Luck of the Irish
Steve x IrishReader
Summary: St Patrick's Day at the hideout with your super enthusiastic boyfriend Steve Harrington. Fluff!
A/N: Happy St Patrick's Day!!!!!!! Just a wee one shot for the day that's in it! Being Irish I felt like it was my duty. A huge thank you to everyone who read my last one shot - the response has been actually insane and I can't thank you all enough for the kind words, reblogs, likes and comments!!!!!!!
The Hideout is heaving tonight, the only bar in Hawkins decked out like a leprechaun threw up. Green streamers drip from the ceiling, shamrock cutouts plaster the neon signs, and the jukebox is blasting “Whiskey in the Jar” on repeat.
It’s March 17th, 1987, and the little bar has gone all in on St. Paddy’s. You’re tucked into a sticky corner booth with your friends, a sweating pitcher of emerald beer sitting in the middle, because your boyfriend decided you all had to celebrate.
All because you’re Irish. As in actually Irish. You moved here a few years back when your dad got transferred for work, trading misty mornings in Donegal for Hawkins cornfields.
Steve has been hyped about it for weeks. He showed up in a Kelly-green polo that hugs him perfectly, a plastic shamrock crown tilted on that famous hair, and a pot-of-gold tattoo Robin Sharpied onto his arm in the car on the way here.
The second you slid in beside him in the booth, he pulled you straight into his lap, grinning like he’d won the lottery.
Steve picks up one of the green beer mats from the table. ‘Kiss me, I’m Irish’ it reads in bold white letters. He wiggles his eyebrows at you.
Before you can even react, Robin leans across the table and snatches it right out of his hand. “You’re Italian, dingus,” she says flatly, tossing it back down.
The boy doesn’t miss a beat. He turns that trademark Harrington smirk on you, brown eyes going all warm and suggestive under the neon lights. “Not true, Rob’s… I’ve had some Irish in me.”
Your jaw drops for half a second before you burst out laughing, elbowing him in the ribs just hard enough to make him grunt. He only laughs harder, tightening his arm around your waist.
“Steve!” you scold, cheeks burning, but you can’t stop smiling.
“Worth it,” he murmurs against your temple, pressing a kiss there.
The beer flows, Eddie drums on the table, Jonathan’s snapping Polaroids, and Nancy’s got a glittery bow in her hair. At some point, you decide it’s time to share the real stuff.
“Alright, yanks,” you laugh, leaning forward, “proper Irish lesson. Hello is Dia dhuit, dee-uh gwitch. My name is is mise, iss mish-uh. So, Dia dhuit, is mise… and then your name. And if someone’s really annoying you…” You grin. “Póg mo thóin means kiss my arse.”
The table loses it. Eddie howls the rude one so loud your table gets glares from across the bar, Jonathan chuckles behind his pint, Nancy attempts it once and immediately blushes.
But Robin? Robin is gone.
“Dia dhuit, is mise Robin,” she says slowly. Then again, faster. “Dia dhuit, is mise Robin. Dia dhuit, is mise Robin!” Louder each time, like she’s cramming for an exam. She’s half out of the booth now, absolutely butchering the pronunciation but taking it deadly serious. “Dia dhuit, is mise Robin! Am I saying it right? Dia dhuit, is mise Robin!”
You’re cracking up. Steve’s laughing into your shoulder, his arm tight around your waist. He tugs gently on the emerald ribbon he tied in your hair earlier and leans in so only you can hear him.
“This is kinda your fault, you know,” he murmurs, voice warm with a grin. “You’ve got everyone obsessed.”
You huff a quiet laugh, but he’s already dipping closer, eyes flicking to your lips.
“So…” he adds, softer now, “what’s the Irish word for bedroom?”
Your eyes narrow instantly, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Absolutely not, Harrington.”
He grins, undeterred. “C’mon, teach me something useful. Like… how do you say ‘take off your clothes’?”
You snort, swatting his arm. “In your dreams!”
He pulls you closer, pressing his forehead to yours in the middle of the chaos. “I’m sorry you’re not at home to celebrate, honey,” he says softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “But I’m also not sorry you’re here. I get to show the whole damn town just how lucky I am.”
You melt, cupping his face and pulling him into a quick, beery kiss that tastes like hops and something so perfectly Steve. The table whoops, Robin’s still chanting “Dia dhuit, is mise Robin!” between laughs, but Steve just smiles against your lips.
“Happy St. Patrick’s Day, baby,” he says softly.
You grin, forehead still pressed to his, and whisper right back, “Lá Fhéile Pádraig sona duit, mo ghrá.”
