Steve Harrington had a dream, a silent yet big one: having a huge family of his own. Four, five, even six little Harringtons... and his dream girl on his side to raise them with all the love he has to give to the world. And here, this dream comes true <3 Stranger Things Steve Harrington au where we explore his life with his girl and their six children (headcanons, one shots, drabbles... you name it!). Requests open!
The Last of Us 💚
Where the Flowers Don't Grow - Completed!
Joel meets Ellie, and Joel and Ellie meet Faith. And Faith meets the first two people she can trust after years of hiding her heart after walls built up by the cruel world the three of them lived in. A world where the flowers don’t grow… but something can still take root.
Fic Playlist here!
Arcane 🩵
The last drop in The Last Drop - On hiatus
Luna was taken in by Vander when she was four years old. Ever since then, she hadn't only gained a father, but also two sisters and two brothers - A story about the Arcane series including my og character aka Vander's fifth adopted kid
Percy Jackson & the Olympians 💙
In his own twisted way - Ongoing
Emily has lived at Camp Half-Blood most of her life, ever since her father, Ares, had brought her there to camp himself - I suck at summaries as you can see; this is a daughter of Ares fic because who doesn't love the god of war and a good ol' complex father-daughter dynamic
Harry Potter ❤️
Home in wherever I’m with you - On hiatus
Olivia has lived at the orphanage as long as she can remember, but her life changes when she meets a little girl named Sara, with whom she's connected with in a way she would've never imagined. In other words, what if Sirius had a daughter he never knew of? What if he meets her during the events of the Order of the Phoenix?
Steve's kids discover the Farrah Fawcett hairspray... And decide to recreate his hairstyle
a/n: some hints at verbal abuse coming from a parental figure!
Six Little Nuggets Masterlist
Requests are OPEN!
2000’s
The attic smelled like dust and cardboard and childhood. It was family clean-out day, which in a house with six kids meant boxes everywhere, half the kids actually cleaning, and the other half getting distracted by nostalgia memorabilia.
Flo, Jo, and the twins had been digging through a box labelled “HIGH SCHOOL STUFF” in their dad’s handwriting. Inside were old mixtapes, a Scoops Ahoy name tag, a basketball shirt, and—
Evan pulled out a familiar white spray can.
“…Guys.”
Elliott squinted. “No way.”
“Is that hairspray?” Flo frowned at it, “Maybe it was Mom’s and it got mixed up.”
“It’s sticky,” Jo handed it back to Evan in disgust after inspecting it up-close.
Elliott looked at his sisters in disbelief. “Don’t you guys remember the story Uncle Dustin told us? About Dad driving him to the Snow Ball when he was a kid?”
“And teaching him about how to recreate his infamous hairstyle,” added Evan, holding the can up like a treasure, “With this?”
Jo immediately started laughing.
“Ladies hairspray?”
“Don’t be rude, Josephine,”
“I’m not being rude!” she fought back, “I’m just saying, now I want to see pictures of Uncle Dustin with his hair done with… That,” she pointed at the hairspray.
“Maybe we can find some here,” suggested Flo, diving back in to the boxes.
The boys, though, had other plans, and started heading to the stairs to go back down.
“Where are you guys going?!”
The twins exchanged a look.
“To see if this baby still works.”
And so ten minutes later the upstairs bathroom door was locked. Inside were Elliott, Evan, and also Theo — who had insisted on joining when he’d seen his brothers plotting a hair make-over because he had announced, very firmly, “I GOT BIG HAIR TOO.”
Which, fair, at six years old, he already did. The three of them had inherited Steve’s hair.
The air was thick with aerosol.
Theo’s hair stuck straight up in an alarming spiky halo. Evan was trying to shape his into a full Harrington swoop. Elliott was meticulously combing the front.
“This is harder than Uncle Dustin made it look,” Evan muttered.
“You’re using too much,” Elliott said.
Theo sprayed again.
“MORE!!”
Downstairs, Steve knew something was wrong the moment he hears the banging. Not the usual thud-thud of kids wrestling or the suspicious quiet that usually means someone broke something—but frantic, rhythmic knocking.
“Open the door!” Flo’s voice echoed down the hallway. “Elliott, I swear— YOU GUYS ARE GOING TO SUFFOCATE!”
“Evan, Mom’s gonna freak out!” Jo added, half-laughing, half-doubled over.
From downstairs, having heard enough, Steve called up, “What’s going on?!”
Flo stayed guard while Jo went to get their parents. Not even two minutes later Steve was standing next to Flo, knocking once. Firm. A Dad-knock:
“Boys.”
Nothing.
“Elliott. Evan.”
"...Theo's in there too," said Flo, sounding a bit worried now. Steve sighs the sigh of a man who has raised twins.
Muffled whispering. Shuffling. Something sprays.
Steve narrowed his eyes. “…open the door. NOW.”
Instant silence inside.
The lock clicked, and the door creaked open.
When Steve saw them, his heart nearly stopped for a second, because standing in front of him were his sons - shirtless, because of course they were - like three miniature, extremely over-sprayed versions of his teenage self: Theo’s hair was literally frozen mid-explosion, Evan’s swoop was twice the size of his head, and Elliott’s was almost perfect, but rock-hard like a helmet.
Steve blinked once. Twice. Then he burst out laughing. Full, helpless, doubled-over laughter.
Right then his wife appeared at the top of the stairs, Gigi on her hip, Jo trailing behind.
She took one look — and immediately started laughing too.
“Oh my GOD.”
Gigi pointed at Theo’s hair.
“HE WOOK WIKE A PORCUPINE.”
Theo beamed proudly.
“I LOOK LIKE DADDY.”
That hit Steve right in the chest. Harder than he expected. Because for just a split second, he remembered a moment back in the day, when he was just a teenager himself:
Steve had been nineteen, standing in his bathroom with a can of hairspray in his hand.
Not the cheap stuff.
Not the stuff girls at school bought.
No — this was the good one.
The one he had secretly borrowed from his mother once years ago, realized it worked way better, and had been using ever since: the infamous Farrah Fawcett hairspray. Worked like magic.
If there was once thing Steve Harrington was proud of in his teenage years, that was his hair.
He had leaned toward the mirror, carefully lifting the front of his hair, spraying lightly, shaping it with practiced fingers. It was almost meditative — something he controlled in a life where he controlled very little.
He didn’t hear the footsteps until it was too late.
The bathroom door swung open, and there he stood, his father, filling the doorway with his broad shoulders and a judging look. Tall. Imposing. Already frowning.
Steve froze mid-spray. His dad’s eyes immediately locked onto the can in his hand.
“…What the hell is that?”
Steve swallowed. “Hairspray.”
His father stepped closer, took the can, read the label.
His lip curled.
“Farrah Fawcett?” he scoffed. “That’s a women’s product.”
Steve’s ears burned instantly, as if he hadn’t been using that same product for years now, including the shampoo and conditioner from the same brand.
“It just works better,” he muttered.
His father laughed — not kindly.
“Christ, Steven. You spend more time preening than a damn peacock. You know what real men do? They don’t fuss with their hair like teenage girls.”
Steve’s jaw tightened, staring at the sink, too embarrassed to look at his father in the eye. His dad sighed, setting the can down with a sharp clack, shaking his head.
“You look ridiculous. Your hair too damn long, too styled. You want people to take you seriously? Start acting like a man,” he huffed. “Now hurry up and come downstairs. Your mother has ordered dinner, I didn’t pay for it to eat it cold.”
Then he walked out, door slamming shut behind him.
The silence that followed felt heavy and suffocating.
Steve stood there for a long moment, staring at his reflection: At the hair he actually liked. At the part of himself he was proud of.
Slowly, his shoulders sank.
For a second, he almost reached to mess it up. To flatten it. To make it less noticeable. Less him.
He was about to, his hand halfway up to his infamous loose front piece, when the flash of a memory crossed through his mind:
Barely a few weeks ago, at the Family Video parking lot.
He had been leaning against his car when she came out, his girl, laughing about something Robin had said. She reached him, smiling… then paused. Just… looking at him, her front pressed up against his, eyes soft, warm.
“You know,” she had said, biting her lower lip, “your hair is unfairly beautiful.”
Steve had blinked. “…What?”
She had reached up and lightly touched the front, where it was perfectly shaped, except for the loose strand he always wore across his forehead.
“It looks like you stepped out of a movie. Like… Prince Charming, but cooler. Like, I punch Russians at a secret mall base and fight monsters, cooler.”
He had stared at her like she had just rewritten the laws of physics.
“No one’s ever called it that,” he had admitted quietly.
She smiled.
“Well, they should.”
Then she leaned in and kissed him, right there in the autumn sunlight.
And something inside him — something tight and guarded — loosened for the first time.
Because someone saw him. Exactly as he was. And loved him for it.
And now, with that same girl, now woman, he had three amazing girls and three crazy boys, who weren’t embarrassed by their hair disaster, not ashamed, just… Excited to look like him.
To be like him.
And something deep inside him quietly healed.
He entered the bathroom, smiling gently.
“Okay,” he said, picking up a comb. “There are some tricks to master the Fawcett spray technique. Hair has to be damp, not wet. But also, very important, rule number one: less spray. Always less.”
Theo nodded very seriously, his head a mass of curls and spray that made him look even more adorable. “Less.”
“Rule number two,” Steve continued softly, “hair’s supposed to make you feel good,” he playfully patted Elliott’s head, “Not stiff like a helmet.”
Evan looked at him with wide eyes. “Did it make you feel good?”
Steve met his eyes, and smiled. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It did.”
Fifteen Minutes Later, the bathroom had turned into a mini barbershop: Steve washed the boys’ hair, helped them dry it, comb it, shape it, and spray just the right amount of spray. He taught them how to get a loose strand always right and how to make your hair look messy but effortlessly ‘cool’.
His wife took a million pictures, Flo laughed nonstop holding Gigi, who giggled with her, and Jo filmed for future blackmail.
And when it was done, three Harrington boys stood proudly in front the mirror next to their dad, with perfect little Harrington swoops matching his own.
Theo gasped.
“Daddy, we twins now!”
Steve hoisted him up onto his hip, nuzzling his round cheek with his nose.
“Always have been, buddy.”
His wife watched from the doorway, eyes soft.
Because this — this loud, ridiculous, loving chaos — was everything Steve had never had growing up.
And when those memories of his father and the lows of his life came back, now he had three mini-me’s who looked up to him to remind him that he had never been the problem.
The anniversary trip that led to the existence of Theodore 'Theo' Harrington
Six Little Nuggets Masterlist
Requests are OPEN!
64.media.tumblr.com
1990's
Steve and his wife didn’t even notice how tired they were until the elevator doors slid closed behind them.
It wasn’t just quiet.
It was still.
No small sneakers pounding down hallways. No tiny voices arguing over whose turn it was to pick the bedtime story. No suspicious thuds followed by a child yelling, “IT WAS AN ACCIDENT.” No background soundtrack of life constantly happening.
Just the soft hum of the elevator and the faint, almost shocking sound of their own breathing.
They stood there side by side, hands full of overnight bags that suddenly felt ridiculously light compared to the usual avalanche of backpacks, snacks, emergency sweaters, and “just in case” toys.
Steve blinked slowly.
“…Are you dizzy?” she whispered.
“A little,” he admitted, looking around like he expected one of their kids to pop out from behind the mirrored wall. “Is this what air sounds like when it isn’t full of screaming?”
She snorted, covering her mouth, shoulders already shaking with laughter.
“Oh my god,” she said. “We really needed this, didn’t we?”
They hadn’t realized how much.
Because the last few months had been a blur. Work, family, life… And through all of it — always, always — four small humans who needed them every second of the day.
They loved it. They loved their life. They wouldn’t trade it for anything.
But they were tired in that deep, bone-level way parents sometimes don’t even notice until someone forces them to stop.
Which is exactly what their friends had done for their anniversary.
“Go,” Robin had ordered, physically shoving their packed bags into Steve’s hands while Flo clung to her leg asking if they could do matching braids later. “Before you both collapse and I have to raise these children myself.”
Nancy had handed over the hotel reservation envelope like a sacred offering.
“Three days, two nights,” she’d said firmly. “No guilt allowed.”
So now here they were.
The elevator dinged.
The doors opened.
And when they stepped into the hallway, something in both of them seemed to exhale all at once.
Their bags barely made it to the floor of the hotel room.
Because the moment the door shut behind them, Steve turned, reached for her, and pulled her into his arms with a quiet, almost reverent urgency — like he’d been holding that need in for months.
He buried his face in her hair and breathed in deeply.
“You’re really here,” he murmured against her temple.
She smiled into his shoulder, arms sliding around his back.
“So are you, Mr. Harrington.”
He huffed a small laugh.
“Still can’t believe they let us leave without at least one kid stuffed in a suitcase.”
“Don’t say that,” she teased. “Elliott definitely tried.”
That made him laugh properly — the kind of laugh that loosened something tight in his chest.
They stayed like that for a long moment, just holding each other in the quiet. No interruptions. No one calling for them. Just warmth and closeness and the steady comfort of being together.
That first night, they didn’t do anything fancy.
No dinner out.
No sightseeing.
They ordered room service, sat cross-legged on the bed eating fries straight from the tray, and talked — really talked — without being interrupted every thirty seconds.
About work.
About the kids.
About little things they’d missed saying to each other lately.
At one point, Steve lay back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling.
“…It’s weird,” he admitted softly.
“What is?”
“Not having to listen for someone crying,” he said. “Or falling out of bed. Or trying to sneak into our room at three in the morning.”
She laughed quietly, lying down beside him.
“I know.”
They turned toward each other at the same time.
And for a moment, they just looked.
Really looked — in that way couples sometimes forget to when life gets busy and chaotic.
“You’re still my favourite person,” he said simply.
Her eyes softened instantly.
“Good,” she murmured. “Because you’re still mine.”
They fell asleep not long after — tangled together, wrapped in hotel sheets that smelled like clean linen and calm.
And they slept.
Eight straight hours.
No interruptions.
No small feet climbing into bed.
They woke the next morning staring at each other in shock.
“…Did we just—”
“Sleep through the night?” she finished.
He blinked.
“…Oh man, I feel so old… But that felt so good.”
By the second day, something playful had returned between them — something light and easy that had always been there but sometimes got buried under responsibility.
They kissed in the elevator like back when they were hiding in the Family Video backroom. They laughed over coffee when Steve accidentally turned around at hearing someone say “Coach”, just out of habit. They walked hand-in-hand through quiet streets with no stroller, no diaper bag, no one asking for snacks every ten minutes.
Back in the room, later in the afternoon, they slow-danced in oversized hotel robes after a shared bath to a scratchy radio station playing old love songs.
At one point, Steve rested his forehead against hers and whispered,
“I forgot how much I like just… being with you.”
She smiled softly.
“You never forgot,” she said, kissing his jaw, “We just got busy.
They stood together on the balcony as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in soft gold and pink.
Steve held her from behind, arms wrapped around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder.
“I love our life,” he said quietly. “Even when it’s loud. Even when it’s messy.”
She leaned back into him.
“I know,” she murmured. “Me too.”
He pressed a soft kiss into her hair.
And for a long moment, they just stood there — peaceful, connected, wrapped in that deep, steady love that had grown through years of chaos, laughter, fear, parenting, and choosing each other over and over again.
When they came home, the silence ended instantly. Robin or Nancy or whichever aunt or uncle it was barely had time to open the front door fully open before four children launched themselves at them like tiny, overexcited missiles.
Flo waved a stack of drawings. “MAMA LOOK WHAT I MADE!”
The twins shouted over each other about a block tower they’d built that was “almost as tall as Daddy.”
And Jo ran up proudly holding a small rock in both hands.
“This is Princess Rocky!” she announced. “I found her at the park! She’s part of our family now.”
Steve laughed, scooping her up while his wife kissed Flo’s hair and tried to untangle twin limbs from around her legs.
The house was loud as always. Warm. Alive.
Steve caught his wife’s eye over the chaos — kids talking, toys everywhere, someone already asking what was for dinner — they shared a quiet, knowing smile.
Because they felt rested. Reconnected. Happy. It felt good to be home.
They had no idea yet that just a few weeks later, a small plastic stick with two pink lines would appear on their bathroom counter, and that their quiet anniversary getaway had, quite unexpectedly, brought the beginning of another tiny heartbeat into their already very full, very beautiful family.
The moment Steve’s wife stood in the bathroom staring at two very pink lines she hadn’t seen in quite a few years, after feeling suspiciously dizzy for a week straight, her hand automatically went to her stomach, still flat beneath her shirt.
She didn’t say anything at first. Kind of couldn’t. It had been almost seven years since the last time she had found herself in this position, but she felt just as then, and the other two times: Her throat was thick with… so much. Love. Fear. Joy. Everything.
Steve’s knock on their bathroom door shook her from her daze.
“Baby? You okay? You’ve been in there a while.”
She opened the door, still in shock, still only in her pj’s and her messy hair, and raised up the positive test for him to see.
It took him half a second. Then his eyes flew up to hers, wide and shining.
“Are you—?”
She nodded once.
His face crumpled. In the best way.
He pulled her into his chest, arms shaking around her.
“Oh my God,” he breathed, laughing through tears. “Oh my God, baby—another one? Another ours?”
“Another ours,” she whispered back.
In the living room, the kids screeched over a board game, completely unaware that their universe had shifted again.
Steve kisses her forehead. Then her cheeks. Then her lips. He does it over and over, like he can’t quite stop once he starts — like the joy has to come out somewhere or he might burst.
Another baby.
Another theirs.
He keeps one hand splayed protectively against her lower back as if the tiny heartbeat already needs guarding, already belongs under his watch.
She laughs softly against his mouth, still a little breathless, still shaky from the rush of emotion.
“Steve,” she murmurs, half-teasing, half-overwhelmed, “you’re going to suffocate me before the baby even gets a chance.”
“Sorry,” he says immediately — and then doesn’t let go at all.
He just pulls her closer, resting his forehead against hers.
There’s a moment of quiet between them, thick with realization.
Because it’s been years since the last time.
Years since pregnancy tests and counting weeks and that strange, surreal shift where your life quietly tilts on its axis again.
“…Wow,” he whispers finally. “We did it again.”
She lets out a soft, incredulous laugh.
“We really did.”
Then his brain — very typically Steve Harrington’s brain — catches up to the timeline.
He blinks.
Waits a beat.
Then blinks again.
“…Hang on.”
She narrows her eyes immediately, suspicious.
“What?”
He squints at the test like it might personally confirm his calculations.
“…You said you’ve been feeling weird for, like… a week or so?”
“Yeah, maybe a bit longer.”
“And the test being positive means you’re probably already a few weeks along.”
“Right…”
He slowly looks up at her. Her eyes widen at the exact same moment his do.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then they both speak at once:
“…Our anniversary trip.”
They stare at each other.
And then — because they are them — they both dissolve into half-hysterical, breathless laughter.
“No way,” she gasps.
“Yes way,” he says, hands flying up in disbelief. “Are you kidding me??”
“Oh my God,” she laughs harder, covering her face. “We cannot tell Robin this.”
“Robin is NEVER letting us leave the house again,” he says immediately. “She’s gonna be like, ‘See?? THIS is why we can’t give you nice things.’”
“She’s going to demand a public apology,” she snorts.
“Nancy’s gonna make charts,” he adds solemnly. “Like, statistical probability charts.”
“Dustin is going to say she called it.”
“Max is going to be so excited she forgets how math works.”
“She’s never really known maths anyway,”
“Hey, rude, don’t mess with my girl.”
“Yeah, okay, my bad.”
They both start laughing again, shoulders bumping together.
It’s ridiculous.
And perfect.
Because somehow — even now, even with four kids already and a house full of chaos and schedules and responsibilities — they still managed to make something new together.
Something small and miraculous and completely theirs.
Steve sobers first.
Not fully — there’s still a smile tugging at his mouth — but softer now.
His hand drifts gently to her stomach.
He presses his palm there like he’s always done in moments like this, instinctively protective, instinctively amazed.
“…You know,” he says quietly, “there’s still one name we never used.”
She stills.
Her eyes lift to his.
And she knows immediately which one he means.
Because it’s not just a name.
It’s a memory.
A very old one.
A younger them, years ago — back when they were just two stupidly in-love teenagers, talking about this in inappropriate places like Family Video (leading to Robin calling said conversation ‘The baby name incident’), or in more private settings like her bed at night or his house when it was just the two of them, whispering about impossible futures that felt too big and too far away to be real.
Steve liked the name Elliott for a boy, because he was secretly a nerd for the movie ET. When they had the twins, they chose a name that went with that one, and that’s how they got to Evan. She, however, had another boy name in mind:
“If we ever have a boy… I always liked Theodore.”
Steve always smiled, saying: “Imagine calling him Theo.”
A little boy with his eyes, or his hair, or both, and dimples, and the sweetest laugh.
She had smiled and tucked it away in her heart.
And now, standing here years later with a positive test between them and laughter still echoing in the house from their already existing four children…
The name comes back like it never left.
“…Theo,” she whispers.
Steve nods slowly.
His throat tightens just a little.
“Yeah.”
He looks at her with that same soft, earnest expression he’s had since he was nineteen — the one that still, somehow, always makes her heart melt.
“I always thought,” he admits quietly, “if we ever had another one… that’d be the one.”
Her eyes shine, because it feels right.
Not decided — not yet — but right.
Like a small thread connecting their past selves to who they’ve become now.
She covers his hand with hers where it rests on her stomach.
“…Maybe he was just waiting for his turn,” she says softly.
Steve’s breath catches.
And then he smiles — slow, warm, impossibly tender.
“Yeah,” he whispers.
“Maybe he was.”
He tugs a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling impossibly soft.
“Remember how you used to say you wanted six kids?” she tells him then, almost in a whisper. He looks her in the eyes, nodding. He would have been absolutely fine if they kept it at four. He loved their family of six. But now with another one on the way… Of course that had been his first thought. And of course, she knew. Because she knew Steve better than himself. “Seems like we’re almost there, huh?”
His eyes shine.
“…Really?”
She nods softly.
“I know it’s obviously still early, first we have to get through this pregnancy, but… If it’s not twins again,” they giggle together like teenagers. “I don’t know… It doesn’t seem that crazy to me.”
His eyes fill with tears.
“You mean it?”
His girl nods again.
“The happiest I’ve been,” she starts, her voice heavy, “Is with you. With the life we’ve built. And okay, I don’t think neither of us imagined we’d find ourselves in this situation ever again, but… Now we’re here, and I am happier. And I already thought I was the happiest I could be, Steve,” she interlaces her fingers with his, “And still, I am happier. And I know tomorrow I’ll be even happier, and even more when this baby is born. And because I know that that impossibly big heart of yours’ biggest dream is having those six children,” as if on cue, their already four children downstairs laugh together, making them both tear up, “And now we’ll have our fifth… Nothing will make me happier than having those six babies you dream of with you.”
Overwhelmed with emotion, Steve wraps his wife up in his arms, both of them crying.
Not loud crying.
Not the kind that comes from fear or heartbreak.
The quiet kind — the kind that slips out when you’re so full of love it has nowhere else to go.
He presses his face into her hair, breathing her in like he always does when he needs to steady himself.
“Six,” he whispers, voice thick. “Six kids. I can’t believe you’re still willing to sign up for that chaos.”
She laughs softly against his chest, wiping her eyes.
“Steve Harrington,” she murmurs, “I signed up for chaos the day I fell in love with you.”
“That is slander,” he says automatically, sniffing. “I am extremely calm.”
She pulls back just enough to give him a look.
From downstairs, right on cue, a crash echoes, followed by Jo yelling:
“IT WASN’T ME — IT WAS THE CHAIR!”
Steve sighs deeply.
“…Okay,” he admits. “Moderately calm.”
She laughs, the sound bright and warm and alive, and he kisses her again — slow, lingering, full of that soft, quiet happiness that has been threading through their entire life together.
Then he exhales, long and shaky, and something shifts in his expression.
Excitement.
The kind that starts small and grows fast.
“…We have to tell them,” he says suddenly.
She blinks.
“The kids?”
“Well — yes,” he says quickly. “Obviously the kids. But I mean… everyone.”
Her lips curve into a knowing smile. Because she already knows exactly what he’s thinking. A house full of people. Laughter. Noise. The Party gathered around their table like they have been for years and years now.
“…You want to host a dinner,” she says.
Steve nods immediately, almost sheepish — but glowing.
“Yeah,” he admits. “Like… a real one. Not just pizza boxes and chaos. Something nice. After we get you to the doctor first, of course,” his hand finds her stomach again. “But like… we cook — no, I cook, or, okay, maybe I attempt to cook — and everyone comes over and we just… tell them together.”
Her smile softens.
Because of course that’s how he wants to do it.
Steve has never liked keeping joy to himself.
He loves sharing it. Spreading it. Watching it bounce from person to person until the whole room feels warm.
“You want to see Dustin’s face,” she teases.
“I want to see everyone’s faces,” he corrects. “Robin’s gonna scream. Nancy’s gonna cry. Mike is gonna pretend he knew before we did.”
“He’ll say he sensed a ‘disturbance in the Force,’” she laughs. “And Will will offer to paint the baby’s room, like he did with the others.”
“And Lucas will say something very reasonable that nobody listens to because Dustin is already shouting.”
They both laugh again, shoulders touching. The thought of it fills the room with a different kind of warmth now — not just theirs, but shared, multiplied. A life that has grown outward, connecting them to so many people who love them just as fiercely.
Steve squeezes her hands gently.
“…I just want them to be there,” he says quietly. “For this part too.”
Her eyes soften.
“I know.”
She leans forward and kisses him once more — soft, certain.
“Then we’ll host a dinner,” she whispers. “And we’ll tell them together.”
Downstairs, one of the kids starts singing loudly and off-key.
Another shouts, “STOP SINGING!”
Jo yells, “PRINCESS ROCKY LIKES MY SONG!”
Steve laughs, shaking his head.
“Yeah,” he says, wrapping an arm around his wife’s shoulders as they stand there listening to the beautiful chaos that is their life. “Let’s definitely tell them before the house explodes.”
The actual reveal dinner starts like all Harrington dinners do: Loud, warm, and slightly out of control before anyone has even taken their coats off.
It’s a few weeks later, after proper doctor’s appointments, check ups to make sure everything is going perfect – which it is – and tonight, is the night.
Robin arrives first, of course — because she has a key and zero concept of knocking — bursting through the door with three bottles of wine and the energy of a human confetti cannon.
“I BROUGHT ALCOHOL AND ZERO COOKING SKILLS,” she announces proudly as she opens the front door.
Steve, already juggling a tray of garlic bread and trying to keep Jo from climbing the kitchen counter ‘like a raccoon,’ yells back:
“THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT WE EXPECTED FROM YOU.”
Behind her come Nancy and Jonathan with a dessert that looks suspiciously too perfect to survive the night, followed by Dustin already talking before he’s fully inside the house, Mike and Will arguing about something nerdy, Lucas carrying an extra chair because he knows the drill, and Max strolling in last like she owns the place.
Which, at this point, she basically does.
Within five minutes, the house is humming: coats tossed everywhere, music playing low in the background, people talking over each other in that comfortable, overlapping way that only happens when everyone belongs.
At the table, when everyone starts to take a seat, the kids are vibrating.
Not just normal-kid vibrating.
Secret vibrating.
Jo keeps kicking Steve’s shin under the table because she has inherited his exact inability to keep exciting news inside. The twins are whispering loudly to each other. Flo looks like she might explode from holding it in.
Steve’s wife gives them a warning look.
Wait.
Thank goodness she’s got the mom look mastered down.
Flo clamps her mouth shut dramatically, cheeks puffed out, and Dustin narrows his eyes immediately.
“…Why do the children look like they’re part of a spy operation?” he asks.
Max leans back in her chair, smirking. “Oh my god,” she says slowly. “What did you two do.”
Steve chokes on his drink. “We didn’t do anything.”
Robin squints. “You definitely did something, dingus.”
Jonathan, very calm, observes: “There is a suspicious amount of smiling happening.”
Nancy nods next to him. “And Flo looks like she’s about to combust.”
Flo is about to combust.
She shoots her mom a desperate look.
Please please please can I say it.
Steve’s wife bites back a smile… then finally gives a tiny nod.
Permission granted.
Flo shoots to her feet like a rocket, standing on her chair proudly in her nice dress smiling at her aunts and uncles as she goes:
“OKAY,” she announces at full volume, unable to contain herself for even one second longer, “MAMA AND DADDY WENT ON VACATION AND CAME BACK WITH A SOUVENIR.”
Steve chokes on his water, and his wife holds back her laughter.
That was NOT how they had told her to tell them.
The table goes silent. Utterly silent. For exactly half a second.
Then—
“…WHAT?!” Robin screeches.
Dustin SLAMS his hands on the table.
“NO WAY.”
Nancy’s hand flies to her mouth. Jonathan blinks slowly like his brain needs buffering time. Lucas just stares. Max’s eyes widen — then she points across the table dramatically.
“I KNEW IT,” she says.
The twins immediately start talking over each other.
“There’s a BABY—”
“Inside Mama’s belly—”
“Right now—”
“And it’s OUR SIBLING—”
Jo pops up in her chair like a tiny announcer:
“I’m gonna be a BIG SISTER!”
Chaos erupts.
Pure, joyous, unfiltered chaos.
Robin is literally half-standing, half-laughing, half-crying (yes, three halves, she defies math). “Y’ALL SAID YOU WERE GOING TO REST,” she yells, pointing accusingly at Steve and his wife.
Dustin is pacing – no one knows when he actually stood up from his chair, he just is now.
“Statistically improbable,” he’s muttering. “That’s like— what is that, number five?? That’s a full team plus substitutes!”
Nancy is already crying, hugging Steve’s wife. Jonathan is smiling in that quiet, soft way he does when he sees people he loves happy.
“I’ll gladly paint the baby’s room this time around as well,” Will interjects, after congratulating them. “I’ve been perfecting my clouds lately.”
Lucas just shakes his head in disbelief.
“Harrington,” he says, “you are single-handedly repopulating Hawkins.”
Mike leans forward, eyes sparkling.
“Okay but seriously,” he says, smirking, “how does this keep happening to you two?”
Steve finally raises both hands, trying to talk over the noise.
“LOOK,” he says, voice loud but laughing, “I LOVE MY WIFE. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?”
The table loses it.
Absolutely loses it.
Robin is wheezing.
Dustin is pounding the table.
Max is cackling.
Even Nancy laughs through her tears.
Steve’s wife is hiding her face in her hands, laughing so hard she can’t breathe.
Steve looks around at all of them — at this loud, ridiculous, loving family they’ve built — and his chest feels so full it almost hurts.
Then Robin leans across the table suddenly, eyes soft now, looking at her two best friends.
“…Seriously though,” she says quietly. “You guys okay? Happy?”
Steve doesn’t even hesitate.
He looks at his wife. She looks back. Their fingers find each other under the table like they always do.
“So happy,” he says simply.
She nods.
“So, so happy.”
There’s a soft collective exhale around the table.
Then Jo suddenly shouts:
“THE BABY MIGHT BE NAMED THEO.”
Everyone freezes again.
Steve and his wife both whip their heads toward her.
“…JOSEPHINE,” Steve says slowly.
Jo beams.
“You said it in the kitchen last week.”
Dustin gasps.
“WAIT THAT’S THE NAME??”
Robin clutches her heart dramatically.
“Oh my god it’s perfect.”
Nancy smiles through fresh tears.
Max nods once, approving.
“Theo Harrington,” she says. “Yeah. That’s a cool kid already.”
Steve’s wife laughs softly, wiping her eyes.
“…Maybe,” she says.
Steve squeezes her hand under the table.
His eyes are shining.
And around them, the noise starts up again — louder than ever — overlapping voices, laughter, arguments about baby gifts and due dates and who gets to babysit first.
The house feels like it’s glowing.
And right in the middle of it all, Steve sits back in his chair, watching his kids, his wife, his friends— and thinks, not for the first time, that this loud, messy, beautiful life is the best thing that has ever happened to him.
The day one of Steve's kids gets into advanced science classes, and Steve is an absolute mess
Six Little Nuggets Masterlist
Requests are OPEN!
64.media.tumblr.com
1990's
It’s a Friday afternoon, which means Steve is home early because on Friday’s he doesn’t have any basketball or swim practices this year. In the spring, when the baseball season starts again, he’ll be coaching the cubs again on Friday’s too, but for now, he can enjoy being home early with his family for the weekend, and he absolutely loves it.
Flo is in the living room with Jo drawing on the floor, surrounded by dozens of crayons and scraps of paper, while the twins are outside playing on the new swing set Steve and Dustin built for the kids last Thanksgiving, their absolute favourite place to be lately.
Steve’s wife is getting ready on dinner in the kitchen, and he can hear her humming to the song on the radio while he’s sitting on the couch quickly going through the mail, his mind already more on the thought of going to help her, have a few minutes alone with her by the stove, enjoying the warmth of the oven against their legs while they…
His thoughts stop quickly when he gets to the last letter.
A thick, cream-colored envelope stamped with the kid’s school’s logo — the kind of envelope that never means nothing.
He glances at Flo and Jo, the two of them giggling at something, and he smiles, his expression turning into a grimace when he hears the boys screaming outside.
All his kids are good. They behave, mostly.
But his mind is already racing through possibilities with what they could have done for the school to send him and his wife a letter home while he rips the envelope open – maybe Flo speaking up to a teacher, the boys breaking something in class, Jo not doing what she’s told – and he starts to read it.
He reads it once, fully.
Then he reads it again.
His eyebrows lift. Then knit together.
His wife greets him happily inside the kitchen when he enters, although she frowns when she sees him clutching the letter in his hand, extending it out to her:
“What is it?”
“It’s from the kids school, about Jo,” he says, his voice a bit low, so that the girls won’t hear from the living room. “It says… That her teachers think she should be in advanced classes. For like, science, and math, and… Big kid stuff.”
“What?!” his wife leaves the stove instantly, already beginning to smile. “Give it to me!”
She reads the important parts of the letter too, a proud grin on her face.
“Babe!” she looks at him, beaming. “This is amazing!”
He nods, smiling too. But he doesn’t seem as excited as she is.
“What is it?” she frowns. “It’s good news, right?”
“Of course it is,” he quickly nods, “Our girl is a genius. It’s amazing,” he’s definitely proud, there’s no denying that. “It’s just… Here,” he points at the end of the letter, that his wife hasn’t read yet, “It says that they’ve given her notes for us to show at home about this before, but this is the first time I hear about any of this. You?”
She nods along, biting her lip. They both glance at the living room, where both Jo and Flo are still giggling as they colour together.
“We should talk to her, right?”
“Yeah, I think so…”
“Like… now?”
Steve’s wife looks at him amused. “When were you thinking? Maybe when she’s about to graduate?”
He sighs, rolling his eyes. “Okay, okay… I’ll go get her.”
Steve knocks on the living room doorframe to get the girls’ attention, and both his daughters smile up at him when they see him walking back in:
“Daddy!”
“Hi Daddy!”
He kneels beside them, looking at their paintings when they insist on showing them to him: Flo is currently deep into masterpiece that has rainbow on the top and a family of cats of different colours underneath, whereas Jo is painting a blue dog that wears glasses and apparently speaks French and Italian.
“Like Aunt Robin,” she explains, as if it wasn’t obvious.
Steve holds back his laugh, asking her then to come with him for a sec to the kitchen.
“But Daddy, I’m drawing,” Jo pouts.
“It’ll be just a minute baby, I promise,” he picks her up, because she’s only six and he still can and he refuses to stop holding his babies until his back tells him to, and walks them both to the kitchen, where his wife is already waiting for them.
He doesn’t let go of Jo, though, and sits down with her on his lap at the breakfast table with his girl to his side, the school letter splayed out in front of them on the table.
“Sweetheart, we got a letter from your teachers today,” her mama says, Jo watching her with wide eyes, “Uh… this says they think you should be moved into some advanced classes. For science and math. Have they told you anything about it?”
She looks uncertainly between her dad and her mom, and after a few seconds her face crumples completely, pouting. Suddenly she’s crying — big tears that wet her little red face instantly – and her parent’s hearts break the same moment the first tear runs down her face.
His girl’s hands are already on Jo’s shoulders, getting her tissues while Steve rocks her trying to calm her down.
“Hey—hey, baby,” her mama murmurs, kneeling beside her. “What’s wrong, my love? Talk to us.”
“I don’t want to,” Jo sobs, voice shaking. “I don’t want to go.”
Steve frowns, confused but careful. “You don’t want to take harder classes?”
“No!” Jo cries, shaking her head fiercely. “I don’t want to be away.”
Her mama’s brow furrows. “Away from what, honey?”
Jo swipes at her cheeks angrily, frustration mixing with fear. “My friends. And… And… And Elliott and Evan. I don’t wanna be in different classes. I don’t wanna be the… the weird one who leaves. And I—”
She breaks off, shoulders shaking.
Steve wraps his arms tighter around her, if that’s even possible, trying to calm her down.
“Jo,” he says softly, “Baby, no one’s gonna think that.”
“But they will,” she insists, voice cracking. “And I don’t wanna lose them. I like being with my friends, and… and with my brothers. I like our class. I don’t want things to change.”
Her mama presses a kiss into her hair, then her warm cheeks, pulling strands of her hair away from her eyes behind her ear.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “You’re not wrong to feel like that.”
Jo hiccups. “I don’t wanna be smart if it means being alone.”
Steve’s heart breaks clean in two.
He reaches for her small hand, squeezing it gently.
“Hey. Listen to me for a second, okay?”
Jo nods, sniffly but listening.
“Being good at something doesn’t mean you lose your people,” he says carefully. “It just means you get more tools. You don’t stop being Jo. You don’t stop being Flo, Elliott and Evan’s sister. You don’t stop having friends.”
Her mama nods. “And you get choices. Nothing is being decided without you.”
Jo looks up, eyes red. “Really?”
“Really,” her mama says firmly. “We don’t push you into something you’re scared of. We help you figure it out.”
That gets a tiny smile out of her.
“And you know,” he continues, “being good at math and science? That’s not a label. That’s just… you. You wouldn’t be away from your friends in all classes, you’d just go to some others in some subjects to learn more, because your little brain is amazing, baby. But we know it’s a lot,” he kisses the crown of her head.” And you don’t have to decide everything right now.”
Her mama wipes her cheeks with her thumbs. “How about this: we talk to the teachers together. We ask questions. Maybe there’s a way for you to try it without losing time with your class. Or maybe we wait until you are a little bit older.”
Jo’s shoulders finally relax a little.
“I can try?” she asks quietly.
“You can try,” Steve promises. “And if you hate it? We pull you out. No one’s disappointed. Ever.”
Jo leans into her daddy’s chest, nodding slowly.
“I just don’t wanna be different.”
Her mama kisses her temple. “Oh, baby… You are different. But it’s definitely not a bad thing. And you’re also so, so loved. Both things can be true.”
Jo sniffles one last time, then gives them the tiniest nod.
“Okay,” she says. “I can… try.”
Her mama smiles proudly. “That’s my brave girl.”
Steve ruffles her hair, voice warm. “That’s our Jo.”
And Jo — still tough, still independent, still their baby — nods, feeling steadier.
On the first morning she’s to attend her new classes, though, Jo holds her backpack a little too tight as they walk her down the hallway.
Steve notices everything: the way she keeps adjusting the straps, how her steps slow as they get closer to the classroom, how she leans just slightly into her mama’s side like she’s reminding herself she’s not alone.
“You okay, Jojo?” her mama asks softly.
Jo nods. Then shakes her head. Then nods again.
“I think so,” she says. “Can you stay till the bell?”
Steve’s answer is immediate. “Absolutely.”
They stop outside the classroom. The door is open. Inside, kids are already sitting down, quieter than Jo’s usual class, older-looking somehow. That makes her swallow hard.
Her mama crouches in front of her, taking her hands.
“Remember,” she says gently, “this is just trying. You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to love it. You just have to be you.”
Steve adds, trying to smile without looking terrified, “And if anyone’s mean, I will—” He stops himself. “—talk very calmly to their parents.”
Jo huffs a tiny laugh.
“I’ll be right here after school,” her mama promises. “And you know Daddy is in the next building if you need him for anything.”
Jo takes a breath.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”
She steps into the classroom.
The teacher greets her warmly, showing her a place to sit down and to put her things. She also greets Steve, Coach Harrington after all, and his wife, making polite small talk before the bell rings and the class has to start, and the door closes with their little girl on the other side, officially inside her new classroom and trying something new being extremely brave.
Steve exhales like he’s been holding his breath for six years.
“Wow,” he mutters. “I hate this.”
His girl squeezes his hand. “She’s got this.” She exhales as well. “But yeah… I hate it too.”
He kisses the side of her forehead before they walk out together. He walks her to her car, kissing her goodbye before walking back to the high school building, his nerves clinging to his every step.
Steve is absolutely useless the rest of the morning. He doesn’t have time to run over to the elementary building because his whole morning is packed with back to back classes and the twenty minutes of free time he had Robin called, and because he’s Steve, he doesn’t have the heart to hang up on her.
He does ramble to her, though:
“Why are do you sound like you’re pacing up and down your office, though,” she asks, sounding both annoyed and amused, “like you’re about to be the one taking the test?”
“My kid is in advanced science,” Steve says, rubbing his face. “ADVANCED, Robin.”
Robin blinks. “Okay? That’s awesome.”
“She cried last night.”
Robin softens instantly. “Oh.”
“She didn’t want to leave her brothers,” he adds. “Or her friends. Or—” He gestures helplessly. “She’s six. She still needs me to check for monsters.”
Robin nods thoughtfully. “Yeah. Kids do that.”
Steve sighs. “I hate that I can’t be there.”
“You are there,” Robin says firmly. “You walked her in. You talked it through. You didn’t freak out at the teachers.”
“I absolutely freaked out internally.”
Robin smirks. “That’s growth,” she isn’t heartless, thought, especially not when it comes to her favourite dingus and his family. “She’s gonna be fine, Steve. She’s got you two as parents, she’ll be fine whatever happens.”
And truth is, he knows it too. But he’s still scared and nervous and protective and just… her Dad.
When finally, FINALLY, the final bell of the day rings, he’s gathering his stuff to spring out to his car and go home, when there’s a knock on his office door, and a fellow teacher asks him if they’re heading together to the teacher’s lounge for the after school meeting.
The meeting that’s happening today, that he can’t miss out on.
Well, fuck.
“I’ll be there in ten,” he says defeated, dropping down to his office chair.
He’s about to walk out the door again when his desk phone rings. He strides back to his desk, and in a second he can hear his wife’s voice talking through the line, and it’s like he can hear her smile in her words:
“Hey, handsome,” she says.
He smiles involuntarily. “Hey, babe,” he rubs his eyelids, tired. “I totally forgot I had…”
“Your meeting, I know, that’s why I’m calling” she didn’t forget, of course. She’s the one organizing their calendars, after all. He’d be lost without her, honestly. The whole family would. “Packed you your favourite for lunch today, check your bag, yeah?” he sighs in bliss, so in love with her. “I just got home with the kids. Was calling you to talk about Jo, actually.”
He straightens up at that, suddenly tense again, hyper aware, worried, nervous, scared…
His girl laughs softly on the other end. “She’s okay, honey,”
Steve freezes. “… Okay?” he repeats, “ You mean like… like okay okay? Or okay like—”
“She’s more than okay,” she says. “She liked it!”
Steve sinks into the chair behind him, hand over his mouth.
“She liked it?” he whispers.
“She did,” his girl continues, excited, “She said they did a science experiment that was fun, and the teacher let her help explain something to another kid, and—”
Steve closes his eyes, overwhelmed.
“And,” she adds gently, “she asked if she can do it again tomorrow.”
He lets out a shaky laugh, half relief, half pride.
“Oh my god,” he murmurs. “Our girl, baby.”
“Our girl,” his wife repeats, sounding just as proud. “She’s still nervous,” his girl says. “But she’s smiling. I swear, she was sitting in the backseat with the twins explaining planets like she was teaching a TED Talk.”
Steve laughs properly now.
“Tell her,” he says, voice thick, “tell her I’m so proud of her.”
“I will,” she promises. “She asked about you. Wanted to know if you were okay.”
That nearly breaks him.
“Of course she did,” he says softly.
And when Steve finally gets home in the afternoon, he kisses his wife, hugs his princess Flo, kisses his twins foreheads, and spins Jo in his arms making her laugh. Later, he sits at the breakfast table with her sharing a plate of cookies, his little girl swinging her legs happily as he has a one-one time with her while his wife plays with Flo and Elliott and Evan outside, because he needs to have this conversation with her himself:
“So,” Steve says, trying very hard to sound casual. “How was… advanced science?”
Jo grins. “It was good.”
“Good like ‘good’ good?” he presses.
She nods. “Yeah. We learned about… um—” She starts explaining… And Steve follows for about twelve seconds.
Then his eyebrows knit together when she’s telling him about stars.
“…Okay, hold on,” he says. “So the planets—no, wait, the asteroids—”
Jo giggles. “Daddy, no. The asteroids are the tiny ones.”
“They’re ALL tiny from down here,” Steve says helplessly. “Why are there so many rules?”
Jo laughs harder, shoulders shaking.
“You sound like Uncle Jonathan.”
Steve gasps. “Rude.”
But he’s smiling. Big. Soft. Proud in that way that sneaks up on him.
“You know,” he says quietly, “this stuff? It’s hard. And you did it. Even when you were scared.”
Jo shrugs, suddenly shy. “Mama helped me. And you.”
Steve nods. “Yeah. You got her brain.” Then, with mock seriousness: “You did not get mine.”
She laughs again.
He watches her talk, hands moving, eyes bright, confidence growing.
And yeah—he doesn’t understand half of it.
But he understands her.
And when his girl walks in and sees them like that—Steve listening intently while their six-year-old teaches him something new—she just smiles, heart full.
The day Max Mayfield accidentally rebrands Josephine into Jo
Six Little Nuggets Masterlist
Requests are OPEN!
a/n: I really envision Steve's wife and Max having a similar type of relationship like Dustin and Steve do, that is, best friends despite their age difference, so you'll see some of that here. ALSO! I haven't forgotten about any of y'alls requests, they are all coming out soon!
1990's
Max drops Josephine off around six in the afternoon, making her the first one of the kids to get home. The sun is low enough that it casts orange stripes across the driveway, and Steve opens the door the moment he hears them pulling over at the house — because he always pretends he’s not waiting eagerly for his kids like an overexcited golden retriever, but he absolutely is — and Max just gives him that little smirk.
He knows it’s good for his kids to spend time with other people than him and his wife, and the party, basically his kids aunts and uncles, are always wonderful with them. And so today, a hot summer day where everyone is in town for the holidays visiting family, Flo is with Nancy and Robin, Elliott and Evan are with Dustin, and Josie is with Max and Lucas. And it’s good! It gives him and his wife some alone time to rest and be together, which he also deeply enjoys and they both need, but still… He’s still a bit of a mother hen, and he wants his babies with him.
He can’t help it, nor change it. He also hasn’t tried to, but he doesn’t bring that up.
“Survived the day,” Max announces, still smirking as she steps out of the car.
“Did you feed her?” Steve asks.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Max deadpans, handing over Josie’s backpack. “But yes, of course I fed her. We ate mac and cheese. Watched a movie with Lucas, who says hi by the way. She had lots of fun. You’re welcome.”
Before Steve can roll his eyes, Josie comes sprinting past Max’s legs, full turbo, pigtails bouncing, face flushed like she’s returning from war.
“DADDYYY! MAMAAA!” she squeals.
Steve’s girl appears behind him, kneeling to greet her in her arms. “Hey, Josie! Did you have fun with Aunt Max?”
Josie stops dramatically in the middle of the porch like she’s about to deliver the State of the Union.
“Yes. I had brownies!” she says importantly. Max avoids Steve’s gaze when he looks at her in betrayal for giving his child sugar before dinner time, “AND. Um. I go by Jo now.”
Both parents blink.
“…You what?” Steve asks, voice cracking like he’s 15 again.
His daughter nods proudly, chest puffed out. “Aunt Max calls me Jo. And she’s the coolest person in the wooorld.” she beams at the redhead, who just winks at her playfully. “And she said I am ALSO cool. So now I’m Jo.”
Steve’s girl melts instantly — because honestly it’s adorable — but Steve is making the face of a man who’s just had his heart tenderized with a baseball bat.
“O-Okay… Jo,” Steve manages, though his voice is alarmingly wobbly. “That’s… that’s great. If that’s what you want.”
Jo beams. “It is.”
Then — as if she hasn’t already detonated a bomb in Steve’s chest — she continues: “Also I want a skateboard like Aunt Max’s for Christmas. Can I write my letter to Santa now? Even if it’s July? Pleeeeease?”
Max, still at the bottom of the porch steps, quickly intervenes: “Look, I said she could ask you. Didn’t say you’d say yes.”
Steve looks at Max like she has personally betrayed him.
“But she’s SIX!”
“Yeah,” Max shrugs. “And probably still cooler than you were at sixteen.”
Steve’s wife snorts, not hiding it.
Jo gasps. “Aunt Max says I have natural balance.” she beams up to her mother, her gap tooth smile making her look adorable. “Please, Mama? Can I write the letter?”
She finally nods, kissing her forehead, and Jo runs inside the house happily. Steve follows her inside quickly with the little backpack still clutched in his hands, whispering to himself, still processing, “What is NATURAL BALANCE? What is happening?”
Steve’s wife, though, still on the porch, doesn’t let Max leave that easily, and clears her throat to get her attention when the redhead tries to sneak back to her car. She folds her arms across her chest, leaning against the doorframe, watching her with a look that is very familiar to Max by now — half fond, half you are not getting away that easily, missy.
“Max Mayfield,” she says calmly.
Max freezes mid-step toward the driver’s side door, hand still on the handle. She doesn’t even turn around yet — just sighs in that long-suffering getting reprimanded by your platonic big sister slash best friend way she’s perfected over the years.
“…Yes?”
“You gave my six-year-old daughter sugar, a new identity, and a skateboard dream,” she says, voice perfectly even. “All in one afternoon.”
Max finally turns, squinting at her a little.
“In my defense,” she says, ticking off on her fingers, “Lucas made the brownies, she asked about the nickname first, and the skateboard thing was… okay, that one might be on me.”
There’s a pause.
Then Steve’s wife breaks first, a smile tugging at her mouth.
“She adores you, you know.”
Max’s shoulders drop a little at that. The defensive edge softens.
“…Yeah,” she mutters. “I know.”
“And you’re really good with her.”
That lands differently.
Max looks down at the driveway for a second, scuffing her sneaker against the pavement. When she looks back up, there’s that familiar mix of stubbornness and quiet emotion in her eyes — the same look she had years ago when she first started letting herself belong with them.
“She’s a good kid,” Max says simply. “Easy to like.”
It’s of course not like she doesn’t like spending time with Steve and his wife’s other children, of course. She loves Flo, Elliott and Evan to pieces. But Josephine, her little Jo… They had always clicked a bit differently, a bit more.
Steve’s wife steps down one porch step, closer now, lowering her voice just a little.
“She looks up to you,” she says gently. “In that big way. The way kids do when they see someone they think is brave and cool and… safe.”
Max huffs a small laugh at that, but it’s shaky around the edges.
“Safe,” she repeats. “That’s funny.”
“It’s not,” she says softly. “You make her feel safe being exactly who she is.”
That makes Max go very still.
For a moment, she looks like she doesn’t quite know what to do with that kind of warmth — like it’s a language she understands but still isn’t fully used to hearing directed at her.
“… She reminds me of us,” Max admits quietly after a second.
“Me too,” Steve’s wife smiles, eyes warm. Memories resurface inside her mind for a moment, some dark ones, old ones, painful ones… And her eyes get momentarily glassy in a way that would have embarrassed her teenage self. “I’m glad you’re here for her, Max. That she gets to have you. I really, really am.”
Max shrugs, but she can’t quite hide the small softness creeping into her expression. “…Yeah, yeah. Don’t get mushy on me now,” She rolls her eyes a little, a tiny smile on her lips. “Plus,” she adds, recovering a bit of her usual bite, “someone’s gotta make sure she doesn’t grow up thinking Steve is the peak of cool.”
A laugh bursts out of Steve’s wife before she can stop it.
“Oh, absolutely. That would be a tragedy.”
Max grins at that — that crooked, mischievous grin Jo clearly worships.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll ease her into the truth gradually.”
From inside the house, they suddenly hear Steve’s voice echoing in mild panic:
“WAIT— NO— JOSEPHINE HARRINGTON! WE DO NOT WRITE LETTERS TO SANTA IN JULY ABOUT EXTREME SPORTS EQUIPMENT—”
Jo’s tiny voice follows, equally loud and dramatic:
“MAMAAAAAA! DADDY IS CRUSHING MY DREAMS!”
Max snorts.
“Sounds like my work here is done.”
Steve’s wife laughs, shaking her head.
“You are absolutely not off the hook for the skateboard conversation, by the way.”
Max is already backing toward her car, pointing at her.
“Hey — you married the guy, that part’s on you.”
Steve’s wife sighs hearing a crash inside the house. “Oh… I know,” but her lovesick grin gives her away.
Max opens the door, then pauses, softer again for just a second. “…Tell her I’ll pick her up this weekend. We’re working on balance drills.”
Steve’s wife smiles, “I will.”
Max gives a small salute, then climbs into the car and drives off, the sunset catching in her red hair as she pulls away.
Inside, the house is loud again — Steve still half-dramatically protesting, Jo negotiating at full volume, the warm chaos of family filling every corner.
Steve’s wife steps back inside, closing the door behind her, already smiling, joining her husband and daughter in the living room like a general joining a congress of war for a treaty of peace. And so ten minutes later Jo is on the living room floor, tongue sticking out in concentration, writing a letter she is only allowed to send on December 1st that says:
Dear Santa,
I want a skateboard extremely much like the one my Aunt Max has.
Love, Jo <3
(Some of the letters are a bit crooked, and she adds three hearts and a drawing of herself doing a sick trick in midair.)
That night, when the house is quiet and the kids are down, Steve opens the fridge, stares into it like the answers to life are hidden behind the apple juice, and whispers:
“…She’s Jo now.”
His girl leans against the counter, sipping on iced tea, her hair pulled up in a bun and wearing only one of his old high school t-shirts to sleep because of the heat, watching him spiral gently.
“She’s still our baby,” she reminds him softly.
“But Jo?” Steve rubs his face with both hands. “That’s like… that’s like a big kid name. That’s a grown name. That’s—” He swallows hard. “I thought I had more time.”
She sets her tea down, walking over, and slips her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek to his chest.
“She’s still the same goofy, sweet, little girl, baby.”
“…but she’s Jo, now.”
“You can still call her Jojo sometimes,” she murmurs. “I’m sure she won’t mind.”
Steve sniffles aggressively, holding her closer. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
They sway together in the kitchen, and after a long moment, she feels him nod.
“She’s growing up,” he says quietly, the ache and pride tangled together.
“She is,”
“And she wants to skate,” he chuckles, actually chuckles, and his girl smiles feeling his chest vibrate, “Between Flo, the twins and their chaos, and now Jo skating… it’s almost like the eighties again, huh?”
His wife smiles, kissing his jaw. “Good thing we got lots of practice back then already.”
Steve stays silent for a while, rubbing his fingers up and down her spine softly as she sighs under his touch. He finally whispers:
“… But she’s still our baby, right?”
He already knows the answer. It’s the same one she gave him when Flo learned to write her own name, when the twins learned to tie their shoes, and even when Jo lost her first tooth:
“She always will be,” she promises.
At that he nods, breathing a bit easier.
He knows it’s silly. He knows this is normal stuff that comes with parenthood.
But these are his children. The ones he can hear from his spot in the kitchen breathing upstairs as they sleep soundly, hugging the warm body of his wife impossibly close.
These… tiny people he and his wife created, that he loves more than life itself. These are his babies.
And to him, no matter how many milestones or what age they are… They’ll always be his babies.
a/n: Eventually as this is set in the 1990's, this includes only the first four of the Harrington children, that is, Flo, Elliott, Evan and Jo! <3
Six Little Nuggets Masterlist
Requests are OPEN!
1990's
Picture Day at Hawkins Elementary is, in theory, a calm, orderly operation.
In practice — when you are Steve Harrington, father of four very opinionated small humans — it is closer to a full-contact sport.
He’s already sweating before first period even ends, because his wife had curled up to him in bed the night before, pressed up to him, hand on his chest right over his beating heart, giving him those eyes and that hopeful little smile that always gets him, telling him: “Please, please make sure they cooperate. I just want one nice photo of each of our babies now that they’re all in school. Will you please check on them?” she bat her eyelashes at him sweetly, almost hypnotizingly, “Please, baby?”
Of course he agreed. He faced monsters, teenage locker rooms, and the emotional minefield of teaching sex ED to freshmen.
One nice photo of each of them.
That’s it.
That’s the mission.
He nodded confidently, reaching down to kiss her, “Babe. I got this.”
The next morning, though, reality is he absolutely does not got this. He has his own classes to teach in high school, practices he has to prepare for the sports teams he coaches, his morning is the opposite of not-busy. But he promised his wife he’d do this, and so by eight-thirty in the morning, he’s already sprinting across the elementary–preschool campus with a paper coffee in one hand and a mental checklist in the other.
He starts with Flo.
Because Flo is the easy one.
Flo is seven, confident, dramatic, and loves a camera like she was born for it. She’s already sitting in the folding chair waiting for her turn when Steve jogs into the cafeteria, slightly out of breath from running across the school.
Her teacher just smiles knowingly when she sees him.
“Coach Harrington,” she says. “We figured you’d show up.”
Steve rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Just doing some… quality control.”
His daughter’s teacher just smiles knowingly, and then, a few seconds later, Steve actually sees his daughter.
And stops dead.
Because Florence Harrington is not just wearing the outfit her mommy picked out with her last night before bed, no.
She is wearing the outfit… plus a sparkly pink tutu she clearly smuggled from home that Steve recognizes from a Halloween costume, a plastic tiara from yet another costume, and pink glitter lip gloss he doesn’t even know where she got it from.
She’s sitting perfectly straight, hands folded, smiling like she’s about to accept an Oscar.
Steve presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and walks over to her.
“Hey, Flo,” he says carefully, getting her attention.
She beams at him. “Daddy!” her smiles grows huge. “Look! I’m a ballerina princess!”
He exhales slowly, kneeling in front of her. He has to remind himself this is a negotiation, not a battle.
And she does look adorable.
“You look extremely sweet,” he says. “Like the sugar plum fairy,” that makes her giggle, and his heart does a flip inside his chest. “But maybe… we could do slightly less ballerina princess for the official school photo?”
Her eyes narrow.
“… But Mommy said she wanted nice pictures, right?”
Oh no.
She has used his own argument against him.
Steve scratches the back of his neck.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Let’s compromise, yeah? Tutu stays. Tiara comes off.”
Flo considers this like a tiny queen weighing diplomatic terms.
“But Daddy, the tiara is the most important part!” she says dramatically, “And you can’t even see the tutu in the picture!”
… Then why even wear it in the first place?
He doesn’t ask, though. He’s learned to fight his battles. But he doesn’t want to be the dad whose daughter wears a tutu and a tiara in her school picture.
“Just the tiara then?”
“… Okay.”
He helps her slip off the tutu while her teacher watches, amused, and when her turn is called Flo immediately snaps into perfect pose mode — chin lifted, bright smile, hands folded like she’s done this a hundred times, which Steve is sure of because he’s seen her practice ever her pose ever since she came home telling him and her mama about picture day.
Click.
Perfect.
Steve exhales in relief.
One down.
Still three to go.
He jogs across the building toward the preschool wing, teachers already smiling when they see him.
“Coach Harrington?” one calls. “Looking for your kids?”
“Yes,” he pants. “And I’m already sorry.”
The moment he reaches their hallway… He already hears it.
Chaos.
Specifically, twin chaos.
His five year old twins chaos.
He steps into their classroom to find Elliott standing on the photo stool, Evan standing next to him insisting that he goes first (combined screams of “I’m Elliott!” and “No! I am!” being heard), both wearing the identical outfits he dressed them him barely an hour ago but that already look like they’ve been through a 9 to 5 workday, and the poor photographer looking like he’s about to quit his job looking at their teacher helplessly.
When the teacher sees Steve, she immediately points at the two boys like she’s calling in backup.
“Oh thank goodness. Coach Harrington, your sons—”
“I got it,” Steve says, sighing, already stepping in.
He claps like he does at baseball games to get the kids attention, and says: “Boys!”
Both heads snap around.
“DADDY!”
Oh, his boys. They break into identical smiles when they see him, his same smile, actually, that his wife always says they’ve inherited from him.
The chaos subsides temporarily as he approaches them, fixing their little outfits while they ramble at him.
“Okay, okay,” he puts a hand on each of their shoulders, looking at them both expectantly. “Team meeting, what’s happening? Why are you giving your teacher such a hard time, huh? And the poor guy over here, too,” he nods at the photographer, “I know you like taking funny pictures with your Uncle Jonathan, but this fella is just trying to do his job so that your Mama gets the nice pictures she wants.”
“But Daddy,” Elliott pouts, “We wanna do the pictures.”
“We wanna take the picture together!” Evan declares.
“We’re a set!” Elliott adds, smiling brightly.
The photographer rubs his temples. “I just need one individual shot each…”
Steve looks at his sons, who look at him hopeful in turn.
“You can take one together after,” he says, using his best Coach Voice. “But first you each need your own. For Mama, okay?”
They exchange a look.
Then nod.
“For Mama.”
But the moment Evan sits down—
Evan pipes up sweetly, “Hi, I’m Elliott.”
And Elliott immediately says, “No, I’m Evan.”
The photographer freezes.
Steve covers his face with his hand.
“Boys,” he sighs, trying not to laugh. “Stop messing with the poor man.”
They both grin.
It takes five full minutes, two bribes involving ice cream after school, and Steve physically holding their shoulders still to get two individual photos that are slightly crooked, but technically successful. They take a picture together as they promised them, of course, and Steve almost melts when he sees his sons hugging one another for the picture, smiling brightly at the camera.
The photographer sags with relief, thinking he’s finally done with the Harrington children when the twins run off to play.
But then comes Josephine.
Four years old and a little (very) shy, she’s been watching everything from the side, quiet, nervously clutching the sleeves of her little red jacket that her Mama chose for her to wear for the picture, waiting for her turn.
The moment her brothers let Steve free, she runs up to him, hugging his legs.
“Daddy!”
He looks down at her the moment her small form collapses against him, and he scoops her up easily into his arms, “Hey, my love,” she kisses his cheek and he smiles at his little girl, hugging her close.
The photographer gestures to the chair, hopeful this one will be easier. “Okay sweetheart, time for your picture.”
Jo nods.
But when Steve tries to set her down and step back—
She grabs his hand and holds on tight.
“No,” she says firmly. “You stay.”
Steve hesitates.
“Jojo, it’s just one second—”
She shakes her head, eyes big, pouting at him. “Stay with me.”
And he immediately melts.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Okay, baby.”
He stands just out of frame, still holding her small hand between his fingers.
The photographer smiles at her reassuringly. “That’s fine.”
Jo sits very straight, clutching Steve’s fingers, now smiling wide and safe and proud.
Click.
And in the final photo, you can see Jo beaming, and her little hand gripping tightly onto Steve’s big hand, wrapped around hers at the edge of the frame.
It’s not technically perfect, but it’s pure Jo.
By the time Steve finally leaves the building and gets back to his actual job, he is exhausted. He collapses into his office chair and wipes his forehead dramatically, when exactly five seconds later the bell rings and he has to stand up again and head to class.
But he got his mission accomplished.
Mostly.
And a few days later, when his wife opens the envelope of proofs at the kitchen table, he watches her anxiously.
She flips through each of the picture sets one by one:
Flo in her tiara, smiling impossibly wide feeling like a princess.
The twins’ slightly chaotic smiles, present both in their individual pictures and in the one they insisted on taking together (which, honestly, is immediately Steve’s favourite of them).
Jo holding Steve’s hand, looking adorable clad in her little red jacket.
She looks at all of them silently, and then she presses them all to her chest.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, eyes shining. “They’re perfect.”
Steve relaxes instantly, leaning into her shoulder.
“…Yeah?”
She turns to him, smiling warmly.
“You ran across an entire school for these, didn’t you?”
He grins sheepishly.
“…Maybe.”
“I love you, Steve Harrington,” She kisses his cheek. “Best dad ever.”
And honestly?
He’d run ten schools over just to hear her say that.
Not because she’s cold — but because she refuses to give the world the satisfaction.
Everyone knows it: Josephine “Jo” Harrington doesn’t flinch. So when she walks through the front door after school with her hood up, her jaw tight, her backpack slung low like it’s dragging her down—
Steve and his wife know immediately. Something’s definitely up.
In the kitchen, her mom looks up from chopping vegetables. Her dad’s turning from the fridge where he’s pulling a juice box out for Theo. Both of them pause as Jo kicks her shoes off harder than usual — the first sign.
Then she mutters, “I’m going to my room,” and tries to dart toward the stairs.
But they both catch the wobble in her voice. Steve catches the way she won’t look either of them in the eye. And then Theo, colouring at the kitchen table, looks up with wide eyes. “Jojo?”
She freezes.
That’s when they see it: her eyelashes wet.
Oh.
Oh, baby.
Her mom calls softly, “Jo? Honey, come here.”
She hesitates. But then she turns, and the moment her eyes meet her mom’s, her chin trembles.
Her mom opens her arms, and because under the tough girl façade Jo is still just a fourteen year old girl, she drops her backpack and practically falls into her mom’s arms, burying her face in her chest as the sob she was holding back finally cracks through her.
Steve is there in a heartbeat — one hand on her back, one hand smoothing her hair like he did when she was little and had bad dreams.
“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, “slow down, sweetheart. We got you.”
Jo sniffles so hard it shudders through her whole body.
They guide her to the living room, onto the couch, Jo wedged between her parents with her mother’s arms around her and her dad right beside her, not letting go of her hand for a second. It takes a few minutes, and a warm blanket, and Steve rubbing her knee gently before she manages to speak.
“At school they were saying… I don’t know. Stupid things.”
Her voice cracks.
It kills Steve.
“About what?” her mom asks gently.
Jo wipes her face angrily — angry that she cried, angry that it got to her.
“About me not being like Flo.”
Her mom’s heart breaks in a new place.
Steve’s eyes darken — not with anger, but with that protective father heat he gets specifically for his daughters.
Jo continues, voice small:
“You know… stuff like… that she’s prettier, and perfect, and… and how I’m just—” She swallows. “—trying to be a boy, or something, because I like hoodies and jeans and don’t wear makeup all the time. And how Elliott and Evan only hang out with me because they have to because we are close in age.”
At that, Steve literally moves like he’s ready to stand up and march into the school himself.
His wife grips his hand to keep him grounded.
“Baby,” her mom whispers, cupping Jo’s cheeks. “You are perfect. Exactly as you are. You know why? Because you are you. There is nothing wrong with you — nothing to fix, nothing to change.”
Steve nods vigorously.
“You’re brilliant, Jo. You’re smarter than I ever was at your age — smarter than most adults I know.” He leans down so they’re eye-level. “And your brothers adore you. They look up to you. You know that. Even if they’re technically older than you. They would be lost without you.”
Jo sniffles. “But they said—”
“We don’t care what they said,” Steve cuts softly but firmly. “We care about what’s true. And the truth is that you’re incredible. You’re our girl.” He strokes her hair, kissing her temple softly. “They say you’re not like Flo? That’s not true at all. You both have the same eyes. Your mom’s eyes. The prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen,” that makes her smile. “And so what if you like to wear hoodies and jeans and don’t wear makeup all the time. You’re fourteen, you don’t have to! You know who else was like that at your age? Your Aunt Max. And she’s one of the coolest people you know, isn’t she?” Jo nods vigorously. “But it’s not about being like others, baby. It’s all about being yourself. You will have stuff in common with some people, and there will be stuff that will make you… you. And that kinda stuff, baby, is my favourite part about you, because that’s what makes you our Jo.”
She leans into him, finally letting herself be held without fighting it.
A while later, while Jo is still on the couch with her parents feeling a bit more calm now, her siblings start walking in – something that inevitably happens in a house full of children –.
Flo is the first one down the stairs. She had been in her room since before Jo arrived home, typical teenage behaviour, unaware of the emotional breakdown downstairs. But the moment she sees Jo curled between their parents on the couch? She drops whatever she was planning on doing immediately.
“Jo?”
Her sister looks away embarrassed, wiping her face quickly. Flo gasps — dramatic but heartfelt — and comer over quickly, kneeling in front of her little sister.
“Oh my God, I will literally end anyone who hurt you.” Steve gives her The Dad Look. Flo sighs. “… I meant metaphorically speaking.”
Then she takes Jo’s face gently in both hands.
“You know you can come to me if you have problems, right?” Jo nods after a few seconds, wiping a tear away. “You’re the coolest person I know.” Flo smiles soft and sincere. “I wish I was as brave as you.”
Jo sniffles again — but this time it’s different. Steve and his girl share a proud, silent look. Oh, their girls.
Theo comes running from the kitchen a few minutes later. He’d been there when Jo came home, after all. He’d seen the commotion happening, sticking to his colouring and his juice box while his parents handled whatever was happening with his big sister. But he wanted to help too.
He stops in front of Jo, holding up a paper.
“I drewed you,” he announces proudly.
He flips it around — and it’s Jo, in her hoodie, braid down her shoulder, with a superhero cape. A painting almost as good as the ones he does of their mom, which is like, a supreme declaration of love for him.
Jo breaks into the first genuine laugh of the afternoon. She pulls Theo into her side and kisses his chubby cheek. “Thanks, bud.”
The baby monitor crackles then on the side table, and the family can hear Gigi’s babbles coming through.
“Seems like someone’s up from her nap,” Steve moves to stand up, his spot on the couch next to Jo immediately being replaced by Flo. “Be right back.”
Bundled up together on the couch, they can hear him in Gigi’s room through the monitor:
“Hello my little flower, did you have a good nap?... No ma’am, we do not eat the stuffed giraffe— Gigi! That is not a snack—!”
Theo giggles with Flo. Jo laughs weakly in her mom’s embrace, and that’s when Steve comes back downstairs with a very determined toddler on his hip.
“Your sister needs you,” he tells her, pointing at Jo. “Can you give her a big hug?”
When he reaches them, Gigi wriggles down and climbs straight into Jo’s lap.
“Jojo sad?” she asks.
Jo nods a little.
Gigi wraps her little arms around Jo’s neck and presses a sticky kiss to her cheek. “No sad. I wuv you.”
Jo’s laugh this time is real — a tiny, warm sniffle-laugh — and holds the little one close.
Then the front door opens. The twins are home from being over at a friends’ house. They take in the scene instantly — Jo on the couch, wrapped in blankets and their siblings and their parents.
“What happened?” Elliott asks.
Flo is the one who answers “Someone was mean to her.”
Their shift is instant: Elliott’s jaw clenches. Evan’s whole stance vibrates.
“Who was it?” Evan demands immediately.
Steve opens his mouth — “Boys—”
But Evan cuts in:
“Was it Tina? Karen? I don’t care if it’s a girl, we’ll fight them.”
“That’s not how we handle conflict in this house, young man.”
“But dad!”
“No buts!”
“You once fought Uncle Jonathan in an alley! And Aunt Max’s older brother!”
Steve’s ears turn red as all of his children’s eyes turn towards him. “Who told you that?!” he squeaks.
“Uncle Dustin, Uncle Lucas…” Evan begins, but he’s cut short.
“Okay, enough,” Steve says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “God, I’ll kill them.”
Elliott can’t resist smiling when he says: “I don’t think that’s how we handle conflict in this house, old man.”
The kids laugh. Steve’s wife can’t help it and giggles too when she sees his face of betrayal.
“What happened with Jonathan wasn’t something to be proud of. We’ve both gotten over it, so you guys forget it too,” he tells them. “And with Billy, Max’s brother… It was to protect Max and the other kids, which, for that part it was okay but… I don’t want any of you fighting, you hear me? That’s not the solution. There’s other ways to try to mend things before throwing punches.”
The twins nod, walking over to the couch then, Elliott sitting on the armrest next to their mom and Evan kneeling in front of Jo at her feet:
“We’ll help you, okay?” he bumps her knee with his fist, very brotherly, very them. “You can count on us, Jo. Always.”
Elliott makes a hum, nodding.
Jo’s eyes well again — but this time with softness, not hurt. And for the first time that day, Jo whispers:
“Thanks… I love you guys.”
Steve kneels down and kisses her hair.
“We love you more.”
Because she’s their Jo. Their fierce, brilliant, loyal middle girl. And no one — no one — gets to dim that light.
HELLOOOO CAN I REQUEST UH MAKING OUT (only kissing nothing explicit or nsfw) WITH STEVE HARRINGTON IN HIS SCOOPS AHOY UNIFORM LIKE STEVE IS SERVING ICE CREAM AND THE NEXT CUSTOMER IS READER AND HES LIKE SUPRISED AND STUFF AND CUT TO THEM MAKING OUT IN THE BACK IN SCOOPS AHOY! THANK YOU!! IDK BUT STEVE IN THAT GODDAMN SCOOPS AHOY OUTFIT PLUS THE FLUFFY HAIR FREAKING DOES SOMETHING TO ME
Soft-Serve & Strawberry Lip-Gloss
Steve Harrington x Reader
Summary: Blueberry ice cream hit the floor, his tongue hits yours - Scoops Ahoy has a new menu item in the form of one Steve Harrington.
Fluff, making out in the ice cream freezer. Best wing women Robin to the rescue.
A/N: The way I literally also have another Scoop Ahoy fic in my drafts now, I am also down bad for that uniform (I WROTE THIS SO QUICK). But that one’s a little slow burn so here’s my take on just a passionate moment.
Please keep sending your requests my way! I love looking at other peoples perspectives.
Word Count: 1,731
The Starcourt atrium is a snow-globe of neon and sugar - every footstep a glitter fleck drifting through humid, candy-apple air. Overhead, the skylight pours molten-gold afternoon across the food court, turning ordinary Tuesday into overexposed Polaroid. You feel it on your shoulders like a spotlight, like the universe has circled this one moment on its calendar and refused to blink.
Third in line at Scoops Ahoy, you become acutely aware of your own pulse: a small, stubborn drum against your ribs, kicking up dust that smells like waffle cones and chlorine memories. The glass counter reflects you – slightly sunburned nose, strawberry lip-gloss you swiped on in the parking lot - and then it reflects him.
Steve “The Hair” Harrington emerges from the freezer fog like someone cranked the saturation on the whole world. The sailor stripes are Arctic-blue against sun-kissed forearms; the white-collar flares like a sail catching wind. His nametag glints, a tiny mirror screaming HELLO, I’M STEVE in red Comic Sans, as if you could ever forget. The cap perches on that chocolate-fluff hair, a crown made of popcorn clouds and teenage dreams you’ve accidentally memorised.
He hasn’t seen you yet. He’s wiping down the stainless scoop with the concentration of a boy disarming a bomb. When the customer ahead moves, you step forward - and the air folds, origami-tight.
His gaze snaps to yours. The plastic scoop clatters into the mint-chip tub, sinking like a ship in green-white waves.
“Y/N?” Your name cracks out of him, a vinyl record that’s been waiting for the needle to drop.
Behind him, Robin’s eyebrows rocket into her hairline. She mouths oh my God at the sprinkle’s container.
Steve turns back, cheeks pinker than the strawberry topping. “Uh, welcome to Scoops Ahoy. What can I, uh, get you?”
You tap a finger to your chin, pretending to scan the flavours while actually scanning him. “Surprise me.”
His pupils dilate like you just offered him the last season pass to the Starcourt cinema. He clears his throat. “One mystery scoop, coming up.”
He bends into the freezer, and the back of his uniform rides up just enough to reveal the pale skin above his belt. You study the ceiling tiles like they hold the secrets of the universe. They don’t. They’re just tiles. You look back anyway.
Steve’s throat bobs - an elevator carrying unsaid things skyward. He wordlessly carves a perfect sphere of blueberry-pie ice cream, the colour of late-July dusk, and plants a paper flag on top like he’s claiming new land. His fingers tremble just enough that the flag leans, brave little conquest.
“On the house,” he whispers. The cone passes from his glove to your bare hand - cold meeting warm, condensation kissing lifelines. You swear you feel the future drip between you.
“You’re not supposed to give free stuff to friends,” you murmur.
His lashes flutter. “You’re not exactly just a friend.”
The moment stretches, soft and sweet as the ice cream starting to drip down your thumb. You catch it with your tongue. Steve tracks the motion like it’s the most interesting thing in Hawkins - more interesting than Russians, more interesting than Demogorgon’s, more interesting than his own heartbeat.
Behind you, the line grows, but Robin magically appears again, flipping the “Line Closed” sign with the efficiency of a best-friend-slash-wing woman. “I got this,” she tells Steve. “Take ten. Or thirty. Or the rest of your shift, Harrington, before you melt into a puddle of heterosexual panic.”
Steve doesn’t need to be told twice. He rips off the white gloves and catches your wrist - his thumb lands on the pulse point, and you wonder if he can read Morse code, because yours is tapping out please, please, please.
He tugs you through the Employees Only door faster than you can say “brain freeze.”
The back room is a cathedral of cardboard - carton towers casting waffle-cone shadows that stripe the walls like tiger fur. One bulb swings on a cord, a lazy pendulum slicing gold through freezer mist. The door shuts, and suddenly the mall is a seashell held far away - every echo muted, every voice turned to surf.
You’re still holding the cone; blueberry melt races down your knuckles like indigo comets. Steve takes it, sets it aside on a crate labelled SUPER CONE: DO NOT STACK. His exhale clouds in the cold, a ghost of summer that dissolves before it can touch the ceiling.
“Hi,” he says again smaller this time, reverent.
“Hey, captain.” You reach up, twist the sailor cap to sit straighter on his head. The motion brings you closer; your breath mingles, visible for half a second before it vanishes.
He smells like lemon disinfectant and the ghost of his mom’s fabric softener, plus something electric - ozone after a storm. You want to bottle it, wear it on your pulse points, let it wreck you all year.
His palms find your waist, tentative, as if you might be made of spun sugar. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
You answer pulling his face closer, pressing your smile to the corner of his mouth - soft, experimental. He makes a sound like the first sip of milkshake, sweet brain-freeze gasp, and then he’s kissing you back, and the room tilts thirty degrees.
It starts gentle - summer rain on skylights - but hunger curls inside you like ribbon candy, bright and twisty. You open your mouth; he follows, tongue a slow glacier sliding to warmer sea. Every tilt of his head is a new flavour - strawberry gloss, nervous mint, something darker underneath, like the moment before roller-coaster drops.
His fingers slide under the hem of your T-shirt, knuckles branding cool crescents against hot skin. You arch into him, and he walks you backward until your spine meets a tower of napkin sleeves - soft avalanche that smells like fresh batter. Cartons wobble but don’t fall, as if the universe signed a non-disclosure agreement.
You tug his ascot loose; the red strip sighs away, revealing more of his neck and the constellation of freckles that decorate it. You kiss them - one, two - little suns you’ve charted from across crowded hallways. He shivers, and you feel it under your lips, a silent earthquake.
“Y/N,” he breathes, voice rough as rock-salt. You love how your name sounds when it’s half-swallowed by longing. He says it again, like a prayer that forgot the rest of the words.
You thread fingers into that infamous hair - yes, it’s cloud-fluff, summer-storm cumulus, and it yields like warm taffy. He groans, low, and the sound vibrates down your sternum, pools behind your ribs. His hips settle against yours; layers of cotton and denim become negligible geography. You can feel his heartbeat through two shirts - galloping, a carnival ride that wants you to win the giant stuffed panda.
Time liquefies. You trade kisses like secrets: quick pecks that sting like pop-rocks, slow drags that melt like caramel in sunlight. His tongue traces your lower lip - ocean licking shoreline - then retreats, teasing. You bite gently back, and he laughs into your mouth, breathless, delighted. The laugh becomes a moan when you suck on his upper lip, tasting the faint sugar that clings to every Scoops employee like glitter after craft class.
Cold air kisses the sweat blooming at your hairline; the contrast makes you dizzy, makes you cling harder. He responds by lifting you slightly, just enough that your toes skim the floor - like the moment a swing pauses at its apex, weightless, before the inevitable fall. You wrap legs around his waist; he spins, pressing your back against the freezer door. Metal hums through cotton, a glacier imprint that will linger for hours, a secret bruise of temperature.
His mouth leaves yours, migrates to your jaw, your throat - warm open-mouthed presses that taste like salt and wanting. You tilt your head, offering, and he accepts, kissing the hollow above your collarbone like it’s communion. Every exhale fogs the steel behind you, blooming roses of frost that melt as fast as they appear.
You slide hands under the deep navy uniform, palms skating over the ridges of his ribs, mapping the fever of skin through thin jersey. He bucks slightly. You push the stripped fabric undershirt aside, mouth finding the bare slope where neck becomes shoulder. He gasps your name again - broken-record beautiful - and his knees bump the crate, sending the forgotten cone toppling. Blueberry melt splashes across the floor, a galaxy of indigo stars nobody will ever report.
Neither of you looks. You’re busy swallowing each other’s breath, trading heartbeats like playing cards. His kiss turns slower, deeper - an undertow you don’t want rescuing from. You feel it everywhere: in the arches of your feet, in the tiny hairs at your nape, in the secret notebook margins where you once wrote Mrs. Y/N Harrington and immediately scribbled it out.
When you finally part, it’s by millimetres - magnetic reluctance. Foreheads touch; eyelashes tangle. The swinging bulb catches the sweat at his temple, turning it into a tiny prism. You kiss that droplet, salt and freezer-light, and he sighs like someone set down a heavy box.
Outside, Robin knocks twice - code for mall manager approaching. The spell fractures but doesn’t shatter; it just folds itself into your pocket for later.
Steve helps you stand steady on the nap avalanche, then laces your fingers through his. “Stay till closing?” he whispers. “We can clean up the galaxy together.”
You glance at the blueberry puddle - already seeping into cardboard continents - and grin. “Only if you let me wear the hat home.”
He plops the cap on your head, taking a moment to straighten it again, and steals one last kiss - quick, electric, promise-heavy. “Deal.”
You taste summer on his tongue, feel winter at your back, and decide this is the exact temperature of forever: somewhere between soft-serve and freezer burn, between strawberry gloss and boyish hope, between the mall lights that never sleep and the secret dark that keeps every first kiss safe.
Together you step over the spilled stars, push through the Employees Only door, and walk back into the snow-globe - two teenagers holding hands like they just discovered gravity could be optional, at least until the end of the shift.
I just got a request for "real fucked up angst but ends in comfort and happiness", which, first of, I hope you're okay nonnie, and second, I wanted to ask for a few more details for it because there's a lot of directions I could go with this and if you had something more specific in mind then I'll gladly read you in my inbox or the comments, and if you just want me to produce whatever my mind is going for rn then i'll do as you wish.
Girlll Six Liitle Nuggets is so FREAKING CUTE 🥹🥹 And so well written!!! Could you maybe write about how Steve proposed to his girl??
Okay so I had more than one request for the proposal and here you have it guys! Hope you like it! A few thoughts on it:
Steve grew up in a house that looked perfect and felt empty. So for him, marriage that matters isn’t about status, or proving anything to the world.
It’s about choosing someone who chose him back.
That’s why asking her parents first matters. Not because he’s traditional — but because family approval means something to him. He never really had it. When her parents welcome him, it heals something old and quiet inside him.
That scene isn’t about permission. It’s about Steve officially being welcomed into a family.
Which is what he’s been craving his entire life.
As for the proposal itself, Steve doesn’t need spectacle. He needs her, and she needs him.
That’s why it’s in the car. At the overlook. Somewhere theirs.
He’s not performing love — he’s confessing it.
That’s why it works: It feels like the natural continuation of every late-night drive, every quiet moment, every time they chose each other without anyone watching.
And at this point?
They’re not kids anymore. They’ve gone through hell together. They’ve built something steady.
Steve proposing now isn’t impulsive — it’s inevitable.
He’s already living like she’s his wife:
He goes to her family dinners
He plans a future with her
He measures his life by “we” not “me”
So when he says he wants to marry her, it doesn’t feel like a leap. It feels like he’s finally saying out loud what he’s been doing all along.
And she doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t need convincing. She isn’t scared. Because she feels it too. And that’s what makes him almost cry — not just that she says yes, but that it doesn’t scare her.
For someone who grew up emotionally alone, being loved without being a burden is everything.
Every kid later — Flo, the twins, Jo, Theo, Gigi — all of them exist because of this exact moment:
Two people choosing each other quietly, completely, without conditions. That’s why their home is warm. That’s why Steve becomes the dad he is. That’s why their kids feel safe.
Because this wasn’t a flashy promise. It was a true one. And honestly? In my opinion that’s the kind of love Steve Harrington deserved all along.
i love the six little nuggets series so much!!!! can you do something when they're first dating and steve sneaks into reader's room or something and maybe it's the first time they share a bed, so they're both nervous but also sooooo lovesick for each other
Ohh yeah this is a big one. Here you go! A few thoughts about it:
While writing it I was like, okay it would be much easier if they just went to Steve's house to sleep/share a bed for the first time because there's literally no one else there, but it feels wrong. Why does her house work better than Steve’s for that first 'sleepover'? The easy option would be going to Steve’s place… but the right one is hers.
Steve’s house is empty, quiet, safe in a technical sense — but it’s also lonely. It’s where he learned to exist without being seen.
Her house is loud, alive, a little chaotic, full of people who care. That’s what unsettles him and draws him in.
So even though sneaking into her room is riskier, Steve choosing that risk says everything about how much he already associates home with her, not with comfort or convenience.
And her parents? They love Steve. They trust him. But she’s still their teenage daughter.
So:
They wouldn’t allow a sleepover.
Steve knows that.
She knows that.
Which makes the sneaking-in feel very teenage, very tender, and very not reckless — it’s careful, whispered, hearts racing rather than bodies rushing.
There’s a sweetness to it being something they protect, not something they push.
And yes, we all know this, but I feel we must mention it, Steve has shared beds before — but this is different in every way that matters.
It’s her room.
Her childhood posters.
Her desk.
Her family asleep down the hall.
And this is a girl that somehow makes him feel like no one ever has before
That alone would reduce him to a giggling, whispering mess.
I can absolutely see:
them lying side by side, not touching at first
both staring at the ceiling
Steve whispering something stupid just to break the tension
her shushing him while laughing into her pillow
This is not confident King Steve.
This is soft, lovesick, 19-year-old Steve Harrington who is terrified of doing anything wrong.
It’s one of those memories that later, years down the line, they’d both think of and smile — not because it was dramatic, but because it was pure.
Steve doesn’t wear his Little League uniform to ask for permission to marry the love of his life.
But he does wear the good jacket.
The one with the elbows that aren’t worn thin yet. The one his girl once told him made him look “like a real grown-up, but in a hot way,” which he took extremely seriously.
He stands on her parents’ porch with a folder under his arm like he’s about to apply for a mortgage instead of a hand in marriage, bouncing slightly on his heels. He’s already rung the bell once. He’s very aware that he is a thirty-second away from ringing it again like a lunatic.
The door opens.
Her mom blinks at him. Then smiles.
“Steve? Honey, what are you doing here? You’re early.”
“Hi, Mrs. — uh, Mom,” he says, still not totally used to calling her that even though she’s insisted for years. “I mean— hi. Is— um. Is Mr. — your husband— home?”
Her smile softens immediately. She knows that tone.
“Oh,” she says gently. “You’re here for something important.”
Steve swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
She steps aside, already warm and kind about it. “He’s in the living room. Come in.”
The house smells like coffee and something baked. It always does. It’s loud in that soft, comfortable way — radio on low, someone moving around in the kitchen. Steve feels the familiar tug in his chest that this place always gives him. Home, even before it was officially his.
Her dad looks up from his paper when Steve walks in.
“Well, hello there,” he says, eyebrows lifting. When he sees Steve’s stance, he puts the paper down. “This looks serious.”
Steve straightens his spine like he’s about to face a Demogorgon instead of a middle-aged man in slippers.
“Sir,” he says. “Can I… can I talk to you? Both of you?”
His girl’s parents exchange a look.
“Of course,” her mom says, sitting. “What’s going on, Steve?”
He sits across from them, folder clutched in his hands like a shield.
Okay. Do it. Just do it.
“I, um… I love your daughter,” he says, immediately. No easing in. Just straight for the heart. “I mean, you know that. Everyone knows that. I’ve basically loved her since I met her that summer at Scoops Ahoy and she still chose me even with me wearing that ridiculous sailor uniform, and, um… she makes me better and braver and— and honestly happier than I ever thought I could be.”
Her mom’s eyes are already shining. Her dad leans back, watching him carefully.
“I’m starting the Little League coaching job next month. Baseball in the spring, basketball and swimming too,” Steve continues, words tumbling out. “And teaching in high school as well, Sex ED, which is… yeah, okay, that part is weird, but it’s a real job with benefits and a pension and everything. And I’ve been looking at houses in Forest Hills — I brought listings, actually—”
He lifts the folder before either of them can stop him.
“I’m not saying we can buy right now, but I’ve been saving, and I have a plan, and I just… I want to give her a life that’s safe and warm and full, like what she’s grown up with with you guys. I want to be the person she can lean on. Always.”
He finally looks at them, eyes a little glassy.
“So I’m here because… I want to marry her. And I was hoping— I mean, I’m asking— for your blessing.”
The room is very quiet.
Her dad studies him for a long moment.
Then he says, “Steve.”
Steve stiffens, but he holds his gaze. “Yes, sir.”
“You fought monsters for my kid,” he says calmly. He doesn’t know the full story, but some bits. The ones they couldn’t hide. And enough for them to know that Steve was there taking care of their daughter, and she was there taking care of him. “You love her like she’s the only thing in the world. We could see that since that first night she brought you home for dinner.”
Steve nods, throat tight. “Yeah.”
“I don’t need your job or your house listings to tell me you can take care of her.”
Her mom reaches across the table and squeezes his hand.
“We already know you will,” she says softly.
Her dad smiles, a real one.
“You have our blessing. You always have.”
Steve blinks. Once. Twice.
“…Really?”
“Really,” her mom laughs. “Did you think we’d say no?”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. His shoulders sag. His eyes go wet.
“Thank you,” he says, voice breaking a little. “I swear I’m going to make her so happy.”
Her dad chuckles. “You already do, son.”
Steve doesn’t realize he’s crying until her mom pulls him up into a hug.
Not a polite one. A real one. The kind that wraps around his shoulders and holds him there like he belongs.
“Hey,” she murmurs, rubbing his back. “You’re family. Already were. Now it will be forever.”
Her dad stands too, clapping a hand on Steve’s shoulder with quiet weight. “Go on,” he says. “She’s at work, right? Don’t keep her waiting.”
Steve nods, wipes his face, laughs a little at himself. “Yeah. Yeah, she’s at the bookstore until six.”
He stands there for one more heartbeat, steadying himself, then reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket.
The ring box is small. Simple. Navy blue velvet, a little worn already from him opening it too many times just to make sure it’s real.
“I was gonna wait until later,” he admits. “But I think… I think I wanna ask her tonight. Just us.”
Her mom smiles knowingly. “That’s very you.”
Steve thanks them again, probably too many times, and then he’s back in his car, hands shaking on the steering wheel, heart hammering like he’s about to walk into the most important moment of his life.
Because he is.
He picks her up from work like always, like nothing is different.
Except everything is.
She climbs into the passenger seat with her hair a little messy from being tucked behind her ears all day, cheeks pink from the cold.
“Hey, handsome,” she grins. “You’re early.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I just… wanted to see you.”
She studies him, already sensing something. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Yeah. I just— I had a weirdly emotional day.”
She laughs gently. “That tracks.”
He drives them not home to their apartment, but to the little overlook by the quarry — the one they’ve gone to a hundred times, where they sit on the hood of his car and talk about everything and nothing, where he’s kissed her more times than he can count afraid she might vanish if he didn’t.
The sky is turning pink and gold when they get there. It’s almost poetic. After everything, afternoons like these seem more precious than ever.
They sit shoulder to shoulder on the hood like always, enjoying the silence. It’s peaceful out here, they both love it here… but his leg is bouncing up and down uncontrollably, giving away his nerves.
She of course notices.
“Steve,” she says, curious. “What’s going on?”
The silence suddenly feels enormous.
“I talked to your parents today,” he says.
Her eyes widen. “Oh my god. Why?”
He laughs nervously. “Okay, see, that’s the correct reaction, so— yeah. I talked to them because…”
He takes a breath.
“Because I love you. And I don’t want to keep pretending this is just dating anymore. You’re my person. You have been for a long time.”
Her face softens completely.
“Steve…”
“I know I’m not rich like my parents, and I know my life’s kind of… messy, but I want to build something with you. A real life. A loud house. A big table. Six kids, if you still want them too. All of it. With you.”
He reaches into his jacket.
Her breath catches.
“I didn’t want a big crowd. I didn’t want fireworks or speeches. I just wanted to ask you the way I love you — quietly, honestly, and right here.”
He opens the box.
The ring is simple gold with a small, bright stone that catches the last of the sunlight.
“Will you marry me?” he asks, voice shaking. “Be my wife? Be my forever?”
For a second, she can’t even speak.
Then her eyes fill.
“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, Steve. A thousand times yes.”
He lets out this broken, laughing sob as he slides the ring onto her finger, hands trembling like he can’t quite believe she’s real.
She cups his face with both hands and kisses him, slow and sure and full of everything they’ve been building since the very beginning.
“I love you,” she breathes against his lips. “So much, Steve.”
Steve’s chest aches with it.
“I love you too,” he says, and it feels like the truest thing he’s ever known.
Steve sneaking into his girl's room at her house for the first time
Six Little Nuggets Masterlist
Requests are OPEN!
1986
He waits until the house is quiet.
Not empty — her house is never empty — but settled. The kind of quiet that comes after dishes are done and doors are closed and everyone has retreated to their own little pockets of night after dinner and late night show marathons.
Steve parks down the street, killing the engine too early and just sitting there for a second with his hands on the steering wheel.
He was supposed to go home.
He knows that.
But the idea of walking back into his dark, silent house after dropping her off feels… wrong. Like stepping out of something warm into the cold.
So here he is.
Her window is on the side of the house, second floor, half-hidden by a trellis her mom insists makes the place “charming.” Steve has scaled fences, walls, and literal hell dimensions before. This should be easy.
It is not easy.
He slips once, swearing under his breath, and freezes like a cartoon burglar until the window slides open just enough for her to whisper:
“Steve—!”
He looks up, grinning innocently.
“Hi.”
She hauls him in by the sleeve before he can say anything else, hands clamped over his mouth to keep him quiet as they both try not to laugh. The window clicks shut. Curtains are pulled.
They just stand there, breathing too fast, faces inches apart.
“What were you thinking?!” she whisper-yells. For a moment he fears she’s mad at him, but the way she carefully pulls a few leaves out of his hair tells him she isn’t.
“Was thinking I could drop by and… Give you one last goodnight kiss,” he says grinning. His eyes soften, biting his lip. “Maybe stay with you?”
She just blushes, shaking her head.
“You’re insane,” she whispers.
“For you, yeah. I’m crazy,” he leans down. “You didn’t tell me to go home, though” he whispers back.
She doesn’t.
She doesn’t want him by himself in that big cold house as well. She would much rather have him with her, forever.
And because forever is still a far way down the road, tonight will be enough for now.
“You can stay.”
And that seals it.
That’s when reality hits them.
She’s still in her evening outfit, her pj’s already laying on the bed. But he he’s still in jeans, his sweater, his jacket. He hasn’t got any other clothes with him.
“Oh my god,” she whispers. “You can’t sleep dressed like that.”
“It’s not like I have any other options,” he says. “I can always try on one of your nightgowns?”
She stares at him for a second, totally unimpressed, then bolts for the door.
“I’ll be right back.”
Steve sits on her bed, hands on his knees, taking in everything — her posters, her books, the faint glow of a little lamp she definitely doesn’t need but keeps anyway. At nighttime, her room feels intimate in a way that makes his chest ache.
In the hallway, her brother catches her tiptoeing out of the laundry room.
“Why are you stealing my shirt,” he mutters, half asleep, leaning against the bathroom door where he just walked out from.
She jumps anyway. “I’m not stealing it. I’m borrowing it.”
“At midnight?”
“…Yes.”
“For what…?”
She hesitates half a second too long.
His eyes narrow, and he’s suddenly completely awake now. “…Oh absolutely not!”
“Shh!” she hisses, glancing toward her bedroom like Steve might be able to hear through three walls and a closed door. “Do not start. You owe me!”
He scoffs. “I owe you what, exactly?”
“Do you remember your senior year when you snuck that girl in through the window and Dad almost caught you and I told him you were on the phone with your friends crying about your algebra final and that he shouldn’t go into your room or you would cry all over your notes in embarrassment and fail?”
“That was one time.”
“That was four times. And I never told anyone about the time you got beer spilled on the carpet, to which Mom blamed Dad for a week.”
“…You’re evil.”
“I’m loyal,” she corrects. “And right now I’m asking for a t-shirt.”
He rubs his face, suddenly way too awake. “Who is it?”
“…Steve.”
That makes him stop.
“Steve as in Harrington?”
“Yes, Steve Harrington. My boyfriend. Who is currently in my room. Not doing anything. Literally just existing.”
“Uh-huh. Existing horizontally?”
“We’re not even in bed yet,” she snaps. “I just need a shirt because he can’t go to the bathroom without getting caught and he’s not sleeping in jeans and his jacket like a psychopath.”
Her brother stares at her. She stares back.
Finally he sighs, defeated. “One night. One. No funny business.”
“I swear.”
“No kissing.”
“Oh please.”
“No making out.”
“You’re ruining romance.”
“No weird noises.”
“I hate you.”
“And if I hear anything,” he adds, jabbing a finger toward her, “I’m telling Mom and Dad before you wake up.”
She grabs a t-shirt from his hand. “You’re the worst. I love you.”
“Get out. Love you too.”
She darts back down the hall, heart pounding like she’s just pulled off the world’s most dramatic heist.
When she slips back into her room, Steve looks up immediately.
“You got caught, didn’t you.”
“No,” she whispers proudly, holding up the shirt. “I got interrogated.”
He snorts, covering his mouth with his hand. “Oh my god.”
She tosses the shirt at him. It’s old, soft, and definitely smells like home. “Here. Put it on.”
“Okay but—” He stops, glancing at her. “Where do I…?”
“Oh. Right.”
They freeze.
Simultaneously: “I won’t look.”
Simultaneously: “…You’re totally going to look.”
They turn around anyway.
Steve peels off his jacket and sweater, trying to be fast and quiet, which is impossible because he is painfully aware that he is in his girlfriend’s bedroom changing clothes at the same time he can hear her doing exactly the same. He swears he feels her eyes on him and tries not to laugh.
She absolutely peeks.
He catches her reflection in the mirror and grins. “Hey!”
“You peeked too!”
“I was checking for monsters.”
“In my room?!”
“Yeah, there was one very cute one.”
She throws a pillow at him.
They finally get settled — him in the old shirt and his boxers, her in something soft and warm — and then comes the next hurdle.
The bed.
They sit on opposite sides like it’s a diplomatic negotiation.
“So,” Steve whispers. “What side do you…?”
“I usually sleep in the middle so…”
“…Me too.”
They both giggle, the kind of breathless, giddy laugh that only happens when you’re trying not to be heard and failing anyway.
This isn’t Steve’s first time sharing a bed with a girl. Not even close. But this feels different — heavier and lighter all at once, like something that matters more than he knows how to say.
“So… do we…?” he murmurs.
She scoots closer without hesitation. “Yeah. We do.”
They lie down carefully at first, stiff and hyper-aware of every inch of space between them, like if either of them moves too fast the whole thing might break. Steve’s arm hovers for a second, unsure, then he gently drapes it around her waist like he’s asking permission with his entire body.
She answers by curling into him.
“Oh,” he breathes, surprised by how perfectly she fits there.
“Good oh?” she whispers, lips brushing his collarbone.
“Very good oh.”
They’re close now — really close — her head tucked under his chin, his hand warm against her back, their legs tangled together in a way that makes it impossible to tell where one of them ends and the other begins. She sighs, long and content, shifting just a little closer so there’s no space left at all.
For a moment they just stay like that, breathing each other in.
Then she tilts her head up, eyes soft in the low light. Steve looks down at her and something in his chest just… goes.
“Hi,” she whispers.
“Hi,” he whispers back.
They kiss — slow at first, tentative, like they’re both still half-afraid this is a dream. Then it deepens, gentle but real, mouths fitting together in a way that makes her toes curl and Steve’s heart race. They share kisses for a long while then, quietly, noses bumping, lips brushing and parting, smiling into each other’s mouths because they’re trying not to laugh and failing.
It’s sweet and messy and ridiculously intimate, especially for a room that technically belongs to her childhood self.
Eventually they pull back, foreheads resting together, both a little breathless.
The house creaks. Someone coughs down the hall.
They freeze.
Steve whispers, “If your brother kills me, tell everyone I died bravely.”
“I’ll put it on your tombstone,” she whispers back.
They press their faces into each other’s shoulders, shaking with silent laughter until it fades into soft, quiet breaths again.
The nervous energy melts away after that. What’s left is warmth — his arm around her, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest, the steady rhythm of their breathing syncing up.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers, voice soft against his neck.
He smiles, brushing a kiss into her hair, his fingers brushing down her back lazily. “Me too.”
Steve holds her a little tighter, feeling her heartbeat, her warmth, the way she relaxes completely against him like that’s where she belongs. The house might be loud and crowded and a little risky, but right here, under these blankets, it feels like the safest place in the world.
And for the first time in a long time, he falls asleep not just not-alone — but loved.
The first time the twins don't do something together... and one of them suffers because of it
AN: For me, Steve doesn't only coach little league baseball, he also coaches the basketball and swim teams too. Our multitalent king.
Six Little Nuggets Masterlist
Requests are OPEN!
2000's
Middle school does something weird to the twins.
For years, Evan and Elliott Harrington have been a matched set. Same lunchbox, same bike rides, same inside jokes, same bedtime routines. Even when they fought, they fought together. Even when they got in trouble, it was always we, never I.
Until now.
Evan is in basketball after school three days a week. Steve, their dad, is his coach.
Elliott is in the science lab, soldering wires for the AV club with a bunch of nerdy, brilliant kids who remind him very strongly of Uncle Dustin and Uncle Mike. In fact, when he got in the club his uncles were extremely excited for him, telling him all about the cool stuff they did back in the day.
Both of them thriving, on their own paths.
But suddenly, for the first time in their lives, they are not walking out of school together.
Elliott doesn’t tell anyone it bothers him.
When Flo notices he’s quiet he tells her he’s fine.
He tells Jo that the AV club is “cool”, when he could go on and on about how much he enjoyed it. But he doesn’t feel like it.
At least Theo is in his own world, reading about plants in his adventure book. And Gigi is a baby. They both don’t notice something’s off with him.
But at dinner, when Steve is talking excitedly about Evan’s jump shot, and Evan is glowing in that way he only ever glows when Dad is proud of him, Elliott goes quiet.
Not sulky.
Just… small.
And their mum notices.
Because of course she does.
Later that night, she finds Elliott sitting cross-legged on his bed, surrounded by half-finished Lego builds and blueprints, staring at absolutely nothing.
“Hey, my genius boy,” she says softly, knocking once before stepping in. “Mind if I steal you for a minute?”
He shrugs. “Okay.”
She sits beside him, tucking her legs under herself. The room is pretty messy, as always, but she doesn’t scold him as she usually does. Evan is downstairs finishing some homework he couldn’t do because of his basketball practice, so it’s just Elliott. Just as always, lately.
“You’ve been kind of… silent, lately,” she says gently. “Wanna tell me what’s going on in that big brain?”
Elliott opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Tries again.
“I’m not mad,” he says quickly, like he’s worried she might think that. “I’m not mad at Evan. Or Dad. I just—”
His voice wobbles despite his best effort. And he breaks.
“I don’t want to lose them.”
Her heart cracks clean in two.
“Oh, baby.”
She pulls him into her arms, and Elliott goes willingly, face pressed into her shoulder.
“You are not losing anyone,” she says firmly. “You hear me?”
“But Dad is with Evan all the time now,” he murmurs. “And Evan… he doesn’t wait for me anymore. He just goes to the gym and I go to the lab and it’s like… what if we stop being us?”
She leans back just enough to look him in the eyes.
“Elliott, I have three siblings. I know exactly what it feels like when things start changing. When you’re not always together. When it’s scary and it feels lonely.”
He blinks. “Really?”
“Oh yeah,” she smiles sadly. “But you know what never changed?”
“What?”
“The love. The bond. The fact that we were family. Even when we weren’t in the same room.”
She brushes his hair back from his forehead.
“You and Evan being different doesn’t mean you’re drifting apart. It means you’re growing. And you two, you’re twins, that’s a bond that goes even beyond just being siblings. Just because you don’t do the same things anymore it doesn’t mean you’re not as connected as before.”
“… But what about Dad?” Elliott whispers. “What if he likes Evan more now because they do basketball together?”
Her expression softens in that very particular way it only ever does when it’s about Steve and their kids.
“Oh, baby… your dad loves you so much it almost breaks him sometimes. He doesn’t love Evan more because of basketball. He doesn’t love any of you six more than the other. He just loves seeing his kids become who they are.”
Elliott sniffles. “I still want him.”
Her chest aches.
“Then go tell him,” she says gently. “He’s not a mind reader, honey. But he’s the best listener I know.”
Steve is in the garage, sitting on the little fold-out stool by the workbench, still in his practice hoodie, when the door to the garage creaks.
He looks up, expecting his wife or maybe one of the kids hunting for snacks, but instead it’s Elliott, standing in the doorway in his socks, arms wrapped around himself like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be there.
“Hey, buddy,” Steve says immediately. “You okay?”
Elliott nods.
Then shakes his head.
Then nods again.
Steve doesn’t ask anything else. He just turns his stool a little and pats the empty space next to him.
“C’mon.”
Elliott walks over and sits, shoulders barely brushing Steve’s.
For a minute they just sit there, the garage quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge.
Elliott stares at the concrete.
“Mom said I should talk to you.”
Steve’s heart does a small, nervous flip. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” A pause. “She said you’re a good listener.”
Steve huffs out a soft laugh. “If your mom thinks that then it must be true.”
Another silence.
Then Elliott blurts, “Do you like Evan more now?”
Steve turns so fast his stool scrapes loudly on the floor.
“What? No—buddy—no, absolutely not. Why would you…?”
“You’re always with him now,” Elliott says, voice tight. “You go to practice and games and you talk about his shots and his drills and I know you’re his coach but—” His throat wobbles. “You don’t come see what I’m doing anymore.”
That one hits Steve right in the ribs.
“I thought maybe…” Elliott swallows. “Maybe I’m not interesting to you now.”
Steve just stares at him for a second, like he genuinely cannot believe what he’s hearing.
“Oh, buddy. Oh no. That’s—come here.”
He pulls Elliott gently closer so they’re knee to knee, face to face.
“I need you to hear me really clearly, okay?” Steve says, voice soft but steady. “You are one of the coolest people I know. You build stuff. You understand things I don’t. You’re the reason half the electronics in this house even work.”
Elliott lets out a tiny, watery laugh.
“I love coaching Evan’s team,” Steve continues. “But I also love when you show me your projects. I love when you explain things, even when I don’t understand half of it. I just…” He winces. “I messed up. I let my schedule get loud, and I didn’t mean to make you feel invisible.”
“I don’t feel invisible,” Elliott whispers. “Just… I miss you. And Evan a bit.”
“Good,” Steve says. “Because I couldn’t stand that.”
Elliott’s eyes are shiny now.
“So you’re not… forgetting me?”
Steve smiles, warm and a little sad. “Kid, there’s no forgetting you. Ever. You and Evan aren’t competing for my love. None of your siblings are. There’s plenty of it. I promise.”
Elliott leans forward slowly, resting his forehead against Steve’s chest.
Steve wraps an arm around him without hesitation.
“I love you, Daddy.”
Steve’s heart clenches.
“I love you too, my boy,” he cuddles him closer. “So much.”
They stay like that for a minute, just breathing.
“I still want you to look at my stuff,” Elliott mumbles.
Steve presses a kiss into his hair, laughing softly. “Deal. You bring me every weird robot and exploding project you make.”
“They don’t explode on purpose,” Elliott sniffles.
Steve chuckles. “Sure they don’t.”
And Steve’s girl, pretending not to listen from the hallway, smiles to herself — because once again, the Harrington boys found their way back to each other.
Christmas at Casa Harrington - The first year with four little Harringtons
Six Little Nuggets Masterlist
Requests are OPEN!
1990's
Snow drifts outside in lazy, glittering spirals, the kind that makes the whole world feel quieter and kinder. Inside the Harrington house, everything glows. Not just from the Christmas tree lights—though those are everywhere—but from the warmth of a home that is very, very full.
There’s a pine-scented candle burning on the coffee table. Bing Crosby croons softly from the record player. A baby swing rocks back and forth in the corner with a gentle mechanical hum. And the floor is already buried in a blizzard of wrapping paper, ribbon, and torn gift bags because three-year-old Flo took her role as Chief Decorating Officer extremely seriously.
“NO, Daddy, the red one goes THERE,” she’d insisted earlier, pointing dramatically to a completely random spot on the tree.
The twins—nearly one now—are crawling around in matching Christmas onesies like two tiny, determined potatoes on a mission. One onesie has a reindeer one it. The other has a snowman. Both have socks that keep falling off because their feet are apparently allergic to staying covered.
Four-week-old Josephine is asleep on her mama’s chest, bundled in a soft red onesie and a tiny knit hat that keeps slipping over her eyebrows. She makes those soft newborn squeaks every few minutes, like a sleepy kitten, and everyone in the room goes a little quieter when she does, as if the sound itself is sacred.
Steve Harrington, meanwhile, is pacing around the living room in a Santa hat, holding a mug of coffee he hasn’t actually taken a sip from in ten minutes. He looks like the proudest, most sleep-deprived human being alive.
He stops every few seconds just to look at them.
All of them.
It’s perfect.
When the gang starts arriving, it’s like a parade of chaos and love. Although mostly chaos.
Robin bursts in first, cheeks pink from the cold, arms full of peppermint bark, a bag of baby gifts, and several ornaments that immediately start clanking together.
“I come bearing sugar and emotional support,” she announces. “And ornaments. There are three Baby’s First Christmas ornaments—one for each of the little gremlins—and one for Flo because I am a fair and just godmother.”
“You didn’t have to—” Steve starts.
“Yes I did. I do? Whatever,” Robin says immediately. “I was here when they were born. I’ve earned this.”
Dustin follows, nearly tripping over the welcome mat because he’s wearing a sweater with flashing Christmas lights he wired himself. It’s blinking in three different patterns.
“I made it safer this year!” he announces proudly. “Probably!”
He also hands over four tiny stockings his mom knit, each with a little H stitched on them.
Max and Lucas arrive together, carrying so many gifts they can barely see over the pile.
“Okay,” Max says, setting them down. “We might have gone a little overboard.”
Lucas nods. “We absolutely went overboard.”
Max hits his arm, hard. He lets out a small ‘ow’ and helps her put the presents under the tree.
Will comes in quieter, holding a hand-drawn Christmas card of the Harrington family. It’s Steve, his girl, Flo, the twins, and little Jo, all under a big glowing tree.
Steve looks at it for approximately three seconds before his eyes get suspiciously shiny.
Mike shows up awkwardly holding a beautifully wrapped book.
“I didn’t know what to get babies,” he admits. “So I got a book.”
He spent, like, two hours picking it. None of them were good enough in his opinion. He nearly sat down to write one himself.
Nancy and Jonathan arrive together, to which everyone fakes acting surprised, with food, gifts, and of course a camcorder, because nothing in the Harrington household is ever allowed to exist undocumented.
The moment everyone sees Jo in her little red onesie, the room collectively melts.
Robin is handed the baby first and immediately cradles her like she’s holding something priceless.
“Oh my god,” she whispers as Jo scrunches her tiny face and tucks her legs up, sighing into Robin’s shoulder. “She’s like a pea. A tiny Christmas pea.”
“She’s a Harrington, actually,” Steve says.
“I said what I said.”
Meanwhile Flo is totally in her element.
She walks from person to person, proudly pointing at Jo and announcing, “This is my sissy Jojo. I luv her.”
That nickname sticks instantly.
Then she points at the twins. “’Ook at the babies! They eat cookies! They ‘appy!”
Lucas, who has made a terrible mistake, lets one of the twins lick a sugar cookie. The baby’s eyes go wide. Jaw drops. Joy and betrayal all at once.
Steve hears Flo’s delighted gasp and spins around.
“Nope—no—absolutely not—” He rushes over, gently prying the cookie out of the twin’s tiny fist while the other twin watches like they’ve just witnessed a tragedy. “You guys do not get sugar yet. I can barely get you both through the day like this.”
Later, Flo sits beside her mama with a copy of The Night Before Christmas and begins “reading” it aloud to Nancy.
“I’m three. I’m big girl now,” she announces. “I can read. Daddy teach me every night.”
Her version of the story involves Santa tripping over the twins’ playpen and everyone eating cookies. Everyone claps like it’s Broadway.
Eventually, Robin claps loudly.
“OKAY. EVERYBODY SHUT UP. IT’S PHOTO TIME.”
Steve looks down at his shirt. “I have mashed banana on me.”
“And?” Robin says. “You have four kids, dingus. That’s your brand now.”
They pile the family in front of the tree.
Steve’s girl holds Josie close, the baby’s tiny face peeking out like a dumpling.
Steve has a twin on each hip like he’s dual-wielding babies.
Flo stands in front holding Steve’s leg, smiling SO big because she loves Christmas more than oxygen.
Everyone tries to get the four kids to look at the camera. Chaos ensues.
Dustin jingles bells.
Max frantically waves a candy cane.
Lucas is behind the couch with elf figurines.
Will makes a plush reindeer dance.
Mike keeps yelling “SMILE!”
Robin is on the floor making bird noises for no reason.
Nancy shouts directions.
Jonathan crouches like a war photographer.
Jo hiccups.
One twin drools. The other farts.
Flo yells “CHEEEESE.”
The camera goes off. Click.
And Jonathan snaps a PERFECT picture:
Steve and his girl, exhausted and glowing.
Four tiny Harringtons all in different states of chaos.
The warm lights from the Christmas tree behind them.
Love everywhere.
Robin immediately declares:
“I’m getting this framed for your mantel AND my apartment.”
When everyone leaves and the house finally settles, Steve wraps his arms around his girl from behind as Josie sleeps on her chest.
He whispers: “We did it. First Christmas as six… Well. Seven if you count Robin.”
From the hallway, inside the spare room, they can hear “I HEARD THAT”. Yep, Steve is already regretting having Robin stay over for Christmas morning.
Steve’s girl laughs softly, mindful of the baby on her chest, and whispers back:
