♥️

Welcome to your world. She/her

[heydollwriting]

Welcome!

Requests are currently open

I love writing requests, and I will try to do as many as possible. However, I pick and choose which ones to write, because I have to be motivated by the plot. So please don't take it personally if you don't see me write a request you sent in! Also, sometimes I get requests that are similar and will only respond to one, so just keep an eye out because I may have written something you requested, just under a different ask!

Edit: while I get back into it, I will leave my reqs open until I reach 15 I am planning on writing (im a little more selective now), and then re open once those are finished! Thanks for your patience!

Masterlist:

Steve Harrington x platonic!teen!reader Masterlist

Worlds Apart Steve Harrington x platonic!teen!reader You were born into the experimental hell of Hawkins Lab. You were raised by Papa, yet you were different. You weren't a number, you were special. After unlocking your powers in a terrible incident you can't remember, Papa sold you to the Soviets, who needed an asset like you to infiltrate and kill for them. You never thought your time in Russia would lead you back to Hawkins, in 1985, with the instruction to help these scientists open a gate to another world. And you definitely wouldn't have expected to meet a couple crazy kids, and a guy in a sailor uniform you can't help but trust after he rescues you from your prison.

Steve Harrington x Reader Masterlist:

Two Lines at the Wrong Time- You find out you're pregnant at the worst time

Drunk in Love- You get drunk at a party, which makes for quite an eventful night for your boyfriend Steve.

Anchor in the Ash- You get bit by demobats, but luckily your boyfriend Steve and your friends are there to help.

Syncopated Rhythm- Steve with a reader who has POTS

Oops!- You and Steve think you've finally got some alone time, unfortunately, you two get caught in a rather compromising position.

Found- You and Steve have built a life together, providing safety and security for you and the kids, despite the constant threat of the Upside Down.

Steve Harrington x reader- You and Steve get stuck in the broken down WSQK van, which leads to come confessions

[heydollwriting]

Hi!!! I was wondering if you could do a Steve/platonic reader, where the reader has been more clingy to Steve lately, like wanting to be with him no matter where he goes or always has to be next to him holding his hand, Steve tries to figure out whats wrong and why she’s been like this (you can decide that part) so excited to see your back!♥️♥️

A/N: This was really cute to write! Thank you for the request! @ladybuggirl2002

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The morning light in the Harrington kitchen was usually accompanied by the smell of burnt toast and Steve’s frantic search for his keys. But today, the air felt heavy, anchored by a silence that Steve couldn't quite decipher.

You were currently a permanent fixture at his side. As he tried to move from the counter to the fridge, his hip bumped into yours. When he reached for a mug, your hand was already anchored to the hem of his gray sweatshirt. You were a shadow. Quiet, pale, and unusually fragile. Usually, you were the girl who would grab the flashlight and dive into a tunnel before he could even finish his warning. You were the one who had spit in the face of a Demogorgon while Steve was still winding up his bat.

But today, your independence had vanished, replaced by a desperate, silent need for proximity.

Steve paused, looking down at your hand still white-knuckled around his sleeve. He saw the way your bottom lip trembled when he took a single step toward the door.

"No, no, no, baby. It's okay. What’s going on?" Steve’s voice was a low, soothing velvet as he turned fully to face you. He caught your shoulders, his thumbs rubbing small, grounding circles into your skin. "Hey, hey, don't cry—"

You swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. You didn't say a word; you just leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his chest and exhaling a shaky, jagged breath.

Steve’s heart squeezed. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a firm, protective embrace. He didn't know what was wrong, but he knew how to provide the walls for you to lean on. "You sure you're okay, honey?"

You nodded against his chest, but you didn't pull away.

"Alright, I just—" Steve sighed softly, his hand moving to the back of your head, shielding you. "You seem a little different today."

You just shrugged, your fingers finding his hand and lacing through his. You wouldn't let go. Steve didn't push. He just squeezed your hand back, leading you toward the car with a gentle, "Let’s go see the guys, alright? I’ve got you."

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Starcourt Mall was a sensory overload of neon lights and pop music, but for once, you weren't leading the charge to the arcade. You walked so close to Steve that your shoulders brushed with every step. When the Party finally emerged from the crowd near the food court, Max and Lucas immediately waved you over.

"We’re getting pretzels! Come on, Y/N, Lucas thinks he can eat a jumbo one in three bites," Max challenged.

You hesitated, your grip on Steve’s hand tightening. You looked up at him, your eyes wide and asking a silent question. Steve gave you a small, encouraging nod, his expression soft but firm. He knew you needed to be with your friends, even if every fiber of your being wanted to stay tucked under his arm.

"Go on," he murmured. "I’ll be right here at the table with Dustin. I’m not leaving, I promise."

Reluctantly, you let go. You followed Max and Lucas, though you looked back twice before disappearing into the line.

Steve sat down, his brow furrowed in thought, when a shadow fell over the table. It was Joyce Byers, holding a shopping bag and looking toward the pretzel stand with a sad, knowing smile.

"She’s having a hard day," Joyce said quietly, sitting across from Steve.

"I can tell," Steve admitted, his voice laced with worry. "She won't let me more than two feet away. I thought maybe she was sick or... I don't know."

"It's the anniversary of her dad's passing," Joyce said.

Steve felt the air leave his lungs. "What?"

"If you're wondering why she's acting different today," Joyce continued, her voice gentle. "Her dad died four years ago to the day. She doesn't talk about it, and he was a real asshole, so the kids don't mention it and go on like normal. But it’s a hard day for her. The way she's acting with you... it just shows how much she trusts you, Steve. She’s looking for the safety she never had back then."

"Oh..." Steve whispered.

His heart broke and swelled in the same jagged motion. He thought of the file Hopper had described, the neglect, the shouting, the way you had learned to be tough because there was no one to catch you if you fell. And here you were, four years later, choosing him to be your sanctuary.

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That night, the house was quiet. After dropping the rest of the kids off, the firecracker energy you’d tried to fake at the mall finally fizzled out. You were back to being a silent shadow, following Steve into his kitchen.

"Let me get you something to eat," Steve said. You opened your mouth to argue, to say you weren't hungry, but Steve knew you needed to eat. "No arguments."

He guided you to the living room, a bag of chips in hand, and for the first time all day, he didn't wait for you to reach for him. He sat down and pulled you into his side, draped a heavy wool blanket over both of you, and reached for the remote.

The opening crawl of Star Wars began to roll, the iconic theme filling the room. It was your favorite, a story about orphans becoming heroes, and Steve knew it by heart solely because of how many times you’d watched it together.

You didn't eat much. Instead, you turned into him, tucking your head against his chest right over his heart. Steve shifted, his arm wrapping securely around your shoulders, holding you in place. He kissed the top of your head and used his free hand to brush a few stray hairs out of your face.

"You okay, baby girl?" he whispered.

You let out a long, shaky hum—a "yes" that sounded more like a sigh of pure relief.

Steve felt your body go limp as the exhaustion of the day finally won. Your breathing leveled out, deep and rhythmic against his chest. He tightened his arms around you, a fierce, brotherly surge of protection rising in his throat.

He looked at the screen, then down at you, and made a silent vow to the empty room. He didn't care about the monsters in the woods or the ghosts in your past. As long as he was standing, you would never have to be tough and alone again.

"Sleep tight, baby," he murmured, closing his eyes and leaning his head against yours. "I've got you."

[heydollwriting]

Hey love! Thought of a request for Steve x teen!reader.

So, something happens, reader is injured. They think it's alright after a little bit, then when their walking or just standing there she full on collapses and passes out. When she comes to again, she doesn't understand what's going on and is freaked out and in pain. After that it's just Steve taking care of her and not leaving her side with lots of love and cuddles. I just need Steve comfort😅

I hope youre having a great day! Remember to drink some water and have something yummy to eat! ❤❤

A/N: @endo-bunny Always a pleasure to write your reqs! Here ya go!

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The woods outside of Hawkins were never just woods. They were a graveyard of secrets, a maze of twisted branches that seemed to watch the Party every time they stepped off the paved road. Tonight, the mission was simple recon, but the air felt heavy with the kind of tension that usually preceded a disaster.

Steve Harrington adjusted his grip on his flashlight, his eyes scanning the tree line. "If we get home and I find out I have a tick because of this, Henderson, you're dead," he grumbled.

"Oh, shut up, Steve," Max teased from the front, her own light cutting through the fog.

You stayed close to Steve’s side. Without parents at home to tell you when to come in or what was safe, Steve had become your North Star. You relied on his presence like a physical weight, an anchor in the chaotic world of Hawkins.

Suddenly, the quiet was shattered. A strobe of blue and red light pierced through the trees from the access road, followed by the sharp whoop-whoop of a siren.

"Shit! Cops!" Dustin hissed.

"Nobody move!" Lucas whispered, but it was too late. A megaphone crackled.

"THIS IS PRIVATE PROPERTY. IDENTIFY YOURSELVES!"

"Run! Go!" Steve barked, his hand instantly finding the small of your back to propel you forward.

The next sixty seconds were a blur of adrenaline and snapping twigs. You were sprinting through the dark, your breath coming in jagged gasps. You turned to look over your shoulder at the distant flashlights, and that was your mistake. Your foot caught on a gnarled root, and the world tilted.

You went down hard. Your forehead slammed into the trunk of a fallen oak with a sickening thud.

"Y/N!" Steve was on you in a second, the other kids sliding to a halt in the dirt.

For a moment, the world was spinning, but the fear of being caught pushed the pain to the back of your mind. You scrambled up, dizzy but functional. "I'm okay! Keep going!"

Ten minutes later, you were huddled in a dense thicket, the sound of the police cars fading as they moved toward the main road. Steve grabbed your arm, turning you toward him. He looked frantic.

"C’mere baby, let me see," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, focused tone he used when things got serious. He reached out, his thumb and forefinger gently tilting your chin up so he could inspect your forehead in the beam of his light.

You flinched away, your hand instinctively covering the stinging spot. "I’m fine, Steve, promise. Let’s just get out of here before they come back."

Steve’s eyes narrowed, his protective side clashing with your stubbornness. "You hit your head hard, Y/N. Don't lie to me."

"I'm not! My adrenaline is just high," you insisted, offering a shaky smile.

Steve watched you for a long beat, his protective instinct buzzing, but the need to get the kids back to safety won out. "Fine. But you have to tell me if something doesn't feel right."

The walk back to the Wheelers' was filled with the kind of nervous, giddy laughter that follows a close call. Dustin was retelling his "tactical slide" into a ditch, and Max was making fun of Lucas for screaming. You laughed along with them, but with every step, the woods seemed to grow louder. The ground felt like it was shifting beneath your feet, turning into a liquid surface.

"And then—" you started to say, but the words turned into a metallic hum in your ears.

The last thing you saw was Steve turning his head toward you, his brow furrowed in concern, before the world went black.

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The first thing you felt was a thumping, rhythmic ache behind your eyes. It felt like someone was using a hammer on the inside of your skull. Then, the smell hit you, the familiar scent of the Wheeler basement: damp concrete, old board games, and Steve’s distinct hairspray.

You let out a soft moan, your eyes fluttering open to the dim yellow light of the basement lamps.

"Steve?! What—ah! It hurts!" You tried to bolt upright, but the sudden movement sent a spike of white-hot pain through your head. You cried out, your hands flying to your temples.

"Hey, hey, baby girl. You're okay, I'm right here."

Steve was right there. He was kneeling beside the sofa where you’d been laid out. He had one hand firmly on your waist to keep you from falling off the edge, and his other hand was tightly clasping yours. His expression was a map of pure, unadulterated relief mixed with a lingering fear.

"You hit your head pretty hard... had me worried sick," he whispered, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the back of your hand. "You passed out cold about half a mile from the house. I had to carry you the rest of the way."

The realization of what had happened—the chase, the fall, the total loss of control—hit you all at once. You looked around and saw Dustin and Max hovering by the D&D table, their faces pale and worried. You felt small, vulnerable, and completely exhausted.

Being "tough" was for the woods. Here, in the safety of Steve’s presence, the facade shattered. Your breath hitched, a tiny, broken sound escaping your throat, and then the first sob broke through.

"Oh, baby..." Steve’s heart broke visibly.

He didn't hesitate. He sat on the edge of the sofa and hooked his arms under your shoulders, gently sitting you up. He scooted in behind you, pulling you into his chest.

You buried your face in his shirt, your tears soaking into the fabric as the silent sobs turned into audible, racking cries. You were clinging to his arms, your fingers digging into his sweater as you let out all the fear you’d been holding in since the sirens started.

"You're okay, I'm right here, honey," Steve cooed, his voice a warm, grounding rumble against your back. He rested his chin on the top of your head, one hand moving in slow, rhythmic circles across your spine while the other remained anchored on your arm. "I’ve got you. I'm not going anywhere. Just breathe, Y/N. Just breathe with me."

He stayed like that for a long time, his presence acting as the walls and the roof you didn't have at home.

Eventually, the sobs slowed to small, hitching breaths. Steve reached for a cool washcloth Nancy had left on the side table and gently began to dab at the bruise on your forehead, his touch as light as a feather.

"There we go," he murmured, his voice soft and steady. "You’re going to stay right here tonight. I’ve already told Mike’s parents you’re having a sleepover. I’m staying, too. I’m gonna be right here on the floor next to you, okay?"

You nodded weakly, leaning your head back against his shoulder. The pain was still there, but it didn't feel so scary anymore.

Steve pulled a heavy quilt over your lap, tucking the edges in so tightly you felt like you were in a cocoon. He stayed there, holding you in that protective embrace until your eyes finally grew heavy.

"I've got you, baby girl," he whispered into the quiet of the basement. "Go to sleep.

[heydollwriting]

Hii can u do one for the steve harrington x platonic!teen!reader where stev spoiled her rotten liking making it obvious she the favourite gets her anything she wants anytime..

I love this series..

A/N: AH-HA! I forgot I wrote this after I reopened my requests and never edited it! FINALLY! I'm posting!!!!!!! Enjoy folks!

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It happened every time you went out. You’d be browsing the aisles of Bradley’s Big Buy or wandering through the Starcourt Mall, and you’d spot something like a new set of gel pens for your meticulously organized planners, a specific cassette tape, or even just a cool keychain. You never asked for it as you were far too used to taking care of yourself to expect someone else to pick up the tab.

"Really, you need another one of those?" Steve asked, leaning against the checkout counter with a dramatic roll of his eyes as you held up a dark blue journal with a silver latch. "You have, like, five at home, honey. Your backpack is already eighty pounds."

"Yes, Steven, I do," you replied with a playful smirk, reaching into your pocket to fish out your crumpled allowance. "It’s for the new campaign notes. My other one is almost full."

Steve let out a heavy, exaggerated sigh, the kind that suggested he was being greatly inconvenienced. But before your fingers could even graze the bills in your pocket, his hand was already out, sliding a the cash across the counter.

"Hey!" you protested, stopping your search for change. "Steve, I have the money."

"Yeah, well, keep it," he grumbled to the cashier, ignoring your look of disbelief. "You’ll probably need it for more of that nerd-candy you and Henderson are obsessed with."

As you walked out of the store, you gave him a pointed look, the journal clutched to your chest. Steve just reached out and hooked an arm around your neck, pulling you into his side with a playful squeeze.

"Well, I wasn’t gonna let you pay for it," he muttered, his "annoyed" facade cracking just enough to show a hint of a smile. "Just... consider it as me paying you back for saving me from my date last week. I don’t know."

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Steve was, for all intents and purposes, your personal chauffeur. Whether it was school, the library, or a 7:00 PM D&D session at Mike’s, the BMW was always waiting at the curb.

He acted like it was a chore, complaining about the mileage or the fingerprints the boys left on his windows, but he never said no to you. In fact, if he noticed you looked a little paler than usual or if your eyes seemed heavy from a late-night study session, he’d take the long way home.

"You look like tired, baby girl," he remarked one Tuesday, steering with one hand while the other adjusted the radio. "We're stopping for fries. And a shake. A large one."

"Steve, I'm not that hungry—"

"I didn't ask," he said firmly, though his eyes were kind when he glanced at you. "You need the salt. Or the sugar. Whatever it is that makes you stop looking like you’re about to float away."

He paid for the food, as he always did, and made sure you ate at least half of the fries before he dropped you off. It was a small thing, but for someone with your background, where you often felt like an afterthought to the adults in your life, having someone notice your hunger felt like a miracle.

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The biggest moments, however, were the ones you never saw coming.

One afternoon, after a particularly grueling week of exams and Upside Down nightmares, you climbed into the passenger seat of the BMW to find a small, gift-wrapped box sitting on the upholstery.

"What's this?" you asked, picking it up tentatively.

"Found it in the back of the store," Steve lied poorly, a small smile gracing his lips as he kept his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror, backing out of the lot. "Figured you might want it."

You opened the box to find a high-quality calculator, the expensive kind you’d mentioned wanting months ago so you could finally tackle those advanced math equations you were struggling with. You hadn't even thought he was listening.

You looked at the gift, then at Steve’s profile as he hummed along to the radio, trying to act like it was no big deal. The weight of his care hit you all at once, the way he saw you, the way he protected you, and the way he made sure you never had to feel like you were "too much" for him.

"Steve," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

He glanced over, and seeing the shine of tears in your eyes, his expression softened instantly. He reached over, his hand finding yours and giving it a firm, grounding squeeze.

"Hey, none of that," he said softly, his voice dropping the bravado. "You're one of mine, okay? I've got you."

You nodded, wiping a stray tear with your sleeve, a small laugh bubbling up through the emotion. "You're such a softie, Harrington."

"Tell anyone and I’ll leave you at the library next time," he threatened, but he didn't let go of your hand until he had to shift gears.

For the first time in your life, you weren't just a kid trying to survive. You were a kid who was loved. And that was all because of Steve.

[heydollwriting]

Wow all ur new fics are so good…just a little hard to read considering they’re non existent😭

Dudeeeeeee! I know I’m lacking, I just can’t get inspired to write for some reason. Like nothing is new and I feel like I’ve written all the scenarios that I find interesting already. And I know that I have my reqs open but nothing is grabbing me, and I know reqs are for readers but deadass it’s so hard to write quality work when you aren’t interested by what you are writing. I know I said I was going to write again so I’m sorry for not keeping my word, but I’m just not inspired to write anything right now. I’m sorry to disappoint but I don’t want to put out mediocre shit just to be posting. I want to actually put out good work. Especially cause the last fic I put out (which was mediocre cause I wasn’t motivated) got backlash. Lemme see what I can scrounge together lmao!

[heydollwriting]

Hiiii! Could you write a Steve x platonic reader where the readers parents have been gone for a while and she’s been stay with Steve and they come back and she’s not at the house they call hopper, and obviously hopper knows exactly where she is and they go to confront.

A/N: -

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The house always felt larger when it was empty. It wasn't the kind of large that felt grand or impressive, it was the kind that felt hollow, like a ribcage with the heart missing. Your parents had been gone for ten days this time. They hadn’t said where they were going, only that they’d be back eventually and that you were old enough to look after yourself.

You were thirteen. You were ambitious, adventurous, and usually the first one to jump into a dark tunnel or stand up to a bully alongside Dustin and Mike. But when the sun went down and the silence in your house started to ring in your ears, that bravery tended to flicker.

You picked up the kitchen phone, the cord twisting around your finger. You dialed the familiar number from memory. It picked up on the second ring.

"Harrington residence."

"Hey," you whispered, your voice sounding small even to your own ears. "Yeah... they left again. Can I come over?"

There was no hesitation, no sigh of annoyance. Just the immediate, grounding sound of Steve’s voice. "Don’t even have to ask, honey. I’m grabbing my keys right now. I’ll come get you."

Ten minutes later, the familiar headlights of Steve’s BMW swung into your driveway. You didn't even pack a bag, you had a drawer at his place anyway. You locked the front door of the cold, dark house and ran toward the warmth of the car.

For the next week, life felt normal. You did your homework at Steve’s kitchen table while he complained about his hair or talked about work. You felt safe. You felt seen. It was a stark contrast to the performative parenting you dealt with when your mother and father actually were home, like the way they’d brag to neighbors about your grades while barely knowing what classes you were taking.

The bubble burst on a Tuesday afternoon.

You and Steve were in the living room, a movie playing softly in the background, when a heavy, authoritative knock echoed through the house. Steve frowned, glancing at the door. "Expecting someone?"

"No," you said, a sudden knot of dread forming in your stomach.

Steve opened the door, and your heart plummeted. Standing on the porch were your parents, looking disheveled and "frantic," flanked by Chief Jim Hopper.

"There she is!" your mother cried, her voice reaching that high-pitched register she used when she wanted people to think she was devastated. "Our daughter! We come home from a grueling trip to find our house empty! No note, no nothing!"

Your father stepped forward, pointing a finger at Steve. "This is our daughter! And what? She is just allowed to stay in some random guy’s house? Who do you think you are?"

You shrunk back, moving instinctively behind Steve. The confrontation made your skin crawl. You knew this act. You knew they weren't actually worried; they were embarrassed that they’d lost track of their "possession."

Steve didn't flinch. He stepped sideways, effectively shielding you from their line of sight. "She isn't in a 'random guy's' house. She’s in a place where someone actually answers when she speaks," Steve snapped, his voice low and dangerous.

"Steve," Hopper warned, though he looked more exhausted than angry. Hopper knew the truth. He’d seen you at Steve’s more than once while on patrol. He’d also seen your parents’ car gone from your driveway for weeks at a time.

"Don't, Hop," Steve said, his hand reaching back to find your arm, keeping you grounded. "They left her alone. Again. For ten days."

"We were working!" your father bellowed. "We provide for her! We want her home, now!" He made a move to grab your arm, but Steve stepped into his space.

"No," Steve stepped in again. "You don't get to show up after two weeks and play parents of the year because you finally noticed the house was quiet."

Hopper stepped between the two men, putting a heavy hand on your father’s shoulder. "Alright, that’s enough. Everyone needs to lower their volume." He looked at your parents with a look of pure, unadulterated disdain. "Normally, I’d be assisting you in bringing a runaway home. But honestly? I should be taking you both in for neglect of a minor. I’ve got the logs of when you leave and when you return. It doesn’t look good."

Your mother gasped, clutching her chest. "How dare you? We love her!"

"Then start acting like it," Hopper said firmly. "I know Y/N, and I know Steve. I know she’s safe here. We’re going to handle this internally for now, which means you two are going to go home, calm down, and we’re going to have a very long talk tomorrow about supervision and legal responsibilities. Go. Now."

Seeing the threat of actual legal trouble, your parents’ outrage suddenly deflated. They exchanged a look, mumbled something about "ungrateful children," and retreated toward their car.

Hopper lingered for a moment, giving you a small, tired nod. "You okay, kid?"

You nodded weakly, though your hands were still shaking. Hopper sighed, looked at Steve, and gestured for him to take care of it. Then, he followed your parents out.

The house fell silent again, but this time, it was the good kind of silence. You let out a shaky breath, your knees finally giving way as you sank onto the sofa. The adrenaline was fading, leaving only a cold, sharp fear of what would happen the next time you had to go back to that empty house.

Steve was at your side in an instant. He sat on the coffee table in front of you, taking your shaking hands in his.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice a complete 180 from the fire he’d shown your father. "Look at me. It's okay, baby girl. They’re just talking. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Promise."

You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his shoulder. "They're so mad, Steve. They’re going to make me stay there."

"They can try," Steve said, rubbing your back in slow, soothing circles. "But Hopper’s on our side. And I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you."

For the first time all day, you felt like you could actually breathe. You were adventurous, you were ambitious, and you were brave, but as long as Steve was standing guard, you didn't have to be any of those things. You could just be a kid.

[heydollwriting]

I got a request that told me that the adhd fic wasn’t accurate and it was upsetting to read as someone with adhd. So as someone without it, I took it down cause if it’s not accurate and it’s misleading i don’t want it up.

I would like to add that the person who sent in the message about the request being upsetting was extremely respectful and very helpful, they were just advocating for themselves and wanted to share their opinion. And I respect that.

My bad if it upset any others.

[heydollwriting]

IM SO HAPPY UR BACK🫶🏻❤️🙏🏻

mate…

my life went batshit crazy for a minute there and i’m so sorry i was logged off, thank you for being patient you’re the best.

thanks all for the kind messages, but we are starting fresh. i am going to clear out my inbox (sorry to those who have requested since i’ve been out) and i am just going to start with whatever comes in.

see yall soon!

-♥️

[heydollwriting]

Heyy! Me and my bestie love your content! We look forward to your new story’s and creations every day! We miss your writing 😢 Hope all is well❤️

Contact

A/N: quick little blurb for y'all.

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To you, touch was a language you hadn’t learned to speak—or rather, a language that had only ever been used to hurt you.

You watched Steve with the other kids. You saw the way he’d playfully shove Dustin, or how he’d let Max lean against his shoulder when she was tired, or the way he’d ruffle Mike’s hair just to annoy him. It looked so easy. So natural. You craved it with an ache that sat deep in your chest, but every time someone moved too quickly toward you, your heart would lurch into your throat and your muscles would lock tight.

Steve knew. He had never pushed. For all his bravado and his "King Steve" history, he was incredibly attuned to the way you’d go rigid if a sleeve brushed your arm. He had spent months being your safe harbor, always keeping a respectful distance, letting his words—baby, honey, sweet girl—be the only things that reached out to you.

It was one of those days where the world felt gray. Nothing specific had happened; your dad hadn't even been home to yell. But the silence of your house felt like it was swallowing you whole. You felt empty, untethered, and desperately alone.

You ended up at Steve’s. You didn't even have to knock anymore.

Hours later, the sun had dipped below the horizon, and you were sitting on the floor of Steve’s bedroom. A movie was humming quietly on the TV, but you weren't watching. You were staring at the patterns in his carpet, your mind a storm of "what ifs" and old, painful memories. Steve was sitting on the edge of his bed, just a few feet away, watching you with that quiet, protective gaze.

Suddenly, the silence felt unbearable. You stood up abruptly, your heart hammering.

"Steve?"

"Yeah?" He looked up immediately, his expression softening.

"Can—" you paused, your throat tightening. Your hands were shaking so hard you had to tuck them into your sleeves. "Um... can you? Is it okay if—"

Steve stood up slowly, sensing the monumental weight of whatever you were trying to say. He moved a step closer, but stayed outside your personal bubble. "What is it, baby girl? Everything okay?"

You looked at the floor, your voice dropping to a whisper so small it was almost a breath. "Can I... can I have a hug?"

Steve’s heart physically ached. He knew how much that question cost you. He knew it was the bravest thing you had ever done in his presence.

"Of course, baby," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "Of course you can."

He moved with painstaking slowness. He didn't reach for your waist or your shoulders. Instead, he started by just placing his hands on your upper arms. He wanted you to feel the weight of him, to realize he was solid and gentle.

You immediately shut your eyes, your entire body bracing for an impact that wasn't coming. Your shoulders were up to your ears, your breath hitching in your chest. Steve didn't pull away. He began to rub slow, soft circles with his thumbs against your sleeves.

"You’re okay," he murmured. "I’ve got you. Just breathe with me, honey."

Slowly, the tension began to leak out of you. The expected blow never came. Instead, there was just warmth. Slowly, you leaned forward until your forehead hit his chest. Steve let out a breath he’d been holding and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a firm, grounding embrace.

At first, you stayed still, just a statue in his arms, terrified that moving would break the spell. But the warmth of him was everywhere.

Your hands tentatively reached out, clutching the fabric of his shirt at his waist. And then, the dam broke.

Tears flowed freely, and Steve immediately tightened his grip, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, pressing your face into the crook of his neck.

"Oh, sweet girl, shh, shh, shh," he cooed, his voice a low vibration against your ear. "You're okay. I got you. You're safe."

You weren't just crying because you were sad; you were crying because for the first time in your life, touch didn't mean pain. It meant safety. It meant home.

Steve felt you trembling and realized you needed more than just a standing hug. He began to shift toward the bed. "Let's sit down, okay?"

As he pulled away slightly to move, a small, panicked whimper escaped your lips. Your hands gripped his shirt tighter. "No, no, no..."

"No, no, no, baby girl. I'm right here," he reassured you instantly. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

He didn't let go of you. Instead, he simply picked you up, carrying you the two steps to the bed. He sat back against the headboard and pulled you right into his lap, tucking your head under his chin.

"Steve," you whispered, the word sounding needy and fragile as you buried your face back into his chest.

"I'm here, honey. Right here," he whispered back.

You eventually stopped sobbing, but you didn't move. You stayed there, draped over him like a lifeline, soaking up every ounce of contact. Steve didn't mind. He leaned his head back against the wall, his arms a permanent fortress around you. He’d stay there until the sun came up if that’s what it took to make sure you knew that with him, you were untouchable by anything else.

[heydollwriting]

https://www.tumblr.com/heydollwriting/805858165951545344/maybe-a-fic-with-platonicreader-getting-nauseous

Piggybacking off of this… what if one of Eddie’s campaigns got a little too realistic to the Upside Down and stuff reader’s been thru so she has an actual panic attack and Eddie has to be the one to calm her down while Dustin or someone calls Steve?

A/N: Y'all I know I've been absent as fuck, and I'm so sorry about that. I've just been trying to come up with new ideas and try to put out some new content that still fits the vibe, but I can't come up with anything, so if you have requests that are maybe different to what I've written, even if it's still comfort, feel free to send them in. In the meantime, here's a Eddie and Steve fic that is similar to some other stuff that's been sitting in the vault! Here ya go!

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The dull lights of the Hellfire Club room hummed with a low buzz that felt like a drill against your skull. The D&D session had been loud, full of shouting, dice rolling, and the high-octane energy Eddie always brought. But now that everyone was gone, the silence was worse. It felt heavy, pressing into your lungs until you couldn't catch a full breath.

You were slumped in one of the mismatched chairs, your fingers digging into the worn wood of the table. Your heart was a drum in your ears, and the room was beginning to tilt.

The door creaked open. Eddie had forgotten his favorite d20 bag, but the moment he stepped inside and saw you, his expression softened.

"Hey, hey, whoa... little bird," Eddie breathed, dropping his bag instantly. He saw the way your chest was hitching, the way your eyes were fixed on nothing.

He didn't hesitate. He was across the room quickly, sinking to his knees in the dust on the floor. He didn't crowd you, but he reached out, taking one of your hands in his. His rings were cold, but his grip was solid. His other hand rested gently on your forearm, his thumb beginning to rub slow, rhythmic, soothing circles.

"You having a little bit of trouble?" he asked, his voice a low, melodic murmur.

You couldn't find your voice to answer, but you managed a jagged, shaky nod.

"Yeah, that’s okay. That’s alright," Eddie whispered, his brown eyes searching yours with an intensity that was purely grounding. "Here, look at me. Just focus on my face, okay? I’m sure Harrington is almost here."

The mention of Steve’s name felt like a tiny hook catching in the dark, pulling you back toward the surface. A small sob broke from your throat, and Eddie reached up, his thumb catching the tear before it could hit your chin.

"Take a breath f’me," Eddie urged, his own chest rising in an exaggerated motion for you to follow. "Hey, it’s okay, sweetheart. It’s just the room. It’s just the air. You’re safe in here with me."

You gasped, your lungs burning, and Eddie’s grip tightened just a fraction—enough to remind you that you were physical, you were real, and you weren't alone. "There ya go. That’s it."

The heavy double doors at the end of the hall banged open, the sound echoing like a gunshot. A few seconds later, Steve burst into the room, his jacket half-zipped, his expression one of pure, unfiltered panic. He saw you, saw Eddie on the floor, and the tension in his shoulders broke.

"Oh, baby..."

Steve was on the floor beside Eddie in a heartbeat. He didn't even have to ask; he just moved in. His hands replaced Eddie’s with a practiced ease.

"How long has she been like this?" Steve asked Eddie, his voice sharp with concern, his eyes leaving yours for a split second.

"Ten minutes, give or take," Eddie replied softly, shifting back just enough to give Steve the space he needed, though he didn't leave your side.

"Hey, hey, baby girl. Shhh, I’m here now," Steve cooed, placing one of your hands over his heart. He smelled like the interior of his car and that familiar cologne, a scent that meant home. "Just breathe. Look at me. I’m right here."

He stayed there on the floor with you, ignoring the cold linoleum, until the frantic rhythm of your heart finally slowed to match his. When you finally slumped forward, exhausted and drained, Steve gathered you into his arms, helping you stand.

"Let’s get you home, sweet girl," he murmured, wrapping a heavy arm around your waist to keep you steady.

Steve started to lead you toward the door, but you stopped, your hand reaching back toward Eddie. You didn't want to just leave Eddie there after everything he just did for you.

"Eddie?" you whispered, your voice raw. "Come with us?"

Eddie looked at Steve, a rare, uncertain flicker in his eyes, but Steve just gave a brief, solemn nod. Eddie stepped up on your other side, reaching out to take your hand again. He held it firmly as the three of you walked through the empty, echoing hallways of the school.

The night air was cool and crisp, helping to clear the last of the fog from your brain. When you reached the BMW, Steve opened the passenger door, helping you inside with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

Before Steve hopped into the driver's side, he paused, looking at Eddie over the roof of the car.

"Thanks, Munson," Steve said, his voice quiet and sincere. "For being here."

Eddie leaned against the doorframe, his usual smirk replaced by a look of quiet respect. "Anytime, Harrington. She’s a brave one. Just needed a reminder."

Steve got in and started the engine, the low rumble of the car acting as a final, soothing lullaby. As he pulled out of the parking lot, he reached over, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss.

"I’ve got you, baby," he whispered. "You’re safe now."

[heydollwriting]

Hi I don’t have a request I was just wondering, about your platonic teen!reader stories, did you have in mind the age difference between Steve and reader? When you say teen, is it like a teen like how Steve and his friends were always considered teens or are they more of the age of The Party?

I write with her being the age of the other kids (12-15 ish) in mind, but I try not to specify just in case people want to imagine her older. Up for interpretation!

[heydollwriting]

hihi!! argh i love your writing so much xx i was wondering if i could get a platonic!steve x reader and he like notices the signs of a man pretty bad concussion (slurred speech, dilated pupils, sleepiness, etc.) and he’s trying not to let her fall asleep while he’s trying to get her some help? hurt/comfort steve actually might be my fav thing to ever exist lol.

A/N: This was so cute to write! Thanks for the request!

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The night air in the junkyard was punctuated by the screech of metal and the guttural snarls of a demo-dog that had cornered the Party. You were sprinting toward the safety of the bus when your foot caught on a rusted axle. The world tilted, and the next thing you knew, your forehead was meeting the jagged edge of a concrete block with a sickening thud.

The ringing in your ears drowned out everything until a sudden, blinding flash of blue light and a wet smash signaled that El had finished the job.

"Y/N!" Steve’s voice was the first thing to break through the static.

He was on the ground in front of you in a heartbeat, his hands hovering over your shoulders as he helped you sit up. "Easy, baby girl. Just stay still, okay?"

" 'M fine, Steve," you mumbled, reaching up to touch your head. Your hand came away slick and dark.

Steve’s breath hitched. In the moonlight, he could see a jagged cut right at your hairline, blood beginning to track down your temple. "You are definitely not fine."

You tried to push yourself up, determined to show him you were okay, but your legs felt like they were made of jelly. You stumbled forward, and Steve’s arms were there instantly, catching you around the waist and lowering you back to the dirt. Your head lolled against his shoulder, the world spinning in slow, dizzying loops.

"Hey, hey, whoa, easy," Steve whispered, his voice tight with worry. He placed two fingers under your chin, gently tilting your face up. "Can you look at me, baby?"

When your eyes finally met his, he saw it—your pupils were unevenly dilated, jumping as they tried to focus on his face. You looked completely woozy, your gaze drifting past him toward the trees.

"Oh no... okay honey, just keep your head up for me, okay?" He looked over his shoulder at the kids, his face pale. "Dustin! Get on the radio to Hopper. Tell him to meet us at the trailhead. She’s got a pretty bad concussion."

Steve didn't even give you the chance to try walking again. He scooped you up in one fluid motion, your head resting against the crook of his neck. As he hiked out of the junkyard with the Party trailing behind, the adrenaline began to fade, leaving you in a fog of pain.

"Steveeee," you slurred, your voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. "M'head... it hurts. Like a drum."

"I know, honey. It’s okay," he murmured, his pace steady and sure. "We’re almost there. Just keep talking to me, alright?"

A set of headlights cut through the dark as Hopper’s Blazer skidded to a halt near the woods. Steve didn't wait for him to get out; he met him halfway. Hopper approached with a grim look, flicking on a flashlight and shining it quickly in your eyes.

"Oh yeah, she banged her head pretty hard," Hopper grunted, though his hand rested briefly on your shoulder in a rare show of concern. "We gotta get her to the hospital. Now."

The ride was a blur of shadows and the hum of the engine. Steve sat in the back, pulling you into his side so your head could rest on his shoulder. Every few minutes, your eyelids would flutter shut, the darkness feeling so much more inviting than the throbbing pain.

"Harrington, keep her awake," Hopper barked from the front seat, eyes fixed on the road.

"Hey, hey, sweet girl," Steve said, his voice a little louder as he gently shook your shoulder. "You need to stay awake for me, okay? We're gonna get you all fixed up, but I need you to keep those eyes open."

He started rubbing soothing, rhythmic circles on your arm with his thumb, the constant movement keeping you tethered to the present. You leaned into him, your hand clutching the hem of his jacket.

"Stayin' awake is hard, Steve," you whispered.

"I know, baby. You're doing so good. Just a few more minutes."

The hospital was a whirlwind of bright lights and nurses, but Steve never left your side until they forced him to wait in the hall for the CT scan. A few hours later, the doctor cleared you—a moderate concussion and four stitches, with strict instructions for bed rest and zero excitement.

By the time Steve carried you back into his house, the sun was just starting to hint at the horizon. He tucked you into your bed, pulling the duvet up to your chin with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

"You really know how to have an adventure, Y/N," he joked softly, his hand lingering on your cheek. "Tripping over a car? That’s a new one, even for you."

You let out a weak, sleepy chuckle. "Wanted to see if... if the concrete was better than being eaten by a monster, Steve. It's close."

Steve let out a genuine, relieved laugh, the tension finally leaving his shoulders. He leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head, right next to the bandage.

"Go to sleep," he whispered. "I'll be right outside if you need me."

As you drifted off, the last thing you felt was the safe, steady weight of the Harrington house surrounding you.

[heydollwriting]

hello!! i was wondering if i could request something about steve x platonic!teen!reader where she gets really bad migraines? like him just taking care of her or what he does if she gets a migraine attack somewhere unconventional? <3

A/N: I hope this is ok, i just made it soft n sweet in the comfort of Steve's house, because honestly the though of getting a migraine somewhere public was stressing me out lol.

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The curtains in the living room were drawn tight, and when Steve stepped through the front door, he instinctively lowered the volume of his own breathing.

He knew this silence.

He bypassed the kitchen and headed straight upstairs. He didn't check the guest room first; he knew better. When the pain got so bad that the world felt like it was splintering, you always sought out the one place that smelled most like safety: his room.

He cracked his bedroom door open, the hinges letting out a faint protest that made him wince on your behalf. The room was a void of darkness, save for a tiny sliver of light peeking through the heavy drapes.

There, in the center of the bed, was a small, shivering mound under the comforter. You were wearing one of his old, softest cotton t-shirts and your face was buried deep into a pillow that smelled like his hairspray.

Steve didn't turn on a single light. He navigated the room by memory, his footsteps silent on the carpet. He sat on the edge of the mattress, the weight of him causing a slight dip that made you let out a low, pained whimper.

"Oh, sweet girl," he whispered, his heart twisting. "I'm here. I’m gonna take care of you."

He reached out, his hand hovering for a second before he gently brushed a stray, sweat-dampened lock of hair away from your forehead. His thumb found your temple, moving in a slow, hypnotic circle, applying just enough pressure to counter the throb behind your eyes.

"Don't move," he breathed. "I'll be right back."

He disappeared into the hallway, moving like a ghost. He returned minutes later with a tall glass of ice water, two extra-strength painkillers, and a washcloth he’d soaked in freezing water and wrung out until it was just damp enough.

He set the items on the nightstand with a muffled clink. "Hey, honey. I need you to take these for me. Just for a second, okay?"

He slid his arm under your neck, bracing you as he helped you sit up just enough to swallow the pills. You groaned as the movement sent a spike of white-hot pain through your head, and Steve looked like he was the one being hit.

"I know, I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice thick with genuine apology. "I know it hurts. You’re okay, baby girl."

Once the medicine was down, Steve didn't get up. Instead, he kicked off his shoes and slid into the bed beside you. He pulled you onto his chest. He took the cool cloth and laid it carefully across your forehead and eyes, blocking out the last remnants of the world. With his free hand, he reached up and began to scratch at your scalp in light, rhythmic movements that always seemed to distract your nerves from the pulsing pain.

"Just breathe, baby girl," he murmured into the back of your head. "The medicine's gonna kick in, soon. Just rest."

You let out a long, shaky breath, your body finally beginning to lose its rigid defensive posture. The combination of the ice-cold cloth, the scalp massage, and the steady, heavy beat of Steve’s heart was the only thing that could ever pull you out of the dark.

He held you like that for quite a while, his hand never stopping its soothing motion, until your breathing finally smoothed out into the deep, heavy rhythm of sleep. He stayed awake long after, a silent sentry in the dark, making sure that when the pain finally left you, he was the first thing you felt.

[heydollwriting]

hi i love your writing!!!! especially platonic reader and steve!!!! i had an idea, maybe reader picks her skin/lips and/or bites her nails as a nervous habit and steve is trying to fix it cause he knows it's not good for her and he doesn't like seeing the lil scabs on her skin and lips and stuff like that

A/N: I actually really loved this request because I am a chronic nail biter, so here ya go! Thanks for the request!

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For you, the habit was as subconscious as breathing. You’d pick at the skin around your thumbnails or find yourself biting a nail down to the quick until the sharp sting of broken skin brought you back to reality.

Steve had noticed it almost immediately. He was a man of action, but with you, he had learned that the loudest interventions weren't always the best.

Sometimes, it was as simple as Steve walking through the kitchen to get a soda. He’d see you sitting at the counter, lost in thought with your thumb between your teeth. Without breaking his stride or even looking away from the fridge, he’d reach out, gently shoo your hand away from your face with a flick of his fingers, and keep walking. You’d blink, realize what you were doing, and drop your hand, a small, grateful smile tugging at your lips.

Other times, like when the party was loud and chaotic in the basement, he’d just reach over and lace his fingers with yours. He wouldn't say a word, but he’d rub his thumb in slow, soothing circles over the back of your hand, physically grounding you so you didn't feel the need to pick.

One evening, the two of you were curled up on the oversized Harrington sofa. A movie was playing on the TV. You were safe, tucked under a weighted blanket, but your subconscious on high alert.

Steve was focused on the screen, his arm draped over the back of the couch, until he felt a rhythmic movement beside him. He looked down and saw you focused intently on your fingers. In the dim light of the television, he saw the dark glint of red.

"Hey, hey," he murmured, his voice immediate and soft. He reached down, firmly but gently catching both of your hands in his. "Let’s not do that, baby."

You startled slightly, looking down at your hands as if you'd never seen them before. The cuticles of your thumb and index fingers were raw and bleeding, a small crimson smudge staining your skin.

"Oh," you whispered, the shame starting to prickle at your chest. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Don't apologize," Steve interrupted. He pressed a quick kiss to the back of your hand. "Stay right here. I’ll be back in a second."

He padded off to the bathroom, returning a moment later with the first-aid kit and a damp cloth. He sat back down, tucking his long legs under him so he was facing you. With the practiced ease of someone who had spent years patching up reckless kids, he began to clean the small wound.

"What's up, honey?" he asked quietly, his eyes focused on his task. "You nervous about something?"

"I don't know," you admitted, watching his hands. "Just... everything, I guess. It’s been a long week."

"I get it," he said, peeling the wrapper off one Band-Aid. He didn't push for details about your home life or the things making you anxious; he just listened to the subtext. He carefully wrapped the bandage around your finger, making sure it wasn't too tight. "But you gotta try to be nice to yourself. I hate seeing you hurt, even if you're the one doing it."

He finished with the other Band-Aid and then, instead of going back to the movie, he kept your hand in his, resting them both on his knee.

"If you feel like doing it again, just grab my hand instead, okay?" he said, giving your fingers a supportive squeeze. "I'm right here. I’m not letting anything happen to you."

You leaned your head against his shoulder, the tension finally draining out of your shoulders. You knew that if you started biting your nails ten minutes from now, he wouldn't get frustrated. He’d just gently pull your hand away again, a silent reminder that in this house, you didn't have to be on edge.

[heydollwriting]

PLEASEEEE can we get some general angst or fluff with steve and teen reader... something something she's super sick and delirious and steve finds her and she calls him dad! Maybe her parents are similar to his and always gone..idkk...... but i love ur writing soooo...hehe

A/N: I got A TON of requests for reader calling Steve dad, so I'm gonna just do this one! Here ya go! It's mostly fluff.

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The flu had hit Hawkins like a freight train, but it seemed to save its heaviest blow for you. Maybe it was because your body was already run down from the stress of home and the constant adrenaline of the "Upside Down" life, but by the time Steve found you curled up on his couch three days later, you were burning up.

Steve didn't even ask questions. He’d scooped you up, ignoring your weak groans of protest, and tucked you into your bed upstairs.

The next twenty-four hours were a blur of cool porcelain bowls, the clinking of a spoon against a soup mug, and the constant, rhythmic sound of Steve’s footsteps.

"Come on, Y/N, just two more bites," Steve coaxed, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He held a spoonful of lukewarm broth. "You need something in your stomach or the aspirin is just going to make you nauseous."

You groaned, pushing your face deeper into the pillow. Your skin felt two sizes too small, and every joint ached. "Everything is loud," you muttered, your voice thick and raspy.

"I know, I know. I’ll turn the hallway light off," he promised, his voice dropping to a soothing low. He set the soup aside, realizing you weren't going to budge, and reached for the bowl of ice water on the nightstand.

He wrung out a washcloth and folded it precisely. When the freezing fabric touched your forehead, you let out a long, shaky breath. "Better?" he asked.

"Mmhmm." You reached out a hand, blindly grasping at the air until your fingers hooked into the sleeve of his sweater. "Steve?"

"Right here."

"Can you... hold me?" Your eyes were barely open, glazed over with a high fever. "I’m cold. Even though I’m hot. I’m cold."

Steve’s expression softened into something profoundly tender. "Of course, baby."

He kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the bed, propping himself up against the headboard. He pulled you into the crook of his arm, settling your head against his chest. He kept the cool cloth pressed to your forehead with one hand, while the other began a slow, rhythmic stroke through your hair.

You melted into him. The steady thrum of his heartbeat was the only thing keeping you grounded as the room seemed to tilt and spin. The fever was pulling you into that strange, hazy middle ground between reality and dreams.

"You're okay," Steve whispered, his voice vibrating through his chest and into your ear. "I’ve got you. Just sleep."

You sighed, your body finally beginning to relax as the medicine took hold. You felt safe—safer than you’d ever felt in the house you actually lived in. In your delirious mind, the lines between friend, protector, and family were blurring into one warm, safe glow.

"Thanks, Dad," you murmured, your voice airy and nonchalant.

Steve’s hand froze in your hair. His heart skipped a beat, a sudden jolt of electricity shooting through his chest.

You didn't seem to notice the tension. You let out a tiny, sleepy giggle, the sound fuzzy and distant. "Whoops," you whispered, the word trailing off into a heavy, contented sigh. Within seconds, your breathing evened out into the deep, rhythmic pattern of sleep.

Steve stayed perfectly still, his eyes wide as he stared at the far wall.

He knew you were out of it. He knew the fever was talking, mixing up memories and needs. He knew that to the rest of the world—and to you when you were conscious—he was just Steve. Sure, all the his kids looked up to him and relied on him to a degree, but he was always the "babysitter".

His heart swelled until it felt tight in his chest.

He thought about your actual father—the shouting, the drinking, the empty house. Then he thought about the fact that in your most vulnerable, confused state, his was the face your brain associated with that word.

He adjusted the cloth on your forehead, his touch more careful than ever. He wasn't your father, and he wouldn't ever try to overstep that boundary, but knowing that you felt that level of security with him was a gift he didn't feel he deserved.

"Sleep tight, baby girl," he whispered, closing his eyes and resting his head against yours. "I'm not going anywhere."

[heydollwriting]

hi! can you do a steve x platonic! where they're either arguing, or steve gets really passionate about something he's telling her about and in the heat of the moment he moves too fast and she ends up thinking he might hit her? idrk if i explained that clearly lol. thanks <3

A/N: oh lordy. this is maximum angst and maximum comfort. steve feels so guilty bro.

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You stood by the fireplace, shivering despite the warmth. Your jacket was torn, a reminder of the branch you’d nearly impaled yourself on while sprinting away from a pack of screeching shadows. Since the day Steve had pulled you out of those tunnels under Hawkins, you’d lived for the moments you could breathe the air in his house—air that didn't smell like the stale beer and simmering resentment of your own home.

"I’m just saying, if we had actually stuck to the plan, we wouldn't have been cornered!" Mike’s voice cracked, sharp and accusing. He was pacing, pointing a finger at Lucas. "You got distracted!"

"Distracted?" Lucas snapped back, his face smudged with dirt. "I was trying to make sure we didn't get flanked!"

"Guys, come on," Dustin tried to intervene, his hands raised in a pathetic attempt at peace. "We’re all back. We’re safe."

"Safe? Max almost lost an eye!" Mike yelled.

Max stepped forward, her jaw set. "Don't use me as an excuse to be a prick, Mike. Lucas was doing his best."

You couldn't stay quiet. The adrenaline was still humming in your veins, making you feel jittery and defensive. "Leave him alone, Mike. We were all scrambled. It wasn't his fault."

Mike whirled on you, his frustration finding an easy target. "Oh, of course you’d say that. You’re the reason the line broke in the first place! You went off on your own, as usual!"

Your heart hammered against your ribs. "Really, Mike? So this is on me? I was the one who drew them away so you guys could get to the clearing!"

"You were being reckless!"

The voice didn't come from Mike. It came from the kitchen doorway. Steve was standing there, his face pale, his knuckles white as he gripped the doorframe.

You felt a sting of betrayal that hurt worse than the scratches on your arms. "So you agree with Mike? That this is my fault?"

"I agree that you don't think!" Steve shouted, stepping into the room. His voice was louder than you’d ever heard it. The Party went dead silent. "You went ahead, Y/N! I couldn't see you! I thought—" He choked on the words, his fear morphing into a hot, blinding anger. "You act like you're invincible, but you're just a kid who doesn't know when to stop!"

"I stop when the job is done!" you screamed back, the walls of the room feeling like they were closing in. "Maybe if you weren't so busy trying to control everyone, you'd see I'm the only one who actually takes the risks!"

"Because you don't care what happens to you!" Steve roared. "And I do! Is that so hard to understand?"

The air in the room vanished. The other kids were staring, wide-eyed and frozen. You had never yelled at Steve like this, and he had never looked so genuinely furious.

"Whatever, Steve," you spat, your voice trembling. "Go be a hero to someone else."

You turned and bolted up the stairs, your boots thudding against the carpet. You reached the guest room—your room, the one that Steve helped make your home—and tried to slam the door.

A heavy hand caught it.

Steve shoved the door open, his chest heaving. "No, no, you don't walk away. You know I'm right, and you have to start listening to me!"

He followed you into the room, his presence large and overwhelming in the small space. Your brain, usually so sharp, began to fog. The shouting, the way he was looming, the sheer volume of his voice—it was triggering a different kind of memory. A memory of a house where yelling always led to a heavy silence, and then a heavy hand.

"I don't have to listen to anything!" you yelled, though your voice felt like it was coming from underwater. "You’re just another person trying to tell me what to do! Another person that doesn't trust me!"

"I am trying to keep you alive!" Steve threw his hands up in the air, a gesture of pure, exasperated frustration.

In your mind, the hand didn't just go up. It was coming down.

You flinched violently. Your entire body jerked backward, your heels hitting the edge of the bed as you stumbled. Your hands reached out in front of you ever so slightly as an instinct, as if to stop him.

The silence that followed was heavy. Steve froze. His hands stayed in the air for a second, then dropped as if they’d been burned. The dread that pooled in his gut was cold and sickening.

"Y/N—" his voice was a strangled whisper.

You opened your eyes, your breath coming in shallow, jagged gasps. You saw him standing there, his face reflecting the torment he was feeling. You tried to pull yourself together, lowering your hands and acting as if you weren't about to lose it.

"O-ok. Yea, sure," you stuttered, the words tumbling out in a frantic, high-pitched rush. "My f-fault. I'll listen. I’m sorry, ok?"

You turned away from him, your hands moving with a life of their own as you began to frantically smooth the wrinkles in the duvet. You couldn't stop the tears; they were streaming down your face, hot and humiliating. Your shoulders were hunched, your spine stiff, still waiting for the blow you were certain was coming.

"Baby girl—"

"I got it, Steve," you interrupted, your voice breaking. "Just... it's fine."

"Hey, hey, hey," Steve’s voice was barely a murmur now, thick with a desperate tenderness.

He moved toward you, his movements slow and exaggeratedly gentle, like he was approaching a wounded animal. He reached out and placed a hand on your arm.

You flinched again. It was a small, sharp movement, but it nearly leveled him.

He didn't pull away this time. He kept his hand there, light as a feather, and used his other hand to gently guide you around to face him. He had to see you. He had to make you see him.

When you finally looked up, your face was a mask of terror and grief. He felt his heart shatter into a million pieces. He had done this. He had let his fear turn into the very thing you spent every night running away from.

He kept one hand on your arm, and the other rose—slowly, so slowly—to cup your face. His thumb swept beneath your eye, catching a tear.

"Look at me, baby," he whispered.

You met his eyes, your breath still hitching in your chest.

"I would never, ever hurt you. You hear me?" his voice was steady, anchored by a fierce promise.

You nodded, but you couldn't catch your breath. The panic was still a physical weight on your lungs.

"Take a deep breath, baby girl," he urged, his thumb stroking your cheek. "In and out. Just with me."

He waited, holding your gaze, refusing to let go until he saw the tension in your jaw release.

"Never," he repeated, his voice cracking. "I would never put a hand on you. Not ever. No matter how mad I get, sweet girl. You're safe with me."

The dam finally broke. A sob tore out of your throat, a raw sound of relief and exhaustion. Your head dropped forward, landing heavily against his chest.

Steve’s arms wrapped around you instantly, pulling you in tight, shielding you from the rest of the world. He sank down onto the edge of the bed, pulling you onto his lap as if you weighed nothing. He began to rock you back and forth, his chin resting on the top of your head.

"You're safe with me. Always," he murmured, pressing a lingering, protective kiss to your hair. "I'm sorry I got mad, baby. I was jus' scared for you. I was so scared I was gonna lose you."

You sobbed harder, your fingers clutching the fabric of his polo shirt, finally letting yourself be small, finally letting yourself accept that he was still Steve, and he was safe.

"Shhhh, shhh, baby," he cooed, rubbing large, soothing circles into your back. "Just breathe, honey, I got you. I'm right here."

The house was quiet now. Downstairs, the kids had likely dispersed or were whispering in hushed tones, but up here, there was only the sound of your steadying breaths and Steve’s quiet promises.

"Never ever gonna get hurt with me," he whispered into the quiet room. "I promise. I got you."

[heydollwriting]

Hiii! This is my first ever request lol. But could you do a platonic Steve x fem reader one where the reader gets her period and bleeds through on to something at Steve’s or something of the sorts (bed,couch, etc) and she gets embrassed but Steve comforts her and helps her. Thank you ❤️

i.e: you fall asleep and start your period and bleed through and Steve notices the stain and helps you change, buys stuff for you etc.

A/N: Here ya go! Thanks for requesting!

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The weekend had been quiet, which was a rare gift in Hawkins. Steve was in the kitchen, the rhythmic pop-pop-pop of the stovetop popcorn maker filling the air, while you were curled up on the expensive cream-colored sofa in the living room, buried under one of his mother’s softest knitted blankets.

You felt a strange, heavy ache in your lower back, but you ignored it, focused on the comic book in your lap. When you heard Steve call out that the snacks were ready, you threw the blanket off and stood up to help him.

That’s when you felt it. A sudden, warm dampness. You turned around, and your heart plummeted into your stomach.

There, on the pristine light-colored blanket and the seat of your pale blue sweatpants, was a bright, undeniable bloom of red.

The panic was instantaneous. To a teen who already felt the weight of the world, this felt like a disaster. Your eyes filled with hot, stinging tears. You felt messy, exposed, and suddenly very, very small. You didn't even hear Steve walking back into the room until his shadow fell over you.

"Popcorn’s hot, so watch your—" Steve stopped mid-sentence, the bowl nearly slipping from his hand. He saw you standing there, trembling, your hands over your face, sobbing silently. "Hey, hey, hey! What happened? Did you hurt yourself?"

He set the bowl on the coffee table with a clatter and rushed to you.

"Steve, I-I'm so sorry," you choked out, your voice cracking. You gestured vaguely toward the couch, your face burning with a shame you couldn't quite explain. "The blanket... I ruined it. I’m sorry."

Steve looked down at the couch, then back at your tear-streaked face. The realization hit him instantly. He didn't recoil, and he didn't look grossed out. His expression softened into something incredibly tender.

"Oh, no, no, sweet girl," he whispered. He stepped close, reaching out to gently pull your hands away from your face so he could look you in the eyes. He kept his hands on your arms, grounding you. "It’s okay. Look at me. It’s okay. There is absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about, alright?"

He reached up, using his thumb to wipe away a stray tear. When you let out another shaky sob, he pulled you into a firm hug, letting your head rest against his chest.

"Baby girl, it’s okay," he murmured into your hair, rocking you slightly. "It happens. It’s just a blanket, and I’ve got plenty of laundry detergent. Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?"

He guided you toward the stairs.

"You’ve got your bag in the guest room, right? Go grab some clean clothes. I’m gonna go grab some stuff from my parents bathroom."

While you retreated to the bathroom, Steve moved with a sense of purpose. He found a box of supplies in the master ensuite and grabbed one of his own oversized, softest cotton t-shirts from his dresser. He knocked softly on the bathroom door, cracking it just enough to slide the supplies and the shirt inside.

"Here," he said through the door. "Take your time. I'm taking care of the rest."

While you showered and changed, Steve cleaned up. He stripped the blanket throwing it into the wash with a heavy dose of stain remover. He flipped the sofa cushion (luckily, the blanket had taken the brunt of it) and then went to set up the living room.

When you finally emerged, wearing Steve’s shirt which hung down to your knees and some socks, you felt exhausted and shy. You lingered at the top of the stairs, picking at the hem of the shirt.

Steve was waiting at the bottom. He saw you and immediately walked up the steps to meet you. You dropped your head, burying your face in his chest again, feeling that familiar wave of vulnerability.

"Hey, baby, look at me," he said, lifting your chin gently. "It’s really nothing, okay?" You simply nodded, still feeling a little embarrassed, but ultimately better.

He led you back to the living room, which he had transformed. He’d dragged a mattress topper onto the floor in front of the TV, piled it with every pillow in the house, and had a heating pad plugged in and ready.

"I got snacks," he spoke gently, pointing to some chocolate, salty pretzels, and ginger ale. "And I put on that movie you like—the one with the princess and the farm boy. Come here."

He settled onto the makeshift bed and patted the space in front of him. You curled into his side, and he draped a fresh, warm blanket over you, his arm settling comfortably around your shoulders.

"You okay now?" he asked, his voice low and steady.

"Yeah," you whispered, finally feeling the tension leave your shoulders. "Thanks, Steve."

"Anytime, baby girl," he said, kissing the top of your head. "Now, shut up and watch the movie. I think the giant rats are coming up soon."