coach!steve but also beefy!steve….. watching him out there on the field in those tight pants and his tummy bulging a little over his belt…. it starts to get hot the sun beating down on him and he takes off his windbreaker and it turns into a gun show. his biceps nearly busting the seams of his shirt when he claps as one of the boys hits a home run. 😵💫
i'm v tipsy now so i hope u enjoy :>
cw: weight mention, food mention, husky!steve (450 words, slightly suggestive, mdni!)
Responsibility looks good on Steve.
And while he’s always been a responsible guy — you would argue he tended to be the most responsible one in your ragtag group of monster fighters, bar only Hopper — you know, too, that not many of your comrades took him very seriously in spite of the fact that he risked life and limb for years.
So, really, watching him settle, watching him grow—
It’s a treat to see the man he’s been flourish into something new. Something, somehow, better than the person he was before.
A man who wears dependability on his sleeve, who radiates trustworthiness in every step, who knows what horrors that the world truly holds but still sees the good in it anyway.
A man who, through shedding his last remnants of teenage youth, has ripened into a new body with stronger muscles and, to your delight, added weight.
(After all, it’s much easier to remember three square meals a day when you don’t have the threat of being eaten by a Demogorgon hanging over your head.)
It’s only a natural part of life, honestly, to gain weight, and it makes you sick in the head over just how good it looks on him.
Especially when, through the kindness of your heart, you volunteer to run the water cooler during a Saturday practice in the early summer, the sun beating down on your neck as you pass out little paper cups to little bumbling five year olds who haven’t quite mastered the art of having functional limbs.
And like everything in life, Steve takes it all in stride.
He’s across the field, talking to a parent, and you look up just in time to see him yank his windbreaker off, one beefy arm coming up to wipe the sweat off his forehead as he continues chattering on.
It’s unfair, really, how attractive he is.
(Especially when the sleeves of his slightly-too-tight polo squeeze his biceps in a lascivious manner.)
Your stomach flips unceremoniously, and you stare far too long, forgetting the horde of kids all vying for more water, until one of them knocks their elbow into your thigh to grab your attention once more.
The rest of practice goes slowly.
For you, anyway, when the only thing you can focus on is the soft pudge of his tummy pressing against the edge of his shirt, how it feels to have his thick arms slung over your shoulders.
So you watch.
And you wait.
And when practice finally ends, and Steve meets your eye, you’re not shocked to see his neck turn red at the look you give him.
Because you have many, many plans for where exactly those arms can go once the two of you get home.
