#domestic squabbles

[hitlikehammers]

Starring Steve Harrington in a Leading Role as 'Mom Husband Disappointed in YOU PERSONALLY'

rating: teen tags: future fic, established relationship, Eddie commits a capital offense, bitchy Steve strikes again, Eddie loves him so much, married steddie, rockstar husbands ✨for @hbyrde36 at my BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST for the prompt: “I assume I deserve this, but can you tell me why you want to kill me this time?”

One look is all it really takes.

As in: Eddie doesn’t have to do more than pulls his key from the lock, kick the door closed behind him, open his mouth to spill his usual litany of adorations, multiple at least tenfold for the uncommon days—plural, two whole days—spent apart from his husband, from his beloved, from less his other half and more his entire whole, the soul and breath of him, the rhythm-maker of his heart entire, his—

Eddie gets so far as turning to start on spilling all the love he’s had to bottle up because Steve wasn’t next to him for a whole 63 hours, and voicemails are fine, phone calls are nice, texts are a gift from god but also the bane of his existence because they’re starting to pretend—as in, the wider-world-of-they—but they’re starting to pretend they’re sufficient, that they’re enough and, and…

Fucking never.

But Eddie’s been gone—label negotiations, shit they were digging their heels on being in person for no goddamn reason, as proven by the actual days in person—and now, as he takes in his husband at the island, sat on one of the bar stools, those legs danged low and crossed at the ankles, the fucking socks on him tantalizing, good goddamn, but he’s leans back from the waist and those…those arms. Crossed over his chest.

That’s never meant anything other than judgement. Than what the kids used to term Mom’s disappointed in you personally.

Except Steve is his partner. His til-death-do-us-part-and-then-some. And…

Oh. Oh, he’s got his glasses on when he’s not working—Eddie scans the countertop for papers, nothing obvious—which only enhances the effect of the look; gives it a whole new dimension of accusation as he looks over the tops of the frames and lets his gaze fucking…just sear into Eddie. Uncompromising. No mercy.

Eddie will not try to pretend his doesn’t fucking gulp, the violent motion of his throat around it undoubtedly obvious: but Steve doesn’t budge. Doesn’t grant him quarter.

Fuck. Right. Okay.

Diffusion tactics.

“I assume I deserve this,” Eddie starts, pitches the words to land gentle because, well, they’re honest. Steve’s a fucking drama queen, absolutely: but it’s never been without his reasons, and Eddie loves him with his everything, right, so he respects his reasons.

Even when they’re fucking absurd.

But there’s no evidence here yet either way, about the what, about the cause of the sheer fucking inferno blazing in those eyes, the venom that Eddie can almost taste in the air that seeps from his lips for just breathing, that could probably land a death blow on its own when he actually deigns to speak, and so: yeah.

Eddie does assume he deserves it, one way or another. Because Steve loves him with his everything, too, like for like and then some, both ways and all ways. So he doesn’t react quite like this; doesn’t pull this sort of shit lightly.

“But” and he’s still picking his way through the minefield, takes only the barest step closer palms open near his hips, plaintive-like as he…yeah, kinda he pleads:

“Can you tell me why you want to kill me this time?”

Steve—okay, so, in any other circumstance: the sounds Steve makes, the guttural fucking growl that rumbles from his chest: that’d be hot as shit.

In fact it’s still hot as shit, but: not the time. Because those eyes are still…like, third-degree-burn to the touch.

“You lied.”

Eddie blinks, because…he hears Steve’s words. They’re very simple, and very clear.

But they’re nonsensical.

“What?”

“You lied to me.” And then Steve’s grabbing something behind him, flinging it closer to where Eddie stands at the end of the island and oh, okay, a magazine and—

Oh. Oh.

Okay.

A magazine with Eddie on the front with some…

Wait.

“Stevie,” and Eddie’s not gonna be placating, he’s not going to be evasive or dismissive—Steve knows the other party hanging off Eddie in the photo, it’s Lance, the band’s media intern who has a not-so-secret infatuation with Steve of all people, and is about to be replace by a kid, Marvin maybe, in his senior year in PR and media studies who, honestly, Eddie suspects may have an even bigger infatuation with his husband, but that’s not a concern for right now; the concern for right now is that Steve’s looking at Eddie, glancing every half-second toward the photo again and looking…somewhere between enraged and betrayed.

And it’s so fucking sour in Eddie’s chest, god: he needs to fix it. He’s just, he’s got to fic it but—

He doesn’t know what the hell it even is.

“Baby, I would never, not ever lie to you. And you know Lance,” Eddie tries to point out soothing, rational, no hint of patronizing because he wouldn’t, he would never, especially not like this.

Steve’s scowl just depends, and he taps hard enough on the page to leave an indent, to score a line with his nail.

Right. Okay.

“Stevie—“

“You,” and Steve leans toward the far side, grabs something out of view before he points the something at Eddie almost threateningly:

“Lied.”

“Steve,” and Eddie’s eyeing the instrument leveled at him carefully before he notes what it actually is: a pen.

A red pen and oh. His Stevie. Always the consummate educator.

And Steve does the growling thing again, probably because Eddie’s face goes lax, all soft and shit in the face of Steve being all competent in his profession in the small, sweet ways that pop up all the time, that Eddie loves so deep, so hard, but then Steve’s scribbling and oh, it’s one of the fancy pens, more like a marker that’s bright against the magazine gloss and he’s circling, he’s making arrows, there’s no rhyme or reason—

“Lies!” Steve declares, definitive as he throws down the pen and shoves the marked-up photo toward Eddie so it’s skids across the island, so Eddie has to catch it, and he squint a second, tries to make sense of what’s circled over and again and—

“You fucking promised me,” and Steve…yeah.

Steve sounds like Mom’s disappointed in him personally to a fucking T.

But so much worse again: because this is his husband.

“I did—“

“No!” Steve cuts him off; “no more bullshit,” and oh, fuck, Eddie knows it’s serious, that word’s got a premium still in their household, and then Steve’s leaning closer pointing forcefully at the image, at the red-ringed offenders:

“That,” Steve snarls; “is fucking frizz, Edward,” and Steve looks up at him, again, some combination of livid and offended on principle; “why did I even bother to pack you the conditioner that you swore to me you’d use—“

“I did, Stevie!” Eddie protests, pleads for leniancy; “I did, I swear, my bag got delayed the first night, it was only that first night that I showered without it,” and fuck, how’d they even get that photo, how the fuck did it get to print and in Steve’s hands even, how—

“You cannot maintain your curl pattern without proper maintenance,” Steve grits through clenched teeth and yes, yes: Eddie knows. He’s learned, and learned again, and learned some more, for…for years.

He kinda loves it. But he’ll never love making his husband sad. So, because he’s skilled on his feet, he tries for a compromise. A Hail-Mary, in sports ball speak—or he thinks that’s the right thing to call it.

“Maybe you can salvage it,” Eddie proposes, damn-near begs, and yeah, yes: he means that wholehearted, too; “maybe we can go upstairs and you can save it?”

And Eddie’s not even trying to make his eyes big, knows Steve’s largely immune unless he chooses not to be, but his eyes are stinging for how wade they’re stretched, and he holds the gaze, stares pitifully at Steve, pleads so hard, and then—

Steve smacks Eddie’s forearm with the rolled-up magazine and makes to leave the room; Eddie just stands, a little frozen, a little bewildered, until—

“Well, get your ass up here,” he hears from the staircase; “you better hope I can work miracles, dipshit, else your photocalls are gonna be stringy and sad all goddamn week.”

And Eddie grins because like: he knows his husband—and the man himself is already kind of a miracle.

So miracle working is kinda his area of expertise.

permanent tag list (comment to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 

[avatarfan11]

Korra: So that’s my plan.

Asami: Are you alright with constructive criticism? I don’t want to sound mean. *looking questionable*

Korra: No, go ahead, I want to hear it.

Asami: It fucking sucks.

Korra: *Waving her arms* That’s not constructive criticism.

[adobedragon]

Poke, poke, poke. Lance poked his finger against Pidge's cheek.

"Say it. Say, 'Lance had a great idea.'"

"Noooo!"

Poke, poke, poke. "Say it. "Lance is a genius.'"

"Never."

[vortship]

kicks the door in. "WHO ATE MY FUCKING MUFFIN?!"

Hal glanced up with a sheepish expression. There wasn't any use lying, especially when she knew Earth Dad never stayed mad at her for too long.

"Um... in my defense, I didn't know it was your muffin. I thought it was just a sad, frostingless cupcake."

[alanshee-keeper-of-realms]

To @debtheslytherinfan if you notice your view count keeps jumping up on a03

A03 has now told me I've read your fanfic 146 times, that's how much I love it. Do I know that's concerning yes but I have nothing better to do and I am a speed reader I love the big fanfics and am a sucker for Domestic stuff there's so few good long fanfics of it that I cling to this

Also Frick off on the pairings to everyone else, I'm not here for the ships just the domestic fluffiness. Istg if I get dragged into that fight one more time I will whip out the block button.

[kringelorde]

people are so excessively scared of geese smfh there’s that poll going around of “would you rather fight a pissed off raccoon with crazy eyes or a pissed off canadian goose”

like... raccoons? one of the top rabies vector, sharp teeth, tiny fucking hands that are dexterous enough to get into fucking anything and anywhere? they eat kittens. they’re persistent and intelligent. why the fuck would you ever choose that over the weenie hut jr swan that you can punt like a football and can’t reach higher than your knees efficiently. they’re not even in the same league.

I’ve been pinched in the legs by domestic geese (which are far bigger than their wild counterparts) while feeding them on the shore and I just kicked them away. they were trembling with fear the entire time anyway bc I am easily at least 2 to 3 times the height of a fully upright gander. they have necks like lawn hoses. if you can hold their wings to their body, they’re easy enough to restrain. c’mon fellas

[kwadlayns]

i just realized charles had unknowingly picked up the correct parasitics book they'll eventually need later on while he and edwin were having their funny domestic squabble

[starcrossed-lov3rz]

The Vow Spoken Through Time - Part 8

Daemon x Rhaenyra x Wife!Reader

Series: Series Masterlist

Warnings: MDNI, canon-typical violence, threats, yelling, plot

Tags: marriage, poly relationship, Daemon being hopelessly in love with his wives, Queen!Rhaenyra

Words: 1.8K

Description: Y/N is having a rough morning. She's fired. She's hungover. She's in a stranger's bed. She's waking up in a new world? She's married?!

Rhaenyra and Daemon's day started normal. Waking up next to their darling wife before tending to their duties. The difference? Their wife is speaking in riddles and has no memories of them.

Check out more works in my Masterlist!

“Feet together, shoulders back, strong core, and breathe.” Your eyes are closed, finding a moment of peace as you lead your sons through your morning yoga routine.

“This is supposed to be a challenge?”

“That doesn’t sound like breathing Luke,” you laugh, opening your eyes to see the bored look on Luke and Joffrey’s faces. Jace, to his credit, was trying to concentrate. “Inhale as you reach to the sky,” you say as you bring your arms up, “and exhale as you go down.” Exhaling, you fold your body down, hands touching the floor. You lead them through a sun salutation before indulging them in some more complicated poses and sequences.

“Our next pose is Crow, just remember to breathe and find your center.” You demonstrate before walking them through the steps. Yoga was one of the few things about your old life that you refused to give up. Even if you weren’t the most active person before waking up here, yoga and meditation were a huge part of your daily routine. Within a week of being here, you found yourself slipping out of bed early to find a quiet balcony.

The boys had stumbled across your morning flow today, and insisted on giving it a try. It was rare that you shared pieces of your past life with anyone, but their enthusiasm was infectious.

“Ah-” Joffrey lost his balance, falling to the ground in a fit of giggles. 

“So close sweet boy,” you laugh. “Try it again, you almost had it-”

“Mom look, I’m doing it!” 

You gasp, “Luke, that’s it! Hold it, and bre-”

“Breathe! I know!” Luke’s arms are shaking with the effort to keep the position, but you’re impressed he managed to get it on the first try.

Jace leans over and nudges Luke. Luke topples over with a yelp. “Mom, Jace pushed me!”

You struggle to keep from laughing at the petty squabble. It felt so normal and domestic to see them arguing like siblings back home. “Jace, apologize to your brother.” 

Jace grins, “Sorry Luke. Maybe next time if you breathe better you might not fall.”

Joffrey stumbles over to drop into your lap. You stand, propping him on your hip. “On that note my loves, I will be taking Joffrey to the nursery.” You kiss Jace and Luke on the forehead. “You two go freshen up, I will see you both for breakfast.”

They both give you a hug before disappearing. You turn to leave the balcony and nearly run into someone. “That was quite the sight, issa jorrāelagon,” Rhaenyra says, holding out her hands to steady you and Joffrey. [my love]

“Issa Dāria,” you greet her with a kiss. “Were you spying on us?” [My Queen]

“Me, a spy? Never.” Nyra laughs. “I have people for that.” She ruffles Joffrey’s hair before offering her your arm. You slide your free hand into the crook of her elbow, careful to make sure you had a good grip on Joffrey. “Daemon and I are both aware of your little morning ritual.”

“Oh?”

“How do you think no servants disturb you?” Rhaenyra teases. “Daemon and I take turns watching from the stairwell and keeping the staff away.”

Your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “How long have you both known?”

“Since the first time.” 

“Maybe next time you can join,” you say, bumping your shoulder into Nyra’s gently.

“And forfeit the opportunity to watch your as-”

“Child present!” you hiss, interrupting your wife. Nyra laughs, shaking her head. You both walk the rest of the way to the nursery in silence, listening to Joffrey recount his brave efforts to master the Crow Pose. You drop him at the nursery, asking the maids to help him freshen up while you and Rhaenyra check in on little Aegon and Viserys.

“My queen,” you both stand up as a knight rushes into the room with a bow. “My queen, there is something that requires your immediate attention.”

“Whatever is the matter that it cannot wait until the small council meeting?” Rhaenyra asked. 

“There is a woman demanding an audience.”

“I am holding court later today, she can seek an audience then.”

“She claims knowledge of Lady Y/N’s illness.” 

Your gaze snaps to Rhaenyra and you lock eyes. There is a silent understanding before Nyra answers. “Bring her to the small council chambers and send for Daemon.”

You ask the maids to inform the boys of your absence at breakfast and follow Nyra to the small council chambers. “Do you think she really has an answer?”

“I do not wish to raise any of our hopes,” Rhaenyra sighed. 

Nyra stands by the windows, arms crossed as she waits. You pace the chambers. This was highly unusual. Maesters had come from all corners of the realm to offer their ‘wisdom’ and ‘cures’ for your ailment. This was certainly the first time that someone had showed up to demand an audience with the queen herself. The smallfolk and nobles were not privy to your condition. The maesters were summoned under vague direction and sworn to secrecy.

“Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.” 

Rhaenyra’s kingsguard stand at attention as the doors open to reveal a woman dressed in white, led by Nyra’s knights. You furrow your brows, unable to get a good glimpse of the woman through her cloak. The woman bows deeply to Rhaenyra, then to you. “Your highness. Lady Y/n.”

“And who might you be?” Rhaenyra asks, suspicion lacing her voice.

The woman nods, pulling back the hood of her cloak to reveal a curtain of white hair and cloudy white eyes. She looked young, but there was something about her that felt ancient. “I am no one.” She responds. “I carry a message from the gods.”

Rhaenyra scoffs, “you must be joking. You enter my keep, demand an audience, refuse to identify yourself, and claim to be a messenger of the gods?”

“You need not my name, only hear my words.”

“Which gods bade you come here?”

“The same gods you swore your marital oaths before.” Despite her cloudy eyes, the woman seemed to stare into Nyra. 

“What message do you bring? What do you know of my illness?” You ask, desperate for an answer.

“The worlds-walker speaks?” she grins. 

“Y/n,” Nyra warns. 

“Just tell me your message.”

“Your answers lie in the godswood.” The woman reaches into her pocket, and the knights immediately reach for their swords. Rhaenyra raises her hand, silently ordering them to hold. The woman pulls a necklace from her pocket. 

“Where did you get that?” you ask, voice shaking. “That’s the necklace my gra-”

“Your grandmother gave you on your fifteenth name day,” the woman finishes. She steps forward, placing the chain in your hand, clasping her hands over yours. “You must return to your world, worlds-walker.”

“Watch your words witch,” Nyra says coldly, stepping between you and the woman.

“How do you know of my world?” You ignore Rhaenyra, stepping away to face the woman.

“We are all pieces of ourselves.”

“What does that even mean?” 

“Words alone will not satisfy you. Go to the godswood, worlds-walker.” 

The doors to the small council chambers fling open as Daemon storms in. The woman in white grins. “The dragons circle today.”

“They will do more than circle if you do not explain yourself,” Rhaenyra growls. “Stop speaking in riddles and tell us what awaits us in the godswood.”

“Answers.”

“Daemon.” Rhaenyra doesn’t have to say more than his name before Daemon holds a sword to the woman in white’s throat. “What is in the godswood.”

“Wait!” you put your hand over Daemon’s, trying to pull the sword from the woman’s throat. “What are you doing, she knows what happened to me.”

“The witch speaks in riddles and lies,” Rhaenyra hisses. “Worlds-walkers are a story for children.”

“And dragons are no more than a fairy tale in my world.” You plead. “Please, how did I get here? What is a worlds-walker?”

“Go to the godswood.” The woman in white closes her eyes and pulls her hood up. Everyone in the room gasps as the cloak hits the ground, empty. The woman in white had disappeared, leaving only her cloak behind.

Rhaenyra sighs, “first maesters, and now we are so desperate as to listen to the words of witches?”

“Search the castle for the witch,” Daemon orders the knights.

“My love, I am so sorry for giving you false hope,” Rhaenyra apologizes, pulling you into a side hug. 

You shrug off her hug. “Where is the godswood?”

Rhaenyra and Daemon exchange a glance. “You are not seriously listening to the ramblings of a mad witch?”

“Either take me to the godswood, or I will find it myself.” You clench your necklace tightly. “You still do not believe me? Rhaenyra, she knew who I was, who I really am.”

“You are not a worlds-walker, Y/n!” You flinch slightly as Rhaenyra raises her voice. Her eyes are wide, “My love, I-” Rhaenyra reaches out to grab your hand, but you pull away. She sighs, rubbing her temples. “If it will help us forget this morning, we will visit the godswood.”

“Lead the way.”

Daemon and Rhaenyra walk in front of you in utter silence. Two kingsguard follow the three of you from a distance. Daemon leads the way as you walk through unfamiliar corridors to a garden. The trees sway lightly in the wind, their red leaves dancing.

“This is it?” you ask. “This is the godswood?”

Rhaenyra nods, “we will take you to the heart tree and back. If you do not find your answers here, we will never speak of this again.”

You follow them into the trees. It is eerily quiet in the godswood. The wind makes no noise as it moves through the leaves and branches. No noise of birds chirping or singing. You shiver, hugging your arms to your body to chase away the chill. “Daemon, can I have your cloak?” You look up to see that Daemon and Nyra are gone.

“Daemon?!” You yell. “Rhaenyra?!” There is no response. You turn behind you. The kingsguard are gone as well. “This isn’t funny!”

The hair on your neck stands up, and you whip around to see the woman in white.

“Welcome worlds-walker.”

NOTE: Hey gang! Guess who is finally getting some plot (ya'll). Sorry for the late chapter, I had a Pride parade on Sunday. Please enjoy the SHAMELESS fluff and slice of life before I give you all a very stereotypical vague witch to facilitate the plot. Also, there are some ppl who I can’t tag, so if you’re listed on the tag list and not receiving notifications, please check that your settings are on “allow this blog to appear in search results” or message me if I messed up the spelling! ~ Lacie <3

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[hardly-an-escape]

ooh you know what I'd love for BuckTommy in S8? totally meaningless high stakes domestic squabbles.

I want one of them to be a handwash everything guy and one of them to be a yeah the knives go in the dishwasher guy. I want one of them to insist on shoes off in the house and one of them to not give a shit. I want one of them to have the fanciest home espresso machine on the planet and the other one to drink those fuckin nescafé instant coffee packets.

I want them to arrive at a family dinner, eyes blazing, barely speaking to one another, and then ten minutes into the episode we learn that they've actually been arguing about whether you should get dressed sock-sock-shoe-shoe or sock-shoe-sock-shoe. or whether the end of the toilet paper roll goes over or under.

[screamingmandrakes]

part of the reason i ship tomarry is because i feel like they would spend 99% of their time squabbling like an old couple. and not even just normal squabbling, imagine them having a little domestic argument and tom sets the house on fire. that’s the appeal. i do not care for tender tomarry. i love when they make each other worse 🫶🏻

[suempu]

Hey there :3 I hope you’re having a good day and schools going good for ya!

If you can, can you please write a story about CHILCHUCK 🗣️ and a gender neutral reader spending some quality time together?

Please I love that midget so much it actually hurts 💀

Live laugh love chucklefuck ‼️‼️

anon, your energy is so funny LMAO i love it

post canon + chilly chuckles has facial hair + literally no plot, just some domestic nothingness

<3

chilchuck sighs in content, one hand gripping a bottle of alcohol as he leans back at his chair. you were currently next to him, sitting on your own chair while you snack on some nuts and fruit.

“you look like you’re on retirement.” snickering before cozying up on your seat, the sounds of crickets and owl noises in the background as you and chilchuck spend your night out on the porch together.

he brings the bottle to his lips, too tired to actually get mad at your comment. “after the day i’ve had, i’d appreciate it if you’d just let me rest.”

“no energy left in you, old man?”

chilchuck groans, “i swear—“

“i’m kidding!” chuckling, you stand from your seat and squeeze yourself right by him.

you remember 2 weeks ago when you’ve just moved in, the both of you arguing over where to place the furniture, squabbling over decor, and the different kinds of paint jobs. it made you smile, the excitement of living with your lover kept you high and happy.

“couldn’t you have stayed right where you were?” grumbles chilchuck, currently squashed between the arm chair and your body, head lazily leaning on to your chest. with the way you’re both seated, he’s almost on your lap.

“come on, i missed you.” you mumble, taking his free hand and rubbing your thumb on his palm. “you’re the perfect cuddle size.”

he sighs, accepting his fate before drinking the last drop of alcohol. “i’m past my prime. i can’t believe i’m getting sleepy from a beer.”

“you’ve had at least 3… and you were already exhausted to begin with. i think it’s time for bed.” you hum, continuing your caresses on his arm while picking the remaining dried fruits and nuts with your other hand.

“yeah, but before that, i need to wash my face and.. maybe shave.” his head lays on your shoulder, closing his eyes in content at the touches. “the hair on my chin is getting a bit itchy.”

“but i like your lil beard.” you pout.

chilchuck places the empty bottle down beside his feet, huffing as he settled himself on your lap again. “i’ll keep the stubble. for you, i guess. cause apparently your needs far outweigh my comfortability.” he snickers sarcastically.

“i’ll help you out with it.”

“you almost cut yourself last week when you did, i’d rather not.”

“third time’s a charm.” you say smugly.

“i’ve lost count on how many “third times” you’ve had.”

[rambunctioustoons]

domestic au but Sun won't stop causing petty squabbles with the neighbors (taking up both washing machines and not coming to get your clothes is apartment rulebreaking. and just rude!!)

[actual-changeling]

okay but is anyone going to write a fic set post s3 where they get into a domestic squabble/fight and aziraphale gets so heated he says "i need some air", grabs his coat, and leaves. crowley watches him disappear through the front door, listens to the bang as it falls shut just a tiny bit louder than usual, and suddenly he is paralysed with fear—terrified down to his bones that aziraphale won't come back.

because he left before, didn't he? they fought, he left, and then crowley was alone on earth, his chest empty and aching where his angels had been. for days, weeks, months, he waited. for him to come back. to apologize. waiting for the day he woke up and everything turned out to be a horrible dream.

a part of feels like sinking to the floor and sobbing, another wants to run after him, to scream and beg and plead, don't leave, please. don't leave me again.

instead, crowley goes numb, his movements distant and robotic as he picks up aziraphale's discarded sweatshirt from the couch, pulls it on, and blindly finds his way back to their bedroom. he is good at waiting, isn't he, always has been. he curls up on top of the covers with his nose buried in the collar, inhaling the lingering scent of him, and does exactly that—he waits.

when aziraphale returns almost an hour later, freezing and missing crowley terribly, the argument already forgotten and forgiven, he finds him fast asleep and clutching a bunched up blanket to his chest. he kicks off his shoes and hangs up his coat before slowly sitting down beside him, reaching out to gently tuck back some stray strands of hair.

his fingertips brush along his jaw and crowley snaps awake, blinking heavily and looking at him as if he can't quite believe what he is seeing.

"you came back?"

"of course i did."

aziraphale frowns, not quite understanding why he would even ask that question in the first place, let alone with an almost timid tone, his voice trembling. ten seconds later, everything slots into place.

"oh, crowley, i'm sorry, i didn't mean-"

"'s fine, angel," crowley interrupts, awkwardly shuffling upwards until his head finds a pillow to rest on. all curled up and alone he looks small, fragile, and aziraphale chases after him immediately, settling down next to him before wrapping him in a tight embrace.

"i won't leave you. ever. i promise."

crowley sighs and cuddles closer, his eyes already fluttering shut again. they should talk about all of this, but not now, not with both of them content to stay right where they are and doze the afternoon away.

they have all the time in the world.

so is anyone going to write this properly or-

[bangaveragewhitewine]

baby, be my valentine

dad!Steve Harrington x mom!Reader

February, 2000

A snapshot of Saturday morning with the Harrington's. In between toddler-cuddles and sister-squabbles, Steve has a very important question for you ❤️

In the same universe as soft slow, morning glow & hearts are wild creatures

Word Count: 5.3K

Contents: Sickeningly romantic loverboy Steve Harrington comes with his own warning. Heavy flirting and some kisses. Steve refers to you as his wife / Mrs Harrington. Parental domesticity - Steve & Reader have two kids. Valentine's vibes.

Author's Note: After a very frustrating few months, I found some sort of spark to write something and here we are. Easing myself back in gently, with my preferred brand of cosy domesticity and warmth. Proof-read by @specialagentmonkey. Dividers by @saradika-graphics.

Steve Harrington was a romantic. 

He was a self-proclaimed hopeless romantic until he met you. After you smiled at him that first night almost ten years ago everything felt possible and full of hope. 

Steve was easy to love, despite years of believing that he was not, that he would never be loved by someone in the way he wanted and needed. You were careful with his battered and bruised heart, nursed it back to health with your sweet kisses and gentle hands.

After years together, marriage and a house and children, you could swear on it that Steve had only got more romantic and loving with age. You were sure that he spoke each of the love languages fluently. 

Physical touch was doled out in spades; he liked to have you always within reach of him, a hand in your back pocket (and yours in his ideally), gentle fingers brushing back your hair or beneath your chin so he could gaze at your pretty face. The weight of his hand against your hip, squeezing as he passed you by in the kitchen, or your shoulders when he knew you were feeling tired and tense; Steve’s touch gave you butterflies every time. 

You never had to de-ice your car on cold mornings or fill the tank with gas. He had mastered the perfect bubble bath, filled deep and topped with fluffy bubbles - Steve knew too when to leave you alone in there with your book and a candle and silence, and when you wanted to rest back against his chest and talk about nothing and everything until your fingers and toes were pruny. 

There was never a need to wonder whether he loved you; he told you every day. How beautiful you were, how proud he was of you. You both made sure your daughters knew too, that they were adored, that they were beautiful and smart and good. Steve listened too, remembered the little things you told him and loved seeing your eyes sparkle when he recalled something tiny from weeks ago. He surprised you with flowers and always bought the chips you liked when he was doing the groceries.

You were Steve Harrington’s favourite person and he was yours too. There was plenty of love to give and room in your hearts to spare when your girls came along, Beth and then Ava. Steve had learned a lot from his own Dad, though it took him a few tough years to figure it out. He learned how not to cherish your wife, how to make your kid feel totally worthless in a house full of valuable, breakable things. He promised himself that he would never be his father, do everything his father had failed to do. In a way, that is what made him the good man he was today. You were proud to be Mrs Steve Harrington. 

February in Chicago was freezing, but the promise of brighter warmer days kept you going. On the Saturday before the big day, you wake to an empty bed. It was not unusual with Steve, who spent the mornings in the den with the girls and Saturday morning cartoons. Instead of his messy bedhead on the pillow beside yours was a bright red envelope. It took your sleepy brain a few moments to figure it out, but once you did you felt warm all over with butterflies swirling in your belly like a schoolgirl. 

The card inside shows Snoopy holding a big red heart. When you open it, in Steve’s neat writing, is a simple question: 

Will you be my Valentine?  Steve x

You press your smiling face into his pillow, breathing in your husband's musky, lovely scent. An almost overwhelming wave of cuteness aggression crashes over you and you want to squeeze Steve until he wheeze-laughs and says something gorgeously charming like ‘down, girl’ or calls you his strong lady, asks for tickets to the gun show. 

Nine Valentine's Days together and he always found a cute way to ask you before the day even arrived. Pre-kids there were flowers delivered to your workplace, a question whispered in between kisses lavished on your neck in the months counting down to your wedding. When Beth was born, he dressed her in a pink babygrow with red hearts and enlisted her cuteness to ask the question. When she got a bit bigger, sentient enough to understand it a little more, he would ask her too. When Ava joined the Harrington Crew, Steve found himself with three Valentines and felt like the luckiest man alive. 

You think about the card and present tucked away in your closet to give him on Monday morning, a red envelope with your heart poured out inside that matched the nicely wrapped new Chicago Blackhawks jersey (with two tickets tucked in the collar). You cannot wait to see his face when he opens it.

Thinking about him, Steve’s smile, makes you miss him next to you. It makes you miss the warmth and weight of his arms made stronger from carrying car seats and all of the grocery bags in one go. Beth’s giggly voice travels upstairs, barely breaching the bedroom door but it is enough to make you ache with the need for morning hugs and toddler kisses. 

You tiptoe downstairs to the den to find Steve in his comfy throne (his spot on the sofa, the left side near the side table with the lamp and TV remote and his coffee cup gone cold). He is watching the girls watch Bear in the Big Blue House. Ava is mesmerised by it, standing with one little hand on his pyjama pantsed knee and the other clutching a bottle. Beth sits cross-legged a few feet away, a little smile on her face because she loves Bear. Steve is just glad it’s not Barney & Friends - he loathes Barney and his friends.

You take a mental snapshot before Ava’s bat-like hearing makes her head whip around to spot you at the door. Her face melts into a beaming baby-grin (a toddler now, but she’s still got that gorgeous baby fat that you want to bite and nuzzle). 

Babbling ‘Mama!’ she bee-lines to you and you wrap her to your chest with equal eagerness. 

“Good morning, little one,” you whisper to her cheek, kissing it over and over as her dimples pop. Beth’s arms wind around your legs, head against your hip (she should never be this tall!) and you drop one hand to stroke her bed-head hair. “Hi Betty Bee.” 

When you look at Steve he has a soft smile on his lips, everything is okay in the world now that you are here. 

It makes your heart skip a beat. You feel just the same, everything is good. The washing machine has been acting up and your back still aches from when you slipped on ice after Christmas. There was a lice outbreak at Steve’s school in January and you both still get the phantom itches and have to check the girl's hair, just in case. But everything is good. 

“Morning, handsome.”

“Hi, pretty lady.” 

You can see that simmering excitement, barely contained beneath the surface. Did you see the card? Do you still think it’s sweet? Are you going to be his Valentine? You make him feel seventeen and stupid again.

Beth is chatting at breakneck speed and pulling you over to sit on the sofa as Ava’s curious hand wiggles beneath your fluffy robe. 

“Mama! Tut-ter!” she says, pointing at the worried blue mouse, “Oh no!” 

“Bear said I smell like warm an’ cosy, like a good sleep! I did have a good sleep!” Beth says, tapping your knees with busy fingers. 

“Really? Let me smell...” Your Bear-like sniffing sends her into a fit of giggles when your breath tickles her neck, leaning against her Dad’s legs to evade the ticklish feeling. 

“Mm, so warm and cosy,” you agree, before giving Ava the same treatment. 

Steve feels a little bit like he might die if he does not get a kiss from you soon. Ava’s honey-blonde head blocks his way in for a smooch against your cheek, resting against your shoulder with a sigh too big for a two-year-old. 

When Beth is distracted again by the television, you turn your body a little to look at Steve. He’s already looking at you and it feels like the sun is shining on your face, bright gold in the grey chill of the morning. 

“Hi.” Your voice is a whisper across the youngest Harrington’s head. “Miss you.” 

“Miss you,” Steve says, inching closer to you out of the warm Dad-shaped groove he has made on the sofa. His arm brings you and Ava closer, manoeuvring a kiss to your lips without squishing the little one too much. She complains anyway against your neck and earns herself a kiss from Steve as an apology.

“Kiss ‘gen, Dada!” she insists, and is only placated when her cheek is well and truly smooched. Her laughter tickles your neck until it is damp with baby breath. 

He is still wondering whether you saw the card, feels a little silly asking in case you think he is corny or in case it had slipped beneath the duvet after he left. 

“Up long?” you ask when she settles again, eyes on the screen. It’s barely after eight-thirty but his coffee is long gone cold. 

“Ava woke at seven fifteen-ish, woke up Beth. I might have promised breakfast out if they were quiet and not wake you…” Steve watches your face for a reaction, hoping the lure of waffles and breakfast that you don’t need to do dishes after can win you over to his well-meaning-but-morally-skewed bribery. The creases from the pillow on your cheek make him feel fond and he chances another kiss over Ava’s head, pressed right on the pillow-marks. Her cute scowl is worth it to see your smile. 

“I think that’s a great idea. Brains and beauty, huh? I’m a lucky woman, Harrington.”

That makes Steve smile, a shade of coy confidence. “Well, I’m a lucky guy, Harrington.” 

There is a fluttering feeling deep in your chest, close to where Ava is stroking the collar of your pyjama shirt, but this is one hundred per cent Steve. Beside you, he basks in his own loved-up feeling, that sense of warmth and calm.

“Lucky us.” You turn and land a quick kiss on the side of his head. “Can we go to Bakehouse?” You are already dreaming of waffles with chocolate chips and strawberries, and crispy hashbrowns and coffee.

“S’a date,” he says, winking. 

Ava turns in your lap, her eyes are back on the screen but yours are fixed on Steve, the smile lines around his eyes and the tired crescents beneath them, the stubble on his cheeks.

“I got your card.”

Steve’s heartbeat triples at your coy little smile. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. You’ve got yourself a Valentine, handsome.” 

Steve beams brighter than the sun. “Cool. Prepare to get totally loved-on.”

Laughter bubbles from your lips, a giddy feeling vibrating through your bones. “Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. You’re getting so spoiled, baby.” Plain and simple; the sky is blue and the grass is green, and Steve Harrington is a romantic motherfucker.

You cannot stop smiling, cheeks aching as Steve presses one more lingering kiss there. “Okay, Cassanova. I’m ready to be ‘sooo spoiled’.”

He runs a hand through his messy hair, feeling all too pleased with himself. 

“You wanna grab a shower before we go?” you ask. 

His smile melts into a weak laugh, “Oh, you wound me, babe.” Steve lolls his head the other way to pantomime sniffing himself. “Not bad…” 

“I like it when you’re musky.” You really do. You can’t make the most of it anymore, but when he comes back from a run or coaching basketball at the school, there’s something about sweaty pink-cheeked Steve that makes you feel a little bit crazy. 

“But,” you continue, “if you go while they’re distracted, you can shower in peace.” Your fingers brush through the crushed baby curls at the back of Ava’s head, tickling the back of her neck until she squirms and cuddles back against you. 

Steve softens and rests his head against the couch. “God, I love you.”

“Mm, I know. Love you more, Valentine.” You accept another smiley kiss and pout for one more because you need it.

“Go shower, stink. Bear will call you out if you stay for the next episode.” 

You smirk when he rolls his eye at you, murmuring a playful ‘alright, jeezusss’ before squeezing Ava’s foot gently. His knees crack and Steve barely suppresses an all-out Dad Groan when he stands. Pinching your lips together barely contains your laughter, hidden against your toddler’s head when Steve narrows his eyes at you. 

He is barely out of the room when you slide into the warm groove left behind, bringing cuddly Ava with you as Beth sings the ‘Goodbye Song’ as a duet with Bear. She joins you on the sofa and wiggles right up under your arm as the credits and advertisements roll. 

“Mommy, are we going out for breakfast? Daddy said we might, if we were little angels.” Beth asks, resting her bony chin against your arm to look at you. 

“Mmm, you’re always a little angel, Bethie.” You wink at her and watch her glow. “And Ava, my angel baby.”

“So can we?” she pushes, cherubic and smart. 

“I think we can, sweetie.” 

Beth wiggles with excitement before whispering to Ava, “We did it! Angel-girls!”

The thrill is contagious and Ava is wiggly with excitement. “Yay!” 

They make you dissolve into a puddle of sugar with how sweet they are. You pull yourself together and crystallise back into Mom. 

“Are you going to help me decorate for Valentine's later? We can do some crafts, hang up some bunting...” You watch Beth’s eyes go wide. 

“Yes! I love Vanentimes!” she insists. “Miss Janine says, she says we making cards! On Monday. Van-en-time cards!”

With wide-eyed Mom-enthusiasm, you match her smile. “That’s so fun. Who are you going to give your card to? Do you know who you want to ask to be your Valentine?” 

Beth considers it as you brush her hair away from her face. “Ummm. Maybeeee… Daddy!” Her smile shows off her perfectly milk-white baby teeth

Heart warmed, you stroke her soft cheek. “I think Daddy would be over the moon if you asked him to be your Valentine, babe.” 

“I’ll ask Daddy, and Ava will ask you!” she decides. 

Ava backs her up, “Yah, Mama!”

Beth giggles and tucks herself against you to watch the screen again. You don’t miss how she whisper-sings along to the theme song and looks up at you to make sure you’re watching too. 

The need for coffee is pushed way back in favour of soaking up the quality time with your girls, how cuddly they are with you on this cold February morning. It’s cosy and perfect until it’s not, but those ten minutes were pretty great. Beth wants her turn sitting on your lap and Ava is absolutely not having it. It’s nice to be the centre of attention, but not when the two warring parties are tearful and are still learning how to process their emotions and words. 

“Beth, please don’t push your sister. That’s really not kind,” you say. The smile-ache feels long gone and instead, that line between your brows feels deeper than the Grand Canyon. 

“Ava hitted me! I did’in push her!” Her voice wobbles dangerously as she insists that she was pushing her sister's hand away. “I- I- wanna sit o-on you, Mommy!”

Ava is all out crying against your chest and your soothing circling back rub is doing nothing to comfort her upset. 

There’s a particular heartache you feel when they both need your attention. It tugs hard that knot of anxiety in your chest; tears you can fix but you can’t figure out how to fix it fast enough. You want to gather them both into your lap at once and hold them both, but their pushing hands and kicking feet aimed at each other (sister-enemy #1) do you no favours. 

You carefully lift Ava and place her down in your seat, keeping enough distance between them in case of any rogue pinching fingers. You kneel in front of the sofa, knees cushioned by the rug. “Listen to Mommy, please. Let’s take one big deep breath in, okay? All of us. Hold my hands.”

Their little hands slip into yours, both copying you to take deep shuddering breaths. It works better with Beth because she is older, a little wiser, she knows the drill. But Ava sniffles her way through it like a trooper, doing her best. 

“Now we blow out the air.” Your big breath tickles their faces and makes the wispy hair around their faces fly, pulling tiny scrunch-nosed smiles onto their faces. 

“Good. One more big big big breath.” Your thumb rubs tiny circles on their hands as you help them (and yourself) settle the big feelings. “You girls just got a bit frustrated, that’s okay. I love having you both sitting with me, it’s my favourite thing ever. But we have to be gentle and careful with each other.” 

Sweet kisses are pressed to their hands in turn. “There’s plenty of Mommy to go around, no need to fight over me. I love you both so much.” You open your arms to gather them up, a few final tears soaked up by your robe. 

Beth’s adjustment to Big Sister after two years of being the sole focus of your attention had gone mostly okay, but as Ava got bigger you could see the moments when she struggled with it all. You and Steve always made sure she got quality time with each of you, but it was still tricky at times.

“Are we all okay now?” you ask, watching them nod tentatively, “It’s okay if we’re not, we can take more deep breaths...” Neither girl lets go but you manage to move your head back to look at their pretty faces. 

Ava rubs at her cheek and rests her head on you with another big sigh. “Oh-kay, Mama.” 

“I’m okay, Mommy,” Beth promises. 

You kiss their cheeks and tap your fingers on their backs. “If you’re okay, Mommy is okay too.” Neither really want to let go of you and that’s okay. 

“Let’s go get dressed and we can start our day. Daddy’s going to bring us for breakfast. That’s going to be so nice, huh?” you suggest, hoping to distract and cheer them up. “I want waffles and some yummy strawberries.” 

Steve’s voice at the door makes you startle. 

“Good choice, Mama.” He has a small frown between his brows, a towel around his bare shoulders with his jeans already on. His hair is combed-through and damp, and his gold chain glints around his neck and collarbones. You don’t let yourself look at the happy trail disappearing beyond his waistband, though it is tempting. 

“We okay?” he checks, looking at you. He brings with him an energy that makes the tense room feel light again. It is something you can’t quite name but it feels like everything will be okay again.

“We’re okay. Just a sister squabble. We took some breaths, didn’t we?” 

Steve had introduced that trick - his school councillor certification came in handy at home too. You could simply not do this without him. 

“Yeah, we okay now.” Beth hugs Ava, a little for show but mainly because she loves her. “Sorry Ava. I did’in mean to push you, I jus’ wanted to sit with Mommy too.”

Ava is too little to get it but she likes hugs and she loves Beth so she baby-hugs her right back. 

“I get it. I like sitting with Mommy as well,” Steve says, hands on his hips. “So are you three going to get this show on the road or am I going for breakfast all by myself?” 

You try to hide your smile in your robe but he knows that the Dad-routine really does it for you. “You going to ask us if we’re ‘ready to rock and roll’ next, Stevie?”

“Maybe, guess you’ll have to wait and see.” Steve winks at you as the girls hop off the sofa and make their way towards him. “You need a diaper change, and you need a hairbrush.” His finger points at Ava, then Beth as they hold hands now. 

“And you.” You are next. “Need a kiss.” 

Beth laughs when you fake-swoon and Ava squeals in delight at your silliness.

“How romantic. Come sweep me off my feet, I think I’m stuck.” You could haul yourself up from the floor but Steve’s warm hands do a much better job of helping you up. He sneaks an ass-grab while delivering the kiss you need so badly. With giggly kids present, you can only let it linger for a few moments but it is enough for now. 

“My hero.” He earns himself one more peck before you pat his behind toward the stairs, the girls already waiting by the stair gate like the little angels they are. You spare him from your chilly fingers on his bare back as you follow them up - he always finds a way to get you back for that. 

Steve scoops Ava up to change her diaper and dress her in something warm for the day and you shepherd Beth to pick an outfit. You can hear him wrangling her to lie down on her changing mat as you make Beth’s bed and pick up the fallen teddies from the floor. 

“What are we thinking, babe? Maybe your pink cords and a sweater? Or…?” you suggest, turning to see her looking at her own reflection in the mirror on her wardrobe door. 

Your arms wrap around her as she leans back into your legs, sharing a cheesy smile in the mirror. “You’re so pretty, Betty.” 

“I look like you!” she beams, tilting her head back to look at you. The angle can’t be any good, she’s seeing the worst angle of your chin and right up your nose, but to Beth you are beautiful. “Daddy says I’m mini-Mommy, coz our nose and smile is the same!” 

You cannot deny that Beth is more you than Steve in looks but she is bless with a beauty mark or two like his, you think they make her extra gorgeous.

“Let’s see?” For a few moments, you smile and pull faces with each other in the mirror before agreeing she is definitely all you. It’s quiet(er) down the hall, meaning Ava has stopped evading Steve and the clean diaper. 

The pink cords are set aside for preschool on Monday and you dress Beth in a long-sleeve striped turtle-neck top and dungarees to keep the warmth in. She agrees to a woolly cardigan over-top and her snow boots, but only if her hair is half up with her butterfly clips - it’s a fair deal and she looks adorable. Her fifth birthday looms a few months away and you can already feel your heart aching in the best way. 

“Beth Harrington, you are so gorgeous,” you say as she swishes her arms and bounces happily in front of the mirror again. She has his sparkle in her eyes that is so Steve, it hits you right in the chest. “Will you help me pick out my clothes, please? You’re a fashion expert.”

Nodding eagerly, Beth runs at you for a hug as tight as her little arms can manage. “Yep! We could match, Mommy! Please?!” 

When she looks at you like that, with huge brown Bambi-eyes like her Dad, it’s hard to say no. Not that you want to. 

“I’d love that.” You stand from her bed and feel her little hand slip into yours as you make your way down the hall to your bedroom. 

It smells like Steve after his shower, warm and fresh with a hint of something spicy. He has made the bed and your Valentine's card is pride of place next to a photo of the girls on your bedside table. Beth zeroes in on it as you pick out some underwear and switch the bathroom fan off. 

“Mommy, a card! Look!” she gasps. 

“It’s from Daddy, he asked me to be his Valentine.” 

You watch her eyes go wide before her face splits into a smile. “Daddy looooves you!”

“He does. And I loooooove him.” You wiggle your shoulders for emphasis, pulling more delighted laughter from your eldest. 

While she strokes the sparkly heart on the card in awe, you pull on your jeans and pick out some top and cardigan options for Beth to choose from. You forgo the butterfly clips, but once you are dressed, you and your Mini-Me match quite nicely. 

“Woah. Too much beauty in this room, I gotta leave,” Steve says when he joins you, pretending to shield his eyes. 

Ava runs past you and climbs on the bed with Beth, a tornado in cosy pink and lilac leggings and a matching fleecy top. Her hair is in pigtails and you swear she ran right out of a JCPenney catalogue. 

Steve is still in just his jeans, his hair mostly dry now after taking on Ava’s morning routine which primarily consists of her evading capture until she is limp with laughter. 

With the girls minorly distracted, you take the chance to give Steve that appreciative once over. His tummy has this beautiful pudge that you want to press your face against and bite. He filled out a little more over the years, much to his initial disdain, though he did not care so much when he realised just how much you loved those softer edges.

Steve watches you do it, feels the warmth of your gaze roll over his body. You could surely be the death of him, making him boil over or implode with desire.

“Hey, handsome. Are you going to get this show on the road or are we going to have to do this breakfast thing all by ourselves?” You feel smug, parroting his words back at him and catching him off-guard. 

His tongue presses into his cheek as he shakes his head, smiling down at his own socked feet. “You…” Steve shakes his head again. His hands feel huge on your hips when he squeezes past you, closer than he needs to be but still not close enough. 

There’s a heat in his stare as he pulls a navy Henley on, then a sweater. He dials it down quickly when Beth remembers out loud the time when she saw Uncle Dusty’s cat throw up a hairball last summer. 

You try not to laugh at her totally out-of-the-blue memory but nod along anyway, remind her how gross it was. “Good remembering, Betty.” 

“Meee-ow!” Ava chirps next to her, proud of herself when she makes everyone laugh. “Cat!”

Steve cups her little face. “You’re a funny bunny, Ava.” He squishes her cheeks and rests a kiss on her forehead before giving Beth the same attention. “And you! Best remember-er in this house, huh? I had forgotten all about that.”

He had actively tried to forget it. It ruled out ever getting a cat, especially when Ava tried to touch said hairball. The memory makes him shudder.

Once everyone has brushed their teeth and used the bathroom, you bundle everyone up in coats and hats and gloves and pack into the car. It’s freezing cold but a morning out of the house is what you all need. A morning with no breakfast to make or dishes to wash is worth braving the cold for. 

You feel toasty enough with your three favourite people, and Steve could swear that your hand on his thigh as he drives is all he needs to keep him warm. 

“You look extra gorgeous today,” he says when you stop at a red light, the girls happily distracted in the backseat. 

“Laying it on thick today.” Steve is easy to tease. “I already said I’d be your Valentine, Stevie. Consider me buttered up.” You squeeze his leg through the denim to lock in your promise. 

“I’m being serious,” he insists. “Besides, I know you’re all loved up with me. You want to kiss me sooo bad.” His voice is like a song as he returns your teasing.

“Oh, I do. I even wrote your name in a heart in my diary.” 

“Cute.” His teeth shine when he grins, glancing over at you before starting to drive again. “You want to go on a date with me? Dinner and some drinks. How ‘bout it. I’ll be real good to you, baby. Have you home by ten…”

Your laugh echoes around the car, cutting over the car radio quietly playing the Backstreet Boys and Lauryn Hill. 

“What’s funny? Did Daddy make a joke?” Beth asks, wanting to be in on it immediately. “Tell me!”

She is quick, but Steve matches her. “What do you call a cat with a lemon in its mouth?”

You don’t know where he pulls them from, it’s probably deep in the Dad Manual, but it keeps the older girl thinking for a moment. 

“Um… Lemony?”

He catches her eye in the rearview. “A sour puss.” 

There’s a beat as she makes sense of it in her head, and you’re already groan-laughing when Beth gets it and joins in. She sets her sister off and Steve feels like King of the Car. 

“Thanks guys, I’m here all week.”

Beth is tickled-pink and repeats the joke again for Ava who doesn’t get the word play yet but laughs when her sister cracks up again. 

“So?” Steve asks you. 

“Your jokes suck.” 

“You laughed.”

“It was at your expense.”

He winces at that. “You’ve been spending too much time with Robin.”

With a coy smile, you counter, “You can take it, big boy.”

You watch his cheeks flush minutely, just like you knew they would. “And Eddie. Stop that,” he mutters, “Anyway. You never answered my question.”

Steve looks at you expectantly as he waits for a car to reverse out of a space right outside the cafe. If it wasn’t sub-zero you could have walked. Maybe in the spring. 

“Ohhh.” Your smile is coy as you remember his pitch for your date. “Okay, Romeo. You can take me out.”

He grins, trying not to look quite so pleased with himself and failing miserably. “Cool. Tonight at eight. Rob’s taking the girls.”

As Steve swings the car into the parking spot, you sit in stunned silence. He switches the engine off and watches you for a moment before concern drips in, second-guessing himself. 

“Is that okay…?” 

“You… Steve, of course it’s okay!” You unclip your seatbelt to hug him across the gear stick, peppering kisses to his stubbly cheek. “Thank you,” you murmur. You can feel the relieved sigh leave his body as you crush him in a hug.

Steve steals a kiss from your lips. “Don’t thank me. I promised to spoil you.”

He earns himself another kiss with his sweet thoughtfulness as the girls begin to complain a little - Beth because she’s ‘sooooo hungry’ and wants to know why you’re kissing again, and Ava because she is sick of her car seat and simply must be freed from it. 

“Alright, alright, we’re getting out now. Hold your horses, ladies,” Steve says, faux exasperation on his face that softens when he looks at your smiling face again. 

“I love you, Steve Harrington,” you say, warmed from the inside out with pure adoration.

Even though the girls are getting whingey, and it’s starting to snow again and the cafe looks busy, you could not be happier or more content with life than you are right now. Everything is good.

Steve unclips his seat belt and zips his jacket all the way up. He winks at you before opening the door to start the endeavour of freeing the girls from the back seat with you and making sure they don’t slip on the ice, or wander in front of a car, or get too loud in the cafe. 

“Love you more, Mrs Harrington.”

Thank you for reading! Reblogs, likes and comments are absolutely adored and cherished ❤️ 

[peppermintquartz]

BuckTommy and the Non-Zero Chances of:

a shared meal

helicopter date

regular date

re-do of first date

handholding

flower-giving

soft kiss

thirsty kiss

tired kiss

'come back to me' kiss

domestic chores

domestic squabbles

innuendos while looking at each other Like That

innuendos while not around each other

helicopter keychain

locker door photos

swapped clothing

sweaty workouts together

sweaty "workouts" together (tastefully implied)

dorky jokes

dirty jokes

dad jokes

Clipboard Buck meeting Type-A Tommy

Clipboard Buck kissing Type-A Tommy

fingers brushing over an injury

fingers brushing through curls

fingers tangled in curls

NOW IN BINGO FORM

[omegaovaries]

prompt: favorites (unnamed Whitebeard pirate 2nd person pov)

ao3

There’s no denying that Ace has become one of everyone’s favorite sibling in the short time he’s been with the Whitebeard’s. It’s hard not to get caught up in Ace’s orbit. Everyone is literally drawn to his flames like moths. He makes you feel just as warm as his flames do, his eyes and smile and attention all on you. 

Well, that’s until his brothers show up. 

Once either or both of them are present, good luck trying to get a sliver of Ace’s attention back. You’ve never seen Ace with hearts in his eyes (you didn’t think he was the type) until he looks at his brothers. You don’t know which is worse, having Mugiwara or the Revolutionary visiting. 

Actually, you do know which is worse: both of them visiting simultaneously. 

It’s ridiculous how much the two spoil and baby Mugiwara like he isn’t an Emperor in his own right. Both Ace and the Revolutionary tease and tickle and touch him so affectionately. They’re drawn to Mugiwara like flowers to the sun and Mugiwara is drawn to them like a cat looking for pats in turn. 

It’s disgustingly domestic how the blond brother will wipe excess food off Mugiwara’s mouth or cradle him close like a baby, tucking his head into the crook of his neck and teasingly rocking back and forth, Mugiwara’s delighted giggles echoing across the deck of the Moby. Ace looks at them like they’re all his dreams come true. 

He lets Mugiwara steal food right off his plate and lets the Revolutionary drink straight from his cup. Sure Ace complains about it, even starts squabbles that have them all rolling in an indecipherable pile of flailing limbs about it, but he never stops them.  

You try not to feel jealous about it.