hii! i'm absolutely in love with your writing! idk how many requests you take but i'd love if you could do a steve harrington one where the reader gets hurt in the upside down/on a mission or smth and everyone tries to help but steve freaks out and it's kind of angsty? sorry if that doesn't make a lot of sense! also happy new years xx
scared me to death
Steve harrington x fem!reader, 1.4k words
tw: blood, gore (not a lot), the Upside Down, Eddie's alive
a/n: Thank you for your request gorgeous!! By the time this will be posted it'll probably be a little later but Happy New Year to you too!
Steve is losing his mind.
Not in the “Oh, Dustin's being a total dipshit again” way, or even the “Robin won’t stop talking” way. This is the real thing—heart in his throat, stomach‑in‑free‑fall kind of losing his mind.
Because you’re gone.
You were supposed to be thirty feet ahead with Nancy and Eddie, checking the tunnels for any sign of movement. You'd split from him, Robin, and Dustin an hour ago to cover more ground.
It had made sense at the time. It doesn’t now, especially with the way his heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his fingers.
They've been circling the same patch of vine‑covered terrain for at least ten minutes. The air’s still thick with that heavy, mildew-y scent.
He hates the Upside Down, sure, but he hates the fact that you're not by his side even more.
And that's saying something, because the Upside Down is terrifying.
Robin yells your name again.
Nothing. Just a warbling hum that he's gotten way too used to.
“We’re supposed to regroup at north tunnel exit, remember? Maybe they’re already headed that way," Dustin says.
“Maybe,” Steve mutters. It sounds more like please.
He keeps walking. The air hums with that awful electricity, the scent of metal and mould burning his lungs. Every sound makes him flinch — not out of fear for himself, but for the possibility that you’re making it.
“Steve,” Robin says softly. “We’ll find her. Probably just—”
But her voice dies when a shout cuts through the air.
Nancy.
Steve's running before thought catches up, breath ripping through his throat. He rounds a corner so fast he nearly wipes out on a slick patch of dirt.
And then he sees it — Nancy, pale and panting, half‑dragging you forward by the arm. Eddie’s hovering uselessly behind her, jacket clutched in one hand.
For a heartbeat, Steve stops breathing.
You’re limping badly, your left leg slick with blood down to your boot, eyes glazed with exhaustion. You’re upright only because Nancy’s got a death grip on your coat.
“Steve!” she calls when she spots him.
“Jesus—” He’s already there before she finishes his name, one hand cupping your face, the other bracing your side. “Hey, hey, I got you. What happened?”
You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a shaky breath. Nancy answers instead. “Vine grabbed her leg, one of those big ones. Ripped clean through when Eddie cut it off.”
“I told her to let me handle the slashing,” Eddie says quickly, guilt bleeding into his voice. “She didn’t listen.”
Steve ignores him. His focus narrows to you, the streak of dirt across your cheek, the tremor in your lip when you try to speak. “Sweetheart, you’re okay,” he says, too quickly to fully believe it. “It’s okay now. Let me see.”
He crouches, careful hands rolling your torn jeans up enough to see where crimson seeps through what’s left of the fabric. His stomach lurches. “Shit. Okay, that’s— okay. Not too bad. I can fix that.”
“Steve,” you whisper, half laughing, half crying. “You say that about everything.”
“I’m usually right.” His voice cracks on usually.
You shudder, breath catching in your throat. “It hurts,” you whisper, sounding smaller than he’s ever heard you.
“I know, angel. I know.”
Steve makes quick work of taking off his bandana to wrap it around your leg, putting pressure on the wound. You let out a little whimper and his heart just about splits in two. "I'm sorry, baby. You did so good, alright? You're doing good. Just breathe."
Robin's voice breaks through his haze. “Steve! Oh my god—” She stumbles into view, Dustin a few paces behind her, both wide-eyed and pale.
"Holy shit, that's a lot of blood."
"Wow, thank you, Dustin, for that insightful comment," Nancy deadpans. "We weren't aware."
Steve’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look up. His hands don’t stop moving, even as his shoulders tremble. “Someone give me more fabric,” he says. His voice sounds rough, scraped thin.
Robin tears off the hem of her flannel and crouches beside him. “Here—try this. It’s clean-ish.”
“Emphasis on ish,” Eddie mutters.
Steve takes it anyway, wrapping it carefully over the bandana, knuckles white. “You still with me?” he asks, glancing up only when your breathing stutters.
You nod weakly. "I'll be fine," your attempt at a reassurance.
He swallows hard, fingers trembling against your leg. "Just focus on me, okay? Breathing nice and steady."
Eddie rocks back on his heels. “Okay, but seriously, are we sure she’s not gonna, like, bleed out? Because I’m getting some bad vibes here.”
“Eddie,” Robin warns. “Not helping.”
“I’m just saying!”
You let out a little choked laugh. “You guys… you’re really bad at comforting people.”
Robin glances at you. “She’s making jokes. That’s good, right? People don’t joke when they’re dying.”
“Pretty sure they do,” Dustin says under his breath.
“Dustin!” Robin and Nancy shout in unison.
“Okay, fine! I’ll shut up!”
Steve exhales shakily, jaw tight. He presses harder on the makeshift bandage. You've stopped bleeding, for the most part. He takes that as a good sign.
Nancy shifts above you, scanning the air with the flashlight, restless. “We’re sitting ducks here,” she says under her breath. “We need to move.”
Steve nods, still crouched, hands hovering protectively over your leg. “Yeah,” he says finally, voice low. “We’re not staying here.”
He glances at you then, and for a moment, his expression softens—something raw flickering behind the worry. “Can you walk, sweetheart?”
You blink at him, then down at your leg, then back up again with a tired grimace. “Define walk.”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” He shakes his head, mumbling mostly to himself, “Screw it.”
Before anyone can protest, he slides an arm under your knees and another around your back, scooping you up with a careful ease that makes your stomach flip. Your arms go instinctively around his neck; he tucks you closer, as if you weigh nothing. “You don’t need to, okay?” he says firmly. “I’ve got you.”
“Steve—”
He gives you a look. “Not up for debate, angel.”
Robin blinks, looking surprised. “Okay, that was... surprisingly smooth, Dingus."
Eddie grins, but it's tinged with worry for you. "He's definitely done it before, that's for sure."
Nancy gestures up the tunnel. “Let’s keep moving. The longer we stay, the worse it gets.”
Steve adjusts his grip on you, one arm locked under your knees, the other steady around your back. You shift slightly, head pressing into his shoulder, trying not to breathe too hard.
"Okay?" He murmurs, his voice close to your ear.
"Mhm."
He presses a kiss to your temple. "Just hold onto me."
You hum a tired little sound in response, half comfort, half trust.
Behind you, Dustin pipes up, his flashlight beam wobbling as he tries really hard not to look at your leg. “Uh, not to be dramatic, but there’s, like, a lot of blood, and I might throw up."
Steve doesn’t even turn around. “Then maybe stop looking at it, Henderson.”
“I can’t just—what else am I supposed to look at? The vines?”
“Yes,” Steve says immediately. “Look at the vines, genius. Maybe compliment them. Ask if they’ve thought about branching out.”
Robin snorts hard enough to choke on air. “That was terrible.”
“Not my best material,” Steve mutters, adjusting his hold on you when you shift weakly against him.
Dustin’s still grumbling under his breath. “I’m serious, Steve, if I see her leg again, I’m—”
Steve glances down at him, exasperated. “Henderson, if you faint, I’m not carrying you too.”
"Excuse me?"
Steve huffs. "I've got my hands full."
“Please,” Robin says, rolling her eyes as she sidesteps a patch of slick ground. “If he fainted, you’d go all ‘Dad Mode’ and throw him over your other shoulder.”
"Was that ever up for discussion?" Nancy quips. "Now all of you, shut up and keep walking."
Dustin and Eddie start muttering about hemophobia being totally valid, and Robin catches up to Nancy to pester her, but Steve's focus is entirely on you.
“You’re doing great, sweetheart,” he murmurs, just for you. “Almost there.”
You sigh, quiet and tired. “Told you I’d be fine.”
And Steve, walking forward through the dark, breath trembling, just mutters, “Yeah, angel. I know."
EDITED TO ADD: the ao3 link. I've been posting more and didn't realize I forgot to update this! 😬
Six months. For six months Steve has been listening to this radio show and not ever one time did he expect to hear the host, Eddie Munson, growl out the words “Hawkins, Indiana," but here they are. The name said.
Steve stops the car dead in the middle of the road, can’t hear anything aside from the radio show host listing Hawkins facts in his sonorous voice.
He should have known. Like rationally, he should have considered it a possibility that Hawkins might come up on this late night talk radio show called Hellfire about monsters, cryptids, folklore.
It’s just. He thought. Hawkins hadn’t exactly made national news, and what had was about a toxic gas leak and a government coverup, not exactly this show’s focus.
But enough, apparently. Obviously.
Eddie starts talking about the disappearance of Will Byers, and Steve lays his head on his steering wheel, tries to ignore the way his hands tremble.
For six months Hellfire brought him comfort and companionship as he roams the dark street of Hawkins on what Robin calls his patrols. It’s not like he can sleep, not anymore, so what better to do than make sure everyone is safe? That there’s no signs of the Upside Down? That the gates are still closed?
Hellfire has been his companion through it all and now—now—
Eddie’s talking about the Department of Energy, MK Ultra, a fake body in the quarry.
He could turn it off. Or better yet, go home. But he sits in his car out by Lover’s Lake and he listens to Eddie detail the rumors and speculation. Listens to the callers who share their two cents and conspiracy theories—none close to the truth.
The thing is. He’s become—fond of Eddie, of Hellfire. He doesn’t care about cryptids, isn’t interested in Big Foot, but he was captivated by Eddie. Not just him, though, it’s the whole thing with his producer, Gareth, and his two other best friends who pop in from time to time. They’re funny, nerdy, love that dork game the kids play. And if the low resonance of Eddie’s voice makes him a little melty? Well, that’s between him and 3am.
Steve calls in, sometimes. Has called in. Just, you know, once a week or so. It's not like he knows anything about the monsters, but he asks questions, likes to listen to Eddie talk no matter if he understands.
They finish with a caller and Eddie says, "unfortunately, we'll probably never know what happened."
And Gareth cuts in to say, "Hawkins is only an hour a way. You know. If you find that interesting."
"What are you saying, Gar?" Eddie asks. "That we should go?" He laughs.
"Why not? We could do our own investigation. Maybe we'll find something the authorities don't want us to."
"Hmm, what do you think, listeners? Should we don our adventurer caps and head into the unknown?"
He doesn't remember putting the car into drive, but he knows he's speeding toward the little two-pump gas station on the edge of town and the deserted pay phone there.
The line beeps and beeps when he dials. He tries again and again, until finally there's a click, and Eddie's radio voice booming in his ear.
"Thank you for calling Hellfire," he laughs, manic. "You're--
"You can't go to Hawkins," he interrupts.
"Sweetheart," Eddie croons. "Haven't heard from you in a while. How are you?"
"I'm Fine. Stay out of Hawkins."
"You gotta ease into it a little, baby. Little small talk first."
"Eddie..."
"What do you know about Hawkins?"
"N--nothing. I've heard bad things about it. Cops."
"Cops," Eddie snorts. "I'm not afraid of Hawkins PD. Are you calling because you're worried for my well-being, sweetheart?"
"Yes." Steve doesn't hesitate.
"You're my favorite listener, you know that?"
"I'm being serious."
"It's cute."
"It's a really bad idea to go to Hawkins."
"Do you know what's funny? You didn't know what a chupacabra was, but you know about Hawkins."
"I--" he swallows. "Have specific interests."
Eddie laughs. "What do you know about Hawkins?"
"Nothing," too quick.
"Are you lying to me?"
"I can't say."
"You just keep getting more and more mysterious."
"Please, stay away. It's--there are things, people--you don't want their attention. Just, please. Trust me."
"I'll agree on one condition. Tell me how you know this."
"I can't," he whispers. "That's why you need to trust me."
"What's stopping you?"
He flashes back to an interrogation room, Hopper's stern face, the even sterner ones of the government agents, the four-inch high stack of papers to sign, again and again and again.
"NDAs."
Dead silence on the other line until Eddie asks, "wait, PLURAL?" excitement spikes through the speakers.
That's when Steve hears the distant click down the line, knows it isn't him or Eddie, knows--
The line goes dead.
"Fuck."
He goes straight to the cabin. It's late enough in the morning now that he's unsurprised to see the glowing ember of a cigarette near the porch steps.
"What'd you do, kid?" Hopper asks when Steve gets out of his car.
"Called into a radio show about monsters."
The chief sighs, drops his hands to his sides, muttering. The crunch of gravel way up the long drive has them both turning.
"Guess we're in for a long day." Hopper stomps out his cigarette.
---
Steve isn't allowed to listen to Hellfire anymore. Is forbidden from calling in. And he gets it, okay, he knows. He said too much on the radio, but he hopes that he didn't get Eddie in trouble, that they don't try to come to Hawkins.
He gets a late start on his patrols one night. Took the kids to the movies, caved within minutes when they begged to go for ice cream after, Robin giving him a fond eye roll when he stops.
It's late, summer sun set for hours already, and he's driving on backroads behind the lab. And it's been--it's been a few weeks, okay, since the last call, long enough that he's stopped thinking Eddie will show, so when he sees the van on the side of the road--when he sees the van he doesn't stop right away.
It's tan and white or maybe grey, old, from the 70's or something; spiky black lettering on the side. It says Hellfire.
Steve slams on the breaks so hard the tires squeal, car skidding. He parks haphazardly on the side of the road, only grabbing a flashlight before hurling himself into the woods.
He figures Eddie and the guys will be easy to find, bumbling through unfamiliar forest, but minutes pass with nothing but his own feet crushing through the underbrush. He's afraid to yell, afraid it will draw the wrong kind of attention, but he does a kind of hoarse whisper, knowing it's not enough.
There's a small rock formation that he skirts past, mind everywhere but on his surroundings. He hears a rustle, he thinks, turns, and in the space of a breath, collides with something distinctly solid, warm, and judging by the pained grunt, human.
"Fuck. Gareth?" A very familiar voice asks.
"Eddie??" He responds. His fingers scrabble for his flashlight, illuminating the leaf strewn forest floor and some nearby tree roots.
A beam of light illuminates his chest and face, forcing his eyes down. "Who are you?"Eddie demands.
Steve finally grabs his flashlight, points it at Eddie's middle. Has a second to take in his long, curly hair, his cut-off t-shirt, pale skin and the swirl of inky black tattoos. "I'm--I--I called into your show. I--I told you not to--"
"Oh," Eddie's breath hitches. "Sweetheart. You said not to come to Hawkins and then you--you--" He blinks, seems to struggle to find words. "I didn't expect you to be so beautiful."
He smiles. "i--your show, I loved it. I miss listening to you. I miss--" He takes a step, closes the distance. Eddie smiles and it grips something in his stomach, doesn't let go.
Over Eddie's shoulder, there's a flash of movement, catches in Steve's periphery. It's an unfurling, an opening, there's a shine of saliva, teeth.
summary: “Okay,” he admitted, voice dropping lower, “maybe I’m not here for… manuals.”
characters: steve harrington x henderson! reader
warnings: simp steve lol
word count: 985
Hawkins always felt a little washed-out in winter-like someone had lowered the saturation on the whole town. The sky hung pale as old denim, the trees stood dark and skeletal against sidewalk curbs dusted with salt, and every passing car seemed to hum the same tired tune. But inside the Hawkins Public Library, the world felt warmer somehow. Quieter. Like time slowed down just to hear itself breathe.
You loved it there in a way you couldn’t quite explain.
Maybe it was the way the sun spilled through the tall windows in squares, landing gently across the carpet like honey. Maybe it was the rows of VHS tapes you kept organized out of habit, their plastic cases catching the light every time someone opened the front door. Maybe it was simply the fact that people didn’t expect much noise from you-and the library was one place where that wasn’t a problem.
You were the soft-voiced Henderson sibling, the one who read books before bed and collected old postcards from the Goodwill box outside Melvald’s. You wore oversized sweaters and corduroy skirts, your hair pinned back with tiny barrettes that glinted under the flickering fluorescents. Your smile was quiet, polite, gentle. Not like Dustin’s, which could light up a whole room.
You blended into the library the way a bookmark blends into a page.
Which made the boy who kept showing up stand out even more.
The bell over the door chimed- a metallic ding that echoed all the way to the periodicals-and you didn’t even need to look up to know who it was.
Steve Harrington had a walk.
A very… noticeable one.
His sneakers made this soft scuffing sound on the carpet, like he never quite picked his feet up all the way. His keys jingled from his back pocket with every step. And he always paused for a beat after coming inside, like he needed to reorient himself to an environment that didn’t revolve around high school hallways or basketball courts.
You finally looked up -slowly, shyly- and there he was again.
Hair perfect, even when slightly windblown. Jacket too nice for anyone who claimed he needed books on “car stuff.” Eyes bright, scanning the room until they landed on you.
He straightened the second he saw you.
Just a tiny bit.
As if he wanted to look… good.
Which was ridiculous. He was Steve Harrington-he always looked good.
He strode toward the front desk, trying to pretend he wasn’t doing exactly that. As he moved, the light from the windows caught the faint sheen of leftover hairspray still clinging to his carefully styled waves. His jacket-brown leather, worn at the seams-creaked softly with each motion.
You shifted in your chair, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat. His voice was warm in that way where it made the dust motes in the air look like they were floating toward him. “Got any of those, uh… manuals? For cars?”
There it was. His terrible lie of the week.
Your lips curled upward-just barely -as you rose from the desk.
“Depends,” you murmured in your soft, almost-musical tone. “Are we talking classic cars, modern cars… or cars that haven’t broken down once since leaving the dealership?”
His jaw dropped a little. He blinked.
Then he grinned.
A real grin. Wide and boyish. Like he hadn’t expected you to tease him.
“You know,” he said, leaning onto the counter with one elbow and lowering his voice conspiratorially, “you really ruin all my excuses by paying attention.”
“I work in a library,” you said gently. “Paying attention is… kind of the thing.”
You led him down an aisle-the one with the humming radiator and the shelf that always stuck when you slid it back-and you felt rather than saw the way he walked behind you. Tall, warm presence. Soft breaths. The faint smell of cologne he definitely applied in the parking lot.
He watched you.
You could feel it in your shoulder blades.
Not in a pushy, uncomfortable way-but in a curious, thoughtful way.
Like he was trying to understand someone who didn’t speak loudly but somehow said everything anyway.
You crouched down to reach the lower shelf, fingers brushing across dusty spines.
He crouched, too-not because he needed to, but because you did.
And suddenly he was right beside you, close enough that you could see the faint freckles on the bridge of his nose, the way the fluorescent lights reflected in his hazel eyes like tiny stars.
“You always this helpful?” he asked lightly.
You kept your gaze on the books.
“You’re always this bad at pretending you’re here for books.”
He flushed a soft shade of pink. Something warm flickered across his expression-a mixture of embarrassment, amusement, and something tenderer than either of those things.
“Okay,” he admitted, voice dropping lower, “maybe I’m not here for… manuals.”
Your breath caught.
The radiator hissed beside you. Dust motes drifted lazily. A thin ray of sunlight caught both of your hands where they rested just inches apart.
You swallowed.
“Then… why are you here?”
Steve hesitated -and in that hesitation, you could feel the beating heart of a boy who wasn’t King Steve anymore… not here, not with you… but just Steve. A little uncertain. A little hopeful.
He dipped his head, eyes softening in a way you had never seen at school.
“Because,” he said quietly, “I like the way you look at me. Like I’m not… trying too hard. Like I don’t have to.”
Your breath hitched so sharply you could’ve sworn he heard it.
And Steve-nervous, warm, suddenly shy Steve-smiled at you like you were the first real thing he’d seen in weeks.
you suppose it’s just the blessing—and burden—of being the first-born Sinclair daughter. you were spoiled and used to everything going your way.
sue you!
so when Hawkins literally started falling apart, well, you were less than thrilled.
especially when that meant getting wrapped up with your little brother's friends to help them, quote-on-quote, save the world.
i mean, you had a perfectly established routine already!
wake up, breakfast with your friends, work at the thrift shop, dinner & cigs, late night vhs, & sleep.
not to mention your already perfectly planned out future.
go to college, become a fashion entrepreneur, find a hot boyfriend —none of the pathetic guys who try to flirt with you while you're on the clock — get married, have three perfect babies, and live the perfect happily ever after.
fighting demogorgons was 100% nowhere near that list.
but here’s the thing about being the oldest: your peace is the first sacrifice on the family altar. when lucas showed up at your bedroom door with that face, your routine was already as good as dead.
so you do what any good big sister would do.
you help.
because as much as you hate those little shits, you also would be devastated if they ended up dead. so, yeah, that's how you became their unofficial-official babysitter.
well, you and steve harrington of course.
and what a pair you two are.
king steve and the spoiled sinclair princess.
you two got along great!
well only if you considered bickering like a married couple, flirting relentlessly with each other, and literally killing for one another, great.
but, at the end of the day, what are friends for, right?
you're supposed to know what drives them up the wall, and what makes them laugh and hell, even cry. holding hands, and sharing hugs are what good friends do! calling each other “babe” and “sweetheart,” those are just nicknames of course. all friends have them. and a cheek kiss after almost being killed isn't that deep anyways!
sure, he’s got that stupidly perfect hair, that easy grin, the way he looks at you like you’re something he wants to keep. but you’re immune to that.
obviously.
you’ve known him like forever now. you’ve seen him bleed, panic, and complain about babysitting like it’s a crime. there’s absolutely nothing romantic about that.
it’s just proximity. too much time spent together. like the late nights spent in the same rooms, knees knocking and sharing cigarettes. it’s arguing over who’s driving (not you—apparently you’re a “hazard”), over who’s watching the kids, over who almost got killed this time. it’s steve handing you his jacket without asking. it’s you fixing his collar, smudging your lipgloss on his cheek, pretending you don’t notice the way his breath stutters every time.
friends do that.
friends stand back-to-back with matching weapons in hand. friends learn each other’s tells, memorize scars, and instinctively reach out in the dark. friends don’t let monsters—or people—get too close to what’s theirs.
and you’re not in love with steve harrington.
you’re just a hopeless romantic with a bad habit of mistaking (very) minor crushes for something more.
still… if the world keeps ending, and if you keep surviving it together —well.
who knows.
maybe you might be falling for steve harrington.
author's note — hii!! i hope you are as excited for this series as me! i see so many henderson & hopper readers, but never sinclair so i decided to take one for the team. you're welcome. feel free to send requests for sinclair!reader and i will get to them as soon as possible. check out this series as well as my other works on my masterlist! much love, & i hope you enjoy!
