Defiance Will Shake The Stars

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐋

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐥 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟎}

• Fresh Start (coming soon)

𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝟏

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟏 𝐄𝟏 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏}

• The Vanishing of Will Byers

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟏 𝐄𝟐 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐}

• The Weirdo on Maple Street

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟏 𝐄𝟑 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑}

• Holly, Jolly

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟏 𝐄𝟒 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟒}

• The Body

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟏 𝐄𝟓 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟓}

• The Flea and the Acrobat

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟏 𝐄𝟔 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟔}

• The Monster

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟏 𝐄𝟕 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟕}

• The Bathtub

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟏 𝐄𝟖 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟖}

• The Upside Down

𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝟐

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟐 𝐄𝟏 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟗}

• Madmax

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟐 𝐄𝟐 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟎}

• Trick or Treat, Freak

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟐 𝐄𝟑 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟏}

• The Pollywog

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟐 𝐄𝟒 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟐}

• Will the Wise

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟐 𝐄𝟓 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟑}

• Dig Dug

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟐 𝐄𝟔 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟒}

• The Spy

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟐 𝐄𝟕 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟓}

• The Lost Sister

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟐 𝐄𝟖 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟔}

• The Mind Flayer

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟐 𝐄𝟗 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟕}

• The Gate

𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝟑

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟑 𝐄𝟏 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟖}

• Suzie, Do You Copy?

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟑 𝐄𝟐 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟗}

• The Mall Rats

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟑 𝐄𝟑 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟎}

• The Case of the Missing Lifeguard

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟑 𝐄𝟒 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟏}

• The Sauna Test

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟑 𝐄𝟓 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟐}

• The Flayed

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟑 𝐄𝟔 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟑}

• E Pluribus Unum

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟑 𝐄𝟕 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟒}

• The Bite

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟑 𝐄𝟖 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟓}

• The Battle of Starcourt

𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝟒

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟒 𝐄𝟏 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟔}

• The Hellfire Club

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟒 𝐄𝟐 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟕}

• Vecna's Curse

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟒 𝐄𝟑 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟖}

• The Monster and the Superhero

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟒 𝐄𝟒 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟗}

• Dear Billy

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟒 𝐄𝟓 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟎}

• The Nina Project

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟒 𝐄𝟔 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟏}

• The Dive

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟒 𝐄𝟕 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟐}

• The Massacre at Hawkins Lab

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟒 𝐄𝟖 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟑}

• Papa

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟒 𝐄𝟗 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟒}

• The Piggyback

𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝟓

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟓 𝐄𝟏 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟓}

• The Crawl

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟓 𝐄𝟐 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟔}

• The Vanishing of Holly Wheeler

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟓 𝐄𝟑 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟕}

• The Turnbow Trap

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟓 𝐄𝟒 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟖}

• Sorcerer

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟓 𝐄𝟓 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟗}

• Shock Jock

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟓 𝐄𝟔 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟒𝟎}

• Escape from Camazotz

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟓 𝐄𝟕 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟒𝟏}

• The Bridge

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟓 𝐄𝟖 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟒𝟐}

• The Rightside Up

Oh, So We Do Love Steve.

📚 SERIES MASTERLIST -> 🗂️ (+infodump fic file above) -> TAGLIST FULL. See disclaimer here.

Steve Harrington x Bauman!fem!reader enemies to lovers, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, upside down mayhem, S2-S4 -> post S4 universe hot-take, end-of-the-world / dystopian setting, ugly fights turned smut (...but with hella plot). 18+

🖤 A Multipart Fanfic, based on Stranger Things. 🎧 Song Inspo: "Infinite Baths" by Sleep Token

-> ACTIVELY ONGOING

⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆

MERCY

📚 SERIES MASTERLIST -> 🗂️ (+infodump fic file above)

Gator Tillman x OC!fem!reader A slow burn childhood friends to lovers romance — fueled by angst, dark comedy, unhinged thrill-packed action and heavy smut with even heavier plot. Inspired by and based on Fargo, gone total teenage dirtbags into trauma strong icons. 18+

🩸 A Multipart Fanfic, loosely based on FX's Fargo. 🎧 Song Inspo: "American Teenager" by Ethel Cain

-> ACTIVELY ONGOING

📁 {browse my *very rough* original fic file}

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...tell me what you need.

📚 SERIES MASTERLIST -> 🗂️ (+infodump fic file above)

Steve Harrington x Hopper!fem!reader strangers to friends with benefits to lovers, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, upside down mayhem, S2-S4 (into post S4), suspense and morbid humor, heavy plot-driven smut (...but with hella plot). 18+

❤️‍🩹 An Extended One-Shot Fic, from Misha’s Masterlist Library. 🎧 Song Inspo: "Hide" by myah & “Savior Complex” by Phoebe Bridgers

-> COMPLETED

⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆

I SEE FIRE.

📚 SERIES MASTERLIST -> 🗂️ (+infodump fic file above)

Steve Harrington x OC!fem!reader hometown strangers to friends to lovers. ultra dark heavy angst and hurt/comfort. alternate universe -> upside down apocalypse. suspense, dystopian game-of-survival plot with morbid humor sprinkled along the way. eventual plot-driven angsty smut (...but with hella plot). 18+

-> cynical!mean!Steve falls for angelic!fem!reader.

A fever dream multi-crossover au inspired by Hunger Games and The Purge universes, merged with Stranger Things. 🏹

Summary: Volunteering for the kids isn't something Steve Harrington is anything but fully prepared to do, no matter what the cost. He just hadn't factored in Dustin's name being the one Effie Trinket draws on the day of the Reaping, then fighting to the death in his place alongside the Hawkins baker's daughter... who's been secretly in love with him since the fourth grade.

🕊️ A Stranger Things AU Fanfic Series from Misha’s Masterlist Library. 🎧 Song Inspo: "Comforting Sounds" by Mew

-> ACTIVELY ONGOING

⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆

You've always been there.

Steve Harrington x Nicole!fem!reader Childhood friends to lovers. Sloooowburn. Angst. Romance. Smut with plot. Action. Told from second-person view, reader is Nicole (character from S1), different POV, hurt/comfort, upside down mayhem, pre-S1-S4, eventual post-S4 universe. 18+

📚 [PART I] | [PART II]

Summary: Steve Harrington was six years old when he met you: Nicole St. James, the girl who carries the other half of him. Since 1972, the two of you have been inseparably tethered by the soul. You give Steve a home in his big house with no parents, and he gives your introverted heart a longing for someone. The King of Hawkins High and princess of this small town, you tell each other absolutely everything...except that you are in love with each other.

Everything changes that one afternoon at school, when you catch the school's social outcast -- Jonathan Buyers -- has been stalking Steve, his posse and his girl, Nancy. Little do you both know, the monsters in your favorite fairytales are real. And you're both going to have to fight them together.

You both share the best days and worst days, through childhood and teen years, until you both find yourselves roped into the perils that exist beneath your feet in Hawkins.

But through it all, despite all the doubt, Steve knows one thing: you're there. You've always been there.

-> INCOMPLETE [not abandoned - to be continued...]

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆☾⋆⁺₊☾⋆⁺₊

At the Chateau, We'll Be Alright.

📚 SERIES MASTERLIST [coming soon] -> 🗂️ (+infodump fic file above)

Steve Harrington x Jonathan Byers x fem!reader Strangers to best friends to lovers. Summertime sadness slow burn. Angst, romance, smut-driven-plot and polyamory themes and schemes. Hella emo (no upside down, tho, so hurray for no end-of-the-world). 18+

A crossover au inspired by Saltburn and Call Me by Your Name. +inspo from Joe's theater performance as Melchior in Spring Awakening

🗝️ A Multipart Fanfic, loosely based on Stranger Things. 🎧 Song Inspo: "Chateau" by Djo

📁 Click here for a preview.

-> COMING SOON

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆☾⋆⁺₊☾⋆⁺₊

•• | Corroded Coffin | •• //THE CHRISSY TOUR\\

📚 SERIES MASTERLIST [coming soon] -> 🗂️ (+infodump fic file above)

Steve Harrington x Hopper!fem!reader Friends to college roommates to lovers. Slowburn, modern day. Angsty with humor. Romance. Smut with plot. Post-Upside Down (they won, it’s over, yay! ...and now, they’re all in the future). 18+

Told from second-person view, reader is Hopper’s older daughter. Great blend of witty banter and hurt/comfort, coping from upside down mayhem, post S4 universe.

Summary: The upside down is a thing of the past... literally.

You're basically launched into the future like Marty McFly, and that means a shot at living a normal life is actually your new reality. All you ever wanted was to be a boring, broke college student with a little apartment all to herself, figuring out life one day at a time. Well, you're not broke (thanks, government hush-money!). You're the farthest thing from boring (hence: your life story). And you definitely don't live alone (cue: the best two roommates in the world, aka? Robin and Steve.)

...you also have a strange knack for managing rock bands. Cue: the career you never saw coming. Managing your best friend's band, Corroded Coffin, after they skyrocket overnight.

-> COMING SOON

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my blurbs + one-shots and limited series

📼 “BE KIND, REWIND.” • blurb Steve and Robin like the same girl — who just so happens to be their coworker at Family Video. Oh, and Keith’s unexpectedly super hot cousin. requested by @mi171100

🍼 “HAWKIN’S HOTTEST NANNY.” • limited series Turns out, the best babysitter in town isn’t the girl next door. It’s none other than Steve Harrington: former king of Hawkins High, newly certified child expert. It doesn’t hurt that he’s insanely pretty to look at. Which doesn’t go unnoticed by Mrs. Browne, who hire him on as their nanny for their newborn baby girl, per Karen Wheeler’s referral. written by misha st james

featured on -> tbr lists, reader reviews, etc.

anon librarian’s review of OSWDLS 🤍 sent anonymously

Margaux's Nightstand ♡ @margauxafterdark

Alone in the Hellfire's Fic Recs ♡ @aloneinthehellfire

Syl Says... ♡ @thecreelhouse

Steve Writers to Read

Gwenyth’s Steve Harrington Fic Recs

Maya’s Faves: Steve Harrington Fic Recs

Writers loving Writing 💘

The Crux Hotel pamphlet reads 📖

Broke & Fab’s Review

Maya Recommends…

thank you all so much for featuring my work :''')

a little glimpse into my world -> anon asks

You were completely thriving.

Letting go of all of your emotional baggage had more benefits than it did the harm you'd thought it would do. In fact, you felt completely and utterly free. And in a wild twist of fate, you'd gained a new best friend (behind your brothers, of course). Steve Harrington was by your side whenever he could manage.

It started with the slushies. Then it became a ritual. Every Tuesday, after his shift at the video store and before you closed up the garage, Steve would appear in your bay, two cherry slushies in hand. No excuses about brake pads or squeaks. Just the slushies, and Steve, leaning against your workbench, filling you in on the latest Hawkins drama.

It was a friendship forged in the quiet aftermath of a war. He’d tell you about Robin’s latest conspiracy theory about the mall manager. You’d complain about old man Murdoch’s ancient diagnostic computer. He’d help you hold a heavy transmission in place; you’d help him brainstorm ways to impress a girl he was never going to ask out (his attempts were painfully transparent, and you took great joy in pointing out every flaw in his plans).

You became a unit. The kids noticed first, of course. Dustin started calling you “Steve’s other half” until you threatened to revoke his arcade fund. Will just smiled that knowing little smile and would casually mention you in conversations with Steve, watching with satisfaction as his friend’s face would light up.

You were the person Steve called when his dad was being particularly shitty, and he’d just sit in silence on the other end of the line while you clanked tools in the background. You were the person he drove to the 24-hour diner at 2 AM after a nightmare about demo-dogs, and you’d share a plate of greasy fries without talking about it.

You were his emergency contact. You were the first person he thought to call when he found a stray, matted cat behind Family Video (you helped him bathe it, and now it ruled his house, named ‘Y/N Jr’ at your suggestion).

It was easy. Shockingly, stupidly easy. He fit into the cracks of your life like he’d always been there, filling spaces you hadn’t realized were empty. The fierce, protective love you had for your family… it extended to him now, too. He was one of yours. Your stupid, loyal, fluffy-haired friend who brought you terrible gas station drinks and made you laugh until your ribs ached.

Being your best friend was great, it really was. Steve never wanted to seem ungrateful for it. But.. there was always that nagging thing at the back of his head, screaming that he wanted more. He'd wanted more since over a year ago. He tried to ignore it, tried to suppress it so that he didn't scare you off or make you hate his guts again. But sometimes it pushed so far forward that you’d started to catch him looking at you sometimes -- during a lull in conversation, while you were bent over an engine, when you laughed at one of his jokes -- with a look that was no longer just friendly awe. It was deeper. Hungrier. A look that promised he was just waiting for the signal to be all-in on something else entirely.

Despite all of the picture-perfect girls in Hawkins, with perfectly rolled hair and glossy, manicured nails, he couldn't even spare them a passing glance anymore. It scared him -- mostly because those were the type of girls he'd go wild about in high school. Now, there was only you. There had only been you since you ruthlessly defended your brother at the expense of Steve's ribs. The wild-haired, deep eyed Byers with a soul-rewarding smile when he finally cracked you up, and a foundational love for everyone you cared about.

After a while though, it pushed so far forward that it was impossible to ignore. He couldn't do it.

The first incident was at the quarry. You were all there -- the Party, Steve, you, Robin -- for a D&D meet that was really just an excuse to skip stones and soak up the last of the summer sun. You were sitting on the hood of Steve’s BMW, listening to Dustin explain something impossibly complex about wizards, or trolls, or some shit.

While the Party nerded out, you, Steve, and Robin went swimming. Robin swam towards the rocks, dawdling about on her own accord, while you and Steve took the more childish approach. Splashing water at each other.

"You look like a drowned rat, Harrington!" You cackled, throwing another wave of quarry water at Steve's face. He wiped it off quickly, a wide, playful grin spreading across his face. "Oh yeah?"

You heard the challenge in his response, gearing yourself up to be drowned.

He launched himself through the water towards you, not to splash, but to gently dunk you under the surface. It was a move born of pure, boyish impulse. You came up sputtering, laughing, shoving his shoulders. He was close, so close in the cool water, your bodies brushing with each small wave, the sounds of the kids fading to a distant buzz.

His laughter died in his throat. Your laughter faded too. You were treading water, faces inches apart, breath mingling. Droplets clung to his lashes, to the curve of your lips. The playful energy evaporated, replaced by something dense and potent. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then snapped back up to your eyes, wide and searching.

This was it. The moment. The water held you both suspended, the perfect, isolated excuse. He could close the distance. He could kiss you, and it could be written off as a crazy, spontaneous quarry thing. A mistake born of sunlight and splashing.

He leaned in, just a fraction. His nose brushed yours. You didn't pull away. Your breath hitched, your eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat. So close, so close, so close, so--

You pulled away. The relaxed haze in your eyes turned into a startled fear, a realization. You swam backwards with a frantic, uncoordinated kick, putting several feet of cold, clear water between you. The air that had felt charged and sweet a second ago now felt thin.

"Sorry," you blurted out, the word too loud, too harsh. You weren't even sure what you were apologizing for. For almost letting it happen? For pulling away? "I... I think I swallowed some water."

It was the lamest excuse in the history of excuses. Steve just stared at you, the hope in his eyes crumbling into raw perception. He'd seen it -- the moment you'd shut down, the walls slamming back into place. It was a rejection out of fear to allow yourself to feel something.

"Yeah," he said, his voice flat. "The quarry water's... gross."

He turned and swam for the shore, leaving you treading water alone, the ghost of his near-kiss clinging to your lips more persistently than the water. You'd rejected the possibility, and in doing so, you'd confirmed its existence. The line wasn't just tapped anymore; it was glowing neon.

The ride home was silent. Steve didn't try to make small talk about Robin or the weather. He just drove, sensing that you needed your space. When he pulled up to your house, you couldn't even manage a "see you Tuesday." You just muttered a thanks and fled inside.

It was weird for a week or two. But then, you slowly went back to pretending it never happened. You, luckily, resumed being the wild friends with lots of chemistry. It was better for Steve than things being weird. But still unsatisfactory.

The second slip-up was a collective one.

You were sick. Very sick. The product of your cough was yellow, you could barely breath out of your nose, and you had a fever and chills that wracked your body. And to add to the rest of it, your throat was raw from vomiting.

Steve hadn't seen you in a week. He was suffering withdrawals. You weren't at work on Tuesday, so two cherry slushies went to waste. With confusion in his tone, he'd called the Byers landline to figure out where you were. He'd gotten ahold of Joyce at first, who's voice crackled through the phone with worry.

"She's come down with something. It's bad, Steve, but she just won't go to the hospital."

Steve released a sigh, but it was a knowing one, not one of shock.

"If you could stop by, that would be great! You're probably the only one she'll listen to," your mother had said eagerly. Steve wanted to tell her she was wrong, that you would, in fact, not listen. But he felt awful about how concerned your household was for you. And he missed you.

Steve was at your house in under ten minutes. He didn't even knock; he just pushed the front door open with the casual authority of someone who belonged there, a bag from the drugstore in one hand. He found you on the couch, buried under a mountain of blankets, looking tragically small and pale. Your hair was a wild, sweat-damp nest, and your eyes were glassy with fever.

“Harrington,” you croaked, your voice a ruined thing. “No slushies. Contagion zone.”

“Shut up,” he said softly, but there was no bite in it. He dropped the bag on the coffee table and knelt beside the couch. His cool hand came up to press against your forehead, his brows furrowing. “Jesus, you’re burning up.”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, trying to shove his hand away, but you had the strength of a wet noodle.

“You’re an idiot,” he corrected, his voice tender. He pulled out a bottle of Gatorade, some pills, and a box of tissues. “Joyce said you won’t go to the hospital.”

“Hate hospitals,” you rasped, a shiver wracking your frame.

Steve didn’t argue. He just got to work. He made you sip the Gatorade. He timed your fever meds. He piled more blankets on you when you shook, and peeled them back when you got clammy. He sat on the floor next to the couch, reading aloud from a trashy magazine he found, his voice a low, steady rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and into your fever-addled bones.

At some point, you must have dozed off. You woke to the feeling of a cool, damp cloth being dabbed gently on your neck, your temples. Steve’s face was close, his expression focused, utterly absorbed in the simple task of tending to you. In the quiet, dim living room, with the world shut out, it felt profoundly intimate.

Your hazy, sick-brain bypassed all your usual defenses. Your hand, weak and trembling, came up from under the blankets. Your fingers brushed against his wrist, where his sleeve was rolled up.

“Steve,” you whispered.

He froze, the cloth stilling on your skin. “Yeah?”

“Stay. 'M so cold.”

It wasn't a request born of romantic feeling. It was the raw, desperate plea of a sick person who didn't want to be alone in the dark with a fever. But in the charged silence of the room, it felt like so much more.

To his shock, you shifted and lifted the blankets. He actually was tempted to check to see if it was still you and not an alien in your skin. The last time he had been that close to you, you jumped away like he'd bite you. But this was different. You were sick, vulnerable, and you were asking. Not for a kiss, but for warmth. For presence. It was a trust fall of the highest order.

Hesitantly, as if moving through a dream, Steve set the cloth aside. He didn't climb under the blankets fully. That felt like too much, a breach of the fragile trust you were offering. Instead, he carefully sat on the edge of the couch, his back against the cushions, and lifted his legs to rest on the coffee table. Then, he gently pulled the edge of the quilt over his legs, creating a shared tent of warmth.

You immediately shifted, not away, but toward. Your fever-hot body curled into his side, your head finding a resting place against his shoulder with a tired sigh. He froze again, every muscle taut, afraid a single wrong move would shatter the moment.

Then, slowly, he let himself relax. He brought his arm up, not daring to wrap it around you, but letting it rest along the back of the couch, a loose barrier. Your hair tickled his chin. He could feel the dry heat of your skin through his t-shirt, the faint, ragged rhythm of your breathing.

This was it. Closer than he’d ever been, in a way that was terrifyingly intimate and completely chaste. He was a furnace for your chills, a solid wall for your weakness. He stayed perfectly still, listening to your breathing even out again into sleep, committing every second to memory -- the weight of you against him, the scent of sweat and sickness and your shampoo, the absolute, quiet trust of it.

He didn't sleep. He didn't move. He just stayed, as asked, a sentinel in the dark, guarding the fragile, feverish girl who had, for one night, let down her final guard. It was a gift he’d never dared to hope for. And as dawn light began to filter through the curtains, painting the room in soft grays, Steve Harrington knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that he was utterly, completely ruined for anyone else. You had broken into his ribs with a kick, and now you were breaking his heart with a blanket and a whisper. And he would let you do it every single time.

But when you awoke, Steve wasn't there. You were alone with the realization that you'd almost ruined things yet again. But your fever had receded slightly, your nose was a bit more breathable. Yet your guts felt like they'd been slammed with an anvil. You were an idiot, succumbing to desires that you had no business wanting.

Clearly Steve thought the same, you'd assumed. But you were wrong. He'd simply left so that you couldn't realize this wasn't actually what you wanted and push him away again, making his chest ache.

Once again, after your full recovery, you pretended this never happened.

The third time you'd yanked yourselves away from each other was when Steve had a date. Steve had a date. He'd come into the garage this Tuesday with two slushies and the crushing news that when he'd literally cuddled you to sleep in your house, it meant nothing. He hadn't exactly said that, but he basically had when he told you he had a date with Tammy Thompson on game night, so he wouldn't be there.

You tried not to let it sour you up. You didn't deserve to. You'd done enough pushing him away that you'd look like a huge, asshole hypocrite if you got upset. But you couldn't help it. As much as you fought it, you felt the resentment and jealousy pour into your veins like a wave from the ocean.

You worked under a Civic, silently listening to Steve talk about his stupid fucking date, squeezing the ratchet in your hand with painful force.

"--and then we're gonna go get ice cream. Too cheesy?" He questioned.

The ratchet slipped, banging loudly against the frame of the car. You swore, more from the jolt of fury than the pain.

“Y/N? You okay under there?” Steve’s voice was tinged with concern.

“Fine,” you gritted out, your voice tight. “Just… tight bolt.”

Silence. Then you heard the scrape of his stool as he moved closer. “You sure? You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m working,” you snapped, the words sharper than intended.

He didn’t respond for a moment. You could feel his gaze on you, even from under the car. “Right. Sorry.” His voice had lost its earlier, nervous excitement. It was flat. Careful.

You couldn’t stand it. The fake cheer, the careful distance, the fact that he was going to be smiling at Tammy Thompson while you were sitting at home on game night, pretending you didn’t care. The jealousy was a live wire, burning through your carefully constructed indifference.

Taking a deep breath, you restored the careful wall you had up, hiding your anger and jealousy. Now, there was only indifference. You slid out from under the car, your face blank, not wanting to reveal yourself.

"Not too cheesy. It'll be fine." You said coolly, wiping your hands with a rag.

The coolness in your voice, the blankness of your face -- it was a weapon you’d used on him before, but this time, it landed differently. It didn't push him away. It made him stop.

He studied you, his own casual posture stiffening. The forced smile he’d been wearing faltered and died. He saw right through the indifference. He’d become an expert in your tells, and the rigid set of your shoulders, the too-careful wiping of your hands, screamed anything but 'fine'.

“Will you be there?” he asked, his voice quiet, dropping the pretense of the date entirely. “At game night? If I… if I don’t go?”

The question hung in the oily air, a direct challenge to your wall. He wasn’t asking about D&D. He was asking if you wanted him there. If you’d choose his presence over your own pride.

You kept your eyes on the rag, twisting it in your hands. “It’s game night. Everyone’s there.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You finally looked at him. The carefully constructed indifference was cracking, revealing the hurt and jealousy simmering beneath. “Why does it matter, Steve? You have a date. With Tammy. Go have your stupid ice cream and get out of my garage.”

Steve frowned at your harsh behavior.

"Why are you acting like that?"

You turned towards him, your eyes now blazing.

"Like what?" You snapped venomously, daring him to continue. But he'd never been scared of you. Not even when he should've been.

"Like you did when you hated me." He responded, his voice low.

The words were a bucket of ice water. They stopped your venomous tirade cold. Like you did when you hated me.

You stared at him, the anger draining from your face, leaving behind a cold, sick horror. That’s exactly what you were doing. You were rebuilding the fortress, brick by furious brick, because it was easier than admitting the terrifying truth: you didn’t hate him at all. You were in love with him, and the thought of him with someone else felt like a physical wound. But it didn't matter. You weren't someone who ever got what they wanted. You were a Byers, and a Byers never got the happy ending.

"I don't-- Just go, Steve." You said, deflated.

You were tired of fighting your feelings in the face of disappointment. If things were ever going to work between you and Steve, he wouldn't have arranged a date with a woman who was nowhere similar to you.

"Y/n--"

"Go." You bit out, your anger beginning to reignite.

Without another word, Steve grabbed his keys and left the garage. You ignored how hurt his face looked. You ignored how his eyes seemed to shimmer, as if holding tears back. You ignored everything and slid back under the Civic, working with gritted teeth.

Things had officially met their climax. And at their climax, you thought, they'd met their end. Your inability to contain your jealousy had ruined one of the only good things you had.

Grunting, you slid out from under the car, throwing your wrench at the wall with frustration. It made a loud sound, a clang assaulting your ears.

A tear dripped from your eye as you packed up to leave.

The fourth and final time, the time that your walls finally collapsed, was in the aftermath.

Game night was cancelled for Steve's date, as if that could make it any worse. You sat in your living room with a gallon of ice cream, a murderous expression on your face, eating it aggressively and watching some dumb soap opera on the crackly TV. Jonathan sat in the recliner across from you, Will curled up beside you, and your mom sat in the kitchen doing a crossword puzzle. They all knew what the problem was. It was easy to tell.

The silence in the living room was broken only by the melodramatic whispers from the TV and the angry scrape of your spoon against the cardboard ice cream tub. You were demolishing a gallon of "Midnight Marshmallow Madness," a neon blue atrocity you’d chosen specifically for its aggressive, synthetic cheerfulness.

Jonathan glanced over the top of his photography magazine, his expression a mix of sympathy and exasperation. “You know, eating your feelings is technically a form of emotional processing. But I think you’re trying to hurt your ice cream.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled around a mouthful of blue goo.

Will, nestled under your arm, patted your leg. “He’s just worried you’re gonna get a stomachache, sissy.”

“I’m fine,” you said, the words dripping with a bitterness that contradicted them entirely. His sweet, innocent brotherly nickname that he usually weaponized to get you to be nice failed miserably.

From the kitchen, the sound of a pencil tapping impatiently on the Formica table cut through the soap opera’s swelling music. “Honey,” Joyce called, her voice carrying that particular motherly tone that was both gentle and unyielding. “You’ve been ‘fine’ for two hours and two-thirds of that tub. The ice cream didn’t do anything to you.”

“It’s keeping me company,” you shot back, digging your spoon in with renewed vigor.

Jonathan set his magazine down. “Look. We get it. Steve’s an idiot. We all know he fucked up," he asserted.

"Language, Jonathan!" Your mother scolded from the kitchen.

"But sitting here poisoning yourself with artificial dye isn’t gonna change that.” He finished.

“I’m not trying to change anything!” you snapped, finally looking at him. “I’m just… sitting here. Watching TV. Is that a crime now?”

“It is when you’re using the spoon like a weapon,” Will observed quietly, wisely ducking his head as you glared at him.

Joyce appeared in the doorway, her arms crossed. She looked tired, but her eyes were sharp. “You’re hurting, sweetie. And that’s okay. What’s not okay is letting that hurt turn you back into the girl who assaults people in alleys and gets arrested.”

The words hit their mark. You deflated, the fight going out of you. You stared down at the half-melted blue sludge in the tub. “I just… I finally let the wall down. And he just… walked right through it and out the other side to get ice cream with Tammy Thompson.” The name tasted like ash. You looked down at the ice cream in your lap like it was an accomplice in Steve's crime, then slammed another spoon full.

“Did he?” Jonathan asked, his voice deceptively calm.

“He said he had a date!”

“So what if he does?” Joyce murmured, exchanging a knowing look with Jonathan. “Steve does stupid things when he’s scared.”

“Scared of what?” you grumbled, but the question lacked its earlier heat.

Before anyone could answer, a familiar, tentative knock sounded at the front door.

Four pairs of Byers eyes snapped to the sound.

You froze, spoon hovering midway to your mouth.

Joyce raised an eyebrow at you. “Well? Are you going to answer it, or are you going to make him stand out there all night? I don’t think the ice cream’s going to help you with this one, baby.”

The gallon tub suddenly felt like a lead weight in your hands. The walls you’d spent the evening feverishly reconstructing felt paper-thin. The climax had passed, leaving you in the wreckage. And Steve Harrington was knocking on the door, ready or not.

You scrambled up, slamming the ice cream down on the coffee table, and went to answer the door.

Steve Harrington stood outside the front door. He looked like hell. His hair was a mess, as if he’d been running his hands through it for hours. His eyes were red-rimmed. In his hands, he held not a cherry slushie, but a sad, slightly melted single-serving cup of vanilla ice cream from the Gas-N-Sip. The cheap kind.

You stared at him, then at the pathetic little cup, then back at his face. The anger, the hurt, the blue-dye-induced nausea -- it all coalesced into a single, stunned thought: He looks worse than I feel.

“You’re supposed to be on a date,” you said, your voice hollow.

“I was,” he said, the words rough. “For about twenty minutes. At the diner. Then she started talking about her vocal exercises for regionals, and all I could think about was how you’d make that face -- the one where you try not to laugh but your nose scrunches up anyway.” He took a shaky breath. “And then I just… left. I told her I had an emergency. I think she cried. I’m probably an asshole.”

You stepped outside into the summer air, closing the door behind you. Your socked feet could feel every pebble beneath you on the doorstep.

He held up the little cup of ice cream. “I got this. For you. It’s not cherry, and it’s not a slushy, but… you like ice cream. I thought maybe… Peace offering?” He questioned, his confidence faltering under your gaze.

From the living room, there was a sudden, exaggerated scrape of chairs and the sound of the TV clicking off. “Well!” Joyce’s voice carried, bright and false. “Will, Jonathan, help me with the dishes! In the kitchen. Right now.”

You didn’t turn around. You heard the hurried shuffle of your family retreating, granting you privacy. The front porch light buzzed softly, painting Steve in a sickly yellow glow.

“Why?” you asked, the word barely a whisper.

“Because I’m an idiot,” he said, stepping closer, forcing you to either step back or let him in. You held your ground. “Because I got scared. Because you let me hold you when you were sick, and it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and then you looked at me like a stranger the next day, so I knew it was the right choice to leave before you woke up. And I thought… I thought if I tried to move on, if I proved I could, then maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much that you didn’t want me.”

You frowned. “I never said I didn’t want you, Steve.”

His eyes widened, a flicker of desperate hope in the storm. “Then what do you want, Y/N? Because I’m going crazy here. The quarry, the couch… every time I get close, you run. And I get it. I do. I’m Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington. I was a dick. I have a history. But that’s not who I am with you. You have to know that.”

Tears pricked your eyes, blurring his anxious face. “I know that,” you choked out. “It’s not you I’m scared of, Steve. It’s me. It’s this.” You gestured weakly between the two of you. “Byers don’t get… this. We get monsters and moving vans and broken taillights. We don’t get… cherry slushies and stupid, perfect boys who hold us when we’re sick. It doesn’t work out. It can’t. Something always goes wrong.”

He dropped the Gas-N-Sip ice cream on the small table by the door. It landed with a soft thud. Both of his hands hurriedly came up, cradling your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that were now falling in earnest. The closest you'd ever let him get to you. His touch was warm, calloused from basketball and stupid, chivalrous fights, and so unbearably gentle.

“Then let it go wrong,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “Let the world end. Let the Upside Down break through again. I don’t care. I want you. I have since I looked up and realized you whooped my ass. Please. Just… let me in. All the way in.”

It was the rawest thing anyone had ever said to you. It wasn’t a smooth line. It wasn’t a promise of forever. It was a plea to face the inevitable disaster together. It was so perfectly, terribly Steve. The last of your walls, built from years of protecting a family that had seen too much, crumbled into dust. They didn’t fall with a dramatic crash, but with a quiet, final sigh.

You leaned into his hands, closing your eyes for a second, letting the feel of him anchor you. When you opened them, you saw only him -- his hurting, beautiful face, his ridiculous hair, his heart right there in his eyes, offered to you without conditions.

“Okay,” you whispered.

His breath hitched. “Okay?”

You nodded, a fresh tear tracing a path his thumb had already cleared. “Okay. But you’re explaining to the kids. Including my brothers.”

A laugh burst out of him, a ragged, relieved sound that was half-sob. “Deal.”

He didn’t kiss you then. Not yet. Instead, he pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you so tightly it almost hurt. You buried your face in the familiar soft cotton of his t-shirt, breathing in the scent of him -- laundry detergent, cheap cologne, and Steve. Your arms wound around his waist, holding on just as tight.

You stood there on the porch, tangled together in the buzzing yellow light, for a long time. From the kitchen window, three pairs of Byers eyes discreetly looked away, smiles on their faces.

Finally, he leaned back, just enough to look at you. His eyes were clear now, shining. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead. “So… you're my girl now, right? So you can't punch me anymore?”

You smiled, a real one, for the first time all day. It felt like the sun coming out. “Shut up, Harrington.”

And then, because the waiting was over, and the walls were down, and you were finally, finally done being scared, you kissed him.

It wasn’t a quarry kiss, born of impulse and water. It was a porch kiss, born of melted ice cream and tear-stained admissions and a long, hard road. It was soft, and a little salty, and so right it made your bones ache. His hands slid into your hair, and yours fisted in the back of his shirt, pulling him closer.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, he was grinning that lopsided, heart-stopping grin.

“Maybe only once a month then,” he corrected, his voice a low hum against your lips. "But make it gentle."

You laughed, the sound light and free, echoing in the quiet Hawkins night. “Yeah,” you agreed, stealing one more quick kiss. “Alright.”

When Will got together with his friends the next day, he couldn't shut up about it.

“And then they kissed,” Will finished, triumphantly, as if delivering the final, winning piece of evidence. “And Mom made us all stay in the kitchen and pretend to wash already-clean dishes for like, twenty minutes after. But I saw through the crack in the door. They just held each other for forever.”

Max, who had been quietly listening while sharpening the edge of a skateboard with a file, finally spoke up, a small, rare smile on her lips. “Took them long enough. The sexual tension was giving me a migraine.”

“Ew, Max!” Mike groaned, while the others laughed.

Will just beamed, hugging a throw pillow to his chest. He felt a proprietary sort of joy about the whole thing. He’d seen it first. He’d known before anyone, maybe even before Steve and his sister themselves. He’d watched the story unfold from the couch, a front-row seat to the best kind of monster-less adventure.

“So,” Dustin said, leaning forward, his scientific curiosity piqued. “What’s the protocol now? Does this mean Steve officially becomes, like, a Byers? Does he get a Christmas stocking at your house?”

Will grinned. “Mom’s already talking about adding more leaves to the table for Thanksgiving.”

The basement erupted into a fresh wave of discussion -- debates on couple nicknames (vehemently vetoed by Will), predictions on how long it would take for Steve to try and fix something at the Byers house only to make it worse (Lucas gave it a week), and whether this meant they could guilt-trip Steve into more free rentals at Family Video (Dustin’s primary concern).

But Will tuned most of it out, still lost in the perfect memory of the night before: his fierce, stubborn sister, finally choosing something soft. And Steve Harrington, the former king of Hawkins High, looking at her like she’d hung the moon, holding a cup of crappy ice cream like it was a holy offering.