Having soft!gator thoughts…Super sunburnt rn and thinking about gators big hands rubbing aloe… he’s trying so hard to be gentle but it’s hard for him.
Also I’m the anon from a while back that requested the blind!gator nightmare prompt. Do you use emojis for anons? If so can I request one?
Oh anon, I hope your sunburn isn’t too sore today!
I don’t use emojis for anons, but if you’d like to pick one for yourself, feel free! 💕
She’d asked him like it was nothing. Hey, can you just - my back, I can’t reach. Casual, the way you’d ask someone to grab something off a high shelf. He’d said yeah, sure, of course, equally casual on the surface at least, and then she’d handed him the bottle of aloe vera gel and led him into the bathroom, shrugging her blouse off before the door had shut behind them. He’d stood there for a second looking at her back, the red sweep of skin exposed by the low scoop of her swimsuit, and thought, oh.
The aloe was cold straight from the bottle, taken straight from her fridge, which he hadn’t thought about until she hissed.
“Shit, sorry.” He pulled his hand back. “I’ll - here.” He rubbed the clear gel between his palms for a few seconds, which felt stupid after the fact, but he did it anyway.
She was perched on the edge of the bathroom counter, her back to him, shoulders and back turned the deep red of a bad sunburn. The kind that was going to peel. The kind that hurt when fabric touched it. She’d pulled her hair to one side, out of the way, without making a thing of it, and that small practical gesture had done something to him he didn’t have a word for. Like she just trusted him to be there. Like it was already decided.
He pressed his hands to her shoulders, slow, and she exhaled with a sigh.
He had big hands. He’d never thought much about that one way or another, but right now they felt like the wrong tool for the job, like he’d been tasked with threading a needle while wearing boxing gloves. He knew how hard he could press. What he didn’t know was how soft.
He spread the aloe over her skin in small careful sweeps. He kept waiting for her to flinch away from his touch and when she didn’t, he wasn’t sure if that meant he was doing it right or if she was just being patient with him. Both were possible. Both were equally hard to sit with.
“That’s good, feels better,” she said, before he’d done anything wrong. Like she could tell he was working it out.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, it’s cooling it already.”
He’d looked it up on his phone, earlier, when he’d caught the colour of her shoulders as she’d made her way inside. He’d known she’d need help with this. He wasn’t going to say so, but he’d Googled quickly before she’d asked - rubbed in versus let it sit, cool compress first or not, and none of the things he’d read agreed with each other. Putting aloe on after the sun wasn’t something the Tillman’s had ever bothered with. He’d gone back and forth on whether to stay back and let someone else help her, but before he could decide one way or the other she’d cornered him in the hallway, the others still out back at the grill, and now he was here, with her, his big dumb hands on her smooth skin.
That was new. The going back and forth on things relating to her. He’d had friends before, obviously, but most of them required nothing from him except showing up (usually with a six pack), and she… she expected him to pay attention. To think and be sure of things. He didn’t mind that the way he thought he would.
His thumbs found a knot in her left shoulder, just below the strap of her swimsuit, and without thinking he pressed into it.
“Ooh,” she hissed, but she didn’t move away.
“Too hard?”
“No.” She paused, turning just enough to catch his eye over her shoulder. “No, that’s… keep going.”
He kept going, working his thumbs into the knot until it softened, adding more aloe to the sunburn and soothing it in. She tipped her head forward a little. He watched the back of her neck, the small hairs there, and looked away.
There was a particular square of skin between her shoulder blades she’d pointed to earlier. Mostly there, I couldn’t get it. He’d nodded like it was a normal thing to be told. He moved to it now, spread the aloe slow, and he could feel the heat of the burn under his fingers, the way the skin was tight with it, and he thought, distantly, that she should have covered up sooner. But he’d liked seeing her in her swimsuit. He didn’t want that to end. So he’d said nothing, and now she was burned.
“You’re better at this than I expected,” she said.
“What’d you expect?”
“I don’t know. You always seem like a guy who doesn’t do things gently.”
He didn’t answer right away. His hands kept moving, the same careful circles.
“I can,” he said finally. “When it matters.”
She went quiet. The bathroom was small and warm and the only sound was the buzz of the bulb above the mirror. He could see the edge of her face if he looked up, not much, just the line of her jaw, the way she was looking down at her hands in her lap.
He didn’t know what they were, really. He’d been trying not to think about it directly, the way you don’t look straight at something bright. They were friends. That was true and also not quite the whole truth and he was pretty sure she knew it too, which was maybe why she’d asked him instead of someone else. Or maybe he was wrong about that. He was wrong about things sometimes.
“Can you do the sides too?” she asked. Her voice was a little quieter than before.
“I will,” he said. “I’m getting there.”
He wasn’t rushing. For once in his life, he was not rushing.
He smoothed the aloe into her sides, slow as the rest of it, then capped the bottle, placing it on the counter beside her.
She turned around.
He hadn’t quite prepared for that - for her facing him in the small space, close enough that he could see the dusting of freckles across her nose and the pink across her cheekbones that had nothing to do with the sun. She looked at him for a second, something working itself out behind her eyes, and then she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek.
Except she caught the corner of his mouth, just barely. Warm and soft and over before he could decide what to do with his hands.
She pulled back without a word. Reached past him for the blouse she’d draped over the towel rail and shrugged it on, leaving it hanging open, and then she was moving around him and the door was opening and he could hear the others out back, the grill, someone laughing at something.
The door didn’t quite close behind her.
He stood there in the small warm bathroom with the aloe bottle on the counter and the buzz of the light above the mirror and the ghost of her at the corner of his mouth, and he thought - slowly, like a man coming up for air - oh.
i’ve been currently devouring my way thru the alarmist (which is a treat in itself and you should absolutely read) to do my browsing (checking your blog) and finding more snippets on your blog is a DELIGHT.
yelling below the cut but it’s mostly parts i liked oops (which is the whole fic)
Casual, the way you’d ask someone to grab something off a high shelf. He’d said yeah, sure, of course, equally casual on the surface at least, and then she’d handed him the bottle of aloe vera gel and led him into the bathroom
this is just so funny to me. gator has never been casual a day in his life
She’d pulled her hair to one side, out of the way, without making a thing of it, and that small practical gesture had done something to him he didn’t have a word for. Like she just trusted him to be there. Like it was already decided.
this is so sweet. i’m yelling and crying.
He had big hands. He’d never thought much about that one way or another, but right now they felt like the wrong tool for the job, like he’d been tasked with threading a needle while wearing boxing gloves.
“he had big hands” 😏 not but this is also so sweet
He’d looked it up on his phone, earlier, when he’d caught the colour of her shoulders as she’d made her way inside.
SCREAMING he googled it and read how to best take care of it!!!!!!!!
“I don’t know. You always seem like a guy who doesn’t do things gently.”
MY GUY!!!!! :(
“I can,” he said finally. “When it matters.”
what a sweet angel i’m crying
He wasn’t rushing. For once in his life, he was not rushing.
:(
Except she caught the corner of his mouth, just barely. Warm and soft and over before he could decide what to do with his hands.
i just love them so much and im so obsessed with your beautiful writing i know i just keep repeating it im just obsessed
cw/ cursing, over use of pet name (princess), insta love, idiots in love etc
When you pull into the field late, the sun already setting behind the big stadium lights, you immediately park next to Steve’s half broken down truck.
Really, it’s a miracle it’s still running-most days you wait for it to finally give out, for him to turn the key and hear the sputtering, only for the engine to never turn over.
You’re late.
this isn’t anything new, necessarily-usually running from after a long work shift, half changing out of your white button down and slacks as you run to the field, trying to shove the shirt you bedazzled with the team name on it over your head-
“Well, well, well.”
You hear Steve’s voice before you see him, can hear the smirk in his voice. Black paint rests under his eyes even though the sun has set and it’s just a practice, some of it already melting off his face. He wears the bedazzled shirt you made the entire time, rolls his eyes as he slips it over his head but is also the only player to actually wear it every time.
“Nice of you to finally join us.”
He leans against the wired fence that separates the dug out from the field, you can hear him smacking his gum.
“Yeah, well.” You huff, “Some of us have full time jobs, Steve.”
And he rolls his eyes, doesn’t dignify it with an answer. He also has a full time job, as well as the little league team he’s fully committed to, but doesn’t say as much.
“Just in time,” he says instead, holding up a blue pail, “Pick your poison.”
The blue pail is obviously from the dollar store and usually reserved for beach days for children, but he wrote on it in permanent marker in his sloppy writing: batting order with a little skull next to it.
You roll your eyes but humor him as he holds it up high enough for you to not see in it but to be able to graze the bottles in there, your fingers only running against the two left in there.
You pull it out and there’s a small, pink bottle of moonshine that you know is strawberry only because it’s the only one that doesn’t make you sick.
“Two.”
He smirks, reaches in and grabs the last one:
“Look at that,” He smiles widely, “Number one.”
“I don’t know how,” you huff, “But you rigged this somehow.”
“You wish I did.” He smirks, “Is it just because you’re afraid of going on right after me?”
He leans over and flicks the brim of the hat you shoved over your head, the smirk telling you that he notices it’s his old hat still, the number stitched in the back crooked.
“You wish.” You huff, face red as you grab your old bar.
“We’ll take it easy on you, princess.” He teases, nudges you with his elbow as you come out on field, “move in nice and close-“
“Are you always such a pretentious dick, or is it just to me?”
“I usually reserve it for you.”
“Great, just my luck.”
“Here, we have to take the shot.”
He holds up his tiny bottle of moonshine, coffee flavored, can see the sloppy one he wrote in permanent marker on the side as he eyes your strawberry label on yours.
“Steve,” you groan, “If i have a shot before I run around, i’m gonna puke.”
“It’s bad luck if you don’t-“
“Steve,” you huff, “We suck regardless. One shot isn’t going to change it-“
He rolls his eyes, “Cmon. have a little fun.”
And you roll your eyes as you toss the bottle between your hands, knowing he won’t give up that easy before you pass it back to him and he smirks, undoes the lid and hands it back to you.
“To your first home run.”
“We need to cheers to something else, that’s never happening.”
And it’s always the same to him, always cheering to a homerun for you, when you’re lucky if you even make it to first base most days.
“Cheers.”
Pink rises in your face as you roll your eyes and clink the side of it with him. He finishes first, rolls the empty bottle around in his palms until you finish, waits until you pass him your empty bottle for him to throw in the bucket.
“Alright,” He claps his hands, “Let’s do it.”
“First one out cleans up.”
You call to him as you jog to the field, and even though you know it’ll be you, him watching as you clean up before rolling his eyes and helping you, insisting it’s because he wants to go home and you’re too pathetic-
cw/ cursing, over use of pet name (princess), insta love, idiots in love etc
When you pull into the field late, the sun already setting behind the big stadium lights, you immediately park next to Steve’s half broken down truck.
Really, it’s a miracle it’s still running-most days you wait for it to finally give out, for him to turn the key and hear the sputtering, only for the engine to never turn over.
You’re late.
this isn’t anything new, necessarily-usually running from after a long work shift, half changing out of your white button down and slacks as you run to the field, trying to shove the shirt you bedazzled with the team name on it over your head-
“Well, well, well.”
You hear Steve’s voice before you see him, can hear the smirk in his voice. Black paint rests under his eyes even though the sun has set and it’s just a practice, some of it already melting off his face. He wears the bedazzled shirt you made the entire time, rolls his eyes as he slips it over his head but is also the only player to actually wear it every time.
“Nice of you to finally join us.”
He leans against the wired fence that separates the dug out from the field, you can hear him smacking his gum.
“Yeah, well.” You huff, “Some of us have full time jobs, Steve.”
And he rolls his eyes, doesn’t dignify it with an answer. He also has a full time job, as well as the little league team he’s fully committed to, but doesn’t say as much.
“Just in time,” he says instead, holding up a blue pail, “Pick your poison.”
The blue pail is obviously from the dollar store and usually reserved for beach days for children, but he wrote on it in permanent marker in his sloppy writing: batting order with a little skull next to it.
You roll your eyes but humor him as he holds it up high enough for you to not see in it but to be able to graze the bottles in there, your fingers only running against the two left in there.
You pull it out and there’s a small, pink bottle of moonshine that you know is strawberry only because it’s the only one that doesn’t make you sick.
“Two.”
He smirks, reaches in and grabs the last one:
“Look at that,” He smiles widely, “Number one.”
“I don’t know how,” you huff, “But you rigged this somehow.”
“You wish I did.” He smirks, “Is it just because you’re afraid of going on right after me?”
He leans over and flicks the brim of the hat you shoved over your head, the smirk telling you that he notices it’s his old hat still, the number stitched in the back crooked.
“You wish.” You huff, face red as you grab your old bar.
“We’ll take it easy on you, princess.” He teases, nudges you with his elbow as you come out on field, “move in nice and close-“
“Are you always such a pretentious dick, or is it just to me?”
“I usually reserve it for you.”
“Great, just my luck.”
“Here, we have to take the shot.”
He holds up his tiny bottle of moonshine, coffee flavored, can see the sloppy one he wrote in permanent marker on the side as he eyes your strawberry label on yours.
“Steve,” you groan, “If i have a shot before I run around, i’m gonna puke.”
“It’s bad luck if you don’t-“
“Steve,” you huff, “We suck regardless. One shot isn’t going to change it-“
He rolls his eyes, “Cmon. have a little fun.”
And you roll your eyes as you toss the bottle between your hands, knowing he won’t give up that easy before you pass it back to him and he smirks, undoes the lid and hands it back to you.
“To your first home run.”
“We need to cheers to something else, that’s never happening.”
And it’s always the same to him, always cheering to a homerun for you, when you’re lucky if you even make it to first base most days.
“Cheers.”
Pink rises in your face as you roll your eyes and clink the side of it with him. He finishes first, rolls the empty bottle around in his palms until you finish, waits until you pass him your empty bottle for him to throw in the bucket.
“Alright,” He claps his hands, “Let’s do it.”
“First one out cleans up.”
You call to him as you jog to the field, and even though you know it’ll be you, him watching as you clean up before rolling his eyes and helping you, insisting it’s because he wants to go home and you’re too pathetic-
you return from college for the summer running errands downtown, even moving from store to store is unbearable in the heat. your last stop is family video. as you open the door the chill from the A/C hits you in a wave of relief.
sweat beads at your brow and one tiny bead runs slowly down your chest as you look up and catch eyes with steve harrington.
steve freezes when he sees you, he isn’t sure where to look first. his eyes move from your eyes, to your lips, your glistening chest, the small white dress you’re wearing that clearly you bought during your time at college, as no store in hawkins would sell a dress that short.
and you’re no better. half frozen, glancing from his eyes, to his polo - top two buttons undone because of course they are. that glorious chest hair you convinced him to stop shaving peaking out.
the bell chimes behind you and with a whiff of weed and a jangle of chains, eddie munson’s presence is announced before he even opens his mouth. you feel an arm slide around your waist, register a kiss pressed to your temple and then a grope of your ass.
steve finally breaks his gaze, looking from you, to eddie, to eddies hands, to eddie’s hands groping you. you. the one that got away. the one that left for college and wanted to do long distance. the one steve stupidly let go because he convinced himself he couldn’t do long distance.
and now you’re here. back for the summer. and apparently, shacking up with eddie fucking munson.
theartofmadeline
stormborns
izzy806
