tacobellmildsauce
hyper-fics-ation station
side blog for awkward-halfhug . mainly for fanfic/fanart reblogs but check out my ao3 too if u want. I love nice feedback 👉👈 😬
122 posts
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
Last Seen Blogs
gearchase
Untitled
vab9919
More Issues Than Vogue
jay-tective
Allistair
kathy-ju
KathyJu
careynco
Just making things
Note
han solo x shy!reader has so much potential to be so cute omg. imagine him being totally soft and doting on shy!you and then someone walks in and they’re like???? who is this guy and what has he done to han?????
Han's thick fingers click the latch of your bracelet into place, the gleaming silver looking out of place in his hands that are marred with grease stains. He's been careful to wipe the oil from his fingertips so that he doesn't soil your jewelry, but he's done it on his shirt, so there's streaks of grease you know are never going to come out of the white muscle tee he's in.
"There," He mumbles, letting go of the chain he'd been fumbling with and watching as the bracelet looses tension around your wrist, "That good?"
You deliberate for a moment, grinning guiltily at him as he waits for your reply, "Can you make it just a little tighter?"
"Sure thing, sweetheart," He drawls, sending only a lazy smile back. You'd been preparing yourself for a nasty quip, something about how picky you are, or about how he thinks the bracelet is ugly anyways. But all he does is reach for it again, hooking the clasp through a ring three away from the one he'd put it in before.
Now it's tighter around your wrist, only a little give in the chain.
"Thanks, Han," You grin, and his eyes flatten out, scrunching as he returns the expression.
You'd almost forgotten about Chewbacca, but when the wookiee lets out an amused roar from behind his copilot, you peer around Han's head at him.
"What did he say?" You ask Han, whose expression sours as he glares at the wookiee.
"Nothing." Han snaps, "He said he's gonna get to work rewiring the cockpit controls, because if he doesn't, I'll make him sleep in the smuggling compartments."
584 notes
·
View notes
Note
cuddly sej?? ik you like writing blurbs and stuff so like maybe you try to get up and he pulls you back half awake??
Sejanus is so adorable he is the love of my life at this point and I can so see him doing this. Hes got to be such a warm cuddle, like you know he radiates heat and has a vice grip on you.
Gn reader <3
You could tell he was out, the light snores hitting your shoulder making it beyond obvious. His hold on you was light, arm thrown over your hip practically sliding off at this point. So, he was asleep, and you needed to pee, you should be able to get up, right?
Wrong, he was not making it easy, even in his sleep. The moment you tried to shift away from him his arm tightened against you. Snores still rang out in the room, his breathing was still even and body was warm against you. Still needing to escape, you moved your hand to his, carefully lifting it and moving it behind you, moving a centimeter a second.
Sejanus shifted behind you, a slight groan leaving him causing you to still. It felt like ages until his breathing evened out again, allowing you to slowly starting to scoot away from him inch by inch with baited breath.
You were almost free, half way off the bed and about to put your feet on the ground. The moment you moved to turn the hand came back, immeditly pulling you back onto the bed, making your back firmly against Sejanus's chest. Before you could even protest he started shush you, pressing a kiss to the back of your head.
"Did you just shush me?" You asked in astonishment, rolling yourself over to look at him. His eyes were closed but he had a slight smile on his face.
"Maybe." He whispered, smile evident in his tone.
"I need to pee." All he did in response was whine, trying to pull you closer. "Sej I'll be right back just let me go.''
With a deep sigh he willingly moved his arm, dramatic frown plastered on his face. Every time you moved away from him he would whine, so loud that you could even hear him in the bathroom. He giggled when you walked back in, making his arms as wide as possible, humming in content when you laid back down.
"Happy?"
"Always am with you."
88 notes
·
View notes
Text
A fair payment [W. W.]
Willy Wonka x fem!reader
word count: 1.5k
People who might be interested: @strugglingwriterwattpad @cattail5 [Timothée masterlist]
some minor Wonka spoilers I guess! If you like it, tell me in the comments, that will make me happy :)
“Can you mend it?” Willy asked, carefully holding his emerald green jacket that had the sleeve seam torn.
The boy had arrived a couple of weeks ago to turn the world of everyone present in the laundry upside down and, honestly, you were already beginning to enjoy his presence. You looked in the background at the blackboard that Noodle used at night to give him lessons in the hope that he would learn to read because, according to the girl's words, because of that he was almost eaten by a tiger. But in the man's words, what was important was the almost part.
However, tonight he had asked you especially to go to his room, because he had a problem that he thought only you could solve.
“I think so, I just have to pass the needle a couple of times” you smiled.
Since your arrival Mrs. Scrubbit had used your sewing skills for her own benefit, because after all you had ended up in that mess trying to save a little to be able to buy the necessary materials to make a pretty dress that would be worth enough to advance in the business. Although, obviously, that had not been possible.
"Thank you! I'm afraid that's my only jacket."
“It will be ready in no time. I’ll just go to my room and come back, okay?” you said kindly, placing the garment in the boy's lap and earning a sweet smile from the aforementioned.
Just as Willy had his little briefcase for his chocolates, you had your own, full of threads, needles, and buttons, which you just had to grab from the floor to get everything you needed. When you arrived back you settled at the little table and he remained attentive to your every movement, pulling out a chair so he could observe what you were about to do.
“There was a boy on the ship who helped me with these things,” he began to tell you, keeping his curious nose on your shoulder “But I never thought about learning. You know, for when I had to be alone”
“Well, it's lucky you ended up here. We are a curious collection of workers,” you murmured ironically, referring to all the people gathered there against their will by the work of fate "What did you do on the ship?"
"Cook. Mostly sweet things, but I also know a couple of useful non-chocolate-related recipes. I was the chef,” he said, and you laughed at the exaggerated way he pronounced the last bit.
Willy began to tell you about some of the adventures he had had on the high seas and you listened attentively as the tip of the needle went in and out to join the fabric. It only took a few minutes to get his clothes looking like new, taking the liberty of repairing other places that also needed it.
“Put it on,” you asked, trying not to look at him too much when he did so or pay attention to the way the jacket fit him perfectly.
"It is perfect! You can't even tell it was torn, huh?” he said with emotion, feeling with his hands as much as he could. “How much do I owe you?”
“Oh, it's nothing.”
“I insist,” the man murmured. His curly hair bounced across his cheeks as he sat next to you and he lifted his small briefcase off the floor, opening it to reveal all the little bottles of ingredients. “Your talent for mine. It's a fair exchange."
You had to admit that the chocolates you had eaten were a complete delicacy, but a part of you didn't want to get used to that luxury or you knew that when Willy was gone you would miss his sweetness. In the literal and figurative sense.
Locked in that laundry it was impossible to meet many people your age and Noodle was your greatest company, as if he were a little sister to you. But now that he was there, there was a certain happiness in chatting with him, much more now that his ingenious mind had devised a way to get you out of there even if it was just for a few hours to see the light of day and get coins from the sale of the chocolates to free you of the enormous debt to Mrs. Scrubbit.
“What flavor do you want to try today? Do you want me to add some unicorn skin glitter? Rays of sunlight from a twilight on the seashore? Tears of an African crocodile?”
“Just give me something you think I need,” you replied softly.
Willy thought about it for a moment, because it wasn't the kind of answer he would have expected. What was he supposed to give you that night? A little hope? Happiness? Nostalgia? It was difficult to decide.
Through his bright eyes you watched him reflect and just a second later his hands began to work. You noticed there was a hint of mischief in his smile as he poured milk, chocolate, and the contents of a couple of jars into the processor, glancing at you from the corner of his eye from time to time.
“What are you going to do when we get out of here?” he asked suddenly, not neglecting the tasks.
“Working in a sewing workshop, I guess.”
“Why don't you open your own fashion house?” Willy suggested carefreely, as if it were a very easy thing to do, “You are a great dressmaker.”
“And you are a great dreamer”
“It's my best quality,” he exclaimed, almost offended. You waited a moment before answering.
“I just don't think it's that simple. It requires effort, time, and a lot of money…”
“We will have everything,” he interrupted you, with that optimism that characterized him. Suddenly he stopped what he was doing and one of his hands traveled to take yours. “When I open my factory, we will all be able to fulfill our dreams. And you are going to have a fashion house, I promise you.”
“You make a lot of promises,” you responded, blushing.
“And he planned to fulfill them all. I always do it"
Maybe there was something about the softness of his grip on your hand or perhaps the sparkle in his eyes that made you look away out of sheer nervousness. He seemed to be good and innocent, to the point that he probably didn't even realize how close he was to you or how inappropriate the position would be if Noodle ever walked in.
A tap interrupted your moment and then he abruptly pulled away, excited to show you the product he had just made. It was a pretty circular candy that was bright pink and seemed to be emanating smoke from the inside.
"What's that?"
“You'll have to try it to find out,” he murmured, as he extended the treat in your direction.
You had to admit that you were somewhat curious to discover what the man was offering you, so you took it between your fingers carefully, and even under his watchful gaze you took a bite.
At first it tasted like ordinary chocolate, but then it took on a strange tone, which made you feel a certain warmth in your chest that spread to your cheeks. It was a most pleasant feeling, like bubbly joy combined with the embarrassment of a hug.
You thought for a moment about what flavor that could be, without any success, until after a few seconds you realized that it wasn’t a flavor in itself, but a feeling, an experience... Was it love that Willy had given you?
“How does it taste?”
“Yummy,” you responded, covering your mouth so he wouldn’t see the wet chocolate on your tongue, but also to hide your smile “Delicious, actually. What does it contain?”
“A special and secret ingredient”
"Oh, come on! Aren’t you going to tell me?”
“I just want to know if I got it right,” he murmured and you frowned slightly, not understanding him “About what you asked for. Did I give you something you needed?”
You had to bite your lip to keep from smiling again, your cheeks feeling hot from the simple fact that he was looking at you. You thought that this could even be a love potion that you had consumed without thinking about it, just because he was the one who was offering it to you.
“We could say yes”
“We're even, then,” he exclaimed as he waved the sleeve of his jacket and you nodded in amusement, eating the rest of the chocolate he had made for you.
A yawn leaving your lips made you aware of how exhausted you were and although you didn't love the idea, you knew it was time to leave.
“It's late, I should go to sleep before we wake anyone up.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Willy said quickly, getting up from his seat to accompany you to the exit. “I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Rest,” you said kindly, and, gathering courage, you leaned forward a little to say goodbye with a hug that he gladly returned.
As you walked down the hall to your shabby, damp room, you thought that it probably wouldn't have even taken a love potion to fall for the charms of the pleasant chocolatier. You just needed one of his smiles.
5K notes
·
View notes
Text
to be alone ♥︎ connor ; dbh
another autistic!reader and connor thing ♥︎
synopsis : reader needs a minute to calm down ; connor knows exactly how to ground you and bring you back.
song inspo ; to be alone by hozier
if you have a blank blog [no bio, no user, no header or profile pic, nothing reblogged, etc] do not interact with my content. you will be blocked.
——♥︎——
Keep reading
919 notes
·
View notes
Text
a small compilation of moments between autistic!reader + connor
happy disability pride month <3
anon requested : hi! i was wondering if you could do something with connor and the autistic reader and like them going nonverbal and how he would handle that? You don’t have to do it if you don’t wanna! :)
please do not use this as a way to self-diagnose. having one thing in common does not necessarily mean you are autistic. im not a therapist or doctor, if you think you’re on the spectrum, talk to them. <3
if you have a blank blog [no bio, no user, no header or profile pic, nothing reblogged, etc] do not interact with my content. you will be blocked.
Keep reading
#this was lovely!!!#i love every bit of this#i want a connor so bad now#i feel like he'd get me my comfort foods when i dont have them too#ughhh connor be my weighted blanket too!#detroit become human#dbh connor x reader#dbh
1K notes
·
View notes
Note
Congrats on 6k!! Finnick please + ❛ was that your first kiss?❜
thank you angel! hope you like this x join the celebration
finnick odair x shy!fem!reader
Finnick Odair is endlessly sweet on you. You think he might like you, but that could just be your huge, unyielding crush on him talking. It’s why you’re so nervous walking up the path to his house. You really, really hope he’ll like the gift you’re bringing him, because you really, really like him.
Your feet seem to be out of commission, though. They feel heavy as you drag yourself up his steps, as if you’ve got bricks tied to your shoes. You make it to the front door without tripping over, at least.
You knock softly, your heart climbing to your throat. It’s lodged in your airways by the time you hear footsteps from inside the house. Fleetingly, you think about turning tail and running away before he answers the door. You could make it, if you really ran.
Before you can make any move of cowardice the door clicks and then swings open. Finnick appears behind it. Any thoughts of running simply vanish in the wind.
“Well, hello there, sweetheart,” he says, smiling. Two dimples poke into his cheeks, one on each side, and you forget how to breathe. He’s strikingly handsome, especially now, glowing in the last dregs of today’s sunlight. Streaks of gold and orange catch on the ends of his hair. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
You stare at him for a second too long before remembering your voice. “Finnick,” you manage, already breathless and you’ve only been in his presence all of two seconds. “Hi.”
Finnick’s smile grows. “Hi,” he says back. There’s something like fond amusement in his tone. “You okay?”
“I— yes. I’m okay.” Are you? Not really, not when he’s looking at you like that. “I um, I brought you something.”
Finnick looks at you quizzically. “You did?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, can I see it?”
Right. You’re still hiding your gift behind your back. You pull it out with a trembling hand.
“Here,” you say softly.
You hold it out to him. It’s a small woven basket, full to the brim with seashells you’ve collected from the beach. The prettiest ones you could find. You know he loves the sea, anyone with two eyes could see that. Even now, it’s obvious, his hair all curled at the ends from the saltwater, and his skin all lovely and tan from the sun.
Finnick takes the basket from you and doesn’t say anything. You watch his face. He blinks twice. Stares at your gift for a handful of seconds. Then he looks at you. The sun kisses his face and spreads over his cheekbones.
“This is for me?” He asks softly. He’s got something in his eyes that you can’t quite understand, but it makes you hot all over anyway.
“Um,” you stammer, feeling like you might burst into flames on the spot. “Yeah. I collected them for you.” And then he keeps staring at you, with so much intensity it burns, and gosh, maybe you’ve really messed up. “But! But if you don’t like it, I can totally—“
“Honey.” Finnick stops you with a hand on your elbow. You waver. Your skin feels branded by his hand, his touch electric. “I love it,” he says, with so much earnest it’s bruising. “Did you really collect all of these for me?”
Well, when he puts it like that, it makes it very obvious that you like him an inordinate amount. You flush from head to foot. “Yeah ... is that weird?”
Finnick shakes his head vehemently. “No, of course it’s not.” His hand’s still on your arm. He drags it down to your forearm, fingers curling into your skin. His thumb pushes into the inside of your wrist. You hope he can’t feel your racing pulse. “It’s really sweet. They’re so pretty, I love them, honey.”
He gives you a look like you’ve hung the moon for him. You would, if you could.
“I really hoped you would,” you admit, bashful. Something about the way he’s looking at you is unraveling you fast. Any more of this and you’ll be spilling your deepest secrets to him.
“Yeah?” He hums softly. His hand slides back up your arm, all the way up to the slope of your shoulder. You realise, suddenly, how close he is. When did he get this close? He’s over the threshold now and on the doormat with you. So close you can see where the light hits the very tips of his blonde eyelashes.
“Can I give you something now?” He asks in a murmur. He leans down so his face is inches from yours, so he’s all you can see. His strong jaw, his broad shoulders. He’s all-encompassing. “A kiss?”
You feel frozen to your spot. You’ve never been kissed before. You find you want it, though, no matter how scary. All you can do is nod, worried if you open your mouth your heart will jump right out.
You see a flash of Finnick’s kind smile before his mouth is pressed to yours and you’re slamming slam your eyes shut. He’s kissing you. Finnick Odair is kissing you. His hand moves to the juncture between your neck and shoulder, his thumb pushing lightly into the back of your neck. You melt, heart thrumming with so many new, lovely feelings. His kiss is warm and soft, kind, like all the things he’s ever been to you.
When he pulls away you’ve forgotten how to breathe. You blink up at him, totally dazed. You might as well be in another world, with the way your head is swimming.
Finnick smiles at you. It’s kind. Though he looks almost as if he’s trying to bite back a bigger smile. “Was that your first kiss?”
Red hot embarrassment creeps up your neck and face. Was it that obvious? “How could you tell?” You ask in a whisper, half mortified.
“Hey, it’s nothing to worry about,” Finnick assures you quickly. “It’s just, you’re really stiff, sweetheart.” He rubs your shoulder firmly. You suppose you are quite stiff. “Loosen up, okay? Do you think I could give you another?”
Another kiss? From him? You can’t think of anything to say other than an anguished sort of plea. “Please.”
He indulges you.
-
thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if you enjoyed 🤍
#THIS! IS SO!! CUTE!!!#i love it i love it i love it#im in love with finnick and shy reader#his fond amusement and his kind smile trying-to-fight-a-bigger-smile after her stiff kiss aksksdnksjs#also thats such a thoughtful gift#ugh living the dream tbh#beautiful fic#finnick odair x reader#hunger games
1K notes
·
View notes
Note
hii lovely can i request miguel x spidergirl or tasm!peter x reader where is too shy to ask for something directly and miguel/peter keeps pretending that he is oblivious to tease her? thank you <33
When Miguel talks, his cheek distends, and the pen smudge gets longer. You look at it for the tenth time in as many minutes, wanting to wipe it away, but quick to bring your gaze back to your desk.
“You did it again,” he says.
You bite the tip of your tongue, pretending you haven't heard. The schematic in front of you flickers a warm orange against the yellow screen, but the lines won't register in your head.
“How's that blueprint coming?” he asks.
“It's fine.” You click the file button at the top of the screen to save your progress. File already saved.
“Need help?”
You shake your head, clicking on the next tab. If you weren't distracted by his stupid high cheekbones and the strange mark of ink slinking beneath it like a wonky heart, you'd be finished by now. You're quick. Miguel knows this, and he clearly finds your pace strange, coming to stand next to you to check your progress.
“What's wrong with that?” he asks, the heat of his arm warming your own despite the layers between them. “Render it, print it.”
“I need....” You draw a circle in the air around the measurements that are bugging you.
“I see. Let me.” He leans around you to click on your elevated screen. His fingers pinch a spring, reroute a wire, and before long he's fit everything together neatly, ready for rendering.
“Miguel,” you say.
“Yeah?”
Closer now than he had been, it's even harder to tell him than before. Not because it's oh so difficult, not because you think he'll be embarrassed. Not even because you've drawn it out. You're reluctant to tell him because you really want to ask to wipe it off. You want to take his hand into your face and clean the mark away with a tender touch, but Miguel is allergic to being taken care of.
“You…”
“I,” he prompts, meeting your eyes. Confusion draws his brow together.
“Would you…”
“What?” he asks.
“You have– Can I?” You raise your hand but stutter to a stop when he doesn't move to accommodate your touch.
“Can you what?” he asks quietly.
“You have a pen mark.” You have to try very, very hard to keep your voice steady. “Can I get it for you?”
“Oh, I do?” His voice gives it away —that slight humorous fry, like he's smirking and sorry at once. He'd known you had something to say, might have guessed what you wanted ten minutes ago.
“You're such a jerk.”
“I don't know what you're talking about. Would you?”
You wipe at the pen line until it's smudged away, ink warmed by your finger and spread into transparency. He stays still as a statue for the entire ordeal, and he doesn't gloat, but something akin to smugness remains even when you've declared it, “Gone.”
“Thank you.” He just stands there looking at you for a while. “Sorry. I was teasing.”
You roll your head down into your shoulder. “Yeah, I know.”
“So shy… Render your schematic, then, and I'll give you a nice thank you.”
“I don't think so.”
“I won't tease anymore.” He puts his hand on your shoulder, his big huge hand, all encompassing and so, so warm. Your skin prickles and recovers as his thumb digs into the muscle that bridges the skin between your neck and shoulder, never cruel, but rough all the same. “I swear. This is good work.”
You sigh. “Thanks, Miguel.”
He lifts his chin ever so slightly. “You're welcome, cariño.”
It's worse than being teased, but in a new, somehow more mortifying way.
#cute cute cute#hes allergic to being taken care of lol#cariño took me out im such a sucker for spanosh pet names#miguel o’hara x reader#spidervese
348 notes
·
View notes
Note
HII BABE can i request miguel x spidergirl!reader where reader shows miguel how to do her skin routine before bed in a shared apartment?
Miguel tongues at the inside of his cheek. “You can't be serious,” he says eventually.
You smile at him, hope in your eyes. “It'll look cute. You'll love it.”
Miguel considers what you're saying. You shift from one foot to the other, your fuzzy socks bumping his with every step.
He scratches a little crystal of missed toothpaste from your bottom lip. You wait patiently, and it's that patience that melts the last of his reluctance.
“Fine,” he says, dropping his arm back to his side.
You beam and bring your hands up to his hair, raking it back from his face, a headband slipping down your wrist to hang in the crook of your elbow. “It's for your benefit, anyway, not mine,” you say, grabbing the headband to stretch carefully over the top of his head. He's impossibly tall, and even on tiptoes you struggle. He slouches imperceptibly to help you. “This is messy business.”
“I've washed my face before.”
“Not like this, babe.”
You coerce the headband around his neck before pulling the front back up over his face to push his hair back. It's tight around his ears, and when he looks in the mirror, it is with an incredible amount of self disdain.
“Good kitty,” you praise.
Miguel adjusts the white cat ears to be central, relieving a little of the pressure from behind his own ears, but not enough. “Can we hurry this up?”
You make sure your own face is clear and grin. “Let's do it.”
You wet your faces with handfuls of hot water. Miguel's skincare routine consists of nothing more than showering and using a mild facial soap before bed; yours feels rather mammoth in comparison. First is an oil cleanse. You pour honey-coloured facial oil into his hands from a stout bottle, and he follows your lead without needing instruction, dedicating himself the skin surrounding his nose and between his brows
“Wash it off with water,” you say, “I'm gonna do it a bit longer.”
“Why?”
“It's supposed to pull the gunk out of my pores.”
“What about my pores?” he asks.
You rub circles into your nose. “Who said I care about your pores?”
Miguel doesn't bother rolling his eyes, bending to wash the oil from his face. Next is regular face wash, white suds gathering in your brows and under your nose as your elbows fight for room at the sink basin. You win (he lets you) (or that's what he likes to think), rinsing the soap off and patting your face dry with a small towel.
The sink gurgles as he turns off the faucet, water running down the line of his neck and his arms to his elbows. You pat him dry.
He likes that, the simple intimacy of being looked after unconsciously. You obviously don't think about drying his neck and hands for him, you just do it.
“What next?” he asks quietly. Softly, some might suggest.
“Come on,” you say, taking his hand.
Miguel has seen you do it all many times now, but doing it with you is different. He lets you pull him into the bedroom, where you pick through bottles of serums and toners and tubs of pads to grab a red bottle.
“Dragon blood?” he asks, eyeing the label of your face mist in distrust.
“Not really. Close your eyes.”
You spray your mist over his face, and he doesn't flinch, barely moves an inch, until you put a hand gently to his chest and crane your head up to kiss him while he's unsuspecting.
He admits defeat. He loves you, he can't hide it much longer. “Is that everything, mi querida?”
“That's not half of it.” You rub his tacky cheek adoringly. “Would you?”
He takes the bottle of mist from your offered hand, waiting for you to close your eyes. When they're shuttered tight, he leans down to kiss you thrice in quick succession, lest you feel the curve of his smile on your lips and think he's having fun.
#this is so sweet and calmkng#i feel so relaxed and im not even the one doing the routine#reading this fic is self care#miguel o’hara x reader#spiderverse
407 notes
·
View notes
Note
maybe miguel with shy spider girl who never holds eye contact with him and he calls her to is office alone for info and she’s just a mess? idk 😭😭
“Miguel wants to see you.”
You smile at Peter B. Parker. It is not a natural nor authentic smile. “Sorry,” you say, “what?”
“Miguel, the big guy! He wants to see you. You reported that weird bubble on 265, right?” Peter’s chewing on gum obnoxiously, seemingly unwise to your panic. Mayday giggles in his arms. “He wants your opinion.”
“I've never spoken to him.”
Peter laughs jovially as Mayday climbs up his front and almost topples down the back of him. “He's a nice guy, you'll like him. Hey, you want some gum?”
You take a stick of gum but don't chew it, the strip of Juicy Fruit powdering your fingers as you ride the elevator up to Miguel's laboratory. You barely know where it is, only that it's in a general direction of which you've never walked in. You haunt the dorms and the library rather than the workshops, content in your quiet life (as quiet as it can be, considering). Every step you take down the red lit hall to his lab is brimming with the want to turn back.
There's a platform set on the floor decorated by computers. You can't tell what's holographic and what's physical, but Miguel O'Hara is undeniably solid. His shoulders alone look thick as a tree trunk where he stands in the midst of it all.
You know it will be less painful to just… say hello. You put your Juicy Fruit in your pocket and clear your throat quietly.
“Mr. O'Hara?”
He waves his hand at you without looking. “Miguel is better. Come here.”
You struggle up onto his raised laboratory. Would it have hurt to build a step?
“Spider-Girl from earth 1421. Yes?”
“Y/N,” you say. “Yeah, that's me.”
He looks up at that, like your name is a curse word, or a surprise. You meet his eyes for as long as you're able to before your gaze crawls to his chest.
“And you saw the distension on 265?”
“Distension… um, you mean when the air looked like it was bubbling?”
“What were you doing when it started? Just give me a run down.”
You clasp your hands together tightly. You feel silly in your suit because somebody convinced you that it was okay to wear stuff on top, so now you're in this big silly hoodie while Miguel stands waiting in his officials. You'd always thought it was nanotechnology, but closer it seems more like a fabric with chameleon technology, or—
“What were you doing when it started?” he asks again, softer now. “You're not in trouble, I just need to get a sense of what happened.”
“I know, I– we were there to– to–” You wince. “To capture an anomaly, Doc Ock 83.” Your hands start to tremble, you're so nervous. “But we had a hard time finding him, he wasn't doing much, and the– bubble started not long after getting there.”
“Was it a precursor to anything? Did something significant happen after it began?”
“Um–” You can't think. What happened? You'd been standing on the street between the last reported sighting of the anomaly with your small team. You're a competent bunch but you only ever get called in for the weak guys, and you weren't sure what to do when things got weird. “I'm sorry, I don't know.” You peek at him, worried he's going to snap at you.
“Just take some time to think about it.”
He smiles —Miguel smiles at you, a juxtaposition to every rumour you've ever heard about him— and takes a step toward you, gesturing at your hoodie. You freeze up, worse when his fingertips point at the hem of it.
“Do you have your drone?”
You flush a hundred degrees hot and pull your hoodie up your chest to click the panel of your drone where it dents over your heart. It breaks free, flying up into the air above your head on automatic. Miguel grabs it out of the air and takes it over to his computer, where he syncs the sim and looks through your recordings. He isn't so cruel as to play them without permission, deferring back to you.
You raise your hand and tap the file.
It starts with you talking to yourself. “There's no… what alley was he…” You scrub forward to the middle of the video, just before the distension begins. “Hey, do you see that?” you ask your teammates.
Miguel leans forward. He's standing very, very close to you, and he talks quietly so as not to overcloud the sound on screen, “Here. Does this jog your memory?” he asks.
You look away from him again. But, now he's asked, and now you've seen it, there was something unfamiliar. “After it appeared, the anomaly changed. Doc Ock didn't look like himself. I thought I was seeing things, but here–” You rewind the video and point at the outline of Doc Ock against the bubble. “See? He's different. He looks paler.”
Miguel glares at the screen in concentration. Your comparison must impress him, though it doesn't solve the problem. “Alright,” he says as he copies the file from your drone. You summon it back to your heart. “The next time one of these is reported, I want you to come with me.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Because six people went to that dimension and only one of them flagged this. You have a sharp eye. When you deign to use them.”
You bring your gaze up in a rush, “I– I'm just nervous–”
“I know.” He smiles at you again, not at all the prey versus predator grin you'd imagined, but a more private smile as though you're sharing a joke. He looks at once like a normal man. Is he flirting with you? “Keep your communicator on, hm? I'll call for you.”
“Okay.” You don't know what to do, so you offer him a smile of your own. “See you then.”
He chuckles into himself as though he knows something you don't. “See you, nerviosa.”
You wouldn't need to know Spanish to know he's teasing you.
976 notes
·
View notes
Note
💝 Bob please and 11. "their contact name being formatted differently than everyone else" from the are we friends, or more? prompt list
this trope is my kryptonite, hope u enjoy anon x | [wc - 0.7k] | join my prompt party!
“Why do we even bother? He’s obviously not coming,” said Hangman indifferently, leaning down to line up his pool shot.
“Give him a minute,” Phoenix snapped from her place at your shoulder, her phone held to her ear and currently ringing for Bob. “He said he’d be here. It’s weird for him to just…not show up.”
“Maybe he got tired of losing at pool,” said Hangman with a shit-eating grin, straightening up satisfactorily as he pocketed two balls.
“He beat me last time,” Fanboy pointed out.
“That’s not a competition,” Hangman retorted.
“He’ll be here,” interjected Rooster, taking a sip of his beer. “When’s the last time he didn’t show up to one of these? Calm down.”
“But when’s the last time Bob’s been late?” Phoenix shot back before groaning and pulling her phone away from her ear. She turned to look at you with a pleading expression. “Back me up here. This is weird, right?”
You suddenly realized everyone was staring at you expectantly. The buzzed, warm atmosphere of the Hard Deck suddenly felt a bit stifling. Usually you loved the teasing jibes and snarky retorts traded between the aviators over a few games of pool and a few more beers, but something about tonight felt…off.
Probably for the exact reason everyone was discussing at the moment.
“It is weird for him to flake,” you ceded reluctantly. “He usually at least gives us a text if he knows he’s not gonna make it.”
“Okay, so call him, then,” said Hangman, sounding exasperated. “Make sure he’s not dead.” He nudged Coyote. “It’s your shot. Would you go?”
“We have been calling him, dickhead,” snapped Phoenix. “He’s not picking up.”
“No, make the other one call him,” said Hangman, pointing at you with his cue as if you weren’t right there. “His favorite.”
Your cheeks burned with the knowledge that everyone else had picked up on you and Bob’s close bond. “I am not—”
“Please,” said Hangman arrogantly. “We are not in middle school. Just own it. We’ve all seen the little glances and inside jokes.”
Your mouth flapped open and shut uselessly. The pool game had been forgotten. Everyone was watching you with amused expressions. You stuttered out, “I do that with Phoenix, too!”
Hangman squinted at you disbelievingly before turning back to the game, like you weren’t even worth the effort of arguing with. That more than anything else rubbed you the wrong way.
“Okay, fine,” you said. “I will call him. And he won’t pick up, just like he didn’t pick up when Phoenix and Fanboy called, and we can put this to bed.”
You expected everyone to laugh at you, or shake their heads and go back to their other activities. What you didn’t expect was for everyone—Hangman included—to cluster around you and stare at your screen as you pulled out your phone.
You scrolled through your contacts quickly, wanting to just get it over with, but as you hovered your finger over Bob’s contact to call, Payback said, “Hang on—”
Right on cue, Hangman swiped your phone out of your hand and held it above your head.
“Give it back!” you cried, embarrassment flooding your body. “Seriously? You’re the one who just said we aren’t in middle school!”
“‘B. Bradshaw,’” Hangman read aloud, holding you at bay with his free hand. He was beaming. “‘J. Machado—J. Seresin—N. Trace—M. Garcia—R. Fitch.’ But would you look at this?” He scrolled back up. “‘Bobby.’ With two—count ‘em, two—emojis.”
“Stop it!” you yelped, more than mortified.
“Which emojis?” called Fanboy, who was craning to try and see.
“The nerd with glasses face and a white heart,” said Payback. “Remind me, what does the white heart mean?”
“Marriage, definitely,” said Rooster with a teasing smirk.
“You guys are children,” you yelled, hoping desperately that you looked more confident than you felt. You shot Rooster a frustrated look. “Could you help me, please?”
It was Coyote who swiped your phone out of Hangman’s hand, taking a moment to examine the proof for himself before handing it back to you. You snatched it quickly, sure that everyone could see just how flustered you were. They all watched you with amused, knowing expressions, waiting for you to defend yourself.
But then your phone buzzed in your hand, and everyone looked down.
Incoming call from: Bobby 🤓🤍
Someone snickered. You fought to maintain your dignity and straightened your posture, saying, “Excuse me, I have a call. I’m going to take this outside.”
Everyone whooped and laughed as you pushed in between Fanboy and Phoenix and started to walk towards the back deck. With shaking fingers, you accepted the call.
“Hi, Bobby. I think they know.”
793 notes
·
View notes
Text
Bob is the type of boyfriend who cuts the tags off his clothes and your t-shirts because you complained about it being too itchy once. The man always has an extra hoodie to bundle you in, zipping it up your body and rolling the sleeves, even when he knows you’re too stubborn to admit you’re cold in the first place. He knows when it’s time to go home because you start to only focus on fidgeting with his fingers and going abnormally quiet, no longer stimulated by the environment around you. Bob is the type to forfeit his maraschino cherries because you love them so much, even though he likes them too. When you found out, you were touched by the gesture, but make a point to order extras, so you can compete on who can tie a knot with their mouth the fastest (he’s in the lead by 2 rounds).
He is the type of partner who takes you on long drives, so you can see the city lights reflect on the town lake as you drive on the bridge, just because he sees how your eyes always follow the sight until it’s out of view. Bob knows to carry hand sanitizer because dirty hands make you anxious. He knows if a restaurant doesn’t have sweet tea, you’ll have a regular iced tea but refuse to use sugar packets to sweeten it because the crystals never dissolve. He brings you home flowers after every trip to the supermarket because he loves how you blush even after 6 years together. Bob is the person who never lets you walk on the side closest to the street. He never lets you tie your shoes when he’s around (he even double-knots them every time). Bob is the type to drag your seat closer to him so he can feel your knees touch. He is the boyfriend who stays up way too late to entertain your obscure questions, even when you ask if he would still love you if you were a worm. He made you a detailed list as to why his answer was yes. Bob is the sweet soul who lets you drool on his sweater when you inevitably fall asleep during movie night and still always lets you pick the film.
Bob is the type of person who was made to love others. He was put on earth and raised as a man who loves so sincerely and earnestly that it comes as easy as breathing. The most confident you have ever seen Bob was when he looked you in the eyes and told you he loved you for the first time. It is your greatest privilege to be loved by Bob Floyd.
686 notes
·
View notes
Note
BOB AND READER WITH GLASSES PLEASE DO ANYTHING WITH THIS, JUST A SMALL DIALOGUE WITH READER WHO ALSO HAS GLASSES PLEASE, IM MADLY IN LOVE WITH BOB I WANT TO KISS HIM ALL OVER HIS PRETTY FACE BUT I KNOW THAT OUR GLASSES WOULDNT LIKE THAT
send me top gun requests!
I LOVE BOB 😭 he and i have kinda similar glasses i loooved this request :') <3
--
The first shallow plastic clink of your glasses against his only has you pressing on more eagerly. Your lips dot soft kisses over Bob's nose, hitting the bridge, then the soft skin around it that flows into his cheeks. His eyes are closed behind his lenses, and he's biting his lips to contain a smile. Every kiss that you press to his face has his cheeks aching more and more from holding back, until he has to let out some of his joy in the form of sharp exhales, little giggles in his beautiful voice.
"I love you,' You mumble, lovedrunk against his cheeks, "I love you, I love you, I love you, I-"
"I love you too!" He finally breaks, hands coming to cup your cheeks, "I love," He lets his own lips fall over the tip of your nose, "You." Then your lips.
He keeps it short and chaste. That only makes you want more. You wriggle forwards in his grip, chasing his lips until you can plaster yours over them once more. You're both giggling now, sweet sounds that intertwine to create melodic happiness that's tangible between you both. There's a rosy glow on his cheeks and every time it brushes your skin, a jolt of electricity strikes your spine.
As soon as you get even remotely into the kiss, your glasses clash. It's a terrible sound, the scraping of plastic upon plastic, metal upon metal. It has both of your eyes flying open and scrunching, his teeth hitting your bottom lip by accident.
"Hang on," He grumbles, nearly flinging his glasses off of his face, "Lemme just," Then he reaches for yours, tossing them similarly across the bed, "There."
"I can't see you," You complain, butting your nose up against his own. There he comes into focus, a peachy blob with one eye. You giggle at the sight and you know he's looking upon you with similar vision problems, happy to reengage in your kiss.
"Me neither," He mumbles, the words spilling off of his tongue and onto yours, "I can feel you, though. You feel-" Your teeth graze his bottom lip as your tongue brushes against it in a sensual swipe and he shudders, "Good, so good."
1K notes
·
View notes
Note
Omg Mei, I absolutely loved your little Spencer blurb about the sensory baby videos. Would you do one for Hotch except he’s holding his toddler and trying to get her to nap, or at least he thinks he’s holding her but she’s escaped. Reader and Jack walk in the apartment from school pick up and there’s big bad Hotch watching Ms Rachel or something!!
slightly altered your request, i hope you don't mind! love you <3
--
The last thing you're expecting when you accept the face time call from your husband is a big blurry mass of forehead and peach fuzz. It's a disorienting sight at first, but once you get your bearings, you recognize it as your baby's face. She coos at you, at the picture of her mama that's popped up on the screen, and you grin as it's clear she's trying to plant a kiss on you through the screen.
"Hi, baby," You croon, relishing in her sweet gurgles as she flings her arms this way and that, still firmly planted on your husband's phone. You presume she's laying on her belly, having captured the phone in a moment of Aaron's inattention and holding it captive beneath her head.
You fear that his phone may be waterlogged with baby spit if she keeps this up, but you'd pay thousands of dollars to savor this moment forever. You hear a children's program on in the background, and you coo once more, "Where's dada?"
"Dada," She repeats, in a voice as soft as yours. Then you're sure a vision of his warm smile flashes through her little mind, because she gets excited, shrieking, "Dada!"
That's what finally clues Aaron in. His ears pick up on her loud screech, and he hums thoughtfully from somewhere in the direction of the television, "Here, short stuff. What do you think, hm? What does the cow say, baby?"
"Mama!" Your baby girl states delightedly, "Mama-ma-ma-ma-mam-ma!"
"No, not ma-ma. Moo-moo." Aaron corrects her, then there's a short bout of silence from him, until, "Where are you?"
Your baby girl giggles and squeals, kicking her feet rapidly against the couch cushion below her. You laugh right along with her as Aaron makes a mad dash for the couch that she's managed to squirm her way onto, and he takes his drooly phone back from her with an indignant grimace.
"Honey?" He greets you warily, smearing away some of your daughters messier attempts at kissing you, "Did you call me?"
"No," You grin, "She did. She got her grubby little hands all over your phone, Aaron. You're lucky she didn't call Strauss. What were you doing over there?"
"I was holding her," He recalls, "Well- I mean, I was, but then- she was just playing with the stacking rings right behind me. I thought. I had Baby Einstein on for her."
"Mm, for her," You conclude with a teasing grin on your face, conveyed even by the slightly-grainy face time footage, "Maybe next time you should hand her your phone before you sit down to find out what a cow says; she's clearly not interested, babe."
#ahh! so so sweet im kicking my feet#and i remember playing baby einstein for my sister when she was a baby!! precious memories#aaron hotchner x reader#criminal minds
900 notes
·
View notes
Text
i'll put us back together at heart - s.h.
Summary: It's 1987. You haven't spoken to Steve Harrington in nearly five years. Then Dustin Henderson tells you about a sweet deal he has at Family Video, where he can rent any video he wants.
Pairing: ex-best friend!Steve Harrington x fem!reader
Word count: 8.8k
Warnings/tags: friends to strangers to lovers. the reader is twenty in 1987 and i technically made steve twenty-one/about to turn twenty-one. s4 happened but eddie's alive and vecna's dead. no earthquakes or anything like that; reader has no idea about what really happened. lots of angst, mentions of billy hargrove (yuck) and steve's s1 asshole friends.
A/N: oh my lord. i don't know where this eighteen-wheeler of a fic came from but here it is. there is a happy ending, not to worry. i'd never do that to y'all <3 feedback and reblogs are always always appreciated!
divider by firefly-graphics
August 1981
"I wish we could stay eighth graders forever."
You lift your head from your orange pool floaty. Steve drifts on the surface of the water. His hair is longer, way longer than you've seen it in the three years you've been friends. He says it's better for styling that way; he's even bought a gel and cream for his hair. You don't understand why he wants to change something that doesn't need changing.
"Why?" you ask. "I thought you were excited for high school."
He hums. The sound echoes in his backyard.
"It's bigger than middle school. More kids, more teachers, more work. I like eighth grade."
"I'll help you with your work," you say.
Steve turns his head and smiles at you. Part of his face is in the water, the image distorted.
"You'll do great," he replies. "You're so smart."
Steve doesn't say those things to get you to help him like other kids do. Steve means it.
"You'll do great too," you say. "You're funny and nice and my best friend. People will like you."
"You think?"
You nod. Steve turns his head and closes his eyes again.
"We'll stay friends, right?" he asks.
The floaty squeaks as you move to sit up. You paddle to Steve so you can look at his face.
"Why wouldn't we?"
"I dunno." His eyes are still closed. "You might make super smart friends. And I'll just be a dumbass holding you back."
You shove Steve's shoulder lightly.
"You are not dumb, Steve."
One muggy June night had had Steve admit he wasn't thirteen, like you and all the kids in your class, but fourteen. He had been held back in third grade after his parents moved from Illinois. It's why my brain's mush, he'd said. I was born dumb.
He had made you swear not to tell anyone.
"You're not dumb," you say again. "Say it, Steve. Say you're not dumb."
His frown deepens, but he still won't look at you.
"Tommy says I am."
"Tommy Hagan is a shithead," you shoot back with so much venom, Steve's eyes fly open. "It's not true, whatever he tells you."
You hate that they've been hanging out more this summer. You can't tell Steve that, because it's not like you own him. He can be friends with whoever he wants. But you can't help that your skin crawls when Tommy and his stupid girlfriend, Carol, drops by and pulls Steve away from you.
“Promise?” he asks.
“Yes, Steve. I promise.”
“‘Kay.” Steve smiles a little. “Thanks.”
You nod and lay back on the floaty.
“Wanna get ice cream after this?” he asks.
“Just us?”
“Just us.”
Now. (January, 1987)
You slam the phone back onto the receiver. A girl playing Pac-Man carefully glances at you.
Whoops. Right. You're still at work.
You smile and give a thumbs-up. She turns around. You return to your wallowing.
You’ve called three different video rentals. Jewel Films, which is about to go out of business; More Movies, whose attendant hung up on you before you could say Molly Ringwald; and finally, Blockbuster, which is thirty minutes outside of Hawkins. None of them have a copy of Pretty in Pink.
And okay. You could just watch another movie. You don't need that specific one. But this year has been shit. You'd thought after starting college, you'd finally break out of the Hawkins forcefield that had limited your social life. You'd thought you'd make friends and not be so terribly lonely. Life is supposed to get better after high school, isn’t it?
Obviously, whoever said that is a big, fat liar.
“Dude!” you hear a familiar voice exclaim. “Stop hogging the game!”
Tawny curls peek from under a green and yellow hat. The hat hovers over an older boy who’s glued to the Tempest booth. You go to them. Dustin Henderson lights up when he sees you. You can read his hat now; it says Camp Know Where ‘85.
“Hey, Y/N!” he greets brightly. “This guy has been here for a half hour. I left to get nachos and when I came back, he was still here.”
“I’m this close to beating my score!” the kid insists.
“Come on, guy," you say, one arm on the machine. "You gotta give other people a turn."
The kid, evidently demon incarnate, sneers at you.
“Who’s gonna make me? You?”
You lean against the side of the game, considering.
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” he says.
You snort.
“Sixteen? And you’re still on Tempest?”
He glances at you.
“So?”
“Everybody your age is playing Rampage, that’s all.”
You wink at Dustin. He beams.
“And, uh, I saw a couple girls hanging around Rampage,” you add.
The kid turns to you. You tilt your head innocently.
“Seriously?” he asks.
“Seriously. People always flock to the new games.”
Which is true. The girls part is not, but he doesn’t need to know that. With that attitude, he won't be getting many phone numbers anyway.
You drum your fingers on the game like you have all the time in the world. And sure enough, the kid takes his quarters and heads towards Rampage. Dustin jumps in delight.
“You’re awesome, Y/N!"
You grin. “I try. Where are the others?”
Dustin sours.
“They ditched me. To hang out with their girlfriends! Can you believe that shit?”
“No way!"
He shakes his head.
“I know, right? My friend told me that that’s what happens in high school. People change, y’know? And he’d know, I guess. He’s old like you.”
You scoff. “You make me sound like some kind of ancient. I’m not that old, Henderson.”
“It’s okay, Y/N.” He pats your arm. “In many cultures, the elderly are wise. Now in my experience, this hasn’t been the case. But I think you’re wise.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Dustin smiles like the little shit he is and puts his change in the slot.
“Well, contrary to what this other friend says, I’m sure it’ll pass,” you say. “You guys will hang out again."
You swallow your acidic truth. Dustin's a good kid, and so are his friends. You don't want him to turn cynical like you have. He's too young.
Dustin shrugs, starting the game.
“I guess so. I got a copy of The Lost Boys for us to watch on Friday. They said they’ll be there.”
“Whoa, seriously? That one just came out, how’d you get a copy?”
“My friend,” he says. “The one I mentioned. He works at Family Video and reserves stuff for me.”
“Huh. I thought Family Video was closed."
You'd applied to work there last year and never got a call back. You'd gone by once and it had looked abandoned. Hence why you now work at the arcade across town.
"It almost did, but Keith took over so now it's barely scraping by."
"Ah. Sweet deal on the movies."
“Yeah,” Dustin agrees, eyes crinkling. “My friend's pretty cool. You'd like him."
"Would I now?"
"Absolutely," he gushes. "He's a total badass too. He won his first fight last year. He used to be a jock but he's recovered."
"Wow. Impressive."
"Mmhm. I could ask him to hold stuff for you too, if you wanted.”
“You would?”
The game makes a sad game over noise. Dustin sighs and takes a gulp of his slushie.
“Yeah, totally,” he says through a mouthful of blue raspberry ice. “Which one do you want?”
“Pretty in Pink? I missed it in theaters."
“Sure. I’ll tell him to hold it tonight and tomorrow you can pick it up.”
“Cool. Thanks, Dustin.”
Dustin gives you an apple-cheeked grin.
“Gotta stay in good graces with the arcade attendant who lets me play Tempest as long as I want.”
"I don't know what you're talking about," you say, walking away. "Don't get slushie on the game."
"'Kay!"
Dustin only gets a little bit of slushie on the game, but he cleans it up with about a million of the cheap snack bar napkins. When he leaves, he tells you to mention his name at Family.
"Who do I ask for?"
"You can talk to either of them," Dustin says. "Doesn't matter. Except Keith. You know Keith, right?"
"Unfortunately.” Keith used to terrorize the arcade before he blessedly moved on. “He works there?"
"Barely." Dustin scoffs. "He's almost never there, so don't worry. And feel free to ask for more movies. They owe me one."
Your sole interactions are with professors and a gaggle of high school freshmen. But now you get to watch any movie you want. Maybe this year won't totally suck.
The bell rings pleasantly as you step inside. There's a few people on line, so you take your time walking in. There's a movie display with about thirty copies of RoboCop. A cardboard cutout of RoboCop stares back behind his red helmet.
"Can I help who's next?"
You go to the counter. A girl about your age with a choppy haircut smiles at you but it's sort of strained. She has a pin on her green work vest that says Ask me!
"Please don't ask for Adventures in Babysitting," she says.
"Oh. No, I'm, uh, Dustin's friend?"
You can't believe you're name-dropping a high schooler.
She nods in realization.
"Oh, yeah. God, I keep telling that dweeb not to promise holds."
You wince.
"Sorry. If it's going to get you in trouble…"
Her brows raise. She smiles a bit.
"No, it's okay. Usually my coworker deals with it but, well. He's taking an extra long break today. So, what movie was it?"
"Pretty in Pink," you say.
"Classic," she replies. "John Hughes fan?"
"Somewhat. I didn't get to see it in theaters. I like Molly Ringwald."
She grins.
"Me too. She's pretty."
"Super pretty," you agree.
The girl considers you, then sticks out her hand.
"I'm Robin," she says. "Nice to meet you."
You take her hand. "Y/N.”
"Did you go to Hawkins High?"
"I did. Graduated last year."
"Oh, cool. Are you in college?"
You nod.
"Hawkins State. Twenty minutes from here."
"Sweet! I'm taking a gap year, but afterwards, I’m gonna apply there. It's cheap. College is college, right?"
"College is college," you agree. "But I wish I'd gone away for school."
You don't know why you're telling her this. You've known Robin for all of two minutes. But she seems friendly. And her sense of style is cool. She wears a blue blazer and tie underneath her vest.
"How come?" she asks.
"Everybody from Hawkins is there," you say. "And I… I just want a new start."
Robin smiles sympathetically.
"They're jerks," she says.
You huff. "Yeah."
You'd turned yourself into a social recluse a million years ago. It's your own damn fault you can't befriend anybody in this town. At least, not anymore.
Robin types into the computer, then smacks the monitor. She groans.
"Ugh. Gimme a second," she says. "Stupid technology."
"No problem," you say, smiling. You like her. Maybe you can integrate Family Video into your regular routine, become friends. You can see Robin becoming a good friend. One you wouldn't grow apart from.
She disappears into the back room. You browse the old releases and stop at Die Hard. This one you saw in theaters. John McClane is a badass.
You think of Dustin, and his supposedly badass new friend. It's too bad you didn't meet today. Dustin has a good sense about people. If he says so, it's possible you and this friend really would get on.
The bell rings again. You're slow to look up. The entrance is empty when you do. You keep reading about John McClane's adventures.
"Have you been waiting long?"
You turn at the new voice. The video slips out of your hand and clatters onto the counter.
Steve’s hair has grown since you last saw it. He looks different too, though he has yet to break out of his signature church boy polos. There's a smattering of stubble on his jaw. His arms are lean with muscle. He wears a matching work vest like Robin's, name tag printed Steve in blocky font.
He looks at where you've dropped Die Hard and smiles.
"This is a good one," he says. "John McClane is a total badass."
You blink.
"Did you want to rent that one?" he continues, meeting your eye.
"No," you manage.
"Okay, no problem. Just browsing?"
He doesn't remember you.
You stare and stare. Steve leans in, concerned. He's changed, but he hasn't. He's still handsome with his swoopy hair and big, dark eyes, but the Steve you knew wouldn't have been caught dead working at a video store.
And he doesn't remember you.
"Are you okay?" he asks, sounding genuine.
You take a step back from the counter. The blood roars in your ears. Robin comes back in, Pretty in Pink in hand. She looks at you, then at Steve.
"Got it!" she tells you. "Computer should work now."
"I have to go," you say.
You don't look at Steve again, instead focusing on Robin.
Her brows rise.
"Oh. Is everything—"
"I forgot my wallet," you blurt. "I can't pay for the movie. Sorry."
"That's okay, we can just—"
You run. The bell chimes over her words. You keep running until you get to the bus stop, three blocks away.
Only there do you stop to catch your breath.
And then you cry.
February 1982
"What do you think about Marie?"
You look up from your textbook. Steve is doodling in the margins of his notes. You gently prod his arm. He returns to reading but his leg starts to bounce under the table.
"Marie Iverson?" you ask.
"Yeah."
Steve glances at you. He pushes his hair back. It had taken him freshman year to get his bearings with all the gels and creams, but now, his hair is a point of pride, always perfectly coiffed. Seniors call him "The Hair" and high-five him in the hallway. You hate it.
"I don't know. I don't know her that well."
"She's cute."
"I guess so," you say.
It's harder to get Steve to focus on homework these days. Last year, he happily made flashcards with you and even bought fancy gel pens to share for your notes. Now, he prefers to talk about girls or—
"I was thinking of asking her out."
The tip of your pencil breaks. You really ought to start using pens, but you don't like being unable to erase.
"Shit, here. Take mine."
Steve offers his still perfectly sharpened pencil. You stare at it.
"Y/N?"
"Yeah." You take the pencil. "Thanks."
"Sure. So what do you think?"
"I don't know, Steve. I thought you talked about this stuff with Tommy."
"I would, it's just…" Steve shifts uncomfortably. "He can be rude about it sometimes. He doesn't even get why we're friends, y'know? Doesn't understand why I don't just date you."
Tommy is a moron, but you've said that since last year, and Steve's never listened before.
"Some people don't get it," you say mildly, because you have an upcoming French test and there's no use in getting upset over Tommy Hagan right now.
"But you do. And you know about this stuff better than me. Girls and all."
"Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean I know what girls are best for you to date, Steve. It's weird to talk about."
Steve deflates.
"Oh. Yeah, I guess so. Sorry."
You sigh and rub your temple.
"I thought you knew all about that," you say, extending an olive branch. "Asking girls out and stuff."
"Well, I mean, I've kissed girls but I've never… you're, like, the only girl I really know."
Something like pride swells in your chest. Selfishly, you want to keep Steve. You don't want to help him if it means losing him. Oh, you're so greedy, aren't you? You watch Steve run off with Tommy and Carol and nameless seniors and seethe, because Steve was yours first. Steve is yours.
"Y/N?"
"Yeah." You give him back his pencil and fish for another one in your bag. "Did you ever think about writing how you feel?"
"Writing?"
"Yeah, like a poem or a letter."
"I'm terrible at writing," Steve laments. "The letters get all jumbled and I never spell a damn thing right."
He'd told his mom once how letters melt into each other, how b's become d's. She'd taken him to get his eyes checked, and when the doctor said Steve was fine, Deborah Harrington had told her son to stop begging for attention.
"Someone who really likes you won't care about spelling mistakes, Steve," you tell him. "As long as you write from the heart. Don't do that cheesy shit and quote Romeo and Juliet. They're young, impulsive, and they die at the end, and that's not romantic."
Steve laughs, nose scrunched.
"What!" you demand. "What's so funny?"
"Nothing, 's just—of course you'd have something to say about quoting Shakespeare."
"It's overdone," you say, crinkling your nose. "And girls would much rather read your own words."
"So you think I should write Marie a letter?"
"If you really like her," you say. "Only write letters for girls you really like. Otherwise they lose their meaning."
Steve frowns. "I don't know if I should write her a letter, then."
Don't, you want to say. Don't write any of them letters.
You shuffle your papers into a stack.
"Can we study now?" you ask.
"Oh, sure, yes. Sorry."
"You don't have to keep apologizing, Steve."
He shifts closer to you. His leg has stopped bouncing.
"Lemme take you out," he says.
You nearly swallow your tongue.
"Wh–what?"
"For ice cream," Steve clarifies. "Like we used to. Dairy Queen."
"Oh. Okay, sure. But after we study."
Steve beams. "I'll drive you."
Steve's dad had bought him the BMW as a birthday present this year—not that Richard Harrington actually knows when his own son's birthday is, considering the gift was three months early. Still, it's another point of pride for Steve and about all anybody talks about whenever his name comes up. Steve is the only person in your grade with a car. Junior girls hit him up for rides. You make yourself scarce when they do.
You don't care. You liked Steve before the car. And the clothes. And the hair.
Your throat feels tight. You want your best friend back.
"Just us?" you check.
You can't tell these days. Steve seems to hang out with everybody but you. You're shocked he'd even asked to study together.
"Oh, sure," Steve says. "I just have to drop off Tommy and Carol first, okay?"
You check your watch and close your book.
"I have class," you lie. "I'll see you later."
Steve catches your wrist. He looks at you and you're struck by how sweet his face is. It's not like you didn't understand why girls want him but it's Steve. Your Steve, who still sleeps with a nightlight and who framed a picture of a sports car he cut out from a magazine because he'd thought it would make him cooler (it didn't. You still tease him about it.)
"Please," he says. "For helping me."
Your eyes slit. "I didn't help you to get stuff, Steve. I helped you because you're my friend."
Steve blinks like he's forgotten what it's like to be friends with someone just for the sake of being friends.
"You're right," he agrees. "You're not like that. I'll tell Tommy and Carol to find another ride. It'll be just us. I promise."
You perk up at that. "Really?"
"Really. You can sit in the front with me and we'll play Bruce Springsteen, like we used to. Please?"
"Okay, Steve." You ache. You’ve never been very good at telling him no. "I'll meet you in the parking lot."
And maybe… maybe your best friend is still in there after all.
Now
You ask your shift manager if you can work at the snack bar today. It's in the back and you won't have to deal with any game hogs.
"You didn't put enough syrup in my slushie."
You might have overshot the perks, though.
Slushie Girl's hair is bleach blonde and hairsprayed to God. You want to tell her that all that hairspray doesn't keep friends. Or brain synapses.
"I don't make the slushie," you say for the third time. "That's how it comes out of the machine."
She shoots you a mean look.
"I'm complaining to the manager."
You paste on a smile.
"You do that. Have a nice day."
She finally walks away, probably on the hunt for your manager, who's definitely smoking a joint outside to avoid this exact situation.
Dustin comes around the corner and this time, he's with the rest of his party. You smile.
"Hey, Y/N!" Dustin greets.
Lucas waves at you. Max and Mike are arguing and therefore are in their own world. And there's their newest addition, El, whose story you're still not clear on, as well as Will, quiet as always.
You lean your elbows on the countertop.
"What'll it be, gang?"
"Six nachos and six slushies, please. One blue raspberry, three cherry, and two Coke."
You fill up the slushies first. Dustin dances on his toes.
"So did you pick up the movie?" he asks.
"Oh." You try to smile. "I went there but I couldn't. I forgot my money. Pretty dumb of me."
Dustin accepts this with no argument.
"Well, you can go back. They'll hold it for a few days."
You're never setting foot in there again, but you don't tell Dustin that.
He takes his slushie and immediately starts drinking.
"Slow down, dude. You'll get a brain freeze," you say.
"You sound like Steve," Dustin informs you. "Doesn't Y/N sound like Steve?"
Lucas nods.
"Yup. They're both parents."
You feel queasy. You focus on making the nachos, the cheese pouring out thick and gooey.
"Did you meet Steve?" Dustin asks. "You probably know him from high school, but he's different now."
"Yes," you say quietly. "I knew him."
"I promise he's different. Even Mike likes him, and Mike hated his guts. Right, Mike?"
Mike pauses in his animated discussion with Max and looks at you.
"What?"
"I'm telling Y/N about how Steve is cool now," Dustin explains.
"Oh." Mike shrugs. "He's fine. Much better now that he's not dating my sister."
"He's not?" you ask. "But they were in love. I–I mean, that's what I heard, at least."
"She dumped his ass," El says, and it sounds a little ridiculous in her soft monotone.
Max scoffs, taking her Coke slushie.
"Did you live under a rock? It was a huge thing."
"Now Steve is lame," Mike says with a snort.
"Getting dumped doesn't make somebody lame," you say with an old ferocity you'd thought had disappeared.
"Okay, jeez." Mike holds up his hands. "Steve's alright. He's different, that's for sure."
"He's our paladin," Lucas says. "A protector."
Dustin nods eagerly.
You blink. "He protects you guys?"
Max elbows Lucas. You have no idea what that's about. El steps forward and smiles softly.
"Yes," she says. "He's our babysitter."
"Aren't you guys freshmen? I thought you were too old for babysitters."
"Oh no, Steve doesn't get paid for it or anything," says Mike. "He just does it 'cause he has nothing else to do."
"That's not true!" Dustin argues. Then he shrugs. "Well, it's a little true. But he does like us. He's a good guy. He cares about his friends."
You bite your tongue, not wanting to reply to that.
"That's great, guys. The girl, Robin? She seems pretty cool too."
"That's Steve's best friend," says Dustin. "She's great."
"Oh." You wince. "Best friend?"
Dustin huffs. “Yeah. They don’t date. He won’t say why."
"Platonic with a capital P," Max confirms. “It’s obviously because he’s in love with somebody else.”
“Not Nancy!” Lucas protests.
“There are other girls besides Nancy, Sinclair.”
You busy yourself with serving the last set of nachos. The kids pull out crumpled bills and coins in return. You count the money and stack it directly into the register; you know there won't be any change.
When you turn, they're still there. Dustin has his signature grin on, eyes squinty.
"Yeees," you drag out. "Can I help you?"
"We need a favor," Lucas says. "Please."
"Hmm." You lean over the counter. "What's up?"
"They're showing Prince of Darkness on Friday," Dustin explains. "But it's rated R."
"So just sneak in. Isn't that what you guys did at Starcourt?" you ask.
"We had an inside man then. They're a lot stricter at the new one," Lucas frowns. "They ask for IDs 'cause some mom complained after her kid snuck in to watch Risky Business."
"And why can't your babysitter take you?"
You sneer at the thought. Steve spending his Friday nights herding a bunch of adolescent teens into a movie theater. There's a reason you consider Dustin affectionately delusional.
"He has a stupid date," Dustin groans. "He's a serial dater, Y/N. It's terrible. He gets lucky once and totally ditches us."
Now that sounds like the Steve you knew.
"I see. I don't really like horror stuff."
"You don't have to stay!" Dustin insists. "You can watch whatever you want after we’re in. I'll pay you back for the ticket."
“This would be so much easier if Steve still worked at Scoops,” Mike grumbles.
You blank for a moment, the image of Steve in a sailor’s hat and those ridiculous shorts whiting your brain.
“Um,” you begin. “You know I don’t have a fancy BMW to cart you guys around in, right?”
“It’s cool. We’ll get there,” Max says.
“So?” Dustin bounces on his toes. “Sooo?”
You sigh. It’d been nice of Dustin to get you the movie, even though you’d chickened out and ran. And it’s not like you have anything better to do.
“Okay,” you say. “I’ll get you guys in.”
Dustin pumps his fist. “Thanks, Y/N! You’re my favorite old person.”
You roll your eyes. “Funny. Any funnier, and I might rescind my help, Henderson.”
“Byeeee!”
They all disperse to the arcade. You wonder how on earth Steve got involved with them.
March 1983
“Okay, but if you had to choose.”
“Pass. I would literally rather swallow pennies than kiss Principal Coleman’s bald-ass head, Steve.”
Steve takes a triumphant swig of beer. “So you’re saying you’ve got the hots for Benny the janitor.”
“No!” you insist through giggles. “I don’t. God, you’re gross. Can’t believe I’m being treated like this on your birthday.”
“Exactly! My birthday.”
He rolls onto his side in his deck chair and nearly faceplants on the cement. You reach out, reaction time delayed.
“Steve!” you yell. “Careful.”
“I am, I am,” he mumbles, and rights himself on the chair. “Jus’ wanna see you better.”
“I keep telling you you need glasses.”
“I do not,” he whines. “My vision’s ten outta ten. Could a guy who needs glasses do this?”
He crumples up a Twinkies wrapper and throws it towards the garbage. The wind picks up and sends the wrapped into the pool.
“Shit,” he says.
You belly laugh in delight.
“Wait, wait, redo. Go fish it outta there.”
“Oh, as if. I’m not going in there. I told you you need glasses. Even Mother Nature agrees.”
"She does not. Mother Nature thinks I'm a doll."
You hum and close your eyes. Alcohol always makes you sleepy.
The chair scrapes against the concrete. You hear a crinkle of a chip bag. Those are your only warning before you’re crushed by two hundred pounds of drunk boy.
“Steve!” You wheeze, squirming as his hair tickles your face. “Get off!”
"’M sleepy,” he mumbles.
“Well, don't sleep on me, weirdo.”
“‘S cold.”
“You run, like, a hundred degrees, don’t lie.”
He lifts his head. “So you’re saying I’m hot?”
“I’m saying all that booze cooked your brain,” you reply sweetly.
“I’ve been wounded,” he moans and plops onto your shoulder.
“Ugh.” You resign to your fate and lean back. Steve’s not actually that heavy; even drunk, he has a lot of control over his weight and he’s situated himself so he isn’t crushing anything important. No, you squirm underneath him for a very different reason.
“Steeeeve,” you whine. “You’re gonna squish me into a pancake.”
“Can’t believe no one else came.”
You still. Steve’s face remains buried in your shoulder. His body is beside yours, and he has an arm slung over your belly.
“I didn’t—didn’t want a party,” he continues. “I always throw parties. I thought I’d do somethin’ different. An’ none of them even wished me a happy birthday. ‘Cept you.”
You rest your hand on the back of his hair. It’s wind-blown and messy from the drinks, free of his heady hair gel. You’ve never loved it more.
“Did you tell them your birthday is today?” you ask gently, even though you know he did.
“Yeah,” he says. “Told all of ‘em. Guess they weren’t listening.”
“I listen.”
Steve looks up at you. His eyes are glassy.
“God, I miss you,” he says.
You feel the wall you’ve built this year crumble, just a little.
“I’m right here, Steve.”
“I know but—been a jerk lately. I know I have. You’re my best friend, okay? Nothing’ll change that. I–I love you so much.”
Your breath hitches. Steve barrels on, not noticing.
“And I’ll be better. We’ll hang out more. Not–not here, drunk. But for real. We’ll go to the movies. Y’wanna see a movie?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I wanna see a movie.”
“‘Kay, what movie? Anything you want. We’ll get popcorn and Raisinets.”
“You hate Raisinets,” you choke through a watery laugh.
“I’d eat Raisinets anytime with you.”
You lay there, in the dark, the only sound being the pool filter.
“Let’s watch the new James Bond.”
“Hmm, okay. But you’ll have to say the name eventually.”
Your nose crinkles. “I am not calling it by its name.”
His laugh is warm in your neck.
You don’t tell Steve to get up again. He snuggles into you, leg over yours. You fall asleep like that, curled underneath him.
Now
“Wait.” Max stops. “Shouldn’t we have, like, a game plan?”
“Game plan?” El asks quietly.
“Yeah. Some of us aren’t so great at playing it cool.”
She stares at Lucas.
“I play it cool!” he squawks. “I am so cool!”
“Right.”
“Just let Y/N do the talking,” Will says. “She’s technically the adult so she should act like this is a conscious choice.”
You shrug. “Makes sense to me.”
Dustin beams. “This is gonna be great!”
“Or a total disaster,” Max says.
You go to the counter, the kids trailing behind like ducklings.
“Six tickets for Prince of Darkness, please,” you say. “And uh, one for Dirty Dancing.”
The attendant looks at you, then at the kids.
“Don’t you mean seven tickets for Prince of Darkness?” she asks. “It’s rated R.”
Shit. “Right, yes. Sorry. Seven tickets. And one for Dirty Dancing. We have another friend who’s late.”
“Uh-huh.”
The attendant, whose bored expression you’ve recognized on your own face after long days in the arcade, hands you your tickets without any questioning.
“I think we’re in the clear,” Lucas whispers when you enter the concession area.
You wait for them to buy their snacks. Max persuades Lucas to let her mix M&Ms into their bucket of popcorn. He agrees and shuffles closer so they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder while they share.
“Okay, last stretch,” Mike says, shoveling a frighteningly large handful of sour worms into his mouth. “We just have to get past the ticket guy.”
Said ticket guy is a kid who can’t be much older than you. You think you might’ve gone to school together, but you’ve made it a point to eviscerate everything about high school from your mind.
“Hey,” you say, trying to act cool. Maybe you’re the one Max should’ve been worried about, instead of Lucas. “Uh, here are our tickets.”
He takes the tickets, then looks behind you.
“Prince of Darkness is only for people seventeen and older,” he says.
“I’m an adult, so I’m with them,” you explain. “I’m, like, their guardian?”
“Yeah, uh—” He hands you your tickets. “No can do. There needs to be an adult for each person under seventeen.”
“Come on,” you cajole. “They’re high schoolers. It’s not like they’re gonna be scarred for life watching some zombies, or whatever.”
He shrugs. “Rules are rules.”
“She’s an adult!” Dustin argues.
“Look, if you’re gonna hold up the line, I’m gonna have to—”
“Yo, Gillespie! That you?”
Dustin turns and lights up. The seven of you part for Steve Harrington and his date, a pretty strawberry blonde you think you had biology with.
“Harrington, man, what’s up!”
Ticket Prick gets up to slam Steve into a bear hug. You barely resist an eye roll.
“Shit, I haven’t seen you in a year! Where’ve you been all this time? Hey, did you hear about that shit with Munson?”
Steve flinches. It’s a tiny movement, indiscernible to the trained eye. But it’s there all the same.
“Gillespie, c’mon. Don’t bring the party down with that,” Steve says, all sweet charm.
“Sorry, sorry. Daisy,” he greets the girl attached to Steve’s arm.
“Gil,” she replies with a giggle. “You smell like popcorn butter.”
America’s future taxpayers. Terrifying.
“Are you gonna let us in or not?” Max interrupts, arms folded.
You feel a burst of pride.
Gil shoots her a dirty glare and puffs up, ready to fight a fourteen year old. Steve cuts in smoothly.
“Gillespie, listen. I know her.” He points to you. You bristle. “I can personally vouch that she’s just trying to do right by these kids. They wanted to see Prince of Darkness, y’know? Get away from the parents.”
“It’s a sick film,” Gil agrees. “You seen it?”
No, of course Steve hadn’t seen it. He hates horror.
“Planning on it,” Steve says, the ultimate image of playing it cool. “Look, you remember sneaking into the movies. Fast Times? Ring any bells?”
Max rolls her eyes. You’re inclined to do the same.
Gil laughs dopily, and nudges Steve. “Hell yeah, I do. That was a crazy night, Harrington.”
Steve smiles thinly. “Sure was. So whaddya say? For old times’ sake?”
Gil considers your little troupe. Then he shrugs.
“Why not. Manager’s not here anyway.”
He takes the tickets and tears them to stubs, then gives them back.
“Theater six. On your left. Enjoy.”
The kids stampede into the left theater wing. You hang back with your own ticket.
“Appreciate it, man,” Steve says, all smiles. “Take care, alright?”
“Hey, you too, Harrington! We gotta catch up!”
Steve and Daisy go in. You expect them to walk right past you, and Daisy does, predictably. But Steve stops.
“I’ll catch up, okay?” he tells her. “Find us some good seats?”
She paws at him a little, then goes, sodas in hand. You stiffen as Steve walks and stops three feet away from you.
“Hey,” he says. “Sorry about that. Gil’s an asshole.”
“I know. He yawned during my poetry reading sophomore year. And then you guys went to the movies together.”
Steve shrinks. “Your poems were great.”
You’re suddenly exhausted.
“What do you want, Steve?”
“I just… I wanted to see you. Say hi.”
“Okay.” You cross your arms. “Hi.”
“You forgot your movie,” he says. “The other day.”
“I didn’t want it that much.”
“Dustin said you looked everywhere for it.”
“Well, in the end, it didn’t really matter,” you say. “Not enough to stay.”
“Y/N—”
“I think your date’s waiting for you,” you interrupt. “Better get back to her. Wouldn’t want to taint your reputation.”
Steve makes a noise like he’s been wounded. You turn on your heel before you can think better of it.
“Wait.” He catches your wrist. Steve’s grip is light, like you’re something precious to hold. You wrench your arm away. “Y/N, I want to apologize. I’m sorry.”
“For what?” you ask. “For forgetting me? I didn’t expect you to remember, Steve.”
“I didn’t forget you,” he insists. “I could never forget you. I wasn’t—please, can I just explain?”
“I don’t need your explanations,” you snap. The hurt corrodes your tongue like acid. “I know what happened. We were both there. You left.”
Steve’s eyes are huge and dark. He looks like you just stabbed him in the heart, and that makes you feel worse. You’d thought telling him how much it hurts would put you back together, but all it did was break you more.
So you run. Again.
You slam through a back exit and rip your ticket into a million pieces. The wind is cold and unforgiving. Your eyes sting.
You call out sick for two days in a row. You kind of expect to get fired, but then again, people have been leaving Hawkins and if you’re not here to serve the masses their slushies, who will be?
So, after lying in bed not thinking about movies and strawberry blonde girls and how sick you are of this town, you get up and put on your arcade vest.
Now it is two in the afternoon. You’d heard it was supposed to snow today.
Robin eyes the snack counter like it holds the next plague outbreak. You don't blame her; you make it a point to wash up to your elbows after work.
"Slushie?"
She looks at you like she’d forgotten you were there. "What?"
You point a thumb at the machine. "Are you here for a slushie?"
"Oh. No, sorry. Red dye makes me insane in the brain. Steve actually—"
Robin stops, grimaces. So he's told her. Probably everything, if the kids had been telling the truth.
You're honestly surprised she's here. Unless it’s to, like, swirlie you in the vat of artificial cheese.
"Are you here to drown me in nacho cheese?" you ask.
Robin's eyes go wide as dinner plates. "What? No!"
"Just checking." You lean against the counter. "What can I do for you, Robin?"
Robin suddenly looks like she's never interacted with a human being before. You like her a lot. Steve probably does too.
"I came to drop off your movie." She holds the tape over the counter like it's a pool of lava.
"But I didn't pay for it." You shove your hand in your jean pocket; you only have a couple dollars on you. "I guess I can get you the money tom—"
"It's on the house. For a fellow Molly fan."
Robin wiggles the tape with two fingers. You take it and wait for a catch. There is none.
"Thank you," you say. "You didn't have to do that."
"Actually, it wasn't me," she confesses. "I'm just the mailman."
You prepare to hand it back but Robin shakes her head.
"He's not going to pop out of the slushie machine, okay? He's just trying to make it up to you."
"He doesn't need to make it up to me," you bite, except those aren’t the words you mean. "Why does he even care? We're not in high school anymore."
Robin smiles a sad smile.
"I know," she says. "We’re not. I know he should've known to fix things earlier. He's received a lot of blows to the head, though, so he's still catching up."
The thought turns your stomach. More? More you weren’t there to protect him from?
"He doesn't owe me anything," you say and wave the tape again. "You can take it back and leave it for somebody else."
"Y/N, I know we don't know each other, like, at all. But it's important to me you know that Steve cares about you, because you’re important to him. And you knew him way before I did, and you probably know a lot of stuff I don't, and that's good because he has a friend like me, but he should also have a friend like you too, Y/N."
"I don't want to be his friend," you mumble.
"Yeah," Robin says. "I figured. But I don't think that's a confession he should hear secondhand."
You look at her, stunned. She's such a clever girl. You hope she treats Steve well.
"If you two are—"
"We're not," she says, like this is a regular explanation she goes through. "Steve and I are friends. Steve has crashed and burned with every single date since his fall from regency. Steve is the best person I've ever met."
"Yeah, I’ve heard. You and Dustin are his biggest fans."
Robin snorts. "Trust me, I'm not proud of it."
You shake your head. Your eyes feel hot.
"This town is so shit," you say.
"Yeah," Robin agrees. "It really fucking is. But I'm not asking you to give this town a second chance. Just him."
"Why are you trying so much?" you ask. "You don't even know me."
Robin shrugs. "No, but you're the one person Steve used to be friends with who's not an asshole, and I think us non-assholes need to band together."
"I can sometimes be an asshole."
"Me too. So are those little dweebs. How about calling ourselves the Semi-Assholes Club?"
You laugh. "We'll get jackets."
"With partially drawn butts on the backs," Robin says with a giggle.
You look at the tape in your hand.
"Does Steve like John Hughes?"
"He does. He's a total sap for those. He thinks he's in his own coming-of-age movie because he's delusional."
He sounds perfect. He sounds like the friend you loved.
"I did want to watch this one," you say.
"It won't hurt you to," Robin promises.
You suppose not.
December 1984
You don't believe the whispers. All week, the rumor mill spins tales of Billy Hargrove finally pushing the King off his throne. There's no way he'll show his face, a girl at the adjacent lunch table astutes. I sure as fuck wouldn't.
Steve Harrington is a loser. Steve Harrington got dumped for Jonathan Byers. Steve Harrington may as well be dead, and on and on.
Every line gets you angrier. A boy who sits behind you in chemistry taps his pencil like he always does. Tap, tap, tap.
Halfway through class, you snap at him to quit it. He does, but not without a tinge of embarrassment. You’re so angry this year. Angry at your loneliness, angry at the unfairness of said loneliness. You might’ve done this to yourself, and that fact only gets you angrier.
You see Nancy Wheeler in the hallways with Jonathan Byers, and the confirmation of that rumor should make you happy. It doesn't.
A week later, most of the excitement has died down. Everybody’s moved onto the next big thing, which is to deduce who fucked in Vice Principal White's office. One look at V.P. White, and it had been decided that it can't have been White himself.
You can't care less. Once upon a time you might’ve laughed about it with a friend, but you don't have any more of those, and high school is bullshit with or without them. So.
Steve walks in twenty five minutes into the period. Mrs. Kaplan gives him a downright beastly glare and demands to know where he had been.
"I'm sorry," is all he says. "If you give me detention, I understand."
There are a few snickers that rub at an old hurt, one that had flared up whenever somebody dared to make fun of your best friend. It doesn't bother me, he'd said, and you'd known it was a lie.
It bothers me, you’d replied, and Steve had hugged you tight.
Mrs. Kaplan seems more stunned Steve hadn't swaggered past her like a peacock escaped from the zoo and lets him go sit down without a fight. He takes the only empty desk, two rows across from you. You stare. You can't not.
Half of his face looks like it was mashed in a garbage disposal. It's purple and a sickly yellow. His eye and lip are still swollen. You stare and stare. You feel queasy.
Billy had done that. You're so angry. You think you might never get past this grief, this loss of a once permanent fixture in your life.
No one wished Steve a happy birthday this year, you realize out of nowhere.
You stare and stare and stare until Steve looks right back. You're blindsided by thick guilt, like blinking through a milkshake. And then the familiar curl of anger returns because why the fuck should you feel guilty? You aren't the one who fucked everything up, who mascerated this good thing. Steve did this to himself. Steve deserves to walk the halls alone. It's Steve's fault.
But when you look at him, at his raw wounds, at his bruised knuckles, you know that he already believes he deserves every punch Billy Hargrove gave him.
You hate Steve Harrington. But you really wish you'd been there to drive him to the hospital.
Now (And Forever)
The tape sits buried in your drawer for three days. You don’t know what Family Video’s return policy is, but you hope you’re not racking up late fees. You doubt name dropping Dustin will work again.
It’s Saturday when you decide to watch Pretty in Pink. You remove the video from its sleeve. An envelope falls out.
The front has your name printed in squished, loopy script. You remember January at Steve’s house, a stack of thank-you cards courtesy of his mother awaiting the Harringtons’ sign-off. Steve’s hand would cramp and you’d take over while he made grilled cheese for the both of you. Love, The Harringtons, and there was no love in that house, but you think maybe Steve loved enough to make up for it.
Hi, the letter begins. I hope you’re good. Robin told me you’re going to Hawkins State.
That’s fucking amazing. I’m so proud of you. Are you still writing poetry? I liked that one you wrote about the birds who shared a branch and kept each other warm. I still have it in my notebook in my room.
I’m sorry for the other night. I’m sorry for every night since freshman year, honestly. I’m kind of a dumbass, but you know that, so it doesn’t really excuse anything. I think I’ve actually lost brain cells since we drifted apart.
You crumple the corner, suddenly hot with anger. Who keeps telling him he’s dumb? You want names.
I didn’t forget you, you know. I got scared and I thought maybe I could ease into it, but then you recognized me and… well. I don’t blame you for running.
Anyway. I’m talking too much about myself, when there’s nothing to say. I’m really sorry about what I did, or, actually, what I didn’t do. Somebody told me I was living on autopilot, and that it wasn’t really living at all. I think it was you.
I’m not living on autopilot anymore. I woke up. And I realized that you’re the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me. I love Robin and the kids and this little family that has apparently invayd invaded your life too. Sorry about that. They never leave and they eat all your food. Good luck.
But I miss you. I always have.
Shit happened these last few years that I’ll tell you about one day, if you want. I’d rather not, though, because you’ve always been the paranoiac (like that one? Robin said it’s an SAT word) of the two of us and I feel like this would just make you even more of one. But I will tell you, if you want to hear it. I want to tell you everything. I want you to tell me everything too. Like we used to.
I want you to tell me how college is going. Who the annoying jerks in your classes are so I can go beat them up (kidding). I want you to stop by to rent movies so I can lend them for free and you’ll yell at me about taking advantage of fre friendships.
Fuck, I miss you. It’s always been there, bubbling below the surface. I never stopped missing you. I never stopped loving you. I’m sorry I didn’t write this sooner. I know you said writing is how we express things we can’t say. You were right. You always are. Can’t believe I forgot that.
It’s okay if you don’t want to be friends. I mean, it hurts, but I respect it. I understand. Most days, I can’t believe people can bear to be around me. But then I hear your voice in my head, telling me that most people are shitheads and that I’m golden and. Well, I don’t know if I believe that, but you were right that most of the people I surrounded myself with were shitheads. Except you, of course. And then I went ahead and fucked that up.
I’ve been working on finding the non-shitheads of the world. I think I’m doing pretty well. And I wrote this because I realized that while I will probably end up buried in this fucking town, you’re going to do something incredible. And nothing incredible ever happens in Hawkins, so I figure you’ll be far away when you do it.
I didn’t want to miss this chance to write things I never said. So here they are. And you can do whatever you want with them. You’ve always been the best of the two of us. I trust you.
You should watch Dirty Dancing. You’ll like it. I did. I’ll see it again if you want. I’ll watch anything with you.
Did you know there’s another Bond movie coming out in the summer? We could watch that one together too. If you wanted more time to decide.
Sincer
Lo
Your friend,
Steve
You don’t bother ejecting the tape. You run all the way to the bus stop, Steve’s letter in hand.
You have to see him. No other thoughts register except that one. You have to know if Steve wrote these words because he can’t say them or because you won’t listen.
It isn’t too late when you get to Loch Nora. The neighborhood is dead, which is weird. Steve’s house looks frozen in time: his parents’ car isn’t in the driveway. You wonder if they’ve ever come back since you’ve been gone. You wouldn't be surprised if the answer is no.
There’s a tarp over the pool. The gate is locked with a chain. You can’t sneak in through the fence like you used to. Not that you would. You don’t think strangers can sneak through pool gates.
You knock on the door three times. And wait.
Steve’s car is in the driveway, a duller burgundy than when he first got it. There are a few scratches in the paint. No longer a prized possession. Maybe well-loved instead.
The door swings open.
Steve says your name like a prayer. You swallow and steel your spine.
“I got your letter,” you say.
“Oh.” He rubs the back of his neck. His hair is damp like he’s just showered. It curls around his ears. Waves of want hit you.
“I don’t want to be friends,” you continue before he can speak. “I don’t—I can’t do that again.”
Steve’s mouth draws into the saddest frown you’ve ever seen.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Thank you for telling me.”
“No.” You shake your head. “No, that’s not—I don’t mean it like that.”
His brows knit. “What?”
“I…” You pull out the letter and wave it. “Did you mean it? Do you love me?”
“Yes,” Steve whispers. It’s like a shout in the quiet street. “I meant it.”
“Like a friend?”
“If that’s what you want.”
“Will you love me like a friend forever?” you ask.
“Always.”
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“I love you as something more,” you blurt, watery. “I have for a long time.”
You hear the door shut. This is it: your heart on the line, all for nothing—
“Then I’ll love you as something more back,” Steve says. “I’ll love you any way you want me to.”
And he holds you the way you’d held him so many times. You inhale and wrap your arms around his neck. You’ve got an iron grip around the letter. Tears slip down your cheeks.
“I missed you,” you confess.
Steve nods against your shoulder.
“Yeah,” he says, and it sounds a little wet. “I missed you too.”
“You were wrong,” you say into his neck.
“Hmm?”
You pull back to look at Steve.
“Incredible things do happen in Hawkins.”
“Oh, yeah?” Steve smiles, cheeks blotchy. “Like what?”
“We found each other again.”
#i criiiiiiied but it was a good cry#and my chest ached but it was a sweet ache#i love this whole thing so much#such good writing#so so good#ugh#sweet angst#very satisfying and felt complete and i loved the pacing#steve harrington x reader#stranger things
6K notes
·
View notes
Note
I'm having extremely horrid self-image these days so I was just wondering if you could write Aaron comforting reader about it?
You used to do your makeup on the bedroom floor in Aaron's floor length mirror. He found it endearing apparently, he'd always laugh quietly and step around you, promising that one day he was going to get you a vanity.
And then he tells you he loves you and asks you to move in, and then there's a vanity waiting for you when you do. Aaron stops laughing in the morning and starts leaning down to kiss your cheek. "That's better, hm?"
It feels like playing dress up. You appreciate him, you love him, but you sit there with your makeup bag and your hair oils and feel awful. Deep down, pervasively, achingly awful. You're not the type of girl who gets the nice house and a nice boyfriend, who sits at her vanity primping and preening. No matter what you do, you'll always look like this.
"What are you doing?" he asks quietly.
He's laying in bed behind you, sleep heavy on his tongue. You wipe a cotton pad wet with toner over your cheeks, avoiding his gaze in the mirror as you answer, "Just getting ready."
"For what?"
"Just the day."
"You don't sound very happy, honey." He sits up, the front most strands of his hair falling onto his forehead, due for a trim. When he says 'honey', his brows lift from their furrow imploringly. It's madness that he can wake and throw himself straight into profiling mode. "What's wrong?"
"It's nothing."
"I don't think so. Come back to bed." We'll talk about it goes unsaid. Aaron's voice can colour a thousand shades but your favourite is this gentle lulling, his hand stretched out over the sheets to beckon you in.
You put your used cotton pads aside and stand with a weird feeling in your throat like you swallowed something without chewing properly. Aaron watches you. He's good at pretending he isn't, but you know he is, his dark eyes tracing the shine of toner on your tacky cheek.
"You smell nice," he says, kissing under your jaw, forcing your face up. "And you're so soft."
"Trying to butter me up before you ask me what's wrong."
"But I'm not lying… What is wrong?"
You meet his eyes, asking for permission of a sort that you don't need to ask for. He lifts his head in answer and opens his arms, pulling your face into the crook of his neck and your chest against his, murmuring, "Honey, honey," over your head. "What's wrong?"
It comes as little surprise to him when you explain, your voice hushed with shame. I just feel so… disgusting. You don't say it with distinction but he gathers it anyhow, your lack of self esteem, not in the sense of putting yourself forward, but in that you don't like the way you look, the way people see you.
"I can't control the way you see me, so you see me at my worst."
"You don't have a worst." He lays back against the headboard and drags you down with him. "You're always beautiful."
You shake your head.
You and Aaron linger in silence for a while, the only sound his fingers tightening against the fabric of your t-shirt on your waist. "Do you know why I wanted you to have your vanity?"
"Well, you kept tripping over me in the mornings."
"I did… I'd be watching you get ready and I'd find myself distracted," he says, low and quiet, as though confessing. "So yes, I'd trip over you. I wouldn't watch where I was going but I'd want go be closer, and I'd accidentally hit your arm and you'd look up. First in the mirror, and then over your shoulder. My heart–" He clears his throat. "Your vanity was an act of self preservation."
"Because you're so old?"
"Careful," he says lightly, giving your waist a squeeze. "Because now I get to watch you from right here." He looks down at the vanity and you follow his gaze, seeing more of him than you, wrapped up in his arms. You look peaceful together. "Every morning."
You close your eyes, rubbing your cheek into his shoulder. "And that's fun for you."
"It's the best part of my day."
822 notes
·
View notes
Note
omg i loved the loopy wisdom teeth one w peter 😭😭 can i get that with hotch, and reader, who's usually more reserved starts flirting with him and stuff while she's loopy
ty!! and ty for ur request ♡ fem, 1.2k
"Most people have their wisdom teeth out in their teens," Aaron had said before you went in, a Spencer Reid tidbit if there ever were one.
"I'm a special case," you'd said, accepting his kiss on the cheek but denying his half hug. "See you in a bit."
People often lament that Aaron's ended up with a woman so much like himself. You must make each other miserable, one ill-advised chancellor had said, to your amusement.
We're desperately unhappy, you'd said back.
The opposite is true. You and Aaron, or Aaron alone, at the very least, is as happy as he's ever been. Work is hard but manageable, Jack is well-tempered, growing smarter and kinder each day, and you're his sweetheart. You're reserved, a little solemn, but you understand him better than anyone ever has. It's a relief like no other to be known so well.
And so he has zero qualms looking after you for the rest of your lives. He waits patiently for you to come out of surgery, arms behind his head in the empty waiting room. He's worried about you. This isn't a painless procedure.
Footsteps echo down the hallway, but you announce yourself anyways in the doorway. "Handsome!" you say, a lisp to your happy sing-song, "I'm back."
Aaron doesn't know what to say. He giggles like a kid at your sudden demeanour and sits up properly. "Honey."
You wobble with the nurse at your back, prompting him onto his feet to take over. "You should remove the gauze in about half an hour when the bleeding has completely stopped. Clean daily with saline, there are instructions in the bag," the nurse says, offering Aaron a white prescription bag. "Okay?"
"That's perfect. Thank you so much," he says, taking your hand.
"You're perfect," you say, looking up at Aaron with stars in your eyes.
The nurse laughs softly as she leaves. Aaron doesn't bother hiding his amusement, grinning at you as he puts his hand between your shoulders to guide you to the front of the building.
It's busier here. Reception is hectic. Aaron puts his arm more firmly around you to stop people from bumping into you and you again look at him with your starry eyed gaze. "You're very tall," you say.
"I am," he says. "Though you joke occasionally that I'm shrinking."
"The only thing getting smaller is your waist," you say, poking at his abdomen, "my champion."
You're referring to his recent third triathlon success. He's no record setter, but it keeps him active and happy in the summer months, and he can't pretend you don't appreciate the additional definition of his muscle during this time. You like him every month of the year, of course, but with his trim waist comes a certain amount of energy you also appreciate.
"Completely inappropriate behaviour," he says lightly, waving a short goodbye to the receptionists as he holds open the door for you to pass by. "Next you'll be enacting PDA."
"You'd like that, huh?"
Hard to take any notice of you with gauze fluffing your words, and again, he laughs at you. "I'd love that."
"Well, wait, I'll do it right here–"
Aaron catches your hands mildly. "In the car first. Kiss after." Your downtrodden expression requires urgent care. "What, that's not okay? You're upset?"
"No," you lie obviously, glaring down at your feet as you wobble forward.
"Maybe we can wait until later, then."
"What?" You gawp. "You just said in the car."
"I'm teasing you," he says, taking your elbow. "We've been known to do that with one another on occasion. You know I'd happily kiss you anywhere you wanted to be kissed, honey, now watch your step on this curb. Watch your step. Good job."
You're extremely pleased by his praise, leaning into his arm with your head tipped back. "You're so handsome. Can you kiss me now?" You soften your eyes.
Alright, you have a little bit of bloody dribble on your bottom lip, and yes, there's this dazed look about you like you've had a mean shock, but you never look at him like this day to day. Perhaps in your more intimate moments, your arms around him when the lights are low, or early, early in the morning when you haven't yet remembered your more timid temperament. But it's so rare. It catches him off guard, how pretty and wanting you look.
Aaron leans down for a careful kiss, the barest of pressure.
"And a good kisser," you murmur, turning into his chest for a hug. "I love you, I want you to carry me to the car."
"Sweetheart, I don't think I can," he says. He's mostly kidding in the depth of his apology, but there are real threads of remorse in his voice, hot as a flame. "Come on. We'll go home, okay?"
"But you always do everything for me. Everything I ask for." You talk into his chest, likely leaving pink spit on the grey of his quarter zip. He couldn't care less, his arm around you, looking down with equal measures of fondness and surprise. "I had to stop saying I liked things because you kept buying me stuff. I love stuff."
"Then why did you stop?" he asks quietly.
"'Cos I know I don't deserve it. Don't deserve you, Aaron, you're the best man I've ever met. Can't believe it."
He savours your mumbling, and begins to walk forward slowly, encouraging you out of his chest as he formulates an answer for your confession with the same gravity. "You can't believe it?"
"You're a tall glass of water."
He actually sighs aloud. My girl, he thinks, rubbing your lax shoulder. "Alright. What if I thought the same of you? What then?"
You giggle infectiously, a stickying sound like you know he's trying to trip you up. "Nice," you say. "We should always be like this."
When he brings it up later, the extreme effects of your anaesthesia dissipated and your pain revamped, you can't think of anything worse. "I'm mortified," you whisper, your ice pack chilling the top of his arm where you've wedged it, your hand tucked between his thighs in an attempt to stay warm.
"I quite liked it."
"You would. You used to flirt with me so aggressively–"
"Aggressively," he repeats, grinning.
"–you're lucky I survived it." You sniffle, rubbing your nose into his sleeve. "Was I as intimidating as you are?"
He presses his lips to the top of your head, not kissing, just there. "No," he says into your skin, "you weren't intimidating at all. Just lovely. It made my day."
"I'll have to have my teeth taken out more often."
He snorts. "If you'd rather have more teeth pulled than flirt with me unaided, things are worse than I thought."
"Don't be like that..." Much quieter, "Will you rub my back again, please?"
Just like that, he's reminded of how much he likes your regular reserved attitude. "Sure, honey. Lean forward."
#this was so sweet and so cute and im melting#i love both dynamics with silly reader and aaron and resserved reader with aaron right after i just love ur work#aaron hotchner x reader#criminal minds
1K notes
·
View notes
Note
Jake checks to make sure your seatbelt is secure by gently tugging on the strap, acquiescing when it stays firmly in its latch.
the gasp i gusped when i read that ??? could you perhaps use that as a prompt for hotch please 😭🩶 like you’re ALWAYS his passenger princess so whenever you’re riding together he always checks your seatbelt 🥺🤭
Aaron is not one to let anything get in the way of his work. He's also not one to drive without checking your seatbelt latch, though, so when he floors it, going from zero to sixty in the van after a wayward unsub, one of his hands comes off of the wheel to shoot for your waist, feeling blindly, but expertly, for your seatbelt.
"Hotch, drive!" Derek urges from the backseat, where he knows he sits when Hotch is driving. Aaron never makes you take the backseat, so you'd each filed into your places obediently upon the news that the unsub was near.
"I am driving, Morgan," Aaron snaps, voice fraught with tension as he tears down the street, sirens blaring. His fingers feel your latch, wrist jerking as he yanks on it. He only withdraws when he's sure it's locked in place, and you grip the door for stability as he turns left hard.
"He's down on 13th," You read a message from Reid, who often occupies the passengers' seat in his own SUV during chases, "We're on 7th, so keep going the way you're going now."
You barely make it two more blocks before the unsub's car screeches to a stop in the middle of an intersection you're blowing through. Evidently, he'd changed courses, and charging was the only option in his adrenaline-mottled brain. Aaron manages to slam on the breaks enough to stop most of your forward momentum, and he throws that same large hand out to cover your chest so that he can hold you back from jerking forwards at the sudden stop.
Morgan isn't lucky enough to have a protector, but he'd been pushing his palms against the back of your seat, so he doesn't collide with you. In a split second he's tearing the door open and racing after the unsub - now on foot - and a squad of police cars pull in as backup, blocking off the unsub's path.
He's cornered.
It gives you and Aaron time to breathe, not enough oxygen in the world to rectify what had been stolen from you during the near-crash. Your eyes are blown wide and your chest is heaving, and Aaron's head turns towards you to gauge your wellbeing.
"Are you okay?" He pants, brows furrowed in concern as he watches you collect yourself. You nod, disjointedly so, watching as Morgan leads the unsub away in handcuffs towards a police car.
"Thanks for catching me," You pant, "Uh- I might have- I think I'd have hit the dashboard if you didn't."
Aaron winces at the image, but tugs again at your seatbelt, "It would have caught you. But I wanted it to be me instead."
"Me too," You confess, gripping his hand in your shaky one, "Aaron, we- can we drive slow on the way back?"
"Yes," He lets out a weak exhale, something a little more tired than a smile crossing his face as he leans over to kiss your cheek. You're sure he'd rather kiss your lips, but you don't have the energy to turn your head yet, and he knows that. Instead, his lips press sweetly to the corner of your mouth that he can reach, merged with your cheek, and he vows, "We'll drive extra slow, honey, I promise."
1K notes
·
View notes