‘STRIKE I’
𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐓𝐎𝐍 𝐗 𝐅𝐄𝐌 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑
plot summary: You end up going to Tina’s Halloween party—sex, drugs, partying teenage dirtbags all comes crashing down with one interaction with Billy—instead Steve seeks out for your comfort.
warnings: minors DNI, smut, unwanted touch, arguing, drinking, physical aggression, m!ssionary, hair pulling, degradation, praise, b!ttoming out, unprotected p n v, breeding kink (sorta), filthy talk/language. (Lmk if I missed anything)
A/N: definitely not proofread, made this on a whim waiting for the season 5 finale. IM PRAYING they don’t kill dada steve, feel free to flood me with requests for more stranger things fluff/smut! Or other fandoms in general! lwk I had to reach into the depths of my mind to fully remember s2—so plot accuracy to the actual show might be LACKING. hope you enjoy!
The air in Tina’s bedroom was a suffocating cloud of cheap cigarettes and cheap floral perfume. Tina was buzzing around you, her fingers nimble as she tied the final silk ribbon into your braids.
“I’m telling you, it’s iconic,” Tina insisted, stepping back to admire her work.
You turned to the full length mirror, and for a moment, your breath caught in your throat. You were a vision in blue gingham. a Black Dorothy Gale who looked less like she was lost in Oz and more like she owned the city. The dress was tailored just right, cute enough to be a costume but fitted enough to remind everyone that you weren’t a little girl anymore.
In Hawkins, you were used to the subtle stares, the way people’s eyes lingered a second too long because you were “different” But tonight, you’d give them something to actually look at.
“You look stunning,” Tina whispered, almost breathless. “Seriously! a good amount of cute n sexy—one look and a guys pants will get tighter”
You laughed, “okay first ew!” You started, “second, thanks—but that’s not the goal” you clarified with a smile, checking your gloss in the mirror. You weren’t part of the “populars” but you weren’t a nobody either. A Sinclair, and that held weight.
Being a Sinclair in Hawkins meant something unspoken. There weren’t many kids who looked like you, and that always made the town feel smaller, the whispers louder, the judgments were heavy. Sometimes it was a blessing, people underestimated you, assumed you were invisible. Other times it was a curse, everyone stared, curious or confused or both, and no one seemed to know how to treat you.
You weren’t entirely part of the crowd that surrounded Steve Harrington and his friends, but you knew them. You saw them, understood their games, the way they flaunted status like it meant something.
Not their gossip, not their petty competitions, not their assumptions about everyone who didn’t look like them. But tonight, you could play along, just enough. Tonight, you could turn those glances into something else entirely, awe.
And as you slipped your shoes on, adjusted the final braid, and stepped toward the door, you felt it, the kind of thrill that came from knowing everyone was watching, and none of them really knew what to make of you. And that’s all that mattered.
The bass of Roxanne by The Police vibrated through the floorboards as you stepped down the steep stairs into the house. The song caught everyone’s attention immediately, its slow, insistent groove carrying through the chaos of the party. Heads turned, some impressed, some curious, some annoyed, but you walked in with a quiet confidence, a cup of punch in your hand, letting the music lead you.
Steve Harrington noticed first. You didn’t have to look at him to know, his eyes scanned the room, catching yours for a moment before he turned back to Nancy. Of course. Even through his exhaustion, through the tension of what had already gone wrong tonight, something about you registered and billy Hargrove noticed too.
He was already on the coffee table, keg tap dangling from his mouth, leather jacket somewhere in the area. His eyes found yours immediately, dark and calculating and a smirk spread across his face that made your stomach tighten. And not in a good way. He swung off the table, landing near you, eyes sweeping over your dress like he was checking you out, like you were another bitch to add to his collection.
Billy stepped closer, leaning against the wall, narrowing the space until the crowd seemed to shrink around you. “Damn” he muttered, voice rough, a little too low, “you’re something else…” His hand grazed just a little too close, brushing your hip as if testing a boundary. You grew stiff, stepping back, pressing yourself lightly against the wall to keep the space, glaring up at him.
“You smell like shit” you uttered, disgusted and quiet, cutting through the now playing ‘girls on film’ for him alone. He leaned closer, smirk widening. “Relax… I’m just appreciating what I see.” His gaze lingered, and you felt that same sick thrill that came from being underestimated but this time, you weren’t backing down.
You noticed Steve again, watching from a few feet away, his jaw tight, tension in his aura. Something flickered in him, a mix of frustration, jealousy, and protective instinct even though his hands were still tied with Nancy. The tension between him and Billy was absolutely intense.
Before things could escalate further, a commotion erupted near the kitchen. Nancy, too drunk, stumbled as Steve tried to steady her, and the red punch tipped in his hand splattered across her white top. The room went still. Steve froze, horrified, as Nancy unleashed a string of drunk words, leaving him standing like a boy caught in the wrong story.
Billy, momentarily distracted by the scene, glanced back at you, his grin turned into something impatient. He cornered you again near the wall, hand brushing your lower back in a bold, uninvited gesture, and you pressed back firmly. “Get off of me” you snapped.
He hesitated, clearly thrown off by your demeanor, before muttering something under his breath and striding back toward the keg, climbing onto the table for another ridiculous stunt, the crowd cheering like it was all a show.
Your eyes flicking toward Steve and Billy again. The silent war between them was obvious, an unspoken line drawn across the room. You sipped the last of your punch, before throwing the cup off somewhere. Before she slipped through the crowds of people, booking it.
The walk home was long enough for the adrenaline to fade. By the time you reached the back door, You slipped inside, shoes in hand, hoping to make it upstairs unnoticed.
“Is that the girl from Kansas?” your mother called from the kitchen, where she was steeping a late-night tea.
You froze.
She leaned against the counter, eyes soft as they swept over you. “You look beautiful, baby,” she said gently. “Why do you look so upset?”
“Just a long night, Ma,” you replied quickly, leaning in to kiss her cheek.
“She smells like cigarettes and boys,” Erica’s voice cut in from the hallway.
You turned to see her leaning against the banister, an encyclopedia tucked under one arm. Her eyes looked you over. “And your ribbons are crooked,” she added. “If you’re going to be a main character, try to stay on script.”
“Go to bed, Erica,” you huffed, brushing past her toward the stairs, clearly annoyed.
As you passed, Erica’s voice dropped, losing its edge for just a second.
“Steve was here,” she whispered. “A long time ago. Remember?”
You scoffed without slowing. “Dude, you were like two. How do you even remember that?”
You were met with silence, of course.
You closed your bedroom door behind you and leaned against it, finally exhaling. The house had settled into its familiar nighttime quiet. The low hum of the refrigerator downstairs, the faint creak of the old floors. You reached up and started pulling the ribbons from your hair, one by one, letting them fall to the floor.
The window slid up with a jagged, rusty groan, and Steve Harrington practically tumbled onto your rug. He didn't look like the King of Hawkins High; he looked like a man who had been dismantled.
He smelled of cheap, spiked punch and the October air, his signature hair a wild, messy disaster. You stood in the center of the room, the blue gingham dress already unzipped to your waist, your head fuzzy and light from the cups of Tina’s purple mystery drink currently thrumming in your veins.
"You look like hell, Steve," you whispered, your sarcasm starting to crack.
"I am in hell," he rasped, his voice wrecked.
He started to pace, whisper yelling about Nancy, about the "bullshit" of it all—how he’d said he loved her with a drunken shrug.
"So you come here?" You stepped toward him, your own repressed emotions bubbling up. "To the girl you haven't looked at in two years? Get out, Steve. Go find someone else to ease the pain!”
Steve stopped, his jaw worked, his chest heaving under his shirt, and then, the King folded. Without thought, he dropped to his knees, his forehead thudding against your thighs as a muffled, whimpering sob escaped him. He clutched at your hips, burying his face in the your dress like a man drowning.
"It’s always been you," he choked out, the words wet with tears. "I was just too scared to admit that I’m nothing without you."
He began to kiss your knees, then your thighs, his lips desperate treating your skin like holy ground.
You felt pity, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer. "Steve—" you warned, your voice trembling as the desperation in his eyes did something to your soul.
The shift was fast and electric. Steve lunged upward, his mouth crashing onto yours in a kiss that tasted like tears, and a sort of sweetness.
You slammed back against the wall, the framed pictures rattling against the plaster as your hands flew to his shirt, tearing at the buttons until the shirt was tossed.
His hands were just as frantic, working the rest of your dress down until it pooled at your feet. You smirked, before he began to kiss you again.
He hoisted you up, your legs locking around his waist. The friction, skin on skin, denim on lace a gasp from both of you.
“Steve” she whispered, before his lips went to your neck—hummed, as you titled your head to let him gain access. While you began to move against him.
He carried you to the bed, falling back onto the mattress without breaking the kiss. His tongue lapped at your bottom lip, begging for entrance, and when you granted it, the world outside your bedroom ceased to exist.
Your hand slid into his boxers, the heavy, throbbing dick of his making your pulse race. Simultaneously, his fingers found you—soaked and slick. He swirled against your clit with a slow, agonizing rhythm that had you arching off the sheets, whimpering his name into the crook of his neck.
"Ah—" you cried out, your fist pumping him as he threw his head back, a guttural groan vibrating in his chest. This mutual worship lasted until the tension was unbearable.
Steve couldn't take the distance anymore. He flipped you over, kicking his pants away and sitting back on his heels for a heartbeat. In the moonlight, you watched him stroke himself, a few beads of pre cum glistening before he leaned over you.
His dick slapped against your folds, and you bit your lip hard. "Hmm," you hummed, your breath hitching. "Stop teasing me, Steve."
He let out a low, dark laugh before guiding himself to comfort. He pushed in with one slow, soul snatching thrust that bottomed out completely.
You both let out a long, unified sigh as he stretched you to your limit.
"Look at me," he murmured, his hand firm on your chin, forcing your eyes to lock with his. He needed to know you were seeing him, not the King, but the man.
He began to move. His hips drew slow, deep thrusts that drove you to the brink of insanity. Every time he hit your walls, you let out a high, broken cry, your eyes rolling back.
You could see the visual protrusion of him hitting your lower belly from the inside, a terrifyingly beautiful display of just how much of you he was taking.
"God, you're so tight," he groaned, his voice a low mess. "You feel...you feel like home."
He began to rut—deep, aggressive, and needy. He was vocal now, disregarding the house, the risks, and the rules. The bed frame hammered against the wall with a rhythmic, wet thud, but all that mattered was the two of you. He was tearing you apart in the best way possible.
In a blur of motion, you grabbed his shoulders and flipped him. "Woah—woah!" he yelped as you climbed on top. You sat back on his thighs, your hand guiding him back into your pulsing heat as you slowly sank back down.
Your eyes rolled back as you bottomed out on him. "God," you whispered, the fullness almost too much to bear. Steve let out a choked whimper, his head hitting the pillow as he watched you begin to bounce.
"Oh, yeah?" you whispered, leaning down so your hair fell over his face. "Does Nancy do it better than this, Harrington? Does she make you feel like this?"
Steve let out a frantic, breathy laugh, his hands flying to your hips to guide your rhythm. "She’s nothing," he rasped, his eyes rolling back as you squeezed around him. "She’s... she’s bullshit. You’re the only one. You’re it."
He watched you with a dazed, ‘pussy drunk’ expression, his hands digging into your thighs. But you didn’t last long, you got tired quickly which caused him to laugh. “Tired?” He teased.
“Shut up” you uttered breathlessly.
Eventually, the need for control took him back over. He flipped you once more with a rough laugh, pinning you beneath him. It didn’t take long for him to start rutting. His hips rutted with s frantic speed, your fingernails curling into his hair as you arched into every hit.
"Like that—just like that," you praised, the pleasure building in your belly like a string of heat.
Steve’s eyebrows furrowed as he lost himself in the sensation, his shaky legs straining. "You close, baby?"
You nodded frantically, the slick noise of your bodies filling the room. It was unbearable.
"Me too—" he uttered, his thrusts growing sloppy and desperate. You clenched around him with a sharp cry, signaling your climax.
"F-fuck, Harrington!" you screamed out, the sound tearing through the quiet house.
He gave one more final, punishing thrust, spilling his seed deep inside you. A long string of moans left his lips as he emptied himself, eventually collapsing into the crook of your neck. You lay there, legs shaky and heart hammering, until Steve pulled you close.
He planted a soft, tender kiss on your forehead. "My little Dorothy," he whispered in your ear, and despite the exhaustion, you both broke into a soft, private giggle.
The silence lasted exactly three seconds.
Then, a loud, roar erupted from the hallway—your father’s voice, vibrating with a level of rage that could wake the dead.
"STEVE HARRINGTON—YOU HAVE FIVE SECONDS TO GET THE FUCK OUT BEFORE I GO IN THERE AND KILL YOU!"
