dearest-nell

[dearest-nell]

Oh my this was so delightful 💘

right

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: a date that doesn’t go as planned, steve starts to panic, but you’re there to steady him

warnings: anxiety, mention of suicide?? (like one line)

a/n: soft and tender steve!!! he is such a sweetheart in this istg

series masterlist

You had just finished choosing your outfit, adjusting the fabric to sit on your shoulders, when your phone rang. Steve’s voice was apologetic the moment you answered. You could practically hear him running a hand through his hair, messing up those carefully styled locks of his as he tried to explain himself.

“Hey, I’m so, so sorry,” he spoke quickly, urgently. “I swear I’m not trying to stand you up. It’s just—I’ve got this kid here whose ride hasn’t shown yet, and… well, I can’t leave him.”

You could picture him perfectly: face scrunched in concern, probably perched on the edge of his cluttered desk. He sounded so regretful on the phone, and you hated that he was even stressing over something so trivial.

“Steve,” you said gently, cutting off his rambling apologies. “It’s okay. Really. I’ll just head over to the school. We can go together once their parents show up.”

Your reassurance was immediate, relief palpable in his responding sigh.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive,” you replied, twisting a stray thread on your sleeve. “See you soon.”

The call wrapped up on a calmer note, and you took a moment to smooth your hair in the mirror, feeling optimistic that it was deciding to behave itself. The two of you had planned a nice evening—a proper sit-down meal somewhere slightly fancy—and although things weren’t going exactly to plan, you couldn’t deny how much you were looking forward to seeing him in his classroom again. 

Grabbing your bag and keys, you slipped out the door, a small spark of excitement humming beneath your ribs. The drive to Hawkins Elementary was peaceful, dusk painting the sky in shades of lilac and amber. Soft music played through your car speakers, but your mind drifted more than once to a certain teacher…

Something about him, surrounded by all that childlike wonder, made him feel impossibly soft. That, paired with his contrite tone, made you want to reassure him in person. 

When you arrive at the school, there’s a still energy settling over the place. Most of the staff and students have long since gone home. You park in a spot near the entrance, stepping out into the gentle air of early evening.

Inside, the lobby is quiet, illuminated by the mellow glow of overhead lights. The smell still strangely nostalgic, it tugs at memories of your own school days. Behind the front desk stands the elderly receptionist you’d met briefly before. He’s in the middle of packing up his things, a well-worn coat draped over one arm. He looks up, a welcoming smile lighting his features.

“Back so soon?” he teases gently. “Another delivery, perhaps?”

You return his smile, recalling your last visit.

“Not this time,” you say, shaking your head. “I’m meeting Mr. Harrington?”

“Ah, yes.” A knowing glint sparks in his eyes. “Still in his classroom. Been there quite a while.”

“Thanks,” you reply, taking a moment to note the kind crinkles around his eyes. Then you turn toward the hallway.

The corridors are hushed, classroom lights off, and the echoes of a busy school day fading into memory. You’re headed toward the same door you’ve visited prior: 2B, the sign now familiar.

Steve’s pencil stills when he hears the soft click of the classroom door. The moment he sees you, he falters, breath catching in his throat.

It’s obvious how much effort you had put into tonight—hair carefully styled, a soft glow to your skin that makes something tighten in his chest. Guilt flickers for keeping you waiting, but it’s drowned out by something stronger. 

The fact that you dressed up for him. 

He was torn, wanting to leap up and greet you properly, but he’s got a child at his side. So he settles for a warm, if slightly measured, Hey. His tone gentle enough not to startle the boy to his right. 

It was a stark contrast to the way he wanted to react. You deserved so much more than this.

“Hey,” you return, eyes drifting to the desk to see what they’re working on. He forces himself to swallow the pang of regret that he can’t whisk you off to dinner right this second. His mind spins with half-formed apologies—mentally promising he’ll make this up to you, somehow.

“Can I sit?” you ask, one hand resting on the back of the child-sized chair across from him.

“Sure,” Steve says quickly, gesturing with the pencil in his hand. He bites back a smile as you awkwardly manoeuvre into the small chair—it takes some getting used to. He would know.

Once you settle, he glances at the kid beside him. The boy’s chin is practically touching his chest, his expression clouded with an unmistakable sadness. 

“Hey, Samuel,” Steve begins softly, scooting a bit closer to the child. “You remember who this is?”

Samuel lifts his gaze from his drawing, eyeing you without the spark kids usually have. 

“She gave us the books,” he mumbles. There’s a small hitch in his voice that tugs on Steve’s heartstrings. The poor kid’s been waiting far too long for a ride that hasn’t arrived.

“That’s right,” you say softly, offering a gentle smile. 

Samuel just shrugs, returning his attention to the paper in front of him. Steve’s brow furrows; he hates seeing the normally bright-eyed little boy so down.

You desperately want to lighten the mood, so you lean forward, resting your forearms on the small table. Dinner can wait, the sad kid in front of you takes priority right now.

“So, what are you guys doing here?” you ask, voice patient.

Samuel pauses, glancing up at Steve as if seeking permission. He nods, a tiny, encouraging smile shaping his lips. Talking to you is nothing to worry about.

“We’re drawing,” Samuel offers at last.

“Oh yeah?” Your voice lightens, interest shining in your eyes. “Can I see?”

Cautiously, Samuel sets down his pen and turns the paper so you can look. 

“I’m drawing my dog,” he says, a hint of pride creeping into his voice.

“Whoa,” You tilt your head, offering an exaggerated tone, eager to make him smile. “It’s really good. What’s his name?”

Steve watches Samuel’s face soften just a bit, reminded of better things than this long wait. 

“Scooby,” the boy says, glancing between you and Steve.

“That’s a great name,” you tell him, leaning in as if sharing a secret. “Did you pick it yourself?”

Samuel nods and a smile blooms on your face, and Steve’s chest feels inexplicably full at how you’re managing to draw the sad boy out of his gloom. He thinks you’re trying, but honestly, he can’t be sure if this is just who you are. Watching you interact with his student fills him with pride.

Clearly, you have an effect on people.

“It’s awesome.” You nod as you push it back towards the boy. “Gonna be an artist someday. I can tell.”

Samuel’s lips curl into a small smile, and Steve catches the way your kindness ignites the faintest spark in the boy’s eyes. He glances at you, guilt flickering across his face as he mouths a silent sorry for making you wait. But you just shake your head in reassurance. Don’t even worry about it.

“And what about you, Mr. Harrington?” you tease as you lean forward, a playful lilt in your voice. “What’re you drawing?”

Steve chuckles, ducking his head with a hint of bashfulness, not quite expecting to be sharing. He lifts his paper, revealing a carefully drawn sketch of the school’s entrance. It’s surprisingly detailed—the double doors, a few kids scattered out front, even a bright yellow bus parked at the curb.

He grows self-conscious as you glance over his scribbles, but it’s impossible to miss the care in each pencil stroke—the familiarity with every line and angle. There’s an intimacy in the way he’s captured the building, drawn entirely from memory, as if it’s a place he knows by heart.

What you don’t see are the countless times he’s stood in that very spot, staring at the view, willing himself to step inside. Day after day, swallowing the anxiety just enough to make it through the front gates.

Yeah, he knew it by heart.

“It’s not as good as Samuel’s, but….” He adjusts the paper in front of him, his pencil once again gliding across the page as he trails off.

“Well,” you say, shifting closer to the kid, but locking eyes with Steve. “I’d say you’re both very talented.”

Your enthusiasm is infectious as it wraps around him. His cheeks heat up again—something that seems to be happening a lot whenever you're around.

You lean forward, fingers brushing over the paper until you find a clean sheet and a decent pencil. Looking to Samuel, you tilt your head gently. 

“Is it alright if I join in?” you ask, voice just above a whisper, not wanting to break the comfortable calm that’s settled around the three of you.

Samuel hesitates, then gives a small, welcoming nod, so you begin sketching a few light lines—a simple floral pattern that requires little thought. Maybe a vine of leaves, or a daisy shape that reminds you of summer. It’s calming, focusing on the soft arcs and petals.

After a moment, Samuel’s shoulders slump a fraction, and he turns his attention back to his teacher. 

“Has my mom called?” he asks, voice subdued.

Steve’s expression softens with sympathy. 

“Not yet, buddy,” he says gently, setting down his pencil. “But she should be here soon, alright?”

The boy nods, looking down. “Alright.”

“Hey,” Steve leans forward, propping his elbow on the table. “But we’re having fun right?”

Samuel lifts his gaze, sadness still evident. 

“Yeah...”

Steve fought the urge to frown, not wanting the kid’s sadness to drag him down too—but more than that, he was desperate to lift his mood.

When he glanced up and caught the way your expression had wilted, the sadness in your eyes mirroring his students, it was clear this was getting to you too. And if there was one thing Steve couldn’t stand, it was seeing the people he cared about weighed down.

He racked his brain, trying to think—think—up something, anything, that might make the boy smile. And if there was one thing he’d learned about kids, it was that the best way to break through was with a distraction. Something new, something shiny to pull their mind in another direction. 

That, at least, he had plenty of practice in.

“Guess what?” He asked casually. 

Samuel peers at him. 

“What?”

A playful spark lights up Steve’s warm brown eyes. 

"Someone told me once that the best moments happen when you don't expect them."

Samuel thought for a moment about his teacher's words, trying to make sense of the profound statement. 

“Like what?” The boy tilts his head, confused but intrigued. 

Steve taps his pencil against the table, thinking. Slowly, a grin tugs at his lips as he pulls a memory to the surface. Pushing his chair back slightly, he leans in toward the kid, ready to share it.

It’s clear he’s done this plenty of times before.

“Like… this one time, I got stuck waiting in a super long line at the arcade when I was your age. Thought I was gonna be bored out of my mind.” He rolls his eyes in an exaggerated way that makes Samuel perk up a bit, already captivated by his teacher’s words. “But then, this older kid showed me how to do a trick where you flip a coin over your fingers—kinda like this.”

He picks up a pencil, rolling it effortlessly over his knuckles. It’s not perfect—every so often, he has to catch it before it slips—but to Samuel, it might as well be a magic trick.

“By the time I got to play my game, I didn’t even care about the wait anymore,” Steve continues. “I’d learned something really cool.”

Samuel watches with wide-eyed fascination. “I wanna do that!”

Steve winks, gently placing the pencil on the desk so Samuel can grab it. 

"Sure you will," he says, laying on the dramatics. "Just takes a little practice."

There is a small surge of warmth that floods you as you watch the two of them together. You cast your gaze back to your floral sketch, but you can’t stop the slight smile from curving your lips. Steve catches your eye for a second, and in the silent exchange, you can feel how he’s trying so hard to make this okay—for Samuel, and in a way, for you too.

Just as he is about to launch into a more detailed demonstration of his coin-flipping trick, the classroom door flies open, revealing a woman slightly out of breath, cheeks flushed from rushing. Her wide eyes dart from Samuel to Steve to you, immediately brimming with apologies.

“I’m so sorry,” she manages between quick breaths, pressing a hand to her chest as though she’s trying to slow her racing heart. “I—I got held up and—”

“Mom!” Samuel bolts up from the table, all traces of his earlier sadness vanishing in a burst of excitement. She crouches down, arms opening to gather him into a hug. 

The kid leans back slightly, his face lighting up. “I drew Scooby!” he exclaims, pride evident in his voice.

“Oh, you did?” Her tone melts with relief. “That’s amazing, baby. Why don’t you show me?”

Beaming, Samuel spins around to grab his artwork and then holds it out proudly for her inspection. The moment she sees the goofy dog’s face, her own lights up with genuine delight. 

“Wow, that’s so so good, honey! When we get home, we’ll put it right on the fridge, yeah?”

“Yeah!” Samuel nods, bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

Steve rises from his chair, long legs unfolding as he stands and tucks his pencil away. The woman looks up at him with gratitude shining in her eyes. 

“Thank you so much,” she breathes, a slight tremor of emotion in her voice. “I really appreciate you staying with him.”

Steve waves off the thanks, a dismissive but gentle gesture that speaks to his genuine humility. 

“It’s not a problem,” he says, glancing fondly at Samuel. “We had a great time, didn’t we, buddy?”

“Yes!” Samuel nods so hard his hair flops over his forehead. “And I learned a new trick!”

“You did?” His mom arches a brow, looking between her son and Steve. “Well, you’ll have to show me when we get home. Ready to grab your things?”

Samuel dashes off to gather his backpack from the corner, and she turns back to Steve, her face still awash in relief. 

“Thank you. It won’t happen again, I promise—”

Steve’s smile is calm, understanding as he holds his palm up. 

“If it does, you’ll just get another drawing, right?” He shrugs with playful lightness, hoping to ease any lingering guilt she has.

“That’s…” she says, voice catching as Samuel skids back into the room. A laugh escapes her, soft but genuinely thankful.

She straightens, ruffling her son’s hair. “Alright, say goodbye to Mr. Harrington.”

Samuel turns, waving a little too enthusiastically. “Bye, Mr. Harrington!” 

“Take care.” He lifts a hand in farewell. 

The door swings shut, and the moment Steve catches sight of the clock on the wall, his lips press into a tight line. His eyes widen.

“Shit—” He practically scrambles across the room, “we gotta go—like, now.” Snatching his coat from the back of a chair. “The table was booked for… ten minutes ago,” voice tight as he reaches for his phone on the desk.

“Steve.”

He’s mid-dial when you place your hand gently over his. He barely glances up, still fumbling with the buttons. 

“I’m sure they can—”

“Steve,” you repeat, a touch more insistently. “It’s fine.”

His gaze snaps to yours, and there’s guilt evident in the crease of his brow, the way his shoulders pull forward defensively. 

“It’s not fine. I mean—look at you,” he insists, flicking his eyes over your outfit. “You—you got all dressed up, and—”

“Hey,” you squeeze his hand, and he finally stills, waiting until he meets your eyes. “I dressed up for you.”

Something in his chest thumps painfully at those words. He opens his mouth, probably to offer another round of apologies, but you speak first. You step a fraction closer, heart stuttering in your own chest as you do. 

“We can do it another time,” you tell him as he sighs.

“This was seriously not the plan,” Steve grumbles, free hand raking through his hair. His breath is still uneven, cheeks tinted pink.

“Maybe not,” you concede, “but I’m here now.”

He nods, swallowing hard. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “You are.”

Should be eating steak at Enzo’s right now. 

“And,” you add, voice brightening a little, “I haven’t finished my drawing.”

His eyebrows shoot up. 

“Are you serious?”

A giggle escapes you, the sound soft and reassuring. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve felt like a kid again,” you explain, gesturing at the brightly decorated classroom around you. “What better place to keep going?”

Steve shakes his head like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing, but there’s a lopsided smile at the corner of his mouth. 

“Alright,” he murmurs. “If you wanna spend your evening drawing, I’m not gonna stop you.”

“Good,” you tease, turning back toward the table scattered with crayons and pencils. “But you have to join in, too.”

He exhales a short laugh, relenting as the tension uncoils from his frame. 

“Fine,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. “Fine.”

He drapes his jacket over the back of the chair before settling across from you at the tiny table, where crayons and half-finished sketches are scattered about. A small, playful grin tugs at the corner of his lips as he scoots his chair closer.

He can’t quite wrap his head around the fact that this is how you want to spend your Wednesday evening. It’s nothing special, at all.

You seem to make the little things feel like something more, and he doesn’t know what to do with that—except lean into it, let himself get caught up in your glow.

“So,” you say, tapping a pencil against the table, “what’re you gonna draw next?”

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. 

“Not sure yet,” he admits, looking up at you with curious eyes. “What do you think?”

A mischievous spark lights in your expression. 

“Draw me.”

“Yeah, right.” He scoffs, a hint of pink crawling across his cheeks. 

“I’m serious,” you press, leaning forward so your arms rest on the edge of the desk. “Always wanted my portrait done.”

Wow, demanding.

Now he had no choice but to put his subpar art skills to the test. But the more he thought about it, the more he didn't mind. The idea of drawing you was actually kind of nice—it meant he had a reason to stare at you, he wouldn’t have to come up with an excuse either. Really, it was a win-win.

“If it looks terrible, you can’t be offended,” he warns, gesturing with the pencil in his hand.

“Deal.”

You push aside the floral doodle you’d been working on earlier, grabbing a fresh sheet of paper. 

“What’re you doing?” Steve quirks an eyebrow. 

“Drawing you,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Only fair, right?”

He huffs out a chuckle, though he can’t quite hide how flattered he is by the thought. You’re damn sweet. Honestly, you’d probably be a better fit in this classroom than he is, the way you can turn this disaster of an evening into something positive.

“I guess so.”

Leaning over, he grabs a nearby hardcover book—something about geography, judging by the cover—and props it upright on the table like a little barrier. 

“What?” you laugh, tipping your head to see his hands around it.

“I want to be surprised when I see it.” His grin widens, his brown eyes dancing. 

“Trust me, you’re gonna be very surprised,” you tease, tightening your grip on the pencil.

He laughs, the sound low and affectionate. Then he sets his own blank sheet in front of him and glances over the makeshift partition at you. 

“Okay,” he mumbles, lips quirking into a half-smile. “No peeking, alright?”

“Never,” you say, though your voice carries a playful challenge.

Pencils scratching softly against paper form a gentle soundtrack as the two of you work, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, yet sharing the occasional glance that makes your heart flutter. 

“So,” you say, keeping your gaze on the half-finished sketch in front of you, “does this happen a lot?”

Steve finishes shading a small curve on his paper before responding. 

“Missing dinner with a pretty girl?” He glances up, meeting your eyes. “No, I usually try not to make a habit of that.”

“I meant parents being late,” you clarify, with a small chuckle. 

So, Mr. Harrington can flirt. Good to know. 

He sets the pencil down, tapping it absently against the desk. 

“Sometimes,” he ponders. “They have long hours, multiple jobs. I usually stick around anyway, lesson prep, grading quizzes, stuff like that.”

Anything to avoid being home alone. 

“Can’t be easy for the kids, though,” you say, a little crease appearing between your brows.

A soft sigh escapes him. “Sure, it’s not ideal,” he admits. “But in Samuel’s case, his mom’s doin’ her best, you know?” 

He doesn’t elaborate further, but his expression speaks volumes—he sees more than anyone realises, and he tries his hardest to fill the gaps.

“They’re lucky to have a teacher like you,” you say gently.

A faint flush creeps over his cheeks, and he ducks his head. 

“Like I said,” he murmurs, voice low enough that it makes your chest tighten. “Kids love silly.”

Both of you return to your sketches for a moment. You’re perfecting the curve of his jaw, the slight wave of his hair, when your curiosity peeks again.

“So, what do your parents think about you being a teacher? They’ve gotta be proud, right?”

The question sets a flicker of nerves across his face. He fiddles with the pencil a bit before answering. 

“Uh… sort of,” he begins, brow furrowing. “They’re happy I’m, you know, employed. But they weren’t exactly my biggest fans after high school.”

“Why not?” You tilt your head, wanting to understand. 

He draws a breath, eyes darting to his paper as if searching for courage. 

“I was kinda… lost when I left school. Had no clue what I was doing. My dad wanted me to work for him, but that just… wasn’t an option.” Something raw appears in his gaze. 

There was no way he could work for his father—not when he was already at his lowest. 

The man who pressured him the most, expecting him to survive in a high-stress office? He could already picture it: barely holding himself together while his dad, with his uncanny ability to pick apart his deepest insecurities, chipped away at what little confidence he had left.

Put all that together, and he knew he wouldn’t have made it to the end of the year.

The thought alone scared him.

“Screw what your dad says.”

“Wow,” his mouth curves into a tiny, startled smile. “Never heard you be mean before.”

“I’m not being mean,” you give a playful shrug. “Just being honest.”

“Yeah, sure,” he drops his eyes to the table and nods, the corners of his lips quirking upward. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Like you even have one.

There’s a short lull in conversation as you both sink back into the comforting rhythm of drawing. This time, it’s his turn to speak up. 

“So,” he ventures, sketching a light outline of your hair, “you think you’re gonna keep the bookshop for a while? Y’know, with the finances and stuff?”

"I hope so," you reply, your voice bright with the same enthusiasm you feel in your chest—despite the stress. "I’m still finding my way, and like, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy.” You breathe in a sigh that makes his pencil still. ”It’s just… doing it alone. That part still scares me sometimes."

Steve nods, understanding flickering in his eyes. He hates seeing you struggle, especially when there’s nothing he can do to fix it. It feels like Samuel all over again, and he’s already wracking his brain, searching for some way, any way, to be of service.

"Is there anything I can do?" he murmurs, always needing to be useful. "To help, I mean."

You shake your head. 

"This is plenty," you say, your voice a little softer now. "I like this,” you gesture between you both. "Spending time away… with you."

With him. 

And god, it’s like fireworks in his chest. The fact that he is the reason you're feeling even a little better—it echoes exactly how he feels about you.

He doesn’t have much to offer, but he’d give you this and more. He’d whisk you away whenever you needed it. That, at least, he can do.

"Well," he says quietly, not trusting his voice fully, "I’m always a phone call away. I can be there."

You nod, offering him a quiet thank you before turning your attention back to your drawing.

Steve Harrington sure was something.

It baffled you how he was still single—especially when he gave so much of himself so freely. Offering what he could without expecting anything in return.

Moving here felt like the right choice.

Meeting him felt like the right thing.

He sets his pencil aside, blowing out a theatrical breath as though he’s completed the masterpiece of a lifetime. He did have a great reference, after all. 

“Alright,” he declares, tapping his fingers against the paper. “I think I’m done.”

“Hmmm, yeah,” you glance down at the final touches you’ve added to your own drawing, then give a small shrug. “Me too.”

He leans forward, sliding the book aside but quickly clutching his drawing to his chest so you can’t see it. You mirror his motion, both of you practically giggling at this playful standoff.

“You go first,” he says, eyes bright with anticipation.

“Why?” you challenge, raising a brow.

A crooked grin tugs at his mouth. “Isn’t that what ladies do?”

You roll your eyes for dramatic effect, but the smile that follows is genuine. 

“Fine.” Leaning forward, you carefully place your sketch in front of him.

It’s not perfect—you know that. But as his gaze sweeps over your work, a low laugh escapes his throat, warm and surprised.

He’s delighted.

One could call it abstract—modern, even. It's a far cry from any respectable piece of art, but you have captured him not just in likeness, but with something real.

To him? It's priceless. You even included the faint dimple that appears when he grins. He had forgotten what that even looked like.

“You really got me.” He murmurs, studying the details.

“About time I made my old art teacher proud,” you joke, trying to mask how pleased you are that he likes it.

“You sure have.” Steve’s eyes lift, warm and appreciative. Not a hint of sarcasm in his statement.

Fuck, you’re precious.

His soft expression steals the slight sting from your cheeks, though you still feel the warmth of his compliments. Clearing your throat, you eye the paper clutched against his chest. 

“So… are you gonna show me yours, or what?”

A flicker of apprehension crosses his features before he offers you a small grin. 

“Sure.” Slowly, he passes the sheet over.

The moment your eyes settle on his sketch, your breath catches in your throat. 

It’s incredible.

There’s a tenderness in every line, an intimacy woven into the drawing. He’s captured the shape of your eyes, the curve of your smile—even that subtle confidence you sometimes forget you have.

Your fingers hover over the page before lightly tracing the details, almost as if touching it too firmly might smudge the feeling behind it.

“This is… really good, Steve,” you say, half under your breath.

His cheeks redden, and he scratches behind his ear. 

“You think?”

You nod. “Can I keep it?”

“Course you can,” he says, hurriedly straightening in his chair. “Drew it for you in the first place.”

A spark of bubbly excitement flutters in his chest as he watches you carefully set the drawing aside—not folding it, not tucking it away like an afterthought. You’re going to carry it home just like that, like it actually means something to you.

That alone makes him ridiculously happy for humouring your request of the evening. 

The clock on the wall blinks at you both, reminding you that the night has slipped far later than intended. With a small sigh, he flicks his gaze between you and the scattered art supplies. 

“Since we missed dinner,” he ventures, voice warm, “I know a diner that’s open late, if you’re hungry.”

A grin spreads across your face, soft and genuine. “That sounds way better than some fancy restaurant.”

Relief mingles in his tender expression—his eyes crinkling just enough at the corners. He sets the pencils aside. 

“Alright, but first…” He picks up your drawing—your portrait of him—and walks over to the nearest wall of taped-up masterpieces. With a careful hand, he pins it among the rainbow of kid-drawn dinosaurs, flowers, and stick figures.

You step up beside him, your shoulder brushing his lightly. Your eyes sweep over the vibrant array of drawings. Some of them were clearly made with Steve in mind—crude sketches of his unmistakable hair, big hearts labeled Mr. Harrington, and even the occasional speech bubble with some goofy letters scrawled inside.

“You really make an impact here,” you say, voice hushed with genuine admiration.

Steve glances sideways at you, then back at the wall. 

“I’m… not so sure about that.” There’s a bashful edge to his tone, like he can’t quite see the effect he has on others.

You turn, glancing at a couple of the drawings—an especially adorable one with MR. H scrawled in bold marker. You’re close enough that he can feel a hint of your warmth, your presence tethering him right here, right now. 

“If you can’t see it,” you tell him gently, “you must be blind.” Your voice softens, and you tilt your head. “I mean—look.”

He follows your gesture, eyes drifting over bright crayons and enthusiastic scribbles. There’s a tangible love in those images—love for the teacher who stuck around after hours, who shared life with them, who cheered for them every step of the way.

Even when he struggling himself.

“You’re special, Steve.”

His heart thumps hard. The weight of your words collides with the sudden awareness that you’re right there—looking at him in a way that makes the room tilt. He barely manages a breath before your gaze meets his, and for a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Everything about you—the kindness in your eyes, the gentleness of your smile, the fact that you spent the entire evening drawing dumb pictures with him without a single complaint—hits him all at once. 

He’s overwhelmed by how right this feels. 

Without really thinking, he bends closer, gaze dropping to your lips as he crosses that small distance.

When his mouth meets yours, it’s soft. Tentative. Like he’s afraid the moment might vanish if he pushes too hard. But when he feels you press back—just as gentle, just as eager—something sparks inside him. 

It’s like a release of breath he didn’t know he was holding, the sweetest, most perfect rush, better than anything he’s felt in years.

He cups your jaw tenderly, the warmth of your skin sending shivers along his arm. He’s half-aware of how fast his heart is pounding, how desperately he wants to deepen the kiss—yet a flicker of nerves has him pulling back just enough to look at you. Your eyes are shining, and the look in them nearly undoes him.

“Sorry,” he breathes, voice a little shaky from adrenaline and pure exhilaration. “I just—”

You cut off his apology with a quick, playful peck that makes his cheeks burn. 

He wants you to do that again.

“So,” you say, lips curling into a grin that all but steals his sanity, “dinner?”

A small, breathy laugh escapes him, his fingers still lightly touching your cheek as if he can’t quite let go. 

“Yeah,” he manages, voice thick. “Yeah—dinner.”

With his pulse still thundering, he reluctantly lets his hand slip down. You gather up coats and keys and stray papers, placing them in his hands to put away correctly. You head for the door, and when you pause to wait for him, you extend your hand—palm up, an invitation.

It’s for him.

It’s a rush of gratitude, a soft feeling he doesn’t quite know what to do with. Without thinking, he slips his fingers through yours, giving a gentle squeeze.

It’s such a simple gesture, barely more than a touch, but somehow, it makes his chest feel full—like he might burst from it.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita

[dearest-nell]

oh how i love victoria pedretti as nell crain

Her performance actually rewrote my entire brain chemistry ✨

[dearest-nell]

"excuse me? she asked for no pickles. 🤨"

she:

[dearest-nell]

"Don't be alone, Doctor."

[dearest-nell]

costume design across period pieces

[dearest-nell]

(insp)

[dearest-nell]

Hi jess! I started reading your fics not so long ago and i wanted to tell you how much i love the way you write. The way you can describe anything and everything is amazing and so beautifully written, you are so so talented! You are an incredible writer, keep doing it💛

Hi lovely! Thats genuinely so sweet of you to say, it really means a lot to know there are people enjoying my work. I’ve always loved writing, so it’s a relief to know it’s resonating with people. Thanks for reading and for your kind words, I hope you like all the fics to come 🥰

[dearest-nell]

Thank you so much for including me, I’m honoured 🥺🥰

I've decided to start doing a monthly fic rec post to showcase some amazing stories that I've read! I don't feel like I see enough of these on here!

These are in no particular order. Just some things that I have loved for the month of July. ❤️ Not as many as I would like, but you know, life happens. A new puppy really has a way of taking up my time. 🤣

Steve Harrington:

Accident Prone Part 5 - a stormy kind of love by @thecreelhouse - this is a StevexOC fic. Seriously, an amazing story by a very talented writer! I have loved the entire thing! Masterlist here!

Ring of Fire Part 3: The Runaway by @bettyfrommars - a biker!Steve au. (What can I say? I love my wayward bad boy) Masterlist here!

One Free Kiss by @bunnyhargrove - porn with some cute plot! Best friends to lovers.

Love and Treason by @strangererotica - gladiator!Steve Harrington (featuring Emperor Geta) - not a happy ending. This one hurt so good.

Could you ever love a creature like me? By @southerngothicchic - demon! Steve. Yes please! Always a sucker for those dark, supernatural fics.

Morning Person by @dearest-nell - soft and sweet adoration between two people utterly in love.

Walter McKey:

I'll Assist You by @thosefuzzywordfeelings - CEO!keys x assistant reader - Superb smut! Chef's kiss.

Gator Tillman:

Animals by @buckysgrace - some raw, rough smut with our boy. Yes please!

Public Exposure by @wroteclassicaly - delicious Gator x Plus size reader smut. (I'm feral after this one.)

[dearest-nell]

charmed

e. munson x reader, 3k

summary: eddie comes home from a long day at work to discover wayne has a pretty surprise for him includes: established!eddie x reader, wayne being the sweetest paternal figure, mumblings of a found family, wayne manifesting a daughter in law by years end warnings: afab reader, non descript

a/n: writing from the boys perspective is always way more fun. i have so many thoughts about wayne and eddie's relationship.

Eddie had intended to be home earlier, a far cry earlier than the 9:30 that blinked hazily on his vans dashboard as he pulled in before the trailer. He was meant to be home hours ago, hoping to enjoy a Friday night the way that a young person ought to – out with the people he loved. Instead he sat in his driver's seat, covered in oil and grime and god knows what else from under the hood of some deadbeat richman from the other side of town. The apprentice had fucked the repair of a rather pricey car, one that was to be picked up first thing monday, and Eddie didn’t have it in him to let the little guy drown under the barrage of abuse from an intimidating customer. 

So he stayed back, and now he was paying the price. Dinner would have been long over by now, and it was unlikely that Wayne was still home at such an hour. He usually had the night shift on this pay cycle, but Eddie couldn’t tell one from another these days. The lights were still on, his indication that he’d gotten his weeks wrong. 

Worn leather boots beat against the gravel as he trekked towards the door, hand running through the curls that hung low on his forehead; wild, in desperate need of a trim. He was spent, body weary and limp from the extra strain. He wanted to call his friends, to call you, to ask for good company, but he knew even now he was too tired to go anywhere. 

The door was unlocked, so he slipped into the warmth of the trailer with an involuntary shiver, eyes blinking tiredly to spot the figure propped up on the couch. Wayne. Beer in hand, chin shadowed with stubble; Eddie’s hero, if anyone were to ever ask. The old man was his favourite person, whether he knew it or not. 

Wayne gave a gruff smile, tilting his chin up at his nephew. “Long day, boy?” 

“Yeah.” Eddie breathed, voice more gravelly than he’d realised. “Got stuck back, sorry I didn’t call.” 

Wayne shrugged. “I figured, though there’s a surprise in your room f’you.” 

A surprise? Eddie couldn’t possibly guess what. “You’re joking.” 

Wayne simply smiled in response, shaking his head. “You go have a look ‘n tell me if I’m joking. Just be quiet about it.” 

Eddie gave a quizzical sort of look, boots resounding against the floorboards as he moved towards the room, a quick mumble from Wayne catching his attention again. 

“Quieter than that.” 

Eddie scoffed, his demeanour still playful despite his disbelief. He took more careful steps this time, readjusting the band wrapped clumsily around his bound tresses, trying to alleviate the steadily subsiding headache from two hours ago. Wayne had never been much of a secret keeper, nor was he one for dramatics. He was a pragmatic, realistic, nonfrivolous sort of man, which made that excitable little sparkle in his uncle’s eyes all the more amusing. Wayne didn’t play tricks, but Eddie couldn’t help but feel he was walking into one. 

With a slow turn of his door handle, Eddie eased the gap open, his eyes scanning the silent dark until his gaze settled upon the mountain of blankets upon his bed. There, buried under three blankets of comfort, was you. It might have been hard to tell under any other circumstances, but even half asleep and exhausted out of his mind, Eddie knew he could recognise your silhouette anywhere. He softened instantaneously, body slackening slightly under the slow wave of adoration that overcame him. You were here to see him. Talk about a surprise, he hadn’t expected to see you today, and now he felt his ribs pressing in tightly together, chest constricting with a glad sort of giddiness. 

He was gentle in closing the door again, his smile bemused at his now grinning uncle. “And how’d my girl end up in there, hm?” 

He toed off his boots, movements suddenly precise and careful under the presence of your company. Even through the closed door, he had no desire to rouse you just yet. Not until he was ready, clean and showered and shed of all other obligations, able to dedicate himself to your company. 

“She came by at 5,” Wayne explained, turning down the quiet shout of the television set with a well worn remote, “thought you’d be home soon, wanted to surprise you. I told her she was welcome t’wait, thinkin’ you’d be round earlier. But y’weren’t, so we had some dinner.” 

Wayne paused, nudging his chin towards the fridge, which Eddie took to mean there was leftovers waiting for him inside. He began rustling through, finding what was left of a roast and vegetables wrapped up neatly in foil. It was a little more extravagant than he had expected, and Eddie chalked that up to your aid in the kitchen. He could see the container of biscuits on the counter, too, with little hearts and flowers piped onto the tops. Pinks and blues and reds and whites, this wasn’t a house for sweets and softness, though Eddie welcomed your charms in any way he could get them. He sat at the table to feast, unbothered to even reheat the feast. 

Wayne continued on. “Thought she might go lookin’ for y’, but we got a’talking. She’s a real sweet thing, y’know, made a real effort to chat. Even offered to sit down ‘n watch a game with me, thought I didn’t have the heart t’put her through it. Ended up watchin’ some Antiques Roadshow thinkin’ she’d like it better; you ever seen me watchin’ that before? I ain’t never had much care, but we had good fun.”

“No shit!” Eddie piped up, astounded by the softened edges of his Uncle. You’d charmed him, he thought, with your curious questions and kind smiles. For Wayne to sit down and talk to anyone was a miracle, one that only an angel could perform. His Angel. 

“We got guessin’ and everythin’.” Wayne added, wiping roughly at his smile. “Seemed tired, though, so I told her to crash in your room. She’s been out maybe half an hour.” 

Astounded was an understatement. Eddie had brought girls home before he met you, though none had bothered to exchange more than polite pleasantries with his Uncle. He’d never been serious about them, so he’d never thought much of it, and then came you. Three months into this new connection, a relationship born of spring flowers and whisky nights and loud music and soft touches. Eddie had never been serious until now, until you, and now he couldn’t picture being anything else but. 

He was glowing, beaming from ear to ear. “So you like her, then?” He was so hopeful in his question, a sincerity Wayne only ever saw reserved for the most heartfelt of Eddie’s dreamings. 

“I do.” Wayne announced, washing down his contentment with another swig of his beer. “I hope y’re serious ‘bout her, she’s real soft on you, and I think she’s a good one. Seems to make you happy enough, you ain’t mopin’ nearly so much these days.” 

Eddie rolled his eyes, groaning with faux annoyance, rolling foil into a tiny ball to toss across the room, missing Wayne by a good foot of space. “I don’t mope.” 

“I don’t mope my ass, kid, you mope plenty. Just not anymore.” He was laughing now, worn lines creasing at the corners of his eyes. “I said she should come back f’dinner another night, we can all eat together. She was tellin’ me ‘bout this story she was readin’, and I’ll be damned if I don’t know how it ends.” 

Eddie knew how this story ended; it ended with you. It began with you, too. It was all you, he couldn’t see any other ending for him. 

“Yeah, that sounds good, old man.” He was doing his best to stomach the meal, but his words were caught around hastily eaten mouthfuls half chewed and uneasy to swallow. He’d give himself heartburn if he wasn’t careful, and it would have been worth it. 

Eddie took a moment to pause, swallowing thickly, belching unceremoniously in a way he was glad you weren't there to witness. “I am serious, y’know, about her. Real serious. I got a good feeling.” 

“Yeah?” Wayne questioned, sinking back into the sofa. 

“Yeah. She could be the one; ain’t that somethin’? I always thought it was bull when people said you just know, but…” he laughed with astonishment, “I think I just know.” 

“Well shit,” Wayne exclaimed, clearing his throat, “that’s real good, Ed’s. You just be good and treat her nice. Be a gentleman.” 

Eddie wasn’t too sure he knew how to be a gentleman, but somehow, he knew you liked him all the same. He didn’t need to be anything but himself around you, and that was a one in a billion kind of feeling,

He was quick in his cleaning, fumbling around the kitchen to pack away a still soaking plate, his mind skating over the plastic drying rack by the sink entirely. “I’m bein’ good, I swear.” 

“Bullshit.” Wayne teased, shaking his head. He braced himself on his knees, slowly rising to his feet with a groan. “I’m goin’ to bed. Tell her she’s welcome to stay whenever she likes, okay? Show her where the spare key is.” 

“I will.” Eddie nodded, barely able to fight his slow building excitement. He could feel himself getting restless, hands flexing just at the thought of holding you. “G’night, Wayne.” 

“G’night son.” He echoed back, disappearing into the quiet of his own room. 

Eddie made sure to lock up on his way, switching off the tv and lights as his own sort of wind down ritual. They’d be on all night if he wasn’t careful, and he’d spied the last bill long enough to have a mind for the electricity now. Besides, he needed to be calm when he woke you. He’d half frightened you to death last time he came barrelling in. 

Once again, he retreated towards his room, slipping into the dark like a shadow of the night, slowly shucking his way out of his overalls to kick to the side of the room. He didn’t mind staining his sheets with oil, but not you; you were something worth caring for. He knew he should have showered, but the sweat on his skin could hardly deter him from the need he had to be close to you, to ease away the troubles of his way with the balm of your skin against his, your whispers ringing in his head. 

He fumbled his way to the edge of the mattress, your sleeping body facing away from him to the back wall of the room. He peered a little closer into the darkness, a sliver of moonlight cascading across the bare curve of your shoulder, arm wrapped around something small, something fuzzy…

“Well shit, Ted, what’re you doing in here?” Eddie hadn’t thought to consider where the ragdoll cat had scampered off to. Teddy had been adopted only a few weeks after Eddie came to live with Wayne, his Uncle’s way of easing the boy into this entirely new world together. Teddy had been his childhood companion, and by the way he was burrowed into the pudge of your stomach, purring louder than a car engine, Eddie could see you’d won him over too. 

The cat barely stirred, rather giving him a grumbled sort of chirp at being disturbed, before wriggling his way further under the blankets. You, however, made the softest of whining noises that left Eddie’s heart near strangling in his chest. He lifted a ring clad hand to that moonlight shoulder, brushing callouses across the line of freckles that dusted your skin, watching as your eyes began to flutter open, head turning slightly to face him. 

“Eddie!” No one in the world had ever been so enthusiastic to see him before, not one. His name wasn’t the kind to roll off the tongue, to be begged for or shouted out or held tenderly on someone's lips. Never before, but the way your mouth wrapped around the letters seemed to change the word entirely. Nothing had ever sounded so tender, so wanting, so pleased. You were always pleased to see him, a feeling he never had to doubt when he could see it so plainly reflected in your irises. 

“Honey.” He cooed back, tugging up the corner of the bedsheets to slip beneath them, curving his body to fit the shape of your own, nudging his knee between your two just to feel your skin pressed against his own in every possible way. The hair on his body was just as wild as the hair on his head, but nothing felt like home to him more than the brush of your skin to the mess of his. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

You exhaled a lengthy yawn, muffling the sound into his pillow with a hum. Your hair, once styled, now seemed mussed and flattened under the weight of your head. His bed linens were already tattooing precious creases into sleep warmed skin. You were too beautiful for him to even comprehend. 

You turned in his arms, careful not to disrupt the grumbling cat beside you despite your eagerness. He felt arms press their way around him, your nose nuzzling at his chin. “Wayne let me in. I hope that’s okay.” 

Literally nothing else could have been more okay in his mind. It was perfect. This was perfect; coming home to you. “Come by anytime, baby. I’m just sorry I wasn’t back sooner. I made you wait.” 

You shook your head. “I didn’t mind. Wayne’s really cool. He kept me company.”

“So I heard.” His voice was edged with an air of amusement, his hand lifting to brush back the strands of hair falling across your face, leaving his palm to cup at the plush of your cheek, his eyes admiring even in the dark. “Antiques Roadshow?”

You let out a giggle. “We panicked! I was trying to make a good impression, and he suggested it so I thought why not. Honestly it was pretty fun, I could totally watch another episode.” 

“Mm.” His lips met the button of your nose dotingly, his voice slackening to a syrupy smoothness. “He’s impressed, I’m impressed; you’ve got us Munson men wrapped around your pretty little finger. Even Teddy’s on your side.” 

“I do not!” You chided, helpless against his onslaught of affection. He left you preening and giddy, a little lightheaded when he loved on you like this, and Eddie never had any intention of stopping. “Teddy just wanted a cuddle.”

“Him and me both.” Eddie asserted, snaking his other arm beneath the arch of your waist, wrapping around the small of your back to tug you in further, his smile resoundingly bright at the way you hummed happily. “We’re not too young to be asleep by 10, are we?” 

The way you eased into the very fabric of him, your bodies so close and so connected, wrapped tightly in the warmth of his room, was enough assurance to him that you were just as content here as he was. “No. I’m not leaving this spot. You just got home, and I’m all sleepy, and Ted’s gonna get mad if we move.” 

Ted chirped an affirmative sound, leaving Eddie to rasp a laugh. “Well we can’t make Teddy mad, can we. Gotta stay here all night with my girl.” 

You chuckled softly in turn, your voice quieting under the weight of exhaustion. “I was meant to keep you company, but I’m so sleepy.” Another yawn parted your plush lips, leaving Eddie with no choice but to press his own to the corner once they came back together again. 

“You are keepin’ me company. Think I’ll sleep a bunch better with you keepin’ me warm. I’ll take you on a date tomorrow, hm? After a big sleep in?” 

“You’re so sexy when you talk like that.” You mumbled, your lashes fluttering shut to rest against your cheeks. “I’d kiss you stupid if I could move.” 

Besotted was not a strong enough word for what Eddie felt in that moment, but he was overwhelmed with the urge to litter a smattering of kisses from the edge of your cheekbone to the corners of your forehead, each one softer than the last, lulling you into that sweet place of slumber you were already drifting towards. 

“Kiss me stupid tomorrow. Sleep, sweetheart.” You didn’t need to be told twice. Within moments, Eddie watched the light in your flicker to a dim, pale glow, your breathing evening out to something unhurried. Peaceful. It didn’t matter to him that he had only had those brief moments with you tonight. Five minutes with you was enough to chase away all the strife of a day otherwise written off in his mind. And that was what his life had been missing, after all. Someone who made going to sleep at 10pm look like the greatest moment of his life. He wanted to keep you to himself, a greedy kind of possessiveness stirring in his gut, for as long as he was able, knowing full well that less than twelve hours from now, Wayne would without a doubt be waiting to make you both breakfast on his morning off. 

Like he said, you had all the Munson boys charmed.

[dearest-nell]

same schnitzel, same

[dearest-nell]

every time

[dearest-nell]

@stcreators event 07: comedy

[dearest-nell]

morning person

s. harrington x reader, 2.8k

summary: a snapshot into the morning routine of steve harrington, now that the two of you have moved in together includes: established steve x reader, domestic fluff, steve is a busybody. warnings: literally none except i am still incapable of proofreading properly

a/n: honestly if anyone has any requests i would love to hear them, or just want to chat about this show that has ruined my life, because i'm spiralling into obsession over here.

People who complain about mornings have obviously never spent one waking up beside Steve Harrington, this you’re sure of. Because if they had, then they would know there was nothing in the world so deliciously saccharine than that drowsy, softened look on his face as he blinks the sleep away from mingling eyelashes, his lips curving upwards into a dreamy sort of smile. This isn’t even the first time he has awoken this morning. 

Steve Harrington is a morning person – an early riser, a dawn greeter, a restless child on christmas day. His body clock is set as the sun begins to kiss the horizon, his eyes blinking open into a dark, cool bedroom. New. This bedroom is new. He is still getting used to it, this apartment, a dingy one bedroom located just a few blocks from the rougher side of town. It’s a far cry from the mansion he used to live in, small and outdated and a little worse for wear, if he were to say so himself, but it’s home. It’s home because it’s his, and it’s home because it’s yours. You rent it together, bills strung haphazardly from paychecks of jobs you’d both rather live without. Steve doesn’t mind that he still works at the video store, not when it lights up the lamp on his bedside, or cooks the pasta on your shitty gas top that flickers every so often. He needs to call the service guy, now that he thinks about it, but it’s too early to matter. 

He can feel the heat of your body pressed in beside him, curled in on yourself, face buried into the pillow now folding creases into your skin, shoulders rising and falling in a steady rhythm. You have never been a morning person, he learned rather early on. You’re delirious, and grumpy, and still so beautiful despite the glare in your eyes when he used to wake you, and now, he knows to let you sleep. His impatience to rouse you, to kiss you and touch you is an urge he’s learned to swallow, so he pauses for a moment simply to stare, to smile to himself at the way you mumble in your dreams. 

He has the time, he thinks, considering it’s still dark out, and his shift at the store is not due for half a morning away, so he lets himself linger, tucked into the warmth of bedsheets as he works up the courage to leave it. He knows he needs to, that he’ll feel better if he does, that the routine always pays off even if it means parting from you. The air will be chilly outside, but he needs the cold to clear his head. His morning run is his time, after all. It gives him the solitude to consider, to plan, to unwind. 

He slips from the bed, careful footsteps walking a still unfamiliar path through the bedroom, boxes stacked against a near wall still unpacked from the move. His sneakers are in the wardrobe, well placed for a quick pick up, though he hasn’t accounted for his discarded shirt rippled right in his path. He trips, stumbling slightly, cursing himself as the thud that resounds as heavy feet meet the floorboards. He turns with a cringe, hearing you stir, though you do not rise as you wriggle deeper into yellow linens, disappearing beneath the comforter. 

He’s quick to dress, not wanting to risk another incident and the wrath of your disturbed sleep, slipping out into the living room to tie his shoes, still half asleep and blinking blearily. Despite its flaws, he likes this apartment more than he thought possible. There’s a passthrough between the kitchen and the living room that lets him talk to you as he cooks, you hanging over the bench to smile at him, pressing kisses into his shoulder when he dares to come too close. There’s a strange nook that sits in the wall by the door, one that now holds your keys and bumble bee umbrella, though neither of you are too sure why it was built in the first place. There’s a flat expanse outside the bathroom window that you want to build a flower box into, though Steve is yet to determine how, since neither of you are particularly good at D.I.Y. He loves this second hand couch Eddie found on the curb, loves the strange, abstract art piece Will designed for you both as a housewarming, loves the ceramic clown that Robin stole from an overpriced giftshop to hide in one of your moving boxes, now settled in the bookshelf beside an array of half read novels between you. 

He’s building a life here with you, and Steve is trying his best to remind himself of it every chance he get. There will be Christmases spent in these walls, games night drinks spilled on this carpet, and so many I love you kisses pressed to smiling cheeks beside that front door – he hardly knows how to contain the excitement for it all, even as he ties his laces. 

The morning is colder than he expected, but Steve has never been one to check the weather even now, even after he caught a cold from a raining run one morning, taking himself straight to work rather than home to you to shower. He figure’s he’ll wing it, deal with the consequences as they come, and enjoy the way you dote on him as he whines and groans in his flu like delirium days later. Cold, but not raining, he knows he’ll be fine this time. 

He’s been planning out this new jogging route as he goes, still learning the maps and turns of each new lane. He’d never been to this part of town much before the move, but he’s starting to acclimate one run at a time. It’s not too far from Hawkins, after all. It still feels like a familiar place, but it’s closer to the community college to save you the travel time. Steve’s a visual learner, after all. It gives him the roadmap that he’ll need to plan out his week. He’s taking himself the long way just to jot down the layout; the farmers market, the hardware store, the cafe with the good coffee. He waves to the people he passes by, few and far between, trying to appear friendly. He doesn’t know yet the culture of this community, but he’s eager to make a good impression. He recognises the old man who runs the news agency, stops to chat as they talk about the community centre. Steve’s agreed to volunteer for the refurbishment, he’s hoping it’ll help you both settle in, and you’ve promised to bake up your best batch of pastries to feed the hungry husbands as they work. Steve’s not yet a husband, but he’s planning on changing that in due time. 

The sun mingling with the clouds by the time he departs again, his pace quickening through midtown suburbia to take him home. The paperboy is tossing rolls at the doors, barely breaking on his bike as he passes house after house. Steve moves onto the road to avoid any collisions, shaking his head as the teen wheels off past a corner. He hasn’t even thought about his week yet, he realises, and his pace drops in consideration. There’s a stocktake coming up at work that will take more energy than he has to give, his parents are due over for dinner later in the week (he’s hoping they’ll cancel), and Robin has booked him tickets to some kind of gig that he’s certain he’ll hate. He mentally notes the checklist – things to buy, things to do, things to clean – now able to see his lot clearly without the buzz of a busy world around him. His days run smoother this way, alone, soles beating against the pavement. It starts him on the right foot. 

He’s out of breath when he arrives back on your block, panting heavily without the grace of a water bottle. He knows he should have brought one, but there’s no point stewing on it now. His thighs ache as he climbs the staircase, three flights of stairs his least favourite part of coming home. He can’t imagine hauling groceries up this stairwell is going to be an enjoyable weekly endeavour, but for the price of rent, he’s willing to make the effort, even with a slightly busted knee. 

He’s a little louder than he wants to be as he eases open the lock, slipping into a slightly brighter apartment than when he left. He doesn’t think you’re awake, but he takes pause to slow himself down, turning into the kitchen instead of the bedroom. Steve clicks on the faucet, hanging his head below the tap to let the cool water run directly into his mouth. He lacks grace as he guzzles down half a litre, droplets trickling down his cheeks and chin into unclean dishes from the night before. There’s urgency, he decides, in this drink. No type for a cup, no time to pause. He pulls away gasping, wiping a cupful of water across his sweat slicken face, unable to suck enough breath into his lungs. He leans back against the benchtop, eyes pressed skyward to focus on slowing himself down, letting his heart rate drop back to a blissful pace. 

He knows he should shower, but more than anything, he’s aching to get back between the sheets with you. It’s funny how he still misses you when you’re not within reach, even for an hour, even when he knows you’re still wrapped up tight in the comforts of his bed. It feels wrong to love a person this much, like he shouldn’t be made to feel so much, so deeply, every passing minute of every passing day. But he does. He knows he’s not the first to feel such a love, but he thinks he might be the only one regardless, because no one else has you. He thinks it’s strange that everyone in the world isn’t aching to be by your side, that hearts all over the town aren’t skipping beats at the wideness of your smile, the curve of your shoulder, the tickle of your laugh. This love must be special, then, because how else can he be the only one so enamoured by you. 

He forces himself into the shower, the water not yet warm even as he sinks his head beneath the stuttering stream. The pipes are old, though a cold shower bothers him far less than it bothers you. He’ll be out quicker this way. He is less thorough in his cleaning than he thinks he ought to be, scrubbing furiously at his body with the loofah you bought him, scraping sweat and red streaks into a now fading tan. He’s seeing the sun less these days in the dead of autumn, but he’ll make it up later. Right now, all he is focused on is climbing back into his bed, his skin stained with a citrus scent embedded into the new soap you had bought. It’s not his usual brand, but he thinks he likes the change anyways. It reminds him of summer picnics with you, fingers digging into orange peels, juices dribbling down his fingers until he tears out slices one by one. The scent lingers, filled with your orange flavoured kisses and sun streaked highlights burning into his mind, and yes, he thinks, the change isn’t so bad. 

He shuts off the tap, yanking his towel from the rack to pat himself dry, hair shaking out like a puppy dog with rambunctious excitement to be on his way. He doesn’t bother to redress, dropping the towel to the floor without focus, padding back towards your bedroom. You’re exactly how he left you, though a little more illuminated in the morning light. You’ve wiggled out of the blanket again, one foot kicked out to the side to regulate your body temperature, one hand reaching out towards his side of the bed. You reach for him in your sleep sometimes, and he hates the idea of not being there for you when you do. 

He clambers into bed his eagerness betraying his stealth, expert hands lifting your arm up for him to slide under, hanging it securely over his waist as he settles into the warm dip of the mattress. Your body responds instinctively, rolling into him with a groan, still not quite awake, though he can tell you’re not so far off. He runs fingers through your hair, trying to stave off your inevitable waking for as long as he can manage. Your alarm isn’t due for another hour, and he wants every second before that  spent just like this.

He doesn’t mean to fall back asleep, but sleep takes him anyways, his eyes blinking shut under the hypnotic pattern of your breathing beside him. He’ll wake up again groggier now, but there is nothing to be done to change it. He tugs you in closer, rougher in his sleep, his neediness permeating his unconscious mind until you’re pressed square against him. The movement spurs you awake, slowly and unintentionally, though it takes you a moment to understand why. 

There he is, your man, your darling boy, mouth hanging open with quiet, rumbling snores, arms wrapped around you in a protective lock. He’s never looked more beautiful, even with your eyes out of focus, one closed and pressed into the fabric of your pillowcase. You can smell the soap, feel the softness of his now cleansed skin beneath your curious fingertips, and you know he’s already been out of bed. He tries his best not to fall back asleep, but your smile curves wider to be blessed to see it. There’s a jealousy in you, after all, that he gets to watch you sleep so often. Times like these are rare, when you awaken first, and you’re greedy in your enjoyment of them. You’d take a picture if you thought you could reach the camera, but the moment would spoil, you were sure. You commit it to memory instead, every dip and curve and freckle and hair burned into your head until it’s all you can see. You want his face to be a fading image that blinks to life behind every close of your eyes, an after image repeating itself well into the day when you’re far away from him. 

He is so lovely, and you are so in love. 

The alarm breaks the two of you out of your reverie, your body jolting at the surprise of it. Steve is slower to start this time, groaning a drunken sort of sound as you slam your hand down on the rattling clock. His arm tightens around you, dragging you until your body is half wedged under his own, your giggles drowning out into muffled chuckles as your face burrows into the crook of his neck. 

“I fell back asleep.” He mutters, closing his eyes with a sigh. 

“I know.” You coo back, adjusting the curve of your back to a more comfortable position, tangling legs between his own until you’re thoroughly wrapped. 

“You sound awake.” He mumbles back, squeezing at your waist with unmasked affection. “Were you up?” 

“Yeah.” It’s an airy sort of confession, made to match the tender strokes of fingers reaching to scrape lovingly at his scalp. “Just watchin’ you sleep.” 

“Perv.” He teases, kissing at your hair, mouth hungry and missing your skin entirely. He lights up as you giggle, his head lifting with heavy blinks to gaze down at you, hair pressed upwards into a lopsided mess. You do your best to pat it down for him. “You like what you see?” 

You crook your head to the side, focusing your gaze in a tender expression. “Something like that.” His brow arches curiously, leaving you to laugh again. “I love you, you moron.” 

His smile widens, head dropping to nuzzle his nose roughly into your cheek, lips catching on your jaw every so often with exaggerated noises of enthusiasm. “Love you too, baby.” 

There is silence for a minute, nothing but his lips dragging affection across the planes of your cheek, his hands wandering underneath the fold of your bedshirt to press fingertips into fading stretch marks across your hips. You’re worried he’ll fall asleep again, and you know you don’t have the heart today to wake him a second time. 

“You want breakfast? I can make jam on toast?” 

He hums a happy sound, though does nothing to release his grip on you. “Yeah, okay. Gonna have to escape me, though. Can’t make my arm move.” 

He pretends to try and shuffle his grip, putting on a little show with a pout when his hold does not dislodge. You roll your eyes, brushing the pad of your thumb against his brow bone. 

“Five more minutes, then.” 

Steve was back asleep within three.

[dearest-nell]

this is genuinely the funniest thing ive seen all day

[dearest-nell]

turbulence

e. munson x reader, 1.7k

summary: you and eddie are taking your first real vacation together, but the turbulence of the flight is enough to make anyone regret their mode of travel includes: established reader x eddie, eddie being a comfort king, just a bunch of sweetness all round warnings: flight warnings, stormy skies, reader is terrified of flying and the flight is a bit rocky. no real danger.

a/n: shoutout to random images on pinterest for inspiring this one

How the hell you’d thought that this was a good idea was anyone’s guess. 

The idea had been so simple; you and Eddie had run yourselves into the ground to save up for your first overseas trip – his first one ever. Well… not quite overseas, though Eddie had very decidedly announced that Hawaii counted all the same. It had come from a thousand nights of cheap noodle dinners and canned tuna to garnish, leaving you sure that you never again would touch a pack of the grimy stuff. Double shifts and weekend overtime earned you enough money to get you to the airport, an excitable Eddie half trembling with the thrill of the journey. 

He’d been up almost the entire night before tossing and turning, eager hands squeezing at your waist as he tried his best not to wake you. Restlessness was par for the course with him, but even more so, this trip had him vibrating on an entirely new frequency. He’d never been out of state until he met you, had never seen a plane any larger than the size of his thumb held comparatively to the sky. The best part, though, was that he was getting to share this all with you. His life had been a constant stream of new experiences, a high he’d never had the pleasure of knowing until he felt what it was like to be loved so wholeheartedly by another. There was nothing so thrilling to him as the idea of basking in the sun with you, blissfully drunk and happily snuggled on a shared beachside lounge. 

Discount resort be damned, you’d been savvy in finding the best bargain the travel agent could offer. Eddie had never thought frugal spending could be so fucking sexy before. 

You, however, could not share his excitement with equal merriment. Sure, the holiday part sounded like a dream, and all of Eddie’s wishful thinking and imaginings had made you fall even more in love with the idea. Getting there, however, was another story, because unlike Eddie, you had been on a plane before. One time too many, if anyone were to ask. 

You did not like the small spaces, the recycled air, the uniform packaged meals that all somehow tasted like plastic. There was never enough room, always too much noise, and worst of all, nowhere to go. Every plane trip was spent with you counting down the minutes until your feet touched solid ground once more, a sensation you somehow seemed to forget with every passing travel until the next occurred. 

The dread had begun to build inside the airport, your hand clasped rigidly around the strap of Eddie’s backpack, his movements and your directions guiding your joined bodies through the chaos. If he knew something was wrong, he did not dare to comment. You were quieter than usual, after all, but it was easy enough to chalk that up to the obnoxiously early flight you were catching. It was cheaper that way, and you could sleep on the plane, you’d justified to yourself. The hour was enough to quieten even the most talkative of beings, twilight skies lulling Eddie to a gentle drawl as he rattled on about your upcoming adventures. 

Now that you were on the plane, though, it seemed all the worse. You’d been so brave through the takeoff, chewing on a pack of gum until your jaw ached from the tension, your hand tucked firmly under Eddie’s on the seat rest. You’d given him the window, his delight at the magic of flight distracting you enough until you were safely coasting through the sky. 

Eddie had chosen to sleep not long after, his head pressed to the wall of the plane despite the low rumbles, a position that could not conceivably be comfortable to anyone but Eddie. He could sleep anywhere, you’d learned early on in your relationship, and it seemed planes were no exception. You, however, were wide awake, trying your best to lose yourself in a book and suppress that nauseating feeling slowly taking over. 

It was within the hour that the turbulence began, gentle rumblings of the plane triggering that hazy green seatbelt sign to ignite. The captain warned that it would likely get worse before it got better, a thought that only exacerbated your growing anxieties. Eddie somehow slept through it all, even as the aircraft began to tremble and jolt. You didn’t want to wake him, not when he was sleeping so comfortably, still dreaming of all the good things to come. It felt silly to be frightened by such a small thing. Planes were safe, you knew that, but that seemed to be the trouble with anxiety; logic never mattered when the fear was so heightened. 

It was only when a terrified squeak left your lips that Eddie’s eyes flew open, his body shooting up rigidly in reaction to the sound. He’d have heard it anywhere, that terror, his body conditioned into a state of protection for you. The back of his hand wiped lazily at the sleep in his eyes, his body turning to face you on instinct. 

“What’s wrong? You okay?” You could hear the exhaustion that tinged his words, his eyes softening as he took in the fright in your own. 

“Its–” Your voice drowned out under the weight of thunder, the jolt leaving the tray tables to rattle in its aftermath. You couldn’t make your words come out, your lips hanging open in a frozen cry. 

Eddie did not need the clarification. He had never thought to consider you, his brave, sweet creature might have such fears, leaving guilt to turn sour in his mouth as it settled across him, knowing he had left you to face your fears alone. “Oh, sweetheart.” The solidity of his arms encased around you, tucking you gently into the curve of his side, hand cradling the back of your skull and the small of your back to shield you from the rest of the plane. “It’s okay, you’re okay.” 

“We’re going to die.” You whined, lilting in devastation into the fabric of his shirt. 

Eddie tried not to chuckle, his smile itching with amusement. “We’re not gonna die. We’re gonna be fine.” 

“We’re literally going to die.” You tried again, clinging to him until your knuckles were an ashen, bone white. 

Another jolt of the plane had you wincing, forcing Eddie to lift his gaze and observe your surroundings. Other than a few anxious fliers, most of the passengers were beyond asleep, tucked neatly into their own rows of the plane. No one else had much cause for alarm, the crew were muddling along their usual routes with a look of calm that even a professional could not fake. 

He dropped his attention back to you, slowly prying you from his side just enough to lift the armrest from between you, a reassuring arm scooping you now closer than before into his embrace. He could feel the tremble in your body as you burrowed your way into his side, trying to block out every other sensation but the feel of his body against yours. 

“You wanna know how I know that we’re not gonna die?” He asked assuredly, cupping at the base of your skull to prop your head against his shoulder, his grip firm and grounding in all the ways that were so incredibly Eddie. He felt you nod, hair slipping through the gaps of his fingers with every movement. 

“Because the crew aren’t panicking. No one’s brushin’ up on procedure or trying to wake everyone up. They're not at emergency stations. I’m pretty sure half of them are gossiping over there, can you see?” 

He lifted his hand to point, watching as your gaze followed the extension of his index finger, your lower lip dragging between your teeth to chew upon nervously. They all looked so calm, exchanging little whispered comments until one gentleman threw his head back in a silent laugh, shaking his head at his co-worker. 

“If we were gonna die,” Eddie continued, calloused fingers dipping between the layers of fabric at your waist to rub at your skin, letting the heat of his body lull you into further comfort, “then they’d be movin’ a hell of a lot faster than that, right? We’re gonna be fine, so you don’t gotta worry bout a thing.” 

He could see the contemplation simmering in your eyes, weighing up your fears with his logic, trying to discern where he line was. It was no easy thing to overcome a fear, especially one like this, but he loved you just for trying, even if your trembling figure only settled a little in his embrace. 

“Could you hold me anyways? Just until it goes away.” You turned to him with such sincerity, eyes widened and imploring in your gaze. 

He softened a reassuring smile in return, reaching to hook your legs over the nearer of his own, draping your body over his in whatever way these budget seats would allow. “I’m not letting you go, honey, not for a minute. I’ll hold you all the way there, so just settle in. We’re gonna get through it together.” 

As tired as he was, as muddled as he sure felt, Eddie did not mind staying up just to give you that peace of mind. His head fell back into the headrest, propping him up to keep watchful gaze on the comings and goings around him. It took the responsibility off you, feeling assured that he was there to spot if something went wrong along the way. Somehow, with his gentle movements across the expanse of your back and his steady, rhythmic heartbeat thrumming just beside your ear, you slipped out of consciousness, the exhaustion of this already long day finally dragging you under. 

Eddie was only able to notice once the turbulence subsided, expecting you to perk up with a surveying glance, only to find the rise and fall of your chest slow and drowsy against his own. He pressed chapped lips to your forehead, letting his own eyelids hang low as his vision faded drearily. He could sleep now, satisfied with the idea that neither of you would wake again until your hard earned landing was in sight.

[dearest-nell]

Joe in black and white.

[dearest-nell]

House of the Dragon: Season 2 Opening + References [*book/show]