“omg you’re so creative. how do you get your ideas” i hallucinate a single scene in the taco bell drive thru and then spend 13 months trying to write it
content: fluff! a lil bit insecure robin (blink and you’ll miss it) and that’s all i believe. happy pride everyone! i’m a bit late, but i want guys to know this is a safe place for you. i see you, i hear you and i love you.
this one didn’t turn out exactly how i wanted it to, but hope i made robin some justice, she’s my favourite girl and i want to start writing for her too.
word count: 1.1k
In the quiet of a particularly hot summer afternoon, the only things you can hear are the water of the lake softly kissing the shore a few feet ahead of you, the shrill singing of cicadas, and Robin's low, mindless humming.
The sunlight paints swirls on the back of your closed eyelids, it makes the skin on your cheeks tingle, and you know you’re probably going to get sunburnt, but you can’t be bothered to get up, walk all the way back to the car and try to find your yellow hat.
You don’t want to move. Robin’s leg is casually thrown over yours as the girl lies by your side on the blanket, and you would feel embarrassed about how fast your heart is racing if your brain didn’t feel so mushy right now.
You’re not even sure she’s doing it on purpose. Shielding your face from the sun with your arm, you open one eye, nose scrunched up, and sneak a peek at Robin.
She looks lovely in her navy blue swimsuit, the one she bought the day you two decided to go shopping after work.
Her hair, still damp from your swim at the lake after lunch, shines like gold in the daylight and sticks to her bare shoulder and back creating patterns you feel the sudden urge to trace with your finger. You don’t. Instead, you settle for looking at her as discreetly as you can.
Freckled nose and long lashes, a slight tan from all the afternoons you've spent just like this one, far away enough from Hawkins, in your secret spot by Lake Jordan. Remnants of her mascara smudged around her eyes. Fingernails painted red.
She’s drawing something on her sketchpad, her strokes short and certain, lips pursed in concentration; absentmindedly singing a The Cure tune under her breath.
It’s funny, you think.
A few weeks ago you didn’t even know her name, didn’t even know she existed. She was just another number in Hawkins High’s demographics, and you were just one of the unfortunate few who would spend two endless, sticky-hot summer months working a shitty part-time job instead of going on holiday.
At The Palace Arcade, no less.
It smells like old candy and stale popcorn, chlorine and sunscreen. The carpet is old and tacky and it has stains that won’t go away. Kids go in droves to find respite from the burning midday heat and scream and scream until you get a headache.
You don’t make enough money, that’s for sure. But having met Robin one cloudy day while you were both on your respective lunch breaks makes it well worth it.
“You’re staring.”
Caught.
You blush furiously and look away, your so face hot from the sun and the embarrassment that you don’t dare to make eye contact. “Am not.”
“Are too.” She puts her pencil and sketchbook away and chuckles under her breath. “It’s fine, I get it, I would stare at myself too.”
She’s bluffing, and you both know it -she can be as insecure as any teenage girl in this day and age, but her boldness has caught you by surprise. You stammer. “Yeah… Whatever, Buckley.”
Robin’s amused smile turns soft when she notices the red on your cheeks. She leans forward and the fleeting feathery feeling of her lips on the corner of yours only makes your heartbeat pick up.
It’s curious, the effect she has on you still, even after so many nights spent together stargazing, so many afternoons at the Lake, so many stolen kisses in the water, and in your car, and behind the building where you both work, when it’s dark and empty.
You blame the butterflies in your chest for the way turn you turn your head and chase after her mouth, one hand reaching out to rest on the crook of her neck and pull her closer to you. She tastes sweet, like the watermelon ice pops you had after lunch and her vanilla chapstick; and the tips of her hair, lightened by the sun, tickle your face.
Robin sighs a happy sigh and rests her head on your shoulder.
The silence that follows it’s comfortable, easy. Things are easy with Robin. Her breath is warm where it touches your skin, and you’re almost certain you’re breathing in synch. Your hand finds hers blindly, knuckles brushing against each other,
“I don’t mind you staring.” She says, at last, her voice barely a whisper.
You humph. “I wasn-”
“It makes me feel pretty.” If her boldness was surprising, the badly-hidden shyness in her voice is downright shocking.
You twist your head to look at her, bewildered. Her face is hidden between your arm and the blanket, which surely can’t be comfortable and which makes you pout. Your free hand finds her chin and you softly pull to make her look at you.
“Aw, Robs. But you are pretty.”
It’s her turn to blush. “Am I?”
“Yeah. Beautiful, I’d say.”
“Shut up.” You giggle when she does, snort when she hits you, jokingly, on your shoulder.
You and Robin lean forward at the same time, both eager to close the gap between you again. She kisses you firmly, like she has something to prove. You kiss her back hoping you can prove to her how much this, her means to you.
Breathless when you finally pull away, you lie down again, a dopey smile making its way across your face. Robin smirks and goes back to her sketchbook.
“Can I see?” You ask, the side of your face pressed against the soft fabric of the blanket, one eye squinted to shield it, once again, from the light.
“Hmm?” The girl hums, lost in thought and concentration.
“The picture.”
“Oh.” Robin shows you. Your own face greets you, laughing, eyes half closed. It’s a rough sketch and you don’t think your haircut is exactly like that, but it’s obviously you and you look so happy and so beautiful. “Wow, Robs. It’s great.”
She brushes her hair away from her face -you swear it shines on its own, a golden crown, a halo, and then she kisses your nose. “It’s not great.”
You smile. “It’s perfect.”
🌷 🌷 🌷
a/n: this definitely didn’t take me 2 weeks to write and i’m definitely not having the worst block rn :( i hope it’s not to bad.
i took my exam and passed it! but i want to do better so i can choose a better residency so i’m taking it again next year.
i’ve fallen in love.
i’ve spent a lot of time outside, walking, walking a lot and enjoying the cold, and the sun and the rain and the company of some of my favourite people ever.
i’ve read books and played too much sims 4.
i’ve celebrated my birthday!!
i’ve seen one of my heroes -bruce springsteen!- in concert!
i’ve written here and there too, and i’m ready to come back :)
in which the most embarrassing moment of steve’s life leads him to you.
steve x fem!reader.
content: tacky leotards, steve in a crop-top, a fitness class. summer of ‘85, instant crush, girly reader (kinda). not very good i’m sorry :( more steve-centric than reader-centric
word count: 4.2k
Steve Harrington never thought the most humiliating moment of his life would come at the hands of two fifteen-year-old girls. Pleading doe eyes, empty promises of never ever bothering him ever again and his own goodwill to blame, he agreed with barely a qualm, just a deep sigh followed by El’s skinny arms around his torso and a less vehement than usual pat on the back from Max.
If he had known what he was really getting into, he wouldn’t have acceded so fast.
It’s times like this, when he’s standing in the middle of the Starcourt Mall parking lot in very short shorts and a fucking crop top -courtesy of a very amused Dustin, and that he’s wearing god knows why-, that he deeply regrets having a soft spot for the kids.
Leaning against his car, hands on his hips and duffle gym bag on the concrete by his feet, Steve waits for El and Max to get out of the vehicle with their backpacks. He’s not exactly sure why Max wants to do this in the first place, it seems precisely like the type of activity she would hate, from the outfits down to the music; but El is very excited, has been since they asked the boy to tag along a few days ago, and has apparently talked Hopper’s ear off about it to a point of near madness.
“Okay,” Steve claps his hands and motions for the girls to get closer, “here’s the plan. We walk in fast, get over with this batshit insane idea of yours, and dip. Clear?”
While El is agreeable and nods, Max rolls her eyes, a smug smile gracing her lips. Steve raises a questioning eyebrow and she snorts, “I can’t take you seriously while you’re wearing that.” Her eyes travel up and down his body, settling on the dark hair that covers his abdomen.
It’s remarkably awkward to be ogled by a child. “It was the only clean t-shirt I had left.” Steve tugs at the end of his top, a muted blue monstrosity that he will burn as soon as he gets home, and pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers, eyes closed, willing himself to breathe deep and be a supportive friend. Babysitter. Whatever. “Let’s just do this, okay?”
El squeals with joy and laces her arm through Max’s, the girls leading the way towards the mall in their bright, colourful attires and matching leg warmers. They whisper with each other, heads close, their giggles reaching Steve, who’s a few feet behind thanking whoever was in charge of this whole mess for scheduling it so early that the parking lot is virtually empty.
We need an adult, they’d said, no one else is free. He can pinpoint now, as he replays the conversation in his head, all the times he could’ve said no. But he didn’t, because he’s an idiot (a good friend if he says so himself, but an idiot nonetheless); and now he’s crossing the upper level of Starcourt in the dead of summer, peak season in full swing, about to spend his morning doing aerobics.
The name of the small studio glows in pink neon letters, mocking Steve with the promise of cheesy music and cheesier moves. It’s a modest rectangular space that someone painted in bright coloured stripes, painful to the eyes, with wooden panel flooring and a large window wall facing -much to Steve’s dismay- the inside of the mall.
A small crowd of mostly middle-aged women is gathered on the left side of the room, all sporting leotards with tacky prints and tights. The only other man in the room is sitting down on a small bench, fastening his shoelaces. He’s very fit, all defined muscles and shiny hair, and seems delighted to be there.
Max pulls El to the far end of the studio, the designated space for everybody’s bags, and both girls giggle as they stare unabashedly at the others. Steve drops his stuff in the corner and stands next to them, grimacing. “Will you tell me why you really wanted to come here?” He’s beginning to question the girls’ motivations for this early-morning adventure.
El looks at Steve with a mischievous smile and whispers “The inst-” Her face drops and she looks at Max, frustration crossing her eyes, then sighs. “Uhm, the teacher is cute.”
“Instructor.” Max offers her friend, then turns to Steve. “He’s like, the hottest guy ever.”
Steve huffs, ignoring the not-so-hidden dig at him in her words, and crosses his arms. “What about your little boyfriends?”
“Mike is visiting his nana.” El’s hand fiddles with the yellow scrunchie holding her short hair up. She suddenly looks a little bit sad, her brown eyes clouding, eyebrows pinched together in the middle.
“I dumped Lucas last week.” The redhead shrugs nonchalantly at Steve’s bewildered look. “He forgot our seven-month anniversary. He’ll apologise soon. Meanwhile, we will enjoy the view.” She points towards the door, and Steve turns around.
The teacher can’t be much older than he is. He walks across the room with a powerful stride and too bright of a smile for this time of the morning, greeting the older, most likely regular attendees. His eyes land on the girls as he puts his stuff aside and takes his jacket off.
“Hey, you two,” he’s still beaming, a cheery tilt in his voice that makes Steve cringe, “aren’t you too young to be here?”
“We’re with him.” Max points at Steve, who gives the teacher a tight-lipped smile and a wave of acknowledgement, feeling entirely out of place.
That seemed to be enough for the guy, whose smile grew, showing two rows of perfect white teeth. “Well, alright. Some of the moves may be too intense, so just go at your own pace, alright?”
He claps twice, loudly, and motions for everyone to get into place. Like a well-oiled machine, every person knows their spot. Steve follows the girls to the back of the room, feeling all too exposed, and uncharacteristically nervous.
At the press of a button, loud, synth-heavy music starts playing from a brand-new shiny set of speakers. It’s exactly the kind of songs Steve was expecting, the ones he loves to scream in the car when no one’s watching, but not the kind he wants to jump and dance to, surrounded by complete strangers and two teenagers who will never let him live it down.
Maybe, he thinks, he can make a run for it and hide somewhere until the class is over. The backroom of Scoops Ahoy, he thinks, is perfect. If only his new co-worker and personal nightmare Robin Buckley weren’t working the morning shift today… she would pay good money, Steve’s sure, to see him right now. Possibly take a picture and send it to the local newspaper. They’ve only been working together for a little over two weeks and she’s made it her mission to keep track (literally, on her whiteboard, the words you lose earning tally after tally) of every single embarrassing moment of his life. She would have a field day with this.
Now, Steve’s always been athletic. He was a great swimmer, regularly winning races and regional championships as a preteen. Then, in high school, he moved on to basketball, and he was the star player until he graduated. He’s fought monsters with nothing but a bat and adrenaline and made it out alive.
This should be easy, right? Just moving around a little bit. That’s what he thought.
Fifteen minutes later, beads of sweat cover his forehead, light brown strands of hair falling over his eyes. Patches of perspiration stain his shirt, the cotton fabric hot against his clammy skin. To his right, El and Max are definitely going at their own pace, making up their own moves and laughing at each other.
Steve deeply regrets every single decision that’s brought him to this moment.
He doesn’t notice you, at first, too busy trying to follow the steps and not make a fool out of himself. It’s only when the instructor tells the class to grab a mat from the pile at the back of the room and sit down for the flexibility exercises that he finally sees you in his peripheral, to his left.
With your hair tied back in a ponytail that sways behind you every time you move, cascading over your shoulder when you crouch to settle on the floor; you’re a doll dressed in pale lavender and sunshine yellow, soft colours hugging your frame in all the right places as you sit down, legs apart, stretching your body towards your right, towards him.
Steve has to fight the urge to stare, failing miserably when you raise your head and your eyes lock. You smile, pretty pink lips curling upwards, turning your cheeks into round bright apples. He likes the way your nose scrunches, how you unintentionally try to hide behind your shoulder, shy under his gaze.
He can feel his face grow hotter, fire under his skin, a drum inside his ribcage. You’ve got the kind of face that makes him want to melt, the kind of smile that sends his heart into a frenzy; and he almost misses the small hi that leaves your lips. You blink up at him expectantly and stretch over the opposite leg.
Steve is frozen in place, knees bent awkwardly, a sweaty, heaving mess. But he reacts, and he hopes you keep on looking at him the same way. “Hey there.” He reaches out to touch the tip of his right foot unsuccessfully, his muscles protesting the pull, and winces.
You’re leaning forward now, your chest almost touching the floor, and your smile widens at his words. “You doing well over there?”
The boy inhales loudly and nods, a bashful smile across his lips. “I’m not very flexible, apparently.”
A chuckle floats between the two of you. “Here, let me help.” You crawl away from your mat and kneel behind him, placing one small hand on his back and another on his thigh. Your skin is warm as you press your whole body weight against him gently, helping him reach. He would complain about the sharp pain on the back of his legs, but he’s at a loss for words -it has been a long time since he felt the touch of a woman, and what once seemed as natural to him as breathing -chatting up pretty ladies, that is- is now nearly as scary as facing a hungry pack of demodogs ready to pounce at him.
"Hey, what's your name?" You whisper, close, very close to his ear, your breath hot on his nape, igniting his cheeks aflame. How he manages to mumble his answer is a mystery, but he does, and he can hear the smile in your words as you tell him your own name. A pretty one that suits you just right, he thinks.
Steve grunts when you lean back, relief washing over him as he sits up straight. It startles him, how he immediately misses your body on his body, your warmth on his skin. He wonders if you can see the effect you’ve had on him because you immediately place a gentle hand on his shoulder and ask, “Are you alright?”
“I- I think I just broke something.” A god, he wishes he doesn’t sound as profoundly mortified as he feels.
“Is this your first time?” Smiling, you sit back down on your mat and bring your tummy down to your knee. Although there’s genuine curiosity in your words, they come out low and raspy and they make Steve blush -again.
For the first time since the class started, he’s happy to be sweating, thankful for the loud music that conceals the loud thumps of his heart against his eardrums, and he prays that the flush that tints his skin is enough to camouflage his reaction. He swallows the lump in his throat, coughs, and nods. “It might be my last.”
Your giggle makes his breath hitch. "You just have to get used to it. It took me a few weeks."
Steve could tell since he first saw you you're not new to the class. As if it were muscle memory, your motions seem to flow from one to the next. It's methodical and easy; each movement calculated, almost innate. He forces himself to keep his eyes on yours and to answer with what little voice he finds. "I don't think this is my scene."
“And what is your scene, Steve?” You say his name with a lilt and a chuckle, like you’re hiding a secret and daring him to find it out. And maybe it’s the way you’re looking at him, a little bit shy and a little bit daring, or the strands of hair that have fallen out of your ponytail and now frame your face all pretty. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s too overwhelmed and not thinking straight and you’re the only girl who hasn’t looked at him like he’s a complete loser in too long, but he wants to find out.
The class is nearing its end, the music now softer, and the instructor moves on to stretching. He’s running out of time. It’s now or never. So Steve smiles that smile that used to get him both into and out of trouble, the one that’s soft and warm and a little cheeky and makes his eyes crinkle at the corners; and he rejoices in the way a deep pink blush graces your face this time.
“Are you hungry?”
You raise an eyebrow and a wide smile -certainly a little playful, maybe a little smug- stretches across your lips. “Oh, I’m starving! I haven’t had breakfast yet.” You both stand up, mats forgotten on the floor.
That smile and the obvious enthusiasm in your words take Steve by surprise, his brief surge of courage crumbling down like a house of cards. When you get used to rejection, much to his dismay (and he would never admit it), it’s easy to set your expectations low; but your eyes are shining, and all too pretty, and his smirk falters.
Two loud claps from the front of the room signal the end of the session and a collective sigh of relief makes the corners of your mouth twitch in amusement. The instructor turns off the music, and Steve is sure he would feel ecstatic about the silence, finally, if he weren’t so flustered.
“I- Well, I…” The boy can feel his brain freeze and turn into mush. He throws a thumb over his shoulder and clears his throat. “Wanna go? Together? For breakfast?” Well done, Harrington, you dingus.
Cursing Robin mentally for how her jabs have begun to seep into his own vocabulary, Steve braces himself for your rejection because why would you want to hang out with such a babbling idiot?
To his surprise, however, you simply shrug one shoulder and say, “Now?”
Steve blinks once, then twice and, as if in a trance, he finally nods. “Yeah.”
You smile again, this time a wide, pretty smile that lights up your whole face, innocent and sweet. “Sure! Let me go grab my things.”
As you turn around and head towards the back of the class, a spring in your step and your ponytail bouncing behind you, Steve lets out a deep sigh and rubs his eyes with the back of his hands. He wants to kick himself silly. His plan was to ask you out on a nice date -breakfast at the diner right outside of town, pancakes and coffee; ideally, after a shower, when he’s not sweaty and, he remembers suddenly, wearing the ugliest outfit known to man.
A cough startles Steve. He turns around to find two sets of eyes fixed on him. Max’s eyebrows are furrowed, but Steve can see the barest hint of an amused smile tugging at her lips. El is giggling, hiding behind her friend’s shoulder, and the boy would buy the coy act if he didn’t know better.
“What?” He says, curtly, tugging at his shirt with a sour face.
“Pretty.” El states, voice soft, stealing glances at you while you stuff a small pink towel into your equally pink bag.
“I know.” Says Steve, still wary about the girls’ intentions. “I-”
Max, never one to not speak her mind, cuts him off way too loudly for his taste. “Are you taking her out or what?”
Steve huffs. He plays with the strands of hair that fall flat on his forehead, too damp to stand up in his usual quiff, then gives the redhead a stern look. “You cannot talk to me like that, alright?” The boy points his index finger at the pair of friends. “Not today.”
“You’re still wearing that,” Max says, waving her hand lazily at his outfit, “and I’m still not taking you seriously.”
“Ungrateful children…” Steve complains, throwing his head back with a whine.
“So, are you taking her out or what?”
“Yes, I am!”
“Then what about us?”
Steve’s head snaps back down and stares at the girls with raised eyebrows. Unbelievable. “What about you?”
“You said you’d drive us back home.” El giggles, her arm wrapped tightly around Max’s.
The boy’s mouth drops. “But… I can’t.”
“Is everything okay?” Your voice makes Steve turn around with a jump, and Max and El chuckle under their breaths. You’ve put on a soft-looking jacket and your bag rests at your feet, and you look lovely.
Steve grimaces. “Everything is fine, I just…”
You raise one eyebrow, eyes jumping from the boy to the two girls who now snicker unabashedly behind him. "I can just go home if you're busy or something-"
"No!" Steve waves his hands frantically in front of your face. "No! I just-"
Steve is certain his poor neurons have never ever worked this fast -not when Nancy pointed a gun right at his face, not when Billy Hargrove beat his ass-, yet so slow.
It feels like a movie reel in motion in his head, Steve travels the mall mentally to find a place to keep the kids entertained, just for an hour or two.
And just like a revelation, a miracle, an oasis in the desert, the light bulb turns on and he's never been so grateful for his job before.
He smiles. You smile back. Max and El take a step back. "Do you ladies like ice cream?"
-
The way from the studio on the top floor, down the mechanical stairs and across the food court to Scoops Ahoy takes your little group a dreadfully long time. For Steve, it’s never-ending. He’s not used to feeling self-conscious, quite the opposite, actually, but he’s struggling to cover his midriff with his duffel bag.
Steve leads the way, rushing towards the stairs, trying to avoid the families and groups of tweens that arrive early, hiding from the scorching late June sun inside the cool shade of the mall.
He sees Lucas Sinclair’s little sister, Erica, sitting on the steps across the big fountain and tries desperately to cover his face with his hand and stepping up the pace. She can be mean, has been mean before -when Robin refused to give her more free samples of cherry ice cream or whenever Lucas walks by, so Steve doesn’t want to risk being seen.
You’re happily chatting with the girls, who are bombarding you with questions about your outfit (from JCPenney) and your bag (Sears), where you live (on the other side of town, near the library), if you attend this class often (every weekend like clockwork).
It’s almost cute, Steve thinks, how El’s eyes shine with curiosity when you answer, and the genuine smile that has replaced Max’s smirk. Maybe, if his plan doesn’t work, you won’t mind them coming along.
When you finally reach the ice cream parlour, the mall is buzzing with energy. The calmness from earlier this morning has been disturbed by loud voices and laughter, babies crying and kids running around.
There’s a line already at the counter, and Steve can see his co-worker, Robin, a sullen look on her face, handing a chocolate cone to a young girl. He doesn’t really want to do this, because he’s certain her mockery will be endless.
But when he turns around, you’re standing there, so beautiful even after that workout, happy and patient, and he really, really wants to take you out. You’re looking at him with a smile so big your eyelashes touch. There they are again, those red apple cheeks of yours. He could just take a bite.
So Steve Harrington swallows his pride, squares his shoulders and takes one step ahead. "Wait here." He tells you. “You two, follow me. And behave. Please.”
El and Max follow him into the shop, ignoring the line and the objections -and threats- of those waiting.
“No-fucking-way.” Robin Buckley is already bending over laughing when Steve reaches the counter. Her eyes are settled on his top, a hand over her mouth to perfunctorily conceal her amusement. “Is this a dream, Harrington? Please, don’t pinch me. I love it.”
“Don’t say another word.” He pleads, brown eyes wide and desperate, one finger up in weak command. “I need a favour.”
Robin bites her lips, torn between her need to cackle as loudly as her lungs will allow her, and the pity she feels at how utterly hopeless the boy in front of her looks. She coughs, barely hiding her delight. “I’m all ears.”
“See that girl over there?” Steve turns around, waving discreetly at your figure while you look up at the Scoops Ahoy sign, amused. When Robin, who’s leaning on the counter, hums, but remains quiet otherwise, he goes on. “I’m taking her out. Like, right now.”
“Wow. You got a date with her wearing that? Right.” Robin takes a step back and grabs a cone from the glass display case by the cash register. She resumes her duties, scooping ice cream for the unhappy customers behind Steve with an even unhappier expression herself. “Comedy is not your forte, dingus.”
Steve rubs his face, sighs deeply and walks behind the counter. “I’m not joking, we’re having breakfast together.” He waves at you when you make eye contact with him, your smile perennial, your eyes bright. His legs are shaking, willing him to run towards you.
“And what’s this favour you need? Do you want me to go with you? Help you not mess up, Stevie boy?” She snorts, and so does Max from her spot, sitting on a boat-shaped booth.
“Ha-ha, funny, Buckley, really funny. No, I need you to keep an eye on these two.”
His younger friends smile, all fake innocence and girlish charm.
“You want me to babysit.” Robin deadpans, matter-of-factly.
“No.” Steve grimaces. “I mean, yes, kinda. But this is an emergency. Please?”
Robin looks at him, up and down, once, then twice. The boy can see the gears in her brain turning and plotting, and he knows nothing good will come from it. She stays silent as she grabs two cones and places them neatly on the metal holders, and as she takes two big scoops of chocolate brownie ice cream (Steve’s favourite, he notices with a sour look) and sticks a little plastic spoon on each one.
“What’s in it for me?” She finally says, placing a maraschino cherry on top of one of the scoops and looking at her work with a pleased smile.
“Anything.”
“Okay.” Robin takes the cones and hands them over to Steve, who looks at her, bewildered. “You’ll do the weekend morning shift the rest of the summer. Wait here.”
She walks into the backroom, leaving a perplexed Steve behind, and comes back shortly after holding her Polaroid camera and grinning maliciously. She’s too quick for Steve, the camera flashes before he even has time to react. The white paper rolls out from the front, and she snatches it and starts shaking it eagerly.
In any other circumstance, he would fight for that picture, he would tear it to pieces and burn them so nobody could ever see the Steve Harrington wearing a sweaty, ugly blue top.
But this is the nicest Robin’s ever been to him, the first time she’s agreed to help him without complaining, and Steve is not going to wait for her to start, so he shakes his head, still puzzled, and slowly walks back towards the door.
“The rest of the summer, Harrington!” Her voice travels across the store.
Getting up early every day for the next two months to work at an overrated ice cream parlour is almost as bad as getting up early on a Saturday to take two teenagers to an aerobics class. But your face lights up when you see the ice cream, and you thank him earnestly when he gives you the one with the bright red cherry on top that matches your cheeks.
Even though he knows she doesn’t like him, and even though he’s still not sure he likes her that much either, Steve turns around and gives his co-worker a thumbs up in gratitude. He smiles when he sees her take out her blackboard and draw a thin, black tally on the left.
🌷 🌷 🌷
a/n: i’m baaaaaaaaack. this is probably one of my worst stories (i like my original idea, but i’ll admit i wasn’t sure where to go with it) but i am a bit rusty and need to fall back into it.
i’ve missed writing so much, but i needed to get out of the house really badly. i hope you don’t hate this one. as always, likes, comments and reblogs are welcome and appreciated. much love!
Happy New Year everyone! I have a super important exam on Saturday (so I can hopefully get a job and all that jazz) and that’s why I’ve been MIA for a few weeks. I have some stories in the works though, and I can’t wait to write again once I’m done!
tbc x reader // mostly allison and brian bc losers unite (platonic!)
content: a small snippet of monday morning after detention.
word count: 2.3k
“I don’t have any friends…”
“Well, if you did?”
“No… I don’t think the kind of friends I’d have would mind…”
Allison’s words resonate in your brain as you walk up the stairs and into the busy entrance of Shermer High School on Monday, March 26th, 1984. Waves of people swarm around you, as you make your way towards your locker, down the hall and to the right; the buzz of the early morning ringing in your ears like the static from the broken radio of your car. It’s a stark contrast to the emptiness these same corridors held just two days ago, and it almost feels like Saturday was a fever dream, hazy and overwhelming.
But everything that went down on Saturday was real -the screaming and the crying, the accusations and the confessions. The bonding. The fleeting illusion of a budding friendship with five other kids, all of you so different from one another, but so similar in one too many ways, all of you broken and lost. A part of you wants things to go back to normal, ignore the people that now know too much about you, more than anyone else ever has. Another part of you, a corner of your heart, small but pulsating like an open wound, wants to prove Claire wrong, prove her that the perfectly constructed social hierarchy of Shermer High means nothing if you just try.
You don’t have as much to lose as Andy or Claire herself, but you don’t have as much to gain as Brian, Allison, or even Bender, either. People know you. People like you. You’re nice. Or you were, before you punched your best… ex-best friend right in the eye (and right in front of a teacher). But she had it coming, after her continuous not-so-subtle snide remarks about your problems at home that morning, the reason why you try so hard to be a good student, a good person, even if you slip from time to time.
Your white sneakers squeak against the linoleum floor when you turn around the corner and the first thing you see is her in front of her open locker, applying concealer above her cheekbone with gentle pats of her middle finger; she’s surrounded by the other girls in your group, who are loudly asking her about the bruise that adorns her pale face. She won’t tell anyone it was you and you know it, but you’re unsure she’ll let you come near her and your friends anymore. Her eyes meet yours and her face hardens in a second. It’s obvious you’re not welcome. You would care, but it’s not her you are actually looking for.
For some reason this one has been getting a lot of notes lately! Thank you all so much for your kind words, likes and reblogs 🥹💖 This story was 100% a passion project to fill a little gap in my heart a few months ago and I’m super happy people like it.
Please come chat about TBC with me I need to find my people
I just wanted to say a big thank you to everyone who's reblogged and liked my latest story and to everyone who's decided to follow the blog (and welcome!)
This is a side blog so I can't reply to comments, but I see them all and I'm eternally grateful for you guys taking your time to read and for saying such kind things 🥺❤️🩹🌷🫂
(Also know that I'm always writing, but my studies are my priority rn)
in which the wounds of the heart hurt more than those of the flesh, but they’re easier to fix
based on this song
eddie x reader.
content: post S4 (super minor spoilers), eddie survives, mentions of death and blood, this is mostly eddie’s headspace, i guess? pining, jealousy and insecurities. i just really want to give this guy a hug.
word count: 3k
Eddie Munson doesn’t consider himself a religious person. He’s dealt with too much shit in his short life to really care about whether there’s a higher power somewhere in the universe or not. If anything, he’d say he’s always been left to his own devices, so fuck whoever’s supposed to be looking after him. Theological matters are not something he’s ever been particularly concerned about, anyways.
Having spent the last ten days bound to a hospital bed, however, Eddie’s had plenty of time to reflect on his pathetic existence and the string of unfortunate events that have led him to this situation. In these ten days, he’s thought about his parents more often than he has in the last ten years -his father leaving for good after being in and out of prison for months, his mother’s untimely passing when he was too young to understand she was never coming back, and the sharp pain that floods his chest if he dwells on the thought of them for too long. He’s thought about Wayne, constantly taking extra shifts at the plant so he could put food on the table, and how he’s repaid him by failing senior year once, and then a second time. A triple-senior loser drug dealer, always being too much -too loud, too weird, too freakish-, but never enough. Not attractive enough, not smart enough, definitely not rich enough.
He’s also thought about death, and how closely he tasted it. The harrowing tangibility of his own mortality, sticking to his skin until he was coated in it, until he couldn’t breathe, washing over him like a tidal wave. He’s thought about Chrissy, and Patrick, and Nancy’s friend Fred, who weren’t as lucky as him. About how scared he was when Dustin found him, choking on his own blood, scared of dying, of dying alone, scared of what was waiting for him, scared that he wasn’t seeing any holy light amidst the darkness and he was supposed to, right?
And all he feels right now is guilt, because he’s thought about all of that and still, the main object of his musings the last ten days has been you. That’s why he’s considering that surely there must be some kind of deity, that there must be a heaven somewhere, because you’re an angel.
Wow! This was so beautiful! The way you write is exquisite! I love this so so much! Everything about it is so tender and honest and I’m so glad I got to read it! Thank you for sharing your writing with us!
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