welcome, lovely. ᢉ𐭩 my blog is a comforting love letter to stranger things, soft moments, and my forever favourites — steve harrington & robin buckley. i love fluff, stories meant to feel like a deep breath after a long day. stay as long as you’d like, come read something cozy. 📖💕
.𖥔 ݁ don't hesitate to send a request .ᐟ
ෆ ⌗ • masterlist ʚɞ
fluff , angst
↳ robin buckley x reader:
❀ ┊ when visiting scoops ahoy, you meet flirty robin for the first time & leave with her number
↳ steve harrington x reader:
❀ ┊ steve will never admit out loud how much he loves to be babied by you
❀ ┊ very sick steve headcanons — giving him cuddles and spoon feeding him soup
❀ ┊ when trying to tend to his wounds, you learn the upsetting truth behind the, “mall fire”
❀ ┊ after asking him over the phone, steve brings home your favourite movie from family video
summary: steve insists he doesn’t need to be babied. but... he never pulls away when you fuss, never says no when you hold him, and never admits how much it means to be taken care of ᢉ𐭩 .ᐟ
↳ fluffy hcs┊steve harrington┊wc: 650┊tw: none
steve harrington pretends he hates being babied.
he rolls his eyes when you fuss, makes a show of sighing when you remind him to eat, groans when you tuck a blanket around his shoulders like he’s not a grown man. he’ll mutter things like “i can do it myself, y’know” while very pointedly not moving an inch.
but, he never actually stops you. because, secretly — quietly — steve loves it.
he loves the way you guide him by the wrist through crowds, thumb rubbing small circles into his skin like you’re grounding him.
he loves when you straighten his jacket collar before he even realizes it’s crooked, when you brush imaginary lint off his shoulders with a fond little smile.
he complains, but he leans into it. he especially loves it at home. he sprawls out on the couch, long limbs everywhere, pretending he’s just resting his eyes while you bring him water, snacks, whatever you think he might need.
every time you ask, “you okay?” he answers immediately.
“yeah,” he says. “i mean — yeah. ‘m good.”
he looks proud of himself for it, too. like being checked on is something he earned.
you fix his hair without asking. push it back from his forehead, smooth it into place when it falls into his eyes. he goes very still every time, breath catching just slightly, lashes fluttering like he doesn’t want to miss it.
“you don’t have to do that,” he says, voice softer than the words suggest.
you do it anyway.
he loves being reminded to eat.
loves when you slide a plate toward him and give him that look until he takes a bite. he’ll tease you for it — “what, you think i’ll forget?” — but then he eats everything you give him, even the parts he doesn’t love, because you made it.
he melts when you praise him.
not in an obvious way. it’s subtle. the way his shoulders relax when you say “good job,” the way his mouth tips up when you tell him you’re proud of him. he’ll duck his head, rub the back of his neck, suddenly shy.
“it wasn’t a big deal,” he mumbles.
it was.
steve never asks outright to be held.
but, he hovers. sits just close enough that your knees touch, leans just slightly into your space, lets his arm brush against yours again and again until you pull him in. the second you do, he relaxes fully, like that’s what he was waiting for.
he sighs — deep and content — tucking his face into your neck.
“just tired,” he murmurs. always that excuse.
he loves when you talk him through things.
soft reminders. gentle instructions. “hey, breathe.” “slow down.” “sit with me for a second.” he listens every time, even when he pretends not to.
especially when you call him baby.
it catches him off guard every single time. his ears go pink, his grip tightens just a little, and his voice drops when he answers you.
“yeah?” he says, like it’s just between the two of you.
at night, he’s the clingiest.
he pretends he’s just warm, just comfortable, just already there — but, he scoots closer inch by inch until he’s wrapped around you, arm heavy across your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.
when you run your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, he’s gone.
completely undone.
he doesn’t say it out loud, but steve harrington spent a long time taking care of himself. being responsible. being strong. being the one who had it handled.
so, when you baby him — even a little — when you soften the edges, when you let him rest in your care without making him feel small…
he holds onto it. he holds onto you.
because, secretly? being babied by you feels like being loved. steve harrington loves that more than he’ll ever admit.
thank you sm for reading .ᐟ submit me a request, i'm new & active ᢉ𐭩
summary: sick!steve headcanons that read like a fic if you squint. he insists on cuddles and soup, which you always very happily deliver ᢉ𐭩 .ᐟ
↳ fluffy hcs┊steve harrington┊wc: 900┊tw: none
steve harrington is dramatic when he’s sick.
like, insists-the-lights-are-too-bright dramatic. even the lamp in the corner has him squinting and groaning, turning his face into your shoulder like the sun itself has personally offended him.
“too bright,” he murmurs, voice scratchy and thin. “hurts my head.”
you dim everything down until the room is soft and dusky, and only then does he relax, shoulders sagging like you’ve just saved his life.
he needs blankets. plural. not just any blankets — the ones that smell like you. he buries his face in them, breathing deep, nose still pink and runny, sighing contentedly like he hasn’t just complained about being too warm five minutes ago.
“this one,” he says, tugging insistently. “no, that one too.”
he's already super sassy on a normal day. it's heightened by at least 90%.
he needs reassurance when sick. constant reassurance. he asks the same questions over and over, like his fever’s shaken something loose...
“you mad i’m sick?”
“you gonna stay?”
“you promise you won’t leave while i’m asleep?”
every answer soothes him a little more. each reassurance makes his grip on you loosen enough for him to relax again.
he refuses to eat on his own. absolutely refuses.
his hands are “too weak,” apparently, and lifting the spoon is “doctor-advised against” (it is not). so, you end up perched on the edge of the bed, carefully feeding him soup while he watches you like it’s the highlight of his day (it is).
he's sassy with you. "blow on it,” until he sees your eyebrow raise. he adds his sheepish, “please?”
and then, because he is very sick, he holds the soup in his mouth for a second too long before swallowing, just so he can keep looking at you. totally not on purpose. definitely not.
his hair doesn't ever behave when he's sick. being trusted with it screams steve's elite employees. (you're employees. only his girlfriend.)
it falls into his eyes, damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. you have to gently pin it back with your bobby pins. he goes very still, eyes soft like butter as your fingers brush his temples.
he enjoys the princess treatment. you secretly do, too.
he clings. constantly.
when you shift even a little, his arms tighten around you, a low unhappy noise rumbling in his chest. when you try to stand up, he immediately notices. his face scrunches into an angry kitten glare, lips pouting as he groans. (😾)
“where’re you going?” he's pouting, obviously, “i was warm.”
you come back. you always do. he's too cute to deny.
he always insists that the only position to help is spooning. steve tucks into your chest, your arm draped over his waist, his cold feet nudged between your calves. every so often, he presses his face into your neck, nose still sniffly, breathing your scent in.
“if i don’t get cuddles,” he says solemnly, “i’ll probably never recover.”
steve definitely finds it attractive when you're looking after him. with the big family thing, he absolutely gets warm inside when you're acting so kind and caring. it makes him sure of the fact he's going to be the father to your children one day.
he falls asleep mid-sentence, breath evening out, fingers still tangled in your shirt like he’s afraid you might disappear. and even when he snores softly, mouth a little open, nose still pink and shiny — he looks peaceful.
safe. taken care of.
you don’t ever move. not when your arm goes numb, not when your back aches. because, steve harrington is very sick and very dramatic.
...and he definitely doesn't use sickness as an excuse to be held.
he gets extra clingy when the fever breaks.
suddenly he’s cold, shivering lightly, nose still pink and sniffly as he presses himself closer to you. he tucks his face under your chin, breath warm against your neck, fingers tracing lazy shapes on your arm like he’s grounding himself.
“don’t move,” he whispers. “please.”
you don’t.
post-sick steve is worse. somehow.
he’s better — mostly. voice still rough around the edges, cough lingering, energy low. but, now he’s embarrassed. he rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushed.
you teasingly remind him of the spoon-feeding. his dramatic groaning. the way he demanded only your blankets. the way he whined when you stood up for any more than ten seconds.
“i didn’t… like… actually act that bad.” he says, not meeting your eyes.
he knows what he is.
he groans, dropping his face into his hands, “i’m never getting sick again.”
except later, when you’re both on the sofa, he leans into you regardless of his words.
when you don’t move away, he relaxes, head dropping to your shoulder like it belongs there. (it does.)
“just tired,” he says quickly. “not sick-tired. normal tired.”
you let him have that one. and every other one.
he still sneaks cuddles. still steals your hoodie because it, "worked last time.” still melts when you brush his hair back, even without the bobby pins.
and sometimes — as a special thank you — he presses a quick kiss to your wrist or your shoulder. quiet and grateful.
because, steve harrington remembers being taken care of.
he doesn't ever need an excuse to be held, or to be babied. though, he will never face it and comes up with a giggle-worthy excuse every time.
thank you sm for reading .ᐟ submit me a request, i'm new & active ᢉ𐭩
heyhey!!! could you pretty please do a mini fic abt the reader confronting steve after the mall fire?
❝ MALL FIRE. ❞
summary: the fire is over. but, the impact isn't. as you tend to steve's injuries, the truth of what he endured begins to surface — not in words, but in fear ᢉ𐭩 .ᐟ
you've carefully sat steve on the floor of his bathroom, back leaning against the bathtub. his face and body are covered in blood and injuries — much more than what would come from just a mall fire. the stains of blood down his work uniform makes your heart break. there's not just new blood, but, also old. he'd been missing until tonight, when you'd received a call. a scared dustin was down the phone, explaining the incident through gasps.
steve flinches hard, shoulders jerking as the cotton pad presses to his forehead, soaked through with antiseptic. the smell is sharp, immediate — it fills the bathroom, crawls straight up his nose and into his skull.
his vision blurs. not because it hurts — though it does, a sharp, biting pain that blooms under his skin — but because his body doesn’t know where it is anymore.
“hey,” you murmur instantly, panicked by his reaction. your free hand gently pushes up his chin, trying to meet his eye-line. “i’m sorry, baby... i warned you it might sting—”
“stop.”
the word comes out too fast. too loud.
it cuts the air between you.
your hand pulls back the cotton, hovering just above his skin. your heart drops straight into your stomach. you’ve never heard that tone from him before — not sharp like this, not edged with something ugly and scared.
“i said stop,” he snaps again, louder now, breath uneven. “don’t— don’t do that.”
you blink, stunned.
“i’m only cleaning it,” you say softly, like you’re trying not to spook a wild animal. your voice wobbles, despite your effort. “it needs to be clean, okay? i promise i’m being careful. always."
he’s not looking at you.
his eyes are locked somewhere past your shoulder, unfocused, glassy. his jaw clenches so tight you can see the muscle jump. one of his hands curl into a fist in his lap, knuckles whitening. the other clenches his wrist, fingers wrapped around the bracelet you bought him. a personalised christmas gift.
it was the only thing keeping him sane in there. holding it. it was almost like holding you. almost.
the bathroom feels smaller suddenly. tighter. like the walls have leaned in.
the antiseptic smell won’t leave. it clings to the back of his throat. it’s wrong. wrong smell, wrong room, wrong memory.
you place your hand over his, gently brushing your soft fingertips over his knuckles.
“don’t,” he mutters again, shaking his head. there's not anger there, it's something new. something that isn't him. “don’t touch me like that.”
your chest aches.
“steve,” you whisper. your voice stays warm, despite his cold snaps. “look at me.”
he doesn’t.
his breathing starts to go — shallow, quick, like he can’t pull enough air into his lungs. his foot beging to tap against the tile uncontrollably. his shoes are still on, meaning there's a sharp, frantic rhythm.
your hands tremble as you lower them slowly, deliberately, placing the cotton pad down like it might explode if you’re not careful enough.
“okay,” you say. “okay. i won’t. i’m not touching you. see?”
he hears your voice — distantly — but it sounds like it’s coming through water. everything feels muffled, distorted. his head rings. his skin feels too tight. the light overhead suddenly feels too bright, buzzing faintly.
he swears he can hear shouting.
not here. not really. but it’s there anyway — echoing, layered under your voice, under the hum of the house.
his stomach twists.
“where am i?" he breathes, barely audible. your concern twists into confusion, brows furrowing.
your heart cracks open. how could this possibly be effects of a fire? something else has happened. something you don't know about.
you move from being in front of him, shuffling across the tile to his side. this makes you closer to him, able to speak nearer to his ear. you whisper to him, careful not to startle him more, "you’re home."
slowly, painfully, his eyes drag back to you.
for a split second, you see it.
pure terror.
not pain. not anger. fear so raw it steals your breath. his eyes dart across your face like he’s searching for proof — proof you’re real, proof he’s not still trapped somewhere else.
your eyes burn.
you reach for him again, slower this time, giving him every second to pull away. when you cup his cheek, he doesn’t stop you — but his breath stutters, body rigid beneath your touch.
“i didn’t mean to hurt you,” you whisper. “i would never hurt you.”
that’s when it hits him.
the realisation.
he squeezes his eyes shut, face crumpling for just a moment — just long enough for you to see the guilt crash in.
“i know,” he says hoarsely. “i know. i just— i can’t—”
his voice breaks.
he shoves himself up suddenly, standing too fast, knocking the bathtub with this hand. you stand, too, instinctively reach for him again.
“don’t,” he snaps, harsher now. desperate. “don’t come any closer.”
you stop dead.
tears sting your eyes, unspilled and heavy.
he paces the small space like a trapped animal, hands dragging through his hair, breath ragged. he keeps glancing toward the door, toward the hallway, like he expects something to come through it.
“i can still feel it,” he mutters. “every time you touch me, it’s— it’s like i’m back there. like i can’t— i can’t tell the difference.”
your chest hurts. physically. like something is pressing down on it, crushing your lungs.
“steve,” you say, voice breaking now. “please, talk to me.”
he laughs once — short, broken, humourless.
“talk about what?” he says, "about how i couldn’t get out? about how they kept asking the same questions over and over and over?" his hands flap about, motioning circles as he repeats himself. over and over.
his voice is sharp, "i didn’t know the answers they wanted!”
you suck in a sharp breath, tears finally spilling over. they're ones of pain and confusion. he's always so brave, you know that this isn't your steve. your baby. but, it still hurts nonetheless. fear does crazy things to people. you haven't seen it within steve until now.
he turns around to you, seeing his girl in front of him. so small. arms limp by your sides, lips in a pout. streaks of tears fall with hopelessness.
he sees your tears.
that's what finally stops him.
he freezes, staring at you like he’s just realized what he’s done. out of everything he's experienced, your tears are the most painful sight.
his shoulders slump, all the fight draining out of him at once.
“i’m sorry,” he says quickly. his voice is new again, soft. he speaks with horror. “i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to— god, i didn’t mean to yell at you.”
you shake your head, moving toward him again. this time, he lets you.
you fold into him, arms wrapping tight around his waist, pressing your face into his chest. his arms hesitate — then close around you, crushing you to him like he might fall apart if he doesn’t hold on.
he trembles.
you feel it everywhere — the way his body won’t settle, the way his heart is racing, the way he keeps swallowing like he’s fighting something stuck in his throat.
“i was so scared,” you whisper into his shirt. “you've been gone for days, i thought i’d lost you.”
his breath shudders.
“i didn’t want you to know,” he admits, voice barely holding together. “i didn’t want you to look at me and see… this.”
you pull back just enough to cradle his face, thumbs brushing gently beneath his eyes, wiping away tears he didn’t realize had fallen. your hands feel so good on his face. soft and warm. something he hasn't felt in so long.
“i see you,” you say, with a small smile. “all of you.”
he breaks.
fully. quietly. devastatingly.
he leans his forehead into yours, eyes squeezed shut, breathing uneven as the weight of it finally crashes down — the fear, the humiliation, the pain, the way he feels altered by it all.
you stay. you hold him. you let him snap and shake and cry without pulling away.
because you understand now.
the injuries will heal. but, this will take time.
loved writing this request omg, i really wanted to experiment with some angst... steve's mall trauma was completely forgotten. 🥹 thank you sm for reading .ᐟ submit me a request, i'm new & active ᢉ𐭩
hello, i was wondering if you'd do a request? i'd love to see a steve x reader moodboard of them going to the upside down! 🩵
↳ steve harrington x upsidedown!reader mood board ᢉ𐭩 .ᐟ
thank you for your request .ᐟ i loooved making this one ❣️ creds: the beautiful dividers do not belong to me & all the mood board photos used were found using pinterest collages .ᐟ submit me a request, i'm new & active ᢉ𐭩
summary: steve’s working late at family video when you call. after asking for your favourite movie, he pretends to complain. but, he brings it anyway — because it’s you ᢉ𐭩 .ᐟ
↳ fluff drabble┊steve harrington┊wc: 527┊tw: none
steve’s already tired before the phone even rings.
he's halfway through re-shelving the romcom section — which is always a mess, because nobody ever puts things back where they belong — when the desk phone lights up.
“family video.” he says, automatic.
“steeeeve.”
he smiles before he can stop himself. of course it’s you.
he leans his hip against the counter, lowering his voice like it’s a secret just for you two, “hey, you. shouldn't you be, i don’t know... doing homework or something responsible?”
“mm,” you hum, “i am being responsible. i'm planning our evening.”
steve exhales a laugh. he can picture you perfectly — curled up on your bed, phone cord wrapped around your fingers, probably already in pretty pajamas.
“uh-huh,” he says, with a hint of amusement, “and, what does this planning involve?”
“...bring back a movie?”
he glances at the rows and rows of tapes stacked around him, “you're gonna have to narrow that down, honey.”
after, there's a pause. he knows that pause. he braces himself.
“…sixteen candles?”
steve tips his head back, staring at the ceiling like it might save him, “we only just watched that.”
“but, it's my favourite.” you don't need to argue. you never do. you just say it — quiet, hopeful, deadly. he can hear the pout on your lips. if that's even possible.
that does it. easily.
he rubs his face, already reaching for the tape. “you're unbelievable.”
“you love me.”
he gives you a tired, “yeah, yeah." smoothing down his vest, his lips curve into a small smile. he softens like butter, "i do.”
when he gets to your house, the porch light’s on. it always is. it's been waiting for him, too.
your room smells warm — vanilla, popcorn, clean sheets — and it welcomes him home. your tv glows softly in the corner. you look up at him like he brought you the moon, instead of a movie you've seen together a dozen times.
steve slips the tape in like a ritual. he kicks off his shoes and joins you in bed. the vcr whirs. the screen flickers.
you curl into his side almost immediately, wrapping all the blankets over him with a cheek kiss. it’s instinct. this is where you both belong.
he wraps an arm around you, thumb brushing slow circles against your shoulder. your hair’s soft against his chin, as he presses a kiss there without needing to think.
halfway through the movie, you fall quiet. he looks down and realises you're smiling — not at the screen, but, up at him.
“what?” he whispers. he's smiling, all cute and dopey. he's so handsome when curled up in bed with you like this, wearing only your favourite pair of navy boxers and a stripy polo.
“nothing,” you whisper back, snuggling closer. “i'm just happy.”
his chest tightens — something fragile and good is happening. he doesn’t want to ever mess it up...
steve watches the movie, sure. but, mostly he watches you. the way you giggle at the same parts every time. the way you relax when he caresses your skin.
sixteen candles plays on.
steve doesn’t mind. not one bit.
thank you sm for reading .ᐟ submit me a request, i'm new & active ᢉ𐭩
gorgeous banners: cafekitsune & strangergraphics
if you liked this, there's a matching mood board. 💕
if you liked this, there's a matching steve drabble. 🩵creds: the beautiful divider does not belong to me & all the mood board photos used were found using pinterest collages .ᐟ submit me a request, i'm new & active ᢉ𐭩
creds: the beautiful divider does not belong to me & all the mood board photos used were found using pinterest collages .ᐟ submit me a request, i'm new & active ᢉ𐭩
summary: you visit scoops ahoy on a summer morning to see your friend, steve. to your delightful surprise, you leave with a pretty girl's number ᢉ𐭩 .ᐟ
↳ fluff ficlet┊robin buckley┊wc: 818┊tw: none
Starcourt Mall. Everything is all vividly coloured with neon lights, water fountains, crowded tables, and various children's rides. People are packing everywhere, following along with family and friends in huddles.
Your eyes dart around, hoping to find the potential ice-cream shop you'd heard about. The search quickly ends, eyes fixing on a brightly coloured shop. Scoops Ahoy!
You get to the store with unexpected difficulties, after pushing countless people out of the way, getting some foul words and looks in return. You can hear some cheesy sailor music playing loudly, making your nose scrunch up in disgust.
The interior is somehow worse. The walls are covered with blue, red, and white striped wallpaper. Seating booths are placed around the ice-cream parlour, red leathered and shiny. It was quite shocking to you that it was almost empty, as Starcourt Mall has only just opened. Wouldn't people crowd into an ice-cream parlour on a summer morning?
You walk up to the counter to Steve, a handsome teenager your age with perfectly styled hair. You hit your hand on front counter bell, making it sound out a loud ding!
Steve greets from behind the counter, not bothering to look up from whatever he is occupied by, “Ahoy."
“This place really complements the look.” You taunt him playfully, smiling when he finally spots you. The sailor theme is quite funny.
Steve smiles back, leaning on the counter as he takes you in, “What’re you doing here so early? My shift doesn't finish for hours.”
“I need to kill some time,” You shrug, “I thought I should pay my favourite sailor a visit.”
Steve puffs, opening his mouth to respond. But, before he can say anything, another voice pipes up from around the corner. It's raspy, laced with sarcasm.
“He’s only your favourite sailor because you haven’t met me yet," At the hatch behind Steve is a tall girl with a tall figure and a careless posture.
“I promise I’m much better company.” She laughs breathily, placing her hands placed on the window counter. Her nails are painted with navy blue nail polish, which shines in the light. Your attention is drawn to her big blue eyes and freckled cheeks, both of which are framed by her hair's shoulder-length waves. She is, like Steve, dressed in a silly uniform. Somehow, she makes it look attractive.
“Well, you do pull off that uniform.” You look her up and down, chuckling, as she returns a flirtatious grin.
Steve looks slightly offended, with a pout, as he starts running a hand down the front of his own uniform, “I think I make this thing work pretty well for me, too.”
The girl scoffs, wide-eyed, “The loser board says otherwise, Dingus.” She sings, pointing at the whiteboard that's propped up next to her. The board is split into two columns: “You Rule!” and “You Suck!”. He's been struggling to pick up girls recently, which is shocking to the whole of Hawkins.
You giggle as you look at the board, then back to her, “Things can only go downhill when he’s forced to use words.”
She laughs with you, then taps her name badge with her finger, "I'm Robin. Robin Buckley." She steps back from the window, pushing open the doors to the back room seconds later. She stands next to Steve, able to be properly involved in the conversation.
Steve remains pouting from where he stands, arms crossing defiantly over his chest, “This is not a duo I'm here for at all. I think we should have a rule that you two are not allowed within thirty feet of each other."
“You always try to keep me away from the pretty ones." You roll your eyes playfully, lips set into a smirk. Robin’s cheeks turn a pretty shade of strawberry red. For someone with such a tough attitude, she is easy to fluster.
“Well,” Steve replies, “—I hate fighting for their attention. You make me feel like a fool when around ladies with you.”
“I'm sorry," You shrug your shoulders, "Must be a strength of mine.” You glance over at Robin, who is already looking.
“Are you flirting with me through Steve right now?" Robin starts shaking her head in disbelief, "I’m disappointed in myself that it’s working.”
Steve swiftly turns to you, “My charm rubs off in here! Robin's like a charm-sucking vampire. She’s the reason I can’t get any girls.” He rants, as if he's not currently dressed in the world's worst outfit.
Robin feels a surge of confidence, "If you want to ever flirt without proxy..." She pulls a black pen from her pocket, then holds out her other soft hand in front of you. You slide yours into hers without hesitation, both of you sharing a smile.
She quickly scribbles her phone number on the back your hand, her warm fingers brushing across your skin. You feel a small shiver down your spine. Robin stands back with a pleased smile, "Call me..?"
"Y/n," You smile, nodding, "And, consider it already done."
first fic, kiiinda nervous. are the robin fandom still active on tumblr? (gorgeous divider used) .ᐟ ᢉ𐭩
