#hes cranky because he hasn't gotten his dinner yet

[luveline]

hi hi honey! so i sent this request before but tumblrs been eating my asks so i’m gonna send it again,

i’m the person who asked about the kisses before dinner universe and so since u said u hadn’t gotten any requests for it i wanted to send u one! u mentioned that it was quite nerve wracking the first time reader got pregnant so maybe u could do a blurb where steve’s just comforting her and reassuring her during that time? if u want something more simple, it could just be a small blurb of how their night goes when reader comes home from work or something? ty and i hope tumblr actually ate my request and i’m not bombarding u with this again :(have a good day lovely ❤️

i love kisses before dinner i wanna write a thousand blurbs for them, thank you for requesting! here's steve and u when ur pregnant the first time with avery <3 fem!pregnant!reader

You're more young than you'd planned to be, the first time. Young and terrified.

Steve knows how scared you are, and though he hasn't suggested anything again since the first time you'd made up your mind, you know that any path you take is the one he wants to take with you. Having his support makes it easier, but it certainly doesn't make it easy.

Pregnancy is terrifying. It can make you so sick. It can kill you. So while it's beautiful, and Steve insists it's doing numbers for your complexion, it's gruelling.

You're not even that pregnant yet and still you're fucking tired.

"Stevie?" you call, or try to, voice hoarse with fatigue.

He emerges rather than answer, arms open wide and waiting. "Hey, sweetheart."

And that's new. Steve has always been a "babe" or "baby" kind of guy. Your pregnancy has made him soft.

He's careful not to press against your stomach though it doesn't hurt even slightly when he does, abdomen held away from the small swell of your bump as he gets his arms under your armpits, hands rubbing over your shoulder blades. "Hello," he says sweetly, kissing your cheeks, your chin. "I missed you so much." He hesitates for a second, and then he lets a hand slide between your bodies.

You lean back to let him know it's okay.

"And you," he adds, palm flat over your stomach, "I missed you, too."

"I don't feel very well."

He nods. "Alright. Come and sit down."

That's another one of his insistences. Total, awful honesty. Pregnancy is full of problems, like morning sickness and heartburn and back ache and nausea and headaches. It leaves you stressed and exhausted, and Steve had made it very clear that any complaining was welcomed.

You know, in your heart of hearts, that he's more excited for this baby than you are. He's terrified, too, but he's brimming with joy half the time, so eager to meet whoever it is that comes out on the other side. And you know he feels indebted to you, though he shouldn't. You want this baby a lot.

But Steve aches for them. He's gonna be a great dad.

Right now, he needs to be an amazing boyfriend almost husband.

I don't want a pregnancy proposal, you'd said.

His guilty smile had given him away fast. I want to marry you.

And I want to marry you, Stevie, I do. But not because we're having a baby.

In your mind, he's not your husband or your boyfriend, he's your Steve, as silly as it sounds. He's your everything. He's the only thing getting you through this.

Steve sits you down on a cushion in the kitchen and plants another kiss on top of your head. You haven't lost any mobility yet, but the pleasure of being cared for so deeply makes it hard to turn him down when he guides you around like this. Though, sometimes, when you're cranky, you complain about being babied. He takes it all in stride.

He cracks open a cold bottle of water and gives it to you. Then he turns back to the chopping board next to the stove and finishes what he'd been doing before you arrived, funnelling slices fruit into the colander. He rinses it, and then he pours it into a bowl and puts it in front of you.

"You want peanut butter?" he asks, wrapping his arms slowly and carefully across your shoulders, chin hooked over your shoulder. "Honey? I could melt down some chocolate?"

You pick up a shimmering slice of watermelon and tip your head back to feed him.

"Salted caramel?" he asks as he chews.

You smile softly at him and lift your chin until he gets the memo, leaning down enough for you to kiss the side of his mouth.

"Stevie," you say, because he's so fucking lovely and you love him and not everything hurts when he's around, "I love you. I hope you know how much."

He blinks at you, swallowing hurriedly. "I know," he says.

"Okay, good."

"You think I don't know? Sweetheart, you're carying our kid."

"But if I weren't, I'd still love you this much."

He softens like taffy in the sun, rubbing the tip of his nose into your cheek adoringly. "If you weren't, I'd still love this much, too."

You breathe him in, the wet crush of watermelon between you and his lingering aftershave.

"But you are," he says eventually, kissing your cheek again and then pulling back. "So you better tell me if you want peanut butter of chocolate."

You choose. Steve is delighted, spoiling you with fruits and toppings and asking about work as he starts to make dinner instead. That's another conversation you've already had — he's still working now, but when the baby comes, he's gonna stay home even after maternity leave ends. And if you change your mind and want to stay home instead, that'll be okay too. He's a dream like that. Accommodating your every want and wish.

And so, he's teaching himself how to cook. It's more hit than miss, shockingly, and almost always nutritionally golden.

"Broccoli again?" you ask, trying to hide your amusement.

"Our munchkin's gonna be the healthiest kid ever. TV dinners are for schmucks."

You aren't sure he'll be saying that when he actually has a kid. "She won't be able to eat broccoli for the first six months."

"She wont," he agrees, clearly overjoyed at the idea of a little girl, "but when she can, she's gonna love it."

The fruit is nice and then not. You might've overindulged, or maybe your stomach's being sensitive, but suddenly it smells very strong and you have to push it away, keeling in on yourself with a sigh.

Steve doesn't fuss dramatically, but he does fuss, hand hesitant behind your shoulders.

"You need a bucket, baby?"

"No, I-" Saliva pools in your mouth. "Maybe."

He's swift, kneeling in front of you with the bucket positioned at your feet, hand sliding between your legs to find your hand where it's kneeding your aching stomach.

"She's bullying you, huh?" he asks sympathetically.

"She's barely the size of an apple," you moan, sweat prickling across your brow. "How can she do this to me?"

He strokes the inside of your hand with both thumbs. "She doesn't mean to."

You know that.

Eventually the sickness subsides. You don't throw up. Steve seems as happy as you do about this, kissing your hand with a very apologetic expression.

"I'm sorry," he says.

You lean back in your chair, back already aching, and pull him up onto his feet. If he's surprised at your strength he doesn't say anything, only closes you in again with his arms over your shoulders and his cheek pressed to your warm forehead.

"Don't be. We knew-" You laugh. "I knew this would be hard. I knew it would suck. But I want to do this with you."

"Even though you're scared," he murmurs.

"Even though I'm scared."

His hugs are a balm, always. You melt with relief the longer he holds you, listening to the pot simmering on the stove, lid rattling, steam whistling out of the gap. There's a fondness in his hands you find difficult to describe, devotion or something similar, big palms roving the lengths and slopes of your arms and back like you're made of the most precious thing on earth.

"I won't let anything happen to you."

That's sobering. You suppose you can fall into dramatics about it. Pregnancy is solemn, but it's also completely normal. Millions of people are pregnant right this second. You smile into his jaw, breath hot as you laugh.

"I know, baby," you say, more cheerful than you've sounded all night. "Promise."

He laughs too.

"My girl," he says, too much like the song. You're worried he's gonna start singing. Actually, you might like it.

"Can we listen to the radio?"

"Depends. Will you dance with me?"

You dance with him. You suppose it's a good idea to get all your dancing out now while you can, because in a month or two you'll have cankles, and not long after that you'll have your arms full. He pulls you in and spins you out, brown eyes dancing with a brand new happiness, silky hair falling in perfect layers either side.

"I hope she has your eyes," you say. The shape of them.

"I hope she's your carbon copy," he says, twirling you around, radio hiding the clumsy patter of your socked feet. "A mini you. God, what will I do then? I can barely say no to you."

"You never say no to me."

"Exactly."

He smiles so hard his lashes kiss in the corners, a pleased squinting grin. He can say what he likes. If she doesn't get his smile you'll riot.