#steve angst

Really, he isn't overly protective at all.

He tells himself this when he's remodeling the guest room. Well, it was the guest room. He's repurposing it now that his parents have fucked off and left the house entirely to his care.

He's been trying to convince himself that this is a normal thing to do. And he's sure the kids will appreciate it, if he plays his cards right.

Because (at least the story that he plans on telling them) the thing is that he's remodeling the guest room to cater to the Party's hobbies and interests. A craft corner, a reading lounge, a table for D&D. Even a smaller and compact TV for movies, set up with a supply of the nerdiest things he could find in his collection. Beanbags and chairs of various sorts are scattered in with pillows and blankets. It's the perfect place for any of the kids to come hang out at or organize a meet up at.

It just also happens to only lock from the outside and have bulletproof, unopenable windows.

Steve knows it's overkill. And probably unwarrented, given the Upside Down has calmed down since Vecna was killed. It's less bothersome now that the dimensions creatures aren't sent out to do Henry's evil bidding.

Still, he just needs to know that there's somewhere safe he can put them, worst come to worst. The closet has even been repurposed into a small bathroom, in case things really go down and he thinks they aren't safe to leave.

Of course, Steve doesn't expect to ever have to use this, so he doesn't ever tell them.

Which is why they're in their current predicament.

The party has been taking advantage of the larger TV in the living room for a movie night. Everyone is sprawled out somewhere or other, hoarding throw blankets and couch pillows while they're engrossed in the movie. Theyre celebrating the 4th, having gotten together for a cook out at the Byers before landing here with just the kids (and Robin) for a sleepover. It's been.. interesting, for Steve. The 4th isn't a date he's particularly fond of, not since Starcourt anyways. Getting his face beaten in and his nails pulled out by Russians wasn't an experience that made his appreciation for the date very great.

Of course, Robin had pulled him aside before the cookout to check in and make sure he was fine for the event. Steve had insisted he was, knowing that the Byers wouldn't set off fireworks on account of everyones shared experiences. That interaction was enough for them to assure each other for the day.

It's coming back to bite Steve in the ass though, as a heavy knock rocks everyone from their movie viewing experience.

Steve jolts, panic instantly flaring in his chest as his mind smoothes through every possibility. The Upside Down doesn't knock... Russians do.. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck they're after him, and the kids, and they could get hurt and he can't let them-

His eyes flicker to the stairs, mind providing him with the existence of the safe room.

"Everyone into the lounge."

He says with a serious call that almost startles himself. Someone goes to protest, maybe Mike? But it's cut off by another banging on the door followed by some kind of explosion outside. That causes the group to stir into action, survival instincts all kicking in as Steve herds them up the steps. He locks the door behind them once hes assured that all the kids (and a startled Robin) have made it in.

Someone shouts something from the other side when they hear the click but Steve's on autopilot, beelining for his room to become equipped with his nailbat before heading to the door.

Another set of explosions rings outside and Steve braces the wall, just waiting for the house to fall around him. Maybe the Russians are back to take them and figure out how to open the Upside Down, maybe they're looking for El, maybe theyre-

Another explosion rings as he opens the door.

There's nobody out there, nothing but the warm night air of Loch Nora greeting him.

Maybe they e fucked off. He can't be sure.

Steve makes his way back inside, locking both the handle and deadlock on the front door behind him as he makes his way to the back.

There's nobody visible beyond the back porch, so he closes that door up too.

The pool stares at him as he does so. Steve stares right back, recognizing that he'll never let someone die at his house again.

When all the windows are checked he finally makes his way back to the safe room, faint fighting and discussing being heard inside. Good. Noise is good. Noise means life, means that they're safe.

He readjusts his grip on the nailbat, leaning against the wall outside the door and staring down each end of the hall. Another explosion rings, Steve's good ear being able to pick up the boom fair enough despite the ringing in his left.

He squats, nailbat loose between his fingers as he waits for it to pass. Whatever is going on outside can't hurt them in here.

His hearing continues to ring, eyes locked dead on his surroundings whilst his head simply repeats that he has to keep them safe. Just until it's over. Just until he can be sure.

"Steve?"

There's someone yelling through the door.

"Just- please just stay in there!"

He calls back, hating the way his voice breaks.

They call back something else, but the door is on his bad side and another explosion rings and God he cannot let them die. He cannot let them die or get hurt or- anything. They have to be safe.

Another boom rings out and he folds closer to himself, trying to keep his vision from seeing a cold, metallic room. He could hear their beam going off in the distance his whole time down there. Maybe that's what's going on, maybe they're back and trying to open another gate or-

The door clicks open besides him, impossibly.

It makes him jump, standing to attention and holding the bat out. He catches himself, recognizing that the only ones who could come out of there are the kids or Robin.

"Steve, please calm down, it's me. It's Dustin."

Steve squints, taking in his friend. The kid is holding two hairpins, one bent wildly out of shape.

"Dustin. Please- just.. just go back in. You can't-"

Dustin takes a step forward and hugs him.

"It's okay, Steve. It's just the fireworks. Remember, the 4th? Your neighbors are celebrating."

It hits his brain too quickly, making him dizzy and shakey.

"But- the door-"

"Some assholes doorbell ditching you. Though they probably realized you don't have a bell so they took it upon themselves to knock. We saw them running off from the window."

It settles in Steve's chest.

"I- I'm sorry i-"

"Steve." Dustin looks up at him, smiling faintly. Robins joined behind him in the doorway, the others peaking around her. Steve feels ashamed. "It's okay. You panicked. It's completely fine, we know what happened to you when- back then. You just wanted us safe."

He nods, and the others join in the hallway, Robin being the first to join in the hug before theyre all crowded together.

When all is calmed down, Dustin looks back up at him.

Summary :The promise to meet again on the roof of the radio station had survived life’s trials, and your group gathers once again every year in the spring. This time, Steve is here with his new girlfriend, as if he’s hoping everything can still stay cool between you. Warnings : emotional angst ? Writers notes : English is not my native language; please excuse me if there are any mistakes or poor translations. Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Eddy is getting frustrated behind you because he can’t find the pack of beer he brought. Robin is briefly trying to teach Max some French, but Max doesn’t dare tell her she’s starting to get on her nerves.

There’s a lot of chatter around you, following the rhythm of the night stretching over Hawkins, the radio station roof still taken over five years later.

You try to pay attention to what Dustin is saying, a story about a newly discovered star in the sky, but even as you follow the movement of his lips to take in his words, you can’t quite manage it.

You breathe out slowly through your mouth to steady your breathing, which is picking up along with your heartbeat. Discreetly, you glance at your watch as the sound of an engine approaches.

He’s here.

It’s crazy how all your senses can sharpen when a situation weighs on you — to the point of noticing, downstairs, a soft little laugh from an unknown woman, something that would have gone completely unnoticed by someone who wasn’t waiting for anyone.

“Harrington! Finally!”

The name is called out, and your gaze drifts for a few seconds to the newcomers being welcomed with tight embraces.

You knew he wouldn’t be alone. He’s with his girlfriend, the one he’s been seeing for a year now. A pretty brunette with doe eyes, an easy smile, and a softness that matches perfectly with the one Steve carries.

Everything he deserves.

It’s hard to remember how things used to be. When it was your hand slipping into his whenever there were too many people, and only his presence could bring you back to yourself.

When it was you fixing his messy hair without ever really styling it, or tracing his lips with your fingertips—something you always thought was more intimate than a kiss.

Eddy brushes past you, his hand lightly grazing your back, but you give your brother a reassuring smile, because everything is fine now.

You’re both cool now.

“Munson.”

Now he calls you by your last name again, as if to put distance back in place, to remind you of how things are: you’re not together anymore. And he seems to have found the love of his life. The memories feel so far away, and yet it feels like only yesterday you were finding Steve again.

His brown eyes search yours, looking for a sign, for discomfort, for something you might let slip. An uncertain smile tugs at his lips.

But you smile too, because he’s happy. And that’s all that matters.

“Harrington.”

You stayed friends after the breakup—a miracle for two teenagers who had loved each other since they were fifteen before falling apart at twenty-one.

But the distance is there. Obvious. Settled.

It’s not a warm greeting like the ones he gives Robin or Nancy, whom he hugged, or Max, whose braid he tugged on with that teasing big-brother gesture.

No.

Just a look.

Because an embrace would be too little… or too much.

And that look lingers a second too long. Maybe two.

“It’s Rose.”

His voice pulls you sharply back to reality.

“Nice to meet you, Rose.”

You smile as you offer your hand, which she takes, completely unaware of the subtle tension that has settled between you and Steve.

Conversations overlap, everyone talking about their lives, laughter breaking out, sometimes too loud.

And in the middle of it all, there’s him.

His voice, a little deeper after a few beers.

The way he lights a cigarette—exactly the same.

Like before.

Like when you skipped class to meet him behind the math building, a cigarette already resting between his lips before he kissed you softly.

“I’m going to the bathroom.”

Robin gives you a smile before diving back into her story about her last trip with Vickie, who shoots her a pointed look to shut her up—alcohol making her even more talkative than usual.

You take the side stairs and stand there for a few moments, looking out at the landscape, wondering where you’d be if you hadn’t made the wrong choices.

Leaning against the building behind you, your head resting on the cold stone, your gaze gets lost in the sky.

Well.

Maybe it’s harder than you thought.

“You okay?”

Of course.

You’re not even surprised he followed you. He never lost the habit of watching your every move to make sure you were alright.

And deep down, it irritates him that he still does it now. He waited a few minutes, thinking you’d come back quickly, but you didn’t.

So he came down. To check. To make sure you were fine. To convince himself it no longer mattered.

Whether you were still lying.

Hands in his pockets to keep himself from doing something stupid, he watches you. You turn your eyes to him. The darkness doesn’t reveal your features, and that only frustrates him more.

The words you never say—your eyes say them for you.

But everything is shut down. And he can’t see anything.

And he’s mad at you. God, he’s so mad at you. Because he really wants things to work with Rose. He’s happy with her. He loves her.

It’s not the same kind of love he had with you. It’s calmer, softer. Less… you.

But you’re still there, somewhere. And he hates you for it.

Because you’re still there, no matter what.

He doesn’t come closer, as if you were a poisonous presence in the air, capable of consuming him all over again—and this time, without any cure.

And you see it in his eyes, that silent plea: that everything is fine between you, that this friendship—which only exists in your heads—is enough to keep you both away from everything else.

He wants reassurance. That none of it matters. That he can be with Rose.

Rose, who is perfect for him. You saw it in her smile: she loves him. She fell in love with him just as easily as you did, once.

That she is everything he ever wanted.

“Everything’s fine,” you force your smile to sound as sincere as possible. “I just needed to…”

“Quiet.”

A faint smile crosses his face, quick, without warmth.

“You always do that.”

It’s a reproach. And he hates that it shows. But you don’t react.

“You picked her well.”

You pause, barely noticeable.

“Rose.”

This time, he really looks at you.

You take a small step forward, just enough for the streetlight to catch your face. Just enough for him to see.

“You look happy.”

He pauses, fiddling with the lighter in his pocket.

“I am.”

It sounds right. Not entirely true. Not entirely false either.

“We’re cool, then.”

Your voice is soft. Almost detached.

As if you were talking about something that no longer concerned you.

When both of you know it goes far beyond that.

And it relieves him.

Because he might not have been able to put an end to it himself, like he should have when he felt that thread between you still there, still alive despite everything.

So he accepts the idea that you will always be there, somewhere in the background, like a photograph faded by time, slipped into a forgotten wallet.

A photo you don’t really look at anymore, but one that still reminds you, without needing words, that some things never fully disappear—even when you pretend they do.

Steve Harrington masterlist  JJ Maybank masterlist  Rafe Cameron masterlist Inspired by the song Cool by Gwen Stefani.

⌯⌲ Steve Drabbles Masterlist

You and Steve Harrington have been at each other's throats since you first met in freshman year.

He thinks you're arrogant, sharp-tongued and too quick with comebacks that are no longer fun and just hurt. You think he's all fake, with all that hair and ego, playing the hero while actual people are left to suffer. You trade insults in hallways. He mocks your appearance; you mock that he's friends with children. It's a cold war, mutually assured destruction.

Which is why, when the headaches start - a pounding that's relentless, like something is trying to claw behind your eyes - you don't go to him.

You tell Nancy.

But Nancy is unfortunately with Steve when you whisper "I think I saw him" and the line goes dead. And Steve - stupid, stubborn, heroic fucking Steve - shows up at your house at 2 AM, banging against your window because your parents are gone and the front door is locked.

Your nose hasn't stopped bleeding. You've been having nightmares for weeks every time you close your eyes - first your father leaving, then your mother's voice distorted, calling you an unlovable child, unworthy. Now, your having waking hallucinations. Steve's face, but wrong, it's sneering, telling you how everyone talks about you behind your back, that you're pathetic, that you'll end up dying alone.

"Go away," you hiss, opening the window just enough to glare at him. Your hands are shaking as you wipe blood on your sleeve.

"You're cursed." He pushes past you into your bedroom, totally uninvited, almost tripping as he enters not having that high school agility anymore. "By Vecna. Nancy told me about everything. The headaches, the nosebleeds, the nightmares your having."

"And you care so much because?"

He stops pacing and turns towards you. In the dim light of your bedroom, he looks wrecked - hair wild, eyes red, like he's been running blind and panicked.

"Because I'm not letting you die," he says, quietly under his breath. "I don't care if you hate me. I'm not watching you - " He breaks off, unable to finish the thought like it causes him pain. "Not you."

You don't get to argue properly before he's ushering you back into bed and setting up a spot for himself on the floor.

Three days later, it escalates further.

You're in the town library - the exact place where you and Steve had your worst fight, it was sophomore year, you were screaming at each other until Mrs. H shoved you both out - and that's when you see it. A grandfather clock, embedded in the wall where you'd thrown a book directly at his head. Wood and paper pages were spilling around it. The distorted strike of the clock was wrong, almost backwards, echoing in your skull.

Black widow spiders crawl from under the clock face, dropping to the floor, scurrying toward you. You stumble back, screaming for someone, anyone, but no one hears you. The library's empty. You're alone just like he said.

Then you're not in the library at all.

You're standing in the Creel House, it's deconstructed with age and time, creepy, walls breathing on their own. You see Vecna - Henry, One, whatever name you wanted to call him. He's moving towards you, hand raised outstretched, clawed fingers spreading wide and reaching for you.

"You've always been alone," he says, and his voice is your father's, your mother's, Steve's, all twisted together. "No one is coming for you."

You start to run. Through doors that lead nowhere, up stairs that spiral into more darkness, Vecna always behind you, getting closer.

In the real world, you don't know that your eyes have completely glazed over, rolled back showing white. You don't know that you've collapsed in the middle of the library, unresponsive, or that Steve has found you - somehow and was crying out your name to wake up.

You don't know that you're beginning to float, three feet off the ground, limbs twitching.

You can only feel fear.

Vecna corners you in his mindscape, his hand reaching for your face, and you feel something shift - a pressure in your chest, the coldness spreading through your body as you realize your fate. Your arm snaps, you can't see it but you feel everything, the agony ripping through you. Your eyes are burning, the pressure is rising, about to pop -

"NO!"

Steve's voice, cuts through everything.

He's in the library, watching you levitate, watching your body start to contort, and he doesn't hesitate in reaching for you. Grabbing your face, hands rough with callouses and warm, forcing you to look at him even though your eyes are gone, rolled back into your head, unable to see him.

"Hey! Hey, come back! Please!"

He shoves a headphones over your ears - your headphones, your music, blasting so loud it vibrates through your skull.

"Remember sophomore year?" he's shouting over the music, shaking you, tears streaming down his face. "You wrecked my car. I said you drove like a maniac and you said I parked like a blind toddler. And then - you stayed behind. Helped me fix the bumper. You didn't leave until 3 AM. You hated me but you stayed."

The memory hits you hard. The cold night. The feeling of the flashlight in your hand. His hands handing tools for you, close enough to touch. The fight that wasn't really a true fight, the spark you both denied.

"Junior prom," he continues, over Vecna's yell of rage. "You told me I looked ridiculous in that tux. But you also - " He laughs, voice breaking. "You also fixed my tie. Touched my chest. I couldn't stop thinking about it for months. I think about you all the time, you're horrible but perfect - "

You gasp. The floor rushes up to meet you. Your body crashes into his arms, as you feel like yourself again gripping onto him, eyes snapping back to normal, blood gushing from your nose as you struggle to breathe but you're here, in the real world, Vecna's hold on you broken.

"Got you," he breathes into your hair, holding you so tight against his chest. "I got you. You're here. Stay here."

It's a few days later now, the dust has started to settle and Hawkins is slowly bleeding into the Upside Down but you're alive - you find him waiting for you outside your hospital room.

"Hey," you say.

He looks up at you. With those exhausted but beautiful brown eyes.

"You meant all of that?" you ask sitting next to him. "About thinking about me?"

He stares at you. Then laughs, unable to believe you heard him. "Of course I did. You're the only person I've ever fought with who made me feel something."

"Something?"

"Love?" He stands, pulling you up with him by the hand, your close enough that you can smell his shampoo. "I don't think I can go back to being enemies anymore."

"Me neither."

He kisses you their, in the open hallway for everyone to see as the world is ending around you, and it tastes like blood, tears and second chances.

You don't let him go.

⌯⌲ Steve Drabbles Masterlist

Steve angst time - I am now sad. Thank you.

You see him before he see's you.

The lobby lights were too bright, it's Valentine's Day couples are clustered everywhere with their popcorn cuddled between them, and he was just... there - taller, broader than you remember, hair still perfect, laughing at something his date had said. She was pretty. Blonde. Hand on his arm like she knew she belonged there.

Your sister elbows you. "Isn't that - "

"Yeah."

Steve Harrington. The last time you'd seen him was senior year. The parties, the pool, the way he seemed to find you in every room, stay too late around your locker, drive you home the long way. You'd liked him. He liked you. You'd both just… never realized the others feelings. Not in the romantic sense, thinking it was purely platonic.

He looks up.

The world doesn't stop - that was movie bullshit - but something does. His smile falters, just for a second, recognition flooding through his eyes. He straightens, unconsciously, hand dropping from his girlfriend's waist.

You look away first.

"Let's sit," your sister whispers.

The movie was some rom-com she'd chosen, ironic and terrible for Valentine's Day. You don't absorb a single frame. You keep feeling his presence three rows back, wondering if he was watching the screen or the back of your head.

At the hour mark, you're struggling to breathe.

"Popcorn," you whisper to your sister. "I'm getting popcorn."

You escape into the fluorescent hallway, gasping slightly, pressing your cold palms to your cheeks. You were being fucking ridiculous. It was years ago. Ancient history.

"Hey."

You turn.

Steve's stood there, hands in his pockets, alone, looking at you like you were a ghost he'd conjured in his imagination. Up close, he was different - little older, tired around the eyes, but still Steve. Still the boy who'd taught you to parallel park at 2 AM, who'd brought you coffee every morning while you were studying during senior spring, who'd never quite said the thing you both of you knew the other was thinking.

"Hi," you managed.

"You look - " He stops. Swallows. "You look good."

"So do you." Your voice came out ever so rough, nervous "Your girlfriend seems nice."

"Yeah. Ah - first date." He glances back toward the theaters, then at you. "She is. She's… she's great."

The silence stretches, loaded with everything left unsaid. You could see it now, with brutal clarity - how he'd looked at you then, how you'd missed it your chance, how you'd let him go without ever knowing you were allowed to keep him.

"I was gonna get popcorn," you say stupidly.

"I'll pay."

"Steve - "

"Let me." He steps closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne, something new and expensive. "Please. For old times. Like the coffee's I never let you buy."

Your throat tightens. "That was years ago."

"I remember." His voice drops, sad. "I remember everything."

He walks with you to the counter, standing a little too close, and when the cashier asks what you want, he answers before you can even get a word out. "Large. Extra butter. And - " he glances at you, almost smiling, " - those sour gummies you used to hide in your purse."

You stare at him. "You remember that?"

"I remember you hate chocolate. I remember you cried at the end of E.T. even though you promised you wouldn't. I remember - " He stops, brows furrowing together with thought, handing over his card. "I remember thinking I'd have time. To tell you how I felt. To figure it out."

The cashier hands back the card. Steve takes the popcorn, the gummies, fumbling a little bit with something in his pocket before he holds them out to you like a peace offering.

"I missed my chance," he says quietly. "I know that. I just… seeing you, I needed you to know. You were it. My first choice. Only choice, for a really long time."

Your eyes burn. "You were mine too."

"I know now." He smiles, sad... but real. "The whole things a tragedy, isn't it?"

His phone buzzes. His girlfriend, probably, wondering where he was. He doesn't bother to check it, just holds your gaze a moment longer, memorizing your face, saying goodbye.

"Happy Valentine's Day," he says.

"You too."

He walks back toward the theater, the popcorn is still in your hands, warm and heavy, a reminder. Your sister finds you five minutes later, still standing there, holding snacks you didn't remember thanking him for.

"Are you okay?"

You watch him disappear around the corner, hand finding the small of his girlfriend's back, resuming a life you'd almost been part of.

"Yeah," you lied. "I'm fine."

But outside, later, you found the sour gummies in your pocket and sit in your sister's car. There's a sticky note on the other side of the packet you realize he must of put there when he was messing around earlier.

"Maybe we can start again? - S"

⌯⌲ Steve Drabbles Masterlist

Omg.... Steve's first time. Can you imagine?

Like taking that man's virginity >.> Him taking yours <.<

Steve's hands were absolutely shaking.

You noticed it when he reached for the button on your jeans - his fine motor skills had apparently abandoned ship. His knuckle brushed your stomach and you both had jumped, then laughed about, absolutely ridiculous.

"Sorry," he mumbles, forehead pressed to your shoulder in embarrassment. "I'm nervous. So so nervous. This is actually pathetic."

"You're nervous?" You lift his chin, making him look at you as your face morph into confusion. "Steve, I was the one who tried to take your shirt off and got my arm stuck in the sleeve somehow. We even heard the fabric rip."

"I guess you did."

"We're disasters."

"Yeah." He smiles, it's slightly lopsided, none of that high school King Steve bullshit even exists yet, this is real and genuine. "But you're my disaster."

You kiss him, it's soft, and he melts into it, hands finding your waist with a little more confidence. The bed creaks when you lay back, pulling him along with you, and your knees bump together - hard.

"Ow," you both say in tandem, before dissolved into giggles, foreheads pressed together.

"Okay," Steve breathes, propping himself up on his elbows. "Okay, let's actually - can we slow down? I wanna see you when we... ya know."

"Yeah. Yeah of course, slow."

He peels your shirt off finally and you both just look at each other for a second. You can see the way his shoulders tense, the nervous way he's holding his jaw. He was a little leaner than he looked in clothes, pale skin scattered with freckles you wanted to trace. You reached up and trace a small scar along his ribs.

"Roller skating," he explains briefly, shivering under your touch. "Freshman year. Very tragic, very embarrassing."

"Very."

You help him with your bra, fumbling the clasp twice before it gives way, and he make a sound - small, little overwhelmed - when he finally sees you. His hands hover, unsure of how to place them, until you take them and place them directly over your breasts, showing him how to cup you, his thumb brushing your nipple until they begin to harden against his palms.

"Like this," you whisper, arching into his touch more.

"Yeah?" He experiments, rolling the peak between his fingers, watching your face carefully. "That good?"

"Yeah. Can be harder."

He squeezes, learning the weight of you, and you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders. He ducks his head down, mouth finding your nipple, tongue circling the bud before sucking experimentally until you moan more, your hand lacing through his hair to hold the back of your head.

"Steve - "

"Too much?"

"No don't stop."

He doesn't. He worships you with his mouth, hands roaming down your sides, hooking around the waistband of your jeans. He looks up, asking permission, and you lift your hips so he can peel them off comfortably, taking your underwear with them. You were bare to him now, exposed, and he sits back on his heels just to observe, his pupils blown wide now with desire.

"Fuck," he breaths. "You're - fuck."

"Your turn now," reaching for his belt.

He helps, fingers clumsy, and you finally work his jeans open, pushing them down his hips. He kicks them off, boxers following quickly after, and then suddenly he was naked too - cock hard and flushed against his stomach, leaking already. You wrap your hand around him, teasing, feeling the heat he's letting off, the velvet skin that rolls over how hard he is, and he groans, hips bucking into your hand, burying his face against your neck.

"Sorry, sorry - " he pants. "Your hand is - fuck - perfect - gonna -"

"It's okay baby."

You stroke him slowly now, learning the shape and curve of him, what makes him groan, what makes him shake. He kisses you again, deeper, tongue sweeping through your mouth, and then his fingers were nestled between your legs, sliding through your folds, testing, finding you wet and all so wanting.

"Oh," he murmurs between kisses on your lips, amazement in his voice. "You're so - can I?"

"Please."

He slips one finger inside you, quickly followed by a second, curling to find your sensitive spot, thumb rubbing clumsy circles on your clit. You rock into his hand, moaning, showing him the rhythm you need, the pressure, until you were panting, already close.

"Steve, I need you. Please."

He nods, shaking still, as he positions himself between your thighs, guiding himself to your entrance. He pushes in slow - oh god so slow - he's thick and stretching you out, filling you inch by inch until he was buried and balls deep, both of you trembling against each other from the feeling, foreheads pressing together.

"Okay?" he breathes, voice slightly ragged, holding himself still with a lot of restraint until he knows your okay.

"Perfect. Move. Please."

He pulls out nearly all the way, before pushing back in, finding his rhythm - it's unsteady at first, little too fast, then too slow, laughing when the bed squeaks loud enough that you might wake his parents. He adjusts the angle, grinding against your clit with every thrust, and you cry out, nails raking his back.

"There?"

"There - don't stop - "

He continues to fuck you with deep, rolling strokes, watching your face with intense precision, learning what makes you moan, what makes you clench around him more. The headboard knocks against the wall in a steady rhythm, and you don't care, too lost in the feeling of him, the way he drags inside of you, the way he groans your name like a prayer.

"Close," he pants, reaching between you, thumb pressing tight against your clit again. "You?"

"Yeah - Steve - "

You cum first, back arching into him, crying out as your muscles spasm around him, milking him. He follows mere seconds later, burying his face in your shoulder, groaning long and low as he spills inside the condom, pulsing waves of cum, his whole body is shaking.

He collapses beside you, sweaty and grinning like an idiot, pulling you into his side without pulling out, trying to keep you as close as possible.

"That was," he starts, then stops himself, laughing. "That was something."

"Something good though?"

He rolls his head to look at you, eyes soft and pupils blown wide, and presses a kiss to the top of your nose. "Not good, perfect. Can we practice again? Like, a lot?"

You laugh into his shoulder, tangling your legs together, feeling him begin to soften inside you. "Yeah. Let's practice."

⌯⌲ Steve Drabbles Masterlist

Ooo this is an interesting dynamic.

Steve Harrington - the King Steve with his stupid BMW and that letterman jacket everyone recognised - nobody would have guessed he was sneaking around like a criminal just to be with you. Just to be able to hold your hand where nobody could see.

"Think your brother's home," Steve mumbles against your neck, pressing an extra kiss before pulling back from where he'd had you pinned against the trailer siding. The metal was cold through your thin t-shirt sending chills up your spine. "I seriously gotta go."

"Wait - " You grab at him from his belt loop, desperate and pulling him closer again, not ready to let him go yet. "Just two more minutes. Please."

The porch light snaps on and the door bangs open so hard it rattles the whole trailer.

"Get your fucking hands off my sister."

Your brother stands there in the entry way to he trailer, shotgun hanging loose in his grip but pointed somewhere in your general direction. You could smell the whiskey on his breath from ten feet away. He always gets riled up like this when he thinks about you dating - getting drunk and angry, looking for any reason to stop you.

Steve doesn't even think properly. Just steps in front of you. On instinct.

"Hey - " your brother starts rambling off, racking the gun, swaying a little. "You. Rich boy. Turn the fuck around."

Steve doesn't move. Just keeps his body between you and the barrel, hands raised slow and palms turned out, voice oddly calm.

"I love her," he said, simple as that. "I'm not gonna hurt her."

"Bullshit." Your brother laughs, so mean and ugly, you'd never heard him to like this extent before. "Sneaking around in the dark like a little rat are ya? Treating her like some dirty secret."

"To try and protect her from this," Steve says, nodding his chin at the gun. "From you thinking you own her."

The gun wavers. Your brother's finger twitched on the trigger and you stop breathing entirely, your face is pressed against Steve's back, feeling his heart racing at a million miles per second but his stance never wavers.

"Shoot me," Steve's voice is flat and serious. "You wanna shoot somebody, shoot me. But don't get her mixed up in the fire."

The silence stretches out for what feels like forever. Crickets were screaming in the background. Your brother just stares, drunk eyes narrowing like he couldn't process what he was seeing.

"Fuck," he finally manages to slur out, running a hand through his greasy hair. "You'd actually - " He laughs, still in disbelief. "You'd actually let me shoot you? For her?"

"Yeah," Steve says, still refusing to move, still blocking you completely. "I would. Every time."

Your brother looks at him. Then at you, silently crying silently behind Steve's shoulder, your fingers digging into his waist through his jacket.

"How long?" your brother asks, little quieter now.

Steve turns his head just enough to look at you, asking for your permission. You nod, exhausted.

"Four years,"

Your brother sits down hard on the nearby couch, gun clattering against his knee, suddenly looking like all the air just got punched out of him. "Four years," he repeats. "Jesus fucking Christ."

"I tried to tell you," you whisper finally, voice cracking. "You never listen. You never - "

"Four years," he repeats again, shaking his head. He looks up at Steve, something shifting in his face. It's not a friendly look, but different from the anger he'd just displayed. "Mom's gonna lose her mind. Dad's gonna wanna kill you." He points at Steve with the hand not holding the gun. "But you - standing there like that - " He exhales, long and slow trying to calm himself. "You just proved just how much you love her more than any of us ever could."

Steve finally turns around fully, feeling safe enough to do so, hands coming up to frame your face, checking you over like you might been injured. "You okay?"

You nod, still shaking, tears streaking tracks down your cheeks that he brushes away with his thumb. "You absolute idiot. You could've - "

"Sorry, I had to," he mumbles against your forehead, pressing a kiss there. "Had to show him and show you. That I'm staying."

Your brother made a gagging noise from across the room. "Alright, enough. I don't need to see that crap. Dad's gonna want to meet the moron who took a bullet for his daughter."

"He didn't actually - "

"He would have," your brother says, standing up slow, leaving the gun behind as he moves. "That means more."

Steve grabs your hand, lacing his fingers through yours tight enough to hurt slightly. No more sneaking. No more hiding. Just you and him against everyone.

⌯⌲ Steve Drabbles Masterlist

This request has been sending me... like actually obsessed need this to happen.

Please tell me its hot in here and not just me 🥵

The rose oil had seemed innocent enough idea when you’d first pulled it from the bathroom cabinet. Steve had been complaining all day how tight his shoulder were feeling and you rolled your eyes dramatically as you caved to helping him finally. He groans dramatically, flopping face-down onto your bed like a starfish. “All that babysitting finally catching up to you huh?”

“Shut up and fix me,” he’d mumbles into your pillow.

Now you were fifteen minutes in and the atmosphere had shifted from just friendly help to dangerous.

Your palms glide over the broad landscape of his back, muscles turning slippery and gleaming eith the reflection of the lamp on your side table. The oil had warmed between your bodies, that sweet floral scent filling the room until it felt like you were both drunk on it. You’d started with his shoulders - the knots were like rocks beneath your thumbs - but now your hands had wandered a little lower, kneading at the dimples just above his waistband, thumbs brushing against the sensitive hollows of his lower back.

Steve’s breath had changed now. No longer the relaxed rhythm he'd settled into, but something sharper, slightly hitched with each inhale.

“You’re really good at this,” he says, voice muffled.

“Yeah?” You press harder, thumbs digging into the tension bracketing around his spine. “Where else hurts, pretty boy?”

The pet name had slipped out before you could catch it. You could feel the way Steve's body was now frozen beneath you.

Fuck.

But then - ever so slowly - he rolls under you onto his side, then to his back, looking up at you with dark, hungry eyes. His chest was bare, stomach covered in oil-slicked ridges under his chest hair, and then your eyes flicked lower -

Oh.

“Maybe could go lower,” he said quietly. Voice think and heavy. “I mean if you’re offering.”

Your mouth went dry suddenly. “Steve - ”

“We’re friends, right?” He reaches up, oil covered fingers catching your wrist before you can escape. His thumb strokes your pulse point, feeling the way it was quickening. “Friends help each other. You said so yourself.”

“That’s not - ”

“C’mon, sweetheart.” He guides your hand down his chest, continuing until your palm is flattened over the hard ridge of his cock straining against his sweatpants. The fabric was thin, damp with oil now from your hands, and Steve hisses through his teeth when you don't pull away. “Look at you. Acting all shy when you’ve been feeling my ass for ten minutes.”

“Excuse me... I was massaging you - ”

“And now you’re gonna finish what you started.” He sat up suddenly in one fluid motion, catching your hips and yanking you forward until you pressed flush over his hips. His hands slid up your thighs, thumbs hooking in your shorts, leaving oily prints on your skin. “Unless you’re scared, baby. Are you scared to mess up our little friendship?”

Something in his tone - that mocking, goading tone - lit a fire of desire in your gut.

You shove his chest. He falls back again, grinning viciously, and you climb higher up him until his bulge is pressed perfectly up into your clothed pussy. The oil on his skin slowly transferred to yours, your tank riding up, stomach sliding against his as you leaned down.

“Fuck you, Harrington,” you breathed.

“There’s my girl.” His hands clamp on your hips, fingers digging in. “Now take your clothes off before I rip them off. Slow. I wanna watch you struggle.”

The degradation shouldn’t have made you soaked. But God, it did - you were peeling off your tank top with shaking hands, shorts and underwear following, while Steve watched with a predatory focus, one hand subconsciously palming himself through his pants.

“Pathetic,” he says, but his voice was showing his worship of you. “Look at you, naked and desperate for your friend to fuck you. You’re dripping already, aren’t you? I can smell you.”

“Steve - ”

“On your back. Now.”

You obey, hating how much you loved him commanding you. He strips quickly, cock springing free, thick and flushed against his stomach, covered in precum as he fists himself, his cock is now covered with more oil from the bottle. The visual - Steve kneeling between your thighs, was beautiful and had you arching up, seeking more friction.

He denies you. Pressing one palm flat on your sternum between your breasts and pushes you down into the mattress.

“Such a greedy little thing,” he mutters positioning himself with his free hand "You don’t get to move. You take what I give you, understand? Say yes, Steve.”

“Yes, Steve,” you gasp, and he dives in.

The oil made it easy for him to bottom out straight away, filthy and loud - the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room as he fucks you with relentless precision. No preparation, no teasing. He’d been secretly holding back for years, you realise as you watch him, you nails digging into his shoulders as he pinned your knees wide.

“Look at you,” he grunts, snapping his hips. “Stuffed full, taking my cock like you were made for it. Is this what you wanted? When you were rubbing your tits against my back earlier, huh? You wanted me to flip you over and ruin you?”

“Yes - ”

“Yes what?” He slows his thrusts, cruel, grinding deeper and circling slightly with his hips. “Beg for me, slut. Beg your best friend to make you cum.”

The word slut should have hurt. Instead, you moan, cunt clenching around him. “Please, Steve, please fuck me, I need it, need you - ”

“Good girl,” he purs, and the praise shatters you. “There’s my good girl. Taking it so well. So pretty when you’re like this.”

He resumes his pace, more brutal now, one hand wrapping around your throat - not squeezing, just holding you there - and his other hand dropping to rub harsh, slippery circles on your clit.

“Gonna cum for me?” he demands. “Gonna cream around my cock while I tell you what a perfect little fucktoy you are? Answer me baby.”

“Yes, yes, I’m gonna - ”

“Do it. Now.”

You break apart, screaming his name, back arching off the mattress as the orgasm rips through you in waves. Steve continues to fuck you through it, chasing his own high, and when he pulls out suddenly, you whimper at the loss, feeling empty - until you watch him fist himself twice, groaning your name, and cums in thick ropes across your stomach, your breasts, marking you everywhere.

The oil and cum mix, it's obscene as he collapses beside you, chest heaving.

Silence.

Then, quietly, his hand finds yours. Interlacing your fingers.

“…Still friends?” he asks, voice stripped of all its earlier venom, suddenly innocent and scared.

You turn your head to meet his eyes - their soft now, vulnerable.

“You idiot,” you whisper, fondly. “We were never just friends.”

Steve smiles, and pulls you close into his chest and the mess you two have made.

⌯⌲ Steve Drabbles Masterlist

I'm so down for Steve having a choking kink.

Like those big fucking hands.... awooga.

Steve is driving you home from the movies, one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other is drumming the beat of whatever was on the radio against his thigh. You went to private school across town; he went to Hawkins High. You'd meet through your mums being friends when you were younger, before you'd moved slightly further out. The distance was rough but you'd remained friends - just friends - okay... maybe you wanted more.

"So," he said, casually, eyes still locked on the road. "How are the boys at your school?"

You shrugged, staring out the window blankly. "Some are nice. Some are just... absolute assholes. Sometimes I just wanna choke them."

Steve's hand stills on his thigh, he's shuffling in his seat. His throat bobs slightly as his eyes blank out on the road ahead of him.

"You should do it," he said, voice lower.

You turn towards him, laughing. "What?"

"Do it." He glanced at you quickly and you notice something dark flickering in his eyes. "Choke them."

You stare at him, caught off guard by his intensity of his voice before your eyes flicker down slightly seeing a small bulge in his pants. Then you lean ever so closer, joking, testing the waters, putting on a fake moan for him. "Fuck. Choke me, daddy."

Steve's jaw tightens. His knuckles going white on the wheel from the intensity of his grip.

"You don't mean that..." he mumbles voice trailing off.

"I do."

"I don't wanna hurt you," he says tentatively, but his gaze flicks across to your lips.

You swallow, the car suddenly feeling too small, too hot. "Don't worry. I can take it."

He pulls over so quickly. Car screeching as it halts. Gravel being crunched under the tires as he threw the car into park and turned to you, eyes burning.

"Really?" he asks, you can see just how serious he is now, searching your face. "Sure you can take it?"

Your breath hitches. "Yeah. I can."

He moves fast leaning over the console - hand fisting in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to expose your throat, not restricting your movements, just controlling you. He watches your eyes, waiting for you to stop him. You don't.

"Fuck," he moans out, and then his mouth is over yours - hard, desperate, teeth biting your lip. You moan into it more, hands gripping fistful of his shirt, pulling him closer.

He pushes his seat back, dragging you over to the drivers seat now and into his lap, your knees bracket his hips. He's completely hard beneath you now, groaning as you grind down against him.

"Been thinking about this since... forever," he pants against your neck, hands roaming your waist, your ass, squeezing tight. "Thinking about you. What you'd feel like."

"Show me what you've been thinking about," you whisper, rolling your hips.

He growls, fingers digging into your hips, guiding your movements, grinding your core against the ridge of his cock through his jeans. "Like that?"

"Mhmm... more."

He kisses you again, he's sloppy now, one hand sliding up your thigh and under your skirt, finding you dripping through your underwear. You gasp at the touch arching your back.

"Steve - "

"I got you," he murmurs, rubbing slow and firm circles through the fabric. "Let me take care of you. Can you be good for me?"

"Yes," you whimper, rocking into his hand more. "Please - "

He pushes the fabric aside, sliding two fingers rough through your folds, finding your entrance. "So wet. Fuck. All for me?"

"All for you," you gasp as he pushes deep inside, curling his fingers slightly, moving in and out quick.

He builds up your orgasm, thumb rubbing firm circles on your clit with his thumb, watching your face turn redder, heavy-lidded eyes closing in bliss. "That's it. Take it. Just like that."

You come apart in his lap, crying out and biting into his shoulder, muscles clenching around his fingers. He groans, grinding up against you again, seeking friction.

"Your turn, now" you breath, reaching between you, palming him through his jeans.

He hisses, head dropping back against the seat. "Fuck - "

You unzipped him, wrapping your hand around his cock and pulling him out, he's already leaking. Unable to stop himself from thrusting into your grip, so desperate, fingers digging into your hips hard enough now to bruise.

"Close," he pants, watching you intensely. "Please don't stop - "

You tightened your grip, pumping even faster, and he cums with a whole body shuddering groan, spilling all over your fingers.

He holds you there, both of you breathing hard to catch your breathes, his face buried in your neck.

"Different schools," he mumbles, pressing kisses against your collarbone. "Fuck that. I'm driving you every day."

You laugh fingers brushing his hips. "Okay, daddy."

He groans, squeezing you even tighter against him. "Don't start. I won't be able to stop."