#single dad!soap

[readwritealldayallnight]

Part 2 of ‘Bird Watching’ aka hot construction worker Simon Riley x single mom reader

In truth, lying was something that came second nature to Simon Riley

He’d lied to his teachers in school about where he got his bruises and burn marks from, if they bothered to ask

He’d lied to his brother while their parents argued on the other side of the wall, telling him that everything would be okay

He’d lied to his dad about where he’d been all night, telling him he was making less money at the butcher job than he really was

Whatever lie he had to give to get through the day, get through the night, get through his childhood, he would offer up without so much as batting an eye

And as he got older, he started stretching the truth for different reasons

Whatever his CO’s needed to hear from him in order to let him do his job, then he’d let them hear it, true or not

Whenever people started asking too many questions, well-equipped sarcasm became his right hand man in avoiding the truth

Lying had always come in handy for Simon, whether it was a life or death situation or goading Soap into believing an obviously fictitious story, carefully chosen words and slight exaggerations had never steered him wrong before

This one, however?

Well, as he sat in an all too colourful daycare office with murals of ducks and bunnies watching over his every move, Simon began to wonder if this was one lie he shouldn’t have told

But then again, he wasn’t telling this lie out of malice, or greed, or ill-intent… he was doing this for you

Because at the end of the day, he’d be lying to no one apart from himself if he were deny how often you popped into his head

Ever since he’d first squinted through the glaring sun and spotted you through that flimsy chain link fence, since he’d heard your voice over the rumble and roar of construction behind him, since he’d spent less than ten whole minutes talking to you, it was as though something within him had started brewing, started changing

Similar to two live wires coincidentally meeting until an inevitable spark shoots through the air, akin to a wind chime that hadn’t rang out in years suddenly beginning to sway to and fro with the promise of strong winds on the horizon, or closer yet to that moment Franklin’s key and kite were struck by lightning and history was forever changed, meeting you had stirred something loose within Simon

For too long now, Simon felt as though he were nothing more than a man stuck behind the wheel, lost in the storm on an infinite stretch of road that would never lead him towards home, no matter how many maps or compasses or tools he may have, he was on a steady cruise control headed nowhere

But since he’d met you, since he’d learned about the situation you were in, you and your sweet little baby bird just as alone as him and up against the world, since he’d made up his mind and decided he’d help you in whatever capacity you’d allow, it was almost as if the fog had cleared from his tired eyes, as though he was finally glancing up from the maps and realizing that ‘home’ could be down any stretch of road he took, if he was willing to take it

You’d stumbled into his life on an afternoon like any other, instantly making a home for yourself in the recesses of his brain by that very same evening

His eyes now were constantly glancing at the phone number now tacked onto his fridge as he went about his routine, your smile appearing behind his eyelids as he tried in vain to fall asleep at night, or the image of the soft swell of your cleavage bouncing as you’d walked away playing on a loop in his mind until he’d accept he wasn’t going to be getting any shut eye until he allowed his hands to slip beneath the blankets

His early mornings were no longer spent cursing having to be up before the sun, instead he found himself staring at the empty spot across from him at the table, wondering if you were awake too, perhaps trying to soothe a fussy baby back to sleep, or feeding her from the same swollen breasts Simon selfishly wished he could suckle from as well

Or were you still laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling as you too struggled to fall asleep? Too worried about finding your baby bird a spot somewhere before the money ran out? Stressing yourself over things that Simon wished he could fix for you? That he knew he could fix for you?

Less than 24 hours after your first conversation, Simon had hounded just about every living and breathing soul working on the construction site, determined to come up with at least some bit of information, someone to contact, something that would lead him in the right direction, but everyone seemed to be just as in the dark as he was

He wasn’t easily deterred however, nor was he lacking in imagination, when he decided he was unwilling to return to his flat that night without being at least one step closer to having a valid excuse for calling the number that called out to him each time he walked through his kitchen, and so if no one apart from Simon happened to notice that every single blueprint disappeared from the site that night, well that was just unfortunate wasn’t it?

He’d nearly missed the phone call he’d been hoping to get the next morning, preoccupied with having to change his bed sheets after having dreamt of you again all night as visions of your soft body had him feeling like a teenaged boy again, he managed to snag his phone just before the ringer ended

As expected, the site manager had been on the other line, practically beside himself as he told Simon how he’d arrived at the site and discovered that some troublesome teenagers must have snuck in during the night and done away with their building plans, asking Simon if he wouldn’t mind driving to the supervisor’s office and snagging some copies

Simon had already been halfway out the door before he’d hung up

The foreman’s office was cluttered beyond belief, disorganized chaos he sifted through carefully to find the one piece of information he needed, and there amongst the loose papers and pencils and measuring tapes, was the next piece to the puzzle he was slowly solving; the buyers contact information

The blueprints were delivered back to the site in no time, having been kept safe in the back of Simon’s truck the entire time, and a carefully concocted story about needing to run to grab supplies for the job was believed by everyone as the tall man climbed back in behind the wheel and weighed his options

He could reach out to you now, he’d been able to find you the owner’s name, along with an email and phone number to contact, the promise he’d made to you was done, his duty fulfilled

He knew he could call, and you’d be overjoyed to hear from him, that you would be eternally grateful for his help, thanking him endlessly… but that would be the end of it, wouldn’t it? His role would be fulfilled, his duty done and over with, no other valid excuses for you to keep him within your orbit, he’d just be a kind stranger who’d done you an incredibly kind favour

But as Simon pondered that choice, he wondered, why stop here?

You were alone with a newborn, stressed enough as it was, you didn’t need more work being added onto your already full plate, he may as well go the extra mile and help you out even more, right?

At least, that’s what Simon kept telling himself now, as he sat in a too small chair inside of a much too colourful office, avoiding the judgemental eyes of the painted woodland creatures staring at him, as though they knew what his intentions were, waiting for none other than the owner herself

“Hi there, sorry to have kept you waiting.” The woman says as she walks in, reaching a hand out to greet him as he stands to meet her halfway. “My assistant director says you’re here from our newest expansion? The East end location?”

“Yes ma’am, that’d be the one.” Simon offers politely, lowering himself back into the chair he hardly fits in once she rounds the desk and sits down as well. It would make sense that that was what her assistant has told her, as that was the story Simon had offered, reasoning that he had to speak with the owner about the project, not giving them much choice when he showed up to the office unannounced

“There aren’t any issues with construction so far, are there? We shouldn’t be expecting any delays?” She questions, getting straight to the point. Simon appreciates that she isn’t wasting any time with small talk, he also wants this done quick, he’s got a pretty bird waiting on him after all

“No ma’am. Everythin’s on track so far.” He replies easily, omitting the small hiccups she doesn’t need to know about. “M’afraid that’s not why I’m ‘ere today.”

“Well, what can I help you with then?” She questions, an over plucked brow raising as she tilts her head

“Had a few questions ‘bout the nursery we’re buildin’ for ya.”

“Oh, well- I believe the specifications were in the plans for-”

“Not so much ‘bout the building itself, ma’am.” He cuts her off, not unkindly, but clarifying his point. “Was more so wondering ‘bout- well, it’s a decently big plot o’ land we’re working on. How many lil’ ones are meant be in there?” He asks, trying his best to ease his way into this conversation

“Currently, plans are set to have two preschool classes, two toddlers classes, as well as an infant class. With full capacity we could have up to 88 children in the centre. Why are-”

“How many of those spots are for the babes?”

“We can have up to 10 infants at most.”

“Alrigh’, and how many o’ those spots are available?” He finally asks, cutting to the chase, ripping the bandaid off. Simon watches understanding cross her face and she lets out a small scoff, not rude, but more so like she knew she should have expected as much

“Ah, I see now.” She says with a knowing smile sent his way. “I appreciate your interest in our centre, and I understand nursery spots have been scarce in the city, but I have to be honest sir, we do have a wait list policy. There are numerous families already signed up wi-”

“It’s a little girl.” Simon cuts her off firmly this time, not wanting to entertain whatever rejection she was preparing to give him. No, he wouldn’t be leaving here without good news for you, he couldn’t do that. He ignores the painted birds mocking eyes as he steels himself as presses on. “She’s just a tiny thing. Eight weeks old, almost nine now I suppose. Her mum’s got to be back to work, hasn’t got much of a choice. There’s no family ‘round to help or nothin’. She needs this spot for her.”

The woman’s lips thin as she looks at him with understanding, with sympathy, none of the things Simon cares to see unless she’s nodding her head in agreement. He knew it might take a little push to convince whoever was behind the desk to do the right thing, to help him do right by his birdie and her baby bird, and so he’s not ashamed, nor above saying:

“I’ll make sure the job’s done early.”

At this, both her brows now shoot up, obvious intrigue now painted across her features as she blinks at him.

“Pardon?”

“I will see to it that everything is ready ahead of schedule. Personally. The sooner the place is open, the sooner you start making money, the sooner kids are in and sooner parents are happy. Everyone wins.”

Simon watches her ponders his words, gears turning in her head as she thinks it over. She could easily refute him, call him out for being out of line and send him on his way, tail tucked between his legs. But Simon knows a desperate person when he sees one, knows just what people want to hear, and so he isn’t surprised when she’s suddenly standing from her desk, crossing the room to shut the slightly ajar door, and he smiles to himself slightly, knowing he’s won.

“Now when you say ahead of schedule-”

“Could have ‘er ready by the end of the month. I’ll pull the strings, make it happen. You leave it to me and it’ll be done.” He answers easily, confidently, like there is no question in his mind he can offer up such promises and see them through to fruition. Hell, he’d build the entire goddamn thing by himself day and night if that’s what she wanted to hear, whatever would convince her

“I mean-” she says, letting out a long sigh as she leans back in her chair, opening up a drawer and rummaging through for something or another. “I can’t lie, this wouldn’t be the first time we’ve made exceptions for someone, especially one of our own builders.”

Simon nods along, pleased with the way this is going thus far, though things take an abrupt turn when she next says:

“I would still like to meet with your wife and daughter first, just to iron out the enrolment details and confirm whether this would be a good fit, but I can- I could potentially find a way to make this work.”

And Simon knows this is the moment where he’s supposed to correct her, where he’s supposed to speak up and clarify that no, you aren’t his wife and she isn’t his daughter, that she’s misunderstood him and that the two of you are strangers he met earlier this week- fuck he doesn’t even know your baby’s name yet for crying out loud- all of this could fall apart tremendously as soon as she asks even a single question that he won’t have the answer to, potentially jeopardizing this entire thing for you and her, and yet-

“Brilliant. The missus will be thrilled.”

Next chapter

Alrighty first off, apologies for the delay between posts, writers block and life in general are so ew, but we’re so back babe

All the love on the first part was so unexpected and so so appreciated!!! Y’all have me looking like this with every comment and reblog and tag-

Gonna strive to have part 3 out before the end of the weekend hopefully, don’t want to keep you all waiting so long again

- M 🫶🏻

[op1umeyes]

imagine ur bd being out of the picture and your little girl running up to si ☹️🤍

   “Daddy!”

   Simon looked down, eyes wide at the little girl wrapped around his right leg. Johnny eyed him carefully. He was thankful none of the other café patrons paid any mind. “I’m not your daddy, love,” Simon said. He tugged his leg away gently but the strength of a child is hard to match.

     “Annalise, get off that man,” a woman cried. In the blink of an eye, she knelt near Simon’s leg and tugged the child away.

     “Dada!” She shrieked. Annalise’s chubby hands reached out for Simon’s. “Is dada, mama!”

     You shook your head. “I- I’m so sorry, sir. Her dad was in the military. Anna thinks everyone in fatigues is dada… Do you want me to get either of you a coffee to pay you back? I’m truly sorry.”

     Soap discreetly elbowed Simon harshly in the side. “‘M quite alrigh’ lass. Simon, here, would take a coffee if your serious. If you’ll excuse me, I got to go. Bye, little lassie,” the Scot rushed, face lightinf up at the way Annalise giggled as his parting.

     Annalise was still cooing and reaching for Simon. You just shifted her on your hip and rubbed her back. “Simon, yeah?”

     “That’s me, ma’am,” Simon nodded, feeling suddenly extremely exposed without the balaclava he had decided not to wear for one single occasion. “You don’t have to pay me back-“

     “Nonsense. I would feel like a bad person if I just let my kid latch herself onto your left and call you dad and then just swoop her up and leave,” you said, reaching for your wallet before walking over to the ordering counter. “What can I get you?”

     Simon ordered a small of his usual, watching you pull the money from your wallet without glancing at how much it costed. He observed you in that split second- a beautiful baby girl on your hip who thought any man in camo was her dad. So he had been in the service… Simon watched you smile kindly at the teen behind the counter who fumbled for your change. You murmured a quiet, “It’s quite alright, take your time.” A well-mannered, well put-together individual who was also very attractive. Simon knew what Johnny was doing when he left and Simon would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought you were a catch.

     “I seriously appreciate the coffee, ma’am, but it was unnecessary,” Simon said as you tucked your change back and waited for the drink. “As long as the kid’s alrigh’, I don’t need anything in return.”

     You smiled. You smiled at Simon and he swore his cold heart jumped in his chest. Clearly your bright smile disarmed Annalise as much as Simon because she let out a bubbly laugh and put her hands on your cheek. “What if I said I wanted to?” You asked coyly.

     Simon watched Annalise play with a baby hair near your face. “Then I’d say it’d be a cruel thing to tell a gorgeous woman no.”

[strawberry-nugget]

To fill the empty spaces | 1

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugo x reader

Summary: Katsuki has been a single father for five years. After his wife died shorty after giving birth to their son, he's not sure he's ever going to find happiness in mundane things anymore. Cue you, the new, young teacher at his son's kindergarden, who seems to be taking the best care of his little guy.

-Or alternatively, karma is a quirkless bitch that will be biting Katsuki in the ass for his entire life, whether it's in him having a quirkless son, or falling for you, a younger woman, his son's teacher, who lost her quirk as a child before the Overhaul arc.

Tags: MDNI, Dilf!Bakugo, single dad!Bakugo, teacher!reader, slowburn, mutual pining, slice of life, fluff, eventual smut, ten year old age gap, Kirishima is a sunshine.

A/N: be kind to me i wrote this five years ago and never had the guts to post it until now :> this will be a 3 part story so let me know if you want to be tagged in the following parts

There's a strange deception about bliss and felicity in life and it is much like the analogy of the sun shining brighter after a storm, or the beautiful shades of the rainbow that cast over the sky. Happiness is supposed to be earned somehow, through hardships, or at least that's what everyone has always preached about. 

How time has supposedly promised to bring you what you want, how the universe makes sure to give you what you're in need of when you need it most. You're expected to survive through the worst storm, pouring rain and eardrum grazing blowing wind and you're told it'll be worth it. So when you see trees get blown onto the ground or when you see crushing waves that are a hundred times bigger than the ones you've seen on normal days crash onto the shore and wipe everything in their wake you shouldn't react. 

The sun shining, the warmth of the light grazing kindly over the mountain tops far across your vision should be worth it. 

Until, it's not. 

Bakugo, at least, doesn't think it's worth it and he doesn't think that you have to walk a mile before you get to rest. Mostly because he doesn't get to rest, and because walking a mile, for him, is the easiest thing in the universe. He's had too much hardship to know there's no payoff other than slamming his body into his couch after a long shift and feeling his chest tighten at the thought that he's managed to save a life. 

For him, happiness is something you shouldn't chase or take for granted. 'There's such little time for us in the world' he keeps telling himself and every time he looks at the set of pictures on the tv shelf he knows his words are correct. When once he thought his happiness had found him, he'd put a ring on her and called it a day, had a fancy wedding, threw the biggest party when he topped the hero charts, cried when his son was born; he douched in bliss without knowing it was momentary and he paid the price of stomping over the steep top of the world by falling so hard that his bones could never fully heal. 

It's been five years since his wife died, since he's had to take care of his son on his own and he's managed it perfectly so far. Showing up on every play in kindergarten, waking up at five am to make him the cutest bento in his class, clothes crisp and smelling of expensive soap, always present on parent counseling days, always present on days kids were supposed to bring their parents in to talk about their jobs, always one call away from rushing to anything he ever wants. 

The phone always rings, without fail, every single day when Kiko's teacher leaves for retirement and a new one gets hired. 

You're young, probably just landed your first job with your preschool degree and you feel like a fish out of water running a class on your own. Bakugo knows because he's seen it too many times, with the kids of his friends, has seen it happen to new sidekicks, assistants and despite not having the patience to deal with a rookie teacher who panics about everything, he appreciates the concern about his son. 

So every single day, without fail, he picks up the phone (no matter if he's on patrols or doing paperwork) and begrudgingly answers your stuttered questions, “yes Kiko might not want more food but he's too shy to say it”, or “Kiko isn't allergic to the ointment your emergency box has to offer, but I packed the one his dermatologist gave him because it works best for his eczema”, or even “Yes I'm willing to talk about what Kiko keeps drawing this week.”

It's always a topic concerning overall health and attitude issues that a teacher who was called in two months before graduation and hasn't worked with the class for longer can't have knowledge on. And still, with raspy apologies, Bakugo promises to send you a few notes about your queries, because the other parents have already done so, and he's ashamed to be the last in line. 

Your voice gets more stern over time, your calls become shorter, so short that all you ever need to ask is who's picking up Kiko today—even though the answer never changes; Kirishima both drops him off and picks him up- and then you hang up. 

Today's call, though, catches him off guard, it makes his feet freeze on the ground, his teeth clash as his jaw tightens. You've dropped a bomb from the other side of the phone 

"His friend Daichi manifested today and we thought he wouldn't," You say, voice sounding far, crazed, digital. "I think it's high time we discuss that Kiko might be… quirkless." You breathe out after a long pause and for the first time today, you sound apologetic -as you should—like you're begging to say sorry about the situation, like it's your fault his son hasn't manifested a quirk. 

With his hand cupping his face, fingernails scratching at the seams of his jaw where just a slight scruff pokes out of his skin, Katsuki  sighs. He glances to his right, catching Kirishima's sharp smile.. His face snaps into a serious one when Bakugo says, "I'll be there at three." 

Thick fingers trample the screen of his phone pushing the end button a thousand times before he's assured he's hung up, shoving it into his pocket with a hitched groan.He looks over at Kirishima with hurt painted all over his face, feeling the mellow jabbing blooming inside his chest and in return he collects a serious gaze, one more apologetic wave burst that hits him in the stomach. Like a villain on a winter morning. 

The thing is, Kirishima is a friend close enough to know when something is wrong and this is a moment where Bakugo knows he won't keep his mouth shut. 

And so, the question isn't late, not even a second, it shoots out of his friend's mouth and it corners Bakugo into the nearest wall, his head spins, his eyebrows furrowed. 

"Kiko's teacher huh?" Kirishima questions and Bakugo nods and then he makes his note "you look bummed man. Is it that serious or did she ask if Kiko has any allergies again"

It's not like Bakugo doesn't need a little pushover to spill what's in his head, but still, he rasps what's left of a winter cold in his throat, clears his voice before he mutters "She said" his head is in his hands "that he might be quirkless"

Kirishima mouths an oh, silent, his jaw tensing like the blond's had a while ago, but his face doesn't contort in sadness like Bakugo's does, instead, his ears perk, his brows travel up against his forehead. 

"Don't worry bro, that doesn't make Kiko any less better than the rest of the kids."

That was quick and truly, Bakugo doesn't know where Kirishima finds all of this positivity. However, he supposes it's written over him like ink on a page, he's meant to see the good in any situation and put it on his plate, split his meal in half and call his glass full even when it's almost empty. Despite being in his early thirties and not being a schoolboy anymore there's always a goofy smile plastered all over his face and Bakugo thinks that maybe, maybe it helps him soothe that emerging ache inside his chest. 

Or maybe Kirishima should write a book about how to always see the good out of everything and retire from his career as a pro hero to be a life coach. Because Kiko might be the son of Dynamight, but Bakugo's head is suddenly filled with images he's shoved to the back of his brain. 

Kiko is the son of the number two hero, without a quirk in class full of gifted kids, he's expected of so much and there's so little he can give back because he's a child, a shy little child that Katsuki had to bring up on his own. And as Kirishima rambles about important people that are quirkless Bakugo keeps thinking about the times his son falls asleep in his arms and how guilty he feels for being a mean kid to Izuku for being quirkless, how he couldn't handle it well if anyone treated his child like that. 

"His teacher is quirkless too" Kirishima says, patting Bakugo's back softly but that raises an eyebrow of the blond's. How exactly does he know that? 

Not that it's his place to ask, or rather shoot this -gossipy- question at Kirishima, but there's a curious part of him when it comes to you. Apart from the fact that you sound like you're about to shit your pants every time you're on the phone with him, he's managed to land his eyes on one precious kindergarten picture of Kiko's class with you in the middle. And he can't really see much, not with a naked eye and not with his glasses, you simply have a smile on your face that matches the kids' but still you look proper enough to have landed the job at that prestigious preschool. 

So when Kirishima adds a small "she's very cute and very smart" Bakugo gets a bit irked at him. He says it like he's the lead in a drama talking about the qualities of her crush even though she's being treated like shit most of the time. 

There's a bursting feeling inside him that makes him shoot a question directly into Kirishima's face. "Are you flirting with my son's teacher?" 

"Nope" Kirishima puckers his lips and looks away

Bakugo couldn't really care less about Kirishima's love life, he grunts, but there's this fear that overwhelms him when he thinks about his itty bitty baby son dragging Kirishima into the car while he's flirting away with anyone that stands in his way. There's this throat tightening feeling when he imagines his baby's belly grunting in hunger, a panic when he thinks his shirt is sweaty enough for him to catch a cold, or even worse he waits until he gets home to tell Kirishima that he fell and scraped his knees at school today and Kirishima probably has his thoughts taken over by his flirting when he's promised to take care of Kiko. 

Sick sick sick. The thought makes him completely sick. Sick enough to consider working even less to be able to be the one to get Kiko from school every day. Fuck the hero ranks, fuck wanting to be the best. 

"... for you"

Kirishima's voice is nothing compared to the worries inside his head, but as a shiny drop of sweat falls over Bakugo's forehead he's forced to ask for a repeating of his words. 

"Come again?"

"Just saying man, just saying, she's uh, you'll like her" 

Whatever Kirishima suggests, Bakugo knows it's a nuisance, but he promises himself he'll talk to you about his concerns on the matter. You sound like a good teacher, like you worry about Kiko a lot and Bakugo thinks that he can trust you on not allowing his kid to be treated like he treated Izuku. 

Kirishima hunches Kiko over his shoulders the moment he walks out of the kindergarten doors. 

You can't suppress a giggle when you see the interaction, bent on waving them off with a little back and forth shake of your hand and a smile; in the two months you've been working here, Red Riot shows up almost daily to pick up Kiko, because -as you learn- Dynamight works longer shifts a few weeks before his son's birthday so he can take a few days off. 

And when March is about to roll around the corner and you're still unsure of the fact if that's possible, your coworkers that have been here before you keep reminding of you on the daily, that it's only a few days down the line that Kiko's father will be picking him up at twelve every day and then they run off to the break room to talk about how they can't wait to feast their eyes on Dynamight -because he looks so damn good in person. As always you excuse yourself, the subject of Dynamight's attractiveness being something that isn't really your concern to talk about. 

Mostly, you have your views on how he's come to treat the daily heroic deeds like an office job, and although you suppose that as a single parent he doesn't have much choice you often compare the bits and pieces of today's Dynamight to the one from tens of years ago, when you watched him on TV debuting as a pro, fresh out of college. You frankly remember tricking your mother so you could zap between channels to simply watch him go, watch him beat villain after villain. 

You're sure there's a routine in being a hero for over a decade, what you do and what you don't, how when you're faced with choices to set priorities you take your own paths in life. And that's probably how Dynamight gets to have a week to himself for him and Kiko -you wonder, if Kiko is happy at home with his dad, if that week helps him feel like his father is an ordinary human being, not someone that gives a piece of him to everyone- if there are evenings of quietness where the hero's phone doesn't ring with an emergency. 

And would he do it for anyone else? 

You've always been fascinated by heroes like him, the sheer amount of courage it takes to be your own person and have a life, live your own heaven or hell and then go about your days trying to make sure the world is safe. 

You wonder if Dynamight's yearly one week absence makes any difference to the hero world, but as you look at Kiko writhing over Kirishima's shoulder you're convinced that it doesn't.

There's probably a faded Dynamight poster hung onto the wall of your childhood room that your mother's clinging onto, and there's probably a five year old child in you with bright gleamy eyes like Kiko's watching the UA sports festival, amazed by the blond. 

Perhaps there's this fangirl of a child inside you when you call him that's screaming at you for having the guts to put on your big girl voice and talk to him. And sometimes you distinctly remember crying your eyes out the day he got married, so much that your middle school friends kept rubbing that on your face even until graduation. 

Still your curious eyes travel back onto Kiko. He's twisting himself over Kirishima's shoulders and a part of your heart drops at how dangerous this looks from afar. But it's impossible for this mountain of a man to drop someone as small as Kiko. And the contagious giggle of the child is finally getting to you- Kiko doesn't usually laugh that much in class, nor does he ever seem as active as he is when Kirishima picks him up. 

It makes you wonder, just how his interactions with his father are. 

Kiko is a ball of energy at home, sometimes, Dynamight tells you. 

Or rather, grunts at you. 

He gets to the kindergarten on 3.17pm with a fresh split on his cheek and pouty lips. And he mutters that he is more than sorry for being late, although there's nothing to be sorry for, you tell him, because he is a hero and that's a job he can't clock out the second he wants. 

"I'm working on it" He says and red eyes gleam dangerously into yours. You can't shake the feeling that he's angry. At you? At himself? At the villain that delayed him? 

"It's really no big deal" You mutter, breath choked inside your chest and you gesture to him to have a seat across from you in the break room. 

Your chest aches in a fast heartbeat; this is the same Dynamight that used to look back at you through a piece of shiny magazine paper in your teenage room- his eyes are deeper than carmine, with vermillion specs and copper rings adorning his irises. That's definitely something the poster in your room would never show you; the missing high quality of such fierce eyes, it's almost hard to speak when you look into them. 

When you inspect his face from this close, your mind runs back to your coworkers, how they always talk about him and how beautiful he is- for a second you don't blame them, you'd love to gawk over him too, forgetting your words stare into those slant red eyes and get lost into them- but this is your big girl job. Your first serious job, and the faint expression line between Dynamight's brows signifies that your excitement has to be cut short. 

He's not here to cater to you healing your inner teenager by looking at a person you were a fan of. 

So you cough in your bent elbow to relieve the tension in your neck, your chest, and you arrange the notes in your hand by shaking them onto the table next to you. 

"Would you like anything to drink? Water? Tea?" You offer and the hero shakes his head. 

"No, I'm good"

You wonder if his wound hurts, or if he's nervous of what you're about to discuss with him- perhaps calling him to simply announce that his child is probably quirkless was a little bold of you, but calling parents to counsel or inquire them about their kids is essential in this school, or so your boss had blabbered endlessly about. 

"These are a few notes about Kiko" You mutter quietly and hand him the pack of notes. It's not a pile, nor is it only two pages long. He glances at them with a sigh, tired eyes going over the paper before his fingers, thick and shaky with determination, reach out to take them from your hands, slightly brushing over yours. 

And your heart is on fire. Great. Exactly what you need to fix your gaze in how small the paper looks into his hands. We're his hands always this big? Were they this big in your poster? Even if they were, you can't think of it right now, you clear your throat again and eye the notes -not his hands, the notes- and say "you'll have to go over them at home if that's not a bother, it's mostly in class progress and some behavioral issues I've noticed-"

"Behavioral issues? What behavioral issues" 

It's his time to paint on panic all over his face, head twitching to your direction instinctively when the word drops from your mouth. You haven't had enough experience with panicked parents, especially being around panicked parents when you're panicked yourself, but there's a skip in your heart beat that urges you to prioritize your work over your thousand aeon old crush on Dynamight. He's nothing but a parent who's looking at you with a query like all others. 

"Is there anything wrong with my son?"

You shake your head, lips crushed together, jaw tight "no no," You kindly muster up your voice "He's a quiet one, I think we should work on him being a bit more social"

"He's plenty social with my friends"

"I've noticed" You nod once, thinking about how Kiko behaves towards Kirishima versus how he behaves towards his classmates "but it's important to be able to be a bit compatible with people his age"

Dynamight nods as well, eyebrows quirked and knitted at the same time, his eyes going over the pages of notes he's flipping through. "I understand" He gulps and you read through that look almost instantly

"He's not a problem child, if anything. He's very smart, very witty. Just very shy, very quiet"

There's a stillness of air, a lack of time and space as he drags his eyes across your face once again, papers clutched in his hands, his lips pursed together so tightly there are dents all over his jaw. Unlike him, he notices there aren't scars across your face, skin delicate, looking soft, plump, young. There's a tiredness in your face that can't match his, the level of what's weighing him down is more than you could ever graze in your life and you look young.

Kirishima, stupid shitty hair that he is, infiltrates his mind just now, the inside of his lips tucking under his teeth; you do look cute. He was right. Your clothes look comfortable, baggy but appropriate for work, with colors that would look nice and calming to the kids you're in care of and he suddenly gets why Kiko is so fond of you. 

You have your way of saying things. Carefully, tenderly. Like you could break him even by saying that Kiko doesn't know how to count to five. You fear you're going to break him by telling him things he already knows with a timid, shy smile across your face, a very polite voice, bowing again and again. There are no expression lines on your face, not one on your forehead, not nearly enough near your lips. 

"As for his quirk. I'd say it's very unlikely that he manifests one but you should give him some more time" You watch as he nods, eyes wide as you open your mouth again, "did his mother have a quirk?"

Bakugo almost hisses, the question caught him off guard, sent his eyes to the corners of his kids and forced a huff out of his mouth. The sorry you utter isn't necessary, he knows and tells you so, but the words he wants to speak gather inside his mouth, hide under his tongue. 

"I avoid talking about my late wife" He says and you bite your lip. You should have known. Dynamight's wife died in your late teens, but there wasn't much known to the public about her -maybe the fact that she was in UA with him, or maybe that she quit trying to be a pro at an early age- but her funeral was broadcasted by channels and you remember hungry media, restless reporters violating his personal space for a shot of him and his son. You remember the chaos, the mourning. 

Your face drops. 

Maybe life didn't go on for him as it did for you. Life wrinkled his eyes and dented his face . You think there's probably been a time he's had a very small baby in his arms, in his mid to late twenties, unsure of what to do, with not as plenty scars in his face -maybe just the one across his nose and the one over his lip- you can't help but stare and assume, perhaps a little rude at that. 

But for the record, you never would have thought you would be teaching in the preschool his son attends. 

"She was a psychic" Dynamight grunts through his teeth 

"Incomparable quirks sometimes cancel eachother" You yelp, quietly, then speed up your words as you add "I'm quirkless too, if that's any comfort, I got shot with a quirk nullifier when I was a kid on my way back home from school"

Whatever Dynamight thinks, he doesn't respond. He looks at you with big, red eyes, face contorted in an apologetic mask, one you've seen on TV after he catches himself swearing on live interviews. You wonder if you're comforting. Any. But you hope there's a part of him that feels like his son can be included somewhere, somehow. 

"M sorry" He finally mouths but it doesn't sound forced. It's more constipated when he adds "That must have been before the raid to arrest Overhaul" 

"Oh we were taught about him in hero ethics class"

Bakugo curls his brow, curiously. The leap in the generation between his and yours continues to grow, and he's aware now, more than ever. There was never a hero ethics class when he was at school. "Hero ethics?"

"Yeah, and basic quirk anatomy, they're like major subjects you have to take throughout all of your university years"

"I wouldn't know," He sighs, "but I'd like your advice on how to approach Kiko on the quirk thing. How do I say something that doesn't scar him, or hurt him?"

Your breathing gets caught in your throat before you ever come up with a reply. Words are forming in your brain, years of academic knowledge flowing in your neurons as you're trying to figure out the exact answer to this question, the words of endless professors turning your brain into mush. If you could think of a way to feel, you'd feel sorry for using Dynamight as a parent with whom you're challenging your skills. 

And in between year four basic quirk anatomy and child psychology for preschool teachers as an extra class you had to attend, you pick out a selection of exquisite words, woven by the wrinkles in your brain, washed over the anxiety in your gut. When you open your mouth, tongue dry and ready to clash with your palette, lips ready to make the first smack, voice almost at the brick of catching space in air, Dynamight's phone rings. 

"Oh fuck" He panicks, mouthing a quick apology, bowing his head, squinting his eyes "this is an emergency, I have to take it" He says and you nod. His fingers -you notice they're thick, too thick, the back of his hands rough and chapped so much it makes you gulp- quickly reach to push the button to accept the call and he curses when the touch of his screen seems to act up.

He curses again when it stops ringing, but his hands are quick to make searching motions, waving back and forth in the open space. He's searching for a piece of paper and a pen, anything, and you-smart as ever- give him the lilac paint marker in your hands and, of course your hand. When he clicks his tongue you cringe. You feel stupid, embarrassing, like earth could swallow you whole right now and you wouldn't have a damn thing to protest about. 

Still, he scribbles something on the back of your hand and the ticklish sensation of the nib across your skin kicks in instantly. When you read it you gasp, barely, and you hope he doesn't hear over the sound of his phone timing again. 

"This shit won't cooperate, help me" With pleading eyes he turns the phone to you, tapping his foot erratically and you pick up the signal; you swipe up the button and he presses it to his ear immediately. You don't realize now, but the way your hands linger onto his for the second time today has made your skin crawl, itch, and it will do so for the rest of the week. 

The back of your hand reads, in bright lilac, 'Beetles children playground, Saturday 5pm'

When you enter the indoor playground the smell of plastic surpasses almost any other. 

There's something nostalgic about it; how these walls accommodate child after child, how the maintenance of enormous swirly slides is executed by precautions for kids to not scratch their knees, to fall on soft plastic covered mattresses when they jump out of the gigantic machine operating head of a tiger that acts as a slide. 

Part of you misses that -the days where you've tried to convince your parents to take you to a place like this to play- but whatever's left of that part of you is smiling, awkwardly, lips pressed together as you spot Dynamight in the labeled 'parents resting place' cafeteria. Part of you misses not caring about how you look, your mannerisms, but still you hug your coat closer to your chest when Dynamight finally notices you, nodding his head. You bow from afar, eyes closed, lips pursed -only then you notice Red Riot sitting across from him on the small wooden table. 

The sight of him -despite being a tad intimidating due to his enormous size- eases your nerves. He looks over at you, waving his hand, his grin plastered across his face. You're used to seeing him like this, nice, welcoming, talkative and enthusiastic, so your steps to their table aren't counted. You're assured -somehow in your head because Dynamight snorts too, leisurely- that there's not even a single thing to be worried about. 

You study your clothes for any wrinkles a few feet away from the table, ready to curse yourself if there's anything sort of like a wrinkle in your long work skirt, but its loose wooly material has proven to be a savor once again. 

Tentatively you smile at the two men when you reach their table, bowing your head and opening your mouth to greet them when Red Riot steals the words out for your mouth. 

"Hey teach" He greets, hand still waving at you when you look at him, muttering a small "hello" in response. 

Bakugo clears his throat when he notices the way you and Kirishima look at each other, it's not any of his business if you want to stare at each other to the end of the world anyway, but it doesn't have to happen at the parents lounge in a playground. So he's rolling his eyes to the back of his head, gripping his coffee mug tight -too right for it to be normal- in his hand and speaks up "Thank you for meeting me here"

It's so blunt that Kirishima bursts out in laughter while your eyes shoot open, confusion written on your face. Dynamight grows red, piping hot as anger plumishes his face with every choke of laughter Red Riot takes. 

"Dude, don't make it sound like that" Kirishima laughs again, eyeing the chair in front of you "I think you scared her, look at her, come on teach, sit down"

"What the fuck. I didn't. Shut your face shitty hair"

"Please excuse him, his vocabulary is so colorful for a children's playground" Kirishima smiles at you when you look at them with a shook expression on your face. 

Dynamight's foul language isn't a secret, in fact most of your co workers were and still are intimidated to be in a position to ever reply to any of these tantrums, and if you're honest, you are too. You strive to be professional, to look bigger than you are, more significant. And Kirishima is allowing you to believe that somewhere behind Bakugo's- Dynamight's foul language there's some respect to you, to the roof of the place you're under. 

"It's okay" You shake your head and finally make a move towards your chair 

You don't really look at Dynamight a lot, but you definitely notice the multicolored plaster that sits across his nose, decorated with dinosaurs of all colors. There's one on the cut on his cheek as well. It's cute, kind of, the way they contrast his eyes and his hair. You dont think youve ever seen him dressed so casually, or in any context that would allow him to rock such bandaids on his face, so it's even more peculiar to see him pull out Kikos green water bottle from his backpack the second he sees him approaching.

“Having fun?” he asks his son and the little blond nods with a huff, out of breath “you're all sweaty, we should change your shirt”

The kid objects and looks at Kirishima for what you guess would be support but he does not utter a word before he downs half of his water bottle. “Daaaad”

“Nope, don't look at Kirishima, he's not going to get you out of this. And say hi to your teacher” 

Bakugo moves his head to the side and Kiko peeks with a tilted head at you, smiles and bows slightly before saying “hello miss, thank you for coming to my party” and you smile back at him and bow as well, while muttering a small happy birthday. 

There aren't any kids from the kindergarten, only a few other heroes can be spotted on the other tables of the cafeteria and you're guessing it's the ones that are parents already, maybe in their circle superheroes’ kids are all friends with each other. Your train of thought is quickly interrupted by Kiko munching on a piece of toast Bakugo had given him.

“Now you swallow your bite and i-” Bakugo says as he retrieves a clean long sleeved shirt from his backpack, but is cut short before he gets the chance to finish his sentence

“Okay bye daaaad” 

“Come back here! Kiko! Kiko!”

“Damn bro chill, it's just a sweaty shirt, he wants to play” Kirishima remarks with a giggle and you follow suit when Bakugo lets out a frustrated huff.

“Parenting isn't easy” you say, and sip on the juice that was served to you a while ago.

“You have kids, teach?” Kirishima asks, intrigued by Bakugos reaction to his question. You miss the way he kicks his blond friend under the table

“Oh no no, I just happen to be around so many parents at work and I've seen how challenging it can be. But I do hope to have kids someday." You reply, feeling a bit embarrassed for admitting your desires to have children to two of the top five heroes in Japan. It's not like you can always have everyday conversations with them and it's a tad uncanny that they feel so free spirited to talk about mundane things like a family with someone like you. 

But the way Kirishima nods understandingly, and the way Bakugo rolls his eyes before growling “careful what you're getting yourself into brat” - not in a mocking way at least - makes you feel more comfortable.

“Oh shut up bro, you have a golden child. Never whines, never throws tantrums! You literally have nothing to complaint about”

“Well, a child turns out this well mannered only because of the way they've been brought up” you suggest and you swear there's a mischievous grin that covers Bakugos face momentarily

"Damn right!! But, It's not easy, that's for sure," Bakugo finally speaks up after a moment of silence, "but it's worth it. Seeing Kiko grow up and learn new things every day, it's amazing. He's a good kid, I couldn't imagine my life without him now that I got him" His tone is softer than you're used to hearing from him, and it catches you off guard.

Kirishima, on the other hand, is still grinning from ear to ear, looking like he's enjoying every moment of the charade between you and the blond. "I think you'd make a great mom, teach. You're so patient and kind with the kids at school."

You feel your cheeks warm up at his words, and you take a drink of your juice, hoping to hide your blush. "Thank you, Kirishima. That means a lot coming from you."

Bakugo grumbles something unintelligible under his breath, but you can tell he's not unhappy with the conversation. There's a comfortable silence that falls over the table for a few moments, until Kirishima speaks up again.

"So, teach, we were wondering if you'd like to join us for a little celebration tonight. We were planning on going out to a bar and grabbing some drinks." He winks at you, and you feel your heart skip a beat as your eyes fall all over Bakugo’s whos clenching his jaw. “Bakugo always celebrates Kiko’s birthday like this. Man… he's too happy to have him.”

"I would love to join you guys," you say, smiling, but i can't, i have a uhm-, i-"

"that's fine" Bakugo growls, don't push it shitty hair" 

Kirishima smiles a wide grin that covers his face from one ear to another “oh come on! pleaseee”

You're taken aback by how childish Kirishima sounds, but being invited to something like this, with two pro heroes nonetheless feels kind of exciting. So you accept, shyly, there's not much you could do when you flicker your eyes over to Bakugo’s when they look at you like he's expecting you to say yes as well.

Kirishima's smile, despite being inviting at first, is dimmed slightly when Bakugo gruffs in response. Sure, he persists as his eyes plead with him -and you in time. “Come on, it'll be fun. I promise. Please join us teach”

Your gaze is so confused as you stare at him, hesitating to give a positive response. It's just so unbelievable that Dynamight and his best friend are trying to make plans with you.

Kirishima's wide grin falters for a moment at Bakugo's gruff response, but he quickly regained his enthusiasm, his eyes pleading with you.

"Please," Kirishima chimes in, his voice taking on an insufferable pleading tone.

You feel a pang of guilt at the disappointment in Kirishima's eyes—sure there are no prohibitions about spending time with parents outside of work, but you hesitate over actually saying yes to spending time with someone you’ve always admired as your hero.

Despite Bakugo's apparent disinterest, you find yourself unable to resist Kirishima's infectious energy. He's too sweet, always is. Maybe once won’t actually hurt. 

Just one drink.

With a hesitant smile, you turn to Bakugo, hoping to convince him to change his mind. "It would be fun," you say, your voice soft but earnest. "I'd really like to join you guys. I think"

Bakugo's gaze flickers to yours, a hint of annoyance flashing in his crimson eyes that’s shot at Kirishima, because he can see your hesitation, before he sighs heavily, as if conceding defeat. 

"Fine," he grumbles. "But only for a couple of drinks. We won’t be keeping you for long”

Kirishima lets out a whoop of excitement, his grin widening even further as he claps Bakugo on the back feverishly "Yes! This is gonna be awesome!"

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

[whateveriwant]

Ghost is the type of dad that rolls his eyes at the idea of a swear jar; that is, until you remind him your child’s sixth word ever spoken was “fuck”, and then he begins to reconsider.

Gaz is the type of dad that busts out his best acting chops when he pretends to eat the food his kid makes him (hint: the “food” is a bucket of grass, dirt, and worms his kid dug up in the backyard).

Soap is the type of dad that memorizes all the moves to his kid’s dance recital, which he then not-so-subtly performs as he sits and watches from the audience.

Price is the type of dad who, every single time he sits down to watch a movie with his kids, ends up open-mouth snoring on the couch less than ten minutes in.

[starsofang]

Single Dad!Simon who vowed to never trust another woman again after his failed past. He was locked up with the key thrown away, permanently off of the market.

At least that’s what he’d told himself for years. Now, he was beginning to have cold feet.

Simon needed a nanny, one that he could trust completely. He didn’t play about his child, and he’d be damned if he got set up with someone of ill intentions.

But, he was desperate.

Price needed him back periodically, even after his retirement, and he agreed. After all, money was tight when he parented on his own with a growing child.

That was when you came in. Soap had been a pal and recommended an old family friend, somebody he knew Simon could trust with his kid. Simon was skeptical, of course, but Soap had never done him wrong. Reluctantly, he agreed.

Simon wanted to have a trial period to see if you were truly built for the task. He wouldn’t let you off easily. His child was his world, and women weren’t exactly in his deck of cards when it came to trust.

You were as sweet as honey upon the first meeting with a smile that could outdo the sun. Your voice was soft as rain, flowing out of you like a summer song. You spoke to him with the upmost respect, and even more so with his child.

Simon knew he could trust Soap in guaranteeing somebody safe. You were the perfect candidate. He just didn’t know it would lead into him feeling emotions he’d buried a long, long time ago.

Attraction. Interest. A crush, dare he say, like he was a stupid high school kid that just saw the prettiest girl in class and fell head over heels.

He had a silly crush on his child’s nanny when he fully intended to keep it short and professional. That was the way he operated. He was like a working machine, and you had undone his mechanics so easily to the point he struggled to function.

Seeing you with his child only caused his attraction to fester deeper. His child became attached to your hip, smiling more than they had ever done, rambling nonsense to him every time he returned home and you left to go to yours.

It was becoming hard to deny it. You opened an old wound of Simon’s, awakening that deep and dreadful loneliness he felt every passing day. Every smile, every laugh, every Mr. Riley even though you were close in age, all of it had him on the edge of his seat.

He wanted more. He was tired of denying himself happiness. The idea of pushing away every woman was still very vivid in his mind, but denying you just seemed criminal the more time passed.

“I never got to thank you for allowing me in to your home, Mr. Riley,” you told him one day, ever so sweet.

“Thought I told you to call me Simon,” he grunted, avoiding your eyes as the two of you stood in the doorway.

“Right. Simon,” you corrected with a radiant smile. “You have quite the kid, I’ll tell you that. I always look forward to coming over. It makes my day seeing the two of you.”

Simon could feel his heart pattering against his ribcage. His hands were sweaty, and he prayed you didn’t notice him swipe them along his jeans.

“Both of us?” he hummed.

“Of course. You’re just as exciting to see, too, Mr. Ri- Simon.”

Simon’s lips quirked up the slightest bit, but his heart was in his ass. For the first time in a long time, a woman was making him shy and nervous, and it didn’t feel as bad as it did before.

“You’re always free to come over for dinner,” he offered.

“That sounds great, I’d love to have dinner with the two of you!” you exclaimed, beaming.

He didn’t understand how you could be so bright yet so oblivious at the same time.

Simon cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably on the balls of his feet. “I meant, the two of us.”

You stared at him like he’d grown two heads, and he nearly slammed the door in your face from the sheer anxiety that spiked in him. He couldn’t read your mind or what you were feeling, and Simon wished he had never said anything to begin with.

“That sounds wonderful,” you said instead. Now it was Simon’s turn to stare at you crazy. “I’d love that.”

Simon realized he was staring too long, so he cleared his throat once again, giving you a brief nod and looking away. “Alright. I’ll text you a day and have Soap pick up the little monster for the night.”

When you agreed and left with the smile that made his heart ache, he didn’t waste a second in texting Soap, telling him he’d be on nanny duty for one night that week.

Soap was quick to agree, but not without a little “You’re welcome ;)” text back.

[sushirrrry]

AU PAIR

a harry styles x you one-shot cw: solo female masturbation, slow burn, tension!!! word count: 11,408

summary: a working single dad and his au pair start to bond over simple bedtime routines, but a steamy kiss after bath time threatens their professional boundaries tag list: @esposa-do-harry @fangirlstuffsblog @matildasatellite @dipmeinhoneyh @thepopcultureaddict @iloveharrystyles04 @theluckyleprachaun-in-stripes @this-is-tiny-mia @emmie2308

hope you all enjoy <3

----------------------------

The sound of the house settles into one of those rare, aching silences — the kind that hums against your skin after a long day of toys scattered across the living room floor and tiny feet padding after you, or the sounds of the juice spilling from the table and onto the meticulously kept hardwood.

Quinn, Leo, and yourself are currently sharing one of the small toddler beds for bedtime stories, as you begin smoothing the edges of her quilt on the side of Leo that he is curled up into, the faded colors soft under your fingertips. You can hear the breathing of two worn-out toddlers coming in slow, even puffs now.

Your voice is a whisper as you finish the last page, Goodnight Moon balanced on your knee, thumb running absently over the cracked spine.

“…goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere.” Your last breath is practically silent as you recognize that the two children have fallen asleep; you knew they would fall asleep seconds after you started reading for the second time.

You close the book quietly, pressing it to your chest for a moment like a shield, before setting it aside on the little nightstand. The main mission now is to get yourself out of the bed, trying to make your way around and down to the bottom so you do not disturb them.

It is not unusual that they fall asleep in each other’s beds; the five- and three-year-old have practically slept in the same bed all along – as long as you have been here to notice it. It was more of a comfort thing, you find. Maybe it has to do with the loneliness that they feel from their parents, you are not entirely sure. All that you know is that you do not find an issue with leaving them to find comfort in each other.

As you’ve gotten off the bed, you place the children’s book on the small shelf beside the bed. For a moment, you simply sat there, watching the slow, even rise and fall of their chests, the occasional twitch of a dream beginning to form in one of their tiny limbs. It was a rare kind of peace—something delicate, something sacred. To be a child is an honor, and you feel it’s an honor to watch them.

As you make your way to the door, you’ve smoothed your palms down the front of your denim shorts, casting one last look at the sleeping children before slipping quietly from the room. You pulled the door almost shut behind you, leaving it open just a crack, just the way they liked it – just in case they ever needed to find you.

In the large home in Hampstead, it was quite hard for the little ones to manage their way around on their own.

The hallway was quiet; the light had dimmed outside in the summer heat but hadn’t completely set as it crept through the windows that lined the hall. There was a stretch of warm wood floors and framed photographs—beaches, birthday cakes, candid laughter caught mid-breath. You padded barefoot down the stairs. The house smelled faintly of cinnamon and soap, a comfortable blend that was beginning to feel familiar.

You made your way to the kitchen space, in the small breakfast nook, where your laptop sat waiting for you on the corner, an abandoned Word document still blinking impatiently on the screen as if it had been just sitting and waiting for written words to come that never would.

 There was a mug of cold coffee next to it, forgotten hours ago prior to bath and bedtime, even after Leo had demanded "one more story, pleeeease," and Quinn had chimed in with her irresistible little lisp.

You sat down with a soft sigh, pulling the computer closer, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. There was a paper due for your Early Child Development summer course, which, on a complete ironic level you had decided to write about the role that storytelling played on a cognitive level in early childhood. However, you found yourself staring at the cursor, your thoughts wandering lazily through the evening, replaying the sound of Quinn’s giggles and Leo’s earnest questions about dragons and knights.

A sip of the cold coffee wasn’t what you needed – it was truly something stronger, but you knew that you had to get this finished before Monday. On a normal Friday, you would be trying to find a plan – something to do with some of your friends. But now, it was sitting in your boss's kitchen waiting for inspiration to hit so you could at least write the first sentence.

It was an hour later when you heard the key turn in the lock; the sound that someone had gotten home.

You glanced up just as the front door pushed open and Harry stepped inside, the heat of the summer night air following him in for a moment before he shoved the door closed with his foot. His hands held his satchel, a cup that he used for coffee in the morning, and his keys.

He looked exhausted, a bit of distress coating his face.

His dark hair was a mess, flattened on one side like he had been running his hand through it for hours. His jacket was slung over one shoulder, the fabric rumpled, and his tie hung loose and crooked around his neck. The first two buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing the hint of a tattoo curling just beneath his collarbone, something you hadn’t dared stare at for too long.

You had never seen it in full detail, but you knew that it was there.

Without a word, Harry tossed the jacket onto the back of the nearest chair and headed straight for the bar tucked into the corner of the living room, without as much as a ‘hello’ to greet you in the dimly lit kitchen space. You heard the clink of glass against glass as he selected a tumbler and set it down with a tired sort of deliberation.

“Long day?” you asked softly, unsure if you should interrupt his brooding, or if he might want to do that in the peace of the space he owned.

He glanced over his shoulder at you almost as if he didn’t see you sitting there, the corners of his mouth tugging into a crooked smile—half amusement, half pure exhaustion.

“Oh, I mean, you could say that,” he muttered, reaching for a bottle of whiskey and giving it a quick once over. The amber liquid caught the light as he poured it, generous and unbothered. “Never-ending meetings. Clients who think they know better than their attorneys – which is ironic considering we’re hired to make sure that they win, and they should keep their mouths shut. Partners breathing down my neck about quarterly numbers. You know, just another day in the office.”

He shook his head as he set the bottle back down with a muted thunk.

You closed your laptop, pushing it aside, the document forgotten for the moment. Something about the slump of Harry’s shoulders, the way he rubbed the back of his neck, made you want to offer him something—comfort, distraction, maybe just company if he needed it.

Harry came home a lot to an empty house – no one to talk to, so your presence might have been needed every once in a while. Once he got home, you would go out with friends or go to class or just get yourself out of the house since you were home with the kids all day.

He took a sip of his drink and exhaled slowly, eyes falling closed for a beat. He leaned against the kitchen counter. One at a time, he rolled his sleeves up to his elbow. When he opened his eyes again, they found you across the room, lingering, uncertain.

“Kids asleep?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that filled the cozy space between you.

You nodded in confirmation. “Out cold. Leo made me read Goodnight Moon twice. Quinn didn’t even last through the first time.”

“How many times does the moon need to be told ‘goodnight’?” Harry’s mouth quirked again, softer this time. “Must mean you tell the story in an enticing way.”

There was something in his gaze then—something heavier, quieter, something that lingered a little too long. You felt your skin prickle with awareness, a flush rising in your cheeks that you tried to ignore.

“They’re good kids, it’s the least I can do.” You said, your voice a little too bright, a little too quick. You stood, tucking your chair in, needing the motion to shake off the sudden, humming tension in the room.

“I-I, uh,” You swallowed as you looked at your laptop that was shut sitting next to you. “I should be writing a paper, actually. It’s due on Monday.”

Harry watched you then, swirling the whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking softly. The look on his face made it seem like had some thoughts in the back of his head.

Then he glanced over at you, almost shyly.

"You want a drink?" he asked, uncertainty in his voice as he didn’t look back up when you didn’t answer right away.

You blinked, surprised at his question. It wasn’t that it was unlike him to be friendly – he was one of the nicest bosses that you could have ever had. It was mostly because it was unlike him to be doing something other than putting himself in his office, shutting the door, and working until two A.M.

"I—" You glanced down at your laptop, the half-finished paper still glowing through the screen. "I probably should keep working..."

Harry’s mouth quirked, a half-smile that felt both boyish and unbearably tired.

"Come on," he said, pushing off the island. "It’s a nice night. We can sit outside. Just for a little while."

You hesitated — but the softness in his voice, the aching loneliness he didn’t even bother to hide, undid you. Something about thinking of him sitting out there alone, in the quiet garden that probably held too many memories, made you nod instead.

"Okay," you said quietly, giving him an encouraging smile.

Harry grabbed a second glass and poured you a measure of whiskey without waiting for confirmation on how much. You slipped your laptop onto the coffee table, accepting the drink he pressed into your hand when you went to receive it. His fingers brushed yours — a light, accidental touch — but it felt like something more.

The dark, tattooed circle on his ring finger always stood out to you, but you never asked.

He led the way through the French doors into the garden that sat off the living room.

The night air wrapped around you, thick and warm, rich with the smell of honeysuckle and something green and wild. Crickets sang somewhere off in the hedges as the warmth of the summer breeze had tickled your skin and left you with an ease. The fairy lights Harry had strung over the small stone patio twinkled overhead, casting everything in a soft golden glow.

He slouched into one of the old wooden chairs, sprawling with all the boneless grace of a man who didn’t know how to relax but was trying to anyway.

You settled into the chair across from him, tucking your legs up beneath you. The whiskey glass was cool against your palm as you took another sip.

For a while, neither of you spoke – you stared up into the night sky, seeing the reds and pinks that summer brought to the atmosphere. You just sat there, breathing in the humid, fragrant night, the soft clink of his glass against the chair arm the only sound between you.

Harry broke the silence first. His voice different than usual as he stared at the whiskey glass that settled on the arm of the chair.

"You’re so good with them," he said, meaning Leo and Quinn. He shook his head like he couldn’t believe it himself for admitting something he had kept to himself.

You shrugged, a little embarrassed by the compliment. "They make it easy. And it’s my job. I’m sure you’re good at your job, too."

His smile was faint at your own compliment, almost self-mocking. "Not always."

You glanced at him, catching the tightness around his mouth, the way his hands curled around the glass made your eyes want to stare, but your attentiveness made you look up.

There was a moment when you stopped and thought about your next words and if you should say them aloud. You bit on your lip as you tasted the whiskey with hints of vanilla and all-spice.

"You’re doing a good job, you know," you said. "They’re happy. They talk about you all the time.”

Harry made a soft sound — not quite a laugh. He leaned his head back against the chair, staring up at the night sky.

"Some days I feel like I’m just...trying not to screw them up too badly," he said. "Trying to be two people at once, and trying to be present, do things with them. But I’m so glad that you’re around because I feel like… I don’t know, I feel like you’re just good at what you do and you’re good with them and they love you.”

Your heart ached at the raw honesty in his voice. It felt like he had been waiting for a long time to say those things to you.

"You’re more than enough," you said, not knowing what else to say to him. You didn’t know if it was the whiskey talking, or if there had been more on his mind. You sat with your heart open to allow him to know that everything would be okay – it was just a rough day. We all had them.

He turned his head, looking at you properly. The distance between your chairs felt smaller suddenly, like the air had shifted, pulling you closer as you sat under the lights in the garden.

Harry’s home had been your home for the past six months as you tried to make your way through medical schooling; you wanted to work with children, and you need to make a bit of extra cash. This was a job that was close to your school, staying in the area you wanted, and Harry was kind enough to try to work his schedule around yours just because you were so good at what you did.

There really hadn’t been a moment when it was the two of you like this, so you treasured it, in a way. You were happy to see this adult side of him – not the lawyer, not the father.

His eyes were dark in the low light, unreadable as he blinked staring at his glass tumbler that was starting to sweat with condensation. But something flickered there — something fragile and aching.

"You're kind," he said, voice low. "I don’t know if it’s true, but...thank you."

You smiled, sipping your drink to hide the sudden rush of heat to your cheeks. Harry tipped his own glass toward you slightly, a lazy sort of toast.

"To another day," he said.

You leaned forward a bit, making sure that you could clink your glass against his. "To another one."

The whiskey burned sweetly down your throat, settling low in your stomach as you took your sip. You leaned back in your chair, letting the wood help perch you up a bit.

Harry shifted in his chair, turning slightly toward you, his knee brushing the edge of your chair. The touch was casual, almost careless — but your body betrayed you, hyperaware of the small point of contact.

"You’ve really changed our lives," he said suddenly, voice rougher now. You could tell that he was having a thoughtful moment; he didn't know how to express it correctly, you could tell by his facial expression after he said it. "Having you here."

Your breath caught.

"Harry—" you started, but the words tangled.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the glass dangling from his fingers. His tie hung loose around his neck, his shirt rumpled and open at the throat. He looked undone in a way that made your chest ache.

"I’m probably crossing a line just saying that," he said, a hint of a smile ghosting across his mouth, he pushed away the comments just as easily as he made them. "I’m just tired. Ignore me."

But you couldn’t ignore him. The words settled between you, too heavy, too important.

"You’re not," you said softly. "Crossing a line, I mean."

He watched you carefully, like he wasn’t sure he believed you. Like he was waiting for you to push him back into his safe, professional box.

Instead, you shifted a little closer, your drink cradled loosely in your lap.

"It’s nice to just...talk," you said. "To be real with someone."

Harry's mouth twisted, something tender and pained flashing across his face.

"Not many people want the real version of me anymore," he said. "Just the lawyer. Or the dad," He paused for a moment, "Or the ex-husband. The...functioning adult."

You looked at him — really looked — and saw the man beneath all the roles he wore like armor.

"I like the real you," you said before you could stop yourself. "You've been very kind to me since I've been here, and I think sometimes we all just need a break from it all."  

Biting your lip, you thought about the plans you had in the morning. You thought about how you were going to leave Harry on his own, taking the kids to the farmers market to shop for groceries for the weekend.

"Why don’t you take the kids to the farmers market in the morning? Maybe it would be good for you – just the three of you."

His eyes flew up to you, like he had been unsure of your intentions, so you interrupted his thought.

"I was going to take them because they had this tulip picking event – a bit selfish, because really the tulips were for my enjoyment," You found yourself starting to smile, "But if you want some alone time with the kids without me, don’t hesitate to ask."

You watched as he took in a breath, finally nodding at your request. "That would be really nice, actually. I probably do need that."

The air between you went very still.

Harry’s gaze dropped to your mouth for the briefest, most dizzying second — then back up to your eyes. His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for you but thought better of it.

You stayed frozen, breath shallow, heart thudding so hard it drowned out the crickets, the soft hum of the garden lights.

He smiled then, slow and deliberate but almost shy, and leaned back in his chair, putting just enough space between you to let you breathe again.

"I should probably call it a night before I make a complete ass of myself and say something so regret," he said, voice warm and rough and fond. He downed the rest of his drink before you heard the ice clink against the glass.

You laughed softly, the tension breaking just enough to make your hands stop trembling around the glass.

"Okay,” You agreed, your voice a whisper in the warm dark.

Neither of you moved, though. Neither of you really wanted to – you weren't sure of why. There wasn’t a rush.

The air between you stayed charged, heavy and tender, even as Harry finally, reluctantly, pushed up from his chair.

He stretched his arms overhead, the hem of his shirt pulling just a little at his hips, before he dropped his arms and looked down at you, smiling in a way that made your stomach twist.

"You staying out here a little longer?" he asked.

You nodded, unable to find your voice. It had been a good idea to come out and get some warmth on your skin.

Harry hesitated like he wanted to say something more. Like maybe there was something he could say to untangle the complicated thing sparking between you — but whatever it was, he swallowed it down and shook his head, voting against it.

Instead, he simply said: "Goodnight, moon.”

Your breath hitched — not at the word itself, but the low, absent affection in it, like it had slipped out without thinking.

"Goodnight, Harry." You whispered.

He gave a small, almost pained smile — and then turned and went back inside, leaving the door cracked open behind him.

You stayed there long after his footsteps faded upstairs, the night humming gently around you, the taste of him still lingering somehow, though he hadn't even touched you.

You closed your eyes and leaned back in the chair, cradling the cooling whiskey glass in your lap, feeling the slow, aching bloom of something new — something dangerous — take root inside you.

THE NEXT DAY

The first thing you noticed when you woke was the sunlight that came in slanting through the gauzy curtains, painting the room in pale gold. That was the peaceful thing that you noticed.

The second thing was the sound of the house alive around you, along with what had been going on downstairs. Small feet pattering across hardwood floors, the clatter of shoes being found, the low rumble of Harry's voice cutting through the chaos with patient authority.

"Jacket, Quinn. No, the green one. Leo, leave the dinosaur — please, bud. We don't need to bring that with us."

You smiled into the pillow as you laid on your stomach, stretching your limbs luxuriously, savoring the rare slow start to your morning.

The front door banged open and shut with a final thunk, followed by the muffled sound of tires crunching on the driveway gravel as they made their way away from the house.

Then, there was that sound. Silence.

You turned onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. The house, usually bustling, noisy, spilling over with half-finished crafts and impromptu pillow forts, was suddenly, blissfully still.

An unexpected, precious pocket of time all to yourself. You took in a deep breath as you found a bit of a thrill as you let your hand touch the lower side of your hip. Your fingertip slowly circled round, feeling the bone of it. Slowly, you let your hand caress the edge of your panties.

Shutting your eyes, you let your hand fall deeper underneath. The touch of your clitoris confirmed your need; it was sensitive and warm to the touch, needing the affection you had time to give.

All alone.

Then, all the sudden, you hear your name said aloud. Your eyes blink up and open; it had felt so real.

But it wasn’t real. The sound of the voice coursing through your thoughts was from him. It excited you – knowing that he was on your mind. But the total encapsulation of his being had turned you on, giving you a scare as you thought about what that could mean or why it happened in the first place.

You were sitting on your elbows, then. Wondering if you should continue with the thought of him. Licking your lips, you think about the way his hand wrapped around the whiskey tumbler– fingers delicate and and poised around the cold glass. You can imagine him flicking the water off his fingers, cold and with ease.

Your fingers dance around you, guiding your thoughts dirtier. Your fingers dive into you, letting out a gasp as you think about the feeling of his cold hands on your hot skin.

You think about the way that the tattoos on his chest dance along the neckline of his shirts, the forbidden heat of it driving you insane. Curling your fingers, you lift your legs to bend to give you further access inside of yourself. Your two fingers are pushing deeply in and out, missing the feeling when you pull out.

A gasp escapes your lips as you feel your two fingers in a way that excites you – it pleasures you too well. Your swollen and warm and filled with something that is not him.

But his voice echos in your head as you let your thoughts hang above you like they're watching you please yourself at just the thought of him. You palm your clit with the thought of his head dipping between your thighs, opening you, letting his tongue work on your clit a way that feel exhausting.

Your thoughts mimic a feeling of guilt as you can practically feel the flat of his tongue, eyes darting up to see your reaction at the surge of pleasure he allows you.

"Don’t stop," Your murmur to yourself, "Fuck, Harry– please."

You echo the words, murmurs, and whimpers alike. A feeling grabs ahold of you and pulls you onto the bed, forcing you to take a moment to feel the excitement that rushes through you at once.

You're pulsating around your fingers; your orgasm holding you hostage for a moment as you feel the comedown of the high that felt so momentarily strong.

A few moments of clarity were needed as you laid on the white sheets, feeling the warm summer sun come in through the windows. Your heartbeat falling back to normal, your breathing starting to come to a normalcy.

There was so much to unpack in just the small moment for yourself. A lot of questions, a lot of solitude was needed.

Without overthinking it, you pulled away your covers, stepping out of the bed The sun outside was shining high, you could feel the heat just from the window.

You decided that it may be nice to lay by the pool for a bit, since you have some time off this morning for yourself. The paper could wait — after the conversation with Harry last night, this would be good for you.

It took a moment to find, but once you did, you pulled on your swimsuit — a simple black two-piece, practical but flattering — and layered a loose linen button-up over it. The fabric, soft and worn from washing, hung almost to your mid-thighs to give you a good cover-up.

Barefoot, you padded downstairs, grabbing your thick paperback novel that had been sitting on the coffee table and a pair of sunglasses from the hall table where you left your purses and keys.

The back door creaked gently as you pushed it open.

Outside, the garden was bathed in the early summer light, the air already warming but still edged with a faint coolness in the shade. Bees floated lazily among the wisteria vines curling over the trellis, and somewhere nearby, a lawnmower buzzed faintly, already at work.

You crossed the flagstone patio and dropped into one of the lounge chairs with a satisfied sigh, tucking your legs underneath you and flipping open your book. The sun was hot – you could feel it on your skin as you laid there in the summer bliss.

The words swallowed you whole into a captivating space where time and troubles didn’t matter.

Hours slipped by, unnoticed. You read and sipped iced water from a sweating glass, shifting positions when the sun crept higher overhead, letting the heat seep into your skin. It had taken you for surprise every moment your drifted off into a sleep; you felt so at peace.

You were so absorbed in your comfort that you barely noticed the car pulling into the driveway on the other side of the stone wall until the faint sound of car doors slamming echoed down the side yard.

You straightened up, heart giving a small, startled flutter. It was almost like in that small timeframe; this had been your paradise. It was like you had forgotten where you were, or who you were living with.

A moment later, the gate door swung open — and Harry stepped on in.

You watched from down by the pool, unseen for a moment as you realized he had been dropping some items off by the gate.

He looked rumpled in the most achingly appealing way — sunglasses shoved up onto his head, hair mussed from the breeze. A bag of fresh produce was slung over one arm; his sleeves rolled to the elbow. There was a looseness about him, a casualness you rarely saw after his long days at the firm.

His eyes lifted and found you almost instantly. For one suspended moment, everything froze. You knew that he didn’t expect to see you here, and why should he have? You weren’t one to sit by the pool, or enjoy your time off like this – you barely got time off, as it was.

The bags slipped slightly down his arm as he instinctively jerked to a stop, muscles tightening. His gaze, dark and unreadable, swept over you in one swift, stunned pass: the bare legs folded under you, the black triangle of your bikini top peeking through the loose, open buttons of your shirt, the lazy, sun-drunk way you lounged there with a novel half-forgotten in your lap.

It lasted no more than a heartbeat. Maybe two as you drew in a breath. But you felt it like a physical touch, like static sparking in the heavy air between you.

Harry dragged his gaze away with a visible effort, dropping his eyes to the ground as if scorched by what he had seen. His jaw flexed, a faint pink rising over the stubble roughening his cheeks.

You snapped your book shut without thinking, heart hammering suddenly against your ribs.

He opened his mouth — maybe to apologize, maybe to say something normal, anything — when the kids burst through the garden-gated door behind him.

"Daddy! You have to show her!" Quinn shouted, her tiny sneakers slapping against the ground as she had followed him into the back gate.

You could tell that he hadn't planned for them to follow him, but he had lingered here too long, and they had not been caught.

Leo crashed into his thigh, clutching a brown paper bag like it was treasure.

Harry blinked, as if remembering where he was, and quickly stepped back to let them through. Quinn ran straight to you, a bundle of something crumpled and colorful clutched in her small hands.

"We got you flowers!" She said, breathless with excitement. She thrust them into your lap: reds and yellows spilled out from the paper.

You looked down: tulips, slightly battered from the ride home, their bright heads bobbing on long green stems. Your chest squeezed thinking of your conversation last night and the way he had thought of your disappointment possibly missing out on the tulip festival.

When you look up, you see Harry standing against the gate with a dimpled smile on his face as he watched his children shower you with affection.

"They're beautiful, sweetheart," You said, your voice quiet as you realized you had even really spoken to anyone yet today. You reached out and smoothed Quinn’s hair away from her forehead, smiling. "Thank you."

Leo tugged on your sleeve, brandishing his prize, a small jar of golden honey sealed with a checkered cloth lid.

"Real honey," he said proudly. "We saw the bees and everything!"

"Actual bees," Quinn emphasized, nodding gravely as if her brother could have been kidding, and she needed you to know that.

“As opposed to, you know," Harry stated afterwards, "Fake bees."

With a humorous tone, you stare at him with a smirk, both of your eyes covered by sunglasses. His hands pushed into the pockets of his shorts that came up midthigh, a hat on his head shielded him from the sun.

You laughed, scooping Leo up into your lap without thinking, tucking him against your side as you inspected the jar. His hair was warm and sun-smelling under your chin.

You felt Harry's gaze on you again but it was different this time; heavier this time, lingering.

Something about the way you sat there, barefoot, and golden in the morning sun, arms full of his children, your laugh spilling easily into the bright air… it may have given his heart a ping of something.

He cleared his throat roughly, going to grab at the gate door that had shut behind him.

"I'll, uh," he said, voice hoarse, "grab the rest of the stuff from the car." He disappeared outside before you could answer.

You watched the door swing gently in his wake, your heart still thudding unevenly against your ribs. You couldn’t deny what had passed between you — whatever invisible current had snapped taut across the sunlit garden.

And now, sitting there with the kids chattering excitedly around you, you realized two things with startling clarity: one, Harry was fighting with the idea that you loved his children. And two, you were starting to realize that sense too.

“C’mon, you two,” You say to the kids; Quinn has started to look through the novel you had sitting out but knowing that she couldn’t understand the words made you smile. “Let’s go help your daddy, hm?”

They scrambled ahead of you barefoot, little feet slapping across the hot stone that was baking under the unusually warm England sun, as they darted back into the house from the French doors. You followed at an easier pace, pausing just long enough to brush your damp hair off your neck from when you had taken a dip in the pool earlier to cool off, the thin straps of your bathing suit still just a bit dewy but practically dry. Your cover-up, a gauzy thing that barely reached mid-thigh, fluttered behind you as the breeze filtered through the door.

Harry was just pulling a crate from the boot of the car and into the house when he caught sight of you coming in through the kitchen

His hand faltered slightly on the box.

He hadn’t expected the way the sunlight would frame you like that, haloing your hair, catching the edge of your smile as the kids crowded around his legs to help. His daughter tugged at a canvas bag that he had sat inside and not fully bringing into the kitchen, insisting she was strong enough to carry it herself. Leo squealed with excitement when you bent to lift a carton of strawberries, your cover-up gaping slightly at the neckline as you moved.

Harry tore his gaze away, and grabbed at the list he didn’t really need in his pocket to make sure that he had gotten everything on it.

“Thanks,” He said when you stepped past him with a crate tucked in your arms. He caught the scent of your sunscreen—warm coconut and saltwater—and something else, something that made him dizzy for a beat too long.

“Of course,” You murmured, your voice easy, unaware—or pretending to be, at least.

In the kitchen, the kids were already unpacking the groceries with great ceremony, piling vegetables onto the kitchen counter in chaotic towers as they took one by one out. You joined them, setting down the crate and reaching for a peach to inspect, your fingers brushing the soft fuzz of it thoughtfully.

Harry brought in the last of the bags. He moved slower now, like he didn’t quite trust himself to get too close. But when he stepped up beside you and saw you standing there barefoot, tan legs bare beneath your cover-up, backlit in the window light—he knew he was in trouble.

“Do you want help with making lunch?” You asked, turning to him. Your lips curved gently, like you knew exactly how he was looking at you and weren’t afraid to let him.

He blinked, taken off guard by your question. “Yeah—uh, yeah, sure. I was thinking something easy. Sandwiches maybe?”

“That’s perfect,” You said, already reaching for the bread.

You moved around him like it was natural. You always had, he realized. Slipping past him in narrow spaces with a hand lightly grazing his back that usually felt like fire on him or brushing his forearm when you passed him the kettle, or leaning just slightly into him when the kids were being rowdy and you both needed a moment of shared silence. It was always small. Subtle.

But now… he was noticing all of it. There was no subtly, it was just happening.

He opened the fridge while you chopped tomato slices. And when you leaned over to grab a plate from the cabinet, the hem of your cover-up lifted just enough to show the curve of your upper thigh, the dark tie of your bikini bottom flashing against your skin. He made the mistake of looking.

Then you caught him; he looked practically ill.

You turned your head slightly, a knowing glint in your eye. “Is everything okay?”

His throat felt dry as he shrugged and tried to play off the behavior. “Yeah. Yeah, just… making sure I’ve got enough…” He trailed off, looking at the list, almost like he hadn’t known what to respond with.

Your heart beat faster at the way he seemed… nervous. You smirked faintly but didn’t press him, only went back to slicing vegetables with quiet focus.

He stood beside you, trying to concentrate on the sandwiches, but every time your arm brushed his, every time your hip nudged his as you both reached for the same cutting board, he felt like the floor might tilt under him. It was unbearable and addictive all at once—the domesticity of it, the small sweetness of this moment that looked, from the outside, like you’d done this a hundred times before.

He couldn’t remember what this feeling was, it had been too long since he had felt the draw of someone’s presence. Not with the same ache, the same hesitation. The need was one thing. But the softness of it? The rightness of it? That was new.

You handed him a finished plate with a horizontally cut sandwich, and your fingers touched—longer than necessary. And this time, neither of you pulled away quickly.

From the table, Leo called out, “Are you done yet? I’m starving!”

“Leo, be polite.” Harry stated back at him, acknowledging that the toddler had been a bit rude.

You smiled, breaking the tension, and pulled away to finish assembling the food.

Harry didn’t say a word. But when he caught your profile in the corner of his eye, the dip of your neck, the curve of your shoulder where your cover-up had slipped slightly off, he bit down on the inside of his cheek and looked away fast, chest tight.

Lunch was mostly a noisy affair, as it usually was with little voices bouncing off the walls. The kids sat perched around the kitchen table, chomping on peach slices and crustless sandwiches. You sat beside Leo, wiping mustard from his chin with the corner of a napkin, while Harry stood at the sink rinsing out the tomato-streaked wooden cutting board.

It had almost settled into a rhythm until Quinn suddenly piped up between bites of cheese that she had strategically picked from her sandwich.

“Daddy, when is Mummy coming this year?” The words landed with a thud in the air. Heavy and unexpected. You tried not to make a deal of it, but you had to glance at Harry to catch his reaction to her very innocent question.

Harry froze, hands still under the running water. You glanced at him instinctively and saw his shoulders tense—not a flinch, exactly, but a tightening, like he was bracing himself to give her an answer.

“She said maybe she’d come for the fireworks last time,” Quinn continued, oblivious, swinging her feet under the table. You didn’t exactly know what that meant – a promise made between her and her mother.

Leo looked up from his half-eaten sandwich, interested now. “Yeah, she missed them last year.”

You sat still, carefully quiet.

At the sink, Harry let the tap run another second too long before turning it off abruptly. The silence that followed was too sharp for the easy sunlit mood you’d all just been sitting in, and you felt a shift in the air.

He dried his hands on a dish towel slowly. Then, with a voice that was just a little too calm, he said, “We’ll see, love.”

Quinn frowned at his nonresponse. “But—”

“Let’s not worry about that today, alright?” Harry said, just a touch firmer now. He turned to face them, towel clenched in one hand. “I don’t know all the answers, but I do know you need to finish your lunch so we can continue with our day.”

The kids quieted, sensing the edge to his voice even if they didn’t understand it. Quinn looked down at her plate, nudging a slice of the fallen tomato with her thumb. Leo murmured something about the boat that they had gone on a few weeks ago with Harry’s family and went back to eating.

You felt the air shift like a tide pulling away. Harry caught your eyes across the kitchen. Just for a second. There was something there—something raw and tired and older than the man who’d been smiling moments ago. A look that said: Don’t ask. Please don’t ask.

You never did, and you weren’t going to start. But you did know that it seemed to be off limits.

Instead, you wiped Leo’s hands, gathered the empty plates, and stacked them with soft efficiency.

“I’ll take care of this,” you said gently, your voice low but light. “Why don’t you go and get their swimsuits on, and I’ll clean up here.”

“Go swimming?” The kids both perked up again at the mention of it and slid off their chairs after they had their plates removed, already halfway down the hall. Leo followed, dragging a half-eaten peach in one hand.

When they were gone, you placed the dishes in the sink beside Harry who had not made an effort to follow the kids to their rooms, careful to keep your movements quiet. You didn’t want to crowd him, but you didn’t want to leave either.

He scrubbed a hand across his jaw, exhaling roughly as if in thought. “She calls when she wants to. Sends gifts. Postcards.” He laughed, short and bitter. “And somehow they still think she might show up and make jam tarts like she used to.”

You said nothing, just rinsed the plates slowly. You knew that listening was the best you could do right now, so that’s what you did.

“It’s been nearly a year,” He added, quieter now. “But I’m still the bad guy if I say she won’t come.”

You glanced at him, turning the sink off. “You’re not the bad guy.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and there was something like gratitude swimming behind the guarded frustration in his face. Something tired and real.

“I didn’t- I don’t mean to get sharp with them,” He murmured. “It’s just… every time they ask, it sets me back. I think I’ve moved on. That I’ve built something steady for them. But then it all just… it builds up. I hate that their only memory of her is going to be the times she didn’t show up.”

“I get it,” you said gently. “You’re trying to hold it all together. It’s okay to be tired of the cracks, and for trying your best.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just stood there, drying his hands again even though they weren’t wet. You were close now—only a few inches of space between you. The hum of the ceiling fan, the distant seagulls outside.

“Kids hold onto the hope that things might go back to how they were.” You tell him, leaning against the counter.

He let out a humorless breath at that, shaking his head. “Yeah. Except she’s off in Provence or Cannes or wherever, living in some gated house, and sending ‘love from Mum’ in cursive on postcards from places she’s been that they’ve never even heard of before.”

You stayed quiet. Not out of awkwardness, but because it felt like he just needed to say it aloud. Needed someone to hear him for once. The way he opened to you wasn’t shocking – Harry was quiet an emotional man, you could tell that he had a lot being carried on his shoulders, but he never opened up to you the way he had been.

It was just someone to listen and to not judge him.

“She left a year and a half ago,” he said, still holding the towel in his hands. “Didn’t want this life anymore. Said she felt stuck. That she wanted to be ‘a woman again,’ not just a mother.”

Your stomach turned a little, not knowing how a mother leaves her children. You didn’t want to judge, but your impression had already soured. You crossed your arms over your chest and tilted your head as you listened.

“She married again to a – I don’t know, CEO of something somewhere. They live in luxury. Not that I didn’t try, not that I didn’t give her all of this,” Harry looked around the spectacular Hamstead home that had accommodations far greater than just the four of us that lived there. “She just didn’t want… responsibility. She wasn’t meant to be a mother, and I do feel that maybe I,” He paused, “Maybe I coaxed her into it. Like, she only did it for me.”

His voice was softer when he said, “Some days, I think I’ve forgiven her. Other days, I look at Quinn when she asks about her mum, and I just—” His jaw clenched. “I get angry.”

“She’s allowed to miss her mum,” you said gently. “But you’re allowed to feel angry, too, especially when your resentment is so high. You’ve been showing up. Every single day. That counts for something – the kids will remember that and see that. They will hold resentment too, but they will grow up understanding who was there for them.”

“Thanks,” he said finally, voice low. “For not making it a thing. With them… or me.”

You gave him a small, knowing smile as you thought of the times that Quinn would ask you questions you didn’t know answers to, so you would deflect. Harry looked at you then with something new in his eyes—soft, searching, a question he didn’t quite dare ask.

And just for a second, you let yourself imagine what it might feel like to reach up, thread your fingers through the edge of his T-shirt, and kiss him right there in the middle of the kitchen. To drop the pretense.

But you didn’t. Because the kids were down the hall, and because Harry was still trying to figure out how to let someone in again. So instead, you bumped his shoulder gently with yours and said, “Come on, let’s go make sure that peach Leo was holding doesn’t end up in a bed somewhere.”

He gave you a small, crooked smile. “Goddamn kids.”

You laughed, and it broke the tension just enough.

But the look in his eyes lingered—long after you left the kitchen, long after the kids had rallied for their towels and snacks and toys.

It clung to the warm corners of the day like something unsaid but undeniable.

Later that night, bathtime was always a bit of a circus in the house, especially when you didn’t have help. But tonight it felt even more chaotic, their sun-soaked energy bubbling over in the form of shrieks and slippery limbs.

Harry was also here – a lot of the times, he was at the office or working late, which is why you were there to help. He often came home in the middle of bathtime, getting a run down from the kids on the day and how they were doing while trying to eat his dinner as he stood in the doorway while you worked.

But tonight was different – tonight, you two worked as a team, each of you taking a kid and spending time with them. Leo had somehow managed to dump half a bottle of bubble bath into the tub before you’d even turned on the tap. Now the bathtub was just a sea of foam, the scent of orange blossom rising in the warm air.

You sat on the edge of the tub, shorts damp at the edges, scrubbing Leo’s feet gently while he chattered about how he was going to be “the biggest shark” in the pool tomorrow. Harry was toweling Quinn’s hair, his forearms flexing with the motion, tattoos slick and shining from the steam and water. You had to look away.

Or rather—you tried to, but kept noticing how they stuck out around the tight t-shirt he was sporting.

All afternoon, you’d caught flashes of him in the pool: tossing Leo effortlessly into the air as the boy shrieked with joy, letting Quinn ride on his shoulders during splash fights, his own laughter echoing off the garden walls. The sun had traced golden lines across his skin, catching on the wet curve of his neck and shoulders, the faint pink of a sunburn spreading across his back and cheeks.

And the tattoos—how they shifted and twisted with each movement. You’d noticed the faint trail of water dripping down his ribs, over the anchor inked on his wrist, and how your fingers itched to touch them. Not for the first time.

“I think the bubbles are trying to eat me!” Leo shouted, thrashing like a sea creature, and spilling water over the edge of the tub.

“They’ve claimed you,” Harry declared dramatically. “There’s nothing we can do now – you’re lost in the sauce, brother.”

Quinn dissolved into laughter again, slipping off the towel pile in her giggles as she made her way into her bedroom, Harry following.

By the time both kids were dried, lotioned, and wriggling into their pajamas, it was nearly nine. Harry read to them on Quinn’s bed—something about a traveling mouse—and you sat in the hallway, folding towels from the laundry, as you listened to him read. His voice was low, soft around the edges, full of patience and presence especially when the kids would interrupt with questions.

You heard him wrapping up with the story, both receiving a kiss goodnight; Quinn getting a forehead kiss, Leo a noisy cheek one. Harry soon made his way into the hallway and closed the door behind him softly after saying his goodnights.

You turned toward Harry. He stood just a few steps away, one hand on the back of his neck, his own hair still a little damp.

“They adore you,” You said, your voice quiet in the hush.

“I adore them,” he replied, then added, “and they adore you.”

The air shifted. Like the stillness before a thunderstorm, the pressure obliterating.

You started walking toward the kitchen, meaning to clean up the dinner dishes you’d abandoned earlier, but he followed, falling into step beside you. You had wondered if he had something else to do, to leave you to your job. Neither of you said much as you wiped down counters and stacked plastic plates. Your bodies moved in sync, brushes of skin here and there—a shared space carved out of routine.

You bent to load the dishwasher and felt his presence behind you before you turned into him. Straightening, you found him watching you again.

You didn’t know which of you moved first. Only that one second the air was thick between you, and the next, his mouth was on yours.

It was a soft kiss. Cautious, at first. Just a press, a seeking acknowledgement of being felt. Then, it deepened. Just enough that you felt the tenseness in your shoulders fall.

His hand slid to your jaw, tilting your face slightly, his thumb grazing your cheek as he kissed you like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed—but couldn’t help it anyway. You tasted the remnants of toothpaste on his lips, the faintest hint of fresh watermelon from earlier, and something else entirely—desire, long-hushed and finally slipping free.

You kissed him back, stunned by how easy it was. How right it felt as you tilted your neck to meet his lips.

Almost like a light switch had turned on, he pulled away – fast.

“Shit,” he muttered, shutting his eyes at the acknowledge; as soon as your eyes met when he pulled away, it was like you were on fire and he was touching you with bare hands. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—fuck.”

“Harry—”

“No, I know. That was… that was stupid. I crossed a line.”

You blinked, still catching your breath – he wasn’t wrong, but you didn’t want to make him feel worse. You participated; you didn’t end it – you didn’t stop him. You didn’t… want him to stop. “It wasn’t stupid.”

He ran a hand through his hair, backing a step away from you like it might undo what had just happened, or both of you might just forget it.

“It’s not fair to you,” he said. “I can’t… I shouldn’t blur things. You’re here for the kids, and I’m—Christ, I’m a mess, and I just—”

You stepped forward this time, your voice gentle but firm as you go to touch him, but he flinches at the way your fingers grace him. “Harry.”

He looked at you then, eyes filled with panic and something else—something raw and vulnerable like he feels so conflicted with how he is responding.

“I- it may have been a mistake, but,” you said. “Whatever that was… it didn’t feel like a mistake.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there, breathing hard. But when he finally nodded, slow and quiet, you saw it in his eyes: the want. The fear. The pull.

The storm had been coming for a while. That kiss was just the first crack of thunder, and you were feeling the effects of the downpour.

You watch as he threads his hands through his hair, leaning against the counter. The way that he starts to fall into an oblivion of dissociation from his thoughts, you worry that he’s going to spiral.

The kitchen was still, filled with the soft hum of the dishwasher and the sound of your breathing. You stood across from him, heart skittering from the kiss and the way he’d pulled away — not because he hadn’t wanted it, but because he had. He had wanted it so badly that he crossed the invisible line to get it.

Harry scrubbed a hand down his face, eyes darting around the room as if searching for something to ground himself.

You didn’t move. Just watched him.

“I’m – I really am sorry,” he said again, softer this time. “That was—impulsive. I didn’t plan it.”

You let out a quiet breath. “Neither did I.”

He glanced up at you, trying to fidget with whatever he can get his hands on as if you will see his hands shake with adrenaline.

“I just…” he trailed off, exhaling hard through his nose. “You make it too easy. Being around you. It’s like I forget how complicated it is.”

Your brows lifted gently, curiosity tugging at your features. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, “I mean—this house. The routines. The mess. Bath time and sunblock and tantrums and grocery runs. It’s all supposed to be exhausting and a bit miserable in some capacity, right?” His lips curled faintly, staring down at his hands that were now wrapped up in an excess tea towel, “But when you’re here, it just… it’s better. Feels like I’m not doing it alone.”

You felt that—deep in your chest. A tight, warm pinch of something unsaid.

“I like the way things feel with you,” he continued, his voice raw now like it had been crafted by professionals, like the truth had worn down any resistance he had left. “Even the boring stuff. Especially the boring stuff. You make it—”

“Easier?” You offered quietly.

He nodded once, then a few times as if he thought of all the times that you had been there when it was hard, each one running through his mind. “Yeah.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy, yes—but with something tender. Something on the verge of spilling. You crossed your arms, mirroring him, your hip leaning against the island. “And that’s what’s confusing you?”

He sighed, running a hand along his jaw in thought, resting his head in his hand now. “I don’t know what I’m allowed to want with you,” he admitted, words very clear and concise as if he was placing jigsaw pieces and not wanting to force them, “You’re here because I hired you. You take care of my children. You live in my house. I don’t want to be—” He stopped himself, shaking his head, almost in a bit of disgust.

You tilted yours, stepping closer. “You don’t want to be what?”

He looked at you then, really looked. His voice was steady, if a little hoarse. “I don’t want to be the guy who takes advantage of the girl he hired to help keep his life from falling apart – it’s,” He grimaced, “It’s not who I am, and I don’t want you to get the impression of that. Really.”

Your stomach twisted. “Harry,” you said gently. “That’s not what this is.”

He hesitated, eyes flicking to your mouth, your bare legs with the summer sun-kiss on them from sitting out in the sun all day. “I want it to be more. But I don’t know how to let it be that without blurring everything.”

Your voice was quiet but certain in how you came to this conclusion. “Lines are only useful if they’re helping. But if they’re just keeping you from something good, then… maybe they need to be redrawn.”

Harry looked at you like you’d just opened a door he didn’t know he was allowed to walk through.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said, with all of the honesty he could. “Not carefully. Not slowly.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth. “You don’t have to know everything right now. You just have to be honest.”

You were standing directly in front of him now; leaning against the island as he leaded against the countertops. The space between you now was warm, charged again.

“I think about you,” he admitted, “When I’m rinsing Leo’s cereal bowl. When I’m folding Quinn’s pajamas. When I walk into a room and you’re already there, barefoot, humming something under your breath. It’s like—this house… doesn’t feel empty anymore.”

That one hit you deep. You swallowed; throat suddenly tight at the thought of his loneliness being the culprit. It was one thing to let his mind and body talk, but knowing that it was because he just longed for the security of a partner made you feel touched.

“And that... scares me,” he added, voice low and honest as he came to that conclusion. “Because I’m not used to things feeling good and lasting.”

You nodded slowly, trying to understand where he was coming from. “I’m not asking for forever right now, Harry. I just need truth and honesty, and maybe we just…” You trailed off, shrugging, “We take this as it comes.”

The smile that crossed his face caught you off guard, it was showing his dimples that you knew were hereditary just in the way that his smile replicated Quinn’s perfectly. There was a bit of a blush on his cheeks, “The truth is, I want to kiss you again,” he said. “But I won’t. And like you said, we’ll take it as it comes.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. You made the first move, stepping just forward until you were close enough to hear his breath in the quiet space. His breath hitched, and for a long moment, it felt like the world was suspended in that space between intention and action.

But he didn’t kiss you again. Instead, he reached for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours.

“I’ll walk you to your room,” he said, voice barely audible.

And just like that, the moment folded back into the quiet hum of the house again. But the charge—that didn’t go anywhere.

When you both padded up the stairs, your fingers still linked, it wasn’t about pretending anymore. It was about the start of something quietly, fiercely real but in the most uncommon of instances.

Harry stopped just outside your bedroom door, still holding your hand like he didn’t quite want to let go yet. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and you watched the corner of his mouth twitch like he was fighting a smile.

“So…” he said, eyes flicking toward the door behind you, “this is your stop.”

You blinked at him, confused for a second — until you caught the playful tilt of his voice. “Are you—are you pretending this is a first date?”

He gave a dramatic shrug, leaning a shoulder against the hallway wall. “What can I say? Feels like I should walk you to your apartment. Make sure you got in okay. Maybe kiss you on the front stoop, ask when I’ll see you again,” He bit his lip, “I want to take things slow but I have to imagine it this way rather than you just already living with me.”

A breath of laughter left your chest before you could help it. “You’re ridiculous.”

Harry’s gaze dropped to your mouth, and the moment slowed, grew heavier. When he leaned in, it was hesitant, like he was asking you to meet him halfway – he was still redrawing those lines.

And so, you did.

The kiss was soft — just the brush of lips, careful and steady, the kind of kiss that lingered long after it was over. There was no rush, no battle for control. Just quiet confirmation that whatever was happening between you had already begun.

When he pulled back, he looked almost dazed, like it had completely changed his perspective. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

You slipped inside your room, closing the door gently behind you. But long after your head hit the pillow that night, you could still feel the ghost of his mouth on yours, and you hoped that the phantom touch would haunt you just a little longer.

THE NEXT MORNING

You woke slowly the next morning, the kind of slow that only came after a long, sun-soaked day and a night full of soft, lingering touches and unspoken truths. The sheets were warm against your skin, the pillow still holding the faintest trace of Harry’s cologne – your mind may have just been playing tricks on you. Your limbs felt heavy in the best way, as if your body had finally relaxed after weeks of holding tension.

Somewhere downstairs, you heard the faint clang of a pan, followed by the sound of laughter — light and bubbling, the kind that cracked your chest open and made you want to smile without thinking. Afterall, your job was to get the kids up, get them ready for their day.

But the past couple days, you had slept in. you had been given a break from all of that.

You slipped from bed, wrapping your robe around you loosely, bare feet padding softly over the cool wooden floor. The light filtering in through the windows was syrupy gold, lazily stretching across the hallway in slanted lines. You followed the scent first — warm butter, something sweet, something citrusy, and the unmistakable richness of coffee.

When you reached the kitchen, you stopped in the doorway. Time slowed.

Harry stood at the stove, barefoot, in purple shorts and a black t-shirt that clung to his shoulders and arms in a way you couldn’t quite ignore. His curls were a little messy — like he’d run a hand through them too many times — and he had a spatula in one hand, a steadying palm on Leo’s back with the other.

Leo had his knees on the stool as he sat in front of the stove, eyes wide and focused, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he gripped his own tiny spatula like it was a sword. Quinn hovered nearby in her pajamas, as she watched them from her spot sitting on the counter.

“You see those bubbles?” Harry asked, pointing to the pan, “That means it’s almost ready. Gotta be patient. The flip’s all about timing.”

“Now?” Leo asked, eyes wide with anticipation.

Harry smiled at his son’s impatience, “Few more seconds,” He watched as the little boy struggled with keeping it together before Harry nodded at him to act, “Okay, go on.”

Leo flipped the pancake clumsily and unevenly, but it made it onto the pan — and let out a triumphant yell at he did so. Quinn squealed, clapping, and Harry laughed, tilting his head back.

It hit you, then, the vision of him there, eyes soft with pride, his children giggling around him — the warmth of domesticity seeping into every corner of the kitchen. He looked like he belonged there. Like this was his favorite version of himself.

And then… you saw them.

Tulips.

A fresh bouquet — soft pinks and whites and yellows — tucked into a simple glass vase beside the sink, where the morning light caught the edges of the petals and made them glow. Just beneath them sat two coffee mugs. Steam was curling from the tops of them as if they were freshly poured.

Harry looked up just then, catching you standing there. He stilled, biting on the inside of his cheek.

For a moment, it was just the two of you in the space between that look — his eyes raking down your robe, soft at the edges, knotted loose around your waist. Your hair falling around your shoulders. Your smile barely formed. His entire face softened at your presence. He didn’t say anything, but his mouth twitched like he might want to.

“Morning,” you finally said, voice scratchy as you just woke up.

“Morning,” he murmured, gaze still holding you like something precious.

Leo turned, squealing. “We’re making pancakes! Daddy’s teaching us how to flip them!”

“He said we’re officially his pancake assistants,” Quinn added, nodding solemnly.

You stepped further into the warmth of the room, the floor cool beneath your toes as you reached for your mug. Harry passed it to you before you could reach, already fixed the way you liked it with a caramel color indicating he added creamer. Your fingers brushed his as he passed on the mug. The touch lingered — enough to send heat curling low in your belly again, like last night hadn’t fully settled.

“Thank you,” you said softly, glancing toward the tulips.

His eyes followed yours. “We thought you might like them.”

You didn’t have words for that — for how simple it was, and yet how deeply it rooted itself under your skin.

He turned back to the stove, flipping a pancake with practiced ease, letting the kids chatter around him. You stood at the counter, sipping the warm, rich coffee, watching him — the tattoos swirling down his arm as he reached for a plate, the way he leaned down to ruffle Leo’s curls, how he facilitated when Quinn spilled a bit of batter on her pajamas.

It wasn’t just that he was handsome. It was the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way his voice softened when he spoke to the kids to meet their needs, but also to navigate their feelings and help them understand the world around them. The way the kitchen had tulips and coffee and warmth and him in it.

You realized, suddenly, that you hadn’t felt this safe in years. He caught you looking again and smiled.

And you knew — just by the way his shoulders dropped, the easy way he moved toward you — that the night before hadn’t been a fluke; it was just built-up feelings that he had needed to express on how easy this life was. That something had shifted. That you weren’t imagining the way his hand had hovered near yours all morning.

That there was more coming. And it would be slow. And tender. And full of moments just like this one.

Fresh flowers, and all.

[vaquerolvr]

Road trip! Reader is Passenger Princess (due to them giving their man a heart attack everytime they drive 😊)

i am Still Suffering on my road trip. god save me. i wrote this in my notes app while stuck in traffic for three hours. the formatting and spelling are in the hands of Our Merciful Lord (tumblr)

price

refuses to let anyone else drive unless he’s on the verge of passing out

(probably the only one you can trust to drive tbh)

does the dad thing where he’ll stick out his hand to get some of your snacks

hates stopping for any reason, wants to get to the destination as quickly as possible

when he does get forced to take a break, he’s very upset about it

backseat driver, stresses everyone out

(gaz is tempted to tape his mouth shut)

claims he “isn’t tired” and “can keep going” but is the first one to pass out when you stop at a hotel

gaz

passenger princess

if you try to get him to drive he’ll pretend to be sleepy

in charge of the music

(not because everyone likes his music but because he fought soap for the right)

hogs the phone charger

calls shotgun and will fistfight anyone he tries to take it from him

(he’ll let you have it if you want but he’ll be pouty about it)

ghost

another passenger princess (because no one trusts his driving)

the single time he’s allowed to drive, he nearly causes an accident ten minutes in

weakest bladder known to man

forces you to stop every hour

passes out after the first hour of driving

soap wakes him up when his snoring gets too loud and it causes another bout of smacking each other

takes photos of anything cool he spots on the road

(they all come out blurry but it’s the thought that counts)

soap

the only other one that price trusts to drive

decent driver, just has road rage at times

begs gaz to let him change the music (gaz always says no)

points out the scenery constantly

“look, there’s cows!”

collects souvenirs from every gas station you stop at

plays road trip games (i spy, slug bug/punch buggy/whatever you call it)

he and ghost get in trouble when it devolves into them just hitting each other

has a stash of snacks and drinks that he’ll share if you ask nicely

is awake and yapping the entire drive

(gaz actually does tape his mouth shut)

alejandro

the exact opposite of price

likes to take his time and relax

will somehow turn a 10 hour drive into 15 hours

wants to stop at every roadside attraction he sees

you have to keep reminding him that you have somewhere to be or he’ll get lost on a side quest

souvenir guy, buys magnets and keychains

has cds that he likes to listen to

very chill but you might get stressed if you’re on a deadline

is insistent on being the driver but gets traumatized when he runs over a squirrel

“ale, it wasn’t your fault. it was dark, you couldn’t see-“

“I’M A MURDERER”

rudy

probably the best person to plan a road trip with

isn’t a maniac like price but isn’t as laidback as alejandro

likes to listen to random radio stations as he drives

is really bad about speeding

regularly goes at least 15-20 over the speed limit but is lucky enough to never get pulled over

uses road trips as an excuse to only eat junk food then regrets it when his stomach starts hurting

needs a day or two to recover afterwards because his back hurts from sitting for so long

graves

scarily organized

has an itinerary and follows it to the letter

wouldn’t let you drive even if you begged

if he gets tired he’ll just get one of the shadows to take over

honestly, most of the trip consists of the shadows entertaining you with their antics while graves drives

one of them gets left behind at a gas station and you have to drive back half an hour to pick him up. graves is pissed

makarov

do NOT try to take this man on a road trip

if you mention it, he’ll have plane tickets booked before you can even blink

cannot handle long drives, the most he can manage is an hour before he starts getting annoyed

keegan

the most stressful but also the most entertaining

demands control of the music but plays the weirdest shit

not the best driver but not the worst

he won’t crash at least and he’ll only get pulled over a few times

says the most out of pocket shit to get a reaction from you

“how long do you think i can drive with my eyes closed?”

“KEEGAN NO-“

keegan has been banished to the passenger’s seat.

nikolai

another guy who is good at road trips

great driver, you can sleep the whole ride and he won’t gaf

it’s kind of terrifying. you’ll wake up from another nap to find him staring dead-eyed at the road as he drives

secretly shoplifts something from every place you stop at

doesn’t admit it until you accidentally find his stash hidden in one of the bags

“solnishko, you must understand. i need it.”

“you do not need a keychain of a frog with a cowboy hat, nik!”

nikolai is now wanted for theft in every US state (and several countries)

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hi love ♡ I wanted to pop in and let you know how much I appreciate your blog. Recently got back on tumblr from a loooong hiatus and I love reading to get back up from my writing slump.

I was wondering if you'd be willing to write a headcanon focused on the 141 pining after the reader - I am a sucker for the trope. Cannot get enough of it. Just use this ask to be creative, I love exploring other writers' craft! ♡

Have a wonderful day 🩷

I’d love to, and while we’re at it, let’s make this an AU for the hell of it.

Knight!Price who is disowned and discarded by his liege lord, his title, lands, and any holdings stripped from him. Setting out on his own, he comes a mercenary for hire, taking up all the odd jobs he can. When he and his merry band of misfits take a job to hunt down a baron’s runaway bride, Price doesn’t expect that the fiery woman he finds will steal his heart. It’s a wayward journey with Price slowing the group down just to have one more day with you. Returning you to your betrothed is unthinkable.

Rugby!Gaz who secretly imagines himself with his teammate’s girlfriend. She comes to every game, and at every game, Kyle pretends it’s her cheering him on and not his teammate. He imagines her wearing his number, hugging him after winning a match, and celebrating with him in his bed. It’s wrong to lust like this—to want her like he does. But she is all he wants, all he desires, he just needs to figure out how to snatch her up.

Neighbor!Soap who lusts after his next-door neighbor. You’re dating someone else, a real arsehole that Soap would like to slug in the face. Instead, Soap is forced to watch him mistreat all while he yearns for your attention. It’s “good mornings” every day, offers to fix things in your home, and not so subtle flirting. The boyfriend knows what Soap’s up to, but you appear blissfully ignorant to it. All he needs to do is get this prick out of the picture.

Widower!Ghost who obsessively stalks the new nanny. After the death of his wife, Ghost has been lonely. He’s been the dutiful, single dad, looking after his twin toddlers. But when he hires on help, he doesn’t expect to become to enamored with you. Every waking hour is a constant pining that he can’t seem to shake. It doesn’t help when he watches you with the kids. It only furthers the infatuation, causing him to yearn for the thing that he’s been missing.

shoutout to @halfglasscrazy for the knight!price brainworms.

CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist

[kortac-sweetheart]

thinkin abt: classic “traitor” sergeant you and tf 141, except you have a different trauma response

cw: angst no comfort (yet), mentions of torture and physical harm, derealization, reader believes they deserve their torture (honestly selfship coded sorry) shout out to hedgehog’s dilemma one of my favorite dilemmas, very VERY canon divergent, no use of (y/n)

pt 2 with kortac maybe? as they slowly rehabilitate you and you learn to open up again

for as long as you can remember you’ve been an outsider. never quite fitting in with your classmates or even your “friends”. your two acquaintances (more like) in elementary school would drag you along, like a glorified pet, wherever they went. only to turn around and ignore you, chatting happily with each other as if you weren’t there.

and when you were older, you didn’t have any friends in class. always electing to sit by yourself and disturbing nothing and no one. fading into the background, like a shadow.

eventually you wind up joining the military, efficiently climbing the ranks until you land sergeant in task force 141. for the first few years of you joining, it’s much the same. that feeling of being other always lingering in the back of your mind, only amplified when observing the others in the team.

how soap easily makes gaz and price laugh, and even coaxing a chuckle out of ghost. how effortlessly they talk to each other, to the way tackling one another in a bear hug in the base halls was no big deal. almost envious at how openly they interacted with each other.

witnessing it makes you feel like you’re in school again. forcibly reverts you to the younger you that endured your so-called friends ignoring you.

but you don’t bring it up. ever. being here and fighting alongside them is already treading thin ice in your mind. already impeding upon their well established relationships. an intruder. an outsider. a stranger. a nuisance.

you linger behind them in hallways, erring from their side and sight around base. sitting far from the others during briefings, eating alone during mealtime. absent from post mission celebrations.

you keep them at arms length despite them being your teammates. it’s not their fault, it’s yours.

if i let them in, it’ll only hurt again.

but they break down your walls slowly, oh so painfully slowly. johnny now jokes besides you in the break room and during meal times, conversation is always pleasant with kyle, whilst simon looks out for you, very, very quietly. and john isn’t afraid to tell you of the good work you do on field, ruffling your hair like a proud dad.

things seem to be looking bright for you.

until they aren’t.

you fall asleep peacefully in your bed only to wake up strapped to an uncomfortable metal chair in the base’s interrogation room. a mole, unbeknownst to the rest of the team had planted evidence framing you and accusing you of betraying them. taking advantage of the thin fault line in your relationships, vulnerable and unsteady, compared to the stalwart trust they already had in each other. then, subsequently tearing that fault wide open, in order to break the team from the inside out.

your tenuous and fragile relationships finally blooming, only to be crushed under heel in a single night.

the light strains your eyes and the tight ropes dig painfully into your flesh, back aching and head throbbing as you await your fate.

three sets of eyes that only started to gaze warmly at you are now long gone. replaced with a plethora of emotions, betrayal, ire, resentment, bitterness, distrust.

you try to plead your case, that you have no idea what’s going on or what they’re talking about. you’ve never heard of any of these people in your life, nor have you ever heard of that operation at all.

but all of it is futile. you can see it clear as day in their eyes. they glare at you with such distain, it’s akin to what they gave their enemies on the field; except much much worse. this time it’s personal, someone they thought they knew.

they don’t believe you.

you realize that quickly. and after that you become borderline unresponsive. shutting down, physically, mentally, retreating into your mind, a desperate attempt to keep yourself safe from your allies-turned-tormentors.

you no longer scream your protests, all cries of agony quieted down until there wasn’t a single peep from you. although your tears never cease.

it angers them. they yell in your face, demanding answers to questions you haven’t the ability to answer. why were you being so difficult? if you’d just answer it’d be easier on you and them.

they subject you to a whole torrent of horrors. the restraints tightening and digging into your flesh, blood seeping into the rope. ghost slashes a knife up the side of your face, from your jaw to above your eyebrow bone. your eye just barely making it out unscathed because you shut it in time. then they start to rip your nails out, painfully, one by one. each time you don’t answer them, another one is torn out.

(they remember what you said offhandedly. that you didn’t like others being pushy, that you valued your autonomy highly. and what better way to break you than to rid you of it? stripping you of your nails, slashing at your muscles, tightening the ropes until you bled. anything, everything to ruin what little sovereignty you had left.)

despite being swathed deep in the recesses of your mind, you can still hear them. their voices muddied and muffled, as if underwater and you’re left unable to discern who’s words are who’s. not that it mattered anyway. the venom in their tone remained the same no matter who spoke.

“disgusting fucking traitor.”

“you’re such a pathetic piece of shit.”

“aww, cry some more.”

“should’ve never trusted you.”

“what an utterly worthless burden. only served to drag down the team.”

their words seep into your mind like poison through blood. it leaves you doubting, frantically questioning all moments you’ve shared with them. leaves you spiraling deeper and deeper into the dark abyss of your mind. your safe haven, and your cold prison.

did they always think this?

did they always hate me?

what did i do wrong?

i must’ve done something wrong to deserve this.

i deserve this.

i’m sorry.

i’m sorry.

i’m sorry.

i’m sorry.

i’m sorry.

i’m sorry.

i’m sorry.

i’m sorry.

i’m sorry.

i’m sorry.

you still remain motionless, and they scoff, looking down at you as they ash their cigarettes on your bruised skin. you don’t react. soap, frenzied, aggravated and wound up, lands a hard punch straight in your jaw. your head flying back with a sickening crunch before hanging low over your lap, face obscured.

gaz violently yanks your hair back, revealing your battered face. the lighting of the room casting long, tired shadows across it as he forces you to look at them. and you do, but not quite at them.

you don’t stare at them. you stare through them. like they aren’t there, like YOU aren’t there. they see nothing behind your eyes. it was like you were already dead. and maybe, at this point, it would’ve been better if you were.

hours blend into days and days possibly into weeks. your life has been nothing but torment and agony for who knows how long. never allowed a moment of rest or respite, being violently slapped awake if you’ve ever got lucky enough to grasp at increasingly ephemeral shut eye. time slips away into nothingness when your whole life has turned to pain.

they’re starting to grow more desperate for answers; despite everything they’ve thrown at you, you still haven’t “cracked”. and so they turn to more.. permanent methods of harm.

by the time price barges through the door, alarming everyone that you were innocent and you were falsely framed by a mole, your pinky is already severed and falling to the floor.

as if it were only a cruel nightmare, everything ceases immediately. and you pass out as you’re rushed to the base medics.

you’re awake once again, but you’re not quite all there. still safely tucked away in the depths of your mind. everyday is still a blur as your battered and beaten body tries to heal, ignoring the pity in passersby eyes’ and forced to rely on the kindness of base medics for hygiene. as if it wasn’t humiliating enough to end up in such a state.

even in your semi lucid state you still recognize them, the weight of their gait and their footfalls against the floor. always bracing for further injury whenever they draw nearer, clenched eyes, hunched posture, and a deep grimace. turned away out of fear for an impact you can’t ever guarantee is truly gone.

you silently reject their help, withdraw in on yourself to a state they’ve never seen before. you stop talking to them entirely, stop talking to everyone for that matter. whenever they try to sit next to you, you always flinch before scooting away from them, or most times you hobble away from them entirely. they never stop you. and you never look back.

(they wish you would yell at them. slap them, lash out at them, anything would be better than your numb indifference towards them now. with your anger they know for sure that you’re still in there, but, now. now it’s like a wraith is haunting the halls, more of a ghost than the man fool himself could ever hope to be.)

you return to the field as soon as you can. and everyone is surprised that your performance hasn’t suffered as much as they thought it would, considering… everything.

you’re already burdening everyone enough. if your performance were to decline then they would surely toss you aside, and everything would be for naught.

but the higher ups can see the mental toll it takes on you. to be besides them, as if this never happened. everyone can see the way they inadvertently hurt you more, can see the writing on the wall if you continue to work with them.

and so, they set up a transfer. to kortac.

you certainly have no complaints, but your ex-tormentors undoubtedly do. up in arms about the whole thing until they’re told to stand down. to follow orders.

just like they did before.

things were the same in the days leading up to the transfer. you avoid them, taking different hallways around base. never interacting more than the bare minimum, efficiently finishing missions without small talk or celebration. and always rejecting their offers of help with a faraway look and shake of your head.

and on the day of the transfer, they still try to plead for you to stay. to apologize for what cannot, and can never be undone.

you’re fed up with all of it.

clearing your throat and murmuring just loud enough for them to hear,

“forgive me if i’m speaking out of line, but who was the one to call me quote, “an utterly worthless burden?” was it lieutenant riley or sergeant mactavish? perhaps it was sergeant garrick? well… it doesn’t matter anyway. you’ll be better off without a detriment dragging down your team.”

they look heartbroken, stammering out apologies after apologies, but it all sounds so empty to you. until johnny whimpers out “god, we’re so sorry. you didn’t deserve what we did to you, not at all. we’d— we’d do anything to take it back!” he’d go on and on until you cut him off.

“didn’t deserve it? of course i deserved it, i must have done something worth punishing. otherwise… otherwise…” you were trembling, your hands painfully clutching your arms. your head bent over and face obscured from your hair, eerily similar to when you were being tortured. the sight of you so battered and broken burned into their mind.

foolishly, someone reaches out a hand towards you and you jerk back violently, as if burned. hyperventilating and quivering as you dig your painfully throbbing fingers into your arms, eyes wide like a frightened animal. the sight of them, looking at you so concerned, the sight of your missing pinky and your bloodied fingertips, it’s all too much. the room in spinning, the floor is collapsing underneath you and your head feels like it’s underwater, “don’t— don’t touch me!”

your voice feels like it doesn’t belong to you, and you can’t take it anymore. blindly rushing out the door as fast as your feet can carry you. running away from the room— away from them, they don’t move to stop you, rooted firmly in place.

they knew they fucked up immensely, but it was only then that they understood the magnitude in which they ruined you. unintentionally led you to believe that you deserved the hell they put you through, only confirming and fortifying your feelings of being an outsider.

unworthy, burdening, all of those hurtful notions you held about yourself that they had once tried to erase, back a thousand fold.

and they had no one but themselves to blame for it.

(they nearly buckled under the weight of their actions. realizing that they’d never get the chance to even attempt to atone for what they’ve done. that you’d leave forever believing that they had hated you the whole time. and that you hate them now, too.)

pt2

[mrsparrasblog]

Change my mind

You can't.

Price definitely has a bratty daughter at home. But it's not like he doesn't love you or that you get punished by him—that's something his ex-wife does. No, you are, and I'm 100% sure, his favorite little girl, and you can't do any wrong. He literally spoils you rotten because he feels so guilty about his military lifestyle.

You want a vacation in Paris? Of course, honey.

The Lady Dior bag? Say no more. Daddy's got it.

You have a boyfriend? Oh, bad mistake to tell him. Expect the most intense background check from Aunt Laswell ever, and Uncle Ghost scaring that bastard for fun. And Price actually shows him his weapon collection and invites him for a weekend at his hut. :)

No wonder the bratty daughter stays single until you turn 22. Price always forbids you from meeting Gaz and Soap since you're close in age, and he knows you're beautiful and every man follows you like a lost duckling. Well, what a surprise when you tell your dad you finally met a good match for you. "Dad, he is in the SAS too and a reliable man."

Just imagine the surprise when you introduce him to your parents and Uncle Ghost (since he is always there when you meet a new boyfriend), and it's Kyle Garrick.

"Gaz, what are you doing here?"

"Captain Price?"

[sweetstrawberryys]

“Double the Love”

— Task Force 141 x Pregnant!Reader

Reader shows the ultrasound but plot twist it's TWINS!!

Masterlist

---

Captain John Price

You’d barely made it back from the ultrasound before John noticed something was different.

“You alright, love?” he asked, sliding off his coat and placing his hand instinctively over your belly.

“I’m fine,” you said, lips trembling into a smile. “But I do have some news.”

You handed him the sonogram — this time, with two tiny figures on the screen.

He stared.

Then looked again.

“…There’s two.”

“Twins,” you whispered.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Just stood there, in quiet awe. Then he walked over, gently cradling your face in his calloused hands.

“Two heartbeats.” He swallowed. “Two little pieces of us.”

He kissed you — slow, reverent — like you were a miracle.

“I didn’t think I could feel luckier than I did the day you said you loved me,” he whispered. “But you just proved me wrong.”

---

Simon “Ghost” Riley

He’d always been quiet with his affection, but this was different.

You showed him the updated scan and waited in silence as he stared.

He didn’t speak.

You started to panic. “Simon, I—”

He reached out slowly, as if the paper was too fragile for his hands. His thumb brushed over the image of two tiny shapes.

“…Twins?” His voice cracked.

You nodded, eyes welling up. “Yeah.”

He sat down heavily on the couch, jaw tense, mask pushed halfway up.

“I never thought I’d have one family… let alone three.”

You moved to sit beside him, and he pulled you gently into his arms, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I’ll protect all of you. With everything I have. Always.”

And when he placed a hand on your belly, there was a warmth in his touch you’d never felt from him before.

---

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

You thought the man couldn’t be more dramatic.

Then he found out you were having twins.

He stared at the ultrasound photo, mouth agape. “Two? Are you sure that’s not just one doing a somersault?”

“Positive,” you laughed.

He let out a breathless laugh, running both hands through his hair. “Well, hell. Guess we’re skipping right past chaos and going full mayhem.”

But then he looked at you — really looked — and all the wild, playful energy melted into something quieter.

He knelt in front of you, resting his head gently against your stomach. “You’ve given me more than I ever deserved. And now, double.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, heart full.

“Guess I’ll have to learn how to swaddle two babies while holding a gun, huh?”

You snorted.

“And I wouldn’t trade a single second of it.”

---

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

He was already the softest of the bunch, but this? This floored him.

You handed him a wrapped frame, and he unboxed it carefully — revealing the sonogram labeled: “Baby A & Baby B.”

He froze, eyes wide, lips parted. “Is this real?”

You nodded, heart pounding.

Gaz sank onto the couch, stunned, then started laughing — soft, overwhelmed laughter. “Two of them. Two.”

He pulled you into his arms, peppering kisses along your forehead.

“This means double the diapers,” he whispered between kisses. “Double the crying. But also… double the snuggles. Double the bedtime stories. Double the love.”

You melted into him, feeling safer than ever.

“I can’t wait to be the dad they deserve,” he said against your hair. “I’ll give them everything.”

---

Alejandro Vargas

He cried.

Not loudly — just the kind that sneaks up and steals your breath.

You handed him the sonogram with trembling fingers, watching as he studied it. When he realized what it meant, his eyes slowly filled.

“Dos?” he asked softly. “Two little hearts?”

“Yes.”

He sat down beside you, pulling you into his arms with infinite care. “You are a goddess, mi vida. You carry two souls inside you. How can I ever thank you for this gift?”

“You don’t have to,” you whispered.

“But I will,” he replied. “Every day, for the rest of my life.”

He placed a reverent kiss to your stomach, tears glistening in his lashes. “They are already so loved.”

[call-me-kat-astrophe]

Simon is the type of dad to watch whatever his kids are watching in silent distaste until he slowly starts to get into it, picking up on and remembering characters names and storylines. Finds himself thinking about it while away on work, looking forward to watching the newest episode. Will never admit he secretly enjoys it now, would rather die.

Price is the type of dad to wander in and ask what his kids have on the telly, then stand up and watch it - despite having expressed his disinterest. Slowly shuffles over time toward the couch, where he perches on the edge and stays till it's over. When asked what he thinks of it after, he just shrugs.

Gaz is the type of dad who knows all the names of the characters and their individual stories and the plot and never forgets a single detail. He loves being able to chat about it during and after with his kids, the tangible excitement in their eyes as they rant about their favourite character and he's so proud of himself for knowing exactly which one that is.

Soap is the type of dad to be the one who puts on his kids favourite shows and movies because he loves them too, almost more than his kids. He'd be there mouthing the words he already knows by heart because he's seen it so many times and it never fails to bring enjoyment. Just a big kid at heart. Would 10/10 sit on the floor and gaze up at the screen with wide, excited eyes and a big grin, taking it all in while his kids end up dozing off in the background, having grown bored.

[ artwork of simon looking at baby isn't mine!! found on pinterest but credit to whoever made it!! 💞🫶 ]

[midnightcrw]

Fight

Pairing: Ghost x Reader, Price x Reader, Soap x Reader, Gaz x Reader

Summary: Your child gets in trouble

a/n: This one is a little different from my usual ones, but I just felt like writing for all four of them. I'm not sure how accurate you'll all find them as I've deliberately exaggerated them, but I do believe that Gaz is a sassy man after seeing how he didn't want to shake Graves' hand. I've also named the children of the TF141, I hope that's okay with you all.

Scenario:

The moment you both heard that your child got in trouble, the first thing you two did was rush into the principal's office in fear that something happened.

And now you were both sitting in the principal's office with your child, while another child was there with his parents.

Ghost:

Your eyes widened as you heard the principal say that Daisy and another girl in her class had gotten into a physical fight.

"There was also something your daughter said that is completely unacceptable," Mr. Smith said, looking disappointed at Daisy, even though the girl apparently started the fight and your daughter was just defending herself.

"It wasn't even that bad..." Daisy muttered underneath her breath as she crossed her arms.

Simon was very quiet, but his stoic expression spoke for itself.

"Daisy, I want you to quote what you said," Mr. Smith continued, not wanting to hear another word from her unless she quoted exactly what she said to the girl.

Your daughter looked at you, a pleading look on her face but you just shook your head at her in disappointment, wanting to hear what she said.

She sighed and quoted what she had said before, "You have a face that only a mother could love."

Without missing a single beat, Simon started wheezing in his seat the moment he heard his daughter's insult to the girl.

You glared at him, "Simon!"

Trying to calm down, he put his palm on his mouth as he continued, completely ignoring the angry looks of the principal and the other family.

"Mr. Riley, I want you to calm down. This is highly inappropriate," Mr. Smith said as Simon calmed down.

A few seconds of silence passed between you all before your beloved husband opened his mouth.

"Did you win?"

"Simon!?"

Price:

It felt like hours as the girl's parents and the girl herself ranted and raved about the fact that your daughter Sophie punched her.

At first you had both been shocked, completely angry at your daughter until the parents opened their mouths to speak.

You almost fell asleep listening to the mother go on and on about how her daughter's nose was bleeding because of Sophie.

Price, on the other hand, sat still in his seat, listening to the whole thing, not having said a word since he walked into the principal's office.

"Your daughter should be suspended!" The father said, glaring at Sophie.

Mr. Smith didn't even get a single chance to say anything, as they continued.

Slowly, Price seemed to lose his patience and turned his head towards you and your daughter.

He whispered, "Punch her harder next time."

"What?" The principal asks.

"Nothing."

Price says as Sophie giggles at her dad.

You tried to stifle your grin by putting a hand over your mouth, just hoping that the parents would shut up soon.

Soap:

Your son sat between the two of you, his nose bleeding and his face bruised as he frowned at the boy and his parents.

You were extremely worried as you put a hand on your son, Callum's arm, and quietly asked him if he was hurt anywhere else.

Callum just shook his head, not wanting to speak while Soap was already getting bored listening to all of the talking the principal was doing.

"It doesn't matter if he started insulting him because Callum was the one who got violent," Mr. Smith said as you tried to defend your son.

The boy obviously looked much worse than Callum. His hair was disheveled and his face was bruised. His nose was also bleeding, as was his lower lip.

It looked like your son had done some damage.

"What exactly did he do?" Soap asked, wanting to know exactly how Callum had hit the boy.

As Mr. Smith explained what your son had done, Soap's eyes lit up and a smile appeared on his face.

"I'm so proud of you, you used the punch I taught you," Soap said, extremely pleased that Callum had listened and actually used the things he had taught him.

Callum grinned at his dad's antics as you put your face in your hands, sighing and muttering "Why did I marry this idiot..."

Gaz:

You were shocked to hear what your son, Ethan, had done to the boy.

Mr. Smith was obviously upset and angry that Ethan had acted so childishly, and immediately got into a physical fight the moment the boy wouldn't stop insulting him.

You felt the headache already pounding in your head as you rubbed your temple, completely out of it.

Ethan didn't really say anything, he just listened to everything that was said.

The boy's parents glared at the three of you, never once looking away.

The boy that insulted your son, looked angry, obviously still being pissed at the fact that Ethan punched him, even though he himself started with the insults.

Gaz was not even shocked, sitting there with his hand holding up his head up as he looked extremely uninterested in the principal's endless speech.

Rolling his eyes, Gaz moved closer to you and Ethan as he whispered.

"Did you break any of his bones?"

"No."

"Good, because I'm not paying anything in this economy."

[hearts4hughes]

okayyy so i have a request . can you write tigh riding w dbf rafe and bug reader. but without any weirdness like she calls him "daddy". I'm sorry . in general write as you feel, but I want it to be that the reader tries not to show that she wants to do it, but then gives in. maybe he sees that she is not calm all day and he kind of lets her relax, but at first she pretends she doesn't want to? I don't know. well or you can do it the way you feel will be better

warnings: smut (mdni), thigh riding, age gap (reader is 20+)

you’ve been quiet all day. not in the sweet, dreamy way you usually are—drifting around the house in red socks and too-big sunglasses, humming show tunes and popping grapes in your mouth like a bored heiress. no, today it’s the other kind of quiet. the kind where you’re too aware of your body—too aware of his.

he’s been here since noon—fixing the sink, helping your dad with the broken fence, doing the things he always does without being asked. and you’ve been trying so hard not to look at him. not to need him. but god, it’s not easy.

not when he’s in a white tee soaked with sweat, hair messy, sleeves rolled, hands rough. not when he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and leans against the counter like he knows what he’s doing to you. he always knows. yet today, he’s not saying anything. he’s just watching.

by the time your dad heads out for a work dinner, it’s sunset. the house is quiet. golden. soft. rafe’s still here and still in that goddamn t-shirt. you sit on the couch with your knees tucked under you, pretending to scroll your phone, heart thudding so loud it’s embarrassing. you don’t say a word. you don’t have to because eventually, he walks over.

he sits next to you, slow and calm. his thigh brushes yours. “you’ve been tense all day,” he says, voice low, casual.

you blink, glance up. “i’m fine.”

“sure,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your mouth. “you always go quiet and pouty when you’re fine.”

you glare. “i’m not pouty.”

he just raises a brow. lets the silence stretch. then, his lips curl into a devilish smirk. “come here.” you shake your head. “i didn’t mean like that,” he says, voice steady. “just…sit on my lap for a second.”

your stomach drops. heat curls low in your spine. “no,” you say too fast. “why?” he leans back, spreads his legs slightly, and shrugs.

“you’re clearly fidgety. figured you could settle down.”

settle down. you hate how your body responds to that. you should say no—you want to say no. but your thighs ache, and you’ve been clenching your jaw for hours, and he smells like soap and salt and home.

you hesitate—then shift. you crawl into his lap. not in a suggestive way—just carefully, cautiously, like you’re pretending it means nothing. he keeps his hands to himself and rests them on the couch. you sit sideways across him, your legs draped over one of his thighs, your body curled, head tucked into the crook of his shoulder.

his breath is steady. his body is warm. slowly, you realize how solid his leg is beneath you. your hips shift without thinking and your breath catches when your core brushes the muscle. he doesn’t move and doesn’t say a word. but you can feel it. the tension and the shift in the air. the way he knows. “rafe,” you whisper, voice cracking. he hums. “you said—just for a second.”

his voice is gentle. “i know.” your hands fist in the front of his shirt. you press your thighs together. your hips twitch again, the tiniest grind—just once, just to feel—and that’s all it takes. his hand slides up your back, his lips ghost your temple. “go ahead,” he murmurs, barely audible. not pushing or not demanding…just giving.

you let yourself move. slow and hesitant. a single roll of your hips against his thigh.then another. and another. you’re already wet—already shaking. your head drops to his shoulder as your hips rock again, this time a little harder. “you needed this, huh?” he says, voice low and wrecked.

“i didn’t mean to—”

“shh.” he kisses the side of your head. “you’re okay. take what you need.”

you do. you grind against him until your whole body’s trembling, fingers digging into his arms, whimpering his name so soft he almost doesn’t hear it. but he does because he hears everything. finally, you break. you shudder and still and melt into his chest. he wraps his arms around you like you’re the only thing that matters.

you believe it and he knows it.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove @dsfault @missabsey @ivysturnss @kisses4rafey @katiebby04

[rememberwren]

Threshold

Simon asks you to take his virginity, just not in so many words. Or any words at all, really. 5.7 k

cw: virgin!Simon, PIV, oral sex f and m receiving, stop and start sex, lack of communication (typical Simon), poor writing, soft!Simon, hints at past trauma, contraception.

-

A Ghost shaped shadow falls over the table. Your eyes lift to find him standing there, the neck of his beer bottle held loosely in his hand. His mask is drawn down below his chin, revealing to you one of your favorite parts of him: his mouth. Simon has a pretty mouth, scarred though it is. Maybe you have such an affinity for it because it is so often hidden away from your sight, or maybe it’s what that mouth is capable of, being just as likely to crack a poor dad joke as it is to cut a grown man to the bone with just a few words. 

He takes the seat across from you, the screeching of the chair on the floor lost to the ambient sounds of the pub. The others are playing pool (Gaz is taking all of them to task), and the place is packed with bodies, a cacophony of voices and laughter. Feeling overstimulated, you had sequestered yourself away to this little corner hoping to catch your breath and tether yourself back to the earth instead of spending the rest of the night in a dissociated haze. 

The sight of Ghost is like a light slap to the cheek, rousing you from your stupor. Lights burn brighter. Sounds are sharper. If you wrack your brain you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve ever been singled out by Ghost, so you know whatever is about to happen is out of the ordinary. Leaning in, you lace your fingers together on the table top and nearly have to shout to be heard as you say: “What can I do for you, Ghost?” 

“We should hook up,” he says. Then he takes a long drink from his bottle, eyes sharp and dark where they are narrowed in on you over the top. A sniper’s eyes. 

“What?” you shout back, positive that you have misheard him. 

He shrugs. He won’t repeat himself. 

“Me—and you?”

He raises his brows, looking around the empty table as if to ask, Who else?

“Why?”

He takes another drink, and you see him mulling over his potential answers this time, sucking on his teeth as he thinks. What you wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall in his head. He’s got you on tenterhooks, leaning forward onto your elbows, fingers absently (anxiously) playing with a condensation ring left by someone else’s drink earlier in the night. 

Finally, he says, “Why not?”

-

His hand rests low on your back as the two of you say goodbye to the others. You see the downright thunderstruck looks Gaz and Soap throw at each other at your announcement that Ghost is driving you home, but the deeper meaning hardly registers. Who cares if everyone knows that you’re taking Ghost home to fuck him? You’re both adults; you need no one’s permission. Still, as soon as you are outside, you press your palms to your heated cheeks, wondering how you will be able to face any of them in the future. 

“You driving?” you ask him. 

He lifts his hand, showing you the keys in his palm. He doesn’t open the car door for you—not that you had really expected him to. It isn’t as if this is a date. It’s just two adults hooking up.

Inside, he shifts the vents towards you and turns on the heat, soothing the goosebumps that had begun to bloom on your arms. He waits until you’ve buckled your seatbelt before backing out and onto the street. It’s only then that you remember what Soap says about Ghost’s driving. You wish you had a second seatbelt. 

“So what brought all this on?” you ask, feeling remarkably shy in the passenger seat. You’re beginning to sober up from your drinks at the pub, not that you had ever been that drunk to begin with. Maybe this was a mistake. You’re already suffering from nerves, and you haven’t even gotten back to your apartment yet. How were you supposed to fuck Ghost without looking like a fawn, your knees knocking together coltishly, nauseous from anxiety? 

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he admits. 

Alright. Downright digestible news. Before tonight, you wouldn’t have even considered you and Ghost friends, necessarily. More like friend-adjacent, thanks to your mutual friendship with Johnny. It’s good to know that apparently you had caught his eye somehow, even if it was by being the only woman among a male-dominated group of friends. 

You can’t leave it alone. “But why?” 

“That’s what people do, isn’t it?” he asks, like he’s not a person, like he’s only ever heard about what it’s like to be one from a friend of a friend. “They think about fucking each other. Don’t you think about fucking me?” 

Your mouth goes dry. You do. You think about fucking Ghost a lot than one might expect for how few minimal interactions you’ve had. Being perfectly honest, tonight is sort of becoming a dream come true. You’d had an attraction for Ghost ever since you’d met him, even before he’d taken the mask off and you’d seen that he has such a pretty face underneath. 

You’d be willing to examine under a microscope your affection for aloof, seemingly unaffected men on a different day.

Ghost looks at you, trying to interpret your silence, the car swerving slowly into the other lane. You make a sound remarkably close to a screech and reach out to adjust the wheel, but he adjusts it before you do, batting your hand away softly. 

“We don’t have to do this,” he says, eyes firmly on the road now. “I’ll just drop you off.” 

“No, I want to,” you say. “It’s just—it’s been a while for me. I want to, though.” 

Ghost casts you a doubtful glance. He pulls into your apartment complex’s parking lot and the two of you head up together. True to form, you feel his eyes taking in all the new sights: the man behind the desk who doesn’t even look up as you both enter, the elevator that was last inspected two years ago, the proximity to the neighboring apartments.

After you unlock the door but before he crosses the threshold, he reaches up and runs his hand along the top of the doorframe—and easily pulls away your spare key. For a moment he holds it between you both, staring. He seems nearly as surprised as you are by his own actions. Reaching out, he sets it down on the end table just beyond the entry and says: “You couldn’t find a better hiding place for that?” 

“Goddamnit, Ghost,” you whine, slipping off your shoes. “You’re not here to assess my, my security measures. You’re here to fuck me. Will you get in?”

He comes in and makes a circle of the living space, his steps silent in a way you’ve never been able to replicate, not even here in your own living space. You cross your arms, wondering what he’s thinking. Does he think you a slob? A terrible interior designer? You told yourself that you didn’t care. The space was yours, and yours alone, and you liked it well enough. He could survive being in it for one night.

“What’s the verdict?” you ask after the silence stretches too thin. 

“It’s nice,” he says. Then he amends, or perhaps adds: “It’s you.” 

“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment. Do you…want a drink?”’ 

“No,” he says, taking off his jacket and resting it on the arm of the couch. “Want you to c’mere.” 

Your feet obey before your mind even thinks to question it, padding across the living room in your socks until you stand in front of where he has seated himself on your frayed, careworn loveseat. He looks up at you, eyes dark and all-seeing. His hands find your hips, testing the width of them, and he makes you feel like something small, something precious, something to be cradled in the palm of his hand like a gem or jewel.

“Sit down,” he says. So you sit beside him, close enough to breathe in his clean scent. 

“I’m going to kiss you,” he says, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “As soon as you say you’ll let me.” 

“I’ll let you.” 

His lips are soft as they look, mouth warm and insistent as he coaxes you to part your lips and taste him—as if you need the incentive. He tastes like Price’s whiskey that he had sipped at the bar, like he would settle warm in your belly and everywhere else. His hand relaxes his hold on your chin, choosing instead to cup your jaw, suffusing warmth throughout your cheek. 

It turns into the longest makeout session you’ve had since you were a teenager. You kiss until your jaw aches, until your lips are raw, until you’re throbbing between your legs. Each time you try to move things along, Ghost gently deflects your advances, seeming content to kiss you for ages. If this is how he fucks, it will be an all night affair. 

“Ghost please,” you mutter against his mouth when you feel liable to burst, when he won’t even let you slip a hand beneath his t-shirt. 

“Here,” he mutters, hauling you onto his lap. That’s headed in the right direction. Your thighs spread obscenely wide to accommodate him, lowering yourself until you feel that hard line beneath his jeans. Instinct has you lining yourself up until you can rub off against him, a choked sound rising up in the back of your throat at the blissful friction. 

He sighs into your mouth, a trembling little exhale of air, his hands finding your hips and pinning you in place. Pulling back, he mutters: “None of that.” 

“Why not?” you pant. “Feels good.” 

“I’m trying not to embarrass myself. Work with me.”

The two of you move to the bedroom. You stand on legs that are already shaking, stripping clothes off along as you go: socks here, leggings there. The typical anxious thoughts have just started spiraling in your head—what underwear are you wearing? Have you shaved recently enough? Is the light flattering? When did you last change the sheets?—when Ghost catches you, looping his forearm around your waist and pulling you back against his firm chest. 

“I wanted to undress you,” he says against the nape of your neck. 

“I can put the clothes back on if you like.” 

“Think I’ll just do the rest myself, if it’s all the same to you.” 

His hands are remarkably gentle for his line of work as he helps you out of your shirt, your arms lifting obligingly to help him. The light from the lamp in the corner is actually quite flattering, casting shadows across you both in a way that is artful. His fingertips, calloused but careful, trace up the lengths of your arms and around to your back. 

He fumbles a little with the clasp of your bra. 

“I hate those things,” you breathe once he finally gets it figured out, coaxing the straps off your shoulders. 

“Me too,” he says in that dry, bland way that you’ve come to associate with his humor.

All that’s left are your panties. He presses you back onto the bedspread and hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, peeling them off your thighs. Your legs try to close on instinct, but he is quick to wedge himself between them, thumbs finding the creases where your thighs meet your pelvis and stroking the sensitive skin until you don’t know whether to laugh from being tickled or cry from being teased. 

“Fuckin’ pretty, aren’t you?” he murmurs, eyes on your pussy. Maybe he’s talking to it and not to you. “Want to get my mouth on you. Can I?” 

God, how long has it been since you’ve gotten head? You nod, near frantic. Even if he’s no good, some effort will be better than nothing. Besides, a part of you has high hopes for Ghost as a lover; so far he has been thorough and careful, both points in his favor. He leans up and kisses you again, your nipples brushing against his t-shirt, reminding you that you are naked while he is still entirely dressed. He seems content, and as desperate as you are to see him naked, you’re even more desperate not to break this blissful little soap bubble you both have somehow managed to find yourselves in. 

Nudging your head up and to the side with the tip of his nose, he trails his mouth down your neck, tasting your skin and searching for your most sensitive spots. When he finds them, he drags his teeth against them softly until your heels are digging into the bed beneath you, hips up and searching for any kind of friction, even if you have to rub yourself against his jeans to find it. 

Ghost continues down over the plains of your chest, teasing first one nipple and then the other with his mouth and his hands, testing the heft of your breasts in his huge palms. He explores your body with an admirable single-mindedness, not the perfunctory, half-hearted way some of your past lovers had. His eyes are never far from your own, categorizing your reactions; for what purpose, you aren’t sure. 

After kissing a line right over your navel, he grips your thighs in his hands and spreads you wide. That close to your cunt, he must be able to smell how desperate you are, must be able to see the way it drips from you. He ghosts a thumb along your slit, turns it towards himself until your slick catches on the light. That thumb disappears into his mouth, and it takes all your breath and all your thoughts with it. His hum of approval vibrates against your calves which are pressed to either side of his chest. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

You nod, unable to trust your voice. 

He leans down and kisses your folds, chaste and sweet as he might have kissed your mouth. He uses the fingers of one hand to spread you open, and there is a rush of warmth as he lets the saliva pool on his tongue and then flood against your sex, leaning down to chase it with his mouth. 

He is all merciful tongue and lips, no hint of teeth as he licks and sucks at that hidden knot of flesh at the top of your sex. He barely pays your entrance any attention—which is fine by you, honestly, his tongue is direly needed elsewhere—but shifts an arm free to sling it over your pelvis, palm resting over your mons, thumb pulling back that hood that seeks to keep your most sensitive parts hidden from him. 

Your hands grip fistfuls of your bedspread, unsure if he’s willing to let you touch his hair. The noises—gasps and whines and choked groans—coming out of your mouth would have your soul leaving your body if only you could hear them over the sound of blood rushing through your ears. 

He’s strong, fighting against your natural urges to clamp your thighs shut around his head. Instead he presses you open wider, leaving no where for you to run to or hide as the pleasure in your pelvis blossoms, swells into some sweet fruit that bursts all over his tongue, your back arching into a neat bow. 

You find out then that Ghost eats pussy the same way he kisses. He seems content to lap you clean and continue sucking at your swollen flesh, and even though you don’t think you could cum again, it still feels good. You melt into the mattress, boneless. Against your better judgement, your hand finds his hair, tucking back the longest strands that just begin to tickle the tops of his ears.  

His mouth stutters against you at the touch, losing its easy rhythm. He pulls back until he is out of your reach. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, throat raw. Your hand falls to rest on your soft belly, feeling exhausted.

“You can touch. Just don’t pull. I don’t—“ he stops, like he is searching for the right words. “—I don’t want it to hurt.” 

“Not at all?” 

“No.” 

“Me neither. Would you kiss me again?” 

His only answer is to shift upwards so that he can meet your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue. His cock, still confined in his jeans, brushes against your thighs. One of your hands wanders down his firm chest, down his belly, til you can map the shape of his erection with your fingers. His biceps tense around you where he braces himself on the bed to keep from putting his weight on you, head dropping til his forehead rests against the juncture between your neck and shoulder. 

“You should get undressed,” you remind him. 

He lets out a breath through his nose that sounds suspiciously like a sigh, leaning back onto his haunches to tug his shirt off over his head. You stare, awed. He’s so thick, all over: muscles hidden beneath a nice layer of soft padding, chest hair broken up by the odd scar here or there. You reach out toward his belt but he stops you. 

“I can do it,” he says. He stands and strips himself naked in one fell swoop, like ripping off a bandaid. He’s thick here too, just as you had suspected: thighs and cock included. Already you can feel the phantom stretch of him between your legs and in your jaw. It burns away the last bits of sleepiness your orgasm had given you. 

Throughout your perusal, he stands still, at attention, mouth turned downward in its most comfortable frown, meeting your eyes with an almost obstinate persistence. You kneel up and crawl to the edge of the bed, letting your legs dangle off of it. 

“Can I touch you?” 

“Alright,” he says. 

You start at his shoulders, tracing over the broad width of them. Everything about him displays his strength. Even his scars, which some might consider signs of failure, only showed his persistence for survival. You ran your hands across his pecs, pausing to toy with one pale, pink nipple, so soft beneath your fingers. With each breath he takes, his abs are thrown into sharp relief. 

“God, Ghost,” you mutter, tracing a line down to his cock. 

“I know,” he says dully, though what he knows, you’re unsure of. “Condom’s in my pants.”

“We don’t need one.”

“I don’t want any surprises.”

“You won’t get any. Here.” You take his hand and guide it to your upper arm where your implant sits just beneath the surface of your skin. He flinches, unsure what he is touching. “It’s my contraception.”

“That’s horrifying,” he mutters. 

“Do what I do—don’t think of it.” 

“Right.”

You shift backwards up into the bed, thighs falling open invitingly. Instead of filling the space between them, he lays next to you, rolling you til you both face each other. 

He runs his calloused palm up the length of your leg and grips your thigh, tugging it up and over his hip until you are spread open for him. There’s a question in his eyes, a slowness to his movement that gives you ample time to deny him this if you don’t want it—but you do. God you do. You ache for it—for him. 

He reaches down and slips two fingers into you, easy as anything in your wet, relaxed state. The fullness is divine, even more so when he decides you’re ready for that third finger, the one that stretches your entrance and makes you hiss a breath through your teeth. 

Ghost doesn’t even fuck you with them, just leaves you stuffed full of his fingers while he kisses you more. He waits until you’re the one shifting and thrusting against his touch before pulling out and wiping your wetness across your tender folds. 

He grips his cock, guides it to your entrance. Hesitates. 

“Please,” you mutter, face flushed with heat, hoping he doesn’t want you to beg. You’ll debase yourself, but it will be painful. 

Whether or not it was your word he was waiting for, he slips inside you, a near-unbearable fullness and pressure that has you burying your face in his chest. His own breaths are stuttered, shallow as he sinks as deep into you as your body will allow and no deeper. Once he’s inside you, he seems to relax, like some great race has been run, some threshold has been crossed and now he can rest. 

“Let me know when I can move,” he says, running his hand up and down the length of your back, down over the curve of your ass. 

“Not yet,” you beg. “Feels like you’re in my fucking throat. Jesus, Ghost.” 

His cock twitches. You both suck in a breath. 

“Don’t say that shit,” he mutters, breathless, fingers digging grooves into the soft flesh of your hips. “Lean back. I want to look at you.”

You uncurl yourself away from his chest, tilting your chin up towards him. The last twinges of pain in your cunt have receded until all that lasts is that ceaseless fullness. He moves at last, laying down his arm so you can rest your head on his bicep. Only then are you aware of how painfully intimate this position is. There is nowhere to turn away to, nowhere to hide. You’ve had sex with partners less intimate than this. 

“You can move,” you assure him, hoping for a distraction. 

He takes a breath so deep his chest brushes your own. The pace he sets is downright agonizingly slow, less thrusting and more of a solid grind against you that has you a shivering mess in his arms. There’s little chance you could cum at this pace, but it feels good, and all of it is strangely secondary to him. 

There’s a look in his eyes. You don’t understand it. Is it tenderness? Genuine affection? Gratitude? You’ve never had sex with this much eye contact before, never felt like breaking that gaze could take you out of the hazy headspace you’re in. Ghost finds your hand and grips it—doesn’t lace your fingers together but instead holds them like a tiny bundle of sticks in his giant hand.

He rests his forehead against your own. His eyes fall shut for just a moment, and it gives you the freedom to examine his features freely: the low brow, the curve of his nose, the pink scars tinged pale purple in the low light. You feel like you’re seeing him for the first time. You feel like you’re the first person to ever see him. 

That strange thought starts a domino effect in your mind, sets off a chain reaction, slides a dozen puzzle pieces into a Ghost shaped puzzle and all at once it hits you. 

“Ghost—stop.” 

He stills, eyes opening. Reverses, withdrawing from inside you. “What hurts?”

“Nothing,” you assure him. “But—I’m sorry. You’ve done this before, right?” 

He doesn’t respond. He’s meeting your eyes, but he has that obstinate, pained look again, like he’d rather be looking straight at the sun. 

Your voice pitches upward with a hint of panic. “Ghost??”

“Fucking hell,” he groans, rolling onto his back, cock slipping free and leaving you feeling bereft. The mattress dips, making you sway toward him. You shift away.  “What gave me away?”

“Oh my god. You’re kidding, right? Please tell me you’re joking.” 

“Bloody wish,” he mutters, arm thrown over his eyes. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“The fuck would I tell you for?” He sounds genuinely baffled. 

“So I could—I don’t know! So I could have known!” 

“Didn’t want you to fucking know,” he says, letting his arm down so that he can glare at you fiercely. At the sight of you huddled at the other side of the bed, naked, arms wrapped around yourself, the fury seems to melt out of him. His shoulders sag. He palms at his eyes briefly, like a headache is brewing.

“Fucked it,” he mutters to himself, going for his jeans and sitting on the edge of the bed to put them on. “Fucked it all.” 

“You didn’t,” you offer hastily, though it does feel a little fucked. Suddenly you realize that your chance to fuck Ghost is slipping through your fingers like so much sand. What had started as a dream come true was turning into a nightmare, and you couldn’t bear the thought of letting him leave. Not like this. 

At your words, he tosses you a look, and how a human can fit so much skepticism in a single expression is beyond your belief.

“Really. I just wish I’d known so I could have been better for you.” You don’t realize the truth of the statement until you say it. The last thing you wanted was for him to look back on this moment with disappointment. 

He shakes his head and mutters: “You’re mad.” 

“We could still—you know.” 

He stops, jeans halfway pulled up his thick thighs. “What, fuck?”

You find a loose thread on your bedspread and twist it around your finger, shrugging. Aiming for cool and missing by a mile. 

“You want to.” 

“Well, yeah.” You abandon the thread, feeling too exposed. Tucking your legs up toward your chest, you wrap your arms around yourself. “Like you said in the car. I’ve been thinking about it.”

“About fucking me.”

“Are these questions?” you ask, face warm. “Yes, I think about it. Thought about it. I have thoughts.” 

His lips twitch, a ghost of a smile, gone before you can imagine what a full-fledged grin would even begin to look like. “You’re serious.”

“Really serious,” you offer, sensing that he might be coming back around to the idea himself. Though you’re no vixen, you let your body unfold just to watch the way his eyes drop to look you over. You never knew eyes could be hungry. “Pants off? Please?”

He’s still and quiet for several long moments, but at length he shoves them back down his thighs, naked once more. He’s only half hard, but no less intimidating in this state. You eagerly shift to the edge of the bed and off, back down onto your knees in front of him, palms against his thighs. 

“Is this okay?” you ask, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, aware that this is one of your most flattering angles. 

“Go on,” he says. He sounds doubtful. You are too, unsure if you can find the same rhythm you both had going before. Unsure if you want to, now that you know him better. 

You take one of his hands and coax it into cupping your cheek, then slide it back and up into your hair. “Don’t pull. No pain, right?” 

Something hard in his expression softens marginally. His fingertips scratch gently at your scalp, a silent praise as he agrees: “No pain.”

Leaning forward, you nuzzle at his cock. It is velvety soft against your cheek. His scent here is more concentrated, masculine and warm. Above you, he sucks in a breath through his teeth. 

How much you enjoy giving head usually directly depends on your partner, and Ghost is brilliant to suck off. Some might find him stoic or unaffected, but his expressions are just understated. When you place an open mouthed kiss against his shaft, his fingers twitch in your hair. When you take the tip past your lips to rest heavily against your tongue, he lets out a shaky exhale. By the time he’s nudging the back of your throat while you work the excess inches of his cock in your fist, he is grunting in between in sharp breaths. You find yourself becoming hyper attuned to his reactions until each minuscule motion feels exaggerated to your brain. A twitch becomes a caress. A sigh a moan.  

“I’ll cum in your mouth if you don’t stop,” he grits out. 

You pull off, jaw aching, lips slick. “I’d rather you came inside me.” 

He pulls you to your feet and kisses you. All the kisses tonight, and this one has been the most honest, the most needful, the most raw. Had he never even kissed anyone before tonight? you wonder. It’s hard to believe that the answer might be yes. The way he kisses melts your brain, fizzles your thoughts. 

“Ghost,” you breathe when he gives you a moment to come up for air, his mouth dipping low to your collarbone where he sucks softly. 

“You know my name,” he says, mouth against your skin. “Use it.”

Simon. You have to say it in your mind first to get used to it. Simon. Simon. Then he finds one of those sensitive spots in the crook of your neck and you are whispering it, voice trembling more than you’d like: “Simon.” 

“I like the way you say it,” he admits. “You’ve got a pretty mouth.”

“So do you.” 

He snorts softly, shaking his head, like you have said something very silly. 

“Up.” He grips your waist and helps you up onto the bed. You scoot back, making room for him between your thighs, and he fills the space so fucking snugly. His cock nudges at your sex and reminds you of how you ache all anew. 

This time when he slips inside you, it punches a sound out of you that is remarkably close to a whine, your toes curling. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” you gasp, hands scrabbling for purchase against his broad shoulders, careful not to scratch him. 

His head drops, forehead resting against your own, eyes shut. “Fuck’s right. Not a chance I’ll last after being in your mouth.”

“Wait for me,” you choke out, working one hand between you both until your fingers can find your clit. The angle isn’t the best, not with him so close, but it’s made up for by how blissfully full you are, by how Simon’s arms are trembling where he holds himself up above you. Briefly you let your fingers take a side trip, teasing his cock where he stretches you open, and Simon groans. Fuck, it goes right to your head. It makes you feel like you could walk on water. 

You find his mouth and kiss him, kiss him til your head is light with lack of air, kiss him til your thighs are shaking with how close you are from your own expert touch. 

“Fuck me, now, fuck me please,” you beg into his mouth.

He draws back until just the thick head sits inside you, giving your fingers room to work for a moment before he thrusts back in slow and smooth, pinning your fingers against your clit and that simple pressure—it’s enough. Your body bows against him, choked sounds lost against his mouth as he swallows them whole, fucking you so softly through the peak of your pleasure. 

Simon stiffens not a handful of moments later, cock twitching inside you. The burst of warmth is pleasant, making you shiver. He drops down til his chest presses against your own, careful not to crush you with his weight. 

“Don’t pull out yet.” 

His softening cock twitches inside you. All he says is: “Alright.” 

You hum, warm and sated. Sleepy. “You sleeping over?”

“Didn’t plan on it,” he murmurs, lips against your shoulder. 

“But the walk of shame is a valuable part of the experience.”

“‘M not ashamed of fucking you,” he says. 

You’re strangely touched. “Me neither.”

“Did you fake it?” he wonders.

“I’m no good at faking,” you admit. He leans up so his eyes can scan your face, looking for any hint of deception. Whatever he finds must satisfy his curiosity because he lowers his head back to rest against your shoulder. 

He rolls you both onto your sides, and his soft cock slips free with a rush of seed. You make an unhappy sound in the back of your throat. Afterward is always your least favorite part, when you feel so empty.

Simon hushes you as he slips from the bed. “Bathroom,” he tells you. 

“Through there.”

“Not for me, for you.”

“Why?” you whine, tired and petulant. 

“Because pissing afterward is a valuable part of the experience for you. Can you walk, or did I break you?” 

When you don’t answer, he grips one of your ankles and pulls you toward the end of the bed. You shriek, rolling onto your belly, but it’s no use. Looping his arm around your waist, he tosses you over his shoulder and carries you to the bathroom like you weigh nothing more than a sack of potatoes, which is patently untrue. 

“Are you going to watch me go, too?” you ask. 

“Kinky,” he says, already disappearing into the other room. 

By the time you clean yourself up and take care of any “valuable post-sex experiences”, Simon has dressed himself. His clothes are gone from the floor in your bedroom. You can’t help but feel disappointed; a part of you really had been hoping he’d stay.  Slipping on your panties and a clean shirt, you chase after him hoping he hasn’t left only to find him toying with your spare key at your door. 

The way he reaches for your hand and draws you to him soothes some of the ache of seeing out. He thumbs your pulse and says: “I have to be ready to leave for work at a moment’s notice or I’d stay.” 

“It’s fine.” 

“You’re lying,” he says, pressing his thumb more firmly against your wrist. “Don’t lie to me, or I’ll know. Do you want tonight to happen again?” 

“Are you seriously copping a feel of my pulse to see if I’m being truthful?”

“Evading the question,” he says, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “Thanks anyway, for tonight. I’ll see myself out.”

“Yes! Alright, yes. Of course I do.” 

His mouth quirks upwards, his grin a little crooked thanks to the scar, but no less precious. His thumb strokes softly. “I don’t need your pulse to tell when you’re lying. I just like to feel it racing when you look at me.”

You groan, burying your face in his chest. How embarrassing is that? 

“Next time, I’ll stay,” he promises. “Alright? Repeat it back to me.” 

“Next time you’ll stay.” 

“Next time,” he murmurs softly, turning away. He takes the stairs.  

[shotmrmiller]

Masterlist

18+ Blog! MDNI

Simon 'Ghost' Riley

I'm your only situationship

Mistress

Inevitable

Situationship into Relationship

Tormented by a Ghost

Submitting to his dominance , part 2, part 3

Please stop staring (or don't)

Good thing we're all dogs

Not a dog, but a rat, part 2

Uninvited, unexpected

Big man, Big mouth

John 'Soap' MacTavish

Maybe Dessert first

John 'just the tip' MacTavish

You'd look better as mine

John Price

Happy trails, John

Loba

Soulmate AU part 1, part 2

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

A chance encounter

Drabbles

Ghost being a toxic ex

Ghost with pre-parenthood

141!spotter Simon

141!spotter John

Dom!Ghost

cbf!Johnny

pathetic!Simon

pathetic!Simon extra

pathetic!Simon 1.2

pathetic!Simon 1.3

pathetic!Simon monopolizing you

blindfolded

König

cbf!johnny 1.1

cbf!johnny 1.2

Alpha!Ghost

Alpha!Ghost 1.2

pup!Ghost ask

cbf!simon dbd inspire

neighbor ghoap x reader

neighbor ghoap x reader 1.1

cbf!simon would kill for you

biblically accurate simon

davy jones!simon

ups!simon

cbf!simon teaches you everything

ex-husband simon

ex-husband simon with a twist

simon's not a guy you take home

pen pal simon, 1.2

hate sex ex bf ghost

wrong number w/ simon

single dad simon and related asks

ghoap :)

Reqs

Ghost NSFW

Best friend!Johnny & FWB!Simon AU

Ghost is the unexclusive fwb

Ghoap x reader

Johnny helps with your monthly

You don't need anyone else but us

Escort AU

Needs must, part 2, part 3 (simon, johnny, simon)

Sensual Domination (kyle)

Price

Pet!Reader

Simon meets John's cat

Simon plays with John's cat

Betrayal pet au

Betrayal pet au 1.2

Betrayal pet au 1.3

The boys take you from your old owner

Old owner sees you with the boys

The boys take care of you

Taken to a new home

John doesn't come home to his kitten

Pet needs comfort

Pets exchange hands

Johnny gets himself a fox

Bun waits for Gaz to come home

Multiverse COD

'09 Ghost's wife meets '22 Ghost, part 2, part 3 pre part4, part 4

multiverse asks

Pornstar!AU

pornstar ghost, part 2, part 3

ps!ghost and of!reader prompt

ps!ghost and of!reader, 1.2, 1.3