joe keery being obssesed with his girlfriend: a compilation
folkie radio: YOU SPOKE AND I LISTENED !!!! here's some joe keery content bc don't we all love him. enjoy !
MASTERLIST | MY PATREON
At some point, the internet collectively agreed on one thing: Joe Keery was unfairly attractive.
Between Steve Harrington’s redemption arc, the hair, the music career, and the charm in interviews, people didn’t stand a chance. What they also didn’t stand a chance against was the realization that Joe Keery was very much taken and absolutely incapable of shutting up about his girlfriend.
Naturally, fans did what fans do best, they made compilations.
The most shared one was titled “Joe Keery being obsessed with his girlfriend: a compilation”, clocking in at 9 minutes and 41 seconds, with over 530k views.
The first clip was from a GQ conversation where Joe was asked about balancing acting and music.
“I think having something grounding outside of work is really important,” Joe said thoughtfully. “My girlfriend is really good at reminding me that none of this stuff matters if you’re not happy.”
The interviewer nodded.
“I mean, she also keeps me from overworking myself,” he added quickly. “Like, she’ll literally take my phone away.”
The comments later labeled it a man who's down bad.
The next scene jumped to a Stranger Things cast panel at a convention. A fan asked what the cast did to unwind after long shoot days.
“I’d go home and play guitar,” Joe answered. “Sometimes my girlfriened would sit on the floor and just listen. She’s brutally honest, though.”
“How honest?” Gaten asked, leaning into his mic.
“She’ll stop me mid-song and say, ‘That one’s bad, try again.’”
The crowd laughed, but Joe just smiled. “She’s usually right.”
Then came a SiriusXM interview, Joe leaning back in his chair as the host asked about his songwriting process for Djo.
“A lot of it comes from real life,” Joe said. “Trips, conversations, little moments. My girlfriend inspires a lot of it, honestly.”
“So she’s your muse?” the host teased.
Joe didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. Completely.”
The video cut to a chaotic Instagram Live Joe did late one night. He was answering fan questions when someone commented, ‘Blink twice if you’re in love.’
Joe laughed, glanced off-screen, then blinked exaggeratedly about five times.
“Hey,” a voice off-camera said. “You’re being weird.”
Joe grinned. “That’s my girlfriend, everyone.”
The chat exploded.
One of the final clips was from a magazine photoshoot behind-the-scenes. Joe was flipping through the proofs when the photographer asked which shots he liked best.
“These ones,” he said, tapping the page.
“Why those?”
“Because my girlfiend said I look like myself in them. That’s usually how I decide things,” he said.
The compilation ended with red carpet footage from a Stranger Things premiere.
“Who are you most excited to celebrate with tonight?” the reporter asked.
Joe didn’t miss a beat.
“My girlfriend,” he said simply. “She’s my favorite person to do anything with.”
Cut to black. Text appeared on screen:
Joe Keery is not beating the ‘down bad’ allegations. Ever.
And judging by the comments, no one wanted him to.
summary ... there's never been a doubt in her mind, that steve harrington was going to be her forever after, and steve is doing everything within his power to make sure this happens. a glimpse into the life that you live with steve harrington
pairing ... steve harrington x fem!reader (6.1k)
warnings ... fluff, set somewhere between season 3 and season 4, and after vecna has been defeated, spoilers for the last ep of season 5, steve being completely in love with his gf, mentions of previous sexy times, but no smut, hearteyes steve harrington activated, mentions reader having twirlable hair, marriage, starting a family
note ... i am on a roll right now, two fics in two days!! unheard of from me!! and i'm not gonna take in for granted cause it's been like three years since i've written anything. so enjoy this monstrosity
masterlist !
LOVE
Falling in love with Steve Harrington doesn't happen in a moment.
There isn't one specific moment that she can remember feeling herself fall in with the once crowned King of Hawkins High. It was a culmination of moments, little things that she saw, things that he did, the words that he spoke.
It was the little things that made her fall in love with him.
Like when Dustin had begged Steve to take him to the comic book store, for the third time that week.
―
"Come on man," Dustin pleaded. "They just got this super cool set of D&D dice, and they fit my new character perfectly!"
She and Steve were sitting on the couch in the Harrington living room, dirty dancing was playing on the screen, but it was going unwatched, as Dustin stepped right into the line of sight.
"Dude, I've taken you three times already" Steve complained, head tilting forward, closing his eyes so he didn't have to see the effects of the Henderson pout.
"And?" Dustin asked, crossing his arm over his chest.
She used a hand to cover the soft giggle that escaped her lips, watching as Steve turned his head, eyes squinting open to give her a tiny glare, lips pouting at her subtle betrayal.
"Can't you just ride your bike down there man?" Steve questioned, leaning back on the couch with a huff. "Why do I need to give up my incredibly busy weekend, to take you to some crappy comic book store?"
Dustin snorted.
"Yeah, you look real busy right now"
Before Dustin had burst through the door, she and Steve had looked at the perfect picture of a couple enjoying a cute movie date night together.
She was wrapped around Steve, head leaning against his chest, hand resting on his stomach, fiddling with the soft fabric of his yellow jumper.
Steve's arm was wrapped around her shoulder, twirling strands of her hair around his long fingers, occasionally tugging on the strands of hair, making her laugh.
But now, Steve was annoyed, and she was enjoying seeing her boyfriend slowly crumble under Dustin’s pressure.
“It’ll take like twenty minutes, forty tops” Dustin reasoned, as if that was going to be a plus on his side of the argument.
Steve groaned.
Folding his arms over his chest.
Looking like a perfect, albeit more cranky, mirror of Dustin’s position.
Her hand had fallen away from its perch against Steve’s chest, sitting uselessly in her lap, Steve had moved around too much for her to keep her cuddled position.
She raised her hand now, to press against Steve’s hunched shoulders, squeezing the tense joint, kneading her thumb right into his shoulder blade, and Steve, for all his bravado, melted right under her touch.
“We can watch the movie later” She suggested, drawing Steve’s gaze from Dustin, to her.
The moment his eyes flickered to her gentle face, his gaze softened in a way she had only ever seen him direct at her. There’s a warmth that makes her heart melt into a huge thumping puddle.
“I don’t wanna watch the movie later” Steve huffed, though his words were annoyed in nature, his tone was so warm and gentle.
“It’s a tape dude, just pause it” Dustin huffed.
Steve ignored him.
But she saw the subtle twitch in the corner of his eye.
She smiled softly, her hand slowly slid down his long arm, feeling the soft heat beneath his jumper, till her hand reached his own, resting against his open palm, like he was waiting for her to reach for his hand.
“You know” She whispered, like she was about to reveal a great big secret. “He comes to you, cause you’re like, his big brother”
That had a flush brushing against his cheeks.
Of course he knew that.
But, sometimes, it was nice being seen by other people.
Especially if he was being seen by her.
Steve huffed a deep breath.
“Fine, Henderson”
Dustin cheered loudly, Steve winced, She laughed loudly now.
“Hurry up, before I change my mind” Steve muttered, motioning for Dustin to meet him outside.
Dustin wasted no time, running towards the front door, swinging it open recklessly, but not before grabbing Steve’s keys from the dish beside the front door.
“Don’t even think about it Henderson!” Steve shouted.
“Can’t hear you, I’m driving, right?!” Dustin's far away reply came through the door.
Steve grumbled under his breath.
He gave her hand a quick squeeze.
He smiled at her, it was wide and toothy, very boyish and entirely Steve.
Before he could get up from the couch, she pushed herself onto her knees, keeping one hand held in Steve’s, while the other cupped his still flushed cheek, bringing her lips down to his own, a chaste kiss was placed against his lips.
Steve tried to chase her as she pulled away, she felt flustered at the lovestruck look that possessed his face, looking dumbstruck over a single kiss.
“Come on” Steve huffed. “You can’t do that, and then expect me to go to a lame comic book store like nothing happened”
She smiles, all warm and fuzzy.
“Well” She starts, thumb rubbing softly against Steve’s cheek. “When you come back, there can be a whole lot more of that”
Steve beams widely.
“Something for you to look forward to” She says, patting his cheek playfully, winking at Steve’s smiling face.
“I love you, you crazy woman” Steve places his hand over hers holding it against his cheek for a moment, turning his head slightly, planting a warm kiss against her palm.
A loud honk echoed from outside.
“Go, before Dustin actually drives the car”
Steve huffs, letting go of her hand. He stands, still a little reluctant to leave, but he knows what’s on the table when he gets back.
He fixes his rumpled jumper and sweeps his disheveled hair out of his face, he turns his head to look over his shoulder, offering her a wink, which she returns with a girly giggle.
“Get out of here lover boy”
―
How could she not be in love with Steve Harrington, he was just a melting pot of pure bliss and romance rolled into a young man’s body.
But there’s another moment she remembers.
A soft moment shared just between the two of them.
A warm summer night in the Harrington backyard.
There were stars, a heated swimming pool, and Steve’s wandering hands.
―
The air was balmy.
Not quite hot. Not quite cold. Somewhere in between.
She’s leaning back on a pool lounger, head tilted back to admire the stars, glimmering just for them.
There’s a soft splash.
Water lapping against the pool tiles.
“You coming in or what?” The sound of Steve’s voice reaches her ears, and she can't stop the smile pulling at her lips.
“Pushy much” She replies, sitting up in her chair, tearing her eyes away from the stars and landing directly on Steve.
He was leaning over the edge of the pool, arms crossed on top of the brick edge, resting his chin on top of his arms, water dripping down his skin, little droplets of iridescent liquid running down his arms, dripping from his floppy brown hair.
He had a smile on his face, all warm and fuzzy, admiring her, taking her in, enjoying her from a distance.
“Can’t help it” He shrugs, like he doesn’t care. “I want to near me, always, I’m not afraid to admit that”
Her heart does a summersault.
He’s so carefree.
Never afraid to admit what he’s feeling.
She loves that about him.
She grins at him, pushing herself off the pool lounger, stripping the shirt she’d borrowed from Steve, throwing it somewhere behind her, revealing the soft pink swimsuit she had chosen for the night.
Steve whistles loudly.
She flips him off, but she’s still smiling.
She edges herself closer to the lip of the pool, directly beside Steve. She dips the tip of her toe in the pool, testing the temperature.
Not too warm.
Not too cold.
Perfect.
She sits on the lip of the pool, submerging her legs into the water, Steve nudges her knee with his elbow, smiling up at her. She ruffles his already messed up hair, smiling down at him.
She takes a breath, and pushes the rest of her body into the water, dunking her head under the water, feeling refreshed. She emerges from the water, flicking the water from her eyes, sweeping her hair from her face, smoothing it down the back of her neck.
All the while, Steve watches.
He held his breath.
She’s beautiful.
Water dripped down her face, pooling between her cleavage, before disappearing.
Steve’s never been jealous of water.
But tonight he is.
She opens her eyes, and looks to Steve, who is openly ogling her, staring directly at her chest, no shame in his wandering eyes.
She smiles.
“My eyes are up here Harrington” She teases.
Steve’s cheeks turn a soft shade of pink, shaking his head, eyes slowly travelling from her chest, up the length of her neck, catching on her lips for a moment, before they flick to her amused eyes.
“And they are such beautiful eyes,” Steve smiles, wading in the water, reaching out a hand for her to take. “I’m just admiring my very beautiful girlfriend”
She takes his outstretched hand, allowing Steve to pull her body into his, wrapping her arms around his neck when they are close enough, while Steve’s arms loop around her waist, holding her body close to his, she matches his energy.
“You were staring at my tits” She continued to tease him.
“Sue me” Steve shrugged, a boyish grin spreading across his face. “You’ve got nice tits”
She snorts.
Steve’s grin widens.
“I can’t believe I’m dating such a loser” She tosses out, her words are sweet and teasing, fingers twirling around the dark strands of his hair.
“Please” Steve scoffed. “I’m the coolest guy you know”
“That’s a little sad, isn’t it” She tuts.
Steve barks out a laugh.
Hands squeezing her hips, fingers digging into the supple skin, slipping his pinky finger underneath the hem of the swimsuit she was wearing.
“What’re you doing Steve?” She asks him softly.
“Nothing” Steve shakes his head, but his pink finger keeps a steady rhythm against her skin, underneath her swimsuit.
She hums.
But says nothing.
She kisses Steve without warning, just leans right into his personal space, and places her lips right on his.
Steve isn’t complaining though, in fact, he welcomes the action, trying to pull her closer to him, as if there was any space between them to eliminate.
Steve’s wandering hand does what it does best, it wanders its way out of her swimsuit, cupping her backside in the palm of his hand, while his other hand reaches up to cut her covered breasts.
She giggles softly against his lips, pulling back only a fraction to gaze at Steve.
He has a grin on his lips, looking like the mouse who got the cheese.
Or in this case, the Steve who got a handful of her tits.
“You are such a teenage boy”
“I’m not gonna apologize” Steve replies nonchalantly.
Steve’s hand gives her tit a generous squeeze, making her laugh, the sound echoes around them, the quiet night welcoming their noise.
“You love it” Steve smiles.
“Against all judgement” She states. “I must really love you, to put up with Grabbyhands over here”
“Hey!” Steve cries out. “It’s Mister Grabbyhands to you, little lady”
She cackles loudly, uncaring if anyone can hear her, with Steve around, she throws caution to the wind.
Steve can’t hide the smile on his lips, not that he would ever want to, he loved that he could make her laugh so carefree.
There’s a soft silence that follows, that neither of them want to break, it’s warm and cozy here in their little summer night swim.
She leans in to kiss him again.
Steve reciprocates in kind.
“I love you Stevie”
“I love you too”
MARRIAGE
That's it. It's over.
There had been a moment, where it felt like this battle, a battle that everyone had been fighting for years now, was finally over.
Vecna had been defeated, destroyed beyond repair.
The upside down, gone without a trace, like it was never even there.
They had lost Eleven, choosing to save everyone she loved, over living a life on the run from the people who wished to exploit her.
They had almost all made it out alive, it was a miracle she hadn't expected, like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop, but both shoes had fallen, and they were free from the curse that had hindered them for so long.
But now, now, life has to find a way to move on.
And as it always does, life finds a way.
―
Six months had passed in the blink of an eye.
Six normal months.
No monsters.
No upside down.
Nothing threatening to take them down until they were all dead and dust.
Absolutely nothing.
Sometimes, she felt like there was something watching her, but she’d look over her shoulder and found nothing. Pinprickings of fear that would shiver down her spine, taught cautions and being prepared for the worst, but it was always met with nothing.
Hawkins returned to being just plain old Hawkins.
And she and Steve had returned to a regular life, but now they were returning to a life together.
She and Steve hadn’t wanted to return to the Harrington family home.
While it had held memories they both held close to their hearts, they wanted to have a fresh start, a place they could call their own, a place just for them and only them.
They moved into an apartment closer to main street.
It was small but cozy.
It had one bedroom and a small bathroom that barely fit the both of them together, but they didn’t mind leaning into each other's space. The carpet was shaggy and brown, but soft beneath bare feet. The view wasn’t all that desirable, but it was just enough to keep them satisfied.
It was close to Steve’s new job, a coach/sex ed teacher at Hawkins Middle School.
It was close to her job too.
It was perfect.
And it was theirs.
She was leaning against the kitchen counter, stirring a big pot of red sauce, the spices filled the kitchen with an aromatic aroma, beside that sat a pot of boiling water, a pot full of noodles boiling away.
She stirred the pot of sauce, as the front door swung open slowly, keys jingling as they were pulled from the lock.
“Honey, I’m home!” Steve called out, his voice deep and echoing through the apartment.
“In the kitchen Honey!” She calls back.
Steve comes meandering in, a wide gin on his lips.
“I’m never gonna get tired of that” Steve joyfully proclaims.
“I know, you’ve done it everyday, for three months” She replies, turning back to the sauce in the pot.
Steve comes up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing the front of his body against her back of hers, slotting perfectly against each other.
“You’re the only Honey I wanna come home to” Steve murmurs against her neck, lips brushing over the skin. “So I’m gonna do it everyday”
She smiles, leaning back in his embrace, placing a hand atop his own, running her fingers over his knuckles.
“I like being your Honey” She murmurs back.
Steve hums.
He presses a kiss to her neck, relishing in the way she sighs, leaving further back into his chest.
“Help me set the table?” She asks softly, not wanting to part from Steve, but she wasn’t going to have the dinner she just finished, burn right before her eyes.
“Sure” Steve agrees.
He reluctantly parts from her, reaches for the bowls in the cabinet, taking two from the top shelf. He also grabs two glasses from the next cabinet, placing them on the counter next to the boiling pots.
Without having to ask, Steve takes the pot of boiling water and drains the water from the pasta.
She takes a moment to watch him.
He’s still wearing his work clothes, a pair of dark washed form fitting jeans, that had no business making his ass look the way it does, it’s drool worthy right now. A white polo shirt is tucked into the jeans, tight around the chest and form fitting around Steve’s beefy arms, though she can’t see them right now, because he has his pale blue windbreaker stretched around his broad shoulders. He’s kicked off his sneakers and is walking around in a pair of white socks. His hair is pushed back, from sitting under a cap all day, the same shade of blue as his windbreaker, but there’s no hate in sight. She’s not complaining though, She loves Steve’s hair.
He looks perfect.
And he has no idea what it’s doing to her.
“Thanks” She whispers as Steve brings the now waterless pot back over, bumping her hip against his own.
Steve smiles.
She scoops sauce into the pot of pasta and behind to stir it through, adding more sauce as she goes.
It gives Steve the perfect moment to take her in.
She’s changed out of her work clothes, dressed in a soft summery dress. The straps are thin, a square neckline frames her chest in the way Steve loves, but he tries to keep his thoughts at bay. The hem of the dress sits around the middle of her thighs, pretty and flowy, the pale pink colour complements her skin, but Steve thinks all colours complement her, she never looks bad in anything she wears. Her feet are bare, and Steve can see the sparkly pink polish on her toes, and the matching shade painting her finger nails. Her hair hangs naturally, the style she had for work, long gone, worn away from the heat of the day.
She looked perfect.
And she has no idea what it’s doing to him.
And there’s a small velvet box burning a hole in his jacket pocket right now.
“Hungry?” She asks, holding out a bowl of steaming pasta out to Steve.
But Steve can’t think.
Seeing her here, in their shared space, standing beside him like it was natural for her, like she was made to find the spaces he left and fill them without trouble.
He can’t catch his breath.
He loves her.
Loves her more than anyone he’s ever loved before.
He can’t see himself loving anyone more than he loves her right now.
She is staring at him now, concern written all over her features.
“Steve?”
Her voice is muffled.
Steve can hear his heart beating in his ears.
Trying to leap out of his chest, and into awaiting hands.
He can’t breathe.
All he can think about is the box in his pocket.
It’s not the right time, not the right place, it’s not romantic enough, he wants to make this special for her, because she deserves something special.
But he can’t stop.
“I wanna marry you” Steve blurts out before he can stop himself.
The bowl in her hand lowers a fraction, Steve doesn’t notice.
He’s staring right at her face.
Right at her surprised face.
“I wanna marry the fuck out of you” Steve can’t stop himself now, the word waterfall has started, and it shoes no sign of stopping. “I wanna marry you right now, like here, in this kitchen, just the two of us, forever”
She pauses.
Lips parted as she tried to take a deep breath.
But no amount of air is enough for her right now.
She can’t catch her breath.
She leans against the kitchen counter, playing the bowl down with a soft clink, hands reaching out to grasp the counter, the cool counter top doing nothing to quell the heat building up in her chest.
“I wanted to do this better, you deserve better, you deserve to be swept off your feet, literally” Steve is still talking, his eyes never leaving her face. “I wanted to plan this epic romantic night, we’d go out, eat dinner, watch a movie or something, I’d take you somewhere quiet, somewhere nice, and I’d give this great speech--”
Steve pauses, his eyes widening a fraction.
“You would have loved the speech, it’s equal parts cheesy and cute, I had Dustin help me write it, it is totally sick” Steve praises himself, not in a cocky manner, but praises his devotion for you, the lengths he would go to make sure you knew you were treasured.
“But seeing you here, I don’t know, we’ve done this a million times, but something…I don’t know, something is different, and I just” Steve is stuttering now. “I just wanna marry you”
Her hands are shaking.
Steve is swaying nervously from side to side.
Her knuckles are white, gripping the counter so tightly, she wondered if it would break.
Steve reaches into his jacket pocket, his hands are shaking too, but his powers through, to pull out a small dark red velvet box.
“I know I didn’t do this right, but I’m doing it now” Steve is down on one knee before she can blink.
“I wanna marry you” He whispered again, opening the box.
The ring is delicate, simple, understated.
The band is gold, solid, bright. There’s a single diamond sitting neatly in the middle of the band, shimmering, glittering and perfect. On the side of the diamond are two smaller diamonds, they were a subtle shade of blue, like blink and you’ll miss it blue, barely there, but glimmering nonetheless.
“So, will you marry me?”
He waited.
She stared.
“Oh Stevie” She whispers, so softly, Steve barely hears it, it’s wispy and far away, but it’s warm and kind.
“Yes”
Steve’s eyes widened.
Comically so.
She smiles so wide, her cheeks hurt, there are tears forming in her eyes.
Without saying a word, she held her hand out.
Steve takes the ring out of the box, he takes her hand, sliding the right right onto her ring finger. The diamonds shine against her skin, beautiful.
“I love you so much” Steve mumbled, placing a delicate kiss on her hand, right next to the ring.
“I love you so much” She echoes his words.
It might not have been how he had planned to do it.
But it all worked out in the end.
Steve can see their forever right before his eyes, and it’s never looked any better.
―
Eighteen months passed in the blink of an eye, like ships passing in the night.
It’s the first time, in a long time, that everyone is in the same place at the same time.
The kids are graduating high school.
Robin, Nancy and Jonathan are back in town.
Everyone’s back, even if it is for a fleeting moment.
She, Steve, Nancy, Robin and Jonathan are sitting on top of the WSQK radio station, the building that had once been headquarters, locations of late night crawls and Robin’s wacky radio show.
Now, the WSQK was nothing more than a blip in their past, a building that withstands the test of time.
It’s bittersweet.
Lawn chairs were placed around a cooler, said cooler was stacked with melting ice and a handful of beer bottles.
She had settled into a chair, feeling light, the subtle spring breeze whipping around her face, kissing her cheeks with a fresh breath of air.
Steve squeezed his rather large form into a small lawn chair beside her, legs spread wide, one hand holding a chilled beer bottle, while the other hand laid pleasantly against her thigh, fingers spread wide, squeezing the muscle every once and a while.
Robin talks about the new women in literature class she started taking in the fall, and college looks good on her.
Jonathan talks about the movie he’s working on, it’s existential and focused on anti-capitalist. It's a little hard to grasp the idea, but she suppose, as long as Jonathan knows what he’s talking about, that’s all that matters.
NYU is the perfect place for his creative space.
Nancy talked about Emerson, well more like talked about dropping out of Emerson, pursuing her dreams at the Boston Herald, a book newspaper down in Boston.
It’s equally a surprising, yet totally believable, Nancy plan.
That leaves her and Steve.
“You guys are really sticking around?” Nancy asked softly, there was no judgement in her tone, only confusion.
She talks a sip of her drink.
Steve smiles.
“That’s the plan” Steve nods.
Nancy quirks an eyebrow, she looks at her now.
She nods her head along with Steve’s words.
“I think” She starts, her voice soft. “We spent a long time protecting this place, it felt wrong to leave it behind”
Silence.
Nancy nods her head, a single gesture, and a soft smile graces her lips.
“That’s so cheesy” Robin uses the toe of her boot to kick Steve’s shin.
“Why are you kicking me!” Steve whines, using his own foot to nudge Robin away from him. “I didn’t say it!”
She laughs, placing a hand on Steve’s, which was still nestled against her thigh, wrapping her fingers around his much larger palm.
“Plus, the housing isn’t all that bad right now” She shrugs her shoulders.
That was another thing that had changed about the group.
They were no longer dealing with monsters, the world ending or their teenage angst.
They had moved onto more adult topics.
Buying homes, working their full time jobs, attending higher education, and starting families.
It was different.
But it was nice.
“We were looking at a few places over in Forest Hills, the prices are still way below market value” Steve starts launching into a full on tirade, one she’s heard a million times.
“A house? Here?” Nancy asked.
“Yeah” She replied, sweeping her thumb over the back of Steve’s hand.
“You said ‘we were’ looking at places” Jonathan mentioned.
Steve paused, like he hadn’t realized what he had said.
He blinked.
She smiles.
“It’s a pretty little place right on the edge of Forest Hill” She answered in Steve's place. “Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a backyard for future use, enough space for..”
She trailed off, feeling heat nipping at her cheeks.
Steve is beaming beside her.
“A house!” Robin cried out, leaning forward in her seat. “You guys bought a freaking house!?”
“We have to live somewhere Robin” Steve rolls his eyes, but she’s still smiling.
“Wow” Nancy mumbles, leaning back in her chair, crossing a leg over this other. “You guys are pretty serious about this”
“Very” She nods.
“You couldn’t pay me a million dollars to come back here” Jonathan sighed. “Let alone buy a house here”
Robin and Nancy raised their drinks in agreement.
“Didn’t need a million to buy the house” Steve scoffs, taking a long sip from his beer.
Jonathan laughs jovially.
“Plus, we’re gonna need the space once we get married” Steve announces.
There’s another pause.
Longer this time.
Then…
“MARRIED!”
Three voices shout in unison.
She smiles so wide, letting go of Steve’s hand to wave around her fingers, the bright glimmer of a ring sitting neatly on her ring finger, gold and diamonds catching in the setting sunlight.
“What the hell Harrington!” Robin shouts, leaning out Steve to grab her hand, yanking it in for a closer inspection. “You dingus, you didn’t tell me!”
“I’m telling you now” Steve scoffs. “Geeze”
“Holy crap guys” Jonathan is smiling wide now, leaning forward in his chair, eyes watching her finger, taking in the sight of the ring on her finger.
Nancy stands from her chair, hoving over Robin's shoulder, taking it with the rock on her finger, there’s a pleasant smile on her face.
“Took you long enough” Nancy comments, placing a gentle hand on Steve’s shoulder.
She blushes.
Steve could bust out of his skin with how happy he is right now.
Robin stands now, disregarding Steve beside her, pulling her right out of her chair. Robin pulls her into a tight embrace, her body vibrating with joy. She can hear Nancy laughing at Robin’s excitement before Robin pulls Nancy into the embrace.
The three women held each other close.
“I’m surprised he didn’t do it earlier” Nancy comments, leaning her head down, a coy smile on her face.
“Good things come to those who wait” Steve’s voice breaching their huddle.
“You’re lucky she wants to put up with you for the rest of her life” Robin replies, looking over her shoulder at Steve, who offers her a flip of his finger, Robin returns the motion.
She can see Jonathan stand, offering Steve a hand shake, grinning from ear to ear.
Steve shakes his hand with a certainty she’d seen hims wear more and more recently.
“That explains the house buying” Robin places a firm hand on her shoulder, shaking her softly.
She laughs.
“The Harringtons on Forest Hill” Jonathan comments. “It had a nice ring to it”
“Best things I’ve ever heard” Steve agrees, raising his beer in a cheering motion, Jonathan clicks his own bottle against Steve’s with a laugh.
“This is one hunking rock” Nancy takes her hand gently, turning it slightly, allowing the three diamonds to glimmer in the light, iridescent rainbows reflecting in their wake.
“What can I say?” Steve preens. “She deserves the best”
She looks past Robin’s shoulder.
She catches Steve’s eye.
Steve winks.
She smiles.
The Harringtons on Forest Hill really did have a nice ring to it.
BABY CARRIAGE
The Harrington’s on Forest Hill had come to fruition.
They had settled nicely in their little home, it was warm, open and showcased the very best parts of their lives. The walls are covered in pictures, some of the children, some of their friends and some of their family.
But there was one photo that they loved more than any other.
The very first photo of their family.
When two became three…
“Next time you want to have another baby,” She paused, taking a deep breath, pressing a hand against her aching back. “You can carry them”
Steve pauses, a toothbrush hanging from his lips, brows furrowed, sleep still clinging to his features.
She’s standing beside him in their bathroom, swaying from foot to foot as she waits for the pain to subside.
“I’m not doing this again” She stated, not giving Steve the room to talk. “You Harrington’s are a large bunch”
Steve can’t help the bubbling laugh that escapes his lips.
She turns her head, locking eyes with him, a tired and stern glare stretching across her face.
“Sorry” Steve’s voice is muffled behind the toothpaste in his mouth.
He spits the white toothpaste in the sink.
“You should be, this is your fault”
“Takes two to tango Honey” Steve replies, that cheeky smile still on his face.
Her scowl deepens.
She is not really mad at Steve.
She’s just tired.
They’ve wanted this, for a long time, they’ve wanted this.
They bought a house together, they got married in front of all the people they loved and cared about, they were living in a life of complete bliss, wonderfully, carefree bliss.
Then it happened.
They hadn’t planned for it to happen so quickly, they had only been married for four months when she had started to notice.
But Steve had noticed it first.
He noticed the way she had started glowing, it was subtle, but there was a brightness about her that was different.
And of course he noticed her breasts.
He would have been Steve Harrington, her wonderful husband, if he didn’t notice the way her breasts had filled out slightly, the cleavage that spilled out of her bras, her tops, the pretty dresses she likes to wear.
He thought it could have been possible.
She all but confirmed it when waves of morning sickness started hitting her like a brick, each morning having her heaving her guts up in the bathroom.
Unusual and out of character.
She hated that, that was the moment she’d figured it out.
But nothing stopped the pure happiness that followed.
A doctor's appointment had been booked, to confirm what they both had been thinking. The nerves that rattled her body as she waited for the doctor to return with their results, and the absolute joy that eased into her body when the doctor gave her that little piece of paper.
She was pregnant.
They were having a baby.
Steve was over the moon.
He quite literally cheered, jumping up and down, fist pumping the air. She had no room to be embarrassed, she screamed just as loud, holding that little piece of paper close to her chest, tears welling up in her eyes.
It was too much.
And they would have it any other way.
“Come here” Steve murmured, putting his toothbrush in the little cup beside the sink, opening his arm wide.
She waddled her way into his space, wrapping his arms around his waist, resting her head against his chest. Steve wraps his arms around her shoulders, pressing his lips to her forehead.
“I love you” Steve murmured into her hair, rocking their joined bodies.
“I love you too” She whispered back, nuzzling her nose into the soft fabric of his shirt.
Steve placed one hand against her protruding stomach.
“Sorry my babies are big” Steve continues to whisper.
She lets out a soft snort.
Steve smiles against her hair.
“You’re baby isn’t big” She replies. “I’m just ready have him out”
Him.
Their little baby boy.
“He takes after his daddy already” Steve speaks softly, but there's an amusement coating his tone. “Annoying his mommy already”
“I take it back” She groans. “I hate you”
“Can’t take it back,” Steve shakes his head. He moves one of his hands, so she can just see the gold band wrapped around his ring finger, a matching band to the one sitting on her own finger. “For the rest of our lives baby, no take backs”
And she wouldn’t.
Ever.
“I can’t wait” She said fondly.
“You and me both” Steve replies.
And they didn’t have to wait much longer.
That very night, her water broke.
And in the span of 24 hours, their family of two was now three.
A little bundle of blue blankets, soft skin and quiet cooing. Just above average weight, perfect Harringtown brown hair and a nose to match his mother.
He was perfect.
Everything they had pictured and more.
And he was there.
The product of their love, right there, for everyone to see.
“He looks like you” Her voice is quiet as she cradles the sleeping boy in her arms, running a gentle finger down the slope of his nose, watching it crinkle with every nudge.
She was drained and tired.
But she couldn’t put him down.
She wanted to hold him close forever.
Steve is wedged beside her on the small hospital bed, his chest pressing against her shoulder, legs smooshed together, there wasn’t an inch of space between them.
Steve has an arm wrapped around her waist, his hand resting gently on the back of his little boy's head, his fingers brushing through the dark patch of hair that was making itself known.
Harrington genetics.
He was gonna have perfect hair, just like his daddy.
Steve’s heart feels warm.
Like it could explode right from his chest.
“He’s got the hair” She said, Steve was much too busy admiring the little bundle in her arms. “He really is Steve ‘the hair’ Harrington’s son”
Steve chuckles.
“He’s got your nose though” Steve points out, watching his son’s nose crinkle in a way that only Steve has seen her nose do. “Lucky kid, he’s got such good looking parents”
She hums.
Steve places a chaste kiss on her forehead, smiling against her warm skin.
“I love you so much” He murmured softly. “I love that you gave me the most person son in the world, I love that I get to spend every waking moment with you by my side and I love that we get to be a family for the rest of our lives”
Her eyes are teary now.
She lifts her head, looking up at Steve.
“I love you so much Steve Harrington, I’m so glad that life put us on the same path, I love that I get you for the rest of my life, I love that this little boy is gonna look so much like his daddy and all the ladies are gonna love him”
Steve chuckles at that.
“But I love you, for who you are and how much you love me” She’s openly trying not to weep, she’s not doing a very good job.
She’ll blame the hormones. But she knows that's not it.
It’s the Harrington effect in all its glory.
Steve presses another kiss to her forehead, resting his cheek against her hair, holding both her and their son close to his chest.
the fucking flashbacks as the mileven scene is happening made me laugh out loud like oh here's mike being a shitty boyfriend oh here's them not understanding each other oh here's them sharing no interests oh here's them being the worst couple on earth oh here's him saying he loves her after being talked into doing so by his best friend and because he's literally in love with his best friend's feelings what the hell sure
summary: you accidentally overhear steve calling you “clingy” to robin. instead of confronting him, you retreat into silence, letting your hurt fester. steve notices and becomes desperate to understand, but the more he reaches out, the wider the distance grows.
word count: 6.1k
a/n: after writing way too much steve fluff, it’s time for some angst with my fav trope: fmc overhears her spouse call her clingy… eventual happy ending <3
tags: takes place after s4 timeskip, so much angst, emotional hurt, crying, reader has scars from a demo attack, nancy and robin are so sweet here, distancing, reader has ptsd, emotional vulnerability, reader was eddie's bsf, mentions of violence, trauma, typical upside down gore, lack of communication, so much fluff at the end, happy ending.
You truly didn’t mean to eavesdrop.
If anything, it was an accident, a cruel, stupid accident orchestrated by the universe itself and whatever higher power up there that wanted to see you suffering.
You’d been at the Squawk with Steve and Robin, the three of you crammed into the booth like always. Robin, as usual, was rambling about something while Steve laughed and bumped his knee into yours under the table, grounding you without even trying.
By the time the clock crept past 8:30, the air outside was already dark and heavy, that familiar tightness had started curling in your chest; one that always showed up when it got late.
You’d told yourself you could handle it, that you were fine and you weren’t helpless, but you still asked Steve to accompany you home anyway, too afraid to go on your own.
“Can you come with me?” you’d asked casually, “or at least drive me home?”
Steve frowned, glancing at Robin. “Baby, you’ll be fine. You can go on your own. I’ll be back in like an hour, okay? ”
You nodded and kissed him goodbye, then you walked out to your car telling yourself you weren’t a scared little kid, and that nothing can harm you anymore.
Only to realize halfway down the lot that your coat was still inside.
So you turned around.
That was all; a forgotten coat, a stupid, normal thing, and you would have been in and out in seconds if not for your name cutting through the noise in the squawk as you heard Steve mention you to Robin.
You shouldn’t have listened, you knew that. You were raised better than to hover at doors and steal pieces of conversations that weren’t yours to hear, but your body didn’t listen to reason anymore.
Your feet stayed planted, your lungs forgot how to work as panic washed over you so fast and so violently that for a second you weren’t in Hawkins at all.
You were back in the Upside Down.
Back in that choking red sky, where the air is thick and cold. You could feel all over again the vines slick and alive under your hands as you ran, heart tearing itself apart inside your chest.
You could still feel the demobats, the weight of them, the wet snap of their wings, the sound of flesh ripping, the blood, so much blood, everywhere you looked there was bloodbloodbloodbloodblood—
—the combined screams of yours and Eddie’s. You remembered the way his body had gone still, the way Steve had dragged your bloodied body away as your entire abdomen was ripped apart, shaking so badly you couldn’t even scream.
You remember the way you’d thought you were going to die there with your throat ripped open and your bones scattered across that fucked-up place.
You hadn’t felt safe since.
Four months, five months? however long it had been, it didn’t matter. Fear had latched onto you like a parasite and refused to let go.
Everything startled you now, doors, clocks, cold air on your neck, cars backfiring, footsteps too close behind you. The world felt like a nightmare, and the night was only much worse.
Steve was the only place that didn’t feel like that.
Steve made it quiet. Steve made it stop.
You hadn’t even realized you’d started clinging until it was already done, until your body had decided he was shelter, that he was protection, that if he was near then nothing could touch you.
And now you were standing outside a door, listening to him talk about you.
“I don’t know, Robin,” he says again, voice rough and worn down, like he’s been chewing on the same thought for weeks and it’s finally gone bloody. “She’s just… different. Ever since.”
Robin leans back against the counter, arms crossed, watching him carefully. “Yeah,” she says, slow and measured. “No shit. She went to literal hell, Steve.”
“I know that,” he snaps too fast, immediately regretting the edge in his voice. He exhales, drags a hand down his face. “I know. I do. That’s the problem. I know, and I still feel like shit about how I feel.”
She waits. Robin’s good at that. At letting him talk himself into the truth.
“It’s like,” he starts again, quieter but faster, words tumbling over each other now, “she’s everywhere. All the time. Wherever I go, she’s already there or tryin’ to be. If I grab my keys, suddenly she needs to leave too. If I’m sittin’ down, she’s sittin’ down. If I say I’m tired, she’s tired. It’s like she can’t exist unless I’m right next to her.”
Your stomach drops where you stand, frozen just outside the door, fingers clenched tight around the strap of your bag.
“I’m serious,” Steve keeps going, oblivious, frustration bleeding through every word. “If I’m goin’ to see Dustin, she’s got a reason to come. If I’m headin’ to the Squawk, somehow we’re paired up for drills again. She doesn’t do anything alone, Robin. Never. She’s just… latched onto me.”
He laughs humorless. “And I sound like a dick sayin’ it, I know I do, but it’s fuckin’ suffocating.”
Suffocating. Like he’s drowning because of you.
Robin doesn’t answer right away. When she finally speaks, her voice is softer, more careful. “Steve. That’s not weird, matter of fact it's a normal response given what she's been through. That’s her brain trying to keep her alive.”
“I know,” he says, rubbing at his neck like it physically hurts to admit it. “I know she’s not doing it on purpose.”
“She nearly died,” Robin presses. “She watched Eddie die right in front of her. She got dragged into the Upside Down and came back with scars all over her body. She wakes up screaming, Steve. You’re the only thing that makes her feel safe.”
“I didn’t say she was the bad guy,” he snaps, voice cracking despite himself. “I’m just sayin’ I’m overwhelmed. She’s so clingy, Robin. You saw her tonight. She didn’t wanna leave without me. I had to practically beg her to go first.”
Your vision blurs. You press a hand to your mouth, swallowing hard.
“It’s like I gotta make up excuses just to be alone,” he admits, quieter now, stripped bare. “I need space. I need to breathe. And I can’t say that without soundin’ like a heartless asshole because yeah, she’s traumatized, and then suddenly I’m the villain for wantin’ five goddamn minutes to myself.”
Robin scoffs, pushing off the counter. “Steve, you idiot. You said it yourself. Your girlfriend is traumatized.”
“Yeah,” he shoots back, voice rising, “but how the hell do I tell my traumatized girlfriend to back off without destroyin’ her. How do I say ‘hey, I love you, but you’re smotherin’ me,’ and not absolutely fuck her up more than she already is.”
“You don’t call her clingy,” Robin says immediately. “For starters. That word is banned and most girls, including Vickie, hate it.”
Steve lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Well, she is.”
Robin gasps dramatically, clutching her chest. “Oh nooo,” she mocks, voice high and obnoxious. “I’m Steve Harrington and my girlfriend loves me so much. Oh noooo, she feels safe with me. My life is helllll.”
“Shut up,” Steve mutters, shoving her shoulder.
“Oww, you asshole!” Robin shoots back, swatting him in return, then sobers as she gets all serious again. “You’re not wrong for being tired. You are wrong for talking about her like she’s a burden.”
Steve goes still. “I don’t think she’s a burden,” he says quietly, and this time it sounds like the truth. “I just… I don’t wanna be the only thing keepin’ her together. What happens if I fuck up? What happens if I leave?”
Robin sighs. “Then you talk to her. You communicate, dingus.”
You step back before they can see you, heart pounding, every word replaying in your head on a brutal loop. Suffocating. Clingy. Everywhere.
You don’t grab your coat when you leave.
You don’t even realize you’re driving until you’re already halfway home, knuckles white on the steering wheel as every memory crashes into you at once. Begging him to stay while you showered because you were convinced something would crawl out of the drain. Nights you woke up screaming, clinging to his shirt like it was the only safe place left in the world. Training days for the crawl where you stuck close, too afraid to be alone, grateful when you were paired with him again.
You could see it all, every single little thing you had leaned on him for, flashing through your mind like some god-awful horror slideshow.
Steve’s words had been like a bucket of ice water dumped on you, shocking you into clarity whether you wanted it or not.
Maybe you had been too sensitive. Maybe you had been unbearable. Maybe you had been so clingy that it wasn’t fair for him, and maybe you needed to let go, at least a little.
It wasn’t as if you had been the only one stuck in the Upside Down. Will had survived a week in that hell, seen things that should have ripped him apart, and yet he had come back and carried himself with a strength you couldn’t even muster.
Dustin had lost Eddie too, but he hadn’t latched onto anyone, hadn’t made himself a burden. Eleven had been tortured, exploited, experimented on, broken in ways that should have left her crushed, and yet she still managed to find herself amidst everything, to stand and breathe and continue on.
And here you were, the only one who seemed incapable of moving past it, of finding even a fragment of independence, still tethered to Steve as if without him you would fall apart.
Somehow, without realizing it, you had arrived at your shared home with Steve, parked your car in the driveway, and walked inside on autopilot, your body carrying you through familiar motions while your mind carried the full weight of guilt, shame, and heartbreak.
You stripped off your clothes in the bathroom, letting the water hit your skin in a rhythm you used to find comfort in, and prepared some dinner. You heated up leftovers, the smell of food filling the kitchen like it always had, but this time there was no laughter, no shared commentary on who had eaten what, no teasing Steve about his obsession with ketchup.
By the time Steve arrived, the house was quiet. You were already in bed, tucked under the covers, something you hadn’t done alone in months because for months you hadn’t slept unless his arms were wrapped around you.
But tonight, the house felt empty, and he found himself standing in the kitchen, fork in hand, staring at the warm meal you had prepared for him, and realizing that for the first time in an eternity, you weren’t waiting for him.
The next morning only deepened the silence. Steve woke to an empty bed, the sunlight spilling across rumpled sheets that smelled faintly of your perfume, and felt a prickling, cold panic he couldn’t name at first.
You were already dressed, shoes on, ready to leave.
“Where are you heading?” he asked, voice rough.
“Going to get some stuff from the store,” you replied dryly.
“Want me to come with you, sweetheart?” His words carried that familiar gentleness, but you couldn’t look past it without feeling like a burden.
“No,” you said simply.
It was such a small, simple word. It shouldn’t feel like this. Except it made Steve sit in bed alone, blood running cold, realizing far too late that you were beginning to avoid him.
You leave early and don’t come back until the sky is already dimming, the house dark except for the kitchen light that Steve has turned on and off three times now like it might summon you home faster.
By the time you unlock the front door, he has been pacing a groove into the living room carpet, heart in his throat, mind running through every worst case scenario he promised himself he wouldn’t think about anymore. The second the lock clicks and the door opens, he’s there, crowding your space before you can even hang up your coat.
“Where the hell were you?!” he blurts, voice tight and frantic, eyes scanning you like he’s checking for blood. “You’ve been outta the house for nearly six hours. Six. I was losin’ my goddamn mind. I thought somethin’ happened to you.”
You sigh, slow and tired, and for a split second when you really look at him, at the pure unfiltered worry etched into his face, you almost break.
Almost step into his arms, almost let yourself melt into him and admit how badly you missed him, how those six hours felt like six days without his voice or his hands or the steady reassurance of his presence.
If six hours did this to him, then the space you were forcing had been tearing you apart twice as badly.
But then your brain betrays you, replays his words in his voice, clingy, suffocating, always there, and you harden.
“I was out, Steve,” you say quietly.
“Yeah, no shit,” he fires back, following you as you walk toward the kitchen. “Out where?”
You open the fridge, more for something to do than because you’re hungry, and shrug. “With Nancy. We hung out and I accidentally lost track of time.”
The tension drains out of him immediately, shoulders sagging in relief. “Jesus,” he breathes. “Why didn’t you tell me, huh? I was freakin’ out. Is everything okay? Did somethin’ happen?”
You shake your head. “No, nothing happened, don’t worry.”
He nods quickly, like he’s trying not to push. “Okay. Okay. I won’t pry.” He hesitates, then softens. “Hey, I was thinkin’ dinner. You want lasagna or pizza?”
“I’m not hungry,” you say, already turning away. “I’m gonna go sleep, okay.”
He frowns. “But I thought we could just hang out a little, I mean we barely saw each other toda—”
“Maybe another time, alright? Goodnight, Steve.”
He exhales, defeated. “Goodnight,” he says softly. “I love you.”
You pause just long enough to whisper it back before disappearing down the hall. “I love you too,”
The days after are worse.
Steve wakes up and barely gets a word in before you’re already pulling on shoes, mumbling something about a jog. If he waits, you need a shower. If he waits longer, you’re late to see your nana.
If he suggests the Squawk, you’re already going with Nancy. It’s like every time he reaches out, you slip through his fingers a little more, like trying to grasp smoke.
Not long ago, you haunted him with your presence. You were everywhere, constant, inescapable, but now you ghost him with your absence. He doesn’t know where you go or what you do, only that the house feels emptier even when you’re technically still there.
That’s how he ends up sitting on the edge of the bed tonight, waiting for the bathroom door to open, heart pounding like he’s bracing for bad news. When you finally step out, hair damp, towel slung over your shoulder, he looks up like he’s been holding his breath.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says gently, like he’s testing the word to see if it still belongs to him.
You glance at him in the mirror and give him a small, careful smile. “Hi, Steve.”
He lingers there for a second, then steps closer, hands hovering before he settles them lightly at your waist, afraid you might flinch. He leans down and presses a kiss to your collarbone.
“I missed you,” he murmurs. “You’ve been out all day. Didn’t even see you at the Squawk.”
Your body betrays you before your mouth does, a shiver running through you at the sound of his voice, the warmth of him behind you. For a heartbeat you let yourself feel it, the pull, the ache. Then you pull away, just enough to break the contact, reaching for your hairbrush like it’s a shield.
“Yeah,” you say lightly. “Nancy asked me to go shopping with her again.”
“Oh.” He straightens, nodding, trying to keep his tone easy. “Was it fun? I figured you’d come back with, like, ten bags or somethin’.”
You shrug, brushing through damp hair. “Didn’t need anything.”
He watches you in the mirror, the way you won’t quite look at him, the way your answers land flat and stop short. He clears his throat as heshifts his weight.
He hesitates, then clears his throat, trying again, voice low and careful. “Uh. We trained today. Me, Hopper, and El. She shaved her time down again.”
You pause only briefly, tugging at your hair with the brush.
“Thirty-three seconds,” he continues, a little brighter despite himself. “Last week it was thirty-six. She’s pissed about it too, which I guess is good. Means she knows she can do better.”
“That’s good,” you say quietly.
He nods, even though you’re not looking at him. “Yeah. She’s gettin’ scary strong again. In a good way.”
“Mhm.”
Steve frowns. He leans back on his hands, searching your face even though you’re facing away now. “We could all hang out this weekend. Just us, or maybe the kids too. Whatever you want. Thought it might be nice.”
“I’m actually quite tired,” you say quietly.
“Okay,” he says quickly. “Yeah. That’s fine. We don’t have to do anything big.” He pauses, then softly asks. “Hey. Are you okay? Like, really okay?”
You swallow. “I’m fine, Steve.”
There’s a beat of silence where he clearly wants to say more as his mouth opens and closes like he’s rearranging words that never come out right.
He tries again, desperate now. “Did I do somethin’? Because if I did, I swear I’m not tryin’ to mess this up. I just need you to talk to me, okay.”
Your chest tightens. You squeeze your eyes shut.
“Steve,” you say softly, cutting him off before he can dig himself deeper, “can you turn off the light, please?”
He gets the hint; you don’t want to talk.
He freezes for a second, then nods once. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
He stands, reaches for the lamp, and the room falls into darkness. He lingers there for a moment longer, like he’s hoping you’ll turn back around, say his name, give him something to hold onto.
You don’t.
“Night,” he says quietly.
“Night,” you reply, barely audible.
He lies down beside you, careful not to touch, staring up at the ceiling with the awful, sinking realization that this is what losing you looks like..
As the days passed, then quietly turned into weeks, you built a new routine that did not include Steve in it at all. It happened slowly enough that it almost felt reasonable at first.
You learned how to time your mornings so you were out the door before he woke up, learned how to come home late enough that conversation felt unnecessary, learned how to smile just enough to keep him from asking questions that you did not have the strength to answer.
Avoiding him became second nature. Lying became easy.
You spent most of your days outside, anywhere that was not the house and not around him. Sometimes you sat beside your nana’s hospital bed for hours, holding her hand and watching the rise and fall of her chest just to remind yourself that people stayed alive even when everything went wrong.
Other days you walked until your legs ached, wandering neighborhoods you barely recognized, letting exhaustion drown out thought. Occasionally you called a friend, anyone who would answer, and let the hours blur together in cafes and parking lots and friendly conversations that never went anywhere deep enough to hurt.
It got to the point where you could not remember the last time you had kissed him without forcing yourself to think about it, and when you did, the number made your stomach twist. Four days. Four whole days since his mouth had been on yours, since his hands had found your waist without asking, since you had slept tangled together instead of inches apart.
There was a time when five minutes apart felt unbearable, when you haunted each other in hallways and kitchens and doorways, hands always reaching, always searching.
You grew used to the distance.
Steve though, did not.
His patience thinned in ways that showed. It did not help that things with Dustin were already strained. Steve started snapping again and retreating into old habits he thought he had outgrown.
He tried to pull himself back every time he felt it happening, tried to reach for you like he always had.
And every time he did, you stepped further away.
That was how he found himself one late afternoon sitting on the couch, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the front door.
You had been gone all day again, supposedly with Nancy, doing whatever it was you told him you were doing now.
Steve knew you were close to her, knew you trusted her, but not to the point where you would spend hours every other day together. Still, he told himself not to judge. Girls were odd in their friendships, and he did not want to be the guy who questioned everything.
But his mind would not shut up.
Every instinct in him was screaming that something was wrong, that he needed to do something instead of sitting there waiting. He was snapped out of his thoughts when the doorbell rang.
Steve was on his feet instantly, relief and fear colliding in his chest as he rushed to the door. He yanked it open, already ready to say your name.
Instead, Nancy Wheeler stood there.
For a split second, his brain refused to process it. Then panic slammed into him so hard it stole the air from his lungs. If you were supposed to be with Nancy, then why is she standing here alone?
“Where is she?” he blurted out, voice sharp and scared. “Is she okay? What happened?”
Nancy blinked in shock at his reaction, taking in the way his shoulders were tight, the way his hands were already shaking like he’d been holding himself together by sheer force of will. “Whoa, Steve, hey,” she said quickly. “Slow down. What’s going on?”
“What,” he shot back, breath uneven, eyes already scanning the driveway behind her like you might suddenly appear. “Where’s she? Why are you here without her, Nancy?”
Nancy frowned. “Without who?”
“Y/N,” he snapped, panic bleeding into anger because fear always did that to him. “I’m talking about Y/N.”
Her expression shifted immediately. “Yeah,” she said slowly, “that’s actually why I’m here. I haven’t heard from her in weeks. I just wanted to check in.”
The words hit him like a punch straight to the chest.
“What do you mean you haven’t heard from her?” he said, quieter now, like saying it louder might make it real. “You were literally together today?”
Nancy let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Steve, no. I’ve been with Jonathan all day. He’s waiting in the car right now. I just stopped by because I was worried about her.”
The color drained from his face so fast it scared her.
“Steve,” she said carefully, stepping closer, “you’re freaking me out. What’s going on?”
He swallowed hard, throat tight like it was closing in on itself. “She’s been telling me she’s with you,” he said. “Every time she’s gone. She says she’s with you.”
Nancy stared at him. “Why would she lie about that?”
“I don’t know,” he said, voice cracking despite how hard he tried to keep it together. “That’s the thing, Nance, I don’t know. One day she was everywhere. Everywhere. I couldn’t turn around without her being there, couldn’t breathe without feelin’ her next to me, and then suddenly it’s like she vanished. We didn’t fight. I–i didn't do anything. At least not that I remember.”
Nancy sighed, rubbing her forehead, her tone firm but not unkind. “Steve. You don’t just wake up one day like that. Something must've happened.”
“No, no, no” he said immediately, shaking his head. “No, I would know. I would remember if I fucked up that bad.”
“And you didn’t think to ask her?” Nancy pressed.
“I did,” he snapped. “I tried. Every time I tried she’d shut it down, say she was tired or busy or fine. What the hell was I supposed to do, corner her?”
“She was clingy, okay. I’ll say it. I couldn’t go anywhere without her, couldn’t get a second alone, and then suddenly it’s like she was gone.”
Nancy’s head snapped up. “Don’t,” she said sharply.
“What?” he shot back.
“You do not call her clingy, Steve!” Nancy said, anger flaring now. “You don’t get to use that word with Y/N out of all people!”
He bristled. “Oh come on, Nancy. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yeah, you did,” she said. “And even if you didn’t, it doesn’t matter. In case you’ve forgotten, Harrington, we’re all wrapped up in this upside down bullshit because we have to be. I do it because of Mike and Barb. You do it because of Dustin. Guess what? She doesn’t have to be involved in it!”
Steve opened his mouth, then stopped.
“That girl is fucking traumatized, and she went through that shit because you dragged her into it!” Nancy continued, voice steady but fierce.
“She nearly died. She was attacked by monsters that shouldn’t exist. She watched Eddie die just like the rest of us, and she doesn’t get to talk about it with anyone outside this circle. She can’t go to her friends or her family and say, ‘hey, I got slimed by an interdimensional monster and almost got ripped apart.’ The only person she feels safe enough to lean on is you!”
His jaw tightened, guilt creeping in through the cracks.
“So yeah,” Nancy went on, “maybe she leaned too hard or she didn’t know how to be alone after that. But that doesn’t make her clingy, Steve. That makes her scared.”
He dragged a hand down his face. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
“I know,” Nancy said. “But intent doesn’t erase impact. Something you said or did made her feel like she was too much, like she was a burden, and instead of yelling or crying she did the only thing she could think to do. She disappeared.”
Steve let out a shaky breath. “She’s been lying to me, Nancy.”
“She’s protecting herself,” Nancy said. “You need to see things in her light”
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.
“So what,” he said finally, voice raw. “What if she’s just… done? What if she realized she doesn’t need me?”
Nancy softened then, stepping closer. “Steve. She needs you. She just doesn’t think she’s allowed to anymore. And that’s on you to fix.”
He looked at her, eyes glassy. “How?”
“You talk to her,” Nancy said simply. “Really talk. Don't accuse her or get defensive. Listen to her.”
She glanced back toward the driveway. “I’ll stop by tomorrow and check on her too, okay? But you can’t let this sit. Whatever’s going on, it’s clearly eating both of you alive.”
Steve nodded faintly, chest aching. “Yeah.”
Nancy opened the door, then paused. “And Steve.”
“Yeah?”
“Snap out of it,” she said firmly. “Before you lose her for real.”
With that, she left, heading back toward Jonathan’s car, while Steve stood alone in the doorway.
Ironically, barely ten minutes after Nancy and Jonathan pulled out of the driveway, you came home.
The house was dark. Too dark.
Your stomach dropped immediately, panic flaring hot and fast as you stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. No lights. No TV. No noise.
For a split second, every worst-case scenario you’d trained yourself not to think about came crashing in all at once.
“Steve?” you called out, voice tight.
Footsteps shuffled, and then he appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, lit only by the faint glow from the stove light.
“Hey,” he said, like nothing in the world was wrong.
You froze for half a beat. “Oh. Hi.”
There was something awkward in the air instantly, like you’d both stepped into the same room carrying entirely different weights. He leaned against the counter, trying to look casual.
“How was your day?” he asked.
You shrugged, slipping your shoes off. “It was… alright.”
His eyes drifted to the bag clutched in your hand, the crinkled plastic catching his attention. “What’s that?”
“Oh,” you said quickly, glancing down at it. “I stopped by the pharmacy to get the cream. For, uh… you know. The scarring.”
He nodded, softer now. “That’s good.”
Neither of you said anything else as you walked down the hall together. The bedroom felt smaller than usual as Steve sat on the edge of the bed while you set the bag down.
“Um,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you want me to help you apply it?”
You hesitated for a second. Then you nodded and handed him the bag.
He unsealed the ointment while you slipped your shirt off and sat cross-legged on the floor, your back to him. You were suddenly acutely aware of every scar—deep, jagged reminders carved across your back and abdomen from the demogorgon attack. Old wounds, but never really gone.
Steve didn’t react the way you always feared people might. He never did.
His hands were warm as he scooped some of the cream, spreading it carefully across your skin gently. He worked it into your shoulders, thumbs pressing lightly as he massaged your shoulders.
You let yourself breathe.
He kept going until he was done, smoothing the last of it in with quiet focus. As you started to shift, ready to stand and pull your shirt back on, you felt it—
Two soft kisses. One pressed over each long scar crossing your back.
Your heart kicked hard against your ribs.
You stood quickly, sliding your shirt back on, suddenly unsure what to do with all the space between you. You were halfway to the door when his voice stopped you.
“Uhm, Y/n.”
You turned. “Yeah?”
He reached out, fingers wrapping gently around your hand, and tugged you a step closer. “Can we talk?”
He keeps hold of your hand when you hesitate.
“Talk about what?” you ask quietly.
Steve doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the familiar gravity that’s always pulled you in whether you wanted it to or not. His hand tightens around yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip.
“I know I’ve been shitty,” he says again, like repeating it might finally make it land where it needs to. His voice is low and rough, scraped raw by guilt. “I know I’ve been so far away from you. I know you felt it. I saw it, even when I pretended I didn’t.” He swallows hard.
“And I know you’re going through things—things I can’t even fully understand—and I hate that instead of being the person you could come to, the person who made it easier, I—”
He cuts himself off with a sharp breath, hand lifting to his face like he can physically stop the words from spilling.
Your chest tightens so painfully it almost steals your breath.
“I panicked,” he rushes on, panic bleeding straight through his words now. “I didn’t know how to handle it. Knowing someone was dependent on me, really dependent on me, not just for rides or babysitting or stupid shit like that, but emotionally.” His voice wavers. “I thought I was gonna screw it up. Thought I already was screwing it up. And instead of dealing with that like an adult, I freaked out.”
He laughs once, sharp and broken. “God, I thought I needed space. I thought if I pulled back, things would calm down, that we’d both breathe easier. But fuck—” His voice cracks hard on the word. “This is so much worse. You being gone is so much worse than you being everywhere. I’d give anything to have you hovering around me again, asking if I’m okay, touching my arm, sittin’ too close on the couch.”
He steps closer, hands shaking as they come up to your sides.
“Please,” he whispers, forehead nearly brushing yours now, eyes glossy and wrecked. “Please, sweetheart. Don’t stop being dependent on me. Don’t stop needing me. Don’t stop loving me.”
Your breath stutters, a broken sound caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.
“I need you to need me,” he says, the words spilling faster, desperate and unfiltered. “I didn’t realize it until you pulled away, but I do. I need it. I need you. Because I can’t do this anymore. I can’t wake up every day wondering if you’re okay and knowing it’s my fault you don’t tell me.” His voice drops to a whisper.
“I can’t do this without you.”
That’s when you break.
The sob tears out of you violently, ripping through your chest like something finally gave way. Your knees nearly buckle as you fold into him, crying so hard your body shakes, hiccups jerking through each breath.
Steve reacts instantly, arms wrapping around you tight, crushing you to his chest like if he lets go you’ll disappear for real this time.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair, voice breaking completely now. “I’m so sorry. Fuck—fuck, baby, don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”
His hand moves up and down your back in slow, steady motions, grounding and familiar, his chin pressing into your hair. You cry into his shirt until it’s damp, until your throat burns and your lungs ache and you feel wrung out and hollow.
Eventually, trembling, you pull back just enough to look at him.
“I heard you, Steve,” you say, the words tripping over themselves.
He freezes. “You… heard what?”
Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms like you deserve the sting. “A few weeks ago. At the station. I left early and forgot my coat.” Your voice wobbles badly now. “I came back, and I heard you.”
The color drains from his face so fast it scares you.
“You were talking to Robin,” you continue, tears spilling again. “You said I was clingy. You said I was suffocating you.”
“Oh—no,” he breathes, panic exploding across his features. “No, no, no, baby, please—”
“I didn’t mean to be,” you sob. “I swear I didn’t. I wasn’t trying to trap you or make you feel stuck. I just—” Your breath breaks, the words barely making it out. “I only felt safe with you. And everyone else was doing okay. Everyone. And I wasn’t. I was falling apart and I didn’t know how to move on from everything that happened.”
You swallow hard, voice dropping to something small and raw. “And somewhere along the way, it started to feel like you weren’t loving me anymore.”
Your eyes lift to his, shining. “It felt like you were just… tolerating it. Tolerating me.”
Steve’s hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your tears away like each one physically hurts him.
“Baby,” he says fiercely, voice shaking as his arms tighten around you. “You can cling to me as tight as you want and as long as you want. I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to pull away to protect me.”
His voice drops, thick and aching, the words pressed straight into your hair. “I love you so much it hurts. I love you so much it scares me, and instead of owning that, I ran my mouth and said somethin’ stupid and careless. And I hate that it hurt you. I hate that I made you feel like you were too much when all you ever were was… you.”
He presses his forehead to yours, breath shaky. “You were never suffocating me. I was just scared of how much I needed you back.”
You search his face, eyes swollen, chest still hitching with quiet aftershocks of sobs. He looks wrecked and earnest and painfully open, like every wall he’s ever built has finally come down.
“It’s okay, Steve,” you whisper, even though the words wobble on the way out, even though they don’t quite feel solid yet.
He shakes his head immediately, curls bouncing with the movement. “It’s not. It’s really not.” His hands slide up your back, holding you close. “But we’re gonna fix it, okay? I will fix it. I promise. I don’t care how long it takes.”
His forehead presses against yours again, like he’s grounding himself. “Just… don’t pull away from me ever again.”
You nod, slow but sure, arms wrapping around him fully now as you bury your face into his chest. He holds you like he means it this time, rocking you gently, big hands warm and steady like they’re reminding you that he’s real, that he’s here.
You breathe him in.
And then—
Grrrgrgrgrgrgr.
You freeze for half a second.
Then you pull back just enough to look up at him, eyes still wet, face scrunched, and you burst out laughing—broken, hiccupy laughter that comes out of you mid-cry.
“Are you—” you sniff, laughing harder, “—are you hungry?”
Steve’s face goes bright red.
“I—” he stammers, mortified. “I was gonna wait for you to come back, okay? I didn’t wanna eat without you.”
That just makes you laugh more. You press your face back into his chest, shoulders shaking, and he lets out a breathy laugh too, embarrassed but relieved, his arms tightening around you again.
“God,” he mutters. “Timing, huh.”
You tilt your head up and kiss him. He kisses you back immediately, like he’s been starving for it just as much as food. When you pull away, barely an inch, he leans in again and kisses you harder this time and deeper, pouring everything unsaid into it.
He breaks the kiss with a breathless laugh, forehead resting against yours. “Missed kissing you.”
You smile. “Me too.”
He exhales, then straightens suddenly like he’s had an epiphany. “You know what?”
“What?” you ask.
“I am starving,” he says, dead serious. “And I’m pretty sure you are too.”
You blink. “Steve—”
“Come on,” he says, already grabbing your hand and tugging you gently toward the door. “Grab a coat.”
“Wait,” you laugh, stumbling after him. “Where are we even going?”
He grins over his shoulder, that familiar boyish smile you fell in love with. “Enzo’s.”
Your eyes widen. “What? No, Steve, that place is expensive. And you need a reservation and— I can just heat something up, it’s fine—”
“Nope,” he cuts in immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“Steve—”
“I gotta spend the next year or so making it up to you,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Minimum.”
You gape at him. “But—”
“Too late,” he says cheerfully, already opening the door.
You stumble as he leads you out to the car, the night air cool against your skin. He opens your door for you like always, and excitedly smiles at you. As the engine starts and the house disappears in the rearview mirror, you lean back in your seat, heart full and sore and warm all at once.
Deep down, you know it again: Steve will stay by your side. He’ll wait while you heal. He’ll hold you steady until you’re strong enough to take steps on your own.
And Steve knows, wholeheartedly, that he’ll be the one clinging to you just as tightly. Because you’re the only one he’s ever loved enough to spill his heart to.
And, apparently, spend three hundred and ninety dollars on at some fancy restaurant without even blinking.
Steve harrington x fem!reader, 1.8k words, Steve is an adorable loser for his gf <3
summary: Everyone loves Steve's girlfriend, but he just wants a little bit of your attention for himself. Is that so bad?
It starts, as many things do, with Dustin Henderson.
You’re curled on the corner of Steve’s couch, your legs tucked under his thigh while he flicks through TV channels. The doorbell rings, and before Steve can even mutter “I’m not home,” the door swings open.
“Hey, is she— oh, there you are!” Dustin beams, dropping his backpack with a thud. "Hi!"
"Hi," you say back, grinning up at him, happy to see him.
He mirrors your smile. “Okay, so I need a second opinion on the naming convention for my new campaign NPC. ‘Zargoth the Destroyer’ or ‘Lord Malador of the Shadowed Vale’?"
"Hmmm, I like Zargoth better. It's more intimidating. Plus, short and sweet, you know what I mean?"
Steve stares, remote dangling from his fingers. “Henderson. My house. A ‘hello’ would be nice. An appointment would be better.”
Dustin waves a dismissive hand. “Hi, Steve. This is important.” He plops down on the floor in front of you, effectively blocking Steve from your line of sight.
It doesn’t stop there.
Two days later, you’re helping Steve sort a mountain of mismatched socks that have just come out of the laundry. Weirdly, it's somewhat of a bonding experience, doing laundry together.
Robin lets herself in, her eyes landing on you like a spotlight.
"Oh, thank God you're here," she breathes.
"Where else would I be?" you joke.
She plops down on the bed, messing up Steve's organised sock piles. He sighs.
“My date with Vickie. At Enzo’s. It’s tomorrow. It’s a real, sit-down, checkered-tablecloth kinda date."
You put down the polka dot socks you were holding to beam at her. "That's amazing, Robin! I know how much you were looking forward to that."
"It is amazing! But it's also a crisis!" She grabs your shoulders, her eyes wide. “What do I wear? Do I go cute? Do I go cool? Do I try for both and risk looking like I’m trying too hard? And my hair— can you braid it?"
Steve holds up two socks that are clearly not a match—one black, one navy. "Hello? We're doing laundry. We were in the zone."
Robin spares him a haphazard glance. "This is important, Dingus." She turns back to you. "Please, I need you. I'm vibrating."
You can't help but laugh. "Okay, okay. I like your outfit now. It's chic, but doesn't look like you're trying too hard. And I can totally braid your hair, but I think it might look better down? Light makeup I can help you with, maybe a little eyeliner on your waterline. I have one I think'd suit you, it's in the bathroom."
Robin tugs on your hand, pulling you up to stand. "You're a genius."
Steve watches, helpless, as you're swept upstairs in a whirlwind of pre-date panic, then back down at his socks. "They're both dark," he mumbles to himself.
The true test of his patience comes during a Friday night movie marathon in the Wheeler’s basement. You’re on the floor, leaned back comfortably between Steve’s knees, his fingers in your hair, scratching absently at your scalp. It’s perfect. It’s your spot.
The movie plays, and Steve is content, his world pleasantly narrowed to the familiar weight of you against him and the scent of your shampoo.
Then, Lucas slides over from his spot next to Mike. He looks desperate. "Hey," he whispers, his voice strained. "I need help. It's an emergency."
You tilt your head back to look up at Steve with an apologetic smile before turning your full attention to Lucas. "What's wrong?"
"I pointed out a zit on Max's face," he confesses in a horrified rush. "I wasn't trying to be mean! I just noticed it! I said, 'Is that a new zit?' and she... she hasn't spoken to me in two hours. She's just been giving me this death glare. What do I do? Do I apologise? Do I ignore it? Do I buy her nail polish? Is nail polish even an apology gift?"
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, but your eyes are sympathetic. "Oh, Lucas. Okay. First, do not buy her nail polish. That implies you're paying way too much attention to her appearance, which is the problem. Buy her new skateboard bearings, she mentioned she needed some. And definitely apologize. Say, 'I'm sorry, that was a stupid thing to say.' Keep it simple."
Lucas nods frantically, absorbing the instructions like they're a military briefing. "Got it. Thanks." He scuttles back to his spot, already planning his approach.
Steve’s hand has stilled in your hair. You feel him take a slow, deep breath behind you.
Before you can settle back against him, you catch Max’s eye from across the room. She gestures subtly with her head towards Lucas and rolls her eyes, but you see the hurt in them.
You give her a small smile in acknowledgement. Mouth, 'he's sorry. He'll make it up to you.'
Then, Dustin’s head appears, blocking the TV. “Okay, one more question about the D&D character convention. If a—”
But Steve has had enough.
He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice is a low, soft murmur, tinged with a vulnerability that makes your heart clutch. “Hey, angel... can we get out of here?”
You twist to look up at him. In the flickering blue light of the TV, his expression isn’t annoyed. It’s wistful. A little tired.
“Yeah,” you whisper back instantly, without hesitation. “Of course.”
You gently extract yourself from his hold and stand up, reaching for your jacket. "We're gonna head out," you announce.
A chorus of groans erupts.
“What? Now?” Dustin whines.
"Yeah, I had a question to ask you!" Mike exclaims. "It's, like, life or death. I think the Chief's gonna kill me if I go see El again—"
“You can’t leave, I haven’t executed the apology protocol yet!” Lucas whisper-yells, panicked.
Steve opens his mouth, a familiar, defensive retort about how you’re not a UN negotiator clearly forming. But you step in before he can.
You smile, soft but firm, and slip your hand into Steve’s. “You guys’ll be fine,” you say, your tone gentle but leaving no room for debate. You turn your smile up to Steve, eyes warm. You give his hand a little squeeze. “I want some alone time with my boyfriend.”
The groans taper into scattered laughs. Max sends you a not very discreet thumbs up.
Steve looks down at you, warmth pooling in his chest. He gives you this look of such pure, dazed adoration it makes your heart skip. He doesn’t say a word. He just lifts your joined hands and presses a firm, grateful kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours.
“You heard the lady,” he says to the room, his voice light and full of happy energy. “We’re off-duty. Emergencies will have to wait.”
He leads you up the basement stairs, the sounds of the movie and the kids’ renewed bickering fading behind you.
The second the Wheeler’s front door clicks shut, sealing you both in the cool, quiet dark of the porch, Steve stops. He turns, and in the soft glow of the porch light, his expression is completely unguarded—all soft eyes and a tender, wobbly smile.
“C’mere, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. He wraps his arms around you and sways gently on the spot, his cheek resting against your hair.
“My sweet, perfect girl,” he coos, the words a warm rumble against your temple. "You were so patient with them, solving everyone’s problems.”
He pulls back just far enough to cradle your face in his hands. His thumbs stroke over your cheekbones with a reverence that makes you feel dizzy.
He’s beaming at you, his eyes shining with so much affection it’s almost overwhelming. He leans in and peppers a flurry of soft, quick kisses all over your face—your forehead, your nose, each eyelid, your cheeks—murmuring between each one.
"My smart girl... giving everyone life advice... always being so kind and helpful and perfect..."
He finally lands on your lips, kissing you slow and deep, a kiss that tastes like gratitude and awe. When he breaks away, he’s breathless, his forehead resting against yours.
“I’m gonna melt into a puddle right here on Mrs. Wheeler’s porch,” he whispers, his voice hoarse with feeling. "The way you handle them all, and then you just… you turn those big, beautiful eyes on me and say that? In front of everyone?” He lets out a shaky laugh, his nose nuzzling against yours. “I’m done for. Completely done for.”
He hugs you again, squeezing you tight and lifting you just an inch off the ground. “C’mon, my love,” he says, "let's go to my place. I just want to look at you for a while. Is that okay? I just wanna hold my girl and look at her.”
You laugh, the sound full of softness and affection for your sweet, adorable boyfriend. "It's more than okay. Take me home, please, baby. I'm all yours."
A soft, almost wounded sound escapes him and he hugs you impossibly tighter for a second, his face buried in your neck. "Oh, my heart. You're gonna kill me. You're so perfect."
Steve finally lets you go, but only to take your hand, lacing your fingers together in a grip that feels reverent. He leads you to the car, opening the passenger door for you with a soft, "In you go, gorgeous."
The drive to his house is quiet, but the silence is thick with a new, syrupy sweetness. He keeps your hand in his lap, his thumb stroking incessantly over your knuckles when he's not changing gears.
"Just look at you," he murmurs at one red light, his free hand reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "You're so beautiful. I can't believe you're mine."
"I am," you remind him softly, leaning into his touch.
"I know," he breathes, like it's the greatest mystery and miracle of his life at the same time, somehow. "I know, baby. And I'm never letting go."
Once home, he doesn't even turn on the main lights. He guides you to the living room couch by the faint glow from the kitchen. He sits down and pulls you into his lap, arranging you so you're sideways, your legs draped over his, your head tucked perfectly under his chin. He wraps both arms around you, letting out a long, contented sigh.
"Here we go," he whispers, his lips against your hair. "Right where I wanted you all night. Just my girl and me."
You hum, a soft, contented sound as you melt into his warmth, all the busy energy of the night finally draining away.
Steve presses a kiss to the crown of your head. "You must be so tired, sweet thing," he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing rumble in his chest. "Taking care of everyone all the time." His hand rubs slow, comforting circles on your back. "My sweet, exhausted angel."
He leans down, his lips brushing your ear. "But you know what?"
"Hmm?"
He tightens his arms around you. "It's okay," he murmurs. "You can help whoever you want, baby. 'Cos when you're done taking care of everyone else..." He presses a fond kiss into your hair. "I'll be right here taking care of you."
I LOVE THIS, i am genuinely going to melt from how sweet this. steve is just so perfect in this, so loverboy, i can't. i need this irl. he's so SWEET. and the way the other characters are incorportated into the story? they're so in character and i love their relationship with reader. man i love this one sm!!!!!
summary: with your broken arm after a fight with a demo, you can’t do your own hair so someone is there to help you :) takes place during s5
warnings: literally pure fluff | not proofread
you stood in your shower letting the water wash away any filth that was lingering on your skin. you had been running through the tunnels with lucas and the kids the night prior before a demogorgan fell from straight above and threw you into the dirt wall. you immediately shrieked in pain as lucas tried to help you but you yelled at him to run. he ran and ran but the demo slashed him across his chest, leaving him almost unconscious at the other end of the tunnel.
your arm was broken. you knew it the second you had hit the wall. you laid there for what felt like forever before mike, will and joyce came running through. mike helped you up and slung your arm lazily around his shoulders while his arm snaked around your waist to support you. you were rushed to the hospital with everyone at your side as the doctors wrapped up your arm quickly and sent you on your way. the doctors asked how you had broken it but of course you couldn’t say it was because a child eating, flower faced monster threw you up against a wall.
it was now the next night and you stood in mike’s shower with a stupid plastic bag wrapped around your arm to cover your cast. you decided to stay at mike’s house because your parents were always out of town and this just so happened to be one of those times. plus, you were practically here all the time anyway.
the hot water trickled down your skin leaving red marks but you didn’t care. you wanted every last bit of that demogorgan off of you. you ran your hands over your face and took a deep breath before you turned the water off. you stepped out and wrapped a pink fluffy towel around you before mike knocked on the door.
“come in.” you said, securing the towel around you tightly.
mike opened the door and stood there with a pile of clothes. “i was just bringing you some clothes.” he mumbled, cheeks flushed. you took them from him and thanked him.
he stood there for a moment longer, eyes searing through your skin. “i’ll be out in a second.” you smiled at him shyly. he shook his head and scratched the back of his neck. “right, uh-yeah, sorry,” his cheeks were even redder than before as he walked off.
you shut the door the second he was out of eye sight. you looked through the cabinets for lotion and when you finally found some you applied it to all the places you could possibly reach with one hand.
finally you got dressed in the clothes mike had brought you which you knew were nancy’s just by the colors. it was just a simple pink pair of sweatpants with a baggy oversized grey tee that fell off your shoulder.
once you got situated in the clothes, you looked around for a hairbrush and your eyes finally landed on one. it was small and purple, probably holly’s.
without thinking, you tried to reach up with your broken arm. you winced loudly and the hairbrush fell to the ground. “shit,” you cursed under your breath.
soon enough you heard mike running from his bedroom. he barged into the bathroom, a worried expression on his face as he saw the tears in your eyes. “are you okay?”
“n-no, i was just trying to brush my hair.” you sniffed, wiping away the tears with the back of your hand.
mike sighed. he felt bad. the whole way to the hospital he apologized about how he wasn’t there there for you and how it should’ve been him instead of you.
he picked up the hairbrush, his eyes not leaving your face. he wasn’t sure what to do so he said, “ i can do your hair,” he paused as he stood back up. “only if you want me to.”
mike mentally facepalmed. he had never done a girls hair before. the most he had maybe done is brush holly’s hair when she was younger.
he fidgeted with the handle of the hairbrush. “you’d do that?” you asked softly as your heart fluttered in your chest, something that only happened around mike. he nodded, a soft smile splaying on his face.
you followed mike into his room and got comfortable on his bed. you sat in the middle of it, hugging your legs to your chest, his legs laying lazily at your sides.
he stole some of nancy’s fancy hair cream and pumped it into his hands before massaging it into your roots and to the ends. “is this okay?” he had asked and you hummed softly. he then took the brush and brushed your hair from the ends up. you sighed contently and closed your eyes.
when he was done he set the brush down beside him and ran his fingers through it checking for tangles. there was one tiny knot at the end that his finger caught on causing your head to jerk back. “shit! i’m so sorry, i-”
“mike. hey, it’s okay.” you chuckled as you grabbed the brush and ran it through the knot really quick. he sighed a breath of relief.
you sat there in silence looking around mike’s room as he twisted the wet ends of your hair around his fingers. you felt so at peace in his presence and you couldn’t help but think about how this moment with him felt so domestic, intimate. was your boy best friend really supposed to be playing with your hair?
“mike?” your voice broke through the silence.
“yeah?”
“do you think you could…braid my hair?” you asked gently. the question lingered for a few moments before mike spoke.
“uh-i’ve never braided hair,” his voice was shy, almost childlike.
you turned a little to look at him. “i’ll talk ya through it,” you smiled. he chuckled and look down. “now go get a hair tie, wheeler!” you nudged his shoulder playfully.
mike hopped off his bed and ran to the bathroom across the hall. you heard him digging through a drawer while he mumbled profanities to himself because he couldn’t find one. you heard the drawer slam and then he ran to nancy’s room and dug through her stuff. “got it!” he shouted through the empty house. you breathed out a laugh.
he came back, hair tousled from the running. he looked down at the black elastic and twisted it around his fingers. “ya know? for there being 3 girls in this house, you’d think we’d have more of these.” he huffed as he took his seat behind you again. you giggled and scooted back a bit more into his lap.
mike brushed through you hair one more time before he tried to braid it. “okay, now what?” he asked. you could see the confused expression on his face without even having to look at him.
“so you’re gonna section it into thirds,” you started and mike separated the hair and laid the outer two pieces on your shoulders. “okay, now take the right and middle piece and cross them,” he took the strands in his fingers, his fingertips brushing your neck.
“so it’ll look like an x?” mike mumbled from behind you.
your cheeks flushed a new shade of pink. “i mean if that’s what you wanna call it, yeah.” you said gently. mike nodded.
“now take the left strand and cross it over the right,” he did that and cheered when it started to look how it was supposed to. you laughed. “just keep repeating that.”
he kept crossing the strands into the pattern until he reached the end. your eyelids fluttered as you grew sleepy. you typically got tired when someone played with your hair.
“okay, i’m at the end,” mike said as he held the ends in his hands.
“now you can just wrap the hair tie around it” you said as he slid the black elastic off his wrist. “three times.” you held up three fingers.
the hair tie snapped into place and mike draped the braid over your shoulder. you ran your fingers over it. it wasn’t perfect. the strands were uneven and pieces stuck out in places but it would do. you knew it was sweet that he even tried.
you sat up on your knees to turn and face mike. “thank you.” you smiled sweetly at him and he returned it with a hum.
the two of you sat there in silence, the faint hum of the heating system in the background. you both looked around aimlessly, not even sure of what to say as you fidgeted with the rings on your fingers.
“uh, i should uh, probably go to bed,” you mumbled as you stood up and made your way to the door. just as you reached for the handle, mike’s hand gripped your shoulder causing you to turn around.
panic flashed over his face, lips parted. “you can uh-stay in here…ya know, in case you need anything with that arm and all,” he smirked slightly.
you blushed, a giggle spilling from your lips. “are you sure, mike?” he nodded eagerly.
you thought about it for a moment, looking down at your feet. “okay,” your breath hitched in your throat as followed him to his bed. he situated the pillows for you as you laid down and got comfortable under the navy blue cover. he propped your broken arm up on a small throw pillow and flicked the light off before he climbed in next to you, staying a respectable distance.
you laid there looking at the popcorn ceiling, eyes tracing ever single groove. “is this…weird?” you spoke softly as you looked over at mike. the moonlight was peeking through the blinds, illuminating his facial structure.
he looked over at you, brows raised. “not really…just two friends sharing a bed.” he huffed out a laugh.
your lips curled into a smile, face scrunched a bit. “friends?”
mike fully turned on his side to look at you and you did the same “okay, maybe a bit more than that.” he smiled and shrugged.
you giggled, your hand resting on the sheet beneath you, your broken arm rested upon your hip. “yeah, maybe.”
soon enough you drifted off, eyes fluttering shut but you felt mike twist and turn before he reached over to brush a strand of hair that fell loose from the braid behind your ear.
⏜︵ pairing 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 mike wheeler x reader ,, former mike x reader x eleven
꒰ 🚲 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 since el’s presumed death, mike has been avoiding food, people, and the concept of tomorrow, so you show up with a plate and a refusal to leave.
۶𝜚 cw’s ࣪ angst. post season five. depressed mike wheeler. #mikewheelerneedsahug. comfort. potentially sensitive content ahead! ex love-triangle.
THE HUMAN BODY CAN SURVIVE, WHAT, LIKE… A WHILE WITHOUT FOOD?
he’s pretty sure. it’s one of those facts you pick up from movies or school or manuals that try to be educational for no reason. water matters more. water is the real issue. three days? four? he’s not testing it. he’s not doing anything on purpose. he just… hasn’t gotten up. his legs feel glued to the mattress, like they’re not his anymore. they belong to the bed now.
trying to remember the last time he ate is a challenge. that shouldn’t be hard. that should be something you just know, like your birthday or your phone number or the names of the people you love, but his brain gives him nothing. just a vague image of a plate being set down somewhere far away from him. that’s probably normal. people forget stuff all the time.
later, he tells himself.
later i’ll get up.
later i’ll eat.
later never really shows up, though. it just keeps getting rescheduled, like an appointment he forgets to cancel and then feels vaguely guilty about without fixing it. the room looks the same every day. that’s probably the problem. or maybe it’s the point. the light shifts across the carpet sometimes, but nothing else really moves unless he makes it. and he doesn’t. he barely even moves from his spot on the bed himself. sometimes he sits up though. that counts, right? sometimes he swings his legs off the bed and just… leaves them there, feet flat on the floor, like he’s proving something to himself. see? he can get up.
most days, the farthest he goes is the desk.
the typewriter waits for him there. the keys are cool when he touches them, dusty, and that small sensation is usually what gets him to sit all the way down. the chair creaks in the same spot every time. he keeps meaning to tighten the screw. he never does. he feeds a blank page in, straightens it, pulls it back out. feeds it again, because the margin was off by a millimeter. he stares at the page. his fingers hover, then tap one key. a single letter appears, slightly off-center. he hates it immediately and tries again. a sentence this time, kind of. it doesn’t go anywhere. it just… exists, like him. he reads it over twice, then a third time, like it might reveal a hidden meaning if he stares long enough. it doesn’t. god, this is bad.
he rips the page out, crumples it, tosses it toward the trash can. it misses. he leaves it on the floor. he’s been doing that a lot. sometimes he wonders if this is what writers do. like, the real ones. the tortured genius thing. sitting alone, not eating, surrounded by discarded drafts and self-loathing.
yeah, okay. sure mike. that’s definitely what this is.
everyone’s busy now. that’s normal. they graduated. they’re supposed to be busy. jobs, plans, places to go that aren’t this house, this room, this exact stretch of carpet. he should be doing something too. he just… isn’t. it’s not like he’s choosing this. he’s not sitting here thinking, i will isolate myself today. he just keeps realizing, hours later, that the day has already happened without him. that makes him angry. at himself. mostly at himself. get it together, he tells himself. this is stupid.
he presses his fingers harder into the keys, types another sentence, then another, like force might help. it doesn’t. the words come out wrong, like he’s describing something he’s never actually felt. which is ridiculous. he’s felt plenty.
hasn’t he?
he stops. leans back. the chair creaks again. his stomach twists, sharp enough that he actually hisses under his breath. he looks at the clock. 2:18. that seems… late. early? both? he can’t tell anymore. the numbers don’t mean what they used to, they just mark how much time he’s wasted. everyone else can do this. everyone else can just live. lucas is probably running somewhere with max, dustin off with steve and robin, and will — will calls. sometimes. not every day. mike lets it ring more often than he answers, then stares at the missed call like it’s proof of something terrible about him. what, exactly, he’s not sure. just… something. what kind of person does that? what kind of best friend?
he doesn’t answer himself, because if he did, the answer would probably be something like you, and he’s not in the mood to be indicted further.
the typewriter just sits there. he stares at the page again, waiting for it to suggest something. anything. usually his brain won’t shut up—associations piling on top of each other, ideas branching out into other ideas, little what-ifs and rules and worlds clicking into place. that’s always been the thing. that’s been his thing. now it’s just quiet. nothing to grab onto. nothing to follow. write what you know, he thinks, like that’s helpful. like that hasn’t been the advice since the dawn of time.
what does he know?
he knows how the keys feel under his fingers. cold at first, then warming. he knows the exact resistance of the “e,” which sticks sometimes, just enough to be annoying. he knows the smell of ink and dust and old paper. he knows how the chair creaks when he leans back too far. he knows that every story he tries to start turns into the same thing if he’s not careful. a girl who disappears. a boy who waits. a promise that feels unfinished. he yanks the page out before it can get there and crumples it harder this time. “idiot.” he mutters, not loudly, just enough for himself to hear. he’s very good at keeping his criticism at an indoor volume.
everyone else can move on because they’re supposed to, because that’s what people do when something terrible happens and there’s nothing left to fight. they grieve. they cry. they hold each other. and then, eventually, they keep living. that’s the order of operations. mike understands that. he’s not stupid.
it just feels… wrong.
like skipping a step. like calling a campaign over when the boss fight hasn’t actually happened yet. like everyone packing up their dice and character sheets while he’s still sitting there, staring at the map, thinking, no, wait, there’s more.
eleven isn’t dead.
he knows that. she’s alive. she has to be. if she isn’t—
well.
he doesn’t finish that thought. he’s learned not to. some doors don’t need to be opened to know there’s nothing good behind them. his stomach twists again, slow and aching now, like it’s given up on urgency. he barely reacts. the pain feels like proof that something is still happening. he presses a hand there, not to soothe it, just to feel it.
you should eat, a reasonable voice says somewhere in his head. it sounds a lot like nancy.
or you could just lie down, another voice counters. that one sounds like him.
he pushes the chair back and stands. the room tilts slightly, but he steadies himself on the desk, fingers brushing the edge where old dents still live from when he was twelve and slammed his hand down too hard after a bad roll. he doesn’t bother fixing the papers or straightening the chair. he just crosses the room and collapses back onto the bed, curling in on himself without really thinking about it. knees to chest, arms tucked in, like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible. the mattress dips around him. his stomach hurts more like this, compressed, but he doesn’t move.
good, he thinks. at least something’s working.
voices float up again from downstairs. nancy’s, this time for sure. softer, careful. he knows that tone. she’s been using it a lot lately. their mom too. worried, but trying not to show it. trying not to push. mike appreciates that, even if a small, ugly part of him resents being handled at all. they knocked for a while. asked questions. offered things. then, gradually, they stopped.
space, they decided. mike needs space.
that’s probably true. when people press, he locks up. always has. pressure turns him into something brittle, something mean.
downstairs, ted’s voice cuts through it all, unconcerned, something about the tv, about dinner, about how he worked all day and would like to relax.
you don’t get to be this upset, mike reminds himself. other people have it worse. max. lucas. will. even dustin, who pretends everything’s fine. you’re not special. you’re not the only one who lost something.
the problem is, he didn’t just lose her. he lost the future he’d already lived in his head. the one where they grew up. where they argued about stupid things and kissed at beaches and survived everything because that was kind of the point. letting go of that feels like lying. like betraying her.
his chest tightens, not enough to cry. he doesn’t really do that. it just sits there. you should get up, he thinks. do something. write something. be useful.
he doesn’t.
he curls tighter, forehead pressing into the pillow, stomach aching, thoughts dull and circular. he’s fine. this is temporary.
tomorrow he’ll answer the phone.
tomorrow he’ll eat.
tomorrow he’ll write something.
for now he just lies there.
the words loop until they lose shape, until tomorrow stops meaning a real day and turns into a concept. a placeholder. a lie he’s allowed to tell himself because it sounds responsible. his brain drifts anyway. it always does, even when he doesn’t ask it to. he wonders where she is.
not if. where.
that’s the thing everyone else gets wrong. they talk about eleven like she’s gone somewhere abstract, like she’s a memory. mike pictures geography. movement. hiding. some place dark and quiet where she’s keeping her head down, waiting until it’s safe. she’s good at that. she always has been. maybe she’s somewhere cold. or somewhere loud, where no one would notice one more strange thing. maybe she cut her hair again. maybe she didn’t. maybe she’s using a fake name and hating it.
maybe she’s thinking about him.
that thought hurts worse than the hunger. he presses his face harder into the pillow like that might smother it.
downstairs something opens. a cabinet, maybe. mike doesn’t move. none of it feels like it belongs to him. after about a minute there’s a knock on his bedroom door. careful, like whoever it is already knows yelling won’t help. “go away,” mike says into the pillow. his voice comes out rougher than he expects. he clears his throat and tries again. “i’m busy.”
a pause. then, from the other side of the door, “it’s me.”
oh. shit.
he sits up too fast, the room pitching again, and for a second he thinks he might actually throw up. he doesn’t, but the possibility lingers, unpleasant and humiliating. me only ever means one person.
you.
mike looks down at himself like he’s just noticed his body for the first time. same sweatshirt. again. he can’t remember putting it on, which probably means he didn’t take it off. his hair is messy, sticking up in places it shouldn’t. his mouth tastes bad. stale. great. fantastic timing. another knock, a little firmer this time, but still gentle. you’ve always been like that. careful with doors. careful with everything, really. “mike?” you call, closer now, like you leaned in. “can i come in?”
mike swallows. his instinct is to say no. to pretend he’s asleep. to wait it out until you leave and he can go back to being a lump with thoughts instead of a human being with a face. but you’re here. actually here, not a phone call he can ignore or a memory he can rearrange until it hurts less. “yeah,” mike answers finally. “yeah. um. sure.” he considers brushing his teeth, then realizes he doesn’t have time and that would require leaving the room anyway, which defeats the purpose.
the door opens. you stand there, half in the hallway light, half in mike’s dim room, like you haven’t decided which world you belong to yet. you look thinner, tired in a way that doesn’t go away with sleep. your eyes meet. something tightens in mike’s chest—not panic, exactly. something like guilt that hasn’t figured out what it wants to be yet. “hey.” you greet.
“hey.”
“hey,” you say again, softer this time.
mike doesn’t get up, he doesn’t even pretend like he’s going to. he stays half-curled on the bed, shoulder pressed into the mattress, one arm tucked under the pillow like he might disappear into it if he tries hard enough. part of him registers that he should stand, should do something, should at least look like a functional person greeting another human being, but the thought fizzles out before it turns into motion. you don’t comment on it. of course. you step inside and close the door behind you without being asked. mike watches you from the corner of his eye. you move carefully, but not awkwardly—comfortable. familiar. you toe your shoes off by the door out of habit, set your bag down on the chair that’s been acting as a second closet for weeks.
that’s when he smells it. food. real food. warm. greasy. unmistakable.
his stomach clenches hard enough that he actually has to bite down on his lip, a sharp little hiss escaping anyway. traitor. absolute traitor of a body. he hadn’t been hungry—not really—but now the smell hits him and it’s like his insides wake up just to remind him what he’s been ignoring. you follow his gaze, clock it immediately. “i brought something,” you offer, like it’s no big deal, like you didn’t plan this. “figured… you know. just in case.”
mike does know. he knows exactly what case this is.
the bag crinkles softly when you lift it. it’s from that place—the one on the corner near the old arcade, the one that still smells like fryer oil and burnt coffee no matter how many health inspections it passes. you, mike and el used to go there after school sometimes, squeezing into the booth, eleven always stealing fries off mike’s plate and pretending she wasn’t.
“you didn’t have to.”
“i know,” you reply easily. “i wanted to.”
you set the bag down on his desk, next to the typewriter. mike watches your hand hover for half a second over the keys, like you’re resisting the urge to touch them. you’re thinking about asking. you don’t. another kindness. you glance at the papers scattered everywhere—the half-started pages, the ripped-out sheets, the one where he typed the same sentence five times and crossed it out harder each time. mike feels weirdly exposed, like you’ve just walked in on him failing at something private. “working on something?” you ask, gentle, not pushing.
mike snorts quietly, face still half-buried in the pillow. “define working.”
you smile a little at that. not a big smile, just the corner of your mouth. there’s a pause. the kind that used to feel comfortable and now just feels heavy. mike’s brain scrambles for something to say, anything normal, but all his thoughts slide off each other. you sit on the edge of the bed without asking. the mattress dips, the movement small but noticeable. mike stiffens on instinct, then hates himself for it. you’ve been closer than this. you’ve slept on this bed before, tangled up in blankets and limbs and bad dreams and whispered jokes at three in the morning. still, he doesn’t move away.
the smell of food is stronger now. fries. something fried. something sweet underneath it. his stomach growls, loud and traitorous, and he freezes, mortified. you don’t laugh. you don’t say anything at all, actually. you just reach down, pull the bag open, and set the container on the desk, popping it open enough that the steam escapes. mike swears the smell alone could knock him unconscious. “you don’t have to eat it now,” you say, like you can hear his thoughts. “or at all. it’ll keep.”
mike doesn’t correct you. he knows that’s not true. nothing keeps forever.
everything gets cold.
everything goes bad eventually.
you glance at him again, and this time there’s worry there. real worry. not the kind adults give him when they think space is the answer to everything. “you okay?”
mike almost laughs. what a stupid question, his brain supplies automatically. what a nice question.
“yeah. totally. thriving.” you look at him. mike looks away. “right,” he says. “sorry. i mean—yeah. i’m okay.”
it’s not the truth, but it’s closer than an outright lie. you don’t argue. you don’t push. he wonders, stupidly, what you’re thinking. if you can see how bad it’s gotten. if you’re aware of the same things he is, the sweatshirt, the messy room, the collection of empty water bottles, the way he hasn’t brushed his teeth, the way he can’t seem to sit up straight anymore. he hates that you’re seeing him like this.
he hates it in the specific, irrational way where his brain immediately follows up with you should’ve cleaned, you should’ve showered, you should’ve at least pretended to be normal for ten minutes, like any of that would’ve actually changed the situation. like this isn’t already past the point of pretending. you never say anything about it though. not the sweatshirt, not the bottles lined up like some kind of hydration graveyard, not the way the room smells like dust and old paper and a person who hasn’t opened a window in days. you stand up again and move back toward the desk. mike watches you pull the container all the way open, steam fogging the air between you for a second. it’s his order.
the greasy noodles. extra sauce. the kind that always leaves his fingers slick and his stomach warm and heavy afterward. there’s a side of fries too, dumped carelessly into a cardboard tray, still smelling like salt and oil and that place. that stupid place. the one where eleven used to wrinkle her nose at the smell and then eat half of mike’s anyway. he looks away before the memory finishes forming.
you grab a fork from the bag and cross the room again, holding it out to him like it’s the most normal thing in the world. mike doesn’t take it. “i’m not hungry.”
you pause, fork still outstretched. you don’t sigh. you don’t argue. you just raise an eyebrow at him, slightly, in that way that says i know you, which is unfair, because you do. “just… eat a little.”
“i’m fine.”
liar. coward.
you don’t deserve it anyway. food is for people who are doing something. people who are moving forward. people who didn’t get someone killed. people who aren’t just… taking up space.
you don’t pull the fork back. “mike,” you encourage, gently, and something in your tone makes his chest ache. not disappointed, not angry, just tired. grieving. “please.”
he hates that word. he cracks an eye open and looks at you. your shoulders are tense, there are shadows under your eyes that weren’t there before everything went to hell. you’re holding it together the same way he is—badly—but you’re at least upright. present. here. you’re hurting too, a part of him realizes belatedly. you lost her too.
he takes the fork.
you don’t hover. you sit back down on the bed, closer now, and pick up your own container, start eating like this is just… what you’re doing. like this is a normal afternoon activity and not a delicate negotiation with his will to exist. mike stares at the food for a second. the noodles glisten under the light. his stomach tightens again, painfully loud this time, and he winces. just one bite. to shut it up. he twists the fork into the noodles, lifts them to his mouth, hesitates for half a second too long—then eats.
salt. heat. grease. his throat tightens, not from the food, but from the sudden, overwhelming reminder that his body is still capable of wanting something. still wired for survival despite his best efforts. he chews mechanically. swallows. nothing terrible happens. he eats another smaller bite. out of the corner of his eye he can see you pretending not to watch, pretending this isn’t a victory. you both eat in silence for a minute. he takes several bites, but not because he wants to.
because he doesn’t want to disappoint you.
he chews slowly, eyes fixed on the wall like if he looks at you too directly something might spill out that he doesn’t have the energy to clean up. eventually, the container is lighter. emptier. you close it without comment and set it aside, wiping your hands on a napkin you pull from the bag. mike feels suddenly, acutely, embarrassed. not just a little. deeply. he’s hyperaware now of everything he let slide while he wasn’t paying attention. the room feels smaller with you in it, cluttered with evidence of him. he clears his throat. “you don’t… uh. you don’t have to stay.”
“i know.”
that’s not what he meant.
he shifts, pushes himself up a little, then winces when his head swims. “i’m serious. thanks. really. but i’m fine now, so—”
“you’re not.” you say, quietly.
there it is.
irritation flares hot and sudden, like a match struck too close to something flammable. he’s always been like this—corner him, press him, and he snaps. it’s reflex. “i said i’m fine,” he repeats, sharper now. “you don’t need to—like—monitor me or whatever.”
you don’t rise to it. “i’m not monitoring you, i’m sitting with you.”
“same thing.”
you sigh softly, not annoyed, just tired. “mike.”
he swings his legs off the bed, stands too fast, sways, grabs the desk to steady himself. his heart’s pounding now, loud in his ears, his thoughts scattering like startled birds. “i just want to be alone, okay?” he snaps. “why is that so hard for everyone to understand?”
then you say, very calmly, “because this isn’t being alone. this is you disappearing.”
“dramatic much?”
you don’t smile. “i’m not leaving. you need to talk to someone.”
“i don’t,” mike fires back. “i just need—time. space. i’m allowed to grieve how i want.” his voice cracks on the next sentence and he hates that you hear it. hates that he can’t stop it. “this is because of her,” he continues, like it’s an accusation. like it explains everything. “if she hadn’t—if this didn’t happen, i wouldn’t—” he cuts himself off, breathing hard, staring at the floor like it’s done something wrong.
you stand up like you’re approaching a skittish animal. “i know.”
“no, you don’t. you don’t know. you don’t get it. none of you do. she was—she was—” he gestures uselessly, words tangling. “everything. and everyone just expects me to—what? move on? act normal?”
you’re closer now. “no one expects that. we just don’t want you to disappear with her.”
people who are depressed know they’re depressed, he thinks. they say stuff about it. they cry all the time. they can’t get out of bed because they’re sad. he’s not been sad. he just… doesn’t want to move.
something in your expression shifts. resolve, maybe. “mike, please don’t push me away. this isn’t what she would want.”
his chest tightens immediately, painfully. he sees it so clearly it almost knocks the air out of him—eleven standing in front of the both of you on the last day he ever saw her, serious and unshakable and determined, looking between the two of you like she was stitching you together with her eyes. promise me, she’d said. you take care of each other.
mike’s face crumples before he can stop it. it’s instant. humiliatingly fast. his mouth twists, his chin wobbling, breath hitching like his lungs forgot how to work. he turns his head sharply to the side like that might hide it, but it’s too late. his eyes burn. his throat closes. “don’t.” you freeze, like you hadn’t expected it to be this immediate. this bad. mike presses his palm hard into his eye like he can physically shove the feeling back in. it doesn’t work. it never does. “i’m screwing it up,” he blurts. “i’m screwing everything up.”
you reach for him then. tentative, careful. your fingers hover at his arm like you’re asking permission without words. he doesn’t pull away. that alone feels like failure. “mike.”
“i just miss her,” he chokes. it sounds pathetic even to his own ears, thin and childish and inadequate for the size of the loss. “i miss her so much. everyone keeps acting like time is doing something about it and it’s not. it’s not fixing anything.”
he drags a hand through his hair, pacing now because standing still feels unbearable and he doesn’t need you touching him right now. no one tells you how to grieve your badass girlfriend when she’s been saving your ass since you were twelve. for a second he just breathes. in. out. in. out. it doesn’t help. suddenly, he straightens. his eyes are unfocused, like he’s looking at something that isn’t in the room. “i could’ve been a lighthouse.”
you blink. “huh?”
“it’s—i know it sounds stupid. it’s not stupid.” he says quickly, almost frantic, like the idea will evaporate if he doesn’t say it all at once. “there’s this lighthouse,” he says. “on the coast. i think. i read about it somewhere. or maybe i made it up. whatever. it doesn’t matter. it’s just—there. tall. solid. built to last. it doesn’t go anywhere. it doesn’t fight storms. it just stands there and shines so ships don’t crash.” his hands are shaking now. he clasps them together, then lets them go, then clenches them again. “people act like that’s enough. like standing there is enough. but it’s only useful if someone sees it. if someone’s out there, lost and scared and looking for something to guide them. otherwise it’s just—” he gestures helplessly. “a building. empty. pointless.” he swallows hard, throat bobbing. “eleven was a storm. she was—she was everything. she had all this — this power and fire and all this… momentum. and i wasn’t. i wasn’t like that. i wasn’t strong the way she was. i wasn’t brave like her. i wasn’t— i wasn’t even close. i kept thinking if i stayed still—if i didn’t mess things up—if i just… stayed where i was, maybe that was enough. like if i didn’t move, nothing bad could happen.”
his voice cracks so hard he has to stop. “but storms don’t care. they don’t wait. and ships don’t either. they crash if there’s no light.” he looks up at you, eyes red and shining, face twisted with something close to panic. “i could’ve been her lighthouse. i could’ve given her light. i could’ve been the thing she looked at and knew she’d be okay. i could’ve been the one who burned for her, who —- who stayed lit when it mattered.” is he making sense? probably not. does he care? not at all. “instead i just—stood there. in the dark. thinking being there was enough.” his voice drops to nothing. “i let the waves take her.”
his face morphs in a way you have never and never in your life thought you’d see. michael wheeler starts to cry. in front of you. real crying. messy and uneven and embarrassing, face twisted, breath coming in gasps like he’s drowning on dry land. he hates it. hates how weak it feels, how exposed. hates that this is happening in front of you. “i could’ve been her lighthouse.”
you step closer, arms coming around him fully now, and he doesn’t resist. he leans into you without meaning to. “oh, mike..”
he hates the sound he’s making. the hitching, the wet inhale that won’t make it all the way in, the way his breath keeps stuttering like it forgot how to work. it’s humiliating. it’s loud. his dad’s voice floats up somewhere from his memory, something about pulling it together, something about how men don’t fall apart like this, especially not in front of other people. especially not over feelings.
your arms are solid around him. that’s another problem. solid things are hard to ignore. he freezes for half a second, muscles locking out of pure instinct, like if he stays still enough maybe this can rewind, maybe you’ll let go, maybe he can laugh it off later and pretend this didn’t happen. but he doesn’t pull away, he doesn’t have the energy. his forehead ends up against your shoulder, not on purpose, just gravity doing what gravity does when you’re tired and empty and everything hurts too much to hold up on your own. “i’m sorry.” he manages, which is stupid, because sorry for what? existing? taking up space? crying? proving everyone right? that he’s not okay? his hands curl in the fabric of your shirt like he needs something to anchor himself to, and he hates that too. hates that he needs anything. hates that he’s always needed things, even when people pretended he didn’t. mike’s fine, they say. mike doesn’t care. mike doesn’t get upset. mike’s tough. mike can handle it. and he always did, until now. until eleven is gone and the world kept moving like that was acceptable and he’s supposed to just… adapt.
you say his name again, tell him to stop, to not apologize, and it does something awful to his chest. he shakes his head even though you can’t see it. “i shouldn’t—” his voice gives out again, betraying him mid-sentence. “this is so dumb.” crying was never an option. even though when eleven cried, he held her. when will cried, he held him. when the world fell apart, he stood there and tried to be useful by not making it worse. but now there’s nothing left to hold together, and the worst part is that you’re not letting him go. you’re still there. he doesn’t know how to be the one being held, so he just stands there, shaking and breathing and crying into your shoulder, letting himself be something other than enough for once, even if it scares the hell out of him.
you don’t just let him spiral standing there. you guide him back toward the bed like you’ve done this before. he stumbles a little, feet catching on nothing, and lets himself be steered because resisting feels like too much work. the springs creak under the familiar weight of his body and for a second his brain latches onto that instead. same sound. same bed. still here. stupid things to notice. stupid things that keep him from floating off completely. you crouch in front of him so you’re eye level, hands warm on his knees. you’re saying things—he can tell by the way your mouth moves—but they slide right past him. it’s not your fault, mike. it’s not your fault. his chest tightens anyway, like his body is arguing even if his brain won’t engage. fault is such a loaded word. fault implies choice. something he could’ve done differently. his thoughts start drifting again, tugged sideways by images he doesn’t want: soldiers, the upside down, her face slack with exhaustion and stubborn determination. he blinks too slowly. he’s slipping. he knows that feeling now.
you notice before he does. you always do. your hand comes up, thumb brushing his cheek where the tears are. “mike,” you say again, then you lean in and kiss him, soft and grounding and real, a press of lips that says stay. his brain short-circuits completely. every thought evaporates on impact. his breath catches and his hands twitch uselessly at his sides like they don’t know what their job is anymore. kissing has always been complicated for him—too many feelings, too many meanings—but this isn’t about that. this is you pulling him back into his body when he’s about to disappear again.
when you pull away his forehead tips forward until it rests against yours. he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days. his eyes are unfocused, lashes clumped, face blotchy and red and embarrassing. “three waterfalls. im such an idiot.”
you frown, a little ache in your chest, because you know exactly what he’s talking about. that stupid, beautiful, impossible dream he had proposed to you and el both before… before everything. before it all went wrong. the way he said it now—im such an idiot—makes your stomach twist. it was a nice dream. it was soft in a world that had refused to let any of you breathe for years. your lips press together to keep from saying anything. “wait—oh, shit, i—i didn’t mean—i’m not—i wasn’t—” he stumbles over the words, realizing, oh no, that in talking about what could’ve been, he’s ignored what you felt too. your grief. your love for el. the same grief he’s drowning in himself. suddenly, without thinking, his brain switches modes. protector. must protect. can’t lose anyone else.
“come here.” he says, pulling you in before you can respond, arms wrapping around you. he’s suddenly aware he’s been holding his breath for like three minutes and oh god is that even possible lungs what is happening stop breathing stop moving stop thinking and your hair smells good and maybe he should’ve eaten those last six bites but he didn’t because he’s pathetic and also embarrassed and oh shit did he just touch your arm okay maybe not maybe he didn’t and wait your arm is still there your arm is there and it feels like oxygen like it feels like he’s been underwater forever and this is the first surface he’s hit and also he’s not supposed to need oxygen from anyone and this is dumb and why is he thinking about oxygen why is he thinking about air why is he thinking about everything.
he leans in and your lips are there and suddenly that’s a thing and he doesn’t know what to do because kissing isn’t supposed to fix grief it’s supposed to be fun and light and terrible and maybe it’s terrible anyway because he can’t stop thinking about eleven and also you and also why does he need both of you at the same time like some dumb math problem that can’t be solved because numbers don’t exist and he’s a disaster and also his chest is too tight and why is breathing so hard when it’s supposed to be easy and what is normal and why did everyone leave and why is it just him holding you and also does he even deserve this at all?
he mutters against you without thinking: please don’t leave. and oh god, did he just say that out loud? probably did. fuck, you’re probably judging him for saying that. oh no, oh no no no and your arms are around him and okay maybe that’s fine —- maybe that’s the only thing keeping him from unraveling entirely, maybe he’s supposed to be the lighthouse, maybe he isn’t but oh god the storm the storm the storm eleven the storm and he just can’t think straight and you’re here and thank god and maybe he doesn’t even care that it’s wrong to feel this desperate to cling to someone like this maybe it’s okay maybe it’s safe maybe it’s the only thing standing between him and disappearing completely and maybe it’s all too much and not enough and holy shit why is everything always like this.
mike begins to wonder if something is wrong with him. why he can only feel so alive in the presence of certain people.
why does everything feel brighter when he’s with certain people? with you. with eleven. with will sometimes, but not like this. not like this gnawing, twisting, can’t-breathe kind of alive that makes his chest ache and stomach clench at the same time. he hates it. hates it because it’s uncontrollable and stupid and pathetic and also, somehow, the only thing keeping him from dissolving into the floor. why can’t he just be a normal person who sits still and waits for the world to stop being terrible? oh right, because that’s not a thing, and it never was.
he noses against your hair without thinking, and you sigh softly, the kind of sigh that’s not about being frustrated, it’s soft, and mike’s chest loosens just a hair. it’s not much. it’s not enough to be okay, but maybe it’s a start. maybe it’s enough to stop panicking for five seconds. he closes his eyes, lets himself sink into you, and the world still feels wrong, but slightly more bearable, like maybe he can survive this storm after all. then his lips are on yours again, and he’s hopeless. hopeless and desperate and obsessed, and it’s soft and warm and messy and safe. he kisses you, hands awkwardly catching yours or your arms or your shoulders wherever he can reach without looking stupid, because god forbid he look pathetic and messy and emotional and he already is all those things. somehow it’s enough to make the tears stop dripping down his cheeks for now, at least the ones he notices. he’s breathing you in, and he realizes that you’re it. the last thing he has. he doesn’t just want to hold you, he needs to. maybe that’s bad. maybe that’s codependent. maybe that’s stupid. it works for him. its how he likes to cope, if the option is available. by turning all his attention towards someone he likes. he can’t lose you too. he won’t.
it’s practical. efficient, even. worrying about you gives his brain something to chew on besides the gaping hole where the future was supposed to go. besides el. besides the way everyone else keeps talking about plans—jobs, cities, lives that keep moving forward like that’s a reasonable thing to do after the world ends for the third time. focusing on you is easier. you’re right here. you forget to eat. you don’t sleep enough. great. solvable problems. mike wheeler, problem-solver extraordinaire. this is familiar territory. this, he can do. someone has to be paying attention to you. clearly, it’s him.
all the fear, all the love, all the frantic what-if energy gets narrowed down to you. a laser beam instead of an explosion. this is better. if he’s worried about you, he doesn’t have to ask what happens when everyone else keeps leaving and he doesn’t know how to follow. if he’s holding you together, that means he’s not the one unraveling. so as your breath syncs without either of you acknowledging it, he thinks, with a detached sort of acceptance, okay. this is my thing now. not saving the world, not waiting for miracles. just this. keeping you here, making sure you’re okay. letting that be enough. it has to be enough, because if you go too —- well. he’ll deal with that later. he always does.
you finally pull back a little, just enough for both of you to breathe, and you brush a hand down his arm. “we can get through this. together.” you console, and your voice is calm and steady, and mike thinks about how steady you always seem to be and why does he have to be the opposite of that, why can’t he be normal and cool and collected like everyone else, like he’s supposed to be. “okay? it’s what she would want for us.”
mike swallows, and he nods, barely.
yes, okay, that’s what she would want. he agrees. he agrees with you. he agrees with everything you say, ever, actually. and god, el would also maybe roll her eyes at him and tease him and giggle at him for him crying like a baby into your shoulder and then immediately getting clingy. he buries his face in your neck hesitantly, and mutters something half-grumbled, “i’m never gonna be normal. ever. can you deal with that?”
you roll your eyes, a small smile tugging your lips, “probably. probably can. but first…” you tug on the hem of his hoodie, playful but gentle, “shower. you smell like shit.”
mike smiles weakly, and for half a second he almost feels like himself again. almost. the kind of almost that doesn’t count but still hurts when it slips away. he lets you tug him back just far enough to look at him, hoodie wrinkled where your fingers grip it like you’re afraid he might evaporate if you let go. he probably would. good instinct. “wow,” he says hoarsely, swiping at his face with the heel of his hand and missing at least one tear, because of course. “romance is dead.”
you huff, unimpressed. “mike.”
“okay, okay.” he concedes, because he always does with you. arguing with you feels like too much effort and also because you’re right, which is worse. he lets himself be maneuvered toward the bathroom like an uncooperative cat. it’s embarrassing how long it’s been since he’s showered. he knows that. he knows a lot of things lately and does nothing about most of them.
the bathroom light is too bright. everything is too bright. the mirror catches him off guard—hollow-eyed, hair limp, face still red like he cried at a funeral. he looks like someone who hasn’t been sleeping. or eating. or planning on being around long enough for either of those things to matter. he looks away quickly, focusing instead on the sound of you turning on the water, testing the temperature. he doesn’t say thank you. he doesn’t know how. instead, he says, “you don’t have to babysit me, you know.”
“i know,” you say again. “i want to.”
something in his chest gives, not enough to cry again—he’s tapped out for now—but enough that his throat tightens and he nods, dumbly, because if he opens his mouth he’s going to say something inconveniently honest, like please don’t leave me alone or i don’t trust myself when you’re not here or sometimes i think about how easy it would be to stop trying. none of those are things he’s ready to hand over.
he showers. eventually. you pick up his room for him a bit, then sit on his bed, reading one of his comics and pretending not to keep track of how long he’s in there. he lets the water run hotter than it should. when he comes back out, clean and damp and wrapped in a towel, you hand him clothes and he gets dressed. he sits. you sit next to him. neither of you talk for a bit. if you weren’t here, he probably wouldn’t be either. the thought is disturbingly calm. he doesn’t say it, he never will. instead, he leans into your side, testing it, and you lean back without hesitation. maybe that’s the problem. or maybe that’s the reason he’s still here.
his room looks different when it’s clean. wrong, almost. too much empty space where mess used to be. you sitting on his bed helps. proves he didn’t imagine the last few hours. he focuses on small things to keep his thoughts from getting loud again, your shoulder against his, the way the comic in your hands crinkles when you turn a page, the smell of soap still clinging to him.
everyone else is moving on, and it makes him sick. everyone but you and him, apparently. will’s leaving for college soon. lucas and max are serious now—capital S serious. dinner plans. constant dates. conversations about the future and moving in together that mike isn’t invited into because he wouldn’t know what to do with them anyway. dustin is always busy, always running somewhere with steve or robin or talking about college like it’s a sure thing and not a terrifying cliff.
and el, presumed dead? what a fucked phrase. like there’s no room for debate. no one checks on mike much anymore. sometimes he wonders what would happen if he just… didn’t come out of his room one day. he hates himself for thinking that. then he hates himself for hating himself. exhausting. a real cycle. being stuck in his head feels like being locked in a room with a narrator who won’t shut up and hates him personally. he knows, intellectually, that he should ask for help. that this is the part where people say reach out. but reach out to who? and say what? hi, i’m not actively dying but i kind of don’t want to exist most days, can you pencil me in?
you shift beside him like you felt his thoughts getting too close to the edge. this probably isn’t healthy. needing someone this much isn’t sustainable. tomorrow you’ll leave the room, and the door will close, and the silence will rush back in, and mike won’t want to do any of this for himself. but that’s not today. today, you’re here. today, he has something to lean against that leans back. if that’s all he has right now—if that’s the only reason he gets out of bed, the only reason the world hasn’t swallowed him whole—fuck it. he’ll take it.
either way, tomorrow feels impossible. tonight though, tonight he’s clean, and breathing, and not alone.
based off this request !
A/N: FIRST FIC OF THE YEAR!!!! happy new years everyone…. totally didn’t write this as an excuse to write depressed mike…… i hate him and i must make him suffer (he’s my favorite character)
If the writers weren't glaringly racist, I’m just thinking about how it would’ve made so much more sense for Erica to have Holly’s plot.
We've known her since season 2 and would have been far more invested in her than in Holly, who we knew nothing about going into season 5. They wouldn't have had to retcon her age *cough*, as she would have been around 12 years old in '87, same as Will when he was taken. She would have had a future-sister-in-law dynamic with Max in Camazotz. She could have relayed so much information to Max about what's been going on while she was gone. We could have seen her nerd out about A Wrinkle in Time and science (which is canonically her favourite subject). We could have seen actual depth added to her character and given an active, emotional storyline to Lucas, who would have been hellbent on finding her. It would have been so satisfying to see that dynamic since we're used to them bickering all the time; a real true-to-life example of the complexities of sibling love. It could have been so, so good.
fanfiction is so beautiful because what do you mean i can read the same characters falling in love 92737389 times in different scenarios and not get tired of it.
theartofmadeline
kianamaiart
vaporwave
izzy806
blakekathryn
turnnoffyourmind
yousharknotpass
