Lizzie

i like reading fics. sometimes i write too

[lizzzzz-13]

are you going to be posting more of your smau? I love it so much btw

Omg Hiiii 🥰

Thank you, you're so sweet 🩷🫂

I will continue, yes. I was going through some heavy stuff last month so i stopped writing but now im gonna be back 🫶🫶🫶

[lizzzzz-13]

I just started a Steve Harrington SMAU on twitter

I'm gonna leave the link below if anyone feels like reading it 🩷

[daily-daydream]

Non-spicy ways to show Intimacy

Intimacy isn't always just the spicy stuff! Here's a few ways to show it through your characters in a few, simple ways...

Kissing their S/O's hand, knuckles, wrist...bonus points for eye contact!

Speaking of which...eyes. Glances across the room, prolonged eye contact, staring at each other

Tending to the other's wounds/ injuries

Knowing the other's tiny habits

Reaching out to the other when in pain, trouble, ect

Whispering jokes to each other

Carefully wiping off a stain from their clothes or face

Taking care of each other when sick or hurt

Hand over the heart/ ear over the heart just to hear it beat

Pressing their thumb over the pulse point for the same thing

Tracing scars, tattoos, birth marks, freckles

Giving the other something tiny that means a lot, a picture, a shiny rock, a flower

In fantasy settings, helping the other put on/ take off armor...trusting the other to know where daggers, knives, poisons are hidden

Telling each other secrets/ thoughts they've told nobody before

Tucking back the other's hair

Putting a piece of jewelry on the other or letting them borrow clothes

Keeping each other warm in the cold

In cases with chronic illness, letting the other care for/ know symptoms

Brushing, braiding hair, applying skincare, etc.

Nightmare comfort

Wiping away tears

Proximity- sitting near each other, sticking close, standing beside each other while doing a task such as cooking, laundry, painting...

Sharing a book, sitting close enough to read it together

[lizzzzz-13]

actually romantic - min ho part 2

previous chapter - next chapter

1.4k words min ho x fem!reader in which min ho is hoplessly in love with kitty and asks you to be his fake girlfriend during valentine's day.

You laugh. "Are you for real?" you ask, still a bit amused by the whole situation. "It's kind of an insane thing to ask."

"I know, but I'm DESPERATE! It's just a dinner, nobody will ever know. I'll tell Kitty and Dae we broke up in a couple of weeks and then we won't ever have to talk about this again," Min Ho says as he walks closer to you. He really is desperate. That usual confident and nonchalant Min Ho is nowhere to be found right now, this is Min Ho like you've never seen before.

"Fine, I'll do it. But you'll owe me BIG TIME!" You extend your hand and Min Ho takes it, his hand warm and strong. And with a handshake, you seal the deal.

"Whatever you ask, I'll do it," he says, relieved. "Thank you."

Q is watching everything with a pleased expression.

"Yeah, just text me the details for tomorrow."

You are with Min Ho, in the back of his limo.

"You actually suggested your favorite restaurant for tonight?" you ask, a bit amused. "You're hopeless. You're still trying to impress Kitty."

"Oh, shut up," Min Ho groans. "If I have to go through this nonsense, at least I'm having good food."

You roll your eyes. "You make it sound like this isn't totally your fault."

"Whatever, Tokki. Let's just go through things again before we-" you interrupt him before he can finish the sentence.

"Tokki? What the hell?" you ask, confused.

"It means 'bunny' in Korean. It's a cute pet name. Since we've been dating for a while, I thought I'd use a pet name for you."

You huff.

"I know what it means. But bunny, seriously?" you ask, and Min Ho just looks at you, up and down, which annoys you. "Whatever. So, we've been together for almost two months now and we've been super secretive because Q doesn't trust you. Anything else I need to know?"

"No, that's basically it. We can say we've been sneaking out and studying together. They'll believe us, it's not like they've been paying attention to what we've been doing."

You notice how Min Ho fidgets a bit with his phone and you realize he's actually nervous.

"Just try not to look at Kitty like she holds the sun and we'll be fine. They'll believe us," you assure him.

The restaurant is on a really nice rooftop, all decorated for Valentine's Day with dim lights and red roses everywhere.

There are a lot of couples having dinner when you arrive, and the moment Min Ho spots Kitty and Dae, he slides an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

"Just don't expect me to kiss you," you whisper to him, and he ignores you as you finally reach the table.

"Oh my god! I can't believe it's YOU! You are Min Ho's secret girlfriend!" Kitty almost squeals in happiness. "How did I never think about it?"

You chuckle as Min Ho pulls the chair out for you to sit.

"Maybe you're not as good at matchmaking as you thought?" you tease, and Kitty and Dae laugh. Min Ho glares at you, but you brush it off.

"That is… unexpected. But it's nice," Dae says to Min Ho. "How did it happen?"

You, Kitty, and Dae look at Min Ho expectantly. He takes a sip of his water to buy some time.

"Ah, you know. The usual. After we had that group project, we started talking and one thing led to another, and here we are," he says dismissively, trying to sound cool as he puts an arm around your shoulders.

"Come on! I want details! Who asked who out? Who kissed who first? Why is it a secret? How long have you been together?" Kitty asks, excited.

You wait for Min Ho to answer all of those questions when you realize they're all looking at you.

"Oh, you want me to tell the story?" you ask, a bit surprised, and Min Ho just smiles.

"Go on, Tokki," he says, and you bite the inside of your cheek at the stupid pet name.

"So, this is a secret because Q doesn't trust Min Ho," you explain, and Dae nods.

"That makes sense. I'm sorry, man, but I wouldn't want you near my sister if she were old enough for you to date her," Dae laughs, and Min Ho rolls his eyes while you smile, amused.

"Min Ho was the one who asked me out, obviously," you tell Kitty and Dae. "Q was always telling me how much of a player Min Ho is, but when he asked me out... I could sense the truth in him, you know? And by the end of the first date, he kissed me."

"Min Ho! You actually changed! Who knew love would look so good on you," Kitty says in a happy tone. But when Min Ho hears the word 'love,' he actually chokes.

"Love? No. No. No. I'm not—ouch!" you pinch his leg from under the table at the same time the waiter comes to get your orders. "We're dating. Try not to sound like you despise me or whatever," you hiss under your breath while the waiter talks to Kitty and Dae. Min Ho just glares at you.

Once the waiter gets everyone's orders, Min Ho speaks again.

"What I meant was, we've been dating for a short time, almost two months, so it's early to say that…" he clears his throat. "I mean, we really like each other."

Kitty nods, a bit embarrassed for suggesting you were in love. "You both look super happy. And you make a really cute couple."

The rest of the dinner goes by smoothly. Every time Kitty asks something about your relationship, you're quick to answer, and Min Ho seems relieved. And every time you notice he's making heart eyes at Kitty or just staring at Kitty and Dae being cute, you pinch his leg under the table. By the second time you do it, he slides an arm around your waist and pinches you back.

"We have to do this again sometime!" Kitty says happily. "There's this cute cafe that opened downtown that I know you'll love!"

You've just arrived at school and are walking back to your dorms. Dae and Kitty are holding hands. They make a nice couple and seem to be really in love. You and Min Ho are walking together, his arm draped over your shoulder.

"Sure. Just... You know, Q can never know about this or he'll freak out," you say, knowing full well this will never happen again. "Maybe we should part ways before Q sees us," you add, still playing your part.

"Good idea. I'll go with you, since I'm heading back to the girls' dorm," Kitty says, giggling a bit. Then she turns to kiss Dae goodbye as you and Min Ho watch.

Before you can take another step, Min Ho pulls you by the waist. "Good night, Tokki," he says with a smug smile. You glance back at Kitty and Dae to see if they're watching. They are.

You sigh as you turn to Min Ho, rolling your eyes so only he can see, and he actually chuckles at your reaction.

"Good night, babe." You stand on your tiptoes, holding onto his arms as he holds your waist, and you kiss the corner of his mouth before walking back with Kitty to your dorm.

You don't think much about it. You're happy you'll get your tickets to see BTS, and you had an amazing dinner. You fall asleep, happy that tomorrow is Sunday and you'll be able to sleep until noon.

But life had other plans.

It's before 9 a.m. when Madison wakes you up. "YOU'RE DATING MIN HO AND HAVEN'T TOLD ME?"

You jolt awake, startled. "What? No. What are you saying?" you're still a bit groggy.

"I thought we were friends!" Madison says, and she sounds genuinely hurt.

"We are! What are you talking about?" you sit up in bed, your hair disheveled.

"It's all over the group chat."

You roll your eyes, annoyed. "That's a lie. Who said that?" you ask as you grab your phone. Dozens of notifications.

There's a knock on your bedroom door, and then it opens—it's Juliana. She has a funny, confused look on her face.

"Your boyfriend is here."

--------------

authors note: omg, thank you all for reading! i've never thought so many people would read something i wrote. im sorry it took me so long to post part 2, but i've been through some depressive episodes. but i feel better now. so, what are your thoyghts on part 2? and what did you think about about xo kitty s3? see you guys soon!

[lizzzzz-13]

GUYS GUESS WHO I SAW TODAY

why is he perpetually confused though

[lizzzzz-13]

you guys see what I see, right????

if this was a fanfiction, please send me the link lol

if not, the author DEFINITELY was inspired by steve

[munson-blurbs]

Coach!Steve Harrington x Female!Reader miniseries

Miniseries Summary: An ordinary summer visiting relatives in Hawkins took an unexpected turn when you fell for your cousin's Little League coach. But will disapproving family and small-town gossip get in the way of true love?

MASTERLIST (links added when published)

⚾︎ first base ⚾︎ second base ⚾︎ third base ⚾︎ home

[lizzzzz-13]

girlie come back we need your thoughts in s5:((

omg hiiiii

first of all thank you for your message 🫂🩷 life has been a lot lately

I watched the finale and, well, I know I'm a minority but I actually liked it?

I know there are a bunch of loose ends and I'd do a lot of things differently, but overall I guess it was a good ending. I loved coach Steve and I can't wait to read all the fics people are writing and maybe try to write one myself? (I've been planning on writing a whole fic through the whole series, but I don't know, I'm still thinking about it)

and also I can't stop crying whenever i watch an edit of the ending.

what are your thoughts on the ending?

[usedtobecooler]

he just— and he—- then he.. then.. THEEEEN

[lizzzzz-13]

i am sick

not to be parasocial about it, but im jealous

[sweetlikenonsense]

The Warmest Lie ♡ chapter five and a half

The Parental Review

Pairings: Steve Harrington x fem!reader | Some Robin Buckley x Nancy Wheeler on the side

Summary: Time for the “parents” to weigh in—with opinions you didn’t ask for and warnings Steve definitely didn’t want.

Word count: 2.1k

Note: Chapter 5 was getting a little out of hand but I couldn't not write Joyce and Hopper's opinions on all of this 🤷🏼‍♀️ So here's a little extra - think of it as a thank you for supporting despite my lack of a schedule.

The Series Masterlist - The Warmest Lie ♡ Chapter five ♡

Before the sun even had its chance to fully rise you found Steve Harrington leaning against your doorframe like he’d been there hundreds of times before - not just that one night he chauffeured you and Eddie home after the van died (again).

"Delivery," he announced, his voice too bright for the early hour, holding out a cardboard cup. The smell of coffee hit you before the warmth of the cup did. As soon as his hand was free, it swept through his slightly damp hair - one of his nervous tells, which made it clear he wasn’t as nonchalant as he pretended. 

You took it, fingers brushing his, and the brief contact sent an annoying jolt through you. He didn’t move from the doorway, just watched you take the first sip, his smirk softening into something unreadable when a small smile graced your face at the taste. 

The silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid from last night’s interrogation under the flickering movie screen.

Steve cleared his throat, shifting his weight. "So, Joyce first? Get the easy one outta the way?" His attempt at casualness was undercut by the way his knuckles whitened around his own coffee cup. You nodded, the warmth of the latte suddenly too much against your palm.

You both knew what awaited you when you pulled up to pick up the kids for the trip to the mall. If the interrogation from the gang was embarrassing, the interrogations from the gang’s unofficial parents were going to be absolutely mortifying.  

First up: Joyce. 

“Hey, maybe the kids didn't say anything?” Steve shrugged as he pulled into the Byer’s driveway. A grimace on his face which screamed the opposite of the reassurance you knew he was going for. 

You cut him a look - “Steve. These are the same kids who once tried to fashion an FBI badge out of paper-maché. They absolutely said something.”

Before he could argue, the front door swung open. Joyce stood there in a cardigan and slippers, mug in hand, her hair pinned up messily like she’d been up for hours already. 

Okay,” he muttered, glancing at you. “We go in, act normal. Real casual. Just—”

She spotted the car, spotted the two of you, and her smile bloomed slow and all-knowing.

“Abort mission,” you whispered, already feeling heat climb your neck.

“Too late,” Steve hissed back, then—like a reflex—he was out of the car, circling around to your side. He swung your door open and held out his hand, palm steady. When you took it, his other hand instinctively pressed to the small of your back as you slid out of the seat.

Joyce didn’t miss a thing. She tilted her head, sipping her coffee, that smirk of hers saying more than words ever could.

“Morning you two,” she called, voice warm but way too amused. “Here for Will?”

Steve froze with his hand still hovering at your back, caught red-handed. You yanked a few inches away, but Joyce’s eyebrows arched like she’d already written the ending of this story.

“Big mall day,” Steve blurted, his voice a little too loud. “Group trip.”

Joyce just hummed, her smirk softening into something gentler—something maternal, supportive. “Mhm. Well, he’s grabbing his shoes. You two can come in and wait, if you want.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

Steve swallowed hard, muttering under his breath as he followed you up the walk, “Yeah. This is going great.”

Inside, the Byers’ house smelled faintly of toast and laundry detergent, warm in a way that pressed at your chest. Joyce set her mug down on the counter, still smiling that soft, maddeningly knowing smile.

“Will’s just upstairs,” she said lightly. “He won’t be long.”

Steve nodded too quickly, shoving his free hand in his pocket. The other still hovered a little too close to your back, like he didn’t know where else to put it.

Joyce’s eyes flicked to the space between you, then to your face, then back again. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. Her expression said it all: Finally.

You busied yourself with your latte, staring hard at the countertop like the swirl in the laminate might rescue you. Steve, hopelessly uncomfortable, launched into filler—rambling about mall traffic, coupons, pretzels, anything. He didn’t shut up until Joyce stepped close.

Joyce just hummed again, that soft supportive note that felt suspiciously like approval. She stepped close, brushing her hand over your arm like a mother would—gentle, grounding.

When she leaned in, her voice dropped to a whisper meant only for you: “I told you so.”

Your cheeks burned. You shot her a look, but Joyce only smiled wider, warmth radiating off of her like sunlight. 

Her hand squeezed your arm lightly, her voice quiet, steady. “He’s good for you. Don’t overthink it. Don’t talk yourself out of it. Just... let yourself be happy, okay?”

Your throat tightened, words stuck somewhere behind the steam of your coffee. You managed a small nod.

And then, on her way to the stairs, she paused just long enough to lay a hand on Steve’s shoulder. Not a tease. Not approval disguised as amusement. A simple, grounding squeeze.

He blinked, startled, and when she was gone his shoulders sagged, breath slipping out like he’d been holding it for miles. A quick, unguarded smile tugged at his mouth before he buried it behind his cup.

Once she had left the room, Steve whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “What did she say to you?”

“Nothing,” you muttered, taking another too-long sip of your drink.

Joyce glanced over her shoulder, and you swore she was fighting a laugh.

Will clattered down the stairs just in time to save you, and soon enough you and Steve were herding him out the door with half-hearted goodbyes.

Steve held the car door open for you again—hand brushing your back just long enough to send another bolt of heat through you—and slid into the driver’s seat with a sigh of relief.

“Well,” he said, turning the key, “that wasn’t so bad.”

He tossed you a quick grin, like he’d just passed some unexpected test.

But instead of answering, you just stared out the window, sipping your latte. Suspiciously quiet.

Steve’s grin faltered. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel once, twice, then glanced sideways. “...What?”

“Nothing,” you said too quickly, a small smile which Steve would describe as weird on your face and your voice too even.

His frown deepened, eyes narrowing, but you didn’t look at him. You kept watching the Byers’ house disappear in the rearview, your silence saying more than words.

Next up: Hopper (god help you—or, more accurately, Steve).

"Okay, plan C," Steve announced his third plan as he pulled into the gravel drive, voice tight, knuckles white on the wheel. "You distract Hopper. I’ll grab the girls and run. We meet back at the car in under two minutes.” 

You snorted. “Oh, sure. Because Hopper isn’t going to notice you sprinting through his living room with two teenagers under your arms like footballs.”

Steve shot you a look. “You’re laughing now, but you don’t understand. Hopper hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you.”

“He tolerates me. At best. And only because I chauffeur his kid around for free.”

Before you could argue, the front door creaked open and there he was: Hopper, filling the doorway like the final boss in some impossible video game. Arms crossed. Brow set.

“Okay,” Steve muttered, panic flickering in his eyes, “plan D-”

You ignored him, unbuckling and stepping out of the car. 

“Hey!” Steve hissed from the driver’s seat. “I was going to open th-” But you’d already shut it behind you, forcing him to scramble out of his side with a muttered, “Unbelievable.”

Hopper’s gaze tracked the two of you as you walked up the drive. When Steve finally caught up and slid his hand to the small of your back in that way he’d been doing a lot recently, Hopper’s brows rose a fraction.

“Well, well,” he said, voice gravelly. “Guess the kids weren’t lying.”

Steve froze beside you. “Uh—lying about what?”

“About this.” Hopper gestured vaguely between you both, his mouth twitching like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to smirk or scowl. “Took you two long enough.”

Heat flooded your face. “It’s not—it’s just—”

Hopper cut you off with a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Don’t bother. Joyce already called." Then, with a small smile at you: "C’mon in, kid."

Then, when Steve moved to follow, Hopper was suddenly back “Not you.”

Steve blinked. “Wait—what?”

Hopper leaned his weight against the doorframe, looming. “I think we need to have a word. Don’t you?”

Steve went pale. “Uh—”

You smirked, slipping out of view. “Have fun, Honey,” you called over your shoulder, sweet as sugar. 

Steve shot you a betrayed look which was obscured by Hopper’s chest whilst whisper-yelling, “Shortcake!”

The door clicked shut behind you, leaving Steve alone with Hopper’s stare.

Steve shifted on the porch like the wood had suddenly gotten too hot under his sneakers. “So… uh. What’s up, Chief?”

Hopper’s brows rose. “What’s up,” he repeated, voice flat. “What’s up is that my kid—all of my kids—are about to pile into your car. With you.”

Steve blinked. His Kid? The words hit heavier than any threat could.

Steve swallowed. “Right. And that’s—that’s great. Carpool efficiency. Gas prices are crazy these days, am I right?”

Hopper just stared at him. Long. Slow. Until Steve squirmed.

“You know,” Hopper said finally, voice low, “I’ve seen guys like you before. Hair too perfect. Smile too easy. Acting like you’ve got it all figured out.” His eyes flicked deliberately toward the door you’d just disappeared through. “But if you’re gonna be around her, Harrington, you better make damn sure you’re not just playing.”

Steve’s throat worked. “I’m not.” His voice cracked, and he cleared it quickly. Firmer: “I’m not.”

For a second, Hopper just watched him. Then his mouth twitched into the ghost of a smirk. “Good answer. Keep it up.”

Steve let out a breath like he’d been holding it for a decade. It rushed out too fast, shaky with nerves. “Thanks. I mean—yeah. Of course. Definitely.”

“Relax, kid.” Hopper clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. “I’m not gonna break your legs. Yet.”

Steve’s laugh came out strangled, more squeak than sound. “Cool. Great. Awesome. Love that.”

The door creaked open again, and you reappeared, holding El’s jacket. “Everything good out here?”

“Peachy,” Steve said quickly, a little too brightly.

Hopper grunted. “We’re good. For now.” Then his eyes flicked to you, sharp but fond. “Just remember —if Harrington here ever forgets how to treat you, I’ve got a shovel and a lot of empty ground.”

You raised your coffee in a mock toast. “Noted.”

Hopper nodded once, then turned to head back inside.

But you just couldn’t help yourself.: “Oh, and how’s Joyce, by the way?”

That stopped him in his tracks.

Steve’s head whipped around so fast it was a miracle he didn’t pull something. Hopper paused, his hand on the doorframe. His ears went pink.

“...She’s fine,” he muttered, and disappeared inside without another word.

You grinned into your latte as Steve gawked at you. “Did you just—”

“Yup,” you said, breezing past him toward the car. “Come on.” 

He followed, still looking over his shoulder like Hopper might burst back out and arrest him for witnessing what you just pulled. By the time he slid into the driver’s seat, some of the colour had returned to his face.

But he was quiet.

Too quiet.

You buckled in, sipping your coffee, waiting for the usual Steve-level commentary — something about Hopper’s shovel collection or the fact that you’d somehow managed to one-up a man built like a refrigerator. But it didn’t come.

He pulled out of the driveway in silence, his eyes fixed on the road.

You glanced over. “Okay. What’s going on?”

He shook his head like he could shake the mood with it. “Nothing. I’m good.”

“Steve,” you said, more softly this time.

His jaw tensed. A beat passed. Then: “He said if I’m gonna be around you… I better not be playing.”

You blinked. That quieted you, just for a moment.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

The silence stretched. Thick, heavy. Not awkward. Real. Steve kept his eyes on the road, but you could feel the weight of Hopper’s words still hanging between you.

This was fake. So why did he sound like he’d just been handed a test he didn’t want to fail?

“He’s just being Hopper,” you added, because someone had to fill the silence. “Overprotective. Possessive. Threatening bodily harm. Very on-brand.”

Steve huffed a laugh, but it didn’t have much strength behind it. “I know.” 

Outside the car, the trees blurred past in a wash of green and gold. Inside, the tension pulsed quiet and steady, like background static you couldn’t quite tune out.

From the backseat, Will’s voice cut through the quiet: “Why do you guys look like you just buried a body?”

P.S. If you’d like to be added to my taglist, (or if I forgot to add you) just let me know 💛

Taglist:@ahead-fullofdreams , @mochminnie , @indigoscribe , @ashkuuuu , @the-universe-and-karma , @the-fairy-anon , @lizzzzz-13, @baugettetaylorsversion, @s1mp-4-ga11y, @palmtreesx3, @sugarplumsweetiepie, @ttttt127, @lodeddiperrodrick @imaworm, @spacecadet-dot-net

[lizzzzz-13]

oi amigaaaaa ana

oi amigaaa te amo 🩷

[sweetlikenonsense]

The Warmest Lie ♡ chapter five

The Peer Review

Pairings: Steve Harrington x fem!reader | Some Robin Buckley x Nancy Wheeler on the side

Summary: Now the “truth” is out, everyone’s got an opinion, a story, a reason to make Steve blush. Usually, you’d enjoy every second—but when Eddie shifts the spotlight, suddenly it doesn’t feel so funny.

Word count: 3.2K

Note: Started this chapter clueless... ended it with too many ideas so had to split it in two (and a half) 🫣

The Series Masterlist - The Warmest Lie ♡ Chapter four ♡

Turns out, Dustin Henderson is a very rich man.

Everyone had placed a bet. Lucas predicted mid-August. Max put her money on Halloween. Hell, even Joyce slid Dustin a tenner with the kind of smug smile only a mother could wear.

And Hopper—God help you—Hopper shoved a crumpled twenty into Dustin’s hand and grunted, “This is ridiculous. Harrington’s an idiot. She’s too smart for him, but…” A long pause. A glance at Joyce. Then a muttered, “Whatever. Christmas.”

The weight of all those bets lingered in the back of your mind like a persistent itch you couldn’t quite scratch. Everyone had an opinion on when the façade would crack, when the “hate-each-other” act would finally blow up into something real.

So Dustin cashed in big the second you and Steve so much as breathed in sync.

And that was only the beginning.

Because after the laughter, after the smug I-told-you-so’s, came the interrogation.

Robin leaned so far forward on the couch she nearly toppled off. “Question one—when did you confess? Because there’s no way Steve did. He’s too much of a coward.”

“Hey!” Steve’s voice cracked in protest, his arm tightening around your shoulders like he’d prove her wrong by holding you closer.

Eddie cackled. “She’s right, though. Harrington’s not exactly known for his initiative.”

Steve glared at him, but Robin was already scribbling invisible notes in the air. “So it was you,” she said, pointing at you like she’d solved a crime.

You opened your mouth, but Max cut in before you could speak. “Doesn’t matter who confessed. What matters is when. Because if you’ve been keeping this a secret for, like, months, I’m gonna be pissed.”

“Months?” Lucas echoed, scandalised. “Try years. We’ve all been waiting for this since—what—when Billy so much as breathed on her and Harrington practically body-checked him into next week?”

The memory hit like a sucker punch: Billy’s smirk, the reek of booze, the heat of him crowding in—then Steve. He was just there - sliding beside you on reflex, like he’d done it a hundred times before. His shoulder braced, his jaw tight, voice low and steady: “Back off, Hargrove.”

Eddie snapped his fingers. “Oh my God, yes. Dude didn’t even think, just went full guard dog.”

Robin grinned, leaning forward. “Yeah, that wasn’t subtle. At all.”

All eyes swung to Steve, who groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Jesus — can we not? It was one time.”

“One time?” Max snorted. “Please. You’ve been doing the guard dog routine since day one.”

Dustin shot his hand up like he was in class. “Family Video! Remember that customer who wouldn’t stop hassling her about late fees? Steve practically vaulted the counter to play hero.”

Robin pointed dramatically. “Yes! He even knocked over the popcorn display. Like, full-on avalanche of kernels everywhere just to stand closer.”

Eddie barked a laugh. “Classic Harrington. Smooth as sandpaper.”

Steve groaned louder. “Okay, but I wasn’t gonna let some guy hassle her about three dollars.” His voice cracked near the end - too defensive, too quick.

Eddie cackled, clapping once. “Guard dog Harrington strikes again. Somebody get this man a collar.”

“Real funny,” Steve muttered, cheeks red, “I wasn’t gonna let him— I would’ve done it for all of you- ugh, forget it.” But his hand twitched once on his knee, restless, like even he knew he was being too defensive.

That twitch didn’t go unnoticed. Not by you. Not by Eddie.

Robin gasped like she’d just remembered the holy grail. “Oh my god—summer barbecue at my house. The hornet incident.”

You blinked. “Hornet?”

Robin nodded furiously. “Yes! There was one buzzing around your drink and Harrington practically launched himself across the yard like he was taking a bullet. Swatted it so hard he smacked the cup out of your hand. Punch everywhere. My mom still complains about the stain on the deckchair.”

Max choked on a laugh, slapping the couch cushion. “Tell me you didn’t actually try to fight a hornet for her.”

Steve’s ears went pink. “What, I was just—she could’ve gotten stung. I didn’t think about it.”

That only made the laughter louder. Robin was half falling off the couch, Eleven wheezing into her sleeve.

And Dustin, smug as ever, seized the silence. He shoved another handful of popcorn into his mouth, words muffled but merciless: “Next you’re gonna say you didn’t threaten to break Tommy Hagan’s jaw junior year.”

Your stomach dropped. That one you remembered in sharp, ugly detail—Tommy’s too-loud laugh, his hand lingering too long on your shoulder at a party. His intention to dip lower clear as day. The smell of beer clinging to him, the way your skin crawled under his touch. It had only been a few weeks after your first brush with a demo-dog—and your first real conversation with Steve.

Then he was there. Shoulder squared, jaw set, voice dropping into something cold enough to frost glass: “Touch her again and see what happens.”

The air thickened for a beat. Steve’s grin wavered—just for a second—before he rolled his shoulders like it didn’t matter. But you saw it.

That tiny fracture—the way his jaw clenched before he looked away.

And just like the Billy memory, just like the hornet—every story of him bracing between you and something else clicked into place.

“Guard-dog” Harrington wasn’t a fluke. It was reflex.

You’d always told yourself that was just Steve—hands-on, hovering too close, treating boundaries like vague suggestions. It didn’t mean anything.

Except… why were you the protagonist in every story? Why was it always you he was stepping in front of, you he was circling back to?

And why did everyone else think those moments mattered enough to remember?

Eddie’s grin flickered sharp, catching Steve’s clenched jaw. Then he clapped his hands once, breaking the tension with a bark of laughter. “Harrington, my man, you’ve been whipped since day one and didn’t even know it.”

Steve groaned again, tipping his head back against the couch like he wanted the ceiling to swallow him whole. His hand twitched against your shoulder, restless, like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or let go entirely.

Dustin wasn’t done. He snapped his fingers like a lawyer producing an Exhibit. “Oh! The snowball fight. Last year. Tell me why Harrington, ex–King of Hawkins High, abandoned his own team to run interference the second somebody nailed her in the back.”

Mike wheezed, nearly falling sideways. “Wait—you ditched your team? For her?”

Steve’s mouth opened, shut, then opened again. “Okay, no. I was—” He waved his free hand wildly. “—strategically shifting sides.”

“Strategically,” Eddie echoed, grinning like a hyena. “Yeah, man, nothing says ‘tactical genius’ like eating a snowball to the face because you couldn’t stand seeing her get hit.”

Robin’s eyes went wide, mock-innocent. “Wait—does that mean technically you lost the Snow War of ’83? Because if so, Harrington, you’ve been lying about your record for years.”

Steve groaned, dragging both hands down his face, before his hand fell back where it belonged. “You people are the absolute worst.”

“You’re the one who made it obvious,” Robin shot back, grinning. “Well obvious to everyone but her-“ she flicked a thumb in your direction. 

Lucas piped up then, half-smiling. “Don’t forget the last game of the championship. Your senior year. I distinctly remember you almost tackling Jason because he accidentally hit her with the ball.”

“That—” Steve jabbed a finger at him, ears blazing, “—was a hard foul.”

“Sure it was,” Max muttered, snickering.

The laughter swelled, everyone talking over each other, dragging up half-forgotten stories, until you weren’t sure if the heat in your face was from embarrassment or something far more dangerous.

You smirked up at him, tilting your head. “Wow. That’s a pretty impressive list, Harrington. Almost like you’ve been a little… obsessed.”

Steve groaned louder, tipping his head back against the couch. But his arm stayed right where it was. Heavy. Solid. Warm. His thumb brushed your sleeve again, slower this time—absent, thoughtless.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he muttered, but you saw the smile he tried to hide as he looked at you. 

“Maybe,” you allowed, lips curving. “But I can’t help noticing that no one’s listing anything for me.”

Eddie’s grin sharpened. He leaned forward, eyes glinting. “Oh-ho. You think you’re off the hook? Sweetheart, please.”

Your stomach dipped. “I’m not—”

“Please,” he steamrolled. “Exhibit A: you literally threw a milkshake at Billy’s head once. Why? Because he called Harrington a washed-up pretty boy.”

Robin gasped, delighted. “That’s right! You nailed him right in the face.”

Max snorted. “Best day of my life.”

“Exhibit B: the Wheeler cookout. Harrington burned his hand on the grill, and you were in the kitchen with ice before he even swore. Didn’t think anyone saw, did you? But I did.”

Robin gasped. “Wait—that was you? I thought the ice just appeared.”

Steve shifted beside you, his jaw tight. For the first time all night, his eyes flicked to you—surprise breaking through the embarrassment, jaw clenching - he didn’t know. But Eddie wasn’t done.

“Exhibit C: the bonfire last month. Harrington cut his hand on a beer can—don’t roll your eyes, man, you did—and you,” he pointed straight at you, “vanished for ten minutes just to come back with half a pharmacy in your pockets. Bandages, Neosporin, the works.”

You stiffened, heat crawling up your neck. “That was—practical.”

“Practical,” Eddie echoed, grinning wider. “Sure. Looked a lot like doting, Sweetheart.”

Steve’s hand twitched against your shoulder again, restless, like he wanted to say something—maybe thank you, maybe deny it—but the words stayed stuck in his throat.

“Case closed,” Eddie said smugly, clicking his tongue. “Don’t act like it’s just him. You’ve been gone for him for just as long, sweetheart. We all saw it coming. You’re the only ones who didn’t.”

Steve’s grin faltered—just for a second—before he rolled his shoulders like he hadn’t heard it. But you saw.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy. Steve’s arm tightened imperceptibly around your shoulders, thumb dragging once across your sleeve like he couldn’t stop himself.

Dustin opened his mouth, eyes glinting with some fresh piece of ammunition. “Oh! And don’t even get me started remember when she—”

Steve shot up, hand raised like a traffic cop. “Nope. Absolutely not. Whatever’s about to come out of your mouth, I don’t want to hear it.”

His voice was firm, but his eyes slid toward you instinctively, like he was bracing for impact.

“But—” Dustin tried again - whipping out his best pout and doe eyes combo. 

Steve jabbed a finger at him. “No. We’re done. Conversation over. “ He dragged that hand through his hair, but his arm didn’t move from around you. If anything, his thumb brushed your arm with more pressure, slower and still as soft but more certain. 

He peered down at you. “Next time, we’re watching a movie alone.”

By the time the credits rolled and the last of the popcorn was gone, the group started peeling away—Max mumbling something about homework, Lucas and Dustin arguing over rides, Robin calling shotgun before Eddie could even move. The laughter and voices fading until it was just you, Steve, and the mess.

A battlefield of soda cans, chip bags, and blankets.

Steve sighed, dragging himself up from the couch. “God, they eat like raccoons.”

You smirked, gathering empty cups onto a tray. “Don’t act like you didn’t down half the popcorn yourself.”

“That’s different.” He grabbed the chip bags, tossing them into the trash with a little too much force. “Host’s privilege.”

You rolled your eyes, but when he brushed past you to scoop up another armful, you felt the warmth still radiating off him—same as on the couch. The air had shifted, quieter now, but heavier somehow.

You knotted the trash bag too tightly, plastic snapping against your knuckles. Steve noticed. Of course he did.

“Shortcake,” he said softly, leaning against the counter. “Don’t let them get in your head.”

“They don’t know anything,” you muttered. “Like… they think they know. But they don’t know. You know?” You sighed, throwing him a look that he knew said don’t even think about disagreeing with me.

“Yeah.” Too quick. Then, quieter: “Doesn’t matter if they do. It’s none of their business.”

When you brushed past him with the bag, his hand grazed yours—warm, steady, gone too fast. You froze, pulse stuttering. Steve didn’t move, just stared at the countertop like it had all the answers.

A pause. “You okay?” you asked.

He finally glanced over, mouth twitching—half a smile, half a grimace. “Depends. Are you gonna throw any more milkshakes at people for me?”

Your stomach flipped. “Only if they deserve it.”

Something eased in his shoulders at that. Not much. Just enough. He drummed the counter with his thumb, the same restless rhythm he’d been tapping against your sleeve all night.

Then he cleared his throat, breaking eye contact. With a crooked grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he leaned closer. “If you really wanted to shut them up, we could shove it in their faces. Give ’em a show.”

You blinked. “A show?”

“Yeah,” he said, warming to the bit. “We could be all over each other. Holding hands, kissing in front of ‘em, hell—even Hopper and Joyce. Full-on PDA, no breaks. ‘Yeah, it’s real, you wanted it, here it is.’”

“Yes.”

The word cut sharper than you meant it to. Steve froze, halfway through his rant, eyes wide. “Wait—no—I mean, I was joking—well, not totally—I just—damn it, Shortcake, don’t look at me like that.”

“What?” you asked innocently, a smirk tugging at your lips. “I’m agreeing with you.”

He ran a hand through his hair, still rattled. “I didn’t think you’d actually—like—go for it. I was just messing around.”

You crossed your arms, grin sharpening. “Oh, I’m serious. If they want a show, we’ll give them the whole damn production.”

Steve stared at you for a beat too long, jaw tight, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes—before he huffed a laugh, low and disbelieving. “You’re insane. But fine. Whatever. Just know you started this.”

“Tomorrow,” you challenged, tilting your chin.

His brows shot up. “Tomorrow?”

“Mall run. Max needs new shoes anyway. Perfect audience.”

Steve smirked, though his ears went a little pink. “Oh, you’re gonna regret this, Shortcake.”

“Doubt it.”

The moment should have ended there, but it didn’t. His eyes lingered on you in a way that felt less like a joke and more like something dangerous. And when he muttered, almost too soft for you to catch—“Guess you’re stuck with me, huh?”—your chest went tight.

The silence stretched. Too much. Not in the script.

You swallowed, forcing a scoff. “Trash, Harrington. Focus.”

“Right. Trash.” He grinned, like he hadn’t just slipped, like your stomach wasn’t still flipping.

As you reached past him with a trash bag, his hand moved without thought—flattening over the sharp corner of the counter so you wouldn’t catch your hip on it. Same instinct as all those stories. Guard dog Harrington, alive and well. He didn’t even look at what he was doing, just stayed there, palm braced steady until you’d passed.

Your pulse jumped. You almost called him on it, but he’d only shrug, pretend it was nothing.

The bag you held thudded into place, the last of the trash knotted tight. The counter wiped. Blankets folded. And still, the quiet that followed didn’t feel like chores finished—it felt like his hand was still there, steady between you and the edge.Thick. Unspoken. Settling like dust.

Steve leaned against the sink, drying his hands on a dish towel he definitely didn’t need. “So.” His voice was casual. Too casual. “Tomorrow.”

You shot him a look. “Don’t tell me you’re backing out already.”

“No.” He shook his head quickly, hair falling into his eyes. “Just… gotta mentally prepare myself for the whole PDA marathon you’ve apparently signed me up for.”

You smirked, stacking the last cup. “Don’t act like you won’t secretly love it.”

His mouth twitched. “Yeah, well. Guess we’ll find out.”

“Guess we will.” You murmured softly.

For a beat, neither of you moved. The towel twisted in his hands, your fingers fidgeted against the counter. The air felt thick with something unspoken, something neither of you had the guts to name.

“Shortcake?” His voice dipped softer, tugging your gaze back to him.

“Yeah?”

He hesitated, thumb dragging the hem of the towel, jaw shifting like he was working through a hundred words he couldn’t settle on. Finally: “Thanks. For… y’know. Earlier. All of it.”

You raised a brow. “For being accused of doting?”

A crooked smile pulled at his mouth, tired but warm. “For never letting me make an ass of myself alone.”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to brush it off, make a joke, but the weight of it lodged in your chest. So instead you nudged him lightly with your shoulder. “Don’t mention it, Harrington. As your girlfriend it’s my duty to make sure you keep a little bit of street cred. Y’know—for my own reputation if nothing else.”

His grin sharpened into something that made your pulse stutter. “Guess I picked the right person to fake-date, then.”

The word fake rattled louder than it should have, slicing through the quiet like a faint crack in glass. But you swallowed it down. “Guess you did.”

His eyes flicked sharp at that—quick, unguarded—before he buried it in another grin. He didn’t rush to fill the silence this time. Just looked at you—too long, too close.

You broke first. Reached for the popcorn bowl—anything to look away. “Alright, Honey. Dishes are calling your name.”

Steve blinked. Just once. Then recovered fast. Honey.

“Ugh.” He groaned, tipping his head back like the ceiling might rescue him. “Pretty sure this wasn’t part of the deal.”

But his voice was thinner now, like it didn’t land right in his chest. And when you moved past him to grab the dish towel, his hand brushed your waist—just a graze, a nothing touch.

But you both stilled.

His hand didn’t move.

You didn’t either.

It only lasted a second. Maybe less. But it hit like a dropped match in dry grass—unspoken, sharp, and far too loud in the silence.

Then he pulled back like he hadn’t meant it, like the air hadn’t just gone thick enough to drown in.

His grin lingered as you turned away—but for just a second, when you couldn’t see him, it slipped. His thumb brushed against the edge of the dish towel, same beat, same restless rhythm he’d tapped against your sleeve on the couch. He caught himself, stilled his hand, then exhaled sharp. Jaw tight, he grabbed the dish soap. 

When it came time to leave, he offered you a ride. You waved him off. “Seriously, I can walk.”

Steve frowned. “It’s late.”

“So what, Harrington? You think a demogorgon’s gonna jump me between here and my house?”

“Not funny,” he muttered. “And yes, actually.”

You smirked, tugging your jacket zipper up to your chin. “You’re worse than my dad.”

He scoffed, crossing his arms. “Yeah, well, your dad doesn’t drive a BMW with a tape deck and great taste in music.”

“Debatable.” You were already backing toward the door. “Don’t wait up, Mom.”

“Shortcake—”

But you slipped out before he could argue again, the sound of his exasperated groan chasing you into the night.

Later, walking home under the wash of streetlights, the cool air should’ve cleared your head. It didn’t.

Because somewhere between the long shadows and the rhythm of your own footsteps, your fingers started drumming against your thigh. Without meaning to. The same beat he’d been tapping against your sleeve all night.

Steady. Protective. Restless.

You stopped mid-step. Shook your head. Tried to laugh it off.

But your hand kept twitching.

Restless. Familiar. Dangerous

P.S. If you’d like to be added to my taglist, (or if I forgot to add you) just let me know 💛

P.P.S. Writing 'mom' instead of 'mum' went against every fibre of my being... but ✨authenticity✨.

Taglist:@ahead-fullofdreams , @mochminnie , @indigoscribe , @ashkuuuu , @the-universe-and-karma , @the-fairy-anon , @lizzzzz-13, @baugettetaylorsversion, @s1mp-4-ga11y, @palmtreesx3,

[saltysaltypastawater]

One time Joe Keery (Steve from Stranger Things) was at a party I was at, and my friend went up to him and was like, “Wow, you really look like that dude from Stranger Things,” and he sighed, did the saddest jazz hands, and just replied, “ta daaa, it’s me,” and every time I see gifs of him on my dash, that’s all I can think of.

[stevesgother]

i love hearing different accounts like this

[lizzzzz-13]

this is golden

[hollywocd]

joe keery like/reblog ✨

[sweetlikenonsense]

Whoever requested this — my sincerest thank you 🙏🏼

[sweetlikenonsense]

The Warmest Lie ♡ chapter four

The Field Test(s)

Pairings: Steve Harrington x fem!reader | Some Robin Buckley x Nancy Wheeler on the side

Summary: Time to pick up the pace: no more subtle touches, no more soft launches. With a carefully staged movie night and the whole group watching, you and Steve turn up the heat. But when no one reacts, you’re left wondering: was it too subtle… or is their silence saying something else?

Word count: 2.6k

Note: I had a lot of fun writing this chapter! Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it!

The Series Masterlist - The Warmest Lie ♡ Chapter three ♡

Two weeks had passed since you marched into a family video, thirteen days since you practiced hand holding, eight days since you stole his yellow sweatshirt and three whole days since you last told Steve to fuck off. The longest you had ever gone. And the group had said… nothing. Nada. Not a word. 

It was meant to spread with Eddie. He was the obvious choice. Your best friend who knew you back to front. And perhaps more importantly, the biggest gossip you had ever, and would ever come across. His penchant for sniffing out even the most intimate of secrets wasn’t just a quirk; it was a skill. One he wore proudly. Loudly. 

The morning sun was just starting to warm the glass doors as you unlocked Family Video, Steve by your side, adjusting his hair in the reflection before another mind-numbing shift. That’s when you spotted him - Eddie, loitering across the street, cigarette dangling from his lips, already clocking the two of you with that hawk-eyes curiosity he lived for. 

Perfect. This was it. 

And now that you and Steve had perfected the art of awkward hand-holding, you decided this was the moment to put it to use. You swallowed the annoying flutter in your chest and grabbed his hand from where it dangled by his side, threading your fingers together with hesitant certainty. Your grip tightened—too much, you realized when he winced—but instead of pulling away, Steve’s hand flexed to match yours, steady and patient, like he’d been waiting for this moment all along.

Eddie’s gaze flicked to your joined hands. His brows shot up, cigarette twitching between his fingers, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. You braced yourself—ready for the inevitable whistle, the teasing drawl, the “oh sweetheart, really? Harrington?”

But instead, Eddie just exhaled smoke, gave a little shrug that was too casual, and shouted across the street, “Looking sharp, Harrington. Did Sears have a sale on polos?” Then sauntered off like he hadn’t just witnessed the scoop of the season.

That shrug was a lie. You knew it. He knew it. Steve’s hand tightened around yours, like he knew it too.

Eddie disappeared around the corner, smoke trailing after him.

Steve blinked. “That’s it?”

You stared at your still-linked hands. “Apparently.”

Nothing.

So next, you turned to Robin. If anyone was going to blow the secret, it was her. She could barely order at the diner without spiraling into three tangents and a rant—surely she wouldn’t make it five minutes without blurting out something about Steve Harrington’s suspiciously permanent new accessory: you.

You ensured the opportunity came fast. You and Steve showed up at the diner one night after work, his arm slung lazily over the back of your chair. Close enough to look like a couple, not so close that you’d suffocate. Your knee brushed his once. By accident. You didn’t move it.

Robin, halfway through demolishing a basket of curly fries, clocked the positioning immediately. Her eyes narrowed, and you braced yourself. Here it comes.

“So then, this guy,” she said, leaning forward, already gesturing wildly with a fry, “this customer today, comes in and starts lecturing me about movie running times, like he’s Scorsese or something, and Steve—you’d appreciate this—he tries to argue that Fast Times has better pacing than Blade Runner, which, first of all, insane—”

She launched herself into a ten-minute tangent, complete with full-body reenactments of the customer’s voice, dramatic gasps, and at least two near-choking incidents with fries. Steve just smirked, like he was used to it.

At one point, his eyes slid to yours over her rant, the hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. It lingered too long, until you had to look down at your napkin like it had suddenly become fascinating.

You waited. Any second now, she’d circle back. She’d gesture toward you two, wave her hands around, and say “And what’s this? You two suddenly joined at the hip?!”

But nothing. Not even a flicker of suspicion.

By the time she paused for breath, the only thing she’d noticed was that Steve had stolen three fries off her plate, which earned him a smack on the hand and another five minutes of indignant complaining.

Nothing.

Then Dustin - surely he would crack. He couldn’t go five minutes without critiquing Steve’s choices—hair, fashion, driving, breathing. There was no way he’d let something like this slide.

And yet, when Steve turned up at his house to chaperone him to the arcade and he swung open the passenger seat to find you buckled in, Dustin just groaned and said, “You’re in my seat.”

That was it. No questions. No dramatics. Just pure, indignant teenage outrage.

Steve shot you a smug look as Dustin climbed in the back. “See? Smooth as hell.” You raised an eyebrow. “Give it time.” But the truth was—it was starting to feel less like a cover and more like a dare.

Nothing.

Which left Max. Sharp as a tack and as tactful as a brick to the face. If anyone was going to clock the shift, it would be her.

You and Steve made it easy, practically gift-wrapped. The four of you crowded around a booth at the arcade’s snack bar, Max demolishing a cherry slush while Dustin whined about losing to you. Steve leaned back against the booth, arm draped over the seat behind you. Close enough that his knuckles brushed your shoulder.

Max’s eyes flicked to the movement. She slurped her drink, loud and deliberate. You froze. This was it. The jig was up.

“Steve,” she said, pulling the straw from her mouth, “your arm’s in my space. Move.”

He did. Instantly. Like a scolded golden retriever.

Her eyes lingered a second longer, sharp and measuring, before she went back to her drink.

And that was that.

Nothing.

By the time it was just you and Steve in his car after dropping off the kids, any nerves you had had about people’s reactions had curdled into frustration. What was the point of all this—of the sweaty palms, the practiced hand-holding, the sweatshirt stealing—if no one was even noticing? The whole scheme felt… pointless. 

You sank into the seat, shoulders heavy, the frustration knotting deep in your chest as you fought the urge to throw your hands up and scream. “This is a disaster. They’re supposed to notice, Steve. That’s the whole point.”

“Yeah, I know.” Steve’s jaw tightened as he gripped the wheel, quiet but certain. “Believe me, I know.”

You turned on him, sharper now. “Then why isn’t it working? What are we even doing if nobody cares?”

Steve’s jaw ticked as he flicked on the blinker. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want me to make out with you in the middle of the arcade? Would that help?”

You groaned louder, sinking deeper into the seat. “I hate you.”

“Nah.” He shot you a sideways glance, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You’re just mad I’m better at this than you.”

The smirk lingered, and so did your glare—but neither of you looked away. The car filled with the kind of silence that wasn’t empty at all, the kind that pressed at your ribs and dared you to breathe wrong.

Then his hand dropped from the wheel, brushing lightly over your knee—light enough to seem casual, deliberate enough not to be.

“You’re overthinking it,” he said, voice low, the warmth of it curling close. “Relax, Shortcake.”

You flinched. “Don’t call me that.”

Steve blinked, startled. His smirk slipped. “Seriously?”

“You know I hate it,” you snapped, crossing your arms like it might protect you from the way it still sat warm in your chest.

He blinked again, quieter this time. “Why do you always get so weird about that?”

You turned toward him, sharp. “Because it’s stupid. And it doesn’t mean anything.”

He scoffed, quiet but tense. “Yeah. Okay.”

You stared at him, caught off guard by the way his jaw tensed, how quickly he looked away—like he regretted saying anything at all. Like that stung, more than it should have.

He ran a hand down his face, slow and tired.

“Forget it,” he muttered. “Doesn’t matter.”

The silence that followed didn’t buzz with tension—it sank, low and heavy in your gut, curling into something you didn’t want to name.

Finally, you exhaled, cracking it. “Okay. Fine. Next time it’s all of them. No more one-on-ones. We make it obvious.”

Steve drummed his fingers against the wheel, thinking. “Whole group, huh?”

“Whole group,” you confirmed. “No way they can miss it if we shove it in their faces at the same time.”

For a beat, his smirk softened into something else—something unreadable—before he nodded once. “Guess we’re really doing this, then.”

His fingers tapped once more, then stilled. And you didn’t look at him—but you didn’t move your knee away, either.

The next group hangout came faster than you expected. Or maybe Steve just liked watching you squirm, because the very next weekend you found yourself crammed into his living room, surrounded by everyone.

Eddie sprawled dramatically across an armchair, guitar pick clicking against his rings. Robin sat cross-legged on the floor, already halfway through a rant about how the popcorn bowl was “statistically unfairly” closer to Steve. Max was slouched at the end of the couch with her arms crossed, red slushie in hand, eyes daring anyone to test her. Dustin and Lucas bickered over the stack of VHS tapes Steve had let them pick from, the words “Star Wars marathon” coming up at least three times.

And you— wedged against Steve on the couch, closer than usual, so close your knees pressed together. Your pulse thudded. This was it. No more subtle hand brushes, no more missed cues. The whole group. Movie night at Harrington’s. No way they could ignore it now.

At least, that was the idea.

The opening credits rolled, the room falling into that familiar hush of rustling chip bags and the whirr of the VCR. Steve’s arm stayed draped along the couch, fingertips just grazing your shoulder. You didn’t lean into it. Not really. But you didn’t move, either. And after a minute, his fingers shifted—barely, just enough to press in a little closer. Like he was testing how much space you'd give him.

Eddie noticed first. Of course he did. His pick stilled against his ring, a grin spreading slow and wicked. You braced yourself for a dramatic gasp, a drawled “Sweetheart, really?” — but instead, he only wiggled his eyebrows once and went back to shredding an invisible guitar solo along with the score.

Robin was next. She squinted at the two of you from her perch in the armchair, popped another kennel, then leaned back. 

Dustin, meanwhile, was far too busy arguing with Lucas about which order the trilogy should be watched in to notice anything happening around him. Meanwhile, Steve’s fingers found your hand above the blanket, tracing light, deliberate patterns — small circles that felt like a tether, grounding you amidst all the noise.

“Release order makes no sense!” he yelled, chips flying.

And then there was Max. Brutally perceptive Max. She slurped her slushie so loudly it cut through the movie, and when you dared to glance her way, her eyes were narrowed, sharp as glass but not at you, at the screen. 

The movie finally started, but no one was really watching the screen. Not at first. Steve’s arm stayed where it was, warm at your shoulders, his hand heavy and careful like he was testing how much weight you’d let him put down. His fingers shifted from tracing circles on your hand to slowly brushing upward along your arm — a tender, almost hesitant movement, like he was reassuring himself as much as you.

Still—

Nothing.

Not a single gasp. Not a single smirk. Not even a knowing side-eye.

It bursts out of you before you can stop it. “Seriously?” you snapped, heat rising before you could stop it. Your hands flying up. “None of you are gonna say anything?”

For a second, the living room froze—half popcorn, half shock.

Steve’s thumb pressed in, gentle but steady, like he meant to anchor you. His shoulder angled closer, drawing you in. “Hey—” he said, soft, protective, the kind of tone he saved for when things actually mattered. For half a second, it was only that—the warmth of his shoulder, the weight of his hand steadying you. Then the laughter crashed in, loud enough to shatter it.

Robin choking on a laugh, Dustin practically vibrating with smug energy. Eddie threw his head back, cackling like he’d been waiting months for this exact moment. Max rolled her eyes so hard you swore you heard it.

And just like that, the dam broke—

Robin’s voice cut sharp through the movie. .

“Oh my god, you think I didn’t notice? At the diner?”

And suddenly you were there again—fluorescent lights, greasy booths, her fry waving dangerously close to your face. Steve’s knee brushing yours under the table, too casual to be casual. Robin’s eyes narrowed before she launched into a ten-minute tangent about some guy and Blade Runner.

“Yeah, that?” Robin was practically shrieking back in the living room now. “I was this close to calling you out right then!” She pinched her fingers so close a hair couldn’t slip through.

Before you could speak, Eddie’s laugh crashed in. “Oh, please. The diner? Amateur hour. I clocked you two way before that—outside Family Video, hand-holding like you’d just invented it.”

And then you were there again—the sting of Steve’s palm clamped too tight against yours, Eddie’s cigarette glowing across the street as his smirk twitched around it. His shrug, that maddeningly casual “Looking sharp, Harrington.”

“Obvious,” Eddie crowed in the present. “You think I’d miss that?”

Max cut in before you could roll your eyes.

“Try harder,” she muttered. “The arcade? Steve couldn’t even keep his arm—or his eyes—off her.”

And just like that, you were back at the sticky plastic table, another cherry slush in Max’s hand, her stare sharp enough to cut glass. Steve’s arm, his knuckles brushing your shoulder. Her unimpressed voice: Steve, your arm’s in my space. Move.

“Pathetic,” Max snorted, slurping pointedly.

Dustin practically leapt out of his seat. “No, no, no. You’re all wrong. I had it pegged in the car—”

Shotgun seat. Lucas and Mike bickering in the back. Hot leather sticking to your thighs.

“Steve’s grinning like he just won the lottery, and I said—what did I say?” He spun on Lucas, who shrugged.

“You said it was your seat.”

“Exactly!” Dustin jabbed a finger in the air. “My seat! You think Steve just lets anyone sit up front? Please.”

The room exploded with laughter, the flashbacks snapping shut like the end of a reel.

Back in the present, you were red-faced, speechless, Steve’s thumb still tracing lazy circles into your shoulder like he hadn’t just been exposed. Eddie leaned forward, grin wicked.

“Oh, come on, you two,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s been obvious for months.”

You blinked. “Obvious?” Months. 

“Yeah,” Eddie continued, smirk stretching smug. “The whole ‘we hate each other’ act? Give me a break. The way you look at each other alone—Jesus.” He snorted, rolling his eyes. “Congrats, lover boy. Try not to screw it up in under a week, yeah?”

Steve groaned, dragging his free hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, Eddie.”

But Eddie was already grinning at you. “And you—you really thought you could keep this from me? From me? Sweetheart, you wound me.”

And then, because he couldn’t help himself, Eddie groaned dramatically and flung his arms up. “Ugh, and now I owe Henderson twenty bucks!”

Your head snapped up. “Wait—what?”

Steve blinked. “I’m sorry, did you just say—”

Eddie, smug, drawing it out like he’s savoring every second: “Oh yeah. Bet’s been running for months. Who’d crack first, how long till you two finally—” he wiggled his eyebrows, leaving the words to dangle, filthy and smug.

You nearly choked. “Hook up?” You paused - wait. “You had a bet?”

“Excuse me?” Steve barked, sitting forward. “We’re not—” His mouth tightened. “It’s not—that.” The words stumbled out too fast, too sharp, like the phrase itself offended him. “That’s not what this is.”

Eddie blinked at him, smirk tilting wider. “Touchy, Harrington.”

“Yeah,” Eddie went on, utterly unbothered. “I had money on the Fourth of July party last month. Figured you’d end up making out in the coat closet after Steve spilled his drink on you.”

The memory flashed hot—sticky soda dripping down your legs, Steve stammering apologies, his hands frantic and too warm against your waist as he tried to mop it up with a handful of napkins. You flushed scarlet.

“Eddie,” you hissed, fists curling.

Under the thin blanket, Steve’s hand slid over your knee with a gentle insistence. No words—just a quiet warning wrapped in warmth: hold on, don’t blow it, remember why.

But your pride flared hot, begging to scream that it wasn’t real, that none of them would win a damn cent.

You swallowed it down instead. Barely. 

Steve sighed, his hand sweeping down his face again. Then, slower now, his fingers tangled with yours, thumb tracing your knuckles — steadying, calming.

“Unbelievable.”

Eddie just grinned wider. “Don’t look so shocked, sweetheart. Everyone saw it coming. Everyone but you.”

The others howled. The TV flickered. And for once, the silence that followed wasn’t yours—it was Steve’s. He didn’t look away, didn’t laugh. Just met your eyes across the chaos, steady and unflinching.

P.S. If you’d like to be added to my taglist, just let me know. 💛

P.P.S. I might start taking requests soon… which is either the best or worst idea I’ve ever had 😌

Taglist: @ahead-fullofdreams , @mochminnie , @indigoscribe , @ashkuuuu , @the-universe-and-karma , @the-fairy-anon , @lizzzzz-13

[sweetlikenonsense]

The Warmest Lie ♡ chapter three

The Soft Launch

Pairings: Steve Harrington x fem!reader | Some Robin Buckley x Nancy Wheeler on the side

Summary: With Steve now on board Its time to tease your changing relationship. Easy, right? Well... assuming you can get through one coffee without strangling him, then yeah.

Word count: 2.5k

Note: Remember when I said touching his hand for 0.3 seconds would make her question her whole existence? Yeah. Welcome to that chapter.

The Series Masterlist - The Warmest Lie ♡ Chapter two ♡

The next morning, the plan went into soft launch mode.

Steve’s words, not yours.

Really, it was just the two of you agreeing that nobody in their right mind would believe you’d gone from wanting to strangle each other to sudden, sweeping romance. Better to ease your friends in slowly — training wheels for fake dating. A brush of hands here, a shared booth there.

A deliberate coffee stop near Main. Seats pressed way too close on one side of the table. Steve trying your coffee just to make Dustin’s eyebrows fly up like cartoon arches. 

Robin didn’t notice. Robin was too busy pretending Nancy hadn’t brushed her hand again when passing the syrup.

Nancy, of course, didn’t notice either. Because noticing would require acknowledging. And acknowledging? Would mean doing something other than peering at Robin every five seconds.

So yeah. It was working. Kind of.

“Okay,” Steve muttered, stirring his drink with unnecessary force. “This is officially the weirdest date I’ve ever been on.”

You kicked him under the table.

“Ow.”

“Smile honey,” you said sweetly. “You’re on a mission.”

“I’m smiling internally.”

You blinked. “Your internal smile looks like constipation.”

Steve pressed his lips together like he was trying not to laugh. “Wow, Shortcake, that’s rich coming from someone who gags every time I touch her elbow.”

You gave him a saccharine grin. “Touch me again and we’ll see what happens.”

Across the table, Dustin narrowed his eyes. He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched.

“You two are acting weird.” Dustin’s eyes narrowed, fork paused mid-air. No one answered right away. The syrup bottle gleamed under the light, a fork clinked against porcelain.

Steve shifted, then finally—too lightly—“We’re always weird.”

“Yeah, but… this feels different.”

You offered Dustin your most unbothered shrug. “Guess we’re maturing.”

Dustin didn’t buy it. His frown deepened, eyes flicking between the two of you like he was pinning the moment to a corkboard in his head, saving it for later.

He frowned. Hard.

Steve handed you the syrup just in time to break the moment. His fingers brushed yours.

A nothing-touch. Accidental, technically.

You didn’t meet his eyes. But you felt it. The shift. A tiny click deep in your ribs.

And just like that - 

The lights were off. The sign flipped to CLOSED. The smell of plastic and popcorn hung heavy in the air. Another day at Family Video done. But you were both still inside, crouched behind the counter - hiding from the world. 

“I’m just saying,” he said, tapping a pencil against his palm, “we’re not going to sell this if we act like we’re in a hostage situation.”

You shot him a look. “It’s a fake relationship, not a Netflix romcom.”

“Yeah, but people buy that stuff,” he said. “They watch it because it feels real. We need physical cues. Comfort stuff. You know. Casual touching.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Casual touching.”

He shrugged. “Like the elbow thing. Or your hand on my arm. Or…” He waved vaguely. “Whatever couples do.”

You didn’t answer. You just reached over and brushed your fingers along his.

He stilled. Not dramatically. Just—too still, for how small the touch had been.

You began to pull away, but his hand turned palm-up without hesitation, fingers open like a silent offer.

Your heart did a stupid, traitorous lurch. Your hand hovered. Just for a second. And then you laced your fingers with his.

It was supposed to be a test. A rehearsal. Just a practice run.

But his thumb brushed the side of your hand. Slow. Soft. Unthinking. Like muscle memory. Like this wasn’t the first time. Like he’d done it a thousand times before. 

And suddenly it wasn’t practice. 

Not in the way your chest tightened. Not in the way the air went too thick, too heavy, too loud.

You were supposed to let go. You didn’t. Not right away.

When you finally pulled back, it felt wrong - like the warmth in your hand had been stolen.

He didn’t move either, just scratched the back of his neck, eyes fixed firmly on some random stain on the carpet like it held the answers to life. 

The cooler hummed. A clock ticked. Fluorescents buzzed overhead. Only then did he clear his throat, too casual: “So… believable?”

You cleared your throat, your pulse still ringing in your ears. “Totally. Very couple-y. Great work.”

“Cool. Yeah. We’re nailing it.” 

Somewhere in the back, the tape rewinder clicked on. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. 

You shifted first, standing up and brushing imaginary dust off your jeans. “So… tomorrow?”

“Soft Launch time,” he confirmed, voice too soft.

You gave a small nod in return and grabbed your bag. “Eleven-thirty?”

He nodded, fingers fussing with his hair. “Cool. Yeah. I’ll just… try not to blow our cover in the first five minutes.”

At the door, you paused like you might say something else. But then you didn’t. Just a small wave in his general direction. 

And then you were gone. The bell over the door jingled in your wake.

Steve didn’t move at first. The space between your fingers had been tiny. Just enough to feel it when you pulled away.

He stared at the space you’d left like if he waited long enough, you’d come back. Say something. Stay, maybe. 

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Scratched the back of his neck.

Then he cleared his throat, voice quieter now. “Guess I’m not much of a soft launch guy.”

The words landed in the quiet, half a laugh tucked inside them. Not sharp, not bitter — just small.

He shook his head and picked up a tape and turned it over twice like it might tell him what to do next. But his grin didn’t come back.

Then he looked over at the counter. Her coffee cup. Lipstick mark on the rim. Napkin scrunched up beside it. 

“You didn’t even finish it,” he murmured, softer than he meant to.

He flexed his hand once, opening and closing it like he could still feel the shape of yours there — 

Then Dustin said your name. Once, twice.

You blinked, and the fluorescent diner light was back. Steve was still talking, Dustin still watching you like he’d spotted a puzzle piece that didn’t fit.

You reached for your coffee just to do something with your hands.

Ceramic warmth under your palm. But for a second — just a second — you felt the echo of something else. The shape of fingers opening, waiting. The kind of warmth that didn’t belong here.

You took a sip you didn’t really taste. When you set the cup back down, Steve and Dustin were already mid-bicker over the check.

“I’m just saying,” Dustin said, waving a hand, “you’re older, you have a job—”

“Which means I get to keep my money,” Steve cut in.

“Which means you can cover your younger, poorer friend’s pancakes without whining about it.”

Steve scoffed. “Pretty bold for a guy who ordered three sides ‘just to sample.’”

“They were research,” Dustin said, dead serious.

​​While they argued, Robin slid out of the booth, mumbling something about catching a ride with Nancy. Nancy followed her toward the counter, deliberately not meeting your eyes.

By the time Steve slapped a few bills onto the table with a muttered “Fine,” it was just the three of you left. Dustin gathered his stuff, announcing he was heading to Mike’s for a D&D thing.

At the door, Dustin gave you both one last, narrowed look before disappearing into the sunlight.

“You know, I should really offer you a ride,” Steve said, glancing over at you. Before you could say no like you usually did, he continued, “We’re both going in the same direction after all.”

Knowing you would end up at his — considering your group all treated it as base camp — you nodded, your expression neutral, his logic making an annoying amount of sense and the walk home lacking any appeal in the sweltering heat. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Thanks.”

The silence between you seemed to stretch on for far too long as you walked out the door. You climbed into the passenger seat. The silence continued as Steve got into the driver’s side and started the car, the engine humming softly.

The diner was already in the rearview, sunlight glinting off chrome and glass as Steve pulled onto Main.  Storefronts slid past in blurs of neon signs and hand-painted sale boards, the pavement still holding the heat of the day.

The car smelled faintly like fries and sun-warmed leather. The open windows let in the cicada hum and the faint scent of cut grass, and every so often a warm breeze would ruffle your hair. 

Steve had one hand on the wheel and the other draped lazily along the edge of the open window, fingers tapping to whatever was playing on the radio.

You rolled down the window further, letting the warm air whip in.

Steve didn’t say anything at first. You didn’t either. The silence was… aware.

"If this was a real date, I’d be taking you home right now.” He said it lightly, but his hand tightened on the wheel before he shrugged.

You glanced over at him, the line of his jaw lit gold in the sun. He was irritatingly handsome in that way that made you want to roll your eyes — mostly so you wouldn’t stare.

You glanced over. “And instead?”

“And instead,” he said, flicking on his blinker, “I’m bringing you to my backyard to hang out with two grown men who think lying in the grass is a personality trait.”

“Sounds romantic,” you deadpanned, watching the corner of his mouth twitch. The twitch turned into a grin, warm in a way that made you look away too fast. He looked at peace like this — summer in his hair, the light catching on his lashes, the weight of the day rolling off his shoulders as easily as his hand moved on the wheel.

The breeze tugged at your hair. His grin twitched. Then he added, “Better than crashing Robin and Nancy’s coffee thing with Dustin as our chaperone, though.”

The corner of your mouth twitched before you caught it, biting back the laugh that wanted to slip free. You shut it down fast — too fast — staring out the window like the sun had suddenly become fascinating.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the way his grin faltered. Not much. Just enough.

The cicadas screamed, the AC wheezed, Steve tapped the steering wheel. You heard your own breath—too loud in the hush, too uneven. It made you want to fill it, break it, anything.

Then his fingers tapped twice more, firmer now, like he’d made up his mind.

After a beat, you propped your elbow against the open window, watching the light turn the world gold. “So. What is the great Steve Harrington like on a date?”

He side-eyed you. “Why?”

“You’re my boyfriend now,” you reminded him, far too sweetly. “I should know these things if we’re gonna convince anyone.”

“Uh-huh.” He tapped the wheel with two fingers, the soft thud in time with the bassline crackling through the speakers. The breeze tugged at his hair, and the light spilling through the windshield caught the edges of his grin like it was in on the secret. “Nice try.”

You tilted your head, letting the warm air slip over your skin. “Oh, so it’s bad. You’re bad at dating.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to.” You smirked. “This is gonna be embarrassing for both of us, isn’t it?”

His laugh was low, almost swallowed by the rush of air through the open windows. He shot you a look — quick, sharp, and brimming with challenge — before fixing his eyes back on the road.

“Careful. You keep running your mouth, and I’ll give you the full Harrington Date Experience.”

You arched a brow. “That supposed to be a threat?”

“That’s a promise,” he said, his grin widening.

“Fine. Lay it on me,” you said, pretending to think. “Oh - wait - let me guess — it involves hair gel, a pep talk in the mirror, and maybe, if I’m lucky, an appetiser you can’t pronounce?”

He scoffed, turning onto his street. “Bold words from someone whose idea of a big night out is pancakes at Benny’s.”

“Late night pancakes are romantic,” you argued.

“Right,” Steve said. “And next you’ll be telling me hash browns are aphrodisiacs.”

By the time he pulled into the driveway, you were still bickering about whether pancakes counted as a date food — though it’d mostly become an argument over toppings.

“Whipped cream is a sidekick, not the main event,” Steve declared, killing the engine.

“That’s because you’ve never experienced the artistic masterpiece that is a whipped-cream smiley face.”

He gave you a look that suggested deep and genuine pity. “And you wonder why I didn’t let you plan our fake anniversary.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, already unbuckling. The air outside was thicker now, summer heat clinging even as the sun began to tip toward the horizon.

The backyard was alive with lazy, golden light, the kind that made everything look softer around the edges. Eddie was stretched out in one of Steve’s lawn chairs like he’d been grown there, sunglasses askew, a half-melted popsicle dangling precariously between his fingers. Jonathan sat nearby with his knees drawn up, cigarette smoke curling slow and thin into the air, a cassette player balanced between them playing something mellow and a little sad.

“Look who finally decided to show,” Eddie called without moving.

Steve kicked off his shoes and tossed his keys onto the patio table. “Look who’s eating my popsicles.”

“They’re community popsicles,” Eddie said, which was an interesting way of saying I stole them.

You claimed the other lawn chair, its vinyl straps warm against your legs, and let your head tip back toward the sun. Somewhere, a bee drifted lazily over the hedge, the cassette hissed between tracks, and for the first time all day the pretending didn’t feel like work.

Steve dropped into the grass beside you, one hand braced behind him, the other holding a can of soda that gleamed with condensation. He glanced over at Eddie and Jonathan, then at you.

“They seemed happy,” you murmured.

“Yeah. Robin laughed so hard she nearly choked on her milkshake,” he said.

You hummed. “Think this is actually gonna work?”

“I think we’re gonna have to hold hands at some point.”

“God, the horror,” you muttered, but you were smiling when you said it.

Steve tipped his head, the corner of his mouth curving. “Don’t worry, Shortcake,” he said, easy as anything. “I’ll try to make it painless.”

The words sounded like a joke. Maybe they were. But the way his smile lingered — careful, deliberate — made the silence stretch.

Eddie’s cassette hissed faintly, Jonathan’s popsicle dripped pink onto the grass. Smoke curled up from the grill. You smiled only after the pause, like you’d borrowed courage from the quiet first.

P.S. If you’d like to be added to my taglist, just let me know. 💛

P.P.S. I don't like hash browns. Sue me.

Taglist: @ahead-fullofdreams , @mochminnie , @indigoscribe , @ashkuuuu , @the-universe-and-karma , @the-fairy-anon , @lizzzzz-13

[lizzzzz-13]

DJO IS COMING TO LATAM IM SEEING HIM IN MARCH AAAAAAAAA