mrs. harrington

stranger things.

steve harrington.

the retirement of steve harrington. —angst

me and my husband. part 2. part 3—angst

unscripted. —fluff

perv!steve headcanons. —nsfw

challengers (ft. robin buckley) —nsfw

mike wheeler.

the things mike wheeler wouldn’t hear. —angst

robin buckley.

challengers (ft. steve harrington) —nsfw

i'm this anon but now i'm realizing my ask is kind of mean or something? i didn't meant to! i was just so mad at steve 😭😭 you thanked and said i made ur day but i don't know i hope i didn't say anything wrong or made you sad about story i was just mad at steve 😭😭 i love you a lots and i hope you have/had the bestest day ever! 🤍🌷

PLSS i think steve didn’t get what he deserved probably because she loved him so much :( but he loved her too it’s just that he also loved and protected the kids he’s not bad just fucking stupid..

part 1 & part 2 ⋆.˚༄

the house is a masterpiece of shadow. when you stepped inside that first morning, the heavy front door didn’t just close; it sealed. the click of the lock sounded final, like a lid being placed on a box. you found a note on the silver tray in the foyer: everything is yours now, make it beautiful.

you started cleaning. the further you went into the house, the more the world outside began to fade. the windows didn’t show the neighborhood anymore; they showed a shimmering, golden version of a garden you would’ve thought was impossible not to notice. somehow, you didn’t stop for a second to question who owned this house before henry, or what kind of business he worked in. you just knew that the house was quiet. the house was clean. you were getting paid for this; you had a job, and you weren’t a housewife anymore. you were a queen of a castle made of glass.

back at your house, the silence sounded like a scream for help. steve came back exactly a week later. when he stepped into the front yard, and the exuberant scent of five different kinds of roses didn’t immediately hit his nostrils, he knew something was wrong. he walked in, hungry as a wolf, but the kitchen was cold and the stove was off. there was no hum of the vacuum, no smell of lemon polish, no wife waiting for him with a tired smile. just the cold, stagnant air of a place that hadn’t been lived in for days. your wedding ring was sitting in a small, lonely circle on the counter next to a note about running a small errand for a new neighbor: you won’t even notice i’m gone, and don’t you worry about me, mr. creel is a gentleman. love, y/n.

as soon as he read that name, he desperately ran to oak street. he didn’t call anyone. it was just him—unarmed, defenseless. tears coursed down his face, his frame shuddering with a violence he couldn’t master. he couldn’t stop trembling, thinking of the way he had left you alone, practically giving you into henry's arms. he had spent so many sleepless nights worrying about this nightmare, and it was finally becoming real.

all he found there was a rotting, boarded-up ruin. no signal of you or henry. he had been there many times before, but this one was different. he wasn’t one to be scared after everything he’d survived, but right now he was terrified. a luxurious clock chimed from the hallway, jolting steve out of his shock. the world rippled. the rotting wood turned into gold, and he saw you through a veil of red mist.

you were sitting at a long, mahogany table, looking serene and vacant, while henry stood behind you. henry’s pale fingers rested on your shoulders, and he looked directly at steve with a mocking, predatory tilt of his head. “look at her, steven,” henry’s voice echoed, vibrating through steve’s bones. “for the first time in years, her mind is a quiet place. she doesn’t have to wonder where you are, or whose life you’re prioritizing over hers today. she doesn’t have to scrub the stains of your heroism out of her clothes while you tell another woman how brilliant she is. you didn’t want a wife; you wanted a ghost to keep your house warm so you had a place to sleep between adventures. so i gave her a world where she is the sun. i gave her a world where she isn't just the person who washes the blood away; she’s the person worth bleeding for. why would she ever come back to a life as small as yours?”

henry planned this for a long time. he knew steve was physically strong and smart, and that made him a threat. so he had to destroy the pillar of his stability, hit him where it really hurt. and that was you. steve felt the words like a physical blow. he looked at your empty expression and realized that he hadn’t just lost you to a monster; he had built the cage and left the door open for henry to walk in. he didn’t call for backup. he didn't wait for nancy’s maps or dustin’s theories. he broke through the barrier of the house with nothing but the raw, terrifying realization that he was a failure. he burst into the shimmering kitchen, the golden illusion flickering and sparking like a dying lightbulb under the weight of his grief. he saw you standing by the counter, holding a silver knife, your eyes glassed over as you labored for an inglorious sorcerer.

“y/n!” he screamed, his voice cracking with a desperation he hadn't felt since high school. he lunged toward you, but henry moved to intercept, the air thickening like tar. steve didn’t fight like a soldier; he fought like a man who had lost his soul. “it’s not real! none of it is real! the house is a lie, the money is a lie. but i’m here! i’m finally here, baby, please! i’m begging you, look at me!” the sound of his voice—raw, terrified, and finally, finally focused entirely on you—tore through the humming in your ears. the silver knife clattered to the floor. the golden light died instantly, replaced by the smell of mold and wet dust. the stunning kitchen was gone, leaving you standing in the ruins of the creel house.

steve caught you as your knees gave out. he collapsed with you into the dirt, his arms wrapping around you so tight you could barely breathe. he was sobbing into your neck, his body shaking with a violent, rhythmic tremor. “i’m sorry,” he choked out, the words wet and heavy. “i’m so sorry. i let the house get quiet. i let you get lonely because it was easier than facing the fact that i was failing you. i was a total asshole, y/n. i was so busy looking for monsters in the woods that i didn’t see the one swallowing you right in my own living room. i don’t care about the gates. i don’t care about being a hero. i just want to go back to the nook and talk about the neighbors. i want to hear you complain about the laundry. i just want you. please, just come home. i’ll make it loud again. i’ll be the man i promised i’d be. i promise. i promise.”

for the first time in a decade, he wasn’t looking past you at a map or a girl with a gun. he was looking at you like you were the only thing left in a world that was falling apart.

it’s 1:15 am, and the kitchen clock is ticking. it used to be a countdown, a reminder of your isolation. now, it’s just the rhythm of a life being rebuilt. steve is sitting across from you at the breakfast nook. he hasn’t looked at his watch once. he hasn’t checked the door. he’s just sitting there, eating a bowl of cereal, his eyes never leaving your face.

“you didn’t reapply your lipstick tonight,” he says softly, reaching across the table to take your hand. his palm is calloused and warm, a grounding weight.

“i didn’t think i needed it,” you reply, and for the first time, it isn't a desperate lie. steve stands up and pulls you to your feet. he cups your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with a reverence that makes your throat ache. “you don’t,” he whispers. “you’re the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen, and i am so sorry it took me this long to tell you.”

your house isn’t perfect. the party will probably track mud in tomorrow, and there will always be another shadow in hawkins. but as steve leads you toward the stairs, leaving the kitchen light on and the maps forgotten on the floor, you realize the silence is finally gone. the house is finally loud.

a/n: should’ve made y/n’s dumbass cheat on steve but she’s down bad for him and i don’t blame her.. TY ALL FOR READING AND COMMENTING ILY I HAD FUN

pairing: director! steve x fem! reader

summary: steve harrington is a visual genius, but his actors have zero chemistry. frustrated and losing light, he pulls you —his script supervisor— under the artificial rain to demonstrate exactly how the film’s rain confession should feel. but as the crew goes silent and the cameras roll, it becomes clear that steve isn’t just directing a scene anymore; he’s finally making his move.

themes: WHOLE LOTTA FLUFF, awkward steve, moviemaker x script supervisor, workplace romance, established friendship, method acting, mutual pining, kissing in front of the whole crew

“cut, for the love of god, cut,” steve shoved his headset down around his neck, his signature hair already beginning to deflate in the humidity. across the set, the two main actors stood awkwardly in the center of the artificial downpour, looking more like they were waiting for a bus than confessing their undying love.

“it’s a heartbreak, not the grocery list,” steve shouted, pacing the length of the muddy track. he’s already stressed, and he’s making the whole team anxious; if they didn’t trust his judgment, they would’ve think this movie is a complete failure. “you’ve waited ten years to say this, dude. i need soul, i need– i need…”

he spun around, his eyes landing on you. you were tucked safely behind the monitors, a clipboard lying in your lap and a red pen tucked behind your ear. you were the only person on the set who didn’t look like they were panicking. “y/n,” he snapped, waving you over.

“harrington, we’re losing light,” you cautioned, checking your light. the sky was a beautiful bruised purple. “we have twelve minutes before the union calls it,” you warned him.

“i don’t give a shit about the light, i care about the performance, for fuck’s sake,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, frantic register he got when a vision was slipping through his fingers. he reached out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you toward the center of the street.

"steve, what are you doing? i’m script supervisor, not an understudy–" you demanded as you pulled back, clearly undecided about being in the spotlight for even a minute. without a doubt, and with that characteristic temperament of his, steve threw you into the pouring rain.

"just stand there," he commanded, his hands landing on your shoulders. he ignored the gasps from the crew. he ignored the way your heart jumped against your ribs. he turned his head to the lead actor. "watch her close. it should be like this.”

steve stepped into the spray of the water, his jacket instantly soaked. he didn't look at the actors anymore. he looked only at you. his eyes were dark, searching, and suddenly stripped of all the director energy.

"i’ve spent every night since the day i left wondering if you’d ever forgive me," steve whispered, his voice cracking perfectly. he stepped closer, invading your space until you could feel the heat radiating off him despite the cold water.

he reached up, his thumb brushing your cheekbone to clear a stray drop of rain. his hand stayed there, cupping your face with a tenderness that wasn't in the notes you’d written. "and then," steve breathed, his gaze dropping to your lips, "you stop talking. because words are useless now."

you didn't have time to remind him that sixty people were watching. you didn't have time to tell him the actors were supposed to be the ones moving. steve leaned in, closing the distance until the only thing you could feel was the press of his mouth against yours: desperate, rain-slicked, and entirely unscripted.

it wasn't a movie kiss. it was heavy and real, tasting like cold water and the secret he’d been keeping for three months of filming. his fingers tangled in your wet hair, pulling you closer as if he’d forgotten he was supposed to be teaching a lesson.

the silence on set was deafening. the only sound was the hiss of the rain machines and the pounding of your own heart. when he finally pulled back, his forehead lingered against yours, both of you breathing hard.

steve cleared his throat, his eyes still locked on yours, hazy and vulnerable. then, without looking away, he raised a hand and gestured vaguely toward the stunned lead actor.

part 1 & part 3 ⋆.˚༄

at seventeen, your biggest dream was to become a lawyer. make your parents proud, travel around the world, surpass every judgment pronounced against your name and live happily ever after with the love of your life. in that order.

you married steve a year later. it was a modest, small ceremony with your closest friends and family. the reception was held in a rented hall that smells like floor wax and lilies.

you were standing by the punch bowl when your high school friends pulled you aside. they were looking at the guest list, laughing uncontrollably. your innocent soul thought that maybe some name was misspelled, when one of them whispered, “is this a wedding or a daycare center?”

“i mean, steve is great, but did he really have to invite the middle school freakshow?” you looked over. dustin was explaining something about science to a confused aunt, mike and lucas were fighting over the cake. it was loud, chaotic, and a perfect glimpse into your future full of children who aren’t yours.

“they’re just kids, y/n,” another friend says, her voice dripping with pity. “it’s okay for a weekend, but you’re a harrington now. you’re supposed to be leaving this place, don’t let him turn you into a babysitter before you even get a honeymoon.”

steve appeared behind you, his hand sliding possessive and heavy over your waist. he’s caught the tail end of the conversation, his jaw tightening the way it does when he feels cornered.

on your wedding night, the first thing you heard from your beloved husband was not a compliment about how beautiful you looked in that dress, or a joke about how he never saw your dad crying like that before. “you should stop seeing them. they just don’t know what we’ve been through. they don’t get it.”

and because you’re eighteen and you still believe in a charming steve, you obey. you let the friendship drift. you stop answering the phone.

it’s one of those evenings where your house is full of noise, the kids are in the living room. they’ve tracked mud across the rug you spent all morning scrubbing. nancy is hunched over the coffee table with steve, maps and polaroids spread out between them in a barricade you aren’t allowed to cross.

“honestly,” dustin mutters, his mouth stuffed with pizza. “it must be so weird to just sit here all day. like, do you ever think about anything besides what’s for dinner? it’s kind of a waste, isn’t it?”

mike snorts, flipping through a comic book, both feet on the table. “she’s a housewife, dustin. it’s their dream, right? stay home, look pretty. no monsters, no danger. just laundry.”

the air in the room shifts. you can feel the heat rising on your neck. you look at steve, waiting for him to snap at them, to tell them they must respect his wife, that you’re the reason he has a clean bed to sleep after he’s done playing soldier.

“quit it, guys,” he says, but his voice is distracted, patronizing. he doesn’t even look up from nancy’s shoulder. “she likes it, it keeps her busy.” you can’t believe what you just heard. you just turn your back on them, walking into the front yard to water your plants, while behind you, steve starts asking nancy about the next set of coordinates.

as usual, you hide your emotions trying to coax life back into a row of wilting petunias. the sun hot on the back of your neck as you kneel in the dirt, when a shadow falls over the flowerbed.

you look up, shielding your eyes, to see a man leaning against the yard gate. he´s dressed in a crisp, white button-down that looks entirely too clean for that side of indiana. he has a gentle, almost hollow smile, and his eyes are fixed on the dirt beneath your fingernails.

"it´s a beautiful garden," he says. his smooth voice endearing your eardrums, since you´re clearly used to the party´s puberty voices and steve’s uninterested tone. "though they seem to be struggling a bit in this heat."

you wipe a smudge of dirt from your forehead, your makeup starting to melt in the humidity. "they´re doing their best," you reply, your voice vague and guarded.

"i´ve always been passionate about these kind of flowers," he continues, tilting his head. he steps into the yard, his movements slow and deliberate. "but i´m afraid i´m quite hopeless with them. i keep killing everything i touch. my mother used to say i was just too dumb to understand what a living thing needs."

you stopped hearing two sentences ago, feeling the familiar, practiced wall of a perfectly behaved wife rising up inside you. you aren´t supposed to talk to strangers. in fact, you´re even surprised no one came from inside to check on you, considering how protective steve is when it comes to your safety.

"well, maybe they just need a firmer hand," you say, standing up and brushing the soil from your knees. from this perspective, you can watch him closer. he seems a bit older than you, his blonde hair falls over his forehead as he stands like he knows exactly what he´s doing. "i keep them like this because that´s how my husband likes them. steve prefers things... manageable." that´s a lie. steve hasn´t looked at the garden in months.

the man nods thoughtfully. "manageable. yes. i suppose men like steve harrington prefer to keep wild, beautiful things under control." the mention of steve´s name sends a child down your spine. besides, what the fuck did he meant by that. before you can ask him how he knows you, he gestures toward the grand, silent house at the end of the block.

"name´s henry, i´ve recently moved in. it´s a large estate, and as i said... i´m quite poor at maintaining it. i have a bit of a predicament, though. i have to leave on a business trip tomorrow. quite suddenly. i need someone to stay there, to keep the garden alive and the house in order while i´m gone. it would only be for a week or two."

he pauses, his eyes dropping to your chapped, red hands. “i´d pay you enough to cover your groceries for the rest of the year, y/n. and it´s very peaceful there, you wouldn´t have to worry about the noise.”

the mention of the money makes your heart ache, reminding you of the pantry inside that’s as empty as steve’s promises to take care of it. besides, a week of peace sounds like heaven and steve won’t be home for a week or two. “i’ll do it,” you whisper. “i’ll pack a bag.”

henry’s smile widens, and for a second, the sun seems to dim. “wonderful. i’ll leave the key under the mat. just walk in and make yourself at home. i think eventually you’ll find you never want to leave.”

part 2 & part 3 ⋆.˚༄

summary: you married steve when you were both still glowing with the gold of youth, sold on a fever dream of escaping hawkins and becoming something brilliant. now, he spends his nights playing the martyr, while you remain a ghost in your own home, scrubbing the gore of a life you aren't allowed to lead out of the clothes of a man who barely sees you.

themes & warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort, steve being an asshole AGAIN, mentions of y/n, cheating?? maybe, wife with ZERO self respect

perv! steve who constantly demands the party to hang out at your house so that he can excuse himself to the bathroom, sneak into your bedroom and grab your used panties from the laundry hamper, sniffing them hungrily. you’re convinced you’re losing your mind because your underwear keep disappearing. but you aren’t going insane; he’s just a very careful thief.

robin buckley & steve harrington x reader challengers drabble

a torrential downpour just cancelled the finals, but steve and robin’s competitive fire doesn’t die. they start fighting for a better prize: you. they have traded their competitive streaks for something much more physical, their hands replacing tennis grips for every inch of your skin.

pairing: mike wheeler x fem!reader themes & warnings: TOXIC mike wheeler, emotional abuse, manipulation, shouting, gaslighting, possesive behavior, invalidating feelings, hurt/no comfort angst, unhealthy relationship dynamics, NOT romanticized, MANIPULATION summary: you thought love was loud, then you thought it was quiet. with mike, it’s neither — it’s control. as your voice is rewritten and your silence mistaken for peace, you learn what it costs to speak, and what it takes to walk away.

pairing — steve harrington x reader

summary — steve is too busy being a hero to everyone, saving the world and playing “mom” to the kids that he’s forgotten how to be a partner for you. you’re growing tired of being the only thing in his life that’s “fine” enough to ignore. when the tension finally snaps, steve is forced to choose between being everyone’s savior or finally show up for the person he claims to love so much.

themes and warnings — emotional neglect, hurt/comfort, steve being an asshole (accidentally), eventual reconciliation yay, english is not my first language