before he could protest again and turned back to Eddie, crossing your arms lightly over your chest. “So. Eddie Munson.”

He straightened like someone had just called his name at roll call. “That is me. In the flesh. In the leather.” He gestured vaguely at his jacket. “And the denim.”

You fought a smile. “Dustin talks about you a lot.”

Behind the rolled-up window, Dustin slapped both hands against the glass. “NO I DON’T.”

Eddie beamed. “Oh yeah? All good things, I hope.”

“Depends what you consider ‘good.’” You smirked. “Lots of yelling. Something about unfair campaigns. A dramatic monologue about you killing his character two weeks ago.”

Eddie gasped, affronted. “I didn’t kill his character. He threw himself into a pit trap after I explicitly told him not to.”

Dustin yelled through the closed window: “YOU SAID IT WASN’T A TRAP!”

“I lied! That’s storytelling!” Eddie shouted back, no longer looking at him, still looking at you.

You laughed, genuinely, bright and warm, and Eddie looked like he could live off that sound for a year. He rubbed his palms against his jeans, suddenly restless. “So, uh… since fate has clearly intervened tonight—thanks for the nat 1, Henderson—I was thinking… maybe… if you’re not too busy sometime, we could… I dunno.” He shrugged, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Hang out? Maybe grab something to eat? Talk without your brother trying to tackle me?”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it even though the smile tugging at your lips gave you away.

“That depends,” you said. “Would Dustin survive the shock?”

From inside the car, Dustin pressed his face to the window, eyes wide with horror. “PLEASE DON’T ENCOURAGE HIM.”

Eddie placed a hand on the car roof, leaning in closer, hopeful and helpless in the same breath. “I’ll take my chances.”

You cut him off. “Maybe.”

Eddie blinked. “Maybe?”

You shrugged. “Maybe we can hang out,”

Eddie grinned, slow and stunned and triumphant. “I’ll take a ‘maybe.’ ‘Maybe’ sounds like a strong ‘yes’ waiting to happen.”

Eddie’s grin was still stretching across his face, wide and triumphant, when he moved toward your car. He hooked his fingers around the handle like he had done it a hundred times before, although the truth showed in the careful and almost reverent way he pulled the door open. Inside, Dustin snapped his head toward him, eyes narrowed into the kind of death stare usually saved for mortal enemies or, apparently, potential brothers-in-law.

“Don’t you dare,” Dustin warned, his voice high with panic and disbelief. Eddie leaned down just enough to meet the younger Henderson’s eyes directly. The two of them froze, locked in an entirely ridiculous yet absolutely serious battle of wills.

Dustin’s glare promised violence. Eddie’s stare promised trouble.

The tension held for a moment. Then Eddie’s expression shifted slowly, showing a smug smile before he lifted his hand in one deliberate motion and flipped Dustin off right in his face.

“You absolute—!” Dustin sputtered, smacking his palm against the window with enough force to rattle the whole door.

Eddie had already stopped paying attention. When he turned back to you, the mischief fell away instantly. His posture straightened, and he pushed the door open a little more with exaggerated gentleness, almost as if he needed you to know he did have manners, even if he used them selectively.

“There you go,” he said, his voice softer. “Wouldn’t want the designated Henderson chauffeur to deal with any complications.”

You could not help smiling. There was something undeniably endearing about how quickly he could shift from menace to sweet. “Thanks,” you said, sincere despite Dustin’s meltdown.

“Anytime,” Eddie replied. The word came out like a promise, and his grin grew smaller and warmer. He looked like he was trying very hard not to bounce on the balls of his feet.

Inside the car, Dustin made a dramatic noise that sounded half wounded animal and half outraged brother. “I cannot believe this. He flipped me off. In front of you.”

You shut his door before he could work himself up further and moved around the car to take your seat behind the wheel. Through the windshield, you caught Eddie backing away with that same stunned, proud smile on his face. He lifted a hand in a small wave. You returned it before starting the engine.

The moment the car rolled forward, Dustin erupted.

“Why are you smiling?” he demanded. He twisted in his seat with an expression that accused you of committing several crimes. “He insulted me. He flipped me off. He is trying to date you. How is any of this funny?”

You shrugged lightly as you merged onto the road, fingers tapping the steering wheel in a rhythm you did not think about. “I do not know, Dustybun. Maybe because he is sweet.”

Dustin made a strangled noise and slumped dramatically into his seatbelt. “Sweet? Sweet? Eddie Munson is not sweet. Eddie Munson is chaos in denim.”

“It could be worse,” you said with a tiny smirk.

Dustin threw his hands up in complete exasperation. “How? How could this possibly be worse?”

In the rearview mirror, you caught one last image of the parking lot. Eddie was still standing there, fists raised, bouncing on his heels like someone celebrating a long-awaited victory. He looked absolutely thrilled.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x female reader

word count: 4.9k

Summary: Insecurities after Eddie casually mentions the perfection that Chrissy Cunningham is. What if the unspoken feelings are mutual between the two?

Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, smoking, insecurity, comparison, happy ending

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The furious scratching of your pen halted when Eddie's voice broke through the silence.

"Do you think I could ever do Mrs. Wheeler?" Your head snapped up, disbelief flashing across your face. Eddie leaned back, blunt dangling between his fingers, smoke curling lazily around his grin. That grin always managed to look both reckless and stupid while remaining devastatingly charming.

"What." The word came out flat, sharp, your chest tightening at the audacity of his question.

He exhaled slowly, eyes glinting with mischief. “You heard me. I mean, do you think I could realistically bag Mrs. Wheeler?”

"Fuck me," He groans into the pillow, his hand wrapping around his thick cock as he jerks himself off aggressively. His other hand reaches out blindly for lube, knocking over a few D&D miniatures in the process. "Shit..."

He growls in frustration, kicking at his nightstand. "Come on... come on..." The lube tube had been empty for days. God, why did he keep waiting until the last second to buy more? It was always the last second.

His mind flickers to you.

The image of you infiltrates his mind without permission, soft, elusive, drifting through the hallways like a ghost. He squeezes his eyes shut, his breath hitching as his strokes falter. It was pathetic, really, getting himself worked up over the girl who hid inside oversized sweaters and barely spoke above a whisper.

But god, (Y/N).

His hand moves faster, slicking himself with spit now because he's too far gone to care about the mess. "(Y/N)..."

He pants your name brokenly, hips snapping up into his fist. You were the complete opposite of him quiet where he was loud, soft where he was jagged. The mental image of you drowning in one of your oversized sweaters, those big, shy eyes looking up at him...

It ruins him. "Fuck... baby..." He strokes himself desperately. "My pretty girl..."

His head falls back against the pillow, messy hair sticking to his sweat-slicked forehead. The fantasy bleeds into reality, the thought of you crawling onto his messy bed, shy and trembling, letting him peel back those oversized layers to reveal the soft girl underneath.

"I'd treat you so good," he grits out through clenched teeth, his strokes becoming punishingly fast. He imagines your small hands hesitantly reaching out to touch his chest, his abs, his... *his dick*. He loses it, coming hard with a choked groan into his own hand. "...fuck..." His body shakes with the intensity of the release he gave himself over you.

His whole body jolts, a strangled sound ripping from his throat as he spills across his knuckles. The release hits him like a freight train, white-hot and overwhelming, forcing him to arch off the mattress. His hips buck upward, thrusting into his fist as thick ropes of cum coat his hand, spilling over his skin and onto the tangled sheets beneath him.

"F-fuck..."

His chest heaves, heart hammering against his ribs as the aftershocks roll through him. His cock twitches lazily, still leaking onto his stomach and fingers. He groans pathetically, face flushed, jaw slack, the most uncoordinated expression he's ever worn. Even his D&D voice couldn't summon something this pathetic. "Goddamn it," he mutters, dragging a shaking hand down his face. His cum is cooling on his skin, sticky and humiliating.

He tosses the empty lube tube across the room with more force than necessary. "Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid." He scolds himself. "Getting off to the shy girl? Really, Eddie?"

He stares at the ceiling, chest still heaving slightly, his pulse gradually slowing. His hand moves unconsciously towards his cock—which is already starting to stir again. His dick is already softening and he's still... still half-horny from the afterglow.

Fuck, he thinks. It's worse than that.

It's a problem. A genuine problem.

It wasn't just the sex. It was *her*. The way she bit her lip when she was nervous. The way her oversized sweaters slipped off one shoulder. The way she barely spoke, but when she did... god, that soft voice made his skin prickle.

He'd watched her from across the cafeteria. From across the hallway. From across the fucking parking lot once when he'd seen her leaning against her beat-up car looking like a daydream.

He was Eddie fucking Munson. Leader of the Hellfire Club. Freak. Outcast. Metalhead. He had a reputation. And he was *obsessing* over the shy, quiet girl who barely looked at him. Who probably thought he was a loser and a freak. He groaned, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face in the pillow.