jade if I’m not too late and requests are still open, can you write bombshell!reader and spence’s first kiss? secretly I think it would be funny if the team saw a hickey on her neck or something that she didn’t expect but oh how I love how soft she is for spence
ty for your request ♡ fem, 1.2k
"It's classic, comfortable anger-excitation," you say, hitting the flat of your ballpoint pen against your fingertip, a repetitive tap. "But his geographical profile is everywhere. No one place is untouched, but if he's as practised as we think he is, he'd kill away from home."
"Then he's not practised, he's an expert," Hotch says in the seat beside you. "He knows to divert our attention."
Your tapping increases. Spencer takes a few steps back and puts his hand over yours. You glance up at him. He mimes a deep breath for you to copy. You do it without complaint.
You're so focused on being perfect that sometimes you forget to breathe. You're very good at being perfect, in Spencer's opinion, perfect hair, perfect face, perfect frenetic hands. And you're doubly perfect at whatever this is, smiling at him with an unquantifiable emotion in what's probably the prettiest set of eyes on planet Earth.
Spencer puts your pen on your notebook and goes back to his board. The locations of each murder are tacked into a map. You weren't kidding when you said everywhere.
You're in one of the poorest places in America, and the police station reflects that. There's no conference room for you guys to work undisturbed, and the beat cops and deputy alike can hear and see everything you're doing. Most have the manners to leave you alone, but you're you; you tend to draw attention.
You've taken up the pen again, clicking and unclicking incessantly. It's an annoying sound but you're not aware that you're doing it, too determined on cracking the case before anything worse happens. Your team knows to ignore you, or even to disarm you. Emily snags the pen from your hand with a friendly laugh. "Jesus, you're tightly wound today."
"Mm," you murmur, struggling to pull yourself from your notes. A few more seconds and you look up with a blinding smile, "That's because Spencer skimped on my neck massage last night."
"Come on, pretty boy," Morgan says, though his heart isn't truly in it, "I thought you knew better."
Spencer shakes his head. You and Spencer had very separate hotel rooms and no sensual touching occurred, but he loves how happy this running joke makes you, so he stays quiet.
"He knows everything," you say, backtracking, "That's why he's gonna make me a cup of coffee. He knows exactly how I like it."
He leaves to make you a cup of coffee, but he was heading that way anyway for his own. He's thinking to himself that coffee is a bad idea and that he wishes he was better at saying no to you when you follow him in, your arms already open as you close the two or three steps to his chest and hug him over the shoulders.
"You didn't say anything when you left," you worry, your embrace overwhelming, sweet and soft and with a loving squeeze to round it off. "I wasn't being bossy, was I?"
You can be, but not this time. "Shut up, you know I'll make you a cup of coffee whenever you want it."
"That so?" you ask.
There's an excess energy you haven't managed to kick today racing through you. He can see the restlessness in your smile, no matter how glitzy.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
Spencer's poorly kept secret is that he's obsessed with you. You dote on him, you tease him, you torture him, but Spencer wants all of it and more. He likes being the centre of your attention, loves how your fond flirtation has changed to plain affection, and he would do anything you asked him to if it meant you were gonna kiss his cheek at the end. He thinks you're beautiful and electric and a thousand yards out of his league, and he thinks you're the nicest woman they ever made under all your bravado because not once have you encouraged that line of thought —you like him for him. You don't want him to change. You don't need anything from him he can't give to you.
His simple question transforms you, your glossy lips perking immediately into a smile. "Why wouldn't I be okay?"
"You seem tense. I've never given a massage before, but I can actually try," he offers.
Your hand cups his cheek, your voice aglow with a saccharine quality, "You're lovely, that's why. Maybe I'll take you up on it later–"
"It's not like–"
You'd been attempting a sweet thank you, and Spencer was brushing it off, but somewhere in the middle of it you'd gone up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Spencer —idiot, uncoordinated, inexperienced, is going to hate himself later Spencer— turned away from your touch to argue with you, directing your lips against his.
Soft, sticky, pretty lips pressed to his.
You set back on your heels quickly. Your eyes are wide, beautiful but flared in shock, a sheepishness tugging your brows together as you say, "I'm so sorry."
"It's my fault," he says quickly, braceleting your wrist in his hand, "I'm sorry–"
You both lean back in for a second kiss at the same time. Spencer's head angled down and your chin tipped ever so slightly upward, you close your eyes as he closes his, completely silent. It's not often you're quiet. Spencer doesn't mean to, but he kisses too hard, too much, forcing your hand from his cheek as he grabs you either side of the head to keep you in his reach.
Your breath comes out in a huff that lights his nerve endings on fire, the barest hint of your voice tacked to it like a sigh of relief, like you're taking the edge off in the circle of his arms. Spencer's hand slides behind your head to hook you in, your lips parting at the seam from the pressure. You feel the heat of him and respond with vigour, your hand a nagging demand at the small of his back, pulling him closer, closer, as his other hand trails down your arm.
Your elbow bumps the coffee mugs, it really is his fault, and you spring away from him like you think you've been caught. Smiling, a kid with her hand in the cookie jar, you throw your gaze around the room to check you're still alone before stepping forward to laugh against his mouth.
That's a good sound. A great reaction. You have more patience than Spencer, dotting kisses thick with lip gloss up into his top lip, your mouth just open enough for him to feel faint.
"It was really an accident," he says between shorter, kinder kisses.
"I know," you murmur, words smushed. You steal a last rather frantic one before you stop, breathing funny, hands smoothing down the hair you'd mussed initially with sorry tenderness. "Was that okay?"
He puts his hand on your hip, refusing to gratify what feels like a silly question with a response when you can't not know he's been wanting to kiss you for weeks. Maybe months. "Are you sure you're fine?"
You smile at him like you know something he doesn't. "I'm sure, Spence. I think I just needed to do that."
A/N: Set before season 3 finale, but during season 3. Thank you @vigilantexreader for the beta!
Summary: Steve has been secretly dating Hopper's daughter for the past seven months, and they finally decide it's time to tell him.
Masterlist
____
Steve has made a lot of stupid decisions in his life. Like too many to really count. But he has been trying to make amends on a lot of them.
Being friends with Tommy H. and Carol for as long as he did.
For breaking Jonathan’s camera.
For not sticking up for Nancy when he should’ve.
He likes to think he’s made himself good on a lot of those and that he’s been becoming a better person in the process. Someone that deserved friends and deserved peace of mind.
But truly, he thinks this moment takes the fucking cake as he has Police Chief Jim Hopper’s daughter under him in the back of his beamer.
Her hand was practically glued in his hair as she kept him close, nipping at his lips and chasing him with a hungry groan. One that makes Steve smile against her.
“You’re insatiable.” He murmured, before moving his lips to her neck, she writhed underneath him pressing herself up against him.
“Nothing above the collar, Harrington. You know the rules.” She said, one of her hands coming to tapping his shoulder.
“Yeah, yeah. I know the rules.” He said softly, placing a soft kiss on her lower jaw before moving down. “You sure your dad’s not going to come looking for you?”
“He’s on a date with Joyce, just gotta be back before 9:30. El will cover for me.” She said and Steve smiled, lucky that El seemed to like Steve well enough to let him sneak around with her sister.
“Is she still the only one who knows?” He murmured and he felt her grip loosen with a sigh and it’s as if all the excitement had been sucked out of the care at Steve’s words.
“Steve…” She said softly looking up at him, her eyes were wide and her lips were glossy. She was a pure picture of beauty in Steve’s eyes.
God, he liked her. She was like no one else he had met before and she didn’t even come close to falling for Steve’s usual charm.
No, she didn’t express any interest in him till his fall from grace and the first time he had stepped up to help the kids. She had looked at him with a crooked grin, one that sent his heart racing and a goofy grin across his face.
It was after taking Dustin to the Snowball dance. Steve had stood outside of his beamer, watching the door making sure that he was okay that he had noticed her. She was leaning against the school as Hopper escorted El to the door, she was wearing a big smile, one that made Steve’s heart do flips even if she wasn’t looking at him.
But after El went inside and Hopper looked like he was going to have a heart attack did she pat his arm and then make her way towards Steve.
“You’re still on babysitter duty?” She asked, joining Steve against his beamer, her arms crossed.
“Nah, I mean not like officially. Dustin had asked me for some girl advice so I wanted to drive him to the dance.” He said, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly feeling shy around a girl he’s known his entire life. Granted she still was the chief of police’s daughter so some general fear was always warranted.
“That’s…surprisingly kind of you, Harrington.” She nodded as if she was truly surprised, for a second Steve’s heart twinged knowing that just a year ago she must’ve thought he was the biggest asshole on planet earth.
But he had a chance to change it.
“Thanks, you guys dropping El off?” He asked, feeling uncomfortable under the attention.
“Yeah, just for thirty minutes. It’s the longest we could convince my dad, but it’s better than nothing.” She said with a shrug, Steve watched her rub her arms up and down, attempting to warm herself.
“Wanna sit with me for a bit? The beamer’s warm.” He said pointing at his car and he watched her bite her lip and look over to where Hopper was looking at them with his arms crossed.
“Give me one sec,” she said before leaving Steve to run over to her dad. Steve watched nervously as she talked to Hopper, never once did the man’s eyes leave Steve. He couldn’t make out any of what was said, but he could feel his own nerves flaring with every passing second.
It wasn’t long till she made her way back to him, Hopper watching them closely.
“He said to tell you that he’s going to be watching us just as much as he’s watching El and to remind you that he does in fact have a firearm on him right now.” She said brightly as she got in his passenger seat. Steve gulped as he looked over at Hopper before getting into his car, hands only slightly shaking.
“You don’t think he’d actually kill me, right?” He asked as he kept his eyes out the window and she laughed next time. He turned to look at her with a smile, her laugh was beautiful and he wanted to bottle it up and carry it around whenever things got too hard.
“At least not for just talking to me, try anything fishy Harrington and I won’t be able to protect you from him.” She teased and Steve laughed, bright and loose.
There’s a feeling brewing in the car, one that Steve hadn’t felt in a while, that he thought he’d never really feel again. At least not from anyone in Hawkins, but he can’t help it. She immediately makes him feel at ease and calm.
He finds himself going back time and time again after the Snowball dance, going out of his way to be around her. When she visits him at Scoops he’s always offering her as many samples as she wants, anything to keep her near. They both danced around their feelings for probably too long, longer than necessary because once Steve finally got her in his grasp, his heart open, he had no plans to let her go.
It was clear that she felt the same, always reassuring Steve that she was still there and still very much liked him.
Plus, sneaking around the Police Chief had been exciting and fun for both of them, until the reality and limitations of their relationship became clear.
“Steve…telling everyone opens a whole can of worms, worms that by the way have guns and have threatened to kill every boyfriend I’ve ever had.” She said pushing Steve off of her, he was quick to move and they both found themselves sitting, half undressed, in the back of his beamer.
“I know, but like, it’s been seven months, surely if they know it’s serious they’ll be a little more forgiving.” He said and she frowned, causing Steve to panic. “I’m not trying to pressure you, I swear…it’s just you make me so unbelievably happy I just want to share that. I want to be able to tell Dusin, I want to be able to hold your hand around the mall, I want us to be able to be seen together in public without having to worry that someone is watching us.”
“I want all that too, Steve. I do, it’s just complicated.” She said softly, one of her hands coming to rest on his cheek. Steve looked down, unable to meet her eyes as his heart felt heavy in his chest. “My dad…he’s crazy. I love him, but he’s insane. He tells me repeatedly I’m not allowed to date till I’m 35.”
“But maybe, he’d change his mind if he knew it was me,” he tried and she looked at him with a knowing look. “Okay, point taken. If he saw how happy you are, maybe he’d change his mind.”
“I don’t know.” She said, biting her lip.
“He came around to El and Mike. Come on, I'm not as bad as Wheeler.” He said and she laughed, causing Steve to laugh. A comfortable silence fell between them as she moved closer to him in the seat. Her hand came to tuck some of his hair behind his ear.
“You want to tell him?” She asked, gently and Steve’s eyes went wide. Her tone revealed something new to Steve, it was a quiet concession, a chance to change how they’ve been doing this. A chance to hold her hand, through every day.
If they tell Hopper, they can tell anyone.
“Do you?” He asked.
“I’m not the one he’s going to kill and hide in the woods,” she said honestly and Steve chuckled. “But I do, Steve. I do want to tell him.”
“Then it’s settled, tomorrow I’ll come over for dinner?” He said, one of his hands coming to squeeze her waist.
“Alright, Stevie. It’s a date.” She said before leaning back in to kiss him. “Until then, we have at least one hour before I absolutely have to be home.”
“Well, we better take advantage of that.” Steve chuckled as he captured her bottom lip between his, pulling slightly. He felt her press against him, pulling herself into his lap before both hands found their way in his hair, his hands on her waist. “Especially before tomorrow.”
_______
Yesterday in the car felt like a lifetime ago, the happy little bubble had long been popped as he stood on the cabin’s doorstep. The bouquet of flowers was clenched tight in his hand. He had raised his other hand three times now, but each time had stopped himself from actually knocking.
It wasn’t too late, he could go home and call her, tell her they should wait a little longer.
“Come on, Harrington.” He mumbled before knocking, every so lightly as if there’s a chance she’s not listening ever so closely for him. He heard her before he saw her, he smiled as he heard her practically throw herself to the door as she opened it with a nervous smile.
“You ready for this?” She asked, jerking her head to the side and he knew the moment she fully opened that door there was no turning back for either of them.
“With you by my side? Always.” He said and she smiled, but moved to open the door more, taking the flowers from him with a sweet look that sent his heart racing as he joined her inside the warmth of the cabin. Steve is immediately greeted by a cozy cabin, one that he was sure could be used in a movie. It looked lived in and filled with love, a stark contrast to Steve’s own home with his parents. His eyes look over to different pictures of the wall, there’s music softly playing, and his eyes finally land on the man in question, Police Chief Jim Hopper standing in the kitchen, wearing an apron looking at Steve with narrowed eyes.
“Harrington, what are you doing here?” He asked, hands coming to rest on his waist. Steve stood, almost frozen until her hand came to rest in his, lacing their fingers tightly together.
“Dad…” She started, very gently, but Hopper’s eyes were locked on Steve, only flickering slightly to their clutched hands. Steve watched as Hopper’s body turned even more strained.
“What’s Steve doing here? Are you lost?” He said, voice tense as he looked over at his daughter.
“Dad, meet my boyfriend Steve Harrington.” She tried, voice was steady as if she was trying to calm the rising storm.
“Meet? Do you know how many times I’ve ‘met’ this douchebag making out with girls at Skull Rock? How much trouble this guy has caused me?” Hopper said, moving closer to them and Steve fought every urge to run. He tried to focus on the feeling of their hands together but the whole cabin was starting to feel blurry to Steve. The tension was thick and almost suffocating.
“What's a douchebag?” El asked from the couch looking between the two men, completely ignoring all tension from the three adults. Steve was almost thankful for the slight interruption.
“Douchebag is what Steve is, it’s in the dictionary, trust me.” Hopper said getting close to the young couple.
“Dad, come on.” She whispered and Steve finally looked over at her. He knew he shouldn’t be terribly surprised that she willingly would go against her dad - Steve had been on the other end quite a few times of her stubbornness.
“Don’t dad, come on me!” He said throwing his hands up and turned his back to them. The three watched the older man start to pace, turning around a few times to start to say something but only to catch himself.
“I invited, Steve, my boyfriend of seven months-”
“Seven months!” Hopper exploded, it’s then Steve felt her let go of his hand and before he could even react, he watched her grab Hopper by the arm and drag him into one of the back rooms, slamming the door behind them.
Steve stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, turning to El who was just watching them from the couch.
“How do you think that’s going?” He joked, pointing to the door and Eleven shook her head with a small smile.
“Not good. Maybe your nana will die.” She said very ominously. Steve gave a nervous smile and made a mental note to ask her what the fuck El meant by that when they were finally out of dodge with Hopper. “Come sit.” She finally said and Steve walked slowly but sat next to her.
“Thanks for covering for us all these months.” Steve said softly and El smiled at him.
“You make her happy.” She said simply, as if that made all her lies and covering worth it. Steve smiled at El and she returned the smile.
“She makes me really happy too.” He said with a shrug as he looked at the door. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what she was telling Hopper, he had no idea what would even convince Hopper to be okay with any of this.
He knew that Hopper didn’t believe that Steve had changed in any capacity, but he had. He knew he had, he could practically feel the differences and the guilt that overtakes him in certain moments. But she had made him feel the difference in his actions and his choices. The changes in his heart, the need to be around her and keep her safe almost immediately overtook him.
He just needed Hopper to trust him long enough for him to prove it to him.
It’s then when he’s lost in his thoughts that the door slammed open, both Steve and El jumped as Hopper made a beeline towards him. Stopping when he’s right in front of him, finger pointed in his face. Steve was wide eyed and tense, but remained still as he watched his girlfriend peer from behind Hopper with a smile, putting him slightly at ease.
“If you are stupid and you hurt my daughter, they will not find you Harrington. Do you understand me?” Hopper said under his breath and Steve stiffened.
“Yessir.” He answered when one breath, eyes wide on Hopper’s not looking away for a second. Hopper paused for just a second before sighing and moving back to the kitchen.
“Dinner’s in five minutes, keep your hands where I can see them at all times, Harrington.” Hopper said before turning towards the kitchen. Steve looked up at her, who was smiling with arms crossed as she looked down at Steve.
“What did you say to him?” He whispered and she shrugged as she walked over to him to press a kiss to the side of his head as El watched them.
“Just that you make me happy and that he can kill you if that ever changes.” She whispered against his temple and Steve let out a laugh.
“And I’d let him.” He said, turning his head to catch her in a kiss, a loud clang in the kitchen pulling the two apart with a sheepish look as they both turned to Hopper.
“Go set the table, kid.” Hopper said and she smiled before squeezing Steve once and heading into the kitchen. Steve released a breath that he had been holding ever since he had walked into the cabin. He knew he still had work to do to prove himself to Hopper, but this was a start.
Plus, if it was this hard to tell Hopper, he couldn’t wait for the breeze that would be telling Dustin.
Could you do a Steve Harrington x reader season 5. She’s been feeling kinda weird and discreetly tries to ask Murray to smuggle in a pregnancy test for her. She takes it with Robin there as emotional support and it’s positive. She freaks out cause it’s the worst time ever to have this happen. She keeps telling Robin she’ll tell Steve but keeps avoiding it. Steve knows somethings up but can’t quite place it. The boppers 100% make her nauseous. And they’re doing pretty dangerous stuff to which Robin constantly scolds her for.
Not So Perfect Timing
steve harrington x f!reader
wc: 3.4k
a/n: hope u enjoy! as always any feedback is very appreciated! requests are open!!!
You had been having a funny feeling lately. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but something felt off. You felt more tired, your stomach was achy, and your boobs were sore. So sore. You brushed it off, telling yourself your stomach and breast pains were because of your upcoming period, and you were tired from late nights at the Sqwuak and an increased number of Crawls the gang had been doing lately. Surely it would all pass when your period came.
Except, it never did. At first, you brushed that off, too. It had been a little late before; your cycles were never perfect. But a week passed, then two. Robin had been growing suspicious, and you knew the girl could read you like an open book, so you decided to confide in her.
“I’m sorry, you’re how late?!” You looked at your friend sheepishly, feeling a tad guilty for the panic you could tell was now coursing through her. It was just the two of you in the Sqwuak booth, Steve having gone out on a snack run. “Two weeks. But that doesn’t mean anything.” Robin looked at you, bewildered. “Two weeks is a lot! Especially if you have obvious symptoms. I mean, your boobs hurt, and you’ve kinda been grumpy lately.” You roll your eyes at her observation. “Rob, I’m just tired and stressed. We all are. These Crawls are draining.”
Robin ignores your lame excuse. “Are you dinguses not using protection?” You bite your lip. “I mean, we were! Then we sorta ran out of condoms. And they are so hard to come by in town now, so we… use other methods. But we’re always safe! There was only… one slip up.” Robin looked exasperated. “One? There should be none! You know, celibacy is the best method!” You groan at your friend’s words. “It was an accident. We were high! And it was only one time. What are the odds that the one time he doesn’t pull out, I get pregnant?” Robin’s face twists in disgust at your words, but she continues.
“Have you told Steve?” It was your turn to look at her, bewildered. “What? No! Absolutely not. There’s nothing- Look… I don’t even know for sure.” You say with a sigh as you plop down into the chair next to the one Robin sat in. “Murray comes today for a drop off. You can ask him to bring you some tests on his next run.” Robin spins around slowly in her seat while you sit in deep thought. “I mean… I guess it wouldn’t hurt.” Your friend stops as she faces you, leaning in close to catch your eye. “Hey, it’s gonna be okay. Promise.” You give her the best smile you could muster before leaning back in your chair, quickly putting up a front when you hear the main door to the building slam and Steve’s footsteps coming down the hallway.
Later that day, when Murray arrives to make his delivery, your stomach feels like it's in knots. You’re zoned out the entire time as you stand next to Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve, silently building up the courage you’re gonna need to accept your reality by asking Murray for this favor. When everything is unloaded, Robin makes sure to buy you time alone with Murray by making sure the others are hauling everything inside.
Murray pulls down the back door to his truck and turns on his heel, jumping back when he sees you’re standing behind him. “Ah! Christ! Would it kill you to speak? Or breathe? You know, if you give me a heart attack, there’s not going to be anyone to be your smuggler.” You wince and take a step back. “Sorry, Murray. I just… had a favor to ask—an off-the-record supply request.” Murray walks past you and around to the driver's side of the truck. “I don’t do off-the-record requests. If it’s requested, it goes on the list.” He says as he yanks the door open, and it creaks loudly. “Yes, you do. I know you smuggled in an engagement ring for Jonathan.”
The man pauses and turns around to look at you before sighing. “Fine. However, if it's anything crazy, you should know I can’t guarantee anything. Murray makes no promises.” You immediately shake your head. “No, this should be an easy request. Easier than a diamond ring, at least.” You glance back towards the building, making sure nobody has come back out. “I need a pregnancy test. Preferably multiple.” Murray stares down at you before a laugh erupts from his throat. “Maybe you kids should have added condoms to the list. Christ.” You roll your eyes, putting your hand on the truck door to stop Murray from closing it. “Murray, please.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll see what I can do, now, if you’ll excuse me. I will see you in one week.” Murray says as he slams the truck's door and starts the engine. You take a step back, watching as the truck disappears into a cloud of dust down the hill. You hear the door of the building open up and turn to see Steve popping his head out.
“Babe? You good?” He asks, brows furrowed slightly. You nod as you begin walking towards him. “Was just going over the new list with him one last time.” Steve nods, not questioning you in the slightest, and the two of you disappear inside.
-
Exactly one week later, you are standing outside the WQSK building watching as Murray distributes this week's goodies. He hands a couple of boxes of ammo to Nancy, some batteries to Jonathan, and tosses a box of Boppers to Steve. “Oh! Boppers! I missed these things!” He says as he grins from ear to ear. He holds the box up to your face, shaking it slightly, and you smile at your boyfriend.
You felt anxious, but you hid it well enough not to raise questions with anyone, not even Steve. In fact, you had done your best to wipe the suspicion from your brain until today, shutting down Robin any time she tried to bring it up.
Murray holds out a VHS box to you, pulling you from your thoughts. “And for you, as requested.” You stare down at the movie case before taking it from him. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.” You say, meeting the man’s gaze. Steve leans over your shoulder. “I thought you already had Pretty in Pink at home.” He says, looking at the movie clutched in your hands. You look up at him and almost panic. “I just told him to bring me any movies he finds. He didn't know I had this one already. It can be a backup.” You say quickly with a shrug. Steve eyes you suspiciously for a second before shrugging and pressing a kiss to your temple. “At least it’s your favorite.” He says before he walks away. As soon as he is a few feet away, you pop open the box and find four out-of-the-box but still wrapped pregnancy tests. For the first time in a week, reality has hit you once more.
-
Later that night, you’re sitting on the edge of the tub in your bathroom with Robin pacing the small space. “I mean, what are you even gonna do with a baby? You’re gonna have to give birth. I’ve heard horror stories from Vickie, and I mean horror. She’s seen some crazy shit in the hospital. I mean, you poop yourself when you give birth. Poop yourself!” You know your friend is spiraling; it wasn’t uncommon when she was nervous, and you know she meant well, but right now, it was the last thing you could handle.
“Robs! Please stop talking!” You snap. That was a newer symptom, irritability. You immediately feel guilty as Robin halts in her spit, staring at you like a deer in headlights. “I’m sorry, I’m just… I’m really fucking scared, and you’re panicking isn’t helping.” Robin is instantly nodding at your words. “Right, of course. I’m so sorry. I’ll be calm now. You need me.” She watches as you sit on the tub with your gaze burning holes into the pregnancy tests clutched in your fist. “Staring at them and putting it off won’t change the result. Come on, quit torturing yourself. I’ll be here the entire time.”
And she was. Even as you sat on the toilet and peed onto the sticks, Robin stood in the corner, facing the wall. And as you set the timer you had taken from the kitchen, she sat next to you, ready to hold your hand. While you waited, she tried to lighten the mood by cracking jokes or telling you funny stories about working with Steve.
When the time goes off, you jump slightly. Robin reaches over and turns the dial to shut off the ringing. She takes a deep breath and squeezes your hand. “Ready?” You nod slowly, gaze glued to where the tests were lined up on the counter, but making no move to look at them. “Do you want me to look at them?” Robin asks, but you shake your head. “No, I need to do this.” You say before pushing yourself up and walking to the sink.
You look down at the tests and feel the world around you begin to collapse. You feel your stomach rising in your throat and make a quick turn for the toilet in time to spill the contents out. Robin takes a look at the test, confirming what your reaction already told her. Pregnant. She drops to her knees and rubs your back, letting you get it out of your system. When you sit up and flush the toilet, you’re crying, and Robin is quick to pull you into her arms.
“Hey, it’s okay. You and Steve have always talked about kids. So what if it’s earlier than planned?” Your friend tries her best to be reassuring, but she knows why you’re so distraught over the revelation. “This world, this town… I never wanted to bring a child into this until it was over.” You say weakly, your tears already drying up. God, you had to tell Steve. What would he even say? Sure, you had talked about kids, had planned out names and everything. But now? Right now, you were still fighting the hell that was brewing underneath Hawkins. How were you supposed to become parents now?
Your head hurt, and your body was exhausted. Robin helped you into bed and crawled in next to you, only falling asleep once you assured her you would tell Steve the next day.
-
Except you don’t. In fact, three days go by without you having told Steve. Robin feels like she’s going crazy, and you feel like you’re going crazier. You just couldn’t push yourself to tell him. You knew you didn’t have much longer to get away with it. Your list of symptoms was growing, and you could tell he was starting to get suspicious. But a part of you still hoped that if you ignored it, it would go away.
It’s a Thursday night, and the gang is currently conducting a Crawl. You’re sitting in the passenger seat of the WSQK van, with Steve in the driver's seat. You have the headphones to the radio halfway on your head, not paying too close attention. Tonight was more of a mini Crawl with no big plans, just Hopper retracing steps in an area he had been in the week before, so no one was on very high alert.
You were flipping through some old Cosmo you had found lying around the studio, and Steve was munching on one of his precious Bopper bars. The smell of peanut butter filled the van, making you slightly nauseous, so you cracked the window to keep it at bay. You’re mid-article when Steve is shoving the snack bar in your face. “You wanna bite?” You glance over at Steve, who is smiling at you softly with a cookie crumb on the corner of his mouth. The sight would’ve made you smile, and you normally would have taken a bite, or honestly had one for yourself. But now, with it sitting under your nose, making the scent stronger, your stomach rolled.
You grimace, gently pushing his hand away. “No, thank you, baby.” Steve furrows his brow before setting the bar onto the dash and turning in his seat. “Okay, what’s with you? You never turn down a Bopper.” You shrug, turning back to your magazine. “I’m just not feeling well. It’ll upset my stomach.” Steve goes to say something else when you hear the signal on Hopper change. “We’ve got movement.” Is all you say as you readjust your headphones and hop into the back, and give Steve directions.
The two of you had tracked Hopper all the way back to the MAC-Z, then turned around and drove back to the WSQK station. At some point, while tracking Hopper back, something wonky had happened with the radio signal. So when you and Steve had made it back, and you had no luck fixing it from the inside, you hoisted yourself onto the hood of the van before climbing up on the roof.
Steve is jumping out of the van, running a stressed hand through his hair as he looks up at you. “Whoa, whoa! Hey, what are you doing?” He’s asking you from the ground as you begin to adjust the satellite. “I’m just seeing if anything is loose up here.” By that time, the others are coming out to meet you. When Robin’s eyes land on you on top of the van, she quickens her pace. “Hey! You need to get down! Seriously!”
You roll your eyes as you wiggle something around. “I’m fine.” Robin is quickly firing back in a slightly panicked tone. “Y/N, please. You are the last person who needs to be up there. We’ll get Henderson here tomorrow to deal with it.” You freeze at her words, the meaning behind them clear as day to you and her, but no one else. Your gaze flickers to Steve, who glances between you and Robin with a confused look. You sigh before carefully sliding from the roof to the hood. Steve and Robin are instantly there, both reaching out to help you down. This only raises Steve’s confusion.
“Thanks.” You mutter to them. Robin looks at you, then at Steve, before looking back to you. She gives you a look that clearly says ‘If you don’t tell him soon, I will.” You nod slightly before looking up at Steve. “Can we go home? I’m tired.” Steve nods, then takes your bag from your shoulder and leads you to his maroon beamer. Silence falls over the car as the two of you buckle up, and he shifts the car into gear. You only get a minute down the road before Steve is breaking the silence, his thumb rubbing circles on your jean-clad thigh. “Sweetheart… are you okay?” You feel nauseous. Nauseous from the stress, from the boppers, from the guilt of keeping this from your best friend. The one person you tell everything.
“Steve, I have something to show you. But it really needs to wait until we're home.” Steve looks at you, trying to read your face between glances at the road. After a moment, he nods. “Okay.” His voice is barely above a whisper. The rest of the drive to Steve’s house is quiet, save for the soft hum of the radio.
When you finally pull up at the big (and empty) Harrington residence, Steve hops out and jogs around to the passenger side to open your door. The two of you make your way inside, and Steve goes into the kitchen. You follow behind him, bringing your bag with you. As Steve opens the fridge are looks around in it, you hop up on one of the barstools and set your bag down on the counter in front of you. You open it up and slowly pull out the Pretty in Pink VHS box Murray had given you. You slide it across the counter, and Steve turns around and frowns. He steps away from the fridge, letting the door shut as he walks over to look down at the movie case.
“Pretty in Pink? That’s what you wanted to show me? We just watched it like three weeks ago, babe.” Steve says with a soft laugh, but stops when you shake your head. “Open it.” You can only bring your voice to a whisper. Your throat feels tight, and your heart is pounding in your chest. In that moment, you’re wishing for a million different realities for you and Steve- ones with better circumstances.
Steve reaches for the case and pops it open, and doesn’t find a VHS tape, but instead four positive pregnancy tests. His hands shake as he sets the box down and stares at the contents. Finally, after what felt like years of silence, his shaky voice breaks it. “What is… Is this… Are you…?” He can’t even form words as he looks up at you, glassy eyes shining in the dim light of the kitchen. Your bottom lip trembles, feeling yourself crack under the pressure. “I’m sorry.” Is all you can manage before the floodgates open, a sob leaving your mouth.
Steve is at your side in an instant, pulling you into his strong arms. “Baby, baby. Why are you sorry? You have nothing to be sorry for, sweet girl.” Steve’s voice is soft, but you can hear his tears. You bury your face further into his chest, letting it all out. After a few minutes of crying while Steve rubs your back gently, you finally find the courage to pull back and face him. He immediately takes your face into his hand and brushes his thumbs across your cheeks to wipe away any tears.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this. We aren’t safe yet. We’re still living through hell. We were supposed to have a few more years. There was supposed to be no more Upside Down, no more Vecna. Just you and me, finally at peace, ready to settle down. In our own place, decent jobs, and married. This is the worst time it could happen, and I’m sorry.” Your rambling brings more tears to your eyes, stinging as they threaten to spill over your lashes.
“Sweetheart, listen to me. You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m not upset. In fact, I’m really fucking happy. Sure, the timing isn’t what we planned, but no one can plan out their life to a T. I promise you, I’m gonna do everything in me to keep you and our baby safe. And by the time Little Harrington comes, they’re not gonna have to worry about any of this Upside Down crap. I promise. We’re gonna figure it out.”
The tone of Steve’s voice and the way he’s looking at you with such love and devotion make the tears spill over. He’s quick to swipe them off your cheeks as they fall. “I’ve known for a couple of days. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” Steve shakes his head, dismissing your apology. “Don’t apologize. I’m just happy you told me now.” He’s smiling down at you, and it makes a small smile tug on your lips. “You’re not upset? About any of this?” Steve scoffs, grinning at you. “Upset? I’m ecstatic. But I need you to promise me something.” You hum, looking up at him expectantly.
‘Don’t do anything stupid anymore, like climbing on top of the van. From now on, you have to be careful. No recklessness, no heavy lifting. You leave all of that to me.” You smile and nod. “I guess I can agree to that.” Steve smiles at you before leaning in to peck your lips. “Good.”
-
A little while later, the two of you are in bed, wrapped in each other's arms, Steve’s hand resting protectively on your belly beneath your shirt. “You know, this explains a lot. I’m surprised I hadn’t connected the dots before now.” You look up at him from where you lie on his chest with a raised brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve looks down at you, as if it had all been the most obvious thing. “Uh, you’ve been sick, you're tired a lot, you’ve been a little crankier than usual-”
“Hey!” You gasp, swatting at his arm as you laugh softly. “Oh! And the boppers! You never turn down boppers! You were so offended that I was even eating one in your presence!” Steve's voice is playfully exasperated, making you giggle harder. “I’m sorry! The smell and sight of them made me wanna throw up! Now, maybe if I had some pickles to eat with them…”
pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!reader
summary: you think it’s nothing—just a one-off, a fluke—when bucky softens at the sight of a baby in your arms during a cookout. but then it keeps happening. babies at airports. babies on recon. babies in vending machine ads. and every time, he looks at you like you’re the answer to a question he hasn’t asked out loud yet. he starts carrying gum “in case someone’s kid gets fussy on a flight,” stares too long at tiny boots in store windows, and once, unironically, asks if your hypothetical child would like goats. you’re not dating. officially. no one knows. but you’ve been sharing a bed for months and he makes you tea without asking and you’re starting to have dreams about pacifiers. he’s subtle about it. until he’s not. until he’s standing at a target, holding a baby hat like it cracked his ribs open, and says he wants a family—with you. not someday. now.
word count: 10.7k
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv, oral (f! receiving), soft dom bucky, light bdsm undertones, bucky barnes being whipped (he gets the baby fever first let's bffr), kind of feral bucky, you think you guys are in a situationship when he's fully looking at baby registries, nipple play, yearning, angst, dirty talk, praise, overstimulation, self-induced angst, multiple orgasms, talks of pregnancy and starting a family, marathon sex, riding, fingering, body worship, size kink, bucky picks the reader up, he talks you through it, breeding kink, unprotected sex, creampie
notes: this is the most unhinged, feral thing i've ever written. i hope you enjoy!
The baby gets handed to you like a bread basket.
No warning, no instruction manual. Just, “Here, can you hold her for a sec?” from someone—one of the off-duty OXE staff maybe, or someone’s civilian cousin. You don’t catch a name, just a flurry of motion, and then—
She’s in your arms.
Somehow, between the last debrief and the next recon drop, a grill appeared in the Watchtower's rooftop patio, along with several folding chairs, a cooler full of Avengers-branded soda, and one slightly charred volleyball. You suspect Val had something to do with it. Some psychological team-building exercise disguised as a cookout.
Either way, you’re here.
She’s maybe seven months old, squishy-cheeked and furrow-browed, in a tiny Sentry onesie. Her hair is an indecisive wisp of something light brown, fine and floaty like thistle down, and her eyes—heavy-lidded, contemplative—regard you as though you’re a particularly uninspiring segment of the Discovery Channel.
“She’s—uh,” you say, because your brain’s buffering. “Hi?”
“Hey,” you say again, dumbly.
Next to you, Bucky lowers his beer so slowly it’s like watching a magic trick. He blinks once, then again, like he’s not sure you’re real or the baby is. Possibly both.
“What—why—did you steal a baby?” he asks.
“She was just handed to me.”
You shift, trying to get comfortable. She’s a solid little thing, warm like a fresh loaf of bread, and her hand is currently fisting your collar with alarming purpose. Your shirt stretches under the assault.
Bucky’s still staring. You can feel it—like a sunlamp trained directly at your temple. His mouth is parted slightly. One finger taps against the side of his bottle, rhythmically, unconsciously.
“She’s fine,” you say. “I’m holding her fine, right?”
“Yeah. No, yeah. You look—good.”
You glance at him. His eyes snap up to yours, then away again, like they touched something they weren’t supposed to. The tips of his ears are pink.
You almost say something—tease him, maybe—but the baby chooses that moment to yawn, a full-body, jaw-cracking affair. She snuggles closer into your chest, small cheek pressing into the fabric of your shirt, and suddenly it’s less funny.
Bucky tilts his head, unreadable. “She trusts you already.”
“She’s a baby,” you say, trying to shrug it off. “She trusts anyone with a pulse.”
“No. She knows,” he says, like it’s a settled fact. His gaze lingers on the place where her fingers clutch your shirt, and then—slowly—drifts back to your face.
You feel that look all the way down your spine.
The barbecue hums around you—low, uneven, weirdly domestic for a group like this. Someone’s burned the corn on the grill again (probably Walker, judging by the smoke and the defensive muttering). Yelena’s holding court by the picnic table, sunglasses perched on her head, force-feeding Bob the world’s most questionable potato salad and narrating it like a cooking show. Alexei’s seated in a folding chair two sizes too small, already shirtless and red-faced, beer in hand, yelling something about meat science. Ava is off to the side, calmly reading the nutrition label on a bag of marshmallows like it might be a coded message.
But you and Bucky are caught in this little bubble. A stillness between the beats. The baby, breathing softly. Bucky, watching you like the moment means something more than he’s prepared to admit.
She shifts in your arms. Grunts. You adjust your hold, and Bucky makes a small, strangled noise.
“She good?” you ask.
“She’s—she’s got a strong neck,” he says, as though that’s a compliment. Then, after a second. “You’re really good with her.”
“You’ve seen me hold her for thirty seconds.”
“Still.”
You hold his gaze a beat longer than you should. It’s soft, something unguarded in it. You remember, vaguely, hearing Steve say once that Bucky used to watch people the way most men look at stars. Like there was something miraculous in the simple fact of their existence.
You think maybe you’re beginning to understand what he meant.
“She wants you,” you say, mostly to break the tension. The baby is reaching now, hands grasping toward the collar of Bucky’s henley like she’s on a tiny mission.
He stiffens. “She what?”
“She’s targeting you. Consider it payback for all that glaring you did at the diaper bag earlier.”
“I wasn’t glaring,” he says. “I was…assessing.”
You arch an eyebrow. “Well, she’s assessing you back. Here. Take her.”
You don’t give him a choice. You shift the baby into his arms, and despite all his protesting, he takes her like he’s afraid she’ll break—gently, like someone handed him a fragile truth.
For a moment, he just stands there—awkward, tense, unsure. His left arm, the vibranium one, catches the light in hard, gleaming lines. But then she sighs, her head lolls toward his shoulder, and his body reacts before his mind does—he cradles her closer, shifts to support her neck, leans in slightly like he’s listening to her breathe.
A hush settles around you.
“She’s warm,” he murmurs.
“That’s a good sign. You’d know if she was cold. Babies are very vocal about injustice.”
His eyes don’t leave the baby’s face. Those eyes—stormcloud blue, too old for his face, always a little wary—are softened now. They flick across her tiny features like he’s reading scripture. Absorbed. He sways just slightly, unconsciously, like some long-dormant instinct is waking up in his bones. “She’s got little eyelashes,” he says, like it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen.
“She’ll grow into them,” you say softly. “It happens.”
He’s silent a long time. The baby squeaks in her sleep and tugs at the collar of his shirt.
“She’s… safe,” he says, the word delicate on his tongue. “You can feel it, can’t you? Like the whole world isn’t so bad. Just—quiet, for once.”
Your chest aches.
He glances at you then, and for a split second, he looks completely vulnerable. Like there’s something perched just behind his teeth that he doesn’t know how to say.
You step closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough for proximity to pass as intimacy.
“Bucky.”
He doesn’t look away from you.
“I think you’d be good at it,” you say quietly. “The whole dad thing.”
You watch the thought settle on him—slow and heavy, like snowfall. He blinks, once. Breathes in, shallow. His jaw shifts, like he might say something and doesn’t. And then—
“I’d want you there,” he says.
It’s not casual. Not joking. Just... real. A plain sentence, stripped of armor.
You freeze. The baby exhales against your collarbone like she’s aware of the moment and giving it space. Bucky, for his part, looks like he’s just handed you something delicate and possibly flammable.
“Oh,” you say, brilliant as ever.
And he nods. That’s it. A small thing. But he looks weirdly shell-shocked by the admission, like he’d surprised himself saying it aloud. Like he hadn’t even meant to. His smile comes after, slow and stunned and slightly lopsided—almost sheepish, as if he's staring straight at the sun and can’t quite believe it’s warm.
Then her parent’s voice breaks through, all cheerful gratitude. “Hey—thanks! I just needed a sec.”
You watch Bucky blink back into the moment, his hands reluctant as they ease from the baby’s back. He doesn’t quite give her up at first. His fingers linger on the edge of her onesie like they’re memorizing the feel of it. When he does let go, it’s too slow to be casual.
Just like that, the baby’s gone. The space she took up in your arms feels heavier now that it’s empty.
You glance sideways. So does he. But you don’t quite meet in the middle.
Instead, you reach for a napkin and hand it over wordlessly. He accepts it like it’s a diplomatic gesture, dabbing at the drool spot on his shoulder with a sort of distraction.
“She liked you,” you offer, voice quieter than you meant it to be.
His lips quirk. A ghost of a grin. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a silence after that—longer than it needs to be. Not uncomfortable, just... spacious. Like it’s waiting for someone to step into it. Neither of you do.
Then Bucky clears his throat. “Wanna go in on a pack of bibs?”
You blink. “What?”
He shrugs, suddenly preoccupied with smoothing the napkin along his leg. “Just—you know. For next time.”
You almost laugh. You want to. But something in your chest goes soft instead.
“Yeah,” you say. “Sure. Next time.”
.
Everyone else calls you “the new Avengers.” Valentina prefers to call you just "the Avengers," like saying it with enough fake reverence will make people forget it started as a Hail Mary branding ploy and ended with supernatural darkness swallowing half of New York.
You still call it the Thunderbolts in your head. Not out of loyalty. Just because it fits better.
Technically, you weren’t supposed to be on the roster. Neither was Bucky. He was busy playing congressman—pressed suits, policy meetings, public appearances where he looked like he’d rather be fighting a bear. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the job, but it was penance, or progress, or both, depending on who you asked. You’d been benched too, in a less official capacity. Tactical reassignment, they said, which is just HR speak for “we don’t know what to do with you yet.”
But then Bob Reynolds cracked in half like a cosmic wishbone. And everything went sideways.
They needed people who could navigate pocket dimensions without losing their minds. People who wouldn’t balk at the Void whispering their worst memories back to them in surround sound. People who could get in and out of a childhood bedroom that wasn't theirs, and still say the right thing.
You and Bucky, for better or worse, fit the bill.
Yelena vouched for you. You’d worked a few ops together—low-profile, high-risk, the kind of assignments that didn’t end up in press releases. Bucky came with his own résumé, mostly consisting of grim nods and trauma credentials.
So now you’re here. In a Watchtower with folding chairs and lunchboxes with your face on them. With a new badge and a code name you didn’t pick. With Bob, whose grip on sanity is improving in inches. With Ava, who can barely look at light too long without phasing through it. With Alexei, who’s taken to shirtless speeches and the New Avengers merch like a religion. With Walker, who somehow thinks this is a promotion.
And Bucky.
You don’t talk about what you are.
There’s no label. No neat little term to slot yourselves under, no status update or whispered confession over pillowcases. No one’s dared to say the word “relationship,” and yet you’ve brushed your teeth side by side, curled instinctively toward each other in sleep, passed cups of coffee back and forth like currency. You’ve learned each other’s silences. Memorized the geography of old scars. He knows how you like your eggs. You know when his silence means don’t ask and when it means please.
It’s not nothing. It never was.
You’re just not telling the others. Not because you’re ashamed—god, no—but because it’s yours. And because once the world knows something, it stops being sacred. It becomes strategy. Becomes leverage. People like Valentina will smile too wide and call it a liability. Alexei will make a crass joke. Walker will ask for details.
It’s easier this way. Quieter. Unnamed, it can’t be ruined.
And besides—you don’t even know what to call it. What to call him, when it’s three a.m. and he’s tucked behind you in bed, breath warm against your neck, arm slung around your waist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
Bucky’s not a man who rushes things. He moves like he’s learned the cost of wanting too much. And you—you’ve never let someone all the way in without already picturing the exit wound.
But moments like earlier—when he held that baby like she was breakable and looked at you like you were the answer to a question he hadn’t meant to ask—they’re getting harder to ignore.
You don’t think about it. Not actively.
You just… catalog. Silently. Like a squirrel with emotional acorns.
.
It’s past midnight when you find him again in the kitchen.
You knew he’d be here. You always do.
There’s leftover risotto on the stove and a mostly full bottle of red wine on the counter. He’s sitting at the tiny table like it’s a church pew—hunched a little, fork in hand, bare feet braced on the cold tile floor. His hoodie is soft with age, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and the vibranium arm glints under the light. His hair’s still damp from the shower.
He looks up when you pad in—doesn’t startle, doesn’t flinch. Just finds you with those soft, sleep-starved eyes like he’s been waiting for you. “You’re up.”
“So are you,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him. “Could smell garlic from my room.”
“I put more cheese in it this time,” he says, with the quiet pride of a man who’s learned domesticity through stubborn practice and YouTube videos.
You reach for the wine, pouring yourself half a glass. The silence between you is familiar. Easy. It’s the kind that grows roots.
“Bad dream?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says.
You nod. You don’t ask about it.
Instead, “You always this good at risotto?”
“First one was basically wallpaper paste,” he admits. “Sam said it was fine. His sister actually cried.”
You snort, half-choked on your sip. “Cried?”
“She got emotional. Said she saw God in a grain of arborio.”
You’re still grinning when he pushes the pot toward you with a silent offer. You help yourself, spooning some into a mismatched bowl. It’s warm. Comforting. Rich with butter and—yeah, definitely more cheese.
This—this is your favorite version of him. Not the soldier. Not the team lead or the briefing-room strategist. Just Bucky. Tired and soft-eyed in the kitchen, humming low when he stirs a pot. Still, in a way that feels rare.
You think about the baby again from earlier. About the way he looked at her. How his whole body went still, but his eyes went soft, like he’s seeing something he misses but can’t remember.
You stir your wine with a finger. Casual. Not casual at all.
“I’ve been thinking,” you start, mostly just to fill the space. “Weird day, huh?”
His brow ticks up, a silent question.
“That baby,” you say. “She just… latched on. Like I was made of Velcro.”
There’s a beat.
“She liked you,” he says. Quietly. Not teasing. Just honest.
You huff a small laugh, not quite hearing the undertone. “She drooled on me. That’s practically a proposal.”
But he doesn’t smile.
He’s looking at you the same way he looked at the baby—still, like something cracked open and never quite resealed. You miss it entirely. Instead, you sip your wine and stretch your legs beneath the table, toes brushing his. “But, I mean, you held her like a pro. Natural instincts, huh?”
His gaze lingers on you for a moment more before dropping to his bowl. He stirs it aimlessly, the motion absent.
“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”
That surprises you, but he keeps going.
He smiles a little, faint and crooked. “Back when I was just some punk from Brooklyn. Thought I’d get married. Have a couple kids. A porch swing. You know. The American Dream.”
“What changed?” you ask, voice gentler than you meant.
He shrugs. “Everything. Time. Who I became.”
You nod slowly. Try not to let your chest cave in.
“Rebecca used to say I’d be a good dad,” he adds. “She said I was good with her dolls.”
“Your sister?”
He nods. There’s a glow in his eyes now—faint, faraway. “She was eight years younger. I helped raise her, after my ma got sick. Used to walk her to school, do her hair. She liked braids. I wasn’t good at ‘em, but I tried.”
You try to picture it—Bucky, hair slicked back, hands clumsy with a brush, coaxing bows into place on a giggling child’s head.
Your lips twitch. “Braids?”
“Bad ones.” He finally glances at you, mouth quirking faintly. “She called ‘em ‘buckle braids.’ Said they looked like seatbelts.”
You laugh, unexpected. He ducks his head, a little embarrassed, but you miss the way his eyes stay on you too long.
“She’s still alive, isn’t she?” you ask softly.
He nods. “We talk. It’s… complicated. A lotta years between us now.”
There’s another pause.
You don’t fill it. You just watch him, lit gold by the stovetop light, swirling his water like it’s something stronger. He looks far away in that moment—not guarded, not distracted, just... elsewhere. Like his mind is somewhere quieter, and he’s trying to remember how it felt to live there.
He looks like a man trying to remember a life that feels more like a dream.
You think about the look on his face earlier, when that baby yawned and curled into your chest. How he’d watched like he couldn’t quite breathe. Like he’d seen something he wanted and couldn’t name. And yeah—okay—it tugged at something in you too, sure. But not like it did to him. He’s still in it. Still holding on to the ghost of that moment with both hands, even now.
You look at him—soft in a hoodie and bathed in golden light, cheeks pink from wine and warmth and maybe something else—and your chest twists with something slow and awful. The kind of ache that leaves no bruise.
And still. You push your bowl toward him and say, “Okay, fine. I’ll admit it. This is good.”
He snorts, low. “Told you. Not totally helpless.”
“Mm,” you hum. “Jury’s still out.”
But your smile lingers, even as your heart doesn’t know where to settle.
You don’t talk about babies again. Not directly.
But when you both stand to rinse the dishes, you brush past him and say, “For the record… I bet you’d nail braids now.”
And his ears go pink.
You pretend not to see. Because if you do—if you look too closely—you might not be able to keep pretending you don’t know what all of this means.
.
“I want ten of my babies. Obviously.” Ava dips a fry into mustard with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for defusing bombs. “Different thing.”
You’re all at the diner again. It started as a joke—something Walker demanded once after a particularly grim mission, swearing by the restorative power of bacon and drip coffee—and somehow, it stuck. Now it’s tradition: post-debrief pancakes, a rotating cast of bruises and black eyes crowding into a corner booth that’s definitely too small. No one’s sure when it became sacred, but no one skips it, either.
The baby talk started again—somehow inevitably—because of the mission.
A standard evac turned sideways. Smoke, rubble, a collapsed stairwell. Someone heard crying. Alexei went full Terminator through a wall. And when the dust cleared, there he was—coughing soot and holding a six-month-old like it was a live grenade. The baby didn’t even cry. Just blinked and drooled and grabbed Alexei’s nose like he owed him money.
It should’ve been a footnote in the mission report. It turned into a full-on debate about parental instincts, fight-or-flight hormones, and who would actually survive trying to raise a baby while doing this job.
From there, it was only a matter of time before Ava declared her hypothetical soccer team of spawn with a kind of detached confidence that suggested she’d already drawn up the chore wheel.
You nod in reluctant agreement, as if that’s a normal sentence to hear over diner food at 9 a.m. on a Thursday. “Different thing,” you echo, like that explains anything.
There’s a pause filled only with the faint sizzle of a kitchen grill and the shriek of someone’s child two booths over. You’re content to let the silence stretch, to keep spooning eggs into your mouth like a sane person, until John leans back. His arm stretches across the vinyl booth with the exaggerated flair of a man who thinks he’s charming. He tilts his head toward you like he’s about to ask for a kiss, and then drops the bomb.
“What about you? Ever think about having kids?”
Your fork pauses mid-scramble. You blink. Once, then again, slower. The question isn’t new—it’s just never been aimed quite so directly at your throat before.
And somewhere in your mind, like a coin dropping into a well, you hear Bucky’s voice again.
“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”
The memory curls in your chest like a secret.
“Sure,” you say finally, and it comes out like a shrug in sentence form. “Sounds like fun. You know. In a nightmarish, identity-altering kind of way.”
John grins like you’ve handed him a gift. “Hey, I know a guy if you’re interested.”
“Oh?" you deadpan, already regretting it.
“Banked some before deployment, real clean record, full medical—”
There’s a sound beside you. Ceramic on laminate. Not a crash—more of a punctuation mark. You glance over.
Bucky’s hand rests on his coffee cup like he’s trying to stop it from shivering apart. The cup’s rim taps against the table once, sharp and accidental. His face doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at you, or at John. He stares into the coffee like it’s a black hole that might finally suck him in, if he just glares hard enough.
Walker doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to, which is maybe worse.
You shift slightly, angle your body just enough to catch Bucky’s profile. Not his eyes—he’s not giving you that. But you see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his thumb presses against the handle like it’s either that or throwing the cup against the wall. He breathes, chest pounding and heavy, like he’s counting to ten. Like ten isn’t enough.
And you—idiot that you are—you feel it too. That low, aching pull at the thought of him with that baby. How natural he’d been. How soft his voice had gone. And how, for one weird, echoing second, you’d let yourself imagine it. Not just him with a child. But him with yours.
(It’s a thought you shouldn't let live, but it does anyway—burrows in, sharp and hungry. He’d be such a good father. Steady hands, steady voice, a tenderness in him that most people never get to see. You’d watched it spark to life like muscle memory, something old and unforgotten.
And then, because your brain is a traitor, the thought tilts—what it would feel like to give him that. To give him that child. Not some hypothetical future, not a vague maybe someday. You. Him.
That kind of closeness. That kind of permanence.
The weight of him over you, inside you, something rough and completely undoing. It knocks the air from your lungs before you can even feel it coming.
You imagine his voice rough and low—you’d look so fuckin’ good like this, he’d murmur, hands spreading over your stomach, already possessive. Full of me. Mine. You imagine his mouth, soft stubble between your thighs, saying let me make you a mom, like it’s the last sane thought in his head.
And you—well, now you're sitting in a diner booth trying to pretend you didn’t just think the words “let me make you a mom” while someone’s child screams three feet away. You’re not proud. You are, in fact, actively praying for death. Or coffee. Whichever comes first.
So you do what you do best. You pivot.)
“Anyway,” you say, louder now, aiming your voice like a dart at Walker’s oblivious skull. Making sure your voice is light enough to convey that there isn't a world that it would ever happen with him. “Let me know if your guy offers a bulk discount. I’ll take two or three. Maybe four if they come pre-housebroken.”
John laughs. “First five are free. They just start billing you in sleep and soul erosion.”
Bucky finally moves. Not much. Just enough to slide the cup an inch back toward the middle of his placemat, like maybe now it’s safe. Like maybe no one noticed.
You’d like to kick John under the table. Just enough to shut him up. Just enough to let Bucky breathe.
Instead, you swirl your fork through yolk and wait for someone else to speak. Hope to someone out there that this whole baby thing will be put to rest.
.
But that day was just the start.
You don’t know if something cracked open in the universe or if Bucky secretly bartered a piece of his soul to a baby-loving deity in exchange for emotional clarity, but suddenly—it’s like the planet has been overrun. Babies. Everywhere. Strollers, carriers, those ridiculous kangaroo pouches. Toddlers with juice mustaches and light-up shoes. Infants in tiny sunglasses.
Worse, you’re always with him when it happens.
It starts innocently enough. You’re on stakeout. The intel turns out to be garbage—no targets, no movement, just an empty building and a guy who might’ve been Hydra or might’ve just been bad at directions. You’re about to call it when Bucky… stops walking.
No explanation. Just freezes on the sidewalk.
You turn, squinting. “What? You see something?”
And then you hear it. A laugh. Tiny. High-pitched. Pure. You scan the street and there it is: a baby in a stroller, arms flailing with chaotic joy, pink beanie slipping sideways on her round little head. Her mom is pushing her like it’s just a Tuesday. But Bucky—he crouches. Hands on his knees. Watching like he’s stumbled across the Ark of the Covenant.
“That’s a good laugh,” he mutters, almost worshipful. “That’s… like a top-tier laugh.”
You blink. “You ranking baby laughs now?”
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps watching. Like the baby might do it again. Like he’s rooting for her.
You nudge him with your elbow. “Want me to get you a ringtone?”
He says nothing. His silence is telling.
Then it escalates.
Buenos Aires. Late afternoon. The heat’s syrupy, everything sunstruck and slightly too bright. You’re waiting for the decryption key to finish running—loitering under a chipped awning while the team fans out down the block, pretending to be tourists. You’re halfway through a warm soda and reading something in Spanish when Bucky drifts up beside you.
You don’t look at him. You’ve learned not to. He does this thing sometimes—leans in close enough for his shoulder to brush yours, says nothing at all, and just exists like a slow-burn fire you’re pretending not to feel.
This time, it’s worse. He gestures toward a store window. Shoes. Not just any shoes—tiny tactical boots, scaled down like someone was kitting out the junior division of the Avengers. Rugged soles, reinforced stitching, little laces that look too delicate for real fieldwork but too precise to be anything but serious gear. They’re absurd. They’re perfect.
“You think they make those in toddler size 5?”
You turn. Slowly. Give him the full weight of your skepticism. “Planning to outfit your own baby militia?”
He shrugs. Casual. Easy. Too easy. “Just wondering. Hypothetically.”
But then his eyes flick toward you—just for a beat. Like he’s measuring something. Like he’s waiting for a reaction you don’t know you’re giving.
You keep walking. Pretend not to feel your heart skip unevenly.
And it becomes a pattern. A weird, creeping, almost endearing pattern. You’re raiding safehouses, rerouting encrypted intel, shaking a tail in Prague, and somehow Bucky is the one lingering in front of vending machines, pointing at squeezable yogurt pouches like they’re alien tech.
“These have the little resealable caps,” he says, deadpan. “For babies, I think. Smart.”
You blink. “You want one?”
“No,” he says, looking thoughtful. “Just—clever design. Kid-friendly.”
You stare. He shrugs. Again. It’s becoming suspicious. Too real.
.
Later, it’s dark. Safehouse. Everyone asleep or pretending to be. You and Bucky are curled in the guest room that’s technically yours but hasn’t been solo occupancy in weeks.
He’s already touching you before your brain catches up. Warm fingers ghosting under your shirt, calloused and rough, sliding over your ribs like he’s taking inventory of your soft places. You’re breathing shallowly before he even kisses you, your body already recognizing this as surrender.
There was a time when you thought Bucky would be a gentleman.
Reserved. Polite. Old-world chivalry repackaged in tactical black. You’d imagined he was probably hesitant in bed, at first. The type to ask twice, maybe three times, before putting his hands anywhere remotely close to where you’d actually want them. You thought he’d kiss softly. Whisper his affections like prayer. You thought—foolishly—that his stillness was quiet.
It’s not.
It’s restraint. Caged hunger. A man constantly one flick away from wrecking you completely.
Because Bucky doesn’t fuck like a soldier. Or a hero. He fucks like a man starved. Like he’s spent entire decades in lockdown with nothing but the memory of heat, and you’re the only warmth he’s ever wanted. He’s filthy in the way that makes your ears ring. Filthy in the way he moans your name when he’s too far gone to realize he’s saying it out loud.
Filthy in the way he says please.
That’s the worst part. The please.
Please kiss me, sweetheart. Please, let me stay in a little longer. Please, don’t stop. Please, I’ll be good. Please, have my ki—You gasp. He hasn't said that last part. You can't entertain that.
“Remember that time in Bolivia?” he murmurs, more statement than question, voice a gruff rasp against your throat. “When I fucked you against the wall and I had to put my hand against your mouth, because—Jesus—because you were being too loud?”
You tried to open your mouth. You usually have some sort of witty remark. But tonight his hand is trembling a little, and your chest’s too full of ache to joke.
"We can't do that here, sweetheart. I need you to stay quiet for me. Can you do that without my help?"
It’s always like this—a little desperate, a little unhinged. Like you both know it can’t mean what it means and keep doing it anyway. A nightly game of chicken with the truth.
Your legs spread, obscene, filthy, and soaked—giving him just the right view. He ducks down underneath in a flash, tongue swiping out before he does so, the pink flesh needy and hungry. The flutter of his eyelashes as he takes you in and wraps your legs around his face.
And when he pushes his tongue inside you, it’s slow. Not teasing. Not lazy. Like he’s trying to stay—inside you, with you, in the moment.
Your hands are in his hair, your legs wrapped tight around his head, and then—midway through a breath, a moan, a whisper of his name—his hand slides up.
Spreads across your stomach.
Not rough. Not possessive.
Settled.
Just—there.
Like he’s holding a thought.
His thumb traces one slow arc across your skin. Then another. Circling your navel like he’s drawing a map. Or casting a spell. You don’t even register it until his breath stutters.
You freeze—just for a second—but he doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t stop looking at you, either. You look down and his eyes are dark, wide, wrecked. Like he’s trying to rein it in. Like he’s already failing.
“Jesus,” he murmurs, half-strangled, pulling away from your cunt long enough for you to see the long, shimmering streak that connects his mouth to you. “You’d—fuck, you’d look so perfect like this.”
You blink down at him, too far gone to process. “Like what?”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you—like he wants to say it. Like the words are climbing up his throat and he’s fighting to keep them down. He presses a kiss to your thigh instead, then to your core, mouth hot and desperate.
“Sorry,” he breathes. “I just—”
You’re not stupid.
But you are, maybe, willfully stupid. Denial’s easier than everything else. Safer. You pull his head closer instead, scratch at his hair, drag him deeper into your legs feels like you're trying to climb out of your own skin.
Come inside me, come inside me, the thought, intrusive and loud and irrational, echoes in your head, even as he wrenches your first orgasm of the night from you. You watch as he licks up the remnants from between your legs, then the way his tongue darts out to catch the streaks around his stubble.
And you think, with a sense of finality, that you're fucking doomed.
.
It doesn’t help that the rest of the team is starting to notice. Yelena’s not subtle—she’s taken to raising her brows whenever you and Bucky so much as walk in the same direction. Alexei hums under his breath sometimes, low and vaguely ominous, usually something about “strong bloodlines” or “resilient genetics,” just loud enough to make your skin prickle. Even Val, smug and sharp-eyed, had that moment last week where she looked between the two of you, then at the empty supply room, and muttered, “Better not be rearranging furniture in there.”
The thing is—you and him have always been subtle. Always toeing the line but never stepping over.
Except now, lately, that subtlety is starting to unravel. Not in big ways, but in increments. A slip of tone. A lingering look. The way he doesn’t bother disguising the softness in his voice when he says your name. It’s like he’s decided—quietly, firmly, permanently—that you’re it. And he’s just waiting for you to catch up.
It’s in the little things.
He starts carrying gum in his pocket “in case someone’s kid gets antsy on a flight.” He asks if the noise-canceling headphones in your shared gear bag might work for toddlers. He watches you when you pick up a fallen pacifier at a rest stop, eyes going all soft at your hands, like he’s imprinting something in his head he doesn’t quite understand.
Then, during a recon op, he nudges you awake after you dozed off in the back of a surveillance van. “You sleep like a baby,” he says quietly.
You think he means it as a compliment, but your heart flips and your brain short-circuits, and you spend the rest of the mission wondering if he’s trying to tell you something or if you’re going insane.
(You do not, in fact, sleep like a baby. You drooled on the armrest. He said nothing.)
Weeks pass. Missions blur. The baby sightings continue like clockwork. You start to brace for them. For Bucky’s inevitable sighs. For the way his expression slips into something almost wistful.
You’re trained to read microexpressions. He should know this. You see it—the way his jaw softens, the way his shoulders fall just enough to say I want this. Not now, maybe. But someday.
And more terrifying: the way he keeps looking at you. Like you’re part of that someday.
And God—how could he?
How could he look at you like that?
You’re good at the quiet things. The watching, the stitching-up. The banter. The fight, when you have to. But you’ve never known what it means to build something that doesn’t involve exit strategies or a go-bag tucked under the bed.
Bucky… he deserves someone solid. Someone who’s not half a shadow. Who’d instinctively know how to hold a baby without second-guessing. Who’d have a laugh that sounded like Sunday mornings, and hands that were always warm. Someone who could braid a child’s hair without worrying they’d pull too hard. Someone kind. Someone permanent.
Not someone like you.
You’re not sure if he even sees the difference. You’re not sure if he knows he’s dreaming with his eyes open when he looks at you like that.
But you do.
You just pretend it doesn’t mean anything. Because if it does—if he’s looking at you like he already knows, like he’s already chosen—
Well.
You’re not ready for that kind of fallout.
Not yet.
.
The worst—by far—is the petting zoo in Nebraska.
You’re there under completely fabricated cover identities. Something about an eco-terrorist cell operating out of an adjacent farm-to-table cheese shop. You’ve both got sunglasses and fake names and those little earwig communicators that make you feel like you’re in Mission Impossible. You’re trying to be inconspicuous.
But then you pass the small animal enclosure.
There’s a toddler up ahead, perched on her dad’s shoulders like a giggling parrot. She squeals—delighted—at the sight of the baby goats, then gets lowered gently down so she can feed them through the fence. Her little fingers curl around the bars, one of the goats licks her hand, and she lets out a laugh so pure and shrill and untouched by the horrors of modern living that it actually makes your chest hurt.
You don’t even register it at first—just the absence of footsteps beside you. Then you glance back.
He’s standing there, completely still, like he’s been struck by divine intervention. Like that baby goat and that toddler just rewired something deep in his old brain. His expression is unguarded in a way that makes your stomach tilt. Soft and stunned.
He doesn't even pretend to be focused on the mission anymore.
And then—then—he turns to you. The most serious he's ever been. Eyes locked on yours.
“Do you think ours would like goats?”
You nearly choke on your lemonade. Actually choke. You cough once, twice, like your lungs are trying to escape your body. “What?”
And it’s not just the question—it’s the way he says it. Our kid. Not flippant. Not ironic. Not followed by a wink or a smirk or even a shy smile. Just fact.
“I said,” he repeats, casually, clearly, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, “hypothetically, would our kid be into goats.”
You just stare at him. You’ve stopped trying to be cool about this. The number of times he’s said our baby with absolute, unsettling conviction has reached what can only be described as a statistically significant trend.
“I don’t know, Bucky,” you say, rubbing your temples. “I think most hypothetical babies are goat neutral until proven otherwise.”
He hums. Actually hums, like he’s storing that away. “Makes sense. We'll have to test it early. Build a baseline.”
“Stop,” you say, pointing a finger at him like that might restore order to the universe. “You’re not serious.”
His eyes flick to yours. And there’s no twinkle there. No smile. Just this steady, almost stubborn kind of affection—so open it knocks the wind out of you.
"You said I’d be good at it,” he says, voice low, so only you can hear. “The whole dad thing.”
You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again like a very confused fish. Because you remember saying it. You remember the patio, the way the baby curled into his chest. The kitchen, the risotto, the late hour and the way he’d talked about braiding Rebecca’s hair. You remember the quiet ache in your chest, the one that’s back now, curling tighter.
And you don’t know what the hell to say. You really don’t. Because he’s looking at you like he’s already imagined the whole damn life and decided it was worth every scar. Like he’s already picked out the parts of himself he wants to give a kid—the kindness, the patience, the rebuilt softness—and buried the rest.
So you make a joke. Mask it. Swallow the quake in your throat and reach for levity like it’s body armor.
“Well, if the goat thing doesn’t work out, we can always try hamsters,” you say. “Low stakes. Contained mess. Give Yelena's little guy a friend.”
The goat bleats behind you. Bucky doesn’t flinch. Just watches you like he's still waiting for an answer—a real answer—that you're not sure how to give.
You move on.
.
It finally breaks in a Target.
Of course it does.
You’re on a supply run for the team. Technically, this is all mission prep and there's assistants for things like this—med supplies, energy bars, razors, weird thermal socks Yelena swears by—but somehow, somewhere between the bottled water and the electrolyte tablets, you and Bucky wander into the wrong aisle.
Not wrong like “accidental.” Wrong like fate’s playing dirty.
Now you’re standing in front of an endcap display you definitely didn’t mean to find, and there it is. Tucked between pastel swaddles and soft-textured washcloths, like a landmine in the wrong aisle—a tiny cotton baby hat, pale blue with little stitched ears.
It’s nothing. Just a hat.
But Bucky’s staring at it like it cracked his ribs open.
“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer. “You okay?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just reaches out and picks it up. Turns it over in his hands slowly, like it’s something fragile. Like it might vanish if he isn’t cautious enough. His thumb brushes over the tag. He squints at it like he’s trying to make sense of the fibers. His jaw’s set hard, but there’s something in the line of his shoulders—something tired.
“Bucky,” you say again, gentler this time.
He doesn’t look at you. “Did you know their heads are soft?” His voice is quiet. “Babies. Their skulls don’t even come together for a while. You have to be real careful.”
You blink. “Have you… been reading about this?”
He swallows, shrugs. “I don't know. I just—I see stuff. I look it up.” He sets the hat down too fast. It doesn’t bounce. It just flattens there on the shelf like it’s watching him back.
You don’t speak. Neither does he. You just stand there for a second, like the air’s been drained from the aisle.
There’s a baby crying somewhere in another aisle—high-pitched and sputtering. A lull, then a hiccuping wail. A mother murmurs something gentle in response. The sound floats over the shelves and then disappears.
Eventually, you both walk.
Wordless. Past rows of seasonal candy wrapped in rustling orange plastic. Discount school supplies. Travel-sized deodorant and decorative lint rollers. Your cart is still half full, but you don’t look at it. Your eyes keep tracking him instead. His steps are slower than usual, like each one is being dragged out of him. His shoulders slope in that particular way you’ve started to recognize—like he’s still holding that hat in his mind, apprehensive and afraid.
The automatic doors swish open and spill you into the afternoon like you’ve been exiled.
Outside, the parking lot’s too bright. The sun glares off windshields and the pavement radiates that late-summer kind of heat—baked rubber and exhaust fumes and burnt asphalt. A shopping cart wheel squeals in the distance, sharp and whiny. The plastic Target bags crackle like they’re judging you.
You lean against the car. It’s hot through your shirt. The silence settles again—heavier now. Thicker. Like it’s pressing into your ribcage and asking for something neither of you are sure you’re ready to give.
You look at him. Not just glance—look.
He’s standing with his back half-turned, metal hand flexing and unflexing at his side, like he’s trying to let something out but doesn’t trust what’ll happen if he does. His vibranium arm glints in the sunlight—charcoal black veined with gold, all matte finish and unforgiving elegance. It doesn’t belong here, not really. Not in this mundane little parking lot, not against a backdrop of SUVs and clearance bins.
But neither does he.
You let the silence stretch a little longer. Let the heat sweat on your back, the wind tousle your hair, the tension between you wind tighter like thread pulled taut.
Then, finally, like you’re testing a live wire. “What’re you thinking about?”
He breathes in slow. Shaky.
And then, finally, he speaks—voice soft, too soft for someone built to survive war. “Do you have any guesses?”
That’s new.
You blink. Look down at your shoes. Your reflection warps in the car door.
“I don’t want to guess wrong,” you say. Even though you know fully well.
He huffs something between a sigh and a laugh. It’s not bitter. Just… tired. Then he gestures loosely, not at anything in particular. Just out. Broadly. Helplessly.
“We keep running into this,” he says, quieter now. “Not just here. Everywhere. At the grocery store. On recon. That billboard downtown with the giggling baby and the diaper brand we’ll never have enough time to run and grab from the store. That kid last week with the tiny shoes, remember that one?”
You do. You remember too well.
“There was this moment,” he continues, voice cracking, not looking at you yet, “when I saw that kid—and I thought, he’s going to walk into your arms someday. And I realized—I already want that."
He’s pacing now, one hand on his hip, the other dragging through his hair like he’s trying to pull something out of his skull. The sleeve of his hoodie is shoved up to the elbow. His dog tags are visible. His metal hand flexes open and closed like he needs something to grab onto.
“I just couldn't stop thinking about it.” He laughs, breathless and small. “Which is stupid, right? I mean—look at me. Who the hell am I to want something like that?”
“Bucky…” You trail off. Because he deserves it. He deserved all of it and you want to give him everything.
“But this? You?” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t believe he has to say it out loud. “This isn’t hollow. This is wanting. Real wanting. Not some half-dead echo of need or distraction or—God—forgiveness. I don’t want you because I think you’re gonna fix something in me. Or because I think this’ll be easy. I want you because it’s you.”
His eyes find yours again—steady, burning.
“Because when I think about a future without you in it, it feels wrong. Like my bones know it. Like every damn instinct I’ve got wants to drag me back to wherever you are and just—stay.”
Your throat tightens. He presses on.
“And don’t get it twisted—I see you. I see the way you move through missions. The way you think six steps ahead, the way you take hits like they’re nothing and still check on everyone else first. You’re not some fragile thing I wanna put behind glass. You’re steel. You’re tougher than half the people I’ve fought beside. You don’t need anyone. Hell, you don’t need me.”
He steps forward. Lowers his voice.
“But I want to be needed by you. I want to be the guy who gets to hold you when the world’s too loud. I want us. A home. A baby—maybe two. One of ‘em likes goats. I don't know. Maybe we argue about preschool names and you yell at me for lettin’ them eat cereal off the floor. You're the person I want to be a disaster in front of at 3 a.m. because our hypothetical child won’t sleep unless you sing that dumb Fleetwood Mac song—”
“Fleetwood Mac isn’t dumb.”
“See? That’s exactly the tone you’d use,” he says, as if that proves a point.
You blink hard. Your chest aches in that quiet, painful way reserved for things that are almost too good to believe.
“And I’ve been trying to be subtle,” he says, a rough laugh in his throat. “Pointing at strollers like a moron. Buying those damn pouches with the resealable caps. I kept hopin’ maybe you’d see it. Maybe you’d say somethin’ first. I didn’t wanna scare you off. I know what we’ve been through. What you’ve been through.”
He looks down for a second, then back at you—gentle now, gentler than you’ve ever seen him.
“But I’ll wait. As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere. And if you’re scared? Good. Me too. Means we’re not makin’ this decision with our eyes closed. But don’t pretend it’s not real. Don’t tell me I’m imagining this, because I know what this feels like. I’ve spent too long not feeling anything to mistake this for anything else.”
His vibranium hand curls into a loose fist at his side. Not clenched. Just steady. Anchored.
“I want this. With you. All of it. Even the hard parts. Especially those. I want the missions and the night shifts and the baby who won’t stop crying and the mess and the fear and the way you look at me like I might still be good. I want all of that, and I want it with you.”
And there it is again—that feeling like your ribs are about to crack open from the pressure of it all. From the weight of being seen this clearly. This completely.
You step closer, close enough now that the heat from him leaks into your skin. You stare up at him, eyes burning.
“You really want all that with me?”
He nods. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”
“And you’re really not afraid I’ll mess it up?”
His smile is small, pained—like he’s trying to hold it together with fraying thread. “You’ll mess it up. So will I. We’ll accidentally teach them to swear. Maybe we let Alexei babysit and they come back speaking fluent Russian and craving vodka. I’ll still want you. Even when we’re sleep-deprived and overwhelmed and knee-deep in goldfish crackers. Especially then.”
Your voice cracks open without warning. Raw. Bare.
“Bucky—what the hell am I supposed to say to top that?”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he says softly, hand cupping your cheek with the kind of conviction that makes your knees go weak. “Just… don’t walk away. Don’t—God, please—don’t say no. Not to this. Not to me.”
You nuzzle closer into his hand. Your voice, when it comes, is paper thin. “You really think I’d say no to goat-loving, minivan driving Bucky Barnes?”
His mouth twitches. “You making fun of me?”
You smile. You’re shaking a little. “Only a little.”
He laughs, and it’s a real one—wet around the edges, but honest.
And that—God. That lands like a sucker punch.
You take a breath. Step closer. Your heart is a drumbeat in your ears but your voice—your voice is iron and sunrise. “Okay. Let’s say, hypothetically, we make our first one now. What then?”
Bucky’s entire body stills.
Like he’s been hit center mass—not by a bullet, but by possibility. Like your words cracked open a vault somewhere deep in him and he’s still trying to process what came out. His breath hitches. His brows lift just slightly. You can almost see it—each implication of what you just said unfurling in real time: first one, meaning more than one. Meaning permanence. Meaning forever.
His eyes go wide—like, really wide. Like he’s just been handed the Infinity Gauntlet and told to babysit it. His mouth opens, then closes again. Then opens. A soft, stunned “Now?” escapes.
You nod, never been more sure of anything in your life. “Yes. Now.”
And it’s like a switch flips. Whatever gears were turning in his head just snap into place, and then he’s grabbing you—gently, desperately—and kissing you like he hasn't kissed you thousands of times before. It’s all hands and breath and something that tastes like joy, wild and uncontainable. You laugh into it, half-giddy, half-overwhelmed, and then someone leans out of a passing minivan and honks.
You both jump. Bucky flips the guy off without looking. “Keep driving, asshole!”
You’re laughing so hard your ribs hurt, and you have to clutch his arm just to stay upright. He looks at you like you’ve personally realigned his entire future.
Then it’s a race. You barely make it through the parking lot without tripping over yourselves, bumping shoulders and brushing hands and laughing like lunatics. Bucky opens the car door for you like he’s being timed for a rescue op, and the moment your ass hits the passenger seat, his hand is on your thigh—firm, possessive, fingers warm even through the denim.
He doesn’t even pretend to drive normally. The car peels out like you’re being chased, tires screeching as he swerves onto the freeway with all the caution of a man on fire.
His other hand clenches the wheel, knuckles pale. “You sure you’re not gonna regret it?” he asks, voice low, like it’s been scraped out of him. Like he’s terrified this is a dream and one wrong word will wake him up.
You glance over. He’s flushed down to his collar, eyes flicking from the road to your face and back like he can’t decide which is more dangerous. You’re smiling so wide it hurts your cheeks.
“If you keep asking questions like that,” you murmur, “I might pull you over and climb on top of you right here.”
He chokes. Visibly swerves. “You—you’re not joking.”
“I am, Bucky. We're at a fucking Target.”
He lets out a groan like it physically pains him. “You’re evil.”
You lean your head back against the seat, breathless with laughter. But then you glance sideways and—yeah. That look on his face? That’s love. That’s a man about to commit several felonies in your name.
“I’m gonna treat you so fuckin’ good,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Gonna make you feel safe and spoiled and full of me. Gonna worship you every damn night. You don’t even know.”
“Oh, I know,” you say, suddenly a little breathless. His grip on your thigh tightens, just for a second.
His foot presses harder on the gas.
The car hums like it’s picking up on the tension. Bucky’s jaw is set, eyes dark, every red light a personal affront to his timeline. At one point he actually mutters “no” at a yellow light and runs it anyway. Another person flips both of you off until they squint and see who's in the car. Bucky doesn’t blink.
When the Watchtower finally comes into view, he exhales like he’s just crossed a finish line. The tires screech again as he parks, but you barely register it. Because the second the engine cuts, he turns to you, all flushed cheeks and unholy devotion, and whispers, “Upstairs. Now.”
And then—
He lifts you like it’s muscle memory, like your body belongs there, bracketed against him. Your legs wrap around his waist. Somehow, some way, he finds the bedroom with barely a glance, kicks the door shut behind him, and lays you down like you’re breakable.
Not fragile. Important.
He hovers above you for a beat, breath uneven, gaze raking over your face like it’s the first time he’s really let himself look. Like he’s memorizing this—just in case the world tilts sideways again.
He bends down, his voice rasping against your mouth. “You still sure about this?”
You pull him back to you by the waistband of his jeans. “I said I wanted all of it. The house. The minivans. The goats. I meant it.”
Something in him loosens. Not all the way, not yet—but enough to soften his edges. He exhales through his nose and kisses you like it’s a vow, mouth warm and open and aching. His hands find your thighs, settle there like they’ve always known the shape of you. Thumbs brushing slow circles like he’s grounding himself on your skin.
You kiss him back with everything you’ve got, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt—and when you tug, it’s not subtle.
And you tug at his shirt again. “Bucky—”
“No, just—let me—” He peels it off over his head in one fluid motion, and fuck. You’ve seen him shirtless before. Dozens of times. Training sessions. Medical checks. Casual Sundays in sweatpants.
But not with the full breadth of him laid bare, chest heaving, dog tags glinting faintly in the low light. Thick, ropey muscle, that deep ridge where his hip cuts in and disappears under the waistband of his jeans. He’s massive. Bigger than you can ever brace for. Every inch of him looks carved from the kind of strength that short-circuits your higher brain function.
And it hits you, all at once, how strong he really is.
Not just tactical, not just capable—but superhuman. The kind of strength that could lift a car or crush a man’s throat or pick you up like you weigh nothing. You’ve felt it before—in combat, in sparring, in those accidental brushes where he’d catch your wrist or hoist you clear of an explosion.
You’re trying to keep it together—you are—but then he grins. That slow, crooked, devastating thing like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice gone husky with amusement.
You shoot back, “So are you.”
“Yeah,” he says, and steps in, close enough that his chest brushes yours, heat radiating off him like a furnace. “Difference is, I’m about to do something about it.”
Your mouth goes dry. Your brain attempts a witty reply and fails spectacularly. So you shove at his shoulder with mock offense, and he grabs your wrists—gently, easily—and pins them to the mattress above your head.
Oh.
It’s nothing. No pressure, no real force. But it reminds you. Reminds you exactly what he’s capable of. How easily he could break you. How he never has.
“Could hold you like this forever,” he murmurs. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”
You squirm beneath him, flushed and wrecked and undone.
“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he breathes, dragging his nose down your throat. “I could carry you around all day. Pick you up, fuck you against a wall, against a table, hell, the fridge, if I wanted.”
You gasp, and his grip tightens—just enough to feel it.
"I need to get you ready first," He pulls back slightly, meets your eyes. “That okay?”
You nod. Hard. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”
His stubble rubs along your neck, your collarbones, until he pauses at your chest, nuzzling one of your nipples with his eyes closed. His tongue darts out, sucking and pulling at the sensitive muscle, more for his sake than for yours.
There's a graze of his teeth—then, his other hand comes to meet your other breast, ever the multi-tasker. He murmurs your name, once, twice, the sound vibrating low against your skin.
You don't know how long he stays like that, in that blissful purgatory, his leg, between your legs, just barely giving you the stimulation you need, until his mouth, his beautiful, beautiful mouth, gets faster, more greedy, and the leg you're grinding against pushes deeper against you—
"Come for me, sweetheart."
It's like fucking fireworks. You cum with a groan, eyes closed shut, whining low and deep and overwhelmed.
When you come to, vision returning to you in hazes, you look at him through fluttering lashes, the way he strokes his cock in front of you. Painfully hard, red, and weeping, but it's his words that make you short-circuit next.
“You’re gonna let me put a baby in you, huh?”
Your breath catches.
He kisses you before you can answer—deep and consuming and hungry—and when he pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Something molten. Something fierce.
“Been thinkin’ about something else too,” he confesses, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You, round with my kid. All soft and happy. Maybe bossin’ me around with that look you get when you’re pretending not to care.”
The words stick—and it's all the warning you get before he's slotting his cock in between your cunt, slipping inside of you.
His hand settles on your stomach, low and possessive. He presses his palm there like he’s already claiming it. Like he’s asking permission to fill it. You can feel it, the pressure delicious, as his thrusts get messier, less controlled. The room's filled with the sound of it, groaning and snapping and skin slapping together.
“I’ll be good,” he says, voice cracking. “I’ll be so good. You’ll never have to lift a finger. I’ll make breakfast. I’ll learn lullabies. I’ll paint the damn nursery if you want me to.”
You moan, high and helpless. “Keep talking.”
He thrusts—deep, slow, intentional. “I’ll hold your hand through the appointments. Rub your back when it hurts. Run to the store at 3 a.m. for pickles, or chocolate, or whatever the hell you need—”
Then, his hand–the metal one—moves between you, lower and lower until his thumb's hovering right over your clit, pinching and squeezing and rolling it, and you have to fight every cell inside of you not to cum right then and there, even while he's looking at you and saying everything so, so goddamn perfectly.
You clench around him, once, twice, like a vice grip that's desperate for him to feel just the way he makes you feel.
“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re so—fuck, I just wanna—” He shakes his head, then mutters against your collarbone, “Don't do that, not yet, I'll cum."
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you whisper. "I just wanna–oh god—show you how thankful I am."
His hips rock against yours.
“You wanna thank me?” he pants, jaw trembling as he fights to hold on. “Then do it with an ultrasound. Let me hear it. Let me see it.”
You whimper, wrecked by the words alone.
“Say it,” he demands, but softer now. Frantic and obsessed. “Tell me you want it too. Tell me you want to keep me forever.”
“I do,” you gasp. “I do—God, Bucky, I do—”
Then he shifts, pushing himself deeper inside, and one brutal thrust later, raking his hands across your abdomen, you gasp. Shuddering, shaking like a leaf, finishing in his arms so hard that you nearly twist out of his grasp.
Seconds later, Bucky spills into you, and you can feel the precise moment he throbs inside you, warmth filling you up, up, up, and you can fill the drip of his cum spilling out from the sheer volume of it. You've never felt so full.
When you try to get up, he stops you with a gentle pull against your waist. He buries his face in your neck. “Need you to stay still,” he growls, words slurred, “make sure it takes.”
And who were you to say no to that?
You're tangled up in him, hours later. Or maybe minutes. Time’s a blur. The sheets are kicked halfway down the bed, your leg slung over his hip, the air still thick with heat and something heavier. Sweeter. Like gravity finally decided to show up and drag you straight into the future.
Bucky’s arm is around your waist, metal plates cool against your damp skin, the weight of him grounding. He’s curled slightly, head bowed like he can’t stop looking at you. His fingers draw mindless, absent circles on your belly—like the thought never left him. Like it’s only just beginning.
Neither of you says anything for a long time.
And then, quietly, “You okay?”
You nod, not trusting your voice. Your heart’s still hammering like a warning bell and a love song. “You?”
He huffs a laugh into your shoulder. Presses a kiss there. Then another, softer. His voice is hoarse when he finally answers. “I’ve never been this okay.”
There’s a pause. You don’t fill it. You just watch as his thumb drags slow and soft across your stomach again, like he’s memorizing the shape of possibility.
“I can see it,” he murmurs. “Not just a kid. Our kid. One that frowns like you and kicks like me. One who’s smart, and stubborn, and throws food at Walker's head during holidays.”
You snort softly. “You think we’d raise a kid that obnoxious?”
His grin is lazy and real, eyes bright with something so big it makes your chest ache. “I hope so.”
You stare at the ceiling for a beat. Let the words sink in. Let the idea grow legs.
Then you roll closer, press your palm over the hand that’s still stroking your belly.
You whisper it this time. Fragile. Hopeful. “You think this’ll do it?”
Bucky shudders—actually shudders—and shifts to kiss your jaw, your cheek, your mouth like it’s a prayer.
“Sweetheart,” he says, low and wrecked, “I’ll do it again. And again. All night, if that’s what it takes.”
While staying at the Harrington’s for the weekend, the lines ‘friendship’ start to blur
A/n: friends to lovers, childhood friends
Warnings: kissing
Word count: 3.1k
Spring,
There was something so toothacheingly bittersweet about being in love with your childhood friend. Especially when it crept up on you the way it did with her and Steve. One day he was just Steve Harrington who lived down the street, the boy who was in all of her photo albums, and then the next, he was suddenly the love of her life.
It irritated her, how quickly he could get under her skin, how he could just say her name and her ribs physically contorted. She tried to avoid prompting him to say it to her at all, and lucky the conversation rarely warranted for it, but it was still something she was cautious about. He just made it sound so special, even if it wasn’t to him, he had the ability to make it feel that way.
She was partly avoiding him when he kicked the soccer ball across the grass, nearly hitting her in the process. She flinched as it bounced off of the legs of the chair that she was currently sitting on. Whether it was on purpose or not was to be determined but concerning the fact that Steve was good at most things, especially anything that required physical activity, it was most likely intentional.
“Sorry.”
He called over to her, smiling so wide that even if he had broken someone’s nose, they probably would’ve forgiven him. As a matter of fact, he had already gone ahead and charmed his way into playing soccer in Mrs Harrington’s garden just an hour ago after she strictly forbade it since her new tulips had been planted this past weekend. But somehow here he was, just barely missing his Mother’s flowers with every kick.
She turned her attention back to her book but she was only met with breeze flipped pages and a dawning realisation that she had lost her place. A bookmark would’ve really come in hand right now but she had borrowed the book from the Harrington’s collection and she had completely forgotten to ask for a marker (preferably something leather) to keep her page.
“He made me lose my page.” She muttered to herself, trying to find where she was again. She was determined to finish it this weekend before she went home. Otherwise the entire drive back to her house on Sunday evening was going to be spent wondering how the characters' storylines ended up.
“What was that?” He was suddenly standing beside her, blocking the sun with his muddy black and white soccer ball under his arm and a smirk playing on his lips. “I thought I heard you muttering something over here.”
She gave up on trying to find her page again and turned her attention back to him. Why did it have to be him? Him and his stupid brown hair and lovely green, borderline chestnut, eyes. He smiled down at her, like he already knew full well what she had said under her breath just moments ago. She decided to play along.
“Nothing. I just lost my page in my book.”
“Our book.” He corrected.
“Your book.”
The corner of his mouth tilted upright before he brushed the back of his hand playfully against her cheek. It was a sleight of hand touch. Close up. Intimate. Almost trick like in its fleetingness. It could all come down to nothing to his parents cooking in the kitchen or even to Steve himself, but it was not and never would be ‘nothing’ to her. Even if she really wanted it to be.
“Steven, leave the girl alone!”
They both turned their heads towards Mrs Harrington calling out to them through the kitchen window. In Steve's defence, he wasn't really bothering her, other than kicking the soccer ball at her, she had been the one to start the conversation with her slightly unnecessary muttering.
“I wasn't even-” The brunette gave up fighting his corner just as quickly as he started. There was no point. So, instead of arguing with his mother, who had now disappeared from the window again, he turned his attention back to her. “It wouldn't matter if you had stolen my ball and thrown it into the neighbours garden, I still would be the one accused of bothering you, wouldn't I?” She bit back her smile, knowing full well that he was right.
“Yes, you would. But I would never do that anyway.”
“I know.” Steve spun around in defeat with his ball still tucked under his arm. Leaving her with two options. The first being to scan every few paragraphs of their book until something sounded familiar, and the second was to just give up entirely and come to terms with the idea that she wouldn't be able to finish the book this weekend, not with Steve around at least.
She watched him quietly as he kicked the ball around the garden again, barely missing some bright orange tulips as he carelessly ran around. If anyone in this world should've been given a sibling, it should've been Steve. His shorts were cut off just above his knees, proudly showing off the stitches he had gotten three weeks ago during a street basketball game. She could admit to paying too much attention to it, but it was only out of the fear that he was going to fall and cut his skin open again.
“Do you want to play, or do you just want to keep watching? Because, I'm okay with either.” He smiled brightly at her as the sun started showing itself on his cheekbones. This was a perfectly irritating example as to why it was him. Spring had only officially started a few weeks ago and he was already skin scarred and sun kissed.
She closed the book. It was probably a good idea to run around and enjoy the sun before Summer came to Hawkins and took over, making it too unbearably hot to do anything anyway. Steve smiled knowingly and boyishly at her all at once as she crossed the garden to him. It was the kind of smile that was equivalent to an entire conversation between two people who had known each other for too long. It was classically handsome. And it was perfectly Steve.
“Pass me the ball.”
He tossed it over to her. And for a while, they just played soccer in the Harrington's garden like they were seven years old again and she forgot that she had been trying to get through the weekend with as much distance between them as possible. She didn’t overthink the way his hands encircled her waist as he tried to get the ball back from her, or the way he laughed with his entire body. He got mud on his t-shirt, and she got grass stains on her trainers. And most importantly, all of Mrs Harrington’s flowers made it out safely untarnished by their games.
Steve rushed through the hallway with sweat dampening his hair and a new sunburn settling in across the bridge of his nose. He should have been a mess. But life wasn’t always fair. “Do you want to take a shower?” Apparently it was just extremely unfair to her…
She knew he didn't mean it in that kind of way, he was just innocently asking to be considerate. He was not asking her to take a shower ‘with him’, it just sounded like he was. It must’ve hit his ears the same way it hit hers, because suddenly, Steve Harrington was smirking down at the hardwood floor like a mischievous flirting teenager. Didn't he realise that, ‘Are you going to have a shower?’ would've sounded so much better then ‘Do you want to take a shower?’.
He placed his hands on his hips and pulled himself together, his smirk still annoying ever present. “I didn't mean it like that.”
“I didn't say that you-”
“No. You didn't. But you were thinking it.”
She bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from saying something in retort. She wasn’t actually sure what she was going to say but she knew it would’ve been a mess of words that would have been badly stumbled over because of the way he was looking at her right now. She was thinking it, and somehow he had been able to see straight through her and read her mind well enough to know it. She silently prayed to herself that he couldn’t read every thought that raced through her head as she brushed past him and made a quick getaway for the stairs.
“Weren’t you?”
She stopped on the Harrington’s staircase and turned around. Steve actually looked more innocent then she was expecting to find him. He was still standing at the bottom of the stairs, his hands were no longer on his hips though and he was not smirking anymore. It had now faded away into something else, something that to her looked an awful lot like curiosity. The blood started to rush to her head, it was different than usual, he was different then usual. And she suddenly wondered if the staircase was the best place to be standing right now.
“Maybe.” She said, barely offering up an admittance, but still managing to keep the conversation going. It didn’t matter that she had fallen in love with him, she had always liked talking to him even before. She liked their back and forths. The soft, more delicate conversations that they had and the foolish, almost childish ones too. Like the one they had earlier over the true owner of her now long forgotten book.
He took two steps up the staircase. “That’s not a real answer.” He was silently daring her to meet him. All she had to do was take three steps downwards and she would be standing right in front of him and forced to stare directly at the constellation like freckles that dragged across his jaw. Did he want her to? Did he really want her to stare?
“I have to take a shower Steve.” She wasn’t sure why she was whispering, but she was. His name felt more fragile than usual. The situation was more fragile than usual too, but it wouldn’t be long until they sat down for dinner and she didn’t feel like eating in the same sweaty clothes she had been running around in. “Like, now.”
Steve started walking back down the stairs, backwards, she mentally crossed her fingers that he didn’t trip.“There’s clean towels in the cupboard next to the guest bathroom. And the soap in the shower is lavender scented so you’ll like it.” Would she? And why was he so sure of it?
She never reached for lavender perfume or decidedly picked it out as her favourite over all of the other flowers, and yet Steve sounded so sure that she would like it. It wasn’t his usual smugness taking over, it was genuine confidence that led to her internally cursing herself as she leathered the lilac soap over her skin. She did like it. Almost too much.
It reminded her of lavender bags hung up in the back of the car or tucked away in a draw. It smelt like the Harrington’s garden in the middle of May. And it felt like being in love in the Spring.
She could still smell it on herself long after her shower. All through dinner she kept getting these faint reminders of lavender and chamomile every time she moved. It also didn’t help that Steve sat beside her in the dining room, therefore forcing her to look at him every time Mrs Harrington spoke to her since he was on her left and his Mother was on his.
But she had gotten through it, she had survived his elbow accidentally nudging into her own, the quickly broken eye contact, and the newfound information that if she was to kiss him tonight, he would’ve tasted like cherry coke and blackberry macarons.
She traced her lips in the mirror in what would be ‘her’ bedroom for the weekend. When she first started falling for him, one of the warning signs was the way she found herself studying his mouth.
She had memorised just how to know what he was feeling from one glance. He tilted up the right side of his lips first if he was being sarcastic or pessimistically smiling, but the left corner always went first if it was a true genuine smile. He licked his lips before he said someone's name (well, at least when he said hers he did). And, he clearly had a habit of chewing on his bottom lip when he was thinking because it was often broken and sometimes bleeding.
She couldn’t help but imagine kissing him as she dragged her fingertip along her bottom like to try and recreate the feelings. It was and would never be the same of course, but in her more romantic and foolish moments, it seemed to make the urge to find him and ask him to kiss her less persistent.
But this time, a soft knock on the door drew her out of her daydreaming instead of momentary fulfilment. “Come in.” The door opened to show Steve standing there, in his pyjamas, with messy hair and a book in his hands. The book. The one that she had forgettably left outside and never gone back for.
“I thought you might want this.” He stepped into the room, letting the light from the hallway sneak inside. The sun had set so softly that she had forgotten to turn on the lamp that was sitting on the bedside table. She wasn’t even sure what the time was.
“Thank you, Steve.” She crossed the room and took the book from him before setting it down on top of the wooden dresser draws that Mrs Harrington had picked out a few years ago. If she really concentrated tonight, she could find her place again and read a little more of the story. And at the very least, there was always tomorrow, so long as Steve played soccer elsewhere. “You know,” She hesitated to tell him what she was thinking at this exact moment but decided anyway. “You can be very thoughtful. Sweet even.”
She dragged her foot back and forth across the carpet, making lines that lightened it, and when she looked up, she wasn’t even sure how her words had reached him because her eyes weren’t on his, they were on the new tiny mark on his skin.
She reached up to brush away the spec of fluff lingering under his eye that was coincidently the same deep blue colour as his t-shirt. She thought nothing of it, she knew how much she hated the feeling of something on her face that she couldn’t find and she couldn't imagine that anyone else felt any different.
“Do you have to do that?” His voice dropped into a quiet whisper, like they were up past curfew telling secrets. His gaze softened and his eyebrows knitted together, and as she fixed her eyes on his, she decided that no one had ever looked so much like a stray dog begging for a home before. But she was still lost, wondering what exactly ‘that’ was.
“Do what?”
He looked down at the space between them, at his hands that were just mere inches from hers. “Talk like that. Look at me like that. Touch me like that.” Her stomach twisted. This was starting to feel an awful lot like the confessions she had had with herself in the middle of the night, except, in her dreams, it was always her saying this, not Steve. “I know you’re not trying to be mean, that’s not who you are, but it still feels a little targeted.”
“I-” The tone in his voice was breaking her heart. She felt stupid for being so absentminded and even more so for not knowing what she had been absentminded about. What had she done to hurt him? “Why are you so upset?”
He dragged his eyes up to meet hers. Everything suddenly felt very important. “Because I don’t want to be your fucking friend.” She felt like she flinched backwards at his words but her feet were still very firmly planted in the same spot on the pink carpet. He quickly shook his head. “I mean, of course I’m your friend but- It’s killing me. You’re killing me.” No, no, no… “You don’t know what it’s like being around someone all the time knowing that you cannot kiss them, ever. You being here this weekend, playing soccer with me and sitting next to me at dinner was like the final knife.” She wanted to pinch herself but if she moved her arm all she would smell was that damn lavender soap again. “I can’t pretend that I’m not in love with you anymore when all I can do is think about you.”
She breathed in sharply as he stepped forward and pressed his lips to his. It was like he needed to kiss her. Like he just had to. And as far as worthwhile confessions went, this was her new found favourite. Even though Steve's hands were shaking when he talked and he had the most harrowing look of self pity in his eyes as he told her that she was ‘killing’ him. He loved her. He was in love with her.
His hands cupped either side of her face as he drank her in. The taste of his toothpaste touched her tongue and she knew he had permanently ruined spearmint for her. There was no way she would ever be able to toss a wrapped mint into her mouth and not think of this moment. Of the carpet beneath her feet, of the Spring warmth in the room and of lavender soap & muddy soccer balls.
“...” He said her name as he broke the kiss and her ribs twinged in response. How decidedly irritating. He kept one hand on her cheek as he just kind of looked at her. Like they had just met for the first time and he was memorising every mark and every feature. Her eyes found the familiar hint of green in his eyes and stitched themselves to it. “I really needed to do that.”
“I really needed you to do that.” She couldn’t help but whisper back to him, forgetting all the preemptive caution she had taken into this damned weekend. And she only solidified her death with what she muttered to him next. “I love you, Steve Harrington.”
“What was that? I thought I heard you muttering something.”
“Don’t you-”
He kissed her again, just as she opened her mouth to say something back, and just so that she wouldn't be able to. If they were going to have another back and forth, they could have it later. After.
Hiiii!! Just saw that you encouraged us to send in requests, so I’d love to give it a try. I’m still not over Steve and his dream of the six little nuggets. It just lives rent free in my head and heart.
So what about Steve and his significant other (wife / girlfriend - i don’t know, is he married?!) have two kids and Steve is like “ok, two down, four more to go…”?😏
I think I smell a breeding kink fic Anon.
Little Nuggets
A note from Red: Guys, Steve is so girl dad coded. Reader's POV, no named character. As always my work is my own and I do not give permission for it be copied, rewritten or posted anywhere other than on here, by me. Likes, reblogs and feedback are always welcome. I hope you enjoy. 😈
Warnings: Strap in and charge your vibrators guys, you're gonna need them. Sweet domestic fluff, girl dad Steve, Big Dick Steve, dirty talk, size kink, breeding kink, p in v, creampie. ALL CHARACTERS ARE OVER THE AGE OF 18. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN AND SMACK YOU WITH A SHOVEL. There's some cursing as well. 18+ only.
It had been four years since you and Steve Harrington tied the knot at that charming hotel on the edge of town—the one with the ivy-covered walls and a ballroom that felt like it belonged in a fairy tale. At twenty-six, life had settled into a rhythm of domestic bliss, far removed from the wild teenage years you'd both navigated. Your home was a beautiful two-story haven with a fresh white picket fence that Steve had installed with his own hands, turning the front yard into a playground for your girls.
You blinked against the haze of sleep clinging to your eyes, nestled on the couch with a throw blanket draped over your legs. The night had been long, interrupted by Lucy's sniffles and coughs from her lingering cold. She'd been up more times than you could count, her tiny body restless and feverish, and though you'd taken turns, exhaustion tugged at you now, making your movements slow and your thoughts fuzzy.
Steve appeared in the kitchen doorway, his frame silhouetted against the warm glow of the overhead light. At twenty-six, he still carried himself with the same easy confidence, his brown hair tousled from a night of pacing the nursery, hazel eyes bright despite the fatigue etched in faint lines around them. He wore a simple gray t-shirt that hugged his shoulders and jeans that had seen better days, but there was an undeniable tenderness in how he cradled Lucy against his chest. She fussed softly, her wild brown curls damp from a recent wipe-down, those big eyes—mirror images of her father's—red-rimmed from her cold.
'Hey, easy there, bug,' Steve murmured to her, his voice a gentle rumble as he rocked her side to side. He adjusted her in his arms, one hand rubbing slow circles on her back while the other supported her bottom. Lucy let out a congested whimper, nuzzling into his neck, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead, inhaling the faint medicinal scent of the vapor rub he'd applied earlier.
Heather, your three-year-old bundle of energy, toddled in behind him, her own mop of unruly brown hair escaping a loose braid. She clutched her favorite stuffed bear—she never slept without it—and rubbed her eyes with a tiny fist, still half-asleep herself. 'Daddy, milk?' she mumbled, tugging at his pant leg.
Steve glanced over at you, his expression softening with concern as he took in your sleepy form. 'I've got this, babe. You head back to bed and catch some more rest,' he said firmly, though his tone was laced with that unwavering affection. He shifted Lucy higher on his shoulder, patting her gently to soothe another cough, and extended his free arm toward Heather, scooping her up effortlessly. Now he held both girls, balancing them like it was second nature, his strong arms flexing under the weight.
You managed a tired smile, pushing yourself up slightly, but he shook his head, mouthing 'Go on' with a wink that made your heart flutter despite the drowsiness. Steve Harrington, the ultimate girl dad, thrived in these chaos-filled moments—preparing bottles one-handed, distracting Heather with silly faces while Lucy dozed against him. He guided Heather toward the kitchen table, settling her into her booster seat with a bowl of cereal, all while keeping Lucy secure.
As you watched him move with such quiet competence—pouring milk, wiping Heather's chin, humming a lullaby to calm Lucy's sniffles—a wave of gratitude washed over you. This was your world: messy mornings, endless love, and a husband who stepped up without hesitation, letting you steal a few more precious minutes of sleep.
The pull of sleep was too strong to resist, and you finally relented, padding upstairs to the bedroom with heavy eyelids. The sheets welcomed you like an old friend, cool against your skin, and within moments, the world faded into a deep, restorative slumber. No sniffles or cries interrupted this time—Steve had everything under control, his quiet assurances echoing in your mind as you drifted off.
Two hours slipped by in what felt like mere minutes. When you stirred, the sun had shifted, casting longer shadows through the curtains. Your body felt lighter, the fog of exhaustion lifted, though a faint ache lingered in your temples from the broken night. Slipping into a fresh sweater and running a hand through your hair, you made your way downstairs, the wooden steps creaking softly under your bare feet.
The living room was bathed in a golden haze, the air carrying the sweet, unmistakable scent of vanilla and baking sugar. The bassinet sat in the corner near the window, a soft white canopy draped over it like a protective veil. There, nestled inside on a bed of pale blue blankets, Lucy slept soundly. Her chest rose and fell in gentle rhythms, the congestion from her cold eased for now—perhaps the humidifier Steve had set up had worked its magic. Stray curls framed her flushed cheeks, and one tiny hand clutched the edge of her blanket, her lips pursed in peaceful concentration. The sight tugged at something deep within you, a quiet relief blooming in your chest as you tiptoed closer, careful not to disturb her.
Drawn by the warm aromas and faint clatter of utensils, you moved toward the kitchen doorway, pausing just out of sight. There they were—Steve and Heather, lost in a world of flour-dusted counters and mixing bowls. Steve stood at the island, his broad shoulders relaxed as he leaned over the workspace, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Flour speckled his forearms like faint snow, and a smudge of it marked his cheek, unnoticed in his focus.
Heather perched on a stool pulled up to the counter, her booster seat adjusted just right so she could reach. Steve had gotten her ready for the day, dressing her in a pink sweater and some blue jeans. Her wild brown hair was tied back with a red ribbon that had already come half-undone, strands sticking out in every direction from the chaos of their baking adventure. Her big eyes sparkled with delight as she gripped a wooden spoon in both hands, stirring a bowl of dough with exaggerated vigor. 'Faster, Daddy! The cookies gotta be super big!' she declared, her voice a high-pitched trill that filled the room with infectious energy.
Steve chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the air, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. 'Whoa there, speedy—don't want to fling it everywhere,' he said, gently guiding her hand to slow the motion. He scooped a handful of chocolate chips from a nearby bag, letting them cascade into the mixture like dark rain. 'See? These are the best part. But if we mix too fast, they might run away.' Heather giggled, her spoon slowing to a more manageable swirl, dough clinging to the edges in gooey clumps.
He reached for the rolling pin next, demonstrating with a light press against the dough spread out on a floured board. His fingers kneaded the edges, shaping it evenly, while Heather watched in rapt attention, her little tongue poking out in concentration. 'Your turn,' he encouraged, handing her the pin with both hands wrapped around hers. Together, they rolled it back and forth, the dough flattening under their combined effort, Heather's laughter bubbling up when it stuck slightly and Steve peeled it free with a playful tug.
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over your chest, content to simply observe. The scene unfolded like a living painting: Steve's patient explanations of measurements—'One cup of sugar, just like this'—punctuated by Heather's eager questions and the occasional lick of batter from her finger, which earned her a mock-stern 'Hey, that's for the oven!' from him. He wiped her hands on a dish towel slung over his shoulder, then lifted her out of her seat so she was sat on the counter to help press the cookie cutters—stars and hearts—onto the dough. Her small fingers pressed them in with wobbly precision, and Steve praised each one, his voice warm and genuine: 'Look at that heart—perfect for Mommy, right?'
Flour dusted the air like fine mist whenever they moved, settling on the tiled floor in soft piles. The oven's preheat hum provided a soothing backdrop, and through the window, the backyard swayed gently in the breeze, birds flitting between the trees. Steve's hair caught the light, tousled from Heather's earlier attempts to 'help' style it with her somehow always slightly sticky hands, and he didn't seem to mind one bit. He scooped up the cut shapes onto a baking sheet, Heather trailing behind him like a shadow, chattering about how the cookies would taste 'maaaazing Daddy.'
In that moment, standing there unseen, your heart swelled with an overwhelming fullness—a quiet, profound joy that pressed against your ribs. This was the life you'd built together, piece by piece: the laughter echoing off the walls, the simple rituals that wove your family tighter. Steve glanced up once, as if sensing your presence, but he didn't call out, instead offering a subtle smile that reached his eyes, letting you savor the peace a little longer. Heather clapped her hands in excitement as the first tray slid into the oven, and you knew, deep down, that these were the memories that would linger forever, sweet as the treats baking behind them.
The oven timer chimed softly, pulling you from your reverie at last. You stepped into the kitchen fully, your presence announced by the gentle creak of the floorboard. Steve's eyes lit up as he turned, that familiar warmth spreading across his face. 'Hey, there you are,' he said, voice low and affectionate, wiping his hands on the dish towel before crossing the space to pull you into a quick embrace. Flour transferred to your sweater, but you didn't care—the scent of him, mixed with sugar and home, grounded you completely.
Heather spotted you next, her face breaking into a beaming grin. 'Mommy! We made cookies! Daddy said the heart one's for you!' She toddled over with her arms outstretched, a streak of dough still visible on her cheek. You scooped her up, pressing a kiss to her forehead, her wild curls tickling your nose. 'They smell amazing, bug. Can't wait to try one.'
The afternoon unfolded in a lazy, sun-dappled rhythm, the kind of day that felt like a gift after the restless night. You all gathered in the living room after the cookies cooled—crispy edges giving way to gooey centers, chocolate melting on your tongues. Lucy stirred from her nap just in time to join, gurgling contentedly as Steve cradled her in one arm, offering her a tiny, mashed piece on his finger. She gummed it with wide-eyed curiosity, her congestion much improved, tiny sniffles replaced by happy coos. Heather perched on the rug, surrounded by her stuffed animals, declaring a 'cookie party' where each toy got a pretend bite, her laughter ringing out like bells.
Steve caught your eye over the girls' heads, his free hand squeezing your knee—a silent check-in, a shared moment of contentment. A trip to the park called next, the late afternoon light filtering through the leaves as you pushed Lucy's stroller along the path, Heather racing ahead with Steve, collecting 'treasures' like acorns and colorful pebbles. He hoisted her onto his shoulders when she tired, her small hands gripping his hair as she pointed out birds and clouds shaped like dragons. You walked side by side, Lucy's soft weight in the stroller a steady presence, the air filled with easy conversation about nothing and everything—the hotel where you'd said your vows four years ago, the way Heather's eyes lit up just like his during storytime.
As evening approached, the sky deepening to hues of lavender and gold, you transitioned into the familiar dance of family routines. Dinner was a collaborative effort, tag-teaming with the seamless coordination honed from countless nights like this. Steve took the helm in the kitchen, his strong hands chopping vegetables with precise efficiency while you set the table, the clink of plates a comforting underscore. Heather 'helped' by arranging napkins in wobbly stacks, her energy still boundless, while Lucy babbled from her high chair, banging a soft spoon against the tray.
You stirred the pasta sauce on the stove, the rich tomato aroma mingling with garlic and herbs, stealing glances at Steve as he wrestled a giggling Heather away from the fridge—her attempt to sneak extra cheese thwarted with a playful tickle. 'Teamwork makes the dream work,' he murmured to you, bumping your hip with his as he passed, the brief contact sending a spark of warmth through the domestic bustle. When the food was ready, plates steaming with spaghetti twirled just right for tiny forks, you swapped roles: Steve cut Heather's portion into manageable bites and coaxed Lucy through her pureed veggies, his patience infinite as she smeared orange across her chin. You handled the drinks, refilling sippy cups and your own glass of water, wiping spills before they became disasters. Laughter punctuated the meal—Heather's dramatic slurps earning applause, Steve's exaggerated faces making Lucy clap her hands in delight. It was messy, joyful chaos, the four of you orbiting each other in perfect sync.
Bath time followed, the steam from the tub rising like a warm fog in the upstairs bathroom. You took Heather first, drawing the water to just the right temperature, bubbles foaming high. Steve brought Lucy in her carrier, settling her on the bath mat with a towel spread out. 'I'll handle the wild one,' you said with a wink, nodding toward Heather, who was already stripping off her clothes in a flurry, eager to dive in.
Heather splashed in with a whoop, water arcing over the edge as you knelt beside the tub, guiding her toy ducks through imaginary adventures. 'Quack quack, swim fast!' she commanded, her brown curls plastered wet against her head. You lathered shampoo into her hair, fingers massaging gently, rinsing with the handheld sprayer while she squeezed her eyes shut against the spray, giggling all the while. Steve, meanwhile, bathed Lucy in the sink basin nearby—a shallower, safer spot for her nine-month-old wriggles. He supported her tiny body with one large hand splayed across her back, the other dipping a soft cloth over her skin, careful around her still-sensitive nose. 'Easy there, little love,' he soothed when she fussed at the water's touch, his voice a gentle rumble that calmed her instantly. Bubbles clung to his forearms, and he hummed an off-key tune to keep her entertained, her big eyes fixed on his face.
You traded midway, you taking over Lucy's gentle wipe-down while Steve wrangled Heather out of the tub, wrapping her in a fluffy towel and drying her off with exaggerated rubs that had her shrieking in laughter. 'Dry as a bone, kiddo!' he declared, swinging her up into his arms, her legs kicking happily. The air hummed with the scent of baby soap and shampoo, the tiles slick underfoot as you all moved to the nursery for pajamas—soft cotton with patterns of stars for Heather, a onesie dotted with moons for Lucy.
Bedtime wove the evening to a close, the house settling into a hushed glow from the nightlights. Steve claimed story duty in Heather's room, tucking her under her quilt with her bear clutched tight. You lingered in the doorway, watching as he sat on the edge of her bed, book in hand—a well-worn tale of brave explorers. His voice modulated perfectly: deep and dramatic for the adventures, soft and reassuring for the quiet parts. Heather's eyelids drooped, her thumb slipping into her mouth as she nestled deeper into the pillows, the wild tangle of her hair fanning out like a halo.
You handled Lucy's routine in the nursery, rocking her in the glider chair with a bottle of warm milk. Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks, the remnants of her cold leaving her extra snuggly tonight. Humming a lullaby, you patted her back in slow circles until her breaths evened out, then laid her down in the crib, pulling the blanket up to her chin. Steve joined you moments later, Heather successfully asleep, and together you dimmed the lights, the baby monitor clicking on with a soft static.
Downstairs, the kitchen tidied in a quick joint effort—dishes rinsed, counters wiped—you finally ascended to your own bedroom. The day had been full, every moment laced with the sweet pull of family, leaving your limbs heavy with a good kind of tired. Steve changed into his sleep shorts, his movements unhurried, and you slipped under the covers in your pajamas, the mattress dipping as he joined you. No words were needed; his arm draped over your waist, pulling you close, your head tucking against his chest. The steady thump of his heartbeat was the last thing you registered, sleep claiming you both in an instant, wrapped in the quiet security of your shared world.
****
The clock on the nightstand glowed a soft 2:03 AM, its red digits casting a faint crimson hue across the darkened bedroom. Sleep had claimed you in fits and starts throughout the night, Lucy's cold keeping everyone on edge, but now a deeper quiet settled over the house. The bed dipped slightly where Steve had been, his pillow still indented, carrying the faint warmth of his body and the subtle scent of his skin—clean soap mixed with that earthy undertone that always lingered after a long day. You reached out instinctively, fingers brushing the empty space, and found it cool to the touch. He wasn't there.
A soft, rhythmic cooing drifted from the nursery down the hall, interspersed with the low timbre of Steve's voice, murmuring reassurances that pulled you from the haze of exhaustion. You sat up slowly, the sheets pooling around your waist, your pajamas clinging slightly to your skin from the summer humidity that seeped through the windows. Bare feet met the cool hardwood floor, sending a shiver up your legs as you padded toward the door, the house creaking softly in the stillness, like it was breathing along with you.
The nursery door stood ajar, a warm wedge of light from the nightlight spilling into the hallway, painting golden stripes on the walls adorned with faded star decals. You paused there, heart already swelling before you even saw him, the pull of fatherhood drawing Steve to her side yet again. Peering through the gap, you caught the sight that stole your breath: Steve, shirtless, his broad back to you, the defined ridges of his muscles shifting with each gentle motion as he cradled Lucy against his bare chest.
He stood in the center of the room, the rocking chair idle nearby, preferring the sway of his own body to settle her. Lucy's tiny form nestled into the crook of his arm, her cheek pressed to the smooth plane of his pectoral, wild brown curls— so much like his—tousled and damp from the warmth of his skin. She fussed intermittently, a small whimper escaping as her cold made her restless, her little legs kicking weakly against his ribs. But Steve didn't falter; his large hand, callused from years of hands-on dad duties and the occasional fix-it project around the house, spanned the length of her back, fingers splaying wide to rub slow, deliberate circles over the soft fabric of her onesie. The other arm hooked under her bottom, supporting her weight effortlessly as he rocked side to side, hips swaying in that instinctive rhythm honed from countless nights like this.
'Shh, little one,' he whispered, voice a gravelly rumble that vibrated through his chest and into her, his stubble-shadowed jaw tilting down to brush his lips against her forehead. The scruff along his face caught the dim light, a rough contrast to the tenderness in his eyes—those big, expressive hazel ones that mirrored her own. Sweat glistened faintly on his shoulders from the humid night air, tracing the contours of his traps and deltoids, the way his lats flared with each subtle adjustment of her position. His back was a map of strength: the V-shaped taper from broad shoulders to narrow waist, muscles flexing and releasing as he lifted her slightly to reposition the blanket draped over her legs, veins standing out along his forearms from the careful hold.
You leaned against the doorframe, unseen in the shadows, awe washing over you like a tide. He was still the boyish charmer from Hawkins High, but fatherhood had sculpted him into something more—unyielding, devoted, the ultimate girl dad who wore exhaustion like a badge. Heather's wild energy during the day, Lucy's midnight wakes; he handled it all with that quiet confidence, his body a pillar for your family. Watching him now, the play of light over the freckles dusting his shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his breathing syncing with hers as her whimpers faded to soft sighs—it ignited something primal in you. Her small fist unclenched against his skin, eyelids fluttering shut, and he hummed a low, off-key lullaby, the vibration lulling her deeper into sleep.
But beneath the swell of love, heat bloomed low in your core, insistent and unbidden. Four years married, two daughters already filling your home with chaos and joy, and yet the thought that had whispered in quiet moments sharpened into a fierce want: another baby. His seed taking root inside you, his strong body covering yours, thrusting deep until you both shattered. The image flooded your mind—his hands gripping your hips, stubble scraping your neck as he filled you completely, no barriers, just the raw intent to create life. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, pulse quickening at the urgency of it.
He lingered a moment longer, pressing one last kiss to her temple before easing her back into the crib, tucking the blanket around her. As he turned toward the door, you slipped away, heart pounding, the hallway stretching before you like a path to anticipation. Back in bed, you burrowed under the covers, skin flushing with need, waiting for his return. When he slid in beside you—warm, shirtless, smelling of baby lotion and him—you'd pull him close, guide his hand to your belly, whisper the words that had been burning since you watched him.
The mattress dipped under Steve's weight as he slipped back into bed, the sheets rustling softly against his bare skin. He moved with that quiet care, not wanting to disturb you further, but the warmth radiating from his body chased away the chill that had settled in his absence. His chest, still carrying the faint sheen of sweat from holding Lucy, brushed against your arm as he settled on his side, facing you in the dim glow of the clock—2:17 AM now, the minutes blurring in the haze of your building anticipation.
"Hey, sorry if I woke you," he murmured, voice low and rough from the late hour, his hand reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered there, callused tips tracing the curve of your cheek, eyes searching yours with that familiar mix of concern and affection. The stubble on his jaw caught the faint light, shadowing his face, and you could smell the clean, powdery trace of baby lotion clinging to him, mingled with his own musky scent.
But words weren't what you needed. Before he could say more, you surged forward, closing the scant distance between you, your lips crashing into his in a kiss that silenced everything. It was hungry, urgent—your mouth opening against his, tongue slipping past his lips to taste the warmth of him, the subtle salt from his skin. Steve froze for a split second, caught off guard, then groaned low in his throat, his hand sliding to the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair to pull you closer. He kissed you back with equal fervor, his body shifting to press against yours, the hard planes of his chest molding to your softer curves through the thin fabric of your nightshirt.
When you finally broke apart, breaths coming in shallow pants, his hazel eyes locked onto yours, darkened with surprise and a spark of arousal. His thumb brushed your lower lip, swollen from the pressure, as he searched your face. "What's gotten into you?" he asked, voice husky, a small, breathless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His free hand rested on your hip, fingers splaying possessively over the sheet, the heat of his palm seeping through.
You didn't hesitate, heart pounding with the truth that had been simmering since you watched him in the nursery. Leaning in, your forehead resting against his, you let the words spill out in a whisper laced with need. "I want another baby, Steve. Watching you with her tonight... it hit me. I want that again— I want you inside me, right now, filling me up until it happens. No waiting, no pulling out. Just us, making another one."
His breath hitched, eyes widening as your confession sank in, the raw desire in your voice igniting something fierce in him. His grip on your hip tightened, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the growing hardness of his cock pressing insistently against your thigh through his boxers. "God, yeah," he rasped, voice thick with want, his mouth descending to claim yours again in a slower, deeper kiss that promised everything you craved.
His mouth moved against yours with a deliberate hunger, lips parting to let his tongue slide deep, tasting every inch as if he couldn't get enough. You matched him, hands roaming up the broad expanse of his back, fingers digging into the firm muscles there, feeling them flex under your touch. The kiss deepened, breaths mingling hot and fast, his stubble scraping lightly against your chin as he angled his head for better access. Steve's hand trailed down your side, bunching the hem of your pajama shirt, pulling it up slowly over your skin until he broke the kiss just long enough to yank it off, tossing it aside. Your breasts spilled free, nipples hardening in the cool air, and he groaned softly, eyes raking over you before his mouth descended to your neck, sucking gently at the pulse point while his fingers hooked into your pants, tugging them down your thighs.
You helped, kicking them off, then reached for his shorts, palming the thick length of his cock through the fabric. It throbbed under your hand, already hard and leaking pre-cum, and you freed him with a swift pull, wrapping your fingers around the hot, velvety shaft. Steve hissed against your skin, hips bucking forward into your grip as he stripped the shorts away completely, leaving both of you bare. His body covered yours again, skin sliding against skin, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress as your legs parted instinctively, cradling his hips.
'Fuck, baby,' he whispered, voice rough and low against your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine. 'Look at you, so desperate for my cock already. You need it bad, don't you? Gonna fill that pretty pussy up, breed you just like we did before—give you another baby.' His words were laced with awe, his hand cupping your breast, thumb circling the nipple as he nipped at your earlobe. 'You're perfect for this, taking me so deep, letting me pump you full. I love how you want it, how you crave me inside you like this.'
The praise washed over you, warm and filthy, stoking the fire in your core without a hint of meanness—just pure, heated admiration for your desire. You arched into him, moaning softly as his cock nudged against your thigh, the tip slick and insistent. Then, with a swift move, Steve shifted his weight, flipping you onto your back in one fluid motion, his strong arms bracketing your head as he hovered above you. His eyes locked on yours, dark with lust, a smirk playing on his lips as he ground his hips forward, letting the length of his cock slide along your wet folds without entering.
'Tell me what you want,' he murmured, voice dropping an octave, his hand sliding down to grip your thigh, hitching your leg higher around his waist. 'Beg for it, sweetheart. I wanna hear how much you need me to fuck you, to come inside and knock you up.' He teased you with shallow thrusts, the head of his cock bumping your clit each time, building the ache until you were trembling beneath him.
Please, Steve,' you whimpered, your voice breaking with need as you clutched at his shoulders, nails scraping lightly over his skin. 'I need you inside me. Fuck me, fill me up—make me yours again. I want your cock so bad, want you to come deep and breed me. Please, don't make me wait.' The words tumbled out in a rush, raw and pleading, your hips lifting toward him in desperation, slick folds brushing the tip of his shaft.
Steve's gaze burned into yours, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he absorbed your begging. 'That's my girl,' he murmured, voice thick with approval, his hand stroking along your thigh before gripping your hip. With a deliberate shift, he aligned himself, the broad head of his cock pressing against your entrance. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open with his thickness. You gasped at the familiar burn, the way he filled you so completely, every ridge and vein dragging against your inner walls. He was huge, always had been, and even after years together, the sheer size of him left you breathless, awed by how perfectly he claimed you, how your body yielded to him like it was made for this.
'God, you're tight,' he breathed, bottoming out with a final thrust that seated him fully, his balls pressing against your ass. He paused there, letting you adjust, his forehead resting against yours as he searched your eyes. The connection was electric, intimate, his brown depths holding yours with unwavering intensity. Then he began to move, pulling back almost all the way before sliding in again, slow and deep, each stroke measured to let you feel every bit of him.
His lips found yours in a tender kiss, soft at first, then deepening as his hips rolled forward. Tongues tangled lazily, breaths shared in the quiet of the room, while he fucked you with unhurried rhythm. One hand braced beside your head, the other cupped your face, thumb tracing your cheek as he held your gaze between kisses, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your features. 'You feel incredible,' he whispered against your mouth, voice husky. 'Taking me like this, so good for me.' The pace stayed languid, building heat gradually, his thick cock gliding in and out, hitting that spot inside you that made you clench around him.
Steve's thrusts picked up speed, his hips snapping forward with more urgency, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room as his thick cock plunged deeper into your pussy. He broke the kiss to watch your face, eyes dark with lust, a smirk tugging at his lips as he felt you clench around him. 'Fuck, baby, your cunt's gripping me so tight—like it never wants to let go,' he groaned, voice rougher now, laced with raw hunger. 'You love this big dick stretching you out, don't you? Taking every inch like a good little slut for your husband.'
The dirty words sent a thrill through you, heat flooding your core as you arched into him, loving how he talked to you like this—filthy and possessive, but still wrapped in that deep affection. 'Yes, Steve, I love it,' you moaned back, your hands roaming over his broad back, nails digging in as you met his rhythm. 'Your cock feels so fucking good, so huge inside me. Pound my pussy harder—make me come all over you.' You gasped as he hit that spot again, harder this time, your words spurring him on.
He growled in response, one hand sliding down to grip your ass, pulling you closer with each forceful thrust. 'That's right, beg for it like you mean it. You're gonna milk my cock dry, aren't you? Gonna squeeze out every drop of my cum until it's dripping out of that perfect pussy.' His pace quickened further, relentless now, bed creaking under the force as he fucked you deep and fast, his balls slapping against you. Sweat beaded on his chest, his stubble grazing your neck as he leaned in to nip at your skin, breath hot against your ear. 'God, I love how wet you get for me, how you take it all. My dirty girl, ready to get bred again.'
You reveled in it, the praise fueling your own fire as you wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, urging him deeper. 'Fuck yes, breed me, Steve—fill me up with your hot cum. You're so good at this, making me feel so full, so owned.' Your voice hitched with each thrust, pleasure coiling tight in your belly, his words and the friction of his massive shaft pushing you closer to the edge.
Steve's rhythm turned brutal, his hips slamming into yours with unyielding force, each thrust driving his thick cock balls-deep into your soaking pussy. The bedframe rattled against the wall, a steady thump that matched the pounding of your heart, as he pinned you down with his weight, muscles flexing in his arms and chest. 'Shit, you're taking it so well,' he rasped, his voice gravelly from the effort, sweat dripping from his brow onto your skin. 'This tight little hole was made for my cock—squeezing me like you can't get enough.' He angled his hips just right, grinding against your clit with every plunge, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your nerves.
You cried out, your body arching off the mattress as the intensity built, his relentless pace pushing you toward oblivion. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, leaving red trails on his skin, while your heels dug into his ass, pulling him impossibly closer. 'Harder, Steve—fuck me like you own me,' you demanded, your words breathless and broken, the filth rolling off your tongue as easily as his. 'Your dick's ruining me, stretching my pussy so wide. I need you to wreck it, make it yours forever.' The way he filled you, over and over, had your walls fluttering around him, the pressure coiling tighter in your core with every brutal snap of his hips.
He obliged without hesitation, his thrusts growing even more savage, the head of his cock battering against your cervix as he chased his release. One hand braced beside your head, the other snaked between your bodies to rub firm circles over your swollen clit, amplifying the sensations until you were trembling beneath him. 'That's my girl—talking dirty back to me, getting so fucking sloppy and wet,' he growled, his stubble scraping your collarbone as he leaned down to capture your nipple between his teeth, sucking hard before releasing it with a pop. 'You're gonna come on this cock, aren't you? Flood me with that sweet cream while I pump you full.' His balls tightened against you, heavy and full, slapping rhythmically as he fucked you without mercy, the room thick with the scent of sex and the obscene sounds of your bodies colliding.
The coil in your belly snapped without warning, pleasure crashing over you like a wave as your orgasm ripped through. Your pussy clamped down on his shaft in vise-like pulses, milking him as you shattered, a keening moan tearing from your throat. 'Steve—oh god, yes, I'm coming!' Waves of ecstasy pulsed from your core, your thighs quaking around him, toes curling into the sheets as you rode out the high, every nerve alight with bliss. Juices gushed around his cock, easing his way even as you tightened, your body shuddering in release.
The sight and feel of you unraveling pushed him over the edge. Steve's thrusts stuttered, then buried deep one final time, his cock throbbing as he erupted inside you. Hot ropes of cum flooded your pussy, painting your walls with his seed, spilling out around where you were joined as he ground against you. 'Fuck—take it all, baby,' he groaned, his voice strained, forehead pressed to yours as he emptied himself, pulse after pulse until he had nothing left. His body tensed above you, muscles locking as he rode his climax, breath coming in harsh pants against your lips.
For a long moment, you both stayed locked together, his weight a comforting anchor as aftershocks rippled through you. He kissed you softly then, a contrast to the ferocity moments before, murmuring against your mouth, 'Love you so much. Can't wait to see you grow with our next one.' Slowly, he eased out, a mix of your combined fluids trickling down your thighs, but he didn't pull away—instead, he gathered you close, tucking you against his chest as your heartbeats synced in the quiet night.
****
A few weeks had passed since that heated night, the air in your home still buzzing with the quiet anticipation of what might come next. Mornings blurred into evenings filled with the chaos of toddler energy and baby coos, Steve juggling work shifts with diaper changes, his broad shoulders always ready to carry the load. You'd felt the subtle shifts in your body—the faint nausea in the mornings, the tenderness in your breasts—but hope had kept you from testing until now. Today, in the soft light of your bathroom, the moment arrived.
Steve stood behind you, his hands warm on your hips, chin resting on your shoulder as you held the small stick over the sink. The seconds ticked by in agonizing slowness, your heart pounding in sync with the drip of the faucet. He pressed a kiss to your temple, his stubble grazing your skin, murmuring, 'Whatever it says, we're good. You and me, always.' But the tension hung thick, both of you holding your breath.
Then, the digital display flickered to life. Two lines. Positive. The world tilted for a heartbeat, joy flooding your veins like sunlight breaking through clouds. 'Oh my god,' you whispered, turning the test toward him, tears already pricking at your eyes. Steve's face lit up, his big brown eyes widening before crinkling at the corners with a grin that stretched ear to ear. He pulled you into his arms without a word, enveloping you in his solid frame, the scent of his soap and faint cologne wrapping around you like a promise.
You buried your face in his chest, happy sobs shaking your shoulders as his own eyes glistened, a few tears escaping to dampen your hair. 'We're doing this again,' he said, voice thick with emotion, holding you tighter as if to anchor the miracle between you. Laughter mixed with the tears, your bodies swaying gently in the small space, the test clutched between you like a talisman.
Steve knelt then, his strong hands sliding down to rest on your abdomen, fingers splaying wide over the still-flat plane. He leaned in, pressing his lips softly to your belly, right through the thin fabric of your shirt—a tender kiss that spoke of protection, excitement, and endless love. Looking up at you with that boyish sparkle, he chuckled through the lump in his throat. 'Well, that's three nuggets down, another three to go.'
You threaded your fingers through his hair, pulling him up for a deep kiss, the future unfolding sweet and full before you both.
can i request a steve fic where the reader also comes from a broken or absent home of sorts likw steve and that’s why she babysits the kids all the time and maybe during the starcourt and all the “natural disasters” in hawkins, and no one also is picking her up etc etc snd then they lowkey get together? and epilogue wise tbey have all those 6 nuggets to build the family they want together :’)
to build a home - steve harrington
pairing: steve harrington x reader
wc: 1.1k
a/n: loved this request!!! not super happy with how it turned out tho i stayed losing inspo like halfway though so plz be nice with this one
You started babysitting Dustin Henderson when you were a freshman so earn some cash for your college fund. He was a sweet and adorable kid, and he was far smarter than any other eleven year old you’d met. You quickly grew an attachment to each other, becoming more like siblings.
Along with Dustin, Lucas, Mike, and Will eventually fell into your care. Not that you minded. Most middle school boys were awful and annoying, and while they might get on your nerves sometimes, you enjoyed the company of the group.
You were an only child of parents who works more than they were home. They weren’t bad parents, they cared, but they were passionate about their careers as well. So you filled the void by spending time at the Henderson’s house, even when Claudia was home and had no need for you to be there.
Your close proximity to the boys is how you were looped into the Upside Down mess. They’d shown up at your door with a little girl with a shaved head begging for her sanctuary. You didn’t know that letting that little girl in begin a sequence of events that would change your life in more ways than one.
-
You’d known Steve Harrington since you were kids. He was a year older than you, but you played together in the same group in elementary school, in middle school you developed a crush on him, and in high school you discovered what a real asshole him and every other teenage boy was.
You never would’ve considered him a friend, especially when you got older. The two of you ran in different circles. You didn’t think about him much and you were sure he didn’t know who you were anymore. Understandable.
So when Dustin showed up at your door that day with Steve Harrington in tow needing help finding Dart, you were weary.
“Steve Harrington? Was every other person in town busy?” You had whispered to Dustin as the two of you followed Steve to his car.
“He’s cool.” Dustin had replied, making you roll your eyes. “Plus he’s got that bat.”
“Right.” You’d said with a sigh, sliding into the passenger seat of Steve’s car, the last place on earth you ever thought you would be.
-
The bond with Steve started small. It shocked you that the two of you actually made a pretty good team fighting the demodogs while wrangling the kids. Slowly, your time spent with Dustin turned into time spent with Steve too.
You never could understand what possessed Steve to form a friendship with Dustin at first. Sure, Steve was in the middle of his fall from grace with no more friends and no girlfriend, but still. What attractive teenage guy would voluntarily spend his free time with a nerdy seventh grader?
Then you got to know him a little more. Some nights, after dropping Dustin off after taking him to the arcade, Steve would just drive the two of you around. Bit by bit he told you more about his life. Most of the time, he would say things so casually that it made it seem normal. But to him, that’s what it was. You found yourself doing the unthinkable- relating to Steve Harrington.
He would tell you about his parents and the months-long business trips that left him fending for himself in the big empty home. You told him about your career-oriented parents and how they were never around.
Neither of you had anyone, well no one besides the kids. The more time you spent together, the more you gravitated towards each other. Hangouts with Dustin turned into hangouts with just you and Steve. Movie nights, cooking dinner together, late night drives. You were together so much that the kids began calling you mom and dad.
The night Starcourt burned down, you and Steve sat bruised and beaten on the curb, watching as everyone’s parents picked them up, running up and pulling them into hugs. You let out a shaky sigh, the flashing lights of police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks adding to the pounding in your head, which you now rest on Steve’s shoulder.
With Steve’s keys lost and neither of your parents in town to pick you up, you and Steve pile into the back of a cop car. Steve gives the cop his address before reaching for your hand in the backseat. When you make it to his house, you clean each other up, take turns in the shower, then cuddle up on the couch with the lamp on, too frazzled to sleep.
At some point, you became more without even saying. One night, Steve kissed you like it was the most normal thing, and then he never stopped. It was as if you were bound by fate, like it would haven’t inevitably.
Falling in love with Steve was the easiest thing you’ve ever done. It kept you grounded amidst the chaos of Hawkins. Even when Hawkins split in four and you had been through hell and back fighting Vecna, it was Steve who held you at the end of the night.
It was on nights like those, when the emptiness of your homes crept in, that the two of you would talk about your future. Steve wanted six little nuggets, you always pictured two.
“Six is insane. Are you gonna pop those out?” You had said once has you laid on his chest.
“Six isn’t that crazy. We have a lot of love to give.” Steve replied, running his fingers through your hair.
“We can’t forget the six kids we already have.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Steve smiled, kissing the top of your head. “I’ll convince on six more though.”
-
You swore you wouldn’t have six. You told Steve you were done after three, then after four. After five, Steve had said ‘what’s one more’? One thing your husband was good at was convincing. Besides, one look at your daughters had you wanting more.
Robin had called you crazy, but to you and Steve, it just made sense. Your house never felt empty or cold. Around every corner was laughter and signs of life. Toys scattered, drawings pinned to the fridge, pictures from your summer roadtrips framed on the walls.
The look on Steve’s face when he came home from work, exhausted but instantly light up when little feet thunder down the hall towards the door always made it worth it. Or seeing him in a crown and boa playing tea party. Or the way he would wrangle all the girls into the RV during the summer, teaching them how to camp.
All the years of empty homes and living through hell had got you and Steve to this life. You’d both do it all over in a heartbeat if it meant getting your happy ending with your six little nuggets.
you couldn't stop thinking about robin's comment. and well... curiosity killed the cat. or, more accurately, demolished your cat in a storage closet
bet u wanna read my masterlist! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
pairing: steven harrington x fem!reader
warnings: fem!reader, smut, p in v, dick-induced psychosis, public-ish sex, closet sex, pwp with feelings, oral thoughts no action, dirty talk, blasphemy in the name of science praise kink, fingering, penetrative sex, no condom usage (DONTTTTTTTTT), twinkie (i refuse to say creampie), humiliation kink but it’s just reader embarrassing herself, reader gets high on hypothetical dick, robin haunts this fic like a ghost of horny instigation
prompt: here!
wc: 4.3k (maria shut the fuck up challenge)
“Steve hears that all the time and he goes in anyway, don’t ya Steve?”
You wish there were a drug (prescription, over-the-counter, homemade in a bathtub, you’re not picky) that could hose the last twenty-four hours clean out of your brain. Like a mental Clorox bomb. Rip the wallpaper off. Burn the couch. Scrub the inside of your skull until you couldn’t recall your own name, let alone that sentence.
The one currently rerouting every single one of your thoughts back to Steve Fucking Harrington and the inadvisable fixation on whatever situation he’s got going on in his Levi’s.
Incredible. Gold-star behavior. You should be on a watchlist.
You splash cold water on your face as if it’s holy, hoping it’ll scald the thoughts right out of you if you’re devout enough about it.
It doesn’t. If anything, now you’re just damp and distracted.
You scrape your hair into a ponytail with trembling hands, snaring your fingers on knots you don’t have the patience to untangle. Your reflection meets you in the mirror with narrowed eyes and a contempt so sharp it could peel paint.
Maybe it’s fine. This is just textbook human behavior.
Curiosity kept the species alive, didn’t it? Curiosity made fire, built tools, landed on the moon. You just… redirected it. A little. Preoccupation plus sleep deprivation equals temporary psychosis.
And Steve Harrington’s size is just an equation you haven’t solved yet. That’s all.
However, your brain doesn’t want the excuses you’re giving yourself. It wants contact. And the second you try to intellectualize it, it slips the leash, teeth bared, wrecking itself on imagery and impulse and the sheer kinetic force of your own dumb, dumb hunger.
You know what he was like in high school. Or what he was supposed to be like, if the teenage hivemind was to be believed. House parties every Friday. Cheap beer on his breath. Pretty girls folded into the backseat of his car.
You barely spoke, back then. Might never have, if not for the apocalypse flattening the social hierarchy and parking you two side-by-side in survival’s waiting room.
There’s something kind of poetic about that, if you squint.
And yeah, with a reputation like that, it’s not exactly shocking to imagine he’s got... experience. The rumors made sure of it. Especially the ones that got real creative below the belt.
You open the bathroom door too fast. Before your heartbeat has settled, before your mind has purged even a fraction of the things you just let yourself picture.
Terrible, wonderful things involving you and him and way less clothing.
You step out with heat still coiled under your skin, eyes unfocused, and crash straight into him.
Hard. Chest to face. His chest, your face.
The impact should’ve knocked the thoughts clean out of your head. But they just double in volume. Multiply like gremlins.
You’re ninety percent sure he’s looking straight into your frontal lobe and watching the mental porn reel on loop.
“Shit, sorry — I was just, um, doing the cold-water-to-the-face thing. That’s why I’m wet. My face, I mean.” You motion to your cheeks, as if this will clarify anything. “Not because I’m sweating. I mean, I am sweating, but not — okay, that’s not important. Anyway. Didn’t mean to, uh, crash into you.”
“Whoa, hey, you’re fine,” he says, all gentle grin and slow hands, like he’s trying to calm a skittish animal. He leans in instead of backing up, tilts his head. “You alright? You’re burning up.” His knuckles skim your cheek. “What were you doing in there, running laps?”
Your heart might stop. Or rupture. Or just melt into a little puddle and drip out of your ear, leaving behind a chalk outline and a puff of smoke.
His touch is so steady, so casual, it makes your own body feel uninhabitable.
“I’m okay,” you blurt. “I mean, I’m warm, but I’m always warm. Homeostasis, you know? Higher basal body temperature.” You blink. “Not sick, though. No fever. I checked. Not checked, but I’d know. Probably. I think.”
Steve studies you for a second longer than necessary before his hand falls away. The cool air rushes in where he was, and you almost flinch.
“You sure?” he asks, brow pinched. “You look kinda…” He stops himself. Swallows. “Never mind.”
His fingers move to his belt, fidgeting without thinking, you’re sure. You follow the motion like he’s got you on a string, and you're the world's most suggestible puppet.
His jeans are tight. Unreasonably so.
Is this new? Has he always looked like that? Or are you simply being punished? Because your thoughts are not kind anymore. They are filthy and frantic and belt-shaped.
“I’m fine. I promise. Seriously. Don’t start psychoanalyzing me.”
“Right,” he says, lips twitching like he almost smiles. “Just saying, you’ve been a little… scarce. Thought maybe you were avoiding me.”
Your foot pivots, heel to toe, heel to toe. “No, I’m not avoiding you. Why would I —?”
And there it is. The stumble. The dead end.
“Good question. Why would you?”
“I wasn’t!” you say too fast. “I just… figured if I gave you space, it’d keep things from getting…” You wince. Shit. “I mean, no. I wasn’t avoiding you, really.”
Steve leans back against the wall like it was built just for him, arms crossed, smirk dialed up to lethal.
“Yeah?” he says. “Because from where I’m standing, it looked a lot like someone running scared.”
“I just think it’s completely fair to occasionally take space, okay?” you ramble, hands flailing. “Sometimes people just need time. Alone. To recalibrate. It’s healthy. Especially if, hypothetically, someone maybe said something that stuck in your head like a thumbtack and now you can’t stop thinking about it, and it might not even true but it feels true, and —”
“What feels true?”
You try to reroute. Hit the emergency eject. Say literally anything that doesn’t involve Robin or Steve or his dick size.
Your mouth moves, but nothing intelligent follows.
“I — uh.” Good start. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid. It’s — wow, I’m bad at this.”
You don’t specify what this is. You pray he doesn’t ask.
But then his brow twitches, just a little. And his eyes widen with that soft, dooming interest that means he’s put something together.
“This is about what Robin said.”
You choke on the inhale. “What? No.”
Steve actually looks sorry for you.
It’s worse than laughter. Worse than death. It’s in the eyes, the little tilt of his head, the amused pinch of his lips like he’s fighting the urge to ruffle your hair and tell you to sit this one out.
“Jesus,” he says, grinning. “You might be the worst liar I’ve ever seen.”
“I wasn’t — I haven’t been, like, dwelling on it or anything.”
“If it’s been keeping you up at night,” he murmurs, almost innocently, “I could just tell you. Might help you sleep.”
You cover your face with both hands. “Please stop talking.”
“What?” he laughs. “You’ve got questions, sweetheart. I’ve got answers. This is a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“I don’t!” you say, voice pitching an octave too high. “I do not have questions. Maybe — okay, fine — maybe I had a thought. Singular. One unit of mental disturbance. But that’s not the same thing, and I definitely don’t need answers, because answers imply interest, and I’m not interested. I’m so far from interested.”
“So you’re telling me, just for the record, that there’s zero interest in whether or not Robin was exaggerating... or proof she wasn't?”
You immediately take a step back like his words physically shoved you.
“You can’t — don’t say things like that. You can’t say things like that.”
He follows anyway. A goddamn golden retriever walking into the flames, all softness and sunlight, warmth invading every inch of your body like light through the blinds.
He smells like vanilla and ocean wind and the kind of summer you only remember in snapshots. Melting popsicles. Sweat-slick heat. Grass stains on your shins.
Your gaze dips to the slope of his collarbone, to the tiny freckle just beneath it.
You think about mouthing over it like it’s the last clean sin left in the world.
“Why not?”
“I — because.”
“That’s not an answer.” He takes a half step. “You sure you don’t want to know?”
“I’m sure I don’t need your charity.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is this?”
“This is me giving you the chance to just ask,” he murmurs. “Because I think you’ve want to.”
“I just don’t want you to think I’m…” You trail off, suddenly unsure what the ending of that sentence is. What? Pathetic? Presumptuous? Clingy in that skin-crawling, middle school way? “It’s embarrassing, okay?” you say instead, voice barely above a whisper. “So if you’re being nice, stop. Please.”
“Do you really think I’d be standing here if I didn’t want to be?” he says. “That I’d be — what? Entertaining you out of pity?”
“I don’t know, maybe?” you say, hands flying up. “You’ve always been nice to me, Steve, and maybe that’s just a you thing, maybe you’re just pathologically polite and constitutionally incapable of making a clean exit from a conversation because you’re scared of being rude and I get that, I really do, but I’m kind of a lot, like, objectively, and sometimes I can’t tell —”
He leans in and kisses you.
The moment detonates, no warning or countdown, just pure combustion, like his mouth struck the match and you were already soaked in gasoline.
Or maybe it dissolves instead, maybe it disappears entirely and takes you with it, because suddenly there’s nothing solid left to stand on.
Your thoughts scatter in every direction, slippery, clattering out of reach before you can grab onto even one of them. Maybe it’s relief, or maybe it’s panic, or maybe it’s both in equal measure tangled so tightly you can’t separate them, because the kiss doesn’t feel sweet or soft or safe.
It feels like something that’s been waiting. Pacing. Burning its way through the walls of his chest until it finally found a way out through your mouth.
This isn’t a kiss you’ll bounce back from. This isn’t a kiss you can shrug off later or file under harmless flirtation, Steve being Steve, like always. Because this is not harmless. This is not casual. This is not anything close to friendly.
It’s blistering. It’s possessive. It’s entirely incompatible with every version of this relationship you’ve tried to pretend was normal.
Your brain blanks. Your lungs forget how to function. You can’t even remember what you were saying before your mouth is full of heat and your brain is full of him, and all the polite categories you sorted him into are collapsing like paper in the rain.
No one kisses like this out of pity.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes drag over your face like he’s assessing the wreckage, seeing what parts of you still work.
You’re flushed. Breathless. Somewhere between euphoric and humiliated and already hungry for more.
“You talk too much,” he says, almost fondly. But his eyes catch on your mouth, and the way they darken doesn’t feel fond at all. “Maybe I should keep kissing you until you forget how to speak.”
His thumb traces your lip like he’s considering biting it next.
You blink past him, looking anywhere that isn’t his mouth or his eyes or his neck or the absolutely devastating angle of his jaw, because you’re pretty sure if you keep staring at him, you’re going to forget basic laws of human decency. And public indecency.
Like Joyce Byers walking out of the breakroom with a mug that says “World’s Best Mom” and catching you looking like a couple of hormonal teenagers in the AV room.
“Steve,” you whisper, half-mortified, half-dizzy. “We can’t just make out in the hallway.”
“Then let me take you somewhere we can.”
You nod before the sentence even fully lands, a reflexive, eager little movement that tells on you immediately. So much for playing it cool. So much for dignity.
He doesn’t comment on it, thank the gods, but he does capitalize on it, fingers already hooking into your wrist as he pulls you backward, mouth never quite leaving yours, like he’s discovered a loophole in reality where consequences can’t reach him as long as he keeps kissing you.
The hallway blurs, your awareness narrowing to the press of his body and the sound of a closet door being located purely by faith.
“You know,” he mumbles, voice rough and amused between kisses, “there’s a middle ground between unresolved sexual tension and closet makeouts, but clearly we skipped it.”
You giggle helplessly against his mouth. “You’re the one who kissed me!”
“Mmhm.” He presses another kiss to the corner of your smile. “And look at that —” kiss “— still doing it. Can’t seem to stop.”
There’s a clever comeback balancing precariously on the edge of your tongue, but it never makes it past your lips because his tongue gets there first, hot and shameless, swallowing the thought whole as he presses you back, deeper, until your spine meets cinderblock and your heel kicks something papery and hollow that might’ve once been a box but is now a casualty of lust.
The sound is distant. Muffled. Everything is. Except him. Except the way his fingers, practically dipped in snow, slip beneath your shirt, finding your hips to flatten against the give of flesh.
Your body jerks toward him like a tide you don’t remember starting. He meets you halfway, grinding in slow and steady, the thick ridge of his jeans dragging across your thigh but not there, not where you actually need him.
You know that smile. You can feel it ghosting across your mouth, equal parts smug and merciless.
You brace one hand on his shoulder like you might push him back, but it’s a lie. You just need something to hold onto.
“You’re being mean.”
“Thought I was nice,” he murmurs, not even bothering to hide the grin stretching across his face. “That’s what you said, right? ‘You’ve always been nice to me, Steve.’” His hand drags slow over your waist, inching lower. “Funny how quick your definition changes when you don’t get what you want.”
“You’re twisting my words on purpose.”
“Maybe.” His hand palms your ass, full and greedy, and a faint noise punches out of you. “Or maybe I’m just demonstrating,” he says then rolls his hips forward until the you feel the line of his length presssing right against you through the fabric of your skirt. “People wouldn’t keep saying things if there wasn’t something to back it up.”
Oh.
Well. That clears that up. No more half-smiles or “wouldn’t you like to know” bullshit, no more overheard rumors or vague commentary from people who’ve allegedly seen things, because now you’ve seen things.
Now you’ve felt things. Not secondhand or exaggerated or imagined, but actual, firsthand, physically-verifiable evidence currently pressing against you like an anatomical threat.
He’s hard. Through the layers. Thick and hot and very, very real. So real it’s bordering on impolite.
You don’t understand how he’s just… lived like this. Walked around. Sat next to you. Carried on entire conversations with that much potential sitting in his pants. It’s inhumane.
You want to help. You want to unzip, unburden, atone. You want him in your hand, in your mouth, carved into every version of your imagination like an overdue upgrade.
And you’re going to make that happen. Even if your brain’s just looping ohmygodohmygodohmygod like a broken fire alarm.
“M’wanna see,” you mumble, voice dipped in sugar and challenge and please.
Your hand slips down before you can even finish the thought, trembling with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for Christmas mornings and divine interventions.
You find his belt blindly, drag your knuckles over the stiff leather like it might melt under your palms, and start working at it with a kind of frantic desperation.
But it’s hard, and he’s big, and your fingers are trembling, and the buckle just won’t —
“C’mere,” he says softly, catching your wrist before you can make it worse. His fingers brush yours as he takes over, the buckle opening instantly under his hands like it’s been waiting for him specifically. “So eager, aren’t you?”
“‘S not my fault,” you whisper, almost defensively.
You’re not even trying to play it cool anymore. Because you’re not. Cool, that is. You’re boiling. Bubbling. Practically vibrating with need.
You are eager. Ridiculously so.
“Not your fault,” he echoes, voice gone hoarse. “No, baby. I did this, didn’t I?”
He hums in his throat, hands drifting up your thighs. His fingernail grazes a scar, a stretch mark, a patch of skin you’ve never liked. He draws absent little shapes that make you twitch. One circle. Then another.
You open your mouth to respond, but nothing coherent makes it out, just your own shallow breathing, tangled in vowels.
Your hands are trying to get into his pants, trying to do something, but it’s all angles and nerves.
You get as far as his waistband before his hand finds the damp heat of your underwear and presses down.
Whatever you were going to say evaporates instantly, lost in the whimper that slips out instead.
He groans softly when at that, thumb starting slow circles over your swollen clit, like the sound just fuels him. “There it is. That’s the noise I was waiting for.”
His other hand slips into his boxers, palm wrapping around himself with a hissed breath.
He drags himself free and your eyes drop instantly, your breath catching like he’s knocked the wind out of you.
It’s… obscene. Thick and flushed and heavy and pretty, if cocks can be pretty.
He’s big. Bigger than any rumor. Bigger than anyone should be. The head’s already slick, angry pink, twitching the wrap of his fist.
Your thighs clench automatically.
Steve sees the look on your face and huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh, hand stroking himself once.
“Go ahead, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “You wanted it. Touch.”
Your hand wraps around him like you’ve been waiting your whole life for the opportunity, thumb swiping the slick at the tip without thinking.
“Robin was so right, oh my god, and did you know she once said you probably broke up with that girl because your dick was too big? I thought she was being so rude and now I’m like — shit, maybe she was being nice —”
“Christ,” Steve growls.
You don’t stop. Can’t. “And those stupid rumors in gym? With the thing about the baseball team? And the —”
He cuts you off with two fingers pushing inside you like punctuation. Deep. Perfect.
You gasp like he stole your oxygen. Clutch his cock like it’s your last tether to reality.
“There,” he mutters. “That’s better.”
You whine, then moan, high and sharp, your head tilting back. Your hand twitches on his length, trying to keep up, trying to do something, but your rhythm’s off, messy, helpless.
“Steve — I — I’m trying to — I’m just —”
His free hand finds your jaw.
“Shh, baby,” he says, “just breathe. Let me take care of you, yeah?”
You can’t think. You really can’t. There’s static where your thoughts should be, white noise words once lived, and all of it being overwritten by the flex of his fingers. Your body spasms on instinct, like it’s trying to trap the sensation and keep it.
What kind of person is this good? What kind of boy-next-door-has-a-bat-in-his-trunk knows how to ruin someone with just two fingers and a thumb?
Not that you’re complaining. You’re just… processing. Or trying to. Which is hard, because he looks so beautiful like this. Hair mused, pupils blown, jaw slack. You want to keep him like this. Want to memorize this version of him.
“Want you,” you materialize. “Steve, please. I want you inside me.”
“Yeah?” he says, jaw tight, like the word almost chokes him.
Your eyes well and you nod, fingers digging into his skin. “Yeah. Please — please, Steve.”
“I’ll give you what you want, sweetheart,” he says, thumb brushing your clit once, then pinching, gentle, filthy, mean. “Want it so bad, don’t you?”
You’re nodding frantically before he’s even finished lining himself up, the head of his cock pressing hot and slick against your entrance.
“Are you sure?” he asks, voice cracking with restraint. “You sure you —”
You cut him off with action, sinking down without waiting, a breathless cry catching in your throat.
“Fuck,” he grits. “Okay. Okay. Baby, slow down.”
He’s big, so big, and you knew that, and you’ve said that, and now it’s too late, he’s already inside you, and you swear you can feel him everywhere, not just between your legs but in your chest, your throat, your teeth, like he’s in your bloodstream now, branded into your nerve endings, and it stretches, stretches, stretches until it feels like you might split in half and you don’t care because it’s so good, impossibly good, the kind of good you didn’t think was even real outside of books or porn or those random sleepover stories where girls said it hurt the first time and then got quiet and dreamy and said but it felt amazing too, and now you understand, now you get it, because this… this is transcendent.
You materialize those thoughts into words as best you can: “I — I didn’t know it could feel like this.”
“Fuck. I’m trying so hard not to move,” he pants, knuckles whitening where he’s gripping you.
“Please, Steve,” you babble, hands curling around his biceps. “I’m okay. I’m okay. Promise. You can move, I need you to.”
But you don’t sound okay. You sound wrecked. Because he’s so close, so real, his sweat dripping onto your collarbone, his breath tangled with yours like it’s shared, like you’re not two separate people at all.
“You sure?” he pants, but he’s already circling your clit again, already letting his hips roll forward like he needs it to survive. “You tell me if it’s too much, yeah?”
The pleasure’s cresting again, thick and dizzying and curling in your belly like your body’s working ahead of your brain, chasing a high you can’t articulate.
“Funny,” he mutters in your ear, “you got all flustered over kissing me in the hallway, and now look at you…” He thrusts hard, then again, a little growl pulsing in his throats. “Letting me fuck you in a closet where anyone could walk by. Anyone could hear.”
“I don’t care,” you breathe, eyes wide and glassy. “Let them — let them hear.”
You’re clenching around him, tighter, desperate, the idea of getting caught only making everything worse.
“Yeah?” he says, hips stuttering as your cunt flutters around him. “You want them to hear how needy you sound?” He circles your clit rougher now, chasing it. “You gonna come for me right here? Gonna soak my cock and let the whole building hear it?”
You should be ashamed. You should be mortified. But instead you’re gasping into his shoulder, cunt clenching around him like your body’s forgotten how to let go, and your brain is stuck on loop of his words.
Because you are, you’re going to, because he’s still thumbing at your slit like he knows exactly what your breaking point sounds like and he wants everyone else to know it too, and it’s so hot it feels like being worshipped and ruined at the same time.
“Steve, I’m gonna — I’m gonna come —” The words fracture as your hips jerk, body trying to meet him stroke for stroke.
“I’m right there — just let go, baby, come with me.”
The orgasm builds and breaks in you like a tidal wave, folding over every nerve ending, leaving you gasping, trembling, clutching at his shoulders like you’re afraid you’ll drift away. They might. You don’t know anything concrete right now.
He groans your name as his rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he’s coming too. You feel it, the rush of heat, the way his cock throbs inside you in sync with every last sound that crawls its way out of his throat.
His breath is warm against your cheek, lips brushing yours but not kissing, just hovering there, like even that would be too much. You’re both trembling, sweaty and flushed and completely gone, still pressed together like if you separate too fast the world might not start spinning again.
You can feel him inside you still, the rush of his seed spreading and pooling.
Everything’s cotton and fog. Your whole body hums. You don’t know what to do with your hands.
Steve kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheekbone, then your forehead, whispering your name like he’s checking for a pulse.
“Still with me?” he breathes, nudging your nose with his. “You okay?”
You nod. Or think you do. Maybe you just melt a little more into him instead.
You blink up at him, eyes glassy, breath still not fully your own. “That was…”
You trail off, because no word feels big enough.
Steve smiles like he knows what you meant anyway, like he felt it too. He brushes your hair off your damp cheek, kissing your temple.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Me too.”
It was weird how gentle he was afterward, like the same hands that just took you apart couldn’t stop smoothing you down, wiping sweat from your hairline, murmuring sweet nothings between kisses.
You were still trembling, your thighs sticky and your thoughts barely functional, so when he cupped your face and whispered, “Do you maybe want to go on an actual date with me?” it took you a full five seconds to realize he wasn’t joking.
You blinked, dazed, nodded (maybe said yes?) and then you were pulling your shirt down, slipping past mops and shelves and half-melted brain cells toward the exit.
You were still smiling when Hopper strolled past with a grunt and a raised brow.
“Ten bucks says you knocked something off the janitor’s schedule.”
You nearly fall over. Steve turns bright red. You both pretend very hard not to exist.
request: where reader asks Steve if he thinks she’d be a good Mom someday and Steve can’t stop thinking about how much he likes her and gets jealous thinking of anyone but him giving her kids and you know they practice 🤭thanks so much for the request !! @allyourfavesinoneblog
kinda set in a timeline after season 5 but el lives and everyone's happy (slight daddy/mommy kink, dirty talk, breeding kink, fingering, p in v sex oral, m reciving)
You pulled up to Hawkins high with little time to spare. Mike, Max and Lucas crammed in the back. El rode shot gun up front with you, seemingly an arrangement never argued about. "Right, hurry up!" you called out to all of them, fetching the brown paper bags by El's feet.
El took hers, trying to shove it into all her bag brimmed with books.
You'd told her she didn't need to pack them all but El just seemed happy to be enjoying school with her friends rather than whatever shit went down in California.
"Max... Lucas-" you handed them each their lunch, marked with their names.
Mike waited. "Hey, where's mine?"
"You don't like the lunches I make."
"I never said that!"
"You don't eat them and if you don't eat them, I'm not wasting them."
Max and Lucas laughed.
"What? So I'm supposed to starve?"
You rolled your eyes as El smiled affectionately at her boyfriend. You fished out a few dollars and handed them to him.
Lucas stuttered. "Hey actually, come to think of it school lunches are kinda-"
"You eat my shit sandwiches or starve, Sinclair. Now please, go I do have a job to get to!"
They all piled out, calling back to you their thanks.
Mike swung his around over El's shoulder, whispering to her.
Quickly you remembered what you had in your bag.
"Max!" you called, pulling out your old Walkman and headphones. Sure, she didn't need them to fend of Vecna and maybe she'd never needed Kate Bush, but still, after coming out of a coma and missing something like two years of school- it would be overwhelming for anyone.
She took it, peering down. "But I thought you couldn't fix mine?" she said.
"It's my old one, I don't use it. And hey," you said, noting the furrow in her brows and the worry buried there. "It's just precaution, okay?"
Max smiled down at it and you. She didn't need to thank you, she gave you a small nod and that was enough.
"Max!" Lucas called from where he waited up.
You watched as she went to his side, taking his hand. You waited until they disappeared with the rest of the kids piling into high school before taking a deep breath.
You didn't think that by your early twenties you'd be worried about a club of kids but once you'd started caring it was really too hard to stop.
"I'm sorry, miss, I just gotta say you look far too young to be a mom of four."
With an affectionate roll of your eyes you turned around, already knowing who'd you'd find standing there.
Steve stood in a pair of well fitted dress pants, something of a ironed white shirt and a tie lose around his neck. It came with the gig of Baseball coach of middle-schoolers and designated Sex-Ed teacher. Not that you were complaining. Far from it.
You leant on your car. "I get that a lot. Kids of your own?"
He lifted his shoulders and stepped toward you, close enough to reach out and caress if you wanted to.
You did. Just not in a high school parking lot. "Aren't you supposed to be up the other end?"
"I was dropping Will, Dustin and little Sinclair off."
"Oh, so a dad of three?"
Steve chuckled, hands in his pockets. "Yes, and, I've heard the parking lot is a good place to pick up hot moms."
"Oh geez-"
"Too much?" he questioned.
Steve and you had met on one terrible night when Demodogs were hunting you and Lucas and Max down. The three of you had bumped into Steve and Dustin at the old junk yard and it started there. It hadn't stopped really, not since six months ago when the upside was destroyed for good and the military moved out. Finally things were settling down.
Finally, Steve could take you on a date.
Or two.
You were on your third date and so far the two of you hadn't done so much as a lingering peck on the lips. Even if you'd been trying not to jump his bones the last three years or so, Steve and you had agreed that now you finally had the time to, you'd take it slow.
Agonisingly slow.
You could tell Steve was regretting it, slightly and so were you.
Surely, after everything you'd learnt live was a sacred thing, easy to lose, live in the fast lane. But no, with a full life to be led ahead of you it was the opposite.
"Hey, so what are you doing tonight?" asked Steve. "Practise ends at four, I could pick you up at five, we could get dinner or something?"
You pretended to think about it but you knew your answer before he even finished. "I'd like that."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Then I'll see you then."
For the rest of the day your mind kept taking you back to Steve, even as you tried to work on a cold case in front of you. You were trying to play to a strength of yours, investigating with the help of Murray and Hopper. But it was a hard job after everything and if you were serious about a future in Hawkins you needed something with much more stability.
But Steve always told you to follow you dreams.
Steve- the guy you'd been helplessly falling for for years. The one who always opened the door for you like a gentlemen but his gaze always lingered on your hips when you climbed into his car. The one who never made you feel unsafe by never taking his eyes off the road but who always kept a hand on your thigh.
Your hands fell to the back of your neck, feeling the heat at the back. Three- thirty, in not too long a time you'd be seeing him, maybe get more than a peck on the lips maybe-
Your phone rang.
Your body jumped, heart raced from memory of the years part before you brushed off the idea that anything terrible could happen again.
"Hello?"
A ladies voice called down the line, confirming your name.
"Yeah, speaking."
It was the secretary at Hawkins High. "We were calling about Max. We were wondering if you could come in for a chat about her progress- you are the legal guardian of Max Mayfield are you not?"
"Huh- oh yeah, yes, I am!"
"Could you come in for four?"
"Yes, I'll make my way over."
It was almost a thought that required no hesitation, for you to become the legal guardian of Max. After Billy's death, her mom and step-dad's split things were rocky, her mom drank the when there was that earthquake and Max's mom hadn't made it and Max was in a coma all alone. When she woke, you took her in. It was the least you could do.
You were a half sister from California, never mind you'd been in Hawkins your whole life and had gone to Hawkins High. As long as the paperwork matched nobody could question it and maybe they just didn't want to.
You rushed to your car, speeding off down the road to Hawkins high without even thinking if you'd be early.
You still didn't think as you pushed open the familiar high school doors but from there you were lost. Students were loitering around but none of the kids you recognised.
Did you go to the front office?
Was it the counsellors office?
Principal?
"Hi," greeted a low voice. You turned, finding what you assumed was a new teacher, tall, lean, swooped back Presley like black hair. "Can I-Can I help you?"
"Yes, sorry, I was called into talk about Max Mayfield, I'm just not sure where to go."
The teacher smiled. "Max Mayfield? She's a great kid, I have in her English class. It'll be the counsellors office, I can show you the way."
"Thank you," you said.
You started to walk with this new teacher but his pace was casual. Yours was more determined.
"I'm Matt by the way, Matt Springfield," he introduced, holding out his hand.
You introduced yourself, not catching his hand for a beat too long. Long enough to make it awkward. "Sorry, my heads all over the place."
"About Max? She's a good kid, I heard about her coma... it must be hard for her to come back to all this normality. But she seems to put a lot of her feelings in her work and it shows," he said. "She's a real talented student."
"Yeah, we're all proud of her and-" the words died on your lips as you spotted Max sitting alone, headphones around her neck as she fiddled with the wire. You rushed over, dropping to your knees in front of her. "Max. Hey."
She didn't move to look at you. "I didn't think they'd call you in, it's stupid."
"It's not stupid," you assured her, a hand on her knee. "They probably just wanna talk about how well you're doing. Where's Lucas?"
Max scoffed like she didn't believe it. "I told him to go home, said he shouldn't stay. I didn't want him to," she explained, glancing up and spotting her teacher who still lingered. "Mr Spring?"
"Springfield- it's-it's Springfield. Everything alright, Max?" he asked, a genuine care and curiosity in his voice.
She shrugged as the door opened and you were welcomed in by her guidance counsellor.
It was a half hour talk about how she was doing, her grades that were steady, not great but there. Her little care for some subjects and her interest in others, say English. She had what they called 'an active imagination' not that that surprised you or probably anyone.
They also noticed her distractions in some. Often times Max could be found staring outside the window, lost in a trance. When the lights went out so they could watch a film on the projector she often couldn't stay in the room, or if a door banged too loudly she'd flinch, maybe yell.
Others laughed.
Her friends didn't find it so funny.
You couldn't even pretend to know what she'd gone through, you could only try to help.
The counsellor recommended a therapist but what therapist could help with what Max had seen and been through. None the less you were recommended a few numbers to consider.
When you left, Max was still sat there and that teacher, Matt, lingered too.
"C'mon kid, I'll take you back." The two of you were staying in a small old one level house in not the greatest area, but that was until you could afford somewhere better.
The teacher walked next to you while Max hurried in front, your car keys in hand.
"You know, I hope you don't mind me saying but you seem to young to be a mom, especially to a teen," he said.
You smirked to yourself, thinking of how Steve always made that joke. "I get that a lot, but I'm not her mom. I'm her sister... from California."
"Oh, that makes sense," he held open the door that Max fled through before it could close in your faces.
At your car hastily parked out front you spotted Steve. He was talking low to Max, checking on her with careful hands on her shoulders. When she dismissed him he still made sure to open the door for her, closing it gently.
He looked back to you and smiled, his eyes softened like they always did when looking at you. When he saw a man next to you... well his brows furrowed slightly.
"Hey," you greeted with a smile, heading over.
"Hey," he greeted, kissing you on the cheek. "I was passing by, I saw your car, wanted to check everything was alright?" that shadow of dread that something terrible had happened crossed his face again like a shadow from an unfortunate dream.
"Everything's okay, we were just talking about Max," you assured him.
He nodded, taking your word for it before he looked back to Matt- or Mr Springfield. "Hi," he greeted as casually as possible but you saw the way he stretched out his back. "Steve Harrington."
"Matt Springfield," they shook hands, almost civilly but you knew they were doing that dick-measuring things guys did. "I'm the new English teacher at Hawkins High."
"Oh nice, really, I'm the new baseball coach down the middle school over there."
"Bunch of rascals, huh?"
"They're good kids."
"Don't forget sex ed teacher," you said, smiling at Steve.
His lips curled up to his own smile as he caught your own. "And sex ed teacher, yes."
"Well, I was just helping you get back to your car, I'll leave you to it," says Matt, backing away and sensing that Harrington and you were... spoken for. "Listen, Max is in good hands with you, clearly. You're a good sister. You'll make a great mother someday."
You hadn't expected such words from him. You also hadn't thought the compliment would move you as much as it did. A sense of joy filled your chest. "Thank you."
He smiled and waved you off casually before heading back into the school.
You were still grinning, still feeling proud of yourself when you turned back around.
Steve had a hand out stretched to your car, leaning on it. He was damn right frowning.
"What?" you asked.
He cleared his throat. "Nothing, nothing... still on for tonight?"
You folded your arms over your chest. Yes, you wanted nothing more than to have a night with Steve, but that would mean leaving Max. You thought about it, looking back to the girl in the passenger seat of your car, looking out the other way and pretending to not notice the two of you.
"Hey, okay," he said, sensing your anxiety. Steve grabbed your forearms, turning you to him as he started to rub up and down. "How about I'll pick us up a movie, get us some ice cream, some snacks and we'll have a quiet one in. Max can even join us if she feels up to it."
I love you. The words were on the tip of your tongue, begging to be released to their rightful honour. Him. You'd loved him for years, how was that ever supposed to change. And when he stood there, willing to toss plans of a romantic night out the door because you were worried about Max... you wanted him like you'd never wanted anything before.
"That sounds great," you said.
"Yeah? Perfect, I'll be round at eight."
He kissed your cheek one more time, the heat of his lips staying close to you a second too long. He pressed his lips there, closer to your jaw before he cleared his throat and pulled back.
Steve flashed you one last smile before he headed to his car that was blocking you in.
You slipped into your drivers seat, biting back a grin.
Max was watching you with a smirk.
"What?" you asked.
She shrugged, looking away. "Nothing."
It turned out Max had movie plans with Lucas, leaving you and Steve alone in your crappy place, curled up on the sofa with a melting pint of ice cream on the table in front of you.
You both weren't even sure what was happening in the movie Steve had rented, back to his old place to find one.
The two of you had been talking through it all, about the kids or about memories, laughing at fun times and such.
Steve was lounged back, his arm over the back of the sofa while you were sat close to him, your legs kicked over in his lap as he stroked them with his spare hands, gazing at you while you spoke about anything and everything.
After a story about him and Jonathon you both fell into a silence, a peace.
"Can I ask you something?"
Steve smiled at you, the sort that maybe looked like he was smiling and not paying attention but you knew he was. "Anything."
You wondered quickly how to word it. "I guess I'd never really thought about it before, kids and all that, was just something I never saw the point thinking about. Then all I wanted to think about was getting to the next day when all that crap with Vecna. But I dunno, now..." you trailed off.
Steve waited, his fingers on the back of the couch grazing over your shoulder.
"Do you think I'd be a good mom?" it had been playing on your mind since that teacher had said it. Since then that thought had been implanted in your mind.
You looked at him, expectantly.
Steve's eyes were wide and the warmest brown as he looked at you, his breath stuttering. "Do I think- yeah, yeah I do."
He moved around, kicking a leg over the other as his body angled toward you. You weren't like Steve. In the way he'd had his dream about three boys and three girls, campervan in summer since he could remember. A big, happy, loved family like the sort he never got. If you were sharing your dreams of a family with him... he'd do anything to assure you.
"I think you'd be a great mom. I mean, the best. Everyone sees you with the kids, I mean you pack them lunch, give them money even when you shouldn't. You drive them around, you stay with Mike when he visits his parents at the hospital, you were always there for Lucas's games when nobody else was. You're the only one who listened to Dustin when he lost Eddie, I mean everyone knows how you've stepped up for Max," he said, still staring at you. The world around you could burn (and it had) and still the only thing he'd ever be looking at is you.
Your own gaze was trying to find somewhere to focus. His eyes... his lips.
Steve continued. "You're kind, compassionate. You'd lay down your life for any of those knuckleheads even if you give me a heart attack every time you do. You're loving-"
You surged forward and kissed Steve.
He didn't miss a beat in returning it, like he'd been expecting it all night. Like you both knew there was no other way this could go. His hand came to your back, holding you in place as his whole body became alert to you.
You pulled back enough to catch your breath. "I'm sorry, I didn't-"
Steve brought you back in, kissing you stronger, hand pushing at you until you climbed over his lap and settled in there. With a leg on either side of his waist his hands fell to your thighs, head tilting back so you chased him, kissing him deeper.
And your core, hidden under the jeans you still had on, loomed over where he needed you most.
His hips thrust up just once to touch base there.
"Steve," you mumbled against his lips as he sort you out again, mouth opening enough to lick inside of you.
He groaned, hands coming up to your cheeks. He brushed back your hair. "Be such a good mom... mom to my children. Nothing else." Steve seemed to realise the words had slipped from him as his body stiffed in worry and not pleasure.
You didn't notice as your lips trailed down his neck, kissing him lightly while you hands trailed up his chest.
"Baby, wait," panted Steve.
You stopped at once, hands returning to yourself as you pulled back to look at him. "I'm sorry, god Steve, I'm sorry-"
"No, that's- that's not-" he didn't even finish his sentence, kissing you again to quieten you, biting down on your bottom lip just enough. He pulled away, head falling onto your shoulder while his hands found your hips. "We said we'd take it slow, so slow, but I can't I-there's only you. I can't think about anyone else, can't so much as look at anyone else."
You smiled to yourself. "Well that's good."
"No," said Steve with a whine. "I want... I want you. All of you. Everything. Nobody else, I don't want you to think about anyone else. Look at anyone else." He flattened his forehead against yours, painfully.
"I only think of you, Steve. Only want you," you uttered.
Steve's tongue darted out and wet his lips. "You'll be a good mom, such a good mom to our kids. Nobody else's, okay? Ours, you'll have our kids."
You'd never spoken about it before but it made so much sense. Of course you'd never have anything else but him and his little life. "Yes."
Steve's body shivered and he let out a shaky moan. "Oh, oh have all of my kids."
He pulled back your top, a tear sounding through the room as he sort out the curve of your neck meeting your shoulder. He started to suck, his tongue soothing over the spot while your hands crawled into his hair.
"How-how many?" you asked.
Steve kissed the mark he'd made. "One. Five. Seven. However many you'll give me." He returned up to your lips, his tongue sweeping in against yours, claiming control.
You let him win the fight as you wrapped your arms around his neck.
Without a moment's hesitation Steve's hands scooped under your ass and lifted you up. Without breaking contact from you he walked back, only slightly bumping into the wall before he got you into your room.
He dropped you on your bed, looking down at you as he peeled off his shift. He fell back over you, kissing you sloppy, open mouthed with tongue as his hands tore at your shirt to pull it over your head.
He groaned that shaky little groan when he realised you weren't wearing a bra. "You're gonna kill me, honey."
He leant down and attached himself to one of your breasts, rolling the nipple with his tongue.
Your bit down on your lip as your back arched off the bed, feeding into him. "Steve!"
He hummed against your breast before letting it go. He kissed the valley between them. "You'll the best mom, such a good mommy to our little boys and girls." He made work on your other breast.
Your little boys and girls. The thought had you giddy and wet. Your hips moved of their own accords, chasing him. Your legs wrapped around his waist and you pulled him down.
Steve grinded down on your heat, the friction between your jeans adding to the heat. "Say it," he said, pulling away from your chest. He hovered over you, humping into you. "Say you want to be a mommy."
You nodded, neck arched. "Wanna be a mommy, mom to your children, Steve."
"How many?" he asked.
You looked at him, rocking your hips down on him. "You want six."
He held your chin, keeping you looking at him as he thrust up harder, trying to feel you through the denim. "How many do you want, baby? That's what I'm asking."
You thought about it, or at least tried to devote as much of your mind as you had to give. "Fo-four."
"Four it is." He smirked.
Steve pushed himself back onto his knees, hands going to his belt as he un-did it with skill, un-leasing it and throwing it across your room.
The sight had you moaning out, a hand at your forehead like you couldn't bare it.
Steve chuckled and grabbed the back of your hips, pulling you down closer. He helped you with you buttons, tearing away your pants and throwing them behind you. "Black lace, huh?" he asked, facing your panties. "Did someone think they were getting lucky tonight?"
You laughed. "Maybe."
You always hoped you'd be lucky enough to have Steve Harrington in your bedroom.
Steve leant down and licked up over your panties, flattening his tongue and doing it again and again.
"Steve!" you moaned out, thankful Max was at Lucas's tonight.
He licked and kissed along your panties again until he could get how wet you were through the dampening material. He moaned and groaned while he was doing it.
"Steve please just-" you moaned. "Just do something."
Steve grinned against you, his fingers hooking into your panties. "Okay, honey, okay," he dragged them down. "What'd you say? Wanna get some practise in?"
"Practise?"
"Yeah," he said, balling your panties up in his hand. "We want four kids, we better start practising."
His spread his fingers over your pussy, collecting your arousal.
Your mouth fell agape as he sunk them into you, watching you for a reaction.
Steve bit down on his lip, looking from you to where his fingers disappeared slowly in you. "Oh yeah, look at that, she'll take me. Won't she?" he asked, teasing.
You nodded and moaned out as he slowly curled them deep inside. He repeated the motion, curling into you with one hand. With the other he steadied your hip. "Want-want you," you say, brushing back your hair from the sweat that was building. "Wanted you forever Steve."
"You'll have me forever," he said, leaning over you. He pecked your lips. "Forever and more. Gonna make you a mom... you're gonna-gonna make me a daddy."
You laughed as his lips trailed down your neck, nipping at the skin.
Steve smiled against your neck at the sound of your laugh, looking up at you while his fingers still worked on you. "What?"
"You, calling yourself daddy."
"What you don't like it?" he asked.
You smiled bright.
"Say it," he said.
"Steve," you laughed, but it died when his buried his fingers deeper inside of you, curling them into that perfect spot that had you moaning out for him.
"Say it, hun, c'mon... know you wanna."
"D-Daddy."
His fingers released you and circled your clit. He kissed you, stealing away your breath as you came over his hand with nothing but pants as a warning.
"Ah- oh," he stays above you as you come down from you high, collecting it all on his fingers. "You're gonna feel so good around me, huh?"
Your lips were pressed into a thin line to stop the whimpering noise that would come from you. You hummed and nodded.
"Yeah?" asked Steve. He sat back on his knees, digging his hands into his pants to coat his cock in your juices. "Yeah, you are."
You watched enchanted, only finding the indent his cock created and nothing more. In swift movements you were on your knees across from him, bringing down to your lips.
He moaned into the kiss that started quick, lips moving against each other as you battled for who got more of a taste.
Steve was so distracted by your lips that he didn't notice you pulling down his jeans and boxers still your hand wrapped around him. He moaned and pulled away, looking down to where your hand was wrapped around him, stroking up and down to get a feel of him. "Oh, sh-shit."
"Steve," you gasped, eyes glancing down.
"What?" he asked, breathless. He cupped your chin, urging you to look at him. "What is it, baby?"
"You're... big," you mumbled.
Steve couldn't help the smirk. "Yeah. Yeah, I know, we're gonna be fine though, m'kay? Already nice and wet for me. But we can- we can go slow, I'll go easy."
You shook your head.
"No?"
Slowly, you were lowering yourself, pulling his pants further down his thighs. "Don't wanna go slow."
Steve had no time to protest before the tip of him was lost in the warmth of your mouth. His body jerked with the movement, threatening to fall back. His hands fell atop your head, not stirring you on, not pushing you down, just softly brushing back your hair.
You didn't take him all, just focused on what you could take, swirling your hot tongue around his tip and tasting yourself on him while your hands worked and stroked what you couldn't take, squeezing it at the base.
Steve was going crazy, all his promises of creating a steady life with you out the window.
"Oh god baby, you're so good at that... You know how long I've been waiting for you? Damn years, sweetheart," he mumbled, head thrown back in pleasure. His hands went back to his hair, pushing it back as you released him, licking up and down his shaft.
"Steve, I want you to cum," you said, focused on his weeping cock.
"I wanna, wanna come inside you, okay?" he asked.
Your eyes met in a clash of heat.
Steve was looking down at you as he slowly moved to push off his jeans. "We gotta know what it's like, to make a baby. Bet it feels so good, being inside of you."
He returned up to you, lips trailing from you pussy up to your stomach, your neck, until his lips were ghosting yours.
You nodded, eager, leaning in to kiss him deep and slow.
Steve inhaled and grabbed the flesh of your ass. "I'm gonna fuck you, okay?"
You moaned into his lips. "Please."
"That's what you want, isn't it? Cause I'll do it," he said with a boyish grin.
"Yes, that's what I want."
"Hard?"
"So hard, Steve, please."
He kissed you again quick, addicted to the taste. "Turn around, baby."
Steve held your hips as you turned on your stomach. He watched the flesh of your ass move and wished he had time to burry himself there but he knew tasting you like that on his tongue would be the end of him tonight and he had bigger plans. "Read- read that doing it like this is a good way to do it when you- when you wanna baby."
You weren't even shocked that Steve had done is reading up on it. The best way to get him to read was to hand him a book on sex. "Of course you've been reading about it."
"Yeah," he said, holding up his cock and sliding in between your folds, prodding at your entrance. "Knew what I wanted."
You look back to him from over your shoulder. "And what was that?"
Steve leant over, his cock so close to you. "You."
Slowly he moved himself back up and eased into you.
You had no idea it could feel this good. Even the burn as he slowly pushed himself in ached the most perfect way. You couldn't help the noise you let out. You hid your face into the cushion to stifle you.
"None of that-none of that," Steve uttered as he wrapped a hand around the back of your neck, easing you back up. "Need to hear it. Feel good?"
"Yes!"
"Yeah, feels so good. Should've been doing this years ago, honey."
"Wanted-wanted to." Your hand curled into the cover of your bedsheet as Steve pushed himself deeper.
"Yeah? You wanted me even then, even when I was a dick?"
You smiled. "Maybe not then."
"Good," said Steve, voice strained with concentration as he eased his way into you. "I didn't deserve you then. Could only dream of being yours."
"Your- your mine now, Steve," you said. You hadn't even had that conversation, about boyfriend-girlfriend, but you also hadn't spoken about kids before tonight.
"I'm yours, I'm yours, always wanted to be yours," he said like was was finally facing heaven after years of hell. "Luckiest man in Hawkins. In the damn world."
He leant over you, forearms balanced over your head. The base of him sat against your ass. "Can you feel me? All the way in, just sitting there hot, heavy."
"Feel it, Steve," you mumbled, eyes closed in bliss as you grabbed at his forearm, nails digging in.
Steve kissed your cheek. "Can I... Can I move?"
"Fuck me," you told him.
"Is that a yes?"
"Yes! Yes! It's a damn yes! Please fuck me!"
He smirked against your cheek. "Alright, alright."
His hands grabbed your hips, helping them up and Steve began to rock into you. It didn't start slow, it stared hot and heavy but somehow it got even more so. He was a panting mess, curses uttered under his breath as you could only whine and moan out at the feel of him driving into you at a harsh but soul-splitting pace.
The headboard of your already crapped bed hit the wall at every thrust.
"Oh god, baby," said Steve. "Should've-should've been doing this years ago. Got so much time to make up for."
You couldn't say anything, lost in the pleasure.
"Gripping me so well, you know that? It's like you want me to cum inside of you."
"I do!" you said.
"You're gonna drive me crazy, honey," said Steve. He wished he could see your face but while you couldn't see his he gave himself time to not even try to control the contorts of his face at the pleasure you filled him him.
The hold on your hips was bruising as you held it up and even you were rocking back into him, meeting his thrusts.
"Oh you know what to do baby, want it just as bad, huh?" he teased.
"More," you said, your voice muffled.
"More?" he asked.
"Wanted it... more bad," you pant, throwing back your hair.
Steve chuckled. "Oh, I'll show you how bad I wanted it."
Without words he slipped out of you, leaving your pussy clenching over nothing at the loss of him. He turned you onto your back and pulled your further down to him. He grabbed his cock and slapped it against you before watching your face as he slid in. There wasn't more time for adjusting, he slid in all the way.
The moan that came from the both of you would let anyone think you were filming a porno.
"Steve!"
"You feel me?"
"Mh-mh."
"How deep? Tell me, want to know everything."
"Very. In me so deep. Stuff-stuffing me full."
Steve groaned. "Yeah, yeah I am. Ruining you for anyone else. Can't have-nobody else can think they have a chance. You'll be the mother of my children, nobody else. All mine."
Your neck stretched back as the sound of skin on skin bounced around the room. "I-I-"
"What? What is it?" he asked, his pace slowing as he loomed after you.
You cradled his cheeks. "I love you."
Steve looked at you like you were a wonder.
You repeated it, your leg winding around his waist, urging him to continue his brutal pace. "I love you so much. What everything from you. I love you."
"Oh I love you-" he kissed you, sliding his tongue in your mouth and feeling everything in you. "I love you. I love you. I love you, always loved you, always gonna, when you're my wife, when we have- when we have kids. Always gonna love you. Always gonna want you."
He pulled back up and started thrusting into you at a brutal pace. He didn't stop at the rocking of the bed, at the moans ripping through you.
"Baby- baby please- I'm gonna- I'm gonna-" you panted.
"Cum for me honey," he said, eyes screwed up as he prepared himself to last just a little longer. "Need to feel you, okay? Wanna feel you squeeze me till I-till I-"
He was lost for words as he felt your second release coat his cock, marking it as yours and yours only.
His thrusts started making no sense, no rhythm just what he could do. He was whining, moaning, trying to ride you through your finish. "I-ohh, urg mm-" he didn't even know what he was trying to say.
"Steve please, please," you panted, watching him.
He nodded, hair falling in front of his eyes as small baby hairs stuck to his forehead with sweat. "I know. I-"
You were left withering, thighs trembling as he moved in you. "Can you finish in me, please? Want to-to feel it in me."
Steve's fae contorted in pleasure. "Oh shit- oh shit-"
"Steve!"
"I'm cuming! I'm-urg!"
It was sinful the sounds he made, pornographic but beautiful. He fell on top of you, careful not to hurt you as he spilled inside, hot, thick ropes painting your walls as he came down from his high. You held onto his shoulders, feeling him shudder.
When he was done he moved his head to look at you, blissed out with a small smile.
"Don't pull out yet," you asked him.
Steve was looking down at you, eyes wide in adoration. He shook his head ever so gently, curls flopping. "Never. I'll stay for as long as you want me."
You knew he meant it in ways more than him being inside of you.
He leant in, hot breath fanning your lips pink from him. "For as long as you'll have me." He kissed you gently, slow.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x pregnant!reader (and then dad!Steve x mom!reader)
Word Count: ~3.1k
Summary: The baby is finally on the way, and Steve's with you for the entire, grueling ride.
Warnings: childbirth without epidural (but not super descriptive), so so so sweet, Robin and Dustin show up at the end because of course they'd be there, breastfeeding, blah blah blah all the birth stuff
Part 1
Part 2
The days seemed to drag on as you and Steve wait for the baby to arrive. You were due two days ago, but nothing happened, so it's been constant waiting.
Steve is obsessed with the way you waddle around the house, (and everything else about your pregnant self, just especially that), but he's also close to bursting himself with anticipation.
The two are you laying on the couch, him massaging your swollen feet as you doze against the pillows. The peace of the moment only lasts for about 10 more minutes though.
You wake up to a sudden wet feeling in your pants and a dull ache in your belly. You let out a little groan, and Steve's eyes widen at the realization of what's just happened. He doesn't even care about the fact that his own pants are a bit wet or that the couch is soaked. He can figure that out later.
"Hey, hey, get up hon." He whispers, shaking you gently. You're confused and disoriented, but Steve is wide awake.
"What? What's-- Ow!" You whine as you get a sudden pain, holding your belly and looking down at yourself. You immediately wake up, and you let out a soft moan.
"Steve... Will you-- can you bring me a new pair of pants?" You whimper, and your husband immediately runs off to the bedroom and comes back with his own pants changed and a new pair for you.
Steve helps you out of your pants, and helps slide the new ones up your legs. Once that's done, he swipes up the prepacked bag and begins helping you shuffle towards the door.
"We're gonna get you to the hospital. Holy shit. Oh my god, the baby's coming. We're gonna be parents." Steve whispers to himself, getting you into the passenger seat, then rounding the car and hopping into the driver's seat.
He drives towards the hospital, speeding, but not driving recklessly. Once you get there, he helps you waddle to the front desk, a nurse immediately getting you to a delivery room.
Hours upon hours go by as your contractions become stronger and more frequent. You've been pretty calm the whole time, since the contractions were weak, but the past 15-ish minutes have been brutal.
Your squeezing Steve's hand, head tilted back and pained moans falling from your lips. "There you go, just breathe through it." Steve whispers in your ear, brushing your sweaty hair back.
"So-- It already hurts so bad, Steve." You whimper, lolling your head to the side so you can look at his concerned face.
"I know... I know. But you're doing so well." He hums softly, using all his willpower to not freak out. He strokes the back of your hand with his thumb, whispering praises and comforting words in every attempt to help you.
"Honey, are you sure you don't want the epidural?" He whispers, and you nod. "I don't. It's-- I can do it... and-- mph-- one of the books I read... it said that-- not getting an epidural can help feel when you should push... And it's less likely for there to be any complications." You explain through gasps and groans.
"Alright. You can do this, sweetie." He whispers, kissing your forehead and sitting down in the chair beside your bed.
"How long has it been?" You whimper out, letting out a low moan as another contraction begins, giving you barely any time to recover from the last one.
Steve looks to the clock, frowning softly as he sees how long it's already been since your water broke. "It's uh-- It's been a little over 13 hours." He sighs, wishing he could take all your pain for himself instead.
You let out a soft cry at the news, looking towards the doctor. "How much longer until I push?" You whine, looking at her with eyes filled with something close to desperation.
"Shouldn't be much longer. You've been at 9 centimeters for a while, it'll be any minute." She says softly, already getting the area prepared. She knows that you should be ready to start the delivery very soon.
You look at Steve, a weary smile on your face. "Hi, hon." He whispers softly, moving a hand up to stroke your cheek. "Gonna meet our girl soon." He whispers again.
You let out a soft laugh, the most you can muster up. For the entirety of your pregnancy, Steve claims that his "father's intuition" says it's got to be a girl.
"Sorta hope it's a boy. Just-- just so that you'll be wrong." You laugh, pain still laced into your voice, but the conversation a brief distraction from the pain.
"Oh, ha-ha." He says sarcastically, but he has the biggest damn smile on his face. You suddenly feel a deep pain between your legs, and the doctor looks up at you from between your legs.
"Alrighty. Whenever you feel the need to push, I want you to do just that." The doctor says, and you look at Steve with a scared expression. He smiles softly, but his own eyes are filled with pure worry that he tries to hide for your sake.
It's not long before you feel tension rising in your body, and you look at the doctor for reassurance. She gives a nod, and you push with everything you've got, letting out deep breaths to try and regulate your... everything.
"There you go." He whispers, standing by your side for another 2 hours before the doctor announces that you're crowning.
You're sweating, crying, red, and your hospital gown is falling off one of your shoulders. Steve looks at you with wide eyes. He told you a few days ago that he really wanted to see the very moment your baby is born into the world.
Now, as you sob, he's second guessing it. You look at him with teary eyes, opening your mouth to speak, but a loud, pained moan flies from your mouth before you can get a word out.
"You can-- g-go, Steve. You're only gonna get this moment-- get it once." You moan out, and Steve blinks his eyes a few times to get rid of the tears forming.
"Are you sure? I don't want-- Do you need me here? I don't--" "Please, Steve. Go. This is your-- ugh-- your first kid." You manage to get out, Steve walking over to stand just a bit behind the doctor.
He stares with tears in his eyes as you push again, squeezing the barrier on the bed as you feel the burn between your legs. Steve looks up to you, just to make sure you're really okay.
His breath hitches as he sees the baby's head expel from your body bit by agonizing bit. "Is it bad?" You ask, mistaking the look of awe on his face for worry. You think maybe you've torn badly.
Steve shakes his head, a nervous smile gracing his face. "No, no. You're amazing. You're doing so, so good. I just-- I can almost see her head." He smiles, still only referring to the baby as a girl since he's so sure of it.
You give an exhausted smile, letting out a loud sob as you push again. Hard. The doctor nods, looking up at you for just a moment. "Keep doing that. That's good." She says while Steve gently rubs your calf from behind the doctor.
You push again and again through sobs and cries, and soon enough, Steve can see the little baby's whole head. He looks like he may collapse as you continue to push.
Only a few minutes later, a little cry fills the room, and the little baby girl is scooped up by a nurse who begins to clean her off.
"I... I told you... it would be a girl." Steve tries to poke fun, but his voice is breathy and awestruck as the girl cries and wails, still connected to you by the umbilical cord.
She's wrapped loosely in a little blanket and placed on your chest only a moment later. You let out a sob, but this time not pained. You have the biggest smile on your face, despite the overall state of you at the moment.
Steve is crying beside you, watching as your sweet girl flails in your loving arms. "Abigail..." You whisper the name the two of you picked for a girl, looking at your crying husband through blurry eyes.
Steve smiles, his shaky hand reaching out like he wants to touch you, or your daughter, but then he hesitates. "It's okay, Steve... And don't worry, I'll let you hold her as soon as the cord is cut, okay?" You whisper softly, and he nods, almost in a daze as his finger finds his little girl's tiny hand.
You deliver the placenta, which takes about half an hour. Once that's done and you're all stitched up, a nurse gently takes your daughter and looks to Steve. "Dad, are you cutting the cord?"
He looks at you, almost looking like he's asking permission even though the two of you have discussed this very moment since only a few weeks into the pregnancy.
You give him a reassuring nod, and he practically hops up from his seat beside your bed and grabs the scissors with a shaky hand.
Steve cuts where the nurse tells him to, smiling softly at the sight of little Abigail. She's put in only a little diaper. The nurse places the wailing baby in his arms, and he walks back over to you, slowly sitting in the chair beside your bed once again.
You watch as he stares down at his baby girl, and you know right in that moment that everything you suffered and lost over the years was worth living through just for this moment.
"Hi, peanut..." He whispers, using the nickname he had for the baby throughout the entire pregnancy. "I'm Steve-- Well, I guess you'll be calling me dad, wouldn't you?" You smile the warmest smile you've ever had on your face as Steve talks to the gift the two of you have been waiting so long for.
"I um-- I promise you I'll be a good daddy, okay?" He smiles through his tears, gently stroking little Abigail's cheek with his thumb. His eyes are filled with wonder at how tiny she is.
"M'gonna make sure you always know how loved you are. Not just by me and your mama, you have so many aunts and uncles that are so excited to meet you." He whispers, trying to wipe his tears quick enough so they don't land on the baby.
"I'm gonna protect you and Mama... Always. Gonna make sure you two are the happiest girls in the world." His voice shakes before he glances up at you again, this time speaking to you. "I promise."
"Oh, Steve..." You whisper, a smile on your face and a sob slipping past your lips. "I love you, Steve. You and Abigail are my whole world." You wipe your eyes and let out a soft laugh of disbelief when Steve places the little girl back in your arms.
"You still want Dustin and Robin coming?" Steve whispers, rubbing his thumb over your still slightly sticky cheek. You nod and look down at your daughter, still letting out soft little whines and hiccups against you.
"Okay. I'll go call them." Steve whispers, kissing your forehead before walking out into the hallway to find a phone.
He dials Dustin first, his whole body still shaking. He has a child. A child with you, his wife, the love of his life. He has a baby girl. He's never been so happy in his life.
Dustin picks up, groaning something about how late it is as he answers. "Henderson. You're an uncle, man." Steve whispers, his voice breaking.
Dustin is immediately fully awake, basically screaming into Steve's ear about how he's so happy and that he's getting some clothes on and that he'll be there in 20 minutes. Steve rolls his eyes and grumbles a goodbye at Dustin's antics before hanging the phone up, only to pick it back up so he can dial Robin.
Robin answers, seemingly wide awake. "Hey, um-- The baby's here. Do you wanna come see her?" Steve mumbles, still in a haze as Robin squeals, followed by rustling and the sound of Vickie grumbling about going back to sleep.
Once he says his goodbyes to Robin, he rolls his eyes once again. His two best friends (and Robin also being yours) really are... something. He wouldn't trade them for the world, but damn.
He walks back into the room, seeing you nearly asleep but still holding a now quiet and still Abigail. He can't tell if he should frown or smile at the sight. You're already so great at being a mom, but at the same time, you just look so exhausted.
He walks over to you and gently pets your hair, trying to wake you out of your dozing as softly as possible. "Hey, sweetheart. You need some food, hon."
You let out a soft groan as your eyes crack open, but you immediately smile at the sight in your arms. "Steve... She's sleeping." You gasp, stroking the little beanie on your daughter's head.
"She is. Good job." Steve whispers, glancing between you and the baby. "I'm gonna get you something to eat. Try and stay awake f'me, okay?" Steve kisses the top of your head, then ever so gently kisses little Abigail's tiny head.
"M'kay..." You mumble, and Steve knows you're not gonna last long enough while he's out of the room. He really doesn't want you to stop holding the baby, but he also doesn't want you to drop her if you fall asleep.
"Hey, I'm gonna put Aby in the bed. I don't want you to fall asleep and drop her." Steve speaks so gently, not only for the sleeping baby, but for your tired self.
You nod, letting him take your daughter from your arms so she can lay in the little clear bassinet provided by the hospital.
"I'll be right back. The food shouldn't take long, but if it does, Dustin and Robin will be here soon, okay?" He whispers, and you nod along in a half-asleep state.
Steve comes back about 10 minutes later with a plate of hospital food, running into Robin on the way back up to your room. He smiles as he sees her, leading her to your room.
The door opens, and you shift around for a moment before opening your sleepy eyes. "Steve, what time is it?" You mumble, smiling as Robin basically falls into the room behind Steve.
"It's-- Robin, the baby's asleep-- it's just past three, hon." He whispers, coming back to your bedside with your food. He sets it down, stroking your messy hair back and kissing your forehead.
"Y/N!" Robin whisper-yells. "You have a baby!" She gawks at the little bassinette beside you, sitting down on the edge of the bed and grabbing your hand.
You weakly squeeze Robin's hand, rolling your eyes but smiling nonetheless when Steve spoons a bite of food into your mouth.
"I'm so happy for you two. She's so tiny." Robin glances at the bassinette once again with a warm smile.
"Steve, why don't you let Robin hold Aby." You hum, taking the spoon from his hand, letting your fingers brush his. He nods, hesitating before getting up and picking up the little girl.
He smiles down at her for a moment, rocking her ever so gently. "Hey, baby girl." He whispers as he brings her over to your bed. He sits beside Robin, giving her a look that says 'you better be careful' before gently setting the girl in Robin's arms.
"Okay, woah. Wow. I'm holding a baby." She whispers, missing the way Steve keeps his hands protectively close to Abigail, just in case.
"Steve..." You breathe out, not wanting to ruin the moment, but also knowing that it's better to just ask Steve for something right away instead of letting him find out that you needed something and didn't tell him.
He's immediately on his feet, hovering over you with a hand on your cheek. "Yeah? You alright?" You laugh softly, nodding in response before speaking up. "I just have to go to the bathroom, Steve."
"Oh, okay." He sighs, already gently grabbing your sides to help you up. He abruptly looks back at Robin, pointing a stern finger at her. "Be careful with her."
Robin nods as Steve steadies you. "You alright?" He asks as you waddle towards the bathroom connected to the hospital room.
When you come back out a few minutes later, Dustin has come and is now cradling Abigail with a smile on his face. Steve helps you back into bed with the most gentle hands.
"Hey, Dusty." You hum, settling back against the pillows while Steve pulls the blankets over you.
The room fills with quiet conversation while Dustin cradles the baby. He continues to hold her until she begins to squirm, and then eventually cry out.
"Hey, hey... What's wrong, sweet girl?" Steve whispers as Dustin passes the wailing girl to him.
"She sounds hungry." You murmur, a little yawn escaping your lips. Steve glances up at you with a smile as he bounces his daughter. "You can tell by her crying?" He asks, bringing her over to you with a smile.
You nod, taking the little screaming girl into your tired arms. You look at Dustin and Robin, who sort of just stare at you for a moment before understanding what feeding the baby entails.
"Oh! We'll uh-- We'll go wait in the hall." Robin jumps up off the bed, smacking Dustin's arm. He pops up off the bed and follows Robin into the hallway.
You look up at Steve with a big smile. He knows how excited you've been to get to feed the baby for the first time.
Steve cups your cheek tenderly sitting down beside you on the bed as you position Abigail at your chest and pull your hospital gown down below one of your breasts.
Aby quickly finds your nipple, and Steve settles in beside you with the proudest smile on his face. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, his thumb moving back and forth as Abigail lets out little coos.
Steve presses his lips to the side of your head, his brown eyes locked on his little girl happily eating from your breast.
"You're so beautiful. So, so, so beautiful." He whispers against your head. You can just hear how proud he is of you. "Feeding our baby. With your body. After literally pushing her out of you. You're amazing."
You smile, still holding baby Abigail in your arms, knowing that this little family of yours has made your life complete.
This took SO long I started it, then hated it and deleted like half of it, then abandoned it, and then opened it again two days ago and I've been writing a ton so YEAH! Not my proudest work but I really just love dad!Steve because UGH he'd be so amazing
Summary: After everything in Hawkins is over, you, Steve, Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan get together. You all agree to meet up every month, making a toast to it. You reveal that you and Steve have your first little nugget on the way
Warnings: FINALE SPOILERS!!! Pregnant reader, super duper sweet, just something I cooked up literally a few hours after watching the finale.
Also why is the banner quality so bad wth happened😭
"To nothing ever keeping us apart." Your husband of just a year holds up his beer bottle, smiling a bit as he wipes his tears with his other hand.
"Including overbearing significant others." Robin gets up, then Nancy. "School." "Mortgages" Jonathan joins in. "Or kids." You hold your cup in the middle with the rest of them, the only one out of the five of you that's not drinking anything alcoholic.
The rest of the group all clinks their glasses or cups, but everyone's eyes are darting back and forth between you and Steve. After you all take a drink, Robin is the first to speak up. "Kids?"
You look at Steve who looks almost as proud as the day you two found out you were expecting.
.·:¨¨ ≈☆≈ ¨¨:·.
The two of you are sat on the bathroom floor together of your new home. Each of you have one test in your hand, since you took two just to make sure it was right.
The two of you always talked about once everything was over, you two would run off, get married, and have kids. Hawkins was finally saved, and Steve proposed to you only a few weeks after ending the upside down. Now, the two of you have been married for almost 8 months.
You look back at Steve, noticing his shaking hand as he holds the test upside down so neither of you can see it yet. You smile a bit, turning around so that instead of you sitting between his legs with your back against his chest, you're facing him.
Steve looks so terrified, like this is the scariest moment of his life even though just a few months ago the two of you were fighting a giant spider monster thing that could've easily killed you.
"You nervous?" You ask softly, unable to hide the slight shake in your own voice.
"I'm terrified. What if my swimmers don't--" "Oh my god, never call it that again, Steve." You say with a laugh, loving the way he tries to make you less nervous even though he looks like he might pass out.
"I'm just scared it didn't take. I don't wanna-- I guess I'd just feel like I failed you. Us." He whispers, his free hand cupping your cheek.
"Steve. Even if it doesn't work this time, we're only 23. We have plenty of time." You murmur, looking into Steve's brown eyes.
"I know. I know. Let's do this." He says, sounding still nervous as hell, but at least a little more determined.
"Yeah. Ready?" He nods, and the two of you begin counting down. Once you pass one, you both flip the tests. The two pink lines stand out despite how small they are on the little test.
Steve immediately drops the stick, letting it fall to the floor so that he can wrap his arms around you. "Oh my god." He whispers, tears already forming in his eyes as he presses his face to your shoulder.
You let out a little sob of happiness, your hand that isn't desperately clutching the test like it's the most precious thing in the world gripping the back of your husband's shirt.
"Steve..." You sob, burying your face in his hair and feeling his hand tighten around you. "I know. Holy shit..." He whispers, not caring that you can feel his tears wet your shirt or his body shaking.
Steve pulls away from the hug but doesn't go far. His eyes soften as he notices you still holding the test tight. He gently takes it from your hand and carefully sets it on the counter so that he can take both of your hands in his.
"We're gonna be parents." He whispers so quietly you can barely hear him. His voice is shaky with tears, his eyes glassy and his cheeks already soaked even though it's been less than a minute since you two flipped the tests. You let out another sob and lean in to kiss him deeply.
He immediately reciprocates, then slips one of his hands out of yours to press against your belly. You let out a little laugh and pull away just barely.
"You won't feel anything yet, Steve." You say with a smile, pecking his lips. "I know. But just knowing that we've got a baby in there is enough. Don't need to feel it to know it's there." He whispers, pressing his forehead against yours.
"You're gonna be such a great dad." You whisper back, Steve's big smile causing one to grace your own face. "You're gonna be a great mom." He murmurs, pressing his lips to yours once again.
.·:¨¨ ≈☆≈ ¨¨:·.
"Yeah. Kids." Steve says in response, wrapping his arm around your waist to pull you closer to him.
"20 weeks!" You say with a big smile, resting your head on Steve's shoulder as everyone else goes back to their chairs. "Is that what all the big clothes are about? Are you showing yet?" Nancy asks, looking so proud of the two of you.
You pull the shirt in the back so that it tightens around your belly, showing the small but still obvious bump in your stomach. Steve looks down, unable to look away.
Steve loves that damn bump so much, the everyday reminder that this is real. He's always talking to it, telling the baby inside how cool their parents are, how excited they are to meet them, or just telling them bedtime stories as if the baby can even hear anything yet.
"Woah. That's already like, halfway, right?" Robin mumbles, seemingly trying to remember how long a pregnancy lasts. Jonathan smiles over at you two, watching as Steve gently pulls you a chair to sit down. You're only 20 weeks, but he treats you like you're about to pop any minute.
"What took you guys so long to spill the beans?" Jonathan smiles, looking between you and your husband. "Just wanted to wait for the right time." Steve replies, grabbing you a bottle of water and opening it for you.
"Steve, I can open a water bottle on my own." You laugh, taking the bottle from his hand. "God forbid I take care of my pregnant wife." He says dramatically, plopping down on the roof of the squawk beside your lawn chair. "You're unbelievable." You roll your eyes, but can't help the way you look at him like he's some sort of otherworldly being.
"Does it move yet?" Robin asks, curiosity all over her face, so you and Steve nod at the same time. "Cool, cool." She mumbles, clearly hesitant about something.
"You can feel if you want to, Robin." You smile, reading her mind. "Really!? Cool! Does it feel weird?" She asks as she stands up from her chair.
"Not really. They're pretty small right now." You say as you lift your shirt up a bit for Robin to feel. Steve looks up at you with hearts in his eyes, looking so proud that he gets to be a part of this.
Robin feels a small little flutter under your skin, and a smile graces her face. "Aww... Hi, little-- Do you guys know the gender?" She asks, and you and Steve both let out a soft 'Not yet.'
"Alright then. Well, hi, little Harrington." She smiles before heading back to her seat a moment later.
"Hey, do you guys think it'll come out with a full head of perfect hair?" Jonathan laughs, making Steve roll his eyes. "Ha-ha." He says sarcastically, and you laugh.
"I wouldn't be surprised." You say while Steve glares up at you. "Don't enable him." He pouts, and you gently flick his forehead. "You're such a drama king." You respond, Steve gently squeezing your hand in return.
"Holy shit, you guys are actually gonna have a baby! Have you told the kids yet?" Nancy asks, even though 'the kids' graduated today, they'll always just be kids to you.
"No. We didn't want to take this day away from them. It's their graduation. They should be celebrating that, not a baby." Steve replies, smiling as you take your hand out of his to play with his hair and scratch at his scalp.
Everyone returns to talking amongst themselves, but Steve stays silent, unable to take his eyes off you. You look down after a moment, wanting to make sure he's feeling fine, but you're met with the most lovesick expression.
"What's the look for?" You ask with a smile, still mindlessly playing with his hair. "Just-- wow. You're so beautiful." He whispers, moving to sit between your legs with his head on your thigh, facing your belly.
He slides his hand up to rest on your protruding stomach, giving it a few gentle taps and smiling when the baby gives a tiny little kick back. "Hi, sweetheart... You're getting plenty of attention today, aren't you? Y'know, all these people here, they helped save the world with your mama and daddy." He whispers, gently rubbing your belly and giving a brief smile up at you before looking back down at it.
"And that's not even all. You still have so many people to meet. You're gonna be one popular kid. I love you." He whispers, leaning forward to press a kiss against your stomach before pulling away and looking up at you.
"Hi..." You whisper, running your fingers through Steve's neat hair. "Hey." He murmurs back and lets his eyes flutter closed at your touch.
"Are you tired? We can head home." He mumbles with a worried expression when you yawn softly. "Steve. I'm fine." You laugh gently, knowing how worried Steve can get. He's always been a worry wart about you, but it's only multiplied since you found out you were pregnant.
"Okay, okay. But just let me know the second you feel like going home, yeah?" He laces his fingers with yours. You squeeze his hand softly and nod. "Alright."
Ok um hi this was so bad but I got this idea at like 11:30 and then finished this at 2:40 so give me a break. Anyways, happy new years everyone! Also I have a Stu Macher smut in the works😈 Love you all!
a short fic about reader and steve dropping the party off at the graduation party from the final!
a/n: first fic in a while, first time writing for steve/ST, got really confused here and this is also a scrap lol so ignore the mischaracterisations, but for fic reasons steve does not have a car x
steve and reader are referred to as mom and dad but it's in a joking capacity, gn!reader otherwise.
w.c. 1.3k
⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄
"I can't believe you chose to wear that."
“What?" Dustin bristled at the comment.
Max regarded him with a critical stare,“It’s our first party and you want it to be our last?”
You sat in the driver seat of your car with Dustin, Lucas, Max and Will piled into the back. Long gone were the days where small bodies could simply share a seat or sit in the foot well, leaving the four gangly teens to result to physical and emotional warfare over seat territories.
“It’s not my first party…” Lucas murmured in between the two arguing.
“What did you just say?”
Steve sat in your passenger seat, his gaze frequently alternating between staring at your side profile and checking out the streets this house party was meant to be on.
After some attempted guilt-tripping (“We literally never ask you to take us anywhere anymore!” “Who picked you up from the theatre last week?”) and bargaining (“Okay, well, we’ll never ask for a ride again!”) you had ended up as chaperone for a graduation party.
The group had been invited by Mindy, who you’d never heard of before, to a house party on the other side of Hawkins. They’d all been extremely eager to go, but not as eager at the concept of their parents dropping them off. Steve and yourself had been empathetic towards their concerns, after all, the memory of your mother loudly waving you off at your first high school party still haunted your dreams to this day. The only solution that both parents and party agreed to was for one of the ‘older kids’ to drop them off.
However, Nancy was having dinner with her parents, Jonathan was heading back to NYU, Robin couldn’t drive and Steve, arguably, did not count, as he’d traded his car in in preparation for the pick-up truck he’d been eyeing.
Thus, the task seemed to fall to you; the only ‘acceptable, kind of cool’ adult that was free to taxi all night.
And where you went, Steve followed.
Dustin was currently sat behind you in the truck, fussing with the open shirt he had over the top of his t-shirt in response to Max's comments, pretending the negative opinion of a girl wasn't earth shattering.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Max scoffed, turning her iron gaze from Dustin to Lucas as he spluttered to back-track.
“Hey,” you chimed, “is this the house you guys were talking about?”
You pulled up at a house with people scattered in small groups on the lawn, the muffled thump of bass pouring from the open door and windows.
“Yes!" Lucas beamed, thankful for the welcomed distraction of his errors, “Guess that means we better go.”
Max raised an eyebrow at his faux enthusiasm but unbuckled her seatbelt regardless.
“Wait a second, guys, we need to run through the ground rules.” Steve announced turning to them.
A smile broke out on your face as he prepared to act as mother once again.
“‘Ground rules?’ Steve, that’s not your house, this isn’t even your car.” Dustin argued.
“Okay, well it’s (Y/n)’s car and that means essentially the same thing.”
“We’re not married, babe.” You corrected, raising your eyebrows at him knowingly.
He graced you with a smile, “We are in my head.”
“Oh my god.” Max covered her eyes with a small smirk at Steve’s blatant adoration of you.
“Anyways, before you go in, remember to-“
“Watch our drinks, watch how much we drink and watch out for strangers?” Will tried to helpfully recite. You offered him a kind smile over your seat as he awkwardly shifted in his cramped position between Dustin and Lucas.
“How are we meant to avoid strangers? It’s a party.”
“Listen, Sinclair, I mean-“
“And also don’t do anything you don’t want to do.” Max snarked as she leaned forward into the conversation.
Just as you were about to agree and send them on their way, another comment bubbled up from one of them, instantly setting off another sarcastic quip back. The five continued to bicker between them, mainly Steve uttering one or two words out before being cut off by a smart-ass comment from Dustin, Max or Lucas at the same time. Will just stared at you and huffed as he fiddled with his seat belt.
“Guys!” You broke in. All eyes snapped to you.
“All that stuff is important, which is why I’m sure you remember it.” You sent a pointed glance at all of them, Steve included, as he rubbed at his temples in distress. Various murmurs of agreement met your ears.
“One thing before you guys leave - be out here at one so I can take you all home.”
“One? Are you sure?”
“That’s late.”
“That’s ridiculously early!”
“Right.”
“Hey, hey! We drove you all to the party, we can easily drive you all home.” Steve threatened. Any disrespect towards you had an immediate guard-dog effect on him. Although it’s admirable, and mostly sweet at times, the endless back-and-forth was tiring you out. The agreement of your chaperoning was that you would also be responsible for seeing all four teens home. Too much has happened in Hawkins for you to leave them otherwise.
“You didn’t drive us anywhere, Steve, (Y/n) has carried-“
“And like I said, Henderson, we’re together, so their problem is also my problem-“
“Okay!” Lucas disrupts from his middle seat. “We do not need them acting like mom and dad again.” He sent a smile at you, purposefully avoiding Steve’s sulking, “Thank you for bringing us.”
“We won’t drink too much.” Will commented.
“We will watch our drinks.” Max added.
Steve stared at Dustin in challenge as both Lucas and Will nudged him to speak. He started right back at Steve in spite before sliding his gaze towards you. You raised your eyebrows as your mouth lifted in amusement at his opposition, that you knew was just to disagree with Steve.
He looked briefly at the others, including Max, who was now sending him a very charged, murderous glare as she leaned over Lucas, and Steve, who was still furrowing his brow in the passenger seat.
“…we’ll be out by one.”
“Was that so hard?” You teased as you waved them all out. “Now go enjoy yourselves before I have to trek back for you.”
They all sent you various ‘thank yous’ as they disembarked, all of them radiating a nervous and excited energy. You and Steve watched as Lucas took the helm with Max in hand as Dustin and Will glanced around the lawn.
“They grow up so fast.” You commented before turning back to Steve.
“Do you think they’ll be okay?” He questioned, eyes not leaving the group as they offered a final wave at you before beginning their adventure.
“Hey,’ you grabbed his hand, effectively drawing his attention to you. His brown eyes looked even softer in the low glow of the street-lamp light as he stared at you intently. “They have our number, I’m sure Dustin could even recite it in his sleep if he needed to. They’ll be fine.”
He offered you a smile as you stroked the back of his hand comfortingly; his response coming in a warm squeeze to yours.
You double-checked that the kids had gone in (Max and Lucas were talking to a boy on the porch as Dustin and Will spoke to a group of girls who were heading into the house) and turned the engine key.
Out of the corner of your eye you could see Steve smiling to himself even more as he settled back into the passenger seat.
“What’re you grinning about now? Or do I not want to know?”
Steve huffed a laugh to himself, worming his hand under yours on the gear stick as you started to pull away from the curb.
“You said our. Our.”
⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･
again, my first fic in a while so ignore the state of it! just wanted to write something while i’m burnt out from uni lol
Six Little Harringtons Part 5/13 - Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4,
Masterlist, Navigation, Request Rules, Taglist
Summary: You finally find out that your husband, Steve, had an affair.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Placental Abruption, Preemie Birth, Emergency C-Section, mention of blood, painful and graphic labour scene, general anesthesia, mentions of lactating, details into a preemie baby in the nicu.
a/n: I can't thank you all enough for being so patient, I'm sorry for not posting on schedule yesterday; my mental health and sleep quality has been in the toilet. Thank you all so much for being si supportive of this fic, I hope this chapter is satisfying for some of you!
word count: 4.7k
You sat up slightly, your heart hammering and a sickly feeling rising in your throat and weighing heavy in your stomach.
"I-I don't understand," you panicked, "I've never smoked or had a sip of alcohol in any of my pregnancies, I take my prenatals and follow every single piece of medical guidance perfectly. I try to maintain a healthy mind and body for me and each of my pregnancies. My placenta has never been an issue before, I-I don't get any of this."
Steve's thoughts were swallowing him up. This is my fault. He told himself.
The guilt wouldn't stop searing in his skull like a fiery hot poker: the drive to the motel as he felt like a failure from the collection of negative pregnancy tests, the feeling of the other womans hair draping over his skin as bucked her hips, riding him, and the building stack of lies mounting up, to the worst one of all, his cruelty from last night in the office, looming over you and branding you as hysterical.
He thought back to the weeks you tended to his cracked and bleeding skin, the arguments he caused over your concern in his lack of sleeping and eating, the cold silence he had forced upon the house to protect his secret when you were anxious and needed reassurance. He thought of the way Dustin's face dropped when he uttered the truth, and all of the missed opportunities he had to come clean. Steve was a coward, a pathetic coward.
The sonographer eased your rambling, "Mrs Harrington, sometimes these things just happen and we can't always find out why. I know this isn't your first rodeo, and you've probably heard this a thousand times, but every pregnancy is different." The Sonographer paused for a moment, taking a deep breath, "You're nearly forty, your age could probably be a factor."
Age. Nearly fourty. Old.
You felt like you were back in the Drs Office again whilst Steve was at work, planning for his affair without a second thought, his fingers skimming over the buttons of his mobile phone calling up to make a reservation and carefully choosing another woman, your kids at school playing away without a clue how the next nine months would unfold and change the rest of their lives forever. None of you knew but Steve.
"I know I'm old," you sighed, tears prickling your eyes, "My Doctor told me that and so much more..."
You cried, and the sonographer placed a gentle hand on your arm, soothing you softly as she tried to calm you down, listening to every word that left your trembling lips. Your voice was muffled in Steve's ears, and a faint ringing settled behind, yet was slightly louder than your voice.
How could he come back from this? Any of this? How could he confess now, as you were torturing yourself over something you couldn't help? How could he possibly keep you when you learn that the woman he chose over you was so much younger and had a body that didn't yet know the experience of pregnancy and childbirth?
"Could it be stress-related?" you whispered, your voice trembling as you looked at the monitor. "I've been so stressed lately, with my husband, Steve, having to work so hard towards the mortgage that I don't contribute to, then there's my other five kids I'm chasing around and-"
Steve felt like he was suffocating. He wanted to scream the truth; that it was his fault, his rot, his father's cursed blood in his veins. But he just sat there, frozen, feeling as if he would vomit all over the floor as your hot tears kept rolling and rolling down your red cheeks.
"If this were stress-related, I think every baby in the state would be like this," your sonographer reassured you, "it sounds like you've had things so rough, I'm so sorry."
The sonographer handed you a generous amount of a blue towel to wipe up the cold and sticky gel from your bump, writing more notes into your file before handing it to you. You were to return every week for extra monitoring on both the baby and your placenta, with extra appointments to be arranged with your consultant to discuss the possible outcomes of what delivery you would need to choose from. You expected extra monitoring, but nothing quite as serious as this.
Every time Steve heard or saw the words restricted growth, he felt as if the words applied to him. He was a restricted man, a very small man whose sins were manifesting in the innocent child he had begged for and claimed would be his final blessing.
"We'll do everything we can to make sure she'll be just fine", Steve said, his voice regaining that hard protective edge. "She'll be fine. I'll make sure of it, I promise."
Inserting himself into the role as a protector had always come naturally to him, but as he helped you onto your feet, he couldn't look you in the eye. His own reflection felt like a slap across the face.
"We should go home and tell my mom," you said, trying to find a silver lining. "Then the kids, they'll all be so excited it's a girl."
"Yeah," Steve said, his heart breaking as he led you to the door. "Our second girl."
As you walked to the car, Steve looked up at the clear blue sky, birds and light traffic surrounding him. I know this is my fault, but please save her. Keep her safe, and I'll be the man she thinks I am. I'll never stray again. Just don't let her pay for what I did that night. Steve was pleading to anyone above who would listen; he pleaded without knowing who he was pleading to.
The ride home was suffocating. Steve drove slowly with both hands white-knuckling the steering wheel, the one he had scrubbed within an inch of its life after the affair, the same way he had scrubbed his entire body red raw for months. Every time he glanced at your pale and exhausted face with your gentle and shaking hand resting protectively over your bump, the migraine behind his eyes pulsed like a strobe light.
"It’s my fault this is happening," he muttered, his voice gravelly. "I’ve been a horrible Husband, and you’ve been stressed and so exhausted, and that’s why she’s small... It’s because of me and my shitty behaviour."
"Steve, stop," you whispered, leaning your head against the cool glass of the window, watching the trees flicker by. "It’s a placental issue. Don't make this about you or our marriage right now. I just need us to get home so I can make sense of all this."
You were still hurt from Steve's behaviour. From the way he raised his voice and spoke to you as if you were nothing but trash, and no amount of apologies or acts of self-hatred from him would make you forgive him.
Rather than look forward to the last months ahead of your last pregnancy and get your hopes up for a beautiful and smooth birth, you were confronted with the gruelling, never-ending appointments that would no doubt increase your own guilt over having another baby when the medical world kept scolding you for it. You gave in to Steve's dream, and rather than being treated so preciously, you were nothing but an afterthought; it suddenly dawned on you that a husband who actually loved you would never raise his voice and gaslight you over a piece of paper.
Something was wrong with Steve, and you knew it.
When Steve pulled into the driveway, your mother’s car was still there, and his face contorted. He hoped that she would have taken your toddler to the park and would return when you were already asleep. He knew he had no right to kick her out, but his shame would be uncomfortable for all of you after she put him in his place; she was truly the only one who had your back. Steve's dad encouraged Steve's betrayal, Steve's mom opted to hide the truth, Dustin kept away from you and your family, but your mom knew the truth and she couldn't keep it from you.
Upon entering the house, you were hit with the smell of delicate lavender and fresh lemon with a hint of vinegar, the scent immediately reminding you of being a child again on a Sunday morning as your mother meticulously and aggressively deep-cleaned every inch and corner of the small and comfy house you grew up in whilst your father flicked through the news channel, always complaining about someone or something.
"How was it?" she asked softly, walking towards you, ignoring Steve as he walked past her to drop the keys.
"It’s a girl," you said, a small, fragile smile appearing.
"Oh, my! Another girl!" She hugged you, but felt the tension in your frame. "What’s wrong? What else?" she said quietly, walking you away from the kitchen.
As you explained the diagnosis, Steve stood by the sparkling sink, filling a glass of water he didn’t even drink, the rim of the glass pressed against his bottom lip as he carefully listened to your mother’s voice shift to deep concern.
"Monitoring? Every week?" your mother asked, her eyes shifting to the back of Steve’s head. "Well, then. You aren’t doing a single chore. You need to be sitting on that couch or lying in your bed! Steve can handle everything. Won't you, Steve?"
Steve slowly turned around, still pressing the glass to his lips; he looked lifeless. "Of course, whatever she needs."
"Good. Because I've got a job for you to do," your mother announced, the corner of her lips curling upwards. "Why don't you go and get the baby clothes off the washing line and fold them up for me? Put them in the basket and take it upstairs beside her crib once you're done."
The second Steve stepped through the sliding glass door, mistakenly closing it behind him, your mother’s demeanour shifted. Rather than continuing to comfort you with words of reassurance or Google search articles or conversations on forums that would offer hope, she reached into her cardigan pocket and fished out a small, smoothed-out, crumpled piece of paper.
The invoice.
"Mom, I don't want to look at that right now," you groaned, closing your eyes. "I have enough to worry about with the baby—"
"I know, and I'm sorry, but just look at the phone number," she whispered, leaning in close. "I called it while you were at the hospital. I didn't say who I was. I just asked for their corporate billing department to verify a stay."
Your heart skipped a beat, your eyes opening wide. "And? W-what did they say?"
You were begging for Steve to be right, that you were being hysterical. You were desperate for your gut feeling to be wrong, so diabolically wrong.
"The woman on the phone... well, she was confused. She said they don't do corporate rates for businesses because they weren't that type of motel." Your mother’s thumb pressed against the ink. "I asked about the extra guest charge, and you know what she told me? She said-"
You frowned, your brain trying to find any possible explanation that wouldn't hurt, but before your mother could reveal the rest, the sliding glass door opened, and Steve walked in with the basket full of freshly washed and sun-dried baby clothes tucked under his arm. Your mother's hand dived back into her pocket, the invoice squeezed tightly in her small fist. Your heart thumped at the same pace as your mother's, but she didn't miss a beat.
"Goodness, you're fast!" She put on a light laugh, walking over to him.
Steve's eyes landed on you, and the colour drained from his face. You were hurting. Bad.
He knew that his secret was slowly unravelling at the frayed ends. Time was running out.
"Are you okay, sweetheart?" Steve asked, his voice trembling.
"I'm going to go lie down," you said, your voice little and far away, "Today has completely worn me out."
Steve walked over to you, the basket still tucked under his arm as he followed you up the stairs. "You need all the sleep you can get," he said softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
"Mom?" you said softly, slowly turning around, "Once Steve has put the baby clothes away, you can go home. You've done so much for me, but you need to rest too."
Your mother nodded and didn't try to argue; she knew just how quietly your heart was breaking under your flesh and bones. Steve continued up the stairs, but your mother managed to pull you in for one last hug, pushing the crumpled invoice into your hand.
"Trust me," she mouthed, "trust your gut."
As you climbed the stairs, the weight of the unknown surrounding the extra guest charge sat in your stomach like an anchor. You thought of the tiny girl on the monitor, struggling to grow in a space that felt like a garden full of wilting flowers. With each step, you slowly began to realise that your husband reminded you of his father, a man so unhappy and angry with many secrets.
The silence of the house at 3:00 AM was heavy, broken only by the ticking of the clock in the living room and the distant, muffled sound of a woman’s voice coming from downstairs.
Steve bolted upright, his heart thumping and beads of sweat breaking out across his forehead. The space beside him in the bed was cold; your pregnancy pillow was discarded carelessly onto the floor. His migraine had dulled to a throb, but a new instinct took over, similar to when he knew when one of the kids had thrown up in the night or was about to fall off a swing or scooter.
Steve knew his time was up; he knew the floor was about to give way.
He didn't grab his slippers or nightgown. He ran down the stairs in bare feet as quietly as he could in case he startled the kids who were fast asleep and tucked up into their beds, dreaming away.
Steve's breath hitched in his throat, and he felt as if he had been punched in the stomach and left violently winded. Standing by the kitchen island, you pressed your phone against your ear, the glow from the screen illuminating the look of fear and fragility on your face, with your free hand clutching your 27-week bump.
Steve's eyes fell on the crumpled invoice sitting on the island, staring at him, taunting him.
You knew this day would come.
"Yes, his name is Mr Harrington," you confirmed down the phone, hearing the woman's long fingernails clacking against her keyboard.
"Baby," Steve's voice cracked, "Give me the phone!" He lunged forward, his face contorted in a mask of desperation.
You backed away, rounding the kitchen island, your feet sliding on the tile. "Don't touch me!" you hissed.
Whilst Steve slept, you woke up, your gut screaming at you through your dreams to wake up and call the number before it was too late. You quietly escaped Steve's arms that were caged around you, and you sneaked down the stairs, dialling the number and talking to a member of the night team.
"Look, can you explain the extra guest charge. I need to know who was in that room."
"Give me the goddamn phone!" Steve snapped. His guilt transformed into a defensive, ugly rage.
The woman's frantic typing suddenly stopped, "We don't keep names of the escorts' for their safety, Mr Harrington would've paid to keep her in one of our rooms, for the drinks and food they shared, what he paid for her service is off record." You dodged his final lunge and your eyes met Steve's, the two of you full of tears and fright.
You hurled, and Steve's heart felt like someone had shot a rubber band at it. As he stared at you, every single version of yourself haunted him. Each smile of yours from the decades spent together flashed before him as the truth stabbed into you like a knife.
"Please hang up," he cried, "W-We can talk about this, it's not what it seems, I swear." He stepped forward, his hands shaking.
"An escort..." you whispered, your hand that clutched your phone suddenly became weak, and it fell from your ear, dropping your phone, it slammed against the kitchen floor, the screen cracking instantly.
"You're a cheat and a liar, Steve" You backed away, your hip hitting the counter. The disgust is slick and oily in your throat. "When I find out what exactly you've done..." you sobbed, quickly gasping at a sharp and quickening in your lower back and beneath your bump.
Before you could recover and demand that he come clean and kick him out of the house, a second sharp, searing bolt of pain shot through your lower back, radiating around to the front of your abdomen. You doubled over as a wave of agony gripped you. The phone was still between you on the floor, smashed, the line was still open, and the faint sound of the receptionist asking if anyone was there made everything worse.
"Steve, something's wrong...I'm- It's- the pain is fucking killing me!"
Steve fell to his knees, his face reflecting the pain he had unleashed on you, as a terrifying gush of fluid soaked through your pyjama pants, drenching the floor beneath you, a bright streak of blood gleaming in the moonlight.
"No," Steve breathed, his voice a pathetic whimper. "You're too early, this can't..."
Another contraction slammed into you, intense and terrifyingly frequent. You let out a strangled scream, your fingers digging into the wet fabric of your pyjamas. Steve had always been calm and strong when you went into labour; he never stalled, not once. Yet he didn't move a muscle, he stared at you and looked as if he had no idea what he was doing.
"Call 911," you sobbed, the pain folding you in half. "Now! Call them now! She's coming, Steve!"
Steve snapped himself out of the horror before him and snatched the smashed phone off the floor, his hands shaking violently. He looked at you, bleeding and broken on the floor, staring up at him with pure hatred and blame, both of which he knew he would deserve for the rest of his life.
His debt had been paid. But at what cost?
The fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway were a horrifically harsh contrast to the dark kitchen you’d just escaped. Every bump of the stretcher made you cry out, as the contractions came in a relentless, overlapping wave that left no room for breath, and your screams sounded like that of a final girl in a horror film you and Steve flinched away from at HAWK Theatre.
"Twenty-seven weeks, suspected placental abruption, possible IUGR," the paramedic shouted, his voice echoing off the sterile walls.
"Placental abruption?!" Steve repeated breathlessly out of fear.
Your husband was a frantic, blurred shadow at your side, his hand trying to find yours. Each time his skin brushed yours, you flinched and snatched your hand away. You didn't want his comfort; you didn't want him anywhere near you. When you looked at Steve, the endless thoughts of who and what he did in that bed exploded in your mind. You gave up your career and put your personal dreams on hold just so you could achieve his, and this is how he repaid you?
"Get away from me," you choked out between a guttural moan of pain. "Don't... don't fucking touch me."
"I'm so sorry," he sobbed, his face a mess of snot and tears, his eyes full of fear, "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."
The room was a whirlwind of blue scrubs and the sharp snap of latex gloves. The loss of blood and the beginning of the truth shattering your world made you exhausted, and as the team of midwives and surgeons thrust into the room, talking to you and amongst themselves of what was going to happen, you drowned out their voices and shut your eyes.
"I fucking hate you," you muttered at your husband, no longer awake enough to be loud and assertive, "I regret the day I ever laid eyes on you."
One of the midwives placed a firm hand on Steve's chest as you were wheeled away, "Sir, I'm sorry, but we cannot allow you to follow her any further. This is serious. To keep your wife and baby safe, she needs general anaesthesia, and we cannot have you in the room."
Steve's body vibrated with every sob, "I can't be without her," he croaked, "Not now."
There was no time for you to open your eyes and accept the reality of your situation; you didn't listen to the soft and kind whispers of the midwife crouched next to your head, promising that you and your daughter would be alright. You didn't notice the harsh, bright lights or the cold air; all you could do was welcome the dark and numbing peace of the anaesthesia; giving in to it felt like a kindness. Steve would no longer exist until you were brought back.
Steve sat in the waiting room with his head between his knees, each minute feeling like an hour. The silence was worse than your screaming in the ambulance, worse than the look of hatred in your eyes. Every time the door opened, he flinched, expecting a doctor to tell him he was a widower and without a baby. He kept looking at his hands, the ones that touched another woman whilst you were at home, allowing yourself to hurt if it meant making his now stupid, dream come true.
Nearly two hours later, a surgeon in blood-speckled scrubs walked out. Steve scrambled to his feet, his breath hitching, the rest of his life as a father and husband hanging on by a thread.
"Is she... are they...?"
"Your wife is in recovery," the surgeon said, his voice professional but weary. "The abruption was... severe. She lost a lot of blood, but she’s stable."
"And the baby?" Steve whispered.
The surgeon’s expression softened, "She’s very small. Two pounds, one ounce. She’s in the NICU and on a ventilator. The pediatric team will visit you and your wife to explain everything before the shift changeover."
"Can I see them?"
"If you want to be there when your wife wakes up, go ahead."
When you finally blinked your eyes open in the recovery ward, the world felt heavy and numb, you were confused, and your throat felt tender and sore. Your hand instinctively went to your stomach, finding only bandages and a terrifying flatness.
The midwife who whispered in your ear earlier was still beside you, instantly squeezing your hand. "She's in the NICU, and oh boy, is she a fighter!"
You smiled weakly, with tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, a heavy relief washing over you, feeling the ache in your core where your daughter had pried out of you, and the deeper ache in your heart.
You were alive, and she was fighting, but your life would never be the same. You knew that once your daughter could come home, you'd be raising her alone. Glancing at the ring on your finger, you jolted as you noticed Steve sat beside your bed in the plastic chair, his head in his shaking hands.
As you stared at him and listened to his cries over and over, you knew that there was no other option but to divorce Steve; the confirmation of his unfaithfulness had sealed his fate; you were done with him. He could tell you the details in court or from across the table as you sign the papers.
"Now, let me go and see if your little girl is ready for visitors" the midwife chirped, smiling away. "I'll also go and see if I can get you a drink and something to eat," she walked out of the room, leaving you and Steve alone.
"I made a mistake," Steve whispered, his voice cracking. "It was just... it was a mistake."
You didn't answer or ask any questions; your eyes stayed glued to the door.
"I lied about the business trip, I.. I felt like such a failure because I couldn't get you pregnant. I told myself that I was lousy, that I'd be nothing without a sixth child, and I just, I got so angry at everything and everyone. I told myself that you weren't doing enough for me, and I am so unbelievably stupid and wrong for all of it. You have no idea how much regret I have for what I've done. I hate myself every single day for having sex with her. I left the next morning, wanting to rewind time because I knew what I had done, and then when I found out you were..."
Steve shook his head, his confession trailing off with more sobs, "I am such a horrible husband, and I'm so fucking sorry. I'll do everything I can to fix this, us."
Squeezing your eyes shut for a moment, remembering every inkling of evidence you saw that something wasn't right, you swallowed down a yell and a scream. Bravely opening your eyes and staring at your husband, you took a deep breath and sighed.
"There is no us, Steve."
"W-What? I know how badly I've fucked up, and I know you can't forgive me, but what about the kids? We've been together for so long and-"
You couldn't hide your laughter even if you tried; doing so caused you deep agonising pain. "When our daughter is free to leave this place, you'll be packing your bags and leaving. We'll be divorced before the end of the year."
Steve opened his mouth, but nothing came out but a strangled cry. Bile climbed up his sore throat, and his heart felt like it was about to explode.
"I want you to leave, Steve," you said, your voice cold and hollow. "Get back to the kids, explain to them and my mother about what's happened with the baby and me, and then prepare them for what life is going to look like when we return home."
"P-Please," Steve begged, trying to reach out and take your hand.
"Now."
Steve looked at the door, then back at you. He no longer looked like the boy you had loved at graduation, or the young man on your wedding day who promised to be faithful just to you, but as he turned and walked out of the room, with his heavy, broad shoulders hunched and his head down, he looked exactly like the man who had destroyed his family and was now forced to walk the hallways of his own making, alone.
The drive back to his home felt like torture; hours earlier, you were sitting in the passenger seat, with your hand on your bump. The home he slowly entered no longer felt full of love and hope; it was a home he knew that soon he'd no longer return to after work. If you were serious, which he knew you were, Steve would need to prepare for living without you next to him at night, mornings without kissing you and the kids goodbye, and dinners at the table without your loving glance.
He got out of the car and walked into the house, your mother pacing around upstairs, a nervous wreck.
Hours later, you were finally wheeled down to the NICU. Sitting behind the incubator, you watched the machines breathe for your daughter, as her tiny body was surrounded by long wires and thick tubes. Her skin was angry and red, with tiny, thin limbs, resembling a baby bird. You couldn't believe how perfect she was, you wanted to pull her into your chest and feel her skin on yours, the very thought making you realise you were producing milk she was supposed to drink.
You pressed your hand to the glass, a sob catching in your throat. "Hello, Beautiful," you breathed, tears of relief falling "You are so brave."
Raising your kids without Steve felt daunting, but it wouldn't be any harder than the last thirteen years. As you stared at your tiny, final baby, you realised that you had raised the other five kids alone whilst Steve worked. Steve only provided money and kept the roof over your head. Steve wasn't the constant and present father you thought he was; you had been doing this alone from the very beginning, and nothing could shake you from the promise of raising your daughter alone now.
Your parents would support you if you needed them, and you didn't care about Steve's parents at all; they would have no choice but to take him back under their roof and host their grandchildren every weekend. It was the least they could do.
"We're going to be just fine," you hummed, "I promise."
Teach Me, Mr Harrington Part 7/12 - Teacher!Steve Harrington x Fem!Student!Reader
part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6
masterlist, navigation, request rules, taglist
summary: your boyfriend Steve comes to visit you at College, the only problem is, you’ve started imagining a future without him.
warnings: 18+ mdni, piv unprotected sex, wrote this when I was slightly drunk, belly bulging, steve has a big dick, didn't proofread, major angst, let me know if i missed anything, mention of heavy periods and blood.
word count: 4.7k
The first two weeks following Halloween were beyond strange to you, as you strayed further from your entire life revolving around Steve and moved towards a future where you still had time to figure out what you wanted; you couldn't help but feel like you were being tugged on both arms by two different paths. Unsure of which one you actually wanted.
A path without Steve, who was all you knew, and a path without him, which felt closer than it had ever been.
Steve’s calls that were once the highlight of your day now started to fill you with worry; you were spending more and more time with the quiet guy whose hands were glued to a camera, and although you hadn't cheated, you couldn't help but feel like you were betraying Steve. That's even if he bothered to call at all.
The conversations were a repetitive cycle of him complaining about the brats in his classroom and you offering shallow reassurances that felt increasingly hollow; after he disappointed you yet again so easily, his reassurance meant nothing, you didn't trust him as you did on Graduation night. Which honestly felt like the last time things were... okay.
"I just feel like I'm talking to a wall sometimes," Steve snapped over the phone, "Are you even listening?"
"I'm listening, Steve. I'm just tired," you sighed, your tired eyes were fixed on a small, glossy photograph tucked into the corner of your mirror. It was a shot of your friend with the camera had taken of you laughing over a milkshake.
Meeting up at the diner where you shared secrets, coffee, and fries became your regular hangout spot when you weren't constantly together on campus. He was sweet, friendly, and gentle, you could let the mask completely slip around him and his presence began to feel like a craving.
"Tired of me?"
"No, I.." you took a deep breath, "I'm just tired of the distance, I'm tired of you making promises to see me, and then you fuck me off at the last minute. It's not fair, Steve. You squashed our plans for Halloween and the two other visits you promised since then. I'm just tired of being messed about."
Steve didn't say anything for a moment or two, processing your confession carefully, seeing if there was anything he could read between the lines.
"I know it's not fair," he softened, "I'm sorry, I'm-"
"Swamped with work?" you interrupted, "Yeah, I get it."
"I'm a teacher, with students and lessons to plan-"
"I was your student, Steve." You huffed, "You made sure there was time for me to get on my knees when it suited you, and you can't even clear a weekend for me? I'm studying towards my future, I'm the one who is swamped!" Your voice rose ever so slightly, prompting you to get up off your bed and hurry towards your door, making sure it was locked in case Kelly tried coming in to supervise your conversation.
Steve swallowed hard; the memories of you a year ago sitting at your desk in front of him splashed before his eyes. He focused on your scent, how your skin felt against his as he pushed you against the wall and sank his face between your damp legs. You were right, he made time for the heated explorations of your body, but he hadn't bothered to visit; he had no excuse.
"I'm sorry I've been hurting you again, you're right, this isn't fair. I, I'll make this up to you, and I'll clear a weekend to come and see you." His voice was thick with sincerity, but you couldn't believe him.
Climbing back into your bed, you found yourself staring up at the ceiling; this time, a large poster was staring down at you rather than the blank and boring paint.
"I've gotta go," you murmured, "I've got two assignments to finish. Goodnight, Steve."
"Goodnight, baby, I love you."
There was a time when you'd never hesitate to say those three easy words, but love wasn't supposed to feel so painful, so meaningless.
"I love you too, Steve," you forced yourself to give in, hanging up and closing your eyes.
The silence after the dial tone was loud and clear. Steve fucked up big time.
He sat on the edge of his bed in the dark, his phone still clutched so tightly in his hand, the sound of disappointment drilling through his skull.
"You can't even clear a weekend for me" looped in his brain, each repetition made you slip further away from him, as if you were fading right in front of him.
He threw the phone onto the mattress and stood up, pacing the length of his room; his floorboards creaked under his weight, and he moved to his desk. Approaching the large stack of essays he had reserved for the weekend, just as he had done the week before, and the one before that, he tried to focus on the papers, but the writing became blurred the longer he stared at it.
I'm dedicating my weekends to pieces of paper instead of her, for what?
Steve angrily picked up the stack of essays and threw them across his room, the pieces of paper now slightly crumpled from his grip as they rocked in the air, falling lower and lower until finally sitting over his cold and empty bed, and parts of the floor.
The sight of his bed set him off, causing the intrusive thoughts in his brain to multiply out of control: he knew about the hormones these young guys on campus were raging with, he taught it, and he knew that a girl like you, thrust into a world of guys your own age, was a ticking time bomb for him to prove himself worthy of being kept.
"She’s a college student," his voice cracked. "She’s supposed to be having fun. She’s supposed to be..."
Forgetting me.
The thought hit him like a physical blow to the stomach. He hurried into the same bathroom in which he lovingly washed you, and leaned over the sink, his breath coming in shallow hitches. Steve felt terrified, losing his mind over a girl who was finally trying to take control of her life and pushing back.
Things weren't supposed to be this way. He wanted to so easily control you the way he did back in his classroom; he knew it was wrong, but he couldn't help it. He claimed you the moment your eyes met in the principal's office.
The bile in his throat only climbed higher when he thought back to when he cancelled your plans for Halloween, telling you to go to a party, pushing you into the arms of someone else because he told himself you'd never stop chasing after him, that you would continue to hunger as he starved you more and more.
"I’m an idiot," he whispered, "I'm losing her, and I'm just sitting here marking papers."
Steve thought about the papers all over his bedroom, realising with panic that he couldn't wait another week without seeing you. He needed you now.
If he knew if that he didn't grade these papers, he’d fall behind, but all of these worries felt so insignificant against the worries mounting in his brain and turning his stomach into knots. He didn't care that he had a first-period class on Friday. He’d call in sick. He’d tell them he had the flu. He’d tell them his car broke down. He would do anything if it meant he could see you.
He needed to be the man who fought for you, the man you fell in love with. He couldn't allow himself to continue being the secret boyfriend six hours away.
The November air was biting the end of your nose and your cheeks as you walked towards the rusted iron bench that sat beneath a large, naked tree. It was where your friend, the photographer, spent his free periods when it wasn't raining.
"Are we seriously sitting out here?" you shivered, "it's freezing out here!"
He looked up at you with a small and sweet smile, his leather portfolio spread across his lap. "We can go inside and grab something to eat if you're hungry? But sit down for a sec, I want to run some of these shots by you for approval."
You sat next to him, the smell of damp earth hung heavy around you, instantly making you think of the chalky smell in Steve’s classroom.
Stop thinking about him.
Is he even thinking about you?
"This one," he said softly, pointing to a grainy black-and-white shot. It was a close-up of a single raindrop mid-roll down a steamy window, "How does it make you feel?"
He shifted slowly, his shoulder brushing yours; the contact was light, but it sent a hum through your skin, comforting, soft, gentle.
Studying the photo, you felt a little down, gloomy even. "It makes me feel... sad."
"I took this the week after I moved here. I still didn't know anyone."
He turned the page, and there you were.
It was a shot from the night at the diner. You weren't looking at the camera; you were looking into your coffee cup, the steam curling around your face; you looked fragile from missing and desperately needing Steve, but there was a budding strength in your expression you hadn't recognised in yourself.
"You're reconsidering, aren't you?" he asked softly, looking at you instead of the photo.
You let out the breath that got caught in your throat, taking a moment to truly consider what he was asking.
"Is it that obvious?"
"No, no, it's just, you always look and sound so sad when you talk about him."
You traced the edge of the plastic sleeve covering your own image. "He was my first everything, he taught me... well, he literally taught me. He was there when I felt like no one else was. I feel like I owe him my loyalty because he risked his job, his entire life for me."
Your chest felt heavy, you braced yourself to be shamed and judged, but your friend did neither. You loved Steve, part of you still figuring out if you still had any lingering love left, could it be possible to take that first step and leave the man you once thought was your only one?
"Love isn't supposed to feel like a debt you gotta pay off," He countered, reaching out with his long fingers, hovering over the back of your hand before he finally let them settle there.
His skin was warm, his touch asking for permission rather than demanding attention. "You're at college. You're becoming a version of yourself he doesn't even know."
"I don't think he wants to know her," you admitted, your heart aching "I think he still wants the girl who didn't know any better."
Your friend moved closer, the space between you vanishing.
"I want to know her," he murmured.
He leaned in, his fringe casting a shadow over his eyes. You didn't pull away; instead, you found yourself leaning toward him.
Just as your lips were inches apart, Steve's voice broke out in the back of your head.
"I pushed you away because I'd rather lose you now on my terms than watch you fall in love with some college guy who doesn't have to keep you a secret, because keeping us a secret is killing me."
You jumped back, your eyes widening, the portfolio sliding slightly off your friend's lap.
"We should go inside," you breathed, though you didn't move, "If I stay out here any longer, I'll freeze."
Eventually, you slowly stood up, hoping your friend wouldn't be angry with you.
He didn't look angry. He just looked patient, his hand slowly closing his portfolio.
"Yeah, I probably should've picked somewhere warmer," he said softly, noticing the way you’d tucked your chin into your scarf. "On second thought, instead of food, I'll walk you back to your dorm. You seem a little tired today."
The walk across the quad was brisk, the wind whipping your hair across your face. Your friend walked on the windward side, shielding you without making a show of it. When you finally stepped into the warmth of the brick building, he pulled out a thick, brown envelope from his deep pocket, handing it to you.
"I finished developing these early this morning," he said, his fingers lingered against yours for a second longer than necessary. "I wanted you to have them. All of them."
You blushed lightly at his thoughtfulness, "Thank you, are you sure? That's really kind."
"Get some sleep," he murmured, "you need it." He slowly turned, leaving you at your door.
As you fanned through them, a small, cream-colored scrap of paper fluttered out from between a photo of the campus tree full of flowers and leaves, the one you had sat under earlier, and a portrait of your own tired, smiling face. You picked it up.
The note was written in his steady handwriting :
You have the right to choose what makes you feel whole, not just what makes you feel obligated. You deserve a love that makes you feel seen and heard.
It was Friday, early afternoon, and you were halfway through the personal, one-man debate of studying or asking your friend to meet you at the diner when a sudden, jarring knock on your door.
"Kelly, if you forgot your key again—" you started, pulling the door open, when your heart jumped up into your throat and suddenly stopped.
Steve was standing there with his hair windblown and his eyes red from crying.
"Surprise," he said, his voice cracking. "I said I'd make things up to you and uh, here's me trying."
The guilt hit you like a physical weight; you didn't even blink. The feelings of your intense love and yearning for him came back at an uncontrollable speed, slamming into you like a high-speed train, your body reminding you of how soft his kisses were when he peppered them all over you before he gently made love to you in the moonlight peaking through the gaps in his blinds.
Any restraint you had completely melted, and you leapt into his arms, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, nuzzling yourself into him, taking in the scent of cologne you had missed so much.
"Steve! What are you doing here? You have the grading—"
"I called in sick," he said, stepping into the room and pulling you into a desperate, crushing bear hug. He smelled just the same as he did when you left for graduation, the same as he did during every private, intimate moment in his class after teaching hours.
Your legs wrapped around his hips, and almost naturally, your lips attacked his with that desperate need and want, clawing through whatever doubt you had to get to him. Steve didn't want to stop you, and as your door closed behind him, he skillfully turned the lock with his hand stretched back, before carrying you over to your bed.
Your back sank into the mattress, and his hands pried you out of the clothing on your upper half, wasting no time to undress you and throw your clothing to the floor. His hungry eyes trailed down your neck, the slight curve of your breasts and down your stomach.
"I've missed you, Steve," you breathed, your chest quickly rising and falling from the intense kissing, your lips now plump and red.
"Not as much as I've missed you," Steve removed his jacket and shirt, revealing his hairy chest without the summer glow.
Your hands reached out and attacked his belt, tugging at it, "take it off, take it all off," you pouted, unable to control yourself, "I need you, I need to feel you again."
Only having sex once with Steve and then being forced to be away from him for over four months was an agony you had never known before, and as angry as you were with him for not being here, you were struggling with the sexual frustrations building up inside of you that needed a release.
Steve did as he was told, and a prickly shade of pink broke out across his cheeks. Hearing you command him took him by surprise, and he liked it. You hadn't ever been the one to call the shots and take control, he didn't know you had it in you, and neither did you.
You removed the last of your clothing, the two of you completely naked in your single bed, not hidden in the summer night. This time, you could see every inch of Steve's perfect body, and he could see yours. Taking Steve's large length in your hand, you pumped his cock gently and softly, you could feel him throbbing against the soft skin of your fingers, and heard a sharp gasp escape Steve's lips as you tugged on him.
"Fuck," he groaned, "Lie down, baby girl, I want to feel you."
"You lie down," you blushed, "let me take it from here."
"Go on, baby," Steve said proudly, "show me what I've been missing."
You climbed on top of Steve, you were a little nervous and wobbly with your legs spread, as you slowly lowered yourself down on his dick after he coated the head and shaft in his thick saliva. His hands ripped onto your waist, helping you sit down as he pierced inside of you, his girth exploring you deeply, and the tip of his dick reaching your lower stomach as he finally filled you entirely.
Your legs rested at his sides, your jaw dropped as you forgot just how big Steve was. Taking a moment to adjust to his size, your palms rested on his chest, delicately tracing circles into his skin, before you finally began to slowly buck your hips, riding him.
Steve kept his grip on your waist to keep you grounded, his eyes locked onto the sight of you getting more and more confident with each movement, your soft moans filling your small room as Steve's groans intensified at the feeling of your gummy walls strangling him.
Continuing to buck your hips and now carefully bouncing up and down, your breasts rising and falling with each jolt, you leaned back slightly, which only made Steve feel even better inside of you. There was nothing between you, just his skin against yours.
"Steve," you moaned out through panting, your voice high-pitched, "You feel so fucking good."
Steve looked up at you with a proud smile on his face. You were moaning his name, no one else's, which seemed to calm the growing suspicions and paranoia in the back of his head. You were careless with your moans, which only made Steve get closer and closer to the edge. You weren't forcing yourself to bottle up your proof of pleasure, so neither did Steve.
For the first time in your relationship, the two of you were careless, tossing aside your secret. In this moment, you were both all you ever wanted and needed. No one else mattered; nothing else was as important as you were to one another.
Steve noticed you were getting tired, and he wanted to help you.
"I'm going to shuffle and stand up in a moment," he whimpered, "wrap your legs around me and trust me."
You nodded your head, "Don't drop me,"
"I won't," he said softly, " let me take it from here."
Steve slowly took his time, gently moving until he was able to stand up off the bed, holding you so you didn't fall, with your legs now wrapped around him, still inside you, as he turned around and placed you on the bed, your back lying against your mattress. Lifting up your legs, Steve placed them over his shoulders, his cock sliding even deeper inside of you.
Glancing down at Steve gracefully fucking you, you could see the outline of his length poke through your stomach, such a sight making you even slicker and pushing you to the edge. Your excitement over Steve filling you up caused your walls to tighten around him even more, and he didn't know how much longer he could cope. He was getting so close, so desperately close.
"You're so deep inside me" you whimpered, watching him start to slam in you, your moans becoming more frequent and louder.
"You feel so tight," he grunted, "I can't last much longer,"
"Neither can I," you whimpered, "please d-don't stop, I'm going to-"
The mounting desperation, greed, and demands for him finally reached their peak, and as he slammed into your wet pussy deeper, you were finally able to release, coating him with your orgasm, which sent Steve jumping ahead.
Unable to stop himself, he practically vibrated, spilling his seed inside of you, with beads of sweat breaking across his forehead and glistening across his chest.
"Oh fuck, I-I'm sorry," Steve breathlessly panicked, slowly pulling out and lowering your legs, his cum slowly oozing out of you.
"It's okay," you murmured.
The silence of the room returned, punctuated only by the distant sound of Kelly laughing in the hallway. Steve was propped up on one elbow, his eyes tracking the rise and fall of your chest. He looked slightly confused at your calmness.
Steve's gaze drifted to your desk. "I won't do that again, we can't afford to take risks like that-"
"Steve," you smiled, tiredly, "It's okay, I'm on the pill."
"The pill?" he repeated, his brow furrowing. "Since when? You didn't mention it on the phone."
You'd know if you were ever listening to me.
"A few weeks ago," you said, trying to keep calm, "I told you, the doctor said it would level everything out or whatever, I just couldn't cope with the cramps and heavy bleeding."
"Right," Steve said slowly, his eyes narrowing. "For your periods. Funny how that works out, right when you're surrounded by thousands of guys your own age."
"Steve," you sighed, closing your eyes, "please don't, you just got here," you pleaded, feeling the weight of his mistrust. "I need to take a shower... can we just be happy? for a minute?"
Steve swallowed hard and nodded, "You're right, I'm sorry. Go take your shower, I'm not going anywhere."
The bathroom was down the hall, a communal space that felt gross and cold against your bare feet. As the steam rose around you and the water hit your shoulders, you leaned your head against the tile, closing your eyes. The guilt of even considering leaving him for as long as you did became a physical ache.
Back in the room, Steve sat on the edge of the bed in the silence of you small room, which made him feel uneasy. He put on his underwear and reached out for his shirt until his eyes focused on your desk, the place where you spent the hours you weren't talking to him, often fast asleep over a book, waiting for another one of his calls that never came. He stared at the top drawer. It wasn't closed properly, and a corner of a heavy, brown envelope was wedged in the gap, preventing the drawer from closing.
He knew he shouldn't, he knew it was snooping, but the paranoia that had been festering in his brain since before you even left Hawkins for college boiled over.
He stood up and pulled the drawer open, his heart thumping in his chest as he picked up the envelope and tipped the contents onto the desk, causing too many photos for his liking to spill out, making his breath hitch in his throat.
You didn't look stiff or posed; you weren't forcing a smile or hiding your face. These felt intimate and artful in a hurtful way. The first photo was of you laughing at a diner table, the second, you sleeping in the library. In every single shot, you looked so naturally happy, without stress, and free.
Steve reexamined the collection of photos, and that's when he noticed the note. He picked up the scrap of paper and examined the handwriting he didn't recognise.
You have the right to choose what makes you feel whole, not just what makes you feel obligated. You deserve a love that makes you feel seen and heard.
Steve's face dropped and turned a deep, mottled red, as he crumpled the paper in his fist. He looked back at the photos, seeing the way the 'photographer' looked at you through the lens. This person was no longer just a friend, they were a threat.
The sound of the shower stopping echoed faintly from down the hall, but Steve didn't scramble or put the photos back. Instead, her stood over them with his chest heaving and spread them out across your desk, placing the handwritten note directly in the middle of the shots. He couldn't look away from it all.
The steam was still clinging to your skin when you left the shower, you could feel something uneasy hanging heavy in your gut, and by the time you pushed your bedroom door open, you knew why.
"Did you want to quickly shower? It gets cold in here, so if I were you I would-"
Steve was standing by your desk, his back a rigid, trembling line. He didn't turn around; he just kept staring down at the pictures with his hands braced against the wood of your desk so hard that his fingers began to hurt.
Your eyes dropped to the brown envelope on the floor.
"Steve?"
He turned slowly, and in his hand, he held the now crumpled note, with fury scribbled across his face.
"You deserve a love that makes you feel seen and heard." Steve quoted, tossing the paper onto the desk. "Is there something you're not telling me?" he glared at you.
"Steve," you said softly, "give me that," You stepped forward, your voice trembling.
"Give you what? The evidence?" He swept his hand across the desk, scattering the Polaroids. The one of you laughing at the diner fell face-first onto the floor at your feet. "Who the fuck is he?" Steve raised his voice, "Is this why you're taking that fucking pill?"
"What?!" Your eyes widened, you quickly bent down to grab the pictures, "It isn't like that! I told you, I got those for the stress of exams, my periods—"
"Don't lie to me!" Steve roared, the sound echoing off the thin dorm walls.
"Steve, they'll hear you, please don't shout!"
"Who is he!" He stepped into your personal space, his anger overwhelming.
"He's a friend," you sobbed, the hot tears finally breaking through.
"Bullshit, you've replaced me, I knew-"
"I haven't replaced you!" you raised your voice back at him, "The night you called to tell me not to come to Hawkins, the night you told me to go to a party, well, I went. I hated it, I went outside to get some fresh air, and I made a friend! A friend, Steve!"
"You're his personal model from the looks of things."
"He doesn't just call to groan about his day or demand that I reassure him every five minutes, he doesn't cancel on me at the last minute to stare at a bunch of papers!"
Steve flinched, "What part of I am risking everything for us! I could lose everything! I'm protecting us, do you not understand?"
"No! You're not! You're keeping me a secret to protect you. You wanted to keep me in that classroom, Steve. You wanted me to stay the girl who didn't know any better so you could be the only person who mattered." You couldn't stop it all from coming out, "You push me away over and over, and I come running back because I love you, just for you to do it again! My friend has made me realise that I have a choice, I don't have to be a fucking secret to him, to anyone for that matter!"
Steve grabbed your shoulders, his grip firm but shaking. "I love you. I drove all night to be here because I felt you slipping away. Doesn't that mean anything?"
"It means you're scared of being alone," you whispered, looking at the photos scattered on the floor.
Steve let go of you, "D-don't you love me? We just fucked, doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"Of course it means something to me! But you acting like this is killing me, Steve. I-I can't do this anymore."
"If I walk out that door," his voice cracked, "there is no us to come back to, we'll be over permanently."
Your heart began to split into a million pieces, each piece shattering into nothing. You knew Steve was serious, that he meant it, and you couldn't be without him, but you couldn't cope with the constant lack of trust, or the mounting disappointments.
"I think," you said, your voice steady despite the tears, "that's been the case for a long time already, Steve... y-you need to get your clothes back on and leave."
SUMMARY There's been rumors that you're together with actor Joe Keery for a long time and now, there's speculation that you're pregnant with his child.
WORD COUNT: 733
Warnings: None. Just pure fluff
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Requested by @nosebeers Divider by @help-u
The city didn’t sleep, and apparently, neither did the internet. It was a humid Tuesday afternoon in New York City when you stepped out of a small cafe in the West Village, iced latte in hand, entirely unaware that your life was about to become the subject of a global investigation. You were wearing a simple, form-fitting emerald green slip dress—a choice you had made purely for comfort in the July heat. But as you reached up to hail a yellow cab on Hudson Street, the fabric clung to your frame, revealing the unmistakable, gentle curve of a rounded belly. Within forty-five minutes, those high-definition paparazzi photos were plastered across every major entertainment site on the web.
By the time you make it back to your apartment and kicked off your shoes, your phone was vibrating so aggressively it was practically walking across the kitchen island. The headlines were a synchronized chorus of speculation: “Y/N Debuts a Shocking New Look in NYC,” and “Is the Keery Rumor Finally Confirmed?” Fans and tabloids alike immediately connected the dots back to last winter, when a few blurry photos of you and Joe Keery sharing a laugh outside a London jazz club had set the rumor mill on fire. Neither of you had ever commented on those dating rumors, preferring to let the public guess while you navigated whatever it was you two were building in private. Now, that silence was being interpreted as a grand, calculated cover-up.
You scrolled through social media with a mixture of amusement and mild dread, watching the digital firestorm unfold in real-time. Sleuths on X were already creating side-by-side photo comparisons, analyzing the angle of your stance and the way your hand had instinctively drifted toward my midsection as you opened the cab door. Skeptics argued it was just a heavy lunch or an unflattering camera angle, but the overwhelming consensus was a wave of pure, chaotic celebration. "If that baby inherits Joe's hair and her smile, the world isn't ready," one viral tweet read, racking up tens of thousands of likes in a matter of minutes.
You were pulled out of the rabbit hole by the chime of a FaceTime request. Answering it, you see Joe’s face filling the screen, his signature messy hair pushed back by a baseball cap as he sat in what looked like a sterile trailer on a film set. He didn't say hello; instead, he held up his own phone to the camera, displaying the exact paparazzi photo of you from an hour ago. "Well," he said, his voice a mix of a tired chuckle and genuine warmth, "according to the entire internet, we have some shopping to do for a nursery."
You leaned back against your couch, letting out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, and gave him a soft smile. "I was just going to get a coffee, Joe. I didn't think wearing a knit dress would cause a media shutdown." You both knew the truth, of course—that the rumors of your romance weren't just rumors anymore, and that the curve shown in the photos was very real. But having it analyzed by millions of strangers before the two of you had even decided how to share it with your own families felt surreal, like living inside a fishbowl with the cameras zoomed all the way in.
"Hey, New York looks good on you, bump and all," Joe said softly, his expression turning fond as he looked at you through the screen. "We knew this day was coming eventually. Do you want me to have my publicist put out some vague, polite statement to get them off your doorstep, or do we just let them keep playing detective?" You looked out your window at the sprawling, chaotic skyline of Manhattan, a city where you can be surrounded by millions of people and still feel entirely alone if you play your cards right.
"Let them speculate," You decided, a small, defiant smile playing on your lips. "It keeps them busy, and honestly, they're having a lot of fun with the hair jokes." Joe laughed, a rich, familiar sound that instantly grounded you against the swirl of public madness outside. For now, you would let the world guess at the timeline and the details, keeping the most precious part of your story just for yourselves in the quiet corners of the city.
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summary; robin leaves you and steve alone at the squawk only for about an hour, but it’s enough time for you two to get all over each other.
warnings; explicit sexual content, 18+, mdni, smut, mentions of oral (f receiving), fingering, doggy (for like a second), tummy bulge, slight overstimulation, steve is so in love with the reader, talks about getting pregnant, aftercare, no use of y/n, fluff, badly proofread, oh and; robin being robin
word count; 1,434
vanilla speaks; what a little alcohol and s4e7 of stranger things can do, ughh. guys, i need therapy or else i’m climbing up the walls. anyways, i hope you like this little rushed, pure filth of a steve harrington fic. xx gif and images are not mine, divider by @/uzmacchiato
you were drunk.
drunk of life.
drunk of love.
but most specifically drunk of him.
it was just too much with all those emotions, and his goddamn head between your legs.
you already came twice on his tongue, and were just about to come again on his fingers, stretching you slowly and so torturously that you thought you’d might die any moment.
“steve…” you moaned out his name, your hands tightening in those soft strands, flowing through your fingers like liquid amber.
“shhh, baby… i got you,” you hear him whisper, his breath hot against your wet heat. “i got you.”
there was his tongue again. flicking over your already oversensitive clit, making you tremble like a leaf.
“please, please, please.”
the words came out in a breathless, pathetic whine as you arched your back, cumming again, your juices coating his fingers and hand.
as the aftershocks of your third and even more intense orgasm faded, you watched him bringing those long fingers to his lips, sucking and licking them clean as if he never wanted to taste anything else again.
“i’ll never get enough of this,” he muttered, closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, inhaling your scent. “i’ll never get enough of you.”
he finally moved, crawling up your spent body, covering it with his broad frame.
your hands slipped from his hair, cradling his face like it was the most precious thing on earth, your thighs still shaking a bit.
“i love you,” you whispered, your eyes fluttering closed when his lips brushed against yours as light as a feather.
“i love you too, baby,” he answered, voice laced with so much adoration and warmth that it made your heart ache.
then he kissed you.
pink, plump lips moving against yours gently. but the kiss grew more passionate with every passing second.
soon, he pushed his tongue past your lips, forcing you to let him in, giving you a taste of yourself.
his hands brushed over your sides, making you shiver violently, gasping for air between the strokes of his tongue.
“steve… i swear, if you don’t fuck me right now, i’m gonna—“
the words died in your throat when he rolled his hips against yours, letting your feel how much this effected him as well.
“you’re gonna what, baby?”
he was such a goddamn tease.
“come again? with my name on your lips just like the last three times?”
“i hate you,” you hissed, trying to sit up but he pushed you back down against the floor.
“sounded different about three seconds ago.”
his chuckle was deep and rough, rumbling straight through your body and to your core.
“damn, steve…” you whimpered, your voice helplessly cracking. “please, just… stop teasing me. i don’t know how much longer i can take it…”
you begged and it was pathetic.
but he seemed to enjoy every second of it.
“then be a good girl and tell me exactly what you want.”
that son of a bitch.
“fine,” you hissed, straightening up your head. “i want your cock. buried deep inside of me. i want you to fuck me until i forget my own name. until there’s nothing left but you.”
the look in his eyes was worth every single word.
he looked at you like you were his whole world.
like there was nothing else in it but you and those filthy words leaving your lips.
“see? wasn’t so hard, wasn’t it?”
before you had the chance to reply, his hands slid under your ass, lifting you up, the tip of his cock teasingly brushing through your slit.
“how do you want me, baby?” he suddenly asked, making you swallow hard.
you knew what he wanted.
otherwise, he wouldn’t have asked.
“from behind.”
it only took those two words, and you were on your knees, your hands bracing yourself from crashing to the floor as his hands gripped your hips roughly.
your mouth hang slightly open, his right hand moving away from where he held your ass upright, positioning himself at your entrance again.
“tell me how much you want me again,” he demanded softly, voice dripping with that barely pushed down desire.
“i want you, stevie. please, god. please…” you practically whined out, then he finally entered you.
it only took him one single thrust until he was buried inside you balls deep, making you yelp and you nearly fell over.
but he was there, his arm wrapping around your body, pulling you back against him until you sat on your knees, back against his chest, his dick still buried deep.
his lips grazed the shell of your ear, his heavy breathing causing your inner walls to flutter around him.
his first thrust felt like he tore your apart.
but in the most beautiful way possible.
you felt him hitting your cervix, a deep moan ripping from you.
“yeah, just like that. lemme hear your sweet little sounds,” he panted into your hair, his grip around you tightening even more.
another thrust, and you trembled violently.
“steve!”
“i’m right here, baby.”
another thrust.
another moan.
you could feel him so deep it nearly took your breath away.
“look at that…” he hummed next to your ear, brushing his fingers over your abdomen, right where his cock was buried inside of you.
and you did, your eyes widening at the small bulge of your tummy, which his long and thick cock caused.
the next thrust made your body arch like a bow, your hands reaching behind you to find hold in his hair, and he had to hold your hips in place so he wouldn’t slip out.
“stay still, baby. lemme fuck up into that pretty tight heat of yours.”
you couldn’t answer, just moan.
and he was a man of his words.
without wasting another second, he started to pound up into you, like he had been born only for this.
soon, the room was only filled with the sounds you made, his heavy gasps and skin slapping against skin, practically fucking you dumb.
his fingers found your clit, your fingers tightening in his hair again.
“stevestevesteve”
his name left your lips over and over again, like your were about to loose all hope and he was the only prayer you could hold on to.
“you gonna cum again, baby?” he groaned against your neck, teeth grazing the thin, sweaty skin there.
you couldn’t speak, just nodded as your breaths became more rapid.
the pressure on your clit tightened, and your climax built up fast.
and steve knew.
he knew you so well that it only took him a few more thrusts and rubs.
“cum for me.”
the command was quite.
but it caused something loud.
you screamed out in pleasure as you came, coating his cock and balls with your juices.
right in that moment, he reached his own high, pleasure also ripping through his body. his hips stuttered wildly and with one last thrust, he finally spilled his hot seed inside of you.
it was sticky and messy and so goddamn perfect.
right here, in the middle of the squawk.
the second you came down was the moment you fell over, but steve was there, still holding you even after he slipped out of you.
without another word, he swept your naked and spent body up in his arms, carrying you to the small bathroom, placing your down on the sink.
“you’ve been so good for me,” he murmured as he reached for a towel, softly rubbing it over your sensitive pussy.
“such a good girl…”
his praises made you smile weakly, watching him clean you up first, then himself.
“you think it worked this time?” you murmured after a while, furrowing your brows.
he paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before putting the towel aside.
“i really hope so. and if not… we try again. we gonna get you pregnant, baby. one day, it will work out, i promise.” he placed a soft kiss on your lips.
after you got dressed again, you walked back upstairs, right in time as robin got back from grabbing lunch.
you and steve were just about to take out everything she got for you out of the bags when robin slowly stepped back inside the room.
she held the towel in her hands that steve used to clean you both up some minutes ago, her face contorted with disgust.
“seriously guys? this is gross. absolutely gross,” she exclaimed, throwing it as far away from her as possible.
and you couldn’t help but laugh, exchanging looks with steve who was just as amused as you.
smut with Steve who just wants kids with his best friend…plsss
im wet hello! 🙇♀️🙇♀️
steve "creampie king" harrington
bsf!steve harrington x reader
-
you and steve had been best friends for years, the kind of friends who flirted shamelessly but never crossed the line. tonight your parents were gone for the weekend, leaving the house quiet and empty except for the two of you sprawled on your bed watching some dumb movie neither of you were really paying attention to. steve kept stealing glances at you, his hand brushing your thigh every few minutes like it was accidental. it wasnt.
"you know," he said suddenly, voice low and warm, "youd make the prettiest mommy. seriously. i think about it all the time."
you laughed softly, turning to face him. "steve harrington, are you trying to knock me up or just being weird again?"
his eyes darkened, that signature smirk fading into something hungrier. "both. mostly the first one."
the air shifted fast. one second you were teasing, the next his mouth was on yours, hands sliding under your shirt like hed been waiting forever for permission. you kissed him back just as hard, fingers tangling in his perfect hair, pulling him closer. years of tension snapped like a rubber band.
"steve," you breathed against his lips.
"want you," he murmured, already tugging your shorts down. "want you so bad. been thinking about filling you up, watching you swell with my kid. our kid."
his words sent heat straight between your legs. you pushed him onto his back and climbed over him, straddling his hips. he groaned loud when you ground down against the bulge in his jeans.
"fuck, baby, yes..just like that."
you freed him from his pants, wrapping your hand around his cock. he was already leaking, thick and hot. steve hissed through his teeth as you stroked him once, twice, then lined him up with your entrance. you sank down slow, taking every inch until he bottomed out inside you.
"o-ohh god," he stuttered, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "so t-tight. youre sooo fucking tight around me."
you started moving, rolling your hips in deep, steady circles at first, then bouncing faster. steve’s head fell back against the pillows, mouth open, eyes half lidded as he watched you ride him.
"thats it, ride me. fuck, y'feel so good. gonna put a baby in you tonight.."
his words made you clench around him. you braced your hands on his chest and fucked him harder, the wet sound of skin slapping filling the room. steve thrust up to meet you, hitting that spot deep inside that made your toes curl.
"steve- oh shit..right there--" you moaned, voice breaking.
he sat up suddenly, arms wrapping around your waist, holding you flush against him while you kept grinding. his mouth found your neck, sucking marks into your skin.
"you want it too, dont you?" he panted against your throat. "want me to breed you. want my cum dripping out of you for days."
"yes" you gasped. "want your baby, steve. ..please."
he flipped you both so you were on your back, never pulling out. now he was on top, hips snapping forward in a relentless rhythm. your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his back as he drove into you deeper.
"fuckfuckfuck," he groaned, the word stretching out. "gonna fill y'up so much. gonna give y'everything."
the pace turned brutal and perfect. steve fucked you like he was trying to imprint himself inside you, every thrust pushing you higher. sweat slicked your skin, your breaths mingling in hot, desperate pants.
"look at me," he demanded, one hand cupping your face. his eyes were wild, pupils blown. "wanna see y'face when i cum inside you."
you held his gaze, nails raking down his back. he leaned down, kissing you messy and deep, tongues sliding together while he pounded into you. the angle let him grind against your clit with every stroke, building that coil tighter and tighter in your belly.
"im close," you whimpered. "steve, im so close-"
"me too, baby. me too. cum with me. let me feel you squeeze my cock while i breed you."
his thrusts grew erratic, stuttering. "f-fuck- y-youre gonna.. gonna make me-"
you came first, walls fluttering and then clamping down hard around him. your back arched off the bed, a loud cry tearing from your throat as pleasure crashed through you in waves.
"yesyes- oh my god- steve!!"
steve followed right after, burying himself to the hilt with a broken moan that stretched into a long, shaky groan. "c-cumming- fuck, im cumming so hard- take it, take all of it..-"
you felt the hot pulse of him spilling deep inside, rope after rope of warm cum flooding you. he kept thrusting through it, shallow and desperate, like he could push it even deeper.
"good girl," he panted, forehead pressed to yours. "such a good girl taking my load. gonna keep you full. gonna do it again and again until youre pregnant with my kid."
he didnt pull out. instead he stayed buried inside you, softening only a little before he started moving again, slow and lazy at first. his hands roamed your body, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples until they peaked.
"steve," you whined, oversensitive but still wanting more.
"shh, i got you. m'not done yet. need t'make sure it takes."
he kissed you again, softer this time, then built the rhythm back up. your legs stayed locked around him as he fucked his cum deeper into you, the slick sound obscene and perfect. every thrust made some of it leak out around his cock, but he just pushed it back in with his fingers when he pulled almost all the way out before slamming home again.
"feel that?" he murmured, voice rough. "thats me..gonna give you a big belly. gonna rub it every night and know its mine."
you moaned his name like a prayer, hips lifting to meet every stroke. the second round lasted longer, slower and filthier. steve whispered filthy promises against your ear; how he’d fuck you every day, how he’d keep you dripping with his seed, how beautiful you’d look carrying his baby.
when you came again it was softer, rolling through you in long shudders. steve followed, groaning your name as he emptied himself once more, hips stuttering hard.
"f-fuuuuck- i love you..- gonna be such a good dad.."
afterward he collapsed beside you but quickly pulled you into his arms, cock still nestled inside like he refused to let any of it escape. his hand rested possessively on your lower belly, thumb stroking gently.
"you okay?" he asked, voice soft.
you nodded, smiling against his chest. "more than okay."
he kissed the top of your head, fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin. "..good."
