May 10
seen from Malaysia
seen from Japan
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Vietnam
seen from Netherlands
seen from Japan
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Sri Lanka
seen from Luxembourg
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from Qatar
seen from Türkiye
seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Belgium
Growing pains:
You hear it before you see it.
A thud. A groan. A very dramatic, “Daaaaaad!”
You’re in the kitchen pouring cereal when Harry jogs down the hall, hair sticking up in every direction, shirt half‑tucked, looking like a man who has been woken up by the same child every day for thirteen years.
“What now?” he calls.
Porter stomps into the kitchen, backpack hanging off one shoulder, hoodie half‑zipped, face twisted in teenage agony.
“My legs hurt,” he announces.
Harry blinks. “Your legs?”
“Yes, my legs,” Porter says, flopping into a chair like a Victorian child dying of consumption. “They’re killing me.”
Harry crosses his arms. “You grew an inch and a half this month. S’what happens.”
Porter glares. “Well, I don’t like it.”
Harry shrugs. “Take it up with your bones.”
You snort into your cereal. Porter turns to you, betrayed. “You’re laughing at me?”
“No,” you say, absolutely lying. “I’m empathizing.”
Later that day, you find Harry sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. You pause in the doorway. “You okay?”
He groans. “No.”
You sit beside him. “What happened?”
He lifts his head dramatically. “Porter told me I’m embarrassing. He said — and I quote — ‘Dad, please don’t talk to me when my friends are around.’”
You try not to smile. “That’s normal.”
Harry gasps. “Normal? He used to hold my hand in public. He used to think I was cool.”
“He was six.”
Harry slumps back. “I’m losing him.”
You rest a hand on his knee. “You’re not losing him. He’s just… growing.”
Harry groans again. “I hate it.”
You laugh softly. “You sound exactly like him.”
Dinner is chaos. Porter is moody. Harry is moody. You are the referee.
Porter pokes at his pasta. “My legs still hurt.”
Harry pokes at his pasta. “My feelings still hurt.”
You sigh. “Both of you eat.”
Porter slumps. “Dad doesn’t get it.”
Harry throws his hands up. “I don’t get it? I’m literally the one who bought you new shoes because your feet grew overnight like some kind of woodland creature! I was thirteen once!”
Porter shrugs. “Yeah, like a hundred years ago.”
Harry looks personally attacked. You choke on your water.
After dinner, Porter disappears with a dramatic sigh. Harry leans against the counter, rubbing his face.
“He hates me,” he mutters.
“He doesn’t,” you say gently. You step closer, resting your hands on his chest. “You’re raising a good kid. A kind kid. A kid who feels safe enough to be dramatic.”
Harry huffs a laugh. “He gets that from you.”
You swat his arm. “He gets it from you.”
He smiles — small, warm, grateful. “Thanks,” he murmurs. “For being here. For helping.”
Later that night, you find Porter sitting on the stairs, hoodie pulled over his head. You sit beside him quietly.
He sniffles. “I was mean to Dad. I didn’t mean to be. I just… everything hurts. And I feel weird. And Dad keeps trying to talk to me like I’m still a kid.”
You smile softly. “He’s trying. He’s learning too.”
Porter wipes his nose on his sleeve. “I don’t want him to stop trying.”
“Tell him that,” you whisper.
You find Harry in the backyard, staring at the sky.
“Hey,” you say softly.
He sighs. “I’m a terrible dad. I don’t know how to do this. He’s not a little boy anymore. I’m scared he won’t want me anymore.”
You sit beside him, leaning your head on his shoulder. “You don’t have to know,” you whisper. “You just have to show up.”
Porter steps outside quietly. Harry looks up, startled.
“Dad?”
Harry straightens. “Yeah, mate?”
Porter hesitates — then sits beside him. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I don’t want you to stop talking to me.”
Harry’s breath catches. “I won’t.”
Porter leans into him — awkward, teenage, but real. Harry wraps an arm around him, pulling him close. You watch them, heart full.
Harry looks at you over Porter’s head, eyes warm. You smile. He smiles back.
And for the first time all day, everything feels right.
⏜︵⊹︵⏜︵୨୧︵⏜︵⊹︵⏜
︶ྀི "You attract what you fear." AHHH !!1! IM SOO SCARED....... I'M SO SCARED OF TOXIC OLDER MEN WHO WILL CONTROL ME, IM SOOOSOSO SCARED. IM VERY AFRAID OF OLDER MEN... <\3 crying with fear
⏝︶⊹︶⏝︶୨୧︶⏝︶⊹︶⏝
Dollie PINK SPAM! She's really living my DREAM. I loveee lovee pink and anything cute. 🩷🍰
DADDY, please hurry home from work today, because I truly can’t wait any longer to make your thick impregnation rod disappear deep inside my hungry orifices!
🥵😍
Harry treats his son like a baby
You hear them before you see them.
The low rumble of Harry’s voice drifting down the hallway, warm and affectionate in that tone he only uses for two people in the world: you… and Reid.
But this tone? This is the baby tone.
You pause in the doorway of the kitchen, mug in hand, and listen.
“C’mon, bub,” Harry coos. “Arms up.”
“Dad,” Reid groans, voice cracking in that teenage way that makes him sound both twelve and twenty at the same time. “Please don’t.”
“Arms,” Harry repeats, undeterred.
You peek around the corner.
Reid — fifteen, lanky, hair flopping into his eyes, wearing the hoodie you swear he’s grown out of three times — is standing in the entryway looking like he wants the earth to swallow him whole.
Harry is holding his son’s coat open like he’s dressing a toddler.
“Dad,” Reid tries again, cheeks pink. “I can put on my own coat.”
Harry tuts. “Not properly, you can’t. You always leave the sleeves bunched.”
“That was when I was, like, seven.”
Harry ignores him completely, gently tugging the coat onto Reid’s shoulders like he’s handling a fragile artifact.
You bite your lip to keep from laughing.
Reid spots you and his eyes widen in betrayal. “Mum,” he pleads. “Help.”
You step fully into the room, leaning against the counter. “Harry…”
Harry doesn’t even look up. “He’s goin’ to the cinema with his friends. It’s cold out. He’ll freeze.”
Reid deadpans, “It’s fifty‑five degrees.”
Harry gasps. “Practically arctic.”
You raise a brow. “H.”
He finally looks at you, eyes wide and earnest, curls messy from where he’s been fussing. “What?”
“He’s not five.”
Harry blinks. Looks at Reid. Looks back at you. Then frowns. “He’s my baby.”
Reid groans so loudly it echoes.
“Dad,” he mutters, voice muffled as Harry zips the coat up to his chin. “I’m literally taller than you.”
Harry scoffs. “Irrelevant.”
You walk over and gently tug the zipper back down so Reid can breathe. “H, love, he’s a teenager. He can dress himself.”
Harry’s mouth opens like he’s about to argue — then closes again. His shoulders slump. “Oh,” he says softly. “Right.”
Reid softens immediately — because for all his dramatic teenage suffering, he loves his dad more than anything.
“It’s okay,” he mumbles. “Just… maybe not in front of my friends?”
Harry’s face falls in slow motion. “Oh,” he repeats, quieter this time. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Sorry, bub.”
Reid shifts awkwardly, guilt flickering across his face. “I didn’t mean— I just— they already think you’re… y’know.”
Harry tilts his head. “What?”
Reid winces. “Cool.”
Harry blinks. “That’s bad?”
“It’s embarrassing,” Reid mutters.
Harry looks personally wounded.
You step in before the spiral begins.
“Reid,” you say gently, “your dad just loves you. A lot. Maybe too much sometimes.”
Harry gasps. “Impossible.”
You ignore him. “And you’re growing up. That’s hard for him.”
Reid’s expression softens. “I know.”
Harry rubs the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “Sorry, bub. I just… I miss when you were little. When you needed me for everything.”
Reid’s voice goes quiet. “I still need you.”
Harry looks up sharply.
Reid shrugs, cheeks pink. “Just… not for coats.”
Harry laughs — a soft, watery sound — and pulls him into a hug before Reid can protest.
Reid stiffens for half a second, then melts into it, arms wrapping around his dad’s waist.
You watch them, heart full.
When they pull apart, Harry clears his throat and wipes at his eyes like he’s not wiping at his eyes.
“Alright,” he says, voice thick. “Go on then. Have fun.”
Reid nods, grabs his backpack, and heads for the door.
Just before he leaves, he turns back. “Love you, Dad.”
Harry freezes. Then beams. “Love you too, bub.”
Reid disappears outside. The door clicks shut.
Harry stands there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where his son had been.
You walk over and wrap your arms around him from behind.
“You okay?” you murmur.
He leans back into you, sighing. “He’s growin’ up.”
“I know.”
“He doesn’t need me anymore.”
You kiss his shoulder. “He does. Just differently.”
Harry nods slowly. “I know. I just… I want to hold onto him while I still can.”
You squeeze him. “You’re a good dad, H.”
He turns in your arms, eyes soft. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
He smiles — small, tender, a little sad. Then he rests his forehead against yours.
“Thanks for remindin’ me,” he whispers. “Even when I don’t want to hear it.”
You brush your thumb along his cheek. “That’s what I’m here for.”
He kisses you — slow, grateful — and when he pulls back, he murmurs: “He’ll always be my baby.”
You laugh. “Just… maybe don’t say that in front of his friends.”
Harry grins. “No promises.”
Hehe haiiii!! Talk with Me!!
HIMEGYARU spam!