Weird Stuff

Baby’s first Fanfic account ༄ Mostly Steve, Eddie, and Robin ♁𓆙写真を撮る 31

[munson-master]

𖥋 𐌼𐌰𐍃𐍄𐌴𐍂ʟ𐌹𐍃𐍄 𖥋

☁︎- Angst ⚰︎- character death ✎- In progress ✿-fluff ❦-Smut ✄- hurt/comfort/whump

𖤓 Steve Harrington 𖤓

𐎖 ❥ At the Château | ☁︎✄✎❦- You haven’t heard from your family on over two weeks. Worried, you return to Hawkins to find your sister dating Billy Hargrove and your family acting…well Strange. Something was wrong and you find yourself needing the help of the monster slayers that you had grown so close to. [in progress] ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE

⚰︎ Eddie Munson ⚰︎

𐎖 ⚰︎ Well…Shit | ☁︎ ✿Dustin accidentally sets off a trap during the DnD campaign that ends up killing y/n’s character. [completed] ONE TWO THREE

𐎖 ⚰︎ Unwavering | ☁︎ ✎✿❦ You run into the the supposed satanic cult leader turned murderer at your usual hangout. The story he has to tell isn’t as surprising as you’d think. [in progress]

𐎖 ⚰︎ Prompt - ✿ Eddie decides to go to Lucas’ house after he stopped showing up at Hellfire club, unaware that he would meet Lucas’ older sister and immediately fall for her. She’s super friendly and bubbly, making Eddie completely forget the reason he was there and instead just focus on her. [Oneshot]

𐎖 ⚰︎Hellebore :✿ Eddie drops by Family Video to chat with Steve and Robin when Robin’s sister walks in. Something about her makes Eddie’s legs feel like jelly. He’s absolutely smitten. Something that Steve and especially Robin will tease him about mercilessly as soon as Y/N leaves. [Oneshot]

❀ Robin Buckley ❀

𐎖❀ So Long | ☁︎ ✿ The cute girl that works at Scoops Ahoy always gives you an extra scoop. Maybe that’s the reason you keep coming back everyday. [One Shot]

[batissargon]

⚓️

[when-marvellous-things-happen]

If She Knew What She Wants (He'd Be Giving it to Her)

Steve Harrington x Fem!Henderson!Reader

SERIES MASTERLIST

Warnings: Peer pressure, slow burn, language, sexual language/allusions to sex (MDNI), violence, angst, violence, mentions of death

Author's Note: ISKWSW is back and ongoing! This is the updated series masterlist, please find the individual parts masterlists below. Cross-posted to my AO3 here.

PART 1: If She Knew What She Wants (He'd Be Giving it to Her)

Pushed together by circumstance, you and Steve Harrington have a no-strings-attached situation that becomes tense when he starts showing interest in Nancy Wheeler.

INTERLUDE I - I'll Set You Free (All I Want is You) 

One year on from 7-minutes in Carol's coat closet, and the situation between you and Steve has changed a lot. You're doing your best to move on, but sometimes he makes it just so hard. 

PART 2: (I Think I Should) Be With You (on-going)

Senior year brings an eternal case of 'senioritis', but you're doing fine. Just fine. What more could you ask for when you have your good pals Steve and Nance by your side?

Updated March 7th, 2026

Comment or message me to be added to the taglist :)

[when-marvellous-things-happen]

(I Think I Should) Be With You

Steve Harrington x Fem!Henderson!Reader

PART 2 MASTERLIST

Summary: Senior year brings an eternal case of 'senioritis', but you're doing fine. Just fine. What more could you ask for when you have your good pals Steve and Nance by your side?

Warnings: Peer pressure, language, sexual language/allusions to sex (MDNI), violence, angst, violence, mentions of death, death

FULL SERIES MASTERLIST (Link to the other parts)

Part of the 'If She Knew What She Wants' Series

PART 2: (I Think I Should) Be With You

CHAPTER 1 – Reflections of You 

CHAPTER 2 – Saw Ya in a Stranger’s Face

CHAPTER 3 – Should I Call You?

CHAPTER 4 – Or Should I Walk Away?

CHAPTER 5 – Lost in a Dream, You Are All I Can See

CHAPTER 6 – All Alone in the Night, I'm Waiting for You

CHAPTER 7 – Every Moment I'd Die, Just to Look in Your Eyes

CHAPTER 8 – Oh My, How I Try to Make You See (coming soon)

CHAPTER 9 – A Love that’s Overdue

Updated March 7th, 2026

Author's Note: ISKWSW is back and ongoing! This is the masterlist for Part 2 of the series. You can find the link to the full series masterlist (links to the other parts and interludes) here.

Comment or message me to be added to the taglist :)

[certaimromance]

✦ Summer Contact.

Steve Harrington x Henderson!reader

2k tea party | main masterlist

Summary: When a accident derails your holiday with your little brother, the last person you expect to see in your hospital room is his best friend, pale, breathless, and looking far more shaken than you are.

Words: 4,2k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!reader. temporarily located after the upside down. reader get seriously injured. mentions of drowning, death, trauma, mmm idk. dustin plays cupid. two IDIOTS in love. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Of course I had to use the classic Henderson!reader at some point, with many things happening for the sake of the plot:p

Vacations were supposed to be calm.

That was the deal.

After disappearances that still made your hair stand on end when you remembered them too clearly at night, after making plans to save the world instead of doing homework, after monsters that crawled through your dreams and funerals for people far too young to have ever needed black clothes and closed caskets, this was supposed to be normal. Ordinary. Boring, even. Just you and your little brother two towns over, splitting the cost of a cheap motel with floral bedspreads that smelled faintly like chlorine and old detergent, eating boardwalk fries out of paper trays that left grease stains on your fingers, sunscreen layered badly over old scars, and absolutely no world-ending threats before he packed up and left for university. The ocean air was thick with salt and sugar and the shrieking laughter of strangers who had never once had to fight for their lives. It felt almost unreal, how easy everyone else looked. How simple.

The pier had seemed harmless. Sun-bleached wood faded to a tired gray, bolts rusted at the edges, seagulls perched along the railings like bored spectators. The water below shimmered in fractured silver under the late afternoon sun, rolling in lazy waves that slapped gently against the support beams. You were leaning over the rental pier railing, elbows hooked loosely, hair tugged forward by the wind, laughing at Dustin because he had fumbled his sunglasses straight through the slats and into the ocean like the universe personally hated him. He was dramatically mourning them, insisting they were “limited edition” and “irreplaceable,” because his best friend in the world, Steve, had given him it, and you were teasing him about natural selection and poor grip strength.

And then it happened.

There wasn’t a dramatic warning. Or a monster. No cinematic groan of wood about to give way. Just a sharp, splintering crack that split through the air like a gunshot.

The railing shifted beneath your weight.

For half a second, your brain didn’t understand what your body already knew.

The world tilted.

Your stomach dropped before the rest of you did.

You remember the sensation of your hands grasping at nothing—air, splinters, sunlight—and the violent snap of wood tearing free. You remember the way your shoulder twisted at the wrong angle as you tried to catch yourself, a blinding crack of pain exploding down your arm so sudden and bright it stole the breath straight from your lungs. There was no elegant fall, no graceful dive. It was clumsy and brutal. Your ribs slammed against the edge of the pier before you tipped over completely, and the impact knocked the air out of you in a harsh, empty gasp that never quite turned into a scream.

You don’t remember screaming.

You remember the sound of your own body hitting the water wrong.

Not a clean plunge.

A slap. A jarring collision that rattled through bone.

The ocean swallowed you whole, salt burning into your nose and mouth, shock freezing your muscles mid-spasm. The pain in your arm flared again and your head struck something beneath the surface, or maybe it was just the force of the fall. Light fractured into white static behind your eyes. For a suspended second, everything went eerily quiet, muffled by water and distance, like the world had been wrapped in cotton.

And then you remember Dustin.

You remember him shouting your name like he was thirteen again and the sky was opening up above Hawkins. Not the older voice he’d been practicing since high school. Not the sarcastic, self-assured tone he wore like armor now. It was younger. Cracked at the edges. Terrified.

You remember the way your body felt heavy as if gravity had decided to double itself. You remember trying to move your arm and feeling nothing but blinding resistance, like your bones were no longer cooperating. The water dragged at you, pulled at your clothes, pressed into your ears until the world was just dull vibration and panic.

Then everything dissolves into fragments.

When you wake up properly, it isn’t all at once. It comes in pieces.

First the brightness, stabbing through your closed eyelids. Then the smell: antiseptic and something metallic underneath, layered over the faint hum of air conditioning. The mechanical beeping somewhere to your left. You try to breathe and your ribs protest immediately, a deep, bruised ache that spreads like ink beneath your skin. Your arm feels impossibly heavy, as if it’s been replaced with stone, pinned against your side by something tight and restrictive. There’s a pressure in your head, dull but constant, like someone has wrapped something thick and unyielding around your skull and pulled it just a little too tight.

You open your eyes slowly.

The hospital ceiling swims into view in blurred squares of white light.

You try to move.

Pain answers immediately.

Your fingers twitch against stiff hospital sheets. The fabric is scratchy and too clean. Your throat feels raw, like you swallowed sand. There’s an IV taped to the back of your hand. A sling holds your arm immobile against your chest, wrapped tight enough to remind you with every shallow breath that something inside you cracked.

You blink again, slower this time.

The room settles into shape around you, with pale green walls, a rolling tray table pushed aside, a heart monitor beside the bed emitting a steady, rhythmic beep that sounds deceptively calm.

And then you see him.

Dustin is slumped forward in a stiff hospital chair pulled too close to your bed, elbows braced on his knees like he hasn’t moved in hours. His eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, lashes clumped together from tears he probably wiped away angrily. There are faint salt tracks dried into his skin. His curls are completely destroyed, flattened on one side, sticking up wildly on the other, like he’s been running both hands through it over and over. His sweatshirt is wrinkled. There’s a smear of something dark near his cuff, maybe grease from the pier, maybe dried seawater.

He looks smaller like this.

When he notices your eyes open, something inside his expression cracks.

“Hey,” he says immediately, voice snapping thin with relief, like a rubber band stretched too tight. He leans forward so fast the chair legs scrape harshly against the tile. “Don’t move.”

You try to push yourself up anyway.

Your muscles engage automatically, because that’s what you do, you get up, you fix it, you handle it.

Instant regret.

“Oh my God, don’t do that,” Dustin says, half laughing in pure hysteria, half teetering on the edge of crying again. He reaches out but hesitates before touching you, like he’s afraid you’ll shatter. “You fractured your arm. And your collarbone. And you have a mild concussion. The doctor said mild like that makes it cute, but it’s not cute. You were out for almost a minute.”

Your brain latches onto the number.

“A minute?” you croak. Your voice barely sounds like yours.

He nods, hard. Too hard. His jaw tightens like he’s clenching against something. “Longest minute of my life.”

The words land heavier than the pain does.

Because you weren’t supposed to be the one who needed to be saved.

You were the older one. The responsible one. The one who checked railings before leaning on them. The one who made sure he stayed back from edges. The one who counted heads.

You weren’t supposed to be the body in the water.

“I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head quickly, curls bouncing with the force of it, like if he denies the apology hard enough it’ll undo the whole thing. “Not the point.”

You swallow, throat dry from hospital air and whatever fear is still clinging to you. “Did they call mom?”

He hesitates.

And it’s the exact same face he used to make when he was eight and had snapped the head off your favorite doll and tried to glue it back on before you noticed. Wide eyes, lips pressed together, guilt written all over him.

“…Not yet.”

Your brow furrows slowly.

“Dustin.”

“Okay, yes, I will call her if you want,” he rushes out, hands flying up defensively. “But first—”

The hospital door opens.

You expect a nurse in that moment. A clipboard. A soft voice explaining fractures, discharge instructions and liability forms.

Instead—

Steve Harrington walks in.

And he looks like someone punched the air out of him.

He’s still wearing jeans streaked faintly with red dust from the town never-ending cleanup sites, and a faded Hawkins High athletic department shirt that’s been washed so many times the logo is barely hanging on. There’s a whistle around his neck, the cheap plastic kind the school hands out to coaches, and it rests against his chest like he forgot it was there. Like he forgot everything except the drive here. His hair is windswept and slightly flattened on one side, as if he kept dragging his hand through it while speeding down the highway. His face is pale in a way that makes your stomach drop, not sickly, not tired. Shocked.

His eyes find you immediately.

They soften.

Because he sees it all.

The navy hospital sling cutting diagonally across your chest, holding your arm stiff and unnatural against your body. The too-bright white cast wrapping from your wrist to just below your elbow, thick and immovable and foreign against your skin. The bruising—Oh God, the bruising—blooming in violent shades of purple and yellow along your collarbone, creeping upward like watercolor spilled carelessly beneath your skin before disappearing under the thin hospital gown. The small square bandage taped carefully at your temple, covering what must have looked far worse before they cleaned it.

You watch the moment it registers.

The second he realizes this wasn’t dramatic exaggeration.

This was real.

Your heart skips in your chest but not from the injury, not from the medication humming faintly through your veins, from the way he looks at you like you’ve just stepped back from the edge of something terrible.

“What—” Your voice comes out scratchy, still thick with sleep and hospital air. You swallow and try again. “What are you doing here?”

Dustin stands so abruptly his chair legs screech against the tile.

“Oh. Right. So. Fun fact.”

You don’t look at him.

You can’t.

Your eyes stay locked on Steve, even though he’s not the one speaking now, not the one scrambling to explain. You’re still trying to process the way he looks.

“Remember that emergency contact thing I did in high school as a joke?” your brother finally says, and that pulls your attention just enough to flicker toward him. “When I put Steve on your form to make your ex-boyfriend upset?”

There’s a pause.

Long enough for the memories to unspool in your mind whether you want them to or not.

You remember that stupid argument. The jealous, insecure boyfriend who couldn’t stand that Steve still hovered at the edges of your life. You remember Dustin grinning like a menace as he filled out your school paperwork “for you” and deliberately writing Steve Harrington in the emergency contact line just to see the fallout.

You remember the fight that followed.

You remember the breakup.

You remember Steve pretending he didn’t know any of it happened, even though he absolutely did.

Your stomach drops.

“I never updated it,” Dustin confesses.

The room goes very still.

Not just quiet, still.

Even the steady beep of the heart monitor seems to sharpen.

“You what?” You frown.

Dustin shifts his weight from one foot to the other, rocking slightly on his heels. His hands shove deeper into the pockets of his hoodie like that thin layer of fabric might shield him from the consequences of what he’s admitting.

“I thought,” he begins quickly, the words tumbling out in a nervous rush, “that you had already removed Steve from your emergency contact list. I mean, years have passed. We’ve had near-death experiences. Literal alternate dimensions. Earthquakes. Government paperwork. Medical forms. I assumed at some point you’d change it.”

He gestures vaguely toward Steve without fully looking at him.

“But you never did,” he continues, voice gaining a strange kind of defensive momentum, like he’s building a case for himself. “And I noticed. And I chose to respect your administrative decisions by staying silent.”

You blink at him slowly.

“You did not.”

“I did.”

“Why?” Steve asks this time.

And that is what makes Dustin hesitate.

Because the question isn’t annoyed. It isn’t angry.

It’s careful.

For the first time since you woke up, your brother grins. Not sheepishly. Not apologetically.

Proudly.

Like he’s been waiting years for this exact reveal. Like he’s about to pull the sheet off a statue he’s been sculpting in secret.

He looks between you and Steve slowly, theatrically, savoring the moment. Steve is still standing there at the edge of your hospital bed, rigid in a way that doesn’t look comfortable. His hands hover uncertainly at his sides, fingers flexing once like he’s fighting the instinct to reach for you without permission. He looks like someone afraid to move too quickly in case the fragile proof of your being here, disappears.

Then Dustin looks back at you.

“Because,” he says dramatically, spreading his arms as if he’s presenting the cure to a global crisis, “I am sick of waiting for you two to figure your lives out.”

The words settle heavily in the room.

You just stare at him.

Your head pulses harder at the sudden spike of emotion, frustration, embarrassment, something warmer and more dangerous underneath. The ache radiates down your neck, but you ignore it. You’re too focused on the way the air seems to thin between the three of you.

Across from you, Steve freezes.

It’s subtle. So subtle most people wouldn’t catch it.

But you do.

The way his shoulders lock just a fraction tighter. The way his breath halts halfway through his chest like he forgot how to finish inhaling. The way his eyes flicker toward Dustin, then back to you, uncertain whether to laugh this off, deny it, or brace for impact.

He looks almost…exposed.

“I got a call,” Steve starts suddenly, the words pushing out of him before the silence can stretch any further. It’s like he can’t let Dustin control the narrative, can’t let this become some romanticized ambush without grounding it in what actually happened. His voice is tight. Too tight. Carefully wrapped around itself. “They said you fell. Head injury. Unconscious. They said you weren’t responding at first and then I talked to Henderson.”

Each phrase sounds clipped, precise, like he memorized it on the drive here. Like he replayed the nurse’s voice over and over again in his head until the words carved grooves into him.

Your heart skips.

Slowly, because even turning your head feels like negotiating with gravity, you shift your gaze toward your brother.

Dustin refuses eye contact.

He stares at the tile floor as if it’s suddenly fascinating. You can see the guilt creeping up his neck in visible color, spreading beneath his freckles until the tips of his ears burn red. His shoulders dip just slightly, though he’s still trying to hold onto that stubborn pride.

“I might have said ‘it was very bad,’” Dustin finally mutters. He scuffs his sneaker lightly against the tile, rubber squeaking in the sterile quiet. “And dramatically.”

The word dramatically lingers.

But Steve doesn’t look away from you.

Not even for a second.

“Was it that bad?” he asks quietly.

And it’s almost worse that he asks it gently.

There’s no accusation in it. No edge.

Just a raw need to know.

You swallow, and even that small movement feels deliberate, like your body has become something breakable you have to navigate slowly.

“It hurt.”

It’s the simplest truth you can offer.

His jaw tightens immediately.

You see it clearly now, the muscle ticking near his ear, the way his teeth press together just slightly, like he’s physically restraining a reaction. Not anger at you.

Anger at the image.

At the thought of you hitting water. At the idea of you floating still for even a second too long.

“You scared him,” you say softly to Dustin, trying to redirect the tension before it snaps entirely.

He scoffs, but it’s brittle.

“Yeah, well,” he says, lifting his head now, “I also scared him on purpose.”

Steve finally blinks. “What?”

Dustin stands abruptly again, like he needs movement to justify what he’s about to admit. The chair legs scrape loudly behind him. He points between you and Steve like he’s directing a stage production.

“You two have been dancing around each other for literal years. Years,” he repeats, incredulous. “I’ve had to watch this. I deserve compensation.”

“Dustin,” you warn, heat flickering through your exhaustion.

But he’s already rolling.

“Remember when she had the flu,” he barrels on, pointing at Steve with an accusing finger that trembles just slightly, “and you showed up with three different kinds of soup and chocolate because you ‘didn’t know which one she’d prefer’?”

“You told me she wasn’t eating,” he mutters, defensive but quiet. “And your mom wasn’t home.”

He doesn’t say that he’d driven across town in the rain. He doesn’t say that he’d stood awkwardly in the grocery aisle for ten full minutes debating brands like it was a life-or-death decision. He doesn’t say that he’d chosen the chocolate because you once mentioned it was your favorite after a bad day.

“And all the times you asked me how she was doing,” Dustin presses, relentless now, like if he stops he might lose his nerve. “If she was seeing someone. If she seemed ‘happy.’ Like it was totally normal talk.”

Steve doesn’t answer.

He just stands there in the harsh hospital lighting, shoulders tense beneath a jacket that’s still damp at the cuffs, like he came straight from wherever Dustin dragged him from. His jaw works once. Twice. But nothing comes out.

Because it wasn’t normal talk.

It was Steve cornering Dustin in the driveway after dropping him off, engine still running, headlights cutting through the dark.

“So…she good?” he’d ask, staring straight ahead, fingers drumming against the steering wheel.

Or leaning against the kitchen counter at your house, pretending to be interested in whatever sci-fi nonsense Dustin was rambling about while casually slipping in, “She, uh…she seeing anyone?”

It was never gossip.

It was reconnaissance.

“If near-death experiences won’t do it, I don’t know what more—” Dustin bursts out again, throwing his arms up so dramatically he nearly knocks into the IV pole beside your bed. The metal rattles. “We fought monsters. We survived the apocalypse. We rebuilt a town. What more do you people need?”

Steve drags a hand slowly down his face, palm pressing over his mouth, like he’s trying to physically contain everything threatening to spill out.

“It’s still bad what you did,” you cut in, your voice steadier than you feel. You use the same tone your mom once used when you’d come home flustered after your first real heartbreak, firm, controlled, layered with concern. “You can’t just go and worry someone because you have…ideas.”

Dustin throws his hands out again. “But I panicked!”

“You lied,” Steve says quietly.

“And also, yes,” Dustin barrels on without shame, “I may have slightly exaggerated the urgency to ensure immediate arrival.”

Steve turns his head slowly to look at him.

“You said she wasn’t responsive,” he says carefully.

“You were unconscious!” Dustin fires back.

“For like a minute!”

“That’s sixty seconds!” Dustin shouts. “Do you know how long sixty seconds feels when your sister is floating face-down in the water and not moving?”

The room goes quiet again.

Dustin’s chest is rising fast now. The bravado slipping.

“I thought I lost her,” he admits, voice cracking slightly. “And the first person I wanted there was you.”

That lands harder than anything else he’s said.

You see it hit Steve, see the shift in his posture. The anger drains out of him like someone pulled a plug. His shoulders drop. His hands loosen.

Dustin swallows, eyes glassy but stubborn.

“I’ve wanted you together since I was fifteen,” he says more quietly now. “Since the first time you showed up at our house at midnight because she was crying and I didn’t know what to do. You didn’t even knock. You just walked in like you belonged there.”

You remember that night with painful clarity.

The world had already been wrong for months. You were exhausted from pretending it wasn’t. One of your closest friends was gone—really gone—and you couldn’t even grieve properly because half the town thought it was an accident and the other half thought you were crazy. You’d locked yourself in your room, sitting on the floor with your back against the bed, trying to breathe through something that felt like it was crushing your ribs from the inside.

You thought Dustin hadn’t heard you crying.

But he had.

And he’d called Steve.

You didn’t hear the knock. You didn’t hear the front door open.

You just looked up and there he was, Steve Harrington, standing in your doorway like it was the most natural thing in the world. No grand entrance. No awkward greeting. Just quiet presence.

He’d crossed the room without a word and sat down in front of you, knees brushing yours. Close enough to ground you. Not close enough to overwhelm you.

“Henderson said you needed backup,” he’d murmured, voice low and careful.

You hadn’t been able to explain the weight in your chest. The guilt. The fear. The constant sense that the ground might split open again.

He hadn’t asked you to.

He’d just stayed.

“I kept your name on the form,” Dustin continues now, quieter but unwavering. “Because if something happened, you’re the one who’d come.”

“You didn’t have to exaggerate,” Steve says quietly, but he’s not looking at Dustin anymore. He’s looking at you. Really looking at you. “I would’ve come anyway.”

Your brother pauses mid-breath.

“…Oh.”

It’s almost comical, the way his entire posture shifts, like a lightbulb flicked on over his head and short-circuited at the same time.

Your heartbeat climbs into your throat.

“You would have?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

The question sounds smaller than you meant it to. Fragile. Like you’re bracing for the answer to break something open.

Steve’s brow furrows, genuinely confused by the doubt in it.

“Of course I would have.”

There’s no hesitation. No grand speech. No dramatic buildup.

Just certainty.

Like the sky being blue. Like gravity.

Dustin’s eyes go wide, like he just witnessed irrefutable scientific evidence after years of hypothesis testing. His gaze darts between you and Steve, watching something click into place that he’s apparently been waiting half a decade to see.

He slowly backs toward the door.

“Okay,” he says carefully, pointing between the two of you like a referee exiting the ring. “I’m going to get coffee. And not spy from the hallway. Probably.”

“Dustin—” you start.

But he’s already gone.

The door swings shut with a soft click.

And suddenly the room feels very small.

The hospital monitor beeps steadily beside you, rhythmic and indifferent. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a cart rattles past.

Steve exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for the last ten minutes. Then he drags a chair closer and sits down beside your bed.

“You look terrible,” you mumble after taking a long, careful look at him.

He huffs a breath that might be a laugh but doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Had to leave training with the kids halfway through to come here.”

Your lips twitch, the corners of a smile tugging upward despite the ache in your ribs. “I’m sorry for it,” you say softly. “But I’m okay.”

“I know.”

But he says it like he’s convincing himself.

You study him, like he was a rare thing.

“You were scared,” you say gently.

He doesn’t even deny.

“Yeah.”

No joke. No deflection. Just that.

Your chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with the ribs still tender from your fall.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you whisper, voice rough. “I didn’t even know Dustin was still…into that idea.”

“I know,” he says again.

And this time, you hear it in the pause afterward, the memory of people he’s lost, the nights he spent replaying every near-miss, the guilt that sits heavy like a second skin. He rests his hand on the mattress near yours, careful not to touch. Just there. Hovering. Like he needs proof you’re real, that you’re alive, that you’re still here.

“I thought…” He trails off.

You wait.

“I thought maybe I’d used up all my luck already,” he admits quietly, almost a confession to the empty air around him. “With all of us.”

Oh.

The air shifts.

Your fingers reach out, trembling slightly, toward his. He hesitates for only a second before closing the small gap. His grip is warm, protective in a way that makes your chest ache and your heart stutter. You can feel his tension, the restrained panic underneath the calm exterior, the way he’s always ready for something to go wrong but is trying to keep it together.

“I’m still here,” you whisper softly.

His thumb brushes gently over your knuckles, light enough to almost be a question.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You are.”

And outside the door—

Dustin Henderson fist-pumps silently in victory.

A win is a win.

[harringtonsugar]

his hands are so big ….. new necklace incoming <3

[kassy-djomunson]

happy national ice cream day🍦

[djotime]

Marmalade 2024, dir. Keir O'Donnell

[spider-mann]

Stranger Things cast on set | One Last Adventure: The Making of Stranger Things 5

[djo-e]

this is our year

[tylrgalpins]

STEVE HARRINGTON AND ROBIN BUCKLEY — in Stranger Things (2016 - 2025)

[djodesk]

Bigmouth Strikes Again

summary: One drunken night to get away from all the chaos wouldn't hurt, that's what Steve told himself, that's what you told him too, until you're the one having to drive him home to his parents waiting in the kitchen.

wc: 4.5k

tags: drinking, hints at alcoholism and substance abuse, steve has shitty parents trope, mentions of scars, fighting/shoving, angst galore!

a/n: i loveeee writing angst with steve, inspired by this request! <3

Steve’s head rested against the edge of the car window. Eyes fluttered as the cool wind hit against his face, breathing in the fresh air outside. He needed to breathe in something other than the smell of liquor on his own clothes.

You were driving at a slower pace than usual, trying to keep Steve’s stomach full of liquor to stay steady and also trying to get used to the controls of his beamer. The pedals were much more sensitive compared to your own car's.

Steve could hold his liquor. He’d party, let loose and drink, and be named the keg stand king over and over again in high school. 

But Steve wasn’t in high school anymore, he hadn’t been ‘King Steve’ for awhile. But he still liked to go out, still got invited, still liked to let loose. You’d assume a person's alcohol tolerance would be stronger after some time. That wasn’t the case for Steve.

“You doing alright Stevie?” You’d ask, occasionally looking over at him to make sure he wasn’t about to puke again. He had already vomited in the downstairs bathroom of James Welsh's house, then again in the bushes outside after being challenged to a few too many keg stands.

“Mm. Mhm.” He nodded lazily, his head still tilted out towards the open window. He fully closed his eyes, the flashes of the streetlights passing by was starting to make him woozy. You reached over and gave his shoulder a rub and a small squeeze, trying to give him some sort of comfort.

You felt guilty for Steve being in such a state. You were the one who told him he should go to that party, that he needed to take a night to forget about all the chaos around him.

Steve agreed. He could forget about the constant stress and chaos he was failing to keep compacted.

Dustin had become angry, distant, and cold. Max had been in a coma for months, Lucas would spend days just waiting by her hospital bed. Eddie had been killed by the same creatures that left the skin on Steve's torso scarred. All of it being proof that Steve couldn't save everybody.

The town had split into four. A military base took up half of Hawkins. There was the impending doom of the world fucking ending.

One drunken night wouldn’t hurt.

The gravel in Steve’s driveway made both of you rumble a bit in your seats as you pulled in. A forest green Mercedes Benz coupe was parked on the left side, an uncommon sight and it meant only one thing: Steve’s parents were home for once.

You gently shook Steve by the shoulder, telling him softly that you had arrived. He lifted his head up from where it was smushed against the door, nodding slightly before he sat upright, sort of.

“Shit.” He mumbled. He let his head fall back against the leather seat, grimacing. His parents were supposed to have left by now. Gone off on another work or vacation trip, usually to the house a few cities away that they liked better than Hawkins.

There was no idea about how his parents would react to their inebriated son stumbling into the house, would they even care?

After Steve’s failed attempt at convincing you he could walk into his house completely fine on his own where he missed failing the car door handle and nearly did a full barrel roll out of the vehicle, as well as multiple protests along with swatting away your hands, he let you help him walk to the door.

His arm laid limp over your shoulder, you did your best to support his standing by holding him under the armpits. After a long adventure of him tripping over his own feet and the little divides in the cement that led to his front door, you had to go through the next mission of digging his house keys out his pocket.

You did your best to fix the tangled and stray strands of hair that dangled in his face, using your fingers as a comb. He let out a breathy chuckle at the feeling, the smell of mixed drinks immediately hit your face.

When you entered the front foyer–from what was visible of the living room–you could see that it was empty. The knot in your stomach unraveled, his parents must’ve been in bed. It was already past midnight anyway.

Once the hallway ended and you could get a full view of the living room and kitchen, you stopped almost immediately, Steve stumbling next to you at the sudden pause. You should’ve known better than to let your guard down so quickly.

Two adults with furrowed brows stared at the both of you from where they stood at the kitchen island. A luxury handbag sat on the counter in front of the woman, lit cigarette between her fingers with a glass ashtray not too far from her.

Your stomach twisted back into that tight and heavy knot.

Be formal.

“Good evening, Mr.Harrington, Mrs.Harrington. Nice to see you both again.” You greeted, smiling and trying to swallow the lump in your throat as they stared. Your eyes ping ponged between them.

Steve gave a very slurred greeting to his parents, swaying where he stood. You still had your arm wrapped around him.

“I’m assuming you kids been out partying? Drinking?” His father said, there was a hint of amusement in his tone but it was mainly flat. He didn’t look surprised or concerned, his face was stoic with a tinge of something else. Anger? Disappointment? It was hard to read him. Runs in the family, you guessed.

“Yes- uh- no, sir. I mean, I didn’t have anything,” You stammered out, Mr.Harringtons eyes pointed to Steve, his brow cocked in a silent: And him?

“He’s just had a bit too much.” Your smile was becoming pained. His mother made an unimpressed face, a red rim from her lipstick sat around the butt of her cigarette.

“I’m the keg stand king, pops.” Steve drawled out, a proud drunken grin on his face while you squeezed your eyes shut in embarrassment. You should’ve slapped your hand over his mouth and dragged him away.

His father let out a dry chuckle, not one bit interested or amused by his son's activities.

“Keeping the Harrington championship title going, huh?” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes out of his very expensive looking coat. 

“Yep,” You took in a deep inhale, planning your great escape while Mr.Harrington flipped open his pack, “I should help him to bed now.” You nodded to the stairs as you tried to turn Steve with you.

“It’s nice of you to help him inside, sweetheart. Thank you.” His mother said kindly, a forced smile on her face. She was uninterested about the same amount his father was.

For some reason, that made Steve stand up straight, still swaying.

“Oh she’s great! She’s really the best.” Steve was smiling ear to ear, tilting his head as he gazed at you. You gave him a tight lipped smile, you could see it, he was about to go on some sort of rant.

“You know, she’s always been the first person to help me. Like, when I need a ride, or someone to cover my shift, or when I get hurt.” His head tilted, basically dropped to the side as he nudged into you.

“That’s great, son. I’m sure she has.” His father breathed out, the disappointment in his tone becoming clearer with each word.

You tried to pull Steve back, tell him he should get upstairs, but he wouldn’t budge.

“She always has! More than the two of you have,” He hiccuped, you could see his mothers jaw clench in the bright light of the kitchen. “She’s always been by my side, like when Billy got me that one time, or when I had to fight those demodogs, or when the Russians kidnapped us.” He laughed and pointed at you as your eyes went wide.

“Russians?” His mother rasped out.

“Yeah! The night Starcourt burned down, me, her, and Robin all got stuck in this huuuge underground Russian bunker. We got totally drugged and tortured, that’s why my face was all messed up last summer–” He slipped away from you, taking wobbly steps towards the kitchen. You pulled on his arm, trying to stop him.

“Steve–”

Embarrassment was flooding through you. With the slurring of his words and his parents' absence of knowledge of what he was talking about, he might as well have been speaking in tongues.

“-Then we escaped and had to kill the mind flayer by throwing a bunch of fireworks at it. That’s really how the fire actually started.”

His parents stared at him, then at you as if they were asking you if you understood any of it, then stared back at him.

To them, it was a whole bunch of gibberish. Words made up by those geeky kids he always drove around.

“Mind flayer? Kid, what the hell are you saying?” His father scoffed, a wrinkle in between his brows.

“A big monster made out of flesh and goop,” Steve gestured widely with his hands as he explained, “It came from the upside down.” He quickly turned to you, not to listen to you, but just to talk even more.

Your cheeks burned in embarrassment, Steve’s words were slurred and at points incoherent with the way he grouped together sentences. He sounded fucking crazy, he was acting fucking crazy. You felt like you could throw up from the guilt.

You stared at him owlishly, praying he could read your mind.

For the love of God, Steve. Shut up. Please. Just shut up.

“Remember when we went on that big mission into the upside down, you like basically saved my life when those bats got me. That’s how I got these.” He turned back to face his parents, his hand slipping out of your grasp as he lifted up his sweater. 

His scars were now on full display to his parents. 

They’d both seen glimpses of them before. It was another incident never mentioned after the first time. They never asked about them. Never asked if he was alright when he winced anytime he bent over last March. 

And they never asked about the deep red ring around his neck from that same month. Not one question asked about it.

“Oh Jesus Christ, Steven.” His mother muttered. She looked away with a faint grimace on her face, as if she was disgusted. It was like she was ashamed of what she saw.

“Yeah, not from the fire.” He explained with a goofy smirk, pointing at the jagged skin like a trophy.

Steve had never been so open about his scars before, he had gained the new habit of never taking off his shirt. Constantly tugging at the hem to make sure it wouldn’t rise above his belt. He did everything he could to hide them.

In all of your panic, you yanked his sweater back down. A quiet plea left your mouth as you pulled him towards you, hands still grasping the hem.

“For fucks sake-“ The older man ran a hand down his face, then gestured to Steve with an open palm while looking at you. “Did he take anything?”

“No, no sir. He just...went past his limit.” Your voice was small, quiet like you were the one about to be scolded.

“Not the first time he’s done it.” His father muttered, his pack of cigarettes long forgotten about, thrown on the counter.

It takes a moment for Steve to process his words and the negative connotation with it. You were able to tug on his sleeve, getting him to take a few steps back towards the stairs with you. Nowhere close to the first step.

Steve’s drunken smile faltered. Your words had struck an old memory that was buried away in Steve’s mind.

Being eight years old, asking his mother why dad was so angry again, why he was yelling earlier, why he had smashed another brown bottle, why he had fallen asleep on the couch with his shoes and work clothes still on.

“Your father’s just gone a bit past his limit tonight, honey. You should go get some rest.” His mother would tell him, sending him off to his room without bothering to tuck the sheets over him, never even stepping foot in his room after telling him to go.

Steve straightened up as he turned around, his smile already grown back a bit stronger than before. Hoarse laughter laughter leaving his throat.

Both of his parents stared at him, surprised this time. Maybe even concerned. Steve hiccuped and bumped into the counter as he walked into the kitchen. It was closer than the carpeted steps leading to the second floor.

He bellowed out harder laughter when he caught his parents scowling faces. Pointing and bending over slightly, having to grasp the kitchen island for support.

His father put his hand on Steve's shoulder. Not out of worry or concern. But in a moment of frustration. He pushed at it, watching his son wobble instead of stand back up straight.

“Oh my God, you guys are–” He took a moment to catch his breath, inhaling as he shook his head in amusement, “-you guys are such assholes.”

His fathers grasp on Steve's shoulder tightened.

“You guys are such bullshit.” He continued, mouth moving before his mind.

Steve was pushed up straight, he lazily stood, swaying with a smug look on his face.

“What did you take son?” Not once did his father call him by name.

Steve’s smile only grew wider. Cockier. You knew this wouldn’t end well, Steve’s mouth couldn’t save him the same way his own fists have tried to.

“Oh, it’s not so fun when you have to be the one dealing with the mess, is it?” Steve was being pulled up straight by his father, the older man’s hands gripping onto the collar of his son's shirt.

“What was it? Pills?” Steve’s father repeated his question, shaking him.

Steve was standing toe to toe with his father. The smug look on his face was already a warning sign he’d spit back.

“So it’s a problem if I took some but not when moms throwing them back like candy?” His fathers grip tightened as he shoved Steve to where his back slammed against the fridge.

Steve stumbled and his smile faltered for just a few seconds, then it came back as a full cockeyed grin.

You only stood frozen and watched, the same going for Mrs.Harrington. Her cigarette sat between her fingers, the ash of the stick getting longer. The both of you knew you shouldn’t step between two pissed off men.

“Danny, please.” Mrs.Harrington sighed at her husband's actions. Not encouraging for them to clash, but not trying to stop it either. Not caring really for what the outcome would be. “He’ll sober up and be fine by morning, he’s just had too much.”

“No, Janice. He’s not fine, he’s high. Maybe if our son wasn’t constantly picking fights, he would be smarter than hanging around those junkies.”

Steve huffed out a dry laugh, rolling his eyes as he murmured something none of you could catch. His father grimaced.

“Jesus Christ kid. I can smell the fucking liquor on your breath.”

Another foggy memory struck through his mind. His smile twitched.

Angry footsteps throughout the house. Yelling. Objects being thrown and shoved around.

“I can smell the goddamn liquor on your breath. You fucking reek of it, Daniel.”

“Really, Janice? Because I can constantly hear the fucking pill bottles rattling in your purse.”

Steve’s face dropped into a frown as he stared at his father. A match was finally struck, Steve was lit up.

You're not really sure what Steve was attempting to do. He grabbed his fathers wrists and wrenched them off of him, followed by a shove to the older man's chest. 

It was hard to tell what happened next since Steve had moved to where his back was facing you, his body covering whatever he was trying to do with his hands to his father.

All you heard was a slap and Steve being shoved. Caught off balance, he stumbled backwards on his drunken feet, his thighs hit the armrest of the chair you stood next to, leading him to land on his ass on the floor right at your feet. Domino effect.

His mother looked away with a shake of her head, his father pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration before gesturing at his son on the floor.

“See, this is what I’m talking about. All those hits to the head have made you reckless. Idiotic.” He spat.

Steve stayed on the ground for a moment. Not moving from where he rested on his elbows behind him, his jaw clenching and unclenching. Eyes blinking quickly.

You kept yours away from his parents though you could feel theirs flicker to you, it was uncomfortable enough being a bystander for the past few minutes. You needed to get out of there, so did Steve.

With a rub to his back and a careful hand on his arm, you helped Steve pick himself up from off the hardwood floor. The quick transition from his fathers heavy hands and iron grip to yours, gentle, cautious, kind. It made him feel much more dizzy.

“You need to rest, honey.” Steve’s mother said to him, a sympathetic yet forced smile on her lips.

Steve could barely face his mothers eyes, one quick glance before he turned to the stairs. You wrapped your arm around his back, making sure he wouldn’t stumble into any other furniture.

“Make sure he doesn’t choke on his vomit.” His father told you through a sigh, already making his way to the fridge.

You gave him a weak nod and swallowed, eyes on the ground as you helped Steve move up the stairs in his inebriated state. Though the argument sobered him up a bit, he was still pretty drunk, still couldn’t stand straight on his own.

“He’ll sober up.” You heard his mother mutter from the kitchen.

Steve fell face first into his unmade bed with a grumble. His face rubbing into his pillow with a small breath of pleasure. You did the honors of slipping off his sneakers and tugging his blanket out from underneath him. You shook it and laid it over him, his eyes closed.

You knew Steve’s parents well enough to know that entire conversation, that moment downstairs, would never be brought up again. 

Just like how they never talked about Steve’s party where Barbra Holland went missing. The only conversation made about it was after they were questioned by the police and the patrol car left the driveway.

The closest thing to a conversation they ever had was Steve being scolded and earning a red handprint across his face from his father.

Or how his parents never talked about Steve coming home that same week with a split lip, nose, and brow.

Or how his parents took nearly two hours to get to the emergency room after his fight with Billy.

Because you were the one who drove him to the hospital. You were the one who begged him to go there despite him insisting he’d be fine.

Even with his parents being at home, knowing their 17 year old son had a concussion and a fractured tooth. They took two hours to drive the fifteen minutes it took to get to the ER.

Just like the incident with Starcourt, except they didn’t even bother to come home after getting a call saying his son was injured in the fire. They didn’t pick up the phone until the second call. 

They didn’t ask after they returned the next week—their annual trip to the Bahamas—about his swollen black eye, the stitches under his lip, and his second concussion. 

He was 18. He was labeled his own legal guardian. He didn’t need to call his parents, he didn’t need his parents. 

He would take care of himself on his own. He’s done it since he was nine years old.

You took the small trash can from under his desk and moved it to the side of the bed where he was splayed out across. Once you set it there, Steve’s eyes were open, staring blankly.

“You okay?” You asked from where you sat on the floor, sitting on your knees so you could reach to rub Steve’s arm. 

“God, imagine if I ended up like him.” He said through what you assumed was a scoff. Your movements came to a stop.

You already knew who he was talking about. He’d already mentioned his dads drinking before.

“I really don’t wanna be like him.” He mumbled, face smushed by his pillow. Your hand moved from his arm to his hair, combing your fingers through them.

“You’re not, you just got a little carried away with the kegs tonight.” You gave him a weak laugh, Steve hummed and fluttered his eyes shut when your nails scratched nicely against his scalp. “You should get some rest.” You reminded him.

“Mm. Yeah. Probably gonna have a terrible headache in the morning.” He babbled as you took the pillow next to his head, dropping it on the floor so you’d have some sort of cushion to sleep on. He continued.

“Y’know, everybody like Dustin and Jonathan and all of them think I'm still in love with Nancy.” Hearing her name stung, you weren’t there for Steve and Nancy’s relationship. But you were there for all the stories and stolen glances. “But you’re really the only one I wanna be with.”

Your breath hitched and stomach began to twist, what were you supposed to say to that?

“Did y’hear me?” He peeked an eye open before opening the other as much as he could, it smushed against the pillow.

“Yeah, I heard you Steve.” You gave him a closed mouth smile through clenched teeth. You were exhausted and it showed.

Your hand moved before you could hesitate, it cupped the side of his face. Your thumb slid across his cheekbone, watching as his long eyelashes fluttered at the feeling. 

What were you even supposed to do now? You dreamed of a moment like this, fucking prayed for a moment like this. Where you finally knew that he reciprocated the same feelings you had for him, and you could say it back, but did that even count as a confession? This isn’t how you planned for it to go, you didn’t have any idea for how it would go. You just hoped maybe it’d be true.

In the moment, you tried to dismiss his words. Telling yourself it was just the alcohol talking for him, he was wasted out of his mind, he was babbling anything. What he says in this state shouldn’t matter.

“I love you.” There was a weird raw softness in his confession. He gazed at you.

And you froze. Your entire body stiffened, and your stomach was double knotted. You tried to swallow down that lump that returned in your throat, it felt like a boulder.

“You’re drunk, Steve.” You said back softly, almost reassuringly. Your eyes fought to find somewhere to look other than his. They settled on a small scar on his cheek.

“Yeah. But I’m still in love with you.”

You dropped your gaze from him, sighing. Less of a sigh, really. More of a wry exhale.

“We should- we should talk about this in the morning.”

“In the morning, I’ll still love you.”

You wanted to scream, groan, maybe slam your head into the wall so you could knock out and not have to deal with any of it.

When you stood up, he let out a mix of a plea and a whine, gripping onto your hand to pull you back. It was a beg, just like how you pulled at his hand downstairs, trying to remove him from that impending argument.

“I’m gonna call my parents real quick, just tell them I’m staying the night at a friends. I’ll be back, okay?” You reassured him, one hand going atop of his to give it a rub.

He mumbled out a “'kay” before letting you slip away from him.

As much as you wanted to run out of the house, walk yourself home, and scream into your pillow. You couldn’t leave Steve alone like this. You wouldn’t allow yourself to.

You didn’t want him to wake up in the morning hungover with that familiar pounding in his head with no one to help him. It was better to make sure he didn’t make any more dumb decisions tonight anyways.

So you called your mom, told her you’d be staying at Jamie's. You already lied earlier that evening when you said you’d be going out with Jamie. Through the phone, you tried to hide the quiver in your voice and you fought the little urge to beg her to come and pick you up. 

You returned with a glass of water for Steve, setting it on his nightstand. You grabbed a throw blanket that lay folded at the edge of his bed for yourself. 

As you got your pathetic excuse of a bed together and began to lay in it, Steve decided to speak again.

“’M really sorry I couldn’t say it sober, I’m a wimp.” His voice was getting thick with drowsiness. Each word was another twist. 

“I know.”

“And ‘s not bullshit. How I feel.”

“You can tell me that when you’re sober.” As much as you wanted them to, you couldn’t get your words to bite. It’s like they just crumbled off your tongue. He stared at you through his lidded eyes.

God, you couldn’t read him. You’d gotten better at figuring out what he was thinking the closer you both became. But not that night, you couldn’t fucking read him.

“Get some sleep, I’ll be here.” You slid your hand through his hair one more time for the night before laying down. The floor was hard and uncomfortable on your body, the blanket you took wasn’t doing much to cushion you.

You could’ve slept next to Steve on his soft mattress. He clearly had no problem with it. It was tempting, but you wouldn’t allow yourself to. You weren’t sure if you could handle being so close to him.

His bed was close enough to the ground and his arm was long enough to dangle over the edge and grip onto your hand, holding it oh so slightly off the ground. It was so nice. So, so nice. The feel of it made you want to cry.

Part of you hoped he wouldn’t remember this in the morning. You hoped you wouldn’t either.

But deep down, the other part of you hoped maybe he would, maybe he’d mention it, maybe he’d ask once he was awake and not crouched over hurling into his trashcan. Maybe.

You’d sleep on the floor next to his bed, let his hand loosely hold yours. His parents would be gone by 10 the next morning. Maybe you’d muster up the courage to mention the drunken confession.

[campyvillain]

my mom made me watch the last part of stranger things w her last night and she kept getting frustrated that i was laughing every time the evil villain guy showed up because whenever he’d come onscreen i’d think abt this video of his actor in prosthetics trying to drink a bottle of coke and fucking dying and she was like WHATS SO FUNNY HE JUST KILED SOMEONE and i couldn’t form coherent words for liek 10 mjnutes the noises THE NOISES

[colouredbyd]

You're Screwing My Sister ?!

STEVE HARRINGTON X HENDERSON!READER

synopsis: the (4) times you successfully hide your relationship from your brother and the (1) time dustin catches you with steve.

word count: 6.5k

warnings: secret relationship, almost getting caught, kissing, suggestive language, implied sex, angst, mention of blood injury, nightmares, slight ptsd, jealousy, hurt/comfort, protective steve harrington, long emotional talks, steve is whipped for reader, background byler, happy ending.

1.

Steve was not a good liar. He tried. He really, really tried. But for all the effort he put into hiding things, he still failed miserably at it. 

His face gave him away every single time. Feelings lived on him like fingerprints, obvious and unavoidable, especially when romance was involved. Every girl he had ever dated became public knowledge within a week, sometimes even less. 

Hawkins was small like that, and Steve was pretty much bad at keeping his love life private.

So yes, Steve sucked at keeping secrets. Making the fact that he was hiding something, something big, from Dustin Henderson of all people felt like a sick joke. Like the universe was daring him to fuck it up.

Because this wasn’t a fling. This wasn’t some temporary, easy thing he could shrug off when it got complicated. It was you. 

Yet Steve couldn’t find it in himself to end whatever had started between you both, bcause dating you was somehow the easiest thing he had ever done and the hardest thing he had ever survived.

Easy, because being with you made everything lighter. You slipped into his life without force, without noise, and suddenly he wasn’t so tense all the time. He laughed without thinking. He breathed without bracing for impact. The constant knot in his chest loosened, replaced by something warm that stayed with him long after you walked away.

Yet, it was so hard because it had to stay hidden.

Steve did not entirely hate the secrecy, and that fact made him feel like a bit of an asshole. There was something selfishly intoxicating about it, about having you all to himself, about the way your smiles and touches belonged only to him in stolen moments and half-lit rooms. Still, the logistics were a nightmare. 

Timing everything down to the minute, picking places that were quiet enough to be safe but not suspicious, constantly looking over his shoulder like he was doing something criminal instead of just falling in love.

All of that made it hard, yet the worst part of it all was Dustin.

Dustin was the one person Steve hadn’t lied to yet. Which was impressive, considering he was your brother and more than capable of beating the living shit out of him if he found out about your relationship.

So yes, in short, Steve hated lying about your relationship.

Though unlike Steve, you were an exceptional liar.

It was a talent you wielded effortlessly and oh so smoothly, never hesitating and never overexplaining. You could look someone dead in the eye and spin a perfectly believable story without your pulse so much as fluttering. 

Steve did not value dishonesty as a character trait. He really didn’t. But you were devastatingly good at it, and watching you lie with that calm, confident ease was — if he was being honest with himself— a huge turn-on. Which probably said more about him than it did about you.

Which was how he ended up now knocking quietly on your bedroom window at 8:30 in the evening.

You opened the window almost immediately, already grinning like you had been waiting there the whole time. Steve barely had time to step inside before your hands were on him, fingers curling into his jacket as you kissed him. 

He was about to say I missed you, baby, but it came out muffled and stupid as your mouth moved against his, sounding more like “I miffed you” than anything intelligible.

You pulled back just long enough to smile at him. “Missed you too, Stevie.”

He laughed under his breath, hands finding your waist automatically as he nudged you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed. He pushed you down with gentle insistence. “You called me over like it was an emergency,” he said, brushing his nose against yours. “What’s going on?”

You pouted dramatically. “What, I can’t wanna spend time with my boyfriend?”

Steve rolled his eyes fondly. “You can, but you were very ominous about it.”

“It’s boring here,” you complained, propping yourself up on your elbows. “All Dustin does is run around with his friends doing weird shit. I swear, if I hear about another goddamn radio one more time—”

“Yeah,” Steve cut in, grinning, “exactly. Which is precisely why I should not be here right now.”

You waved him off, completely unbothered. “Relaaax. He’s across the hall and deeply invested in something grossly scientific. We’re fine.” you said, dragging out the words.

Steve glanced toward the door anyway, nerves prickling despite your confidence. “You say that, but I am one unexpected door opening away from ruining my entire relationship with your brother.”

“You’re dramatic,” you said, reaching out to tug him closer by the collar. “Sit.”

Steve leaned back against the headboard while you talked, filling him in on your day in a rambling, animated stream. He listened the way he always did, half-lidded and indulgent, kissing your neck like he had all the time in the world as you complained about something Stacey–or whatever her name was— from gym class did.

“She actually said it was my fault,” you scoffed, waving a hand. “Like I tripped her.”

“Mhm,” Steve hummed, lips brushing your skin again. 

You snorted. “You’re not even listening.”

“I am,” He finally looked at you then, eyes hazed and heavy-lidded, that familiar warmth darkened into something lazier, hungrier. His hand slid from your waist to your hip, fingers curling just enough to pull you back against him.

Then, softer, almost amused against your skin, “You know… I don’t think you realize how unfair you’re being right now.”

You hummed, a quiet sound that made him smile into your neck. “Unfair how?”

“These shorts…” he said, kissing just beneath your ear, lingering there. “You look really good in them. Like distractingly good.”

You laughed softly, fingers curling into the collar of his jacket. “They’re literally just pajamas, Steve.”

“Yeah,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes warm and amused, “and yet somehow they’re ruining my ability to think straight.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling, cheeks warm as you leaned forward to kiss him properly this time. He kissed you back without hesitation, familiar and easy as his hands slowly started to trail lower until they slipped past the waistband of your shorts.

The room was quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets and the faint sounds of the house settling around you.

Then there was a loud thud from across the hall.

Steve stiffened instantly, hand pulling away from you as you pushed him away. You froze too, heart jumping straight into your throat.

Footsteps followed, quick and careless, moving closer.

“Oh shit, shit, shit!” Steve whispered, pulling back completely.

“Window,” you hissed.

He scrambled off the bed, movements suddenly frantic as he headed straight for it, fumbling with the latch. He had just shoved it open when the door flew inward.

“Hey, I was just gonna ask if you—”

Dustin cut himself off.

He stood there, a bunch of wires in his hand, staring like his brain had completely short-circuited.

“…Steve?” he said slowly. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Steve turned around, caught mid-motion, hair messy, nerves written all over his face. For half a second, he genuinely looked like he might faint. His mouth opened yet nothing came out.

You stepped in immediately.

“Oh,” you said easily, swinging your legs off the bed and standing up like this was the most normal thing in the world. “Steve’s fixing my window.”

Dustin blinked. “Your window?”

“Yup,” you said, nodding toward it. “It’s been rattling for days. You just don’t notice because you’re always blasting that weird static crap in your room.”

“It’s not static,” Dustin said automatically, then frowned. “Wait. Since when does Steve fix windows?”

You didn’t hesitate for a second, the lie slipping smoothly. “Since he fixed his car window last week. Remember? When it got stuck halfway down and he couldn’t roll it back up?”

Dustin glanced at Steve. “You fixed that yourself?”

Steve nodded quickly. “Yeah. I mean—car windows, house windows… glass goes up, glass goes down. It’s all the same at the end of the day..” he laughed nervously.

That seemed to satisfy him. Dustin stepped further into the room, peering at the window inspecting the damage. “Huh. That’s actually kinda cool. You should’ve told me you knew how to do this. We could use that at Cerebro. The latch keeps sticking.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, forcing a smile. “Totally. I can look at it sometime.”

“Does it really rattle?” Dustin asked you.

“All the time,” you dragged out the words. “Especially when it’s windy. It’s annoying as hell.”

Dustin nodded thoughtfully. “Weird. I’ve never noticed.”

“That’s because you’re never in here,” you shot back.

He shrugged. “Fair.”

You grabbed your hoodie from the chair and headed for the door. “I’m gonna get the screws from the garage. I think they’re in the toolbox by the washer.”

As you passed Steve, he glanced down briefly, then back up at you, eyes wide and desperate. His expression screamed that this situation had become deeply inconvenient in more ways than one—mostly thanks to the very obvious bulge in his pants from your previous activities.

“So how long is this gonna take? Mom said dinner’s in like twenty minutes and—”

Steve swallowed, shifting his weight carefully, eyes flicking once more toward the open window.

“Uh,” he said, voice strained as he tried to angle himself away, hiding his little (but apparently not-so-little) friend, “not long. Just gotta… make sure it’s secure.”

Thankfully, Dustin seemed convinced and retreated back to his room, not even slightly suspicious. Steve let out a huge sigh of relief, knowing he would have been absolutely fucked if Dustin had noticed he had a boner while fixing his sister’s window.

2.

“Honey, you want butter or salt on that popcorn?” Steve called from the counter, holding a bucket that looked way too big for what you asked for.

“Is there caramel?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course, I’ll get that,” he said, and you heard the familiar shuffle of his shoes on the tiles as he walked toward the popcorn dispenser.

You followed behind, pretending to look around but really just watching him—Steve, who somehow looked like the absolute model of a gentleman right now, carrying your purse and filling up two massive buckets of popcorn. You’d asked for a medium, but of course he insisted on spoiling you, like he hadn’t just ripped your dress off a few hours ago in his car. God, you really had it bad for that man.

“Two tickets for E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial ,” he said, grinning at the cashier. He added, just for good measure, “The best seats, please.”

After getting the tickets and ordering, yet again, two large slushies, Steve turned, and started walking toward you. He leaned in, presumably for a kiss until you both were interrupted by a round of laughter.

A very familiar, very annoying, very fucking loud laughter.

You both froze. Slowly, you turned.

Dustin, Lucas, Will, Mike, Eleven, and Max were all marching into the theater like they owned the place. Max’s eyes locked on you two first as she saw you both standing right at the ticket counter. 

“Steve… and Y/N??” she asked, voice rising in shock.

Steve sighed, a long defeated sigh. “Oh, for fuck’s sake…” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, as he tried to figure out how the hell you’d all just become the center of attention without even knowing.

Dustin’s mouth hung open for a second, then he leaned forward, pointing a finger at Steve. “Why are you two…here?”

“Oh, hello everyone!” you laughed nervously and very much annoyed at the aspect of your date being ruined.

Steve gestured vaguely around the lobby. “Uh. We are here to watch  E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial.”

Dustin blinked. “Together?”

Steve laughed. “What, no. No, man. Jesus. We just came here because—” 

Before Steve could finish his horrible half-assed excuse, Mike suddenly stepped forward, voice cracking just slightly as he blurted, “I invited them!”

Every head snapped toward him.

“You did?” Dustin asked.

Lucas frowned. “You did?”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Why didn't you tell us?”

Mike nodded nervously. “Ehm–yeah! Thought you guys would enjoy the movie. Y’know, fun group outing. No big deal.”

You shot Mike a look, half confused, half relieved.

Dustin let out a long, dramatic “Ooooh,” instantly forgetting his suspicions. “Well. I mean. If Mike invited you...”

“Then you’re welcome to join us! We are also watching E.T!” Will exclaimed after Dustin.

“Yeah,” El added. “You’re welcome!”

Steve exhaled through his nose as the tension eased and the kids started drifting toward the ticket counter, already arguing about seats. He leaned closer to you, lowering his voice. “Well, our date is ruined.”

You snorted, slurping your slushie. “Be thankful it’s only ruined. If Mike hadn’t jumped in, you’d be six feet under once Dustin put the pieces together.”

Steve grimaced. “Fair point.” He watched Mike for a second, still baffled. “But I don’t understand…why the hell did he do that?”

You took another slow sip as the sound of the slushie left a grrrrr sound, eyes following the group. “Let’s just say I caught him a few days ago in a… similar predicament to ours.”

Steve frowned. “With who?” He paused, then frowned harder. “El?”

You shook your head, nodding toward the counter instead.

Steve followed your gaze. Mike and Will were standing too close, shoulders brushing, heads bent together like the rest of the world didn’t exist. Something clicked behind Steve’s eyes.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “He’s screwing Byers?”

You laughed, nearly choking on your slushie. “Lower your voice, Jesus.”

Steve stared, stunned, then let out a breathy laugh. “Holy shit. That explains everything.”

“Exactly,” you said, smirking. “He owes me one for keeping his secret.”

Steve shook his head slowly, a grin creeping onto his face despite himself. “This town is insane.”

“Tell me about it.”

3.

Dustin knew Steve was hiding something.

It was obvious, painfully so, even to someone like him. Dustin liked to think of himself as reasonably perceptive, and even if he wasn’t some kind of psychic genius, his best friend was not subtle.

Steve had many talents. Secrecy was surely not one of them. The signs were everywhere. The constant disappearances, the excuses that made no sense if you thought about them for longer than five seconds, the sudden inability to hang out because he was “busy”.

And then there was the glow.

Dustin usually didn’t buy into that whole love makes you glow bullshit. It sounded fake, like something Shakespeare would’ve thrown into a sonnet just to sound deep.But Steve had been walking around lately with this stupid look on his face, like his brain had short-circuited and decided to replace all higher functions with glitter and rainbows.

Which was really pathetic.

He was smiling at nothing, laughing under his breath like an idiot, and generally acting like someone had slipped something into his morning coffee that Dustin was starting to reconsider his stance about the whole glow thing.

Dustin was currently slouched in the passenger seat of Steve’s car, watching through the windshield as Steve stood at the counter of the gas station’s grocery shop loading up on sodas. 

The cashier rang everything up at a painfully slow pace, and Steve just stood there tapping his fingers against the counter, completely zoned out, grinning at absolutely nothing in particular.

“Jesus,” Dustin muttered under his breath. “Get a room with your own thoughts, man.”

Steve didn’t hear him, obviously, too busy living in whatever fantasy world had apparently taken up permanent residence in his head. 

Yeah. No question about it. Steve was in love, and therefore, almost definitely dating someone.

The realization did not make Dustin mad. If anything, it made him weirdly relieved. Steve deserved good things, deserved someone who made him smile like that instead of wearing that tight, exhausted look Dustin had gotten used to over the year. 

Still, there was a dull, uncomfortable tug in his chest that he could not quite ignore. Because Steve had not told him.

And Steve told Dustin everything. That had always been their thing, right? So why the hell was Steve suddenly holding something back now, of all times?

Steve was still inside, taking his time, so Dustin shifted in his seat. eyes drifting around the car. The car was a mess, as usual. Empty wrappers, crumpled receipts, a couple of cassette tapes shoved haphazardly into the compartment between the seats.

Dustin leaned forward, absently opening the little storage drawer built into the dash. He wasn’t snooping, not really. He was just bored, and that was a perfectly reasonable explanation to look around.

His fingers brushed against something small and solid in the drawer. He frowned, then pulled it out.

It was a box; red, neatly packaged, tied with a thin ribbon that had clearly been adjusted more than once. Dustin stared at it for a second, his curiosity getting the better of him. Slowly, he undid the ribbon and lifted the lid.

Inside was a necklace. A golden, delicate necklace with a small heart pendant resting against the velvet lining. Definitely did not look cheap in any means. 

“Ohhh” he murmured quietly.

That settled Dustin’s suspicions; Steve was definitely dating someone, and the idiot was clearly head over heels.

He closed the box immediately and retied the red ribbon, and slid it back into the drawer exactly where he’d found it. 

Steve climbed in seconds later, arms full of junk food, that stupid, soft smile still firmly glued to his face. He dumped everything in the space between the seats and tossed a soda toward Dustin without looking, who caught it out of instinct.

“Got your favorite,” Steve said easily. 

Dustin cracked the soda open but kept his eyes on Steve as he leaned back in the driver’s seat, humming quietly while he sorted through the bags. “You’re in a good mood,” he said, keeping his tone casual.

Steve glanced over. “Am I?”

“Yeah, man,” Dustin said flatly. “You’re glowing. It’s gross.”

Steve scoffed. “Must be the new face wash I’ve been using then. Glad to know it works ‘cause that shit cost me 20 bucks.”

Not that kind of glow, Dustin thought.

“You spent a good three minutes smiling at a bag of chips back there,” Dustin shot back. “So either you’re in love or you’ve finally snapped.”

Steve froze for half a second, his panic showing through. It was subtle, but Dustin caught it anyway.

Interesting.

“In love? Nah man.” he laughed nervously.

Dustin said slowly, eyes widening. “You have a girlfriend or somethin’?”

“What?” Steve laughed, and far too quickly. “No, I don’t.”

Dustin tilted his head, unimpressed. “Steve.”

“I don’t,” Steve insisted, shaking his head as he started the car. “I’m just, y’know, in a good mood.” he shrugged.

“Gosh,” Dustin said, rolling his eyes. “You suck at this. You’re actually terrible at lying, man.”

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it again. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Okay. Fine. Yes!”

Dustin grinned. “Yes, you have a girlfriend?”

“Yes,” Steve admitted. “I have a girlfriend.”

Dustin let out a loud, undignified noise, twisting in his seat so fast he nearly smacked his knee against the glove compartment. “Holy shit,” he said, grinning like he’d just been handed front-row tickets to something incredible. “That’s amazing. Seriously. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

Steve hesitated, his hands tightening on the steering wheel like it might give him guidance if he squeezed hard enough. “I just… I’m keepin’ it on the low right now, okay? It’s not a big deal.”

Dustin snorted. “You? Steve Harrington? The guy who once announced he had a crush to the entire video store after one date? You’re doin’ ‘low’ now?”

“Okay, shut up,” Steve shot back, but the words were undercut by the way his mouth curved into a smile anyway. “I mean it. I’m just… takin’ my time with this one.”

Dustin’s eyes lit up immediately. “Oh, this is serious then.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was about to be let in on a state secret. “So who is she? Do I know her?”

Steve shook his head without missing a beat. “I’m not sayin’.”

“Oh, come on,” Dustin groaned, dropping back against the seat. “You can’t drop that on me and then clam up. I’m happy for you, man. This is huge.”

“I know,” Steve said, quieter now, eyes fixed on the road. “I just need a little time, alright? That’s all I’m askin’.”

Dustin studied him for a moment, and whatever he saw there seemed to soften his hurt. He nodded once. “Alright. Fine.” Then his grin came roaring back. “But for the record, I fully expect details eventually. Also, congrats on finally having consistent sex.”

Steve nearly swerved into the next lane. “Jesus Christ, Dustin!”

“What?” Dustin asked, it wasn’t like the topic of sex was taboo between them. 

“You’re clearly happy. And besides, it’s kinda comforting to know you’re finally screwing someone on a regular basis. So honestly, you might as well spill some details.”

“Fuck no,” Steve said immediately, horrified. “Absolutely not. I would rather drive this car into a ditch than talk about that with you. And I’m pretty sure you don’t wanna hear it either.”

“Oh please,” Dustin shot back. “I have heard all the details about your hookups. Tammy Thompson, Carol Perkins, Emilia from—”

Steve winced. “Okay, first of all, you were not supposed to hear about half of those, and second of all,” he added quickly, “you really wouldn’t wanna know about this one.”

“Whatever, I’m just happy for you.” Dustin shrugged.

4.

There’s a saying that goes: even when life takes so much from you, it also gives a lot back. Time heals all wounds. But that was hard to believe when your nights were haunted by the things you’d seen in the Upside Down. 

Even though it had been over a year since the chaos, the monsters, the screams, there were nights—far too many nights—where the images came back, vivid and cruel. 

Which is exactly how you found yourself lying on the cold kitchen floor at one in the morning, phone pressed to your ear, body curled slightly as though curling into yourself might make the world feel safer. That old wired phone—the one that belonged to your parents—was pressed just so, and your nose was red from quietly sniffing.

“No, Steve, it’s fine,” you whispered, voice tight. “You really don’t need to come over. I… I’ll be okay.”

There was a pause on the other end before Steve’s voice came, tight with worry. “Are you sure? You’re sure you’re okay? I don’t care about the time. It’s a ten minute drive, maybe less, and I can be there before you even blink.”

You sniffled again, blinking against the tears you didn’t want to admit were falling. “I… I just want to hear your voice,” you admitted softly. “That’s enough.”

“No, that’s not enough,” he said, frustration and concern threading through his words. “Y/N, you woke up from a horrible nightmare all shaken up and you’re telling me you’re fine? I don’t think so. I’m coming over. I can’t not.”

You let out a soft laugh, barely audible. “Steve…please. I don’t need you to drive over. Just—just talk to me for a minute. I’m too tired to deal with…everything else right now.”

There was a long pause, then the faint sound of him running a hand through his hair. “Okay. Okay, fine. I’ll stay on the phone. But if you change your mind, I’m out the door in ten seconds.”

You shivered slightly, clutching the phone closer. “I’m… trying. I’m tired, Steve. I just… the nightmares won’t let me sleep.”

“I know, baby,” he murmured softly. “I know. And I’m sorry you have to deal with that. It’s not fair. You didn’t ask for any of this. You didn’t ask to see all that shit, to go through all of it. But I’m here. I’m right here. And you’re not alone, alright?”

You sniffled again. “Mhm. I just… sometimes it feels like it’s back, y’know? Like it’s all around me, and I can’t… breathe.”

Steve’s voice came soft, almost a whisper, like he was leaning over you even through the phone. “Hey… shhh, hey, it’s okay, baby. I know it feels heavy right now, I know it does. But you’re still here. You’re safe and I won’t let anything harm you. I’ve got you, alright? I’ll stay right here on the line as long as you need me.”

A quiet tear escaped, and you pressed the phone harder to your ear. “You really mean that?”

“Every word,” he said. 

“I… I’m really tired,” you whispered, eyelids heavy. “But… thank you. For staying on the phone.”

“I’ll stay as long as you need,” he said. “You hear me? And tomorrow, if you want, we can hang out, eat some junk food, and watch some dumb movies, how’s that sound?”

A soft laugh broke past your exhaustion. “Okay,” you murmured. “Tomorrow sounds… good.”

“Good,” he said, smiling through the phone. “Now close your eyes. Try to rest and I’ll be right here. I promise.”

You yawned, the sound muffled against the phone, and whispered, “I’ll try.”

You were too drowsy to notice the quiet shift on the staircase. Dustin had stopped midway, listening to the faint conversation after he woke up from the sound of rustling downstairs only to find you on the phone. 

His heart twisted hearing your soft, shaky voice, but he couldn’t hear Steve—only your side. From the way you spoke, he could tell Steve was there comforting you and keeping you safe.

The alarm bells went off in his head, but he shoved them aside. If Steve was the one who could help you through the nightmares, then Dustin didn’t need to dig any deeper for answers or suspicions tonight. 

With a quiet sigh, Dustin crept back upstairs, leaving you to your whispered reassurances and the fragile sense of peace settling over the kitchen floor.

He was, after all, too sleepy and exhausted to think too much of it,

+1

If there was one thing you hated more than anything, it was fighting with Steve.

And somehow, against all odds, he was currently sitting in the living room of your house with Dustin, like this was totally normal and not driving you completely insane. 

Worse, there was nothing you could do about it. You couldn’t exactly kick your secret boyfriend out in front of your brother. You also couldn’t scream at him, or throw something at his head, or do any of the other deeply satisfying things you’d been imagining for the past two days.

Steve hadn’t even been subtle about it. He’d shown up under the excuse of “hanging out with Dustin,” which was bullshit, because Dustin was busy ranting about some new gadget and Steve hadn’t been listening to a word of it. 

He kept glancing toward the kitchen like he was waiting for you to look back at him, like that would somehow fix everything.

It wouldn’t.

You were in the kitchen, cutting watermelon into uneven slices, jaw clenched so tight it ached. You told yourself you were being efficient, but really, you were being petty. Every slice you set aside for Steve had as many seeds as you could stuff in there—a small, vindictive way to get back at him for the kind of shit he’d pulled.

You didn’t even feel bad about it. He deserved to suffer a little after pulling the kind of shit he had.

You dragged the knife through the rind harder than necessary. And then it slipped.

“Shit,” you hissed as pain flared across your palm, sharp and immediate. The knife clattered onto the counter before you could even process what happened.

Before you could grab a towel, the knife was gone.

You looked up, heart jumping, and there was Steve, standing way too close behind you in the kitchen.

“What the hell are you doing,” you snapped, instinctively pulling your hand back. “Why are you following me in here? Isn’t it enough that I have to pretend we’re fine in front of Dustin?”

He didn’t argue or even joke. He just sighed, long and tired, like this had been weighing on him for days too.

“Let me see your hand,” he said quietly.

“No.”

“Don’t do that,” he replied, gentle but firm, already reaching for you. “You’re bleeding.”

You hesitated, then let him take your hand. His grip was careful, thumb brushing lightly against your skin. He grabbed gauze from the drawer without even thinking, muscle memory kicking in, and turned the faucet on low.

“This is exactly what I mean,” you muttered. “You act like this and then expect me not to be mad.”

Steve cleaned the cut slowly, eyes fixed on your palm. “I know. And I fucked up. I know I did.”

You stayed quiet, letting him talk. The kitchen felt smaller than usual, the sound of running water filling the space between you.

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel hidden,” he continued, voice low. “I just… every time I thought about telling him, I pictured his face. And the questions. And the way he never shuts up. And I panicked. That’s on me. Not you.”

He wrapped the gauze around your hand, careful not to pull too tight. “You don’t deserve that. You don’t deserve to feel like I’m ashamed of you, because I’m not at all. I’m just an idiot.”

You swallowed, throat tight, still not looking at him.

“I should’ve done better, but I—” 

“What’s going on in here?”

Both of you froze up. You turned just in time to see Dustin standing in the doorway, eyes locked on your hand in Steve’s, on the gauze, on how close he was standing.

You both turned around quickly, trying to act casual. You held your hand up like nothing happened. “It’s fine,” you said, forcing a shrug. “I’m not, like… we’re not holding hands or anything. Steve was just helping me because I cut myself.”

Dustin raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

You rolled your eyes. “I mean it, Dustin. It’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that,” he said with a shrug. Then, without warning, he held up a necklace in his hand. A delicate gold chain with a heart-shaped locket dangling from it.

Your stomach dropped. “Oh. Where—where did you find that?”

Dustin turned toward you, raising the locket so you could see it better. “I went to your room to look for that Indiana Jones DVD you mentioned,” he said casually, “and well… this was just sitting on your dresser.”

Your jaw went slack. “You went in my room?”

He ignored the mini-panic in your voice and glanced at Steve with a sigh that could’ve crushed the both of you. “And you, Harrington…”

Steve straightened, trying to look casual, and opened his mouth. “Listen, it’s not—”

“—so, this is not the same necklace I saw in your car a few weeks ago that was meant for your secret girlfriend?” 

Steve froze for a second, hands halfway raising in defense. “Woah, okay. Uh, I don’t think we should be talking about this like that.” he said, voice cautious.

You jumped in, waving your hands. “Dustin, wait—you need to calm down, okay?”

“Calm down?” Dustin repeated, narrowing his eyes at Steve. “You mean the part where he's been screwing my sister and I find out by a fucking necklace?”

Steve threw his hands up. “Okay, okay, I get it! Look, I wasn’t trying to hide it, not exactly. I just… didn’t know how to tell you. I thought you’d get mad. And I didn’t wanna risk our friendship, man. I swear, I was gonna tell you soon, like really soon. It just… happened. And, things kinda happened.”

Dustin tilted his head, holding the necklace up again like it was evidence in a murder trial. “ Steve, you’ve been sneaky and going around hiding stuff, and I get it—you’re happy—but come on!”

The room felt too small all of a sudden. Steve opened his mouth again, clearly ready to keep apologizing and explaining himself, but Dustin didn’t even look at him this time.

His eyes flicked to you instead, sharp and searching in a way that made your chest tighten.

“Can we talk alone?” Dustin said, already turning toward the hallway. It wasn’t really a question.

Steve hesitated, glancing at you with eyes full of worry. You squeezed his fingers once before letting go, a quiet reassurance, and nodded. He stepped back, lingering near the counter.

Dustin led you out into the porch where you sat on your mom’s fluffed up garden couches.  For a moment, neither of you spoke. He stared at the floor, the necklace looped around his fingers now instead of held up like a weapon.

“I’m not mad,” he said finally, voice lower than usual. “Okay, maybe a little mad. But that’s not what this is about.”

You waited. You knew better than to rush him.

He glanced at you then. “I just wanna know if you’re… happy. Like, actually happy.”

You leaned back into the couch, shoulders brushing his. “I am,” you said honestly. “Steve makes me happy. He makes me feel safe. He listens to me, even when I’m being stubborn or when we argue. And yeah, we fight sometimes—but I am happy.”

Dustin was quiet, picking at the chain in his hands. “He better,” he muttered. “Because I swear to God, if he ever—”

“I know,” you said softly, bumping your knee against his. “And I wouldn’t be with him if I thought he’d hurt me. I promise.”

That seemed to ease something in him. He let out a slow breath and leaned back, eyes on the ceiling. “So why hide it? I mean… I’m annoying, yeah, but I’m not, like gonna sabotage your relationship if you’re both happy.”

You huffed a small laugh. “I know. It wasn’t about not trusting you. It was just… complicated. You’re my younger brother. He’s your friend. And I didn’t know how to tell you without making it weird or feeling like I was crossing some invisible line. Plus, we wanted to keep it private for a while. Just… us.”

Dustin nodded slowly. “You could’ve told me,” he said, quieter now.

“I know,” you replied softly, voice a little tight. “And I’m sorry I didn’t. I didn’t want the first time you found out to be like this.”

He glanced at you, lips twitching despite himself, a reluctant little smile tugging at the corner. “Yeah… well. Finding out via incriminating jewelry isn’t exactly ideal,” he muttered, shaking his head.

You let out a small, rueful laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder for a moment. He didn’t pull away, and you let yourself stay there for a beat longer than you should have. “I’m really sorry, Dustin,” you whispered, tone earnest. “You’re my baby brother. I shouldn’t have kept this from you, especially since I know how much Steve means to you. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

Dustin’s fingers flexed around the necklace in his hand, and he let out a long, slow sigh, finally pushing himself to his feet. “It’s okay, Y/N,” he said quietly, voice calmer now. “I get it. I just… I wanted to make sure you’re actually happy. Not just saying it because I asked. I needed to know that he… that you’re good with him.”

You smiled, warm and a little tender, and stepped forward, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug. 

He froze for half a second, then awkwardly hugged you back just as tightly. 

“Awwww,” you teased softly, pulling back just enough to peek up at him. “My little baby brother, all protective and worried about me.”

Dustin groaned, rolling his eyes but smiling despite himself. “Shut up, Y/N,” he said. “I’m not your baby.”

“Sure you’re not,” you said, still smirking, giving him a playful squeeze before letting go. “Now go. Go tell Steve what’s what before he freaks out even more.”

Dustin muttered something under his breath, tugging the necklace off his fingers, then straightened and strode toward the door. 

You couldn’t help laughing quietly to yourself, watching him go, knowing that underneath the eye-rolling and teasing, he really did care—and that you were lucky to have him in your corner.

Dustin slipped back inside. He found Steve standing near the couch, eyes unfocused, staring at nothing in particular. When Steve finally noticed him, his gaze sharpened, and it was full of regret and worry.

“Uh… hey,” Dustin said slowly, shifting from foot to foot. He swallowed, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “Can I… can I ask you something?”

“Yeah,” Steve replied immediately. “Anything.”

Dustin swallowed. “Were you ever friends with me just because you wanted her?”

Steve’s stomach dropped at the question.

He straightened, brow furrowing. “What? No. Dustin—”

“Because if that’s the case,” Dustin rushed on, voice tightening despite himself, “I just wanna know. I can deal with it, I just— I don’t wanna be the idiot who thought this meant something if it didn’t.”

Steve took a step closer without thinking. “Hey. No. That’s not—” He scrubbed a hand over his face, searching for the right words. “Man, I didn’t even know she liked me when you and I started hanging out. You were just… you. And you mattered to me before anything else did, you were—are my best friend before anything else.”

“I just—” he hesitated. “I keep thinking maybe I was stupid. Like maybe you were always here for her and I just didn’t see it.”

Steve stepped closer, shaking his head. “You weren’t stupid. And I wasn’t using you. I swear.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “What happened with her wasn’t planned. It wasn’t a thing I decided to do.”

“Then what was it?” Dustin asked.

Steve exhaled. “You know how people say you fall in love?”

Dustin nodded slowly.

“Sometimes it’s not like that,” Steve said, voice low, almost careful, like he was trying to measure every word. “Sometimes it’s not this lightning strike or a moment that hits you and knocks you off your feet. Sometimes…it’s more like…you walk into it.” 

Dustin seemed stunned at Steve’s words, not expecting this amount of vulnerability. 

“You walk into it slowly, one step at a time. And at first, you don’t even notice. You think it’s just…life. Just…routine. You don’t realize it until you’re already in the middle of it, completely surrounded, and there’s no going back without losing something you didn’t even know you had.”

Dustin’s voice dropped, small and uncertain. “You couldn’t…help it?”

Steve shook his head, a short, humorless laugh escaping. “No. I couldn’t. Not at all. I thought I could, you know? I tried. I tried to keep it at a distance. I told myself it was a really bad idea.” He stopped, his jaw tightening. 

“But it wasn’t. It was everything. Little things. The way she laughed at the stupidest jokes, even when I was barely funny. The way she listened when I rambled about shit that didn’t matter. The way she could look at me and make me feel like I was enough, even when I wasn’t sure I deserved to feel that way. It’s all those moments, one after another, stacking up quietly until suddenly…it was overwhelming.”

He paused, and his hands flexed against the counter, knuckles white. “And I kept telling myself I was imagining it. That it would pass. That I could step back before it got too…real. And then one morning I woke up and looked at her, really looked at her, and I realized I had it so bad, Dustin. So completely, hopelessly bad. And by that point, it wasn’t a choice anymore. I didn’t even know how to stop. I didn’t want to stop. And I was terrified—terrified that if I stepped away, I’d lose both of you. I’d lose my best friend…your sister…everything.”

He swallowed, eyes glimmering. “And that’s when I understood that I couldn’t help it, Dustin. I didn’t want to.”

Dustin’s shoulders sagged a little. “You were scared.”

“Yeah, terrified.” Steve admitted. “I didn’t want to lose you. I didn’t want you thinking I crossed some line on purpose. I was just… trying to figure out how to be honest without blowing everything up.”

For a long second, Dustin didn’t say anything. Then he stepped forward suddenly and wrapped his arms around Steve’s middle, hugging him hard.

Steve froze, then hugged him back just as tight.

“I don’t like it,” Dustin muttered into his shirt. “But I get it.”

Steve let out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Dustin said, pulling back and wiping his face with his sleeve. “Just—don’t screw it up.”

“I won’t,” Steve promised. “I swear.”

Dustin dug into his pocket and pulled the necklace back out, the gold chain glinting under the kitchen light. He held it out to Steve, not like evidence this time, but like an offering.

“For the record,” he said, tone almost shy now, “it’s a really nice necklace.”

Steve blinked, then let out a breathy laugh as he took it. “Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks.”

There was a pause as Dustin leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, eyes flicking toward the front door.

“So,” he said casually. “Why were you guys arguing before I caught you?”

Steve’s stomach dropped.

“Oh. Shit.” He looked at the necklace in his hand as he realized he forgot about the argument you both had.

“Oh shit, I—fuck.” He ran a hand through his hair, panic setting in fast and unfiltered. “I gotta go. I really screwed it up. Fuck, man, fuck.”

And before Dustin could even respond, Steve was already moving, shoving the door open as he hurried outside.

Dustin watched him go, lips twitching. “I’d say get a pair of earrings this time!” he called after him, laughing when Steve shot him a frantic look over his shoulder and kept going.

He stayed where he was, drifting toward the window without really meaning to. Outside, Steve was already rambling, hands flying as he talked, apologizing in that messy, earnest way of his, clearly trying to fix whatever dumb thing he had managed to screw up.

You stood there with your arms crossed, weight shifted to one hip, expression unimpressed in a way Dustin knew very well. The bratty attitude of yours was all there.

Not even halfway through Steve’s frantic explanation, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. Steve froze for half a second before melting into it, relief written all over him as he broke the hug to clasp the necklace around your neck, murmuring something Dustin couldn’t hear. 

Then he leaned down and kissed you.

Dustin immediately turned away. “Gross,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Still, he smiled.

Because even if he wasn’t ready to watch it, even if it was weird as hell seeing his best friend kiss his older sister, he knew it was right. He knew you were happy.

And he knew, deep down, that Steve Harrington had somehow managed to stumble into exactly the person he was meant to love.

steve harrington masterlist

a/n: for some reason this fic took me a whole 40 days to write, but nonetheless it was very fun and cute <3 i enjoyed exploring more of steve and dustin's dynamic and hopefully i did it all justice!!

reblogs, comments, and likes are so veryyy highly appreciated <3 <3

[gamoraswonder]

someone help him

[gamoraswonder]

Lucas: *being his dorky self* Max: (｡♥‿♥｡)

[onlyharrington]

steve harrington + twirling/fidgeting/playing with things