Haiiiii !! I love the way you write and I wondered if I could request a gnreader x steve if that's okay and if u still have time! Like maybe a scene where Steve visits a music store to get somebody of the group (maybe Robin, Dustin or someone else) a birthday present but he's totally stumped nd doesn't know what to get and by total coincidence the Reader is there and helps! (i hope this isn't too over the top or that i wrote too much??)
You can ignore this bit if it limits your creativity in any way but maybe the Reader's a total airhead who seems to be addicted to the word dude and has kind of an cali valley boy vibe (but also a total metalhead ofc)
Thank you and i wish u a very comfortable day/night and send u lots of virtual hugs!
(ﾉﾞ⌯'⌄'⌯)ﾉﾞ*。⋆💓
gn!reader | thank you for the req!! virtual hugs right back at ya
Not once in his life has Steve been in a record shop.
Similarly, not once has he shopped for Robin and it was far beyond him what she generally liked.
Clothes — what if the stuff he bought didn’t fit her style? Food — did she have some allergies that he didn’t know about?
After much contemplation and a tip from Max, who had so graciously played messenger pigeon for him, he’d decided that it was only appropriate to buy her… something to do with music. He’d seen the bulky record player sitting on the end table by her door, the shelf under bare of actual records and, at this point, collecting dust.
The bell jingles as he steps into Dave’s Records on the far side of town, nose flooded with the scent of something musty and lemony window spray.
The air is cold, lights dim and displays colored orange by the sunset through the large glass windows. He’d figured it was wise to go at the tail end of the shop’s hours — more time for him to spend stalling because, in reality, he had no clue what Robin liked. Other than stuff on the radio, she’d never mentioned her music to him.
A sharp voice cuts suddenly through the Queen plays softly over the speakers hidden in the ceiling, shouting something unintelligible from the back of the store.
Steve peeks around the corner, seeing you in a heated argument with the shop’s owner.
“Twenty dollars for this is absurd, dude,” you borderline yell, hand slamming in a fist to the glass countertop. “Don’t be crazy, come on!”
The shopkeeper merely shakes his head. “Twenty. Take it or leave it.”
To his better judgement, Steve turns to the shelves to continue browsing in favor of interjecting. The selection is overwhelming — bands he’d never heard of, popular stuff that was an equivalent of working two weeks on minimum wage.
There’s a loud groan and a clattering sound, then angry footsteps approaching him.
“Twenty!” you exclaim softly from beside Steve, hands deftly flipping through the different cardboard jackets of red, purple, black, blue. “Twenty is absurd, don’t you think?”
“I dunno,” he says, staring intently at his sneakers looking pristine white next to your beat-up Converse, your laces tuned gray and rubber toes smeared with dirt and grime. Sharpie doodles litter the edges — sloppily-done stars, stick figures, other stuff he couldn’t make out long faded by the sun.
The white tips of your shoes turn to face his.
“Huh?”
“Like, I mean I don’t really know what’s a reasonable price,” Steve says quickly, pretending to be pointedly interested in whatever Overkill was. “I never shop here.”
“Oh.” You turn back to the display, lips set into a tight line.
The music fades out, leaving the air still and silent and stifling save for the whirring of a fan somewhere in the back.
There’s the scuffing of the carpet as you toe at a fraying line of loose thread, hands falling to your sides. “Didn’t take you for someone who likes metal,” you comment offhandedly in a way he suspects is only to fill the silence.
“What?” Steve glances up, then back to the display in front of him to realize he was, in fact, looking through the metal stuff that Robin definitely had no interest in. “Oh. I’m, uh, shopping for a friend.”
“Cool,” you say, hugging your choice of record to your chest. “Okay. Bye, then.”
You turn on your heel, halfway disappeared around the stand towards the counter to browse elsewhere, business finished in the metal section.
Steve squeezes his eyes shut, deliberating for a moment, before reaching out to tap your shoulder before you can get too far.
“Could you help me really quick?”
He can see you considering it, cogs clicking in your brain before you offer a slight grimace.
“Sure, if it’s fast,” you say with palpable hesitance, “I have a… thing.”
“So, my friend Robin-”
“Robin Buckley?”
Steve gapes. “Huh? How’d you know?”
You start off towards the front of the store, weaving in between displays and stacks upon stacks of records.
“Who else in this town is named Robin?” you ask, stopping in front of a bunch of stuff Steve’d never taken the time to listen to. The Smiths, Depeche Mode, INXS. “And I know her from school. You shopping for her birthday?”
Steve reaches up, the fabric of his windbreaker crinkling as he rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, actually. I know she has a record player and she likes music, so-”
There’s the switch lightbulb over your head, eyes lighting up as you adjust your cap. “Oh, sure. We talk about music all the time,” you say, turning back to the stand.
Your fingers brush against the tops of numerous records before settling on what Steve can’t make out beyond a pinky-reddish blob with black around the edges.
“Man, she loves The Cure,” you state matter-of-factly, holding out your choice to him. “She never stops talking about ‘em. And I know she doesn’t have this one ‘cause she’s been talking about saving up for it. So I’m sure she’ll like it.”
Steve takes it with hesitance, staring at the cover. Pornography. Nice.
“Thanks,” he says, still squinting and trying to make out the faces on in middle. He looks back up. “Really. Thanks.”
“It’s no problem,” you say back, shooting him a quick, tight-lipped smile. “I’d better go. Nice meeting you.”
“Yeah, bye…” He watches your retreating finger as you disappear into the sunny parking lot, eventually making his way up to the counter on his own.
He slides the record across the counter, mildly disturbed by the guy with a cigarette between his lips.
“Twenty dollars,” he says.