And then he was there. He looked at her with the same intense gaze she had always envisioned Icarus giving to the sun, soaring to new heights; It was too late for him. He was already falling, falling, falling into that deep blue with no hope of resurfacing. With a fierce and unwavering resolve, she was ready to share his fate as he had always been with hers, following closely behind.
"If history really is what we choose to remember, it's up to you Gretta. Anything you don't want to forget about your mom and dad, about your family, your people, where you came from. Just write it down there, then nobody can steal it."
Hey. Hey guys. Stop looking at the writing advice.
That sounds crazy but trust me: you see all this advice on how to enhance your characters and dialogue and add depth and theme and blah blah blah
But, doesn't it get overwhelming? At a certain point you're not focused on the story, you're focused more on the mechanics.
And because you're trying to hard to follow this advice to seem good, the words don't flow.
Write first.
Write whatever you want.
It doesn't matter if it's perfect or there's repeats in words or tropes or there's plot holes or things seem silly.
You need a story and it's far easier to get your story down when you're not trying to fit in every other little thing or limiting what freedom you could have if not for the "forbidden" writing "mistakes".
The writing advice, the enhancements to your story, are for editing. For draft 2 or 3 or 4 or whenever your story is fleshed out enough to start refining.
Don't overwhelm yourself trying to write the first draft as perfect as possible. Even if it's full of everything editors and writers are screaming "DON'T DO THIS!!", you want it on paper first so IGNORE THEM!
You're limiting yourself. Start broad before narrowing down, before deciding whether or not to cut scenes.
Start off by including all those scenes and characters and whatever you desire, don't cut off the serpent's head before it's even out of the egg.
(BTW I DON'T MEAN PROMPTS ARE BAD- I LOVE PROMPTS! BUT MECHANICAL ADVICE AND SYNONYMS AND STRUCTURE AND CUTTING OUT REDUNDANCIES ARE ALL FOR LATER YOU!!)
I admit, I write very clean first drafts, and I am the type of writer who can read a tip, make a conscious decision to implement it, and then use that successfully throughout my next draft -
- but I have also already completed several manuscripts, have had twenty years of writing practice, and even so can only implement one new tip at a time. You learn to write by writing. Everything else is bonus. If you are having trouble finishing a story, reading well-intentioned lists of "here's how to build tension in your story!" or "here's how to fix your dialogue!" is not going to help you do the thing you need to do which is to write.
And also, sorry not sorry, a lot of online writing tips are crap and are reverse-engineered from third-hand information once heard from MFA graduates and are not at all indicative of actual good writing. Whole schools of literature break every single one of the "rules" you will see circulating online. Don't let someone else put those shackles on you.
I just wrote 8 pages when I haven't written in months and was beginning to think I'd never be able to again. Idk what it is, but I am sharing and manifesting this energy for every writer who sees this. May you write 8 quality pages effortlessly and find joy writing once more
I go to youtube. Cute animal videos are AI now. I go to instagram. There are AI influencers. I go to spotify. It's flooded with AI bands and music. I go to ebay. Every product is AI. I open netflix. Every movie has AI. I watch TV. All commercials are AI. I cancel all my suscriptions. The customer support is AI. I buy a book. It is written by AI. I talk to my friends. They tell me that AI is their new therapist. I take the subway. Some dude is talking to his AI girlfriend next to me. I go to the beach. The sunset is real. I take a pic and upload it. The photo is enhanced with AI. You can't opt out.
do you guys ever like forget youāre interested in something until you start engaging with it again and you go āoh wait iām like crazy crazy about this yeahā
i'm looking at wearable heating pads so i can keep the furnace lower in the winter and maybe save some money, and i love the way they look like something out of a fantasy. come along my heated little squire, we've dragons to kill near the wizard tower
steve harrington x fem!reader | 3.3K | hurt comfort, fluff
āAnd that was another song for all of you lovers out there,ā Steve intoned, his voice flat, almost wistful. He was tipped back in the radio station chair, eyes staring blankly at the wooden panelled ceiling as he brought the microphone to his lips. āAnd even if your special someone is mad at you, hereās hoping itās nothinā a little smooth jazz canāt fix.ā
Steve sighed as he pressed the tape deck and Solomon Burke started to croon through his headphones. He muted the mic and let it drop onto the table top, the sound a heavy thud in the quiet room. Night shifts at the station were lonely when you werenāt here to keep him company.
He hadnāt heard from you since last night, not since he rushed home and dialled your number with the phone pressed between his shoulder and ear, one shoe off in the hallway and his arms struggling to free themselves from his jacket. Youād answered on the fourth ring and Steve had greeted you with a rushed apology, sincere and desperate and god - Steve knew you were mad.
Heād seen the hurt flash in your eyes as heād driven past you on Main Street, your lips painted a pretty shade of rose and your new skirt on, looking entirely stood up as you walked away from the new Italian that had just opened up across from the coffee place. Heād slammed on the brakes, heart in his mouth and Jonathan had almost ended up through the windscreen.
He hadnāt cared, not really. Not when you were shaking your head at him with your arms folded across your chest, the cold eating at your exposed skin and he wanted to kiss it better, he wanted to get down on his knees and drag himself across the road to beg at your feet. Instead, he got caught fumbling with his seatbelt for a moment too long and you were walking away, down into the side street past the old arcade and Jonathan was yelling at him about the signal, how they were losing Hopper.
He panicked, he lost sight of you and wellā he drove off.
But youād actually answered his call and listened to his pleas and apologies and heartache for a few minutes before you sighed, heavy sounding and tired, the shuffle of your pillow and duvet making Steve wish heād driven straight to yours instead.
And then youād told him, āthatās the third time this month, Steve. What am I supposed to think?ā
He wasnāt sure what he was supposed to say to that. Nancyās crawl plans didnāt factor in perfect excuses to give your girlfriend when cancelling another date night. They had weapons and maps and tunnels under the town but god forbid anyone had any advice to give him on maintaining a healthy relationship.
āKeep her out of this.ā Hopper had once growled at him. āFor our sake and hers. And especially yours. We donāt have time for another dead body, we donāt have time to pick up the grieving. Not anymore.ā
No one has said any different, not really. Robin was attempting the same thing, after all. And Lucas? Well Lucas had told him his girlfriend seemed really nice and then he went to spend his weekend at Maxās bedside.
So when Steve finally found his voice, strangled and strained sounding, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to tell himself that lying to you was his very best option. Your very best option.
āBabe, Iām so sorry. I- I forgot I picked up an extra shift. I didnāt mean to-ā
āTo what?ā Youād burst out. You were snapping. He could hear the tears that were stuck in your throat and the sound of it hurt him so much more than any interdimensional creature ever had. āTo let me see you driving around town with Jonathan Byers? For what? A burger run? For the hell of it? Whatever, Steve.ā
That had been fourteen hours ago. And now he was stuck working into the early hours of the morning so Robin could take Vickie to Enzoās and Steve wanted to punch a hole in something. He sighed for the upteenth time that hour and pushed himself away from the desk, his chair wheels squeaking as they struggled across the old carpet that lay in the sound booth like a rug. The lights were low and almost too warm, the small room bathed in a yellow-orange glow and the whole place smelled like old cigarettes and mothballs, like its old host.
Solomon Burke was fading away now and Steve didnāt bother with any conversation before he loaded up another song, one just as heartfelt and soppy as the last. Heād been playing love ballads for most of the evening, interjecting between each one in the hopes that you were listening. You usually would have been here with him by now, perched on the table edge or even his lap, sharing the quiet space together in a rare opportunity to be alone. Youād bring him dinner, sometimes from the diner out past the trailer park, sometimes cooked in your very own kitchen. He liked those nights the best, he kissed you extra soft when you walked into the station with a bag full of Tupperware, your smile proud as you handed him pastas and soups and homemade cookies.
The place didnāt seem as warm without you in it. He groaned into his hands, his fingers catching on the wire that led to his headphones and pushed at it, annoyed, frustrated. Heād really fucked up. And smooth jazz couldnāt fix it.
Just as he wondered what the longest song was in the stationās catalogue, he heard the door slam.
There you were.
Soft in a pair of leggings, in an old rugby style shirt that once belonged to him. You had a bag in your hand and a scowl on your face, as if someone other than yourself had forced you into coming. Solomon Burke, perhaps, Steve thought.
With his heartbeat thundering in his ears, Steve fumbled with the tape deck. He had a new pulse now and it was electric, it made his hands jittery and his eyes wide. He pushed in a Beatles mash-up that Robin had created on a rainy Sunday and unplugged his mic, only just remembering to shove his headphones off just before they were ripped off his ears as he lunged to the door.
He got to you in a few steps, approaching with his hands out and palms facing up, as one did when facing off with an angry animal. āHey, hey baby.ā Steveās voice was saccharine and soft, that gentle scratchy way you loved. He could smell food from the bag you carried something spicy and garlicky, something that smelled like fudge brownies underneath. His stomach growled and your brow lifted. āYou still brought me dinner?ā
You sniffed, side stepping him and moving into the booth. āMaybe,ā was all you said. āBut if youāre only interested in food, Iāll leave this here and goāā
āNo! Nonono, baby, cāmon.ā Steve was at you in an instant, hands catching at your elbows and he tried his luck, tried to bring you into his chest but you stood firm. āCan we talk? Can I, can I talk? Please?ā
You didnāt reply. But you didnāt leave either. So Steve took that as a sign and breathed out a loaded sigh of relief. He closed the booth door back over and offered you his chair, and when you sat, he knelt on the floor in front of you, his warm hands covering the tops of your knees.
āBaby,ā he started, his eyes wide and his brow creased. Fuck, he hated this. He hated the way you didnāt want to meet his eyes, he hated the way your brow was pinched, the way your bottom lip wobbled even though you were trying to act tough. āBaby, please, you gotta believe me, Iāā
Shit.
You scoffed, coming to life in a flurry of anger and fury. Eyes narrowed, you finally set your gaze on him. āBelieve you? Believe you?ā You laughed, humourless and still edging on tears. āDonāt make me laugh, Steve Harrington, I know you better than I know anyone. Or at least I thought I did. Youāve been lying to me for months. Extra shifts? Family dinners? Robin in the hospital?ā
Steve swallowed the brick that was stuck in his throat, wincing as it scratched and scraped on the way down. He felt sick.
āCome off it, Steve. Vickie works in the wards. Robin was never sick in the hospital, you werenāt working late last night. Why was Jonathan in the van with you? Was Nancy there too? Huh? Whatās even going on? Would you just rather hang out with your ex and her boyfriend than have dinner with me? Is that it?ā
āNo! No, god,ā Steve whispered your name and pushed the heels of his plans to his eyes, pressing until it hurt, pressing until he could think of something to say to fix this. What the fuck was he supposed to say? āBabe, baby, please, please you gotta believe me, okay? I swear, Iā I wasāā
You stared at him, eyes shining in the low light, glassy and full of the hurt Steve had put there. He wanted to put his own head through a wall. He felt like the worst kind of person there was. He felt like he was six years younger and didnāt know how to treat another person properly yet.
āYou were what, Steve?ā You challenged him, chin held high despite the one tear that had escaped and was tracking its way down your cheek.
Helping to save Hawkins. Maybe the world. Helping get rid of an evil monster that came from a place underneath our feet that no one else really knew existed. Helping a girl with superpowers find out where the bad guy lived.
Helping to keep you safe.
Helping out just enough to keep you away from all the bad shit heād witnessed the year before. And the year before that. And the year before that.
Helping keep you alive, he hoped.
Instead Steve clenched his jaw and moved closer. His big hands pushed gently at your knees, hopeful and experimental and shit, he held his breath until your legs gave way, spreading just enough for him to move into the cradle of your hips. He was eye level with you as he knelt uncomfortably on the floor, desperate amongst the discarded tapes that no one had ever rewound properly.
Steve took your hands in his, brought them to his lips as he kissed over each knuckle and he hated the way you avoided his gaze once again. You were crying freely now, tears rolling down your too hot cheeks, anger and frustration and hurt creeping into every one of your pretty features. Steve hated it. Hated himself.
āBaby,ā Steve tried, his mouth grazing over the back of your hand, your skin warm and smelling like cinnamon. Probably from the dessert youād baked him. āHoney, please, look at me?ā
Eventually you did, with a sniff and your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. You didnāt say anything, you just stared down at the boy before you on his knees, his hair fluffy and in a mess from the too big headphones heād worn all evening. He looked stressed, his brow creased and his brown eyes too wide, worry flooding from him.
Youād never heard him so serious when he spoke next, his lips at your hands, mouthing over your skin as he said, ādo you trust me?ā
You thought over each word, what it meant, what he was asking. You heard the conviction in his voice, the hope, the desperation. He held onto your hands like a lifeline, thumbs stroking over your fingers, both of your hands clasped between his own like a prayer.
Youād spent the day wondering if your boyfriend was growing tired of you, if Steve was seeing someone else, if he was avoiding you. Each thought had made your stomach knot, a ball of anxiety settling somewhere deep inside of you until it grew too big to be ignored. It turned over and over, made your stomach roll and your chest hurt, an awful type of heat crawling from your chest to your neck to your cheeks until each new scenario made tears prick at your eyes.
Youād turned on the radio as you made dinner, the default setting immediately allowing Steveās voice to fill your tiny kitchen. He sounded morose, far away. Not at all how a radio host was supposed to be. And as you added garlic and tomatoes and basil to the pot on your stove, Steve played love song after love song. He lamented about partners, about that special someone, about how saying sorry was the easiest thing to do when you loved someone. He did everything but say your name, keeping it as professional as he could despite what seemed to be a lovesick trauma dump.
And despite all the awful thoughts that had haunted you, you packed up some dinner and got into your car before youād even had the plate youād dished up for yourself.
Because despite everything, despite your heartache and disappointment and just sheer confusion at Steveās actions of late, you didnāt think he found someone else. Not really. Not at all.
Not when he looked at you like he did.
So you tried not to let your lip wobble anymore than it already was and you nodded.
Steveās sigh of relief made his entire body sag. His shoulders fell forward, forehead touching your own, noses brushing and he felt how damp yours was, tears tracking over the bridge of it but Jesus Christ, you werenāt pushing him away.
You trusted him.
That made the next part a little easier. Maybe.
Steve smiled as he met your gaze once more, eyes softer than ever, a little dopey with love and relief. āYeah?ā He kissed your hand, his lips warm against your palm and he let his touch skim up your arms, catching at your shoulders before he cradled your jaw between his fingers and thumb.
He pushed away a tear that had made its way down to your chin, frowning at the sight of it. āIām sorry, baby. I really am. But please, please believe me when I say I canāt tell you what Iāve been doing.ā
The words sent another ache of anxiety through you, your face crumpling at the prospect of battling again before what the fuck did he mean?
āSteve, what do you expect me to even say to that?ā
āI know, I know,ā Steve urged, his voice quiet and still soft and fuck, he hoped Robin had made that tape extra long. āBut listen, yeah? If you trust me, then please, baby. Please understand that Iām trying my best. Iāmā Iām trying to help a friend, okay?ā
Steve swallowed, the sensation of it feeling like glass in his throat because he wasnāt lying, not really. Not like the other times he had to abandon you for crawls and meetings at Hopās cabin. Not like his shitty excuses of hospital trips and late shifts at work.
No, this time heād lay it out as best as he could. Within reason. In whatever way kept you safe.
But shit, it still sucked.
āIām helping a friend do something pretty important. And itāsā¦ itās not really safe.ā Steve grimaced as he saw your eyes widen, scrambling to ease the panic he saw rise in your features and clasped your face in both of his hands, thumbs stroking over your cheekbones in a way he hoped to god was soothing.
āItās okay though, I promise. Itās not illegal or anything like that.ā
He wasnāt even sure if that was a lie. Steve didnāt have a fucking clue what kind of laws the military had put down in Hawkins, he just took everything they said as a rough suggestion, as did the rest of the party. A suggestion they all chose to ignore.
āAre you in trouble? Steve, do you need money? āCause I can work extra shifts, I can try and helpāā
Steve swore he felt his heart grow too big for his damn chest, your words making his entire being hurt. You were too sweet, you were too fucking good for him, or at least thatās what Dustin liked to remind him. He didnāt often disagree.
He leant forward, kissing at the apple of your cheek and when you didnāt pull away, he snuck another one to your lips, quick and fleeting and soft. āNo, baby, no, nothing like that, I swear. Itās just, itās just a little complicated.ā Steve was almost certain The Beatles were running out of songs by now. āI know itās really shitty of me to try and ask this of you. Like trust me, I get it. But you gotta know I would tell you if I could, alright? I swear. I promise, honey.ā
Steve needed you to believe him more than anything. He wasnāt quite sure heād do very well if you walked out on him. In fact, he was pretty sure he was bound to die off if he didnāt get to kiss you properly soon. Despite your tears and smudge mascara, Steve was positive you were the prettiest girl heād ever seen. He could wait to tell you that, but he knew well enough to wait until you were a little less mad at him. And perhaps after you stopped thinking he was running Hawkins newest drug cartel.
After what seemed like far too long, you brought your hands to his wrists and curled your fingers there. Thumb stroking over his skin, you nodded at the boy, a quiet acceptance. āOkay,ā you whispered. āI trust you.ā
And you did. Whatever Steve was telling you, or not telling you, you knew it was for good reason.
Steve let out another too big sigh, his lashes fluttering as he blinked at you before pulling you into him by the nape of your neck. His lips landed clumsily on your own for a kiss, closed lips but desperate, peck after peck landing on your mouth, your cheeks, your nose.
āThank you,ā he murmured into you, his nose brushing your hairline as he pressed his affection and his words to your forehead. āShit, thank you, baby. And Iām sorry, okay? Iām so fuckinā sorry, I swear Iāll make it up to you ten times over, Iāll- Iāll take you Enzoās, to the city, whatever you want.ā
You huffed out a quiet laugh at his declarations, the knot of anxiety unraveling itself from inside you. It was a gradual dissolution, a slow ease back into feeling normal and it didnāt happen quickly. Sore chests and hurt feelings still lingered, as did the hidden truth of Steveās new hobby.
You smiled at him, tight lipped and with a crinkled brow. āYouāre safe, arenāt you? Youāre okay?ā
Steve didnāt know how to answer that without lying to your face. Because no, what he did wasnāt safe.
There was more than a baseball bat under his bed now. There was a small arsenal stashed in his bedroom cupboard, under the seats of his car and scattered around his home. He knew how to load a shotgun now, how to navigate the town he grew up in via underground tunnels and he knew what the things were that went bump in the night. He had panic attacks when the town lost power, his breathing went funny at the flicker of a light and he wasnāt allowed to tell the girl he loved that she was living in a real life horror movie.
So instead he smiled, as real as he could and Steve brushed your hair from your eyes. āYeah, baby.ā He ached to take you home, to pull you into his bed and into his arms. To sleep this shitty day away and wake up in a new one with you against his chest. āIām okay as long as you are.ā
