Welcome to my little corner of the internet where I write stuff :)
I post my new fics here as well as fic recs.
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Agent Carter 💄 Cats (musical) 🐈 Doctor Who 🌌 Fargo s5 🐊 Game of Thrones ⚔️ Ghosts (CBS) 👻 Law & Order: SVU 🚓 Love Island the Game 🌺 Maleficent 🪽 M*A*S*H 🪖 Sherlock (BBC) 🎻 Stranger Things 🧇 Superstore ☁️
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Whether or not they're open will be in my description. For the most part, I'm super busy these days and I don't want to take on recs that I can't finish. (I unfortunately still have unfinished ones in my ask box.)
Newest fics (updated Jan. 3, 2025)
➛ Copy room Quickie (Coach!Steve x teacher!reader; 18+)
➛ Marooned (a last hoorah in the backseat of Steve's Beamer; 18+)
➛ Forgive Me Father (For We Have Sinned) (Priest!Steve AU; 18+)
➛ And I Got You (dad!Steve + a campervan)
➛ Four Times Foley Tried to Set You up on a Date, and the One Time It Worked (a 4+1 fic with Steve and a dog)
➛ My Heart In Your Dreams (former bff!Steve; based on Gap Tooth Smile)
Current WIPs (updated Oct. 3, 2025)
➛ Forgive Me Father (For We Have Sinned) pt 2, Priest!Steve AU
➛ Gasoline pt 2, Gator x f!reader
➛ Family Video Steve Harrington x newcomer reader
➛ Pennyworth x f!reader (fwb to lovers)
➛ Lonesome Superhero epilogue, Gator x f!reader
➛ Meant to Bee, Superstore series (Jonah Simms x f!reader/oc)
Okay, this is teeny tiny because I just don't see him as 'soft' Tried my best😤 I guess we will do waking up in bed with him..
And..
His arms wrapped around your shoulders pulling you closer into his chest, it's how you fall asleep with him every time and the exact same way you wake up too. Your heads tucked under his chin, you can smell the familiar scent of his aftershave still lingering on his skin. You feel him sigh against you, a sign he's finally awake as he starts pressing little kisses to the top of your head.
"Good morning" You mumble softly, finally opening your eyes as you roll onto your back. Gators straight on you, shuffling between your thighs as he kisses your forehead, nose, each cheek then your lips softly.
"mornin, baby"
His voice is raspy, still full of sleep. Eyes barely open as he pulls back to look down at you, soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
"We have church, we need to get ready" You sigh letting your arm flop against your face.
"Nah, we can miss it this once" Gators hand trails up your arm slowly like he’s savouring the silky feeling of your skin, gripping your wrist as he moves it out of the way "Let me see tha pretty face" You smile up at him bashfully as he hums looking down at you, large hand cupping your cheek as his thumb drags across it. “There she is”
"We can't miss church, your dad will be wondering where you are" you smile wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you. “And I enjoy it”
"Fuck him, deal with it later" he whispers as his mouth finds your neck, soft kisses placed against your skin as his nose drags over it. Inhaling you, tasting you, hands feeling you as they move up your sides. It’s not full of need like it usually is, he’s taking his time. Appreciating you. "Wanna be here, with you. My pretty baby girl"
"I suppose once wouldn't hurt" you whisper into his ear making him smile, "But we can't miss it again, It's important"
"yeah, yeah, I get it" He teased rolling his eyes moving off you to settle onto his back, you push yourself up before throwing your leg over him to straddle him "Could stay like this all day"
"Well we can, just for today" You smile as his hands move up your arms to your shoulders, gently massaging the skin as your eyes flutter shut "Feels nice" you sigh, his fingers dig in a little deeper making your head fall down towards him. He keeps going for a while but you can tell the silence in the room feels different, you look at him noticing that smirk on his face that turns your stomach.
"What?" Gator shakes his head, breathy laugh falling from him "No, share the joke" you demand as a smile spreads across your face, hands holding you up against his chest.
"Feels nice with ya sat up on me like tha, ass on my d.."
"You're done" You slap his chest playfully, making a smirk spread across his lips. "C'mon we need to go, you clearly need church"
"Babyyyyy" Gator whines as you climb off him, smiling over your shoulder as you walk towards the wardrobe "Get back in, promise I’ll be good"
Summary: Steve Harrington used to be your best friend but things went south when the two of you started high school and the Steve you knew became someone very different. Now, after years apart, he's shown up to a business dinner hosted by your parents. Why has he come and will you and Steve be able to overcome the past?
Tags: canon adjacent (post S4/pre-S5), flashbacks (in italics), former best friends, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort/angst/fluff, mention of child neglect (Steve's dad is an a-hole), mention of class differences, mutual pining, no use of y/n, reader has a gap in her teeth, self-consciousness, some cursing.
Words: 10,825 (oops)
A/N: This one goes out to all my fellow gap-tooth girlies! The idea for this one came about when Djo first performed "Gap Tooth Smile" live. I appreciated this song so much because it was finally a piece of media that painted this unique feature in a positive light. It gives people like me me a new reason to be proud of our smiles. The fic began as a single scene born from the positivity of the song, and kept growing the more I filled in the gaps (pun intended)! It's been a long labour of love, and I hope you enjoy reading it just as much as I did writing it 🩷
Fic below the cut or on AO3.
Summer 1988
“Oh.”
“It’s definitely…unique.”
“Has it always been that wide?”
“Ever thought about getting it closed in?”
Staring at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, like every other time, you can’t help but notice it too. The way that it always seems to be staring back at you.
There was a time when you stubbornly refused to even think about it in a negative way. It was a feature so uniquely you that a swell of pride would rise in your chest when you saw it. It was something that helped set you apart from all those snooty high school peers during a time when being different was your badge of honour.
That was then. Since, you’ve grown up and have gone on to college. And suddenly you are engulfed by a world where all your precious differences have mutated into your greatest insecurities.
In the mirror, you observe your styled hair and mascara-coated eyelashes, but as you part your lips to tint them in a soft pink hue, its presence seems to dominate over all the other effort you’ve put into your appearance.
“It” being the three-millimeter gap between your two front teeth. You force a smile, wondering for the umpteenth time whether it’s too large. Sure, it’s symmetrical and straight, but all those comments your brain has accumulated over the years get pushed to the forefront each time you catch a glimpse of it.
Those comments war with your confidence, flip-flopping you between pride and self-doubt. After all, you’ve been painfully single for your entire twenty-one years on this planet, and perhaps it has something to do with your smile. Maybe you open your mouth and guys high-tail it in the opposite direction the minute they get a view. After all, a gap-tooth smile surely doesn’t fit the college girl norm. No, all the girls you see are petite with perfect smiles, and attached to their arms are the most handsome guys on campus. The evidence is clear, and it’s hard not to let the insecurities wreak havoc when you definitely do not meet the conventional beauty standards on display around you.
Blinking once, twice, three times, you cram your eyes shut to perform a hard reset on your brain. There’s no time for wallowing in self-pity. The Harringtons, a family that prides themselves on wealth and appearance, will be arriving downstairs any minute for dinner.
The worn carpet on the stairs scratches on the pads of your toes and the aroma of fresh bread and roast beef floods your senses as you reach the bottom landing.
“Oh, there you are, sweetie! Can you come set the dinner rolls out on the table, please! They’ll be here any minute!” Your mom whirls past you, scurrying to perfect the place settings in the dining room. Your father is at the counter, furiously hiding away any loose dishes that cause too much clutter.
Earlier you had helped too, dusting and vacuuming, chopping vegetables and polishing the fancy utensils. The fact of the matter is that dinner with the Harringtons always stressed your little family out.
Right around the time you were born, your father took a job with Mr. Harrington’s business branch. It allowed your dad to work close by and provided a decent wage for his young family. The downside was that Mr. Harrington was his boss. And as Mr. Harrington climbed the corporate ladder, your father had stayed firmly in the same position for nearly his whole career. To make matters worse, included in this working relationship are the “business” dinners.
Except, these business dinners always had a similar outcome: either the Harringtons hosted, allowing them to flaunt their wealth, or your parents hosted, causing this.
“Done, mom,” you say, adjusting the two wicker baskets of fluffy white dinner rolls on the table. You try to peek around for any slight imperfections that may still need correcting. “Is there something else I can do?”
“The begonia!” she exclaims suddenly, looking absolutely horrified as she wipes down the counter, again.
The sad little potted flower sits on your living room windowsill. It doesn’t get as much love as it should with both of your parents working all the time, yet somehow, just like your family, it hangs on.
The reason a silly little houseplant has your mother so worked up is due to how years ago, at a dinner just like this, Mrs. Harrington spotted it looking like its usual wilted self and felt it necessary to comment. The dinner was delicious, the house was immaculate, yet the most minute flaw was the one thing that drew the woman’s attention. It made your mother feel like shit and that made your blood boil.
“On it!” you chime, but you are swiftly halted.
“Forget it!” she squeaks. “They’re here!”
As per routine, you scurry towards the door to greet your ‘esteemed’ guests.
Your mother smooths out her pleated skirt as she takes her place at the front of the assembly line. You are just behind her, and try to stand up straighter, adjusting the large, woven leather belt that sits snuggly around the waist of your floral dress. Behind you, your father attempts to hide the deep breath he takes to calm his nerves when your mother reaches for the door.
“Hiiii!” comes the unmistakable shrill voice of Mrs. Harrington. She files through your front door with a large, albeit fake, smile plastered across full scarlet lips. Your mother greets Mrs. Harrington in kind, quickly acknowledging her husband who towers behind her as well.
Your father and Mr. Harrington lock gazes and nod out cordial greetings to one another like they would in the office. Arms extend for firm handshakes as the Harrington patriarch enters your home.
You force smiles and pleasant hellos to each. Even though you would rather be up in your room hiding away, this dinner is important to your parents. You need to be there for them, just like they have always been there for you.
But as Mr. Harrington’s full build clears the doorframe, your breath hitches.
The couple is not alone.
Slumped shoulders and deflated, hazel eyes meet your gaze.
Steve.
Before you have time to react, your attention is pulled away by Mrs. Harrington. She leans in toward you for an air kiss to your cheek and a half-hearted hug. “It’s so good to see you, darling!” she exclaims into your ear, making you flinch. Pulling back, she continues. “It feels like ages since we saw you last.”
As you default to a smile in response, the woman’s brows knit and her perfectly painted lips flick downwards. Her gaze, laser focused on your mouth, makes you feel exposed.
And then, there it is.
“Oh,” she begins, running her hand down your arm, voice laden with disapproval. “Was Doctor Nelson unable to close in your gap?” Doctor Nelson; the orthodontist Mrs. Harrington had given your mom the number of before you went to college.
Mrs. Harrington can nitpick the cleanliness of your mother’s house. She can criticize the quality of the cooking. She can even insult the lack of attention given to that stupid begonia. But the one thing that your mother will not allow Mrs. Harrington to do is berate her daughter.
“Her smile is gorgeous just the way it is, wouldn’t you say?” Your mother injects sharply.
The Harrington matriarch raises an eyebrow and answers curtly. “Of course.”
Head spinning, your attention is drawn back to Steve. He looks the part of high-class son with a navy blazer resting over top a crisp, white dress shirt. But said shirt is neatly tucked into a pair of dark jeans - a look that is still very much Steve. It makes him appear slick and cool, just like he did in high school. Yet, despite his attire, the Steve Harrington that stands in your doorway lacks the confidence you had been used to seeing from him back at Hawkins High.
His gaze finds yours once again, and you’re met with a partial smile and a quiet nod. It’s certainly a stark contrast to how things used to be.
As if suddenly remembering he had accompanied them, Mr. Harrington voices, with little sincerity, that he hopes it is all right to have brought along his son. Your mother shoots you a sympathetic glance before giving a dismissive not-a-bother wave to her house guests. She then whisks away to add another place setting to the dining table.
Fall 1981
Hawkins High. Its ivory halls with orange and green stripes are a foreign passageway towards your future.
Your head bobs up and down, double, triple checking the piece of paper in your hands that identifies the location of your new locker. Silently counting the numbers as you go, you dodge sophomores, juniors, and seniors who cheerfully reunite with one another after summer break. They pay no mind to the likes of new freshmen such as yourself.
Finally, you find the metal door set aside for you. It’s stiff from months of disuse and creaks when you manage to pry it open. You set your backpack down and begin unloading your repurposed binders and supplies, stacking them neatly into the metal cubical. As you work, a group of girls gathers nearby. Their excitement, much like the fruity aroma of their perfume, drifts towards you as they begin comparing flashy school supplies and fashion accessories.
You know all four of them, of course. They are part of the cohort coming up from Hawkins Middle School, too. Except, summer has treated them well. They’ve slimmed down and grown taller. Each girl sports the latest Stevie Nicks-inspired blowout as well as the newest tops and skirts that you had seen while passing by store windows in Indianapolis. Surrounded by their giggles, you pluck at the hem of your t-shirt, wondering if anyone will remember it from the previous school year.
As you arrange the last of your belongings, your ears are met with a familiar voice counting locker numbers out loud. Turning around quickly with a large, toothy smile at the ready, you find Steve pacing up the hallway. Relief floods you, reassured that you will be facing the first day of high school with your best friend.
Enthusiastically, you raise a hand to wave him over and his hazel eyes flit towards you. The moment, however, is fleeting as Steve’s gaze quickly shifts back to an approaching Tommy H. Your friend greets the other boy with an eyebrow raised skeptically while Tommy thrusts a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing at the group of girls nearby. You follow the stare of the two boys and realize immediately what now has them grinning ear to ear.
“Oh. My. God!” squeals one girl to the rest. “He’s looking this way!”
“Steve got so hot over the summer, it’s totally unreal,” replies one companion. She smacks her pink bubble gum to emphasize her point.
Another giggles while biting her lip. “I know right?!” She unsubtly flashes her large, mascara-painted lashes across the hallway towards the object of her affection. “He’s so tall, and he let his hair grow.”
All girls then coyly shift their bodies towards Steve and Tommy, twirling strands of their perfectly styled hair around hot-pink-tipped index fingers.
Tommy H is grinning like the devil. He’s lapping up the attention and gives Steve a teasing shove. And to your surprise, Steve’s smile widens, returning flirty glances towards the girls that make them erupt into a fit of even more giggles.
The world around you seemingly falls away. You are invisible, and it feels as though you’ve been slapped across the face. Worse yet, the sight of Steve soaking up the attention from those girls causes your gut to clench in an unfamiliar way. You watch helplessly as both Steve and Tommy beckon the four teens to their side, flirty smiles and playful banter sucking the oxygen from the hallway. You need to get out of here.
Turning, you slam your locker door shut just a little too hard and cram your eyes closed to disguise the tears that threaten to fall. Your first day of high school marked the last day of your friendship with Steve. For the rest of your time at Hawkins High, you gave him a wide berth. Though, never a day went by when you didn’t hope that King Steve, as he would soon become, might have a change of heart and come back to his best friend.
The six of you gather around the wooden dining table; its meager size sparing just enough room for the abundance of steaming food laid out across its top. A delicious mix of savory aromas fill your nostrils as you move towards your seat. Mr. Harrington and your father take their places at opposite ends, while mothers sit next to their children to complete the ensemble. You gather the skirt of your dress and smooth it behind your legs before finally sinking down onto the fruit-patterned cushion of your chair. Glancing upwards, your gut somersaults. The evening’s seating arrangements just so happen to have Steve placed directly across from you.
Pleasant ‘thank yous’ are passed around the table with casseroles of food as guests and hosts alike spoon out portions to complete their plates. “Scrumptious spread as always,” complements Mrs. Harrington while handing a ceramic gravy boat to her husband. “Thank you for having us.” You can never be sure by her sickly-sweet tone whether the praise is genuine or not.
“Our pleasure,” responds your mother, brows furrowing with worry. Her eyes dart around the tabletop for any sign of missing items. You place a calming hand on her lap, reassuring her that her dinner is perfect.
A brass light fixture, with its surrounding glass panes, hangs overhead and casts the space in a warm glow. The cozy atmosphere matches the sounds of clinking utensils and muffled chewing that befall the small room. Pleasant conversation about the weather and current events soon follows while food is enjoyed. But as your head turns to track from one speaker to the next, your body is rigid with nerves. You refuse to meet Steve’s gaze even though you can feel those hazel eyes wander across your face in careful contemplation.
Finally, while tipping your glass of soda to your lips, you sneak a glance across the table. What you find are the freckle-smattered features of the boy you grew up with, except now his youth has waned, leaving behind a grown man with weary eyes and a faded smile.
The tendons in Steve’s hand shift as he uses his fork to glide a slice of beef around his plate and coat it in golden-brown gravy. Then, as Steve lifts the utensil towards his mouth, his darkened eyes catch onto yours through the stray locks dangling across his forehead. You quickly avert your gaze.
What is he playing at? Why did he even come here tonight?
In fact, Steve had stopped coming to business dinners a long time ago – right around that fateful first day of high school. Initially, you had thought you had done something to push him away, but your mother was quick to reassure you that Steve’s decisions were no fault of yours. That sometimes people just change.
Perhaps that was true then and is once again true now. Had Steve finally let go of who he was in high school? Had he come here to –
The sound of your name makes you jump. You quickly shift your attention back to the conversation.
“So,” continues Mr. Harrington through a mouthful of buttered dinner roll. “I hear that you’ll be going into your last year of college this fall. Time certainly does fly. What a wonderful accomplishment!”
The compliment from the usually stony Harrington patriarch puts your defences on high alert.
“Yes, sir,” you answer as politely and cautiously as you can. “I had an internship for my first two summers but decided to spend a summer at home after all that’s happened in Hawkins the last while.”
From the corner of your eye, you notice Steve’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly.
“Very good,” the businessman agrees before shifting focus to his son. “She got into Tech, Steven. Isn’t that something.” His words drip with ridicule, purposely crafted to drive a proverbial knife into his son and twist the blade. And from the way that the colour drains from Steve’s cheeks, you can assume that they’ve achieved their purpose.
Suddenly you feel queasy; there’s a pull inside your chest that you haven’t felt in ages. No matter how terrible Steve had made you feel in the past, he still doesn’t deserve to be treated this way by his own father.
“Steve works at WSQK now,” his mother attempts to smooth over. “He’s learning about all the fancy gadgets they use there in broadcasting.”
Steve parts his lips to contribute, only to be shot down.
“Always had an aversion to real work, this boy.” Mr. Harrington’s voice grows deeper, more empowered. “Too scared to get into college and too stubborn to accept a job from his old man.”
Steve’s knuckles blanch from the grip he has on his fork. The tendon in his neck pulls taut, and it seems to be taking all his willpower to keep his breathing level.
“Such a waste, really.” His father concludes, casting a demeaning gaze down upon his son.
And just as you think Steve might combust, your own father jumps in. “I’ve seen you hard at work around town, Steve,” he offers to the young man. “You were especially helpful at the volunteer center when the community needed it most.”
“Yes, that’s right!” your mother chimes in. “We had brought over food that day and Steve was generously helping in the kitchen. Speaking of food, who’s ready for dessert?”
Summer 1977
It feels as though you are being pulled. Tugged harder and harder by an invisible force away from the blissful comfort of nothingness and towards something you can’t quite put a finger on. It tugs and tugs until your senses begin to regain consciousness.
Ringing.
You suddenly recognize the sound of the landline announcing itself from its place on the foyer wall between the kitchen and the staircase.
A coarse groan leaves your throat as you begrudgingly slip out of bed - the perks of your room being closest to the stairs. You rub your eyes, trying to force them to adjust to the lack of light in the early morning hours. A hand on the wooden banister guides you down the carpeted steps, footing growing more sure the farther you progress. The phone, meanwhile, continues to ring incessantly.
“Hello?” you manage after picking up, vocal cords still groggy from sleep.
A pitifully quiet voice speaks your name from the other end of the receiver.
“Steve?” you question, your 10-year-old, sleep-addled brain working hard to decipher why he would be calling at this hour.
It’s after his next words jolt you awake that you remember that his parents had left him alone for a weekend business retreat.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, “but I thought I heard someone trying to get into the house and…”
Steve Harrington is the bravest person you know; hearing the fear that laces his voice drops your stomach to your toes.
“I’m gonna go get mom and dad,” you blurt out. You speak his name and clutch the receiver in both palms. “Stay on the line. I’ll be rightback!” You don’t set the phone down until you hear him manage a small “okay”.
Your parents spring into action without question. After getting Steve to reluctantly hang up, your three-person family is piled into your clunky station wagon and speeding the short distance across town towards the Harrington residence.
The house towers in its little corner of suburbia, magnificent even in the darkness. It takes calm knocks and calling through the large wooden door before Steve will open up. As he does, brightness from every possible light fixture pours out into the night while Steve stands sheepishly in the doorway.
Immediately you jump in, knocking him off balance with the force of your tight hug. Steve’s cheeks flush from embarrassment, but your mother instills further assurance. “I’m glad you called, Steve. You did the right thing,” she soothes, before adding that your father has set off to inspect the outside of the home. Concern for the boy growing, she then asks him about his parents.
“I don’t know the hotel they’re at,” he admits with a shrug. “They didn’t leave the number.”
“It’s okay, hon,” comforts your mother. “Go grab a few things. You can stay with us until they get back.”
You watch as Steve’s features flood with relief, though his eyebrows raise as if asking “really?”. Your mother nods with an affirming smile and ushers the two of you to go upstairs and pack.
You return a few minutes later with Steve’s brand-new Nike sports duffel filled with sleepwear, everyday clothes and toiletries. Your father gives the all-clear, but Steve still looks guilty for having dragged your family out of bed for seemingly nothing. “It’s better to be safe, son,” your father reiterates as he gives the boy a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder.
Once back at your house, extra linen and a spare pillow are gathered to create a makeshift bed on the floor of your room. Unlike the Harringtons’, your cozy little two-storey only boasts enough space for two modest bedrooms. Though it lacks grandeur or expensive furnishings, tonight your house is perfect for the boy who simply needs a home.
The adrenaline from earlier has subsided and sleep once again threatens to overtake you. You lie belly-up underneath your pink fleece blanket; its satin edges tickle the underside of your chin. Darkness coats your bedroom, causing your eyelids to droop. Yet, the shaky breaths sounding from the floor adjacent to you nudge you to speak up.
“Steve?” you whisper warily. “You okay?”
The boy releases an unconvincing hum. The silence that follows conveys his unease.
Finally, another whisper drifts up from the floor below. “I’m…scared.” The last word sticks to his tongue, almost refusing to be spoken.
You have never heard Steve admit that he was afraid of anything. He always trudges bravely into the unknown, sometimes even on your behalf. But hearing his voice tremble in the night just doesn’t sit right with you. Your young brain doesn’t fully comprehend it, but there is this pull inside your chest that desperately wants to be the one who is brave now – brave for your best friend, Steve.
An idea materializes in your thoughts, and quietly you ask, “Do you wanna lie up here?”
You half expect him to say no – Steve never usually likes to accept gestures that lessen his air of confidence – and that’s why you are so surprised when you hear a faint “yeah”.
Without hesitation, you lean over to turn on your bedside lamp. Its white-coloured shade, yellowing from age, casts an amber glow that spreads from its ceramic base, out towards the edges of your small room. You scoot over to the opposite side of your bed as Steve rises from the floor, gripping his borrowed pillow and blanket. He cautiously sets the items down and smooths out your bedsheet for him to lie on top of. Finally, the mattress dips as he stiffly settles himself down. The fragrance of clean laundry and minty toothpaste join him.
“You good?” you question gently as Steve pulls his sheet up to his chin. All you receive is a wordless nod.
In the pale lamplight you can still see the fear etched across Steve’s freckled profile. It burns your insides to witness his lack of a smile. “Steve,” you speak more seriously this time. “You’re safe here. It’s gonna be okay.”
The boy turns his cheek towards you, brown locks haloed by the light emanating from behind his head. His eyes, blackened by shadows, send a silent message of thanks.
“Good night,” he speaks softly, releasing a pent-up breath before turning over to shut off the lamp.
“‘Night, Steve,” you hum in return.
As Steve lies with his back to you, still not yet asleep, a protective feeling emerges from inside your chest. You watch the silhouette of his shoulders rise and fall. It’s unsteady at first, but as time passes, Steve’s breathing eventually evens out. It’s not until you hear his faint snores that you, too, allow yourself to drift off into dream land.
“Hey sweetie,” speaks the gentle voice of your mom entering the kitchen. “How are you holding up so far?”
Turning away from the metal sink where you’ve begun to wash the supper dishes, you give your mother a solemn nod.
She smiles softly back at you. “I know it can’t be easy having Steve here tonight, but he’s been relatively quiet. Ultimately, it is your choice, and I will support you no matter what, but from what I’ve seen, I don’t think he’s the same boy he was back then. Perhaps it may finally be time to talk things through.”
Your mother has always been your number one fan. Her advice has only ever steered you in the right direction. Plus, she was the one who dried your tears over what Steve had done. Her suggestion terrifies you, but deep down, there’s a wiggle in your gut that tells you that she’s right.
Giving her a resounding nod, you see hope flicker in her eyes. A reassuring smile is cradled on your lips as she leans in towards you. Her delicate hand rubs warm circles into your back while a loving kiss is placed on your cheek.
Just then, a familiar figure appears in the open archway to the kitchen. His hands are shoved into denim pockets as he takes a cautious step forward.
Your mother follows your line of sight, realizing what has suddenly turned your body rigid. She quickly grabs a plate of cookies, her skirt swaying as she darts away to pair the sweet treats with the tea already served in the living room.
Panic floods your veins, yet your feet feel glued to the floor. After seven years, you have no choice but to ultimately face Steve Harrington head on. God only knows how this encounter will unfold.
Avoiding the inevitable for at least a few seconds longer, you spin back around to the sink and plunge your hands into the steaming dishwater. Fluffy white suds splash back up and cling to the front of your dress.
A distinct voice sounds behind you. “Want some help?”
No.
Yes.
“Doesn’t matter.”
Steve then appears in your periphery like a dream. He effortlessly shrugs off his navy blazer and rolls the sleeves of his crisp dress shirt to the elbows. Collecting a dry towel from the front of the stove, he reaches into the sink for a clean plate and begins to wipe the moisture from its surface. The two of you fall into a silent synchrony: wash, rinse, dry. Wash, rinse, dry.
The oak cabinets with their curved trim flank the sink and the window above it. Steve remembers exactly where each piece of dinnerware belongs – he’s spent enough time in your house to have it engrained in his memory. Except, this time, he leaves them all in a neat stack on the counter, feeling more like an outsider than someone who once used to fit seamlessly into your home.
The last plate is in your grasp. The trickle of the tap pings against the basin of the secondary sink to your right. You place the dish beneath the flow and watch absentmindedly as water rinses the remaining suds away. Your true focus, however, is on the familiar presence beside you. You can feel warmth emanating from where he stands close by; the heady scent of his aftershave saturates your senses.
As your wrist twists to rinse off the opposite side of the plate, Steve’s hand reaches forward just a moment too soon. Your fingers brush against one another and neither person retreats. Your eyes travel from his hand, up the sun-kissed skin speckled with moles of his bare forearm.
Two pairs of eyes then meet. Green and amber flecks gleam back at you under the kitchen light; a war of uncertainty and hope waging on within them.
“Can we talk?” he asks, words released as barely a whisper.
Your chest tightens. Another silent moment passes where you are lost in your thoughts. Steve Harrington is here, standing beside you in your kitchen, seeking some sort of resolution to the happenings of the past.
“Okay,” you answer at last, giving an earnest nod. Steve’s lips form the barest of smiles.
Releasing the water from the sink, you dab your wet hands on a towel and begin to move towards the foyer. You glance back at Steve, whose dark eyebrows raise knowingly, before gathering his blazer and following you up the staircase.
Summer 1979
Eager eyes scan the adults headed into the living room, watch them take a seat; sip from their glasses. Peering around the corner, poised in front of the staircase, you decide that the coast is clear. “C’mon, Steve!” you grasp his hand and yank him towards the first step.
Always vigilant, your mother calls out. “Make sure to keep this music down this time, sweetheart!”
“Yes, mooooom.” A sing-song voice trails up the stairs, echoing your reply as you and Steve giggle to yourselves mischievously.
It’s a beeline for your bedroom – a safe haven from all the business talk and second nature by now for you and Steve. You both have tried staying downstairs with the adults, but all you end up hearing is your fathers discussing quarterly reports and your mothers trying to engage in pleasant conversation. For a pair of kids, it was just too boring! So lately, it didn’t matter if you were at your house or his, the narrative always ended up the same: music.
Putting out a hand, your fingertips brush along the textured wallpaper as you round the corner into your bedroom. Releasing Steve’s hand, you bolt straight for the shelf where you keep your records.
“Don’t look!” you chide, purposefully keeping your shoulders square and back to the boy who moves to plant himself cross-legged beside your bed.
“I’m not!” he whines in defence.
“Close your eyes!” Steve huffs without conviction at your demand but does exactly what you ask. His eyes move beneath soft lids as your shadow approaches.
You take the album you’ve slipped out from the stack and hold it in front of you; your nose and eyes are the only parts of your face now visible. “Okay! Open!”
Steve’s hazel eyes flash wide at the sight of a crisp, new album cover and your hopeful gaze staring back at him. His smile widens. The two of you had been excitedly talking about this album coming out for months.
“You got Candy-O!” he exclaims, and you allow The Cars’ newest album to slip lower to reveal your exaggerated grin.
“I did! Saved up enough allowance to buy it last week. Wanna play it? I haven’t opened it yet so that we could listen together!”
Steve’s features soften. You always took him into consideration, no matter what. “Actually,” Steve’s soft smile morphs into a smirk. “I wanna show you something too.” He raises a hand and waves for you to come over.
You scramble to Steve’s side and plunk yourself down onto the floor, back bouncing off the side of your mattress as you do. Anticipation bubbles through you, making you feel as though you’re going to pop.
Tonight, Steve is grateful that his mother always makes him wear a blazer to these dinners, even if it’s two sizes too big. The article gives him the perfect opportunity to spring a surprise on you – one that he knows will make you squeal and throw your arms around him for a hug.
Steve’s grin is now immeasurable. “So, I got Candy-O, too, but I’ll do you one better,” he begins. “Have no fear of being yelled at when we blast it because…” He reaches inside his blazer, fishing for the pocket before pulling out a Sony Walkman.
“NO. WAY!” You squeal, arms instinctually squeezing his shoulders into a side-hug. You stare at the device in awe. “How did you –” a tentative hand reaches out, but you’re still afraid to touch it. It couldn’t have been cheap.
Steve unceremoniously hands it over for you to inspect. “My dad pulled some strings and got me one.” Your fingers run delicately over the buttons and metallic logo that adorns the front case. Steve then leans over into your space, breath tickling your cheek. He touches a button, and the cassette door pops open. You read the tape that’s already inside and look up to meet Steve’s gaze. The space between your front teeth lights up your features. “Haven’t listened yet either,” he winks. “So, what’re we waiting for?!”
Steve clicks the Walkman closed before producing two sets of headphones which he plugs into twin audio jacks. He then hands you a pair, the two of you settling them atop your ears in unison. Steve delivers you an excited smile with a waggle of his eyebrows and presses the play button.
The funky synth of “Let’s Go” erupts into your ears. Your jaw drops in amazement. To your right, Steve bites his lip and begins to bop his head in time with the beat. He turns to glance at you, and you start mirroring his actions; the song’s peppy rhythm makes you buzz with excitement.
All that can be heard from the living room below is the patter of two pairs of feet that soon get up to dance along to the music.
The wooden banister guides your palm as you ascend the steps. It’s a route that should come second-nature to you, yet in this moment, it feels like a journey into the unknown. Your nerves mount with each step you climb; the soft thud of the extra set of footsteps behind you worsens the unease that grips your gut. You need to compose yourself.
At the top of the landing, you quickly turn to your guest. “I’ve got to use the washroom for a moment.” Steve’s lips part to respond, but you are already darting down the hallway before he gets the chance.
He knows where your room is. He’ll be alright for a few minutes on his own.
Steve continues onwards and locates the entrance to your bedroom - right where it used to be. The door sits half-open, and Steve uses his fingertips to gently push inside. Its hinges whine as they give way.
The small space is like a time-capsule. A shelf lines one wall with your vinyl records stacked neatly by the record player. The old ceramic lamp with its yellowed shade still sits atop the nightstand. Your bed is neatly made up with a floral comforter that Steve doesn’t recognize, but peaking out from beneath it is the same old pink blanket with satin edges. Next to your vanity, a corkboard hangs against the wall; a series of pushpins secure several polaroids to its porous surface. The collection mostly includes close-ups of elegant plants and flowers, but hanging near the edge is a photograph that stands out from the rest. A sunset. Pink and lavender swirls of colour are splashed above the silhouette of what looks to be a park. The scene stirs a memory deep inside of Steve and tugs at the strings inside his heart.
Summer 1981
“Hey, wanna get out of here?”
The proposition catches you off-guard, causing you to reopen your eyes to the evening light streaming in through the window. It casts patterns across the spacious room, bathing the blue and white grid-line wallpaper in a golden glow. Plush carpet cushions your head as you lay spread out across it, much like your companion beside you. In the background, the low pulse of a pop album drones on from a record player.
Your eyebrow lifts in question. Steve must sense your reservation because he quickly adds, “We could ride bikes – I still have that spare you can use – and we could just do whatever.”
You sit up then, brows sewing together and mind trying to decipher what is making Steve so antsy to escape. The teen mirrors your actions, propping two hands behind him as he scans your features for an answer.
“No one will even know we’re gone,” he attempts to reassure you. “We can sneak out…like ninjas.”
Your resolve cracks. A goofy smile curls the edges of Steve’s lips, and a laugh erupts through your nose. Shaking your head at his antics, you finally deliver your verdict. “As much as we used to practice being ninjas like fiveyearsago, I’m still not going to lie to my parents.”
Steve’s smile falters ever so slightly.
“Besides,” you turn up a corner of your mouth into a sly grin, “you catch more flies with honey.” A wink caps it all off, which lets Steve know you’re on board with ditching the confines of his bedroom in exchange for some fun.
The two of you scramble to your feet and laugh out into the hallway. The staircase is grand in comparison to yours, and you indulge in squishing your toes into its spongy beige carpeting as you compete to reach the landing first.
On the main floor, you lead the way into the expansive dining room where you find the Harringtons and your parents sat sipping expensive wine from equally expensive crystal goblets. Your mother grips her glass firmly as if it could jump out of her hand at any moment and shatter.
Coming into view with Steve behind you, your parents’ heads are the first to turn away from the conversation. You put on your most innocent smile and announce the reason for your appearance during business talk. “We’re just gonna go ride bikes for a bit, ‘kay?”
Your mother returns your smile, “Sure honey, just make sure that you’re home before ten.”
Nodding a silent thank you, you also turn towards your father where he, too, offers a reassuring grin.
“Thanks!” you chime before turning to skip past Steve and into the main foyer. You stick your tongue out at him for good measure as you pass by.
Being out of earshot, however, you don’t end up hearing how Mr. Harrington sternly calls to his son. “Have her back on time, Steven. And no fooling around.” Your early exit from the house also means that you don’t comprehend the resulting flush of embarrassment that still overtakes Steve’s once-joyful features when he meets you outside. But before you can quiz him on it, he dashes into the storage shed to retrieve a pair of bicycles.
At first, the two of you don’t have a plan. The wooded area around Steve’s home gives way to a growing number of houses as you travel along; the steady clack of bike chains at work and the rush of wind past your faces are the only sounds for several long minutes.
That’s what’s nice about having Steve as your best friend; you can be doing nothing at all – not even talking – and it feels so comfortable. Just knowing he’s there surrounds you in a sense of ease.
The summer’s heat is still in full swing despite how the sun has begun to lower towards the horizon. The stickiness of sweat clings under your arms and to the backs of your knees where they bend to help push the bike pedals along. Finally, you break the silence. “Should we get ice cream?”
Steve’s brown locks flutter in the breeze as he glances over at you. “Sounds perfect!”
Pedalling with purpose, the two of you find the local ice cream stand and each order two-scoop cones to go. It’s Steve’s idea to bring the sweet treats along for the ride until you find a better spot to enjoy them. You mumble your annoyance but ultimately love that the evening is turning into a bit of a silly adventure.
The rest of the ride is a wobbly one. One hand is on a handlebar while the other grips onto your cone for dear life. “This is impossible, Steve!” you giggle, front tire weaving as you crane your neck to lick up a trickle of melting cream.
“Aww, suck it up, buttercup!” he teases, edging his bicycle closer to yours on the roadway. Steve uses the proximity to lean over and bop the mushy tip of his cone on your nose.
“Hey!” you squeak, trying – to no avail – to clean up the cold, sweet substance with your tongue.
Steve starts laughing so hard that he nearly loses his balance. His tummy somersaults. His eyes grow wide, and he unleashes a little “whoaa!” before clumsily correcting his course.
Now it’s your turn to wear a Cheshire grin. “Neener neener!”
Steve sticks his tongue out at you before taking a long, spiteful lick of his ice cream.
The ride continues for a short distance until you find yourselves at the local park. Lush green grass spreads out over its expanse. An empty playground sits tucked into one corner. Tall trees, thick with emerald leaves, line the park’s perimeter, yet a small break in the treeline provides an unobstructed view into the distance. You hold Steve’s cone as he props up your bikes, making sure to sneak a lick when his back is turned.
An old, wooden park bench becomes your resting spot, its splintering edges a welcome respite while you enjoy your cold treat.
“How can you eat that stuff?” recoils Steve after having accepted the taste you offered him.
“Bubble gum is the best!” you state matter-of-factly. “Ice cream meets bubble gum chunks. Perfection!”
“Eugh,” he exaggerates again. “I tell ya, classic butterscotch is where it’s at.”
“Agree to disagree.” You nudge Steve’s shoulder with your own. He returns a grunt that holds no heat.
Comfortable chatter continues between you - talk about music and movies, middle school blunders and local town gossip - until you both crunch down the last of your dessert.
The summer sun now dips below the horizon, casting the sky above Hawkins in streaks of pink and lavender. A silence descends as the two of you sit in awe of the beautiful sight.
As you take in your surroundings, thoughts begin to swirl in your mind. “I can’t believe we’ll be starting high school in a few weeks.”
Steve exhales deeply beside you. “Don’t remind me.”
“I wish we could stay fourteen forever.” Without thinking, you gently lay your head against Steve’s shoulder. His warmth seeps into your cooling skin. “I love hanging out with you,” you add with a wistful smile. “You just get me and all my weird.”
You don’t know it, but the weight of your head tipped against him is the only thing keeping Steve from floating away. You’re the only person in his life who truly seems to want to spend time with him. And, as the lavender sky darkens to an indigo hue, Steve carefully sets his head on top of yours, too. It’s a simple gesture, but he hopes it’s enough to show you that he feels the same way about you.
The tenderness of his action sets off a million butterflies in your stomach and suddenly, as you sit on the worn park bench watching the setting sun, the only person you can imagine ever being here with is Steve.
The intimate moment, however, barely has time to linger before Steve abruptly straightens up. Your cheek slides off his cotton t-shirt and a rumble reverberates from within his chest as he awkwardly clears his throat.
“It’s getting dark,” he speaks stiffly before switching his tone to one of friendly banter. He turns to give you a signature smirk. “Gotta make sure to get you home. Don’t wanna be late for that ten-p.m. curfew.”
It’s impossible to not return a full smile. “Oh, shut up, Harrington. You love my folks, too.”
As the two of you pedal back home under the glow of streetlamps, you can’t help but wonder if there was more to what happened on the bench. And more importantly, whether Steve had felt it too.
“Get it together, girl!” you exclaim internally into the bathroom mirror. A low clap from dual pats to your cheeks sounds off in the cramped bathroom as you try unsuccessfully to calm the flock of birds taking flight in your stomach.
Your mind flashes back to that moment in the kitchen. Why had your heart skipped a beat at a simple, innocent touch? Your cheeks had flushed, too, while observing his features. Steve’s appearance has certainly matured, yet he is still unmistakably good-looking – perhaps even more so than you last remember. His chestnut hair had lightened at the tips; his jaw had become sharper at its base. His hazel eyes are now bordered by hooded lids and dark lashes. The frame of Steve’s body had even grown more defined than it was in high school. Objectively, Steve Harrington had developed into a handsome young man.
But as you continue to peer at yourself in the mirror, that old adversary inside your head grows louder. Not much is different about you. Sure, you had let your hair grow a little longer and had styled it for the evening. And sure, your lashes have a coat of mascara spread across them. But those are superficial additions. Everything else about your appearance remains relatively unchanged. Your curves are still larger than the beauty queens of high school and college. Your clothes are still relatively inexpensive compared to the chic attire adorned by the Harringtons downstairs. And your smile…
Tentatively you part your lips, and the shadow of your gap immediately emerges into view.
Was Doctor Nelson unable to close in your space? Mrs. Harrington’s words bounce around in your brain like they are part of a game of pinball.
The grip you have on the edges of the porcelain sink tightens, eyes cramming shut. No wonder it had never crossed Steve’s mind that you could be together. You were nothing like the effortlessly beautiful girls he always had on his arm in high school.
October 1984
A shrill screech sounds off from down the hallway, causing your textbooks to clatter to the floor with a resonating thud. Alarmed, you turn quickly towards the sound, but your heart sinks when you take in the source of the commotion.
Nancy Wheeler is clutched around her middle and being twirled in the air by a joyful Steve Harrington. Her reaction has him laughing in a way that he only used to with you. Perfectly styled chestnut locks bounce in front of his forehead as he peers at his girlfriend through a pair of large sunglasses. Nancy thwacks Steve’s arm while his fingers move to grip the small of her back. He leans in to cradle her face. And then his lips are on hers –
You rapidly turn away, bending to pick up your fallen books. Straightening, your thoughts betray you for the thousandth time.
Nancy Wheeler. When Steve first began pursuing her, you thought she would just be another notch in his belt. All the flirting and kissing…surely, he only wanted in her pants. But then months turned into a year, and Steve seemed to genuinely be in love.
And you suppose that is the thing that eats you up the most.
You like Nancy. Even though she’s a year younger than you, she is hardworking and takes her education seriously – a trait that you both share. Plus, Nancy is just plain nice – totally unlike the stuck-up girls Steve had dated in the past. No matter how hard you try, it’s difficult to find any valid reason to dislike her.
Except…Nancy is also naturally beautiful, and you hate how jealousy has creeped into your bones because of it.
She has a petite frame and girl-next-door charm with a perfect smile to match. It appears when Steve whispers all those little I love yous and gazes at her with an affection you’ll never know. The feeling squeezes at your heart and forms a lump in your throat, allowing self-doubt to gnaw its way into your thoughts: “Maybe if you were just a little prettier or a little more charismatic, that could be you instead.”
Hearing the pair continue to flirt across the hall sends your tongue brushing up against your front teeth inside your mouth. The muscle pokes its way between the gap. “No,” you tell yourself as you turn back to see Steve walking off with Nancy tucked lovingly under his arm. “Your brain and your smile make you, you! No one can take that away. And someday, someone will be happy with you just as you are.”
Silent footsteps carry you down the hallway towards your room. Peeking in through the wooden doorway, you find Steve with his back turned. Golden light from beyond the window outlines his figure. Broad shoulders are stooped; locks of dark hair fall forward as his head peers down at something held delicately in his hand.
A subtle shift in your weight sets the floorboards creaking, and the sudden noise causes Steve to flinch. He turns quickly on his heels to find you glancing down at his fingertips.
His cheeks flush, appearing like a deer in headlights. Yet, as Steve quickly moves to refasten the polaroid to its place on the board, he regains his nerve and delivers a comment in the fondest of tones. “It doesn’t quite look the same as the night we were there.”
Your heart begins to hammer against your ribs.
He remembers.
But how do you answer him? How do you admit that no matter how hard you tried to throw that little piece of plastic away, you simply couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Not when it bared such a striking resemblance to a night that had been so simple and so perfect.
Buying time, you shift towards the record shelf that resides to your right. Pensively, you trace a finger across the stacked spines. Music had been such an important part of your friendship, saving the two of you from many the business dinner, just like the one being hosted today.
Chancing a look over your shoulder, you find that Steve has not moved; his attention is fully focused on you. Those kind eyes wait patiently for you to be ready to speak. As you study his features, your mind suddenly whisks you back to tonight’s dinner table. You recollect how Steve's tanned cheeks had paled at his father’s words. How the curve of his throat had swallowed coarsely and the tendon within had tightened under so much strain.
You know exactly what needs to be said.
June 1985
This is it. Tonight is the end of an era.
With a raised chin, Steve smooths down the satin lapels of his black suit and straightens his matching tie. He takes a long, hard look at himself in the mirror. Staring back at him is the image of an 18-year-old man with perfectly styled hair and expensive attire, yet underneath is a lost boy who grew up too fast.
Steve exhales unsteadily as he checks his watch. Time to go.
But as he makes his way towards the staircase of his home, the harsh sound of an argument rises from the space from below. Steve pauses, heart sinking as he listens in.
“Why aren’t you dressed yet, dear?” exclaims his mother with frustration. “We have to be there in ten minutes!”
A sharp, unfeeling tone answers back. “You know very well why not!”
The tension downstairs grows palpable. “This is your only son’s graduation! It’s a significant accomplishment for him!”
“Significant?!” Mr. Harrington’s already deep voice booms louder. “He barely squeezed by! He slacked off, his grades went to shit, and he got rejected from Tech. What kind of accomplishment is that!”
Steve’s gut churns.
“He’s a teenager!” the woman argues back.
“Well, maybe if you’d kept on top of his behaviour, we wouldn’t be in this situation!” Steve doesn’t need to see the scene unfold to know that his father’s face is flushed, with wide eyes and that vein in his temple threatening to burst.
The feminine voice of his mother scoffs and retaliates, “I can’t very well stay home all the time, now, can I? Not when I need to follow you around and make sure you’re not off screwing your secretary!”
That's it. There’s a storm of emotion brewing inside Steve, and he doesn’t know how it will erupt if he sticks around any longer. He descends the stairs two at a time and slams the front door on his way out. If neither of his parents showed up tonight, so be it!
He plunks himself into the driver’s seat of his burgundy BMW and roughly twists the keys in the ignition. The engine rumbles to life and Steve wastes no time throwing the car into gear. For a moment, his vision is blurred as he poises with an arm behind the passenger’s seat to reverse the vehicle. He quickly blinks the watery obstruction away before speeding off to his high school for one final time.
Once back in the gymnasium of Hawkins High, a standard gown and cap are thrust at Steve to wear and he is ushered to his assigned seat. Triumphant music swells, signalling the beginning of the ceremony causing a pit to settle heavily inside Steve’s stomach.
His knee bounces restlessly beneath the long, silky fabric of his gown as person after person is called to the stage. Steve knows that his mother is sitting a few rows behind with palms poised elegantly on her thighs. An expensive suit and blazer with prominent shoulder pads adorn her figure. Round earrings dwarf her earlobes, and an effortless smile is pasted across painted lips. But Steve also knows that there is a reserved seat beside her that remains unfilled. He doesn’t need to hear it to know that excuses for her husband are being whispered to anyone who will listen.
The sound of your name being called propels Steve back into the present. He watches in awe as you elegantly ascend the stage towards the awaiting principal. The distinct sound of your mom and dad’s cheers from the crowd draws your attention out into the audience. You feign embarrassment, but it’s the gorgeous, full smile that breaks out across your face that shows how truly special this moment is for you.
The principal announces your college plans as you shake his hand and collect your diploma. The accomplishment earns applause from the crowd. And in that moment, with the spotlight framing your features, Steve’s heart swells. He recognizes how hard you’ve worked to earn this moment, and he feels something tug at him from within his chest.
He acted like a giant asshole towards you, choosing popularity and flirty girls over his best friend. Yet, despite how he treated you, you never let it stop you from being the best version of yourself. Not once did you bend to social norms and now look at how bright you shine.
You were the one person who cared about him unconditionally. Together you’d jam out to music and ride bikes until dusk. You were the person who saved him from the monotony of business dinners…and you were the person who calmed him when he felt afraid. That tug inside his chest grows stronger. Steve selfishly wishes he still had you; still had the person he’s loved all along.
After several more students pass, it’s finally Steve’s turn to be called up. He stands, straightening his gown before taking a deep breath. When he climbs the steps and looks out into the audience, he doesn’t search for his mother. Instead, he searches for you. But when he finds you sitting there with diploma in hand, he sees you looking on with indifference. And it’s then that Steve is forced to accept that having you back in his life is just not meant to be.
Gathering your courage, you shift until your body is fully aligned with Steve. Your words are spoken with utmost honesty. “I’m sorry that you had to deal with that, your father – at dinner.”
A corner of Steve’s mouth turns down subtly. “Thanks,” he replies, shaking his head, “but it’s all par for the course.” He gives a dismissive wave of his hand before folding his arms protectively against his chest. His gaze shifts meekly away from yours.
“Still,” you press, wringing your fingers together and taking a step forward. Regardless of what has happened in the past, that pull inside you needs Steve to understand that you would never take sides with his father. “Careers and degrees don’t define who we are.”
You catch Steve’s lip pinching briefly in the form of a smile. His eyes glance back up at you.
A heavy silence descends, and you watch the way that Steve regards you. There is no scrutiny, only something that can only be described as affection.
“How do you do it?” The sound of his voice breaks through the quiet and makes you aware of how little distance there actually is between you.
“Do what?” you manage.
Steve stands up a little straighter, smiles a little broader. “How do you always manage to lift me up? Make me feel better about myself?”
The muscles in your eyebrows arch, lips parting in soundless shock. That rapid heartbeat in your chest now thrums loudly in your ears.
“I never realized how much you gave me until it was completely gone,” he adds.
A thickness forms in your throat. Your brain is a jumble of words that plop onto your tongue, but you have no idea how to express them.
Your silence and lack of objection provide Steve with the opportunity to continue. He rakes a hand through his thick hair nervously. “I guess you’re wondering why I showed up tonight…after all this time.” He then speaks your name, soft, tender. Sincere. “I’m sorry.”
The dam breaks and a strangled breath chokes out from your lungs. The two simple words that you’ve waited seven long years to hear have been spoken at last.
The room around you blurs. Your head feels like it’s spinning.
“Look,” Steve gestures with one hand, shifting to rest his hips against your windowsill. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I just had to -”
You honestly don’t know what comes over you. A heat swirls up from inside, spreading like wildfire from your toes to your cheeks. With it, erupts several years of pent-up emotion, emotion that you thought you had locked safely away.
“Dammit, Steve!” you exclaim in a tone so raw that even you don’t recognize it. “You ripped my heart out when you chose Tommy H. on that first day of high school!”
Steve recoils at your intensity, yet winces from your truths. He hasn’t come here to justify his actions from the past. “I know,” he admits, hurt evident in his creased brow. “I have no excuse for treating you the way I did. I got so caught up with my ego and then in all the crazy shit that happened in town that by the time I came to my senses, you wouldn’t even look at me. I should have sought you out, but the more time that passed, the weirder it felt to even try.”
Anger subsides into heartache. “I would have listened,” you murmur. Tears prickle at your lash line. Steve’s face visibly falls. “I only kept my distance so I wouldn’t get hurt. I still cared for you, Steve. You were my best friend, and a part of me always hoped that you would remember that.”
Years of regret are etched across Steve’s face. “I’ve missed you more than you could ever know,” he confesses. This is the most vulnerable you’ve seen him since that night when you were kids.
The familiar pull inside your chest returns, but this time it urges you to let yourself be vulnerable too. “I’ve missed you too. So much.”
Steve allows himself to smile. Hopeful. “Do you think we can start over? I know I’ve fucked up, but would you be willing to give me another shot?”
There’s no apprehension within you, no sense of unease. You nod affirmatively and return him a smile.
Steve’s demeanour brightens, dimples appearing on his cheeks as he moves to the side of your bed. He kneels and lowers himself to sit on the floor. His squared shoulders rest against the side of your mattress, much taller than when you were kids. You observe him curiously as Steve slides his denim-clad knees upwards and rests his forearms atop them. Toes wiggle against the carpet in black dress socks. Peering up at you with a cheeky grin, Steve motions for you to join.
Your eyes narrow fondly at the familiarity, crossing the short distance to gingerly set your body down next to his.
Steve turns his gaze on you, swirls of green and brown circle his irises. Then, he reaches into his blazer, fishing for the pocket. A second later, his hand produces a cherished sight: the Walkman.
Reaching in again, he retrieves two sets of headphones. Joy shines through the rosy tint of your cheeks.
“Care for a listen?” he grins back, eyes crinkling at the corners. With a wink he adds, “For old time’s sake.”
Steve extends a hand, allowing the metallic band of a headset to dangle on his outstretched index finger. Reaching, you accept and settle the orange foam pads overtop your ears. Steve mirrors your actions and double checks the connections.
“Ready?” he motions with raised eyebrows.
Your enthusiastic nod is his green light.
You ready yourself to take in the music by turning your focus to your lap. The play button clicks and the next thing you know, the funky synth of “Let’s Go” fills your ears.
A warmth bubbles through you, and you release a wet laugh. Turning back to face Steve, you find him already admiring your reaction. Playfully, you knock your knee against his, offering him a broad smile that places your gap on full display.
And just as the chorus rolls into the second verse, Steve reaches to remove his headphones. You follow his lead, concerned that something might be wrong. Strands of chestnut hair stick up comically on Steve’s head; a stark juxtaposition to the serious expression that now stares back at you.
The quaint room has grown shadows as the evening sun begins to fade. Your pulse quickens with the intensity of the moment.
“I’m glad you didn’t get it closed in,” Steve finally remarks, words calm. Deliberate.
“Huh?” you utter, your brows marrying as you try to decipher his meaning.
“What my mom said earlier. Your gap.”
Your tongue brushes over top of the feature inside your mouth.
“Your smile,” Steve’s chest expands as he takes an unsteady breath. “It’s…”
Unique?
Cool?
Nice?
“Beautiful.”
Oh.
As you absorb his words, you’re suddenly hyper-aware of how close the two of you are; how the small distance buzzes with a magnetic charge. You admire the gentle slope of his nose and the birthmarks that dot his complexion. The scent of his aftershave and something distinctly Steve surrounds you. Once again, that pull inside your chest resurfaces, encircling your heart and tugging with all its might in the direction of Steve. Your Steve.
Soft words break you out of your trance. “You know, I think it has always been something more than friendship.”
Butterflies explode inside your stomach. Your insecurities melt away.
“That evening in the park,” continues Steve, eyes searching your face. “I felt something that I didn’t know I could; like you were my home, and I wanted to stay there forever.”
It hadn’t just been you.
Steve then places a hand tentatively on yours. Your skin tingles with the heat of his touch. “Did you feel it too?” he implores, trepidatiously, as if he were a fourteen-year-old boy again.
You nod and, with a whisper, say, “I don’t think I ever stopped.”
“Neither did I.”
And then the two of you are moving. Leaning together, you wrap your arms around his neck and hug Steve tightly. Steve responds in kind, large palms splaying across your back and pulling you flush against him as if you fit together like two lost pieces of the same puzzle.
Unspoken words of love transpire between you as you hold each other close.
And in that moment, you both understand that home is the person who accepts you just the way you are.
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summary: you get a letter in the mail that you never thought you would. roy tillman is dead. and you are invited to the funeral. you can't explain why you decide to go, but the next thing you know, you're driving all the way from chicago to your long-forgotten hometown of lehigh. with your teenage daughter eden. forgetting your past isn't so easy when you’re back in it. especially not when faced with your high school sweetheart and father of your child, gator tillman.
wc: 5.7k
warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, second chance romance, ex!husband!gator, dad!gator, implied childhood trauma, misogyny, death/grief, mentions of teen pregnancy and struggles of young parenthood, teenage drinking, vomiting, violence/threatened violence, reader and gator are in their early 30s
a/n: so...i know i said i wouldn't start another series for a while, but i have no self control... this idea has been brewing in my head for a week and im writing this instead of studying whoopsie. i also will be writing the asks in my inbox and that i have said i will write! don't worry! i just need some inspiration xx lmk ur thoughts and i hope we enjoy.
⋆.ঌ˚˖ ࣪
The letter arrived in the middle of the night.
You never expected it to come. And you definitely hadn’t expected it to sound this…formal. It looked like a wedding invitation. But it wasn’t. It definitely wasn’t.
We regret to inform you that Roy Tillman has passed away. You are invited to the funeral on the 28th June. The ceremony will begin at 1pm at the chapel on the Tillman ranch. After, there will be a reading of his last will and testament which all direct relatives and descendants will attend. Wear formal attire.
Sincerely,
The Tillman Family
It was so impersonal. So cold and strangely commanding. Surely they hadn’t meant to send it to you. But it’s not like they could mess up your address all the way in Chicago. And underneath the print, was a small handwritten message, which made you sure it wasn’t a mistake. You recognized the writing instantly — still the exact same as it had been all those years ago. Far too messy for a grown man, the words crossed out several times.
Yes that means
Hope you
Bring Eden = please.
And it was the tiny little scratched out period that got you. The please tacked onto the end, not as an afterthought, but something thought about way too much.
The next week, that scratched out period was most certainly what got you to take the time off work, kiss goodbye to your boyfriend and make the 900 mile journey across the country with your daughter, Eden. Back to your long forgotten hometown of Lehigh.
You second guessed yourself about 30 times through the drive. Any time you pulled into a gas station, you wondered if you should just use that fuel to turn the car around and settle back to the comfort of your home. But then you looked to Eden, who was practically bouncing in her seat, beyond excited to see the past that you had spent this long trying to hide from her. She had been surprisingly cooperative about this entire thing. You never talked to her about your home, and while you were sure she had distant memories, it had been a long time since you had been in Lehigh. Almost ten years.
The worst moment was on the first night of the trip.
Halfway through the journey, the two of you cramped together on a queen bed in a motel in middle-of-nowhere Minnesota for the night.
“Mom?” She whispered, breaking you from your state of almost slumber. For a fourteen year old kid, she sounded so tiny.
“Yeah, hon?”
You watched her chew on her lip, mulling over a question. “You think they’ll like me?” You heart broke a little at those words.
“Honey!” You smiled as best you could. “Of course they’ll like you.” Truthfully, with your history in this town and the Tillmans, you didn’t know why the two of you were invited back. Even less why you decided to drag her there. But your mind kept focusing on the scratched out period. Please. A word you hadn’t heard from that man’s mouth almost the whole time you had known him. The stupidest, smallest, thing you couldn’t get over. Maybe they didn’t hold the same disdain for Eden that they did for you.
So another eight hours of driving, and you were passing that familiar ‘Welcome to Stark County’ sign — new graffiti scribbled over it but just as old and worn as when you were a teenager.
Eden’s eyes were wide, taking in each and every single building that surrounded her as a you drove down the familiar streets. Rusted windows, wooden shacks, and signs that were long past ancient were all that surrounded you. “Wow. This is…”
“Crappy?” You chuckled. She just breathed in response.
You turned down another street, that held the bar you used to dream of going to when you got older. You chuckled, passing it now. How ready you thought you were to grow up. “So where’s your house?” You were already tense enough without her asking that.
You ignored her question, instead redirecting to the whole reason you were back here. “So the funeral starts in an hour.” You had timed it perfectly so that you wouldn’t have to be here any longer than needed. It seemed silly now — driving two days down to spend a few hours there and drive two days back the very next morning — but at the time it had make perfect sense. This town had a way of sucking you in to places you never expected to be. Even now, the fact that you were here for Roy Tillman’s funeral did not seem real. The idea that one day that Goliath of a man could just…die. “We’ll go to the motel and get ready. What do you want for dinner? I can order in after.”
“Well what’s your favorite restaurant? Why don’t we go there?”
You chuckled. “Eden, this is Lehigh. We’ve got like two diners.”
“So which one’s better?” She chirped, eyes all wide. Your daughter’s blind optimism was truly a well you hoped would never run dry. But it also meant you had to protect her from getting hurt.
“I think we just eat in, huh? It’s easier.” You tried, as gentle as possible. The less she saw of this town the better. You were here for one reason and one reason only. She hummed in agreement but you could read her like a book, and you knew she wasn’t happy. Sure enough, when you glanced over she was picking at her fingernails. A stress habit she’d picked up from you.
Maybe this was all a mistake.
⋆.ঌ˚˖ ࣪
You were right.
It was all a mistake. Slipping into the back pews of the once-familiar chapel as a reverend began speaking you were thinking of it. Spotting him in the front, ten years older and still exactly the same look, you were sure of it. The reason you had come here. The crossed out period. Gator Tillman. Eden must have sensed your tension at the sight of him, because suddenly you were feeling her hand slip into yours. You took it diligently, squeezing back. She was the one that needed comfort right now. The ceremony, like everything else about the Tillmans was incredibly practical. Focused on image. The reverend said all the typical things about how Roy would be in a better place, and how he was a leader of our community, who’s legacy would be continued by the rest of his bloodline. Most of it at least. You thought. A woman spoke, for the eulogy, who you assumed to be Roy’s next wife that you hadn’t met. She spoke through shaky hands and a few tears about how Roy gave her a home and was a wonderful father to her two lovely daughters. You flinched a little, knowing exactly what that implied. Girls in this family never got 'wonderful fathers.'
Gator didn’t move from his seat at the front, and you didn’t get a view of his face till he got up to carry the coffin, along with several deputies. Some you recognized, like Bowman, but others were faces you weren’t sure you’d ever seen. But Gator. God, after ten years, he’d changed. He was harder, tougher — shoulders broad, muscles more defined even in the neat black button down he was wearing. But he still had the same sullen eyes, filled with far too much he was never meant to see. He didn’t shed a tear as he headed down the hall, not that you expected him to.
Then he laid his eyes on you.
He stopped right there in the middle of the hallway, jaw hanging open as he took you in. And more importantly, Eden. His eyes flicked left and right, like he was memorizing every inch of you and studying anything that changed. You were doing the same. It only lasted a split second, as the deputy behind him stepped forward and he almost fumbled the coffin. A low chorus of murmurs spread through the crowd, noticing his mistake and your cheeks went red. The last thing you needed was attention. Disrupting the Tillmans wasn’t on your agenda.
You lingered quietly at the back of the crowd, hand clasped tight in Eden’s as they lowered the coffin into the grave — the fourth in the line, each with a marble headstone and gold lettering that read the same thing. ‘Sheriff Roy Tillman, beloved husband and father and devoted leader of the community’ and a sheriff’s star symbol on the top. The only difference was the birth and death years.
Your eyes couldn’t help but drift to Gator then. You wondered what he was thinking. How much he was hurting. And at the way he had his eyes fixed on his feet, kicking at a loose pebble, you remembered another time you were here.
⋆.ঌ˚˖ ࣪
14 years old.
You and Gator had stolen a bottle of vodka from his parents’ liquor cabinet and snuck out to the ranch grounds in the middle of the night. When you had stumbled on the cemetery, he had immediately tucked his tail between his legs and insisted you go home.
“What? Are you scared?” You teased, tugging him forward by the hand.
Back then, you used to be totally mesmerized by the Tillman ranch, wanting to understand everything about their family. Despite knowing them for years, they still felt like this mystery to you. You took in the graves with wide eyes, scanning over the way they were organized. In each corner, families were grouped together — mothers, fathers and children all lined in a row with stone graves. Except at the very front. In a neat line, starting in one corner, the marble headstones stood where each Roy Tillman in the line was buried. Your vision was blurring a bit as you tried to read the text. “Woah.” You giggled, taking another sip of the vodka and recoiling at the taste. It was awful, and yet, you kept drinking, just because Gator had made the suggestion.
“’S where the first-born-sons are.” Gator took the bottle from your hands, taking his own chug and not even flinching.
“So you’ll be buried right about…” You crouched down to measure the size of a headstone with your hands, leaving space for Gator’s father and then landing on an empty space. “Here.” You smirked, looking up to him.
“Yeah, maybe.” He looked down to his feet, and kicked at a loose pebble. It bounced off the ground loosely, coming to a stop in front of your feet.
“Maybe?” You picked up the pebble in one hand, digging a shallow hole where Gator’s future grave would be with your other. A preemptive headstone, just for you. “Whatd’ya mean maybe?”
“Think I might be disrupting a pattern.”
You squinted your eyes, trying to catch up to his cryptic words and focus on burying your pebble, all while trying to stop the way the vodka was making your head spin. “Huh?”
“Don’t know if a Gator fits with the Roys.”
“Wait! Your name’s not actually Roy? I thought Gator was like a nickname. Who names their kid Gator?” Apparently, the alcohol had stopped any sort of awareness you had of other’s emotions because you barely flinched at the way he was chugging down more vodka at your words.
“You’re real fuckin’ nice when you’re drunk.” He rolled his eyes, turning away from you, ready to leave.
“Wait, come on!” You went to stand up, but the sudden movement made your insides twist and before you knew it, you were throwing up to your side. And Gator was laughing.
“Oh, fuck.” You sighed, when you were finally done, stumbling onto your feet behind Gator.
“Ok, I don’t wanna be buried there anymore.” He chuckled, reaching out to grab your arms when you went to fall again.
“And I don’t want to drink anymore.”
⋆.ঌ˚˖ ࣪
As bad as it was, thinking about that memory made you want to giggle. Because right now, Roy Tillman was being placed six feet under in the spot where you had thrown up all those years ago.
As the funeral wrapped up, slowly, the crowd began to die down. You stayed in your position at the back of the group, even when there was no one near you for miles. This was it. Gator lingered in front of Roy’s grave for a moment, reading over the text. Once again, you felt the itch to know what was running through his mind. No once else seemed to. Roy’s new wife — who you’d come to learn was named Karen — didn’t even look at him as she pulled her daughters out of the cemetery. Eventually, it was just you three. And still you didn’t move.
Finally, he turned around. His hands stayed tucked into his pockets, gaze immediately locking on you. Your hand subconsciously moved to wrap around Eden’s shoulder the closer he got.
“Y’ came.” He said, almost breathless as he approached.
“Yeah. We came.” You nodded.
When his eyes dropped to Eden, and widened, your heart skipped a beat. “Look- Wow, look at you, Edie.” You saw his hands flinch in his pocket, like he wanted to move them. You don’t know what you imagined when you saw him again, but this was certainly unceremonious. That tiny hand movement though, indicated that Gator wanted something more. Crossed out period. Please. “Y’ must be breakin’ all the boys’ hearts.”
Eden smiled politely, almost reserved.“We’re sorry for your loss, Gator.” He swallowed thickly at her words. Not the condolences. She called him Gator.
“Yeah,” He scratched the back of his head. “But hey, he went out like he woulda wanted. Shootout. Blood, glory. You know, the criminal was even-“ You cleared your throat, not so subtly side eyeing Eden, who was blinking as she processed the imagery. She may not have been a little kid anymore, but she didn’t need to hear the graphic details of a Stark County shootout. The ridiculous amount of normalized violence was part of the reason you’d left. “Right. Sorry. I- Thank you.” You fell into a silence. Nine years. Nine years since you’d been back home. Since you’d seen him. And he’d seen Eden. None of you knew what to say to each other. “So how was your flight?”
“We drove.” Eden explained, not put off by the fact that all Gator could do was make small talk. You could barely afford the time off work, let alone a plane to come here.
“So y’ finally got your license, huh?” You felt a pang in your chest at Gator’s comment. It used to be a running joke between the two of you that you would never learn to drive. It used to be funny that you didn’t have that independence.
“Gator!” A voice called out, and you all shifted your attention towards it. Karen stood with her arms crossed. “They want you for the will reading.”
Gator nodded. “Be there in a second.” For some reason, that made you stutter a little. You thought Eden would get at least a little more time.
“We better get going then.” You sighed.
“The will readin’?” He said it like it was obvious you should be there, and you simply furrowed your brows. “Didn’t you read the letter? Direct descendants. That means Eden.” You glanced to your daughter, who was simply studying Gator with intent focus, like he was a zoo animal. This wasn’t a good idea. She didn’t need to get all tangled up into the Tillman house, when she wasn’t even going to be on the will. She didn’t need false hope that this was her family.
“Gator, we haven’t been here in years, and frankly,” You lowered your voice, as if she wasn’t entirely still too close, “I can’t imagine your father even remembering Eden.”
Gator snorted. “Oh, he remembers her. Remembered.” He breathed, and now you were feeling that same twisting in your chest that you got when you saw this lonely side of him. “Least just come so I can spend some time with you guys. Deserve to be with my daughter, don’t I?” His hands twisted again in his pocket, this time balling into tight fists. Daughter. Obviously, by blood, Eden was very much Gator’s daughter. It’s not like he was a purposefully absent father either. He still called every once in a while, and you knew he saw her on your social media posts, but you weren’t together. Being states apart meant that Eden and Gator were practically strangers. Eden, in your head, was yours, however wrong that was. But you looked at her, as she basically lit up at the word ‘daughter’, and knew another hour couldn’t exactly hurt. That was why you had brought her here, wasn’t it?
“Ok.” You nodded.
⋆.ঌ˚˖ ࣪
The entire family was gathered in Roy Tillman’s study — Roy’s wife and daughters, Roy’s brother, John, and his children, as well as some aunts and uncles — listening as the solicitor read a grandiose letter Roy left about legacy, and his death. You had tried to hide yourself in the back of the crowd, but the moment Gator entered the room — somewhere you had never been allowed to go before — everyone had parted a way for you all to stand at the very front.
So reluctantly, you shrugged your way forward, a hand tentatively on Eden’s shoulder the entire time. You tried not to look around, as your once curious mind would’ve wanted to. These places, just hidden out of your view, were all you ever wanted to know. Until you actually got to know them. Returning inside this house made your skin feel like it was on fire, burning with decades of memories that still pumped through your veins no matter how much you tried to erase them. Especially with Gator, the star of so many of those memories standing right in front of you.
The solicitor went on about Roy’s assets, like the house, the millions of dollars in drug money (he didn’t say it was drug money but you knew), livestock and everything else associated with the ranch. You wondered how everything would be distributed. Most likely all of it went to Gator, seeing as he was the first born son, but you were also well aware of their deeply complicated relationship. And just as you were wondering that, the solicitor said words that shook you to your core. “The Tillman ranch and all property associated with it, including the family house, I bequeath in its entirety to my granddaughter Eden Tillman.” Your heart leapt forward. Your stomach churned. You were sure this was some strange daydream, but the shocked gasps that rolled around the room told you otherwise. You looked to Gator, who was just staring at you with equally wide eyes.
“What?” Karen laughed. “Is there some sort of mistake?”
“I was there when Roy signed it, this is what he wants.” The solicitor smiled politely, continuing on as if this was normal. “Since she’s not 18 yet, she doesn’t have control of the property, but she is to live in this home until then.” You let out a sound that sounded halfway between a laugh and a scream.
“What?” Karen repeated again, blinking. “Gator, this is wrong. Tell them this is wrong!” Her eyes looked around the room, settling on Eden — clear who she was, simply because Karen didn’t recognize her. You wrapped your arms around Eden, pulling her against you. Just by the look in her eyes, you knew Karen was going insane. Though you couldn’t exactly blame her. “Who even are you?” She stormed towards Eden and Gator immediately stepped in front.
“Karen.” He said, a warning that sent a shiver down your spine.
“No, this is ridiculous.” John chimed in. “Are you- This place belonged to my father, then my brother. It ain’t goin’ to the unwanted kid of the unwanted son-“ In an instant, he was pushed against the wall, Gator’s fists balled into his shirt.
“You better watch your mouth there.” He smirked.
Your arms pulled Eden even tighter to your front, and you could feel the way her breaths were heaving at everything going on. “Hey, it’s ok, honey.” You whispered, trying to keep your voice steady. You’d barely spent an hour here and already, Eden was being exposed to everything she shouldn’t. The problem was, your own feet were glued to the floor, trying to understand what on earth was going on. Roy leaving the property to Eden? He hated you. You left this place in the middle of the night, Eden curled asleep on your shoulder, just like Nadine and Linda had before you. There was no chance that Roy had taken kindly to that, nor did you understand why he would leave this entire place to a granddaughter he had barely had a conversation with when you were here. Frankly, the idea that he left anything to a woman at all didn’t make sense to you.
“If Dad says this is what he wants, then this is what he wants.” Gator dropped John down like it was nothing. “‘F you have a problem with that, y’ take it up with me.” You knew what that was implying. Don’t have a problem, because taking it up with Gator meant one thing: a fight.
Karen scoffed. “No. This is some sorta mistake I’m sure of it. We’re contestin’ this.”
You finally found the courage to speak. “Please. We’re going home.”
“Mom-“ You heard a little squeak as you pushed Eden towards the door.
“Actually,” The solicitor spoke. “If the will is being contested, we’re going to have to ask you stick around till it’s sorted.” You froze in your place.
“What? How long will that take?” You already knew the answer wasn’t going to be good.
“Months, probably.”
And you looked to Gator again, as if he could fix this. “Karen, we don’t want the ranch. Just take it.”
“Mom-“
“If Eden wants to inherit the ranch, she has to live here.” The solicitor said again, and you lost it then.
“So, our options are to stay here for four months or four years?” What kind of twisted mind games was Roy playing? Since when had he been this desperate to keep Eden around? “I’m taking her home.” You took another step.
“Don’t ya think that’s Edie’s choice?” Gator chimed in.
“Legally, it is.” The solicitor added.
“I’m her mother! She’s a child! We have a life in Chicago, we aren’t just going to…abandon it for this haunted farm.”
Gator began protesting that it wasn’t just your decision. The solicitor kept explaining how important it was that you follow legal proceedings. Karen, John and everyone else was still complaining about how wrong the situation was. Voices continued to overlap, and you could feel your pulse in your throat. You should have never come here. Never. Why did you possibly think you could visit without troubles? No, Stark County never let you just leave. There were too many strings, too many webs weaved around you, pulling you down. And now, they were trying to trap you daughter too.
“I want to stay!” Eden yelled, making everyone in the room freeze. You blinked, trying to process her words. “Please.” She turned to you with wide eyes.
“Hon, you have school. And Malcolm and-“
“It’s summer, right?” Gator stepped forward, slowly approaching the two of you. “Jus’- Why doesn’t she stay for the summer?” He looked to you with the exact same eyes your daughter was giving you now. Under their gazes, you felt like you were melting — soft, pleading, desperate. It reminded you of when you told Gator you were pregnant in the first place. All the plans you made. Your stomach sunk. You weren’t changing either of their minds. “We’ll stay for a bit.”
Karen snarled. “We’re still contestin’.”
Good. You thought. Maybe that would get you out of here quicker.
Either way, you weren’t staying in this town for long.
⋆.ঌ˚˖ ࣪
That night, you and Eden found yourselves in the guest room of the Tillman house.
Gator had heard you were staying at a motel and insisted you stay at the ranch instead. You tried to protest but he would simply not let you change your mind. “Edie should see the place she owns right?”
You laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling, head spinning. How did you possibly end up here? The place still smelt the same — wood varnish, fresh baked cookies clashing against each other to burn your nose. Eden, despite her entire life changing in just one afternoon, was somehow sleeping soundly next to you. She was so excited to know more about her family. She didn’t know the half of what happened on these grounds. That she, somehow, now owned. God, you couldn’t sleep. You needed to talk to someone.
And as if your mind could be read from halfway across the country, your phone rang out and you already knew who it was. Malcolm, your boyfriend. You snatched it up, slipping out of the room. Everyone else was asleep by now, so you slowly snuck down the steps, wary not to wake anyone up.
“Hey babe.” Even though you couldn’t see him, you could hear his smile and it already calmed your body. “I’m really sorry I couldn’t answer your call earlier. Work.” When was it not? “So how’s the hometown? How are your parents?” You flinched slightly at the question. He knew you were in Lehigh for Roy’s funeral, but he had just assumed you were staying with your parents. And you knew if you corrected him, that would just lead to a line of questioning that you didn’t want to go down. It was something you’d wanted to forget about since the moment you stepped out of that home. By the time you were in Chicago, you barely thought about it yourself.
“Um, listen. Things got…complicated here.”
He cleared his throat. “Complicated? Is everything ok with Eden?” Something you loved about Malcolm was how much he cared about Eden. With him, you were finally getting the family you’d always dreamed of. You explained the situation to him, and even though you’d been repeating it in your head all afternoon, you still couldn’t believe it. Maybe, when you woke up tomorrow, whatever this sick nightmare was would be gone, and you’d be back to normal.
“Jesus…I- Wow.” Malcolm sputtered.
“Yeah.”
“So…a whole summer without you.”
“Oh, no. This place barely has WiFi, I’m sure she’ll get sick of it a lot quicker.” You giggled, but it wasn’t a joke. You prayed she’d get exhausted with this town’s antiquated ways before any of it could hurt her.
Then, suddenly, you heard a clattering sound behind you. Your heart skipped a beat, because you knew exactly where it came from. Roy’s office. Your body reacted before your brain, as if you’d been caught doing something wrong by being up so late. That Roy was going to scold you like your father did. And then you remembered that both of them were very, very dead.
“Shit.” You heard the curse, and instantly recognized who was actually in Roy’s office.
“Listen, babe, I’m gonna go. Talk to you tomorrow, yeah?” This conversation wasn’t even close to finish, but right now, you couldn’t have it properly in this house.
“Ok, bye. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
There was a cough from Roy’s office right when you said it.
You sighed, following the noise. Just as you’d suspected, there, in the corner of the room, sorting through a liquor cabinet, was Gator. The moment you crossed into the space, he turned to you. “What are you doin’ up?” You rolled your eyes, because both of you knew he’d been eavesdropping on your entire call. “You really think she’s gonna get sick of me that quick?” He said me, not the ranch, like the two were even close to the same thing. You never got sick of him. You got sick of everyone else in the family. You got sick of being treated like you were disposable just because you were a woman, and you couldn’t have Eden growing up the same. But if Gator was anything like the man you knew all those years ago, then Eden would never be sick of him either. And that scared you. You didn’t say any of that, though. You just shook your head.
Gator breathed out in relief, turning back to liquor cabinet and pulling out a bottle of vodka. “Was gonna go for a walk. You wanna join me?” He dangled up the bottle like a little carrot on a stick.
And you followed it.
⋆.ঌ˚˖ ࣪
“You look good in that, by the way.” Gator indicated to the raggedy, old dress that you had on for the night as you strolled through the grounds, dirt crushing under your bare feet. It fit you wrong in every place and you felt uncomfortable being in something so restrictive, but Gator had insisted that he would help you guys get all your stuff from the motel tomorrow.
“What, your mom’s old night dress?” You’d slept over at his house plenty of times back in the day, and he used to just lend you his own clothes to sleep in. But that didn’t exactly seem appropriate any more. So here you were.
“Hell yeah, you look all…put together and mom-like.” He said with a teasing smirk.
“You should just call me old.” You sighed, snatching the vodka bottle from his hands so you could take a sip. It was still awful. You were still drinking it.
“If you’re old, then I am too.” He turned sharply to his left and you already knew where he was leading you. “Shit, man. Nine years.” The vodka bottle was back in his hands then. “Eden…I can’t believe she’s so old now.” He ran a hand over his face. Sometimes, it hurt you that you had kept Gator away from her for so long. But he never wanted to leave Lehigh, and you never wanted to come back. And you knew the fate that would have befallen her if you stayed. You didn’t want her growing up like you did.
“She’s really excited to get to know you again.” You admitted.
“Yeah, me too.”
You could tell since you saw that crossed out period. Which is why a thought had been gnawing at the back of your head since the will reading. “Did you know about the will? Is that why you invited us?”
Gator snorted. “Yeah, I suspected he was going to give his most prized possession to the missin’ daughter of the son he hated in the first place.” Almost the exact same words John had used earlier that day that made Gator so defensive, he was repeating himself. And it was true. That’s why none of this made any sense. “I invited you cause like- That’s Edie’s family. She deserves to be with her family when they die.” Then, slightly quieter, he mumbled. “She deserves to be with her family.”
You didn’t respond to that one. He knew why you left, you couldn’t have made it any more obvious. Five years you’d spent trying to make it work on this ranch. Five years, you pretend this wasn’t just another version of the home that you’d escaped.
His boots crunched against the dirt, skidding to a halt and you knew where you were. Part of you didn’t want to look up and actually see it. Part of you knew you didn’t have a choice.
You raised your eyes to meet the familiar white structure. It was just as you remembered it — a small, wooden, two-story with the red gable roof. The picture of Americana that you were once beyond excited to live in with your husband and child. The only difference was that now, all the doors and windows were shut off with wood panels, and you could see the way the midwestern weather had taken a toll on the place over the years. Gator had spent a whole year building it, when he discovered that you were pregnant with Eden. In his words, sure, it had all happened way earlier than expected, but it just meant you got to start living the life you’d always dreamed of that much sooner. Be a family. You believed him back then. You were a naive teenager.
“Been thinkin’ about openin’ this place back up. You and Eden could stay here for the summer. Get your old rooms back.” You had to admit, it would feel much better than staying cramped in that guest room, weathering Karen’s constant glares that you’d already lost count of. “Y’ think…Edie might wanna do that with me?” He looked down at his feet again. “Like, we could fix her up together?”
You froze. This was…new. Gator wanted your daughter to help him with construction work. “Isn’t that ‘man work’?” You rolled your eyes as you said it, but that was exactly what Roy had barked at you when you offered to help them build this thing in the first place. Gator had shrugged his shoulders and insisted it wasn’t safe anyways with the baby in your stomach.
“Start thinkin’ about decorations with Nadine, why don’t ya?”
Gator sighed at your comment now, taking another chug of the vodka. “Just thought it’d be a good way for us to like…bond and shit.”
You, despite yourself, glanced at him through the corner of your eye, still chugging down the vodka. Gator Tillman, asking about doing a labor project with his daughter so they could bond. You truly must have entered an alternate dimension. This whole day felt like some strange fever dream. But you were stuck in it, and there was no going back. The next few months, you’d have to put up with Lehigh. Forget your past, and be there for your daughter.
“Ok, Gator. But if you want to be a good dad to Eden, we’re going to need some ground rules.”
summary: an unexpected letter announcing the death of roy tillman forces you back to go back to your hometown of lehigh with your teenage daughter after nine years. you want it to be as simple as showing up for the funeral, but the town has a way of sucking you in. or maybe it's your ex husband, and the father of your child, gator tillman. somehow, the burial of roy tillman leads to too many of your old secrets getting dug up, and the resurrection of feelings you thought you had long forgotten.
warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, second chance romance, ex!husband!gator, dad!gator, slowburn, heavy themes of domestic abuse, childhood trauma, mental health and panic attacks, misogyny, death/grief, teenage pregnancy, struggles of young parenthood, small-town secrets, cheating (sorry but for the dramaaa), probably smut eventually, reader and gator are in their early 30s
status: ongoing
"Being back here makes me hot in the face
Hot blood in my pulsing veins
Heavy memories weighing on my brain
Hot and heavy in the basement of your parents' place
You used to be so sweet
Now you're a firecracker on a crowded street
Couldn't look away even if I wanted
Try to walk away but I come back to the start." - Hot & Heavy, Lucy Dacus
⋆.ঌ˚˖ ࣪chapter summary
ch1: back to the old house
ch2: wary as a dove
ch3: last call
ch4: your baby
ch5: the light of the moon
ch6:heaven is here
⋆.ঌ˚˖extras
unspoken words - text messages between you and gator over the years
father's days - a drabble about gator's father's days over the years
friday night lights and pregancy frights - the day you told gator you were pregnant
summary: your plans to tell gator about the pregnancy don't go at all to plan.
wc: 1.6k
warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, teenage pregancy, light mention of symptoms, allusions to sex, pregnancy reveal, gator being a little bit of an idiot, angsty
a/n: soooo still no new chapter 😅 (its in the works tho trust!!) so instead, enjoy the angsty scenario that's been playing in my head for the past few nights. also, i'm not a sports person at all so sorry if this sucks.
.ঌ˚˖ ࣪
The day you told Gator you were pregnant was…a mess, to say the least.
You had it all planned out. A Friday night. You were going to ask him to hang out, like you always did. Hot dogs from Dave’s first and then you’d tell him in the car. It was better than either of your houses. However he reacted (which you truly had no idea how he would), you would have the entire weekend to figure things out before seeing him again at school.
You asked him to hang out like you always did. At the cafeteria during lunch, surrounded by all of your shared friends. Really, they were much more Gator’s. Inside, you were shaking, you just casually sipped on your pop and asked, “Hey, you wanna hang out tonight?” Like you’d just happened to think about it right then. Gator laughed like that was the funniest joke in the world but when he saw your lack of reaction he paused.
“It’s Friday!” Oh right. It was football season and the school couldn’t play without their star quarterback. “I told ya tonight’s the state championship decider too.” He mumbled the second part, voice filled with disappointment that you didn’t remember. If only you could have told him right then and there exactly why you were so distracted.
“Oh.” Your head spun. You couldn’t hold this in much longer. “Tomorrow?” You swallowed the shake in your voice.
“Can’t.” He reached over to your plate, taking the tomatoes you always picked out of your sandwich and giving you the yogurt he always hated. “Doing ranch work all weekend. If Dad pays me a little more, I can get his truck off him. Take you anywhere y’ want then.” There was a slight edge in his tone, promising exactly what you’d be doing in that truck. Any other day, that would be perfect for you, but not now.
“Oh.” You repeated again, this time unable to hide the dismay in your voice.
Gator heard it too. “You good?” He questioned, voice with that sharp edge he didn’t mean to have but still scared you anyway. You were all too aware of your friends nearby, hearing your every word.
“Uh no, it’s nothing…I just wanted to talk.”
He turned fully in his chair to face you. “Why can’t we talk here?”
Before you could even think of an excuse someone — you were so distracted by Gator, you couldn’t tell who — was shouting out, “Ooh! She wants to ask him on a date!”
Gator rolled his eyes. “Shut up, man.”
“Fucking finally! Gator, are you gonna say yes?” Another voice chimed in. Your eyes were fixed to the floor, the room around you spinning as Gator tossed his empty pop can to the boys teasing.
The bell rung out, causing a loud chorus of groans to echo from the room as they shuffled to pack their bags. As you gathered your trash, the others straying from your table, Gator leaned in to ask, “Sure everything’s good? You’ve been real quiet today.”
You pushed your shoulders back and held your head up, smirking. “Nothing’s good, I have to go to Trig right now, that should be illegal.”
Gator snorted. “I’ll see you tonight, yeah? Need my lucky charm there.” He stared intently, anxious for the only answer you would ever give him.
“Yeah. See you tonight.”
.ঌ˚˖ ࣪
The floodlights of the football field were blindingly bright, even from your spot in the stands. It was packed shoulder to shoulder, sweat running down the crowd’s faces just from the excitement of it all. The end of the game. The winning touchdown.
Everyone was on the edge of their seats, watching Gator rush down the field, the ball clutched tight in his hand as he dodged the opposition.
“Come on!”
“Let’s fucking go, Tillman!”
“Don’t you dare let us down!”
And then he scored.
The stadium erupted into cheers — people jumping in their seats, others hugging each other. Over a damn football game. Everything, everything seemed so little now. Gator’s teammates rushed over to congratulate him, high fives and shouts of excitement this way and that.
His eyes shot up to the stands locking on you instantly. His smile was all to wide as he beckoned you down with a wave of his hand.
You rushed down the steps, the energy of the whole scene infectious. Though you never could get rid of the knots in your stomach, you pushed it down as you met him at the edge of the field.
Before you could even say, “Congratulations,” his sweaty arms were around you, and you were being lifted off the ground.
“Ha-ha!” He spun you around, the movement doing nothing to help your perpetual nausea. “Did you fuckin’ see that?” He laughed in disbelief as he set you back down. “I can’t believe it, we’re going to the fucking state championships. Told you you’re my lucky charm.” He shook you, hard. “Fuck that truck, we need to celebrate tomorrow.”
You’d never seen him smiling this hard. You were smiling too. Tomorrow. At some point, after he’d got the excitement out of his system, you’d tell him. “We’ll all go out!” He glanced back to check where Roy was to make sure he wasn’t listening. Not that he’d be able to hear the boy with the chatter of everyone trying to navigate their way off the field. “Ben’s parents are gone for the weekend. Let’s throw a fucking party.” Your stomach dropped.
No. People everywhere, and you trying to justify why you weren’t drinking a drop of alcohol. You couldn’t tell him this weekend. You couldn’t tell him next week during school. What were you meant to do? Gator noticed your silence. “What’d you want to tell me?”
You froze. Not here. “Really, it was nothing.”
He saw right through you. “Tell me now, we can celebrate tomorrow.”
“Oh I don’t think-”
“C’mon, Dove, I swear nothin’ could bring down my mood right now.”
You glanced around you. The football players were all still celebrating, Roy was engaged in some deep conversation with the coach, people surrounded you from all angles as they discussed their post game plans. Nobody was listening to you. You swallowed. He’d given you the chance. And he said it himself, right?
“Gator, I…” You trailed off. God, you’d spent the last few days ruminating on it but it was so much harder to say out loud. And the way he was looking at you, beaming with pride from the game. You were about to ruin it all. But it wasn’t a problem that was going to go away. You squeezed your eyes shut. “GatorI’mpregnant.” It all came out as one word. One horrifying, life changing word.
Very, very slowly you opened your eyes.
Your stomach sank at the view. He was blinking at you — eyes wide, mouth open, like he couldn’t believe what you were saying. “You’re…” He couldn’t even say it, but you nodded anyway. This was just shock, he needed a moment to process. You anticipated the questions before he could even ask them.
“I think I’m like 5 weeks, I took multiple tests and they all said yes but I want to go to the doctor this weekend so I was hoping…” You couldn’t finish your sentence.
You’d known Gator for most of your childhood. He had look at you in many ways — amusement, frustration, awe. But never this. He had pure terror in his eyes. Nothing came out of his mouth but a strange gargling noise in place of words.
And then his hands dropped from your shoulders.
Your heart sunk.
“Gator!” A deep voice called from the football field. It was Roy, his stare all too scrutinizing. “Come here, I want to talk about a play you ran there.” Gator looked to you, then back to his father, and once more to you. His eyes were saying sorry as he stepped back.
“Gator,” you quietly pleaded, “Now?”
“You can celebrate your little victory later.” Roy’s voice commanded.
Gator sighed, already half turned away from you. “I gotta…” But he didn’t even bother giving you some pathetic excuse. There was no point. He just ran after his dad.
Your chest felt like it was being cracked in two. You hadn’t known what to expect when you told him, but it wasn’t watching his jersey number get smaller and smaller as he walked away. He glanced back to you every few steps, but he never stopped. Never turned around. And when he reached his coach, who clapped him on the shoulder in congratulations, he smiled like nothing was wrong. He didn’t look up again.
You stared at him for a second, still trying to wrap your head around what happened, but there was no use. Your shoulders dropped as you fell into the crowd of people, slinking towards the exit of the field.
You had no idea that from the moment you’d turned your back, Gator’s eyes were stuck on you. He felt sick to his stomach. You were pregnant? How? When? What were you meant to do? There was only one person he turned to when shit got like this. Only one person who’s word he trusted. That person was currently lost in a sea of people. But just like earlier tonight, he could always find you there. Only, he didn’t run for you this time. Didn’t call your name. Didn’t fucking say anything. His feet were stuck to the ground.
Beside him, his coach was chatting about the game, Roy was criticizing the way he’d passed the ball. Around him, his teammates were deciding where to go out for food in celebration. Everybody was moving about as if life was normal.
But both your worlds had just tilted on their axis, and no matter what happened, you knew there was no going back on this.
Hi was hoping to get another Steve Harrington series and I think you will really like this one, also this is Steve x reader. So I'm thinking we have soulmates right, and every time one of them draws on their skin it appears on the others skin but comes off after a few minutes but there are rules you can't tell them what your name is. I'm thinking that by the time they are both 20 if they have not found their soulmates their soulmates name then appears on their wrists in their first and last name but Steve has no memory of knowing reader and when they finally do meet it's great until she meets the group bc she gets tangled up in everything but the one thing that she notices is that he's not over his ex nancy and this is how things start to happen also hoping to have little smut parts in some places. Reader is female.
Thank you and let me know what you think 😊
Thank you for the request! This is a really cool idea for a series, but unfortunately, I don't have the time to devote to doing it justice.
So, if anyone is inspired by this req and wants to run with it, go for it!
Pairing: Gator x Fem!Reader (orientation & mobility specialist)
Rating: HERE WE GO E! For EXPLICIT! It's the moment we have all been waiting for (I think?)
Warnings/Tropes/Other things: Friends to lovers, minor angst, disability representation, SMUT...FINALLY
Summary: You've been avoiding Gator after your kiss. You gather enough courage to talk to him about it anxious to where it might lead.
Word Count: 4.2K
Taglist (if you would like to be added let me know): @cycat-carisi @superfreaksteve @onlyangel-444 @ilikeappleandbanana @foreverserving @bluegardenn @keer-y @knights0fkylo @redvelvetcupcke1 @softlypaleprodigy @1039290382829
A/N: Also thank you so much for being so patient in waiting for the next part. It means so much to me. I hope you enjoy this installment. Sorry for this not being beta-read! I really wanted to get it to you all! <3
You lie in bed looking up at the ceiling, it's been three days since you've spoken to Gator. It's out of your routine. Normally, you'd call him at least two days before your next visit with him. You know he's become accustomed to your phone calls. You can always tell by the way he answers the phone. It's something you've become accustomed as well. It's always teasing and it's always comfortable:
Who told you it was OK to call me this early?
You...again?
It's about damn time.
And of course, your most favorite of all:
You rang, sweetheart?
And tomorrow. Tomorrow would be the day you would typically see him. Yet, you still haven't called. The way you miss hearing the sound of his voice is terrible. Even more terrible is the desire to call him when a crippling anxiety, fear, and confusion keeps you from doing so. You know you have to; you promised him. But what is waiting on the other side of that call? You battle with the intense need to know but also with a fear that's paralyzed you since Gator kissed you. Did he still like you? Did he hate you? Or is it worse?
You roll over in your bed and bury your face into your pillow to muffle your frustrated scream. In truth, it makes you feel better, even if just a little bit. Sometimes screaming into the void is the best thing anyone can do. After that release, you sit up and take your phone from the nightstand. You didn't even need to scroll through to find his number in your phone. You've never told him, but he's saved in your favorites. It made no sense to ruminate any longer and with a tap of your finger you start your call.
He doesn't answer immediately and though it's not surprising it's also not any less nerve wracking. You helped him set up the voice assistance on his phone to make sure it announces who is calling. The only uncertainty that remains is whether or not he answers. A shock to your heart zaps you when you unexpectedly hear the mellifluous voice of a woman on the other end.
"Hello, this is Gator's phone," she greets politely.
One beat. Two beats. One gasp of breath. That's how long it takes for you to realize it's Dot.
"Hello? Dot, is that you?" You can't hide the surprise and confusion that holds fast to your voice.
"Yeah, hi, how are you?" She adds gently.
"Um, yeah, so I was just calling to let Gator know that I'm coming over tomorrow," you explain with a gulp. "Um…I mean…if that's still OK?"
"Tomorrow?" You hear her pause and you just know she repeats it to relay the message to Gator.
Your heart sinks. He doesn't even want to speak to you. You can easily turn this around and be angry at him with how childish he's being, but you can't blame him. You left with him with confusing thoughts in your head that you are certain he shares, too.
"Tomorrow is fine," Dot finally answers you.
An anxiety inducing silence overwhelms you as you try to think of what to say next. There are so many words you want to get out and you can't seem to utter any of them.
"And you're still coming to see Scotty's pageant this weekend?" Dot asks, a sweet sincerity in every word. "She really, really would like for you to come."
"Are you sure? I really don't want to impose."
"Scotty really likes you," she adds in a quiet but emphatic voice, "and everything's squared away with you picking Gator up."
Surprise silences you and forces you to find an appropriate response. You clear your throat.
"Oh yeah?" You know you sound stupid. Or cold. Or stupid and cold. But you couldn't bear it if showing even a little bit of excitement would only lead you down a path of disappointment.
"Yep we were just discussing it before you called," Dot assures you.
It's as though she senses your need for the assurance. You want so badly to believe her.
"I'm sure you and Gator will talk the details tomorrow."
"Ok, thanks Dot," you say taking a deep breath.
"Oh…hold on a second," Dot adds and you hear some shuffling coming from the other end.
"Um, hey," the sound of Gator's voice on the other end nearly makes you gasp, "so, I'll see you tomorrow."
"Y—yeah, yes, of course," you say a little too quickly. "Do you need me to bring anything? "
"No," Gator replies with a simple answer, "just you."
There is no particular tone or cadence in his voice. Not anything you can decipher or try to read into anyway. But the words…the words hold a myriad of meanings and a myriad of possibilities.
"Ok," you pause formulating more words in your mind, "Gator, can I just—"
He cuts you off before you can speak another word, "Hey, we'll talk tomorrow, OK?"
"Oh…ok then."
And that is it. Silence again on the other end after he ends the call. It leaves you with an entire day and a sleepless night to overthink everything before you see him again.
Gator attunes his senses to everything around him as he waits for you. He starts to make his way to the door as soon as he hears you pulling into the driveway. He opens the door and waits for you, leaning against the doorway.
With one long inhale and then exhale, you open the door. It's only been a little over a week and seeing him again feels like fresh air in your lungs. And yet, you feel so nervous as you see him stand there. You shuffle your feet beneath you as you stand next to your truck, gathering enough courage to go to him.
"Hey," you say as you approach the foot of his steps, "do you want to go for a walk?"
He pushes himself to stand up straight and confidently takes his cane in front of him. You hold out your hand ready to help when he needs it. He glides one hand down the railing on his own to guide himself. A bittersweet pride fills you at the realization that as he becomes more independent the less he needs you.
The cold air flushes your cheeks as you start down the sidewalk in silence. Both of you take in the sounds around you: the morning chorus of the birds singing in the trees, the way the breeze whistles through the leaves along with them, and the whooshing of vehicles as they cruise by you in the street. The breeze carries your perfume to his nose and nearly stops him in his tracks.
"Listen," he breaks through the silent that fills an invisible space in between the sounds that surround you, "I'm sorry about the other day—I wasn't thinkin' and I thought, well,—I don't know what I was thinkin'."
"I'm sorry, too," you feel an obligation to agree despite being more confused than ever. "Maybe I over stepped my boundaries."
Gator ruffles his hair back with one hand and shrugs, "I guess? I mean you know better than I do."
The tone he takes only serves to make you feel even more confused. As you continue around the block and loop up a side straight the silence grows louder in the space between the two of you. Gator digs one hand in his pocket while he scans and sweeps the ground ahead of him with his cane.
"Can we just stop?" You say stopping in your tracks as you let out a sigh of frustration.
Gator can sense your frustration down to his very core. It's enough to make him shake with frustration of his own.
"Goddamn it what you do you mean?" He huffs as he turns to you.
"Can't we just start over?"
His lips turn downward as he nods his head. The way he crosses his arms and tightens his jaw tells you more than any of his words can say.
"So, like pretend nothing happened is what you mean?"
God he could be so frustrating, you think.
"That is not what I meant," you assert as you furrow your brow and cross your arms over your chest, a mirror to him. "Why are you being such a jerk?"
He scoffs at your words, tilting his head back to release a gruff sigh into the cold December air. He walks forward a few steps before turning back to you.
"I think it's time for me to go home," he says but gestures towards the sidewalk ahead of both of you. "If it's not too much trouble could you lead the way."
His words drip with the pettiest sarcasm and it only intensifies the irritation that buzzes beneath your skin. And because of it, you remain still, feet planted on the ground. You know you're being stubborn but you can't help it.
"So, you're just not going to answer me?" You question him.
"Fuck," he growls, sweeping his cane across the sidewalk before he starts back towards his house. "I'm not fucking do this."
He walks ahead with the utmost caution, tapping his cane in front of him. You feel your heart pounding in your chest as the conflict vibrates beneath your skin. As he walks ahead you can't help but notice how he tries to remain cautious of his surroundings all while trying to storm away. The sight tugs at your heart and you can't help but rush ahead to him even if it means you get him safely to his door before rushing away again.
Gator notices you next to him and chooses silence. He can tell that he's close to home when he feels a light touch of your hand to his elbow, guiding him to steps that lead to his door. He unlocks it without a word, leaving you at the bottom of his steps.
"So that's it? You're just going to leave it at that?!" You exclaim as he opens his door.
You just want to fight. You know it's wrong, but you can’t hold anything back anymore.
"We're not making a scene out here," he says plainly, "we can talk inside."
The corners of your lips quiver as you fight the urge to rush through his door.
"Oh, sure you don't want to make a scene," your fingers wave into air quotes that he can't even see as you emphasize every word, "that's really rich coming from you."
He shifts weight so he's leaning against the door. His body language and posture are collected yet demanding. His breaths are deep and heavy in his chest as he presses his head back against the door. The tightness in his jaw is visibly tense all the way to his neck and acts like an invisible zipper to your lips.
"Get in the house…now."
The way the words leave his lips is as even and firm as his stance. Your breath quickens deep within you. You're grateful he can't see how your chest is heaving in a steady up and down motion. In the heat of your disagreement, the most intrusive thought enters your mind. He looks too damn good. And as if by a force that's greater than you both, you step forward and walk up the stairs.
He feels your presence next to him and he shifts a step to let you inside. As he closes the door behind him, you don't cower. He doesn't make you feel small, like most men have made you feel in the past. You witness as a look of desperation fills his very being when he leans his back against his door.
"So how am I the one running, when it was you who did that exact thing last week, huh?" Gator questions, his hands settling at his hips.
"I didn't—," you begin, your words faltering, "I was--"
"Nervous? Scared?" He interjects.
"What? Like those aren't valid feelings?!" Your reply is swift.
And his is just as immediate ,"Oh no, they're valid because I'm feeling them, too! Fuck!"
The exasperation that reveals itself in his honesty provokes an unexpected silence within you. You watch every move his body, from the way he repeatedly runs his hands through his hair before placing them on his hips to the pacing of his feet beneath him.
"Do you even know how crazy you've made me feel since the last time you left?" He exclaims.
"Well, I have a feeling you're going to tell me!" You can't help but answer back.
"Can't you just let me finish?" His words to you leave him as soon as you finish. "Even when you left, I still felt you."
The words are like a dart straight to your heart. It amazes you how he manages to make you speechless when you want to say so much.
"Every single time you leave, I still feel you here," he confesses as he shakes his head, feeling almost embarrassed by the vulnerability he can't seem to hide from you. "And it's—"
A feeling stirs deep within your core and you rush to him, grasping his face with a touch of your hands. Every word of his confession is worthy of the kiss you press to his lips. He falters from the shock of your gesture. Despite this, you can't let him go. You feel your chest heave as you kiss him until it leaves you breathless.
Gator's mind spins as you kiss him like it's the last thing you'll ever do. He can scarcely believe it as you push his coat off his shoulders and discard it to the floor.
"Fuck," he sighs when you finally let him go.
There's no doubt as to the inevitability of what's about to happen. With a gentle touch your fingers tiptoe at his waist until your caressing the soft skin of his stomach. His breath and body quivers as you pull his T-shirt over his head.
The anticipation is broken by a subtle gasp from his full lips brought on by the touch of your finger tips against his skin. He's lean and muscular and the feeling of chest hair is a luxury you didn't know you needed. Your hands rest there, feeling the up and down of his breaths and the pumping of his heartbeat. You pull Gator close to you as you climb your hands up to his shoulders and then to his face, where you pull him forward again for another, deeper kiss.
Gator revels how his entire body reacts to your touch. Though something in the back of his mind still needs convincing, he moves his hands down to your waist pulling your hips into his pelvis. He would grip you harder if he could. He's been drowning so long in a sea of criticism, shame, and disappointment with no way to come up for air. Until you. His hands grip your hips with the deepest desperation. The only hope he has strengthens when he clings to you: the life preserver of his life.
With breathless anticipation, you lead him to sit back on the couch. He waits as you pull your t-shirt over your head and discard it to the floor. You slide your jeans down your hips, kicking them to the side before you place your legs on either side of his straddling his lap.
"Fuck," he moans his large, firm hands roaming up your bare thighs until they find your hips and ass.
Your supple and velvet-soft skin beneath and between his fingers lights up every nerve in his body. The way you rock your pelvis in his lap coaxes a whimper from him. He rises for you and his jeans grow taut as he throbs against the constraining fabric. On instinct, you rock your pelvis against his feeling him grow against the flimsy fabric of your panties. With deft hands, you unhook your bra and toss it to the floor before pulling him close.
Gator roams his hands up your waist, his head spinning at the beautiful and intoxicating scent of your body. You feel his warm breath against your chest as he tilts his head upward to you. He's gorgeous like this. Eager. Desperate. Yearning. His face softens with expectancy and a wordless expression that asks permission for what he so desperately wants to do next. You pull him close as your response, feeling his pillowy soft lips travel against your skin until they reach your nipples.
He can't wait and is taken over by the desperate need to taste you. His tongue flattens at his first taste and your entire body shudders as he continues. He swirls his tongue against the pebbled skin, where you become pert and responsive with each luxurious motion he makes.
"Gator," you whine as he wraps his arms tightly around you like a prized possession he's not willing to let go.
"Mmm," he moans, growing more and more intoxicated by your scent and your taste. "Baby, you taste good."
His voice is deep and smooth as he speaks. His words rumble through the concourse of your body until they reach and light up every part of your core.
The overwhelming desire, no, the overwhelming need to make him feel everything takes. He surrenders to the tender touch of your lips against his. He allows himself to settle into the way your fingers run through his hair while you explore his lips and mouth with a gentle push of your tongue.
Gently, you push yourself off his lap to slide down his body. The warmth of your chest against his chest coaxes a shudder of anticipation as you settle your legs between his legs. You draw a trail of kisses that start at his lips to his chest where you revel in how his chest rises and falls. His breaths are sharper and quicker as he feels your hungry kisses at his happy trail stopping just before the waistband of his jeans.
"I just want to make you feel good," you say with a voice so low and so sweet that draws low moan.
The way your soft fingers work slowly and deliberately at unbuttoning his jeans is deliciously antagonizing. He feels how your gentle hands pull at them. He lifts his hips slightly off the couch making it easier for you to pull them off along with his boxer briefs.
"Oh my god," your marvel at how his thick cock stands at full attention for you, quivering in desperation. "You're so big Gator."
Normally, he'd smirk and have a quick and arrogant response about how he already knows how big he is. But, he couldn't with you. The way those words leave your lips is an affirmation he never knew he needed until this very moment. His thoughts swirl and ricochet against the boundaries of his mind and the anticipation of the touch of your lips at the tip of him takes his breath away.
"Oh fuck," he groans as you wrap your lips around him slowly taking more of him into your mouth.
You slowly draw him in savoring first hints of his arousal leave him to light up every taste bud on your tongue. Every ridge of him slides and throbs against your lips as you take more and more of him in, until the tip of him reaches the back of your throat. The whimper that leaves him, the desperation slipping away as he allows himself to feel every touch of your hand working on him and the inhale you take as your head bobs up and down against this hard length.
"Holy shit, baby!" He gasps, a shaky whimper escaping him.
With one hand he grips the soft upholstery of the couch between his fingers while his other palm rests against your soft tresses. You moan as your hunger for him grows and you move faster in your goal of getting him to lose all control in you. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. The drum of his heart is rapid against his chest as his legs, torso, and his entire body begins to quiver in response.
"Fuck, sweetheart," he moans and breaths sharp, as he begs for you to stop. "I wanna come but not like this!"
You take your mouth from him licking one last stroke up his shift, as he twitches still so full and hard for you. As he tries to catch his breath, you stand and removing the only barrier that is keeping you from joining him completely.
"You're right, not like this," you sigh in agreement as you straddle yourself over his beautiful body, "this way."
His mouth drops in disbelief as you center yourself over him and he feels your wet opening at the weeping tip of his cock. With a loud gasp of combined relief and ecstasy, he feels you lower yourself onto him and his hands fly to your hips with the strongest of grips as you move against him. He throws his head back releases a moan into the air as you squeeze around him with a tight embrace of your walls. Your own whimper reaches his ears like a song as you feel him throb and grow inside you.
"Fuck, you're so tight!" He exclaims, his voice rattling without constraint.
The words carry the encouragement that brings you to roll your hips and bounce against him squeezing him tighter and tighter to feel every ridge and vein of him pulsate with a steady rhythm. Every warm quiver that you feel inside you grows progressively stronger, shaking you from your core to your legs, up your abdomen and to your chest.
How could this possibly get any better?
The thought is brief and as if reading your mind and understanding your body, you are met with the best argument his body can provide. His hands knead against the plush skin of your ass as he heaves into you with as much might as his hips can muster.
"Ohmygod!" You gasp so fast, the words come out as one and tears of pure pleasure leaping from the corners of your eyes. "You feel so good."
The feeling of your hands bracing themselves firmly against his torso along your moans and whimpers are a plea he is more than happy to oblige. And so he thrusts into you again, again, and again. Through quickening breaths, you manage to beg for more.
"Gator, please don't stop!" The breathless sob you make drifts sweetly to his ears as you beg with a final, strong rock of your pelvis against him.
The desperation of your plea permeates through every squeeze of you around his cock. He pounds into you the way you both need: messier, faster, and unrestrained with each pump. You arch your back and throw your head back as his arms around tightly around your waist.
"Fuck, I'm gonna come," he pants his entire body beginning to shake. "Sweetheart?"
His face turns up to you, his brows furrowed and begging for an answer, for your permission.
"It's ok, come inside, please," you nod through every panting breath, "wanna feel all of you."
Faster than you speak the words, Gator is shaking and driving into you with all of his strength, all his heart, all that he has. You wrap yours him so tightly against your chest that he can taste the sweetness of your skin, feel the perspiration that gathers there, and he feels your pounding heartbeat. Together, you quake and cry prayers of each other's names as Gator empties into you. The way you throb and close yourself around him coaxes every bit of his heat to paint your walls.
The echo of your breaths is the only sound that reverberates against the walls, wrapping around you as Gator pulls you tight to rest his head against your chest. The sound of your heartbeat drifts to his ears as his perspiration intermingles with yours. The subtle and sweet scent of your perfume unites with delicate dew that rests on your soft skin bewitches him in a way no potion ever could. You squeeze each other tighter, even as Gator softens inside you, neither of you wanting to experience the feeling of your union ending.
Gator tilts his head up towards you and submits to the gentle caress of your fingers through his hair.
"What now?" His voice holds an apprehension as he waits for any words to leave your lips.
"I don't know Gator," you reply, somehow still not able to believe what's just transpired. “Can we just stay like this for a little while?”
With gentle hands you explore the beauty of his face before pulling it to yours. Gator feels the heat of your breath danceing on his lips. A quiet and pleading whimper escapes him as he brings a gentle hand to cup your face. You lean into his warm touch that turn into even warmer caresses. He nods in agreement. The feeling of your naked body against his along with the hope of feeling your walls close tightly around him again and again is all he needs in this moment. He nuzzles his gorgeously prominent nose against yours, sealing the feeling with a kiss.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x best friend!fem!reader
Summary: Nobody said it was a good idea to fall for your best friend. Actually, most people would tell you otherwise—even the best friend in question, when his vices upset you so. But a battle of wills is not easily fought or won, as you are unfortunate to find out as unknown horrors in Hawkins plunge Steve deeper into bad habits.
Word Count: 10,440 words
Warnings: smoking, drinking, argument between friends, drunk Steve, a few time skips, messing with the show timeline a little, jumpy timeline bits, mentions of reader's family (good home life for reader), Steve coping with Stancy breakup by drinking, reader affectionately refers to Steve as "dumbass", building in some family backstory
Requested by @cycat4077 — My apologies for taking so long on this fic, love! I hit a wall with writing for a while, wrote and rewrote this a few times, then got distracted with BG3, then rewrote it again, but now we're back! I hope you like it :)
Note: Title from 'Sedated' by Hozier!
☟ Continue below the fold ☟
November 1984
You knew something was up the minute you pulled into the driveway, parking directly behind the BMW. As usual, his parents' cars were nowhere to be seen, but you'd honestly be more concerned if you did see them in the driveway.
As you got out of your car, you studied the house. The lights were off, most of the curtains drawn, the gate leading into the backyard still closed. You glanced at your watch, half-convinced you'd gotten the time wrong, but no—it was nearly 7 p.m. on a Friday night, and Steve was alone in his house.
For a moment, something like hope filled your chest. Then you remembered what happened Halloween night, two days ago, and you realized it was probably a lot worse.
'It,' of course, was how you and Steve danced around the subject of his substance use: the smoking and the drinking that had started early for him and had only gotten worse over the past few years.
The problem with being best friends with Steve Harrington for so long was that you'd watched him become his worst self and felt powerless to stop it. Carol and Tommy always made it worse, and Steve had always been...susceptible to peer pressure, no matter how much you begged and pleaded with him to just be careful.
Nancy's influence had been a good one—you hadn't seen Steve smoke since she complained about tasting it when he kissed her and he'd cut down on his drinking. You had even silently cheered with her at parties when Steve began turning down drinks. But after their rather pitiful fight in the bathroom that you'd had the misfortune to overhear and the conversation they'd had the following day, your hope that this behavior would continue was practically nonexistent.
You took a deep breath as you headed for the door, admonishing yourself silently. You're here to help him through this so he doesn't do all that again, not yell at him and make it worse. He needs someone in his corner right now.
The front door was unlocked, as you had expected it to be. You stepped inside and looked around. The house was empty and strangely clean, as if Steve had done a very early spring cleaning to distract himself.
But even though the house looked like it hadn't seen a party in weeks, it smelled like one had been raging for several days. Sighing, you climbed up the stairs and headed for Steve's room. It was empty, but the sight still made you mutter, "Oh, Steve..."
His bed was unmade and there was an empty bottle of vodka on his nightstand. Next to it was an abandoned rocks glass of half-drunk whiskey, a semi-melted ice cube in it. "Mixing liquors again, are we?" you sighed, picking it up and taking it into the bathroom. You dumped the liquor down the sink.
Back in his room, the ashtray you thought he'd thrown out was back on his dresser, clearly used, a cigarette butt in it. A pack of cigarettes—mercifully mostly full—was beside it.
You picked up the empty bottle of Absolut and carried it and the rocks glass back into the kitchen. You tossed the bottle and washed the glass out. You put it back in the cupboard, grabbed two water bottles from the fridge, and headed out to the pool.
As you had expected, Steve was outside. He had rolled his jeans up to his knees and sat on the edge of the pool with his legs in the water. There was a beer can beside him. The air was thick with the smell of a cigar, the embers of it glowing between his fingers. He lowered it from his mouth and exhaled heavily. His hair was disorganized and falling into his eyes.
"Hey," you said heavily as you approached, sitting down cross-legged beside him. You handed him the water. Steve took it wordlessly and slumped his head onto your shoulder. "You wanna talk about it?"
"Not really," Steve mumbled.
"It might help," you insisted.
Steve scoffed. "What's there to talk about? You were outside the bathroom when I left, you know what Nance said. She doesn't—" He cut himself off, his lower lip trembling. He lifted the beer to his lips.
You covered it with your hand. "Drink the water, Steve," you admonished gently. "It'll help more than the alcohol."
Steve, who had heard this from you multiple times before, rolled his eyes and muttered a half-hearted, harmless, "Fuck off."
The pair of you fell into silence with Steve's head rested on your shoulder. You gently plucked the cigar from his hand and wrapped your arm around him, resting your head against his. He made a soft sound of thanks and you repeated your mantra to yourself as butterflies came to life in your belly: Friends first.
Those two words had gotten you through the past few years of Steve's promiscuity, especially his relationship with Nancy. It meant shoving your own feelings for your best friend since childhood to the side in favor of his friendship and supporting him, no matter how painful it was—as it had been with Nancy, when you were almost certain you were going to lose him to her forever.
So as supportive as you were trying to be, some small part of you was a little relieved their relationship had gone belly up.
You were pulled from your slightly guilty thoughts by Steve whispering into your sleeve, "I miss her."
More guilt curled through your stomach. "I know, I'm sorry," you murmured. "I miss her, too."
"Is it already weird? Without her?" he asked.
You shrugged. "A little. I'm more worried about you, though."
Steve lifted his head, a frown on his face. "She was so worried about Barb and lying to her parents. She had...something weird going on and I'm worried—"
"Doesn't she always have something weird going on, Steve?" you asked, a little more sharply than you would have liked.
"I mean I guess so, but—" He looked up at you. "Are you...upset with me about something?"
"What? No!" Liar. You were terribly upset about all the alcohol he'd consumed, his intoxication in his eyes and how unfeeling he was to the cold water his legs were in and the looseness of his body. But now wasn't the time to chide him.
"Sorry, sorry, it's just...you look mad."
You sighed heavily, pulling Steve into a hug he more than happily fell into. "I'm not mad at you," you promised, keeping your voice soft. "But you're upset, which means I'm upset too, that's just how this works, Steve."
He held you tighter. "I'm glad you're here," he whispered, a phrase you had never heard Steve utter except when he was plastered.
"I'll always be here," you said softly, despite it all, and you held each other until Steve started to shiver. "Hey, why don't you get out of the water?"
Wordlessly, Steve untangled himself from you and got out of the pool. He sighed heavily and drank the rest of his beer. You took the empty can from him when he was finished and the two of you made your way back into the house, much warmer than outside.
"Weren't you supposed to winterize the pool already?" you asked as you shut the door to the patio behind you.
Steve shrugged. "I forgot to do it earlier this month, then thought it might be nice for Halloween if I had a party, but then everyone was going to Tina's party, so...no point in having my own, y'know?"
You nodded, accepting his explanation. "We'll close it soon, okay?"
He nodded. "It... It made Nancy mad that I left it open. B'cause of Barb," he said, his words slowing down and slurring. He'd built up a high tolerance, but the alcohol was finally kicking in. He looked disgruntled for a moment, then said, "Did she expect me to cement it in or something?"
"I doubt it," you told him. "I think that is just the alcohol talking."
He made a face. "You don't like me drinking, do you?"
"No, I don't, and you already know that," you said, rolling your eyes. "We'll talk about it when you're not hammered. For now, why don't you drink some more water and then get to bed?"
"Okay," he said, surprisingly agreeable. You'd been expecting a bit of an argument.
You helped Steve walk up the stairs, stopping every so often as he got woozy, with an arm looped under his own arms. He stumbled toward his room and stopped at his bedside, staring at his nightstand like he knew there should be alcohol there but couldn't quite figure out why it wasn't.
After a moment, Steve just shrugged and unbuttoned his jeans without warning. He unzipped them and stripped them off; you turned away to give him privacy while also watching him out of the corner of your eye to make sure he didn't fall over.
As if that's your only reason, you scolded yourself, your belly flipping as Steve pulled his shirt over his head. He crawled into bed in his boxers.
You crossed your arms over your chest and looked over him. "You gonna be okay if I leave you?"
"Don't leave," he pleaded. "I—I don't wanna be alone."
You looked at Steve for a long moment, then sighed. He looked so small beneath the covers, alone in a way he hadn't been since the first time his parents left him by himself for a business trip. You'd been kids then.
"Alright," you relented. "Shove over."
Steve wiggled to one side of his bed while you pulled off your sweater and your jeans. You stole a pair of his sweatpants and crawled into bed in them and your tank top after shutting off the lights.
"Thank you," Steve whispered, shutting his eyes and exhaling slowly.
You hummed quietly. You didn't protest as Steve reached over and took your hand, keeping it between your bodies like you had done when you'd been much younger and Steve had terrible nightmares.
Into the dark, some time later, you said, "It's gonna be alright, Steve. We'll figure it all out. Your life isn't over because of a breakup, okay?" Silence. "Steve?"
You scooted closer and listened to his breathing; he was dead asleep.
"Good night, Steve," you sighed.
~❊~
The next morning you woke in an empty bed to the noise of Steve's dresser drawers opening and closing. You sat up in bed and stared blearily at him.
"What're you doing?" you asked groggily.
"Where can I buy nice flowers?" he asked without looking for you, still digging through his clothes. It took you a moment to realize he was just standing in a blue shirt and his boxers, apparently looking for a specific pair of jeans. The shirt did absolutely nothing to cover his ass and you found yourself staring for a moment, an action you'd done so often throughout your friendship that Steve no longer noticed or teased you about it.
"Good morning to you too," you grumbled, rolling out of his bed and wiping sleep from your eyes.
"Morning," he said distractedly. "What kind of flowers should I buy?"
"Steve, what are you going on about?" you asked, frowning. "Flowers?"
He finally turned around to you, jeans in hand. His eyes were much brighter than you had been expecting for a guy who had to have woken up with a massive hangover. "I'm gonna fix it. I'm gonna apologize to Nancy for the fight and make it up to her and I'm gonna give her flowers."
You stared at him. "Steve, what are you apologizing for? She's the one who couldn't tell you she loves you!"
He winced but ignored your remark. "Uh...for being a dick?"
You sighed. "Look, you can be a dick and you definitely have been, but I don't think you were the dick in this scenario."
Steve rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, Nancy seems to think I was, so I'm gonna fix this."
You pulled a face. "Why are you apologizing for doing what you were told, Steve? She can try to tell Barb's parents what really happened all she'd like, but we were told to keep our mouths shut."
"Yeah, but you know Nance," he said quietly. "She...feels like it's her fault."
You recognized the look on his face and you felt something in your chest crack. "Oh, Steve... She's blamed you for it, too, hasn't she?"
Refusing to make eye contact with you, Steve pulled on his jeans. "If she hadn't stayed with me that night, she would have left with Barb, and maybe she'd be alive right now."
"Or maybe they'd both be dead," you snapped. You sighed as he flinched. "Look, I'm sorry, it's just— There's no use thinking about what we could have done differently. Sure, a lot of what happened that night was a mistake, but we can't change that. Even though we want to. Look at me, Steve."
His gaze remained trained on the floor as he busied himself with putting his socks on, balancing awkwardly on one foot.
"Please," you insisted, shoving the covers back and nudging him with your foot.
Steve finally looked around to you. His eyes were watery and now you could see the signs of a hangover on his face. Every word you had prepared to say died in your throat at the sight of him and you sighed heavily.
"If you want to try to make up with Nancy, be my guest. Just...don't feel guilty about listening to the officials."
Steve shrugged. "Maybe she's right. Maybe we're wrong to listen to them and let them get away with it."
You smiled ruefully. "Yeah, well... Nancy's right more often than not."
He looked at you for a long moment and you wondered if you'd said it wrong, somehow. Was your tone too bitter? Could he tell that some small part of you resented that he listened to her when he had once listened to you?
But after a moment, Steve just said, "Can you help me choose some flowers?"
You sighed. "Sure. Let me get my clothes on."
Steve made a face. "You want to put your dirty clothes back on?"
"Well, I'm pretty sure you don't have any more of my clothes here."
He checked his dresser quickly, then shook his head. He threw one of his sweatshirts at you instead. "Here, put that on."
You raised an eyebrow at him. "Sweatpants and a sweatshirt? In public? Really?"
He shrugged. "What? You look cute. Guys'll love that."
Rolling your eyes, you pulled the sweatshirt over your head. "They're your clothes, Steve."
He understood the implication you didn't have to spell out. He rolled his eyes and held his hand out. "Give it back, then."
You drew away from him. "No."
Steve sighed as you pulled your shoes on. "You confuse me."
"That's my goal," you said with a faux sweet smile. You stood up and headed for the door. "C'mon. We'll have the best luck at that floral shop on Main Street."
Steve grabbed his keys off of his nightstand. "Next to the record store?"
"Mhm. Grab your coat—it might rain later." You started out the door, heading for the stairs.
Sighing, Steve pulled on his gray jacket, hesitated for a moment, and then grabbed a flask from a drawer in his nightstand. He filled it quickly with a bottle of whiskey you'd miraculously missed in your cleansing of his room last night.
"Steve!" you shouted from downstairs. "What's taking so long?"
"Coming!" Steve called back. He capped the bottle, shoved the flask into his jacket pocket, and followed you out of his house.
~❊~
Hours later, you found yourself waiting in the back of Steve's BMW, watching him walk down toward the Wheeler's house, carrying red roses. The two of you had spent far too much time talking to the florist about arranging a bouquet with floral meanings before Steve had decided to go simple and to the point.
You knew he was mumbling different variations of his practiced apology to Nancy as he walked, vaguely hearing him mumble to himself through the cracked passenger side window. You were pleased to hear him mutter, "What the hell am I sorry for?" Clearly, he was getting the message you were trying to tell him: he had no reason to apologize for being upset that Nancy was lying about being in love with him. (Although you did think he ought to apologize to her for a good many other things.)
"Steve!"
You glanced out the window to find a young boy—you'd seen him before, hadn't you? It took you a moment to realize it was one of Mike's friends, glimpsed in brief when you hung out with Nancy. Which one was this?
Perplexed, Steve stopped.
"Are those for Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler?" the boy asked. (Curly hair... Baseball cap... You fought to remember his name. Nancy had told you all of the boys' names, right?)
Steve glanced down at his roses. "No."
"Good!" The boy grabbed them, walking toward the BMW.
"Hey! What the hell!" Steve snapped, picking up a fallen rose petal flower.
"Nancy isn't home," the boy said without stopping.
Steve frowned. "Where is she?"
"Doesn't matter," the kid said, though you could see the gears in Steve's head turning. You sat up straighter in the backseat as the kid opened the passenger door. "We have bigger problems than your love life. You still have that bat?"
"Bat? What bat?"
"The one with the nails," he said, and his exasperation made you remember.
"Dustin!" you said aloud, snapping your fingers. He glanced back at you and waved.
"Why?" Steve asked.
"I'll explain it on the way," Dustin said, climbing into the car. He glanced back at you. "Why are you back there?"
You shrugged. "Easier to chide him when I can make eye contact through the rearview mirror."
"Now?" Steve asked.
"Now!" Dustin called.
"What's going on?" you asked.
Dustin swiveled to stare at you again. "I...can't tell you. You weren't involved last year, so—"
"She knows," Steve said, climbing into the car.
Dustin spluttered. "You told her?!"
"She's my best friend, of course I told her," Steve snapped, raising his voice over Dustin's incredulous yipping—something about the government and federal secrets and bad men with anger issues.
You cleared your throat. "Kinda hard to keep a secret when he comes back all bruised and bloody and refuses to go to the hospital. And I'm really good at annoying him."
"You refused to go to the hospital?"
"Mhm," you said, loud enough to be heard over Steve's groan as he pulled away from the Wheeler's driveway. You mimicked Steve's voice as you said, "It's fine, I've got a bottle of bourbon I've been meaning to use! Special occasion! And then he passed out."
"Shut up!" Steve whisper-hissed at you, glaring at you through the mirror.
You rolled your eyes and huffed, sitting back in your seat.
"That was a terrible idea, Steve!" Dustin chided.
"Stubborn, isn't he?" you said.
"What did I say?" Steve asked, putting on that scolding tone. You raised your eyebrows and he quickly dropped it.
"Whatever, doesn't matter right now," Dustin said. "We need to find my pet demodog."
You frowned. "Your pet what?" you and Steve asked at the same time.
Sighing, Dustin launched into an overly detailed explanation that had you forcing yourself to remember your eighth grade science classes. Though you struggled to keep up with the terminology as much as Steve did, you managed to follow along enough: something from the Upside Down had found Dustin, and he'd taken it in as a pet for some reason, it had now eaten his cat and gotten loose.
"So we just gotta find this thing?" you asked.
"Yeah," Dustin said.
"Can't be that hard," you reasoned. "What does it eat?"
"Whoa, what?" Steve asked.
You rolled your eyes. "Oh, c'mon, it's simple! We buy whatever food it likes and leave it out for it to find. Got any idea where it might be headed, Dusty?"
Dustin grinned at you. "I think it might be trying to go home. And I'm pretty sure Dart eats only meat."
"Great. Steve, pull over at the store, we can get some pre-packaged stuff for...Dart," you said, pausing on the little beast's name. You hadn't asked Dustin what he planned to do when he caught the demodog, but you weren't totally sure he'd thought that far ahead.
Well, you'd cross that bridge when you came to it.
Steve pulled into the grocery store parking lot. "Alright, kid. Go get what you need."
Dustin was up and out of the car before you could tell him to wait for you. You sighed, pushing your door open. "You coming, Steve...?"
You trailed off as you turned back toward him, finding him with his head thrown back, a flask at his lips. Had it been a painting, you would have found it beautiful. But that was just the thing—it wasn't a painting, it wasn't some guy depicted in the throes of his worst nightmare. It was Steve. Your Steve, falling back on the same old bad habits you'd been trying so damn hard to curb stomp out of him.
"Steve." Your voice was flat.
He took another swig before lowering the flask. He offered it to you. "Want some?"
You scoffed. "Seriously? Want some? Are you insane?"
Steve blinked, taken aback by the sudden harshness in your tone. "What—"
"Look, I get it, this is stressful and annoying and not what you had planned for the day. I didn't plan for this either! But can you put the damn drink down?" you snapped. "You're the one driving, for Christ's sake!"
He sighed. "Alright, fine, maybe it's not the smartest idea—"
"Not the smartest?" you echoed. You slammed the car door shut again. "Steve, what the fuck?"
"Oh, come on, what's with you all of a sudden? You never cared before!"
"Yeah, before," you snapped, "when we were friends with deplorable people? Before, when casual drinking was all we did? Before, when it wasn't a damn problem you won't admit to?"
Steve turned around in his seat to glare at you. "A problem? What are you talking about? I've been perfectly fine and I am well aware of how much I'm drinking. It's not a problem, I've got it under control!"
You scoffed. "Sounds exactly like something an alcoholic unwilling to admit it would say, dumbass." It wasn't until the word left your mouth that you realized its tone had changed from the sweet, affectionate name-calling to a hard, angry punctuation.
Steve flinched. "I'm not a fucking alcoholic, I'm not my damn father!"
"I never said you were, but ironic you thought about that, isn't it?" Before you could feel bad, you continued, "Look, I know that all this—" You gestured around you, summing up all of Hawkins and its problems. "—has been a lot to take in recently. I realize Nancy made it worse. I know this is hard for you. But, Jesus, Steve. The vodka and whiskey in your room last night? The beer, the cigs? You're overdoing it, again, and I'm not gonna sit here and watch you do it."
"So stop fucking watching," he snapped. "Leave me to my own devices—" You scowled, recognizing a phrase from the last time you'd snapped at him about his drinking. "—and handle your own shit, huh? I can take care of myself!"
The irony tingled as it sat on your skin. You could remind him that you'd taken care of him last night, could remind him about the dozen or so times before you'd had to take care of him when he couldn't do it himself, so inebriated he didn't know up from down or his shirt from his pants.
But you only shoved the door open and climbed out of the car. You reached back in through the open window. "Gimme the flask, Steve."
He scowled at you. "What are you, my mother?"
Absolutely not. I'm here, and she's not. But you pulled back the nasty retort, waggling your fingers again. "Give it here."
Rolling his eyes, he tossed it to you. You caught it, sniffing it. It was more than half full of bourbon—the expensive bottle his dad kept in the back of the kitchen cabinet, judging by the smell of it. You huffed.
"Thank you," you said, trying to soften your voice. You stared at him where he sulked in his seat, refusing to meet your eyes. "I'm just trying to watch out for you, Steve. You won't do it for yourself, not right now. So forgive me if there's one person that actually cares about you." He glanced over at you, brows knit. You pointed into the store Dustin had disappeared into. "He needs you. The other kids need you. Keep it together for them, if not for me, if not for yourself."
You uncapped the flask and tipped it, pouring the liquor onto the pavement at your feet. Steve opened his mouth, but the sound of protest died on his lips as your gaze snapped back up to him.
"This is my battle, not yours," he said after a moment.
"Oh, yeah?" You chucked the flask back at him. He barely caught it. "Then fight it."
You turned on your heel and stalked into the store after Dustin, waiting until the doors had shut behind you before you swiped a knuckle over your eye.
~❊~
December 1984
Christmas was a family affair in your house—except this year, it was especially busy at your house as family and friends alike flitted through your doors. Steve was spending Christmas with you like he always did when his family wasn't in town for the holiday, and this year, he'd brought the gaggle of kids with him. They slipped from room to room and house to house, some staying for only a few minutes (like Lucas and Will, who were celebrating mostly with their families but had wanted to stop in) and some stayed much longer (like Dustin, who had become attached to Steve, and Max, who preferred your company over her family's).
You were happy to have them all, of course, even if the extra noise was a bit much for your ears and the extra bodies meant less space. There was, however, plenty of food to go around and to send the kids home with, as your mother had cooked more than your family could eat.
You were standing in the kitchen, helping to put away newly washed dishes, when Dustin appeared at your arm, looking worried.
"Have you seen Steve?" he asked. You glanced around, expecting him to see him in the kitchen—it had become quite normal for Steve to help clean up after gatherings like this, but he was nowhere to be found.
You put the plate in your hands away and said to Dustin, "I'll go find him, don't worry."
Dustin nodded. "Thanks. I have to leave soon, and I want to say goodbye before I go."
You ruffled his hair, silently melting inside over his attachment to your best friend. Steve had never said it, but you knew he felt the same way about the kid just from how he looked at him.
You left the kitchen and glanced quickly outside, though you were certain Steve wasn't stupid enough to be out in the cold this late at night, especially not with the thick crust of snow outside. The snow outside the door was undisturbed, so you went up to your bedroom—a place Steve had always known he was welcome in when he needed to be away from his parents.
As you had expected, he was sitting on your bed, looking quite dejected. He had a glass in his hand, empty except for a half-melted block of ice. He looked up when you stopped in the doorway.
"Sorry," he said, lifting the glass. "I know I promised I wouldn't, but..."
"Steve," you said softly, decidedly upset that he'd broken his promise—made shortly after he told you he'd finally talked to Nancy, that she'd finally said to his face she wasn't coming back—but trying not to show it. You crossed to your bed and sat down beside him. "What's wrong?"
He shrugged. "Got to thinking."
"About?"
Steve sighed, leaving his head against your shoulder. "I spent last Christmas with the Wheelers." After a moment, he added, "With Nancy."
It's only been a month, you reminded yourself as an uncomfortable twisting started in your gut—the familiar feeling of jealousy that was becoming stronger every time Steve talked about Nancy. But, as you were reminding yourself, it had only been a month since she had quite literally broken his heart.
"Oh, Steve," you sighed.
"I know, you're probably getting tired of hearing about her," Steve said. "It's just..."
You wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "I'm not tired of it," you assured him. You chose your next words very delicately. "Or you. I'm more concerned about how you're...medicating," you said, gesturing to the empty drink.
"It was my only one of the night," he promised.
"Well, that's something," you said dryly.
Steve looked at you, incredibly guilty. "You're disappointed in me." It wasn't a question.
"A little," you admitted.
"I am, too," he said quietly.
Out of words to comfort him, your heart broken by those three words, you held out both arms. He passed you the glass and gave you a moment to put it on the ground before he accepted your hug, his body slumping against yours.
You held Steve and prayed he could not hear the pounding of your heart. The smell of him enveloped you, clean laundry and aftershave and shampoo, all tinged with the slightest bit of whiskey on his breath. A sense of ease settled over you, bringing with it the desire to stay like this until everyone left.
"Dustin's looking for you. He wants to say goodbye before he leaves," you said quietly.
Steve huffed through his nose and held you tighter. Your heart began to pound in your ears. "The kid can wait a second." He buried his head in your shoulder and you understood what he wouldn't say: You come first.
You rested your head against Steve's. "I know we've fought about all this a thousand times, and I've told you this just as much...but if you ever need anything, anybody to talk to—my door is always open, Steve. I'd rather you come to me than to..."
"My vices," he finished for you. He pulled himself away from you and wiped at his eyes, trying only half-heartedly to hide it from you.
"Yeah," you said softly. "You could call it that, I guess."
The two of you stayed that way until you heard Dustin's foot on the stairs. You sprang apart as if you'd been caught doing something nefarious before he could find you. You shooed Steve out the door and kicked the rocks glass beneath your bed; you'd wash it when your parents weren't around to question if Steve really was doing alright like he'd insisted all of dinner.
"Steve?" Dustin called.
"Coming!" Steve said, standing. He gave you a half-smile before he walked out the door, pasting on the face he frequently put on for the kids: the always fine, always good-spirited Steve Harrington. Even as he shut the door behind him, you heard him say, voice pitched differently, "Hey, kid, you headed out?"
You sighed, flopping back on your bed. You glanced at the glass he'd left, fighting the urge to cry. All the unfinished arguments, the broken silences after you chastised him, the times his shoulders had slumped when he'd seen your disappointment on your face—one by one they flashed through your mind.
Maybe you were being too hard on him. Maybe yelling at him wasn't the answer.
But, God, you didn't know what was.
~❊~
February 1985
Steve couldn't recall the last time he'd spent a Valentine's alone. Once he'd gotten to high school, he'd had girls who'd giggle when he walked by on the thirteenth; by the morning of the fourteenth, he was going on a date with one of them.
Yet he'd never spent one with Nancy.
Somehow, it was a surprise to Steve that everything was back to normal Wednesday the thirteenth. There were still girls giggling at him in the hallway, though it wasn't the same group of girls he'd had watching him before. No, they were still ogling Billy as they'd done all year.
Steve found himself avoiding eye contact and feeling sorry for himself, his disappointment sitting heavy in his stomach.
"Hey, you!" Your voice hit his ears before you shoulder-checked him, nearly sending him careening into lockers before he steadied himself. You were surprisingly chipper for this time of day.
"Hi," Steve said. "What's got you all...energetic?"
"Coffee," you answered honestly. "I had an extra cup before I left the house today."
Steve frowned. "Uh...why?" You gave him a deadpan look that had him panicking immediately; he'd forgotten something important, hadn't he? "Well, I just mean—"
You rolled your eyes. "It's my presentation, remember? The one I've been working on since January started?"
"Oh—right, yeah, sorry," Steve said, grimacing. Fuck, had he been drinking the night you'd told him about the project? You'd kill him. But no, he assured himself, he hadn't, or he had to have been every night since to have forgotten so completely. He was just...out of it.
The pair of you walked past another group of girls who were quite obviously eyeing Steve. As he looked awkwardly away from them, they started giggling behind their hands. Steve didn't catch your eye roll.
"Sooo," you began, when the group was out of earshot, "you doing anything tomorrow?"
Steve huffed, shoving his hands in his pockets. "No," he said forlornly.
"Good!"
"Good?" he repeated, frowning at you.
But you just nodded. "We're going to, as friends, go get milkshakes and fries at that diner on the edge of town, and then we're going to go to that drive-in theater."
Steve's lips twitched. "You've got this all planned out, huh? What were you going to do if I said I had plans for tomorrow?"
You shrugged. "Eh, I don't know. I'd probably take Dustin. He's pretty bummed out about not having a girlfriend still. Especially now with Max and Lucas doing so well."
He sighed. "Yeah, he was telling me about that. Honestly, I don't know why he thinks it's as great as it's cracked up to be."
You rolled your eyes, this time quite obviously. "From you, dumbass. I've watched him use like, six of your tricks to pull girls, all in the last week!"
It was Steve's turn to roll his eyes, even though he knew you were right. "Alright, alright, jeez. Go to your class. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Great," you said. "Pick me up at seven!"
So at six the next evening, Steve was fixing his hair in the mirror before heading out. He felt a little foolish as he realized he'd dressed up for the night as if it really were a date and you were a girl he was trying to impress. The feeling worsened and he felt even his ears get red as he spritzed some cologne over himself. He didn't need to impress you; you were his best friend. You'd seen him in all states possible, so in fact, there was no shot at impressing you from here on out.
Steve walked to his car, checking his wallet to make sure he had enough money for the milkshakes and two movie tickets. You were going out of your way to make him feel less alone on Valentine's Day—after hours of couples kissing in the hallways—so he wasn't going to let you spend a single penny.
He drove to your house and got there early. Your driveway was empty, but the light was on in your bedroom. You appeared at the window as Steve shut the car off and gestured for him to give you a minute.
About twenty minutes later, you flounced out the front door.
Steve's jaw went a little slack at the sight of you. You'd styled your hair differently (and it looked great) and you were wearing a new skirt (which also looked great). As you got in the car, Steve realized you had on a new lip shade (looked amazing, actually) and that you smelled different, more sweet.
Suddenly Steve felt like he hadn't put in enough effort.
"You're early," you said as you pulled the car door shut behind you. "I didn't even have my hair done when you got here."
"You look nice," Steve said, hoping he sounded casual.
You beamed. "Thanks! It's the new skirt my aunt got me for my birthday last year. I haven't had an occasion to wear it yet, so I figured this was a good one for it."
It is. "It looks... You look very pretty." Jesus Christ, all of his best lines, and that was what came out of his mouth when he was talking to his best friend?
You excitedly held out your wrists, oblivious to his fumbling. "Oooo, and smell! I got a new perfume!"
Steve leaned down to sniff. That sugary scent was stronger now. "Whoa," he murmured, sitting back up. He glanced at your face; you were grinning the way you used to when you and Nancy would have what you'd called "girl talk."
"I know, right?" you practically squealed. You put your hands back in your lap. "Okay, okay, I'm ready now."
Steve pulled out of your driveway. You began to fiddle with the radio until you found a station you liked, humming quietly to the song.
"Diner first, then movie?" Steve asked, just to try and dispel the panic rattling around in his skull. Christ, how many times had you done this together? Why was it suddenly...nerve-wracking?
"Mhm," you said, then went back to humming. Apparently, you didn't feel the same buzzing that was wrecking Steve's entire nervous system.
Fifteen minutes later, Steve pulled into the parking lot of the diner. Through the windows, you could see the place was full of couple sipping out of the same milkshake with two separate straws.
Steve glanced at you. "Maybe we should've called ahead."
You giggled, and his heart seemed to leap out of his chest.
He got out of the car and walked to your side. There was a small, knowing smile on your face as he opened your door and offered you his hand.
"Aren't you sweet," you cooed, pinching his hand before you took it. Steve felt his cheeks flush with heat.
There was an empty table by the door that the two of you nabbed. The waitress was barely older than the two of you—perhaps a more recent graduate—who only barely managed to hide her upset as another couple sat in the diner.
"What can I get for you?" she asked.
"We'll take a chocolate and vanilla swirl milkshake, please," Steve said, "and a basket of fries to share."
"Anything else?" she asked.
Steve looked at you. You looked so perfect sitting there in your perfect skirt, all dolled up and pretty. He almost didn't catch it as you shook your head and told the waitress, "That's it, thank you!"
You looked like someone straight out of movie: the pretty girl with all the attention, who deserved every bit of it. The main character in one of those cheesy romcoms his mom had liked to watch when he was kid, though he hardly remembered most of them now.
You were...perfect. His best friend. The girl he'd fought otherworldly monsters for, just to make sure you didn't have to, to keep you safe from the very thing that had hurt so many of his friends.
Fuck, you were...everything.
Shit, Steve thought. I'm doomed.
You clicked your fingers in front of his face. "You alright, Steve? You're staring."
He flushed. "Huh? Oh, yeah, sorry. I'm fine, just... Thanks for making this day not shitty."
"Whaaat? Steve Harrington having a shitty Valentine's Day? Come on," you teased.
He shrugged. "This one would have been, so...thank you."
Sympathy softened your face. You reached over and squeezed his hand. "Hey. Any time."
The food arrived surprisingly quickly, and the two of you devoured it quickly. The fries were crispy and flavorful, heavily seasoned, and you wrinkled your nose but didn't say anything when Steve dipped a few into his milkshake.
You took what remained of your milkshakes to the drive-in theater. Steve flipped up the center console so you could scoot close enough to share a blanket against the slight chill that had permeated the night air. He was embarrassingly giddy about how quickly you pressed yourself into his side—as if you hadn't spent your childhoods doing just this on one of your couches on Friday movie nights.
One of the drive-in's waiters was wandering between cars, offering menus and drink tickets. He stopped at Steve's window. "Anything for you and the lady?"
Steve felt your eyes on him as he glanced at the waiter, eyes lingering briefly on the offer of a glass of wine and a beer. But he shook his head. "We're all set, thank you," he said, holding up his milkshake.
The waiter nodded and moved on, and Steve felt you settle more solidly against him, relieved.
Steve wrapped his arm around your shoulders. "Get comfy," he whispered to you. "This movie's a long one."
"Good," you murmured. "But I might fall asleep."
He laughed. "Go ahead."
He thought you might have been joking, but less than twenty minutes later, you were fast asleep on his shoulder. Steve held you there, warmth in his stomach at the thought that you were so comfortable with him, that you trusted him this much.
Things had been better, really, now that you didn't catch him sneaking drinks at every gathering, now that he hadn't touched a bottle in weeks. And it was only because the thought of disappointing you—again—made his blood run cold.
Had it not been for you, if he was being honest with himself, he probably would have spent the night working his way through his father's collection of expensive bourbons and brandies, until his head ended up in a toilet. Not the most appealing night, he had to admit, but one he was all too familiar with.
One he was quite alright with giving up, if it meant having you nestled into his side like this.
"Fuck," Steve whispered, head falling back against the headrest. He glanced at you. Am I in love with my best friend?
But he was quite certain it was no longer a question.
You'd never go for it, he was certain. There were too many things that could go wrong, too many risks you'd have to take, too many reasons for you to not want to be involved with him any more than you already were. Wasn't he (and his drinking problem), after all, your biggest headache?
But if I remove the headache, if I make it easier for her...would she...?
Steve wasn't sure if he was brave enough to find out, but...would it be so bad to try? To take that first step and see?
He held you tighter, another whiff of that sweet perfume blessing him. Even if you'd never want more with him, at least he had this. At least he had now. And he'd do everything he could to get better. For you.
~❊~
July 1985
Hot, oppressive summers were no stranger to Indiana. What was strange was the idea of your best friend working at an ice cream shop. So of course you had to go see him.
On a day as hot as this, there was a line leading out of the Scoops Ahoy store front and wrapping past two other shops. You'd been standing in line for at least fifteen minutes before you even stepped foot into Scoops.
The shop was cute—themed to the ocean in every way imaginable, from the pinstriped blue and white walls to the porthole mirrors to the little anchors decorating everything.
Steve's voice dragged your attention to the counter, the words he was saying with forced enthusiasm like a shock to your nervous system: "Ahoy, sailor! Would you like to set sail on this ocean of flavor with me? I'll be your captain, I'm Steve Harrington."
You peered around the line of people, trying to catch a glimpse of him.
Your eyes widened with the glee of a girl who now that the best blackmail she could have ever hoped for at the sight of him. He'd mentioned a work uniform, but had avoided the question when you'd asked how bad it was. Now you understood why.
Steve was a comically stereotyped sailor, decked out in a blue and white uniform that even included a bright red little neck tie. The worst part of it, though, was undoubtedly the awful white sailor hat that read "AHOY" sitting on his head.
You covered your mouth to stifle your laugh, and that was the exact moment Steve looked down the line and realized you were there. His eyes widened—in horror, you presumed—and the smallest giggle slipped between your fingers.
Less than ten minutes later, you were standing at the front of the line and Steve was ripping the hat off his head, looking miserable.
You were just about to crack a joke about his little sailor speech when he held up one finger. "Don't," he said quickly, softening it with a small, "Please."
Your shoulders shook as you held back a giggle.
He groaned. "Oh, come on. Does absolutely everyone I know have to see me in this thing?"
"It's not bad," you tried to say, your point undermined by the quiver of laughter in your voice.
"Uh huh," he said flatly. "Sure."
"It's cute!"
"It's demeaning," he corrected.
"It's on theme," you suggested.
"Don't you dare side with the company," he said, but you could see that you'd softened him a little.
"I wouldn't dare!"
"Hey, dingus!" A head popped through the now-open window behind Steve. "Hurry it up, there's a line!"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm on it!" he snapped. He glanced back at you, apologetic. "That's Robin. She's...a bit of a handful. But, um, anyway... What can I get you?"
"My usual," you said, and Steve got to work on scooping out your favorite combo from the ice cream shop that was near your house.
He handed the cone to you. "It's on the house, by the way," he said, just as the door swung open and Robin took over at the counter, apparently not satisfied with the pace Steve was going at.
"Steve, you don't have to—"
"Of course I do," he interrupted. "Your my best friend."
His eyes locked on yours and held. Your jaw slackened at the fondness on his face, his eyes as open and as vulnerable as you'd ever seen them. They were clear, too, a sight that you'd been treated to more and more as of late, since he'd cleared the house of alcohol. By throwing out, this time, rather than drinking it.
"Steve," you whispered. "You're staring again."
"I know," he whispered back.
You blushed, not used to him not deflecting. "Take me on a date before you look at me like that," you teased. "You'll give a girl ideas otherwise." The heat of your cheeks increased. Fuck, why did I say that? Why'd I say it like that?
"I would," he said quickly. He blushed, more fiercely than you were. "If, um, if you were really asking, I mean."
Heart hammering in your ribs, you said, "I'm really asking, Steve."
Looking as shocked as you felt, Steve exhaled slowly. "Okay, um... How about tonight, then? At seven?"
You nodded quickly, afraid that if you didn't react fast enough, he'd take it back and you'd have to spend the rest of your life pretending it never happened.
"Where do you want to go?" he asked, cheeks now flushed with excitement.
"I, uh—"
"Wait, never mind, don't answer that. I'll think of something fun for us to do," he said.
"Okay," you whispered.
"Okay?" he asked, and you heard the are you that he'd forgotten to actually say.
You nodded. "Okay," you said again. "Really, really okay."
He grinned. "I'll see you tonight. I'll pick you up!"
"Okay!" you said.
You flounced out of the store, feeling lighter than you had in months—years, really—and were already thinking about what you'd wear on the date (did you have anything in your closet Steve hadn't seen yet?) as you drove home.
And yet, the date you were so excited for, would not come for several days. You should have known, of course—this was, after all, Hawkins.
~❊~
Foot tapping nervously, you sat in one of those ridiculously uncomfortable chairs, directly next to Steve's bed. The steady beeping of the machines he was hooked up to kept you from resting, which the doctors had assured you was all he was doing.
Steve had already been asleep in the bed when you'd arrived at his hospital room, following a very disjointed call from Dustin hours afer you'd given up on your date, who'd been hurriedly whispering about substances interacting strangely, Russians, some sort of wildly violent hit Steve had somehow taken, and had then asked, very quietly, "Do you know if he's had a lot to drink lately? It doesn't look like he's reacting to the meds properly."
So now you sat as his side, as you had for the past four hours, and waited while you racked your brain.
Steve hadn't been drinking, you were almost certain. You'd seen him brush off drinks offered by friends, had heard him opt for sodas when out to eat, had watched him drop lemons and limes into sparkling water even though his face twisted at the taste. It was anything but alcohol, as far as you could tell.
And yet...
You took a deep breath and told yourself it would be fine—he would be fine. The monsters and the Russians (had you really heard him correctly?) that Dustin had mentioned would not be Steve's downfall.
Bits and pieces of what had happened at the mall came to you from the others. Nancy sat with you for an hour, talking under her breath about a creature the kids had called the Mindflayer chasing the car Steve had been driving, and Dustin had come in again with a wild story about Steve and Robin getting lost in the vents and beat up and drugged by Russians (surely that had to stand for something, right?) and only when your brain was melted did he pause.
"Oh, and, um. The Mindflayer—y'know, the thing made up of all those people who kept acting strange and disappearing—it killed Max's brother."
You nearly choked. "You mean Billy?" For a moment, all you could remember was Steve's complaints about the guy from the year before.
"Yeah," Dustin said. "So, um, she's not doing too great either."
"Right," you murmured to yourself.
Dustin stood. "I should go check on her," he said. "I'll just be down the hall if anything changes here."
You nodded and watched Dustin leave. Only when the door was firmly shut behind him did you take Steve's hand, squeezing softly. "I'd really appreciate if you'd wake up now," you said quietly. "You're starting to freak me out."
But Steve's eyes remained shut, his breathing even. You watched the screens of the monitors on the opposite wall, relieved that his vitals looked—to your eye, at least—normal.
So you waited.
And waited.
Waited.
Eventually, your eyes began to get heavy. You curled up in the chair as best as you could, your hand still clasped around Steve's, and let your head rest against your own shoulder. You could at least attempt to get some rest while you were here...
You hadn't been in that position very long—though it had been long enough that your neck was starting to cramp and your legs had gone numb—when the blankets next to you rustled.
Steve's grip on your hand changed, tightened as his fingers curled around yours.
"Steve?" you whispered.
He made a soft sound of recognition, head rolling toward you. His lids fluttered for a moment before cracking open, barely a sliver. But it was enough for him to see you, his lips twitching into a half-smile.
Given how bruised he was, you wouldn't be surprised if that was all he could manage.
"Hey," he croaked.
You couldn't help but smile, your body faint with relief. "Hey, how're you feeling?"
Steve paused, taking quick stock of himself. "Pretty bad," he said at last. He sighed. "How long have I...?"
"Two hours," you said. "Well, you've been here for two hours, I don't know...much about before then."
He looked at you for a long moment, apprehensive, like he was trying to gauge how mad you were. "I meant to tell you about all this sooner," he said in a rush. "It's just— Well, there was so much going on and then we were told to keep quiet and then it felt cruel to drag you into all of this when it had mostly left you alone—"
"Steve," you interrupted. "I'm not mad about that. It's okay. Actually, I'm not really mad at all, I'm just a little...freaked out. Dustin keeps rambling about you saving the day but also getting beat up? And everyone has a different version of what happened? And then the news—all that's been on the news for the past like three hours is that Starcourt's decimated and on fire—they still haven't contained that, by the way—and they've given no official reason yet but Dustin says there's a, what did he call it?"
"A Mindflayer," Steve supplied. "Yeah. Big fleshy thing that chased us around town and smashed the roof in. Kept trying to eat us or absorb us or whatever. The kids decided to blow it up with fireworks."
You stared at him for a moment, a stuck breath finally escaping with a quiet sound of disbelief. You shook your head as Steve laughed quietly, shaking his head.
"Russians?" you asked. "That's code for something, right?"
"I wish," Steve snorted. "They drugged me and Robin."
"They drugged you?"
"Mhm, and then they beat us up, in their little underground base," he added, and he sounded loopy enough that you believed him. He lifted one hand to his head, gingerly touching his bruises. "Actually, it wasn't little. It was big and confusing and I got lost like four times. Good thing about it all, though, is that now we're pretty good friends. Me and Robin, I mean."
You leaned forward, resting your forearms on his bed. "Good. You needed a friend other than me and some middle schoolers."
"Hey," he complained, attempting to flick your head. You didn't tell him that it didn't quite land.
In the silence that settled over you, you said softly, "But...you are okay? You will be okay?"
He nodded. "I'm okay," he promised. He reached up and slowly ruffled your hair, smiling. "Pretty sure everything's out of my system but the morphine they gave me." He held up the arm with the IV in it and sighed. "But I guess this means my sober streak's over." He glanced at you, mouth twitching into an awkward line.
You took his hand and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. His pulse kicked up beneath your fingers. "I won't count it if you won't."
"You're not mad?"
"How could I be? You got drugged against your will and beat up, apparently by Russian spies!" You found yourself laughing at the improbability of it all. You laced your fingers with his. "How did you even...?"
He shrugged. "Had to protect the others."
"C'mon, Steve," you sighed. "Do you always gotta be the one to put yourself in danger? Take the reckless chance?" He shrugged, glancing away from your questions. "I... I get it, really. You always put the kids first. I guess it makes sense now, if you've been getting...chased by homicidal creatures from hell itself, from what the others have said, but..." You nuzzled against his hand, mumbling, "I think I'd prefer you drinking and smoking in excess to nearly dying all the time." Steve raised a brow. "I'd rather take back every argument and every jab I made if it would keep you safe."
He shook his head. "Hey, you are keeping me safe," he said. "Just...in the way you know how. And honestly, I'm...glad that you did. I don't think I'd be able to...show up for these guys the way I have if you hadn't." He glanced over at you. "Or you."
"Steve, you were always there when I needed you—"
"It upset you," he said simply. "Even if I was physically there, I wasn't... I wasn't paying attention to you the way I should have. I wasn't showing up for you like I needed to, not always." He shrugged away the protest you didn't get to voice the moment you opened your mouth. "If I had, I would have asked you on a date a lot sooner." His face fell very suddenly. "I'm sorry I bailed—"
You scoffed. "You didn't bail, Steve, you ended up in a hidden basement and got tortured!"
He huffed. "Yeah. Alright." His lips twitched. "Do you still want to?"
Squeezing his hand, you grinned. "Of course I do." You leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. "Once you don't look like you lost a fistfight."
Steve blushed, shaking his head. "They drugged me!"
"I'm only teasing," you murmured. "But honestly—you should get some more rest."
He shook his head. "I'll sleep when I'm home. Can you grab a nurse?"
"Are you sure?"
He nodded. "If I'm gonna be an invalid, I'm gonna do it in my own bed." He glanced at you. "And then maybe you could stay and cuddle up next to me?"
You smiled. "Lemme go see if I can find someone to discharge you."
And off you went, Steve grinning behind you and lazy, content butterflies brushing the walls of your stomach.
~❊~
August 1985
Steve had never thought the perfect date would just happen in his car, but sitting here, parked on the side of the lake, he couldn't think of a time he'd on a better date.
Or maybe it was just because he was finally on a date with you.
The radio was playing soft music, the volume low and somehow sensual. From the cracked windows, you could hear the soft sound of water, the lake lapped at its banks. The remnants of your finished meal had been tossed into the backseat: fries and burgers, a milkshake split between you, which still sat in the cupholder in the console.
And your fingers were laced in his across the console.
Your head rested on his shoulder. As he had been doing for the last five minutes, Steve turned his head to softly kiss the crown of your head. This quiet—it was easy with you, when on any other date silence had made Steve fidgety, his date's expectations obvious.
Your only expectation, it seemed, was to enjoy the view together. And to fall asleep on his shoulder.
Steve's arm, wrapped around you, gave you a gentle squeeze on the next kiss. You hummed happily, nuzzling against him. You mumbled his name.
"Mmm?"
"This is nice," you murmured.
Steve hummed. "Yeah," he said. "I...know it's nothing special, but..."
"Doesn't have to be," you said simply. "I'm happy just to hang out with you."
"Does that mean when it gets warmer you'll be happy when I toss you in the pool?"
"Don't you dare, Steve Harrington." He laughed. You looked up at him, eyes sparkling despite the unimpressed look on your face. "I'm serious! I'll take you down with me."
He brushed your hair out of your face. "Can't say I'd really complain about it."
Your eyes seemed to melt, syrupy with your affection, as you leaned into the touch. Steve felt that familiar flutter in his chest, desperate and needy. Shit, you were beautiful like this, staring at him with an adoration he’d once thought he’d only ever dream. He realized as you smiled that he was staring—noticeably so. But you didn’t seem to mind the look into his eyes at all.
Steve brushed his thumb over your cheekbone. “May I…?”
“Please,” you whispered.
He pulled you closer, arm around your neck. His lips met yours—pillowy soft, gentle. He pulled away with a slight laugh. Your hand cupped his cheek, drawing him close to you. Steve kissed you again, unable to stop his grin. “I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured against you, “for so long.”
“Keep going,” you whispered. “Keep kissing me.”
He did. One by one, he pressed gentle kisses to your lips. At last you whimpered, “More, Steve, please.” He wasn’t sure if it was the request or simply the sound of his name on your breathless lips, that did him in, but his restraint snapped. Fumbling a little, he moved the milkshake, flipped up the console, and pulled your body tight against his own. His hands stayed on your waist, massaging you gently as he kissed you, deeper than before.
“Fuck, Steve,” you murmured. “Don’t stop.”
He groaned into your mouth, gripping your hip. “C’mere, pretty girl.”
You melted, letting him move you, happily adjusting to sit in his lap. His arms slipped up your back, cradling you against him. A hand slipped into your hair and you hummed, returning the gesture. Steve smiled.
“Knew you liked my hair,” he mumbled.
“Who doesn’t?” you asked. You pulled back briefly, running your fingers through it. “It looks a lot better now, you know. Then when you were King Steve.”
He huffed. “You should’ve smacked me upside the head for all of that.”
You rolled your eyes. “I tried, if you recall.”
Steve hummed. “Yeah. I’m just a sucky listener, huh?”
You shook your head. “In the past,” you said. “Right now, I’m in your lap.”
“Thank God for that,” Steve said, pulling you in again. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
And maybe he had taken a while to get here. But every second was worth it. You tasted better than any alcohol that had every touched his lips.
☞ ❊ ☜
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Stranger Things // Steve Harrington
Taglist: {comment and let me know if you'd like to be added to the S.H. taglist!} @ohatropa @nix-rose @live-the-fangirl-life @superlegend216 @spaghetittied @alana4610
Summary: Smut and drama with this music video character
Warnings/themes/tropes: Cigarettes, infidelity, drama
Rating: Mature 18+, MDNI, because smut
A/N: This just sort of happened after I saw @horsecockharrington respond to someone's ask that this music video was Joe's most recent acting role. 🤷🏻♀️ If it sucks, I'm sorry, if you like share it. <3 Hopefully this gets me out of my writing funk. Not beta-read, sorry for any typos
Word count: 879
You grab the freshly lit cigarette right from his pretty mouth. He looks up at you, his round hazel eyes wide and glassy with indignation.
"Hey! That was my last one," he whines.
His mouth is open, the dumbfounded look still resting on his face as you bring his cigarette to your lips. The way his prominent cupid's bow trembles is too pathetically cute for his own good. It tells you he has more to say, but the way you face him and slide onto his lap stops the feeble attempts he makes to utter a single word.
"It's ok," you tease as you take another drag, "we can share."
The way his gaze floats from your eyes to your lips and the way his large hands grip your hips reveal an obsession kept secret from everyone but the two of you.
With a gentle grace, you hold the cigarette between your fingers and bring it to his soft lips. He takes a slow inhale before releasing billowy swirls of smoke from the corner of his mouth. He keeps his eyes on you, watching even the subtlest movement of your lips as they curl into a sensual smirk.
"See, I can be nice," you say, each word dripping from your mouth like honey.
You rock your pelvis against him, feeling him twitch between you despite the thick denim barrier that are your jeans and his.
"Yeah?" His voice lowers to a near growl as his hands explore the soft skin of your waist and your back beneath your shirt. "How nice?"
This is the game you always play, never getting enough of it. You allow him to take a few more drags of your shared cigarette before you took it back to take one last inhale of your own. Keeping the cigarette secure between pursed lips, you lift your tank top over your head. You follow by unbuttoning and pulling off your jeans and panties, already wet with want for him.
He flails his limbs with a frantic and desperate energy kicking off his flip flops and tearing off his jeans and boxer briefs. Naked only from the waist down, he kicks back against the couch. His cock is already standing at the fullest and most strained attention.
You place the cigarette on an ashtray that rests on a tray table next to the couch. You watch, intoxicated by the vision of him and how his Adam's apple moves with a deep swallow, every inch of his desire waiting to be quenched by you.
You straddle him feeling the soft hairs of his legs tickle your skin. You've always loved him like this, desperate and waiting. A whimper that grows into a wanton moan leaves him as you slowly lower yourself onto his thick and throbbing length.
"Ahh, fuck," he growls into the air between you before jutting his hips to thrust deep into you.
"This nice enough?" You whisper into his ear, your voice quivering as you roll your hips over him while he pushes into with each roll of his hips.
"Very nice," he replies before licking your lips and drawing you in for a kiss that threatens to drown you both.
You move with each other and against each other as one, in a rhythm shakes your bodies. You grip his shoulders over his pale button up shirt as he thrusts even deeper and harder into you. Your hands curl and crease the fabric, seizing as you get closer and closer the pinnacle of pleasure. A spark ignites in the space where you need and want it most as he drums into you over and over, faster and faster. Your thighs clench tightly around his thighs and your center clenches the pulsating heat of him even harder.
Impossible to keep any composure, you devolve into a trembling mess as you release prayers that are made up of his name and uninhibited cries of ecstasy. You come undone all over him and he spills into you.
A relaxation takes over your bodies as he softens inside you. Your lean your heads together, your breaths and hearts slow until they reach a place of calm. It's a calm so cruel in its brevity as the jarring and unexpected sound of the door opening sends your hearts racing again.
"FUCK YOU!" A brunette woman with a blue, flowery sundress screams as she lunges into the room, causing you to jump off your lover.
You frantically reach for a cushion to cover you as you try disappear into the corner of the couch.
"I fucking knew it!!!" She screams, as she paces around the apartment.
She reaches for anything she can find, until she settles on her perfect weapon of choice: a to-go cup filled with warm, unfinished fruit punch.
"Babe, I know…I know this looks bad but can we just t—"
A splash of the bright reddish-pink drink splatters on his white undershirt. You gasp, your mouth dropping open as you clutch the pillow even tighter over you. Your lover pulls on his jeans before his girlfriend storms back to the front door.
"Stay away from me!" She seethes through her teeth.
As she opens the door to leave she makes sure she gets the last word.
Summary: A little intimate drabble of waking up at night after making love to Steve to him still being buried inside you.
Tags/warnings: 18+ only - minors DNI; established relationship; unprotected p in v (wrap before you tap!); lazy early morning sex; spooning; just two people deeply in love and needing one another's bodies; no use of y/n.
Words: <400
A comfortable warmth envelops your body. The weight of a hard week sinks you into the mattress. And yet, your deep slumber decides to crumble away. You feel a familiar stretch between your legs. Your walls clench instinctively, earning a heated sigh from the lips that rest just behind your ear.
With eyes still closed, your memory reassembles the pieces: a busy week with no time to relax, no time to really enjoy each other’s company. A busy week that culminated in heavy kisses and hands pinned to the bedsheets.
And now, the man that you love lies pressed against your back, still buried inside you—the exact position from which exhaustion had claimed you both.
The steady breaths in your ear tell you that he has not yet woken, but the shallow thrust of his hips jolts molten heat straight to your core. A moan escapes, and your fingertips grasp for his hip beneath the sheets.
He rouses then, awareness prompting a gentle apology to cascade from his lips. But he has nothing to be sorry for.
In the darkness of the early morning hours, you whisper over your shoulder and beg him for more.
His response is immediate. Sleepy kisses lave along your neck, sloped nose nuzzling behind your ear; an arm slips across your waist to caress your breast before shifting to the apex of your thighs.
The motion earns him a whimper of pleasure as he begins to match the rhythm of his hips with the pace of his skilled fingers.
Your toes curl as you continue to clench around him. Your hands fist the messy, cotton sheets when he finds that one spot that makes you see stars.
His whispered praises send your body soaring, and it's not long before your pleasure breaks with him spilling inside.
A large hand moves to tether you together, an anchor against the ebb and flow of ecstasy that mixes with raw emotion.
As breaths slow and racing hearts subside, the two of you shift face-to-face in one another's arms. I love yous mingle in the small space between bare chests before exhaustion once again creeps in, slipping the two of you back into a contented sleep.
I can't believe it! This little thing just reached 700 notes, and nothing I've written has ever done that before (on Tumblr OR on ao3) 🥹 Thank you so much, everyone!! 💕💕💕
Summary: A little intimate drabble of waking up at night after making love to Steve to him still being buried inside you.
Tags/warnings: 18+ only - minors DNI; established relationship; unprotected p in v (wrap before you tap!); lazy early morning sex; spooning; just two people deeply in love and needing one another's bodies; no use of y/n.
Words: <400
A comfortable warmth envelops your body. The weight of a hard week sinks you into the mattress. And yet, your deep slumber decides to crumble away. You feel a familiar stretch between your legs. Your walls clench instinctively, earning a heated sigh from the lips that rest just behind your ear.
With eyes still closed, your memory reassembles the pieces: a busy week with no time to relax, no time to really enjoy each other’s company. A busy week that culminated in heavy kisses and hands pinned to the bedsheets.
And now, the man that you love lies pressed against your back, still buried inside you—the exact position from which exhaustion had claimed you both.
The steady breaths in your ear tell you that he has not yet woken, but the shallow thrust of his hips jolts molten heat straight to your core. A moan escapes, and your fingertips grasp for his hip beneath the sheets.
He rouses then, awareness prompting a gentle apology to cascade from his lips. But he has nothing to be sorry for.
In the darkness of the early morning hours, you whisper over your shoulder and beg him for more.
His response is immediate. Sleepy kisses lave along your neck, sloped nose nuzzling behind your ear; an arm slips across your waist to caress your breast before shifting to the apex of your thighs.
The motion earns him a whimper of pleasure as he begins to match the rhythm of his hips with the pace of his skilled fingers.
Your toes curl as you continue to clench around him. Your hands fist the messy, cotton sheets when he finds that one spot that makes you see stars.
His whispered praises send your body soaring, and it's not long before your pleasure breaks with him spilling inside.
A large hand moves to tether you together, an anchor against the ebb and flow of ecstasy that mixes with raw emotion.
As breaths slow and racing hearts subside, the two of you shift face-to-face in one another's arms. I love yous mingle in the small space between bare chests before exhaustion once again creeps in, slipping the two of you back into a contented sleep.
