mrs. harrington

[whimsicallyrare]

stranger things.

steve harrington.

the retirement of steve harrington. —angst

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

unscripted. —fluff

perv!steve headcanons. —nsfw

challengers (ft. robin buckley) —nsfw

mike wheeler.

the things mike wheeler wouldn’t hear. —angst

robin buckley.

challengers (ft. steve harrington) —nsfw

✧˖°꒰๑’ꀾ’๑꒱°˖✧ more upcoming!

[whimsicallyrare]

https://www.tumblr.com/whimsicallyrare/806941971227738112/in-me-and-my-husband-i-think-yn-deserved-to

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

OMG NO, please don't worry!!! you weren't rude at all. sorry if i came off as mad or upset, english is not my first language and i seem to struggle a lot with it since i’m self taught. i actually loved your comment. we're all just collectively losing it over steve because he was being a jerk, which is the point lol. thank you for being so understanding and sweet! sorry for the late reply, but i was honestly so flattered! lysm ur amazing 🩶

[whimsicallyrare]

in 'me and my husband' i think y/n deserved to stab steve a little idk (your work is amazing i love reading your stuff btw 🤍🤍)

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

TYSMM ILY I’M SO GLAD YOU LIKE IT YOU’RE SO SWEET you made my whole day 🤎

[whimsicallyrare]

me and my husband.

part 1 & part 2 ⋆.˚༄

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

taglist: @watercolorskyy @4ria790 @nocturnao @versotiger @astraealupinblack @djpugq @superawesomecool @kravitzwhore

[whimsicallyrare]

unscripted | steve harrington

pairing: director! steve x fem! reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"do it like that," he rasped, his voice thick. "we’re going again. everyone back to ones." he let go of you, but his hand lingered on your arm for a second too long before he turned and walked back to the monitors, leaving you standing alone in the rain, shaking and wondering if you still had a job, or if you finally had him.

[whimsicallyrare]

me and my husband.

part 1 & part 3 ⋆.˚༄

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a/n— part 3 out tomorrow ! focusing a little bit more on vecna/original st plot. check it out if you wanna see steve GROW A PAIR and stand up for his wife ugh. idea creds to @aestheticsunflower19 you’re a GENIUS.

[whimsicallyrare]

me and my husband.

part 2 & part 3 ⋆.˚༄

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

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

the kitchen clock ticks like a heartbeat against the silence. it’s 1:15 am. you’re sitting at the small breakfast nook, your reflection in the darkened window looking like a stranger. you’ve reapplied your lipstick twice tonight (habitual, desperate) even though the only person seeing it is the empty seat across from you.

you think back to 1985.

the air was thick with the smell of hairspray and cheap cologne. you were leaned up against steve’s bmw in the school parking lot, the hem of your skirt fluttering in the breeze. steve was laughing, his arm draped heavy and possessive over your shoulders. he was the king, you were his queen, and the world felt like it was laid out before you like a red carpet.

"just us, okay?" he’d whispered into your ear back then, ignoring the scouts, ignoring the crowds. "we’re gonna get out of this town. we’re gonna be the ones who make it."

in that moment, you were golden. you were infinite. you were the girl everyone wanted to be in 1985. now, you’re the woman who knows exactly which cleaning products take blood out of denim.

the sound of the front door slamming jolts you back to the cold kitchen. steve stumbles in, and he looks like hell. there’s a blooming purple bruise over his ribs and a deep, jagged cut on his brow that’s sluggishly bleeding onto his shirt.

"steve," you breathe, standing up to reach for him, a damp cloth already in your hand. "god, you're a mess. let me—"

"i’m fine," he snaps, flinching away from your touch. he moves past you to the sink, splashing cold water on his face, oblivious to the way you shrink back. "nancy and i had to check the perimeter of the woods. again. took longer than we thought."

"nancy?" you repeat. your voice is small. "i thought you were with dustin today."

"dustin couldn't make it," he grunts, wincing as he dabs at his forehead. "nancy had the maps. she’s the only one who actually stays focused, you know? she’s got this lead on the hawkins lab files... honestly, i don't know what we'd do without her. she’s brilliant. she’s the only one who really gets it."

he says it with a wistfulness that cuts deeper than any monster could. he isn't looking at you. he’s looking at a version of a life he thinks he missed out on— a life of purpose, of action, of her.

"i made dinner," you say, trying to reclaim even an inch of his attention. "i waited. i thought maybe we could just... talk. not about the gates. just about us."

steve sighs. a heavy, annoyed sound that makes your stomach flip. he finally looks at you, but his eyes are impatient and bloodshot. "talk about what, y/n? the laundry? the neighbors? i’m out there trying to make sure the world doesn't end, and you're worried about... dinner?"

he scoffs, shaking his head as he heads toward the stairs. "must be nice. just staying here in your own little world while the rest of us deal with reality."

you stand frozen in the kitchen. the perfect wife in the perfect house. you’ve spent the last few years being his waiting room and his nurse. you are the woman who stayed in this stagnant life because you were waiting for the boy from the bmw to come back.

but as you hear him moving around upstairs—likely calling nancy to "double-check" a detail from their night— you catch your reflection one last time.

the lipstick is too bright. the house is too clean. your life is a collection of polished surfaces and hollow echoes. you peaked at seventeen, and now you’re just the person who washes the blood out of the clothes he wears to go see someone else.

[b6rntosdiee]

[whimsicallyrare]

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

perv! steve who makes a point of buying coffee for both of you, always finding a ploy to stop by. when you’re distracted enough, he spills nearly all of his coffee on you. the white fabric of your shirt becomes translucent the moment the liquid hits it. you’re left standing there with your bralette on full display, your nipples hardening at the contact with the hot water. he’s definitely jerking off to this later.

perv! steve who keeps a sketchy amount of strawberry lollipops on the beamer’s glove box. every single day he rides you home and hands you one of them, it’s like a routine. little did you know every time you suck on them, you’re putting up a show for him. he imagines all kinds of scenarios where the lollipop is nothing but his dick, and your slurping sounds don’t make it any better.

perv! steve who has a fierce and devotedly protective nature when it comes to you. no boy at the entire hawkins will ever have the courage to ask you out. and if they dare to take a risk, steve ensures they regret it before the sun comes up. you’ll see them the next day, battered and bruised, fleeing at the mere sight of you. you’re his property, and he’ll leave anyone who forgets that in the dirt.

perv! steve who incessantly drops things on purpose every time you’re wearing a short skirt, just to make you bend and expose yourself to his gaze. “i swear to god you’re being extremely dumb today, butterfingers.” you say, unaware.

perv!steve who stole a bracelet from your drawer that he rubs against his lenght while he jerks off every night. unfortunately, he forgot it on his car and you found it lying on the dashboard. “my dear bracelet! nancy got it for me. ew, why is it sticky?”

perv!steve who continually yearns for your touch. if you’re in his way, he doesn’t just ask you to move; he’ll firmly hook his hands around your hips, guiding you to the side with a lingering pressure. if he spots a stray crumb on your face, he won’t just tell you; he’ll instinctively wet his thumb against his lips and reach out to buff the spot clean, his gaze fixed intently on yours.

perv! steve who’ll play a game of subtle contact at any social gathering. when walking through a crowd at a party, he won’t just walk beside you. he places a heavy, protective hand on the small of your back, steering you. he "accidentally" bumps his knee against yours under the table and leave it there, waiting to see if you pull away. it ignites a predatory hunger in him, dark and demanding.

[whimsicallyrare]

challengers.

robin buckley & steve harrington x reader challengers drabble

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

"i’m just saying," robin’s voice cut through the rhythmic thrum of the storm, sharp and restless from the backseat. "if the match hadn't been called, i would have eaten you alive on that court, steve. you were playing soft. you were playing like you were afraid to break a nail."

you chuckled. “no, robin. that’s mean.”

steve leaned back against the driver’s side door, "i wasn't playing soft, buckley. i was playing smart. something you wouldn't understand because you’re too busy trying to play like a human calculator."

he turned his head, his eyes landing on you in the passenger seat. they were dark, blown out, and hungry. "tell her, y/n. tell her i had her cornered."

“you had nothing," robin hissed, leaning forward so far her chest brushed against the back of your seat. she grabbed your shoulder, her thumb digging into the fabric of your tank top. "you saw it, didn't you? you were watching me."

you looked from steve’s jaw, tight and frustrated, to robin’s eyes, bright with a manic sort of competitive fire. the tension in the car wasn't about tennis anymore. it hadn't been for a long time.

“i think,” you said, your voice low, "that both of you are incredibly loud when you’re losing."

the silence that followed was heavy, charged like the air before a lightning strike.

steve didn't wait. he lunged across the center console, his hand cupping your jaw with an almost aggressive desperation. his mouth crashed against yours, tasting like salt and the peppermint gum he’d been chewing all afternoon. it wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a claim, an attempt to drown out robin’s voice.

but robin wasn't about to be sidelined.

"oh, shut up, harrington," she muttered, but her voice was breathless. she reached over the seat, her hands tangling in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to find the sensitive skin of your neck. she started kissing it slowly at first, but she wouldn’t last a minute stopping her determination to leave a mark.

steve’s hand slid from your face to the back of your neck, his kiss deepening, tongue sliding against yours as if he were trying to win a point he’d been chasing for years. simultaneously, robin’s teeth grazed your collarbone, her breath hot against your skin.

they weren't looking at each other. they were focused entirely on you, competing for every gasp you let out, every time your hands fumbled to pull them closer.

sitting in the middle of their chaos, you finally take control. you grab steve by the collar to pull him closer while simultaneously hooking your fingers into robin’s belt loops to pull her over the seat.

you let out a frustrated huff at the lack of space, your fingers moving quickly to unbutton robin’s pants and pull them over her hips. surprisingly, another pair of hands help you with your task.

you know he’s not into her at all, because he keeps his eyes on you. the look in his eyes it’s almost haunted, you couldn’t t stop thinking about it.

eventually you had to. by the moment steve began to lose himself in the depths of your gaze, robin grabbed you by the hair and pulled you into a fervent kiss, expertly thieving the very air you had only just reclaimed from steve’s lips.

behind you, the soft, defeated weight of steve’s sigh echoed through the car. a silent acknowledgment that the night was only just beginning.

[whimsicallyrare]

the things mike wheeler wouldn´t hear.

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

excited to see will and el once again, you can’t shut up—not even long enough to take a breath. they’re used to it. you’ve always been a chatterbox; that’s what they loved about you. will can’t even remember when you stopped being so talkative sometime last year—until mike starts interrupting.

mike likes to talk as if he’s narrating a story you’re already in, as if your role in the conversation is fixed and he’s only reminding you of your lines. every time you say something simple—an observation, an opinion, a feeling—he corrects it immediately, casually. it’s instinctive: the slight shake of his head, the smile that’s meant to be reassuring but only makes your skin crawl.

“you’re reading too much into it,” he says, so you try again. slower. clearer. he sighs, already irritated. “that’s not what’s happening.” and then you know it’s too late. he’s mad now. his voice rises to prove his point, to assert himself, to reinforce his masculinity.

“i know what you mean.” except he doesn’t.

when you finally summon the courage to say that, el walks in, asks a question, and mike answers for you. he always does. and just like that, you lose your nerve. you go quiet, nodding along to a version of yourself he seems more comfortable with.

will notices—but what can he do? they’re all accustomed to it. mike has always been this way: you either learn to live with it, or you go mad.

later, you realize this is how it always starts. not with shouting. with rewriting.

it explodes over something small. it always does.

you tell him you’re tired of not being listened to. the words come out shaking but real. you’re so damn scared and you don’t even realize.

he scoffs. “that’s not fair, baby.” so you list examples. real ones. specific ones. each one makes him angrier. or maybe it’s just the fact that you remember every time he humiliates you in front of everyone.

“that didn’t happen like that,” he says. “you’re exaggerating. you’re remembering it wrong. not everything is about you.” he keeps cutting you off mid-sentence like he’s racing you to the end of your own thoughts.

“can you let me finish?” you snap.

he freezes—then bristles. “don’t yell at me.” the hypocrisy is so loud it hurts. he’s been shouting for ten minutes, but the moment you match his volume, you’re the problem.

“you always do this,” he says. “you make everything a fight.” he knows he’s losing you; you can see it in his eyes. so instead of arguing, he starts wounding.

“maybe this is why people leave,” he mutters suddenly, voice low. calculated. and that damn smile. “you get like this and then act surprised when no one can handle it.”

it feels like being shoved. you stop breathing, stop thinking. his words hit places you didn’t know he knew about. he probably doesn’t. this is just a game for mike; he’ll try as hard as he can to get the last word.

he keeps going, because silence doesn’t stop him—it invites him. “you’re not easy to love, you know that?”

something in you breaks. tears spill before you can stop them. your hands shake; you look away. and instantly, mike softens. he knows he won.

“hey—hey, that’s not what i meant,” he says, reaching for you. his voice drops, turns gentle, like he didn’t just tear you open. “you know i just get scared. i just don’t want to lose you.” he holds you while you cry, as if it just happened on its own.

afterward, alone, you replay it all. you see the pattern so clearly it makes you nauseous.

he only apologizes when you cry. he only listens when you’re breaking. he only changes when the threat of losing you is loud enough.

mike wheeler only listens when he thinks he’s losing you, and you wonder how many times you’ve had to hurt just to be heard.

so when you tell him you’re done, you do it calmly. no tears this time.

mike doesn’t move. he doesn’t cry. he sits back in his chair and looks at you with a terrifying, clinical sort of pity. he lets the silence stretch until it feels like the walls are closing in. he knows you hate it.

“i was afraid this would happen,” he says, his voice low and steady. he shakes his head slowly, like a doctor looking at a terminal patient. “i’ve been watching you unravel for weeks. the mood swings, the paranoia, this weird obsession with… control. i’ve been trying to hold us together while you’ve been losing your grip.”

he stands up, moving slowly, blocking the only exit from the room without making it look like an accident this time.

he isn’t yelling. no, he’s explaining. “you think you’re leaving me? look at you. you’re shaking. you’re erratic. if you walk out that door right now, where are you going to go? who’s going to take care of you in this… madness? will? will who called me asking why you’ve been acting so strange lately?”

he sees the flicker of doubt in your eyes—not because you believe him, but because you realize how deep he’s dug the trenches. he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. his touch is cold.

“stay,” he commands. it isn’t a plea. it’s an ultimatum wrapped in a whisper. “stay, and we can tell everyone you were just stressed. i’ll help you get back to normal, baby. i’ll be the hero who stayed by your side while you were sick.”

he leans in, his breath warm against your cheek, his voice dripping with a terrifying kind of love. “but if you walk out… baby, you’re on your own. and i’ll make sure everyone knows exactly how unstable you’ve become. is that what you want? to be the girl everyone pities?”

he moves to the door again, this time closing it, clicking the lock with a sharp, final sound. he stands there, the gatekeeper of your sanity.

“now,” he says, his voice returning to that smooth, terrifyingly calm narrative tone. and that bloodless smile. “why don’t you sit down, and let’s talk about how we’re going to fix you.”

[whimsicallyrare]

the retirement of steve harrington.

pairing — steve harrington x reader

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

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

the night that was supposed to be your dream anniversary turned out to be the worst nightmare possible.

you’ve been sitting at a booth in enzo’s for nearly forty minutes, couples to your side give you pity looks as the waiter serves you the third cup of water. you spent three hours getting ready to end up sitting like an idiot waiting for steve to show up. he’s late because “mike and lucas got into a fight that only i could settle.”

the bell above the door chimed, and for a second, you didn’t even think about looking up. you knew exactly how the hurried, heavy footsteps of someone who was ready to apologize before they even saw your face sounded like.

steve slid into the booth opposite from you, still wearing his video store vest, his hair was a mess and the scent of gas and dampness overwhelmed your senses.

“y/n, i am so, so sorry. i was halfway here, i swear, but dustin paged and it sounded like a code red, and then it turned out mike and lucas were practically at each other’s throats over—”

“was there a monster, steve?” you asked quietly, immediately cutting through his frantic rambling. “was there a deadly menace threatening the kid’s lives?”

“what? no, but—”

“was anyone bleeding? was the world ending on our anniversary day? am i that cursed?”

“no, of course you’re not.” he muttered, his shoulders hunching as realization hits him. “but they needed me. they don’t have anyone else who gets them, you know that.”

“i know that.” you said, looking at the two glasses of water lying on the table. one was condensation-dry, yours remained untouched. “you should’ve warned me that ‘getting it’ meant you had to be their therapist on the one night you promised to be my boyfriend.”

the drive home was dead silent. you’ll forgive him, at last. you always do, he thought.

you wiped your tears as you packed a bag, you’re going to stay at a friend’s place for a couple days. steve is sitting on the edge of the bed, looking confused and hurt, but playing it off because he knows he can’t stop you. he never could, you’re too stubborn even for him.

“i just don’t get it!” he finally yells, throwing his hands up. “i’m a nice guy, i help people, isn’t that exactly what you liked about me? that i’m not the selfish asshole that i used to be?”

“there’s a big difference between being selfless and being a ghost, steve.” you kept your calm tone. “you’re not a prick anymore, con-fucking-gratulations. now you’re a babysitter.”

“i’m not a— i’m your boyfriend!”

“are you?” you immediately stopped, looking at him dead in the eye. “don’t get me wrong, i love the kids, this isn’t even their fault.” you clarified. “but… when was the last time we did something that didn’t involve them? when was the last time we had a conversation that didn’t end with you looking at the horizon for a… fucking demogorgon!”

he let out a short bark of a laugh. “they need me, y/n. it’s not fair, they need me.”

“and what about me, steve? i need you too! these kids don’t need you, they want you. and i’ve come to realize that i’m the only person in the entire hawkins you feel comfortable letting down, because you think i’m the only one who will always be here when you get back. you’ve built your entire identity around being the one who saves the day, because you’re scared to feel like you’re just some guy working at a video—”

steve’s walkie-talkie, which he keeps on the bedside table like a third wheel (more like an extension of his body), suddenly crackles to life.

“harrington? steve, are you there? it’s henderson. dude, we’ve got a situation at the mall, i think i saw a government card and—”

steve’s hand immediately shot out, hovering over the device. he was visibly shaking, his wide eyes projecting that instinctual protector light that dustin’s voice seemed to trigger. he looked at the walkie, then at you.

“please don’t.” you pleaded, what a fucking ridiculous plea, falling on deaf ears once again. “if you pick up that radio, don’t bother putting it back down,” you whispered, your voice trembling in a single thread. “because the second you answer him, you’re telling me that a fourteen year old’s paranoia is more important than our relationship falling apart.”

his fingers fluttered nervously against the radio. “steve? earth to harrington! this is an emergency!” dustin shouted on the other line.

steve let out a frustrated sigh, grabbing the device. “dustin, talk to me. i’m on my way, just keep talking.”

he didn’t even see you leave. he didn’t even look back, steve harrington didn't know how to hold onto someone who wasn't asking him to save them.

the rain was the only sound in the trailer park. it was the kind of heavy, relentless downpour that made hawkins feel like it was being drowned. you were standing under the tiny awning of your friend’s porch, staring at the rain long enough for it to wash away your thoughts, when the beemer pulled up.

steve didn’t get out immediately. he sat there, headlights cutting through the gray, for five long minutes. when he finally stepped out, he wasn’t running. he didn’t have a frantic look or a walkie-talkie in his hand. he was’t wearing any gloves, he wasn’t carrying any homemade weapon.

he was soaked, his hair plastered to his forehead. he stopped at the bottom of the steps, six inches away from the dry wood of the porch.

“you’re freezing.” you mumbled, the old feeling to care about him warring with the wall you’d built around your heart these past weeks.

“i’m not coming up, not unless you want me to.” his voice strained to carry over the rain. you remained silent.

“i couldn’t give less of a fuck about a cold, y/n. i care about the fact that i haven’t seen you in two weeks, and the only reason i stayed away was because i realized that every time i showed up, i was asking you for something. to heal me, or forgive me, or wait for me.”

he wiped rain from his eyes, his chest heaving. “the kids just called me, a real steve emergency. max. she was upset about something with her mom.”

your heart sank. “and? do you plan on being hero steve for the tenth time this week?”

“no.” steve said. the rain stopped in your ears, and the world hung heavy in the air. “i told her that i loved her, and that i’d talk to her tomorrow at the video store. and then i hung up. because for once in my life, i realized that if i went to her, to them, i was just running away from the fact that i’ve ruined the best thing i ever had.”

he took just one step up. “i’ve spent three years being a shield. but a shield doesn’t know how to be held, it just knows how to take the hits. i don’t want to be a shield anymore. i’m retiring.” his voice cracked. “i don’t want to be hero steve, i want to be the steve who loves you. if there’s still room for that guy.”

you stepped forward, reaching out into the rain to grab the front of his soaked jacket, pulling him up the last two steps and into the dry heat of your space. he stumbled against you, his arms wrapping around your waist.

"there's room.”