A place to hide my stories

“’M sorry, ’Key.” you whispered shakily.

Michael frowned softly beside you. “Why?”

“Because everybody downstairs is probably excited and I’m sitting up here.. actin’ like you just got deployed..”

The faintest sad smile crossed his face. “It kinda feels like war sometimes.”

You laughed weakly through tears at that, and Michael’s expression softened further hearing the sound. Outside the bedroom door, footsteps hurried down the hallway followed by Randy’s voice muttering something half asleep before another brother laughed quietly at him.

The tour was happening. Right now actually and the realization sat painfully heavy in your chest. Michael looked toward the door for a second listening to the movement outside before his attention returned fully to you again.

Then slowly he pulled you closer and the second his arms wrapped around you. A small and pathetically miserable sound escaped you while Michael tucked you tightly against his chest, one hand sliding gently into your hair.

“I know,” he whispered against the top of your head.

God. Everything about him felt soft right now.

“I don't like this,” you admitted shakily into his sweatshirt.

“I know.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

The honesty in your voice seemed to tug at his heartstrings because his arms tightened immediately around you afterward. Outside the window another equipment case rolled loudly across pavement while voices called softly between buses below. Morning was getting closer.

And finally Michael sighed quietly against your hair.

“I don’t wanna leave you either.” His voice sounded rough now.

You pulled back enough to look at him, eyes burning with fresh tears. He looked tired but beautiful.. always so beautiful. The bedside lamp painted soft gold across his face while his thumb brushed gently beneath your eye catching tears before they could fall.

“You’re gonna forget about me,” you whispered miserably.

Michael blinked once like the sentence genuinely offended him. Then immediately: “Never.”

The certainty in his voice made your throat tighten painfully.

“You’ll be gone for months.”

“And?”

“And everybody’s gonna want your attention all the time.” Your voice cracked again. “You’ll have fans and interviews and girls everywhere and…”

“Sweet girl.” The softness in his interruption stopped you immediately and he took your hand carefully and pressed it against the center of his chest.

Right over his heartbeat.

“Ain’t nobody you,” he whispered quietly.

You managed to smile. “You’re so corny..”

Michael let out the faintest sad laugh under his breath before pulling you back into his arms again as Joe’s deep voice carried faintly through the lower level talking to security outside.

Your relationship with Michael existed in this strange soft space neither of them knew how to define properly anymore.

Because yes, technically, you were best friends. That was the foundation of it all. Years and years of knowing each other too well. Inside jokes nobody else understood. Quiet understanding without explanation. Michael calling you first whenever something good happened, or bad happened, or if nothing happened at all. Closeness built so slowly neither of you noticed when it stopped resembling ordinary friendship.

Because best friends didn’t sleep tangled together in the same bed. Best friends didn’t hold hands under dinner tables without realizing it or exchange absentminded little kisses on the mouth before separating for the day like it was the most natural thing in the world. Or any mouth kisses for that matter.

And Michael especially blurred the lines constantly without seeming to realize how intimate he could be. He was so naturally affectionate in this deeply sincere way that made everything feel charged. He’d tuck you into his side during movies. Kiss your forehead, cheek or lips mid conversation. Rub soothing circles into your back when you got quiet or overwhelmed. Sometimes he’d look at you too long with this soft look that made your chest ache because there was no platonic explanation for it anymore.

But neither of you said it.

And there were moments that made the whole thing impossible to pretend around anymore. The subtle tension in Michael anytime another man got too familiar with you The way his mood shifted almost imperceptibly whenever you gave somebody else too much attention at parties or rehearsals. He never acted angry about it. That wasn’t him. Instead he’d grow quieter, clingier somehow finding excuses to pull you back toward him with a hand around her wrist or an arm slipping around your shoulders possessively casual.

And you weren't any better. Not when women hovered around him constantly with bright lipstick smiles and wandering hands while he stood there too polite to fully shut it down. Jealousy lived between you both in this unspoken aching way neither of you acknowledged aloud because admitting it would force them to confront the obvious truth: best friends were not supposed to want each other this badly.

Michael stood near the bedroom door quietly watching you pull your sweater over your pajamas. His curls looked messy from his hat and his face soft with sleep deprivation but hidden from the sunglasses he popped on.

Then gently: “C’mon, Ma.” His hand reached for yours automatically and you took it.

Michael’s fingers closed warmly around your hand before guiding you out of the bedroom, down the hallway and down the stairs, you trail slightly behind him. Every few seconds he would glance back.

Downstairs Hayvenhurst had transformed into departure. Jackie stood near the foyer with coffee in one hand while Randy half heartedly argued with a crew member about missing luggage. Katherine moved softly through the chaos making sure everybody had eaten something before leaving while Joe’s voice occasionally cut through the noise outside trying to keep the schedule moving.

And through all of it, Michael kept holding your hand. The rest of the world was already starting to pull him away and this was the one thing he still had control over.

Outside, the morning air hit cold against your skin. It’s almost six am now and the driveway glowed beneath headlights and porch lights while buses lined the curb waiting to carry the Jacksons away for months. Crew members moved quickly between vehicles loading garment bags and stage equipment while security checked lists nearby.

Michael guided you farther down the driveway toward his bus, your hand still tucked tightly in his.

Then finally, for one brief moment, things slowed. The noise faded slightly behind you. The brothers boarding the buses. Joe calling instructions. Engines humming low.

All of it blurred into background noise while Michael turned toward you fully beneath the pale morning light. His expression softened instantly the second he looked at your face.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured quietly.

“I’m okay.”

“You’re not.” The gentleness of it nearly unraveled you immediately. Michael stepped closer after that, both hands sliding warm against your arms while the breeze stirred softly through his curls.

For a second neither of you spoke, just looking at each other. And God, that was always the problem. The looking. Too much feeling lived inside it. Too much longing neither of them knew what to do with.

Michael’s thumb brushed lightly against your sleeve. “I’m gonna call you every day.”

You nodded quickly.

“I mean it,” he said softly. “Every day.”

“I know.”

“You better answer too.”

A tiny watery laugh escaped you despite yourself, and relief flickered briefly across his face seeing it.

“Love that smile,” he murmured warmly. The tenderness in his voice hurt now. Everything hurt now.

Because suddenly Joe’s voice cut sharply across the driveway:

“Michael! Bus!”

The moment shattered instantly as you watched it happen across Michael’s face in real time: duty slipping back over him like armor.

“No,” you whispered immediately.

Emotion surged so violently into your throat you could barely breathe around it.

Michael’s expression changed instantly. “Angel face..”

“I can’t…” Your voice broke apart completely. “I can’t do this, I…” The words stopped making sense halfway through because suddenly you were crying too hard to force them out properly.

Michael looked devastated.

You grabbed tighter onto the front of his sweater without even realizing it, panic and heartbreak colliding painfully in your chest while tears spilled faster than you could wipe them away.

“I don’t want you to go,” you choked out helplessly. “I just.. Michael, I…”

Nothing coherent came after that, just crying. The kind that stole your breath and left your chest aching.

Michael pulled you against him immediately before anyone else could fully witness you falling apart, arms wrapping tightly around you while your face buried into his sweatshirt.

“Oh baby,” he whispered brokenly into your hair.

One of his hands cradled the back of your head while the other held you so tightly it almost felt desperate.

“I know,” he kept murmuring softly. “I know, angel. I know.”

And standing there beneath the pale California sunrise with tour buses rumbling behind him and the entire world waiting impatiently ahead, Michael suddenly held onto you like maybe he wasn’t ready to let go either.

“But I will always be with you.. even miles apart.”

The first thing you see is the whistle.

Silver gleaming against his sternum, hanging from the faded blue lanyard you gifted him during his first week teaching here. The edges are frayed now, worn soft with years of use, but Steve refuses to replace it.

Below that is his gray P.E. shirt, darkened slightly with sweat from a morning of dodgeball and relay races. His basketball shorts sit low on his hips, revealing strong, sun-bronzed thighs sculpted from years of sprinting across this very playground.

You raise a brow. “Mr. Harrington.”

Steve squints down at you, one hand lifted to shield his eyes from the sun. The other rests casually on his hip, fingers splayed over the waistband of his shorts.

“Mrs. Harrington,” he replies, lips curving into an easy, knowing smirk. He nods toward the empty space beside you. “Is that seat taken?” 

You tap your pen thoughtfully against your planner. “Hmm, I don’t know. Depends who’s asking.”

His grin widens as he steps closer.

“Well. There’s this insanely smart, ridiculously pretty fifth-grade teacher who happens to be married to me. She says I’m kinda great. Might vouch for me.”

You roll your eyes, though your lips betray you with a smile.

He drops onto the bench beside you, knees bumping yours.

The teasing spark in his eyes softens almost immediately once his gaze lands on you—quietly roaming over your face, a silent ritual to catalogue the smallest of details.

“Hi, baby,” he murmurs.

You laugh under your breath, reaching out to untwist the lanyard where it’s gotten caught on his collar. “Hi.”

You haven’t seen him all morning.

Tuesdays are brutal—back-to-back classes with no shared planning period, no painfully long faculty meeting where he sits beside you, slouched halfway out of his chair, nudging your ankle under the table until you kick him in the shin.

You didn’t even get your usual five minutes with him in the hallway. The ones where he leans against the lockers outside your classroom, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face while dramatically recounting how his third graders attempted to unionize against the mile run.

Now, finally, you get a second to really look at him.

And Steve Harrington in sunlight is frankly a dangerous thing.

His skin glows warm from all the hours he spends outside, chasing rogue kickballs and letting kids climb on him like he’s a human jungle gym. His eyes always hover somewhere between honey and deep chestnut depending on the light—right now, in the afternoon sun, the centers are a rich amber, little flecks of green scattered around the edges.

You like that his hair’s grown out a little lately. Thick, luscious strands catching the light, the tips kissed gold by the sun.

Just a little halo of sunshine clinging to your golden boy.

“Free block?” you ask.

“Mhm.” His thumb starts tracing absentminded circles over your knee. “Had to come check on my girls.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “You’re so dramatic.”

He bristles. “What? I haven’t seen you all day.”

His gaze drops for a moment, mock indignance softening when it passes over the gentle curve of your stomach. He tips his head, brows knitting faintly.

“You feeling okay?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod as you sit up, trying to stretch out the tight pull in your back. “Just a little achy.”

It's like a switch gets flipped inside of him.

He immediately slides closer on the bench, turning so you’re both facing the playground—two coworkers supervising recess, nothing suspicious about it.

Except now, his entire side is pressed against yours.

Shoulder to shoulder, flush from knee to hip, the solid heat of him seeping through cotton and denim until you’re practically fused together.

Steve has always run warm—your golden boy, always carrying a pocketful of sunshine with him wherever he goes—and right now, it’s radiating straight into your aching hip.

His arm starts to creep behind your back.

“Steven,” you warn under your breath, eyes flicking toward the kickball field where Mrs. Patterson is very much within viewing distance.

He hums like he didn’t hear a word.

You feel the warmth of him first, then the broad span of his palm settling at the small of your back, just below your waist. His fingers spread gently, steadying you as his thumb traces along the line of your spine.

Then he presses in. Deep.

The sound that escapes your throat is completely involuntary.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, leaning a little closer. “Right there?”

You swear your husband has some kind of supernatural gift—he finds this exact spot every time without even trying, that stubborn knot of tension right above your sacrum that’s been throbbing all morning.

“Lean into me a little,” he says softly.

You do it without thinking.

Your shoulder tips against his chest, your weight settling against him as his arm tightens around your back. His thumb resumes its slow, steady circles, pressing and easing and pressing again.

The kids shriek across the playground. A whistle blows somewhere near the jungle gym.

But right here, tucked against Steve’s side, the world goes pleasantly quiet.

“Better?” he asks, breath warming the side of your neck.

You nod, eyes drifting closed for a moment. “Mhm.”

His hand slides a little higher along your spine, thumb digging in just a touch more firmly this time.

You groan, a little louder than you probably should.

Steve huffs a laugh under his breath.

“Careful,” he murmurs, faintly smug.

You’d elbow him if you could remember how to move your arms.

For a while, you sit there in silence. Letting him work out the knot in your back, leaning into his chest like a cat nuzzling into a spot of sun-warmed carpet.

“How’s she doing today?” he asks after a long while, lips brushing your temple.

You sigh dramatically.

“Other than using my bladder as a trampoline and wrecking my back?” you mumble. “She’s fine.”  

Steve’s chest lifts with a quiet laugh. He leans down and presses a kiss to your shoulder, soft and lingering.  

You smile, melting into his touch. Forgetting, briefly, that you’re at work.

Then you very much remember.

“Okay, okay,” you laugh, reaching back to catch his wrist. “That’s enough, Mr. Harrington. I’m supposed to be supervising.”  

“What?” he huffs, hand lingering at your waist. “I’m just... being a good husband. Nothing wrong with a little massage.”

You tilt your head subtly toward the playground. “Tell that to Mrs. Patterson.”

Steve glances over.

Sure enough, Mrs. Patterson stands near the kickball bases with her hands on her hips, scanning the playground like a hawk who has spent thirty years policing recess etiquette.

He sighs dramatically. Mutters something about how he can’t even take care of his own wife in peace.

Still, he behaves.

Reluctantly shifts a few inches away, withdrawing his arm from behind you. His hand returns to rest casually over your knee.

You sit up properly and reach for your planner.

Before you can even touch the pen, Steve asks casually:

“You eat this morning?”

You hesitate.

It’s tiny, barely a pause.

But Steve Harrington notices everything when it comes to you.

His brows raise slowly.

There’s a daisy-printed lunchbox sitting untouched on your desk.

Steve insisted on buying it after going through an entire color-coded stack of OB pamphlets—one he hoarded from your doctor’s office “just in case.”

You’ve walked into the kitchen on more than one occasion to find him hunched over the table, elbows planted, brow furrowed, lips moving faintly as he works through a paragraph about fetal development like he’s cramming for finals.  

Apparently, pregnant women can get lightheaded if they don’t eat often enough. Something about blood sugar. Or iron. Or both.

You don’t remember exactly, but Steve does.

“You’re not supposed to go more than two hours without eating,” he told you last week, moving around your kitchen with the focus of a man preparing for battle. “You could get nauseous. Or like, pass out. Which we’re not doing. So,” he’d set the lunchbox on the counter with finality, tapping the lid. “You eat this one before lunch. And I’ll pack something extra for after. Okay?”

Every day since, you open it during quiet reading time to find: two pre-peeled cuties clementines, string cheese, homemade trail mix portioned into a little reusable container, and a granola bar he spent five full minutes analyzing in the cereal aisle because he didn’t “trust half those ingredients.” There’s always an ice pack inside, too, because you mentioned one time that fruits taste better cold now that you’re pregnant.

Unfortunately, that lunchbox is currently buried under a stack of ungraded spelling tests and construction paper solar systems.

You hadn’t meant to forget. You really hadn’t.

“Stevie…” you try gently, knowing the nickname will soften the blow. “This morning was so busy.”

He holds your gaze with an unimpressed stare for exactly two seconds.

“Baby, I thought you were supposed to be the responsible one,” he sighs, shaking his head, fondness softening every word.

“I am the responsible one.”

“Uh-huh.” His hand slips off your knee as he leans down, rummaging through the gym bag at his feet. “Sure you are.”

“I am!”

Steve straightens a second later.

And when he does, he’s holding a bright, round fruit in his hand.

Glossy in the sunlight, skin dimpled and taut, a deep sunset color that's almost too perfect to be real. It looks plump, like it might burst if you so much as look at it too hard.

Your mouth waters instantly.

Your second trimester cravings have been all over the place—salt and vinegar chips one week, strawberry milk the next—but lately, all you can think about are oranges. Cold ones. Sweet, juicy, dripping-down-your-wrist ones. You’ve gone through three bags in five days.

Steve watches your posture straighten, eyes locked onto your target.

His mouth curves slowly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, smug. “Thought so.”

He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, and presses his thumb into the top of the peel. It splits with a soft tear, citrus scent blooming instantly between you. You lick your lips in anticipation.

Steve peels with the careful precision of someone who has done this many, many times.

His thumb slides under the rind and lifts it away in long, clean strips instead of shredding it. When stubborn white threads cling to the fruit, he scrapes them away gently with the pad of his thumb, collecting the little curls of pith in his palm so they don’t fall onto your dress.

He always peels them for you now.

Says you’ll complain when the smell sticks under your nails. Says he’s better at it than you—no mangled fruit on his watch.

But really, it’s because he wants to.

Only a few months in and he’s already the kind of dad who reads ahead in pregnancy books like there’s going to be a quiz. Who keeps a page in his class planner filled with bedtime story ideas, with little notes about hairstyles and braids he wants to practice before the baby gets here.

Last week you’d tried peeling an orange yourself while standing at the kitchen counter.

Steve lasted about three seconds watching you struggle with the rind.  

“Just—give it to me,” he’d said, gently prying it out of your hands. “Your fingers are gonna smell all day.”

Lately, he doesn’t let you do much of anything alone.

He ties your shoes before you can bend down, picks things up the second you drop them. Slides chairs out before you even reach the table.

He’s started appearing at your classroom door halfway through the morning with a giant cup of ice water, because that’s been another one of your cravings lately.

There was one afternoon he walked in and found you standing on a chair, arms stretched high, trying to staple construction paper planets to your bulletin board.

Two seconds later, you felt a pair of hands wrap around your hips, easing you down.

“Absolutely not.”

“Steve—”

“Nope. I’ll do it.”

And he did.  

Spent his entire free period stapling crooked Saturn rings to a crayon-dotted galaxy, asking you three times to confirm whether Uranus came before Neptune.

At home, it’s even worse.

If you so much as shift in the middle of the night trying to get comfortable, Steve wakes instantly.

“Mmph… baby?” he mumbles, pushing himself upright. “You okay? What do you need?”

“Nothing,” you whisper. “Go back to sleep.”

But he’s already swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Next thing you know he’s in the kitchen at two in the morning—barefoot, hair sticking up in cowlicks, wearing an old t-shirt and boxers while he spreads peanut butter thick across a slice of toast or scoops vanilla ice cream into a bowl.

Most nights it’s both.

Then he sits cross-legged at your feet while you eat on the couch, eyelids heavy with sleep. Warm hands wrapped around your arches, thumbs kneading all the tender spots until your whole body melts into the cushions.

You used to tease him about it.

“Steve,” you laughed once, nudging his shoulder with your foot. “I’m pregnant. Not dying.”

He’d only shrugged, stubborn as ever. “Yeah, I know. Just like doing this stuff.”

Stuff like this.

He finishes peeling the first half of the orange and starts separating the slices. Eases his thumb into the center seam, gently pulling a segment free without bursting the delicate juice pockets. His finger runs along the curve, checking carefully for seeds. When he finds one, he digs it out with his nail and flicks it into his palm.     

Only when he’s satisfied does he lift the slice up to your mouth.

“Open.”

You roll your eyes, but you do.

The fruit presses cool against your tongue—he must’ve kept it cold all morning somehow— and the second you bite down, sweet juice floods your mouth.

You practically melt, eyes slipping closed.

“Good?” he asks quietly.

“So good.”

He laughs under his breath. You feel a small bead of juice slip toward your chin, but Steve’s thumb is already there, brushing lightly along your bottom lip to catch it before it falls.

When you open your eyes again, he’s still looking at you.

Really looking, gaze warm and intent, tiny creases gathering at his temples from how wide he’s smiling.

So painfully affectionate, your husband.

Like this—feeding you orange slices on a splintered playground bench—is somehow the highlight of his entire day.

You swallow and reach for the next slice.

He pulls it back just out of reach.

“Ah ah—say thank you, Mr. Harrington.”

You narrow your eyes.

“...Thank you, Mr. Harrington.”

He grins, victorious, and slides the wedge past your lips with exaggerated care. “You’re welcome, Mrs. Harrington.”

A loud shout from across the playground makes you both jump.

“What?! Coach Steve! Coach Steeeeve!”

You and Steve share a look.

It’s a voice you both know all too well.  

“Uh oh,” he sighs, slowly lowering his hand. “Here we go.”

Eli Parker comes sprinting across the grass like a tiny tornado, curls bouncing wildly with every step. His velcro sneakers slap against the pavement—one strap has come undone, as usual, flapping behind him.

“Coach Steve!” he pants, skidding to a stop in front of the bench, cheeks flushed pink and shiny with sweat. “Why are you here at recess? You don’t have recess! You have P.E. time!”

Steve lifts the half-peeled orange solemnly. “I’m on snack duty.”

Eli squints. “That’s not a real job.”

“It is now. Mrs. Harrington’s eating for two, remember?”   

Eli blinks.

His gaze drifts slowly toward your stomach.

“Oh.”

And just like that, his favorite teacher becomes background scenery—more important matters await.

Eli sidesteps your husband like he’s a piece of playground equipment, edging closer to you instead. He tucks his hands behind his back and rocks forward onto his toes, suddenly shy.

“Um... Missus Harrington?”

Your heart melts a little every time.

“Yes, Eli?”

He glances up at your face, then at your belly. “Um... is the baby ready?”

Steve pauses mid-peel. He glances up at you, brows furrowed.

Ready for what? he mouths.

You bite back a smile and lean back slightly, patting your stomach. “Yep. She’s all yours.”

Eli steps closer and bends at the waist, hands planted on his knees.

Slowly, he lowers his face toward the curve of your bump.

“Hi, baby,” he whispers. “It’s me again, Eli.”

Steve’s fingers slow over the orange.

“Today we had apple slices at snack. But they were kinda mushy, so you didn’t miss nothin’. And Jacob falled in P.E. but he only cried for like… this much.” He pinches his fingers together to demonstrate. “I helped him up ‘cause I’m strong now. I eat all my carrots.”

You smooth your hand over your stomach, smiling.

“And we’re playin’ tag but I didn’t get catched even one time. I was too fast! You gotta run zig-zag, like this,” he demonstrates with his arms, nearly elbowing Steve in the chin. “When you come out, I’ll teach you. You gotta go like—whoosh whoosh!—so nobody can tag you. Not even Coach Steve. He’s... kinda slow.”

“Uh—hey," Steve protests.

Eli ignores him. “Just don’t run by the slide. There’s a crack there. Timmy tripped there once and there was blood everywhere. He had to get stitches! But he’s fine now. He got a Spider-Man bandaid. Oh, and...”

“He does this every day,” you murmur quietly to Steve while Eli continues his extremely detailed recess debrief.

“Seriously?” Steve whispers.

You nod. “Comes over to give her updates.”

Steve blinks, staring down at the top of Eli’s curls, expression gone soft. “Huh.”

“…and you always haveta pick chocolate milk first at lunch,” Eli explains firmly. “’Cause if you wait, it’s all gone and then you haveta drink regular milk and regular milk tastes weird.”

You’re still listening to Eli’s spiel on cafeteria survival rules when you feel a gentle nudge against the back of your hand.

Steve is holding another orange slice out to you, attention split between feeding you and listening to this tiny seven-year-old explain why pizza day is the most important day of the week.

You bring the slice up to your mouth.

As soon as the juice bursts across your tongue, you feel it. 

“Oh! Hey, Eli?” 

“…and then Jacob pushed—huh?” Eli looks up.

“Wanna feel something cool?”

“What kinda cool?”                                             

You grin.

“The best kind.”

You take his warm, sticky hand in yours, and guide it carefully to the curve of your stomach.

“Right here. Just wait.”

Eli waits.

Nothing happens at first.

He squints down at your belly, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth.

And then—  

“WOAH!” Eli yanks his hand back with a gasp, eyes round as saucers. “What was that?!”

You laugh softly. “That was the baby.”

“The baby?” he repeats, voice dropping to a loud whisper.

“Yep. That was her kicking.”

Eli’s jaw falls open, eyes fixed on your stomach.

“Um, Missus Harrington?” he says, voice growing a little urgent. “Can I feel again?"

You nod, guiding his hand back. His palm rests there, quivering ever so slightly with excitement.

Another small thump.

Eli gasps, but doesn’t pull away this time. A small giggle spills out of him.

“Wow,” he breathes. “She did it again. Does that mean she knows me?”

“Yeah, honey. She knows you’re there.”

Eli beams down at your stomach, rubbing his palm side to side like he’s waving through a window.

“Hi, baby,” he whispers. “It’s okay. It’s just me. I’m your recess buddy, remember?”

Steve has gone very, very quiet.

You glance up to find him completely frozen.

The orange sits half peeled and forgotten in his palm as he stares. Gaze locked on Eli’s hand, on the soft stretch of your dress over the life the two of you made.

When he catches you looking, he blinks quickly, that stunned expression flickering away.

In its place comes an exaggerated pout—eyes drooping, lower lip jutting out.

“Uh oh,” you murmur, smiling. “Somebody’s jealous.”

You grab his orange-sticky hand and guide it to the other side of your stomach.

Steve doesn’t move a muscle.

It’s like this, every time; he holds his breath, barely rests his palm on your stomach. Like he fears pressing too hard might disturb her.

He never says a word—just waits.

Eli, meanwhile, is vibrating with curiosity.

“So, so if she can kick, why can’t she talk? Does she have a mouth?”

“She does. She’s just still growing.”

“Can she hear me?”

“Yeah, but it’s probably a little muffled. Like when you’re underwater in a swimming pool.”

Eli thinks about that.

“Do I haveta be louder, then?”

“Well...”

“Nope,” Steve cuts in quickly. “Definitely not louder. She can hear you just fine, buddy.”

Your husband shoots you a quick look—eyebrows raised, lips quirked into an amused smile—before slowly pulling his hand back, clearly reluctant to lose contact.

A moment later he hands you another slice of the orange.

Then he fits one into Eli’s palm, too.

The slice looks enormous in Eli’s tiny grip. He clamps all five fingers around it, taking a massive, full-force bite. Juice immediately dribbles down his wrist.  

Steve leans forward like he’d been expecting it, using the hem of his own shirt to wipe Eli’s arm before the stickiness spreads everywhere.

Eli barely notices, too busy chewing with wide-eyed focus.

“Are you gonna teach her stuff? ’Cause you’re a teacher?” He asks around a mouthful, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. “Like, y’know… ABCs and stuff.”

You smile. “Yep. Eventually.”

He frowns a little. “Eventually?”

“Yeah. We’re gonna have to teach her how to talk, first.”

Eli freezes mid-chew.

“She can’t talk?” he says, scandalized.

“Not when she’s first born,” you confirm gently. “She has to learn everything. How to move, how to talk… it’s all brand new for her.”

Eli turns his head slowly, staring at your stomach like this is deeply upsetting information.

“What about... what about running?”

“Mm, she'll have to learn that too. Maybe by the time you’re in fourth grade.”

He gasps, betrayal written all over his little face.

“She won’t even know how to run?” he whispers.   

You laugh softly. “Not right away, honey. Babies can’t do very much when they’re first born.”

He stands there for a second, eyes squinted, lips pursed. You can practically see the gears turning in his head.

Then suddenly his whole face lights up.

“Wait!” He bounces up onto his toes. “But that means I can show her stuff! I can teach her how to count to a hundred,” he says, chest puffing up with pride. “And I can do the monkey bars all the way across without help now. And—and I can show her how to tie her shoes! I learned that last week.”

He lifts one foot to prove it—the sneaker he's got on has three velcro straps, and one of them is hanging open.

“That’s very impressive,” you say seriously.

Eli nods like he already knew that.

Then he reaches out with his free hand, tiny fingers carefully brushing against the curve of your belly.

His voice drops into a soft whisper.

“I can’t wait ’til you’re out, baby.” He pats your stomach gently. “I’ll teach you everything.”

He thinks about it for a second. Then adds:

“I’ll be like… the best big brother ever.”

Your throat closes up a little. You glance over at Steve to find him already looking at you—this warm, stunned sort of wonder in his eyes, like the moment landed in his chest the same way it did in yours.

He reaches for you quietly, thumb brushing along the back of your hand. 

You lace your fingers with his and give them a squeeze. He squeezes back.

Then the bell rings.

A long, miserable groan ripples across the playground.

“What?” Eli exclaims, shoulders collapsing dramatically. “But—but I wasn’t done!”

“You can talk to her again tomorrow,” you promise.

Eli turns back toward your stomach, lips puckering in serious thought.

“Okay,” he sighs. He leans closer one last time.

“Bye-bye, baby. Don’t forget me.”

“She won’t, honey,” you smile, smoothing his curls back from his forehead.

You brace your hands on the bench, ready to stand.

Steve is already on his feet. One hand wrapped around your forearm, the other settling at your lower back. You don’t actually need the support, but he always acts like you might topple over without him.

“Easy, easy.”

You roll your eyes affectionately. “Steve, I’m fine.”

You call your class over, watching them shuffle toward you in a crooked, noisy line.

“Alright, fifth graders! You ready?”

“Wait, wait,” Steve says suddenly, hurrying forward. “One more.”

Before you can react, an orange slice gets slipped past your lips.

You laugh around it, juice bursting sweet across your tongue.

You reach up on impulse, resting a hand on his shoulder to press a quick, soft kiss to his lips.

It’s not something you do often at school, and you can tell it catches him off guard.

You pull back to watch him blink, tongue darting out as he instinctively licks away the glossy residue on his mouth. Hazel eyes gone round, breath caught like you haven’t been kissing him for years.  

You kind of hope he’ll always look like that, no matter how chaste the gesture.

Behind you, your class erupts into varying degrees of horror and fascination: “Ewwww!” “No way!” “Coach Steeeve, can I have a bite of the orange?"

“Alright, alright!” you laugh, waving them down. “Enough.”

You turn back to Steve, lowering your voice. “See you after last period?”

“Uh huh,” he nods, still a touch dazed. He blinks, shakes his head. “Yeah. I’ll—yeah.”

You smile at him and turn back to your students, ushering the rowdy line toward the school doors.

Halfway across the blacktop, you glance back.

Your husband is still standing by the bench, one hand lifted in a loose wave as he watches you go.

You mouth the words silently.

Love you.

He smiles, mirrors the words right back.

Love you too.  

And right then, a small flutter rolls through your stomach.

A tiny voice responding in kind, a little heartbeat of its own saying:

Love you three.

✿

Once you disappear through the school doors, Steve exhales slowly.

Then he looks down.

Eli is still there.

Hovering by his leg, nibbling thoughtfully on what’s left of his orange slice. At this point it’s mostly membrane, barely any juice left, but he’s got more important thoughts on his mind.

He sucks at it with intense focus, eyes narrowed in deep, seven-year-old contemplation.

“Coach Steve?” Eli says finally.

Steve rests his hands on his hips, orange peels crumpled loosely in one fist. “What’s up, buddy?”

Eli glances toward the doors where you disappeared, then back up at Steve.

“Can I borrow your meg-ah-phone next recess?”

Steve squints.

“Why?”

Eli shrugs suspiciously fast.

“Mmm, no reason.”

. *　✦　. ˚　✦ .

He'd known he'd be okay as a teacher for the rest of his life. Coming home to the smell of dinner, cracking open a beer, sitting across the table from her while they laughed at whatever absurd, gravity-defying question their daughter— he hoped for a daughter first, though he'd never admit why— asked between bites of mashed peas. 

He'd been so sure of it. The evenings on the couch after bedtime, his wives feet in his lap like it was nothing, like it had always been that way, him working his thumb into the arch of her foot while the television murmured and she told him about her day in that half-drowsy voice people use when they finally feel safe.

He knew he wanted all of it.

He'd seen it once, a long time ago, in the narrow hallway light of his parents' house, when he was eight years old and supposed to be asleep. He'd crept downstairs for water and found them on the couch instead, his mother's head tipped back laughing at something his father said, his father's whole face open in a way it never was during the day. They'd looked young. They'd looked ridiculous, actually. And Steve had stood there in the dark in his socked feet and felt something register quietly in his chest, something that said— that.

He always knew he wanted that.

What he didn't know was that he wanted you.

You teach third grade at Hawkins Elementary. You have a habit of reading your students' drawings aloud to them as if they're gallery pieces, and you keep a mug on your desk that says World's Okayest Adult that you got from a nine-year-old as a holiday gift and cannot bring yourself to retire. You have ink smudges on the outside of your hand from grading papers. 

You smell faintly, impossibly, of crayons and something warm underneath, like cedar or cardamom, and Steve noticed it the first time you laughed at something he said, leaning toward him on instinct, and he'd spent the better part of that first date just trying to figure out where it was coming from.

You had no business agreeing to go on a date with him. He knew that. You didn’t talk at work before he asked. 

He'd been standing in the parking lot of the grocery store at eight in the morning on a Saturday, still half-asleep, a little embarrassed by the basket of frozen dinners he was holding, and you'd been there for some reason that later seemed too lucky to be real, and you'd had this expression on your face when he talked to you. Not the usual one. Not the oh, you're Steve Harrington expression, all recognition and preemptive expectation. You'd looked at him like you were actually listening. Like whatever he said next might genuinely surprise you..

You have no earthly reason to say yes when he asks you to dinner, stammering through the invitation like he's sixteen again instead of twenty-four. But you do. You smile—this sunrise of a thing that makes his chest feel too small—and you say yes.

He has no idea he'll want to take you on another date. And then another. That he'll want to take it slow in a way he's never wanted before, holding your hand on walks like you're something precious he might break. That he won't kiss you until the third date, and when he finally tries, he'll be so nervous he'll bump his head against yours hard enough to see stars.

He'd been building to it all night, and then it happened and he tipped forward too fast and his forehead bumped yours "Shit," he says, pulling back, mortified. "I'm so sorry. I wanted our first kiss to be perfect and I'm so—"

You grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him back in, crashing your mouth against his, and he has no idea that this—your boldness meeting his fumbling sincerity—will be the thing that undoes him completely.

The kiss wasn’t soft either, not forgiving. You'd kissed him like you'd been considering it for longer than the night and had simply decided to stop waiting. And Steve Harrington, who had kissed a number of people in his life, stood on your front porch and forgot every single one of them.

He does all the things he's done before on dates. Walks you to your door, kisses you goodnight, positions himself on the outside of the sidewalk so he's closer to traffic. But this time, for the first time, he wants to do these things. Not because they're expected, not because they're the motions you're supposed to go through, but because he wants to see the way your lips curl when he opens the car door for you. 

Wants to watch your eyes catch light like coins at the bottom of a fountain when he brings you flowers for no reason. Doesn't mind when your lipstick stains his mouth pink, or when a smudge of your eyeshadow transfers to his collar after you lean your head on his shoulder during a movie.

He keeps these small marks of you on him like evidence. Like proof.

And he never knew—how could he have known?—that after three months of seeing you, Steve Harrington would want a girlfriend. Not in the abstract way he'd wanted one before, the way you want things because you're supposed to want them. Not the placeholder kind, the ones who looked good on his arm and laughed at his jokes and disappeared from his life without leaving dents.

No, he wants a girlfriend. His girlfriend. The kind who knows he likes his coffee with too much sugar, who shows him your students' misspelled worksheets because you know they'll make him laugh, who argues with him about whether The Breakfast Club or Ferris Bueller is the superior John Hughes film (it's Ferris Bueller, and he'll die on that hill).

He always said he wanted this. But he didn't. Not really.

Maybe because it was never you.

Three months.

Three months of this, and somewhere in the middle of them, Steve realized he wanted a girlfriend.

The wanting had always been for some general, approaching shape, and now it had edges, and a smell like cedar and cardamom, and ink on the outside of its left hand.

.-.-.-.

Tonight, the thread holding his restraint together feels thinner than usual.

Earlier, at the Hawk, while standing in the concession line arguing about whether to get Milk Duds or Sno-Caps— you wanted both; he caved immediately— you spotted a friend from high school. You lit up, grabbing Steve's arm and pulling him forward with a grin that could power the entire theater.

"This is my boyfriend," you said, the word falling from your lips like honey, sweet and golden and completely natural.

The rush of hearing it hit him in two places simultaneously. His head, which went dizzy and light, and his cock, which twitched hard enough in his jeans to make him shift his weight and pray to a god he doesn't believe in that it wasn't obvious.

Boyfriend.

Steve Harrington has been introduced a thousand different ways. "Oh, you remember Steve?" "I'm here with Steve Harrington." "You know King Steve, right?" Always his name, always his history, always him as a person separate and distinct.

But you didn't say his name. You called him your boyfriend—something you haven't even discussed, something that apparently doesn't need discussing because it's true, it's real, you're his and he's yours.

And suddenly Steve doesn't want to be Steve Harrington at all. He wants to be your boyfriend. That's it. That's all.

He couldn't concentrate during the movie. Couldn't tell you a single plot point if his life depended on it. He sat there holding his girlfriend's hand— the word looping in his head like a skipping record: girlfriend girlfriend girlfriend— sporting a semi in the dark, occasionally having to press the heel of his palm against his crotch to relieve the ache.

He considered sneaking away to the bathroom, tucking himself into his waistband, anything to relieve the pressure. But that would mean letting go of your hand, and he's not willing to do that. Not when your thumb is doing this thing, rubbing circles on his knuckles, grounding him and destroying him in equal measure.

It only got worse after. Dropping you off, you asked him to come in for coffee—code you both understand means more kissing on your couch, more of your hands on his skin, more of this slow-burning thing between you that he's terrified of rushing because what if he breaks it? What if he fucks it up like he fucks everything up?

Now he's kissing his girlfriend's lips, and the word won't stop ricocheting around his skull. 

Your mouth is soft and warm, and you taste like the popcorn you split at the movies. He can feel your heartbeat where his palm rests against your ribs, quick and fluttering like a bird's wings. Your hand is in his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp in a way that makes him want to purr.

When he said you were taking it slow, this is what he meant. Nothing goes beyond this—kissing on your couch, hands staying mostly polite, both of you breathing hard but keeping the brakes engaged.

Sometimes, like tonight, you guide his hand to cup your breast through your shirt. Most of the time, you slip your hands under his, and he always smiles against your lips because you love his stomach. You map his chest first, fingers tracing the sparse hair there, then his shoulders, but you always come back to his belly. Palm the softness there like it's your favorite part of him.

And god, of course he wonders what you feel like— without the architecture of clothes in between. What you taste like beyond your lips and the salt of your neck. Wonders what sounds you'd make if he got his mouth on you properly.

Because he never knew he wanted to be respectful. Never knew he'd be the kind of guy who'd stop himself, who'd wait, who'd care more about doing this right than doing it fast.

But then again, he never knew you existed. So what the hell did he know about anything?

The kiss is slow, and it's also not slow at all, and those two things exist without contradiction. Your hands are in his hair and his are at your waist, and the kiss is the kind that gets away from you by degrees, each one a little less careful than the last, until you look up and can't account for the time. Your bottom lip is soft. You make a sound sometimes, quiet and unconsidered, and every time it happens, he feels it in his sternum like a tuning fork. You shift closer. He follows.

It comes out of his mouth before he can stop it.

He breaks away, both of you breathing hard, your lips swollen and shining, eyelashes fanning across the apples of your cheeks. Your pupils are blown wide, lids heavy, and you're looking at him like he hung the moon and he doesn't deserve it, he doesn't, but god does he want to.

He swallows hard, brushing your hair back from your face. His hand stops at your neck, thumb stroking along your jaw. "I want you to meet my parents."

The words land in the space between you and he immediately hears how they sound. His eyes go wide.

"I mean—shit—would you meet my parents? Because you don't have to if you don't want to, but I'd really like them to meet my girlfriend, and I understand if it's too soon or too much or—"

You giggle, and the sound makes him stop mid-spiral.

He blinks at you, heat flooding his face.

"I'd love to meet your parents," you say, and kiss him softly.

And Steve Harrington—who has introduced exactly one other girl to his parents in any capacity that mattered, who once faked food poisoning to get out of a girl meeting his mother at the fair—gets a boner at the thought of you shaking his dad's hand and sitting at his parents' kitchen table.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

He gives you chaste pecks, brows furrowed, nose pressed against your cheek, before he has to physically remove your hands from under his shirt. He stands quickly, running his fingers through his hair hard enough to hurt, putting distance between you before he does something stupid like beg you to touch him.

He sees you go rigid immediately, sitting up straight, hands folding in your lap. Your eyes fill with concern. "Steve... is everything okay?"

"What?" He turns slightly, not enough for you to see the obvious bulge in his jeans. "Yeah. No. I mean—" He clears his throat, puts his hands on his hips in that stupid way his dad does when he's uncomfortable. "Yeah. I needed to take a moment."

You wait, and the silence stretches between you like taffy. Then, quietly, carefully, "Did I... did I do something?"

Steve's eyes go wide. He spins around. "What? No—no! Shit, I..."

He stops. Swallows hard.

Silence.

You're waiting. He can feel the particular shape of your patience, the way it doesn't crowd him, doesn't demand. It settles around him like still water.

He turns fully to face you.

You're sitting with your hands folded in your lap, posture straightened, watching him with an expression that's trying very hard to be neutral and mostly succeeding. Your hair has come slightly undone from his fingers. Your lipstick has migrated—some on your chin, some (he knows) on his own mouth. You look, objectively, incredible, and this is not helping anything.

Steve Harrington looks at you across your own living room and thinks, I am completely in over my head.

He thinks, I knew I wanted all of it.

He thinks, I didn't know it was you.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Puts his hands back on his hips in that stupid defensive stance.

"You're—" He stops. Starts again. "I really like you. Like. A lot."

It comes out with approximately none of the grace or eloquence he intended, flat and graceless, but it lands. He watches it land, sees the way your expression shifts.

Something in your face does the thing—the slow opening-up thing, the light-through-curtains thing, warmth bleeding into your features.

"Yeah?" you say, and your voice has gone soft.

"Yeah," he says, and his voice has done something embarrassing, gone rough and desperate. "It's kind of a problem, actually."

Your eyes flick down to the very obvious evidence of this straining against his jeans, then back up to his face.

Your smile arrives—crooked and helpless and knowing—and he stops trying to think entirely.

He groans, the sound pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. His cock twitches again, aching, and he presses his palms to his face. "I'm supposed to be... I'm trying to be a gentleman." The words come out muffled, strained. He drops his hands, looking at you with those downturned puppy-dog eyes that make him look young and wrecked. "But you make it impossible to not throw every ounce of restraint I have out the window."

You're still staring at him, silent, and he can see your chest rising and falling with your breathing.

Then your face cracks—amusement and want and something darker all mixing together. "When,” you ask slowly, tilting your head, “did I ever ask you to be a gentleman?"

Steve nearly comes in his pants.

He watches, mouth dry and heart hammering, as you uncross your legs. Your palms brace against the cushions on either side of you, and you tilt your head, eyelashes batting with devastating innocence. He's frozen, speechless, as you roll your hips slightly—a small movement, almost imperceptible, like you're trying to relieve some pressure of your own.

Then you lift one finger, crooking it. Beckoning him.

His knees go weak, liquid and useless. He walks toward you on unsteady legs until he's standing directly in front of you, and then—without thinking, without planning—he sinks to his knees. He crawls the rest of the distance across your living room floor until he's kneeling between your legs.

He can see the color of your panties under your dress. Baby blue. Cotton. Simple and devastating.

He's breathing hard, each inhale shaky and insufficient.

Steve sits back on his heels, hands stupidly at his sides, waiting for permission he's terrified won't come. Then you poke your toe against his thigh—gentle, teasing—and he grabs it.

It's instinct, both hands folding around your foot, and then he's pressing his thumbs into the arch because he's wanted to do this for months, because he's been thinking about this on couches and in movie theaters and in the dark of his own car, and the small sound you make dissolves something in his chest. He moves to your other foot. His hands are large enough that his fingers wrap your ankle with room left over, the tendons and small bones of you familiar under the mapped pressure of his palms, the veins on the backs of his hands stark and dark as he works. He can feel his own pulse in them.

He moves up to your calves. Slowly. His thumbs tracing the curve of muscle, working upward, and when the hem of your dress gives way to his wrists he pauses.

He presses a kiss to your knee.

His hands keep moving. Up the inside of your thighs now, the warmth of you radiating into his palms, and he feels you shift toward him and he keeps going until his fingers find the waistband of your underwear.

He looks up.

"This okay?"

"Please," you breathe. Already lifting. Already helping him. "Steve, please."

He draws them down slowly, presses a warm open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh on the way, and then nips, and you make a sound that undoes another something in him. He looks up at you once more, chin resting on your leg, eyes dark.

"Can I?"

"Yes," you say. "God, yes."

He ducks under your dress.

The smell of you reaches him before anything else, warm and close and private, and his nose brushes the soft hair of your cunt and he exhales against you, almost reverent. He kisses you there first. Soft, closed-mouthed, like a greeting. Then he hooks your thighs over his shoulders, forearms spreading you open, and his tongue finds you.

You gasp.

He learns you the way he learns things that matter, carefully and then not carefully at all. He licks a slow stripe and listens to the sound you make, adjusts, finds the rhythm that makes your hips roll toward him. He works at you with his mouth, unhurried, your dress a dark tent around his head and the whole world reduced to this: the texture of you, the sounds you're making, the trembling that starts in your thighs when he finds the right angle and stays there.

When he presses two fingers into you, you cry out.

He feels you clench around him and groans against your clit, the sound vibrating through you, and your hands find his hair through the dress and pull. He curls his fingers. Crooks them. Listens. He fucks them into you slow while his tongue works and you're saying his name now, saying it in pieces, Steve, Steve, like it costs you something, and he speeds up his hand because he needs to hear what comes after.

What comes after is your thighs locking around his head and a sound torn from somewhere low in your chest and your whole body pulling taut like a bowstring at full draw, every muscle gone rigid, before you break open in waves that pulse around his fingers and leave you shaking and gasping in their wake.

He eases you through it. Presses his lips softly to your inner thigh. Comes out from under your dress, his face flushed and wrecked, his mouth wet.

He's still aching, his jeans unbearable. He presses his palm against himself, a breath through his teeth.

You look down at him from the couch, chest still heaving, a flush crawling from your throat to your collarbones. Your bottom lip pushes out.

"Stevie," you say. The syllables of his name in your mouth like that should not be legal. "Do you need to be taken care of?"

"Yes," he whimpers, hands already going to his belt buckle, fingers fumbling with the leather.

"What do you need, handsome?" you ask, sitting up. Your fingers find his hair, threading through and tugging gently. His head falls back, exposing the long line of his throat, and you press your lips there. Then you find his mouth, kissing him dirty and open-mouthed and desperate.

The kiss is dirty. Open-mouthed and slow in the worst possible way, the kind of slow that isn't patience but devastation, and when you pull back for air his mouth chases yours on reflex, still reaching, mouths pushing and pulling.

Finally he breaks away, eyes closed, and when they open they're dark—pupils blown so wide the hazel is nearly gone.

"I need you," he says, voice wrecked.

He stands, ripping his shirt off in one motion. The fabric catches on his watch, on his hair, and then it's gone— somewhere behind him. 

Your eyes snap to his bare chest—the sparse hair, the constellation of moles you want to map with your tongue—then lower to his belly. The softness there that you love, the trail of hair that disappears into his waistband. You lick your lips. Something feral and private crosses your face. He watches you look at him and stands a little straighter.

He holds your gaze while he unbuckles his belt, towering over you.

"I'm going to fuck you until your legs shake," he says, and every ounce of gentlemanly restraint has been incinerated, burned away, leaving only raw want.

Steve shoves his jeans and boxers down in one swift movement, kicking them off, and his cock springs free—hard and flushed and leaking.

Your eyes widen. "Steve, there's no—"

"Wasn't I nice and got you ready, baby? Hm?" He coos, voice dropping into something darker, more commanding. "You can be good and take it." He pauses, eyes raking over you. "Take off your dress."

You pull it over your head and he steps forward immediately, into the heat of you, cock bobbing with the movement, the tip smearing precum against his belly, and your face turns into his stomach. 

You lean forward, burying your face in his belly, kissing the soft skin there, nipping gently. Your tongue traces the trail of precum that's made its way into his happy trail, tasting salt and musk and him. Your tongue finds the slick at the root of him and he grips your hair without deciding to.

"Fuck—" A whisper. "Honey—"

Your hand wraps around him. Pumps, slow, and he sees white at the edges of his vision.

He makes himself breathe. He makes himself reach for patience one last time, holding the back of your head gently, watching the top of yours.

But he can't let you continue or he'll finish right there, spilling across your hand and his stomach like a teenager. He eases you back gently, then slowly lays you down on the couch.

He looks down between you, lining himself up, but before he does your soft hand cups his face. Your fingers trace his jawline with reverence, then his nose, the bridge, the tip. You map the moles scattered across his face and neck like you're memorizing them, and he realizes—you've wanted this as much as he has. Wanted to touch him properly, wanted to learn him.

But he still needs to make sure. "You want this?"

"Yes, Steve. I want you."

He kisses you softly—a contrast to everything else—before returning his attention below. He lines himself up, pressing the tip against your entrance, and begins to push in slowly.

You both cry out at the first inch of it, your breath punching out and his head dropping to your shoulder, jaw clenched.

The stretch is intense, overwhelming, and he has to stop after just the tip, breathing hard.

"Relax for me," he murmurs, one hand spreading your thigh wider, opening you up. "That's it. You're doing so good, honey. So good for me."

He slides in another inch, then another, talking you through it the whole time. "Breathe. That's my girl. Almost there. Almost—fuck, you feel incredible."

When he's fully seated, buried to the hilt, you're both trembling. He stays still, letting you adjust, watching your face for signs of discomfort.

"Okay?" he asks, voice strained.

"Move," you gasp. "Please move, Steve."

He does, pulling out slowly before sliding back in, setting a rhythm that's deep and steady. His hips roll in a way that has him hitting something inside you that makes you see stars.

"More," you beg.

He remembers his promise. His hips snap faster, harder, the sound of skin against skin filling your living room. The couch creaks beneath you with each thrust, and he braces one hand on the armrest for leverage.

"You feel so fucking good," he groans, watching where you're joined, watching himself disappear inside you over and over.

You're making these beautiful desperate sounds—whimpers and gasps and broken versions of his name. Your breasts bounce with each thrust and he can't look away.

Long, rolling movements, working you open, your nails dragging lines down his back that he doesn't mind even a little. The sounds in the room are obscene already— the slide of him, the wet heat of it, the way the couch registers every movement. The air is warm and close and smells like both of you, like sweat and want and the cedar-and-cardamom of your skin mixed now with something that is specifically him.

He rolls his hips and you whimper, and that's what does it.

He quickens.

The gentleness doesn't leave entirely, it threads through what comes after, but the restraint he'd carried all evening, across the whole movie, across three months of this particular wanting, finally puts itself down. His hips find a rhythm that means it. The couch protests. Your head tips back.

"Steve—"

"You’re so beautiful," he breathes. “Always beautiful, but— fuck— like this…”

He braces himself over you, one forearm by your head, the other hand finding your hip, and he snaps into you and watches your face go slack and beautiful. Sweat gathers between his shoulders. His chest flushes deep pink where it meets yours, your skin sticking and separating with every thrust, the friction of it indecent and perfect.

"Tell me," he pants, hips never slowing. "Tell me you're mine."

"Yours," you gasp. "I'm yours, Steve, I'm—"

He groans, the sound punched out of him, and fucks into you harder. "That's right. Mine. My girlfriend. My good girl taking it so well."

Your fingers come up between you. Two fingertips, soft and certain, draw across his bottom lip. He opens for them. They press to his tongue, and his eyes close, and he groans around them, and you feel him pulse inside you at the sound of it. Then your hand slides back down between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit, and the sound that tears out of you makes him lose the last of his cadence entirely.

He fucks you harder. Closer to desperate than controlled, his breath ragged against your neck, your name sitting in his mouth half-formed and unspoken. He feels you tightening around him in quick deep pulses and he lifts his head and watches your face

"Look at you," he breathes, and there's something in his voice—awe mixed with possession mixed with something darker. "So perfect and needy. Needed me to fuck you, didn't you? Needed your boyfriend to take care of you."

"Yes," you whimper, fingers working faster. "Yes, Steve, please—"

"Please what, honey?"

"Make me come. Please make me come."

He shifts the angle slightly, hips driving in harder, hitting that spot inside you with devastating precision. 

You come apart beneath him with a sound that starts soft and crests, your whole body arching up into his, your hands clutching whatever they can find. He feels you everywhere, clenching and shaking, and the sensation pulls him under with you, his hips stuttering, his breath gone, his forehead dropping to yours as he follows.

Afterward, he stays where he is. He can't move. He isn't sure he wants to.

Your chest rises and falls under his. Both of you breathing hard, slick with sweat, the room quieted down to just the sound of that, just the two of you recollecting yourselves from wherever you'd gone.

He presses his lips to your hair.

"Stay," you murmur. You're already most of the way gone, your hands gone slack against his back.

"Okay baby," he says. His voice is rough and soft at once.

And for the first time in his life, Steve Harrington knows—with absolute certainty—that he's exactly where he's supposed to be.

now that you were his, undoubtedly, with his ring and his last name—steve couldn't help himself. he'd parked under a shady tree, took you by the back of the neck, and pressed his mouth hungrily to yours. kissed you like tomorrow wasn't promised, kissed you like his only source of oxygen lived behind your tongue, kissed you like he'd die without the taste of you.

and when he pulled away, lips swollen and glistening, it was only long enough to say, "climb into the backseat for me, baby."

you'd done as asked without question, and by the time steve followed you'd already had your panties halfway down your legs.

he'd had you leaning against the door, legs spread wide with his tongue on your clit in a matter of moments. and good fucking god was it perfect. the way you tasted, the way you felt, the sounds you made.

steve slid his tongue through your seam not for your pleasure but for his. he took from you every inch you were willing to give, slipping two fingers into your entrance and scissoring you open until you were a writhing, mess of a girl beneath him.

he knew you were close the moment you fisted your hands in his hair, tugging hard. you didn't even need to tell him. didn't need to say through gasping moans, "i'm gonna come, i'm gonna—oh, god. steve."

he presses his face harder against your cunt and and lets your wiggle your hips, chasing release on his tongue. he groans low when he feels that pretty clit pulse between his lips.

and when you're finished, steve moves up your body and kisses you deep. swirls his tongue around yours and says, "see how fucking good you taste? that's all mine now, baby."

he watches your eyes flare as he eases his fingers out of you.

"my pussy," he mutters. steve slides his tongue against yours. "my mouth." and then, far gentler, he kisses your forehead. "my wife."

you giggle and he watches that pretty flush crawl up your cheeks in response to his brazen possessiveness.

when you make it to the cabin, steve hauls your bags inside. it's small but cozy. one room, a tiny kitchen, a shelf full of dusty books and a television with a stack of VHS tapes beside it.

it's sat right on the lakeside. you can see the water from the back door. outside, there's a patio area with a grill that steve fully intends on using every night if you'll let him. there's a fancy clawfoot tub in the bathroom and the king-sized bed is dressed in satin sheets.

he takes you in the kitchen first.

bends you over the countertop and shoves your dress up over your hips. his cock aches by the time he presses it into you. slow and easy, nice and steady. steve knows he's big. knows it hurts.

but you take him so fucking well.

he drags the collar of your sundress down over your breasts, palming them and gently squeezing the supple flesh between his fingers. he circles your clit with his free hand and kisses the back of your neck in worship, whispering sweet words all the while.

"you're so beautiful, sweetheart. you know that? got any idea how pretty you are? the most gorgeous girl i've ever seen. our kids are gonna look just like you. i—shit. i just know it."

steve finds release the moment you do, velvety walls hugging his cock like it was made to fit him. he twitches inside you and presses the head of his cock right up against your cervix to make sure it takes.

you christen every goddamn flat surface of that cabin.

the couch, the shower, the floor in the hallway. the only time steve's not inside you in some capacity is when you're cooking or eating, and even then you can't seem to keep your hands to yourself. he once accidentally drips chocolate sauce onto his bare abdomen while the two of you are watching a movie and you're quick to rise to your feet, saying, "oops. don't worry, i got it."

and then you lick him clean, sundae long forgotten. the wetness of your tongue against his skin is so heavenly that his cock grows stiff behind his sweatpants in only a second.

but you take good care of that, too. pulling at his waistband until his cock springs free, licking from base to tip with a desperate tongue. you wrap your lips around the head of him and inch him further down your throat until you choke, and the sigh is so beautiful that steve wishes he could take a photo to keep it forever.

you take as much of him into your mouth as you can. and you wrap your delicate hand around what's left, stroking him and sucking hard until him comes at the back of your throat.

it takes three days before the two of you relax enough to breathe.

steve takes you out to dinner. you both dress up real nice and steal bites off each other's plates. he orders champagne that tastes terrible and two cocktails to make up for it.

there's a handful of shops in the downtown area that you decide to peruse after dinner, bellies full and brain a little fuzzy from the alcohol.

one of the shops is a clothing store. they have little bits of everything. basics for men and women, colorful overalls for kids and handwoven scarves.

but you both drift towards the infant section.

and he knows it's too soon, but steve can't help himself. never can. not when it comes to you, anyway.

you pick up a crocheted baby blanket, soft and made from a warm brown color with an image of a cuddly looking bear stitched into it's center.

when you show it to him, your eyes are all soft and pleading and steve swears his heart stops.

because even now, he still can't believe it. can't believe that you're looking at him like he put the stars in the sky, all but begging for a blanket to keep your baby warm. the baby you want to have with him.

steve doesn't deserve you. doesn't deserve all your softness or your grace. but he knows he's a lucky man for it, and makes another silent vow right in the back of that textile shop.

though he doesn't deserve you, steve promises to never stop trying to.

the blanket is overpriced, truthfully.

he buys it anyway.

and when you return to the cabin, he's so goddamn desperate to be inside of you that he accidentally pulls the silver button of your jeans clean off.

it clatters to the hardwood floor and makes an obnoxious, metallic sound that sends you both into fits of uncontained laughter. it makes steve feel full of youth in a way he hasn't felt in some time.

it makes him feel his age and not like he's lived enough for two lifetimes.

you insist on swimming in the lake halfway through the honeymoon. steve had been so preoccupied with you that he hadn't even thought about swimming, despite the lake being the main attraction of your vacation suite.

he ties the back of bikini you'd bought specifically for the occasion—white and glittering, similar to your dress.

and only moments after you both dive in to the blue waters and let your body adjust to the coldness, steve unties it with his teeth.

he kisses your collarbones and sucks soft bruises into the skin of your neck, soothing each ache with the flat of his tongue.

you lean back against him and press the curve of your ass to the steadily growing bulge behind his swim trunks, hips wiggling until he's hard as stone beneath your touch.

when you turn to face him, steve kisses the tip of your nose. he tells you he loves you but wishes he had the words to explain that it's more than that. more than love. more than devotion. more than worship.

you are...everything.

his brows pinch together, trying to navigate his jumbled thoughts that are both overwhelming and undeniable.

you see him, though. like you always do.

"steve," you say, wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, your water-slick body sliding against his, successfully putting a stop to those self-deprecating thoughts that threaten at the edges of his mind. "i know."

of course you do. of course.

this time, when he slides your bikini bottoms to the side and sinks in deep, it's not about making a baby.

it's just about loving you.

his fingers press firm against the swell of your hips, holding on tight, holding you close and wishing he could get impossibly closer.

he thrusts his hips up into you, hitting that spot deep inside that makes you cry out for more, that makes you cry out for god. your moans echo in the open air, and steve cements the sight of you to memory.

backlit by the orange hues of the sun, pretty lips parted and kissed swollen, eyes all bleary but focused only on him.

steve has to put in a considerable amount of effort to fight off release because the sounds you make are nothing short of pornographic.

he only lets himself go when you do. when your syrupy walls squeeze tight around his throbbing cock, when you press your mouth to his and say, "i'm yours."

on the final night of your honeymoon, you take advantage of the clawfoot tub. steve fills it with water and too many soap bubbles, and it's one of his very favorite moments of your honeymoon.

he lets you make a soapy mohawk in his hair and you let him wash the sweat from your skin, massaging in gentle circles. you confess that while you've had the best time out here alone with him, that you miss your friends.

you miss nancy and robin and most of all, you miss the kids.

steve understands, because he does, too.

they were not born of you and him yet you love them as if they were.

yours in the way that they confide in you their secrets. yours when they come to your doorstep late at night with tears in their eyes, making claims of nightmares that you know are just memories.

yours when they laugh and joke and say "gross!" whenever steve kisses you out in the open. yours to protect, yours to love, yours to cherish.

which is why when you're laying in satin sheets that night, head on steve's chest, his answer comes fast when you timidly look up at him and ask, "do you think i'll be a good mom?"

"i know you will be," he says.

your smile reaches your eyes, reflecting his own. steve presses a kiss into your hair and strokes his fingers lazily up and down your spine.

"do you think it worked? do you think i'm actually pregnant?"

steve shrugs. "who knows? hard to say yet, right? i mean, does it ever work on the first try?"

"joyce said it did for her. so, maybe?"

steve moves the hand that was propped up behind his head and places it on your belly. "hm," he says, sliding down lower on the mattress. "can't tell."

you giggle when he tugs the blanket down and pushes his borrowed sweater up your torso.

he presses a kiss just below your navel. "i think we should try again," he says. "you know, just in case."

It’s small, cozy, nothing fancy. A soft blue exterior, a creaky porch, a backyard Steve swore he’d “fix someday” and never quite does. Wind chimes hang crookedly by the door. There are plants you keep alive against all odds. A framed photo of the kids — not kids anymore — on the hallway wall.

You’re sitting on the couch, legs tucked under you, flipping through a book you’ve read a dozen times already.

Your eyes keep checking the clock near the fireplace every ten minutes, and your fingers tap impatiently at the open page in your book. Just five more minutes and Steve should be here.

Everything feels peaceful.

Real.

And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound doesn’t belong.

It’s sharp. Insistent. Out of place. Disturbing the tranquility of the atmosphere.

You know it's not Steve, because you know his mannerisms, his movements, his gestures. You know him. So you're sure it's not him standing behind the door.

You open it anyway.

And there he is.

Your ex.

Patrick.

Older. Rougher. Thinner somehow. His hair is unkempt, his eyes glassy, his breath heavy with alcohol, you can smell it from where you're standing.

He’s leaning just slightly to one side, like gravity doesn’t quite work right for him anymore.

“Hey,” he slurs, blinking like he’s surprised you’re real. “Hey… wow. You— you look good.”

You don’t smile, you don’t flinch either. And most definitely, you don't greet him back.

“What are you doing here, Patrick?” instead, you ask calmly.

Patrick’s gaze flicks past you and he can get a glimpse of how lovely your house looks from the inside, as much as from the outside, warm and cozy.

He swallows.

“I just… I needed to see you,” he mumbles, words tumbling. “I know I shouldn’t be here. I know I said I wouldn’t come back. I just— I messed up. I keep messing up.”

“Yes,” You answer him, nice and patient. “You did.”

He nods too quickly, like a desperate dog.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I’ve said it before, I know— I-I know, like a hundred times— but I mean it. I was scared. I was jealous. I was stupid. I ruined everything.”

“Patrick—”

“I can change,” he interrupt you, voice cracking and trembling with remorse. “I did change. I swear. I stopped drinking— well— I mean, mostly—” He laughs bitterly. “I know I don’t deserve another chance. I just— I loved you.”

You inhale slowly through your nose, steadying yourself.

“Patrick,” you say again, firmer now. “It's been years. You have to move on from the past and get on with your life.”

He looks at you like you’ve struck him, literally like you had just punched him in the chest.

“I was young,” Patrick insists. “I didn’t know how to— how to handle it. You were… intense. Everyone wanted you. And then there was Harrington, always hovering—”

And speaking of the devil, that’s exactly when you hear it.

The unmistakable sound of tires crunching against gravel.

A familiar engine.

You don’t turn around right away — you don’t need to. Your body recognizes it before your mind does. The tension in your shoulders eases, just a fraction.

Patrick hears it too and that's why he rushes to say the bullshit he has planned.

“I know you’re with him now,” he just keeps going, oblivious to his likely doom if Steve sees him there. “I know. I just needed you to know that if you ever— if things ever—” his voice drops to a whisper. “I’d still be here.”

“You need to leave,” you raise your eyebrows, suggesting rather than threatening.

Because you know how overprotective Steve has been lately. Seeing Patrick at the front door of your house, with you standing in front of him, wrapped in that silk robe... you don’t even know how he could react.

The truck door slams shut behind Patrick's back.

Footsteps on the porch, confident, tired, unhurried.

Steve appears right at your side, still wearing his blue baseball cap, white t-shirt clinging to his body with the buttons open on his chest, a whistle hanging loosely around his neck.

There’s a faint smear of dirt on his jeans, sun-kissed skin, the quiet exhaustion of a man who’s spent hours yelling encouragement at teenagers who barely listen. 

He's looking as hot and sexy as always, but there's something about him that afternoon that's got you feeling all tingly down in the pit of your belly.

Steve takes in the scene in half a second.

Patrick. Too close.

Your posture —calm, but guarded.

“Hey,” Steve says, tone neutral but unmistakably firm. He steps fully beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours. “Is there a problem here?”

You nod immediately, looking up at him with softening eyes. 

Your hand rests on his lower back as he casually wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him intuitively and with a purpose of protection. His fingers gently grasp your shoulder, reassuringly caressing the fabric of your cute light blue robe.

“Yeah,” you answer. “He was just leaving.”

Patrick stiffens.

“I wasn’t—” he starts, then stops right there when Steve finally looks directly at him.

“You didn't hear that, man?” he asks, with his voice dropping to a rasp when he addresses the light-haired man directly. “She asked you to leave.”

His voice is calm. Steady. Unshakeable. And primitively territorial. That makes you even hotter.

Patrick seems to grumble something—possibly profanities—but then he looks at you one last time before turning around, and stumbles down the steps of the porch, disappearing into the street without another word.

Steve waits until Patrick is out of sight before turning to you. Both of his hands reach out to you now, one caressing your face and the other your hip, his eyes as soft as his hands as they lock with yours.

“You okay?” he asks, very softly.

You nod, leaning into his chest. His arms wrap around you instantly, strong and familiar, his chin resting on the top of your head.

“I am,” you whisper. 

He exhales, relief softening his features and presses a kiss to your hair.

“What the hell is his problem? Seriously, can't he just move on from the past?” Steve admits quietly. “I’m proud of you.”

You look up at him, leaning your chin on his chest, your big eyes lighting up upon hearing his praise.

“For what?”

“For not letting him take up space he doesn’t deserve anymore.”

You smile teasingly, “Coach Harrington getting all wise on me?”

He chuckles, trying to hide the fact that you say his job title and you already have him rock hard in his boxers.

“Occupational hazard,” Steve replies with his voice lowering tenderly, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. “Teenage boys make you philosophical.”

You laugh softly, and Steve leans down to kiss you, slow, gentle, yet possessive.

The kiss lingers, but the sweetness of it begins to shift. When Steve pulls back just an inch, his eyes aren't soft anymore. They’re dark, dilated, and fixated on the way your silk robe has slipped slightly off one shoulde, and reveal the strap of one of your lingerie sets, his favorite.

Hurriedly but carefully, Steve brings you inside the house, drawing a giggle from you as he picks you up with urgency in his motions.

“You opened the door of our house to your ex wearing this?” Your man gasps in disbelief, emphasizing the words with a high-pitched voice. His eyebrows are furrowed slightly as he looks down at you, holding you close to his chest as he walks you to your shared bedroom.

He kicks the door open with his foot and sets you down on the bed. His hands stay on you though — firm, warm, grounding — one braced on the mattress beside your thigh, the other sliding under the hem of your robe to find the bare skin of your thigh, dangerously teasing you into tearing off the delicate robe, which obstructs the view of your beautiful body from his eyes.

The sunset light filters through the curtains, bathing his body in golden tones as he tosses his cap aside. His messy hair falls over his forehead, and you reach out to run your fingers through it, pulling him in for a cute little kiss.

“I was waiting for you,” you jump on your own defense between soft giggles.

“Yeah?” he coaxes, voice low, textured with something dangerous and tender all at once. “You were waiting for me, baby? Not another man?”

“Nuh-uh, only you, Coach,” you hum contentedly, flashing a playful smile.

Because you know what you do to him every time you say that. It's like letting the monster out, unleashing chaos.

His touch lingers on the bare skin of your plump thigh, warm and gentle, sending little shivers down your spine and ripples of pleasure rush to your core, you're already pulsating for him, pussy wet and ready, greedy. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles down at you... it makes your heart do crazy things in your chest. 

You tilt your head up, brushing your lips against his jaw in a soft, teasing kiss.

“Steve...” you call out to him with a disapproving and whiny pitch in your voice, your fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer. The silk robe slips off your shoulder, and you feel the cool air kiss your skin, but his warmth chases it away quick as he kiss the skin.

“So what’s that look for, huh?” he teases as he kiss down from your neck to your collarbone, gradually removing the silky clothing from his path. His voice is all husky now, like he knows exactly what you're thinking and what you want.

In a moment, he is kissing your hand with appreciation, specifically your ring finger, where the small diamond sparkles under the afternoon sun.

You bite your lip, feeling that familiar heat pooling low in your belly. “Just... missed you today, baby” 

Your words come out all soft and needy, with a little pout that always gets him. 

To tell the truth, you've been horny all day. You blame the havoc of hormonal swings that have been going through your body since you moved into the house. You've been horny every day since then. Seeing Steve blossom into the shared life you have is truly a privilege, and you feel so lucky to have him as your boyfriend—your fiancée.

Of course, the fact that he's the coach of the school fills you with pride. However, witnessing his body develop into a more domesticated, husband-like form, has you truly reduced to a beast in heat. His hair is still just as glorious, with its iconic tousle, his eyes just as warm, his shoulders just as broad, but the muscles of his teenage self have smoothed out, his pecs are bigger than before, his abs mellowed into a small belly.

He looks so… big, so husband, so daddy.

Naturally, Steve with a dad bod has you drooling at the mouth.

And he knows the power he has over you, how he practically has you crawling behind him.

He cups your face, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Aw, yeah? Missed me a lot?”

Before you can even formulate an answer, he's kissing you—deep and slow, like he's pouring all his love into it. His tongue slips past your lips, tasting you, claiming you, and you melt against him with a tiny whimper. Because his kisses always make your knees go all wobbly!

You tug at his shirt, wanting skin on skin, and he helps right away, yanking it over his head in one smooth motion and the whistle goes away too. His chest is right there, all beefy and warm from the sun, and all for you to touch and kiss and bite, so you press your palms flat against it, feeling his heartbeat race under your touch. 

“God, you're so beautiful,” he groans, his mouth moving back down to your neck, sucking lightly on that spot that makes you gasp. 

“You are,” you correct him, biting your lower lip and arching your back for him.

Steve huffs out a quiet laugh against your skin, warm breath raising goosebumps along your neck. You're always saying that. That he's beautiful, that he's sexy, that he's everything you could ever want.

And he keeps giggling and blushing like a teenager in love every time you say it.

The robe falls open a little more, and his hand dips right inside, cupping your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it's hard and aching. 

“Mmm, Steve... please,” you whine, arching into him. Your fingers fumble with his belt, desperate to feel him, all of him.

He chuckles low against your skin, nipping gently. “So greedy, sweetheart. Patience, we have all night.” 

But he's just as eager and horny, helping you undo his jeans, shoving them down with his boxers. His cock springs free, already painfully hard and thick, leaking at the tip. You wrap your hand around it, stroking slowly once, and twice.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he hisses, hips bucking into your touch.

One hand he needs to pull the robe off your shoulders completely, letting it pool onto the bed under you. Now you're in nothing but that tiny piece of lingerie, and his eyes rake over you like you're the only thing in the world. 

Steve takes a moment to gaze down at you in awe. That piece of lingerie is gorgeous because you are wearing it, because it is clinging to your body so perfectly, and that color works deliciously with your skin.

“Thinking about getting home. About you,” he confesses against your skin. “All day”

You smile, breathless. “You’re home now.”

He looks at you, all warmth and possession, and leans down until his lips brush your ear. 

“Not yet,” he whispers, and the word vibrates through you.

His mouth leaving a trail of fire down your neck, over your collarbone, to the swell of your breasts. He pushes the lace cup down with his chin, and his hot, wet mouth closes over your nipple.

You cry out, back arching off the bed. The sensation is electric, sharp and sweet, pulling a direct line of heat to your core. He sucks, hard, then soothes with his tongue, his teeth grazing lightly. He moves to the other breast, giving it the same devastating attention, while his hand palms the first, squeezing gently.

Steve spends a long time worshiping your skin, his mouth finding the sensitive dip of your hip bone, the soft curve of your belly, adorned with delicate lacy details, whispering sweet praises into your skin, like he has a whole special language just for your body.

You do understand some of them.

“So pretty for me. My girl, my pretty girl.”

His hips grind against yours, the thick, hard head of his cock rubbing against the damp fabric of your panties.

“Stevie, please,” you beg, voice ragged and trembling with arousal.

“I know, baby,” he coos, understanding you perfectly. His hand slips between your bodies, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties. He finds your pussy, slick and hot, already dripping wet for him. A low, approving sound rumbles in his chest. “God, you’re so wet. All for me, mhm?”

He strokes you, once, twice, his thumb circling your clit with just the right pressure. You whimper, your hips lifting off the bed, chasing after his touch. But he pulls his hand away, leaving you empty and fucking throbbing.

“Baby” you whine out, pouting.

He smiles, a dark, tender thing. He hooks his fingers into your panties and pulls them down your legs, tossing them aside. He shifts back, kneeling between your thighs, and just looks. His gaze is worshipful, hungry.

He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then another, higher. And another, a little bit higher. His breath ghosts over your folds, and you tremble under him.

“Gotta taste you,” he says, voice thick with eagerness. “I have to prep you first, pretty girl, you know that”

And then his mouth is on you.

You gasp, fingers flying to his hair and pulling hit. His tongue is broad and flat, licking a slow, thorough stripe from your entrance all over to your clit. 

Steve moans against you, the vibration making you jerk and arch so prettily for him. He settles in, feasting on you like you’re his last meal. His tongue flicks and swirls and rolls, his lips suck, his stubble of days scratches deliciously against your tender flesh.

The pleasure builds fast, coiling tight in your belly. You’re babbling, words that make no sense, just his name and yes and more. He slides two fingers inside you alongside his expert tongue, curling them, finding that perfect spot on the spongy walls inside you as his mouth works your clit.

It’s too much. He's too much! 

You cum with a sharp cry, hips lifting off the bed, your body clenching and splashing around his fingers as waves of pure, blinding pleasure crash through you. He gentles his mouth, licking you through it, drinking every drop you give him, until you’re a trembling, boneless heap on the sheets.

He crawls back up your body like a pirate does with a treasure map, recognizing, admiring, appreciating, kissing your stomach, your breasts, your lips. You can taste yourself on him, salty and sweet, and it’s the most yummy thing.

“Ready for me?” he whispers, his cock nudging against your soaked entrance, leaking and throbbing urgently for your attention.

You nod, breathless. “Always.”

He pushes in.

Slow. So impossibly slow. You feel every inch, the thick stretch, the perfect fullness as he sinks deep, deep, until his hips are flush with yours. His tummy presses down on you, his big, beefy biceps bulging on either side of your head. 

He is so big—every part of him. It's overwhelming. He's everywhere. In every breath you take, in every beat of your heart, in every inch of his heavy build molding itself deep into your gut, in every blink of your eyes, there he is. Glorious, heavenly, out of this world.

Steve stills, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours. His breath comes in ragged puffs and when you squeeze around his length, you get a hoarse whimper out of the depths of his throat.

“Fuck,” he breathes out shakily. “You feel… perfect. You take me so good, honey. S-so good”

He begins to move. Long, deep, measured strokes that make you see stars every time he bottoms out. 

It’s definitely not frantic. It’s making love. 

Every thrust is a promise, a reclamation, a craving for life. His eyes never leave yours, dark brown pools of adoration and longing.

Steve soon shifts his angle slightly, and on the next thrust, he hits a spot that makes you sob and whine under him. Pleasure, sharp and bright, sparks through your veins.

“Right there,” you moan. “Oh, Steve, right there!”

You feel another orgasm building, deeper this time, starting in your toes and climbing up your spine. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper, taking him so profoundly that you feel you must be meant to take him. 

“There you go, baby,” he coaxes, voice strained with emotion. You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. His face is flushed, sweat beading on his temple. 

His voice lowers filthily and you love it when he gets like that. Pussy drunk, filthy, wild.

“All day thinking about this— filling you up. Gonna give you all my babies, huh—” Steve is babbling out words, the first ones that cross his mind blurred by pleasure and by you, drooling on your skin as he speaks. “You're gonna take my babies, right, sweetheart? That way everyone will know once and for all who you belong to, right? Mhm! You'll look so beautiful pregnant, fuck—” One of his hands moves up to your face, wiping a tear from your cheek. “Oh—oh, you'll be the prettiest momma”

His words push you over the edge. Your second orgasm hits, a rolling, endless wave that brings a scream from your throat. Your inner walls clamp around him, milking him dry, and with a broken shout, he soon follows you.

His thrusts become short, desperate jerks as he pours himself into you, hot and so fucking deep. You feel every pulse, every shudder of his release, your pussy swallows every spurt of semen that comes out of his cock, so much of it that it soon overflows, spilling a few globs of the hot milky liquid out.

Steve collapses on top of you, his full weight a welcome anchor, his face buried in your neck.

Afterwards, he doesn’t pull away. His cock stays plugged balls deep inside you as he lays on top of you, pressing a lazy kiss into your neck. 

“Do you think it worked?” he asks after a brief moment of silence, snuggled up against your body, his lips pressing gentle kisses to your chest and one of his hands caressing your stomach affectionately.

“I’d be surprised if it didn’t work, honey,” you reply with a lazy smile on your lips, your eyes still closed as you focus on stroking his hair.

Steve lets out a breathy, contented hum, the sound vibrating through your chest. He shifts just enough to prop himself up on his elbows, looking down at you with a gaze so thick with affection it’s almost overwhelming.

His face is flushed, his hair a catastrophic mess of brown waves, and his eyes are shining with a quiet, domestic sort of triumph.

“Patrick fucking Miller,” he spits out the name as if it were deadly poison, humorless and rolling his eyes. “I’d like to see his face when he realizes I’m the one who knocked you up."