Ikemen Villians Handling Fatherhood
...part two because?? you guys seemed to like the last one?? i wasn't trying then and I aint trying now im writing this one while my boyfriend snores in my ear youre welcome
William
rotten. the girl is SPOILED rotten!! and it's the fault of her oh so charming father who seems to forgotten "no" is a word that exists.
you could kill him. because all day he's been off working or whatever and you've been stuck at home with a personified two and a half foot tall hurricane with pigtails who cries for daddy everytime you tell her that terrible, awful word that never ever comes out of her father's mouth.
"no, you can't have a fourth cup of strawberry milk"
"no, you can't wear your good shoes to go play outside"
"no, i dont think drawing on the walls is a good idea"
you evil wench.
by the time will gets home you've had it. the minute he crosses the threshold you're in the bath with a bottle of wine- fuck the glass.
carefully, the door swings open as you're met with a sympathetic gaze from crimson eyes. he must've put her to sleep. you imagine it'd be pretty easy to do after the day the two of you had. he doesnt even have to ask- you know what question is coming.
"i want her to be nice to me." you tell him in between sips.
you're husband is always willing to fulfill your desires.
"mama, amorinin'-"
"it's 'good morning', my love."
"good mornin' mama."
There's a soft, tiny, chubby hand patting your cheek gently- along with a little hushed voice arousing you so sweetly from your hungover slumbering state.
your eyes flutter open to find will holding your daughter at your bedside- dipping low to let her reach for you. you hold out your arms and she settles into them, nuzzling her face into your chest.
"you wanna tell mama what we did this morning?" will prompts
she tenses in your arms, and then sighs "we clean up my mess". you can't help but giggle at the way she sounds like a defeated middle aged woman going through a crisis.
"and?" another prompt. your toddler raises her face to meet will's, and you can tell by those big crimson eyes that she's silently pleading something. this time, though- dad doesn't budge.
it's a little funny, watching them both communicate almost telepathically. work your nerves as they did, youd spent every night of your pregnancy praying for a photo copy of him. maybe then he'd learn why it was so hard for you to not be concerned with his every whim and cherish your own. such beauty was hard to deny.
with a sigh, your baby resigns. daddy had won, it seemed.
"I sorry, mama." she turn to you with an over exaggerated pout, eyes downcast through criminally long lashes as she twisted your shirt in her little hands.
...it almost works. almost has you reaching down to squish those cherubic little cheeks before her attitude does a complete 180 and leaves you gobsmacked-
"Can I have my pony now?!" she beams up at will and he immediately busts out into laughter.
he promised her a what?!?
Harrison
karma was what it was. divine intervention. payback for everything he'd ever done to anyone- ever.
this was not easy. at all. everything about fatherhood had been a nightmare. from the moment he found out, holding you on the bathroom floor while you sobbed, to the stress of your pregnancy, and when the delivery almost went sideways, liam had to hold your son while he spent the hours you were still comatose vomiting into the trashcan in the lobby.
and now... there was this. this little carbon copy of him that toddled around and gave him a heart attack every twenty minutes. the kid was drawn to stairwells and hot stoves and roadways like a moth to a flame.
so maybe that's why he can't breathe.
his own damn living room should be a comfort, and the stretch of carpet between where he sits on the floor and where you sit with your son between your legs feels like miles.
"come on! you can do it!" You stand him back up, holding his hands for balance, and there's a curiosity bubbling in his eyes. he kicks one foot a couple times, his little socked foot thudding against the floor sounds like gunshots to harrison.
"babe!" you snap him back to reality and his eyes jerk from impeding doom to your face. you crack a grin "i can literally hear you panicking. hes fine."
"thats not what literally means" he draws a deep breath, refocusing and holding his hands out. it had to happen eventually.
his son sees his determination and mirrors it, tiny brows furrowing with concentration. funny how he picked up on the emotions of adults so easily.
one foot moves, and then the next in a wobbly, jerky fashion. he picks up speed, and then you let go.
harrison almost scrambles forward, but your sharp glare holds him in his place. it feels like an eternity passes while your son toddles across the carpet, gummy smile shining in the lowlight of the living room lamp.
harrison doesn't breathe until his little hands wrap around his fingers and he scoops him into a bear hug, already wondering if they made leashes for little kids.
















