#st fandom

『••✎••』

The night air clawed at your skin like it had teeth, sharp and unforgiving, as you stumbled into the phone booth at the edge of the gas station lot. Your skirt was twisted around your thighs, streaked with dirt from the gravel you'd scrambled over, and your blouse hung open at the collar, one button popped loose in the chaos. Blood—his blood—smeared the cuff of your sleeve, sticky and cooling against your wrist. Your fingers trembled so badly you could barely grip the receiver, fumbling through your purse for quarters that scattered across the booth floor like spilled tears. The metal enclosure felt too small, the glass walls closing in, fogging with your ragged breaths. Outside, the junkyard loomed dark and twisted, a graveyard of rusted cars that mirrored the mess in your chest—everything broken, nothing fitting back together.

You snatched a quarter, jammed it into the slot, and dialed the number etched into your memory from a crumpled napkin. The rotary wheel spun slowly, each click echoing like a countdown:

Ring one. Ring two. Nothing.

"Please," you whispered to the empty line, pressing the receiver harder against your ear. "Please pick up."

A third ring dragged on, and then—finally—a groggy mumble, thick with sleep and irritation. "Jesus Christ—Dustin, it’s two in the goddamn morn—" He cut himself off. "What is it now? If this is about your radio again, I swear to—"

The voice stole your breath, but not in a bad way. It was him. And just hearing it, even pissed off and half-asleep, made the shaking in your hands ease a fraction.

"It's not Dustin," you managed, your voice cracking like thin ice. "It's me. I… I just—Can you come get me? Please, Steve?"

Silence stretched for a beat, the kind that lasted too long, and you heard the rustle of sheets, the creak of bedsprings as he bolted upright. Papers shuffled—his nightstand, you pictured it, the drawer yanking open with a bang. A pencil scratched frantically against something, probably that beat-up notebook he kept for work shifts.

"Whoa—hey, hey. Slow down. You’re freaking me out. Where are you?" His words tumbled out now, all the grogginess burned away, replaced by that edge you knew too well: worry, sharp as a switchblade. He was scribbling, you could hear the pencil scraping, the flip of pages. "Okay—okay. Tell me exactly. I’m grabbing my keys."

You rattled off the gas station name, the road number, the turnoff by the junkyard—your words slurring together in a rush, breath hitching on every other syllable. It wasn't coherent, just a jumble of panic spilling out, but he didn't interrupt. He just breathed heavily on the line, like he was holding himself back from yelling through the phone to come faster.

Before the line went dead, he assured you he’d be there within ten minutes, tops. You could tell by the way his voice dropped low and steady at the end, almost as if he was already halfway out the door, keys jingling in his fist.

"Don’t move. I’m on my way, alright? Just hang tight."

The receiver clicked back into place with a hollow thud, and you slid down the booth wall, knees buckling until you sat on the cold floor amid the scattered quarters. The metal bit into your back, but you barely felt it. Your mind went blank at first, then replayed it all in jagged flashes: his hands too rough, too sure, the way your shove turned into a swing that cracked something wet and final. The run through the dark, branches snagging your skirt like claws, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else. You pressed your palms to your eyes, trying to push it away, but the tears came anyway—hot, silent, soaking into the knees of your hose.

Time blurred. The fog on the glass thickened, your breath coming in shallow pulls that did nothing to warm the ache in your chest. Everything felt heavy, like you'd left pieces of yourself scattered back there in the dirt.

Then—a grip on your arm, firm but careful, yanking you from the haze. Your eyes flew open, a scream catching in your throat as you jerked back, hands flying up to shove whatever it was away. "No—get off—"

"Hey—hey, no, no. It’s me. It’s Steve. You’re okay."

Steve's voice cut through, low and urgent, his face filling the booth's doorway—pale under the buzzing light, eyes wide with his own panic. He was crouched low, one knee on the floor outside, his free hand raised like he was approaching a spooked animal. His hair stuck up wild from sleep, T-shirt twisted at the collar, like he'd thrown it on in the dark. You froze, the fight draining out as recognition hit, your body sagging against the glass.

He looked wrecked—brows pinched tight, mouth a grim line, scanning you like he was cataloging every tear in your clothes, every smudge on your skin.

"Jesus, you scared the shit outta me. I was yelling your name—you didn’t even move. I thought—" He cut off, swallowing hard, and squeezed in beside you, the booth too small for two. His hands found your shoulders, and he gently shook to pull you back entirely. "Hey. Look at me. You with me? C’mon—say something."

You nodded, jerky and small, but words wouldn't come. Instead, you lunged forward, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him down until he was half-sprawled on the floor with you. He grunted in surprise but didn't pull away—instead, his arms banded around your back, strong and sure, hauling you into his chest. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar mix of soap and faint cologne from his jacket, your fingers twisting into the soft cotton of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart. He held you just as tight, one hand stroking down your spine in slow, soothing lines, his breath warm against your hair.

"Shh, I've got you," he murmured, voice muffled against your temple. He rocked you slightly, like you were something fragile he was afraid might shatter if he let go too soon. "You're okay. Whatever it is, we'll handle it. Just breathe."

You clung to him, the world narrowing to the steady thump of his heartbeat under your cheek, drowning out the distant hum of the gas station's neon sign. But his words—we'll handle it—twisted something in your gut. He thought this was bigger than it was. Thought it was monsters or curses or the kind of nightmare that came with glowing red skies and vines snaking from another dimension. Not this. Not some asshole with wandering hands and a smirk that made your skin crawl.

"Steve," you whispered, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. They were dark in the dim light, searching yours with that fierce protectiveness you'd seen a hundred times—usually aimed at Dustin or the others when things got dicey. "It's not... It's not what you think."

He blinked, confusion flickering across his face as he wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb, the touch so gentle it almost broke you all over again. "What do you mean? You call me at two a.m., sounding like the world's ending, from a goddamn junkyard payphone? And you look like—" He gestured vaguely at your disheveled state, his jaw tightening as his gaze snagged on the bloodstain on your sleeve. "Like you just fought off a demo-bat or worse. If this is some Upside Down thing again, you gotta tell me, okay? We’ll call Dustin, or Hopper, or—"

"No," you cut in, shaking your head, a watery laugh bubbling up despite everything. It sounded wrong, too brittle, but it eased the tension in his shoulders a fraction. "It's nothing like that. No monsters. No gates. Just a really shitty date."

He froze, his hands stilling on your arms. "A date?" The word came out flat, like he couldn't quite process it. His brows furrowed deeper, and he leaned back against the booth wall, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his side. "Wait, back up. You were on a date? Here? In the middle of nowhere?!"

You nodded, staring at the scattered quarters on the floor to avoid his eyes. Heat crept up your neck—embarrassment mixing with the lingering adrenaline. You'd been so excited earlier that evening. No one had ever asked you out before. Not really. High school had been a blur of awkward crushes and missed connections, and after graduation, with all the Hawkins weirdness, relationships felt like a luxury you couldn't afford. But when Mark—some guy from the video store down the street—had flashed that charming smile and suggested a drive-in movie, you'd said yes without thinking twice. You willingly dressed up, styled your hair... bought a new skirt, even. It felt like maybe things were finally turning normal for you.

"It was supposed to be fun," you mumbled, picking at a loose thread on your blouse. "He picked me up, and we went to the drive-in. But then he drove out here instead of taking me home. Said he wanted to 'talk.' But it wasn't… talking he wanted." Your voice cracked on the last word, and you swallowed hard, the memory flashing again: his breath hot on your neck, hands grabbing where they shouldn't, ignoring your protests until something in you snapped. Your fist connected with his nose in a sickening crunch, blood spraying as he yelped and reeled back. You'd bolted from the car, heart racing, not stopping until you hit the gas station.

Steve's face went through a whirlwind—confusion melting into realization, then hardening into something darker, angrier. His jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle tick under his skin, and his grip on your arms tightened just a fraction before he forced it to relax. "A shitty date," he repeated, like he was testing the words, his voice low and rough. He glanced down at the blood on your sleeve again, and his eyes narrowed, piecing it together. "That blood… he didn’t…"

It took you a moment to realize what he meant, your eyes widening as you shook your head frantically. "No, no—God, no. It's his. I punched him. Broke his nose, I think." You flexed your hand experimentally, wincing at the dull throb in your knuckles, the skin split and raw. It hurt like hell now that the adrenaline was fading, but in the moment, it had felt like nothing—just survival.

Steve's expression shifted again, a flash of surprise cutting through the anger, followed by something almost like pride—though it was quickly overshadowed by concern. He took your hand gently, turning it over in his to inspect the damage, his thumb brushing lightly over the bruised skin.

"Jesus," he muttered, his voice a mix of awe and exasperation. "Remind me never to piss you off." But there was no humor in it, not really. His eyes met yours, searching, and whatever he saw there made his features soften. It reminded you of the day you befriended him—how he, beaten and bloodied after that altercation with Jonathan and telling Tommy and Carol basically to go screw themselves, found you sulking on a random bench near the park. You thought no one would notice you that day, but he did, as he did now.

Speaking of, you were glad Steve didn’t ask who you were on a date with. You knew he'd have the guy’s job at the video store by morning, but you also knew Steve tended not to think things through when it came to the people he cared about. And as much as you’d like Mark to experience some sort of cosmic retribution, you didn't want it to be at Steve's expense. Especially not after witnessing how "skilled" he is at throwing punches.

"Let's get out of here," he said, already moving to help you up. His arm wrapped around your waist, supporting you as you swayed slightly, legs still shaky. He grabbed your purse from the floor, slinging it over his shoulder along with his own jacket, then steered you out of the now quarter-infested booth and toward the beat-up BMW parked at the edge of the lot. The car looked lonely under the streetlight, driver's door still ajar from when he'd bolted out.

He opened the passenger door for you, waiting until you were settled before closing it and jogging around to the other side. The engine roared to life with a comforting rumble, and Steve fiddled with the heater, blasting warm air at you before settling in to drive.

Just as his hand went to grasp the back of your seat, eyes flicking over his shoulder as he prepared to reverse out of the spot, you grabbed his wrist. The world tilted for a moment, but then, as his eyes met yours in the dim light of the dashboard, it made you realize something you hadn’t before. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the fear, or the relief of seeing him, but you were seeing him. Really seeing him. Not just the high school jock he used to be, not just the babysitter for the party, but Steve. The guy who came when you called, the guy who held you while you cried, the guy who was ready to fight monsters for you even when the only monster was a guy from the video store.

You realized in this moment that you never needed to go out on that date at all, that you already had everything you were looking for when you said yes. He was right here the whole time. Sure, maybe he was just being a good friend, but as you watched him, the familiar lines of his face softening with concern, the way he bit his lower lip when he was worried—it was all right there.

"Steve," you whispered again, and he froze, his hand hovering just above the seat, his body half-turned toward you. "I—"

But you didn't know how to finish. How could you put into words the sudden, overwhelming realization that everything you'd been searching for, everything you'd foolishly hoped for on that disastrous date, was already sitting in the driver's seat of this car? That the safety, the care, the warmth you craved was in the touch of his hands and the worried lines of his face? So you did the only thing you could think to do: stare at him, hoping he understood.

His brows pulled together, confusion and concern warring in his expression. He must've seen something in your eyes, something beyond the fear and the aftermath, because his gaze softened, and he leaned in closer, the car's small space shrinking until all you could see was him. He let go of the seatback, and his hand came up to cup your cheek, before pulling you close enough that he could press a soft kiss against your hairline.

A soft, chaste kiss. Not like the one you had tried to push away earlier. This one was gentle, respectful, and filled with a warmth that spread through your chest, chasing away the last of the chill from the night air. And as he pulled back, his eyes searching yours, you knew. You knew he felt it too.

✦ dustin would be obsessed with you. Aside from your beauty — he gravitates towards people that are naturally kind and a little extra on the daily, so your energies would match so well!

✦ you’re the kind of girl who smiles before thinking about it. Dustin notices immediately and loves it.

✦ brags about everyone to you (ALL the time)

“She’s so sweet, and intelligent, she loves [singer name] and—“

“Dustin just roll the dice dude.”

or even

“My girlfriend said she’s proud of me.”

“Nice. What’s your order, sir?”

✦ you listen to his science rambles, like actually listen, nodding your head, asking questions with bright eyes like if it were the most interesting thing ever. He falls so hard for you

✦ you’re affectionate without even realizing it, leaning into him, resting your head on his shoulder, holding his hand, grabbing his arm. Dustin always blushes but never pulls away

✦ “you’re really smart you know that” Boom. Made him more confident

✦ you’re the person he searches each room for, you’re the first person he hugs and he smiles to. He loves being your person

✦ you called him “Dusty” once, he acted offended but absolutely loved it

✦ if like a golden retriever, your love is shown through gifts; whether it’s homade, store bought, dustin does not care. He has a box full of your letters, drawings, gifts, whatever in his closet and looks at it every time he’s feeling sad

✦ you’re able to find the positive side in everything, so whenever Dustin is feeling down, you just caress his cheeks or hug him and comfort him so well he’s convinced you have magic powers

✦ you laugh at his jokes before he even finishes them and he notices. Every. Single. Time.

✦ he talks faster when he’s excited and you always wait for him to finish, never rushing him.

✦ if you two met when you were children (pre-s1) Dustin would gravitate towards you because you have this energy of making people feel welcomed without even trying. Whenever he would get bullied on the kindergarten playground you’d protect him with your LIFE. Just pure puppy love.

✦ he runs to you whenever he needs comforting or someone to yap to, he relies on you and you’re definitely an important person for him.

✦ after eddie’s death he spends hours in your arms crying his eyes out, you just play with his curls gently and rub his back

“It’s okay my love, let it out. It wasn’t your fault”

✦ whenever you even remotely HEAR someone talking shit about dustin, you make them wish they were never born; wether it’s verbally or physically, you beat them up. And Dustin absolutely adores that in you.

“YEAH! THAT’S MY GIRLFRIEND SUCKER!”

✦ for example, if you walked in on andy’s gang beating dustin up at the grave yard, they would’ve PISSED themselves. They always took you as this innocent girl and mocking you for it, so when they find you defending your boyfriend and become super threatening, they’d scatter away like cockroaches. Dustin would be so impressed he couldn’t even speak.

✦ after you defend him, while you were patching him up, he’d joke around with a tired smile on his lips

“Remind me to not get on your nerves, yeah sweetheart?”

✦ “Y’know you didn’t have to do that, right?” “I wanted to.”

✦ and with that, you’re the only person during season 5 who he’s not completely sarcastic to, or doesn’t push away totally, because you’re nice to him and you’ve never find him weird for grieving. You always stay by his side.

✦ in fact, you play an insanely important role for dustin in s5. Even though he’s considered an “asshole” you never stop being nice to him, and he’s literally in love with you for that.

————