summary: you and Steve Harrington collide at the worst possible moments, sparking a messy mix of anger, humiliation, and unexpected chemistry. what begins as sharp banter and years of buried resentment slowly unravels into vulnerable late-night conversations, apologies that actually mean something, and a fragile truce. as Hawkins grows darker and stranger, so does the connection.
wc: 19.2k
order up: canon universe, childhood friends to enemies to lovers
tw: explicit smut, King Steve era, p in v sex, bullying, body insecurities, chubby/curvy reader, bigdick!steve, my own clear want for him being way too obvious
masterlist
this story spans from pre season one to pre season four. i will say this is based on a request from @dreamerjj but I realized I put a lot of my own personal experiences and body insecurities into it, so I hope I did your idea justice. it is INCREDIBLY self indulgent, but i think i deserve a lil treat because real life has been stressful lately. also Hawkins High has a pool for the purposes of this story.
You always hated the pool.
Not swimming itself, just the way the Hawkins High indoor pool made you feel like you were on display no matter where you stood. Bright lights reflecting off tile. Echoes bouncing everywhere. The smell of chlorine clinging to your skin long after you left. It was too much, especially after gym, especially when you were already exhausted.
So you did what you always did.
After towelling off a bit, you tugged a big shirt over your swimsuit, the cotton soft and familiar against your skin. It was oversized, stretched thin from too many washes, and it hid the parts of you that still felt too loud, too noticeable. Your curves, your softness. Things people seemed to think they were entitled to comment on.
It was the last period of the day. The kind of afternoon where the air outside was crisp.
You were halfway to the bleachers with your towel when you realized you’d been staring.
It wasn’t intentional. You weren’t even sure how long it had been happening. You just looked up, and there he was.
Steve Harrington.
Fresh out of the pool, hair darker and slicked back with water, towel slung low around his waist like he didn’t care who noticed. Which, of course, he didn’t. He moved like the pool belonged to him. Like everything did.
Your stomach dropped the second his eyes caught yours.
You looked away too fast. Heat rushed to your face as you pretended to focus very hard on folding your towel, your fingers suddenly clumsy. You could feel it though. The awareness. The shift in the air when someone realizes they’re being watched.
You heard him before you saw him again.
Water dripping onto tile. Bare feet. Unhurried.
You told yourself to keep walking. Head down. Locker room. Done. But when you glanced up, he was already there, leaning against the bleachers like he’d planned it that way.
“See something you like?”
The words landed easy. A smirk tugged at his mouth like this was all a game he was used to winning.
You stopped despite yourself, clutching your towel a little tighter. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you said, voice steadier than you felt. “I was spacing out.”
One eyebrow arched slowly, deliberately. He looked you up and down, not bothering to hide it, and it made your skin prickle beneath the T-shirt.
“You were awfully captivated for someone who was just spacing out.”
You rolled your eyes, refusing to let him see how much that look affected you. “I just didn’t think they let the swim team have… chest hair.” You gestured vaguely at his torso, sarcasm sharp enough to give you something to hold onto.
He gasped theatrically, clutching his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “Excuse you. Girls pay good money to see this.”
He ran a hand through it just to prove his point, smug and infuriating and very aware of himself.
Then his smile shifted.
“But hey,” he added lightly, “at least I don’t hide under a giant T-shirt like some people.”
His eyes flicked pointedly to the hem of yours.
The words hit harder than you expected.
Your chest tightened, something sour and familiar twisting in your stomach. “Wow. Body insults,” you said flatly. “Real creative.”
The irritation in your voice surprised even you.
His smirk faltered. Just a fraction.
“Didn’t take you for the type to punch down without your gaggle of hyenas behind you,” you added, already turning away. “But here we are.”
You scooped up your towel and headed for the locker room, suddenly very aware of every step, every pair of eyes that might be on you. You just wanted out.
Behind you, you heard him swear under his breath.
You didn’t stop walking.
“Hey, wait up,” Steve called, jogging after you. The girls’ locker room door swung open, empty for the moment, and you barely made it inside before he slipped in after you.
“Get out of the girls’ locker room, Harrington,” you hissed, trying to shove him back toward the door before someone came in.
He resisted easily, one hand braced against the door to keep it shut. Too close. Way too close.
“Oh, come on,” he said, leaning back against it, arms crossing over his chest like he belonged there. His gaze swept over you again, slower this time. “It’s not like anyone’s here.”
Your heart hammered. “You need to leave.”
“And I’m not moving until you hear me out.”
And that was where it hung.
Steve looked over your form again as the silence hung. He'd never been with a curvier girl before, and you had really grown into your body the past year. It was a new discovery for him. His usual type was all sharp angles and delicate features—girls who looked like they might break if you held them too tight. You were… different. Softer. Fuller. There was a certain warmth to you that made him want to get closer.
Before his mind can go any further, you open your mouth and sigh. "Fine, give me your speech."
He smirked, your defensive tone stirring something in him. "Look, I was just messing around, alright? I just... wanted to tease you a little.”
You grimace and cross your arms as he looks you up and down again. "Cool. That it?"
Steve scoffs, lightly amused by your attitude, as if it only spurs his teasing on more. "Come on, girls like it when I give them attention."
He steps closer to you, his stare shamelessly dropping to your generous chest filling out the shirt before snapping his eyes up to yours.
It made you feel things you didn't want to admit, but more than anything it made you angry.
Did he not even remember the reason you couldn't stand him?
For years, he and his friends had made your life hell. They’d whispered about you in the hallways, knocked books out of your hands “by accident,” laughed just a little too loud whenever you gave a presentation in class. All because you’d developed faster than other girls, because your body refused to be small and discreet.
But for guys like 'King Steve' those moments were probably just part of an average Tuesday. To you, they were burned into your memory.
He seemed to think your silence was permission to keep talking. To keep touching. His hand came up, thumb brushing over your arm with a familiarity he hadn't earned. You flinched away, a small, sharp movement.
His confidence flickered for the first time and you audibly scoff. "God, you are so far up your own ass, huh? Not every girl craves your attention or validation."
He only smirked, leaning back on one of the rows of lockers behind him. "Mhm, sure. So if I stopped paying attention to you right now, walked outta here..."
He pushes off the lockers and takes a slow, deliberate few steps toward the door. "...you wouldn't care?"
He pauses mid step, glancing back over his shoulder at you.
"If you recall, I just tried to shove you out of here a few minutes ago." A sarcastic, saccharine smile plays on your lips, while your eyes narrow.
A chuckle escapes Steve, intrigued by your stubborness. But he has his own stubborn streak.
When he turns back to face you, he leans against the cool metal of the lockers again, folding his arms to match your stance. "I have a feeling that despite your bitchy attitude, you want me to stay."
It's teasing, paired with the salacious looks he gives your body.
You were annoyed, but within that, you saw an opportunity. Give the King of Hawkins High a taste of his own medicine.
Leaning back against the lockers across from him, the bench seat between you, your smile turns devilish. "Yeah? What gives you that idea?"
He pushes off the lockers, stepping over the bench seat and closing the distance between you. His taller frame towers over your shorter one as he places a hand on the locker door, inches from your head. He's effectively crowding you with his body.
"Just the fact that you haven't tried the shoving method again...and that little defiant glint in your eye..."
Got him.
You look up, giving your best performance of 'fuck me' eyes, a look you've only seen in film. "God, Harrington, you really just want me out of this shirt, huh?"
You could see his confidence soaring, like he'd just won the lottery. That's what made this so fun. His arrogance was a weapon you could turn back on him.
"You caught me," he practically purred, the sound vibrating through your own chest, his fingers ghosting over the hem of you shirt. "But can you blame me?"
"Take it off me then." You whisper, hoping it was believable.
The direct request makes a jolt of desire run through Steve's body. He doesn't hesitate to follow through, grabbing the bottom of your shirt, knuckles brushing against the soft skin as he slowly lifts it upwards.
"You're a bossy thing, aren't you?" He murmurs, your shirt halfway up, revealing your thick thighs and a hint of your soft tummy through the one piece swimsuit. Not breaking eye contact, you lift your hands above your head.
If people were going to treat your body as an object, you would turn it into a weapon. If Steve Harrington wanted to look at you, you'd give him something he'd never forget. He was so used to girls being shy, flustered. You were going to be a spectacle.
As the fabric clears your head, he lets out a shaky breath, eyes wide. He's transfixed, devouring the sight of you.
A possessive part of him hums in approval, as he leans closer, his body nearly flush with yours.
"God... you're beautiful..." He murmurs as his hands slowly trail up your thighs and over your hips.
For a split second, you feel almost...bad, for what you're about to do. The sincerity in his voice makes your breath hitch, adding to the performance. But you don’t dwell on it for long.
Steve probably said this to every girl. It was a line. A throwaway. A way to get what he wanted. That’s what you told yourself. But the way he looked at you, like he was seeing something he’d been searching for, made the line in your head waver for a moment. But you pushed the thought away, locking it down with the rest of your hurt.
His hands stopped at your waist, his thumbs drawing small circles through the fabric of your swimsuit.
"This seems unfair..." You start, trailing a finger down his bare chest, before playing with the drawstring of his swim trunks. "You got to see what you wanted, but I haven't..."
You look up at him and you continue to twirl the string in your fingers. "There's a lot of rumors about you. Big rumors."
His smirk turns sinful as he catches your meaning, hands tightening on your waist, pulling you flush against him. "You're interested in the truth, then? You can find out for yourself, baby."
You felt him now, against your fingers at the waistband, a small twitch when your eyes meet his. This was the moment. You trail that hand back up his chest, eliciting a disappointed furrow of his brow before you're on your tip toes, whispering in his ear.
"Take them off then."
His breath actually hitches as the order. You can tell he's either used to being the one in control of these situations or something like this has never happened to him. The first option was more believable, based on his reputation.
Regardless, you know now for sure he's turned on.
"Insatiable, aren't you?" He murmurs back in your own ear as his grip releases to quickly pull his shorts down, then kicking them aside. Your eyes follow them, making a mental note of where they land on the locker room floor. Then trail your eyes to your backpack. Then to the door.
It was doable.
You play off your eyes wandering as nerves before biting your lip and looking down.
Well, shit. Rumors can be true sometimes...
You don't have time to think about it. If you want to get this right, you can't spend too much time thinking about how that thing would even fit anywhere, or how good he smells or how warm he is against you...
Focus.
"Happy now?" His voice breaks your mental turmoil and you look up in his eyes.
"Sit down." You whisper back.
It's clear he was happy with your reaction as he complied with the command, taking a seat on the bench behind him. His eyes follow you with sharp attention.
"Bossy..." he muttered with an almost fond– no, that had to be demeaning– smile. "Now, what?"
Now came the real show.
You bend, as if going onto your knees in front of him, trying to explain away his smirk fading. His hand reaches out, like he didn't even mean it to.
Shit, he would be a head pusher, just my fucking lu-
He pushes a strand of your still damp hair behind your ear so gently, thumb brushing against your cheek in a tender way that surprises even him.
"Hey," he says, the murmur no longer laced with need, but something else. Softer. Nervous even? "You don't have to..."
That softness, that moment of unexpected gentleness, almost made you falter. The sincerity in his eyes was a weapon you hadn't accounted for. It made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the performance. But then the memory of years of casual cruelty rushed back in, cold and sharp.
It had to be an act, another line he used to make girls comfortable with him.
Before sinking full down to your knees, you snatch the swim trunks from the floor in one swift movement, taking the opportunity to pivot on the ball of your foot and sprint.
You hear him curse, a sharp, indignant sound, as you make a break for your bag. You narrowly avoid slipping as you tug it over one shoulder, halfway out the door, yelling.
"Hopefully this teaches you not to be so cocky, Harrington!"
Once the door is shut behind you, you know you have some time while he figures out how to leave the girls locker room without giving everyone a full show.
What you don't account for, stupidly, is the entire boys swim team being by the pool. You catch the freckled face of one Tommy Hagan, and decide to throw the trunks at him.
"Here, your king might be looking for these."
He catches them with a confused sputter as you continue your escape, a small, tight laugh bubbling in your chest. That'll show him.
You don't stop running until you hit the cool October air, pulling your hoodie out of your bag and over your head as you walk to your car. Your breath comes in ragged bursts, but it's not just from the run. There's a thrill there, a dangerous, electric buzz humming under your skin. You pulled it off. You turned the tables on the guy who'd made you feel small for years. But when you fish your keys from your bag, your hands are shaking.
Meanwhile, Steve makes it out of the locker room as you're already outside, holding your forgotten shirt strategically in front of himself, face burning. The entire team is howling with laughter, Tommy H holding up the trunks like a trophy.
"Real fucking funny," Steve snarls, snatching them back and yanking them on.
"Oh, I bet it was," Tommy wheezes, clutching his stomach.
Friday came and went without any incident for you. By last period, you head to the library for your study period, wondering when the other shoe was going to drop.
You didn't have the satisfied sleep you thought you would last night. You barely slept at all, tossing and turning because of that stupid, unguarded look on Steve's face when he brushed the hair from your cheek. The gentleness that felt too real.
Shaking your head as you find a quiet table in the back, you open your history textbook, only for it to be slammed shut seconds later.
Your heart jumps to your throat as you look up. He's not angry. He's just standing there, hands braced on the table, caging you in.
"Enjoying your little victory lap?" he asks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth even though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. He looks tired.
"Just trying to study, Harrington."
"I think you and I need to talk."
That's how he always sounds, just before he makes some snide comment or some jab about your chest or your thighs. And so you steel yourself, a familiar, bitter taste rising in your throat. "I'm pretty sure we've said everything we needed to say yesterday."
You try to push your textbook open again with one hand.
He puts his hand flat on the cover, stopping you. "No. We haven't."
His voice is low, quiet enough not to carry. "You played me. Good for you. Hilarious. But you left your shirt."
He pulls it out of his own backpack and onto the table. You hadn't even realized. "And I've had to spend the last twenty-four hours listening to Tommy Hagan call me 'Commando' every five seconds, and let me tell you, it's not as funny as it sounds."
"Can't imagine," you say, your own voice a flat, unimpressed line. "Must be so hard to be you."
The words come out automatically, a well-worn defense.
He flinches.
It’s almost imperceptible, a tightening of the muscle in his jaw, but you see it. The smirk vanishes, replaced by something raw and unguarded for half a second before he gets it back under control.
"Right," he says, pulling back a little, straightening up. "Because your life is so fucking hard, getting all this attention from me."
The old Steve is back. The one you know how to hate. He leans against the bookshelf behind him, casual, like he doesn't have a care in the world. The easy posture doesn't quite meet the tension in his shoulders.
"Attention?" You repeat, incredulous. "Is that what you call it?"
"It's what it is," he says, shrugging. "You don't exactly try to blend in."
And there it is.
The casual cruelty disguised as a joke. The backhanded compliment that's really an insult. The thing he and his friends have been doing to you for years.
The laugh that escapes you is anything but amused. It's sharp and humorless. "God, you really don't get it, do you?"
"What's there to get?" he asks, genuinely confused. "You make a scene, you get attention. It's how the world works."
"A scene," you repeat, your voice dangerously quiet now. You push your chair back and stand, grabbing your backpack. "Is that what you called it when you and your court jesters used to trip me in the hallway? Was I 'making a scene' when your little friends made mooing sounds behind my back in eighth grade?"
His face blanks. All trace of the cocky smirk is gone, replaced by something that looks uncomfortably like guilt.
"Or was it a scene when Carol Perkins told everyone I stuffed my bra, right before the spring dance last year?" The words leave your lips, laced with a venom you usually keep locked away. "Is that what this is? Me finally getting the attention I've been 'asking for' all along?"
You expect him to laugh it off. To roll his eyes and call you crazy or dramatic. That's what he always does.
But he doesn't.
He just stands there, silent. The silence is worse than any retort could be. It hangs heavy between you, thick with the ghosts of moments you've tried to forget. You realize he actually remembers. He was there for all of it. He probably laughed.
"Or..." you begin, quieter, more hurt. "Did my foray into the spotlight start with the seventh grade Snow Ball?"
You feel sick even bringing it up. Your voice cracks on the last few words, betraying the cool front you've desperately tried to maintain.
His shoulders slump. Just a little. He looks down, away from your face, focusing on a scuff mark on the linoleum floor. The King of Hawkins High suddenly looks like a lost kid.
"I... that was..." He starts, then stops, clearing his throat. He can't even form a defense.
You steel yourself against the wave of nausea that threatens to rise. You shouldn't have said it. You shouldn't have given him that piece of you, that raw, tender memory he didn't deserve to know still hurt.
"I didn't..." he tries again, and the sound is so unfamiliar you almost don't recognize it.
You didn't want his apology, half assed and flimsy, the same kind you'd given your mom when you broke a vase. A weak 'I didn't mean to'.
It's the worst kind of excuse, the kind that absolves the giver of all guilt while placing the burden of acceptance on the wounded party.
"Save it," you say, and your voice is flat again, but this time it's an achievement. "I think we're even, Harrington. You got your cheap thrills for years, I got my revenge. Now leave me alone."
You turn your back on him before he can say anything else, before he can try and fail to make it right, before your own stupid, treacherous eyes can betray you by welling up.
You don't look back as you shove past the library doors and out into the empty hallway, before heading out to your car. You want to run, to slam the car door, to peel out of the parking lot. But you force yourself to walk at a steady pace, to find your keys with hands that only tremble a little. You sit in the driver's seat for a long moment before you can make yourself turn the key in the ignition.
That moment in the library was the last time you really spoke to Steve Harrington for while.
He started dating Nancy Wheeler not long after, focused all his bullying on to Jonathan Byers, much to his new girlfriend's distaste.
Then the younger Byers kid went missing. Then Barbara Holland went missing.
Nancy and Jonathan started spending time together. Rumors spread.
It was only when your job got vandalized that you pieced together the truth.
Because outside the Hawk Theater, was one Steve Harrington, on a ladder cleaning off the red spraypaint he had painted the marquee with earlier.
'Nancy 'The Slut' Wheeler'
Yeah, no change on his part.
Your boss sent you outside to check on him, make sure he was actually cleaning it. You practically begged him not to make you, but it was a losing effort.
You wrapped your sweater tighter around yourself as you walked into the familiar chill of November.
"My boss wants to know if the 'pretty boy has given up yet'," you said, your voice flat.
He nearly fell off the ladder at the sound of your voice, wobbling before catching himself. When he turned, the casual cool he usually wore like a second skin was gone. In its place was a weary, ragged exhaustion.
He had a black eye and split lip.
Right, the fight with Byers. Some kids came in earlier talking about it. Steve was lucky the cops showed up when they did.
He just stared at you for a long second, processing. "Oh. Hey."
Not a smirk. Not a joke. Just a quiet greeting that was more of a breath than a word.
"His words, not mine," you amended, hugging your arms around yourself. "Clearly."
His gaze flickered to the red paint smeared across the letters, then back to you. For the first time ever, you felt like he was actually seeing you, not just a target for a lazy joke. It was unsettling.
He looked away, scrubbing hard at a particularly stubborn streak of paint. The rag made a rough, scraping sound against the metal. "I'm not giving up."
"Good. My boss is a stickler for restitution."
Another silence stretched, filled only by the scrape of the rag and the distant hum of traffic. You should have gone back inside. You should have left him to it.
"Heard she slapped you. Nancy." You said it to the marquee, not to him.
He stopped scrubbing. "Yeah. She did."
"Good."
He actually laughed, a short, harsh sound that was closer to a cough. "Figured you'd think so."
"She deserved that? The spray paint?" The words came out sharper than you intended, a remnant of the library conversation still festering under your skin.
His sigh was heavy, weighing him down where he stood on the ladder. "No. It was stupid. I was… stupid."
It wasn't the world-changing apology you might have once dreamed of, but it was something. A crack in the facade.
"She was my whole world, you know?" The words were quiet, barely audible.
You didn't mean to let the snort escape you, but it did. "You dated for, like, five minutes."
The look he gave you then was devoid of any of its usual arrogance. It was just… tired. "Doesn't matter."
He went back to scrubbing, a frantic, desperate energy in the movement. You watched him, this boy who had tormented you for years, this boy who was now scrubbing the evidence of his own broken heart off a marquee in the cold.
"Nancy... she's different. She's serious about her studies and she can be bossy, sure. But I kind of like that in a girl. Plus, she's kind. She actually cares about people. Not just what people think of her." He paused, and you realized he wasn't really talking to you anymore. He was talking to himself, working it all out loud. "She's not just... she's not like the others."
You couldn't help but remember the way he called you 'bossy' in that locker room a month ago.
"Didn't think bossy girls were your thing." Your voice is softer when you say it, like maybe you're realizing his genuine gaze that day wasn't for show. Maybe he realized something that day. About himself, or maybe about you.
Steve stopped scrubbing again, the rag hanging limp in his hand. He turned, really looking at you, and for a second you thought he might remember that day in the locker room. Remember the game you played, the lines you blurred. But the exhaustion in his face was too deep, the pain too fresh for him to dig into that particular memory.
He just shook his head, a small, sad motion. "It's not about the bossiness," he said, his voice rough. "It's about... caring."
He went back to the marquee with renewed vigor, the scrape of the rag against the metal sounding like he was trying to scrape something off himself.
"I'm sorry, for what it's worth," you said quietly. "About her, and Jonathan, and all of it."
You weren't sure why you said it. Maybe it was the split lip, or the way the sadness settled in his brow.
He didn't turn around. "She's not coming back," he said, as if stating a fact he was still trying to convince himself of.
"Maybe you have to go to her." You shrug. "Byers too. If you mean it."
His shoulders went rigid. He didn't answer, and you knew you'd crossed an invisible line. That was enough advice for one lifetime.
"I've got to get back inside," you said, turning before he could see the complicated knot of feelings tightening in your chest. You were not a person who gave Steve Harrington advice. You were not a person who felt anything for Steve Harrington but annoyance and, on rare occasions, pity.
But as you pushed open the heavy glass door to the lobby, the warmth of the theater a welcome relief against the cold, you couldn't shake the image of him on the ladder, a solitary figure against the dark.
By senior year, Steve Harrington became a distant figure in your life.
In the Hawkins social circle as well.
He ditched Tommy and Carol after the spraypaint incident. He won Nancy back, and then lost her again. He was quieter, different in a way that you couldn't understand, like he was wrestling with something deeper than the 'senior year scaries'.
And by December of '84, you had your own demons to battle.
Your sister was in 6th grade, and it was going to be her first real Hawkins Middle School dance.
The Snow Ball.
Volunteering was something you usually did to pad your college applications, but this particular event felt personal. You wanted to make sure no little girl had the same experience you did, felt that same, specific ache of being a target before they even knew what they'd done wrong.
So you found yourself at the front entrance, paired with no other than Nancy Wheeler, giving out tickets.
A curly haired kid you recognized walked in, hair styled in a way that looked eerily familiar. Your gaze followed out the double doors of the school, to the equally familiar maroon BMW the kid had just walked out of.
Nancy took the kid's ticket and he headed into the dance smiling.
Outside you saw Steve Harrington in his driver's seat, just watching the kid go inside, then looking at Nancy. Your eyes met his from across the distance, and you could see the faintest, ghost of a smile from him.
Even now, even with everything that had happened, your first instinct was to retreat. To make yourself small. But your sister needed you here, needed someone to make sure this dance was magic, not misery.
An hour or so in, you watched the mini-Steve (whose name was Dustin, according to Nancy) approaching a group of girls. You couldn't hear the conversation, but it clearly didn't go well. Your heart sunk and before you could walk over and check in, you saw Nancy offer to dance with him.
It healed something in you to see it. The way Nancy just saw a kid who was hurting and stepped in, no questions asked. It was the kindness you'd always admired in her from afar, a kindness that seemed so effortless, so natural.
It was the kindness Steve had seen in her, too. You understood, suddenly, with a clarity that felt like a punch to the gut.
He had changed. Or maybe Nancy had just given him the vocabulary to name the change that was already happening inside him.
The thought was disorienting. You spent years carefully building a wall around the Steve Harrington you thought you knew, and now you were seeing cracks in the foundation. Cracks that let in a different kind of light.
You went out to the parking lot to get air, after checking on you sister with a little thumbs up.
In the corner of the lot sat that same familiar car.
You don't know what prompted you to walk towards it, but you did, wrapping your jacket around you a little tighter. You knocked twice on the passenger side window, startling a very zoned out Steve. When he saw you he rolled the window down. The sounds of some sad soft rock came from the radio of his car.
"Hey," he says. It’s quiet. Almost shy.
"Hey," you reply back, mirroring his tone. "Nice kid. That Dustin."
He gives a small, genuine smile. "Yeah. He is. A little weird, but... he's good people."
"Better than the company you used to keep," you say before you can stop yourself, the old bitterness leaking out like poison from an old wound.
He didn't seem angry or annoyed, just let out a soft huff of a laugh, running his hand through his hair. "Yeah. No contest."
You stood there for a moment in silence, an awkward truce settled between you, fragile as a sheet of ice. You looked up at the full moon, a perfect, indifferent disc in the dark sky.
"Nancy's dancing with him. Some girls laughed when he asked them and she just... swooped in," you said, filling the space. "She's just... good."
"Too good," he said, the words barely audible, the soft rock on the radio suddenly sounding too loud. He wasn't looking at you, just staring at the steering wheel like it held all the answers he was looking for. "For me, for anybody."
You shivered a little before speaking. "You can be good, too. Bringing him here. Doing all that." Your voice is softer. More genuine. "That hair must have taken a lot of product."
His eyes met yours then, and for a second you saw it again, that flicker of something unguarded. He smiled, a real smile, not a smirk. "Get in the car, you're cold."
The invitation hung in the cold night air. Part of you wanted to say no. To preserve the careful distance you had built brick by painful brick. But he was right. The cold was seeping into your bones, and the offer itself, so simple and devoid of any ulterior motive, was unexpected.
"Damn, no comment about the extra layer of blubber keeping me warm?" you mumbled, the old habit of self-deprecation a comfortable armor. "You really have changed, Harrington."
The smile vanished from his face, replaced by a look you couldn't quite read. It wasn't pity, which you would have hated. It was closer to… disappointment. In you, or maybe in himself.
"Get in the car," he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Just for a minute."
You hesitated, then opened the passenger door and slid in, the worn leather of the seat cool against your thighs. The soft rock from the radio wrapped around you, a blanket of melancholy. You closed the door, and the world outside the car seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in the small, quiet space.
"Better?" he asked, not looking at you.
"Yeah. Thanks."
Silence settled, thick with unspoken history. You could feel the warmth from the car's heater starting to seep in, chasing away the chill, but doing nothing for the knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach.
He fiddled with the radio dial, searching for another station, and then gave up, letting the sad song play out.
"About that thing you said..." he began, then stopped, the sentence hanging in the air unfinished.
You braced yourself, waiting for a joke, a deflection, something to break this fragile moment.
"I was an asshole. In the library," he said finally, the words coming out in a rush, like he'd been holding them in for a long time. "What I said about... you know. Making a scene. And before that. All of it."
The apology was so unexpected, so direct, that it caught you completely off guard. You didn't speak yet, just let him keep going.
"I didn't really have a reason to care for much outside of myself and my own bullshit. For a while, I just... existed. Then I had to start cleaning up my own messes. Spray paint, fights, losing a girl I loved." He paused. "Turns out, being a dick all the time doesn't make for great company when you're all alone."
You watched him as he spoke.
"I probably said shit about a ton of different people at school and didn't think twice on how it made them feel. I mean, that's what we did. Tommy, Carol, me. It was... easy." He finally turned to face you, and the exhaustion in his eyes was matched by something you hadn't seen before in him. Humility. "I'm sorry for that. For making you the butt of some stupid joke more than once."
You didn’t really know what to say. A real apology. Not some backhanded 'I didn't mean to', but an actual, ownership of the words he spoke. For the past.
His words settled in the space between you, heavy and strange. You’d imagined this moment before, but differently—him cornering you, you delivering a withering comeback, winning some invisible war.
"For the record? Your little stunt in the locker room junior year?" He let out a small, breathy laugh, shaking his head like he couldn't quite believe it. "I deserved that. Kind of a dick move, but you..."
He paused, a flicker of something almost like admiration in his eyes. "You've got more nerve than I gave you credit for."
You managed a weak smile, the kind that doesn't reach your eyes. "It's either that or let it eat you alive."
Another stretch of silence. The song on the radio ended, and the DJ's voice came on, too cheerful for the mood in the car.
"I think that's when I realized how much I like that in a girl," he said, so softly you almost didn't catch it.
He was looking at you again, not with the old, assessing gaze that made you want to hide, but with a quiet, searching look. Like he was trying to fit the girl who left him naked in a locker room with the girl sitting in his car now.
"Yeah well," you said with sigh. "Nancy has that in spades. And she's pretty and kind to boot. So I can see why you're still pining."
It was a defense mechanism, a way to steer the conversation back to safer territory. To the girl he was supposed to be thinking about, not you.
His smile returned, but this one was tinged with sadness. "You two are more similar than you think."
"Yeah, I find that hard to believe."
"You're both stubborn." He counts on his finger. "You both care almost too much about people." He ticks another one off. "And you both have a hard time letting people in."
The accusation hung in the air, sharp and uncomfortably close to the truth. It felt like he was peeling back layers you hadn't given him permission to touch.
You opened your mouth, a retort ready, but nothing came out. What could you say? That he was right?
"Well excuse me for not being eager to let in the first person to make me feel ugly."
And there it was, the vulnerable truth. The reason you had played that game, the reason you built those walls, said out loud in the warm quiet of his car. You hadn't meant to say it. It just spilled out, raw and unvarnished.
His face crumpled. Not in a dramatic way, but a subtle shift, mostly behind his eyes.
You could just leave, or let it hang, change the subject. But something made you want to be honest. To get it out, a few feet away from the scene of the original crime.
"I was confused when you asked me to the dance. Like, we were friendly. You always came to all my birthday parties, even when boys thought it was weird to go to girls parties. But I never thought of you in that way. I don’t really think I thought much about boys in that way at all yet."
You tucked a piece of hair that tried to escape your updo before continuing.
"My mom bought me that pretty blue dress. And she did my hair. And when I went up to you and your friends..." You didn't want the tremble to show in your voice, but you couldn't stop it. "You made that cow sound. Like an animal. And they all laughed, telling me they couldn't believe I actually thought you wanted to go with me. And I just remember thinking...'Oh. I'm the joke.'"
The words hung in the quiet car, each one a memory you'd packed away so tightly it had left bruises on the inside. You didn't look at him, just stared at your own hands in your lap, knuckles white.
"I had to run back to my mom, who was luckily still in the parking lot. She asked what was wrong and I couldn't even talk. I told her I felt sick, and we left."
The tears that fell were silent, a single, hot trail down your cheek. You wiped it away quickly, angry at yourself for this. For letting him see.
"I don't even think little me knew there was something wrong with her until then."
You finally chanced a look at him.
His face was chalk white. The easy, exhausted slouch was gone, replaced by a rigid stillness. His eyes were fixed on the dashboard, but he wasn't seeing it. He was seeing you. A smaller version of you, in a blue dress, hope dying on your face.
"I..." he started, and the sound was so hollow it was almost a gasp.
"It's fine. It was like, forever ago." You tried to brush it off, pulling down the overhead mirror to check your reflection, to make sure your makeup hadn't run. You were trying to rebuild the wall he'd just seen crumble.
"It's not fine," he said, the words barely audible. He finally looked at you, and the guilt in his eyes was just another thing you had never seen on him before. "I don't even remember why I did it. I remember telling Tommy H I had asked you to the dance and he just... lost it. And it was easier to go along with it than to be the one on the receiving end. I was a coward. I wanted people to like me. I wanted to be...popular."
He said the word like it felt embarssing on his tongue. He wasn't making excuses. He was dissecting a wound, and you were forced to watch.
"So I fixed it by telling them I only asked you as a joke. So I was the funny guy. The cool guy." He looked away from you, staring out the windshield at the dark, empty parking lot. "I didn't think about you. Not once. And that's... that's worse, isn't it? That I made you feel...that way... and I didn't even think about it."
The quiet confession was heavier than any apology he could have made. You could feel the weight of it pressing down on the worn upholstery of the BMW, on the fragile silence between you.
You straightened up in the seat, dabbing under your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. "Well, now you know," you said, your voice tight.
His hand came to your shoulder tentatively, like he was afraid you might bolt.
"You were never ugly."
His touch was light, barely there, but it sent a jolt through you.
"I was a scared little shit who said something cruel because I was a coward. That's all that was." His thumb brushed a small circle on your shoulder. A hesitant, seeking gesture. "I'm sorry. For that. And for everything else I did that made you feel like you weren't... like you weren't good enough."
The dam you'd built around that memory for all those years finally broke. A choked sob escaped you, messy and undignified.
Before you could process it, he was unbuckling his seatbelt, shuffling awkwardly in the driver's seat to get closer. He hesitated for a second, then wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a clumsy, one-sided hug.
It was stiff and awkward, the angle all wrong in the small car.
"I meant it... in the locker room." His voice was a whisper, muffled a little by your hair as he settled against you. "When I said you were beautiful. It wasn't a line. I was an ass, but that part... that was true."
The words washed over you, a confusing mix of balm and salt. He was apologizing for the ugliest thing he'd ever done to you while simultaneously resurrecting the memory of the most confusing, empowering, and mortifying moment you two had ever shared.
"I almost didn't go through with it. Taking your shorts." You said through the tears, the confession feeling like a surrender. "You were just... so gentle. For a second. When you pushed my hair back. I thought maybe..."
You didn't finish. You didn't know what you'd thought. Maybe you thought he wasn't the monster you'd built him up to be.
"I mean I definitely wasn't going to go down on you either." You say with a watery laugh that sounds more like a hiccup.
He let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. "Figured as much." He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you. His thumb came up to wipe a stray tear from your cheek. "I was fucking terrified, if that means anything."
"When you were left there naked?"
"No," he said, shaking his head slowly, the words coming out almost like he was embarassed to say them. "When you got on your knees."
That admission hung in the air, a strange, surprising reversal of the power dynamic you thought you understood. You'd been so focused on your own performance, your own revenge, you hadn't stopped to consider what was happening behind his cocky facade.
"Oh," you managed, the word small.
"Yeah," he said, a faint, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. "I mean I had, you know, had sex before. But uh, not like... in such a public place, and definitely not... you were just... you were so confident. And I guess, so was I, in a different way. But I didn't know what the hell I was doing."
You raised an eyebrow at him. "Lisa P gave you a blowjob in the janitor's closet sophomore year."
He actully let out a laugh at that. "You believe everything you hear?" He shook his head. "God, no. That was all Tommy. I just let him say it because it was easier. Easier than admitting she changed her mind as soon as she, uh...saw it." He mumbled the last part.
You had a sudden flashback to your thought in the locker room:
'Well, shit. Rumors can be true sometimes...'
A small, watery laugh escaped you, surprising you both. The absurdity of the situation, of years of misunderstanding and fabricated bravado, crashed over you. You two were just kids, fumbling in the dark, pretending to know what you were doing. You weren't some mastermind of revenge that day. You were a scared girl with a clever idea, and he was a scared boy whose armor had dents in it.
"Oh, that's funny to you? The one time I'm being honest about my penis?" He was teasing, but it was gentle. A new kind of teasing, one that included you in the joke instead of making you the punchline.
"Don't say penis," you managed, wiping your damp cheeks. "It's a terrible word."
"What should I say then? My manhood? My johnson?" He was grinning now, a grin that made your stomach do a slow flip.
"Just don't say it at all," you said, pushing lightly at his shoulder.
"Okay, okay," he conceded, still smiling. "No more talk about my... well, you know."
The comfortable silence that followed was a revelation. You weren't hiding. You weren't performing. You were just sitting in a car with Steve Harrington, a strange, new kind of normal settling over you.
"In Lisa P's defense, it is intimidating." You said suddenly, not looking at him.
"What is?"
"You know. The thing we're not talking about."
You felt the shift in him, the quick intake of breath. He was surprised. It was a dangerous admission, one that could give him a sliver of power back.
But he didn't take it. In fact, when you looked at him he almost seemed embarassed. "Thanks, I guess?"
It was your turn to grin. "Don't get a big head, Harrington. It's just an objective observation. Like noticing a building is tall."
He just laughed, a real, easy laugh that filled the car. "A building. Right."
"Yep. A very... architectural... building."
"Isn't every building 'architectural'?"
You were letting out the kind of laughter that felt like years of tension finally dissolving into the frosty air. The song on the radio changed, a slightly more upbeat track than before.
"You know," he said when the laughter subsided, "I'm glad you got in the car."
"Yeah, well. Don't get used to it."
"I won't," he said, but the way he was smiling made you think he might be hoping otherwise.
You heard the doors to the school burst open then, a flood of younger kids spilling out into the parking lot, their high-pitched chatter and laughter cutting through the quiet night.
You saw your sister looking for you. "I should go meet her so we can walk home."
He nodded, but he didn't look away. "Hey," he said, just as your hand touched the door handle.
You turned back to him.
"Can I..." He started, then stopped, searching for the words. "I can bring you guys home. Henderson's house is actually right near yours."
You didn't know which was more surprising, him offering a ride or him remembering where you live.
"Yeah...sure." You answer quietly, before buckling your seatbelt.
Steve pulls up to the doors and you wave your sister over.
After an explanation of your ride, Dustin Henderson runs over to the car and gets in the back after giving you a very confused look for being in the passenger seat.
"I'm at a dance for a few hours and you already got a girl in here? Jesus, Steve." Dustin says with an over dramatic sigh, and you fight a smile.
"Shut it, Henderson," Steve mutters, but without any real heat. "We're giving them a ride home."
The drive was short, filled with Dustin's chatter about how dancing with Nancy was apparently was "so cool" and some weird thing that happened with a compass. You didn't really follow, but you watched the way Steve listened, the way he nodded and asked real questions, the way he didn't talk down to the kid.
Steve pulled up to Dustin's house first. The kid unbuckled, then turned to you, his eyes wide with a sudden, fierce intensity. "Hey, you're the girl from the theater, right? The one who let us in to see 'Christine' without a parent?"
You blinked, surprised. "Uh, yeah. That's me." Steve gave you an eyebrow raise and you shrugged sheepishly. "I can't deny a horror fan."
"She's too cool for you." Dustin points to Steve as he opens his door to leave. Your sister giggles in the back seat. "See ya, Steve."
"Get outta here, Henderson," Steve grumbled, but he was smiling. The kid slammed the door, and you and your sister watched him run up to his front porch, a weird little flurry of curls and excitement.
Then it was just the three of you, the car feeling quiet without Dustin's energy.
Steve drove down the street and pulled into your driveway, your sister thanked him and ran inside, excited to tell your parents about the dance.
You sat there, not moving, the engine still rumbling a low, steady thrum beneath you. The porch light was on, a warm, inviting glow against the dark of the evening.
"She looks a lot like you. When you were little, I mean," he said quietly.
You didn't answer, just stared at the house, at the life you were about to walk back into.
He turned in his seat, looking at you fully. The streetlight caught the profile of his face, highlighting the new lines of exhaustion and a depth that hadn't been there a year ago. "I know this was weird."
"A little," you admitted, finally turning to look at him. The distance between the two front seats felt both vast and infinitely small.
"Henderson is right though. You are way too cool for me. He's got good taste," he says with a smile.
You couldn't help but mirror it, a small, tentative curve of your lips. "Like I said, don't get a big head about it. I've been told my taste is questionable."
"I'll risk it." He kept looking at you, and the air in the car grew thicker, charged with something that felt dangerously close to friendship.
"Goodnight, Steve." You say as you head out of the car.
You can see a small smile form, just at you saying his name. It was 'Harrington' ever since seventh grade. This was different.
"Night."
You shut the door and walked up your driveway, not looking back. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you until you disappeared inside.
1985 comes slow, then all at once.
Winter melts into a muddy spring, which blooms into a humid, unforgiving Hawkins summer.
You moved to working at the cineplex in the mall, unable to deny how much a raise would help you out.
Ever since that Snow Ball, you and Steve were friendly. Slowly but surely becoming more comfortable. You'd visit him at work, make fun of his uniform and his pathetic attempts at wooing the female race.
It wasn't until the beginning of July that you finally understood the weight Steve Harrington had been carrying all these years.
The mall fire cover up the late night news already started to spread and made you want to throw up. The fact that nobody but a few of you really understood the horrors that lurked under Hawkins. Monsters, other dimensions, the way loss followed these people around like ghosts.
You were in the Harrington's upstairs bathroom, cleaning up a very battered Steve. He almost looked like a cartoon, bloody and beaten in his stupid sailor outfit.
"I'm sorry." he mumbed as you cleaned his split lip.
You shook your head. "Don't. You don't have anything to apologize for."
"You shouldn't have had to learn about all this. You or Robin. Just gets you involved in all the bullshit."
"Hey," you say, tilting his chin up gently with your thumb. "None of that."
His brown eyes were so close to yours, you could see that they were more hazel. Even through the swelling and bruises, they held a universe of fear. Not just for himself, but everyone.
"You are... a mess." You say, and he cracks a weak smile.
"The ladies love a man in uniform."
"Not when it's covered in blood and spit." You quip back, putting the last bit of antiseptic on the cut above his eyebrow. "There. All done. Now get in the shower."
He raises an eyebrow and immediatley regrets it from the pain. "Trying to see my intimidating penis again?"
You move back so he can get up from the toilet he was sitting on. "I thought we agreed to never use that word."
"Penis? Or intimidating?" He says with a full grin now, leaning against the sink now.
"Ugh, just get in the shower. You reek."
He didn't say anything else, just smiled before shutting the door. You went downstairs, grabbing a bottle of water from the Harrington's impressively stocked refrigerator before going to the living room.
After you heard the shower stop you heard your name.
"Where are you?" A concerned Steve yelled from upstairs.
You went to the foot of the stairs to see him in just a towel at the top of the stairs.
"I'm down here, why?" You said, trying to keep your gaze from dipping. "Did you fall?"
"No...I just...thought you'd be in my room."
"Well, that's presumptuous. I'm a proper lady, Steven." You reply, and you can't hide the small smirk on your face.
"You're wearing a 'The Thing' t-shirt with ketchup on it," he says with a pointed look from the top of the stairs. "I think we've moved past proper."
"I actually think that's your blood… Whatever," you say, taking a swig of your water.
"Can you just... come up?" His voice is smaller now. "Please."
You sigh, capping the bottle. "Just be decent by the time I get in there."
He gives a small smile and pads to his room. You walk up the stairs slowly, giving him enough time to change.
When you reach his door and knock a little he tells you to come in.
It's very... plaid. And you say as much.
"Yeah, well, I promise I didn't pick it out. My dad did. So what does that say about him?"
You decide to not unpack that, instead sitting on the edge of his bed. You knew enough about Steve's parents to have a reasonable amount of distaste.
He's standing by his closet, in a pair of sweats and no shirt, pulling on a clean Hawkins High t-shirt. You've seen him shirtless before. In the locker room, obviously. But this is different. There's no posturing, no performance. He's just a guy. A guy who almost died.
"You want something to sleep in?" He asks, turning to you.
You feel your eyes widen before you even realize it at the assumption. "What?" The word comes out sharper than you mean it to. "I'm not sleeping over."
His expression falters, the casual confidence draining from his face. "Oh. Right. I just... it's late. And it's dark. I just figured you wouldn't want to..."
"Walk home by myself after I just spent the last hour cleaning your blood off my hands?" You finish for him, a familiar acid starting to burn in your stomach.
He says your name low and gentle. "Just... go take a shower. And then I can, fill in all the gaps from the past couple years, okay? God knows I'm not gonna sleep tonight."
"Yeah well, you probably have a concussion so you really shouldn't fall asleep anyway."
"Wouldn't be my first." He grimaces and you frown. "Really, just go shower. I'll grab you some clothes."
You sigh but eventually nod, retreating to the bathroom.
The steam fills the small room, clouding the mirror and beading on the tile. You stand under the hot spray, letting it wash over you, trying to scrub away the image of him so broken and bloodied. You wash the smell of antiseptic and fear from your skin, the phantom sensation of his split lip and black eye under your fingertips. The image of Billy Hargrove getting pierced through the torso over and over. That look on that little girl's face when she found out the chief was dead.
You let the tears fall as the water rushes over you, silent and hidden.
When you get out, you wrap yourself in a towel, feeling oddly exposed as you walk down the hallway to Steve's room.
You knock before speaking. "Hey, can you turn around? The towel is... small."
It was another reminder of your body, of the way it had been a target long before tonight.
He turns to face his closet without a word. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid line of his spine. "Got you some stuff," he says, his voice muffled by the hangers. "It's just some sweats and a shirt. Should be comfortable."
You walk over to the bed, and snort. "These sweats aren't going to fit over my ass." You hold them up.
He shrugs, still not turning. "Guess you'll have to go commando."
The teasing lands all wrong. It's an echo of the old Steve, the one who reduced you to a body part, a punchline. The air in the room suddenly feels heavy, suffocating.
It's like he can tell and the flinch of his head reveals that.
"Hey, sorry, no... I didn't mean it like..."
"I know." You snap. You know he didn't, not really. But it's hard to remember that when the old wounds are still so fresh. "Just... turn back around."
He does, his back to you a silent apology. You dress quickly, the soft fabric of the Hawkins High shirt a strange comfort against your skin. Its stretched tight around your ample chest and you thank whoever is out there that it isn't white like his.
When you go to try on the sweats, you were correct, they don't go over your hips.
"It's a no go on the pants, sailor." You throw them and they land at his feet.
You go to your pile of clothes and just tug your underwear back on with a silent thank you to past you for not picking a thong this morning.
"I'm just gonna... sleep in my underwear, so... don't be weird when I walk out of here."
"Walk out?" He says, finally turning around. He looks genuinely confused.
"To go in the guest room?"
"The guest room?" He repeats, as if the words are in a foreign language. He's just standing there, in the middle of his perfectly plaid room, looking at you like you've suggested you go sleep on the roof. "The guest room is downstairs. On the other side of the house."
"So?"
"So... it's like one in the morning. There's been... you know. There's been monsters. And you're gonna sleep all the way over there by yourself?"
It occurs to you that this isn't about you.
He doesn't want to be alone. And he's too scared, or too proud, or too emotionally constipated to just say so. So he's framing it as a chivalrous offer, a way to protect you.
The realization is so startling that for a second you just stare at him. His eyes, still a little wild with the events of the night, flicker from your face to the door and back again.
"You want me to stay in here?" Its tentative, soft. Like you're trying to talk to a spooked animal.
He shrugs, a casual gesture that is anything but. "It's a big bed. And I'll... I'll sleep on the floor."
The offer is so ridiculous, so transparently false, that a strangled laugh escapes you. "You're not sleeping on your floor, Steve. You have a concussion. And like, more injuries than I can count."
"I'm fine," he insists, but the way he sways slightly on his feet betrays him.
"Right. 'Fine' is your middle name." You walk over to the window, needing a moment to just breathe, to look at something other than his face, which is a confusing canvas of bruises, exhaustion, and something else you can't quite name.
Its this moment where Steve lets his gaze drag down the form of your back to the curve of your ass as it's hugged by your underwear. He's grateful your back is turned as he realizes the shirt barely goes to you hips, probably pulled up by your huge–
Nope. Stop, Steve.
Unfortunately for him, that's when you turn around and he can see exactly what he was trying not to think about. The shape of your nipples are hard and pressed against the thin, worn cotton of the Hawkins High Tigers shirt.
He's a healthy (generally) red blooded American male. It's not his fault.
He looks away, cheeks flushing, as you cover your chest by crossing your arms, probably realizing at the same moment he did that you were on display.
"Just... get in the bed." You grumble, getting in on the side by his window, under the covers before he can see anymore of you.
He nods, shutting off the light and climbing in on the other side.
For the next hour or so, you both keep a safe distance as he tells you everything. About Will Byers. A girl with magic powers. The Upside Down. All of it.
"And that brings us to... tonight." He finishes, the silence in the room heavy.
"Jesus Christ, Steve." You say into the dark, processing it all. "I think I'd rather deal with you being an asshole again."
He lets out a weak chuckle. "Yeah, well. The asshole was the easier monster to deal with." He shifts in the bed, and the sheet rustles. "Are you scared?"
"Terrified," you admit, your voice barely a whisper. "But I'm also just... tired. It's a lot of weirdness to take in."
"Yeah."
You lay in the dark, the only light from a streetlamp filtering through the blinds, painting stripes across the ceiling. You're acutely aware of the space between you, of the sound of his breathing, of the strange intimacy of it all.
"Let's just... talk about anything else."
It was quiet for a moment before he came up with a topic.
"You remember sophomore year?" He says softly. "When Carol spread that rumor that you stuffed your bra?"
"This isn't a better topic..." You pull the covers around yourself more.
"No, just....hear me out." He says, sighing. "She did that cause I was dating her friend, Stacey, at the time. And Stacey wasn't as... endowed as you. And I stupidly said something about not every girl being as... 'naturally blessed' as you." He said the words as if they tasted bad. "And I was so used to Tommy and Carol laughing at my dumbass comments about girls, I didn't even think about how they would take it. And it ended up with Carol being a bitch."
"So let me get this straight," you say, your voice dangerously calm. "You made a comment that compared my body to your then-girlfriend's, your girlfriend got insecure, and Carol, in her infinite wisdom, spread a rumor that I stuffed my bra. To make your girlfriend feel better?"
When you put it like that, it sounded even more stupid.
"Yeah?"
You laughed and it was not what he expected. "Oh my god, that is so stupid. They literally saw me in the locker room for0 years. And they still had to make that up to make themselves feel better?"
"You're not mad?" He turned his head to look at you, a little bewildered.
You lay there, staring up at the ceiling still. "I learned from a very reliable source that everyone is insecure about their body in some way. I just... never thought anyone would be envious about what I have going on." You gesture vaguely to your chest.
It wasn't that you weren't mad. But it was so absurdly, ridiculously high school that it felt almost funny now. After monsters and alternate dimensions, a mean girl rumor from three years ago felt quaint.
He's quiet for a long moment, just the sound of his steady breathing next to you.
"Steve?" You whisper into the dark.
"Yeah?"
"Why did you... you know. Look."
You feel the bed shift as he turns onto his side, facing you. The stripes of light from the window cut across his face.
"At your boobs?"
"Don't say boobs."
"Alright, at your... chest?"
"Just answer the question."
He sighs, a long, slow exhalation. "I don't know. Cause I'm a guy? And you're a hot girl. And I have a pulse."
"I am not a 'hot girl'." You snort. "I'm the girl who got made fun of for her body for years."
"That wasn't because you weren't hot," he says, and the words are so serious it catches you off guard. "It was because you were. It's easier to make fun of something you're intimidated by. I'd know."
"My boobs intimidate you?" You finally turn, glaring at him a little.
"My penis intimidated Lisa P." He shrugs. "And you."
You were about to say something about that word again, but you let it go. "Yeah, well. That's different."
"How is it different?"
"Because," you start, your patience wearing thin. "You can hide your... thing. And most guys get praised for that anyway. I can't exactly stuff myself into another shape. It's always going to obvious I have a tummy, and thighs that touch, and huge boobs. And I can promise you, its not something I get praised for."
You hadn't realized how much you'd needed to say that until the words were out. You felt naked, more exposed than you had been standing in your underwear.
"Okay," he says quietly.
"Just... okay?"
"What do you want me to say?" he asks, and he sounds genuinely lost. "I don't know how many more different ways I can tell you you're attractive without just... saying it again. I'm not good at this stuff."
You sigh into the dark, the frustration ebbing away into a familiar exhaustion. "I don't know what I want you to say."
He shifts again, and this time the sheet rustles as he moves a fraction closer. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, a stark contrast to the cool air in the room.
"My mom... she's obsessed with being thin," he says, the admission coming out of nowhere, sudden and raw in the quiet space. "Always has been. We have these, like, weird calorie-counting scales in the kitchen. She's always on a new diet. For a while I just thought that was something all women cared about. That it was the most important thing."
He paused. "You never seemed to care. At least, not openly. And I think that... bugged people. Girls like Carol. And Stacey. Because they were all so busy caring. And guys were probably afraid of being attracted to anything that wasn't the 'norm'. So people tried to knock you down a peg. "
You didn't know what to say to that. You'd spent years feeling like the odd one out, the girl who didn't fit into the neat, slender boxes of Hawkins High. The idea that your lack of obsession was the very thing that made you a target was a bitter, twisted irony.
"I was always bigger than the other girls. Even in elementary school," you admitted into the dark. "By the time I was in sixth grade, I was already wearing a bra. And the boys noticed. And they'd snap the straps. Or make jokes. Or moo."
"Yeah well, they were simultaneously popping awkward boners about it too." He offered, and you laughed.
"I guess so. I don't think we ever really see our own bodies in a vacuum, do we?" You say, trailing off. "I just always saw myself through the eyes of others. As a joke, or a spectacle."
He was quiet again, mouth twisted like he was trying to decide whether to say something.
"The first time I had sex... I wasn't even sure if it counted."
You turn your head quickly, confused. "Uh, what?"
He runs a hand over his face, a gesture of pure exhaustion. "It was a party. At that one house, out by the quarry. Beginning of junior year? I was really drunk. And so was she. And it was over in like, two minutes. In the back of my car. And she... we couldn't... it didn't fully fit."
It was your turn to be quiet, processing. "Fit?" You ask carefully.
He let out a shaky breath. "I got like...halfway in before she said it was too much and we kinda just did it that way? And I just thought... that's it then. This is my life. I have this... reputation to uphold. And I can't even do the one thing I'm supposed to be good at."
You'd never thought about it like that. The pressure on him, the invisible script he was forced to follow. You'd only ever seen the glossy exterior, the effortless performance of King Steve.
"So that's actually how the rumors started. And then more girls wanted to find out if they could... you know." He says with a huff. "Which just made it feel more like a chore after a while. They didn't want me, they just wanted Steve Harrington and whatever came with that."
The confession was a gift. A fragile, broken thing laid bare in the dark between you. He wasn't talking about sex anymore. He was talking about being a product, a brand, a trophy to be won.
"So..." you start, your own voice barely a whisper. "I guess we have more in common than I thought."
He turns to look at you, trying to hide behind humor. "You have a comically large penis too?"
You let out a genuine laugh. "No, you idiot. The part where people see us as... things. As objects. As punchlines or trophies. I'm the 'chubby girl with the huge rack' and you're the 'stud with the... intimidating building.'"
The callback makes him smile. "Curvy. Voluptuous. A knockout," he says, the words coming softly. "There are a lot better words than ‘chubby’ to describe you."
You just look at him, watching the way the moonlight catches in his bruised eye. "And there are better words for you too."
The bed feels impossibly small and large all at once. There's miles of unspoken history between you, but the space where your shoulders are almost touching feels like it's buzzing with electricity.
He turns on his side, bracing himself up on an elbow, wincing slightly at the movement, before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His face is just as genuine as the first time he did it years ago.
"You're also smart, you know," he whispers. "You're way smarter than me. And you have better taste in movies. You're a good sister. You're kind of funny."
"Kind of?" you raise an eyebrow.
"You made fun of my uniform. That's a cheap shot, puts you down a few points," he teases gently. "But you're also brave. I mean, tonight... you didn't even hesitate. You just jumped in. You took care of me."
The compliment is so unexpected, so sincere, that it renders you speechless. His hand is still there, thumb brushing your cheek. You lean into the touch before you can stop yourself, a small, unconscious movement that feels both terrifying and right.
"And you're... so damn pretty," he says, the words barely audible, a confession meant for the dark. "I know I said it before. But it's not just a thing I say. It's the first thing I ever noticed about you, in third grade."
"Third grade?" you breathe, your heart hammering against your ribs.
"Your mom always put your hair in these two little braids," he says, a small smile touching his lips. "And you had this bright red coat. And you always had a book in your hands. You never played with the other kids at recess. You'd just sit by the wall and read. And I thought... I thought that was the coolest thing I'd ever seen. That someone could just be in their own little world like that."
You're staring at him, completely captivated. You don't remember being that girl, but he does. He remembers a version of you that existed long before you learned to be self-conscious, long before you learned to build walls around yourself.
"I guess, as you get older, and the social food chain comes into play... somewhere along the line admiration just turns to resentment. Jealousy." He sighs, the sound heavy in the room. "I wanted to be like you. I wanted to not care what people thought. But it was easier to make fun of you for it. To make fun of the parts of you that made you different."
Tears prick at your eyes again, hot and unexpected.
"Hey, no, don't..." he murmurs, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. He doesn't move his hand.
"I'm fine," you choke out, trying to pull it together. But it's too much. The honesty, the years of misunderstanding, the sheer, overwhelming closeness of him.
He looks at you like he doesn't deserve what he's about to do, but can't help but try. His hand on your face tightens, a barely-there pressure that holds you in place.
He leans in and gives you a moment to stop him. You don't. You can't.
Your lips met in the dark, a soft, tentative press that tasted a little like copper and antiseptic.
It didn't feel like the thrill of the locker room stunt. It wasn't frantic or performative. It was slow and a little clumsy, a gentle exploration. His lips were soft, and he kept his angle shallow, careful of his split lip. His thumb stroked your cheek, a steady, rhythmic motion that was more grounding than any kiss had a right to be.
He pulled back first, but only by an inch, just to search you eyes for more tears, for regret.
It wasn't like how you'd seen him kiss other girls before. Not in the hallways, not at parties. There was no showmanship, no possessive grab, no loud statement for an audience. This was just for you. A quiet apology, a fragile hope, all wrapped up in the gentle press of his mouth.
"So pretty," he whispered again, the words a warm puff of air against your lips.
You kissed him back then, deepening it slightly. A silent answer. An acknowledgment of the fragile truce being built in the space between you. He made a small, broken sound in the back of his throat, a mix of surprise and relief. His hands moved from your face to thread into your hair, careful not to pull. Your own hands found their way to his shoulders, feeling the solid warmth of him through the thin fabric of the t-shirt. You could feel the tension coiled there, the remnants of the night's terror still thrumming beneath his skin.
The kiss was a slow burn, a careful mapping of old hurts and new understandings. You could feel the slight give of his bottom lip where it was split, and you instinctively tilted your head to avoid it. He seemed to notice, pulling back with a wince.
"Sorry..." you whisper.
"No, it's fine," he said, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "I'm not made of glass."
You didn't know if that was true. You'd just spent an hour patching up the evidence that he was, in fact, very breakable.
"I'm not sure about that. You've just made a very strong case for having a very soft heart. And it seems your face took a pretty big hit protecting it." Your reply is soft, but it's more teasing than anything.
You can see the way that makes him smile. And then he's leaning in again, and this time the kiss is less careful, more certain. He's not asking anymore. He's telling you.
"I'm sorry." He murmurs between kisses. "That you get this version of me. The beat up one. The one who's seen too much."
You pull back, your hands still on his shoulders. You look at him, really look at him. At the purpling bruise around his eye, the scab on his lip, the way he holds himself like he's expecting another blow.
"I don't know," you say, your voice quiet but sure. "I think I prefer this one."
He searches your face, and now he's the one looking for the joke, the punchline. He doesn't find it. What he finds must be genuine, because the last of the tension seems to drain out of him. He lets out a long, shuddering breath and collapses back against the pillows, pulling you with him.
One of his hands migrates to your hip, as the other stays tangle in your hair. He kisses you again, and again, soft and sweet. One of your hands is on his chest, the other still gripping his shoulder. He's warm. So warm.
He shifts, deepening the kiss slightly, and the move brings his body flush against yours. You can feel the hard lines of him, the solid muscle of his chest and stomach. It's such a contrast to you own soft tummy and curves.
"I'm not squishing you right?" You manage to get out between kisses. Your old insecurities bubbled to the surface, desperate to ruin this.
The hand that was on your hip moves, sliding up your side, his thumb brushing against the underside of your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt. He doesn't answer verbally. He just kisses you, a slow, deliberate kiss that seems to say, I like the way you feel.
His touch is a question, not a demand. He waits, giving you space to pull away, to say no. You don't.
Instead, you arch into him, a small, silent invitation. He takes it, his hand closing over your breast, a perfect, warm weight that makes you gasp into his mouth.
"God, you're so soft," he murmurs, the words a raw confession.
It's not a line. It's not a backhanded compliment disguised as a critique. He says it like it's the most wonderful thing he's ever felt. He says it like you are a secret oasis he's stumbled upon in a desert of sharp edges and hard planes.
"Feel so good against me..." His other hand moves from your hair to your thigh, squeezing the flesh there, a possessive, appreciative grip. He pulls your leg over his hip, and the new angle presses you against him in a way that makes your breath hitch.
He's half-hard against your stomach, a solid proof of his desire. You feel a surge of power, a dizzying, heady rush. It was so much better than the confidence you felt years ago in the locker room. This feels real and right. You adjust so your thighs are straddling him and his hands waste no time moving straight to your ass, with his smirk against your lips.
"Yeah, really glad this didn't fit in my pants..." He grabs a handful and you let out a small laugh, smacking him in the shoulder.
"You're an idiot." You say, but there's no heat behind it.
"But you like it." He's grinning as he squeezes again.
"I'm re-evaluating." You tease back, and then his hands are moving up your back, under the shirt as you sit up.
"Yeah?" He looks up at you, big doe eyes despite the swelling, messy sunkissed hair, split lip. Even battered and bruised, he looks beautiful. "Can I see you?"
Its a soft whisper, this moment a distant cousin of his hands skimming your shirt by the pool. And even though the thought makes your stomach clench with a familiar, old anxiety, you nod.
Slowly, you pull the worn Hawkins Tigers shirt over your head. The air in the room is cool against your bare skin, and for a heart-stopping second, you are sixteen again, back against the lockers.
But this version of Steve looks at you like he's seeing art.
He's smiling. A small, genuine smile. He sits up, careful, his hands on your waist. He doesn't stare at your chest. His eyes are locked on yours as he leans in and kisses your stomach.
"Steve..." You squirm a little, your body used to hiding itself in initimate moments.
"Shhh," he murmurs against your skin, pressing another soft kiss just above your belly button. "Just... let me look."
You do. You let him look. You let him trace the stretch marks on your hips with a gentle thumb, let him map the constellations of your freckles with a fingertip. His big hands make a slow journey up to cup your breasts, his expression one of pure, unadulterated reverence.
"Perfect," he whispers. "They're so... perfect."
He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the valley between them, then to each nipple, which pebble in the cool air. You gasp, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
"Love the way you feel in my hands," he says, his voice a low rumble against your skin.
Every word is a direct assault on the arsenal of insecurities you've built over the years. Every touch is a demolition. He's not trying to fix you; he's trying to tell you you were never broken.
"I think they're too big... make my back hurt..." you manage to get out in gasps as he teases one nipple with his thumb, the other with his mouth. "And clothes don't fit right..."
His response is to pull back, to look you in the eye, a fire in his that you've never seen before. "Then I'll buy you clothes that fit." He says it like it's the simplest thing in the world. "And I'll give you back rubs for the rest of your life if it means I get to touch you like this."
He switches, giving the other breast the same attention, his tongue swirling a pattern that makes your toes curl. You can feel the heat building in your stomach, a slow, steady fire.
"Steve..." You whisper, your hips starting to move against him of their own accord. "I need..."
"I know," he says, one of his hands moving down to grip your hip again, stilling your movements. "Lemme take care of you."
He maneuvers you gently, laying you back against the pillows. He hovers over you for a second, just looking, a look so intense it feels like a physical touch. Then he's kissing you again, a thorough kiss that seems to go on forever.
His hands start a slow, lazy exploration, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips. He teases the waistband of your panties with a feather-light touch that makes you shiver. You trail your hand down to pull at his shirt, needing to feel more of him.
"Off," you demand, your voice husky.
He grins against your lips, pulling back just enough to grab the hem of the shirt and pull it over his head in one smooth motion. And there he is. All lean muscle and skin. More freckles than usual from the summer sun. Too your surprise, more chest hair than junior year too.
"God...," you breathe, your hands moving to trace the lines of his stomach.
His body is a new map of the night's violence. A large, mottled bruise spreads across one side of his ribs, another darkening on the point of his hip where he must have landed. You can see the faint scars of older injuries, a memory of a past fight, a past monster.
"It's not pretty," he says, insecurity in his voice. He tries to cover himself, a reflexive move, but you stop him, your hands pressing gently against his chest.
"I'm not looking for pretty," you say, your thumb tracing the line of a fading scar above his eyebrow. "I'm looking for you. And you're... alive. That's what's pretty."
"Right now, I can definitely agree with that."
You lean up, pressing a soft kiss to the worst of the bruises on his ribs. A gentle apology for the pain he's endured.
"You've gotta let me touch you, baby," he whispers against your hair, the pet name feeling surprisingly natural and unforced.
The word hangs in the air between you, a simple statement that changes everything. He's not asking for your body. He's asking for your trust. Your surrender. The thing he stole from you, he's now handing back to you, wrapped like a gift in a gentle plea.
"Okay," you whisper back. "Okay."
His hands resume their journey, but now there's a new purpose to them. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, the worn cotton stretching against his knuckles. He looks at you, a silent question in his eyes. You answer by lifting your hips, a small, decisive movement that allows him to pull them down and away.
He doesn't toss them aside. He folds them, almost absently, and places them on the nightstand, a small, domestic gesture that feels more intimate than anything that has happened so far.
Then he's looking at you. All of you. The light from outside cuts a diagonal across the bed, illuminating the soft curve of your stomach, the way your thighs press together, what lies between them. He doesn't stare. He looks, and you allow yourself to be looked at.
You've spent so many years feeling like an exhibit in a freak show. But here, in his stupid plaid bedroom, in the quiet dark of the night, you feel like a masterpiece finally being appreciated.
He softly taps your thigh, leaning over you to whisper in you ear. "Open up for me, baby."
His tone isn't demanding. He's not asking you to perform; he's asking you to share.
With a deep breath that feels like the first you've taken all night, you let your thighs fall open more.
His groan is soft, a sound that goes straight to your core as he looks at the most vulnerable part of you.
"Jesus Christ, look what you've been hiding."
It's crass and blunt and so undeniably him that it makes a real, bright laugh bubble up from your chest. His head snaps up, a sheepish grin spreading across his bruised face.
"What? Was that the wrong thing to say?"
"It was a terrible thing to say," you confirm, still laughing.
"But it made you laugh," he points out, looking proud of himself.
"It was a laugh of pity, Harrington." You tease, running your fingers through his already messy hair.
"So what's the right thing to say?" he asks, genuinely curious, his fingers tracing patterns on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, making you shiver. "Am I not allowed to tell you your pussy is pretty?"
"Pretty?" You repeat, almost suprised by the word he chose. You expected something else. Something cruder or more generic.
"Yeah, pretty. Its... soft. And pink. And you're so wet." He leans down and runs a single finger through your folds, gathering your arousal. He brings it to his lips, tasting you, and you watch, mesmerized as you feel your cheeks heat. "And sweet. So yeah. Pretty is a good word."
He's looking at you like you're a revelation, a secret he's just uncovered and wants to keep all to himself. He leans down, not to kiss your lips, but to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss right where you need him most.
His hazel eyes meet yours. His breath is warm on your clit when he speaks. "Can I taste you?" You just nod, unable to form words. He gives you one final smirk before he leans in to lap at you.
You've never had anyone do this before. He starts with soft kitten licks, exploring your folds, tasting you. His hands hold your soft thighs open, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there, a grounding touch. He takes his time, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you arch your back.
"Steve..." you breathe, your hands tangling in the sheets.
He hums against you, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through your entire body. He moves one of your thighs over his shoulder, the new angle allowing him to go deeper. His tongue finds your clit and begins to circle it, slow and steady.
"Fuck," you gasp, your hips bucking against his face.
He chuckles, a low, smug sound that would be annoying if it didn't feel so good. His hands are all over you now, one holding your hip, the other wandering up to toy with a nipple. The dual stimulation is overwhelming in the best way.
You're close, so close, the tension coiling in your stomach, your breath coming in short, sharp pants. He must feel it, because he doubles down, sucking your clit into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue. That's all it takes. The world whites out, your back arching off the bed as you finish with a cry of his name.
He works you through it, his tongue gentling as you ride out the waves of pleasure. When you finally come back to yourself, he's pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, looking up at you with those plush lips covered in you.
He crawls up your body, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You can taste yourself on him, a sweet, musky taste that makes you dizzy.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice soft.
You nod, still a little dazed. "No one's ever... done that for me before." The admission feels huge in the quiet room.
"Yeah?" He looks genuinely surprised, a flicker of something dark in his eyes. "Did you like it?"
You let out a breathy laugh. "What do you think?"
An unguarded grin that transforms his face. "Good." He settles next to you, props his head up on his hand, looking down at you as his other hand traces the curves of your body. "We don't have to do anything else you know. It's not like... its okay."
You become very aware of how hard he is through his sweats against your thigh. "Did you tell him that?"
"He has been known to be an idiot." He confirms with a small chuckle. "I don't wanna... rush this. Or fuck this up." He looks so earnest you feel your heart clench. "And also you called him intimidating, so..."
That coaxes another laugh out of you. "It was a joke, Steve."
"No, I know." He kisses your shoulder. "But I also want to be careful with you."
You're silent for a long moment, your hand resting on the warm, solid plane of his chest. "I want to," you say, the words quiet but sure. "I want to with you."
"Are you sure?" he asks, searching your face. "Wait... have you done this before?"
"Yeah...just..." you let out a deep breath before the emotional vulnerability. "Not like this. Where it...means something?"
His eyes soften at that. "Then we'll go slow."
He leans in, kissing you again, a slow, deep kiss that tastes of promise and everything you've been working toward. He tenses, then looks at you like he forgot a step. "This isn't just a one-time thing right? Because I can't go back to pretending like I don't want you. Haven't been able to for a while now."
Your breath hitches. "I don't want this to be a one-time thing."
"Okay." He lets out a breath he'd clearly been holding. "Okay." He kisses you again, deeper this time as your hands hook into his sweats. He lifts his hips, helping you pull them down. He wasn't wearing anything underneath.
You look at him, fully, and he's beautiful in the low light. He's long and thick, and the sight of him makes your own arousal spike again, a fresh wave of slick heat.
"Remember what you said about my pussy being pretty?" You whisper, a little awestruck.
He flushes, a deep pink that spreads down his chest. "Don't say stuff like that."
"Why not?" You reach out, wrapping your hand around him. He's velvety and hot, impossibly hard. "Not fair when it's turned around on you?"
"Something like that," he groans as you slowly stroke him.
"God, the way you look at me, Steve," you whisper. "No one's ever looked at me like that."
"How do they look at you?" he asks, his voice strained as you thumb the head of him, spreading the bead of pre-come.
"They don't," you say simply. "They look at my body. They don't look at me."
"Then they're all fucking idiots," he says, his breath hitching as your movements become a little more confident. "Every last one of them."
His hips jerk, pushing himself into your hand. One of his hands pushes your thigh over, fingers teasing your entrance, gathering the mess there.
"Gonna get you ready f'me," he groans, leaning in to press a kiss against the side of your breast. "Get you so wet."
You already are. He could slide into you right now and you wouldn't feel any pain, only a delicious stretch. But you let him play, let him explore. He pushes one finger inside, then another. He finds that spot inside you, the one that makes you see stars, and he rubs it, slow and deliberate.
"Gonna feel so good around me," he whispers against your skin. "You're gonna take me so well, aren't you?"
You can only nod, your hand still stroking him, your movements matching the rhythm of his fingers inside you. The room is filled with the sounds of your breathing, the slick sounds of your arousal, the quiet rustle of the sheets.
"Okay, okay..." He breathes out, gently moving your hand off of him. "Not gonna last if we keep this up."
He pulls his fingers out, and the sudden emptiness feels almost evil of him. Your pout catches his eye and he kisses you quickly before reaching over to grab a condom from his nightstand. "Gonna fix that pout real soon, baby."
You don't think you'll every get sick of how pet name word sounds coming from his lips. He fumbles with the wrapper, his hands shaking slightly. You take it from him, your own hands steady, and rip it open. You roll it down his length, your touch firm and sure, and he watches you, his eyes dark with a mix of awe and desire.
He positions himself over you, settling between your thighs. The head of him nudges against your entrance, and you gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders.
"I've got you, I've got you," he murmurs, lowering himself to press a soft kiss to your forehead. "Tell me if it's too much."
He pushes in, so slow it's almost torturous. He's a perfect, steady pressure, a delicious stretch that fills you up inch by inch. He's watching your face, his gaze intense, searching for any sign of discomfort.
You wonder if the faces you make are weird or unnattractive, but he only looks at you with reverence. "God, look at you..." he says, and you flush, the compliment both thrilling and mortifying. "So beautiful when you're all stretched out on my cock."
You can't help the laugh that bubbles out, a breathy, sound of surprise. He's bold, you'll give him that. But it's so authentic that you don't want him to be anyone else.
"You're almost there, pretty girl. You're doing so good." He's kissing the laugh from your lips. "Almost all the way in."
He bottoms out with a soft groan, and you both still for a moment, just breathing. The feeling is overwhelming, a fullness that is both a comfort and a challenge. He's a solid, heavy weight on top of you, his body a welcome anchor in the sea of strange events.
"Feel good? Am I hurting you?" he asks, pulling back just enough to look at you, his brows furrowed with concern.
"It feels... really good," you manage to say. "Just...gimme a minute..."
He moves a hand underneath you, resting it on the small of your back, a steadying presence. "All the time you need."
You take a deep breath, focusing on the feeling of him inside you, the way he's looking at you, the safe, quiet reality of his room. You experimentally roll your hips, a small, tentative movement that makes him gasp.
"Mmm, those hips of yours are dangerous..." He says, eyes closing as he pushes a stray piece of hair from your face. "Knew I liked them for a reason."
He was telling you something he wanted you to know. So you did it again. And again, establishing a rhythm that was slow and lazy. He starts to move with you, a counterpoint to your movements, and soon you're both lost in it, a slow, deliberate dance in the dark.
"My bossy girl, setting the pace. I like it." He pants a bit, sweat starting to form on his brow. "C'mon, baby, tell me what you need."
You can't find the words. You just tighten your legs around him, pulling him deeper, a silent plea for more. He seems to understand, because he pulls one of your thighs over his hip, changing the angle, and you both groan at the new, deeper contact.
"Fuck," he breathes, his forehead resting against yours. "You feel like... heaven. Softest thighs I've ever felt. Wettest pussy I've ever been in."
The crude praise is so raw, so unfiltered, that it makes you clench around him. He hisses, his hips stuttering.
"You like that, don't you?" he asks, a smug grin spreading across his face. "You like hearing how good you feel. Y'deserve to know, baby."
It's an offhand comment, a bit of dirty talk that in any other context might have made you cringe. But now, in the quiet dark of his room, it feels like a revelation. He's not just tolerating your body; he's celebrating it.
The coil in your stomach tightens, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak, as he picks up the pace. The angle and the speed makes your breasts bounce in a way that makes you want to cover up. You move your hands from his shoulders, but he doesn't let you hide from him.
The hand not holding your thigh is quick to move your arms above your head, pinning them to the pillow. "No. Need to see you."
You whine, a mix of pleasure and the old, familiar shame. You can't help the way your body moves. "I don't... they move too much."
He leans down, pressing a soft, messy kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Please, baby. Your tits look so good when they bounce for me."
It's a struggle. A battle between the years of conditioning that tells you to hide and the overwhelming pleasure of the present, of the way he's looking at you, like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. The pleasure wins.
"Steve..." you gasp, your back arching, pushing your breasts closer to him.
"That's it..." he leans down, thrusting harder as his lips and tongue shower your chest with messy attention. "Prettiest tits I've ever seen. All for me."
You believe him. In this room, in this bed, you believe him.
He's close, you can feel it in the way his movements become more erratic, in the desperate, breathy sounds he's making against your skin. It all feels so good you don't even register his release on your arms until his thumb is circling your clit with purpose.
"You can give me another one, can't you baby?" His husky voice makes you clench. "Just one more for me? You look so pretty when you come for me."
You're already teetering on the edge, and the added stimulation is enough to send you over.
"That's it, honey. Drench me." He groans, kissing you through the aftershocks of your second orgasm of the night.
No one has every made you come this much in one night. Hell, in one lifetime. You can hear how wet you are as he chases his own release, never stopping the rhythm that got you there.
"Hear that baby? That's all for me, huh? God, I'm so lucky..." He grunts, the sounds he makes getting more desperate as he starts to lose the steady thrusts he had.
"Steve..." you moan as he presses as deep as he can, filling you completely as he comes with a choked groan of your name.
The room is filled with the sounds of your heavy breathing. He's still inside you, a weight that anchors you to the earth. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, and you can feel the frantic flutter of his pulse against your skin. The way his lips move to give the softest, sleepiest kisses to your neck, like he can't even help it.
For a long moment, you just lay there, two bodies tangled together in the dark, the world outside this room ceasing to exist. You can feel the gentle, slowing beat of his heart against your chest, the steady rhythm that lulls you into a state of drowsy contentment.
He shifts, pulling out of you slowly, the loss of him an unexpected ache. He deals with the condom, his movements a little clumsy, before collapsing back onto the bed, pulling you into the circle of his arms.
When you look up at him, he's already looking at you, a small, soft smile playing on his lips. He brushes a stray strand of hair away from your face, almost a signature move just for you at this point, his touch impossibly gentle. The fight, the fear, the years of misunderstandings— all of it seems to have melted away, leaving only this quiet, tender moment.
"You're... wow," he whispers, the word a puff of air against your forehead. "I do not deserve you."
"I'm too cool for you. Dustin said so." You give a weak tease.
"Don't bring up the kids," he groans dramatically. "I can't be vulnerable if I'm thinking about Henderson's smug face."
You let out a small laugh, burying your face in his chest. He gives a squeeze before pulling back a lttle.
"Gotta get you cleaned up." The words are punctuated by a kiss to your hair as he gets up to get a wash cloth from the bathroom down the hall. You sit up a little to watch him leave. He didn't bother with any clothes, and your eyes catch the way the bruise on his hip is deep purple. He moves with a slight limp. He said he was fine, but he isn't. Not really. But when he comes back, he's smiling that familiar Harrington grin.
He's gentle as he cleans you up, his movements slow, deliberate.
"I know you were looking at my ass when I left the room, perv." He smirks as he finishes up.
"I was looking at the bruise on your hip, actually." You respond, trying to pull the sheet over your naked form. "The ass is just a bonus."
The smile on Steve's face softens at that, before he comes back to lay down, pulling the both of you under the covers. He's facing you, but you can feel him still. It's a lot of feeling.
"I'll be okay." He says, as if reading your mind.
"That's not what I'm worried about." You admit. "I'm worried about what happens tomorrow."
"Tomorrow, we wake up and I take you home all sneaky so your parents don't have a collective aneurysm. And then I pick you up later and we go check on some people." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Because now you're my girlfriend. And you're part of this. As much as I didn't ever want you to have to deal with it."
"What?"
"I mean, yeah that... human flesh monster is dead or whatever, but that doesn't mean its over. Theres the emotional part too, I mean Max saw–"
"No, that part I get, Steve." You cut him off, not wanting to think about the horrors a thirteen year old girl saw tonight. "The other part."
"The part about your parents? I mean they've always liked me, so I really don't want to get on their bad side now--"
"The 'girlfriend' part, Steve!" You raise your voice just a bit, which is enough to make him stop and look down at you. "You don't just... declare that. You're supposed to ask."
"Oh." He blinks. "Right. Well. Can I... be your boyfriend?"
The question is so stilted, so formal and awkward coming from him, a boy who has probably never had to ask for anything in his life, that it makes a smile twitch at your lips.
"Is that really your pitch?"
"Were the orgasms not enough? Because I can give you a third. I'm a giver." He wiggles his eyebrows, a caricature of suave confidence that feels so much more like the Steve Harrington you know. It's a shield, you realize. A way to deflect from the terrifying vulnerability of what he just asked.
Your laugh is bright and clear this time. "No. The orgasms were... a significant contributing factor. But I want to hear you ask me for real."
He looks at you a little confused, so you clarify despite the embarassment. "I've never been someone's girlfriend before. I want it to be... special."
The words hang in the air, and you're suddenly sure you've said too much. Too much honesty, too much want. He's going to laugh. He's going to make a joke and this fragile thing between you will shatter.
But he doesn't. His expression softens, the cocky smirk falling away.
He gets out of the bed, fully nude still, hands on his hips. "Okay, you're right." He paces to the end of the bed and back, a nervous energy thrumming through him. "Right. A pitch."
He's thinking. You can see the gears turning in that pretty head of his. He looks down at you, and you've pulled the sheet up to your chin. "Alright. Can you... not do that? Makes me feel like you're hiding from me again."
So you let the sheet fall a little, to just above your breasts. The blush on your face is a permanent fixture now.
"Okay," he starts, running a hand through his messy hair. "Okay. We're going to do it right."
He goes down on one knee by the bed, the move surprisingly graceful for a boy so battered. He takes your hand, his grip firm and warm.
"I want to take you on dates. To the movies, and to the diner, and to the fucking moon if you'll let me." He looks up at you, his hazel eyes impossibly earnest. "I want to hold your hand when we walk downtown and listen to all my shitty old friends make fun of me for being 'pussy-whipped'. I want to drive you to work every single day. You know, once we find new jobs."
He pauses, taking a breath, and you can see the nerves in the way his thumb strokes your knuckles. "I've... I've been kind of an asshole to you for a long, long time. And I know I can't just take that back. But I want to spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it. I want to protect you from monsters, and from mean girls, and from any old version of myself. Not that you need it, you're very headstrong." He gives a small smile. "I want to know what your favorite book is, and what you're afraid of. I want to know what makes you cry and what makes you laugh so hard you snort."
He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your hand. "So... will you... let me be your boyfriend?"
"You did all this while naked," is the first thing out of your mouth, a little breathless. The sincerity of his speech was overwhelming, and your brain latched onto the one detail it could process without short-circuiting.
He looks down at himself, a flicker of surprise on his face as if he'd forgotten he wasn't wearing any clothes. "Well, it's... symbolic. Of my vulnerability."
"It's symbolic of your exhibitionism."
"Let's call it both," he says with a grin, but then he sobers, his gaze fixed on yours. He's waiting. He's really, truly waiting for an answer.
You can feel the ghost of the old you, telling you to retreat. To push down all the vulnerability. To put the walls back up.
But, stronger, is the lingering presence of another old you.
The little girl with two braids and a red jacket. The little girl who remembers the doe eyed boy who gave her a Valentine every year. The boy who came to every birthday party. Who listened to her talk about books just to hear her voice.
It's clear to you in that moment, that she knew more than she realized.
She knew that vulnerability was far more powerful than closing yourself off.
"Okay," you say, the word a quiet whisper in the dim room. "Yes."
His whole body seems to relax, a wave of relief washing over him so palpable you can feel it. He leans up, bracing a hand on the mattress beside you, and kisses you. It's not a kiss of passion or desire, but one of profound, overwhelming gratitude.
"I'm going to be so good to you," he whispers against your lips. "I promise."
You believe him.
He climbs back into bed, pulling the covers over both of you. He wraps himself around you, his body a warm, solid presence that chases away the last of the lingering fear from the night. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart.
And from then on, you're just that. A boy and a girl, tangled together in a small town, trying to navigate the messy, complicated business of growing up. And sometimes interdimensional warfare.
He doesn't take you to the moon. But he does take you to the movies. He pays for your ticket and buys you a tub of popcorn so large you can barely wrap your hands around it. He doesn't try to put his arm around you in the theater. Instead, he holds your hand, his thumb stroking the back of it in a slow, steady rhythm that is more intimate than any public display of affection.
He takes you to the diner, and you sit in a sticky vinyl booth, sharing a chocolate milkshake with two straws without caring who sees.
He doesn't just listen when you talk; he asks questions. He wants to know why you like the books you like, what you think about the ending of the last one you read. He remembers the little things, like how you like extra pickles on your burger and how you hate when your ice cream gets too melted.
He's Steve Harrington, and he's your boyfriend. It feels like a dream.
But you no longer wait for the alarm to go off or the other shoe to drop. The nightmare is over. The one you had of being back in that decorated gymnasium is gone, because you know that the boy in that room is not the same boy holding your hand. He's not. He's grown, just like you have.
"You're thinking too loud," Steve murmurs one afternoon, pulling you from your thoughts. You're laying on his bedroom floor in the apartment he shares with Robin, a tangled mess of limbs on a worn-out blanket. The radio is playing low, some song you don't recognize but that has a good beat. His fingers are tracing lazy patterns on your stomach, just beneath the hem of your shirt.
"Sorry," you say, your voice a little breathless.
"What's the dial in there turned to?" He pokes your temple.
"The future."
He props himself up on an elbow, looking down at you, a strand of his hair falling into his eyes. "That's a big one. Any conclusions?"
"Just one," you say, reaching up to brush the hair from his face. "I think I'd like to see what mine looks like with you in it."
A slow, beautiful smile spreads across his face. He leans down and kisses you, a soft, lingering kiss that tastes of sunshine and the cherry cola you were both drinking.
"Yeah," he says, his forehead resting against yours. "We have that in common."
i really hope you guys like this, it was vulnerable for me to post too.
I want to start a taglist for each of the characters i write for, so comment if you'd like to be a part of the Steve one!
they injected me with mental illness when i was a baby because they didn't like that i radiated moonlight and had stars inside my eyes. they were jealous of me.
With how dead tumblr is, you’d need a solid base on another platform for an OF to take off. Like a popular TikTok, insta or twitter with a decently high average viewership to market it too.
Yeah unfortunately, Tumblr was so easy, and at this point it’s just not worth it to try and gain a base on other platforms. I’ve tried, and the market is just too over saturated now. And tumblr was private, I was able to keep my SW a secret from real life people I know, not so much possible with other platforms
Have you thought about making your subscription free and doing pay walls on OF? Or setting up a manyvids store? That way you operate more as like a clipstore and you wouldn’t need to be rolling out stuff 24/7 to keep up with subscription needs. Just an idea 😈
I’ve definitely thought about it. Idk I think the older I get the less appealing it is unless I really feel like it’s worth it. I’m not sure it’s worth it anymore. I had such a large following for it in 2018 but it’s dwindled heavy now.
I don’t know I’ve been thinking about it but it’s an incredibly over saturated market now. Back in 2018 it was easy and took little effort but it’s not so simple anymore unfortunately. I do still do custom content for people if I feel it’s worth it.
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