steve harrington is the kind of guy who doesn’t even notice your acne at first. he had been too busy memorising the colour of your eyes and how they lit up when you smiled.
you were a regular in family video. you didn’t know it but steve would look forward to your visits every week. he would see your little red vw beetle pull up into the car park and immediately check his reflection in the mirror he kept under the counter for ‘emergencies’. robin would laugh at him—but he couldn’t help it. steve harrington loved a pretty girl who laughed at his jokes.
when steve asked you out, he did it so causally it went over your head.
“so, fast times—wanna watch it at your place or mine?”
you looked at him blankly. steve smiled at you like his heart wasn’t racing in his chest.
please don’t have a boyfriend. please don’t have a boyfriend.
“oh,” you say, blinking slowly as your face burns. you weren’t too sure what to do in this scenario. guys like steve harrington didn’t ask you out. “i—um—”
“too forward?” steve asks, watching you closely. “how about dinner first?”
“y-you’re joking, right?” you ask because it wasn’t exactly a foreign concept for guys to be joking about asking you out.
but to your surprise, steve looks a little offended and shakes his head. “no. why would i be joking?”
and so you agree to dinner.
then you agree to a second date.
and third.
and a fourth.
before you knew it, steve harrington was dropping round flowers to your house just because. taking you out to lovers lake for a picnic and letting you win at bowling.
steve really liked you. a lot.
and so, when you called to cancel date number six. he got worried.
“what’s wrong?” he asks you gently over the phone, his hands clutching the bouquet of sunflowers he had already bought.
“i’m just—i’m not well,” you tell him.
“want me to come over?” he asks—the selfish part of him hopes you say yes. he didn’t mind the idea of taking care of you.
“no,” you say—too quickly. steve feels his stomach sink. “i’m sorry, steve.”
steve doesn’t push. doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable even though he feels that feeling of dread in his stomach. worried that he had already somehow screwed up a good thing by being too much—was it the flowers? the feeding you chocolate covered strawberries at the picnic? were you offended that he let you win at bowling?
he leaves the sunflowers outside your door anyway.
you cancel date number seven a few days later too.
this time—steve doesn’t take no for an answer. he shows up with another bouquet of flowers (chrysanthemums this time—his mum had said they were good for healing or some shit), some lumpy tomato soup that he had made and a few tapes he had stolen from family video. fully prepared to play nurse for the evening.
he knocks. waits patiently.
⸝⸝⸝♡
the honest truth of the cancelled dates? your acne had flared up. bad. you weren’t sure what it was, you never were but one simple spot had sent you into a spiral a few days ago. the night of date number six. you hadn’t wanted to cancel over a stupid spot but over the course of the day, the red, under the skin lump had only gotten worse. you knew it become clear it would be more difficult to cover with makeup. but you tried anyway, ending up in tears and calling steve last minute to cancel the date, mumbling some excuse about being unwell.
you went to the pharmacy, asked for anything that would help clear your skin. the same routine that never seemed to work but you were still desperate to keep trying. they promised it would help.
but it didn’t. what made matters worse was the fact that your skin didn’t seem to like what the pharmacist had given you. in fact, even more angry spots had appeared. even some whiteheads. even worse, a mix of both. no amount of makeup could cover it—the redness too red and the spots too noticeable. on top of already existing acne scars? well—it was a significant hit to your confidence. you cancelled date number seven.
⸝⸝⸝♡
you answer the door because you expected it to be your neighbour—the one who always had parcels turning up when they were at work and currently had a pile of four parcels perched on your coffee table. your neighbour had seen you without makeup plenty of times and wasn’t the type to comment on either your acne or your scarring and so, you didn’t think about it.
but when you opened the door and saw steve—you froze.
but when steve sees you—he smiles.
“hey, um, sorry for showing up like this. but i—i hated the thought of you not feeling well all alone so i bought you flowers. made you soup too but that’s um, it’s not great.”
you blink, eyes flickering down to the flowers—the takeaway tub full of what looked like tomato soup and some vhs tapes tucked under his arm.
“oh,” you say, face burning as you suddenly feel full of shame for lying to him—he had made you soup. “that’s um, that’s really nice of you.”
he looks at you then and you know that he can see your acne—clear as day. he doesn’t say anything. you’re not sure whether that makes you feel worse or not.
but he doesn’t look away. doesn’t look disgusted. just concerned. that makes your stomach feel funny.
“you wanna come in?” you ask him quietly.
he nods—following you inside. hands you the flowers carefully.
it’s quiet then between the two of you. him staring at you, you staring at the soup in his hands.
“i wasn’t really sick,” you tell him finally. you thought he deserved the truth—he did make you lumpy soup after all.
“i figured,” steve nods quietly, honeyed brown eyes looking at you.
you shift on the balls of your feet. you felt uncomfortable with steve looking at you—with him seeing you bare faced for the first time, in the midst of a bad flare up. you could feel yourself getting upset, fingers twitching around the stems of the chrysanthemums—hating that you felt so ugly in front of steve.
“i just—” you begin, your voice breaking a little as your head bows to focus on the flowers in your hands so he couldn’t see your eyes welling up with tears. “i didn’t want you to—to see—”
“hey, hey,” steve hushes you gently, stepping forward, tub of soup being abandoned on your coffee table beside your neighbours’ pile of parcels. “you think i care about some spots—”
“but it’s not just some spots, steve,” you cut across him, tears beginning to fall. “it’s—it’s my face and i wish i didn’t care about it but i do. i really care and i hate that it’s so out of my control and i hate the way it makes me look."
"but you're beautiful," steve says simply—as though it was an undisputed fact. you hate that you don't believe him. you wish you could. but years of formative comments lived under your skin—taking refuge in your cells. made you instinctively think that he was lying to you.
"you don't have to say that to make me feel better," you murmur quietly, eyes flickering away from him.
but steve doesn’t back down, stepping closer to you and gently cupping your jaw, careful not to touch those angry spots—not because he was disgusted or repulsed by them but because he didn’t want to irritate your skin anymore.
“i’m not just saying it to make you feel better,” he tells you so certainly that it makes your throat constrict. “i’m saying it because you are. you. are. beautiful. spots and all. hell, you could have a million spots on your face and i’d still think you were beautiful.”
“steve—”
“—no, let me finish,” steve looks at you then, moving even closer to you, one hand cupping your jaw and the other finding home on your waist. “you wanna know what the first thing i noticed about you was? it wasn’t your skin or whatever you were worried about me seeing—it was your smile. fucking best smile i’ve ever seen by a long shot. lit up the whole damn store, and those eyes? oh, honey, they’re the prettiest eyes i’ve seen.”
“i swear. you think i wouldn’t have been flirting with you for as long as i did if i wasn’t attracted to you? you think i wouldn’t have been taking things slow with you if i didn’t care? because i do. a lot. and no spot, no scar, nothing is going to stop me wanting you.”
the conviction, the certainty in his voice makes your knees feel weak. makes you feel a little dizzy. a little lightheaded. makes the tears in your eyes hard to hold back—not because you were sad but because no one had ever cared enough to make you feel beautiful before. but steve harrington did. and it didn’t fix things—didn’t cure you of your insecurity but it certainly soothed the ache in your chest.
steve wipes away your tears as they fall, ducking his head down to kiss your nose.
“that wasn’t supposed to make you cry,” he says gently. “should i have made a dirty joke to lower the tone a little?”
you laugh and when you laugh—steve smiles. wanting to record the sound and save it for a rainy day.
“you’re ridiculous,” you tell him—hoping he sees the words you couldn’t say. not yet.
thank you for seeing me.
“yeah, well,” steve murmurs, pressing another kiss to your nose. “you’re ridiculous for thinking i cared anything other than your ass in those jeans.”
“steve!” you squeal, face feeling warm as he laughs—bright and loud.
“see—you love when i lower the tone,” he murmurs, pulling away from you finally. “now let’s try some of this soup. i need to see if it’s as bad as it looks.”
and with that—steve was walking into your kitchen as though he already owned the place. as though he hadn’t just tilted your entire world on its axis with that little speech.
dividers by the lovely @zclhs
💌 day five of the valentines day + 500 followers special
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this blurb is very personal to me because i have acne and i’m having a bad flare up at the minute so i needed to write this completely selfishly. not everyone’s experiences of acne will be the same but this is just based off some of mine!!
send good skin vibes my way!!
also anyone who saw me accidentally post this on tuesday please enjoy the finished verison 🫢
let me know if anyone would be interested in a fic with a reader with acne!! i’m open to the idea as i don’t think i have read many
also this picture of steve might be my favourite he’s so fucking beautiful
