#rn the only change inside is i got rid of all the living room furniture to put in the fizzer gkshddfk my desks in there now tho

[altfire]

tbh growing my own produce/herbs + juice fizzing + the market table or whatever is a p good way to make money. with the 300% markup i get 600+ simoleons per six pack and like. the investment is so minimal. im making bluebell kombucha and henford-on-bagley is fucking obsessed

[xfilescat]

the great idea, the safety hazard, and the brady bunch (steve harrington x reader)

word count: 1.7k

warnings: 70s sitcom reference, underage drinking, language maybe? maybe not language. also I'm late for class so i barely proofread

preview: “He was such a good guy that it made you giddy. You liked him so much. You’d have to tell him that someday. Not now, though. You would forget about it tomorrow if you did it now, and you would really want to remember something like that.”

A/N: wait wait wait WHAT???? I ACTUALLY POSTED SOMETHING? I know, crazy, right? anyways I don’t have time for a long author’s note but this is part one of a multi-part thingy that I'm really excited about! I might be a little slow with updates but rest assured it won’t take months like last time ;) I gotta go to class rn but enjoy, my lovely friends! i love u!

It was late January and it was the kind of cold that made it painful to breath, that split open the skin on your hands, and that was potentially unsafe to be exposed to.

You were so warm. You were dressed for bed in a cotton tank top and shorts, but your skin was on fire. You wondered why stores even bothered with selling jackets when they could just sell bottles of vodka. All it took was however many shots you’d had (you’d quickly lost count) and you could wear a miniskirt outside in Antarctica. Nobody would ever have to worry about covering up a cute outfit ever again. You definitely looked cute in your pajamas: the shorts were a little short and the top was a little thin, but you couldn’t help admiring the way the navy ensemble complimented your skin tone.

Wait! You stopped in your tracks for a moment when you were halfway up the Harrington’s driveway. You worked in a clothing store! You’d have to tell your boss about your idea on Monday. You guys could get rid of all those bulky winter coats that made it so hard to walk down aisle four. You were a genius.

The only drawback to the vodka thing was the dizziness. You had to pause every time you climbed a single step up onto Steve’s porch because your head spun with the minor change in altitude. Why were you there again? You couldn’t remember.

Once you reached the door, you began to knock over and over. You probably did it too many times, but it was fun to hit something. Not to mention it was taking Steve about a million hours to open up and let you in. You tried to knock to the beat of “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” and giggled because it sounded more like “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.”

The door opened slightly. Steve was frowning, but then he locked eyes with you and looked confused. “Y/N, hey,” he said. He pushed the door all the way open and leaned against the frame. “What are you doing here?”

You weren’t sure how you should have greeted him. A hug would’ve been over the line—even your drunk self knew that. A simple “hi” wouldn’t suffice, though, so you opted for something in the middle and held out your hand for a shake. “Steve, good to see you,” you said, smiling demurely. “How are you today?”

He raised his eyebrows and shook your hand gingerly. “You’re wasted,” he said.

You looked at him sideways. “No, I said how are you?”

“I’m good. Do you know what time it is?”

You looked at your wrist. “I’m not wearing a watch.”

“It’s like eleven,” he said. “I was asleep.”

You looked him up and down. He was wearing his pajamas, too: grey sweatpants and a dark green Hawkins High hoodie. His hair was unstyled—that threw you for a loop—and he had dark circles under his eyes. He should’ve looked upset, too, but he looked kind of happy, actually. Whatever: you still felt terrible for waking him up. “I’m sorry,” you cried. “Steve, I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” he said. He laughed and shifted so that he was blocking less of the doorway. “Here, come in. You’re going to get hypothermia.”

“Okay, but I’m not cold,” you said. You started to step over the threshold, but you remembered that you had to brush the snow off of your sneakers first. You were about to sit down to take them off when Steve told you not to worry about it. He placed his hand on the small of your back and started to guide you inside.

You smiled. He obviously didn’t understand. “Your floor will get wet,” you explained, pointing to your shoes.

“It’s fine,” he said.

“Safety hazard,” you muttered, but inside felt a lot warmer than outside, so you went along with him.

What a big house. The furniture looked like it came straight out of a catalog. You sat down on the stairs—the carpet on them was so comfy—and nearly lost your balance in the process. “Woah,” you said, grabbing onto the banister and laughing. “Steve, I think you’re right.”

He closed the front door and turned to you. “About what?”

You pulled off one of your shoes and set it gently down in front of you. “I think I am wasted.” You yanked the other shoe off and promptly lost your grip on it. It sailed through the air and landed a few feet away, which only made you laugh harder.

“I’m definitely right,” Steve said, rolling his eyes. He picked up both sneakers and set them on the rug by the door. “Were you at a party?”

You shook your head. “No, just me.”

He crossed his arms. “Why were you drinking alone?”

You wracked your brain for the answer, but came up empty. “Can’t remember,” you said. “Hey, do you have any drinks?”

He smirked. “I have water.”

“No, I’m talking about alcohol,” you said. God, he was really slow on the uptake sometimes.

“Let’s start with water.”

You shrugged. He motioned for you to follow him through the living room. You passed even more beautiful furniture and comfortable carpets before entering a kitchen that looked like it had never been used. “Wow,” you said. “You live, like, on a movie set. Or TV. It’s like… oh my god, it’s like the Brady Bunch house.” Here's the story… of a lovely lady…

“I guess,” he said. “It’s really not all it’s cracked up to be.”

You pondered that as he filled up a glass of water and handed it to you. You eventually figured out what he meant. “Oh,” you said solemnly. “Your parents make you clean it all by yourself, don’t they? My parents make me clean the house all the time, but mine’s not this big.”

He fought back a grin. “No, I’m not the only one who cleans it. My mom does most of the work.”

“What about your dad?”

He paused. “No,” he said quietly. “He doesn’t help.”

His tone cut through the fog of your insobriety and you realized that this was a much more serious topic than you’d thought. You wanted to say something empathetic and well-thought-out, but thinking wasn’t exactly your strong suit when you were under the influence. “No, don’t be sad,” you practically shouted.

He chuckled. “I’m not sad,” he said, and sure enough, he didn’t look like it anymore. If you’d had your wits about you, you would’ve known he was faking for your benefit. “Drink your water.”

You pursed your lips. “Will that make you happy?”

“So happy.”

You drank the whole thing as fast as you could. “Done.”

“Good job.”

You handed him the empty glass and put your hands on your hips. “Happy now?”

“Yeah,” he said. He sounded genuine. “Thanks.”

You watched him as he went to get you more water. He was really tall. He had such long legs that it only took him a few steps to get to the sink. He was so nice. And very handsome, even when he had been woken up in the middle of the night. You wished you weren’t so nervous around him when you were sober. You wished you were better friends with him. You hoped you weren’t imposing. “Hey, Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you upset that I’m here?”

He turned to you and shook his head. “No, I’m not.”

You folded your arms across your chest. “Are you sure?”

He half-smiled. “I’m sure. Honestly, Y/N. I was having a shitty night before you showed up.”

“Oh, no, why?” You got the strongest urge to throw your arms around him. You had to restrain yourself from running across the room.

“It’s nothing.” He leaned back against the counter behind him and sighed. “Even if I tell you, you’re not going to remember in the morning. Just… just don’t worry. I’m glad you came here, I really am.”

You beamed. “Okay, Steve. I’m glad you came here, too.”

He came back from the sink and told you to drink the second glass of water. You did it without complaining and gave the cup back triumphantly this time. As you did, one of the straps on your tank top slipped down your shoulder. Steve’s eyes flashed to it and then he pointedly looked away. “You look, uh, cold,” he said.

You giggled and fixed the minor malfunction. “I’m not.”

“Let me get you something to wear,” he said. “You can go sit on the couch, if you want.”

“Not cold,” you called after him as he left the room. He was such a good guy that it made you giddy. You liked him so much. You’d have to tell him that someday. Not now, though. You would forget about it tomorrow if you did it now, and you would really want to remember something like that.

You wandered into the living room humming the Brady Bunch theme song and collapsed onto the sofa. It was even more comfy than the carpet on the stairs. You laid there and felt yourself sink into the cushions. All of your muscles relaxed and it felt like you were floating. Just as you were about to close your eyes and take a cat nap, the doorbell rang like an alarm clock.

You tried to lift your head up, but it felt like a Herculean task. “I’m not getting that,” you yelled.

You heard Steve walk down the stairs. “I’ll get it,” he said, stepping into the room to toss you the sweatshirt that he’d grabbed. You reached up your arms and caught it, much to your surprise.

“Nice,” Steve said.

“Thanks,” you said. “Hey, someone’s at the door.”

“I know.”

“Go get it.”

“I’m going.”

“And watch out for the safety hazard,” you murmured. Instead of putting the sweatshirt on, you draped it over yourself like a blanket and rolled over to get back to that nap you’d been robbed of. As you drifted off into an unsteady but deep sleep, you forgot all about the doorbell and the voices you could hear coming from the foyer. The couch was far too soft and the jacket/blanket smelled far too good for you to care about anything else.