[caramelmiller]

“No, they’re…. nice,”

“They look like evidence in Santa’s DUI case, babe.”

You stifle a laugh, peering at Steve’s mangled reindeer cookies, he must have lost the cookie cutter and improvised with a knife which explains why one has a stab wound and the other are missing various limbs. “I like this one, it’s a little lopsided, it’s got character,”

“Character,” He echos, suppressing a smile. You reach over, your thumb slowly brushing along his cheek to wipe it away. His breath stutters almost imperceptibly, and then his hands slide around your waist with a quiet certainty, pulling you in until your hips bump the counter.

“You got something on your face,” He murmurs, nodding at your mouth, his voice warm and low.

“No, I don’t,”

“Nah, you do,” His hand comes up, gentle but sure, fingers curling around your jaw moving you where he wants you. “Right here.”

His mouth ghosts over your skin, warm and barely-there, brushing the corner of your lips first, a teasing pass like he’s mapping you out. His nose nudges your cheek before his lips find you again, softer this time, lingering longer. He kisses the supposed “smudge” with a faint hum, like he’s savoring the excuse.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, heat rolling through you in slow waves. His thumb strokes your jaw absently, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it, like touching you has become instinct.

“There,” he whispers against your lips, breath mixing with yours. “Think I got it.”

“You’re ridiculous,” You whisper back, scrunching your nose as he tugs you closer

“And you’re beautiful, too beautiful actually, you really gotta stop that.” He steps back to swing you up onto the counter so he can step between your legs.

“Maybe I could swing by Melvad’s.” He continues, fingers drumming against your hips, “Get you a paper bag to wear. Something stylish. Classic. Kraft brown.” He grins at the laugh he pulls from you, like a kid on christmas morning.

His fingers slide into your hair, his nose bumping against your cheek as he kisses you deeper as if he’s endeavouring to swallow you whole. You miss him the second he pulls back, patting your thigh as a goodbye as he attempts to salvage the cookies.

And as you watch him fuss over his cookie casualties, humming under his breath, shoulders loose and warm, you realize you want him in your kitchen every single Christmas.

[caramelmiller]

wrote a little blurb about eddie, references to a sexual relationship in the end but nothing actually happens.

“what’s that you got there?” His voice cuts through the quiet like a kid catching another kid with their hand in the cookie jar. He looks up at you, shoulders tensing, eyes wide with poorly conceived panic.

You look up like a kid caught snooping through their Christmas presents, “You wrote letters to Santa?” You beam, implicitly pleased with your discovery, thumbing through the box of messy letters.

“Absolutely not, those are clearly Wayne’s,” He lies, reaching to snatch the box away.

You twist out of reach with the reflexes of someone highly motivated by the promise of blackmail material. “Wayne wrote a letter in crayon asking for an Atari?” you say, eyebrows up, flipping through the stack of age-wrinkled papers.

“He’s young at heart?” Eddie attempts, lunging for the box a second time.

You flick to a different letter adorned with crayon drawings and messy handwriting, “Oh these are so cute, I almost forgot you didn’t just spawn in fully formed—leather jacket, bad attitude, and all.”

“It’s not cute,” he huffs, making another grab for the box and missing as you pivot away again. “And it’s actually a federal crime to read other people’s post, so unless your name’s Santa Claus, you’re doing time, babe.”

“Awww, look you’re asking for a toy guitar so you can be Tony Iommi. Wow, this is precious, I didn’t know you used to go as Edward,” You coo, immensely enjoying this image of him.

He closes his eyes like he’s praying for strength. “I swear, if you keep reading those, I’m calling the cops.”

“On me?”

“Yes.”

“For federal mail fraud.”

“Almost, federal mail fraud, emotional terrorism and blackmail. That’s at least forty years, you’re going to the slammer, sweetheart.”

“Would you wait for me? Maybe a conjugal visit?” You leer, stepping into his space.

Eddie’s eyes fly open. He looks at you like you are the one who just committed a federal crime. “Conjugal—? You think you’re getting perks in prison after emotionally waterboarding me with my own childhood?”

You shrug, inching closer, smugness radiating. “You never know. Maybe the warden’s a romantic.”

“Oh my god,” he mutters, backing up a step as you stalk forward, “I am not role‑playing prison guard and inmate with you over my letters to Santa.”

You tilt your head. “Not even if I ask nicely?”

He falters—visibly. Your grin widens.

“That’s not fair,” he whispers like you’ve struck a mortal blow. He looks up, gaze fixed on the ceiling refusing to look at you.

You tap a finger to his chest. “Neither is forty years in the slammer, babe.”

He splutters. “You committed mail fraud!” Eddie claps a hand over his face to hide the blush creeping up his neck. “I hate you. I hate you so much.”

You hum. “Yet here you are, backing yourself against the counter like you want that conjugal visit to start early.”

“I— I’m not— that’s not—” he stammers, hands flailing uselessly.

You plant the box on the table beside him, lean in, and whisper, “Edward Munson. Baby guitarist. Future metal icon. Lover of glitter stickers.”

“Stop,” he begs, voice cracking. “You’re evil, vile actually.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth—quick, triumphant.

“Then maybe,” you murmur, “you should stop giving me so much material.”

He groans again, arms looping hesitantly, helplessly, around your waist as he gives in. “Unbelievable. I’m being seduced with my own humiliation.”

“Mmhmm.”

“That’s messed up.”

“Mmhmm.”

“…I’m into it.”

You grin. “Knew you would be.”

[caramelmiller]

was mourning Family Video Steve, so wrote a little blurb about radio station Steve <3 no spoilers because i know nothing about season 5 spoilers.

Steve’s never done quiet well, but he’s especially inept at night. You wince when his hip smacks the dresser, the wooden thud followed by a muttered ow as he clumsily shucks off his jeans. He rummages through the drawer where his forgotten clothes have created their own little ecosystem, and the whole thing rattles like it’s protesting his intrusion.

You let out a soft oof as he finally climbs into bed in his reclaimed sweatpants, almost crushing you as he half hovers above you, luckily you don’t mind the weight so much. He smells like cold night air and lemon sours.

He’s either unaware of his inelegant descent into your bed or he doesn’t particularly care. Your fingers reach to twist into his hair, unable to stay sore at him for long, “You catch the show?” He hums, his nose sliding along your neck as he hovers above you.

“Parts, you know I heard the host’s real handsome,” You mumble back, fingers inching under his shirt collar.

He grins, but it quickly sours as you finish your joke with, “think you could snag me her number?”

He awards you an eye roll with an exaggerated scoff, feigning outrage, “I miss when you were funny,” He laments, cold fingers sneaking under your jumper to misappropriate your warmth.

You laugh, shifting up to press him closer, you’re sure you’re almost one being as you tangle your arms around his neck. “Oh, you missed me. That's really embarrassing for you, Babe.”

You can’t see his face, but you feel the smile against your cheek, warm and smug.

He nudges your jaw until you tilt for him, nose brushing yours as he slots closer. “You know that scene in Aliens?” he murmurs. “The part where the thing just… latches onto that guy’s face? That’s totally you. Total facehugger.”

You open your mouth to huff at him, but he catches it, pressing a series of soft slow kisses against your lips, crushing you into the mattress as he swallows whatever protest you were mustering.

You’ve forgotten to be vexed by the time he wakes in the morning. It’s a mess of sheets and tangled limbs as you endeavour onto his lap.

He blinks up at you, squinting like you’re too bright to look at directly. “You know I gotta go, pretty girl,” he soothes, voice still coated in sleep. His fingers drift into your hair, slow and automatic, massaging your scalp in that way that turns you to warm putty. “C’mon, Beautiful, I got responsibilities. You gotta let me up.”

You press your palm against his forehead, a frown of mock concern creasing your features, “Oh no,” you whisper, “you’re burning up.”

He snorts, but you shush him with a stern shake of your head.

“Seems pretty serious,” you continue, prodding him scientifically, “you better stay here.”

Steve laughs, the sound rough and warm in his chest. “Serious, huh? You think I’ll live?”

“Mm.” You tilt your head, continuing your very serious diagnosis. “Up in the air. Very touch and go. You better stay for observation until further notice.”

He grins, his hands sliding to your hips as if they belong there. “Observation,” he echoes, amused.

“Absolutely.” You nod solemnly. “Way too sick to queue Foreigner.”

“Well if that’s what the doctor says…” He grins, pressing a chaste kiss against your lips, releasing a contented sigh into your mouth.

[scealaiscoite]

*ੈ🎄✩‧₊ christmas prompts

¹⁾ tangled lights

²⁾ fresh gingerbread

³⁾ secret santa

⁴⁾ hidden bunches of mistletoe 

⁵⁾ a broken bauble

⁶⁾ spiced mulled wine

⁷⁾ knitted jumpers

⁸⁾ iced sugar cookies 

⁹⁾ cheap tinsel

¹⁰⁾ snow angels 

¹¹⁾ hot chocolate 

¹²⁾ carols 

¹³⁾ fireplaces laden with stockings 

¹⁴⁾ sleigh rides 

¹⁵⁾ clumsily-made gingerbread houses 

¹⁶⁾ scraps of wrapping paper

¹⁷⁾ a roaring fireplace

¹⁸⁾ candy canes

¹⁹⁾ candlelit churches 

²⁰⁾ old holiday movies 

²¹⁾ familiar festive music 

²²⁾ stacks of cards

²³⁾ red wax candles 

²⁴⁾ christmas eve

²⁵⁾ badly-wrapped presents

²⁶⁾ nutcrackers 

²⁷⁾ illuminated stained glass

²⁸⁾ paper stars 

²⁹⁾ gingerbread men

³⁰⁾ thick, pure snow 

³¹⁾ holly wreaths 

³²⁾ lit lanterns 

³³⁾ fluffy socks

³⁴⁾ sweet-smelling candles 

³⁶⁾ snow globes 

³⁷⁾ flannel pajamas

³⁸⁾ glittery baubles

³⁹⁾ a santa hat

⁴⁰⁾ a sky heavy with snow 

⁴¹⁾ homemade dinners 

⁴²⁾ last-minute gift shopping 

⁴³⁾ cold evenings 

⁴⁴⁾ fresh-baked cinnamon rolls 

⁴⁵⁾ craft fairs 

⁴⁶⁾ ice rinks 

⁴⁷⁾ fragrant pine trees 

⁴⁸⁾ christmas cactuses 

⁴⁹⁾ bear hugs 

⁵⁰⁾ family dinners 

[caramelmiller]

guys is it too soon for WSQK steve blurbs? cause i’m kinda perceiving him

[caramelmiller]

“So the kids wanted to go to that Christmas market they’re doing in the city,” Steve says mid-rifling through the new arrivals tapes, pausing to make varying faces of disgust at certain titles. “But Robin’s ditching for some band thing, passenger seat’s open if you want it?” He’s so casual about it that you’re not quite sure he’s talking to you.

Steve raises an eyebrow at the silence, “what are you looking around for? I know you don’t think I’m inviting Keith into my car.”

He puts the tapes down, capturing your hand to squeeze once, twice and softer on the third time. “C’mon, you’re not gonna leave me to freeze with those three assholes, are you? That’s cold, Baby.” He grins warm and familiar as his fingers playfully pull at your bracelet.

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to come? I wouldn’t want to intrude.” You hum, stealing a tape from his pile, busying yourself to avoid his warm gaze.

“It’s my car and I promise you that you’re the least intrusive person to sit in my front seat,” He laughs brightly, ducking to meet your gaze. “You gotta come, Dustin’s still banned from my front seat for spilling coke all over my dashboard.” He sneaks a hand behind your neck, thumb tracing the underside of your jaw, “C’mon, it’ll be fun, I’ll buy you a ridiculously overpriced hot chocolate, maybe I’ll throw in marshmallows if you’re nice enough to me,” he says, sounding like he’s flirting. You roll your eyes and he knows he’s won, grinning as he releases you, turning back to his tapes.

Steve’s earlier than he’d said, the car is still humming as he waits till you’re clear of the front door before he’s leaning over the console to push the passenger side door open. “Look at you,” he announces, voice warm against the bite of the wind, “being all punctual. Proud of you.” He taps the top of the door, coaxing you in.

“You’re early,” you counter, sliding into the seat. The heater’s already on, warm air curling around your legs, and his music is playing low, it sounds like one of Robin’s tapes, he must have dropped her off to her band thing.

He shrugs as he pulls away from the curb. “Yeah, well. Figured if you bailed I could guilt-trip you in person.”

You snort. “You really think I’d bail after you promised me overpriced hot chocolate?”

“Ah, so that’s what sealed the deal,” he says, pointing a gloved finger your way. “Not my charming personality. Or my car. Or my—”

“Steve.” You make a noise of disapproval.

“—incredibly impressive driving record,” he finishes, smirking at your interruption. “What’d you think I was gonna say?” He grins, far too enamoured with his own joke.

You roll your eyes, except you’re smiling and he sees it.

He bumps his shoulder lightly into yours across the console before focusing back on the road. It’s comfortable, warm despite the frost creeping across the windows.

It’s dark by the time you reach the Christmas market after stopping to pick up Lucas, Max and Dustin. You’re almost glad for the delay, it looks so much prettier in the dark, string lights draped over the streetlights taking up all available space.

Steve helps you out of the car as the teenagers run off, his fingers curling comfortably around yours, leading you into the buzzing warmth of the market.

[luveline]

oh god …..

[bluismie]

failure duo (affectionate) pose ref

[luveline]

hi baby gurl can I please request Steve with a sulky reader who pretends she doesn’t like him when his friends around for rage bait that he obviously falls for? 

You and Steve Harrington aren’t compatible. Aren’t physically very similar, aren’t mentally on the same waves. But. But. 

“We’re together!” Steve insists. “Romantically!”

You look very silently at Robin and shake your head. “I feel a little sorry for him.”

It’s Steve’s least favourite joke of yours. Admittedly, you don’t have many. 

“Don’t feel sorry for him,” Robin says. “He’s crazy. Certifiable. I’ve been telling people for years.” 

“Baby, think of my street cred,” Steve whines, a murmuring, pleading bit of patheticness that has Robin rolling her eyes. 

“Don’t say baby around me,” she says. 

“I don’t think there’s any need for us to harm your reputation any more, especially when it comes to your delusions of romance,” you murmur. 

Steve’s face falls into the curve of your shoulder. “That’s mean.”

You pat his head woodenly. “I’m sorry, Steven. There’s just nothing there for me.”

“Nuh-uh,” he mumbles. 

“Nuh-uh?” Robin looks a cross between bemused and horrified, her eyebrows pinching but her mouth slack with disgust. “Oh my god, dingus. How am I supposed to hang out with you?”

Steve’s face warms your neck. He digs his nose into the skin under your ear, breath shuddering out so close you can hear the colour of his voice behind it. “Baby,” he tries again, low, but not too low for Robin to hear it and snicker. “I hate this game. So much.”

“I’m not playing a game with you–”

“No, you’re torturing me!” He lifts his head suddenly, cheeks flushed with red. 

“Steve.”

“Please?” he says. There’s too much real there for you to ignore him, and you don’t regret caving when your wonky smile enlivens his own, so perfect, white in tan in beauty marked cheeks. 

“Sorry,” you say, leaning up to kiss his blush.

Robin has turned away. Steve gestures at you emphatically when she turns back. “See?” he asks.

“See what? Your desperation? I like you, Steve, but this is depressing.”

He groans, dropping his head back into your neck, and you know he’s faking for some affection, but you give it to him anyway. His hair is downy soft between your fingers. You scratch lightly at his scalp.